#pale and red headers

[slushiesandshowtunesat3am]

Oh my fucking god, how hard is it to use flushed cheeks instead of blushed cheeks in fanfiction. No, they didn't develop a dusting of light pink. No, I didn't turn red. I'M FUCKING BLACK.

I don't mean to be rude, but I don't know how many times dark readers of color have to make posts like this, dude. Physical descriptions, dynamics with hair...come on.

I've seen it in way too many times now, and I'm going to start calling it out every time I see it in fanfiction. There are no more excuses. It can't be x reader if it only applies to those of lighter complexions.

And for writers of smaus or text fiction, or even those making headers: If you have pictures in them, why do they only ever have white or extremely pale women in those with pictures, unless they are especially made for black people or another specific group?

Use general headers with photos that don't include people for your content. Try to use *image insert* if the reader is sending something made to include a picture of them.

Make it general!! It's for a general audience!!

I get it, nine times out of ten, you're imagining yourself in these scenarios and then writing them. So if you're someone who is lighter, it's easy to have slip ups. BUT, it's not difficult whatsoever to make general content.

Because, let me tell you, it sucks as a POC to look at content and think, "Oh well, this wasn't made with people who look like me in mind, and it's obvious."

We're not asking for anything big. So stop making us beg for it.

[meazalykov]

the video

aitana bonmati x barca femeni x barca!reader

summary: on international break- a video circulates online that will cause your girlfriend, and club teammates, to be concerned

warnings: mentions of abuse, angst

on international break, you clashed with your coach over a situation. 

you’ve realized that your national team coach was being overly aggressive towards some of the younger players– the 18 to 22 year old ones. 

as the captain, you gave them a safe space to talk to you about it. you had the platform– as a 2020 ballon d’or winner, and 2 time champions league winner– to speak up about any situation that is bothering you. 

even if that might piss off the “higher ups” of your national team. 

after seeing your coach nearly scream, not yell, but scream at one of the youngsters on the team for not making a header during an international friendly.. you had enough. 

you pulled your coach to the side and confronted him at halftime.

 

“hey, why did you scream at her over the failed set piece? its her debut?” 

“don’t question me about my corrections.” he mumbled, looking away from you and waving at another staff member yards away. 

“i will! you can’t scream at the players about their mistakes, it's affecting the team chemistry and they need to be nurtured into having experience– not screamed at. you can see that they’re SCARED to even come to training because of this.” you snapped.

this has happened for long enough. 

little did you know, a few people in the distance were recording this interaction between your coach and you. 

what shocked them was when the coach grabbed your arm, aggressively, and pulled you close to him so you’re just 3 feet from the left side of his body. 

he squeezed your arm, purposely, which caused your face to squeeze as his physical assault caught you off guard. 

“listen, you do NOT question me about my coaching! maybe if she scored that, she wouldn’t have been punished!” he said through clenched teeth, staring at you with darkened eyes and a vein nearly popping out of his forehead.

realizing that you wouldn’t let him do this to you, you smacked his hand off of your arm and sprinted off�� completely shocked that he would do that to you. 

the people who recorded the interaction sent the video to all news publications afterwards– the new york times, bbc, foxsports, tmz, 433– you name it. 

at the end of the game, where you were benched after that confrontation before the start of the second half, everyone booed the coach. 

everyone was confused– even you. at first, you assumed that your own country was booing you guys. that didn’t make sense– you guys won 3-2. 

once you guys were in the dressing room, all of the fifa officials took your coach away to talk to him. 

you had no idea that people recorded that assault that happened to you. some of your teammates noticed the red mark on your arm and the quietness of your voice– so they figured it had to do with the coach. 

“y/n..” you turn around to see the young midfielder behind you with a sad smile. 

the same 17 year old girl you defended after she was screamed over a missed header. 

“hey! congrats on today.” you pulled her into a soft hug, rubbed her upper back before pulling away. 

“thank you.” she smiled. 

you couldn’t resent her for the moment between the coach and you– he is the problem not her. 

when the national team got on the bus, the coach wasn’t there. the nice assistant coach (who has fallen to the main coaches abuse too) took his place. 

your eyebrows knitted together as you saw a notification from your barcelona teammate and close friend– alexia. 

ale 

WHAT THE FUCK? 

ale 

are you okay?!! 

y/n 

i am? 

y/n 

what's going on!?

ale

there’s a video on the internet

alex 

instagram.com/justwomensports….

when you clicked on the link, your face turned pale. 

many people have recorded the moment between the coach and you from hours before. 

you looked strong at first, until he grabbed your arm. the terrified look on your face was present until you smacked his arm away. 

to say that the media was in an outrage– that would be an understatement. 

almost every news publication has posted about it. there was no possible way that the coach wouldn’t be sacked for the amount of negative attention this has brought. 

you didn’t want to imagine how aitana, your girlfriend, is reacting to the situation– as she keeps calling you over-and-over again.  

y/n 

tana, i’ll call you once i’m back in the hotel. i will explain. 

aitana

i should kill him 

aitana

are you okay mi amor? 

y/n

i don’t know

y/n 

i think my mind is trying to supress it, but i can’t explain how i feel 

aitana

please call me asap 

when you clicked off of your imessages– mapi texted you in the groupchat between ingrid, her, and you. 

mapi 

y/n are you active? 

y/n

yes, hi!

mapi

do you want me to kill that pos? 

you giggle at the message- not because you want to see him dead- but the barcelona girls have their extreme way with defending their loved ones. 

ingrid

maybe you shouldn’t threaten ppl mapi 

ingrid

especially not now

ingrid

y/n please tell me you’re okay��

mapi

or will be okay? 

y/n 

i don’t know how to feel about it

y/n 

it happened so fast 

y/n 

i think my brain isn’t trying to process it. i’m scared

ingrid

call aitana

y/n

i am once i’m back in the hotel, i’m on the bus with the team right now. 

after turning your phone off and looking at your phone, your national teammates on the bus were very quiet. 

as they’re scrolling on their phones– they’re understanding why the mean coach isn’t on the bus anymore.

 your best friend on your national team taps your shoulder and you look over at her, seeing that she finished watching the video. 

“WHAT THE FUCK?” she mumbles very quietly as she gives you a heartbroken look. 

“when did this happen?” she asked. 

“at halftime, remember when i had to pull him outside of the dressing room to talk to him..” you say. 

your best friend frowns before pulling your head into her body for a hug. 

“is this why you were benched once the game started again?” she whispers. 

“i believe so.” 

one thing that everyone knew– your girlfriend in spain wasn’t going to let *that* slide. 

the next day-- your 2023 ballon d’or winner girlfriend scored a goal in a game against another country.. she held up two fingers on her left hand and one finger on her right, dedicating her golozo for you. since you wore the number 12 on your club and national teams.

next, an important post on instagram spoke up about abuse in the community. a post that went viral alongside your situation.

aitana was quick to repost it on her story– bringing more support for you as you struggled with that traumatic moment. 

before you came back to barcelona a week later, you told the “higher-ups” of your national team that if your coach stays, you would retire from international football. 

you are 24 years old, so that is an extreme ultimatum. 

they couldn’t afford to lose you, one of the best players in the world. 

the coach was sacked, charged for assault, and you are happy about it. 

in barcelona, most of the girls came to your apartment to comfort you. 

alexia, her girlfriend olga, ingrid, mapi, esmee, fridolina, patri, caroline, marta, and jana were all there to give you support. 

you cried for the first time about it since the incident occurred. never in your life were you treated that way. 

once the girls left your house hours later, aitana stayed. well– you guys lived together so it wasn’t an option for her to leave. 

with aitana, you told more details about the things you’ve seen the coach do to the team. the way he ruined the chemistry and motivation of the girls is something you’re prepared to fix with the new coach coming onto the national team. 

she cuddles you and plays with your hair as you talk. refusing to leave your side for a while. 

the spanish national team had their own problems, which you know about, so aitana is able to help you as you help her through her problems too.

aitana and your club teammates vows to never let someone hurt you like that again. 

authors note: this has been in my drafts for over a month.

my master list is linked here if you want to read more fics <3

[angelseraphines]

ೃ⁀➷ dark but just a game ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ guard!cho sang-woo x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

˚ ༘♡ you had never intended to find yourself entangled in a brutal series of death games, but with debt mounting to over fifty million won and loan sharks breathing down your neck, you had no choice. every option you had once clung to had crumbled beneath you, leaving you hollowed out and desperate. the loans you’d taken weren’t unreasonable, not in your mind, they had been necessary to pay for medical expenses for your family living outside of south korea. your own job instability, a relentless and bitter cycle, had only worsened the situation. bankruptcy wasn’t an option. not anymore. so when the mysterious offer to join the squid game appeared, luring you in with the promise of a fortune beyond imagination, you made a choice, and now you were paying the price for it.

˚ ༘♡ despite the aftermath of the horrifying massacre that was the first game, the sickening realization that the smiling, painted doll mask and vast game arena disguised an execution ground, you had returned. others might’ve run, and you had been tempted. but what waited for you back outside was worse in its own way, hunger, homelessness, death at the hands of men who didn’t wear pink jumpsuits but carried just as much coldness in their eyes. at least here, you had a slim chance at survival. slim was better than none.

˚ ༘♡ the choice to return wasn’t as straightforward as you pretended. you had barely slept the night after red light, green light. your hands still trembled at the memory of gunshots ringing out akin to firecrackers, and every time you closed your eyes, you saw bodies falling, twisted on the cracked concrete. you’d thrown up twice in the morning after staggering back to your apartment. your reflection in the bathroom mirror had been ghostly, pale, clammy, with a thin sheen of sweat clinging to your skin. you weren’t ready to die, but you weren’t sure if you could endure staying, either.

˚ ༘♡ somewhere, in the midst of that daze, you had done something foolish. you had pulled out your phone, hands shaking, and opened the contact you swore you’d deleted months ago, your ex-boyfriend, cho sang-woo.

˚ ༘♡ you hadn’t spoken to him in almost a year, not since he left you. still, your fingers hovered over the screen, your chest tight, as if the past could crawl back out of the ashes and offer you some small sense of solace. it hadn’t. he hadn’t answered, hadn’t even seen your message. just like all the others.

˚ ༘♡ now, standing on your balcony with the humid night air pressing down on you, you scrolled through the string of unanswered texts, each one a painful remnant of how pathetic you’d felt in those first few months.

˚ ༘♡ a text from three months ago, “please call me. i just want to talk.”

˚ ༘♡ another text from two months ago, “did i do something wrong? why won’t you answer me?”

˚ ༘♡ the most recent text you sent one month ago, “sang-woo, please.“

˚ ༘♡ the messages had only gotten shorter as the silence stretched. eventually, you stopped texting altogether, though you hadn’t deleted the thread. not yet.

˚ ༘♡ you tipped the bottle of beer to your lips and let the stale, bitter taste burn its way down your throat. the linen pajamas you wore, loose and slightly frayed at the hems, felt too light in the breeze. you had bought them during one of your better months, before everything collapsed. ivory-white. it felt ironic now, standing there in something that once made you feel clean and new, as if you hadn’t spent the past six months clawing at the edge of a financial abyss.

˚ ༘♡ he hadn’t even broken up with you properly. just a voice message, sent in the early hours of the morning, after what you thought had been a perfectly normal week together.

˚ ༘♡ “it’s over. i’m seeing someone else.” that was all he said. no explanation. no apology. it was the last time you’d heard his voice.

˚ ༘♡ you clenched the beer bottle in your hand, your jaw tightening as the memory resurfaced. maybe it shouldn’t have mattered anymore. maybe it didn’t, not really. you had bigger problems than a broken heart.

˚ ༘♡ that night, when you had tried to call him after the game, it wasn’t solely love that had driven you, it was fear. bone-deep, marrow-crushing fear that curled into your stomach and refused to leave. you had been entrenched in loneliness, suffocated by the silence of your empty apartment, unable to shake the memory of bodies dropping all around you. the crack of gunfire still rang in your ears like a phantom sound. you had seen the raw, naked terror on the faces of people who, just moments before, had been laughing and chatting like ordinary men and women trying to make ends meet. you had run for your life, muscles screaming, breath ragged in your throat. yet here you were, alive, if that word even meant anything anymore.

˚ ༘♡ you had wanted to hear a familiar voice, something that grounded you. and in your desperation, you had reached for him. you should have known better.

˚ ༘♡ your hands twitched, numb and shaky as you stared at the endless void of unanswered messages, your name likely long since blocked or ignored. the strain of everything pressed into your chest, and before you could stop yourself, your grip on the beer bottle loosened. the glass slipped from your fingers, tumbling to the ground. it shattered against the concrete floor of your balcony, sharp fragments scattering around your bare feet. jagged edges slashed at your ankles, but you hardly noticed. warm blood trickled in thin, crimson ribbons down your skin, but it felt distant, like it was happening to someone else. all you could think about was him. you missed him so ardently.

˚ ༘♡ despite everything, despite the way he had discarded you so easily, like a brief financial setback in his long list of losses, you still longed for him. you hated yourself for it. it made no sense. he had left you. he hadn’t cared, not when you called, not when you cried, not when you begged him for an explanation. and yet, in the deep recesses of your mind, you remembered the way he had once held you, his fingers threading through your hair as you dozed off in his lap while a movie played in the background. you remembered how he would press a warm palm to your cheek when you were upset, his thumb smoothing over your skin in quiet reassurance. he had been gentle then, loving in the smallest ways.

˚ ༘♡ you had convinced yourself, naively, foolishly, that he had loved you as much as you loved him. yet it had all been a sham.

˚ ༘♡ your friends had been right. they had warned you, time and time again, but you hadn’t listened. you had defended him, telling them he wasn’t like other men, that he wasn’t just another sleazy businessman hopping from woman to woman for a night’s pleasure. he was different. he was yours. except he wasn’t. not anymore. maybe he never had been.

˚ ༘♡ you forced yourself to move, blinking back the sting in your eyes as you took a step forward, only for a sharp, burning pain to shoot through your foot. you hissed, looking down to find a shard of glass embedded in the arch of your foot, fresh blood dripping onto the tile. before you could clean it up, the doorbell rang.

˚ ༘♡ for a minute, you stood frozen, your pulse spiking. no one visited you. no one ever did. who the hell would be here at this hour?

˚ ༘♡ you limped to the door, ignoring the sting in your foot as you pulled it open, only to be greeted by an empty hallway. your breath caught, eyes darting left and right. no one. not even the sound of retreating footsteps. but there, lying on the ground, was a small, rectangular card.

˚ ༘♡ your chest tightened as you reached down, fingers trembling slightly as they closed around the thin cardstock. you didn’t need to flip it over to know what it was. you had seen this exact card before, pressed between the fingers of a well-dressed salesman who had lured you into this nightmare with a simple game of ddakji.

˚ ༘♡ it was an invitation. an invitation to return. you knew what it meant. you had seen the consequences with your own eyes. returning would put your life in grave danger. it was more than just a game, it was a death sentence for all but one. but what choice did you have?

˚ ༘♡ there was nothing for you out here. the loan sharks would find you eventually. if not them, then starvation, or illness, or some other cruel twist of fate waiting just around the corner. at least in the game, you had a sliver of control over your life. a chance at a different life.

˚ ༘♡ your fingers tightened around the card. you called the number on the back. the voice on the other end was eerily calm. the instructions were the same. “meet at the designated location. don’t be late.”

˚ ༘♡ that night, the same sleek black limousine pulled up to the curb outside your apartment. the tinted windows gave away nothing, its surface reflecting the dim glow of the streetlights. you hesitated only for a second before stepping inside. the door shut behind you with a soft click. before you could process anything, before you could even think to resist, the faint hiss of gas filled the cabin. your eyelids grew heavy, your vision blurred at the edges, the world tilting sideways. your body slumped against the seat, consciousness slipping through your fingers.

˚ ༘♡ when you awoke, you were back in the dormitory. the harsh, sterile lights buzzed overhead. the cold metal bunk beds stretched on endlessly in neat rows. the air smelled faintly of sweat, anxiety, and something metallic beneath it all. you sat up, the familiar weight of the forest-green uniform settling around your shoulders. player 017. that was the number stitched into the fabric over your chest. as you looked around, bleary and disoriented, you saw the same faces as before. most of the players had returned, just like you. you swallowed, rubbing your eyes before exhaling shakily. you had made your choice. there was no turning back now.

˚ ༘♡ dinner that night consisted of a bento box filled with plain white rice, a folded egg omelet, and pickled vegetables. the portions were small, meager, as if designed to keep you just on the edge of starvation without tipping over. the smell of vinegar from the pickled radish stung your nose, mingling with the faint metallic scent of blood still clinging to your memories from the day before. but you had no appetite.

˚ ༘♡ around you, other players dug into their meals with fervor, shoveling food into their mouths like they hadn’t seen a proper meal in weeks. some ate in silence, their eyes darting around as if expecting someone to snatch their rations away. others whispered among themselves, cautious yet eager, already beginning the inevitable process of forming alliances. you made no move to approach anyone, instead sitting on the edge of your cot, your arms draped over your knees, watching them in silence. you knew how this worked. alliances were necessary, but they were fragile things, born out of convenience rather than loyalty. at some point, when push came to shove, they would fall apart.

˚ ༘♡ “excuse me, miss.”

˚ ༘♡ the voice was unfamiliar yet kind, breaking through your detached observation. you glanced up and found yourself looking at a middle-aged man standing before you, his expression open and friendly. the number 456 was sewn onto his uniform.

˚ ༘♡ “if you’d like to, you can join our team,” he offered, his smile pleasant despite the lines of exhaustion on his face. “we’ll work together and protect one another in the next games. it’s better to have people to rely on.”

˚ ༘♡ behind him stood two other players. one was a man of south asian descent, curly-haired with a gentle face, player 199. the other was frail and elderly, with thin white hair and a slightly dazed look, player 001. the sight of them together was oddly endearing, as if they were an unlikely little family.

˚ ༘♡ “i remember you from the first game,” 456 continued. “you were really agile and quick! you didn’t hesitate at all.”

˚ ༘♡ his words caught you off guard. you hadn’t thought anyone had been paying attention to you specifically, not with the sheer carnage unfolding all around. you tilted your head slightly, considering the offer. alliances were fickle things, but so was survival.

˚ ༘♡ “if you don’t mind having a woman on your team,” you said, your voice neutral.

˚ ༘♡ “of course not!” player 456 responded immediately, his grin widening. his enthusiasm was almost infectious.

˚ ༘♡ you exhaled quietly and gave a small nod. “all right, then.”

˚ ༘♡ he beamed, and behind him, player 199 gave you a friendly nod, while the old man chuckled softly to himself as if he found something amusing. you weren’t sure what to make of them yet, but for now, they were better than nothing.

˚ ༘♡ that night, despite having people to watch your back, you struggled to sleep. the dormitory was eerily quiet, yet the tension in the air was suffocating. the rhythmic breathing of the other players did little to ease your unease. above you, a gleaming light flickered every so often, casting brief, disorienting shadows across the ceiling. you stared at it blankly, thoughts tumbling through your mind akin to loose stones down a cliff.

˚ ༘♡ cho sang-woo. your fingernails dug into the skin of your palms, your heart aching at the thought of him. had he so much as read your pathetic text messages? did he know that you had disappeared from your home in the midst of night? was he out there, living his life as if nothing had changed, as if you had never existed? it was foolish to think about him. pointless. yet, despite your exhaustion, sleep refused to come.

˚ ༘♡ morning arrived with the dull clang of metal gates and the sound of approaching footsteps. breakfast was as simple as the dinner before it, nothing more than a bottle of milk and a single piece of bread.

˚ ༘♡ you had eaten nothing the previous night, your stomach empty, gnawing at itself in protest. forcing yourself up, you dragged your weary limbs toward the serving station. most players had already collected their rations, eager to eat before whatever horrors the next game had in store for them. you were the last one in line, and as you approached the station, you noticed something unusual.

˚ ༘♡ only one guard was left behind. he stood behind the makeshift counter, taller and broader than the others. the standard pink jumpsuit concealed most of his features, but there was something about the way he held himself, rigid, disciplined. you took a step forward, reaching for the meal, and as he handed you the bottle of milk and bread, something caught your attention.

˚ ༘♡ the scent of tobacco. it was faint, barely perceptible beneath the sterile, controlled air of the dormitory, but it was there. familiar. clinging to the fabric of his uniform, lingering in the space between you.

˚ ༘♡ for a short while, the world around you faded. your mind snapped back to another time, another place. late nights curled up on the couch, the bright gleam of city lights through the window. the burning scent of cigarette smoke woven into his clean-cut suit, clinging to his skin. you used to scold him about it, nag him to quit. “it’s bad for you, sang-woo. you’ll regret it one day.” he’d always laugh, a soft, wry chuckle, and tell you he’d quit the following week. but he never did.

˚ ༘♡ your fingers brushed against the guard’s gloved hand as you took the food. it was an accident, merely a momentary slip, but he didn’t pull away.

˚ ༘♡ the intimacy lasted only a second, maybe two, but it felt longer. you could feel the intensity of his gaze behind the mask, the pressure of something unsaid in the space between your hands. then, just as quickly as it happened, you snapped out of it. your fingers recoiled, your hand withdrawing, clutching the bottle of milk tightly. you cast him a strange look, but the mask gave nothing away.

˚ ༘♡ without another word, you whipped your head around and walked back to where your newfound team sat, your pulse quickening for reasons you didn’t fully understand. the milk was lukewarm, the bread dense and dry, but hunger gnawed at your insides, leaving you no choice but to force it down. across from you, player 456 introduced himself as seong gi-hun, speaking through mouthfuls of bread. he had a boisterous, comforting presence, someone who had probably been the most talkative in any room he’d ever walked into. beside him, player 199 offered a polite nod and a warm smile. “ali abdul,” he said, his tone peaceful despite the hardened exhaustion in his eyes. player 001 sat at gi-hun’s side, an amused glint in his gaze, though when it came time to say his own name, he faltered. his brow furrowed in confusion, his lips parting, but no answer came.

˚ ༘♡ “i… i can’t seem to remember,” he murmured after a moment, shaking his head as if trying to clear it.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun patted the old man on the shoulder with an easy familiarity, as if this weren’t a place where people were going to die. “don’t worry about it, sir. happens to the best of us.”

˚ ༘♡ you said your own name last, voice steady and neutral. you weren’t sure why you bothered, given the likelihood that most of you wouldn’t make it out of here alive. but names were powerful things, even in a place like this.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun’s eyes widened. “what a coincidence!” he said, chewing the last bite of his bread with enthusiasm. “a childhood friend of mine has a girlfriend by that name. cho sang-woo. really smart guy. graduated from seoul national university, the pride of our neighborhood, actually.” he grinned, nostalgia coloring his voice. “he was always a little serious and distant, but a good man. saw him not too long ago, actually. talked about her with a lot of affection.”

˚ ༘♡ you considered staying silent, letting his words pass, but your sentiments got the better of you. “you’re mistaken,” you said, your voice carefully measured. “you must mean ex-girlfriend.”

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun blinked, confused. “no… i saw him just the other week. he said he was still together with her.” then something seemed to click in his mind. he sat up straighter, his expression shifting from curiosity to outright surprise. “wait a minute… you’re her, aren’t you? you’re sang-woo’s girlfriend?”

˚ ༘♡ you stiffened. ali glanced between you and gi-hun, his expression cordial. the old man merely hummed to himself, watching the exchange with a clouded haze in his eyes.

˚ ༘♡ “what are you doing in a place like this?” gi-hun continued, baffled. “if you were in trouble, why didn’t you ask sang-woo for help? he would’ve been happy to give you money if you needed it, i would think.”

˚ ༘♡ his words sent a sharp, bitter pang through your chest. you fought to keep your expression neutral, though you could feel the beginnings of a frown tugging at the corners of your lips. “i was under the impression he didn’t want anything to do with me,” you said carefully. “he broke up with me months ago. told me he was seeing another woman.”

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun’s brows furrowed. he shook his head. “that doesn’t sound like sang-woo at all,” he said, his voice firm, almost disbelieving. “you’re the only woman i’ve ever heard him talk about.” he paused, scratching the back of his head. “ah, you know, he was always so focused on school, then work… i don’t think he’s ever had a serious relationship before. at least, not that i ever heard of.”

˚ ༘♡ your hands bent into fists beneath the table. you weren’t sure what to make of that. was sang-woo lying to gi-hun? or had he lied to you?

˚ ༘♡ you bit your lip, pushing the thought aside. “i think our time is better spent discussing what the next game could be and what our strategy will be,” you said, keeping your tone level.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun nodded. “you’re right. no point dwelling on things we can’t change.”

˚ ༘♡ you all turned your focus toward the upcoming game. gi-hun tossed out a few ideas, tapping his fingers against the table as he spoke. “gonggi, maybe?” he suggested. “or elastics?”

˚ ༘♡ “hide and seek,” ali offered. “or maybe rock-paper-scissors? it must be a simple children’s games, the first game was one.”

˚ ༘♡ you frowned, thinking back to red light, green light. the first game had been straightforward, but brutal. if this was a pattern, then the next challenge would be similar, easy in theory, but deadly in execution.

˚ ༘♡ “whatever the next game is,” you murmured, your voice low, “our lives will be in danger.” no one disagreed.

˚ ༘♡ before anyone could say more, the blaring sound of the intercom echoed through the vast dormitory, its robotic tone devoid of humanity. “all players, please prepare for the second game.”

˚ ༘♡ a deep, mechanical hum followed as the immense steel doors at the far end of the room slid open with a hiss. the air inside the dormitory seemed to shift, thickening with tension. guards stood at attention beyond the threshold, faceless and motionless, their pink uniforms stark against the sterile white walls. there was something ominous in their stillness, as if they were waiting for something, anticipating the inevitable.

˚ ༘♡ a dense lump formed in your throat as you swallowed back unease. around you, players hesitated before pushing themselves to their feet, each movement sluggish with dread. one by one, you all fell into line, shuffling forward like cattle to the slaughter.

˚ ༘♡ the pastel stairways loomed ahead, their paths painted in bright, childlike colors. the contrast was sickening. bubblegum pink railings, sunflower-yellow steps, sky-blue walls. it should have been whimsical, playful even, but instead, it felt like a nightmarish illusion, something meant to disarm you, to lull you into a false sense of security before tightening its noose.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun walked beside you, his expression bewildered. ali stayed close as well, his usually warm features stiff with apprehension. even player 001, the elderly man who had, up until now, seemed oddly cheerful despite the circumstances, was quiet.

˚ ༘♡ as you descended the final set of stairs, the doors before you parted with an ominous heaving. you stepped inside, the room was a playground. your breath became erratic as you took in the scene before you.

˚ ༘♡ the walls and ceiling were painted a brilliant cerulean blue, dotted with illustrations of fluffy white clouds. slides, jungle gyms, and brightly colored structures filled the space, mimicking the innocent joy of a schoolyard. but the momentary illusion of normalcy was just that, an illusion. you knew better than to trust the childish aesthetic.

˚ ༘♡ above, speakers crackled to life. “welcome to your second game.”the same feminine voice from before. at the far end of the room, four doors stood side by side. each bore a simple, distinct symbol, a triangle, a circle, a star, and an umbrella. “please choose one of the four shapes and stand in front of the corresponding door.” that was it. no explanation of what game awaited you. no hints, no clues. merely a demand.

˚ ༘♡ your pulse quickened, your gaze flickering toward gi-hun, who looked just as lost as you were. “what should we do?” you asked, your voice hushed.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun exhaled. “i don’t know if we should split up or pick one door as a team.”

˚ ༘♡ you turned your head slightly, scanning the other players. some had already made their decisions, rushing toward their chosen symbols with varying degrees of certainty. others lingered, hesitating, unsure.

˚ ༘♡ then, movement caught your eye. near the door marked with a red triangle, a guard stood unnaturally still. taller than the others. broader shoulders. something about him felt… different. the way he stood, the way his masked head was aimed ever so slightly in your direction.

˚ ༘♡ a shiver ran down your spine, you turned away abruptly, refusing to acknowledge whatever that was. whoever that was.

˚ ༘♡ “i think we should go with our gut instinct,” you said, keeping your tone neutral. “but we should choose different doors. it increases our chances.”

˚ ༘♡ ali gave a firm nod. “i’ll go with circle.”

˚ ༘♡ “i choose triangle,” player 001 said, his voice lighthearted despite everything.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun turned to you, offering you a choice. “you can pick either star or umbrella.”

˚ ༘♡ your lips parted slightly, eyes flickering between the two remaining doors. neither gave you any indication of what was to come. but as you stared at the star, something tugged at the back of your mind, a memory. late nights with sang-woo. the two of you walking through quiet city streets, your hand in his, the sky stretched out above you, endless and dark, speckled with distant stars. you remembered how you used to tilt your head up, watching them twinkle, feeling so small but safe at his side.

˚ ༘♡ “… i’ll pick star,” you said softly.

˚ ༘♡ gi-hun grinned. “then i’ll do umbrella.”

˚ ༘♡ you weren’t sure why, but something about that made you uneasy. when your group dispersed toward their respective doors, the locks clicked open. beyond the doors, a small station awaited, with a single guard seated at a table. thin, round metal tins were stacked neatly in front of them.

˚ ༘♡ slowly, you lifted the lid. inside, nestled within the tin, was a sweet dalgona sugar candy. etched into its surface was a perfectly traced star. your stomach dropped as realization sank in, the intercom crackled again. “the second game is dalgona.” your fingers clenched around the metal case. “each player must extract their shape cleanly within ten minutes to pass. failure to do so will result in elimination.”a timer appeared on the screen above. “let the game begin.”

˚ ༘♡ when the words left the intercom, the countdown started. your hands shook slightly as you picked up the thin needle provided, moving toward the slide where you could sit and steady yourself.

˚ ༘♡ a sudden, sharp noise split the air.

˚ ༘♡ you flinched, your body tensing instinctively, then a piercing bang. a gunshot.

˚ ༘♡ your head snapped up just in time to see a woman’s body hit the ground, her shattered dalgona candy slipping from her limp fingers. blood pooled beneath her corpse. a guard loomed over her lifeless form, lowering their pistol. around you, murmurs of horror rose. some players froze entirely, paralyzed by fear. others broke out into a cold sweat, their needles trembling against the brittle candy in their hands.

˚ ༘♡ your own grip on the tin tightened, your heart hammering violently against your ribs. if your candy cracked, you would die.

˚ ༘♡ you exhaled shakily and turned your focus back to your own dalgona. the star shape was intricate too many edges, too many delicate points. one wrong move, and the candy would snap in half. your hands were damp with sweat, your fingers slick against the cool metal of the needle. you swallowed hard, then, carefully, you began.

˚ ༘♡ as you sat in the vast playground, carefully working your way around one delicate point of the star in your honeycomb candy, that feeling intensified.

˚ ༘♡ a guard loomed inches behind you, his masculine presence impossible to ignore. he was taller than most of the others, broader in the shoulders, his stance unnervingly rigid. though his mask revealed nothing, you were certain, absolutely certain, that it was the same guard from before. the one who had lingered too long when handing you your breakfast, the one who smelled of cigarettes, the one whose gloved hand had ghosted over yours just long enough to send a shiver up your spine, the one who stared at you relentlessly before the second round began.

˚ ༘♡ but now was not the time to fixate on him. your entire existence balanced on the fragile line of sugar and patience. you kept your breath steady, hands trembling as you scraped your needle along the delicate shape. all around you, screams of anguish rang out, followed swiftly by the deafening crack of gunfire. players sobbed, begged, collapsed in pools of their own blood, but you forced yourself to ignore them. you had to.

˚ ༘♡ your world was reduced to this tiny, brittle shape in your hands. until it wasn’t.

˚ ༘♡ the sound of a faint, practically imperceptible crack reached your ears. your breath caught in your throat. slowly, fearfully, you looked down. a single, jagged fracture ran through the middle of your candy. broken. the game was over for you.

˚ ༘♡ your stomach dropped. your hands went numb, a cold dread washing over you like ice water. you had lost. and you knew what came next.

˚ ༘♡ slowly, as if in a trance, you turned. the guard behind you stepped forward, raising his pistol.

˚ ༘♡ you had seen this happen to others already. a merciless execution. one bullet to the head, and your body would crumple to the floor, just another nameless corpse in this twisted game.

˚ ༘♡ your legs trembled. “please…” the word left your lips before you could stop it, barely above a whisper, pathetic in its desperation. but it was in vain. no one had been spared before. no one ever would be.

˚ ༘♡ the guard leaned in closer, the cool metal of the gun pressing against your chest. and then, a voice. so low you almost thought you imagined it. “play dead.”

˚ ༘♡ that voice. it couldn’t be.

˚ ༘♡ regardless of every rational thought in your mind screaming at you that it was impossible, you knew exactly whose voice it was. cho sang-woo.

˚ ༘♡ your body went rigid, shock paralyzing you as the burden of confusion surged through you. but there was no time to think.

˚ ༘♡ the gun lowered slightly, shifting away from your head and down toward your chest. you barely had a second to comprehend what was occurring before a red-hot explosion of pain tore through your side, a bullet sinking just below your ribs, missing anything vital but still slicing through flesh and muscle with terrifying ease. the force of the impact sent you stumbling backward, your vision blurring as agony shot through every nerve in your body. you wanted to scream. you wanted to sob. but you didn’t. you couldn’t.

˚ ༘♡ you let yourself go limp. your body collapsed to the ground, your limbs falling still, your breath shallow. you forced your eyes shut, ignoring the unbearable pain radiating through your chest, ignoring the warm trickle of blood pooling beneath you.

˚ ༘♡ you willed yourself to become nothing. just another body. the potent scent of blood filled your nose as you felt hands, his hands, grab onto your arms.

˚ ༘♡ then, the sensation of being dragged. your body scraped against the cold, hard floor, pain flaring with every inch you moved, but you kept still, fighting against every instinct screaming at you to cry, to breathe harder, to react. you couldn’t. you had to stay dead.

˚ ༘♡ footsteps moved around you. guards passing by, other bodies being disposed of. slowly, the sounds of the execution grounds faded. the doors shut behind you. you were being taken somewhere. your heart pulsated in your ears, your blood running hot and thick down your side, staining your uniform. and through the dizzying haze of pain and terror, one thought remained, echoing over and over in your mind. only of cho sang-woo.

a/n: let me know if you have any thoughts or wish to see another part to this story!!

[daisies-daydreams]

My Wish (Papa!Gyomei Himejima Drabble)

Header Credit: Pexels & Ufotable Pairing: Gyomei Himejima x Wife!Reader Category: Fluff/Light Angst Tags: Depictions of Childbirth, Mentions of Blood, Babies, New Parenthood, Flashbacks to Infinity Castle Arc/Gyomei's Backstory, Crying, Tooth-Rotting Fluff Word Count: 1k Divider Credit: @saradika Summary: Gyomei does his best to remain strong as you give birth to his firstborn child. A/N: Hello hello lovely people! I've had this idea swimming around in my mind for a while, and I'm so happy I finally got around to it! (Gyomei would make such an amazing dad I just know it). I hope you enjoy! Pt. 2 - Late Night

Gyomei clenched his jaw as you gripped his massive hand with your sweaty palm. He tightly squeezed the string of red prayer beads that was wound in his other hand as you groaned and panted heavily.

"You're doing amazing, my love," he gently reassured you as he ran his thumb over your knuckles. You suddenly threw your head back and released a harsh cry, the midwife cooing as she held your other hand. She gasped when she peeked around the blanket obscuring the lower portion of your body.

"Just keep breathing deeply, (Y/N). I can see the baby's head crowning!" she said as a hopeful expression lit up her face. Gyomei's breath hitched at the news before you began to curse and sob. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze as he placed his lips against your paling knuckles.

"You’re such a strong woman, (Y/N). The strongest one I-“ his voice cut off when you nearly crushed his hand as you screamed. His frown deepened as the midwife patted your face with a wet cloth.

“I-I can’t do it!” you sobbed as your legs shook. Gyomei shook his head as he held your hand up to his cheek, your words resonating with him as he thought back to how he leaned against the wall during the battle at the Infinity Castle. How hope was but a dying flame in his heart as blood oozed from his wounds…and yet, the sound of your voice calling to him within his mind stoked the fire deep within him.

Heavy tears trailed down Gyomei’s cheeks as he could only imagine the pain you were in. He gave your hand another reassuring squeeze as he carefully leaned down and pecked your forehead.

“You can do it, (Y/N). You’re so close,” he encouraged you the same way you did when he was barely hanging on by a thread. He heard you swallow thickly before your breaths grew more quick and ragged.

“You’re almost there, Mrs. Himejima. Just a few more pushes,” the midwife coached you as she prepared to catch the baby. Gyomei held his breath as he awaited to hear the soft cries of his newborn, his heart wildly pounding against his rib cage as he bounced his leg.

You continued to grunt and grip his hand tightly as you strained on the futon. Gyomei’s head perked up when he heard you curse out one more time before the first wailing cries of your baby cascaded through the room.

He could practically feel the midwife grinning as the little one gurgled and cried, your exhausted pants filling his ears as your grip on his hand loosened.

“You did an amazing job, my love,” he cooed softly.

“Yes…now it’s time to start pushing for the other one,” the midwife said. A heavy silence lingered in the room before both you and your husband spoke.

“WHAT?!”

+++

After another hour of grunting, screaming and nearly breaking your husband’s hand, you welcomed another wailing infant into the world. Gyomei gently wiped the sweat from your exhausted features as the midwife checked and cleaned the newborns.

“You did such an incredible job, my dear,” your beloved smiled gently as he wiped your brow. You sighed and gently placed a hand over his wrist. Gyomei smiled as he set the wet rag aside and leaned down, his lips gently caressing the top of your head.

“I bet I look like a mess right now,” you chuckled tiredly. Gyomei hummed as he pulled back and shook his head.

“No, I bet you look even more beautiful than ever, my precious flower,” he sighed and cupped your cheek with his massive, warm palm. His heart fluttered as you leaned into his touch, your skin so soft and smooth against his hand. The midwife cleared her throat as she shuffled towards the other side of your bed.

“Mr. and Mrs. Himejima, meet your new baby girls,” she smiled. Gyomei’s heart lit up as he heard the shuffling of bedsheets and the soft grunts of the two small newborns. You thanked the midwife as she gently handed the cooing twins over to you. Tears welled in Gyomei’s eyes as he knelt at your bedside, his hand hesitantly hovering over you.

“What do they look like?” your husband asked as he tilted his head. He gasped as you gently took his hand and placed it over one of the girls’ heads.

“They both have your hair…and my eyes,” you replied softly. Gyomei sighed with relief as he gently brushed his thumb over the tuft of soft, dark hair on his daughter’s head. A warm, gentle smile crossed his face as he felt his little one lean into his hand.

“They seem quite big for newborns,” he chuckled softly. You giggled and shifted in bed.

“Well, considering who their papa is…” you began. Gyomei felt the tips of his ears burn as his stomach tied into a knot.

“R-Right. I’m...I'm so sorry for making you endure that,” he sighed. You cooed and shook your head.

“It’s alright, Gyo. We both couldn’t have known how big our babies would be,” you reassured him with a quiet chuckle. Gyomei returned your smile before hot tears began to roll down his cheeks. You sighed softly as he sniffed.

“I-I just never thought this day would come,” he swallowed thickly as he folded his hand over his daughter’s head, as if to shield her from the evils of the world. His breath stuttered as he carefully brought his hand over to his other newborn baby, the sound of her cooing as he gently cupped her plump cheek. “After the orphanage, I…I thought bringing children into this world was a curse,” Gyomei confessed with a heavy sigh.

His eyes widened as he felt his little one wrap her soft, tiny hand around one of his thick fingers. He sniffed, his heart melting as he smiled.

“But...I’ve never felt more blessed than I do now,” he murmured softly as his daughter held onto his large finger. His smile grew as you leaned up and pecked his cheek.

“You’re going to be a wonderful father, Gyomei,” you whispered lovingly. Your husband’s heart swelled with an overwhelming warmth as he soaked in the presence of his beloved wife and two new miracles. He smiled and placed a soft kiss on your forehead before giving one to his precious newborns as well.

“And you’re going to be the most amazing mother, my love,” he grinned.

————

Thank you for reading! ❤️

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[bottombingheweek]

Bottom Binghe Week '24 prompts are here!

Bottom Binghe Week is an 18+ multiship prompt event celebrating any and all bottom and/or sub Luo Binghe content. This year, #bottombingheweek24 will take place from December 1-8. Any and all content is welcome, whether or not it follows these prompts; you may also use prompts from last year or from our bingo mini-event! We only ask that you tag your work appropriately and follow the rules of the site where it's posted (we don't want to be the reason anyone's account gets nuked!).

Look out for an interactive October mini-event coming this weekend, too! Binghe's gotten himself into a bit of a situation and needs everyone's help....

This year's art alternates between @sinn-bee (1, 3, 5, 7) and @thegoldenavenger (2, 4, 6, 8), and graphics are by @lavender-and-rue!

Other places you can find us:

Twitter | Bluesky | Dreamwidth | AO3 collection

Text version of prompts and image description below!

Day 1: Garnet

Meanings: Passion, committment, love

Prompts: pregnancy, devotion

Kinks: marking, in heat

Object: jewelry

Day 2: Carnelian

Meanings: warmth, energy, creativity

Prompts: passed around, cum dump

Kinks: stuck in a wall, sex pollen

Object: onahole

Day 3: Rose Quartz

Meanings: self-love, healing, tenderness

Prompts: escort, camboy

Kinks: claustrophilia (kinking on enclosed spaces), dacryphilia (kinking on tears)

Object: stockings

Day 4: Bloodstone

Meanings: courage, revitalization, protection

Prompts: blood parasites, demonic traits

Kinks: hair kink, sensory play

Object: rope

Day 5: Jade

Meanings: nurturing, purity, serenity

Prompts: amnesia, white lotus

Kinks: nipple play, dream sex

Object: vibrators

Day 6: Aventurine

Meanings: luck, mercy, compassion

Prompts: painting, suspended

Kinks: roleplay, service

Object: candles

Day 7: Emerald

Meanings: domestic bliss, partnership, wisdom

Prompts: obedience, resistance

Kinks: macro/micro, premature ejaculation

Object: doll

Day 8: Chrysanthemum Stone

Meanings: harmony, happiness, legend

Prompts: damsel in distress, coming home

Kinks: body worship, sandwiched

Object: eggs

[ID: Two graphics on a pale pink marble background. Both have the header Bottom Binghe Week '24 in a script font and a footer listing the dates, December 1-8, 2024, and the hashtag #bottombingheweek24. The first graphic lists prompts for days 1 through 4 and the second lists prompts for days 5 through 8 (all prompts copied above). From top left to bottom right, the art elements are: A gold and garnet pendant and earring set in the shape of Luo Binghe's demon mark. A carved carnelian... statuette of a torso with a flat chest, an etched demon mark on the abdomen, and a prominent "hole" between the thighs. A pair of pink stockings with darker pink lace detail and rose quartz hearts. A bloodstone wrapped in coils of red rope. Two jade bullets, one with a lighter jade end and one with a darker end, with a carved lotus on the flat side. A red candle dripping from an aventurine cup onto a flat aventurine stone, already covered in wax. A ball-jointed doll hand with pale skin, freckles, and long, pointed red nails holding an emerald. Four egg-shaped stones, one pale green with bamboo patterns, one a black and white chrysanthemum stone, one deep blue with wing and cloud patterns, and one deep red with a stylized demon mark and lotuses. End ID.]

[romana-after-dark]

Our Gentle Sins: Part 16

Thank you so so so much to @plasticbabies for making this beautiful header!!!! we finally have a good one!

Dark!Logan Howlett x fem!reader

Series Masterlist : Main Masterlist : Logan Masterlist

Spotify Playlist

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Buy Me A Coffee : Kofi

Chapter summary: Past. Logan does it. Present. Wade makes a plan.

Warnings: This fic features non con, pregnancy, and themes of religious trauma. I will not be saying everything that happens to warm you, by clicking read more you are prepared for extremely dark themes and that you at 18+. You are responsible for your own media consumption.

EXTRA WARNING: Violence, shown sexual violence again.

3.2k words

Before

Logan tried, he really did try to pay attention as you spoke but it was getting harder and hard. Your biology was calling to him.

The red string of fate tied you and him together, growing shorter and short with every horror the two of you had endured and now, now Logan felt it had come to a close; the string was taught, pulling him to your finale. 

“Can we crack a window?”  Logan asked, hoping fresh air would allow him some breathing room. Unfortunately, a gust of breeze blew your scent right too him. Logan groaned, a sound almost in pain as he hardened, the animalistic side of him clawing for release. How could he smell you like this, look at you, have you so close to him and not take you as his? Logan wanted to erase every last presence of Mark from your body, from your mind. He could give you what your husband never could. You could give him what Jean threw away.

*

“Are you okay?” Your brow furrowed looking at Logan as he stood, eyes closed. He looked almost… in pain; his knuckles whitening at his balled fists. 

You wouldn’t pretend you understood Logan all the time. He had strange behaviors, did and said things you didn’t get but honestly, it was probably the same for you. Two strange people, possibly sharing a life together.

The way he respected you needing time only endeared him to you more, and you know most of your friends considered you dating already. Seeing the joy on Kurt’s face made you want to say yes, yes you were together, you were in love, it was your happily ever after. But time was what you needed. It hadn’t been more than 6 months since you left your husband, and in a strange way you were still mourning his death.

It wasn’t a true loss, not in the way you knew was normal. You hated him, but a part of you loved him. Really, it had little to do with Mark; you mourned your parents too. Remy said it was because you held so much love in your heart.

‘I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t sad, pistache, but I’m not sure dat would be you.’ Remy assured you it would go away, the way you missed the people who had been staples in your life. ‘But for now, allow yourself to feel. You have so much love in your heart, you feel so deeply, it makes sense you miss dem. De were ya whole life, the good and da bad.’

You’d been married to Mark 7 years, of course you missed him in a sense, especially when you had nearly no life outside him, no friends. He was your whole world, and things weren’t always bad. There were more good times than bad, which always made that bad so much worse. Charles said there would be complicated feelings, and assured you they were no thought crimes, there was no wrong way to feel.

“Lo, how about you sit down?” He looked pale, it was worrying you. Taking his large hand in yours and walk the few steps to the bed. “Do you want me to call Hank? Or Jean?”

Logan’s eyes snapped up to yours, alight with a fire that made you nervous. “Do not call Jean.”

A familiar nervousness flooded your system, the type of anxiousness that settled into your stomach and screamed fawn, fawn, fawn. Something in your head said get out, but why? It was Logan. Just Logan. Your Logan.

He was hurting your hand.

“I won’t call Jean…” You spoke softly, as if trying to placate a wild animal, and it worked. His eyes softened, and although he looked no less sick he abruptly dropped you hand.

“You should go.”

This made you frown. “Do you want me to get help?”

He shook his head. “No, no, I just- Dolly, you should go. I’m fine just, listen to me.”

But you were stubborn as you were scared, determined to figure out what was happening. He worried you, you didn’t like to see him in pain.

You step forward, and you swear you hear him growl. “Logan?”

Logan snatched your wrist, yanking you between his legs and trapping you. Your whimpers mean nothing when you're thrown onto the bed, Logan crawling on top. You can feel his erection through your dress and your stomach lurches, but when you try to push him you find you’re practically nothing under him.

“Logan, what are you doing?” 

“Need you.” He leans in for a kiss and god help you but you kiss him back, trying to calm him, give him a little to hold him over. 

“Logan, please get off, y-your scaring me. We said we’d wait, right?”

He said he’d wait. He’d wait. He’d wait for you because he loved you and you loved him and he would have you but he just had to- 

“WAIT!” With all your strength you shove at him, attempting to maneuver the little room your body had to get out. You were determined to not make this easy; you refused to let Logan ruin your relationship with him.

But Logan was too much, dropping the full weight of his body onto you and knocking the air out of your lungs. While you’re distracted, he takes both your wrists into his hand and wrenches them back painfully far, his lips on your covering the scream in pain. Fingers digging deep bruises into your wrists and you feel yourself giving into the pain.

“That’s it, baby doll, just relax… let me in…” Hands pinned above you, slightly less painful now that you stopped fucking but a bruising grip still there, Logan’s other hand undoes his belt and you know what's happening.

Falling. Drifting. Weightless on the bed you try to not go rigid. It’d only hurt more if you did, you knew from experience. He gets what he wants. He always does. They always do. You’re just a tool to them, something for men to use in their own little ways. The tears come, and Logan’s gentle hand cups your face with a tenderness so different from the way he breaks you open on himself, cooing your name as if that would make it better.

Logan is just like Mark.

Just like your father, who while never touched you was complacent in the horrors that happened. Your father, who probably did the same to your mom, who was grooming your brothers to not ask, just take. Your father, who arranged and blessed the marriage.

You think to the men in your life because it’s easier than thinking about what Logan is doing to your body; you vaguely feel touches, but if you take your attention away, you learned from being with Mark you could leave your body behind.

Were they all like this? Scott, with his strict moral code, would he take you given the chance? Kurt was religious too; if you’d married him, would he feel entitled to your body? Did Charles think you owed him? Pietro, Hank, Warren, Bobby, was it all just a matter of time and chance?

Would Remy eventually think his friendship meant he was owed you? Remy, sweet Remy who’d been your rock all this time, did he want you this way, and would he take it given the opportunity?

Were you destined to be at the mercy of men your whole life?

“Please don’t cry, dolly, please?” Logan’s voice brought you back to reality, his face nuzzling you and you’re forced to reckon with the pain between your legs. You felt naked, even with the dress still on; a vulnerability you wanted to share with Logan but not like this. Like this.

“Please stop…” You whisper to him, and even as he ravages your body you reach up to hold his face. Your eyes hold his blue ones, pleading. “We can forget this, you don’t have to do it like this, we can-”

“Oh Dolly…” Logan’s movements slow, sympathy melting into you and for a moment you think it’s over, that you can put this behind you. He kisses your nose, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry…”

“Lo-”

“There’s no going back after this.”

After

“You know I gotta tell Charles, right?”

Logan just huffed out a scoff. “Scott’s been telling him for months, if he didn’t believe slim, he’s not believing you.”

*

Wade couldn’t sleep all night, echoing over everything Logan said to every, everything confessed.

Wade never claimed to be a good guy, not really. He wasn’t a hero, wasn’t even an anti-hero, like that one terrible Taylor Swift song. If he was a Taylor Swift song, he’d be Lover, given his skill to get his lovers screaming. Or Bad Blood. That too.

Anyway, he doesn’t have to explain it to you, dear reader, only so much time can be spent fleshing out a character in short form media such as fanfiction when said character is already established in a franchise. You’ll forgive his inner monologue if it just scurries along.

He wasn’t what they call “morally pure” by any means, but Wade wasn’t a rapist, and he didn’t hit innocent women, nor is he the kind of guy to just allow it. Like a serial killer in prison murdering child molesters, even he had a line. 

Problem was, he was too evenly matched with Logan. He couldn’t do this by himself. And, honestly, Logan scared him. Not in the sense Logan could kill him, no, they tried when they first met to kill each other, it didn't work. But the Logan he knew wouldn't do what he did to you. Something changed, and he didn't like it. Logan would die before he left you alone, he'd kill you before

That’s why Scott was standing in the hall, having been rudely interrupted by Wade banging on his door at 5 AM, standing in his PJ’s and sleep mask. “Professor doesn’t believe me. My wife doesn’t believe me, so much so she’s sleeping in another room. It’s useless.”

“So what? You’re just gonna fucking leave her with Logan to get beat and raped again? What about the kid? That’s not very dime store captain america of you.”

Scott shot him a look. “Look at me, Wade. You look at me and tell me I’ve given up on this.” he looked… rough. Even his dick sucking lips looking less supple than usual. “My life is fucking falling apart because I won’t give up, I just don’t know what to do.”

“KILL HIM!”

Wade found himself slammed against the wall, mouth covered and Scott looming over him. 

“You think I don’t want to?”

*

“You’re not gonna win, bub” Logan looked at Wade’s hand itching for baby knife. “Even with your guns and swords, you can’t win. You know this.”

“No, I can’t. But Scott can.” Wade watched Logan’s eyes narrow, and he knew Logan didn’t know the times him and Scott fought… Scott was holding back.

*

“If I kill him without evidence, I’m no better than a lawless vigilante!”

“You suddenly in your booklicker era?”

Scott shoved off of him. “I’m not saying that, I’m saying-”

“Xavier sanctioned killings only, huh? Well, I hate to break it to you pretty boy but he’s too busy jerking off to the idea of world peace to notice the shit tone of stress that’s gotta be radiating off Judith’s head!”

He rubbed at his temples. “Wade, listen, you don’t get it. I need more than just me wanting him dead. I’m not immune to biases, I’m aware.”

Wade groaned, stomping his feet like a child. “I am here telling you-”

“You’re not exactly the voice of reason here, Wade.”

“So if I get a voice of reason, you’re in?”

*

Wade sat in an office, one he chose specifically for the swirly chair he now used to look out the window. When the door opened, Scott bringing Remy, Wade whirled around.

“I bet you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here tod- God dammit! What’s the twink doing here?”

Scott brought in Remy, but also Kurt, Logan’s OTHER best friend.

“Kurt’s going to have the most generous opinion, I need something to counter the everything about you.”

Wade feigns offense, his hand to his chest as he gasps. “Moi??? Well, if I’m the devil on your shoulder, I thought this sweet little buttery bouillon cube was meant to play the angel.”

The cajun laughs, but not without a hit of nerves. “Remy has been called a lot of things, but rarely an angel, Angel.” he gives a little wink, then settles into something more serious as he fidgets with his playing card, moving them from one hand to another. “Is someone gonna tell us what de ‘ell is ‘appening?”

Scott borderline ignored him, addressing Kurt to Wade. “Kurt is one of Logan’s only friends in the mansion, I needed someone whose going to go to bat for him, at least.”

Kurt’s worried questions about Logan were once again ignored as Wade complains. “Of course he’s gonna go to bat for him! Kurt’s not gonna believe any of this.”

“HEY!” A blue cloud of smoke appeared between Scott and Wade, Wade could practically see the ‘BAMF!’ in the air. He looked angry, but mostly scared. “Vill someone please tell me what is happening vith my friend?”

Wade looked a Scott, and Scott started. “Logan is abusing Judith.”

If Kurt had anything more than yellow in his eyes, they would have seen his rolling them to accompany the movement of his head. “Not dis again. Mien friend, you know I respect you, I respect your leadership and judgement, but I’m afraid you might be a little clouded on this one.”

Remy stayed strangely silent. 

Wade shook his head. “‘Fraid not, my favorite microdose of catholic guilt, he admitted it to me”

Remy’s head snapped to Wade now. “Whaddya mean? Logan wouldn’t ‘urt ‘er. He loves da girl.”

More somber than he’s been in a long time, Wade tried to explain. “He told me. Confessed. Woke me up from my beauty sleep to admit he hit her after the party. You can ask Jean, she treated her for a concussion.”

“Dat doesn’t make any sense!” Kurt cut in, clearly going on the defense. “Jean vouldn’t let Logan just go if he hurt her!”

“She told her she slipped and hit her head, dumbass!”

Scott stepped up, defusing it and explaining to Kurt. “I asked Jean, she was coming back from the med bay, said Judith hit her head. No suspicion, and after everything…” Scott sighed, crossing his arms. “I don’t think she’d believe me if told her this now… if she’d stand me long enough to listen.”

“Scott’s failing marriage aside,” Wade interrupts with a glare from Remy. “Logan admitted it to me. There’s some physical abuse here and there but... “ Even Wade struggled to say this. “He raped her. That’s how Stevie happened. Rape.”

The word rape hung in the air, falling around them as Remy and Kurt took in the words in their own ways. Wade could see gears turning in Remy’s blue and red eyes. Kurt? It wasn’t going well.

Remy spoke first. “Dis isn’t one of your games, is it cher?” He asked Wade. “Because dat is my best friend, I will die for her, i will kill for her and dat baby. I will kill Logan is that's true.”

“Remy!” Kurt’s voice pulled their attention. “You can’t seriously believe this, do you?”

“He ‘as no reason ta lie. Dat’s ‘is friend too, if he’s telling us dis, it has to be true.”

“No! Logan vouldn’t do that!” With a furry not usually known to Kurt, he storms up to Wade, shoving at his chest. “Vat are you doing? Stop zis game before someone is hurt!”

Wade looked apologetic, his scared face regretful, but he knew what had to done. “I wish I was joking, beautiful.”

“He’s being serious. All the evidence is there. How she acts with him, the scratches on her back, the time line of when she suddenly became withdrawal…” He looked to Remy. “You notice any changes in her in December?”

Remy’s face paled. That was enough of an answer. “Her nightmares… dey got worse. Every night for weeks I woke up to her scream’n…”

Kurt threw his hands in the air. “I won’t have any part of this! If you three doubt Logan even after all these years, I don’t even want to call you my friends!”

With a cloud of blue, Kurt was gone.

And then there were three. 

Wade filled Remy in on everything he knew, everything Logan admitted to him, and Remy believed him. 

More importantly, he agreed on what had to be done. Logan wouldn’t let go, he was possessive, he was obsessive… Scott would offer him a chance to stand down, to let Jean or Charles into his head for the truth or Scott would kill him.

Remy was hesitant, and Wade understood it. Logan was there friend, both off them, but Scott reminded him of Rogue.

“If he did it to Judith, he could do it to Rogue.”

“No.” He sounded firm. “He wouldn’t. Dat… Dat is different to him. She’s special to him. But you are right. C’est fou, it needs to be done, for pistache.”

It had to be done, but this needed to be over.

Unfortunately for Scott, he knew he needed to eat breakfast before the confrontation.

*

This egg sandwich was going to be fucking phenominal, he just knew it. Scott didn’t consider himself a particularly good cook. He was nothing like you or Remy, and Ororo definitely outshown him as did Bobby, funny enough, but he could get by pretty well. He learned out of necessity; he knew he could be in any variety of situations made him want to be able to cook… the fact he learned how to season was for Jean. 

He tried, he really did. Grand gestures after he’d been absent too long in his own head of breakfast in bed, trying his best to be attentive but never quite being the man he wanted to be. He couldn’t quite allow her in, and Jean wasn’t the kind to settle. Well, she did for a long time. For years, he knew she just… allowed it. There wasn’t much else, they’d known each other for so long and there simply weren’t many other men in the mansion at the time.

Then the x-men grew, and Jean, who had been isolated for so long, got to see that Scott was not the be all end all. There was more out there. Better.

There was Logan.

It was selfish, he knew, to be glad it was you instead of Jean, but he was, even if it was just a little. He loved her, he loved her so fucking much but he just wasn’t going to be what she needed, and he had to let her go. They were holding onto nothing.

He was gonna do right by both of you. Guilt ate at him at what he’d allowed to happen, the type of person he let into the mansion and around vulnerable people. What if he was right about him and Rogue all those years ago? 

He was so busy chewing and looking out the window, he didn’t hear the footsteps.

It’s time. He’ll face the consequences after.

“I won, Slim”

Scott felt his head yanked back by his hair, choking on his breakfast sandwich. That didn’t matter, because seconds later there were claws in his throat and it was over in a flood of red.

RIP SCOTT IT HAD TO BE DONE!!!!

it was actually almost remy lmfao sorrrryyyyy but i decided that was too much like ROF

anyway.

THINGS ESCALATED only a few chapters left!!!!

What are you guesses for the ending? who lives who dies?

and our official poll....

thank you for all the love!!! you are amazing people!!!!

I may be starting a new blog soon. I want to become more politcally active and although ive REALLY locked things down since evrything last april, I worry there reminants that could connect my real life to here, so i think starting over is the safest. besides, ive been getting v uncomfortable anons lately.

also totally irrelivant but

I GOT TICKETS TO SEE BOB DYLAN IN APRIL!!!!!!!!! so excited i love his music. Im well aware the show will be TERRIBLE bc bob dylan is known in my music circles as the worst show youll ever go to but youll go because its bob dylan. lol.

ANYWAYyyyyyyyyy

back from vacation yay!

start new job this month and ill be makinglike $4 more an hour ;-; and 200 a month for student loans, baruch atah adonai

@multiversed-daydreamer @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @del-ightfulling @miraclesabound @hindi-si-ikay @samsamsantos @madamerubrum @shybluebirdninja a @hornystan @rogueinmymind @accountforreading123 @yawnetu @princessanglophile @and-claudia a @new-genesis100 @teaganthemorningstar @oldloganslittleslut @zaggprincess2 @bugsinmyeyez @groundclueless @cosmolight @nonamevenus

[dearemilia]

When you know, you know

pairings | Ace Trappola x gn! reader

tags | fluff, hurt to comfort, Grim and Deuce being third wheels, teenage love.

note | This is for my dear hana! @ranhaitanisgf, I just got a little inspired so just think of this fic as a gift! ( •̀ ω •́ )y

In your entire life, you have never expected to be relieved about touching grass.

Having to deal with Idia’s overblot and rescuing the ones who did overblot was draining your energy.

You feel lightheaded, sweaty, and tired. 

You are so lightheaded that you think you can hear Ace’s voice, you think you are hallucinating…wait— “Prefect!! Grim!!” Never mind, you aren’t hallucinating. 

“Ace! Deuce!” Cried Grim.

“H-hey! Catch them Grim!” “H-Huh?!”

Before you could fall flat on the ground, crushing Grim. You felt a pair of arms wrapping around you.

You raised your head to look at Ace.

His face was unusually plastered with a concerned look, you could almost feel his heart fasten with each second passing.

“P-Prefect! Are you okay?! We should get you to the infirmary!”

“Ehhh! Henchman! Why is your face so pale?!”

You touched your forehead, staring at Grim and Deuce with a weak smile “I’m fine…I just need some sleep, that’s all” 

“You…You idiot…”

Just as you open your mouth to speak, Ace beats you to it “You could’ve actually died there! Do you even know how dangerous it was?!”

He continued “Why do you always have to put yourself in danger, dammit!”

Your eyes widened, seeing tears drop from his eyes “Ace…I didn’t—” You sigh “I had to go, I needed to save Grim and the others” You tried reasoning with him.

“But what about us?! You can rely on us too right?! On me?!” 

Ace has never cried this much in his entire life.

Why did you have to go around making him worried like this? Why don’t you ever open up to him? Do you not trust him? Or was it because you didn’t know how?

“I know, I know, I wasn’t thinking straight, and I—”

Before you could even continue, you felt him hug you so tightly that it felt like your ribs could crack. The others watch in silence.

Ace seemed to realize that everyone was watching them and he pushed away from you.

He wiped his tears away, furiously.

“Tch…I was just a little worried that’s all!”

“I thought that…I mean—we! We thought we’d lost you…” Deuce rolled his eyes at Ace’s comment.

He smiled, relieved “We are just glad that you are alive”

Deuce smirked at Ace “Ace here, couldn’t stop thinking about you—He even demanded the teachers that he’d go after you” 

“W-What?! No, I didn’t!”

“That’s something Ace would definitely do”

“What?! Grim, shut your mouth!”

You let out a laugh and Ace found himself staring at you, even if he’s seen you multiple times. Yeah, he knows he probably looks stupid right now.

He’s always thought you looked a little cute but now, right in front of him. You’re ethereal.

“C’mon, let’s get you to the infirmary” Ace looked away with a blushing face and ears almost as red as his dorm leader’s hair.

As the four of you go to the infirmary, you say “I'm sorry…Ace”

He raised a brow “For what?” 

“That I made you worry for me”

Ace felt his heart pounding “Don’t apologize…I just—I just couldn’t bear to think of losing you…” He rubbed his neck.

“And…I’m sorry for yelling at you like that”

You smiled “It’s alright…I was worried about you too, you know” Ace felt like his heart would explode right there and then.

“I was…afraid of not being able to see you again”

“Really?”

“Really”

Ace had always thought that if you went back to your world, he wouldn’t care and that this ‘small’ feeling would go away once you returned to your world.

But now all he could think about was you staying with him.

Perhaps, it's not just a small crush like he thought it was. Maybe he wants to stay with you forever.

Meanwhile, Deuce and Grim whispered to each other.

“Geez, when are they gonna confess? It’s making me barf just watching them like this”

“Ace better be buying me tuna if he ever dates my henchman!"

header by @cafekitsune

[mocha-illustrates]

CW: BLOOD

[ID. A digital drawing of Moon wearing casual clothes. He is standing facing right with his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt. He’s wearing baggy sweatpants and slippers and is taking a step forward. His face is turned slightly away but he looks at the viewer with half-lidded eyes and a toothy smirk. There is blood spattered across his face, his clothes and the floor. The color palette consists of both deep and pale purples, pale grins and pops of red. The background is a pale purple. END ID.]

me: oh wow, a day off. i can finally work on some of my bigger projects like my animatic or my tumblr header

also me: starts a completely new piece and downloads a new set of brushes to mess with all day instead

 anyway i got the urge to draw some casual moon realness. Version without blood under the cut

[the-lisechen]

~6.7k. gen. copia/f!oc. the cardinal has a cigarette with a fan. from there, it gets a little weird. (or: copia gets into a fist fight at 3am in a denny's parking lot over theology. metaphorically speaking.)

header by the divine @enjoy-my-swearing

(the fic that started it all and has eaten my brain ever since. don't mind me, i just wanted to reformat this one and also have it on my tumblr for posterity)

some kind of cosmic rearrangement - ao3

(full series here)

religious discussion, catholic character that isn't an asshole, unresolved sexual tension. tw: catholicism

Copia stepped out into the night, face paint mostly cleaned off, save for the black around his eyes. He couldn't even remember the name of the town they were in. Somewhere in the American South, the air warm and heavy with humidity that felt like silk against his skin. He settled his shoulders against the brick of the alleyway, and sighed, his blood still fizzing from the ritual. The comedown from the adrenaline dump always left him a little hollowed out and shaky.

As he passed a hand over his face, the car in front of him trilled out like a bird and flashed its lights. He turned to the sound of boots up the wet pavement. A small figure, female, dishwater blonde hair, head down, hands stuffed into black skinny jeans. Humming something he could recognize as one of his songs, and that never got old.

He watched her approach, curious. When she at last stepped into the light, she looked up at him, and startled like a deer. Her hands flew up to her mouth, and she squeaked out a breathless “Oh shit!” It took her a moment to recover, and my, wasn't that an interesting shade of pink. He’d seen people blush, of course, but this was remarkable, that red, that quickly.

He had to smile, even bowing a little. “Bunoasera, signora."

"Um! Hi! You are very good at your job!"

Her purse plopped next to her feet, and she knelt down to recollect it, the blush deepening to the color of late spring roses. "Sorry, I'm sorry--" she said, hands shaking as she scooped spilled detritus back into her purse, pens and lip balm spilling from her fingers.

He bent over to help her, smiling. "It is no trouble, signora. Not the worst I've seen." He paused, sitting back on his heels, and picked up a battered paperback the color of burnt orange. "'The Liberation of Theology.'" He looked up at her, mismatched eyes sharp, assessing. "This is what you read? At my show?"

The girl-- woman, really-- went still. She got to her feet and took half a step back, widening her stance, her shoulders squared. "Yeah." She tilted her chin up. "Is it really that strange?"

He flipped it to read the back cover, and her spine relaxed a fraction, with his focus off of her. "Perhaps... somewhat unexpected." An understatement. He stood, slow, putting himself further into her personal space, eyes still on the text in his hand. He read the subtitle. "'An instrument in human liberation.' Has it been?" He looked down at her, not exactly trying to loom, but not exactly going out of his way not to. "In your experience."

The woman folded her arms, leaning back against her car. Keeping her distance. "It can be. It should be." She flipped her keyring, once. "And in my experience? Yes, actually. But I am fully aware my experience may be-- atypical."

"In what way?"

"Well." She looked up, exposing the long pale line of her throat, and her Southern accent became gradually more apparent as she spoke. "I converted to Catholicism. Not really from anything, you understand, unless you count the vaguely agnostic Protestant background noise in America. And I did my catechism classes with a Capuchin Franciscan. A lot of mysticism. And a lot of social action to offset the navel-gazing that comes with that. The culture was-- it's different. I mean, how much do you know about liberation theology?"

"For the purposes of this conversation?" He idly tapped her book against his thigh. "Let us say... not much."

"In simple terms: feed the hungry, clothe the naked. Like the guy said in the book, right? It's both defending the poor and taking aim at the structural issues that are actively oppressing people. Real basic."

"You need a God to tell you this?"

He saw her warming to the subject, eyes alight and not quite on his. "Of course not, but it's a useful framework. And some people do! Whatever provides incentive. Besides that, it works on a practical level, if the Church is your primary social apparatus, that's a structure in place to distribute resources if the state is failing. I mean, the Jesuit approach in South America is not quite the same as the Black church in the Civil Rights movement in the USA in the Sixties, but it's not too far off, either. It's like--" and she cut herself off, the blush coming back, eyes cast downward. "It's just what's supposed to happen. What it says on the tin."

He ruffled the pages with a gloved hand a few times, watching her. "Incentive." He gestured at her with the book, halfway to accusatory. "If someone is doing something in expectation of divine reward, then they are, I'm afraid, an asshole."

"Man, I truly do not care about the motive. I care about the effect it has on the world. But faith without works is dead."

"You believe this."

"Yeah."

"You are this passionate about it, and yet you came to see me. My songs are nothing but blasphemy. Why?"

"Look, as blasphemy goes-- and I'm not trying to denigrate anything you're doing here-- this is just not that big a deal."

He stared at her. "I am literally praising the devil. Literal songs about, literally, devil worship."

"Yeah, and it slaps. Can I have my book back?"

He held it out carefully, as if it was a chunk of meat and she was a strange animal. One that might bite. "What is it, then, that qualifies as blasphemy? In your opinion."

She took it, opened the backseat door to her car, and tossed it in, careful not to turn her back on him. "I dunno. Start with that 'prosperity gospel' bullshit. 'If you're rich, it's because Jesus wants you to be rich!' Joel Osteen can bite the fucking curb. It's lazy exegesis, is what it is." Again, he saw her restrain herself, and she ran a hand through her hair, embarrassed. "I can go on. Obviously. But I think if you're getting bent out of shape about this kind of thing, you need to reassess your priorities."

"No, this is-- at least amusing. You haven't chased us out with torches and pitchforks yet, so I will continue to assume good faith." He smiled. "So to speak."

"Trust me, I am leaving a lot of stuff out." She fished around in her purse, picked out a brilliantly blue pack of cigarettes, and tapped them rhythmically on the heel of her hand. "So what's your deal? I don't know a lot about theistic Satanism. Pop the hood on it, man, tell me how it works."

"In simple terms?"

"Sure." She cracked a smile, thumbing a cigarette out of the pack.

"We honor the serpent that brought knowledge to Eve, as a liberator from the oppression of the corrupted demiurge that you call God."

"The snake, this was one of those gnostic things, right? That was, what, the Ophites? I thought they found it at Nag Hammadi."

"Fragments. References. But we have had the Syntagma for centuries. This was Hippolytus, yes? We borrowed a few things from Marcion of Sinope, as well. From those texts, and other pieces of what you would call apocrypha, we solidified a doctrine. Eventually. These things take time, no? Remind me, when did your people decide on the canon?"

"Council of Rome. I wanna say three..." she tapped the unlit cigarette, "...eighty seven? Somewhere in there. Fourth century, anyway."

"Just so. As a, you'd say-- distinct movement, yes? I would say sometime around the twelfth century that we came together."

"Hold on, twelfth century, evil demiurge-- what was this, like a splinter of the Cathars?"

"Not unrelated. When it came to that kind of dualism, we merely decided to side with the physical world."

"By running straight to the devil."

"Eh. No half measures."

"I'm just kinda surprised it got traction in that environment."

"Mostly on the-- margins, you would say? We had solidified the clerical structure some time before, modeled on the Catholic church. Camouflage, yes? But it was with the obvious corruption of the fourteenth century that we started to gain momentum. Acolytes. A whisper network of proselytization."

"That is neat. Like, what, a Dark Reformation kind of thing?"

"...That is, perhaps, somewhat reductive. But not inaccurate."

"Oh that is so cool. It's like finding a whole new life form in the Marianas Trench. No, I can see a kind of sense to it. Get far enough away from Rome, look as close as you can to the actual Church, you might get away with it."

"They did burn us. Your people did do that."

"I am sure that they did," she said, with a certain blithe amicability. "Burnt a lot of Cathars, too, makes sense. Sir-- Father-- I'm sorry. What is the title?"

"Cardinal."

A blink, barely perceptible. "Cardinal, then. Your Eminence, if you want me to stand here and apologize for every atrocity the Church committed, we're gonna be here all night, and it'll get boring quick. And, forgive me, at what point have I attached a moral judgment over your faith?"

He spread his hands, smiling a little. "Very well, I concede the point. You can understand if I am somewhat-- defensive."

"Yeah, of course." She grinned, mostly to herself. "And here I am, a good Catholic girl. Everything you rail against."

"Eh. It could be worse. You could be a Baptist."

She let out a laugh at that, an entirely inelegant sound, and Copia felt as if he'd won something.

"Oh. No. No, I couldn't. Too diffuse. A million different opinions going every which way. I'm also not into sola fide--"

"'By faith alone.'"

"Yeah. Not my bag. If it doesn't inspire you to help your fellow human beings and not just focus on your own salvation, it's probably bullshit." Finally she put the cigarette she'd been fidgeting with into her mouth. "Man. Cathars and gnostics." The woman brought out a burnished zippo and flipped the lid, a faintly musical sound. She didn't light her cigarette, but shot him a sidelong look, eyes alight. "Sounds more like heresy than outright blasphemy."

"Oh, now I'm offended." He was not, in fact, offended. He was fascinated. He wanted to study her under a microscope. "Certainly, that's the first time I've heard that. Maybe I should send you to talk to the-- ehh, how is it? The protestors. What do you call, the evangelicals, yes?"

"They don't like Catholics, either. The veneration of Mary, y'know? Idolatry." Finally she sparked the lighter, her face turning to alabaster in the light of the flame. "We're both going to hell in their lights. Just different neighborhoods." She bent her head to the light. A long drag on the cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke upwards. "So no, I don't think going to a concert counts as a sin. There's just some songs I can't sing along to, is all."

Copia leaned back against the wall, arms folded, considering her. "You know that your Church would call this blasphemy. What is it, then, that you think I'm doing, if not spreading the word of Satan?"

A long drag of her cigarette. "Sick tunes, man," she said, around the smoke. Shrugged. "It's fun. And fun is underrated, as a concept."

"Signora, I don't think 'fun' is what brought you here." He leveled her with his mismatched stare, and she dropped her eyes.

"No," she said, studying the cherry on her cigarette. "No, fun would not be enough."

He took a step closer, not quite edging into her personal space. "What, then? What could possibly bring you to deny your programming, when you clearly believe with such conviction?"

The back of her shoulders hit the top of her car, but she tilted her head up at him in challenge. "Call it joy, then." A defiant kind of vulnerability. "That's what I hear in your songs. And that's a rarer thing."

"What a monstrous thing, to deny joy. To yourself, to others. That sounds to me like blasphemy. What abnegation of the self. We are not hurting anyone. I am not hurting anyone. Why not do as you like?"

"'An it harm none, do as thou wilt.'"

"Precisely."

"Isn't that, what, Louÿs by way of Crowley? Nineteenth century. I thought your stuff was older than that."

"That is beside the point and you know it. Answer me."

"Because that's where it falls apart for me! To begin and end with 'do no harm' does not work. You cannot always do exactly as you like, you have an obligation in society! Feed the hungry. 'Do what you want, whatever,' that's too passive. And being passive in the face of oppression is oppression! Come on, man, you must know this. You're too smart not to know this."

"I'm sorry, you want to talk about oppression? With the literal Catholic Church? With the colonialism and the forced conversion and the actual literal Inquisition? Even laying that aside, the harm it's doing now, how can you still stay with it?"

"Because that's not all it is! Not all it could be. Because it can be just, it can be equitable, and it can be used as a tool for liberation. I believe that, I do. And if if I'm in it-- and oh boy you would not believe how much I'm in it-- then I have a moral obligation to try to shape it towards those ends. Because those people--" she flung a hand out, gesturing towards what, he couldn't say, and he took a step back. "Those bullshit assholes that want to strip people of healthcare and gut the social safety net-- they're in my house! And they don't get to fucking win."

"You must see that this is about control. You are too smart not to know this."

The woman slumped back against her car, and took another long drag on her cigarette, before dropping it and crushing it under her boot, an oddly fussy swiveling motion. "I dunno, man. For me it's about service. You just don't fix something by walking away. And anyway I'm committed."

"I think you are tilting at windmills." He watched her, the last tendrils of cigarette smoke from her exhale the same blue-grey of her eyes, letting the silence linger until the smoke cleared entirely. "What is your name?"

She flicked her eyes back up at him, and then away, coming to a decision. "Sophia Turner." She bit her lip. "Sophie."

"Sophie. That's lovely."

"Thank you. And what do I call you? Feels a little weird, saying 'Your Eminence' to a guy whose faith you don't subscribe to."

He tilted his head in the faintest approximation of a bow, biting back a smile. "Copia."

"Well. I am delighted to make your acquaintance." Her accent more pronounced with the formality, a distinctly Southern drawl.

"You say you're committed. How? You don't have to stay anywhere forever."

"Oh. Oh boy. Um." She looked down at her hands, picked at the edge of a painted nail, and then turned to him, watching his mismatched eyes for a long moment. She smiled, a little rueful. "I am taking my vows in a few months." And to his blank look-- "The Maryknoll Sisters of St. Dominic." He blinked, recoiled a little, and she flinched, turning to look down the street, not seeing the rain on the asphalt, the streetlight shining on the fire escape. "I still don't think it's a sin. But it's-- maybe a little harder to square. After that. Wanted to see you while I could."

Her face composed. No-color hair hanging in grey eyes. He wanted to reach out, to brush it away, to see her clear, to make her look at him. A gulf between them, on the narrow sidewalk. Something twisted in his chest, at the waste of it, the thought of a fire like that locked in a cloister. And yet: "I could never fault someone for devotion to their faith. The discipline is admirable. Truly. But I would-- Are you allowed? To fraternize with the enemy?"

"Well. Maybe in the spirit of friendly ecumenical dialogue." She looked up at the streetlights, shoulders tensed. She chewed at her lip. "We are allowed to have friends, you know."

He had to drop his gaze, at that, a sharp inhalation. "Ah." And again: "Ah. Hm." He looked back up at her, at the tense muscle in her jaw, her face still resolutely turned away from him. "I wonder--?"

She darted a quick look at him, not quite daring to look at him full-on, yet, and made a motion for him to continue.

He had to smile, even if it was with a little trepidation. "Do you have another cigarette?"

That rough bark of a laugh again, and yes, it felt like a victory. "Yeah. Yeah, man, sure." She pulled out the cigarette pack and extracted one, holding it out with the slightest self-deprecating hint of ceremony. He took it between his gloved fingers, careful not to touch her. When he put it to his lips she leaned in to light it in a movement that seemed both courtly and instinctual, an ingrained habit. He couldn't quite look at her when she did it, shocked by the casual intimacy of the gesture. The warmth of the flame through his gloves, the first rough hit of smoke at the back of his throat and the head-swimming nicotine rush. An awful taste, and completely satisfying. He closed his eyes at it and drew in deep, amazed all over again at how much tension dissipated on the exhale.

When the initial wave of the nicotine high had passed, the fatigue settled in, and he tilted his head back against the bricks, eyes still closed, too tired to be on guard. "Where are we? I confess, I lost track."

"...Asheville, honey." A pause."D'jeet yet?"

Well, that certainly got him to look at her. "I'm sorry?"

"Oh, that was very pronounced, wasn't it? My apologies. Have you eaten?"

His brain felt like static. It was all the answer she needed. "What I figured. C'mon, I know a spot."

"I should--" He stopped, inexplicably stricken. "We're leaving in the morning. I don't remember where's next. Charleston, perhaps?"

"I'll have you home before bedtime, scout's honor." He hesitated. Gently: "I don't have designs on your virtue, Cardinal."

He was tired, and sore, and his head was starting to hurt somewhere behind his right eye. He could feel the dried sweat on himself, like a film, absolutely revolting.

"Alright," he said.

She led and he followed, falling into step at her left elbow, almost without thought. "This is the South, yes? We won't-- we might attract. Attention."

"Mm. I might would worry about it somewhere wasn't Asheville. Here'd probably be fine."

"That seems to be an awful lot of weight to put on 'probably.'"

"More worried about someone from your show running into us and losing their minds, be honest with you."

"As in, dropping their purse and squealing?" Was he enjoying this? He was.

"Oh you think you're funny. And I did not squeal."

"Heh. It was a little bit of a squeal."

"Ain't gonna argue the point with you."

The nicotine felt wonderful. He grinned up at the streetlight filtering through a magnolia tree, the orange light reflecting on the leaves, the faint citrus scent hanging in the thick air. He couldn't restrain himself. "You are not, I hope, leading me into temptation?"

"Oh, foul! Foul. Get thee behind me."

"Equally terrible, signora."

They lapsed into silence for a while. Copia came to the last quarter inch of his cigarette, pinching off one more drag before dropping it down a storm drain. The smell would linger, but it had been blissful in the moment. "So."

"So."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Barbecue joint, open all night. Just up here, actually. You had barbecue yet?"

"I have not."

"You in for a treat, then."

They rounded the corner, heading into the jaundiced sodium light of a patchy parking lot, under a flickering red neon sign. 'Little Pigs Genuine Pit BBQ.' It seemed somehow ominous, but the set of her shoulders reassured him. Somewhat. She pushed open the door with its small jangling bell to red vinyl booths, formica tabletops, wood paneling. Vinegar and roasting meat.

He could feel the eyes on them as she ordered for them both, in a dialect so thick it was almost incomprehensible to him. He stepped closer to murmur, "Coffee for me, please, signora," while he surveilled the crowd. Not outright hostile, had seen stranger things, maybe, but a collective flicker of curiosity before sliding off of them. That flat and unsympathetic gaze. Her accent helped. His obvious manners did as well. Still, he was on edge.

He stayed on edge until he slid into a booth opposite her with his back to the wall, and even then it only let up slightly, a background hum to go along with the labored air conditioning. The barbecue was very nearly worth it, salt and sweet and vinegar and umami, along with the blunt force animal pleasure at hot food after a long time without. He looked up at her, making an inarticulate noise of shocked delight through the sandwich, and she nodded in eager agreement with her mouth full. Swallowed. "I know, right?"

"You cannot convert me."

"Okay. Wasn't trying."

"If you could, this might do it."

"Welcome to the South. It's got problems, but there are compensations."

"So I see."

They lost themselves in the food for a little while, and Copia, a usually fastidious man, found that it was actually impossible to eat a barbecue sandwich neatly. After a while he gave up trying, grateful for the strange softness of American paper napkins. It made sense, if the food was like this. He eyed her iced tea, wondering about it, if that was also an American custom, or if it only applied to the region.

She caught him looking after half a second, and passed it over with barely an eyeblink of thought, the most natural thing in the world.

"Oh, and you've lost me. This is an obscene amount of sugar."

"They do call it 'sweet tea' for a reason."

"Are you sure that this isn't just colored sugar water?"

"Reasonably so. Might be accentual, brings out the depth of flavor, like. Least it isn't corn syrup."

"This is a nightmare dystopia you live in."

"Could be. Try one of them hush puppies, then you get back to me."

"Mm." Then, after following instructions, "I will concede on the food."

"Yeah. There's nowhere and nothing that's bad all the way through."

"Perhaps." He took another sip of her tea, pleased at her sputter of mock-indignation. "This brings me to where it falls apart for me. An omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, omnibenevolent God."

"That is the doctrine."

"Why, then, evil? Why suffering?"

"We going with theodicy, then?"

He motioned for her to continue, a little gleeful.

"Which answer would you like, from the, oh, four-five thousand years that this has been a question?" She tossed the rolled-up sleeve of her straw in his general direction, smiling. "Why you coming at me with this shit, man?"

"Ehh. I want to know what you think. You, not your Church."

She nodded, and poked at the ice in her tea with her straw while she gave the question the consideration it was due. Finally: "I like Simone Weil for this. You read any Simone Weil?"

"Let us say that I haven't."

"Okay." The vinyl booth squeaked as she leaned back. "This isn't necessarily unique to her, it's got a lot of similarities with-- a Jewish creation story, yeah? But creation is where God withdrew. If God is everything, for creation to exist, there has to be places where God is not. If there's places that God is not, then almost by definition they are not, inherently, holy. It's apophatic, unknowable, like John of the Cross or Kierkegaard or what have you-- I'm getting into the weeds here. Evil is the form which God's mercy takes in the world. Affliction-- she's got a specific term for this, she's talking about spiritual affliction more than physical affliction-- doesn't create human misery, so much as reveals it. And it drives us towards God."

"That sounds, if you will pardon me, fucking horrific. The act of a sadist."

"I don't know that I'm explaining this well. We are created matter, and with affliction we are consumed by God. In the Incarnation, God suffers affliction, is made matter, and consumed by us. It's reciprocal. And if you can go through affliction and still love, and recognize your fellow human being as someone else who has suffered like you, then your duty is to help."

"No, still terrible."

"How do your people explain it, then?"

"By not having an omnipotent deity, to start."

"...I walked right into that one. I surely did. Evil demiurge, again?"

"All about control," he replied, amiable.

"Fair enough. I'm not a Jesuit, I could maybe get at this better if I was. My whole thing with it is, there's a difference between affliction-- which is personal-- and, say, generalized oppression, right? The personal makes you more empathetic with the collective."

"I can see the logic there, yes. I do not know if I agree, but I can see it. But do you truly need to suffer to sympathize with another's suffering?"

She turned her glass around in her hands, focusing hard on the ridged plastic edges. "I'unno. Some things you don't understand till you've been through them. Difference between empathy and sympathy, I guess."

"This is, what. You say, 'the personal is political?'"

She cracked a grin at that. "Oh, you done a lot of reading on second-wave feminism, then?"

"Condescending and uncalled for," he said, wagging a finger at her, mock-stern.

She held up a hand. "Fair point, apologies."

"Te absolvo."

"Thank you." She turned her glass in her hands, trailing through the condensation with a chipped fingernail. "My point being. For me. Affliction leads to empathy, and empathy leads you to act. What's the quote. 'Misery as a collective fact expresses itself as an injustice that cries to the heavens.' That's Oscar Romero, I think? Yeah. Oscar Romero. Anyway the thing he gets at-- Saint Oscar Romero, excuse me, did a lot of stuff in El Salvador in the the seventies, but the idea being: turning people into commodities for economic oppression, that's sin. The idolatry of wealth, of 'national security systems,' that's sin. Divine love should be mediated through justice. Gloria dei vivens homo--"

"'The glory of God is the living person.'"

"Yeah, exactly. Romero was on some-- gloria dei vivens pauper, which I think is probably about right."

"'The glory of God is in the poor.' Hm. And how well did that work out for him?"

"Well. They shot the guy during Mass in nineteen eighty."

"A martyr's death. Isn't that what your people aspire to?"

"Not me, man. I wanna live. But yes, he did lean in hard after his friend was killed. That was an inciting incident. I won't deny it."

"So, what, it is acceptable for one death, if it spurs on 'the greater good?'" He made air quotes at her, and she frowned.

"Not gonna debate the very concept of martyrdom with you, but I'm gonna say no, of course not. But like. Me personally? Rather that than have it go to waste. Some right wing fascist chucklefuck takes me out, I'd sure hope my people'd leverage it for all it's worth."

He sat back and tipped his coffee at her. "Bleak."

"Maybe. We each owe a death. And I mean, despite the guy being beatified, he isn't even necessarily the main dude in Latin America. None of these are exactly new concepts, you understand. But as a modern movement, really, it starts in nineteen sixty-eight, with the Medellín conference in Colombia, kind of as a response to Vatican Two, and from there--" she stopped herself, and raised her glass of tea at him in mock-salute. "Minutiae. The point, and I think I'm cribbing from Ernesto Cardenal here, is that while God is love, love can only exist in accordance with equality and justice."

He tilted his head, raising his eyebrows in total skepticism. "I can only say that this has been-- the opposite of my experience. To put it in the most, eh, diplomatic terms possible."

"The Church has done horrible, fucked up things. Continues to do horrible fucked up things. In a space that big, though, there are always going to be practices that are inherently contradictory. This one is mine. And I have the benefit of being fucking right."

"You do see, don't you, how that-- attitude? Mentality, yes? Is dangerous. Even you! Even if I happen to think that you're right. Which I actually do. The benefit of Satanism, I find, is that we do have room for differences. It is, you would say, I think, built in? There is no wrong way to approach. You find your own way. Nobody will lead you, nobody will control you."

"And how far has that kind of rugged individualism progressed the reduction of human suffering?" she snapped.

"At least it doesn't perpetuate it!" he shot back.

They glared at each other over the formica, not quite snarling, equally frustrated.

The diner had gone quiet. Blank suntanned faces, the lone clink of a spoon in a coffee cup, the somehow awful bubbling of the deep fryer. A lot of people, for one in the morning, he thought. They looked at each other in mutual alarm for one tensed breath, and went for their wallets at the same time.

"No," he said, firm, fishing past Euros for American dollars. "You are taking a vow of poverty and I am an actual rockstar." He shot a stern glance at her opened mouth and felt a stab of immense satisfaction when she shut it, apparently- miraculously, even- chastised. He threw down enough to cover the bill and the tip and reached to drag her out, stopping short of actually touching her elbow at the last moment. "Come."

She went.

They escaped with the perversely jaunty ring of the bell over the door into the thick warmth of the night, and she brayed a laugh again, not quite on the edge of hysterics.

"Go, go, this could get ugly." But he was laughing, too. Madness. He'd seen these exact sort of people outside of a venue, enraged, faces red, carrying hateful picket signs. One small woman and one man frankly built like a noodle could be in real danger. Still, their laughter echoed down the gravel-lined drive they had ducked into, their boots crunching in a staccato rhythm in the stones. This was far too much adrenaline for one night, he thought.

While they slowed to a walk, he watched the fireflies darting upwards in the undergrowth, the ascending dashes of yellow-green light seeming fantastical to him, otherworldly. You heard of great masses of them, in America, but in such quantity it was like seeing a fairytale with your own eyes. They thinned out as the landscape started to shift, from residential suburbs to side streets.

"This was-- good. It was good, to get out. To talk. A lot of this, it is, ehh." He waved a hand in the general direction they were moving, to the venue, the concert, the tour. "Movement. Instinct. There is, by definition, no quiet. And that is fantastic, I enjoy it, I love what I do, I am fortunate in that. But it is not often that I get to speak about these things." The thud of their boots, and the high monotonous drone of a cicada somewhere off in the distance, blending with the faraway hiss of a car on the damp streets. "Thank you," he said, soft. "For this."

Her eyes forward, mouth closed tight. It took her a few steps before she spoke. "You are very welcome." She cleared her throat. "And I appreciate the outside perspective."

"Interesting thing, is it not? Having a vocation."

"Being called. Yes."

"What I do not understand-- and I do not wish to, as you said, litigate the very idea of martyrdom, of course--"

"Of course. That's above my pay grade anyhow."

"But the denial inherent in your practice. The self-denial. It seems to me a, hm. Turning away from joy. You say your God is love, very well. This is removed from my experience with Christians, but I do understand that it should be the intent. To claim that divinity is love and then to willingly cut yourself off from the experience of love seems to me contradictory. Not merely the physical, although that alone seems hideous. Some people of course are not interested, but this cannot be true of all your monsastics, your clergy, your unmarried."

"This is also an old question."

"You cannot tell me it is not vital. Few people are physically martyred, and I can see the value there, even if I think it grotesque. But this seems to me a martyrdom, and willing. And pointless. Everyone should be loved, yes? Is that not your very doctrine?"

"It is, but there's different kinds of love--"

"You are dissembling. Do me the courtesy, Miss Turner, of your honesty."

Copia heard her sharp intake of breath. He had stung her, and he very nearly regretted it.

"Discourtesy wasn't my aim, Cardinal. It's an old question, and people struggle. It's maybe the struggle, for most people, the stumbling block. How can I answer you? It's kind of a personal question, y'know?"

"I can see how it would be. I do not wish to intrude, but come now. What, you offer your suffering up to God? What kind of God would ask you to give up love in the very name of love? It's monstrous!"

"The standard answer is that one becomes the bride of Christ. My thinking is, in turning away from the singular, you're better able to focus on the collective. To focus, to pay attention. And attention in its highest form is prayer."

"You deny yourself. In denial, you turn away knowledge. You said this yourself, how can you understand suffering if you have not suffered? You should know joy, or else how can you understand joy? You should be free to do that, to be in the world, and the world is here! You are here, and while you are here you should be here fully. You should allow yourself to be loved!"

He had actually raised his voice, and his words hung in the thick air, almost suspended with the humidity. He couldn't take it back, and he fell silent, mortified. They had fallen to a stop.

"It's discipline," she said, helpless. She couldn't look at him, and he had to look away at her expression.

"In any case." He cleared his throat, and resumed walking. "Discipline I understand. There is discipline in my practice, you know."

"I can see that. Dedication, certainly. Seems like the whole world's against you. The dominant social climate is not accommodating to being that outspoken about, well, anything to do with sincere belief, really, but especially in your case."

"No. And in this situation, it is easy to-- tend to isolate. To stay in one's own community. Safer. Especially in a hostile environment. Anger is easy, you would say."

"Don't I know it. You do have to live in the world. I think you and I both have cause to be angry. Hell, we're probably angry at a lot of the same things. Coming at it from opposite directions, is all."

"The hypocrisy is galling," he agreed. "If I am a monster in the eyes of these people, let me be an honest monster. They feed their children poison and tell them it is virtue, to hate, to fear, I do not--" he cut himself off, blew out a laugh. "We are angry about the same things. The work is the same. We are both called to liberate, yes?"

"Yeah, I would allow that's fairly definitional."

"Here, you take that side, I will take this one, and we will meet in the middle and cast off all oppression," he said, grandly, sweeping out an arm as if he were back on stage. He echoed her smile on pure reflex.

"And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well."

"Julian of Norwich. An anchoress." Something in the concept, and in the simultaneous hope and resignation in her face, pierced his heart all the way through. She was remote, and lost to him, a marble statue of a saint. The nature of his ministry was to encourage pleasure, of mind and of body, and he did want to break her out of the cell she'd walled herself off into. Perhaps merely for his own satisfaction, when freedom was the whole of his law. Even her freedom to walk into her own cage. "Not so much to be consoled as to console," he said, halfway to himself, watching her.

"Francis of Assisi. But I think you knew that."

"I did."

"You are something else, aren't you?" She looked at him, pleased and reassessing. He felt seen, almost entire.

It was not an entirely comfortable feeling. "Ah," he said. "Perhaps."

He recognized, now, the alleyway they had walked down, the venue shuttered for the night. The only lights inside were deep in the back, distant. Likely everything had been packed away, or near enough. Likely the ghouls were wondering where he was. And she was small, and faith alone would not protect her.

It was too much for him. "It is very late. And I do not know if-- do you have a place to stay? This is not, I think, your home."

"I don't and it's not." She waved him off. "Was planning on just sleeping in the car. The seats fold down, I got a pillow, it's fine."

"I don't like it."

"Ain't about what you like." She dropped her head. "I apologize, that was rude."

"No, it is only--." He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "I do have a hotel room."

"No." It seemed reflexive. But he could see the split second flash of her face cracking open with sheer want. Watched her snatch her composure together just as quick, even as the afterimage lingered in his brain like the echo of a lightning strike. "No, I-- I do not think that would be a good idea."

"There is a couch, even. I could take the couch."

"Copia." Oh, and it was costing her. Painful to watch. That wretched self denial. "Please." A brittle little laugh, accent creeping back in as she forced herself to sound brighter. "I seen you bounce around that stage, you gonna need a mattress."

"Nothing you do not wish, Miss Turner. Never that," he said, as gently as he could. A breath of silence strung out in the thick air, the space of a heartbeat. "Anyways." He considered his position, took a breath, and made the leap. "It would be good to-- I would like to continue this argument. You have some time, no? Before you are-- fully committed. Come to Charleston. My guest. In the spirit of, eh, ecumenical dialogue."

That got a smile out of her. "I'll think about it."

"Please. Do."

"I will. I will think about it."

"In that case." He straightened his spine by three degrees, took the smallest step forward, and picked up her hand in both of his. Even though the gloves it made something catch behind his sternum, the stutter of some cog in engineering. He bowed over it as deeply as he ever had on stage, registered the barest breath of the smell of her, leather and nicotine and something like amber, a clean animal scent. It was only an instant, and he straightened with some regret. "I have enjoyed your company, Sophie."

"I--. Yes. Yeah. Me too." She squeezed his hand, once. "Very much. Be well, Cardinal." And then she slipped away.

He watched her carefully measured walk to her car, head held up with the dignity of the condemned. She opened her door and looked back for the space of one brief inhalation. Orpheus, he thought, nonsensically. He stared at her taillights, the red glow like eyes, the dragon's breath curl of exhaust, long after it had faded into the wide restless night.

It was another twenty minutes before one of the ghouls dragged him back inside.

[fruitcoops]

Fic O’Ween Day 2! Characters belong to @lumosinlove , header is from @noots-fic-fests!

Yesterday’s Halloween movie reference: Practical Magic (1998) ❤️✨ Feel free to guess this one before tomorrow’s reveal!

“I would have loved you at Harvard…I would love you in, I don’t know—in the arctic. I would love you at war, or stuck on some island together, or I would love you in fucking ancient Rome. I’d love you anywhere, Leo. I love you now. We both do.” (Coast to Coast, Chapter 8)

A test tube crossed the bench, its pink tape stark against steaming sides. Glass clinked softly as it slotted into place with the others. Blue-gloved hands double-checked the cap with an instinctive touch. It took Finn a moment to remember they were his own.

ARC Trip 3

Core 6

Sample 4A

The date beneath had been smudged. He must have spilled some ethanol on it earlier, or maybe there was residue on his gloves from testing chlorophyll.

(Chlorophyll? The fuck?)

Not a problem. He had set the Sharpie down on the other bench, most likely, back when he was bothering Logan in the compter labs. A rookie mistake, but one he made often. (How long have I been here?)

The wind was strong outside today. He was grateful for the thick underlayers beneath his lab coat; New York had cold winters, but it was nothing next to the Arctic Circle. The door would most likely be frozen shut for the next few days. No field trips, then. Finn had plenty of samples to process in the meantime. The chill that crept inside the research center kept him focused, and he wasn’t even as bothered as—

“Knutty!”

Blond curls popped up behind the far monitor, then goggles, then a grin. “Hiya, Harz. Early morning?”

“Always,” Finn found himself saying with a shrug. There was work to do at every hour. He wasn’t sure when he’d been up this morning. Hopefully early enough to see the sunrise.

Leo shook his head with a teasing tsk. “Crazy. Anything fun?”

“More of the same.” The same? Same what? “Logan’s doing some melt stats in the other room. Icebergs wait for no man.” Finn tipped his head to the side. “Or breakfast.”

Leo’s nose scrunched. “Aw, I just saw him. Could’ve brought a muffin or something.”

“He’ll live. Rocks?”

“Rocks.” Leo held one up above the shelf dividing their benches for him to see, turning it back and forth.

“Delicious and nutritious.”

Leo gave him a funny look—that frown-smile Finn liked so much, the one Leo gifted to him when he was being an idiot for kicks. “Salty, sometimes,” Leo conceded. His lip slid forward in an exaggerated pout. “But my funding doesn’t cover nutrition.”

“I’ll give you twenty crisp dollars if you let me lick one right now.”

“I guarantee it will taste like a rock.”

“You’re bothering him again,” Logan announced as he passed behind Finn without a glance up from his clipboard.

Finn followed the line of his shoulders with his eyes. “How are your ice caps?”

“Still melting, unfortunately. How’s your grass?”

“Lichen,” Finn corrected without thinking. His mouth was running away from him today, it seemed. “Still growing, thanks for asking. The spec needs to be calibrated, but I’m doing that after lunch.”

“Come with us,” Leo offered, a small smile on his mouth. Oh, right, they were doing lunch today. “Harz and I were going to go at eleven.”

Logan paused. His big green eyes looked pale in the bright lighting of the lab, blinking slowly back at Leo. The shadow of his eyelashes was so clear Finn felt as if mere inches sat between them instead of half a room. “D’accord,” Logan said. “Sounds nice.”

“You forgot breakfast,” Finn informed him.

“Ouais.” Logan gave a half-shrug. “Distracted.”

“We’re getting lunch at noon,” Leo said with a small smile. His goggles had been pushed up into his hair, leaving faint red lines behind on his cheeks. “You should come. Everyone’s in from the field today and tomorrow, did you see the email?”

The email, yes. High winds, and something about the risk of frozen doors. It would be good to have some dedicated lab time. Finn shivered despite himself. The howling, shearing storm outside echoed through the research station’s crisp walls.

“Wooooo, so scary,” Leo teased, leaning back against Finn’s bench where they stood beside each other.

Logan widened his eyes in mock fear. “The ghosts stole my breakfast.”

“Oh, yes, we’re very haunted.” Amusement played across Leo’s face like sun off clear ice. “Breakfast-stealing ghosts and pet penguins.”

“I don’t think Loops keeps them as pets,” Finn tried, but Logan was suddenly quite close and he was having a hard time concentrating. “I think—I think I’d be more afraid of him than the ghosts. Or the penguins.”

Logan’s dark brow twitched up. “I’m not afraid. Are you?”

Leo and Logan were so lovely when they kissed. The knot in Finn’s stomach eased; he feared no ghosts or scientists or mean, flightless birds when they were there. They were keeping it chaste, perhaps for the lab’s sake but certainly not for his. No, they’d been together too long for that—no, hadn’t Leo just come here just this season off a nasty breakup?—had Finn tasted him yet? He wanted to, desperately. His bench partner, someone who looked at Logan the same way he did, like daylight after a polar night.

Logan’s hands were warm on his cold face. He tasted like snow and mint when Finn traced the tip of his tongue against Logan’s mouth. Lovely, lovely.

(My toes are cold.)

He had been kissing Leo long enough to be perched on his own bench, now. The rushing of blood in his ears overwhelmed the blizzard outside. His test tubes were chiming behind him, gentle glass-on-glass. Finn reached back to steady them while Leo bent to catch Logan’s lower lip between his teeth for a pull that made him smile. Tender in their way, so in love it filled Finn up. The weight of the ring on his left hand was familiar.

Unnamed science and screaming blizzards could wait. Surely this is what they were funded to do.

[thementallyillapollochild]

"Stay wild, Moon child,"

Hello! The names Luna, it's nice to meet y'all!

(Donation boundaries)

I DO NOT DO DONATIONS, I AM A MINOR. STOP ASKING FOR THEM.

Taken anons: 🕊 🧸 🛹

Name: Luna Dark

Age: 14

Godly Parent: ☀️Apollo☀️

Appearance: Midnight blue eyes, short and fluffy chocolate brown hair, lots of freckles, terribly pale despite being a literal child of the sun, has a sun birthmark on the back of her neck

Sexuality: Aroace

Gender: Genderfluid

Pronouns: Any

Height: 4'11

Year rounder: Yes (she no no wanna school)

Favorite Siblings: Octavian and Nico

Hobbies: Figure skating, crocheting, hitting people with tables/chairs

Skills: Archery, hand to hand combat, fighting with daggers, stealing

Wepons: Bow 'n arrow, dagger, sword, chairs/tables

Song she relates to: Girls by Marina

Other characters: Cyrus Nova, Coral Emerson

ooc

Yello! This is essentially a self insert teehee :3

Heres lunas wepons:

( @just--a--random--human--being thanks for the sword!!!)

MUTUALS!!!!

@yourfavoriteearthshaker

@just--a--random--human--being

@thatonebitheaterkid

@0asta0

@scarletbeast

@godlyupsguy

@apollos-favorite-child

@the-god-of-sun

@lesterthesunboy

@four-leafed-queer-gal

@hugs4neth-official

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@ihavehomework2dobutimhereinstead

@ynkfva

If we're mutuals and your not on this list let me know!!!!

This account is run by

@spacegirlisawalunareclipes

I also run a nico blog

@king-of-the-ghosts

And I have a writing blog

@luna-writes-shit

And a dc rp blog

@your-local-street-child

And also a marauders rp blog

@the-best-slytherin

And maybe even a shifting blog

@holy-shit-luna-shifts

Oh and a witch blog

@moon-lights-witch

Tim Drake

@i-need-a-fucking-coffee

Tags

♡#shush mortals luna is speaking♡ IC~

☆#creator is speaking so listen☆ OOC~

♧#luna lore♧ LORE~

◇#lunas insta◇ INSTA POSTS~

♤#lunas twitter◇ TWITTER POSTS~

Headers from @dedheaders

Dividers from @saradika

This user is ____

[sharp-silver4795]

Who I Write For!

Specifically for My creepypasta stuff!!

Sooooo… yeah!

Quick Key:

* I made up a last name bc they don’t have one that I know of

** I made up an entire real name for them

« I’m still doing research on them

~ I’m unsure if I will actually use them

≈ I basically took the principle of the character and made my own story out of it

° Possibly Spelled Wrong

❌ Traitors

📍Technically Neutral

🐝 Marble Hornets

✏️ Personal OC

! Not the name of the Creepypasta

[Emoji] there will be a key in that section!

Second(s) in Command

Proxies

Rouge Proxy (Heather Marshall)

Zechariah (Lynn*)

Wilson the Basher (Wilson Shane*)

Kate the Chaser (Kate Milens)

Kat Hunter (Rodrigo Ortiz)

Neon Spike (Na-eun Shinn) ✏️

X-Virus (Cody Chess*)

Ticci Toby (Toby Rodgers)

Masky (Tim Wright) 🐝

Hoodie (Brian Thomas) 🐝

Casters

Bloody Angel (Cassie Hanes**)

Judge Angels (Diana Clark)

Scarecrow Girl «

Allies

Non-Proxies

Jane the Killer (Jane Abbot°)

Nina the Killer (Nina Hopkins)

Jeff the Killer (Jeffery Woods)

Liu Woods 📍

Nathan the Nobody (Nathan Lux) ❌

Puppeteer (Johnathan Blake) 📍

Clockwork (Natalie Ouellette)

BEN Drowned (Benjamin Lawman)

Lost Silver (Ethan Miller)

L. Jack 📍

L. Jill 📍

Candy Pop 📍

Jason The Toymaker 📍

Eyeless Jack (!Jack Nichols)📍

Non-Casting

ChessMaster (William Dwight)

Ani the Wight (Anastasia Morozov) ❌

Bloody Painter (Helen Otis)

Zero (!Alice Jackson) ≈

Dark Link

Doll Maker (Vine Gier)

Glitchy Red «

Kagekao « ~

Candy Cane 📍

Double Sided

Nurse Ann

Dr Smiley

Rose Demon ✏️

These are basically all the Demons from an AU/Story that stemmed from my version of EJ.

It kinda Snowballed from me creating an idea of Death.

Children of Hydra

(True)Name // Name (by Humans) - Pronunciation - Sin

Sutna // Satan - “set-nuh” - Wrath

Lucifer - “loose-if-er” - Pride

Levinn // Leviathan - “lev-in-in” - Envy

Asmodeus - “Aw-s-mo-dee-us” - Lust

Bzelba // Beelzebub - “Beh-zel-buh” - Gluttony

Belphegor - “bell-feh-gore” - laziness

Mammon - “ma’am-uhn” - Greed

Pale Rose [Pride]

Skail

Niak

Violet Rose [Male Envy]

Selcra

Blue Rose [Lust]

Armery

Ceri

Pkal

Jegyn

Crimson Rose [Gluttony]

Eyeless Jack Eashar

Kikurik

Natural Rose [Sloth]

Harbre

Lixew

Treq

Amber Rose [Female Greed]

Sharbor

Weste

Rekol

Golden Rose [Male Greed]

Zcer

Gar

Lupar

I know I probably over did it with the dividers but it’s not my fault that they’re pretty 🤷

Divider Creds: Sister Lucifer

Header Creds: ME!!

[koco-coko]

A World of Color | Ikevil Fic

Tags; Fluff, Found Family, Painting Nails, Slice of Life

Characters: William Rex + Lacie Monet (OC) (NOT SHIP), all of Crown briefly

Word Count; 2279 (6 pages)

a/n; i love found family dynamics and crown is the most dysfunctional found family in existence

i think they might like this: @natimiles @olivermorningstar @leia-skywalker-organa

thanks @natimiles for the headers/dividers

The garden was always peaceful. A sanctuary of flowers and nature that even the cruelest of men deemed quiet enough to wander around without trampling rosebuds and honeysuckles. Perhaps it was an escape from evil, or perhaps the beauty was its neutrality. Hero and villain alike could admire the lily pads and tadpoles in the point.

Under the shade of the gazebo were two such antagonists. Lord William Rex, an arrogant, self-righteous villain wearing a cape as red as blood, and… A little girl. A short thing wearing a cotton, purple dress and a blindfold over unseeing eyes, with pale blonde hair that cascaded down her back into long, twin braids. The girl’s shoes had long been discarded to a shadowy corner of the gazebo. 

Despite their differences, the pair sat at a tea table as complete equals. In fact, the self-righteous monarch held the little girl’s hand, gently applying a coat of paint to her fingernails. 

Lacie squirmed. “It’s cold,” she whispered. “Are you done yet? What color is it?”

William smiled. “This is only the first layer, dear,” he explained, “It’s called the base coat.”

“And then we add the color?” Lacie said excitedly, her free hand eagerly searching for a platter of cookies. She moved around carefully and slowly so as to not knock over the chilled tea in cups that were nearby. William let her hunt the table. He had learned a long while ago that helping the girl would only cause her to huff and pout about her own competency. “What color is it going to be?”

“I’m not sure,” he grinned amicably, “Is there a color you wish for?”

“Will,” Lacie responded, wryly. “I’m blind.”

“I know,” he stayed with a tranquil smile as he reached for her other hand. “I was simply curious about what you would say. You’ve yet to tell me why you want your nails painted so badly, even though you won’t be able to see them.”

Lacie rolled her eyes. William couldn’t see that due to her blindfold, of course, but the little girl had to add a dramatic flair to every action. With an embarrassed little huff, she murmured: “Because I felt your nails and thought we could match…” William knew not to comment, since Lacie would only go on a tirade about how no, she did not think he was mysterious and cool at all! It was just curiosity! Just that alone! And she certainly didn’t want to spend time with him whatsoever! “What color are your nails?”

“I usually paint mine red,” William hummed. Lacie perked up slightly. Finished with the clear and shiny coat of polish, William put the brush away and inspected his work with keen eyes. Any error would have to be viewed and corrected by him, after all. “Occasionally black. I’ve been told it compliments my eyes.”

“What color are your eyes?” Lacie continued questioning. The brief question of children and their neverending curiosity flashed in Lord Rex’s mind. 

“Red,” he stated simply.

Lacie didn’t appear too thrilled by his response. A small pout came to her cheeks. She wanted to say something, but she figured she’d only get a response along the lines: “you’re the one who asked, aren’t you?” She simply hummed with dissatisfaction.

“Perhaps we should approach the problem differently,” William started once he was satisfied with the precise painting of Lacie’s nails. “I’ve always wondered how you perceive colors. Some say that certain colors can make us feel different emotions, and I’m curious if you experience something similar to that.”

Lacie was quiet for a long moment, her brows knit in deep thought. William said nothing, sipping from his teacup while he awaited her words. While in silence, a hummingbird breezed by the gazebo. Breaking her thought-train, Lacie quickly told the bird she couldn’t play, she had to concentrate! It understood her immediately, bowing its head in apologies and zooming off to a different flower patch. A perk of her curse, she supposed. 

“Color is…” Lacie mumbled before she spoke fully. “Honestly? I’ve never really cared about color much, so I haven’t really thought about what they mean to me.”

William tilted his head. “A few moments ago you were begging to know what color I’d paint your nails.” He already knew the answer, but he knew Lacie loved the sound of her own voice. 

“I’m interested in it now, obviously. And I don’t want you to pull a prank on me and make it something ugly! I know Jude would.”

“Of course, my mistake,” he laughed, “I give you my word that you’ll have the prettiest nails in London.”

Lacie huffed, bringing her chin up. “Second prettiest. I don’t want Elbie trying to rip my fingers out.”

William nodded, taking a bite of one of the strawberries in a bowl nearby. “What a clever girl you are.”

“I know,” Lacie giggled. “What were we– Oh! Color! Yes, hm… I think color is more so an experience than it is a feeling. It also depends on how the word sounds, too. Does that make sense?”

William glanced over the vials of paint and compared each to Lacie’s figure, only to push them aside a moment later and give the girl his full attention. “If you explain it to me, I’m sure it will.”

Oh, Lacie did love talking, didn’t she? Especially when it was about something she knew and the other didn’t. It wasn’t often at Crown she got to be the one who knew things and would be listened to. Unbeknownst to her, a large smile curved onto her face. William’s eyes thinned with pleasure in return. “Give me some colors, then!”

William didn’t waste a moment. “Black and red.”

“Oh, black is very simple,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “I’ve heard people call it scary, but whenever I hear it, I think of something warm and comfortable. Like a fireplace, or a big bed with lots of blankets and clean sheets! Very enveloping, as well.”

William tapped his chin. “I suppose that does make sense. You and Victor are quite close.”

“Does Victor wear a lot of black?” Lacie asked. Unable to keep still, she kicked her feet back and forth while she leaned on the table. One again, she reached for another dessert and devoured it in seconds. 

“Quite,” William said, before continuing to amuse the girl. “Is the evening black as well?”

“No, not at all! Nighttime is very green, actually. But black is very cozy and dark, like the night, so I see the confusion,” she stated. “Oh! You asked about red, right? Well, I think red is very unique. It’s bright, but sort of diluted. Blood is red, right?”

“Correct.”

“Right. So, taking that into account, I believe red is very lively and exciting! Every living thing has blood, I think, so it’s a sign of life. I’d say Liam and Alfons are very, very red.” Lacie’s grin only spread wider as she kept talking.

And Lord Rex, clad in black and red, was more than pleased to know she had such a vibrant view of his wardrobe. “And what about purple? You’re wearing a purple dress right now.”

“Oh, purple is very mysterious, but also cold. Like deep in the ocean,” the child explained with joy, “Fish are purple.”

“All fish?”

“All of them. Except dolphins– those are orange. Also, purple is very smoky. I don’t think smoke itself is purple, but the smell is purple. I don’t like smoke, but I don’t think it smells too bad after the fact.”

“Jude wears a purple coat,” William said. “And he smokes quite often. Does that–”

“Ew!” Lacie shrieked, “I take back everything I just said.”

William let out a hearty laugh. “Alright, I’ve already forgotten.”

“Good. Now, I think…” Lacie hummed a short tune. “You said your nails are red, right?” 

“Indeed I did,” he said, “Your memory is incredibly sharp.”

Lacie blushed, “Thanks.” She coughed to make her red face go down. “I want red nails then!”

“It will be done,” William said. “Do you have any recommendations for how I should paint my nails?”

With that, Lacie gasped. “Oh! Can I paint your nails?” she said, her feet swinging back and forth wildly. William stilled, looking over the bottles of nail polish, then at the girl’s blindfold. “I’ll paint them pink and blue! Remember how I said Liam and Alfons are very red? I think you’re pink. You and Harrison are pink. And Ellis! Very polite and whimsical, but also very weird. Flowers and trees are pink, as well,” she explained, before catching her breath once more. “Or blue! ‘Cuz blue’s a scary color, like brown. I think Roger is very blue. Dark blue; very mature and serious and scary. Roger and also books are blue. Oh! What about both? And black! Black suits you, too, I think.”

“Let me finish your nails first,” William responded, “And then I will trust my hands to you.” William couldn’t help but feel brightened as Lacie ranted on and on about how she perceived the world without her sight. The blind little girl did not live in a dark void; no! Quite the opposite! In fact, she existed in a loud cacophony of sounds, feelings, sensations, that all were painted with bright ideas! Paper was yellow, grass was magenta, the sound of birds chirping was a bright mauve, the creaking of wood was a homely orange, a kiss on the cheek was teal. People weren’t only one color either, he came to learn, by a stained glass painting of thousands of different tastes and sounds that changed whenever sunlight hit them.

Once Lacie’s nails had been dyed that same blood red William favored so, he gave his hand to Lacie and guided her through the same steps. Lacie wore an enormous grin throughout. Sure, she was blind, but she could still feel the soft skin of his hands. She ran her thumb along each of his fingers to find out where his nails were, then brushed over the keratin slowly. She bit her lip as she concentrated, and William didn’t feel the need to correct her.

“Here, this color–” she whispered, dipping it into one of the paint vials. Letting go of William’s hand for a brief moment, she felt around. The textures of each object used to mark colors were specific, so as to let Lacie recognize the corresponding colors. Cookie, teacup, strawberry, a petal. Hm, decisions, decisions…She reached behind the teacup and gently took one of the vials. “This is pink, right?” 

“Indeed,” William said.

Then, Lacie dipped the brush into the paint and took his hand. She ran her thumb over each finger, stopping at his middle. “I painted your thumb and index already…” she mumbled to herself, then quickly felt the fingers beside it. “Four, five– Yes!” While she didn’t pat herself on the back, she did bite her lip to try and hide her ever-growing smile.

The day breezed by easily, and soon enough night had fallen over London. Crown gathered in the dining hall– a sinister meeting of villains, planning dastardly schemes and… 

“What the fuck is on your hands?” Jude spat, stabbing the food on his plate with no remorse. Poor rabbit… “Did a rainbow vomit on ya?”

William hummed, sweet and innocently, looking down at his free hand, then the one that Lacie held onto. “What? I’ve had my nails painted since we met.”

Victor raised his eyes from his food, his eyes twinkling as he saw the state of the self-righteous tyrant. “William! My, what a… unique and colorful form of self-expression!” The rest of the table turned their attention to the pair, all with different levels of surprise. A few eager, some confused, others terrified.

William’s entire hand and wrist had been stroked with thousands of different colors, all overlapping each other, never in a straight line, with only a few spots actual skin managed to break free. Some places had already crusted and flaked off due to the bending and twisting of his fingers and wrist. On his cheek, in baby pink, was a sloppy heart (or maybe a lumpy circle? a peach?). While his hands looked like a used artist’s palette, his nails were, indeed, bright pink. “Lacie and I did each other’s nails over tea this afternoon,” he explained plainly. Lacie beamed at the rest of Crown as she showed off her expertly done red nails, despite her thumb’s polish already being visibly picked at. The little girl wore a similar painted heart on her cheek in dark purple, although her's was leagues more neat than William's.

Liam’s face lit up like a firework. “Wow! Lacie, we should do each other’s nails sometime, too! That’d be fun.”

“Perhaps I’ll join you,” Alfons chimed in, adjusting his gloves briefly. “We can make it a Crown-bonding activity! 

Roger chuckled and shook his head. Elbert shrunk back into his seat. Jude scoffed loudly, “Leave me outta it. I ain’t letting that brat near me with any kind of paint.”

Ellis ignored his boss’s remarks, smiling gently as he sipped from his cup. “You two look happy.”

Lacie shrugged in response to Ellis as she took her seat besides Victor. “You’re all just jealous that I’m such a good nail-painter! William said it himself!” Harrison thinned his eyes but refrained from comment. “Victor, can I do your nails next?”

Victor ruffled Lacie’s hair with enthusiasm. “Of course! I’d be delighted to have our littlest villain do my nails! What color should I wear?”

Lacie hummed and swung her feet back and forth, wearing a knowing smile as she felt William’s gaze on her. “I’ve been told you wear a lot of black, but I think you’d look great in blue.”

[formula-1-otp]

Not Your Fault

Summary : some of the younger drivers decide to go play some football, all fun and games until Logan gets hurt

A/N : I just wanted to say thank you so much for the notes on my last fanfic I am so grateful and I hope you guys enjoy! Anyone needing any f1 obsessed friends and want to help with me prompts let me know! Now onto the story!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Logan sat on the plane looking out the window, he was ready for the last stop of the triple header. Liam sat beside him as most of the grid was on the plane save for a few teams who had a few extra duties to do.

“Are you ready for another race weekend?” Liam smiled at his boyfriend he knew Logan was disappointed in himself after the last race weekend. Logan just nodded giving a small smile. Liam placed Logan’s hand in his before he started gently rubbing his thumb over Logan’s knuckles.

“How about we play some football when we arrive?” It was Lando with that suggestion. Liam, Logan and Oscar all smiled being sat within proximity of each other. The boys all helped entertain each other on the long flight before they finally made the descent into London. The drive to the hotel was long but it wasn’t too bad thankfully. They had landed very early in the morning so most of the fans were either sleeping or thought they were arriving later.

The boys made it in the hotel lobby and everyone checked into their rooms.

“Want to meet back down here in about half an hour and we’ll go play?” Logan said to the group getting a bunch of nods in return.

“Can we join?” Pierre asked from across the lobby with Yuki standing beside him.

“Of course, we’ll see you soon,” Logan smiled grabbing Liam’s hand and headed up to the room. The two blondes organized their stuff got changed quickly, and cleaned themselves up before getting ready to head back downstairs. Liam pulled on a red bull sweater before chuckling at Logan’s hurt expression.

“You know the media will be out and about,” Logan knew Liam had a point, they could never let the media find out so sometimes Liam took a few extra precautions.

Lando carefully kicked the soccer ball back and forth between his feet trying to get a quick warm-up before the rest of the group showed up. It wasn’t long before the rest showed up. Oscar looked on his phone for the nearest park with a field before the group headed out. They took some back roads trying to avoid the mass of fans and media. The walk was short and the park was thankfully mostly empty, a few small families spread about but mostly everyone just kept to themselves.

The boys all kicked the ball around getting a nice warm-up in.

“3 vs 3?” Lando asked holding the ball under his foot. The group nodded as Lando smiled. Oscar, Logan and Pierre all walked to one half of the field while Liam and Yuki went and stood behind Lando. Both “teams” made their version of a net getting ready for their small competitive game. The ball sat centered both teams ready before a small bit of chaos ensued. The boys were having a great time they decided to play to 5 points it was currently 4-4 both teams were getting competitive. Logan was up against Lando for a face-off.

“You ready?” Lando asked raising his eyebrow at Logan, the American smiled and gave a small nod. Both men went for it, it was Logan who was a tad faster. Managed to get the ball halfway down to their made net before Liam tried to kick the ball away unfortunately he made a slight miscalculation and kicked Logan's ankle sending the American tumbling to the ground with a sharp pain shooting through his ankle.

“Oh my god Logan are you okay?” Liam instantly dropped to his knees beside his boyfriend as Logan was clutching his left ankle. The other boys had started to make a circle around them Oscar was on Logan’s other side trying to help assess the situation.

“Hurts Li,” was all Logan could mutter, Liam’s face paled he couldn’t imagine if he had broken his ankle, Logan was supposed to race in two days and Liam potentially just ruined all of it.

“Can you move it at all?” That was Oscar’s voice bringing Liam back to the real world where he was needed currently. Oscar looked as Logan slightly moved his foot meaning it wasn’t broken but it wasn’t good.

“Let’s get him back to the hotel,” Oscar and Liam helped the American to his good foot placing one arm over each of their shoulders while Lando and the rest grabbed their stuff and started making a clear path back to the hotel while also trying to shield themselves in case any unwanted media was around. The walk back to the hotel was agonizing for everyone, Logan was still in a lot of pain Liam was feeling guilty and the rest of the group wasn’t sure how to react, they knew it wasn’t good.

Finally, back at the hotel, they made it to Logan and Liam’s room. Lando grabbed Logan’s phone getting Alex's number to call the young Thai driver picked up. Lando didn’t have time for pleasantries he was slightly panicking.

“Alex it’s Lando! I need the Williams medic number!?” He spat out so quickly, Alex on the other end was stunned for a second before he spat out the number he had for some reason memorized. Pierre who was right beside Lando was writing the number down and dialing before Lando was even off the phone.

“Why do you need the Williams medic?” Alex was slightly confused he knew McLaren had their medic most of the teams did.

“Logan had a bit of an incident but I’ll explain more later,” he quickly hung up the phone and turned back to the other 3 men around Logan, Lando could see Liam was shaking slightly trying to comfort his boyfriend. Oscar was also looking a little worried but he was able to hold it together a little easier than Liam could. Yuki was just trying to be helpful in any way he could. Pierre returned off the phone when there was a knock at the door quickly Pierre threw open the door to the William’s medic standing in front.

“Merci beaucoup! You were so quick!” Pierre leads the medic in and over to the bed.

“Well Logan you know I don’t like seeing you under these conditions and since everyone is worried about you can you tell me what happened?” The medic whose name tag said Cole started asking Logan some questions assessing the injury getting all possible information. After about half an hour of examining it, Cole looked at Logan and smiled.

“It’s not broken, it’s badly sprained, but if you keep off of it for the next couple of days you might be able to race still this weekend. But I will be back to assess it every day,” Logan couldn’t help but let out a smile it still hurt but if he was told he couldn’t race he wasn’t sure what he would do with himself, he needed the points he needed the seat time anything to prove he deserved to be there. “I’ll give you some pain medicine and some with a bit of sleep meds to help you sleep, for now just rest and keep off your ankle, I’ll let your trainer know and get him to bring you up some crutches.” Cole handed the boy some pills and explained how his routine should be over the day. Lando took this second of distraction to grab Liam’s arm, he slowly winked at Oscar hoping his boyfriend would understand, Oscar gave him a soft smile as he disappeared from Lando’s view.

“Hey talk to me Liam what’s going on?” Lando made sure to keep eye contact with the kiwi, he knew Liam could be a bit flighty. He and Liam had never been best of friends by any means but he knew Liam needed and friend unfortunately as a reserve driver the young Kiwi didn’t have a lot of friends on the road he was always friendly to everyone but hadn’t made a lot of connections aside from Logan’s friends.

“Nothing I just was worried I ruined the weekend, if he couldn’t race Lando, Williams would never let me see him again and it could’ve ruined his entire f1 career all because I wanted to have some fun,” Liam ran his fingers through his hair voice beginning to speed up he was panicking now he couldn’t deny it. Lando saw all the signs of a panic attack coming on he carefully slowed his breathing hoping that would help the energy around Liam.

“Liam, you need to calm down mate, can I touch you?” Lando could see Liam’s eyes darting around before they settled on Lando, Lando could see the tears slowly streaming down his cheeks. He nodded slowly before Lando carefully placed a hand on his back. “It’s not your fault Liam, it was just an accident, it’s not broken and he can probably still race Sunday if you take extra good care of him,” Lando smiled at the young man beside him as he could see the kiwi slowly calming down. After a few moments in silence as Liam was calming down he was finally ready to speak.

“Thank you, Lando, I needed that, sometimes I, I just don’t want to screw this up for Logan, he deserves his seat and I would hate to accidentally jeopardize that.” Liam smiled at the older boy, he was grateful that the older men could read him better than he could read himself.

“Now let’s get in there so you can take care of your boyfriend,” Lando stood to his feet helping Liam to his feet before they reentered the hotel room.

As the hotel door swung open, Logan looked to see his boyfriend and Lando re-enter. Logan couldn’t miss the tear streaks down his boyfriend’s cheeks but before he could even ask Liam had his arms wrapped around his boyfriend.

“I’m so sorry Logan, anything you need just let me know,” Liam said pulling back and smiling.

Liam spent the next 3 days waiting on Logan's hand and foot and the best part the young American still was allowed to participate in the race on Sunday and he did finish his best finish of P15. Liam was ecstatic for his boyfriend and was waiting in his garage when Logan arrived. Liam handed him his crutches as he exited the car.

“I’m so proud of you baby! P15 that’s amazing,” Liam embraced his boyfriend helping him take off some of his gear.

“Thank you so much Liam for everything,” Logan leaned into the hug placing his mouth beside Liam’s ear. “And none of it was your fault,” Logan gently whispered to his boyfriend before continuing to his media duties and his team’s celebration. Everything always worked out in the end and sometimes better than expected.

[saradika-graphics]

— currently working on:

to be updated

— queued / completed

fire headers/divider

black flowers (recolor)

pale and dark green hearts

pastel bunnies dividers

evermore dividers

international women’s day

peach to maroon hearts

spring garden dividers

fantasy vampire dividers

fantasy weapons

ethan landry masterlist

waves and leaves dividers

red spider lily dividers

easter dividers

dragon dividers - recolor

fairy light dividers

feather dividers

pastel pink & yellow dividers

witchy dividers

bakery with utensils

hannibal quotes

forest dividers

mando dividers & mdni/support banners

yellow butterflies dividers

bugs dividers

hozier dividers

genderqueer dividers

80s rock dividers

sage green lines

casino dividers

don’t repost banners

pokemon dividers

fenced off animal dividers

wisteria dividers

speak now dividers

romantic florals - recolor

dark to light blue heart dividers

old school phone dividers

blue & purple computer dividers

black minimalist divider/headers

re: heisenburg dividers

scrollwork recolor (silver/gold)

academia dividers

yellowjacket dividers

black/green heart monitor

gold/silver scrollwork

blue/pink/green butterflies

academia

space headers to match dividers

hello kitty dividers

green 'viewer discretion is advised' dividers

forget-me-not dividers

red / deer dividers

bird dividers

lover (ts) dividers

peacock dividers

dinosaur dividers

emerald moon/sun dividers

violet dividers

all too well dividers

blood dividers

red/black mdni dividers

pink/white/black dividers

jjk headers/dividers

plant dividers

blood dividers

chess/roses dividers

skull/bones dividers

wildflower dividers

TTPD dividers

fruit pie dividers

twilight saga dividers

cozy autumn

[artistesoiree]

Nightfall in Sunridge Ranch

Chapter 1

{'70s Jack Daniels x Fem!OC)

Chapter 2

Rating: Mature Warnings: Mentions of blood and draining blood (she's a vampire, I feel it's a given), drug mention, mc is a bit eerie and her thoughts can be a bit troubling, Likely incorrect things about the 70s and Paris, France, as I was born in '02 and haven't been outside the PNW since I was born, Jack's too suave for his own good and probably shouldn't flirt with vampires, I hope he isn't OOC? Veronica's maker is interesting…(and is named after my favorite IWTV character) but I'll get into that in later chapters, takes place in the late 70s in a made-up Texan town WC: 3.8k

A/N:

Howdy, y'all! I wanted to write this because I've been recently inspired to begin writing again. I was inspired by Interview with the Vampire, 70s Texas, little bit of Ethel Cains Album Preachers Daughter, and my own OCs. The writing might be rough, but I'm proud of it. It's told in the first-person POV, and I hope you guys like Veronica as much as I do. She's a wreck and a weirdo .Oh, and the introduction was inspired by the beginning of The Vampire Lestat by Anne Rice.

headers by @/saradika

I am Veronica Sharpe. I am a vampire who stands six feet tall. I have been blessed with my mother's black curls and my father's family's white streak in it. I have my mother's pale complexion, cheekbones, plush lips, and aquiline nose. I have my father's slender green eyes. My father gave me his height, while my mother gave me the gift of a body with feminine curves. Over the years, while I have maintained my feminine body, I have gained muscle, which has dramatically complimented my figure. I am a strong woman. I am proud of that.

I was only twenty-one when I was turned in the year 1904. I lived in Paris, France, and several lovers sought my hand. One of them was my maker, Armand Sharpe. He was a tall man with a fine figure, and he loved his beautiful clothes and long silk like red hair. He collected art pieces and hung them in his home. He had found me painting in the Jardin des Plantes and asked kindly if he could buy one of my paintings. Armand loved his beautiful women; I was flattered to be one of them. 

He always talked about how I should be grateful that I remain eternally beautiful, that I will never age like most women, and that my youthful beauty will never leave. He always seemed too proud of it. And I am grateful, his beauty is like mine, eternal.

Although I am thankful that I remember my mother, father, and sister, Armand, when we first met, had made it possible for me to have photographs of my family. While I don’t remember my family name, I remember their names. My mother was named Estelle, and my father was Laurent, and my sister was Lucille. But sadly, I don’t know the name my mother gave me when I was born. I expressed my discomfort with not remembering my name to Armand, and he thought of a name for a moment until he told me that my name must be Véronique. It is a beautiful name, a one I deserve.

As time passed, my name changed from Véronique to Veronica. This transition came in ‘64 when a waitress misheard my name and called me Veronica in a thick southern California accent. She was a lovely gal. She was a Barbie blonde wearing a baby blue uniform, which suited her tanned skin tone. Her hair was styled like Farrah Fawcett's and smelled like Adorn Self-Styling Hair Spray. Veronica stuck. The transition was freeing from the name my maker and husband had given me. The name Armand would use to beckon me to his room was the name he would call with desire. 

I am very thankful to the waitress at that Los Angeles diner a couple of years ago; she gave me a new name, and may never know what it meant to me. I am sure Armand felt the same way, it is a gift to give a name to someone.

As I make my way along the winding Interstate 10 in Texas, the sky is painted with the last hues of the sunset, giving way to the emergence of countless stars. The radio fills the car interior with the nostalgic melody of John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads." This song has been the background to my travels for the past couple years. With my hand resting on the smooth, black leather steering wheel of my 1964 Ford Mustang, I tap my fingers in time to the music. The car, painted a deep raven black, seems to blend seamlessly with the night. Despite the darkness, I wear my circular black sunglasses with their delicate silver frame. It might strike some as odd to wear sunglasses at night, but I do so to conceal my naturally eerie and unnerving green eyes, a feature that has often drawn unnerving attention. 

I’ve never understood why they were unnerving. They’re my eyes; they’ve been green since childhood. Is there something I’m missing? Green is the color of the earth, why must I have to cover my beauty.

The fuel gauge on my dashboard is hovering dangerously close to empty, and as I glance out the window, a highway sign catches my eye. It reads, ‘Visit Sunridge Ranch, Texas! The Cowboy Capital of the USA!’ I find myself humming in response, realizing that not only do I need to refuel, but it might also be a good idea to find a place to stay for the night. The sun will rise soon, and although I won't burst into flames like in fiction, its rays will still leave me with a nasty sunburn, turning my pale skin red. It’s embarrassing. Armand would scold me like a child when I would come home red. As my husband, he often acted like a father, not my own. Oh no, he decided my father wasn't useful and took him away from me.

As I made my way into town, I was struck by its quaint charm and the subtle nods to its cowboy past. Before heading to the nearby motel, I decided to fill up my car with gas. As I approach the motel, I couldn't help but notice the small sign featuring a cowgirl riding a horse and the name "Desert Ranch Motel." It seems like a beautiful place to spend a day. The sign advertised a pool I plan to enjoy once the sun had set.

I hear the soft jingle of a bell as I push open the heavy wooden door to the front desk. Standing behind the counter is a woman who seems out of place in this ordinary setting. Her immaculate appearance and bored expression tell me she'd rather be anywhere else. I glimpse her name tag and see "Barbara" etched onto it. 

"Welcome to the Desert Ranch Motel, where the Old West meets comfort," she recites in a dry, monotone voice. "What kind of room are you looking for?"

The weirdest thing is that Barbara jumps when she looks up at me and tries to act as if she hadn't jumped. Am I creepy? Surely it cannot be my eyes, they cannot be creepy in this light. Was it my staring? My eyes burning into her.

As she asked if I was interested in the suite, I responded, "I will take the suite." I respond, there is nothing fancy about the way I said it. It was monotone. Following my response, she picked up the check-in book to check for its availability, or at least that's what I assumed she was doing.

"Sure... that'll be no problem," she says, keeping her pretty blue eyes on my figure as she checks the lodging book. That will be 15 dollars for the day," Barbara says uncertainly as I hand her the cash. She carefully notes my name in the lodging book and gracefully passes me the key. "The room is 28B. I hope you have a pleasant stay, ma'am," she says.

The prominent feature of the chain is a weathered cowboy pendant suspended from it, effortlessly enhancing the town's rustic charm and Western essence. I wonder who made it; it looks like an artist had a hand in making it. 

As I make my way down the hallway to 28B, the weight of my luggage is a reassuring reminder of the countless times I've journeyed down this similar hallway. I navigate the stairs quickly. Arriving at the end of the hallway, I reach for the doorknob and swing the door open. A smile spreads as I take in the view before me.

The wooden door creaks open as I enter the room, unveiling a spacious living area. The room features a sunken seating area adorned with vibrant patterned cushions encircling a central sunken pit that could double as a fire pit. The brick fireplace is the main focus, making everything warm and comfortable. 

Large windows flood the space with natural light, offering picturesque views of the pool outside. The high ceiling is adorned with several elegant hanging lights that glow warmly throughout the room. The inviting atmosphere makes it a pretty space to spend time and relax.

Behind the conversation pit, the bed steals the attention, decorated with a striking orange comforter and decorative pillows. The bedframe and nightstands complement each other, showcasing a matching wood. The clock on the nightstand displayed 3:02 am, signaling the impending arrival of dawn. Hungry from my long drive from San Antonio, I couldn't ignore the persistent itch of blood thirst at the back of my throat. As the first light of dawn began to break over the horizon, I felt the familiar hunger gnawing at my insides. It is different from a human's regular hunger pains; my stomach feels as if it’s going to turn inside out, and I might die. 

The craving for blood pounded through me, and I know I couldn't ignore it much longer. But living in this arid, desolate town presented a challenge—no nearby life sources could quench my thirst. Then it hit me: In such a deserted town, there is an option: to search for the presence of rats. Although I don't like the taste of rat blood, it satisfies my thirst for blood. Or perhaps the local diner could provide a solution. I could order a rare steak and let its rich blood juices satiate my hunger for the night. I always thrived while killing; there is something so satisfying about that iron-rich liquid spilling down my throat.

As I leave the dimly lit motel room, I check that my purse is securely slung over my shoulder. I mentally record the contents within—my wallet holding a substantial amount of cash, my ID, and the all-important hotel room key. Opening it, I make sure that my favorite perfume is safely nestled among the other items. Knowing I'll smell good despite the bloodbath I’m going to put myself through does put a smile on my face. 

I stroll across the road from the motel to The Kingsman Diner, relieved to see that it is open 24 hours a day. Knowing that no matter what time, I can always find a warm meal here is a comfort. Approaching the front door, I couldn't help but notice a small cluster of mice scurrying around towards the back of the diner.

Sneaking towards the back of the restaurant, I quickly grab a mouse and sink my fangs into its body. Draining the blood from it and tossing it into the garbage. I continue doing this to a few more mice, draining and tossing.  It is not human, but it will do for the night. I need to drink multiple in order to feel fine.

Lost in my bloodthirst, I fail to notice the creak of the back door swinging open. Suddenly, a gruff and low voice startles me from behind.

"Darlin, what are you doin’ near my garbage?" The man asks, and I freeze, realizing someone had caught me. I feel my heart racing as I quickly toss the mouse into the garbage and turned to face him. There was a little blood on my chin, and my hands are stained from the unsuccessful attempt to clean up the mess.

What am I doing? Did Armand’s lessons in cleanliness and manners exit my brain the first moment I stepped foot on American soil? I should vanish now. Wipe his memory, he never saw me.

But as I answered, "Nothing," he gave me a questioning look, and I’m grateful for the overhead light illuminating his face. He was very handsome, with a man in his forties with a strong, tall frame, warm brown eyes, and a mop of dark brown, short hair. A well-groomed mustache adorned his upper lip, adding to his cowboy appeal. He stood before me in well-worn jeans cinched with a leather belt, an apron over his chest, and a vibrant blue flannel shirt. He held a black Stetson cowboy hat in his hand, completing the look of a true cowboy. God, he has kind eyes, clean-shaven eyes, and a beautiful smile. And a confident swagger to him, Armand never really had that sort of confidence or swagger. He was quiet and foreboding. 

"Why do you have blood on your hands and chin there, Darlin?" The man asks, squinting his eyes and furrowing his brow as if trying to assess my appearance. My mind races as I desperately tried to come up with some sort of plausible excuse. "Were you drainin’ those rats?"

I stammer nervously in response, causing his brows to furrow even deeper. "I, uh, yes...?" I admit, my voice trembling slightly. "I may have taken ecstasy in my motel room. It seemed like a good idea at the time. In the past I loved to drink the blood on ecstasy, it feels lovely."

"Why in the world would drinkin’ rat blood even cross your mind as a good idea?" the handsome man asks, leaving me speechless. Incompetent to conjure a coherent response, I found myself unable to answer him. How about we forget this ever happened, and I whip up something to satisfy that hunger of yours?"

I nod eagerly, awaiting his following words. "What are ya in the mood for?"

"Can you make mashed potatoes and a rare steak? It's been far too long since I've had a meal like that, not since I left San Antonio," I tell him, wiping the extra blood on the sleeve of my black blouse. It won’t be seen anyway. His face cringes for a moment as I do that. God, he needs to stop staring at me.

As the man mulls over my request briefly, he gently scratches his chin and nodded in agreement. "Come on in. Why don't ya take a seat at the counter," he offered as we entered the cozy diner. "Maybe after you freshen up a bit..."

Pausing, I glance down at my hands and suddenly became conscious of my messy appearance. The fancy clothes I bought for myself have blood splatters on me, and my hair is nowhere near presentable. I should’ve washed up in my motel room. 

"Oh, excuse me, where can I find the restroom?" I ask, and he gestures towards the doors at the back of the diner, clearly marked 'Men' and 'Women.' 

"I'll be back. I'm sorry you had to see that, handsome stranger," I say to him with a wry smile, trying to lighten the mood. His chuckle is a welcome sound as my eyes wander up and down, finally landing on the name tag labeled ‘Jack’' "Jack, a handsome name for a handsome man," I remark, a twinkle in my eye, nervously laughing. Has it been this long since I’ve been around a man? He must think I'm an idiot. 

Jack’s chuckle resonates through the room, carrying a warmth that seems to surround the entire room. "Not a problem, darlin'," he says in a soothing, reassuring tone, his words comforting to my ears. He flashed a kind and friendly grin, and as he did, the well-earned wrinkles around his eyes deepened, adding character to his face. A rush of heat floods my cheeks, betraying the blush that crept up in response to his gaze. Sensing my reaction, he arched an eyebrow ever so slightly, his eyes shining with a knowing glint. 

Dieu qu'il est beau. (god he is handsome)

“I will be right back, Mr. Jack,” I chuckle nervously before heading toward the restroom. Mr. Jack?! Why would I call him that? Also, I says I would be back not even a minute before. Must I repeat myself like a babbling imbecile?!

I quickly went to the restroom, but the encounter was still fresh in my mind. As I stand in front of the mirror, I meticulously wash away the stains from my face and hands, taking care to remove every trace of the blood. It's hard to believe that my first impression of this rugged man was being covered in blood. I can't help but wonder what  Armand must think of me. I did always turn to him for advice. He was always a posed man; he would get angry when I wasn’t. 

But I do not remember even doing anything that vastly embarrassing with him. Did I do something wrong when I was with him? Have I always been this way, and he was helping me? Should I have not left him? I cannot act like a lady around a handsome man who saw me draining mice near his garbage. Well, not that it is a ladylike thing to do, but there are nicer ways of satisfying my thirst. But fuck being ladylike, Armand would use that word so often I never liked it.

Wait, that businessman wanted to get with me at that party in ‘71. Why am I realizing this now?  Have I always been this aloof? I need to do better.

“Bloody lady, ya doin’ alright?” I hear Mr. Jack from just outside the door, “You’ve been in there for twenty minutes or so,” 

“Sorry, I got lost in thought. I’ll be out in a minute!” I reply, and my cheeks redden due to my embarrassment. Splashing water on my face, I walk out of the restroom with a slightly embarrassed smile, rocking on my heels momentarily. “Sorry about that, it’s been a long day.” 

Mr. Jack chuckles again, “‘s alright, darlin’ you not from ‘round here, aintcha?” He asks as I sit down at the counter where he’s prepared my food. God, it looks delicious. Staring at him, a little confused, he smiles again. “You ain’t got an accent like us, ya almost sound European.”

“No, I’m not from around here. I was born in Paris, but I’ve been traveling alone for a while,” I reply, grabbing the fork he’s set out for me. He tilts his head, confused.

“Ya look lil young to be travelin’ for a while,”

“M-My…uhh-” I begin trying to find a good excuse: “My family ages well. I am in my thirties,” Okay, that’s not a bad excuse, and it’s true I do not age. Thanks, Armand; one of the only good things about this gift he gave me. He still deserves to die, though. 

"Well, I’ll be damned ya do look good, sugar,” Jack tells me with a suave smile on his face, “that white streak in ya hair is real pretty too, them eyes of yours are real pretty too. I always liked green eyes on ladies,” 

“Why thank you, Jack. You sure know how to make a lady blush,” I giggle momentarily, hiding my face behind my hand, and while taking a bite of the steak he made me, and god if it isn’t delicious. That cowboy sure knows how to make a meal. 

He and I both chat for a while and continue eating the meal he had prepared. He pauses for a moment before asking, “You says you were born in Paris, that meanin you french?” 

“I suppose?” I reply, thinking for a moment. “I grew up there, my parents were born there too. But I have not been there for good while, I am losing my accent.” 

“Clearly, you barely sound French anymore, sugar. Are you still speakin’ the language?” he asks, and I nod with a bright smile.

“Oui, j'aime toujours cette langue,” I say, and his eyebrows raise. Is he impressed? “I say, yes, I still love the language.” 

Jack chuckles as he takes my empty plate and cleans it quickly while I wait at the counter. Should I wait for him to come back? Or should I leave? This feels weird. My legs begin to sway underneath the counter, waiting for him to come back, my chin resting on the backs of my hands. 

He comes back a couple of minutes later, and I've been looking around the diner, taking in the details of it all. It’s a very cozy diner. The warm lighting adds to that. If I lived here, I would be a regular, I know it. 

“How long you in town sugar?” He asks, snapping me out of my daydream. 

“As long as I want, I tend to keep myself in different towns for a few days before leaving. But I can stay in a spot for months if I’d like. Why do you ask?”

“I wanna offer you a job, if you’d like it. It would be watiressin’ but it pays good with tips.”

My eyes widen for a moment. Is he serious? His expression says he isn’t; extra cash would be nice. I have been running out of it since I left France and stole an excellent sum of Armand’s fortune. It would be nice to stay in one spot long and not be on the run. He also did find me with blood all over me. Why is he offering me a job? Did he not find me in the back with blood all over me..he does not have good awareness.

“I like that a lot. It would be nice to have extra money and save up a good sum.” I say to him, and his lips curl into an almost sly smile. He looks too mischievous with that mustache of his, but that is a reason he’s a joy to be around. He is much better than Armand, so much better.

“Sounds like a plan darlin’ let me get ya the uniform,” He tells me, walking to a closet in the back and coming back with two things, a red dress, it has short sleeves and seems that it would end at my knees. What’s in his other hand is an apron, simple enough. “Here’s the uniform, keep your hair in a bun and simple earrings. You got shoes that could go with it?”

Pausing, I think back to the clothes in my luggage, more specifically, the shoes I’ve been carrying with me. There are a couple of options, and others that would never work for that uniform.

“Would a pair of red-heeled sandals work?” I ask, unsure if that’s what he is asking for. 

“I believe they would darlin’. You can wear those with the uniform. Have you ever waitressed before?”

“When I was in Paris, I worked briefly for a cafe. Is this similar to that?”

“You’ll do great sugar. Now go get some rest and I’ll see you here at 2pm okay?” He asks, and I nod quickly, my arms gathering the uniform he handed me in my arms. 

When I leave the diner, the sky is empty; spare it for the stars sprinkling in the sky. This town is eerily quiet. Paris was loud, and so was Los Angeles. I like quiet; I've always liked quiet. Maybe I should stay here. Until Armand uses his fledglings to find me again, then I will run. I do miss him, the chase is more fun knowing he misses me. But for now, I will stay. 

I hope y'all enjoyed it! I do plan to have more chapters, as this is just the beginning; I've got a bunch planned!

Taglist: @morallyinept @604to647