#the hollow netflix fanfiction

[imaginetheywerereal]

Short Story: Ghosts of the Hollow

kay so just finished The Hollow. loved it. mostly watched it for the Weird Guy lol. Gustaf. The Game Host. so yes this is Gustaf(Weirdy) x Reader. the bit after the haunted metro. and Skeet lives. because add one thing and the rest is changed anyway:p oh uh btw real you died so mentions of death not graphic. season 2 stuff. so also spoilers ig? bit of angst some cute. some eh ig.

The Hollow Games were never meant to be easy, but this was something else entirely. Gustaf stood alone in the darkened corridors of the haunted metro station, the weight of guilt heavy on his shoulders. The flickering lights cast eerie shadows, making the environment feel even more oppressive.

You and the kids had navigated the haunted metro, dealing with the ghost train, and now you all had one goal in mind: finding a way to go home. Having been stuck in the game after every reset since your last game ten or fifteen years earlier, you were the most experienced. The kids, including Skeet who was alive thanks to your healing powers, looked to you for guidance, sensing you had been there the longest.

Finally, the journey led you to the jazz club, where Gustaf was meant to perform. Inside, the melancholy notes of the band echoed in the dimly lit space. You noticed things from the "previous game" but different—Benjamini, Benjamin, Death, and the Horsemen were there, but none of them remembered the kids or you. The kids were just starting to piece things together. You're used to it.

As Gustaf sat alone on the stage, playing the piano, the haunting melody of "Creep" by Radiohead filled the air. The lyrics were heavy with sorrow, and he was lost in the music. "I'm not supposed to be here," he sang, unaware of your presence.

Desperate to get his attention, the kids tried everything from using their powers to screaming at him. Each attempt was thwarted by Benjamini, Benjamin, and the crowd, leaving you no choice but to wait. You knew Gustaf would eventually come into the crowd like he always did—he was the crowd-walking performer type.

When Gustaf made his way through the crowd, he barely stuttered in his song when the kids finally reached him. "You're not supposed to be here!"

But when he saw you, he broke out of his trance. His eyes widened in shock and recognition.

"Are you real? Are you really here?" he asked, his voice filled with disbelief.

"Yes, I'm here," you answered, stepping closer.

"I wish you were," he whispered again, this time with a mixture of hope and sorrow.

"I am real, at least I feel real, Gustaf," you replied.

"I mean, I wish I could see you again."

"I don't understand. You can?"

"No. I can't. You're... the other you, the real you, is dead. I—I killed you. Not literally. But if it wasn't for me, you—the real you would still be alive."

"Stop. Stop saying that," you insisted, reaching out to him. "I am real, Gustaf. I'm real. This is real. Help us. Help them. Please."

Gustaf's shoulders slumped, the weight of his guilt almost too much to bear. He could see the desperation in your eyes, the plea for understanding. Despite everything, he couldn't ignore the connection he felt, the bond that defied logic.

"I'll help you," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "But it's hard. Knowing what I know."

You nodded, your expression softening. "I know it's hard. But we're here now, and we need you."

As the band played a slow, mournful tune, you stepped closer to him. "May I have this dance?" you asked, your voice a gentle whisper.

He hesitated for a moment, then took your hand, pulling you into a slow, somber dance. The music wrapped around you both, a reminder of the losses and the love that still lingered.

"I wish things were different," Gustaf murmured.

"So do I," you replied, resting your head on his shoulder. "But for now, let's just be here. Together."

In that moment, amidst the haunted echoes and the lingering guilt, you found a small measure of peace. The dance, though tinged with sorrow, was a reminder that even in the darkest times, there was still a connection, a bond that refused to be broken.

As the music faded, Gustaf held you a little tighter. "Thank you," he whispered. "For being real to me."

"And thank you," you replied, "for not giving up."

One of the kids, unable to hold back any longer, interrupted the moment. "Uh, hello? We came here to ask for help on how to get home. Not to do...whatever you two are doing."

You and Gustaf shared a small, sad smile before turning your attention back to the task at hand. Together, you would find a way to get everyone home. Even if it meant you wouldn't.

[the-hollow-season-3]

Body swap episode.

[valarioncy]

Backrooms AU: The Gang's All Here!

Kinda, sorta, maybe!

EDIT: Vanessa's hair updated. She's a natural blonde. :0

[ahyesthesufferingoftvteens]

Casually posts art of 35-year-old Mira in that one new The Hollow fanfic I’m writing.

[thehollowbackroomsuniverse]

The Hollow: Backrooms

The Kai&Co System

This has been something that has been casually mentioned in the past, but Backrooms!Kai becomes a System and splits and forms a few alters!

I (@ahyesthesufferingoftvteens) may talk about some of these goobers in the future. Some basic things to note: Blaze, Coco, Alter Adam, and Kitty form in The Backrooms. Alter Reeve forms right before Kai&Co escape The Backrooms, and Kai (Part 2) and Cinnamon form after The Backrooms. All of the special designs for these headmates are how they dress a year or two after The Backrooms story.

Slightly more detailed information about each of the members of the Kai&Co system are listed under the cut:

Blaze: One of the alters that split from Kai. A host of the system. Bi Aboy, He/They. Trauma Holder; Anger, Fear, and Depression holder; BPD holder; and Emotional Protector. Formed as a persecutor; used to be extremely explosive and had really destructive mental breakdowns. Heals with therapy. Likes to set things on fire and shop at Hot Topic. Is the reason the body is taking Abilify.

Coco: The other alter that split from Kai. A host of the system. Pan Nyan-binary Boy, He/They. Inner Child and Trauma Holder; Age-slides. Had really bad Stockholm Syndrome; found it very difficult to make decisions for themselves due to conditioning. Heals with Therapy. Loves Chococat so much that they kin the character and sometimes assumes Chococat’s form in headspace.

Koda: Kai rejoined after a year of being split apart. Now goes by a different name. Eventually, Coco and Blaze permanently fuse into Koda. A host of the system. Omni Demiboy, He/They. Trauma Holder. A bit more cheeky and dark-humored than he used to be, but it’s still the Kai you know and love. Shops at Spencers. Manic pixie dream boy energy. Can’t stop dating the emotionally unavailable and volitile Latinos in his area (He has nine exes). FINALLY found a good boyfriend (He’s a Wolf Therian, his name is Cillas).

Adam: The first alter to form after the “big split”. An introject of Adam. Gay Man, He/Him. Physical Protector. Formed as a persecutor; used to enforce the paranoid thinking patterns and distrust that the original Adam instilled. Heals with therapy. Likes to go fishing and thrives in a Bass Pro Shop.

Kitty: The second alter to form after the “big split”. An introject of Kitty, an entity from The Backrooms. Demi-Aroace Kenogirl, She/It. Caretaker, Soother, and System Overseer. Nonverbal: texts using emojis. The only way she can best communicate is with cards and drawings. Doesn’t front much; she’s more of a background alter. When she does front though the entire day is usually dedicated to her for her hard work. Loves Hello Kitty and dressing up in frilly dresses.

Reeve: Formed right before the system escaped The Backrooms. An introject of Reeve. Gay Trans Man, He/Him. Physical and Emotional Protector, and a Caretaker. Formed to do Adam’s job but better. Really happy about being in a body that was born male (his euphoria is through the roof). The only alter in the system that is religious.

Kai (Act 2): Formed after the system escaped The Backrooms. A host of the system. Bi Man, He/Him. Social Protector. Is exactly like Kai before the split, and is very detached from the memories of the Backrooms. The “Singlet-sona”. He identifies with the body’s known identity and fronts to interact with family members and pre-Backrooms friends, and when talking to strangers. He also primarily fronts while live-streaming video game play-throughs, but other alters pitch in as well.

Cinnamon: Formed after the system escaped The Backrooms. Aroace Boygirl, They/Them. The only perma-little. A fictive of Cinnomoroll. Excitable and annoying in a little sibling sort of way. Really likes gifts and eating food. No one knows why they formed, they just showed up one day. They exist now.

[givemea-dam-break]

5 Times George Missed Lucy + 1 Time He Admitted It

a/n: this was co-written by the phenomenal @ikeasupremacy i quite literally had the time of my life writing this with you, and i think we broke our own hearts quite a few times during the process. we really, really hope you enjoy it <3

warnings: big sad (i beg, listen), language, spoilers for the end of the hollow boy words: 5k+ taglist: @neewtmas @waitingforthesunrise @wellgoslowly @irisesforyoureyes @aayeroace @flashbackwhenyoumetme @ettadear @ella23116 @mirrorballdickinson @magicandmaybe

5. More Chores

The basement was too cold, but George persevered with the chores. If he turned the thermostat up, Lockwood would probably have him beheaded, meaning he had no choice but to grin and bear it.

It was meant to be early spring for heaven’s sake, but he was stuck in the depths of the Earth to do the cleaning, while Anthony Bloody Lockwood was off frolicking in the sun with Holly to Satchel’s and Arif’s and God knows where else! Probably buying doughnuts or something! The favouritism at Portland Row was blatant that day.

He carefully laid Lockwood and Co.’s dozens of chains out across the hardwood floor, with some oil and a rag sitting on his desk, ready for Lucy. While she oiled them, he’d polish the rapiers and make sure they had enough salt bombs and lavender bundles. Not the worst job by far, but he would’ve definitely preferred to be outside or better yet, in the air-conditioned, cherry-blossom windowed Archives.

Heaving a sigh, he stepped over the thick iron links and trudged to the bottom of the stairs that led up, up, up into the kitchen.  

“Luce!” he called. “Need you to come oil the- ”

Oh. 

How stupid. Within a moment, his shoulders had sagged as he remembered; Lucy was gone. He suddenly became very aware of how alone he was in the house, the gentle hum of peaceful silence suddenly the disconcerting emptiness of a black hole.

Lucy had been gone for at least a week now, so how could he forget? He’d cleaned everything once without her already! She had been careful not to disturb anyone when she left, but George was a notoriously light sleeper. He had wordlessly sat in his room the morning she crept out, knowing she was gone for good as soon as he heard the third step creak. He heard everything, but he didn’t move an inch. He just listened as she crept out of the house that morning. Even though he didn’t do anything about it, he knew just as well as anyone that she was gone. And she wasn’t coming back.

A self-pitying laugh tore through his lips, resounding in his solitude, a moment meant for him alone. She had left them. Her absence was impossible not to notice, filling him with something distinctly empty. Hollow. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. A bittersweet nostalgia for something that hadn’t really left. Call it cheesy, but she’d started actually accepting him for who he was, and then she left.

She left.

For a moment longer, he lingered there, staring up at the spiralling stairs with a half-glare. Daylight glared back at him, causing him to squint and furrow his brows in frustration while the sun tried its best to burn his eyes right out of the sockets.

As he stared into the sun for whatever self-inflicted reason, a single quiet thought made him soften his gaze in defeat. He had nobody to be angry at but himself.

Turning with a dejected sigh, he rested his gaze upon the rapiers and the chains.

Once more, he’d have to do them both. 

4. Food Gone Cold

Silence. Terrible, uncomfortable silence.

George stared down at the food that he’d spent the better part of an hour making, and a pit formed his stomach. There was Lockwood with his meal, Holly with hers, food left over, and an empty plate. Just sat there. Waiting. It haunted the dinner table more than any Source ever could.

When would he stop doing this? Lately, every single meal he cooked ended up with four portions, even though there were only three of them there. He could already see the concealed remorse on Holly’s face as she thought about stuffing yet another spare portion in the fridge in hopes that someone would eat it later. Usually, no one did.

The thought of it apparently made Lockwood “sick to his stomach” and, well, George couldn’t say he was nauseous, but he had definitely lost his appetite when he saw the leftover food in the pan, regardless of whatever it was that he’d made.

Worse still, he should’ve realised the moment that he’d set it down that it was wrong. After Lucy had left, they’d begrudgingly swapped the thinking cloth out for a new one, folding it up carefully and placing it on top of the fridge, scribbling back on George’s stray research from the last, any pending tasks from the last one, and new doodles had taken residence everywhere: George insulting Lockwood; Lockwood’s loopy handwriting forming a shopping list or writing reminders for everyone. Hell, even Holly had started adding to it, normally with little smiley faces or cartoony flowers, but it was something at least. 

Then there was Lucy’s spot.

No one dared sit in her seat. It felt like an action that they would be scolded for, by either Lockwood or some incorporeal voice that was haunting them, like a strange shared conscience between the three of them. Maybe it would even be Lucy’s voice, scolding them like she did when, every day for a week or two, Lockwood would sit in her place just to annoy her. She would jokingly tell him off every time, and force him off of the seat in a light-hearted push-and-shove. A sweet memory came to mind of Lockwood falling off the chair, and they had all doubled over laughing until their ribs pulled and their cheeks ached, the kind where anything sets you off again. A sweet memory indeed.

And, so, there was a portion of the thinking cloth that was entirely blank. Not even George’s messy and rushed research passed the invisible line that marked Lucy’s section. Maybe a mark of respect, of not wanting to let her go, of fruitless ambition and silent mourning.

Even the biscuits. The biscuit rotation was all messed up. With Lucy around, they would know who had last taken a biscuit on their little mental rotation, a fine-tuned seventh sense (after being a Sensitive, naturally), but every time George reached for a custard cream, he mentally hesitated as a ghost of Lucy’s voice went to whisper in his ear, “Have I had my biscuit yet, George?”

He wanted to say something; he was desperate to end this stifling, choking silence that plagued them all like a hand to his throat, a gag in his mouth. What could he even say? Jokes often ended up turning sour nowadays. Holly had the (albeit little) decency to give George a polite laugh at the predicament, but on the other hand, Lockwood would simply sit and stare at the empty plate as if he could summon Lucy back to her plate if he just thought about her hard enough.

George had already tried that. It didn’t work. 

3. Patience Lost

Lockwood was like a cat, George observed. When he had a goal, he was a machine; a well-oiled, slit-eyed, prowling machine. He waited for his prey, and he attacked just as gracefully. He was always waiting, watching for his next move, the next opportunity, with careful focus, and George could see why Lucy liked him. It was a skill neither he or Lucy possessed, yet one they both admired. All the same, he thought Lucy was bonkers for it.

When Lockwood had no purpose, he was a cat stretched out in the sun, ambling with no real purpose and slinking around in his suit and tie, waiting for the next thing to do. George generally found this habit of his incredibly pointless anyway, but with Lucy gone it was just worse. For the last year, Lockwood had the goal of thinking about Lucy.

If she were here, Lockwood would be moving. He’d be yelling at her from the foot of the stairs to turn her music down before marching up and doing it himself. He’d be prancing around, animatedly talking about the latest gossip from his magazine and how it was so important that they knew what colour of dress Penelope Fittes wore to a meeting with Steve Rotwell. Green meant it was about new gear, purple about the future of their agencies, blah, blah, blah. George had no mind for it.

But now? Lockwood slouched in his armchair in the library, flicking through a magazine, entirely devoid of emotion. His freakish poker-face had come out strongly as his eyes darted from line to line, occasionally lifting a finger to flip the page he was on. A cold mug of hot chocolate sat abandoned by his side that George had, yet again, accidentally made out of pure muscle memory.

Lucy always drank a hot chocolate with him. 

George was now completely out of his book. His eyes remained on the pages, reading the sentences over and over again, but they weren't what was running through his head. What would Lucy be doing right now if she were here with them? No, he couldn’t let himself linger on that thought. He tried to bring his attention back to his book.

“However, what must be considered is that the wedding band itself might ngo fda bfgn tj Sorgfn. Teh womha wsa llysmengia attached nto go teh ewfifng band bug hre hgusadn. Hre source, sj tja ragen sons folsa ojn, wfg npt wutg hwt bones, bgk tkh husbnfks. This wfd a frveol...”

She’d have complained that the fire was dying down and added a log to it, her frame sinking into the seat near Lockwood yet again to continue her new crochet project of the week, as the calming click-clack of the plastic needles against each other melded wonderfully with the crackling of the (now revived) fireplace. A song would be stuck in her head, and she’d quietly hum along to it, none the wiser that George and Lockwood could both hear her. 

“However, what must be considered is that the wedding band itself might not have been the Source. Teh womha wsa llysmengia attached nto go teh ewfifng band bug hre hgusadn. Hre source, sj tja ragen sons folsa ojn, wfg not with her bones, bgk tkh husbnfks. This wfd a frveol...”

She would have called them all boring for just sitting there, and gotten out the chess board to entertain herself. She was always freakishly good at that, George recalled with a slight smile. There were quite a few times where Lockwood had gotten so frustrated at her that he resigned and stormed off into his bedroom, leaving George to get absolutely throttled by Lucy every time. Every. Single. Time.

“However, what must be considered is that the wedding band itself might not have been the Source. The woman was sentimentally attached to not the wedding band, but her husband. Her source, as the agents soon found out, was not with her bones, but the husband’s. This was a revolutionary discovery for many reasons, one being the realisation…”

George gave up on the book, gently closing the hardback cover with a soft thump.

At the time, nothing could’ve annoyed him more, but George was bored of winning chess games now. Lockwood was somehow even worse than he was (and that was saying something), meaning the games lasted forever. Neither of them had the patience to sit for hours going back and forth. Lucy did.

That was the refreshing thing about games with her. It wasn’t relevant if the game lasted fifteen minutes or two hours, just sitting there with her gave the game an entirely more interesting feel. Especially when she swore under her breath after a bad move. George was a sore loser, and a gloating winner, but Lucy always took her losses humbly and her wins even more so.

Unless she was playing Holly. When Lucy won against Holly, it was as if the Heavens had shone a spotlight onto her face with how proud her smile was.

Lockwood missed that smile, and in some (pretty fucking irritating) way, George thought he did too.

It didn’t matter now. He’d have to deal with Lockwood’s doubled pawns and forgotten rooks, which was much less preferable. They would have to bear the silence of nobody humming as they crocheted, painfully watching a chess board gather dust, and having to live in the house that was no longer a home.

2. Ducks in the Wash

George could hear Lockwood rattling around in the basement incessantly, and he could only sigh. This all over again?

Surely there were no more socks missing - every single wash, Lockwood checked, and every single time he came back empty handed. It wasn’t like the washing machine was going to gobble them up. (And there was definitely no need to lift up the whole washing machine.) However, Lockwood always folded the washing better than George. That was the one reconciliation about the whole thing, thank goodness. Once George heard the telltale thump of the washing machine being on solid ground again, he assumed Lockwood was folding the clothes. Feeling less worried that Lockwood was going to break the washing machine this time around, he unpaused the telly and kept watching Pointless, or whatever crappy gameshow he had chosen to put on that day.

It wasn’t long before Lockwood came trudging up the basement stairs and through to the living room, a pile of neatly folded clothes in his arms. But it wasn’t the neatness of it (usually they were folded haphazardly until Holly came along and fixed it up) that had George pausing the telly once more. It was the bright blue thing on top.

“Lucy’s,” Lockwood said, not even trying to conceal the miserable look on his face. “She left a sock.”

George wondered if Lucy had noticed that it was missing. Unlikely. She had so many pairs of socks, all the same shade of tell-tale royal blue, she could probably provide a few dozen to each family on Portland Row and the next few streets over and still have enough for the next two wash cycles. Besides, it was such a small thing that she’d never notice. She’d never. Never. She wouldn’t have. It’s just a sock. She’d probably lost another one and she had perfect pairs again.

But, an irrational part of George couldn’t help but blurt out, “Are you going to call her?”

There wasn’t really any need to call her. She’d survive without one bright blue sock, even if there were cute little silicone ducks on the sole of this one to keep her from slipping. But George found himself wanting to hear her voice through the phone, strangely enough. The way she said “Hello?” in her Northerner accent on the phone, her little inquisitive chirp, even though she usually knew who it was, always used to make him laugh, and he was sure it would now.

It was clear Lockwood wanted to call, what with the twitch of his fingers, and the way he longingly stared at the ducky sock. It was easy to read him after a while of knowing him, and as he observed Lockwood, he saw a strange, stone-like look on his face. He knew that expression. The barrage of emotion he was holding behind a facade of stoic presence. The way he didn’t blink while he looked at the piece of fabric in his hand, not once. His eyebrows furrowed so slightly it could even be mistaken for natural.

George knew that expression. He saw it in the mirror every day.

“No.”, Lockwood muttered breathlessly.

He placed the washing down, balanced precariously on the back of the sofa, threatening to tip over. George had bigger things on his mind than the laundry, observing it as it teetered in the balance, but his mind was in a different place as he watched the washing basket lean forward.

He simply remained on the sofa, entirely sunken in his armchair, feeling as frozen as a marble-cut statue, and staring at the sock in Lockwood’s hands. He couldn’t take his eyes off it, as if it held some piece of Lucy that was finally attainable now that they had found it - something that could connect the three of them once again. For a moment, he wished that you could have Sources for a real person.

It’s just a sock, George told himself. There was nothing outright special about it and there never would be.

So what was their deal?

What had them reeling over a sock of all things? Was it because they could both easily imagine Lucy’s laughter as she tried to skid over the kitchen floor, only for her socks to keep her from sliding? Those stupid ducks on the bottom of her socks? Was it because of all things to have been left by Lucy accidentally, this was it? This was the last thing they had of her in the house? A literal sock?

Then again, it wasn't unwelcome. It simply brought with it a reminder of the gaping hole in their household, and dragging behind it the ugly emotions of guilt, and the hurt of a betrayal.

“I’ll wait to give it back to her,” Lockwood murmured in the same tone.

But they both knew the time would never come. Lucy wasn’t coming back, no matter how tightly Lockwood held onto the sock now, knuckles turning white. No amount of socks stolen by the washing machine would bring her knocking on the front door, or bursting through and demanding them back. The sock would simply sit, gathering dust and harbouring feelings that had no need to be felt. 

But George still agreed, holding onto whatever tiny shred of hope he still had that she would come back. George knew as well as anyone else that it was fruitless, but even he didn’t have the heart to extinguish the hope that their paths would cross again.

It felt like something was destroying him though. He had gotten to a point where it was getting unbearable, the pain of all the reminders of her everywhere, it gnawed at him and ate away at his focus, at his time, at his brain, at his happiness. He should’ve put into words, and he knew that inside him, but that would destroy all the work he had put into coping with it; for both Lockwood and Holly. Lucy was an unnamed ticking bomb, ready to cause an explosion at 35 Portland Row anytime soon, and George was reaching his limit of how many more reminders of Lucy he could take.

The washing fell over. Once upon a time, Lucy and him would have laughed together over the thought of watching Lockwood fold it all again. They would’ve giggled until their cheeks were on fire, their ribs felt tangled in knots, shrouded by the ecstasy of simple delights.

“Lockwood? The washing’s just fallen over.” George called, entirely monotone.

1. Someone Familiar

The early spring air clung to George as he stepped through the front door, shopping bags in hand. Really, London had no excuse to still be so cold, but, alas, he still shivered as he kicked the door shut and placed the bags down. The warmth of the hallway was incredible, and he could’ve just stood there forever, feeling his skin grow warm. It was only when he eventually tugged off his jacket that he heard the laughter.

He peeked into the living room, where Lockwood sat in his armchair, and Holly on the sofa beside someone else whose hand she held and squeezed. The sight filled George with warmth. Holly’s last relationship… Well, it had ended badly, and she was a wreck for a little while, so to see her happy now felt like something, finally, was going right. George was genuinely happy for Holly, and for everyone. They really needed something to go right, all of them did.

He hadn’t realised the ache in his chest until his eyes lifted to the girl whose hand she held.

How did he not notice? The bobbed brown hair, the wooly jumper and denim skirt, it was…

“Oh, George!” Lockwood said, grinning as he set his mug of tea down. “You’re back! Hope you don’t mind, Holly brought her girlfriend over for a bit.”

George tried to move, but he found himself stuck in place, simply staring at the back of her head. Surely he was dreaming. None of this was real. It couldn’t be her. No, he was still sleeping soundly in his bed and his alarm hadn’t gone off yet. It was a lie. This couldn’t be real. A dream. A nightmare.

But- But, still, however he hated to admit it, there was hope in him. She had come home. She was back. She was here. She had finally come back to them after all these horrible months and he would never let Luc-

“Lucy” turned and flashed a grin at George, and he felt a little pang of nausea in his throat. This girl, she wasn’t Lucy. He’d mistaken her just because of an outfit and a haircut. How stupid of him. As he scanned her up and down, within a matter of seconds he had noticed the pristine white trainers she wore rather than plasm-covered, chunky black boots, her jumper was purple instead of blue. Her eyebrows were prominent, pointing upwards and giving the face an inherently sharp aura about it, combined with long features that he could never even imagine on Lucy’s round face.

He saw it all clear as day, all of it. The freckles Lucy lacked and the blue eyes she didn’t have, the mascara-caked lashes and the pointed chin.

“You’re George?” she asked in a high-pitched tone that Lucy would’ve definitely later made fun of. “Hol’s told me all about you.” 

Lucy would make fun of the nickname too.

He felt insanely stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, he should’ve realised sooner - she had been introduced as Holly’s girlfriend for Heaven’s sake! There was a higher chance of Lockwood and Kipps dating than there was Lucy and Holly. But, he would’ve preferred Lucy over whoever this was. He didn’t hold anything against this (probably lovely) girl, who just coincidentally managed to look uncannily like Lucy from the behind, but George couldn’t help but bite back a sob.

The bittersweet lemon-curd hope now tasted rotten and acidic in his mouth. The taste of his idiocy coated his tongue and twisted his insides, and he hated every moment of it. He hated that for a moment he’d believed it to be her, that he had been ready to smile and accept her back without a word’s notice. He hated himself for having hope, and he hated Lucy for leaving, and he was entirely ready to be sick to his stomach.

He was impressed he managed a nod in her general direction, before abandoning the shopping bags on the floor and storming upstairs. Up, up, up, until he found himself in the doorway of the attic bedroom. The door was forced open, and he stared inside the stripped down room, the same way she’d left it, with her Blu-tack stains still on the walls and a leftover Polaroid of the three of them to the right of the bed. He couldn’t help but stare at the photo, as a tonne of weight settled on his shoulders as he stood unsettlingly alone in the attic bedroom. The weight of Lucy’s memory, perhaps. Because that’s what had made him feel so terrible these last few months, wasn’t it? It was never just throwing away the food, or being bored with a chess game, or seeing a sock with ducks on it, or any of it. Everywhere he looked, he saw Lucy, but he didn’t have her at his side, bickering with him and making her little remarks, lifting his spirit a percentile at a time, and dropping him down to ground level after he finally felt valued and appreciated by someone, after he found a friend who made him laugh until he couldn’t anymore, even though he absolutely hated her sometimes.

He had never hated Lucy Carlyle more than that moment.

He flung his clothes off the vanity chair, mad that he’d even had the gall to put them in this room, and sat on the bed, trying to arrange his thoughts. 

It was like cutting himself open to admit that he missed Lucy. This girl he’d detested for months; this girl he’d slowly learned to appreciate, and even cherish. He looked for her in every room of this house - the little crocheted coasters she had made, her abandoned mugs in the cupboard with awful sayings on them, the honey jar in the kitchen that only she had used for her tea.

Hell, even whenever he took out his favourite mug, because she had accidentally chipped it her first week there, and George had sworn he would never talk to her again after that, decreeing it on the Thinking Cloth with so many swears that he lost count.

Every moment of regret, of sadness, of longing he had felt since her leaving seemed to add up and show itself proudly to him now, sending him into a rabbit hole of falling into emotional turmoil. The solitude of the basement every month, the quiet of the evenings without the click clack of a crochet needle, the way his socks were never mixed up with hers anymore, the way nobody stopped him from researching until 5 in the morning-

Fuck.

George sprinted to the little bathroom and unloaded the contents of his stomach into the toilet. When his quaking body had finished purging the contents of his (again) too-large breakfast, he crumpled onto the floor beside the bowl. The sour taste of bile was heavy on his tongue, and it slicked along the sides of his throat.

He looked up at the abandoned room around him. Just the sight of its sorry state was enough to tempt him back into throwing his face over the toilet bowl once more, but he resisted. He leaned his head against the cool tile behind him, trying to hold back the tears in his eyes, the mucus in his throat mixing awfully with the vile taste in his mouth.

Lockwood had come upstairs at this point, the door being thrust open as he rushed to George’s side. His expression was pained, as he looked at George with concern in his eyes, but a resigned light to them as well.

“You’re okay,” was all he said.

0. Confession

Moonlight streamed through the attic window, splitting across the clothes-covered floor in beams of silver. It was a peaceful kind of light - the sort that would have Lucy standing by any window in the house, staring longingly up at the sky. She always spoke about how she missed the stars, stars that glittered for her back home but were now hidden by the dozens of ghostlamps scattered across the city, and the haze of pollution in the city.

As George sat on the edge of her bed alongside Lockwood, he wondered if Lucy was looking up at the moon now, too.

Oh, the horrible feeling of knowing they shared a sky but not a roof.

Lockwood heaved a sigh, playing with the polaroid in his hand. He’d plucked it off the wall not long ago and had taken to staring at it, occasionally brushing his thumb gently over where Lucy was. Maybe he thought it was like a genie’s lamp, that if he rubbed it three times some otherworldly being would come and grant their wish of bringing her home. 

No genie appeared, no wishes were granted, and Lucy didn’t return.

George remembered the day that photo had been taken. Lucy had taken the last jam doughnut, the one he had wanted, and they had argued the entirety of breakfast. Holly had trotted into the kitchen, polaroid camera in hand, grinning about how she’d found it in a charity shop and had to buy it. She wanted her first photo with it to be of her friends, the agents of Lockwood and Co., but no matter how much she and Lockwood tried, George and Lucy wouldn’t stop arguing. So there was Lockwood, smiling, albeit awkwardly, between George, who looked like he was about to implode with anger - anger he now saw as an overreaction, even if she was a thief - and Lucy, whose cheeks were flushed pink, as she waved the half-eaten doughnut in the air. The camera caught the moment some of the jam in the middle had dribbled out onto her brand new jumper.

“I thought it was her, too, at first, you know,” Lockwood said after what felt like years of silence. “Holly’s girlfriend. I thought it was Lucy as well.”

With a shrug, George said, “Doesn’t matter now.”

“You miss her, and that’s okay.”

“I do not miss her.”

But it was a lie. That’s all George had been doing since she left, wasn’t it? Lying to himself and to everyone else that he didn’t miss her.

He had hated Lucy for so long. From when she had first joined the company and the few months that followed. Then after she left them, giving some bullshit excuse and a secret escape. But he had never allowed himself to miss her, not really. He had only burdened himself with the memory of her, looking for her in anything he could find but not allowing himself to grieve the girl who hadn’t even died.

His fingers hurt from clutching the duvet cover so hard. “Maybe I miss her a little.”

Lockwood’s laugh was breathy, filled with tears he wouldn’t dare shed. “You can give up with the pride, George. She’s not here to make fun of you.”

“But you are.”

The words resonated between them both, and for a moment George truly realised how alone they were. Yes, Holly was there daily, mourning Lucy’s resignation in her own detached way, but George and Lockwood… Lucy had been everything to Lockwood, and somewhat less than that for George. They were a trio. George couldn’t even remember the agency before Lucy, so now it felt like a machine missing a cog - it didn’t function properly, and wouldn’t until it was put back into place.

“I’d never make fun of you for this.” Lockwood’s smile was nowhere to be found. Not in the corners of his lips or the dark of his eyes. It was as if it had been torn from him the minute Lucy stepped out the door for the last time. “I miss her, too.”

Of course Lockwood did. Missing Lucy was second nature to him. Any time she’d gone off on a case by herself he had missed her. Hell, he probably missed her when she went to bed a few floors above him. But this was unfamiliar territory for George. He wasn’t used to missing people. Not his parents who still lived in London, who occasionally visited and checked in on how things were going. Not his siblings, who were also still nearby muscling on with their careers. He’d never experienced loss like Lockwood and Lucy had.

Was that why it felt like he had been hit by a ten-tonne brick? He hated this feeling more than he’d ever hated anything.

“She’s not coming back,” George said, blinking away the sting in his eyes. “We’ll cope. We have to.”

But, staring at the room she once lived in, straining to try and feel any remnant of her presence, he wished that the genie would finally appear.

[iodine-i]

Remember to vote for Lucy and Lockwood in the battle of the ships!!!

[valarioncy]

Activity increasing in the Hollow fandom? Amazing! Time to keep up that trend and post something. :0

This art is from 2021 and was an illustration I did for Chapter 18 of my fic "What Lies Beyond". With the recent stresses of life I have not had the motivation to do full pieces like this, but I'm getting back into art and writing, slowly but surely. :>

(You know I really am amazed at how much of a pivotal role this single cartoon series with 20 episodes has played in my life, once I really start thinking about it...) -Cy

[valarioncy]

Y'all have no idea how much it warms my heart when people re-read my fics. :0 Like, you liked it that much? It makes me happy to know my fics actually mean something to you guys.

people telling you they reread your fic is the biggest compliment you could ever receive. there are thousands of stories out there begging to be found, to be explored, but your story meant so much to someone that they came back to it eagerly, they went over every word again. to love is to return and loving a fic is rereading it. thank you to all readers and rereaders <3333

[ahyesthesufferingoftvteens]

The Hollow Backrooms: Characters Masterlist

Adam’s Post: X

Mira’s Post: X

Kai’s Post: X

Vanessa’s Post: X

Reeve’s Post: X

Skeet’s Post: X

Aaaaaand here they all are! In one post! The silliesssss! I’ll have to get the links in working order later.

I have some more…ominous and weird-core versions of these profiles in the works. Just need @valarioncy , the original artist for the character designs and the main writer of the fanfic (I wrote the outline and suggested a lot of elements into the work) to recolor Vanessa’s hair a bit in her second design. Then I can have all of them done.

Stay tuned for these future peaks into the plotpoints of the fic. They’ll be intentionally vague-ish to give you guys some mystery and let you all sleuth and speculate! They’ll be tagged properly for those who can’t handle certain topics and media styles.

[thehollowbackroomsuniverse]

The Hollow Backrooms Blog

I (Cursi) decided to make a neat little blog for The Hollow Backrooms AU, to keep everything gathered in one place.

This is the intro blog that links to certain posts containing important information for the AU. The blog itself will host art not only from the co-creators (Me and @valarioncy), but also from any other artists.

The Fanfiction [Hosted on A03] (X)

Full-body Art (X)

Pre-Backrooms Profiles Masterlist (X)

Post-Backrooms Weirdcore Profiles:

[Notes: These posts may contain sensitive content. Clicking any of these links means you have read the trigger warnings thoroughly and accept seeing such content.]

Skeet (X) TW: Implied Murder/Death, Glitch Reeve (X) Vanessa (X) TW: Horror, Body Horror/Burns, Near Death Experience, PTSD, Flesh and Blood Kai (X) TW: Eyestrain, Dissociation, Stockholm Syndrome, Child Abuse Mira (X) TW: Implied Murder/Death, Blood Adam (X) TW: Horror, Blood, Death, Implied Kidnapping

[stranger-fanfiction-n-things]

CHAPTER 3: HOLLY, JOLLY

This is an Original Character fanfiction. All Stranger Things characters and content are owned by Netflix and The Duffer Brothers.

a/n: This was not how I expected this part to turn out. You know those moments when you just keep typing and writing? Anyways, introducing Ronnie. In reading Flight of Icarus, I pictured her character looking like Emmy Rossum, more so Fiona Gallagher-esque. Ronnie is Eddie's wingwoman.

Have you ever been with a boy and just don't think? Like you're so present in the moment with them, you don't know what you're doing or what's happening in the world around you? That's how Diana feels around Eddie.

Warnings: None.

Word Count: 3124

Masterlist

PART I || PART II || PART III

HAKWINS HIGH

I sit in my usual spot for first period, my books and stationery are set neatly on my desk as I wait for class to start. People begin to trickle in but there is no sign of Barb or Nancy. I didn’t wait for either of them outside the school or by our lockers like I usually do, instead I walk straight into school, straight to my locker to switch out my textbooks and straight to class. Despite being upset about what happened last night, I can’t help but glance at the door every time someone enters the classroom just in case it is Barb or Nancy. I chew my lip, tapping my pencil against my notebook. Class starts in two minutes and neither Nancy or Barb are in class. Part of me wonders if they both decided not to show up to school today. It’s not until Nancy rushes into class with flushed cheeks, I relax only a little. I avoid eye contact as she sits in her usual spot across from me. I can feel her looking at me but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, I hear her talk to Ally beside me. 

“Hey, Ally. Where’s Barb?” 

“Um shouldn’t you know?” 

“You haven’t seen her anywhere at all?” Nancy presses. 

I purse my lips. Why would Nancy ask that if Barb waited for her while she was upstairs with Steve? I turn my head slightly not trying to be too noticeable, but I’m not inconspicuous at all because I catch Nancy’s gaze for a second. Her lips twist into a perplexed frown as she looks at the empty seat beside her. I sit forward swallowing and glance at the door hoping Barb will walk in at any second, but as soon as Mr. Flaim enters the classroom and instructs us to take out Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, I focus on the lesson.  

Nancy and I don’t have the same second period so I haven’t seen her since homeroom. Everyone is rushing to the cafeteria as usual; I pass by and from the hallway I have a clear view of Steve, Tommy H, and Carol. Steve wrinkles his nose at Carol who has her foot on the table. Tommy H is laughing, chewing with his mouth full of whatever food they are serving at the cafeteria today. I am surprised to see Nancy join them at the table. A knot of dismay forms in every muscle, it seems as I observe my best friend. She doesn’t look around for me or Barb, slipping comfortably beside Steve who smiles welcoming at her. I clutch my bag closer to my body and walk away ignoring the hollowness I feel inside. 

As I walk down the hall, I slow down approaching Barb’s locker. It doesn’t look like it’s been touched at all today. I also haven’t seen her at all this morning. I linger, rubbing my lips together. It’s unlike Barb to not turn up to school unless she was sick and last night was cold and with everything that happened with her finger…I rationalize but there is still an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach. I look at Barb’s locker one last time before walking away.

I approach my locker and put in my combination to open it. I rise on relevé to see deep into my locker and pull out my chemistry textbook and my lunch. I shove my lunch in my bag and hold the textbook in my hand. When I close my locker, I notice a head full of hair. Eddie and Ronnie stand by the lockers in the sophomore hallway, talking amongst themselves. Eddie’s back is to me, but I can see the same dark brown curly hair of Ronnie. I think Ronnie is pretty in a rocker girl type of way. She exudes a carefree, nonchalance that deep down I envy, in her black leather jacket and hoodie. I am wound up so tight it’s difficult for me to relax sometimes. 

I am surprised when she catches my eye and smiles, waving at me as she did two days ago in the school parking lot. Eddie turns around with a frown on his face wondering who she was waving at and catches my gaze. The lines on his forehead smoothens and is replaced with a look I can’t explain. I can never explain the looks Eddie gives me, only the feeling that it conveys in me. Butterflies. It’s like they wake up all of a sudden and I feel warm and tingly. Ronnie says something and grins walking past him. The look on Eddie’s face is replaced with horror. The butterflies in my stomach turn into moths fluttering wildly.

It takes me a split second to realize Ronnie is walking towards me. My mind screams at my legs to move, to at least meet her halfway, but they don’t and I am standing here like I’ve been caught. Which technically I was. Eddie quickly scurries behind her, curly hair flapping behind him. Ronnie of course reaches me before him. 

“Hi, I’m Ronnie,” she greets with a smile. Eddie stands beside her, looking out of breath despite the short distance. 

The way I have to tilt my head look at her is a little embarrassing. She’s even taller up close. Dark brown eyes look down at me. Not in a dominant way where I feel threatened. Though her height is intimidating. But in a way that shows me she’s interested. Interested in me. I blink feeling my brain short-circuit for a moment and pan down. Her hand is extended. Waiting. I take her hand, shaking it. Her hand is warm. Mine feel clammy and I want the ground to swallow me up. 

“H-Hi,” I stutter. “I’m Diana.” 

“I know,” she says and her smile widens. Ronnie doesn’t look at Eddie when she says this. It’s like he doesn’t exist. I have to fight not to acknowledge his presence. We let go of each other’s hand and I clutch my book close to my chest. “Eddie’s told me about you.”

“Jesus.” He mutters, looking away.

My eyebrows shoot up in astonishment. “Really?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“Oh.” I don’t know what to think or feel or say. The back of my neck feels hot. 

“And any close friend of Eddie’s is a friend of mines.” 

I blink. Not understanding what she means. Maybe I missed something because Eddie and I are not close friends. It makes me wonder what he has told her. I look at Eddie now and he seems like he’s a second away from bolting out the door. He’s fidgety and a little sweaty. 

“Sorry,” he says to me. “She was dropped on her head as a baby.”  

Ronnie flicks him on the nose and Eddie reaches to grab her wrist, but she’s too fast, taking a step back, putting her hands behind her back. She laughs at him and he sticks his tongue out at her. I giggle quietly, enjoying their antics. They truly did seem to have a brother/sister relationship. It reminded me of my relationship with Lucas. 

“I forgot something in my locker.” Ronnie says, eyes darting between Eddie and I. “I’ll see you in class, right?” She’s talking to Eddie now. 

“Of course, wouldn’t want to miss chemistry for the world.” 

Ronnie gives him a warning look, but smiles kindly at me. She waves again and walks away leaving Eddie and I alone. When Ronnie turns the hall, Eddie turns to me, scratching around his mouth. He gives me an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry, about that.” 

“Don’t be. Ronnie seems very nice.”

“When she wants to be,” he comments under his breath. Eddie looks at me again. “I’m guessing you didn’t get caught last night.” 

“No, I didn’t.” I shake my head. “Thank you so much again for driving me home. Really. I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t.” 

“Just don’t walk home in the middle of the night. Please.” 

“I won’t.” 

“I’ll drive all over Hawkins looking for you if I have to.” I tilt my head at that, looking up at him. Eddie scrunches his nose, closing his eyes. “That sounded so much better in my head.” I giggle. Eddie chuckles softly, opening his eyes. His cheeks are slightly pink. “It’s just creepy when I say it out loud.”

I scrunch my nose. “A little,” I admit. “But I understand the sentiment.” 

Eddie doesn’t respond, eyes looking around him. I follow his gaze, wondering what he was looking at. He stands straight taking a step back. I don’t realize how close we were until he does. 

“Do you want to have lunch with me?” he asks, out of the blue. The question throws me in for a loop. Lunch with Eddie. I open my mouth, but close it. Something shifts in Eddie and he clears his throat. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. You’re probably going to meet up with your friends in the cafeteria.” 

Friends. My best friend is sitting in the cafeteria with Steve, Tommy H and Carol. My other best friend isn’t in school today. I am alone. I think about my dream. The way I was screaming for help and no one bothered to look. I didn’t think about where I was going to eat lunch today, because usually it’s with Nancy and Barb, but now…I don’t have anyone. The change I feared would happen had already started. Maybe it’s time to stop resisting it. 

“Yes, I’ll have lunch with you.” 

Eddie’s jaw goes slack for a moment but he quickly closes his mouth and smiles, with dimples this time. “Okay, um…” he scratches the back of his neck. “My lunch is actually in the van, so.” 

“Okay,” I nod, pushing myself off my locker. Eddie follows my stride as we walk towards the door and out the school. 

The weather is surprisingly mild for the winter months. Eddie and I walk through the parking lot towards his large van. I can’t believe it’s been hours since I’ve sat inside. The past few days have been nothing but bizarre. 

“What I mean to say is,” Eddie says after a few minutes. I realize he’s correcting himself from earlier. “If you ever need a ride anywhere..." he doesn’t finish the sentence and I can tell he’s not going to. The sentiment is there and it shocks me. I’ve only known of Eddie for 24 hours and he’s already offering to give me a ride, so I’m not out late at night by myself again. 

I look up at him, but he’s looking at the ground. I turn my head back, looking in front of me. The moths, turn into butterflies. I bow my head down, fighting back a smile. We arrive at his van at the back of the parking lot and I walk to the passenger’s side opening the door just as Eddie opens the door to the driver’s side. I climb inside the car sitting in the passenger’s seat and close the door. When I look up, Eddie stares at me, paper bag in hand. It takes me a moment to realize, he never said he wanted to eat in his van. My hands fly to my mouth. 

“I am so sorry.” I gasp, opening the car door. I can’t believe I forgot my home training. Mom would freak out if she knew what I did. 

Eddie blinks out of his stupor shaking his head. “It’s okay,” he says, climbing into his car. He closes the door. “I wasn’t clear. We can eat in here, if you want. I don’t mind.” He sounds relieved. I close the passenger door cringing at my blunder. How did I not realize what I was doing? 

We sit in the car in silence neither of us moving or both of us waiting for the other to start. I’m suddenly hyperaware of his presence. Eddie and I look at each other and start to laugh. The awkwardness dissipates and we both get our paper bags. Turns out we both have sandwiches, mine is turkey and cheese, his, peanut butter and jelly. The silence is comfortable between us and I find myself enjoying it. The past two days have been a whirlwind of confusion, fear and change. It feels nice to just be with someone in silence without feeling the need to talk all the time or feel like I’m being judged for just existing. 

“I didn’t forget the song you recommended, by the way.” Eddie says, between chews. “I’ve added it to my list.”

“I haven’t forgotten yours either.”

Eddie crumbles the plastic bag in a ball dropping it in his paper bag. He pulls out a bag of pretzels. I smile, knowing I have pretzels in my bag as well. I take a bite out of my sandwich observing Eddie. His hair is less frizzy today and I wonder what changed in his hair routine. I gaze down at his clothes, like Ronnie, he’s wearing a black leather jacket and hoodie with jeans and black boots. I think about Ronnie and Eddie calling each other to coordinate their outfits of the day and smile. Eddie is careful opening the Ziplock, pulling out a handful of pretzels.

“If you ever want to go to Main Street Vinyl sometime,” He pops a pretzel in his mouth. “We can listen to music.” 

“You listen to vinyl?” 

Eddie finishes chewing nodding his head. “Always.” 

“My dad only listens to vinyl.” I say, opening my bottle of water. “Says records sound better.” 

“He’s right.” 

I shrug taking a sip of water. “It all sounds the same to me.” 

Eddie looks as if I insulted him. He shakes his head popping another couple of pretzels in his mouth. “Oh man,” he says, voice muffled. “I definitely need to take you to Main Street Vinyl.” 

“Okay.” 

I accept the invitation feigning nonchalance. I don’t look at him as I close my water bottle, setting it beside me and continue to eat my sandwich. My heart is actually beating so fast and I’m surprised I don’t miss my mouth while taking a bite. I can feel him looking at me and meet his gaze. He’s staring at me like he did back in school and when I practically jumped into his car like I owned it. Like he didn’t expect my answer. 

Eddie blinks. “Cool.” He says, his voice hoarse. Scarfing down salty pretzels can do that to a person. “Just um…let me know when you’re free and I can pick you up.” His shyness makes me shy as well. 

“O-okay.” I stutter, my confidence waning. 

Eddie clears his throat reaching for a water bottle in the drink compartment. He takes a long drink and I think he’s going to finish the whole bottle in one sitting, but he stops, putting on the lid. “I’ll introduce you to all the greats.” 

“Judas Priest, KISS, Metallica, Ozzy Osbourne.” I list the names of the people he covers with his band. 

Eddie smiles. “And more.” 

I arch my brow. “Like who?” 

He turns to me and squints playfully, leaning close. “It’s a secret.”  He says lowly. I giggle.   

“Why does vinyl sound better?” I ask. My Dad says it does too, but I never understood what he meant. 

Eddie thinks for a moment. “It sounds…warm,” he starts, looking out the windshield. “That’s the best word to describe it.” He looks at me again. “It’s rich and deep. You feel like you’re watching the artists perform live. Like you’re in the same room as them. It’ll make sense when we go to the record store.”

“You seem to know a lot about music.” 

“Not as much as you think.” 

“It’s more than I know.” I add. I play with the plastic bag in my lap. “I like listening to you talk about music. Your connection to it is…sweet. I can tell you really love it.” 

“Sweet?” 

“Endearing.” I correct. And cute. But I’ll never say that out loud. 

Eddie’s cheeks are pink. So cute. He smiles and his dimples poke out. Really cute. “Thank you.” He chuckles. I beam. 

Eddie leans back against the door, fully facing me. He looks up and down and size to side at my face like he did last night. It’s intense and I thank heavens my brown skin hides the flush in my cheeks. He tilts his head, studying me. 

“So, Candy Girl,” He teases. “Tell me about something you love. Tell me about dance.” 

I’m vibrating. Not the kind you feel when you’ve been sitting down too long. The type you feel when you’re excited and slightly overwhelmed. I have only felt this way before a performance. My time with Eddie though brief, hasn’t felt that way. I’m a shy person; a person of few words when I’m getting to know someone. My true self saved for my family and best friends, but with Eddie I talk. I want to talk. I talk a lot, about dance. The Nutcracker auditions, Mei Wong, rehearsals. I felt myself stepping outside my shell. It’s weird and slightly off-putting. Eddie listens, asking questions if he doesn’t understand. He even tells me what he’s thinking. The conversation flows effortlessly. With everything that has been happening, I’m glad Eddie is around, even if it’s just for a moment. 

“Diana!” 

I blink out of my thoughts and turn my head. Nancy is rushing towards me and I am no longer vibrating. Just my normal self. I feel myself stepping back into my shell and it’s discomforting to feel this way about my best friend. 

“Diana, have you seen Barb?” Nancy asks me outside. 

It’s the first time Nancy and I speak since last night. During English I was too busy highlighting and making notes to talk. I shake my head, holding my chemistry textbook close to my chest.  

“Not since last night.” 

“Didn’t Barb drive you home last night?” 

“No, Barb decided to stay.” I walked home.  

“She stayed?” 

Nancy’s surprise causes me to look at her fully for the first time today. I glare at her. “Yes, to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid.” 

“I didn’t see her when I left.” 

“What? What do you mean?” 

Nancy shakes her head. “I didn’t see her.” 

Something unsettling swarms in my stomach but I push it down, shrugging my shoulders. “Maybe…she’s home sick. It was cold last night.” 

“Yeah…” Nancy says, but she doesn’t sound too convinced.

The silence between us is awkward. The remnants of last night weighing heavy. I start to walk away hoping to walk to class before the lunch crowd tumbles in and I am caught in a storm of elbows and backpacks. 

NEXT -> PART III

[ahyesthesufferingoftvteens]

Please. I’m dying. I need engagement fuel to energize me so I may continue to create.

Reblog this if you would not only accept, but welcome fan art, moodboards, etc. of your fics

All of these used to be so common for people to show their appreciation of different fics and authors, and I think it’s a shame people don’t do it anymore. I love seeing fan work for my fics!!

[roonotrue-ocs]

My OC Blog!

Howdy folks, so I've decided to make a blog dedicated to my OC's, mostly Twisted Wonderland, and maybe a few from some other fandoms.

About Me!:

21 years old, Birthday December 8th, 2003 - I'm a Sagittarius!

Trans Male He/Him & He/They pronouns

In college for my Bachelor's degree in Creative Writing

I am a part of sooooo many fandoms: Twisted Wonderland, LOL (Including Arcane), Cult of the Lamb, Hades (The game), Pokemon, Percy Jackson, Warriors (Only the first book set though, everything past that I never cared for), Hollow Knight, Legend of Zelda BOTW & TOTK, FNAF, Lego Monkie Kid, Avatar (James Cameron movies AND The Last Airbender), Dead by Daylight, Owl House, Hazbin Hotel & Helluva Boss, Bleach (Anime), Fairytail (Anime), My Hero Academia (Non-toxic fan, I promise), DanDaDan (Anime), One Piece (Anime & Live Action), Saiki K. (Anime), Voltron (Netflix Original), and soooo many more.

I write a LOT of fanfiction, but I'm also working on several other projects like writing an interactive novel using Choicescript.

Things I Do:

I am a major shipper, character x character, character x oc, oc x oc, bla bla bla, all that good stuff, so if you guys have a problem with that feel free to ignore this blog.

Love hearing about other people's oc's! So please comment, and send asks telling me all about them!

One shot, and scenario Oc-inserts, featuring ships, friendships, and more- maybe even written collabs with others of our oc's meeting, interacting, or something fun.

Oc rp would also be fun, though I've not done it before. Dm me if you're interested.

Character headcanons, au ideas, brainstorming, etc.

I mostly write fluff, comfort, mild hurt comfort, angst, and more.

I DON'T write smut or spice for underage characters- only +18 characters.

I only write cute romantic relationship fluff for any character under 18.

And that's all you need to know about me folks! For my fanfictions and other writings (mostly Twisted Wonderland dedicated though I do have ongoing slowly updating Cult of the Lamb and Avatar Way of Water fics going on) on my main blog @roonotrue, and my AO3 account here.

[valarioncy]

Let's Talk About the Hollow Fandom (and dead fandoms in general)

Hello, The Hollow fandom. This is Cyrokin. I'm sure you all don't need to be told that our fandom is kinda lowkey dead. Activity is hard to come by. I'm one of the senior members of the fandom myself, but I don't get any more activity on my posts than anyone else does.

Look, we can #save the hollow and tell Netflix all day how much we want our show back. But we don't exactly have the fandom to back our wishes. If we want more the Hollow, we've gotta make it ourselves. Fan art, fanfiction, fan animations, fan comics. There are SO MANY fanworks in this fandom left unfinished. Unstarted, even. And it's a crying shame because you guuuuys we have so much potential!

We're a creative bunch! We're an odd bunch! We love what has been broadly cast aside as average! We are a fandom with untapped potential, loving a show full of similar untapped potential! Let's explore that! It'll be fun!

How do fandoms become dead? Fandoms die when fans stop creating, yes. But more importantly, they die when fans stop engaging with what is created. Fans can do their own thing and create stuff all day. But when nobody seems to care, it's discouraging. Eventually some people just give up.

Fandoms aren't corporate machines that pump out products and content to be consumed. Fandoms are made of people sharing love for their favorite characters and stories. Fandom is built on community. When the community dies, the fandom and any interest in it dies too.

So, Hollowers, I implore you all. Those of us who remain. PLEASE, support rather than tear down your fellow fans. Engage with them when they ask for engagement. Like their posts, reblog their posts, share your own creative works. Hell, the fanworks you like the most? Make fanworks for that too.

Please, for the love of fandom, NORMALIZE making fanworks for fanworks. Draw fanart of AUs you like. Write stories set in someone else's AU. If it inspires you, make something with it! This should not be a taboo!

Support your dead fandom, because the few of us that are here, we are all we've got. The Hollow can live, but it's gotta live through us. Netflix failed us. We can't fail us. We've gotta build the world we wanna live in. And if we want a thriving fandom, we've gotta make it ourselves.

-Cy

[valarioncy]

Intriguing. :0

SYSTEM LOG [ #N40571 ]

ACCESSING NPC LOGIC TREE...

ENCODED NPC ALIAS: LEVI

...

..

.

Wins are... concerning. Honestly, not something I'd ever admit before. But that's the circumstances of this place.

As much as a break from the mundane is amusing, it's also a pain in the neck. Things were very unclear at first. What happens if a team wins? If they lose.?

But it's not like you can keep track of every single pair of teams that come through. And oh boy, we tried.

Loses are more obvious, at least for us. Not that that is something we've observed first hand. But that's not a thing that can be risked. We have a certain someone to the example of that. Despite all the new chaos, we were fortunate enough not to lose anyone else.

But wins? Was also a concern. Though, inevitable. As much as we feared a game reset after winning the game would affect everything... We seem to constant, hometown being our 'spawn point'. Of course it resets the events, memories of certain others around us, those not part of the 'glitch', and it's dissapointing.. But at least our own memories keep intact. I can remember every argument I got in with these dorks. Nice.

But the players? We don't know what happens to them exactly. If the game functions exactly like the Hollow did, if they win, they get out of the game, winners. If they lose, they're out, losers. But, that's not exactly what it looks like to us. There's not much of a difference of a real death and an in-game one when you are a part of the game. In the end, it all just looks like death. And it's not pretty.

I've seen a lot down here. And at times, it'd be preferable if I didn't have to remember every reset. But.. It's not all bad. Helping people out, seeing new faces, smiles. Maybe that makes it all worth it in the end, maybe that's just how it should be.