hazy sunset

the signs as seasons
  • aries: summer // sneaking out to parties, bonfires on the beach after dark, worn sneakers and messy ponytails, crimson sunsets and hazy air
  • taurus: spring // light breeze, blooming flowers, the smell of rain, soft earth
  • gemini: spring // birds singing at dawn, fresh possibilities, capricious weather, easter eggs
  • cancer: winter // quiet snowfall, mittens, cheeks rosy from the cold, snow angels
  • leo: autumn // fiery leaves, caramel apples, cornfield mazes, pumpkin carving
  • virgo: autumn // afternoon strolls in the park, crisp fallen leaves, small cafes, knit sweaters
  • libra: summer // mixed cocktails, ocean waves, amusement parks, crop tops
  • scorpio: autumn // smoky fog, haunted houses, red flannel, barren branches
  • sagittarius: summer // windblown beach hair, road trips, frayed shorts, freckles and liquid sunshine
  • capricorn: winter // shortened days, crackling fireplaces, bitter winds, pale daylight
  • aquarius: winter // snowball fights, frosted windows, icicles, hot chocolate
  • pisces: spring // gentle rainstorms, baby creatures, budding plants, jumping in puddles

ff-sunset-oasis  asked:

Heyyyy Andrea so I'm just wondering what are your thoughts on Blaise Zabini's mom? Like, I'm always love how you occasionally slipped her into your stories with Blaise, usually just some passing mention but the descriptions always got me very intrigued - so just want to ask what's your thoughts/views about her? Thanks <3

HA HA it’s not like I’ve been waiting my entire life for someone to ask me about blaise zabini’s mother or anything that would be dumb that would be i ns a ne im fine let’s do this:

  • for nineteen years, her name is elizabeth.
  • lizzie, her father calls her, with the same sort of simple, incredulous affection he directs at her mother—her mother, the witch, who brews potions that smell like anise and cinnamon, who wrinkles her nose at the rolling green hills of the english countryside, who wears a gleaming silver scorpion pendant around her neck and tells elizabeth bedtime stories about hot desert nights and crumbling pyramids and brilliant, scheming queens who spilled blood and conquered continents and stole thrones—and all with small, secret smiles on their faces.
  • elizabeth isn’t lizzie.
  • elizabeth goes to hogwarts; lizzie does not.
  • elizabeth is sorted into slytherin; lizzie is not.
  • elizabeth slinks through the halls, learns how to listen and how to lie and how to levitate a peacock feather; lizzie does not. elizabeth collects lipsticks she’s too young for, slick crimsons and glossy violets, highlights the arches of her cheekbones with burnished bronze powder and lines her eyes in liquid, velvety black; lizzie does not. elizabeth speaks and says nothing, lowers her gaze and sees everything, enchants as effortlessly as she entraps; lizzie does not.
  • instead, lizzie goes home for the summer, braids her hair into two neat plaits and picks wildflowers with her father, laughs pretty and easy and loud, loud like she can’t when she’s at school, because the dungeons have high ceilings and long memories and an alarming tendency to produce variables she knows she can’t control; not like elizabeth can.
  • elizabeth doesn’t make mistakes.  
  • lizzie does.
  • lizzie is eighteen and punching her time card at the ministry and dreaming about palm trees swaying in a heavy summer breeze, about pillows of sand slipping through her fingertips, about crystal blue skies and sheer linen dresses and skin tanned a dark, silky brown by the heat of the sun.  
  • and she meets a boy. a man. a visiting diplomat with a lilting accent and a fan of laugh lines around his eyes and a luxuriously appointed suite at the savoy that starts to feel like home—too much, too soon.  
  • “you’re beautiful,” he tells her, and it’s elizabeth whose mouth curves up slyly, invitingly, as she replies, “i know.”
  • “you’re perfect,” he tells her, and it’s lizzie whose heart races, whose breath skips, whose lips tremble as she replies, “i know.”
  • “i love you,” he tells her, and she doesn’t know where elizabeth stops and lizzie begins when she replies, “i love you, too.”
  • and he buys her extravagant gifts and he makes her extravagant promises and then he unceremoniously leaves; goes back to italy—to his wife, to his children, to his peach-pink villa on the mediterranean coast with the sweeping balconies and the sparkling turquoise swimming pool—the day before she realizes she’s pregnant.  
  • the ensuing rage—it’s quiet, really, a low, sad, gentle simmer deep in the pit of her stomach that could rock her to complacency if she let it.  
  • she doesn’t let it.
  • instead, she considers her options. she sends a letter. she opens her own gringott’s vault. she calmly answers, “morning sickness,” when her nosiest coworker asks why she’s been late all week. she sends another letter. she moves into a nicer flat, the kind with a doorman and a concierge and a lot of wealthy neighbors. she develops a strange craving for candied dates. she bides her time.
  • elizabeth calls it justice; lizzie calls it blackmail.
  • the day after she discovers she’s having a boy, she sends one last letter, dusts the slow-drying ink with a gold-tinged powder that smells like anise and cinnamon, and she thinks about hazy, blistering sunsets shimmering red and yellow and orange, about wide-open limestone palaces and gods that expect you to start wars for them and buttery leather sandals caked brown with old blood.  
  • elizabeth calls it justice; lizzie calls it revenge.
  • five months later, she’s gritting her teeth and squeezing the midwife’s hand and desperately wondering if the pain will ever end.  
  • it does.
  • and then she’s staring down at a baby—hers, hers—and he’s impossibly tiny and impossibly warm and impossibly helpless. his mouth relaxes into a pout, and his eyes slit open, glassy and unfocused and so dark they might as well be colorless.  
  • she names him blaise.
  • she names him blaise because blaise is a name that can’t be cut in half, and she watches him sleep while the midwife lectures her about feedings and nappies and the bare spot on her finger where a wedding ring should be. there’s a tightness in elizabeth’s chest, fierce and fearful, both, that does nothing but multiply the longer she looks at him, her son, and she understands—suddenly, and with a perfect stab of clarity—why her father had wanted her to be lizzie.
  • no one has ever hurt her twice.
  • no one will ever hurt him at all.

“that feels— magnus.”

with his neck stretched out, their bodies molded together in the warm oranges of the early evening, magnus didn’t need alec to finish that sentence. he knew exactly how it felt. he knew how his hips pressed to alec’s ass felt, he knew how it felt to drag his fingers over the tight contracting muscles of alec’s stomach, sliding through all of the dense body hair that spilled down his torso. he knew exactly how it felt to press alec up against the dresser and kiss his way up his neck.

it was good though, it was so good to hear him, to hear the way those words stuttering between his parted lips, hot and dripping through the hazy light of mid sunset. it was good to hear him adjusting his grip on the dresser every time magnus pushed his hips closer and as he slid his hands higher, sinking his teeth into a particularly sensitive part of alec’s neck.

everything was warm, alec’s skin damp from kisses and sweat, and magnus knew he was’t the only one who was hard and wanting. it felt like the sunset had started soaking into their skin as he sunk his fingers deeper into alec’s stomach and pushed his hips up. the reaction was two sided but the first pushed through his body so hot. sweet friction and desperately needed attention, his breath catching in his chest. but alec’s body tensing up, the low moan that reverberated through his chest and his neck, that was so good too.

outside the sun dipped lower and soon enough, chests rising hard and heavy, magnus pulled back enough to let alec twist around, staring at him as those hands got lost in his hair. neck kisses became desperate mouth kisses and around them orange blended into purple and finally ebbed into deep navy as night fell.

24 Floors

A/N: For someone who never writes angst, this is heavy. Inspired by this song by The Maine (recommend you listen as you read.) Creds to cafephan, fizzyphanta and phanskys for each listening to me ramble. Give this a chance, trust me. I worked fucking hard on this and it might be my best writing yet.

Title: 24 Floors

Rating: NC-17. Mentions of: sex, suicide, depression, swearing and death.

Word Count: 2100

Description: 24 floors, up in some hotel room, feeling solo, thinking of jumping soon. All he knows is that Phil doesn’t want him anymore and his heart is so painful that he’s wondering why he isn’t dead already. One more step, and it’ll all be over. The blur of cars zooming twenty four floors below him won’t know what’s about to hit them - until he does. One more step.

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