#thank goodness I don't need to touch one anymore in the foreseeable future

[heereandthere]

So. I'm Alive! (Life Update)

I logged onto this account to try and find something I remembered having buried in my drafts, and since this thing feels kind of like a time capsule to my time as a teenager, I felt like it was semi-appropriate to do a life update since the last time I was here.

When I used this account, I was between 15 and 16 years old, and I am now 20! Holy shit! I'm like. An adult-adult, and that's still completely bonkers to me. I used this account BEFORE THE PANDEMIC. The person who created this Tumblr just outright does not exist anymore and that's INSANE.

Not only am I a proper adult, but I'm also a COLLEGE JUNIOR. I'm so proud to tell you all that I am, in fact, studying theatre and theatre performance on a professional level. I'm the secretary for the theatre-based fraternity on campus and am currently president-elect leading up to the election we'll be doing at the next meeting when the current president steps down. I'm also a part of the theatre for young audiences program as an actor, in beginning rehearsals for my second year with them, and am slated to perform in both mainstage shows this semester (out of the 10 shows we've put on or are planning to put on since I came here, I've been cast/performed in 7!). And on top of all that, I'm slated to be performing in SCOTLAND in the foreseeable future! I'm a busy bee!!

Personal life has been kind of a clusterfuck, mostly courtesy of the pandemic. But I don't really want to focus on a very, VERY dark part of my life other than telling you all that I've finally gotten much-needed diagnoses and coping skills. My obsessive-compulsive ass got and will likely try to continue to be counseled, y'all! It's still an uphill battle, but I'll fight it until I take my last breath. :) I mean, hell, I got the motivation to CLEAN today! If that's not indicative of improvement considering what a mess my room has looked like for the past two years, I don't know what is!

I'm also very proud to report that I have a friend group I feel very accepted and comfortable in. It took a very long time for me to find my "people", and I really think I have here; the theatre department has been so kind and welcoming, and I really do love and cherish the people I work with. Several of them are graduating next semester, which is DEVASTATING, but I know they're all going to do amazing things. I wouldn't trade a single one of them for the world. The same goes for every single one of my non-theatre friends, for though they be few, I would do anything for each and every one of them. They've collectively made this whole "growing up" business so much easier to cope with.

Finally, and I make a point to talk about this because it changed my life so much, Be More Chill is now a chapter in my life I've left in the past. I still love the musical dearly, but it's become a part of my personal history rather than my current obsession and I've made my peace with that. It and musical theatre will always be a huge part of me (obviously, since theatre is my chosen profession), yet my interests have and will continue to change. That's life, baby!

And I want to cap this off by saying, if you paid any mind to this blog at any point, thank you. Thank you for indulging in a really weird journey piloted by a really weird teenager and thank you for paying mind to this post by an equally weird but better adjusted adult. I made this blog when I was at an incredibly low point in my life and having gone through the drafts and seen the unsent posts I wrote about what I was going through, I've made it... so insanely far since the last time I was here.

After a lot of hemming and hawing, I really do think it's finally time to let this blog rest, even though I already haven't touched it for quite some time. I'm still active on Tumblr, though, so if you're interested in getting back in touch or reading some new fic I've been working on for Good Omens, you can find me over at @antiquarianandunusual. You can also find me on AO3 under the same name, or Twitter as AmazingMrFell.

With that said, time for teenage me to rest easy. We made it, bestie. :)

~Heere (Sam)

[sharky857]

Just to quote that brandnew meme I’ve been seeing floating around Tumblr and Twitter...

*clears voice*

Necramech (derogatory)

[always-andromeda]

just some thoughts that I've been having as of late; or, reflections on the passing of time and a ghost story.

it's strange how trauma works. it will continually tell you that you are stuck in the dark ages. it will insist that the little ghoul you used to fear is still there in the corner or right underneath the bed or behind the coat you've worn since sophomore year. it convinces you that you still need to strengthen your wardings. it makes you a paranoid skeptic for the foreseeable future.

I don't like thinking about it for too long, but sometimes I really hate that ghost. because what I once thought was terribly romantic has become a horror. a ghost tale recounted between friends in a kitchen as I make dinner. a teary eyed hug because I never thought anyone else would have seen the same things I did. because that's the other thing about ghosts, everyone else thinks you're fucking crazy when you say you've seen one.

they tell you that you're being dramatic. you felt too much. you got too invested. you should've known better. how do you know better when you don't know anything? you don't blame the child in horror movies for touching a possessed doll. that's just what children do.

I think that's the most difficult part sometimes. I really was just a child when I knew him. I had seen spirits before, of course, and I had built my walls decently high to protect myself. but something about the shape of him, the cadence in which he spoke, the way he made me feel like I was the only person he'd ever want to haunt, even though I knew full well that I wasn't. the way I used to consider that a privilege.

while he drained the life from me, I got tiny pieces of him. I heard whispers here and there that sustained me long enough to believe that maybe one day I'd feel a gust of wind. maybe he'd realize how much I cared for him and he'd close the door. he'd settle beside me, every step creaking horribly with the weight of the things he'd been and done. and in those moments, we'd finally be flesh and blood.

but no matter what I did...he'd always leave. all of the kindness in the world couldn't have made him stick around. you can't feel the warmth of an embrace when hands just go right through you. but you can keep siphoning adoration and affection from the well. you were never quite satisfied but you did a wonderful job at making me feel useful.

so useful that I worry that the second I stop being useful, I will lose it all over again. but I'm trying. I'm trying so hard to see that the house isn't haunted anymore. I've decorated the walls with as much color as I can and invited all of my friends for dinner. I've become quite good at distinguishing the real and the fake (or so I tell myself).

but sometimes in the quiet of the night, I will hear that familiar creak and that whistle of wind. for a split second, I will experience the soul shattering fear that it's starting all over again. until nothing follows. the night melts into silence again. it's just the house settling. just the foundation settling into the soil. just the soft breathing of walls that had to hold it in for far too long.

I will fall asleep again soon. I will feel warm and comfortable in my own bed, my own flesh. but, for now, my eyes are open. staring at the cracks in the ceiling and remembering how he used to push through them. and how I used to thank him for breaking in. how I used to thank him for being my biggest nightmare. and how the day I banished him was the day a large part of me died and went with him too.

he'll always have that remnant of me. I hope that I haunt him too. I hope I'm a wailing ghost girl in his closet, always reminding him that the love he steals is fleeting. the sheet that covers his tangle of an existence is paper thin and flaking away. I hope that ghost girl tears him apart.

I will fall asleep again soon, I promise. I have to craft a bedtime story. to put myself at ease. because the house is just settling. I will be okay.

[impaladolan]

Capture - Grayson Dolan [10/-]

summary: memories.

warnings: fluff, angst, & a little bit of swearing

a/n: i really liked writing this part, no matter how long it took me.. haha..

tag(s): @dearestbailey !

note: for purposes of respect, his father’s name is Brutus Dolan.

"Please be careful, your friends are pretty reckless. Especially at night, Grayson." Y/N warned with a worried glint in her eyes, a sore, unwanted feeling settling in the lowest part of her stomach.

Wrapping his muscled arms around her, he reassured her with a soft hum that vibrated against her neck. "I'll make sure they're careful, sweetheart." He tightened the embrace, like he was holding on for the very last time— in which he would..

And she returned it just as taut, as though she could foresee the unforgivable future..

"Y/N?" His mellowed voice shook the air around him as he questioned her name, withholding the tears that would soon fall the moment he left her arms.

"Yes, Grayson?" She held onto his name, letting her tongue slide over it for the millionth time. It'd never get old, the way his name made her heart flutter and her head spin.

"You know that I love you.." He took a large breath in, exhaling slowly through his nose, "And I want you in my future, for the rest of my life, however long forever lasts." His cheeks warmed as his eyes filled to the brim with the pain and acknowledgement of the near future.

"Just stay with me tonight, I'm sure your friends won't mind." Y/N could feel the doubt and sadness that washed over his tanned skin, and it made her heart sink. She wasn't sure what it all was, but this goodbye felt different.

"I'm sorry, Y/N." He withdrew his firm grasp of her, settling his eyes on her own saddened ones. She suspected something, he could tell, but she would have no idea of what is to come in the later hours of this very night.

He slipped his calloused hands around her cheeks, faintly drawing patterns with his thumb as he took in her face for what could be the final glimpse. And before he could control himself, he rested his lips against hers in a rhythmic beat, holding onto the lasting feeling of her lips on his.

So surreal.

"I love you too." Her words boomed in his ears and made his heart pump ten times faster, after breaking away from each other's warmth.

Grayson let her words sink in through his ears and blend into his blood, caging her voice in his head for the rest of eternity.

He took a couple steps back, sparing one more glance before brushing his fingertips against the door handle, leaving with a quick huff and slam of the door.

If he wouldn't of left then, he would've never been able to leave ever.

Tears began to trickle down his face, staining his cheeks red as the wind whipped against his face and his choked-up sobs closed his throat.

Y/N didn't shed a tear, she had an eerie feeling, but she couldn't bare the thought of a life without him— so she didn't think of it at all.

-

"That's impossible.." Your voice gloomed as your brows furrowed into a dark mix of confusion and surprise, bringing that inordinate sense of tears filling your eyes.

You wouldn't cry, not in front of him.

You aimlessly searched the room with your wandering pupils, anything to stray away from meeting his mournful gaze. "He died ten years ago, in a crash.." Those very words made your stomach churn and uproar with anger and hurt. An unexpected sob rushed its way through your mouth and broke the barricade of tears that filled your eyes, short hiccups following in suit.

"There's a lot of explaining to do, I know, but please trust me—"

"You expect me to trust you?" Anger now rushed through your burning veins, your stained cheeks becoming a fiery red. The overflowing amount of tears that seeped from your eyes had rolled all the way down your chin and neck, the fabric of your shirt absorbing the warm liquid.

"No Y/N, I don't." He began with his jaw clenched, frustration beaming from his countenance, "But please let me explain myself, I beg you." His hand slid its way around yours, but you declined his warmth and drew your hand away.

You didn't respond right away, although the desperation had clouded your head and you took a seat. "What's his favorite color?"

"Green."

"Brothers name."

"Ethan."

"Sister's na—"

"Cam."

"Favorite food."

"Pancakes." He smiled.

"Birthday."

"December 16, 1999."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

"Fuck you." You oh-so-softly smiled, your stomach fluttering. You were convinced, surprisingly easy, but you couldn't help the familiarity of his face and body, though there were a lot of differences as well...

The two of you stood in silence for what could possibly be forever. You wiped the drying tears from your cheeks, sniffling the remnants of your emotional state away.

"Would you like to talk in the garden?" He questions, breaking the pause and raising his arm just enough for your own to hook around it, a pleading smile curving his lips.

Oh, how you wanted to giggle and wear a cheesy grin like you would've done all those years ago, but everything has changed. You've grown up, matured from teenager to adult, dealt with the side effects of losing a loved one at such a young age.

It wasn't easy after he left.

"I guess.." You answered, crossing your arms over your chest. You didn't want to give him the satisfaction of your skin on his, something he's taken for granted.

Saddened, he lets his arm fall back to his side. "I forgot how stubborn you were." He chuckled, motioning you to follow as he began a walk in an uncertain direction.

"You've forgotten a lot of things.." You murmured, sighing as you begrudgingly trail after him.

It wasn't too long of a trail to get to what you assumed to be the backyard of such an estate, which of course had an utterly beautiful and blooming garden. The both of you were stood on the cement patio, halfway dry and wet from all the rain, you had noticed.

"Here." He handed you a pair of bright red rain boots, eerily the correct size. He had his own, purple rubber covering almost up to his knees as a plasticy yellow coat hung on his shoulders. It was a humorous sight, such an intimidating man looking like an eight year-old excited to play in the mud.

Child at heart, huh.

He helped you into a smaller coat like his, making it difficult to hold back an awful grin. You didn't share any words as the two of you began the path that led to the garden of sorts. There seemed to be two sides; one for vegetables and one for all the colorful flowers.

"It wasn't my choice, y'know.." He spoke aloud, walking side-by-side with you down an aisle of vibrant purple and blue tulips. You hummed in question, traveling your fingers softly over the delicate petals of a certain petunia, a rosy pink one that faded into white.

"To leave you that night, unknowingly saying goodbye for the last time. I didn't want to do it."

"Then why did you." It was more of a demand from your lips than a question.

"My father needed me." He seethed, an anger arising in his tone at the remembrance.

"I needed you." You stated under your breath, sucking in a large breath. "Who were all those men in that room the other day?" You questioned, changing the subject to ease his frustration.

"My men, and I'm sorry abo—"

"No you're not, you enjoyed that." You knew he would try to apologize for embarrassing you in front of a crowd, but does he really think you're that innocent to believe him? Not anymore, now.

He kept silent, although a small smirk crept on his lips. "Explain who your "Men" are." You had had enough of all the questions in your head, and now seems like the perfect time to discuss them, finally get some answers for once.

"They work for me and my business. It was my father's before mine and Ethan's." His low voice echoed outside, bouncing against all the trees and wildlife.

"How's Ethan?" You pondered, slightly wondering if she's seen him at all.

"He's doing fine, a ladies man from what the boys say." He chuckles, sticking his hands in his pockets. "We haven't been talking much lately, just business inquiries and such. He misses you, a lot."

"I miss him too, and Cam." You reminisce on all those old memories, smiling to yourself. "How's your mother? The last time I talked to her was graduation." You furrow your brows, sorrowful that you hadn't kept in touch with such a kind women.

"She's as good as ever, still compares everyone to you." He smiles too, showing those pearly whites that you were so used to.

"Grayson?" The mention of his name on your tongue gave him shuttering goosebumps, something he didn't think he'd ever hear again.

"Yes, Y/N." The two of you completely stopped to face each other, his brows crossed and your eyes full of question.

"Tell me what happened.. that night, when you left me.."

-

Grayson slammed his fists against the steering wheel, on the brink of screaming and cursing the world for its cruelness as tears fell rapidly. Eternal hatred filled his lungs, and the air around him poisoned all the happiness he had ever had a grasp of.

And it was his fault.

Brutus, his father, whose heart was made of stone and his mind of brick, took away the only thing that kept him sane in such a sickening world.

Y/N.

“You have no say in this, son. You knew this day would arrive, and now it has.” Brutus’s cold stare burned into Grayson’s eyes, unaffected by his own child’s mourning.

Grayson didn’t fight back, he hardly moved from his seat that was set in front of his father’s large, stained desk. His entire body hurt; first beginning from his heart, down his legs, up his neck, and finally pooling within his eyes.

“You have one final goodbye with her. Follow my instructions, Grayson, and you’ll thank yourself later on.” Brutus stood, barely acknowledging the sorrowful man hung low in his chair.

“I’ll never forgive myself.” He hoarsely whispered to himself, straining the sobs away— lost within himself.

His heart shattered as he followed through with his father’s word; a faked death alongside his brother.

to be continued...

[sailtoafarawayland]

The Things We Don’t Say (modern AU - Actors)

Summary:  No one is perfect, and sometimes, two people are just so perfectly flawed that those pieces fit together and make something beautiful. When sparks fly between two leads of a new hit show, is there a happy ending in sight, or will their own mistakes overshadow any chance they had at something worth fighting for.

Rated: Explicit    

Warnings:   This is a joyfully Captain Swan story, but there are a few warnings. It does start with Emma/Neal and Killian/Milah. I don't write non-CS, so there won't be any sexual anything happening 'on screen', so to speak, between those couples, but I won't guarantee there may not be a mention. This story contains numerous episodes of cheating. If any of these things make you squick or are not your bag, carry on.

AO3 - FF 

- or read below the cut - 

As always, let me know if you’d like to be tagged for further updates. 

Tag list: @xarandomdreamx @jrob64 @wefoundloveunderthelight @teamhook @tiganasummertree @pirateprincessofpizza @lfh1226-linda @kmomof4 

Chapter One

Emma scrolled through the email her manager had sent detailing the new role she was being offered. It was something fresh, something different from what she normally focused on—no hint of a police procedural in sight—and based on the tone, it sounded like they were very interested in getting her signed for one of the leads. She stretched her legs out along the couch, digging her cold toes underneath the pillows in search of some warmth, only to yank them back when she encountered something both crinkly and wet.

“Dammit, Neal! What the hell is this?” she growled, glaring at the brown sludge coating her foot.

She leaned forward, careful to angle her toes away from any other surface, and peeled the throw pillow from the couch. Smeared across the white fabric and the expensive leather was what looked like the remainder of a milky way bar, the wrapper still clinging to the puddle of caramel and chocolate.

“You have got to be kidding me. Neal!”

The only response she got was the sound of something hitting a pan full of oil in the kitchen, the apartment filled with the sizzling hiss of something frying. Dropping her phone and forgetting all about the email she’d just been reading, she hobbled down the hall into the bathroom to clean up, wondering how in the hell to get out a chocolate and caramel stain. Why he couldn’t just learn to clean up after himself was beyond understanding. Sometimes it felt like she was living with a teenager who never wanted to grow up, and she couldn’t help but long for the days when her apartment was clean and didn’t smell like whatever weird odor it was that Neal always brought home—grease and cigarette smoke, maybe.

Her foot finally clean enough to be walked on, she headed into the kitchen to get some paper towels only to be greeted by what looked like every dish she owned spread out on the counters and island. Every surface was dusted in flour and drips of batter, measuring spoons leaving trails of oil and sugar across the floor and counters alike.

“Oh my god,” she cringed, knowing the mess would be left for her. “What are you doing?”

“I was wondering when you’d get off the phone,” Neal poked, giving her a quick glance over his shoulder before motioning proudly over the mess that just seemed to get worse each time she looked at it. “I’m cooking.”

The casual way he always stabbed at her phone use was exactly what she didn’t want to hear right now. Maybe she wouldn’t have to spend so much time working if he bothered looking for something himself. He’d had a recurring role on a family comedy when they met, but he’d been fired not long after, and for the last six months, Emma was pretty sure he hadn’t even gone to any of the auditions she’d mentioned. In fact, she wasn’t even sure if he had an agent anymore. 

“When was the last time you had a Milky Way?” she asked, choosing to ignore his snide comment. She just wasn’t in the mood.

“That’s a weird question. I don’t know, maybe last week? You didn’t pick any up the last time you ran to the store.”

Emma nodded, her lips drawn tight as she tore paper towels from the rack and returned to the living room, pulling what she could of the melted mass from the couch and thinking she’d need to resort to Google to get the rest out. Her anger bubbled with every sticky string of caramel that wrapped around her fingers. Why couldn’t he go to the store on his day off? He only had seven of them. She stomped back into the kitchen, hitting the garbage can a little harder than necessary and tossing the mess of chocolate and paper inside.

There was just enough room in the overload sink—what had he used the colander for—that she could wash her hands.

“There’s leftovers in the fridge. What was so important that you had to turn the entire kitchen into a complete disaster?” she questioned, already adding up how much time it would take her to wash and wipe everything down.

She’d be lucky if she was able to get back to her manager before tomorrow as requested.

“You remember that travel show we watched the other night?” he prodded, his eyes glued to the pan as it hissed on the stovetop, a spatula held ready in his hand. “You mentioned you hadn’t had good churros since that trip to Mexico, so I thought maybe I’d make you some.”

The anger that had been just about to boil over slipped away to that place far enough below everything else that she could just go back to ignoring it.  

“Neal,” she sighed, suddenly more exhausted than anything else. “Thanks.”

“Of course, Ems—anything for you.”

In the living room her phone blared to life, the dark tones of The Imperial March echoing as it vibrated across the coffee table.

“Work calls,” Neal sniped, a trace of resentment running beneath the pleasant smile he fixed in her direction. “Wouldn’t want to keep Regina waiting.”

It was amazing how quickly that anger came right back to the top of everything, and she found her feet pushing her as far away from Neal as possible, snatching her phone from the table and forgetting entirely about the couch as she stormed into the bedroom.

“What?” she hissed, slamming the door behind her and clenching the cell like it was something she wanted to crush. “What is so important that you couldn’t give me a few more hours, Regina?”

The other end of the line was silent, as if Regina had either hung up, or was waiting for an apology. Well, she wasn’t getting one—not today.

“Is there something you needed, Regina?”

“Are you okay?” Regina asked, not as a friend, but as an employee that was curious to know how soon she would have to contact Emma’s PR team and inform them a mental breakdown was imminent.

“I’m fine. It’s just a bad time. I got the details you sent. I just haven’t read through everything yet.”

“Well, that explains why I haven’t heard from you. Honestly, I thought you cared more about your career than that. I was quite clear this was urgent. Don’t take your time with this one, Miss Swan—they want you, but they can’t wait much longer.”

The line went dead after Regina had delivered her scolding and Emma sighed, dropping to the bed and rolling onto her back as she flicked back into her email and started again from the top. It was an interesting premise with even more depth than she’d originally thought—a new series that centered on the mental health of a man who had developed delusions after a car accident that took his brother, leading him to believe everyone in the hospital was a character from a fairy tale world—but then she got the part that Regina really focused on, the money.

“Holy shit!” Emma gasped, double checking the figures and thinking how she’d never seen such a good offer—not for someone in her bracket. It was unheard of. “I guess they really do want me.”

It wasn’t until she read through the rest of the itinerary and details that she wondered if the big paycheck wasn’t recompense for the filming location and duration—the middle of Nowhere, Maine, as if Maine wasn’t already considered the middle of nowhere.

She read everything twice before she shot Regina a quick text.  

E: I’ll take it

The message had only just sent and there were already three ellipses following. Emma could practically hear her manager’s smug response.

R: I knew you would. I’ll be in touch.

There should have been nerves fluttering in her stomach, or at least a solid pit of dread at the prospect of having to walk into the kitchen and tell Neal, but there was nothing. It was a big decision to move across the country for what could be a long-term role, but it was still her decision to make.

Hopefully, he would be happy for her, he would understand that this had the potential of lifting her out of her rut and providing great income for the foreseeable future. There were some great names attached, veterans of the industry that were looking to branch out into a new genre.

She was excited for the first time in a long time.  

She didn’t need to feel guilty, at least that was what she told herself as a niggling pang of guilt worked its way into her chest.

It would be good to break it to him gently though, to put a good spin on it.

The minutes ticked by and she finally realizing she couldn’t put it off any longer, she wandered into the kitchen, her arms crossed in front of her as she looked for him, but the apartment was empty. The stove was turned off and a plate, probably the last clean one, was waiting on the counter with a pile of golden churros perched on top of a greasy paper towel.

Next to it was another torn paper towel with a note scratched onto it in sharpie.

The boys called and I’m heading out for a few beers. Don’t wait up. Enjoy the churros.

She waited for the anger to bubble back to the top, but there was nothing—no anger, no guilt, just a deep, hollow nothingness that grew and yawned as she fingered the scrap of a note transparent with oily fingerprints. Feeling like maybe this job had come at the best possible time, she picked up the plate of churros and walked over to the trash, watching them slide in with the rest of the garbage.