pale pink bubblegum, diamond-studded tiaras, selfies always on point, screeching along to the radio, twirling around in a new dress, cheesecake, pastel orange sunrises, sunflowers, oversized sunglasses, sparkly lip gloss.
singing in the shower, classical music, seashell necklaces, waking up late, reading on the porch, lazy summer afternoons, sandy fingers, too much eyeliner, worn flip flops, dark blue, walking around barefoot, warm bubble baths.
collecting violet wildflowers, stardusted nights, wineglasses, laughter like bells, planting seeds in a garden, long shadows, running faster than the wind, moonlight glinting off silver necklaces, fireflies, plum-colored lipstick, weaving flower crowns.
Summary: Sam somehow gets a favor out of Bucky, resulting in a very awkward confrontation with a local barista. Pairing: Bucky x reader Characters: Female Reader, Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers Word Count: 1,980
Every Sunday morning, at precisely 8:45, Bucky finds himself at a quaint, little cafe just a block away from the Brooklyn apartment himself, Steve, and Sam, who he finds utterly unbearable, live together. Like clockwork, he’ll wake up, argue with Sam about him eating the rest of whatever food Bucky was attempting to have for breakfast, Steve offering to go grocery shopping the umpteenth time that week, and with Bucky frustratingly storming out of the apartment subconsciously heading towards the cafe with the best muffins and no with Sam Wilson in sight.
Just like all the weeks before, Bucky’s feet hurriedly carry himself down the empty morning sidewalk as he groans in annoyance. This Sunday Sam had decided to finish off the carton of egg whites, that clearly had a bright blue sticky-note with Bucky’s name on it, and to use up all the hot water in the apartment. It seemed as if this man’s purpose on Earth was to make Bucky Barnes’ life more difficult than it had to be.
Even after spending a vast amount of his time in them after all these years, he’s never grown used to them. The zombie like passengers shuffling from terminal to terminal, the feeling of restlessness because the moment he is actually able to close his eyes, he can hear a fan gasp or the airport employee they have escorting him clear their throats to get his attention. He loves going places, he loves discovering new things and people, but he loathes the process of getting there. He has tainted, painful memories from airports. Rushed goodbyes and promises of coming back as soon as he can. Accompanied with hugs that didn’t last long enough and hard kisses with rapidly blinking eyes and a muffled rough voice. But most of all, he hates the loneliness traveling instills. The self dependency and the waiting. He’s a patient man, yes, but there’s something about waiting in airports that throws him off kilter. He always has more fun when he’s squished on a 14 hour flight with the lads, or Jeff. Someone he can talk to past the whooshing sound of the aircraft and in between the hours of tossing and turning uncomfortably with his achy back in the tiny aircraft seat.
But really, he doesn’t mind traveling when you’re with him. Although he can’t quite argue that he’d mind doing anything with you by his side. He thinks, it’s because you’re a simple person to travel with. You don’t complain when he wants food from a place in terminal 5 and your flight is located in terminal 2, nor do you mind when he manages to snuggle up to you like a small child in the aircraft, draped over your lap and finally at ease as you read above him or lay your own head back against the seat with your fingers mindlessly running through his locks out of habit.
Prompt? Can be any character. I aim for cutes c: "Is... that my shirt... on Adrien Agreste?"
“Oh man. Oh man oh man,” Nino whispered wretchedly to himself, sinking farther and farther into his hoodie as heat crawled up his neck.
Listen he wasn’t King Subtle, but he was careful. He might be wearing a black shirt with a handful of colored stripes across the front that was just a taaaad tight on him, but he was also in fact wearing a jacket. It wasn’t even cold, he just put it on to hide a kind of silly blunder he and his boyfriend had made.
Well. Friend. Friend whos a boy… they hadn’t actually talked about it… and it hadn’t actually been like that it was a run to the pool at 3 am and a few tired kisses and muttered conversations that led to the mix up. He just remembered it smelled like him and he smelled like him and it had been nice. But now it was a problem.
Because Adrien Agreste was definitely strolling up the steps of their school wearing an bright blue, well-worn tshirt with an all too familar decal of an eye. The boy himself was clearly tired, but happy, the tired smile on his face forcing Nino farther into his hoodie. His hair wasn’t even fixed yet, Adrien having been forced to dart home at dawn and attempt to double back to school in time.
Adrien seemed oblivious to the dozen staring eyes and what had already become a rumor mill among some of their classmates, and Nino had been all kinds of prepared to hiss at him to find a jacket when Adrien’s tired, kind expression fell solely on him and the words died in his throat.
“Mornin’” Adrien murmured, stopping a little too close to his ‘friend’ for the distance to qualify as polite. It was the result of Adrien trailing a little too far forward, having wanted to hug him but being just awake enough to think maybe he shouldn’t.
Not awake enough yet though to notice how the causal act might be a little… wasted.
“Morning,” Nino finally replied, endlessly embarrassed at how anxious he suddenly was. It wasn’t even seeing Alix out of the corner of his eye darting inside, or even Sabrina quietly snapping a picture. No, he was frustrated because once again, it was just Adrien.
“Adrien,” Nino eventually continued, looking around before moving the sluggish boy to be shielded between him and the wall of the school. “Did you not think that maybe people might get the wrong idea here?” He had meant for it sound more urgent or harsh, but it ended up just a question.
“What do you mean?” Adrien said through a yawn, mussing with his hair a bit in a way that made Nino fidget, noticing again that they were a little too close.
He didn’t move.
“The shirt Adrien,” Nino finally called it out, looking over his shoulder again at the whispering students now gathered by Alix. “My shirt?!” he clarified when Adrien looked confused.
Then to his genuine surprise, Adrien looked nervous.
“W-well… is it?”
“Is it what?” Nino sighed, his nerves starting to be killed by his embarrassment.
But the way Adrien looked at him made the whispers go quiet, and Nino noticed that he looked much more awake now.
“Is it the wrong idea?”
Nino’s heart … well, to say it faltered would be unfair. Or stopped or stuttered. To say it stuttered would make it sound, in some way, unsure.
You sat combing your wet hair in the bathroom as drops of water from the faucet still echoed throughout, breaking the eerie silence. You allowed the comb to weave and untangle the messy locks of your hair before you hung the towel back up on its rack. With a sigh, you turned back towards the mirror, which was now fogging slightly. Your eyes were tired and your face lacked its usual perky smile, for its existence had long been faded. The water drops ceased, leaving you in silence once more, a sound you were far too accustomed to in recent times.
Newt had been spending so much time away in his habitats recently, and it was beginning to have a negative effect on you. You knew in your heart that the beasts were important to him, they were important to you as well, but he had spent days working constantly on his book, and you longed for some sort of affection besides a brief hug or kiss every now and then. Even now he was hard at work inside of his case, probably watching the occamies again since they had just hatched.
All you wanted was some attention, a sign that he was still there. The two of you had been dating for about a year or so now, and you thought he still loved you. If he did, then he wasn’t showing it or even really making an attempt to. You felt a dull throbbing ache in your chest on a daily basis. It often worsened as you prepared breakfast by yourself in your empty kitchen with nothing but a light jazz record to accompany you, or when you would end up falling asleep in a cold bed, only to wake up the next morning in the same state. You just needed someone to love, someone to talk to. By now you were starting to wonder as to what would happen if you just disappeared, if you just vanished into thin air or ceased to exist. He didn’t really need you anyways. If anything you stood in his way, he could easily live without you.
You readjusted your sweater collar before unlocking the door and heading out into the main room, only to stop in your tracks at the sight before you.
Newt was standing in your shared bedroom doorway, holding what appeared to be a worn blue notebook.
‘Oh no,’ you thought as a wave of anxiety washed over your form. You wanted to shrink away into a darkened hole and never come back out.
Newt stood slightly hunched over as he flipped through the pages of the notebook. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion, shock, and hurt. What he didn’t know is that this notebook just so happened to be the one where his love wrote all of their deepest and darkest feelings. Tear stains and ink splotches dotted the page margins and creased lay darkened. His oceanic eyes scanned each word, stabbing his heart with a jagged knife. The entries all varied, but each had been written with a common theme.
October 2, 1925
Today I am feeling more lonely than usual, and the feeling itself is rather unsettling. I’m trying to occupy myself, but I still think that the pain would subside if Newt were here. However, I can’t interrupt is work, even though he’s been so busy with it. Sometimes I wish he would just take a break for once…
October 19, 1925
Another empty bed, and another sleepless night.
October 27, 1925
Newt and I got into a small disagreement today, and we haven’t spoken for a bit. I hope our relationship, or whatever is left of it, can survive. He’s been a bit more distant, and I know that he’s off working on his novel, but I really do miss him. Sometimes I wonder if he would be happier if I were gone, so that he could maybe be with someone else who isn’t as annoying or clingy or stupid. Maybe he can find another pretty and kind person to snuggle up to at night.
I wonder if he still cares or thinks about me. I prepared his favorite tea, hoping he would come back up for dinner, but he didn’t. I miss him, but I guess I can’t interrupt him.
He paused, and then looked at the most recent entry, which was dated to yesterday.
November 3, 1925
I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I know he doesn’t hate me, but I can’t take being alone anymore. Maybe he’s purposely avoiding me, and maybe that’s why he doesn’t talk or hug or kiss me as much as he used to. If I had been better or smarter, or perhaps more beautiful would he have stayed? Am I that annoying and hard to be around to the point where my own boyfriend may not love me anymore?
Newt wasn’t able to make it through the final passage. It stung his heart and eyes too much. Sobs were choked back as his hands began to shake violently out of anger, not really towards you, but towards himself. Just then, a thud brought him back out of his thoughts.
You had accidentally dropped the comb in your hand, causing it to create a sound causing Newt’s worries and concerned expression to face towards you. He closed the book softly as if it were fashioned out of glass and he moved towards you. Your heartrate and breathing raced in panic as the world swirled around you.
Newt was probably furious, angry and packed with rage that you thought or said things like that about him, and not even towards his face. You had been selfish, he was only trying to write his book, but oh no, you had to be a pathetic person and desire attention at all hours of the day. You wanted to rip your hair out and scream, as you felt slightly betrayed that he had found the book from its hidden space under your side of the bed and read it, scanning over each word with his own two crystal eyes. You feared his reaction. If your relationship wasn’t over yet, it soon would be for sure. His eyes and face were already turning red and you braced yourself for the worst. You prepared for him to scream and yell and spit words furiously at you. You expected a full blown fight like never before. Your heart shattered into smaller remains, stabbing you from the inside out and pricking your chest. Your lungs became filled with toxic smoke, and all you needed was oxygen, but its freedom was nowhere to be found. You feared for darkness. You feared for a dark storm cloud. You feared for hell itself as you shut your eyes and covered your waterfalls of flowing tears with your tingling and shaking hands.
The darkness never came, but was instead, replaced with a warm embrace. The icy atmosphere and tension were slowing thawing away, like winter into spring as daisies and daffodils began to sprout through the last frost.
Newt had started to cry, and not just a few tears, but audible bawling surrounded by pain and aches. His voice was strangled, like someone was clutching his throat, forbidding speech from escaping his lips. His freckles glistened from the rivers that passed over them. He held you as if trying to keep all of your pieces together before sinking to the ground with you still in his arms. By now, all of the emotions and tears that had been locked up in your caged heart for weeks began to escape through the cracks, and your body trembled. Newts hand held your head as the coolness of your damp hair splashed onto his hands and cheeks, mixing with his salty tears.
“Y/n, why in the name of bloody Merlin didn’t you tell me that y-you felt like t-this? Why m-my darling? W-why!?” he choked out loudly, as he was now cross with himself for making you revel in this much pain and suffering for so long. He wasn’t wearing his coat, but he was still warm, as opposed to your shivering and shaking body.
“I-I didn’t want to bother you. Besides Newt, w-we’re so distant now.”
“Darling we aren’t that distant though-,”
“Newt when was the last time we had any time together huh? When was the last time you said I love you like you genuinely meant it?”
Newt opened his mouth to speak, but words didn’t come out. Instead another round of tears followed as he still continued to hold you as if you were going to disappear away from him.
“I am the shittiest boyfriend to ever live. Y/n I’m so sorry that I’ve d-done this to you, you must hate me! I don’t deserve you, oh what have I done! I’ve broken you. I need to fix you, How can I fix you!?” he panicked, and all he wanted to do was capture your lips, but he knew he shouldn’t cross that line right now. Hell, he may not even be able to call himself your boyfriend after this.
Your sobbing mixed with the sound of his, and you didn’t mean to sound so angry or snappy. Carefully, you brought your thumb under his eye to wipe a tear stream away, the touch causing him to look up from where he had buried his face in your chest.
“N-Newt?” you asked in a silenced whisper and almost ghostlike.
“Yes m-my dar-, yes Y/n?” he responded, pausing before he could say the word ‘darling’ as he wasn’t sure if he deserved the allowance to do so.
“Do you still love me?”
Newt’s heart crashed and splintered, like glass thrown against a wall. This was all his fault. He made you feel this way, he made you feel unloved and undesirable. This was all his doing, and he had been so involved in his life and where it was going that he didn’t realize that he was harming himself in the process.
“Of c-course I do. I love you so much Y/n. a simple apology won’t m-m-make this go away, I know that. But love I am sorry, I am so sorry that I have put you through this hell. I understand if you don’t love me though, I wouldn’t love me either right n-now.”
The notebook was long discarded as you pulled yourself closer into Newt’s chest, which began to rise and fall irregularly from all of his painful sobs. He reacted by grabbing your waits and pulling you closer and shielding you, as if he needed to protect your from the world.
“I still love you Newt.”
“Of course, I was just upset, and it was my fault anyway-,”
“Don’t even finish that sentence Y/n. This had nothing to do with you. I was the idiot who was too stupid and blind to see that my own darling was suffering alone. I love you my dear and I’ll do anything and everything to fix this, please. Please Y/n I can’t lose you. This is all my fault and I can only hope that you’ll forgive me.”
Your breathing had begun to fall back to a normal rate, and you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into a gentle, yet still desired kiss. Newt hesitated to kiss back at first, not because he didn’t want to, but because he was scared of hurting you more. His lips smoothed over yours and sweetly massaged against yours, as the passion within him ignited. He held onto you still, afraid that you would break if he let you go. Your hand graced his stubble, and he brushed his hand through your wet hair, sending a shiver down both of your spines. He began to move his hands back down to your waist to scoop you up into his firm arms, and this movement made you break the kiss.
“Newt what are you doing?”
He kissed your lips again, shuffling the notebook away as it slid across the floor.
“I’m taking my love for some alone time.”
“No, this is long overdue, and I was an idiot. You deserve this, and I shouldn’t have made you hurt like I did. Now please, I need you in my arms right now, I need to show you how much I love you.”
You pressed your head against his chest and you nodded sleepily, as the emotional breakdown had worn you out a bit. Newt noticed and kissed you hair before proceeding to wrap you in a blanket from off of your shared couch. His heartbeat echoed in your ears, as it began to lull you into an aura of comfort once more.
The two of you may have hit a bumpy road, but the two of you were strong. He didn’t mean to hurt you, you understood that, and you knew that everything would be okay. You heard him mutter an ‘I love you’ as he carried and set you onto your shared bed before he curled up next to you. His arms wrapped around you after he kicked his boots off, and the two of you made up for lost cuddles as you each dozed off on the protection of each other.
2005 Fender AVRI Jazzmaster - Ice Blue Metallic by Frankie Concord Via Flickr: My ice blue metallic 2005 Fender AVRI Jazzmaser. Novak JM90 in the bridge. Novak JMV in the neck. Staytrem bridge and tremolo arm.
Mary Poppins Returns (2018) - first look at Emily Blunt as Mary Poppins wearing a patterned royal blue and purple cape coat, worn with bright blue leather gloves, dark red leather shoes and red hat with robin and feather embellishment.
A warm breeze ruffles the wheat stalks on either side of her truck as she folds her arms beneath her head, smiling up towards the starry night that will be her blanket until dawn. Her friends had thought this a good dare, forgetting that she’s slept in much scarier places where real danger lurked in very real shadows. A night spent alone out here is a piece of cake, no matter how many stupid campfire tales of demonic scarecrows or sickle-wielding serial killers they might have spun.
She’s surprisingly comfortable in the bed of her truck, thanks to the thick pile of blankets beneath her and the lingering buzz of rum from too many pulls of Killian’s flask. Her cheeks warm at the thought of him, the constant will they or won’t they like a rubber band deciding if it wants to pull them together or break from the pressure. It’s easier to want the former when she’s alone and the idea of him can be just a fantasy without the real life implications of what being together might actually entail. Caustic flirting used to be their thing, but she’s sensed a shift, more sincerity and a longing in him that mirrors her own in ways that has her running a bit scared.
Yeah, she’s not scared of serial killers or movie monsters, but Killian Jones, he has the ability to absolutely terrify her.
A rustling too strong to have been caused by the wind catches her attention and she leans up onto her elbows, scanning the fields for what is probably just a crow set out to disturb her solitude. There’s nothing to be seen in the darkness and she’s too lazy to dig out the flashlight buried somewhere in the cab of her truck to go on a search…
A scream bubbles up her throat as she’s scrambling to her knees, hands blindly searching for something to grab as a weapon as her brain slowly matches the voice to the unexpected intruder somewhere behind her.
OMG I LOVE THE VIETNAM AU. Finally, the reunion! So wonderfully written. But hold the phone WHAT happened to Jamie and why does he look like that and how is Claire gonna heal him? *sigh*
“Stuffed cabbage, Claire?”
Claire turned to her left, meeting the kind brown eyes of
Ian Murray – Jamie’s best friend and brother-in-law.
“Sure – is it grown here on the farm as well?”
Ian served her a good-sized helping. Jenny – at her right
– poured a bit more wine into the tall glass by her plate.
“Most of the simple vegetables come straight from the
kailyard – always have, as long as we can remember. Nothing is as fresh to us. Or
Claire took a tentative bite, keeping her eyes firmly on
the gorgeous old dinner plate – clearly used only for special occasions – as Jamie’s
foot silently nudged hers beneath the table.
Somewhere around three that afternoon, Ian had hobbled
down to the barn – he had lost his leg in a childhood car accident, Jamie later
explained – finding a doubly rare sight. Jamie Fraser was idle – and Jamie
Fraser was in the company of a woman.
That he had somehow, sometime told Jenny and Ian who she
was had been clear – but just exactly what they knew about her was not. She had
helped Jenny and the kind housekeeper Mrs. Crook prepare dinner – over Jenny’s protests
that a guest should rest – seeking the opportunity to quietly introduce herself
to Jamie’s sister, and needing the time away from him to just reflect on her
whirlwind day. She had had months – years – to prepare. He had had no notice,
and yet had taken it all in so gracefully.
Had pledged himself to her, fully. Unequivocally.
Would she do the same for him?
She’d immediately accepted his offer of a place to stay
for the night. Jamie had proudly shown her to one of the beautifully
apportioned rooms on the second floor of the Big House – Lallybroch – sharing incredible
stories of the many Frasers whose blood and sweat had been poured into the very
stones and floorboards of the house since before the Revolution.
Light streamed through the windows of the room that was
to be Claire’s – the hand-carved bed covered in a worn but exquisite blue
bedspread that had been quilted by Jamie’s grandmother MacKenzie; two plush
armchairs of a 1940s vintage cozily angled before a small fireplace; on the wall
above the bed, a vibrant watercolor of the Big House amid the glowing orange
leaves of autumn.
“There should be some spare clothes in the bureau,” Jamie
remarked softly, remaining just inside the doorway as Claire quietly acquainted
herself with the room. “And my Mam painted that when I was small. We have her
drawings and paintings up all over the house.”
From her position at the window, admiring the kitchen
garden and small orchard of fruit trees clustered near the old outhouse, Claire
turned to smile at him. “Do you paint?”
He shrugged. “I’ve tried. But Jenny has the real talent
for it – some of her pieces are downstairs.” He paused, licking his lips. “Well
then. I’ll be down in the study with Ian. Have some orders to straighten out
for tomorrow. Will – ”
“I’ll be all right,” she reassured him. “Thank you,
His smile – small, glowing – was absolutely beautiful. “Thank
*you*, Claire.” Then he turned and disappeared down the hall.
“The apples in that pie you helped me with come right
from the orchard – great-grandmother Fraser planted them, right after the War
Between The States,” Jenny continued. Claire snapped back to the present as the
toe of Jamie’s boot curled around the back of her shin.
“I’m normally not much help in the kitchen, but you’ve all
been so incredibly warm and generous – ”
“Nonsense,” Ian insisted, tearing up a piece of Mrs.
Crook’s thick homemade oat bread – a bannock, Jamie had called it – for his
three-year-old son – Jamie’s namesake holding court at the worn but homely
kitchen table between his father and uncle. “You’ve made Jamie smile again.
Lord knows that’s been a rare sight since he returned from ‘Nam.”
Jamie withdrew his foot – and Claire looked across the
half-empty portions of roasted pork and Brussel sprouts and corn bread. Meeting
his intense blue gaze. Hoping her eyes could convey everything her voice could
Apple pie and whisky before the fire in the sitting room –
lined floor to ceiling with books dating from the 18th century all
the way up to shiny new editions of Slaughterhouse-Five and In Cold Blood. Comfortable
silence between them when Jenny and Ian departed to tuck the children into bed.
And then when Claire had yawned for the fifth time, Jamie rose, banked the
fire, and helped her rise from the couch. Then gently led her upstairs to the
room that would be hers for as long as she wished. Holding her hand the entire
They paused in the doorway.
“Will you be warm enough? There are extra blankets in the
hallway closet – ”
Claire rested her hands on his solid shoulders. “I’ll be
just fine. I’m not fragile, you know.”
He settled his hands on her hips, eyes creasing with happiness
in the dim light of the hallway. The silence of the house buzzed in their ears.
“I know you aren’t,” he breathed.
Then drew her close – holding her. Enveloping her. Feeling
her melt against him – her heart thrum in time with his.
After a long while she pushed back, kissed the corner of
his mouth, and quietly slid out of his arms.
“I’ll be right here, down the hall,” he whispered. Eyes
She blew him a teasing kiss, then quietly swung the heavy
oak door shut.
On both sides of the door, Jamie and Claire rested their
foreheads against the wood. And sighed.
Despite her exhaustion, Claire slept fitfully. Tossing and
turning on the heavenly soft mattress and under the almost sinfully warm quilt.
So many images flashing through her mind – the bullet-scarred palm tree on the helicopter
pad at Chu Lai; the faded anchor tattooed on the forearm of her anatomy
instructor; the checked shirt Uncle Lamb loved to wear when presenting his
latest findings to a group of his peers. The graceful, invisible shapes Jamie
had traced with his hands as he shared stories about himself and his Fraser
forebears – helping her learn about all the gifts he would give her.
Did she belong here? Could she belong here – the lady of
this great house? Sharing such a well-respected name? Enjoying dinner every
night in the rustic kitchen built two centuries ago, surrounded by so many
Frasers, alive and dead? Quietly at peace here on the ridge which Frasers had
called home for longer than Beauchamps had been in America?
The house groaned and settled around her – easing into
Except the shuffle of steps in the hallway. Pausing
outside her room, then continuing down the stairs.
At least she wasn’t the only restless person tonight. Jenny,
perhaps? Maggie was still nursing – perhaps just another late-night feed?
Claire wrapped the tartan blanket – Fraser colors, Jamie
had told her – from the foot of the bed around her shoulders, draped over the App
State t-shirt and flannel pants that had been neatly folded in the bottom
drawer of the bureau, gently pushed open the door, and stepped downstairs.
Only one room to visit at this time of night – the parlor,
where books and the warmth of the fire could lull even the most restless to sleep.
But it wasn’t Jenny who sought solace, deep in the night.
Jamie stood after adding a fresh log to the fire, rubbing
his face with his hands, clad in an olive-green Army-issued t-shirt and worn
white long johns.
Claire must have made a sound – for his head snapped up,
His wide, sweet mouth twisted in a wry smile. “You could
say that. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in three years.”
Claire blinked harshly in shock. “You mean – ”
“Yes – since Chu Lai. I – well.” He swallowed, grasping
for words. “I re-live all of it every night.”
She crossed the room to stand in front of him. Rested a
tentative hand on his elbow. “Tell me?”
He did. Terrible storied of men blown to pieces. Villages
burned. Dead livestock floating face-down in rice paddies. The faces of men he couldn’t
save. Memories of pain, and anguish, and isolation.
“And the worst one –” his voice broke.
At this point they had curled up together at the corner
of the couch, her legs tucked against his, sharing the warmth of the plaid. She
squeezed his clammy hand. Encouraging.
“The worst one is when the VC attack Chu Lai – and I can’t
find you, Claire. I can’t protect you. And then I’m scrambling down the hallway
and they’re firing at me and I trip over your body.”
He wouldn’t look at her – preferring to stare into the
She wiped the tears from his eyes. Stunned.
“Have you ever told this to anyone?” Her fingers twined
in his hair, damp with sweat. Bringing his face to rest in the curve of her
All he could do was shake his head. Breathing hard.
Burrowing closer to her.
“Nobody here understands. I’m a war hero. The owner of
this estate. I’m not supposed to be scared. I’m not supposed to have a back
twisted with scars. I’m not supposed to be terrified of going to sleep every
Claire eased onto his lap. “Shh,” she soothed. “I’m here.
Just let go, Jamie.”
He inhaled deeply. Shakily.
“Let go,” she repeated. “I understand. I’m here. You don’t
have to pretend.”
“I love you.”
His awed, red-rimmed eyes lifted to meet hers. Smiling through
Then her lips found his – and they clung to each other in
desperation and joy.
We’d spent that year begging Dylan to get a haircut, to no avail, but I convinced him to tie his hair back into a ponytail with one of my own elastics for the prom. He put his prescription glasses in his pocket and donned a pair of small-framed sunglasses. We thought he looked very handsome.
Alison, our renter, came over and offered to take a picture of the three of us. In the picture, Dylan is clowning around, hamming it up like a professional model, Zoolander-style. The sharp lines of his formal wear stand in stark contrast to the faded flannel shirts and worn blue jeans Tom and I are wearing. He kept his sunglasses on as he posed with us; he wore dark glasses often during the last weeks of his life. I believe now he was hiding behind them.
Tom had remembered to charge the batteries on our video camera, and he filmed Dylan briefly before Robyn arrived. The conversation between them is stilted; clearly, neither of them is comfortable on camera. But we have looked back on this pre-prom video many times, and shown it to others. It is absolutely stunning how normal Dylan seems.
He and Tom talk lazily about baseball; Dylan mimes his hero, Randy Johnson, pitching in an ill-fitting tuxedo. Tom makes some comment about growing up, and Dylan remarks he’ll never have kids. Tom says he may change his mind, and Dylan says, “I know. I know. Someday I’ll look back at this and say, ‘What was I thinking?!!’ ” It is breathtakingly prophetic. When Tom persists in filming over Dylan’s protests, Dylan pinches small handfuls of snow from a nearby bush, lobbing the miniature snowballs playfully at Tom until the camera stops running. The fondness between them is palpable. It breaks my heart.
Robyn arrived in good time, looking lovely in a deep blue-purple dress. Tom taped Dylan presenting her with her corsage, and smiling down at her as she struggled to pin a rose to his lapel. I made paparazzi jokes and asked them to move so I could get a picture without parked cars in the background. Since Dylan had assured us he and Robyn were just friends, I was a little surprised—and frankly tickled—to see him put his arm around her.
In the last few frames on the tape Tom shot, the two of them smile into the camera. Then, self consciously but sweetly, they both begin to laugh.
Hi my name is Neil Josten and I have short dark hair (that’s how I got away with identity fraud) and brown eyes like regular people and a lot of people tell me I look like my father (AN: if u know who he is get da hell out of here!). I’m not related to Kevin Day but I wish I was because he’s a major fucking hottie. I’m a mob kid but my dad’s friends are out to get me. I have pale white skin. I’m also an exy player, and I go to a university called Palmetto State in South Carolina where I’m in the first year (I’m eighteen but pretending to be nineteen). I’m undercover (in case you couldn’t tell) and I wear mostly second hand clothes. I love the thrift store and I buy all my clothes from there. For example today I was wearing a worn blue tshirt with baggy jeans, socks and old sneakers. I had on brown hair dye, brown contacts, and an air of discontent. I was walking outside the court. Riko Moriyama stared at me. I put up my middle finger at him.
Another couple of days pass and it’s all a blur to her. She started to come out of the bedroom and she ate more frequently. She channeled her grief, sadness, and anger into her training sessions with Natasha. It was healthy and it felt good.
She starts at his voice, and the moment she turns to face him, her eyes lock on the watch that he extends to her. She huffs out a shaky breath, and a smile spreads across her face wider than any he’s ever seen from her. He tries not to wonder why the sight of it and the knowledge that he put it there makes his stomach flip.
Two times Bellamy returns Clarke’s father’s watch to her, and one time he doesn’t.
The first time he
notices it, Bellamy is kneeling over a sorry looking pile of wood, vigorously
moving his hands back and forth over a stick in a futile attempt to start a
fire. He’s been at the task for nearly an hour, his palms rubbed raw and
colored an angry red, and he can feel frustration pooling at the pit of his
stomach. He swears under his breath when the twig snaps against the wood
beneath it yet again, and he reaches for a new one.
He doesn’t look up
when she kneels next to him.
says, and he bristles at the amount of pity she’s able to fit into one
“I don’t want your
He hears her sigh,
his eyes never leaving the spot where wood meets wood, rubbing even faster in
the hopes that smoke will appear. It doesn’t.
“That stuff is too
damp,” she says. “It’ll take a few more days before we stop feeling the effects
of that rain storm.”
He doesn’t answer,
hands working ever harder and making his shoulders burn with the effort. It’s
been a long day, and he can feel the chill in the air that warns of the coming
winter. He knows that if they don’t find better shelter, better blankets, more
plentiful food sources, if he can’t figure
out how to make a goddamn fire, surviving the Grounders won’t matter.
They’ll freeze to death before the Ark ever has a chance to make it to the
Clarke places a
hand softly over one of his, finally bringing it to a stop.
The glint of
sunshine off its glass is what brings his attention to it, reflecting a patch
of light onto his own dark skin just next to it. The watch is loose on her
wrist, allowing it to slide a bit further down the fair skin of her arm until
it catches just above a small freckle that peeks out from beneath her
shirtsleeve. Though the fabric of the band is frayed and the glass is cracked,
it’s still more luxurious than anything his family would have dreamed of
affording on the Ark.
Summary: Sometimes a normal life is a good one to lead; its nice…its easy… But sometimes, normal isn’t the way that things were meant to be. And when you’re chosen as a possible candidate for one of the kingdom’s 7 princes, life isn’t as nice and easy as you always presumed it to be…especially when you catch the eye of more than one of them…
A/N: Shit starts to go down… (also, sorry for the late upload, shits going down everywhere today it seems.)
He’d had you practicing the dances for that evening for a good
two hours before you ask him if you could finish, your feet feeling worn black
and blue as you take a seat. Although, it wasn’t like you hadn’t had breaks throughout him helping you learn
the dance, especially after your moment earlier, that had meant each time you’d
paused to ask him a question he’d look at you in the same overly affectionate
way he had before the two of you had broken apart from your kiss, and your
words would become stuck in your throat before you’d begin practicing again.
‘I suppose I should let
you begin to get ready.’ He muses as he makes his way back over to you, a
knowing smile on his face that had been present for the entirety of your dance
lesson, and which at that moment was smothered in the slightest hint of lust.
‘Will you meet me at the party?’ you ask, looking up at him
from your seat as he comes to a stop in front of you, and watching him as he
picks your hand up from your lap to steady it intently with a smile.
‘Is that what you want?’ he asks quietly, glancing up at you
and holding your gaze as he waits for your answer that ends up coming out
‘Then of course I will….although you didn’t really have a
choice anyway. I intend to spend all evening with you.’ He says smirking as he
pulls you to your feet, and you end up pulled tightly into his body as his arms
circle your waist, his tempting grin filling up your vision.
‘Why do I feel like you’re more dangerous than you make out
to be?’ you ask playfully, catching the flash of knowing darkness that
flickers across his expression before he smiles at you, bringing his lips as
close as he can get them to yours without touching, and smiling before he