pommel horse
Lol fanfic. I missed it kind of so I made some ones hurr!
From hp100!!!!!!111/////
Black-Eyed
(Neville/Luna)
"You like plants." She seated herself right atop the table over which he hunched, Herbology texts akimbo. Neville looked up, startled.
"...Yes?"
"Why?"
"Well - are you asking seriously?"
"As opposed to what?" Backlit, Luna looked like a Black-Eyed Susan, hair a bright yellow corolla and face obscured.
"To - to taking the piss," he mumbled.
"Won't that kill a plant?"
Neville gave her a long, weary look, then turned back to his books. The curve of her thigh drew his eyes from the ant-colony lines on the pages. He heard her sigh, and the silk whisper of her stockings as she slid off the table.
THE FOLLOWING ARE CONJOINED TWINS:
Mise-en-Skin
(Lupin/Tonks)
They don't speak much of it; they don't have to. The questions and the answers both are etched into his very flesh: limbs drawn and gangling, ribs in high relief, skin a palette of pales, of premature grays. Her lips and fingers scan him, lay him open like a magazine. The legacy of Fenrir Greyback scrolls across belly, haunch, and throat, writ in crinkly egg-pale scars. Tattoo in negative. An autopictography. With each passing month comes new detail, fine lines in reds, browns. When Tonks bites his inner thigh, the deft-quick flick of his hips is worth a thousand words.
Mise-en-Face
(Lupin/Tonks)
(I mistyped Tonks as Yonks)
She is a blank canvas. No - a canvas is only blank once. She is a slate. She has the unthinkable luxury of redrawing her face in the mirror every morning. She has an aesthete's eye, and something of an artist's temperament: another day, another draft. Some days she is stylized, airbrushed like a pin-up girl, all smooth impossible lines; some days she is fucked-up, unplucked, Jackson Pollock chaos. On the best days, she is mousy photorealism: humble colors, comfortable disproportion, lips chapped in exquisite 3-D. In any case, Remus reserves comment; neither of them have much patience for dilettantes.
HELLO ARE YOU ENJOYING YOUR SUNDAY EXCELLENT HOOK 'EM STEELERS
From hp100!!!!!!111/////
Black-Eyed
(Neville/Luna)
"You like plants." She seated herself right atop the table over which he hunched, Herbology texts akimbo. Neville looked up, startled.
"...Yes?"
"Why?"
"Well - are you asking seriously?"
"As opposed to what?" Backlit, Luna looked like a Black-Eyed Susan, hair a bright yellow corolla and face obscured.
"To - to taking the piss," he mumbled.
"Won't that kill a plant?"
Neville gave her a long, weary look, then turned back to his books. The curve of her thigh drew his eyes from the ant-colony lines on the pages. He heard her sigh, and the silk whisper of her stockings as she slid off the table.
THE FOLLOWING ARE CONJOINED TWINS:
Mise-en-Skin
(Lupin/Tonks)
They don't speak much of it; they don't have to. The questions and the answers both are etched into his very flesh: limbs drawn and gangling, ribs in high relief, skin a palette of pales, of premature grays. Her lips and fingers scan him, lay him open like a magazine. The legacy of Fenrir Greyback scrolls across belly, haunch, and throat, writ in crinkly egg-pale scars. Tattoo in negative. An autopictography. With each passing month comes new detail, fine lines in reds, browns. When Tonks bites his inner thigh, the deft-quick flick of his hips is worth a thousand words.
Mise-en-Face
(Lupin/Tonks)
(I mistyped Tonks as Yonks)
She is a blank canvas. No - a canvas is only blank once. She is a slate. She has the unthinkable luxury of redrawing her face in the mirror every morning. She has an aesthete's eye, and something of an artist's temperament: another day, another draft. Some days she is stylized, airbrushed like a pin-up girl, all smooth impossible lines; some days she is fucked-up, unplucked, Jackson Pollock chaos. On the best days, she is mousy photorealism: humble colors, comfortable disproportion, lips chapped in exquisite 3-D. In any case, Remus reserves comment; neither of them have much patience for dilettantes.
HELLO ARE YOU ENJOYING YOUR SUNDAY EXCELLENT HOOK 'EM STEELERS