Sadly Yes, 99.9% Of Them Are Murders. Do I Care? No I Dont.

Sadly yes, 99.9% of them are murders. Do I care? No I don’t.

Y/N looking @ all her fictional crushes: It's just theres something about them.....

Friend: Oh well they're cute.

Y/N whispers something in their ear

Friend: THEY'RE MURDERERS!!!!

The men:

Who wants to go to the right group with Sansa😈

This is fucking awesome!! In my area we have about two houses who do this but only for Christmas (boo I want Halloween 🎃).

Hi . . . So yesterday i had an idea. I’ve always wanted to do a Greek mythology/gods/goddesses x Harry Potter, and I wrote this chapter/idea thing. It’s basically a Greek god Draco x reader au where there’s no magic school and the HP characters are gods and goddesses. The reader is female and is an artist and somehow see’s god Draco in a dream and he becomes her muse. She then has a gallery of all the paintings she’s done of him and for some reason god Draco in mortal form walks in. This is a forbidden love story and Draco is basically Apollo, but his God name is Draconian. There reason why I’m posting this here is because I really like this idea but I’m not sure if people will like it, so I’m posting this to see people’s thoughts. If you do like it please let me know. :)

Warnings: Angst, break-ups, sadness 16+ please

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐝 & 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥

𝙂𝙧𝙚𝙚𝙠 𝙈𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙮

𝘿𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙤 𝙈𝙖𝙡𝙛𝙤𝙮 𝙭 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙊𝙣𝙚

A crash of a paintbrush hitting against the wall followed by a loud frustrated groan echoed in the English flat. A soft lull of ambient music sounded from an open window in the flat, with the tip-tap of raindrops falling against the buildings of the small town Diagon Alley, England. In the far corner of the flat sat a blank canvas sitting on an easel with a wild-haired young woman cursing under her breath as she ran her hands down her trousers.

She glared at the stretched canvas, anger and hopelessness lingering in her eyes. Her upper lip curled in a sneer as her hands twitched. She looked as if she would throw the empty canvas out the window and scream. Instead of throwing the canvas, she threads her fingers into her hair and pulled slightly. Her chest rose with every breath she took and as the moments passed, her chest became heavy and tears started falling from her eyes, dripping down her cheeks steadily.

She didn’t know what to do; didn’t know what to paint. She was stuck and couldn’t get herself out of the bottomless pit of artist block.

What if she never churned out a painting? Said a voice in the back of her mind. What if she lost the familiar touch of her brush, caressing the canvas, painting her imagination and visions? What if . . .

The crying artist’s knees gave out, and she eased down to the floor, sobs flowing freely from her throat. She wished she could stop, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t. She couldn’t stop the tears. Couldn’t stop the self-doubt. All she could do was cry and feel sorry for herself.

She’s been at this; this continuous trial and error; this pattern of failure; the routine of tears for weeks. She’s tried to paint her sorrow and heartbreak, to turn it into the pieces of art like others before her did with their emotions. This should’ve been easy for her. After all, turning her sadness into pieces of art was what got her into painting in the first place. It’s what provided an escape for her during the messy divorce of her parents. Yet here she was, stuck with nowhere to go.

The bills were piling up on the small dining table, and her phone was full of voicemails and text messages from her agent, mother, father, and friends. Nothing from her boyfri . . ex-boyfriend. Of course. Nothing from him about taking all his shit in theirs — no, her— flat. All his band CDs, posters, and junk were piled in the corner of the living room by the front door. Every time she walked by it, she would give the pile the finger and resist the urge to kick it — she already did once but she learned it hurt like a mother and didn’t feel like picking up his shit and fixing it back into the pile — so she would just threaten it or glared at it.

The artist hated seeing his stuff. Hated being overpowered by the memories of them together. The sadness that accompanied those memories was the worst. She hated reliving in the past, seeing their happy moments, and wondering what went wrong, and how could she fix it?

‘No,’ she thought, ‘it was not my fault.’ She didn’t know whose fault it was, but was it truly hers? Or was it him? It takes two to fail a relationship, after all. That’s what she learned throughout her parents’ divorce.

She didn’t realize that she’d stop crying until she felt the heaviness leave her chest and she could breathe once more. She sighed and wiped her tears, trying to put on a happy face. Though she quickly realized it wasn’t working. With a roll of her eyes, she stood up from the floor and took a deep breath, and stalk towards the open window. Her eyes took in the semi-busy streets and cobblestone pathways and old-style buildings mixed with modern-day architecture.

She watched a young group of kids walking together, wearing red overcoats with the crest of Hogwarts School on their chest pocket. They laughed and spoke animatedly, their hands moving as they explained the topic they were speaking about. She almost smiled at their existence but stopped herself when she was bombarded with unhappy memories of her own time and experience at Hogwarts when she was a teenager.

During her last few years at the school, she lost almost all her friends and retreated into herself as she dealt with her parents’ divorce. She remembered how her grades plummeted and her professors became immensely worried about her behavior. How they’d ask her to stay after lessons and ask her how she was, if she needed help, or if she was okay at home. She’d always given them the same rehearsed answer: “I’m okay, I don’t help, I’m just tired, that’s all,” and all they could do was nod their heads and let her go. The only person who truly knew what was going on was her best friend, the only one who stayed by her side, who understood Luna Lovegood.

Luna had lost her mother when she was ten and understood the pain of feeling helpless when it came to parents and their issues. Throughout those three years of pain, learning to get over, and dealing with school and life, Luna stuck by her side, helped her with school and passing. Now, ten years later, she and Luna were still together, helping each other, and best friends.

Snapping herself from her memories and thoughts, she slammed the window closed, locking it in place before striding to her bedroom, with only one mission in mind: Go to bed and sleep for however long she wanted.

The sun was bright. So bright it made the young woman squint, trying to block out the light from her eyes. She tried to move forward, trying to leave her steps behind. Though she had no idea where she was or where she was going, she felt compelled to keep moving. With every step, she felt the soft brush of something and the softness under her bare feet. She tried to pull her attention from the brightness of the sun and look down, but something was keeping her gaze glued to the brightness in front of her.

When she stopped, she felt a light breeze blow behind her, encouraging her forwards, and an overwhelming feeling washed over her. A sense of calm and clarity reached her, and without difficulty, she urged her feet to move forwards. With each step, she felt the burdens of her heart lift along with the weight on her delicate shoulders.

A light wind blew around her, and she gasped at the sensation. The wind caressed her skin like an attentive lover would, kissing and assuring her before delving deep into her skin. It was what she read in romance novels — never had she experienced it in real life. It was intoxicating. She wanted more of it. She giggled and let her feet move faster, trying to reach what she could now see; marble steps.

Once she reached the steps, she gasped as the sun became less bright and started changing its shape. She watched in curiosity, watching as it started to become a figure. Anticipation rushed through her body and she couldn’t figure out why. Why did she feel this way? Why did she feel as if she was seeing her true love?? The light was back, and it became so bright she closed her eyes, trying to shield them from the brightness when she felt a hand cup her cheek and chin. She gasped and her eyes shot open. Standing before her was a tall man, with the body of the Grecian statutes she’d see at a museum, with sliver-blond hair and grey-blue eyes. Eyes she’d see in the aftermath of bad storms. When the sky started clearing and the blue pierced the grey blankets. She didn’t know what to do; she was shocked and couldn’t speak or move. She just stared; taking this man in with her greedy eyes. He was shirtless and only wore a cloth of linen around his waist, shielding his manhood and lower body. His skin was smooth and pale, with no imperfections. The sound of fluttering caught her attention as she watched as the man before her raise pure white wings. They were big and strong, and she wanted to reach out and touch them. Wanted to caress the feathers and run her fingers through his hair; down his back. He was gorgeous, strong, tall, and had a slender jaw with a strong nose. His lips were baby pink. She wanted to press her own lips against his . . .

She was startled as the winged man slipped his arms around her waist, holding her close to his body. His rich, honey smell reached her nose, making her skin tingle. She wanted to run her nose down the side of his neck and nuzzle him as if she was a cat. His fingers pressed into the skin of her back and he stared into her eyes. She could get lost in those eyes. No, she wanted to. She wanted to dive deep into his beautiful stormy eyes and swim in the blue-grey oceans. If she had to die, she would’ve been satisfied to drown in his ocean. The man lifted his hand and touched the skin of her cheek, caressing it with his long and articulate fingers. She felt peaceful standing in this beautiful stranger’s arms, and she wanted to lean into his body. Instead, she leaned her face into his hand, letting him stroke her cheek. She watched as the man’s lips stretched into a smile. A smile that made her heart leap and jump up and down. Smiling suits him. Makes him more angelical and gorgeous.

Before she knew it, he was picking her up with his muscular arms, and leaning his head down, slowly. She gasped as the man’s hot breath hit her mouth. He was so close to her face, and his eyes were heavy-lidded. She could almost feel the ghost of his lips against hers. He stopped and waited. His eyes were on her own, waiting. She didn’t know what he was waiting for. Why did he stop? She was confused for a brief moment, until it slowly became apparent as to why he stopped. He was waiting for her to lift her head up and close the distance. He was asking for consent to kiss her. She smiled and bit her bottom lip before reaching up on her tip-toes, raising her head. Their lips barely touched when a spark, a shot of lightning, bolted down their bodies. Sending a sense of euphoria down her body, making her toes curl. She pressed her lips, and they kissed.

Until she felt something pulling her away, dragging her from the man.

He reached his hand out, trying to catch her, but she slipped through his fingers as if she was sand on a beach. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. She reached towards the stormy-eyed stranger, watching as the brightness appeared behind him, casting an angelic glow against his body and skin. She memorized everything, the obvious distress in his eyes, the angry scowl on his lips, and his hand reaching out to her. He was angry at losing her; she realized. And she was too. She didn’t want to leave him; she wanted to stay and kiss his luscious lips and lose herself in his body, eyes, and hands.

With one last silent scream, the bright room and the beautiful man disappeared.

The young woman shot up from her comfortable bed. Sweat coated her skin, and she felt her chest heave and her lungs constrict. Soon, tears started flowing and sobs were all that occupied the room. She felt her throat become raw and beg for a break, but she couldn’t stop crying. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to cry. It all hurts. She didn’t know how to live in a world where he didn’t exist. What a cruel mind she had. To make up something so good and so pure and just rip it away. She wanted to go back and be held in his arms once again. She just . . .

She sighed and ripped the blankets from her body and stomped out of her bedroom. She didn’t bother looking at the clock to check the time; it was dark, and that’s all she knew. The stars and the moon were her only witness, and they watched as she sat at her easel and a blank canvas. They watched as she mixed colours and gathered her brushes and painted. She painted until she got every detail just right. Every muscle. Every strand of hair. Every feather. She painted until he became real, and stood on the canvas, immortalized in the paints.

She gasped as the rays of the sunrise hit the canvas, casting an ethereal glow on her painted stranger, and she smiled. If she blocked out everything around her, she could almost picture herself in his arms once again, holding her back against his chest, kissing her neck, and digging his fingers into her skin. But the fantasy was just that, a fantasy. A fantasy that was ruined by knocking.

The knocking tore her from her imaginative world, and that was when she realized that the day moved on. It was no longer night-time, or early dawn, it was noon.

She sighed and walked over to her front door, and for the first time in a while, she didn’t give her ex’s junk the finger, or glare at it. She just moved forward and looked through the peephole to see her neighbor Mrs. Elenor Brown, the elderly woman who lived two doors down.

She smiled and unlocked her door and opened it to see the old woman. “Hello Mrs. Brown,” she greeted. “Hello (Y/n), darling, how are you?” asked Mrs. Brown. Before (Y/n) could speak, Mrs. Brown interrupted.

“Darling, I don’t mean to bother you, but I was wondering if you had a few eggs you could spare? I’m doing a little baking this afternoon and I seem to have used up all my eggs! How silly of me, but anyway,”

(Y/n) smiled sweetly at the old kind woman. “Of course, Mrs. Brown, I’ll go check and see.” She invited the old woman in. Mrs. Brown shuffled in and smiled kindly. “Thank you, my dear,”

(Y/n) walked into her small kitchen and opened the fridge. Her (e/c) eyes scanned the shelves before landing on her carton of eggs. She pulled a few eggs out and placed the carton back in before walking out. She looked around for Mrs. Brown and found her standing near her easel.

“Here you go Mrs. Brown,” she spoke. Mrs. Brown turned and smiled at (Y/n). “Darling, did you paint that?” she asked. (Y/n) nodded and Mrs. Brown gasped in astonishment. “Oh, my darling! This is absolutely amazing!” Blushing, (Y/n) smiled and tried to avoid the old woman’s eyes. “Thank you, Mrs. Brown.” Elenor took the eggs from her hand and nodded her head. “Of course, my dear, you have talent.” She patted (Y/n)’s cheek fondly before they walked back to her door. Mrs. Brown thanked (Y/n) for the eggs and promised to bring some of her goodies over once she’s done before she left.

(Y/n) leaned against her front door, basking in the silence. Her eyes drifted towards her easel and she sighed. For the first time in a while, she was able to paint. And now her fingers were itching to paint more of her stormy-eyed stranger. But should she? Could she even sell him? No. She couldn’t. But the bills sitting on her dining table were calling her name, reminding her of the impending deadline and doom. She had to open her gallery with something, and she really needed the job and coverage. With her eyes set in determination, she marched up to her canvas and cracked her fingers before she picked up her painted stranger and replaced his canvas with another blank and tried to paint. She mixed colors and tried to paint a scene . . . any scene. But nothing came up except him. She groaned and rolled her eyes.

She really needed to paint something, so she took a deep breath and started painting. She started painting him and his surroundings. With each painting, she included a small bit of him, whether it was his stormy eyes or his sliver-blond hair. He was there, influencing her fingers, touch, mind, and emotions. She could feel him surrounding her. If only she could touch him. However, they were separated. Separated by memories, dreams, and time.

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