clearly knows ~everything~

  *   /   NO.  002   HEADCANON   –––––––––––    steve   +   bpd  ! 
 before   i   get   into   this   ,   i’d   like   to   post   a   bit   of   a   disclaimer   .   while   i   do   have   bpd   myself   and   know   my   fair   share   of   information   ,   i   clearly   do   not   know   everything   about   it   .   it   is   a   rather   complicated   illness   and   i   have   plenty   of   room   to   learn   .   it   can   also   develop   in   several   ways   and   symptoms   tend   to   vary   for   each   person   .   thus   ,   i   do   not   share   every   symptom   with   steve   and   am   not   an   expert   so   if   anyone   believes   i   am   wrong   or   worded   something   wrong   ,   please   feel   free   to   message   me   .   also   if   anyone   has   further   questions   ,   simply   ask   !

Keep reading

randomicecream  asked:

Enjolras in #57? ;v; (i love ur art 💕)

Omg thanks for the compliments!! Sorry if I made you wait so long ;;

Here he is!!! Fierce revolutionary with a smoke bomb
thanks for requesting and thanks even more for waiting so patiently <3

i have plenty thoughts on lance’s vlog but i’m going to paint my new house today and then the weekend should be hectic with finishing up moving into it. sooo idk when i’ll be able to sit down and type everything up. any posts from me will be from my queue.

The Talk - Bruce Wayne x Reader

So I know I said I was away at some of my friends’ place, but everyone went to bed early because we’re suppose to wake up super early in the morning to go and visit Brussels and I have no self-control (or common sense apparently) so I’m on the internet while everyone sleep and..yeah basically I have time to write a fic, it’s silly and not great, wrote it in litteraly twenty minutes, but here we go, hope you’ll like it : 


(My masterlist blog here :


When J’onn J’onzz, aka Martian Manhunter, asked where the Batman was, he wasn’t expecting to blush for the first time in his life. 

So that’s how it felt to be so embarassed that your face changed color…it wasn’t pleasant. It was a very human emotion. 


He came in the common room of the Watchtower looking for the bat because he had infos for him, infos he asked and said were highly important for one of his current case back in Gotham City.

J’onn scanned the room quickly. 

Aquaman was conversing with Green Arrow and Black Canary. Wonder Woman was arm wrestling Hawkgirl, AND Zatanna AND Green Lantern (not allowed to use his ring of course), and the amazon was clearly having a blast “fighting” them, not even a drop of sweat on her face. Flash was playing ping-pong against himself, under the gaze of Shazam who was trying to keep up

Superman was sitting on one of the couches, on his own, away from everyone (which was unusual), visibly grumpy.

…A lot of J’onn’s colleagues where there, the World being rather calm, but no trace of Batman, or his wife, or even his children. Mm.

Well, the next best thing to locate the bat,a after you and his kids, was to ask his best friend, Clark. 

J’onn went to him and sat down in front of him. 

-Hello Clark. 

Still frowning, and clearly not happy, Superman turned to give a sideway look at his fellow alien friend and said, a bit coldly : 


There was a short and awkward silence, and Clark was definitely avoiding J’onn’s eyes, which made the martian question : 

-Have I done anything to offend you ?

Surprised, Superman finally turns his head fully toward his friend and, after a moment of confusion says : 

-What ? No. No no you’re fine, it’s not you the problem don’t worry. Sorry…

-You seem on edge, are you alright ?

-Yes, I’m okay. 

-I’m here to talk if you want to, and…

-I’m fine J’onn ! Just a bit…distracted and annoyed, that’s all.

-Why ?

-It’s none of your goddamn business. It’s annoying and there’s nothing you can do about it !

-It’s not like you to be so…harsh. You know you can tell me Clark. What is distracting you like so ?

Clark pouts and crosses his arms, burrying himself deeper in the couch, and doesn’t seem to want to talk further, but after a moment finally says :

-It’s because of Bruce and (Y/N).

Keep reading

“Five years ago.”

And, just like that, silence falls. Movement ceases. The bow refrains from its drawing across strings, muscles tightening and fingers pausing, Sherlock’s chest rising and falling in the same steady rhythm even though he’s not entirely sure how, when his heart is suddenly emitting bass notes louder than the treble he’d been weaving through the air just seconds prior.

His sharp, narrowed gaze falls on the hazy reflection in the window opposite him, and he waits.

He’s used to waiting, now.

“It’s quite a space of time, I know, but… well, I’ve been thinking about it.” John is slipping the coat from his shoulders, not looking towards the man silhouetted against the window with a violin perched on his shoulder as he shakes the rain from the somewhat soaked material and throws it unceremoniously to the floor. Sherlock observes, but makes no deductions. Now isn’t the time. “Because it’s five years ago today - did you know that? I know it’s not exactly the sort of anniversary you celebrate, your first suicide, but…”

Sherlock watches silently as John looks up and away from the coat, searches the misted window from afar until he meets Sherlock’s eyeline; it’s too far to read his expression, too dark, but Sherlock isn’t looking to find answers in such a frail attempt at eye-contact. That can wait, too.

After all, John is talking. And Sherlock owes John that.

“It’s quite funny, really - well, not funny. Doesn’t exactly make me want to laugh.”

Sherlock can’t quite tell from here, but he’s relatively certain that John’s hair is damp. He fights the instinct to grab the same towel he had recently used to dry his own ridiculous mop of hair and throw it at the doctor, because he’s quite confident that it’s the wrong moment. Perhaps in a minute. When John has finished.

“But that it’s today, of all days. Kind of coincidental, maybe.”

Slowly, Sherlock allows the hand holding the bow to fall to his side; he leaves the violin, though. It’s oddly comforting, settled against his shoulder, the weight of an old friend.

“It fits, though. I’ve had a few hours to think about it, plus, of course, the five years before all of this. Because I did think of it, which I’m sure you already know. Seeing as you know everything.”

He fights the urge to snort - clearly he doesn’t know everything. He didn’t know, for instance, that John would come home tonight. He had thought… well, it didn’t really matter what he had thought now. He’d been proven wrong, and not for the first time in recent days, so he had the sense to simply wait and see where it would take them.

Not that it made sense. Not when his fingers had started to tremble against the strings and his heart had started picking up speed to the point where he wondered if the sheer force of adrenaline had ever been known to kill a man.

The answer was probably in his Mind Palace somewhere. It could wait.

John was taking a few steps forward - soft steps, always soft, John didn’t know how soft he was but Sherlock did. For an ex-solider, he had always surprised Sherlock with quite how soft he was.

He stopped his progression after three and a half paces, lingering by his chair but not sitting.

Sherlock could just about make out the sudden clenching of John’s fists.

So. Sentiment was coming. He forces himself not to turn and face it head on. The adrenaline may think it knew best, but he was slowly learning to trust other instincts. Like the one that told him he wasn’t quite ready to face John.

John’s voice mirrors the softness of his approach. “I went to see my therapist after you died.” He pauses, the silence pressing intimately against the fact that Sherlock had in fact not died, but neither of them corrected the mistake. John had, after all, lived those two years of believing otherwise. It was a moot point. “And she… was… determined to make me talk about it. You know how, when you thought Irene Adler was dead, I kept pressing you? Trying to get you to talk about your feelings?”

Sherlock’s head jerks irritably to the side, not seeing how The Woman had anything to do with the conversation. She was nothing. This was… well. Considerably not nothing.

“Well, all right, not quite the same, but that’s sort of my point. Imagine someone trying to push you into talking about that loss, but then… multiply it by about ten thousand. And then again. And again.”

The ebb and flow of John’s breathing became shallow, uneven for a moment. It makes Sherlock want to turn around even more, nothing to do with adrenaline this time; he compromises, letting the arm wielding his violin to slide to his side instead. Preparing himself, though for what he wasn’t entirely sure.

“It might have been all right, if she’d just stuck to trying to walk me through the grief, the anger, but something… something made me say it. So bloody stupid, letting yourself actually be vulnerable in front of your therapist -” John’s laugh is throaty, full, amusement laced with something far deeper and far more painful to hear, “- but I said it.”

It. It. What was it?

Sherlock doesn’t realise he’s spoken aloud until he sees reflection-John fold his arms and shake his head; damn. He’d failed. This was John’s turn to speak.

And speak he does. “Bit of a stupid question, really, mate.” He clears his throat. “Sherlock. Though I suppose not really, considering I didn’t say what I was supposed to say, then and now. I just… insinuated. Like we do, you and I.”

You and I.

Sherlock clenches his fingers tight around the neck of his violin.

You and I.

“I said to her, after she managed to make me angry - she was good at that, passive-aggressively antagonising a response out of me. I probably don’t pay her enough.” Sherlock can hear the slight smile in John’s voice, relishes in it, relishes in the odd twist of normalcy in such an abnormal conversation. John’s never really spoken about this before, this determinedly hidden point in his life, and Sherlock knows its basis lays within a point the doctor has yet to make. The thought makes him tense up all over again, almost missing John’s next jumble of words. “I said to her… I told her…”

An intake of breath. A steadying of emotions.

“I told her that there were things… things I wanted…” Another intake of breath, this time sharper, and it takes everything that Sherlock has within him not to turn on his heel and stride over to John, get on his knees, gather the man’s hands within his own and command that he keep his words to himself, tell him that he doesn’t need to hear this if it causes John pain to say it. The ache to physically comfort the man standing behind him was suffocating. “There were things I wanted to say to you. Before. Before you jumped, before the phone call, before…”

John’s voice breaks, and Sherlock drops his violin - drops it, doesn’t care, doesn’t give one damn about the expensive piece of wood, nor the clattering it makes upon hitting the floor - and reaches out to support himself upon the window because otherwise he’s going to give in, otherwise he’s not going to allow John to finish his soliloquy and he’ll have failed him. He bows his head and he knows John will understand, will feel his sorrow and regret from across the room, because John always knows, and he only hopes his friend will be stronger than he currently is.

He hears the light footsteps approaching before he can even realise his hope is a foolish one. He doesn’t need to look around to know there’s a hand stretching out toward him, John reaching out –

“Don’t comfort me, I beg of you.”

When he speaks it’s raw, hoarse from restraining himself from speech - he’s sickened with himself, utterly full of loathing. John, spilling his emotions, and Sherlock, unable to control his own in the wake of them: weakness, such weakness, and now John - John, who should be comforted, not Sherlock - is reaching out to soothe him.

Sherlock reaches out behind him in a similar gesture, though it’s a request to stay away rather than to make contact.

“Forgive me, John. Don’t come any closer.”

John’s voice sounds far too similar to Sherlock’s own vulnerable timbre, and it squeezes deep inside of Sherlock’s chest to have such a tone so close to him. “Sherlock…?”

“You stand there, speaking of… loss, of grief, of immeasurable pain which I have yet to even come close to making up for and yet I’ve somehow manipulated you into believing that I’m the one who needs support. I repeat, don’t come any closer and - for the love of god - don’t try to comfort me.”

He can almost feel the strength of John’s battle, the fight to stop from ignoring Sherlock’s request, and he knows it with such inherent intimacy from his own longing that he feels a tremor rock through his body at the combined desire from them both: it’s agony. There is a reason, he now knows, why Mycroft had always been so vehemently against the concept of empathy and all of the dangers it posed within such close quarters, and Sherlock’s own personal reason is now poised on the edge of both touching him and moving away and he cannot stand it, will absolutely falter, will completely destroy the inward promise he made to himself to allow John to have his moment –

“Turn around.”

Sherlock feels his lips curve into a smile which is nothing to do with amusement. “I wish I could, John, but, no. I need a moment, if you wouldn’t mind.”

You need a moment? Didn’t you just berate yourself for not allowing John to have his?

John’s reply mirrors his own thoughts, though in such a way that was far more John-like and therefore infinitely harder to ignore. “Well, I need you to turn around. Look at me.”

Eyes drifting tightly shut, Sherlock bites his lower lip. Hard.

“Sherlock, look at me. Now.”

Damn it all. He’s using his ‘Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers’ voice, and that would be enough to shake any man’s resolve. Slowly, slow enough that he catches John’s reflection-gaze one last time in the now heavily condensated window, Sherlock pushes himself away from the glass and turns on the spot to finally - upon command - face John. Face the words he had spoken hours earlier. Face reality.

Face the elephant in the room.

John’s hand falls gently to his side. His eyes, despite the small smile playing on his lips, are guarded. “There. Was that so hard?”

Sherlock can feel his own defenses rising, yet he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want that at all. Not now. This is the wrong moment for defenses - every moment was the wrong moment for defenses with John Hamish Watson, and if he was to do nothing but this tonight, he would keep them down and away for the length of their communication. He must. He absolutely must.

And he must answer. Truthfully.

“You’ll have to be more specific.” Swallowing hard, Sherlock realises he’s still holding the bow in his right hand. Keeping his eyes fixed on John, he bends carefully at the knee and places it on the floor before straightening back to his full height and realigning himself to deliver his words properly. “Are you referring to me turning around, or… or perhaps…”

He can’t say it. Damn, damn, fuck, he can’t say it.

John reads this. Sherlock can see the quick processes of realisation flickering in the haze of blue within John’s eyes, and he marvels - possibly for the first time ever - at the rapidity of John’s understanding. Perhaps there were different sorts of genius, and John simply happened to be a different breed to Sherlock.

The thought of there being something which set them apart from one another sparks a thread of unwanted fear directly down his spine.

John seemingly has no fear now. His shoulders set themselves back, chin lifting in apparent confidence, though Sherlock isn’t entirely convinced. “Well, is there any point in beating around the bush anymore?”

Run. Run from this place and don’t look back.

Sherlock’s body poises instinctively for flight.

John doesn’t miss a thing. His eyes harden again and, with almost awe-inspiring authority, he takes a step forward and closes a rather large portion of the gap between them: Sherlock can feel, now, the body heat emanating from the smaller man and, within an instant, he feels the magnetic force between them flip - suddenly his chances of leaving the room have settled to zero, and whether he likes it or not, he knows that everything is about to change and that he won’t do a thing to stop it.

John reads this, too.

“Good. I didn’t want to have to wrestle you to the ground.”

Sherlock’s lips separate, a breath stolen from them without his permission. John, wrestling him to the ground. John, on top of him. John, initiating physical contact.

John’s voice slips through the sudden haze of combined panic and anticipation. “You said it first. So.”

The heat which Sherlock thought was coming from John seems to be coming from within himself now, caressing over his skin and making him tingle in a way he’s never experienced before; he barely suppresses the oxymoron of a shiver which is now determinedly making its way across his entire system, his hands beginning to tremble, eyes suddenly tearing themselves away from John’s iron-hot stare –

Clarity clicks; his gaze zeroes in on John’s lips.

John’s lips move.

Sherlock comes undone.

“I love you, too.”

John’s hands reaching forward, hesitating for just a moment before resting upon the solid plane of Sherlock’s chest.

Can he feel how hard my heart beats for him?

“And I’ve been waiting for the right time to say that…”

Sherlock’s eyes flicker down one final time to John’s lips.

“… for five fucking years.”

At which point Sherlock Holmes finally closes the distance between them and tentatively, bravely dips his head and brushes his dry, trembling lips to John Watson’s, heart pounding wildly beneath his chest as his kiss, his love, his ardent and unforgiving adoration is returned to him in the softest of pressures.

Fingers reach up and tangle into his damp curls.

Holding tight.

No letting go.

Keep reading


The hole was sealed by sunset, the time of day when the sun begins its descent beyond the horizon, y’know?

tao expressing his gratitude to fans and promises that he won’t leave them

Dan x Amy meeting up for drinks

anonymous asked:

If you're still taking prompts, Jughead and Betty are both famous in their own rights and no one knows they're married until asked in an interview by someone who's clearly done research and knows everything about them

That’s interesting!

They weren’t hiding anything, no really, they just weren’t saying anything…per say. Jughead Jones and Betty Cooper were both very proud of their marriage, it was healthy and strong and they loved each other more than anything in the world, but both being prominent figures, constantly in the spotlight, it was difficult to have any privacy and that was something that was important to the pair.

Jughead jones was the most sought after novelist in all of LA, his stories and novels were being published and turned into movies faster than he could get them printed, it was bizarre to see how everyone reacted to his writing, paparazzi followed him places, asking when his newest work would come out. His first love story had been made into the biggest blockbuster of the year and the actresses were already winning Oscars.

Betty Cooper was Hollywoods It girl, she was Sunshine wrapped up in a pretty blonde bottle, the gorgeous girl next door never had a mean word to say to anyone and her sweet and caring personality drew everyone towards her like flies. She was a singer/song writer and had performed in almost every arena you could think of. She had won Grammys, and was currently up for an Emmy for her recurring role in the CW drama “teen wolf” she was trying her hand at acting and it seemed to working out pretty damn well.

Jughead had met the beautiful blonde on the set for a movie he wrote a few years ago “Jason Blossom In Cold Blood” Betty Cooper was essentially the main artist on every track for the movie, her hauntingly beautiful voice and gorgeous lyrics fit the score perfectly and Jughead had been pulled in the moment he met her. Things moved very quickly after introductions, Betty was seemingly as interested as Jughead, they fell in love and dated for about six months before he brought her on a trip to his home town and proposed, they were married on a small rooftop ceremony a few months later. Veronica Lodge, international supermodel serving as her maid of honor and Archie Andrews, rock star as his best man. Betty’s mom had cried and Jugheads father had thanked her for saving his son. It was beautiful and perfect.

Three years later they were still just as in love as they had been that first day and as he watched her walk the red carpet of his newest Movie he felt his heart swell with pride. She was wearing the gorgeous, flowing, light yellow dress he had taken off just hours before hand and ravaged her. She was the most beautiful woman in the room and she was all his.

“Mr.Jones! Over here! Please, for an interview!” He turned to his right and smiled at the young lady holding out the microphone, running a hand through his hair he moved to join her.
“Hello.” He smiled

“Hi!” She beamed “can you hang tight for one second? Ms.Cooper! Ms.Cooper!” The tiny dark haired reporter shouted.

Betty looked over and raised a brow before heading over to stand beside Jughead
“Well hello.” She said with effortless grace, smiling brightly at Jughead

“Ms. Cooper, how do you feel about being back to work on the soundtrack for another one of Mr.Jones movies?”

Betty smiled
“Mr.Jones is a fantastic author, I couldn’t ask for better inspiration for my music, that’s what it’s all about isn’t it? Finding what fits and going for it. Speaking of fits, those shoes are absolutely gorgeous.” The interviewer blushed and thanked her profusely.

Jughead once again felt the swell of pride for his wife, she really was a natural.

“Same question to you Mr.Jones?”

Jughead smiled and stared lovingly at Betty
“Her music is beautiful and she always finds a way to fit exactly the theme I’m going for in my novels. It’s umm.. it’s really great to have her back” he shrugged as Betty placed a warm hand to his arm and smiled softly

“You two seem awfully close, is there possibly more to your relationship than meets the eye?” The ponytail wearing woman asked with narrowed eyes.

Jugheads eyes widened and he felt Betty squeeze his arm a bit

“Well that depends on what relationship your asking about?” She grinned.

“Ever since your first movie together you have been seen multiple times, at parties, at dinner, your families follow each other on instagram and there have been multiple witnesses who have seen the two of you shopping at Farmers markets together. Not to mention the addition of the engagement band Ms. Cooper began wearing right after the first movie wrapped. Care to explain?” She shoved the microphone towards Jughead who stared blankly at it

“Those are some very interesting sleuthing abilities…” he mumbled.

Betty giggled from beside him
“Very good indeed, in fact my husband and I have been known to be pretty good sleuths ourselves, in his newest novel the character who solved the murder is based off of me, keep an eye out for that.” Betty winked and grabbed Jugheads hand, leading him away from the interviewer and taking her place on the carpet for pictures, pulling Jughead right beside her.
Jughead was grinning like a crazy person and couldn’t keep his eyes off of his wife

“Looks like the cats out of the bag now.” He turned for the camera.

Betty looked up at him and smiled adoringly
“It was bound to come out sometime. Plus with me starring in your newest movie, were going to be together all the time, it’s easier they know now.” She shrugged and flipped her long blonde hair so the photographers could catch it in motion.

“I love you Betty Jones” he whispered against her ear.

She turned in his arms and stared up at him, ignoring the flashing lights and the screaming paparazzi

“And I love you Jughead Jones.”

Grantaire being indoctrinated converted by Bossuet and Joly (1.2 k)

Bossuet chains his bike to the fence with three locks. He really likes this one, he’d hate to lose it. He trots up the stairs, whistling between his teeth, but when he reaches Joly’s floor he stops. There is a boy standing in the gallery. His back is turned to Bossuet but he seems to be staring at the closed front door. It’s covered in random stickers, a staple of student housing architecture.

“Excuse me,” Bossuet asks. “Are you lost?”

The boy turns around. Actually, he doesn’t look that much younger than Bossuet. Hell, maybe he’s older. His face says twenty, the shadows under his eyes say forty.

“We are all lost,” he replies, his voice level. “Lost in the empty space of existence.”

Okay, that’s different. Bossuet gives him a bemused smile.

“No, I’m not lost,” the other replies. “I live here.”

Bossuet takes in the messy hair and the green checked shirt and his face lights up. “You’re Grantaire!”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “Okay that’s creepy, can you tell me my purpose in life too?”

“I’m Joly,” Bossuet says, extending his hand. He shakes his head. “I mean. I’m Joly’s friend. Bossuet.”

“I was going to say,” Grantaire says, shaking his hand with a lopsided grin. “There can’t be two Joly’s. I’m surprised there’s even one.”

Bossuet doesn’t know what he means by that, but he gives Grantaire a friendly grin. “Joly told me you made a great first impression.”

“On him, apparently, yeah,” Grantaire grimaces. “Not sure about the others.”

Bossuet laughs, but suddenly he frowns. “Wait, Joly said you were a math student.”

Grantaire gives him a blank stare.

“Shit, really?” Bossuet gulps. Grantaire does not look like a math student. He grimaces. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, feeling a little ashamed. “I-”

“Oh no, I agree,” Grantaire says bitterly. “I should not be a math student.”

Keep reading

Antis: Pance/Plance shouldn’t be a thing because an age of TWO years is horrifyingly scary to me, a teenager, who CLEARLY knows everything about life.

Translation: I’ve never dated someone or read/seen any teen romance novels/shows/movies. Also even though I constantly go on & on about Korrasami (Because KLANCE IS GAY REPRESENTATION), I completely ignored the fact that Aang & Katara got together as preteen & teen with a 2 year age gap.

Lord Pastel Lance’s opinion: 

You’re on the Internet. Why are you trusting fucking random teenagers who don’t know shit to “educate” you on stuff like this?

Google stuff.

Look at online advice columns.

Ask your fucking parents. (For the love of Lord Pastel Lance, why won’t you people ask your own fucking parents?)

copacetic || theo raeken

prompt: based off ‘untitled’ by knuckle puck

warnings: saddess, break up, mentions of cheating

a/n: i really love this song, like the lyrics just hit me and im all in my feels, this song is great, 10/10 recommend you listen to it :) + hope you like !!




in excellent order.

When you found out that Theo was cheating on you, you felt as if your heart had shattered into a million pieces. But as you thought back, what did you expect? It was Theo Raeken for god sake, he always had hordes of girls following him or staring at him from a distance. Of course he would get tired of you, tired of a commitment, thus the relationship ended once you came into his house and was shocked by what you saw.

But in that moment in your life, were you even shocked anymore? Seeing the two blurry figures, rushing and struggling to get their clothes back on. You turned around leaving Theo’s home, your ears hearing muffled yelling for you to come back. But you shook it off, shaking your head while getting into your car. But being smart, you got out knowing you couldn’t drive with teary eyes and a pain in your chest. You walked home, wiping away tears and being thankful that you lived near the bastard.

You entered your home, noticing no one was home, and made your way to your room. Falling onto your bed as you stared at your ceiling, small silhouettes flashing before your eyes. And in that moment, all the built up emotions finally hit you. You feel tears rolling down your face, and your nose starting to get stuffed. You really did love Theo and now you were doubting if he ever loved you. If everything he told you meant nothing to him. You sighed to yourself, all the feelings starting to overwhelm you. After sitting in silence, except your sniffles, you finally relaxed and attempted to sleep.

It has been 3 months since you caught Theo, saying you were improving would be an understatement, but the good news that you were healing. However, you haven’t been sleeping, but for you that was process, it was been then nights you laid in your room in the dark, blasting music through your headphones with tears falling from your eyes. But you were improving. Since then you avoided Theo with all your might. But fate decided today would be the day you run into the bastard. “Y/N,” Theo started but you looked down, suddenly gaining interest to your shoes.

“Y/N, I’m sorry.” Theo spoke, you holding the urge to cry, to break down and just cry into his chest. But you didn’t do anything, Theo sighing. “How are you?” He asked, clearly knowing the answer. “Everything is copacetic.” You spoke, looking up and gazing into eyes before walking away. The same two words replaying in your mind. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.

You found your way into the restroom, going into a stall and locking the door. You started to break down, your head buried into your hands, muffled sobs coming out of your mouth. Before Theo, you had your guard up, having focused on schoolwork and graduating. But you met Theo and you were reduced from high rise windows to stepping stones. Theo tore you down, and all you could mutter was 3 words to yourself, the words repeating like a mantra in your head. Everything is fine.

You cradled the whiskey glass with both hands, rolling it between your palms on the bar, taking a sip every now and again. You were purposely taking it slow, you didn’t want to get too drunk incase your ex had followed you here. There he was, in your head again, every move you made had to be meticulously planned all because of him. It did your head in, you couldn’t stand it anymore, but what could you do about it? Nothing. The police wouldn’t get involved because he hadn’t harmed you, no threat to life. It was infuriating. So here you were, at a hotel for the night, in the bar drinking your time away.
“Umm, excuse me, sorry, is this seat taken?” A male voice stutters from next to you. You look up and his kind smile is the first thing that pops out at you. It was magical, it made you feel warm inside, like the whiskey but without the burn.
“No, no it’s not. Please sit,” you reply, smiling back at him.
“Thank you so much, I’ve had a hectic day and need a drink!” He laughs lightly, sitting up on the bar stool next to you.
“That’s okay. Ha, I know the feeling,” you nod, taking a sip of your drink.
“Would you like another?” He offers.
“Erm, I’ll have a coke please,” you smile, downing the rest of your drink and pushing the glass forward to the bartender.
“Great, two cokes please,” the man says to the bartender, then he turns back to you, “I’m Taron by the way.”
“Nice to meet you Taron, I’m (Y/N),” you say, shaking his outstretched hand. The bartender comes back with your drinks and you both sit there sipping them.
“So what brings you here, if you don’t mind me asking?” Taron enquires, breaking the silence.
“Just needed a break from everyday life,” you sigh, “how about you?”
“Work, its boring really. Why do you need a break from everyday life then?” He asks, flashing his smile sideways at you, making your heart jump a little.
“Umm, I, it’s boring really,” you say, mimicking him. He laughs, then looks at you seriously, noticing some marks on your arm, peeking out from under your short sleeve.
“Does it have anything to do with those?” He nods towards your arm and you instinctively pull your sleeve down to hide them.
“You don’t need to do that,” he says kindly, his eyes softening, “I’m sorry, I’m being nosey.”
“No, not at all. It’s fine, it’s just, you probably wouldn’t want to know to be honest,” you try and chuckle, but it comes out as a deep sigh instead and he looks sympathetically at you.
“Please, tell me. A problem shared is a problem halved and all that,” he says, smiling, then turns his body to face you, clearly wanting to know everything. You smile and give him a nod, also turning your body towards his, and leaning your arm on the bar as you begin. You tell him about your ex, how it was a wonderful relationship until he started controlling you, checking your phone, taking it off of you every now and again. Then you went on to when he eventually got physical, the small scars on your body constant reminders, and now the stalking. When you finished you thought he was going to run a mile, but he looked you straight in the eyes and smiled.
“You’re one of the strongest people I’ve met,” he says, “you should look into getting a restraining order though.”
“Thank you. I’m not really, I just didn’t want to let him win. And I definitely will.”
“Look, I should be getting to bed now, I’ve got an early start, but would you like to have a drink tomorrow? Same place, same time?” He asks, biting his lip a little.
“Absolutely. I’ll see you tomorrow,” you smile, getting up to head to your room too. He hugs you, squeezing your body a little, and gives you a kiss on the cheek, then walks off. You stand there for a second, the warmth of his hug still lingering, then make your way up to your room.
The next evening, Taron is already sitting up the bar when you get there, two cokes sitting in front of him as he fiddles with the napkin his rests on. He looks to his left to see you heading towards him and gets up, outstretching his arms to you and smiling. You walk into his chest, hugging him tightly and he kisses you on the cheek again as you pull away.
“Nice to see you again,” you smile shyly.
“And you, (Y/N),” he grins, eyes sparkling under the lights of the bar.
You spend all evening talking and laughing about your lives, your family and your friends, then eventually have dinner when both of you start getting hungry. Conversation seemed to flow so easily between you two, it was so natural. Towards the end of the night, Taron started getting a little restless, and you noticed he seemed nervous about something.
“Are you okay?” You ask, concerned.
“Yeah, yeah, I just… erm, I have something to confess,” he says, avoiding eye contact with you, “I’m an actor, and I have a really hectic schedule at the minute, but I kind of really like you, and want to stay in touch, and hopefully meet up again.” You laugh softly at his words.
“Of course. I’d love that,” you smile.
“You would? That’s fantastic!” He grins. The rest of the night goes smoothly, and you don’t give a second thought to what his job is, or how long it’ll be until you see each other again, you just enjoy his company. At the end of the night as you go to get in a cab back to yours, you swap numbers and he pulls you in for a hug that lasts for what feels like hours.
“I’ll see you soon,” he says as you get into the cab.
“Yes, I’ll see you soon, Taron,” you nod, smiling and waving as the cab pulls away slowly.

The next few months fly by in a blue of texts, phone calls and Skype dates, then it’s time to see him again. He’d helped you sort out a restraining order on your ex, and been such a great support through everything. You’d loved his stories from set, finally realising that you’d seen him in a film before, and you would laugh until you were crying when he showed you funny videos of pranks that went on while filming. Even though he’d been hundreds of miles away, it felt like he was there with you. You were set to pick him up from the airport when he landed, and got there extra early, having some lunch in one of the restaurants while you let time pass.
“Fancy meeting you here,” a voice said from behind as you put a chip in your mouth. You turn around quickly and gasp as Taron stands there grinning.
“Oh my god!” You exclaim, mouth full of food, and jump out of your seat, throwing yourself at him. He catches you in his arms, dropping his bags either side of him and spins you around, then sets you back on the floor and kisses you. His lips were so soft, you didn’t expect it, and it was sheer luck that you’d just swallowed the mouthful of food you had. His hands pull you against his body as he deepens the kiss, his tongue running along your lips, asking for entry. You allow it in, your hands sliding up his neck and into his hair.
“Well, that was definitely worth the wait,” he exhales as you pull apart finally.

making of a movie - evak drabble

hi i wrote another drabble, i hope you all like it!! pretty long, longer than normal, but nonetheless i am super proud of it!! enjoy and thank u for reading <33

Read on AO3

Isak wasn’t expecting it. At all. Even never talked about it. But it happened anyway with no warning. Even had bought a video camera. His reason? Isak had no clue. Not one. Sure, Even had told him he was going out for a while, but for this?

He was standing near the kitchen sink in their flat putting away dishes when Even happily (almost) skipped into the room, grinning, holding the camera in front of Isak’s face. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Isak asks as he finishes putting away the dishes.

“Filming my movie, of course,” Even answers, still keeping the camera panned on Isak, the camera recording - but Isak doesn’t know that. Yet.

“And just what movie would that be?” Isak replies, turning to face Even, crossing his arms.

“How do you not know? It’s all about you! ‘The Boy Who Couldn’t Hold His Breath Under Water’. It’s going to be award-winning,” says Even as Isak walks away laughing, pushing the camera away from his face.

“And are you filming me right now?”


“You’ve got to be kidding me I look TERRIBLE,” Isak moans, ducking into their bedroom.

“It’s a documentary of your life, Isak, you don’t have to try and look good. That comes natural to you,” Isak blushes, shaking his head, sitting on their bed.

“So you’re just planning of documenting everything I do?”


“Do I need to do anything special?”

“Just be you.”

And thus, it began.

Day 1 – Fredag, 17:24 (Friday, 5:24 PM)

It was quiet, a usual in the Valtersen/Næsheim household on a Friday, with Isak working on Biology homework and Even studying romantic films - the same old routine. But today, Even decided to film his boyfriend working on his homework. So that’s exactly what he did. He picked up his video camera, turned it on, and began filming. He walked into the living room where he saw his love concentrating over a review assignment, his eyebrows furrowing as he chews on the very end of his pen.

“Isak Valtersen, the star of this movie, goes on a quest to complete his biology homework on time,” Even jokes lightly, laughing as Isak gives him a dirty look.

“So you’re going to make a movie, and you want it to be award winning, but you’re going to film me doing homework?”

“Of course! Everything you do you make it interesting because you look so fucking hot doing absolutely everything,” Even states, squatting next to Isak as he rolls his eyes, staring his boyfriend down.

"Is that so?”


“How good to know,” Isak says. “I never knew I could do that.” He laughs, kissing Even lightly on his head before returning back to the worksheet.

“Are you almost done with that?” Even grumbles, sitting across from Isak at the table as he turns off the camera, setting it next to him.

“Almost, I have one more question and then we can do whatever,” Isak answers as he quickly writes down an answer, his leg bouncing up and down from anticipation. He knows that if he doesn’t finish and kisses Even right now, he won’t ever get to finish it.

Even smirks, watching Isak’s face flush with impatience as he quickly stuffs the paper into his folder, throwing it into his school bag and looking straight forward at him. “So,” Isak starts. “What do you want to do?”

“I was thinking coffee? You’re getting antsy because you forgot to get your coffee this morning,” Even notes, raising an eyebrow.

“Coffee sounds really good right now,” Isak considers. “Okay. Lets go.”

Even smiles, secretly putting the video camera in his jacket as Isak puts on his own and they quickly leave the house, heading towards their favorite coffee shop, Kaffebrenneriet.

“Even!” Isak whispers/yells, “I cannot believe you brought the camera I cannot believe you,” he says as they stand, waiting for their drinks to be called out.

“What? I had to keep myself entertained somehow, and it’s good for a documentary to show the person up and out of the house!” Isak grumbles as they get their drinks and pick a table by the window, looking out it the whole time as he sips from his coffee. “Are you mad at me? I know you have a lot more love than hate in that grumpy teenage boy body of yours.”

“Yes, I’m a bit mad! It’s.. embarrassing..” Isak mutters, looking down at the table.

Even chuckles, taking the camera out of his pocket, flipping it on and he starts recording Isak, “Don’t be mad at me, baby. I wanna keep every memory of you forever,” he frowns, giving Isak puppy dog eyes.

Isak smiles, shaking his head, taking another sip of his coffee as he stares into the camera lens, “You’re such a smooth talker, I hope you know that.”

“Yes, I very much know,” Even replies, turning off the camera as they get up to leave the shop.

As they get home, Isak decides that he wants what he wanted earlier, and that was Even’s lips connected with his. As soon as they walk into the apartment, Isak grips to Even and kisses him with passion and anticipation and Even obliges, because he knew it was coming. Somehow, they make their way into the kitchen and Even has Isak on the kitchen counter before he can object, and they just lose each other in their thoughts of one another and Isak gasps between kisses, “Just don’t get this on camera.” Even laughs, reconnecting their lips as a way to say “obviously”.

Day 2 – Lørdag, 12:37 (Saturday, 12:37 PM)

As Isak opens his foggy eyes, he notices somehow he made it to his and Evens room. He smiles to himself, remembering last night, and as he rolls on his side he’s greeted by Even and his video camera. He groans, pulling the duvet over his head as he hears Even chuckle deeply, peeking under the duvet with the camera.

“Well, there he is. Sleepy little boy. I thought you would never wake up, it’s noon. Don’t worry, I made lunch. It’s still warm,” Even says softly, playing with Isak’s messy hair with his free hand. Isak smiles.

“Thank you, you’re the best,” Isak replies, sitting up slowly, bringing up his knees to his chest looking back down at Even as he lies down, the camera focused on Isak. “What time did you wake up?”

“About 9:30. You looked so peaceful so after I made lunch and ate, I came in here and filmed you for a while,” Even tells him, smiling as Isak looks completely baffled and confused.

“You’re joking, right?”


“Jesus Christ,” Isak mumbles, grabbing his pants from the end of the bed and slipping them on, looking back at Even, raising an eyebrow. “Are you getting this on camera? Because if so, I hope you don’t plan on inviting friends and family over to watch it.”

Even laughs as he gets up from their bed, leading Isak into the kitchen and making his plate of cheese toasties (not with the kardamomme) and smiles contently as Isak eats, scrolling through his notifications on his phone. As Isak finishes and cleans his plate and places it in the strainer, he smiles, standing next to Even. “So what are we going to do today?” Even ponders.

“Hm, I was thinking maybe watch some movies?”

“That sounds like a good plan. Romeo and Juliet first and then maybe Dirty Dancing after?”

Isak smiles, nodding, “Whatever you want.”

About half an hour into Dirty Dancing, Isak is out like a light. Even smiles, taking the video camera from the cushion next to him and starts filming Isak. His steady breathing, the way his mouth hangs open slightly showing his beautiful teeth, his heartbeat thrumming in his chest, his eye lids fluttering from time to time. Even captures it all, he captures every beautiful feature of his boyfriend so he can hold it close to him forever. He smiles, the movie droning in the background of the video as he turns off the video camera, setting it back next to him, staying awake to finish the movie.

After another 30 minutes, Isak stirs around a bit and Even doesn’t even notice when Isak says something.

“You filmed me again, didn’t you?” Isak whispers, almost impossible for Even to hear the second time.

“I did,” Even replied softly, kissing his boyfriends cheek.

“Hm,” Isak hums, letting out a small yawn as Even smiles.

“Oh, I slept through most of Dirty Dancing. I’m sorry,” Isak frowns, looking down at his phone noticing the time is almost 5 PM.

“That’s okay, love, we have all day tomorrow,” Even reassures, kissing Isak’s cheek again.

“That’s good,” Isak replies, smiling lightly, getting up from the couch to stretch.

“I didn’t film much of you,” Even says, getting up and folding the duvet at the end of the couch. “Just a few minutes of you sleeping. You’re so perfect when you’re sleeping. That’s why I never get much sleep because you just lie there, looking so fucking hot and gorgeous.”

Isak blushes, turning to hide his face in his boyfriends chest, “You always say that!”

“Because I’m right,” Even notes, chuckling, and Isak can feel it rumble through his whole body.

Day 3 – Søndag, 10:56 (Sunday, 10:56 AM)

“Even!” Isak calls from the bathroom as he’s brushing his teeth, his hair a curly mess. He prays that Even doesn’t bring the camera, but he didn’t pray hard enough.

“Yes?” Even asks, holding up the camera to Isak. Isak quickly covers his mouth, the toothpaste surrounding his lips.

“Can you get me a shirt?” He asks, trying his best to avoid the camera.

“Of course, lovely,” Even obliges, giving Isak a quick peck on his lips for one of his favorite toothpaste kisses. Isak smiles as Even brings in his 'I AM ILLUMINATI’ t-shirt, quickly pulling it over his head, wiping the remaining toothpaste with a towel and kissing Even lightly on the lips.

“Thank you, you’re the best,” Isak praises, running his fingers through his hair to make it look decent.

“I know. I know everything.”

“Clearly,” Isak and Even laugh, making their way into their kitchen where Even has prepared a breakfast of what seems could feed the British and American army. “You made scrambled eggs with sour cream, didn’t you?”

Even nods, gesturing to the huge plate of eggs, “You know me.” He says, shutting of the camera and putting it into his school bag.

“You never cease to amaze me, baby,” Isak says as he takes a big scoop of the eggs, digging into the beautiful feast.

After breakfast, they decide to invite Sana over to talk about what will be going on next week during school, but they know the answer will be nothing. Just homework.

“Halla!” Sana greets as Isak opens the door, inviting Sana in. “Your apartment looks so nice! You did a great job with it!”

“Thank you, Sana,” Isak laughs as Even walks in from the kitchen with his camera, filming already.

“What’s all this about?” Sana questions as she sits on the sofa.

“Even is making a movie,” Isak answers, taking a drink from his energy drink.

“About what?”

“Isak, of course!” Even says before Isak gets to answer, but Isak hides his face as he blushes.

“You guys are too much..” Sana laughs, shaking her head, leaning back on the couch.

Even laughs, focusing the camera on all three of them while they joke around, laughing, watching TV off and on, and eventually Sana gets a text from Mama Bakkoush telling her it’s time for dinner and that she needs to be home.

“I’m sorry, guys, but I have to go now in order to catch the next tram car to my place,” Sana excuses herself, smiling as Isak and Even walk her to the door.

“Thank you for coming,” Even says, shutting off the camera and putting it in his denim jacket pocket.

“I’ll see you tomorrow!” Sana says as she disappears down the hall.

Isak sighs, shutting the door and glaring at Even, “You know, Sana might not have appreciated that.”

“Yes she did,” Even counters.

“How do you know?!”

“I told her about it,” Even grins.

“What? Then why did she act completely clueless!”

“Because I asked her to do that.”

“You are so… sneaky!” Isak mutters, stomping off into the kitchen. Even follows, pulling the camera out again and starts filming once he gets into the kitchen. “You really think FILMING is a good idea right now?”

“Why not?! You’re cute when you’re mad!”

“I cannot believe this..” Isak exclaims, putting his face in his hands.

“Please don’t be mad with me! You’re going to love the end result, I promise!”

Isak sighs, bringing his hands down and looks at Even, “Promise me that tomorrow that you’re done filming.”

“How about Tuesday?”

“Fine!” Isak agrees, sulking as he walks into their bedroom and flops onto the bed face down. Even turns off the camera and sets it on the kitchen counter and follows, lying down next to him.

“I’m sorry that this is making you upset. I- I just thought that it would be nice for us. I thought it would make you happy. The end result, anyway,” Even confesses.

Isak rolls on his side, “It does make me happy, baby, you just do it out of no where,” Isak whispers, placing his hand on Even’s cheek. “And I promise that I will love the end result, no matter what.”

Even smiles, kissing his boyfriend gently, “Thank you, it means a lot.”

Day 4 – Mandag, 15:47 (Monday, 3:47)

“Even, we just got back from school and you’re already starting to film?” Isak complains as he sprawls out on the loveseat, his school bag thrown askew.

“It wouldn’t be a documentary without some stress in the main character,” Even adds, smiling, as he zooms in on Isak’s face as he smiles.

“I’m excited that tomorrow is the last day and that it’ll be done and I can see the final product!”

“It will be perfect, I promise,” Even says reassuringly.


“Good, indeed.”

“You will adore it.”

“I know.”

Day 5 – Tirsdag, 21:21 (Tuesday, 9:21)

“Isak!” Even calls from the office, grinning.

“What?” Isak answers as he walks into the room.

“It’s done.”

“You’re kidding.”


“Oh, my God move over let me see it!”

Even laughs as he presses play, watching Isaks face the whole time as the whole video plays through - especially his eyes. He frowns as he sees tears forming at the border of his boyfriends eyes, and he waits patiently until the video is over to ask Isak what’s wrong.

“Isak? Are you okay?”

Isak stays quiet for a minute, wiping away the tears and he looks at Even, smiling as Even wipes away a stray tear with a soft look on his face.

“Oh, it’s nothing. That was just.. so beautiful, Even. It was beautiful,” Isak laughs lightly, wiping his eyes again as Even pulls him into a tight hug, kissing his cheek, smiling.

“I’m glad you liked it, baby.”

“Oh, Even, I loved it. So so much. And I love you, too. So much.”

“I love you, too, Isak,” Even says softly, kissing Isak on his damp lips.

“I think this may be award-winning,” Isak says, laughing, sitting on Even’s lap.

“I told you it would be,” Even agrees as Isak lays his head on Even’s shoulder.

“You’re always right.”

“I always am.”

cheezysama  asked:

So I noticed you're into the KND too, do you have any ships in it?

you know i do! 

it’s been a long time since i drew the power couple actually, and that’s outrageous since they’re one on-screen smooch away from canon

iamnesta  asked:

91 & 61. they're kinda conflicting but oh well :)

thanks for the prompts dude! and sorry it took me so long to get to this lol, i hope you like it!

#61: “You can tell me anything.”

#91: “You don’t have to say anything.”

You come back into the motel room after completing your perimeter check to find Bucky standing over your unzipped duffle bag, holding something in his hands. Your stomach bottoms out and you let the door slam behind you without even hearing it. Bucky whips his head up and catches you standing there in open-mouthed shock, while his face morphs into a wide, shit-eating grin.

He waves your journal around and asks, so smug, “Have you got something to tell me?”

Rage is the easiest emotion to feel right now, so you storm towards Bucky and rip your journal out of his hand. You’re millimetres away from punching him in the face, or clawing his eyes out, or something. How dare he go through your stuff? You’re going to kill him, you really, really are.

“No,” you sneer, while Bucky just grins down at you and raises his eyebrows. “It’s none of your business!”

“Aw, c’mon,” Bucky says as you turn away from him, flipping the journal open to the page Bucky was reading. Oh god. It’s worse than you thought. “You can tell me anything!”

“Clearly, you already know everything,” you seethe with your back still turned to Bucky. It’s mostly just a front to cover up your all-consuming, debilitating humiliation.

The page Bucky read is the end of an entry, on one of those nights your nightmares got the best of you. It was all pretty standard - nothing Bucky didn’t already know - except for the bit at the end. It was the first time you’d ever confessed to doing it, even if it was only in your journal. But now Bucky has read it, and all your shame comes bubbling up to the surface.

And I know it’s weird and probably crossing a million lines, but I’d rather be that creepy loser girl than deal with my nightmares. It helps, which I don’t think I’ll ever understand, but I’m not going to question it when it helps me get back to sleep sans torture flashbacks. It’s not like Bucky doesn’t have a thousand sweaters he can wear - he won’t miss just one. I’m praying he won’t miss this one. That’s not a conversation I want to have any time soon, or maybe ever.

“Y’know, I was wondering-“

“You don’t have to say anything,” you say over Bucky, your voice flat and toneless. You drop the journal back into your duffle back and move around Bucky to the bathroom, avoiding his eye the whole time. You can’t face him after this - you busy yourself with finding your toothbrush and say, “I know it’s weird, ok? I’ll give it back to you, I’m sorry-“

“(Y/N),” Bucky says, and when you look up into the mirror, he’s standing right behind you. You bite back your gasp, even as Bucky lifts his hands from his sides to let them drop on your shoulders and smooth down, his calloused skin catching on yours in a delicious, warm drag.

Bucky takes your elbows and gently turns you around to face him. He’s smiling, which is a good (if confusing) sign, and he doesn’t let go of you. Instead, he continues sliding his hands down until he can lace his fingers with yours, and tug you slightly closer into his body heat. You can’t help it - his proximity and the smell of him and his broad body practically everywhere has you closing your eyes and swaying into him, completely intoxicated.

This is why you stole his sweater from the laundry that one time at 3 in the morning, when you were stress-cleaning to distract from your nightmares. The softness and the smell made you forget about all the bad stuff in your head, if just for a second, and that was more than enough. But this- this feels like so much more. You can hardly breathe when Bucky leans down to press his forehead against yours, causing your to flutter your eyes open and take in his wide, navy ones.

“You can steal as many of my sweaters as you want,” Bucky says, the corner of his mouth kicking up. “And I meant what I said - you can tell me anything.”

“Yeah?” you ask, sounding so breathless you’re embarrassed by yourself. “Can I tell you something now?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, sounding seconds away from laughing.

It makes you grin too, and you lean back just a fraction to look at his face properly and kick your eyebrows up as you say, “I’ve been waiting for you to kiss me for forever.”

Bucky does laugh this time, head thrown back and all the way from the bottom of his chest. It makes you feel giddy, watching him this happy because of you, and you must be smiling like an idiot when Bucky looks back at you eventually but you really, really don’t care.

He swoops in, but stops just before he can kiss you - lips brushing, eyelashes tangled. You can practically feel him smile, all sharp teeth, before he says, “I know. I read that too.”

“Asshole!” you cry, hitting him hard on the shoulder but then you’re too busy kissing Bucky back to bother with revenge.

Besides, you’re not really that mad. You got exactly what you wanted, and you didn’t have to say a word.

anonymous asked:

the game won't let you save akechi because he's a bad person and bad people don't deserve to be saved. the only reason people are upset is because they're abuse victims who project, think they could be like akechi, and think they don't deserve to be saved too.

You know, if all people thought like you, Futaba would be dead. Sae would be dead. All the other ‘antagonists’ would be dead.

Shido would be dead.

But they are not.

So unless you have something good to say, don’t say anything at all :)

Like, do you have so much free time, allowing you to post crap that you clearly know nothing about because everything is that black and white to you? Either way, have a good day :)