I Want To Write You A Song {h.s.} Chapter 7: Sunflower Vol. 6-Harry// July 20

I Want To Write You A Song {h.s.} Chapter 7: Sunflower Vol. 6-Harry// July 20

Sunflower

Sunflower

My eyes

Want you more than a melody

Let me inside

Wish I could get to know you

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The song was finished. Done. Over with. Several days of work and hard effort culminated into six minutes. The studio was empty. The others had left to celebrate the finishing of the track, the first song for the new record. He, however, had a date.

Not a true date. Ruby was meeting him at the studio to hear the song. Harry hadn’t wanted anyone else around. It would be hard enough to bear the pain if she didn’t like it, he didn’t want to add on the extra embarrassment of the band and Jeff hearing her torturing thoughts.

“All right, let’s hear it!” The door into Studio 4 swung open. It was just past six, she’d come straight from the bookshop. Ink was smeared on her hands and arms.

She’d been writing.

“You have to be honest if you hate it. I place a high value on constructive criticism.”

She waved him off. “I know you, H. I’m gonna love it.”

Bloody hell, he thought, I hope so. It’s about you.

Not that he would ever admit that to her. Or anyone.

“You sure? You remember the deal?”

She nodded in assurance. She sat down on the couch and placed her satchel bag on the floor. Per the agreement made the night before (or rather, pinky swear), he would let her hear the finished song only if she let him read what she had written of her book so far. She had been hesitant, but ultimately agreed. She leaned down and produced a blue journal from the bag. It had thin slips of paper slipped between the pages. “I’m ready.” She rested the journal on her thighs and let her hands lay there. “Amaze me, Harry Styles.”

He sat down in the swivel chair. He pressed down on the play button. She closed her eyes. For six minutes, she sat that way as the song played through. The sound of his voice accompanied by a soft strum of Mitch’s guitar in the back. He watched her face for those six minutes. The rhythmed playing of her fingers on her knee. The lodging of her bottom lip under her teeth. Her eyes never opened. Her general expression remained passive, unreadable. When the song ended, her eyes opened.

Neither of them spoke. He tapped his fingers against the panel board. “H…” It was a satin word, shrouded over a knife. The first letter of his name, something only she called him. A build to what would become an easy let down.

“You don’t like it.”

He liked the song. He loved it. It was a phenomenal track. So, what about it threw it for her?

“No.” She sighed, leaning back on the leather couch. “I love it.”

“You do?”

She nodded. “Why are you surprised?”

“Are you sure?”

She laughed breathlessly. Ruby had such a nice laugh. How had he gone so long without hearing it?

“Yes, I’m sure, you dumbass. You’re an amazing artist. You don’t write songs for other people, you write them for yourself. You write from your heart and your soul and it shows. It’s why everyone loves you. You aren’t one to hold back.”

She was so resolute in her assurance, so utterly convincing he gave no more on the topic. Her miniature speech had given way to the perfection of the song. His muse loved it and therefore, it was perfect. He couldn’t argue with that.

“Here.” She handed him the journal. Her prized possession. He doubted anyone’s eyes but hers had even seen inside it. “I just finished the third chapter.” Per the ink smears.

“You gonna watch me read?”

She nodded solemnly. “You watched me listen to your song. I’m gonna watch you read my book.”

He settled into the chair. He peaked at her through the corner of his eye. She was leaned impossibly forward, arms on her thighs, hands clasped together. Mouth drawn together, shoulders tense.

Had he looked like that while playing the song?

He was careful opening the journal. Immediately, there on the first page, he recognized the scrawl of her script. Looped letters curved together. Some of the words were smudged off. Why did she handwrite (and in fountain pen), when it was so much easier to type?

And he set to reading.

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magical autumn things 🍂

- the sound of rain knocking in your window

- recently shaved legs touching fresh blankets

- the trees tinted in warm colours

- that good sip of your hot coffee

- staying in cafés in rainy days

- hearing the leaves crunching below your feet

- the preparations for halloween

- the comfort of your bed sheets after a long day

- the air humming in your ear

- getting inversed into a book and unconsciously spend hours reading

- the beauty in the simplicity of the ambience

- hugging a pillow while watching horror movies

feel free to add more ✨

me after seeing zendaya, tim and oscar in the trailer:

Behind the Red Brick Garden Wall ~ [Part 1]

gif originally posted by lgbtrogues: here

PROMPT: Reid is dosed with something and hallucinates a person in a garden. At first he believes he’s met them before, but they assure him he hasn’t met them yet. After he pours his heart out, he wakes up before they can tell him anything about themselves. He ends up meeting them a year later. (inspired by “The Gardner” by Sarah Sparks)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

A/N: I don’t know who this was requested by, but I saw a post on @imagining-in-the-margins​ page of an anon who gave fic titles in exchange for prompts…. so here we go! [btw that post is right here] Also, this ended up being longer than I intended, so I broke it up into two parts. Feedback is more than welcome and very much appreciated! 

Warnings: angst, drug use, hallucinations, mentions of/implied violence, implied/masked depression, mentions of nightmares, mentions of loss, hospital setting, needles, medical environment, mentions of drug use, mentions of abduction, mentions of torture, mentions of death, mentions of mental illness, mentions of abandonment, mentions of murder, maybe one or two bad words?

WC: 5.1k 

Spencer’s POV

My head is spinning. 

My head is spinning but I am standing still.

I tried turning around only to find that this further aggravated the condition that I found myself in, and suddenly I wound up on the floor. The cold concrete met my face with a force that felt all too gentle for what should have been a not so gracious fall. That’s what it was wasn’t it? I’m pretty sure I was standing up before. I must have been because now I am on the floor….

But my head is still spinning.

The part of my vision that manages to focus reveals to me a set of feet hurrying away. Quickly. What are they running from? Are they running? Yes. They had to have been, that was too fast to have just been a walk. The average person walks at about 3.1 miles per hour and they were without a doubt going over 10 miles per hour. As soon as those feet leave, they are followed by even more feet. As I try to gain a bearing on my surroundings, I hear distant voices calling out, but I’m unable to make out what they’re saying. It sounds like shouting. One pair of feet starts coming closer, as I hear a voice growing slightly louder. And it isn’t long before those feet crouch down directly in front of my field of sight, completely blocking out the stampede of the other feet that are now fading away just as quickly as they had come.

“Spence?”

I hear someone say something that vaguely sounds like my name. It sounds like JJ. Or maybe Emily?

“Spence?”

No, it has to be JJ.  Why is my head still spinning?

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What I have come to understand by suffering from mommy and daddy issues is that, I detest serious, strong-willed older women who are more likely to dominate me, because my mother is a controlling, emotionally/physically abusive, narcissistic, privacy stealing freak, who won't ever let me go from her clutches and that I prefer older men, because I never had a father figure who was constantly around, babied me, spoiled me or gave me a sense of security and safety.

Edward geeking out about bella having a vague knowledge of classical music (which was basically recognizing Clair de lune, which is one of the most popular compositions ever) has the same energy as tom from 500 days of summer nearly losing his marbles over summer listening to the smiths