#and it's rinse and repeat next week with new years

[darkluminosity]

HALLELUJAH it's the weekend!! 🙌🏻 I survived what I call a "dodgeball day" of work... where out of nowhere, everyone and everything just seems to want your attention at the SAME TIME 🤣😭

Now if this vog could stop trying to kill my sinuses... (which explains why I've had a pounding headache for the past two days) 🫠🤕 then perhaps I can have a nice last weekend of 2024 🙏🏼

[stagtorccio]

zombie girl

lottie matthews x gn!reader

request: x summary: what a dream that was / i almost couldn't wake because / i was frozen in bed with a zombie girl / vacant as a closed down fair or: the yellowjackets get rescued. none of them are the same, especially not the girl you used to dream of coming home to. warnings: angst angst and more angst. not really many specific warnings though word count: 1901 author's note: i'm not dead .. who knew

[AO3]

𓃢𓃦𐂂 ── .✦

January, 1998.

The headlines were everywhere.

LOST GIRLS FOUND.

WISKAYOK HIGH YELLOWJACKETS RETURN HOME.

You saw them before you got the call– photos, grainy footage, screaming anchors trying to make sense of the impossible. Sunken eyes, bruised skin, smiles that never reached the eyes.

Ghosts made flesh. Girls turned cautionary tale turned girls again.

Your phone rang not long after.

You were one of Lottie's listed emergency contacts. A name scribbled on a form from years ago, back when things were simpler and still sweet between you. Back before she left that May morning for a flight and the world tore itself in two.

The voice on the line was clipped, rehearsed. A nurse or a social worker, maybe. You don’t remember much of what they said. Just that she was alive. That she’d asked for no one. But that they thought maybe you, alongside her parents, should know.

You were one of the first people to see her after the plane touched down.

She moved like her bones weren’t fully hers anymore. Her clothes hung off her like they’d belonged to someone else. Some older girl. Some dead girl.

Her hair was longer, darker, like it had soaked up stagnant mud water and never dried out. It clung to her neck in damp ropes. There were scrapes on her knuckles. A faint scar– a gash across her third eye you didn’t remember.

She didn’t say anything. Not then. Not for weeks. She just looked at you with those impossible eyes– glassy and bottomless– like she was staring through you, or maybe into you. And whatever she saw, it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t real. Wasn’t safe.

It was like being studied by a stranger wearing your lover’s face.

And still, you let her in.

She’d been given a schedule. Something her doctors had decided would help her transition back to normal life, whatever that meant. A week at home with her parents. A week with you. Rinse, then repeat. It was generous, her mother had said, through a tight, brittle smile. Like you were a visiting nurse instead of the person Lottie used to brush noses and lips with in the dark of hallway closets.

But some nights, when Lottie was asleep, or at least still, her mother would call. Her voice already wet with tears. You’d talk quietly in the hallway like teenagers hiding something. She would ask if Lottie had eaten. If she’d spoken. If she seemed like her old self.

You never had the heart to say no. Not directly.

During your weeks with her, you would tell Lottie about your day. You made her soup, even when she wouldn’t eat. You cried one night and apologized for it the next morning, ashamed of the sound of your own voice.

Ashamed of needing anything from her.

You touched her hand once, gently, and felt nothing. No tension. No recoil. Just skin. Warm, but blank, like a mannequin left too long in the sun.

Sometimes, when you were talking– about work, about the new neighbors, about that stupid dream you had where you were both still in high school– you caught yourself smiling like an idiot. Like she was going to smile back. Like she was going to laugh.

She never did. She was there, but she wasn’t. Her body moved through your space, slept in your bed, left the faintest scent on your pillow. But whatever she was now, whatever that place had made of her, it wasn’t what she used to be.

You tried to keep her anyway.

So when she finally spoke– just past 2 AM, your mouth still slack with sleep, her voice flat and rusted– you didn’t think it was real at first. Just a dream’s echo. A noise your brain invented to feel less alone.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said, barely louder than the ticking of the wall clock. “I’m going to Switzerland.”

You blinked up at her, disoriented. “What?”

She didn’t look at you. Her gaze was pinned to the far corner of the room, hands folded neatly in her lap, trembling just slightly.

“My parents booked the flight.”

That was it. No explanation. No apology. No warning. The first thing she’d said to you in sixty-four days, and the last.

You sat up slowly, every part of you vibrating with something between shock and fury. The silence cracked wide open inside your chest. Something hot and angry poured out of it. You lost it. Of course you did.

You said things you meant and things you didn’t. You told her she didn’t care. That she never had. You asked how she could spend two months wordless, watching you fall apart, only to drop her departure like it meant nothing.

You said you waited. You said you loved her. You said this is not what people do when they love someone.

Lottie didn’t cry. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t even flinch. And that only made it worse.

You grabbed your keys and stormed out, no coat, no wallet, no plan– just raw, blind heat carrying you down the stairs. You slammed the door so hard behind you it sounded like a gunshot, and you hoped, for just a second, that it would shake something loose in her.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 𓃢𓃦𐂂 ────────────────────── .✦

You came back early the next morning, shame pressing at your ribs.

Quietly. Gently. In case she was asleep. You were already rehearsing your apology.

You were going to tell her you were scared. That you didn’t mean all of it. That you just wanted her to talk to you.

But the bed was made. Her coat was gone. So was her toothbrush. The drawer she kept her notebooks in was empty.

You sat on the edge of the mattress, numb and weightless, staring at the spot on the wall where her shadow used to fall in the mornings. The light coming through the blinds looked bleached and unfamiliar, like it didn’t belong to this place anymore.

Eventually, you lay down on the side she used to sleep on. The sheets were cold. Her scent lingered faintly on the pillowcase, lavender and something earthy. You pulled the blanket up to your chin and stayed still.

You told yourself that if you were quiet enough, if you didn’t breathe too loud, maybe she’d slip back in beside you, just like before. Bare feet, cold hands. Humming how she did when she thought you were asleep.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ 𓃢𓃦𐂂 ────────────────────── .✦

The days bleed together after she leaves.

You stop checking the calendar. There’s no point. Morning and night become suggestion more than certainty, light shifting lazily through the blinds in varying degrees of gold and gray when you remember to open them. Sometimes you sleep until dusk. Sometimes you don’t sleep at all. Sometimes you sit in the kitchen at 3 AM, barefoot on the cold tile, watching the kettle even though you aren’t making tea.

The apartment is quiet in a new way. Not the silence of a person not speaking— it's a hollowing, horrible silence. The kind that swallows things. The kind that presses in around your ears like water until you can hear the blood rushing in your head, your teeth grinding in your sleep, the faint echo of something moving in the next room when you’re the only one there.

You stop turning on the lights.

For the first few days, you kept catching glimpses of her in mirrors. In your periphery. Sitting in the chair by the window, the way she used to when she couldn’t sleep. You’d blink and she’d be gone, but your heart wouldn’t stop racing. You’d look at the chair anyway. Just in case.

You start talking to her again. You can’t help it.

Quiet things at first: Good morning. I had a weird dream. I think it’s going to rain.

Sometimes you laugh mid-sentence, like she’s really there. Like she’d lift her head and smirk. Raise one eyebrow. Whisper something strange and lovely and totally useless in response. You can almost hear it. Almost feel her breath on your neck when you turn too fast.

One night, you set the table for two.

You don’t realize it until you’re already sitting down, fork in hand, the other plate full and untouched. You stare at it for a long time. Her chair. Her glass. Her favorite tea cooling beside a bowl of food she would never eat.

You don’t cry. You just take her plate to the fridge and store it carefully, like it would be rude to leave it sitting too long. Like she might still come in, late, guilty, reach for your wrist with shaking fingers to say she’s changed her mind, that she’s hungry today.

You liked those days, as few and far between as they were.

You start sleeping on the couch.

Her side of the bed feels too empty. You can’t take the weight of it anymore. But even there, curled beneath a blanket that still smells vaguely of her shampoo, she comes to you. Or something does. You wake up gasping, swearing you felt her fingers brushing the back of your neck.

You start dreaming in her voice.

Not her old voice– not the real one, soft and warm and a little sarcastic– but the voice after. The low, rusted one. The voice from the night she said goodbye.

You don’t know how many days have passed. Maybe eight. Maybe eighteen. Maybe eighty. Time doesn’t truly pick up again until you find it. The envelope: thin, foreign, out of place among overdue bills and grocery circulars.

You turn it over once, twice. Your name is written across the front in neat, looping script. You’ve kissed the knuckles of the hand it belongs to.

The letter is postmarked: Zürich. There’s no return address.

You don’t open it right away. You just stand in the doorway, keys still in your other hand, shoes still on, staring at it. It’s already too late. You know that. You know whatever it contains can only dig further into an already sore wound.

But you open it anyway. There’s only one sheet inside. Lightweight paper, folded once down the middle. No date. No greeting. No dear you. Just her voice, small and impossibly clear:

I’m allowed to write now. They think I’m getting better. I'm bored here. I don’t do much. I sleep, mostly. Switzerland is quiet. Everything here is so clean. I miss the mess of the apartment. I think I left the wrong version of myself behind. I’m sorry. I don’t know if that matters. There’s a girl in the room next to mine who hums while she paints. I can’t stand it. I hope you’re eating. Please don’t forget to. I’ll write again if I can. — L. M.

You read it twice, then again, slower. Your eyes catch on certain lines like burrs: left the wrong version of myself behind. Please don’t forget.

She hadn’t asked you to write back. Not that you could.

You stare at the envelope on the counter for a long time. The stark, clean whiteness. The ghost of her fingertips in the paper’s creases. Then you fold the letter back up. Slide it under your pillow.

That night, she’s sitting at the kitchen table, humming. When you wake up, the seat is empty again.

It was a lovely dream, anyway.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Perhaps number 37 for the spotify thing? For mm Steddie or Steve?

I realize it's been, uhh over six months, but here you go!!

Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson | Domestic Fluff | Fluff | Slice of Life | ~1k

Steve’s toothbrush is starting to do that weird frizzy thing where all the bristles curl outward. It no longer leaves him feeling squeaky clean, but he’s had to keep using it for weeks anyway.

He pulls the offending thing out of his mouth, and tongue thick with toothpaste, he calls, “remind me to pick up a toothbrush next time we’re at Melvald’s.”

Eddie sticks his head out past the shower curtain, bangs plastered to his forehead and skin pink from hot water to say, “you got it, sweetheart,” before going straight back to shrieking some metal song Steve can’t quite recognize in Eddie’s out-of-tune warble.

Steve sticks the toothbrush back in his mouth and makes do. He rinses, repeats, rinses again, but his tongue still finds little bits of plaque at the edges of his gum line.

As Eddie’s off-key rendition of whatever the fuck he’d been singing transitions to Prisoner of Your Eyes without preamble, Steve can’t say he minds.

There’s a mixtape in their room with it as the third track, a little stylized drawing of a heart next to its title on the sleeve in Eddie’s messy handwriting. Steve had played, rewound, and replayed it so often that it’d worn down the tape prematurely, making the sound all staticky in his ears. Eddie had offered to make him a new one, but Steve hadn’t minded.

Steve sings along, smiling smugly when that just makes Eddie sing louder, determined to drown out what he calls Steve’s “angelic ass voice” until he’s all but screaming, “I’ve locked myself inside your heart and thrown away the key.”

Steve puts on his moisturizer, patting the lotion in as he continues singing, a soft backing to Eddie’s own vocals. His hair’s floppy in the mirror, pared down to a leave-in before bed. Eddie’s long since given up making fun of him for it and moved onto running his fingers through it as they fall asleep, cozy in their shared bed. It’s a tight squeeze, but he’s gotten used to it.

He’s had to get used to a lot of things in the past few months. He’s gotten used to waking up with Eddie’s curls in his mouth, gotten used to the way there’s always noise permeating the trailer, day or night. He’s learned to take quicker showers to conserve water, how to stretch scrambled eggs with cheap mix-ins, how to parse Uncle Wayne’s monosyllabic grunts after a long shift.

He still hasn’t gotten used to the lighting in the trailer’s bathroom. At his house, there’s a window big enough to stick his whole body through. Half the time, he hadn’t even turned on the overhead, instead getting ready by the natural light of the morning sun.

The trailer’s bathroom, their bathroom, is all bright fluorescence. 

Steve’s squinting from the pressure of it by the time Eddie steps out of the trailer’s dinky little shower, dripping all over the linoleum floor like a heathen. No wonder it’s curling up at the edges, after all these years of Eddie water-logging it.

Steve grabs the towel off the rod and throws it at him, glaring at his reflection in the mirror until Eddie dutifully begins toweling himself dry before wrapping it around his waist and coming up behind him.

“Whatcha thinking about, baby?” Eddie asks.

“Same as always,” Steve replies, smiling as Eddie’s arms wrap around him from behind and he digs his pointy chin into Steve’s shoulder. “The stupid fucking lights, man.”

“Man?” Eddie pouts, squeezing his middle tighter as he lowers his face to press a kiss into Steve’s clothed shoulder. “I’m man now? All because of the lights?”

Eddie clenches his hands on Steve’s hips and attempts to swing Steve around. But, he’s not that coordinated and the bathroom’s too small besides, so all he ends up doing is damn-near pushing Steve down.

“I’ll get you better lights, baby please,” he cries, dropping to his knees to press his face into Steve’s stomach. “I’ll buy you a mansion, and bathe you in pearls, and make sure nothing but the finest of silks ever touches that perfect skin.”

Steve snorts, and Eddie looks up at him, grinning even as he tries to bat his eyelashes coyly and puts on a snooty upper-crust voice that reminds him alarmingly of his mother. “Just don’t leave me for a wealthier woman.”

Hidden somewhere deep in the joke, behind the showmanship and the banter, Steve knows there lies a kernel of insecurity. An upbringing is hard to shake — part of him might always want to give Steve riches, just like a part of Steve would rather die than step foot in another empty house and be left there.

So, Steve brushes his wet bangs back, bends down, and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“No mansions,” he says against the skin before pulling back and smoothing his bangs down, fluffing them a bit on the ends the way Eddie always does. “No pearls, no silk, I don’t need any of that shit.”

There’s a dimple popping in his cheek now, so Steve keeps talking. “I just need you.”

Eddie grins, bouncing back up onto his feet, and kissing Steve, close-mouthed and intimate. “You too, baby,” he says, leading Steve into a swaying little dance, the only musical backing the buzzing of the fluorescent lights above them.

“And maybe some different bulbs.”

“And a toothbrush?” Eddie quips, nuzzling into his neck as they continue swaying on the spot. 

“That, too.”

Eddie’s laughter tickles his neck, but Steve knows he’ll come home from work tomorrow and find something with a softer glow plugged into the socket. He knows Wayne will tease them about it for weeks.

But none of that will matter. What matters is this: this is Steve’s home. It’s the first one he’s ever really had, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

As always, thanks to @queenie-ofthe-void for the editing!

[stealingyourbones]

Hello

I just finished reading the chemistry teacher Danny phantom post and saw you and your twin mention a really chaotic chemistry teacher you had

It's fine if not, but I was wondering if you had any more stories about that teacher?

They sounded really fun and I am now curious what other antics they got up to.

Sorry if I'm asking too much.

Oh no absolutely I can! That man was my chemistry teacher for two years and was my favorite teacher of all time.

Ok sO.

- The Fume Hood Incident (twin shall explain @bonebrokebuddy)

- making an absolute SHIT ton of thermite when we couldn’t inhale boron gas as our last chemistry club experiment. We initially wanted to melt a hole in a junk car with it but the dude who offered his car backed out :(

- did the “exploding gummy bear” experiment that made a lot of very toxic gas for shits and giggles. We had to stay in another teachers classroom for the next class period because the room had ventilate for a while.

- once burned some extra magnesium for fun DIRECTLY UNDER THE FIRE DETECTOR and made the entire school leave because the fire alarm got set off in the dead of winter. Things akin to this happened two more times.

- since the first incident, he found out how to TURN OFF the fire detectors in his room whenever he’s doing experiments involving fire. Evidently he failed twice in this exercise.

- self medicated ADHD with coffee and drank at least 3 pots of the stuff during school hours. He had his own coffee machine in the classroom. Once did a presentation on potency stuff and brought in espresso for the class to drink. That man drank a whole pot of it before the end of the school day.

- during said coffee drinking experiments, he broke his one mug he used and used a new beaker for 2 weeks until he bothered to get a new one. Rinse and repeat this exact scenario from the beginning of his teaching until he left.

- would buy pure chemical or whatever un watered down esque chemicals are and would lower the molar count himself because “he didn’t want to pay for water” and did it IN THE CLASS ROOM BY HIMSELF WITH NO FUME HOOD. (Chemistry terms are bad I haven’t had a chem class in 5 years)

- this man is now a college professor I think. Where he rightfully should be because there is no way the experiments we did with him were given a green light through the wavers we signed.

- he bought the school a blast shield with the rest of the chemistry club funds to encourage the next chem teacher to do more dangerous experiments. (They never did :( )

These are just annecdotes. If @bonebrokebuddy wants to add onto it they’re free to do so :)

[uzumaki-rebellion]

"You spend half your life with dilated pupils I don't think you're nice And you treat me kinda cruel All your moves is crazy You compromise my safety All your friends are shady They tried to warn me vaguely You patronize me daily You never call me baby Or treat me like a lady And mainly quite frankly

You get on my damn nerves…"

Chlothegod – "UGOMDN"

A.N.: Content Warning. Discussions of abortion, blood & violence.

An abortion was impossible for Celeste to get under Louisiana State law.

Once Roe v Wade was abolished, the law in her state was activated to ban all abortions, regardless of whether a woman had been raped or was a victim of incest. Despite her fear, Celeste had to see a doctor after her third positive pregnancy test and increasing fatigue. She lived with horrendous morning sickness and suffered in silence. At a clinic, a sweet-faced young doctor told her she was about nine weeks along. The fetus was the size of a strawberry. Refusing to look at the ultrasound, she didn't want to acknowledge the being inside her as a baby. Especially when she wanted to get rid of it.

Under normal circumstances, the logical answer was to remove the fetus from her body by crossing state lines. But jumping up to take a trip to California suddenly wouldn't be easy. Celeste would have to find a discreet way to get away from L.A. relatives when she'd never been there before, find a clinic, have the abortion, and then lie around in bed for a day or two until she was okay. She wished she had female cousins her age to talk to, but the only other women relatives nearby were twice her age, jaded aunties who would curse her out for being so stupid about getting pregnant…by a vampire. She refused to share the news with her girlfriends, embarrassed that she let a dude knock her up on the first fuck. The one female cousin she had in L.A. that was only a couple of years older than her couldn't be trusted to keep her mouth shut if Celeste confided in her for a ride to a Planned Parenthood trip. It had to be a covert operation.

"Arrghhhh!"

Celeste screamed inside her car on the drive to the chicken processing plant. For the next twelve hours, she would sort chicken parts and blast-freeze them. The work was routine and boring, but paid well and she liked the co-workers who packaged the chicken on the graveyard shift with her. Anticipating relief from the city's heat, she couldn't wait. Freezing chicken in a controlled, cool environment saved her from thinking too much about her problems.

Sort. Push trays. Freeze. Toss frozen chicken parts into boxes. Rinse and repeat.

The hours ticked by and she settled into her work groove. The face mask covering her nose and mouth helped keep the stench of raw chicken from upsetting her stomach. She became so sensitive to odors lately that she didn't know how she could hide a pregnancy from her family. The hormonal changes fucked her up. She'd cry at the drop of a hat and get irritated so fast around people. Even at the chicken plant, she acted short with co-workers. Fatigue set in after six hours. Her snippiness was called out by the floor supervisor, and she took a break in the restroom to get her shit together. She sat on a toilet and cried, angry that she put herself in the position she was in. Plan B failed her. Her choice to let the man nut in her was ridiculous. She regretted not staying consistent on birth control pills after being with Freddie.

Covering her face with her hands, she berated herself for getting pregnant a second time in her life. The first time had been before she entered university. She'd been terrified then and confided in her cousin Micah, who stood by her in secret. He drove her to a clinic over in Slidell and let her stay with him and his family for a sleepover movie party to hide the fact that she needed a quiet place to recuperate. Micah was her favorite cousin, and she knew that he'd be the first to help her if she called, but she didn't want him to judge her for not heeding his warning about Terry. This time, she was on her own, and it killed her soul to know she was going back on her word to God about doing anything like that again. She swore as a frightened seventeen-year-old that she'd never have an abortion again if God could forgive her for terminating that one mistake.

The man who impregnated her as a teenager had been older, in his mid-twenties, and ended up getting killed by gun violence over in Shreveport when Celeste turned eighteen. She would've been an unwed teen mother with a dead baby daddy. Going back on her word brought her personal shame. As an adult woman, she should've done better. Being hot in the panties at seventeen didn't compare to being a grown ass fucking up.

Getting back on her grind, Celeste finished her shift and left the building quickly. She sat in her Charger and watched three male co-workers who car-pooled together in an old Honda leave before her from the parking lot. At three in the morning, the sky stayed dark enough to let the stars shine like little crystal buttons.

Her cell chirped.

Micah.

"Bitch, what's going on?" Micah said.

"Getting off work."

"I'm not askin' 'bout your job, cousin. What's going on with you?"

The noise of Bourbon Street droned on in the background of Micah's call. His club job didn't shut down until four in the morning.

"Nothin'. Just work…like I said."

"That redbone ever come back?"

"Terry ain't no redbone—"

"Whatever…you still fuckin' wit 'em?"

"No."

"Joyce called me and said you ran outta the Quarter like you seen the devil or something and she ain't hung witchoo since. Y'all been tight since gradeschool. Ain't like you to be anti-social, Duchess."

"Work has been kicking my ass…I just need time by myself."

"Quit one of them jobs, then."

"I need money to pay my rent and save up for my dream house."

"Nobody told you to go live in overpriced artsy-fartsy Marigny. Them old slave homes cost millions. Bitch, we from the Truh-May. You think two jobs and sewin' gonna pay for that in your lifetime? Unless these white folks give up some reparations, you stuck outchea grindin' for pennies on the dolla like the rest of us. Move in with me and you could save some real money."

"And watch you argue with your boyfriend and girlfriend all the time? I got enough drama without your chaotic poly life."

"Point is, cranky bitch, I've got plenty of room for you and a support system if you need it."

"Thank ya, cousin. I appreciate it. I'll file that away for emergencies."

"You need me to roll through and cook you breakfast when I'm done here?"

"No. I'm going to get in my bed and sleep until I gotta come back here tonight."

"You see a doctor about that anemia?"

"Yes. I'm not anemic. Just overworked."

Celeste let the lie sit. Micah didn't pester her further, and they ended their call promising to see each other at their grandparent's house for a Sunday dinner. She resolved to tell Micah the truth…about her pregnancy…and the vampires.

She started the engine of her car, and the Charger roared to life. Waving at incoming workers starting the next shift, she pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the long stretch of quiet state highway. A marine layer covered the road with an advection fog, reducing her visibility. She slowed down, played some music, and smoked. A violent coughing fit hit, and her stomach heaved. She threw the cigarette out of the window. The taste of nicotine on her tongue hit different. Like rotten meat.

While singing along to the radio, she noticed blinking hazard lights on the side of the road up ahead. An old Honda pulled to the side looked familiar. Her co-workers.

They milled about, looking forlorn.

She pulled up next to them and rolled down her passenger window halfway.

"What happened?" she asked.

Hector, a Honduran with a ready smile, leaned against her car. The other Black men with him watched the road for any oncoming cars in the fog.

"Blown tire."

"You have a spare?"

"Yeah, but no jack or lug wrench. None of us got Triple-A."

"I have a kit in the back. Hold on."

Celeste backed up behind them and hopped out of her car. The foggy air cooled her skin, and she hoped the temperature stayed that way all the way home. She popped her trunk and took out some small orange traffic cones with reflectors and spread them around her car and Hector's. One of the Black men, Shorty, who was over six feet tall, took out the equipment she had and started working on the tire. He did it all wrong, not even knowing how to use the foot jack she had.

"Stand back," she said, taking over tire duty.

The other guys thanked her and listened to music playing from their car. They lifted the blown tire from the wheelbase for her and Hector placed the spare on.

"Here, I can finish it up," Hector said.

He didn't know what he was doing, either.

"I got it, man. Don't get your ego hurt because a woman is doing this," she said.

She tightened each lug nut and patted the tire when she was done.

"Good to go," she said.

Hector pulled out a ten-dollar bill from his wallet.

"This is all the cash I have. Thanks for stopping and saving us from waiting around."

"Nah, Hector…keep that. Buy your kids some candy," she insisted.

"Y'all see that?" Shorty said.

Celeste and Hector peered over the roof of the Honda and looked to where the others had their attention. Massive oak trees with their sloping branches curved toward the ground like giant skeletal fingers, the fog whispering around them with an unnatural light that shouldn't have been possible without the moon. Four ominous figures moved toward them.

"Are those people hanging over there?" Quentin, a chubby co-worker asked.

Celeste quickly collected her tools and threw them in her trunk.

"We gotta leave!" she shouted.

Hector and the other men looked at her with confusion, but didn't move right away.

"The fuck—"

Shorty didn't finish his sentence before a mangy-looking white woman in a tattered trench coat jumped on his chest and ripped out his throat with feral teeth. The man's blood sprayed all over Celeste and she sprinted for her car, jumping in and cranking the engine. Fast-moving figures attacked and ravaged the other men. Celeste backed up and Quentin banged on her door with one hand, his other clutching the side of his neck that spurted blood like a geyser. She unlocked the passenger side, and he flung open the door to jump in.

It was too late.

A ferocious-looking white man with long, clawed fingers dragged Quentin out of her car. Celeste screamed and shifted gears, but someone punched in the tempered-glass on her side and dragged her through the window, slamming her onto the ground.

"No! No! No!" she screamed, her eyes unable to focus on how fast their attackers moved.

She immediately curled into the fetal position, closing her eyes and instinctively guarding her stomach in a protective hold, waiting for a death blow to rip her throat out.

What sounded like screams from hell reverberated all around her, and amidst the human cries for help and imploring moans to God from her co-workers, other blood-curdling shrieks rang out.

Someone lifted her by her locs and shoved her away from the Charger. She landed on her back with a hard thump to her head. Staring at the sky, she didn't move a muscle, the pain in her back and head disorienting her. Losing focus, she twisted her head to the side and watched Hector claw at the ground as his lifeblood drained onto the highway. Their eyes connected and Celeste could only observe in silence as life drained from his once shiny brown pupils. His blood pooled out toward her like a horrific black river.

A large pair of black leather lace-up boots stomped down in Hector's blood and walked through it like it was a useless puddle of liquid. She looked up, and The Deacon grinned at her with those sinister fanged grills.

"Well, well, well, Duchess…here we meet again with no barrier between us," he said.

Three of his female minions strode over next to him, their faces smeared with blood and gore. Only The Deacon's face looked clean from a feeding frenzy. The Goth, whose voice sounded a lot like the Dominique who claimed to have a package at Celeste's house, leaned in toward The Deacon.

"We finished killing that wild pack of feeders. They made a mess of the bodies… left blood everywhere. They didn't even have the intelligence to carry these blood bags into the trees," Dominique said.

Celeste tried to back away on her elbows with gravel digging into her sore skin. The Deacon reached down and grabbed her throat, stopping her pitiful escape.

"Let me kill her for you," the dark brown beauty said, crouching low. She swiped a clawed hand across Celeste's cheek, drawing blood.

Celeste hissed and whimpered at the pain. She squirmed under his grip and tried pulling her knees into her chest. The Deacon studied her carefully.

"She's defensive, but not for herself," The Deacon said.

The sound of a large vehicle pulled up. Celeste heard a sliding door and guessed that it was a van.

The Deacon kept a hand on her throat and used a claw-like nail from his other hand to slit her palm. He licked the blood that flowed out. His silvery-gray eyes stared at her with a look of shock.

"She's pregnant. It's a girl," he said.

His astonished voice made every vampire hover over Celeste, staring at her like she was a freak of nature and not them.

"Impossible!" the dark brown beauty yelled, sounding hurt.

The Deacon stared at the beauty and flicked his hand dismissively.

"Go make sure the ghouls handle the bodies and debris, Mia," The Deacon said.

His malevolent eyes softened, looking down at Celeste.

"We won't hurt you, Celeste. In fact, we will be your most ardent protectors because you carry something phenomenally priceless in your womb. I have lived several lifetimes and have yet to lay eyes on what you are about to bring into the world…a dhampir."

He stared deep into her eyes, probing them, and shook his head, gently helping her sit up.

"No…you will not abort this child. I know we may seem like horrid monsters to you because of the way we have to survive. But we are not different from you."

"You are bloodsuckers, you kill people…that's evil," Celeste said.

"You stupid humans don't kill people? Or slaughter other living creatures to feed yourselves?" Dominique barked.

"Dominique, chill," The Deacon said.

"They always think they're better. I'll be glad when our Morningstar wipes them from the earth."

"And what will we live on?" The Deacon said, annoyed.

Dominique rolled her eyes. Celeste noticed that none of the other vampires had silver eyes like The Deacon.

"Come now, get up young mother," he said.

He lifted her with a brawny arm and placed her back on her feet.

"You feel well enough to drive home?" he asked.

The sincerity of his tone threw her off. This was not the same angry and vicious vampire who beat at the door of her house, aiming to trick her for an invitation. She glanced past him and the other vampires. Two slinky individuals in dark clothes stacked Shorty and Quentin into a white van.

"Oh, God," Celeste said, turning her head away.

A third vampire minion stripped the last of Hector's clothes from his blood-soaked body and began eating him, starting at his feet. The loud crunch of bones breaking and human flesh being slurped down the worker's throat sickened her. She turned her head and lurched forward. A spray of vomit flew out of her mouth.

The Deacon chuckled and kicked dirt over it.

"Now you see what our clean-up crew does once we're done eating. They dispose of the bodies for us, leaving behind no trace like a crime scene unit. We're very efficient and prudent," he said.

The Deacon guided Celeste back to her car. Her mind couldn't fathom what was happening.

"They have children, families who will miss them…" she said.

The Deacon ignored her words.

The pale-skinned vampire pack that attacked her co-workers were left on the side of the highway and ignored. A ghoul who looked like a forgettable-looking citizen with a trim beard hopped into Hector's car and drove away. The van pulled off behind it.

"You aren't taking those dead vampires, too?" Celeste asked.

She wiped her mouth and gagged at the feel of vomit still left at the back of her throat. Coughing, then spitting, she did all she could to keep from throwing up again.

"The sun will destroy evidence of them. Our concern is that they don't properly hide their refuse."

"Refuse?"

Celeste's voice rose to an angry pitch.

"They're fucking people…humans with loved ones who are going to wonder what happened to them," Celeste screamed.

"You say that as if that's our fault," Dominique said, leaning against Celeste's car. "We didn't kill them."

The Deacon turned Celeste's face to look at him directly.

"We don't do that to people often. Our kind prefer to eat and release. We resort to killing only in self-defense or special circumstances."

"Your kind?"

"We are the top of our species' food chain. Those creatures are bottom feeders, the reason the Old Ones hunt us. They blame us for those inbred gutter dwellers. If we acted like them, do you know how many humans would disappear daily?"

"How come Terry can walk in the sun if he's one of you?"

"He's a Daywalker. The true apex predator. More powerful than us because he can kill the Old Ones during times we cannot. That's why we need him. He's our champion. If we're lucky enough, the baby in your womb will be like him. She would protect us, too."

"I'm not keeping it."

"Yes, you are. You call her Strawberry in your mind, because of her size. I could taste how attached she is to you, how much she loves you—"

"Stop fucking manipulating me. It's just a fetus with developing cells…a blob, and I'm going to stop another one of you from coming into this world. I'll find an Old One and tell them about you! I know what they are…gargoyles! Terry's great-granddaughter Miss Irma told me about them."

"Then you will doom yourself and that baby," Dominique said.

"It's not a baby! You're tricking me, trying to guilt me into keeping it."

"Rationalize your conflicted feelings how you want, Duchess. But your first instinct was to protect her. Ball yourself up. Even when I came to help you, you reacted by covering your stomach," The Deacon said.

Celeste's eyes watered.

"I can't have this baby…I can't have a monster."

"Does Terry look like a monster to you?" Mia asked.

Mia's eyes welled up. Tears fell down her face. The Deacon wiped them away.

"Mia…don't cry. She's only scared," he said.

"I'm scared for us, too," Mia said.

What the hell was happening?

Vampires afraid and crying?

The Deacon opened Celeste's driver side door. The ghouls had taken away her broken window. He traced a finger across her face and showed her the blood and bits of skin that stuck to her cheek and hair.

"You need a bath and some rest. We can't stop you in the daytime, so if you run off to…terminate…that's your choice. You don't know how profound this is for us and the hidden world. I beg you to reconsider. We'll fight anything that tries to harm you or the child."

"She doesn't want it. Let her end it," Mia screamed.

Mia's fangs were stained with blood from feeding on Celeste's co-workers, too.

"Time to go, Deacon. The sun will be up in two hours," Dominique said.

"Go home…sleep, Duchess," The Deacon said.

Celeste climbed into her car and drove off in a daze. Why didn't they kidnap her and force her to have it? They had the means and minions to do that.

From her rearview, she watched the vampires walk into the diminishing wisps of fog and vanish among the trees.

Chapter 12 HERE.

Masterlist

Taglist:

@nahimjustfeeling-writes

@planetblaque

@kindofaintrovert

@thedondada05

@blackburnbook

@avoidthings

@slutsareteacherstoo

@nayaesworld

@notapradagurl17

@4pfsukuna

@yamst3rdamctrl

@sweettea-and-honeybutter

@comfortzonequeen

@theereina

@brattyfics

@prettyisasprettydoes1306

@megane96

@honeytoffee

@taurusqueen83

@mightbeher

@melaninpov

@carlakeks

@woahthatshitfat

@hrlzy

@theglamclosetsl

@liquorlaughslove

@teeresaresa

[solacescastleglow]

🩰🍳🌿 Daily Life Aesthetics 🌿🍳🩰

What do you do when you can't motivate yourself to do things without a moodboard, but you don't want to look at a screen? Print the moodboards out of course! These will be going into a binder along with some troubleshooting notes so I can get things done even when my executive dysfunction is an issue. I highly endorse making these, the process was so fun.

Morning Routine

light stretches, the clean feeling of having just brushed my teeth, sesame turkish bread with hummus, reading with bleary eyes, chai lattes, the certainty of knowing exactly what I'm going to do that day, upbeat music, fresh air through the windows, saying good morning to my cat, picking out a cute outfit.

French

the sound duolingo makes when you get 10 in a row, nasal vowels, repeating phrases under my breath, understanding a new sentence for the first time, writing a ç by hand, watching french movies with french subtitles, studying the republican calendar to learn new nouns, understanding cooking and ballet terms instinctively.

Studying

the ritalin kicking in, getting 100% on a quiz, write now edit later attitudes, marginalia, a cup of tea slowly cooling next to my laptop, messy desks, flashcards, today's study schedule on the wall, feedback from professors, watching online lectures at 1.75x speed, going to a cafe to think.

Leaving the House

the sun on my face, buying flowers for the house, the smell of a secondhand bookshop, museums, getting a little treat, sitting in the shade, reading on a park bench, farmer's markets, the sound of rain hitting an umbrella, picnics, finding a cool record, seeing people wearing pretty outfits (and telling them that).

Exercising

winning badminton, feeling not exhausted but satisfied after a game, seeing my muscles actually move when I flex them, happy baby pose, better posture, laughing through the pain when doing bicycles, going on a walk, connecting with my sibling through pilates, high reps on the lightest weight possible.

Going to Therapy

the catharsis of crying, the ache in my chest fading after years of heaviness, allowing myself to be a kid again, feeling more whole, finding parts of me I thought were gone forever, knowing I can handle whatever life throws at me, laughing with my therapist about serious topics, curling up in a safe corner of my room.

Working on my Book

designing characters, research, writing rich descriptions of settings, planning out illustrations and page layouts, bringing imaginary conversations to life, watching over someone's shoulder as they read what I've written, finally getting a frustrating sentence right, dreaming about children who will see themselves in my writing.

Housework

a little nudge from the robot vacuum, the smell of steam coming out of the iron or dishwasher, exhausted satisfaction after finally getting the fitted sheets on, laundry in the wind, everything in its place, a clear mind in a clear space, rinsing the dust off the damp duster, the smell of fresh laundry.

Planning my Week

neat rows of binders, colour coded spreadsheets, calendars with everything in place, vision boards, grocery lists crumpled in a hand, knowing exactly how this week will go, step by step guides to each task, feeling safe in case of emergency, a messy journal and a neat wall calendar, time blocking.

Personal Finance

putting away 50% of my income into savings, being surrounded by beauty, a comfortable sinking fund, transferring money between sub-accounts, getting everything I've ever wanted, investing in things I'm passionate about, creating stability for the future, being debt free, being able to get a little treat with what I've saved.

Participating in my Religion

a cheekful of wine, the presence of g-d in the room, candles on ornate candlesticks, tikkun olam, the cycle of the year, awe as the ark opens, ripping challah apart, the grounding points of the magen david when I squeeze my necklace, playing with tzitzit, praying sounding like birdsong, the dusking of a new day.

Cooking

mise en place, the smell of garlic and spices, bubbling pots on the stove, the whole house warmed up, chatting with my dad, fresh vegetables, mountains of parmesan cheese, the chime of the pressure cooker, pretty plates, sitting down to eat with family and friends.

Showering

double cleansing, feeling literally squeaky clean, gourmand scents, leave in conditioner making my hair feel like seaweed, the tingly feeling of glycolic acid, burberry her mixed with cocoa and coconut, scented candles to set the mood, listening to self improvement podcasts, smooth skin.

Nighttime Routine

cookies and chamomile tea with my family, watching tv, calling 'goodnight' down the stairs, overheads off and warm lamps on, teeth feeling so clean after an everything toothbrush, reading in the faint light, filling out my journal, nighttime yoga, daydreaming about the future, an easy slip into a deep sleep.

[stagkingswife]

Take Notes Like Stag Part 3: Spell Lab Notes

Part 1: Spirit Encounters Part 2: Unrecorded Entity Note Taking Exercise Part 4: Signs & Omens I think I’ve said this somewhere before, I don’t know if it was here, or on Discord, I’m a huge believer in applying the scientific method to spell work.  I don’t believe that magic can be explained by science, or that it’s an extension of science.  But I do believe that an approach of  empirical observation, incremental variable adjustment, and repeat experimentation is a great way to develop a solid spell work practice.  This is how I figured out a lot of my own methods and personal magical paradigms - by testing something, making notes, changing a variable, and then  testing again - rinse and repeat.  There’s a lot to keep track of in that process though, particularly if you’re rinse and repeat step keeps repeating, so over the years I’ve developed a template of “lab notes” to keep track of my experiments.  Spell Friendly Name - A brief concise, yet descriptive title. • The idea of a “friendly name” is something I stole from my IT day job.  A lot of hardware devices come with their network name set as their serial number, or model number, or something like that.  Those sorts of names can be fine for a sys or network admin, but it’s not super helpful for a normal person - so it’s an important step up setting up that device to give it a name that is immediately recognizable and descriptive of its role on the network: Like HR Printer, or [Company Name] File Server. When you’re testing and workshopping spells it’s important to be able to distinguish them from one another in your notes. You don’t want a dozen pages in a row all titled “Prosperity Spell” but they’re all different spells.  Make sure your Friendly Names are descriptive, catchy, and above all stay consistent across your notes for subsequent re-casts. 

Date Cast - The day (and time if it matters to you) that you cast the spell • I’m not one for celestial or planetary magic, so I don’t care much about when I cast the spell for magical correspondence reasons.  I care mostly in relation to the next field - 

Time Frame/ ”Due Date” - When you expect the spell manifest result by. • I’m a big believer in setting yourself time frames for your spells - it’s much easier to tell if a spell has succeeded or failed if you have a due date for it.  So I mark my time frame as part of my notes, however I built it into my spell: two weeks, by the next rainfall, before the turn of the season, by an exact date.  Keeping this due date next to the date of casting helps me keep track of how long is left for the spell to work. Parameters for Success - What an ideal successful result looks like to you.  • We all know that sometimes spells manifest in funny ways that can still technically be called “successful”. You phrased the inscription of your prosperity spell as “looking for a windfall” only to get a bunch of free apples at the farm stand because they had a windstorm and have to get rid of all of the apples that fell?  Technically you got a windfall, but it wasn’t what you wanted.  So you recast the spell and this time phrase the inscription as, “you want to come into money.” Well this time a great aunt dies and leaves you an inheritance.  We all know these examples, I’m not saying anything new.  But I find that keeping track of exactly what I quantify as “success” helps me troubleshoot my spells.  Is my parameter of success for this theoretical prosperity spell specifically that I get a raise at work? Then I say it here.  Am I open to alternatives?  List them here.  Materials: Function - Your ingredients list: what role of each ingredient is in the spell • I vastly prefer to create my own spells, I find I can tinker and troubleshoot better with something I have written myself because I understand how everything is meant to work, and how it all works together.  I list out every single ingredient and what its job is in the spell, not just ingredients being used for magical correspondences.  I include lines like, “paper & pen (mundane): for the writing of inscription” or “mortar & pestle: for grinding herb blend.” But then I’ll also have lines like “Nettle: used here for personal association with emotion, a la Aunt Betty and her nettle tea,” referencing a personal magical association I have within my own paradigm.  This may be overkill for some people, but it keeps my spell work neat and organized and I never have to wonder what an ingredient is supposed to be doing when I want to recast a spell. 

Method: Function - Steps of the spell, written in order, with some form of annotation or commentary on what each step is supposed to achieve magically.  • This step of my note taking I get a little messy, to be honest.  It works best when I have different colored pens and have had time to pre-plan.  When these conditions have been met my notes look like code.  There will be a step written out, then on the next line ## and a color change to indicate the beginning of my comments.  If I didn’t pre-plan, I usually still have two different colored pens - even if it’s just black and blue, so I’ll write out my steps in order and rely on marginalia for my comments.  It’s not as organized, and my handwriting gets cramped and hard to read sometimes, but just like the ingredients lists I like to know not just what every step is doing, but why. 

Adjusted Variable(s)* - If you’re recasting a spell what have you changed from the last time and how do you expect that to affect your result. 

• If I cast a spell and am not happy with the results (maybe those parameters for success I noted earlier weren’t met to my satisfaction) I don’t go looking for a new spell, I troubleshoot.  I start making changes to spell and keeping track of the change in this field of my notes.  I note what exactly the change is:  Am I adding something, removing something, trying a different method, etc. Then I write down a hypothesis (remember that word from science class?) for how I think this adjustment will change how the spell manifests. *I leave this field blank or out of my note entirely if I’m taking notes for the first casting of a spell, or re-casting a “known good” spell (one that I know works exactly as is - usually because I’ve cast it before and already gone through the troubleshooting and refining process). Observed Manifestation - The counterpart to Parameters for Success, what actually happened as a result of the spell - to be left blank and filled out on or after the Time Frame/”Due Date” is up. • If these notes were a science class lab notebook, which they were 100% inspired by, this would be the results section.  What actually happened!?! Maybe nothing happened!  Write that here.  Maybe your prosperity a week and a half after you cast your prosperity spell your boss said you were killing it at work and that you were going to get a promotion! Maybe the spell totally backfired!  Be honest with yourself about your results, these notes are for you to build on.  I have pages and pages of notes where either nothing happened, or the results were just off from what I really wanted.  But I kept troubleshooting, and now I have a roster of spells that I am really confident in.  Adjustments for Next Cast:  If you have an idea for what you want to change next time, write it down now.  You won’t remember when you come back to it.   • I usually like to write up my results and then do some brainstorming for next time.  I try to only change one thing at a time, isolate the variable and all that, but I will often have several ideas for things that could improve the results, so I’ll brainstorm in this field and then highlight the one I want to try next somehow, either by underlining or marking with a star.  Then that option goes into the “Adjusted Variable” field for the next time. 

[thelattechronicles]

Going from Kindle to Kobo: My Thoughts and how I settled on the Clara BW

I've had my one and only e-reader: the 4th generation Kindle since 2011. That's quite literally over a decade old- 13 years, to be exact.

It's been deemed old enough to justify an upgrade. Not that I had even been needing one, or considering getting a new one; rather, the Kindle had just started glitching on me and freezing this past September. After 13 years, I'd say it's an accomplishment that it took this long for the tech to finally start breaking down on me. Believe me when I say that this Kindle had not been babied by any means whatsoever.

Now, it's been exactly 30 days since I've gone from my Kindle 4th gen 2011 model (thanks Mom and Dad) to the new Kobo Clara BETWEEN. Read on to see what my thoughts are on this upgrade!

I don't think I can go back to the Kindle UX and world, and I truly do see what people are saying about Kobo just being overall better.

For starters, here are the specs between both as a comparison:

(Side note: the 4th gen Kindle is SO old that I had to dig around for a review of it, and found one on The Ebook Reader dot com)

As you can tell from the glaring number of red X circles, the basic Kindle 4th gen does not have as much much going for it compared to my new Kobo Clara BW. But that's okay! Here are some things I LIKED about the Kindle:

The e-ink screen

The physical page turning buttons on the side - I still love the page turners and how I just need to press down on the side. The buttons are very streamlined and a part of the side plastic framing.

The wallpapers when the device is turned off

The battery life (once upon a time, one charge could last me a good 4 months I stg)

The size of the screen (was not willing to go smaller, but was open to go bigger)

Straightforward system and user interface (turn on, find book, read.)

Being able to email epubs and PDFs to the Kindle directly via the Whispernet

Here are some things I DISLIKE about my Kindle today:

Its current extremely short battery life (I don't think a charge can last me two weeks now)

Being locked into the Kindle Amazon storefront and ecosystem - yes, I purchased each and every book on Amazon that I have on my Kindle...

Not being able to make Libby work on the Kindle (as a Canadian reader)

Lack of backlighting options

Anything to do with any sort of typing (I had to physically press the arrow buttons and wait until it landed on the right letter to press enter, then move on to the next letter, rinse repeat. Needless to say, it gets exhausting real quick trying to type out a short word, let alone a title of a book you're trying to find in your Kindle library storage.)

Lack of ad-free options with today's Kindle models (I got lucky with my Kindle 4th gen, where the home screen goes directly to my storage, listing all the books and collection folders I created. I hear this is no longer a thing, and the home page is the Amazon Kindle storefront. Ew.)

So, the Kobo Clara BW does a lot of what I liked about my Kindle - and more! It has quite a lot going for it: a long battery life, multiple backlighting options (reg vs warm lighting), bluetooth (if I wanted to do audiobooks, but I do that on my phone anyway so it's just a bonus for me). The Kobo Clara BW has crisp displays (I've read some manga and comics on it), and the zooming in and text font/size adjustments are super easy to navigate.

I know, I know. No physical page-turning buttons. I still lament the loss of my buttons. I know there are some Kobo models such as the Libra that have the buttons, but I strongly believe that the Kindle 4th gen buttons are superior. I liked that they were a part of the side, rather than a blocky-looking extension, like the buttons on the Libra are. The touch screen was a bit of an interesting thing to navigate in the beginning, but as we use touch-screen phones, it was very easy and quick to get used to it.

Why not the colour option?

Granted, the Kobo Clara colour as well as some other colour alternatives did come out. Why did I not choose the colour option? Yes, colour e-ink and e-readers are pretty to look at, but for someone who uses e-readers purely to read novels and text-heavy documents, it seemed unnecessary for my purposes. In store, I did a side-by-side comparison of the Clara Colour and BW and actually found the lighting to be drastically different at max brightness and warmth. Here's a picture I found online that gives you an idea of what I mean:

As you can see, the Clara BW version (right) has a crisper and whiter background, and the Clara Colour (left) looked a bit orange-red-toned overall.

ABOVE ALL: the Kobo ecosystem has been fantastic for me.

As someone who has been pitifully buying every single e-book on Amazon thus far or loading janky PDFs with too-small-text, the Kobo Clara BW is a breath of fresh air. It was very easy to connect my Libby account in the Settings. I now have an automatic delivery of all my ebook loans to my Kobo (!!!!) (A dream come true for Canadian e-readers!). I also have Calibre downloaded on my laptop and with it, can customize my Kobo to no end. You can see that I've gone ahead and gave my Kobo some wallpapers, which include my favourite The New Yorker covers. I'm happy with how much I can do with my Kobo. The Pocket app feature also came as a pleasant surprise! It's nice being able to read articles during work lunches and save any interesting articles on my computer, and those articles get automatically downloaded to my Kobo.

In true The Latte Chronicles fashion, if I were to give my Kobo Clara BW a rating:

★★★★★

If you're like me as a reader and your needs are similar to mine (and maybe your old Kindle is dying on you) I encourage you to make the jump to Kobo! I haven't regretted my Kobo Clara BW purchase at all. In fact, I've already finished 13 books since I booted up my Clara.

J

[whatevertheweather]

Thank you @thewholelemon @moodandmist @run-for-chamo-miles and @youarenevertooold for the tags! I'm in love with everything y'all posted, what the hell.

In other news, it seems like my recipe for success is to have a Bad Saturday, unexpectedly write an unprecedented amount on Sunday, manage nothing throughout the week, then rinse and repeat. However, yesterday was a kind of okay Saturday, and I've still written a lot today, so maybe the point is really just Sunday.

In any case, what I've written today is from the same unexpected fic I mentioned in my last WIP post. But also like that post, that's not what I'm going to share, because it's not on my hit list for this year. Instead, I'm joining in with the CORB cheer by posting about, y'know, the one I started last year, good old Bait and Switch, because that's what I was getting all my words out for last weekend. Like, the next chapter is about 2 scenes away from done, when there had only been about 3 scenes in it when I started. So that's good?

Under the cut because this is already getting kinda long and I'm not stopping at six sentences.

I don’t know the answer to that. “Because I’m better than you. Now c’mon, get your head in the game. We have a plan.” “Do we?” “Here’s the plan. You give me a good zinger to make Simon go off—” “No.” “What?” “You think I can set him off with a zinger?” he audibly sneers. “This isn’t a one-liner trick. We build up to it.” “Fine,” I roll my eyes. “You long-con him, he goes off, I get my energy back. Easy-peasy.”  Baz is silent. Maybe being a dick and maybe asleep. I can never tell. Finally, he says, “And then you’ll let me out.” “Yeah,” I say. “Totally.”

The slightly difficult thing is that there's also rather a bit of angst being threaded through a fic that is at its core quite lighthearted, but I've received some comments in my time that suggest I may be good at writing things that make you laugh and then also hurt you in rapid succession, so hopefully I can pull it off without it feeling like we're switching genres.

Here's another that's a very little bit of both.

“I would not fucking say that!” Baz yelps. “Calm down,” I swat at him, but the tips of my fingers just slide through the edge of the coffin. I scowl at them. “I saw it in a film. It’s fine. It’s a totally normal thing to say.” “It’s not! It’s really, really not!” By the time he’s run out of steam screeching at me about it, I’m thinking there’s no way this ends up worth it. I don’t feel bad for doing it, but seriously, no one has ever yelled at me for this long. His voice is wearing down. Getting scratchier, which just makes him sound more violent, but then quieter. He ends by mumbling, “I hate you.” It hits weird. I mean, I don’t know. It just sounded sad. And it’s not true.  He doesn’t hate me. We’re helping each other.

Now, tags!

@you-remind-me-of-the-babe @fatalfangirl @cutestkilla @artsyunderstudy @whogaveyoupermission

@mooncello @monbons @aristocratic-otter @bookish-bogwitch @facewithoutheart

@alexalexinii @rimeswithpurple @ivelovedhimthroughworse @martsonmars @ileadacharmedlife

@confused-bi-queer @iamamythologicalcreature @noblecorgi @forabeatofadrum @emeryhall

@hushed-chorus @onepintobean @raenestee

[syeren]

NEW YEAR, NEW ME.

summary — after the both of you decided to break off your relationship, geto lays alone in his apartment, reminiscing over, over, and over about you.

tags — angst

His finger shakily tapped along his knee as he braced himself for the nth time. A call. A stupid. Fucking. Call. Geto gulped down a lump in his throat as he heard a voice on the other end.

“… Hello?”

“Is this… I mean— I’ve been trying to reach you, haven’t you received my calls?”

“Oh, no sorry. I think you have the wrong number.”

“I… See, yeah… Yeah, I should’ve judged by the voice.”

“No worries! I think I’ve seen your number floating around frequently during the past week, I didn’t pick up though. Genuinely, I thought it was another spam call—“

“Ah, I’m sorry for troubling you. I’ll end the call now, have a nice day.”

“You too—“

Beep. Beep. Beep.

A clammy hand dragged down his dehydrated skin, his long lashes poking out through the gaps left open by lazy fingers. A deep rumble from a sigh vibrated in his throat, then echoed around his humid studio apartment… Drenched in nauseating vanilla musk cologne, and thick smoke billowed from a half-lit cigarette. In the corner of his apartment was a Vinyl player, playing Chet Baker softly as he thought.

“… Fuckin’ hell.”

He slowly got up from his hunched position against the wall, pushing some weight off of the surface to compensate the weakened muscles he had left. He had no courage or stamina to even reach the front door if anyone wanted to check up on him, perhaps he had been too optimistic about that mere thought.

He stumbled in his apartment, toppling over heaps of garbage and empty liquor bottles, a loud statement of his pain. As he neared his unkept bed, he plopped onto his flat, tear-stained mattress. The quiet rumble of traffic outside his apartment window was his alarm clock, while the occasional chatter from his next-door neighbours were his source of entertainment. Amongst those were the occasional pops of fireworks going off in the distance, ahh yes, the welcoming of the new year.

Another year, he thought, to wake up and go through his schedule on autopilot. It was rinse and repeat, at this point. His body clock already stopped working after countless nights of insomnia, and he spent that time thinking… Again. Another day, another year.

The record continued to play, aiding the descent into his brain once more. It had been a long time since he last seen you, heard your voice, felt you in his arms— Hell, the fact he couldn’t reach you anymore was already driving him insane. What drove you away? Perhaps it was his lack of understanding towards you, maybe it was the fact he stuck his nose into his own stuff and never had the light of day just to talk— Properly, that time. However, it may be the certain situation that he was burying himself into, the over-thinking. Did you get tired of it? Were you too exhausted to put up with it?

He wanted to understand. Those countless nights he spent just pondering over his own pessimism and confusion, it was enough for him already. He turned his dreary body around, planting his face against the pillow and shutting his eyes. He nestled into the illusion of comfort, but the true beauty of peace is long gone.

The intoxicating vanilla and musk clung to his bedsheets, doused in the saltiness of tears and a hint of fresh pine. He hadn’t taken a shower yet, a proper bath didn’t even pop into one of his hundreds of thoughts running in his brain until now; thus, he opted to submerge himself in his racks of cologne and perfume for the meantime. His eyes darted sideways, tilting his head to the darkness the night sky blanketed him with. Another sigh left his lips.

“… Did I not love them enough?” his voice broke through like a scratchy record, hoarse and unpleasant. A broken record of anxiety and negativity. “Did I love them too much?”

He laid there on top of his bed, drifting off into a dreamless sleep. Sleep sounds good, real good. To simply release those relaxing chemicals into your brain, signalling it to shut down. He wished he could that to his thoughts all day but, he holds on to something he can’t achieve— The notion to meet you once more. As the time passed, he felt his body sinking deeper into his mattress and—

Ring. Ring. Ring.

A groan bursted out as he lazily reached over to his bedside table, grabbing his phone and putting it to his ear. He knew that he would get another mouthful of false-positive comments from his buds, and he sucked in a breath once pressing ‘answer.’

“Satoru, I already—”

“Geto?”

The familiar chime sound, it was the type of bell that twinkles and flutters; much like a Furin in a soft Summer breeze. It wasn’t anything like the Church bell noise that Satoru’s voice gave off, resounding, rich, yet clanging to his ears. His eyes shot open as he clambered to sit up in his bed, crossing his legs as he tried to gather his scatterplot of thoughts.

“Hey,” he managed to croak out, albeit with a loud voice crack. “I didn’t… Expect you to call me.”

“Satoru told me I should check in with you, so that’s why,” your voice sounded like you were smiling through your words. He swore he could picture you smiling. “This is my new number, you can save it if you would like.”

“Ah, I wouldn’t want to disturb you, however.”

“No, no! You wouldn’t. Well, I just wanted to check in.”

“Okay, okay… No promises on being convinced,” he added, chuckling awkwardly as he cleared his throat into his fist.

“Alright. Well, I’m gonna hang up now, okay? Stay safe, Geto.”

“Mhm, you too. Thanks— For checking in, I mean.”

“No worries, bye!”

“Goodbye.”

Beep. Beep. Beep.

He immediately threw his phone down to his side as cold sweat profusely beaded around his temples. Black, messy locks draped over his eyes, and his gaze shot down at the mattress beneath him. Slowly, he leaned back against the wall once more, staring at the phone that connected you and him together. Even if it were brief.

All the times he called you, wanted to talk to you, hear that voice… Yet he wussed out, only managing to blurt out a quick ‘thanks for checking in.’ He wanted to profess his adoration, his emotions he held deep within his heart but once he finally got the chance to tell you, it didn’t meet to his expectations. Strings of profanities left his lips, muttering out into the silence of his own home.

Just as the clock renewed itself on that plastic display, he too, decided for that change. The unfamiliarity of the numbers twinkled in his eyes, and surely this would be a sign of hope. To pick himself up and just start anew— Well, once he figures out how to fix up his living quarters, that is.

The distant popping and cheers echoed from his complex and outside, and once Geto looked over at the clock, it was 12:00 AM sharp. A painful chuckle left his lips as his head craned back to rest against the surface. A new year, huh? It was ironic, how cheerful and abundant the atmosphere was throughout the building and the city, yet here he was wallowing in nothing but the repetitive Chet Baker record he had on. He reached in his pocket, grabbing the same pack of Camel he had and popping a cigarette up. Pressing the stick between his lips and lighting the butt, he inhaled deeply and blew out a thick cloud of smoke. The Turkish blend scattered through the air, filling the room with hazy puffs.

Another day, another year. Maybe this one will treat him better.

_______________

an; happy new year! :3 LOL i didn’t think i would make an angst for the new year, but i’ll infuse all my good energy into this post so it won’t affect ur upcoming blessings <3 creds to saltinesaltine1

[grandisknight]

i like to play a fun game of ‘guess what banners and events are coming up’ (aka predictions and speculations) so feel free to hear me out and take everything with a grain of salt ₍ ᐢ.ˬ.ᐢ₎

+ date ranges for anything after zayne’s birthday are just placeholders ;; (unless i’m citing from actual banners/events)

+ will emphasize that these are just my opinions (✍️) ! purely for fun and if it’s not your cup of tea then that’s okay have a good day ٩( 'ω' )و

also infold pls do not smite me i’m just a girl with thoughts

okay so in an ideal world (mine) this is what’s cooking…

we have zayne’s birthday for a week (0831-0907)

his birthday is on 09/05 ; eternal attachment banner + birthday event

(✍️) and then for two weeks afterwards we could have a solo limited banner (either rafayel or sylus)

last time rafayel had a solo banner was his “private trip” card from 05/28-06/07

sylus was “no defense zone” from 07/15-08/01

however i wouldn’t be surprised if they end up doing a xavier solo banner / his last one was “faint sensation” from 04/19-29 so he’s long overdue… 😭 my blue eyed king comeback

in addition to the end of the month : first story branch that will go into last week of september into the first week of october (potentially 09/22-10/05)

based on july’s 2.0 livestream and follow-up SNS posts, the order has been implied to be zayne-rafayel-xavier (not confirmed) (just speculation)

(✍️) lowkey hoping we get to see zayne’s first

(✍️) i hope it’s similar to how they handled long awaited revelry’s debut in that we get a 10 day event to complete tasks and get resources 🫡

and THEN

(✍️) from like 10/11-18 xavier’s birthday banner and event runs for a week (his birthday is 10/16)

new birthday card, make a cake, the usual bday festivities shall commence

(✍️) following this, if story branches are released towards the ends of months, then the second story branch at the end of the month from 10/20-11/02 (rafayel?) and potentially third story branch from 11/24-12/07 (xavier?)

(✍️) rinse and repeat with solo limited banners and multis/precise wishes sprinkled in between and we’ll eventually find ourselves at the first anniversary ₍ ᐢ.ˬ.ᐢ₎ uwah…

(✍️) additional thoughts i have

halloween and christmas events/memories i think absolutely yes please feed us into the holiday spirit and give fun outfits/cards for the boys

i’d like to think that potentially sylus’ 2nd myths could come out this year just to be on par with the other boys, since ❄️⭐️🐠 are done for the year! though it would make more sense if it came out in like a future update alongside caleb… so they can both have myths…

fingers crossed that the next BP is zayne/xavier from september-november since we currently have rafayel/sylus as a duo (07/15-09/11)

sometime by the end of this year hopefully we’ll get to see zayne and sylus’ free 5* memories from heartfelt gift login campaigns!

who knows, they’ll probably sprinkle in another 10 days with you free 4* memory campaign again in there somewhere (gestures towards the current zayne ‘doomsday’ event)

fifth LI… come home soon… 🍎 (i personally believe there’s only going to be 5 main LIs)

(✍️) + in my opinion, an LI has to be relevant to the main story + mc’s story — ❄️⭐️🐠🐦‍⬛🍎 fit those qualifications from the get-go

+ ch1 alone introduced all of them: ⭐️ first mission, 🐠 at the fountain, ❄️ doctor’s appointment, 🍎 call/text, 🐦‍⬛ red eye foreshadowing

+ the specific focuses of the main story were as follows: ch4 🍎, ch5 ❄️, ch6 ⭐️, ch7 🐠, long-awaited revelry ch1-2 🐦‍⬛

therefore i can’t really fathom any new additions otherwise for an LI beyond those five (though, time will tell depending on the story development i guess) (i’m excited nonetheless)

thank yew for coming to my ted talk

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

I started a new antidepressant today, and I kinda don't want it to work. Hear me out. It's another SSRI, which have all proven ineffective for me. I'll feel a little better for a week or two, then I'll feel nothing, then I'll feel worse than before, then I'll go off it and feel even worse than that, then I'll level off to my old baseline and they'll try me on something else. Wash, rinse, repeat. My doctors have tried me on all the most common drugs, celexa, zoloft, prozac, paxil, not because they're effective but because they're the only ones insurance companies are willing to pay for. They'd give me sugarpills if they could get away with it, so I'm not holding out hope that this one's magically gonna work. The reason I don't want it to is because my insurance expires on January 1st and I can't afford to sign up for a new plan, so I can't see my doctor anymore and I can't get any refills; if by magic it DOES work, then I'm shit out of luck. Oh well, maybe if I try hard not to be poor next year I can get back on it in 2026.

I've tried diet, I've tried exercise, I'm taking a multivitamin, my mom won't stop suggesting bullshit homeopathic solutions like chewing on roots and sleeping with crystals under my pillow (not literally, but that's what it sounds like), and I'm just fucking tired of trying.

[sunshineyoujustwait]

seventeen million years late to this, as usual, but now that I have five minutes to spare- better late than never!

Tag Game:

tagged by the wonderful, talented and gorgeous @cupidskissx ily and apologies this took 5 business days to respond to

rule(s): post a snippet (however long or short or longish or shortish) from a wip !!

this is a longer snippet from a work I started ages ago and completely forgot about, I may return to it now that I remembered it exists lmao

“Do you ever wonder, like, is there supposed to be something more than this?”

Charles rolls his eyes, glancing over to where Max is laid out on his balcony, beer dangling precariously from one hand. “Max, it’s the new year, not the end of the world.” Max huffs at him, takes another sip of his beer. “That’s not what I mean, it’s just- what’s next, you know?” Charles glances longingly at the glass double doors leading back into the apartment, wonders if Max would notice if he just dipped from this entire conversation. Lando and Carlos are playing beer pong, and it’s suddenly looking very appealing.  He sighs, turning back to the blonde beside him. “What’s next for you is probably more race wins, maybe a third championship.” Charles tries not to sound bitter, he’s not sure how successful he is.  “Sorry,” Max winces a little. “I know you should probably hate me right now.” I’m trying to, Charles thinks, but I can’t. It’s an unfair thought really, none of this is Max’s fault. There’s plenty of blame to go around for the mess that was last season and Max doesn’t deserve any of it. Still, it feels like it would be easier to hate him, if that was something he was capable of doing.  Max rolls over onto his stomach, narrowly avoiding falling off the hammock he’s curled himself into. “Winning is great and all, and I love racing, but it just feels a little hollow or something, lately. We fly across the world, we race, we come home, rinse and repeat, same thing every week.” Charles glances at Max where he’s sprawled out across the hammock. He looks fine, a little drunk maybe, but not like someone on the verge of an existential crisis. His hair is flopping into his eyes and Charles’ hands twitch with a sudden desire to run his fingers through the errant strands. It’s not a new feeling, exactly, it’s just that sometimes when he looks at Max under the lights like this, soft and relaxed, it makes his breath catch in his throat and his stomach whirl with an as of yet unnamed feeling.  Other times, he just wants to strangle him. “Must be nice,” he mutters, “getting sick of winning.” Max groans. “Fuck off, you know that's not what I meant. It's just that, it feels like there should be something more, you know? Someone to share it all with, lights on when you come home, that sort of thing.” Charles doesn't know, not really, but he supposes it makes sense in a way. You achieve one dream - world champion, check (twice) - then you start seeking out the next. In Max's case that seems to be some sort of cosy picket fence. Like Maslow's hierarchy of needs, but for millionaires who drive fast cars for a living.  He's still stuck on the previous step of the pyramid though, so he's not feeling entirely charitable about it right now.  “Then date, find someone, it's not that complicated.” It comes out harsher than intended, but Charles is feeling a little lost at the direction of this conversation, and the image of Max settling down is rattling around in his brain for some reason, ugly and discordant.  Max is quiet for a moment, and Charles kind of maybe feels like a bit of an asshole.  “Tried that,” he says finally. “It didn’t exactly work out.” Charles definitely feels like an asshole then, winces at the words because, yeah, he did. There’d been a ring and everything, it had been a bit messy.  “Sorry,” he tries, but Max waves him off, shrugging. "Do you not get lonely?" "I date." Max snorts at that, which- rude.  “I have racing. I like racing. I'm not-” he gestures vaguely at Max's sprawled form- “losing it because I don’t have someone waiting for me when I come home. I’m happy.” “Yeah well, I guess it just doesn’t feel the same anymore.” “What doesn’t?” “Racing.” That catches Charles’ attention, sets the alarm bells ringing in his admittedly alcohol muddled mind. There are few constants in his life but Max and racing are two of them. 

Everyone has probably been tagged by now as I'm so late but if you see this and you haven't then plz, this is your invite!! Share all the snippets !!!

[andromedaexists]

WUPDATE: Desecrate

𝚆𝚎𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝙹𝚊𝚗. 𝟷𝟻𝚝𝚑 || 𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑𝚑

So... this week was a thing. Not like a Thing:tm: but like, it's technically been a week...

I've had to focus on work for the most part, so I haven't actually written much of anything. I added 57 words to Desecrate, bringing our total word count to 21,245 words.

Like I said, not much. Late last year I was promoted at work and the new work load is hard for me to keep up with. Plus I've been trying to keep up with my New Year's resolution of just taking care of my mortal vessel, so I've set a routine of like Work at 9am, Home at 6pm, Shower, Dinner, Bed at 9pm, rinse and repeat. The only change here and there is my hikes on the weeks where we do that and the fact that I'm going skiing this weekend.

So as you can see, I've been a bit focused on things other than writing lol

But no more! I'm setting my goal this week as at least 5k words on desecrate! So our next WUPDATE should be much more fruitful than this one

Now for what you're really here for: snippies! ↓

I don't have a lot to share this week since I didn't write a lot, but have this:

“I didn’t need you to step in,” he says. He appreciates the way Jay shut the men down, knowing that they would have given Kit much more of a hassle without him. But that doesn’t mean he wants to rely on the man. “I know,” Jay says, his gaze falling to meet Kit’s. “But you know how those idiots are, they won’t listen to anything unless it comes from me for some reason.” Kit huffs. Jay’s right, it had always been that way. He shakes his head before laying back and rolling under the truck again. Jay’s silent as Kit reaches for the oil filter and continues with his oil change. Just as he’s hand tightening the new filter, Jay speaks. “I’m glad you’re back, Kit. Don’t be a stranger.” Kit pauses for a moment, listening as Jay walks back down the drive. When he’s certain that the man is far enough away, he replaced the drainage screw and rolls himself out from under the truck. Kit props himself up, leaning his arm on his crooked knee as he wipes the excess oil off his hands with the nearest rag.

TAGLIST

@lockejhaven @mr-writes @eleanordaze @flowerprose

@starlitpage @dogmomwrites @annetilney @ceph-the-ghost-writer

@inkspellangel @outpost51 @love-whatit-loves @bebewrites

@indecentpause @lavender-gloom

Please fill out this form to be added or ask to be removed!

[fungifanart]

Could I request Edmond (nu: carnival) x male reader that acts like Jamil viper (No he's not Eiden, he was not transferred worlds)

Oh and could I be 🤡anon so it'd be easier for me to navigate what I've requested

Servitude

Characters: Male reader (Although, it's pretty GN due to the use of You/Your pronouns. Oops.), Edmond, Edmond's mother, mentions of Eiden

Cw: Violence

Word count: 966

Notes: I mean, you can call yourself that if you want, but I personally don't really care about that kind of stuff. Anyways, I'm pretty happy with how this came out, so I hope you enjoy!

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

You are NOT happy with this arrangement. At all.

It's almost insulting, in a way.

Having to serve and safeguard this prissy, hardass noble who would measure sugar in cups rather than teaspoons if left alone in the kitchen? After spending year after year working your way up the ranks with your sights set on becoming Royal Guard Commander?

Great. Thanks. What an honor. (<- Sarcasm)

What makes it worse is that neither of you seemingly have a choice in the matter, seeing as how the decision was made by your new liege's mother, the matriarch of the family.

You can still remember the silent fury you felt when you received the news from the woman herself as your liege argued bitterly with his mother about the necessity of it. Of you.

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

"Mother, I beg of you to reconsider! I fail to see how I, the Vice Captain of the royal guard, would need a personal guard!" Edmond said, making no attempt to mask his displeasure.

Well, at least you're like-minded in that aspect.

"Save your arguments, my son." Edmond's mother waved dismissively, "Do not forget your status as a noble. You know as well as I do how cutthroat our world has become lately and your status as Vice Captain will only serve to paint a bigger target on your back for those wishing to stab it." She explained.

…OK, you'd be lying if you said she didn't make a convincing argument.

"Mother, surely you trust me enough as your son to–" Edmond's attempt at a counter was shut down immediately by his mother slamming her hand on her desk.

"It is BECAUSE you're my son that I make this decision! The very thought of you being caught unawares for some politically motivated scheme is one that I CANNOT abide!" She slumped back in her chair with a sigh, "Enough. My decision is final and I will hear no more arguments."

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

And so began what you would so affectionately describe as your own personal hell.

Every day, you wake up before Edmond in order to prepare breakfast, paying special attention that there's no poison and just enough sugar to suit his "tastes" without rotting his and your teeth out of your skulls.

After breakfast, you accompany Edmond on his daily patrol of the castle town, carefully surveying your surroundings for any traps or assassins, while also keeping the peace among the citizens.

Next is dinner, which goes the same way as breakfast, except afterwards you have to stand guard outside Edmond's room until a certain time, at which you'll go back to your own room. The problem with this is that you have to make sure that he's at least preparing for bed before you can leave and yet Edmond seems perfectly content to work at his desk from dusk until dawn, forcing you to physically pull him away from his desk just so the both of you have a chance at getting enough sleep.

Rinse and repeat with only minor variations as the days turn into weeks and then months and you've got a perfect recipe for making you wonder what the sharp end of your spear would taste like.

However, three months after your appointment under Edmond, you find yourself traveling to the Fire Territory with him and the new Grand Sorcerer with the intent of regulating the Fire Altar, but then everything goes wrong.

The troops have been scattered, the Fire Gemstone was on the verge of shattering the last time you saw it and some weird magic separated you from your liege, leaving you stranded in the middle of the desert.

You're having an internal argument with yourself about how you should be better than being caught by some cheap trap despite it being impossible to anticipate something like this when you suddenly hear two familiar voices a ways from you.

As you approach, you recognize the voices as belonging to your liege and the new Grand Sorcerer, but something feels off.

Listening to the new Grand Sorcerer from a safe distance, you hear him speak in a tone you've never heard from him before about things you’ve come to learn that Edmond is insecure about and even having the GALL to imply that he's complicit in the greedy practices of the Light Territory's nobles.

Your blood is boiling before you even realize it. For all of your continued misgivings about your position and all of Edmond's faults, the one thing you can't deny is his devotion to his people. You see it in the way he regards each citizen he sees while on patrol with respect and patience and in the way he toils away at his desk, signing bills that would counter others that would cause them harm or distress.

Your feet instantly carry you out of your hiding spot and into the space between the two men as you hold your spear in front of Edmond defensively, "Who are you?" You ask the 'Grand Sorcerer'.

Despite how few your interactions with him had been up until this point, you know for a fact that the new Grand Sorcerer is absolutely not the type to say such horrible things to Edmond, especially not with the way you've seen him look at him.

The conclusion? The 'person' you see before you is an imposter who needs to be eliminated.

Coming to the same conclusion, you see Edmond readying his weapon as well, allowing both of you to strike through the imposter at the same time and leave whatever's left of him to begin the trek to the Fire Altar.

As you sprint across the sand, your mind fully catches up with what just happened.

Fighting alongside Edmond as equals instead of master and servant? You could get used to this.

[evenmyhivemindisempty]

Now that I have written 19 (!!) Donald Pierce fics, I figure it’s probably time to organize them a bit for tumblr! So here we go!

Your Mercy’s Got Teeth, Baby: Here’s the thing. It’s technically in all of the Reavers’ contracts that they give Alkali-Transigen blanket permission to perform medical testing on their bodies after death. Donald just hadn’t figured that would still apply to someone who got revived. On the run from Alkali, Donald Pierce finds himself short on options and friends. Desperate times call for desperate measures. Logan is none too happy to see him again.

Heart, for a Loss: Five times Donald Pierce thinks he’s in love, and one time he actually is. (CW: non-con, underage)

Stand at Attention: After a tough mission, Donald Pierce and Frank Castle share some alone time.

What Nightmares May Come: The Corinthian reacquaints himself with Donald Pierce. (CW: implied non-con, implied child abuse)

What Good Girls Get: Truth be told he’d been expecting something more in line with ‘power-drunk cop’ or ‘horny marine’ when Gabby had brought up the whole roleplaying thing a few weeks back. But he guesses he can’t begrudge her having a type, even if it means he’s gotta be some butch dyke at the grungiest lesbian bar in Mexico City. Donald figures he can be a good girl. Just this once, and just for her.

Twice Shy: Stranded in the past, Logan expects to spend the next few decades blowing his time and his cash on cheap alcohol in dead-end small towns. He doesn’t expect eighteen-year-old Donald Pierce, pretty, bitchy, smart as a whip, and on the doorstep of the rest of his life.

3AM After the End: While the mutant children continue on to the border, Logan is captured by what’s left of the Reavers. So is Donald Pierce. Turns out, they aren’t all too happy with their old boss. (CW: non-con)

Rinse and Repeat (and Repeat and–): Woulda, coulda, shoulda might as well be on Donald Pierce’s tombstone. Instead of dying, he finds himself continuously repeating the day that started it all, and gets to find out if he would, if he could, and if he should. (CW: non-con)

One Size Fits Most: Donald Pierce gets his most unusual prosthetic request yet. It ends up being kind of a blast.

Colorful Places series (completed: yes)

Friendly Favors, at Cost: Gabby had been expecting a bullet to the back of the head for her role in helping Laura and the others escape. Instead she gets a suite in a ritzy hotel, courtesy of Donald Pierce.

The Marrying Kind: Gabby and Pierce struggle to settle into their new life in hiding. Gabby realizes something’s gotta change.

A Study of Similarities series (completed: yes)

Variations on a Theme: Donald Pierce meets a different version of himself. He’s still deciding if he likes him.

Three and Just Begun: Donald Pierce tags along when Doc Donnie gets a booty call. He has a better time than he expected.

Winning’s in the Way We Lie: For some reason, there's no "Yes, I want to reveal deep and disturbing truths about our shared sexual histories with my clone" answer on the clonefucking poll. Donald wouldn't pick it, but maybe Doc would.

Where Wolves Fear to Prey series (completed: yes)

Good-Time Boy: It’s the first time in ages Donald Pierce hasn’t wanted to be the first guy out of the room. After a month of playing engineer for the Blackguard mercenaries, Donald is actually sorry to leave. Apparently they feel the same way, because he gets a surprise going-away party… and then the surprises just keep coming. (CW: past non-con, accidental non-con)

Like a Virgin: Donald wants to get fucked. He doesn’t want to have to like it.

Perfect Reflection series (completed: yes)

Deja Blues: Ty Shaw sees the taciturn stranger at the bar and sees an opportunity for some fun. It’s a pity the stranger sees something – or maybe someone – else.

Difference of Degrees: Ty thinks he’s just signing up for some sexy, naughty roleplay when Logan asks him to be sorry. Ty may be in over his head.

Belly of the Beast: Ty’s not in the mood. Logan is. (CW: non-con)