The 12th icon in your folder is your muse’s reaction to being hit on in a bar

flyingxman:

insidioxus:

   a bitterness crept into his face,
    narrow lines furrowing even more
  sylar wanted to extend deadly fingers and cause mayhem
   but nathan pivoted on his heels and went to the kitchen
  dismissing him completely, entirely ignoring his point
       it was his body the senator manipulated, drinking water
instead of the wine he would have preferred
        and favored on peter’s face .
he had to withstand the sight of nathan
parodying his flesh and bone
——once the embodiment of a cunning intellect diverting
every circumstance to its design, a gist for knowledge——
           drinking water directly from the faucet

wasting it.

" ——what about searching the
receipt of your recent purchase, huh?
        using my body feels any good?
   petey here has a point… for once ”

{ he taps the empath on the shoulder. }

"c’mon
sane, untroubled people
don’t go around talking to themselves.
      i’m just saying you can give it back
             if you’re dissatisfied.
or i could take control anytime now
         and play target shooting with peter here.”

image

tick tock, nathan."  

     Peter speaks and Sylar antagonizes. Their voices bounce back and forth off what little remains of Nathan’s mind and force a pause. He resides in the hesitation for too long. Chilled water drains past chapped lips as he contemplates an excuse. 

     Excuses are all he seems to spout these days. Layers and layers of lies feeding from his mouth and all for the comfort of Peter, a brother he could not risk losing. Not now. He needs him. The killer’s words seeping with malicious intent proves that. Nathan can’t do this alone. 

     ”… It’s Sylar—he’s here.” Shoulder muscles run rigid and he sucks back a slow breath. No more lies. “I’m doing my best to keep me at bay, Pete. I haven’t slept for days because he’s been here.” 

     Only then does Nathan turn towards his brother, clarity distorted from his dark eyes and replaced with an uneasy desperation. 

image

     ”I don’t know how long I can hold on.” 

                                                  —— onthisrock

At first, he’s not sure what he prefers — the silence, or the explanation — but as time goes on, it becomes much, much more clear. The admission makes his heart slam against his ribs and plummet into the pit of his stomach, expression twisting into something surprised. Concerned. 

Teetering on the edge of fearful.

"—He’s here. What do you mean, ‘he’s here’?"

Peter moves, then, gripping his brother’s shoulder, to be his rock. He didn’t believe him all those years ago, not truly, but now? Nathan needs an anchor. Nathan needs something to ground him, and Peter intends to do just that.

"You can see him?"

"C’mon, Nathan. You gotta fight it. Fight him." Some part of him is aware of whose body he’s touching, the vessel his brother inhabits, and that sparks anger in his eyes. But Peter has to write that off as something else. Has to try. "I believe in you. Alright? Just like you believe in me."

                                                                —- insidioxus

onthisrock: [meme] *swINGS OPEN FRIDGE DOOR.* Got anything to eat?

ghxstofnewyork:

ghxstofnewyork:

Do an impression of me in my inbox

image

"What are you trying to say?"

 

"Not by the looks of it." Peeking into the fridge, he said, "A jar of peanut butter - and not the crunch kind either-" That was his favorite after all. “-and beers. That’s it.”

image

"I got a day off, I’ll go then. Promise."

catchthatregenerator: "I can't the bad guy," Adam said, a very simple but classic mimic. "I now shall focus on that one goal."

image

"…."

anythingbutabaybreeze:

my gOD I WAS NOT EXPECTING TO BE TAGGED I’M CRYING

OF COURSE YOU WOULD GET PRIORITY TO SEE YOUR MAJESTIC BRO BEING HIS MAJESTIC SELF UWU

IF THAT’S WHAT MAJESTY IS I DONT WANT IT

onthisrock: "Stick a sock in it."

catchthatregenerator:

catchthatregenerator:

"….Curse, Peter. Go on. Curse. Cuss. Use profanity."

"A sock. Please. You are your mother’s son. What is the preoccupation with socks?"

 

"Simple logical explanation. They are lying." 

image

"—about the cussing. Everything else is true." 

Avoid face comment. Success. 

"You could get drunk with me. For proof." 

Alright then. He can let it go — for now. 

"What reason could they have to lie to me?"

"—I don’t know. I could get dragged on another world-purging crusade."

onthisrock: [meme] *swINGS OPEN FRIDGE DOOR.* Got anything to eat?

ghxstofnewyork:

ghxstofnewyork:

Do an impression of me in my inbox

image

"What are you trying to say?"

 

image

"Maybe I’ll just do some shopping later…" And by shopping he meant stealing to restock.

"Listen, buddy, I appreciate the thought but I think — I can handle it."

flyingxman:

 

image

"Nope. I’m gonna stick with crazy,” he joked, yet the smile only pulled on his lips and could not quite reach his eyes. Lost, dulled… His eyes were not his own and anyone, extraordinary or not, could see that.

Idly, his thumb brushed the mug’s surface, ceramic smoothing beneath the grooves of his finger print. Peter’s avid gaze grated through and surged a cool, malicious voice. Up and up it ascended through his skull; across synapses and neurons, collecting speed and power. Nathan fought back, his mind alit with memories to force Sylar’s cold touch into submission. And his ghostly grin never broke.

“Positive. Just tired, that’s all.” 

Empty.

Was that what they were destined for? Peter bitter and angry and clinging to hope that should have been long gone, Nathan’s gaze void-like as if he was dead?

Nathan is dead, a little voice in his head reminded him . Peter swallowed and crushed it.

"Coffee probably isn’t helping. You should get some sleep."

nathanapetrelli: "Stop scratching or I’ll duct tape oven mitts to your hands."

nathanapetrelli:

onthisrock:

image

"Alright, yeah, I get it. I’m not twelve."

 

Nathan snorts. “Suffering builds character. Maybe it’ll help you learn to check before you decide to go al fresco next time.” Honestly. Little brothers. He’ll be wiping Pete’s ass when they were both old gray and toothless, he swears.

Typical. Peter fights the urge to roll his eyes — he fails, but at least has the decency to face the wall. “Thanks. Real supportive of you.”

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