shadowrlcm

[shadowrlcm]

STATUS: Closed starter for @dioranddread LOCATION: Valentina's office uwu

Well, this was about to be interesting, she thought. She'd always wanted to see what this place looked like on the inside, but apparently it was reserved for the 1% or something.

"Exclusive guests" usually translates to fat, ugly politicians and pseudo-celebrities, right?

Explains the expensive collar, though.

Laura pushed the door in slowly once security beeped her in, fluffy little madam dog in hand, its fur felt softer than her hair. Jesus.

"...Hey, sorry it took me a while to get here, I lose my sense of direction at night," a girlish voice mumbles through the thick wood with a healthy dose of caution added to her footsteps, beady brown eyes peeking into the office before her body angles itself past the crack, making her way in. She was hoping to come here earlier, but apparently the boss only came in after 7pm. Makes sense, would be a little strange to open a place like this at 5am, she supposes.

She had no idea how this dog ended up in her neighborhood, or why it was obsessed with sniffing around her dad's case like it was searching for something, but it served her right for having too tender of a heart to look the other way like everyone else in her building did. She's surprised the prida collar made it unscathed as long as it did; the little ball of fluff must have one hell of a bite.

"She yours, I believe? I found your number in the collar. She looked... pretty lost."

[shadowrlcm]

A SHARP TALON REACHES FOR IT, vaguely curious about its viscous little content rather than necessarily put off; he doesn't touch (God knows, Alvie might just cry if he breaks that) but does lean forward until he's staring directly into it. Scrutinizing it.

"Mines are prettier, right?" he asks after too long in silence; the question that had been hammering in his brain, naturally; Angelus liked Alvie, he didn't deny his nature, didn't hide behind false pretenses or cling to shreds of humanity. Beelzebub vampires weren't exactly popular among the vampiric community, but he'd always had a soft spot for them.

"I mean," he continues, glancing over the dainty bump of his shoulder, pushing a tuft of ivory hair off his cheek to tuck it behind his ear neatly. "Hypotetically, if you had to pick between any of these and mine... Mine looks more delicious, right?"

@shadowrlcm || alvie's residence (it's a mess) || starter for angelus

“I won it in a game of viscera poker,” he says, proudly. He’s got a jar of formaldehyde preserved eyeballs, floating with their perma-frightened stare and electric blue irises. It’s sitting on the mantle for now, until he finds a better place to display them. Might as well have been a candy jar of gumballs or peppermints with how hungry his glances were. He seems to have found a little cohort of fellow Beezlebubs to entertain himself with – for now. “Maybe I’ll take it to coffin tonight,” he says, licking his lips. “Appreciate the decoration until I fall asleep.”

[shadowrlcm]

STATUS: Closed starter for @bitexmexvalentine LOCATION: His fancy ass home in the city

Come to me,

The calling echoes through the bright city streets like a ripple of sound, sneaking into her skull in the dead of night like a parasite determined to make itself known; it's breathy and soft, like a puff of air fogging against the cold, yet utterly unrelenting. Untielding.

He makes himself impossible to ignore.

Come to me, it reverberates once more inside her head, needier. Stronger. He will not be ignored.

The boy does not move from the comfort of his seat, and yet he lets his doors, his gates open, like an invitation—nay, a demand. She will come because he wills it so, and he will not be ignored. He will call until her sanity is in tatters, if he must.

Come to me; an order now, like drums inside her skull.

He leans back into his comfortable, crimson chair, and he waits, the jagged edge of his talons scraping against the golden embroidery of his furniture to pass the time.

[shadowrlcm]

THE TALL BOY HUFFS, trying and failing to conceal his amusement with her antics. "You're so spoiled," he chastises, looking around to see if anyone had spotted her, them, walking behind her, making a point to drag his feet. "It's gonna turn your brain into pink glitter," but he noticeably doesn't refuse her demand, nor can he find the energy to vehemently object to the idea of carrying her.

"You know, you can spin around your bedroom for free—" it's mostly jest; she'll just have to forgive him for sounding like an old man, because... well, he is one. He's also a little too embarrassed to tell her he hasn't been in one of these before. His fingers slip between the gaps of hers, making sure to grab her hand firmly, almost as if he's slightly apprehensive about the situation. Energetic activities weren't exactly common among his kin—perhaps that's part of why she appeals to him so much. This vibrancy, he can't remember ever having it, even as a human; back when he was only mortal, he was sick, tired, and cold all the time. Half of the time, it felt like he was dead already. Sometimes he catches himself dwelling on things he shouldn't, dangerous what-ifs. What if he were human, now, today, around her, would things have turned out differently for him?

"What now... what's this supposed to do?" Moyun tugs on her arm, urging her to come along; a rare playful crack in his stoic facade, recklessly indulging her filmsy whims.

she was barely paying attention to his complaint. she found herself completely captivated by the scene stretching around them. normally she wouldn’t have the chance to experience something like this, but with him by her side she had no need for protection. “ You make it sound like a bad thing! ” she giggled, her eyes sparkling with playful defiance as they met his gaze. in a quick motion in front of him, she slipped the ride tickets into his other hand, sealing his fate for the day. “ Hyper adds to the thrill! And if I do happen to crash, you’ll just have to carry me home. That’s the new rule! ”

her face continued to light up with a bright smile as she pulled him further into the small fair and towards a ride. “ If you are going to sulk, at least do it while spinning. ” she teased without letting him get a single moment to protest before dragging him towards a line. fortunately for her, they didn’t have a long wait and soon were able to step on and pick out their cart. “ This one is perfect. ” she tells him with a hand gesturing him in first, ensuring he wouldn’t slip away while her back was turned.

[shadowrlcm]

THERE'S A COLD SHIVER THAT RUNS DOWN HER SPINE that she won't openly acknowledge, like some primal instinct telling her she's being hunted—the same that won't let her closet door half open at night, that insists on turning on the hallway lights before she goes to bed. She brushes off as paranoia, dusting off her purse; living alone in LA will do that to you, she tells herself.

"—That guy was on a total power trip," yeah, yeah—she double-parked, but give a girl a break! Did he think dealing with hysterical celebrities was easy? "And I'm framing this, thank you very much," Laura plucks the ticket from his finger, half-playfully. "It'll go right next to my other trophies." Right next to all of the case files and notes she wasn't supposed to have, and the evidence she collected illegally, and proudly, mind you.

Expecting the police to do their job in this city requires more faith than believing in Jesus' second coming, and despite the little crucifix dangling down her collarbone, she doesn't.

"Thanks... I have a taser and I enjoy using it." The retort practically leaps off her tongue in a cheery lilt that surprises even herself. "...Not in a psychotic way," she feels the need to add after a moment of silence as her words echo back to her. His eyes look wet—she notices, but doesn't say anything. Not her business, right? Maybe don't press into the stranger man's wounds. Laura chastises herself, biting her tongue; no more drinks for her. "Shit... I didn't mean to go all sorority girl on you," he looks all sticky. Stupid sugary cocktails... No wonder he looks so annoyed. "I should pay for that—Do you want me to transfer it or... do you wanna order something ridiculously expensive on my tab?"

Across two hundred years, the vestiges of his humanity had withered like plant roots in times of drought. There was, however, one constant: he’d always loved a good show. If the salacious activities he did to score tickets to the original production of Salome had ever gotten out, it would’ve caused quite a scandal at the time. He was exiting the late-night showing of a horror film – rife with obsession, possession, and even cannibals. He was teary-eyed, as he stalked out of the theater, because he’d found the whole story romantic. And there was nothing like a beautiful romance to work up an appetite. 

Alvie checks the time on his phone. There was plenty of time for a snack. And the possibility that he’s just bumped into one. 

But, he glances at the bar and restrains himself to finding a more discreet meal later. He’s still on the sniffly side, as he stoops over to scoop up the object nearest to him: the old parking ticket. “Here, the trophy from your crime,” he says, bemused. He was more of a display the heart as a center piece kind of vampire himself, but to each their own. The splash of drink is more sticky than anything, and he doesn’t hide the irritation on his face while handing the ticket over. “Then you better get yourself together,” he says. “Watch where you’re going, especially this late at night.”

[shadowrlcm]

HER MIND IS A STORM OF CURSES—Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. To each new thing she picks up from the dirty ground. Some of these things are definitely going straight into a garbage bin once she gets home, she promises—she always does, right before collapsing into bed, and as the sun rises again for a new day, the thought is shelved and once more forgotten, buried under the pile of problems she has to deal with—most not even her own.

She should've been a vet.

Her dad would've liked that, she thinks. But what's disappointment to a dead person? She's the one who was left with the burden of living on—nobody gets a say in her grief. It doesn't matter what he would've liked. He doesn't. He can't like or dislike anything anymore; someone made sure of that.

The girl snatches the picture a bit too quickly to be something ordinary—shoves it in the tiny pocket of her purse like some kind of treasure. It's not the best idea to be carrying that stuff around after she went through all the trouble of erasing herself out of existence, she knows, but her parents look happy in that picture. She can't bring herself to burn it.

She dusts off her dress, pulling it over her thighs like a habit, looking down at herself, then back up at him as she puckers.

"Yeah, well... I blame the lack of dresses with pockets."

The red soles of her heels click sharply against the floor as she rises from her crouched position, less ashamed than she would be if she were completely sober, but definitely not proud of herself.

"Could be drunker," she half heartedly admits—no harm in sparing some honesty to a stranger you'll never see again. "But... I guess that's partially my fault," Right. It was probably about time to put down the umbrella drinks anyway, before she bumped into a guy a little more handsy, or a little less patient. "...Are you? Alright, I mean?" She fumbles through her apparently exciting bag, pulling out a card. "Don't worry—I'm not about to ask you to join a cult, I'm just, sorry about your shirt," she gestures to the spill. "It has my number in there. You can bill me for the dry cleaning."

Moizhe sat in stillness, his finger moving in slow, deliberate circles along the rim of his glass, half-tuned to the bartender’s chocked-off monologue. The usual complaints spilled out...poor air quality, gridlocked traffic, the encampment down the road drawing in the occasional wanderer no one knew what to do with. Typical Los Angeles grievances. The kind locals learned to ignore, and newcomers romanticised away until reality reared its ugly face at them. It was an unspoken truth, the part that didn’t make it into flickering boxes or big screens with moving pictures.

He was on the verge of replying with something sharp, in defense the place he has called home for the past 40 years, when the drink struck.

He didn’t flinch. Just blinked once, slowly, as if registering the moment on a delay. The liquid soaked through the sleeve, sharp and cold, but he didn’t move to wipe it. Instead, his gaze shifted to the stranger now crouched on the floor, the contents once within the confines of her purse spilled and out in the open. He knelt beside her, picking up the photo without turning it over.

He held it out to her, his hand steady, his expression unreadable.

"No harm done," he said, voice low, the words carrying that quiet steadiness that made it hard to tell if he was amused or simply sincere. "Though I’d say your purse’s got more character than half the lot I’ve run into tonight."

A faint smile tugged at his lips, quiet but genuine. "Are you alright?"

[shadowrlcm]

†   ╼    she should have know that villains often come with pretty faces.

STATS REAL NAME: Moon Hwanbin NAME: Angelus NICKNAME(S): Angel, Pretty boy, Little Angel (don’t) AGE: 472 HEIGHT: 5'7” OCCUPATION: Art conservator

SPECIES: Vampire BLOODLINE: Asmodeus EYE COLOR: Rose Gold COVEN: The Varnassi, member. GENDER: Cis Male SEXUALITY: Bisexual/Ambisexual PRONOUNS: He/Him/They/Them/It FATHER: ██████ MOTHER: ███████ SIBLING(S): █████████

CHARACTER INSP: Villanelle (Killing Eve), Armand (The Vampire Chronichles), Dorian Gray (The Picture of Dorian Gray), Diane Fleming (Give Me Your Hand), Rize Kamishiro (Tokyo Ghoul), Laito Sakamaki (Diabolik Lovers), Lenore (Castlevania)

BIO

tw: slavery, religion, implied abuse, toxic relationships, plenty of serial killing and murder, oh brother this guys stinks!

Angelus has been alive for more years than he’d care to share with anyone; if asked his age, he’ll always give a different number. The truth is that much of his human life has faded into a blur in the back of his mind by now, and the scraps of which he can remember, he wishes he could forget.

Beautiful; that’s how people used to call him. This he revisits with perfect clarity. He has always been beautiful. Beautiful boy, beautiful angel. It was not until he died that he learned the power that word yielded. There was a before, which he does not care to remember, where he was exchanged like valuable goods in the calloused hands of men whose faces history has long forgotten, trafficked across the oceans to a land he did not know, did not understand. He still remembers how cold it felt to run barefoot, and the noise of the cathedral doors as they opened for him. Not wide—but just enough. Enough for a child to slip through, barefoot and shaking, blood drying on his feet. He begged and cried to be saved; he learned the shape of Latin with his tongue.

But it was a dream, a beautiful dream. He was not destined for salvation; the wound on his neck is proof enough of that. Angelus always felt a shadow, looming, following him, and on the day he was to take his vows, all he remembers is the screams of lying in a puddle of blood.

He has long ceased to sing to this indifferent God, like a canary in a gilded cage, begging to entities who did not and will not shield him from the hardships of life, but there was a time when he was eager to follow the righteous, thinking salvation lay beyond pearly gates. Now it just tastes sour on his tongue.

In the moments of sobering quietude, when his thoughts grow too loud to ignore, Angelus has brief recollections of the massacre. He was baptized in blood that name, with a name chosen his maker once to welcome him into his new, eternal life, and all that was before was buried inside of him. It was his maker who taught him how to be vicious, how to be strong, how to be delicate, how to look soft, how to play instruments for him as he fell asleep.

Had he always been this cruel? He doesn’t remember, but he doesn’t really believe so. He thinks he was good and naive, too, like most things are during the early stages of their lives, until all of that innocence was wrung out of him. When his maker found him and took him under their wing, he was barely himself. Frightened, scared—but he flourished under their care, became more confident, self-sufficient. Angelus grew to love them more than he’d ever loved anyone else. He felt invincible. He felt deeply unloved.

Angelus was possessive, needy, and quite unreasonable, and the only voice whose commands he’d heed was his maker’s. With the years, he began to feel neglected, as though they were pulling away, becoming distant. He could not stand that. When he tried to befriend humans, it seemed as though his maker always made a point to teach him a lesson; they’d kill them, turn them, send them running—worse, even, sometimes he demanded that he was the one to kill them, until he could no longer stomach the fragility of human life.

The official story? His maker just—disappeared one day. Went out for a walk, never came back.

The truth? Like a serpent in the garden, he spoke in the other children's ears until they could stage a coup. They weren’t powerful enough to kill them, but together, they buried his coffin as he was asleep. Underground, where the sun would not touch them, but nothing good would either. He set their home on fire before vanishing into the night. Free. Free, but alone, for the first time in a long time.

Truth be told, he didn’t like being alone, and he was never alone for long, but none of those he met along the way ever seemed to endure long enough to sate his appetite.

Without someone to reel him in and temper his moods, Angelus unleashed his full cruelty upon the world and earned himself the reputation of a vicious, sadistic killer through the years. He killed without mercy, without thought, and without discrimination—his victims were so many, he’s lost count. Still, he felt… unfulfilled. He enjoys being cruel; he learned—it makes him feel powerful. In control. Eventually, his killing became more about the agony of the victim than the kill itself, and whenever he caught someone’s eye, he was sure to make them pay the price for looking.

Do you still find me pretty?

One night, after hearing rumors that their maker was, in fact, very much alive, Angelus fled in the middle of the night, seeking solace in a city big enough to shelter him. But they would not stop—he found a coven that aligned with his goals, and called it home.

Good enough, he thought. At least I'll have protection.

Although he did not much care for a quiet life, he understood it was necessary for his own survival, at least for now, to lie low until the dust settled.

HCS:

angelus is very very stunted emotionally, so please never expect him to be the bigger person. he’s microscopic, actually

he gets off on making people’s skin crawl, and uses his unalarming appearance to get what he wants

likes to pretend he doesn’t have feelings when, in fact, he’s the most emotional lovesick puppy boy you’ll ever meet your life

literally buried his maker alive bc ’:( but u didnt like me anymore :((((((’ and not all the very valid reasons he had

does things impulsively and then is like ‘oops’

despite his sadistic nature, he seems to have a small affinity for animals and kids (will still toss a kid off a bridge tho. it’s just that they’re on the same emotional level as him as he feels Understood)

has a very complicated relationship with his maker. wont talk abt it but will pout about it

dude will murder your whole family and then have the gall to give u those wet puppy eyes like you’re mean for scolding him

likes mayhem

can 100% be bribed into behaving with sweets and head scratches (do they taste good? technically no. they shouldn't. but like... he still wants them)

kind of like a big cat tbh

unfortunately loves to show up in your dreams and making you feel for him just to be a prick abt it

loves flowers/flower language and painting, and posing for paintings, and being complimented <3 pls feed his ego it’s always hungry

a ball of emotional immaturity and insecurity

old but will pout if u call him that. he’s baby how could u?

doesn’t like creepy crawlies, pls keep them away from the vampire he’s sensitive

[shadowrlcm]

†   ╼     people say I’m jealous ( but my kink is watching )  you ruin your life / you losing your mind ,   you dyeing your hair .  people say I’m jealous , but my kink is watching  you crashing your car .   you breaking your heart , you thinking I care .  people say I’m jealous , but my kink is karma .

STATS

FULL NAME: Laura Stoker NICKNAME(S): Stoker AGE: 28 HEIGHT: 5'10 OCCUPATION: PR Manager / Digital Media

GENDER: Cis Woman SEXUALITY: Bi <3 PRONOUNS: She/Her NATIONALITY: American ETHNICITY: Latina (Brazilian)

FATHER: Deceased (Former Detective) MOTHER: Deceased SIBLING(S): None CHILDREN: None PET(S): None

CHARACTER INSP: Emily Thorne (Revenge), Daniel Molloy (The Vampire Chronicles), Hayley Stark (Hard Candy), Diane Fleming (Give Me Your Hand), Laura Palmer (Twin Peaks)

BIO

“When I was a little girl, my understanding of revenge was as simple as the Sunday school proverbs it hid behind. Neat little morality slogans like, do unto others and two wrongs don’t make a right. But two wrongs can never make a right because two wrongs can never equal each other. For the truly wronged, real satisfaction can only be found in one of two places: absolute forgiveness or mortal vindication. This is not a story about forgiveness.”

Laura Stoker lived a much simpler, less convoluted life once upon a time. Back then, she could never imagine being the girl she is now. Back then, she believed good things happened to good people, and bad things happened to bad people. Why would life be any other way for a twelve-year-old girl? She who lived in a warm, loving home. Her mother was a civil rights attorney, and her father was one of the few honest cops in the city—he used to live by the words “doing the right thing is never the wrong thing”, and all he wanted was to make the city a safer place for people like Lila Greer.

She doesn’t remember much about those last nights. Only that her parents were fighting more often. That her father had stopped smiling. That he was getting too close to something big. Something dangerous. It started with Lila—an 18-year-old girl found dead after a party thrown at a summer estate belonging to one of the oldest, wealthiest political families in the city. The official story was an overdose. But her parents swore up and down she didn’t do drugs. There were inconsistencies. No narcotics in her system. Signs of a struggle. Bite marks on her neck. It was as if she had been bled dry, and nobody at the station seemed interested in pursuing the story. Surveillance footage lost. A final text she sent to a friend just hours before she died: “I saw something. I’m scared. I think I need to go to the cops.”

The whole case was littered with NDAs, a web of missing girls and hush money, and Lila Greer caught in the middle of it all by what seems, pure bad timing and bad luck. Laura remembers her father coming home later and later. He never stopped looking. And then, one night, everything stopped.

She remembers waking up in the dead of night to unfamiliar noises. She remembers blood. The smell of it. The sight of it on the carpet. She remembers not moving. Holding her breath. Listening to the sound of someone stepping over her mother’s body. The killer never looked under the bed. But Laura saw her walk away. A woman in red high heels, the clinking of her ankle bracelet still rings like cymbals in her ears till this day. She doesn’t know why they didn’t finish the job. But when the cops came, the headlines weren’t about a brave officer silenced for chasing the truth. No. They painted her father as a dirty cop. Said he was part of the cover-up, not trying to expose it. Said he was the threat.

She got sent off. Orphaned. Forgotten. And in the years that followed, she wasted away trying to find out the truth—the grief curdled in her soul. And then, one day, she gathered the strength to come back home and looked under the place she knew he liked to hide his cigarettes from her mom, and found them—her father’s notes. Files he’d hidden away. The real story, rotting in silence like her memories.

She died in that house the night her parents did. What crawled out from under the bed was something else.

She changed her clothes, dyed her hair, and buried her old self with her parents. Laura Stoker was born, and she came back to the city where it all started—Los Angeles, now a rising figure in the PR and digital media world, trying to get close to the people who had stolen her childhood, who had killed her parents, who had ruined her life. Because the woman in the red heels didn’t just disappear. She was someone. Untouchable, by all accounts, but Laura is determined to find a way to make her pay.

If human justice won’t punish her, then she has to. She tells herself that revenge will bring her peace, but deep down, she knows better. When the last name on her list is crossed out, what will be left of her?

HCS:

Laura’s quite a bit unhinged under her polished veneer. She doesn’t really know when to stop, and she’s a faithful believer in the whole “an eye for an eye” thing. She goes blind when it comes to getting even.

That all to say, she can still be quite caring and sweet, but it’s a constant inner battle for her. She wants to care, she doesn’t want to be alone, and yet she knows having people get close to her is dangerous and it’s a weakness she can’t exactly afford. Not to mention, she’s terrified of getting hurt all over again.

10/10 does not cope well with death. This girl has never heard of therapy, only retail therapy.

She doesn’t believe in justice, only leverage. If she can’t take someone down, she’ll make them suffer in ways they never see coming. If she can’t make them suffer directly, she’ll make everyone they love or care about suffer to hurt them indirectly. No breaks.

She used to dream about going back to her old life, but the more time goes by, the more that little girl feels like a person who never really existed at all. Sometimes she cries about that, then says she’s fine.

Still has PTSD and horrible nightmares about what happened that night. The screaming. The blood. Hiding under the bed. The silence. The red heels. She still wakes up every night half expecting to hear her mother’s screams, but all she hears is silence.

She doesn’t believe in doing ‘the right thing’ anymore, and she’s very cynical about people.

She’s not playing with a full deck of cards half of the time.

She has this tendency to err….. obsess. If that wasn’t clear.

She lies more than she tells the truth, but sometimes she plays herself because the lies end up becoming the truth and uh oh, what’s that? That’s the sound of her mask sticking to her face and now she can’t get it off.

[shadowrlcm]

[shadowrlcm]

Camila Queiroz as Júlia Guimarães ↳ SCARS OF BEAUTY / BELEZA FATAL (2025)

[shadowrlcm]

STATUS: open to everyone! LOCATION: A bar

THE END OF HER SHIFT OFTEN TENDED TO DEVOLVE INTO CHAOS—queueing things, making sure it's all set up properly for tomorrow (and it never is), and she'd love to be one of those people who say it's all worth it because they love their job so, so much. She wasn't. Her job served a purpose, a purpose that every day felt further and further away.

Even here, at a bar, trying to let off some steam, she can't get her mind off things. She wishes she were somebody else. Frequently. All the time. That what happened to her never happened to her, that her parents were still alive, that she did something different with herself after they were gone; if she were, maybe she wouldn't have come crashing into them like a whirlwind, dropping her phone and spilling the contents of her purse everywhere, and a drink on both of them.

"Shit!"

A key. Pictures. Junk. She writes little notes to herself. Condoms. An old parking ticket she never threw out. A surprising amount of stuff for such a tiny purse.

Fuck she was such a mess.

"I'm so sorry—sorry, I don't know where my head is at..." The girl was quick to spew out an apology, which by now felt like a habit on her tongue, before bending down, trying to recover some of her dignity (too late), and shove all that crap back into her purse as quickly as she could manage.

[shadowrlcm]

OF COURSE HE WOULDN'T HAVE COME. He was doing his best to avoid her—a feat that was proving to be increasingly difficult. If he were to be honest (which he isn't into the habit of being), he feels too guilty being close to her, and too lonely when he's away. Much like these arcade games scattered about in an array of different colors, it feels like something of a losing game. Lunessa was all bright, vibrant, a glimpse of light in an ocean of darkness, and the last thing he wanted to do was to drag her to his world of muted colors. He wasn't so sure he could help it, though.

"You and I have very different definitions of—" his little downer speech gets swiftly interrupted, and he yanked forth and dragged along, and he lets her do it. He'll auto-flaggate himself for it. "You'll get a headache from all this sugar... you're already way too hyper without it," he caves, arms in arms with her as they head to the ticket box; the girl and her reluctant puppy, who had a suspiciously fond hint of a smile on his lips.

dainty fingers reached out for his arm, dragging him gently towards the fair that had just been set up in the small area of town yesterday. the air was filled with a mixture of cotton candy, popcorn and loud music. three things she had a feeling he wasn’t quite a fan of and knew if she mentioned it earlier to him, he would have found an excuse not to go, but she was determined to get him on some of the rides. “ Come on, @shadowrlcm! It will be fun. ” she excitedly breathes out, her eyes shimmering with excitement as she moves towards the ticket booth. she was practically bouncing on her toes, her enthusiasm infectious as she talked away to the woman inside.

                                      ⋆.˚ ────୨ৎ──── ⋆.˚

[shadowrlcm]

BROOKLYN NINE-NINE (2013–2021) S06E11 | The Therapist

Okay, it's just that you can be a bit... judgmental.

[shadowrlcm]

babygirl

[shadowrlcm]

#shadowrlcm

written by   lenny .   she/her   .   28   .   brt   .

"No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it."

moyun haojing , vampire (belphegor), 1,800. (luo yunxi) |  intro. tags.

angelus , vampire (asmodeus), 472. (lee felix) |  intro. tags.

laura stoker , human (media manager/marketing), 28. (camila queiroz) |  intro. tags.