house of the rising sun plays in the distance

Andre Burakovsky #1.4

PART ONE // PART TWO // PART THREE

Anonymous said: holy crap the andre series is amazing!!!! pls pls PLS write more theyre so cute!!!!

Anonymous said: omfg the new andre one was so good i forgot about your writing tbh until it popped up on my dash and i saw the word count and i was so excited!!!! i finished it in like 2 secs i couldnt believe it was already over haha! if you dont mind, woudl you write another part? (or 5 or 10 more? lol)

Anonymous said: can you do more burky? like either a continuation of what youve already written or something new if youre bored w that storyline? i dont have any specific ideas though so idk if this really counts as a request lol

Anonymous said: this isn’t a request, i just wanted to say that i loved your writing, especially the andre ones :) they’re so so adorable and he’s such a cute boyfriend/fiance! i’m looking forward to 1.4 :)

A/N: i’ve never gotten so much response from a imagine before wow thanks guys :)))) but wow i thought the last part of this little series was long, then i wrote this, yikes, sorry???? (also sorry for any errors or if it dragged on, i got really into it oops)

Word Count: 4,179

Originally posted by bulletproofwhale

Your heart was pounding so loudly you could feel it in your head. The sound was deafening. You shut your eyes and inhaled deeply, then you opened your eyes again and let your last burst of adrenaline push you to keep going. Through your headphones Drake played, but honestly you could barely here it over your rapid heartbeat. 

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run

yesterday evening, feeling a mental/spiritual block, i embarked on a run. i ran the shortest distance within the park first–as though something demanded my presence there, first.  on the ground was the word, “people” written in pink chalk in the hand of a child. delighted, i mouthed ‘people’ with a smile; it had a weight to it. a little further, the word, “God”. a little further, the word, “where’s” then an arrow, pointing in the direction of ‘where’s’. when i reached the end of the shortest distance, i turned and followed the words in its intended order, “-> -> WHERE’S GOD’S PEOPLE

to my side, was a beautiful array of brown and black Folk barbecuing, dancing, listening to music, playing in the sprinklers, exploding with laughter on the swings, mini bouncy houses in a multitude of colours, their voices rising and falling in the air in a symphony. riding bikes; on skateboards. the Sun, shining on them. Indeed, those are God’s people. i could feel my energy rising and restoring with each exchanged smile, nod, and grin, and some messages of ‘keep going!’ as though they knew i needed it. i followed the arrows until its end, turned back, and went Home. 

indeed, with God’s people.

Anonymous asked: I was wondering if you could maybe write a hypothermia style fic? Where either Cas or Dean gets really cold and the other has to warm them up

Author’s note: This is nothing but shameless fluff, there is really no excuse for this.

The eerie silence in the car was only interrupted by the rattling of Castiel’s teeth, and the sound of the wind blowing outside. Dean peered sideways, observing how his best friend’s body was trembling profusely.

“God, I’m so sorry, Cas… This is all my fault.” Dean apologized as a fresh wave of guilt came over him.

“No it’s… not. N-Not… really.” Cas replied, voice stuttering thanks to the chattering of his own teeth.

Dean didn’t go against Castiel this time, but deep down he knew that he himself was the only one to blame here, even though Castiel was politely disagreeing. Because it was all Dean’s fault. All Dean’s fault that they hadn’t taken a plane to visit their hometown and see their families during their holiday break from college. All Dean’s fault, because he was such a freaking coward when it came to flying, and he had insisted they’d drive home instead, even if it would mean a twenty hour trip. He should’ve listened to Cas. Smart and rational Cas. Dean’s roommate and best friend was right ninety-nine percent of the time, and Dean should’ve known better than to not take his advice…

But of course he hadn’t, and now they were here, stranded god-knows-where after getting caught in the middle of a snowstorm. Any other person would’ve have given Dean a big fat ‘I told you so’ by now, but not Cas. Sweet and thoughtful Cas, who would never say anything to upset Dean.

Dean tried starting the Impala again, but it was pointless. The engine made a sad hiccupping sound, but other than that didn’t cooperate. In pure frustration Dean slammed his hands into the steering wheel. Going out there in this weather would be suicide, and so there was really no other option then to wait it out.

Again, Dean glanced at Castiel. Cas had wrapped himself up in one of the blankets that they’d at least thought to bring with them for emergencies like this. Regardless, Cas looked abnormally pale, and his lips were an unhealthy shade of blue.

“Are you okay, buddy?” Dean muttered, putting a hand on Castiel’s upper arm and rubbing up and down a few times.

Cas shuddered under his touch but nodded. “J-just cold, Dean.”

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kaleidoscopic stars

inspired by all the really good multiverse fics in the pacific rim fandom. 

SUMMARY: Mikasa is nine years old when she learns several things.  One: poison and words are fickle; a knife will always kill a man.  Two: there are worlds inside and around her, and sometimes if she concentrates hard enough, she can feel its steady thrum of power like a soft whisper at the back of her heart.  Three: if you become steel, forged and sharpened and refolded over and over again until the edges of you point outwards, you will not bleed.

ao3 | ffn

When Mikasa is young and her world seems like an infinitely vast place, her mother cuts a symbol into the palm of her right hand and wraps a clean rag around it, pressing a dry kiss to the blooming spot of red that appears on the cloth. 

“You must let it scab over,” her mother says, taking her daughter’s face into her hands.  “Don’t pick at it.  When it heals over and you have only a scar left, I will tell you everything.”

However, Mikasa is only a child, and everything holds no more meaning than if her mother promised to tell her nothing.  Still, she nods, clenching her jaw to prevent the stubborn tears from falling as she cradles her hand to her chest. 

“Do you promise me this?”  Her mother has kind eyes and a kind smile, but the set of her jaw and sharpness of her brows suggest some inner steel that Mikasa herself has yet to grow into. 

“I promise.” 

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