#good thing nothing bad ever happens to them

[hard-core-super-star]

(they long to be) close to you [W.Maximoff]

pairing: baker!wanda x college student!reader

summary: after months of pining after the lovely owner of westview's best cafe, you finally get a chance to get to know her better.

warnings: none, just fluff and pining; MILF!wanda because my hand slipped; is cute tension a thing?; gay panic; bad flirting; mentions of stress and tense family dynamics

wordcount: 1.8k

a/n: this idea came from a brief conversation with one of my favorite people [@katehopecore] and i wasn't able to get it out of my head so now it's here! and it'll probably end up as a series because i can't help myself. anyway, hope you enjoy <3 [oh AND, the cranberries version of this song is the best one, you can't change my mind]

* * * * * * *

Life in Westview had become a weird sort of predictable by now. Same routine, same people, same comfy booth at the best café in town.

Ironically, you didn't even live in said city. At least, not anymore. There was a time in your life when you'd known nothing except that small town in New Jersey and the neighbors you'd seen your whole life. It was easy, familiar, and so comfortable it became uncomfortable.

And so, to your parent's dismay, when you graduated from high school, you'd decided to leave. You chose to go to college in New York, trading the world you knew for a shining, new, incredibly loud, alternative. As overwhelming as the change had been, it was everything you'd wanted and more.

That being said, you still came back home as much as you could, more out of routine than anything else. At first, you'd left your visits reserved for holiday breaks and three-day weekends. When things got busy at school, the last thing you wanted was to be cooped up with your parents, avoiding their questions and listening to them rant about the neighbors.

Things had taken a turn, however, when you'd accidentally stumbled across Wanda Maximoff and her quaint, yet cozy, café. The lovely owner had moved into town right when you were graduating high school, so even though your parents had attended the house-warming party, you'd never met her.

Maybe that was why you were so drawn to the space. Why your feet carried you there instead of your usual hiding spots. Well, they were technically study spots. At least that was what you told yourself, even though most of the time, you were just looking for an excuse to get some fresh air away from your childhood room.

You weren't sure how it happened, but somehow, Wanda's bakery had become your safe heaven. The one place you could always run to for a warm pastry and a comforting smile.

Okay, maybe you were more fond of the beautiful owner than the fantastic coffee and pastries, but that was beside the point.

What truly mattered, at least right now, was the fact that you'd chosen to leave New York for the weekend, swearing you were going to study and prepare for your midterms next week. Of course, that was easier said than done.

Especially when you'd spent most of the morning drooling into your coffee since Wanda was working the counter today. She had no business looking as good as she did in a flannel and suspenders, her lovely red hair falling into soft waves over her shoulders.

It was a little comical how unaware of the effect she had on other people Wanda seemed to be. It was almost like she was in her own little world. One filled with croissant recipes and the weirdest ways to keep an old espresso machine from breaking down.

She was the most enchanting woman you'd ever met and she didn't even know it. Didn't even notice the way all the teenage boys that came in tripped over themselves for a second of her attention.

As much as you wanted to make fun of them, you were just the same.

Except more mature…at least, you hoped.

You're in the middle of another study session, the most recent drink you'd ordered forgotten on the table among the chaos of notebooks, books and of course, your struggling laptop, when you hear footsteps approaching.

You don't look up from your textbook until you hear the sound of a plate and a glass being placed on the table. A question is on the tip of your tongue when your eyes meet Wanda's. There's a softness in them that speaks volumes.

"You've been here for a while," she says with a small shrug. "I thought you might be hungry."

It's only then that you fully realize what she's placed on the table. A glass of water with a few slices of lemon and a plate with a warm ham and cheese croissant. It's not the most extravagant of meals by any means but, considering the growling of your stomach, it's exactly what you need.

"Thank you," you mumble, your voice coming out slightly hoarse. "This is really nice of you."

"Oh, it's nothing, sweetheart." The warmth that spread across your chest stops you from seeing the blush on her cheeks. "Just a little something to keep your energy up."

You're not sure what compels you but you close your laptop and move your stuff out of the way. "Would you like to sit for a little? You've been working hard all morning too."

A small smile tugs at the corners of the older woman's lips. "I shouldn't but…I'm sure the boys can manage for a few minutes."

You sneak a glance up at the counter, watching as the young boys behind the counter scramble to help the working adults preparing coffee orders. Even though you don't want to pry, a question falls out of your lips once you take in the similarities between the two boys and the woman sitting in front of you. "Are they…your sons?"

Wanda nods before you can think too hard about the embarrassing question you just asked. "Yeah, Billy and Tommy. They come help out on the weekends before going to their father's for a few days."

Thankfully, you were barely reaching for your water when she said that, otherwise…you might have made an even bigger fool of yourself by choking like an idiot. That being said…you still didn't push down the urge to keep asking questions.

"You're married?"

"Was married," she corrects. "Things didn't work out, but we share custody and are still good friends. It makes it easier on the boys, I think."

It's hard to hide the smile that starts spreading across your face. You hate how instantaneous it is, how insensitive it makes you feel, and more importantly…how relieved you feel. You barely know this woman, and yet here you are, wrapped around her finger so tightly that you can't stop yourself from hoping there's a chance.

A chance for what? Only time will tell, you suppose.

"Do they like baking too?" You ask as you dig into the croissant, steering the conversation away from something that might make you gay panic.

Your question makes her laugh, the sound sharp with surprise yet filled with warmth. "Oh no, the second they see flour anywhere, they start throwing it at each other."

"Can't say I blame them. I probably wouldn't be much better."

"That's disappointing," Wanda teases. "I was looking for an apprentice."

You giggle in response and concentrate on not appearing too flustered. You're not sure you succeed, though, considering the way the older woman looks at you. "I would if I could, midterm season doesn't give me much free time."

"An even better reason to give baking a try," she replies. "It's what I do when I'm stressed."

"So you decided to open a bakery? How does that work?"

She shrugs. "Divorce is stressful."

All you can do is shake your head and laugh again, feeling warmth bloom in your chest as she joins you. You're pretty sure you can get used to making her laugh like this.

"I might have to give it a try then," you say once your laughter dies down. "It sounds much better than what I've been doing."

"Which is?"

"Ignoring my problems and drinking too much coffee."

"Oh."

To ignore the soft concern in her features, you go back to eating. Thankfully, she doesn't press you or ask any more questions. She simply sits with you, keeping you company and helping you stay grounded.

It's…nice having her with you, you find. Even though all she's doing is sitting with you, her presence is calming. Comforting.

And maybe you should unpack that, but you'd rather not ruin the peace that's settled over you.

Wanda seems just as comfortable as you, since she doesn't move from her spot until she's sure you've finished eating, and she's coaxed you into finishing the glass of water. Even then, she isn't in much of a rush. At least, until one of the twins (you're still not sure which one is which, since you're too embarrassed to ask) tells her the oven went off and the newest batch of cookies is ready.

The smile on your face falters some at that and the older woman must notice because she turns back to you with a certain sparkle in her eyes. "Would you like to come help? I know you're probably busy but-"

"Yes." You rush the words out before you can second-guess yourself. "I'd love to."

Her surprise turns into glee and before you know it you're putting your things away and following her into the back. Somehow, even though the entire café always smells sweet, the aroma coming from the ovens is magnificent. You're not sure how you're going to help her without eating half of the batch.

She seems to read your mind because she motions for you to sit on a counter while she takes the cookies out of the oven. You're more than happy to watch her work, munching on whatever sweet treat she hands you to keep you from getting bored. You're pretty sure it's impossible to be bored in her presence but you don't mention that.

Some time passes before Wanda speaks again. "Sorry, I'm usually better at multitasking."

You instantly shake your head. "It's okay, I don't mind the quiet. It's nice watching you work."

"You're too sweet," she says, looking up at you with a mock glare.

You stifle a laugh as you notice the faint streak of icing on her face. "Actually, I think you have me beaten."

Her eyebrows furrow, more out of confusion than annoyance, though. "What's so funny?"

Instead of answering, you slide off the counter and reach out to wipe the icing off her face. There's still space between you, but it feels suddenly small…like if you just stepped forward…

The sound of the oven going off again stops you before you can do something truly idiotic.

Your hand drops as Wanda turns. "You should help me decorate this next batch. My hand's a little tired."

You have a feeling she's not at all tired, considering this is her passion, but you see the offer for what it is. A chance to spend more time with her.

"Deal."

It's not until almost an hour later that either of you acknowledge what happened. The soft touch and the even softer looks exchanged.

It's subtle, like the smell of her perfume that starts lingering on your clothes.

"You know, if you want to come back tomorrow, I would appreciate the help."

And you do.

The next morning. And the next Saturday. And the one after that.

You come back each and every weekend until you accidentally carve out a space in her heart reserved just for you.

[captain-huggy-bear]

Hi, an idea for a celly:

“Bring a damn charger next time, you scared the shit out of me” w/ Clayton?

P.S. love your writings! You always pop-off with them! 🫶🏼

Thank youu, hope you like it, lovely! So glad to write some Clay for this celly <3 We all know he'd be pissed out of concern if he can't contact you cause your phone dies, man is pulling his hair out but he also gets worried to the point of breaking I think. 1000 Followers Celly Currently ongoing 🥳🎉 Big requests/full fic/big idea requests are closed at the moment but drabble and prompt requests are still open. Writing Masterlist

You don't expect to be in this position when you leave your house early in the morning for a long day in the next town over with your friends. You'd sent Clay a text in the morning to tell him you'd speak to him later in the day, both of you in the habit of texting throughout the day, sending updates when you were busy doing your own thing. You never just went radio silent, both of you like the reassurance that the other was okay.

What you hadn't realised was that your phone battery was almost out. You swore up and down that you'd put it on charge overnight like normal, but you must have not plugged it in properly because by 8am it was on 5% charge and naturally you didn't notice until it was too late.

Clay, on the other hand, had spent the entire day freaking out and worried because none of his calls were going through to you, no messages were being seen and he'd yet to get any of your friends' numbers for emergencies. He'd spent the day phoning hospitals in the area in case you were in an accident...suffice to say that when you finally got home at 11pm he was pissed off, breathing heavily as he tried to not take his worry out on you. He was worried sick, adrenaline on a high, buzzing with it under his skin in away he hadn't felt outside of a game.

“Bring a damn charger next time, you scared the shit out of me.” He doesn't raise his voice. Clay never yells, not even when he's pissed off, but his tone changes. It's sharp with worry, nostrils flaring as he breathes heavier. He's been running his hands through his hair, so obvious by the way it's out of place, not as tidy, not as pristine. Clay looks dishevelled, he looks like he's spent the day worrying.

"I'm sorry, I swear I put my phone on charge over night, it should have been at 100...I'm sorry, baby." You feel shitty...so guilty because he'd spent the day thinking you'd been hurt, phoning hospitals, unsure if you were okay or not, only for you to waltz through the door like nothing had happened.

You're reaching for him, arms wrapping around his waist, hands rubbing across his back in an attempt to ease some of his worry, to comfort him. You've rarely seen Clay this worked up and you hate that it's caused by you making a silly mistake, one you normally wouldn't have. You'd have been just as stressed in his shoes and likely less forgiving about it.

"I...I thought something had happened to you...I thought..." You know what he thought, the phone calls to the hospitals said enough...he thought you were hurt, that something bad had happened to you. It has you sliding your hands into his hair as he drops his forehead to your shoulder, "Shit, if something ever happened to you I don't know what I'd do, sweet girl."

Clayton Keller is not someone you would say was overly emotional...no Clayton had a tight grip on his emotions whether it was pain, frustration, worry, sadness...you could count on one hand the times you'd seen him lose that control. But you could already hear the tears starting to choke him up, could already feel the shake in his body, that control slipping more and more. It was almost terrifying in it's own way, to know that he was actually not unshakable.

"I'm okay, I'm good...and I promise from now on I'll keep a spare charger in my bag." Practical promises in an attempt to help put his mind at ease but he's shaking even harder like trying to calm him down just makes it worse.

"Clay..." You clutch him tighter like if you do you can make it easier, make it better, but he's coming down off an adrenaline spike that's been happening all day. The shakes aren't just the impending tears but the adrenaline wearing off, finally able to come back down now that you're here, now that you're safe.

"Fuck.." You feel the tears before you hear them, wet on your shoulder as he clutches you tighter, falling thick and fast as he gasps and sniffles against you. It's almost scary to see him break because you never really have. He's always the stable one, and maybe you haven't made enough room for him to break, maybe this should have come a hell of a lot sooner.

"I'm okay, you're okay...we're both, okay, Clay. I'm not going anywhere."

All you do is hold him. That's all you can do, even as his tears make your own spawn, you just hold him. You run your fingers through his hair, over his back, squeeze him as tight as you can and don't let go. You don't let go after 5 minutes or 10 or 40. You hold him until he's ready to pull back because you want to be someone he can break around, because you know he needs this, because this just tells you how much he cares about you.

There's no shame in his tears, just love.

[ancientcharm]

Hic habitat felicitas ("Happiness lives here" or "Good luck lives here"). We might think this is the entrance sign to a Roman brothel, but it isn't. For the ancient Romans, sexuality had the same importance it has for us today, but certainly this image didn't mean the same thing to them as it does to us.

Nor did it have the same meaning for people in the 18th century, when those things were discovered, and censored, ended up in a secret room in the museum. In the censored collection there was indeed erotic art from Pompeii and Herculaneum, but also the fascinum, which for the ancient Romans had nothing to do with eroticism. The secret room collection finally became accessible to everyone in 2000.

Fascinus -Tintinnabulum from Pompeii. It would be hung outside a house or shop doorway to ward off evil spirits. National Archaeological Museum, Naples.

In ancient Rome, phallic amulets, called fascinum, had no connection with sexuality; they were used, among other things, as protection against the evil eye, a strong belief that an envious person can cause bad things to happen to you in your life just with a look full of bad vibes.

This belief still exists intact in many cultures; millions of people believe it. The only thing that has changed is that today, no one would wear something shaped like a phallus as an amulet, and that's because it's precisely us, not the ancient Romans, who associate the figure of a phallus with sexuality. Furthermore, for them this amulet was linked to the Roman deity Fascinus.

Four Roman fascinum. They were highly valued amulets used as a protection among children and soldiers. They were used to ward off the evil eye, to invoke the protection of the god Fascinus, or to promote the germination of plants.

The funniest thing I've ever read about this topic is that this stone phallus in Via dell'Abbondanza, Pompeii, is a signpost indicating the route to the brothel. I would say it was to prevent envious people from spreading bad vibes as they walked past the many shops and bars on that street.

Fascinus

Fascinus was the Roman deity who personified the divine phallus and was invoked for protection. He was also referred to as medicus invidiae, meaning "doctor" for envy or the evil eye. He was depicted as a giant flying penis with wings, hind legs, and a penis of his own. He was associated with the Greek god of fertility, Priapus . He was used as a protective amulet, especially among children and soldiers. Houses were decorated with this symbol. They were hung around the necks of babies and children. They were also very common among legionaries.

“Should we believe that it is right to do so upon the arrival of a stranger, or that if a baby is seen sleeping, the nurse should spit on it three times? Although these are looked after by Fascinus, protector also of generals, not only of children, a divinity whose cult among Roman religious rites is attended to by the Vestals and who, doctor of the evil eye, protects the chariots of victors by hanging beneath them and, as a remedy similar to a voice, orders them to look behind them in order to obtain the benevolence of Fortune, executioner of glory, behind them.” (Pliny the Elder, Natural History, XXVIII, 39)

If you've seen the image of Fascinus in a series set in Ancient Rome, in the inevitable brothel scene, it's because no one on the production team took a moment to find out what this figure meant to the ancient Romans.

In the only real Roman brothel discovered, the one in Pompeii, there are sexually explicit paintings depicting people, but not the image of Fascinus.

[dodgeballstuckonthegymceiling]

The new welcome home update makes my head go burr. Here, have this set of headcanons I wrote while possessed by a tiny wizard. (The tiny wizard that makes me write)

If you like my work, please consider commissioning me or leaving a tip on Ko-fi (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

Julie, Frank, Howdy, Poppy, Sally, Barnaby and Wally & Reader who asked them what they think about death

Julie

★ When you first bring up the topic, her grin widens, clearly unfamiliar with the word. "Death?" she repeats. "Thats a funny word! What kind of game is that?" Her eyes wide and curious. Assuming you wanted to share some new game with her.

★ As you explain its meaning, her grin softens. “So… things just stop? They don’t play anymore? Not ever? That sounds so sad.” For a moment, Julie's playful demeanor faulters. Attempting to wrap her head around such a thing. "Are you sure that's right?" You nod, feeling some guilt for breaking the news to her.

★ But Julie, being Julie, tries to bounce back. She reaches out and places her hands on yours. “Well, maybe it’s not really the end! Maybe it’s like when the flowers take a nap in the winter, and then they wake up all bright and happy in the spring!” She says, trying to comfort both herself and you.

Frank

★ He understands death more than the other neighbors. Life cycles and food chains are critical for any ecosystem to function. That he knows well. Frank even has several books about the topic! But that's different. Animals are not people. When you bring up death, he gives you an impromptu lesson about how life cycles work.

★ Frank begins by saying "death isn’t merely an end” in that factual tone he so often uses. "It's an integral part of the natural cycle!" You already know that, but let him have his fun. Educating you on a topic you're more than familiar with.

★ However, he assumed that human lives were different. You weren't an animal, bug or plant. So why would someone like you die? The thought never crossed his mind. You'll need to break the news to him as gently as possible. Good luck.

Howdy

★ When you ask him, Howdy tilts his head and looks at you for a moment. Trying to figure out if you're being serious. "Well now, usually a question like that would cost a pretty penny." You nod. "But this time" he says, pulling out a chair for you "it's on the house." With a nervous smile, He gestures for you to sit.

★ He explains it to you in the simplest way possible, like you're a child. "Death's kinda like when the store closes for the night. The lights go out, the shelves are empty, and everything goes real quiet." While speaking, he keeps his tone soft. Again, treating you like a child.

Poppy

★ "Oh! What an... Interesting question" she says. Honestly, the topic makes her a bit nervous. Nevertheless she answers you "That's what happens if you aren't careful, and... break." As she speaks, she fidgets with her wings. Showing her discomfort.

★ Her nervousness is understandable, given her tendency to avoid risks and stay in her home. Where its safe. “But, um,” she adds quickly, attempting to lighten the mood. "We just have to take good care of ourselves, and each other. So nothing bad happens to us."

Sally

★ She knows it as a plot device. "Ghosts, ghouls and other terrible monsters come from death!" Sally explains. Waiving her arms around dramatically to emphasize the point. "Why, it's simply perfect for a spooky performance, dear friend!"

★ To her, it’s less of a sad reality and more an opportunity for storytelling. It's a tool for drama. Not something to be feared or mourned. As she goes on, it's clear that Sally doesn’t fully grasp the weight of death.

Barnaby

★ Barnaby doesn't like thinking about death. When you ask him about it, he treats it like a joke. “Death, eh? Well, that’s what they call it when somebody goes to live on a farm.” His tone is light, steering the conversation away from anything too serious. “You don’t need to worry about stuff like that, kid.”

Wally

★ When you ask him what he thinks about death, he tilts his head. Trying to recall where he's heard that word. “Death?” he repeats. "it's when someone goes away, isn’t it?" If you had to guess, Barnaby told him that.

★ He never really dwelled on death before. To Wally, life in Home had always been a continuous loop of joy and games. Death was a word he’d heard in passing, but it never stuck out as something important or relevant to his little world.

★ The more he learns, the more curios he becomes. “Does it happen to everyone?” he asks with a morbid fascination. “Do they know when it’s going to happen? Or is it... a surprise?” Despite how unsettling his questions are, it’s clear he’s genuinely trying to learn.

[ameagrice]

Capsize

chapter thirty-nine | tempus fugit

percy jackson x fem reader

What happened over the next twenty-four hours became the turning point in this particular part of history.

After waking up earlier than expected, you skipped breakfast, showered and dressed in freshly washed clothes. After a swift goodbye to Sally, who made you promise to use a payphone and give her a call at some point, yourself and Percy made the walk into town. It was as you played hopscotch on broken concrete that you fell into an alley, and came across an entrance to the labyrinth.

Dirt tunnels turned into stone rather quickly, and the air grew damp and somewhat mouldy, the scent of dew and rot in the air. At this point you were largely unaffected by the sudden change in paths every few metres. You were confused about the silence, however. No monsters.

Things began livening up the further in you got. As you stopped at a small crossroads, you could no longer smell rot, but peonies, and roses, fresh cut grass on a summer’s day.

“What is it?” Asked Percy. You must have stopped for too long.

A shrug of your shoulders seemed to worsen his anxiety. “Nothing,” you assured. “Nothing bad, anyway. This bit feels different. That’s all.”

“Let’s keep moving,” Percy urged, slinking around you. “Left or right?”

You didn’t think too much on it, trusting your instincts. “Right. I feel like we’re close to something.”

Percy didn’t look so sure, turning your flashlight to the ceiling. His mouth twisted, and his eyes worried.

“If we see even an ant looking wrong, we’re turning back. Agree?” He held out his pinky finger to you. You connected yours instantly, and nodded firmly.

You wished you could put aside your pride for five minutes and admit you were wrong. With Percy’s hand on your shoulder trying to pull you back, it seemed harder to swallow that pride. You refused to admit this was a bad idea. Or was it?

This direction threw you out onto Mount Tam, where a a huge fortress loomed, overbearing. Casting your eyes around the mountain and its beings, it all appeared somewhat hazy, like your brain knew what this was, but your eyes refused to accept it. A headache began forming behind your eyes.

In the distance, not so far from your hiding spot, monsters were crafting weapons. These things were at least ten feet tall, and complete nightmare material. Compared to the Telekhines of your past adventures, these monsters were the very definition of the word. One of them lifted a different weapon, a scythe—a six-foot-long blade curved like a crescent moon. The blade had been crafted with two completely opposite metals on the spectrum. The edge, sharper than anything you’d seen before.

You looked away when the creature began to talk. “Sanctify this in blood. Then you, half-blood, shall present it when the lord awakes.”

Too locked in on your surroundings, you failed to notice Percy leaning in close to get a better look at the weapon. “Through there,” he whispered. “Straight ahead. We can make it.” Whatever he saw, it must have been important.

Hand in hand with him, the two of you managed to skirt around the centre full of monsters and make a run for it, casting looks over your shoulder periodically. You slowed down when Percy did, heart racing.

“What is it?” You turned back to him, away from all the monsters, and faced it.

A golden sarcophagus in the middle of the room on a marble black dais. It looked rich, it looked powerful, and yet it was largely unguarded. Suppose that was why you ran after Percy, following him up the three steps to get close enough to it you could reach out and touch the coffin.

“I’ve seen this before,” muttered Percy, frowning at it.

“What? Where?”

His lowered gaze skirted the patterns and pictures on the coffin. “In my dreams.” The pictures depicted death, carnage and destruction, total annihilation of everything good and everything you’d ever known. Tiny pictures of the gods being cut, hurt, wounded and discarded of, stamped into the gold. On the far right lay a tiny image of your mother, and something like nausea filled your senses. She might not have been a good mother by any means, but she was still just that, and still she was the voice of reason and sanity in all of this. It didn’t sit right with you to see this depiction of her, hurt and defeated.

Suddenly, your breath began to visibly plume. When you reached out and ran your fingertips along the pictures, ice followed on the side of the coffin.

Percy cleared his throat. “What does it say? On the top?”

You tilted your head, and brushed your hand across the letters beginning to frost over. “Kronos. Lord of Time.” With mild panic and mild fascination, you watched as your fingers began to turn blue from the cold, tilting your head. You pulled away from the source, Percy taking hold to hold your hand up, peering at the blue frost decorating your skin.

Voices grew louder way behind you. Percy, apparently, took that as a sign he should act quickly. With enough force to topple mountains, he shoved the lid of the coffin right off. The noise almost deafened you, when it hit the ground.

“Percy!” You hissed. But…he was right, in a way. You wanted to know what was inside.

You leant forward, peering into the coffin. Morbid curiosity overtook every reasonable thought in your brain. You examined the body lying there.

Blond hair. A scar across his face. A white shirt, and where his heart should have been, a hole lay instead, like someone had taken a hole puncher right to him. His hands lay on his stomach, and he looked at peace.

The body inside the coffin was not one of a god older than everything.

It was the body of Luke Castellan.

You shook your head. You furrowed your brows. “What?”. You clutched the side of the coffin like it might help to ground you amidst the confusion.

“Careful!” Rasped a monster in the distance. Percy’s hand shot out and yanked you around the coffin, ducking down. “He wakes! Present the gifts now.”

Whatever stood on the other side held up something. Kneeling, you looked at Percy, mildly worried, now.

“My lord,” presented the monster, “your symbol of power is remade.”

Quite obviously, the man in the coffin didn’t respond. Luke, remained silent.

“You fool,” said another. “He requires the blood of the half-blood first!”

“Whoa, whoa!” A boy’s voice echoed, shocked. You recognised it, tilting your head. “Nobody said anything about needing me.”

“Don’t be a coward! He only needs your allegiance. Just pledge your service. Renounce the gods. That’s all.”

Percy inhaled sharply. The voices stopped. And so did your heart.

“Go on, then!” Pushed one of them. “Say it!”

The demigod sighed. “Fine! Fine. I renounce the gods. What have they ever done for me? I will serve Kronos. There. Happy?”

The ground beneath you began to shake. Your hand shot out to grab Percy’s arm, but the floor beneath your feet shook so violently that it knocked you right over, tumbling down the dais to the demigod’s feet. Frozen, you lay in wait for him to do something. The boy with one eye, the boy from camp that you knew you had seen before. Ethan Nakamura, an unclaimed child. He stared down at you with an unreadable expression but one which was most definitely crafted from shock, and some hatred.

“You,” he breathed. “I know you.”

Just then, something cold pulsed beneath your left hand, where your fingers splayed out across the marble ground, holding yourself up. A tiny wisp of cold, midnight-blue light appeared under the marble and shot out beneath you, heading right to the coffin on the dais. You twisted, following it in your line of sight, with the stunned demigod behind you. All attention fell away from you, to the figure sitting upright in the coffin, as he did in life. There was nothing lively about this version of Luke Castellan, however. Nothing at all. The flush of Luke’s cheeks was missing. The life and hate in his eyes were gone. His own heart was missing, the very organ that made him Luke. An empty case of a boy who never stood a chance.

It occurred to you that you should make a move, run for the hills while you still can. Grab Percy and get a move on. But you feel weirdly obligated to watch this, whatever is happening. This part is pivotal, you know. Your stomach cries out for it, your heart surrenders, and your brain prepares.

Here.

We.

Go.

The shell of Luke turned his head, and those eyes were cold. Trained on you, he sighed, as if he, too, knew you were in the right place. Right time. Right moment. Luke smiled cruelly.

“This body has been well-prepared, has it not, Daughter of Athena?”

Frozen, unable to move, you remain in spot on the ground. Where your ankle lies pressed to the floor it turns cold, creeping up your leg. Your palms are icy, numb. Horrified in conjunction with intrigue, you watch this part play out, and know from the bottom of your aching heart, that there is nothing you can do now.

Luke moved an inch, and Percy leaped a mile. With his sword raised high above his head, Percy stood with no warning and swung for Luke’s head. Something like a horrified shriek fell from your mouth, your body lurching forward on the cold ground as if to stop Percy. Ethan Nakamura, behind you, gasped, stepped back. The Telekhines scattered. Three demigods left to the ruins yet again.

The sword did not bend. Nor break. It didn’t shatter or stamp. It merely met Luke’s skin and did nothing at all. It bounced off of him. A tug pulled at Luke’s mouth, as he began to rise from the coffin. With deft hands and strong arms, the young adult body grasped the scythe.

Head tilted down, a slight rumble to his voice, he proclaimed, “Backbiter, Luke called it. Don’t you think that is an appropriate name? It shall, indeed, bite back in the right time.”

Any and all courage you had coming down here is long gone. You are left with the dregs, enough to make a run for it. But your legs feel weak, like you’ve been sleeping for too long and they’ve fallen asleep with you, and you’re turning clammy-cold.

Kronos in disguise as Luke pays Percy no mind as he creeps slowly around the coffin, dragging Riptide along the floor. With his left hand free and his eyes on Kronos, Percy reaches his hand sharply around your upper arm and pulls you up. It helps, but you still feel weird. Like the world around you was slowing down. Like your body is suddenly laden with a dozen weights. Your brain is full of cotton. Your eyes begin to blur. Is this an attempt to zone out? Or is it him, messing with you?

Kronos is out of his coffin. Everything around you is slowing, slowing, slowed, but him. And he’s coming right for you.

“This is the part where you run,” he laughs cruelly. “Isn’t it?”

He must have been ten footsteps away when a girl’s voice yelled from your left. Your name, she yelled. Percy, she called. You try to turn your head in this jello-like space, and watch as a red-haired girl by the name of Rachel Dare throws a dagger with such precision you will be in shock forever. The dagger looks familiar. Its shine is brilliant. Its point is sharp enough. It’s yours.

The suddenness of the situation breaks Kronos’s concentration. Your weapon hits the floor after making contact with his face, and it shatters to a million pieces. It will never be fixed again. But it served its purpose for this part. You watch with returning consciousness as the pieces of your dagger reflect light like a million stars. You think of Zoe Nightshade. You think of Bianca. You think you need to fight for a world in which this is never allowed to happen again. And you think you need to start now.

For a split second, Luke returns. Shock wears on his face. His voice is light and pained. “Ow!”

Maybe he doesn’t know what he’s done. Can Luke ever be blamed fully?

Some dizzying feeling takes over you once more, like something is being committed to memory for later, some important part of your past. It feels distantly upsetting, like you could fall to the floor and cry.

But it’s as gone as quickly as it came because Percy has you by the arm and the back of your shirt, pulling you along to the exit side, where Nico and Rachel wait together. Out in the darkness of the corridors, Rachel leads the way, and Nico commands the earth to bend to his will. Dust billowed. The earth shook.

Time marches on.

On the corner of the Marriott Hotel, amidst tourists and workers alike, you stood together processing what just happened.

“We’d better get back,” Percy shrugged tiredly. “Rachel…”

Rachel Elizabeth Dare looked pretty shellshocked herself. After all, she’d stumbled into something akin to a fairy tale not too long ago and saved your asses.

“Yeah,” she shrugged back. “I guess so.”

An awkward silence ensued, whereby Percy shifted from foot to foot and Rachel sighed slowly, looking around. You cleared your throat heavily.

“Thanks, Rachel. We couldn’t have done all of this without you. Literally. I think…Luke would have turned us to toast back there if you weren’t on time.” You fold your arms across your stomach. Surprisingly, Rachel smiles. “But I have to ask,” you flick your eyes between the four of you, “where did you get my knife?”

Recognition flashes across Rachel’s face. “Oh!” She exclaims. “It was on the ground. Like, just waiting for me. I thought maybe it fell out of your bag or something, I was gonna bring it back to. Perfect timing, am I right?”

“Yeah. Like you were meant to be there, I guess. It’s funny though, I don’t even remember the last time I had it.” You turn to look at Percy, he might know better than you, but he shrugs again, with that clueless expression only boys can have. “Ah well. It’s over with now. We’ll make sure to send a thank you card.” You joke. Thankfully Rachel sees the humour in it, and even little Nico laughs. You turn to him, next.

“We should call a cab back to camp. Nico, how are you with the Mist?” You send him a finger gun.

“I’ve been practicing,” he confirms ominously.

“Well, if you guys ever want to hang out with a mortal again,” says Rachel, “you’ve got my number, Percy. It’s not in the books. Give me a call. As random as you guys are, you’re fun to hang around with.”

Percy and Rachel meet each other’s gaze. She slowly smiles, and he turns pink. You feel like an outsider looking in on something private. It kind of hurts. You almost feel like pushing Rachel off the curb, but you’ve just thanked her, and that would be severely random.

“Yeah, that’d be great.” Percy confirms, rubbing his hand on his neck.

At last, the moment comes to an end when Nico huffs impatiently and begins to walk away. You take after him, determined not to lose him again. “Wait for me!”

taglist:

@bl6o6dy @embersparklz @rottenstyx

@rory-cakes @i-am-scared-and-useless-bisexual

@marshmallow12435 @lantsovheiress @distinguishedmakerpandapatrol

@twlsssmlaa @gayandfairycore @padsfirewhisky @emu281

@charlesswife @jessiegerl @tojismassivemantiddies @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx

@nothankyou138 @obxstiles @mxltifxndom

@cxcilla @itzjustj—1000

@sp00kcanwrite @randomesthings

@anonymouse-is-here @fratbrochrisgf

@prongsflower @bugszi

@tired-jaz @mitsuriscannongf

@i-love-books-and-the-bible @miyakoa

@prongsflower @crackerphobic20

@padsfirewhisky @obxstiles

this is a filler chapter if you can’t tell 🫡

[isetfiretomyself]

Yandere Ex Wife X G/N Teacher Reader

This is technically a part two. It's in the same story as Yandere Butcher but starts after the events of his introduction!

Trigger warnings! Cheater not regretting their behaviour. Yandere Ex Wife is implied to like you more the her son. (It's just a sentence but better safe then sorry!) , Stalking, manipulative behaviour, mentions of murder, This is all fictional I don't condone toxic behaviour irl!

🥀Yandere Ex Wife who did cheat on Yandere Butcher! She doesn't regret it!

This town was so dull she needed something to entertain her... obviously.

🥀Yandere Ex Wife moved out of that town two years ago. Isaiah was so big in their tiny town how was Alice going to cope? (I mean there's no way to look good in this situation 😭)

I mean she did come see her son every other weekend! She's not a total monster.... Just cheater!

🥀Yandere Ex Wife who had to pick up her son earlier then usual on a Friday because he got into a fight. Recently a local drunk's gone missing and people like to say his dad looks like the type to get rid of them.

James (Finally gave this boy a name - Jay) was sitting in the headmasters office with you waiting for someone to come pick him up. Usually his dad would respond, especially if he got to see you but it's his mum's weekend. You had helped patch up his hands. You are a good person.He knows his dad's a little obsessed too. He's not stupid, he almost feels bad for you. But his dad's a good person, right? He wouldn't go that far surely.

James looks at the clock on the wall before turning to you "It's 1pm...Mums probably got some business thing or whatever-" before he had a chance to ask for them to call his dad Alice comes rushing in.

🥀Yandere Ex Wife looks very put together, Designer head to toe. She left this lifeless little town to focus back on her job. She hated that Isaiah wanted her to be a little housewife. Filling out documents and paperwork was less painful then washing up or cleaning the floors to her.

"Ah! Miss Alice. Thank you for coming!" You stand up and shake her hand. You had heard from the locals at the pub all about her. Cheating on her husband and the father of her child with an author who was visiting for a bit. Isaiah was quite sweet, you couldn't understand why she would but you had to stay professional.

"Please take a seat. Obviously this isn't the first time James been reported but now it's escalated to violence..." The headmaster was planning on expelling James. That's easy to see but Yandere Ex Wife isn't dumb. After pointing out someone accused the poor boys father to be the cause of a missing person it's normal for a teenager to lash out. "And have you talked to the other students parents about not gossiping about my son's father near their child!?" She stood up.

🥀By the end of the meeting James could come back to school on Monday like nothing happened. She lead her child out before hearing you call after her.

"Thank you" you mouth. "I know you're not particularly liked in this town. Sorry! That's rude! I just meant...if you ever need any extra support to be involved with things like the school plays or parents evens. Here's my school email."

Now did she fall for you in the exact same way her ex husband did....yes. yes she did. You cared! Even when she cheated (still won't say it was wrong) you pushed through and cared! That's what she was looking for her whole life! Someone to care for her!

🥀Yandere Ex Wife waited for son to go to bed before looking up your social medias. You had a few aesthetic photos of the town but if scrolled down. Really, really far down. You had lived in the city she does now!

🥀That Monday the town was surprised that Yandere Ex Wife was round! She hadn't shown her face in awhile for good reason. She had her pencil skirt paired with her blouse that was a button too low.

In the early morning you walked into town on your way to work. "Oh (Reader)!" Yandere Ex Wife sang behind you. Had she been there long? "I hope you don't mind but I saw you used to live around my parts so I bought you a few snacks that are popular around there! As a thank you for looking out for my beautiful boy!"

🥀 Now isn't she adorable? Yandere Ex Wife started to be more involved in the community again and even moved back into the town!The locals weren't happy What everyone didn't know is it's so she can follow you around! She loves it!

She can work from home whenever so when you walk home. She walks with you! Just far behind without you knowing! She takes a few photos as well! You're just so cute! How you mark students work or cook yourself meals! It's bizarre, she sees you make cooking errors and she just wants to cook for you. She's never had that before not even with her son. (Och)

🥀Yandere Ex Wife calls you crying on a few occasions. Feeling isolated or judged by her neighbours and whaw whaw. She did not care. I mean she's not lying, just lying about it upset her because she knows you'd care. She was even surprised herself when you came over her to comfort her.

🥀She's definitely buying you gifts allll the time! Which she never does! That's not her love language till she sees how your face heats up and you get all shy about it.

🥀Yandere Ex Wife who noticed you being around her is ruining your reputation. She hears how the other mums talk about you. How you're probably sleeping with her (she wishes) like she slept with that author.

Specifically this stupid little librarian! They've been gossiping so much it just grinds her gears! So she dealt with the problem! She's no fool, She knows Isaiah did it. She remembers how possessive he got, how he tried to hide it. So she grabbed one of those heavy little books and bashed this librarian head in and tried framing her ex husband for It!It was easy to burn the book and dumb the body near the butchers. And where was she? Getting some in another town! She has a friend with similar "love language" to her.

🥀You were shaking up...your school worked with that library frequently. You had just finished a call with Isaiah when Alice pulls you into her chest.

"Aw Sweetheart I hear you're upset about what happened! Let me take cook you dinner tonight, you can just rest!"

[rotzaprachim]

it’s really essential to NOT oversimply terrorism as being like, west versus east, or Islam versus the West, or good Decolonization versus Evil Empire, or really any Sides apart from normie people who don’t support terrorism vs terrorists, because one thing that’s been pretty marked about terrorism forever is that terrorists are more than happy to murder people from their own religion, culture, nationality, political ideology etc if they don’t agree with them, and often have MORE access to those people than the “other side” for obvious reasons.

george tiller, a devout Lutheran who performed medically essential third trimester abortions, was killed by a pro-life terrorist while he was AT CHURCH. Naguib mahfouz, one of the most famous modern Arab writers of all time, was almost killed at 82 year old after being stabbed violently in the neck. Israeli prime minister yitzhak rabin was murdered by an Israeli Jew. Anders breivik committed mass violence against the youth members of left wing parties because he hated immigrants so much, yet he was perfectly willing to murder dozens of white Norwegian teenagers college students in the most horrific ways imaginable and send pretty much all of Norwegian society into a tailspin of grief and terror. On October 7 Hamas killed plenty of Palestinian building contractors and chicken farmers and took some hostage for months, denying access to essential medical care and causing mass grief to their families. One of europe’s single largest terror attacks was the bombing of the train station in the famous left wing city of bologna, likely by a far right Italian group who was again perfectly willing to kill plenty of Italian civilians. The list goes ever on.

the thing about terrorism, which I’ve been a little too close to several time in my life, is that i think of it a lot like being a victim of car accident, which I have been - you can life your live safely, but there’s really nothing that can stop the bad thing from happening to you personally, which is why it’s such a hotbed for people being terrible to the victims - it was YOUR FAULT for “xyz” reason - at the same time they politicize their causes against whatever group they don’t like. That distracts from one of the big issues: terrorism can happen to anyone. Literally anyone can be a victim of a terror attack, and by be a victim, I mean “literally murdered for doing nothing.” But the really scary thing is that, unlike all the fear mongering that tries to make it the fault of one specific ethnic group or religious group or region or whatever, there’s actually nothing stopping a politically violent person from YOUR group - someone who fights for *your group* (hypothetically) from murdering *you*, personally, for whatever - if you’re on tumblr there’s a good chance you’re more liberal than any extremists in your religious/national ethnic groups and they would absolutely plow you down with an ak-47 in the heat of the moment - from killing you. Ironically this is damn similar to the unfortunate lessons that keep being learned from the U.S. and other country’s anti-terror policies - that absolutist anti-terror national frameworks can label absolutely anyone a terrorist for whatever reason, if they want to, in ways disturbingly similar to how terrorists can also label anyone a threat to traitor or imperialist stooge or whatever if it suits them. It’s one of those hard things where the only answer is to respond to violence in society as a whole and be one of those normies against all of it, because you - or your friends - could be victims of any of it.

[theexaltedbride]

Rabbit with a Deceased Reader lover Headcanons.

Losing you was one of the worst pains Rabbit has ever experienced. When it first happened it was a blinding agony which drowned out all of his other senses. Now it is a dull ache constantly on his heart which waxes and wanes, but in its own way...it is a good pain. Because it tells the demon that he truly did have a heart, and he really did love you.

'If this is why Sparda did what he did...then I understand.' He thinks to himself as his hand moves in circles over his own heart, still trying to soothe the aching, if even for just a moment.

Being a demon means he's lived a long time and seen many horrors. Far too many than is right for anyone to have to ever endure.

After a while it becomes easy to ignore them, he just let them slide off his soul like water off of a duck's back. But that same emotional state would just as common with the good events too. It all became like a blur after a while. A dull gray haze where thoughts were rendered into nothing but a faint buzz at the back of the mind.

Rabbit felt like he was sleepwalking through life until he met you.

You were different. The time you and rabbit spent together was like a reprieve from the daily discomfort and hardship, a stay of execution on his very soul. It let him forget all his troubles for a few blessed years. The good times and the bad times are still clear in his mind, even if they've begun fraying at the edges, and specific details have blurred, he still remembers you. Rabbit never forgot your favorite mix of tea that he would brew for you. He never forgot how it felt to dance with you, to hold you, kiss you, the feeling of your fingers between his own.

Whenever Rabbit is alone at night, unable to sleep, he will close his eyes and think of the soothing memories he had of you, just casually walking together, him showing you the small creatures of Makai which weren't dangerous, or just holding you close to him and sharing the warmth of your bodies. They are still fresh in his mind, and never fail to bring him comfort.

It almost makes up for how he's forgotten your scent (despite his best efforts), how he can't remember the exact sound of your laugh or what it felt like to run his hands through your hair. Things slip through his grasp even despite his best efforts. Each time he loses a memory, it's like a small part of him has died.

-Rabbit's mood has permanently soured with your passing. He still smiles and laughs on occasion, but much of the time has him serious or frowning. Thoughts of you on your best days never fail to bring at least a half smile to his face.

-Any trinket of yours which survived your passing will become cherished by him, and losing it or misplacing it will drive him rabid. Even just forgetting where he put it has him scurrying around a room and turning things over, only able to calm down once he can feel it in the palm of his hand or press it to his chest, above his heart, as if it were a bandage over the hole left when you died.

-Like with Dante and the flight attendant who looked like his mother, anyone who looks or acts like you will get a reaction from Rabbit. His temper will be cooled by them and he will be more lenient than he would with others. But he knows that they aren't you, and this is just him longing for what he can't have anymore.

-The temptation to go full Dr. Frankenstein, or make deals with more powerful demons to bring you back to lie is always there for Rabbit. If he could just have you back for even a single day, it would be worth the price. But he never does it. He fears what would happen if you were brought back 'wrong', or if your soul were snatched up by some other demon. Or worse...if you were in an actual Heaven of your own, and he was stealing you away from it....he misses you, but he wouldn't want to rob you of paradise like that.

-Rabbit will tell the story of how you and he met to younger Makaians as if it were a fairy tale, spinning a yarn about a noble (if headstrong) Rabbit prince of a lost kingdom trying to win the heart of their one true love.

It's easier for him to think of it that way, because sometimes he struggles to believe he could ever be so lucky as to earn someone like you in his life. He thinks himself unworthy of such love, and that was why he lost you.

"If there is a God in charge of all of this, he took my dearest from me, because I don't deserve that kind of happiness." He would say if anyone managed to learn about how much he still misses you.

"I'm vile, I'm hateful to the extreme, I'm prideful, I...didn't appreciate my dearest enough. So, I didn't deserve to have them."

-Sometimes he truly wishes he could just fade out, and leave it all behind. But he made you a promise in your last moments, that he would live. He'd find happiness, and he wouldn't lose himself to despair.

-He doesn't know if he will ever move on...maybe he will, demons live a very long time after all, or maybe he won't. But whatever choice he makes, his love for you and those precious moments you both spent together will never stop mattering to him. Rabbit will keep them with him till he too fades, and if there is an afterlife for creatures like him, he swears to find you there.

========

Couple's Playlist.

'Strong For Somebody Else' ~Citizen Soldier.

'Who wants to live forever?' ~ Queen.

[bloody-storm]

Torn Apart. Stitched Together

TW for: autopsy scars, graphic depiction of violence (even if its just imagination) , the mess that comes from dying and coming back to life and what happens when I write about autopsy scars and have a series running in the background that shows forensic work- there might be a mild panic attack but I'm not sure?

Interesting for: @theparadoxunlocked @star-tb

He stared into the mirror. His hair was wet, cascading down his back and chest. Unraveled from its long braid.

The usually vivid and bright colour was dulled, dark. Dead. The short portion of his hair was flattened to his head.

Crimson eyes blinked back at him, his face pale.

It was the face of someone who'd died, only to be revived by a fun twist of fate.

Vein's eyes wandered. Just beneath his chin was where no more of him could be seen, hidden beneath drenched fabric. The black turtleneck hugged him tight, in its current state. Clung uncomfortably to his skin.

Humiliating. It was utterly humiliating, the way he'd been unable to strip further.

He'd never been insecure about his body, even at that peculiar age where most found even just the slightest thing off from their peers to be a horrible curse.

He'd been quite the opposite, really, despite scars speaking of bullet wounds and stabbings. He'd cared about his appearance, wished to look decent, but never worried about his general apperance, about blemishes or the like.

Yet what laid beneath his turtleneck...

He vividly remembers it, would forever remember it. Undressing for the first time in the safety of his own bedroom, exhausted and only wishing to change into more comfortable clothes, and seeing what had happened to him post-mortem upon turning at the wrong angle, catching a glimpse in the mirror.

He could see vividly the cause for the burning pain that had persisted ever since he'd woken, at that time still reddish and even more horrendous than it was now.

He vividly feels the pain of the needle stabbing through skin, back when he'd realized that his abrupt movements after awaking had torn the stitches.

Stubborn and prideful as he was, he'd stitched it himself. Barely able to even see, the mirrored image making it hard to aim properly. He'd poked himself countless times.

It was nothing but a scar, now.

An ugly, hideous scar.

Whenever he saw it, his organs itched under phantom fingers. He hadn't been awake, or even alive. But his body remembered.

In his worst nightmares, he wakes but cannot move. Can feel a knife or perhaps scalpel sinking through skin, through flesh and muscles. Tearing through them with practiced ease.

Slicing into him, leaving his organs exposed to hands covered in silicon gloves, like a butchered animal about to be gutted and have its innards removed.

He shook his head, attempted to banish the thoughts. The phantom feelings. The images.

Yet they lingered.

Vein, the seemingly oh-so-fearless, oh-so-unshakeable head of Chinatown... felt sick. And he hadn't even undressed yet.

He gripped the sink, his breath shaky. Squeezed his eyes shut.

He wasn't sure why, but felt as though he was unraveling.

There were good days, where he barely minded looking in the mirror. It was fine. He was fine.

There were bad days where just the thought of having to see left him feeling lightheaded and ill.

Ever since waking up, there had been good and bad days alike. More bad than good, in all honesty.

Liu Xiao not minding had helped. Certainly. But it didn't make the hatred of having to see go away.

He wasn't sure if remembering would've made it better or worse.

As it was, he stood. Shaking faintly. Not just from his nerves, but also because he was sopping wet and cold.

He heaved a sigh. Dug his fingers under the hem of his turtleneck, pulled it away from his skin.

The feeling of the drenched fabric was disgusting, and part of him was relived when he finally tugged it over his head and flung it over the large bathtub.

Showering while dressed, to put it plainly, was only fine until you stepped out of the shower.

His eyes drifted to the mirror again. Slightly fogged up at the edges.

Traced over a pale face, then slowly down to his chest.

Along his collarbone ran two scars, merging into one just beneath his sternum, before running down, down, down... stretching across his entire front.

Faintly, he could see where the stitches had been.

Most of his scars, he didn't even consider ugly. They were just there. Life lessons at most, the bite of a mosquito at least.

But this one? It was plain hideous. Standing out strongly against pale, smooth skin with its discoloration, its bumpy texture.

It had healed... alright, all in all. Better than the bullet wound on his thigh. The cut on his back, just beneath his tattoo.

Yet he froze. Stared. Felt ill. Horribly so.

Stared at where he'd been sliced open, torn apart to be examined like the carcass he'd been, only to be neatly stitched back together as if nothing had happened. 

Phantom fingers danced across his intestines, across his liver, his lungs... wrapped around them and squeezed. He couldn't breathe, but the dead have no need for air. 

His heart raced. Like a hare chased by a hungry wolf. Like prey that knew that death's sharp maw was coming for it, about to tear through skin and flesh, like a hot knife through butter, about to-

The dead need no air, the dead feel no pain. 

The strangled noise that escaped him reminded him of an animal about to be slaughtered when it clawed its way up from deep within his chest and to the back of his throat.

At least it was only noise.

Humilating. 

The dead didn't breathe or feel, but he wasn't one of them. Not anymore. 

Silently, he felt relief that no one else was home, that no one would see him in such a state, that no one would notice how long he'd been inside the bathroom.

At the same time, he longed for nothing but warm hands to hold his own cold ones, to hear anything but his own heart beating in his head loud enough to drown out anything else.

Stiffly, he turned around once he found the strength to move. Grabbed the shirt he'd put down on the counter and slipped it over his head.

Uncaring about his hair still being wet.

He didn't care. He didn't care about his racing pulse, his wet hair dripping and leaving puddles on the floor. Didn't care about how hard it was to simply breathe. He just needed to stop seeing... that.

His legs felt weak, shook with the effort of holding him upright. The world shook, as if unsure whether it was upside down, perhaps.

He walked the four steps to the closed door, turned, and leaned against it. Sliding to the floor.

Laughable, how the mighty could fall to such lows, but then again, even he was human, wasn't he?

Then again who was here to judge him but ghosts of people who, unlike him, had not managed to return from the dead? If they laughed from within their graves, so be it. 

No, in the sanctuary of his own home, locked inside the bathroom, he was allowed a moment of weakness. In here, where no one would see, he didn't need to be the head of Chinatown, no mafioso, no manager. 

He could simply be. 

No one had to know, no one would know, if he got his way. 

There was no need to concern them, either...

After all, there were good days, and there were bad days. Today? Today was just a very much shit day. 

[agirlsawalittlerose]

This is Me Trying

ModernAU!Aegon x OFC

Fresh out of rehab, Aegon Targaryen is looking for a way back into music when he meets Victoria, a talented but stubborn singer-songwriter who wants nothing to do with his family’s record label. Reluctantly thrown together, they form an unexpected creative partnership, finding common ground in music and shared struggles.

TW: Alcoholism, Addiction, Sexism

MASTERLIST

CHAPTER 21: What is it about men?

Sara had no interest in playing the uptight friend, nor had she ever found any satisfaction in being the mom of her friend group.  

She just wanted some kind of order in the universe—for things to go the way they were supposed to, for karma to catch up with bad people, and for good people to actually succeed. That was all she hoped for herself, after all.  

She had always told herself it was because she was a Virgo. That was also the reason, she figured, why directors and casting agents seemed to instinctively know she wasn’t the easiest to tame (Leo rising, after all).  

Her Pisces moon, on the other hand, made her particularly susceptible to a third category of people she had only encountered in adulthood: the broken ones.  

She had wondered why she could only truly understand—and be understood by—people who were broken. But then, thinking about the father she had never known, she started noticing the cracks in herself, too. In the way every story she made up had a happy ending. In the way she always felt a quiet, gnawing concern whenever she came across someone broken—someone like her.  

It was the third week in a row that she had found Vic practically passed out on the sofa. The first time it happened, she had assumed it was just exhaustion. Sure, it was a little sad not seeing her at the pub as often, but it was also a relief. Vic was finally doing the thing she had fought so hard for, even if it meant dragging herself to the end of the day too tired to talk—or be talked to.  

But then Sara had noticed the empty wine bottle on the floor next to the sofa.  

And it wasn’t that she wanted to mother Vic or scold her like some nagging friend. But her Pisces moon was screaming at her—loud, insistent, impossible to ignore—that something wasn’t right.  

"You should know that after twenty, sleeping in weird positions destroys your back," Sara announced, slapping Vic’s foot to wake her up as she crossed the room to open the window.

The smell of wine was so strong it almost made her nauseous. Or maybe that was just the growing worry gnawing at her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vic rub her face and turn over on the sofa. "Tell me about it," she muttered, voice still thick with sleep. "My back is wrecked."

Sara barely avoided kicking the empty wine bottle on the floor. She didn’t have the heart to pointedly pick it up in front of Vic. "Rough night?" she asked as casually as possible, lighting a cigarette by the window.

Vic, now somewhat conscious, sat up with a groan. "I recorded All You Wanted for seven hours yesterday," she said flatly. "I hate it now."

"Shame. I like that one," Sara replied with a shrug.

"I liked it better when Aegon sang it," Vic admitted, scanning the room for something. There was a tinge of something in her voice—something sad—that Sara immediately picked up on.

Once Vic found her bag (and a cigarette), she joined Sara by the window.

"I haven’t seen him around the house," Sara noted. And honestly, that was weird. Those two had been practically fused for weeks, impossible to be around without feeling like an intruder—or worrying she’d walk in on them naked, unapologetically all over each other.

Then the contract came, and Aegon vanished.

"Haven’t seen him since Tuesday," Vic murmured, lighting her cigarette. That was odd.

It was Friday.

"Allen barely lets me breathe, which is fine—I mean, the first show’s in two months—but every time Aegon stops by the label, Aemond suddenly has some urgent, top-secret meeting to drag me to, or he locks me up in the booth for hours," Vic huffed, “It’s almost like he’s doing it on purpose." she said, not really thinking about it, though frustration crept into her voice.

At the end of the day, she was only human. And maybe a good fuck with her boyfriend would’ve been a better stress reliever than downing a bottle of wine every night. Sara couldn’t exactly blame her.

Also Sara was starting to think maybe she was right and Aemond was doing it on purpose.

Maybe Aegon hadn’t been wrong that night at the pub when he clocked his brother’s behavior. And that pompous, arrogant sore loser definitely deserved to be called out on it.

"Well, thank God it’s Friday, babe," Sara said, trying to lift the mood—though her eyes flicked to the empty wine bottle by the couch.

"Yeah, no," Vic snorted. "I have to go to the label even tomorrow." She exhaled a humorless laugh, staring blankly out the window, ash collecting at the end of her cigarette. "And on Sunday, Jen booked a full day with some Hackney photographer so I can film twenty TikToks hyping up the single."

"Sounds awful."

"You don’t get it. She rented an Airbnb—wants to pretend it’s my actual bedroom and have me film videos in pajamas, like I just spontaneously wrote All You Wanted there on the spot."

Sara let out an exaggerated groan of disgust. Normally, that kind of reaction would’ve made Vic laugh—but not today. She kept staring out the window, and Sara was pretty sure that what came out of her mouth a second later was a genuinely miserable sigh.

Fucking Pisces moon. It was always the damn Pisces moon. Now that she saw the full picture, it was all painfully clear:  

She was happy for Vic, of course she was. But none of this was happening on her terms. It should’ve worked out the way Vic wanted—not according to the plans of whichever puppet master was pulling her strings this week.

Sara’s thoughts were cut off by the sound of Vic’s phone ringing, followed by the way she lunged to grab it from her bag, carefully sidestepping the empty wine bottle by the couch—just as she carefully avoided Sara’s gaze.

She answered while stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray on the armrest, mumbling a series of “yeah”s and “mmhmm”s that, for the first time that morning, carried the faintest trace of excitement. And that terrified Sara. That faint spark—how fragile it felt. Like it could be smothered at any second by this goddamn grind turning Vic into a one-woman content factory.

“I gotta go. Aemond’s picking me up in fifteen,” Vic said, scooping her bag off the couch. “At least we’ll swing by the studio before the torture begins.”

“That already sounds like a way better plan,” Sara said gently. Maybe telling him to fuck off could wait, but it still didn’t explain why that other idiot—his brother—hadn’t tried a little harder.

“Right? And he finally admitted my version of the bassline in Cut Song is better than his,” Vic replied, something lighting up in her again. The sweetness of Aemond’s praise worked on her like a balm—calming, soothing, grounding. It was written all over her face.

Then she was gone, vanishing in a flash. The moment Sara heard the shower start upstairs, she finally picked up the empty bottle from the floor and, as her fucking Pisces moon took over, started dialing Aegon’s number on her phone.

Sara had heard about those red bricks a billion times. She’d heard Vic talk about the mortifying public incident a few months back—how the shame had eventually morphed into pure joy every time she mentioned the life she now shared with the love of her life.

The same love of her life who was now very clearly neglecting her, and with whom Sara absolutely needed to have a word—just to make sure he was putting in the effort Vic deserved. Or else she’d personally rip his balls off. She quickly started scanning through her mental toolbox to figure out what would be the best method for this lovely little task.

“Hey!”  

The voice that greeted her when the door opened was soft and friendly—but it wasn’t Aegon. Instead, it was a blonde girl with big eyes, looking at her with a mix of polite curiosity and the kind of familiarity that said she definitely knew who Sara was.

Well, Sara knew who she was too. Aegon’s sister. She’d seen her a few times at the pub for open mics, though they’d never spoken.

“Hi! I’m looking for your brother,” Sara jumped right in, trying to keep her mission vibes in check.

“The wild card or the psychopath?” the girl asked with deadpan seriousness.

Sara burst out laughing. “Exactly…?” she shrugged, and even though the girl didn’t immediately get what was funny, after a beat she lit up and laughed too.

“It’s for me! Be right down!” Aegon’s voice boomed from upstairs.

His sister motioned for Sara to come inside. The Targaryen place looked more like a five-star restaurant than a home. Of course it did. Aegon was the type of guy made for Louboutins and Christmas in Cuba. Nice catch, Vic.

She led Sara into a huge living room, asking if she wanted some tea while collecting a few crystals from the coffee table and turning them over in her hands. Sara shook her head—tea wasn’t the priority right now—but curiosity got the better of her.

“Black obsidian?” she asked, tilting her chin toward the girl's closed fist.

The girl nodded, still fully committed to making oat milk coffee without letting go of her stones. “For grounding. There’s something in the air I really don’t like lately. Must be my Pisces moon...” she murmured, pouring the milk with care.

Sara barely had time to nod in total agreement—finally someone else who sensed the vibe was off—before Aegon walked into the room.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sara snapped the moment she saw him—maybe a bit too aggressively.

“Hey, you’re the one who showed up at my place—so you don’t get to ask why I’m always soaking wet every time we run into each other,” he said, raking a hand through his dripping hair.

His sister, coffee in one hand and her crystals still clutched in the other, mumbled a quick apology and left them alone in the living room.

“No, genius, I mean what the hell are you doing and why the fuck is my best friend miserable, hasn’t seen you since Tuesday, and you’re just… doing nothing?” Sara shot back, leaning against the kitchen counter.

Aegon rolled his eyes as he dropped onto the sofa. It was painfully obvious that if something was going on, he wasn’t about to just admit it.  

“Look, it’s not like I want to leave her alone and miserable. It’s the label’s schedule and they clearly don’t want me there.”

“Why the hell do you say it like you couldn’t care less?” Sara pressed, arms crossed now, suspicious as hell.

He shot her a look that could’ve fried her on the spot. “You think I don’t care? First they scrap my album again and now it’s like they don’t want me to even see her,” he said, throwing his arms wide in frustration, the anger in his voice more real than she expected. 

Maybe she’d misjudged him. “Every time I try to see her, she’s exhausted. And whenever I swing by the label…”

“She’s in some ‘super secret, totally off-limits’ meeting with Aemond or locked in the booth in the recording room,” Sara finished for him, deflated.

Aegon gestured at her like, exactly, then dropped his head into his hands.

Sara debated for a long moment whether to tell him what she really came to say. She wasn’t sure if he’d understand, or worse, if it would trigger him. She knew his history. Maybe he wasn’t the right person to bring into this mess. But still…

“She’s been drinking a lot lately,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper as she watched his reaction closely.

Miraculously, Aegon’s head shot up. His eyes locked onto hers, intense, urging her to keep going.

“I mean… a lot,” Sara added, needing to make it clear this wasn’t some ‘Friday night wind-down’ thing. This was a bottle of wine by herself—sometimes more—and her passed out on the sofa until morning.

And Aegon understood.

“What shift do you have tonight?” he asked suddenly, like the pieces had just clicked together in his head.

“I’m closing,” she replied.

“Good. Leave me your house keys.”

******

The lights in the studio were low and amber-honeyed, soft enough to blur the edges of things. One of the smaller rooms, the kind wrapped so tightly in soundproofing you could hear your own heartbeat if you sat still long enough. Vic perched on a stool near the mixing desk, sleeves shoved to her elbows, one boot hooked around the footrest, the other planted firm on the ground like she needed at least one part of her to feel steady.

Aemond sat beside her, nursing a mug of black coffee like it held all the answers, nodding along as the rough mix played through the monitors.

Her voice came through raw, frayed in all the right places. Unpolished, but intentional. She liked that. Honesty had a kind of texture you couldn’t fake.

When the track ended, silence stretched, thick and slightly charged. Vic glanced sideways at Allen.

“Well?”

He sipped his coffee first—always had to do that, like opinions required marinating in caffeine—then leaned back, long legs outstretched, casual. Too casual. “It’s good.”

“Good,” she echoed, dry. Her eyes shifted to Aemond, looking for the flicker of something—approval, maybe, or recognition. That steady kind he gave her sometimes when no one else was paying attention.

“Mhm.” His gaze slid to hers. That little glance he did, the one that always felt like it came with subtext in italics. “There’s something in the second verse. Not a flaw, exactly. Just... a moment. It dips.”

“Emotionally?” she asked. “Or melodically?”

“Bit of both,” he said, leaning forward, elbows to knees. “That line about ‘waiting in doorways with empty hands’—that’s the gut punch. But then you back off. The tension’s all built up and instead of snapping the thread, you let it go slack. I’d lean in.”

She hated that it made sense. Hated more that she couldn’t argue.

“I like it understated.”

“Understated’s great,” Allen said, stepping in now, voice softer. “But you’re not meant to sit in the background, Vic. You’re not wallpaper. People should hear you and forget to breathe.”

Something flickered in her. Small. Defiant. Unwilling.

Allen had this talent that Vic found dangerously compelling—he always managed to make her feel like the most precious person in the world. And yet, Vic couldn’t help noticing how things always seemed to turn out the way he wanted.  

Probably part of being a manager, she thought.

She shrugged.

Allen tilted his head. “You don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you don’t. Not all the way.”

She looked down at the scuffed toes of her boots. She didn’t have an answer for that.

Allen let it breathe for a moment before going on. “You’re right on the edge of something,” he said. Then turned to Aemond, like calling in a second opinion. “You feel it too, right?”

Aemond didn’t answer at first. Just looked at her—really looked—like he was reading some private translation only he could understand.

Vic shifted under it, not sure if it made her feel grounded or exposed.

“That shoot Jen set up,” Allen said, steering the moment back. “It’s this weekend, yeah?”

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Why?”

His tone didn’t change. Cool, practiced nonchalance. “Just wondering if you’ve thought about how you want to show up.”

“This the part where you tell me to wear fishnets and glitter?”

He grinned. “Nah. You’ve already got the aesthetic. It’s about owning it. Making it unmistakable. People remember Stevie’s shawls. Debbie’s bleach. Sometimes the right look cements a moment into myth.”

She didn’t reply, but didn’t roll her eyes either. Just held his gaze a second too long, until she could feel herself starting to believe he meant she could actually become a myth.

Allen leaned against the console, arms crossed, smile like he was in on something. “You know hair theory?”

Vic looked at him sideways. “Hair theory?”

“Yeah. All the greats have a signature look. Some little detail that makes them unmissable.”

“So I need to shave my head and become someone’s Pinterest board?”

He laughed. Low, warm. “Oh Jesus, not shave! That fringe? The way it moves when you sing—it’s stupid photogenic.”

She almost smiled. Almost. He didn’t even notice how crooked it was from years of DIY trims—or maybe he did and just didn’t care.

“You’ve already got the voice,” Allen said, starting to circle her now, slow like an orbit. “The edge. The truth. But a recognisable look might even give you a little more—” he searched for the word “—swagger.”

That made her laugh, short and involuntary. The way he’d said it was warm, but not suffocating, and Vic thought that if Allen had been her manager back when she was a scared little girl with three thousand hang-ups about her place in the world… maybe things would’ve been a little easier.

“That’s not even a real word.”

“Sure it is. Bite. A little ‘don’t fuck with me’ in your walk.”

She looked at Aemond again, like do you believe this?, but he just gave the smallest nod—the kind you could pretend not to notice if you weren’t ready to take it seriously.

“People should see you,” Allen said, sitting on the edge of the table across from her, “and know exactly who the fuck you are.”

Vic let her head fall back. “Feels a little... calculated.”

“It is,” he said. “But so is walking on stage with a setlist. Doesn’t make it fake. You’re not selling out, Vic. You’re carving space for the real stuff to live.”

Vic stared at him for a second, grateful—really grateful—that he’d hit the exact nerve of her fears, ones that now felt a little childish and a little too idealistic.  

She weighed it for a moment, wondering if there was anything wrong with trusting him completely. Maybe even handing over the reins—at least for the cluttered, tangled parts of her brain she couldn’t seem to sort out in this new life that was moving faster than she could keep up with.

She felt like she was learning how to walk for the first time—that was the right metaphor. And right now, with her legs still shaky and her balance uncertain, the temptation to reach up toward Allen’s outstretched hand was suddenly strong.

“Maybe a bob,” Allen said under his breath, stepping in front of her, reaching out with slow confidence and gently tilting her chin like he was testing the silhouette.

Vic instinctively gathered her hair in one hand. She remembered that night with Sara—drunk, dramatic, declaring with absolute certainty that bad bitches wore their hair long. That Vic didn’t have the bone structure for risks like bobs.  

She thought of Aegon’s fingers tangled in her hair at Ruskin Park, the way he looked at her with that kind of distracted love neither of them was ready to name.

“It’d suit you,” Allen said.

Her head snapped up, surprised by how gentle his voice had gone.

Vic bit her tongue to keep from asking if he really meant it.

After all, he was supposed to believe in her. He had fought to have her on his roster. He’d loved All You Wanted, loved her demo, had thrown himself into her project (God knows what Stevie Nicks would think of that). He’d treated her album like it was a child.

She didn’t answer. Just picked up her guitar and started strumming the same three chords again, a little slower this time. Thoughtful.

Across from her, Aemond stayed quiet, but she could feel his eyes on her—curious, watchful, present. He studied her like a song half-finished, waiting to see where the chorus landed. Then he gave the smallest shrug, as if to say, It’s not a bad idea.

And Allen, well. He saw things. Named them.

If he said it would help, maybe it would.

She told herself it was just a haircut.

But even as she played, her mouth started shaping that half-finished chorus again—the one Allen swore might be the second single.  

And she wasn’t sure anymore if she actually wanted to cut her hair or if she just wanted to hear him say she was doing okay.

“Anyway,” Allen said, stretching like the conversation hadn’t just curled something deep inside her, “that second verse. Think about it. Or don’t. You’re the one in the booth.”

******

Vic didn’t need big speeches or candlelit five-course dinners—if anything, she’d mock the hell out of him for trying. But he could do quiet. Thoughtful. Her kind of romantic.

So Aegon let himself into Sara’s apartment with the keys she'd dropped into his palm that afternoon and got to work.

First: clean up. Not a deep clean—she'd smell that shit immediately and get suspicious—but just enough to make space feel a little softer and relieve her from doing it herself. The coffee table was wiped down. The blanket she always curled up with folded over the sofa, then unfolded and draped again because it looked too staged. The lamp near the sofa clicked on, casting a warm, low glow that made everything feel calmer, even to him.

He set up their old DVD player next.  

Moulin Rouge! still in its scratched plastic case, cover slightly torn at the edge. They’d watched it once weeks ago—she’d cried and tried to pretend she hadn’t, he’d pretended not to notice and then teased her about it anyway. She’d rolled her eyes, called him a little shit, but smiled the whole time.

The menu screen flickered on, Ewan McGregor’s voice caught mid-note, looping endlessly. He turned the volume low and left it waiting.

Dinner was next.  

Takeout—of course. Anything else would’ve felt wrong. She didn’t trust people who liked cooking too much. Thai was safer. Pad See Ew, crispy tofu, green curry—the comfort food she never ordered herself but always stole from his plate.

Now all that was left to do was wait.  

And try not to look like he was waiting.

He paced a little. Changed the position of the chopsticks. Adjusted the blanket again.  

Sat down. Got up. Checked his phone. Zero texts. Nothing from her.  

Not that he expected one.

She was exhausted lately. He could see it in the gaps between their moments—the way she slouched in doorframes, how her sentences trailed off when she thought no one was listening. And if Sara was telling the truth—and she usually was—Vic wasn’t just exhausted. She was slipping. Going quiet in a way that didn’t look like peace.

Aegon hated that. 

Hated feeling like the world was making her smaller when all he wanted was to see her whole.

He needed to grow a pair, set aside his stupid jealousy that she definitely didn’t deserve, stop selfishly obsessing over his damn album, and get back to focusing on what was now his priority: Vic.

So he waited. Quiet, in her space, in the soft light, with a movie and dinner and the tiny hope that maybe this would be enough to make her exhale.

And then—

Keys jingled outside the door.

His chest pulled tight.

The door swung open.  

And she froze. Like her brain short-circuited at the sight of him in her apartment.

She was mid-shrug out of her jacket, bag still half-slipped off one shoulder, hair damp at the ends from a light rain outside. Her eyes darted from him to the couch to the takeout and then back to him, wide with suspicion.

“What the fuck,” she said softly, blinking.

Aegon raised both hands like don’t shoot. “Hi.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, a soft smile blossoming on her face.

“I broke in,” he said. “Left a trail of destruction. Probably microwaved your fish sauce.”

Vic narrowed her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Is that green curry?”

“Yes.���

“Did you—” She stepped inside slowly, eyes sweeping over the room like she was trying to spot the trap. “Did you set up Moulin Rouge?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Well… Sara’s out. And you haven’t exactly been returning texts, so…”

Her brows lifted, finally catching up to what was happening.

It hit her all at once, visible in the way her posture shifted. The bag thudded to the floor. Her jacket joined it. She clearly wasn’t used to this. Not from anyone. Not something sweet, and quiet, and no-pressure. 

She nudged him with her hip as she passed, heading for the sofa. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

Aegon followed, slower. “You think I’ve been what?” he asked, the laugh in his voice edged with disbelief. “I’ve been trying to see you for days.”

He sat down beside her, close but not touching. “I missed you,” she said finally, voice almost too soft. “A stupid amount.”

Aegon looked at her, studied the edges of her face like he’d been trying to memorize them in her absence. “It felt like the fucking universe was in on it.”

She nodded, something small and sad in it. “It really did.”

They sat there for a moment, the kind of silence that wasn’t heavy, just honest.

Then she glanced sideways, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. “So this is how you say “I missed you too”.”

“I was romantically pursuing you against odds worthy of a tragic Victorian novel, thank you very much.”

She let out a quiet laugh. “A real martyr.”

“So brave.”

They both smiled at the same time, soft and slightly shaky, like exhaling tension neither of them knew they were still holding.

And then he saw it.

The hair.

Shorter. A sharp bob now, grazing her jaw, with a fringe that looked like it hadn’t fully decided what it wanted to be yet. It framed her face in a way that made her look… sharper. Like she was cosplaying confidence and hadn’t fully committed to the role.

He didn’t say anything at first, just stared a second longer than was socially acceptable.

She noticed.

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” Her hand lifted to her bangs, nervous, defensive. “I cut it. It’s fine. Allen wanted ‘a  look’. Whatever the fuck that means.”

Aegon tilted his head. “Do you like it?”

Vic didn’t answer right away. That was the answer.

“I don’t hate it,” she said after a beat.

He leaned closer. Gently reached out, ran two fingers along the edge of her bangs, soft and damp.

“You’re allowed to say you don’t like it,” she muttered, eyes flitting away again. “I won’t cry about it.”

“That’s not what I was thinking,” he said, voice softening.

She raised her eyebrows, skeptical.

“I was thinking,” he said, trailing her cheeks with his thumb, “You look like a dangerous French film student,” he said.

She laughed once, sharp. “That’s weirdly specific.”

“I mean that in the best way. You’re like, mysterious now. Might seduce me and then ghost me for three years.”

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, but she was smiling now.

“I’m serious.” He leaned in slightly, voice lowering. “You look hot.”

Her cheeks flushed. She tried to roll her eyes again, but it didn’t land. Her hands moved to his shirt, tugging him a little closer.

He didn’t resist.

Her lips were right there, and when he kissed her it felt like opening a window. Warm, easy, a little clumsy at first—like they were both trying to remember how this worked after too many days apart. Her fingers slipped into his hair, tugged just enough to make him exhale against her mouth.

The second kiss was messier. Hungrier. Less I missed you and more I need you right now. His hands found her hips, slid beneath the hem of her shirt, skin warm and familiar under his palms. 

She broke the kiss long enough to murmur, “Wait, the movie—”

“Fuck the movie,” he said, already steering them toward the hallway.

“But it’s Moulin Rouge.”

“It’ll still be Moulin Rouge tomorrow.”

“You lit a candle, didn’t you?”

“I was trying to be romantic, Jesus—”

She laughed against his neck, breath catching as he pressed her against the hallway wall.

Their mouths found each other again, and again, and it felt like breathing for the first time in days. Like shaking off someone else’s version of who she was supposed to be.

By the time they reached her bedroom, Moulin Rouge was still looping in the background, the menu music tinny and distant. Aegon barely noticed.

He realised he didn’t care how long it took for her to feel like herself again. He’d be here. Quietly. On her red sofa. In her bed. Wherever she needed.

[soapywankenopy]

Oh Katniss and Finnick my loves

They are one of the best depictions of friendship in all of fiction

Definitely the best friendship in THG

I love them so much

[divatheeva]

A piece I did for @ingo-ingoing-ingone for his very cool fic (that I still need to read but I’m scared to because of angst) Always By Your Side!! Might need to tap the photo to see it in better quality, thank u for that Tumblr xoxo

Ingo and Emmet are hangin out at the park and see a Pokémon that reminds them of themselves! :) too bad it’s a bit of a bully

[elrielffs]

All this talk about how SJM "wouldn't do that to poor Lucien, he's already been thru so much!" in regards to Elain rejecting him.

Forget that Dorian got rejected by Aelin, watched his next lover Sorcha's head get cut off, and then was a prisoner of his own mind and had to watch his dad die after finding out he loved him all those years.

Yes, SJM would do that.

(She also paired Manon and Dorian a -gasp- couple with different lifespans! @ those that they say Lucien and Vassa can't be together. Same with Lorcan and Elide.)

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[recurring-polynya]

I just saw the drawing prompts post! If it's not too, I've love to Renji, Izuru, and Momo being the best Brot3 :3 Totally okay if you don't want to draw them though!

"I hope that none of you will simply settle for being here, but instead will strive to someday lead the companies you join!"

[gods-favorite-autistic]

Hey in case y’all were wondering I’m having a bad time