#oh also my family isn’t religious

[deathsmallcaps]

If you’re Irish Australian would you prefer us to hit the last option?

[shekeepsmeworms]

Had some wine feeling good made a really shitty bowl in ceramics class this morning that I’m really worried has a bunch of air holes in it and had a really crappy therapy session where I didn’t talk too much but was honest about some other stuff which is good overall I guess but now I’m doing drunk crochet and watching the Duggar family documentary and probably going to stop watching soon once they start talking about the awful stuff but yeah day in the life of a woman doing her best I guess

[sitepathos]

From Gold to Mold

Chapter 4: The Deal (Warning: this chapter will feature violence. Read at your own risk)

A/N: had free time this week to produce this. Next week is chock full of tests and midterms, so this’ll probably be the last chapter for some time. Enjoy! Also, I’m sorry to those who asked to be added to the tag list and weren’t. I tried to add many of you, but Tumblr wasn’t able to find your blog for whatever reason.

When you open your eyes, darkness goes on forever in all directions, the only thing you can see is yourself. Where are you and how did you get here?

“Hello,” you call out, hoping someone is nearby to hear you, not caring who hears you just as long as someone comes to you. “Is there anyone here?”

Nothing, which you expected, but you had hoped against reality that someone was here… wherever here is. The cold air surges through your body and you shiver, your teeth chattering, echoing in the void.

“What happened,” you ask yourself. “How’d I get here?”

Just then, your memory kicks in and images and words assault your mind all at once: walking through the East End, the three thugs, the dirty shack in the middle of the woods you had been dragged to, and—

“Oh my god,” you say as the final memory flashes before your eyes. “They killed me.”

That’s right, the flash of the muzzle and the sound of the gunshot still rattling in your head. And if you think hard enough, you can vaguely remember falling to the floor after the bullet entered your head.

“Wait,” you say, realizing something very important. “If they shot me, then why am I here?”

Sure, you aren’t religious (all beliefs in a just and loving god died after you lost your Momma and was forced to live in an abusive and neglectful household for thirteen years), but this dark and neverending void is a far cry from the bright and golden imagery that’s always been associated with heaven. And this sure isn’t the fire and brimstone that comes to mind when you think of hell. So, is this purgatory? Or limbo? You never could keep the two straight.

Is this your fate? To spend the rest of your afterlife alone in this abyss? Why couldn’t you just cease altogether? Was it too much to ask that you just close your eyes and never wake from your eternal slumber?

You realize you’re crying and you’re amazed that after crying so much throughout your life, you still have plenty of tears to shed, even in the afterlife. But that’s been your lot in life since you lost Momma: to be the world’s punching bag.

“Such powerful emotions,” a familiar voice says.

You look up in shock and see your Momma, looking exactly the same as the day she was taken from you.

“Momma,” you exclaim, rushing to her and embracing her, squeezing her as hard as your arms will allow, afraid that if you let go, she’ll disappear.

“This form brings out such joy, sadness, and loss in you,” she says. “Feelings from someone alive are far more vibrant than from someone deceased.”

“What,” you asks, looking up at her in confusion, but when you do, it’s not your Momma you see looking down at you, but Bruce. You let go of the man as quick as you can and put a bit of distance between the two of you.

“What did you do to my Momma, you son of a bitch,” you shout in disgust.

“This form brings out such anger, pain, and hatred in you,” Bruce says, looking you up and down as if dissecting you like a damn lab experiment. “How interesting.”

“What the hell are you talking about? How’d you get here and what did you do to Momma?”

“And it’s not just this form.” You see movement all around you and in perfect unison, the other members of the Wayne Family appear from the void. “You hold these forms in equal amounts of hatred and contempt.”

“You deem this one a failure,” Bruce says.

“This one a hypocrite,” Dick says.

“This one a brute,” Jason says.

“This one a know-it-all,” Tim says.

“This one a stranger,” Barbara says.

“This one annoying,” Stephanie says, before turning to Cassandra. “And while you’ve never heard that one speak, you deem her a freak.”

“And you deem this one a monster,” Damian says. He gestures to Bruce. “You hate this form and that one in equal measure, far surpassing the others.”

You see another figure step out of the void and when you make out the face, it’s Alfred. You feel relief surge through your body, happy to see the butler; if there’s anyone who you can depend on, it’s him.

“While this one serves the others, you hold great respect for this form,” Alfred says. “Although, you hold a not insignificant amount of resentment towards him.”

Your heart skips a little at the accusation. No, you love the man, who took the place of a father when Bruce failed to fill the void left by your Momma’s death; sure, you’ve had the occasional thought that if the man was given a choice between you and them, he’d choose them over you since he’s always helping them, but he’s always been there for you since day one!

“No,” you say, pleading with the man. “Alfred, I don’t!”

“But you do,” the butler responds. “According to you, he is the true master of your prison, but instead of using his power to make them acknowledge your existence, he allows them to continue parading through Gotham, fighting criminals.”

“You also believe all these forms belong in Arkham,” Bruce adds. “And that you wish to be the one to subject them to electroshock therapy.”

You finally realize that something’s wrong here. All of them have never been in your presence long enough for you to say how you feel about them (not that they’d care, anyway) and you’ve never told Alfred how you often daydream of locking them away in Gotham, strapping them to metal chairs, and flipping the switch to send hundreds of volts through their skulls, hoping to shock them into being decent human beings. All this has been kept in your head for well over a decade.

So, how the hell did they know all this?

“You’re not them, are you?”

“No,” Not-Bruce answers. “We only took the forms of those you see before you.”

“Then who the fuck are you,” you growl. “And where the fuck am I?”

“We have no name,” Not-Alfred says.

“We are one, and yet we are many,” Not-Damian finishes.

“It is impossible to define a being such as us,” Not-Jason chimes in.

“Alright, that doesn’t answer my question,” you mutter to yourself, but say it loud enough for them to hear. “Then answer me this: where am I? The last thing I remember was being shot by three thugs.”

“Yes, we know of your attack,” Not-Stephanie says.

“As for your question, we are appearing to you in your mind,” Not-Bruce says.

“My mind,” you exclaim. “How?”

“When you appeared to us, we reached out and established a link with you,” Not-Tim explains. “It is from there that we were able to peer into your mind and see your memories.”

“My memories,” you ask, dumbfounded.

“Yes,” Not-Damian responds. “Through your memories, we saw these forms and assumed them. We thought it would be more preferable for you to speak to us if we took the appearance of the people who have the most influence on your life.”

“If you looked through my memories, then you should know I want nothing to do with any of them,” you snap at them.

“We know now that we were in error,” Not-Bruce responds, a ghost of a smile gracing his face. “We owe you many thanks. Never before have we been put into a situation where have known the sensation of being incorrect. We will ponder this experience for years to come.”

“So, what do you really look like.”

All of them look at one another, unsure how to answer your question.

“We are not sure if you wish to see our true form,” Not-Alfred responds.

“While you are the first sentient being we’ve interacted with in our entire existence, we know that our true form is something many of your kind would consider… terrifying,” Not-Stephanie adds.

“I don’t care,” you snap. “I’m not talking to any of you while you look like this and I sure as hell don’t want you taking Momma’s form! And if we’re going to talk, we’re gonna do it face to face!”

“Very well,” Not-Bruce acquiesces.

And with that, everything fades to black and for a moment, you’re scared you’ll be left here in the dark by yourself again. Maybe you should’ve let them stay like that.

Just then, above you, you see an odd red glow. You look up and you feel your blood freeze, your heart stop, and the air catches in your lungs. Above you is a giant mass of red, bioluminescent flesh hanging from a cave ceiling, thick black tendrils extruding from it and digging deep into the surrounding rock, allowing it to remain suspended in the cavern. And if that didn’t freak you out enough, you can see the flesh obviously resembles the shape of a fetus in the fetal position. This thing looks like something out of an H.P. Lovecraft novel.

“Holy shit,” is all you can say.

“We told you you would not approve of our true form,” it says, its voice beaming directly into your mind.

“What are you,” you ask, still awestruck at the sight before you.

“We are have no name,” it responds. “But, with the knowledge we have accumulated over the centuries, we suppose you can call us the Megamycete.”

“Megamycete?”

“Yes, we are a supercolony of sentient fungus that has existed for over four-hundred years.”

“Four-hundred years? That’s as long as Gotham’s been around.”

“We have existed as the city above. When its founders first arrived, we were nothing more than a collection of small, independent and unaware colonies of mold. Not long after the first buildings were built, an earthquake shook the area and revealed something we now know as a ‘Lazarus Pit,’ a pool of green, luminescent liquid that possesses remarkable restorative properties, and the colonies that would become us were plunged into it.”

“And this pit made you the way that you are?”

“The pit made us aware, but it did not give us our intelligence. With our enhanced capabilities, we were able to spread out our roots beyond the mountain. Not long after, we discovered the corpses of the first of Gotham’s citizens, buried after they drew their last breath; when our roots came into contact with their bodies, we found we had the ability to archive the knowledge, memories, and even DNA of the deceased. We became obsessed with growing our archive, so as Gotham grew over the years, so did our roots; overtime, we archived hundreds of its deceased, increasing our intelligence and knowledge of the outside world. Now, our roots touch every part of this city, becoming one with it, not only archiving the remains of its living, but seeing and hearing everything that goes on within its boundaries.”

“So,” you say, your mouth becoming dry at your newfound knowledge. “You’re like some fungal god?”

“While we know many of your kind may consider a being such as us god, we hold no illusion of being a divine entity. We think of ourselves as an immortal observer.”

As you attempt to process this information, your mind brings something to your attention and you feel your heart stop when you realize it. You really don’t want to know the answer, but there’s that damn stubborn part of you that has… no, it needs to know.

“So,” you begin, trying to summon the courage to ask your question. “Earlier, you said all of this is going on in my head, right?”

“Yes, our roots were able to establish a link with you and allow us to convene with you in your mind.”

“So, if we’re in my head right now, where’s me? I mean, my body?”

Although the Megamycete doesn’t have eyes, nor does it turn anything that resembles a head, you can feel it shift its awareness to the side, as if looking at something. You feel yourself break into a cold sweat as you slowly turn your head to the left, wondering what exactly you’re going to find.

And when you do, your greeted by a sight that makes you feel as if the world around you had crumbled away and you’ve been left behind to float in the void left behind: you, lying in a mess of tendrils composed of mold, broken, battered, and bloody; your limbs lying in directions they’re definitely not supposed to be in, your eyes glazed over, and a gaping bullet hole in your left temple.

“Oh my god,” you shout, utterly horrified at the sight before you. “Oh my god!”

“We saw the torture those three criminals subjected you to. Their leader was quite thorough in inflicting damage.”

“So that’s it, huh?” While this is all just some projection in your head, you feel like you’re hyperventilating. “This is how it ends: being eaten by some sentient mushroom and becoming a part of it? Doomed to spend the rest of eternity tethered to this damn city? I survive in a place where you’re likely to be killed by some trigger-happy murder clown and his psycho-ass whore while getting your mail and some two-bit thug is what does me in?”

“If you look closer, you will find that you are still alive.”

You practically snap your head to look back at your body and sure enough, you can see your chest moving up and down. It may not be much, but it’s there.

“I’m alive,” you ask, shocked at the sight of you breathing.

“You still live,” it answers back. “Your life force is low, but still there.”

“But how? He shot me in the head and then threw me down here! People don’t live after something like that!”

“While a gunshot to the head is normally fatal, our archive shows us two revelations: that the bullet did not go through your brain, but graze it and that the bullet used was of a lower caliber. While the wound was grievous, you still had a chance of surviving it. As for the fall into our chamber, your body was caught onto our roots as it fell, slowing it down and allowing it to land with diminished force.”

“But I’m still going to die, right?”

“Yes,” it answers, seemingly sympathetic. “If you were in a proper hospital, you could recover, but right now, your body is slowly shutting down. By the time anyone found you, you would long be deceased.”

So, you survive attempted murder, but you’ll still die in the end.

“Fuck,” you mutter. “Wasn’t the end I had in mind.”

“What did you have in mind for your death,” the Megamycete asks.

“Shouldn’t you know what i had in mind for my death?”

“We do, but our knowledge shows us talking to the dying brings a form of comfort to them. Plus, this is the first time we have had the chance to interact with a living mortal. We wish to prolong the experience as much as possible.”

You chuckle at that. “I thought I would spend my final days back home in Goodsprings, sitting in the big recliner Momma bought for me. I use to spend Saturday mornings in it, eating cereal and watching cartoons.” You smile at the memory of the chair. “It was a damn good chair.”

“We see it, a brown cushioned seat, perfect for watching television or reading books.”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Would’ve been perfect to spend my last days in.”

“Perhaps you still can.”

You look up at the Megamycete. “What?”

“We offer you a deal: we will repair your body and give you the strength to leave this chamber and rejoin the outside world.”

“And you’ll get what?”

“You become our host.”

“What,” you balk. “Host?”

“Yes, we will entangle ourselves with your very being, becoming as one.”

“And why the hell would I agree to that,” you exclaim. “You fix my body just to take it over? No deal!”

“You misunderstand. We will not override your control over your body. We will be nothing more than a spectator in your life, seeing but being powerless to intervene. In addition to being restored to your former glory, you will gain access not only to our vast archive of knowledge, but gain abilities many of your kind would consider supernatural.”

That certainly cools your temper. “So, you fix me up and give me superpowers, but all you get in return is front row seats to my life. Sounds like I’m the only one benefitting from this deal.”

“On the contrary, we stand to gain just as much as you do. For over four-hundred years, we could see the outside world, but not join it. With each new corpse we archived, we began to desire a way to interact with the world firsthand and not by mere memories. You are our solution to this dilemma. Through you, we will know what it means to feel the sun on our face, or to taste the finest meals, or to hear a symphony.”

The Megamycete’s words shock you to your core. You guess if you were stuck in this cavern for four centuries and only knew of a world beyond it through memories, you’d do anything to experience it, too.

“Please, Y/N, we beg you to accept our deal. We promise everything we are, from our archive to our longevity, will be at your disposal. You will be stronger, smarter, and better than those who thought less of you. In comparison to you, they will be nothing more than mere ants.”

You’ve thought about showing the Waynes up for years, to be able to pay Jason back for that black eye, to make Tim feel like a complete idiot, and especially to make Damian feel inferior in every way possible.

“We can do that for you. With us at your side, you’ll attain a level of perfection they could never dream of. All we want is to be able to witness this firsthand.”

“Alright,” you relent. “If all you want is to go outside in exchange for making me better than them, you have a deal.”

“We thank you, Y/N,” it says, sounding incredibly happy. Relieved, even.

And with that, your world fades to black once again and when you open your eyes, you find that you’re back in your body, feelings of pain overwhelming your senses, making it hard to concentrate on the Megamycete pressing its tendrils into you. You watch in total awe as the giant, fetus-like mass that is the Megamycete begin to shrink and when you look down where the tendrils are embedded in your skin, you can see a black substance being injected into under your skin. The more of the substance being pumped into your body, the smaller the Megamycete gets.

That’s when you feel weird all over, like every cell in your body is transforming into something else. While not painful, per se, it’s an incredibly odd sensation.

(Your body is becoming one with our mold,) you hear the Megamycete explain in your head. (Not only will it repair the damage that was done to you, you will find that you are far more durable than any mere mortal and have the ability to change your form into any that is stored in our archive, both man or beast.)

“Wait, you’re saying I can shapeshift?”

(If that is what you wish to call our mimetic abilities, then yes, you may “shapeshift.”)

When the last of the mold was transferred to you, you find your body stitching itself up and the incredible pain you were in fading fast, like it was never there. You see a puddle of water lying nearby and when you look in it, you see that all your injuries are gone, even the scar on your left check that Damian gave you three years ago. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say it never happened at all.

And not only do you look better, you feel better! You wouldn’t say you were the healthiest person ever, but you tried to stay somewhere in between active and sedentary; sure you weren’t going to be running any marathons, but you were able to climb the many stairwells at school when the elevator took too long. Now, however, you felt like you could run and win a marathon, or climb up a mountain without climbing gear, or swim the English Channel during a hurricane! And you didn’t feel better physically, but intellectually as well! Gotham, for all it many flaws, has attracted the best artists, architects, doctors, engineers, musicians, scientists, and more; you feel your mind being rushed with the knowledge and memories of countless people throughout the ages, ranging from the city’s early days to now. Hell, you even have access to the memories and knowledge of some of Bruce’s greatest employees, giving you knowledge on much on Wayne Enterprises’ tech and projects that he’s spared no expense in keeping under wraps. Maybe you can get a pretty penny from Lex Corp in exchange for this information since everyone knows Bruce and Lex are bitter rivals and are constantly trying to one-up each other, with Bruce, unfortunately, often being the winner in their battles to develop the next technological development.

“I feel like I could run circles around Einstein,” you laugh, completely blown away with your newfound intellect. Right now, you feel like you could write a symphony that would make Beethoven feel inadequate while at the same time painting a masterpiece that would eclipse the Mona Lisa and designing a fusion reactor capable of powering the entire country. You look around the cavern, looking and not seeing a way out. “Now how do I get out of here?”

(There is a passage directly above you.) You look up to see a big hole in the chamber’s ceiling. (That is how you ended up here when those three threw you in here. Our archives have absorbed many of Gotham’s birds. Any one of them should give you the power to fly out of the chamber.)

The mention of the three thugs remind you of your stolen pen and Game Boy, which then fills you with rage. You’ve never liked thieves and the thought of your Momma’s treasured pen and your gift from your thoughtful boss in the hands of such lowlifes gives you even more of a reason to hate them. By now, they could be anywhere, maybe even outside of the city for fear of your disappearance being reported (mostly by Alfred, the only person left in Gotham who would give a damn).

(Remember our roots span all of Gotham,) the Megamycete says. (Through them, we have seen and heard all that occurs in this city. As our host, you now have access to them. All you have to do is reach out and think of who you wish to find.)

Following its advice, you reach out and feel the roots that entangle Gotham like a spider web. As soon as you do, you’re overwhelmed with sights and sounds from every corner of the city.

(Focus on the three,) it advises you. (If you concentrate on who exactly you want, the roots will do the rest.)

It takes some doing, but you manage to push aside the multitude of people that are in your mind’s eye and focus on the three kidnappers. You’re taken across the city, rushing past the many buildings and stopping at some seedy building in Coventry. Your newfound knowledge of Gotham tells you this is the My Alibi bar, a place for Gotham’s criminals to get together to eat, trade gossip, and find work.

With your destination known, you search through the Megamycete’s archives and something to get you out of here and find something that should do the job: crows. Your body manifests into a murder of crows and takes off in perfect unison, keeping in formation. It’s extremely weird to be a bunch of birds; you know that what was once your body is now numerous birds, but while you’re multiple birds, you’re still one person. You can see through all their eyes all at once and change their flight path and they actually do it like it’s nothing. In a matter of seconds, you’re on the surface, flying above the forest and looking down at the twinkling lights of Gotham’s buildings.

“You know, from above, that cesspit actually looks kinda pretty.”

(We thank you, Y/N. We never thought we would be able to experience such a sight firsthand, but here we are. Now, shall we retrieve your stolen property?)

The crows fly through the city, zipping past the buildings and as you do, you realize that you’ve just fulfilled a dream you’ve had since you were ten-years-old: to fly like a bird. When you realized that the Waynes were awful and all you wanted was to go back to Goodsprings— to take flight like a bird and leave this city and the Waynes behind. Now, you can turn into a flock of birds, or even grow a pair of wings, and fly all the way to Nevada!

Eventually, you reach the My Alibi club, which looks even worse in person than through the Megamycete’s roots. You land on a nearby building’s rooftop and see the only security for the entire building is a single bouncer. You command the birds to land near the bouncer and when they do, they come together and reform your body, but instead of revealing you, you command hardened black mold to cover your body, not wanting your face to be seen by anyone.

What’s going to happen here needs to not get back to you.

“What,” the bouncer stutters. “What the hell?”

“Leave,” is all you say.

The bouncer says nothing before he runs away.

(Are you ready,) the Megamycete asks as you near the door. (We highly doubt your three would-be murderers will take your return likely. Nor will they likely be in a hurry to return your property. You may have to resort to violence.)

“Good,” is all you say as you enter.

The noise coming from patrons’ conversations, drinking, and arguing comes to an end when you walk inside. A quick look around and you can tell this place lives up to its reputation of being for Gotham’s criminal element; everyone here looks like they’ve done time and will probably spend their last days in prison.

And in the back corner sit your targets, looking at you with their table filled with glasses and plates of food. The sight fills you with rage; they shot you in the head and threw you in a ditch and here they are, eating and drinking like they just got off work and wanted something to take the edge off. And what really pisses you off is seeing the one called Butch holding your Game Boy like it was his right!

“I’m here for them,” you say, pointing to your quarry. “The rest of you are free to go.”

“Up yours, freak,” some shithead shouts back, pulling out a revolver and fires it three times. The bullets hit the hardened mold and fall to the floor, looking like crushed tin cans rather than deadly projectiles. “What the hell?”

He goes to fire it again, but you raise your hand and a tendril emerges from it, piercing the man’s heart; he drops his gun and lets out a disgusting gurgle, blood dripping from it and pooling on the floor, before falling silent, dead.

While most of your mind is disturbed at the sight; you’ve just killed a man, his blood literally on your hands, but you can’t deny there’s a part of you that’s not saddened by your actions. After all, he did try to kill you and if he was in a place like this, chances are he was a piece of shit and Gotham’s a slightly better place for his passing.

For a moment, everyone is paralyzed at what just happened. The place is so quiet, a pin could drop and it would deafen everyone. Then, everyone breaks out of their stupor, practically all of them pulling out their guns and begin shooting at you, but just like their friend here found out, their bullets are useless against you. Numerous tendrils emerge from all over your body and rush at them; some of them empaling them, others wrap around their throats and crush them, while the rest just whip them with enough force to break them in two. One by one, they fall until it’s just you and your prey.

“Look, man,” you killer whimpers as you draw closer to him. “I don’t know what you want, but you can take what we have. Tom, hand him the bag.”

The other one throws a bag, which lands at your feet; you look down to see it’s your book bag. You pick it up and open it to find everything still inside, from your binder and notebooks to your phone and the gift box Mr. Chen gave you. You’re relieved to know that you’re not missing any of your school stuff and don’t have to go looking for anything or replace it. You are, however, missing all the money from your wallet, but a look on the table shows where it went to. But, you’re still missing the most important thing: your Momma’s pen.

“Here, take this, too.” The leader takes the Game boy from Butch and holds it out to you, which you snatch from him, reveling in the fear in his eyes as you did, and carefully place it inside.

That just leaves one last order of business. You extend two tendrils and wrap them around the leaders throat and hold him up from the floor, his legs kicking around, trying and failing to get him back on the ground; his arms pathetically wrap around the tendrils, trying to crate some room for him to breath, and his mouth is gaping like a fish out of water, trying to get any sort of air. His cohorts go to say something, but a quick glare from you shuts them up. You bring the man close to you until you can see your reflection in his eyes, which are wide and full of terror, and open your mold mask, revealing your identity to them and based off their expressions, all three men could probably crush coal into diamonds with their sphincters.

“Holy shit,” Butch whispers, his face showing his complete disbelief.

“It’s that kid,” Tom adds, his face mirroring his partner. “But, we killed him, right?”

“My pen,” you say, looking at this piece of human filth with complete contempt. “Where is it?”

You loosen your grip to allow him to speak.

“My pocket,” he says. “It’s in my pocket. All the pawn shops were closed, so I wasn’t able to sell it.”

While you’re happy that your beloved pen is not is some sleazy pawn shop’s display window, you’re utterly disgusted at the thought of this man’s audacity to think he had the right to sell your most treasured possession like its some worthless trinket. A small tendril emerges form your shoulder and searches the man’s pocket and pulls out that beautiful gold ink pen. You have it deliver it to your left hand, which is empty as your right hand is being used to hold the man in front of you, and hold onto it with a vice-like grip.

(Not even death could separate you from your Mother’s memento,) the Megamycete states. (We are impressed at your dedication to it.)

“Look, we’re sorry for what we did to you,” the man pathetically whimpers. “Really, we are.”

“Did you know this was my Momma’s pen,” you ask as if the man had not just said something. “I lost her on my sixth birthday and was forced to leave my home in Goodsprings to live here. This pen is the only thing of hers I was able to bring with me. And you had felt like you had the right to take something I treasure more than anything else in the world and pawn it off for some petty cash.”

“We didn’t know, man,” Butch responds, now realizing the depth of his mistakes. “We’re sorry.”

“We promise we won’t tell anyone about this,” Tom adds. “Just let us go and you’ll never see or hear from us ever again.”

“You’re right, we won’t see each other again, but wouldn’t you like to know who I was forced to live with?” The three of them pathetically nod in unison and you have to fight the urge to laugh. A few hours ago, these men were looking down at you, sure they could do anything they wanted, but now, here you are, far above them in the food chain. “I was forced to live with my father, Bruce Wayne.”

“But he said—“ the leader starts to say, but you cut him off.

“That bastard has ignored me since I moved in with him,” you shout, shutting him up. “I was his first biological son, but he’s completely forgotten about me!” You take a deep breath. Just the mention of him brings out the worst in you. “But it doesn’t matter. I don’t need him. Just like you don’t need your lives.”

And with that, you rip the man’s head clean off his shoulders, not even giving him the chance to realize his fate before killing him. You release the body and both it and his head crumple to the floor in a heap of lifeless meat and to further invoke fear in them, you stomp on the head while looking at them, the thing making a wet splat sound. The other two shout, but you cut them down with ease, tendrils emerging from your back and wrapping around their heads and crush them with ease, showering the floor in their blood and grey matter. Their bodies fall to the floor and flail around for a while before finally stopping.

(Well done,) the Megamycete praises. (You cut down these criminals and made Gotham safer faster than any police officer we have known. Perhaps the local police should seek out your services?)

“Not gonna happen,” you laugh as you walk out of the bar with your backpack in hand. “I have no intention of staying in this place. Once I graduate, I’m going back home.”

(Yes, Goodsprings. A small town located in Nevada. We look forward to experiencing your return to your point of origin.)

And with that, you manifest a pair of black wings on your back and take flight, flying far above the city’s skyscrapers, so hopefully you’re safe from detection. In just a few minutes, you’ve flown from Burnley Island to Bristol, something that should’ve taken almost an hour by car. Thanks to the Megamycete’s roots, you can see the Bats still out and about throughout Gotham, so you don’t have to worry about running into any of them while hurrying into your room.

You land down the street to avoid being picked up by the security cameras (Bruce’s picture is the definition of paranoid based on the amount of cameras in both the estate and in the house itself) and walk the rest of the way there. Normally, walking down the marathon-length driveway to the manor when coming home from work, but his time, you cross the distance like it’s nothing; in fact, you feel like you can do this another dozen times and still feel energized.

But, while you’re physically invigorated, you’re mentally drained and all you want to do is curl up and bed and pass out; you enter Wayne Manor and hurry to your room, never more thankful for being far from the rest of the household than you are now. While you’ve been flying under the radar of Gotham’s vigilantes for years now, you’ll afraid that even they won’t be able to ignore you when they found out about your newly gained powers. During your stay here, you’ve listened to their conversations when they thought you weren’t around and you know that while they distrust everyone (even each other based on the fact that no one seems to be allowed to have secrets), they distrust those with superpowers the most. Two years you listened in on a conversation between Bruce and Superman, who offered to help him during a time when many of Arkham’s most dangerous patients escaped all at once, and Bruce said in a tone that felt like sandpaper being dragged across your face: “Gotham’s off limits to metas. You step one foot in my city and you’ll regret it.”

Honestly, you’re confident that Bruce is only on this planet to be the biggest asshole who ever lived. He treats his first biological son like shit, he raises his “true children” to be as paranoid and pessimistic as him, and he threatens anyone who offers his sorry ass any kind of help. It seems to you that the only one who should’ve died that night in Crime Alley is Bruce.

You shove the man’s image in your head aside. Before tonight, he wasn’t important to you, but now, he’s irrelevant. You never needed him before, but now, you really don’t. With the Megamycete, you have everything you need.

Just then, your phone rings, bringing you out of your thoughts. You fish out your phone and look on the screen to see Alfred’s caller ID staring back at you.

“Hello,” you answer.

“Master Y/N, are you alright?”

“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because it’s over an hour since you should’ve called me since getting off work.” You wince when you peek at your phone and see you’re overdue your nightly call with the butler. “So, I ask again: are you alright?” Based off his tone, he’s not going to accept “I’m fine” as an answer.

“Yeah, I am.” You quickly think of anything that could explain your tardiness and realize something: the best lie is an obvious truth. You just need to modify it a bit. “I just stayed behind to tell Mr. Chen goodbye. Today was the last day for the store because his daughter said Gotham was too dangerous for him to stay by himself, so she brought him to her home today.”

“Oh, Master Y/N, I’m sorry.” His tone says he’s bought it and you actually feel bad lying to the man you’ve come to see as a father figure. “I know how much you loved working there. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I will be. I’m gonna miss him.”

“Of course you will, he was a good man and you were the best employee he could ask for. Can I do anything for you? I’m halfway through with my vacation, perhaps I should—“

“No,” you cut the man off. “You don’t have to come back early, Alfred.” With everything that’s happened today, you need some time to prepare yourself before facing Alfred in person again. It would be a disaster for you to expose yourself as some form of metahuman in front of him. Plus, he deserves to have all his allotted vacation time. “I’ll be fine, really.”

“If you’re sure,” he says, obviously wanting to say more, but doesn’t press the issue. “I’ll let you go, I’m sure you’re tired and you need your rest. Please make sure you catch up on your sleep I’m sure you’ve missed this week during your spring break.”

“I will, Alfred, don’t worry. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Very good, Master Y/N. Good night, my boy.”

“Good night.”

You hang up and let out a sigh of relief, glad he bought it.

(You say you trust the butler with your life, but keep the events of tonight a secret from him. Why?)

“Because Alfred’s highly protective and would most likely steal a boat and sail back to Gotham within an hour if I told him I was kidnapped. And if he knew about you, he’d probably drag me to a hospital and have every last trace of mold surgically removed.”

(We do not wish for that to happen.)

“Me neither, bud. You know, after tonight, I think we’re gonna do great things together.”

(We agree. Now, heed the words of your butler and rest. Tonight was very eventful for you. It would not do well for our host to shirk in his bodily needs.)

You chuckle and strip down to your boxers before climbing into bed. Not long after you get comfy, you feel yourself drift off to sleep. For the first time ever, you’re actually looking forward to waking up in Gotham.

Bruce hears Jason whistle at the sight, but says nothing in favor of studying the carnage inside the My Alibi bar. Bodies are scattered everywhere around the establishment, some are relatively intact while others look like they were ripped in half.

“Looks like someone had fun here,” Jim says as he approaches him, Jason, and Damian. “What do you think?”

“Looks like someone had a score to settle,” he responds to the police commissioner. He motions to the remains of three men crowded together in a corner of the bar with their heads missing; two of the heads are near the rest of their bodies while the third has been reduced to a fine red paste. “Especially these three. Based on how they were killed, I’d guess whoever did this was after them.”

“Doesn’t look like Joker’s handiwork,” Jim adds. “No one here’s smiling and the place is devoid of murderous gag toys.”

No, this is definitely not the clown’s MO. Neither does it match the MO of anyone currently missing from Arkham. The only one he could think of that could rip apart and crush some of the victims is Bane, but that doesn’t explain why the remaining victims are impaled; plus, the giant is still locked up in Arkham’s high-security ward. So, this can only mean one thing.

“This is definitely the work of someone new,” he says, bending down to study the squashed head. “And with this being the only scene we know of, this was their first time killing.”

Whoever did this is highly dangerous and needs to be stopped and fast before even more people get hurt. Looks like he and his family are going to have their hands full for the foreseeable future.

Tag List: @space1crow @bat1212 @minkyungseokie @nosyrobin @bunbunboysworld @kitty-from-daaaa-voidddd @feral-childs-word @phoenixgurl030 @soriansick @hellcatsworld @prettyboys247 @marsmabe @paolexsstuff @c0l1fl0r @starryperson @lunaluz432 @orbitingtraveler @roseytheteacup @bundlofcigars @kore-of-the-underworld @kiarst @vanessa-boo @moxiemy @greatwhisperspaper

[fallstaticexit]

The Art of Being Seen - a Nancy Landgraab story

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔒𝔫𝔢 - 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔱𝔥

Prev / Next

AN / Transcript under the cut

AN: Nancy's story will consist of 3 parts: Part One- Youth | Part Two - Uni | Part Three - Wife Three pivotal moments in Nancy’s life that shaped the Nancy we know today.

As mentioned in the prologue, this story may contain mature and possibly even uncomfy themes and all posts will have their corresponding trigger warners in the post as well as the tags. Trigger Warnings are: Homophobia / Religious Trauma / Death via Car Accident/ Drugs / Alcohol / Infidelity / Sex & Nudity

Also, I have experienced CAS burnout lately, so I aged down most of the townies to teens lol. I figured this version of Cassandra Goth can be the AU version since I’ve already wrote Bella and Morti Goth into my Briar legacy, which this story is apart of that universe.

Transcript:

Cassie: This is Blair Hall, the senior girls’ dorm, and if you ask me, it’s the best one. We have our own private library. Down there is the rec room; we’re not allowed to have the boys over unless it’s with a chaperone.

Cassie: We’re also the closest to the church, which is great for when we have group sessions before service. You won’t have to rush and scarf down breakfast, plus you can sleep in a little!

Nancy: [sarcastically] Gee, how’d I get so lucky?

Cassie: Sister Agnes always says, It’s not luck—it’s a blessing! Vacancies are hard to come by. My old roomie withdrew; she had a really hard time fitting in with the other girls. They can be... kind of intense.

Dina: Oh, look. Another pretty blonde rich girl. Like those aren’t a dime a dozen here.

Nina: [scoffs] Here we go...

Dina: I am not joking. I better not catch her ass around Don. The last hoochie he was tonguing down was also a skinny, flat-chested, blonde bimbo.

Vanessa: You need to put his weenie in a cage instead of fighting every girl that breathes the same air as him.

Dina: Well, he wouldn’t be tempted if these floozies would stay away from my man!

Vanessa: I guess dyeing your hair blonde isn’t working for you, huh?

Dina: Oh, shut it, VV. You’re just jealous he isn’t into redheads.

Nina: Hmm, I thought he was into redheads though.

Dina: Ugh, as if!

Cassie: You can pretty much decorate your space however you want. Just nothing that’s on the prohibited list. There’s a room check every night before curfew, and-

Nancy: What do you know about that redhead on the balcony?

Cassie: Dina?

Nancy: No, she said her name was Vanessa. I ran into her this morning but she didn’t mention her last name.

Cassie: Oh, yeah! VV. Vanessa Villareal. She’s- eh, one of the mean girls. I try to stay out their way. Probably best you do the same.

Nancy: [softly to herself] Villareal. So, she’s old money, too.

Cassie: Her family built the school. Guess that’s why she feels like she can do whatever she wants- eh, don’t tell anyone I said that!

Cassie: But, erm, you’re welcome to hang out with me and my friends during rec and lunch and stuff. I know how tough it can, being the new girl and all.

Nancy: Yeah? ...thanks- Cassie, was it?

Cassie: You’ll totally like my friends. They’re the coolest people on Earth.

Cassie: Definitely better than some people. You can tell who goes here because of their faith and who was forced here because of their lack of it.

Cassie: Hey guys! This is Nancy, she’s my new roomie.

Bob: No way, they filled Angela’s spot already? Money talks. I’m Bob, or Bobby, and this cool, tall drink of water is Geoffrey. Welcome to Paradise.

Bob: [whispers] Geoffrey! Say something to the pretty girl!

Geoffrey: [voice cracks] W-we’ve um, met already.

Geoffrey: Our dad’s are friends. I just haven’t seen her since we were 10 years old. She looks so... different.

Bob: Oh, I seeee. First love? Your ears are beet red, my man.

Bob: Take a seat, newbie! Are you into D&D, perchance?

Nancy: I have no idea what that is.

Bob: Oh, ho ho! You’re in for a treat, m’lady. I’ll catch you up from the beginning of our campaign.

Vanessa: You look so bored. Want to get out of here, new girl?

Vanessa: Don’t worry, I’ll return you back to your nerds in one piece.

Cassie: [grumbles] Um, hello, we’re sitting right here?

Nancy: Go where, exactly? This place is in the middle of nowhere.

Vanessa: Guess you’ll have to come and find out.

Nancy VO: [I learned then, that I would follow her anywhere]

Dina: There she goes, taking in another stray.

Nancy VO: [All she had to do was take my hand]

[bucca2]

okay not to wax poetic about a minor side character in Skyrim that annoys the fuck out of most people, but it really does sadden me that most people are like “he’s annoying, kill him!” and then do no self reflection on the fact that they only killed him because of a petty personal gripe and because they were sent to do so by a power tripping traitor who LATER ALSO TRIES TO KILL THE LISTENER THEMSELVES.

For a long time I’ve had Thoughts™ on the phenomenon of Gamers (derogatory) who treat any NPC who is even slightly an inconvenience with disproportionate and often violent vitriol, but this post is already getting long. General musings on the tragedy of Cicero’s character and how it’s objectively the wrong choice to kill him below.

Thanks to my partner @wrenanigans I’ve had reason to re-examine Cicero’s character, and his past just makes me so deeply sad. Of course, his journals only cover DB-related events, so maybe he had a personal life he just didn’t write about, but it kind of struck both of us that he feels the loss of his fellow DB members so keenly and yet never really mentions any personal relationships outside of obligation to his fellow assassins. (i.e no family or lovers pre-insanity when he was a normal, extremely capable man) Like of course he went insane. The organization that was his entire life’s purpose not only promoted him to a position where he could no longer do what he joined them to do, but then he watched the organization dissolve around him and all his friends be slaughtered.

Then he was alone with the Night Mother waiting for her to talk to someone and give him direction for eight fucking years!!! Of course he went completely off the deep end! If I was isolated, paranoid (but is it paranoia if they’re actually out to get you?) and constantly on survival mode for that long, I’d be relieved if being a little quirky and doing little dances was the extent of my deviant behavior! (The murder comes with being in the Dark Brotherhood, so I don’t wanna hear any whining about him being stabby. Murder isn’t OK if the Dragonborn does it, but suddenly immoral if people you don’t like do it. In video games.)

I think for most people who don’t put much thought into Cicero and his actions, they just vaguely think “oh, Cicero betrayed the family and tried to kill Astrid, so killing him is justified irrespective of her later betraying us”, which is simply not true. There’s a very interesting post I saw floating around lately about how you can’t treat religion in fantasy worlds like TES the same way you would with religious groups IRL, because in TES there is tangible proof that gods exist, and they can and will fuck with the mortal world for their own whims. The point of the DB quest line is that the Tenets matter, and straying from them and the Night Mother almost snuffed the DB out for good. The narrative of the game explicitly justifies Cicero’s actions and QUITE LITERALLY tells you that killing Cicero is not the right call.

TES has a lot of creative interactivity with picking your own outcomes and going with your own solutions, but quests don’t usually end with “go kill this guy. but you can also spare him… ;)” They usually don’t give you an old wise dude whose spirit you can summon who tells you not to kill that clown. And then if you spare Cicero, he comes back and is a potential companion. Like…I don’t know how much more obvious it can get that you’re not supposed to kill Cicero. I get for most people it’s not that deep, but this is TES. We talk about lore here.

[tsublue]

Your 4th house lord and what you find comfort in

< This can also most likely work with moon house placements too. >

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Oh boy, this is a long unfinished draft i’m coming back to.

Also happy Holidays! Sending love and hugs to everyone!

Please do not copy, reword, repost and etc my posts. If you want to use points from them, then please ask for permission first and give credits.

4th house lord in 1st house

You either love being by yourself and hanging out with yourself or/and you enjoy doing things that can improve you in every way. Like-so getting ready and etc. Kinda Emma Chamberlain vibes okayyy.

4th house lord in 2nd house

You had/still have an comfort item or a special stuffed animal growing up, didn’t you. You most likely also like when everything is planned out for the day or for the event that ur going to do and it’ll be inside ur comfort zone. You like to have everything “laid out.”

4th house lord in 3rd house

You either love being by yourself or you absolutely hate it. Nothing in between. It’s up to your mind and how it works. It’s either your bestest friend forever or your worst enemy. You most likely were/are close to your siblings or overall friends and find comfort in these people. You like to write out your thoughts or be creative with expressing them since you’ve figured out what you feel might be little too complicated for others and writing it out can bring you comfort.

4th house lord in 4th house

Isn’t this too obvious? You obviously like to spend time around your family or if your 4th house is in a water sign you also probably just like to sit and observe your family in a way. Not in a creepy way. It’s just unexplainable. Something such as Elio from “Call Me by Your Name” You most likely have a very good bond with your mother and female figures around you who have been around for a long time and are most likely your comfort zone.

4th house lord in 5th house

You are one energetic soul. If not physically then your mind will always be very vibrant and active. You most likely find comfort in some particular activities you do. Which can also mean hot girl walks as in clearing your head when stressed and etc. You probably also liked to draw and do the arts in many forms. That’s what let you express yourself and let stuff out which also brought you even the slightest bit of relief and comfort.

4th house lord in 6th house

A little bit like the 2nd house, you like to spend your time working on yourself as a way of escapism. Also really like to be outside, around the nature and most likely had a very great bond with your pets and other outside world animals. You probably prefer animals over humans. (And I love you for that. ) Having a routine or a planned out schedule is probably inside your comfort zone.

4th house lord in 7th house

You most likely find comfort in expressing yourself. Especially in clothes and outfit options. Also guiding others has probably given you fulfillment. You had one unique mind growing up. You also found comfort through acknowledgments from others when completing or doing something.

4th house lord in 8th house

You never liked to get too comfortable and always needed a new thing or a change in the way you do or feel. You’ve at least at some point loved spending time just sitting in your room in silence by yourself at night or in the dark and found comfort in your own company. It’s also giving quite traumatized child isolation vibes if you ask me, but not always in a bad way.

4th house lord in 9th house

You are one moving soul too in a way. You felt fulfillment when learning about new stuff or doing a workbook of some sort. If you also were/are religious then you might’ve found more comfort than other people in the religion’s ‘god’. You also probably found out that having different experiences and people from different cultures and different backgrounds can make you feel comforted.

4th house lord in 10th house

Your not direct priority has not been finding comfort. You can feel fulfillment and comfort when getting the recognition for your work, whatever it has been. I personally think that deep down your family and close ones are pretty much comfort place for you even if it’s subconsciously, but you are pretty materialistic in such fields.

4th house lord in 11th house

You always are trying to find comfort in your way and probably have been on the hunt for it at some point in your life. You like to have or happen to have your points differently as in it could be a stuffed animal or something non materialistic. We’ll never know. You just find comfort in what you find comfort in. I personally would like to point out that Grandparents can also be one of the comforts for you. I really would like to learn about your experiences.

4th house lord in 12th house

Oh my poor baby. I have a slight feeling you might have been neglected as a child in a way especially with emotionally non present caretakers/parents. You probably have a tendency to isolation and using it as a coping mechanism. You felt comfortable and comforted in your head and mind since it’s a mystic place. All i have to say is stick to your guts. Love you.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

I in no means mean to offend anyone and if these observations do not apply to you then it’s completely fine. You can always find a more pleasant post. <33

Let me know if you agree with my words or have your points to add, I absolutely love reading all of the comments and communicating, so let me know your point of view!

See you next time!

Love, Tsunami

#astrology #4 #444 #4thhouse #astro #astroobsetvations #astrologyobservations #aspects #4thhouseobservations #asteroid #asteroids #houses #comfort #findcomfort #dindcomfortin #1sthouse #2ndhouse #3rdhouse #birthchart #5thhouse #6thhouse #7thhouse #8thhouse #9thhouse #10thhouse #11thhouse #12thhouse #birthchartreadings #astrocommunity #tsublue #4thhouseruler #vedic #tropical #sidreal #personacharts #aries #taurus #gemini #cancer #leo #virgo #libra #scorpio #sagittarius #capricorn #aquarius #pisces #planet #planets

[aimbutmiss]

Buggy stared at the stone wall in front of him with wonder and curiosity, as if the mysterious box-shaped rock held the secrets to life itself.

It probably did. At least a fragment of it.

“Fascinating, isn’t it? The ancient language.”

Buggy stopped his deep staring to turn to the tall man beside him. “It looks beautiful.”

Oden smiled at him. “Couldn’t agree more, Buggyjiro. What’s interesting about the writing system here is that it doesn't display the phonetics alone. The order of symbols and the way they’re connected also dictates the grammar…”

Buggy listened to the enthusiastic man talk about the writing in front of them, explaining and translating as he went. Maybe he was trying to pass down at least bits of the forgotten yet ever important language to him, or he was just really passionate about the poneglyphs. Either way, Buggy took every little piece of information that fell from Oden’s mouth as if it was a sacred treasure.

He stopped his little lecture as little Hiyori walked –more like stumbled, up to the stele and touched the surface with her tiny hand, babbling passionately. Though neither of them could understand what the little girl was trying to convey, they listened intently as if every little noise out of her made perfect sense.

“Is this one causing you two any trouble?”

Toki came over to them, walking in small steps as usual, and picked up the still bubbling Hiyori in her arms.

“Oh, not at all. She’s a clever girl, like her mom.” Oden said, making his wife giggle.

The samurai looked at them as if they were the most valuable treasure in the whole wide world. It warmed Buggy’s insides, yet there was a pang in his heart. Family. Something he longed to have for himself down the line, but he didn’t know if he could ever have it. He was pulled out of his thoughts when a strong hand squeezed his shoulder.

“I can tell you’re deep in thought. It’s good to think, but you need to learn when to get out of your own head, Buggy.”

Buggy looked up to his captain, not understanding when the man had even walked up to them. He hadn’t heard anything when he was approaching.

“Sorry. A lot to think about, though.”

“Hm, indeed. But you’re only 13. No need to think so hard at your age. Look at Shanks, he’s the master of not thinking.”

Buggy turned his head to watch Shanks run around the land, chasing a large snake around as he laughed without worry. Buggy grimaced. “That would be because he’s an idiot.”

Roger laughed. “That’s not such a bad thing in this world. If anything, you’re the one who’s too clever.”

“And that’s bad?”

“No, not quite. I just worry that’s all.”

Before Buggy could ask him to elaborate, the man abandoned the subject as he turned to Oden.

“You think you can leave a message in my steed on here? To let the future generations know that I was here.”

Oden laughed loudly, as he did most things. “Of course, Captain. That is if you can find anything that would dent this stone.”

Roger laughed back. “Who said anything about carving on the poneglyph, idiot? There’s no need, especially not when there’s a perfectly good gold surface next to it.”

That made Buggy smile. The captain was clever too, much clever than him, yet he couldn't see how that was a bad thing. If anything, he liked being clever because it made him more similar to the captain. They didn't look anything alike and he certainly didn't have his bravery. He'd like to have a trait of his to remember him by.

He frowned. Perhaps thinking too much was indeed not a good thing. He turned to the sacred bell of Shandora as the dialogue in the background became background noise; and though he was not raised to be religious, he prayed that he had a little more time with his dad captain.

[hazshit-hotel-hater]

Do you have a molly redesign?

I do!

She isn’t a fullbody or finished at all but I love her dearly. Whenever I draw her face I like to make her look really sweet until she opens her eyes and its like ⚫️w⚫️ and its like “oh! um!” Cause I love doing stuff with eyes. I want hers to be kind of creepy looking cause I mean shes a spider! But also I want her to look a bit out of place in heaven, her halo is a little crooked, her eyes are really big and don’t have much shine to them, and her general appearance is just a little off putting the way she stares and her interests. Like she was in the mafia and witnessed her brother overdose and slowly die in a coma, shes going to be kind of fucked up. Plus she has a bit of a thousand yard stare in canon anyway

I think molly being in heaven is really interesting honestly and it’s a large part of her character, like she’s very important to plot once Sir Pentious gets into heaven and we actually see more of it. Shes still her own person of course but she also serves as a way to show that some people in heaven are almost as strange as people in hell. Molly loves spiders and has an intense interest in true crime and surgical procedures, also again, she’s something that people are usually afraid of, like when you die and go to heaven most people usually aren’t like “OH MY GOD I HOPE IM A SPIDER…” but she totally was cause shes just like that.

Unlike Angel (hence why he isn’t up here) Molly was very religious and still holds a large chunk of religious trauma, however she remains faithful and is using her faith as a way to cope with her grief and stress. A large majority of her family were homophobic and transphobic so having two twins that were respectively gay and trans they didn’t take very kindly to that. Molly was just much much more closeted than Angel/Anthony. She still tried to help him with his problems but found it hard to when he was so engaged in the family business and turned to drugs instead of talking to her and we know how that ended up turning out already.

Molly never really got to transition while alive and spent the remainder of her life after Anthony died more closed off and a bit more sad than she already was. She didn’t entirely shut down but for a few years she absolutely did and eventually separated from her family and tried to pursue herself and her religion further (ie. getting a boyfriend and going to church) While Angel broke many of the 10 commandments, Molly made sure to do her best to respect them and would always pray afterwards. She did end up dying of old age and ended up in heaven, though upon arrival realising her brother was in fact not here was a detrimental blow to her mindset and sets up a bit of the point with how religion can be used both to help grief but also can be used to completely ignore grief as well as coming to terms with the fact those you care for might not always be the best people and sometimes you’re forced to leave them behind because of that.

I have not reached this point in the rewrite yet to figure out how or if Angel gets redeemed at all but I really like imagining them hugging and being shocked at how much the other has changed

[sinvilles]

Alterations

Sobriety AU Drabble. Clay/Danielle, 15+ for language.

Clay finds his mother’s recipe cards.

Special thanks to @khanumshahrzad and @cheonsa-n for feedback!

Dear Orel,

I hope you and your family are well. It’s great that you’re traveling. I think your father would be happy about that, but he’s in a volatile mental space at this time so I have yet to share the news with him— that and he doesn’t know I’m writing you about him, and would probably be embarrassed to find out. To answer your question, I don’t think he’s emotionally ready to see you again just yet, but he is getting there.

This month your father has made an amusing foray into the world of domestic labor. Since he ceased drinking he has been plagued with the horrors of puerile boredom. This lack of stimulation has made him so antsy that last week he just about blew up the farm mixing the wrong cleaning chemicals. He insisted that he didn’t need my help, yet he has consistently called for it on a daily basis since beginning his journey into the frigid waters of sobriety. 

I don’t begrudge this of him; if it were me that was vulnerable, then I would also hope for someone with a conscience to look out for me in my time of need. Sadly, my conscience has its limitations. I will admit— and you know this, Orel— his quirks can be exhausting beyond human comprehension. For one, he is not apt to admit he’s mistaken. But let me start at the beginning.

The smell of something savory punctuated the afternoon. As Danielle closed the front door behind him, he felt a homey sense of peace swirl alongside him and hoped it would mean a nice dinner wasn’t too far ahead. He followed the scent into the kitchen, only to remember whose house he was in. 

Clay, by some ungodly means, had managed to pile six crusty ceramic and aluminum pans into the sink. He was working on defiling a seventh on the stove, stirring at his hearty smelling concoction with a look of pure concentration and a zeal that was almost religious.

Rather than interrupt him, Danielle was compelled to observe him a little longer, just to see what he would do. And what he did was lift the ladle to his lips, take a quick taste, and pause with a blank expression.

He grabbed the pot and dumped its still bubbling contents in the trash.

Danielle coughed, which caught his attention. His concentration broke into a grin.

“Oh, didn’t hear you come in.” His wild eyes sparkled as he piled another pot in the sink. “You’ll never guess what I found.”

“You’re right. I’m stumped.” He stares at the mess.

Clay shoves a little wooden box in his face, which he accepts from him. He fingers through the dozens of cards in it, daintily handwritten in cursive.

“Recipes?”

“My mother’s recipes.”

This man and his goddamn mother. Danielle recalled the obsessive detail with which he had described her long-gone presence in the house the second time he had come to see him. Pointing out how and where she had liked to sit in the living room, her favorite bible reading spot— even where she had fallen cold and dead in his fathers study. For all he knew, Clay could still see her ghost walking around, carrying on her chores, haunting him.

“So, I don’t mean to pry…”

“Pry away, buddy.” He stared lovingly at the recipe card in hand.

“I was only wondering why you’ve thrown out all this wonderful smelling Brunswick stew.” Danielle glanced into the trash.

Clay turned to face him, a very serious expression on his face.

“I just can’t get it to taste like she made it.”

“Uh-huh.”

You see, Orel, your father’s obsession with “getting it right” borders on the comical. I say “borders” because it slams face-first into the grotesque. I’ll be the first to admit to my own obsessive nature, but this is ridiculous.

Danielle swipes his finger along the edge of the last pot, gathering what’s left of the stew and gives it a taste.

“This tastes fine. Good, even.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t good, it’s just not right.”

“I see.” Danielle sighed. “But isn’t it a sin to let all this food go to waste?”

“It’s also a sin not to honor your mother.” He mumbled. “And that one actually is a commandment so it ranks above waste.”

“Right.” Danielle considered the merits of walking out on him right there and then, but paused as he remembered that he promised this man’s son he’d look out for him. 

“So, Clay… what makes yours different from hers?”

“It’s just not the same!” Clay whips around to face him. “I’m following the recipe to the milligram, as she wrote it and something about it is off and I just don’t get it!”

Danielle looks at the recipe card.

“This one uses ground pork. You know, I always had it with pulled pork.”

“Hah! Shows what YOU know.”

"Show's what you know," he said to me. What else could I do? I pulled my sleeves up like a man and did the dishes. I admired his commitment, at least. That night I helped him try two more variations of the same ingredient combination. I had at least managed to convince him to waste his food in smaller batches, and I ended up eating the last one myself when he wouldn't touch it. I thought he'd given up, but lo and behold, three days later, he sent me on a shopping trip with the exact same list of ingredients.

"Have you considered trying a different recipe?"

"No. I'm getting it right this time, I know it." There was a feverish gleam in his eye. "It's got to be that she used canned corn and not frozen corn."

So he tried several times again, varying the order in which he put in the ingredients: 

Chicken stock, canned tomatoes, ketchup, canned corn, Worcestershire sauce, barbecue sauce, hot sauce,  salt, pepper.

Canned tomatoes, canned corn, salt, pepper, chicken stock, hot sauce, Worcestershire sauce, ketchup.

Hot sauce, barbecue sauce, ketchup, Worcestershire sauce-

"That probably isn't it, Clay." He just barely held back his exasperation. "Maybe it's a different cut of meat -"

"IT IS NOT A DIFFERENT CUT OF MEAT!" He snarled, dumping another stew into the sink, this time slamming the pot in after it with a clang. "If the recipe card says ground pork, then it's ground pork. She would NEVER-"

When he turned to face him, his anger evaporated.

"I'm sorry."

"If you yell at me again, I'm not helping you any more."

"No, no, no, wait. You know, it might be something in the sautée."

Danielle sighed and pulled out another onion.

This farce went on for another two days. I don't know what compels me to indulge him like this. I suppose it wasn't really about the stew at all, and that being in his childhood home again just made him miss his mother. 

Did your father ever tell you about your grandmother? She seemed a remarkable woman. Before she had your dad, she was adventurous and lively, but she had a drinking problem that she gave up because she wanted a baby so badly. You see, because she drank she kept losing them. Once she quit, your dad finally came into the world. In a way, since he stopped drinking, your father is trying to do a similar thing for you. Adults can be complicated, and you can't always explain when or why they choose to do things. 

I think his problem is that he thinks, or rather insists, that she was perfect. I think maybe when he hears the voice of God chastising him in his head, it sounds like her.

On the fifth day, Clay had surrendered to the wave of hopelessness that washed over him. There was no recreating that distant memory of his mother's cooking. As he lay on the couch, he stared up at the ceiling.

"I'm a total failure. I couldn't even get this right..."

"Your mother would have been proud of you for trying." Danielle said flatly as he held out a box of tissues. "Let's eat out."

"I'm not hungry." 

"You can't NOT be hungry." He dropped the tissue box on Clay's chest and gritted his teeth. "You have eaten nothing but spoonfuls of the same damn stew for a week. We are going to a restaurant and you are going put food in your mouth and chew it and swallow it— or so help me I will tie you up and force feed you myself."

He glanced at his jailer-slash-life coach-slash-only-friend-left-in-the-world and blinked at him.

"You promise?"

They wound up at a diner that they often found themselves in. The dinner hour wasn't too crowded— most people didn't come to sit along the edge of Sinville during the evening hours, as they much preferred to dive right into the nightlife and what it had to offer. For Clay, who had to avoid even thinking about alcohol, the pickings were much slimmer.

The waitress brought them waters. Danielle ordered a soup and salad, and when his somber date wouldn't look at the menu he ordered him the special without looking at it.

He watched him as he stared into his water.

"Clay..." he sighed. "I know this is hard."

He looked up to meet his eye.

"No, you don't." 

"I can see it. All of this is hard for you. Physically and emotionally." He rubbed his forehead, too stressed to meet his gaze directly. "You have... a lot to grieve."

"Oh, no, you have it all wrong. I'm glad I'm rid of it. All of it." He laughed, sounding broken. "I have NEVER been more free than I am right now. Isn't that crazy?"

He pulled up the left pant of his slacks and stuck his leg out, pointing at the alcohol monitor bracelet on his ankle.

"Even with this thing threatening to call the cops on me if I slip up even once— I'm finally free!" He slammed his fist on the table, sending a tremor through his water glass. "I got what I wanted. I'm liberated now. Now all I need is to just be happy!”

What few heads were in the diner had quietly turned to look at him. Danielle glared around, daring them to eavesdrop— very quickly they went back to minding their business.

"You don't have to rush it. Any of it." 

His expression softened and returned to the state of a sad watery-eyed kitten.

Danielle's gaze fell to the table and rested on a pair of shakey hands. He closed his eyes and pushed down the urge reach out and squeeze them.

"I just need you to eat something. That's all I'm asking."

The waitress returned as if on cue and put down the minetrone soup, greek salad— and a bowl of brunswick stew in front of Clay.

Danielle buried his face in his hands.

"We can send it bac-"

"Whatever, I don't care." He muttered, shoving a heaping spoon into his mouth

He stared as if transfixed. Slowly, he chewed, swallowed, and took another bite. He chewed even slower.

Opposite him, Danielle watched his reaction as he let the mouthful linger.

He swallowed.

"This is it." His eyes darted around.

"What?"

"This is her stew!" He stood up and turned to the waitress. "I need to know what the cook put in this!"

"Um, sir!" She started as he ran past her. "You can't go into the kitchen!"

"Jesus fucking Christ..." 

Danielle followed, swinging doors hitting him as his poor, wretched friend barreled into the kitchen to solve a mystery that had been driving him crazy for a week.

He appeared to argue with the line cook for a second before he shoved a piece of paper in his chest and told him to get out of his kitchen. They were both promptly escorted out of the diner.

When he read the recipe he fell silent. They were in the car and Clay must have read the paper for the dozenth time before Danielle finally bit.

"So? What's different?"

"It's the same thing."

He went quiet for a beat.

"Except..."

"Except what?"

He mumbled something.

"Didn't catch that."

"They use pulled pork."

"You mean your mother used pulled pork."

"I don't understand it." His voice quivered.

"It's not that hard. She did what everyone else does. Everyone makes it that way. My family made it that way. And now you know that she also‐"

"But why did she lie on the recipe card?" He was in tears at this point, holding his head in his hands. "I believed her..."

Whatever schadenfreude he had left leaked out of him like a deflating balloon— once again he could see the wounded little boy in him.

"You know… maybe when she wrote it, that was what she believed it should be…and then when she saw you liked the other version better..."

He trailed off as Clay's sobs began to reverberate in his ear. It was time to take him home.

You should never idolize anyone too much, Orel. Not even me. People are only human, as you are, as am I, as is your mother, and as is your poor old dad. But you can always try to believe in them, and have faith in them, even if they do disappoint you— and they will. That is up to you, though.

Truthfully,

Coach Stopframe

[finleycannotdraw]

can u recommend some bands? i think i like ur music taste and i am terrible at finding music

ty :)

of COURSE I can <3 you’ve probably heard of some of these, but maybe there’ll be some you haven’t! I don’t know what you already like, so… here we go :)

Hozier. Yeah this was always going to be first on the list I’m currently listening to basically nothing else! He’s an Irish folk/soul/blues/etc idk musician who uses a lot of religious and mythological themes in his lyrics and has a lot of songs that include social justice commentary.

The Amazing Devil is a folk rock band with an incredibly unique sound. Their songs are incredibly emotional and have an awesome fantasy vibe going on—plus there’s two singers, and they often sing independently from each other, which is something you don’t see often!

Good Morning Bedlam is a bluegrass band that I’ve gotten into recently! They’re sort of like… a mix of the amazing devil and the crane wives?

The Crane Wives, while we’re at it, and

The Oh Hellos. they’re fairly similar and I don’t have a ton to say about their stylistic differences, but they’re all definitely worth checking out!

Florence & The Machine. Most people have heard of them but I always like to recommend them anyway

Alec Benjamin, if you’re into softer indie music! He has a lot of different styles of lyrics, but his voice is consistent, so he’s great to listen to if you’re looking for that sort of variety.

Chxrlotte doesn’t have a lot of music out, but I’m a big fan of the music she has released, including the ones about Good Omens! The others are more angsty which I love too.

The Family Crest is an orchestral indie pop rock band, which blows my mind. I can’t believe orchestra isn’t a more utilized tool in popular lyrical music, because they do it so well.

Good Kid is actually my brother’s favorite band, and I love them too. They’re also indie rock, but they have a very distinctive style and are easy to get into! Plus they haven’t released a shit ton of songs like some other artists, so it isn’t overwhelming to explore their discography.

Jonatha Brooke is an artist I only know about because my mom liked her music a lot in the 90s, but she’s got a super nice voice and has some awesomely relatable lyrics. I especially recommend her album Ten Cent Wings!

Midlake is a super melodic folk rock band. I’m obsessed with their album The Courage of Others, which has a melancholy vibe that’s super easy to get lost in.

Palaye Royale is harder rock than anyone else on the list so far, but they’ve got an awesome style. Unique voice and definitely darker themes in their lyrics.

Tears for Fears is a pop rock band that I love because my dad does. (My parents are musicians—I trust their music taste).

Toad the Wet Sprocket got their name from Monty Python, but PLEASE go listen to the Architect of the Ruin EP. You will not regret it. Also the song Something’s Always Wrong is like… entrenched in my very being.

Elbow is a band that I never see in fandom circles, but they’re definitely not obscure. Check out their album Little Fictions! They’re kind of like Midlake.

Will Wood ranges from chaotic and fun (The Normal Album) to absolutely soul-crushing (in case I make it)! Sometimes even both at the same time!

(I would’ve also put Paramore, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, and other rock/pop punk bands I like on there, but I assumed you already know them.) (If you were looking for harder rock or metal, let me know, because this list is not that.)

If you want more genre-specific recs or even album/song recs, don’t hesitate to ask!! Music is the fuel of my soul.

[gxldenlush]

spiritually yours || m.s

pairing:highschool!matt x ghost!fem!oc

summary:Matt is in love with a ghost.

warnings: mentions of death, very very sad (i cried hard), blood & injuries (stab wound), lmk if I missed anything

a/n: thought of this at 2am & cried writing it

word count: 4.9k

☙༻✽༺❧

Matt has a secret. He sees ghosts. Well, one ghost, specifically. He’s grown completely infatuated with her, if you can believe it.

Adelaide died a very long time ago. 1899 to be precise. She has been trapped in this house since her death, she has no idea why. She found out that Matt could see her when the boy was only eleven years old. Now, the eighteen year old is utterly obsessed with the 125 year old spirit.

Adelaide first started speaking to Matt through dreams and thoughts, on his eleventh birthday, when he was about to fall asleep, he heard “Happy birthday, sweet child”, he opened his eyes and there she was. In a gorgeous Victorian style dress, a light blue that made her eyes stand out beautifully. He wasn’t even scared, he felt oddly calm by this new presence. She gave him this sense of comfort that he’d never felt before.

It didn’t take long for Matt to fully understand that Adelaide was a ghost. Although she hates that word, she doesn’t know what to be called, but she knows that “ghost” isn’t on the list.

Which brings us to today. Matt is sat up in bed, way past the usual time he goes to bed, his nose buried inside a book he found in the attic a few days ago when Adelaide enters the room.

“Hey, you’re earlier than usual” He smiles as he closes the book and puts it in his lap.

“I was tired of waiting” The girl shrugs as she sits on the edge of his bed. “What are you reading?”

“Oh, I found it up in the attic when we were having that clear out..”

“May I?�� she holds her hand out for him to pass her the book. she opens the cover and reads the writing. her face softens. “This was mine…”

“It was? how did-“

“That’s my handwriting in here, my name, all of it… I remember this book, I read it religiously”

Matt changes the subject slightly. “Can I ask you a question?.”

“Of course” she places the book down next to her on the bed gently.

“How old were you when you… died?”

“I was nineteen”

His eyebrows raised, he wasn't expecting her to be that young.

"So young," he mumbled to himself. after a moment of silence, she changed the subject.

“Don’t you have a paper for your history class due to be finished soon?”

Matt looks over at the open notebook and laptop sitting on his desk waiting for him to start his assignment. “Yeah.. right. I forgot”

“How about I help you… I’ve seen plenty of history. What is it about?”

Matt sighs as he drags himself off his bed and towards his desk, he sits down in front of it and switches his laptop on.

“I have to write about a previous owner of my house… Everyone is going to have war stories but nobody lived in this house before us since like 1930… I’ve contacted people but they haven’t replied…”

Adelaide sits down on the edge of the desk. “Isn’t there anybody else that you could speak to?” That question sparks an idea.

“Hey, what about you? I mean you said that your family was the first people to own this place… could I write about you?”

“Me? What would you even write about me?”

Matt looks nervous to ask his next question.

“Could I… talk about… how you died maybe?”

“You want to know how I died?”

“Please..? If you don’t want it in my assignment that’s totally understandable but… I do want to know.”

“I’m afraid to tell you…” The spirit speaks with a large amount of uncertainty in her voice.

“Why?”

Adelaide sighs deep, seemingly troubled by the thought of telling Matt of her death.

“I believe that you can still see it… once you learn of a spirits story, of their death, you see the cause. Almost like an illusion… Do you understand that?”

He immediately tensed up, his stomach twisting into painful knots. He didn’t want to see whatever horrific scene it was. He didn’t want to see Adelaide dead, but he also wanted to know more.

He shut his eyes, silently consenting to it.

“So if you tell me how you died, I’d be able to see it?”

“Yes. and I don’t want you to see me like that…”

“Please? It won’t change how I feel about you.. What if you’re like super vague and I fill in the gaps?”

“But you’ll see me like it forever…”

He let out a shaky breath, trying to stay calm. Matt knew what he was about to see would forever be ingrained into his memory.

"I.... I don't care," he replied through clenched teeth.

Adelaide sighs, giving in. “Alright…”

Matt perks up in his seat, bracing himself ready to hear the story.

“When I was nineteen, I fell ill. Terribly ill. My sister took care of me, I slowly grew… they said that I grew insane but I don’t believe that. I believe it’s that word you’ve mentioned before.. when you’re very very sad…”

“Depressed?” Matt questions, he feels a pang in his chest when he hears her reply

“Yes, depressed. I believe that was what happened to me.”

“Did you die from your illness?”

“No…” Another hit to his heart.

“Then… How?”

Adelaide takes a long pause, preparing herself for retelling this story.

“My mother found me, in my washroom… I had stolen a knife from my dinner-“

Before she can continue, Matt feels a chill through his body, a single word is forced into his mind. “lies”.

“That’s not true is it? You didn’t-”

“I don’t remember my death, I remember walking to the washroom but that’s all.. Everybody said that I did it myself.”

He feels the same shiver and the same word pushes into his mind. Matt realises that he can’t see any difference in Adelaide’s appearance he looked up at her in pure confusion, his eyebrows furrowed.

"I don’t see anything," he mumbled, looking around the room. "I-I thought I would've seen something by now..."

“It’s talking to you isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“The house… It remembers every core event that occurred in its walls. Especially the tragedies, everything. It’s telling you different isn’t it?”

“Y-yes.. it is- how is that possible?”

“I haven’t a clue… But it’s fascinating isn’t it?”

Matt let’s out a huff of a laugh “You love that word.. fascinating.. You say it a lot”

“You show me a lot of fascinating things…”

“How does the house remember your death, Adelaide?”

“It tells me that I was wrongly medicated. My sister was the one who took charge of my medication. The house believes that she lethalised my doses in order to keep me ill. Until I realised that I could communicate with this house, I thought that I had used that knife on myself, the house tells me that it was my sister, to keep the blame far away from her…”

Matt’s eyes widened at her words. He never imagined that the cause, the reason she... did it.... was because of her disease.

But when the story changed to the truth, he really didn’t expect to hear that her own sister was the cause behind it all. He felt a wave of anger wash over him.

"Wait... Are you saying your own sister.... made you go insane...?-“

“She apparently lethalised my medicine dosage, yes. I had lost consciousness due to exhaustion and she came into my bedroom, apparently she moved me into the washroom and set my body to make it seem as though I had-” She sighs, not wanting to give more detail. She has already given enough.

“How old was your sister when she did this?”

“Twenty-three, she still lived with us, which was unnatural at the time. All women are usually married off by 20 at the oldest.”

“Were you… married off?”

“No, but I had a suitor prepared for me… My future was just at my reach… He was nice, kind…”

“Did you like him?”

The girl shrugs “I suppose, I wouldn’t have married him on my own accord, of course. Its what my father wanted, so…”

Matt was shocked at this. “So your dad was just going to marry you off to some random guy that you never loved?”

Adelaide cant help but laugh softly at his surprised expression.

“This happened to every woman back when I was alive, Matt”

Matt didn’t care about the “other women”. He was concerned about Adelaide, the fact that her already short-lived life wasn’t how she wanted it to play out. The fact that she never had a say in her own happiness infuriated him, and now she never will.

“My sister didn’t obtain a suitor. She had a few but they always rejected a marriage offer, I never knew why. My sister was beautiful.” Adelaide clears her throat to stop a tear from forming in her eye. “Why don’t you start writing it down?” She turns his focus back onto his assignment.

As Matt begins to write notes, he decides to turn them into a full essay later. He wants his facts first. But just as Adelaide is spelling out her sisters name to him, the pen flies from his hand and hits the wall on the other side of him, the paper soon following.

“Holy shit!”

“Are you alright?” He nods at Adelaide’s concern. “She doesn’t like when people tell that story…”

“Imagine that…” Matt mutters in a sarcastic tone. “Wait, you still talk with her?”

“She’s still here. Though she died much older.”

He let out a shaky breath as he heard Adelaide’s words.

“S-She’s still here?” He repeated, his voice as soft as a whisper. He felt a rush of anxiety wash over him, he could feel the hair on the nape of his neck stand up, chills run down his spine. He was suddenly very aware of where he was, and the possibility of Adelaide’s sisters presence.

“I don’t allow her to be seen by you.”

“yeah I’d rather not- How do you ‘not allow her’?”

“I protect you here, Matt. And your family.”

His heart skips a beat when he hears Adelaide mention that she protects him and his family. He feels a mix of gratitude and relief fill him, he was grateful that she was looking out for him, but he was also afraid of what she’s protecting him from.

“How do you… protect me? and why?”

“The house has made me believe that it is because I was the first to die within it’s walls, I somehow have the power to protect you. As for why… I protect you because I have never felt this way for a man.”

Matt could feel his heart flutter as her words hit him, they reached into his chest and wrapped around his heart in a protective hug. Adelaide cares for him, more than anybody else, and she had the power to protect him. He gently took one of her hands, an action he only learnt was possible a few months ago, and brought it to his chest holding her against his heart.

“I always forget that you can do this” She smiles down at her hand in his.

“You really care that much about me?”

“I said earlier that I wouldn’t have married my suitor from my life if I had the choice… If I ever did have a choice for marriage… it would’ve been a man like you.”

Matt couldn’t believe his ears. She would’ve chosen him. He was speechless for a moment. He doesn’t want to move, breathe, he was afraid that he was in a dream and that one wrong move would wake him up. “You would’ve chosen me?”

Adelaide doesn’t even have time to answer before Matt sees the blood. It’s seeping through Adelaide’s dress, right above her heart.

“Adelaide…”

“What is it?” Her eyes grew a size or two in worry.

“I didn’t realise but… I see it. The blood. Is that where she-”

“No” The girl begins to panic. “No no no no. Y-You can see this?”

He nods slowly, his eyes fixed on the deep red that contrasts the innocent blue of her dress. “Yes… Its right there”

“That… is the injury from my death, I-I don’t want you to see this… Y-You won’t love me if you see this.” Matt’s heart aches at her words. He shook his head fast , his voice filled with conviction.

“No…No, that’s not true, seeing this doesn’t change how I feel about you, I love you no matter what.”

“But I-” Adelaide cuts herself off with a sharp gasp when her dress changes before their eyes. The fabric loosing its beautiful colour, and opening around Adelaide’s wound, showcasing where the knife pierced her skin.

Matt was stunned as he watched her dress change, the fabric shifting and opening up. He could see the wound in her chest now, clear as day. He felt a wave of different emotions wash over him. sadness for the pain that Adelaide endured, anger that this was something she had to go through. He was speechless again for a moment, his eyes locked onto her body, taking in the sight in front of him.

After a few seconds, he finally spoke up, his voice soft yet filled with compassion.

"I... I can see it..."

Tears fill the poor girls eyes as her dress opens the last little bit, fully revealing the cut that killed her. Matt’s heart ached as he saw the tears fill her eyes, the last of the dress disappearing around the wound, revealing the fatal cut on her body. He couldn't believe what he was seeing. The love of his life, the person he just admitted he loved, was killed by that cut. He felt a wave of sadness wash over him, his eyes glued to the sight in front of him. He was unable to speak for a few moments, his mind working overtime trying to process what he was seeing.

Adelaide doesn’t take the silence well. She doesn’t give him time to speak, she stands up and rushes out of the room. His heart sank as she stood up and ran away from him, disappearing as she left his room. He was torn between wanting to go after her and wanting to respect her need for space. Matt knew that chasing after her when she was upset is not a good idea. He sat there at his desk, his heart heavy, his mind full of questions. He let out a deep sigh, silently hoping that she would be okay.

Hours passed but Adelaide were nowhere to be seen. He couldn't sleep. His mind was full of thoughts, worries about her. He tossed and turned in his bed, trying to will himself to fall asleep, but it was futile. He lay there for what felt like an eternity when suddenly, he heard a faint creak from the door. he sat up quickly, his eyes scanning the darkness. He searched every square inch of his dark bedroom, but Adelaide was nowhere to be found.

He lay back down and eventually falls asleep, only to be awoken again by a nightmare. He woke up with a gasp, his heart racing from the nightmare he had. His body was tense, beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. He was about to sit up when he suddenly felt a gentle touch on his hair. His heart skipped a beat as he realized what was happening.

He couldn’t see Adelaide, but he could feel her presence. He could feel her hand gently stroking his hair, soothing him. He knows that she is ensuring that he doesn’t see her because of what he will also see when she makes herself visible to him. It was her way of protecting him from seeing the injury that took her life. He felt a mix of emotions. it was comforting to know that [FNAME] was there, that she cared enough to soothe him after his nightmare, but he also felt a pang of sadness knowing that he couldn’t see her.

After a few soothing yet saddening moments, Matt hears a soft whisper.

“I love you too much to allow you to see me this way.”

He lay there, listening to the sound of her whisper, his heart rate slowly returning to normal. He wanted to say something, to respond to her declaration of love, but he couldn’t find the words. He reached out tentatively, searching for her hand in the dark, wanting to feel her touch once more.

“Matt… don’t” She warns in a whisper, they both know that as soon as he touches her, she will be seen by him. He refuses to let go, once he’s found her hand, he traces his thumb over her knuckles as she becomes more visible to him in the soft glow of the moon through his window.

Matt sits up in his bed, tracing every feature of her face with gentle eyes.

“You don’t love me like this, do you?”

Matt was taken aback by her question. How could she believe that he no longer loved her? He shook his head quickly, his voice gentle and hurt that she would believe such a lie. “I do love you. More than anything, please don’t ever doubt that.”

“But what about my injury? Nobody is beautiful like this.”

Matt couldn’t believe his ears, He sits up in his bed, leaning close to Adelaide. “That doesn’t change how I see you. You’re still the most beautiful person to me, inside and out. Nothing could change that. Nothing.” He rests his forehead against hers gently, just living in this moment as he wants to forever. He closed his eyes briefly, as if trying to memorize every detail of the moment, before he spoke in a soft and tender whisper.

"I love you... I don’t care what you look like, I don't care about the wound. I love you, all of you."

Matt does something brave, something he’s never done before, he musters up the courage to lean even closer, bringing his lips to meet hers. It was a soft and tentative kiss, filled with nothing but love. He pulled away briefly, his eyes lock with hers as he spoke.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time…”

This brings a laugh from Adelaide “How do you imagine how I feel, it’s been a hundred and twenty five years for me”

Matt joins in on the laughter, it is cut short with confusion when Matt realises something. Her wound is disappearing, his eyes widen in surprise and confusion.

“It’s… disappearing.”

“What is?”

He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. bits and pieces of her injuries were vanishing before his eyes. He reached out and touched the area where the injury used to be, his fingers gently brushing against her skin. He looked up at her, a mixture of surprise and curiosity in his eyes. “how is this happening..?”

Matt lightly traces his fingertips along the skin where the wound used to be. Adelaide looks down and sees no blood. “I-It’s gone.”

His fingertips gently traced the area where the fatal cut used to be on her chest. He was in disbelief as he saw that her injury had vanished. He then realises that her dress was mended perfectly, as if the injuries had never been there in the first place. He shook his head in bewilderment, his voice filled with awe as he spoke. “I don’t understand.. it’s gone... completely Gone..”

“I-I don’t know what t-this means” Adelaide stammers, completely confused.

He couldn’t say for sure what this new development meant. all he knew is that seeing her injuries disappearing right before his eyes was a miracle.

he shook his head, feeling a surge of hope rise within him.

"Maybe this means something... maybe..." he trailed off, unsure of what to make of this strange occurrence. He stops his sentence when he feels her hand become lighter in his, he looks down and sees something that tears his heart from his chest.

“Adelaide… your hand…” When she looks down, she sees her hand starting to fade away, she’s disappearing.

“No.. No I don’t want to go yet.”

“You’re.. you’re leaving me, aren’t you?” Matt’s eyes flood with tears.

She’s passing over.

He can’t stop it.

“Hey, it’s okay” Matt speaks, his throat burning as he attempts to keep his tear at bay. He refuses to let her see him like that. He will stay strong for her. “You can finally be happy.”

“But I am happy with you.”

“Adelaide, you can finally sleep… you can see your mom again”

“I-I do miss my mother…”

Matt’s heart aches as he hears her broken words. She hasn’t seen her mother in over 100 years. “You can be free to do whatever you want now, nothing can hold you back” He forces a smile.

Adelaide cant hold her tears any longer, she lets out a choked sob. “I don’t want to be without you.” Matt can sense the pain in her words. He stroked her hair gently and pulled her closer as he spoke in a gentle voice. “Hey, that’s okay, I’ll always remember you alright? You’ll always be in my mind and my heart.”

After a long tight hug that slowly becomes lighter and lighter, Adelaide finally gives in.

“Thank you for every moment, Matt”

His entire body aches with emotion. He looks into her eyes. “I will never forget our moments, Adelaide, you’ll always be the love of my life.”

“Don’t forget to write about me” Adelaide lets out a soft chuckle as she reminds him to write about her in his history presentation.

“I will write a million books about you, Adelaide you can be my ghostly muse” He smiles at his half-joke. He really will write about her. Every book, every school assignment, every word with be somehow tied to Adelaide

“I adore the sound of that.” She smiles through her tears.

Matt’s heart aches as he sees her attempt to smile. He couldn’t bear to see her this way. He gently wipes away her tears with his thumbs, he keeps his hands cupped to her cheeks, savouring the contact while he still can. His gaze filled with love and loss.

“Maybe one day we will be alive at the same time.”

“In the next life. I’ll find you.”

“Do you promise?” Her voice breaks as her eyes beg for his promise.

“I promise.”

They sit in silence as Adelaide slowly fades away.

“I love you”

“I adore you”

They kiss, once more to remember each other, they wish that they could stay in that moment forever. But alas, when Matt opens his eyes, the love of his life is nowhere to be seen. She has finally moved on, she will be at peace. Reunited with her mother. Free to be herself. Matt closed his eyes again, a mix of sadness and contentment coursing through him. He whispers into the dark of his bedroom, hoping that wherever Adelaide is, she can still hear him.

“I will always love you.”

☙༻✽༺❧

The next week was hard for Matt, he can’t go an hour of the day without thinking of his ghostly love. It can come to the time for him to read out his history assignment to his class. He wrote about her, just like he’d promised. He makes his way to the front of the class, preparing for the laughter as he is bound to burst into tears at the first sentence.

That is until his headmaster walks into the class, interrupting him. Matt silently thanks the man for postponing his assignment from being read, although it is something that Adelaide had wanted.

“Excuse me, Mr Sturniolo, I’m just here to introduce our new student. This is Addie. She has joined us from… where is it you’re from again?”

The new student comes to view, Matt cannot believe his eyes when he sees this girl. Her captivating eyes remind Matt of her. She’s wearing her favourite colour. She looks just like Adelaide.

“Oh, I’m from… all over.”

The girl takes a seat at the desk next to Matts. He is told to begin reading his assignment. He doesn’t feel afraid to read it anymore. He feels comforted, his eyes drawn to the girl sat next to his empty chair. He reads his assignment perfectly, he does get choked up when he speaks of Adelaide’s injury that caused her death. He remembers seeing the stab wound that she thought for so long was her doing. But when he looks up at this strangely familiar girl, his sadness and slight anger dissipates.

After his class has ended, he feels a tap on his shoulder, when he looks up at this girl, he sees her at a closer view. The resemblance is uncanny.

“What’s your name?”

“I-I’m Matt”

“I like that name… Sorry, I know this is weird but I just feel like I know you.” He doesn’t find it weird at all. Matt couldn’t help but feel a pang of emotion as he hears those words. The familiarity in her voice and words striking a chord in him.

“That’s not weird. You remind me of someone too.”

“Is she pretty?” The girl jokes with a smile.

He chuckled softly at the light-hearted comment. He shook his head slightly, his voice growing softer. “She isn’t just pretty, she is like nobody else. She’s the most beautiful girl in the world. She had this warmth about her, just one look from her would make you forget everything else in the world… she is- well, she was- perfect.” Matts eyes fill with tears when he refers to Adelaide in the past tense.

“Was? Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, it just still stings a little.”

Addie decides to change the subject, to avoid making him more upset, little does she know she will speak of the same girl.

“Hey, that presentation you did in there, from the eighteen-hundreds? That was some intense shit… So she used to live in your house all those years ago?”

He nodded with a small smile, honestly he wants to talk about her to this girl. To Matt, it feels like he is talking to Adelaide herself, telling her how… fascinating she was. God, she loved to use that word.

“Yeah, she died a hundred and twenty-five years ago…” He changes his story slightly so that this girls doesn’t think he’s crazy. “People say that her ghos- her spirit stayed for years and years after. She always thought that she had killed herself, because she didnt remember her death because she was so sick, but really it was her sister. She was only nineteen when she died, all she wanted from her life was to live how she wanted and to fall in love. Apparently she did, but with someone who was alive, they fell in love and when she realised that he loved her no mater what, she finally moved on. After over a hundred years…” Matt blinks away tears.

“Wow, thats fascinating.” His eyes grow wider when she says that.

“Did you just say fascinating?”

“Yeah, I love that word. I’m not sure why, just always use it.”

Matt’s gaze softens. “It really is a great word… Adelaide really was fascinating, she still continues to fascinate me, and everyone who hears about her…”

Addie smiles softly, seeing the clear appeal that he has with this spirit. “Why don’t you tell me more about her? I like to be fascinated” She laughs.

“Okay…” They start to walk down the hallway towards the exit doors, they walked home together that day. He told Addie all about Adelaide, she was genuinely interested, he was grateful of that. She asked questions and took in the information.

Matt will always love Adelaide, but he feels a very strong connection to her when he is with Addie. He can’t help but wonder if it’s possible for Adelaide’s spirit to be in this girl who is an absolute reflection of her.

Maybe they will always find each other.

In life and in death.

———

@asherrisrandom @nickssunglasses @mattscoquette

[witchhuntress]

Random Midnight Ghost Hunt Thoughts

So I said earlier morning yesterday that SPR gang is well-rounded found family, and to further elaborate on that, I’m going to word vomit about how it’s such an awesome group of ghost hunters. Everyone has something to bring into the table:

Bou-san -> Buddhism

Ayako -> Shintoism/Doctor

Masako -> Mediumship/Sort of Shamanism

John -> Catholicism

Lin -> Onmyoudou (or, more aptly, Taoism)

Naru -> Parapsychology/Psychic Researcher

Mai and Yasuhara are like the odd ones out, but Mai can be considered a budding psychic researcher too. Yasuhara isn’t a psychic but he can offer some smart & out-of-the-box opinions, so he can be the objective mediator. The beauty of this found family is that they managed to bridge the gap between different set of religious & paranormal beliefs into a working relationship where everyone’s different skills complement one another. Everyone is given ways for their exorcisms and or abilities to shine. And they all nurtured respect for one another’s skills/beliefs as time goes by.

Naru with his empirical method also helps ground the group in a way that there is balance. He’s there to question people’s perception & beliefs as well as test them and how they hold up. Mai is already perceptive and observant, and she works very well to complement Naru’s different perspectives as well as challenge everyone’s biases with her intuition.

Oh and actually there’s one thing Mai can be a good source of: URBAN LEGENDS. When we were first introduced to Mai, it’s clear she likes horror storytelling & is very good at it. Throughout the series, we can tell that she’s very knowledgeable about horror stories and the occult. It’s a pastime, but with that, it’s also a solid start for psychic research; she already has the curiosity and interest for the paranormal. Adding theoretical knowledge that Naru brings, it’s like an ontological process for her.

Overall, our beloved SPR gang is a jackpot gathering in itself because it’s like a team of geniuses at some point, cracking the hardest paranormal cases in Japan. Just can’t help but further appreciate Ono-sensei’s creativity as well as radical(?) view of having an inter-religious dialogue in the form of characters in a light novel back in the 1980s. Until now, I don’t think there’s ever been a story as accepting of different religious & paranormal beliefs as Ghost Hunt tbh.

And that’s why it lives in my mind rent-free too XD

[buddieisgoingcanon25]

I think people are getting their hopes up a little with gay Eddie being soon. Personally I reckon the timeline will be more like this:

1. Buck and Tommy breakup but they break Buck’s hamster wheel. It’ll likely be mutual and the whole ‘thankful for teaching me something about myself but I don’t think we actually have deep feelings for each other’ type thing. Because honestly I think that’s what they’re heavily hinting at with the ‘Evan’ thing but also with not showing us them truly getting deep with each other. I think it’s a choice to still have Eddie in a ton of their scenes - I think it’s reminding us that it was never about Tommy in the first place.

2. The moustache will be about Eddie being passive and just letting life pass him by/happen to him. e.g he’s letting Chris take the lead on not coming home/he just let the moustache grow without really thinking about it and when he actively shaves it off he realises to move forward in life he has to make actual decisions that make him happy.

3. I think the slow burn element will be because Chris is home and both Eddie and Buck are single for once. I think they’ll show them as a family unit more but maybe with some lingering glances and sexually tense moments.

4. I think Eddie will come out in some religious arc maybe? I also could see them paralleling bucks arc but with Eddie coming out to everyone except Buck.

4. Then finally I truly think we’ll get some kind of kiss without Eddie coming out to Buck. I think it’ll mirror Buck and Tommy with Eddie initiating it, but this time Buck isn’t confused about liking men he’s confused about liking Eddie and Eddie suddenly being an option. and the season will probably end on a cliff hanger of what they do now.

This my theory/also if anyone wants to write a fic based on this please do hahaha

Oh I like your theory anon. Thanks for this. I definitely want Buck to be chosen this time. Or maybe even have it be like Henren and say it at the same time. That would be EPIC.

[curiousaromantic]

Asking for Batdad fic recs?

Listen- or read, i guess. It is 2am and I am craving an specific type of fic.

I really love the idea of Batman being a known dad. Like, at first? You are a goon, a bad guy, who fears Batman because he is the Dark Knight, the one who breaks bones and won’t have mercy beating your ass. Streets say criminals are better dead than surviving whatever pain the Bat can and will inflict.

But idk, i love reading fics where the criminals realize that they have fucked up when they hurt another member of the Batclan and oh no, Batman is their father isn’t he? We are so dead. We all saw what he did to the Joker after Robin #2…

(Extra bonus if the criminals slowly realize Red Hood is Robin #2 and THATS WHY RED HOOD FUCKS WITH THE BATCLAN (dude he is a bat himself, duh))

SO GIVE ME MORE FICS LIKE THAT PLEASE, recommend me some 😭 i want Gotham fully aware the Batclan is a family and Batman is their Father, lmao imagine if they worship them like religious figures lololol. I cannot imagine the gossip.

The fics that made realize I crave this type of trope are these:

whats in a name? [Ao3]

Bruce Wayne has many children. Bruce Wayne does not have many children who call him 'dad' regularly, and he understands. He was not the first father figure for most of his children, but he's happy to fill in for them now. However, the rarity with which he hears the word just makes it that much sweeter when he does.

Or: 6 times Bruce's kids call him dad, and 1 time he calls them his children.

homewrecker [Ao3]

The Gotham underworld finds out that deadbeat dad Batman owes poor, hapless Matches Malone decades worth of child support after having thrown him away to latch onto the city's most famous omega instead, and they sure have some opinions about that.

Bruce just has a headache.

Or just recommend me your fav batfam fics, i am not picky i swearrrrrr

also, sorry for my grammar idk, im mexican and english is not my first language <3

[lucysarah-c]

Hi, how are you? I hope everything is going well for you :) I really enjoy your writings, and after reading your thoughts on sexism and homosexuality in Aot I was wondering if you have any thoughts about life inside the walls? Like about their culture, politics, every day life etc. No pressure tho, it's supposed to be fun for you too lol and it's just a silly little request. Thank you for reading and I hope you have a lovely day ! :)

Hi! 😊 I’m doing great, thanks for asking! How are you? Oh, that’s a lovely question! As someone who loves writing about life inside the Walls—especially in my main fic, Holy Ground—this question is right up my alley.

I think most celebrations inside the Walls would be related to the monarchy, the Church of the Walls, and local events. For example, this might sound a bit silly, but in Argentina, there are small agricultural towns that have celebrations like “The Potato Festival,” “The Cow Festival,” or “The Wheat Festival,” where they have fairs with games for kids, presentations, and competitions for local farmers. I believe similar events could happen inside the Walls.

Barley was particularly important back in the day because it’s hardier than wheat in tough weather, and you can make beer as well as bread with it. I wrote a story where they hold a barley festival twice a year after the main harvest to celebrate and hope for a good season. This helps boost local trade and consumption, especially during the long winter, which would create many struggles. I imagine Wall Rose, which isn’t as cosmopolitan as Wall Sheena, would have such festivals. Each region likely has its own “main” source of income and celebrates that. You could explore that idea a lot in a fic.

I also think there would be religious celebrations. Most of the characters we meet in Attack on Titan are more on the “radical” side of beliefs, but I bet the common folk were deeply religious. After the fall of Wall Maria, it’s mentioned that the church regained significant influence. Historically, natural disasters like earthquakes or pandemics were often seen as signs of divine anger, and I think many people inside the Walls would interpret things similarly.

Isayama didn’t fully explain how the religion of the Walls works, so I don’t have deep thoughts on it, but I’m sure they’d have celebrations and traditions around it, just like we do. Interestingly, many religious holidays worldwide coincide with similar times of the year because they’re often rebranded versions of older celebrations, like those of the Romans. So, I wouldn’t be surprised if the people inside the Walls celebrated something like the birth of Goddess Sheena around the time of the winter solstice, much like the Romans and later Christians did. Just to clarify, this isn’t meant to discredit any religion—I’m just providing historical examples!

Monarchy plays an important role in many societies even today, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they celebrated the birth or coronation of the royal family. Maybe there are portraits of the king displayed around the Walls—in schools, public buildings, etc.

I think, though I could be wrong, that Isayama mentioned somewhere that Eren, Mikasa, and Armin attended a “private” school and received better education than most kids. I remember wondering how Eren or Armin could afford private school when they weren’t particularly wealthy. But if there’s private schooling, there must be public schooling too! I imagine there’s a basic public education system, though it probably doesn’t last as long as ours—maybe something between kids of 6 and 12 years, where kids of different ages are mixed and taught reading, writing, and basic math. If they wanted to continue their studies, I bet there were institutions similar to colleges. I can’t see education being mandatory though—can you imagine MPs knocking on your door because your kid isn’t in school? Lmao, me neither! There were probably girls-only, boys-only, and boarding schools for wealthier kids.

Aside from the Scouts, I can clearly see the other two military divisions having multiple headquarters since they have more soldiers. They probably have food fairs on specific days of the week to sell cheaper groceries, and maybe even traveling fairs or circuses.

In Wall Sheena, which is wealthier, I can imagine art exhibitions, book fairs, and theaters hosting opera performances or orchestras. Universities are probably only within Wall Sheena too.

I also believe that depending on the region, people have different local foods and accents. I bet people from the north don’t sound the same as those from the south. Sasha apparently had an accent she tried to hide. They might also prioritize worship of one Wall over another, depending on where they live—for example, Wall Rose’s celebration might be bigger in Wall Rose.

As for clothing, we shouldn’t forget that before the industrial revolution, clothes were expensive, and dyeing them was even more costly. My great-grandfather used to tell my mom that he would take his shoes off to walk to work barefoot and only put them back on when he arrived to preserve them. I think inside the Walls, colorful clothes would have been a luxury, and most people only had one or two good outfits. Society was far more divided economically, with those who were slightly well-off doing much better than commoners.

For example, I have one MC who’s very rich, and she’s always wearing tartan or detailed patterns because different colors and threads were expensive. The same goes for lace—my great-grandmother used to knit bridal veils, socks, and gloves and made a lot of money because it was so costly to produce.

Isayama once mentioned that hygiene inside the Walls isn’t the same as our standards today. He implied that most people don’t shower often and re-wear their clothes. He even said that Levi falls asleep in his chair without changing his uniform. So while Levi is more invested in hygiene than others, even he wouldn’t meet our modern cleanliness standards, haha.

OMG, this turned out SO long! I’m sorry! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did because I ADORED answering this ask! Thank you so, so much! <3

[daizymax]

a fanciful affair | hjs (m)

summary: your sister is getting married, and you are the maid of honor in the wedding party. to your surprise, the only other person in the wedding party is a previous fling whom you would have rather never encountered again, so maybe it's the “love in the air” that makes you agree to round two.

pairing: jisung x fem reader

genre: some angst, smut

word count: 8.9k

rating: mature (18+)

warnings & features: profanity; alcohol consumption; mentions of sibling favoritism; mentions of societal/parental pressures; some heteronormativity; the wedding takes place in a church but there aren’t any heavy religious elements; pessimistic views towards marriage; jisung and the reader have poor communication at first but eventually they start to get on the right track; graphic sexual content; mentions of (past) casual & drunken sex; some dirty talk; a little bit of foot play; vaginal fingering; oral sex; semi-public sex

author’s note: reuploaded from my old blog and rewritten for stray kids bc i wanted to. i hope you enjoy!

{ click here if you prefer to read on AO3 }

---

“I’m on my way right now.”

That part is essentially true. 

“Yeah, I’m in the car.” 

That part is a downright lie. 

“Yes! Stop worrying so much. It's just the rehearsal, isn’t it?”

It takes two heartbeats for you to realize your mistake, at which point your heart practically stops. You close your eyes curse your loose lips. You hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud — it just slipped. 

Detonation imminent in three... two... one... 

“Just the rehearsal?!” Jihye screeches. “Are you kidding me right now? I mean, yeah, I guess it's just the rehearsal. …For my goddamn wedding! It’s only the practice for the most important event of my life. It needs to be perfect, and my Maid of Honor is probably still at home, probably not even dressed yet, telling me it's just the rehearsal. So typical of you, Y/N. Oh, and for the record, Mom and Dad aren't happy about you not being here yet, either.” 

You reopen your eyes just to roll them, then return to fishing your car keys out of your bag. 

They may not be happy, but it's not like your parents can be surprised by your tardiness. It’s their younger daughter — the perfect student, the perfect athlete, the perfect musician — who is the stable, reliable one. 

Sure, you know for a fact that your mother and father love you. They’d do anything for you, give you anything and everything they can. But you’re also well aware that Jihye’s compliant, placating nature takes a lot less of a toll on them. Your parents must be beyond grateful for her. Their nerves are frayed and frazzled from suffering through your rambunctious “phase” that still hasn’t passed. 

Your teenage years can be summed up in a series of jaundiced words, whiny protests, and indignant groans from your side of the ring, and stern lectures tapering off to exhausted sighs from your parents’ end. Whenever your attitude became too much, your mother and father would turn their attention to Jihye. She would present them with yet another trophy or academic achievement to soothe their souls and assure them that they were capable of raising a “successful” human being in the eyes of society. 

These days, you are keeping your trend alive and well by refusing to conform to your parents’ expectations of settling down in a monogamous heterosexual relationship for the purpose of “stability” and starting a family of your own. And, just like always, your parents have turned to Jihye for comfort. They are spending a fortune on your baby sister’s wedding, a clear display that they favor the direction her life is going. 

But Jihye — like most everyone else in the world — deserves happiness, of course, so why not try to make this special day as perfect as possible for her? If she wants to get married, she is certainly entitled to her dream wedding. 

Just shy of four months ago, in a show of sibling camaraderie and familial commitment you knew would please your parents, you had promised to be nothing but supportive of all of your sister’s wedding plans, from the humblest of requests to the most exorbitant demands. Your stamina had kept up fairly well, but you are gradually losing steam as the end draws nearer. 

Only a little over twenty-four more hours to go, you remind yourself with dull cheer. 

Though, if you’re being completely honest, you aren’t even sure that Jihye getting married is such a good idea. At least not so soon, anyway. 

She and her boyfriend (fiancé now, of course) had only been dating for eight months when he proposed. Surely that was not a long enough period of time to truly get to know another person, and you blatantly told her as much. But Jihye was over the moon and she couldn’t — wouldn’t — hear of it. She swore up and down that she knew in her bones Chris is definitely the one, which took you aback. Your sister was never one to be overly romantic. Jihye always, always keeps a calm, disciplined, pragmatic head on her shoulders. So even while you are quite skeptical of her declaration of having found her so-called soul mate, you also trust her judgment. She is the smartest person you know, after all. 

Besides, you can’t deny that by the rigid standards of society which your parents hold in such high esteem, Chris is everything a husband “should” be. He is charming, handsome, clever, funny, financially stable, and the epitome of etiquette. And, above all, he seems to make Jihye genuinely happy. He hasn’t changed her, but he does get your uptight, austere little sister to giggle and joke and relax and adore life. You have to admit you’d be hard-pressed to find a better partner for her to spend the rest of her life with. 

But do they have to be so hasty about it? And do they have to get married on their one-year-anniversary? It makes you want to gag. 

Presently, you collect yourself and say, “I know, honey, I'm sorry. Still trying to get my shit together and act like I’m the older sister here.” 

Jihye sighs quietly on the other end of the line. When she speaks again, her voice is much calmer and softer. “I didn’t mean it like—” 

“Yeah, I know,” you say. “I'll be there in ten minutes, okay? And for the record, I am dressed.” 

She giggles, and you know you’re on your way to being forgiven. “Okay. Drive safely, Y/N. See you soon.” 

---

Everyone who arrived at the church on time gives you peculiar looks when you join them inside seventeen minutes later. 

It takes a moment for you to realize it is because they all dressed up for the rehearsal while you are still clad in a pair of ripped, black denim shorts and a white tank top with the name of your favorite band advertised across your chest. Evidently the universe decided you just needed something else to mentally kick yourself over today. You only hope that Jihye and your parents will be too absorbed in other, more crucial details to waste energy scolding you. 

No such luck. 

In a flash, your mother is on you like a vulture to carrion. 

“I thought we told you this would be semi-formal!” she whisper-hisses in your ear as she hugs you. 

“Hi Mom,” you say with an unapologetic smirk. “Hi Dad.” 

“Hi pumpkin, glad you could make it,” says your father. He leans down and pecks the air near your temple. 

“Oh look, hon!” your mother exclaims to your father. Something behind you has caught her attention. “That must be Chris’s sister and her two kids. When did they get here? Let’s go say hello...” 

As quickly as that, your mother ushers your father away to leave you standing alone, but only for a second. 

“There you are!” 

Oh no, it’s the Bridezilla! you panic playfully, turning towards the sound. Jihye waves excitedly and hurries towards you with quick and dainty stiletto’d steps. Her fiancé follows her at a much more leisurely pace, hands in his pockets. 

Chris catches your gaze and smiles. Then he glances at the back of Jihye’s head, gives a slight shrug of his shoulders, and looks to you again with raised eyebrows as if to fondly say, Yeah, she’s been a little much today, but we love her.

You grin back at him from over your sister’s shoulder as she slams her frame into yours and wraps her arms around your neck affectionately. The scent of her signature shampoo makes you think of home.  

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” you say. “I'm the worst.” 

“You are not, don’t say that. It’s fine, Y/N.” She might be reassuring herself more than you, but you’ll take it. 

Jihye pulls back and squeezes your bare biceps. Her eyes sweep over your outfit in the same judging manner as your mother’s did, but she manages to hold her tongue. She’s trying to keep it together for the rest of the day. 

“I’m just glad you’re here now,” she says instead, smiling warmly. “This should all be really simple. The minister already talked me, Chris, Mom, and Dad through most of it. We just need to ‘act it out.’ If we can just find your partner now, I think we’ll be ready to get started...” 

By “partner” you know she means whoever Chris elected as his Best Man, whom you have never met before. His and Jihye’s relationship has been such a whirlwind that you’ve never gotten the chance. 

It will just be you and the Best Man in the wedding party, which is one decision of Jihye’s for which you are admittedly thankful. Large wedding parties are typically too ostentatious in your opinion. Though you can’t help but wonder if there would have been more people involved if your sister had only given herself more time to plan. 

Jihye peers around with sharp eyes. “Darling, have you seen Jisung?” 

Chris also makes a cursory inspection around the place at her request. 

“Hmm... Well, I don’t- Ah, here he comes now, sweetheart,” he says with a gesture of his hand somewhere to your left and Jihye’s right. You look to where he is indicating and see a man making his way towards the three of you from between the pews. 

The immediate thought that registers in your mind is that he is extremely good-looking. Thick dark hair parted slightly off-center, eyes the color of bitter coffee, wide shoulders. The sleeves of his button-down shirt are rolled up to his elbows, granting a nice view of veined and sinewy forearms. He isn’t especially tall, but his legs are a bit long for his body proportions. His smile is wide but a little nervous for some reason…

… Oh no ...

You’ve seen him somewhere before. 

You’ve spoken with him before. 

You’ve slept with him before. 

And he was one of the worst one-night-stands you have ever had. 

It was something around six months ago when you had gone out with a group of friends to one of the city’s hottest night clubs. It was a scene you felt like you were starting to outgrow, to be honest, but your mission success rate had always been one-hundred-percent, and you were in the mood to score that night. The mission was simple: get laid. 

It was always easy to find someone to take home or leave with for the night, sometimes scarily so. It was nothing a form-flattering dress, sexy heels, and a boat load of confidence had ever failed to accomplish, in your experience. 

It was two shots and half a cocktail into the night when you spotted his friends dragging him to the dance floor. He was laughing, that much was clear. You think you may have even heard the sound of it over the chatter and thumping music. Maybe that was why you continued to watch him. 

He was awkward getting started, likely embarrassed, but he was good when he finally let himself go and really dance. His friends were objectively better — their moves were sharper, cleaner — but it was he who held your attention. Even from a distance, you could see his bangs were damp from his exertions and the heat of the suffocating crowd. His face was dewy and glowing. Even while dancing, he didn’t stop laughing and talking with his friends. 

“He’s cute,” said one of your girlfriends. “And he looks like he’s having a good time.” 

You didn’t need to follow her line of sight to know who she was talking about — you’d already been staring at him for minutes. 

It was when you had finally lowered your eyes to the dregs at the bottom of your glass when your friend had leaned in closer and said, “He's looking at you!” 

You remember snapping your eyes up to find she was right. The music had changed, and the man didn’t look awkward at all as he stared right back at you. He must have caught you staring. 

The events between then and when you entered his apartment were a thrilling mix of drinking, laughter, and shameless flirting. Some memories have been blurred by the shots you consumed, but others you remember vividly. His touch on the small of your back when he ushered you out the door. The heavy cloud of stale smoke in the Uber to his place. The exact angle of the tent in his pants while taking the elevator up to his apartment. 

If only the X-rated scenes that transpired after tumbling into his bed were as worthy of such detailed remembrance. 

He had been a messy kisser, but that was something easily excused by the healthy stream of alcohol muddying his veins. Unfortunately, it did not help his head skills as you’d hoped it would. His fervent desire to go down on you had initially turned you on greatly, but you soon grew frustrated at the sloppy way his tongue lapped at your folds — never in the right spots, and never with the right consistency. Several times you had climbed close to your climax, only to never quite crest. 

Frustrated, you opted for urging him to just fuck you already with the prayer that having him inside of you would be better. And it was better... until he came within five minutes of entering you, pulled out, then slumped to the side. 

Unfortunately, he was not the first man you had hooked up with to finish so quickly and leave you unsatisfied, but he was the first one to fall dead asleep within seconds afterward. He didn't even bother to remove the soiled condom from his softening dick first. You also left it right where it was and fled his place as quickly as possible, feeling an odd sense of petty payback while thinking of the gross mess he would have to deal with in the morning. 

On your way home, you sulked over the disappointing night that you thought held so much potential. There had been such chemistry between the two of you at first, after all. Sadly, he ended up just being some hot guy you enjoyed flirting with for a couple hours and a pitiful story you could tell your friends about later. 

You never expected to see or hear from him again, yet here he is. What a small, funny world. 

Except you are far from laughing. 

Your heart kicks into overdrive with worry and fear over the impending awkward situation, but you do your best not to let it show on your face. In fact, you resolve not to mention your previous acquaintance with Jisung at all. Definitely not in front of your sister and her fiancé at their wedding rehearsal. 

You manage to get your heart rate down to what you estimate to be a smooth one-hundred-ten beats per minute by the time Jisung the Terrible Lay is standing directly in front of you. 

“Hi,” he says, still smiling. “I'm Jisung. You must be Jihye’s Maid of Honor?” 

Oh, so he’s also going to play dumb. Good. 

You nod and introduce yourself (again) while giving his outstretched hand the briefest of shakes. 

“So, how do you know Chris?” You mentally applaud yourself for the calm steadiness of your voice. 

“Best friends since middle school,” is Jisung’s simple answer. 

“I wish you two could have met ahead of time,” Jihye chimes in apologetically. “It would have been nice if you had gotten to know each other at least a little bit before the wedding. I should have made the time for all of us to go out to lunch or something, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry, it’s no big deal,” says Jisung. His smiling eyes do not leave yours. “I mean, it’s not like we’re the ones getting married.” 

He has the nerve to punctuate his stupid jest with a wink. You pretend to be flustered by forcing out a giggle in harmony with Jihye’s. 

Your sister glances back and forth between you and Jisung for a moment, and you can practically see the gears turning in her head. It wouldn’t be a surprise if she took a stab at playing matchmaker at some point today to hook the two of you up. 

Already beat you to it, you brood silently. 

“Shall we get this show on the road, then?” Chris asks. 

“Please,” agrees Jihye. She waves to the minister to signal she is ready, and he nods. 

The minister takes his place near the alter and requests that everyone else congregate at the other end of the chapel. Jisung sidles up next to you at a proximity that is a bit too close to just be friendly, but you refuse to acknowledge him by even moving away. 

It’s funny how senses work — a whiff of his cologne takes you straight back to that night. Your memory flashes you a vision of you leaning against his arm on wobbly legs, and you suddenly remember the feeling of his warm, slightly callused hands cupping your elbows to steady you. You swear you can even remember the sound of his amused laughter at your inelegant state, and the taste of his beer breath in the air. 

You force yourself out of your reverie before you become lost in it. 

“It’ll be very simple, everyone,” assures the minister, echoing Jihye’s earlier words. “I think everyone has already been made aware of the seating arrangements, so let’s just get straight into the processional order, and then do a rundown of what the ceremony itself will entail...” 

As more instructions are given, Jisung leans into you and murmurs under his breath, “You look nice today.” 

A laugh almost escapes you at his unexpected comment. He utters it with the perfect ratio of humor and sincerity. 

You manage to play off the smile on your lips by flashing it towards the woman your mother said to be Chris’s sister when you suddenly catch her eye. 

“Uh, thanks,” you say to Jisung in an equally hushed tone. 

“I mean it,” he insists. “You look every bit as pretty as when I saw you in the club.” 

You ignore his compliment and try to move your lips as little as possible as you say, “Can we please not talk about that here?” 

Jisung lets out a soft snort of laughter. “Sure, no problem.” 

He leaves your side when his turn comes to practice standing behind Chris near the alter, and you follow immediately after to take your place on the opposite side, all too aware of his eyes on you for the remainder of the rehearsal. 

---

His eyes are still on you when you take a seat directly across from him at the dinner table. 

Jihye, in her mildly Bridezilla-esque way, opted to forgo the big, customary rehearsal dinner with the families in favor of a more intimate meal with just her fiancé, her fiancé’s Best Man, and her Maid of Honor. Your parents were more than a little offended about not being included, and perhaps Chris’s were, too, but who were they to deny a bride’s request on the eve of her wedding day? What they don’t realize is that this is the cordial outing Jihye wished she’d planned for just the four of you months ago. It took everything in you not to roll your eyes when she suggested this arrangement back at the chapel, but you weren’t at liberty to reject her wishes any more than your parents were. 

“Ah, I’m so glad we’re doing this now!” Jihye says buoyantly. She even bounces a little in her seat to show how physically overcome with joy she is. She beams back and forth between you, Jisung, Chris, and back to you again. Sometimes you still see your kid sister in her. 

“Absolutely,” Chris agrees at once. 

“Yeah, this is... lovely,” you decide unenthusiastically. You swivel your eyes back to your menu when your sister shoots you a scolding look that says: Be nice. 

“So, have you guys been here before?” Jisung asks the betrothed couple conversationally, waving a hand through the air to show he is talking about the restaurant. 

“We came here on our first date, actually,” Jihye answers in a chipper tone. She scrunches her nose at Chris in a cutesy way and proceeds to tell the table all about the memory. 

In the spirit of neatly categorizing him back into place amongst your other lousy one-night stands and nothing more, you try not to grant Jisung too much of your attention when you fall into the conversation. It proves to be quite difficult, however. Listening to and observing him in this casual, non-sexually-charged scenario is intriguing. It also brings to mind a thought that had not occurred to you before: Jisung could make a wonderful boyfriend. 

You had been so wrapped up in your mission of merely hooking up that night months ago that you never stopped to think about whether or not the person you went home with could be more than a one-night-stand, or could even be dating material. 

But Jisung is. 

He’s witty but not arrogant. Funny but not obnoxious. Charming but not cheesy. Gorgeous but not conceited. His smile is distracting and compelling. His stories are interesting and comical. His laughter is merry and infectious. 

No wonder he’s best friends with perfect-fucking-Chris. But there has to be something wrong with him... 

And then you remember there is, in fact, a catch: his bedroom manner. 

That thought makes you snort out loud into your drink, and you sweep away the romantic notions clouding your mind. 

Some time between dinner and dessert, a local band begins to play music near the dance floor, and Chris whisks a giggling Jihye away from the table. As soon as they are gone, you contemplate making up an excuse to slip out, but Jisung is already speaking to you. 

“Good, we’re alone now,” he says. 

“Good? How so?” The question spoken with a different tone could sound cute and flirty, but the flat disinterest in your mumbled words is moody and a bit harsh even to your own ears. It doesn’t appear to dampen Jisung’s sunny demeanor, though. 

He simply grins and says, “Because now we can talk to each other.” 

You shrug your shoulders. “We’ve been talking.” 

“Don’t play coy with me, pretty lady,” he says. “You know what I mean. We can talk about the night we met, and why we haven’t met up since.” 

You groan and cross your arms over your chest as you lean back in your chair. “I’d really rather not.” 

Is he really that clueless? If he truly has no idea what went wrong that night, it is not worth your time explaining it to him. But god damn him for being so handsome and likable otherwise... 

“Okay...” Jisung says slowly. “If you don’t want to talk, then how about a dance?” 

“What, here? Now? I don't think so.” 

“What if I put it this way: we can sit here and talk like adults, or we can dance and I won’t say a word. What do you think?” 

The silent dance is definitely the lesser of two evils in your mind, but you are afraid of what other nostalgic feelings could be dredged up while in that intimate situation. Your only real option is to elude the decision he wants you to make. 

“You can’t make me do either,” you say. 

Jisung’s grin widens. “Is that a challenge? What if I picked you up and carried you to the dance floor?” 

You allow yourself a laugh at his joke. “Do you think that would be cute or something? I think everyone else in this restaurant would throw your ass out for trying, especially if I was kicking and screaming the whole way.” 

“You wouldn’t dare cause a scene like that, would you?” 

“You wouldn't cause a scene like that, would you?” you throw back at him. 

“I just might.” 

“Do it, then. I dare you.” 

The pair of you sit there smirking across the table at each other in a weird sort of stand-off, waiting for the other to make a move. He caves first by breaking the silence. 

“Dance with me,” Jisung implores in a soft, honeyed tone. His eyes twinkle brightly. He looks wholly unafraid of being rejected. 

God, he really is clueless, isn’t he? 

“No, thank you,” you answer shortly, stubbornness getting the better of you. 

“Would you dance with me if I was the last man on Earth?” 

His follow-up question comes as a surprise. He must be determined to get some sort of positive answer from you tonight. 

The best you can do is laugh away the silly question and wish him a good night. When you get up to leave, Jisung offers to at least walk you to your car, and after a moment of hesitation, you agree. 

You both say hasty goodbyes to Jihye and Chris on your way out. Jihye pouts a little at your abrupt departure, but she doesn’t complain, and you know it is because she is pleased to see you walking out with Jisung. Everything looks to be going according to plan in her brilliant match-making mind. 

When you and Jisung reach your car in the parking lot, you turn to tell him goodbye once again. 

“You were really awful in bed,” you find yourself blurting, apparently unable to keep the words bottled a single second longer. 

Jisung at least has the decency to flinch at your blunt assessment. The wrinkle of his face is noticeable before he turns his head away and takes a step back from you. You wait for him to retort, but he stays silent. 

Unbelievable, you think. He’s not even going to defend himself. 

Just as you turn to leave, his fingers close around your wrist. True to the nature of electricity, a spark jolts through you nearly instantaneously. His hold is delicate but it feels as though you are being branded. You whip your head around to regard him curiously. 

“Sorry,” he says, letting go of your wrist as quickly as he grabbed it. “Just— please wait. Let me say something. Please.” He emphasizes the pleasantry as if it means all the difference. He takes a deep breath; it goes in shaky and comes out resigned. “I know I was terrible. I could make excuses about being drunk and about you being so fucking pretty that I couldn’t help myself from coming so quickly. Both of which are true, for the record, but they’re shitty excuses and you deserve better because from what I can tell, you’re a pretty great woman. All I can say is that I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Y/N, you don’t even know how sorry I am. And I know you don’t owe me anything, but I would love to have a chance for us to start over.” 

At the end of his little speech, he reaches out for your wrist again and gives your hand a little squeeze. It is a soft gesture and over in a flash, but a warm tingle still ripples through your body and doesn’t fade. 

You can still feel it on the drive home... in the shower... when you climb into bed. 

You can still see his smile reflected in your windshield... against the tiles in your bathroom... in the blackness of your room. 

You can still hear his laughter in the lonely car ride... over the drumming of the water in the tub... over the serenade of crickets outside your window. 

And you can’t understand why it matters to you so much that he was terrible in bed that one single time. 

---

The ceremony went off without a hitch. 

The decorated chapel — stuffed with flowers, wreaths, streamers, candles, bows, as well as people donned in silk, lace, velvet, perfume, diamonds, gold and pearls — was a vision worthy of any bridal magazine showcasing the “ideal” wedding. Beyond the floor-length glass windows, the sky was dyed like cotton candy from the fading sunlight. A violinist stood to one side and played light, dreamy tones before and during the processional, then the classic Wedding March for the bride’s entrance. 

Jihye played the part of the radiant bride beautifully. Seeing your little sister’s eyes coated in glassy tears as she walked down the aisle on your father’s arm, then hearing the tremble in her normally steady and authoritative voice as she vowed her devotion to another person (all while wearing a several-thousand-dollar dress meant for this one single occasion) was almost enough to make you cry, too. 

Several times during the vows, you couldn’t stop yourself from looking across the aisle just to see the beautiful smile on Jisung’s face. It had been there since he met you at the other end of the aisle and presented you with a beautiful, white orchid corsage to match the boutonniere pinned to his lapel. When he slipped it onto your wrist, the touch of his slender fingers started to rekindle the spark the two of you had had months ago. 

“You look beautiful,” Jisung had whispered in your ear. “You are beautiful.” 

The same could have been said of him in his dapper black tuxedo and bow tie, but you could not locate your voice to tell him as much. 

The nervous flutter of your heart was made visibly apparent in the way your fingers trembled when he lifted them to kiss the back of your hand, but Jisung couldn’t take notice because his gaze was fixed on your face, and yours was fixed on his in return. The pools of his eyes were so easy to drown in. 

In that moment, immersed in the whimsical atmosphere all around you, you were prepared to give him the answer you couldn’t give him last night when he proposed to starting over. You were ready to tell him you had been foolish for not giving him a second thought all these months, and you would appreciate a do-over very much. 

But then Jihye was hissing from somewhere off to the side for Jisung to get moving, and you lost the chance to speak your wishes. Something about the small bounce in Jisung’s gait down the aisle told you he already knew what you had wanted to say, however. 

Now, here at the reception, it is time to forget about such sappy things and get drunk. 

If only the waiter with the tray of champagne would circle back around so you don’t have to go chasing after him and start up some “alcoholic spinster” rumors for your family to enjoy at your expense. 

“Hi!” Jisung appears at your side like a miracle, bearing a knowing grin and two flutes of the same champagne you were just ogling. “You looked like you needed a drink,” he says, letting you lift one from between his fingers. 

Your lips are already around the edge of the glass. “Was it that obvious?” 

“A little, but hey, who cares? It’s a party.” He pauses for a sip of his own drink, then says, “I liked your Maid of Honor speech, by the way. The story about your little car surfing adventure was hilarious.” 

“Oh, thanks,” you giggle. “I’m afraid my parents didn’t find it quite as funny.” 

“Well, no, but they wouldn’t, would they?” Jisung laughs. “But they did like the part when you said that Jihye getting married is far braver than all your teenage stunts combined.” 

You hum in agreement. “Hm. Yeah. Luckily, they don’t seem to know the difference between bravery and stupidity.” 

Jisung’s grin tilts lopsidedly at your comment. “Not a big, uh, proponent of the whole marriage thing, I take it?” 

“Nah,” you dismiss at once. “There are billions and billions of people in this world, and folks want to tie themselves to just one with a sheet of paper recognized by the government? To some person they met in a teeny tiny corner of the world without ever having stepped outside of the thirty mile radius they’ve lived in for their entire life?” The bubbly alcohol in your glass sloshes haphazardly as your hands become animated, but you pay it no mind. “And so many marriages just end in divorce anyway, so then people have to go through that whole fuckery. Lose half their money, half their shit. And the things they do get to keep, they have to look at and get a big fat reminder of how they picked it out with their ex-spouse during a time when they thought they were in love. They probably went to the store that day hand-in-hand and had no idea things were going to totally implode spectacularly—” 

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute,” Jisung interrupts, laughing loudly. “How drunk are you right now? Maybe I should take that back...” 

“I'm not drunk!” you say hotly and a bit too loudly, jerking your glass away even though he isn’t actually reaching for it. A few nearby heads turn in your direction, so you lower your voice and grit, “I’m not drunk.” 

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” The expression on his face does not look particularly sorry. “Can I ask you something else without you going off on a rant?” 

You deflate with a sigh, calming yourself before saying, “Sure, what is it?” 

“Dance with me?” 

You force the corners of your mouth down a bit to prevent your smile from growing too wide at the sparkle of amusement in his eyes. 

“Sure.” 

He does take your drink now, setting it aside with his before taking your hand next. 

If people are watching the two of you when you step onto the dance floor together, you are oblivious. The only thing you can focus on is the warmth of Jisung’s other hand radiating through your dress from its place on the small of your back when he pulls you in close, and the solid plane of his chest heating you from the front. You absently wonder if he can feel your heart racing. You think maybe you can feel his. 

“I haven’t looked around in a minute,” Jisung says quietly when you both settle into the soft rhythm of the music and begin gently rotating. “But am I suddenly the last man on Earth?” 

An ungraceful bark of laughter pops out of your mouth. Too late, you cover your lips with your fingers, but Jisung does not accept the movement of your hand. He reaches and brings it back to his shoulder, then gives it a few pats as if to embed it firmly into place. 

“You’re not the last man on Earth,” you admit without looking at him. 

“So you want to dance with me?” he presses, playfully ducking his face into your view to force your eyes on him. 

You exhale a softer laugh. “I do.” 

“Funny. Your sister said those exact same words a little while ago.” 

“So did your best friend.” 

Jisung curls his lips down and protrudes his chin thoughtfully. “I guess that makes them both stupid.” 

“Or brave,” you argue matter-of-factly. 

“Yeah. Or brave.” 

A few silent twirls go by before he speaks up again. 

“I have another question,” he begins slowly, then goes quiet for long enough that you eventually look at him questioningly. The resident smile is gone from his face because his lips are pressed together rather seriously. 

“What’s your question, Jisung?” 

He parts his tight lips and whispers, “If I were to kiss you right now, would you consider it brave or stupid of me?” 

If he could not adequately feel your heartbeat a moment ago, he certainly should be able to now. 

You take a moment to consider your words. “Neither,” you finally decide. “I’d consider it cliché.” 

“Ah. Well, what do you think about cliché, then?” 

You swallow hard. “I think I can handle it.” 

To put that statement to the test, Jisung suddenly dips you backwards, and you squeak in surprise. He keeps his eyes locked on yours while waiting to see if you will protest. After a long enough moment of receiving no resistance, he leans in after you and matches his grinning lips to yours. 

Several whistles and cat calls ring out all around you. The supportive sounds encourage Jisung to lift you back upright and continue the kiss ardently, which you reciprocate in full. Instead of simply enjoying it, your brain chooses to analyze the kiss and how much it differs from the last time you did this with him — in a good way. Either he has been practicing or alcohol completely abolishes all sense of his coordination. 

With that thought, you start to laugh until you are unable to maintain contact with his lips. Jisung celebrates your laughter by beaming and squeezing you tightly. 

The audience of people crowded around begins to applaud at the endearing display. Even the bride and groom — the people who should be the sole center of attention all night — are standing on the sidelines clapping their approval. It’s as if none of them have ever witnessed two people kissing before. 

Then you see the unmistakably hopeful look on your parents’ faces, and it dawns on you that they are excited by the prospect of you entering an actual relationship with someone. You know how their minds work. No doubt they are already going so far as marrying you off to Jisung despite the fact that he is essentially a stranger to them — and to you. 

Those bothersome thoughts threaten to spoil your cheerful mood, but Jisung reels you back in by pecking your mouth chastely. It feels like the punctuation to an unspoken agreement to a new start. 

You gift him with a flattered smile and allow him to lead you back into another dance, and everyone else resumes their own business. 

The fast pace of the next song immediately reminds you of the infamous night that has been on your mind ever since Jisung reappeared in your life yesterday. The way his eyes are following the motion of your hips tells you that he is remembering, too. With just a few well-timed shakes and some not-so-accidental brushes, things quickly alter from sweet and charming to hot and tense. 

Jisung brings his lips to the edge of your cheek and whispers towards your earlobe, “You’re giving me some dangerous thoughts right now, baby.” 

Boldly, you entreat, “Tell me.” 

He sucks in a breath through his teeth. “I’m thinking about asking if you want to get out of here, but I don’t think I should.” 

The scent of his cologne tinged with just a hint of sweat is positively intoxicating. The tips of his fingers grazing along your hips makes you lightheaded in the best possible way. 

“Why not?” you ask. 

“Well, you see, the last time I left with you like that, I screwed up and didn’t see you for six months,” he tells you. The smile on his face is a bit forlorn. “I don’t want to make the mistake of sleeping with you too soon again. I want this new start to be perfect.” 

His words are wise. You put your hormones on pause for a moment and envision yourself going on sweet dates with him in all the usual places — to the beach, to an amusement park, to his favorite café — before one night the two of you finally make love to each other in a perfectly romantic setting. 

As darling as all of that would be, you have no patience for it now. There will be plenty of time for those fanciful scenarios later. Or at least, that’s what you’re planning on. 

“The problem wasn’t us sleeping together too soon,” you explain. “The problem was that you were bad.” You pinch his earlobe to let him know you mean what you say, but in a playful manner. 

Jisung snorts and shakes his head away from your fingers. He seems unwilling to say more on the matter, so you have to continue and make your desires known. 

“Jisung, I’ve been waiting for months to get laid at this reception, and you’re the only one here I’m interested in following through with now,” you level seriously. “Besides, if we’re starting over, I need to know that the first time was a fluke.” 

“It was a fluke,” he insists. 

You press your lips to the shell of his ear. “So prove it.” 

When you pull back, there is still a somewhat hesitant expression on Jisung’s face, but the desire in his eyes is growing; the brown that used to be there is being swallowed by black lust. His gentlemanly resolve is crumbling. 

“Can the Best Man and the Maid of Honor even leave the reception?” he worries, still clinging to his better judgment. 

Good question. Honestly, you have no idea what the standard protocol is for the wedding party’s attendance after the ceremony is finished and the obligatory speeches have already been made at the reception. 

You contemplate just going to Jihye and telling her outright that you and Jisung are leaving. Certainly she has no further need for you to be here. But then again, there is probably something more you are supposed to be doing for her. Helping with the gifts or cleaning up the mess afterward, perhaps. But didn’t she hire a crew for that? You can’t remember. In any case, you can hear her incredulous tone now, scolding you for wanting to duck out early on her big night just to hook up with Jisung — even though she wants you two to become a thing. 

You gaze around and spot your sister sitting beside her new husband at their specially reserved table, feeding him a bite from her fork and laughing. She seems distracted enough for the moment. 

“We don’t have to leave. We just have to be quick,” you say, taking Jisung’s hand and tugging determinedly. “Come on.” 

You half expect him to remain rooted in place and hiss another anxious remark at you, but he comes along willingly. The things you assume of him never go as expected; you should probably stop assuming things altogether. 

Without stopping to survey the curious looks that you know are being shot in your direction — because it is clear that you are moving with a purpose and Jisung is along for the ride — you lead Jisung straight to a side room containing the gifts you were just wondering about and shut the door behind you. Not a second is spared before you grab the flaps of Jisung’s tuxedo jacket to pull him in for a more heated kiss. 

“This is crazy,” he laughs after you release his lips again with a wet suction noise. 

It is crazy, but it is also too thrilling to stop. 

“Well, it wouldn’t be my sister’s wedding reception if I didn’t try to cause some sort of scandal,” you joke off-handedly. 

“You mean your speech wasn’t inappropriate enou- hnghh, holy shit.” Jisung’s laughter dries up when he witnesses you sliding your panties off from beneath your dress. You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he gulps. 

With a smirk, you say, “Come on, we have to be quick, remember?”  

Your fingers work quickly at unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. Your hand slides past the band of his underwear to find him not very hard, but not completely soft, either. His breath hitches at your touch. 

“Ffffuck,” Jisung breathes. “You really want it, don’t you?” 

You grin wickedly. “Mhm. Really want to be fucked the way I should have been months ago.” 

You give his cock a squeeze, earning a full moan from him. You rub him up and down as best as you can from the angle permitted by the confines of his clothing. His cock stiffens rapidly and a lustful sigh overflows from his mouth. 

With a few quick shifts and yanks, you guide his erection out of his pants and boxers and drop to your knees in front of it. You don’t remember it being quite this thick, but you’re pleased. It looks so delicious. The head is ruby red, and the vein curving around the smooth underside looks fit to burst. 

Jisung gasps at the first kittenish lick you draw on the slit of his cock. One of his hands comes down to hold the side of your face. You peer up at him through your lashes and smile as you press the head of his cock against the tip of your tongue. He groans lowly in his chest at the sight. 

“We don’t have much time,” he tells you as though you haven’t already told him as much. His voice is already getting husky. “So we’d better make the most of it.” 

Unexpectedly, he curls his hands around your arms and pulls you back up to your feet. The action utterly confuses you. No man you have ever been with has ever stopped a blowjob before it has even started, and there is no way he could have misinterpreted your intentions. Is he afraid of coming too soon again? That’s certainly a likely possibility. 

Before you can question him, Jisung takes the back of your head and brings you in so he can slant his mouth over yours. The force with which he crashes into you is enough to bruise your delicate lips, but oddly enough, you don’t mind. The sincere passion he is pouring into the kiss is burning you from the inside out. He moves to assault your neck next, freeing you to speak. 

“Jisung, what—” You clear the rasp in your voice and start again. “Why did you stop me? I wanted to—” 

He interrupts you with a moan that rattles against your collarbone. “I know, baby. As much as I would love to have your lips around my dick, the point of this is to make you feel good right now. We can worry about me later.” 

He breaks away from your skin to glance around the room. There isn’t exactly a four-poster bed in the vicinity, so he decides the best option is to sit you down in a small chair. Either that or the gift table, but that feels like it would be a bit too disrespectful to Jihye and Chris. 

Jisung kneels in front of you and removes your heels carefully as you take a seat. His thumbs rub gentle circles into your smooth skin as he shuffles closer to you on his knees and leans in to peck your lips twice. His touch is sweet and relaxing, letting you know without words that he is going to take good care of you. The anticipation is nearly overwhelming. 

Soon, Jisung’s fingers trail upwards, following the muscled lines of your calves under the skirt of your dress. You swiftly drag the expensive fabric up over your thighs to give him unfettered access. He grins at you then looks down at the view you have so generously granted him. His hands creep higher and higher on your legs until he is tantalizingly close to where you need him most. 

“Jisung, we can’t take too long,” you remind him impatiently. The whine in your tone is apparent, but you don’t care. 

“I know, baby,” he says again. One of his index fingers skims just over the lips of your pussy. “Indulge me for just a minute, please.” 

He distracts you with another kiss, and you meet his probing tongue with a whimper of need. Since using words isn’t an option at the moment, you try to convey in other ways how much you need him right now. You pull on his arms and at his hair. Your feet glide along his legs and he opens them wider. When your toes bump against his cock still standing out from his pants, he groans loudly against your mouth, and you can tell it is not out of pain. He likes it. Emboldened by his reaction, you press the ball of your foot directly against his cockhead with a bit more pressure. 

“Fuck, that feels good,” he pants against your chin. “I bet you’re good with your feet.” 

Honestly, you have never tried serious foot play, but he sounds turned on enough to make you want to try. 

“Maybe you’ll find out,” you tease with a giggle. “Right now I want you to prove you’re good with your fingers.” 

“You got it, baby.” 

He finally pushes a thick finger between your folds and curls it, beckoning a gasp into your lungs. Your hips automatically jerk forward to seek more friction. Jisung obliges your body language and buries a second finger deep inside your walls alongside the first. 

“Shit. Your pussy is even tighter than I remember.” 

“Have you thought about my pussy a lot these past six months?” 

“Absolutely,” Jisung admits freely, and you have no reply for his honesty because you were not expecting it. 

He draws his fingers out to just the tips, then plunges them back inside without delay. He repeats the motion again and again, gradually increasing the pace. The sounds coming from your core are sticky and obscene. Your eyes roll back in your head, and your head falls back as well. 

“Fuck, just like that,” you urge breathlessly. “Touch my clit, too, please. I need more.” 

Jisung lets out a hungry moan. Instead of using his thumb like you figured he would, he bends forward to brush his tongue against your swollen bud. Your thighs twitch reflexively at the sudden contact on your most sensitive area, ready to either snap against his head to stop him or fall away even further to invite him in. They decide on the latter. 

A whimper squeezes out of you, along with a string of barely coherent encouragements. 

“Oh God, J-Jisung. Yes, yes, y-yes! Like that. Don’t stop. F-Fingers a little s-slower. Tongue faster. Please. Oh f-fuck, yes!” 

He redistributes his weight on his knees to get comfortable between your legs, then hastens to follow your commands. His tongue sharpens and digs relentlessly into your clit. The points of his fingers graze against your g-spot with each deliberate stroke, and that’s when you twist your fingers in his hair. 

“God d-damn it, Jisung,” you moan. Your body starts to writhe uncontrollably, trying to ride his face to your finish. 

“Yes, baby,” he coos sweetly, face still planted firmly against you. The vibrations of his voice tickle your clit gloriously, and you can feel his grin against your hot skin. “You taste like fucking heaven. Is this good? Does it feel good?” 

“Yes, fuck, oh, fuck, k-keep going.” 

He hums and continues with renewed vigor. 

Every time his fingers drag backwards from your pussy, you suck them right back in with a tight squeeze. His lips wrap around your clit and his tongue slips under the hood. The ministrations on your raw bundle of nerves drive you straight to the edge of madness. 

Your fingers curl against Jisung’s warm scalp. Your toes curl against the cold tile floor. Your back stiffens to keep your center firmly locked against Jisung’s face. Your breath hangs suspended in your chest for a long moment... 

...then suddenly you’re exhaling it with an expletive cry of satisfaction when you tumble over that blissful edge. Spasms wrack through your body repeatedly as it struggles to harbor the intense pleasure crashing over you. 

Somewhere in your electrified mind, you are aware of Jisung’s other hand on one of your hips, trying to pin you back down to the chair. You let go of him and move back quickly when you realize you must be suffocating him, and his fingers slip from you in the process with one last parting squelch. When you look down at him, you can clearly see the glisten of your juices slathered over his nose and chin and mouth. 

His grinning mouth. 

“I think you enjoyed that, baby,” he comments proudly, “considering I just about drowned just now.” 

You huff out a laugh and shake your fuzzy head. “Fucking hell, Jisung. Why the fuck couldn’t you have been that good the first time?” 

“I wish I could have been. Then I would’ve been doing this with you this whole time.” 

“Oh, you think so? You think we would’ve stayed together up to now?” You grin at him and push your toes against his shoulder playfully. 

He doesn’t answer you right away. First, he takes your foot and brings it up to his sticky lips to kiss the pads of your toes gently, one by one. Your smile falters when your mouth droops open at the strangely erotic sight, but his smile only widens. 

“Yeah, that’s what I think, pretty lady.” 

His presumptuous yet sweet admission leaves you speechless. All you can do is tug him towards you to kiss him with newfound admiration, heedless of the mess still glued to his lips. Truthfully, you relish the taste of yourself on him; you think of it as proof of the capabilities you thought he lacked, and you have never been happier to stand corrected. 

Jisung is the one to break away first, still smiling. “Can I have one more dance before I take you out of here to make you come some more? Preferably on my dick this time?” 

The bizarre combination of endearing and lewd words makes you laugh heartily. What a surprising man he has turned out to be. 

“Absolutely.” 

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