i need to title an i need it now

in need of (mostly) trans wlwoc voice actresses/writers/coders/artists

hey! its pretty official now that im making a dating sim, and i could use a lot of help! as the title implies, i need a large amount of trans wlw to help. i need people from other demographics, but about half of the romnceable women will be trans women, and all of them will be wlw (half of the trans women being specifically lesbians, so around 4-5) and i want to give trans women a platform to share their skills in a field dominated by cis men.

 im not going to lie, i plan on there being a whole lot of romanceable characters, a lot of endings, and  a lot of work so i need help with the coding, writing, and art in addition to the voice acting. and i need poc to help because, well, i plan on having ¾ of the cast be non-white.

keep in mind that im just one college student so i cannot provide much in the way of money, but when we get to the later stages of development, i plan on starting a kickstarter (like once we have character refs and an actual demo and everything), and at least ¾ of that money will go to funding my team, if not more of it

if everyone could signal boost this, that would be great! as it stands, i need:

  • 4-5 trans lesbian voice actresses
  • 4-5 trans wlw voice actresses
  • 4-5 cis lesbian voice actresses
  • 4-5 cis wlw voice actresses
  • 4-5 trans gay men voice actors
  • 4-5 trans mlm voice actors
  • 4-5 cis gay men voice actors
  • 4-5 cis mlm voice actors
  • at least 2 more coders
  • at least 2 more artists
  • at least 2 more writers

the link to the application is here, and thank you all so much for your support!

4 tips for getting ahead after falling behind

So ‘it’ happened. You got sick, you scheduled too much at once, you had a bad day (or week). We’ve all been there and it sucks. And now you’re behind and you’re feeling overwhelmed. These are just a few tips I have for getting back on track (and hopefully ahead) after falling behind.

  • If you are behind on homework it’s time to prioritize. You’re at a point where it might be worth it to let the tiny assignments that aren’t worth very much sit on the back burner until you’ve dealt with the important stuff. So what are your priorities?
    • Do you have work in a class that you’re doing really well in and you feel like you can set it aside and hand it in late, or you can afford to miss the assignment without screwing up your final grade? Great, set it aside and leave that stress for later.
    • Do you have work in a class you’re terrified of failing? Okay, focus in on that. If you don’t eliminate the chief point of stress first you’re going to find it very hard to focus on anything else.
  • Do you have exams coming up that you haven’t studied for? This is rough but you need to decide whether sleep or studying is better for you. There’s no wrong choice here; it’s different for everyone. I am a ‘needs sleep’ person but my roommate is a ‘stay up and get shit done’ person. If you know you can’t function without a decent amount of sleep then ixnay the idea of an all night all together.
    •  Now that you’ve figured that out it’s time to focus; what topics are you doing the worst in? Get started on figuring out what it is you don’t know. 
    • Also make sure to write down what you do know and keep looking over that constantly so you don’t lose the knowledge you already have. 
    • Now figure out what methods you actually have time for; if you’re in a crunch you may not have time for flashcards. I find that when it a crunch it’s helpful to essentially begin compiling a cheat sheet.
    • Write down everything you could possibly need for the exam as though you were going to be able to take it into the exam. Make it clear! Make it easy to glance at! Don’t waist time on making it look pretty!
    • As you go through creating the sheet make sure that you would know what kind of problem or topic that the concept/formula would go with and how you would use it to solve a problem.
    • The above means that you aren’t just copying over formulas, dates, quotes, etc.; You are committing the CONTEXT to your memory and if need be to your sheet.
  •  Is the problem reading? Heaven knows that’s been mine this week! First thing first: READ for the NEXT class. Don’t start with what you should’ve read last week; playing catch up is stressful and means that you may do a ton of work and still not be prepared for the next class.
    •  If you come across parts that don’t make sense because you haven’t read the earlier stuff skip back and skim those bits. 
    • Once you’ve read for the next class you can decide what the best option is for continuing. 
    • Either start at the back end of what you’re behind on or work your way backwards.
  • Is it an essay? Is it more than one? Okie doke. Break those kiddos down into the sections you think you need; intro, para 1, para 2, etc, conclusion. 
    • Alright, now give those sections titles and maybe like a brief summary. 
    • Okay now you’re ready; pick one section from one of your papers to start on. It doesn’t have to be the intro you just need to get started. I like to start with ones that require a bit of research on my part so that I can really get the ball rolling and start collecting articles. 
    • Then you should either set a timer for about thirty minutes and switch off every time the timer goes off, or (my preferred method) write until you finish the section before deciding which one to work on next. 
    • The real key is making sure that you change sections when you find yourself losing steam even if it’s in the middle of a sentence. Sometimes I start a sentence and then forget where I was going with it and it throws off the whole game so by changing sections you allow yourself to refresh and come back with new eyes.

That’s what I’ve got for now, I hope that some of this helps. I also want to remind you that you are not a bad person for getting behind whatever the reason was. Sometimes it happens even when you’re paying attention so try not to worry too much about it! If you find yourself getting overwhelmed and way too stressed out remember to let yourself breath and walk away for a few minutes. I wish you the best of luck and my ask/messenger is always open if you need anything.

Representing the U.S.A., Leo de la Iglesia, skating to “Still Alive”

“I want to fill the world with things I like.”

in the woods

he sets a steaming mug on the coffee-table beside her, the scent of hot chocolate curling her lips up. last night, he made them rib-eyes with spinach and mashed potatoes, used that ridiculously expensive grass-fed butter and everything; she picks up the mug, takes a creamy sip, and decides that she can summarize this weekend with the word rich. though they only have two space-heaters in this little cabin, the room feels cozy nonetheless. she lounges on the couch, the secret history on her pajamaed lap, her legs up on the cushions while he sits down at her feet, lifts her toes up onto his lap. she sets the mug back down, returns to her words while he takes one of her wool socks into his hands and rubs his thumb along her arch. yes, she thinks; rich is the correct term.

though she’s unsure as to whose cabin this is, she knows it belongs to an old friend of mulder’s, some guy whose wife or daughter or other relative had been abducted, and due to mulder’s brash heroism - she stopped listening as soon as he began the story, for she figured it wouldn’t be true or that the true version would be far less exhilarating than mulder’s rendition - and she doesn’t want to question the ownership, not when it’s ever-so-softly snowing outside and not while their little space of the adirondacks is so blissfully, wonderfully quiet. according to the true locals, this is off-season, and they’re in a portion of the state that’s been owned by a specific family for years; the lake water, apparently, is safe to drink though she made sure mulder boiled it anyway. nonetheless, it’s just them and the neighboring cabin’s occupants out here for the weekend, the nearest paved road being thirty miles away, the closest gas station probably thirty-five. 

“are we staying in today?” he asks as he rubs her feet, still tired from their past week of nonstop paperwork. to skinner on friday, mulder claimed that he would have a twenty-four hour virus starting on that coming monday, a lie that skinner grinned and bore; as for her excuse to spend the weekend away, she was registered to attend a conference in alexandria that she’d intended to attend though mulder’s mentioned it hundreds of times that, technically speaking, they’re both playing hooky. yesterday, they spent the morning snowshoeing the property and hiking the short path down to the frozen-over lake, but today, life sounds best when her book, a blanket, and mulder are involved.

glancing out the window, she watches as an evergreen folds heavily beneath the falling snow; outside, the world is silent but full of change, the gravity shifting as it does with every storm. to herself, she wonders if they might end up snowed in and finds she doesn’t mind that prospect. 

“i’d like to,” she says as he switches to her other foot. 

of course, she’d been resistant at his first mention of a weekend like this, one planned out and researched and intended for - she nearly cringes at the word - romance.

“just wait for a holiday weekend instead,” she insisted as they sat together in the basement office, as she flicked through some new file, as she remained friendly but indifferent toward him in the way she’d mastered at work over the years. though their relationship had changed drastically - in a good way, in the best of ways - since he kissed her on the first, she still needed to be professional. “i’d rather not take time off.”

“but it is a holiday weekend,” he gave softly, his eyes puppying and his gaze silently hurt. 

“mulder, martin luther king day is in january, not february.”

“yeah, i know that.”

“then what holiday are you talking about?”

and though she knew that their territory since he kissed her on the first was uncharted, and though she knew that her priorities didn’t tend toward hallmark holidays, and though she knew better than to think he would overlook such a thing, she stared incredulously at him, couldn’t remember any february holiday other than her birthday though even that one was hardly worth celebrating.

“that’s the weekend of valentine’s day,” he explained, his eyes downcast, his ribs still as he waited for the inevitable rejection. “the fourteenth’s that monday.”

and now, she’s playing hooky for the first time in her career, and she’s wearing his thermal shirt, and he made her belgian waffles for breakfast, the world beyond them is a mess of bright white, and work is the last thing on her mind.

“i think there’s a scrabble board on the bookshelf,” he says, glancing back at the dusty, faded stack of almanacs; this place, all gas-powered and wooden, looks exactly the way a cabin should look, the decor straight out of the 1960s, the mugs in the cabinet all fading shades of green and yellow, all of the furniture holding the scent of pine. if there’s a box of scrabble in here, it’ll be an old version, the rulebook fading and three or four of the pieces missing. looking to him, she smiles softly, figures that everything’s more alluring when it has a quirk or two.

“yeah,” she offers, folding her pages over her bookmark, setting the novel down on the coffee-table. then, she shimmies down against the couch, her knees falling over his lap, and motions for him to come closer. though the word of the weekend is rich, she figures contact would also suffice.

“we’re not going to fit,” he warns but leans down alongside her anyway; with his folded legs draping across her hips and his arm steadying himself around her stomach, she exhales, her mind blanking meditatively, her heartbeat slow and soft. 

“i’m sorry that there’s not much to do around here,” he whispers against her skin, his lips ghosting against her collarbone. “i should’ve planned something else. though i know you like quiet places, this might be a little too quiet.”

“no, no,” she says, shaking her head as she twines his fingers through his hair. then, she quirks a lip, says, “a calm, quiet weekend with you is a rare treat.”

“we could’ve gone to san jose,” he muses; though she’s not entirely sure, she thinks he’s joking. “i heard that there have been sightings there. we could’ve stayed up until four in the morning, looked for flying saucers, and eaten junk food all weekend.”

“how romantic,” she deadpans. 

“this hasn’t been romantic at all,” he grumbles, the statement self-deprecating, his words intended for himself only.

on the drive from some tiny rural airport in vermont to this cabin, he brought out his blues brothers cd to keep them entertained while the radio stations went in and out; he imitated the guys on npr for a certain stretch of miles, each quip being met with a smile from her. though they arrived too late on friday night to see much of the property, he offered her a ski mask and sat on the cabin’s porch with her, pointed out the seven sisters constellation and labeled it the smudge in the sky. that night, she took his sleep-shirt out of his duffel, put it on before he could, and the incredulous but deeply satisfied look he gave her for that - and the mild-mannered but insistent way he managed to get it back, or at least to let it reside on the bedroom’s floor for the remainder of the evening - was worth any backroad boredom they could’ve had. though she always knew he was loving, could discern his intelligent passion from the moment she first met him, she’s still shocked with every extraneous touch, with every unnecessary caress, with the way he’ll stop stirring risotto just so he can bring her into his arms, and she’s far more shocked with how at ease she feels with him. when he makes her dinner, when he borrows her chapstick though she insists that he shouldn’t, when he spoons up against her in bed as though he could read her mind and sense that she felt cold, she feels her mind soften, her muscles relax; simultaneously, they’re honeymooners and best friends, and as she turns her head, kisses his forehead, she whispers, “it’s been romantic.”

“but has it been a valentine’s day kind of romantic?” he asks. 

“of course it has,” she laughs. 

“really?”

“you’re asking someone who forgot about the holiday altogether.”

“so i should’ve made this year so memorable that you would never forget it.”

she closes her eyes, breathes him in, thinks of how many hours they have to themselves, just the two of them in the middle of nowhere on a snowy day, books and scrabble keeping them company, this cabin making them feel as though they’re the only people left on earth.

“i’ll never forget it,” she whispers to him. “i promise.”

Kink Ask Meme

“Spread your legs and smile for the camera.”
“This tight ass/pussy belongs to me. Got it?”
“You’re nothing but a little cum dump for me.”
“You cum when I say you can.”
“I own you.”
“You’re doing such a good job.”
“I need to feel you inside of me.”
“Please, I’ll do anything.”
“Think you can fit more inside of you?”
“I love how you feel inside of me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You need to fuck me, now.
“I don’t care.”
“Use the gag.”
“Please hurt me.”
“Did I say you could touch me?”
“I’d gag you, but I love hearing you scream.”
“All I could think about was you bending me over and fucking me.”
“I think I need to be spanked.”
“I need you now.”
“Tell me how good it feels.”
“Fuck me till I can’t walk.”
”Don’t make me say it.”
“I’ve been such a good boy/girl for you, will you please fuck me?”
“Open your mouth and show me that you love me.”
“Touch yourself for me.”
“May I touch myself (insert title/name)”
“Spread yourself open for me.”
“It’s too tight.”
“Why did I agree to this?”
“I can’t cum anymore!”
“You’re going to cum again and again till you’re begging me to stop.”
“Who own you?”
“Make me yours.”
“Can I ride you this time?”
“Repeat after me: I’m a dirty slut and I love my (insert title) cock/pussy.”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask for you to spread your legs for me.”
“Do you like being used by me?”

a truth so loud you can't ignore (my youth is yours)

When Lena opens her eyes, it’s to the sound of the wind outside and the light of the car’s dashboard. She tries to link the sleep out of her eyes but ends up stifling a yawn behind her hand.

“We still have a long way to go. You can go back to sleep if you want.”

She lets her hand fall back on her lap, feels a smile starting to form on her lips as she turns her head to the side to stare at Kara.

The first thing she notices is how remarkably beautiful she looks this way, driving through the night without a care in the world. After that, she pays attention to how the blonde looks more relaxed - her shoulders less tense, her face lost its hardened edge, her hands don’t clutch the car’s wheel as tightly anymore.

“Lee?” She hums in response, not taking her eyes off the blonde. “You’re staring, princess.”

Her heart beats faster at the affectionate nicknames and she knows Kara notices by the way her head tilts a little to the side and a knowing smile appears on her face.

“You have no one but you to blame for that, darling.” She says, shifting in place so she can look at the other woman better. “And where exactly are we going? Have you thought of a place yet?”

She doesn’t bother scolding the blonde for turning her head to look at her instead of paying attention to the road - knows it’s not necessary. Instead, she immediately takes the hand that’s offered to her and focuses on the other woman’s soft smile and mischievous eyes.

“How cliche would it be if I said we’re headed to our paradise?”

You did this to me - All of my life! You made me!


                                     One!
                                               Two!
                                                           Three!

                                                                        Four!

Fallen Castiel part ??

Originally posted by jessestar10

Seriously, why’s that female in the first pic? Could someone explain? 

However, let’s forget about her. Let’s focus on fallen Cas —

OH GOD LOOK AT CAS’ FACE. HE’S LIKE OH MY DEAN YOU’RE SO PRETTYYYY. Seriously what’s wrong with me. It’s not good time to post. I’m going a stir crazy. Too many energy drinks. Just read these. Fallen Cas. Good. Caffeine. 


Title: the taste of gravel in the mouth

Author: beenghosting

Rating: Explicit

Words: 22,395 – Finished

Admin’s assessment: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Admin J’s notes: THIS ONE RIGHT HERE. Read it. Reeeeeaaad it. I fucking love it. I can give up Heaven for this. I volunteer! I’m here! Take me!

Summary: This is what Cas gave up Heaven for: greasy diner food, shitty motel rooms with even shittier cable, long car rides spent in complete silence except for the same six tapes playing over and over again, and a burnt-out husk of a man who can barely hold a conversation anymore.

( Read here )


Title: and build a house around you

Author: subcas

Rating: Explicit

Words: 2,614 – Finished

Admin’s assessment: ★ ★ ★

Admin J’s notes: Good old fashion case fic. Once in awhile you just need to read these. Unless you’re Admin A who doesn’t read non-AU fics ever. It’s strange. I need this kinda situation happen in the show. Can you see this coming? CAN YOU?

Summary: After a close call on a hunt, Dean and Cas try to work out their frustration.

( Read here )


Title: after a storm

Author: museaway

Rating: Mature

Words: 10,482 – Finished

Admin’s assessment: ★ ★ ★ ★

Admin J’s notes: I love this! I hate the part in which Dean tells Cas to go. I want to go and slap Dean on the face and be like YOU FOOL DON’T LET HIM GO HE CAN’T EVEN BRUSH HIS TEETH. Now I get my happy story in which Dean wasn’t stupid. (No, I wasn’t thinking about the fact that Sam might have died.)

Summary: Despite Zeke’s threats, Dean doesn’t tell Cas to leave the bunker. He revels in their burgeoning relationship, content to end his day with Cas asleep on his shoulder, even if they’ll always sleep in separate rooms. Cas is it for him. But when Cas begins to experience physical urges he can’t control, he asks Dean for a hand—metaphorically, and later, literally.

( Read here )


Title: Bring Up the Deep

Author: beenghosting

Rating: Explicit

Words: 22,680 – Finished

Admin’s assessment: ★ ★ ★ ★

Admin J’s notes: Good old Case fic! This is a newer one, so pretty much one of the fics that I have recently read. It’s good, I like Cas in it and I like how Dean and Cas are. Very canon. My brains are not working.

Summary: They went back and forth on whether or not to make the drive until Sam found an article in the town’s local paper dated a week earlier about a lobster fisherman who swore a monster sank his boat.

( Read here )


Title: ten thousand words

Author: bree_black

Rating: Explicit

Words: 13,238 – Finished

Admin’s assessment: ★ ★ ★ ★

Admin J’s notes: This is so saaaad. Makes me so sad. I wanna cry now and I just read the summary.

Summary: In 2009, a man who claims to speak to God gives the not-quite-an-angel-anymore Castiel his Polaroid camera. “Use it wisely,” he warns. “Cameras are a strange sort of magic. They hold on to the energy of the moments they capture and keep it alive past its time. That’s why we should only take photographs of our happiest moments. There’s no sense prolonging our pain or sadness, but love and joy are worth saving.”

During the next five years, Castiel superstitiously takes nine photographs of his happiest moments. When a second Dean arrives from the past, Castiel knows he’s been sent to witness something catastrophic, something so terrible Zachariah believes it will scare Dean into accepting his destiny. He senses the end is near, but Castiel can’t quite bring himself to take the final photograph. Dean does it for him.

( Read here )

MiniFic: That’s Not How It Ends

Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh! DM
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Negligible Prideshipping


Set immediately after the events of DSoD



Mokuba taps his pen on his desk, staring attentively at the teacher. He isn’t being of course, but it’s helpful to look like he is. He’s drafting an email to Duel Disk R&D in his head. Trying to come up with a plausible excuse for why they woke up this morning with their access to the Grade 5 Testing Facility revoked. Something other than ‘sorry but the facility disappeared along with the CEO and what you’re actually seeing is a massive hard light hologram which could well short circuit any moment because this isn’t what it’s designed for’.

The heavy late-winter rain drums on the window, masking the sound of his left hand tapping out the email under the desk.

He pretends he’s Seto of course. He’s had more than enough practice that it’s indistinguishable most of the time. Nothing causes a drop in stock faster than ‘the CEO has literally vanished’. Besides, people take him more seriously as Seto. Partly his fault for being a bit more spirited than his brother, partly their mistake. Seto plays on making people think he’s all-powerful, whereas he uses their underestimation of him. It makes them an amazing team.

He sends it. It doesn’t really explain anything, but then his brother wouldn’t, so it should seem convincing at least.

“-leaving Persephone trapped in the underworld with Hades.”

He taps his pen harder and the girl at the desk in front of him turns and glares. He nods, with a look that doesn’t manage to make it to a smile, and stills, pressing it firmly into the table. It’s a blatant tell that he shouldn’t have at this age. He knows what Seto would say. That there are hundreds of influences on him every day, and statistically something is going to remind him of things he doesn’t want to think of, it doesn’t make it a sign, or mean that ‘the universe is out to get him’. But then Seto built a dimensional transporter to go and find a dead pharaoh he couldn’t stop thinking about so what the fuck would he know.

Mokuba puts the pen flat on the table with a snap. Better than throwing it across the room. Many times better than kicking over the desk and screaming, which is what he actually wants to do.

His phone buzzes in his hand. New text. Six new emails. His ears feel like they’re ringing. The sensation that there are too many thoughts in his brain, moving too fast. Cold sweat beading on his forehead. He hears Seto explaining about adrenaline responses and forces it away. Deep breaths.

Marcus moronically asking if it’s true, just to get a rise. It’s only been twenty minutes. He wants them to get it over with, get the lesson over with. Get the story over with. Unbidden, his mind races ahead, trying to recall anything he can about it.

She couldn’t come back. Persephone. That was the point right?

Not his brother though, his brother doesn’t understand that he ‘can’t’ do something as a matter of principle, and the universe therefore just has to move out of the way for him. The idea that Seto ‘couldn’t’ come back, he tells himself, doesn’t worry him. It doesn’t. It doesn’t.

His fingers are ice around the phone.

“Well there are many versions of the myths, so it is not right to say that there is one ‘true’ version. And in the context of a story, everything is true. In older versions of the tale, Persephone is older, a young woman out adventuring who finds herself trapped - not kidnapped,”

His jaw clenches.

“Or she heard the cries of the dead and walked freely into the Underworld,”

He can’t breathe.

“For every story where Persephone cannot return, there is another which says that she chose not to.”

He grabs his bag, shoves his things into it and stands up sharply, causing his chair to screech across the floor and his vision to darken at the edges. He hurries out the door with everyone staring at him. The teacher doesn’t call him back - perhaps thinks he’s going to be sick.

She’s probably right.

 Ten.

It began with gold lined chandeliers and red stained lips, the cacophony of heels crashing down on pristine, smooth marble as the tendrils of a piano inflection rose in the distance.

Her fingers were digging into his waist as he spun her around and around and around, cinched around the fabric of his robes as her vision blurred, turned into a haze of silver and steel while they rotated the room.

She felt something gather underneath her skin, unrelenting, ruthless, vicious––unadulterated power pooling like toxic through her bloodstream.

The chandelier trembled.

“Let us rise together,” he whispered in her ear.

.

Nine.

Immortality dripped from him fingertips, dark and as thick as blood and she watched as it trickled down the underside of his wrist, stark against his skin as he skated his teeth across his thumb, mouth stained a bright, tainted red.

There once was a girl who would have run at the sight–the doe eyed girl with chrysalis like naivety with gold lined dreams, who stood still as the world fell around her, throat locked in a silent scream as it crumbled in an onslaught of spilled blood and rust stained coronets, monarchies colliding as the dust sprinkled, caked it in dirt and dried salt, until it all was nothing.

That girl was dead.

She set her teeth to glass and watched immortality drench her lips in a gleam of ichor and salt, watched it seep through her veins like sin.

.

Eight.

Her lips were painted a crystalline, shimmering pink that gleamed underneath the sunlight in streaks of glitter and gold, eyeliner smeared in a precise curve and she sighed against his shoulder blades, hummed across the third button of his shirt, carefully unbuttoned so the sharp of his collarbones glinted.

“What do you want?” he whispered, threaded his hand in hers as they passed shops, bakeries, felt the world surge in a blur of movement and violet tinted skies untethered chaos and a unified beat that pushed onward, onward still that was on the verge of stilling.

He could sense it, the fear, stark in the air like oxygen harshening just before the pour.

“Everything,” she said, and there was a moment, a split second where she held his gaze, relentless, vicious, and a thought grazed his mind, i did this, i did this, i did––

He could see demons coiling dark underneath the lining of sunlight bleeding through atmosphere in a burst of incandescence like a falling crown, of angels spiraling in a vicious haze of glory, halos tilted towards the ground before the fallout, a immaculate, glittering prism shattering at the velocity; chaos lingering in the air like the the click of a bullet pushed in place, the split second before annihilation tears through the barricade, constellations obliterating, rattling, as she unleashes it all.

.

Seven.

Her lips were chapped.

She licked them and tasted the familiar acridness of steel slicing through mouth as she swallowed, blood dripping down in a straight trickle of scorched salt across her skin as she stood in the midst of ash and fire and smoke.

“Darling,” Tom said, the pristine sweep of his robes swiping against disintegrating marble, heel crushing down–harder, harder until it shattered.

“I need–” Hermione swallowed emptiness, cold, harsh oxygen, let it cut through her throat. “I need to breathe.”

He shifted closer, threaded his fingers through the waves of her hair and she inhaled the thick, heady scent of blood seeping through veins through his skin and the sharp, sharp hint of spearmint embedded in the slope of his throat tilted upward, and she could see his pulse pounding across his skin, stretched taut against skin, like an ancient, ancient drumbeat that signified the end–sky collapsing in a vigorous, amplifying cry as the sea falls along with it, drowns the world in salt and ash and that of obliterating comets, incinerating stars spiraling in an endless, bottomless downfall.

I could kill you, she thought, imagining slashing his throat open, watching his eyes still wide, wandering as blood ran down his skin, coated the battlefield in fresh, smearing remains. I could kill you.

“Yes,” he whispered against her throat. “You don’t think I don’t know what game you’re playing, darling?”

“The end,” she said. “The end must come.”

“No,” he said, twisting her wand until it pressed against the flesh of his throat, a pale strip of smooth, smooth skin that she wanted, god, wanted to run her teeth over until it bruised, wanted– “First, retribution.”

“Do you love me, Hermione?” he hissed, pressed it deeper, deeper still.

“Tom,” she began.

“I would burn the world for you,” he said. “I would turn it all into ashes if it meant you were mine.”

No,” she hissed, low and vicious. “You would burn the world all on your own.”

“And you would love me anyway,” he said, a ghost of a smile gracing his lips, and she wanted to tear him apart, watch his throat open and nothing but blood and beautiful, glorious lies spill out until there was nothing but emptiness, wanted him to press her against plaster, wall cutting into her shoulder blades, mouth lining mine mine mine.

She pressed the wand deeper into his skin until it scorched at his skin, but he didn’t flinch at the sparks flying into his artery, at her wand dangerously cutting off his air supply.

“Kill me,” he said, and in one swift, fluid motion, snatched the time tuner caught in the folding of her robes and snapped it in half, twisted the wand until the force hit her like a sucker punch her ribs––watched as time shifted into place, air trembling until it held her down, locked her throat like steel anchoring her ribcage towards the ground, gravity tethering her in place as if her blood had shifted to mercury––poison sharp through her veins.

She screamed.

The sound echoed stark through the air, across silence, until all she could feel was static against her throat in electric, crackling waves as panic set in because she could never, ever get back.

“Was that not your purpose, girl from the future?” he said, calm, so eerily calm. “Kill me, Hermione Granger.”

Her fingers closed around his throat, watched veins close and sputter and blood rush underneath her nails in an onslaught of forming bruises, lavender black under her touch.

The agony began to set in now, it was like four thousand shreds of shrapnel slicing into her chest at exhale, running against her ribs, across her spine, splits against her lungs until her breath comes in harsh, faltering bursts, because she remembered–of a boy with glittering emerald eyes that glinted underneath the luminescence of his Expelliarmus, scorching red sparks landing against his skin as the tendons of his jaw snapped, the end, the end, the end she felt the ground shift beneath her feet, salt staining her cheeks, coating her hair in a pattern of drenched, dripping anticipation––her throat locking up as she tilted her head up, the end, the end, the end––

“What do you want?” she said.

“All of you,” he said, dragging long fingers down the side of her face. “Always, always you.”

She pressed a hand to his chest, felt it glow red hot against the fabric of his robes, singe off the seal until it was falling, spiraling ash.

Hermione felt something deep in her twist, incinerate with the unraveling of her veins, of a hollowness buried beneath her ribcage stir and shift with every hiss of oxygen from beneath teeth. Control, control it murmured, vicious, venomous.

The world she once knew had vanished, all that was left was the scent of smoke and the memory that once, once she had stood still as it all fell, silence eroding across atmosphere like a sharp, sharp afterthought.

Hermione raised her hand, sent raw, crackling power from her arteries towards the ground; rage glistening in the intensity of four thousand seething suns, her blood boiling and bursting as fire bloomed from around them like blossoms from cracked pavement, flames blazing brighter, brighter still as she clenched her teeth and extended her fingers until the scent of burning corpses filled the air, splitting down on her lip as she ignited the ruins around them and watched them evaporate to nothing but salt and glitter and dust.

“There,” she said. “There.

The wand pressed against his throat dropped, and a smile graced Tom’s mouth.

.

Six.

And it all happened a split second, with Dumbledore’s  wand angled at Tom so bright, bright green shot out of his wand like the crackle of gunfire and surged towards his chest, buttons open to reveal inches of pale, milky white skin along the slope of his neck, and she was rushing forward before logic could anchor her to the ground, muscles snapping, splintering as she shifted, faster, faster––

“No!” she screamed, extended her hand out and watched Dumbledore’s body enveloped in flames, flickering underneath the fading gleam of dusk approaching, splitting through the universe in a blur of amber and rose tinted gold, setting the horizon in a sea of shadows.

Save the world, she remembered, memory cutting through her mind like a dull, rusting butter knife through skin, and it bruises, slices at her ribcage; of time and the spaces between seconds, save the world, Dumbledore had said, save yourself.

She let it play in the background in a never ending mantra, save the world, save yourself, save the world, save yourself, save–––

And then her fingers were digging into his hair, inhaling salt and steel and blood as her thumb grazed the bruises left on his throat, battered and the violet-blue of split open veins, of nails pressed against arteries until blood runs to the surface, pools against the expansion of throat, her name etched on the surface, mine mine mine.

His lips collided onto hers, teeth on the edge of her mouth and there’s something tearing at the edge of her chest, glass splintering across the expansion of her ribcage, cut me open, it murmured, cut me open and set me ablaze. And her waist were closing onto his, hip bones sharp, stark as she pinned them down, red crescent marks lingering across bruised veins and his mouth is trailing a tantalizing path down the slope of her throat tilted upwards, skin gleaming underneath the fading of light streaming through bodies and snapped, splintered wands, through burst open insides, torn, unraveled hearts in a straight, immaculate line, drenched in gasoline smearing against dust.

The pillar of smoke grew higher, burned at her throat, scorched at her lungs.

Save the world, save yourself.

.

Five.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Her throat was raw and bloody as she screams, lungs clenching as she tilts her head to stare up at him, retinas bloodshot, veins apparent––violet and purple and ink black underneath the translucent skin stretched taut beneath her eyes, and there’s the chaotic ascend of thick, thick hair just above her shoulder blades, fingernails drawn tight against the fabric of her skirt, and god, he thought, god––

“You thought,” he said, edge of his mouth curling up. “You thought you could save me.”

“You’re a monster,” she hissed, shifting so a distance was placed between them, and he could almost feel magic running, dark, raw, vigorous, through her bloodstream–––like the crackle of electricity coursing through a circuit, of spilled blood gleaming underneath streetlights, a line of bodies across pavement.

“Aren’t we all?” he said.

.

Four.

She remembered, it comes back in dreams and pieces like shattered glass––of a boy with coke bottle glasses and green eyes, how he fell. It plays in slow motion, almost, the end, of magic slamming into his chest like a sucker punch, wand tumbling from between his fingertips as he descended, how grief had cut into her chest like the edge of rusting, dull knife, sawing against the outline of her ribcage until she screamed.

Even heroes fall, the silhouettes whisper, in vivid, sharp visions that linger like an salt dripping wound––skin sliced open, blood pooling at her surface, ten million lacerations.

The end, the end, the end, she remembered.

.

Three.

“Mudblood,” Abraxas hissed between clenched teeth, inched closer so she could almost taste the acrid of his breath.

Don’t,” she said, tugging on the cuff of Tom’s pristine, buttoned suit jacket until her mouth brushed the outline of his ear. “You’re better than that.”

“Did you hear me, mudblood?” Abraxas continued. “I wasn’t aware spreading your legs had a correlation with your hearing.”

Her head tilted up, muscles and sinew snapping, splitting until her teeth are running across her bottom lip until her canines cut against flesh and there was the taste of blood and steel and rust eroded her mouth, salt scraping against canines.

She extended her hand and pressed it across the slope of his throat and sent magic through her veins, watched his skin split as she drew her fingers back, arteries splintering underneath her touch as blood spilled, sloshed over the velvet carpet, seeped through the floorboards, like lies from a red stained mouth, connotations, denotations spiraling from between sharp, sharp teeth.

Don’t,” she whispered, “ever say that word again.”

Abraxas drew back, breathless, a trail of blood smearing the edge of his chin.

“Say it,” Tom said, pinning, magic slammed across the inside of the Abraxas’ chest, insides writhing, trembling as she ran her fingertips across the slope of his collarbone, the expansion of gleaming skin until his veins stuttered and groaned against the downward tilt of his spine snapping towards the fixation of chandelier incandescent and silver tinted glitter before she bent down and whispered softly, “Don’t.”

There was a sliver of crimson near the edge of his jaw, he couldn’t tell if it was lipstick or just blood.

.

Two.

“Mine,” he said, fingers digging into her hipbones, hard enough to brand her with purple and violet blue marks that lingered in her skin for the days in the aftermath.

It was always before and after, before, of when she first saw his face under the gleam of sunlight beaming across the glass of the time turner–––eyes dark, ruthless–––the kind of boy who would tear your heart out of your chest with sharp, brilliant teeth, mouth brushing over your chest in a fleeting millisecond of sin and glory  and watch your insides spill onto pavement, the kind of boy that comes with warning signs, neon embedded underneath skin, danger danger danger, tires screeching against asphalt like the beginning of a car crash.

And after, when it felt almost like familiarity––of holding a knife to her throat until all she could feel was steel splitting skin, of relief.

.

One.

“You,” he said the first time he saw her, as if he knew her. “It’s you.”

.

Zero.

“Save the world,” the portrait said, voice soft, eyes bright, bright blue––so bright that it obliterated at her retinas when she raised her chin, salt trickling down skin and seeping into her mouth until all she could taste was grief. She could feel the time turner cutting into her palm, leaving red, red marks along her bones, felt it tick, tick, time blurring away until it was nothing, it is nothing, she thought, teeth digging into her bottom lip with such fervor that blood burst across her mouth, time is nothing, when you are the only one left.

“Save yourself.”

.

Negative One.

.

It ended with green eyed boys with hair whipping in every direction as the wind serrated into her lungs, with wand held tight in their fist in a last fit of foolish, foolish hope, knuckles stark white against the backdrop of blood and gore and death––settling over them like a sea of silhouettes.

Of red haired boys with their fingers carded in her hair, whispering, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry as if it meant anything but I’m sorry it had to end like this, I’m sorry this is the end., like a confession.

She exhaled, feeling something stutter and still at the sounds, of screaming, of crying, of the silence that followed––a sharp, vicious burst of forced calm, it dripped and drenched her surroundings in venom, set her heart into overdrive.

There was nothing more terrifying than silence.

And she watched him, his back as he walked, shoulder blades tilted back, head held high towards the end, and it would haunt her dreams, linger in her vision in a barrage of incandescent, scorching color, playback in slow motion like a broken tape, nebulous, blurred until the end, of blood smeared across the expanse of his cheek, droplets sharp, stark, clarity tearing at the edge of her chest like a surge of raw, raw electricity,, of  the scent of salt thick across her lungs when oxygen escaped from between her teeth –––of when he looked back.

“Let us fall together,” he said.










“I need a place to stay.” Fp Jones x Reader

TITLE - “I need a place to stay.”
WARNINGS - Swearing, Sexual Scenes, Blood.
WORD COUNT - 2,686
A/N - So I couldn’t kind of get this idea out of my head and after such an overwhelming response for little ol’ me on my last one shot, I just knew I had to post another. This is one of my favourites. So I really hope you like it. Let’s just say things get kind of hot…


Slamming the door loudly and in distress, you stormed down the metal steps and down onto the dirt below. You were furious right now. Your whole body was shaking with the adrenaline that was circling around your body. You couldn’t even see anything but red. And that wasn’t just from the blood that was dripping down from the forehead.

You couldn’t believe what had happened tonight. Actually you could. Because it was a disaster waiting to happen. Like a volcano waiting to erupt and it did tonight. The explosion had just occurred right in front of your very eyes and you were cut up in the cross fire.

Bringing your head up to the sky, almost to ground yourself back down from the anger, you saw the darkness above. Almost similiar to the one in your body right now. But this one had large gloomy clouds covering it, the heavy rain now starting to lash down covering the floor below, just as much as the ones in your eyes wanted to do.

But you couldn’t do that here. You couldn’t break down the way you wanted to out here in the open. You had to go to the only place you could seek refuge for the rest of the night.

Shaking your head, you took a deep breathe and began your journey across the park, your eyes staring intently ahead, trying to ignore the rain splashing around you, as well as any watchful gazes from those who were still up and out, even in the early hours of the morning.

Once you reached your destination, your hands gripped around the metal railing and you forced your muddy covered boots up the steps to the front door. Bringing your bloody fist up to the door, you winced as you knocked on it a few times, hoping they were home and would be able to help.

Because you needed them. Maybe way more than you knew you did. But still. You needed him.

Within a matter of moments, the door to the trailer opened up quickly and an irritated looking man stood behind it, but once he saw it was you stood there, clothes drenched from the rain, blood covering several parts of your body and a look of desperation on your face, it softened.

“I need a place to say.” You told him, your voice soft and your words more of a demand than a suggestion.

Stepping away from the door, Fp allowed you to come inside, not even wanting an explanation as to why, because even just seeing you in this state was enough to make him want to bring you inside and help you through whatever was going on.

But he had a good idea what had caused her so much sorrow tonight.
Coming into the trailer, you went straight over to the cool box in the living room and brought a beer out. Quickly you snapped the lid off of the bottle and took a large swig from the liquid, whilst Fp stood against the side of the wall watching you curiously.

You avoided his eyes on you as you came and took a seat down on the couch, your hands still shaking and your breathing heavy, but now you could just sit down and chill out for a moment, in the safety of this mans home, you knew you would be in a better place soon.

Fp left you for a moment by yourself, you presumed to let you have a moment to calm down, but when he came back through with first aid kit, you knew what was going to come next. It wasn’t just going to be him healing your physical wounds, he would want to know the rawness you felt inside too.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” He asked as he came over to you.

You shrugged your shoulders at him, “Depends what you want to hear.”

“The truth would be a good start.” Fp bent down in front of you, before he laid the box down on the table behind and opened it up.

“Let’s just say the destruction we all knew what was waiting to happen did finally happen tonight.” You kept your answer brief.

Fp raised his brows up at you slightly, as he brought out some rubbing alcohol to clean your wounds, “You talking about your sister-in-law?”

“Yeah, that bitch.” You grumbled, before taking another swig out of your beer as Fp took hold of your wrist.

“Your brother find out about the affair?” He began to dap the cuts on your knuckles lightly with some cotton, but even that caused you to wince and stop drinking your beer.

Fp rolled his eyes to look at you after hearing your sudden reaction to what he was doing, it wouldn’t have been the first time his touch had sent you over the edge, but that was a story for another time.

“Yep,” You rubbed your lips together uneasily, from both the memories of the last couple of hours, but also from the stinging on your skin, “he saw it with his own two eyes down at the Whyte Worm.”

“And how did he react?” Fp then questioned, before he went to change the cotton for the next wound.

“How do you think he reacted?” You spat back at him, not aiming your anger towards him, but at this whole messy situation, “he was pissed, Fp. He flipped. I flipped.”

“I can see that.” He couldn’t help but smirk, as he brought his face up to meet with yours.

You rolled your eyes at his amusement towards your choice of retaliation, about to go take another sip from your beer, when you suddenly felt his fingers graze the top of your forehead, brushing a few strands of your hair away from your face and your gaze fell straight onto his.

Looking back at him, you felt your stomach drop slightly at his touch on you, his fingers so light and gentle on your face, the last time they had been like that had been many weeks ago, things hadn’t been this close between you two for a long time and it felt just as good as it always did.

But this time it was different. So different. So much had happened.

Noticing your reaction to what he did, Fp tried to ignore the tension now rising in the room and went back to caring for your wounds, as he dabbed the cut on your forehead, where your sister-in-law had thrown a glass at you and it had just skimmed across your skin before crashing into the wall behind.

Swallowing away the lump that had formed in your throat, you cleared it quickly and went back to retelling the story, “She followed us back here. She tried to get him to forgive her and take her back. And I’m sure at one point he was going to, until I stepped in and told her to go, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer..”

Fp finished cleaning the wound, before he leant over and took some gauze tape out of the box, before he began to stick it over the cut on your forehead, wanting to make sure you would heal nicely, both on the outside and in, so he just let you continue on.

“So I tried to drag her out of the trailer, but she just wouldn’t leave, so my brother stepped in, but even his attempts failed, because everytime she kept coming back and trying to worm her way back into his head,” You explained further, as you leant across to put your half drunken beer on the table,

But Fp took it back off and took a swig out of himself, this story enough to make anyone wanting to drink away the drama, but also because he couldn’t deal with this sexual atmosphere that was still lingering in the background at such a serious time.

He wasn’t even sure you felt it too.

But you could. And you did feel it. So very much. It was so strong.

“And I just lost it,” You said as Fp’s eyes came back onto you and his eyes trailed down to the blood that was seeping through your t-shirt, specks of it peeking out the top round the neckline on your skin, so close to where your chest and cleavage were,

And there was that tension, it grew more and more, with just a simple look.

“I-i-i just flipped….”

You found yourself now lost for words, as your eyes met with his once more, your chest tightened and your stomach began to churn with excitement and nerves, the way Fp was looking at you was sending you over the edge.

This man. He made you forget everything. He made you feel so alive even in the dark. Fp jones had you so good.

“I..” Fp even found himself struggling to form a sentence, before he cleared his own throat huskily, “w-what happened there?”

“Uh,” Your gaze dropped down to your chest, where Fp’s own kept moving from your face and to this area of your body, before you confessed what else happened  "that’s not my blood. It’s hers.“

Fp couldn’t help but let out a chuckle, whether it was a nervous one or just one of humour to hear this, "What? What did you do to her?”

“Don’t worry she’s still alive and walking, I mean, just about anyway…” You explained with a small smirk, as you stood up and shrugged yourself out of your leather biker jacket, “I could have done a lot worse.”

“Not a doubt in my mind.” He smirked, as he watched you walk round and headed over to the kitchen.

“Do you think I could borrow a shirt? I mean, I’ll give it back, but I don’t fancy having that snakes blood on my body for a second more.” You said, as you daringly took off your t-shirt to reveal your red lacy bra.

Fp’s eyes lit up slightly to see you stood there, bloody shirt in one hand, the other on your hip, the lacy garment covering your chest, but Fp knew what was behind there, and you knew how teasing this would be for him, but it made all more fun and you needed some fun.

“I take that as a yes.” You spun round on your hip and began to walk through to his room, when you felt his hands quickly wrap around your waist and stop you from moving any further.

Your breath hitched in your throat at his large and warm hands on your body again, his skin touching your own, for the first time in a long time and it felt so damn good to feel it again, it sent shivers to erupt over your skin and this time round, Fp knew what he was doing to you.

“You might have not killed that girl tonight,” He whispered huskily in your ear from behind you, as your teeth grazed against your bottom lip, trying to fight off the uncontrollable smile that was going to plaster all over your face, “but you’re definitely killing me..”

Slowly spinning round to face Fp, your gently laid your hands down on the black t-shirt that covered his chest and looked up at his face, his frame towering over your slightly, “Fp Jones, I thought we agreed..”

“Screw the agreement,” He hissed back at you, looking around your whole face with a smile, “I’m glad you came here, (y/n).”

“Me too.” You smiled back.

A few weeks ago, well many weeks ago, after the last time you had given into the feelings you two had discovered you shared for each other, you had agreed to stay away from each other to try let things simmer out.

Fp was still married to Glady Jones, his wife and he had two children, a son and a daughter, who were still kids. It wasn’t fair on them to rip the family apart more than it already had been. And you respected them all enough to stay away.

But tonight had been so different and hard not to run back to Fp. He had promised to be there for you when you needed him. The same way you told him you would be there when he was ready.

Yet things had happened tonight. And there was no way you wanted to wait a second longer. It had put too much in perspective. You wanted to be with Fp Jones. You needed to be.

Letting go of you, Fp took off the black and white plaid shirt that was covering his upper body and handed it over to you. You went to take it from him, wanting to put it on and wear his shirt, when he moved it away stopping you doing so.

Frowning back at him in confusion, Fp shook his head with a small chuckle, “not yet. We still need to finish cleaning you up first.”

Without even giving you a chance to respond and question him, Fp quickly picked you up and held you high with his hands on the backs of your thighs, your hands came around his neck as you giggled helplessly.

He lowered your body slightly, so your face came into the same level his, before he leaned a little closer, your faces inches apart, as you sighed and felt the tension rise once more. Your eyes teasingly flickered from his eyes down to his lips, wanting to test the water and see if this was what he truly wanted tonight.

Because this was what you wanted. This was what you needed more than anything.

Catching your gaze with his own, Fp broke the gap between the two of you and kissed you, gently and slowly at first, but as he felt you sigh into the kiss and pull him closer, he turned up the heat and embraced you passionately.

Carrying your body and his own out of the kitchen, Fp went over to his bathroom and pulled open the door, he began to take off his shoes as he continued to kiss you, and you kissed him back just as hard, your hands tangling round the back of you, were you took off your bra and let it slide down onto the floor below.

Pulling out of the kiss, Fp grinned back at you as you did the same, before moving your lips onto his jaw, kissing along his stubble as your fingers played with the hairs on the back of his neck, knowing it would send him over the edge as he struggled to turn on the shower beside the two of you.

Once the water was on and working, Fp carefully stood your body back down onto the floor, as you slipped out of your own shoes, whilst he began to take off his pants. You couldn’t help but step back over to him, stopping him from going any further and instead you began to take off his shirt.

The garment dropped to the floor seconds later, before your hands trailed down from his smooth chest and onto his stomach, one of your favourite parts of his whole body, the way it felt up against your own naked body was one of the most comforting things.

Breaking that space between the two of you again, you kissed Fp strongly before you motioned him towards the shower cubicle. Not wanting to waste another moment, Fp picked you back up and stepped under the water with you.

Just like the rain that was crashing down outside. The water collided with your bodies, the two of you still stood in your jeans, but your bare chest exposed and touching, as Fp brought you to your feet again.

The kiss never breaking, not even once, as the water began to wash away the drama of that night, making way for the sun that would rise in the morning, one that was full of warmth and security in the only place you wanted to stay, where Fp also wanted you to stay.

10

I feel like a subtitle to Captain America: Civil War could be Bucky and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.