vast bare

Long, Lean, and Lethal

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1,106

Summary: The Reader finally takes things into her own hands when it comes to her feelings for Dean. 

Warnings: Consensual voyeurism, mutual masturbation, Reader being sneaky, Dean being cheeky.

A/N: This little drabble stemmed from a conversation with @salvachester about Dean and his physique. And well, it ended up naughty, I’m not sorry. So, here ya go. 

Originally posted by dancewithmejensen

He’s all muscle and sinew, coiled strength and energy, long, lean limbs and broad shoulders taking up more space than should be legal. Every movement is calculated, every action purposeful. Watching him work is like watching a choreographed dance; trained hands loading a gun, handling knives, fighting monsters, driving his car. It’s nothing if not sheer beauty.

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Insomniac - a Ten Years On fic

So, the lovely @bosstoaster (You’ve read all of her fics, right? No? Go on, I’ll wait.) responded to this prompt:

“ HERE’S A THOUGHT FOR YOU, WHEN SHIRO COMES BACK FROM WHEREVER HE VANISHED TO, FOR HIM IT’S ONLY BEEN LIKE AN HOUR BUT FOR EVERYONE ELSE IT’S BEEN LIKE FIVE YEARS OR MAYBE EVEN A DECADE?”

The result is the fic Come Back (as pure as gold) which, if you haven’t read, wtf are you even doing with your life? Go do that immediately.

I loved the shit out of this fic, and I asked BT if I could play in her sandbox. She is a gracious and kind overlord, and she said yes! So, I wrote a thing. I may write more things. We’ll see what happens! 

Insomniac

Rating: Teen

Characters: Shiro, Pidge, Green Lion

Warnings: Insomnia, mild dissociation, discussions of age appropriateness and lack thereof, Pidge being Pidge.



Wandering the hallways while the others slept, Shiro honestly didn’t know whether the familiarity was a blessing or a curse. It was a little eerie, especially when he was so tired– He almost expected to wake up and find that it’d all been a dream. His reality had begun to blur at the edges yet again, and every time he closed his eyes he feared he’d open them to find some fresh hell awaiting him, dreaded being told he’d lost even more time.

A year and change to the Galra.

A crash landing and an isolation ward on Earth.

Four kids and the fate of the universe in their hands, a legend come to life. Voltron. A few months that felt like a lifetime.

A battle, a victory, a void.

Ten years.

Ten years.

Some part of Shiro told him he was being irrational, or at least impractical; he couldn’t avoid sleep forever. He’d already succumbed a few times since his return, and nothing more had changed between sleeping and waking. Knowing that didn’t lessen his fear at all. He’d had no reason to expect to lose so much any of the other times things had gone sideways, either.

Even when he could force his waking mind to believe he’d be okay, Shiro’s dreams kept him from getting anything like truly restful sleep. He’d thought the nightmares of the arena were bad, and they were. But now they stacked with visions of waking to find his friends, his family aged far beyond him. He dreamt of their bones turned to dust while he lived on with no anchor but the Black Lion. 

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blackpanthcr  asked:

give me a headcanon about luke's thoughts on t'challa (616 or mcu) (:

            let me preface this by saying, i’m a fraud. i haven’t begun to read luke’s comics, i’ve skimmed some of the material but overall i have very little knowledge of his life inside the comics so this will be mcu based:

  • he respects him immensely. it started with pop honestly. the barbershop’s tv turned onto the news and seeing the avengers and then seeing t’challa. pop commenting on how that’s a man and that’s what young men should strive for. not exactly the whole royalty thing but just to have a voice and be a positive influence and stand up for what’s right.
  • luke is a fan. upon seeing him for the first time, sweet christmas definitely left his mouth a couple of times before he worked up the courage to say hi. he’s honestly star-struck for a while. some of it has to do with the fact that he has this status but he doesn’t throw it around. t’challa doesn’t walk around going ‘ i’m king, BOW ‘ and that’s wonderful to luke but he’s also clearly ( and later learned first-hand ) a good person.
  • he makes fun of his costume. #sorrynotsorry. you wear a cat-like costume and even if you’re punching bad guys in the face, luke is gonna laugh. it comes from a place of really ?? but also a place of love. you’ll never live it down t’challa, sorry.

            just in all, luke likes him a lot. he thinks he’s a good and honorable man. he respects and admires how in touch with his culture and heritage he is. how devoted he is to his people, his country, but also the world around them. them being friends is like a bonus to luke, he’s very much like ‘ how am i worthy ‘ but t’challa never really makes him doubt that friendship. he’s just a good presence in luke’s life and eventually them being best friends is almost a given

Jimin Scenario: Sunburst.

Request:  Can I get a fluffy Jimin request that’s just a bunch of cuddles and kisses after waking up? Thank you.

Genre: Fluff / Romance


It was one of those mornings when every tiny bit of your soul refused to wake up, to open your eyes and face the new day simply because your mattress was way more comfy than anything outside your room could offer.

You were still in that sweet state of dreaming in which your mind is half aware that you’re asleep but doesn’t really want to take you out of dreamland just yet. Your arm moved selflessly along the mattress, running along the soft sheets to your right while your face was still pressing down the fluffy pillow and you were lying on your stomach. The travelling of your hand was interrupted by something that appeared on its way and made it stop.

Past week had been a total craziness for you, filled with a bunch of things to do and stress, so even though you didn’t really feel like waking up your eyes still opened on their own will when your hand was suddenly stopped on the sheets by the unmistakable warmth of another human body lying right next to you on his usual side of the bed.

So you really couldn’t blame your eyes for opening themselves, it was automatic, like a bug attracted to the fire, like magnets calling for each other, like everything that was so down right luring that you weren’t going to fight against; because when he was near your eyes would always look for him and only him.

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When Sharrox saw her next, she was alone. At least, alone of human company. The trench networks the Kriegers made seemingly on instinct alone were vast, sprawling underground networks barely big enough for an astartes, but the Ravenguard needed neither light nor space to navigate them unseen. Not that she could have seen him regardless. The woman had fallen asleep on her rest period.

So too, were more of her ‘children’. All of them were skinny, hairless foals. Ugly, nipping things that formed a tight nest around the young woman, occasionally pushing one another. Warring silently for the best spot. Which, as he watched, was usually with their spindly bodies wrapped around the human.

The same foal from before, distinguished only but the strange horn growing from its forehead, had its head in her arms. Being slightly bigger and older, it had more of a dominate role in the herd than the others. Still, there was plenty of the woman to go around. The only part of her he could see from this position was her head. By then the young Krieger had replaced her mask, the plasteel facing painted with a leer horse skull to match. The rest of her was covered by curled forms.

A small, barely heard growl was suddenly issued at him from somewhere near his boot. One of the foals in the outer ring of the nest woke briefly, snarling at him in a way no horse should, large eyes shining in what little light there was down here. A houndish mouth opened and he was greeted with far too many teeth, faintly gleaming with drool.

Sharrox promptly left.

@praybeforewefall

Jealousy

Pairing: Ivan Braginski/ Yao Wang (Russia/China)

Summary: WW2 AU. Insane Russian Commander Ivan Braginski is the terror of his battalion and his enemies alike. He controls the lives of thousands - but it is the memory of one that controls his own. Tie-in to ‘Lily of the Lamplight.’

This is a tie-in fic to my ongoing WW2 AU series. Like 'My Echo,’ it will be a collection of short chapters and flashbacks - from Ivan’s point of view - following the main storyline to my PruAus story, 'Lily of the Lamplight.’ It probably won’t make much sense unless you read that one also, I’m afraid.

WARNING: Although this story is part of the Veraverse, please be warned that it is very dark, potentially unsettling, and a very different type of 'love story’ to the others in the series. Warnings for the story include a rather creepy Ivan, age difference, violence, and dubious consent. Please do not read this expecting a fluffy romance – and if the previous themes bother you, then please do not read this at all. You do not need to read this story to understand 'Lily.’

Summer, 1943

The Russian Front

The noise from the wireless radio drifted into Ivan’s mind like droning, senseless whispers: futile and immaterial, lifeless and empty. Strange words in English he could barely understand; sentimental words in Russian he did not want to. Ivan wondered vaguely if he should turn it off, then wondered uncertainly if it mattered, then wondered angrily who had placed this whispering machine in his makeshift quarters to hum and drone and mock him with its bleak, cheerful, vacant lies. Ivan attempted to ignore it as he stared at the papers on the desk before him. The lying sighs from the radio bled into the senseless words on the page. These words were not for him to understand. Ivan was no man of words - he was a commander. He told men who to kill and how to bleed and where to die. He did not draw lines through letters - that was the business of lesser men. These words belonged to others. Belonged to men like…

“Eduard!” Ivan called the name lightly. Officers who shouted did so because they could not control their men; because they were not loved, feared, or honoured. Ivan had no need to shout. So why, now, was he was not being answered? “Eduard!” he called again. Where was his Estonian? Why did he not answer? The tent flap was open. Ivan frowned at the evasive words laughing up at him. His Estonian would understand these words. He would turn them around and put them in order and send them away somewhere they could not confuse and disturb and mock and laugh. But why was that radio still murmuring, still mindless and pointless and grating and endless and…

Jealousy. Was only through jealousy, Our hearts were broken

And angry words were spoken.

Now all I have is memory

To cherish so tenderly…

Ivan clenched his teeth and tasted blood. The chaotic, clamouring wireless whispers twisted into evil words, sung with a deceitful English voice, hammering into his skull and screaming at him accusingly and no, he did not need Eduard, he needed his Lithuanian, he needed… “Toris!” Ivan snapped his head to see the tent opening flapping in the wind. Flapping vacantly, incessantly… no one entering, and no one standing beyond… and why was there nothing but these words and this void and this noise, this ceaseless noise, these rough, shrill, mocking echoes merging with these empty, laughing words that would… not… stop…

Twas all over my jealousy,

My crime was my blind jealousy,

My heart was afire with desire for you

But I never thought that your love was true…

Ivan shook his head. He fought for breath. He felt it all diminish, and collapse, and cease. Then the world turned white; and Ivan remembered.

Autumn, 1930

Leningrad, Russia

Yao belonged to Ivan. He belonged to him from the very second Ivan first beheld him, on a freezing morning in late autumn, standing proud yet wary in the vast, bare, silent entrance hall of Ivan’s vast, bare, silent manor. His hair as long and black as midnight in winter; his eyes as dark and narrow as the slowly collapsing hallways of the crumbling Braginski mansion. So small, so fragile, like a frightened orphaned cub left alone and helpless in hunting season. They said he had come from China: he and his sister, the bland little girl who stood uncertainly in her lovely brother’s shadow. Both pretty teenagers who would work hard, require little, and most importantly, had no family to ask questions. Ivan’s blood burned through his veins, his breath hot and thick in his lungs. His back straightened; his chin rose; his eyes flashed as they drank in his dark, beautiful, proud little orphan cub. Ivan said the words aloud. “He’s mine.”

The boy’s eyes widened at that, fixed rigidly on Ivan’s own, sharp and alarmed. It was a look Ivan recognised - one he knew well. Fear. Ivan returned the stare evenly.

“Vanya, darling, we don’t own people. He is to be a servant, not a slave.”

Ivan ignored his older sister’s words. The boy was his. From that moment, Ivan knew. The boy was his, and always would be. “He is my servant, then. My private servant. No one else’s. Do you understand?” Ivan turned a dark glare on Katyusha. She nodded hastily and looked away.

“Why would you want him anyway, Vanya?” asked Natalia haughtily, sashaying too close to the Chinese siblings and inspecting them disdainfully. Her bright gold, jewelled gown clashed magnificently with the dark remnants of pre-revolutionary décor along the walls. The boy blinked carefully towards her as she smirked. “I doubt this little weakling will last the winter.”

Ivan smiled indulgently. “I will dress him in furs, and lay him before the fire, and he will survive because I wish it.”

Natalia laughed her high, cold laugh. “Like a little doll!” She ran a hand along the boy’s narrow shoulders, touched his hair airily. His delicate features furrowed, insulted and slightly angry.

“Yes,” said Ivan smoothly, his greedy gaze locked on the affronted boy, enjoying the collection of emotions that danced across his face. “My pretty little china doll.”

Natalia stood behind the boy, gently playing with his hair. She smirked again, staring at Ivan through those midnight black locks and her own lowered lashes. “But Vanya, you always broke our dolls, don’t you remember?”

“Natalia!” said Katyusha disapprovingly, warningly. “Leave the poor child alone.”

Natalia groaned, flicked the boy’s hair one last time, and pushed between the siblings, flourishing her wide skirts as she did. “Whine whine, moan moan, Katya. You do little else these days. And just what are you wearing, dear sister? You look like a housemaid. You should give that horrid dress to the little Chinese girl.” Natalia threw the girl a mocking glare. “Though I don’t think the poor thing could fill out the chest.”

Katyusha frowned reproachfully, twisting her hands nervously before her. “Talia, dear…”

“The girl will go to the kitchen,” Ivan interrupted. He had no time for his sisters’ inanity, or for the insignificant girl with the flower in her hair. “The boy stays with me.”

At those words the boy turned red, his hands clenched into fists, and he took a firm step forward. “My name is Yao. I am not a child, I am sixteen years old. And as the lady said earlier, neither am I a slave. My sister’s name is Mei. We are here to work. We expect to be paid, and we expect to be treated with respect.”

A brief silence followed the words, before Natalia broke into high peals of laughter. “Sixteen, Vanya! And the little doll speaks Russian! Is his accent not pretty?”

Ivan smiled in agreement. “Pretty.” As pretty as his soft, bow-shaped lips; as his brave, empty words. Yao’s bold gaze faltered as Ivan’s grew deeper. Immediately, the hall felt too crowded. Ivan wanted the others gone. “Go.”

Ivan merely spoke the order, but his sisters reacted immediately. Natalia rolled her eyes and swept from the room, glowering fiercely at Yao one last time. Katyusha looked concerned as she took the girl’s hand. The girl stared wide-eyed at her brother, clutched at his hands, cried frantic words Ivan did not understand. Yao responded reassuringly, smiled and nodded, even as Katyusha spoke kindly and led the girl from the room. Always kind, always fretful, always obedient Katyusha.

The vast hall fell finally silent, the last of Katyusha’s nonsense words fading to echoes against the barren stone. Yao took a few moments to turn slowly back. His hands were still in fists; his eyes still wary. Ivan took slow, deliberate steps through the heavy air to stand before him, over him, so close Ivan’s coat brushed the tips of Yao’s shoes. Yao did not back away.

“Yao.” Ivan said it slowly, savoured the feeling of the word on his lips for the first time. He liked it. Short and fleeting: a soft yet strong beginning yielding to a gentle, almost lingering finish.

“Mei… my sister…” Yao’s chest rose and fell, an evident attempt to grasp for control. Ivan smiled at the futile effort. “I promised her we would not be separated.”

Ivan lifted one shoulder in an indifferent shrug. “You should not make promises you cannot keep, Yao.” Yao placed a hand to his mouth briefly, as though he was holding something back. On some strange impulse - one Ivan did not recognise and did not understand - he continued to speak. “She will be looked after. Katya is often tending to strays.”

Yao creased his smooth brow, parted his lips, drew his arms to his chest. He did not respond, so Ivan let the silence fall between them. There was so much you could tell from someone through silence. Ivan was intrigued to watch Yao thinking, to see him trying to comprehend. It was enthralling: the boy’s initial look of fury, his desperate glance back at the front entrance, the final resigned understanding on his face. The first of the winter snowdrifts were building against the door. The lost little cub had nowhere else to go.

But silence could only tell so much. Ivan reached out a hand, rested it in the air by Yao’s pale cheek. He could sense the warmth pulsing through Yao’s veins. “Why are you here in Saint Petersburg, little Yao?”

Yao’s dark, thin eyebrows drew together. He seemed at a loss for what to say. “I thought this was the old name, Saint Petersburg. Is not the city now called Leningrad?”

The smile fell immediately from Ivan’s lips. His hand closed in a fist. His very bones seemed to seize, a furious surge of anger filling his chest. He refused to call his city by that name. He refused even to acknowledge that name. Ivan gritted his teeth as he asked again, loud and demanding. “Why are you here in Saint Petersburg, little Yao?”

Yao flinched, then quickly blinked it away. He hastened to answer. “The journey is not a tale worth telling. These are desperate times. Men will do what they must when they are desperate.”

Ivan laughed bitterly. He expected such words. “Desperate enough to serve the broken nobility of Russia.” Since the revolution, domestic servitude was an underground practice – never spoken openly, never revealed to the world. But the Braginski mansion was trapped in the days of the Tsars, darkly defiant of a changing country. Tradition still lingered in this place, faded and broken.

Yao stared up at Ivan with a look now less fearful, yet tinged with uncertainty. His pale cheeks were darker now, his chest still rising and falling in that vain attempt for control. “Why do you speak like this?”

Ivan paused at that. Those words he did not expect. His brief anger fell away, his hand falling to rest lightly on Yao’s slight shoulder. “My words upset you?”

Yao looked warily at Ivan’s hand, then back into his eyes. “They confuse me. There is something behind them.”

Yao’s eyes were like fire. They looked too closely; they pierced too deep. For the first time Ivan could remember, he felt unsettled. He tightened his grip on Yao’s shoulder in response. “And do you always speak so plainly, Yao? Do we not all hide behind our words?”

Yao took a sharp breath, but did not shrink from Ivan’s clenching hold. “Only when we have something to hide.” Such remarkable composure. Ivan wondered what it would take to break it. “Truth is told not in word, sir, but in action.”

Ivan was both fascinated and disturbed. This little stranger had angered him, unsettled him, enchanted and surprised him, all in mere minutes. Ivan refused to allow him such control. “From now on, Yao - whether through word or action - there is nothing you can hide from me.”

Yao’s response trailed into silence when Ivan leant down slowly, touched his lips to Yao’s temple, inhaled the smell of him. Something young like newly-picked oranges, yet old like deep-forested trees in winter. Ivan let out a breath like a growl, and heard Yao’s own breathing quicken in response. It made him smile. “Are you afraid of me, Yao?”

Yao’s words came slower when he answered. He again drew his arms to himself, and his burning brow was beaded with sweat. “I… do not know yet.”

Intriguing. Ivan drew back slightly. “Do you think I will hurt you?”

Yao turned his face to Ivan. This close, his cheeks were aflame; his lips humid; his eyes startlingly dark. Ivan could hardly distinguish the pupil from the ink pool around it. Yao replied with defiant honesty. “Yes.”

“No.” Ivan gently released his grasp on Yao’s shoulder, brushed Yao’s hair from his collar. These clothes were too thin and ugly. Ivan would replace them with garments as silken as these black locks. Ivan would brush his hair and stroke his skin and control his insolent, charming words. “No, I do not hurt my things, Yao.”

“Things?” Yao’s features immediately twisted. He blinked alertly, spoke angrily, as though broken from a trance. “Who are you to speak to me so? Who are you to say any of this to me? These words of yours go too far, sir. I am not a thing. I am most certainly not yours, and I…” Yao’s cheeks reddened as his speech tumbled from him, incensed and unchecked and useless. Ivan just smiled and ran his hand lightly down Yao’s arm. “I am here to work,” Yao continued, his voice rising apprehensively at the touch. “I do not know what sort of work you expect from me, but…”

Yao broke off with a gasp when Ivan abruptly gripped his wrist. Ivan tilted his head curiously, amusedly. Such pretty defiance. Such brave, angry words; so easily stifled. “No, Yao. You are not a thing.”

Yao’s dark eyes widened. Ivan could feel his blood throbbing beneath his skin. So thin; so breakable. Carefully yet firmly, Ivan took Yao’s fingers in his own and forced his clenched fist open. Yao parted his lips, but did not speak. Again he looked afraid, but this seemed a different fear than the last. Ivan pressed a kiss to Yao’s burning, open palm, keeping his eyes fixed on the unfathomable, inky darkness of Yao’s own. This defiance was nothing. Ivan had already decided: he wanted this boy. And Ivan always got what he wanted. “But you are mine.”

 

1943

The memory slowly faded; the world came back, harsh and white and obscure. The wireless whispers still droned, futile and senseless. Ivan drew a very slow, very deep breath of air into his lungs. Then, with a hot rush of fury and a sudden, almost unbidden twitch of his arm, Ivan snatched the radio from his desk and hurled it to the ground. It splintered and shattered, bleeding a last high-pitched whine before finally falling silent. Ivan stared at the lifeless, broken pieces, feeling only brief, hollow satisfaction.

Polkovnik?”

The word was spoken carefully, barely more than a whisper. Ivan looked up sharply. His Lithuanian stood uncertainly in the tent entrance, clutching a folder to his chest, a familiar look of fearful apprehension on his pretty face.

“Toris.” Ivan lifted his chin and gestured for the private to join him. Toris hesitated before doing so. Another day Ivan might have punished him for such a hesitation. But this pounding rage still boiled his blood, that taunting song still rang in his head, and he needed explanation. “These words.” Ivan gestured over the maddening papers on his desk. “What do they mean?”

Toris glanced at the papers briefly before answering. “Kalova requires reinforcements, sir. The Germans are retreating, and HQ requests that you send a battalion to take the village.”

Ivan raised an eyebrow. “Kalova?” The hot fury began to cool. There would be time enough for that in battle. The blood and the fury; the bitter, roaring chaos of it. Ivan relished his time of deafening, silent madness. “The little fortified village in the forest.”

Toris nodded hastily. “A prison unit will take the Germans’ place – there is only believed to be fifty men or so. It could easily be taken with a company or two.”

Ivan felt he could breathe again, the white haze clearing from the room. War and battle and death - this he knew. This he could understand. “A prison unit? Intriguing. ”

“An easy defeat.” Toris did not sound like he believed his words. “Our presence will hardly be required.” Poor, lost Toris, who felt so strongly and worried so much.

“Perhaps not so easy. No, I think I will handle this personally.” Ivan adjusted his scarf, twisted his lips in a smile, and ran a hand down his Lithuanian’s cold, pale cheek. Toris did not react. Ivan’s Lithuanian was pretty, yes, but his eyes were too light and his defiance long vanquished. “Do not underestimate desperate men, Toris.”

To be continued…

 

The rank of 'polkovnik’ is roughly equivalent to a colonel.

anonymous asked:

"someone tripped me in the hallway and you’re the only one that helped me up" au Romione

Hermione’s Arithmancy papers are everywhere.

Thereare a few on the portraits, and they’re all yelling at her to get them off because how dare she cover their faces! There are some scattered around the floor, which students casually skirt around, ignoring them. And there are a few lying on the top steps of the staircase, and that’s the one that movies every 34.5 seconds, so if Hermione wants to get them, she’s got to move quickly.

Except she doesn’t want to move quickly. She wants to continue lying on the floor and hope that nobody can see the shame on her face. At least she’s got her robes on; her skirt would have flipped up, had she not been wearing them, and that’s one relief. She doesn’t know who tripped her, but she does know that she can’t let that person see how much it stings. So she raises herself up on her red, stinging palms and begins to gather up her papers.

“Here.” A pale white hand is reaching out to her, and Hermione looks up to see Ron Weasley standing over her, holding the papers which had fallen to the staircase.

“Thank you,” she says gratefully, taking them from him, and he nods, the tips of his ears pink.

“Yeah, no problem,” he says, and then, to her surprise, he gets on his knees with her and begins gathering the papers. Hermione tries not to blush as he gathers them, not looking at her, set on his task. They both rise at the same time, and Ron hands Hermione the stack, a serious expression on his face. “I’m sorry about that asshole. He was completely out of line.”

Hermione wants desperately to ask who tripped her, but she also doesn’t want to know.

“It’s alright,” she says instead, because there’s nothing worse than someone knowing that you don’t know something. Not knowing is a vulnerability, so Hermione keeps it to herself. “Um, thank you again,” she says, but Ron doesn’t leave. She stares at him. He stares at her. They stare at each other.

“So,” he says after an uncomfortably long pause. “Erm… how are you?”

Hermione frowns.

“Good,” she says. “How… how are you?”

“Ah, you know,” he says, and it’s painfully awkward because she doesn’t know. Never has.

“Yeah,” she replies, looking at the ground. She’s watched him enough to know that he’s funny, and insecure, and loves his little sister more than he loves anyone in the world, and is loyal to a fault, and is smarter than he would ever let on. But other than that, she doesn’t really know anything about him.

“So…” he says. “Um. Are you liking DADA this year?”

She bristles because no, she is not, especially because of how it is affecting Neville.

“I feel that it is very education,” she says stiffly. “But not the most morally acceptable class, in its current state.”

Ron laughs bitterly. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Nothing compared to last year.”

Hermione doesn’t mention that she barely remembers last year. She’d been exhausted for the vast majority of it, barely making it through the year. This year, she’s still got her time turner, but she’s taking two fewer classes. It’s helped, but she’s still exhausted. Still— she wants to know everything. Doesn’t care what that means for her sleep schedule, because this is a magic school and Hermione’s never seen anything as fascinating.

“Professor Lupin was wonderful,” she agrees, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear. “I thoroughly enjoyed his classes.”

God, she’s so stiff. Is she always this awkward? Probably. Does her heart always beat this hard? Definitely not.

“Did you guys have it with Hufflepuff last year?” he asks, brow creasing as he tries to recall.

Hermione nods.

“We usually do,” she says. “I think the school is convinced that if they keep throwing you guys in with Slytherin, you two will eventually get along.”

“Ha,” Ron says sarcastically. “Not bloody likely.” 

Hermione laughs quietly long with him, fiddling with her Ravenclaw tie.

“I didn’t think so either, but you know Dumbledore.”

He probably knows Dumbledore better than she does, Hermione realizes, considering the fact that Ron Weasley is best friends with Harry Potter, and Harry Potter is close with Dumbledore, isn’t he? She wants to ask, but somehow she feels like she shouldn’t. So instead, she glances over her shoulder and says,  

“Well, I have to get to class.”

Ron’s eyes widen.

“Oh! Merlin, I’m so sorry. Yeah, go, erm… yeah.”

“Okay,” she says, nodding awkwardly at him. “Well… bye.”

She turns away and starts walking away, her head down, her heart thundering in her chest.

“Hermione!” comes a voice, and she turns around to see Ron bounding towards her, all freckles and gangling limbs and she doesn’t quite know why her fingertips feel numb when she looks at him.

“Yes?” she asks, wincing at how hopeful her voice sounds.

“Would you… maybe… wannagototheballwithme?”

It feels like someone has slammed into her with their entire body; her breath is knocked out of her chest. She gapes at him, probably looking completely improper. Like a fish, she would assume.

“The ball as in… the Yule Ball?” she questions, just to make sure. His entire face is glowing now, and he’s chewing on his bottom lip as he gazes earnestly at her. “Um. Yes. I would.”

Ron Weasley stares at her for a second, then lets a slow grin drift across his mouth.

It’s lopsided. Hermione doesn’t know why that makes her want to kiss him.

“You would?”

“I would,” she says, now smiling herself.

“You barely know me,” he points out. She rolls her eyes.

“Isn’t that something you should have considered before you asked me?”

“Well, I didn’t think you were going to say yes. I figured Krum had already asked you.”

Hermione shrugs.

“You asked first,” she says honestly. Her cheeks burn after she says it, but she doesn’t regret it. It feels like the type of thing someone who is good at this would say.

She still feels awkward, but now it’s a more open awkward. She feels like her chest is opening up to him, because he’s looking directly into her eyes with this hopeful twinkle in his and it’s ramming against her, hitting her in the head: the realization that he likes her.

He laughs, more surprised by the joke than amused by it.

“So,” he says, “um… say you were going to Hogsmeade this weekend. Where… where exactly would you be?”

“At the three broomsticks,” she says, trying not to throw up with nerves. “Maybe around twelve?”

“Okay,” he says, nodding to himself. “Yeah, okay.”

“Right,” she says. “Well… class.”

“Oh, yeah!” he says, eyes becoming clear again. “Thanks for reminding me,” he adds genuinely. She laughs. Doesn’t say anything. Just smiles. “Well, seeya.”

“Bye, Ron,” she replies, voice quiet but warm. “See you later.”

deamonassassin  asked:

🌸🌸🌸

Blaine woke to something solid and cold against his back, and something soft tickling his forehead. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Greg, smiling like a dork. The next was the evening sky, a vast blanket of barely waking stars stretching over them. They were sat in the back of an old, rented pickup truck, in the middle of a trip that would take them another day at least.

“Crap, I fell asleep on you…” Blaine mumbled. Then he remembered the weight on his head, and lifted a hand, feeling something feather-soft and another larger, wider something, rough in the center.

“Oh my god.” It was Blaine’s turn to grin like a dork. “Did you make crowns for me? Oh my god, you’re such a nerd.” He said it with all the affection in the world. “Are these sunflowers? Where’d you even get those?”

The End of the World (pt. I?)

A/N: Unoriginal title, I know haha. But this is a little thing I’ve been working on the past couple days. Basically this is an AU fic, which is over what could’ve happened if Bill really did end up succeeding in entering Ford’s mind instead of entering Stan’s, and therefore uses the equation to break the seal that’s keeping Bill inside of Gravity Falls. And I still don’t know how I feel about this, but if enough people enjoy reading this, I’ll continue it. I could just leave it where it is if I wanted to, but I do have more planned, haha. But I hope you enjoy reading, either way. :)

Word Count: 2880~ (It’s pretty long haha)

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fic: absolution (2/5)

part two of the cheating!fic. you may have noticed that the chapter count went up. part two had to be split, so we’re at five parts now! hopefully that’s not a problem for you all!

still super explicit. laura/carmilla. laura/danny. read on ao3.

part two - submission.

She needs air. She needs to get out of that room because the smell of sweat and sex is overwhelming. She can’t breathe. Once Carmilla retreats into the bathroom, a sob passes her mouth and she tries to wipe the tears off of her face violently. She can’t cry. She doesn’t deserve to cry. She did this.

Carmilla’s clothes are still scattered on her side of the room and Laura’s stomach turns. She didn’t even think about Danny last night. Her girlfriend never once entered her mind. She sobs again. She should have pulled away. She never should have let Carmilla back her against the wardrobe. Her breaths keep getting caught in her throat and she piles on layers of clothes. Tears flow freely down her cheeks and she doesn’t attempt to wipe them away. Maybe the salt will wash the taste of Carmilla from her lips.

It’s still early fall but the temperatures are turning and the air outside is crisp. She can tell by the small gusts of air that come through the slightly open window of the room. She doesn’t put a jacket on. She leaves the dorm with a slam of the door and she runs down the stairs. She pushes out of the dorm and the cold air hits her the moment she’s out of the double doors. Goose pimples erupt all over the bare skin of her arms but she doesn’t pay attention to them. She takes a deep breath and inhales as much of the bitter, cold air as she can. It hurts her lungs. She welcomes it.

Her gait starts off slow and she shivers each time the wind hits her bare skin. She figures she deserves this at least. She wanders. She isn’t sure where to go because the place, no the person, she always goes to when she feels like this is Danny. And she can’t go to her. Not yet. Her chest still feels tight and constricted and her breathing is shallow. She shivers as the turns down the path that leads to the old Lustig building. It was burnt down in 1904 but the rubble is still there because it, apparently, makes a good backdrop for the photography students. There’s bare bones of a structure but the real beauty is behind it – the lake. It’s vast and you can barely see where it ends. The leaves are changing colors and falling into the water and it’s one of Laura’s favorite spots on campus – especially this time of year. There’s a rock halfway around the circumference that she made hers during freshman year. She often comes here when she wants to work on a project. The atmosphere helps open her mind and let the ideas flow freely. It is, generally speaking, her happy place. She hates to ruin it but it’s the only place she can go.

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The Siren and The Nymph || Mythology AU || Levy-of-edolas / lovelylittlegodslayer

levy-of-edolas:

It was soon past early morning when the young Siren found herself sitting at the edge of a low cliff which over looked the vast sea around her. Bare feet and sky blue hair, her only attire consisted of a pale gold dress sewn out of the lightest fabric she could find. Her hair pulled back with a headband made entirely of bird feathers that she had found scattered on the coast. True to the myth itself, she was beautiful. Voice like silk and a gaze that could bring any man to their knees, she was powerful. She was beautiful, she was powerful, she was.. lonely. Sirens were not friendly creatures, not even to there own kind. Soon one by one they had scattered. They did not like to hunt in groups because there was no such thing as sharing. It brought chaos in there group and even the murders of fellow sisters. Since then Levy had killed many men, she had sunk entire ships, even military vessels. All by herself. As she jumped down from the low ledge which she was perched on, a pack of sea Nymphs began to rise to the surface. Sirens and sea nymphs have never been close. Sea nymphs wanted to protect their sea while sirens wreaked chaos to it. Giving cold looks to her, they marched past her. But one, stopped directly in front of her. Pink hair and all..

☾ ✿ ♥ ✿ ☽ Water Nymphs were their water - they were the lesser protectors of the oceans, and they were the first to run at the sight of danger. Water Nereids were the ocean - they attacked with the ocean, they felt as the ocean did, and they would die with the ocean. They were the true form of a Nymph, all with a special aspect to protect. 

☾ ✿ ♥ ✿ ☽ So when Chelia saw the ever familiar mop of blue hair, she rose to the surface, but not to run as the other nymphs did, but to stay and protect. When she breached the surface, she used the water to stay on her feet and await the stand off that was due to happen. Finally, the Siren was in front of her, her azure hair being blown all over the place in the sea breeze.

✿— “Why do you do this to my ocean? Why must you slaughter the innocent sailors who sail upon it?” The pinkette said calmly, the waves around her calming into complete stillness, the aspect she represented reflecting her emotions. “Why do live to pollute the thing that keeps me alive, and allows you to live?”