epicgirlfailures
epicgirlfailures
disasters, one and all
42 posts
sera's mumu, multi-ship blog (see rules before interacting!). mun is 25, all muses are 21+.
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epicgirlfailures · 3 hours ago
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“Running away?” she scoffed, shooting him a look over her shoulder. “You make me sound like a fucking teenager.”
Beyond a tight quirk of her lip, Rhiannon looked calm. Maybe a little impatient. How many times had she been here? Staring down one in a long line of hurt, self-righteous guys with more feelings than sense?
Ty didn’t know her. She’d never let him. What right did he have to be hurt?
“I already told you. I’m helping out a friend.” If it was a lie, it was a good one. Not so much as a crack in her voice. But she kept her back to him—busied herself with a few specks of dust on the kitchen counter. “Christ, Ty. I’m sorry. Is that what you need to hear?”
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Rhiannon shot him a wounded, pitying look—scrunched nose, tilted head, a sad frown marring a pretty face. It was the kind of look you wore when a child skinned their knee. She felt bad. Clearly. But the cloud of cannabis smoke hovering around her head made it all seem…dull. A pillowcase to muffle the screaming.
“Aw, Ty, it's…it's complicated. C'mon. You knew that,” she said, turning to set her box on the kitchen counter. Just yesterday, it was littered with utensils, a Big Gulp cup forgotten by the sink. But now, it sat barren. “My friend in Philly just lost her roommate, and she said I could crash with her for a while. What was I supposed to say? No?"
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epicgirlfailures · 11 hours ago
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She's already walking in by the time Noel invites her to. It's not so much entitlement as it is a force of habit. An old rhythm they move to, no matter the time or the place. His singing earns the same playful roll of her eyes as always; his lips on her cheek, a grin. 
“Classic's just another word for old as shit,” Rhiannon teases, punctuated by an easy chuckle. She can't let him know she likes it. Can't let him think she doesn't, either. Her head tilts to the side, almost cat-like. “And who says I'm not tired of it, anyway?”
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Noel's hotel room is small, even for just two. A queen bed swallows most of the space, pushed against the wall and tucked into a corner. No stains…that they could see, anyway. In the opposite corner lies a desk swathed in a cheap black finish. Pale brown dots the side of it like a patchwork of bruises—places where the black had peeled or chipped off entirely.
The room's sole saving grace is its balcony. It isn't spacious either, but the room is high enough to offer a view of the Manhattan streets below. Rhiannon almost thinks it's pretty.
“There's no one waiting on me, if that's what you're asking.” As if by sleight of hand, a plastic baggie drops from her sleeve. She tosses it, but the smell reaches him first. “'Wedding Cake,' all the way from sunny San Diego. Indica hybrid.”
Closed starter for: @fallenmuses
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Ten knocks on the door, with just the knuckle of her middle finger. Like she always did.
It was a code of her own making, not that either of them ever put it into words. Rhiannon didn't know when it started, or why she did the first time; what she did know was that the rhythm was saved just for him. Her way of announcing herself before Noel ever opened the door.
One-two-three. One-two-three. One-two-three, one.
No matter how often she moved, or where, Rhiannon had a terrible habit of finding him anyway. Three nights in San Diego. Opening night at some skeezy club in Chicago. Of course, that was all before Alaska's Aquarium broke up. Now, it was a cheap hotel on a New York corner, lit solely by billboards and flickering streetlights. 
She pushed her hair out of her face. Studied the black nail polish she'd chipped on purpose. The world was ever-changing, but not this. Not them.
The door opened, and she raised a resigned hand before Noel could even get a word out.
“Go ahead,” Rhiannon sighed, the corners of her lips pulling into a traitorous smile. “Sing the fucking song.”
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epicgirlfailures · 1 day ago
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“Damsel?” Sophia scoffed. She grabbed the top of the chair, then reached for the rope. A soft noise left the back of her throat as she hauled herself up. “And here I thought I'd proven myself.”
The hanging chair swayed beneath her weight, rope whining. Her position was precarious only up to the moment Morgan stilled it with his hand. Joking felt easy. Smiling, even easier. Like she hadn't narrowly escaped death just a few minutes ago.
Her body craned left, snatching the chair hovering next to her. When a few earnest tugs at the knot failed, she improvised, pulling a metal nail file from her purse and shoving the pointed end straight through. Dense, synthetic fibers gave way to effort and leverage. She was calm. Even confident. But the sound of Morgan's voice, low and careless beneath her, sent her hands fumbling. It was a narrow stroke of luck that the file didn't slip through her palms.
“That so?" Sophia laughed, a few notes sharp. It was almost a gasp. What were her hands supposed to be doing? “I didn't know tying people up was your thing.”
The knot came undone at the same time she did. Hottest. Demonstration. Wicker furniture fell to the floor like a corpse, stiff and heavy. She might have flinched, if she even noticed the sound.
Morgan's hand was a brand against her bare skin, as hot as it was punishing. Not that he meant it to be. But as Sophia shuffled left—set herself to the task of untying the next piece—a traitorous warmth spread across her cheeks. The second knot took far longer. Her fingers were shaking. 
She imagined his hand climbing higher, sneaking under the hem of her skirt. Grazing past her thigh. Finding the supple, paper-thin lace she'd slipped into for someone else. It wasn't the fear that he might; it was the hope that he would.
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“What if we don't have later?” she asked, voice soft enough to share a secret. “What then?”
The second chair came crashing down, much like its sibling. This time, the sound did not go ignored. A low, saliva-thickened roar called to them from outside the store, sending uneasy vibrations through the walls. The floor. Sophia couldn't tell if it was in front of them, or above them. 
A cruel awakening to reality. 
She sucked in a breath. Moved on. Her hands never stilled, never left themselves unoccupied. Hands that had pushed intestines back inside bodies, peeled shards of glass from the very flesh they'd rent apart. Now, their object was the very chair she stood upon. Hurried, but never frantic. Precise, but never strained. There was only purpose.
“Catch me, or you'll be reading that obituary,” Sophia said, praying Morgan was as steady as he'd claimed to be. “Ready?”
It didn't matter what the answer was; she didn't wait to hear it. The whole thing fell at once, promptly taking her down with it. That suited her just fine. If he dropped her—let her skull crack open against the tile floor—she would deserve it.
Morgan seemed a man possessed—sharp laughs, half-wild gestures. At first the sound of it was pleasant, like the relief of living had overtaken his composure. But the longer it went on, the more Sophia wondered if there was something else churning inside him. 
He reminded her of a few old patients. The ones who'd been sectioned, whose mania had them convinced they were heroes or messiahs or gods. In those long few seconds he faced away from her, she mouthed to herself:
“Chasing?”
But she did not question his excuse. Just offered a glimmer of a smile in kind, and pushed the thought out of her head. Endorphins, surely. Perhaps a few too many.
“I used to play softball,” Sophia murmured thoughtlessly. He hadn't asked, more than likely didn't care, but there was an interminable desire for Morgan to know her that spurred it anyway. “Running, throwing…not exactly new.”
Whatever lingering worries she might have had died the instant his voice softened. You did good. At that, her smile grew. Took on a more genuine shape, with parted lips and pulled corners. It meant too much. Won her over too quickly. 
At Morgan's prompting, she pointed to the opposite corner of the store, where a dusty sign suspended from the ceiling read OUTDOORS in a bold, white font. Tucked amongst iron-framed patio tables and wicker couches, she could just make out a collection of hanging chairs strung up next to the windows. Rope. Thick, load-bearing, and made to endure. The sound of her high heels echoed faintly as she made her way toward them.
There was a moment, when her back was to him, that she reached into her purse and grabbed her cellphone. She wasn't hiding it, really. But avoiding a question or two was…easier. Her phone was little more than a very expensive flashlight, now—the signal had long gone dead. Even so, she opened her recent calls, and tapped the name at the top. Call failed.
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She swore under her breath, and shoved it away.
The hanging chairs dangled from a series of hooks, embedded into a beam some six feet overhead. Display only. Sophia scowled, and stared closer; decorative knots, tangled around each hook, held them together.
“Help me up,” she said, planting one foot on the centermost chair. It swayed dangerously beneath her weight. “I can untie them, just—keep me steady.”
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epicgirlfailures · 1 day ago
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Rhiannon shot him a wounded, pitying look—scrunched nose, tilted head, a sad frown marring a pretty face. It was the kind of look you wore when a child skinned their knee. She felt bad. Clearly. But the cloud of cannabis smoke hovering around her head made it all seem…dull. A pillowcase to muffle the screaming.
“Aw, Ty, it's…it's complicated. C'mon. You knew that,” she said, turning to set her box on the kitchen counter. Just yesterday, it was littered with utensils, a Big Gulp cup forgotten by the sink. But now, it sat barren. “My friend in Philly just lost her roommate, and she said I could crash with her for a while. What was I supposed to say? No?"
Open to: All (m/nb if romantic)
Rules
Muse: Rhiannon Liang, 23. Heterosexual. Sub. Botanical genius who wastes her talents dealing pot. Gregarious, fun-loving, and utterly allergic to commitment. Smart, but likes to play dumb. Plays too many video games.
Plot: Y/M visits Rhiannon, but finds her in the process of moving out unexpectedly. She didn't tell them, didn't want them to know, and is now trying to save face.
Suggested connection: A close friend, a best friend, a one night stand she ghosted, a situationship who wants/wanted to make things official, a customer who's pissed they're about to lose their dealer. (no taboo please!) @indiestarter
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The door was shut, but not locked. They knocked, but she didn't answer. Still, the music blaring from inside gave her away. Rhiannon hummed idly to the tune, head bobbing, foot tapping as she stuck a line of packing tape onto a box. In fact, there were boxes everywhere, all bearing Sharpied-on labels like “KITCHEN” and “SNOOP DOGG STARTER PACK.” She was oblivious to the person behind her—until she turned around.
“Ohhhhh shit,” she said, pushing her headphones off with one hand. “Uh. Hey. Um. So, I'm…moving.”
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epicgirlfailures · 1 day ago
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Jaime approached with a raised hand, like he couldn't decide if he was going for a wave or a handshake. Of course, Rebecca was statue-still, and the gesture died a miserable death at his hip. He smiled a little too wide to compensate. Rain stuck to his lashes in big, blinding blobs.
This is fine, he told himself. Maybe one of the cars passing by will hit me, and I'll die, and I won't have to make it through the rest of this conversation. Nearly a decade ago, he was arrested for stealing her catalytic converter and selling it to an undercover cop. If there was a God, Jaime thought, he had a sickening sense of humor.
“Oh, yeah. I-I did. But my sister Delilah—you remember Lilah, right?—she's, uh. Lettin' me crash with her for a while. So.” More words churned in his stomach like vomit. Apologies. Excuses. He kept it all down with a clenched jaw and a too-wide smile. “But hey! I'm pretty handy with cars. Which you already know.”
Kill me, he prayed.
“Lemme just hook you up, and, uh. We'll get out of this fuckin' rain.”
Open to: All (21+ if romantic)
Rules
Muse: Jaime McCarroll, 25. Pansexual. Switch, sub-leaning. “Recovering” addict and skilled mechanic. Sub. Sweet but misguided, optimistic, and loyal to people who don't deserve it. 
Plot: Y/M needs a tow, it's pouring rain, and Jaime's the one who gets called out to do it. Surprise, they know each other—for better or worse.
Suggested connection: Someone Jaime met in rehab, a childhood friend he lost contact with, an ex, a friend he stole money from, someone he's used with in the past. (no taboo please!) @indiestarter
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Jaime came to an uneasy stop on the side of a rain-slicked street. His truck was old, more replaced parts and duct tape than anything, but she was serviceable. Shit, his truck was probably the most stable relationship he had in his life. The thought made him chuckle. Then it made him sad.
He put his truck into park, then stepped out onto the road. His boots saved him from slipping, but only just so; an unsteady hand fumbled for the door and pushed it shut. Real fuckin' professional. It wasn't until he got closer—saw the face of that panicked customer who'd called for help—that he realized just how much shit he was in.
“Uh…hey!” Jaime called through the roar of distant thunder. His voice cracked with something that sounded like fear. “Wow, um, how long has it been?”
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epicgirlfailures · 1 day ago
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Closed starter for: @fallenmuses
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Ten knocks on the door, with just the knuckle of her middle finger. Like she always did.
It was a code of her own making, not that either of them ever put it into words. Rhiannon didn't know when it started, or why she did the first time; what she did know was that the rhythm was saved just for him. Her way of announcing herself before Noel ever opened the door.
One-two-three. One-two-three. One-two-three, one.
No matter how often she moved, or where, Rhiannon had a terrible habit of finding him anyway. Three nights in San Diego. Opening night at some skeezy club in Chicago. Of course, that was all before Alaska's Aquarium broke up. Now, it was a cheap hotel on a New York corner, lit solely by billboards and flickering streetlights. 
She pushed her hair out of her face. Studied the black nail polish she'd chipped on purpose. The world was ever-changing, but not this. Not them.
The door opened, and she raised a resigned hand before Noel could even get a word out.
“Go ahead,” Rhiannon sighed, the corners of her lips pulling into a traitorous smile. “Sing the fucking song.”
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epicgirlfailures · 2 days ago
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Prompts for the “oh no it’s friends to lovers” brainrot
☽ late-night phone calls that last too long and now it’s 3 a.m. and they say, “i don’t talk to anyone like i talk to you.”
☽ inside jokes that somehow turn into flirting without either of you noticing.
☽ sending memes but it’s just a cover for “i’m thinking of you every five minutes and don’t know how to say it.”
☽ “you looked really good today.” said in a half-joking tone, but you both know they meant it.
☽ their hoodie still smells like them and you should probably give it back but it’s soft and warm and you’re doomed.
☽ you make eye contact across a crowded room and they smile like home.
☽ you show up at their house unannounced and they just open the door like, “oh hey, you want snacks or a nap first?”
☽ "you’re my favorite person." whispered like it’s a confession.
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epicgirlfailures · 2 days ago
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Open to: All (21+ if romantic)
Rules
Muse: Jaime McCarroll, 25. Pansexual. Switch, sub-leaning. “Recovering” addict and skilled mechanic. Sub. Sweet but misguided, optimistic, and loyal to people who don't deserve it. 
Plot: Y/M needs a tow, it's pouring rain, and Jaime's the one who gets called out to do it. Surprise, they know each other—for better or worse.
Suggested connection: Someone Jaime met in rehab, a childhood friend he lost contact with, an ex, a friend he stole money from, someone he's used with in the past. (no taboo please!) @indiestarter
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Jaime came to an uneasy stop on the side of a rain-slicked street. His truck was old, more replaced parts and duct tape than anything, but she was serviceable. Shit, his truck was probably the most stable relationship he had in his life. The thought made him chuckle. Then it made him sad.
He put his truck into park, then stepped out onto the road. His boots saved him from slipping, but only just so; an unsteady hand fumbled for the door and pushed it shut. Real fuckin' professional. It wasn't until he got closer—saw the face of that panicked customer who'd called for help—that he realized just how much shit he was in.
“Uh…hey!” Jaime called through the roar of distant thunder. His voice cracked with something that sounded like fear. “Wow, um, how long has it been?”
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epicgirlfailures · 2 days ago
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Open to: All (25+ if romantic)
Rules
Muse: Caleb Morrison, 35. Bisexual. Soft dom. Ex-marine turned private security. Aloof but short-tempered, allegedly cares more about his paycheck than anything. 
Plot: Y/M works at a company Caleb does security for. He is unshakable and frustratingly calm. Maybe Y/M is trying to get a rise out of him, maybe Y/M is pestering him with questions, or maybe Y/M resents needing protection at all. Up to you.
Suggested connection: The CEO's kid, the CEO themself, an assistant to an executive, a receptionist, an intern who is equally underpaid. (no taboo please!) @indiestarter
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Caleb never stood with his arms crossed. Never put his feet up, never kept his eyes closed for more than a heartbeat. If he could stop himself from needing to piss—or hell, sleep—he'd do it. God. Imagine how much he could get done if he didn't have to sleep. 
He'd posted himself feet away from reception, eyes following each and every suit that happened to walk past. No one paid him any mind. Caleb was a constant presence, not much different than the cameras mounted in every corner. People knew he watched, but made it a point not to look back.
That is, until a familiar face walked right up to him, without a care in the world.
“Can I help you?” he asked, before so much as a word left their mouth. Not gruff, but certainly not welcoming either. 
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epicgirlfailures · 2 days ago
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Open to: All (m/nb if romantic)
Rules
Muse: Rhiannon Liang, 23. Heterosexual. Sub. Botanical genius who wastes her talents dealing pot. Gregarious, fun-loving, and utterly allergic to commitment. Smart, but likes to play dumb. Plays too many video games.
Plot: Y/M visits Rhiannon, but finds her in the process of moving out unexpectedly. She didn't tell them, didn't want them to know, and is now trying to save face.
Suggested connection: A close friend, a best friend, a one night stand she ghosted, a situationship who wants/wanted to make things official, a customer who's pissed they're about to lose their dealer. (no taboo please!) @indiestarter
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The door was shut, but not locked. They knocked, but she didn't answer. Still, the music blaring from inside gave her away. Rhiannon hummed idly to the tune, head bobbing, foot tapping as she stuck a line of packing tape onto a box. In fact, there were boxes everywhere, all bearing Sharpied-on labels like “KITCHEN” and “SNOOP DOGG STARTER PACK.” She was oblivious to the person behind her—until she turned around.
“Ohhhhh shit,” she said, pushing her headphones off with one hand. “Uh. Hey. Um. So, I'm…moving.”
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epicgirlfailures · 2 days ago
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Open to: All (f preferred but not required, 25+ if romantic)
Rules
Muse: Minerva Faulkner, 28, PhD student studying cultural anthropology. Probably pansexual, but she's never labeled herself. Switch, domme-leaning. Cold, calculating, and wary. Seems meaner than she really is. The “weird girl” you avoided in middle school.
Plot: Y/M arrives at the library and finds Minerva sleeping there, having clearly been at her table since last night. Maybe Y/M is nice and offers her coffee and a walk home, or maybe they give her shit.
Suggested connection: A fellow PhD student (maybe a rival?) a professor, a student in a class Minerva TAs for, a concerned friend, an ex, a one night stand Minerva ghosted. (no taboo please!) @indiestarter
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Minerva never liked being seen. Being vulnerable. She was stoic, closed-off to the world, like a house boarded up in anticipation of a storm. That was why it was so shocking to see her in this state: sleeping, peacefully, with both arms cradling her head and a pile of academic journals scattered around her table. 
At the sound of footsteps, she stirred, but didn't wake. Not just yet. Pieces of incomprehensible jargon fell past her lips, almost too soft to make out, but there are a few choice words to be picked out:
“Temple prostitution…self-righteous fucks.”
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epicgirlfailures · 2 days ago
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Open to: All (m preferred, 25+ if romantic)
Rules
Muse: Sophia Leroux, 29-32, trauma surgeon. Bisexual. Switch, sub-leaning. Intelligent but not wise, more attitude than sense, tries way too hard for the wrong people. Started college early at 16 and never really recovered.
Plot: Y/M shows up at her place in need of prompt medical attention. Maybe they can't afford to go to a hospital, maybe they're on the run from someone/something, or maybe it's just a very convenient excuse.
Suggested connection: An ex, a situationship, her best friend, a one night stand, a childhood friend she hasn't seen in years, someone she had a falling out with, go nuts. (no taboo please!) @indiestarter
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Sophia opened her front door just a crack, chain lock dangling in front of her face. The hour was late, it was her first night off in a month, and she was in no mood for nonsense—which included the desperate, familiar face staring back at her. Blue eyes narrowed, more wary than upset. For now.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Sophia demanded, voice low. She threw a look at the apartment door across from hers. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
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epicgirlfailures · 2 days ago
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›       TENSION   LINER   PROMPTS     
"I   dare   you   to   try."
"Do   you   always   get   close?"
"You’re   pushing   my   limits."
"Stop   looking   at   me   like   that."
"I’m   losing   control   here."
"You   have   no   idea,   do   you?"
"I   can’t   resist   you   anymore."
"Stay   back,   or   don’t."
"I   know   what   you   want."
"This   is   getting   dangerous   now."
"You’re   too   tempting   for   me."
"I   shouldn’t   want   this,   but…"
"I   don’t   play   fair,   remember?"
"Careful,   you’re   testing   me."
"You’re   just   making   it   worse."
"You’re   too   close   for   comfort."
"Do   you   always   push   buttons?"
"Stop   before   I   kiss   you."
"You’re   making   it   too   hard."
"I   can’t   stop   thinking   about   you."
"I   want   you   too   much."
"You   know   exactly   what   you’re   doing."
"I’m   not   playing   games   here."
"You’ve   crossed   the   line   now."
"Keep   pushing,   and   you’ll   regret   it."
"This   is   dangerous,   isn’t   it?"
"I’m   trying   not   to   care."
"Don’t   make   me   regret   this."
"You’re   playing   with   fire."
"You   don’t   know   what’s   coming."
"I   shouldn’t   be   this   close."
"We’re   getting   dangerously   close   now."
"I   can   feel   the   heat."
"Don’t   test   me   right   now."
"I   want   you   too   badly."
"Don’t   make   me   chase   you."
"You’re   distracting   me,   you   know."
"I   won’t   fall   for   this."
"I   want   you,   but…"
"What   do   you   want   from   me?"
"I’ll   never   give   in."
"I’m   trying   not   to   care."
"You’re   playing   with   my   patience."
"Don’t   make   this   harder,   please."
"I   can’t   stop   this   feeling."
"I’m   already   in   too   deep."
"You   won’t   walk   away   unscathed."
"You’re   walking   a   fine   line."
"I’m   trying   to   stay   calm."
"What   are   you   doing   to   me?"
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epicgirlfailures · 3 days ago
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The woman standing outside Alya's enclosure tilted her head to one side. Ran a finger across the bars that caged her in. Not shy, she thought to say, but the impulse came and went. Brown eyes wandered—processing, calculating—as though the logistics of keeping an angel contained were of greater interest than the angel herself.
She was a strange thing, in the desert. More librarian than carnival-goer, clad in a smart blouse and a pencil skirt. Cat-eye frames softened what appeared to be permanent skepticism in her gaze. And in spite of the heat, she was deathly pale; save for a thin line of sweat across her forehead, the heat didn't touch her at all.
“Nothing's wrong,” she finally said, lips curling into the ghost of a scowl. That Alya felt some need to fill in the silence seemed…grating. “I mean to steal you. So if you must talk, do it quietly.”
open to : m / f / nb (25+) muse : alya. guardian angel. cast down from heaven when she started breaking rules to protect her charge. wandered the earth for a bit, looking for them, until she was captured by alexander carmont, a collector of curiosities, which he displays in his freak show as part of his travelling circus. plot : y/m comes to visit the carnival and encounters alya. it could be that they've come to free her, or throw rocks at her, or any number of things. they could also be her charge that she's been looking for! please read my rules before replying!
" it's okay to look-- you don't have to be shy. " her voice rasped as she spoke, the heat and dust of the nevada desert scraping her throat to sandpaper. she didn't understand why carmont didn't close the carnival at this time of day-- with the sun at its peak, beating down on those foolish enough not to scramble for shade, barely anyone braved the travel to the outskirts of town to look at the collection of curiosities their ringmaster had collected. even carmont himself had fled into the cool of his trailer, leaving his prizes to wither in the heat. nobody would come-- except, it seemed, the person staring at her now, lingering at the edges of the exhibit. " i won't bite-- couldn't reach you even if i wanted to. " alya's idea of a joke, wry smile tugging at her mouth as she lifted her ankle, where a thick chain sat clasped around the delicate skin, pinning her in place. she shifted her weight, stretching the mess of grimy white feathers on her back with a low, pained groan. " what's wrong ? cat's got your tongue ? "
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epicgirlfailures · 3 days ago
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“Sorry—thanks—sorry," Sophia mumbles, nervous laughter leaving her as Noah stuffs a few boxes into her bag. There's no rhyme or reason in the way she piles things together; yet somehow, it all seems to fit in some random, Tetris-like structure. She paws a few loose strands of hair from her face, then zips it all shut. Chaos concealed beneath a Marc Jacobs logo.
“It's no problem. The ibuprofen, I mean.” Her lips purse into a thin red line. The medical needs of a stranger are well beyond her business, but Noah can practically see the gears turning in her head regardless. A force of habit she's long given up fighting. Symptoms, by her measure, are merely pieces of a greater puzzle known simply as disease.
Her eyes wander to the pavement racing outside the bus windows. Every now and again, she sneaks a glance at him, waiting to see if he flinches at streetlights, if his pupils dilate unevenly. One heel taps to an unheard rhythm against the floor.
“What do you do?” she finally asks, a little too hurried. He'd brought it up, off-handed as it was. Maybe it would tell her something. “For work.”
It's a relief to at least see him laugh—to know he might still be in good spirits. More importantly, he's willing to accept help, which is more than can be said for…well. A not-insignificant number of people who wind up in the ER. A necessary first step.
“Sophia,” she replies, reaching out to shake his hand. He doesn't owe her conversation, but she's never been one to turn down the offer. “And to answer your question, yes. Most days.”
Then, as if compelled to prove it, she tips her bag over and spills its contents into the space between them. What tumbles out is a haphazard collection of bandages, gauze, adhesive sutures, eye drops, over-the-counter medications, and yes, several instant cold packs. She gives her bag a shake, and a box of condoms lands on top of the pile. 
“I'm a nurse.” Probably should've led with that. “With no sense of work-life balance, clearly.”
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It's at this point that she realizes she now has to put everything back into her bag. Was it funny? Only sort of. Short-sighted? Definitely. She starts grabbing items by the fistful and stuffing them into the front pouch from whence they came, but stops short at the generic brand ibuprofen. 
“You can take these, too. If you want,” she mumbles, a little quick. “Kind of like putting a Band-Aid on a gunshot wound, but it's better than nothing.”
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epicgirlfailures · 4 days ago
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Morgan seemed a man possessed—sharp laughs, half-wild gestures. At first the sound of it was pleasant, like the relief of living had overtaken his composure. But the longer it went on, the more Sophia wondered if there was something else churning inside him. 
He reminded her of a few old patients. The ones who'd been sectioned, whose mania had them convinced they were heroes or messiahs or gods. In those long few seconds he faced away from her, she mouthed to herself:
“Chasing?”
But she did not question his excuse. Just offered a glimmer of a smile in kind, and pushed the thought out of her head. Endorphins, surely. Perhaps a few too many.
“I used to play softball,” Sophia murmured thoughtlessly. He hadn't asked, more than likely didn't care, but there was an interminable desire for Morgan to know her that spurred it anyway. “Running, throwing…not exactly new.”
Whatever lingering worries she might have had died the instant his voice softened. You did good. At that, her smile grew. Took on a more genuine shape, with parted lips and pulled corners. It meant too much. Won her over too quickly. 
At Morgan's prompting, she pointed to the opposite corner of the store, where a dusty sign suspended from the ceiling read OUTDOORS in a bold, white font. Tucked amongst iron-framed patio tables and wicker couches, she could just make out a collection of hanging chairs strung up next to the windows. Rope. Thick, load-bearing, and made to endure. The sound of her high heels echoed faintly as she made her way toward them.
There was a moment, when her back was to him, that she reached into her purse and grabbed her cellphone. She wasn't hiding it, really. But avoiding a question or two was…easier. Her phone was little more than a very expensive flashlight, now—the signal had long gone dead. Even so, she opened her recent calls, and tapped the name at the top. Call failed.
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She swore under her breath, and shoved it away.
The hanging chairs dangled from a series of hooks, embedded into a beam some six feet overhead. Display only. Sophia scowled, and stared closer; decorative knots, tangled around each hook, held them together.
“Help me up,” she said, planting one foot on the centermost chair. It swayed dangerously beneath her weight. “I can untie them, just—keep me steady.”
Heat licked Sophia’s skin as she ran.
The flame she held in her grasp grew larger, hungrier, swallowing its makeshift wick to the only logical end. Behind her, a creature she could neither see nor fathom gave a hideous shriek; angry and sharp, as though their flight had offended it. Shelves toppled, bottles shattered, but through the cacophony was something distinctly wet. Flesh dragged over floor. A voice in her head screamed. Throw it throw it throw it THROW IT—
She waited. Resisted. Fought instinct like it was a predator. Morgan hadn’t yet given the word.
Sophia followed at his heels, chasing him as much as the beast chased them both. The fear of losing sight of him—even for a moment—bound and dragged her like a chain.
They breached the first set of sliding doors. Then the second. Still, she waited, Still, the flame crawled higher. And just as it threatened to singe her hand, Morgan yelled: “Drop it!”
Sophia obeyed.
She turned, shoulder back, arm cocked, and threw the bottle with all the force her body could muster. There was scarcely time to register the mass of limbs and meat that flung itself toward her; she did not wait to witness her handiwork. It wasn’t until the bottle broke, when the sound of glass meeting tissue instead of unforgiving tile reached her, that Sophia realized she’d hit it.
Left. Into the alley and past the first door Morgan pushed her through. As mind and body reunited—seeing, processing—she drew a ragged, shuddering breath. A now-free hand clutched at her chest.
“Yes,” Sophia gasped, straining to listen through the roar of her pulse. “Rope, wire, chains. I-I understand.”
She righted herself then, fingers unfurling from her blouse. Turned to face him. His lips parted, hair tossed, cheeks flushed with red—survival was so, so beautiful on him. White-hot shame churned in her stomach.
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“It feels like…” Her thoughts wandered; she trailed off. “I feel like Ripley. In Aliens. With the flamethrower.”
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epicgirlfailures · 5 days ago
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She did flinch. Eventually. Not at Shepherd’s offhanded remark—I just didn’t expect you to look so good doing it—but at what came next. He’d made a hundred comments like it before, always something flirtatious and flattering and meaningless. Playground jabs meant to disarm, to get under her skin, and no more than that. At least, he’d never given her reason to think otherwise. And the thought of thinking otherwise terrified her.
No—it was telling her she had good reason to leave that earned a reaction. Body stiffening, head lowering, like a dog that had just been struck. Sophia didn’t answer; not for lack of want, but because she simply didn’t know how.
But her wounds didn’t last long. She was too worried about his. 
“If it’s happening all the time, then why didn’t you call me?” she asked, eyes training themselves on him again, no matter how staunchly he refused to look back. Stubborn hands reached inside again, too fast, too careless, and Sophia took a step forward. “Shep, don’t—”
Light surged beneath tangled wires and blinking parts. Instinct told her to turn away, to hide her face from the flash, but she refused. Made herself watch as every joint in Shepherd’s body locked, racked with a tension he could neither ease nor control. As he kicked the floor hard enough to leave himself bruised, as he swore like he was spitting out shards of glass. She was halfway across the room by then, somehow frantic in her stillness; she would move no further than that if he didn’t allow it.
Then, finally—finally—he looked up, eyes narrowly missing hers. She’d been wrong about them before, Sophia thought idly in the silence. They wouldn’t suit anyone else.
He waved her over, and the breath she’d been holding for far too long escaped her. It was as if a weight were lifted, an ache in her body soothed. “Thank you,” she murmured, closing the distance between them all over again. A little too fast. Maybe even eager. A pair of longnose pliers and a wire stripper were commandeered without a second thought.
Five minutes ago, she might have rubbed his face in it. Put that air of I told you so into words, made him say please first. But that was a game they were both too tired to play. Instead, Sophia simply lowered herself—toward the open panel, through the smell of metal and singe—and began disconnecting wires one by one. Poking through servos and sensors no larger than the tip of a pen. None of it was flesh, true; but Sophia’s hands were no less delicate. It was his body. It was Shepherd. Nothing else mattered.
With a free hand, she snatched a flashlight off the table and pushed it into Shepherd’s palm. Hold this, she said, in everything but words.
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“That’s what happens when you get some back-alley schmuck instead of me,” Sophia murmured, the words far more bitter than she’d intended. A note of something approaching jealousy. She didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge it, and hoped he wouldn’t either.
But sure. If you’ll have me…I’ll have you. That gave her pause. Her hands ceased working, her brow furrowed, and for a moment it looked as though she was the one misfiring. Traitorous warmth spread across her face, nothing like the angry flush that colored her before. This was girlish—soft and rosy, moreso than any “Third door on the left” or “I gotta say, I’m into it” had ever earned. It was more honesty than she was prepared to handle.
She cleared her throat, and resumed her work as if he’d said nothing at all.
“If you want to keep me out, hire security.” Her pliers scraped against an actuator close to the knee, and came away with a barely-visible residue. Ah. “Or get better at picking up the phone.”
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There was that word again. Righteous. Shepherd seemed to use it as an insult—or a pet name, with how often he spat it at her. She wasn’t sure which was worse. Her hands balled into fists, nails leaving crescent-shaped marks along her palms. A last-ditch effort to keep all that righteousness contained.
“Entertaining?” Sophia scoffed. “You think seeing me like that is funny?”
A ridiculous question. Of course he did. And the angrier she got, the funnier it became to a man who only ever saw one side of her. The only side she’d ever wanted him to see. But there was no hiding from him now; he stood so close that she caught a whiff of his aftershave, could see the hints of blue in his eyes. If it were anyone else, she might have liked them.
The whistle that slipped between his teeth was soft. Condescending. She could practically hear him say it—you poor thing. He spoke as though sharing a secret, some unknown that he could lord over her, and that stung worse than anything he’d said or done otherwise. Sophia parted her lips, sucked in a breath like she had something to say, but nothing came. Just more questions.
If? 
Halfway to where? Or to what?
Scared? Not a day in my life.
…If?
Finally, after too long, she murmured back: “Fuck off, Shep.” Inelegant, but practical.
Then, without giving him the option, Sophia turned away from him first. She needed to move, to work, to keep her hands busy and her mind occupied. The items strewn across his desk would have to do. Whether he liked it or not, she set about straightening them into place—stacking boxes together, tucking them into corners. Shuffling strewn papers back into neat, chronological piles. She even kept notes in her head: expired, expiring soon, sharps, safe to keep. Someone had to.
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” she said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. A bold-faced lie she hadn’t meant to tell. Shepherd could see it in real time: the way the flush in her face dimmed, the tension in her shoulders dissolving. “Brilliant” might as well have been ice poured over an open flame. His crooked half-smile earned an unwilling quirk of her lips in return. It was a balm over her wounded ego. “Besides. Curie had it right. If she stepped away, we’d be worse off for it.”
Her hands moved, but her eyes stayed on him. Sophia watched the file vanish from the monitor, and felt a terrible weight leave her body. She wasn’t sure why. Yes, he’d rub it in her face, but he’d never show it to anyone. No one who mattered, at least. She gripped the edge of the desk with one hand, knuckles white, and fought the urge to thank him. How strange, to see him without the arrogance and bravado. To see him tired.
He stepped away from her—finally—and for the first time in too long, Sophia could breathe again.
“War is a force of habit.” It was as close to an apology as he was getting. “It isn’t personal.”
She tore her death grip from the desk, turning instead to a shelving unit behind her. Crowded with bottles and electrical hardware. Dusty. Something she could make better. Most of all, it gave her an excuse to face away from him, such that he couldn’t see her wince at the sound of him limping. Regret stabbed at her like a splinter between her fingers: small, but no less pointed.
Sophia took a deep, weary breath through her nose, unsure of how to answer his question. “Kids are hard,” she said, after too long. “They’re just so small. Little arteries, little hearts.” She clutched a bottle of metoprolol like a lifeline. “I-It’s hard.”
What else was there to say? That the vending machine was a symptom, not a cause? A very heavy straw on an already-crippled back? She glanced at him over her shoulder, and her eyes went soft. If only for a moment.
“Is it bothering you again?” Sophia asked, gesturing to the the mass of metal and circuitry lying before him. She knew it intimately—had drawn up a hundred diagrams herself, pored over every node like a well-loved novel. A convenient and worthy change of subject. “I can take a look, if you want. If you’ll have me.”
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