Bath & Body Works Logo But It Says Back & Body Hurts

Help me I don’t have any talent :(

“Did you see the way that little girl looked at me? Kids. Little kids. They grow up believing that they can be a hero if they drive a sword into the heart of anything different. And I’m the monster? I don’t know what’s scarier. The fact that everyone in this kingdom wants to run a sword through my heart or that sometimes I just wanna let ‘em.” “We have to get you out of here. Over the wall. We won’t stop until we find some place safe, okay? We’ll go. Together. No matter what we do, we can’t change the way people see us.” “You changed the way you see me... Didn’t you?

NIMONA (2023), based on the comic by ND Stevenson, who came out as transgender in 2022

“National teacher shortage” is a fun way of saying that the USA has made a passion driven job so ungodly inhospitable that even people who “just care about teaching, not the money” don’t even care about teaching anymore.

Amen.

messing around with simon's face again...

I love him :)

Dont have much energy nor inspiration to draw atm, so here take some of my favorite Viktor/Viktor x oc artworks!❤

Part Two of Simon Riley meeting a single mom at the park and going "that one, I want that one."

As much as Simon feels the persistent gnaw of want, he can’t pinpoint exactly why it’s there, and as the days since he met you drag on, he can’t figure out which is more frustrating — the wanting itself, or the fact that the reason behind it keeps eluding him.

Maybe it’s some biological impulse, that’s one thing he considers. Maybe it’s just a primal impulse drudged up by the sight of your belly and the helpless fear he’d heard in your voice that day. His rotten genes kicking around inside him, whispering to him that they want out.

Or it could be that you look like exactly the type he tends to go for when he allows himself the little indulgence of a pretty woman’s company. Present state aside, that is.

Regardless, he finds himself walking by the park nearly every day, scanning the area just in case he sees you or your little boy there again. He doubts he'd approach you again even if he did cross your path a second time, but even so, his aimless walks don't seem quite so aimless anymore.

It's not until one day, a few weeks after that first time, that he sees your somehow familiar form standing by one of the picnic tables. He'd thought you looked fit to burst the first time he saw you, but now you were somehow bigger still. Even from a distance, he can make out the sweat on your face, the wet bits of hair sticking to your forehead that show your overexertion, as if your rundown expression doesn't give it away.

You look absolutely miserable, and Simon pushes down whatever odd little instinct it is that makes him think about how much he'd like to kiss it all better.

Close by, safe on the ground this time, is your son, Charlie. He darts around the grass by the table while you unload a bag with snacks and drinks, your eyes firmly trained on him while you do it.

Simon walks slowly, trying to decide if it would be better to turn and go back the other way or to walk by as if he doesn't notice you -- he shouldn't notice you. If he did recognize you, it should only be in passing, a brief flicker of recognition that quickly passes, not ... whatever this is.

A small part of him, one that he'd never let see the light of day, considers the idea of approaching you.

The choice is taken away from him when Charlie spots him while doing spins in the grass. The little boy lets out a squeal, pointing directly at him, and begins bounding over.

"Charlie, for the love of --"

Then you look up and see him, and he can't be sure from the distance, but he thinks he sees the flicker of a smile.

He notices how you let yourself take your time a bit as you amble towards him, a small rush of pride going through him that you're not panicking over your child's safety as he runs in his direction. Charlie reaches him first, and he has to tilt his head nearly to his shoulders to look up at him.

"You were on the slide before."

"I was."

"You're too big for the slide."

"Wasn't there to slide."

By that point, you'd manage to waddle your way over, your hand going to rest on Charlie's shoulder as you look to Simon. You greet him, a quick "Hi," then look back down to your son.

"Let's not bother strangers, ok? Come on, we have a picnic."

"He's not a stranger," Charlie argues. "He was on the slide."

If Simon wasn't trying to keep his eyes off the drop of sweat that was trailing down by your collarbone, he would have taken a moment to properly appreciate the simplicity of the argument.

"Sorry," you say softly, glancing up at Simon again. "He's a friendly little thing."

"Quite all right."

"You want juice?"

He can't help but let out a chuckle at the kid's question -- he's never been much of a talker, and it seems like you might not be much of one either, but someone's putting in some effort.

"Mum made crackers too," Charlie adds. "You want some crackers?"

"I'm sure this man has more important things to do than have crackers and juice with us, don't you think?" you say.

But he doesn't. At this moment, he feels like he's never had anything more important to do.

There are a few more precocious little invites, along with some puppy dog eyes, and before he knows it, Simon is being led through a stretch of grass to a picnic table with you and your son.

The conversation is ... not great, honestly. You're either shy or guarded, maybe both, and Charlie isn't quite old enough to spark any kind of intelligent discussion. But he does enjoy the juice box the boy insists he takes, and he likes the strange warmth that spreads through his chest at the sight of you across from him at the table even more.

"Come watch me swing," Charlie demands after a bit. You shrug, apparently content with letting the child run the show at this point, and Simon lets out another deep chuckle, standing and hesitantly following you both to the swingset.

"Thanks for humoring him," you tell him quietly as you push your son on the swing.

"Not at all," he replies. "He's ..."

He trails off, not sure what he was even planning on saying. Sweet? Funny? They don't feel like words he'd use, but this doesn't even feel like an interaction he'd have. It's all new territory for him.

Thankfully, you don't seem miffed by his short responses, or by the silence that follows. You just stand there, one hand pushing Charlie while the other rests low on your belly, while he stands further back, watching.

And there it is again. The wanting. Brutal and undeniable.

“When’s the little one due?”

The question comes out low and gruff, as if it clawed its way out of his throat on his own, which it may have, because he rarely willingly engages in small talk like this.

"Couple of weeks," you answer.

Charlie breaks the next stretch of silence by instructing Simon to watch him kick his legs to swing even higher, which he does. After he gives him what he hopes sounds like a hum of approval, his eyes move back to you, watching the way your hand moves to rest on your hip, your fingers pressing towards the small of your back as if you're trying to keep yourself propped up.

"Kid seems like a bit of a handful to keep up with all by yourself," he murmurs. "Presently, anyway."

It's not his business, but you don't seem to mind because you reply again, eyes still on Charlie.

"He's been ... well, I think he's a little nervous, about the new baby," you explain. "So I've been trying to make these last few weeks of just us special."

You don't talk much, he's coming to understand that, but he doesn't either, so he knows how much can be said in the spaces between. He stays quiet for a moment, taking a pause to watch another one of Charlie's tricks.

"'Just us'?" he asks. "And what about that husband who was supposed to come to the rescue last time?"

"I lied so you'd think twice about kidnapping us."

Simon chuckles at the blunt response, and says, "Decided you're not in danger now, have you?"

"More like I've decided that if you kidnap us after we gave you juice and crackers, you're a monster and we never stood a chance anyway."

You glance up at him then, the first time you've looked at him since the party moved to the swings, and you smile. It's more playful than flirty, but it's for him, and he finds himself smiling back.

Simon doesn't do this. When he's home, he doesn't really talk to people. There's a quick exchange with a cashier or a bartender, or the occasional mutually distant transaction with a woman who wants the same quick release that he does. Some days are so bad that he'll spend more time than he cares to admit considering whether he wants to wear a mask out -- if he wants to just blend in as much as he can like he usually does, all dark clothing and hunched shoulders, or if he wants to risk attracting a bit more attention by wearing the mask since even so, it'll ensure that no one can see his face.

But here he is, for a reason that he still can't quite pinpoint, smiling at a pregnant lady in a park and watching her little boy play.

It doesn't make sense, but it doesn't feel bad either. So he doesn't stop.

It was late afternoon when Charlie first approached him, and now the sun is getting lower in the sky. You reach a hand up to pull on the chain of the swing, slowing the boy down, and tell him it’s time to go.

He whines for just a moment before obediently dragging his feet to stop the swing, standing up. Before Simon can process it, he comes up to him and wraps his arms around his legs.

“Thanks for playing,” he says before running back off towards the table where you’d left your things.

He helps you gather everything, walking the empty juice boxes over to the trash can so you don’t have to move any more than necessary. When you’re all ready to go, he watches you take Charlie’s hand and offer him another smile.

“See you around,” you tell him before turning and walking off towards the sidewalk.

He tries to think of something clever to say, then he kicks himself for wanting to say something clever, and before he can get out of his own head, you’re already halfway down the sidewalk. And, he notices, you happen to be headed in the direction of his own apartment.

Something in him wants to catch up with you, to say that he’s headed the same way, which wouldn’t be a lie. It’s the same part of him that made him a good soldier — the part that sees an opportunity to go in for the kill.

But the part of him that makes him a good leader stays put. The timing isn't right, and he doesn't want to take a chance on a half-cocked impulse, especially when he still hasn't even figured out what it is that's pulling him to you.

So he walks. He goes the opposite way, away from home, away from you, deeper into town. He walks past the shops as they start closing for the night, the pubs as they get more lively. He walks until he's sure that you and Charlie made your way to wherever you were headed, and only then does he make his way back to his apartment.

It's as dull there as ever, the overhead light flickering when he turns it on and walks inside. He hears the familiar creaking of his cheap old couch as it sinks under his weight when he sits, sees the white expanse of the walls, no pictures or paintings or whatever else people put up to make a house feel warmer than this.

But tonight, it's not quite so bleak. There's the faintest taste of apple juice lingering on his tongue, a sweetness he's not accustomed to, and he can still feel a bit of warmth on his face from being in the sun so long.

He wants more of it. He still doesn't know the ins and outs of it all, but he's ready to accept that it exists. And he's ready to start strategizing on how exactly he can get it.

viktor arcane icons

old dog / new tricks

Your boyfriend John Price is older, more mature, and more experienced. This isn't his first shot at a committed relationship—but this time, he's doing it right.

John Price x f!reader. Age gap. Older man/younger woman. Daddy kink. Daddy issues. Divorced Price. Tags to be updated as needed.

second time around plumber old wounds

pas de deux

to the anon that requested this, i know this isn't exactly what you asked for, but inspiration struck. i hope you like it.

cw: wally certified yearner and loverboy, me not knowing how to describe dancing, allusions to reader being murdered in a very traumatic way by her dance partner but no specifics, sfw

wc: 3k

Wally knows that what he’s attempting to do is misguided at best, and probably disastrous at worst. 

The idea came to him a few weeks ago. He’d been sitting with Charley and Rhonda, shooting the shit in the gymnasium before their meeting with Mr. Martin, when he’d asked, “Is it possible to break a ghost out of their loop?” 

To Charley’s credit, he’d attempted to take the question seriously. Rhonda had just rolled her eyes, removing the ever present lollipop from her mouth before interrupting.

“Again with this? Come on, loverboy. Not gonna happen.” 

Charley sighed, tutting at Rhonda before turning back to Wally, a sympathetic look on his face, “There’s always a chance it could work, but if you’re talking about who we think you’re talking about, I’d say they’re pretty slim.” 

“More than slim, I’d say,” Rhonda butts in again, “I’m surprised she hasn’t worn a hole through the floor, with the way she dances. Like a ballerina in a music box.” She spins her lollipop through the air, follows it with her eyes before shoving it back into her mouth. 

“Have I ever told you your attitude is annoying?” Wally asked, sinking back into his chair and crossing his arms over his chest, ignoring the scoff from Rhonda’s direction, “I’m just saying. We’ve never even tried. What if she’s like, aware in there, like in her mind.” He reaches up to run a hand through his hair - a nervous tick he hadn’t lost, even in death. 

“Does it matter? She’s still stuck here like the rest of us. Better to spend eternity dancing than dealing with the banalities of high school.” 

Mr. Martin walked in then, effectively ending the conversation. Through the whole meeting, Wally couldn’t stop thinking about it. He’d seen you in the auditorium before, looping over and over, stuck in an endless dance for two but lacking a partner. It’s a rare thing for a ghost to act the way you do - there haven’t really been any other deaths at the school that were traumatic enough to warrant a loop like yours, and he’d been determined to break you out of it. Screw Rhonda, he’d thought. He could do it, he just needed to figure out how. 

The problem was, Wally knew nothing about dancing. He's not the smartest guy. He knows that, but he’d been brainstorming different ways to break you out of your loop for a while now, with nothing to show for it. It’d been grating heavily on his nerves.

In a moment he’d regrettably look back on, he’d gone so far as to join you on stage to attempt a fake out. When he’d lunged at you, and you hadn’t even blinked in his direction, he started to think Rhonda was right. You couldn’t see him, you couldn’t hear him. You were stuck up there, doomed to spin around the stage for God knows how long and there was nothing he could do about it. 

Then one day, something really fucking weird had happened. 

—

He’d taken to sitting in the audience, to watch you dance. It was weird, more than a little morbid and slightly obsessive, but watching you move was captivating to him. 

He found some similarities between dancing and playing football - the finesse needed to dodge and weave through people trying to tackle him was one thing - but he’d never seen anyone move the way you do. Every move you made had purpose. The lines created by your arms and legs, the softness with which you carried yourself from one end of the stage to the other. 

Preoccupied with the pressures his mom applied to him, the weight of the world on his shoulders, he’d never taken an interest in dancing, other than the awkward slow side to side swaying he’d done with his Junior year girlfriend at the prom. Now, he wishes he could dance with you - wishes you could teach him to move like you do. 

You’re stuck there, like a spinning top that refuses to fall - unable to fall. Except, as he was watching you, something unthinkable happened. 

You were looking at him. Like, looking straight at him. 

It took him more than a few seconds to realize what was happening, and even then he couldn’t believe it. Charley had talked to him about dancers having a spot to look at when they’re spinning - how it keeps them from falling over, keeps them from becoming dizzy and messing up. Was it possible Wally just happened to be in the seat you used as a spot? 

He couldn’t tell if there was recognition in your eyes, if you were really looking at him or seeing right through him, the way a living person would. But your gaze was fixated on him either way. And your face, it… you just looked so sad. If he didn’t know better, Wally would’ve thought your expression was pleading, looking for help. It only lasted a few seconds, before you turned your head in a different direction and your body followed. It sent him reeling. 

He found Charley and Rhonda in the library, and told them what happened. Charley sat up in his chair, struggling to understand what he meant. 

“What do you mean she looked at you?” 

Wally went to explain it to them again, hoping they’d believe this was out of the norm, “I mean she looked at me, dude. She was up there spinning like she always is, and I was just sitting there watching -” 

“You were watching her? Voyeurism doesn’t suit you, loverboy.” Rhonda’s arms were crossed over her chest, legs folded over each other - closed off, like she always is. 

“It’s not like that and you know it,” Wally sighed, exasperated, “It was weird. At first I thought she was using me to spot, while she was twirling, but the way her face looked? I don’t know, dude. It was just weird.” 

“There’s a chance she was looking at you, don’t you think? We don’t really know how looping works, so,” Charley’s endless kindness is a relief to Wally - especially when he says things like, “I think it’s good, what you’re doing. I wish we could help more.” Charley looks over in Rhonda’s direction, nudging her to say something to Wally. 

“Yeah. As much as I give you flack for it, your whole -” Rhonda waves a hand in Wally’s general direction, “boy savior thing, I do wish there was something we could do for her. It sucks. Not having a partner to dance with.” There was a glint of remorse in Rhonda’s eye, more than Wally ever thought he’d see from her. 

A spark lights up in Wally’s head, a hidden spotlight finding its mark onstage  - landing on you, your flawless form.

“Do you think if I dance with her, that it could break the loop?” Wally asks, looking back and forth between his two friends. 

“It’s definitely worth a shot,” Charley shrugs, gaze turning to his left, “Rhonda? What do you think?” 

The beatnik pauses for a second, long enough for them to see the cogs turning in her brain. 

“Look, I’m not saying it’ll work. Probably won’t. But maybe,” Wally starts to smile, “Just maybe, if you try to connect with her on her terms, instead of trying to force some logic onto the situation, something might change.” 

“I don’t know how to dance, though. I don’t even know where to start.” Wally drops his head in his hands, shoulders hunched over. Charley reaches over, splays a hand on Wally’s back and rubs back and forth. 

“Think of it like football maybe? You’ve got your plays, right?” Wally nods, sitting up and urging Charley to continue, “Those are like the steps. Formations could be the positions you take, and in dancing, timing is everything. The same way it is in football, at least from what I’ve gathered of the rants you go on. Rhonda’s right. Maybe if you learn how she moves, you can try communicating with her that way.” 

Wally sits up, throwing his arms around his two friends, ignoring Rhonda attempting to push him away before jumping up from his spot on the couch. He nearly trips over himself to sprint out of the room and down the hall, towards the auditorium, shouting “Thank you!” behind him. 

—

Wally stood in the echoing auditorium, the stage lights illuminating the otherwise dark room. Every day for the past week, he’d come to you - trying to decipher a language he did not speak. He watched you, trapped in your endless pas de deux. Gliding through the same steps, turns, your desperate yearning clear up close. 

At first, he’d just tried to mimic you. Clumsy and tripping over his own feet, he’d stumbled through the basic positions, frustrated with himself. His movements were jerky and awkward, a stark contrast to your effortless grace. He felt silly - like a hulking figure trying to copy something delicate and precise, something that took years and years of training. 

Slowly, things started to shift. He stopped just watching and copying, instead starting to feel the music that wasn’t there. He began to understand the reasoning behind your movements, the emotions they expressed. He started to see the gaps in your performance, the place where someone was supposed to fit, to complete the cycle you’d been stuck in. 

He started to see the places where he could fit. 

He wasn’t just mirroring anymore, he was learning the language. Each day he got a little closer, a little less clumsy, a little more in tune with the phantom rhythm that filled the empty auditorium. He was still a football player, and he always would be, but he was learning to use some of that training to become a dancer, too. For you. 

Wally knew this might not even work. He’d been in his head about it for a week at this point, and not even Charley or Rhonda could break him out of the loop he’d pulled himself into. He stopped going to the life support meetings in the gymnasium, much to Mr. Martin’s dismay - instead going to spend all of his free time right there next to you onstage. 

He put more effort into practicing for this than he ever did for one of his football games, a feeling of true purpose guiding his every movement. 

When the day finally came, Wally felt calm. He felt ready. 

He walked onto the stage, ready to put his rehearsing to the test. Ready to run the play, to score the winning point. You began your routine, perfect and meticulous and haunting as ever. This time, though, Wally didn’t just watch. He joined you. 

He didn’t try to lead, didn’t try to impose himself or change your dance, he simply became your partner. He matched your movements as best as he could, trying to feel his way through the dance. Trying not to be too robotic, but instead trying to move with the same empathy and yearning that he’d watched you dance with over and over. 

As you reached the point in your dance where your partner should have joined, Wally was there. He wasn’t a perfect dancer, not by any metric, but he was present. He was the missing piece. 

As your movements intertwined, a visible shift occurred. You, you who had been trapped in this endless cycle of longing, suddenly seemed to notice him. Your eyes, usually fixated on some distant point, flickered - focusing on Wally for the first time. Genuinely seeing him. Your eyes filled with tears, and as one of them dropped onto your cheek, Wally went to wipe it away. 

The music, which up until this point had only been an idea in Wally’s head, suddenly seemed to fill the auditorium, bouncing off of the walls and echoing around the two of you. Your dance became a true pas de deux, a conversation of movement and emotion. 

As the music started to slow, Wally found himself on unsure footing. He hadn’t stopped to think before about how the dance was supposed to end, but it didn’t matter. Grasping his hands in your own, taking the lead and guiding him through the end, the two of you moved in perfect harmony. Spectral echoes of each other, gazes connected and satisfaction blooming. 

The yearning in your movements softened, replaced by a sense of completion. The music faded, leaving the two of you in silence. For half a second, Wally thought you’d cross over, leaving him onstage by himself. Instead, you turned to him, a small smile gracing your lips. You didn’t fade. You were still there - as solid as he was. 

“Thank you,” you whispered, “You helped me finish.” 

Wally stood stock still, surprise still echoed on his features. He couldn’t believe he’d actually done it. You looked around the empty auditorium, eyes tracking over the seats before landing on him again, “I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited to finish that dance.” 

“I’m glad I could help you,” Wally stutters out, a pink flush on his face, “I know I’m not the best dancer.” You laugh, a sweet, girlish thing. In the five minutes that had passed since the dance finished, Wally swore he could see the weight being lifted from your chest. 

“You were perfect.” A flicker of sadness crossed your face, quickly replaced by gentle acceptance, “I… I don’t think I’m going anywhere, I’m still here, but…” you emphasized, palms open and gesturing to the stage around you, “but, I think it’s different now. I’m not stuck anymore.” 

“That’s good!” Wally’s face lit up, empathetic and gleeful. 

Your own smile brightened, affected by his sheer amount of happiness for you. You took his hand, solid and steady in yours. 

“What do I do now?” you asked, eyebrows turned up and inward, “Do ghosts sleep? I feel like I need to sleep for a month.” 

Wally giggled, leading you down the side stage steps and down the rows of seats, out of the auditorium, “We don’t need to sleep, but you can if you want to. You want me to show you my hiding space?” You nod, following him down the hallway.

When he passes the teacher’s lounge, and Charley and Rhonda see whose hand he has grasped in his, he winks at their shocked expressions before continuing down the stretch of linoleum and lockers. 

—

Life - or, afterlife, you suppose - has been weird since Wally broke you out of your loop. The first couple of days were extremely rough, spent trying to understand just how long you’d been up on that stage. A new member of Mr. Martin’s life support group, everyone has been extremely welcoming to you. 

Because ghosts don’t need to sleep, you haven't experienced any nightmares, something you’re exceedingly grateful for. Even so, you wake up from your naps feeling uneasy. Flashes of the end of your life playing in your mind, reminding you of the circumstances surrounding your death. 

You’re not ready to talk to the group about it, but Wally hasn’t left your side since he’d woken you from your reverie. You tell him about it in bits and pieces - about your dance partner, a shy, kind boy, turned cold blooded killer. The specifics of it don’t matter anyways. He can’t hurt you anymore, and according to the computers in the library, he couldn’t hurt anyone anymore -  following you into that good night soon after the police had taken him away. 

You learn that your family moved out of Wisconsin a decade ago, in an attempt to escape the media following them around and shouting questions at them, about a court case that didn’t happen because there was nobody to put on trial. You hope wherever they were, that they found some semblance of peace. 

Wally has been an incredible influence on you, and after settling into what the rest of your eternity might look like, you’ve had the same effect on him. He didn’t expect you to dance again any time soon, if ever, but he’d catch you by yourself sometimes - stretching your legs, sitting on the floor with your arms poised in that certain way. 

Then, after a year spent together going to meetings and finding hidden corners in the school to make out like true teenagers, he’d found you in Split River High’s newly minted dance room - sock covered feet gliding over the lacquered floor, hope and joy baked into your movements instead of the grief and melancholy he’d become so accustomed to in your previous routine.  

Out of the corner of your eye, when you’d seen him peeking through the window, you’d beckoned him in to join you. You started to truly teach him how to dance - guiding him through Pliés and Relevés and giggling at him when his lanky legs got in his own way. 

“You’d be better at this if you were shorter, I think,” you’d said, a smile unable to hide taking over your face, “but you look pretty good.” 

“Pretty good? These legs saved you, babe,” Wally scoffed, wiggling his toes to get you to laugh.  He always succeeded in that. 

“You’re right, you’re right,” you walked over to stand nearer to him, eyes angled upward to meet his honey brown ones, “the prince to my sleeping beauty, how could I forget?” 

“Damn straight, I’m your prince,” Wally’s warm hands grasped your cheeks, his mouth lowering to meet yours for a few seconds before gently shoving you away, “now show me how to do that thing again? I think I’m finally getting it.” 

—

Rhonda would never admit it, but she’d been especially proud of the effort Wally had put in to drag you from your loop. She knows everyone thinks she’s cold hearted, and she agrees to a certain extent, but she’d known the agony Wally felt when he thought he couldn’t help you. She’d never tell anyone this, either, but she’d snuck into the auditorium the night that he’d broken your loop - woken you up from your neverending nightmare. She’d stood alone, in the back and out of view, a smile etched on her features.

“You go, loverboy.”

a/n: tysm for this request! this was honestly the most fun i've ever had writing something. the inspiration was crazy and even though i know nothing about dancing i hope this is readable and easy to follow because i'm immensely proud of it. anon if you liked it pls lmk! I'm having such a fun time writing for wally so PLS send in any requests you have!!!

also, don't forget to like and reblog!