jfc what a fic

under ground

pairing: blaise zabini x ron weasley

setting: modern, non-magical, college au

word count: 804

written for: @icanhelpyouthere + @themalfoymanner + @hexmionegranger + @hermionvgranger + whoever else asked idk

It starts with a secret.

“The fuck are you doing here?” Ron Weasley demands, just as Blaise enters the locker room.

Blaise arches a brow, but otherwise doesn’t bother to respond. Ron Weasley is irrelevant. The contents of Draco Malfoy’s gym bag, however, are not.

“Hey, man,” Weasley goes on, undeterred. “I asked you a question.”

Blaise glances at an unmarked orange pharmacy bottle sitting on the middle shelf of Weasley’s locker. Fucking idiot. Fucking amateur. “That doesn’t entitle you to an answer, though, does it?”

Weasley narrows his eyes. “What are you—that’s Malfoy’s bag,” he blurts out, sounding surprised. “What are you doing to Malfoy’s bag?”

Blaise rifles around, tossing aside a few of Malfoy’s extra shirts and a monogrammed grey hand towel before coming up empty. He frowns. “Taking back what’s mine.”

Weasley snorts, and then rakes his fingers through the sweaty red fringe of his hair. “Jesus, dude, do you have to make everything sound like a threat?”

Blaise inspects the peeling blue label on a tub of IcyHot, irritation beginning to lick like fire against the tops of his tonsils. Malfoy wasn’t this clever. He fucking couldn’t be. “Dunno,” he muses, flatly. “Do you have to make everything sound like a deleted scene from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure?

Weasley huffs at that, audibly dismissive, before turning towards his locker and reaching an arm back to lift his practice jersey over his head.

And Blaise.

Blaise is suddenly paying only very minimal attention to the gum wrapper and Dorito crumb and parking ticket detritus at the bottom of Malfoy’s bag. The fucking little black book could wait. Because Weasley

Weasley is tall, obviously, tall and broad shouldered and long limbed; more lanky than he is anything else. But there’s a promising sort of elegance, almost, to how he’s put together. Big hands and strong forearms and an unexpected layer of muscle bunching around his biceps, cording up and down his neck, stretching and flexing and pulling beneath the freckled skin of his upper back as he shifts around, searching for a shirt.

And Blaise.

Blaise appreciates pretty things. His apartment is monochromatic, a perfectly contemporary celebration of sleek lines with shiny finishes, and he’s no stranger to sacrificing basic functionality for aesthetic appeal. And while Weasley might not be particularly refined, he is, Blaise thinks with some confusion—with some interest, really, lazy and muted and soft—he is most certainly a pretty thing.

“What?” Weasley snaps, glaring at Blaise with thinly veiled suspicion.

Blaise toys with the zipper on the inside pocket of Malfoy’s bag. “What do you mean, what?

Weasley hunches forward slightly, crossing his arms over his still-bare chest. A decidedly rosy flush is starting to creep across his face. “You’re—fucking staring at me, man.”

Blaise smirks. “Am I?”

“See—that, that definitely sounded like a fucking threat. What’s your problem? You look like you’re—like you’re plotting something.”

Blaise shrugs, and then chuckles, unable to stop himself from letting his gaze linger—impulsively, pointedly, heatedly—on Weasley’s exposed skin. Shoulders. Abdomen. No. Lower. Blaise is plotting something, of course. Weasley’s locker is two down from Malfoy’s, and that might just be better than a surveillance camera.

“You think Malfoy’s a douche, right?” Blaise asks, as conversationally as he can manage.

Weasley rocks back on his heels, basketball shorts slung low across his hips. “Doesn’t everyone?” he sneers.

Blaise licks his lips. Weasley watches him. “Want to help me out with something, Weasley?”

Unbidden, Weasley’s eyes drop to Blaise’s crotch. He looks stunned, and not a little dazed. “Um. What?”

“Not that,” Blaise lies, and then pauses. “Well. Not unless you really want to.”

Weasley clears his throat, expression hovering somewhere on the knife-edge between uncomfortable and intrigued. He appears helpless. Focused. Sharper than he usually is. Blaise can’t believe it took him so long to notice this. To notice him.

“What?” Weasley says again, more quietly.

“You know what I do, right?” Blaise drawls, taking a step forward. Leaning into the solid cold metal of the locker directly in front of Weasley’s.

There’s a beat of silence. It’s tense, like a wire trap coiled tight. Expectant. “Yeah.”

“Then you can imagine how…valuable…a list of my customers would be. Past and present.”

Weasley’s tongue darts out, wetting his lower lip. Blaise’s gut clenches. No. Simmers. “That’s what Malfoy’s got? A list?

The list,” Blaise corrects.

“Right. That.”

Blaise chooses not to speak for a minute—just lets his mouth fall open and his posture relax as he makes a show of inspecting Weasley. Of studying him. “You’ll let me know if you see anything,” Blaise murmurs, flashing a smile he’s surprised to realize he almost means. “Won’t you?”

Weasley blinks.

Blaise doesn’t.

It starts with a secret.

Blaise has always liked secrets.      


Prompted from this:

You didn’t notice them at first.

The red strings.

The ones that stretched between lovers. Tied and tethered.

A sign to whoever could see them that these two were meant for each other.

You didn’t notice them at first.

Not until Costia.

Not until Costia looked at you with her big brown eyes and her brilliant smile.

You noticed then, when she kissed you.

When she kissed you under the trees by the river.

When she kissed you and her red string seemed to grow and curl around your wrist like a vine.

It latched on to your arm and marked you.

And you thought, that maybe, maybe this was it.

Keep reading

hey all!!!

so a handful of you were around for last year’s calendiles day, & therefore have an idea of what’s going on. for those of you that don’t, april 28th is the day one jenny calendar graced our screens for the first time, and brought with her a level of snark none had seen directed at giles before. or, to be fair, we saw the kids snarking at giles, but we never actually saw a fellow teacher shouting “you’re a snob” across the library at him. bless u jenny calendar.

anyway, jenny and giles are adorable, their love is adorable, and april 28th is the time to make content commemorating that!! starting at midnight, april 28th (pacific standard time) and ending at 11pm that night, 

for my contributions, i’ll be posting installments (every hour, on the hour) of four different six-chapter fics centering around giles and jenny (jfc what am i promising right now someone help me), as well as reblogging any content any of you choose to make. 

reblog this post to spread the word, and let me know if you’re thinking of making something + tag me in it when you post it!

“There are always flowers for those who want to see them.” Henri Matisse


happy birthday, suha!! i lov u sm and we haven’t been friends for long but you are one of my favorite friends and i love talking to you!!! :’) i hope you have the best birthday ever (i can’t do collages sry b) ;

Draco sneezed as he rearranged the pink magnolia display next to the entrance of the flower shop he worked at, Bonnie’s Blossoms. It was summertime, and the pollen-filled flowers were messing with his nose; Draco was allergic to flowers. Weird, he knows; his friends are quite confused about his line of work. Blaise is constantly questioning his ironic choice of a job, and Pansy, despite being named after one, absolutely despises flowers. Draco waves off their concerns, for he learned too much about gardening and plants from his mother to not put his extensive knowledge to good use. Draco sneezed again, the force of it impacting the petals of the display flowers and leaving them shaking underneath his fingertips.

The bell chimed loudly behind him, announcing the arrival of another customer. “One… one second,” Draco managed to slip out before sneezing once more.

“Don’t worry. Take your time, yeah?”

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And I Love in Shades of Wrong

Because I had hella feels after that 3x05 3x06 snippet. And the urge to write. And encouragement. Enjoy Clexakru!

The candlelight flickers around the room sending shadows flickering onto the walls and adding to the light the setting sun is quickly taking away. Clarke can’t help but take in a deep breath, committing the smell to her memory.


The room isn’t what she imagined. None of the rooms in Polis are like what she imagined. Much like her own, the room is filled with small comforts and accents that make the cold, tall, imposing structure feel like home.

Lexa’s home.

Clarke takes it all in, letting a small smile spread on her face.

This room belongs to Lexa. Not Heda. Not the Commander of the Blood.

But the girl who carries the weight of worlds on her small shoulders.

She walks slowly around the room, letting her fingers touch and drag along without fear, taking in everything around her. Moving her eyes quickly away from the large, intricate bed post, and onto the bear hide in the center of the room trying to quell the blush that rises in her cheeks.

Lexa invited her into the space.

Welcomed Clarke to borrow freely from the small personal collection of books she keeps here.

The same way she welcomed Clarke to anything she may enjoy while she stays in Polis.

No longer truly an Ambassador, but an exile.

A guest.

Under the Heda’s protection.

Her stomach flutters when she stops and thinks about it.

Thinks about how she is starting to feel more at home here in Polis than she has anywhere else on the ground.

How at home she feels with Lexa.

She finds the small bookshelf and surveys the dusty, worn bindings. A few familiar titles pop out and she pulls them off the shelf, turning them over in her hands. Memories of simpler times up on the Ark with her father come rushing back, flooding through her mind like a movie.

“That is one of my favorites.” Lexa’s voice breaks her out of it.

She takes a second to breathe again before responding, “It’s a great one.”

“You’ve read it.”

Clarke nods her head and places it back on the shelf, scanning the remaining items.  She feels Lexa’s presence next to her, watches as a hand stretches out and points to another, “This is one as well.”

A title unfamiliar to Clarke. “Can I read it?”

Lexa nods, “Of course.” She smirks and tilts her head towards Clarke, “Perhaps when you are finished we can discuss your thoughts.”

Clarke smiles back, “I’d like that.”

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sometimes i think about how saitama is probably still deep in his depression and general apathy but that genos’s near-constant presence does nothing but help saitama keep going and find enjoyment in life. even if saitama never again finds someone or something stronger than him, at least he’ll never be lonely

it’s just some fluffy deancas cuddles that literally came out of nowhere dang

It’s quiet and it’s dark. The only sound in the bedroom is their gentle breathing and then a rustle of the covers when Dean scratches his calf with his foot.

“I could hold you forever,” Cas murmurs as he tightens his arms around Dean’s middle. They’ve been in the same position for almost an hour now, cuddling while propped up against the pillows of their queen size bed. 

“Forever’s a long time…” Dean says back as he picks at some dirt under his finger nail. 

“I’m aware of that,” Cas replies, slightly annoyed at Dean’s habit of sarcastically stating the obvious.

“As long as you know what you’re up against,” Dean replies, a little quieter this time. He and Cas have talked about this before, about what they are and where they are, but that doesn’t really make it easier to deal with the emotions.

“The love of my life,” Cas replies easily. He’s become almost as blunt as Dean, some might argue. He heard that it was one of those things that happen to couples after you’ve been together for a while, you start adopting each other’s mannerisms. 

Dean sniffs and bites his lip to try and supress his emotions. Secretly he hopes that he always gets butterflies in his stomach when Cas calls him that. “Sap,” he finally says with a smirk.

“Says the man who cries at The Breakfast Club,” Cas counters as he looks up at Dean with a small smirk.

“Shut up, that movie’s emotional. Hughes was a genius,” Dean replies quickly in an attempt to defend his ever diminishing machismo. 

Cas smiles at the man he fell for. Literally. “I love you, Dean,” Cas whispers against Dean’s shoulder, the teasing tone of his voice gone. He presses a kiss against the freckles there that faintly map out the constellation of orion.

Dean feels his heart swell in his chest and he raises his fist into the air, just like John Bender, as he leans down to give Cas a sweet kiss. He may be a criminal at times, but he definitely found his prince.