look at these two

Kiss Me Not -Part 2-

Find Part One Here!

Let’s get this party started, shall we?


Harry threw back the last of his fire whisky and thumped the glass down on the table, yelling above the music from the wireless, “I’m gonna kiss everyone in this room!”

A drunken cheer greeted his declaration. A girl sitting behind him startled to her feet, her drink spilling over her fingers as she stepped closer, “Me first,” she smiled shyly.

She had been flirting rather desperately with Harry all night and though he wasn’t interested in the slightest he leaned down. She twitched forward eagerly and was just as quickly pushed back quite a distance from Harry. Apparently, she was a particularly bad match.

He didn’t laugh in her face but it was a near thing. He was just drunk enough that awfulness of his situation was fucking hilarious.

“Sorry,” Harry grinned and turned to the person sitting beside her and then the next person and the next. One miss after another as the music and chatter grew louder and the night wore on. He teased Dean and Seamus into a kiss, Dean almost managed it, close enough Harry could feel his laughter before he pulled away to give Seamus a proper kiss. He did not kiss Ron or Hermione, it would’ve been like kissing a sibling and he wasn’t interested in having creepy nightmares about it for the rest of his life. Everyone else he approached humoured him and gave Harry a go at a quick kiss.

He was fast running out of people to try- and fail -to kiss when he found himself at the back corner of the room, the large couch pushed against the wall had been taken over by the only three Slytherin’s who came back to finish up their schooling, Blaise, Pansy and, Draco Malfoy. They were relaxed, somewhat sprawled over one another with a bottle of fire whisky to pass between them. They weren’t nearly as relaxed when they noticed Harry staring at them, the lot of them stiffening like a group of alley cats arching their backs and hissing.

What?” Pansy lifted her nose with a sniff, “We’ve a right to be here, same as you.”

“You need something, Potter?” Blaise asked.

Harry blinked, “A kiss,” he said. Once upon a time, the prospect of kissing a trio of Slytherins would have been far too nerve-wracking but not anymore. The thing about trying to kiss about a hundred odd people was that the whole procedure rather lost it’s magic, so to speak.

They all stared at him blankly.

“I did say I was going to kiss everyone in the room,” Harry made a show of looking around, “You’re here.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Pansy said, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

Blaise laughed,  pushing himself to his feet and out of the tangle of his friend’s legs without somehow tripping himself up, “Me first, Boy-wonder,” Blaise said with the smug challenging sort of look that seemed to be calling out Harry’s bluff.

Harry returned the look, “Get on with it then.”

A flicker of hesitation crossed Blaise’s face before he managed to mask it, crossing the distance between them.

Harry tried to stay calm. The whole kissing thing seemed to work out better if he could but it was pointless since Blaise hardly had a go at all. As soon as the nudging pressure began to make itself known he backed off with a smirk.

Blaise dropped back onto the couch with a thud, “Well, that was anticlimactic.”

Pansy looked from Harry to Blaise curiously and then popped up, approaching Harry with a tilt to her head that brought to Harry’s mind the alley cat image again. She went up on tiptoes and Harry leaned down as she tried to kiss the corner of his mouth. Harry was a little surprised how close she got, about a half an inch away.

Her eyes widened as she pulled back. She exchanged a questioning look with Blaise that turned into a knowing one.

She looked back at Harry with an appraising smile, “I see,” she said to herself as she slowly backed away from him.

When the back of her legs hit the couch she stopped and looked over at Draco who was sitting stiffly in the centre. His arms were wrapped nervously around his waist, one hand clutching the neck of the whisky bottle as he scowled up at Harry.

“Your turn, Draco,” Pansy said. When he didn’t move immediately she gave his ankle a halfhearted kick, “Come on.”

Blaise leaned over, grabbing hold of his shoulder and pushing him forward, “Give it a go, my friend. It’s a laugh.”

Draco looked over at Blaise furiously. A flush was rising in his cheeks as he knocked Blaise’s hand away and stood unsteadily, pushing the bottle into Pansy’s chest with a bit too much force. He wavered on his feet, two sheets gone already, his eyes looking like he was having trouble focusing.

Harry watched with growing apprehension. Draco was flushed, his hair gone a little wild, even his clothes were slightly rumpled and there was a grim determination in his eyes. He took a deep breath, absentmindedly pulling his shirt straight and smoothing his hair back with one hand, though it didn’t stay.

A prickle started on the back of Harry’s neck, the hair on his arms standing up. His heart rate began to pick up as the shivery tension raced through Harry with every step Draco got closer. He had felt this before when they fought, this thundering, shivery pulling feeling. Harry had always thought it was the adrenaline from being angry and from fighting but…

Draco stopped a foot away and then almost swayed forward until they were almost touching. Harry saw close his eyes briefly as if gathering himself, a shiver made his shoulder twitch. When he opened his eyes again Harry felt transfixed by the flat grey colour. Harry’s hand moving without his permission, pressing against the flat planes of Draco’s chest,. Harry felt another shiver go through Draco, stronger than the last, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp, his pupils darkening.

Harry leaned forward, almost haltingly. He kept expecting the pressure to start, to push him back, but instead, it almost felt like he was being tugged closer, and there was almost a static hum in the air, prickling along his skin. He reached up, brushing his fingers lightly on Draco’s chin, too nervous to actually cup his cheek. Draco tilted his head and Harry felt his breath ghost across his lips, felt his lips, soft and careful and shivering just like Harry was and-

“ENOUGH!” Headmistress McGonagall’s voice cut through the party like a blade of ice. “This party is over.

Harry and Draco startled away from each other. The music was shut off and the room slowly took on the deathly calm of those who know they are completely and utterly hosed.

McGonagall’s eyes narrowed as she looked over the room, “There will be no more parties, for the rest of the year,” she said coldly, “Hogsmeade weekends are canceled and everyone here, including eighth years, are to remain on the castle grounds for the next three months-” there was a chorus of groans that was abruptly cut off with a single look, “-All of your curfews are now at eight pm, all of you.” There were no attempts to complain this time, simply an overwhelming and spreading air of despair. “If you are going to act like children, you will be treated like children. If any of you are found with alcohol on school grounds again, you will be suspended,” she pursed her lips in disappointment, “I do hope you will learn from this. Now go to your dorms.”

The students swayed and shuffled out of the room with their heads low to avoid eye contact.

Harry hadn’t moved. He wasn’t entirely aware of what was happening until a hand firmly took him by the upper arm.

“Mr Potter.” McGonagall said, some of the sternness leaving her voice, “Are you well? Do you need to go to the hospital wing?”

“I- What-?” Harry asked blankly, his mind entirely consumed by a single kiss, so brief there was part of his mind that wasn’t entity certain it had happened.

McGonagall frowned, her question changing to an order, “Go to the hospital wing. Have Poppy look you over.”

“The hospital wing,” Harry repeated.

The room was entirely empty. Harry didn’t know when that had happened.

“You’re trembling Harry,” McGonagall said, looking Harry over with concern,  “I’ll walk you there myself.”


Part 1 ~ Part 2 (you are here!) ~ Part 3(Coming soon!)

anonymous asked:

Loke always been one of my favorite characters, and I'm a little pissed that he was reduced to a gag spirit after the GMG arc. But... if you could develop him, his magic, and his relationships, what do you think you'd do? I wanted to see more of the Casanova Spirit

Me toooooo god, I still can’t believe what Mashima did to him. Just shove the dude on a bus when you don’t need him and drag him back for drama, whatever. I don’t care yes I do

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

I would understand if you would want to restart and do a new storyline or whatever. Of course, I would be a bit sad, but I understand your reasoning for that. I would ask, though, that maybe you don't delete everything? Maybe move the art to a different blog or something? I am in love with the art that you've done so far, so I would like to be able to still go back and look at it, y'know? IDK, that's my two cents. Will you be making a post about your decision later?

i will be making a post on my decision, yes! youre not the first person to suggest something like that, so maybe i will do something like that? i’ll see what i can think of ❤
and um. just to add it here.
thank you guys for the overwhelmingly positive and sweet and loving and supportive responses. i really hadnt expected people to be so wonderful. i ended up crying a bit but like good crying, you know? thank you all very much

RFA TRIES PROMPT 1 AND GETS CARRIED AWAY

Anonymous submitted:

1. a Bachelor type show where Hope is the Bachelor and Lightning is a contestant because Serah/Fang convinced her to do it and the rest is history! 

RFA: I’m going to be a bit creative with this and try the Chinese If You Are the One format where there are 1 bachelor and 24 female contestants. The bachelor introduces himself in sections as the women deliberate over him and choose to keep their lights on (maintain interest) or turn them off (reject him). He gets to choose from the women who remain after the final round.

>Lightning: be bored.

“Why did you reject contestant number 3, Miss Farron?” The host asks, all smiles on his face and gesturing with his mic, no doubt hoping for another controversial comment from her.

“He won’t last two seconds against a proto behemoth,” she responds, rolling her eyes at the camera because she knows everyone is watching at home, “I’d sooner not have that kind of burden in my life.”

A few gasps in the crowd. The man looks just the right amount of wounded. She shifts her weight impatiently at her stand, glimpsing a sign in the crowd - does it say something along the lines of GO LIGHTNING FARRON, THE ICE QUEEN OF MY HEART? She won’t be surprised. Her crudeness has made her surprisingly popular, and Serah gushes constantly about the amount of fanmail she receives (and reads) on the behalf of her sister. Lightning doesn’t have the time for that kind of thing. Lightning would sooner not be here at all. Lightning’s only here because she lost a bet to Fang and she was getting a bit tired of Snow and Serah pestering her about her single status like five times every day.

I’m pretty sure the kind of man I’m interested in won’t be into these kinds of shows anyway, she thinks to herself, sullen, as the rejected man bows to the women and walks off the stage. I know I hate these kinds of things. It’s people like Serah and Vanille who worship them like religion.

“Let’s welcome our next contestant! Mr. Estheim, director of Academy Research, team alpha. 24. Born and raised in Palumpolum.”

Oh no, another boring one, she groans internally, balancing her weight awkwardly in her flowing rose dress. She hates wearing dresses for these shows, too. If only -

“Mr. Estheim!”

“Wait, is this the Hope Estheim?”

“Wasn’t he rumored to be in a relationship with the daughter of the Primarch?”

Lightning perks up ever so slightly. So he’s famous.

“Thank you for the introduction, Mr. Meng,” the man responds politely after the crowd has died down - his voice is strangely familiar somehow - and when he performs the customary preliminary scan of all the female contestants, Lightning notices that his gaze lingers on her for a second more than everyone else. Long enough for me to notice, but not anyone else. And he knows I only noticed because I’ve been trained in the Corps with minute reactions and quick assessments.

What has been his eye color? Green? Serah used to tease her about green-eyed boys when they were younger. Not that she hasn’t passed up plenty of them on this show.

“Let’s see the first segment,” the host announces, and Hope Estheim settles comfortably into his chair, seemingly completely unfazed by the stage. A few contestants have already declared for him.

The figure of the silver-haired man glides onto the screen, surrounded by a line of scientists and marching machines.

“I am a scientist. I have been fascinated by machinery and the inner workings of the world since a very young age, and I find it awarding to improve people’s lives through inventing new tools, structures, and ways of thinking. I was behind the overhaul of Eden’s transport system and also oversaw the construction of the new Academy headquarters.”

Respectable, Lightning muses, remembering the terrible traffic jams that used to plague Eden. But still boring.

“Lately I’ve been working on a prototype for a brand new Guardian Corps gunblade.” All eyes zoom to her, including the stage lights; she blinks, turns to Hope Estheim - and sees him sitting as calmly as ever in his seat, although there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Automatic target selection, the highest grades of precision and accuracy, as well as being foolproof - it will allow someone as inexperienced as me to match a veteran like Contestant Farron.”

“Well, Mr. Estheim,” the host takes his cue on a silver platter and turns to Estheim, “This is certainly a new development. Will we get to see you make a case for your claim, here on our show?”

She smashes her light. Estheim’s smug confidence is ticking her off. Who is he to challenge her? Plenty of men have thought themselves capable of taking her down a notch, put her into her place. This of all places is not where she’ll back down. “No one can beat me,” she hisses, “scientific cheats or no.”

“I do not speak of beat,” Estheim corrects, and suddenly his face is so soft that it catches her off guard, “I speak of match. But yes, sir, I would like to demonstrate the effectiveness of my invention. I have brought my prototype with me to the show today.”

The host smiles. “And we have brought you your gunblade, Miss Farron, just for this special occasion.”

She grits her teeth as she walks forward. Estheim doesn’t look like a marksman - he’s too lean, too polished, too pretty along the edges. She wonders if he’s ever seen real battle, felt anyone’s soul depart from under his hands. He’s always had it easy. One real obstacle and he will crumble. She raises her arm to aim, almost tempted to shoot the pillar next to him so as to get that stupid smile off of his face.

He isn’t smiling. His face is somber instead as he raises an opposing arm, a strength in his eyes that makes her blink in surprise. He knows, she realizes, and he’s practiced with this, too. “I lost my mother when I was fourteen,” he says evenly, to her and to her alone. “I’ve been looking for things worth protecting.”

She shoots to get the significance of his words out of her head. He shoots right after her.

The crowd is silent. She doesn’t look up. For the first time in her life, she’s afraid of having been defeated.

“Two 9.9s,” the host announces, and there’s something resembling victory in the elderly man’s eyes. Ah, yes, the ratings. “A perfect match.”

She can feel Estheim’s gaze on her. She’s failed her shot - she usually scores above a 10.5 - and she knows he’s capable of more than that, a 11 if he wanted. Perhaps a 11 even if he’s shooting with a normal gunblade. But he’s pulled back, chosen to match her instead. Why?

“I quit this show,” she blurts out, sheathing her blade and walking off the stage. In the shock that follows, no one chases after her.

******************************

“You were too harsh on Hope Estheim,” Serah admonishes, shoving a plate of fruit into her face. “It’s dead obvious that he’s head over heels over you.”

“Well, I don’t care,” she spits, crossing her arms together behind her back. It’s not completely true. She’d caught a glimpse of his face as she walked off and there had been a deep sadness there, a loneliness that hurt her where no previous male contestant had hurt her before. “He can sleep with his pile of guns and machines.”

The doorbell rings.

“You don’t have to - ah.” Serah’s annoyed voice suddenly stops as she answers the door. “Come in, please.”

She closes her eyes and hopes she can just take a quick nap.

“Miss Farron?” That voice speaks up behind her and she jumps, unsheathing the gunblade in under a second and pointing the tip of it at his nose. Hope Estheim is standing in front of her in the flesh, sweat on his brow and dark circles under his eyes, and he’s holding a huge package. “I, uh, wanted to apologize. I’m so sorry for what I did to you the other day. But I wanted you to have this.”

She stares at him as if he’s crazy. “What?” Serah has apparently already fled the scene. Damn those meddling younger sisters. “Why - ”

“A gunblade,” he says quietly, still catching his breath. “Fresh from the lab. But it’s not a prototype anymore. I’ve added a few more things, to take into consideration how your movements change when you’re anxious. But I just want you to have it. Because I don’t want you to get hurt anymore protecting children from monsters.”

She studies him. This time, he looks almost like a child, simply wanting to please. There’s an idealism in his eyes that she wants to punch out even as she wants to hold it in her raw palms. “That injury never happened.”

Frustration enters his face now exactly where she thought it would. “But - ”

“Thank you,” she says, and extends a hand out. He stares at her for a long time before taking it. “And my apologies to you, too. Let’s go find a shooting range.”