the colors on the wall are my favorite shades of blue

The Color Of My World // A Stiles Stilinski AU

Prompt: Soulmate AU where for your entire life you’ve only ever seen black and white, until you receive the first touch from your soulmate and color blooms before your very eyes. But, what would you do if you found out your soulmate was the one person your current boyfriend hates the most in this world?

Relationships: Stiles Stilinski x Reader/Theo Raeken x Reader/Stiles Stilinski x OFC/Theo Raeken x OFC

Warnings: Intimate Dancing, Kissing, Swearing, and Future Smut (I gotta build it up first y’all but smut is coming)

Song: Flaslight by Jessie J (Cover by Leroy Sánchez)

Word Count: 3,157

A/N: Y’all this was a long time coming. This series is so incredibly important to me, it took me months on end to write. This is without a doubt my favorite story I have written so far and has become my baby. Special thanks to @sarcasticallystilinski for reading it over and supporting me! I really hope you guys love this as much as I do.

P.s. All of the songs will be in Stiles’ POV and, Oh My God, I highly recommend you listen to them after every part to know what’s going on in his mind throughout the story. 

Series Masterlist

Love, Soulmates and Colors are the three words I despise the most in this world. They ring in my ears like sharp nails scratching against a dry chalkboard and, yet, it seems to be all everyone ever talks about.

“When will I find my soulmate?”

“All I ever see is black and white, I hope one day I’ll meet her and see color.”

“Wait, what do you mean you’re only seeing blue?”

Everyone on this God forsaken planet can only see the dull shades of black and white. However, rumor has it, that that completely changes when you meet your soulmate - as if that bullshit actually exists. Apparently, the moment your skin touches theirs, your entire world becomes vibrant with color and life.

I don’t believe it for one second. Not because I’m bitter or anything, but because I’ve never actually met anyone who can see in color and, therefore, I don’t believe that possibility exists. What would a world full of color even look like? I’m so used to the reality of black and white that the idea of shades other than these two seem so foreign and impossible.

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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.

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mr. sandman

[steve trevor x reader]

author’s note: most of the time when i write, i don’t plan for things to get that long but i always get carried away wtf. this happens with essays too i don’t understand. anyway, i think i kind of like this one, which is unusual for me to say of my stuff lol, but i do hope you enjoy

word count: 2,037

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This is my @stevetonysecretsanta gift for @notevenwinded. Happy New Year!


The cab driver craned his neck a little to get a better view of the house as they drove up. “Looks like a nice place to spend the holiday,” he said. His tone was admiring. Steve supposed that a cabbie who normally worked in his neighborhood didn’t take a lot of fares to Fifth Avenue mansions. Or maybe it was just the elaborate Christmas decorations that made him sound so impressed.

“There will be some good friends to spend it with. That’s all that matters.” Steve tried to project a little confidence into his tone, but he was pretty sure he failed, significantly. “Anyway, at least I won’t have to sleep on the couch.”

“In a place like this?” the cabbie pulled to a stop in front of the house. “Bet they have an entire guest suite.”

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Prompt: @whothehellisbella‘s song challenge - I’m In Here by Sia

A/N:This. Was. A. STRUGGLE!!! I wound up outlining a whole series that I felt really went with this song (yet to come), and this is the blob that I wrote for a one shot in in its stead. It’s angsty af and sooooo damn long. Idk team. Idk.

Warning: aaaangst, poor relationship dynamics.

Word Count: 6247 I’m fainting. This is the longest fic I’ve ever posted. I’m done.

Originally posted by captaincentenarian

“She gonna be okay?” Tony asked, handing Steve a cup of the shitty black sludge that the cafeteria passed off as coffee. His sharp brown eyes scanning the windows for any glimpse of you through the partially closed blinds. The muffled steady beeping of the monitors was a comfort, at least.

“Think so,” Steve sighed, finally lifting his gaze from his feet to mimic Tony’s glances into the room. He’d been seated opposite your door with his elbows on his knees and his head buried in his hands since your arrival. “As long as the grafts take and she gets through the quarantine stage, she should recover alright.”

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anonymous asked:

I miss ur Hades Harry and Persephone YN :( what if he was being cute one day and surprises her with new flowers he planted for her? How cute to see the god of the dead blush!!


On one particular day, as Harry’s walking around the palace talking with his counsel about new torturing techniques and a missing hellhound (which he’s sure is connected to the handful of missing spirits from the Fields of Asphodel), he passes by the library. The humungous set of obsidian doors are slightly ajar and even though he’s surrounded by a flurry of ghastly servants with papyrus containing population graphs and data tables, Hades manages to peek over their heads to see Y/N inside.

She’s standing in front of a painting her mother had gifted her a couple decades back, depicting the garden from her home back on Olympus. Harry watches with softening eyes as Y/N smooths her fingers over the image, a small frown dipping her pretty lips as her eyelashes shimmer with tears. He feels a splinter of pain prick his heart, sympathy sinking in right after.

He can’t stand seeing his girl sad. Whenever she’s hurting, he feels it with double the strength because he cares so deeply for her, it’s inevitable. Harry may be the god of the dead, but that didn’t make him heartless. It only makes cold-hearted. And with that being said, Y/N holds one of the rare corners inside it that is full of warmth.

And so he takes it upon himself to help her out of this homesickness that has taken away her smile.

Later that day, Hades finds her lounging in the kitchen with the cooks, taste-testing different ambrosia recipes for the summer equinox party that is coming up soon. And when the staff isn’t watching, Harry catches her sneaking lemon square pastries from the trays besides the oven.

He comes up behind her, leaning against the closest wall, crossing his arms over his broad chest and tilting his head to the side, fighting off an endeared grin. “You’ve eaten so many of those, you’re going to become a lemon square.”

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Colorblind Spot Conlon.

Give me a colorblind Spot.

A Spot who doesn’t know there’s something wrong with the way he sees colors until kindergarten when they learn them.

He gets so frustrated when they’re talking about red and green because those colors are the same as yellow and blue!!!!

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And If It Ever Happened (No One Has To Know) ~ Thomas Jefferson x Reader

Because despite being stuck on a bus for a three hour long car ride to a youth conference with a bunch of other awesome hyperactive candy addicted teens, I’m bored and still lacking a life. Also, for SJ’s Submission Sunday. Because by the heck not?

Or: Thomas learns about colors, his jacket is explained, and (Y/N) makes plans.

Warnings: Brain aneurism, child coping mechanisms, arguing, car accidents, bad French and Irish (Google Translate, people, bc I know nothing) character death, mentions of suicide, depression, hospitalization, a couple people get punched, mentions of homosexual relationships (in case that makes you uncomfortable - sorry never gonna change it those two are too precious in my mind) also it’s my first imagine so it probably sucks (be warned!) but it will sort of get better (ish) towards the middle of the story (beginning is on the bad side of OK and I’m not sure about the ending.), probably insanely OOCish and Mary Sue/Gary Lue ish characters that tend to go with shit writing like mine, plus this is the first time I’ve written an imagine, and my writing was already sucky enough as it was, so take that how you will.

So have fun with that

Modern AU, feminine pronouns


At four years old, Thomas Jefferson knew enough to know how to understand others, and what he understood was that all the boys on the block thought that pink or purple or any color reminiscent of them were for girls. (Except for red, because red is cool, like fire and blood and a knight’s horsehair plumes; and blue, because blue is cool, too, like ice and deep sea diving and the big, big sky that all those jets flew through that they were going to fly someday.)

He knew all the colors in the rainbow: red and orange and yellow and green and blue and purple, and black because that’s always what was between the other colors, and white because that was what was on either end of it in the shape of big, fluffy clouds.

Not pink.

Pink didn’t count, he thought.

At age six, his mother takes him to the local hardware store to look at paint samples, and he looks up at the giant wall with a gaping jaw as he takes in the impossible number of colors-within-colors. (Even pink.)

He sees some sort of grey splotch near the top of a yellow card, though, and doesn’t like it. He decides it doesn’t belong there.

“Mama, why is there another color on this one?”

She looks at him, brow risen in slight confusion, before she realized what his little finger is pointing to and chuckles.

She bends down real, real low, so they’re at the same eye level.

She’s tall, he thinks, not for the first time. I bet she could fight giants.

“Thomas,” she tells him, a small smile on her face and an amused twinkle in her eye. “This isn’t supposed to be another color. This is the name of the color. Like green is called green, and orange is called orange, but these ones are…,” she paused for a moment, mulling over the words as she tried to find a way to explain it to his young mind. “Different,” she finally settled. “They’re longer, and weirder.”


“Like this one,” she took down a shade of light, light orange and yellow, that reminds him of when those very colors clash on the - the nex - neckt - nectarine. “They call it Brooklyn Skyrise.”

He frowned. That didn’t sound like a color.

If he looked at it, it was actually really nice.

“What’s Brooklyn?”

“It’s a city in New York, Thommy.”

He stared at it a little while longer before nodding his head firmly. “I’m going to live in New York,” he decided confidently.

His mother’s eyebrows rose.

“I’m sure you will, Thomas.”

(And if he didn’t have any idea where New York was, then he didn’t say anything.)

She then pulled down another one, a murky auburn, leaning more toward red, and he is reminded of leaves right before fall.

“Here’s another one. This one’s called Dragon’s Blood.”

His grin lit up his face. “Cool!”

He is seven when he finally meets her.

She is bold and she is brilliant and despite the fact that she is a girl, she seems to possibly be one of the only people in that class that he might actually like.

Besides James, of course.

He decides to save himself the humiliation and stick with becoming friends with James.

It’s okay, though.

He’s not the only one who’s noticed you.

It’s when you hit another boy that he finally gets the courage to talk to you, opposed to all the other boys who look upon you with both awe and fear, and scattered every time you came near.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” was the only answer he got back.

“What’s your name?”

“(Y/N). What about you?”

“I’m Thomas.”


It was quiet for a little while.

“I saw that you punched that boy,” he informed her.

“Everyone saw it, dummy,” she shot back. “It was during recess.”

His face grew hot and he practically recoiled, not knowing at first what to say to that.

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anonymous asked:

Marinette is wearing a flower in her hair and bee!Chloé cant control herself for the Marichat tropes.

im glad that maribee!marichat tropes are becoming a thing :P

words: 1695

“Okay, so it says I need to get a package of puff pastry.”

Marinette snorted and spoke with her mouth full. “Strike one. Store bought puff pastry is abominable.”

Queen Bee frowned. “Obviously I would get the expensive kind.”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s all sub-par. You gotta make that stuff from scratch otherwise what’s the point?”

“Not all of us live in a professional bakery, Marinette!”

Marinette stuck her tongue out. “That sounds like a ‘you’ problem.”

Queen Bee plucked up some of the mille-feuille crumbs from her plate and threw them in Marinette’s hair, laughing when the girl screamed in outrage. “Don’t sass me, I’m a superhero!”

Marinette shoved a foot against Queen Bee’s thigh, jokingly trying to shove her from her dainty perch on her balcony railing. “I’m giving you my professional opinion.”

“No.” Queen Bee reached over and tapped her on the nose. “You’re making things difficult by not giving me the recipe for these things and forcing me to do research.”

Marinette shrugged. “Family recipe. Sworn to secrecy. Sorry, my dear.”

“I wouldn’t tell anyone! Surely you’d trust me over anyone else.”

“Your sterling commitment to civic duty is not enough of a reason.”

Queen Bee pouted and handed Marinette’s phone back to her. “Fine. I’ll just starve then.”

“Or you could just come back during opening hours and buy some.”

Queen Bee smirked. “Why would I do that if I can just tap on your window and get some for free?”

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Image finding Teddy Lupin lost in a crowd in Daigon Alley

Gif not mine. 

Pairing: Remus x Reader

Summary: You are a local shop keeper on a supply run when you stumble upon a small, sobbing child trying to find his father.

Warning: Slight AU where Tonks dies in the war but Remus lived.

The streets of Diagon Alley were overflowing today, teeming with excited children and stressed parents as they made their way down the cobblestone alley, attempting to complete their school shopping for the upcoming year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You yourself were merely on a simple errand, the bakery that you owned was almost out of a few supplies that you would have to run to a muggle store to retrieve.

As you made your way down the alley way, your ears perked at the sound of what seemed to be a child crying. Concerned, you followed the sound until you made your way to the ice cream shop, where you spotted a small boy with blue hair huddled under a table, no parent in sight, balling his eyes out.

Slowly you made your way over to him, as no one else seemed to have noticed him, and grabbed the rim of the green table, using it to swing yourself below it and sit crisscrossed before the small sobbing child.

Beaming, you asked, “Why ya crin’?”

The child looked up, startled.

“I-I I lost my daddy!” he said through a wall of tears.

“Aww,” you cooed. “It’s going to be ok, is blue your favorite color?”

You motioned to his hair, the boy whipped his tears with the end of his sleeve and nodded, his lip trembling as his stared at you.

“Blue is a nice color,” you mused, “Want to know what my favorite color is?”

The blue haired boy nodded, his small fauxhawk bouncing up and down as he did so.

With a quick motion, you slipped your hair from its ponytail, shaking it wildly about, during the chaotic motion, your normally (h/c) hair bean to turn a vibrant shade of pink. You looked up at the boy and smiled mischievously at him, while he, in turn, looked back at you in awe.

“You, you’re like me!” he said, eyes lighting up while the tears stopped streaming from his eyes. You bobbed your head up and down excitedly.

“I’ve never met another one like me before,” you grinned.

“Me either!” he cried. Then, he looked up, a perplexed expression crossing his small face. “Well, my mommy was like me. But she went away.”

You attempted to not let a concerned expression cross your face. Kids say strange things.

“Well, I have an idea on how to find your Da then, we can do it together!”

The boy’s eyes brightened. “Okay!”

“Okay,” you started. “SO your Da knows your favorite color is blue right?”

The child nodded.

“So, I’ll turn my hair the exact same blue as yours, and you can ride on my back, that way your dad will see all the blue and notice us!”

He smiled eagerly, “That’s a good plan!” he cheered.

“I thought so too,” you beamed holding your index finger up while smiling smugly. You hoisted yourself up off the ground and held out your hand.

“Oh, I’m (Y/N), by the way, what’s your name?” You asked quizzically.

“I’m Teddy Lupin,” he smiled up at you as he put his itty bitty hand in yours and let you hoist him up from under the table.

“That’s a very nice name,” you complemented.

An adorable name. Teddy.

“Thank you! Now turn your hair blue like mine!” Teddy jumped up and down a few times, his eyes large as he watched you eagerly.

Chuckling, you shook your head once more, locks of pink hair flying all around until they settled into the same shade of blue that covered Teddy’s own head. You could hear the child laughing in delight, small hands clapping together. You grinned as you tucked your now wild hair behind your ears to get it out of your face.

“Now, I think we stand out pretty well, what do you think, Teddy?”

“Yes! Let go find my daddy,” he cheered. Grinning beside yourself, you bent down and allowed him to climb atop your back so he was riding piggy back.

“Okay, now you let me know if you see your daddy up there. Do you know his name?”

“My daddy’s name is Remus, at least that’s what Uncle Harry calls him,” Teddy said thoughtfully.

The name didn’t ring a bell, but you hadn’t expected it to, to be honest. You were an American witch, having only moved here a few months prior to date to open up the first British branch of your grandfathers bakery, Kowalski’s.

You began making your way through the bustle of the Alley, a few passerby giving you and Teddy odd looks, but you ignored them as you searched through the crowd, looking for a flustered single father, from above you, you could feel Teddy rest his chin on your head, likely tired from the crying he had done previously.

“Mr. Lupin,” you called, using a single hand cupped around the side of your mouth. The other was placed under Teddy’s knees, making sure he didn’t slip from your back.

“I don’t see him, (Y/N),” Teddy whined from above you.

“We’ll find him,” you reassure as you make your way down the street towards Magical Menagrie’s. Teddy didn’t remember where he was when he lost his Da, only that he had been distracted and that he let go of his hand and was swept away in the crowd. He hadn’t known how long he’d been crying either, there under the table were he’d managed to escape the current of shoppers.

“Hmm, if only there was a lost and found here,” you mused.

“You’d leave me in a box?!” Teddy accused.

Laughter tumbled from your mouth, “Well when you put it like that it sounds ba-”

“Teddy!” a voice called from the crowd. Your head whipped around towards the sound of the voice, blue hair flying dramatically, (e/c) eyes scanning the crowd until they fell on a man waving his hands frantically.

“There!” Teddy cried, “That’s my daddy!”

“On it!” you nodded, determination set in your face. You marched out into the street, using your wand to usher some people along and out of your way so it would be easier to reach the father known as Remus.

“Daddy!” Teddy cried as you reached the man. You bent down, allowing him to slip from your back and stumble towards the older man excitedly to hug him. Remus hoisted the child up, hugging him tightly.

“I was so worried,” you hear him mumble into Teddy’s hair. You smiled softly, a feeling of warmth spreading through your chest as the father and son were reunited.

“I was too,” Teddy said, smiling, “Then (Y/N) found me!” he wiggled out of his father’s grasp and ran over to you, grabbing the hem of your tee-shirt and dragging you over to his father.

Remus was older than you, you’d say about 5-10 years or so, but he was still quite handsome, even with the few scars that decorated his face, you briefly wondered how he acquired them before your attention was snatched up by Teddy.

“Daddy, look what me and (Y/N) can do!”

Practically vibrating with excitement, Teddy began to wildly shake his head like you as he had his hair turn pink. Then, he looked to you with expecting eyes. You giggled, shaking your hair has you had done before, sending the already messy locks fling about once more, you loved the dramatic effect, but now your pink hair was going to take a while to get under control again.

Remus looked in-between the two of you, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“See daddy, (Y/N) is just like me! ‘Sept her favorite color is pink.”

“Well that is very interesting,” Remus said, bending down on one knee to be eye level with his son. “And whose idea was it to turn both of your hair blue?”

“Oh, it was “(Y/N)’s, she’s REALLY smart. Did you see it from far, far away?”

“I surly did, it was a brilliant plan, Ms. (Y/N), thank you for helping us,” he turned his green eyes on you, and you could see the appreciation swimming in them.

“It was no trouble at all,” you bounced on your heels, smiling as you held your finger up, a habit you had picked up from reading too much muggle manga. It started off as a joke that was now your reality. “In fact, we had a lot of fun.”

Teddy bobbed his head up and down beside his Da. “She’s like me.” He repeated, a broad smile on his face. Then his eyes widened, a smirk made its way to his lips before he leaned over to his father to whisper something in his ear, which caused the older man’s cheeks to flush.

“Teddy,”… “We don’t even know”… “she helped me” …“like me”…”not ready”…”fine” were only a few snippets of whispers you could hear from where you were, and no, you were not eavesdropping- you just hadn’t been dismissed yet.

Finally, after a secret meeting that Teddy seemed to have won, Remus rose you his feet, smiling kindly at you.

“How would you like- if you aren’t too busy that is- to join us for dinner tonight? To show you our thanks? Teddy would like to have his aunt Molly make you his favorite pie, he thinks you’d rather enjoy it.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to impose,” you said awkwardly.

“Nonsense,” Remus started.

“Please (Y/N)!” Teddy begged.

“It’s honestly the least we can do,” Remus finished, offering you a warm smile. Your heart skipped a beat and you fought the urge to blush.

“Sure, why not?” You grinned.

A look of relief passed over the older Lupin’s face at your agreement.

“How does six sound?”

“Six sounds perfect,” you smile.

Remus gives you his address and thanks you once more, whilst Teddy hugs your leg and tells you that he can’t wait for dinner. You watch the pair of them walk off hand in hand into the sea of witches and wizards, a small smile gracing your face, a suddenly, you couldn’t wait for dinner.

Anything for You: Part Six

Pairing(s): Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak, Bill Denbrough x Stan Uris

Warnings: lots of crying (what’s new), swearing

Word Count: 1.2 k

Part 6 / ?

|  2  7  |   masterlist


After letting himself into the Tozier household, and shooting daggers at the drunken woman in the living room, Eddie Kaspbrak found himself in Richie’s bedroom. He was stunned, although he’d been in the room too many times to count, this time was different. The room was absolutely spotless - like Stan clean. The blue comforter was pulled up on the bed, tucked around the edges and pillows fluffed against the headboard. His laundry was not only folded, but hung up behind closed closet doors and organized in the dresser drawers. The floor was clean and bare, no trace of any dirty socks or crumpled papers - in fact, there was no paper at all in the room.

Richie’s notebooks, filled with song ideas and comic doodles, were gone. Only one of his cherished journals remained on the wooden desk, a bright red cover with one word scratched across the front in black marker.


Eddie’s breath hitched as his fingers grazed over the binding of the book, picking it up with shaking hands. The plastic cover smelled of cigarettes and cheap cologne, which was the overall scent of the entire room but seemed especially strong on the notebook. He flipped the cover open, sinking down in the desk chair. The pages were messy, covered with lists and small drawings.

Sad eyes raked over the words, lingering over the smeared ink stains that Eddie could only guess was caused by tears. Richie had created bullet point lists of numerous things: colors, songs, holidays, food - and as Eddie analyzed the bullets he realized, it was all of his own favorite things.

Richie had gone through and named off the songs Eddie enjoyed listening to, the desserts he preferred according to what holiday was being celebrated, and the different shades of the rainbow Eddie favored. Small scribbles filled the blank patches between each lists, most of them being little hearts and flowers. The thought of Richie sitting in his bed late at night with this notebook in his hands, so infatuated with Eddie that he dedicated every page to him, was enough to make his eyes flood with tears.

Eddie flipped through the pages, catching glimpses of some phrases and drawings. He stopped on one page, a broken sob leaving his throat, because it was honestly the cutest thing he’d ever seen.

‘Eds doesn’t like it when you smoke’ it read, a crudely drawn cigarette next to the words, ‘chew this instead’. A piece of gum was taped to the page, spearmint flavored - Eddie’s favorite.

As he turned onto the last page, Bill and Stan entered. They halted at the threshold, staring wide-eyed at the perfectly neat room.

“S-Stan, w-when did you s-stop by?” Bill joked lightheartedly, giving his boyfriend’s arm a squeeze.

Stan walked over to Eddie, not having to step over a single piece of unwashed laundry. He glanced over Eddie’s shoulder, peeking at the last page of the notebook clutched in his hands. A polaroid was stuck right in the middle of the page - a picture of Richie and Eddie. Richie had Eddie’s face cupped in his large hands, their lips pressed together almost timidly.

Eddie traced over the letters on the bottom, ‘First of many kisses with my Eds’.

“We’re going to find him, Eddie,” said Stan, as if reading Eddie’s mind, “I promise we will. Richie may act it, but he’s not an idiot. Wherever he is, he’s okay.”

Bill pulled the notebook from Eddie’s hands, enveloping his small body in a hug. Stan wrapped his arms around both of the boys, his face falling against the top of Eddie’s head.

“You guys spent so much time comforting me and pestering me, no one bothered to check on Richie and now he’s gone!”

Eddie pushed the boys away, a wave of anger washing over him. He wiped at his sore eyes, wincing as he did so. Bill and Stan shared a look, both frowning deeply. Eddie retrieved the notebook from Bill by roughly jerking it from his hands. He let out a scream, chucking the book against a wall and letting the pages wrinkle from the impact.

He grasped Richie’s comforter, the one he’d been wrapped up in numerous times, and ripped it off the bed. It landed in a disheveled heap on the floor, covering the end of Bill’s shoes. Just as Eddie gripped the edge of Richie’s bedside table, entirely ready to flip it across the room, Stan’s hand latched onto his elbow and pulled him back.

“He made us swear that we would stay with you.”

Eddie sniffled, eyes soft and teary, “What?”

“Richie made us promise to him that we would stay by your side until we knew you were okay. He was so fucking scared, sat in the middle of the road sobbing - because all he could think of was you and how much this would hurt you.”

“You knew?” Eddie’s voice was dry and broken, “You knew he was going to break up with me?”

Bill spoke up, “He t-told us the day o-of. S-Said he h-had to d-do it.”

“We tried to talk him out of it,” Stan added, Bill nodding along, “But he was hysterical.”

Eddie choked, his hands cupping his mouth. His body ached, not only from heartbreak, but from a heavy weight of worry. He took small steps back, his knees hitting the edge of the mattress and buckling. As he came fully into contact with Richie’s sheets, the scent overwhelmed him - making every inch of his skin tingle. His eyes screwed shut and, suddenly, the silky fabric and the smell felt like Richie’s arms holding his body. Eddie brought his legs up, curling into a tight ball in the middle of the bed. He dragged one of Richie’s pillows down, resting his head on it and letting his tears soak the pillow case.

Stan and Bill stood awkwardly, unknowing of how to help their friend. Bill found his own vision blurring as he leaned into his boyfriend for comfort - guilt immediately bubbling as he watched Eddie cry alone.

Loud footsteps bounded up the stairs, startling all three boys. Eddie sat up, both hope and fear building in his gut. He quickly wiped at his eyes again, standing from the bed and pressing his quivering lips into a thin line. Stan and Bill worried that an intoxicated Maggie Tozier had woken from her slumber to check on the commotion coming from her son’s bedroom.

It was neither Richie nor his mom that came running into the room, but Ben Hanscom - who was out-of-breath and red-faced as he stumbled in.

“Bev went to check the quarry,” He stopped to take a deep breath, “She went hours ago and hasn’t come back,” Another breath, “I think she might’ve found Richie.”

Eddie Kaspbrak was out of the room before the others could even blink.

{Tag List: @stanleyurisisalive @eddiekaspbraks-inhaler @emrysaaryn @strawberry-cake456 @richietoaster @the-losers-law @eddierichietozier @whytholikeugggh @wiinchesterlogic @of-outerspace @deareshannon  @im-not-psychotic @bitozier @exceededexpectations @eddie-kaspjack @eddies-inhaler @woahtherebuddyfriend @smol-and-annoying @phil-lesters-ass @cupcakeatl @eddiekaspbraklovesboys @yepitsmuffinman}

anonymous asked:

"I'll never unsee that" Nessian please!!! :)

@squaddreamcourt , you asked me to tag you when the fic was done, and here it is! I hope you’ll like it! @feyre-cursebreaker  I am so incredibly sorry for making you wait for so much darling, and I hope you’ll like the fic even if it’s not what you asked for. @ the anons, I am sorry for the wait lovelies, but I hope you will like this💗

There’s nothing worse than being dead, one would think.

But a ghost would say otherwise.

There’s this thing with ghosts- or rather, with a very strange and particular kind of ghosts, that actually wins the prize for the most unfortunate supernatural entity worldwide; they don’t know who they are, they don’t know where they come from or how they got in whatever place they end up in, but there’s a couple of things they know for sure: they don’t have a body, they can’t be seen or heard and it takes a bunch of creepy tricks to get a message through, and they are most likely dead.

Or getting there.

And of course, the most important thing:

the first person they see in this strange existence of theirs is their soulmate.

It all started with Nesta’s cigarette disappearing; she started smoking when she was fifteen, after her Father said how much he hated the smell of it, and never stopped since.

So it annoyed her to no end when her apartment seemed to be hell bent on hiding her own cigarettes every time she bought a new pack of them.

Nesta groaned in frustration while throwing the pillows of her sofa in the air and she couldn’t help but mutter, her voice booming in the empty room, “Why do you keep hiding my cigarettes?

She knows that she may sound mad and that it’s impossible for her own house to hide anything from her, but she just-just needs to be alone on her balcony with a cigarette between her fingers to calm down the roaring in her head.

She sighs, trying to readjust the pillows before she loses her patience completely but the sharp sound of glass breaking makes her turn, her heart thumping in her throat-

Nesta’s eyes widen and the breath stops in her lungs as she reads the words upon her wall, written in a deep shade of red with jagged letters:

Because it’s bad for your health.

He doesn’t know many things.

He doesn’t know who he is, what he is or how he ended here, but he knows that the most beautiful woman that he has ever seen is in front of him- and, well, he didn’t see many people but does it even matter when she’s there, just in front of him and she-

She ignores him completely.

And it drives him mad.

At first he thought she didn’t see him, which would make sense because he can’t even see himself, which is something that he really doesn’t want to think about, but he tried to talk, to scream and shout.

She didn’t even turn to him.

He looks at her- not that he can do much else, though he is not complaining- always on that couch reading book after book- and he knows some of those books, knows the titles, knows the words by heart even if he doesn’t know how that is possible- not even flinching and for some reason that he doesn’t know, it drives him completely out of his mind.

And then there’s the smoking.

She smokes so much she creates little grey clouds above her head in every room she goes and he can’t help but think of how much that must be unhealthy since she’s so tiny and he cares, even if he doesn’t know why, but it must be reasonable to care for the first person you ever saw in your entire life, if one can call this strange, invisible, unnerving thing life.

Bonus points for the fact that she is so beautiful she can make his breath stop in his lungs, but luckily for him, he doesn’t fucking breathe.

And then there are those times, when she goes out on the balcony to smoke before she goes to bed and her blue eyes reflect the color of the stars and he just- just wants to touch her, because she’s beautiful, but she looks so lost and he wants to take her hand, wants it with an intensity that frightens him but he can’t reach her, he can’t move, he can’t do anything but watch.

But, for being something that he can’t even explain, he is smart.

After glaring at her pack of cigarettes for three hours straight when she wasn’t home- and while asking himself relentlessly where the hell she was- he saw the damned thing move, and move, and move again until he finally managed to throw it out of the window.

He has never been more proud of himself.

And he did it again and again with various objects and in various occasions, like bringing her the hairbrush in the morning when she left it in her bedroom the night before or keeping her stash of books from falling over, or trying to give some sense to the utter mess that is her house and of course, his personal favorite: raising the temperature - that, well, that happened as an accident: one day he saw her having a discussion on the phone with someone and there was something, the look of complete delusion on her face but the complete lack of emotion in her voice, it made him want to scream at the person who was talking to her.

And suddenly the room was a oven- the first time was an accident, yes, but then it became a wonderful way to mess with her and it didn’t take him long to decide that sweaty and bothered was one of his favorite looks on her.

She never noticed, mostly because there wasn’t a logical explanation for the sudden change of degrees or to the never falling books, and maybe it was better like this.

He doesn’t know what happened or what was told to her during that phone call, but something did happen because she is smoking twice as much now and she’s so nervous her hands shake and what was a five minutes smoke on the balcony turned to her sitting in the cold for hours, staring at nothing.

And he honestly doesn’t care what he can or what he can’t do, he won’t stay here without trying to understand, without trying to help her.

So when she is trying to dismantle the sofa in her desperate chase after her damned cigarettes and wondering to herself why they always disappear, he takes a bottle of wine and smashes it against the wall, the soothing sound of glass against bricks, and tries to write with the dark liquid and even if the result is complete shit, the message is loud and clear.

Because it’s bad for your health.”

He sees her beautiful eyes go wide, but she doesn’t scream.

She falls back on the sofa, gripping the armrest like a lifeline and he- he moves as if he wants to catch her, which is stupid because he can’t, but he tries.

He looks at her and at the wall and wills the wine to move again “Are you alright?”, he asks, and thinks of how dumb he is only when it’s already done.

How can he ask if she’s alright when an invisible something is writing on the wall of her house?

He hopes at least that the wine was of shitty quality.

She shakes her head and he feels a pang of guilt; the room warms slowly, without him even noticing but she- she looks less scared but it lasts a second and then she does it, the thing he hates the most in this house that means the world to him: she straightens her back, her chin high and hides herself behind that icy façade, the one he watched her use in countless phone calls and in the brief encounters with other people, looking in front of herself like whatever is happening is nothing of importance.

The wine moves on the wall creating an angry splash of red.

“What are you and what are you doing in my house.” she says, her voice cold and steady like she’s talking about the weather with a stranger.

I-” he tries to write, but he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know a thing, he knows absolutely nothingand you? Who are you and what are you doing here?” he asks, sounding childish even to himself, and maybe he shouldn’t but he wants to know her name and the fact that he didn’t get to hear it in all this time bothers him endlessly.

She opens her mouth and closes it like the question surprised her and it breaks her mask for a second and if he could smile, he would.

“I am Nesta Archeron, and I happen to live here.” she says while her eyes scan the room.

Nesta Archeron, he repeats the name in his mind, savoring word for word and it sounds like music.

Nice to meet you, sweetheart.” he replies and there’s this adorable outraged expression on her face before she runs to the kitchen and comes back with a bag of salt, tearing it open and spraying it everywhere in the room, trying to do fuck knows what.

The pavement of the room becomes a white mess and she looks satisfied, as if she’s thinking she drove him away.

He starts to doodle in the salt.

She jumps in surprise “The salt- doesn’t it, doesn’t it banish things like you?” she asks and he wants to laugh, or chuckle, or make any kind of sound.

I think that you watch too much of that thing over there, sweetheart.” he writes, drawing an arrow toward her television.

She recoils and he notices how her hands shake “This- this isn’t possible. It isn’t happening. You’re not real.” she whispers, like she’s scared someone will hear the fear in her voice.

This is actually happening, sweetheart, and I happen to be very, very real.” he looks at the words, and then adds “More or less.

She looks lost in disbelief and he doodles a smile in the salt, hoping it would help, but judging by the expression on her face, it only makes it worst.

“Are-are you a ghost?” she asks, and the word resonates in him.


Maybe?” he writes, and that’s the best answer he can give her.

Nesta-ah, how he loves her name- inclines her head, making some strands of golden brown hair fall on her face and he aches, suddenly, with the need to tuck it behind her ear.

“I have a doubtful ghost in my house.” she says, like she is trying to make peace with the fact that, in fact, she does have a doubtful ghost in her house. Or maybe she’s just trying to find some logic in this situation.

It’s not like I can go somewhere else.” he writes, and he doesn’t know if he’s trying to make her understand all of this or if he’s desperately trying to understand it himself.

He tried, he really, really did, but he couldn’t walk out the door- not that he can walk, but, you know- and finding himself splattered against her bedroom window is not an experience he is dying to make again.

And Nesta manages to land her icy blue eyes right on him, and the fact that she’s looking right through him it’s not only words: he feels real, in the few seconds in which she looks in his direction before turning away, he feels real.

Please look at me again.

She climbs on the sofa, slowly, as if she’s scared he’s going to attack her, but then she stands up again, muttering “I am going to bed, I am going to bed and tomorrow I will realize this was all a dream.”

He watches her go, looking at every inch of her, and slowly writes

Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

The next day, he is still in Nesta’s house, waiting for her to wake up.

He knows the exact moment her feet touch the floor, and even if he thinks that it is kind of creepy, the moment she enters the living room with her hair a mess and sporting a striped violet pajama he does it again; he burns up, without being able to stop it, trying to keep the burning to himself without making the room seem like a chimney, but the vulnerability in her eyes the moment she wakes up is something that makes him feel, and he feels this, whatever it is, so strongly every part of him burns with it.

She looks around, trying to find some proof of what happened last night, but he cleaned everything up, because it seemed like an incredibly shitty thing to do, to leave her house a mess with salt and wine and broken glass.

“Are-are you still here?” she asks quietly, and he can’t help but love the look on her face, like she can’t believe she is seriously doing this.

She notices the notepad on the table the moment he takes the pen to write on it.

He finds out with a strange sort of satisfaction that he very much likes the color red.

Good morning, Nesta.” he writes and cringes when he notices that, no matter his attempt at being suave, his calligraphy is utter shit.

She walks to the table, her eyes narrowed and probably trying to decipher what he wrote.

He wants- he wants to shout, wants to scream that it’s just a good morning note, that his calligraphy is shit because he is probably dead and didn’t got the opportunity to check his writing skills and honestly he doesn’t know why he feels so flustered and he is stupid, fucking stupid because for some reason the fact that she maybe won’t be able to read his good morning note since he is the most idiotic ghost ever makes him feel- makes him feel wrong.

She passes a hand through her hair and whispers “Good morning, ghost.” and- this, this is strange, because he honestly doesn’t know how he ended up on the ceiling, but he is, he’s like floating, soaring or maybe flying and it takes him a few seconds to realize that he is simply happy- but then she exhales, her hands on her hips “I understand that you can’t go out of this house, but this is my house and you’ll do as I say. No more tricks like last night and no more wine on the walls, Casper.”

Casper?” he writes, because damn it, he doesn’t know what his name but he sure as hell isn’t named Casper.

“Yes. So you’ll act nicely from now own, because I can and will find a way to kick you out if it comes to it.” her voice is like steel against ice and even if her words should maybe get a different reaction out of him, he still can’t get down from the ceiling.

Got it.”, he writes and he should really, really practice writing because a five years old would totally do a better job at it than him.

She just nods and heads for the kitchen and he knows she wants a cigarette because she is grinding her index and middle finger together, but he also knows she isn’t going to ask him.

He watches as she prepares her breakfast, looks as she opens the cabinet of the kitchen, every movement quick and efficient but almost angry.

As she sits on the chair she looks for him, he can feel it, so he moves the cereal box toward her, as slowly as he can.

Her eyes go wide like she isn’t used to the simple kindness.

“Thank you.” she whispers, her eyes behind the cereal box, exactly where he is, and he aches.

She eats quickly, her morning going with the flow f the routine and when she moves to the bathroom and her bedroom, he stays planted in the kitchen, trying to remember that privacy is an actual thing that should be respected and stares at the wall, finding interesting patterns in the crack of the paint.

Luckily he hears her entering the living room before he sets everything on fire and it’s strange, how every time he looks at her, with her fresh clean clothes and her perfect face and the posture of a queen ready for battle he feels concrete; it lasts a bunch of seconds, a short span of her heartbeats, but it’s enough for him.

He takes the notepad again.

Where are you going?”  he asks, and the letters are incredibly tiny, because he doesn’t want to pry but he absolutely wants to know.

She looks at the sheet of paper, her eyebrow raised.

“I am going out.” she answers, and with that, she walks out of the house, not even looking back.

The edges of the notepad burn.

The thing with being a ghost, he thinks, is that it is a very, very boring business.

He doodles-a mockery of Nesta and her damned eyebrows and her damned hair and her damned perfect everything- he tries to read some of her books-she studies law but has a love for romantic books, which he keeps well in mind for future teasing material.

He readjusts her ever growing pile of biscuits, all of them in different flavors of dark chocolate, but he doesn’t go near her bedroom because he perfectly remembers how just seeing her underwear on the ground led to thoughts and thoughts led to him nearly setting the sofa on fire.

But he’s no good with waiting and ends passing most of his time near the window, waiting for her to come back like a complete fool, moving as much as he can until he ends plastered to the window, again.

When he hears the sharp sound of heels- click,click- he moves away from the window as fast as he can, as if she could see him and the big idiot that he is.

She’s holding a brown grocery bag and the usual whirlwind of questions barrels through him

Is it heavy?

What did you buy?

Is that soy milk?

What do you like?

Are those instant noodles again Nesta Archeron I swear to god-

She places the bag on the kitchen table with a huff, strands of hair falling on her face as she stretches a bit, her face open and vulnerable and he doesn’t know if she’s being so human because she forgot he is there or because she doesn’t care, and he honestly doesn’t know what hurts the most.

And it’s a funny thing, being hurt when you’re dead.

Just his luck.

But she turns, her eyes and their ability to land right over him.

Hello”, he writes.

She smiles.

He flies.

And from his advantaged view from the ceiling he looks at her as she prepares her tea, slamming cupboards as if the last moments never happened, angry with the world again.

She takes a bright pink bag, not the black tea person he suspected, Nesta, but a fruity tea lover.

He snorts, and is for once happy that he makes no sounds, just a quite rattling only in his head.

What starts the discussion is the incredible amount of sugar she drops in her tea.

What are you doing?” he asks after the third sugar-cube drowns in the dark pink liquid.

“Sweetening my tea.” she says, her pale hand moving the teaspoon slowly and he’s mesmerized by the action before he replies “What you are doing is wetting sugar with some tea.”

She reads his answer but doesn’t reply right away, as if she’s looking for the perfect answer and when she does, her smile lights up with cruel delight “And how would you know?”, she asks, doesn’t need to add another word for the point to come across and he is silent, fuming with rage only he can feel and that he can’t express and trying to keep it inside him, to not let her see how deep her words went but he sees a bead of sweat above her upper lip and even as the temperature goes higher, she smirks.

He tries to write something and the pen melts into the invisible grasp, and Nesta drinks her tea, her knees drawn to her chest.

He could tell her, tell her that all the sugar in the world won’t make her any sweet but he sees as she searches into the pocket of her jeans for her cigarettes, so he writes “I might not know, but that’s not really my choice.” he sees as she brings a cigarette to her lips, soft and red and so- “Do you do something that isn’t smoking, sweetheart?

She doesn’t stop, just looks right through him as she lights her cigarette but he can see it, see it in her eyes how annoyed she is.

“I don’t see why I should explain myself to you, since you don’t even exist.” she answers, taking a long drag of smoke, like time doesn’t matter to her as long as she can hide behind the smoke of the cigarette.

He can only think of how her mouth would taste.

I do exist, as you well know. I am just not visible.”

“What do you remember? Don’t you know your name? Something?” she asks, her innocent curiosity so at odds with the smirk of just a few heartbeats ago.

I remember you.” he writes “This house. It’s like I’ve always been here.”

Her eyebrows knit together and just when her mouth opens to say something else, her phone rings.

“Elain? Oh, yes. Oh,no, I-” she looks at him, for a moment and there’ so much in her eyes he feels full “Come here,” she says, “with Feyre. Yes. It’s been too long.”

Nesta looks nostalgic, almost happy, like she’s seeing something, another opportunity, a new beginning that she always wanted.

He imagines fingers-his fingers-on her cheek, tries to imagine Nesta leaning into the touch, vulnerable and open and trusting.

Are we having guests?” he writes. Nesta didn’t let go of her phone and is still looking at the screen.

“My sisters.” she says, but the tone of her voice is full of doubt, like the relationship with her sister is flawed, or crooked and she already thinks it beyond repairing.

“I need to call a restaurant, to get the orders in-”

You are not getting take-out, Nesta Archeron.” he writes.

There’s something that disturbs him about the idea of getting food prepared by someone else for your own family, for someone you love.

“And what do you suggest that we do, then? I can’t cook.” she asks, her phone on the table.

He tries to form a reply while his nonexisting body tries to get over the fact that she said we.

We cook, that’s what we do.”

She raises her eyebrow, disbelief showing plain on her face.

Show me your worst, Archeron.”

It turns out that Nesta Archeron really, truly can’t cook to save her life.

But he can.

How much salt are you throwing over there, sweetheart?” he writes for the third time and Nesta looks at him like she is going to kick his ass even if she can’t see it.

They prepared the table, did the dishes and tried to create a soothing atmosphere with Nesta’s incessant fidgeting.

She takes the salad to the table, her eyes scanning everything as if she’ll find some imperfection that she could use as an excuse to postpone the whole thing.

“I should have never said that. I should have kept my mouth shut.” she murmurs, but the doorbell rings, and she goes quickly to the door and he can hear her counting her breaths.

1, 2, 3

When her sisters arrive there are no big hugs, not shouting and loud kisses, just a sort of understanding of how things are, and things are not very good, in his opinion.

One of the sisters, Elain, brought flowers, and Nesta rushes to the kitchen for a vase, which he lets her find ready near the sink alongside a note that says “You are so lucky to have me.”

She doesn’t sneer at the note, just searches for him before getting out of the room.

The dinner is quiet, aside from the how are you and the what you have been doing and while Elain looks over the moon with joy he can’t seem to understand the tension between Nesta and Feyre, but he sees as the younger reaches out between the passing of the salad which dressing Nesta fucked up more times than he can count, doubt on her features, gripping her older sister wrist like a death grip or a call full of hope.

She says something about starting over which he doesn’t listen as carefully as he probably should, which he feels a bit ashamed of, but he is too busy looking at Nesta, at the crease between her brows, at the way she looks at her sisters fingers around her arm and he knows, he knows exactly what hides behind her eyes, the battle within her heart and pride, the need to hide and sneer and belittle as an armor, second nature, or to let something new and tender grow.

“Fine.” it’s all that she says and he tries to remind himself that this has nothing to do with him and he has no reason to be happy or to be floating toward the ceiling like the most idiotic ghost-balloon ever, but he is, he’s happy for her, for the way the tension quietly shifts to content, for the quiet laughs and for the little clinking of glasses to the new beginnings, courtesy of Elain.

When they leave he can’t help but notice how the house feels warmer-and for once for a reason that isn’t his inability to control himself- and can’t help but love the soft pink on Nesta’s cheeks and how happy she looks in this four walls of theirs.

He can see that she’s tired, so he turns off the lights, makes the house just a bit warmer and when Nesta is already in her bed he hears it.

“Thank you.”

And in the end, he thinks that the view from the ceiling is not so bad.

The day after he discovers that when he laughs, he rolls around, which makes him wonder if he will ever do something even remotely graceful, but when Nesta comes out of the bedroom in a red pyjama full of pink polka dots and little panda bears and a green mask on her face, that’s when he loses it.

He starts to roll around, like he’s a little ball, like he’s trying to roll the head he doesn’t have back toward the ceiling, creating a never ending motion.

I’ll never unsee that.” he writes, but he’s writing is just a mess of overlapping letters that look like a roller coaster, like he’s having too much fun to see where his pen lands.

“There’s nothing to laugh about.” she says, going straight to the kitchen for breakfast, happier than he ever saw her this early in the morning.

You are always a sight to behold, sweetheart.” he writes and she smiles while taking down her biscuits and it all speaks of routine, of being used to each other in the best way possible, of companionship, of being equals of some sort and he can’t help but think that if this is his life, he is grateful for it.

He also discovers he doesn’t like the cold.

It latches at him, goes through him, leaves him restless to right a past that never was.

But within all the things he doesn’t like there’s one he truly hates, and that thing is seeing Nesta cry.

She’s out on the balcony, an unlit cigarette between her fingers, the rain wetting the paper, making the tobacco fall, her mascara pooling under her eyes.

She doesn’t talk and makes no sound, her tears mix with the rain and he doesn’t know what he can do so he gets closer, rustling the leaves of long dead plants to let her know he’s there.

“My mother died ten years ago. My mother died.” she says, like she wants it to sink in, to let it be real because she still can’t believe it.

“And he didn’t care. My father didn’t care and I want to go- I want to go to the cemetery to see if he brought her flowers, a note, something. Did he even love her?” she asks, and she’s looking at him and he aches, wants to comfort her, so he just tries to touch her and by the look she gives him she feels it, feels him and as happy as he is he forces himself to stay on the ground, with her.

“He let her die,” she whispers, her lower lip trembling “he let her die and he didn’t care, didn’t care to call the doctors even when I begged him to, didn’t care for her, didn’t care for me, for my sisters, he hid behind Feyre like a spineless, useless, heartless coward and-”

She hides her face behind her hand, little sobs escaping her lips.

Don’t hide from me, he wants to say, but he tries to soothe her, to make her feel calm and loved and warm and he hates that for all the things he can do he can’t dry her tears or stop the rain from falling.

“It wasn’t right,” she says, finally “it isn’t right.”

He nudges to her a bit, drawing soothing circles in the palm of her hand and thinks of things to write along the lines of if I could make you tea, I would.

And he is surprised beyond belief to hear her snort and answer “You would never get the sugar right.”

He sees Feyre and Elain more frequently since that night.

Feyre brings some paintings, saying that the apartment lacks colors and when Nesta asks her to paint something red, his emotions and heart and everything he is goes a bit all over the place.

He still swears that the book that went into flames is in no way his fault.

Nesta buys a book of names, all blue and pink, designed to help young parents chose the name of their children, and reads it to him to help him remember his name.

Nothing came out of it, other than a strange call to names that start with c, a nostalgic wave for a certain Reece and a strange affinity for Jewish mystics.

In the end, he asks her to read it two times, but it’s all because he loves the sound of her voice; it’s low, but not cold or empty, the kind of voice that sings to lure sailors off their ships, but loving enough to be as sweet as spring.

When summer comes, he feels like he’s been in her house for a lifetime.

They pass evenings on the balcony, Nesta’s skin covered under layers and layers of sunscreen and he can’t forget the smile on her face when she splashed him with ice cold water, like a child, laughing like crystal bells.

Well, he did take his revenge with switching sugar with salt, and the face she made while drinking her tea after was priceless, and this- this are all the moments he will never be able to forget.

Until that night.

They are on the couch, the same couch she tried to climb in fear of him all those months ago, watching one of her tv series, but neither of them is giving the show much attention.

Him, on his behalf, is too busy looking at the freckles on her face, gently visible thanks to the summer sun, and she is looking at him.

Or rather, at the space he would occupy if had a solid body.

She looks away, but her eyes land on him every now and then and he feels a strange sort of anticipation, like waiting for fireworks to light up the night sky.

That’s when she moves, faster than a blink and stops just an inch away from where he is and he knows, he knows-

He knows that Nesta wants to touch him, to see if he’s really there, if he’s real and he wants to beg her, he would kneel before her, just to feel her skin on him, just once, but when she tries, her fingers moving toward him, she goes right through him and he can’t feel her, can’t feel her fingers or her skin or her touch and he can’t, he can’t, he can’t- can’t look at the sadness on her face, can’t deal and live with the fact that they will never touch, that he will never tuck her hair behind her ear, will never touch her, will never-

But he will, he will see her smile and tuck her hair behind her ear and kiss her until they are drunk on one another, he will hold her because she is the reason he wants to be alive and real and concrete,  he just needs to-

He just needs to wake up.


It’s been three months without her ghost.

She doesn’t smoke anymore.

Nesta still doesn’t know what happened: a moment the ghost was there, on the couch with her, its warmth all around her and then it was gone and her house has never been so cold.

When she took her degree, she wanted to rush home, to tell to her ghost that she made it and when she came back home she realized that no amount of blankets in the middle of August would ever replicate that warmth.

Nesta didn’t think that she could miss so much someone who was never really there in the first place.

She sits on the balcony, the place full of memories of her ghost like the rest of the house when she hears a knock on the door.

She debates on answering, but the knocking becomes more insistent and she gets up, opening the door with an annoyed look on her face, but then-

There’s a man in front of her, long black hair flowing around his incredibly handsome face, hazel eyes that look right through her and trembling hands.

“Do you still like all that sugar in your tea, sweetheart?”


I’m back writing your prompts, yay! My writer’s block is gone for good finaly so here is another one-shot! I really liked writing this one, having Jughead the one losing his perpetual composed self. I hope you will all enjoy it too!

(P.S. I’m not ignoring your older prompts, I was just craving to write this after last episode and Jughead’s pain, which I’ll never get over. Don’t worry, darlings, I’ll write all your prompts during this hiatus to help all of us deal with all those beautiful Bughead feels! <3) 

The glass doors of Riverdale’s General Hospital closed with a light swoosh behind a rushing Betty Cooper, her messy bun bouncing vigorously with every urgent step her white sneakers took. With her white pajama t-shirt still under her maroon grid bomber jacket and a pair of grey yoga pants – the girl minutes away from dozing off to a dreamless slumber just before her phone disrupted the calmness of her room – she anxiously jogged down the quiet corridor, due to the hour, and stopped abruptly in front of the reception, the elder head nurse shooting her an exhausted glare.

“I’m looking for Forsythe Pendleton Jones.” Her voice came out with difficulty, Betty now registering how out of breath she was, probably by the fact that her house was at the other side of town and she had chosen to walk, or most correctly run, all the way to the hospital.

Keep reading

f.r.i.e.n.d.s meet world

Friends / Girl Meets World Crossover: Rachel never got off the plane, instead she raises her daughter Emma Maya in Paris and sends her to the states for the summer, Ross’s son Ben Lucas moves in with him, Phoebe and Mike have a son named Farkle and all of them, of course, are best friends with Monica and Chandler’s twins Erica and Jack. Oh, and Joey ends up having a daughter he never knew about: Riley. 
Pairings: Rucas, Smarkle, Mondler (ft. mentions of Zaya)
Word Count: 2,240

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Riley never gave much thought about who her father might be. Her mother, Erin, was always honest with her when it came to the subject of dads, she’d answer all her questions and was never shy about the way she was conceived. But really all she knew about the guy was that he and her mom dated briefly in the 90’s but nothing really came of it. Her mom said he was a great guy but there was just no spark there.

When she found out she was pregnant with Riley she had already moved out of New York and didn’t see the point in bringing her dad into it. He might’ve been a nice guy but she knew he wasn’t ready to be a father and she was more than willing to raise the baby on her own. And although Riley didn’t quite agree with her mother’s decision, she respected it, and her, till her dying breath.

Sadly, she was only 14 when her mother passed away and she was left in the care of her mom’s best friends, Cory and Topanga Matthews. They were already the picture-perfect family long before Riley moved in and she appreciated everything they did for her in her time of need but she was 18 now and had been dreaming of moving to New York ever since she could remember.  

So, with a bag in one hand and a bus ticket in the other, she makes way to New York City.

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Friday I’m In Love

Fandom: IT (2017)

Pairing(s): Reddie (Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak)

Characters: (Major) Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrak (Minor) Maggie Tozier, Wentworth Tozier, and Sonia Kaspbrak, (Mentioned) a couple of the other Losers

Rating: T (M if language and violence offends you but nothing sexual)

Description: Richie and Eddie have a pretty shit week (Reddie songfic to “Friday, I’m in Love” by The Cure) (Aged-up to high school)

Author’s Note: I dunno… I just love this song and this just kind of happened but I’m a little in love with it???

I don’t care if Monday’s blue

Richie had always hated Mondays. They only meant another week of school he’d have to find some way to survive through. A Junior in high school at the age of 17, he was desperate to get through his last couple of years of required education and do… well, something more interesting than Algebra II, that was for fucking sure.

Waking up that Monday, the fall of 1992, Richie clambered out of bed in a bit of a blur. Searching for his glasses, he finally found them and shoved them onto his face, tripping around his bedroom. He’d hit snooze on the alarm clock one too many times again and was running a tad late.

In his hurry and because he still hadn’t fully grown in his gangly limbs, Richie tripped over one of his bright red Chuck Taylor and groaned from the floor.

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A Song Called You.

Pairing: Kyungsoo x Reader (One Shot)

Word Count: 2.4k

Genre: Fluff

Summary: The last two years with Kyungsoo have been like a dream. He has plans to make things a reality.

A/N: I wrote this entire fic listening to nothing but “For Life” on repeat. You should too.

Originally posted by luzdelunas

The soft sounds of your favorite song tickle your resting ears. You can feel the rays of the waking sun gently palming your cheeks, but you refuse to move. You’re too comfortable, too content at this moment. One of many, lately. A smile unconsciously awakens upon your face and you dive into the sentiment, allowing your face to rub into the lusciously plump pillow below you. You shift your legs slightly, tired from last nights events.

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Covering Up Mistakes

Hey, Lovelies, this has been in my computer files for awhile now, and since the blog is going through changes that have given me a bit more creative freedom I decided to post it, so please give it a chance. Hopefully, you all enjoy and thank you!

Word Count: 3073

The parlor was calm today as you sat in the back sketching yet another piece of art you would soon permanently ink onto someone’s skin. It was a simple enough design evolving a stormy sky with a single lighting bolt that would travel down the customer’s spine. The client, John you thought his name was but could not be sure sat impatiently beside you breathing over your shoulder as he awaited the final design.

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Star City Ninja Warrior

@spaztronautwriter : “Somebody write me the Mayor Queen does an obstacle course for charity and the whole city goes nuts AU please and thank you”

Is this good? Who knows! I like it. Pounded it out in like… 30 minutes? Hope you guys enjoy it!

Originally posted by oilversqueen

Months of preparation had gone into this moment. At least, for Oliver. The event itself “Beat the Odds,” had been in the works for almost a year.

The Glades Foundation created the obstacle-course style fundraiser to attract donors and raise money for the people and various charities that specifically benefit the Glades. People could also bet on the competitors.

The Glades Foundation President Raina Coppin, a no-nonsense, whip-smart woman had approached Star City Mayor Oliver Queen four months before. The event was having trouble attracting enough sponsors and getting enough press, so she asked the young, eligible, handsome mayor to participate.

Oliver had agreed. He couldn’t deny the Queen family’s part in the destruction of the Glades. His father’s closing of the steel mill and subsequent loophole in the union contract had left thousands of people high and dry. Oliver felt like it was his duty to do his part.

Once Raina had Oliver’s okay, she issues a press release.

Oliver really needed to stop being surprised by the media frenzy that followed him everywhere.

Now, Oliver was standing in the preparation area psyching himself up. Merlyn Global CEO (and Oliver’s childhood best friend) Tommy Merlyn was also participating, as well as renowned daytime-TV doctor (and Oliver’s childhood… frenemy) Carter Bowen. Ray Palmer had come to Star City from Coast City to participate. John Diggle, Oliver’s bodyguard, also got roped in when Raina visited. There were a few participants Oliver didn’t already know – including Sophie Baker, conveniently a bakery owner in Star City whose favorite hobby was parkour and Crossfit. Oliver was secretly intimidated by her.

“Okay, everyone! The cameras start rolling in 30 minutes! Hosts are pre-filming some stuff and we’re getting b-roll. Until then, this is our resident tech genius Felicity Smoak to give you all a few reminders,” she said, her dark brown eyes stern but excited. She was in a white pantsuit that set off her dark-brown skin and huge, white smile. She stepped aside – she was wearing heels, Oliver noticed, somehow composed and graceful on the grass.

Behind her was a woman Oliver never would’ve expected. Most of the filming crew was wearing comfortable clothes, but this woman was just as put together as Raina.

She was wearing a bright pink dress and turquoise heels. The color combination was a little blinding, and when she waved at the contestants he noticed her glittery nail polish. Her lipstick was the exact same shade of blue as her dress, and when she smiled Oliver was instantly… charmed.

Oliver was entirely positive he’d never used that word in relation to a woman before.

“Hi everyone!” she said, her sweet, beautiful voice floating through the waiting tent. Oliver took a few steps closer.

Tommy nudged Oliver and mumbled something about “nerd hot.” Oliver elbowed him in the side and said murmured, “Pay attention.”

“You guys won’t have to worry too much about the tech. That’s my job. Just remember to be aware of the cameras. This is televised, after all! But it’s still a charity fundraiser, do try and do a good job. I’m not saying you shouldn’t try to win. Though, the point isn’t winning. But – ”

“Miss Smoak?” Oliver said, entirely unaware of when he decided to open his mouth. “Mrs. Coppin said something about instructions.”

“Right,” she said, her entire face flushing as she glanced at Oliver before biting her lip. Oliver tried not to stare at her like he’d been struck dumb.

“Anyway, just do your best and have fun! And this is a family-friendly fundraiser, so if you do badly try and keep smiling!”

Carter grinned his slick, disgusting, smarmy grin and leaned closer to Felicity. “We’ll… I mean, at least I’ll be fine. My CrossFit coach says I’m the best student he’s ever had. And I hiked the Appalachian Trail last year,” he said.

Felicity pursed her lips and tilted her head. “I read that you hiked three days then dropped out because you said you had altitude sickness,” she mused.

Oliver and Tommy smirked, unable to hide the expression.

Felicity immediately flustered. “Oh, I’m sorry! Sometimes I just say the first thing that comes to mind. Anyway, you guys can… disperse, or psych yourselves up or whatever! I’ve said my piece,” she said with a grin.

She didn’t leave, though. She talked with Raina for a few moments after the competitors dispersed to their own places, but Oliver found himself drifting closer to Felicity.

“Oh, Mayor Queen,” she said, startling as she turned and saw him there. “I’m sorry about that babble, by the way. And thank you for stopping me. I do appreciate it.”

Oliver couldn’t help but smile. “There’s nothing to thank me for. You did great,” she said, sincere.

Felicity tilted her head, but she was smiling. “Well, if you say so,” she agreed.

“So, how did you get into doing tech for this event? Last I heard, you’d left QC to build your own company,” he said, having remembered her name halfway through her speech. Walter and bemoaned Felicity’s loss often at the dinner table since she’d left. Apparently, QC had offered her a hefty raise and new title, but she’d left it all on the table.

Felicity looked startled, and she blushed again.

“Walter talks about you a lot.  He’s still not over losing ‘the smartest person at Queen Consolidated,’” he said, imitating his stepfathers British accent.

Felicity gasped a little and her eyes widened. She seemed even more flustered than before.

“Oh, that’s too kind of him. But yeah, I was at QC until about a year and a half ago. Honestly, I was kind of… floundering at first. I had all these ideas but no idea how to achieve what I wanted. I met Raina at a coffeeshop where I fixed her laptop. It had a really, shockingly terrible virus on it, and we got to talking and she had this idea for a charity event and… I wanted to help. I quit QC to take a more active role in the world and this seemed like a great place to start,” she explained, then blushed again. Oh frack, that was so cheesy. I can’t believe I just said that.”

“No, I understand,” Oliver said, instantly reassuring her. “That’s why I became mayor. I never wanted to be CEO, and this was how I felt I’d make this city better.”

Felicity nodded, her blue eyes wide behind her two-tone glasses. “I know. I’ve listened to all… I mean, some of your speeches. I can tell you really care about this city,” she said.

Oliver felt instantly warm and couldn’t stop another smile. “Hey, I know this is kind of sudden, but – ”

“Okay everyone, places! Felicity, Camera 8 said they needed your help with something,” Raina said.

Was it Oliver’s imagination that her face fell? She’d looked excited, but maybe it was a general thing. The event was exciting.

She had to leave, and Oliver went back to Tommy.

His friend rolled his eyes and laughed. “Dude. You used to have game,” he said.

Oliver glared. “Shut up.”


Oliver was done. He’d done it! Across all the obstacles, up the vertical wall to push the button. He, Digg and Sophie had been the only three to manage it, and they posed with spectators and each other for pictures and interviews.

Felicity stood behind the last camera, a huge set of headphones over her ears and speaking quickly and quietly into the attached microphone.

Oliver definitely wasn’t imagining her blue eyes trained entirely on him.

Once it was all over, Oliver walked right up to her and asked, “Would you like to go out to dinner with me?”

Internet Friends:

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Part 1

Description: And just like fire, you burned everything along your path.

Word Count: 2,594

Warning: Smut (slight degradation okay I got carried away)

Pairing: Kim Jongin (Kai) x Reader

Author: Admin Xiufairy ㅅㅇㅅ

Xiufairy’s Masterlist ㅅㅇㅅ

Originally posted by intokai

Your mission should’ve been the only thing on your mind. A month into your task and you hadn’t even set eyes on your target - you classified that as a fail. You walked down the halls, your heels clicking in sync with your movements. Everyone’s eyes were on you as you continued, they always watched you.

You stepped into your office, closing the door behind you.

A month ago you’d been sent to South Korea by the American government. There was someone there that they wanted, and you were the best option - not only because  the client was male, but because you had the best rep in your section.

You acclimated well to new settings and this one…this one was more intense than possibly any of your other missions. You hated making friends along the way - only to leave them to burn in the fire you left behind. You were wanted dead in nearly half the countries in the world.

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Fox Mulder’s Guide to Falling (and Staying) in Love with Your Partner

Or, a series of ficlets on the progression of Mulder and Scully’s “friendship,” all of them taking place in a car. Because damn, they honestly spent a lifetime in the car. 

Quick note: I don’t really have any plan for how this is going to go, but it will most likely be one per season or something. Also, I started grad school yesterday, so I have no timeline for completing the rest of these, but I’ve had this idea in my head for months and if I didn’t start it now, I never would. So, thanks in advance for bearing with the pace that I’ll be getting these out!


It starts with them sitting in their rented car outside of an old abandoned Victorian. The last occupant died in that very house, he’d been told. Over the last three months, four couriers, all from a variety of delivery agencies, have disappeared; all had packages addressed to the house on their route on the dates of their disappearance. So, naturally, he thinks that the dead former occupant of the house is responsible.

They had been in the car for almost three hours, the clock rapidly approaching 1 a.m. when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nodding off.

He knew she felt this stakeout was unnecessary. Mulder, a dead man couldn’t possibly be kidnapping these delivery men, she had said. And for the time being, she was right. Local police had searched the house and found it completely empty.

But she came with him anyway. He suspects she’s still trying to make an impression, to prove herself worthy, after only a handful of cases together. Little does she know, although he was less than thrilled to be partnered with anyone in the first place, after reading her senior thesis, he feels a bit inferior. No, not inferior, but rather finally intellectually matched and challenged. She has nothing to prove to him, he’s already completely fascinated by her.

He realizes that although he knows her skepticism, in spite of said senior thesis, her performance at the academy, and the original intention of her secondary education, the life of Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully (he knows her full name, too) is something of a mystery. A mystery he suddenly has the urge to solve.

“What’s your favorite color?” He gnaws on a seed, keeping the air casual.

It’s an innocent question, but nevertheless, her right eyebrow shoots up (and where did she learn to do that, so perfectly mastering the one-eyebrow raise, he wonders) like he just presented her a pick-up line.

“What’s yours, Mulder?” Her tone is almost accusatory.

“Nope, I asked first. Give a little get a little, Scully.”

There’s a searching look plastered to her face, as if she’s trying to dissect his intentions. They’re honorable, he assures. He’s noticed that they seem to have some sort of simpatico, like their thoughts and actions, especially in the field, are synched. So he tries to communicate his objectives by letting that simpatico take over, adjusting his eyes so that they become perceptive, eagerly awaiting a response, offering a soft smile. And though she presents a smile of her own in return, she turns her head to stare out the front windshield, her profile glowing off the reflection from the moon, avoiding the question.

It takes her more than five minutes to give in, to show a crack in the foundation of the walls he knows she’s built up. Her breathing had become so soft and slow and her eyes had closed, he’d thought maybe she had actually gone to sleep. Her voice is just above a whisper when she finally acquiesces and piques his curiosity.


“That’s a very specific shade, a simple ‘purple’ would have sufficed.” But, no, it wouldn’t have, and they both know it. “Why lavender? Boyfriend used to come home with them?”

“Give a little get a little, Mulder.” He eyes are open now and they’re smiling, it seems. She’s teasing him, he realizes, playing along. Her face is tilted slightly in his direction, encouraging his response. He already respects her, but maybe now he even likes her.

“Dark blue. Since we’re getting specific, the color that the ‘Midnight Blue’ Crayola crayon produces.” He smirks, game, set, match.

She begins to offer him an explanation. “Believe it or not, I actually don’t like the smell or the plant itself. And, uh, no time for a boyfriend. You already keep me up at all hours of the night.” She smirks right back at him, and he’s struck at her outright flirting. It’s his game, but she’s definitely come to play.

They’ve both shifted so that their bodies are fully facing each other. “But my father was a Navy Captain, and for a short while he was stationed in Jacksonville. We were there less than a year. I hated Florida, truthfully. But that summer, my mom decided I was old enough to walk to this little ice cream shop not far from base housing. And the entire outside of the shop was painted a lavender color. I visited it probably every other day that summer we were there. Lavender is associated with a happy memory during an unpleasant part of my childhood.” He notices that she talks with her hands, and files the information away in his eidetic memory for safekeeping.

He nods and hums his approval, even more captivated with the enigma that is his partner in front of him. He is now facing the windshield, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. She tucks her hair behind her ear, and he wonders if this is her way of showing her attentiveness. As if moving her hair out of the way will allow her to hear him better.

“‘Midnight Blue’ is the the last color you see in the sky as the sun sets, before it’s engulfed by black. In fact, it’s actual partially mixed with the black, so believe it or not, the sky is never completely devoid of color.” 

“You like sunsets, Mulder?” Her inquisitiveness is genuine, her voice lighthearted but not condescending.

“I like that sunsets remind me that I’ve completed a journey. Because that’s what every day is. I also like the fact that no two sunsets are ever the same. They’re always composed of the same colors, but they’re never an exact repeat of the night before. It’s kind of like all of us, you know? We’re all made up of the same basic components, but we’re all unique. And, whether or not people choose to see it, we all are full of color.”

Contemplative silence fills the car. It’s comfortable. They’re comfortable, he deduces. They’re going to get along just fine.

She looks as if she were about to ask another question, her curiosity regarding his unreserved analysis of the color of a crayon apparently not quite quenched, when the porchlight of the house, the observation of which they’ve neglected, suddenly flicks on.