invisible ledge

By Heart [ IV ] [ Final ]

Genre [Rating] : Angst

Length: 5k

Pairing: Kyungsoo x Reader

Summary: Getting over him was the most impossible thing in the world because part of you couldn’t believe it was really over.

By Heart Masterlist

Originally posted by kyungsuhos

Everything felt soft around you, the mattress that dipped to the curve of your spine, the feathery pillow cradling your head, the comforter tangled around your legs. The air was quiet around you, fingers splaying out against the sheet as your body shifted onto its side, eyes screwing shut as you fought off waking up to no avail. The sunshine began to peel through your lids til you fluttered them open, squinting into the light pouring through the sheer curtains that framed the window across from you. You deeply inhaled, the smell familiar and calming as your eyes flickered around the bedroom, taking in each and every thing you hadn’t seen in so long. The beaten up dresser that needed replaced, the books that were tattered shoved into their shelves, even the neatly folded clothes waiting for you on the trunk at the foot of the bed.

Keep reading


summary: You love Tom but he seems to only think of you as a personal therapist.

warnings: angst, alcohol briefly mentioned

words: 1845

a/n: The title is a Portuguese word that roughly translates to “missingness” or “longing”, but means much more. Also, this is set pre-haircut because the floppy curls will always be my favorite.

part two

If only you had been able to fall asleep last night. You wouldn’t have heard him knock, and your heart would still be in your chest where it belonged.

Instead, you had been awake late into the night and into the early morning. The television was on and late-night cartoons were creating background noise to your thoughts. You were laying on the couch and your eyes were picking out shapes in the texture on your living room ceiling. You were awake for no reason, but you’d experienced this sleeplessness countless times before.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Uhm I think some post concert sex would ensue, Harry's hot and sweaty and he just looks so hot. Ugh, the missus say "your such a rockstar baby" as she undoes his belt & he's literally gone lol

Anonymous said: Harry whisking her away backstage the second he’s done performing kiwi, all sweaty & he’s barely had a chance to catch his breath and he’s kissing you up and down and she’s telling how good he did and it’s just melting him and they’re just cuddling and he’s so proud of himself for having a good performance but also for making his girl feel so good

Anonymous said: Harry and the missus having a little fun in the dressing room backstage at one of his shows ❤️❤️❤️

I’m going to combine these three. A little bit sexy, a little bit sweet.

Keep reading

theywaitforshewho  asked:

nino/mari, #19 \o\

“The paint’s supposed to go where?” 

“Thanks, Nino,” Marinette chirped as she tugged the paints out of Nino’s hands. She left a smacking kiss on his cheek as she went, but even the tingles of awareness skittering over his nerves couldn’t quite distract him from the fact that his friend was about to scale the school wall that high.

And scale she did.

Like a spider.

Nino could only stand back and watch in amazement as Marinette clung to near-invisible ledges and leaned over, paint brush in her hand and paint pot handle in her mouth.

“Is-isn’t that kind of dangerous?”

She flicked her paint brush at him dismissively, sending splatters of paint down the wall and possibly to the ground, and stretched out a little further to add more detail to the half-finished mural.

Nino felt dizzy just watching her.

Thankfully, it looked like he’d arrived late in the game, because it only took a few more artful flicks of her wrist before she was leaning back at a heartstopping angle to study her work, giving a satisfied nod, and scurrying down with about five less broken bones than Nino would have expected.

“Thanks, Nino,” she said again as she handed him back the paint pot and shook out her reddened hands. “I ran out of white and had no idea what to do about the highlights. You’re a life-saver.”

“…Yeah, sure,” he said weakly. “Anytime, dude.”

Staring up at the high wall and scant footholds of the surface she was working on, Nino wasn’t sure life-saver was quite the right term.

Johnny’s foreword for “In the Name of the Son: The Gerry Conlon Story”

Johnny with Joe Cashman, Terry O'Neill and Gerry Conlon in 1993

Upon Thinking of My Long-Lost Brother, Gerry …


I first met Gerry Conlon, by absolute chance, in the hallway of a talent agency in Los Angeles, somewhere around 1990, I believe. It was a rare occurrence for me to visit the place, which made the moment with Gerry all the more charmed.

I had pressed the button and was en route to my destination floor. Upon arriving, the doors opened. As I exited, I spooked a couple of guys to my left, who looked, as did I, sorely out of place. The guts of this heinous, monolithic terrarium of steel, glass and dubious “art”, sparsely shaming those ghastly “modern” walls, was not a typical setting for folk such as myself, or gents of this breed, who, in my personal and moderately professional estimation, were satisfactorily saturated and teetering along the same invisible ledge, as though they’d been out on the prowl, for an especially impressive stretch. Indeed, they looked just like the depraved, miscreant, unhinged maniacs I always tended to hang out with. One of them possessed the squinty scrutinising eyes of the streets, and was as skinny as a dried lizard. He also seemed to have been divined with a prevailing lack of residents in the tooth department. The questionable few choppers that had not been evicted, were lonely, jagged and rotting. His stringy, straight hair – greasy to his shoulders. This was Joey Cashman. A hilariously clever and quick-witted Irishman, from just outside Dublin. He was the manager of one of my favourite humans of all time, the infamously tattered genius of lyric and song, Shane MacGowan, from the Pogues. Joey was a lovely man, who held strong to those he loved. Devoted and solid. I would later survive many adventures with this man, and to this very day, I have been informed of Joey’s tragic and “sudden” demise, and miraculous resurrection, at least fourteen times. The other fella was from heavier stock. He laid a big, beautiful, slightly crazed Cheshire Cat smile on me, which showed that this man had at least met a dentist once in his life. But it was his eyes that got me. Eyes that simultaneously exuded wisdom and a childlike purity; a desire to live and love. There was no question that these powerful eyes had seen and experienced much. This was Gerry Conlon. He approached me and introduced himself and his mate Joey, with the exuberance of a man who held nothing back. He gave of himself freely. His eyes sparkled like ten thousand stars had just given birth to ten thousand more …

Gerry Conlon had first gotten my attention when he stomped out of the Old Bailey in London in October 1989, fists raised high and declared to the world that he was an innocent man who had spent fifteen years in jail. The authorities had tried to shove him out the back door, in order to avoid the inevitable media frenzy, but he had refused, instead imparting something along the lines of “Fuck you, I’m a free man, youse fuckin brought me in the back door, I’m going out the front!” My curiosity had then been further fired when I’d learnt that he’d witnessed his father, Giuseppe, another innocent man, die in a British prison. And now here he was, Gerry himself, stood right before me, in this, the most incongruous of places possible. Fortunately, to prevent matters from being overtly one-sided, he recognized me from something or other and lunch was duly arranged.

Gerry was altogether an articulate, personable, funny, self-deprecating and fierce humanitarian. He was an absolute gentleman, who possessed all the knowledge of law in the streets of Belfast. Chivalrous, loyal and highly sensitive to any injustice, no matter how large, or minute. If he loved you, you were blessed to be invited into his circle, where there existed no edits with him. Gerry said what he felt and meant what he said. He had no difficulty in getting his point across. Ever. He had grown so used to having his prison clique around him that those of us who spent significant amounts of time with him became a newfangled version of just that. He was a 100% trusted friend and brother, to the very end.

During lunch, he broached the subject of my playing him in the film that was to be produced about his life during his unfathomably unjust arrest and incarceration. More than touched at this profoundly personal invitation from this man, I was already on the deck wiping away tears (as was he), when he gave me the first details of his abduction and torture by the British authorities. During this, our first proper encounter, he spoke more of his experiences in prison. Despite the hardship that had been visited on him, I came away with the impression that here was a character whose passion for life had been in no way diminished. He was starving for it. As much as he could get ahold of.

Later, during the summer of 1991, I found myself fortunate enough to be invited on holiday with Gerry and his family. Despite being more of a grape man, the only flavours I recall from that trip are Black Bush, Jameson’s, Irish Coffee and of course, the Guinness. The Conlons were lovely people, one and all, but I had a special place in my heart for Gerry’s mother, Sarah, and his sister, Ann. These were sweet, strong and kind folk whose lives had been torn asunder and putting them back together wasn’t going to be easy. But, if my experiences with these wonderful people told me anything, it was that their humour remained perfectly intact. In fact, I specifically remember some sloppy conversation with both Gerry and I employing words and sentences that our mouths were shamefully unfit to speak, as our eyes began to see double. At some point Gerry decided that we must go to Dingle to see Fungie, the dolphin. Very important. Gerry had no need to convince me, of course I was going to say yes. Who wouldn’t want to go to a place called Dingle to see a dolphin named Fungie? Gerry proceeded to inform me that his cousin, David, would be coming down that night to Dublin from Belfast, and would drive us to Dingle in the morning. And indeed, as promised, later that evening, David appeared in the door of the bar, screaming, “Gerry, ya fucken cunt!” I turned to see a big, thick and angry-looking brute, with ginger hair and pincers for arms. We were introduced. I shook one of his metallic claws and looked him squarely in the eye. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said. He replied with what may have been an eleven-syllable fuck-off. I still don’t know. The man was utterly pickled. If worry was going to come into the picture it would have done so at exactly that moment. We sat down to have a drink. And drink we did. What seemed like an instant later, it was brought to our attention that we were fast approaching 8.30 a.m. It was time to go. Worry never seemed to enter the picture. We had merely forgotten to sleep. But, whilst not feeling all that bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, we remained determined to make our rendezvous with this mysterious dolphin called Fungie. Fungus. I felt like fungus. Gerry looked like fungus, and David was immune to fungus. Of course, I was chosen to ride in the front seat with David. His co-pilot, as it were. It is potentially the only time I have put a seatbelt on without hesitation. Or actually thought about one for that matter. But David, it turns out, was a fantastic driver. His claws were quite handy for storing pints of Guinness, but it didn’t matter, because his feet were steering. So, as I also clutched two pints of Guinness, similar to Gerry in the back seat, I thought that if we were to die, it would be the most interesting trio of obituaries. Anyways, we soldiered onward towards Dingle, but at some point there came the inevitable need to replenish our glasses. The next road sign informed us that Limerick, also known as Stab City, lay just ahead. We would find a pub, have a bite, and get back on our way with enough Guinness to carry us through to Dingle. Wrong. Our brief pitstop in Limerick proved to be one of the most chaotic nights that I can ever remember, and/or, kind of not remember. Suffice to say, we conquered Stab City. The three of us took over a pub, all in the name of Gerry Conlon. He was a hero to these people and it was a joy to bear witness. Courtesy of his devilish charm, he owned the place. It was a riotous celebration. The following morning, I awoke in an unfamiliar room, in what appeared to be an old hotel. Complete with red-eyes and full-on throbbing gristle somewhere within whatever had been spared of my brain, I somehow managed to contact Gerry in the adjoining room. “Where is the Lord Mayor of Limerick?” I asked, referring to David, who had been bestowed the honor the night previous. “He’s taking a shower” Gerry said, in a pained drawl. Apparently he woke up with some chick. He didn’t know where he was, let alone who she was. Gerry went on to tell me that David had said good morning and asked the girl very simply, “Did we fuck?” “I’m not sure,” came the reply from the sweet lady to the armless thalidomide, whose pincer claws had been hurled across the room. David thought for a moment, before calmly stating, “Well, we had better make sure …”

After picking myself up off the floor, we again made for Dingle, where we finally met Fungie. The three of us were in no state to do anything whatsoever, let alone get in a fucking boat with a bunch of tourists. I can recall us being looked down upon by our fellow shipmates, especially the children, for some reason. I felt dirty. But Gerry was as excited as an eight-year-old, as we clipped through the water watching out for the dolphin to occasionally rear a head and deign us with its glory on this most joyous of grey days that I can ever recall. Gerry always possessed the magical ability to ensure such miracles.

The pain of losing his father never left Gerry. He blamed himself for Giuseppe’s death and nothing I, or anyone else, could say to him would shift that blame. In quieter moments, he would tell me of his pain, of how troubled he was at having confessed to the Guildford pub bombing. In his mind, if he hadn’t confessed, his father might still be alive and the Maguire family, who were also wrongfully convicted of the pub bombings, would never have been sent to prison. He might have been dealt the torturous methods employed by the authorities to haul out the counterfeit admissions, but in his rush to self-condemnation, he set that aside. He could not forgive himself.

Gerry Conlon was a leader who became the central figure in the struggle to have the Birmingham Six released from prison, even addressing a Congressional Committee on the matter. Gerry was also an international human rights activist and he highlighted the harsh treatment meted out to the Australian aborigines and Native Americans. His activism didn’t stop there: he protested capital punishment wherever it reared its ugly head. For prisoners around the world, many of whom had been wrongfully convicted, Gerry Conlon was their only hope.

Yet, by his own admission, this man was a flawed character, as so many of us are. He often told reporters that he took drugs to ward off his demons. In 1998 he took the decision to go clean, but what followed was a six-year struggle, during which he repeatedly goaded himself to commit suicide. But he beat the monster; he got off his knees and he beat the monster.

This book is a tour de force, a warts-and-all depiction of the life of Gerry Conlon from the minute he walked out of the Old Bailey. Knowing him as I did, he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. On every page, the colourful characters that inhabited Gerry’s life reach their hands out to the reader and invite them into a world rich in pathos, humour and irony. This is not a sad story. No, far from it. This is a chronicle of the triumph of the human spirit over extreme adversity. It is a story of hope. It is the story of a man I loved and would have taken a bullet for, as I know he would have done for me and all his loved ones. It was an honor to have known Gerry Conlon and to call him my friend.

Once we’d just left a bookstore in Dublin. Me with a handful of Brendan Behan’s books, and Gerry with a present – a beautifully handworked leather wallet, with one word etched onto it … “Saoirse”, meaning Freedom. It’s in my pocket as I write these words.

Johnny Depp


August 2017

my mother would always close the curtains and block the window’s eyes when i was thirteen & attempting to drown myself in the bathtub / “not again,” she’d say, and pat me dry / dad steered his boat against my tides / “the anxiety’s in your head” / “you’re painting ghosts underneath the porch light” / “look at her, honey, she’s a storm song” / all because i screamed my feelings instead of burying them beneath the rose bushes all because i scraped the tar off their shoes with my bare hands like an ape, like a mongrel (since you told me that’s what i deserved), all because i don’t wear my sadness like a diamond stud and practice perfecting artificial smiles on blood soaked mirrors / they asked me to sing them a moon-drenched lullaby / do that thing i do where i channel starlight & weave words into gods / instead i told them to witness me
pure, witness me gritty, witness me with one foot balanced in the air feeling the ethereal weight of an invisible ledge at the top of a building / i told them i’m a gargoyle & they forgot my birth name / ugly mutant thing / dead thing / with all the underworld’s misery etched upon my stony face / tiger, trigger, tragedy / “exorcise her, she’s a demon” / because i wear my mouth in scars instead of lipstick because my skin isn’t clear because i never fit into the prom dress, because, because, because / why does every girl have to be a china doll, why do we have to wear our armor like butterflies pinned to ball gowns? why can’t i open my mouth and roar? / i was groomed to be retched, to be a fucking tragedy / my trains they rattle, my hinges creak but girls are told to close their legs & imitate the bloody black swan across the night / so i’m an extinct animal / so i’m an anomaly / i told them i could still breathe / that my sun doesn’t match my stars but i have dark wings that hide pure things / so they kiss me goodbye / so i take a step towards the invisible ledge / so i fall.
—  EXORCISE HER // j.r

Sam blows out a breath of air as he sits inside the old confessional. The wood complains in squeaks beneath his weight and he can’t stop his heart from racing. Where does he start? What does he say? And then, in comes Dean’s voice with a list of his every failure.


Yea–sure, he is sorry for Ruby. But most days he still believes he’d be dead without her. It’s fucked up, but it doesn’t make it untrue. Sure she fucked with his head until he couldn’t even see straight, but because of her–he had a reason to live. Even if that reason was revenge.


When he thinks of Lilith, he thinks of Dean’s voice. The voicemail that they never talked about, but the one that sat and still sits in his stomach like sour milk. No matter how hard he’s tried to, he’s never quite digested it. He’s sorry that it drove him over the edge. Sorry that it was the wrong choice. He should have known better. He knows that with every fiber of his being.


At once he felt sorry for freeing him, but his sorrow is replaced with memories of ‘The Cage’. And those memories smother out every ‘sorry’ he could ever come to muster. That sin was paid in full and he hates that Dean can’t fucking see that. It fucking cost his soul, his sanity and practically his goddamned life. But he paid it and he’d pay it again, because that was his debt to owe.

Keep reading