#and then had a giant ice cube in my cup instead of my night drink

[hitwiththetmnt]

He accidentally froze his cup of water for the night

[vldkeith]

keithtober💢🎃🔪 day 31: halloween 🎃🍬 🐈‍⬛🔮

a/n: thank you everyone for sticking with me this keithtober!! i hope you enjoyed all these mini (and some not-so-mini) fics! love u keith, and happy halloween everyone :) oh! and if you haven't, please leave kudos on ao3 for this series! ty!

🔗read on ao3

content included: halloween party, sappy klance

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

Keith shifts his drink around in its cup, the ice cubes tinkling against the glass. It’s apple cider and fireball—the alcohol Keith likes best and is still generally in the spirit of things. Right now, he’s hidden in the shadows at Shiro’s (okay, it’s more like Adam’s) annual Halloween party, hoping to avoid the various Garrison employees littered about the place.

It’s not really his thing, suffice it to say. Costumes were required, too, which is even worse; Lance coaxed Keith into a cat costume somehow, so Keith still has tiny little black cat ears perched on his head. He tore the tail off an hour ago.

Keith sighs, takes another sip of his drink, appreciating the heat it brings to his body. Speaking of Lance, he disappeared ten minutes ago to go socialize, or whatever it is extroverts do. Keith glares out into the crowd, searching for his wayward boyfriend. Honestly, how can Lance enjoy doing shit like this? It’s exhausting. He once again longs to be in Pidge’s place—she had left the party an hour after it had started, citing a want to go watch horror movies all night instead of pal around with people she barely knows.

Pidge is such a smart person. Keith should be more like Pidge.

Suddenly, as Keith is wiping his gaze lazily through the heads of people, he spots it—Lance’s brown hair poking out from his blue witch hat. Straightening up, Keith downs the rest of his drink and sets it on the table. Time to confront his boyfriend for so rudely leaving him to the wolves.

No, literally. Some guy in a werewolf costume who was, like, twice Keith’s age had stopped by to try and chat him up. Keith wants to kill and murder.

Keith taps Lance’s shoulder insistently when he arrives, shooing away whoever he was talking to. Lance starts and quickly turns around, mouth widening into a grin when he sees Keith.

“Keith! I was just talking about you, actually—”

“You left.”

Try as he might, Keith can’t keep himself from pouting a little as he talks. It’s not that he’s incapable of being alone—he is very capable, thank you very fucking much—but he has kind of gotten used to having Lance’s company at big events, having him as a safe haven amongst all the strangers and conversations and mingling. He doesn’t need Lance, but he sure does want him. Especially on his favorite holiday.

Lance’s expression softens. “Aw, sorry, babe, I just had a few people I wanted to talk to, and I figured you wouldn’t want to deal with being dragged along.”

A sigh breezes past Keith’s lips. “Makes sense,” he mutters, stepping closer to Lance and quickly circling his arms around him. “Are you done yet, though?”

Lance chuckles, returning Keith’s hug automatically. “Yeah, I think so. Good timing.  Told you you were a natural familiar to my witch,” he says, releasing Keith with a wink. Keith rolls his eyes.

“Shut up. You’re only the main character for tonight, you better enjoy it.”

Lance laughs, the sound musical and comforting, and entwines his hand with Keith’s, tugging them further away from the crowds of people in giant, obstructing costumes. “I’ll enjoy anything as long as you’re by my side, baby,” he says smugly, earning himself a slap on the arm for his cheek.

Keith gets led to the loungeroom of this rented space, a grand area with a sparkling chandelier, plentiful jack-o-lanterns, and cobwebs spread across every random service they can be spread across. There’s a table of refreshments, but no bar—no apple cider fireball for Keith. At least, not here.

The couches are a plush orange, arranged carefully in the middle of the room atop a purple rug, giving the place a cheesy, movie-like Halloween vibe. Keith likes it. It’s certainly better than the ballroom they’d been in until now.

(The expensive venue shows quite obviously that Adam received help from the Garrison with throwing this party.)

The second they reach the couches, Lance lets go of Keith’s hand and collapses down onto one of them, though he’s careful to leave space next to him for Keith, who takes it. Immediately, Keith lays his head down on Lance’s shoulder, allowing himself a moment of true relaxation. Lance’s hand strays to his hair, playing with it while being careful not to mess with the cat headband.

Keith very much wishes Lance would mess with the cat headband just so he has an excuse to take it off, but, ah, c’est la vie. Another time, maybe.

“This is my first time going to a Halloween party with a date,” Lance says suddenly, his hands never ceasing their stroking. Keith perks up slightly with interest.

“Really?” Keith had been under the impression that Lance had scores of dates in his past—boyfriends, girlfriends, whoever. Every time Lance proves that wrong, Keith is surprised; not because Lance seems like that type of person, but because Keith can’t fathom the idea that not everybody wants him all to themselves all the time.

Lance nods, a little sheepish. “Yeah. Never had a boyfriend before you. And none of my girlfriends lasted till Halloween.”

Weird, Keith thinks, and then jumps as Lance starts laughing. Wait, had he said that out loud.

“So glad you think my lack of a dating life is weird,” Lance comments playfully, tugging harder on a strand of Keith’s hair. Keith buries his face into Lance’s chest, embarrassed.

“You’re not weird,” he says. “I just meant, like—it’s weird that nobody would want to go to a Halloween party with you! That’s all.” Lance keeps laughing, despite Keith’s words; Keith swats at him uselessly.

“Thank you,” Lance manages, smile still present on his face even after the laughter has subsided. “I’m, ah, glad you think so. I hope I’m good company.”

“You are.” Keith snuggles closer into Lance’s side, utterly unconcerned about PDA. “Even if you made me dress up as a cat and then left me alone for five thousand hours.”

“As if. Needy.”

Keith rolls his eyes but doesn’t deign that with a response, content to rest his head on Lance and feel the grounding sensation of Lance’s hand wrapping around his waist, holding him close. Mummies and ghosts and worn-out celebrities mingle around them, unaware of the small bubble Keith and Lance have created for themselves.

Keith loves it that way. He loves being Lance’s one and only, on his favorite holiday, curled up and feeling safe even though he’s in a public, crowded place.

“Obviously, you’re the first person I’ve brought to one too,” he says after a moment, looking up at Lance. He sees Lance quirk a smile, and love swells through him. “Wouldn’t have it any other way. Not ever.”

Lance blinks a lot, then clutches Keith tighter to himself, kissing the top of his head tenderly. “You’re so cheesy,” he says, the warmth thick in his voice, drawing a smile to Keith’s face. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Keith says, zero hesitation, brimming with absolute certainty. Maybe it’s the fireball. Keith doesn’t think so, though. He thinks it’s just Lance.

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

☕️ko-fi - so i can buy all the on-sale candy tomorrow fsdjgfsd 🍬

[demonicpiano]

Cold-Blooded

RusCan Sprite AU

Everything is just a normal human AU except these guys called sprites are running around. Snow sprites manipulate the cold, heat sprites do well in the hot weather...yadda yadda. Our boy Canada isn’t doing so well. He keeps shivering but gets nauseous if he tries to warm himself up. Maybe it’s just a second onslaught of puberty. Either way, he’s not the only one.

Check it out on my AO3!

~.~

"It's a little chilly, eh?"

"It's winter, yeah."

Matthew gave his coworker at the next desk over a long look. No acknowledgement. He turned back to his own computer screen with a light sigh, flexing his stiff fingers before going back to compiling these ungrateful bastards'—oops, lovely reporters'—findings into a somewhat presentable column. He wore a thick turtleneck. He still shivered.

A glimpse around the cramped clumps of desks and lost souls bent over in their seats foretold nothing of sharing his blight. That guy was wearing goddamn shorts in the middle of winter. Matthew gave him a subtle shake of the head, although the tough guy wouldn't notice - he was too worried about bending over some newcomer's work and shaking his buttocks at her.

Matthew whispered to his adjacent sufferer-in-arms, "I'm going to get something warm to drink. I'll be right back, in case one of the bosses comes by."

No reply.

Matthew rolled his eyes, saved his work, then pushed from his chair. The only reason there were cocoa packets for the taking in the break room was because they were leftovers from a manager's party, and nobody wanted cocoa without marshmallows. And milk. Water would (very unfortunately) have to do. It was something warm.

Chilly hands clutched a cheap Styrofoam cup, shaking and sloshing around cocoa powdered-flavored water as Matthew slowly lifted it to his face. Instead of a nice wash of steam opening his nostrils, a slap of sweaty, undesirable muck came over him. He jerked away, waggling his tongue at the sink tempting him to dump the rest of the watery abomination out, but he decided to take it back to his desk and use it as a hot pack.

Matthew set the cup down, curling and uncurling his fingers. The cocoa's spell backfired; instead of relieving numbness, his fingers turned into noodles. At least those were supposed to soak in hot water. Not cocoa. Yes, this ruined the whole point of a steamy beverage. He was raised with standards. At least for hot chocolate. And men.

His shivering lessened to a nauseous quivering. Matthew crammed a lump back down his throat before tacking on his keyboard. He tossed more cocoa back as he started to get toasty under his sweater, regretting doing so as the taste washed over his tongue, but persevered through the rest of the dull day.

On the walk back home, Matthew tried to remember what he did for eight hours, but could not think of anything besides white walls of text. The snow banks seemed to give extra cold to the air, like Canada was a giant refrigerator and God just turned down the temperature dial.

Matthew eyed their grayed, gravel-infested lumps along the sidewalk, imagining too easily how the cold drifted and curled over his skin. Even under three thick layers, it was as if the cold was inside of him, posing as miniature ice cubes in his veins.

An uneventful walk, an uneventful handful of hours before bedtime. His flat was quiet. He kept the TV set low as news reporters poured over anything wrong with the world. Oh, and a local puppy adoption. Hey, puppies were the best.

Matthew violently shivered on the couch. He sent a weird look to the thermostat before relenting and hobbling over to give it a nudge for warmth. Back to the couch. Shivering. Thermostat again.

Oops, too warm now. Matthew shed his blanket and turned down the temperature a little. Back to the couch. Blanket intact. Weather time. It was going to be cold all week. Then a snow storm by the weekend. He bet the school kids were excited at the sound of that. He would muster up a smile at the thought of pretty sparkling flakes before relentless feet stomped it to pity if he weren't shaking in some kind of fit.

Matthew decided to keep the thermostat down, as he could always add more layers and more blankets, as opposed to shedding his skin when it got too warm. Under five blankets—yes, five thick comforters—he shivered. Of course he shivered. As if the blankets weren't going their job. Or he wasn't giving them warmth to give it back to him. Huh.

Matthew glared in the direction of his bedroom wall, twitching and shaking and quaking so much his darn muscles started to get sore. He plucked his cell phone from the nightstand, trying for the weather again, but this was so damn ridiculous, especially without his glasses, and the screen was just a blur of light jumping back and forth. He slammed the device back on his nightstand and flipped himself over with a growl.

He couldn't shiver all night. Eventually, he would pass out.

~.~

"Agh! Ow, oh, what...?" Matthew pulled his hands from the covers, gawking at his bone-white fingers. He was white, but not that white. He whipped his blankets away, putting his icicles-for-legs to the floor and hobbled around his room like the cold from the floor seeped into his feet.

"Ooh, man, this is bad," he spat between trembling teeth. "Just how freaking cold is it? This is starting to get ridiculous."

Matthew grabbed for a pot for tea or even more damn cocoa-water, something warm! Okay, he managed to fetch some milk from the fridge, hissing at the cold coming from there, like there wasn't enough in the world. He stared at the milk gently steam like an insane person would, tempted to stick his fingers in the flames below.

Hey, there was a good idea. Matthew lifted his hands, holding them a little ways to the fire warming his milk. He smiled and nodded to himself as the almost-non-metaphorical sheet of ice against his skin started to melt. Then it burned. He yelped and jerked away.

Matthew was not even close to the stove. Not that close. He twisted the knob to lower the heat, grumbling at his own stupidity. He had a roof over his head; he'd warm himself with his heating bill, not the stove top, for crying out loud.

~.~

However, Matthew did not get warm. He got ready for work with stiff fingers. Ate some doughnuts with hands made of ice instead of muscles and what not. Shivered some more. Sometimes the quiet flat was too quiet, but not in a suspicious-spy movie way. It was quiet in a 'damn, I need a boyfriend or a dog in here' kind of way. The teeth chattering filled the silence and rattled his nerves.

Surprise, surprise! It was a cold walk to work, too.

Matthew has been cold many times in his life. Sometimes it was fun. Other times, the snow or freezing rain soaked his socks, and that wasn't as fun. But he never, ever got freaking sore from shaking so much. He wondered how much of a workout was shivering. Maybe he burned (or froze off) plenty of calories from those two donuts he ate that morning.

"Oh, Mister Williams!" A middle-aged 'Can I speak to the manager' woman strode to his desk with too bright lipstick for the sorrow in her eyes. "Hey!" She nasally brayed, "How's the column going? Did you get my e-mail?"

"Um...the one about the cat pictures? Yeah..."

"Yeah?" She smiled, parting the sea of pink that shouldn't be on someone's face. "You like it? Don't lie, I can see that you do. Everyone's gonna love it. They all love cats. They better, anyway, providing you do your little keyboard magic, and move everything just right...!"

Matthew just blinked as this lady went on and on how one of the previous programmers left a stray code in the middle of her article last quarter, and they received a bunch of angry letters from people that had nothing better to do than complain that they saw 'greater than' and 'lesser than' symbols outside of a school classroom. He let out a shaky exhale, trying not to bite a chunk of his tongue off from his teeth trying to rattle up a band.

"Oh, honey!" The lady cried in a decibel that would make dogs whine. "You look so pale! Are you sick or something? Oh!" She pulled her scarf over her mouth. "I hope you don't give me anything!"

"Mm, n-n-no, I d-don't think s-s-so."

"I'll see about turning up the heat a bit for you, okay? Just...make sure you cough into your sleeve! I'll come by again to see how things are working out! I can't wait to see those kitties on the front page!"

That was new. Asking how Matthew felt. Usually the quick, 'Hey, how's it going?' did not warrant an actual response. Yet if he didn't toss a fast, 'Fine, thanks,' then he would seem rude. What a cruel world.

Matthew managed a stiff nod. Words were improbable.

His neighbor gave him a long side-eye, like the chills were contagious. Were they? Matthew didn't know. He almost started to type in the search bar, but his hand quaked as it hovered over the keyboard. A jumble of letters. He could hardly get himself to press the proper keys.

"Ugh," Matthew bemoaned his blight. He sat in his chair, glaring down his keyboard as his glasses slid down his nose. If only the keys would tell him they had everything and not to worry about his work; they got it. Another shudder grabbed a hold of him, and he squeezed his eyes shut to stay sane through its hold.

"Uh...hey," his neighbor leaned forward to eye him up. "Are you...going to be okay?"

"No."

"I think you should go home."

"I just got here."

A long look.

Matthew wanted to say his colleague didn't want to get sick, that's all. He twisted, planting his heels flat to the ground before pushing himself from his chair. A slap of heat came over him. He grunted, and a sticky sheen of dampness poured from his, well, pores. The world and the bewildered faces of journalists swirled around and around and around. "Oh, maple."

The carpet came for him in a flash of ugly stained blue.

~.~

Murmuring. Beeping. Constant beeping. Brightness. Matthew groaned at it all as his head lolled to the side of a...pillow. He was lying down. His eyes flew open.

"Oh...fuck!" He spat to himself in a hospital. A damn hospital. "No, no, come on..."

Matthew was surely sick, but not that sick. Jeez, those reporters are so dramatic. They probably clutched their pearls and flapped their hands in front of their faces at the sight of him passing out. He had to have passed out. How would he have gotten there?

"Oh, God, oh, no," Matthew warbled as a strong shudder griped his body. His teeth snapped together, and he let out a furious hiss of breath. "Damn it with the shivering!"

A pretty nurse came into the room, poking around, and tossed a glance toward him looking and feeling miserable on the bed. "Oh, you're awake!" She sang. "Hi! How you feeling?"

"Cold."

"I bet!" The nurse had her best service smile on, but her eyes screamed terror. "Your body temperature was down to thirty-five! Everyone's amazed how you were still up and about like that! So...just take it easy, and the doctor will be right in to...ahem, discuss things with you."

She left in a hurry. Matthew gawked at the ceiling as his insides were shivering now, too. "Thirty-fucking-five degrees."

(Ninety-five for Americans.)

"It's getting colder," he let out a whimper. Grown adult or not, he hurt. He was freezing from the inside out like someone stuffed ice packs under his skin when he wasn't looking. Maybe they did. Those bastards.

The vent in the ceiling kicked to life, slapping his face with a wave of heat. He moaned, squirming to get away without getting anywhere. "No, no, no, turn that off, please-!" Another sickening quake grabbed him and would not let go. He doubled over and gagged. The warmth kept coming.

Matthew drew in a sharp breath, snapping, and yelled in annoyance, pain, anger, anything cold-blooded inside of him, it needed to come out. A noise from the side of his bed crinkled. Then the IV bag leading to his arm burst, raining icicles on the floor. He lifted his arm up to gawk at the tube flailing uselessly from his skin.

Okay, kids, nobody is supposed to do this, yet everybody in movies does - however, instead of ripping it out like some kind of grunting barbarian, Matthew slowly wiggled the needle out of his arm with a little 'Ooh!' and 'Ouch, ouch!'

The tube started to fog in his grip, and he went to peel and detach anything between him and the monitors. Then he was free. Now Matthew could panic.

"Agh!" He ran to the window and smacked his palms to the glass. It was snowing. Wait, snow wasn't called for days. How long was he out?

"Mr. Williams?!"

"Sir, sir! We're going to need you to come back to bed right now!"

Matthew gazed at frost etching from his fingertips, fanning icicles into crystal white designs along the glass.

Nurses approached, "Mister Williams?"

One grabbed his shoulder. The man immediately recoiled with a cry of pain, grabbing his arm as his fingers throbbed against blue-purple skin.

Matthew slowly turned around, arms held up as ice peeked from his pores, running freezing water down to his elbows and dripping to the floor. The entourage of medical staff gawked with wide eyes, breath catching in warm puffs of fog as they met the chilly air. "I think I know what the problem is," he started as the window behind him crackled with frosty intrusion. "I'm made out of ice."

A moment before the window shattered, pouring over the sill as the winter wind flung itself into the hospital room. The staff screamed, throwing their arms over their faces and ducking for cover. Matthew turned to the gray sky, to the white mercilessly pelting the streets. The ice encasing his arms reveled in contact with the biting wind. He was so cold.

"We need the E.R. team in here, stat! Mister Williams?!"

Matthew stepped toward the window. His feet crunched on the glass shards, poking harmlessly against the thickness edging along his skin.

"Mister Williams!" The nurses screeched as he pulled himself through the window, and let himself be blown into the breeze.

~.~

"I can't find the coffee stirrers. Over."

Bssch, "They're in the upper cabinet, left hand side. Over."

A man sat at a desk, in a room completely to himself. He pinched the bridge of his nose before snatching the radio off his desk. "Toris! Eduard! The intercom system is for important calls and emergencies, not your personal hand-helds!"

A voice murmured from one side, "But it was important..."

"Hush!" One of the men hissed. His voice grew closer, "Uh...sorry, D-Detective Braginsky."

Ivan slammed his radio back on his desk, giving his head a shake before flicking a page of his magazine.

Various murmurs resonated through the radio, calls from around the city. He turned the dial down by a smidge. Just a smidge.

"A stray dog..."

"...my leg got stuck in a snow embankment...in front of the woman I was supposed to be writing a ticket to..."

"Not to sound stereotypical, but I could go with some doughnuts right now."

Static.

"...at the hospital. Some kind of, uh...icy intrusion."

Ivan picked up his head from his magazine.

He turned the dial back up in time to hear another cop relaying, "Yeah, like, some kind of artic blast busted into the medical center. A couple of people have frostbite and cuts from the shards."

"I hear you," Ivan said. "Wait, I'm on my way."

"Detective?"

"Yes. Hold on."

"Oh, the head detective's coming with us?"

Ivan threw on a thick wool coat and stormed out of his office. Various men and women hovering over desks and pouring over bulletin boards hunched and skittered away from his path. Their eyes pricked his broad backside on the way out.

A snow storm was well underway. Two cops popped their heads over their cruiser at his approach. "Sir! You, uh-"

"Move," Ivan said. "I'm driving."

"Uh, yes, sir! The keys are already in the ignition."

Ivan gave him a stupid look, as the vehicle was already rumbling with life and sputtering hot fumes into the air. Once situated, the pair gave each other mirroring looks of shock through the bars blocking the back seats. Worried murmurs and static came from the radio, but other than that, it was a short but extremely thick silence to the medical center.

Another cruiser and private cars haphazardly parked before the entrance, and as soon as the keys left the ignition, Ivan stormed the place just as icily as the building storm outside.

Medical staff bustled around, trying to help confused patients that crept from their rooms to investigate the disturbance. A frail old lady held up a shaky hand to a nurse and complained, "Dear, it's so cold! Won't you turn up the heat?"

Ivan pressed against a wall and snuck around the pair.

"Oh! Is that the police?! Oh, oh! What are they doing here?"

"Ma'am, please, calm down, there was just a mild disturbance..."

Another officer jerked his head to a certain room. "Over here!"

Ivan followed.

Glass decorated the tiled floor, blowing from the grand window lining the furthest wall. Warm breath came from his teammates' faces as their wide eyes scanned the perimeter. One asked, "What could have done this?"

"Who?"

A weird look.

"I spoke to the witnesses. They said a man by the name...Williams approached the window, and it burs into icy shards."

Ivan asked, "Are you sure of that?"

The officer gave him a good gawk. "Based on witness accounts! The nurses that weren't injured by the flying glass."

"And this Mister Williams escaped?"

"Yes, sir, they said he jumped right out this window."

"Well, there's no body there."

"Yes, sir. He ran off."

"He ran off? After jumping out a window?"

"Apparently."

"So you're implying he is responsible for the window shattering?"

"And injuring the staff members, yes."

Ivan curtly turned away. "Stay here and get the full story."

"Sir?"

"I'm going to bring this Mister Williams into custody." His fellow officers trailed after him. He barked, "Alone!"

"But there's a storm on its way!"

"I won't be long."

Another officer hushed, "Just...let him go. He's the only one that can handle-"

Ivan was already down the hall. Of course, the eyes of medical staff and patients hooked onto the scarf flapping against his back, waving goodbye to the place when he wouldn't. A gust of cold air and snow pellets slapped his face, pulling his coat from his legs as soon as he stepped outside. Dusk was approaching. He needed to be quick.

Shoe-marks stamped the light dusting of snow in the parking lot. Ivan paced until he lined himself below the shattered window. Glass crunched under his boot. His eyes followed down the side of the building, a two story drop, and across the parking lot. The streetlights shimmered against clumps of ice leading across the car pack.

Further, toward the street, the icy dimples morphed into foot-prints. A shallow snow bank, but someone must have fell into it and struggled to get up. The steps led down the sidewalk. Ivan darted down the road, eyes steady on the distant field still covered from the previous snowfall.

The field remained virtually untouched, except when Ivan plowed himself through the ever-deepening sea of white the further out he went. He slowed as struggling leg divots in the snow intersected with older trails until he finally stopped, glancing around sparse trees and a metal baseball cage some distance away.

Before Ivan could step forward, something snagged one of the tail ends of his beige scarf. It tightened against his throat, and he let out a quiet gasp. He twisted around to snatch the cloth away, but icy claws protruded from the snow and kept a firm hold.

"Mister Williams?"

The snow shifted.

A snow-caked head of what should be blond hair emerged. A bone-white face. Wide, hallow lilac eyes. Ivan felt his own face try to pucker into distaste. Pale lips cracked open, and the man hoarsely whispered, "What are you doing?"

"I could ask you the same thing. Are you Mister Williams?"

The man was deathly still - a statue frozen to the ground. Until he barely moved to answer, "Yes."

"Mister Williams," Ivan started, fishing a badge from his coat. "I'm the head detective for this town's police department. I'm going to get you out of this storm and get you warmed up, but I need to ask you a few questions-"

"No, oh, no, no!" Mister Williams released Ivan's scarf, but his arm stayed stunted into the air, claws of ice wide apart and poised to the darkening sky. "No, no, I'm in trouble, aren't I?" His voice stretched thin as ice grasped his throat, "I hurt those people! Oh, no, no!"

"Mister Williams-"

"I'm a monster! You need to get away. B-b-before I hurt you, too!"

Ivan's eyebrows fell. Less enthusiastically, "Mister Williams, you are not a monster. Do not say that. We just want to-"

"I said...get away!" A hiss of strenuous pain, and a roar of wind poured upon Ivan's head. He threw up his arms as a fury of snow burst from the ground, swathing him in cold, unforgiving white. He shook the clumps off his coat, and Mister Williams' backside peeked from his hospital gown as he clumsily scrambled amongst thick plows of snow.

Ivan sighed, flexed his fingers, and rolled his head. "Okay, then. Hard way it is."

He swooped to the ground, planting his palms into the snow. Mister Williams had not gotten too far, lunging about in a straight line. Icicles shot over the embankments and under his hands and knees. He yelped as his nails scratched onto the sudden layer of slick, and he fell forward, rump going into the air.

Ivan straightened and approached with slight urgency.

Mister Williams pushed himself up with a delirious shake of his head, tossing a frightened glance over his shoulder, and yipped. It was a short warning before he smacked a hand to the ground, and spikes of ice lurched for Ivan's face.

Ivan's arms cut through the night air, and a sheet of iced-over snow emerged from the embankment to catch his assault.

"What the..." Mister Williams cried in shock and fright as everything crumbled to the ground. "You're...you're...!"

"Mister Williams," Ivan dully sang as he came closer. The carpet of ice withered beneath his boots, "You should try to make this as easy for yourself as possible."

Mister Williams scrambled backwards against the weakening ice. He gasped as it melted, only to clamp in a frozen lock around his hands, gluing him to the dead grass. "No! I don't want to go back! I'll only hurt more people!"

"Oh? Because you think you're a monster?"

Wriggling intensified. Mister Williams managed to burst one of the clumps of ice around his hands and flail his free arm in the air. "Yes! Look at me! What else would I be?!"

Two waves of snow rose from the ground, but Ivan swished his hands. They harmlessly crumbled into loose sentiment. He fell on top of Mister Williams' legs, much to the other man's horror, and clamped icy fingers over his head.

Mister Williams wreathed and put his own palm to Ivan's face. "What are you doing?!"

Ivan took a deep inhale as cold sank into his skin, freezing his veins, and a smile played with his lips, "You shouldn't say that! Because if you're a monster..."

Spikes of ice protruded from his pale hair, and Mister Williams could only watch as frost etched across the detective's body...

"Then what does that make me?"

A sharp breath to scream, but nothing came as the entirety of ice encasing Mister Williams receded, right into Ivan's pores. His eyes rolled back into his head, and he slumped into the snow. Unmoving, the whiteness to his skin morphed into a slightly more healthier pink.

Ivan released his clutch, and left Williams on the ground to rise to his feet. He tipped his head to the sky, and let out a long sigh, dispelling dragon's breath of ice into the air. The frost against his clothes melted, dripping back into the ground, and he, too, looked unlike a 'monster' anymore.

Ivan dug around his coat for his hand-held. "Unit one, this is Braginsky."

His radio crackled and hissed. He held it from himself until it died down. "Unit one, do you copy?"

Hissing. A disconnected, "Sir?"

"I found Mister Williams. I said, I found Mister Williams!"

"Is he alive, sir?"

"Yes, although unconscious. He will need medical attention right away. I'm bringing him in." Ivan tucked his radio back into his coat without waiting for a reply. "Monster," he mused with a scoff. "Just for shivering and blowing out a window? That is child's play."

It was a cold, nightly walk back to the hospital with Mister Williams in tow.

~.~

Beeping.

Oh, no, heart monitor beeping!

Matthew's eyes flew open.

Just as he shot to sit with a horrified gasp, something clamped onto his chest and shoved him back down. A hospital room. Of course he was back in a hospital room. His wrists were free, however, not tied down like some wretched creature's would be. His fingers gripped the stiff fabric of his cot as he zoned on another man dwarfing a visitor's chair beside him.

"Stay down."

Matthew complied with a skittish gulp. The man's hands seeped cold back into his skin, a moment before he relinquished himself back to his own personal space. "Aren't you with the police?"

"Yes. You remember me?" Almost lightheartedly, although the big man's smile did not meet his eyes, "We had a little bit of a romp in the snow back there."

Matthew awkwardly grunted, gluing his gaze to the ceiling. He was in so much trouble. He was probably going to get life behind bars. If evil science people did not get to poke him with lots of sharp tools, first. Ice picks, probably. He was made of ice. Or at least, it felt like it. A little less. Maybe his veins were filled with slushy ice water instead.

The man raised his strong eyebrows. "Mister Williams? Are you feeling okay?"

Stinging. Tears pooled in Matthew's eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I don't know...I didn't mean for anything bad to happen." He scrunched his nose and turned his face away so he was not bawling in front of this near-stranger, "Ugh, my entire life is ruined. Ugh, it wasn't even impressive in the first place-"

A cold palm eased against the back of his hand. Matthew's fingers twitched against subtle prickles etching along his skin, "You are not a criminal, Mister Williams. You are a troubled man."

"I'm in trouble."

His company retracted his hand again with a sharp sigh. "Let us start over, okay?" He gestured to himself, to his soft cheeks yet cold eyes, "I am Detective Ivan Braginsky from the Police Department. You are in the hospital because you need help. Not because you are a monster. You are not a criminal. You are confused. That is normal. You just shot ice from your fingers. Again, that is normal. I will tell you why. We will help you."

Matthew lolled his head toward Braginsky. "Okay." He probably already was headed to the can. Minus well get answers. In a small voice, "Why?"

Perhaps it was his imagination, but a light clap of chill ghosted Matthew's cheeks as Ivan leaned forward, much less jaded and annoyed with the world. In near wonder, "You are a snow sprite."

"Um, what?"

"They are a species of humans that can manipulate and are manipulated by the cold-"

"I know what a snow sprite is."

Ivan stared.

"I've read up on the different kinds of sprites throughout my life. My brother's a heat sprite."

Ivan's eyebrows crunched together. "Ah. A heat sprite. Yet you...hm, that's odd. Are your parents...?"

"Both are rain sprites."

"Mutts?"

Matthew almost smiled. "Yeah, you can say that. Got a whole bunch of mixed blood in me, I guess."

"And out came the ice instead?"

The cold permeating the room didn't feel so bad. It almost felt warming, but not warm, in a kind sense. Matthew let out a long, easing exhale. "Yeah. Looks like it."

"You never...gave off any indication that you have these sorts of abilities?"

"Nope. Well, my brother always felt too hot to the touch. Like, if he hung on me too long, I would always sweat, and-"

"That's normal for heat sprites."

"Oh."

"Maybe it was simply years' build up. Or a late onslaught of growing up?" Ivan leaned against his chair, dragging his hand over his chin. Then a slight uplift to his lips, "You are an enigma, Mister Williams. When I got that call that some lunatic threw himself out a window in the middle of a snow storm, I was not expecting this."

"You were expecting some crack-addict, were you?"

"In kinder words."

Matthew found his own face pulling to a smile. "Thank you, Mister Braginsky. You're much kinder than the impression your stories give off."

Short lived bliss. Ivan fell solemn. Some haunt behind his eyes, "My stories?"

"I compile reports from around town for the local newspaper. I remember your name popping up a lot." Matthew tapped a finger against the bed, nonchalantly goading for attention, "There was a fire at the nearby quick stop last year. You were there. A generator, I think, overheated, and you...you 'sucked' the cold out of the air, and literally cooled it with your hands. It was amazing reading the reports. What you said about it. I could never imagine being able to do something like that. Amazing."

Ivan dropped his gaze to the hands folded on his lap. "Oh, that."

"Just 'that?'"

"I got into trouble from that. Mostly a slap on the wrist, but people say what they want to say in those kinds of situations. You're not supposed to make a big speculation of your powers around other people. Especially our type." Ivan's prominent nose curled as he hissed the words, "'Public disturbance.'"

Thoughts of getting thrown in a stony jail plagued Matthew's mind again. Scientists, with big, sharp scalpels-

"It's a solitary life," Ivan murmured. "Not enough people know much of anything having to do with us. Not enough people want to know anything. Our touch can and will hurt them. Who would you blame but yourself for your own loneliness?" He blinked, and picked up his head. A slight slap of cool air dusted Matthew's cheeks. There windows were not open. "Ah, that was a little bit too sad, yes?"

Matthew couldn't help a little laugh. "Yeah, that was real freaking sad. We are monsters."

"Now that was sad. I suppose even monsters feel it, too, yes? Does that really make us monsters, compared to those who deny it?"

"Ugh, stop it, you're making my head hurt."

Ivan let out a giggle. A giggle. The grin cracking along his pale face attracted eyes more than that gloom hanging over the room. "It is not all bad news, Mister Williams."

"Really, you can call me Matthew. And what is it?"

"Matthew. Matvey. No, Matthew. Yes. Uh, you're most likely going to get charged with the cost of window repairs."

"I knew that. That's not good news, anyway."

"You also hurt people."

"Detective, I thought you said you had good news."

"You're not going to get arrested, or tossed in some spooky prison."

Matthew's eyes went wide. "What?"

"The hospital is not pressing charges, as long as you cover the damage. Not as a criminal, at least, but there was nothing I could do to dissuade them from seeing it as an onslaught of mental health issues."

Matthew fell back against his pillow. "They probably are, anyway."

"Don't say that."

"Whoops."

Ivan scrunched his face for a moment, before it fell back into a sly grin. His hand breeched the mattress, crinkling the hospital sheet, "You live in a good place. People will take care of you. Maybe...when you come back...if you find yourself without a job, the station is always looking for honest people to share our stories. Journalists. Reporters. Programmers, too. Those are always in demand."

"What?" Matthew gasped, "Mister Braginsky, no. You can't. You shouldn't-"

"I'll put in a good word for you."

"Why?"

"I like your stories." Ivan almost said he liked Mister Williams. That would have been a bit too soon, wouldn't it? He just tackled the guy to the snowy ground and knocked him out, after all. Usually people don't make friends that way. Usually he didn't make friends at all. He decided to go with, "I always read my stories coming back to me, from you."

Matthew's hands curled over his own face. "Oh, no..."

"I think you even called me a 'hero' once-"

"No, no..."

Ivan grinned, "I actually don't live an impressive life, Matthew."

"Says you." A ripple of cold air drifted across the cot. Matthew shot the detective a look that was supposed to be threatening, almost as if goading him to 'Try me.' "I think...what you did...I thought that was impressive."

"Do you mean, what I did a few hours ago, or just in general?"

Matthew lightly smacked Ivan's shoulder, grinning, "Shut up."

Ivan found himself copying the mingling chills in the air. "I'm going to have to ask you a few questions about what happened."

After some thought, "Okay, Mister Detective. Ask away."

It took some guts to reach over and put an icy palm to another.

At the end, Ivan stepped out of Matthew's hospital room, realizing his interrogation was something more of a self-indulgent questionnaire. Snow sprites live solitary lives. Maybe this one didn't have to.

[collecting-stories]

PT 3 | Modern!Ivar

1 | 2 | 3

“How much coffee do you drink a day?” Ivar commented, watching as you took a sip of your iced coffee and scribbled down notes on your clipboard.  

You were still doing assessments with him and since he wasn’t too eager to try any of your suggestions as far as occupational therapy went you had bargained with him instead. He could use the gym facility on your Wednesdays together if he willing listened and was open minded about your ideas. Ivar was cute but he was also stubborn, and according to him, always right.  

At the moment he was literally doing arm exercises, using one of those butterfly contraptions while you sat on a free weight bench and waited for him to be finished.  

“This is only my third and it’s hardly 12oz when you count the ice,” you replied, holding up the plastic cup and jingling the ice cubes inside.  

“You’ve had three cups of coffee?”  

“I should have had more to prepare myself for dealing with you today.” You teased, jotting something down that he cranes his neck to see.  

“I’m in a good mood today.” He grumbled, leaning against the back board and letting his arms rest.  

“I can tell.”  

“Just because I don’t want to do your stupid transition exercises doesn’t mean I’m in a bad mood!” He snapped.  

It had been two weeks so far that you had been Ivar’s therapist. A total of four visits, with this afternoon counting as your fifth so you were gradually getting aquatinted with his disagreeable attitude. When he snapped you only laughed and shook your head at him.  

“Sorry, my bad.”  

There was major difference between Ivar in therapy and Ivar outside of therapy. The main thing being that out of therapy all his annoyance and frustration was targeted at other people and in therapy it was all targeted at you. Because you were stressing him out, as he’d so kindly put it last Friday when you asked him about dressing exercises.  

“You can harass me on Friday about stupid things. That was the agreement.” He replied.  

“I know.”

“So quit looking so smug!”  

You laughed, looking away from him to compose yourself, “I’m just enjoying the view Ivar. No need to be so grumpy.”  

He narrowed his eyes at you, huffed, and then continued working out. He didn’t like trying new things. As much as he hated his old physical therapist she was, at least, consistent. But even more than new things he hated how okay you were with him not trying. He wasn’t sure what he wanted your reaction to be but he didn’t like that you just shrugged off his annoyance and moved on to something else. If anything it pestered him to the point that he considered just giving in and letting you do what you wanted but he tried to remain prideful and deny you the chance to actually get work done.  

“Do you have any ideas of things you want to work on?” You asked, still focused on the clipboard in front of you.  

Maybe that was the problem, you seemed distracted today and it was bothering him. He liked therapy because he had your full attention, even when he was being a pain in the ass. But today you were clearly distracted.  

“You ask me that every time I see you.”  

“Not true,” you replied, looking up at him, “I saw you yesterday and I didn’t ask that.”  

“I meant every time we’re here.”  

“In case you thought of something. Maybe you’ll have a spark and be like ‘oh yeah I’m shit at putting pants on’ and I’ll be like ‘well you’ve come to the right place’.”

“I dislike you.” Ivar replied.  

You only smiled, watching him pull himself onto his crutches and walk over to you. He shifted himself back and then forward to nudge you off the bench and you complied, standing up so he could sit down.  

“I was actually interested in you trying a Johnny Walker next time you come in. Basically what it would do, if you haven’t used one, is allow you to walk without stressing your upper body.”  

“How does it do that?” Ivar asked, sliding his arms out of the crutches.  

“It’s like a giant contraption and you get strapped in and kinda hang from it...that’s a bad description and obviously it’s not for like, everyday use but it might be interesting just to try out.”  

Ivar looked at you skeptically, trying to decide if this gait trainer you were describing was worth the effort. “Alright,” he finally said, deciding he would do it if it would make you happy.  

“Perfect.” You smiled. “Oh do you use your crutches with MAFOs ever or just without the added leg support?”

“I don’t like wearing them when I’m in my chair. They used to do MAFOs with knee immobilisers and I hated them.”  

“We could try KAFOs but you’d have to be fitted for them, they have a metal bar here,” you motioned to the side of your knee, where it bent, “that would lock and unlock as you need it, but I don’t know how comfortable that would be for you. That might just be a ‘for therapy’ thing.” You replied.  

“I’ll be honest I don’t know much about this stuff,” Ivar admitted, “my last therapist pretty much just talked to my mom about stuff.”  

“Well lucky for you I’m your therapist now.” You smiled at him and he returned it, looking genuinely happy for a split second. “Also on Friday, if you’re not bothered by it, would you wear shorts under your sweatpants, I want to get an idea of exactly how you dress yourself.”  

“I could just do that for you later,” Ivar offered, “sans shorts.”

“I meant in a professional capacity. Though if it’ll be anything like Saturday night-”

“They were very tight.” Ivar snapped, glaring at you. He’d been at your apartment on Saturday and you had offered to help him out of his jeans but he’d refused, wanting to do it himself only to get them stuck twice. The second time resulting in him nearly falling off the couch. You had managed not to laugh at him then but you didn’t mind teasing him about it now.  

“Of course, my bad.”

“Sweatpants are easier.”

“I believe you.”  

Ivar looked at you skeptically and you just smiled. He focused back on the free weights while you finished your notes for the session. Outside of therapy you and Ivar had spent most of last week together. He wanted to invite you over to his dorm tonight, or go to your apartment, but he didn’t want to be too forward and ask. You never turned the idea down but he always assumed that you would at some point. That you’d decline and then every time he asked you’d decline and then he’d get a new therapist and never see you again.  

“What are you thinking about?” You asked, noticing the frown on his face.  

“Nothing.” He replied, resuming exercises and turning his face away from you slightly so you couldn’t see him blush from embarrassment at getting caught daydreaming about stupid things.  

“Okay,” you nodded, “oh do you want to get dinner at my place tonight? I don’t know if you have school work but I figured we haven’t gotten to see each other since Saturday. I mean if you’re not busy and you feel like coming over.”

“Yeah...that would be okay.”  

“Okay.” You smiled at him before looking down at your notes, missing the smug grin on Ivar’s face, as if he hadn’t been nervous seconds earlier.

taglist: @thinkingsofamadwoman @lif3snotouttogetyou @5secondsofjoal @flowers-in-your-hayr @alwaysadreamingoptimist @noaor @artanakin @ms-allenbrown @demonhunter1616 @silverbloodmoon @mixedwiththemoon @filthyshieldmaiden @mblaqgi @glopifum @ilvebeenabad @hanbinwsrt

More Ivar fics can be found here! 

[gingerwritess]

Heat Wave (5)

Summary: (Loki x reader) the one with a bank robbery, a concussion, and an asgardian frost giant

Warnings: some bad words, fluhhff

A/N: this was actually the scene I thought of writing that inspired this whole series :’) thank you all for reading my work and for commenting and for all the love you’re giving!!

Heat Wave Masterlist

You felt like a new person. The stitches in your face had finally been taken out, leaving a lovely scar that you knew would serve as your reminder of this unusual situation for the rest of your life. You were finally out of bed, and things were going well, considering you had been living in the compound with the rest of the Avengers for about a month now. Since you had been out of bed, you had gotten to know the environment and routines of the others, trying your best to stay out of the way.

Each person seemed to be living their own little life within the compound, but there was still a sense of unity that brought them together daily for meetings and such, and even occasionally movie nights and meals (which you thought was the most adorable thing you’d ever heard).

Thor and Steve had become some of your closest friends, helping you fit in with the others as well as you could. You got to know Tony, Clint, and Natasha much better, and they made sure to make you feel welcome as you got to know the others.

The compound itself was incredible. Corridors filled the property, each with rows and rows of doors leading to rooms. There was a gym on the basement level with a ring for sparring, punching bags galore, and even a mini bar. In the gym!! You spent your free time exploring the building, finding new places and meeting your new roommates.

You were quite comfortable there, and almost felt saddened by the thought of not being able to stay there forever.

Since your encounter with Loki had revealed your previous meeting, running into him around the compound became slightly more pleasant. Of course, emphasis on the slightly. He still had a cold bearing around him and gave off the vibe that you weren’t worth his time. Because of this, you tried your best to not disturb him or cross his path in any way you could.

You had to give him some credit though. Instead of completely ignoring you, he occasionally would give you small, pained smiles that showed he was at least trying. He still mocked you whenever he had the chance, but now there was the smallest, tiniest hint of playfulness in his doing. It may be slight, but it was there nonetheless.

—————————————————————

The compound was built by Tony freaking Stark. And yet he still couldn’t guarantee that the air conditioning would always be operational. You were in the heat of the summer, and somehow, despite all the tech that Tony had, the ac in your room still stopped working.

After tossing and turning in bed for hours, you gave up on trying to sleep and went to your mini fridge for some ice water. “Perfect,” you grumbled as you found the ice bucket to be empty. You pulled on an oversized t shirt to cover your bare torso, then quietly walked down the hallway to find the communal kitchen.

That place was humongous. Getting yourself a tall glass of ice, you pulled up a bar stool to one of the many counters. You sat in the moonlight that was peeping in from the many windows around you, contentedly chewing ice cubes and fanning yourself with a magazine you had found on a counter. The sound of the ice crunching between your teeth cut through the silence of the night.

“Is it possible you could chew any louder?”

You flew out of your seat with a yelp, knocking over your cup, your heart pounding. “Holy hell Loki,” you hissed, clutching your chest. “Why the hell would you do that?!”

The god chuckled. “For this,” he answered, gesturing to you leaning on the counter for support, legs weak from fright.

“Screw you, you little shit.”

You pulled yourself back onto your seat, watching Loki as he walked in the room looking proud of himself for scaring you. It was weird, seeing him in something other than his dramatic metal and leather tunics or green capes, yet here he was in loose, black, cotton pants hanging low on his hips and a dark green t shirt. The most normal clothes you had ever seen him in.

He walked to the fridge, barefoot, pulling out a water bottle and taking a long drink from it. He leaned against the counter across from you, meeting your gaze and wiping a hand across his mouth. You suddenly felt very conscious of the see-through shirt and ridiculously short shorts you were wearing, crossing your arms over your chest to cover yourself. You cleared your throat. “Why are you up?”

Loki took a sip of water. “I was sleeping wonderfully. Then I heard this annoying crunching coming from in here, and voila, here we are.”

You rolled your eyes and scoffed at him, to which he grinned and retorted, “keep rolling your eyes, maybe you’ll find a brain back there.”

You held up a finger and shook your head at him. “We are not doing this again. And there is no way I was being loud enough to wake you.”

Loki laughed and moved to sit at the counter across from you. “I suppose you’re right,” he started, looking down at his water bottle. “It wasn’t you. I was already awake.”

You waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.

“I’m… sorry,” you mumbled, unsure of how to respond to that. Loki’s head snapped up to look at you.

“Now tell me, why are you awake?”

“I can’t sleep. This heat is driving me insane,” you responded, popping another piece of ice in your mouth. You crunched it extra loudly just to annoy Loki, and he rolled his eyes at you.

“If you were to cool down, would you go to sleep?” He asked you.

“Um, yeah, I’m sure I would,” you answered, confused. Loki grinned.

“I might be able to help you.” He held up his right hand in front of you, and you watched as it slowly turned blue from the fingertips down to the wrist. Shocked, you didn’t stop him as he cautiously moved to place his fingertips lightly on the back of your hand. You felt something icy shoot throughout your body, cooling you down immediately.

“Wow,” you said, mouth gaping. “I knew you were like some ice prince or something, but I never thought you could do that.”

Loki chuckled, then lifted his hand away. The cold was replaced with the stifling heat right away, and you grabbed his retreating hand before you could stop yourself.

His eyebrows shot up, surprised at your movement, glancing at your hand holding his then looking you in the eye. You felt just as surprised, awkwardly dropping his hand and casting your gaze downwards as you realised what you had done. You avoided his gaze, mumbling “sorry, sorry,” with a blush.

You laughed nervously, still avoiding his eyes. Silence fell on the two of you, and you wished Loki would say something. A few seconds passed. Then you felt a gentle hand being placed over your own, followed by a cold sensation moving across your body. You looked up to find Loki had placed his hand over yours, his hands icy once again.

“Oh, you don’t have to do this, I’ll be fine,” you protested, making to move your hand out from under his. “Really, I uh, should go back to bed, I-“ Your voice stopped as Loki’s eyes met your own, and you lost yourself in the dark green void that they held.

“I’m trying to help,” Loki said, his voice low and smooth. “That was my job from the beginning, was it not?”

You could only choke out a small “thanks” before Loki’s other hand moved up to rest on your forehead. Starting from his fingertips, the icy coolness spread across his hand, soothing the unbearable heat that had taken over you.

He moved his hand slowly off your forehead and onto your cheek, holding your head in his hand. You closed your eyes with a breathless sigh, placing your hand on top of his. You stayed like this for a moment, perfectly peaceful and content.

Your eyes snapped open and you realised what was happening. Loki was holding your face and you were practically holding his hand. Terrified, you moved your hands and head away from his cold hands, nervously smiling at him.

“Uh, thanks, that was um, much better than the heat!” You slid off your seat, standing with your arms crossed over your chest awkwardly. Loki didn’t say anything, just stared questioningly into your eyes.

You cleared your throat. “I’m going to read, uh, on the couch in the living room, so um, I hope I don’t keep you up.” You knew very well that you wouldn’t be able to get any sleep after this encounter. Grabbing your glass, you turned and hurried to the living room.

Loki nodded, flashing you a small smile. “Is everything alright?” He asked, following you as you found a couch and sat in the corner, pulling your knees up in front of you.

You attempted to smile calmly back, but failed. “Yes! Yeah, everything’s fine! Goodnight Loki.” You tried to hint that he should leave, but he didn’t take the bait. He dropped down onto the same couch, on the opposite side across from you.

“I won’t be able to sleep. Do you mind if I sit in here as well?” He turned and stretched out his long legs, nearly touching your own legs.

You absolutely did mind. But you found yourself shaking your head, inviting him to stay. And so the two of you stayed there, each on their own side of the couch, not speaking. You had picked up a book that was on the coffee table, but couldn’t focus enough to actually read it.

The heat was getting to you yet again. You closed the book you had picked up and started fanning yourself with it, desperately trying to cool down.

Against your legs, you suddenly felt the familiar cold spreading up your body. You glanced down quickly, seeing Loki was lightly brushing his leg against your own, using the contact to cool you down.

His eyes flitted up from his book to meet yours, a smile flashing on his face before he looked back down. His smile was surprisingly comforting, and you cautiously stretched your legs out next to his, allowing the contact to continue.

You had set down your book, now just sitting there staring into space as your legs pressed against each other. You watched as Loki, still keeping his eyes on his book, slowly placed his hand on your ankle, the contact nearly making you gasp. You didn’t say anything, but as Loki glanced up to see your reaction, you bravely met his smile with your own.

You bit your bottom lip, unsure of what to do next, then took a deep breath and went with your gut. Swinging your legs off the couch, you slid across the couch with a giggle to sit right next to Loki, grabbing his arm and draping it over your shoulder so you could lean against him comfortably.

Loki dropped his book with a thud, startled by your actions. You glanced up at him with a sheepish grin. “Sorry, it’s just too hot over there,” you whispered.

For the first time, Loki looked almost nervous. He shifted in his seat so the two of you would be more comfortable, carefully resting one hand on your arm and the other around your waist, helping to keep you on the small couch. He laughed nervously, allowing his whole body to drop in temperature, his cold figure pressing softly against yours. “Don’t apologize,” he murmured. “I can help you with that.”

A smile danced on your lips as you cooled down instantly, relaxing in his arms. Despite your best efforts, your eyes began fluttering shut, and sleep overtook you without hesitation.

Series Taglist (open)

@marveloussupernatural @1v-kayla @two-eleven-thirty-four @daniellajocelyn @leleleish @sweet-beliefs @sivaas @rikkamia @1800-fight-me @person-born-winchester @tarynkauai @unlikelygalaxygiver @birdgirl90 @luracantspell @luenes @fuckthatfeeling @miku-michealis @bbcsassdeadass @canoodlincanary

[artificialqueens]

More Than You Know, Ch 3 (Trixya) - Joanne Elizabeth

Summary: Yes, she found Trixie incredibly hot. Yes, this week had put them in some strange situations. But they were still best friends, and if Trixie was interested her in that way, then Katya would be here in Bumfuck, Wisconsin as her actual girlfriend. But she wasn’t. She was her fake girlfriend to make her family happy. She was the most convenient choice as a fake girlfriend, as they spent all their time together anyway. That was why Katya was here. Outside, smoking a cigarette while her best friend fingered herself four stories above Katya’s head, in Katya’s bed.

    Trixie struggled to open her eyes the next morning because they were tacky with dried tears. She felt so embarrassed - she hadn’t had nightmares like that in a while, and to have them in front of Katya was way more than she could take on without coffee with this slight hangover. And now there was the actual issue of getting up to get it. She was holding Katya against her chest and moving would surely wake the other girl.

    Also like, she was holding Katya against her chest. Trixie considered going back to sleep to avoid all of the thoughts buzzing around. She tried to settle back into the surprisingly comfortable bed, letting her breathing match Katya’s.

  She roused again at the clicking of the door. Katya was nowhere to be seen, so she guessed she was smoking downstairs. Trixie stretched and started towards the bathroom, intent on showering so she and Katya could find breakfast together.

    But when she opened the door, she forgot all about that because there were boobs.

    Katya’s boobs. With Katya’s neatly painted red fingernails touching them gently, and then squeezing them in surprise. Trixie was mesmerized by the way her nipple was puckered. Katya was frozen, hips leaning against the mirror, tight ass poked out slightly, hands grasping her breasts, eyes locked into Trixie’s roaming ones in the mirror.

    “Fuck,” Trixie finally had the wherewithal to exclaim, “I’m so sorry, oh my god.” She shut the door quickly.

    “My bad! I should have locked it!” called Katya

    “I should have knocked!” Trixie argued.

    “It’s all good. I’m going to take a quick shower.” Trixie nodded into the empty room. She turned on the TV for a distraction and set to work on the small personal coffee maker the room supplied them with.

    This was fine. Friends saw each other naked sometimes. She’d changed with Kim numerous times, had pulled a naked and drunk Trannika to the correct bed once. It wasn’t a big deal. She took a sip of coffee, burning her upper lip with her trembling hand.

    Katya emerged from the bathroom in a gust of steam and tiny workout shorts and a tank top.

    “It occurs to me now that I’m probably just going to get sweaty again,” she laughed.

    “Yeah, but airplane gunk,” Trixie protested. Katya nodded in agreement, like the sentence made sense. Maybe it did to her. Trixie rushed into the bathroom, cheeks still faintly burning, and tied her hair up into a bun. It was only going to be weird if she made it weird.

    Once both girls were dressed (even though Trixie despised the athletic-wear her sister had insisted upon for this bachelorette surprise), they found a late breakfast at the diner across the street and sat in comfortable silence on their phones until it was time to meet the bridal party for their event.

    Trixie was more nervous about introducing Katya to Maggie’s friends than she was to Maggie. She could predict her sister’s actions and thoughts, but strangers’? Katya, however, took the news that she’d be participating in the bridal activities fairly well. It turned out that Maggie’s coworker Leiah had gone into early labor, and she had been replaced with Robert’s teen daughter Angel, but Angel couldn’t go out on the bachelorette party, hence Katya was now obligated to fill the spot because c’mon it’s already been paid for and it’ll be fun and we should get to know her better, Trixie.     So here she sat, smushed into the backseat of someone’s giant SUV, between Katya and a girl named Sydney, on their way to some sort of dance lesson.     “Katya, what do you do?” Elena, Maggie’s best friend, said from the driver’s seat.

    “I teach yoga,” Katya shrugged. Trixie scoffed.

    “She’s an artist. She also works at the gallery that features her work,” Trixie defended.

    “Yeah, but yoga pays just as much of the bills lately.” Trixie pushed her shoulder into Katya’s.

    “That sounds nice!” Sydney smiled. Elena turned around at the light.

    “The yoga will help you here,” she winked. Katya’s brow wrinkled in confusion.

    Pole dancing. They were taking a pole dancing class. Trixie hated Maggie, or actually, Elena, since it was her surprise to Maggie for her bachelorette party. She smoothed her shirt down in the mirror, feeling suddenly like her clothes were too tight.

    Their instructor was a lanky dark skinned girl who wore a white pair of boyshorts instead of regular pants. Trixie yanked her own leggings even higher on her waist. She introduced herself as Michaela and was suddenly upside down on the pole, legs spread almost parallel to the floor. Trixie felt her jaw drop a little.

    It turned out, Trixie wasn’t terrible at pole dancing. The only time she felt herself really fumble was when she looked at Katya. Katya was a goddess, an ethereal being in black short shorts with thighs that squeezed the pole and hands that gracefully supported her, even when she fell.

    Michaela asked them to try a move called the fairy and Trixie spent a moment longer than necessary adjusting herself on the pole, enjoying the pressure it placed between her legs. God, this was actually sort of hot? Trixie regretted thinking that she hated Elena for this surprise.

    By the time they were finished, she could feel her blood thrumming under her skin and was excited to go back to the hotel to change for a night out of drinking and dancing. She felt invigorated, if not a little sore.

    “Is this a knock-off Applebee’s? Is that even a thing that can exist?” Trixie whispered through Katya’s hair as she scanned the menu of the restaurant. They were scrunched into a tacky booth only two hours after their class.

    Trixie had partaken in the champagne that Elena had offered them as they changed from their pole dancing outfits into ones suitable for the club. It was making her lightheaded, but she wasn’t sure if she could blame the champagne or the proximity. Either way, she was starting to feel really bratty. Especially that now that Trixie had seen their “fancy restaurant,” she began to question the reputability of the club.

    “Shh, I’ll buy you another drink and you won’t even notice,” Katya laughed into her ear, leaning with her hand on her thigh. Trixie clenched it unconsciously.

    “So how did you two meet?” Sydney cooed, already slurping the last of her drink through the ice cubes.

    “At a party,” Trixie shrugged at the same time that Katya said, “Through our friend Pearl.”

    “It was Pearl’s party,” Trixie explained, “And we were both there.”

    “And was it like, love at first sight? Did you guys instantly click?” Elena questioned. Trixie’s cheeks turned hot.

    “Kind of?” She said, avoiding Katya’s eye. She could still remember the first time she’d met Katya. It was at Pearl’s New Year’s party and she’d been a little too drunk to categorize her properly.

    Trixie was in the kitchen searching for another drink when two figures practically fell through the door, excitedly babbling in an alien language.

    “Woah, how drunk am I?” Trixie muttered, catching the attention of one of the girls that she now recognized to be Sasha.

    “You’re not, кукла. Well, maybe you are,” Sasha extended an arm out to Trixie, pulling her over, “But look! Someone who speaks Russian!” Trixie watched Sasha’s eyes light up before turning her attention to the other girl and - woah.

    She had honey blonde hair that curled and frizzed around her shoulders and a tiny magnifying glass around her neck. Her skirt was black with embroidered flowers and Trixie thought it could have been trendy if she had paired it with a top that didn’t violently clash with it the way this one did. But it worked, standing out against her tan skin, too tan for the winter months, even in LA. Trixie glanced down at her legs, which were just as tan and bare and oh my god she really might be drunk already because she felt her heart slow down as she took those thighs into memory.

    “ привет, I’m Katya.” She did a little wave, and Sasha immediately grabbed her hand.

    “No, the whole thing, again! Please.” Sasha was definitely tipsy; Trixie could see the flush in her cheeks. She wanted to glance behind them to search for Shea, but couldn’t bring herself to look past the blonde.

    “My name is Yekaterina Petrovna Zamolodchikova, but you can call me Katya.” Her voice was husky and her teeth were bright white against the dark red lips and Trixie waited longer than socially acceptable to meet her eyes again.

    “Well, my name is Beatrice Chenoa Mattel, but you can call me Trixie.” She popped her straw into her mouth, only to drop it when a cackle, a true shrieking cackle, came from the girl in front of her. She clutched on to Sasha to steady herself.

    “Baaaabyyyyy.” Sasha whipped around, almost dropping Katya. Trixie stifled a giggle - Sasha would always literally drop everything for her girlfriend. Shea appeared in the doorway, looking like an actual hologram of Naomi Campbell, posed against the door frame.

    “It’s almost midnight, come spend the last part of the year with me,” Her voice was pitched low, and even Trixie shivered a little. Sasha squeezed Katya’s arm in a goodbye and followed Shea down the hall to one of the bedrooms.

    “Gross,” Katya scrunched her nose, pouring water from the tap into one of the plastic cups.

     “Lesbian sex?” Trixie questioned, ready to fight this gorgeous woman if she dared to bad mouth her friends. God, she definitely had had whiskey tonight.

    “Are you kidding? That’s my only hobby,” Katya laughed, “I meant love.”

     “ I don’t think it’s gross,” Trixie defended. The condensation from her emptied cup dripped down her hand. It tickled.

    “Yeah? So who are you kissing at midnight, lovebird?” Katya looked Trixie up and down in a way that she could almost feel on her skin. Trixie shook her hair to cover her face more.

    “Oh, I didn’t come with anybody,” Trixie blushed, “I mean, some friends, but-”

    “You don’t kiss your friends?” Katya finished for her. Trixie shrugged, almost gasping when Katya licked her lips.

    “Noted,” Katya winked, checking her phone. “Well, it’s almost midnight. Who’s it going to be?”

    “The only man I’ll ever love,” Trixie smiled, turning to face the counter and find the bottle, “Andre!” Katya doubled over at the joke, her laughter coming out in screaming and wheezing bursts. Trixie joined her, her own piercing scream of a laugh ringing through the small kitchen.

    “Well, in that case, let me get a couple’s pic,” Katya wheezed, holding up her cell phone. The countdown started in the living room, but Trixie merely fluffed her hair before grabbing the bottle again. She turned to her best side, cocking her hip out in a practiced way to make her ass look bigger and waist look smaller. She puckered her lips and placed the bottle there carefully to avoid smudging her lipstick.

    “Gorgeous,” Katya muttered, snapping the picture as people began counting down in the living room.

    “Oh my god, send that to me,” Trixie exclaimed, crowding into Katya’s space to see. She pushed some of her hair away from her shoulder, and got a whiff of her smoky and spicy scent.

    “I need your number first,” Katya reminded, holding the phone out for Trixie. She took it, brushing her fingertips lightly over Katya’s cold ones as she returned the phone.

    “Tallulah, get out here,” Trannika burst through the kitchen, “Naomi texted Kim and she’s having a crisis and I personally have not had enough to drink to deal with her.” She saw Katya, and how close she and Trixie were standing, “Or um, actually I can do it.”

     “No, it’s fine,” Trixie took a giant step away from Katya, “Send me that, I gotta go.” She pushed past Trannika to go find her best friend, and didn’t see Katya for the rest of the night.

    “Yeah, she gave me her number and totally ditched me,” Katya teased, “But luckily my texting game is strong.”

    “Oh whatever, I had to see what was up with Kim! And good thing I did, the dumb bitch almost drunk dialed Naomi at midnight. “ Her knees brushed Katya’s thigh when she turned to argue.

     “We have a few mutual friends, so we mostly hung out as a group until she found me too irresistible to just see on the weekends.” Katya turned back towards the table, smirking.

     “Yeah, when did that change? When you came over before we went to Sasha’s play?” Trixie asked as she took a heavy sip of the sangria. She knew that was it, but wasn’t sure if Katya remembered.

     “Yeah, you made a strawberry cake and invited me over to your place.” Katya was grinning mischievously at the girls at the table, but Trixie distinctly recalls that being a terrible day.

     Trixie had gone to two separate grocery stores to find the ingredients she’d needed for the cake. She tried to tell herself it was just a craving she was having, but the desire to make a cake from scratch on the same day that Katya was coming over for the first time seemed like more than a coincidence.

    She wanted to impress her. In the few times they’d seen each other, mostly at Pearl’s or out to dinner or even that one time dancing where Trixie drank too much and sent herself home before she could be embarrassing, she’d really started to crush on Katya. She was funny, and kind, and seemed to care about Trixie just as much.

    When Shea had mentioned Sasha’s performance, Trixie had insisted she invite Katya - the two had continued their obsession with each other since New Year’s, so it only made sense. And of course Trixie could get off work in time for the performance. She was a good friend, after all.

    So when Katya had agreed to go to the show, Trixie had suggested they carpool. Meet me at my house, she’d said, we can hang out before we go. And when Katya’d arrived at her door in a magenta sweater with black handprints scattered across it, all Trixie could think about was placing her hands on each one, especially the one on her sternum, right between her breasts. But then she needed to frost the cake, which was a welcome distraction.

    “You play guitar?” And instantaneously, Trixie’s heart was back in her throat.

    “Yeah! I’ve been working on getting a new song down. Want to hear it?” She coughed slightly, adjusting herself some to cool down.

    “Sure,” Katya nodded from Trixie’s chair at the table. If Katya started coming over more, she’d happily give her the spot. She looked amazing there, with the light coming in through the window to dance in her hair. Trixie rushed to wash her hands after putting the cake away, eager to show Katya her  guitar skills.

    “Okay, tell me if I’ve got it right enough for you to recognize it.”

    Blushing, Trixie began to play Landslide. Like every other woman who loves women, the song was special to her, and she hadn’t played it in front of anyone yet.

    “I should set you up with my friend Alaska,” Katya smiled. Trixie’s hands missed a fret and she clumsily dropped the guitar into her lap.

     “What?”

    “You like music, she likes music. You should get a girlfriend. I’ll set you up.” Katya shrugged coolly, as if she set her friends up all of the time. She probably did.

    “Um, okay,” Trixie floundered, putting the guitar back down, “Sure.”

    Clearly, Katya didn’t like her. Why would she? Trixie was just an idiot backwoods girl who wore too much makeup and weighed too much. She didn’t know anything about Katya’s cool art interests, couldn’t even keep up with a conversation with her half of the times. Trixie had made it all up in her head.

    “What about you, Maggie? Tell us how you met Ryan.” As Katya listened to Maggie’s story, Trixie couldn’t look away from her.

    Katya was beautiful, as beautiful as the first time she’d seen her. Maybe even more so. It’d been months since that day, and she’d never fully gotten over that rejection. Which was dumb. She’d technically moved on, having gone home with that girl Kimora from the club. Fuck, she had been so hot, and so very good in bed. But even just that night, she had missed like all of Trixie’s jokes. Katya always laughed at her jokes. Trixie bet she was pretty good in bed too. She was so flexible, after all. Trixie thought about the way her tongue twisted when she spoke Russian. And her breasts, this morning, pale against her tanned hands. Trixie bet she could fit one in each hand as Katya spread herself into a slow split over her face.

    “You okay, babe?” Katya asked, knocking Trixie out of her day dream.

    “Uh huh,” she blinked, “Why?” Katya wrapped an arm around her shoulder.

    “You’re squirming. Do you need up to pee?” Katya indicated the booth they were in. Trixie shook her head.

     “I’m okay.” She signalled to their waiter that she’d take another drink. She leaned her head into Katya’s shoulder and listening to Maggie talk about Ryan. Even if she had made it all up in her head, it was nice to pretend for a minute.

     Katya reentered the club after her cigarette break to find Trixie leaning against the bar, breasts pushed up almost to her chin, smiling at the bartender. He stared down her shirt as he handed her two drinks.

    “Hi baby,” Katya projected, loud enough for the creepy bartender to hear, and placed her hand on the small of Trixie’s sweaty back. Trixie side-stepped out of it, turning quickly to hand her the shorter of the two glasses.

     “Coke,” she said brusquely, sipping her own pint glass of water.

    “Thanks. Do you want to dance again?” Trixie shook her head, and Katya deflated slightly. Dancing with Trixie pressed against her had been fun, exhilarating. Her ass in this dress was incomprehensibly good.

    “Can we sit down?” Trixie practically whined. Katya led her to a table near where Sydney and Elena were dancing. Once she was seated safely, Katya bent towards the floor to stretch her sore hamstrings.

    “Can you just fucking sit down?” Trixie snapped. Katya’s eyes flew to Trixie, who had the decency to look apologetic. Katya did as she was asked, wrapping her leg against Trixie’s. Trixie uncrossed her legs and gave her some space. Katya quietly sipped her coke, eyes cast downward.

    “Do you want a cigarette or something? You’ve been cranky all night,” Katya grumbled as she watched Trixie fight with the key card to their hotel room.

    “I’m not cranky,” Trixie whined, kicking her shoes off forcefully. They both watched as one flew halfway across the room before landing with a plomp.

    “Sure, mama.” Katya sat on the bed and stretched her leg above her head.

    “Are you kidding me!” Trixie moaned, turning her back to Katya.

    “What is going on, Trix?”

    “It’s dumb, let’s go to bed,” Trixie sighed, running a hand through her hair, “This has been the longest day of my life.”

     “No,” Katya was up in an instant grasping Trixie’s hands in hers, “You’re upset. What’s going on? I don’t care if it’s dumb.” She tried to force Trixie into eye contact, but Trixie’s blue eyes were flitting all around the room. Katya waited, stroking her thumbs over the tops of Trixie’s fingers.

    “Stop,” Trixie pulled her hands away, “Fine.” She sighed. “That stupid class was really hot and I haven’t had sex in ages and I’m just really wound up right now and you putting your stupid fucking leg behind your head every two seconds isn’t helping and I just want to sleep.” Trixie was blushing bright pink by the end of her rant. Katya had to bite her tongue to not laugh at her best friend, but when Trixie stomped her foot in a little pout, she lost it.

    “Stop laughing!” Trixie cried.

     “Sorry, I just,” Katya gasped for air, “You’ve been a bitch for the whole night because you’re horny? So do something about it!”

    “I’m not you, Katya, I can’t just go on Tindr or Her and find a hookup in the middle of Wisconsin,” Trixie grumbled. Katya started laughing all over again.

     “Oh my god. I’m leaving, and I want you to text me when you’re done masturbating so that you can stop being such a grouch,” Katya giggled, slipping back into her shoes. Trixie’s face fell into a stunned little ‘o’. She watched as Katya grabbed her purse and pulled the phone charger from the socket.

     “Where are you going?” Trixie asked quietly. Katya grinned and walked back into her space.

    “Don’t worry, I’ll just go to the lobby or a walk.”

     “You don’t have to –” Trixie started, but stopped when Katya’s hand caressed her hip.

     “I don’t mind. Take your time, watch the good porn, and text me when you want me back in,” Katya whispered. She saw the other girl’s breath hitch behind her round breasts. For good measure, she squeezed her hip before walking away.

     She laughed gently to herself as she took the elevator down to the lobby. She had just smoked on their way in, so she didn’t need a cigarette just yet, so she settled into one of the chairs there, plugging her phone into the outlet beside it.

Katya: Trixie was just embarrassed to tell me she was horny?? Wtf? Has she met me?

Alaska: Weird. Why did that get brought up tho?

Katya: She was being cranky. We went to a pole dancing class for her sister’s bachelorette party.

Katya: Which btw I have found my calling. I’m going to quit my job to be a pole dancer.

Alaska: Of course you were perfect at it, whore. So what, in addition to being fake girlfriends who hold hands and go to weddings, now you pole dance and talk about how horny you are?

Alaska: Omg did you offer to “help her out”???? Just some bros being bros? Gals being pals? Friends gettin to an end???

Katya: What even are you? Nah, I’m in the lobby, letting her masturbate in peace.

Katya: So if my stripper name was Russian, do you think I’d get more or less people?

Alaska: Huh? You said k bye im gonna sexile myself while you finger yourself?

Alaska: So platonic.

Alaska: I don’t know… Do you want people to butcher it while you perform? Because half of us can’t get your name right sober.

Trixie: (please pretend i didnt ask this tmrw but what is the good porn?)

That caused Katya to pause her conversation with Alaska. Was Trixie Mattel really asking her for porn recommendations?

Katya: Any kinks I need to know about? Special requests?

Trixie: just no boys.

Katya: WAIT. Are you a LESBIAN?!?!?

Trixie: ur humor is appreciated but pleeeassseee…

    Katya could practically hear Trixie whining, and it made her smile. She felt hot, so she took off her jacket before opening up an incognito tab and typing in one of her standard websites. It didn’t take long for Katya to find one she’d been favoring recently that was tame and gentle but still sexy. She copied the link into their chat and locked her phone.

    She stared at herself in the black void of her phone screen. Trixie didn’t text a “thanks” back, so Katya assumed she was watching the video. Trixie was in the bed that they were sharing, touching herself, to Katya’s favorite porn, that Trixie had asked for.

    Katya needed that cigarette now.

    She unplugged her charger and swept it into her bag as she stood. Her knees wobbled slightly in her boots, and the fresh air was welcome to her heated skin. The smoke filling her lungs helped her to think. Yes, she found Trixie incredibly hot. Yes, this week had put them in some strange situations. But they were still best friends, and if Trixie was interested her in that way, then Katya would be here in Bumfuck, Wisconsin as her actual girlfriend. But she wasn’t. She was her fake girlfriend to make her family happy. She was the most convenient choice as a fake girlfriend, as they spent all their time together anyway. That was why Katya was here. Outside, smoking a cigarette while her best friend fingered herself four stories above Katya’s head, in Katya’s bed.

    She lit another cigarette as soon as she stubbed the first one out under her boot.

     She was almost done with her second cigarette when she got a text from Trixie saying she could come back. Katya rifled for her room key, but couldn’t find it in her bag. She knocked gently on the door, and it took a minute for Trixie to come to the door.

    “Where’s your key?” She was already heading back towards the bed, but Katya clocked that she didn’t have on her sleep shorts under the oversized shirt. Katya watched as the light from the hallway danced over Trixie’s thighs and the round curve of her butt.

    “Uh, on the tv,” Katya said as she tossed it in her purse. She began undressing, and noticed that her panties were wet. Katya rolled her eyes at herself, stepping into her pajama shorts. One of them being pantsless was enough. She shook her head and blindly wiped at her face with a makeup wipe.

    “What’d you think of the video?” Katya asked casually as she walked towards the bathroom. Trixie groaned.

    “Please don’t,” she warned. Katya made a questioning noise around her toothbrush. “Don’t make fun of me. Just come to bed.”

    “I wasn’t making fun of you,” Katya protested, spitting her toothpaste out. “That’s one of my favorite videos. I was simply curious if you liked it as well.”

    “She looked like you,” Trixie mumbled as Katya flipped the lights off.

    “What?” Katya climbed under the covers, leaving a few inches between their bare legs.

    “The one with the bra on, she looked like you.”

     “Are you saying I’m so self absorbed that a porn I like has a girl that looks like me in it?” Katya giggled, shoving her arm.

     “It’s true, whatever,” Trixie shoved back, “Now come here, I wanna cuddle now.”

     “Oh, you would be the type to cuddle after sex,” Katya joked, but opened her arms to the bigger girl.

     “Everybody does, that’s the point,” Trixie said into Katya’s chest.

     “No, the point is orgasms,” Katya deadpanned. She pushed Trixie’s fluff of hair out of her face.

     “And physical closeness,” Trixie countered.

    “We’re close right now, is that what you want?” Katya was whispering now.

     “Yeah, I just came twice and I wanna cuddle, now shut up.” Katya’s eyebrows shot up.

    “Twice?” Trixie just nestled in closer to Katya, pushing her leg in between Katya’s thighs. Katya softly gasped, wrapping her arm tighter around Trixie.

    “It was a really hot video, shuddup,” Trixie mumbled.

     “With the girl who looked like me?” Katya asked, no teasing in her voice. She could feel her heart in her throat and her pulse between her legs.

    “Yeah. Night Katya,” Trixie sighed. Katya lay there, frozen. She could feel Trixie’s breasts on her ribcage. She could feel Trixie’s breath on her own breasts, even through her t-shirt. Trixie’s silky thigh was in between Katya’s own.Trixie’s fingers, which had just been inside of her were tangled in Katya’s blonde hair.

     The way Katya saw it, she had two options. She could sneak off to the bathroom and finger fuck herself until she forgot about how attracted she was to her best friend, or she could act on those attractions. Ignoring them was no longer an option.

    She mentally flipped a coin, sighed at the outcome, and slowly began to roll her hips into Trixie’s leg.

     She grinded for about five seconds before Trixie’s hand on her chest tightened and Katya heard her gasp. Katya froze for a second, a tortuously long second, before continuing the slow pace of her hips. She began to trace patterns on Trixie’s back with her fingertips.

     Trixie’s back arched into her touch, and Katya let out a sigh of relief.

     “You awake?” Katya whispered.

     “Do you want me to be?” Katya nodded, running her hand lower, fingers teasing at the lace edging that encompassed Trixie’s thick hip. “Then yeah, I’m awake.”

    Katya slowly slid her hand underneath the soft lace and pulled Trixie in closer by her ass. Trixie hitched her leg even closer to the heat of Katya, where she was still slowly grinding. Katya shivered as Trixie’s hand pushed her hair aside and began lightly squeezing her breast.

    “Fuck,” Katya whispered, tightening her grip on Trixie’s ass.

    “It’s okay, this is okay,” Trixie muttered into Katya’s neck, her breath hot and ticklish.

    Katya whimpered as Trixie began toying with her nipple through her shirt.

    “Can you get off like this?” Trixie asked, letting her lips brush against Katya’s pulse. Katya whined.

    “I, uh,” she continued to move her hips, “I don’t think so.” Trixie’s hand on her breast froze and Katya almost rushed to take back the words. Anything to keep this going. But before she could, she felt Trixie’s hand slide down her stomach.

     “May I?” Trixie purred.

    “Please,” Katya gasped, throwing her head back into the pillow as Trixie’s fingers slipped below her waistband.

    Trixie was tentative at first, and Katya couldn’t tell if it was her own body vibrating in anticipation or if her hands were trembling. But when Katya immediately moaned as Trixie’s fingertips brushed her clit, any shyness ceased. She used two fingers to circle all around her clit, while pushing her face deeper into Katya’s neck.

    “Is it lame if I’m already close?” Katya giggled, sliding her hand up to tangle into Trixie’s hair. Trixie shook her head and leaned into the touch.

    “‘S hot.” Trixie gasped when Katya pulled lightly on her blonde roots. She slid her fingers lower, moving in quick circles at Katya’s entrance.

    “Please,” Katya encouraged, grinding down on her hand. Trixie obliged and dipped both fingers in at once, immediately crooking them upwards.

     “So wet,” Trixie mumbled against Katya’s skin.

     “Don’t stop,” Katya warned, earnestly fucking herself down on her friend’s hand now. Trixie slid her thumb back over to Katya’s clit and watched as the girl fell apart beneath her, shaking and biting her lips to keep back moans. Trixie slowly pumped her through it, waiting until she sighed to pull her hand away. She gently returned the sleep shorts to where they belonged and wiped her hand on her own t-shirt.

     “Christ,” Katya laughed, still panting.

     “Go to sleep, honey.” Trixie settled back down to Katya’s chest.

    “Do you want me to…?” Katya trailed off, waving her hand towards Trixie.

    “No, I’m okay. Go to sleep. We’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.” With that, Trixie nuzzled into Katya’s chest and closed her eyes. Katya fell asleep soon after, with her hand still tangled in Trixie’s hair.

[orpheusterminals]

Tobacco and other Consumable Ash Residue, of Cigarettes, Cigars and Pipes for Forensic Criminology by Sherlock Holmes

..I am thinking of writing this book you are reading, I am going to call it:

Tobacco and other Consumable Ash Residue, of Cigarettes, Cigars and Pipes for Forensic Criminology by Sherlock Holmes

The Secrets of the Empire of the Nine, Revealed !

or

( the Further Adventures of Frank Fuckface edited by Iason Ragnar Bellerophon.) 

Part Two: Straight outta The White Feathered Octopus

2017© Tetragrammatron Press

(cue Cavemanrobot holding up the DODECATRON logo, by Biscuit Boy, Britton Walters)

Beautiful Greenberg, Monumenta, New Korpoils, The Untitled Snakes of Assyria, Helios Three, Sol, Milky Way, The Red Universe, Oversoul Seven.

As of right NOW! Here it is…

THAR SHE BLOWS, Tis a piny she’ a whore!

When we last left our hero, Jace the Ace, the original soulseeker, he was sitting on a love seat in a small Ape-artment in Beautiful Greenberg, with his 71 year old one legged father, they had both just spilt a bottle of Gato One Eye Wine, and 40oz. Of magic mushrooms….

A event it was Bellerophon was to term: The White Feathered Octopus.

This is the peak of the movie talking about Danny Kaye in Wonderman!

It explains everything!

Post War World Two, healing would the mind and the heart

The thinker and the clown!

What is this trick photography, YES IT IS!

Two-way ticket, the 4-d man, the clown is the trickerts-

No telling what I can do when I learn the ropes,

Oh what a set up when I wasted all that time living

The secrets of life were solid for a dime (nothing a symbolic boon at best) they offer all the various – lustful, muses each a color of the rainbow, the young lover pulls upon them all, the solution, the soul union, to finding love either getting the man you want to notice you or to find new lover or both is to be polyamorius to play the field, not just with love, Song of Solomon, to play the field of life to explore all the different kinds of being you can be, mother, lover, whore, child, wife, ex-wife, monster, body, object, image. With young man falling before you. That will instill lust in your true love to struggle to then win you, or die trying

The Perpetual Grinning Giantess

Okay, get up, push your hands down on the rug, flip over, on the knees, Arch the back, strech out back, Arch again, PAIN!, tight exhausted doing nothing calf muscle, PAIN!, up on your feet, Broken Wagon wheel feeling, pivot, push forward, thought the apartment, Dad there in his chair so bored, now so delighted that I am coming thought the kitchen over to him. It is maybe 10, I don’t know 10:20? Dad could not wait for me to make coffee, he have has been able to figure out how to use the espresso maker, so instead I see what is left of his Cowboy Coffee.

Recipe for Cowboy Coffee

Two tablespoons of coffee grounds

Pour directly into a small cooking pot

Drop in One Cup of Water

Do not mix!

Heating until boil and continue to boil until contents have boiled over leaving burnt grounds chemically bonded forever in the porcelain stove top

Hysterically pour directly into whatever vessel you can find regardless of cleanliness, the mug you left overnight with 4 or 5 tea bags from last night will work nicely, or the Pyrex measuring cup, or a soup bowl, our take a slightly smaller cooking pot and pour it in there, just do it NOW!

Drop in an ice cube, drop the tray still filled with more ice onto the floor and kick it under the stove.

Add one to fifteen packs of the cheapest imitation sugar to taste

Drink one scalding sip, then let sit till ice cold, then dump into sink.

Piss in the mug, and hide it behind the chair

Forget about it, then a few days from now kick the mug over with enough force to cause it to be smashed to more manageable bits

And That’s Cowboy Coffee, enjoy.

Without saying a word, I go straight into the shower, PAIN! Find the Monkey Wretch we use to turn the hot water on with, the knob fell off a few weeks ago, I would ask the landlord to fix it, but since we are behind in the rent it makes it awkward. PAIN!

Get the water really HOT, turn off the lights, in the in shower, now down onto my knees, pressing my feet hard against the surface of the tub near the drain. PAIN!

Arching my back, arms under my frame for support, pushing and pulling my next, compressing my spine, sucking in my gut, as tight and I can, release and again and again. IN the Dark, IN the Steam, eye shut tight, making a pillow with my hands, how else would anyone make any pillow of any kind without their hands? The inner surface of my eyelids, opens up to a long subterranean florescent hallway, I am following a pleasing figure slightly in front of me, I am enjoying my point of view.

The Perpetual Grinning Giantess, who is a fusion of past girlfriends, a buxom, dark haired beauty with amalgamated features, in a thick tangerine turtle neck, and short pelted wool skirt, with knee high matching Clementine stockings, finds me in a dark corridor and taking my hand leads me down into a takes me to the underground bunker, that I always knew would be at my disposable if I need it. Actually it is a palace, long halls, tapestries, modernist sculptures and fountains.

The Giantess leads me to where the strange weapons, ornate armor, and incomprehensible gizmos, taken from other worlds, are stored. The orange paint job on the concrete brick walls of the armory matches her heaving sweater. And we joke about it. She speaks in a rhythmic sing-song manner with left field code words dovetailing the ends, and cresting the middle of her sentences. It was as if she was trying to teach me a code, or perhaps an alternative language that happened to use the same words as English but with different meanings, or both those things.

Suddenly I notice that there is a book in the back of the armory, behind glass. The giantess explains to me that it was the one last book in this world. All the others were destroyed. It is a thick old fashion book kept enshrined upon a pillow. Making a corny Ray Bradbury joke, I asked if it was Tales of Mystery and Imagination by Edgar Allen Poe.

The Giantess, looked at me with a blank stare and said it was, Tobacco and other Consumable Ash Residue, of Cigarettes, Cigars and Pipes for Forensic Criminology by Sherlock Holmes. As if I was foolish to think it could be any other book.

With a careful single motion she touched a tiny button on the side of the book’s pedestal, and glass, or what I thought was glass, instantly turned to cool steam flying away from the book. The whole bunker filled with a strong whiff of thick dust, that smell that only an old book can provide.

But, what a book! “May I?”

“Jugular! If justice is done, please just be careful, here use these gloves to turn the pages..”

I suppose the closest thing I could compare to the book would be the Voynich manuscript, Which I had been allowed to see when I was a grad student. This book seemed even more cryptic, page after page of elaborate diagrams of smoke, smokers, pipes, hookahs, and the various plants they are harvested from, but text was equally filled with wirework half-see through people, animals, and monsters. All of it appeared to be cross-connected with astronomical bodies; suns, moons, and stars of astronomy and astrology. One series of 78 diagrams depicts unconventional drawings for the zodiacal constellations from around the world ( a Winged Minotaur carrying a giant stone covered in dozen of human eye ball for Taurus, an eight legged centaur with a mane of fire and ice, brandishing a crossbow for Sagittarius, The Vedic Head of the Demon depicted as a man with a puppet on a stick riding a toad, a male and female pair of mere-people in coitis within a golden egg for Pisces, you get the idea).

There where different bevels running down the pages of the text block, so that fingers could easily find categories. In a section that appeared to cover geography I have a dozens different Maps of the earth, the largest of which folded-out in a special section of the book in one dived poster page, gingerly opening my six foot six inches arm span up to reveal a shockingly detailed chart of a planet called Helios Three, in the lower middle right of the map, the entire known land masses of our earth were represented as a tiny chain of islands the size of Hawaii all sharing the label Mundania, surrounded by quaint old timey sea-serpents, mostly hybrids of screaming women with hydra similar to classic allegorical images of Sin personified, in an area called the Internos Ocean, on a awesomely gargantuan orb filled to accommodate vast super-continents with labels that I could roughly translate as Atlemuriatis, Prospero’s Lillblefuscuiput, Ozqbar, and Xanthadu.

I laughed “This is an amazing document, a work of art onto itself, whoever made it really put their all into it, but Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, he is not a real person, it is a common misunderstanding that inspired this Obsessive Prankster.”

The Giantess, saw and raised my laugh, with a slightly perturbed “Blacktail! You have made a blunder!, Doyle, that asshole? He was a puppet, an actor! Adfluxion, the account is full of errors! WE hired him to distract the general populous! I don’t know what Sherlock saw in that empty headed chowderhead, that hapless little man believed in ghosts! Modishly, a mismanaged affair.

I asked her what she meant by that, was there something in the text besides the new revealed to be real Holmes’ study of tobacco ash, she said yes. The she made a joke herself, with a slightly different smile, a sexy twist in the curve of her lips,

she said. “Rollable, your request is unreasonable, I could tell you, but then I would have to kill you.”

“Okay, ha!” hoping over to a sturdy looking cot with a rainbow of earth tone striped wool blanket atop it and now under by backside. “ So Holmes, was an actual person, like some sort of Wold Newtonian idea.”

“World Newtonian, Cellar, the cheaper the better?” as she subtly shifted her weight to from on elaborately combat booted basketball size cafe muscle to the other, to align herself askew with a tilt of her solid fetching jawline.

Reaching over and strapping, what I thought were binoculars over my eyes, “No Wold, as in a meteorite which fell in Wold Newton, Yorkshire, England, on December 13, 1795” after a bit of fiddling the switches I found on their side, binoculars warmly activate with a peachy hum. “Which gave rise to an obscured piece of pulp fiction fandom, that plays around with ideas about fictional characters being secretly retold stories of real adventurers.”

A rush of colors and hydrographic information filled my eyes, I was seeing the world based upon the about of water that exist within objects. Glancing over to the book was blank save for tiny dancing golden stars, The Giantess however, towering over me a now a swirling sea of turquoise, teal, and white poured at lightspeed into her skin, with the thickness and shape of a clear emerald old timey cola bottle now slightly larger than human scale, with faint flakes of tulip and melon pulsating at constellations filled with a zoo of tiny totem creatures, where her organs must be, as flares shoot off from the end points of her circulation. What was once and will soon again be her hand reaches over to my face, thousands of carnation and cream carrousels being patrolled by squadrons of invisible sea lions, swim up through her fingertips. She looked like one of the drawings in the manuscript, only brought into shock clarity. I thought to tell her, but I figured she must already know that.

“He called it a supernova of genetic splendor”.

Pulling the hydroculars off my face, with a genteel grimace, her ample right breast brushing against my raised up left knee for an ecstatic second, “Who is He? And where did you hear about this?”

“Oh sorry, I did that classic male thing, and just spoke as if you could read my mind! He is Philip Jose Farmer, that writer I told you about before, he put forth the idea that the meteorite was radioactive and caused beneficial genetic mutations in those exposed to it. That is the fun in Farmer, he plays fast and loose with the facts working them into his fiction. It really could have been anything, ties in with The Golden Fleece, Holy Grail, Super Solider Serum, a oddball device so that heroes can be spawned from mortal men, gives the reader, the slimmest of chances that there might be a….”

“Mustard Seed of Truth?” she completed the words for me, then added “Enringed, the news causes great excitement!”

As my eye re-adjusts to the cold light of the room, I ask myself if I really needed to start talking about pulp fiction fandom, and related nonsense, along with rattling off way too much information to a kind girl that is just being sweet and listening, because your starting to date one another.

The Professor, The Know it All, those are strong impulses in me, I think it is a direct result of feeling stupid in school, being labeled “learning disabled”, knowing that you are smart, but being treated like you have shit for brains, brings out the need to prove it, prove hard and fast. When you’re a larger man than average, it does not help either, people will just assume that if you are big, and my big I mean fat and tall, that you are also mentally retarded.

Such is life, right, we all have our crosses to bear, even a Bear.

But I am who I am and that stuff is important to me, the sabertooth is out of the bag.

Pushing a series of thin sliver bracelet up her wrist, “Well, actually Sherlock was just his code name, No Holmes was real! Expect was really your ancestor, Dr. Joseph Bell, who hand picked Doyle when, he had worked for Bell as a clerk at the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary.”

“The E.R.I.?” making a joke, as if I was already familiar with so random war hospital, “Whoa, there sunshine, what are you talking about? huunnnnunun!” I said with my nervous laugh dancing up behind my words. “Why, would he do that? For what purpose?” pushing pass her, walking about over to the book again.

“In order that to better hide the knowledge, of course!. If it were not for him and the wisdom he encoded in this book all would be lost! If this book fell into the hands of most people they would think it was perhaps a prop from a theatrical production, or the ravings of a nutjob at best. Probably the poor soul would just burn it for kindling.”

The great burden of it all on her face, a afternoon shadow falling indoors onto hard wood floors.

“ That is why you are here, Jason, it is all here in the book, ever wonder why you would even know about some hairbrained pastime like that Fig Newton, or whatever you called that Grail stone! To get you ready for this day, this moment everyday there are new entries on the blank pages, new diagrams, new recipes! He did something to the ink, so that it would appear bit by bit, as if it is a clock, the book is alive and has a time delay for information. So far I have figured out that much, and that when he is talking about smoke is does not mean smoke, he means the residue of activity all human activity, and maybe other forms of higher and lower life. It is too much to handle, We need you to work with me on recording it all down, interrupting it, figure out how to use it. .”

The adventure suit was scarlet, and goldenrod, with cyan tiger stripe in artful placment…..

[junker-town]

The Georgia Dome got the farewell it deserved

Monster Jam was the last memorable event in a stadium that begged to be forgotten.

Monster Jam fills up enough of the Georgia Dome — most of the bottom bowl, and a good chunk of the mezzanines and upper deck. There is competition in town — but there also probably isn’t a lot of Sunday night overlap between the monster truck crowd and the people across town at Georgia Tech’s Bobby Dodd Stadium watching Atlanta United lose its first game ever to New York Red Bulls.

There are mostly dads, myself included, towing kids there with the promise of monster trucks and multiple concession stand runs.

One of these runs: for a $20 Monster Jam official Grave Digger sno-cone with commemorative Grave Digger cup with molded grinning skeleton face and flashing lights triggered via a button in its plastic forehead. I bought it; one $15 commemorative non-truck-specific Monster Jam sno-cone; a $15 pair of headphones/ear protectors, with rubber tires mounted around the ear cups for one child; a $20 pair of less-elaborate ear protection for the other kid, who could not be persuaded to get the cheaper ones because, “I need different daddy”; at least $30 worth of bribes in the form of food and drink to keep them in the stands for half the show; $0 in alcohol, somehow, because two children at a monster truck show keep you so busy and running that you cannot find the time to get drunk enough to deal with the children.

While waiting, a towheaded 3-year-old behind us pointed to the beer man selling $12 oil cans of Busch Light.

“Daddy, you could get a beer.”

“You know Daddy only drinks crown.”

The Omni

The first thing I can remember about going to a live sports event involves DeBarge, and the memory is wrong. Wrong may not be the right word, actually. Better put, I misremembered because I was probably 6 years old, and 6-year-olds can’t be counted on to provide accurate testimony in a court of law or in a recollection involving the Atlanta Hawks and Philadelphia 76ers.

My dad took me to a Hawks game at the Omni. The Omni was the least-lovable building ever constructed, a black cube with tented pyramids of black sheet metal jutting from the roof, weird angular corner windows, and the street presence of a giant, menacing blast furnace. I thought it looked cool because it reminded me of the doomed spaceship in Disney’s The Black Hole. Kids have bad memories and deplorable taste in architecture.

The Omni was built to rust, to be an uncherished memory before it ever happened.

The first claim there is literal. By rusting, the steel elements of the building would become even more fused to each other. In its later years, it started to look like an overturned running shoe or waffle iron left outside to the elements. The designers reportedly did not factor in Atlanta’s subtropical climate, and the Omni kept rusting and rusting until the entire building had an incurable form of architectural arthritis. Holes appeared in the building’s frame, holes big enough for people to pass through without tickets or permission. Rather than fix the gaping holes in the building designed to rust in one of the United States’ most humid places, management instead put up chain-link fences along them.

The second claim, that the Omni was designed to be an uncherished memory, is a guess. The Hawks played there either way. My dad drove me down into the city with the radio on — never the rock station, but always the R&B station with Switch, Brick, Earth, Wind & Fire, The Gap Band, Roger and Zapp, or Kool and the Gang on. I knew the Hawks had a player named “Tree Rollins.” This was enough all by itself, but I would also get to go to Burger King for a kids meal, which, for a kid who was avowedly not into sports, was a low, low bribe bar to clear.

Tree Rollins totally looked like someone named Tree. I remember the Omni very much looking like the inside of a doomed spaceship, and that everyone was very excited that someone called Dr. J was there, even though he was evidently some off-brand version of Dr. J not equal to a previous version. There were men there with giant Jheri curls and Magnum, P.I. sunglasses and mustaches indicating that they were serious, wealthy, and just dangerous enough to wear a mustache. I remember the hair across all races and genders being massive and more carefully constructed than the arena they were standing in; I remember being one of the few kids in the building, and thinking that maybe, sometimes, my dad might just be taking me to stuff he liked in order to get out of the house and have a few too many beers by himself.

Photo by Streeter Lecka/Getty Images

On the way home, I remember passing the few super-distinct pieces of the Atlanta skyline: the Peachtree Westin that Dar Robinson jumped out of for a Burt Reynolds stunt, the UFO-shaped alien cake of Fulton County Stadium where the Braves played and where my dad would later take us to sit in empty seats and pick up fiendish sunburns, the Georgia Capital that always seemed completely out of place in all that retro-futurism and brutalist forestry around it. That’s the kind of place Atlanta was and still is — a place where the past is what seems unnecessary, not the future.

The music had changed. My dad drove in silence and smoked Vantage cigarettes with the window cracked even though it was winter, I think, and cold enough to have the heat cranking. It was Quiet Storm time on the radio, and that meant Jeffrey Osborne, Marvin Gaye, Rita Coolidge, and Gladys Knight, Stevie Wonder, Teddy Pendergrass. DeBarge’s “All This Love” came on and the nylon string guitar solo played and I looked up and thought how the streetlights were on but still looked so dark against the streets and the houses of what I now know was a decimated Techwood.

I’m pretty sure since that song came out in 1982 that we’d already moved to Tennessee by then, but at a certain point emotional memories are immune to fact-checking. The fadeout and ride in the song is endless over the background singers going say you really love me baby/ say you really love me darling/for I really love you baby/sure enough love you darlin’

At the Georgia Dome, there is some of exactly what you think should be at a Monster Jam show in the South.

There was, for example, a terrifying man in the sleeveless Confederate flag shirt eight rows below our seats. I asked him if he knew where I could get ear protection before the race. He looked at me for about five seconds before responding because he:

comes from someplace where there is a daily quota on words for interpersonal communication

thought I was a godless bearded urbanite hitting on him

or was very drunk and hearing me talking on a built-in beer-induced tape delay.

I hope he was drunk, and also that he thought I was hitting on him.

The trucks have names ranging from the super-uninspiring and corporate — the FS1 Cleatus Truck! the Team Hot Wheels Firestorm! — to the classic and menacing (Bounty Hunter and El Toro Loco). There is a truck called Obsession and its unimaginatively named partner, Obsessed. One is called Ice Cream Man, easily the least-intimidating monster truck of all time because it comes out to tinkly ice cream van chimes, or the most unsettling because it plays a song synonymous with the sketchiest non-related regular cast member of most people’s childhoods — the neighborhood ice cream man who might have lived in the van he worked in.

There is a Monster Energy truck with green neon lights built into the undercarriage. I am here to report against my will that it looks absolutely and positively sick. It is called “the Monster Energy Truck” because there are two good monster truck names in the universe, and both are taken. (Grave Digger and Bigfoot, to be specific.)

The anthem is sung while a bald eagle flaps in slow motion on the end-zone video boards.

The Georgia Dome was built in 1992, and it will be imploded in the summer of 2017. It will never see its 30th birthday, and it will not be missed because it, too, was built to be forgotten. The last event in the dome will be Monster Jam. If you are from outside of the state, you will think it is appropriate because LOL REDNECKS; if you are from here, you will probably also think it is appropriate because LOL REDNECKS, but will get mad when anyone else says it.

For the record, the Dome didn’t even try to be interesting on the level of the Omni or Fulton County Stadium. It was fine but unmemorable as something you drove past, sat in, or saw in shots of the city skyline. Take a hotel bathtub, preferably one of the cheap ones, too shallow to do anything in but sit unhappily for five minutes before giving up and draining the water. Cover it with a large golf umbrella blown inside out by the wind. Solder the two together. Paint it first teal and maroon, because someone in 1991 thought putting the bedroom color scheme from a Florida vacation rental on the outside of a stadium in Atlanta was a good idea.

When you remember the Atlanta Falcons play football there, paint it in a new scheme with red and black in it to remind everyone of their existence. Don’t do this until 16 years after you open the stadium, and only nine years before its eventual demolition.

Photo by Doug Benc/Getty Images

Monster Jam is the last event here. Other things happened before that. The Atlanta Falcons played mostly forgettable football here, unless you take out the Vick years, which you might want to given how they ended. If there were some way to keep the part where all the mostly African-American fans in the upper deck went bonkers the minute they started playing “Bring ’Em Out” for those teams, you should do that. That may be the most excited single concentration of minutes you could salvage from the team’s history at the Georgia Dome: Before the team played, but after they remembered they were going to watch the fastest player in the NFL touch the ball on every play. This is a happy memory. There aren’t a lot of those there.

It hosted a lot of college football, including the annual SEC Championship game. Tim Tebow cried on the sideline there after Alabama clipped Florida’s undefeated streak short in 2009; Les Miles in 2007 used his backup quarterback to win an SEC title there, and then a national title LSU somehow got with two losses later in New Orleans. Before that game he hustled every reporter in reach to a press conference where he denied Kirk Herbstreit’s report that he was going to take the Michigan job, and then with his chest at full inflation demanded that the room “have a great day.” I was there for that and, yes, it was just as confusing in person as it was on television.

Photo by A. Messerschmidt/Getty Images

LSU coach Les Miles after defeating the University of Miami, 40-3, in the 2005 Chick-fil-A Peach Bowl.

There was Wrestlemania in 2011, when the Rock returned and I nearly flipped my laptop off a table when the glass broke and Stone Cold Steve Austin ripped down the entry ramp on an ATV like the Pope of All Shitkicking Rednecks. In 1994, Deion Sanders and Andre Rison punched each other while wearing helmets in fight during a football game, an event that easily clears the hurdle to being one of the top 25 most memorable moments in Atlanta history, and was also incredibly dumb. Those two circles overlap a lot here.

There were two Super Bowls in the Dome. The first was a forgettable one in 1994 where the Cowboys beat the Bills. This beating was different from the seven other Bills/Cowboys Super Bowls in the 1990s because the pregame show featured Kriss Kross, Charlie Daniels, the Georgia Satellites, and the Morehouse Marching Band doing a tribute to “Georgia Music Makers.” Charlie Daniels is from North Carolina but did a song about an unenforceable contract between the Devil and a mentally ill violin player, so by any standard he counted.

The second is best remembered for an unseasonably brutal ice storm and Ray Lewis picking up two murder charges from the Fulton County District Attorney after a very bad night out on the town with his friends. The Tennessee Titans came up a yard short in Atlanta, but most Nashville things measured in Atlanta terms fail by much, much more than that. Feel better thinking about it in those terms, Nashville.

There was also the time the tornado struck the Georgia Dome while I was inside it during the 2008 SEC basketball tournament, rippling the ceiling like water and throwing the scoreboard around like a weight on a fishing lure. That happened, too.

Other than all that, there’s not much else. Monster Jam will close out the building’s life, if you like to anthropomorphize a stadium no one ever thought to give a personality or memory. The seats will be auctioned off or sold to high schools for repurposing. The innards will be sold in stages, right down to a yard sale of whatever’s left in the building getting gutted and gaveled out right on the sidewalk outside the Dome on Northside Drive.

Sometime during the summer it will be imploded and become a parking lot for the new stadium. It’s a corporate-sponsored metallic oculus someone will probably remember as looking like a very old future. The Falcons and Atlanta United will call it home, and the Georgia Dome will be gone and not mourned. That’s fine, and I don’t want you to think for a second it isn’t. Some things are built to be forgotten, and the Georgia Dome is one of them.

Photo by Chris Graythen/Getty Images

The trucks spend the first half of the show racing by pairs in heats. They can sort of drift a corner — sort of, as much as a 10,000-pound truck can slide on dirt. The drivers don’t hammer the gas so much as they get up to speed, and then feather the throttle to keep the trucks moving with careful blasts of the engine. It’s like watching extremely short rallycross races run by farting whales in track shoes.

Finishing fast is interesting. Finishing sideways doing something reckless and badass is better, but finishing first and flying sideways across the finish line is best. This is particularly true if you can roll the truck over, hit the throttle, catch one enormous tire in the dirt on the end of the roll, and flip the entire vehicle back onto all four tires for a save, a round of WOOOOS and applause, and a pass to the next round of racing.

This happens twice in the racing segment of the show, which is two more times than anyone should be able to pull that off in the aforementioned 10,000-pound trucks. Grave Digger sacrificed itself for the crowd’s pleasure early — it hit a massive jump while trying to speed across the finish line, bouncing sideways, blowing out one enormous tire and a mess of important-looking metal stuff in the chassis on impact, and then rolling to stop on its ceiling while soaking up the applause. Grave Digger left the arena with three good wheels, one completely destroyed tire, and the limp of a champion who’d given their all. If I had been drinking, I might have teared up a little.

The second half is the freestyle, the more entertaining part where Monster Jam ditches the entire concept of racing, and just lets drivers try to tear apart their cars for the crowd. The drivers have two minutes to run through their routine. The most popular runs don’t even make it that long, though. They end abruptly and satisfactorily when the driver rolls their truck onto its roof off an ill-advised but spectacular jump, breaks an axle or blows out a tire, or cripples the thing trying to land a backflip.

The Monster Energy truck — the one with the absolutely sick neon — whipped itself around during the freestyle event with such force that its flimsy body panels sheared off in every direction. One truck just did donuts for the last 20 seconds of their routine. If a monster truck rips donuts on dirt, there is an involuntary response from the body. “WOOOOOOOO” leaps from the diaphragm. You can’t fight it, and wouldn’t want to if you could.

The MCs yell out this or something like it repeatedly.

“DOIN’ IT ONE LAST TIME FOR THE GEORGIA DOME.”

It doesn’t have much effect, not even when a local DJ yells it out during a bike race between three audience members racing on children’s bikes. But then, the Georgia Dome is used to quiet echoing off its cavernous walls, or having fan noise piped in to ricochet between its empty seats. There is nothing more to give from this afternoon’s audience, for one: Being at Monster Jam is getting blasted in the face for three hours with engine noise, and then coated with a gentle drizzle of dirt floating down between runs. Maximum audience participation is clapping and yelling just loudly enough to be heard over engines that burn a gallon of fuel a minute. There is no 11, or giving it up any harder than one is already giving it up.

Very few people seemed to realize this was the end, or at least attached any significance to it, or cared whether anyone would begin gutting the building the instant the last earth-mover carried out the dirt.

We had to leave three trucks into the freestyle when both of their attention spans wore out, and were unrecoverable. We left before the Georgia Dome paid one last tribute to itself: A grease fire broke out in a concession stand, which was quickly put out only after filling a concourse with smoke and scaring the hell out of a few patrons. Remember that on the way out: that the building tried to save everyone the trouble of demolition by burning itself down.

Photo by Chris Graythen/Getty Images

A tear in the ceiling of the Georgia Dome is visible after severe weather passed over the building during the SEC Men's Basketball Tournament on March 14, 2008.

Walking out with my kids, they were about the same age I was when I left the Omni with my dad at the Omni in 1982, or 1983, or whenever it was in fuzzy kid-time. They saw the new stadium next door and thought it looked pretty much like a spaceship, or like someplace where Skylanders would live.

That is exactly what the Omni and Fulton County Stadium looked like to me as a kid —so much so that later, when my dad and another dad would awkwardly hang out for the benefit of their sons’ juvenile need to socialize with other dudes, my friend Jim and I would sit in the backseat as they drove and point out the buildings we would own in the future. He’d take the Westin, and keep all his Legos there. I’d take Fulton County Stadium, and reserve it exclusively for my collection of helicopters. A city was a place to be had, a thing to be purchased for your convenience.

Kids, weirdly enough, understand that a city is just something to be bought and sold.

Later, weirder, less-tenable ideas creep into your head: That it could be home, that the buildings you can name mean something beyond the names, that there might be some kind of resonant harmony between you and this random system of properties and spaces. Sometime someone might superimpose a sports team into that imaginary relationship, making this city not just a place, but a place for you, and people like you, and that all of you can thrive here. It is special. You are special, and the team, its players, and all the spaces they pass through and live in are special and remarkable and unlike anything else in the world.

There is a magic you can believe about a place as an adult that children do not even begin to believe or accept. A 7-year-old would laugh you out of the room, probably while telling you that the new place was much better, both because it looked like a place where Skylanders would live, and also because it was new. New things are better, and you should always take the new thing.

Photo by Streeter Lecka/Getty Images

That shouldn’t be hard to accept. Take the new thing, even if the nagging, haunting feeling of living somewhere boils down to a problem with you, with that thing where you’re looking for something in tangible space to consider a landmark, a guidepost. To consider something significant, if only so that you, in relation to it, can have a bit of that significance. The city I live in makes that hard to do, though there’s an honesty in that constant self-digestion and auto-demolition. Do not get attached. It, and everything in it, will eventually move, just like the teams and the people who call it home.

That’s the rational, reasonable thing to think, yet even with an intentionally blank, mostly unmemorable empty space like the Georgia Dome I want something to be there, to definitively have happened there. There should be a definite something there, thinks some deeply schizophrenic part of my brain that doesn’t want so much as a garden shed to collapse around me without some memory attached to it. Otherwise it’s just a thing — and by extension, so is the city, and the very personally important me I’ve attached to it.

I have a definite thing to attach myself to here. After all, I thought for a few seconds on March 14, 2008 that I was going to die on the floor of the Georgia Dome on press row at the SEC men’s basketball tournament.

I thought Kentucky fans were stomping their feet in unison on the bleachers at first, but the noise swelled, and swelled more, and grew so loud and limitless all at once. It felt limitless in the sense of being infinitely powerful with no range or end to the noise, so loud and yet so obviously just getting started on the way to a theoretical full volume. What do you think a tornado at pace is? It’s actually just clearing its throat and warming up, volume-wise. It’s whispering, holding back. You just hear it as a roar.

There wasn’t even a shudder from impact. There was just the sensation that the entire building was next to an immense floor buffer, spinning and vibrating at thousands of RPM. When that vibration turned into waves the roof flapped like a subwoofer, the air vents started spitting out pieces of insulating foam, and for one second I weighed the options of dying standing up and being crushed by the falling roof and lighting, or taking my chances ducking under a table, only to be crushed by all that plus one flimsy plywood table. The lights swayed 10 to 15 feet in either direction. The waves got stronger, and the entire overturned bathtub of the stadium was now being thumped by a very pissed off janitor pushing that giant floor buffer into the side of the Georgia Dome.

I was sitting next to Verne Lundquist and Bill Raftery. That would have been memorable for me, at least, getting crushed next to a legendary announcer, in the few seconds I had to have a last memory. If I’d heard Verne say “oh my” as it collapsed, it would have been my last tweet, and the RTs and favs would be infinite.

Instead of bearing down at full speed and colliding with the Dome, though, the tornado drunkenly staggered into the Georgia Congress Center next door, then down Marietta Street and into Cabbagetown before dissipating into the night. Not knowing what else to do, I walked out and took pictures of holes in the walls of the Congress Center, and thought about how great I felt about not dying in the Georgia Dome that night.

Leaving the last event at a building that was designed to be forgotten, I didn’t even really think about the one thing I should remember and attach to the spot.

Instead I thought about the only song I think about when I think about the irrational need for a place to give me something only a human can — especially this place, the first place I did so many things, like leaning my head against the window listening to DeBarge after a Hawks game. That need will never make sense, no matter how many games you watch there, or how many moments you spend there. It won’t make sense, not even after years of silently asking a place to just talk back to you once after you spend years monologuing to it. To look at a place that eats its own every day, and buries its stadiums and buildings and places under like daisies beneath a plow, and ask it, as if you were some exception to the rule, to sing the outro to you:

say you really love me baby

say you really love me darling

for I really love you baby

sure enough love you darlin’

[touristguidebuzz]

How to Visit Paris on a College Budget

Whether you’re a student studying abroad, or simply an avid TPG reader who’s taken advantage of one of those amazing fare sales to Europe we’ve been seeing recently, Paris is a hot destination. Between the flights, hotels and transportation around the city — oh, and don’t forget the food and drinks — costs can add up pretty quickly. Here, I’ll share several tricks I used while I was studying in Paris for 10 weeks that helped me make sure I was able to do everything I wanted without breaking the bank, as well as a few places that are definitely worth your money.

Start Saving as Soon as You Arrive in Paris

Paris has one of the most thorough subway systems of any major city. 16 Metro lines connect to five RER commuter lines and nine light-rail tram lines, making every block of the city easily accessible via public transit. The paper tickets you can buy at any station are easy to lose and confusingly priced, but if you plan ahead and order a Navigo Pass, you’ll watch your savings rack up — you can put an unlimited one-week pass on this plastic, chip-enabled card for just 22.15 euros (~$23). As a point of comparison, my friend who didn’t have a Navigo Pass spent more than 40 euros (~$42) on Metro tickets over the course of the five days he was there. Just don’t forget that trains stop running around 1:00am, so make sure you have a plan to get home if you’re staying out late, or else you’ll end up emptying your wallet for a cab! And if you do use the paper tickets, don’t toss them out once you’re past the turnstiles — some stations require you to use them to leave as well as enter.

With 30 lines to choose from, you’ll find zipping around Paris to be quite convenient. Image courtesy of the Régie Autonome des Transports Parisiens.

Meet the Store That Made Coming Back to the US Nearly Impossible

Fancy meals are fun, and you should take every opportunity to try the exquisite Parisian cuisine. But that doesn’t mean you need to spend big every time you get hungry. Enter Lidl, the German grocery chain that turned into my second home during my study-abroad program in Paris. The ability to buy a week’s worth of groceries for the equivalent of $25 was amazing, but I was usually content to pick up a fresh baguette and a few pastries for about 50 cents each, maybe a one-euro (~$1) bottle of wine and call it a day. It gets the job done, and you’ll learn pretty quickly that there’s no such thing as bad bread in Paris.

Stay tuned: European discount grocery chain Lidl is set to open its first US location in 2018. Let’s just pray they bring the baguettes with them. Image courtesy of Shutterstock.

Why Spend $50 on a Steak When You Can Spend $20 for Two?

People give me a funny look when I tell them that my favorite steak place in the world is a Parisian chain restaurant with only one item on the menu, steak frites. But how much do I love Le Relais de l’Entrecote? Enough that I went back to Paris this summer just for a steak — or at least that’s what I told my waitress. Sometimes the best food is the simplest. You walk in, sit down and the server will simply ask you how you want it cooked. There are no menus to distract you, just a wine list — I highly recommend the Relais house label — service is faster than you can imagine and they’ll break out a glorious plate of steak frites covered in a delicious green butter sauce. Wonderful, right?

Sorry to spoil the surprise, but just when you think it’s done, there’s more. Instead of clearing your empty plate, the waitress will bring out the second half of the steak that they’ve been keeping warm for you back in the kitchen. That’s right, 20 euros buys you two full steak dinners for the price of one. Want a drink after dinner? Of course you do, it’s Paris! While it may not be the cheapest place around, stop by La Coupole right across the street from Le Relais de l’Entrecote on Boulevard Montparnasse. Over the years, this bar-turned-restaurant has served as a watering hole for some of the most famous European writers and artists of all time, including Albert Camus, Salvador Dalí, Pablo Picasso and Jean-Paul Sartre, to name a few.

Meet the Green Fairy

And speaking of famous European artists… So poorly understood by those who’ve never tried it — thanks to the fact that it was long illegal in the US and much of Europe — absinthe is more readily available in Paris. While many places will tout their absinthe cocktails, it’s best experienced by itself. Only a handful of bars serve it the correct way, with a slotted spoon and sugar cube cradled under a tediously slow drip of ice water to create the perfect drink. A few blocks from the Bastille metro stop in the heart of one of the city’s best bar districts, Le Fee Verte will give you the authentic experience you deserve — you can even grab a quick dinner at any of the nearby restaurants and keep hopping around the neighborhood if you’d like. This is the perfect place to start or end your night, or else makes a great stop in the middle of it.

What do Marilyn Manson, Oscar Wilde, and Vincent van Gogh all have in common? A deep, deep, deep love of absinthe. Image courtesy of Shutterstock.

The Champ De Mars Will Entertain You for Free

I don’t blame you if you’re standing at the bottom of the Eiffel Tower thinking, “What could I possibly do to save money here?” Aside from scoring a student discount, for which you’d need either an EU passport or a Parisian student ID, there’s not much to it other than buying your ticket and going up to the top. But less than 100 feet from one of the largest tourist traps in the world is my favorite spot in the city. Grab a bottle of wine and a blanket and find a spot on the giant National Mall-like grassy field that stretches southeast from the tower (i.e., the Champ de Mars). Here’s the trick: Dozens of vendors will be wandering around selling wine and beer, and while a 10-euro (~$10) bottle of French wine might sound like a steal to an American tourist, it’s a blatant ripoff in Paris — you can stop by a Lidl store (mentioned above) before you go, or really any other grocery store, and buy 10 bottles for the same price (although if you’re going to do that, I’d suggest sharing).

I’ll take this view over the one from the top any day. Image courtesy of Shutterstock.

No Trip to Paris Would Be Complete Without a Crepe

Or a galette, if you prefer savory to sweet. While there are hundreds of stands ands carts making fresh crepes around the city, the best one I’ve ever had is from a little place housed under a small, nondescript brown awning right next to the Cité Internationale Universitaire de Paris. (If you’ve ever studied in Paris, you’ll be familiar with this collection of international dorms that provide cheap housing to foreign students, and if you haven’t, it’s three stops on the RER B line from the Luxembourg Gardens.)

What really sets these crepes apart is the people who make them. Grab a steaming cup of spiced tea on the house while you wait for your food, and strike up a conversation. Over the 10 weeks that I was fortunate enough to live right next to this stand, I watched the owners help a man fix his bike after it was hit by a car, assist my friend in replacing his phone after it was stolen and find complete strangers places to stay during their travels throughout Europe. It’s easy to see how genuine they are, which is why when I was lucky enough to go back to Paris this summer, my first point of business off the plane — yes, at 8:00am — was a crepe there. Once you grab your food, walk back across the street and check out Parc Montsouris behind the train station. It’s an incredibly underrated patch of greenery, complete with running tracks, a beautiful pond, and plenty of space to relax and step back from the hustle and bustle of the city, if only for a minute.

Do Me a Favor, Would You?

I have a pretty convoluted relationship with the city of Paris. While my program was eye-opening in ways I’m still only beginning to understand, it also coincided with one of the worst terrorist attacks Europe has ever seen. When it was time for me to come home just a few weeks later, the city was still in a state of limbo and I didn’t know if things were going to return to normal or if fear and hatred would fill the void. And while time has done wonders to heal the physical and emotional wounds that were inflicted that day, there’s still a long way to go. So whether this is your first time visiting this magical city, or like me, it feels more like you’re going home than going on vacation, go out of your way to spread some kindness. Do a good deed, help a stranger, buy a homeless child a meal. The city needs more love, and so does the world.

Do you have any tips for saving money in Paris? Let us know, below.

Featured image courtesy of AleksandarNakic via Getty Images.

Chase Sapphire Preferred® Card

APPLY NOW

Earn 50,000 bonus points after you spend $4,000 on purchases in the first 3 months from account opening. That's $625 toward travel when you redeem through Chase Ultimate Rewards®

Named Best Credit Card for Flexible Travel Redemption - Kiplinger's Personal Finance, July 2016

2X points on travel and dining at restaurants worldwide & 1 point per dollar spent on all other purchases.

Earn 5,000 bonus points after you add the first authorized user and make a purchase in the first 3 months from account opening

No foreign transaction fees

1:1 point transfer to leading airline and hotel loyalty programs

Get 25% more value when you redeem for airfare, hotels, car rentals and cruises through Chase Ultimate Rewards. For example, 50,000 points are worth $625 toward travel

No blackout dates or travel restrictions - as long as there's a seat on the flight, you can book it through Chase Ultimate Rewards

Intro APR Regular APR Annual Fee Foreign Transaction Fee Credit Rating N/A See Issuer's Terms Introductory Annual Fee of $0 the first year, then $95 0% Excellent Credit