#c: brad

[motorhearted]

CHAPTER ONE.

CW: depictions + descriptions of car crashes, character death, and object destruction.

{ LAST. — NEXT. }

September 12th, 199X.

All was quiet in the prairies. Rough yellow grass shifted in a gentle breeze and crickets chittered to each other from the depths. Fireflies rolled with the waves of the hills, mimicking the glimmering stars above in the deep dark skies.

Besides the occasional farm within the miles and miles of grass sat an abandoned racing arena. Its rotted wood perimeter and barbed wire fence stood like castle walls against a spacious dirt track.

The recently-wetted ground glimmered against the sickly moonlight. Shadowy figures shifted in the grandstands. The prairies held their breath. Then the track’s fluorescent lamp posts flickered on, one by one.

A low rumbling filled the air as many machines asynchronously switched on. They were followed by the shouting of many more barking voices. In the middle of it all, the lights shone down on thirteen cars of various sizes parked in a circle, back-to-back.

People waved their arms and cheered on, louder and louder. A man in a stetson strolled out onto the edge of the dirt. He took something heavy out of his pocket and aimed it towards the barely-visible skies.

A gunshot.

A cloud of dust, a shower of mud, the scream of modified engines. Sparks flew, accompanied by the thunderous crunch of metal-against-metal. Exhaust pipes coughed out billowing black smoke, choking the arena with the smells of gasoline and diesel.

The cars were now darting around the track as the vultures in the grandstands looked on; dodging, swerving, diving into each other with crashes that could surely sever a limb. They would sit for a moment, coolant dribbling onto the ground, before yanking themselves away and hobbling off to a new target. Ends crumpled in and tires were worn down to the rim with no flesh behind the wheel.

Among these warring vehicles was a tattered muscle car. His paint was a rough, matted black that once shone and glittered emerald in the light, now making him a mere shadow against the ground. Long, capped exhaust pipes jutted directly from his engine, spewing out fumes whenever he moved. His doors were painted over with a repulsive white, finished off with a crooked 20 on each side.

Despite his size, he maneuvered through the chaos with ease. Thick mud caked his wheels as he veered about, dodging crashes by mere seconds. He reared himself at others, pushing through tangles of metal and smoking corpses. Any car that gave chase was destined to be crushed before they reached him.

Still, many tried with nonsensical determination.

The muscle car was numb to the crunching, popping, squealing of mechanical parts. When others rammed against his sides, he barely winced. He couldn’t recall how many crashes he’d been in if he tried. His rear end was pushed inwards and up; a pickup truck had done the deed last season.

He swerved onto the outskirts of the track and paused, ever so briefly; an attempt to make something of his surroundings. The mixture of dust and smoke under blinding lights obscured most things, though he eyed the flitting shadows behind the haze carefully. It wasn’t long before a yellow sedan shot out of the chaos and spotted him, revving its engine and charging full speed. He waited until the last moment to dodge. The sedan yelled and collided with a concrete barrier.

Number 20 didn’t wait to see it slowly pull away, grill and headlights shattered, as he was already being chased by another— someone who was about his size. Without further hesitation he jumped back into the fray. He nearly hit someone else, small and blue, missing two tires and trapped in the mud. He dodged and continued on.

Then there was a loud crunch behind him, and the engine of same-size ceased to roar.

Dodge. Dodge. Shift. Reverse. Dodge.

That’s when he saw her.

Full speed ahead. Brake. Reverse. Dodge.

A rosy-red van with colorful stripes.

Shift. Dodge.

Number 13.

A rather new contestant, but an otherwise worthy rival. She was busy plowing a small vehicle into a tangle of several, stuck together by bumpers torn from their frames. Most were still moving, pushing and pulling away with little luck.

A screech tore through the air.

A ragged truck rammed into his side.

It began to push him along, closer to a frenzied fight breaking out in the middle of the track. The muscle car pressed on his brakes. The truck snarled on.

He was dragged a considerable few feet before someone clipped the truck’s bed. Furious, it dislodged and gave chase. Both of them were trampled.

Number 20 began to move away again when the rosy van sped past him, splattering him with a fresh coat of mud and oil. She braked and whirled around to face him. Their headlights met.

In that moment, he finally felt something. And that something was dread.

Her front bumper turned up in a murderous grin.

He fled.

Everyone around him danced in violent tangos. The muscle car rocketed across the track once more. He turned left.

Then right. Then left again.

Right.

Left.

A green mass of metal flew by, inches from his grille, and then there was an opening. He zipped through the heat. He left the clusters of battles behind, slowing only when he noticed that Number 13 was nowhere in sight.

But there was no such thing as a moment of peace. In an instant he was rocked by a vehicle going past and scraping his side. He honked in surprise. The other began to circle, slowly.

There was Number 13.

She prowled around Number 20 like a hungry tiger, revving her engine. Her small headlights were full of fury. He revved his engine in return, coughing out exhaust. He steadily met her gaze.

The two large vehicles facing off in the very corner of the track commanded the attention of onlookers. The vultures began to chant. The sorrowful engines elsewhere seemingly faded away.

Number 13 smiled again, confidently.

Number 20 sat emotionless.

She was going to charge.

Slam.

Working on something akin to instinct, Number 20 barely realized he had moved. He had collided with her side with such force that it sent the van flying backwards. She spun. She desperately reached for the ground with her wheels. She tipped and finally hit the cement barrier.

Number 20’s engine buzzed. His vision was full of static.

When it finally cleared, he shook himself and glanced up at Number 13. She wasn’t moving. No one was moving.

She was violently dented in, her frame sagging against her undercarriage. A light trail of smoke was forming in the air.

And then she erupted into flame.

Seconds dragged on like hours before a few men lumbered over with buckets of water and fire extinguishers. The inferno lapped desperately at the skies. The grandstands fell silent. So did the cars.

A few more seconds, and the fire was gone. Smoke billowed from the scene, and when it cleared, all that was left of the van was a shriveled, blackened mass.

The grandstands exploded with cheers.

Number 20 felt nothing.

“You… killed her.”

The muscle car had been sitting in the same place, staring into the nothingness. He hadn’t heard the arguing at the gate or the sound of another car approaching. When he turned to look, he was met with the devastated gaze of a little orange car.

She was probably one of the smallest demolition cars he’d ever seen. The dark accents on her sides shone bright among minimal scratches and dents; she had only been in a few derbies, and was a contestant that was quickly mended afterwards every night.

It was odd to see her alone. The coupe never seemed like one that wanted to stand out to Number 20. Whenever he saw her, she was hiding behind someone.

He tensed.

That someone was Number 13.

“You killed her!” Her voice rose as she stared deep into Number 20’s headlights. She was full of a sorrow he didn’t know a car could be capable of; it shook her body as she approached.

Number 20 said nothing.

“I saw it… I-I saw it all! You killed her! You killed Lilly!”

Anger blazed in her rectangular headlights. She was quickening her pace towards the much larger vehicle until he found himself backed against the fence. His engine raced.

Still, he said nothing.

The orange coupe in front of him looked ready to shatter into pieces, as if her emotions were just too big. She looked around wildly, desperately, before backing away and raising herself above her wheels.

“A monster like you deserves the same fate.”

And with that, she sped towards him.

She was fast, though Number 20 moved in tandem. She stopped in her tracks, seemingly surprised by the action, and the muscle car fled. She cursed under her breath and gave chase.

Number 20 went as fast as he could, swerving through the maze of frozen cars left on the track. He was precise as ever, though his engine continued to buzz. His thoughts felt choked by cotton. He zig-zagged in the metal and mud, refusing to slow.

He hadn’t noticed that the sound of the vehicle behind him was becoming increasingly distant. The grandstands jeered on. It was too late when the orange coupe came barrelling towards him, cutting through the middle of the track. She hurled herself with a force that was rather remarkable, albeit useless.

Number 20 merely stumbled and slammed his brakes, but a loud crunch told him something else had happened to his competitor.

He gathered himself and turned back around. The sight he was met with made the buzzing fill his whole body. The couple’s grille was dented inwards, her hood crinkled up like tin. Her wheels shook dangerously. She was panting.

Number 20 slowly approached, forcing words out of his machinery.

“Stop this, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

The coupe paused, as if to consider his words, then her expression shot back to anger.

“I refuse.”

Number 20 blinked his headlight covers. With a grimace he pulled away, a dark trail of exhaust hanging in the air in front of him. The coupe revved her engine, murder reflected in her gaze.

She stood her ground. Number 20’s engine roared, warning her, and she barely flinched.

“I’m sorry,” is all he said.

He flew forward again, aiming head-on.

She was a statue.

Headlights shut, he swerved last minute.

Crunch.

He tore through her fender. Parts soared through the air and clattered lifelessly to the ground. She barely screamed. The grandstands erupted into howling cheers. He could barely hear it.

Number 20 reversed, carefully dislodging himself from the coupe’s broken body. When observing his work, he was overcome with a jolt of surprise… and regret. The lights bordering the track had gone off except for those directly above; they shone down like sinister spotlights.

The orange coupe could barely stand on her tires. She was shaking, even more than before, and gasping, sobbing. Small parts from her engine were scattered in the mud. Translucent liquid trickled out from the gaping space where her fender had been. Her left headlight, resting between them, glinted against the darkness.

Number 20 looked numbly into her remaining headlight. An invisible weight suffocated his engine. The crowd was still cheering.

“If you… if you think you can fix this, you’re more of an idiot than I originally thought,” the coupe’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“I…” he tried.

“You know what you did.”

He looked away.

“I do.”

“You do. And you’ll pay for it.”

The match was over.

Horns wailed from the sidelines. Men came in to clear the track.

“It looks like we have a winner!” a voice boomed over the grandstand speakers. “Number 20, our undefeated champion!”

The orange coupe hobbled off. The large muscle car stayed completely still, blankly watching the torn up hunks of metal get dragged off the track by human and vehicle alike.

It wasn’t until the track was completely deserted that he climbed out of his thoughtless haze. Looking around, he noticed that the coupe’s wreckage was still there, including her headlight. He inched closer to observe his reflection in the glassy moonlight. The surface was cracked and crumbling.

The undefeated champion had made it through another night. He looked up and into the darkness surrounding him, past the grandstands and the fences. The night was still. Little yellow lights flickered along the hills.

“I’m so sorry.”

[mjjune]

Hi mj

If your ocs were rooms in a house, which room would they each be and why? (This can be a very unusual house, I don't care)

adfjaklfj well wasn't expecting this question today

UHHHH

danny would be a closet because he's obsessed with closets (this is even mentioned by his friends on the page lmao) but like. a rich person's closet. you know, those big walk-in ones that could easily be a bedroom. extravagant. full of clothing from all time periods and all genders. (also this requires people to come in and out of him, get it? coming out of the closet? danny loves puns)

lara would be a ballroom because she's a professional dancer and that's how she gets her feelings out -- so i guess this is like? a castle now?

helio would be a sun room because i'm uncreative and Sun Imagery. but also they tend to be comfy and full of plants and while i don't think helio would be good at keeping plants alive i do think he would love to vibe in a room like that.

jackie would be a study, hands down. half bookshelves of books of all types, and half art studio. including a darkroom to develop her photography.

can i do brad too? brad would be a fucking basement, a secret dungeon cell because that's where he should be until he can learn to be a regular person and stop homophobically throwing gays out of windows ✌

------------------------------

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[textsfromthetva]

Loki + tumblr [215/?]

[night-unfurls-its-splendour]

OKAY now when Christine runs here it looks an awful lot, to me, like she's trying to pull Erik off stage with her

SHE TAKES HIS HAND.

When she shouts "No!" It's because she's just realized that Erik is very much in danger and she wants to get him out of there?!

ARE Y'ALL SEEING THIS?! ARE YOU SEEING THIS?

[lynnemariehedvig]

TECHNOLOGIES

United States of America

[classichorrorblog]

The Exorcist III (1990) - Directed by William Peter Blatty

[jerswayman]

i think we all know it's you who never wants to leave brando

[bradleycgeiger]

[mypastnow]

Left: Brad Davis in “Querelle,” 1982; Right: Jean Cocteau’s “Sailor,” c. 1940s

[motorhearted]

CHAPTER TWO.

CW: descriptions of object destruction.

{ LAST. — NEXT. }

Every night following a derby, once the people left and the track was cast in darkness, the surviving cars gathered underneath the grandstands. The rows of seats facing the track reached a decent height, and the back half had plenty of vacant space with ceilings that touched the very top. The area functioned like a makeshift barn that happened to have missing walls on each shortest side; wide enough, long enough, and tall enough for the tired vehicles to fit into.

These gatherings could be viewed through a few different lenses. Some could describe it as a winning team heading to the bar after a game; others could describe it as a celebration of life and death. A giving of thanks to whatever gods were listening. The cars refused to miss them for anything; even those with missing wheels and little consciousness were carefully pushed behind the stands.

And that’s why Number 20 had to go.

He had been parked on the track, staring into the dark for what seemed to be hours before he heard the shouts and laughter coming from elsewhere. Every car was expected to be there. Especially him. Especially the coupe.

It would be awkward for all of them tonight. But that would imply there were other nights when it wasn’t. There was no appropriate way for the cars to congratulate the winner while sharing their condolences; it never seemed sincere nor fair for either side. Most attempted to solve this problem by picking one to focus on and completely shutting out the other. The grief was often pushed down in the end, in favor of the more lighthearted, “At least I’m still alive, right?” approach.

At the very least.

Number 20 hated it. He hated it all. He hated that he couldn’t just go to sleep. He hated knowing as soon as he stuck his grille into the party, he would be hounded with praise. He hated that the coupe would have to be there to watch. He hated that he would never be able to apologize in a way that mattered.

As Number 20 spun himself around to face the grandstands, he watched in grim silence as his headlights shone over the charred remains of Number 13 in the distance.

Mud splattered his body as he desperately drove away.

“Well! Lookit who the tow cable dragged in.”

“What were you doing out there Number 20, admiring your work?”

“S’not often y’get t’ see a competitor get barbequed.”

Immediately, the voices and the metal bodies attached to them swarmed like flies. Number 20 tried to nod along and give his fans a daring smile, but he felt the covers to his headlights wince together as he did. He pushed through their jeers about Number 13 and carefully rolled his way through the crowd.

Despite all the noise, Number 20 could still hear the clack of the caps on his exhaust headers every time he hit his brakes. His mighty engine rumbled and turned tires his way. The further he drove under the grandstands, illuminated in the dark by dozens of headlights, the larger his crowd grew.

In his fruitless attempts to avoid, his own headlights landed on a particular someone. This particular someone stood out in the sea the same way Number 20 did; boxy, large, and long. And loud, undeniably so. He was painted a dark purple with two black stripes that went from one end to the other, bumper to bumper. Three short pipes, displayed shortest to tallest like a pan flute, stuck out of his engine. The number 58 was branded on his doors by a skilled hand, slanted forward and exaggerated in a way where the digits themselves seemed to be racing.

“Hey! Hey, Brad! Over here!” he called, as if difficult to spot.

Number 20 flinched at the sound of his own name. Anxiety clawed deep into his machinery. As they cowered at the new voice in their own way, he gave his current crowd an abrupt farewell and drove towards him.

Number 58– Rodney, if Brad recalled correctly— had been stuck with the derby cars years prior to his own entrance. A predecessor in a way, winning almost every match before he too had been forced to fight for his life.

There were many spats to speak of because of this. There was even a time where Brad almost killed him. Thankfully, the incident got Rodney to swallow his pride and pass the crown along.

Champion of the derbies. How awful, he thought.

“Number 20! Look at you, better than ever!”

“Oh come on, man, don’t flatter me,” he tried to joke.

A few smaller vehicles saw him coming and obediently gave him a space to park without a word. Brad settled in with silent thanks. Rodney beamed at him.

“You put on one hell of a show out there tonight. You’re crazy, man! You’ve started to fight like you’re invincible!”

Brad laughed. “What can I say? It’s easy to lose yourself out there.”

“Totally, totally,” Rodney agreed. He leaned closer to Brad, headlights darting around to scan his body in the shadows. “Didn’t even dent yourself too much! You feel okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I feel fine. Did they let you out in all the action?”

“Nah,” Rodney said with a frown. “Not tonight. I guess they had their dibs on you. I got a damn good spot to watch it all go down, though.”

“Oh yeah?”

“The little hill near the back, yeah. Hell, it was like you were puttin’ on a show just for me in that corner!”

Brad laughed again. “I don’t think that was on purpose.”

“Sure, but it still felt like it. Man, it was brutal, man. You’ve got some good stuff.”

He looked off into the crowd, as if he were guarding them. Brad followed his gaze as it swept over all the vehicles, stopping every now and then to check their dents and scratches. No matter how hard he focused on the chipped paint of a sedan or the twisted bed of a truck, he couldn’t pull himself away from the memories of that night. His companion’s comments certainly hadn’t helped his case.

“Definitely some missing faces here,” Rodney spoke eventually. “Gone, just like that. It’s so crazy, man. I don’t think there’s been a single derby this season that hasn’t killed a car or two.

…Thanks to you, anyway.”

The words made Brad want to drive into a tree. Rodney was quite good at rubbing Brad’s so-called victories in, and no opportunity ever seemed to be a good one. Especially not tonight. It wouldn’t be long before—

“Number 62 didn’t even show up. She seemed so pissed at you.”

“…I thought she was gonna tear me to shreds out there.”

“What, that little thing? You crushed her like a soda can, man! Ripped that headlight right out! Bam, bam! I’m honestly surprised she isn’t toast either.”

“Just resilient, I guess.”

“Not as much as she thinks, apparently. How long till she snaps, you think?”

“…What?”

“I mean, she just lost her girlfriend. You saw her, she was practically glued to that bitch. She must feel lost as hell.”

“Oh. Yeah, I dunno,” Brad replied. “We’ll all lose our minds here eventually. Either that or crushed to bits.”

“Well I don’t think you’ve lost your mind, and neither have I.”

Rodney paused to see Brad’s reaction. He stared back in silence.

“Fine, maybe a little.”

“I just don’t think crashing into each other is something stable cars like to do.”

“Then so be it, man. So be it.”

The nonchalance of it all was unbearable. Brad opened his mouth to change subjects, but Rodney continued.

“See, Number 62 could use that. She really could. Not a lotta cars around here have a reason to fight.”

Brad blinked, giving his companion a curious look. “Use what?”

“A little bit of losing her mind, man! Don’t act like you don’t know. You set her up for a revenge streak.”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah, man! She doesn’t have anyone anymore. If she’s gonna do anything, it’s gonna be kicking your ass. And considering the damage you did with a mercy hit…”

Brad’s engine was buzzing again. Rodney’s words were slurring together as he processed them. Brad’s headlights darted around, begging for an exit.

The sea of cars was never ending.

[mjjune]

hello hello! 🔥 and 🌲, because it's my signature :P

🔥 Fireplace: what type of scene are you most comfortable writing? Emotional, action, dialogue-heavy?

DIALOGUE!! 1000% dialogue. Sometimes I'll even do a whole scene of just dialogue and go back and write the rest later. I also feel like emotions are my strong suit, particularly those scenes where characters are breaking down and finally expressing them after it being pent up forever. I love those.

🌲Pine Tree: share a snippet that shows a character being strong (whether that’s physically, mentally, emotionally, etc.)

👀 content warning for homophobia~

But he can see in the furious glint in Brad’s eyes that he isn’t as forgiving. One decision, one fling, one secret revealed, and he won’t even touch him. Brad, with shaking fists, adds, “Don’t you dare laugh. We’re all at risk because of you. I thought I knew you.” “Well, I thought I knew you, too. I knew you were a prick but I didn’t think you were a homophobic asshole who’d sleep with his best friend’s sister and bail.” Palms pressed into his head, Brad drags his fingers down his face in exasperation. “That was one mistake.” “Mistake?” Helio scoffs, pointing to his own disheveled bed. “That wasn’t a mistake anymore than this was.” “It was a mistake,” Brad hisses. “You won’t even admit that it’s a mistake to fuck a man? A leech?” “It’s not a mistake if it’s who you are.” Brad gawks. “I’m gay! And you’re an asshole who doesn’t give a shit about anyone but you, and especially not the women you sleep with.”

Taglist: @aritany @bebewrites @ceph-the-writing-spook @diemohnblume @eventideintrigue @knosium @isabellebissonrouthier @lexiklecksi @little-mouse-gardens @wildswrites

Comment or message me to be +/- !!

[textsfromthetva]

+ a little bonus widdlewow

Loki + tumblr [212/?]

[esqueletosgays]

THE EXORCIST III (1990)

Director: William Peter Blatty Cinematography: Garry Fisher

[night-unfurls-its-splendour]

Drinks up also for the Christines who go for a full embrace

1. Lisa Vroman (w. Brad Little, US TOUR)

2. Elizabeth Welch (w. Ted Keegan, BROADWAY)

3. Samantha Hill (w. Hugh Panaro, BROADWAY)

4. Olivia Safe (w. Ian Jon Bourg, HAMBURG)

[mazza--mac]

Chakotay moving in for a kiss

[queenhawke]

a collection