1 - 20 of 22 Works by flimsy
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Speaking to Draco is like poking a beehive - and Harry is a glutton for punishment.
In which Harry makes some serious blunders and then tries to fix it. Somehow.
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Draco’s eyes narrow and his mouth purses, pretty and pink and wet from whatever he’s been drinking. “Any mediocre time is better than whatever you can you offer, Head Auror Potter. We’ve had this conversation. I thought I made myself clear.”
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Jughead needs a place to stay. Even if it's just for a night.
"Jug," Archie says and looks up from his music sheets, spread out on his bed, where he's sitting cross legged, hair mussed like he's been teasing it absentmindedly. Jughead is ready to place bets that the pencil he's holding is chewed to hell and back, too.
"I borrowed your shower," he says and removes the towel from his head.
"Wouldn't have guessed," Archie says with a slight grin, the one he gets when Jughead is being kind of a dick and he's not disliking it. "You also left your shoes out on the roof." -
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Adam is going to want to know why he’s here, and Ronan won’t have an answer. He’s got four minutes to figure one out, but before his racing, stupid, hateful mind can come up with something that’s not a lie, that’ll still work, the back entrance of the factory opens and Adam strides out.
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Draco returns to London to help the Ministry decipher a spell, but things aren’t quite as simple as they seem.
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Tommy dozes off again and when he wakes, another twenty minutes have passed and his pants have somehow managed to sneak their way nearly completely off his hips. He grunts and sits up a little, back tight and hurting, and for a moment he’s falling off the chair and can’t be bothered to think about how he’s close to showing his junk to his boss and the entire band.
In short: Sex on a plane!
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He rocks back onto his heels and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his black made-to-look worn seven-hundred dollar jeans - he’s casual today - and purses his lips, watching Tommy zip up his guitar case. He has a hole in his hoodie, right where arm meets shoulder and Adam can see his white T-shirt peeking through. It makes him want to hook a finger in it and pull Tommy up to kiss the back of his neck. But it’s not two years ago and they’re not on stage anymore. Adam has few choices left.
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This is exactly it - he can’t wrap his head around this. The sexual innuendos and the careless attitude and the way Adam will breath down his neck when he’s practising down in the Lambert basement, practically pressed up against him, and then simply wander off to make out with whoever he just invited over. It’s nonsensical. Ridiculous. Irrational.
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“It’s my birthday, Spencer,” he says, and slides his hands from Spencer’s shoulders to his hips. Jon swallows and considers crawling out of his corner and leaving, because he’s not sure he wants to see this. Well. He’s not sure he’s should see this.
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Ryan just tilts his head, hands behind his back on the table, sweaty hair sticking to his forehead, make-up runny and smudgy, eyes alive, little pearl teeth biting his lips as if he’s holding something back.
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Jon wakes to the smell of burning wood and lacquer.
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the spark and the sound by flimsy
Fandoms: Bandom, Panic At The Disco, Fall Out Boy, The Academy Is...
13 Apr 2012
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Spencer is up against the bus, hands splayed out against the black paint, his face is turned away, hair in his eyes, and the tech guy’s hands are on his waist, sliding up, higher, pushing Spencer’s pale pink T-shirt away to give way to pale, pale skin. Jon feels his fingers itch, feels wrong.
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Spencer is so cold. It’s like minus a trillion degrees outside and his feet are soaked from all the snow because sneakers just aren’t proper winter shoes, especially not on the East Coast.
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like explosions in the sky by flimsy
Fandoms: Bandom, Panic At The Disco, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, The Academy Is..., Cobra Starship
13 Apr 2012
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In a world where age is measured not by how long you have lived, but by how many years you have left, Spencer is five. He turned five yesterday at seven-thirty-two when they were out in the factory, collecting cans. Now he’s curled up around Ryan, face pressed against his neck, inhaling deeply, suppressing the uprising panic that the knowledge of your own mortality brings.
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Spence is all smooth, white skin, freckly shoulders and soft belly; his eyes are always cold and wry, amused and observant, but not quiet.
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Spence knows that from a logical point of view this probably is a bad idea, and that they’ll have time later, too, but Jon is nuzzling his neck, whispering dirty things into his ear.
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"It could have been worse," Jon elaborates. "I’m sure they’ll fix the bus soon."
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Spence doesn’t quite freak out when he wakes up and notices that his tummy-down sleeping position is squishing his breasts.
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He can feel the engine hum, a steady sound vibrating through his vertebrae, making him all tingly and warm.
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Sometimes Ryan thinks all the quiet he gets is just the silence before a storm, or the eye of a hurricane named Brendon, respectively, right over him, before it hits hard.
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It’s not the guitar, but Spence keeps his mouth shut. There is something wrong, and he heard it in those sloppy notes, and sees it in the way Ryan bites his lip, still screwing around with the settings.