perched hotels

hummingbird heartbeat - pt33

The internet caught onto Kent’s boyfriend related hashtags immediately, and it didn’t surprise Bitty when he woke up to see Kent’s account inundated with questions – and insults. Kent responded to a few, all of them respectful questions that received very short answers. Kent gave a single explanation for why he wasn’t choosing to reveal his boyfriend’s identity – “we value privacy in our personal lives :)” – and he didn’t entertain further questions on the subject. In fact, he’d moved on to tweet a few hockey-related things before the activity on his account ceased for the day. The insults were ignored.

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Luke Imagine: Playing Guitar at 3AM

Author: Rhine


“Could you shut the f – oh.”

You’re mildly surprised to say the least, not expecting clear blue eyes to stare back at you innocently, clashing with the small smirk on the stranger’s lips.

And all of your irritation melts into a faint embarrassment, your frustrated gnashing of teeth replaced by a soft tint of red in your cheeks.

You had prepared a whole ten minute speech – or angry proclamation, it really depends on your perspective on it – about the rudeness of people playing guitar in hotel hallways at three in the morning when some certain residents – this is where a sharp death glare comes in to indicate ‘certain residents’ meant you – had just come off a fourteen-hour flight and wanted nothing but sleep.

Your plane had been delayed for five hours and it had been a turbulent flight and your suitcase was the last to come out on the conveyor belt; your taxicab driver got lost and you were rained on as you were walking to the hotel doors.

All you wanted to do was take a nice, long, hot shower, scream into your pillow, and sleep.

It wasn’t a great start to your vacation, what with everything that could possibly go wrong going completely wrong – and this was the tipping point.

Collapsing into the white linen sheets of the hotel bed and closing your eyes, letting your worn body melt into the soft mattress, your mind finally humming to a sleep then –

The obnoxiously loud sound of a guitar twanging from somewhere outside your door.

At first you try to ignore it – breathe, breathe, fucking breathe – but it starts to get a little unbearable somewhere after the first hour of repeated chords and simple melodies.

You thought it would stop; small pauses the faintest glimmers of hope that whoever was playing was done – only to have it start up all over again with a quick succession of chords with loud, echoing strumming.

It’s the perfectly irritating volume where it’s just loud enough to rouse you from your sleep in sharp staccatos, not soft enough to be a lullaby serenade.

And you have had enough – you did not need this to be your closing credit song to a horribly disastrous day.

You moaned in tired frustration, the sound a low growl before peaking at a high shriek.

You dragged yourself out of the warm blanket coffin of the bed and stomped out the door, jaw set as you looked for the source of the damn noise, ready to give whoever was playing a piece of your mind and a very special finger.

You weren’t quite expecting the attractive blonde sitting at the very end of the hallway, worn guitar propped on his crossed knees – his blue eyes took your breath away and all of your arguments died in your throat at the sight of his sheepish smile, pink lips accented by the black ring pierced into it.

And all you can think is fuck – because not only was this boy irritatingly loud with his goddamn guitar, he just had to be infuriatingly good looking with his grey beanie loosely perched on top of his tousled blonde hair, large sweatpants loose on his hips and just low enough for you to see pale skin and the softly protruding hipbone.


He looks up at you with expectant aqua eyes, faint circles underneath them of someone who hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for a few too many nights but damn did he wear it well with the cheeky grin and soft stubble underneath his chin.

“Could you – well, you see – it’s just a bit – “

And the piece of your mind that you planned on giving him turned out to be nothing but the stutters of a brainless bimbo.

“Is it a bit distracting?”

He nods to his guitar, hands still frozen over the strings – and god, his voice was too deep for you to physically handle at three in morning – there’s a lilt to it, a melody in his words and maybe it’s the sleep deprivation but you swear to god he’s probably five words away from having you on your knees.

You deduce it as fatigue – though you’re certain he’s just as attractive when you’re fully awake after a good night’s sleep, certainly still just as attractive then with his face inches away from yours on the white pillow with that voice saying your name and

It’s too late and your mind is twisting things a little too far.

“You are very much distracting.”

His guitar was distracting you from sleeping but his smirked lip ring smile and long legs in low sweatpants was most definitely distracting you from having coherent thoughts that weren’t R rated.

You swear to god you’re not usually like this; it’s three in the morning and you’re not thinking straight, you’re not thinking right by a long shot.

You shake your head vigorously and clear your throat, crossing your arms across your chest and trying to remember your original intention for storming out in your embarrassing pajamas and messy hair in the first place.

“I’m trying to sleep and I would really appreciate it if you could… not.”

If he could not strum his goddamn guitar in the hotel hallway in the middle of the night and disturb you from your slumber, if he could not look so ruggedly good with his long fingers pulling his beanie over blonde tresses that would surely be a vision that keeps you from sleeping well tonight.

He smiles lopsidedly at you and shifts his legs so they stretch out from their previous crossed position – and oh god, they’re so long that the wide hallway still isn’t enough space for them and you just know he’s someone that would loom over you, broad shoulders and your eyes on his chest when he stands up and you did not need that thought right now.

“I’m sorry – I’ve been trying to write this song, you see, but it’s – it’s stuck, stuck inside of me and I… I can’t get it out.”

He laughs a little to himself, shaking his head slightly before turning back to you again.

“You don’t care about that, sorry. I’ll kindly shut the fuck up now and let you sleep.”

There’s a small, apologetic smile on his mouth and something a little sad his eyes, frustration in the way he rubs his unshaved chin and sighs quietly to himself afterwards.

You take a deep breath and mutter why the fuck not, slinking down on the floor across from him, head propped up on your bent knees with a crooked grin on your face.

“Well, what are you writing about?”

He looks at you with wide eyes of surprise, hands frozen next to his guitar, barely blinking while you waited patiently for his response.

“Wait, what? Didn’t you – but you – I don’t understand.”

The words are – there’s no other way to describe it – adorably confused, falling from his o-shaped mouth.

“God knows I won’t be getting any sleep tonight,” you chuckle lightly. “Might as well make some use of this inevitable all-nighter.”

The shock on his face is starting to melt into a soft grin as he picks up his guitar again, setting it on his lap.

“So? What are you trying to write about?”

He gives you one more long look before smiling at the floor in a way that you can’t seem to decode, looking back at you again, something playful in the waves of his eyes.

“You see, it’s about this girl I met…”


You’re not quite sure how it happened.

You remember chatting with him – Luke, you find out his name afterwards – about this song he was trying to write, the pregnant pauses where he’s trying to find the right words to convey to you how he’s been feeling about it, biting his lips and drumming his long fingers on the wood of the guitar.

You remember the scratches on the hotel notepad perched on his thigh, all the words he deemed ‘not good enough’, scrawled writing cramped into the tiny blank spaces of a final rough draft after hours of debating over what sounded best.

You remember the melody of the guitar and the acoustics bouncing off the thin hallway walls, you remember the bass of his voice as he sang along to the lyrics the two of you created, words low in his throat and rumbling in his chest.

You don’t remember this oversized maroon sweater draped onto your shoulders – most definitely not yours, most definitely his by the size and the faint scent of aftershave that you’ve come to recognize – and you don’t remember falling asleep, let alone falling asleep on his shoulder.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.”

He’s grinning down at you, lips brushing the top of your forehead – and he’s every bit as beautiful in the morning as you imagined the night before.

You yawn, trying to rub the sleep from your eyes and brush the stray hairs from your face – and you feel the light tremors in his shoulder from his quiet chuckles at the sight of you, his long fingers unexpectedly curling your messy hair behind your ears, knuckles faintly skimming your cheek.

You just know he can see the blush on your cheeks and you swear he smiles wider.

“Thanks for helping me finish my song – I couldn’t have done it without you.”

His voice is soft, sweet – almost a little shy, like he’s a stranger meeting you for the first time all over again despite spending the night with you – in a little bit of an unconventional manner, but spending the night all the same.

You think it has to do with the daylight, how it shows everything in a different light without last night’s glaze of laughter and mischievous eyes; something about remembering the brutal honesty and rawness that only the foggy hours of the night can produce.

You blink at him and manage a sleepy smile before reluctantly lifting your head from his shoulder and stretching your cramped limbs.

“And I,” you grin, “couldn’t have slept without you.”

He laughs at your little inside joke and you beam at his smile illuminated by the soft morning rays, bathing him in gold sunlight, drenching him in blue skies, painting him in white clouds.

You slowly get up and you almost instantly miss the heat of his body.

It feels strange to be next to him when you’re different people in the daylight, it feels strange to not be next to him after the night by his side.

There’s some awkward shuffling where you’re both staring at your feet and unsure of what to do, what to say.

“I hope I hear that song on the radio one day.” You say, trying to break the silence with a wavering smile.

“And I hope to see you again one day.”

There’s something heavy in the air, and you both know that the goodbye is inevitable, that it’s coming soon – and neither of you know what to do with it.

“Well… I – I guess I have to go… you know, um – go… get ready… or something.”

It’s painfully awkward but it has to be done; the two of you can spend the night together just talking for hours on end when time seemed to stand still, but the two of you can’t keep standing around in the hallways when the morning sun has come with a reminder that time was ticking by.

“Yeah, you should… you should do that. I – I have to go too.”

Snuck glances and quick turns of head when your eyes meet; he’s biting his lip and you’re rubbing your wrist.

You hold out his maroon sweater to him with a bashful gaze.

“Here, you should, y’know… have it back. Thank you.”

He shakes his head almost vehemently, gripping his guitar with white knuckles while staring at the pattern of the rug hotel floor.

“You can keep it.”

“I can’t – it’s yours, I – “

“You gave me a song. It’s the least I can do.”

His eyes finally meet yours with a shy gaze and you smile at him, holding the sweater close to your body and feeling the aftertaste of his touch on it.

“Thank you, Luke.”

“Thank you.”

You stand there for a moment more, and you’re about to leave before it tips into awkwardness – but not before taking a quick step towards him and tip-toeing up to his height, placing a swift kiss on his cheek.

He’s as red as you are when you pull away again.

You start to walk back to your hotel room before you have to explain – I just wanted to – his gaze never leaving yours.

“I’ll see you again?”

He calls out from across the hall just before you walk through the doors of your room, his voice hopeful.

You smile at him, hair in tangles and clothes rumpled, smelling of him with circles underneath your eyes that match his.

“Goodbye, Luke.”

You close the door with a click and he’s left standing alone in the hallway, guitar in one hand and notepad of messy lyrics in the other.

But he smiles, he smiles because he knows – he just knows

You might’ve said goodbye, but all he hears is soon.


more imagines here!

A Week in Mistward 13/13!!!!!!!!!!!

Hey guys! Here it Day Thirteen, which I’m not emotionally prepared to write, because it’s the last chapter! Aaaaaah! But. I will have another out tomorrow, a Rowaelin one-shot, in honor of someone’s birthday! But AWM ends tonight, ayyyy. But, here we are, I present to you,,,,,

characters copyright of sarah j maas

taliesin, korlan, and aline copyright to me

link to all the fics culminating to this one:

Side note-thank you all so so SO much for the likes, reblogs, comments, messages, and asks! You guys are fabulous! All readers are:) I will forever appreciate you!

pps-NSFW. Enough said.

I have a thought…customizing my blog so it’s not just a fandom account, but maybe so it’s got some more information on me, like my pen name (unchosen. But my real name is super hard) but i mean,,,,,opening myself to you guys a little more? Idk, just a thought, tell me how you feel about it! This blog has grown into so much more than a fandom blog…I’ve met so many friends and reblogged personal things I love and am passionate about! Anyway, tell me what you think!

Goodness to the Gods….

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anonymous asked:

I want the 16. Please! :)

16. Upside-down Kiss

I actually decided to forgo Hiccstrid with this one…it just screamed Ladynoir to me. Warning for excessive fluff and disgusting sweetness.

She’d almost, almost saved him.

The stunning Parisian night, looking almost postcard-perfect from her view perched atop a fancy hotel, seemed to have disappeared the minute the Akuma materialized down the street below. 

She was Lady Luck.  He was the master of bad fortunes. She and Chat Noir would team up and stop it like always. And like always, afterwards he’d eye her with a sideways grin and casually remark at what a beautiful day it was. How beautiful his lady was. And she’d roll her eyes to the stars above and their stones would beep and ground them back to earth once more.

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