Dames:I Keep Telling Myself This Life Isnt Mine, But Sometimes... I Wish It Was.

Dames: “I keep telling myself this life isn’t mine, but sometimes... I wish it was.”

Haha you must be kidding for saying sorry of such thing. Thank you! Your support is appreciated, dear! 😊❤❤❤

This trial of different lighting on Damien’s face looks shitty, but I tried. :D

I love how subtily every detail was described, so easy to imagine it. Very beautifully written. ❤❤❤

13. What If (September Fanfic Challenge)

Summary: Since their late night after the Opera, Lady Emmeline finds herself wondering many things about the oft quiet and reserved Mr. Sinclaire.

Anytime she found herself standing near Mr. Sinclaire, Emmeline found herself utterly lost in her own thoughts about him. It became significantly more difficult to focus since he’d escorted her home, late the other night after the opera. She would catch herself rapt with attention and breathless, watching how his lips moved as he talked, his eyes drifted as he listened, and how his curly hair seemed to tumble about.

She wondered what it would feel like to have one of those curls wrapped around her finger. The thought alone made her feel a bit warm in the face.

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Yeah.. 😂😂😂

Can you imagine how annoying it would be to be friends with a choices MC??? Like they’ll suggest you do something, you’ll be like “oh awesome, let’s do it.” And then they suddenly go “actually nahhhhh, I’m tired.” And it happens ALL.THE.TIME.

Beautiful. <3

Can’t Sleep

Pairing: Damien x MC (Camille Park)

Book: Perfect Match (Book 2)

Word Count: ~900

Rating:  PG

Author’s Note:   Just a little piece that I’ve had in mind since last week’s PM chapter.  While it was WONDERFUL to finally see Damien again, it was also very emotional and bittersweet to see him being help captive.  Although the beard really helped distract me.  

This also incorporates the @choices-september-challenge day 10 prompt of ‘Loss.’  Enjoy this little dose of PM Angst on this fine Monday. 😘

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Damien

I can’t sleep.  I have no idea what time it is or how long I’ve been in this room, but it has to have been at least a few hours since Cecile locked me in here.  The concrete room is stark and sterile, dimly lit by a single lightbulb swinging from the ceiling about twenty feet above me.  The poor excuse for a mattress laying on the floor does little to buffer the cold seeping through the few layers into my bones.  I turn to my side, mashing the thin pillow into a ball to rest my head upon, doing my best to get comfortable on the hard surface, but I can still feel the rigid concrete floor pressing up against my shoulder.  I think the term comfort is relative in this place.

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Can you do smiling Maxwell on Sinclaire?

Honestly I can’t see Maxwell this way, sorry. :DD