#idk what this is!

[paceywittters]

Chenford + I don’t know what you want from me.

"I don't know what you want from me," she grins, biting gently on the rim of her glass, her eyes aglow as she raises a brow at him. Tim swallows, pursing his lips, keeping quiet. He raises his own brow back at her and she lets her shoulders go slack, laughing as she relaxes back into the couch and sets her glass down on the side table. "What? I don't. You haven't said."

"You really don't know what I want from you?" His voice is soft, sincere, and he can tell that it gets to her. Lucy's cheeks flush and her hair falls over her face as she slides in closer to him, her hand pressing gently into his leg as it moves from his knee to his thigh. He reaches out and pushes her hair out of the way, smiling gently as she meets his gaze.

She shakes her head, her voice so quiet he swears she's mouthing the word, "no," as she says it. He takes a slow pull from his beer, then leans forward to set it down on the coffee table before moving to pull her into his lap. She laughs, letting him tug her right where he wants her, then rests her hands lightly against his chest. She fiddles with the tiny buttons on his henley, not actually doing anything with them more than just busying herself and avoiding his eyes. "What, baby?"

He chuckles, settling his hands on her waist where her shirt's ridden up from her jeans. "Hmm," he murmurs, pressing his thumbs lightly into her skin, his eyes settled on her mouth. "What do I want from you, love?"

Lucy looks up at him, her eyes serious for a moment, full, before she softens and tips her head to the side. "Yeah," she nods gently. "What do you want from me, love?"

Tim licks his lips, the candlelight warm as it casts over her face. He hums softly, sliding one of his hands further up her waist, letting it brush over her ribs as her fingers graze up to his neck, tapping lightly against his pulse. "Everything," he murmurs, doing his best to sound casual.

She swallows, raising her brow at him. "That's a big ask," she breathes, leaning in closer, her nose nudging against his own. "Don't you think?"

He ghosts his lips against hers, quiet and thoughtful as he drags his thumb along the curve of her waist slowly. "Not when you're asking the right person," he decides after a long few moments of the only perceptible sounds being their breath and the soft crackling of the candle's wick.

She doesn't bother agreeing with him verbally, but he can feel that she knows exactly what he means in her kiss.

[writhe]

*suddenly does a u turn and skitters down a gravel road while braking hard and hops feverishly out of my car with a knife and runs to these because i’d spotted them driving and thought they were chicken of the woods only to find i was wrong*

[buffyspeak]

Prometheus, who stole fire

Summary: There's always a consequence for bringing someone back from the dead. The real question is this: who's the one paying for it? 

ao3 link

It’s eleven-twelve, which means it’s almost the worst moment of Clary’s life, suspended in the stifling Institute air, the smell of death and salt-lake brine taunting her.

Clary arranges his pillow as Jace lies back on the bed, a strategically cut sheet of plastic that just manages to cover the bed placed under him.

“Okay?” she said, then shakes her head. It’s a stupid question.

Jace tries to smile for her. It doesn’t reach the brilliant shine of his eyes.

“It’s all good, Clary. No more I’m sorrys, remember?”

“I love you,” she offers, as small it feels, and brushes a loose strand of hair out of his eyes to tuck it behind his ear. Jace opens his mouth like he’s going to respond, but he chokes on it, and when Clary looks down, his shirt is soaked through with blood.

They’ve tried dressing the wound before. There’s not much point when it heals back up after he wakes, like it was never there, and when his blood is fully replenished. Like it never happened.

Still, “I’m sorry,” Clary says and holds his hand through it. She’s not sure how much pain he feels and how much is lost to numbness. She never asks. “I’m sorry.”

She stays there until the tight grip of his hands goes lax and his eyes flutter closed.

If she was any less selfish, she’d stay with him the whole time, whether it takes hours or minutes. It varies a lot.

As it is, though she can’t leave the room—someone needs to be here when he wakes—she can’t quite bring herself to stay at his bedside, his skin growing colder against hers, his face growing sick and pale and alien to her.

So she grabs her sketchbook from her bookshelf, and then sits with her back to the side of it, legs crossed and back stiff against the dark wood.

The whole scene doesn’t coax much inspiration from her.

What would she even draw? Her boyfriend dying? His greying skin? Their other friends? Izzy, with her trusting, unknowing eyes, and Simon with that smile that’s always believed in her goodness. It’s laughable.

Or the mother she couldn’t save, didn’t save, didn’t wish for.

Or then there’s Alec, with dark circles painted under his eyes, panic and terror masking themselves as anger in his unyielding expression.

Jace has deluded himself into thinking that Alec can’t feel it. Clary, for her part, knows they’ve ruined his life, too. He’s stopped asking questions, but he’s also stopped speaking to either of them much at all, except to send them out on mission.

They’ve been making it work, but Clary wonders how long that can last. There are few things she fears more than the day when they’re late getting back and he goes down and doesn’t get up again. When a demon spots how weak she’s made him in the moments afterward, when he breathes back to life, disoriented.

When he dies on her for real.

Clary shakes her head out of the thought and looks back over to where Jace lies.

Yup, still dead.

Unbidden, her mind conjures swirling images, merged together from memories of some mythology class she took in school—Prometheus, who stole fire. Sisyphus. And that goddamn boulder.

All the legends are fucking true, Clary thinks, and without conscious thought, she slams her sketchbook shut and lets it clatter to the ground as she pulls her knees to her chest. She closes her eyes, but not for long, because when she does, she’s back at Lake Lyn, the salty breeze of it on the tip of her tongue, the angel bright and solemn, on the very precipice of this existence. The way she’d forced her will into becoming his.

Valentine’s eyes as she worked the dagger in. Once, then twice, then three times for good measure. After she’d already slit his throat, too.

She leans her head back against the wood.

It’s worth it, she thinks, even as she turns to Jace and he’s still lying there, the room nauseatingly quiet. It has to be.

Clary feels acidic bile rise in her throat. But she chokes it back. And then she picks up her pencil.

Clary arranges his pillow as Jace lies back on the bed, a strategically cut sheet of plastic that just manages to cover the bed placed under him.

“Okay?” she said, then shakes her head. It’s a stupid question.

Jace tries to smile for her. It doesn’t reach the brilliant shine of his eyes.

“It’s all good, Clary. No more I’m sorrys, remember?”

“I love you,” she offers, as small it feels, and brushes a loose strand of hair out of his eyes to tuck it behind his ear. Jace opens his mouth like he’s going to respond, but he chokes on it, and when Clary looks down, his shirt is soaked through with blood.

They’ve tried dressing the wound before. There’s not much point when it heals back up after he wakes, like it was never there, and when his blood is fully replenished. Like it never happened.

Still, “I’m sorry,” Clary says and holds his hand through it. She’s not sure how much pain he feels and how much is lost to numbness. She never asks. “I’m sorry.”

She stays there until the tight grip of his hands goes lax and his eyes flutter closed.

If she was any less selfish, she’d stay with him the whole time, whether it takes hours or minutes. It varies a lot.

As it is, though she can’t leave the room—someone needs to be here when he wakes—she can’t quite bring herself to stay at his bedside, his skin growing colder against hers, his face growing sick and pale and alien to her.

So she grabs her sketchbook from her bookshelf, and then sits with her back to the side of it, legs crossed and back stiff against the dark wood.

The whole scene doesn’t coax much inspiration from her.

What would she even draw? Her boyfriend dying? His greying skin? Their other friends? Izzy, with her trusting, unknowing eyes, and Simon with that smile that’s always believed in her goodness. It’s laughable.

Or the mother she couldn’t save, didn’t save, didn’t wish for.

Or then there’s Alec, with dark circles painted under his eyes, panic and terror masking themselves as anger in his unyielding expression.

Jace has deluded himself into thinking that Alec can’t feel it. Clary, for her part, knows they’ve ruined his life, too. He’s stopped asking questions, but he’s also stopped speaking to either of them much at all, except to send them out on mission.

They’ve been making it work, but Clary wonders how long that can last. There are few things she fears more than the day when they’re late getting back and he goes down and doesn’t get up again. When a demon spots how weak she’s made him in the moments afterward, when he breathes back to life, disoriented.

When he dies on her for real.

Clary shakes her head out of the thought and looks back over to where Jace lies.

Yup, still dead.

Unbidden, her mind conjures swirling images, merged together from memories of some mythology class she took in school—Prometheus, who stole fire. Sisyphus. And that goddamn boulder.

All the legends are fucking true, Clary thinks, and without conscious thought, she slams her sketchbook shut and lets it clatter to the ground as she pulls her knees to her chest. She closes her eyes, but not for long, because when she does, she’s back at Lake Lyn, the salty breeze of it on the tip of her tongue, the angel bright and solemn, on the very precipice of this existence. The way she’d forced her will into becoming his.

Valentine’s eyes as she worked the dagger in. Once, then twice, then three times for good measure. After she’d already slit his throat, too.

She leans her head back against the wood.

It’s worth it, she thinks, even as she turns to Jace and he’s still lying there, the room nauseatingly quiet. It has to be.

Clary feels acidic bile rise in her throat. But she chokes it back. And then she picks up her pencil.

[blabberoo]

Idk what au im cooking.. but Im cooking..

[everoutoftouch]

If you have Spotify reblog this and tag what your number one song on your “on repeat” playlist is.

[retrobr]

I have no excuses and no regrets

[guiiay]

jinx and isha visit a walmart

[so-many-ocs]

[on the verge of having a complete breakdown] i need to make some kind of list or perhaps sort things into categories

[kankalin]

every time i think about them i feel like i need the memory gun

[wdapteo]

hey everyone be careful

I don't know if anyone has talked about this, but lately this has been happening in other fandoms too. There'll be these bot accounts that straight up steals people's posts and adds "expand" "read more" "continue" as a link in the end of the post - DON'T CLICK ON THAT, it's most likely a malware or something of the like.

so if you see a post like this: no profile picture, something that looks reposted (I've seen this happening to artists too) and a link at the end, even if the post has tags, that's a bot. Block and report it.

stay safe, and I hope @staff finds a way to stop these bots soon!

[whumperofworlds]

What the hell is happening???

A friend lost 200 followers. Someone else lost a bunch of followers too. And I also lost 100?

Is something happening?! Is there a purge?!

[bartex-x]

so theres this trend on twitter of people showing their favourite media tropes and i just wanted to show you mine :)

[12neonlit-stage]

you're allowed to discuss and work together, reblog for a higher sample size or something

You have 1 week, good luck!

[isuggestforcemasc]

I might know a thing or two about this feeling