#public history internship

[lgbtq-history-museum-cfl-intern]

Being a Student and Acknowledging Mental Health

Wow everyone!

It’s the middle of the semester now and I have to say, I didn’t feel it coming because honestly, I have no traditionally structured classes.

Last week’s post was dedicated to Banned Books Week but this one I’d like to dedicate to something else that was celebrated last week which is Mental Illness Awareness Week (as opposed to Mental Health Awareness Month which is in May). It’s also ADHD Awareness month which has been celebrated since 2004.

It’s believed that around 42% of people born between 1990 and 2010 have been diagnosed with some type of mental health condition, the top 3 being Anxiety, Depression, and ADHD in that order. And oftentimes mental health issues start to present themselves around our late teens and early 20s are and intensify if the signs were already there.

So, as students, we tend to juggle so much, and we usually attend college at a time when we are just starting to discover ourselves independent from the systems that shaped our perspectives growing up while potentially facing unanticipated mental health challenges.

I have personally struggled with consistency in mental health care, mainly due to financial inaccessibility but also because of a lack of self-awareness and inaccurate self-reporting which led to poor self-advocacy.

Last week, after several interviews and testing sessions with a neuropsychiatric team, I received perhaps the most comprehensive overview of my mental health that I have ever gotten. My results both disproved some previous diagnoses that I’d been skeptical about and also brought up conditions I hadn’t considered until then.

See, not all my results were about mental health concerns. Part of the testing was screening for neurological and developmental disorders which if left undiagnosed and unacknowledged/untreated can lead to more complications with existing mental illnesses.

So, for the sake of transparency, I’d like to share my diagnosis because I have always believed that dialogue is a powerful tool for processing and coping as well as fighting stigmas and stereotypes.

Originally, I sought testing for ADHD which I’d been previously diagnosed with but because of my inconsistency, I missed when they changed the standard for treatment. Now, to be treated for ADHD with stimulant therapy, at least in Florida that I know of, you must have an official diagnosis from a neuropsychiatrist. The testing for this was actually kind of fun and I thought I “passed” a lot of the tests. I in fact scored in the lowest percentiles for a lot of the tests, pointing to a clear diagnosis of ADHD.

Other diagnoses that came up that did not surprise me were generalized and social anxiety, unspecified depression, and CPTSD.

The most surprising and perhaps reality altering diagnosis was that they found evidence of being on the autism spectrum. Autism is not considered a mental illness - rather a neurological or developmental disorder as mentioned before - but like I said, if left unacknowledged, can cause depression and anxiety but can also lead to misdiagnoses.

For example, part of this was undiagnosing (not a word but I will be using it) bipolar depression and chronic depression. This holistic testing process revealed that my patterns of behavior and mental state do not indicate sustained episodes of depression stemming on their own or extreme highs for periods of time with impulsive actions and patterns of thinking.

This testing was very important for me because I never felt like my mental health teams were tackling the right issues and I knew part of it was my fault for how I self-reported during times of little self-awareness. Now I can look forward to finding a therapist who can help me develop awareness and coping skills that align with my combination of mental health and neurological conditions!

Unfortunately, access to this type of diagnostic testing is difficult to access especially as an adult because a lot of the testing centers, at least in my local area, are geared towards children and minors.  Therapy and counseling can also be expensive and uninsured. This leads to many who struggle through undiagnosed or misdiagnosed and mistreated symptoms alone and unable to access the help they need.

That is why so many organizations have worked to label certain days, weeks, or months out of the year to simply raise awareness of others’ experiences. Awareness is the first step to taking action.

To learn more about ADHD Awareness Month, Mental Illness Awareness Week, or Mental Health Awareness Month follow the links below:

[myglassesareinkansas]

You know what really grinds my gears?? I desperately want to be a public historian. I was trained by one of the best public historians in the country. I got accepted to two really good public history programs (one of which is a prestigious name). It is the only area of history that I actively research in my free time

But I got a sucky advisor who’s chair of the department and who runs the center for public history and who takes on at least 6 incoming grad students every year as her advisees, which means she doesn’t have time for them. But I can’t switch advisors and stay in public history because of stupid office politics and bc no one really wants to ruffle the chair’s feathers

So either I switch to research history and gut it out for a year and a half or I do public history and resent whoever my advisor is or I drop out. Those are my options

[cryptfile]

Ꮺ˖˚₊ leeches, [ logan howlett x vampire!reader au ]

summary — logan howlett lacks of patience (and he can also be a nice little blood-bag while losing his temper). 8k+

warnings — 18+ mdni, fem!reader implied, blood kink (keep in mind you’re a vampire! not twilight but more of a true blood kind?) downright filth im sorry, dead dove do not eat, smoker!reader, endless tension, manhandling, praise kink, kind of porn without plot (LIES CAUSE IT HAS ONE THO??) my boy's into paaaaaain can't help it it's canon, age-gap at first (reader is her 20's but again, vampire), public sex (it just happened), daily reminder to wrap it before you tap it, p in v, choking, filthy mouth, pet names.

side notes — thought this could take place after days of the future past? au cause why nottttt ,,currently on ovulation season so bare with me,,, been a little mia cause i’m surviving aka going through the worst semester of my life at uni? internships are breaking my ass currently so well, here i am just existing, also, english’s not my first language and everyday i’m grateful for it, so any mistakes i’m not sorry in advance lol i’m also too lazy to correct once published,, feel free to send more logan requests since i've basically been a slut for him for a while now (i'm rotting in hell).

He could swear the mansion got ten degrees hotter when you came in.

It’s inevitable. It’s this thing you carry, the way you move — Graceful, elegant, almost compelling as the air fills the room. It’s not public knowledge that you’re not a mutant itself, yet you’re presented like one, like you have healing factors and age painfully slow, but human after all, a subtle lie, one that can harm no one.

It’s safe to say you catch his attention in the most annoying way: How couldn’t you? All you do is this weird seduction he’s appealed to, whether you’re conscious or not it’s just captivating, an invisible force that even when you ignore it is there, there waiting for the perfect moment to flood every time you happen to be in the same room.

Captivating. That’s the word.

The room becomes smaller after, the air grows thicker, and it’s almost like a ticking bomb, the way you wouldn’t even look at his face while he’s noticeable pinning after Jean Grey, the mystery that surrounds you and he cannot seem to resolve no matter how much time he puts into it.

It’s like he's the plague. You don’t really try to exchange more than just a few words, only when it's needed and you cannot avoid him any longer, and he didn’t say anything at first, keeping his distance too cause he don’t see how you’d become friends, cause after all, what he could have in common with a girl that doesn't surpass the twenty years?

But soon he's upset about it, even when he doesn't really say anything out loud, it's a spike he cannot reach under his skin. You seem to become friends with anyone but him, mutant kids in your history lessons, the rest of the team, even the damn mailman when he delivered a package — You'd say hello like it's a long time lover or so, greeting people like they mean the world to you.

He has students now that are asking for a transfer from his class to yours cause it seems you're fun to be around, more like he is, and he fucking hates it.

It's fair to say it's been getting into his mind lately. That thing you do with your hair, twisting it in your index finger on a lock as you speak, the subtle red glow in your eyes he always catches by mistake, not enough fast to stop looking at you, pretending he didn't even see in your direction at first.

Tension. Logan just happens to hate tension.

In fact. He's almost sure your problem is personal, that you might hate him enough to act like he didn't exist at all, enough to avoid him like he was not there.

That's why it's just so weird.

When he finds himself walking down the hallway to the kitchen and he smells this cherry-scented aroma that settles under his nostrils, he changes the direction he's walking to, to instead, follow the path to the person that was silently smoking outside. Hiding. Maybe, a student he'll have to scold like the old man he was turning into.

No smoking in the mansion!

However, as the night is just settling, he doesn't recognize a little mutant, but instead happens to recognize you in the middle of the gardens of the mansion, close to the maze; escaping the comfort of the inside to enjoy a self-rolled cherry tobacco he has smelled before in the air. He's a victim mostly, cause his legs move on it's own as his mouth go dry, approaching you in silence.

"What do you want?" you ask when he's halfway there. And your tone is just cold as ever, not an ounce of feeling as he contemplates your side profile, the way the tobacco sticks out of your parted lips, seated on a bench hidden between bushes and trees — "Is Scott bitching about the smell going into the mansion already?"

No. He's not. But he doesn't have enough reasons to explain exactly why he's outside if you asked, why, all of sudden, he followed the scent of cherry knowing it was you the only one who carried a colts package in the pocket of every single jacket you wore, constantly asking Storm if she could hold on to the bag of filters for you while you rolled in the worst moments.

It's distracting, to say the least.

"Yeah," he quickly says, lying cause in reality he hasn't seen the guy in the whole day, yet it sounds like something he would say. "Do you happen to have another one of those to share?"

You don't talk much, hand reaching his as you offered him from your tobacco without a single word, the same that was placed between your lips and now was on his in what seemed to be something more intimate than what he'd like to admit, the cherry taste filling his lungs as they weirdly enough, shared a cig.

"Aren't you too young to be smoking?"

You laugh, and the sound sends a shiver down his spine cause he has never heard a sound quite like it, nothing that resembles that throaty, raspy sound that came out of your lips in amusement thanks to his words. He, out of all people, has never seen you like that — "And how old you think I am?"

He seems to think about it for a second, carefully picking his next words. Logan knows that women and their age are a tricky thing, you cannot say a number that's too compromising, nor act stupid and say something that's clearly not correct — "Not a day over twenty-two."

The answer pleases you, and he just knows he's wrong, but you don't seem bothered by it, instead, you nod pretending he's right, like he just got the answer right away.

He can see why everyone's switching classes now. Cheeky bastards.

"Twenty-two is not young at all, but i'm twenty-seven though," you say, and he scoffs at the statement, seeking for any change in your heartbeat, any sign of a lie. The strange thing happens when he cannot pick any heart at all, any sign of pulse.

"You are pretty young still," he says, against his age, you’re just starting out living—. "You don't look like you are twenty-seven at all."

"Cause I age slower than the rest," it's a practiced lie. One you know from repeating the same explanation over and over again, the priced answer of why you haven't changed a single bit in the past few years and made you a mutant — "I never looked my age."

Such a fucking liar. He doesn't need any heartbeats to confirm it cause deep down you are a terrible actress, he can see it so clear, how you're calculating every answer, thinking about the correct thing to say, the normal thing to say.

"Is that your thing?" he asks, playing pretend almost as bad as you do. Tilting his head to the side as he questions you — "Age slowly?"

"I have healing powers," you explain as he tossed you the joint once again. "My saliva kinds of help healing wounds. It's pretty boring."

"Boring" Logan repeats. The word itself sounds so damn fun in your lips it's contradicting. "That doesn’t sound really boring."

There's a moment of silence after that. Where you smoke in silence taking in the taste of the cherry, and he is having a hard time wrapping his head around the fact that your lips also touched the side of the cigar he was smoking before, the plain lies you've been repeating over and over the last ten minutes.

It's almost infuriating. Makes his blood boil without question, he surely endures your treatment of silence, but being lied to? That's a whole different level.

“How old are you, kid?”

Your brows furrow in response, a clueless face. You are pulling out this show once again Logan don’t buy for a damn second. Something about the scrunch in your nose, the way you dismissed your own powers as if they weren’t enough. He knows it’s all a lie. He knows it even when he doesn’t really know you at all, when it’s the first time you’re truly speaking to him after your arrival to the mansion almost a year ago.

“How old you really are?”

You laugh at the question once again, and he just knows it, knows it when he sees you barely illuminated by the dim light of the moon, the act you always keep up, a web of tangled lies you have to be into— “Told you i'm twenty-seven already, didn't you hear?”

“Is it now?” he asks, amused by the sass, exhaling the smoke of the low-quality tobacco he doesn't understand why you're so invested in when passed it to him—. “Cause you don’t seem very convinced, it really sounds like bullshit to me.”

You're almost offended. By the look you give it's like the worst mistake he could ever make, yet you remain silent, not giving the satisfaction of an honest answer yet. Testing his patience like he did have one to begin with.

"Is that why I can’t hear your heartbeats, darlin'? Cause you age so slowly?”

The nickname scratches a part of your brain, and you hate him for it. The word rolls out of his tongue with an accent, smoking your cherry tobacco cause you happen to be nice.

“You can’t?” you’re good at faking it suddenly, at least, that's what he thinks when your brows furrow in alleged curiosity, stiffening your back, uncomfortable. “How weird.”

“Damn right it is” that's when you realize he knows you are lying. Even when you don’t talk much, even when you act all stiff and bothered when he’s close, he knows that you are fully invested in lying. In whatever twisted little lie you've planned, like it was your real life and not something you made up. “Are you going to tell me truth, then or do I have to find out? Does the professor know that you're lying?”

The smoke lingers in the air.

“How old are you?” he asks once again, demanding an honest answer this time — "Thirty? Thirty-five?"

You find his questions annoying, mostly cause he won't stop until he gets an answer, one that pleases him enough to leave you alone, the other part cause you happen to like the playful banter you two keep going, dangerously much. You don't hate attention it's clear, what you do hate it's the way he seemed to see pass the lie, to demand more even when he has no right to.

He enjoys being the one who's right though, Logan cannot help it. He's pleased to catch that look on your face who says everything but nothing at once, to have you where he wanted, almost at the edge of admitting a truth.

Is it payback because you've been stealing all of the little mutants from his class? He's jealous cause kids like being around you? It does not make much sense, but he is fully invested. Questioning all.

Even when you're outside, it seems like the air grows thicker. And Logan finds himself seeking for your breathing, cause he don't know nothing, nothing about you more than the fact you don't seem to have a heartbeat, or pulse and now, breathing.

“If you really are that eager to know, i'm a hundred and twenty-seven” the words float in the air for a while, and he's sure you're just messing with him, cause there's no way a pretty little face like yours had endured a century. “I've been alive for quite a while.”

He doesn't fully believe it first. Of course he doesn't. Logan's sure you're messing with him also, distracting him about your real age.

“And I supposed this do come from you slow aging powers” He tries to give you a point there, but it's difficult to be serious when you're just playing with him—. "How so?"

To be honest, you do have a little temper yourself, you've learned to stand up for yourself most of the time, so when you happen to notice he's teasing you, that he doesn't really believe you, you adopt this attitude of defense he notices as you shift over the wood you're seated in.

"No, it doesn't" you steal the joint from his hands to have a smoke yourself. "You really aren't as smart as I thought you were, huh?"

Do you happen to have a dead wish? His muscles tense beneath his shirt, and in contrast of his problem, you can hear it all. All the sounds his body makes when he's all bothered just by the beat of his heart, that annoying sound his bones make each time he moves.

"What are you?"

"That's it," the praising goes directly into his chest, the tone you use to tell him he's going in the right direction it feels just so right he forgets why he got mad in the first place—. "That's what you should be asking right there."

It's almost a shame having to admit he would also switch classes. That he would also go through all the paperwork himself without a second thought and that right there, is pathetic, but you're smiling at him as if you're encouraging the man to try harder, to find the answer himself, and fuck — He's old, too old, he's tired, he's in a bad mood as fucking usual, and he happens to dig a drink in the quiet of his own room, but he's pulled by something as equal as devastating as the gravity force, shoot towards you in pure need to have some answers even if he has to make you spit them.

"I find it strange, cause when you don't have a heartbeat, you aren't usually alive" Deep down he's fascinated, hazel eyes glues on your face trying to understand. He feels like he has it in the tip of his tongue waiting to leave his mouth as a catastrophic answer, but he doesn't find the right words.

"That's cause i'm not," you state it like it's something obvious. And just as he knows you're lying, this time, he knows you're telling the truth, blowing the smoke in his direction just to bother him — "Why do you think i'm teaching history after all huh?"

He hasn't seen it all, it seems.

Yeah.

He's losing it after that night.

It’s known that Logan has sleeping problems, but that night specifically he thinks about something else rather than what usually torments him, a truth he also has to keep a secret now that he's learned more about it.

See, Logan doesn't expect you to be really dead. Much less to hear what you are and have been hiding this whole time from the rest of the people in the mansion — He also learns that you feed on blood, that vampires are a common thing in the world and that he shouldn't, at least, be that surprised when he's a mutant in a world full of humans himself.

You are a folklore myth on small villages, stories in Rumania and horror character in films, so you don't blame him when as you spoke, he finally understands why you're so damn attractive, so damn seductive as you explained more about your way of living, some memories you've been keeping to yourself since being a vampire was so damn solitary, memories he listens to cause he knows what it's like, to be misunderstood, to be eternal, to be alone as well.

It makes the two of you grow closer by the next weeks. You now talked during broad daylight about random shit at first, about the war sometimes, about your condition as he refers to when people is around, eaves-dropping on what you two are talking so invested in. Friends.

Simple as that.

And it's safe to admit also that in the course of the next days, Logan Howlett is a fucking mess, and he knows it, but he won't do anything about it.

He won't flirt cause he knows you're a hell of a woman, in every good sense of the word, that he's way too damaged for a vampire even, for all kinds of people out there, and as much as he'd like to say anything, he values your attention, how you switched the attitude of acting like he didn't exist to be a friend, one that you came to share secrets with a cherry aroma glued in their skin.

It gets him insane, to the point he's no longer spending much time with Jean and people start to pick up on it as if he didn't have enough headaches already. He doesn't care. Shit you are not bothered by what people say, and to be honest, he cannot seem to care either.

At first, he's reluctant of keep on talking to you as normal as it is. He's not really invested in religious themes, but he sure admits you're a sin by all meanings, a religious experience of some kind if anyone asked him — He agrees with what he has heard also in the hallways. Innocent conversations of teens and their platonic crush on their teachers. You are pretty hot.

He's so interested in knowing more about you, about the nights you spend in Rumania, when you leave to Canada, the different lives you've lived across the years. He finds himself looking forward to share his stories too, weird enough, cause he's over two centuries himself and he just craves to talk about it with someone who also gets him in a deeper level, that weariness that fills your body when you age so long.

You got the best of immortality, and instead of feeling envious, Logan finds himself attracted to you so much like he's never been in his whole existence. Not at the point it happened with you at least.

By the end of the first month he knows your little treats. You use a lot of sunscreen, and avoid activities outside as much as you possibly can with those classic, tiny black sunglasses that hided you from the rays of the sun, always in the shadow so unapproachable; how you'd usually dismiss food offerings from anyone who's kind enough to even offer you something, and when you haven't fed well during the course of the week, you'd become the most maddening woman he'd ever met.

Maddening.

"What wrong with you, Leech?" Leech. You've been in such a bad mood lately that when he's seating next to you in another random smoking session outside, your fingers twitch, clearly pissed at the nickname after saying multiple times you don't like it.

"I'm not in the mood for plays now."

He can tell from before. When you talked to him that very morning and stared at the collar of his flannel for what it seemed a good, nice minute, he realizes the same moment that you were staring at that pulse point in his neck, where the flesh blood was pumping in his blood flow: You're hungry, as any living creature would be and at your own manner, in constant control as you fight the sense of hunger.

So instead, the mutant ask, like he always does when he’s curious about something that involves you:

"When did you last feed?"

"A couple of weeks ago."

That would explain it. You don't talk much about your meal plan, he knows the professor is in charge of all of that. You've told him about blood bags and hospitals, but he's not really aware of how constant you need to eat, how the blood supplies most of your energy, makes you stronger, gives you vitality, so Logan at first, don't really know what its like to not drink any blood in the course of two weeks.

"What happened with the blood bags from the Hospital?"

The mention of blood out loud seems to triggers you. A groan escaping your lips as you can swear you feel the taste in your mouth — "Don't know. Haven't seen a single one this week, Charles said something about next week, problems in the bank I guess."

You're clearly worked up. It's a new look he hasn't registered before, your hair is tangled in a less-composed look, and there's a slight shake in your hands as if you're going through withdrawal, deprived for what you needed the most.

"And animals?" he questions, trying to find a solution. “Can’t you eat a cat or something?”

"Like shit i'm going to feed from a fucking animal," you're almost immediately grossed out, scrunching your nose at the idea. "I can barely handle being so close to a damn human but animals? I'd rather fucking die this time for real, no waking up."

"That bad huh?" the mutant asks, taking a sip from the beer he sneaked outside, chucking lightly afterwards. "So you're a leech with elegant taste, huh? Of course you are."

"Clean blood is rare," you explain, rolling your eyes. It's inevitable. He knows you hate the nickname so much that he insists to keep on calling you that way just to get a reaction—. "Humans nowadays taste like dirt. They consume drugs among other substances, pills, food supplements, even damn vitamins, don’t get me started about blood diseases cause it gets me in a bad temper. Every single thing affects on your taste, even what you eat. It's all registered there. Clean, good blood is rare to find. Call me elegant, call me picky. It's a damn fact."

"And what about mutant blood?" he questions. And it seems like a mere phrase at first, one with no subtle tones, he’s usually curious about your nature so you don’t pay much attention as he spoke—. “You’re picky about mutants too?”

“No, i’ve never had a mutant before.” The truth is, you hate feeding from people, the act being something so intimate, so damn personal, you refrain yourself. Killing humans, picking a next victim to fed on, is considered now a treat you don't appreciate from your kind, making you steal from hospitals and any kind of blood bank before Charles offered you help. You haven't fed from a mutant, cause you avoided everyone equally, but you don't want to be rude about it. “You all smell different, but i’d be lying. Maybe yes, i’d be picky about it too, feeding is something intimate.”

It's an undeniable admission, and now that he's trying to be in your position, he would also be picky about someone's blood. Logan remains stoic cause he’s suddenly filled by the thought of something else, a glimpse of his own weird creativity he forces himself to push aside, to really suppress now that it's not the time or the moment.

“How do I smell?” It's too late to stop the words from coming out of his mouth when he asks her. And at first, is out of pure curiosity. He has never encountered a vampire in his life until you, let alone had someone talking about the subtle tastes of the blood being undead, so he doesn't want to let the opportunity slip — Of course he wants to know if an over two hundred mutant like himself would be as remotely good as a fresh, clean bag from the hospital.

"You stink like wet dog," he surely deserves it after all the times he’s been calling you a leech — "Like those cigars you tend to smoke, alcohol, and musk. It's similar as wood. That smell you got when you're in a forest and it's not raining but straight pouring."

"Is this a way of telling me i'd taste bad, peach?"

You make a mental note to let him know after you like peach way more than leech.

"If i'd found a human smelling like that, you won't be hearing from me anytime soon" you're just messing with him. A playful banter you enjoy more than ever, the distraction you needed to think in something else rather than the blood bags you craved so deeply — "Hell, i've would just walked the other way."

"So i'm taking you won't be feeding from me anytime soon."

It all takes a dark turn there. You're very aware of the tension the last month now that you talk to him in daily basis, but it’s just mere tension, nothing that ever goes beyond the limit. Logan has never said something to flirt with you despite the million chances he got, and he always remained like a friend, one that you enjoy spending time with now. Cannot be blamed when you're taken aback.

“Cat got your tongue, kiddo?” Man. You're about to whine about the name before you remember he is indeed, older than you are. Vampire or mutant.

"You want me to feed from you?"

He seems so willing when you ask. Even when you teased about his smell calling him a wet dog. He just seems so eager to let you just do it, try a mutant for the first time.

"Yeah," he dismisses it like it's not something so deep — "I doubt Charles is going to let you take a bite since you could clearly kill him, and I'm not sure the others would be pleased with the idea of you sinking your teeth in them, so yes. Me, leech."

Logan Howlett doesn't really smell bad. And you don't know why cause he has all the ingredients to fucking stink, yet, you'd call him interesting. That's what you thought when you find his pulse point again, the vein in his neck you looked earlier in the morning, thinking just as the same you were thinking now.

Of course you would feed from him. Is it a good thing to do? No, in any other circumstances you'd decline. He's your friend.

Now? You’re having a hard time.

"So I'm guessing that you're pleased with the idea, then," Real talk?, you just want to hear him say it. He doesn't talk much usually, but now that he's very vocal about what's on his mind, you have to take advantage of it—. "I'm not sure either. But I do think Storm may be interested too."

He seems content with the response, taking a long sip from his beer before adding — "Please, go and ask her so you're less annoying."

You're almost completely sure he doesn't find you annoying. You also don't care about Storm. And maybe he knows you're not going anywhere, that you're not moving.

"You really want me to bite you?"

"I dunno now, princess" he looks at you pleased now cause he got you where he wanted to, cause he managed to awake all the interest now that you're looking at him "Are you going to pull a Dracula on me?"

"No, i'm not going to suck you dry if that's what you're asking."

Logan chuckles. He's a damn masochist. It's been like that as long as he can remember. It may have to be with his healing powers cause he likes it more than usual, but the idea gets to his head soon enough, all falling so damn fast: Your breathing would be against his neck and he'd take the bite like a damn champ.

"Yeah I can handle you," he says, aroused. "You're not gonna hurt me if you take some blood. I'll be fine and you won't be a pain in the ass."

He acts so gruff about it but you hear the sound of his heartbeat already high enough to wake the entire mansion, his labored breathing since he suggested the idea himself. He digs it, strange enough. Thrives on the idea.

He's a grown man already, and he can take a little leech like yourself.

It's clear you're hungry, cause it doesn't take much for you to accept, nodding like you're defeated, like you just lost the war entirely, cause there's no many options here to take and even if it were, you are now interested in have him more than any other blood bag. In fact. To hell with the hospital.

"Okay."

It's a simple answer, and it sure works with him as you get close to him, the bench you always used to sit now seeming so small as you look around confirming you guys really are alone—. "You won't tell anyone?"

It's something stupid to ask, cause after all that time he has never said anything, keeping your secrets as if they were his own, saving you from weird questions people get sometimes as they didn't know much about you. He's clearly not going to say nothing at all.

"Are you going to stop whining for a second and just eat darlin'? Cause I might change my mind here."

He's feeling overload soon after.

You don’t need a formal invitation to lean closer to his neck.

There's no way to describe it also cause he has never seen something like that, never felt a similar sensation more than when he's fucking, the cold touch of your fingers in his chest, taunting the vein in his neck without a previous warning before leaning in even closer than before—. "Stay still" you demand, face close against his bare skin, only one goal in mind. "Don't move for a minute. Just-"

You cannot finish the sentence, and Logan can experience the sporadic pain of the bite first hand when your teeth finally sink in his neck, piercing the flesh so easily as you let the blood fill your mouth. He grunts at the sharp pain, his face contracting momentarily before it's replaced by a nice wave of pleasure, one that hits him right in the guts as he grabs you by the nape of your neck, pushing you against him, almost demanding you to be closer, to keep on taking what you want, what you've been craving for two weeks.

When did he turned into this perverted sick? Getting off by something so primal as the fact you're feasting on him.

The feeling of your lips and the clear suck you gave when feeding are sending him into a spiral, and to be honest, he didn't expect to be so devastated by you, by the way your fingers stay against his chest to prevent him from moving, pinning the mutant between the wood bench and yourself so he won’t move, won’t do anything unless you want him to,pressing on the wound to draw more blood out.

"You heal so damn fast," you complain, looking at the traces of your bite with an unpleased face as they disappeared on his skin as fast as you created them.

"Then bite me again. I don't care."

You chuckle before leaning once again, and you can feel how the air grows hotter than how it was usually, the shift on his breathing as you bite him again, pressing on the wounds once again just to suck.

And you’re hungry, it’s the whole deal. His taste differs from what you believe at first, a huge change from what humans taste like, from what you’re used to deal with in hospitals. There’s a subtle taste of alcohol yes, but it mixes good with the sweet taste of honey, the weird taste you cannot put into words. It must be a mutant thing for sure cause it’s thicker than usual, a mix of flavors that explode in your tongue.

The headache you suffered from the whole week seems to dissapear as you drink in, feeding the monster you responded to in your stomach, demanding you to make him bleed more, to satisfy yourself until you can’t have any more.

Logan, on the other hand, is really fighting against his very own war.

You’re already close enough, but he just wants you damn closer, as much as he possibly can. It’s clear that well, it hurts slightly, but he has endured much worse, means nothing when it’s the pleasure that comes with it who strikes on his body, the light sucking, the idea you’re full of his blood, that you are not on trouble as you were before thanks to him. All because of him.

He's not used to acts on his impulses, but he does it anyway.

"C'mere" he says in a strangled voice, Logan's having no trouble moving you around, grabbing you by the hips to make you straddle him, keeping you glued to his neck as he doesn't want to disturb you—. "You really are a pretty leech, huh?”

You hum against his skin, pleased at the contact, and when he realizes you’re not complaining about his actions, he let his fingers grip your tights, keeping you against him.

You can hear him making this sound, quite like a moan but not exactly when you’re licking the holes you left in his skin, he does heal fast and don’t need any of your help when you’re done, but you coat his skin with your saliva anyway just to speed up the process, cause you want to do it, looking down to him after to check if he’s pale or nearly dead. You never really know.

And Logan himself is just fine cause his fingers gather the blood under your lip when he takes the sight of you sitting in his lap as the pearly white rays of moonlight makes your skin shine, and he pushes them inside your mouth so you don't waste any drop of what it can be considered food.

"So what's the final verdict?" he asks as his hands are now grabbing your tights, there's something so intimate about the moment, so personal, hot as he presses his fingers against the flesh of your muscles, he understand what you said before—. "Do I taste like utter shit?"

"Well, i’d need another taste to have my final decision" he laughs, and he don't really laugh often so the unexpected sound sends a shiver down your spine now that you’ve heard the sound quite a while now—. "Not much, just a little."

“Have you fill then, peach” He encourages you. “I want you full so you don’t whine the rest of the week.”

You don’t have any heartbeat, but if you did, it would be ragging in your ears at his words. At the warmth he’s spreading like a disease on her body that, despite being dead and cold, you can feel more than ever.

“I like peach,” you admit, this time pressing a soft kiss before directly hurt him—. “Leech is annoying.”

He’s going to say something, tease you about it maybe but he’s interrupted by the nice feeling of what he considers are your fangs tearing his skin apart, familiarity hitting him all sudden as he moans, a rough sound that comes from the deep of his throat, hands coming down to squeeze your ass, making you gasp against his neck when you experience the aching need physically forming in his pants.

“Still,” you say, concentrated on not allowing the wounds to close. But at the lack of complaints on what he's doing, Logan’s hands kept wandering around, making you move against his now clearly stiffed cock—. “Fuck’s sake I said still.”

“Stop being a damn brat. You can eat while I move you,” he grunts annoyed, shoving you against him, the friction of his jeans against the thin fabric of your shorts is enough to keep you quiet: Feeding from a stranger and feeding from a person you’re attracted to are two different things, especially in the position you find yourself in. “You don’t have to do anything. Quit whining about it.”

In response, your fingers press against the wound, not caring if it hurts or if it bothers him, but just enough to get him to bleed more and prevent the cut from closing, lapping at the blood that gathered over his collarbone, staining his white tank before you could even avoid it.

Your fingers grab the fabric just to pull it slightly down so it won't bother you, and the deep sound his chest make when he mocks about your desperation is stuck on your brain for the next couple of minutes, indulging in his taste, shutting up the rest of the world.

A moan comes out of your lips, muffling it against his skin. You're too zoomed out to hear it, but he's on a hell of a ride too, moaning as he demands more. It's been a while since the last time you did something like that, combine the pleasure of something as primal as eating with a mundane activity like sex, so you kind of forgot how good it felt, blaming yourself from depriving from something so needed.

"Do you always get this turned on when someone bites you?"

"No" Logan answers as you finish. He's rock hard beneath you, and he lets you know it when he's controlling the movement of your hips, working you against him at a slow pace—. "See, the woman i'm trying to seduce don't usually bite me, nor make me their main dinner plate."

You whine at the friction.

He looks down to the cause of all his damn problems just to notice his pants being damped with nothing but a physical form of need, soothing the uncomfortable fabric of his blue jeans — "So wet for me already, you’re making a damn mess, do you always get this turned on when feeding?"

Cheeky bastard.

He's using your own words against you, and you cannot be less bothered as you laugh softly, licking your lips only cause you know there's dried blood in them, drowned in his smell, the honey taste that lingered in your mouth.

“No, I don’t.”

At the sight, Logan's hand grabs your jaw in a rough movement, making you look at him before making you kiss him, deepening the contact as fast as you give him the chance. His tongue is soon invading your bucal cavity as he takes control of it, slow, intense and needy, as if he was holding on so much time before giving in to his own desires.

It is something like that.

You don't need to breathe in daily basis, but there's a burning sensation in your chest of wanting, of infinite lust you've been also experiencing by yourself.

The old mutant can taste his own blood in your mouth, a metallic taste as he keeps on kissing you until your lips are pink and puffed. He has thought so much about it that now that he has the opportunity, he devours as if he's a starved man having his first meal in what seems are ages.

"You didn't tell me if I tasted bad."

You think about it for a second.

"I'm afraid you're a rare breed cause it doesn't make any sense" You don't need any help now moving, cause you're rolling your hips on top of him at your own pace, allowing him to use his hands for something else—. “You have all the ingredients to taste like shit, but it's nothing but the contrary, even better than the fucking blood bags.”

“Sounds like your going to make me your meal plan, darlin. I’m here offering you a hand and you just take everything,” — “Such a greedy little vampire.”

He doesn't seem to care though, same as before he's nothing but willing to let you take everything as much as he tries to bark about it. He's more worried about his hands now that they're sliding down your oversized shirt, tracing patterns over your stomach, his touch so hot against your usually cold temperature.

"Logan," you whine,— "Someone can see us out here."

"Now you care about that?" his hazel eyes are a shade darker when he speaks. "After you're nice and full of my blood?"

His hands are big enough to take your whole cunt, allowing his digits to roam over the fabric of your underwear, almost thanking you for using those loosened pajama shorts he has seen before that very night as he just takes the fabric and pull it to the side.

"Nobody is going to see us. It's late and everyone's sleeping, leech" he teases you, and you cannot bring yourself to care about the nickname at the feeling of his hand taunting you from over the fabric—. "If you can bite me here outside, you might as well take my cock here too."

You cannot battle against that. You're deep in whatever spell he puts you into, giving in to the attraction and the tension that now needs to be taken care of. Logan's fingers touch you in nothing but experience, cause he knows how to please after so much time alive, how much pressure he needs to apply to leave you plain dumb, pliable for him.

"D'you think I need to stretch you out before fucking you?" he asks against your neck after leaving a reasonable-sized hickey in the zone, he likes the idea of people finding out about what you've been doing with him the next morning. "Or you're a big girl and can take me all by yourself?"

He'd like to take your time with you. Thoroughly enjoy you as much as he wants to, let everyone know you're his now, that you're shuddering thanks to him only, but he's too needy for that, too deprived of you to take his time.

"I want you to use that pretty mouth of yours and talk to me," he demands, coming up to look at your face while torturing you, his index and middle finger rubbing your clit from over the underwear—. "I'm not properly touching you yet and you're losing it already, peach. C'mon, you can talk to me still."

"I can take you," you say in a strangled voice. "Please Logan, please."

It's the plea of your tone that gets him, the soft begging of an ache he can only soothe, your face while you ask for more, not aware of anything else but him.

"Please what?"

"Please just fuck me already," you ask in frustration—. "I just need you to fill me up for a damn while."

You are starting to love the sound of his laugh. The deep sound he makes when he’s really enjoying something, his voice in damn general.

"Be a good little vampire" He says in a gentle tone. Logan’s trying to be kind even when his touch is so rough. "Unbuckle my pants and take my cock out. My hands are busy now, and you can do it yourself."

He is busy indeed. Toying with your underwear being the only thing that’s keeping him from the direct contact, pushing the fabric against your hole as it works as a barrier, preventing his digits to fuck you as he’d like to. He’s busy keeping you in place, preventing you from downright melt as your hands came up to unbuckle his belt first, the sound of the metal as it moves filling the air for a couple of seconds before you put all your attention in the button of his jeans, the zipper coming down with the force you’re using.

“Yeah baby,” he praises—. “You’re doing so good, keep going.”

When you pull the fabric of his briefs down, he’s already leaking for you, pink head, slightly curved to the side, moaning, erratically how much he needs your hands on him, how you're wet and ready for his cock. You close your fist around him, stroking slowly as your hips lift up enough to position yourself on top of him.

He’s big. Damn fucking right he is, you’d expected it from before cause sometimes you swear you can see his full length in his jeans, but taking him in your hand is a struggle but itself.

“Are you going to take me yourself or do you need my help? I know you can.”

Despite his words, he does help. Grabbing the black fabric of your underwear to finally make it to the side, the tip of his dick pushing against your clit before he's the one to place it in your leaky hole, forcing himself slowly, giving you time to take him in, inch by inch.

“Good girl," he says, head rolling backwards for a brief moment as he experiences the warm sensation of your walls surrounding him, clenching against his cock as he keeps one hand on your hip, helping you as you lower yourself over him. "Let me look at you.”

His fingers grab your jaw, squeezing you as he makes you look back at him, pushing you once again as you holded a loud moan. He's stretching you at his need.

"One more time," he begs. "One more time and you got it, peach. You're almost there."

Jesus fuck. You can feel yourself getting dizzy. You've drank a lot of blood and you're now overwhelmed by this intense pleasure that formed in your lower stomach, gathering there and waiting for the perfect moment to explode—. "Fuck I-"

Logan's pampering you with kisses as a mere distraction, his lips travelling through your neck to your collarbone before you're finally seated on top of him, a muffled moan you need to shut filling the calm of the night.

"Fuck you're tight," he exhales, and he's lost in the sensation, the way your velvety walls welcome him inside. He stays still for a moment, giving you time to adjust, to make you the one who starts moving on top of him.

You can see his veins popping up. All over his chest and coming down to his shoulders and his arms, and god gracious — He smells so fucking good you’re tempted to ask if you can have a bite again.

The moment feels longer than usual, the seconds pass slowly as you stay there. Logan’s hands are just touching your skin from under your oversized t-shirt, taking in the low moans you gave him, the almost perceptible whispers as you get used to him, to his size.

He likes the intimacy of it, the bliss. Man you look so pretty in his lap when the light of the moon is stripping you all to his eyes, even if you’re fully dressed an he’s seated in a damn bench, he cannot enjoy it more, pulling you in for a needy kiss, one that is rougher than the first one and leads you to move inevitably.

His cock pushes past that nice spot inside, and the friction is enough to make you move again, rocking your hips at a slow pace for a few seconds. The sound of your moans is silenced by his demanding kisses, and now that he knows you can handle him, his grip on your hips turn more firm now, squeezing the skin there so he can control your speed, the rythm of your movements now faster than before.

“Shh, don’t whine” what he lacks of vocal usually, he pours it all in just fucking, talking you through it when he feels you’re being too loud—. “Do you want to wake the others? We can’t have them seeing you like this, all fed up and cock-drunk.”

“Let me bite you again,” you ask soon enough. And it takes a lot to do it, cause you’re doing it out of pure greed, cause you can’t have enough.

“Take whatever you want, leech, just don’t make me faint” he jokes, his panted breathing betraying him as he moans, incredibly interested in the idea—. “Want to be conscious when you cum all over my dick.”

Logan’s sure your eyes glisten in a red color as you lean over his neck. And this time is less affectionate, much less gentle as you finally bite him again, teeth piercing the flesh so easily his hips jolts against you in response of the sharp pain your fangs create, the warm sensation of his blood in contrast of your cold touch, tongue-licking all you get from him.

And fuck it feels good.

He shrudders beneath you, shaking his head just slightly at reflex of pain before continue working his way with you, placing his hand between your tights as he lets his fingers rub on your sensitive clit, just enough to make you bite on his neck harder, the lewd sounds of your cunt taking him between holded moans as you suck on his neck.

“That’s it taking me so good,” He praises — “You like that, princess? Like how you’re full of me?”

You hum against his skin. The blood coates your chin as it goes down through his chest, staining his white tank for a couple of seconds before the holes your teeth made finally closes on their own.

It’s pure ecstasy. He can feel it when you clenching around his cock, cheeks red from his blood going now through your system, his vitality, his energy.

You can feel him fucking everywhere. So when you kiss him it’s all teeth, bite and his blood.

The pleasure’s taking control of you now, and Logan’s dizzy from the blood loss, his body covered now in sweat as his words slur together, not threading any coherent thought.

“That’s it,” he says, making you bounce of his cock. “Gonna’ have you in my room then, all spread out f’me.”

His hand wrap around your neck tightly, keeping the direct contact as he chokes you. Shit. You don’t need to say a word. Logan already got you.

“James-” he’s too deep to question why you’re using that name with him. How you facade is crushing down now as you let go.

When your body trembles on top of him he’s already cumming too, the squeeze on his cock sufficent to fuck him up personally, his bruising grip on your hips shoving you as deep as he possibly can as his release hits him like a brick falling from the damn sky.

He lets you work for it, ride each second of your high, milk him dry as a white circle of his own cum mixed with your juices coated the base of his cock, his underwear now slick with your orgasm.

He’s struggling to breathe, to properly say something as you’re finally coming down from your peak, looking at him through half lidded eyes.

“Did you called me James?” he questions, and you’re a damn bad liar, cause he knows imediately you’re hidding something cause of the look on your face—. “Do we know each other? From before.”

You don’t know how to respond at first, at least, cause you cannot lie in a position like that now.

“Well uh. It’s quite a long story here.”

Before you can continue he gets up, making you wrap your legs around his hips before stsrting to walk to the mansion.

“Logan-” you say in a strangled moan yourself, still sensitive as he’s balls-deep inside you.

“It will be less than two minutes, leech” he responds gruffily,— “Need to get you into my room so I can enjoy you the rest of the night, and you can tell me all of it.”

He don’t care if he’s bloody or a damn mess as he squeezes your ass climbing up the stairs, much less if anyone see the two of you in that state.

“I want to hear all the details, Cause I have a weird feeling that this has happened before.”

You cannot find a reasonable excuse to say no as the man’s already reaching the second floor.

Logan’s fucked after that night. When he learned about all that you were before, weirdly connected to you through the decades.

It must be the bite isn’t? Shit. He’s more in sync than ever now that you’ve been feeding from him a lot the last few weeks.

Ah. You fucking leech.

my masterlist

[uva124]

INTRODUCING THE MOST MANIPULATIVE KING IN HISTORY , MAGNIFICO!!! 🎇🎇🎇🎇(I hate him but he deserves a redesign lol).

For those who see this post for the first time, I introduce myself, Hi :D! I'm Aled and this is a collaboration with @ animación , author of the rewrite of Wish that is on her profile (read it, the story it's soooo good) and I am in charge of drawing the redesigns of her story.

Now, coming back to the main thing, I will show how we got to this result :)

FACIAL FEATURES AND HAIR:

-Honestly, I never thought that getting used to drawing Magnifico would be so difficult lmao, how in most of my procedures to make the designs, I start with sketches and studying the structure of the character's face, this was a little difficult because I'm not that I'm used to drawing people over 20, but with a few practices I was able to figure out how to draw him :D

(I also did digital internships, but I didn't save most of them because I forgot lmao)

COLOR PALETTE:

-Don't think that I chose a palette of yellow and gold colors just because I thought it was pretty (well, that's also another reason), what happened is that when I was searching through conceptual arts, I found some designs by Magnifico where They used a blue and yellow color palette

I did a quick search and found this:

-Tell me this doesn't remind you of Magnifico, then yes, that's why I chose a yellow color palette, also adding a golden tone to give it a royal vibe.

-I also applied this in the design of Queen Amaya, in the publication of her design I explained why I added details of a dark blue color in her costume and Magnifico's costumes

ATTIRE:

-From the beginning I always wanted to modify Magnifico's cape by adding a rose as a brooch, and searching through the conceptual arts I found quite a few interesting models, so it can be said that I combined everything I liked and that's how I got the cape for Magnifico, Also adding other details that occurred to me.

-The author sent me several ideas for Magnifico (thank you by the way :D), one of them was associating Magnifico with the sun, I really liked the idea and that is why there are so many symbols of the sun in his suit, plus these It reminded me how in so many cultures the Sun is worshiped, just as the kingdom of roses worships Magnifico, there are also other reasons why the sun fits with Magnifico but I already mentioned that in the publication of Amaya's redesign.

-The truth is, I only drew the other details improvised, this time I just got carried away, but hey! The outfit didn't look bad at all :)

-Another important part of Magnifico's costume is the "M" on his badge, but in fact it is not an M 😅, it is the sign of Scorpio ♏, this idea was from Anny Mation

-So yeah, I had to add the Scorpio symbol yes or yes, at first I thought about adding it to the back of the cape but I wasn't convinced by the idea, but then I thought: "Wait, why don't I add the sign on the gold plate ? that would look elegant."

FINAL COMMENTS:

-I'm proud of how this turned out, I feel like it does justice to a villain that commemorates 100 years of Disney :)

-Also, I think that those who have already seen the other redesigns know which character is next, right 👀✨? For Aster, I don't know how long it will take me to draw him, since the boy is literally a walking animation studio lmao.

That would be all for now, until next time :D!

[oksurethisismyname]

There’s a lot of One Piece student/ high school Aus but I suggest One Piece teacher AU

Note: these descriptions are based on my experience as a teacher in southern USA. Where I’m at, you have to be certified to teach in public schools and it is a well known fact that coaches are almost always history teachers (don’t ask why)

Luffy is one of those coaches that is also a history teacher, but every student knows he only got his history license so he could be a coach. He’s taking girls volleyball to state this year, they are absolutely destroying their opponents. He teaches World History and is known for being vocally anti government / capitalist, but also super optimistic.

Sanji is a French teacher who is also certified in Home Ec. He is known by students to be a bit of a hard ass but he always brings food from whatever francophone country their learning about and students low key love him for always having snacks ready for kids who might not have enough lunch money or have breakfast at home.

Zoro is a coach as well, and he got certified in Japanese so he teaches one section and then uses the rest of his time coaching. Him and Sanji are both on the World Languages department and when the state language competition rolls around, they go HARD. Somehow he got roped into teaching health this year but is really hoping the teaching intern will get hired and take that over next year.

Nami is a certified geography and economics teacher, which is unfortunately apart of the history department so she’s stuck in stupid department meetings with Luffy. Shes in charge of detention and has students do stuff for her class as “punishment”, but really it’s a fun time with music playing and her classroom is always spotless after.

Robin is obviously also a history teacher. She’s AP certified so she does AP World, AP US, and AP Euro. Her students love her but are also kind of afraid of her. She’s currently advocating for the inclusion of AP African American Studies at their school.

Franky is part of the vocational program at the school, doing mechanic and wood working stuff with students. Alternatively, Franky could be the maintenance guy at the school. He’s always around fixing something.

Usopp is the drama teacher. He is the most chosen elective because he’s super funny and also has a habit of getting off topic and just not giving tests. He and Franky work together on set design and lighting for the school shows.

Brook is the choir and orchestra director. He’s super old so students think it’ll be boring but day 1 he is acting a total fool and kids love this crazy old man.

Chopper is a student teacher doing his internship as a biology teacher. He’s got major baby face and a sweet voice which is funny considering his teaching mentor is Dr. Trafalgar Law, who has resting bitch face and a tired annoyed voice. His AP bio and AP anatomy classes are some of the hardest classes at the school, but chopper offers tutoring and students are doing better now that they see Dr. Law being kind to Chopper .

Jimbei is the guidance counselor. He’s always got his door open for students to talk to him and he never judges them. He’s kind and patient and students trust him.

[useless-catalanfacts]

Frequently Asked Questions

This post answers the following questions:

Who are the Catalans? Where are you?

Which are the Catalan Countries? (each Catalan country)

Where can I learn the Catalan language? (free online resources and where to find classes)

What social media accounts can I follow that post in Catalan?

If your question isn't answered here, you're more than welcome to send me an ask!

1. Who are the Catalans? Where are they?

Catalan people are a cultural group who come from the area known as the Catalan Countries. We speak the Catalan language (a language that descends from Latin) and have a distinct culture (cuisine, traditions, holidays, dances, music, literature, etc) and history since the Middle Ages.

Our nation is the Catalan Countries, located in the coast of the Mediterranean sea, in South-Western Europe.

As a result of past wars and invasions, most of the Catalan Countries are under Spanish rule and a part of it is under French rule (+1 city in Italy). In fact, Spain and France have harshly persecuted, illegalized and tried to exterminate the Catalan language and culture for a long time, well into the 20th century. But Catalan people have survived the ethnocide and we still exist, even though we continue to face discrimination and there are some settings where it's still not legal to speak Catalan (for example, public schools in the French-controlled part, or European Union ambits, among some others).

There is also Catalan diaspora around the world.

We are not a closed culture, we are very open to foreigners learning our language and culture, and the Catalan diaspora often organizes celebrations for our holidays or groups to do traditional activities (most famously the castellers, aka human towers) that everyone can join.

2. Which are the Catalan Countries?

We say the Catalan Countries in plural because it's made of different areas for historical reasons. The Catalan Countries are all the areas where Catalan is the native language, which have historically been part of a whole, and which share a common culture (with local variants, of course). Here they are:

From North to South:

Northern Catalonia. Capital city: Perpinyà. It's under French administration (part of the region Occitanie in the new French regions system, used to be Languedoc-Roussillon in the old one).

Andorra. Capital city: Andorra la Vella. It's an independent microstate.

Catalonia. Capital city: Barcelona. It's under Spanish administration (it's the Catalonia region in the Spanish regions system).

Eastern Strip, also called Aragon Strip. It's under Spanish administration (it's part of the region of Aragon in the Spanish regions system).

Balearic Islands, including Mallorca, Menorca, Eivissa (in English also known as Ibiza) and Formentera. Capital city: Palma. Under Spanish administration (Balearics region in the Spanish regions system).

Valencian Country. Capital city: València. Under Spanish administration (called Valencian Community in the Spanish regions system).

El Carxe. Tiny rural area. Under Spanish administration (part of the Region of Murcia in the Spanish regions system).

L'Alguer. One city in the island of Sardinia. Under Italian administration (part of the region of Sardinia in the Italian regions system).

3. Where can I learn the Catalan language?

We are thrilled that you want to learn our language. Catalan people love it when others learn our language. Here I'll link you to classes and free online resources.

If you want face-to-face classes outside of the Catalan Countries, you can check this website to find if there's a university that offers Catalan classes near you. There are 101 around Europe, 25 in North America and Cuba, 5 in Asia, and 4 in South America. Students from these courses can also participate in language stays and internships in the Catalan Countries.

If you're already in the Catalan Countries, you will easily find courses for foreigners which the government offers for free or for a cheap price (depending on the level and each person's economic situation). Check out your local CPNL (Consorci per la Normalització Lingüística).

If you want to learn independently on the internet, there are two resources I recommend the most, both are available online for free.

One is the book "Life in Catalonia. Learn Catalan from..." that you can find in various languages. Here I add the link to the official government page where you can legally download the PDFs for free, you only have to scroll down and click under where it says "text complet". You can find the book Learn Catalan from English, from Spanish, from Arabic, from Tamazight, from French, from Hindi, from Urdu, from Punjabi, from Romanian, from Russian, and from Chinese.

The other resource I recommend the most is the online course Parla.cat. It has different levels for beginners or advanced learners. You have to create an account (it asks for an official document number, don't worry about it, it's not a sketchy site, it's because it's an official course paid by the government of Catalonia and if you immigrated to Catalonia having taken this course would officially count as a language course and can give you some benefits). You can either use it for free (all the learning material is available in the free version) or you can use the paying version. In the paid version, you will get assigned a language teacher from Catalonia who can help you and correct you.

There are many more resources. You can find more free resources in this post, this post, or in this link.

Here you have some recommendations to start practising. And remember that you can watch Catalonia's public TV streaming service 3Cat for free from anywhere in the world!

4. I want to follow social media accounts that post in Catalan. Can you tell me some?

Of course! According to the WWW Consortium, Catalan is the 35th most used language on the Internet, out of the more than 7,000 languages in the world.

Here's some lists with recommendations by topic:

Anime and manga

Cooking

Travel accounts

Videogames

Fashion and lifestyle

More lists will be coming soon

If your question wasn't answered, you can send me a question clicking here. 🙂 You can also browse this blog by topics here.

[moony-mari]

Isn't it strange - Charles Leclerc

charles leclerc x fem!reader summary: loosely based on strange by celeste warnings: Angst, fluff a/n: my first fic… I have so many more ideas. This was just a warm up! 

It was a huge cliche the way you and charles met way back in 2019. It was his first day at the ferrari factory and he was running late. Coffee in hand he ran towards the building entrance failing to notice the girl walking out of doors, spilling everything onto her ferrari polo. 

He was completely frozen before he snapped back into reality reaching for his ferrari jumper to dry the shirt. Apologies spewing from his mouth continuously but all you did was stop him and  tried to tell him it was alright and he should head inside for his meeting as he was already late he gave you his jumper and ran inside one thought playing on his mind. He never got your name

 He never saw you again until the next race you spotted him and made your way over returning his washed and dry jumper as you were about to turn around he asked you if you would like to get coffee as a thanks. You laughed and told him to promise he wouldn't spill it on you again his eyes lit up and he joined your laughter. 

The rest was history. 

One coffee date led to many many more until he finally asked you to be his girlfriend after his win at monza all of a sudden it was your 1 year anniversary and you couldn't be happier. Charles was the sweetest most considerate boyfriend you’d ever had. He put all his effort into making you happy when he was not racing. He took you on dates that no one could compare to, he made sure you were always safe and comfortable when in public and most importantly he supported you in your career as you worked through the ferrari engineering internship.  

So when you got a job offer to work at Mclaren for the 2021 season as their main engineer you thought he would be happy for you as this was not only a massive step in your career but also for women in engineering and motorsport. How wrong you were. 

You opened the door and walked to the kitchen bursting to tell him the news. That was until he shoved the letter across the countertop with a look of betrayal on his face. Your smile dropped as you saw the mclaren logo at the front. 

He shook his head and began to laugh in disbelief. You tried to explain that you’d still be in the paddock but he wouldn't have any of your answers. He claimed you going  to mclaren  wasn't necessary as they were not doing well and ferrari was better, he even told you that you didn't need to work at all and he could provide for you saying engineering wasn't meant for women and how mclaren only hired you to make them look good.

Tears fell down your face as you looked at him in disbelief. A scoff escaped your lips as you brushed passed him to gather all your things from his apartment. charles not understanding why you were leaving despite telling him multiple times. Once you got to the door charles was still so sure he didn't do anything wrong so you left and never looked back.

Radio silence. Nothing from charles. All of your messages were left on delivered. The season has ended and you were officially announced as lando’s main engineer. Praise came from the whole team and from across the whole paddock. Everyone except the one person you wanted praise from. 

The last straw was when he brought another girl with him. It was like a knife stabbed you in the heart as you saw them walk past the mclaren garage. you always thought you’d get back together. A tap on your shoulder brought you back to reality, when you turned around you were met by lando who smiled at you “don't worry love you’ll find someone who appreciates you now come on smile for me i can't have my main girl being sad now can i?” he asked  as you smiled for him and laughed when he cheered unnecessarily loud. 

Unbeknownst to you charles watched the whole interaction bitterness filled his heart as he watched you laugh with someone else he knows he's to blame for losing you but he can't quite grasp it yet his eyes finally breaking away from the mclaren garage as he walked away 

You had just finished debrief and walked out of the mclaren garage, suddenly your shirt was wet as you looked up, your eyes locked with his. He offered you his jumper but this time you declined, smiling at him pulling a mclaren hoodie out of your bag. It truly was the end

[thelastharbinger]

Did not have the U.S. government holding hearings on previously classified information and lying making confirmations under oath that they are in possession of alien bodies and ufos in order to distract from the fact that covid-19 is still the leading cause of death in children, the cost of living is astronomical, cop city is well underway despite Atlanta residents overwhelmingly crying out against it, we are experiencing the hottest & deadliest temperatures on record, the state of Florida trying to rewrite history to say that slavery was just a mutually beneficial unpaid internship, trans lives and rights are under attack, anti drag laws, FLINT MICHIGAN STILL DOES NOT HAVE CLEAN DRINKING WATER, anti-discrimination laws being reversed, Supreme Court ruling against affirmative action, Roe v. Wade undone, universal free school lunches are on the ballot, ongoing mass shootings, climate change, big pharma killing off people by withholding live saving drugs at ungodly market prices, the erasure of separation of church and state, AI surveillance being implemented to detect fare evasion for increasingly costly public transport services, the rise of fascim, proud boys showing up with military grade weapons at libraries and day care centers, the permitted attempted coup of the capital, labor union strikes happening all over the country, people dying of heat in Texas because evil landlords want to cut off cooling over an unpaid $51 utility bill, train derailments causing toxic waste spills, corruption within the highest court in the land, homelessness rates the highest its ever been, migrants and asylum seekers being kicked out of temporary housing, the cost of food, book bans, Miranda Rights no longer being stated, mayors deciding to no longer publicly disclose how many people are dying pre-trial in detention facilities, federal minimum wage still $7.25, Jeff Bezos, Elon Musk, oil pipeline constructions on native lands, something like 30-50% of the nation's drinking water contaminated with forever chemicals, the rich remaining untaxed, biden going back on his campaign promises to forgive all student debt, still no free universal healthcare, ICE deportations increasing under biden admin, the u.s. yet maintaining colonies, teens and women getting jail time for miscarriages and abortions, 100 companies globally responsible for 70 or 80-something percent of all CO2 emissions, we are living in a police state, diseases resurfacing after years with no cases due to rising temps, death penalty, public services being defunded to increase military and police spending budgets, and abusers suing victims for defamation cases in court so that they legally cannot talk about it, and setting a dangerous precedent in the process in my 2023 bingo card but here we god damn are.

[bambamramfan]

Discourse knows, there have been too many articles in the UMC publications about polyamory, and I apologize for adding to the bonfire of think pieces. At least this one linked above is less obnoxious than most of them.

(The most obnoxious one is referenced in this article, the Atlantic piece saying that polyamory is bourgeois identity politics distracting from material change.)

And what gets me is that for a bunch of supposed Marxists decrying how polyamory is just cultural superficiality irrelevant to the superstructure of material conditions.... none of them can bother to write a Marxist analysis of polyamory! It's just throwing different names at each other, no discussion of material incentives.

And it's so fucking easy to write one, isn't it. Here's our starting points:

Marriage (and the relationship models that lead to it) is an economic institution.

The change in modern polyamory fads is, like most fashion, coming from the upper-class.[1]

I think we can all agree on these basic premises, and they provide a great deal of grist for economic analysis.

For instance, the middle class in America is falling apart. Especially if you are a recent college graduate. It's easy to get an internship that might be on track to a very lucrative career, especially in a big city. It's a lot harder to start a stable middle-class job somewhere between the coasts. So you can't really start planning for baby until you're 30 and after 5 different careers you maybe have one that will last more than a year, and can put a down payment on a home at maybe 35. (Housing costs rising, especially in cities, has really exacerbated that.

Does this apply to everyone? No. Does it apply to more people that in the past? Big yeah. So, what does a young educated something do in their twenties and early thirties?

But the upper class - I suppose we are supposed to say upper middle class, but c'mon programmer earning $250k you're fooling no one - is booming. It's easier to enter it, especially if you're smart, than ever (note that increasing from 1% mobility to 10% mobility is a big change, even if on the absolute scale it's still unfair.)

Polyamory - or extramarital sex - has always been popular among the rich. Because marriage isn't really an economic necessity for them. If a couple splits, well there's enough money to go around for all the kids to live in nice houses. Mormon bigamy flourishes when a male breadwinner is so ultra-successful they can support for 5 wives, and geek group poly houses flourish when one systems engineer can pay for the whole house on their own too (maybe there's one kid everyone chips in babycare for in the house, but no one is even thinking about enough children in the group house for a fertility rate close to 1:1.)

So if you cut out the ladder from the middle-class-monogamy path, and widen the highway for upper-class-laissez-faire-culture, then cultural norms are gonna flow from the former to the latter.

The thing about relationship norms that makes the change really noticeable is their NETWORK EFFECTS. Being the only polyamorous person in a monogamous community is basically irrelevant, right? Who you gonna date? Similarly if you are in an entirely polyamorous community, my sympathies if you happen to be monogamous and so everyone you want to date has incompatible norms.

But once you start getting away from the edges, they S-curve up real fast because there's finally the option to try the minority relationship style, and for the agnostics who are okay poly or mono, they start seeing people they think are cute in the other camp, and hey, why not try it out.

So combine the collapse of the middle class, the proliferation of upper class hedonism, and network effects and a poly-explosion seems almost inevitable, doesn't it?

...

Of course, I haven't presented any hard evidence, this marginal change at most applies to less than double digits percentage of the populace, and this isn't even how the story feels from inside my head (as a poly converted person.)

But it was. At least. An attempt. To do. Materialistic analysis!

Why are all published Marxists so bad at this.

--

[1] Polyamory, or extreme family/relationship/household flexibility has always flourished in the underclass. But the NYT isn't going around interviewing trailer parks in Appalachia to ask them about their exciting new lifestyle.

[lgbtq-history-museum-cfl-intern]

The Final Count Down

Sunday 11/26/2023

Technically I’m supposed to be on vacation until tomorrow, but I have some time on my hands and thoughts on my mind.

This is the last day of classes and I’m working on some final assignments: The last touches on a research paper for the capstone course for my Interdisciplinary Studies major, a PowerPoint for the Hands-on History Internship Showcase on Friday, and a reflection on my service-learning hours with the LGBTQ History Museum of Central Florida – again, for capstone.

All I can think about is graduation! I’m so close, I can feel the end nearing!

My nerves are finally dissolving, leaving me with anxious anticipation, and a bit of “senioritis” as I chug through these final tasks.

Once the semester ends, this internship will fulfill the last course credits that I need – pending the History Department’s substitution – to complete my history minor.

Even though UCF has an Interdisciplinary Studies Master’s Program, I’m looking forward to turning in my application for the Public History Master’s Program by the priority deadline (January 15th). I aim to start my degree in the Fall of 2024 and, after learning about another student’s experience from Rollins’ Archival staff, I plan to take one seminar course at a time.

The only exception would be if I’m accepted into the Summer Research Program at UCF, allowing me to earn 6 credits the summer before.

This plan to take things slow is to hopefully avoid burnout and allow me to work with plenty of thought, care, and attention to my master’s degree. I’d also like to have time and energy to dedicate to internships and other forms of hands-on learning experiences like volunteering – maybe even a job that provides opportunities to expand skills that are relevant to public history professions.

Thursday 11/30/2023

Tomorrow is presentation day and I’m first up on the schedule (thank goodness! I’ll get to just sit and listen to everyone else’s experiences for the rest of the time!)

I’m literally functioning on meeting and due dates:

Tomorrow is the Hands-On History Showcase.

Sunday, all of my Capstone Assignments are due.

The following Friday, my final is due.

Then the Friday after that is graduation.

After that, I have about a month until the priority deadline for applications for the Public History Master’s Program at UCF.

That’s as far out as I can think right now.

I’m full of excitement and anxiety, but I’m also hopeful and optimistic!

Most of all, I am grateful, and I plan to spend some time throughout the following weeks communicating that to the mentors who positively impacted my undergraduate journey – pretty much all of them. (I was wondering if I was going to get sentimental leading up to graduation and, finally, here I am typing through calm tears as I reminisce on how lucky I am to have so many wonderful people to reach out to with gratitude.)

I’m glad this is how I chose to spend my final semester. Earlier this year, I was thrown off my path and I was heartbroken trying to piece together a new plan that accommodated my limited capacities as a student living with disabilities.

Now, two weeks from graduation, I stand firmer and more confident in my plans, goals, and desires.

Thank you to the wonderful faculty, staff, and peers who taught me so much along the way! Without their support, I would not have accomplished all that I have throughout my undergraduate career.

See you next Fall as a master’s student! (fingers-crossed)

Friday 12/01/2023

The showcase just ended and that just about wraps up the semester for me!

Everyone else had some incredibly enriching experiences and it was cool to see someone else who participated in the HerStory: Women in History Internship at the Orange County Regional History Center.

It seems the structure of it has come a long way, allowing her to accomplish so much more hands-on work than I had during my time there!

There was a lot of diversity in the projects everyone worked on, so I also learned other ways of being a public historian and doing public history work.

Hopefully, when I enter the Public History Master’s Program at UCF I’ll get to work alongside some of these wonderfully talented individuals!

Thanks for following my journey!

- Marena

[levans44]

Call me crazy, hold me down

pairing: ransom drysdale x reader

summary: you met ransom in college, working as harlan's intern. when he sees you again 10 years later, this time with an engagement ring on your hand, he’s hell-bent on finding out more. he's always had a way of getting under your skin, but this time, it’s different. times have changed—and so have you.

warnings: 18+ SMUT, power play, implied cheating, jealousy, history of FWB, degradation, light breath play, fingering, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, slight age difference, canon divergence, porn w/ plot, plot twists

word count: 3.4k

“Ransom? Ransom Drysdale?”

With a velvety swoosh of his overcoat, he turns to face you, sharp blue eyes landing on yours.

Standing in the gilded glow of the country club, Ransom Drysdale wore tradition like a second skin—rich cashmere sweater, perfectly tailored chinos, and the kind of bone-deep confidence that only old money could bestow.

Yet he wore it all with a touch of recklessness, a lazy defiance that set him apart even as he fit right in.

The burgundy scarf draped around his neck—a vibrant, unruly splash against the muted palette of the room.

And, of course, the Gucci loafers. 

With the heels stamped down flat and soles scuffed to oblivion, they made it clear that, among the desperate sea of elites clinging to pedigree, Ransom was both one of them, and something entirely another.

Soft, pink lips part, exhaling your name. 

“Shit.” The incredulity in his eyes replaced just as quickly with an unmistakable hunger, raking over your frame with no remote attempt at decency or subtlety. But then again, neither had ever been his style.

“…is that really you, Sunshine?”

Sunshine. As soon as the nickname glides off his tongue, a memory flashes into your mind - the shock of cold metal against your bare skin, warm hands gripped around your hips as they hoist you up onto a library cart, rucking up the hem of your yellow sundress. 

You blink in quick succession, chasing the thought away. 

“In the flesh.” You nod, flashing him an innocent smile. 

Head cocked in disbelief, he steps in, arms outstretched for a hug. His palm skims your lower back, the other cradling a glass of whiskey.

A heavy whiff of cologne envelops you, that familiar scent of rich vanilla and cedarwood, and it’s all the confirmation you need to know that nothing has changed.

Harvard class of ’11, side-by-side members of Phi Beta Kappa honor society. 

You’d earned it through countless late nights and waitressing shifts, scrimping and saving just to make ends meet. And him? Well, a shiny new literature building bearing the Thrombey name may have tipped the scales.

For a moment, you let your nose brush against the soft fabric of his cable-knit sweater, whiter than the streaks of cocaine that marked his habits at Harvard’s exclusive club meetings.

As you start to pull back, you catch a flash of your reflection in his aviators, hanging from his collar—a spitting image of the Hamptons elite, you know you’ve never looked better. 

Knows he knows it too, evident in the way his fingers linger over your arm as he pulls back. 

“Whatcha been up to?”  

“Oh, you know, just making ends meet.”

 You sigh, twirling your fingers around the empty glass in your hand. 

“…how’s Harlan doing?”

Hand-picked by the infamous novelist for a summer internship your freshman year, it was Harlan who had introduced you to his other intern. Ransom was a senior then, neither grateful nor interested in the opportunity you had to fight tooth and nail for. 

“Well, old man hasn’t kicked it yet.” 

Ransom sighs, shoulders sagging with an undeniable air of annoyance as his hand leaves your side, stepping back to down sixty dollars worth of whiskey in one go. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, eyes wandering down to the empty martini glass by your hip. He glances back up, licking his lips and pointing a signet ring-clad finger in your direction. 

“Espresso?”

You shake your head, eyes darting down to your glass. 

“Vodka.”

He chuckles, nodding his head.

“Of course. Classic.”

You don’t dwell on his words, nor the suggestive wink he shoots your way as he heads in the direction of the bar, about to fetch you both another round.

You wince, reaching forward to stop him in his tracks.

“Oh no, Ran, you don’t have to.”

With a raised brow, his gaze drops to where your hand rests on his forearm. You pull your hand back abruptly, as if singed by his stare. 

A flicker of something possessive crosses his features, new interest lighting up his eyes. 

Jaw unclenching as he settles on that familiar smirk, though it’s a little stiffer this time. 

He raises his chin, cocking his head to the side, and the bridge of his nose catches the lighting of the overhead chandelier. 

A small twitch in his brow as he murmurs:

“Married, huh?”

You nod softly, pursing your lips as you glance down at the glistening stone on your ring finger. 

“Engaged.”

“Huh.” He murmurs, blinking.

His gaze falters for a moment before they find yours again. Eyes narrowed as he leans in, voice dropping two pegs:

“You know, between us, I always thought I’d be the one to get married first.”

You let out a soft laugh, amusement lighting up your eyes.

“Meaning you thought I’d never get married.”

He shrugs, mirroring the smile on your face.

“Can you blame me? I mean let’s face it…”

Lips inches away from yours, a devilish grin splitting his face wide open. 

“….neither of us were really the marriage type.”

And your heart skips a beat, a raw memory edging its way into your mind.

Coarse upholstery scraping against your cheek, the quiet creaks of wooden furniture ringing across the dorm common room—he’s got you bent over a worn-out couch, holding you down by the neck as he sneers in your ear. 

‘Does your little boyfriend fuck you like this?’

You blink slowly, raising your brows with a quiet breath. 

“That was over 10 years ago, Ransom. I’ve changed.”

He chuckles loudly, head cocking in a silent challenge.

“Is that right?” 

Leans in even closer to your ear, close enough to feel his warm, whiskey-soaked breath.

“Because by the way you’ve been staring at my lips, I’d disagree.” 

Pink lips curl around a set of bright, sharp teeth as he grins, the edges of his wool coat dancing around your frame.

You freeze, breath hitching in your throat as he leans down, his lips grazing your ear and leaving a searing mark—like the red-hot tip of a cigarette against your skin.

“…tell me, Sunshine, you think you can keep your hands off me all night?” 

“Who is it?”

“Hmm?” You mumble, mind half gone from the way his hands were gripping your hips, ass pressed against the cold marble of the bathroom sink as he rucks your tennis skirt around your waist.

The scent of expensive liquor and mint fill your senses as he grumbles against your pulse point, voice coarse and low. 

“That schmuck you’re marrying.”

He pulls back from the space below your jaw and in the split second your eyes meet his—a viridescent streak of emerald amidst all that smug blue. And you know.

An electric jolt rips through your stomach, equal parts thrill and disbelief, and you throw your head back, letting out an incredulous laugh.

“Drysdale, are you seriously jealous?”

He scoffs, but his hand tightens around the swell of your hips, his ring digging into the soft flesh. Suddenly yanks you to the edge of the marble counter as you gasp, grasping at his sweater-clad chest for balance. 

“You really think I’m the jealous type, Sunshine?” he murmurs, nose brushing against yours as he splays his hand over your exposed knee, warming up the skin. 

Then, with deliberate slowness, drags the blunt tips of his nails up the inside of your thigh, making you visibly shudder.

“Still a fan of that move, huh?” He grins, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.

Ignoring your half-assed attempts to push him away, he continues to trail his fingers upward until they find their way to your core, thumbing the outline of your sex through the damp fabric of your panties.

“…so who is he?” He taunts, gripping you in closer, lips pressed against the corner of your mouth. 

“Ransom…” you murmur, scalding under his hungry gaze as it swallows your every reaction—a sarcastic eye roll turning into a genuine show of pleasure once he shoves the flimsy lace to the side, fingertips dipping in between your folds.  

And although you had no plans of humoring his question, Ransom’s other hand flies up to clasp over your mouth, trapping the pathetic whimpers slipping off your tongue.

He shakes his head feverishly, crooning into your ear:

“Shh, wait, wait, you know what? Lemme guess.”  

You only let out a muffled groan in response, eyes rolling back into your head at the way two of his thick fingers enter your sopping cunt, agonizingly slow. 

“Let’s see… does he have a J.D.? 5 years at daddy’s law firm, promoted to senior partner before you could say nepo baby?” 

His fingertips find that plush spot deep inside you and you gasp, his palm muffling broken syllables of his name. His hand clasps tighter against your mouth, wholly ignoring you as you claw at his wrist:

“.. or, or, Wallstreet, maybe? You living out your dreams of being a little trophy wife, sweetheart?”

Pulls out only to add a third finger, shoving his hand deeper between your legs, forcing your knees further apart. You groan at the added stretch and he only smirks, continuing to pump his fingers in and out while ignoreing your desperate gaze. 

“Ok, and this might be my personal favorite….” 

A feral flash of teeth as he grins, curling his fingers upward. You can't help but arch your back, your gasp still muffled by his hand over your mouth. 

“…is he one of those self-made, go-getter types? Daddy ditched mommy without a dime so he had to scholarship his way through some shitty state college?”

Faster now, dragging his palm against your clit, hand soaked with your arousal.

“Turned his life around with dedication and work ethic. Is that what you’re telling yourself, Sunshine?”

Eyes squeezed shut, you cling onto the fabric of his coat for dear life as his fingers stroke your g-spot over and over. 

“So what’s it gonna be, sweetheart? Bachelor number 1, 2, or 3?” 

He whispers, releasing his grip from around your mouth as you gasp for air, his now-free hand dropping down to his belt buckle. 

“F-fuck you, Ransom, He’s…ah, shit—“ 

A clink of designer metal is all the warning you get before he’s burying himself in you, replacing his fingers with the head of his fat cock. The words dissolve on your tongue as he pushes inside at a glacial pace, prolonging the ache of the stretch. Drags it out just as slowly, delivering a sharp slap against your clit, before sinking back in. 

Your eyes flutter shut at the obscenity of it all, the shameless lick of his lips as he smirks at your obvious embarrassment. 

“Fuck, look at you.” He murmurs to himself as he snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you in for a searing kiss, his tongue pushing past your teeth as he sets out on a relentless rhythm.

Pulls back with a wet smack to raise his free hand up to your mouth, coated thoroughly with your slick. Pushes three fingers past your lips, thrusting them down your throat, deep enough to make you gag. Your eyes roll back, clenching around his cock as you arch your back, sucking feverishly. 

“That’s it, show me how much you want it.”

And with his fingers still shoved down your throat, he smirks, tugging your head down to meet his gaze.

“Bet he doesn’t fuck you this good, huh?”

The glare you manage to give him as you gurgle around his fingers is just the edge he needs, letting out a loud groan as he snaps his hips into you harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin ringing across the bathroom tiles. 

Your climax arrives with a strangled cry as your eyes squeeze shut, legs trembling as waves of ecstasy crash over you, your core spasming around his cock. 

While you struggle to catch your breath, Ransom’s thrusts become erratic, grunts growing deeper in an all-too-familiar way. He pulls out with a shudder, guiding your left hand between your thighs to wrap around his slick cock. The engagement ring glints under the dim lighting as you stroke him in quick, firm pulses. Ransom hisses, eyes zeroing in on the hand wrapped around him as he finishes with a throaty groan, streaking your inner thigh with his release.  

A soft jangle of his belt as he slides the buckle into place, while you carefully slide off the marble surface, steadying yourself. 

“You still haven’t answered my question, Sunshine. Don’t I deserve to know what kind of loser managed to tie you down?” 

You’re still breathing heavy, light-headed and buzzing, yet you manage to choke out:

“… fuck off, Drysdale, he’s a bigger man than you’ll ever be.”

He lets out a sharp laugh, hand flying up to grab your chin, smearing spit and remnants of your arousal over your lips. 

Gives you a searing kiss, teeth and all, just because he can.

Pulls back with a wet smack, flashing you a smirk that chills you to the bone.

“Yeah? Is that why I just fucked his fiancée in a country club bathroom?”

Three days later...

“Ransom Drysdale, you’re under arrest for attempted murder of the first degree. You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot—“

Ransom’s sharp chuckle interrupts the arresting officer mid-sentence. His gaze snaps over to you, standing in the corner of the living room, arms crossed and watching intently. 

He barks out your name, laced with disdain. 

“You’re a cop? You gotta be shitting me.”

You take slow, deliberate steps toward him as the officer finishes reciting his Miranda rights, yanking Ransom’s balled-up fists into a set of cuffs. Ransom’s not foolish enough to resist, but he squares his shoulders, holding his ground as you approach him. When you’re close enough, he leans in, his voice dropping to a low growl, face inches from yours.

“You slut.” He spits, all nine circles of Hell swirling in his eyes. “You think you can fuck me over like this and get away with it?” 

He huffs out a breath, nostrils flaring. Glances up past your shoulder at Benoit Blanc, standing in the archway of the foyer.

“… this isn’t over. I’ll see all your asses in court. You hear me?”

You tilt your head, eyes gleaming with satisfaction as you glance black at the arresting officer, silently signaling for one last moment. 

“You know, it’s so funny you mention that, Ransom.”

Crimson lips raised into sharp peaks as you smile, taking another step forward.

“Can I share a secret?” You lean in, voice barely a whisper.

“Guess who’s leading the prosecution on your trial?”

You watch as his scowl falters, a flicker of confusion that douses the fire in his gaze.

4 years of shitty undergrad, putting up with entitled assholes like Ransom Drysdale, all so you could graduate at the top of your class and land a full ride to Yale Law. Youngest prosecutor in the state of Massachusetts to hold the title of Attorney General, just freshly appointed last week, and with a perfect record to boot.

Just one look at your first case—a claim filed by Harlan’s home care nurse who suspected foul play, that someone had switched the labels on her med vials, nearly forcing her to administer a fatal dosage—and you knew who had dunnit. 

Pulled a few strings to get on the shortlist for the exclusive country club that Ransom frequented, and a flash of your left hand plus a couple drinks back at his place was all it took. 

Inebriated from the whiskey and drunk off his arrogance—anything for his sweet, innocent ray of sunshine, lapping up tales of his grandiose plans with wide-eyed admiration.

How he had swapped the labels, how he managed to cover his tracks. 

How a damn Brazilian nurse foiled it all with her selfless resolve, getting Harlan to the ER even after administering the correct medication. 

It was everything you needed to build a complete case against him.   

You living out your dreams of being a little trophy wife, sweetheart?

Eat shit, Ransom.

“So what.” Ransom spits, rolling his eyes, but the mask slips just another inch further.

“You don’t think my lawyers can get me out of this? It’s attempted murder, for fucks sake.”

“Hmm, I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” You step in closer, cocking your head to the side.

“You know, Ran, first-degree attempted murder is punishable for life in prison in Massachusetts.”

Even closer now, his face just inches from yours, breath hot and jagged against your lips. 

“Hire all the fucking lawyers you want — I don’t lose, asshole.”

A silence that feels like forever as his eyes dart furiously between yours, nostrils flaring.

And when he fails to find the familiar submission in your eyes, his smug, devil-may-care bravado is broken with a quick twitch in his brow—a brief flicker of realization, concealed just as quickly under a mask of rage. He lunges forward, looking just about ready to break out of his cuffs and wring both his hands around your neck. The officer yanks back on his arms in warning.

You don’t so much as flinch.

“You vile. fucking. bitch.” He hisses, gritting through his teeth.

“Hmm, takes one to know one.”

You smile, promptly stepping back as the arresting officer hauls Ransom away. 

“You slut! I’m gonna ruin your life, you hear me?” The sound of jangling metal cuffs rings out in the foyer as he’s dragged out of his grandfather's estate, past Blanc who simply sidesteps Ransom’s loud tirade.

“… get the fuck off me!”

“See you in court, Mr. Drysdale!”

You call, waving from the front door of the Thrombey mansion, watching the outline of Ransom’s designer sweater get shoved unceremoniously into the back of a police vehicle. 

Through the tinted windows of the back seat, you catch the glimpse of a man stripped of his mask, a ghost from your past, face twisted in fury and defeat.

“Miss, didn’t nobody tell you that gloatin’s in poor taste?”

A low, southern drawl croons from beside you. 

You flash a smile at Benoit Blanc, who’s watching the police car pull out of the driveway behind a lit cigar, an equally satisfied expression on his face.

“Oh, I think a little gloating may be warranted.”

"Ya know... the way you’ve pieced this all together is mighty impressive. You sure I can't convince you of a career as a private investigator?”

You laugh, watching the police car disappear through the dense woods.

“That’s kind of you, detective, but the courtroom’s where I belong.”

You purse your lips, thumb absentmindedly rubbing against the band on your ring finger. 

“Plus, I… may have cheated my way in a little with this one.”

Blanc shrugs, smiling around his cigar.

“I figured as much, seeing as how you and Mr. Drysdale were on a first-name basis.”

You let out a small sigh, turning to face Blanc as you extend a hand. 

“It’s been a pleasure, detective. Couldn’t have done it without your insight.”

“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine.”

Cigar hanging from his lips, Blanc shakes your hand with a firm grip, before the shiny stone on your finger catches his eye, glinting in the afternoon sun. 

“…that’s a nice ring you got there, ma’am. Must be a lucky fella.”

He flashes you a wink, and you have to fight the urge to smile, realizing why this strange character of a man was heralded as the world’s greatest P.I. 

After Blanc leaves you with a tip of his hat, you take a few steps out into the sprawling yard of the Thrombey mansion, turning around to take in the full view of the estate. 

‘Playing life like a game without consequence…’ 

Harlan’s words echo in your head—one of the many nights you’d stayed over late, helping him finalize manuscripts while Ransom was out partying. 

‘….untill you can't tell the difference between a stage prop and a real knife.’

Lucky you that Ransom couldn’t tell a 10-dollar cubic zirconia from a real diamond, either. 

After taking one final glance at the estate, you start your descent down the hill of the Thrombey estate, twisting the ring off your finger and tossing it into the dense shrubbery where it vanishes from view.

“So long, Drysdale.”

A/N: so uhm... this might be the filthiest thing I've ever written? hope you enjoyed the little reveals in the story, had to stay true to the og genre. title credit to fiona apple

[otrtbs]

hi! could you explain a little bit what you studied and if you did any apprenticeship before you got a job ? a little summary to how you got there ? i’m so curious (and i admire you a lot)

hiya!! sure!!

so back in high school i actually started volunteering at my local art museum when i was 16 (up until i graduated at 18). they had a program specifically designed for teens to volunteer at the museum (i gave guided tours, and helped plan events at the museum, and worked with kids 3-12 in a drop-in studio every saturday where they could make art of their own after looking in the gallery) <- not a lot of museums do this, but you can call and ask if they need volunteer docents for the weekends !! they’ll train you!!

then i majored in art history in undergrad (making sure to focus my courses in modern and contemporary art towards the end of my studies bc that’s what i wanted to do! also i took a LOT of french classes. as in i only needed a few credits to have a minor but the last class was so hard i dropped it) to give yourself a leg up, i recommend studying a language (italian, french, spanish, german) most jobs in ARH require at least a minimal reading knowledge of another language.

while i was in school, i got a job at my university’s art museum as a gallery assistant! (<- fancy way of saying i walked around the galleries and told people not to touch the paintings and answered their questions if they asked and made sure no one was trying to steal the art)

during the summer, i got a summer internship at an art gallery in the biggest city close to my house (bc i moved back home w my parents in the summertime. uni housing was crazy expensive) and that was the *most* instrumental. i learned how to write wall texts, how to install artworks, i made studio visits to artists, updated the gallery website, handled artist contracts, you name it! it was great experience!!

i also got involved in art history/fine arts clubs at my university! i was on the fine arts council at my uni which represented the art and art history department to the student senate and the university at large. and the art historical society.

then i got my master’s degree in history of art theory and display, joined the art historical society at that university, got a degree and entered my FLOP ERA OF THE CENTURY

and by that i mean, i was 6 months unemployed and moved back home w my parents flop era. no one would hire me ,, no one would even give me a call back to tell me they didn’t wanna hire me ,,, and then one day someone did !! rahhh!!!! and i got some of my research approved 4 publishing and now im here!!!! (i say this not to discourage you but to let you know that the job market for art history ppl is tough,, it has always been tough,, but if you love it, it’s never a waste to pursue!)

i would do a few things differently if i had a second go at it, just to get a leg up so here’s some advice that im giving but i DIDNT DO myself:

1) try to minor in something to give you a leg up! a language is good, marketing is good, public relations… something to make you stand out!

2) try to get things published as an undergrad or a grad student! get your research out there if you can (way easier said than done ik ik) have some things you can list under your publications tab on your CV

3) if you find yourself in a 6+ month jobless, flop era period like me, volunteer somewhere at a museum or gallery if you are able. i was bitter as fuck that i had a masters degree and would be working at a museum for free when i needed money so i didn’t do it ,, but when someone finally calls back and you get an interview and they ask what you’ve been up to recently ,,, telling them you spend your time volunteering in museum spaces and working in your desired environment looks so much better than saying “i’ve been job searching” i promise !! (<- also just recognizing the extreme privilege i had to just stay at home and look for jobs in my desired field instead of immediately having to get a job somewhere. but im not gonna lie to you. i put out applications at olive garden and einstein’s bagels and they both rejected me. so. i was scrambling bc my student loans were due and i had zero dollars 2 my name 🧍‍♀️)

okay i rambled on for entirely tooooooo long. but i hope this was helpful somewhat !!! 💗💗

[myglassesareinkansas]

Obviously, I wanna write an academic rivals to lovers book but I can't really do that until I've finished at least one semester of grad school so I can get a feel for what academia is actually like

[possiblyeldritch]

Welp, my time has come. I am going to disappoint my parents and be happy while I do it.

I recently got an email from my college’s financial aid office alerting me that I was chose as a recipient for a $2500 dollar humanities scholarship. This is great because I’m broke and $2500 is life changing for me. This will put a massive dent in my tuition for me.

But that’s not why I’m disappointing my parents (more accurately: will be disappointing). The reason I’ll be disappointing them is because I’ve taken this as a sign. I did not apply for this scholarship, I did not even know it existed, yet the donors picked me out of all the humanities students as the recipient. This is a sign to me, but more like an excuse to do what I actually want.

For context: I have been struggling with a very important choice lately. That choice is: do I make the rational and reasonable choice to switch majors when I transfer to Uni so I can get a well paying job after graduation OR do I keep majoring in English and double down on my literature studies/dream of being an author?

I have spent my entire life talking about how much I want to be an author, and nothing but an author. My parents have known this because it literally has been the only thing I’ve wanted since I was a little kid (I have been writing stories since I could read and write). When I was younger and still in public schooling, they were supportive, but now that I’m an adult in college they have been less so. Every time I bring up my dream of being an author their faces fall and they try to talk me out of it in that subtle “we just want the best for you” way.

The most recent occurrence was after I finished my internship as a museum curatorial assistant. I told them about how I liked working at the museum but was still unsure if studying history and museum work was what I wanted to do next year when I start my bachelors. They were supportive and said that I still had time and options, but then I brought up studying literature again and they were not pleased. It is clear they don’t like the idea of me being an author any more because it isn’t something real or sustainable.

But that’s all just context at this point because that scholarship gave me a push and opened my eyes. Out of everyone the donors could have selected from the humanities students, they chose me, and that made me feel good about my art for the first time in almost two years.

I am not going to study history for my bachelors. I am going to study literature and I am going to be an author. It is all I have ever wanted my entire life and I am going to make it happen.

!Tangent Over!

[blurredcolour]

The Night Moves | Part Two

The Night Moves Masterlist

Alternate Universe

supernatural!Bradley Bradshaw x Female Reader; supernatural!Jacob Seresin x Female Reader

Summary: An internship with the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History should have been the highlight of your academic career. The perfect addition to your resume while you worked on your doctoral thesis. An interdepartmental assignment, however, sees your reality ripped apart by incomprehensible forces. Five tumultuous days will leave you forever changed and inextricably linked to two men born centuries apart.

Warnings: Angst, Language, Alcohol, Emotional Struggles, Crying, Discussions of Violence/Blood/Gore, Supernatural Themes, Historical Inaccuracies, Institutional Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ Only

Word Count: 4795

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

-Wednesday-

Your alarm had gone off at its regular time, jarring your barely-rested body rudely into consciousness. Your eyes, feeling more akin to sandpaper than anything, had only suffered being opened to mere slits, allowing you to simply grasp at your phone weakly and turn off the ever-increasing sound. There had been no internal struggle about calling in late today, nor had your supervisor had any issue with it given what you had gone through the night before.

You had pinned a lot of hope on three extra hours of sleep, and while you certainly felt more human the second time your alarm went off, it was nonetheless a struggle to throw back the covers. Untangling your limbs from the sheets you had wrenched from the mattress at some point in the night, you peeled your tired frame from the bed. Exhaustion had somehow kept you asleep, but the disarray of your bed linens spoke to the restlessness of your body during the night. Scrubbing your hands down your face while exhaling a jaw-cracking yawn, you planted your hands on the bed and leveraged yourself to standing, shuffling into the bathroom to start getting ready.

The apartment felt unsettlingly quiet, the usual white noise of the rest of the complex waking and preparing for the day absent at this hour. Toothbrush in hand, you worked the bristles along your teeth as you ambled down the short hallway passed the dining room and around the corner into to the living room to turn on the TV. Not pausing to listen, you made your way back to the washroom to spit a frothy gob of toothpaste into the sink as a local news update about an unidentified body found not three blocks from your home played unheard in the other room.

A hot shower and, what you realized was your first real meal in nearly twenty-four-hours, had you feeling nearly human and on your way out the door. Living at the terminus of the silver line in Ashburn usually guaranteed you a seat on the train, but at midday there was very little competition anyhow. Just over an hour later, you were riding the escalator up onto the Mall, blinking into the blinding light of the sun before making your way across the street and into your building.

The atmosphere at work was understandably subdued, and you had only just arrived when you were pulled into the first in a series of debrief meetings that descended down the organizational chart until you finished with the curatorial team at three o’clock. Having used all your reserves the night before, you faded quickly through the day, and your supervisor strongly recommended you take the last few hours as compensatory time for the night before rather than try and remain functional with only two working hours left.

The idea of returning home to an empty apartment, however, with six idle hours until you could somewhat justify going to bed filled you with a sense of dread that had you turning not toward the staff exit but instead through the door connecting to the public exhibits. There were just over two hours before closing, a rare opportunity for you to enjoy the displays, and you found your feet carrying you toward the Price of Freedom exhibit – specifically the area focusing on the War of Independence.

It honestly seemed counter-intuitive, to be looking over artifacts from the same era so closely tied to the horrors of the night before, yet your mind seemed unable to focus on anything else. Leaning in to get a better look at a surgical kit from the period, backdropped by a diagram of an amputation from a 1768 medical text, you were startled to see a familiar reflection in the glass. Turning to look over your right shoulder, your eyes widened in surprise as your moustachioed rescuer from the Mall was making his way through the exhibit, just a few displays behind you.

As if sensing your gaze, he raised his eyes to meet yours, grin stretching across his features as he strode forward to your side.

“Is this also part of your job? Perusing the galleries?” His tone was warm and teasing and somehow, despite everything, managed to summon a smile to your face.

“Done early today, just taking advantage of the rare opportunity to enjoy the place during open hours. I see you took my advice?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Seemed like as good a place to start as any, first one at this end of the Mall, cute girl works here, might actually remember to ask for her number if I run into her this time…”

You smothered a laugh, despite the giddy thrill that raced through you, pleased that he had the same regret about your parting earlier that morning. Unlocking your phone, you held it out to him. “Please, text yourself so there’s no mix-up, I am only marginally more functional than the last time I literally ran into you.”

You watched as he took it carefully, swallowing tightly at how small your phone appeared in his hands, pleased to hear his phone vibrate before he handed yours back. “Done. So, aside from shorter, I hope today was also better than yesterday?”

Exhaling thoughtfully through pursed lips you eventually conceded with a nod, clicking your tongue against your teeth. “Not normal, but certainly more bearable.”

“You have some time to show me around?” He tilted his head, and you worked your lower lip between your teeth for a moment – not because you needed to consider his request, but because you did not want to appear over-eager.

Once you trusted your voice again you nodded. “I’d be happy to, where were you before I interrupted?”

He walked over to the display where you had been standing, even though you both knew he hadn’t gotten that far and pointed at the box lined with green velvet. “What is that?”

“A surgeon’s kit, carried by a battlefield doctor.”

“They do a lot of amputations?” He raised an eyebrow, looking at the enlarged medical diagram.

“Quite a few. Musket balls were made of lead, quite a soft material, that would flatten on impact. They left gaping wounds but still shattered bones. The primary medical treatment for such injuries was amputation, though infection was still very much an issue due to the lack of understanding of bacteria at the time.”

Nodding thoughtfully, he walked with you over to the next display before frowning. “And they were doing all that in the time of blood letting?” He pointed to the kit labelled for such a purpose and you shrugged.

“It was an important tool for treatment in that period. I shudder to think what standard practices we rely on today that will seem horribly outdated with the advancement of medicine in a few decades.”

“Or centuries, even.” He looked over the foreign instruments and you could not help but admit the idea of taking blood from an already sick and weakened individual seemed utterly ridiculous to your modern sensibilities.

“Is this really boring for you?” Bradley leaned in to ask quietly, pulling you from your thoughts and you looked to him warmly, shaking your head quickly.

“I spend most of my time with the collection in storage or newly received items, I very rarely get to visit the ones on display. And honestly, I’m trying not to bore you with too many facts.” You smirked gesturing with a set of sarcastic jazz hands that elicited a raspy chuckle from him.

The sound sent your stomach somersaulting end-over-end in your abdomen, and you were convinced it might have the power to end your life.

 “Promise it’s not possible.”

“Is that a challenge, Mr. Bradshaw?”

The pink flash of his tongue darting out to wet his lips had your knees losing their structural integrity and you took a sharp inhale through your nose before locking them back into place lest you crumple onto the exhibit floor.

“I feel like only a fool would challenge you, sweetheart.” He rasped and it took all your will power not to stare at the way his pretty lips formed words and sounds.

“Smart.” You murmured and swallowed, trying to rehydrate your dry mouth with saliva as you moved onto the next display.

Bradley remained delightfully curious and actively engaged in listening to your explanations. No longer concerned about holding back your extensive knowledge on the subject matter, you found yourself expounding at length on topics like conditions in camp, the Battle of Saratoga, and the fall of Charlestown. One conflict proceeded into the next – the War of 1812, the Mexican War, the Civil War – and as you spotted the chairs Grant and Lee sat in during the surrender at Appomattox Court House your excitement got the better of you. You grasped the cuff his jacket, barely noting the quality of the suede, and tugged him over to the glass to look them over eagerly.

“These are the chairs used during the signing of the surrender in the house of a man named McLean. Four years earlier, he had lived in Manassas, and the first battle of Bull Run took place on his land. So, he had moved further north to escape the fighting, but still somehow ended up right in the middle of it. Supposedly, he’s to have said ‘The war began in my front yard and ended in my front parlor.’”

“How could anyone get bored of things like that?” He replied, deftly lacing his fingers together with yours, overtaking your grip on his cuff. “I am in awe of your ability to recall these things with such ease.”

The warm, callous-roughened feel of his skin against yours left you flustered, words abandoning you for the first time in over an hour, so you simply smiled sheepishly and shrugged. He winked in reply, squeezing your entwined hands before moving onto the next display.

You had just made it to the Wyllis jeep from World War II, suspended from the ceiling, when the final closing announcement echoed throughout the museum. “I’m sorry we didn’t quite make it all the way through, but I think the docents might murder me if I were to linger any longer…”

“No apologies necessary if,” he paused for dramatic effect and you looked to him quickly, “you’ll allow me to buy you dinner.”

You eyed him quizzically as the pair of you exited the gallery with the last trickle of visitors. “I may only be a historian, but I am fairly confident that doesn’t really add up? I owe you so you’re repaying me?”

He stepped onto the descending escalator in front of you, smirking cockily as he leaned back against the railing to maintain eye contact with you. “I assure you my math is sound, and my offer stands. But, you’ll have to tell me where to take you because I still don’t know anything about this city.” He finished with a shrug that had you tilting your head back and laughing brightly.

“Well, what kind of food would you like to treat me to?” You asked once your laughter subsided, stepping out with him into the gathering dusk.

“Hmmm, something you’ll enjoy, nothing too pretentious but still delicious? Distance isn’t an issue, my car is just parked over here.” He gestured toward northwest fourteenth street. “In the Ronald Reagan building.”

Nodding thoughtfully, you headed off in that direction, teeth sinking into your lower lip as his hand slipped into yours once he caught up. “I think I know a place and its close to a Metro station too.”

There was a pause as he seemed to be thinking something over but whatever it was, he didn’t share with you. The pair of you headed into the building, stepping into the security line. Because the building was located so close to the White House, anyone entering was required to undergo a screening process similar to that of an airport. After placing your work bag onto the conveyor belt, you stepped through the metal detector, retrieving it once it passed through the scanner.

Bradley followed shortly behind you, collecting his keys and wallet, leading you over to the elevator. When the doors opened, it was already pretty crowded but the pair of you managed to squeeze in, pressed side-by-side.

“What floor?” A gruff, balding man ask from nearby the row of buttons.

“B1.” Bradley replied easily and you swallowed thickly at the feeling of his voice vibrating through you.

“Already pressed.”

“Great.” He replied with an easy smile, tilting his head to catch you eye, raising his eyebrow in a silent check-in.

You offered a soft smile in return before the doors opened at the Concourse level and you were both forced to step out to let a series of people get off the elevator before stepping back on. The next floor was thankfully yours. Bradley gently grasped your hand to carefully guide you over to a classic Bronco in the prettiest shade of blue you had ever seen. Had a car ever suited its owner more? Unlocking the passenger door, he opened it for you, offering a hand to help you up onto the white vinyl seat.

“Thanks.” You hopped up, setting your bag in the footwell as he closed the door carefully before coming around to the driver’s side. You tugged off your lanyard and shoved it into the front pocket of your bag, not wanting to wear your identification badge out in public any longer than you already had.

The Bronco growled to life, and you struggled not to openly stare at his command of the vehicle. Thankfully, the drive to the restaurant was less than ten minutes and a parking spot proved shockingly easy to find. Somehow you had the wherewithal to add your name to the waitlist online during the drive over, so you only had to loiter in the lobby for fifteen minutes. Scrolling through the menu together with heads bowed precariously close over your phone, the feel of his breath caressing your cheek made it difficult to focus on food and beverage choices until two seats to open up at the counter.

Seated on the bar stools with Bradley’s knee grazing against yours, it was no easier to focus on the menu. A waiter stopped by to get some drinks started; Bradley ordered a beer and you managed to blurt out the name of one of the cocktails off the list. To your great relief, when you took your first sip, it was quite delicious, and the alcohol relaxed the tension in your limbs.

Sufficiently braced with liquid courage, you leaned in asking, “So where did you live before your recent move here?”

You were treated to the sight of his tongue swiping foam from his upper lip before he replied, “Virginia Beach, born and raised.” He tucked his chin into his chest, playfully chagrinned. “Promise not to think less of me?”

Laughing warmly, you shook your head, reassuring him. The pair of you became so involved in getting to know one another, trading questions back and forth, that when the waiter returned to take your food order, you looked up to him guiltily. Bradley easily placed his order, giving you time to quickly scan though the options and choose your meal as well. Trading bites of food and bits of personal information, before you realized it two hours had passed. The crowd at the restaurant had thinned somewhat and your fatigue snuck up on you, forcing you to try and smother a yawn behind the back of your hand.

“I should get you home to get a good night’s sleep for work tomorrow.” He sighed reluctantly, gesturing for the bill and insisting on paying the full total. “This is my thanks for the private tour, after all.” He teased in response to your protests, which were admittedly weakened by alcohol and lack of sleep.

Stepping out into the dark of evening, you hugged your jacket tighter around you as the warmth of the day had disappeared with the sun. “The Metro station is just two blocks that way,” you gestured, “so I’ll leave you here.”

“Oh, I’m driving you home, didn’t I tell you?” He shrugged when you shook your head, bewildered. “Well, I am, come on.”

“I live out past Dulles, it takes half an hour to drive out there and then you’ll have to come back to your place…” The words died on your lips as he slid his hand into yours once more and tugged you towards the Bronco.

“I don’t mind, I enjoy driving. And I’m guessing it’s faster than the Metro?” He raised an eyebrow, and you huffed in defeat before conceding with a nod. “Then it’s decided.”

Settled back in the front seat, he handed you his phone to input your address in the map app for directions. “I’m paying the tolls, though, ok?” You insisted stubbornly, pulling up a blank note on your phone. “I just need your licence plate number to pay online.” You typed it in carefully as he rambled it off easily, going to the Express Lanes website to sign up for a notification for when the tolls for today’s trips would be ready.

“Why do you live so far out of town?” He asked, turning on the radio to an oldies station but keeping the volume low, easily following the navigation instructions.

“I wanted outdoor space, a separate bedroom, and to be able to eat. That combination of things is easier to find outside DC, plus I don’t mind the commute. I listen to music and wake up slowly on the Metro. Being the first stop means I usually get a seat, too.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “So maybe living in a crappy studio with one window facing an air shaft for $1800 a month wasn’t my best choice?” He grinned ruefully.

“Leases aren’t forever? You can always move.” You nodded encouragingly. “Sometimes it takes a few times before you find the right place.”

“The included parking space is the best thing about it.” He chuckled and you laughed warmly in response.

“That will definitely have to be prioritized in any search parameters if you decide to start looking for a new place. Can’t leave this pretty vehicle just anywhere.”

He flashed you a smirk before pulling onto the toll road, glancing at his phone balanced on left his knee to confirm the exit number. You settled back into your seat lazily, watching him drive, listening to his music choice, finding an easy smile resting on your lips. It seemed all too soon that he was pulling off the exit ramp to Ashburn, heading towards your building.

Straightening in your seat, you clumsily kicked over your work bag, hearing some of the contents hit the floor mat. Cursing under your breath you leaned forward in the intermittent flashes of streetlights to gather some pens, lip balm, and your keys. Apparently, you had neglected to zip up the front pocket. You sat up as he turned into your apartment complex, a group of four apartment blocks around a play structure, barbeque area, and pool, guiding him to the building in which you lived. He pulled into a visitor parking space, and you hopped out of the car, scanning the floor to ensure you had all of your belongings before you heard Bradley’s voice behind you.

“Have everything?”

“Yeah, I think so.” You nodded, slinging your bag over your shoulder and walked with him up the stairs to your second-floor apartment. “This is me.” You turned to look at him softly. “Thank you again for driving me…and for dinner…”

“Thank you very much for a lovely day.” He smiled in returned.

The pair of you stood, neither moving, both watching the other. Perhaps waiting for an indication, or for someone to initiate something. Fearing the moment might evaporate, that he might turn and head home, you leaned forward pressing your lips against his cheek gently. He sighed softly as you pulled back and you snagged your lower lip with your teeth nervously, glancing at his face.

“We need to work on your aim, sweetheart.” He chided fondly as his hand moved to cradle the side of your face, guiding your lips to meet his warmly.

Your eyelids slid shut as you leaned into his kiss, shivering at the feel of his moustache tickling the tender skin of your upper lip tantalizingly.

“Better.” He rasped as he pulled back. “We’ll need to practice but for now you need to sleep a full night…” His hand caressed down your jaw to rest against the side of your neck, your eyes fluttering open lazily.

“Mmmhmm.” You replied wordlessly, licking your humming lips. “Good night, Bradley.” You managed to summon the words.

“Night, sweetheart.” He smiled fondly, watching you fumble with your keys until you were able to slide them home in the deadbolt and step inside.

Giving one final wave you stepped inside and closed the door with a dreamy sigh. Unfortunately for you, the fatigue from the car did not translate easily to sleep. You followed your normal routine, crawling into bed in your sleep shirt and pajama pants, turning out the light. Thoughts that had been kept at bay by the daylight, by Bradley’s warm and steady presence, immediately flooded your mind. Memories of the night before – a face contorted in centuries-old anguish, a dark and unfamiliar hallway, blood-soaked fabric, the gurgling sounds of a man drowning in his own blood, a pair of eyes vacant in death.

You must have tried for an hour, laying on each side, sticking a foot out of the covers because you were too hot, pulling it back in because you were too cold, before tossing the duvet aside in frustration. You were exhausted but sleep refused to come. Your mind refused to give you peace. Sliding a sports bra under your sleep shirt and a hoodie over top you grabbed your keys and phone, stepping outside for a walk. It had served you well in the past; when a project at work had you nervous, or when you were waiting for news of medical test results from a friend. The grounds of complex were tree-filled, safe, quiet. You could only hope a circuit of them would be enough to provide some relief tonight.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs you turned away from the parking lot, heading toward the courtyard, inhaling sharply as a man was walking towards you. Face illuminated by the security lights that ringed the building, you were struck not only by his longer sandy blond hair, pushed back carelessly from his handsome face, but his piercing green eyes. There was something unsettling about them – predatory, sinister, not unlike a cat preparing to toy with its meal. You offered a tight-lipped smile, not wanting to appear stand-offish to one of your neighbors, before continuing on your planned path. Feeling the hairs standing on end at the nape of your neck you risked a glance backward and exhaled in relief to see he was not following you.

Walking along the wrought iron fence, you made your way past the swing set, the wind moving the empty seats slightly as it picked up, and onward towards the barbeque area before your path was suddenly blocked by that same stranger from the hallway.

“Out for a stroll, Miss Intern?” He spoke smoothly, his voice carrying a hint of the South yet something about the way he spoke was utterly unfamiliar.

His gaze impaled you, your feet were rooted to the spot, and you found yourself unable to continue your walk.

“Can’t…sleep…” You murmured despite your inherent suspicion of him, your mind working as efficiently as wheels spinning in mud. Puzzling unhelpfully over the fact that his grey Henley shirt seemed several sizes too large for him.

His fingers reached out to brush along your cheek bone, the coolness of his touch making you wince. “Perhaps you are simply in need of companionship.”

“Mmmm.” you reply noncommittally, the world hazy. You watched wide-eyed as he stepped closer, his movements blurred while the sway of the tree branches in the distance behind him seemed impossibly slow.

 He slid his nose along your jaw before burying it against your neck below your ear. “You truly smell divine, please, I need to taste more. One drop is not enough.” He whispered, cool lips brushing against your flesh, making your full body shudder, goose flesh erupting across your neck. “I beg of you, Miss Intern.” His fingers curled into the thin fabric at your hips, pulling you closer.

Your eyes slid shut involuntarily. Why did he keep calling you that…

The sound of your name being shouted sharply across the courtyard pulled your attention and you turned your head in a daze to see Bradley hurrying toward you. The blond stranger was suddenly gone, sending you stumbling a few steps backward into a nearby picnic table. You leaned heavily against it, head swimming, as Bradley closed the distance between you with remarkable speed.

“Found your key card in my Bronco, thought you’d need this tomorrow” He spoke normally, not at all winded, your lanyard dangling from his index finger, but his eyes were darting around the darkened space. He leaned in closer his posture shielding you defensively. “You alright?” He looked you over, concerned.

“Oh shit, thank you so much” You tug your lanyard from his hand and tucked it into the pocket of your hoodie, straightening as your head cleared. “It’s late, thank you very much for coming back with it.” You continued, not really answering his question as you weren’t entireley certain what your response would be.

“I figured it was important…” He shrugged, pulling back slightly to give you some space. “What are you doing outside?”

You sighed deeply, glancing around before looking to his concerned expression. “I’m having trouble sleeping, honestly.” You swallowed tightly before it suddenly came pouring out of you. “Someone died in front of me last night.” Once you started speaking them, you found the words did not stop. The story was disjointed, by no means linear. You doubted Bradley would be able to fully understand what happened, you surely didn’t, but he stood there in the brisk Autumn wind, near midnight, listening to you ramble about the thoughts that had been plaguing you while you had been attempting to sleep.

Eventually you ran out of steam, ran out of things to say, a hush falling over the courtyard once more before he pulled you close into a warm embrace. You burrowed your face into his neck and squeezed your eyes shut against a sudden flood of tears, but they proved as unstoppable as the flow of words. His palm drew soothing circles on your back, and he pulled you closer as you dissolved into sobs, body shaking against his.

In a tremendous show of patience, he continued to hold you, waiting for your tears to subside. Eventually you were able to take a deep breath without it catching in your throat, and the ache in your chest had eased somewhat. You straightened carefully, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your hoodie, eyes glancing at his shyly.

“Sorry about that…” You croaked and he shook his head quickly.

“No apologies necessary, but you’re freezing.” He frowned as his fingers swept away the last of your tears, feeling the chill in our skin. “Can I get you inside?” He asked hopefully and you nodded with a sniffle, in desperate need of some tissues.

Sliding his arm around your shoulders he led you back past the swings still dancing in the wind, down the hallway, and up the stairs to your door. You turned and hugged him tightly once more.

“Thank you yet again, Bradley. Good night for real.”

He squeezed you tightly in return. “Get some sleep for real, ok?” He murmured, kissing your forehead tenderly before ushering you inside.

You stepped into your apartment, shivering at the warmth awaiting you there, and glanced the doors out to your balcony, suddenly filled with the unusual urge to close the blinds. Yanking on the cord repeatedly, you sent the louvres flying toward the centre of the sliding doors before you tugged on the chain to spin them shut.

You felt instantly better once the night was shut out of your home. Making a circuit past the front door to ensure the deadbolt was lock and chain was in place, you finally returned to your bed, pulling on an extra blanket. Focusing on peaceful things like the feeling of Bradley’s arms around you, and the heavy exhaustion in your limbs, you finally convinced sleep to overtake you.

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

Read Part Three

The Night Moves Masterlist

Tag list: @moonyinthestars

[simslegacy5083]

Today's (10/21/2024) Episode: A Coach's Cry For Help

Shortly after the incident at Skye’s elementary school Luigi got a text from his old college coach, asking if he’d be willing to meet up for a chat.

Luigi was eager to help his old mentor if he could and arranged to meet Professor Silva at Pepper’s Pub early the next morning.

Noemi tagged along with her husband to Britechester after they saw Skye off to school. “Man, this place sure brings back memories” she said as they settled down at a small table near the door with their laptops. “Did I ever tell you this is where Kiana and I first met?”

“I’m sure you did” Luigi laughed, “But I don’t recall. Go on.”

“Well…” she continued, not looking up from the screen “she was back here to reminisce – she went to Foxbury herself you know. I literally ran right into her when I bolted out of the bathroom to check on the party bot the bartender was helping me test. When we both got back to our feet, she laughed instead of getting angry, bought a drink from my bot, and struck up a conversation about school. The rest, as they say, is history.”

They settled down to work and wait, or at least Luigi tried to work. Every time he started, he was interrupted by one fan, then another, and another.

As always, he was polite, answering their questions and thanking his fellow sims for their kind words, but for the first time he began to feel a bit overwhelmed. Noemi kept her head down, but he could tell by her body language she wasn’t enjoying the multiple intrusions either.

Luigi couldn’t remember the last time he’d traveled with his family and not had strangers demanding his time and attention.  “There’s got to be a way to be out in public without all this fuss!” he thought. Finally, he saw the professor enter and quickly held up a hand to forestall the latest eager supplicant “I’m so sorry, I have to go” he told her before rising and calling out “Hey, Coach!” to get his attention.

Coach Silva led them upstairs and over to a private corner away from the crowd, saying “We should be undisturbed here.”

“Thank goodness!” Luigi pumped his fist in the air for emphasis. “So, what’s going on? You did so much for me, I’d love to return the favor if I can.”

His old professor sighed, “Well… I imagine you still keep tabs on the college E-Sports scene?” Luigi nodded, “Then you know the last few seasons have been rough on us” he continued “Recruitment is down, and we haven’t beaten Britechester since you graduated. They can’t force a tenured coach out, but fans and administration alike are blaming our slump on me losing interest and just “phoning it in”. I’m being pressured to step down.”

“Mentoring young E-Sports athletes has always been my favorite part of teaching here. I refuse to give it up. I was hoping Rainy Day’s new director of strategy and recruitment – congratulations by the way – could help me introduce more young sims to scuffle and get our team into fighting shape.”

Luigi gave Silva’s shoulder a sympathetic squeeze as he replied: “I’m sorry coach, that’s terrible. I noticed my old home team had been struggling lately, but I knew you would never rest until you found a way to bring out the best in your students!”

“You were always one of the hardest working sims I know,” he continued “and taught me so much about leadership and sportsmanship. I’m honored that you asked for my help, and I’m sure that the two of us can develop a workable plan to turn things around!”

The two old friends spent the next few minutes doing just that, starting with strategy for the current season. The coach had brought a flash drive full of notes and recordings from the last few matches and practices. “I’ll analyze these and get back to you with my thoughts soon” Luigi promised.

As for recruitment, Luigi proposed a win/win new collaboration between the university and Rainy Day. “A formal internship program will attract more top-notch players to the school and help us with recruiting and placement once they graduate.”

“I love it!” Professor Silva said, “Their skills will stay sharper between seasons and more of our graduates will find jobs in their field.”

“This plan makes me feel so much better” Silva told Luigi, holding out his hand as they rose to leave. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

“Well, I haven’t really done anything yet” Luigi chuckled “but I can’t wait to get started. It’s great to work with you again, coach. I’ll call you soon.”

With that he headed downstairs to grab his wife and head off to their next destination, feeling good about helping a friend in need.

View The Full Story of My Not So Berry Challenge Here