hat wobble

OK SO. THE HOGWARTS STAFF AU. HERE IS WHAT I GOT.

-Thorin comes from the ancient and honorable house of Durin, with the same history of greatness and madness. Their main redeeming point these days is they were against Voldemort. But they were a family known for creating ridiculously powerful magic-laden gems and spell gems.

(way more under cut)

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mandalevelsup  asked:

Garrus/Cassandra. "The monsters look different here."

“The monsters look different here. Shepard, I don’t know if you’re hearing any of this, but don’t touch that mirror. I don’t know how, but that thing is what brought me here.” Garrus scowled at the flashing button that said his message was still struggling to be sent. He cursed and saved it to his omni-tool before pressing further into the ruins, leaving the bodies in a pile behind him. 

Checking his sidearm, he counted his thermal clips. Only a handful left. Damn

Garrus reached around to the front of his rifle, flicking on the light. 

What was that?” 

He cursed again at the voices, fingers fumbling to extinguish the light. 

Did either of you see that?” 

Veilfire?” 

No. It usually has more of a glow, wouldn’t you say, Seeker?” 

Lost. Separated, scared, searching for a way out but… there is none. He’s trapped here. Trapped where he doesn’t know anything apart from the weapons in his hands.” 

“Whoever you are,” the woman’s voice was closing in on his position, “Come out now.” 

Garrus pressed the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, aiming in the dark. He fired at the faint glint of metal against the dark. He ran forward at the sound of a curse, switching out for his sidearm. He pressed it to the forehead of the black-haired woman. 

A series of arrows bounced off his kinetic shield and fell uselessly to the ground. 

“Hold your fire, Varric!” the woman ordered. “If he wanted to kill me, I suspect he would’ve done so already.” 

Garrus glanced between the small group, eyes narrowing. “Where…” he frowned as he tried to mimic the English words so foreign on his tongue. “Were am I?” 

“This is part of the Storm Coast.” Her eyes narrowed. “There was a woman with us. She had a hand that glowed. Did you do anything to her?” 

Garrus shook his head and retreated a step. 

“They switched places.” The voice came from under a wide brim hat. “He came here and she… she was sent very far away.” 

The woman turned to him. “Are you certain, Cole?” 

The hat wobbled with a nod. “Years ago, they came here. They came and they killed and infected and poisoned and tore away. Their fault, their hand, their eluvian… They’ve gone by many names but he knows them as Reapers.” 

Day 25: Trick or Treat

“Trick or treat!” Ben announced loudly when the next door opened, his little cowboy hat wobbling on his head.

The door opened and Dean audibly gulped. Even in parent mode, Dean could spot a hot guy. And this guy was definitely one of them. Kind, blue eyes (holy shit, they were blue) and a soft smile that lit up the whole of his face. The fact that he was wearing a dorky sweater that said ‘Boo!’ in massive letters just made him all the more attractive in Dean’s mind for some reason.

Dean was brought back to reality with a bang. Quite literally. Ben had apparently gotten so excited for candy he’d decided to bounce back on forth on his heels, hard enough to slip and bash his knee.

And then the waterworks began.

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Fic: Weekend at Bartons, pt. 2

“Do you have your instructions?”

“Dear God, what TIME is it?”

Tony snapped his fingers in front of Clint’s nose. This won him one partially opened eye. He considered it a victory. “Instructions,” Tony repeated, drawing the word out. “Do you have them?”

“He has them,” Steve said, sounding too amused for Tony’s peace of mind. He set the suitcases down on the floor by the elevator. “It’s fine.”

“Not fine,” Tony said. “Clint. Focus. Instructions.”

“Why am I awake?” Clint mumbled, squinting at nothing. He shoved a hand through the tangled rats nest of his hair. His pajama pants slipped low on his hips, and he dragged them back up with a yawn.

Tony threw his hands in the air, and Steve ducked his head to try and hide a smile. “Because you’re going to be responsible for DJ in about fifteen minutes,” he said. Clint turned his squint in Steve’s direction, his face a mask of confusion, and Steve patted him on the shoulder. “Let me get you some coffee.”

“I don’t think coffee’s going to do it, I don’t think a brain transplant would do it,” Tony pointed out.

“It’ll be fine!” Steve said, heading back up the hall.

“Not fine,” Tony groused under his breath. “Absolutely not fine.” He leaned in. “Clint. I am trusting you right now.”

“Well, that’s your fucking mistake, isn’t it?” Clint asked, stretching, and nearly lost his pants again.

“Those things come with a drawstring, don’t they?” Tony asked.

“Broke,” Clint said.

Tony stared at him, nonplussed. “How do you keep them up normally?”

Clint shrugged. “I tuck the waistband into the top of my underwear.” Tony stared at him. Clint stared back. “What?” he asked, hitching his pants up.

“I suppose I should be thankful that you’re wearing underwear,” Tony said.

“Living the dream,” Clint agreed. He scratched idly at the plane of his stomach. “Shouldn’t you be leaving now?”

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At The Drop of A Hat + A Daddy!Killian One Shot

A little daddy!Killian + hat and hair appreciation….because apparently, I’m a little fixated on this right now.


“Papa, why do you wear that hat all the time?”

Killian smirked down at his son, wondering where in the blazes such an inquiry was coming from. Truthfully, he always found himself curious when confronted with Liam’s intriguing yet rather blunt wonderings. They often landed him in the middle of a makeshift explanation or worse - a speechless state. Yeah, Emma often appreciated that last one far too much.

This current question had Killian musing already - and finding out where his little boy could be headed with this one was something he couldn’t pass up. The few blocks they were trekking to the sheriff’s station would give him a fair amount of time for some answers.

“Well,” he began, using the hand that wasn’t holding Liam’s to lift the cap off his head. “I guess….well, I just like it. Sometimes people wear things that support their favorite things like a sports team….and you know I like the-”

“Whitecaps,” Liam finished, cutting his father off with a sigh. “I know, papa.”

“Yeah I thought you might,” he laughed at Liam’s easily recalled knowledge, squeezing his hand as they crossed the street. “So what exactly are you wondering about, little man?”

“Well, mama always says I look like you,” Liam explained, smiling in a way that defined his dimples.

“Aye,” Killian replied, returning his grin. “You’re pretty fortunate in that sense, my boy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Liam teased, shaking his head much like his mother would. “But I think she says that because we have the same hair.”

Killian tilted his head sideways at the conclusion. It was and had always been true. Their little Liam had definitely ended up with his father’s head of unruly dark hair. He looked more and more like Killian every day as his scalp grew in thick and wild, sometimes splashed with mist from a day out in the harbor. Other times, it stuck up in all directions - a familiar scene with both father and son during their regular breakfast time at the kitchen table. Yes that kid’s hair was often a wavy mess, but even more often, it was disheveled in a way Emma seemed to appreciate. 

Yeah, it was quite clear that Emma was fine with their son taking after his father in this regard - well, in many regards.

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            Grantaire doesn’t go home for the holidays. He watches, bottle dangling from his fingers, as cars come and go all morning and all day, winces when moms squeal over their sons’ growth spurts, and tries not to be too relieved when his roommate decides to go back to New York last minute. It’s not that he doesn’t like Montparnasse, he just hates how he has this terrible habit of having really loud sex with multiple people while Grantaire is still in the room. It happens more than you’d think, which is to say, several times per week.

            So after helping Montparnasse pack for several hours (‘listen, you don’t need five hair dryers –’ ‘don’t tell me what I do and do not need, Grantaire, you don’t understand’) and waving him goodbye as he jets off in his stupidly decadent BMW, he finally gets the room to himself.

            And promptly wishes he could actually take advantage of it. Unfortunately, Grantaire’s bed has seen more beer stains than visitors in the last two years. Not that he hasn’t been trying diligently to change that. It just seems that any time he finds someone willing to fall into bed with him, Grantaire can’t bring himself to do it.

            Life was so much easier before he met Enjolras.

{In which Courfeyrac invites all the les amis over for thanksgiving and Enjolras and Grantaire get snowed in and must share a blanket or freeze}

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