this anon has been trying my patience or a long time now

mark my words (m)

pairing: reader x sugar daddy!kim namjoon

genre/components: smut, crack, fluff // kim namjoon had money and a taste for sweet little things with the sharpest tongues 

count: 15,548 words

also extended, rewritten, crossposted to ao3 as minjoon

a/n: for anon who requested it months ago im so sorry this took so long but i hope it was worth :^) 

The blinking line on his blank document was laughing at him. He swore it was laughing at him and has been laughing at him for the past half an hour since he sat down and fired up the program. One word, backspace. Three words, backspace. One fucking sentence, he fucking backspaced. He let out a growl of frustration as he pushed back from his desk, rubbing his eyes as if the pain would clear up any part of his brain – preferably the one that didn’t make him sound like a five year old storybook. He might as well have typed “The wife is a sadist who accidentally killed her husband mid-fuck.”

Grabbing his robe, he quickly tugged it on and padded over to the kitchen to pour himself a blistering hot cup of coffee. His answering machine had picked up seven missed calls, probably from his editor cursing him out for missing his calls.

He couldn’t be bothered to listen to any of them or even handle his editor’s desire to tear him a new one when he was so tempted to do it himself. His last book had been published a few months ago. Usually, by the time one was stocked up on the shelves, he’d be working on the next as he cashed in whatever the latest one was making. However, with the last few miserable months, everything he printed looked like a shit stain on a piece of paper. Even his editor, who was down to his last string of patience, thought so.

Things used to come naturally to Namjoon. All the sophisticated whatnot, all the carefully intricate plots that wove themselves onto the blank pages in fabricated fiction. He didn’t know what happened to him. He’s never had a muse except for his own messed-up life so it wasn’t possible that (as what his readers and critics believed at least) his inspiration had evaporated into thin air.

Namjoon perhaps knew what had been happening, what he saw from three books away. But he wasn’t about to fucking admit it because that shit didn’t happen to the genius, versatile writer, Kim Namjoon. Whatever he wrote turned into gold, selling nearly as many copies as the holy Bible. If his jittery nerves wasn’t enough evidence of his problem, then the coffee cup shaking in his earthquake of a hand was. As the realization sank in, he was finally hit with the cold hard truth.

Kim Namjoon had hit writer’s block.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

pleeeeease tell me there's a story about nate and aj? ❤️❤️❤️

WELL ANONS (from this fic):

Andrew Joseph Minyard doesn’t know a thing about Nathaniel Wesninski until he’s sent to kill him.

That’s perhaps more unusual than one would suspect, knowing Andrew. His general disinterest is well known, but he has a personal stake in knowing the movers and shakers of the magical families on the East Coast.

Know your enemies, and all that. Andrew didn’t used to have those, until he met Kevin Day and finally picked a side that wasn’t himself and his best interests. Now he kills people for righteousness, or what the fuck ever.

“The Wesninskis have a new leader,” Wymack tells them, hands folded on his desk like this is very serious news. “It’s Nathan’s kid, apparently. He’s cleaned house. Or it might be more accurate to say that he wiped the old circle off of the map entirely.”

Like he always does, Kevin goes pale at the mention of one of those families. Wymack flicks him a glance before continuing, “It’s not immediately clear where he stands on the old family alliances, but it makes sense for us to move now while he’s unsettled.”

Andrew can see where this is going already. “I didn’t realise we were killing off children now.”

Wymack shoots him a level look. “He’s twenty-two. Barely younger than you.”

“Well, I suppose that’s alright then,” Andrew replies agreeably. “When do I leave?”

“Hold on. Didn’t he kill his own father?” Nicky cuts in. “Shouldn’t that require a little more investigation than ‘when do I leave’?”

Dan waves a hand. “He’s a mage. Killer or not, he won’t be able to protect himself against non-magical weapons.”

“Don’t worry Nicky. I don’t like to be too well prepared,” Andrew says. It’s not meant to be soothing.

That’s how he ends up crawling through an upper-storey window of the Wesninski mansion, cursing mages and rusted locks. The house is probably warded - Andrew couldn’t say. To him it’s just like breaking into any other house.

What he does notice is the complete emptiness of the building. While mages don’t often have non-magical defence - and Andrew would be a lot less successful if they invested in some attack dogs, or even burglar alarms - they do generally at least have people. But every room he passes - soundlessly, of course - has its door flung wide open to display its total emptiness.

Every instinct he has is screaming. For a moment, he wonders if Wesninski has cleared out of the house entirely. But, despite the limited information for this trip, Andrew knows Wymack wouldn’t send him on a wild goose chase. The mage is here.

He creeps down the stairs, sticking close to the wall. It’s a broad staircase, gaudy even in the near-darkness. Apparently the elder Wesninski had more money than taste.

The lounge is no more elegant, and still empty of people. Beyond it, though, light falls from the doorway. Andrew creeps towards it, palming one of his knives.

Apparently, all his quiet was wasted. The person through the door is waiting for him - and this, having met Nathan, is definitely his son.

Twenty-two he may be, but Wesninski looks like a kid. With his fair falling into his face as he slouches against the kitchen island, he looks nothing like someone who could have killed Nathan and the entire rest of his circle in one fell swoop. Any tracery of magic in him isn’t detectable to Andrew though - for all he knows, the air could be singing with it.

The only giveaway that this man isn’t as normal as Andrew is the curling tattoo emerging over the collar of his t-shirt. It’s a mage-mark, and it’s large. Even Kevin, the most powerful of the Foxes in terms of sheer strength, doesn’t have one that extends so far across his skin.

“You’re AJ Minyard,” Wesninski says. He looks excited about that. Andrew didn’t realise he was a groupie. It’s the danger of being a contract killer - being known by your signature. Andrew is Andrew, except when he’s AJ and earning his keep in blood.

“Usually, your kind is throwing spells by now,” he replies blandly. Not that it ever helps them.

“That would be a waste of time, though. Wouldn’t it?” Wesninski says. “You’re immune.”

Well then. “You’re smarter than you look,” Andrew informs him. 

“It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why you’re so successful,” Wesninski shrugs. “I need to send a message to Kevin.”

Wesninski isn’t following the script. Andrew glances at his watch - usually they’d have gotten past the initial failed attempt to blast Andrew off of the face of the earth with magic and moved onto either running - unusual, mages didn’t like to run - or begging. “Do I look like a messenger to you?”

That earns a thin smile. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is that demeaning?”

“If you think I’m here for that, then you’re confused,” Andrew says. 

Wesninski throws his arms wide. “Well, go ahead then. You know I can’t fight you. And it’s not like I can run.”

Fuck’s sake, Andrew didn’t come here for a conversation. Still, though - he throws a glance at Wesninski’s legs. “Too lazy for it?”

“Not exactly. I know you probably don’t care for magical theory, so the short explanation is that right now I can’t leave this house. Hence wanting to speak with Kevin. The best I could do is hide in a closet, and I can’t imagine that would deter you.”

“As sob-stories go, you might want to try ‘but I have children and a wife’,” Andrew advises. 

“As if that would help me.” Wesninski rolls his eyes. “That’s fine. I wasn’t expecting you to help me for free. I’ll give you something you want in exchange.”

Andrew really should have just killed him instead of saying a word. Corpses are so much less trouble. He raises an eyebrow to signal that his patience is wearing thin.

“If you want a chance at getting anywhere near Riko Moriyama, you’ll help me,” Wesninski says.

That’s an interesting offer. “What makes you think I care about that?”

“Do you think it isn’t common knowledge in the upper circles about what happened between him and Kevin?” Wesninski says. “Plus you’ve been working your way through all the high blood families over the last year. I figured a Moriyama must be right up there on your wish list. Particularly that one.”

He isn’t wrong. “I’m not here to make a deal with you.”

“Are you sure about that?” That smile again. It’s really a wonder someone so irritating hasn’t been killed already. “I have access to the Moriyamas now, whether they like it or not. I think you’d like to make use of that. Better move fast, though - you aren’t the only one who wants to kill me.”

Riko would already be dead if he were easier to get to. And Nathaniel now has his father’s seat on the council, even if he killed for it - succession is muddy  and ugly amongst mages at the best of times. He’d hardly be the first to do it that way. 

He’s right. Andrew could use that. Getting into Castle Evermore is difficult, and Nathaniel has a free pass through the front gates. If he could smuggle Andrew inside…if he were willing to do so…

“What’s in it for you?” Andrew asks.

“What, you mean besides you not murdering me tonight and me getting out of this fucking house?” So sardonic. “I don’t like the Moriyamas any more than you do, Wesninski blood or no. I don’t care if I die, as long as Riko goes first.”

It seems their interests all line up. Andrew can deal with Riko at last, and might even get a shot at the other Moriyamas in the process. He smiles a little bit, feeling his face cracking.

“Well, Nathaniel. Looks like you might be useful to me after all.”

Wesninski makes a face. “I go by ‘Nate’.”

“I really don’t care,” Andrew tells him. “I would say ‘wait here’, but I suppose that’s irrelevant, isn’t it? I’ll come to you.”

The with a message or a knife is unspoken but clearly implied. Nathaniel - Nate - smiles thinly.

“Better hurry,” he says. “Offer ends if I’m dead.”

Romance, Part One

There’s been a prompt in my inbox for quite some time, imploring me to write a bit of romance. Thing is, I’ve never even attempted romance. Not even once. But hell, it’s a chance to try something new. And I tried for you, anon. I tried my damnedest. So here goes. 

(And many thanks to the immensely talented @edierone​ for her insight and suggestions!)

Summary: “And how exactly would you romance me, then? You know. Just so I don’t mix you up with any more shapeshifters.” 

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Thank you for talking about your concerns re: Sony/Columbia and Rob Stringer. I thought I was the only one who felt sick to my stomach at the thought of the man who has been friends with Simon for years, and was head of the US label that helped to closet H & L, being the one to sign H. I don't know why people are excited, because the power dynamics are really messed up now, and there's no guarantee that the stunts are going to stop for L anytime soon. Trying to have hope, but it's hard. :(

It’s very hard, and you’re perfectly welcome, anon.

I thought I had posted about Rob Stringer in the fall, but all I can find is some articles I uploaded, so I’ll revisit now. Stringer has spent his career at Sony, he’s been running labels there since the early 90s, and his brother was a main exec and CEO of Sony Corp (not music) for quite some time. Stringer has headed Columbia since 2008, and he’s done extensive business with Simon Cowell in that capacity. Indeed, Simon was the first quote in the Billboard article announcing Stringer’s appointment as head of Sony this October. Their working relationship has been extensive, as far as I can tell. He has credited his work with Simon on XFactor acts as his gateway to success for getting Glee to work, which was hugely responsible for his success turning Columbia around. [Adele as well, and he’s partly responsible for a lot of a resurgent trend of U.K. artists’ US success.] He has called Simon the “best A&R guy he knows” in multiple interviews.

One Direction signed to Columbia in 2012 as they were breaking the American market; the closet clamped down during this time.

Sony purchased controlling shares in Syco in July of 2015 – paying £85 million total for it, and absorbing the £70 million debt it had accrued. While making £45 million from it personallyis somewhat pathetic for Simon, that’s a far better fate than being jettisoned from Sony and declaring the company bankrupt within five years. The buyout was, it would appear, the best possible outcome for Simon given the failures of his television series, losing One Direction, and being unable to produce a suitably earning substitute.

Rob Stringer was announced the new head of Sony mid-October 2016.

I say all this to suggest that thinking of a ‘fresh start’ for Rob Stringer or Harry is not logically sound. Rob Stringer has been involved in their business since 2012 – but even say for argument’s sake that perhaps he didn’t determine their marketing. But Rob Stringer has been calling the shots at Sony since this fall (and potentially had input before that official announcement). And we know Sony now holds the Syco strings and has since July 2015, a date we are all very aware of – so Rob Stringer stepping into the office in the last six months has certainly had power to ameliorate the situation, and he has not done so.

Harry has been constructed as the big fish, the Justin Timberlake, almost since the beginning. It seems Sony’s going to be damned if they don’t get what they’ve always angled for, by hook or by crook. Given what we have seen, they’ve been successful at backing Harry into a corner, as well as Louis, with profound effects for Liam and Niall as well.

Columbia and Sony are sure to promote Harry’s music thoroughly, because it could make them a great deal of money. But that is the equation. It is very much in their best interests not to help Niall, Louis, and Liam or One Direction, as that would distract dollars and time from Harry’s solo work, which will make them a fortune. It is quite evident by now that Sony has had the power to step in but have not, because such an extreme power imbalance in negotiating is much more expedient for their bottom line. They’ve been monstrous and it’s gotten them Harry’s contract, which is what they wanted.

Hope is not any easy thing in such a situation. I think patience will continue to be the watchword. 

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.

Ghost.

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?”

anonymous asked:

Ken, the paparazzi who spoils things correctly, is going around saying that olicity has moments post 520 but that they don't end the season officially reunited (that second half was said in DMs). People are speculating they'll end it in a good place like 223, but I think they're making a big mistake because another hiatus where they're not together is too much for me. Even if in a good place, by 601 months will have passed. I don't think he's lying, so what do you make of this?

Whoa nelly! I just took a peek at my inbox and I have at least 30 asks regarding this.

So I’m going to answer this now. Just so I can get to other questions on Thursday or it frees people up to ask me something else if they’d like. SPOILERS AHEAD!

So, I disagree with your assertion that Ken or Canadagraphs spoil things correctly. 

Yes, they do spoil things correctly sometimes. Especially when accompanied by photographic evidence. However, they don’t spoil things correctly ALL the time. They get it wrong just plenty.

I read the exchange on Twitter. Ken was pretty clear that he was making an assumption based on what he’s seen so far. He literally used the word assumption folks. This is not concrete information. This is just what he’s cobbled together from whatever he’s seen.

In another ask I received the Anon said Ken and CG get scripts. Uhhh… I don’t think that’s entirely accurate. I’m not sure what the technical term is, but I’m just going to make one up. I think what CG and Ken get their hands on a lot is a shooting schedule. I think there’s a brief description of what’s going to be shot/ the overall scene, location etc, but I don’t think they are walking around with complete scripts. That is just my assumption based on what I’ve cobbled together.

Ken spoiled the 2x23 kiss before we knew about it. That’s true. However, I think he confirmed he got it from the shooting schedule and the scene description. It was the same for the 5x20 love scene. He got that off a shooting schedule and scene description, but he wasn’t looking at the script. Ken also said FOR SURE that the 5x20 love scene was in present day. There was nothing in the scene description to indicate otherwise. But he was wrong. It is not a present day love scene. It’s a flashback. Confirmed by Marc Guggenheim. 

So… do I think his assumption is right? No. I do not. I don’t know what information he has. I don’t know what he’s basing these assumptions off of, but here’s how I look at the paparazzi. I am skeptical of pretty much everything they say unless they back it up with photographic evidence - like LL’s death. There’s been multiple times they’ve whipped the fandom into a frenzy and the information was inaccurate. There’s been times they have been accurate, but they are not the only source of information I go off of.

Let’s just put aside all the evidence on the show, which as you all know I believe is the most important piece. We’ve had other confirmations of Olicity’s reunion. I’d encourage everyone to read my HFVV Chicago post if you haven’t. David Ramsey flat out said Olicity reunites before the finale. No, Laura did not misunderstand him. I did not misunderstand David when I spoke to him at HVFF. When has David ever lied to us? Umm… never. David tells it like it is. Given that he has read all the scripts, I feel like David Ramsey is a pretty reliable source.

Marc confirmed back in JULY at SDCC they are rebuilding Olicity. That’s honestly the only spoiler I needed folks. The rest has all been extra. From my perspective that’s exactly what they are doing this season, but we’re going to dig deep into the rebuild in 5x20. All the spoilers for 5x20 seem to indicate that Olicity addresses their issues. This is NOT something they did in the fourth season when Arrow had every intention of putting them on pause. You don’t have the characters address the issues and then pause. That’s illogical from a narrative perspective. The reason why Olicity’s issues haven’t been addressed until now is because they didn’t want to reunite them until the end of the season. It’s just that simple. It’s a television show. May Sweeps is still a thing. The whole reason Arrow is circling back to these “issues” is to reunite them. I have zero doubt.

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anonymous asked:

Hey could you do that list of requests thing you mentioned? That would be awesome bc I'd love to read your stuff

For sure! Alright, here’s what’s upcoming:

Jeff x reader 

anon:  this sounds weird but i love dragons and i love jeff so could you write something about jeff and dragons?

This is going to be posted today I promise 

Monty x reader 

anon: Montgomery De La Cruz x fem reader where they like each other secretly. But one day he is speaking spanish/other language and she loses it and kisses him? I feel like it could maybe work if he is tutoring her in the class cause she can’t speak the language

I’m working on it right now, I’m not very far in but it’s going well :)

Justin x reader

anon: Can you write a Justin foley imagine where you walk into Justin getting choked by meth Seth

I am so excited to write this you have no idea. Prepare for some very sad backstory you didn’t ask for

Jeff x reader

@senrensaretavirtuemama: reader is hard of hearing, and Jeff works hard to make sure they can communicate

This is such an amazing request (there’s more to it than what I put here), and I’m sorry it’s taking so long to get to but I’m already planning it so don’t worry 

Alex x reader

anon: Alex Standall imaginewhere he sleeps over the reader’s house for a project together, but then he confesses his feelings for the reader

I’m excited to get to this one! not too much planning done yet, but I have a nugget of an idea

Justin x reader

anon: drunk Justin

Ooooh I already know what I’m gonna do for this one! (It’s possible this will come out a little early cuz it’s not going to be as long as some of my other ones, but I’m so excited!) (Can you guys tell that Justin is my son?)

Jeff x reader

@girlinmanyfandoms123: Jeff imagine where reader has been dealing with stress and anxiety because of upcoming exams and Jeff finds her crying and tries to cheer her up/make her happy and be friends

Not much planning done for this one, but since exam season isn’t really too far away I think I’m just gonna channel how much I want a Jeff to help me while I’m stressed. It’s gonna be good :)

Jeff x reader

anon: jeff x Reader where she’s like a bit of a hippie and earthy and whatnot and Jeff is who he is (popular jock etc) and she’s doing a protest at the school about not building a new building where the baby saplings are and he’s always rlly admired her for standing up for herself n stuff and they have small talk in class so when he sees her protesting he’s like fuck it n joins in

I love this idea so much! I know it’s gonna be a while before I get to it but I’m very excited to write this one

Jeff x reader

@w-hunting: More Confident Jeff, confused reader. She thought it was a one time thing didn’t know he liked her. 

This one is gonna be cute, I can already tell

Jeff x reader

anon: “I thought ignoring the way I feel would make me fall out of love.” From the list you reblogged. W Jeff pls? Cute at the end?

EEH! Hell yes, so excited to write this! It’s gonna be a bit before I can get to it, but I’m looking forward to it

Jeff x reader

@w-hunting: more sad/confused Jeff trying to figure out what he did to make her want to dump him w a stressed reader who doesn’t notice how Jeff is feeling cause she’s so preoccupied by making his birthday perfect

Gonna be so fluffy!

Jeff x reader

@w-hunting: Ooooo one sentence prompt w oblivious!Jeff :
Jeff is so busy trying to get Clay and Hannah together, he doesn’t notice reader has been trying to make her and him a thing for the past month

I love this! Oblivious Jeff is my jam

Jeff x reader

@w-hunting: Jeff prompt based on Perfect by Ed Sheeran

Gonna have to listen to the song, but I’m excited!

As you guys can see, I have a lot of Jeff requests, so if you guys request stuff for some other characters (especially Justin) I will probably get to those a little quicker and shuffle them into the above list, so I’m not only posting Jeff. These should be posted in this order for the most part, but I can’t give you specific days as of yet. Things are going kind of slow, but I’m working on them, don’t you guys worry. I appreciate your patience so much, and I’ll try to get through these as quickly as I can. 

Originally posted by picture--sex

anonymous asked:

bellarke, 8

sorry this took so long, anon!! school and homework absolutely kicked my ass this weekend and then i had a major case of writer’s block, so thanks for your patience darling <3

bellarke + 8. oh my god, i thought you were going to die. please don’t ever scare me like that again.

Clarke is perfectly relaxed until her radio crackles to life.

She hears Bellamy’s voice coming from it - garbled, but clear enough that she can distinctly make out the words, “Come in, Clarke.” Panic seizes her, because Bellamy wouldn’t be trying to contact her unless something was wrong.

She fumbles for the radio, fingers trembling so much that she has a hard time unhooking it from her belt. “Come in, Clarke,” Bellamy says again, and the urgency in his voice terrifies her.

“Bellamy, what’s wrong?” she says into the radio. He doesn’t answer right away, but she hears a harsh sound in the background, a dull roar. “What the hell is that noise?”

A crackle, and then: “Black rain.”

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Dylan Larkin # 1

Requested by Anon: Dylan Larkin imagine where he and the reader move in together and they’re both not used to being a serious relationship so they have to do all this cute domestic stuff and Dylan keeps messing up simple chores and it’s just goofy and cute

Warnings: cussing, doubt, sexual innuendoes 

Word Count: 1756

Author’s Note: Thank you for your patience! I’m sorry it took forever! I tried really hard with this but I don’t feel like it’s very good so I apologize  :( Any way enjoy what you can! And please don’t be afraid to request again even though it isn’t my best work! 

Originally posted by dyllarkin

Your feet were tucked under your boyfriend’s legs. You had a book in your hands while Dylan was watching hockey on your TV. You two finally got to spend some time together after a long three weeks of not seeing each other. The reason? Your boyfriend played professional hockey for the Detroit Red Wings and you had your own busy working life causing both of your schedules not to match. But finally you got some time together.

Dylan let out a large sigh indicating he wanted your attention. You rolled your eyes, placed a bookmark in your book, and looked up at the boy. “Larkin?” you questioned. He began to comfortingly rub circles on your lower legs. “I was just thinking how great it is to be with you,” he stated. You rose your eyebrows in surprised. “It’s great to be with you too,” you responded happily. You returned to your book thinking that the conversation was over. “I like this. Being here with you,” he continued, “I was thinking…” he stopped and waited to get your attention. You once again put your book down. “Uh-Oh Dylan thinking? This can’t be good,” you sarcastically replied. He rolled his eyes at you. “Listen,“ he commanded. “okay you have my attention, Larkin,” you moved yourself so you were closer to him with your feet tucked under you. “I think you should move in with me,” he admitted. At first you laughed, thinking he was joking. He kept his face straight. “Oh my gosh, you’re serious,” you noticed. You were skeptical. This was a huge step in a relationship. As much as you love Dylan, moving in could possibly kill the relationship. “I don’t know, Dyl,” You speculated. “Just think about it. Your rent would be cheaper. And we would see each other so much more,” he said. “Dyl,” you started. You were cut off by Dylan’s lips on yours. The kiss was passionate and left your head foggy. Dylan came at you with so much force he knocked you down into the couch. He was laying on top of you. You tangled your hands into his beautiful dark brown hair. You pulled him closer to you trying to feel every part of him. He pulled away quickly. The sudden lack of Dylan’s body heat left you shivering. The fact the kiss was heating up and now he was gone, left you uncomfortable. You gave him a confused look and he smirked at you, “So will you move in with me?” he asked. Instead of answering the question you went in for another kiss. You needed to feel the passion again. He turned his head just at the right moment so your lips met with his cheek. You pulled back and glared at him, “What are you playing at Larkin?” you questioned. Once again he gave you his signature smile that took your breath away. “Will you move in with me?” he asked again. You still didn’t respond. “Will you move in with me?” he asked for the third time moving closer to you. “Move in with me,” he stated. His lips were almost touching yours again. Your breath hitched, hoping he would plant his lips on yours again. “Dylan,” you whined, needing the kiss. “All you have to do is say yes,” he whispered. “Fine, yes,” you officially agreed. You grabbed his face, and finally pulling his lips to yours.

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anonymous asked:

if youre taking requests, enjoltaire + truth or dare

A/N: Thank you so much for the prompt anon! I actually wrote this about three times because I kept forgetting to save! Here are our boys being silly with a guest appearance from everyone’s fave plot device: the art of Miscommunication. I hope you enjoy !!

P.S I’m still taking prompts if anyone has any they’d like to send!!


Grantaire knows it’s all about to go downhill the moment Éponine gets that smile on her face.

There’s a lot you can learn about someone through their facial expressions- the example in question, Éponine, is currently wearing her ‘I’m about to fuck shit up and I know it’ smile.

Enjolras, who is on the receiving end of said smile, looks nowhere near as terrified as he rightfully should do. Everyone who’s ever played truth or dare with Éponine knows you do not, under any circumstance, ever, choose dare. Enjolras either doesn’t know this or doesn’t care, sitting up proudly and condemning himself to what Grantaire knows will be his end.

He’d always assumed Enjolras would die a martyr, nobly refusing to concede in the face of his enemies. He’d never dreamt that Enjolras would meet his end at one of Courfeyrac’s hastily thrown parties because he was foolish enough to choose dare at the hands of Éponine.

“Enjolras,” Éponine begins slowly, pronouncing every syllable in a way that sounds unmistakably dangerous- a trick she surely learnt from Montparnasse. “I dare you… to kiss Grantaire.”

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anonymous asked:

Could you write 81 for Moriel for the dialogue prompt thingy ? I love your writing!

First off, thanks nonnie! For the compliment and the prompt. :) It means a lot! I really loved this prompt so much and had an idea right away, which is why you are getting this kinda quickly. I was totally grinning while I wrote this, so I hope you enjoy it.

Prompt: “Obviously you can’t tell a woman you just met that you love her, but it sucks that you can’t.” 

*****

When Mor shows up at Rita’s, the last person she expects to see is Azriel. It had taken her so long to get him to go with her that when she sees him there (and without her) she blinks to be sure that her vision isn’t deceiving her. But it isn’t, Azriel is here, sitting at the bar with Rhys. She would be slightly hurt, if she weren’t delighted by the fact that he has taken some time off for himself.

She begins to walk towards them with her usual confident swagger when she overhears part of their discussion.

“Obviously, you can’t tell a woman you just met that you love her, but it sucks that you can’t,” Azriel is saying, and the words cause her to stop mid-stride. She quickly finds a seat close enough so she can keep listening to them, but far away enough that they hopefully won’t notice her before she wants to be found. She doesn’t know whether the person in love with a woman is one of them, but either way she feels the blood rush to her face.

“You wouldn’t do that anyway, Az. Even if it wasn’t completely inappropriate and creepy,” Rhys replies.

If it’s Azriel who has fallen in love with someone… her face blanches and her stomach turns at the idea. Her mind begins to race, trying to think of who they could be talking about, the women Azriel has met recently. There was that woman the other evening who had been ogling him while they were all at dinner. Or the woman from the Winter Court whom they had gone to visit a few weeks ago, trying to get her to agree to trade. They are always coming and going, who knows who he could have met while he was away on a mission. Her heart starts to drop as the implications of that become clear.

When Azriel starts talking again, she forces herself to stop thinking and listen.

“There are a lot of things I wish I could have done differently. Telling her right away is one of them. It might have saved us all a lot of trouble.” If she strains her neck a bit she can see them across the room, and she watches as he looks down at his glass.

“Even when you were a kid, Az, you were more the broody, silent type. The impulsiveness of youth would have done you no good. You just didn’t have it. And besides, it wouldn’t have worked then. Too much… there was too much going on for her, then. Even if she would have said yes.” Rhys pats him on the shoulder, and it moves Mor to see them like this together. Even if inside she is silently screaming at the implications of what they are saying.

“I suppose you’re right,” Az concedes. “I wonder though, what if I met her now, instead of then? What would I do, if I saw her walk in this room and didn’t know her?” He looks up at the door she has just entered from as if it were a possibility.

“Well, it’s a good thing you see her nearly every day. That she is always there when you return from missions. Isn’t it?” Rhys looks at Azriel pointedly and finishes his drink as if there is nothing more he needs to say.

Mor begins putting pieces together, and as she does her distress grows. They aren’t talking about someone he has recently met, but someone he met a long time ago. When she heard them talking her mind had immediately gone to someone else because surely, Azriel wouldn’t be talking so openly to Rhys about how he felt about her. But that seems to be exactly what he is doing, and she isn’t sure if she wants to run and hide or confront him.

She looks back up at the two men sitting at the bar, and makes a decision. Standing from her table, she puts on a bright smile and approaches the two. She falters for a moment when Az starts speaking again, but persists.

“Morrigan is…” he is saying as she gets near enough for Rhys to notice her, and at his surprise Azriel turns to look at her.

“Mor, we didn’t expect to see you here this evening” Rhys starts. “I was just leaving. You’ll have to make do with Az for company.” As he leaves he winks at his brother, and the transparency of the gesture has them both rolling their eyes.

Once they are alone, Mor takes Rhys’ seat at the bar. Az has always been a bit taciturn, but right now he seems unsure of himself, not just quiet. Given what she just overheard, Mor is even less sure of how to handle this conversation, or where he might take it.

“So, what were you two talking about,” she asks, giving him an opportunity to cover for himself. The bartender sets down her usual drink order without asking, and she clings to the glass.

Az clears his throat. “I just wanted some advice on something. Nothing, really.”

Mor waits for him to continue, and when he doesn’t she asks if she can offer her assistance.

“No. Well… maybe.” She squirms in her chair a bit at the possibility that he might open up to her, but bites her tongue so he can continue.

“I want to tell someone something important. And I’m just not sure how to do it.”

“Well you are normally an open book, Az…” She grins at him.

“What would you do, if someone cared for you, and didn’t tell you? If you cared for him, too?” He isn’t looking directly at her as he speaks, but rather at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

She is facing him, watching his profile as she speaks. “I think… I would wonder, after a while. Why he hadn’t said anything. I’d probably doubt myself and try to move on with other men. Even though it never would never work out in the end, with the others.”

“Because of this other guy,” he confirms.

“Mm-hmm, this other guy. But you know, women don’t have infinite patience, Az. So hypothetically, this other guy, the one with feelings, who she cares about, too, should really, really say something. Hypothetically speaking.”

“Hypothetically speaking,” he repeats.

A few moments pass in silence while he contemplates her response. “Would you like to have dinner with me, Mor? Just me?” He finally turns to look at her, and his expression has her wanting to take his face in between her hands to kiss him, to reassure him.

Instead, she smiles gently at him. “Of course. I would love to.”

Turning back to the bar, she catches his gaze in the mirror, and their small smiles gradually turn to uncontrollable grins as they finish their drinks.

*******

Dialogue prompts

anonymous asked:

Ok but I'm upset It's not an option for Niall to get on stage with all the Eagles. :((((( he'd sob

it is!! (i mean minus glenn frey, of course.) i know how frustrating it can be when ur fav doesn’t seem to have the opportunities that someone else’s does but i think it’s more of a not yet than a never. u know, most people work their whole lives to get to a point where their favorite artist wants to duet with them. i was thinking about that time bruce was asked to sing with mick and george harrison at a rock n roll hall of fame induction, and when he starts wondering how he got there, he goes:

“Look at it like this: In 1964, millions of kids saw the Stones and the Beatles and decided, ‘That looks like fun.’ Some of them went out and bought instruments. Some of them learned to play a little. Somegot good enough to maybe join a local band. Some might have even made a demo tape. Some might have lucked out and gotten a record deal of some sort. A few of those might have sold some records and done some touring. A few of those might have had a small hit, a short career in music, and managed to eke out a modest living. A very few of those might have managed to make a life as a musician, and a very, very few might have had some continuing success that brought them fame, fortune and deep gratification, and tonight, one of those ended up standing between Mick Jagger and George Harrison, a Stone and a Beatle. I did not fool myself about what the odds were back in 1964 that that one would’ve been the acne-faced fifteen-year-old kid with the cheap Kent guitar from Freehold, New Jersey. My parents were RIGHT! My chances were ONE, ONE in a MILLION, in MANY MILLIONS. But still . . . here I was. I knew my talents and I knew I worked hard, but THESE, THESE WERE THE GODS, and I was, well . . . one hardworking guitar man.”

i think this scene highlights something i was having a hard time articulating, which is about that distance between playing with the greats and being one of them. for whatever reason, there’s a certain tendency to treat harry as though he has a spot in the history of rock n roll reserved for him, but i don’t think that’s quite the case. even bruce springsteen is here going they’re the legends, not me! it’s not just that he’s being humble, i don’t think, it’s that there’s more to being one of them than their own sustained success over many years; it’s the legacy they bring to the music, and maybe more specifically their ability to inspire others in the hopes of being that one in many millions. there’s so much more to dreaming of being one of the Eagles than either the people or the music, really.

not to say i don’t think harry or niall or geez, for all i know, the chainsmokers (though we can hope not) can’t have their day; but that if they’re playing with one of the greats now, it’s out of love and admiration, and not necessarily because they are one. that takes dedication and commitment and also time.

so to get back to what u said, the short answer is: me too!! but this is literally just the start of what will hopefully endure into very long, very happy careers. waiting sucks, but try to have patience. there’s a long way to go yet .

Ain’t No Sunshine - Baekhyun Oneshot

Requested by lovely anon: Baekhyun angst/fluff where Baekhyun gets irritated with you for having an attitude until he finds out that your grandmother just died. (My apologies in advance for any and all suckiness - it’s 2 AM and I’m doing greaaaat.)

SPECIAL FEATURE ALERT: This is a reader-interactive fic, so in the box below, if you enter a name (yours or a character’s, for example), and click “submit”, it will swap out “Y/N” for that name. This feature does not work on dashboard/feed/mobile app unfortunately.

Your name: submit What is this?

 

The apartment building is silent as you shuffle inside, jerking the strap of your duffel bag higher onto your shoulder as you go. Of course it’s silent. It’s 3 in the morning - and it irritates you that the sun is going to rise in a few hours. There should be no more sunshine, no more color. Not when all you feel is a heavy grayness.

Normally you climb the four flights of stairs to your apartment, but you have no energy today so you take the elevator, getting increasingly agitated by the pleasant elevator music. By the time you reach your floor, you’re grinding your teeth and you almost run down the hall to your room, wanting nothing more than to collapse on your bed and scream into your pillow.

Those plans are put on halt when you open the door and find Baekhyun sitting on your couch, his long and delicate fingers toying with his phone.

Before you can react, he hits a button on his phone and then your pocket is vibrating. His eyes fall to your hips where your own phone rests, and his brows furrow. “Your phone is working,” he frowns. “So you were ignoring my calls.”

You’re not in the mood to defend yourself so you just throw your duffel on the floor and try to head past him to your bedroom, but Baekhyun, forever light on his feet, is suddenly in front of you, blocking your way. “Y/N” he says, and you flinch at the concern in his tone. That’s all you’ve been hearing lately, concern. Everyone is concerned, and no one can do anything about it.

Baekhyun keeps talking, oblivious to your reaction. “What’s going on? You just disappeared for a week, no warning, no explanation. I was out of my mind with worry.” You’re staring at a point in the distance as if pretending he’s not there will make him go away, but Baekhyun catches your chin and gently forces you to meet his eyes. “Hey, jagiya. Talk to me, baby.”

Something snaps inside of you and you push him away from you, not roughly, but with enough strength to make him step back. “I don’t want to talk!” you bark. “Doesn’t anyone get it? I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to think, I don’t want hugs or food or money. I just want…”

Despite the shock and hurt on his face, Baekhyun still nods for you to continue. But you can’t. Because then will come the pity and if you have to hear one more “I’m sorry for your loss”, you’re going to lose it.

“I just want to be alone,” you finally mumble.

Baekhyun shoots you an exasperated look. “You know I’ve been coming here every night? No one could reach you, no one had any idea where you were, so I sat right here and waited. My manager has been threatening to shave off all my hair as punishment for ditching my schedule.” He smiles, clearly hoping to draw a laugh out of you but you just shrug.

“What do you want, a medal? No one asked you to come here.”

At that, Baekhyun finally seems to lose his patience and his bright eyes become hard. “I don’t know what your problem is, Y/N, but I’m already tired of it.”

“Then leave!”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong!” You rake a hand through your hair and turn on your heel to storm away, when his voice drops an octave. “Y/N, if you walk away from me now, I swear I won’t be waiting for you when you come back.” And so you stop. Because it’s Baekhyun. Because you can’t lose him too.

Arms snake around your waist and pull you against a warm chest, and you turn to bury your face in his shirt automatically. It’s second nature for you to seek him, to want him, even now. “Have you really grown so far apart from me in one week that you won’t even tell me what’s wrong?” he murmurs in your ear. He says it like a joke but you can hear the hurt in his voice.

“I’m alone,” you whisper. At that, Baekhyun pulls back to examine your expression.

“Alone? I’m right here, jagi. See?” He catches your hand and places it over his heart, the rhythmic pulse steady under your palm. For the briefest second you almost smile, but then you suddenly remember – not even twenty-four hours ago, you were searching for a different heartbeat and finding none.

The force of your grief suddenly overwhelms you and knocks you to your knees, and it’s only Baekhyun’s arms around you that keep you from hitting the floor.

“Y/N?” he says in alarm.

“She’s gone.” The lump in your throat is going to choke you.

“Who’s gone?”

“My grandmother. She passed away. I went back home to take care of the paperwork and the funeral. To say goodbye.” The pressure that had been building inside of you finally breaks and you give way to the sobs that wrack your body, fisting your hands in Baekhyun’s shirt as if it’s a lifeline. “I’m alone,” you weep.

He tugs you against him again and holds you tightly. “No, you’re not,” he says into your hair. “I’m not leaving you anytime soon. I just hope you don’t mind me going bald.”

You let out a startled laugh and sniffle, “What?”

“My manager,” Baekhyun explains with a grin. “He’s gonna come for my hair – but you’re worth it, jagi.” He presses a kiss on your forehead, and through your tears and leaden sorrow, you look up at him with a sly smile.

“I guess I can…Call You Baldy then, huh?”

Blood vs Water, part 2

Requested

Part 1

______________________________________________________________

You’d been on the receiving end of your father’s icy stares many a time before. But this one had to be the worst.

“How dare you,” your father finally hissed. “How dare you sneak off when I forbade you to leave? And to hear that you’ve gone and joined forces with this scum?”

“They’re not scum, Father.”

“Do not argue with me. Go to your room. I can’t bear to look at you.”

“You can’t order me to my room. I am a grown woman.”

“You are back under my roof, and you will listen to me.”

You turned, finding Thorin standing behind you. “Let’s go. There’s no hospitality to be found here.”

The dwarf king studied you but eventually nodded. As the Company turned, Gandalf held a hand up. “Thranduil, it would serve you well to give this group some food and shelter for the night. They shall leave in the morning.”

“Gandalf, do you honestly think you have any room here to order me around?”

“I’m not ordering. But if you feel it best to argue, I can strengthen my side.”

Your father stood, tight-lipped. “Fine. Nourishment will be provided in the kitchen in an hour.”

“Not the Great Hall?”

“Do not press your luck.”

Gandalf gave a slight bow. “Come, Company. I believe there’s a place to freshen up down the hall.”

You tried to follow your newly found friends when a hand enclosed around your bicep. Turning, you saw Legolas holding onto you.

“Take her to her room,” Thranduil said, turning his back on you. “Do not let her leave.”

“Father,”

“Now.”

______________________________________________________________

“You should change.”

“Excuse me?”

Legolas pulled your closet open, retrieving a fancy dress from the back. After living in the wilderness (and wearing pants!) for such a long time, all you saw in his hands was a giant constricting snake.

“You cannot be serious.”

“If you want to get Father off your back, you’ll change.” Legolas sniffed. “And bathe.”

You rolled your eyes. “Leg, please. I’m a grown woman and–”

“And Father will never let you leave again if you keep up this attitude.”

You scoffed. “I escaped once. I can do it again.”

“Not after the increase in security.”

You had noticed more guards on your way in. “Gandalf will help me get out.”

“He’s already tested Father’s patience. He may be old, but he knows his limits.”

“Then Thorin will get me out.”

“Please. That pesky dwarf is no match for Father.” Legolas handed the dress to you. “Now. Go change.”

“Leg,”

“Don’t make this worse for yourself, Y/N.”

You sighed. As much as you hated to admit it, you knew Legolas was right. And the smallest part of you couldn’t help but remember how well that dress fit you… you wanted to know what Thorin would think of it.

______________________________________________________________

Legolas agreed to persuade your father to let the company eat in the Great Hall with you. The dwarves looked out of place in their furs and traveling gear, but you were happy that your father had allowed them out of the kitchen.

Even if he made you sit at the far end of the table, next to him, instead of next to Thorin.

But there was a plus side to this seating arrangement.

From this vantage point, you could see the gazes Thorin kept sending your way. His eyes sparkled and the smallest of smiles was on his face.

You hoped your father couldn’t see.

______________________________________________________________

The Company was relegated to the kitchen for the evening, given potato sacks for beds. At least it would be warm.

When you were sure your father was asleep, you crept down to the kitchen. The dwarves were all snoring lightly (well… some of them. Some of them sounded like a heard of elephants).

All except one.

“What are you doing down here?”

You spun, finding Thorin behind you. The flames from the woodfire stove threw shadows on his face. “Did I wake you?”

“No. I’ve been up.”

“Why?”

“I was wondering if I should try and find your chambers in this maze of a castle.”

You felt your cheeks heating, thankful for the shadows hiding their true color. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Because I miss having you in close proximity. I feel better when I can see you, know that I can protect you.”

You smiled, sitting down next to him. He was warm and solid as you leaned against him. The two of you were quiet for a few moments.

“I’m only sorry that tonight… is our final night,” Thorin said in a quiet, gruff voice.

“What? Why?”

“Your father will not allow you to travel will us any longer. Now that he has you back home, he will not relinquish his grasp on you.”

“He cannot stop me.” You reached out and took his hand in yours. It amazed you how much larger his hand was than yours. His thick fingers intertwined with your delicate ones. “I want to be with you. With this Company.”

Thorin gave your hand a squeeze. “I want nothing more.”

Welcome to the Land of Kaylor/ Gaylor Swift

Are you a new Kaylor/ Gaylor Swiftie? Do you feel like you know NOTHING when people make references to 2014 events? Or like you have SO MANY QUESTIONS but are scared to ask people? Did you just discover Kaylor and don’t know where to start? Or are you someone who’s been quietly blogging but still feels like they have stuff to learn? 

Well, you’ve stumbled upon the right post! I’m going to share with you all the tips, tricks, info and blogs to follow if you’re still getting used to this whole “Taylor Swift isn’t straight” thing. 

Okay, I’ll get into it!

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

(1) Burnie remembers the last time he saw Geoff alone, they met often back before The Fake AH Crew was born and he can just about remember the meeting that proceeded it. Geoff looked tired and was sporting more than a few new scrapes, one-man heists were difficult even for a seasoned criminal and it was clear they were taking their toll. Geoff mentioned that he was taking on an "assistant", just for one heist or maybe two, then he would see them off before they had the chance to backstab him.

(2) “I work alone” he insists, and Burnie shakes his head because he knows Geoff will be asking him to help with a heist again in no time. The next time he sees Geoff is the first time he sees Jack. Geoff’s temporary assistant has been with him for three weeks past their supposed break off point now and he agreed to bring them to meet Burnie. When he sees Geoff walk in with a lady e almost makes a joke about them being husband and wife, but the way they spend all night conspiring and

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Top five WA moments and why.

OK, ready to answer this now! (and if you’re the same anon who’s sent me asks the past few times, thank you, I appreciate you asking me for my opinion). These probably won’t be the ones you’re expecting, but then I tend to go against the grain when it comes to opinions about this show lol. I’ll do a countdown but buckle up, this may will get long. And I was going to put gifs in this, but my computer hates me today:

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

Imagine a college!au where taekook are suspiciously close bffs and one day jungkook buys taehyung a giant teddybear for his birthday & taehyung loves it so much he needs to give jungkook an even better thank you gift, then its the two of them trying to outgift each other, organizing grandiose schemes to surprise each other while being completely oblivious as to how romantic it is (it's not technically serenading i have a boombox) (jimin what do you mean i can't stuff his locker with rose petals)

/I’m flailing anon how could you/ /whips out the head canons/

“Park Jimin, help me lug these boxes of Hershey’s Kisses to Kookie’s dorm.”

Jimin sighs, pushing away his Psychology textbook from his lap and glancing over at the loser standing with twelve massive boxes of expensive Swiss chocolate basically overflowing in his arms as he struggled to stand. It’s bad enough that it’s finals week and the heating broke down a week ago and Jimin has to cram in sub human temperatures, but being dragged into this out-gifting war between two guys who seemed conveniently clueless about the romantic aspect of their endeavors took the cake when it came to Jimin’s patience.

“Didn’t you just tell me this Monday, not three days ago, that ‘there is no way Jeon Jungkook is getting a one-up on me after these eighty roses worth petals in his locker?’”

“Yeah, but -”

“And wasn’t it when I was helping you stuff one fucking petal at a time into those damn holes that you promised that you would leave me out of your weird outdoing game?”

Taehyung huffs. It is a little known fact that as nice as Park Jimin seems from the outside, with his eye smile and seemingly easy going personality and tiny human ways, he is, in fact, a complete hard ass.

“Yeah, but that was before he stood outside my dorm with that fucking boom box and sang ‘Like I’m Going To Lose You’ in front of half the college population.”

“And?”

“Everyone knows public serenading beats rose petals. It’s a fact.” Jimin groans.

“Do you - like him?”

Taehyung tilts his head. “Of course I like him. He’s my best friend. Why wouldn’t I like him?”

“I mean do you like - how he dresses, or the way he laughs or - I don’t know,” Jimin grumbled. “The way he is?”

Taehyung gives him a long look before answering. “Jungkook’s a great guy. What’s not to like?”

“Oh my gosh, Tae, you can’t just - you can’t just give guys you don’t date Hershey’s kisses. It’s a - couple thing.”

“What do you mean? It’s just chocolate.” Jimin rubs his temple with his thumbs and tries another approach.

“Those roses cost how much you’d get if you sold your body, Tae.”

“So?”

I paid for them. You promised me your first born child.”

“And you shall have it. Now help me with these boxes before Jungkook comes back from his lecture, we have to get these boxes into his room in ten minutes.”

Jimin splutters, eyes widening at the thought of the embarrassing walk of shame six dorms across to Jungkook’s room, eyes glued to the floor to avoid the stares people would give any guy desperate enough to give the object of their affection caffeine overdose to win them over.

Of course, Taehyung doesn’t understand this. He’s probably grin back at them and wink at Jimin.

“What ‘we’? There’s no ‘we’. There’s you and those Hershey’s and a six corridor walk.”

Taehyung narrows his eyes.

“I have Yoongi hyung’s number.” Jimin’s jaw drops.

“Liar,” he hisses, eyes widening. There was no way in hell Kim Taehyung, king of weird pick up lines and awkward eye contact with strangers could have scored Yoongi’s number when Jimin had been trying to work up the courage to talk to him all semester.

“Am not. Chem 101 had a lot of Music majors attending, for some weird reason. Especially a certain blond guy who sat next to me the whole time and discussed a vocal collab he might be needing one of these days. And I might have told him I knew a guy.”

Jimin lets this information (and Taehyung’s extra triumphant face) sink in for twenty seconds.

“How many boxes should I carry?”

Taehyung throws him a boxy grin.

“You’re the best, Park Jimin.”

/and then basically Tae gives Kookie chocolates and Kook gets Tae his favourite bubble tea set and they keep doing that until one day Jimin gets them together and yells at them to stop being so fricking clueless already and if they don’t flipping kiss and end this madness he’d call Yoongi and have them both disposed off in the Busan seas and so they do and that’s the story of how TaeKook continues to outgift each other only this time, they kiss between the Hershey Kisses’ boxes and cuddle with the teddy bears they give each other./

The End.

Oh, Yoongi thinks Jimin is cute.

Ain’t No Sunshine - EXO Baekhyun One Shot

Requested by lovely anon: Baekhyun angst/fluff where Baekhyun gets irritated with you for having an attitude until he finds out that your grandmother just died. (My apologies in advance for any and all suckishness - it’s 2 AM and I’m doing greaaaat.)


The apartment building is silent as you shuffle inside, jerking the strap of your duffel bag higher onto your shoulder as you go. Of course it’s silent. It’s 3 in the morning - and it irritates you that the sun is going to rise in a few hours. There should be no more sunshine, no more color. Not when all you feel is a heavy grayness.

Normally you climb the four flights of stairs to your studio apartment, but you have no energy today so you take the elevator, getting increasingly agitated by the pleasant elevator music. By the time you reach your floor, you’re grinding your teeth and you almost run down the hall to your room, wanting nothing more than to collapse on your bed and scream into your pillow.

Those plans are put on halt when you open the door and find Baekhyun sitting on your couch, his long and delicate fingers toying with his phone.

Before you can react, he hits a button on his phone and then your pocket is vibrating. His eyes fall to your hips where your own phone rests, and his brows furrow. “Your phone is working,” he frowns. “So you were ignoring my calls.”

You’re not in the mood to defend yourself so you just throw your duffel on the floor and try to head past him to your bedroom, but Baekhyun, forever light on his feet, is suddenly in front of you, blocking your way. “Y/N” he says, and you flinch at the concern in his tone. That’s all you’ve been hearing lately, concern. Everyone is concerned, and no one can do anything about it.

Baekhyun keeps talking, oblivious to your reaction. “What’s going on? You just disappeared for a week, no warning, no explanation. I was out of my mind with worry.” You’re staring at a point in the distance as if pretending he’s not there will make him go away, but Baekhyun catches your chin and gently forces you to meet his eyes. “Hey, jagiya. Talk to me, baby.”

Something snaps inside of you and you push him away from you, not roughly, but with enough strength to make him step back. “I don’t want to talk!” you bark. “Doesn’t anyone get it? I don’t want to talk, I don’t want to think, I don’t want hugs or food or money. I just want…”

Despite the shock and hurt on his face, Baekhyun still nods for you to continue. But you can’t. Because then will come the pity and if you have to hear one more “I’m sorry for your loss”, you’re going to lose it.

“I just want to be alone,” you finally mumble.

Baekhyun shoots you an exasperated look. “You know I’ve been coming here every night? No one could reach you, no one had any idea where you were, so I sat right here and waited. My manager has been threatening to shave off all my hair as punishment for ditching my schedule.” He smiles, clearly hoping to draw a laugh out of you but you just shrug.

“What do you want, a medal? No one asked you to come here.”

At that, Baekhyun finally seems to lose his patience and his bright eyes become hard. “I don’t know what your problem is, Y/N, but I’m already tired of it.”

“Then leave!”

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong!” You rake a hand through your hair and turn on your heel to storm away, when his voice drops an octave. “Y/N, if you walk away from me now, I swear I won’t be waiting for you when you come back.” And so you stop. Because it’s Baekhyun. Because you can’t lose him too.

Arms snake around your waist and pull you against a warm chest, and you turn to bury your face in his shirt automatically. It’s second nature for you to seek him, to want him, even now. “Have you really grown so far apart from me in one week that you won’t even tell me what’s wrong?” he murmurs in your ear. He says it like a joke but you can hear the hurt in his voice.

“I’m alone,” you whisper. At that, Baekhyun pulls back to examine your expression.

“Alone? I’m right here, jagi. See?” He catches your hand and places it over his heart, the rhythmic pulse steady under your palm. For the briefest second you almost smile, but then you suddenly remember – not even twenty-four hours ago, you were searching for a different heartbeat and finding none.

The force of your grief suddenly overwhelms you and knocks you to your knees, and it’s only Baekhyun’s arms around you that keep you from hitting the floor.

“Y/N?” he says in alarm.

“She’s gone.” The lump in your throat is going to choke you.

“Who’s gone?”

“My grandmother. She passed away. I went back home to take care of the paperwork and the funeral. To say goodbye.” The pressure that had been building inside of you finally breaks and you give way to the sobs that wrack your body, fisting your hands in Baekhyun’s shirt as if it’s a lifeline. “I’m alone,” you weep.

He tugs you against him again and holds you tightly. “No, you’re not,” he says into your hair. “I’m not leaving you anytime soon. I just hope you don’t mind me going bald.”

You let out a startled laugh and sniffle, “What?”

“My manager,” Baekhyun explains with a grin. “He’s gonna come for my hair – but you’re worth it, jagi.” He presses a kiss on your forehead, and through your tears and leaden sorrow, you look up at him with a sly smile.

“I guess I can…Call You Baldy then, huh?”


End note: who wants to explain to this old geezer how to install that thing where you can swap “Y/N” for your name? I know nothing…Jon Snow….

Magic.

Anon: Hey! I love your imagines so much 😊 could you do a Jerome imagine where he finds out that the reader is self-harming and helps her through it? Thank you and great writing 💚😊

 

@takemedowntheline: Fluffy one shot where reader is sad so Jerome tries to cheer her up with magic tricks! Also, Jerome is shy and has a soft spot for the reader, but is very hush hush about it and comes up with excuses as to why he’s so sweet to her.

This took forever, sorry! But I only have finals to get through now so I’m getting more and more free time to fulfill your requests!

Thanks for your patience, it means a lot. <3

Word Count: 1,854 (I honestly don’t know how the fuck that happened but I wish it happened more often lmao)

Jerome Valeska x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of self-harm, sick!reader, ANGST, then cavity inducing fluff.  Enjoy!

Keep reading