pleasant reverie

bliphany-sherylwang  asked:

Hello dear. 99. throat + John Reese for the random prompt please :))) thank you xx

I’ve actually been wanting to write about… this, for quite some time now.  Thank you for giving me further incentive, @bliphany. ;)

John doesn’t like wearing anything around his throat.

The CIA trained it out of him; anything constricting can be used to tighten around his neck and squeeze the air out of his windpipe.   It’s partly why he doesn’t particularly like wearing neckties or bowties, no matter how much Harold tries to coax him into them, and only grudgingly concedes when their cover requires more formal attire.  The feel of having something around his neck rankles him, triggering instincts of alarm and memories of lethal chokeholds he had managed to weasel out of through training, skill, and sheer force of will.

The safety precaution of having his throat free, however, is only part of the reason why he refuses to button the collar of his shirt.

John smirks over his cup as he catches Harold quickly glancing away, as if John hasn’t been feeling the heat of his gaze, scalding his skin more heatedly than the coffee sliding down his throat.

Harold, John is pleased to discover, has a thing for his throat.  

It came to his attention when he first showed up to work in the very first suit Harold has ever given him.  He had been in a hurry that morning, distractedly throwing on his clothes and heading to their meeting place without really buttoning the shirt all the way through, leaving the topmost buttons undone.

The way Harold had stared hungrily at the exposed skin of his collar lingered ever after, like imprints of a lover’s fingernails after a night of passion.  Electrifying shivers of pleasure had shot down his spine at the way Harold had marked him even then.

He tried to fight it, he really did.  But can he really be blamed for giving in to the overpowering desire to be owned by a man like Harold Finch?

He’s profoundly sorry that he can’t wear a collar; he tried, once, and found that he couldn’t even stand a few minutes in it without breaking out in a cold sweat as it brought to mind choking sensations of near-death experiences he had in his unpleasant past.  Harold had taken one look at him, deftly unclasped the collar and murmured gentle reassurances to John’s hair as he collapsed, shuddering in Harold’s arms.

“You don’t have to, John,” Harold had tenderly said; John had frantically shaken his head, knowing that Harold had meant it as a reassurance, and swallowed down the whimper that got caught in his throat, unable to voice what he really wanted:

Own me, John had wanted to cry in frustration and desperation.  Mark me.  Make me belong to you.


Harold’s soft, inquiring voice pulls him out of his pleasant, dazed reverie.  “Hmmm?”

He watches the way Harold hesitates before asking, haltingly:  “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer to wear a scarf in this weather?”  Harold tilts his head slightly toward the window of the diner where they were seated, indicating the grey, overcast sky.  “It’s cold out there… particularly this morning.”

John blinks as it takes a few seconds to process what Harold is really asking.  He feels his stomach pooling with warmth, a sultry smile spreading across his lips as he slants his half-lidded gaze at Harold.

“You know I don’t like wearing anything around my neck, Finch,” he murmurs huskily.

He feels his smirk widening at the flush of colour that feathers Harold’s cheeks.  “That… doesn’t seem completely true now, does it, Mr. Reese?”  

There’s a glint of a challenge in Harold’s eyes, part mischief, part helpless satisfaction, and John answers it in turn as he leans forward on his elbows; his shirt gapes open at the collar, revealing the motley of bruises on his throat and collarbone, like a garland of purple orchids strung around his neck, except it’s etched on his skin through tiny blood vessels broken by teeth and tongue.

“I do like wearing marks of your mouth on me, Harold,” he whispers lowly as the heat in his gut coils tightly into want.  

He sees the way Harold’s eyes flash knowingly from behind thick glasses before he calmly sips his cup of Sencha green tea, and John is suddenly seized by the overwhelming impulse to unravel Harold’s composure, right then and there.

It might gain him more marks around his throat, John thinks wildly, remembering the way Harold had slammed him against the door the night before and completely took him apart, mouthing at his neck and sucking on his skin like a man starved.

John’s breath hitches as he feels his pants suddenly tighten; he shifts his legs under the table, spreading them, and he sighs at the pleasurable friction of fabric against his throbbing groin.  

Harold sets his cup slowly back down on the table, and John is immensely gratified to see how tightly Harold is grasping it, knowing he isn’t unaffected, either.

“Does it truly satisfy you, John,” Harold says silkily, and John grits his teeth to bite back a groan, “to openly display such a vivid mark of… possession?”

Harold’s gaze is simmering with banked heat, but tempered by genuine curiosity.  Slowly, John slides his palm across the table until his fingertips brush against Harold’s knuckles.

The spark that flares from that slightest skin-to-skin contact sears John to the bone.

“It’s not the possession itself,” John answers, not even bothering to hide his ragged breathing, “but rather, who I’m possessed by that I’m proud to declare.”

The lens of Harold’s glasses only serve to magnify the way Harold’s pupils dilate, his gaze devouring John as greedily as his mouth had last night.  He unclenches his tight hold on the cup to reach out and run his fingers down John’s throat; John instinctively tilts his head back, his eyes fluttering close as he sighs.

Harold pauses and, without warning, presses his fingers in, and John is severely thankful he’s already sitting down, else he might have collapsed from the way the hiss and sting of pleasure suddenly makes him weak in the knees.

The look in Harold’s eyes is immensely satisfied… and completely territorial.

“Let’s declare it loud and clear, then.”

ketsubomi  asked:


Touch Starved Meme ||  😶 - Quietly lean against my muse!

      ——— Fiery-coloured skies darkened with each passing breeze as the late
      afternoon sun sank into the horizon. Red swayed happily on the smooth
      stone bench in Pallet Town’s centre, legs kicking back and forth as he
      excitedly listed off the things he’d do first at the start of his adventure. It
      became somewhat of a habit in the weeks leading up to it — it was all he
      could think of. 

      Lost in his own pleasant reveries, Red is only reminded of Leaf’s
      presence once she begins leaning into his side; her lithe frame and
      earthly scent spurring him into a complete silence. A faint blush sifts
      through the pale of his cheeks as his fingers tap awkwardly at his
      thighs. He feels a bit silly prattling on endlessly about his plans
      without giving her a word in edgewise. She’ll be getting her first
      pokemon tomorrow too! 

      The swaying continued, but it was much more subdued with Leaf
      fixed to his shoulder. Red tilted his head ever so slightly to the side,
      pressing his cheek against her head. 

      ❝ It’s gonna be weird not seein’ my best friend ‘round every day.
         Really weird. ❞



I Want What You Have: A Newt (The Maze Runner) Imagine

“I was lookin’ for somethin’ to sink my teeth into.
I didn’t know what I wanted,
But now I do.

I want what you have,
I want what you have now.
Give it to me.”

-I Want What You Have by Willamette Stone

Premise: Ever since you came up out of the elevator, Newt has taken a special interest in you, and has rules about how the boys aren’t supposed to touch or flirt with you, but he breaks all of them himself. 

Also, flower crowns and steaminess. 

* * *

You had been treated differently almost immediately upon your arrival at the Glade, being one of two girls amongst over twenty boys. 

It had its perks, but with Teresa already being “accounted for” by Thomas, you were often a target of some the more daring boys, and it go quite annoying after a while.

The only boys you could stand for extended amounts of time were Thomas, Chuck, and Newt. 

Thomas, because of his obvious infatuation with Teresa,

Chuck, because he was younger and didn’t yet know how to be a cocky slinthead,

And Newt, because he was… well, because he was Newt, all poofy hair and chocolate eyes that made you blush every time they caught your gaze. 

You thought of his husky laugh, and the way his lips twisted up into a smile when he called you ‘love’. 

You were irritated when the other boys tried to flirt with you, but with Newt, you certainly didn’t mind. 

Thankfully, most of the boys had left you alone for the past few days, and you were beginning to think that Newt had something to do with it. 

In fact, you knew it was his doing. 

Yesterday, you had been working in the gardens, and you had bent over to pick up your fallen shovel. Some idiot had started to make an obnoxious comment, when you heard another boy shush him, then say, “Don’t be a shank, Newt’ll have your ass if he hears you saying that.” 

And after that, the boy had been strangely polite to you for the rest of the day.

You wanted to speak to Newt about it, but anytime the two of you were together, there was an abundance of snickering and whispering that followed you around.

However, you and Newt had found a shady, secluded spot in the Glade that was invisible to those in the main area of the courtyard. 

Newt had left a few minutes ago to get lunch from Frypan, and you were left alone with nothing but your thoughts to keep you company.

You glanced around, trying to focus on anything but the humid air around you. It was a particularly hot day, and you couldn’t help but take off your worn cardigan, leaving nothing but a black tank top to cover your upper torso. 

Now that you weren’t sweating through your clothes, your mind was clear, and you started to gather up long strands of grass, bendable twigs, and most importantly, flowers. 

For the next few minutes, you kept yourself busy by making a flower crown for Newt, laughing softly as you imagined the look on his face when you gave it to him. 

Just as you finished securing the final flower in place, you heard the sound of footsteps, and glanced up to see Newt heading towards you. 

His eyes widened at the sight of you, and you heard him mutter a soft “Bloody hell,” as he took you in. 

You quirked an eyebrow at him, a smirk spreading across your lips. After all, it wasn’t everyday that you got the chance to push his buttons a little bit. 

“What, never seen a girl before?” You tease, following carnal instinct and fluttering your eyelashes innocently at him. 

His only response is a scoff as he hands you your food, and you begin to eat in silence. But, you catch him glancing your way every minute or so, and you try to keep your fingers from shaking as you cling to your fork like a lifeline. 

After you finish eating, you grab the flower crown from where you’ve placed it on the grass behind you and say, “I made something for you.”

“Oh, really? Let’s see it, then,” he quips, leaning back against the the trunk of a nearby tree, smiling crookedly at you. 

You move over and place the flower crown on his head, laughing under your breath at his incredulous expression as he looks up at it. 

And then, he turns to you, chocolate eyes glittering with amusement. 

“So? How does it look, love?” He asks, lilting voice lingering on the word love solely for the purpose of making you blush. 

You tilt your head slightly to the side, as though honestly considering him, although you already know how much you like the way he looks in it. 

“You look like some sort of elf prince,” You say, speaking your initial thoughts. 

He chuckles softly, “Is that good?”

You’re only half-joking when you say, “Yes, very.”

With his boyish, yet chiseled features, fluffy light hair, and alluring umber eyes, he had always reminded you of someone out of a fairy-tale. 

You cross your legs and then prop your chin up on your hand, once again pretending to scrutinize him. 

“At any rate, I think it suits you very well. You should wear it all the time,” You declare. 

He laughs shortly, “The boys would give me hell for it.” 

“Well, they’re already treating as though you’re some sort of joke. Be honest with me, Newt, why do they always laugh when they see us together?” You say, finally telling him what’s been on your mind all day. 

He sighs, running his fingers over his mouth. 

“It’s complicated,” is his only response, and you exhale loudly. 

“I highly doubt it’s that hard to explain. People always say that girls are more dramatic, but you boys cause more trouble than Teresa and I ever do,” You say contemptuously. 

A moment of silence passes between the two of you, and you look over at him to see an indeterminable emotion fills his burnt ochre eyes. 

“Y/n, would you mind stopping by my tent later?” He eventually asks. 

“Am I in trouble, now?” 

“No, no, nothing like that. I think it’d be easier to explain without all of these shanks mucking around,” He says. 

“Oh, okay,” You feel heat rising to your cheeks and look away from him, instead choosing to stare at the cloudless azure blue of the sky above. 

Suddenly feeling very self-conscious, you bring your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your legs. 

You can still sense Newt’s eyes on you, but until you leave for the gardens, you sit in a comfortable silence. 

* * *

You sit around the fire that night with Thomas, Chuck, and Teresa. The rest of the boys are singing some sort of drinking song at the top of their lungs, and you shake your head at their antics. 

You remember Newt’s request from earlier that day, and glance around to see if he’s nearby.

You don’t see him anywhere, and can only assume he’s back in his tent. 

Murmuring a quick excuse to your friends, you make your way across the courtyard towards Newt’s tent. 

You try your best to stay in the shadows, knowing that the last thing you need was one of the boys seeing you. 

Being drunk, they would be even bigger slintheads than usual, and you weren’t in the mood to put up with their teasing. 

A few minutes later, you pushed open the flap to Newt’s tent and ducked underneath, surprised to see Newt sat on the bed, staring down at his bloodied knuckles. 

“Newt! What happened?” 

“Nothing,” he mumbles, snatching a stained cloth from his bedside table and dabbing at his bleeding hand. 

You rush over, “Let me do it, you’ll get an infection if you keep doing that.”

You take the rag away from him, then head over to his small basin of water, grabbing a clean cloth and gauze from his supply on your way back. 

You clean and bandage up his hand, wrapping his fingers with gauze. As you bind the cloth around his wrist, his head drops onto your shoulder, lips brushing against the crook of your neck. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, voice trembling.

“Sorry, I slipped, I just…”

You move away from him, trying to put some distance between the two of you before things escalated. 

But, didn’t you want that?

You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts, then say, “Are you going to tell me what happened or not?”

He makes a noise between a sigh and growl, then trails his fingers down his jaw, letting them rest on his mouth. 

He did that a lot, you noticed, an adorable habit that he probably didn’t even realize he was doing. 

“One of the boys was… well, he was talking about you, and I didn’t like what he was saying,” He admits. 

“And you thought the due course of action would be to punch him?” You say incredulously. 

“You didn’t hear what he was saying, y/n. I would’ve done much worse if you had,” He says, his voice rough. 

You don’t like the murderous look in his chocolate eyes, so you attempt to lighten the mood. 

“Well, thank you for defending my honor. Maybe you can be an elf knight instead of a prince.” 

He laughs huskily, eyes glimmering now with something that you can’t place. 

“Your sarcasm is duly noted, love.” 

A light blush dusts his pale cheeks, and you’re not sure if it’s because of the nearby lamp that sets the tent aglow, or if it’s because of you. 

He looks adorable all the same, and you have to stop yourself from leaning over and kissing him. 

Instead, you say, “No, I mean it. Thank you.” 

Another smile, a dimple you hadn’t noticed before making him seem even younger. 

You had never realized how young he looked, his boyish features were so often twisted into an expression of worry, or into your favorite smirk, which made him seem like anything but a child. 

His fingers flutter on the blanket, and you want nothing more than to reach over and entwine them with yours. 

So, you do. 

“What did you want to talk about?” You keep your voice soft, solely focused on the warmth that spreads from your laced hands to your entire body. 

His face flushes a deeper pink, and he rolls his lower lip into his mouth, biting down on it gently as you watch him. 

There is a moment where neither of you speak, and you take in his light auburn hair, which stands up at wild angles, as though he’s been running his fingers through it. 

You can’t help but wonder if it’s as soft as it looks, and imagine his head in your lap, his eyes closed and a peaceful smile on his lips as you stroke his hair. 

You’re ripped out of your pleasant reverie by the sound of his voice. 

“The reason I’ve been telling the boys to keep away from you is that I want you to be mine, and mine only. I didn’t want them touching you, or flirting with you, or doing anything that might make you like them more than me. I want to be your best friend, your lover, your everything. Do you want to be mine?” 

And you finally answer the questions that have been rolling around in your head ever since you got to the Glade, the queries you had pondered every time you looked at him. 

Yes,” You breathe, and then his lips crash into yours, his hands on your waist pulling you into him. 

Your hands go to his hair, and yes, it is as soft as you had imagined, and you tug on the strands, kissing him with an intense passion you didn’t know you possessed. 

He growls, then hitches you up onto his lap, biting your bottom lip and pushing his tongue into your mouth. 

He moves his hands under your shirt, slim fingers surprisingly cool against your heated skin. 

Not an inch of your torso goes unexplored, and you break apart so he can pull your shirt over your head. 

You take his face in your hands, gazing into his chocolate eyes that are now darkened with desire. 

“Y/n,” His voice is hoarse when he says your name, and his gaze roams shamelessly down your body, taking in every edge and curve. 

His lips find yours again, and after that, the only thing you can remember is his name. 

A/N: Thanks for reading my first Maze Runner imagine! It got kind of steamy, and I hope you liked it! Please like, reblog, follow, and send more imagines for Newt, because this was so much fun!

Discrepancy in Spelling

Dreamt or dreamed?

It’s an aesthetic choice, but also two different actions.

“Dreamed” means a prolonged engagement in a dream, sinking in a dream further still when it seemed impossible to do so, a pleasant, relaxed reverie.

“Dreamt” refers to a curt, unruly dream, not necessarily pleasant, although not necessarily devoid of pleasure also, a dream and a process of dreaming into which you are thrown violently and decisively.

In a Note on the Text, following Introduction to Selected Poems of Wallace Stevens, editors state that “for consistency, the American spelling of "center” has been adopted throughout.“

Whereas Wallace Stevens used both "centre” and “center.”

I have a loving for British spelling, not that I used it much, but it looks fairly sudden on a page to my eyes and reminds me of my unforgettable year in London.

“When his publisher queried him about this discrepancy in The Auroras of Autumn, Stevens responded:

"Center is correct. One of the principal streets in the place where I came from is called Centre Avenue. I have never been able to shake that off.”“ (Letter to Herbert Weinstock, Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. January 27, 1950; quoted by Wallace Stevens, Selected Poems, Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 2009, XXII).

Perhaps some apparent discrepancies in spelling should not be obliterated.

  • Thrasher: Master Scapegrace had his seventh epiphany today, which has given me an epiphany of my own: Master is a genius. He has to be. If he isn't, then I've given almost four years of my life to an idiot; that is unacceptable. Therefore, Master is a genius, and I will die protecting his vision.
  • Synecdoche: Are you by any chance familiar with Stockholm syndrome?
  • Thrasher: Is it something that Master Scapegrace created? Because if not, I don't care.
Refuge [Klaine] PG

My darling knitty requested sickfic, specifically: “I would really love to read some sweet & happy fluffiness about one of them being sick & the other just cooing over them & babying them & bringing them juice & crackers.”
Slightly belated, but still: enjoy!  <3  Primarily sick!Blaine.
~1,800 words

Also available on ffnet and AO3.

They succeeded in living together not because it wasn’t hard – and certainly not because there weren’t any problems – but because over time the compromises came. 

Keep reading