you can call me adri. i'm a 19 year old premed student trying to find her place in the multiverse, hence the formula 1 and cod posts.
i'm not new to tumblr at all, but my old blog got sniped (for the better, i think. it was really just a trauma time capsule). i thought i'd be here to read fics, reblog some gifsets, and cry over brocedes lore, but the writer in me would not shut up so here we are.
requests are: open!!
have a lovely stay :)
masterlist ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆
call on the carrier pigeon ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ
taglist ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎˎˊ˗
you know who really understands lestappen? george russell. he knows their dynamic the best out of anyone because he’s the one who’s usually getting bitchslapped around the beltway because their aggression explodes out at the nearest racecar. and let’s be so clear there’s a reason why he’s only picked a public fight with one of them (*clears throat* ITS BECAUSE HE’D LOSE ON TRACK AND OFF TRACK WITH CHARLES LECLERC)
mmh call this projecting but i've been thinking a lot about my business major simon and premed reader and he has to take a science class for the core curriculum which he's been putting off because he's so fucking bad at science and it turns out you're ta'ing a gen chem class next semester so it's perfect you'll just give him all the answers for lab and you'll tutor him for lecture right
minors dni under the cut um —
like i said, he's never been good at science but with your help he aces the first exam. the grade came in when you two were studying in the science building together and he wanted to show his appreciation.
he couldn't just wait until you two got home.
and now you're sitting on top of a lab bench and he's kneeling in front of you with his head between your thighs in a dark lab room and you're trying your best to keep quiet but he couldn't give a fuck whether or not anyone hears you two
"si, someone's gonna hear us—"
"shh, just lemme make you feel good"
"we're not even supposed to be here—"
"if i walked in on this i wouldn't even be mad, mouth shut unless you're moaning or begging, got it?"
and literally all you can do is let out a strained hum in response because he's doing a little too well and you cannot be caught
by the end of it you're wrecked. you'd stopped begging for mercy after he'd made you come for the third time and god knows how many tears of pleasure you'd cried
for your sake you should let him get a few things wrong on the next exam, or at least make sure you two are at home when the exam grades come out
patient zero, part ii: o’ captain, my captain
(tf141!reader x simon riley, zombie apocalypse au)
part i here
author's note: i really hope i wrote this specific character right [it’s a spoiler-not-spoiler if i say his name] — the way he is in campaign and the way i see him + the zombie apocalypse kind of had my mind spinning with how he would react in this situation !!
cw: talk of suicide (it makes sense trust me), your regular zombie & cod stuff
you’d made it back to your place safe and sound, only having had to take out three zombies. you weren’t sure why, but it felt worse than any of the mercenaries or enemy soldiers you’d had to kill throughout your career.
other than the zombies — you still felt crazy thinking about them like that — it had been a rather uneventful walk. you’d been expecting madness: arson, shootouts, regular people running around and screaming, choppers, but no. you had only been met with silence. and somehow, that was much more unsettling.
you get to your front door, and your heart drops.
the door had been jammed open.
you take in a deep breath, slowly pushing the door open and clearing the foyer. the first place you head is upstairs, knowing you needed another gun or at least some more mags if there were hostiles, alive or undead, in your home. preferably both.
all the doors upstairs are open. you grimace, knowing this probably isn’t the work of a zombie. slowly cocking your gun, you clear your storage room. nobody. you clear your guest bedroom. also nobody.
your attention shifts to the doorway of your bedroom down the hall. it’s cracked, and you swear you hear some rustling. as quiet as humanly possible (get it, because there are zombies everywhere) you tiptoe over the hardwood, peeking through the crack of your door. someone’s on the ground going through your shit, specifically what looks like to be the weapon and ammo boxes you keep under your bed. fucker. you find some courage and open the door, making yourself heard.
“hands up. freeze.” and that’s when you notice it. the hat, the build, the gear. “oh my god. price?” he turns around and sure enough, it’s your captain. you nearly drop your gun in shock, face breaking into a disbelieving grin. “you— how—?”
“i might be old, but that doesn’t mean my memory is completely gone, sergeant.” he gets up and engulfs you in a bear hug which you gladly accept, letting the warmth of his embrace stay for much longer than a normal hug would’ve lasted. “how are you? you okay? you broken?”
“no. no broken bones, no bites, i’m all good. are you okay?”
“all clear here.” he ruffles your hair, immediately back in dad mode now that he had one of his soldiers with him. you push his hand away with a smile that you just couldn’t seem to get off your face. “what the hell is all this stuff?” he asks, poking at the glossy paper all over you. you laugh, starting to rip some of it off.
“armor. was at a friend’s house, didn’t have my standard gear.”
“that’s what you call armor? very stealthy. inconspicuous, lowkey—”
“alright, alright. i get it. but you couldn’t bite through this if you tried,” you motion to the pieces now on the ground. you ask about the elephant in the room. “do you know where the others are?” you'd checked 25% of your team off your list, but the other 75 was still missing. kyle, soap, and simon.
“no.” your face drops in disappointment. “don't know how anybody could forget that stakeout. but when i got here and found nobody, i wondered if you lot had left me.” you roll your eyes at his joke, shaking your head.
“we’re smarter than you think. you’d do us like shepherd if we even thought of anything like that,” you tease. your stomach growls and you remember you haven’t eaten in nearly 24 hours, simply because it had been put on the back burner. you motion for him to follow you downstairs.
“how many of those creepers have you killed?” he asks.
“five,” you recount, walking down the stairs into the foyer. “you?”
“nine.”
“damn.”
“fuckers got into my house.”
“so you weren’t on base when this happened?”
“no. had a house project to finish, and that’s when this all kicked off.”
“maybe don’t start any more projects. that might’ve been what caused all this.” he gives you a mocking laugh and you laugh out loud, suddenly feeling like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. maybe it was going to be all okay. you’d found price, maybe you’d find kyle, johnny, and simon too. “you eaten anything?” you ask him. “you haven’t been here in a while. i’m sure i have some of those mcvitie’s you really like.”
you kept a stash of everyone’s favorite snacks in a specific cupboard in your kitchen, just because it made you feel all warm and fuzzy inside on the rare occasion one of them came over to your house — you could pull out their favorite homeland snack. regular mcvitie’s for price, walker’s shortbread for gaz, sour cream and chive pretzel pete’s for soap (you made it a point to keep a distance from him after he had those), and jaffa cakes and jammie dodgers for simon. he’d sworn you to secrecy about that last one.
“had some cold pizza, that’s about it. biscuits sound proper, sweetheart.”
“i would kill for some pizza right now,” you tell him, walking into the living room with your head turned behind you.
that would turn out to be the biggest mistake you could’ve possibly made in this situation.
because out of nowhere, a zombie that had apparently been camping in your kitchen pounces on you, knocking you to the ground. you yell in surprise, instinctively trying to push it away as far as possible. you barely get a chance to notice the blood around its mouth, the greying flesh, and the putrid smell of decay before —
bang. bang.
two gunshots ring out. you can feel the blood — it’s cold — splatter over your face, making you freeze. it slumps down right on top of you and you grunt, rolling over to push it off and getting up, heaving.
“its blood is cold. oh my god. that’s fucking disgusting,” you spit out, grabbing onto your couch to steady yourself. price doesn’t say anything, and you look over at him with the assumption he’s staring at the dead zombie. he’s not.
he’s staring at you.
more more specifically, your arm.
you know before you see it. it hurts, even with the adrenaline, it hurts — you’d just assumed you’d hit your arm going down somehow, that it was bruised, maybe even broken, but no. you close your eyes, not wanting it to be true.
“i’m sorry, fawn.”
“it’s okay,” you whisper, still not opening your eyes.
“i have to—”
“i know.” he had to lock you in a closet or handcuff you or something, just contain you somehow. you open your eyes, trying to read his expression. disbelief, shock, and the slight furrow of his eyebrows betraying his sadness. “just let me go out the easy way, yeah?”
you were asking him to kill you. to just put a round through your head. it was better than turning into one of those things running around outside, causing more death. price, out of all people, had to understand.
“no.”
never mind.
“yes,” you counter, tilting your head slightly. “i’m not turning.”
“i’m not letting you die.”
“price, those people out there are worse than dead.” he just shakes his head.
“i can’t kill you. i can’t.” you huff in disbelief at the situation, taking another look at the bite. there was blood. everywhere. your blood. all over your arm. “we need to get you patched up.”
“it doesn’t matter,” you murmur so quietly you can barely hear yourself. and then, you make a decision.
you pull your gun out of your belt.
price instinctively draws his gun and points it towards you, gritting his teeth when he realizes that it’s not really going to do him any good. you would’ve giggled had the situation not been so dark.
“put it away, sergeant.” you narrow your eyes at the use of the title.
“‘sergeant’, really?” he doesn’t find it amusing. “don’t make me do this, price.”
“i’m not going to let you.” before you can get another word in he pulls the trigger, bullet whizzing right past your ear. you whip around to see it embedded in your drywall, turning around to tell him off, and—
bam.
he hits you in the head with the butt of his pistol, dazing you enough for him to slap one loop of a pair of handcuffs on your good arm and start pulling you towards the kitchen. you have enough mind to let your knees buckle so he has a harder time, but your head is still spinning from the hit.
“oh my god. fuck you, price,” you breathe, trying to figure out which of the three captains you were seeing was actually him. “what the fuck was that for?” you don’t get a word in return. “stop this. stop it. i don’t want to turn,” you begged him, trying your best to pull your hand out of his grip. “price, please.”
you swear you hear him choke out an “i can’t”, but you’re not sure. you can’t fight against him — there was so much blood coming out of your other arm, your head hurt like a bitch, and you’re losing strength.
“price, stop it! fucking stop it!” you yell at him as loudly as you can, not giving a shit about who or what could hear, even lesser that your head was pulsing. “let me go, fuck! i’ll do it myself!” he holds his silence. “i didn’t know you were this much of a coward, let me go! price!” calling your captain a coward was bold. but hey, desperate times called for desperate measures.
you hear a click and before you know it, he’s sat you up against your oven. you try to tug your arm but the other loop is clicked into the oven handle, and you groan in frustration. price tries to take your arm but you yank it away from him with fiery eyes, angry that he wasn’t letting you go out on your own terms, that he was going to let you turn into a zombie, that he had fucking hit you with his gun, that he wasn’t even speaking to you. he raises his gun ever so slightly again as in a you know i’ll do it again. you’re not exactly a fan of cte, so you stop resisting and let him inspect your bite.
“where’s your first aid kit?” you don’t answer him, not even making eye contact. “fawn.” he’s gonna have to try harder than that. he sighs. “okay.” he walks off and you hear what you assume is him rummaging through your backpack, and it’s at that moment that all the pain hits you. the way you’d hit your back going down, your head was throbbing, your arm — oh god, your arm. you look at it and a hiss escapes your mouth. there’s crimson red blood everywhere, a nasty bite wound slightly visible underneath it.
oh, you were so fucked.
price comes back with your bottle of hydrogen peroxide and some gauze. you instinctively try to back away but can only press yourself into the wall of the oven, swallowing thickly. he simply sits down next to you and takes your arm in his lap, ripping open one of the gauze packets with his mouth and dousing it in alcohol.
“i’m sorry,” he whispers before wiping your upper arm down. you ball your hand into a first, trembling because of the searing pain. dark spots cloud your vision.
“why are you putting me through extra shit, price?” you ask him through gritted teeth. he meets your eyes only for a second, opening his mouth to speak but hesitating.
“i can’t kill you.” you tug slightly at the handcuffs, frustrated.
“then let me do it myself.”
“no.” he goes at it again with the burning cotton before ripping open a clean packet and pressing a sterile piece of gauze to your arm.
“that hurt more than you assaulting me back there,” you try to joke, but the situation is too grim to get a reaction from him. “price. if this was happening to anyone else, would you have done it for them?” he thinks about his answer for longer than you would’ve expected him to. “john.” you think it’s okay to use his first name in this circumstance. you’re dying. he can’t really say anything.
“not right now. it’s too early.”
“too early for what?”
“just.” he sighs. too early to lose one of you. “if you turn, i’ll end it.”
“that’s not very helpful to me right now.” you watch him shake his head and get up, disposing of the bloody gauze. he sits down on the floor, learning against the cabinet opposite you. “didn’t think it’d end like this.”
“i’ll play priest if you’d like.”
“you know i’ve never been religious, price.”
“couldn’t hurt to get some stuff off your chest.” you think for a second.
“are you going to go find the rest of the team?” he nods. “will you keep it between us what happened to me?”
“fawn—”
“please.” he shifts uncomfortably — have you ever seen your captain like this? — seeming like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. he opts to hold his vest like normal. it’s calming, in a way. the gesture activating a sense of familiarity.
“okay. what do you want me to tell them?”
“just that you all couldn’t find me.”
“you want them to be searching forever?” shit. that was something you hadn’t thought of.
“no, i… i don’t know,” you confess. you weren’t sure what was worse: your team knowing you were dead because you’d been careless enough to be bit, or them searching for you for the rest of their lives. because price was right. they would. “can we talk about something nice? something happy?”
your final dying wish. to feel some joy.
price nods.
“do you remember when you made mongolian beef for all of us?” you grin wide, momentarily forgetting about everything else in the world. “i would kill for that again, sweetheart. bloody hell, that was amazing. i’d even take you back to berlin just so you could get those same ingredients.”
“i’ll let you in on a little secret. i have a green notebook somewhere upstairs in my room. the recipe’s in there.”
“won’t taste as good if you’re not the one making it.”
“happy things, price. i said happy things.”
there’s some silence. seconds, minutes, you’re not sure. somehow, it feels like time is infinitely slowed down yet you can hear the clock ticking. and it.’s getting louder.
“do you want me pass anything onto ghost?” price breaks the quiet. the pointedness of the question makes your head snap up. he knew? you try to read him. “you’ve got that look on your face again.”
“what?” you blink, taken aback.
“that look you get whenever you’re trying to see through someone.” you scoff.
“i do not get a look—”
“eyes slightly narrowed, head tilted, burning gaze,” he waves his hand absentmindedly, nearly making you laugh. “everyone knows, fawn.”
“well that’s the first time i’ve heard about this look of mine.”
“not that. about you and ghost.” you suck in a breath.
“there’s nothing to know.”
funny. even in death, you were in denial.
“my only question is, do you want me to tell him or not?” the part he left out was ‘do you want me to tell him you’re in love with him or not?’. you close your eyes, resting your head against the oven. there really was no use in arguing with your captain over something he knew was there. it’s not like you had the time to, anyways. you shake your head. “no?”
“no. there’s no use in it. ‘m gonna be dead in a few hours, anyway. or undead, whatever,” you wave your free hand. “the blood was cold,” you remember. “that means it doesn’t need any essential functions of the body.”
“but the body will shut down without homeostasis, won’t it?” price points out. you smile.
“i guess someone did pass their science classes,” you tease. “but it doesn’t matter. by then, it’s spread to who knows how many people. i’m sure it’ll hit the roulette numbers for the mutations of whatever kind of living conditions it’s best suited to.”
“so what i’m hearing is that we’re… screwed, then?”
“no, price.” his euphemism wasn’t quite doing the job. “what i’m telling you is that we are fucked.”
sam raimi’s rules of horror: don’t make a boring picture!
1. the innocent must suffer
2021 abu dhabi grand prix | 2008 brazilian grand prix | 1999 italian grand prix | 2019 canadian grand prix
2. the guilty must be punished
renault and their crashgate | michael schumacher’s 1997 disqualification of the championship | mclaren and their spygate
3. you must taste blood to become a man
2010 turkish grand prix | 1990 japanese grand prix | 2016 spanish grand prix | 1998 belgian grand prix
patient zero, part i: anarchy
(tf141!reader x simon riley, zombie apocalypse au)
author's note: this idea has been brewing in my head for way too long and my best friend has heard way too much about it. i have so much to do and instead my ass chose to do this.
cw: regular zombie shit
the world had gone to shit.
the world had gone to complete and utter shit.
you knew the how, what, where, when, and who.
what? the goddamn zombie apocalypse was upon you.
where? everywhere. they were everywhere.
who? the zombies. the zombies that used to be people.
when? overnight.
how? fucking mushroom virus or something. you’d heard a bit about it on the news a few weeks ago, but figured it was just another fear tactic. spoiler alert: it was not.
but if someone asked you why?, you’d probably say this was the ultimate punishment from god. and you didn’t even believe in god.
you’d been at your friend’s house, spending the night with her and catching up on what you two had missed in the past few months while you’d been out on some ops. you two had gone to sleep quite late, but her being the wellness junkie that she was, still went out for her run at 07:00 sharp that morning.
skipping it would’ve saved her life.
encountering the zombies was terrifying.
she wasn’t back when you woke up a little after 8, but you didn’t think too much of it. maybe she’d just gone to get you guys breakfast or something and the place was taking a bit long. it was a saturday morning, after all. you checked your phone and noticed that there wasn’t any wifi. nor was there any signal.
that’s when you heard the screams.
you jumped up out of bed and rushed to the window, only to find a startling scene in front of you.
a car crashed into a mailbox and woman running around screaming while two men chase her. to your dismay, another car speeds out of the driveway and subsequently, the cul de sac, almost hitting the woman. your brows furrow and your jaw drops, why the fuck didn’t they stop to help her? what insane shit was happening now? you grab your grekhova from your backpack, flipping the safety off and hurrying downstairs.
when you slam the front door open, you notice the two men bent down over the woman, who’s now lying on the ground, motionless.
“what the fuck?” you mutter to yourself, cautiously starting to walk over to them. “hey! what the hell do you think you two are doing?” you call out, cocking your gun at your side. the two flip their heads in an almost… inhuman way, and then your heart drops.
they start sprinting at you.
you instinctively raise your gun and start to walk backwards, eventually abandoning your sight of them and running back into the house, slamming the door shut behind you and locking it. it’s only a few seconds before they start banging on the door, making you yelp.
“what the fuck. what the fuck?” should you call 911? no, you had no cell service. you had to get rid of these two, you had to save that woman.
the men rudely interrupt your thinking, glass shattering next to you as an arm sticks through the sidelight. you scream, raising your gun again and facing the doorway. it’s rather thin and not a continuous pane of glass, so they’re not going to be able to get in — you realize you can use it as an observation technique, getting only slightly closer. the one who had broken the glass and was trying to claw at you looked a lot like the father of that sweet little girl you saw at the park sometimes when you would go out on a run with your friend. he had blood all over him, and that’s when you saw it.
the bite in his neck.
there was no fucking way. it was all a myth, it was all just movies.
but the bite was as clear as day, and suddenly, it all made sense. the chasing other humans, the car that sped out of the driveway and didn’t stop to help, the inhuman ways of moving, the guttural sounds coming from outside the front door.
maybe this was a prank. maybe this was an elaborate prank by the team to see just how far you would go if you thought there was a zombie apocalypse. were you a doomsday prepper? no. did you frequently think about what to do if one of these situations ever broke out? yes. you couldn’t help it. you had wondered your whole life whether it was your insanely strong intuition or just anxiet.
now you had your answer.
you get as close as you possibly can without him being able to successfully take a swipe at you, and you note everything.
the soulless eyes. the nature and location of the bite. the greying skin. the blood around the mouth — presumably from biting that woman. the horrid smell of… decay. yeah.
the fucking zombie apocalypse was upon you.
you raise your grekhova, take aim, and—
bang. bang.
you’d waited for your friend. after you’d checked on that woman (bite in her neck, that was all you needed to know), you’d spent a whole 24 hours doing preliminary apocalypse work — even saying that still made you wonder if you were insane. stocking up on water, nonperishables, batteries and flashlights. you grabbed a first aid kit and stuffed as much gauze and hydrogen peroxide as you could in it. as for weapons, you only had your grekhova (two mags) and a crowbar. you didn’t have a radio and it seemed like the entire goddamn electrical grid was down, so you had no hard evidence of what was happening anywhere besides this neighborhood.
but she hadn’t come. and she liked to take her runs into the city, so you had to assume the worst. had she been alive, she would’ve come back to her house straight away.
it was just you now.
you had shed a few tears but tried to restrain yourself from it, knowing dehydration would be fatal once you ran out of water. how you hadn’t had a full fledged mental breakdown you didn’t know; maybe it was the adrenaline.
you needed to get out of here. you needed to go back to your place, get the supplies you were missing. your bulletproof vest, your radio, your clothes, your suture kit, more mags.
so you tore apart the archival magazines she had, the really glossy ones that are impossible to tear, to create a layer of armor for your sleeves and legs over the hoodie and jeans you were wearing. you looked fucking stupid — you’d laughed at yourself in the mirror — but it worked. did it look much less badass than leather? yes. was it easier to move in? also yes.
you leave a note for your friend —
i don’t know if you’re alive. i hope you are. if you see this note, i’ve left supplies for you in that secret spot you use to hide the snacks from your niece and nephews.
—fawn
it was better to just use callsigns now. the world had fallen into anarchy — the last thing you needed was someone with a vendetta hunting you or your team down.
you take one of the picture frames off her wall, removing the polaroid of you two and slipping it in your pocket. and with that, you leave.
it was eerily silent. you hadn’t noticed any birds flying around overhead, and the usual hustle and bustle of a regular town was just… gone. any human you had encountered had been in a car and had sped past you, keeping to themselves. you’d decided to walk in order to maintain a low profile — typical army soldier type shit, you think.
you walk past a blue honda civic, and a very important memory suddenly flashes before you.
“guys, what if—”
“for the queen’s sake, not another one of these, please—”
“—what if there was a zombie apocalypse?” kyle and soap both groan, with soap repeatedly hitting his head against the dashboard. it had been a bad idea to put the three of you on stakeout duty, but here you all were, in a goddamned honda civic, mind you. it had been 36 hours. you were slowly starting to lose your mind.
“enough. enough. please, enough,” kyle begs you, sounding like he could start crying.
“no, ‘m serious,” you tell them, lying down over the three seats in the back. even looking at the ceiling was boring now; you had memorized every single stain in the fabric.
“bon, we’re serious too. ya’ need ta’ shut up. yer aff yer head.”
“scots don’t have rights in this car. now listen to me. we need a gameplan.”
“wha— where— how did ya’ even—” soap is cut off by the ringing of an incoming call request on your laptop, which you scramble to pick up. price and ghost are on the other side.
“hi!” you giggle, still laughing from the trauma you had been putting gaz and soap through.
“it’s going well, i take it?” price asks.
“absolutely not, price. the complete fucking opposite, we haven’t seen a glimpse of this guy, and fawn’s driving us fucking insane.” you can only grin at kyle’s complaining, well aware that you looked a little crazy to simon and price.
“called it,” simon adds from the other side of the screen, and you simply throw up a middle finger.
“sergeant.” you immediately put your it down, pouting slightly at price’s scolding tone.
“she kept givin’ us ‘what if’s’, talkin’ ‘bout the feckin’ zombie apocalypse. think you should pull her out, captain. ‘s too much for her.”
“hey!” you complain, immediately sitting upright. “i’m keeping morale high! and besides,” you turn your attention back to the captain and the lieutenant, “it’s a fair question.”
“what is, if the zombie apocalypse happens? knew we shouldna’ let you watch the last of us.”
“no ghost, listen. imagine it does happen.”
“fawn—”
“just humor me.” simon sighs, and you know you’ve got him. “what would the gameplan be?” simon thinks for a while and when price doesn’t shut it down, you know he’s waiting for an answer from his lieutenant as well.
“ideally we’d all be together.”
“and if we weren’t?”
“we would need a rendezvous point.”
“base?” price asks, slightly swiveling in his chair to get a better look at simon.
“no,” simon refuses adamantly.
“can’t trust the military,” you mutter quietly, knowing your own government well enough as an army soldier. “then whose place?”
“soap’s,” kyle says, making you cock an eyebrow. “his apartment smells so bad the zombies won’t even go near it.” you burst out in laughter and even price can’t hold back a grin on the other side of the screen while soap’s jaw drops.
“it dinnae! feck you!” you motion for johnny to keep his voice down. “not ma’ place. not because of what gaz said, but because it’s maist far.”
“my place, then.” you’d held team dinners a few times when a change of scenery had been needed, just out of convenience because you were a maximum 10 minute drive away from base.
“then it’s just survival. a cabin in the woods, gathering food, surviving the winters, all that.”
you stand there for a second, staring at the blue paint. you had no other leads. you needed your team. you’d be as good as dead without them, not because of their survival training, you had that too — but because you feared you would go insane alone. your team, your team of fucking muppets, was all you had left.
the blue paint stared back at you, and for a second, just a second, it almost seemed less insane than the idea of doing this without them.
part i: anarchy
part ii: o’ captain, my captain
part iii: begging
part iv: the sergeants
part v: baseball bat
part vi: 50/50
part vii: high school science
⁀➷ more
₊˚⊹♡ taglist
this series' taglist: @mortem-writes @ameili @angelicadiabolus @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @iluvnewtie
