“am I hearing a man who claims he doesn’t care about anything in this world just expressed his concern for me?” Homelander floats inside the apartment through the balcony, unbothered about the blood droplets staining the carpet. Kicking off his red boots then marches right to the bathroom. “don’t worry, isn’t my blood. If you take what I’m saying. Had to get rid of a- uh.. nosy paparazzi, yeah.” Because who cares if a useless junky disappears from the face of the earth? Those celebrities might even thank him for this and John had seen the pictures in the man’s apartment.

making lovely ship edits for the babes : ft. @jgoldberg

Oh no, this couldn't be more unexpected, and I can tell you I've been moving in so slow, don't let it throw you off too far cause I'll be running right behind you. Could this be out of line? (Could this be out of line) To say you're the only one breaking me down like this, you're the only one I would take a shot on. keep me hanging on so contagiously. - So Contagious by Acceptance

ㅤㅤ𝓗aving just woke up in the strange and large-stark-white dorms, Sydney groggily got up out of her bed. A teal uniform now replaced the clothes she previously wore. Her cheeks blushed thinking that at some point someone had switched out her clothes. A quick glance around from where she was sitting, she wasn't the only one that looked confused. People started milling about and making their way to the big communal place in the middle. Is that where we're supposed to go? She thought to herself. Slowly getting up from the bed, she tucked some hair behind her right ear and started to make her way down the tiers. On her way down whilst scanning the room, she spotted a familiar face. She quickly made her way over to him. ❝J-Joe?❞ Sydney stuttered. Hoping that he was still in good sorts.

@belladonna-of-thraneal / @bewitchingbaker / @jgoldberg

Under her breath, V grins out to herself. "Modi, mwen te resevwa atansyon yon atansyon ameriken? Sa a se yon bon jou! Yon premye!"

Maren wasn’t used to being noticed. She’d made it this far in life by being invisible, by blending in to the background. She was never in the spotlight and she never wanted to be. So she couldn’t have known someone was watching her so intently. Not when she was sure the only person who wanted to watch her was dead. She didn’t know for sure, but Maren wanted to believe she’d killed Sully. It would be safer to assume that he was still out there, biding his time until he could track her down again, but, if she wanted to sleep, she had to convince herself that the wounds she’d inflicted had been severe enough.

Even if they weren’t fatal, Sully wouldn’t find her in here. He might look in bookstores, correctly thinking she’d be lurking about, but he’d never think to look in the basement. The thought that he’d never be able to find her, if he were still alive, was oddly comforting. She was safe down here, tucked away out of sight and, surely, out of mind. With nothing to do and no one to hurt. Just like her father.

“I’m not trying to get you to let me out.” She murmurs. I like it here, she wants to say, but bites her tongue hard enough she tastes blood. She isn’t sure why she says such a thing, not when the smart thing to do would be to beg for freedom. To reason with him. That’s what a normal person would do, isn’t it? Barter for her safety, plead for her release back into the wild. But Maren always knew she’d end up in a cage one day, she always knew her past would catch up with her, she just hadn’t thought it would happen like this.

She eagerly takes the container, her stomach rumbling beneath the baggy layers of clothes. She nods a silent ‘thank you’ before placing it down on the floor beside her makeshift bed. She was hungry, but not for food. Not yet, at least. For now, her body was still in a state of fight or flight, her stomach unwilling to welcome any sort of food with actual nutrition. She wasn’t hungry for bologna sandwiches or whatever other foods people put in brown paper bags. But she was almost positive that he wouldn’t think to bring her what she truly craved.

When he mentions work, Maren looks up at him with a quizzical expression. He wanted her to save her energy to do work? She couldn’t imagine what kind of work he would employ her with here. She was too short and frail to do any meaningful labor, and she wasn’t really a college student so it wasn’t as though she had credentials for anything. And despite the lectures she’d sat in on pretending to be Kerri-Ann, Maren knew it was all pointless in the end.

“What kind of work?”

Watching Joe discover the joys of playing video games was both extremely amusing and adorable at the same time. When they had started suggesting they played video games together, Joe had been completely reluctant. In fact, he almost did not want to even hear about it. Video games were childish, not for him, not for an adult. And, this time, even their large honey brown eyes had not been enough to convince him at first.

It had taken them days, weeks, to get him to try even one game. But what made them even more proud was to see him enjoy himself like he did. At some point, Hyacinthe had completely stopped given him advices only to watch him - ignoring the screen -, a smile larger each time growing on their features.

It was a very cold day in December when Pippa stumbled into the little bookstore she'd walked past many times. As the cold penetrated her jacket and seeped through her skin into her bones where it solidified, the young woman still smiled. She could never imagine a life without cold winters. The extra time it took to put on more layers was worth it when the cold air stung her nose.

Pippa was 27 this year. Today, had been a relatively good day by her standards. No hoarse whispers in her ears, no imaginary friends, no incessant ringing in her ear. There hadn't been a need to dampen her senses with alcohol or the various labeled drugs in her medicine cabinet. A walk would be enough medicine today. Or so she thought.

The woman pushed open the front door. There were a few others scattered around. The seemingly sole employee was already busy "helping" a woman. The two were chatting away, the woman giggling wildly and tucking her hair behind her ear. It made Pippa want to roll her eyes, but instead, she quickly walked past them.

Her little feet carried her slowly up and down the aisles, taking in the various colors and words, titles and authors. When she was younger, Pippa lamented that she'd never be able to listen to every song ever made, nor would she be able to play every song, every instrument, every note. Now, as an adult, she lamented being unable to read every book. She figured spending some quality time with these books, taking in their spines and even taking some off the shelves to read blurbs and the first few pages would suffice for now. They still deserved attention, even if she couldn't give her all.

Time slipped by and without noticing, the book store had gone quiet while she still wandered around the back, reaching the music biography section. Her eyes scanned the shelves, the corners of her mouth pulling up into a smile. Stories of the greats neatly sat pressed together. Frankie Manning, Stan Gatez, Thelonius Monk, Chet Baker, Miles Davis, Ella Fitzgerald. So many names she'd grown up with, from girlhood to womanhood.

Music critics around the city praised Pippa for her ability to "bring the very souls of the greats back from the dead with her electric playing". While it was flattering, Pippa hated the sentiment. She didn't bring them back. They were always there, simply using her as a conduit to keep the beauty of music alive. She owed her life to them, not the other way around.

Pippa pushed a few of her unruly red curls from her face when her eyes fell on her own face. There she was, 20 years old, holding a pair of drumsticks, young, laughing. She was in the top left of a group of other young, laughing musicians. Her classmates. Pippa had founded a club at Julliard focused on jazz revival and making it accessible to those without means to pay for performances: The Jazz Gaggle.

The weirdly talented group of friends taught the inner-city kids, fostered young talent and played in the streets of Manhattan. They shared their love for music in the purest way they knew how: being weird and spontaneous. One day, a music journalist reached out asking to write a book about the group's mission. The Young Faces of Jazz: The Story of the Julliard Jazz Gaggle.