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miraclesnail · 16 days ago

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kronus AU, title still pending

chapter 4, 5

First chapter, previous chapter next chapter

4 ANNABETH

Annabeth gives Travis time to answer but he never does and that really ticks her off. She could see the wheels turning in his head. He’s thinking about something and the Travis she knows would blurt it out, with or without someone prompting.

But this Travis, the one lying prone on the sofa, the one whose only movement so far was that one time he tried to lift a hand, the one who spoke only one sentence, this Travis she doesn’t know. This Travis seems sick. This Travis seems unreal. This Travis seems like a stranger.

After Piper puts Travis to sleep, they tend to Chiron’s wounds and Mr. D’s injury. They’re going to be fine, thankfully. But they’re out of the count on rest and rehab. They dragged Travis into the Big House and ordered all the gathered campers to continue on with their day. The counselors are the only ones here in this room.

Annabeth clutches the phone with Kronos’s insignia engraved in the corner.

When they stripped him of his weapons, they found this in one of the pockets. There were mixed reactions. Some were angered. Some were frightened. Some were in denial. None of their reactions matter. The one that does, the only one that does, is Connor’s. And Connor’s face tells her everything.

“Travis would never join Kronos. Not willingly. Not without coercion.”

That settled it for her.

There was some contention but Travis and Connor do everything together. There’s no doubt in her mind that Connor was never on Kronos’s side so Travis couldn’t be on Kronos’s side too.

So there can only be 4 possibilities. One, Travis was kidnapped in the one hour he disappeared and was brainwashed by Kronos Restorationists. Two, Travis saw some mushrooms and ate it, and is now having full-blown, wild delusions. Or three, this isn’t even Travis but a lookalike somebody swapped him. Or four, Travis and Connor have a secret third sibling none of them have ever heard about. They all seem pretty likely since not even Connor can guess the 6 lettered password on the phone.

“Travis, answer the questions.” She says one more time, but Travis isn’t looking at her anymore. His eye stares listlessly at the ceiling. And again, he lifts a hand but the handcuffs bars any further progress.

“Forget this. Let’s just have Clovis take a peek in his memories,” Clarisse grumbles. Holly and Laurel immediately reject that idea. They have a soft spot for Travis seeing as he was their head counselor before their cabin was built. But Clarisse is right. They can’t have a god-decapitating, teacher-stabbing demigod on the premise without figuring out why. Morality be damned.

If this phone really does prove Travis is attempting to bring back Kronos, then she can’t treat him as a friend. Kronos shouldn’t be able to reform in her lifespan, but the opening and closing of the Doors of Death might have sped it up. Maybe Gaea's awakening healed Kronos faster. Maybe it’s something else, an entirely new threat. But she isn’t about to go through another Titan war. She isn’t about to let Luke’s sacrifice, Silena’s, Beckendorf’s, Castor’s, Ethan’s, Lee’s, Michael’s sacrifice be meaningless.

Why is it that every summer, there is a crisis? Just for once, can she have a break?

“Clovis,” Annabeth says, watching Travis and his unchanging expression and unchanging silence, “Take a look inside his memories. Find out what happened the hour he disappeared.”

Clovis scratches behind his ear in discomfort but begins to strides forward.

Travis tugs on his handcuffs again.

“An— Annabeth.” Annabeth raises an eye at the slight stutter of her name.** Travis tugs again on the handcuffs and looks at her with desperation in his blue eyes. “Annabeth, you need to give me the phone. I need to call someone.”

“Tell me who and I’ll give it to you,” she responds coolly.

“I-I can’t. I shouldn’t.” Travis is increasingly breathing harder. His chest heaves and there’s panic blossoming in his eyes. “Just, please, trust me and give me the phone.”

“Trust you? You stabbed Chiron. I can’t trust you.”

“You don’t understand. There’s no time. I’m — He’s — danger — I — It’s all my fault. I need to fix it. Please, Annabeth.”

Annabeth bites her lips. Travis doesn’t plead. Travis doesn’t beg. Travis doesn’t ever get on the verge of crying. She looks at the other counselors, but they’re just as clueless as her.

“Who’s in danger?” she finally settles on asking, but Travis squeezes his eyes shut. Tears stream down his cheeks. Travis isn’t a crier. That title belongs to Connor and Annabeth knows from experience Connor is a loud, ugly crier. She assumed Travis would be too, but no, he isn’t and this is far, far worse.

Connor takes a step towards Travis, but he falters, hand raised and face uncertain. “Travis…”

Travis’s eyes open slightly and he whispers, “He’s going to die.”

“Who’s going to die?” she presses, but no response.

“He’s going to die. They’re all going to die, but I’m going to live. Again… This is happening again. Why is this happening again?” He’s starting to hyperventilate now.

She can’t watch this anymore. “Clovis, put him to sleep and look through his memories.”

“O-okay.”

It starts with a single hiccup. A single ragged gasp.

Then Travis is wailing.

He’s screaming.

He’s shrieking.

He’s curling into a ball, handcuffs somehow undone, and screeching into his pillow Will so kindly gave him earlier. Annabeth’s mind blanks for a minute.

Outside, thunder roars. Lightning flashes. The wind picks up. And rain pelts the side of the building and rattles the window with the force of a hurricane.

Travis is not having a good time.

It’s summer break.

He should be having a good time.

But no, first thing Connor did when he got to Camp Half Blood was hand him all the chores to do for the day so he can referee the volleyball match between Hermes and Athena’s cabin, then Clarisse kicked his butt and embarrassed him during their co-cabin sparring session, then Annabeth beat him with her eyes closed on chess, and now he has been transported to a weird place where Michael is alive and flesh-eating zombies are real.

Not a good time at all.

The plus side?

He emptied his bladder out of fear and there’s no longer that insistent need to pee.

So that’s a big plus.

“ARGHHHHH!” Michael screeches. He amazingly has an arm extended even though the pressure is crushing his innards.

“Travis, FIGHT!” Michael screams, struggling even more.

Fight? He can barely breathe.

Lou Ellen is 15 feet away now, chanting food food food under her breath and giggling as she limps her way over to them. Every step she takes closer to them ups the pressure two-fold. He’s flattening. He’s turning into a pancake. And speaking of pancakes, he is so hungry. All he had was a banana and an apple before he went on his morning jog. He would do anything for pancakes right about now.

“Travis, I’m going to kick your lazy fucking butt if you don’t get a fucking grip!”

Travis clenches his eyes and curls his fingers into a fist. Even doing that was strenuous. How is Michael pushing himself forward?

Willpower, probably.

Lou Ellen is getting closer and closer. Michael is still struggling. And he? He doesn’t want to say he accepted the cruel fate of being eaten, but yeah, he kinda accepted it and prayed that in the next life he and Connor are reborn as brothers again.

But then Lou Ellen screeches and Travis could feel himself falling back to the earth, falling flat on his stomach and the force knocking the air out of him.

Still he manages to glance up. Lou Ellen is still screeching, but she’s swathed in thick branches from the head down to the toe. And the branches are still growing — where he doesn’t know — but they crush Lou Ellen together, pressing her arms to her chest till Travis hears something snap and crunch.

Shoes scuff on the tile beside him. Michael is standing. He has his arrows notched and aimed. Three arrows fly clean into Elly’s eyes. They make a sickening squidge sound and Elly’s screeching becomes a thousand times worse.

There was no hesitation in Michael’s action. Not the slightest. Not even a change of expression when those arrows embed itself.

Then Michael’s eyes catch his, and they’re tired, they’re apologetic, they’re so, so, so pained but none of that changes the fact that the crossbow is pointed at him again. No arrows come flying towards him. Just the words, “He’s not fighting. Easy prey, right?” Then in a move of incredible acrobatics, Michael is turning tail and jumping off the ledge and down to the one under.

“W-w-what? Michael, you piece of —”

Lou Ellen snaps to face him, tearing the arrows out of her eye in one single tug. The eyeball came off with it, optic nerve and all, but Travis watches as the eyeball disintegrates before reappearing back in Elly’s eye — whole and functional again. All her wounds are healing as well, except for the one at her leg.

So maybe they’re not zombies. Zombies don't regenerate like that.

Lou Ellen spots him, her grin deranged and manic as she drops the arrow.

xxxxx

There’s nothing more he wants to do then curl up in a ball and suffocate himself in the soft pillow. Nothing more than to give up. Nothing more than to stop struggling and fighting for an ending that’s never going to work out. [but you’re not going to, right?]

But the other him’s face — surprised and innocent — flashes in his mind again. In that disgustingly bright orange shirt as he gives a nauseating laugh and a sickening smile with his revolting, carefree, happy as happy can be attitude. It’s repulsive to even think about. He wouldn’t last a day in his world. He’s probably already dead. He’s probably just another shambling corpse like the rest of them.

[He’s you. He’ll find a way to survive until you get back.]

He’s me without you.

[Michael is with him. He has time. As long as Michael doesn't meet up with Katie and Clarisse, then he has time.]

His eyes snap up to survey the room.

The room is as occupied as ever though there hangs an air of unease. None of them are truly looking at him, just quick side-eye glances. A majority occupy themselves with his weaponry on the table. Annabeth still has the phone in her hands, typing on the screen with a scowl. It doesn’t look like she figured out the password yet.

He’s handcuffed again though that won’t be a problem. He can unlock it without a thought.

The issue is that it’s him against 20 demigods. That’s not good odds.

[can’t you talk with them?]

“Hey, you’re up.”

A hand grazes his shoulder and instinctively he slaps away from the intruding hand, flinching as he hears swords leaving their sheaths and weapons being drawn. He peeks over his shoulder to find Will Solace (oh god it’s Will. It’s really Will), unbothered, with a glass of water in his hands.

“Here,” Will says.

He raises himself from the bed enough to shake his head.

“I don’t want it.”

“I don’t care. You’re dehydrated.”

He goes back to scanning the room in response. And Will hits him on the back of the bed with a pink Hello-Kitty throw pillow.

“If you don’t drink, I’ll stick an IV in your vein,” Sunshine Boy threatens with a hand on his hip, stern and unbudging.

He scowls, taking the glass as ordered with a tiny sip.

Will’s still bossy and stubborn. Gods, he forgot how annoying that can be.

Will beams in satisfaction, stepping back, and it’s only then that he notices Nico beside Will, tense and rigid.

“You shouldn’t have gotten so close to him. What if he had stabbed you like he did with Chiron?” Nico hisses, the words meant only for Will’s ears but he heard it anyway. When their eyes meet, the son of Hades glowers and pulls Will away by the arm.

“You were right there beside me. I’m sure I was fine,” Will says with a dismissive shrug.

He stares down in the cup of water — crystal clear and clean and not at all contaminated with gore and pus and rubble — and thinks. He didn’t notice Nico at all. A new power? What else is different? Are the odds even more against him now? Should he even try anymore? [you can’t give up]

“Ready to talk now?” Annabeth strides up to him. “You can start by giving the password.”

Him against 20… if he could just somehow get the phone and book it to the door… [what if you can’t? what if the phone breaks? how will you contact for help then?] But Annabeth alone is trouble enough to steal from and Nico’s shadow-travel would make it hard to escape [We’re wasting time.] Not to mention there’s 10 other demigods he doesn't know of. [Every second is ticking away] Who knows what they can do. [Go for it and I’ll cover you.]

“Travis? Hello? Gonna talk?” Ananabeth says, annoyed and a hand on her hip.

He stares at the phone in her hand.

20 demigods. New powers. Unknown powers. Escape is probably not possible. But then again, he doesn’t need to escape.

He can do it. He’s going to do it.

“Travis?”

He doesn’t waste time, undoing the handcuffs and lunging for the phone. He rips it from Annabeth’s lax fingers and hides the screen with his body, curling over and unlocking the phone and going to the text messages. Crap. 537 missed texts and 20 missed calls. Not good. Shoes enter his peripheral vision. Annabeth’s. He feels a hand on the back of his shirt about to pull. Not missing a beat he clicks on the group chat as he sweeps his leg out and topples Annabeth.

sos build c floor 20

Enter. Send. Lock again.

A hand on his arm. He twists to the other sideand the second person is falling on top of him, grunting in surprise. Clarisse. She’ll survive whatever he dishes out, he thinks as he kicks her in her abdomen with enough force to send her flying. He rolls back to his feet.

Annabeth is starting to get back up. 15 or so demigods between him and the door with five coming for him right now. Just Will and Nico between him and the closest window. No one is between him and the second closest window. Perseus beside Annabeth. Leo by the table with all his weapons laid out with a screwdriver. Katie right beside the door. No zombies or roots coming for him yet. And Perseus isn’t using his powers. Why? Haven’t developed their powers yet? [that’s too big of an assumption] Haven’t processed what is going on? [maybe]

No one is using their powers at all. Whatever. Their loss. He already accomplished his goal.

“I just wanted the phone. I’ll just get out your hair now,” he says.

And as expected, Clarisse comes charging for him. “Fat chance that’s happening!” He didn’t really expect anything else.

He sidesteps Clarisse, uses her momentum to push her into the crowd of 15. Most tumble down in one heap. There’s a familiar cry among them. He tunes out the voice. One of the demigods manages to avoid it, brandishing a spear though not charging at him. The kid’s nervous, he realizes. Probably never been in a fight. [or he doesn’t want to hurt you]

He feels Nico coming from behind, a lot more stealthier than the counterpart in his world but he faced even more stealthier demigods. With ease he turns and grabs the wrist with the knife, twisting until the blade clatters to the floor before tossing Nico over his shoulder on top of the pile.

Perseus is coming from the left. Now him, he feels no qualms hurting as he throws a punch to the face. Perseus blocks the obvious attack, trying to bear hug him. He throws his head back hard. The cry of pain didn’t make him happy. But it did bring some satisfaction.

Annabeth is up and faces him, eyeing the phone and breathing hard. “Who did you text?” she demands, taking a step forward.

He takes a step back. Will by himself to the left. About 17 on the right. Another trying to sneak behind him for a surprise attack. The phone vibrates once, a text message, and he glances down to check.

The one behind moves, running towards him the same time Annabeth springs forward. He tries to step off to the side so they crash into one another but Annabeth is getting used to his tactics. She dodges the one coming from behind [wait, isn’t that a titaness? That was a Calypso, but how did she get off her island] and tackles him around the waist, knocking him flat onto his back. She scrambles on top of him, a knee pressing into his gut as Annabeth tries to rip the phone from his hand but he turns onto his side, unbalancing Annabeth, before shoving her to the ground.

Five in front. Two behind. Seven on the right. Six on the left. The phone buzzes again.

“Don’t move, Travis!” Piper yells and for a second he obeys her wish. But he pushes his own will against hers. He dwells on the disbelieving look on her face. It’s like she doesn’t know he can resist charmspeaking.

Zombies and roots still aren’t coming for him. Guess they don’t know how to use their powers then. Lucky him.

Time to make his getaway then. He digs his hand into the hardfloor and it phases through like water. But when he clenches his fist, he feels a solid object and he lifts the floor like it’s a rug, the floor becoming flimsy and malleable. He can see the basement in all its dark and damp glory with its plumbing and a water heater tucked in the corner. And there, the egress window. He’ll sneak down there, close the path behind him, then leave through the window.

He tries to dive in before anybody could follow after him. But Annabeth, of course it’s Annabeth, pulls him back by the ankle and he trips forward, the floor melting back into place without a single imperfection. The phone falls out of his hand and bounces once on the hardwood, the texts flashing through his eyes as it skids away from him.

Found you.

He shakes his leg free to spring the few extra inches to grab the phone. But a kid — Connor — nobody — anybody — nothing — no one — beat him to it, snatching it off the floor and hugging it close to his chest. There’s hesitancy, uncertainty, actual concern in those familiar, familiar, familiar eyes and he hates it. He hates it so, so, so much. Enough for him to want to die. To dig his eyes out. To stab his knives in his guts and rip everything out.

[hey now calm down]

“Give it back,” he demands, orders, insists as he struggles to his feet, forcing himself to not look his brother — Connor — nobody — the kid in the eyes.

BrotherConnorNobodyKid shakes his head and steps back. His body language is screaming bolt, bolt, bolt — and if that happens then there’s no way he can catch up.

[You can’t let him leave.]

“Don’t move,” he commands.

It doesn’t work. He felt the trickle of power rising, the usual nausea coming with it, but it’s not enough. Think bigger. Think better.

[Wait what are you going to do]--

He inhales. Pauses. Pictures the order in his mind, his command, the incentive, the offer. And exhales.

[wait, you didn’t eat anything this—]

“Don’t move or he’ll — Tra — Travi — your brother, your older brother will die.”

His vision spins immediately. Blood drips down his nose in a stream that he pinches shut. But it worked. He freezes. Annabeth freezes. Everyone stops. The only sound is his own beating heart.

Great. Perfect. This worked out great. [wait, wait, wait, don’t walk yet—]

Too late. His first shuffle forward, his knees buckle and he falls onto his hands. The whole world is spinning. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries hard to make everything stop twirling, but nausea overtakes him and he’s grabbing the nearest bucket-like thing and vomiting, eyes opening enough to see a mess of clear fluids soiling a backpack. He hopes it’s Perseus’s backpack. [shouldn’t have skipped your breakfast] like there’s much to eat anyway.

He struggles to his feet, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Most haven’t moved yet though there are a couple that’s inching their way towards him. Nico. A girl with brown braids — the titaness, Calypso. But most are immobile.

He tugs the phone out of Connor’s hands, the effort alone swarming his vision with black dots, and walks just far enough to lean against the nearest wall, sliding down until he’s sitting with his head between his head. But it doesn’t help the overwhelming queasiness. This isn’t good. It’s enough for him to pass out. Which is bullshit. He used it all the time without even taking a breather. [Well, not ever twenty people all at once. And you’re dehydrated. And you haven’t eaten anything. And you—] okay, okay. He gets it. There’s a gazillion factors. But still. Still.

“What—”

He picks his head up tiredly to find Annabeth, red-faced, muscles straining.

“What is this?”

“My powers,” he murmurs. Ah. His head is pounding.

“I can see that,” Annabeth seethes. “But you — you never — you can’t — Travis can’t charmspeak.”

“This isn’t charmspeak. It’s, uh, um… I don’t know. Charmspeak but Hermes Edition? The name is still a work in progress. Dad was the god of persuasion and merchants. The conditions are different,” he says. His vision is swarming in and out. [it’s never been this bad] Never. Not even when he first used it.

“I never heard of Hermes’s children doing this.”

“Really now?” [don’t pass out]

“You have a fever. And it’s rising, like, a lot,” Will points out.

“Yeah. It happens.” He leans his head back on the wall, brings the phone up to his face. And sitting at the bottom of the dozen or so new messages is: Gonna do a sneak attack. Just keep running like that.

Sent just mere seconds ago.

He grimaces and lowers the phone. I don’t think I’ll stay conscious. [I’ll knock him out. Don't worry] You got it? [Yeah, I got it.] I’m sorry you’re doing it by yourself. [It’s okay, don't stress over it]

#kronos AU #pjo #ao3 #I think I know which direction I'll change chapter 2 and 3 now lol #on my commute home #there was this banger song #brainwashing by radwimp #could not understand a single word but the vibe and beat was exactly what I needed #my fic #my writing #wip #thank you for reading!

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shiftingconfessions · 6 months ago

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TW: Beginner venting!

(Would appreciate advice)

I've first heard about shifting in 2021, but only believed in it in 2022.

My heart was so broken from trauma, depression and Social Anxiety Disorder (SAD) that certain night I was just crying and didn't know what to do — then I just remembered about shifting. Belief and hope born from the pain.

Now I'm going to be honest, I'm not the type that can claim they've tried everything for years. I didn't; and what I did, I didn't do it consistently. The thing is: I'm a highly sensitive person. And I sure don't handle failure well. I feel heartbroken and afraid it's going to take more years for me to succeed, every single time I perceive I'm in my CR after a shifting attempt. I know we're always shifting, and a part of us always shifts in the attempts — but honestly? That means to me as much as knowing that technically polar bears aren't white. It can get to the point I feel physical pain in my chest, and sometimes it triggers full blown gastritis crisis. So I tend to give up again and again.

I know I should be patient, stick with a shifting routine, build and fellow a plan assuming that I will shift. I feel like I really believe in shifting and that I'm going to shift — the question is "when". That's what haunts me. It hurts just to think that this will take longer. My CR situation isn't great. SAD engulfed my whole life. I'm 20 and I can't study, work, nor date, and I almost don't get out of my house. My family have bad monetary conditions and I know I'm being a burden. I feel like a failure and the despair grows as time goes by. I'm in therapy and I'm trying to get better, but I still am not. And towards my SAD, yes, I can say I've tried everything, for more than a decade. So just "resolve your CR problems and then come back" isn't quite an option.

I feel so confused. People say shifting is so easy, so why so many people have difficulty with it? This makes me feel guilty for still not being able to. And also makes me so jealous. Guess this is kinda common for baby shifters, the jealousy. I'm jealous of the success and jealous of their skillsets/gifts. Which again makes me feel guilty, because it's pretty icky to desire their outcomes and don't pay the price they did. Well, that doesn't apply to cases where people shoft after little to no effort and time; then I just feel unlucky. When I see posts like "I've taught my friend/sister/brother/etc how to shift and they did!", oh, it's the worse. I get so jealous of these ones, because it really seems so good to be "adopted" by an experienced shifter. I honestly feel like I'm walking without sight; I just know where I want to end at, but the path is a messy mystery.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not lazy. It's not like I'm not willing to pay the price of magic — like, common. It's just a little learning and then I'll have the whole multiverse. And although I really am hardworking, I don't say this just about me. I feel like most of us aren't lazy at all; to work is human. The problem is the emotional and psychological part of the journey. The problem is the time. The problem is how long is this process going to take.

"Just be patient and do the right things consistently" I tell myself, but I don't really know how to do that. Not when my heart aches and my CR devour my remaining sanity. And It's such a hard thought knowing heaven is just behind a door I can see but fail to open.

I can understand why people that already shifted see our pre-shift reactions as drama (I mean, is just a tiny bit of stress time in comparison with a life full of shifts). But right now, it really hurts. It really is intense for me. I don't know how to care less, how to feel less.

I don't have any friends into shifting, and I would love to just have someone I trust to talk about it. Sometimes I think I could tell my besties about it; but I know that they'll think I'm just being delusional, escapist and that believing in this is self-destructive. Or worse, they can believe in it and end in a place similar to mine. I plan on telling them when I already shifted, though.

I want to make online friends into shifting, but I'm so afraid people will hate me because I'm currently not the most pleasant company.

#reality shifting #shiftblr #shifting realities #desired reality #shifting community #shifting

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kotamagic · 8 months ago

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In this week's Lore Olympus, things are going from really fucking bad to NOPE.

Fresh from watching Hades get yoinked away by a possessed Morpheus, Persephone goes on the air to announce his disappearance.

Apollo's televised accusations for the Mortal Realm crisis already put Persephone in a terrible light. This announcement certainly doesn't help the situation, but at least Persephone is being upfront about it.

We get to see a rare, real moment of Apollo being unsure of what to do. He puffs himself and staggers now that he has the upper hand, but that's all for naught without the support of the other gods.

What is this pink thing Ouranos gives him? I have a theory....

Eons ago, Ouranos weaponized his fertility goddess wife's powers for his own ends. While she may have pretty much been burnt out and used up, who is to say that there wasn't the tiniest bit leftover? I suspect that this is the pink thing that he hands to Apollo.

The way he states that it won't work by itself further enhances that theory. Persephone's fertility goddess powers are on the fritz. Using the blob would act kind of like.... jump starting a dead car battery? (Does that make sense?)

Apollo announces he has the solution for the Mortal Realm crisis and reaches out to Persephone. Of course, he's a full-blown cocky jerk about it, but did we expect anything less?

I appreciate Persephone's retort. I think ALL of us would love to see her use her death powers on him. Even if it didn't kill him, I imagine it would hurt a lot. (And we'd all be cheering for that!)

Even with Hades kidnapped, Persephone has folks looking out for her safety. She doesn't want to be the damsel in distress forever, and that's part of why she's putting on a brave face and going to Asspollo Apollo's meeting.

A part of her feels the need to face her fear of him. It's dangerous, and anyone who has been paying attention and is in the know of Persephone's SA knows this is physically, mentally, and emotionally dangerous.

But Persephone is not alone. Very happy to see that not only is Hecate offering help, but Ares as well.

I know Ares is talking about Hera here, but I feel he speaks for all of us reading. Just saying....

This makes me suuuuuuuuuuuuuuper uncomfortable. The look in his eyes and the fact that he's physically touching her (IDGAF that he asked this time!) sets off every alarm bell and then some.

As I mentioned earlier, I think it's the dead car battery scenario.

In reverse of a metaphor i used in previous posts, Persephone is the DEVICE that does the thing, but needs the power. The pink blob (through Apollo) is the BATTERY.

Looks like it's making her Spring powers work, but for how long? And if it's only while Apollo holds her hand, he's likely to use that as an excuse to force marriage on her.

Maybe the pink blob will stop working at the worst possible time for Apollo, and his bullshit will get exposed? We can only hope.

Anyway, thanks for coming to my LO post!

#lore olympus #lo persephone #lo hades #lo apollo #lo ares #lo hecate

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thlayli-rah · 5 months ago

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One of the biggest arguments my ex and I ever got into was the time we were walking downtown and we passed a (presumably) unhoused person just screaming at the top of their lungs, just having a full blown meltdown, and it was pretty violent to see— and my partner suggested we call the cops to “help”

Now, for so many reasons I wasn’t about to do that, but the number one was because my sister worked as a nurse in the ER and handled people like this every single day; you know what happens to the folks who get the cops called on them when they’re off meds or on drugs or just behaving in a manner perceived as “erratic” by pearl clutches?

Best case: they’re taken to the ER in handcuffs, where they’re either strapped to a bed or stuck in a room with a cop posted, and a nurse (oftentimes who see them as subhuman) and left to just sweat out whatever they’re going through until the hospital can eject them without risking a lawsuit, and just dumped back onto the street again. Nobody is giving them pain meds or mood stabilizers or assessing their medical history or doing anything close to harm reduction

Worst case? They get harassed, and assaulted by cops

I live in an area with a housing crisis and I see a lot of folks living on the street, and I know a lot of people may want to “call someone” as a method of aid— but let me make this clear: you do not call the cops, you never call the cops

So what do you do? You leave these people the fuck alone; unless you see them physically harming themselves or someone else, you give them space and you leave them the fuck alone

And you donate to harm reduction centres in your city

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modern-day-bard · 9 months ago

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Worth The Feeling

Content Warning: 18+ This series contains explicit smut, intimidation, and an age gap relationship. Minors, do not interact.

Chapter 29

Dozens of celebrities visit LAX every day, from both arrivals and departures. Even still, it feels like a risk. I asked David to park us outside while I looked for a flight. On another day, I might be embarrassed, asking him to wait while I frantically look for the soonest flight to Connecticut. There are several arriving in New York that leave much sooner, but I don't want to risk being seen even more. I book one straight to Connecticut leaving in three hours, thank David, and shoot a text to my mom. I'm crossing all of my fingers that my parents have not seen the pictures. Not that they're superbly technologically savvy, but with my mom's friends and their stalking tendencies...I can't even think about that right now.

I buy one of the first books I see after getting through security, ignoring the two tabloids with Javi's face on the cover, and the one with both of us. At my gate, with my knees pull up to my chest, cat down over my eyes, and my book in front of my face, I feel like I've created a little cocoon of safety. After about ten minutes, I realize I bought an informational book about marine life. Absolutely no connection to Hollywood, romance, or mistakes. I'm thrilled.

Sitting here for a while, I feel too numb to even be afraid of my flight. I look down at my bracelet occasionally, and remember that my last flight was also riddled with anxiety. Except this time, the worst of the worst has come true. But I still don't feel scared. I feel like the most important thing is just to get to Connecticut. If I can get there, I can breathe. No one will be able to find me at my parents house. There's no way they'll be able to find that much information about me in such a short time-span. And I don't think my face is the one that would be worth flying out for. Sure, they might hound me here, but from what I know, they would only follow Javi.

Javi, who has called three times since my arrival.

I told David to text Javi once I left the car. I couldn't handle the idea of him calling me before I bought the flight. Hearing his voice would make me change my mind. And it was convenient that I would be too busy going through security and getting to my gate to miss the first two. But now I had no excuse for the third. With an hour and a half left before my flight, I send out a text to Javi.

Me: I'm sorry I missed your calls. I asked David to let you know my plans... I can't let you get more heat if they figure out I'm staying at your house. I'm so sorry, for all of it. I'll call you when I get home.

I send one to Lana and Mia as well, giving them the sparknotes, and I turn off my phone. I know the girls and Javi will be kind, but I don't want to think about it anymore. I zone out staring at a photo of a beluga whale until it's time to board.

- - -

I came dangerously close to collapsing in my mom's arms when her and her sedan greeted me at New Haven's much smaller airport. I had many heart palpitations during takeoff, and there were a few times I thought my body would turn into full-blown panic. But thankfully, flying when you know you're flying away from a public relations crisis that could cost you your job seems to be easier for me. Though that is a lesson I would've been happy never to have learned.

Now that we're safely in the walls of my parents' Cape Cod-style home, I'm bordering on big, big tears. I never miss home. I miss my parents, of course. But I never think of Connecticut in that wistful way everyone else talks about their hometowns. There's some nostalgia, but there's some bad memories, too. I push that thought away as I plop down on their couch. There are other, more recent memories I need to forget. And right now, this feels like the most comforting place in the world.

My mom fiddles with her keys before dropping them on the entryway table. I could tell she was holding back the entire ride home from the airport. She asked about the flight, and about my recent projects, about my friends, and now...

"Where's dad?" I beat her to the punch.

"He's out picking up your favorite."

"Pepe's?" I ask hopefully and she nods, "At 10pm? You're both saints."

"Yes, ma'am," she giggles.

She sits down next to me, placing a hand gingerly on my knee.

"Honey," her voice is much more serious than before, "Are you sure you're okay? You rarely come home. And then within a few hours you text us you're on your way, and you only have a purse with you and no return flight. What's going on?"

"You should've been a detective."

This time she doesn't giggle, she just pins me with her worried expression.

I fiddle with a thread on one of the throw pillows. "Have your friends said anything about me?"

Now she just looks confused. "Uh, no. I've been at work today though."

"Right. Well, I sort of became a topic of conversation recently and—"

"Hello!" My dad bellows, pushing open the front door, two large pizza boxes leading the way.

"Dad!" I hop up. I hug him tightly, nearly sending the pizza to the floor before my mom catches it from behind us.

"Hi, sweetie." He gives me a kiss on the top of my head, and I can feel my eyes sting.

This part of home, I miss.

As we gather in the kitchen, I fill my dad in on what I had already told my mom. I ask them both about work, and their friends. Some of their friends became grandparents, and the thought of that makes my stomach lurch. They laugh at my expression, and I'm relieved there's no additional pressure there. I don't feel much pressure at all as we talk in between pizza slices. I feel lighter than I have in a while. Like all of that attention was some wild Hollywood dream, and I woke up in the safety of my old life.

"Okay, this old man has to call it." My dad finally says, pointing at the clock on the stove. 12:06am.

"Me too," my mom says, kissing my cheek. "I got your room set up for you. Do you need anything before bed?"

I shake my head, hugging them both. "No, just this. Thank you guys."

"You're welcome. But you know I will be wanting to finish our conversation tomorrow," My mom whispers before patting me on the back.

"I know," my laughter is nervous, but she lets it go.

I follow them upstairs, bringing my purse with me. My old room is now half an office, but they left some of my old stuff behind. I rummage through the closet, finding an old high school pep rally t-shirt to throw on. Though "throw on" may be a stretch, because speaking of stretch, this thing barely fits. I decide to go with just a fresh pair of underwear I brought, and make a mental note to raid my mom's closet tomorrow.

I plug in my phone, slipping under the covers. I brought my marine life book into bed with me, just in case any distracting thoughts kept me awake. But staring at a rather spritely looking sea turtle, my eyes are getting heavy. With the time difference, it's past 3am for me. Before I know it, I fall into a dreamless sleep.

- - -

The next morning, after a cold slice of Pepe's for breakfast, I took a walk around my neighborhood. My charged, but turned-off, phone in my pocket. My mom told me that she would probably be able to get off of work early, but didn't have time to warn them last night. My dad said he would try to do the same, but client meetings might keep him later. I didn't mind. I knew I would need some time to figure out how to explain the situation to them, and I would also need to check this phone of mine. I don't want to leave anyone hanging, but...the quiet is nice. The air here is slightly cooler with September rolling in, and the streets are peaceful. I decide that once I remember which houses used to hand out full-size candy bars, I need to turn on my phone.

I gather up the courage sitting on the front stoop, even though the cool bricks freeze my bum. I'm glad this stoop is paparazzi-free at least.

There are less messages from yesterday. Lana and Mia just said to text when I'm settled and that they understand, so I fire another one off to them letting them know I'm safe and I'm cooling off. I wait a few more minutes before reading Javi's messages. I feel a pit in my stomach. I can't imagine that he'll want to deal with all this. And now that I've given him some space, he'll probably be able to see that it's easier with me far away, or just...out of his life in general. I swallow the lump in my throat and open the conversation anyway.

Immediately after I texted him that I was going home he replied.

Javi: Do what you need to do. I completely understand. Though I will be wishing you were here with me instead

And again once he figured I had landed.

Javi: You're probably catching up with your parents, but sleep well. It's late here at home This morning, 5am L.A. time, 8am East Coast time.

Javi: Good morning beautiful. Jonah and I are speaking with Dwayne today. I know it's probably not the best thing to hear this morning but I want to keep you up to date. Call me when you can. We're meeting at 9

I look at the clock. In that case, with the time difference, they're meeting now. I wish I still had more of my neighborhood to walk. The idea of Javi, his lawyer, and Dwayne all in a room together is enough nervous energy to walk five more miles. Besides the idea of the meeting, however, his texts calm me. I thought that looking through my phone would feel like it did yesterday: uncontrollable chaos. But it's the opposite. They soothe me, and it makes me want to speak with him even more. Not just to know what happens in that awful meeting, but just to hear his voice.

Me: Thank you for the update :) I'm sorry for the late reply...and for leaving. But it's been good to be here. Call me when you're out of the meeting if you can

I decide the next best thing is to shower. I take my time, going through my mom's closet afterwards like I had promised last night. I find a t-shirt of hers that actually fits, as well as a hoodie and some soft shorts. Me, my wet hair, and my hoodie are enjoying another slice of pizza when my phone rings.

My heart flutters before I look at who the call belongs to, and then I spit my pizza out onto my plate.

"Hello?" I say, even though I know who it is.

"Ava? It's Dwayne. I've got our lawyer, Devon on with us as well as Tom from public relations. Is now a good time?"

Holy fuck. Holy. Fuck. "Um, sure." Do I need a lawyer on this call?

"We just spoke with Mr. Gutierrez. I've been told that you are aware of the recent press. Is that right?"

"Yes," I swallow hard, "I've seen it."

"We've been in talks this morning about how to handle the situation. Tom has advised Javi on what the next steps are going to be. When it comes to you, I want to reiterate that you aren't in trouble. What we spoke about beforehand remains true, however, I need to ask again, do you plan to press any charges?"

I splutter for a moment. "Charges against–against Javi?"

"Yes. Or Mr. Henley."

How does he factor in this situation?

"Dwayne, I'm a little out of the loop here. I won't be pressing charges against Javi. But why would I want to press charges against Blake? Do you mean for before?"

"Uh, no, not from before..."

There is a pause on their end of the call. Some rustling, and then a new, deep voice begins.

"Miss Cohen, my name is Devon Wallace. I'm the studio's lawyer. As Dwayne said, you are not in any trouble. You aren't in breach of contract for becoming intimate with Javi. It is also helpful, for managing PR, that this has come out after filming has wrapped. However, we would like to avoid another scandal if we can."

I'm still lost. "What other scandal?"

"To be ahead of the news cycle, and to protect you as an employee of Norwick, we want to know if you plan on taking legal action against Blake Henley."

"Why would I be suing Blake Henley?"

Devon clears his throat.

"Because he's the one who captured and leaked the photos."

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#pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal fandom #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x original characters #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal fluff #fluff #javi gutierrez fanfiction #javi gutierrez smut #javi gutierrez x you #javi gutierrez x reader

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chronicowboy · 1 year ago

Text

10 first lines

tagged by @mysteriouslyyounggalaxy and @alyxmastershipper than, you guys!!

i love you (and i like you)

The day Buck finds out that the Los Angeles government is bordering on a full-blown budget crisis and the governor is sending two state auditors to gut every department, he ignores the pile of paperwork sitting on his desk and grabs the to-do list in his drawer.

every time we stop talking (the universe starts screaming)

Eddie has never been the most observant guy in the world, but he's good at noticing patterns when it comes to Buck.

let's build this house (into a home, baby)

Buck isn't entirely sure how he ends up owning a house at twenty-six.

not all of us are heroes (not all of us are brave)

Buck and Natalia break up on a Thursday.

accidents happen (but i will love you on purpose)

They're in the baking aisle when Christopher brings it up.

i find you in everything (but its here you find yourself)

Connor comes over to talk things through with Kameron the next day, and Buck makes himself scarce.

icarus embraces the sun

Eddie slips his phone out of his pocket the moment Bobby gives him a nod of approval and he curses at the time on the screen before pulling up Buck's contact.

all that we intend is scrawled in sand (and slips right through our hands)

They're in the middle of the bridge when the earthquake hits.

can't do this anymore (do it anyway)

Its not a big thing in the end.

the house burned down before i got there

Eddie collapses back against the front door with a relieved sigh, tension melting out of his shoulders at the familiar smell of Buck's chili with Bobby's secret ingredient.

can you tell i absolutely hate writing the first lines of fics lmao

umm i'll tag @henswilsons @butchdiaz @shitouttabuck and @try-set-me-on-fire + anyone else who wants to do it <33

#sami rambles #i was gonna say this is fun but i hate soooo many of these #starting a fic is my least favourite thing #closely followed by titling them and then ending them #the middle is fun!!! everything else SUCKS #tag games #mutuals<33

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uchuuahiru · 9 months ago

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Ok, so, I've calmed down from the full blown exestential crisis this post gave me, and i gotta say:

I still agree with every single thing i said

I hope I can convey my thoughts in a more constructive manner this time. Anyway, yeah, art being a pleasureable activity in itself never seemed obvious to me, modern society glamourizes and even fetishizes the idea of a "Tortured Artist™" and the idea that you're supposed to suffer for your art so much so that it seemed an essential part of the process. The fact that I was decent at it just seemed more evidence of that. If you're suffering a severe hit to your mental health every time you make art, but wind up with a great finished product, don't worry, that just means its working! Keep going! Keep tearing yourself apart to produce pretty pictures, you're just like Van Gogh! With such a mentality, yeah, your post can come across as quite a shock.

I also don't want to give the impression that there was no joy to be had making art, because there certainly was. I can certainly take pride in a job well done, especially when there is outside praise from my peers and teachers. Enough praise to solidify in your mind that this is certainly your calling. There could even be some enjoyment in the process itself, especially when you hit that flow state, but it is hardly the main emotion, overshadowed by tedium and frustration. The expectation is maybe things will go smoother as you get more talented, and sometimes they do, but at the same time your standards grow as well, and therefore so do the frustrations. So much so that if I could instantly skip to the end I would, so your comments about explicitly not wanting to do that confused me. (I would never use ai tho. I do have standards)

The thing is that when so much of the gratification you get from art is from outside praise, what happens when that praise disappears? What is left when those same teachers that praised your work reject you from grad school time after time? What happens when the piece you spent weeks on gets zero attention on social media? What happens when these skills you spent so long cultivating have no hope of ever getting you a job? That job thing in particular is a big one, our society puts a lot of perssure to turn any talent into a source of profit. Your hobby quickly turns into a job, if youre lucky. And if you're not? Struggling to monetize something like art and failing, constantly, can really suck the life out of you. At times like that its hard not to be spiteful of the entire process, and your love for a thing shrivels until you wonder if it ever existed at all.

That being said, "never draw again" is a tad extreme. I will definitely draw on occasion. There are on occasion things I want drawn for some reason or other, and the cheapest and most surefire way to get that thing made up to my standards is to just make the thing myself. If i want merch of a certain niche character being able to just produce it myself is quite handy. I would even go so far as to say "i want a thing" was one of my biggest artistic motivations. and that is a pretty big difference than someone creating art out of enjoyment of the process. Its far to fleeting and ephemeral a motivation to be consistent, especially in the modern social media art landscape where consistency is paramount. I'll also continue to draw on the rare occasion that someone actually pays me for art, god knows I'm not in a position to turn that down. I definitely wouldnt mind more work like that, it certainly is a preferable job compared to doordash, which is admittedly a low bar, but in the end i think that's all it is anymore.

I had a tattoo client ask if I ever used AI to design tattoos for me. Man I spent the better part of a decade doing shitty bit work as a graphic designer and now that I have the space to do whatever I want, I'm gonna let the computer generate random garbage for me? What next should I have a computer that eats my dinner and fucks my wife?

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sevandsstuff · 3 months ago

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Its been so long since the last time I pressed the Post button in Tumblr. Its nice to return.

I am more mature now than I’ve ever been. But I win because I still can maintain the childlike personality and the freshness of youth.

I have been healing and growing so strong. I got to know myself and be compassionate with myself through the triggering moments in my romantic relationships. Saying that doesn’t mean I don’t spend enough time with friends and family. It’s just because I am secure when it comes to friends, avoidant towards family and fearful avoidant with partners.

Sounds messy right? Yes it is. I have been trying to dig into the root causes of all the sufferings I have in life. I am on the right path.

I can give a brief summary on what I’ve learned from my relationships for these past 2 years.

1. I am and was a Fearful avoidant, that means I have a lots of traumas tied to my identity (just found out lately) (Its a long and painful journey I didn’t sign up for)

2. In my last relationship, I wanted to love deeply for the first time, so I tried to become the best version of myself (at that time). I came from heavily leaning avoidant to leaning anxious 💀. It was beyond miserable being constantly worried about every damn thing. But well it’s necessary for my growth.

3. I pride myself for being independent and “I don’t need anyone” so in my last relationship I had an identity crisis because I felt like shit when I cared too much. I was constantly trying to break up in my mind.

4. Thorough that process, I learned and fucked up and learned (the second biggest lesson was choose your source of information wisely or it’ll mess with your peace). There were days I was tortured by my thoughts to the point I couldn’t fucking sleep. I had to ask my now best friend (Quy) for help or else I could for real died of mental exhaustion.

5. The biggest achievement from that 14month-ish relationship was the ability to feel my feelings, to start to open up, to self-soothe, to accept my emotions instead of pushing them away, shutting them down, to be more (from nothing so somewhat) straightforward.

6. He was a good many in almost every aspect. Just inappropriate from my perspective. And we were not compatible. But I loved him that’s for sure. The first time I knew what love was.

7. We broke up and I was single for nearly 2 months. False, I didn’t rush into a relationship, my now boyfriend pursued me too hard and I didn’t want to miss a good man.

8. I was so secure when I’m not attached. But as soon as I’m no longer detached, the trigger is pulled. This partner triggers a new part of me. A full blown Fearful Avoidant. If I was 70% Anxious Preoccupied 30% Fearful Avoidant with my ex, I am 97% Fearful Avoidant and 3% Anxious Preoccupied now.

9. If I have to describe FA in 1 word?: Distrust. For AP, I am sorry I cannot remember its far gone lol, maybe Anxiously Spiral.

10. Yeah, I have been dealing with FA to no avail. When its triggered, it attacks me fast and hard until I cannot breathe. I want to sabotage everything and run.

11. Lucky me, I accidentally found out about Bottom up therapy. I’m on my very first step to learn about it. Have been using Polyvagal yawning method 2 times to calm my FA down and it worked in under 5 fucking minutes. Yes CBT worked like a charm for my AP, but it doesn’t do shit for my FA.

Happy healing, I’ll update more.

❤️

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writer59january13 · 1 year ago

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Shame and guilt sabotaged mine healthy growth...

and let yours truly not forget emasculation that prickly emotional immobilization whereby these lovely bones subject courtesy senescence

upon cremation reduced to obliteration.

Inching closer to mortality linkedin with concomitant subtle deterioration of body electric finds yours truly (me) speculating what happens

to corporeal essence

when sprawled out on death bed able, eager, ready, and willing to give up the ghost. Resultant baby boomer saddled

with unbridled tumultuousness stirrup (thus his need to pony up)

with delayed emotional, mental, physical, and spiritual development

necessitating self advocacy at present stage of mine existence,

especially where crisis brews,

concerning fruit flies (Drosophila melanogaster)

called apartment unit b44 their home turf.

These pesky, itsy bitsy

teeny weeny, blimey insects

hold Guiness Book

of World Records

to bring about infestation faster than you can say supercalifragilisticexpialidocious within our living quarters.

An adult female fruit fly can lay up to 2,000 eggs on the surface of anything moist and rotting. Within 30 hours, tiny maggots hatch and start to eat decayed food.

Within 2 days, they attain adulthood grown up and ready to mate, too.

While that transition may seem quick, a fruit fly only lives 8 to 15 days.

Run in with management finds innate susceptibility

with anxiety skyrocketing, cuz umpteen instances called out about pestiferous critters supposedly being out of compliance when aforementioned issue necessitated exterminator technician (on quite a few occasions), unbeknownst to us until

then warden Jackie Geiger summoned us into the principal's office,

we got pleasantly informed suddenly finds yours truly and the missus

in violation of rental contract.

Agitation swirls (think F/EF5 tornado)

viciously storming inside me psyche analogous to whirling dervish wreaking psychological havoc.

Resultant outcome with threat of eviction,

triggered a slew of physiological symptoms; I experience full blown panic attack, whereby irritable bowel syndrome kickstarted insync with palmar hyperhidrosis psychologically run me ragged. Linkedin and in tandem with current stress (worse case scenario being homeless) compounded by tsunami courtesy

severe mental health issues stifled healthy growth of

body, mind, and spirit triage.

Internalized emotions wrought quotidian psychological oppression retrospective reflection courtesy 20/20 hindsight reveals absolute zero positive natural development of

body, mind, and spirit extreme cerebral agitation, and social withdrawal compromised (during metamorphosis to manhood) kickstarting and jumpstarting prepubescence quashing, sabotaging, upending, wrenching maturation, education, and socialization

every year since being born free and clear of obvious defects minus alien aberration, Russian collusion..., or basket of deplorable dysfunction

crooked Hillary accusation, and submucous cleft palate inducing severe nasality fraught with arduous speaking difficulty coping, fraternizing, integrating within ordinary circumstances alienated, defied, horrified, mortified, scared, and (frankly) zapped

yours truly, albeit analogous experiencing ferocious, hellacious, torturous... suffering predicated on suppressing and/or repressing moderate slights inflicted upon withdrawn younger self, who lacked adroit, deft, heft... coping with typical situations subsequently aggravating, exacerbating, jinxing... to cultivate, generate, liberate locked potential hypothesized, premised, yoked

infantile grievous inconsolable crying unsolved behavioral mystery venting only for my "mommy dearest," would utter (this from hearsay) exhibiting extreme aversion if other than thee birth mother comforted, cradled, cocooned..., an extremely reticent individual buckling as strapping bullies relentlessly belted jibed, taunted... said teasing begat intimidation (oft times mentioned in other poems)

scrawny kid (me) cowed, fawned, irked, nonetheless I remained passive against blistering, hectoring, teasing, which apothegm turning other cheek avoided getting smashed pumpkin face courtesy subservient stance devotional acquiescence help me dog pose prayer temporarily answered harboring entire being ten thousand feet beneath avast sea of dejection time and again repeated

alas crass harassment absorbed into nucleus of every cell anchored barnacle encrusted tenuous pride in short shrift brewing, abjection, dejection, humiliation... "NOT FAKE" misery inducing suicidal ideation (and actual attempt courtesy anorexia nervosa) spurring serious delineation allowing, enabling, proffering permanent salvation uber vacation to give lyft among livingsocial

years later overlaid earthshaking starry eyed son fault finding fundamentally misbehavior gifted from those I called mother and father.

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tielt · 2 years ago

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I have a lot of healing to do and I haven’t till today listened to others psychosis experiences and I felt it better to try to shut the door than re-injure with poorly thought out exposure therapy. This human has had the same meta-experience as the deep process alterations that happened to me, it’s weirdly similar in affect. My hallucinations and triggers are all auditory not complex in person entities, she is many years beyond me in healing I think, sharing a lot of details and how to operate with a loved one who has this. It was helpful to me to understand that the gender and identity issues I shared with her experience is separate from my transition which coexist in a unpleasant way. It is as she says that the disorientation means you are oddly gentled by not really being able to ascertain reality to know even when you should defend yourself. I haven’t been in serious delusional states for a couple years now, but unlike her I regularly have auditory hallucinations still completely separate from the vulgarity of a full blown psychotic episode. Even though as she does, I do not recognize that broken person even as being the same person as me I was only ever of danger to myself and only because it was unpleasant enough that continuing to exist was not a recognizable reality. Now I live with centered intent on keeping myself and my cat safe and out of crisis and every suicidal impulse is tailed with a self reminder it’s not about not-unaliving, but to keep myself and the cat out of the suffering of crisis rather than trying to convince myself to want to exist somehow. In this way I care for myself, and my cat Izzy. When I am thinking of Eden I feel the rest in peace comrade strongly. If you ever read a note of mine I would ask you to do the same. We can’t always be expected to be who others want us to be. Psychosis really makes that a clear objective reality that we then can’t at all trust we know from unreal. Carolynn did explain it better than I can currently which honestly gives me hope of deeper healing of this. Also she has a better context to speak to that general state. At the moment even having a full coherent understanding of my context I don’t know that I can project the softness this person has or should. What she described sounds like ego death, maybe that’s just a pseudoscience thing. She’s so strong looking, I can’t tell if that’s projecting. I think I am photo shy since I had to remove my piercings for surgery and decided the inflammation to my immune system was irresponsible with multiple sclerosis. I think I feel more not myself from that than anything else right now. Sounds shallow, maybe I miss the person I was or just wanna be past the years she put into the healing processes. I’m not lazy, I work really hard and the therapy I have had was not what I need. It is so hard to accept extreme vulnerability after sharpening my teeth on my own bones, is how it feels. I focus on understanding all the time and I don’t see myself treading her path of finding trust again.

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sometimesanalice · 2 months ago

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domestic ankle display > slutty beach shimmy (but also every part of bradley bradshaw send the girlies into a tizzy, let's be honest, lol)

Coyote had even accused him earlier tonight of moping and bringing down the vibe at the Hard Deck. Which he wasn’t wrong and Bradley can own up to it. He was definitely guilty of sulking. He just missed you. - i can just picture his furrowed lil brow and that florence pugh frown on his face as he’s sitting at the hard deck. but sweet boy misses his girl and are we really going to make fun of him for that? no ma’am (also fanboy calling him a straight up bummer is too funny)-- he'd just be sooo pouty! like people would try to pull him into things and he'd be like "nah. no thanks". like go play some darts, sir. but the fanboy bit truly made me giggle, because he would and then give bradley such a side eye about it too.

But he’d made a big show of giving you a new one a few weeks back when he’d realized that he’d wanted you to have one as his girlfriend. - the fact that he re gave her a key is so LIC bradley, i absolutely adore it- he's like there are steps! there's an order! it's one thing to give a sos key to your bestie but then another to give it to a girlfriend. and since his is both, he's of course going to do the whole shebang. the fact he wants her to have a new shiny one too, like a fresh key. he's so smitten.

“Oh, you love me,” you’d practically sang, as he took the old one off your keychain and replaced it with the new one - ENOUGH! ENOUGH!!!-- she'd be teasing but also FULL HEART EYES over it, lmao.

“…It’s like you want me to have a full blown Victorian Crisis.” - top 5 funniest things she’s ever said- raise your hand if you've been personally victimized by bradley bradshaw's slutty ankle (or want to be) 🙋🏼‍♀️

In fact, you’d stolen this particular shirt on more than one occasion. Which now that he thinks about it is probably why he’d gravitated towards it in the first place. - ENOUGH!! /this/ is about to give me victorian crisis-- he's such a simp and i love him

“That would be nice since you clearly have no consideration for my poor nerves,” - alright mrs bennett- you know she's put the 1995 one on before, and definitely teased him about his huffy theatrics lololol. and then when he argues she finds an online quiz and makes him take it, and he says it's rigged when he does in fact get mrs bennett, lol

“I toil all day to earn a living and to help the government fund my boyfriend’s paycheck-“” Bradley snorts, amused. - i giggled out loud too haha--she's so funny, ROAST HIM

“You’re too damn handsome for your own good. You’re easily the best thing I’ve seen all day, Bradley.” - awwwwww this is so sweet-- just them being a modern day 9-5 pair of starcrossed lovers, haha. fuck capitalism

There’s no sun flares or orchestral strings, none of the things in those movies you like to put on when you’re stressed or sick. But he knows he can give those ones a run for their money. If there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s how to kiss you. - ugh this is so romantic!!! i wanna swoon-- foot pops and swooning galore!

it's also vital for you to know that he puts on p&p 2006 for her and makes her a grilled cheese sandwich, and when she falls alseep on him, he wakes her up in time to see the hand clench.

just thinking about “like I can” bradley on this fine Thursday evening (and every other day)

Oh my god, you and me both! (He’s never not on my mind, let’s be honest 😂) Cozy, domestic Bradley has been both the bane of my existence and the object of all my desires of late.

Delicate Sensibilities

Bradley’s lounging on his couch half watching the game on tv and half aimlessly scrolling on his phone waiting for you to get home.

You’ve been having to work late most days this week because of some tight deadlines with a difficult client. He feels like he’s barely seen you in the past four days.

And it didn’t help that you’d slept at your place last night.

Alone. Without him.

Coyote had even accused him earlier tonight of moping and bringing down the vibe at the Hard Deck. Which he wasn’t wrong and Bradley can own up to it. He was definitely guilty of sulking.

He just missed you.

It’s all he can do to try and play it cool- the game completely forgotten- when he hears open his front door, letting yourself in with the key he’d given you.

You’d technically had one since you first moved to San Diego. One that had been for emergencies back when the two of you were just friends. But he’d made a big show of giving you a new one a few weeks back when he’d realized that he’d mwanted you to have one as his girlfriend. It was a distinction he’d felt was important to make, it wasn’t a step he’d wanted to miss out on taking with you.

As he’d expected, you’d taken the opportunity to tease him about. “Oh, you love me,” you’d practically sang, as he took the old one off your keychain and replaced it with the new one. But he’d seen the look in your eyes as you traced the shiny new key with your finger when you thought he wasn’t looking.

Bradley hears you drop your things to the floor with a heavy thunk, he can practically feel the withering glare you’re probably giving your work tote and laptop as you kick off your shoes with a clatter one by one.

He counts your soft footsteps, knowing each one brings you that much closer to him. His torso already turned towards the entryway to see you the moment you step into frame.

And then there you are.

Your face just as familiar to him as his own. He’s known every version of you. The girl he’d grown up with, his best friend, the woman of his dreams. Still his favorite person, then and now.

He thinks he sees your shoulders release the slightest bit when your pretty eyes meet his.

Bradley didn’t realize just how parched he’d been for you until he’s drinking you in. It still knocks him in the chest sometimes, that you’re here and you’re his.

“There’s my best girl,” he greets you, hoping to see those dimples of yours.

He can tell you’ve had a long day, an even longer week. You look tired, but you’re still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Jesus, Bradley,” you groan.

He sits up straighter, alarmed. “Sweet girl? What’s wrong?”

You heave a full bodied sigh. “I feel like I’ve been hanging on by a thread all week and then I come here and see you like this? It’s like you want me to have a full blown Victorian Crisis.”

The melodramatic way you fling your arms out to the side would make snort under normal circumstances, if he wasn’t still bouncing between confused and concerned.

Bradley looks down at the comfortable clothes he’d thrown on once he got home from being kicked out of the bar for being- as Fanboy called him- a straight up bummer. All he was wearing was his favorite pair of jogger sweatpants and a soft, worn shirt that he’s pretty sure has a hole under the armpit.

But it wasn’t anything you hadn’t seen before. In fact, you’d stolen this particular shirt on more than one occasion. Which now that he thinks about it is probably why he’d gravitated towards it in the first place.

“I- Huh?”

“I mean, look at how much above the ankle skin you’ve got on display over there, Bradshaw.” You point a finger towards his feet, his eyes follow to where the elastic cuff of his pants is slightly pushed up on his calf. “Frankly, it’s indecent.”

He’ll never get tired of that teasing gleam in your eyes. You’re such a menace, but he wouldn’t want it any other way.

Bradley tips his head back against the couch and laughs. “Should I be worried about your delicate sensibilities, kid?”

“That would be nice since you clearly have no consideration for my poor nerves,” you lament, bringing the back of your hand up to your forehead.

“Should I cover up then?” he asks with a smirk.

“Let’s not make any rash decisions. We’re close enough to the seaside that I should make a full recovery. Salt air and all that jazz.”

He lifts an eyebrow and then tugs up the pant leg on the other side. “How are your poor nerves now?”

Bradley sees you fighting to keep from giving into that grin he knows would take over your whole face if you let it. One that would be wide and bright and just for him.

“I toil all day to earn a living and to help the government fund my boyfriend’s paycheck-“” Bradley snorts, amused. “And you tease me? In my delicate state?”

He toys with the hem of his shirt before he shucks it off and tosses it to the side. “How about now? Does this make things better or worse?”

You purse your lips together as if you’re pondering, but he doesn’t miss the appreciative way you’re looking at him.

“Unclear,” you say after a minute. “I think I’m too far away, but also I’m pretty sure my distance vision is officially shot.”

“Can’t have you dealing with a Victorian Crisis and eye strain.” Bradley pats his thigh in invitation. “Why don’t come on over here, that way I can catch you if you have a fainting spell.”

“Such a gentleman,” you say, finally walking towards him.

He bites back a moan at the sight of you shimmying up your skirt in front of him, just slightly higher than it needs to be for you to settle yourself on top of him.

His hands come to rest on your hips as you run your fingers through his hair. And low rumble escapes him as your nails gentle scrape against his scalp. The way he’s so gone for you, just one touch and you basically have him purring like a cat.

You lean in and nudge your nose against his.

“I’ve seen too much of a computer screen and not nearly enough of you this week. And all of this, a lot,” you say, gesturing at him. “You’re too damn handsome for your own good. You’re easily the best thing I’ve seen all day, Bradley.”

He feels his ears get warm at your words and the affectionate way you’re gazing at him.

“Think you’ll need some smelling salts if I kiss you?” Bradley asks. He cups your face in his hand, letting his thumb skim over your cheekbone.

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“C’mere,” he murmurs.

Bradley slips his hand behind your neck and pulls you close. You lean into him easily, pliantly, easily. Like being in his lap- in his arms- is the only place you want to be.

He shows you with his mouth just how much he’s been longing for you. How much he needs you. How much he wants you.

Bradley smiles to himself when he hears that hitch in your breath, the way you do when he skims his tongue under your bottom lip. Your arms tightening around his neck as you press yourself against him until there’s not an inch of room between the two of you.

“Missed you,” you hum against his lips. He feels his fingers flex on the soft swells of your hips.

“I missed you too, sweet girl.”

Bradley watches as the corners of your mouth curl upwards, as you twirl some of his hair around your finger. “Oh, I know. Nat texted me a photo of you earlier tonight, you looked like a sad puppy sitting there in the corner by yourself.”

He groans and scrubs a hand down his face.

“But clearly, I didn’t fare much better. The slightest hint of a manly ankle bone and you almost sent me into a state of female hysteria.”

“So, the ankle is what does it for you then, kid?”

“Amongst other things,” you allow, trailing a finger down his chest.

He catches your hand and tangles your fingers with his. “And how are you feeling now? Should I order those smelling salts?”

“I think I’ll manage without them,” you say. “But you should probably kiss me again for good measure”.

“I can do that”, Bradley grins.

He drops kiss after kiss on your cheeks, your nose, your forehead until you’re laughing and smiling with those dimples on full display. Just the way he likes you to be.

Happy and here with him.

#thank you for reading and reblogging!

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sesamestreep · 3 years ago

Note

Din & Grogu, "cake"

[hozier voice] modern au, baby!

Din assumes that, at some point, the complete absurdity of his life will stop feeling so, well, absurd and start feeling normal, maybe. His standard for ridiculousness will eventually adapt to his circumstances and his threshold for what he considers impossible or insane will increase accordingly. It hasn’t happened thus far into his first year as a foster parent, but he thinks it would be very cool if it could happen sometime in the next fifteen minutes, because otherwise he will have been standing in the bakery section of the supermarket for objectively too long.

Lucky for him, someone intervenes before that deadline. After about five more minutes of confused loitering, a short, round woman with Kool-Aid red hair and an apron bearing the market’s logo appears at his elbow and asks if he needs help, which he most certainly does.

“I need to buy a cake,” he says, after dithering over his choice of words for maybe too long.

“Oh, great! What’s the occasion?”

Din frowns. “It’s, uh—It’s my—for a birthday.”

“Well, happy birthday!” She says, with a wide grin, like they haven’t known each other for barely forty seconds total at this point.

“It’s not my birthday,” he corrects her, feeling suddenly very stupid. “It’s not, uh, anyone’s birthday, actually.”

It’s the woman’s turn to frown. “Didn’t you just say—?”

“Yes, I—I’m sorry. It’s my son. My foster son, I mean. It’s…not his birthday—they don’t actually know his birthday for sure, it’s a long story—but he’s been living with me for a year now. And so I was thinking…cake.”

The woman takes all of this information in very calmly, despite Din’s disorganized delivery, as though people come in and tell her their tragic backstories every day. Maybe they do. Of all the departments in the grocery store, this is one where emotions probably tend to run high. The pharmacy, too, now that he’s thinking about it. The deli is probably very peaceful, by comparison.

“Well, if he’s a baby, I wouldn’t recommend—“

“He’s not a baby. He’s about five.”

“But he doesn’t remember his own birthday?”

Din adjusts his baseball cap, settling it lower down on his forehead. Luke, Grogu’s counselor at school, would call this a defense mechanism, because he does it to avoid making eye contact. Apparently, he has a lot in common with his kid, for all they don’t share a strand of DNA.

“I don’t know. He doesn’t talk—non-verbal, his school calls it.”

The woman clucks her tongue knowingly. “I got a cousin like that. Good kid. Loves LEGOs. You should see the things she builds with ‘em.”

“Huh,” Din says, mostly because the situation seems to require him to say something.

“I should’ve known better than to ask a rude question like that. My apologies.”

“Oh,” he says, startled. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry.”

“Still,” she replies, lifting a shoulder in a half-shrug. Then, suddenly, “Does he like LEGOs?”

“Sure. He likes them fine, I guess.”

The woman shakes her head. “I’m talking about something he loves. His version of LEGOs. Something he plays with all the time, or that he’s always drawing pictures of. Anything like that?”

Din feels the smile overtake his face before he can even think to stop it. “Frogs,” he says, immediately, thinking of the twenty or so drawings competing for space on his fridge, the stuffed animal Grogu won’t sleep without, the gummy candies that his social worker always has for him when he does a home visit. “He loves frogs.”

“Who doesn’t?” She replies, smiling in return. “We could definitely do a frog themed cake. No problem.”

“Really? I’d need it by tomorrow. Is that possible?”

“Oh, yeah,” the woman says, nodding sagely. “You’re going to be Dad of the Year in your house.”

Din wants to point out he doesn’t have much competition, but that feels like another defense mechanism. Besides, it would be totally ignoring the bright surge of joy he feels at the very idea. It sounds like another drawing for the fridge.

#that’s to the tune of ‘wasteland baby!’ in case anyone was wondering #don’t ask me why that’s what I thought of I don’t even know anymore #once I cracked the code of modern din djarin is just luke danes I feel like the world opened up for me #He’s just the kind of guy you always see in a baseball cap and then one day he takes it off and you’re like WOAH #You’ve been a whole hunk under there this entire time???#EVEN THE HAT HAIR CANNOT RUIN THIS #also everyone is barred from sending me Star Wars prompts with food words #It gives me a full blown crisis every time #‘Do they have baguettes in sw?’ ‘Do they have cake?’ ‘What about kumquats???’ LET ME REST #(I love you all and your prompts just no more food worldbuilding I’m so scared)#anyway #three sentence fic #my writing #the mandalorian #din djarin #grogu #star wars #i am very firmly team luke/lando when it comes to sw but I do like to leave room for luke/din #I just like the possibilities it offers (gay dads and a green baby that is)#I hope this is good I feel nervous about it #Modern AUs for the Mandalorian are a tough line to walk idk #firstelevens #single dad green baby

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blainesebastian · 2 years ago

Text

coffee cart girl (pt4)

words: 3,686 ship: austin x female reader summary: you’re the coffee runner on the set of Elvis. Coffee deliveries run pretty easy, until Austin accidently spills coffee on you. notes: thank you again for all the love! I am constantly blown away :) if you would like to be added to or removed from the tag list, please let me know! previous parts under this tag warnings: none tag list: under the cut! sorry if your username does not link up on the post if you requested to be put on the tag list (it’s getting hefty! :)), unsure how I could fix that.

Having a very long sip of coffee as you walk onto set, you take a moment to think about the fact that you have no idea what you’re doing.

It’s been two full days since the hall of mirrors and…nothing has happened. Though, to be fair, you’ve been avoiding Austin and haven’t talked to Jillian about it (because who else would you tell?). Taking the steps to not see Austin isn’t difficult—he’s the star on set, he’s constantly busy, and if you time coffee drop offs just right, you miss him. It’s not like you exchanged phone numbers or anything, or even talked very much after leaving set that night.

There was a bit more kissing, hands exploring and then…you separated naturally, went home.

You have no idea what this all means (and keep having slight heart palpitations that it could mean absolutely nothing). Austin doesn’t seem like the type of guy to fool around, to flirt just for fun, to kiss someone and it not mean anything…but then again you don’t know him very well either.

Spending a few months together on set, talking, flirting, does not make you two close. Though, dating would certainly take care of that but…is that what he would want? Is that what you want? You’re freaking out.

“Ouch!” You jump back, mouth a bit open as someone from wardrobe wheels a display of clothes right by you…and over your foot. And apparently you’re not paying attention either.

“Sorry Y/N!” Phil pokes his head out and around the tall cart, wincing in sympathy. “I didn’t see you.”

Typical—though, to give him any credit, you’re kinda just hovering near the food tent having an existential crisis, so. You gently wave him off with a light smile, Phil passing you up and taking the wardrobe where it needs to go. Letting out a soft sigh, you flex your toes in your boot and turn to walk into the food tent. Making a beeline for the coffee cart, you pause there for a moment and pick up the small clipboard that has morning orders on it.

You rub your forehead, a small headache pinching its way into your temples, but…it’s nothing major, it’s not a migraine, you’re gonna be just fine. You can figure this out—

“Hey!”

You nearly bolt out of your skin as you turn to see Jillian come towards you, curls bouncing and seemingly brighter against her black sweater. You take a deep breath and reach for the cups, going through the motions of your job. Easy peasy.

Jillian seems like she’s about to say something else but a chuckle leaves her lips, reaching for your forehead with the back of her hand, “You okay? You look a little green.”

“Thanks,” You add dryly, shaking her hand off, “Just what every girl wants to hear.”

“I feel like I haven’t been able to pin you down lately,” Your friend says as you fill orders. Her eyes follow your movements, almost making your fingers shaky. You scan the list for one particular order…and he’s there, like clockwork.

Butler- surprise me

You chew on the inside of your cheek, blinking as you realize Jillian has said something else. “What?”

Her eyebrows crinkle together, “Are you sure you’re good?”

“Yeah,” You say quickly, “I think I’m just getting a migraine, I’m all over the place today.” Giving her a smile that’s hopefully disarming, you feel a slight amount of guilt curl up in your ribcage like a snake at not telling her the truth. It’s just…it’s one of those things that feel so personal, especially with Austin’s celebrity status.

Not that you’re worried about your reputation, but, you do eventually want to share your script with someone who can make things happen. If this thing doesn’t move forward between you and him, and you just become a random coffee cart girl that’s kissed Austin Butler on the set of Elvis, you don’t want that to impact your chances.

Once things feel like they’re settling or even make sense, you’ll talk to Jillian.

“…I bet you he smells really nice.”

You blink, missing the core of what Jillian is even saying again. You set down the coffee on the tray, checking the clipboard for the next one, “What are you talking about?”

Your friend gives you a look before sighing dramatically, starting her rant all over again, “I said—I saw Austin leave set yesterday and he was wearing like, this pinstripe suit combo. He must have been going to a late-night interview or a party, something like that. The black of his shirt looked like silk, swear to God.”

You bite down on your lower lip, attempting to picture what Jillian is saying. You know from videos you’ve watched, interviews, even just casual candid photos in an Instagram thread that Austin has decent style, especially when he has to dress up for something. Sharp lines that highlight his long limbs and trim waist.

That headache begins to throb in your temples.

“You know how you can look at a man and just know he smells good, I bet you Austin is the same way.”

“He does.” Tumbles out of your mouth before you can even stop yourself. Your eyes widen for a fraction before words stumble on your tongue, “I mean—I just, I bet you he does, you know what I mean. He does.” What a fucking nightmare, a car wreck. You can’t stop thinking about being pressed up against him in the hall of mirrors, chest to chest, arms wrapped around his shoulders, the way you could feel muscles relax and contract—

“Right I got orders to fill.” You say quickly, picking up the tray of coffee and making a beeline out of this conversation.

“Okay,” Jillian laughs lightly, “See you later.”

Hopefully by the time you talk to her again things won’t be so terribly off kilter.

Though you have a feeling that’s a longshot.

Of course today is the day that Sal decides that the afternoon will be a Starbucks run because there’s a bit of a break in-between shooting. Something about getting a Vegas stage ready to go, but you’re not completely sure. You’re kinda feeling strung out already, that same headache not going away, and now there’s Starbucks on top of it. The orders come flying in, always a longer list when it’s not the set coffee and it takes two full trips back and forth to the nearby shop because you can only secure so many carriers in your car.

Regardless, you get it done. You feel like you’ve run a marathon but it’s done.

The minute you sit to take a break, maybe even read through a scene in your script (you think you’ve got a good part, no red pen scratch outs yet), Sal finds you at the picnic table.

“Lila called in sick, we need you to do lunch deliveries too.”

You stare at her—any other day, this would not bother you. Not everyone needs a lunch delivered on set, it’s not that big of a deal, probably just ten or twenty deliveries to those that can’t get away long enough from their job to eat. But…you feel like you’re running on empty yourself, you can tell because this news makes frustrated tears pinprick the back of your eyes.

You slowly set your script down, “I need five minutes.”

Sal scoffs, “You need to get your ass moving.” She leaves the lunch clipboard on the table and stalks off. You stare at it for a long few moments, if your gaze alone could catch things on fire that thing would definitely go up in flames.

You take a deep breath and haul yourself off the bench—the sooner you get this done, the sooner you can hide in your car until the late-night coffee runs. You at least deserve that, some peace and quiet, an opportunity to get this headache to go away. Unfortunately with the given stress of how you started your day and the non-stop running around since you started work, just when you drop off the last lunch container, a migraine shoves its way into your skull before you can stop it.

You wince, squeezing your eyes shut, rubbing your temples as you put the clipboard down on a nearby table. You’re not nauseous, so that’s a plus, but there’s this really loud ringing in your ears, a sharp pain behind your eyes and you’re pretty sure black dots are flooding your vision.

You can not pass out, you say it over and over, not here, not in the middle of a film set.

You turn to walk as quickly as you can to your car…but then pause. Austin’s trailer is right there. In a split decision, you walk up the steps and knock on the door, unsure whether you’re hoping he’s there or not. You hear movement and manage to open up your eyes when he tugs the door open.

Slightly hooding your eyes with your hand, you flinch at the combination of how embarrassing this all is and the pain throbbing in your temples. Austin’s eyebrows draw together in slight confusion and concern, opening the door wider for you to walk in.

“You alright?”

You shake your head, attempting not to breathe heavily as you slowly sit down on his couch. “Migraine.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and you’re not sure what Austin’s doing but you hear him moving around the trailer—the door closes, more footsteps, soft clinking noises, the running of water, and then the pressure of him sitting down next to you on the couch.

“Here.” He says gently, his voice an octave lower. You appreciate that, even though he doesn’t have to—the tone of his speaking is already pretty low as it is, almost reminding you of gravel when he talks. Not in a bad way just…that Elvis timbre imprinting on his everyday being.

When you open your eyes just a fraction, you realize he’s moved around the trailer closing the blinds and dimming the lights. There’s a cup of water in his hand that you take and drink a little greedily—you haven’t taken care of yourself today, that’s part of the problem. You put the empty glass on the table, sniffling a little as you run a hand over your forehead and through your hair.

“Sorry, I just needed somewhere to go.”

“Don’t be,” Austin replies, “You want me to get someone?”

You shake your head, leaning forward to put your elbows on your knees, resting your face in the palms of your hands to just breathe. In and out, slowly, attempting to force the headache to back down. Every so often you can feel the palm of Austin’s hand on your back, working up and down your spine in slow circles. He pauses sometimes by your shoulders, his thumb brushing along the back of your neck.

Time seems to pass slowly even though you’re sure that’s not the case. You’re just glad that no one has come up to his trailer and knocked, that you’ve gotten a few minutes to yourself. You eventually pull your face back, blinking a few times—your vision is a lot better, more clear, no more black dots swarming into the forefront.

Once you take a small breath, you turn a little to look at Austin. He’s seated close to you, hand still on your back. He’s dressed as himself—jeans, a blue sweater that probably brings out the cobalt of his eyes, must be between Elvis eras because his hair is swept back into the fifties look. He offers you a light smile, shifting his hand to clasp your chin,

“How you feelin’?”

“Better—it’s just been a day.”

He smirks, his hand falls from your face, “And here I thought you were avoidin’ me.”

You feel your cheeks tint pink but luckily you don’t think he’ll be able to tell in the slight darkness of his trailer, “No of course not…I totally wouldn’t be doing that.”

A laugh rumbles in his chest as he nods, looking down, his eyelashes resting beautifully along his cheekbones. “Sure, course not.”

You shake your head, hoping he doesn’t somehow hold that against you. You’ve been a mixed bag of attempting to figure this whole thing out…but have slowly come to realize that you cannot do this without talking to him. Whatever that might turn into. You smile at him, your eyes traveling along the soft features of his face, wanting nothing more than to lean in and kiss him—to remind yourself that the hall of mirrors did happen, that there’s a fizzling attraction between the two of you, to thank him for allowing you to burst into his trailer unannounced.

“I guess we should…talk.”

Austin nods, glancing at his watch. “Before the day’s out, okay? I promise. I got to get on set right now.”

You lick your lips and nod too, that makes sense. Austin stands from the couch, leaving his phone on the coffee table. He picks up the empty glass to set in the sink, turning to look at you,

“Why don’t you stay a while—get some rest, no one will bother you in here.”

You contemplate that for a few moments. He’s got a point, no one would think to look for you in here and…you were planning on hiding out in your car anyways until the late-night coffee runs. What’s the difference really? Besides, the couch kinda smells like him, something that’s becoming a comforting scent wrapping around your frame like a blanket.

“You sure?”

Austin smiles and moves towards you, cupping your cheek again to lean down and plant a kiss to your forehead. “I’m sure.”

You watch him move around the trailer before slipping out the door, a soft thud of it closing behind him. The silence seems to buzz in your ears, but you take Austin up on his offer and lay down on the couch, closing your eyes.

It seems foolish to feel hopeful about what appears to be blooming between you two but with everything that keeps happening—how can you not?

You sleep for about an hour, a nap that pulls you deep and you feel slightly disoriented when you wake up. You run a hand over your face, checking the time on your phone and blinking at it until it finally registers. Glancing down at your torso, you realize there’s a blanket that wasn’t there when you closed your eyes and another glass of water on the coffee table in front of you. Austin must have been here when you were passed out and you can’t stop the warmth from spreading in your chest at the thoughtful gestures.

You smile a little at how sweet he is, sitting up and grabbing the glass of water to take a few sips. Admittedly, you feel a lot better. The headache in your temples has disappeared significantly and the world doesn’t seem like it’s spinning underneath your feet, no more black dots, no more dizziness.

Glancing up when the door opens, there’s a slight flash of panic in thinking that it might somehow be Sal looking for you, but it’s just Austin. He pauses when he sees you, giving a small smile as the door closes behind him.

“You look a lot better.” He comments, carrying hangers between his hands and…he must be changing out of the Elvis look. You raise your eyebrows; is that a sequined blue turtleneck he has on?

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” You ask but you’re smiling, watching as he reaches for his jeans and sweater that are laying on a chair nearby.

Austin chuckles, “Sort of. Give me a minute.”

He disappears into a back room and you stare at the door…as if you’d be able to see through the wood to watch him change out of his clothes. Your cheeks flush pink, splotching down your neck, quickly averting your eyes to the glass of water in your hands. Moving your legs out from under the blanket, you take another sip of water that seems to ground you. When Austin comes out of the back room he’s himself again, Elvis clothes hanging neatly on a hanger on the door. He tugs the bottom of his sweater to smooth out the fabric, running a hand through his hair to dislodge some of it from the gel keeping it in place.

“Break?”

He nods, “Bout an hour—got time to eat dinner.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, not wanting to take that time away from him. You’re sure it’s exhausting finding a few minutes to himself in-between takes. But he doesn’t move to rush you out of the trailer, either, he kind of hovers before he leans back against the kitchenette counter.

Blue eyes are on you again and you’re not sure if he’s waiting for you to speak first or—

“This is not somethin’ I usually do.”

A soft, nervous sound leaves your lips as you run your thumb along the rim of the glass, “Bet you say that to all the girls.”

Austin smiles, a breath emptying from his nose. “Hardly.” A pause, “Y/N.”

He waits to speak, your name sounding so wonderful coming from his lips—you realize you wouldn’t hate hearing him say it all the time. He’s waiting for your gaze to meet his and when it finally does, he begins again,

“I think there’s somethin’ here, between us. I’m not sure what it is or…whether you feel it too, but I’d want to figure it out, together.”

You swallow over a lump in your throat—not exactly because you want to cry but because…there’s a massive amount of emotion and unnamed feelings building up inside your chest. You almost don’t know what to say, almost want to pinch yourself that this conversation is actually happening.

It takes you a moment to realize that this is normal—Austin is human. He may be wrapped up in this Elvis film, he may be an actor, his celebrity status may be expanded by this movie alone, but he still has feelings like anyone else. He’s genuine, down to earth, and wants to take a chance on the connection that’s here. It doesn’t matter that you don’t even have a toe, let alone a foot, in the Hollywood pond.

You are well aware that this could be a terrible idea, a mistake, something that ends up hurting you deeply—not just professionally with where you want your script to go, but mentally, emotionally. But how can you not take a chance? How can you deny the opportunity to let him in? It’s something you want too, before you knew how he felt.

You take a soft breath in, putting the glass down on the coffee table. “I want to figure it out too—” The words are finally released from being trapped under your tongue, “Together.”

There seems to be a bit of relief coming from Austin as well, letting go of a breath he was holding in his chest. He nods, moving to sit down on the coffee table across from you. Your knees bump together and you smile, can’t help it, at his proximity.

“No more runnin’ away.”

You laugh lightly before nodding too—you think you can promise that. No more trying to avoid him. “I won’t.”

You sit in silence for a few moments but it’s not uncomfortable, your hand moving to absently pick at a loose string in his jeans along his knee. “You asked me what I was passionate about.” It was a little while ago, when he played her the guitar, the moment lost when Phil knocked on the door. Something you hadn’t really thought about until now, that you never answered him.

“I really like to write,” The words finally make it out—you have no idea why it feels so personal to say outloud. Maybe because of the intimacy between you and your work, how it might feel to have someone read it, analyze it, pick it apart. Like pulling wings off a fly.

It’s almost like a double-edged sword—you’re so afraid of someone reading your work and tearing it apart, not being able to come back from that rejection, but at the same time if you never put your work out there, you’ll never know what the reception is.

“Fiction mostly but I started diving into scripts. I think I have an idea that could work but,” You shake your head, “I keep getting stuck or…maybe I’m too in my own head, I dunno.”

You already know what Austin is going to say before the words leave his lips, “You gotta let someone read it.” It’s the same advice Jillian has given you—you gotta let someone in. It always feels so much easier than it actually is.

You make a promise to yourself that when you make all the necessary edits, even if it’s not perfect, you’ll let Austin read it. Until then it’s back to the salt mines.

“I am also really passionate about tacos,” You say suddenly, “Just like…an FYI, if you’re curious.” You shrug and Austin laughs lightly, nodding his head.

“Oh really? S’good to know.”

You hum, leaning forward to press your mouths together. Austin’s hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb resting along the bone as your lips move together. It’s soft, a bit drawn out, heads tilting to deepen the kiss after a moment. It sends electricity right into your belly, something heated pulling at you lower, between your legs.

The kiss ends naturally and after a few more minutes, you get up off the couch. You want Austin to be able to enjoy the time has for dinner but also you need to get late-night coffee orders compiled. You feel a lot better anyways, on a bunch of counts.

While not everything might make sense as you go forward, at least you know you’re not alone in figuring it out.

tag list: @pearlparty, @theinvisiblecapricorn, @kittenlittle24, @andrewgarfields-girlfriend, @mirandastuckinthe80s, @nonsensical-nonce, @softlispoken, @dudinhahoff, @peterparke-r, @lottiee03, @little-diable, @therealwriter17@bob-the-tomato, @bcofl0ve, @domaniquessidehoe, @oh-austin, @rosequartzluvr, @callthedarknessdown, @laperceval, @ghostinthebackofyourhead, @starry-night-20, @ahoyyharrington, @obsessedunicorn24, @lulu-recs, @queenotaku23, @embobemm, @milaa24, @medleyj, @myownparadise96, @butlersluvbot, @girlokwhatever, @pinkle-monade0103

thank you for reading :) more to come

#austin butler #austin butler x reader #austin butler imagine #austin butler fic #austin butler fanfic #elvis 2022 #mccall writes things #ccg #ccg series

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