hair partially up

Morning Dew (Ethan)

Summary: You have an adventurous day in with your boyfriend that consists of a lot of sleeping, bed-lounging and eating.
Word Count: 2,095
Warnings: Fluffiness and laziness. Also, lots of cute banter.
A/N: This idea just flitted across my mind and me being me, I just couldn’t resist writing it. This is heavily inspired by the tweets from Chrissy Teigen and John Legend where they spend the whole day in bed. I love them. - THIS IS NOT EDITED.


Everybody knew that Ethan Dolan was a morning person. And not one of those who would get up at the ass crack of dawn and instantly run around like child on adderall. But he didn’t like wasting his days with just stretching under the covers, he actually wanted to make his days count.

Which is why, you barely reacted when you felt him press a gentle kiss to your shoulder. You didn’t know how early it was, but it was early enough for you to still feel sluggish and tired, like you hadn’t had your full eight hours of sleep.

“Babe,” You heard him murmur into the silent room, the warmth of his breath hitting your exposed skin, making it pebble. “Come on, get up.”

You made an indignant sound from the back of your throat, burying your cheek even deeper into the pillow as you drew your eyebrows together in a displeased scrunch. Ethan touched your shoulder, letting his fingers skim across your skin before they stopped their journey.

“Baby.” He was whining now, and you hated to admit it but his voice sounded extra sexy with how raspy it was from sleep and lack of use.

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Forgotten || Jun || Oneshot

Word Count: 2483

Genre: fantasy, chinese!mythology, one shot, angst 

Summary: A one shot based off the story/drama《三生三世十里桃花》


Junhui sat numbly, in a daze. He stared ahead, staying in the same position he had been in for several months, moving only to sleep and eat; his dry lips slightly parted and his eyes red, swollen, and glassy. His breathing came out slowly and shakily as if he were concentrating on not crying. His hair, which had been elegantly pinned up before, now fell around him in a curtain of black.

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anonymous asked:

Omg I'd love it if you could do a blurb about Shawn and a short girl!!!

You’re still sleepy and heavy-limbed as you slink into the kitchen with twisted socks and braids, Shawn trailing along tiredly behind you. The night before was a wild one that ended in collapsing exhaustedly into bed with your gown still on. Shawn managed to get it off you and hang it up but didn’t bother re-dressing you, instead settling for you in just your bra and underwear with your hair still partially up and braided from the event. 

“Want cereal?” You ask him as you knuckle at your weary eyes. He nods and slumps into a chair at the kitchen table, slouching over and running his hands through his hair a couple times while he watches you move– you’re walking towards him, actually, and you grab a chair before pulling it up to the counter. He sees you put one leg on the seat and start to pull yourself up. 

“Wait, wait,” he stops you, jumping up and gripping your waist to help you down. “Lemme do it, sorry. Forgot that you’re, like, negative three feet.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” you tell him groggily, a smile hinting at your mouth. He kisses your forehead and reaches up easily to grab the cereal. 

Save me

Save me from my superstitions.
Now I’m free, from this old condition.
Wait just a while, and I’ll greet you with a smile.

Hold me ‘cause I’m sure I’m hated
Promises, they are overrated
Wait just a while, while I’m drowning in denial

Turn me into someone like you
Find a place that we can go to
Run away and take me with you
Don’t let go I need your rescue

Watch me 'cause I’m on a mission
Hold me back, so I’m forced to listen
Don’t let me go 'cause I’m nothing without you



CREDITS

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(Shimmer) Free [Missing Year OQ]

Against all odds, including an irate Queen with a secret resentment for balls, a certain thief finally gets to have this dance. Sequel to Wallflower. 3k. [ffn | ao3]

Happy birthday (one day late) to my darling friend @repellomuggletum15, who can always be counted on to make me laugh, cry, or melt into goop (curse you and your writing!), and to berate me for my horrible taste in garbage TV shows. Love you, BEA.

And thank you @lillie-grey for the word prompt :)


Her gown was indigo blue, almost black when approached from a certain angle, depthless and dark as the lakes that surrounded her castle at night. The bodice was understated, its neckline borderline modest, her curves feeling soft instead of making their usual spectacle. The skirts fell, sweeping, to just grace the floor, so finely threaded with diamonds that Regina glittered blindingly at every turn, shards of starlight piercing through treetops to touch the water below.

She’d found it buried beneath years’ worth of other delicate, sparkling things, girlish things that no longer belonged to the woman she’d grown to be over time. It was hardly her first choice for a ball; in fact, if she’d had any choice in the matter at all, she would have never been caught dead in such a thing. As it was, she blamed Snow White for barging into her private quarters when she did, forcing Regina’s hand if only to avoid being asked yet again what was taking so long to get ready.

In her impatience to avoid Snow’s badgering, she hadn’t done much else to ready herself, scowling at her mirror only briefly in passing to see how wrong she looked, how young, without her boldly lined eyes and red-painted lips.

She’d even left her hair loose, gathered partially up in a way that made her feel half-undone already, before she stepped into the ballroom and felt her gaze moving against her will to land, most unerringly, on his.

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anonymous asked:

To improve on the annon who suggested the black dip dyed ryan hair, what if he just uses Wash out dye for the ponytail before each mission (since its the only part outside of his mask), so any hair the cops see on him is black- effectively throwing them off the scent. Rain wouldn't really be an issue either since it almost never rains, and if he knew there would be water, he could always use a more permanent one which would last a few days.

Nice nice, the Vagabond dyes his hair to throw the cops off. But would he stick to just natural hair colours? Probably, since he would want to make the impression that he hasn’t dyed his hair. But what if he didn’t stick to just natural hair colours?

The suspect seems to have dark hair- No, no this time it’s blue. ..Wait, what?

So I update my games and this is how it looks now

I… I just… *rubs hand over face*

why.

Deadly Voice Part 6

Here’s the next part - it felt shorter to me, even if it isn’t that much!

Hope you enjoy :) all the usual stuff about leaving comments if you want - they really do make my day!

Masterlist

I had worked at the club for nearly a week now. I worked nearly every night the rest of the time I was free to do what I liked.

I didn’t go out much, I was still too worried that I might bump into the Joker, not that I imagined that he would just be wandering around in broad daylight, but I still felt paranoid.

To avoid having to leave the club much I got things delivered. The penguin seemed pleased with my work and so had gifted me my own chauffeur when I needed it and anything I wanted was brought to me with just a call to the man at end of a phone – I was spoilt and I loved it - working for Penguin wasn’t half bad.

I didn’t see the Penguin much, he came in once or twice a week to check how the club was doing, but even then he spent most of the time locked up in his office – I only really saw him before the club opened.

It was Friday night when I took to the stage once again in a sleek deep blue shimmering dress – it hugged my figure and finished just below my knees – and dark blue heels. My hair was partially up in a bun, the rest flowing freely down my back in loose curls, and my makeup was subtle but effective.

I performed my pre-planned songs, the only part of this job I disliked – no freedom of choice. They were slow, classic songs they were beautiful, smooth and tuneful but not really fit for a club on a Friday night and the audience was restless for something more upbeat.

After finishing my first set I stepped to the right of the stage and met Ollie Grimms backstage behind the side curtains. Mr Grimms was in charge of the club when penguin wasn’t around and was the one that gave me my song list. He was a skinny slightly balding man with spectacles, not unkind but he definitely knew things had to be perfect for penguin, and made sure no one stood in the way of everything running smoothly.

“Hey Mr Grimms, do you think it might be possible to –“ I began nervously

“No – I know what you’re gonna say girl,” he interrupted me, “I am not changing the list. I do what Penguin wants and that only. It’s more than my life is worth to question him - I value my neck intact.” He looked at me over his glasses as if I didn’t value my own.

I sighed in defeat – I knew he wouldn’t budge.

Once my break was over I moved back onto the stage as the previous entertainment – a jazz band – moved off. I positioned myself and the microphone ready for the next set and the band behind me – started up the next song.

“Ah come on not more of that! Give us something with a bit more of a beat!” Called a voice from the back of the room where a man had stood up from one of the tables. After this outburst it seemed to cause a cascade of calls from others in the room - all after a similar thing. I’d have a riot starting on my hands soon if I didn’t do something.

I glanced over to the right where Ollie was stood – I looked at him for a hint as to what I was supposed to do. He frowned and shook his head telling me not to do what I was thinking. Tough – he wasn’t the one up here being yelled at. It was time to do what I wanted for once if I was going to fix this

I turned around and gathered my band together. “Do you guys know Bang Bang by any chance – you know Jessie J?” They looked at me in complete shock but they nodded – “don’t worry,” I reassured them, “I promise I’ll take all the hit for this.”

“Bit risqué isn’t [L/N]?” question Mike the drummer.

“They asked for a bit more beat – some I’m giving it!” I turned with a sway of my hips and I sauntered back up to position.

I held up my hand to the band and counted down on my fingers and the beat started exactly on queue.

She got a body like an hourglass
But I can give it to you all the time
She got a booty like a Cadillac
But I can send you into overdrive oh
You’ve been waiting for that
Stop, hold up, swing your bat
See anybody could be bad to you,
You need a good girl to blow your mind, yeah

I swung and moved my body - even pulled the microphone out the stand and strutted up and down the stage. I owned the song. I was never usually this confident but I wanted to show these people that I wasn’t just some pretty doll that stood still and sung when I was told to. I need to rebel a bit.

The crowd began to join in – people moved to the dance floor, or stood up and danced by their tables - few people remained in their seat. I loved it.
When the song was finished I was out of breath and reality came crashing down, but so did the applause and I couldn’t help but grin out at the audience. Oh I was in so much trouble. I looked to my right to find Ollie’s reaction but he was gone – probably to rat me out to Penguin.

If that was the case I was going to make the most of my time on this stage.

I sung a few more songs – ones I use to sing at the old club. The memories brought the Joker back to my mind and I kind of missed him in a weird way. He had never been that mean to me – he just had a temper I knew not to cross, and of course he now wanted to kill me.

I decided to dedicate the next song to him – no one would know anyway. I turned to the band and told them next song up – Gangsta by Kehlani

I need a gangsta
To love me better
Than all the others do
To always forgive me
Ride or die with me
That’s just what gangsters do

As I sang I felt myself miss him more - I missed him sat in his booth in the centre of the room, so much so I could almost see him in the similar booth in here. I could imagine him draped over the cushions in his burgundy shirt with only the bottom buttons done up leaving his pale and inked chest exposed, his bright green hair neatly slicked back. He would watch me with his dark ringed eyes with his red lips partially opened.

I had to close my eyes to stop seeing him, but his image seemed scorched into my eyelids

I need a gangsta
To love me better
Than all the others do
To always forgive me
Ride or die with me
That’s just what gangsters do

I finished the song with my eyes closed and I saw the image of him float away from my mind. When I looked into the room he was still there sat in the booth.

And I wasn’t imagining him anymore.

Original Sin

They say things are possible. Almost nothing is impossible. One never really thinks about it though. Especially when the realms of reality traps your thoughts of needless things like insecurities or pride. Or just full of things that need to get accomplished big or small, that’s it’s most ironic thing.

For Christine Daaé, her tale was not so different, but it was rare. Walking home one night from singing at a bar. Thankfully it wasn’t a stripper place. But she needed the money and had to wear the most revealing of clothes.

A dark deep, almost black, red dress. Low v cut neckline and two thing spaghetti straps for the top. The main skirt came down mid thigh whilst the transparent fabric came down to her ankles, with a slit beginning three quarters of the way from her low waist. Wearing high heels that matched. Her hair was partially up with the rest flowing down, the length to her waist. Her makeup was normal but shower of her natural beauty.

Walking home in the cold with a black coat she heard footsteps behind her. Picking up get pace, as much as she could in heels, she ended up in a dark alleyway. Unfortunately ending up bumping against a tall man with a lustfull look in his eyes. From that point on everything was a blur. Voices, motions, failed steps to escape. All ending with her back against the a brick wall of a building. Hoping to get free.

@bronze-and-navy-is-creating-1

Where Does Faith Go When the Idol Dies?

Warnings/Tags: S12 Spoilers, Destiel, DeanCas hug, Castiel’s got a lot of feelings

Despite their doubts, humans put a lot of faith in things falling from the sky. As Castiel hurdles to the Earth’s cracked crust, he hears many wishes. Short bursts of hope flash through his grace like matches sparking to life. All that longing twists inside his chest, and when his shoulder finally crashes into the ground, his grace explodes out. A whimper escapes his throat before his anger boils through his veins. He stares up at the actual stars, the ones that never fall. Those burning figures who watch humanity in solitude until they implode on themselves.

After seven years being the Winchesters’ pseudo-guardian angel, he finds that life boring. The pain singing through his head, the ache in his fingers, the way his body reacts like a live wire to his grace, it’s all brighter than any amount of etherealness in the sky.

His wings shuffle in another dimension, primary feathers arched up to keep his balance as he stands. Castiel glares at the human before him, ignoring the skip of his heart when he sees the plaid flannel. “Where am I?”

“Earth.” Cas bites the inside of his cheek to keep from saying no shit.

“How far am I from Lebanon, Kansas?” Castiel says, but he wonders how far he is from Sam, from Dean’s body, from an empty home.

“3 hours.”

As Castiel puts the man to sleep, he swallows back the taste of ash that threatens to overwhelm his taste buds. Truck in gear, he slams his foot down on the gas pedal.

3 more hours. It’s already been 13 hours and 37 minutes since he last saw Dean Winchester. The angel’s knuckles turn white around the steering wheel as he forces himself to keep from praying. He knows his Father won’t hear. His Father is probably dead with Dean. Three hours he’s failing Dean. The hunter’s green eyes fill the dark shadows in the cab, their acceptance of finite existence loud in the silence.

He rolls the windows down, allows the wind slam into his eardrums. The roar of the old pickup vibrates up his spine and he lets his headache remain. He isn’t sure if it’s a self-inflicted punishment for failing to keep Sam safe, or if it’s to make him feel human again.

The first hour passes. 14 hours. Sam could be dead. He could be gone from the bunker. The woman who banished him from the bunker, her soul is burned into his mind. Castiel grits his teeth as he remembers the red determination knotted in her chest. She’s not the first to try and destroy the Winchester boys, to threaten his charges. And she certainly won’t be the first to feel the brunt force of Castiel’s protective wrath.

Throughout the second hour, the silence tortures him. While the shadows stare at him with Dean’s eyes, the air whispers with his voice. The night tells him to take care of Sam. Tells him it’s okay he’s dying. Tells him he’s grateful for everything. Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the road slip away underneath the tires.

His eyes snap open again and her jerks the steering wheel to lead the truck back onto the road. He can’t die. Not wrapped around a tree. He’ll just get kicked out of his vessel. And he can’t face Dean in Heaven with this green guilt growing on his grace like mold.

He blinks and the radio bursts into static life. He glares at the lines as they rush by, using his grace to find a station he can stand. Sometimes he listens to NPR or random talk shows, enjoying the continuous chatter. It reminds him of the voices of his brethren before he decided to block them from his mind. This time, he listens to music.

He comes across a classic rock station. Bob Seger’s Turn the Page pushes itself through the warped speakers, the man’s deep voice tickling Castiel’s ear. After a couple seconds, the angel’s grace rushes from him, frying the wiring of the radio. He glares at the streetlights until he sees blue spots when he blinks.

The radio is an easy fix. One thought and a different type of music fills the cab. He never quite got to listen to newer music. Dean never allowed for such blasphemy. This man’s voice is higher, but the desperation in it matches Seger’s. The longing, the loss. This man is a motherfuckin starboy just like Castiel.

Castiel allows the whole song to play, allows the station to stay on even as he enters his third hour on the road. The melodies are simple, the words sometimes happy, sometimes sad. Castiel doesn’t really listen to those aspects, just lets the vibrations soothe the tightness in his chest. But every song flitters by without alleviating the pressure.

Closer to the bunker, the angel pushes the vehicle as fast as it can go. With no cars around him, he’s free to race into the grassy area outside the bunker’s door. Stepping out of the rusting truck, he looks at the place. The warding sigils shimmer as they always have, the door bolted shut. He opens it as quietly as he can, unable to sense if anyone is still within the bunker. His grace still stings from the banishing sigil.

With a grunt, he opens the heavy door and descends the stairs. The lights buzz around him and there’s a blood stain on the floor. He kneels beside it, touching the dried liquid with his finger tips. Sam.

Castiel scowls, then stands quickly when he hears a shuffling of feet. He refrains from calling Sam’s name, not wanting to alert a possible intruder of his presence. However, he does boldly stride towards the sound. A woman turns around a pillar and points a revolver at him. One of Dean’s revolvers. The one he keeps hidden under the table. She’s wearing a bomber jacket and jeans and work boots, long blonde hair partially put up behind her head. With her easy stance and steady arm, it’s easy to place her as a hunter of some sort.

“Hands in the air. Get on your knees.” The woman’s voice shakes. A nervous hunter.

“Who are you? And where is Sam?” Castiel demands, still striding towards the woman without fear of the weapon in her hands.

She cocks the gun. Castiel takes another step forward. “Hands now,” she hisses.

His hand twitches, ready to send her flying to the closest wall. Ready to interrogate her about Sam. Ready to carve his lost faith into her skin.

A voice echoes through the library. A voice Castiel has memorized. A voice Castiel has tried to ignore for the past 17 hours.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. He’s a friend.” The woman in front of him blurs. The bunker around him blurs. His grace roars like the wind did in the car. Dean holds his hand out to the woman, eyes trained on her. He hasn’t looked at Castiel yet, but the angel is already seeing the green and gold flecks in those irises. He can already see a glimpse of Dean’s soul, can feel the relief resonating inside Dean in his own grace. Dean’s longing, the song that’s played in his chest ever since he raised the man from perdition, blooms inside him again.

Castiel stares at his charge, questions rushing through his mind even as he stands in shock. Dean’s eyes turn to him as slowly as Pluto circles the Sun. Grace implodes inside him and he is finally a supernova with purpose.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean says, voice softening. The hunter’s shoulders relax, arms raised enough to welcome an embrace. Castiel knows that as soon as touches Dean, the longing, the need, the adoration will heighten as if Dean uttered a prayer.

All Castiel can manage in the face of such a moment is to stutter Dean’s name. His Righteous Man still stands. The angel pulls Dean further into his space, clings to the shoulders of Dean’s jacket. He smells like rotting leaves and leather and detergent and faintly of the woman’s perfume.  Castiel rests his forehead against Dean’s neck.

The angel can sense some of Dean’s stiffness, how he doesn’t hug back immediately. But after a second, Dean’s hands are on his shoulders, their warmth seeping through every layer of Castiel’s clothes to his very grace. Relaxing again, Dean leans his weight into Castiel’s.

“Okay, alright,” Dean mumbles just like he did in the cemetery. The hunter feigns discomfort, but Castiel feels the human’s heart skip a beat. Dean’s very soul pushes to touch Castiel’s grace, radiating relief. Without much thought, Castiel sighs Dean’s name again, letting the prayer of gratitude tickle Dean’s neck.

Without letting go, he just mumbles, “You’re alive.”

“I’m alive,” Dean whispers back, head turning so his can nuzzle Castiel’s hair.

I got my wish Castiel thinks even as he let’s Dean out of his embrace.

Trouble is a Friend || xmidorixmex

She approached the house with a bit of caution, though she knew what she was doing.  He may have been into some stranger things, but this Peter Vincent was still a client and Belle had her own measures in place if she ever needed any help from the agency security.

After being let in with a slight eye roll from the person that had done so, she was guided to a rather large room that seemed to have its own bar.  Nothing new, seeing as how most of her clients had plenty of money to burn, which was why they could afford her.  Apparently it was his first time using the agency so she had to a sort of spokeswoman.

With a hand mirror she had brought in her purse, she checked how she looked one more time before waiting patiently for Peter.  She wore a black lace dress with her hair curled and partially up.  Her heels were no less than three inches and her make up was completely on point.

Open starter- drunk m!a

Roderich’s speech was slurred as he spoke, and he looked ruffled- hair messed up, shirt partially unbuttoned and untucked from his trousers, and face red. He was quite obviously drunk, and had another beer, which was halfway finished, in his hand. It wasn’t often that anyone would see this proper man so disheveled and it was honestly funny to watch.

To Dance The Night Away - A Moriel Fic (Part 2)

Series: A Court of Thorns and Roses by Sarah J. Maas


Rating: G


Characters: Mor, Azriel, Rhys, Cassian


POV: Azriel


Words: 1599

A two part present for my favorite Moriel fan & Tumblr bestie @illyriantremor

Part 2 of 2

Summary: Mor has asked Azriel to go to Rita’s with her for 400 years, and every time, he’s refused. But now that she’s tired of asking, is there anything he can do to make it right?

Comments: AZRIEL! ^^ Can you believe he was easier to write than Mor? I’m hoping I did him justice. He was a lot of fun to write, & I want to write him again sometime!

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