ᗷIᑎᑕᕼI ᗪᗩ ᐯIᑎᑕI

Please keep inbox requests short so that I can write the fic in reply to the request.

I’m mostly interested in writing about:

💽 Harry Potter (all)

💽 Twilight (all)

💽My Chemical Romance (all)

💽 Ryan Gosling (all)

💽 Resident Evil (Leon Kennedy)

I do not consent to my fics being reposted elsewhere nor being fed to AI. If you wish a part two of something, request it, do not AI generate it: that constitutes intellectual theft.

Ray was the kind of guy who everybody assumed was going to be reserved and unassuming but who, in reality, could come out with something that would send you keeling over laughing. That's what you liked best about him: he wasn't what everyone expected him to be. On this evening, however, Ray was particularly quiet, even despite the excitement of your mutual-friend's birthday party. You'd known Ray and the band for years and had spent a long time in the same friendship group, even before their career really kicked off. While you weren't especially close with him — having been introduced to them all through Gerard's girlfriend at the time— you'd spent years talking and laughing on occasion, and you considered him a good enough friend to know when he wasn't himself.

Exiting the hubbub of the living room to refill your drink, you spotted his familiar frame in the kitchen, leaning against a kitchen counter with a green, glass bottle in his hand. When he saw you, his face cracked into a smile and he straightened up, readjusting his dark jeans by the buckle. "Hey! What's up?" Ray had a way of making whoever he spoke to feel like the most special person in the room; you couldn't help but smile back sheepishly under his warm gaze. “Hey, Ray." You slid in next to him so your were both side-by-side against the counter. In the slightly awkward silence, you sipped your drink. "Hiding?” you eventually asked, bumping his shoulder lightly. “Mmm... I'd say recharging,” he corrected with a lopsided grin. "Yeah. Can't blame you." He nodded and sipped his beer before huffing a quick laugh. “Someone just asked if I was ‘with the band’". He shrugged, still smiling a little. “Occupational hazard, I guess. I’m pretty easy to overlook compared to those three animals.” He swilled the contents of his drink with a quick laugh.

While it was clear he wasn't fishing for compliments and genuinely believed what he'd said, you didn’t laugh; instead, you furrowed your brow with confusion. “No, you’re not,” you said, shaking your head once. “Easy to overlook, I mean. That's just not true.” The kitchen was still loud with the muffled thump of music and distant conversation, but the space between the two of you felt suddenly smaller as Ray glanced down at you, the smile on his face melting into something closer to surprise. His fingers tightened slightly around the bottle; he swallowed hard as he looked away. "Oh— well, thanks. Thank you." He continued to feign interest in his bottle, always terrible at taking compliments. You kept going: because it mattered, because you meant it, and because you were tipsy enough to ignore the awkwardness. “ You’re, like, actually one of the greatest guitarists I’ve ever seen. Not just in this band— anywhere. The way you play is... I mean, it's just insane to watch. It's like the guitar is part of you,” you laughed, pausing pushing off of the counter to refill your cup at the table. "My point is— and don't tell the guys I said this because they'll be so dramatic about it— I don't think the band would be what it is without you. It wouldn't be as good, not at all."

Ray had given up pretending to be interested in his bottle half-way through your speech. He stared at you as you poured, unsure what to do with his face. His usual easy demeanour was gone, replaced by something more self-conscious and startled. You’d given him compliments before— friendly ones, casual ones when he asked about his hair or a song— but never like this: never so direct; never like you were stating something you thought was obvious.

Something shifted in him. He’d spent a long time purposefully not examining the way he looked for you in every room; the way your laugh had become one of his favourite sounds; the way your opinion of him carried more weight than almost anyone else’s. Standing in that messy kitchen under a flickering, yellowish bulb, the realisation settled over him fully and without mercy: he was in love with you, and there was no way of un-realising it. The idea of being overlook-able seemed suddenly unbearable, because he needed you to see him. And you did— you always had.

He didn't know what to do with himself. Ray swallowed, still looking at you. “You mean that?” You glanced up, your brow furrowed in confusion. “Of course I do.” Ray let out a small huff and set his bottle down on the counter. When he turned back to you, he was wearing an expression softer and more unprotected than you’d seen on him before. “That's, like, the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me.” This was the closest he was going to get to saying 'I've just realised I love you and want to be near you forever and ever'— at least for now. You merely smiled at him and straightened up from the table. A comfortable quiet settled between the two of you. The party kept going on the other side of the doorway, but none of it seemed to reach you. “I’m really glad I came tonight,” he murmured, hands tucked into his pockets. "Yeah? Me too." Neither of you said out loud what had just changed, but it was obvious that something was different.

Frank had only come in to the bar for a catch-up and a drink with some old school friends; he certainly wasn’t expecting to see you there. As he swirled the contents of his glass around and looked around the room, he caught sight of you: you were on a tall stool at the bar, leaning on your elbows while some guy with an easy smile and a patchwork of tattoos (you certainly had a type) told you something that made you snort. Your laugh came a little too loud, a little too loose; Frank could tell from across the room you were past the point of careful, that you were actually enjoying yourself, and that caution had gone to the wind.

Frank forced his eyes away and back to the conversation. He took a thick glug of his pint. "Sorry— what were you saying?" Frank asked his friend for the third time in five minutes. He was distracted again almost immediately: your date had touched your arm and you didn’t pull away. You swayed slightly when you reached for your drink. As he clasped his hands together in irritation, Frank imagined that he could guess exactly what was in your glass having ordered it so many times for you. That's what you liked to do together: drink, or go for drives, or argue, or fuck. Frank thought it made him seem younger to have a glass in his hand; you didn't care either way, as long as he came home with you.

In fact, Frank had been the one to end it only a few weeks ago, after months of hot-and-cold and on-and-off: he didn't know why you put up with it but, truth be told, you loved him. He simply couldn't believe that fact, so, sitting on the edge of your bed with his head in his hands, telling you he was too old, too divorced, and that you should be with someone your own age, you called it quits 'for good'. You hadn’t argued as much as he’d expected, and now he found himself wondering how he'd never noticed what a douchebag he way, and why it made him want you even more now that you'd moved on to someone your own age. Grass is always greener on the other side, he guessed.

Now here you were, drunk enough that the room was probably tilting, letting some asshole twenty years his junior talk you into another round— just like Frank had told you you should be doing at your age. Well done, Frank, he thought to himself. You've done it again. Frank finished his beer in one pull, set the glass down harder than necessary, and excused himself to get another drink. As he stood, the denim jacket sat heavy on his shoulders. He wrung his hands together and toyed lightly with the rings adorning his fingers as he leaned against the bar next to your seat. What would he even say? His jaw flexed in determination as he turned his head toward you. Your date stopped talking and offered a confused-but-polite nod over your shoulder, causing you to turn round. You spun too fast on your chair and had to catch the edge of the bar to steady yourself.

“Hey,” Frank said, voice low. Surprise flickered across your face, then something harder. "Hey." Your date looked between the two of you, waiting for an introduction that never came. Frank kept his eyes on you. The tattoos on his neck shifted as he swallowed hard. “You got a ride home?” Frank looked away, still leaning on the bar casually as though he were waiting to order a drink. “No, but—” you started, words a little garbled. "Can I take you back, then?" "You her dad, or something?" your date interrupted with a half-joking laugh. Frank paused, then turned to your date. His face alone was enough to piss Frank off. "Sure, I'm her dad. Fuck you," he grumbled. This wasn't the first time someone had commented on the age difference, and it likely wouldn't be the last— not if Frank had his way, anyway. Your date scoffed and turned back to his drink. You sighed and turned to him apologetically. "It's probably time I—hic— head off, anyway," you smiled. "I've had a good night. Text me again, sometime?" Your date nodded and mumbled a 'sure', clearly a little put out but nonetheless pleased that you'd asked to see him again. Frank's jaw clenched and unclenched as he fought not to roll his eyes. He straightened up from the bar as you slipped out of the bar stool— less than gracefully— and pulled your jacket sloppily over your shoulders. You didn't look at him as you made a wobbly beeline to the exit. Frank shoved his hands in his pockets and followed you, forgetting entirely to say goodbye to his friends; he'd text them when he got home.

In the car park, the cool, night air hit you hard and you shuddered; still, you kept stumbling forward till you saw the dark-blue sedan. Frank walked a few paces behind you until you reached his car and stood outside it, tapping your foot impatiently. He unlocked it, yanked open the passenger-side door before you could, and made his way round to the driver's side, leaving you to slam your own door shut louder than necessary. He slid into the driver's seat and made an effort not to slam his own door, just to prove his own maturity. Buckling himself in, he stuck the keys in the ignition, then sat back with the car idling. He glanced over to you: you were sat with your bare, goose-pimpled legs together, facing away from him, your arms across your chest like a petulant child. He leaned across you with an air of irritation and buckled your seatbelt. You glared at him; he glared back.

The ride began quiet. City lights slid across the windshield and over the ink on Frank’s hands where they gripped the wheel too tight. His jaw was locked as he drove with muscle memory. You slumped against the window, trying to keep the spinning under control. “You shouldn't have done that,” you muttered to the window. “Yeah, I should've," he sighed. “You could barely stand.” “I was having a conversation.” Frank let out a short, humourless laugh. “That guy was waiting for you to be drunk enough to fuck him. Don’t insult both of us by pretending you don’t know that.” You turned your head toward him, scowling. "Like that's all that I'm good for?" Frank glanced at you, mildly panicked. "That's not what I—" “You don’t get to just...show up and start acting like you care what I do," you hissed. His inked hands flexed on the wheel; the muscle in his cheek jumped. "I do care."

You didn't reply, but slumped a little further into your seat. Frank sighed, already feeling guilty. “I told you to go find someone your own age,” he said, staring straight ahead. “I sat there and made it sound like I was doing the right thing. Then I walk into a bar and see you wasted with some guy who actually fits the description I gave you, and it feels like—” “So I did what you said and now you're mad?” “I know what I said," he hissed. The words came out sharp. He reined them back in almost immediately as he chewed his lip. “I know what I said, Y/N. But the idea of him putting you in a car like this, taking you back to his when you can barely keep your eyes open…” He shook his head once with a grimace. “Fuck no."

Silence stretched. The turn signal clicked in the dark. You could hear him breathing through his nose, trying to keep whatever was under the surface from spilling out. He pulled up outside his place and cut the engine. For a moment neither of you moved: Frank’s hands stayed on the wheel, tattoos standing out across his knuckles in the low light. Finally, he leaned back in his seat and ran a hand over his face. “Come up for an hour, until you've sobered up, and then I'll take you home.” He turned to look at you, still evading his gaze. “I’m not leaving you at home to choke on your own vomit.” You turned to look at him: the lines at the corners of his eyes were deeper; the regret sat plain on his face. He looked older, and ever-the-more handsome in his remorse. “I was wrong,” he said, holding your eye contact. “When I told you you’d be better off with someone else. I keep trying to convince myself I was right, but I wasn't.” He dropped his head and fiddled with his rings. "I'm sorry."

You said nothing as he continued to evade your gaze. Then, Frank heard the sound of your seatbelt unbuckling and car door opening. For a moment, he wasn't sure whether you were about to walk home yourself: he sat in the car, still staring at his hands, and readied himself for that to be the case. At last, he opened his own door and slid out— prepared to see you walking down the road— only to find you stood outside his front door, tapping your foot impatiently. "Well? Are we gonna stay out here all night?"

For the last six months, you worked yourself raw proving you belong behind that drum kit. You rarely missed a beat, and if you did, you made sure nobody other than you would notice. There really was no space for a female drummer to fuck up in this scene: one slip and you were sure NME would have an article out the next day about 'My Chemical Romance's Rookie Drummer!' You wouldn't let that happen after working so hard to get here— on stage with your four, new best friends.

Bouncing on the balls of your feet, sticks in hand, the stage-manager's question broke you out of a nervous spiral. "Ready?" The mid-sized Hoboken venue was packed, with a turnout of about five-hundred kids all looking forward to a show. While it was a much smaller night compared to a couple of the arena gigs you'd played in the past few months, the lights still beat down white-hot onto the stage, making you feel like every pair of eyes was on you as you settled behind your kit. By the time Gerard had greeted the audience with his usual flair, you were already pouring with sweat. Before you knew it, it was time for the first track of the set.

The show was running smoothly, and through the first six songs, everything had gone as planned: not forgetting a fill or losing time, even when your ear-piece went out for a second. Truth be told, you still felt out of place on stage with the guys, but you drummed like that wasn't the case and refused to let nerves get the better of you; Frank's grinning at you and Ray's affirming nods definitely made that easier.

You couldn't wait to get back to it when you all took a quick two-minutes halfway through the show. As you stood up to stretch your legs and grab a bottle of water, a tech made a hurried adjustment to your kit: this was not out of the ordinary, and so you let him get on with it. "Good show so far, right?" you nudged Frank, who was stood just out of sight of the audience in the wings. He nodded vigorously, gulping down some water and wiping his long, black hair out of his face as best he could. "For sure. This crowd rocks." He grinned in the direction of the stage, clearly eager to get back on. "You sound awesome, by the way." You grinned and rolled your eyes playfully. "I bet you say that to every drummer you have."

Two minutes later, and you were back behind the drums, slamming away like there was no tomorrow. You ploughed through a few more Bullets tracks, then onto some newer stuff from The Black Parade. You had an inkling halfway through Teenagers that something wasn't right with your kit after being reset by the tech: a cymbal stand with a damaged wing nut seemed to be the culprit. Still, you felt it wasn't an issue and just had to be mindful not to knock the stand with your foot, or to hit it too hard in case it fell.

Mid-way through I'm Not Okay, the outside of your left hand caught a the damaged wing nut, and you felt a searing agony: for a split second, your vision blurred and your stomach lurched. You gasped, your rhythm staggering for just a beat. You didn't dare look down— you already know what had happened— so you focused on getting your head back to the song. You smiled nervously at no one in particular, trying desperately to play it off and to not look at the wound on your hand. Curiosity got the better of you once you had caught your breath, and so you glanced down: blood had soaked the white skin of the snare; the damaged edge of the wing nut had lacerated the fleshy part of your outer-palm, just below the pinkie, all the way down to the side of your wrist, where it appeared slightly less deep. At its worst, you could see the white below the flesh, the deepest layer of skin that indicated something had gone seriously wrong.

Pain flared white-hot the second you stared into the wound: you suppose shock had been protecting you up until then. The blood had slipped down to your elbow fast, and appeared even more severe under the lights. But what could you do? Stop playing? Run off-stage and leave the fans wondering why their favourite band's new drummer couldn't even hack a five-hundred person show, and decided to fuck up a concert that they'd paid good money for? Christ, no.

You can't stop— you won't stop— so you adjusted your grip around the blood-slick stick and kept playing. The click of the loosened cymbal was still clear in your ear; you found yourself grateful that your drums weren't mic'd up to catch it. You felt the wet heat running down your wrist with every hit, but forced your arms to stay steady. You will not be the reason this show falls apart; you will not give anyone the chance to say that the new girl couldn’t handle it. This is the mantra that kept you going through the next three tracks, even when hot tears began to well in your eyes and your brow furrowed in distress.

As the next song began, Mikey passed behind the riser, his usual contented smile on his face as he roamed the stage whilst playing. He glanced over with a grin, then did a double-take. His smile fell just as quickly as it appeared, and he slowed to a stop in front of your kit, still playing the bass like nothing was wrong: just like a true professional should, you thought to yourself. “Hey!” he shouted, also un-mic'd. “You’re bleeding!” You glanced up at him while drumming, but didn't speak: you knew that if you did, if you acknowledged it, you might actually start to feel it. You shook your head tersely and blinked the tears out of your eyes, a distant look of determination on your face as you evaded his gaze. Mikey’s jaw tightened as he considered the situation. He hesitated for half a second longer, eyes dropping to the blood dripping onto your drums, then shook his head with concern as Ray's solo began to count in. Although he backed away, you felt his attention on you for the remaining three songs, glancing over with a furrowed brow.

You counted down the seconds until the final track, Helena, began to play. You played as well as one could hope with every hit pulling at the cut, bleeding and panting and grimacing like a madwoman. Sweat had mixed with the blood running down your palm, stinging the wound more than you could've imagined was possible given the protection of the adrenaline. At some point during the song, you realised that you were actually crying, breath catching as tears tracked through your makeup while you kept time like your life depended on it: these could easily be mistaken for tears of passion, and you'd picked the right song to cry to. In truth, it was more than the pain, it was the fear of fucking up: even though the sharp hardware had been out of your control, stopping still felt like it would prove every doubt people had when you first took the seat, so you pounded through the final fills with your teeth gritted.

"So long, and goodnight!" At last, Gerard screamed the final words of Helena and the lights dimmed. Barely registering that it was the end of the set, too occupied with staying out of your head and in the drums, you stood up so fast that the stool tumbled backward. The band shared quick looks of confusion as Mikey whispered something concernedly into Frank's ear, but you bolted straight out into the wings instead of staying to thank the audience. You just needed to get out while the adrenaline was still overriding the pain: past the techs, past the green room, and out of the fire-exit. You slammed the double doors open and heaved a lungful of the fresh air.

Eyes darting around to confirm you really were alone, you allowed yourself a moment to freak out. "Fuck!" You slammed your foot into a nearby trashcan, kicking it with a shout of irritation. "God fucking damn it!" This could be a career-ending injury; this could be the end of the beginning. With this thought in mine, adrenaline turned to despair and you sunk against the brick wall, knees pulled to your chest. You cradled your arm against your stomach, fresh blood dripping onto the floor; while the blood that had dripped down your forearm had largely dried, giving way to an itching as the skin bent, the cut itself continued to give. The white at the deepest point of the cut— perhaps the layer of fat protecting the muscle— scared you, and a broken wail finally escaped you. There were some pretty important veins in your wrist, and you weren't sure if you'd gotten away with it, yet.

From inside, the sound of someone calling your name echoed through the hallway. You sighed and reluctantly called back. "I'm out here." Frank rounded the corner, followed by Mikey: the latter took one look at you and dropped to a crouch in front of you, eyes wide with concern. "Are you ok?" “Jesus, Y/N," Frank mumbled, stood with his arms across his chest. "Did you play on that?" "Let me see," Mikey interrupted, moving forward to take your arm. You recoiled instinctively, too scared to let anyone near it. Mikey sighed and looked up at you with pleading eyes. "I won't touch it. Promise." You hesitated, eyes moving between Frank and Mikey. Frank nodded coaxingly, and you conceded, gently uncoiling your arm from your chest and presented it to Mikey, supporting the wrist with your right hand outstretched. "Looks worse than it is," you grumbled, not wanting to freak them out. Mikey squinted down at the wound, now barely visible through the drying blood, swallowing hard. “It doesn't look great.” His voice was flat as he glanced up at Frank, who was nervously chewing his finger nails.

The double doors of the fire-exit swung open again, and Ray appeared with Gerard. The alley suddenly felt crowded. “Whoa,” Ray said, eyes dropping to your left arm. “That’s a lot of blood...” "What the fuck happened?" Gerard prompted worriedly from beside Ray. “Looks worse than it is,” you repeated dryly, more so trying to convince yourself than them. "I just wanna... clean it and wrap it. I don’t want to make a whole thing out of it.” Gerard crouched down beside Mikey, expression tight. “I dunno, sweetheart...you’re real pale. Probably should see a doctor—” “For God's sake," you snapped. “I don’t need everyone making a big scene, here. Especially not over me.” The last part slipped out before you could stop it. A cool silence settled over the group as they shifted awkwardly. "Sorry," you mumbled. Gerard's eyes narrowed slightly: he understood exactly what you meant. “Hey," he murmured, placing a gentle hand on your knee. “Nobody’s going to think you can’t handle it. You just played a full show with your hand split open; you’re allowed to get it looked at.” You avoided his gaze, knowing that if you looked at him the floodgates would open again. You nodded once.

Ray exhaled through his nose, relieved to be done with this argument. "Come on, trooper. Let's get you to the doctor." You grumbled, but allowed him to lift you by your underarms. He kept his arm around your waist the entire short-walk to the small medic tent.

Inside of the small structure, it smelled like antiseptic and dust. They’d set it up just off the loading dock, a white canopy with harsh portable lights and a folding table that doubled as an exam bed. The medic — a kind-faced but no-nonsense woman— looked up from her chair as Ray brought you in. "Hey," Ray greeted nervously. "Uh, this one's had an accident on-stage." He gestured to your arm, which you held tightly against your chest. She peered over her glasses, unfazed by the sight of blood, and stood up to arrange the exam-bed beneath a bright light. "Want me to stay?" Ray murmured down, still supporting your weight as the medic dug in a drawer. You shook your head quickly. "No, honestly. Don't worry. I'll see you all back on the bus. Thanks for— uh— for bringing me." You offered a smile, as honest as it could get. Ray nodded, squeezing your bicep gently, before releasing you and heading out of the tent. The medic had you sit on the bed while she irrigated the cut. It looked more severe under the clinical light: a deep, clean slice from the middle of your palm curving into the side of your wrist, still oozing. “This is going to need stitches,” she said, looking between you and the wound. “At least four, maybe six. We can do them here but you'll need to get them re-done in a few days in a real hospital." “Alright,” you sighed, eyelashes sticky with leftover tears. "Thanks."

And so, she injected the local anaesthetic and began to work. You stared at the opposite wall of the tent while the needle went in, jaw locked; the numbness spread slow and incomplete. When she started stitching you still felt the tug and pressure, dull but nauseating. Your free hand gripped the edge of the table hard enough that your knuckles went white, and you focused your attention on anything but the indescribable sensation of cold metal sliding into your flesh. Outside the tent, you could hear the four of them: Frank’s nervous giggle; Ray’s restless pacing; Gerard's low voice; the occasional shift of Mikey's boots on the concrete. They’d refused to go back to the bus without you, even though you told them it was stupid and they didn’t have to wait. Though it pained you that they stayed, you felt oddly grateful and comforted by their presence.

Halfway through the stitching, their chatter paused as Mikey’s voice carried from just outside. “...she okay?” “She’s fine,” you called back, suppressing a smile. “Stop hovering.” A pause, then Frank's voice. “We’re not hovering: we’re supervising.” Despite yourself, a weak huff of a laugh escaped you. The medic glanced up with an amused look. "Good friends you've got." "Yeah," you murmured. "The best."

Six stitches later she taped a thick, clean bandage around your hand and wrist, and gave you a short list of instructions that you only half-heard. You slid off the table on slightly unsteady legs; the adrenaline had fully crashed, so your hand throbbed in time with your heartbeat. When you stepped out of the tent into the fresh air, the four of them were right there, standing and sitting in various positions of anxiety. "There she is," Frank called, springing up from the floor where he'd been crouching. You scoffed with a smile. "Here I am." You chewed the inside of your cheek, a little embarrassed. Gerard watched you nervously from his seat, legs crossed with a cigarette dangling from his fingers. “Stitches?” Gerard asked, trying to be as casual as possible so as not to scare you off. “Six,” you nodded. "Jeez," Mikey whistled. You nodded, kicking a rock lightly with your shoe; nobody really knew what to say. "...Bus?" you finally asked, lightly rocking on your feet. A collective hum of yes and nodding ensued as everyone scrambled to their feet.

You didn’t have the energy to chat; it seemed nobody else did, either. The two-minute walk to the tour bus felt longer than usual. Someone— Frank, you thought— stayed close on your injured side without quite touching you, like he was ready to steady you if you swayed. He always was somewhat of a guard dog, when it came to you.

The bus was quiet when you all climbed on: usually, it would be filled with chatter as you recounted the best bits of the show, but tonight, it was just the shuffling of shoes. Most of the lights were dimmed, so you dropped into one of the lounge seats and pulled your knees to your chest once again. The others settled around the lounge in a loose half-circle; for a minute no one spoke, until Gerard leaned forward, elbows on his knees contemplatively. “You should’ve stopped,” he murmured. “We could’ve figured it out.” “I know," you frowned guiltily, picking at a loose thread on the bandage. “I just…I didn’t wanna be the reason everything went sideways. Especially not six months in. People already look at me like I’m temporary," you scoffed, looking away. Frank frowned with irritation. "Who the fuck looks at you like that?” You didn't reply, fearing more tears would come falling if you explained the gravity of it all. “Doesn’t matter who," you grumbled. “Course it matters,” Mikey said. He was sitting on his hands on the floor in front of you, long legs stretched out. “You don’t have to bleed out through a set to prove you belong here. We all know you do, and so should you." "Yeah, fuck what anyone else thinks," Frank added earnestly. You nodded, suddenly overwhelmed with guilt. The words sat heavier than you expected, so you continued to toy with your gauze.