#& ── ⠀❪ about ┊ such a february face; so full of frost of storm and cloudiness . 🔪

[shespsycho]

tags.

[joytri]

You have a February face, so full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness.

William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

[oldwinesoul]

You have a February face, so full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness.

// William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

[othernicknameisgaslighter]

Ballad of Witches - Prologue

Cross-posted on Wattpad

Table of Contents - Next Chapter

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*:･ﾟ✧ On the day when two planets shared the sky A child of shadows and light shall rise. Marked by flame and held by frost, She shall mend what once was lost. A heart of thunder, voice of storm, She walks the line where fate is born. Beware the power in her hand, For life or ruin, at her command.

On February 16th, the sky began to dim, casting shadows across the earth. The moon began to edge across the face of the sun, an ink-black disc inching forward. 

The light turned otherworldly, fading from warm yellow to a haunting, silvery blue. The sky blackened, a shimmering ring of fire burned around the moon.

On February 16th, a witch named Ivory Rose Underwood was born during the eclipse. On the day when two planets shared the sky, a howl of a baby echoed through the room. Her voice was like a storm, booming and loud but quiet and soft.

Ivory clutched onto her leather bag, her brother standing next to her with her cart of luggage. “You ready?” He asked and Ivory nodded, biting her lip nervously.

His voice was muffled slightly, plugs covering her ears. They helped, it softened the loud voices on the outside and the inside. “As I’ll ever be.” She muttered, “What’s Hogwarts like?”

“It’s beautiful. The magic and everything.” Florian grinned, “Trust me, you’ll love it there, Ivory.”

‘As long as the kids are nice.��� Ivory felt him say internally but didn’t say anything. Most people didn’t like her reading their minds, so she didn’t tell them that she did.

She stared at the sign of Platform 9¾ instead with slight disdain. She didn’t want to go to Hogwarts… If anything, even Ilvermorny or Beuxbaxtons sounded fine to her. And that was saying something.

“Hey.” He knelt down with a smile, “Remember what mom and dad said, right?”

“No mind reading.” She said.

‘Only in fights…’ “Yes… You’re a very talented Legilimens, Ivory.” He said, “As long as you keep the ear plugs in, you’re going to do great.”

“Even if I get into Slytherin?” She asked and Florian nodded.

“Even if you get into Slytherin.” He said, “Just try not to get into Ravenclaw.”

“What’s wrong with Ravenclaw?” Ivory frowned. There wasn’t anything wrong with it, right? If anything, she would’ve preferred that house over all the other ones. She wasn’t very brave like a Gryffindor or patient like a Hufflepuff or a leader like a Slytherin. 

Ivory took pride in being quiet and calm under situations where you probably shouldn’t be. She took pride in being graceful, in being ‘mature for her age’. That sounded a lot like a Ravenclaw to her.

‘They don't look out for each other. They’re alone and don’t have many friends.’ “Nothing.” Her brother smiled, “Just get on the train before it leaves, alright?”

Ivory swallowed before nodding, reluctantly leaving Florian and traveling through the wall with her cart.

Later on, The Hogwarts Express traveled through the countryside. Ivory smiled as she spotted a few sheep grazing upon the green fields. She was sitting with another boy, he had greenish-blue eyes and wore a pair of broken glasses.

Ivory didn’t speak to him and he didn’t try to speak to her. They were both strangers, why would they need to speak to each other?

‘Wow, look at those sheep! I wonder where everyone else is? What spells am I going to use with my wand?’ Ivory smiled as she heard the boy’s faint thoughts. 

“Excuse me, do you mind? Everywhere else is full.” A voice called from the compartment door. Ivory looked up from the window to see a boy with bright red hair and freckled skin, no doubt a Weasley. ‘Is that the girl Fred and George were talking about? They said that Ivy Rose Underwood, the Legilimens daughter of two world-known wizards, was going to be here! Maybe they were right!’

Ivory frowned slightly. She hated it when people called her Ivy and not Ivory. The names weren’t that similar, were they?

“Not at all,” Harry said and Ron sat a far distance from Ivory, to which she thanked. She didn’t feel like talking to them right now, not when there were many more interesting things happening outside.

��I'm Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley.” Ron introduced himself. 

“I’m Harry. Harry Potter.” He smiled. Ivory looked up from the window, now that was interesting.

Ron’s eyes widened, “So-so it's true! I mean, do you really have the… The…?”

“The what?”

“The scar,” Ron whispered.

“Oh.” Harry lifted his bangs to reveal the scar on his forehead.

“Wicked!” He smiled. ‘I’m talking to THE Harry Potter! Before anyone else in my family! Take that Percy!’

Ivory watched as the two of them interacted before Ron’s attention was set on her. “And you have to be Ivy Rose, right?” He asked curiously. Ivory breathed in slowly, still fiddling with one of the straps on her bag. “My brothers said that you were gonna be here. That I should be on the lookout for someone with white hair”

It was true, Ivory had short fluffy white hair that was neatly kept back in a red headband. She didn’t appreciate the attention it gave her if she was being honest.

“Ivory. Ivory Underwood… It’s nice to meet you two.” She smiled, clearing her throat. She enunciated her t’s, making them sharp like rain pattering on a window.

“Ohhh, Ivory Rose… Got it.” Ron nodded with a smile. Ivory gave a small smile back, maybe it wouldn’t be too bad on the train. They seemed to be friendly enough. ‘I’ve got to tell them I’ve met two famous people. They’d definitely be jealous!’

“Is Ivory famous too?” Harry asked.

“I’m a Legilimens.” She explained, “A witch who can read minds.” Harry widened his eyes.

“Can you read mine?!” Harry asked and Ivory smiled at his excitement.

“Sure? Uh… Think of a number?” She smiled and Harry nodded, closing his eyes to think for a moment before opening them.

“Alright, got it.” ‘Eleven.’

“Eleven.” Ivory repeated and Harry gasped.

“You can read minds!” He grinned and Ron smiled.

“Wicked.” The red haired boy said. Ivory smiled at the praise, she wasn’t supposed to use her Legilimens on anyone or brag about it but it made her feel nice that they thought it was cool.

A trolley comes by the compartment, full of sweets and snacks. Ivory’s face lit up as she spotted one of her favorites, Fizzing Whizzbees. “Anything off the trolley, dears?” The woman rolling the trolley around asked. ‘Aren’t these three just pleasant? Nothing like the compartment two doors down…’ 

Ivory held up five sickles for the woman, “1 Fizzing Whizzbee please.” She stated. The woman happily took the galleon and handed her the baggy before looking at the two boys.

Ron held up his mushed sandwiches, “No, thanks. I'm all set.”

Harry watched with a slightly pitying frown before turning to his pocket and pulling out a few galleons, “We'll take the lot!”

The train chugged along, smoke clouding over it as the sun was blocked by the forest of trees. Ivory watched as Ron moved to Harry’s side with slight gratefulness and relaxed at the newfound space.

Harry and Ron both started eating bundles of sweets. Ron's rat, Scabbers, was perched on Ron's knee, a box over its head. Ivory feigned a look of disgust, ugh… Rats… 

“Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans?” Harry read the clown-like box with a bit of disgust and confusion.

“They mean every flavor! There's chocolate and peppermint, and there's also spinach, liver and tripe. George sweared he got a bogey-flavored one once!” Ron said.

“I’ve gotten a bogey-flavored one once too,” Ivory said quietly, munching on her Whizzbee’s. “They’re nasty little things. Tastes like death itself.”

“That’s what George said too! Maybe he did get a bogey-flavored one.” Ron widened his eyes at his realization. Ivory chuckled as she took another bite out of her candy.

Harry quickly takes the bean he was chewing out of his mouth. He didn’t think that tasting death would be very nice. He picked up a blue and gold package. ‘Eugh! Are these actual frogs?!’ “These aren't real frogs, are they?” He asked.

“It's just a spell.” Ron explained vaguely, “Besides, it's the cards you want. Each pack's got a famous witch or wizard. I got about 500 meself.” He bragged. Ron turned to Ivory, who was looking out the window once again. “Did you want this? I don’t think either of us are going to eat it.”

He held out a box of Pâtes à mâcher à la bave d'escargot. “I think it's called Patsamacalabavedescargot.”

“I didn’t know they sold French candies here.” Ivory said, taking the box to get a better look at it, “And… I’m pretty sure it’s not pronounced like that but thanks anyway, Ron.” She said and opened the box.

Harry opened the package, and a chocolate frog jumped onto the window and climbed up. “Watch it!” Ron yelled. The frog reached the open gap in the window and jumped out. “Oh, that's rotten luck. They've only got one good jump in them to begin with.”

Harry spotted Dumbledore's image in the card, “I've got Dumbledore!” He exclaimed. ‘Wow! How does he move like that? Is it magic? It’s got to be magic…’

“I got about six of him,” Ron stated. 

Harry looked back at the card again, but Dumbledore had vanished. “Hey, he’s gone!” He realized.

“Sometimes they don’t stick around.” Ivory explained, “That’s how magic works. It’s not all fantasy stuff, there’s science and math involved.” She said before realizing what she said, “I mean, it’s also fantasy and dragons and stuff but you’ve gotta be smart about it too…” She muttered.

Harry smiled slightly, “Well, hopefully I’ll survive.” He chuckled. 

Ivory smiled, “I’d hope so too.” She said.

Ron’s rat squeaked and he held it up, “This is Scabbers, by the way. Pathetic, isn't he?”

“Just a little bit.” Harry shrugged.

“You’ve been feeding it properly, right?” Ivory asked.

“Fred gave me a spell to turn him yellow. Want to see?” Ron asked. That’s weird, Ivory couldn’t recall a spell to turn an animal a different color… Maybe it wasn’t in one of her spellbooks?

“Yeah!” Harry smiled.

‘Where is that stinking toad? I swore I saw it somewhere!’ Ivory heard a female voice close to their compartment.

Ron picked up his wand before clearing his throat, “Aaaaaaahem. Sun-”

“Has anyone seen a toad? A boy named Neville's lost one.” A girl appeared in the doorway, looking around before sighing with a discouraged expression.

“No.” Ron scrunched his face.

“I thought I spotted one on the way over here.” Ivory muttered.

Hermione spotted Ron’s wand raised and smirked, “Oh, are you doing magic? Let's see then.”

Ron cleared his throat again loudly, “Sunshine, daisies, butter mellow, turn this stupid fat rat yellow!” He zapped Scabbers, but nothing happened. Ron shrugged and Ivory sighed.

‘That’s not even a real spell. What exactly has he been reading?’ “Are you sure that's a real spell? Well, it's not very good, is it?” Hermione frowned, “Of course, I've only tried a few simple ones myself, but they've all worked for me.”

Hermione took out her wand, walking in, and sitting down across from Harry. "For example…” She pointed her wand at his glasses and Harry tensed, “Oculus Reparo.”

The tape on the noseband vanishes, repairing his glasses as if they were as good as new. Harry takes them off, amazed. “That's better, isn't it?” Hermione said smugly before gasping, “Holy cricket, you're Harry Potter! I'm Hermione Granger.” ‘Jiminy cricket! The Chosen One! It must be my lucky day to meet such an important person!’ She turned to Ivory, “And you are…?”

Ivory looked up, blinking slightly. “Ivory Underwood.” She held out her hand and Hermione’s expression turned into a pleasant one.

Hermione thought for a moment, “Could you perhaps be related to Khepri Underwood?”

“That’s my grandmother.” The white-haired girl smiled slightly and Hermione widened her eyes.

“Wow! I’m such a big fan! Her work with Newt Scamander was incredible!” The bushy haired girl grinned, “You must be Ivory Rose Underwood, the Legilimens Prodigy! I read about you in a book before!”

“Oh…” Ivory smiled shyly, “Uh, yeah, I suppose you have?”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Hermione grinned, “If your mother is as great a witch as they say she is, can you do magic as well as her too?”

“I know some spells.” Ivory took out her wand. The man she bought it from, Ollivander, described it as “One of a kind”. 

The Ebony wand’s perfect match was someone who kept to their beliefs. The core was a Dragon heartstring, powerful yet prone to accidents. While Ollivander had sold extremely short wands and very long wands, he said that 12 ¼ was pretty rare.

“Harry, can you give me something to try this on?” Ivory asked and Harry handed her a small piece of paper. “Thank you. Um… Bombarda.”

The paper snapped before exploding, shreds and bits of blackened paper fluttering to the ground. “Sorry.” Ivory said quickly, “Hope that paper wasn’t important.”

‘That was magic?! Wow… I’ve got a lot to learn…’ “Not at all,” Harry said, though he seemed to still be watching the burning paper.

‘I’ve never seen a spell like that before!’ “That was amazing! I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Fred and George use that spell before!” Ron widened his eyes.

“It’s just a silly spell that my Mother uses for her job,” Ivory said shyly, looking away.

“That was still spectacular.” Hermione grinned. ‘She really is as great a witch as her mum! I’ll have to ask how she learned it so quickly!’

“I'm Ron Weasley.” Ron suddenly said with his mouthful. Hermione turned to him.

“Pleasure. You two better change into your robes. I expect we'll be arriving soon.” Hermione stood up and left. ‘Was that dirt on his nose?’ She then came back and looked at Ron. “You've got dirt on your nose, by the way. Did you know? Just there.” She pointed to the dirt mark on Ron's nose. Ron scratches his nose, embarrassed.

_____________________________________________________

It was nighttime at Hogsmeade station, the train blew its whistle and pulled outside the station. Hagrid walked along the side aisle with a lantern. People, in their robes, begin pouring out of the train. “Right, then! First years! This way, please! Come on, now, don't be shy! Come on now, hurry up!” He yelled.

Thank Merlin for the ear plugs that muffled the loud voices. It wasn’t exactly pleasant hearing someone think that they had to go to the loo or throw up. Harry, Ron, and Ivory walked up to the giant. ‘Is that who I think it is?’ “Hello, Harry.” Hagrid smiled.

“Hey, Hagrid.” Harry smiled.

‘That IS who I think it is!’ “Good to know you’re back again, Ivory.” Hagrid grinned and Ivory gave a small smile.

“Good to be back, Hagrid.” She said and Harry frowned, slightly confused. How did Ivory know who Hagrid was?

“Right then. This way to the boats! Come on, now, follow me.” Hagrid yelled and the students all followed him to the boats as quickly as possible.

Ivory stepped one foot onto the shaky boat, wobbling slightly. Harry held out his hand to which she gladly took for support and sat down next to him.

After the students all filed onto the boats, they glided across a vast lake, where up ahead was a huge castle, known as Hogwarts Castle, can be seen. Ivory watched as the warm light seeped from the windows to light up the sky with a slight smile.

Her mother used to be a professor here and they used to visit all the time before she got sick. Hogwarts was familiar, almost like another home. “Wicked.” She heard Ron mutter next to her.

‘It's beautiful…’

‘This must be why Hogwarts is the best wizarding school!’

‘When are we gonna eat?’

Ivory’s smile slightly dimmed at the loud thoughts being echoed in her head. It was why she didn’t like crowded places, it was too much even with the ear plugs in.

The students continued on further towards the castle. The first-year students walked into the castle and up the massive staircase. Ivory huffed, it never got easier walking up staircases like that.

Ivory recognized a witch, Professor McGonagall. ‘What a wonderful array of students, they’ll grow up to be great witches and wizards…’ Standing above the staircase. She tapped her fingers on a stone railing, greeting the newcomers. “Welcome to Hogwarts. Now, in a few moments, you will pass through these doors and join your classmates.”

“But before you can take your seats, you must be sorted into your houses. They are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Now while you're here, your house will be like your family.”

“Your triumphs will earn you points. Any rule-breaking and you will lose points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the house cup.”

‘Hey… Is that…?’ A scared-looking boy, Neville Longbottom as Ivory assumed, spotted his toad sitting near McGonagall and jumped forward “Trevor!” He caught his toad and McGonagall stared down at him as some of the students laughed, “Sorry.” He backed away, embarrassed.

Ivory felt second-hand embarrassment from the spectacle in front of her. She cringed, pursing her lips before Professor McGonagall spoke, “The sorting ceremony will begin momentarily.”

‘There he is. Father was correct, he HAS come to Hogwarts.’ “It's true then, what they're saying on the train. Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts.” Ivory heard a boy say a little ways behind her and turned to see a blonde-haired boy talking to Harry and Ron.

"Harry Potter?" Draco introduces his two friends, “This is Crabbe and Goyle. And I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.”

Draco Malfoy… Ivory recognized him. Her father was in cahoots with the Malfoy for his business. They were a family friend though Ivory never met Malfoy.

Ron snickered at his name. “Think my name's funny, do you? I've no need to ask yours. Red hair, and a hand-me-down robe? You must be a Weasley.”

“You'll soon find that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.” Draco held his hand out for Potter to shake.

“I think I can tell the wrong sort for myself, thanks.” Harry sassed and Ivory stifled a laugh. The Chosen One’s eyes landed on Ivory before smiling, Ivory gave a smile back.

Draco turned around to see Ivory and scowled, “So, Ivy, consorting with the enemy, is that it?”

A hush of whispers overcame the crowd again. Ivory Underwood, the granddaughter of a world-renowned author who worked with the famous Newt Scamander, the daughter of a powerful auror and a successful businessman. Other than the Malfoys, they were a very pureblood family.

“I think I have an idea of who the enemy is.” Ivory felt nauseous before swallowing it down and speaking up. “Also… It’s Ivory, not Ivy.” She looked at him up and down before turning her back towards him.

“Traitor,” Draco muttered under his breath.

“We're ready for you now. Follow me.” Professor McGonagall said, appearing from the hall.

“I have a few start-of-term notices I wish to announce.” Dumbledore raised from his seat, “The first years, please note that the Dark Forest is strictly forbidden to all students. Also, our caretaker, Mr. Filch-”

Ivory spotted a ragged old man, Argus Filch, with his cat with red eyes, called Mrs. Norris. ‘Stupid children, blubbering and messy and dirty!’

 “-Has asked me to remind you that the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a most painful death. Thank you.” He sat back down.

“When I call your name, you will come forth. I shall place the sorting hat on your head, and you will be sorted into your houses.” McGonagall opened a scroll and read it, “Hermione Granger.”

“Oh, no. Okay, relax.” Hermione whispered to herself before walking up. ‘Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall…’

“Mental, that one, I'm telling you,” Ron whispered to Harry, who nodded in agreement, and Ivory, who didn’t seem to care.

After Hermione, Draco, Susan Bones, and Ron went, it was now Harry Potter’s turn. Harry Potter.

“Harry Potter,” McGonagall called out his name. The cheering crowds went silent as Harry went up and sat down with the hat placed on his head.

‘Harry Potter? The Chosen One?’

‘Hey… I’ve heard of Harry Potter before!’

‘Wow! I can’t believe Harry Potter is actually here!’

‘So the rumors are true…’

After a tense moment, the hat yelled something that would go down in history and probably make Fred and George cheer, “Better be… GRYFFINDOR!” An immensely loud cheer coming from the Gryffindor table came something that shook the hall and made Ivory’s ears ring. 

“We got Potter! We got Potter!”

“Silence!” McGonagall yelled, “We still have a few more students for the sorting ceremony!”

“Now we just have to get Underwood,” Fred whispered to George who grinned.

“Ivory Underwood,” McGonagall called out her name. Ivory played with the slightly frayed ends of her robe sleeve before standing up and sitting in the chair. Her heart pounded in her chest as she tried to look anywhere other than the audience that watched her. 

“Oh! An Underwood, well, isn't that interesting.” The hat spoke to her, “Curiosity and intelligence are good traits for a Ravenclaw… Hardworking and loyal would make for a great Hufflepuff…”

“Not Slytherin… I’m not made for Slytherin.” She said quietly.

“Oh? Hm… But you’d make a good Slytherin, clever and ambitious. But… There seems to be something more…” The hat said ominously, “You take pride in your personality traits. You’re loyal yet on the inside, quite competitive. I know just what to put you in.”

Ivory’s breath hitched as the hat yelled, “GRYFFINDOR!”

The red and yellow house erupted into loud cheers once again as the hat was taken off of Ivory’s head. She brushed the dust from her hair off as she quickly made her way down to the table with a wide smile. She had never felt so relieved.

“WE GOT HER! I TOLD YOU GEORGIE!”

“I GUESS I OWE YOU ONE FREDDIE!”

After a few more people went up and got sorted into various houses, the feast had begun. Food magically appeared on the great hall tables as the first-year students widened their eyes at the display of food.

“Say, Percy, who's that teacher talking to Professor Quirrell?” Harry asked Percy.

“Oh, that's Professor Snape, head of Slytherin house.” He explained.

“What's he teach?”

“Potions. But everyone knows it's the Dark Arts he fancies. He's been after Quirrell’s job for years.”

Ron, having just finished a chicken wing, reaches into the bowl for more, and a ghost, called Sir Nicolas, pops out. “Ahh!” He shouted and Ivory looked up from her cranberry jelly to see a ghost. She widened her eyes.

“Hello! How are you? Welcome to Gryffindor.” The ghost smiled.

“Hello, Sir Nicholas. Have a nice summer?” Percy asked. He seemed to be familiar and comfortable around the ghost, so Ivory swallowed down her nervousness. At least, she tried to.

“Dismal. Once again, my request to join the headless hunt has been denied.” Nicholas started to leave with a disappointed sigh.

“I know you! You're Nearly Headless Nick!” Ron exclaimed with wide eyes.

Harry shot Ivory a look and she shrugged, she didn’t know much about him either. Even if she visited regularly, her father didn’t like her ‘fraternizing with the ghosts’. Those were his words, not hers.

“I prefer Sir Nicholas if you don't mind,” Nick said.

‘What? How does that even work?’ “‘Nearly’ headless?” Hermione scrunched her face as she repeated Ron’s words, “How can you be nearly headless?”

‘Uh! How annoying can this girl be?’ Ron scoffed and Ivory snickered slightly at the thought.

“Like this.” Nick grabbed his head and pulled it to the side. His head is hanging on just by a thread.

“Ahh!” Ron screamed and Ivory forced down a vomit. EUGH!

‘I think I’m gonna be sick!’ Hermione moaned in disgust and Harry just simply rolled his eyes. Nick reattached his head back to his body and left the Gryffindor table (Thankfully).

“That was… Something.” Ivory muttered, “I don’t think I’m hungry…” She muttered, turning to drink her water instead.

“Ron, did you want our food?” Harry asked and Ron nodded happily. The two of them scraped food off of their plates and onto the redheads instead.

After the eventful dinner, Percy led the rest of the Gryffindors up to their dorm room, “Gryffindors, follow me, please. Keep up. Thank you.” He said and they turned the corner to walk upon a staircase, “This is the most direct path to the dormitories. Oh, and keep an eye on the staircases. They like to change.”

Merlin, she hated it when they did that. It was like a maze and she had to run through the staircases just in time. She almost fell off! Ivory never liked being a Maze Runner.

“Keep up, please, and follow me. Quickly now, come on. Come on.” They began walking up the stairs, and several of the portraits began greeting them.

“Seamus, that picture's moving!” Ivory heard Neville shout.

“Look at that one, Harry!”

“I think she fancies you.”

“Oh, look! Look! Who's that girl?”

Finally, Percy stopped on the seventh floor, the students in the corridor leading to Gryffindor Tower. They came up to a large painting of a large woman in a pink dress. She was known as "The Fat Lady". “Password?”

It was sort of disrespectful, after all, she might’ve had a name if anyone ever asked. “Caput Draconis.”

The Fat Lady smiled and nodded in confirmation. The painting opened up to reveal a doorway in the wall, leading to Gryffindor Tower. “Follow me, everyone. Keep up. Quickly, come on.” Percy said.

Ivory had never been in the common rooms before and smiled as a homey sense of comfort wrapped around her like a warm blanket. It was… Nice and calmed her nervousness.

“Gather around here. Welcome to the Gryffindor Common Room. Boys' dormitory is upstairs and down to your left.” Percy pointed to one side, “Girls, the same on your right. You'll find that your belongings have already been brought up.”

Ivory went up to her room, less nervous than before about being here at Hogwarts than she was at the train station. She found her trunk and a few other things on her bed with a smile.

She took off her robe, revealing the brown bag that she set down on the top of the trunk. Ivory yawned, she was tired. So very tired.

[swaize-n-stuff]

"This is a secret, but ive been looking into Shakespeare lately and i discovered something called a February face. Full of frost, of storm, of cloudiness. I know you know what this means, so i wont tell you. But i swear, i dont mean it as an insult like he did."

[Shakespeare - Much Ado About Nothing]

[paperbodiesamongthestars]

Ao3 First Lines

Rules: Post the first lines of your last 10 fics posted to AO3 (Sort by date posted). If you have less than 10 fics posted, post what you have!

Tagged by the wonderful @magniloquent-raven approximately one hundred years ago. Thanks for thinking of me, bb!

1. Witchcraft does not reward shitty intentions  I (finally) finished this bad boy in February, only two full years after I posted it! LOL. 

Steve handed him his movies and opened his mouth like he was going to say something. Then he closed it again.

"Spit it out, Bambi," Billy said. Steve stared at him for a minute, glancing around to make sure Billy was the only customer at Family Video.

"I just wanted you to know that it's not your fault," he finally said tentatively. Billy thought about all the things Steve could be referring to and decided he needed more specifics.

"What are you talking about?"

"The...thing. The attraction thing." Steve gestured between them. "It's not your fault." 

2. The best-laid plans I wrote this one because I love the idea of Steve Harrington: Actual Disney Prince. Of course everyone wants to kiss him, and of course that ruins Vecna’s plans. Twice.

Henry Creel was in a good mood.

Sure, he was still hideously deformed and trapped in this barren hell dimension—thanks to one very ungrateful little girl—but things were looking up. The weird hive mind that had inhabited this world before Henry arrived had found a way through the gate into Hawkins proper, and Henry could observe and affect events through his link to the creature. He was feeling optimistic.

Things had not gone according to plan the first time he had tried this, and they hadn’t exactly worked out the time after that either. This time, though, Henry had a good feeling. He had made some changes, and he felt like they were going to pan out.  

3. All the Christmases Yet to Come My holiday exchange fic! This one was very fun to write, even if it is a little angstier than my usual fare. 

It dawned like any other December day in Hawkins, bitterly cold and gray, with clouds piling up ominously on the horizon. Fresh snow from an overnight storm sat untouched on lawns and sidewalks and roads. Frost glittered on windowpanes and the brave few who were out and about this early sent plumes of warm breath into the frigid air. Hawkins came slowly and gradually to life as the sun crept up past the horizon, people going about their business as though it was a perfectly normal Friday.

Billy Hargrove woke up in a foul mood, as usual. Thin, gray light filtered through his curtained window, and he found himself missing the sun almost as much as he missed the distant susurration of waves meeting the shore. Hawkins had always been intended as a punishment, and it was a very effective one. This fucking town had only disappointment to offer him, especially after—

Well. Billy was still insisting—even to himself—that he had been even more short-tempered than usual since November because the weather sucked, and not because he couldn’t seem to forget the sensation of Steve Harrington’s cheekbone giving way under his fists. It was getting harder to lie to himself, though. He had fractured a certain pretty boy’s face, and thus ruined any future opportunity to touch that face with gentle, reverent hands, the way he had wanted to since he first laid eyes on it in the school parking lot. Not that it would have been a possibility before that awful night, probably, but it definitely wasn’t after. Billy had broken something he cared about with his own hands; these days, it wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling.

4. One Prize I’d Cheat to Win Listen, I know how long it has been since I updated this. I KNOW. But I swear to you that it is still an active WIP, and I am working on the upcoming chapters. Updates are coming!

“Talk to me, Max. Something feels off. This was too easy.”

“Everything’s fine, asshole. Stop being so paranoid.” Even through the earpiece, Billy could hear her irritated huff. “I told you, I did extensive research on this one. It's easy because we planned it that way.” Billy snagged a glass of champagne as a server with a tray passed him. He sipped it as he studied the dance floor below him. Couples in black tie swayed in circles to the music. The band was set up in a discreet corner, opposite the raised dais at the far end of the room. There was a podium on it. The auction was due to start in an hour, and Billy hadn’t seen his target yet.

“If everything's fine, then where is he?” he asked Max. “This is his party in his massive, ridiculous ballroom." Who the fuck had a house with a ballroom? "He should be schmoozing right now.”

“I don’t know, Billy. Aren’t rich people late all the time? Maybe he’s still getting ready.” Given what his hair had looked like in the photos Billy had studied, he could almost believe it. Still, Billy didn't like it. Something felt off. He opened his mouth to say that again, but two things happened at once. The double doors opposite the raised dais opened and Steve Harrington stepped through them. He was wearing a beautifully tailored dark blue tuxedo, and Billy’s mouth went a little dry. The photos really hadn’t done him justice. At the same time, someone leaned up against the railing right next to where Billy was tucked into the shadows, and he felt the unmistakable press of a gun muzzle against his ribs. He took a sharp breath and let it out slowly. God damn it, he had been right. This had been too easy because it was a fucking trap.

5. The One Word My first foray into the Captain America fandom! I’ve considered deleting this until I have more of it edited (life, ugghhhh), but I haven’t done it yet. I have so much more of it written, but editing is my nemesis.  

Once upon a time, there lived two small boys. One was small and fair and fierce and the other tall and dark-haired and charming, and there are many, many stories about what happened to them over the months and years and decades of their lives.

In some stories, the boys grow up together. They laugh as they dart through grimy alleyways or cobblestoned courtyards or vast rooms where the sound of each footstep vanishes into deep, lush carpeting. They annoy each other and defend each other and vow, as children do, that they will be with each other forever.

In some stories, they keep that promise. They stand beside each other and take on every challenge with the warm, sure knowledge that there is nothing they have to face alone. In other stories, they are less fortunate. There are months and years and decades of dark and painful separation. And yet they find each other, again and again and again, on eerily silent streets and in deep forests, in coffee shops and dorm rooms, in subway cars and in quiet, too-empty apartments. They fall apart, and then they come back together.  

In this story, they start out alone.

6. Almost Enough Ah yes, the post-S4 fic that I wrote before I watched S4. Truly, a simpler time. 

It’s too quiet. Sure, there’s the soft beeping of whatever machines they have him hooked up to, and he can hear the murmur of quiet voices in the hall—even in this desolate stretch between midnight and morning, the hospital doesn’t truly sleep—but Billy was alone in the Upside Down for a long time. He craves light, and familiar voices, and the simple animal heat of other bodies close to his. Those things are not available, not here and now in the sterile hush of this hospital, but…well. Maybe he doesn’t have to be completely alone.

He carefully strips off the oxygen line and the sensors they plastered to him when he came in. There’s nothing specific wrong with him—nothing they’ve managed to identify, anyway—but his nurses all shoot each other looks and murmur about ‘sustained exposure’ and ‘delayed symptoms.’ He can’t bring himself to care. He’s alive and he’s not trapped in a terrifying mirror of Hawkins anymore and for right now, it’s enough. Almost. It’s almost enough.

He slips out of his room when the hall goes briefly still and silent. Steve’s room is three doors down on the right. The door is ajar, and Billy just stands there for a moment, staring.

Steve isn’t asleep. He’s sitting up against the headboard, knees pulled to his chest, staring blankly in the direction of the window. Billy can see a slight tremor in his hands where they’re wrapped around his knees.

7. the road not taken looks real good now I think this is still my most popular fic? I dug it out of my drafts and gave myself a public deadline, and finished it in like five days. There’s a lesson there somewhere. 

Billy isn’t surprised when it’s Robin who opens Steve’s front door. He’s a little late, so Steve is almost surely in the midst of making dinner. He issurprised when she steps out onto the porch and closes the front door behind her. Billy blinks at her. She isn’t wearing a coat, and it’s freezing.

“Todd is here,” she says, voice pitched low. Billy stares at her blankly for a moment before the sentence sinks in.

“Steve brought his boyfriend back to Hawkins for the holidays?” he asks, tone surprisingly even. It isn’t the first time Steve has dated someone since he left for college, obviously, but it is the first time he’s brought anyone home. Billy tries to fight off the surge of disappointment that he will not, apparently, be spending the bulk of this vacation in Steve’s bed, the way he always does when they’re home at the same time. They’ve been hooking up whenever they see each other for the past three years, since the first time Steve came back to Hawkins from college for a visit. Robin nods, her expression bleak.

8. Six Gifts My other holiday exchange fic! Holiday fluff is my JAM. 

It started with a cigarette.

Well. If Billy was being honest with himself, which he was trying to do a little more consistently lately, it started long before that. It started the first goddamn day, before any of the rest of it happened, with a single glimpse of big dark eyes and pale skin across a parking lot. But it didn’t go well, that first time, and Billy figured that once he’d died, he probably got to start over with a clean slate.

So it started with a cigarette.

Billy was standing in a shadowed corner of the porch at the Byers’ big new house, smoking a cigarette and half listening to the sounds of laughter and Christmas music from inside. He appreciated Max’s continuing efforts to include him in the larger group, but he didn’t really belong inside with them. Maybe he wasn’t the monster anymore, but he wasn’t one of the good guys either. It was fine. He could linger around the edges, helping out Max and doing his best to stay out of the way.  

Suddenly he heard the creak of the porch door opening and a slam as it closed again. Then he heard light footsteps headed for the same darkened corner Billy had chosen. He knew exactly who it was—he had been paying attention to that specific tread for a long time. The steps stopped abruptly as they reached the corner of the house. There was a brief silence. Billy kept his eyes fixed on the line of trees visible across the side yard, fully expecting to hear those same footsteps moving away from him. Instead, he heard a quiet little sigh.

“I hear those’ll kill you,” Steve said softly as he walked up to stand next to Billy at the railing. He gestured at the cigarette in Billy’s hand. Billy stared at him and then snorted.

“Too late,” he said drily.

9. you should come with a warning label This one is a bit of a tease. I have a part 2 mostly drafted, but editing, boooooo.  

Billy heard the door to Steve's room swing open, hard enough to slam against the wall. He glanced up to where his own door was open just a crack. He couldn't see Steve, but he could see the girl he had brought home. She was pretty. Tall, blonde, athletic. A little drunk and a lot angry, apparently.

"Come on, it's not like I lied about it," Steve pleaded. She whirled on him, pointing a finger.

"You should come with a fucking warning label," she hissed at him.

"Hey," Steve said, sounding offended, but she had already turned and was stomping toward the front door. It slammed behind her. Steve made a frustrated noise and Billy heard the door to his room slam shut, and then silence.  

Fifteen minutes later, Billy was sitting at the kitchen table when Steve emerged from his room. This wasn't an accident; Steve always got snacky when he was drinking, especially if he wasn't getting laid. He was still wearing his date outfit and a scowl. Billy took a moment to admire the way his ass looked in his date jeans when he leaned into the fridge, and waited until Steve was sniffing a box of leftovers before he spoke.

10. A few lines at a time The postcard fic! I wrote it for the 2021 Big Bang. It started as a very different story, but I’m so happy with where it went instead. 

“Billy is alive!”

Max burst into a Friday night D&D session in March and dropped that bomb, and Steve promptly dropped the glass he was filling at the sink. He took a few long moments to stare at the new crack in the glass before it occurred to him to turn off the water. He spent another minute slowing his breathing to something more manageable before he turned back to face the group eating snacks at his kitchen table. No one appeared to have noticed his reaction; their attention was firmly on Max.

Steve caught up to the conversation just as Max announced that she had, in fact, just gotten off the phone with her less-dead-than-previously-assumed step-brother. She was met with skepticism, even though they had all already lived through the miracle of Hopper reappearing, too thin and bearded and even more pissed off than usual, and telling an insane story about a Russian prison camp and the Upside Down. But this was different. After all, Joyce had told them all that Hopper was dead, and they had believed her, but they had all watched Billy die, and they could trust their own eyes.

Except that they clearly couldn’t, because Billy was alive and generally fine, living in California and calling his sister to tell her that he survived--surprise! --and was recovering in some lab.

This was so fun! I haven’t looked at some of these in a while. I’ll tag @passivenovember and @thatharringrovehoe, only if you feel like it. 

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Please talk more Shakespeare 👀

(I am personally terrible at reading his original writing but I do enjoy reading the abridged versions and his plots.)

What is your favourite Shakespearean insult? Favourite play? Underrated works? I love when people talk about stuff they like! ♥️

reading his original writing is hard work!! it always takes me at least 2 reads to somewhat grasp it.

that man knew how to write an insult, but “Thou art unfit for any place but hell” from Richard III and “You have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness” from Much Ado about Nothing are definitely favourites.

I love The Comedy of Errors!! it’s just so stupid, and one big miscommunication trope, but it’s so much fun. it’s so confusing halfway through and then so satisfying when it concludes.

I also think you can’t beat the classics, so I love Hamlet and I love Macbeth. I love his darker stuff, it’s so layered and the themes are so constant throughout time, it’s fascinating. any of his stories could be picked up and placed in modern day and they’d work perfectly.

I think The Comedy of Errors is underrated, and so it The Taming of The Shrew. As You Like It is one I don’t see mentioned too much either!!

one of my favourite things is when modern movies (especially romcoms) take Shakespeare plays and redo them in a contemporary way. I went to see Anyone But You a while back, which is based on Much Ado About Nothing, and loved all the references that were in there. we should do it more !!

[ruenin]

“Why, what's the matter,

That you have such a February face,

So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?”

William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

[heightstm]

❛❛ — you have such a february face, so full of frost, of storm and cloudiness. ❜❜

. ✧ . * . ˚ ━━ ｢ LEE SUNG KYUNG, CISFEMALE, SHE/HER. ｣ welcome CLYTEMNESTRA NIHAR, the SPOUSE OF THE HIGH RULER of THE WINTER COURT to velaris! it is well known that the 35 / 699 year old HIGH FAE is WARM and PATIENT. it is a lesser known fact that they are also MOODY and SELF-SACRIFICING. however, it is knowing just how cold it is by the crunch of snow beneath your feet, the haunting whistle of the wind blowing through the sparkling icicles, snowflakes collecting on dark eyelashes, and the golden sun warming your face – reminding you that the winter is beautiful too, that truly define who they are. in the shadows, their alliance with THE WINTER COURT makes them a force to be reckoned with. truly, who knows what to expect of them. cauldron save them, mother hold them.

full name: clytemnestra wren nihar ( née cygnet ) nickname: clem, clemmie age: six hundred and ninety-nine, biologically thirty-five species: high fae gender + pronouns: cisfemale + she/her sexuality: heterosexual marital status: married to kardan nihar, high lord of the winter court court + allegiance: of the winter court, loyal to the winter court

height: 5'10" build: lithe and slender hair: black , in competition with a heavy blot of ink on paper eyes: lifted hazel eyes that reflect a kaleidoscope of colours complexion: pale skin in a permanent state of rosy thanks to her residence in the winter court fae: pointed ears capped with white gold crawling up the lobe

i. our dearest clemmie was born on a brutal winter’s day with lips red as the rose, hair black as ebony, and skin white as snow. the trees shook and the howling of the wind harmonized with her mother’s as she clutched the bark of her bedpost. that’s how the legend goes, they say.  her parents love their little girl as they love each other, and the heir of their family's grandiose fortunes grows happy and healthy. there’s little to speak on in a time so gone to the annals of time but she is loved and grows to love.

ii. clytemnestra grows swiftly into her long limbs, grace seeping into her bones. her beauty is well-praised with annual portraits done to show off just how beautiful she becomes with each passing year. it’s her birthright to grow into her beauty and into her rightful place in the mosaic of beautiful ( and perhaps not-so outwardly beautiful ) kinds of faeries that reside throughout the winter court. her wonderment turns into caring, and with caring comes her protective nature. she loves the winter court. akin to the steadfast flame in the window during a winter storm and the yuletide joy that offers reprieve in the bitter cold, it is home. prior to her life as a miserable wife, clytemnestra is an advisor in court. although sharp-minded, she doesn’t get to do much. she’s just a girl. she knows there’s a hierarchy to follow. but, it’s thrilling to be so close to the action. to watch change happen. the war is a startling wake-up call. 

iii. how better to protect her home than at the right hand of the high lord of the winter court ? that's how her parents reason it to her before they ask her for the rest of her life. and although she has a love and a life that she cherishes, she puts her happiness behind her because how does she say no to her loving parents who have never asked anything else of her ? they simply want to help the court and she ... she is in agreement of that. the days of being paid to voice her opinion have passed, but she tries to enjoy being the wife of the high lord ( while the court enjoys her family’s gold ). it feels that more than a wife, she is a mother to their people. the winter court is her life. 

iv. possible connections: friends who meet every so often to catch up over wine and dance ! someone she simply doesn’t like due to a snide remark made in passing about the winter court ! perhaps you don’t think she deserves to stand next to the high lord ! maybe you support her endeavours !

[darkpoetrynprose]

“Why, what’s the matter? That you have such a February face so full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?” 

―  William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

[literaturewoman]

"...You have such a february face, so full of frost, of storm and of cloudiness..."

Much Ado About Nothing, by William Shakespeare.

[aliyafatima]

"...You have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness..."

-William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

[slightlyacademia]

“Why, what's the matter,

That you have such a February face,

So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?”

― William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

[naz-yalensky]

Sankta-nazylensky > naz-yalensky > rrruthless > taaylorsversion > sanktnazyalensky > rrruthless > naz-yalensky

Basics:

"She had amber eyes, her black hair was like winter berries but her blood had run cold"

• Taba / tabassum

• minor

•muslim

• she/her

•desi

• will do anything given for academic validation

• peacocks / ravens

• February 1st / Aquarius

"You have such a February face, so full of frost, of storm and cloudiness" - William shakespeare, much ado about nothing

Fandoms: (consists of shows, books and movies)

"You have always approached everything terrible trustfully. You have wanted to pet every monsters" - friedrich nietzsche

•Grishaverse {the books and the show}

• howl's moving castle

•True beauty {webtoon and the show}

•tfota

•kakegurui

•the witcher

•tempted

•mlb

•princess mononoke

•whisper of the heart

•from up on poppy hills (good god this movie has me just)

•the secret world of arrietty

•to the forest of firefly lights

"My desire for revenge, the bitterness, repression of everything" - leila miccolis. tr. By Nelson cerqueira, from "till death do us part"

kin list:

"Everyone you idolize, wakes up scared to be themselves sometimes" - Pete wentz

•zoya nazyalensky

•kang soojin

•yennefer

•inej ghafa

•silvermist

•shun kazama

"I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief" - C.S lewis

DNI -

• the usual (homophobic, transphobic, acephobic/aphobic , Islamophobes, zionists and like those)

• 25 + / 12 - (if we're mutuals then yeah okay)

"I hope I'll be present to laugh and clap, at my own coronation and beheading day "

Other blogs -

@dearest-investment

@magicboxoffoxes

@oliivirodri

Still under construction 🏗

[antenoracocytus]

January

"You'd be so lean,

that blasts of January

Would blow you through and through."

-Shakespeare, Winter's Tale

February

"You have such a February face, so full of frost, of storm and cloudiness”

-Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing

March

“It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.” -Charles Dickens

April

"April is the cruellest month,

breeding Lilacs out of the dead land,

mixing Memory and desire,

stirring Dull roots with spring rain."

-T.S.Eliot

May

"The month of May was come, when every lust heart beginneth to blossom, and to bring forth fruit”

-Sir Thomas Malory, Le Morte d’Arthur

June

"Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.”

-Pablo Neruda

July

" Long has paled that sunny sky

Echoes fade and memories die

Autumn frosts have slain July.

Still she haunts me, phantomwise,

Alice moving under skies

Never seen by waking eyes."

- Lewis Carroll

August

"In June we picked the clover,

And sea-shells in July

There was no silence at the door,

No word from the sky.

A hand came out of August

And flicked his life away

We had not time to bargain, mope,

Moralize, or pray."

-Cecil Day-Lewis

September

Do you remember

The 21st night of September?

Love was changin' the minds of pretenders

While chasin' the clouds away

"Our hearts were ringin'

In the key that our souls were singin'

As we danced in the night, remember

How the stars stole the night away, oh, yeah"

-Earth, Wind & Fire

October

“The trees are in their autumn beauty,

The woodland paths are dry,

Under the October twilight

the water Mirrors a still sky"

-William Butler Yeats

November

"No shadow

No stars

No moon

No care

November

It only believesIn a pile of dead leaves

And a moon

That's the color of bone"

-Tom Waits

December

"Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December. And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor."

-Edgar Allan Poe

[zmediaoutlet]

in support of Texas relief, @romancewritingandwinchesters donated $20, and requested Sam and Dean waiting out a Texas storm with no electricity. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post.

(read on AO3)

When the snow starts coming down, Dean's not yet worried. He's driven the whole country at least five times; he can handle snow. It's when the temperature starts dropping fast that he pulls up, at the closest gas station, and fills the tank, and sends Sam inside for a few gallons of water and whatever food they don't have to cook. "I told you," Sam says, which frankly Dean thinks is a very smug and unattractive way of looking at the situation. "Remember, that front I was telling you about?"

"Yeah, but who thought it'd get this cold in Texas," Dean says, watching the numbers tick up on the pump. Shit, this is gonna be expensive.

"Oh, you know," Sam says, arms folded tight over his chest, stamping his feet by the car's rear door. "Meteorologists. Climatologists. Just that level."

Dean rolls his eyes, but Sam's turned away luckily and can't see it. Turns out Sam gets a little bitchy when it's this cold. They didn't really pack for it—this was supposed to be a low swing south to check a few harmless jobs, stuff that'd take Sam's mind off the whole soulless thing, a couple of easy wins and some weather a little better than February in South Dakota, but it's not working out that way. Fourteen degrees, according to the display on the Shell sign above their heads, and it's only nine at night.

The snow's already piling up, on the parking lot and in the street, making the nice local El Paso people drive under ten miles per hour and making the world seem—not-right. Alien. A cactus planted in the median glints with ice and Dean sucks his teeth, shivers hard. When the car's full up he recaps the tank and sets the nozzle back in place and then looks out at the frosted world. The black shine on the asphalt. "I don't like the look of that road," he says, after a second, and Sam follows his gaze and nods, immediately. "Tonight's not the night to get out of town."

"Texas blizzard on the highway?" Sam says, a little sarcastic, but shakes his head, more serious. "Yeah, it's gonna get a lot worse." His nose is pink from the cold. "Too cold for the car. Even if we still had that—remember, that awful pink blanket?"

"The one you totally ruined?" Dean says, and Sam grins, even if he shudders after. Sam ruined it by getting clawed up by a ghoul when he was twenty-three and trying to protect Dean from something he didn't need protecting from and then bleeding all over the damn blanket when Dean put him in the backseat to race him to the ER. Dumbass, Dean had called him then, but honestly not much has changed. Dean shoves Sam's side, shaking his head. "Why are we standing around here in the cold? Get in the car, let's go."

"You're the one who took forever with the gas," Sam argues back, but he gets in the car, so. Win for Dean. Beyond the win of having this Sam, this right good Sam, in the car in the first place—whole again, with the soul to make a context for the memories that make him Dean's brother.

They're not far off the highway so there'll be motels. The issue hits when they're driving—slow, painfully slow, crawling behind snow-caked Texas plates that don't know how to handle the weather—and the street goes suddenly dark, the lights crashing off in the fast food places and gas stations lining the road. "Shit," Dean says, checking the rearview, but luckily the truck behind him hasn't slammed its brakes and they're not about to be involved in a black-ice skid.

"You think—" Sam says, but cranes around and it's obvious. Some part of the grid, failing, and that's going to mean some panic and it's going to mean some accidents and it's also going to mean finding a place to stay just got a hell of a lot harder.

The kid at the motel they pick clearly has no idea what to do. It's a shithole, which is why Dean pulled in, and clearly there weren't too many customers to begin with. The lobby's dark other than a flashlight the kid's waving around while he explains in a panic that their electricity is out—"I can see that," Dean says, trying to be patient—and Sam finally leans over the counter, takes the flashlight out of the kid's hand, and sets it upright on the counter so it acts like a shitty lantern, filling the room with grey.

"Oh," the kid says, eyes gleaming big in the suddenly stable light. The kid—the boy. He looks barely older than Ben.

"Look," Sam says, while Dean's trying to shake off that thought. "We get that there won't be cable. We just need somewhere to weather it out."

"My register doesn't even work," the boy says, and Dean reaches into his wallet and peels out two hundred bucks and lays it fanned out on the counter. More big eyes—the room rate on the sign outside is forty-nine a night. "Oh," he says, again.

"Just give us keys, okay?" Dean says. "You can explain to your manager in the morning. How these weirdos paid a hundred, cash."

A blink. Maybe he's too young to realize he's being bribed. Sam sighs, and leans over the counter again. "We're taking room 13," he says, coming up with a key in hand. A physical key—Dean was right about the kind of dump this is. The boy opens his mouth and closes it, and Sam jerks his head at Dean before he gives the boy a half-smile, fake as hell. "Try to stay warm in here, okay?"

The Impala's already inch-thick with snow, outside. "Why the hell did that take so long," Sam mutters.

Dean snorts. "Thirteen?" he says, and Sam nods, folding himself back into the passenger seat for the short drive over—"Center room, more insulation," he says—and when they pull around to the odds side of the building he's right. The city's blanketed in dark and weirdly quiet, with the muffling of the snow, so it feels almost like opening up some hidden hunter's cabin as they unlock the room, unpack the car inside. Sam bought jerky, chips, iffy-looking gas station fruit, and Dean still has one lantern and two spare d-cells and a bottle of whiskey that's almost entirely full, and the water, thank god, is still running. "For how long, though," Sam says, so Dean drags a hand over his face and zips his jacket closed and goes down the row of rooms in the freezing dark to the one that's marked PRIVATE, and breaks in to find cleaning supplies that… clearly haven't been used in that long. Buckets, though, that he rinses out and then fills in the utility sink. Spare bedding on shelves above the laundry machine and he picks out two blankets, the shitty supersoft microfleece kind that have always been his favorite.

When he gets back, burdened like a mule, he finds the room—weirdly sort of homey. Sam's got the lantern on the rickety little desk and it's blasting white light up that wall, but he's lit their spare ritual candles, too, and put them on the nightstand, on top of the blank TV, the minifridge crammed up in the corner by the bathroom. It's warm inside, especially once Dean's got the door kicked closed behind him again, but it won't stay that way for long. "Laundry?" Sam says, and at Dean's nod he disappears outside too, and comes back with a pile of the thin towels in his arms, and packs them in against the bottom of the door, the base of the single-pane windows. The water heaters might be gas but they might be electric, too, and with no way of knowing they take turns in the shower, cleaning up fast. The water's still hot when it's Dean's turn and he luxuriates, for a minute that he counts off in his head, letting the weak stream melt over his shoulders and put heat into his bones, where hopefully it'll stay a while.

The bathroom's steamy when he gets out but it's already cooling fast. Not much insulation in the walls. He dries off scrupulously, trying to get off every bit of damp he can, and redresses by candlelight. Smells like beeswax, the hippie natural candles Sam always picks when they restock their kit. His soulless self didn't bother with that. What a weird thing to turn out to miss.

Back in the room, Sam's made a pile of their food on the desk by the lantern, and lined up the buckets of water by the door. Dean checks his watch: ten o'clock, and they're packed into this room like a bunker. Safe, as warm as they can be, clean and healthy and food to hand. Now there is, truly, nothing at all to do but wait.

"Not even wi-fi," Sam says, under his breath like he had the same thought. Dean huffs. Sam's mouth lifts on one side, wry. He sits on the end of one bed, hands folded between his knees, and gives a shrug. "Well. We got a night off."

They did. About time, too, with how they've been running lately. Sam making up for every bad thing his soulless self ever might've done, and Dean just trying to hold onto the bar so he won't fly off. First time in weeks that Dean's had Sam to himself without Sam searching for another job or trying to pin down his own sad timeline or his brain melting out his ear, and he almost doesn't know what to do with it. A bit of silence, between them, that stretches. Dean licks his lips. "Wanna play charades?"

Sam snorts. "You'd cheat," he says, and Dean smiles his most honest smile, and that makes Sam roll his eyes but smile a little, too. "How long do you think we have until it gets really cold?"

Dean tips his head back and forth, thinking. "It's—what, fifty degrees in here?" Sam shrugs. "I don't know. It'll be friggin' cold in the morning, but we won't freeze."

"Guess not," Sam says, but he's still just sitting there. His eyes on Dean, his body quiet. Dean pours them both cups of the whiskey and sits on the other bed, and Sam rotates to face him, and they toast each other with a rasping papery excuse for a clink and take a swallow each, and it sinks down to Dean's gut like fire, welcome with how chilly it is in here, and Sam's just… still looking at him. Like he's something worth looking at. Dean feels his face go warm and wonders if he can blame the whiskey.

"Hey," Sam says, cup held easy between his knees. "Tell me something."

Dean leans back. "What, truth or dare? We're a little old for that, don't you think?"

His legs are kicked out into the space between the beds. Sam shifts and their boots knock together. "Maybe you are," Sam says, and Dean makes a face at him. Sam smiles and takes another sip, watching Dean over the top of his cup, and after the slight pull at the sting he's still smiling, small. "This last year. Did you ever think about…" He shakes his head, looks down at his cup. Dean nudges his ankle to get him to keep going and Sam looks back up, his hair hanging a little in his eyes. "Did you ever want to sleep with—him?"

Dean's lips part but nothing comes out. He's genuinely surprised. Sam's eyes tighten, a tiny shift that's almost not visible in the dim combination of candle-and-lantern light. "No," Dean says, after a pause that's too long. Sam's head tips back, assessing. "No," Dean repeats, firmer. "It wasn't—right."

Sam hmms and Dean takes a drink. Truth or dare, he really ought to do his forfeit. It's not a lie, not really, but it's not—completely true. Robo-Sam never seemed interested and Dean was still half-caught with Lisa and Dean's a lot of things but a cheater's not one of them, and he'd thought—he didn't know. That Sam didn't want it anymore. Whatever fumbling they'd gotten up to, their drunken stupidity, the almost violent way it'd get sometimes, the way Dean would sink his nails into Sam's back and Sam would bite his throat and then the way, after, sometimes, Sam would look at him in the dark and Dean would think, god—

His cheeks are flushed, hot enough to feel in the cool air. "So," Sam says, after the moment's stretched out, "we never—even when I came back—"

"Not exactly trying to make it with my long-lost brother when my creepy resurrected grandpa's breathing down my neck, no," Dean says, and Sam grimaces but then laughs, and then bites his bottom lip. Still looking at Dean and Dean takes a breath, deep, and thinks, jesus. Eighteen months, more, since the last time, most of it with Sam walking around with no soul, and Dean caught up in a relationship that crashed and burned, and it feels—different. They're both different. Happened somehow when Dean wasn't looking but here's the evidence, in how calm Sam is, in how they're just—quiet, here, together. Something building slow, in the cold, with the snow sifting down outside.

Sam lets his lip go, slow, his teeth dragging white. His eyes drop to Dean's mouth, and lower. "I've got lube," he says. Dean blinks. Sam lifts a shoulder, almost apologetic. "Don't know from what, but it's in my duffle. I've been—wondering."

"Jeez, Sammy," Dean says, and has to laugh, too, kind of breathless. It's hot. Jesus, it's hot, hotter than it should be, to just have Sam say it flat out like that. Asking. "What, you want to huddle for warmth?"

Sam raises his eyebrows, glances sidelong at his bed. "I mean," he says, and Dean has to laugh again. "If there were ever an opportunity—"

Dean leans in and gets Sam's jacket in one hand, and pulls. Sam scoots forward easy, his knee sliding up against Dean's inseam, and it's—easy, weirdly easy, easy in a way it never was, to lean in and press his mouth to Sam's and have Sam just—kiss back, pressing Dean's mouth open right away and brushing his tongue over Dean's lip, slick and hot, his breath warm on Dean's cool skin. "Damn," Dean says, soft.

Sam smiles against his mouth and kisses him again, puts his chilly fingertips against Dean's exposed throat. "I mean, we don't have anything else to do, right?" he says, pulling back an inch.

Dean rolls his eyes and says, "You really gotta learn some better lines."

Sam presses in, kisses him again soft on the mouth. God, Sam's mouth. "I don't think I do," Sam says, hanging there, and Dean groans, pushes Sam's face away, thinks: yes. Yes.

He goes to the bathroom. Takes his time. The toilet, thank god, is still flushing, so the water lines haven't yet gone down. He runs the sink and wets a washrag and cleans up, and washes his hands, and then he licks his mouth wet and looks at himself, in the spotty mirror, the candlelight flickery and making his face strange. When he comes out Sam's stripped the bed closer to the door and the other one is spread with that bedding, the blankets Dean stole, and Sam's in the middle of taking off his belt, standing in his socks with his shirt off and his chest bare and his hair a little ruffled, and he looks up at Dean in the bathroom doorway and smiles, and lays his belt on the bare bed, and says, "C'mere," and Dean comes.

Sam's hands are cold and Dean bitches about that, immediately. "Shut up," Sam advises, and Dean says, "Oh, if anyone needs to—" and Sam kisses him, like Dean knew he would, so that's okay. Together they get Dean's jacket off, his flannel, his t-shirt, and he shivers but Sam's hands drag down his arms and that's so warm Dean can hardly stand it. He drags his fingers through Sam's chest hair—hair, when Sam had been so sleek before—and Sam kisses the top of his ear, weirdly affectionate in a way that makes Dean's chest hot—and then his fingers go for Dean's belt, his jeans, and Dean pushes him away an inch, then, taking a second to breathe.

Sam's—christ. Hot. His nipples pebbled up tight and his cheeks a little pink, even in the candlelight. "Gotta get my boots off, man," Dean says, and Sam looks down like he's surprised that an impediment to getting in Dean's pants might exist, and Dean grins, sits back on the bed. Okay, so. Sam's not suddenly a pure sex god. Somehow that's as much of a relief as the breathing room was.

He works at the knot of his laces. Sam takes the opportunity to strip off his jeans, and then there's his bare long legs, his boxer-briefs. His dick's thick in them, obvious, but while Dean's tugging off his second boot Sam skims them off and down and then he's just—naked, nearly all the way except his stupid black socks he always wears, and Dean huffs and says, "Sexy," dry, but then Sam's kneeling down in front of him, sliding his hands up Dean's thighs, and—well. Truth or dare. Dean wouldn't have to take a drink, this time.

The corner of Sam's mouth lifts and he unzips Dean's jeans, and then tucks his fingers into the waistband, and Dean lifts his ass up and lets Sam pull and Sam—takes his time about it, damn him, pulling down Dean's underwear too so the cold air ripples up goosebumps all the way down Dean's legs, freezing. Sam kisses Dean's chest, his nipple—Dean grabs Sam's head, surprised—and then ducks down, kisses the root of his dick and then sucks in the head, soft and warm, slick, so abrupt that Dean slams a hand down onto the edge of the mattress and his head falls back, his hips lifting. Christ, Sammy. A big hand circles around Dean's calf and Sam sucks, soft, while Dean's dick rises so fast he gets dizzy—and then Sam pulls away, the cold air hitting like a hammer, and lifts up with his mouth pinked-wet and says, "Get in bed," and Dean stares at him like a lunatic for a second and then, jesus, scrambles to obey.

He scooches in to the middle. The blankets are ridiculous, double-weight and heavy, but the sheets are chilly even through his socked feet. Sam climbs in after him and pushes right up against his back, his dick swelling up against Dean's ass, his body a hot shock among the cold. "You're a friggin' furnace," Dean says, and Sam snorts, bites soft at Dean's bare shoulder. There's a second of separation—Sam stretching away—and then Sam's back, under the blankets, kisses under Dean's ear, slides his hand over Dean's hip, down. Dean's breath hitches and he slides his leg forward. "Yeah?" Sam says, the idiot, and Dean says, "Duh, bitch," and there's a huff and then a muffled click and then Sam's fingers are slick, sliding up against his ass, pushing in.

Oh—god. It's been—since the last time. Dean turns his face against the pillow and pulls his leg higher, makes room. Sam's fingers, wet-thick, and the strange uncertain feeling of being broken open, how it pulls and worries, his body barely remembering what to do. Long time. Sweat breaks out at his temples, the middle of his back. He drops a hand to his dick and squeezes, letting it know something better's coming.

"You're tight," Sam says. Unnecessarily, in Dean's opinion. "You really, you never—?"

"Some things should be kept between a man and his hour-long showers, Sammy," Dean says, light, and it's not really true but Sam huffs another little laugh and kisses his ear, and Dean pops his leg up instead even though that makes a cool cavern of air under the covers, giving Sam the room to work him. He pushes back, pulls at his dick, works it fat, and against his ass Sam's dick feels full, ready. He always liked this part, the part where he made Dean want it. He turns his head and says, "Sam," and Sam lifts up and kisses him just like he wanted, his chest warm against Dean's shoulder and his fingers spreading deep, pushing the slick inside where they need it, and while he's kissing Dean and relearning every molar Dean feels the fingers slip out, rubbing instead at Dean's hole where it's hot now, wet, flexing. He drags in air through his nose and reaches behind himself, finding Sam fat and heavy. Thick. Jesus, he could never forget how thick.

"Ready?" Sam says and that's a stupid question. Dean tugs the blankets higher with his free hand, covering his shoulder against the cold, snubs Sam up against himself and then lets go, finds Sam's hip, pulls—and Sam takes over, holding Dean's belly as he pushes inside, and Dean tries to contain the flinch but can't and Sam kisses his temple, soft, and his ear, and his neck, and doesn't stop, bulling open that place for himself, splitting Dean wide. His pubes press against Dean's ass. Dean grips the pillow and lets his knee sink down and immediately what's already tight is tighter, closer. Sam grunts against him, slides his hand down to find Dean's half-wilted dick. "You feel—" Sam starts, but he squeezes Dean's dick instead of saying, and Dean's fine with that, he doesn't need compliments when he just needs Sam to—

"Move," he says, and Sam moves.

It's slow, from being on their sides. No real force behind it. Dean knocks Sam's hand away from his dick and Sam squeezes his balls instead, and then slips a hand to the inside of his thigh and keeps him close that way, locking Dean in place to be fucked. He's still tight but he's loosening up, from the thick rocking churn of Sam inside him, buried up to the root half the time, flexing in and making Dean stretch for him, forcing in that deep good ache of being open, slick for it. With the underhand grip on Dean's thigh his thumb slots in right at the base of Dean's dick, a soft dragging pressure every time Sam squeezes, and Dean can hardly think for how good it all feels. For how much he missed it and pretended for so long he wasn't missing it. Sam's other arm is tucked under the pillow, under his head, and he manages to shove the pillow away enough that he gets bare skin and bites there, soft in Sam's bicep, and Sam drags in air through his teeth and pushes in harder, the wet drag enough that Dean shudders, shoulders to hips, and Sam squeezes his thigh so hard that it hurts.

If it weren't so damn cold Dean would want to throw the blankets off—get on his back with Sam between his legs—lift up, ride, to remember the way Sam's eyes went so dark and hot and intense from seeing Dean get off on him. As it is he feels it building slow, the sweat between them starting to get oppressive, his throat a little abraded from the way Sam keeps dragging his teeth over it, his breath hot there where Dean's skin's so wet. He clenches inside, as much as he can when he's split wide like this, and Sam grunts, warm burst of air against the back of his ear. "Fuck," Dean says, squirming back. He presses his knees together and Sam feels even thicker, his hand caught between Dean's thighs. "Fuck, Sammy—"

"God, I want to come," Sam says, and Dean jerks, caught against him, his dick spitting. Sam worms his hand out and cups Dean's nuts, rubs warm at the root of his dick, his lips smearing against Dean's neck. "God, you're—are you close?"

"Out of practice," Dean says, breathily light, like that's even fucking remotely true. "Can't you tell?" Sam's hand pulls up, fisting his dick, and Dean arches as much as he can, shoving down onto Sam, his teeth floating on this feeling. His gut's molten. "Fuck—Sam, if you—"

"I have to," Sam says, thin, and pushes—Dean tips over and Sam slides, god, out, but in a second he's covering Dean's back and Dean's spreading as wide as he can and Sam slots right back inside, hard, and Dean drags in air against the mattress but doesn't really care, doesn't need it. Sam's pumping inside, fast and deep, the jolting drag of it sliding all over exactly where Dean wants him, and Sam's hands slip from Dean's sides to his hip to his shoulders, holding him in place, and Dean worms a hand between the bed and his dick and lets Sam shove him into his own grip, the rhythm perfect, perfect—Sam's mouth hot against the knob of his spine—and Dean comes pulsing into his own hand, his toes curling and his lips spread against the sheet and his whole body locking up, it feels like, tense, unloading—and Sam groans, shoves his hand between them to feel the mess Dean's making, says, "Fuck, you're—fuck, you're so hot, Dean, the hottest I ever—" and gets a hand on Dean's ass and pulls it wider, shoves in harder, for a shocking minute where it almost hurts except that Dean's so floaty and satisfied he'd take a knife in his flesh and wouldn't mind—and when Sam finally comes he presses right up inside and pumps it deep, forcing it in, and Dean sighs against the bed, overheated and wet, and lets go of his own dick enough that he can tangle his fingers with Sam's, slick, crumpled, bone to bone.

Sam's a deadweight on his back. Dean turns his face against the sheet and gets a pocket of slightly cooler air, content to take it. He squeezes Sam's fingers and in response Sam squeezes his hip, and then slowly, slowly, his lips brush the back of Dean's ear, and then Dean's cheek. "Wow," Sam says, quiet, and Dean snorts. A shift, inside, that makes Dean open his eyes wide—oh, he's open now but it feels—and one of Sam's knees slips over to the outside of Dean's, different leverage, as he pushes in again on all the wet he made, and in again, still thick. Dean licks his lips and it's so quiet he can hear the wet noise it makes—match, to when Sam pulls out—a spill, trickling down over Dean's balls—and then the squelch as he pushes back in and makes Dean grip the pillow, makes his nuts pulse in heated shock.

"I could go again right now," Sam says, low against his ear, entirely honest.

Dean has to take a deep breath. "Don't press your luck," he says, raw, and Sam laughs quiet, drags out again—still hard, christ above—and tugs at Dean's shoulder, and turns him over in a messy sheet-tangling pull, and gets them the right way around to kiss, full, open, Dean's hands on Sam's waist and the bed smeary and disgusting, between them.

When Dean pulls away, Sam's got his fingers curled around the back of his ear, his dick warm and full up against Dean's hip. He smiles, looking back at Dean in the barely-light. Dean smiles back, kind of helpless. "We really wrecked this bed," Dean says. Just for something to say.

Sam's shoulder lifts. "Heated it up, though," he says, and, well. He's not wrong.

The candles are still lit, and they'll have to take care of those so they don't burn the damn room down. The lantern, too—they shouldn't waste the batteries. There's a slit in the blankets somewhere, cool air pouring in over Dean's back, and he tugs, and Sam gets it and helps him smooth them out, making a cocoon for the two of them. The discarded lube bottle ends up under Dean's back and he slides it up under the pillow, for hopeful future use. Their socked toes bump together. Sam's nose is cold, where it bumps Dean's cheek, but that's all right. Dean's not in a state to mind.

"It's gonna suck to dig out the car in the morning," Sam says, out of nowhere.

Dean closes his eyes and pulls at Sam's waist, getting him closer. Sam's knee slides between his thighs. "That's what I missed about you, man," he says, drowsy. "You always know what to say to get me hot."

Sam snorts. His knuckles drag over Dean's jaw, safe and warm.