#if there's no cold snap NOW with a ton of snow i will never see cam ever again

[im-goin-mad]

so how much power does that groundhog have

[rubysunnday]

as white as snow

summary: Y/N runs into Anthony Bridgerton, someone she's known of for years, but never gotten close to, at the winter solistice ball. Through a dramatic turn of events, the two are forced to acknowledge one another and their feelings.

The winter season had always been a dark, cold and occasionally lonely one. Many families of the ton left London for their country estates, choosing to spend the winter time in sprawling fields.

But there was one event that many families travelled to the outskirts of London for. the Countess of Derby's solstice ball.

It was the biggest event of the winter period. Invites were a coveted prize. Which was why Miss Y/N Hughes was currently staring, open mouthed, at the green envelope in her hand, her name elegantly scrawled on the front in gold.

'Y/N, close your mouth, we are not a codfish," her mother, Lady Hughes, snapped, setting her teacup down on the saucer with a clink.

Y/N hurried over to her mother and held the envelope out in front of her. Her mother cast an uninterested gaze over to her hand. There was a second before the envelope registered in her mind and, when it did, her mother let out an undignified shriek, snatching it from Y/N's hands.

"Robert! ROBERT!" Her mother yelled, barging past Y/N and hurrying into the morning room where her father sat, reading the newspaper.

Y/N stood to the side, trying not to show her amusement at her mother's reaction to the invite.

"We must go to the modiste right away," Lady Hughes said, rushing back into the room, their housekeeper trailing behind. "We need new dresses suitable for this event. Y/N, come along, we need to get you a new dress, dear."

"Is this," Y/N inhaled sharply, "corset meant to be this tight?"

"Of course, miss," the modiste said, pulling the laces even tighter. "It's meant to accentuate the waist and boobs."

"I think it's meant to be comfortable," Y/N muttered, wincing as the boning began to poke into the side of her boob. "And allow me to breathe."

Her mother had insisted the modiste was to dress them the night of the ball - making sure their new dresses looked the best. No expense had been spared, as was always the way, and Y/N's new gown was covered in gems and beads.

It hung on a hanger, on the edge of her door, sparkling and glittering in the candlelight. The modiste trotted over to the door, lifting the hook of the hanger off the wood.

Y/N put her hands on her waist, wincing as she tried to take a full breath in, the tight corset restricting the action.

"Would it be possible to loosen this corset a bit?" Y/N asked, looking over at the modiste.

"No, we would ruin the silhouette of the dress otherwise," the modiste said, shaking her head. She turned to the dress. "Now, let's put this on."

Their carriage rolled to an abrupt stop. Y/N tried not to lurch forward, gripping the carriage door tightly to stop herself from falling into her mother's lap.

"Remember, best behaviour," Lady Hughes warned, poking a few pins further into her hair. "We want to make an impression. And you, dearest," she looked at Y/N, "are running out of time to make a match."

"Oh, mama -"

"No, I won't hear it. You've been out in society for almost two years. Unless I see something happen tonight, your father and I will be arranging a match for you."

Y/N's eyes widened. "What? Mama!"

"Silence, Y/N." Her mother leant forward, pushing in to her space. "We will discuss this more later."

The carriage door opened and her father jumped out, extending his hand out to her mother, guiding her down the stairs. Y/N took a moment, pulling back the blanket that covered her legs, and then slid across the seats to the door. She lifted her dress up and put a slippered foot onto the first step, placing her hand in the footman's.

The Countess of Derby's mansion was a magnificently beautiful building. There were fifty-five acres of immaculately maintained gardens and the house itself was set in over two thousand acres of land.

It was a beautiful example of architecture. Each brick had been placed with care, flowers curling around the columns and windows.

Y/N pulled her velvet cloak tighter around her shoulders as she began to walk up the steps. A freezing gust of wind whipped at her skin, raising the hairs on her arms. Braziers and torches lined the stone steps leading up to the front door. Footmen stood at intervals, ready to assist if anyone needed it.

"Miss Hughes!"

Y/N turned, looking back down the path. Another coach had pulled up and its inhabitants were clambering out in a gaggle of laughs and complaints.

"Lord Bridgerton!' Y/N exclaimed, a smile overtaking her face. She walked back down the steps, holding her dress hem up off the floor. "This is a surprise!"

Anthony Bridgerton took the steps two at a time, meeting Y/N half way. He took her gloved hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it, all whilst looking directly at her.

Y/N suddenly found it hard to breathe. His gaze was intense and his hand warm against her cold skin.

She'd known Anthony for a few years now. It'd been a chance meeting at the opening of a new art exhibition that he'd brought them together. Both of them had been drawn to the same painting for the same reasons and, suddenly, Y/N had a new friendship.

A friendship she yearned to evolve into something more.

"Brother? You're blocking the path."

Anthony stood up, rolling his eyes as he did so. He stepped to the side and his younger brother, Colin, stepped up.

"Hello, Miss Hughes," Colin said, winking at her. "You look lovely."

"As do you, Mr Bridgerton," Y/N said, smiling back at him.

Benedict followed behind Colin. "Miss Hughes," he said, nodding at her, a smile on his face. As he passed, he squeezed her arm in greeting.

"Mr Bridgerton," Y/N replied.

Daphne and Eloise followed behind their brothers, the former practically dragging the latter with her.

"Duchess," Y/N said, curtseying. "Miss Bridgerton." Y/N leant in to Anthony. "Good lord, there are a lot of you."

Anthony sighed heavily. "Imagine the carriage ride."

Y/N greeted Lady Bridgerton as she walked past, smiling warmly at her. "Shall we head inside, Lord Bridgerton?"

Anthony held out his arm and Y/N placed her gloved hand in the crook of his elbow. "We shall, Miss Hughes."

As soon as they stepped inside the foyer, Y/N's breath was taken away. Fir trees covered in candles and decorations sat in each corner, lining the expansive space. Each one guided them towards the main ballroom where even more fir trees were stood. Dancers waltzed around the room, reds, greens, golds and whites blending together.

"Is this your first solstice ball?" Anthony asked, his voice quiet.

His breath danced across her skin and Y/N felt her arms tingle with goosebumps.

"Yes," she whispered, her eyes trying to take in every detail in front of her. "It's... magical."

"Here, let me take your cloak," Anthony said, releasing her arm and coming around to stand in front of her. His fingers effortlessly undid the bow at her chest. His knuckles brushed across her skin, his signet ring cold to her warmth.

Y/N breathed in deeply and then regretted it as her corset almost tightened around her torso. She hid her stuttered breath until Anthony turned away, handing her cloak and his cape to the attendant by the door.

"Would you like to -"

"Miss Hughes?"

Y/N mentally swore. She turned her head and forced herself to smile at the older man standing in front of her, looking expectantly at her.

"Captain Sanders. I'm an old friend of your father's," he explained. "Your mother said I could ask you for a dance."

Y/N felt her lungs constrict. "Oh. Yes, of course, Captain."

She reluctantly held out her hand to the man. As he led her way, her other hand brushed against Anthony's her fingers locking with his for a split second as she tried to cling on.

Anthony watched her disappear into the crowd. His hand clenched into a tight fist and he then flexed it, trying to ignore the jealously and pain going through him.

It'd taken him far too long to realise Y/N was who he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He'd know she was running out of time and now, when he was about to begin trying to court her, she was being pulled from his grasp.

"Please tell me you did not just let Captain Sanders whisk Y/N away," Benedict said, coming to stand next to his older brother.

"He didn't give me much choice," Anthony grumbled. "Apparently her mother sent him over."

"Ah, Lady Hughes - she's on par with Lady Featherington."

"What do I do?"

"Are you actually asking me for advice?" Benedict asked, gaping at his brother.

Anthony shoved his shoulder. "Yes." Anthony sighed. "You know why."

Benedict did. He'd seen how his brother looked at Y/N, how he spoke to her, acted around her. She made him a better person by simply existing in his life. Anthony had never smiled as much as he did when Y/N was around.

"Ask her to dance," Benedict said with a shrug. "Then, take her for a stroll round the room and tell her. Her mother is clearly plotting. You know your time is limited."

"I know," Anthony whispered, his gaze fixed on Y/N as she danced around the room. Her gaze fixed on his for a moment and he felt his heart ache.

Y/N, too, felt her heart ache. Felt the pain of being so close to the man she wanted. Yet so far away.

Captain Sanders walked her back to her mother after their dance ended. Y/N could feel her dress clinging to her skin, the corset restricting her every movement and every breath. She knew it was far too tight - it should not be this painful to simply breathe.

"Captain Sanders, I do hope you'll call on us tomorrow," Lady Hughes said, smiling at the man. "I'm sure Y/N will be delighted to see you again."

Y/N just nodded.

"Now," her mother said, as soon as they were alone," your father and I have decided that come spring, you and Captain Sanders shall be wed."

Her heart stopped. A high pitched whine took over her hearing, drowning the ballroom noise out. Y/N put a hand on her stomach, trying to maintain her composure.

"Mama -"

"No discussion, Y/N," her mother said, the warning clear in her tone. "You've had two years. Time is up."

Her mother flounced away, leaving Y/N behind. She stood there, stunned. Her breathing had quickened, her chest frantically rising and falling.

A cloak fell around her shoulders and Y/N jumped slightly, her head shooting up to see who had appeared behind her.

Anthony, his dark eyes full of concern, looked at her. "Shall we go outside?"

Y/N nodded, numb to everything around her. She didn't even realise when Anthony took her hand in hers, gently tugging her out onto the veranda.

The cold, winters air hit her instantly. It did nothing to calm her racing heart, to ease the tightness of her lungs as they stuggled to keep up with her panic. Her corset was impossibly tight, her vision was begin to spin.

"I am to be wed," Y/N whispered, walking aimlessly down the steps of the veranda and out into the hedged gardens.

Anthony followed at her side, his hand still holding hers. "I overheard."

"Captain Sanders is the same age as my father," she said softly.

"I know."

Y/N stopped abruptly, the reality of her situation hitting her. It stole what little breath she had left and the gardens began to spin in her vision. Everything became harder to focus on - as if she was being spun around and around and around.

"Y/N?" Anthony said, his tone urgent. He squeezed her hand, trying to get her attention. "Y/N, what's wrong?"

Y/N's breath was laboured, her chest rising and falling far faster than it should've been. She gripped Anthony's hand tightly, her nails digging into his skin.

"Corset," she gasped out, arching over, trying to breathe. "I can't breathe."

Her knees buckled, she could feel herself falling, she gripped onto Anthony's arms as he fell down with her. Her head hit the gravel path and the blackness overwhelmed her.

Anthony knelt beside her, his hand holding hers. His heart was pounding. "Y/N?" He gently shook her. Her head lolled to the side. Her chest wasn't moving and when he hovered his hand under her nose, no breath hit his hand.

He was trying to stay calm, to focus. But his heart was controlling him. Anthony shook her again and then, abruptly, harshly, remembered what she'd whispered.

Anthony pulled her limp body up and rested it against his chest. His fingers ran down her back, struggling to undo the buttons of her dress. One snapped off as he tried to undo and, in a moment of frustration, he ripped the buttons open.

He could see the red lines where her corset had pressed against her skin, even through the chemise underneath it. It didn't take him long to realise the corset was far too tight.

He'd seen countless corsets over the years and knew how they were meant to be done up and tied. This one was too tight, to constricting. No wonder she'd collapsed.

Anthony deftly undid the laces, pulling on them until the material of the corset came loose from Y/N's body. He laid her back down on the ground, making sure the ribbons of her cloak weren't tight around her throat.

He waited for a moment but she still wasn't breathing. Anthony shook himself and snapped back into action. He tilted Y/N's head back and gently opened her mouth. He leant over her and pressed his lips to hers, breathing into her mouth until he had no air left.

Anthony took a deep breath in and then pressed his mouth to hers again, blowing all the air he head into her.

"Come on, Y/N, please," he whispered, resting his forehead against hers.

There was a horrible moment where Anthony thought nothing had happened. That it hadn't worked. That, all the tales his tenants told him of men coming back to life after someone breathe for them, were false.

But then, Y/N started to cough, her hands flying up and gripping his arms tightly.

"It's okay, I've got you," Anthony whispered, pulling her up and into him, letting her lean against his chest. "I've got you, Y/N. I've got you."

Y/N slumped against him, closing her eyes as she tried to catch her breath. She let her hand trail down his arm until it reached his hand. Y/N threaded her fingers through his and squeezed tightly.

"You saved my life," Y/N whispered.

"You scared the hell out of me," Anthony whispered back. He leant his chin on the top of her head. "Why was your corset so tight?"

"Modiste insisted on it,"" Y/N replied, her words coming out a little clearer as her breath came back. "She kept pulling tighter and tighter."

"Ssh," Anthony whispered, sensing her panic brewing. "It's okay."

"It's not though," Y/N said softly. "Nothing's okay, Anthony. I'm to marry a man I barely know. I have no control over anything anymore."

They sat there, on the cold gravel path, clutching on to one another. Anthony pressed a kiss to the top of Y/N's head and she closed her eyes tightly, resting her head on his arm.

Snow began to fall around them. It danced gently down, light enough that it wasn't going to settle, but enough to tell that it was snowing.

Anthony helped Y/N to her feet. He turned her around and carefully did her corset back up, making sure the laces were comfortably tight. He then did the back of her dress back up the best he could, swearing every time he fumbled with a button.

Every time he did, Y/N laughed softly, her shoulders shaking.

Anthony turned Y/N back around to face her. He pulled the hood of her cloak up, letting his fingers trace the line of her jaw as he pulled away.

"You still have control," Anthony said quietly. "You can still chose."

"How?" Y/N asked, her voice almost lost to the dark night. "How can I chose?"

Anthony raised his hand, brushing his knuckles along her cheek. He held her chin in his hand. "Chose me."

He saw the surprise in her eyes. No matter how hard she tried to hide it, he could see it.

"Anthony, you..."

"Have changed," Anthony said, cutting her off. "I apologise for making you wait so long, Y/N, darling. But I know, now, that it is you I want to spend the rest of my life with. No matter how long or short it is, I know the time we spend together will be worth the grief and pain that may come later."

Y/N looked at him. "Do you truly mean it?"

"Every word. With all my heart."

The snow began to fall faster, the flake getting bigger. Y/N smiled at him, her eyes lighting up for the first time all evening.

"You can kiss me again, Lord Bridgerton," Y/N whispered. "I'll be conscious this time, I promise. I'll remember this time."

Anthony chuckled. "You'd better, Miss Hughes."

Anthony leant forward and pressed his lips to hers. There was a moment of quiet bliss before the urgency, the desperation, the desire took them over.

They walked backwards, disappearing behind the hedges and into a smaller, secluded garden. Anthony pushed Y/N until the back of her legs hit a stone bench. He guided her backwards until she was lying down on the bench.

Y/N pulled away, pushing Anthony back slightly. She smiled up at him, her skin hot.

"Lord Bridgerton, are you so desperate to make me yours?" She asked, dragging her hand down his hair and then onto his neck. Anthony groaned softly, leaning his head back into touch. His hand brushed down her thigh, the sensation reaching her even through her dress. He reached under her dress and Y/N arched up into him as his fingers danced up her leg, to her inner thigh, pulling the chemise up and up and -

"I don't think I could wait a moment more," Anthony whispered, pausing. "As long as you -"

"Yes," Y/N replied, pulling him down onto her and pressing her lips to his again. "Just.. yes," she whispered against his lips.

Anthony's hand resumed it's dance, delving higher and then disappearing inside her. Y/N felt a noise she'd never made before escape her lips and she arched up into him, her hand gripping the back of his neck tightly.

"Our absence will be noticed soon," Y/N said, her words disappearing into a moan. Her nails dug into his neck as he pushed her dress up higher, his fingers dancing around before going deeper inside her.

Anthony smiled, his breath hot against her skin as he whispered, "Don't worry. I'll be quick."

[glacial-snowflakes]

Subtle hum of the Hudson River - part 2 // Loki

A/N: Hi darlings! I'm sorry for not posting but I kind of don't have that much time rn :( I'm so so sorry! I hope you like it! <3

Here is part 1

Pairing: Loki x fem!reader

Word count: 2,5k

Summary: You and Loki take a stroll down the river, letting yourself be honest with each other. The words you spoke have an unexpected result.

WARNINGS: it's all fluff, don't you worry!; parts written like this are retrospection

Likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated. It’s really motivating <3

Outrage and disgust filled every little whisper he heard. The team's looks were so sharp that they could cut one's skin open. Sighs full of hatred. Snarky remarks, supposedly innocent, yet hurt like hell. Why would anyone care about God of Mischief? Yes, he might live in the Tower, and yes, he might call himself one of the Avengers now, but he would never belong. Never. Not after what he did.

"They will never trust me, won't they?" Loki asked Thor, his sight focused on a cup he was holding in his frozen hands. The tea wasn't hot anymore. It went cold just like his heart that had never known the warmth of love. Trickster raised his eyes to meet Thor's. God of Thunder could swear that for a moment, he saw despair painted onto his brother's pale face. "I thought you didn't care about them nor their attitude towards you."

"I don't." The raven-haired man said immediately but seeing his brother's smile made him speak the truth. "I hate the way they look at me. I know what I did, and I deserve it. It's just— Nevermind." Loki sighed and took a sip of his cold tea. Speaking about his feelings was never his strong suit. Opening up to someone and spilling his guts felt like a nightmare he didn't want to experience at all costs. Runaway was the best choice.

"If you want to gain their trust, start with Lady Y/N. She's the most perfect for being the first one to break the ice with. Believe me." Thor gave his brother a clap on the back and nodded. "Go on."

"She's holding a knife right now. I am the one who stabs, not the one to be stabbed." Loki muttered. Thor's look said everything. In response, God of Mischief just rolled his eyes, stood up, and slowly approached you. You seemed so focused on the meal you were preparing that you didn't even notice him at first. He cleared his throat. "Lady Y/N."

You snapped out of the trance you were in just a few seconds ago. You lifted a knife you were holding in your hand. It was all covered up in ice, even sharper than the kitchen utensil itself. You held it up in front of your face as you were breathing rather heavily, scared of the sudden voice that made you come back to earth with a bump. Loki could swear that for a moment, your eyes turned impeccably white, just like the snow you could summon whenever you wanted.

"I— I'm so sorry, I didn't want to scare you. I truly mean it." Loki said immediately, waving his hands, the visible awkwardness painted onto his face.

"No, no! It's not your fault." You smiled to assure him that everything was fine. "Whenever I'm cooking, I'm in a trance. Just me, food, my mind free of all the bad thoughts that have been haunting me." You waved your hand in which you were holding a knife, and the ice melted away, just like that, not leaving any mark behind. Loki gave you a subtle nod and asked. "What are you cooking?"

"Oh, I won't tell you." You blurted out, which was followed by the awkward silence. "It's because I'm making my secret dish. Y/N's secret delicacy. No one knows what's inside except me." You explained in the blink of an eye. Loki seemed to be a little bit confused. Oh boy, you weren't good at small talks either. "If you want to, you can stay and sit here. We can talk about whatever you want or, if not, we can sit there in silence. It depends on you."

A sweet, delicate smile appeared on your face. You knew it was hard for Loki. You could see that. You noticed these quick looks he was giving whenever someone whispered his name. You noticed his need to be included when you were in a group, but everybody seemed to be ignoring him. Nobody wanted him to participate in meetings or conversations. He was in a crowd, yet he felt like he was all by himself. You saw all of this, and it made you feel bad. You knew what he did, but in the end, he was one of you now. Every god could bleed, and it hurt you to watch.

You wanted to make the raven-haired man feel better. Even if you were the only one to do this and every other person was about to judge you, you wanted Loki to feel included, to feel important. You promised yourself that it would be YOU who will make Loki feel welcomed, welcomed in a place where everyone pushed him away.

"Can I ask what your exact powers are?" Loki started the conversation, and you couldn't help but smiled. He truly wanted to talk with you. How adorable.

"I'm a demigod with cryokinetic powers. It would take a lot to talk about my abilities, but I will tell you that my favorite one is making ice daggers. Quick and simple, though it took some time to master the perfect shape." You chuckled. "Learning to aim ideally in a battle to cut through a chest and freeze someone's heart was the most problematic part."

"I didn't know you are so violent and tough."

"I am not... I guess I pretend to be." You said quietly, not looking upon a cutting board. A deep sigh escaped your mouth. "You know, it's not a job for everyone. Sometimes I'm too gentle for that."

You didn't let the silence last forever, as you immediately asked. "How do you find yourself here? Do you like the Tower?"

"Ah, you know... It has changed since the last time I visited." Loki said, clearly ashamed of all the damage he did back in 2012. Till these days, the thought of the Chitauri ravaging New York gave you the shivers. It was a very demanding and traumatizing first day of work as the Avenger.

"A renovation was a must." You joked; to clear the air and shoo away the atmosphere that was creeping towards you. "What about your room?"

"If you can call a small couch in Thor's bedroom my room, then I guess it's okay."

"You sleep on Thor's couch?" It was something that surprised you and not in a good way. You got that Loki wasn't everyone's favorite member, but there was a ton of empty bedrooms in the Tower in which he could live.

The God of Mischief nodded. "It's not that bad."

"I don't care. I will talk to Tony. You have to have your own bedroom. It's not like you can sleep on his couch forever. It's not comfortable in the long run." Loki opened his mouth to say something, but you cut him off. "I've got it covered, don't worry."

There was something in talking to you that made Loki feel at home. The way you looked at him; gave him the sweetest and prettiest smiles he has ever seen. There was no hate in your voice, no disgust that he's been experiencing on a daily basis since he could remember. You actually treated him like a human being, despite everything he has ever done. There was only one person he knew with such a kind heart, and you reminded him of her; you reminded him of Frigga.

"You know..." Loki begun. "I feel like you are the only one that doesn't want to cut my throat or stab my heart with my dagger."

You smiled gently. "I think you deserve a second chance."

"And why is that?"

"This is a story for another time."

***

"Where do you think you two are going?" Tony asked when you and Loki approached the elevator. God of Mischief gave him a quick stare before pushing the button with an arrow pointing down. You turned your head to face Tony, who was making himself a coffee. "We're going on a walk." You answered with a smile on your face.

"It's almost midnight."

"Said a man with a cup of coffee in his hand." You chuckled. "We're going to be fine. He's a god, and I'm a demigod. Nothing bad will happen to us."

You knew that it wasn't you who Tony was worried about; he still didn't trust Loki. When you joined the Avengers, you were one of the youngest in the group. Fresh blood, you could say. Stark watched you growing from an impulsive, careless kid with ice powers to a deliberate adult, a demigod aware of her cryokinetic strength. Seeing you change over the years, he felt responsible for your life. Even if Man of Iron knew you could handle yourself, Loki was too powerful. Tony refused to believe in his change, and with it, he was afraid that the Trickster was purely playing with you. If only they saw Loki as you did.

A few minutes later, you two were strolling down the New York. Just you, Loki, and the subtle hum of the Hudson River that made your troubled hearts feel at peace. Slowly paced steps. Your knuckles barely brushing each other woke up armies of butterflies in your stomachs that went on war. If you were bold enough, you would grab his hand in yours and intertwined your fingers together, holding him like it was the end of the world. It was something you truly wanted from the moment Thor brought him into the group.

"So..." Loki cleared his throat. "If you want to, we can talk or, if not, we can walk in silence. It depends on you."

"I'm not ready, not yet... I'm sorry."

"Don't you ever be sorry for not being ready to talk about your feelings, Lady Y/N." Loki grabbed your wrist and made you stop your steps. "Ever, okay?"

Something was mesmerizing in his beautiful eyes and a worried smile. Something that made your heart beat faster; palms get sweaty and clammy. Something that made you agree to everything he said. It was like a trick, but not like the ones he did from time to time to piss of Thor or Tony. No.

You snapped out of it and nodded. "Okay." You said and took your wrist from his hand. You began to walk again with Loki by your side when he asked. "Lady Y/N. A few months ago, I had asked why I deserve a second chance. You'd never gave me an answer. I'd still like to know."

You smiled, looking at the tiny waves on the river. "I knew you'd asked that sooner or later. I think I can finally tell you why I think this way." Your eyes focused on his face now. "Okay... Let me tell you something. It's not a surprise that you've made some pretty bad decisions in your life, and you've hurt a lot of people. You think you're a monster, and you don't deserve to be loved. You were never more wrong.

"In this group, you probably won't find one spotless person. We are people that made huge mistakes. You don't have to look far." You grabbed his hand without thinking. It was an impulse that just felt right. "I was a reckless kid when I got these powers. No one was there to guide me through them, learn how to be in control. And to a bullied kid like me, it was something that made me feel better than others. I was the one on the top. With my mortal mum that couldn't handle the demigod kid and my godly father that had so many half-blood children he didn't give a shit about, no one could stop me. The bullied became the bully. I don't like to call myself that, but this is true. I went through hell, and I made sure they felt the same way. I'm not proud of it, but that is who I was.

"So you have me. And then there's former HYDRA's witch, a billionaire who made deadly weapons, former Russian spy, former HYDRA's most famous brainwashed assassin and etcetera. Welcome, you're just as messed up as we are. Being here with us is your chance to become a better man. You belong here, Loki. Trust me."

At that moment, something broke inside of him. For a second, he stopped being a mysterious, private God of Mischief that didn't want to let in anybody. He let go of all the concerns and worries that had been occupying his mind for far too long. He threw away the image of a monster he considered himself to be.

The words you spoke made him realize that as long as you were next to him, there was nothing he couldn't do. You were the key to his pure heart from the beginning. You were the answer he'd been looking for all along. You were the light that could sweep away the darkness that'd been consuming him from within, and he wanted you to shine beside him forever.

When Loki leaned over to your ear, all you could feel was his warm, shaky breath on your neck that sent the shivers down your spine. "Don't hate me for this." He whispered almost inaudibly as his hands found their way to your hips. His long, lean fingers quite roughly pressed onto your skin. Just like electricity, his touch pierced through your whole body, made your knees get weaker. Your senses were fogged, almost like you were under control. All you could focus on was how his mellowy soft lips felt against yours. The kiss was sweet and passionate, yet gentle at the same time. It wasn't hasty and rough like you'd expect it to be, no. There was something else, something special about it. It was Loki's way to describe every little feeling he had for you. Your adorable smiles you'd been giving him, slight touches you didn't even think he noticed, tea and sympathy. It was all for what he wanted to return the favor.

For a moment, you weren't sure if this was real. Was it just a pure imagination of your mind that was thirsty for love and affection? Or maybe it was a trick, fake reality that you'd fallen for so naively? No, it couldn't be. You could feel it. Feel your heart crazily pounded like it wanted to escape the cage in which it was held for far too long. It was the only thing that helped you stay sober.

You didn't want to stop this. You wanted to stay in this moment forever, scared that once it ended, it would never come back.

"Loki..." You started when you two pulled out to catch a breath. "I could never hate you for making my dreams come true."

The raven-haired man didn't say anything. In response, he wrapped his arms around your still weak body and brought you even closer, so there was no space left between you and him. You felt his chin gently placed on the top of your head. With a smile on your face, you embraced him tightly and snuggled your face onto his chest. All that you heard was his heart pounding fast in the same rhythm as yours, as the subtle hum of the Hudson River accompanied your feelings growing for each other at that moment.

tag: @handmaiden-of-mischief @amiechuchu

[yourdeepestfathoms]

melting fire

Bela had never been so hot before.

Delirious and fever-stricken, she squirmed on her bed, desperately trying to escape the burning heat inside of her. It was like she was laying in the hot sand of a desert, slowly being fried by the sun that wasn’t there. Because she was in her bedroom, shrouded by dim shadows, and the only light was coming from a singular gas lamp on her desk, flickering faint yellow-gold across the floor. But it was so hot, the blankets like plains of fire on her skin, doing little to bring her any comfort.

A soft moan managed to escape Bela’s flaking lips. Her mouth was dry, tongue like burnt coals. She desperately needed water--not even blood, but nice, cold water--but she couldn’t get up. She could barely even move aside from her twisting and turning in a vain attempt to get comfortable.

Her breath came out thin, reedy, and too-hot. She thought she could spout flames, maybe. She had to be burning alive.

There was a squeak as her bedroom door creaked open. She pried open her heavy eyelids to see two silhouettes creeping towards her bed. She instinctively bared her teeth and spat at the trespassers, too weak to raise her claws to defend herself.

“Someone is cranky,” teased a voice.

Wait-- she knew that voice.

Bela settled as her sisters perched on the edge of the bed.

“Sorry,” she rasped, her voice weak and hoarse from illness. “I’m kinda delirious.”

“Kinda?” Cassandra raised an amused eyebrow. “Do you know what you were doing before you passed out earlier?”

“Do I want to know?” Bela asked nervously.

Daniela helpfully supplied her with details: “You were all wobbly and Mother set a hand on your shoulder and said it was to keep you from falling. Your response was, ‘It’s okay, five-second rule.’”

Bela’s face flushed red--redder than it already was than her fever. “Oh--”

Daniela didn’t relent: “And then you started stroking Mother’s arm hair and said, ‘You’d make such a good carpet.’”

“Okay, that’s enou--”

“You also said, ‘my bones feel wet, may I have a napkin?’”

“Daniela--”

“Oh, and we can’t forget, while at breakfast and you were still trying to act like you were okay: ‘Coffee doesn’t taste like coffee, but it sure does taste like brown.’”

“Okay, okay!” Bela yelped, then coughed into her blankets. “I get it. I was out of it.”

“Very out of it,” Cassandra said, stroking her claws through Bela’s sweaty hair. Bela, rationalizing that she couldn’t get any more embarrassed than she already was, leaned her head into her sister’s touch, letting out a soft purr of contentment. Cassandra’s talons were nimble and uncharacteristically gentle against her burning scalp.

“Where is Mother?” Bela asked.

“Aww, are we not good enough company for you, Beli?” Daniela teased playfully.

“I didn’t say that!” Bela squeaked. She hunched her shoulders in. “I was just wondering.”

“Somewhere around here,” Cassandra said vaguely. “She’ll probably come to check on you soon.”

Bela nodded sluggishly. Her head was beginning to fill with fog again. “Alright…” she murmured.

“Aww,” Daniela cooed. “She’s getting all silly again.” She reached out and lightly dragged her claws down one of Bela’s clammy cheeks, probably thinking she was being comforting, when really her touch was just ticklish.

Bela bared her teeth at her, though she barely opened her eyes. “Shut it.”

Daniela tittered.

“Well, we’ll let you rest,” Cassandra said, tugging on Daniela’s arm.

“Sleep well!” Daniela said as she was pulled out of the room.

“Thanks,” Bela replied.

The door shut and she was left in darkness once again.

Bela rolled onto her side and curled up in her blankets. A moment later, she rolled onto her other side, but it did little to help her discomfort. Her body was aching all over and no position was good enough.

Outside, the wind was howling. Another snowstorm was blowing in, loud and powerful. She turned over again to watch the snowfall. The snowflakes flew like dozens of little whiteflies behind the glass, twisting and twirling through the air. It made her think of her own flies, and she broke off a piece of her skin into a cluster of insects. She was desperately lonely and wanted something to interact with since she didn’t have her sisters or mother there with her.

With blurry eyes, Bela watched dazedly as her insects flew around her head. She held out a finger and they lined up on it in a perfect arrangement: blowfly, flesh fly, dogbane beetle, Spanish fly, black vine weevil, drain fly, green bottle fly, clothes moth, click beetle, room spinning, ears ringing, eyes shutting…

Bela’s head jerked back when she began to nod off, sending her bugs into a scattering cloud of frantic wingbeats. She blinked her eyes furiously, but it did little to dispel the fuzziness over everything. It was like she was looking underwater. She rubbed her heavy eyelids, and moving her arms was like trying to move solid beams of lead.

Her fever flared. She moaned weakly in pain.

Her skin was baking, boiling right off of her bones. Her limbs were sacks of heated stones and smoldering embers that she had to drag around with her, and her ears simply felt like they were lit on fire. Her cheeks felt like someone was holding hot iron to the sides of her face and wouldn’t let go, no matter how loud she screamed.

To put it simply, she was like a roasted lamb on a spit, rotating slowly above hungry flames. Sometimes, she had fallen into their orange-gold mouths. She could almost feel the flaming tongues licking at her skin…

Bela squirmed, whining faintly. She couldn’t handle this. She couldn’t take this heat. She used to think the cold was bad, but this-- this was just awful.

She had to escape it.

As though beckoning her, the blizzard howled.

Bela raised her head--which was rather difficult, as it felt like it weighed a ton--and squinted. The snow usually wasn’t very enticing, but something about it now seemed to call to her. It was inviting her to join its cool embrace, promising to soothe her raging fever. She had to oblige to it.

Sliding out of bed, Bela staggered towards the window. The glass was cool against her palms when she pressed her hands to it, but felt even better on her burning forehead. She let out a sigh of relief as the chill invaded her, but it wasn’t good enough. She needed more. She needed to be rid of this fire inside of her.

Bela pushed against the window. It didn’t budge. She whined and pushed harder. It still didn’t budge. Mother kept them locked for good reason, but Bela needed to get out now. She felt like she was being cremated and didn’t know how much longer she could handle it.

Finally, after a few moments of desperate struggling, the window relented under her assault and she was embraced by the soothing cold. It didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would. It felt…nice.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Bela relaxed her body and shut her eyes to rest.

--- --- ---

Alcina was alerted by the sound of glass shattering. She had been idly flipping through a book when she heard the horrendous smashing sound. Instantly, she snapped to her feet and began striding down the hallway until she got to Bela’s room. Upon opening the door, she was greeted by a blast of cold air, which was as freezing as the black ice that suddenly sprinted through her veins.

“Bela?” Alcina shouted. Stepping inside, she noticed that the window was broken open and her eldest daughter was nowhere to be seen. “Bela?!”

Alcina rushed over to the crater created in the glass and looked out. Despite the darkness of the night, she could still distinctly make out the figure of Bela in the snow below.

She didn’t look like she was moving.

“Bela!!”

Alcina ran out of the room, where she was promptly met by her other two daughters. They both instantly leaped away from the doorway with yelps when the cold wind brushed against their legs. She quickly shut the door.

“Mother, what happened?” Cassandra asked.

“Stay here,” Alcina said instead of answering. She then turned and sprinted down the hallway and outside, nearly clipping her head on the doorframe.

When she found Bela, she may have been more concerned about her falling from the second-story window if it wasn’t for how leached her skin was. Her eldest daughter was icy to the touch, her skin as brittle as weak glass in the unforgiving cold. Alcina scooped her up into her arms, holding her close to her chest to protect her from the vicious lashing of the snowstorm as she carried her back inside.

Bela had been out there for less than three minutes, but Alcina’s mind was still running in panicked circles. Was it enough to kill Bela? Was her baby girl about to die in her arms? Alcina’s heart seized at the mere thought of losing one of her daughters. She frantically went over her own notes in her head: the flies generally began hibernating at temperatures below ten degrees Celsius, and it was definitely below ten degrees Celsius out there. When that happens, their metabolism drops and they go into a state of lethargy, which then causes extreme weakness and fatigue. There was also the pain and sensitivity that came from the cold, and though Bela didn’t seem like she was in freezing agony, Alcina still couldn’t be too sure.

It was then that Bela stirred, and Alcina snapped her head down. Bela was squirming in her arms, whining ever so faintly. She didn’t seem to be in pain, she just seemed distressed and very uncomfortable.

“Mother,” Bela panted. “Please--”

“It’s alright now, my love,” Alcina said, carrying Bela over to one of the many fireplaces in the castle, swiping up a blanket folded over a cushioned chair as she went. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.” She squeezed her daughter close to her chest, not quite realizing that she may have been smothering her. “It’s okay. Mother’s here now.”

“No-- no--” Bela tried to wiggle out of her grasp, but she was much too weak. “Hot-- too hot--”

Alcina frowned. She had been wondering how and why Bela got outside, but now it made sense.

Was her fever really that bad?

“You can’t be cold, darling,” Alcina said, crouching down in front of the fire, not releasing Bela from her vice. She wrapped her in the blanket, despite her wriggling. Under her touch, Bela's skin was still worryingly frigid and dry. She hoped the snow wouldn't leave blisters. “You must stay warm.”

“No--” Bela’s claws tugged feebly at Alcina’s dress. If it weren’t caused by illness, then it may have been cute. “Mother, please…”

Alcina sighed. She shifted Bela into one arm (it wasn’t exactly hard to do) and brushed her sweaty hair out of her face. Bela leaned into the touch, her eyelids fluttering shut. She purred faintly.

“You need to be warm,” Alcina told her. As hard as it was to resist her child’s begging, she couldn’t just go throw Bela out into the snow. She had to keep her near the fire, where her body could go back to its normal temperature.

Alcina cupped the back of Bela’s head and pressed her face into her neck, rocking her slowly. She should have kept a better eye on her. She should have been there, taking care of her. Now an awful chill had taken lodge in her precious daughter’s body and she was worried that it wasn’t going to come out.

“Mother?”

Alcina turned to see Cassandra and Daniela. They both looked simultaneously curious and worried.

“Is Bela okay?” Daniela asked.

“She will be,” Alcina answered, holding Bela closer until she was holding onto her like a baby koala bear. She was hoping her body heat would help dispel the ice inside of Bela’s own being. “Your sister thought it would be a good idea to break her window and go out into the snow.”

“I’m hot,” Bela whined. She quickly followed her words up with a purr as Alcina stroked her hair.

Daniela giggled. “Beli, I thought you were the smart one!”

“‘M gonna…turn you into a ceiling fan,” Bela growled without opening her eyes. “But…too tired… Maybe later…”

Daniela giggled again. Cassandra snorted into her hand. Even Alcina, despite her worry, couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Darlings, can you get a wet rag for me?” Alcina asked her other two daughters.

Bela chuffed against her neck.

“A moderately cold one. But not too cold. Just slightly below lukewarm. Please.”

Cassandra and Daniela both nodded and raced off to retrieve the item before the other.

Slowly, the cold was draining from Bela’s body, chased away by the tag-team effort of the fire and Alcina’s body heat. Her fever, however, quickly became apparent once again, searing right through the back of her gown and into Alcina’s hand while she rubbed up and down her spine. No wonder she had broken a window just to get outside; she was burning up.

“I’m sorry for not keeping a better eye on you,” Alcina said, shifting her daughter in her arms. “I should have been watching you to make sure this never happened. Though, I never expected you to break a window…”

“Not your fault,” Bela said, her breath hot against Alcina’s neck. “I was being stupid.”

Alcina leaned her back slightly, cupping the back of her head with one hand. “Are you slightly more awake now?”

“A little,” Bela said, her eyes glassy and half-lidded. “Feel like I’m on fire, though…”

Alcina frowned and tucked Bela back against her. She worriedly ran her fingers through Bela’s hair, which was damp with a mix of sweat and melted snow.

“I’m sorry I can’t do more for you, my darling,” Alcina said. “Damn, why did you and your sisters have to be weak to the cold? I would run you an ice bath if that didn’t put you at the risk of--” She didn’t finish that sentence. She shook her head. “Why flies? Why something that can’t survive in the cold? Why not something like-- like-- like birds!”

“Better than being hurt by heat,” Bela pointed out. “Then the fever probably would have killed me already.”

Alcina winced. “I suppose you’re right.”

“‘Course I am. ‘M the smart one.”

That got a small chuckle out of Alcina. “Your hubris is showing, darling.”

“No, yours is,” Bela mumbled, drifting off into a feverish, half-awake daze of slurring and purring.

Despite her remaining worry, Alcina couldn’t help but chuckle once again. She rocked Bela slowly until Cassandra and Daniela returned with the rag, Daniela being the one to present it to her. She thanked them, then shifted Bela in her arms so she could wipe her face down with it. Bela shuddered at the cold water on her heated skin, but let out a soft coo of pleasure.

“Thank you,” Bela whispered, cracking open her eyes slightly.

Alcina gave her a tender smile. “You’re welcome. Now, rest, my sweet girl. I will watch over you until you feel better.”

Afterward, she would make arrangements to strengthen the windows.

[holdmecloser-gandydancer]

Oh! Since you're still taking prompts, “For the last time, we are not friends. If you bleed out your sister will kill me and I believe her, so let me help you.” with taakitz?

TW mentions of blood and injury!

--

“I always imagined I’d die surrounded by friends,” Taako’s hands come away from his face, slick with blood. He winces slightly before looking around the vicinity for something to wipe his hands on. He eventually settled on the blanket of snow coating the ground near him. He scoots away from the now-bloody snow. His fingers are nearly numb from the cold and he curses himself for not dressing better for the weather. Though in his defense, he hadn’t planned on literally being in the snow today.

He darts a glance up at Kravitz who, for the first time since Taako’s known him, looks panicked. Kravitz kneels down to where Taako’s half-sitting, half-laying down on the ground. He immediately starts unwinding his scarf and reaches out to press it against Taako’s face. Taako swats him away grumpily.

“Taako, for the last time, we aren’t friends. Also, you’re not gonna die, don’t joke about that shit,” Kravitz snaps and he once again attempts to quell some of the bleeding from Taako’s face. He’s once again waved off. “Seriously? Listen, if you bleed out, your sister will kill me and I believe her. Just let me help you.”

Taako crosses his arms. “My man, I think Lup might kill you anyway considering you’re the reason I’m in this mess. Besides, I don’t think I’m gonna bleed out from this,” he says, pointing to the mess of road rash on his face. He sees that Kravitz is still looking at him, a gross mix of concern and panic on his face. Taako rolls his eyes and leans over to grab Kravitz’s scarf. His reach is stopped halfway as a dull pain encompasses the entire left side of his torso. He hisses in pain as he squeezes a ball of snow in his right hand, attempting to focus on literally any other sensation.

In an instant, Kravitz is on his right side, offering his hand to Taako. Kravitz’s hand is sturdy and somehow colder than the snow. He doesn’t even flinch as Taako squeezes tighter than strictly necessary, his nails digging into the smooth skin of Kravitz’s hand.

After a moment, the pain subsides and Taako lets go. Kravitz again gingerly reaches out to press the soft material of his scarf to Taako’s face. He smiles faintly when Taako actually lets him.

“I had the right of way, you know,” Kravitz says, glancing at his car, hoping he didn’t pull too far off the road with all the snow.

“My man, I feel like right of way doesn’t matter when you’re driving a two-ton death machine and I’m on an aluminum bike,” Taako adjusts his position to support himself on his right arm. “I mean if you were this pissed off about the history project you could have just said so instead of trying to off me.”

In spite of himself, Kravitz snorts out a laugh. He gently removes his scarf from Taako’s face. He’s certain that the blood will never come out, he realizes. He pushes the thought away as he packs some snow into the scarf, forming a make-shift ice pack. He holds it out to Taako who winces slightly as he presses it to his own face.

“This was just an unfortunate coincidence, I assure you.”

“You sure? I mean you said we’re not friends, you wrote that scathing email to Dr. Queen about my attitude, the evidence is not stacking up in your favor.” To his credit, Taako’s in fairly good spirits so soon after being slammed into by Kravitz’s ancient Corolla.

“Can I take you somewhere? Like the hospital, maybe?”

Taako shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t need the hospital. I’m gonna bike back to my apartment, I just need a minute.”

“So, I don’t think that biking is going to be an option,” Kravitz says, cringing as he looks over at Taako’s bike. The front wheel looks, well, like it was hit by a car.

Taako lets out a groan. “You suck.”

“I’ll replace it.”

“You better. Help me up?”

“Should you really be getting up so soon after getting hit by a car?”

“Probably not but my ass is cold.”

Kravitz gets to his feet and holds his hand out to Taako. Taako takes a deep breath before grabbing Kravitz’s hand. He’s gently pulled to his feet before he feels his leg buckle under him. He feels a familiar hand on his side and quickly realizes that he’s still standing thanks to Kravitz's quick reflexes.

“Yeah, maybe the hospital would be a good idea,” Taako says, his voice sounding closer to the voicebox from a decades old toy than his own relaxed cadence.

Kravitz nods and they slowly shuffle towards his car.

[stardusttrashed]

Drunk In Love

Word Count: 2K

Warnings: Swearing, Drunk reader, Fluff, Angst (if you squint), Brief mentions of NSFW

Pairing: Katsuki Bakugo x Fem!reader

Summary: Katsuki comes to pick you up from a hangout after you drunk called him 

A/n: loosely based off drunk me... yes I hogged all the watermelon jolly ranchers by putting them in my bra, don’t judge lol. Also all characters are of drinking age

“Where’s my little dumbass,” Katsuki grumbled as he stood outside the door. The bitter cold was slowly beginning to seep through his numerous layers. He jammed his hands into his pockets, hunched over from the cold and out of annoyance. It was three in the morning and beginning to snow, yet here he was miles away from his warm, cozy house because you had drunkenly called not once but five times. 

“Over there hogging all the Jolly Ranchers,” Sero laughed, nodding over his shoulder. The cold outside air was hitting him like a truck, killing the little buzz he had. He stepped aside, making room for Katsuki to come inside. “She won’t let me get one until she’s done.”

Katsuki could hear your carefree giggles from inside the room, followed by delighted squeals. “What does this one say?” You asked with childlike curiosity as you shoved the piece of candy into Mina’s view.

Katsuki sighed and shook his head, holding back a laugh. “Tch, figures. Damn idiot,” he muttered under his breath as he stepped inside, shutting and locking the door behind him. 

“How’s it going outside?” Sero crossed his arms as he leaned against the wall, casually huddling up to regain the warmth he just lost. “Heard it’s supposed to get colder.”

Katsuki shrugged nonchalantly, “started snowing on my way here.” The small two-bedroom apartment felt like a warm summer’s day compared to the frigid weather. It was like being thrown straight into an oven after spending so long in a freezer. He shrugged off his coat and shoes, “couldn’t exactly ignore her calls, though.” His eyes scanned the small, open room for you. 

“Denki,” you giggled loudly, immediately getting Katsuki’s attention. “I said only watermelon flavor dummy.” Katsuki watched as you pulled a Jolly Rancher out of your shirt. “This isn’t even red, dumbass,” you slurred before throwing the purple piece of candy at Denki’s chest.

“Yeah, dummy,” Mina teased with a smirk. She leaned forward, hunching over to look over your shoulder. You were comfortably situated in between her legs, sitting on the floor in front of her while she sat on the couch. “That’s another cherry, sweetie.”

“Thanks, doll face,” you beamed, blowing her a kiss before tossing the piece into the pile on the coffee table. 

“Here’s another,” Kirishima called out, holding a piece up in the air. Unlike Denki and Mina, Kirishima had mainly kept to himself. He was sprawled out on the loveseat, legs hanging over the armrest. It was comfortable, but he’d be lying if he said part of him didn’t want to be closer to Mina and Denki, helping you stuff the candies into your bra. You were cute; there was no denying that, nor was there any denying that he had the biggest crush on you in high school. But you were dating Katsuki now, and no amount of drinks could make him forget that.

Katsuki watched as Mina and Denki drunkenly scrambled to grab the piece from Kirishima. It was like watching an intense tug of war match between toddlers. His eyes wandered away from them, taking in the empty bottles and candy strewn across the room. 

“Got it,” Mina shouted with a wide grin, grabbing Katsuki’s attention once again. She sat back down on the couch, allowing you to settle between her legs once again. She stuck her tongue out at Denki like a child before focusing on you. Giggles spilled from her mouth, fueled on by your giggles as she reached in your shirt and tucked the piece of candy into your already full bra. 

“Touch her boobs again, and you’re dead raccoon eyes,” Katsuki snapped as she pulled her hand out of your shirt. He let out a huff of satisfaction as Mina and Denki scrambled away from you. “The same goes for the rest of you!” Despite the vagueness of his words, his eyes bore holes into the side of Denki’s head, who refused to make eye contact.

“Is that my Katsuki baby,” you squealed, scrambling to your feet. You could barely stand, your legs wobbling like jelly as you made your way towards him. “Hi, baby! I missed you tons,” you slurred with a dopey smile on your face. You threw your arms around his neck partially to anchor yourself, but mostly just to hold him close. “I haven’t seen you in forever.” 

Katsuki shook his head with an amused chuckle. There was no doubt you were drunk, and as much as he wanted to be upset, he couldn’t be. You were like a child in a candy store, eyes wide and full of awe as you looked up at him. “Hey princess,” he cooed quietly as he wrapped his arm around your waist. “I’ve missed you too.” His free hand cupped your cheek gently, his thumb gently tracing your cheekbone. The way you leaning into his touch brought a loving smile onto his face. “But, I see you’ve been having fun.”

“I would’ve had more if you were here the whole time,” you huffed with a pout. You swore you could feel yourself becoming drunker and drunker from him. His touch. His crimson eyes. His warmth. The sweet burnt caramel smell. Everything about him was intoxicating. He made you drunker than any drink could, and the scariest part was just how addicting he was. You needed your little gremlin more than you needed the air in your lungs. “So pretty,” you muttered under your breath. Before you could stop yourself, you leaned forward, pressing your lips against his. 

The kiss was shorter than you both would’ve liked, feeling more like a tease than anything else. Katsuki was the first to pull back, causing you to whine quietly.

“Taste?” you asked worriedly, reaching up to wipe away the crinkles of disgust on his nose. Katsuki was never much of a drinker for as long as you have known him. The most you’ve ever seen him have was two shots, so he usually ended up being the designated driver between the two of you. Out of all the conversations you’ve had with him about it, you could never figure out which part he hated more--the taste or becoming impaired. “‘M sorry,” you continued without waiting for an answer.

“It’s okay, baby,” Katsuki reassured you, forcing himself to give you another peck on the lips. Out of everything that came from you drinking, this was always his least favorite part. He hated how the alcohol took over until it was all he could taste on your lips. He missed your naturally sweet taste that would get him drunker than any amount of shots he could ever take. Yet he loved how needily affectionate you’d become, showering him with love and compliments--not that he’d ever tell you. “See, no need to apologize,” he cooed, kissing your forehead. 

“I can kiss her for you,” Denki drunkenly shouted, the alcohol providing him a scary amount of courage. The stupid grin on his face quickly vanished as Katsuki glared daggers at him.

“As If,” you quickly cut in before Katsuki could rip him a new one. “Only kisses I wan’ are from my honey bunches of oats right ‘ere.” You smiled up at him, “right, baby?” You weren’t sure what exactly you were asking about—everything you just said barely processing in your head.

“Good answer, sweetheart.” He leaned in to reward you with a kiss but stopped short at the squeak that sounded from you.

You pressed your finger against his lips, stopping him from coming any closer. “Hol’ on.” You dug around in your bra and pulled out a Jolly Rancher, promptly popping it into your mouth. “Ta-da! Now I’ll taste yummy,” you slurred with a giggle as you sucked on the hard candy.

Katsuki chuckled proudly, hooking his finger under your chin, “you always taste yummy to me.” He pressed his lips against yours, gentle at first but growing increasingly possessive once he notices Denki stealing glances your way. He teasingly sucked on your lower lip, eliciting a soft moan from you. Katsuki took the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, caressing your tongue with his until he grabbed ahold of the candy in your mouth, taking it for himself. Despite the hunger in the kiss, when he pulled away, all you could make out in his crimson eyes were complete adoration. “Now, let’s get you home, yeah?” 

You cupped your hand around your mouth and drunkenly whispered, “can we fuck when we get home?” 

“Some other time,” he gently kissed your lips once more, “you need water and rest.”

“Cuddles?” You asked with a pout.

“Sure, sweetheart-.”

“And head?”

“Y/n…”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” you squealed before throwing your arms around his neck. “Bye, guys! Katsuki and I are gonna fuck!”

“No, we aren’t.”

“Denki, I’ll call if we don’t!”

Katsuki growled as he wrapped a protective arm around your waist, “like hell, you will!” His hand holding your waist began to flicker as sparks were being created like little poopers. “You’re mine! I’ll kill-,” Katsuki shouted. 

“I’m kiddin’,” you giggle, giving his cheek a peck. “Totally kiddin’ dummy. Y’know I’d only call cutie pie Kiri.” You could feel Kirishima snap his head towards you, his eyes boring into your side. With a shrug, you ignore Katsuki’s shocked look, “he’s cute and sweet. Oh, and easy to make hard!”

“Shut the hell up,” Katsuki snapped as he angrily put his jacket on you. 

“Cause his quirk,” you continued.

“I said shut it!”

“He’s like my dream boyfriend, and you’re my dream husband, y’know.”

“Another damn word, and you won’t get cuddles.”

You gasped, bouncing on the balls of your feet a few times before losing balance and falling into Katsuki’s chest. “Cuddles and fries?”

“No. I’ll see you guys later,” Katsuki called out over his shoulder as he ushered you to the door. 

“Kiri woulda said yes,” you shrugged as you followed him out into the cold. You clung to his arm for dear life, trying to keep him warm and help yourself stand upright. 

“I’m going to blow you to bits if you don’t shut up.”

“Nah, uh, you love me too much.”

“I swear I’m gonna murder you.”

“With love?”

“No.” 

“Rude! My husband Katsuki wouldn’t treat me like this. He’d give me all the cuddles and fries I wan’.” 

“Sure he would,” he huffed as he opened the car door for you. His cheeked grew warm at your new name for him.

“He would! Cause I love ‘im fuck tons and he loves me-,” you gasped, just now realizing the thin white sheet on the ground. “It’s snowing!”

“Y/n, if you don’t get your ass in the car,” Katsuki groaned. “It’s snowing, it’s cold, and I have to drive home to give you cuddles and fries. So, please.” 

“Okay, hubby,” you smiled sleepily, complying almost instantly and earning a chuckle from him. Your eyes followed him as he leaned over you, buckling you in before handing you the bottle of water from the cup holder. “Y’know, I think you’re cuter than Kiri, and I love ya a lot more.”

Katsuki didn’t reply to you; instead, he closed your door and walked around to the driver’s side. He had buckled in and already began driving before he placed his hand over yours, “I love you too, little dumbass.”

“Your dumbass?” You asked as you took a sip of water.

“My beautiful, drunk, dumbass wifey,” he confirmed with a teasing smirk. 

[tracybirds]

I was very determined to finish something today :D Yo all knw I’m back in lockdown which like... bro every time I try to write a thing that seems to happen so I’m snowed under again......................... Anyway, decided to finish up the exhausted Virg fic I began on Friday the 13th of August and how has it nearly been a month of lockdown already?? anyway I’m reposting the first bit with this, but wanted to say thank you to everyone who left comments on that snippet and encouraged me!! And big thanks to @gumnut-logic who read the first, slightly sleep-deprived first version of this before it underwent edits

It’s 11:30pm, my brain is no longer functioning, anyways, enjoy <3

 --------------

Virgil drags his leaden feet across the floor, still pink from the hot water, barely acknowledging Scott and Alan, chatting lightly together as he walks past them.

He’s not ready to sleep, but he’s not much good for anything else either.

He’s tired from the ground up. The exhaustion is only in his feet, his calves, his thighs, but it reaches up into his mind all the same. His shoulders ache, but it’s from good work and kind deeds, a balm for any residual overthinking.

He did good today, he knows it, can feel it in every torn muscle fibre.

He’ll just rest for a moment or two. Debrief can wait. John’s probably already written up most of the report.

He collapses onto the nearest sofa, but it’s more muscle memory than aim that lands him safely amongst the cushions.

“Cannonball!” crows a voice from somewhere above him, followed by a sharp yell of “Gordon, no!” and a crash that reverberated through his skull.

Then it hits him, and he launches himself sideways.

Gordon dives onto the sofa, arms and smile wide, as though he hadn’t just come off the same seven-hour mission plus bonus two-hour administrative argument with the nearest hospital who had just had their landscaping done.

And now, incidentally, redone.

Virgil glares from the floor.

“How’s it going, V?” Gordon says, still grinning.

“Ow.”

“Did you fall off the couch? You’ve gotta be careful about these things, you know.”

Short, sharp, monosyllabic words might be enough to fend off some lower forms of life, but Gordon is rather like moss, clinging to hard rock. Virgil opts to ignore him instead as he picks himself up with a groan.

A strong, sure hand grasps his arm and he accepts the extra leverage gladly, hauling his stiff muscles upright and stretching them carefully. He can see the chair Scott had leapt from halfway across the room. Alan isn’t even pretending he’s not laughing, the jerk.

Gordon is nestling, smirking as he burrows down into his cushions.

“Let it go,” he mutters, his hand now resting on Scott’s shoulder. He can’t handle a shouting match now, jackhammering into his brain after a day filled with enough pain.

Scott settles for pulling the cushions from under Gordon’s head and he falls back onto the hard frame with a squawk.

Alan’s laughter erupts again and Virgil doesn’t bother to smother his own smile.

Gordon sits up and his eyes are shining.

“Fine, fine, I deserved that,” he says, grinning up at Scott. “Now, get lost and put the large lump to bed, I checked the stats. There’s fifteen miles registered on his pedometer and he basically hauled three tons today.”

“Not all at once, Gordon, stop exaggerating.”

Gordon shrugs.

“I know the medical studies as well as you do. Sure, they might not think rescue work counts as overtraining, but science doesn’t lie.”

“But, people do,” Virgil says, scowling at him. Each word ripped more energy from his depleted stores. “And I was resting, thanks.”

Gordon lifts a finger, waggling it with a half-smile.

“A couch isn’t a substitute for a bed,” he says, dropping his voice to mimic Virgil’s own. “How many times did you say that to me?”

“When you had a broken back!”

“Right, that’s enough.” Scott steps forward between the bickering brothers. “Decompression time for you both.”

Virgil blinks, realising that he was stooping to an argument with Gordon. Gordon, who always fought dirty, twisting intent and laughing in a way he never could manage. He must be tired.

“Virgil, can you get up to your rooms alone?”

“Yeah,” he says, holding himself upright against the sudden wave of exhaustion. It was as though in remembering he was meant to be tired, his body had decided to lean into that realisation.

“And Gordon…” Scott pauses, eyeing Gordon who was still fairly vibrating with energy even after nine hours in the field. “Go watch a fish or something. Just stay away from each other.”

Virgil is already halfway out the door and his ears have been stoppered by weariness, the external world becoming fuzzy. He doesn’t hear Gordon’s quick reply.

He doesn’t hear Alan’s sharp cry either, doesn’t even register the way the world is tilting sideways.

He merely crumples on the floor in the hallway.

***

Virgil wakes slowly, awareness seeping into his bones and spreading outwards. His neck is propped up at an awkward angle; he’s resting on the pillows that he rearranges around him every night and they are much too high.

He moans a little as he shuffles, his neck creaking as it falls back in alignment with his spine.

The gulls call from outside his window, a high and keening cry. He can hear the light whistles of forest bird. The low murmur of voices unable to pierce the early fog of morning.

He doesn’t remember making it to his bed, but nor does he intend to rise from it.

 He wants to cling to slumber, doesn’t want to make conversation or move. But he’s already lost the game of sleep and settles for burrowing further into the light cotton comforter that had seen him through every summer of his life.

A rough hand on his shoulder greets him instead and he groans a warning as it flips him onto his back.

“Come on, Virgil, we know you’re awake.”

The voice floats down from above him. He grumbles deeply, unintelligibly, and turns his back on the inhumanity of it all.

A sharp poke pierces his clouded thoughts and Virgil growled as he opened one bleary eye.

“What?”

“Gentlemen, he lives,” crows Gordon, arms wide and ready to receive undying adoration for his proclamation.

“It’s been fourteen hours,” Scott says, grimly. “Time for a check-up.”

Virgil wonders at that. Fourteen hours of sleep, while rare in their home, was hardly reason for medical concern. He suspects though, that Scott already knows this, and doesn’t resist for fear that he’ll be forced to leave the warmth and comfort of his bed.

“The air’s stale in here,” he says instead. “I don’t sleep with my windows shut.”

“Arm,” orders Scott, and Virgil lifts it automatically, puzzling over his last memories which certainly don’t involve him shutting his windows. Or entering his room for that matter.

“I fell asleep?” he asks, suddenly.

“Right in the hall,” Gordon says, his eyes dancing with half checked laughter. “You went down like a ton of bricks.”

“It wasn’t funny.” Scott’s manner is terse, his shoulders tight and the deep crease between his eyes growing as he turns to glare at Gordon. “He could have seriously hurt himself.”

“He didn’t though.” He whips around to face Virgil. “And you’re welcome, by the way. I convinced Scott to let us put you here instead of the infirmary. Even woke John up to back me. I risked the wrath of John for you, he said you were physically fine otherwise you’d be waking in that cold infirmary and Scott would have a back spasm from sleeping in those terrible chairs. All for nothing too because you’re fine.”

Virgil stares at him.

He wants to argue with Gordon, the necessity of rules made for their safety niggling at the back of his brain. He wants to roll his eyes, tell him that the infirmary beds aren’t that painful, that the fluorescent lights that blink and buzz might be made for suturing and not sleeping but that they held their own kind of relief, of comfort.

He wants to thank him, for giving him this moment where he could wake slowly to the sounds of birdsong and crashing waves, unheard in the depths of the island. For that moment where he could lay still as the sun streamed in with warmth and good cheer.

He has a thesis of carefully memorised protocols warring with pure sensation of soft coziness and the luxury of a brother who loves him.

He isn’t sure which instinct is winning when he opens his mouth.

“You made me sleep on two pillows.”

The room blurs as the soft mound beneath his head is ripped away at lightning speed. Virgil hardly has time to hear the whirl of rushing air before the pillow connects with his head with a dull thud.

Gordon jabs at his arm.

“No appreciation, I tell you.”

“Gordon! Out!”

Virgil throws the offending pillow after him, chuckling at the sharp laughter that pierced the slammed door.

Scott isn’t smiling.

He pulls the sphygmomanometer tight around Virgil’s arm.

Virgil winces slightly, but says nothing. Not yet.

Scott’s movements are precise and ordered, with nothing to suggest he isn’t conducting a normal check-up at all.

But Virgil knows his brother.

“Hey,” he says softly, watching Scott stare at the dial. “I really am okay.”

Scott’s not listening to the blood pounding through his arteries, not even in pretence. Still, he ignores Virgil and pulls up a new medical report so he can stare intently at that in place of his brother’s gentle eyes.

“Scott,” says Virgil, leaning forward and placing a hand on his shoulder.

Scott shoves it away, his eyes snapping to Virgil’s.

“Why didn’t you call for backup?”

“You were off duty.”

“I don’t mean me,” Scott growls. “I mean, I do, I would’ve been there in a heartbeat if you’d asked. But you didn’t, did you? Not even Alan. Not even John.”

“John was helping,” says Virgil, sharply. “Just because he wasn’t on the ground, doesn’t mean he wasn’t working that same stretch of time. Why do you think Gordon had to wake him?”

“Stop side-stepping my point,” snaps Scott. “We’re a team, Virgil, you can’t work yourself to the point of exhaustion like that.”

“What choice did I have?”

“I should’ve been there, I could’ve-” began Scott, but Virgil merely raised his own voice.

“You couldn’t, Scott. What you’re angry about, I could turn right around and parrot back, you know. Don’t be a hypocrite.”

He fell back against the headboard, wishing he hadn’t woken up. Or at least that he wasn’t having this argument, not here and now.

And he recognises those eyes, the burning frustration at one’s own limitations and the rising fear for a brother mixed with torn compassion and understanding.

He’s mirrored Scott all his life, and it’s startling to see his own familiar expression on Scott’s face.

“Please, Virgil.”

He doesn’t say anything. He can’t make that kind of promise to Scott any more than Scott could to him. Not without breaking it.

Scott smiles sadly as he stands, accepting the silence.

He knows.

“Don’t even think about moving from this room for the next twenty-four hours. Just... get some rest, will you, Virg?”

He thinks he will.

[honalele]

Here Lies Wilbur Soot

It was a cold and grey morning. The kind of morning that left a stale scent of gunpowder in your nose and the bitter taste of war on your lips. The kind of morning that left the world depressed in a deep dreamless sleep. The morning’s breath flooding in and out of every person like the sighs of a new born ghost caught in the fluttering ashes of a smoldering home. The people that lived were always quieter than the ghosts. Everyone had gone and shut themselves away in their homes, hiding from the unrelenting low bellows of complete and utter failure. But Phil walked in it.

He pushed himself forward, trekking through the deafening silence as if it were a merciless white blizzard. Still, he was careful not to disturb the left over pieces of structures and décor that had once belonged to that oh so self-indulgent place. L’Manberg. The poor country that had been made into a frozen wasteland of forgotten friendships and broken dreams. Phil stalked near the massive crater, his feet light with care. Earlier, he had made a promise to himself that he wouldn’t look down, but then again, fear made people do stupid things. So he looked down into the chasm and instantly recognized the depth of its wounds within himself. He caught his heart in his throat, just in time, before it leapt out of him and into the abyss. He stabled himself using the broadness of his wings and began to move quickly over the debris. He kept going until he came upon the room.

But “room” wasn’t quite the right word. The floor had been blown to bits along with the country, now a hundred feet under. The walls had fallen away along with the man, now six feet under. The roof had crumbled to pieces along with the angel, now five feet away. And the headstone stood still along with a boy, now slaying the white blizzard with his fiery red hair.

Phil was surprised. He hadn’t expected anyone else to be out this early, especially in order to visit the grave of the man that stole their home from them with about two tons of tnt. Phil wrapped his wings around himself in caution and silently came up to the headstone and stood next to the boy. The low wind wisped between them, stirring in a strange way that made Phil feel like he was standing on the edge of a very tall cliff.

Soon the space became too much for him and he glanced towards the boy. His red and white locks swirled like strawberry and cream under the stretching rays of the rising sun. The hair was so thick that Phil could just barely make out two pointed peaks of perky fox ears that hid under the boy’s cumbersome curls. The boy was also wrapped in what appeared to be a long, multicolored blanket, but when Phil looked closer at its design, he recognized it as the fallen country’s flag. Phil noticed that the boy was holding a dark scouting cap respectfully in his hands as he stood and stared at the gravestone. The look on the boy’s face was something that Phil had rarely ever seen on someone so young. It was hurt, and tenderness, and contempt, and hatred, and want, and regret, and all of the things that a boy should never have on his face. It made Phil want to reach over and wipe it all away, like he used to do with his own son’s tears. But Phil did nothing. He turned away from the boy and laid his eyes on the gravestone.

Here Lies Wilbur Soot.

Phil once again forced his throat to catch his heart, but this time his lips rolled in and his jaw tightened because if they’d been loose and open, he might’ve cried in front of the boy. God damn it. Perhaps he should’ve come at an earlier time. Perhaps he should leave now and return tomorrow. But something about the wind made him stay. The way it whistled over his wings and twisted between his fingers like a ghost wishing for him to wait. So he waited. And while he waited, he wondered about the world beyond this one. The world that his boy might have entered less than forty-six hours ago. He prayed for peace to come upon him and love, and joy, and all the things that he didn’t have during his departure from this life. Then Phil stuck his hand in his right pocket and wrapped his fingers around the last thing he wanted to give to his son. A small note. A letter he’d written a long time ago with the intention of sending it, but always too afraid to let the crows bare its most precious contents. He wanted to give it in person, but it was far too late for that.

By my own hand.

Tears crept at the inner corners of his eyes, but a small voice pulled him back to the present.

“I saw you.” It was the boy. His voice sodden in soft sadness. “I saw what you did.” Phil’s mouth went dry. He’d expected the accusations, just not so soon. The guilt had already eaten him alive the night before, so now Phil was just a sad sack of bones covered in the dank scent of sour regret. Still, the fiery flame of hurt and guilt was unrelenting and almost impossible to keep at bay.

“I’m sorry.” Phil said. And that was all he could say. It was the only truth that mattered now. Phil glanced in the boy’s direction to better gage his reaction, but all he could make out was a familiar cold stubbornness that he’d only ever felt from one other person in his life.

He waited for the boy to speak again, but the kid was silent for an awfully long time. So, Phil asked the question that had been itching in the back of his mind ever since he spotted the red buddle of hair clashing against the November snow that surrounded Wilbur’s desolate grave.

“How did you know him?” The boy swallowed hard before answering.

“He was my dad.” And then the floor blew to bits, and the walls fell away, and the roof crumbled to pieces, and the headstone stood still.

His father.

The boy’s gaze never left the headstone and his expression never changed as he placed his scout’s cap on his head. Phil watched as the boy walked closer to the grave, so close that he probably would have been standing on Will’s head if he weren’t buried so far below. The kid snapped the flag off his shoulders, allowing it to catch in the wind like the majestic flag it used to be, but only for a few moments before carefully laying it over Wilbur’s headstone, as if he were tucking his father into bed. The he knelt down and gave the headstone a tight hug. Now that the flag was no longer draped over him, Phil could see that the boy had come to the snow soaked grave completely barefoot. He wasn’t sure why, and was too afraid to ask.

After a while, the boy stood up and stared down at the grave. Phil wondered what he could be thinking. Did he even know that Phil was Wilbur’s father? Did he care? Who was he staying with? Did Will have any other secret children or family members? Phil searched his mind, but came up with nothing. Will had never written a single thing about having a family. The closest he’d gotten to describing one was with Techno and Tommy.

Then the boy spat on Will’s grave.

“Hey.” Phil called. And for the first time, the boy looked directly at him. His eyes were sharp and full of warning. Nothing like the children that quaked and cowered in fear at the authority of Phil’s voice in the past. Nothing like a child at all. And from that singular look, Phil backed down. The kid was a stranger, and perhaps his own son was one as well.

Here Lies Wilbur Soot.

The boy held Phil’s gaze for a while, it was as if he was searching for some secret that he knew existed, but could never find, or a wish that he made, but never fully believed in. Eventually he gave up on whatever he was looking for and began to walk away, but this time Phil’s throat couldn’t stop his heart and the careless words fluttered out of him.

“He was my son.” The boy dug his bare heels into the snow and stopped. Phil swallowed down the rest of his grief as the ghosts swirled around his head, and he waited. The boy didn’t turn around and for a while, he didn’t say a word. Then finally, like a pick to the ice, he broke the silence.

“I know. I have one of the letters. He’s a sack of shit, specifically bull.” Then he continued to walk away and Phil didn’t stop him.

By his own hand.

Phil turned around and faced the blanketed headstone. The boy that Phil had known for so long. The boy he’d written to every single week for months on end. The boy that he’d cradled in his arms as a younger man and promised the world. The boy whose dreams were hardly sky limited. The boy that Phil carried. The boy that Phil loved. The boy that Phil watched die in his arms less than forty-six hours ago.

Phil walked up to the grave and pulled the letter out of his pocket. Spots of wet teardrops splattered onto the envelope when he looked down at it. Phil took a deep breath and tucked the letter into the folds of the flag. He couldn’t care less what the letters said, all he really cared about was the smile on Will’s face, and the beautiful songs he wrote, and the messy curls that always caused him problems, and his relentless stubborn pride that he’d inherited from the angel of death himself. All he cared about was his Will. The Wilbur that he knew.

My son.

[socketz]

Charlie Dalton x Female!Reader

Angels of the Night.

Type : Fluff and Smut! (with a little Angst at the beginning)

Warnings : Very sexual at certain parts & particularly detailed, talks of death (in general, not Neil, don’t worry), crying I suppose, but that’s about it.

Word Count : 10.4K (roughly) I got a little carried away, oopsies

Request : Anonymous: So for the request, I was wondering if you could do something soft and smutty with Charlie (Dalton)? Like his and a fem reader’s first time together or smth?

Summary : Essentially the request but they go out to make snow angels after, and there’s a little bit more plot :)

Authors Note : Plsss🥺🥺🥺 I love this so much and the idea was so sweet, Charlie is my BABY. I love him fodjdjdbfi. Thank you for this request! And my other requested fics will be put up as soon as I’ve finished them <3

Angels of the Night, Charlie Dalton x Female!Reader

Perhaps it were the midst of Winter engulfing my complexion, rupturing me cold and abnormally behaved, or maybe I was simply being overdramatic. My nose cold, stained with the shiver of a scarlet hue - eyes something of a similar shade, glossy and leaking. Pathetic, my mind spat, utterly pathetic. The sobs escaping my throat were hardly stifled by the wool of my knitted scarf, eyebrows furrowed and blush - I presumed - something of a terrible crimson. I found myself choking on my laboured breaths, feet crunching upon the delicate, unscathed, snow below.

He could hardly love you, my mind seemed to snear, something icier than the wind whipping through my locks. You are too difficult to adore. 

Another stifled cry whimpered between the ruffle of my lips, moist and troubling, and I simply hoped - my vision blurred, incompetent - that my direction were a honest path, and I should discover the courtyard of the infamous Hell-ton (a place often discouraged and avoided by my conscience, for girls were surely not prohibited, and Charlie would be oh-so-severly punished, should I find myself caught.) in no time at all. 

But, oh, it were true. A wreck, I was, and impossible to love. Charlie; a man with such incredible charm, a certain warmth to his gaze, and the intelligence of someone wonderful. Everything a dream could give, embodied - real. Perhaps he was the kind of guy, the kind of face, that poetry was bound from. The kind of person the Gods found pride within - a joyously great boy. 

My footsteps found a rhythm, falling within the tough scale of such icy blankets; fingers but limbs of solid numbness, fumbling within the depth of my pockets; a gentle pulse to racket the edges of my brain. Thump, thump, thump, it said; Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. 

What was I even to do? To approach him, to mortify him - though undoubtedly far more myself - before his friends, his closest companions, and express my excessive need for clarification? Was I going to whine for his adoration, for a smitten smile - the kind I’d always read about, always heard in folk-talk about the town - and the attention I found myself so desperate for? It was all so absurd, and, as I glanced with a blurred sense upon the harsh white all around, I found myself wanting to burrow beneath it all, and await the part of death to crawl within my veins, to freeze until I perished. Dramatic, perhaps, though valid nonetheless.

I suddenly felt warm, doused in the flush of embarrassed scarlet, a hue so easily identifiable - especially among the fleet of snow, draped upon the landscape for miles, and miles, to stretch. Heavens, I felt ill. Sick with stupidity - my own, all the same. 

How could I possibly fall so low as to beg a man for adoration? My cheeks were a furious red, stricken with frustration. I felt a fool, storming over to his school - his strict, unapologetic, pro-punishment, school - with tear-stained cheeks, a lump in my throat and a pensive anxiety through the roof - all as though my implored desire were of anything important, anything meaningful. Charlie was a man of great confidence, and surely - by now, at least - his true feelings for me, if any at all, would have confessed their way to me, somehow - anyhow. 

And yet, despite our many months of close friendship, our continuous flirting, and the pet names - though only to be revealed when swarmed with the comfort of desolation -, with the dates (he had assured me that they were, in fact, dates, and not just a friendly accommodation) - despite it all, he had not once confessed to his true feelings. And I suppose that I struggled to believe whether he held anything romantic for me at all, anymore. Perhaps he was excited, in the beginning, and thus he felt something then, and now - now that we had never quite ventured within the sexually active side of things - I supposed that he were growing bored, and those feelings - whichever he may have obtained - were diminished,  unimportant, and-

“Y/N?” The delirious notion of my attention snapped up, grasping the direction of the calling - a familiar tone. Knox. I found myself spinning, undoubtedly a natural reaction, to turn away from his curious gaze. I wiped my eyes, a harsher manner than intended, with my numb digits digging a little deeper upon the flushed complexion than comfortable. “What are you doing here?” There was a breathy laugh, and I suppose he hadn’t noticed my watery expression, his crunching footsteps achingly close. 

“I- uh-” Turning to face him once more, I fluttered a kind smile upon my features - hoped he wouldn’t notice. “I came to visit Charlie.” I said. 

“Oh.” He said, dismissive, with another curious gaze and a tilted head. “He’s in a meeting-” He caught himself, glancing with something worried, “You okay?” He asked. Through his furrowed eyebrows and his genuine eyes - always gentle, always dreaming - I found comfort among the softness of his stare. Knox was a good friend - hopelessly in love with Chris, of course - and utterly tender. It was no wonder he and Charlie were the closest of companions. Both irresistible, both dependent upon each other - brothers, soulmates, a match for angelic enigma.

I hardly had a chance to catch my movement, shoulders falling and descending to a slouch, a sigh breaching my lips. “I’ve worried myself ill.” I said, and true it surely was. He smiled, a humorous smile, and shook his head.

“Always a worrier.” He spoke, fondly, taking me beneath his arm, and pulling me to the direction of the entry door. I almost thanked the warmth he radiated, had it not been for his words interrupting my decision, “You’ve been crying, I can see.” He said, and I nodded something silent. “What’s wrong?” 

“It’s Charlie.”  I sighed, unable to pause the way it slipped, so easily, through my teeth. I tried to bite it back, but it begged for release and I could fool myself no longer. I needed to talk about the issue, I needed advice. “I feel as though I bore him - as if he doesn’t like me - like that - anymore.”

He let out a laugh, full and plentiful, as we walked through the waft of warmth, basked by the golden-lit entrance. His stare was wary, cautious, and he - in his height, with that uniformed jacket clung around a part of myself -  buried me within his hold, ushering us through the walkway with a slight urgency. “Why the hell not?” He said, amused and slightly riddled with disbelief. 

“I-” I paused, a kind of summary attempting to congregate within the depth of my mind, every anxiety rushing to the front in a large blur of nothingness, “I just do.” I said, a deep puff of air to follow. “We’re nothing official, and I know that - of course I do! I just…” A moment of silence followed, we wandered up the staircase, feet echoing simultaneously as our tones found hushed whispers. To be caught was simply not an option “I suppose I need to know.” 

I found a gentle ache to sprout, deeply, within the base of my throat, a roundly stinging sensation to my eyes, and I knew - Oh, I knew it well, my jaw clenched, and orbs rolling to the sky - that tonight was a night for honesty, and for feeling morose. Charlie liked that word - morose - for it reminded him of things pleasant - ironically - and thus he used it in the incorrect context. ‘I am morose, tonight, Dear,’ he would say, a grin and faux British accent, all the while proceeding to play his cheeriest Saxophone pieces, all so wonderful and joyful. Nothing morose about it, but that was just Charlie. That was Just Charlie, and Charlie was the man I loved. 

The tears began to fall - a first, and then a second, and then there was simply no stopping them after that. Knox hummed, and we entered the hallway. “Need to know what?” He said, our footsteps echoing upon the wooden flooring in a patterned, mismatched, rhythm.  

“How he feels.” I said, a gentle sob to fall from my tongue. “How he feels about me - and him. Together - us.”  We paraded through the course of the rooms, an occasional curious eye from a bystander - usually a boy with books, or perhaps a recognizable face - and landed before a familiar door.

“Ah,” He said, “So that’s why you’re here? To confess your feelings and hope that he reciprocates?” I found myself pausing in the doorway, Knox almost diving upon the neatly made bed - upon Charlie’s neatly made bed - that anxiety riddled within my head all over again. Thump, thump, thump, it said. Hope, hope, hope.

“Hope?” I said, “What do you mean, hope?” 

He furrowed his eyebrows, dismissive to my worries, and picked up the small clock - slightly battered and a little broken - from upon the side table, stacked with loose paper and a few poorly handled novels, and said: “I worded that wrong.” With a reassuring smile to soften his expression. “You’re worried over nothing, Y/N.” He chuckled, gentle and kind. 

But what if I wasn’t? “And if I’m not?” 

“Then it would seem I don’t know Charlie at all.” He said. And, oh, how honest he seemed, so undeniably truthful, but that little voice - that fester of illness, sprouted within my gut -  found my eyebrows pinched, and my frame collapsed within the chair of Charlie’s desk. I removed the wool of my scarf, a sigh slipping the brace of my gritted teeth, gentle moisture collecting upon my complexion, flushed with the sudden gust of warmth, and similarly cold by the retraction of heat. 

“I hope those shoes are clean, Overstreet.” I said, breathless to my thoughts. He snorted a laugh, and my lip quivered at the corner. Perhaps I was worrying over nothing - yes, yes, nothing at all. Though my tears seemed to occupy my anxieties, and such a thought did little to diffuse my worry. “But what if he doesn’t have feelings for me?” I said, exasperated. Knox sighed, a pointed look from his direction. “I mean, how embarrassing! I’d surely never recover.” 

Another scoff breached his throat, “Are you kidding me?” He said, rolling his eyes with a subtle fondness about him. “He practically worships you.”

“And you’re sure he likes me? Romantically?” 

“Smitten.” He said, toying with the ill-treated clock as it lay within his hands, tossing it from one hand, to the other, up and down, left and right. I watched with a glimmer of amusement as the contraption fell from his grasp, landing heavily upon the wooden flooring. The mechanisms simply fell apart - meat from the bone - and a light wince sounded out from his direction. “Damn.” He mumbled. A soft laugh fluttered from my lips, and his rose to a tender smile, soft and kind - always so kind. 

The door billowed open, a gentle slam against the opposing wall a thunder upon the scene. A waft of cologne, a roll of the eyes from Knox, and I found my smile broadening a little, broadening enough.  Always the kind for an entrance, I thought, as the wooden plank poised between the man himself, and I. “Knoxious.” Charlie called, a tone of thick amusement and mischief to coax his smirk - a factor so notoriously him, I could hear it through his speech. 

Knox grinned, a furtherly boyish kind than the ones he shared with me, and avoided the shattered clock altogether, as it lay, pathetically, upon the ground. “How’d it go?” He asked, lying pointedly within the comfort of Charlie’s bed, making a fact of wiggling upon the comforter.

“Not so bad.” Charlie said, blissfully ignoring his teasing. “Meeks agreed to help. Study group and all that.” 

Knox nodded, glancing once in my direction, as I found myself merely grinning - for whichever reason, I had no particular clue. Perhaps it were his voice, or his smile - the way it conveyed within his speech. I didn’t know, and I found, as he spoke once again, that I didn’t care to find out. 

“How was the Danbury’s future wife?” He teased, “Seen her naked, yet?” His tone of humour were almost overbearing, as he strode forward - in front of myself, my presence consequently unknown - and kicked the door shut, the thud another echo throughout the almost silent corridor. 

He rolled his eyes, the ghost of a smile to be present, and spoke gently, “Shut up, Dalton.” He said, motioning effortlessly in my direction, “Your girl’s here to see you.” 

As though an elastic band, he swiveled upon his toes, eyes precariously enlarged with a sense of surprise. My grin remained, and his gaze seemed to soften somewhat upon noticing my hunched posture, curled within that chair of his fabulous desk. His expression eloped with something wide, his smile crawling instantaneously, as he strode to rest himself behind me, engulfing my shoulders in a two-armed-cradle. His chin rested upon the dip in my neck, breath warm; close. “Hi.” He said, tone soft with a joyous grin. 

“Hello.” I mumbled, resting the side of my cheek upon his head. Serenity, peace - I had almost forgotten the moisture to lie upon my rosy complexion. “What was the meeting about?” I asked.

“It’s nothing, just-” “He’s flunking trig.” Knox interrupted, a flutter of buried snickers to follow. 

My eyebrows furrowed, knitted tightly as I positioned myself to face Charlie furtherly forward. “You’re flunking trig?” I asked. He shrugged slightly, tightening his embrace 

with a sharp inhale to his nose. 

“Only a little.” He said, gaze roaming upon my expression. Two digits, curled to the softness of his palm, graced the damp flush of my cheek, recoiling with a scowl of fond woe displaced upon his furrowed brows. “What’s the matter?” He asked, something mellow. 

As though dancing to their own accord, the tears found themselves heavier than before, trickling upon my features as they found a subtle scrunch, and his frown drew deeper. “Hey,” He whispered, brushing - almost nervously, dare I say - a few strands of hair away from my face, tucking them behind an ear, with a glance of thorough concern. 

I stared, albeit tried to, with such blurry gaze, into his eyes. So warm, so amiable -  hot chocolate, topped with sweetened whipped cream and marshmallows on a chilly Wednesday afternoon - Home, his eyes, they looked like home. He felt like home. And, oh, how dearly I loved him. “What happened?” He mumbled, “Knoxious,” he said, turned to face the boy who glanced something somber, “What did you do?” 

I could care to notice the smile upon Charlie’s expression, and from the reciprocated grin festered within the boy across the room, I understood, a teary smile and a gentle laugh, that he was doing what he did best - he was going to cheer me up. “Overstreet.” He said, standing with a sudden gust of wind. 

Knox stood, a scramble to his feet, a mischievous grin eloped upon his expression. “Dalton?” He said, a tilt of his head - a nod, I suppose, though something mocking. 

“Grab me a bowl.” Charlie ordered. 

His smile fell, and he said: “A bowl?” 

“Yeah, of food.” He said, “I’m hungry. Whatever’s for Dinner, alright?” 

He nodded, somewhat dazzled, and the smirk crawled back upon his expression. “Yes, Sir.” He said, “What about the others?” 

“The others?” 

“The Dead Poets?” Knox said, “What’ll I tell ‘em?” 

Charlie shrugged, he glanced once to myself as I sniffled, and I wiped my eyes with my hands once more. “Tell ‘em I’m busy.” He said, a smile. Knox knew - he knew better than anyone - just how deeply controlling love could feel, how gut-wrenchingly wonderful it tended to grow, and thus he left without another word, merely a smirk, and a gentle wave to I. 

The door remained cracked, though only a slither, and before a moment's silence had passed between us, Charlie planted his lips upon the cold complexion of my snow-kissed cheek. A retraction, “God,” He said, “you’re freezing.” I didn’t feel particularly cold - not anymore, at least -- not after the weight of his tightly woven arms upon my shoulders. It should seem, however, that the glisten of moisture upon my cheeks were enough to remind my complexion of it’s shiver, Charlie - without hesitation - ripping into the array of clothing, shoved messily at the pit of his closet. “Here.” He mumbled, a thick, woolen, jumper extended from his slightly pink cheeks. “Put this on, you’ll get sick.” 

I have fallen sick already, I almost scoffed - sick with the worries of my own foolish mind. But I grabbed the soft material nonetheless - a favorite of mine, one I thought he wore so very well - and removed my jacket, peeling the cold material from my bare arms. I placed it on, woozy with the intoxicating smell that was him, engulfing my frame in a combustion of warmth, of safety, and I smiled. A toothy, poorly contained, smile. 

That smirk fell upon his lips, a signature twist of features. I watched his supple gaze, drifting upon my figure from across the room, and those butterflies - the ones I’d so anxiously murdered a while ago, when such intrusive thoughts seemed too dangerous to express fondly - found themselves utterly contempt, dazzling themselves drunk with romance. Eyes darkened slightly, though soft, as though glancing to something delicate, and his hands fumbled within his pockets. How pretty he was, I found myself thinking, and I adored him all the same. 

He smiled, a shake of the head, and said: “I wasn’t expecting to see you.” 

“Oh, yeah…” I said, another sniffle, contained and hardly morose at all. My expression seemed to falter, though only marginally - enough for Charlie to notice, his gaze scowling something gentle, something worried - and I presumed, as he motioned for me to join him, himself clambering upon the mattress and lying upon the cover, that I would simply have to let it all out. “I wanted to talk to you about something.” I began, sitting at the edge of the bed. He kicked off his shoes, allowing them to clatter upon the ground with a careless sense, attentive and glancing warily to myself. 

He frowned, subliminally displeased by the distance I had placed between us. “Are you mad at me?” He asked, confusion to bind between his features. 

It was my turn to furrow my eyebrows, a rather quick shake of the head. “No, no, nothing like that.” I said, “No, quite the opposite, really.” I kicked off my own shoes, not nearly as eager to ruin his bedding as Knox had seemed to be, and placed them side by side, a neat sort of line. The tears, they had stopped - or paused, perhaps - though the dampness of my blush was something rather frustrating, as I harshly wiped upon the irritated skin, attempting to rid of the lightly tangy moisture. 

“Alright.” He hummed, an arm to lock upon the soft of my stomach, drawing me closer in a swift kind of movement. I laid back, his chest moving something rhythmical, my head falling within the crook of his neck, glancing up to the side of his face. He was surely the prettiest boy I had ever known. And as his thumb stroked the skin of my knuckles, his eyes glancing down to meet my own, I found myself thoughtless. Blank - nothing. He smiled. “Well?” 

I rolled my eyes half heartedly, for I was so filled with something fuzzy, something fond, I was unable to spark any kind of annoyance. “So impatient.” I grinned, shuffling lightly to tangle my feet beneath his own. Oh, how cold my toes were. He hissed lightly at the contact, though allowed it nonetheless, and I found myself unable to dismiss the gentle grin as it slipped upon my lips. “I- Well, I-“ I coughed, an ache to my throat. Feelings, themselves, were particularly frustrating - difficult things to understand - and yet confessing them were so much harder. “God,” I sighed, closing my eyes with a light groan. Carpe diem - it was all Charlie used to say, before he’d do something risky; before he asked me on a date for the first time; before he inevitably did a thing he’d surely regret, or, perhaps, receive a kind of punishment for. Carpe diem. “Do you like me?” I asked. It was timid, shy. 

A moment of silence graced us by, the soft hum of his breathing  mingled with that of my own the only disruptive notion. I peered through my lashes, cautious as to my findings, and gazed upon his beautifully carved features. Glancing to his lightly flushed expression, his smile, and his subtle laughter, I suppose that I gathered I had been worrying about nothing, after all. Stretched within his grin, he said: “What’s the matter with you?”, a gentle laugh soon followed . “Of course I like you.” He said. “Why’d I keep you around if I didn’t?” 

I felt myself bubble with a lightly humiliated laugh, trickling from my tongue like treacle - not honey, far too thick, too sticky. Unpleasant - it was a frustrated and false kind. “I don’t know.” I muttered. “I thought you did it all out of pity.” 

A snort escaped him, “Fucking pity?” He echoed, bemused as before. “You think I’d deliberately risk getting my ass kicked by my Father, for bringing a girl to school, if it was out of pity?” I shrugged something small - utterly humiliated. Though, in a way, I suppose I kind of enjoyed this humiliation. I found a certain warmth in his mocking, for I knew it was his dote of affection. I knew that although his commentary were merely humorous, I could find a sense of adoration between the lines, a sense of truth. There always seemed to be such things. 

And so, as though a strike of courage had flourished within the depth of my bones, I found myself speaking thoughtlessly. “You just never…” I paused, hesitation riddled within such courage. “You’ve never told me that.” I sighed, glancing away with such an inflammation to my cheeks, I simply thought I’d explode into a ball of flames.

“Oh,” He muttered, a tinge of disheartenment to his tone. I flickered my stare to fixate upon his expression once more, crossed handsomely with a frown. He didn’t meet my gaze, “Well, what do you want me to say?” He said, a little thickly, with a hint of discomfort. 

Tell me you love me, I wanted to say, confess your adoration! Though instead, there was a: “Nothing.” and an: “I’m sorry, I’m being dramatic.” 

“No, no,” He said, a stroke to my side; up and down, up and down, so gentle, so soft. “No, you’re right.” A curt pause followed, a tense thing. He drew in a sharp breath, “I just thought that…” He trailed, marinating his words, as though deciphering how to piece them together. “I thought you could tell.” He smiled fondly, shook his head, “The Dead Poets… All they do is tease me. They see it.” He glanced toward me, a curious glance, and said: “Why can’t you?” 

I paused, the gentle stammer to exit my mouth, “I-” but caught myself before mine own excuses. There was a furrow to my brows, one that rose a single of his own, and surely, he were right. 

Between the gentle dotes of affection - often an arm burrowed around my waist, or my shoulders, or a kiss to my cheek, hand holding (though usually interlocked pinkies) - the long, - dare I say - intimate stares; the softness of each glance, of every expression; the subtle compliments, followed with a fond kind of joke, or a faux insult; the adoration, spilled between every moment we spent together, that I were simply too worried to notice. Damn, I almost sighed, though bit it back (barely) - I felt bitterly foolish. 

Heavens, how could I not have noticed? 

There was an overwhelming kind of heat washing over me, and oh, I truly wanted to hide - to run, and to hide, far, far,  away.  What a fool, an incompetent fool. The flutter of a laugh slipped between his lips, a lullaby to my fixated embarrassment, and - before long - I found myself reciprocating a gentle giggle, too. 

“Idiot.” He teased, another snort of laughter, though only quiet - a fond mocking, one could say. I rolled my eyes, unbearably aware for the scarlet flush upon my cheeks, and swatted his chest gently. His digits wrapped around my own, drawing the back of my hand to his smile, as he peppered a loving kiss upon the complexion.  “‘Looks good.” He grinned, “My clothes - they suit you.” And there I was, blushing all over again. 

“Shut up.” I mumbled, burning something violent. 

He smiled, that toothy, mischievous, and utterly him, smile. “Never.” He whispered, a wink, and a closing gap. 

His eyes, those beautifully entrancing eyes - gorgeously brown, amorous in shade - glanced, feverishly, upon my lips, slightly agape - drying. The space between our mingled breaths seemed to lessen, the scent of his cologne an overwhelming disorientation to my unmoving self. I found my frame utterly frozen - we had never kissed before. I gulped, our gazes entangling once again, and his expression found a subtle pinch. 

Is this okay? It seemed to ask, and oh, how I melted. I nodded, soft and hesitant - merely within my own - or, rather, lack there of - experience. His digits ran smoothly upon my side, trickling their way upon my tingling complexion, and weighted a supple grip upon my jaw, thumb tracing the flush of my cheek. 

And then, the space between two such lovers diminished. 

Molded so wondrously, an aubade of something perfect. My eyes found a restful close, the pressure of his lips, so tender and gentle - passionately loving - upon mine, a soulful clash of dreamy nights, and explicit daydreams, embodied. The digits upon my cheek failed to release, momentarily squeezing, as the barricade upon my lower back embraced my frame, warm and comforting, and his strength lulled me closer. 

I tilted my head, only slightly to the left, as to deepen such affection, and the simple way in which my nose brushed upon his, found my heart slurry with a combustion I could hardly contain. My hands trailed upon his chest, pathing a certain comfort upon his clothed complexion, winding to a settlement along his jaw, cupping his face in a brisk motion of adoration. This was real, I found such a touch reminding me, he was truly within my hands, and his lips were smitten upon my own. Oh, how long I had dreamed such a night.

It seemed almost strange, that such a new found discovery could feel so dearly like home - like comfort, fed upon a delectably silver spoon. 

Sweeter than any honey infused dessert, delighted with the bitterness of inexperience and unveiled expressions, my awareness a haze of muddled infatuation. For although my fingertips caressed the smooth complexion of his jaw, and my frame lay, entangled, within his own, it seemed that my feel, my sense of attention, was something of a great lack. Everything seemed so out of focus, so ill-tuned. All but the pressure of the fiery ignition, between the kiss of an epilogue I dreaded immensely. 

My breaths fell short, something deep and ravenous, and I found yourself withdrawing gently, engulfing the sudden gulp of oxygen with a slight pant to accompany it. Charlie’s glance was warm; every kind of affection intertwined within one honey glaze; mouth agape, clawing to the fresh air with a timid smirk, reddened and slightly swollen - kissable. His thumb caressed the complexion of my rosy cheek, a falter nowhere to be seen, and his grip on my lower back trailed up, grasping the base of my neck in a sloppily tender hold. He pulled me nearer, a soft guidance, as his breath fanned my expression, gorged with a timid and delightful smile, and the gingerly peppered peck followed. "I love you." He mumbled, eyes fluttered shut. 

He loved me - He loved me! Oh, how I had longed to hear such a confession! I truly pondered the sincerity to his words, though decided that perhaps a paranoid ponderous session was in fact unnecessary, and, in due time, such doubts could trail my conscience. After all, he had confessed that he loved me, and, well, that was just enough for my satisfaction. 

Tugging upon the hem of his jawline, a subtle smile traced the hue of his expression - peacefully quiet, with his orbs still hidden to a close - and my lips descended, something brash and seemingly passionate, upon his own. His response trailed suit, the grip upon my neck squeezing momentarily - an embrace I found alluringly entrancing, with a tingle between my thighs - and a gape to mold within his mouth. Craning his neck, once more, Charlie tilted his head to the right, in a consequent attempt to deepen the kiss. And perhaps it were foolish of me to notice such simplicity, but I found it captivating, the way in which our eyelashes freckled upon each other's cheeks, and our noses clashed so gently, brushing a blushed complexion with no morsel of objection. 

His tongue ran along the moisturized flesh of my flushed lower lip, a subtle nip between his front teeth igniting the heated warmth, oozing between my own frustrations, and - although I had, for arguments unbeknownst to myself, never before used my tongue in a passionate manner - I found my lips parting subconsciously, and welcoming the sloppy warmth of an entity my dreams could hardly fathom such experience of. 

A gentle invasion, something utterly welcome and wondrous; his tongue ran along the edge of my own, myself mimicking the soft touch with slight hesitance. His thumb caressed the complexion of my cheek once more, lightly gripping upon the side of my face and tilting it such, himself adjusting to furtherly explore the depth of my intertwined lips. I were surely rendered breathless, a slight ache beginning to accumulate within the pit of my lungs - I hardly knew how to breathe through such intimacy. Charlie sighed something gentle, the puff of air to tickle my upper lip, and it seemed the recollection of my nose fluttered on back to me, as I gulped a large inhale through the deprived nostrils, a subtle blush encasing my cheeks, flourished with the tinge of thickening embarrassment. That was a bit fucking stupid, I scolded, shamed by my bitter inexperience. 

I wondered if I were... Well, if I were any good, to put it simply. Never before had I truly made out with a boy, and every time they tried, it seemed to - somehow, somewhere - go wrong. Of course, I had shared subtle kisses with pretty boys, and my virginity was long gone - many moons ago, was it taken, by a man unbelievably unworthy of the title - but it was never anything emotional. Nothing riddled with mutual feelings, and adoration spilling from every passing moment. It was different - Charlie was different. 

And as my grip slithered upon the roots of his hair, planted along his lower cranium, and entangled with a gentle tug, I understood that perhaps he thought I was different, too. For the sound he made was heavenly, as the groan slipped between his lips, and vibrated upon my tongue, and oh, did I crave to hear it again. His smile was a radiance of arrogant pleasure, tattered against my lips, as his teeth nibbled something tender upon my swollen flesh, and, Heavens, how the shuddered sigh mortified me. I had little time to control myself, as his grip tightened upon the base of my neck, and the other hand slunk itself upon my clothing, wriggling the base of my shirt, and planting a firm grip upon my bare waist. 

I wondered, merely a moment of passing thought, whether my skin were as smooth as his own, or that of the other girls he had bedded, before myself. At least, I assumed such a happening would unfold within the shared company, as my lips began to shimmer a light sting, something barbarically pleasing. Another nibble ran upon my lower lip, a slightly harsher endeavor, as a sharp flourish of pain cursed through my mouth, eloping the pleasurable chafe in a reactive heat. My fist clenched, tightly engaged, within the roots of those chocolate, brown, locks, yet another groan to interrupt the blurry silence, and a sudden flavor - something unusual, unknown - infiltrated the bliss, and... Metallic? I frowned subtly, decidedly unknowing as to just what it could be, and - Blood. 

Heavens, I was bleeding! I felt myself gasp something light, his smirk merely amplifying to such a bemusing reaction, and his tongue softly grazed the small wound with great humor, before slithering within the gaped part of my inflamed mouth. 

His hand squeezed, momentarily, upon the rear of my neck, it's warmth surely missed, as it trailed an affable motion along my back, and his digits curled upon the hem of my shirt. One subtle tug, and a second shortly followed, his permission permitted clearly, and his grip maneuvered such clothing from upon my heated frame, hands lightly brushing the shivered complexion of my bare sides, with deliberate teasing, as he went. The shirt was thrown somewhere unbeknownst to myself, the knitted jumper a deduced accomplice,  and I simply hoped it wouldn't land upon Richards bed - that kind of commentary I would surely never live down - as my hands slithered their way beneath his own clothing, resting upon the warm complexion of his softly animated chest, rising and deflating rhythmically beneath my grip.

A supple grasp of his warm touch, cupping upon the thinly laced fabric of my forgettable bra, found delightful swarms of shivers, crawling with great animation, to scuttle upon my spine. The gentle arc of my back, a soft pressure of my chest upon his own, allowed our mingled affection to deepen, be it only slight, as his tongue slithered endearingly alongside mine. Once more, I hoped that my actions were at least satisfactory, as the persistence of the surprisingly wondrous invasion, sultry within my mouth, peppered on. His breath was short, gentle, yet utterly irrational, a certain tinge of warmth to radiate from the subtlety of his glamorously expensive cologne. 

And, despite my growing adoration for the way in which our bodies found a perfect kind of mold, so effortlessly, the tender reminder that Charlie was still... Well, he was still bothersome in clothing, his attire entirely intact, as he lay responsive below my trembling self, found a certain nerve within the depth of my hidden anxieties. Perhaps I had read too far into such a night, and it would not quite end the way I had hoped - perhaps he was simply going along with everything through courtesy. He was a rather gentlemanly man, I could agree. I found a timid blush crawling the complexion of my expression - oh, how foolish I felt! My mind rendered itself bitterly clouded - maybe my crowing insecurities would, in fact, not wait - and my hesitant touch seemed to lightly drift, no longer positioned upon the warmth of his beautiful skin. He didn't even want this, I was almost certain. After all, it was me lying flat upon his frame - not him. I had control - idiotically so - and therefore, he did not want me. Not in that way, at least. 

The distance forced itself between such entanglement far before I found a moment to conceal the concerns, myself positioned to a particularly uncomfortable straddle, perched lightly upon his pelvis with my hands palmed upon his erratically pulsating chest. His eyebrows furrowed ever-so-slightly, toppled with a mantra of concern, lips bruised an almost impressive tinge of inflamed scarlet. "What's wrong?" He muttered, albeit breathless and slightly dumbfounded. His darkened gaze pinned me silent, a flicker of uncomfortability to reside within my mind. I could hardly see just why he would want me, in any kind of way, never mind the sexual kind. 

I glanced to my hands, toying subtly with the fabric of his clothing, and my stomach spiked with some kind of nervous gip. Fucking hell, I scolded, what is wrong with you?  His digits encased my own, plush lips a delicacy upon the soft complexion, as he traced my palm with a gentle touch, and peppered affection among my knuckles. "Y/N..." He sighed, a sudden softness about his expression. My eyes danced reluctantly, cautious and riddled with my cock-blocking, frustrating, anxieties, and met his gaze with a shy tinge. "What's with the nerves, all of a sudden?" A lovable flutter of laughter slipped his throat, engulfing his expression in that wide grin I found myself adoring so deeply, and another blush drooped upon my smile, small and timid in itself. 

"Sorry." I mumbled, somewhat awkwardly, as I lightly shifted my positioning. 

A slight hiss escaped the gape of his reddened lips, "Oh, God," He said, "please - God, fuck - don't do that." He groaned, a strong grip and swift maneuvering moment of furrowed expression and concerning grumbles to follow, and I discovered a position of swandled helplessness, upon my back, himself a display of further dominance, as he hung above my confused person. A slither of arrogance spilled within his smirk, particularly delighted with the shift in positioning. 

Perhaps he did want me, after all, I dared to ponder. Heavens - he surely looked Godly, struck above, a slight strain to his muscles, and a shimmer of reddened blush to coax his complexion. Two digits maneuvered upon my cheek, another pinch smitten within his expression, and he stroked my features, as he said: “We don’t have to do it, you know.” And he smiled something gentle, reassuring. 

I found myself silly with a grin, shaking my head subtly. “No,” I said, “No, I want to.” I brushed away the fringe of fallen hair, tucking it away from his forehead. Truly the most beautiful boy I had ever known. “I want to, I just-” I paused, sighed, “I want to make sure you do, as well.” I said, quieter, with a furrow to my brows. 

That similarly contagious smile only seemed to brighten, the breath of a laugh a whisper to the quiet. “Me?” He somewhat scoffed, “Sweetheart, tonight is about you.” 

Contorted with a sense of confusion, I said, “Are you sure?” And wrapped his warm expression within the palms of my hands. “I don’t want you to do something you don’t want to do, Charlie.” I said. 

His grin something soft, he shook his head. “Dammit, Y/N, the name is Nuwanda.” He said, with not a moment's hesitation. His lips found mine own once more, eloped within that same enigma of beautiful, gratifying, expression. And, oh, if this were the love I had read about, that I had heard the stories of, perhaps I could dare to allow myself to fall. 

Mouth a hot trail, lingering with a sloppy kind of warmth, trickled - like honey, sweet, addictive - upon the flush of my complexion, gently peppered along my neck, a rough trail to the crane of my breast, parting through the middle, and a pause at my stomach. The tips of his fingers wound little circles within my pale flesh, a tickle embraced delightfully, and I found myself flustered and warm - dampening, perhaps, in an area more than one. 

The gentle, almost trembling, I cared to notice, graze of his fingertips, caressing the sensitivity of the skin most unscathed, perched above the button of my waistband, found a fluttered breath to fall from my tongue. A sigh, one could admit. And, as he maneuvered such digits to undo the subtle mechanisms of the button, and of the zipper, I found my gaze interlocking with his own, a dirty kind of smile to pepper his expression. 

“Wait-” I breathed, a little sultry - too sultry for my liking, though his grin only widened upon such a shaky tone. 

“Yes, Dear?” He said, a grip to my waist - something squeezed, something utterly distracting - and crawled his way to hover above me, our gazes interlocked and level. A sharp inhale found my throat, and I paused, albeit disorientated, and that intense expression of his dimmed somewhat. I found myself blushing, flustered idiotically, and I tugged upon the lower creases of his shirt. He glanced down, a breathy laugh to follow. 

He sat back slightly, resting mostly upon his legs, straddled either side of myself, as I lie, watching - no doubt looking a mess, with disgruntled hair, and half a naked body - and he began to unbutton the cotton of his creased, white, shirt. 

Pasty, toned - oh, I were surely thankful to Nolan for such persistent rowing training - and utterly divine. The shirt found the floor, and I subconsciously began trailing patterns, gently, upon the muscled complexion of his abdominal region. His smile was infectious, dazed, as though swarmed with consuming bliss, and his slow descent was something teasing, patient. 

I leaned up, unable to pause myself, and caught his lips with my own, furtherly passionate than previously seemed - harsher, dripping with an uncanny tinge of desperation. He slipped his way back down, continual pressures of feathered kisses, slobbered messily upon the heated skin of my neck, my breast, and the lower fraction of my stomach. My hands wove between the gloriously soft strands of his hair, clenching upon the roots with a great anticipation. I surely wanted him - needed him. 

Picking off from where he had found himself interrupted, Charlie made a point to daringly drag the material from upon my limbs - slow, deliberate - and peel them unto the floor. That smile - that damned smile - bled me something mushy, utterly submissive to every which occurrence seemed to take place henceforth. His mouth, hot, entirely entrancing - dreamy, perhaps - pressed, a ragged breath to accompany, upon the flesh of my thigh, trailing up, further, further, until they grazed the cloth of my lacy waistband. 

Naturally - with somewhat an embarrassing notion - my hips seemed to rise, to buck up, and follow his retreating mouth. The gaze in which he dared to share, - oh - it ached me. My stomach pooling - almost, as it seemed, distributing elsewhere, in a mantra of pleasure, and of need.  And the sound that escaped the gape of my mouth were something utterly mortifying.

He breathed a gentle chuckle, crawling up once more, his thumbs brushing lightly upon the fabricated hip, and allowed his forehead to rest upon my cheek, a deep breath - in, and out, in, and out - with a number of peppered affection to burn the complexion of my jaw. My grip remained, gentler, within the roots of his hair, rummaging among such luscious locks, and his breathing feathered, wavering with a soft tremble. 

Charlie snuffed his way, knocking my nose with his own, and smiled something tender, a to lock our gaze. “I love you.” He mumbled, the gentle ghost of a kiss to slither upon my lips. 

I hardly awaited a moment’s hesitation, “I love you,” I said, and I surely meant it. 

There was a moment of shuffling, himself withdrawing the belt - a clink, and a burning fire between the ache of my thighs - and the rustle of descending cloth. Our lips a tangle of blissful abundance, daydreams, passion, all that seemed so wonderful - all that life seemed to be understood for - wrapped within such a sweetened, musky scent. And then, as he parted my legs, something gentle, and particularly kind, and the lace of my dampened panties were discarded to the side, I found, for a heightened moment, I understood the root of all poetry. 

For the breeze was nippy, but he was a kind of warmth - a slow, graceful, entrance. He shuddered a breath, his member fulfilling the absence of a warm embrace, and I found myself a wholly consumed fool. “Charlie,” I breathed, a gentle tug to his hair. He groaned something heavenly, vibrating among the thickening air - sticky, almost, with such a sweet sensation, and then he began to move. 

Gradual, as he dug further, a greatly whole sensation washing over my pleasured shudder, until he paused, entirely consumed by his depth. Breathing deepened, ravenously implored by my tender whimpers, he captured my moans in a grunt of his own, “Shhh,” he muttered, a strained kind of speech. “You’ve got to be quiet.” He muttered, a whisper of a breath upon my lips. 

He retracted, slow, daring, from within me, movement slick and utterly dangerous. “We don’t-” A muffled groan fell from his lips, pausing with a noticeable withdrawal, his smirk something bitterly infused with desperation, with longing. “We don’t wanna get caught, do we?” 

I shook my head, far too engrossed within the bask of delight and satisfaction to pay my embarrassment any kind of interest. “No,” I breathed, my hips rising once more and grazing the moisture of his hardened self. A subtle moan escaped the rumble of his throat, a bastardly smile embracing his daring expression, lips crashing to connect with my own once more. 

His digits encased my own, hardly noticed and utterly trusted, and he withheld such grip above my head, smitten upon the pillows, and the headrest, and he entered me once more. I found a muffled moan escaping my throat, digested with the greedy tongue of his own, as he withdrew his frame, and began to find a kind of rhythm. He ground something gentle into  me, a tender type of jive, and allowed the rhythm something slow, something gradual. It were a mere mumble upon the flush of my lips, though I smiled nonetheless, as he said - breathed -: “Is this-” A pause, a shuddered inhale, “Is this alright?” 

I nodded, unable - quite - to express such simplicity in any which way. “Perfect,” I muttered, allowing my head to fall comfortably, resting with my gaze locked upon the ceiling.

Ragged breaths, furtherly accompanied by the feathering pepper of his sprinkled kisses, planted sparsely along my jaw; an embodiment of all the wonders, every kind of lyric, every stanza, every momentary pleasure; the warmth of a gradually increasing rhythm, so comfortingly blissful, my lower stomach contracting with a pleasurably unfamiliar sense of tightness; that musky scent, so beautifully him, so perfectly raw. 

He found a lightly harsher stroke, breath an uneven hymn, a prayer the angels seemed to cry, and I found my moan something - soberly - mortifying, drunk with a combustion of thickening lust, of adoration, of love. He heaved a breath, somewhat a laugh, and tilted my chin to level our gaze, his lips capturing my whimpers in a silencing kind of manner. He reached to my hips, their slow slipping of something unsatisfactory to his heavy grip, and he tugged me down upon his thrusts. A cry - a moan - slipped between our mingled breaths, and he seemed to pick up such speed, delicately embracing my complexion in a gentle manner, a loveable motion, and pulling me into his stroke.

A knot, something unfamiliar with the burden of time, tightened somewhere deeply, warmth emitting between the slick moisture between my thighs, and igniting a rich kind of fire within the enigma of my lower stomach, and Oh- 

A moan slipped the gape of my lips, his member discovering a kind of depth I had hardly realized accessible, and I- “Charlie,” I breathed, a pathetic taunt within the front of my conscience. His groan was something reciprocal, strokes strong, deepening, and undoubtedly a kind of heavenly descent. 

He muttered my name, a breath I found myself entirely enthralled by, and found his rhythm to a slower pace, retracting gradually and entering - deeper, oh, far deeper - with a furtherly slow invitation. A shuddered, heightened, moan slipped the grasp of my throat, coarser and far more depthful, and that knot - Heavens, that damn knot - tightened; it tightened and it squeezed, and it ached the course of my thighs. “Charlie-” I whispered, almost certain for the fiery warmth, engulfing the towering pull among my abdomen. 

He nodded, a breath to trickle his expression, “Yeah,” He said, “Yeah, me too.” 

The knot rose, a consuming tug among my dizzying conscience, and it lulled my limbs into a distracted, sedated, kind of manner, blissfully encased with a pleasure enamoured. Another moan found my throat, and his rhythm remained something increasingly shaky, strong and utterly defying. 

His breath fell to something unstable, gradually embracing an elated sense of ragged unevenness, as he captured our lips once more. A series of whimpers found the depth of my throat, my attempt to bite them back insufficient to his rhythmic thrusts, member far deeper than it seemed I could reach, myself. “Charlie,” I mumbled, almost finding myself warning as to the upcoming occurrence, himself smirking thickly against the gasp of my lips. 

“Go ahead, Baby,” he shuddered, “I’ve got you.” And then, I found myself unable to hold on any longer. 

A tremble of muffled cries - once, twice, copious times again, until my throat lay wretched with not a sound but the mere whimpers of pleasure. The knot, it combusted in a matter of electrical warmth, flushing through the gape of my parted, shuddering, legs. “Charlie,” I cried, like a song upon the dry whimper of my throat, “Charlie, Charlie,” until his name seemed nothing more than a word upon my tongue. Such a wave, engulfing me in a sensational kind of suffocation, an infectious kind of entrapment. I ached, another moan to fall from my lightly gasped mouth, and I found the knot, the gentle tug, no longer there - diminishing, one may say. 

I had hardly noticed the withdrawal of his softening member, stomach glistened with the tone of his undoing, his breaths ragged - deepened - though upon meeting his glance with that of my own, I understood that this - this man whom I loved, whom I adored - were someone I could most certainly Carpe Diem with every goddamn day. He smiled, something tender, something soft, and draped his lips upon my own, a sweet, kind, peck. 

“I love you,” He muttered upon the swollen flesh. 

A smile, “I love you,” I said. 

There was a moment of nothingness, filled by the still of ragged breathing, and his tone came teasing, came blissfully characteristic. “I’ll never hear my name fall from your lips innocently again.” He said, the light trickle of laughter to drabble by. “But, oh,” He closed his eyes, head tilted dramatically, “Oh, it was the sweetest song I ever heard.” I rang with a short giggle, a roll to my eyes, and muttered a gentle curse for his mortifying dictation. 

“Fuck you, Dalton.” I mumbled. 

His lips caught mine, once more, with a sloppy sense of warmth, and he said: “I’m afraid you already have, Dear.” With a wink and a poke to my naked side. 

His withdrawal were something quick, a suddenly cold departure, as he picked up the discarded shirt from upon the floor. He pinched his expression, a conflicting frown, and I maneuvered to rest upon my forearms, a furrow to my brows. “What are you doing?” I asked, a dopey smile unnoticed yet utterly welcome. 

He breathed a laugh, “I’m not sure if this is my last shirt.” He mumbled, scratching the base of his neck with another little chuckle. I let out a short snort, shaking my head, and spoke teasingly, unable to help the way it fell from my tongue. 

“To say I’m surprised would simply be a lie. Grab mine.” I said, motioning to the entanglement of woolen jumper and cheap t-shirt. 

He passed such fabric to myself, and I made an effort to scrape the slick moisture, puddled upon my stomach, a slight sigh to escape my mouth. The click of a lighter, and the rustle of an almost empty cigarette carton caught my attention, gaze drifting to watch as Charlie inhaled a deep breath, the chemicals of the darkened smoke disrupturing to his toughened throat, hands fondling the clasp of his belt. 

I found my underwear, sliding into the small item of clothing, rising to a standing position as I did so, and the cigarette fell between my lips, a wink to follow his retreat. 

“Let’s make some snow angels.” He said, a glimmer of something bright to sprinkle within his gaze. The laugh coughed from my chest, deep and humorous - oh, how I loved him. “Hey,” he scoffed, taking back the cigarette and handing me his woolen jumper, “I’m serious!” An inhale, a smirk, and a darkened gaze, watching with great intent as I wrapped my frame within the loose fabric of his favourite jumper. 

I smiled, “Of course we can, Charlie.” I said, unable to stop the slip of the giggle that found its way out. He grinned, a final toke of the cigarette, before stubbing it out upon the bedpost, tossing the end through the window he slid open, and basked within the cool breeze for a moment or two. 

Scoping my pants, I threw the material upon my legs, doing up the mechanisms, and simply watching his relaxed frame, gazing through the gape of the window. A pale complexion, littered with small, yet noticeable, moles, and bodily freckles. Athletically lean, though not particularly tall, and ridden with just enough muscle - wondrously divine architecture, I could dare to admit. 

“Come on,” He grinned, whipping around and wriggling his eyebrows something childish. Another snicker escaped me, though I placed on my shoes, and I tugged on my jacket nonetheless, awaiting his restless dressing. He threw on the shirt, hardly bothering to button the majority of the buttons, and his shoes, tying them scruffily in a manner I were sure would simply undo in a moment’s notice, his hand encasing my own in a youthful taste of blissful excitement, dragging me to the door as he collected his coat, and found his way into the hallway. 

Desolate, empty - entirely surprising. 

In truth, I had expected a kind of congregation to fall through the entrance as Charlie swung open the door, and yet, not but a whispered sound was to be heard. Admittedly, such a discovery were something welcomed and serene - I doubted I would ever live down such humiliation. It occured to me, as I glanced upon the solitude of the hallway, that Knox had not returned, either. Perhaps he had heard the… the happenings, from behind the door, and decided simply to take a hint. I adored that boy, his heart of gold, I thought, a gentle graze of a smile upon my lips. 

Charlie barreled into the limbs of the woolen coat, buttoning only a few of the gloriously expensive pegs, as he interlinked our pinkies - much the same as he had always done - and dragged me through the hall. 

“Charlie-” I attempted to whisper, anxious as to his dismay of cautious rationality, though instead of a useful kind of attention, I found his lips crashed upon my own. Against my better judgement, I melted within the warmth, a sigh to exit my mouth, and allowed his silencer to work its wonder. He pulled away, a wink and a peck to my nose, and continued with his fast paced march. 

I followed, helpless, and slightly anticipated, riddled with nerves, as we hurriedly descended the stairs, our light feet echoing gently among the silence around, and we entered the main entrance-way. The trophy case, lined with achievements, with pictures of men no one truly knew, nor particularly cared for, passed us by in a whir of rushed blur. A subtle laugh fell from my tongue as Charlie broke out in an increasingly paced run. 

He took off, dragging myself along merely a few steps behind, with an incredibly fast kind of speed, unable to halt the laugh that stifled passed his lips. The wind were of something bitterly cold, whipping our laughter from the left, to the right, though such a stinging sensation of sour change did little to defy the warmth within my blood, my chest. 

And then, myself undoubtedly following behind, he seemed to tumble. The groan of the thud, where his frame collapsed to the ground, ached within the air, his grip unwavering upon that of myself, as I, too, clattered within the snow. Upon my layers, and the soft of the whitened blanket, I felt little to nothing, as I lay, a little dizzy, with a loud laugh to accompany Charlie’s own. 

“Shit,” he chuckled, “You alright?” 

My laughter rang loud, free, and it should seem that everything felt better with Charlie at my side. “Perfect.” I smiled, albeit winded from such a clatter of clouded descent. Somewhere within the beat of silenced laughter, air thick - sweet - with an indescribable sense of contentment, Charlie had shuffled to embrace my frame in a hold, an arm around my shoulders, as he toyed with the ends of my hair. We stared to the pattern of gentle snow, cascading so beautifully - tender, soft - upon our stoic position, a natural entrancement, as the dark hue of the sky loomed above. The moon, hardly peeking behind the thick array of winter clouding, seemed to smile - to sigh, with a great sense of complacency. It seemed to twinkle with a kind of reserved joy, saved just for us - just for us, and our blooming love. 

“O’ me, o’ life,” Charlie muttered, “of the questions of these recurring.” He paused, as though contemplating his words, and spoke gently, “Carpe diem.” He said, with a smile upon his face. “You know what it means?” 

I raised an eyebrow, almost lost within the perpetual tranquility that was the nigh. “No.” I said, and I basked in his warmth. 

“Seize the day.” He said; “Seize the day, boys, make your lives extraordinary.” The gentle mumble of his tone were almost lost within the vast quiet, though I caught it all the same. “Captain - Mr K -” He said, “He’s crazy.”

I found myself smiling, “You like him, though.” I said. 

He grinned, “He makes it difficult not to.” He said. “Seize the day - Carpe diem - O’ Captain, my Captain - I mean, who teaches the idea of free thought? Of freedom? Passion? He’s crazy.”

“He sounds wonderful.” I said. And to which I had not lied. “What was the first bit?” I asked, “The ‘Oh me, oh life,’ one.” 

“The question, O’ me! So sad, recurring - What good amid these, O’ me, O’ life?” He recited, the bite of a classically brightening smile to his tone. “The answer? That you are here - that life exists and identity. That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.” 

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse. 

“Puts things into perspective.” I mumbled, awashed beneath Charlie’s gorgeously muttered recital, and the prospect of the pattering snowflakes. “That we, as humans, mean nothing. What may affect us today, has no say on tomorrow.” I said. I hardly knew the words as they fell from my lips, though I allowed them nonetheless. “And no matter how greatly we fear the inevitable, life will throw us away and be done with us, when our time comes around.” 

There was a gentle pause, softly laboured breaths, and he said: “Yeah.” With a light, breathy, chuckle. “We’ll all die, someday.” He said. “And that’s alright. Seize the day while you can, live and don’t just exist, and things will be alright.” 

I smiled, and said: “Yeah.” With not a word more. 

A moment, perhaps a few, of silence graced us by, mingled in comfortability and unspoken adoration, and I marvelled in the way his breathing deepened, tinged with an entanglement of a rough-nights-sleep. He was tired - exhausted - and I certainly hadn’t helped - of such, I was certain. 

“Charlie,” I muttered, adoring the softly responsive hum to fall from his breath. “Char, it’s getting real late.” I mentioned, a gentle stroke to his knuckles, as they dwindled within the ends of my locks. Another hum followed, and light shuffling was to be heard. 

“Can you get home alright?” He mumbled, thick, with a sense of tiredness. 

“Yeah.” I nodded, truly feeling the absence of warmth, as he shuffled to displace his entanglement next to myself. I frowned slightly, glancing to face the boy.

His eyes had found a restful close, timid with a tender smirk, and his limbs began to brush - up, and down, up and down - once, twice, three times more, with a deepening indent upon the snow. A smile drooped upon my features, and I allowed my frame to excerpt the similar movement, ridden with a light shiver as the material at my legs found something damp, seeping slightly. 

“You have to go?” He whispered, a gentle frown upon such expression. 

I smiled; how beautiful he was. “Yes, Charlie.” I said, “You’ll be expelled if we’re caught.” 

A quiet sigh vibrated through the air, and I knew of his compliance. He sat up, glancing to myself with a smile of utter tenderness. “I suppose I’d best let you go, then.” He said. I grinned, and he continued. “I’ll watch you leave, though. Not risking some creep snatching you up in the bushes, alright?” 

I laughed something gentle, “Okay, Char.” I said, and we rose to our feet. 

His digits were cold, numbingly cold, and a furious pink, as he lay his palms upon my face, and drew me a little closer, our noses to brush upon each other’s. “I love you, y’know.” He said, and I found myself smiling with a roll of the eyes. 

“Yes,” I said, “I know. And I love you, too.” 

His grin was radiant, peppered with the scarlet hue of all things wondrously cold. “Good.” He said, a subtly trailed glance to the subtle indents of our motioned frames, trailed within the soft blanket of snow. “We make good Angels, huh?” He smiled. 

A laugh rumbled through me, “Yeah,” I said, resting my forehead upon the cold complexion of his flushed cheek. “We make wonderful Angels.” 

“Angels of the night.” He mused, turning back to face me. I merely smiled, engulfed in the way the shadows loomed across his expression, lowering with a light glimmer of something morose. “Take a cab, please.” He sighed, “And be safe.” He fluttered a tender peck upon the very tip of my nose, before capturing my lips in the swoon of a honey dripped kiss. It lasted hardly a moment, for we were numb with the cold, and bitterly exhausted. He laughed, pulled away, and said: “Sorry.” 

I smiled, “No.” I mumbled, “Don’t be.” 

“Okay.” He said, thumb brushing lightly upon the flushed complexion of my cheekbone. “I’ll see you later, then?” 

“Of course.” I said, a curtly peppered peck to his coldly chapped lips, before smiling something warm, and beginning mine own retreat. 

Footsteps echoing among the plush of the winter snow, sinking with every passing stride, I found my grin something silly - something foolishly reciprocant for my adoration. And, upon glancing behind me slightly, approaching the hardly open gate, I noticed the swarm of familiar faces, each bounding over to a stoic Charlie, perched with his hands in his pockets, and a lovesick smile upon his face. They crowded him around, yelling and cheering things incoherent, and yet, still, he smiled on, merely widening with the attention of their supportive company. 

A laugh rippled through me, and I waved something curt, receiving a soft repeat from the Lover-Boy himself, and a particularly exaggerated, full-arm, wave from Knox, as he bellowed a loud; “YAWP!” And tackled Charlie in a boyish embrace.

Idiots, I thought, though I’d have it no other way. 

[doomstypewriter]

The submersion | Intrulogical Mermaid AU

Future intrulogical.

Follow up on this animatic. | AO3

Words: 1728.

Summary: Remus has fun in his submarine. A giant barracuda disagrees.

CW: Dark humour, skeletal remains of a rat, drowning, deep ocean (if there's anything else do tell), death, sexual innuendo.

The submersion

It was cloudy.

And cold.

But that was to be expected when one’s in the middle of the Atlantic.

“Remus Prince, you dunce, how are you dressed like that?”

Remus turned around to see Ella Da Villa, the captain of the ship he was on, and an old friend. Her short afro was stuffed inside of a beanie, she held onto her sides through her huge puffer coat.

“I know you’d just rather I take it all off, but, honey, I need to at least wear something”.

She laughed.

“What you need is to make sure you don’t get drenched or--”

“First of all, I look amazing all wet. But if that’s what you’re so worried about, hey, I took care of that” he answered pointing at his green rain boots.

The crew looked at them in amusement as they moved the equipment, preparing everything for the submersion.

Ella took off one of her gloves and smacked Remus’ head with it.

“Ow! I thought you were against violence!”

“I never said that. But I am against animal abuse, that’s why I didn’t hit you hard. Now go and put on a coat, you dumbass”.

“Sure thing mommy, you know how to be commanding” he winked.

“It’s captain for you, now go!”

His boots squeaked against the flooring of the deck as he ran to get into the guts of the ship. He managed to hear Ella swearing under her breath.

“How did he even graduate? Going out in short sleeves…”

Ella was a funny one, Remus thought. It was easy to get under her skin, she also liked to play along which made it even better.

One of the people going up the metal stairs almost tripped against him, there wasn’t that much room, after all. Remus jumped over the railing and fell onto the lower level without a scratch.

“Oh my god! Are you okay?!” said someone.

A younger guy with spectacular hair held onto his forearm to check on him. Oh, this was the newbie.

“Don’t worry, I don’t have any lungs”.

“Wha…” he looked half perplexed and half horrified.

“You know, we all get it done since we’re going to end up sleeping with the fish anyway”.

He stood up quickly and mutely apologised. Remus enjoyed the view of his ass going upstairs as fast as possible. New meat was always hilarious.

When he entered the room his cupboard was already open. He liked to leave the sliding doors that way so he could see what was inside, otherwise, he’d forget about it. In a ship, that meant ending up with all of one’s clothes on the floor, but as long as Remus could see where they were he wouldn’t misplace anything. Object permanence was a bitch.

Messy floors did have an advantage, the coat on top of the pile was good enough to satisfy Ella and easy enough to grab quickly.

The backswing of the glove against his shoulder caught him off-guard.

“Ow! What did I do now?! This coat is fine!”

“The coat is fine, yes, but the new guy is shaking like a leaf. What did you tell him? He keeps saying stuff about drowning”.

“Hey, I’d never mention drowning when I’m about to get into a submarine”.

“Yes, that’d be very poor taste, sadly, you have it worse so you must have said something terrible. I expect you to fix this, or we’ll have to arrange you drowning”.

“You know I love choking on wet things”.

“Then your last moments will be pleasant. Consider me the best friend one could have”.

The new guy was holding onto the railing of the ship, staring at the water in concentration. Probably about to throw up or something.

“Hey!”

“Ah!” he screamed.

“Do you have a name?”

“Uh… yes… um…”

“Great! I have one too, it’s Remus” he introduced himself with half a bow.

“I’m Nathan… sorry… I’m just anxious… it’s the first time I go on one of those” he gestured at the submersible held by the crane of the ship.

“First times are always awkward, don’t worry”.

Finally, Nathan let out a laugh, it was a nervous one but it would suffice.

“You know what I said earlier was a joke, right?”

“Oh, yeah, it just caught me by surprise. You’re the head biologist here, right?”

“Yup. Guess you could say I’m the dom of this study”.

“Darn it, here I was expecting to be more active”.

Remus smiled in surprise. It was always nice when people had similar humour to his.

“Oh, you’ll have to be. I expect it”.

“You wouldn’t expect we could go for some coffee after we get into…” the date proposition vanished into a look of fear at the submersible.

Remus put a hand over his shoulders. The drowning jokes would have to wait until they were emerging.

“Don’t worry, my thicc ass has been there tons of times! It’s just a lot of water”.

“While it’s true he’s been there more than you, he’s overplaying his own ass. It’s kind of droopy” a heavily accented voice said

“Who are you calling droopy?”

They turned to see a tall blond woman smiling smugly. Erika Engström, oceanographer and the operator of the submersible.

“You, obviously, do you have water in your ears?”

“Not yet, but we’ll see if…”

Nathan held his breath.

“Nah, I don’t”.

“He either thinks you’re cute or he’s afraid the captain will throw him off-board if he keeps bullying you”, Erika told Nathan.

“I wasn’t bullying anyone”.

“Sorry to break it to you, but you’re always bullying people, you don’t know how else to flirt”.

“Then I would be flirting with everyone”.

“Aren’t you?”

“Okay, yeah”.

“Come on, I have to set up things. Give me a hand, rat skull”.

“At least give me a knife or something”.

“You can chew it through”.

One last look at Nathan before following her.

“Well, I’ll leave you to stress out, if I don’t help her we’ll dro…” oh right, no drowning jokes. “We’ll…”

“Flirt with me when we’re back at the surface”.

Remus smiled.

“Will do!”

-----

The light was beginning to fade out. The flickering of the few rays coming through a swirl of silvery fish would be their last glimpses at natural lighting for a while.

It was wonderful.

How the underwater landscape changed, morphing into something out of a nightmare. Never ceases to amaze him. People would say it was all just blue getting darker and darker, and it was! But it was also a thick fog from which anything could come out. He always looked forward to seeing the weirdest fish appear.

There wasn’t much room behind the giant acrylic viewport. Despite being stuck so closely together, Remus could feel a chill as the air within got cooled by the deep water. His coat lay forgotten at the back of his chair still.

Once the lights of the submersible switched on, a delicate dance of white dust shined just like it would on a sunny day. This was no room dust. But there was just as much beauty in seeing the marine snow surrounding them. Teensy tiny pieces of dead fish falling all around, making the nicest shapes.

“It’s so quiet” Nathan observed.

“Wait until you hear a whale. The first time I did I thought my skull would pop”.

“Which one?” Erika kept her eyes on the water, but he could see the reflection of a smile curving onto the surface of the acrylic.

“Well, the small one. I know you’d hate to have to scrape my brains off your console”.

“If you had any I would”.

“There would still be plenty of blood”.

The ship carried on with the descend, soon, they’d be at twenty thousand feet. Nathan leaned in.

“Hey, what did she mean by which one?” he said in a hushed voice.

“Oh! Right”

He pulled on the string of his necklace to get it from under his shirt. Remus held it in front of Nathan’s face.

It turned, revealing the empty sockets and the front of what used to be a snout.

“I have this rat skull as a necklace! Erika teases me because that’s how she copes with the fact that she hates it!”

“Anyone would hate it. You wear that thing everywhere. It’s creepy” Erika pointed out.

“Where did you get it?” Nathan asked.

In the dim light, Remus’s smile cast shadows, giving him a grim vibe.

“I used to have a pet rat. When it died it sucked, my brother and I buried it in the backyard. It was there until three years later when we got a heavy storm. The bones peeked through the mud. So I just yanked a bit on the spine and got it. The skull was already defleshed anyway, so, aside from cleaning it a bit, I didn’t have to do any of the work. I really like this necklace. I got into marine biology because I began looking at fish skulls and I wanted to see more”.

“That’s…” Nathan began to say.

Suddenly, the submersible turned violently.

“What was that?”

“I don’t know, I couldn’t take a good look”, said Erika.

Her frown told Remus something was seriously wrong.

“Guys, we’re picking up really weird signals from here. Are you all okay?” the sound of Ella’s voice through the radio distracted him from his train of thought.

“It’s all under control, but I am going to begin ascending” Erika replied.

“We haven’t taken all the samples”, Nathan said.

“We’ll have another chance. Right now I’m worried that---”

Erika did not have time to finish talking.

Its needle-like teeth loomed over the viewport. This creature was unlike anything he’d ever seen. Part of him felt excited at how terrifying it all was. Sadly, he had the feeling they were all about to die. This fish looked like a giant barracuda and an angry one.

The creature snapped its jaw closed, cracking the viewport.

Seemingly, it didn’t find it tasty enough and it swam away even moodier than before. The very least it could have done was eat them.

If you’re going to kill them might as well finish the job.

Remus’ body floated into the dark abyss as he struggled to breathe. Covering his ears tightly, he screamed in pain. The pressure was unlike anything.

Well, it had been fun.

<< Previous | Next >>

The continuation will feature Logan and another animatic!

Taglist: @lemonyscented , @emsiemaefander , @sunflower-avo-tea , @nadiestar , @amber-da-toon , @gabseliblack , @everythingisstardust

@trash-bastard , @under-the-blue-moonlight , @willowaudreykeyes

@queerly-a-hisssstory-momster​

@theyluna-womoon , @subterfugespecialist

[engie-ivy]

Short happy Wolfstar fluff for @remus-john-lupin Wolfstar Holiday Prompt list.

16: Chilly

To face unafraid, the plans that we've made

Walking in a Winter Wonderland - Bing Crosby

Remus is afraid of how everything will change after Hogwarts, but forgets that change isn't necessarily bad.

Christmas Day, 1977

There’s a sharp December chill in the air. Remus wraps his hands a little tighter around his mug of warm chocolate milk. He’s standing by the window in the living room, while laughter sounds from behind him coming from James and Peter sitting on the rug playing Exploding Snap. There’s a pleasant warmth in the room, but it’s as though he can feel the cold seep through the glass of the window. Despite the fact that he doesn’t like the cold, he’s got to admit that the large garden surrounding the Potter mansion is a sight to behold. The branches of the trees are frozen white, and a crisp layer of snow covers the grass, painting a beautiful and serene picture.

Suddenly, an arm is flung around Remus’ shoulder.

“Doesn’t that snow look made for frolicking?” Sirius grins at him.

Remus rolls his eyes. “I’m not frolicking anywhere. I get cold just looking at it.”

That’s not completely true. Now that Sirius oh-so-casually has an arm draped around him, he doesn’t feel cold anymore. Quite the opposite. A heat spreads through his body, and Remus hopes his cheeks aren’t flushed.

It’s Christmas break. The Christmas break of their seventh year at Hogwarts. Their last Christmas break.

Sirius has recently inherited some money from his uncle, and has bought a small flat in London, where he’ll be moving in this summer after graduation, James and Lily are actually making plans to buy a house together, and Peter will be taking over his parental house, since his mother wants to move to a smaller place.

And Remus? Well, Remus tries not to think about the big, black hole that is his future, tries not to think about how he has no place to live, no money, no prospects, and no chance of anyone wanting to hire someone like him.

Remus is brought back to the present by Sirius grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the kitchen.

“Come on, let’s see if Mrs. Potter still has some of those Christmas Cookies hidden somewhere!”

Remus thinks about how he’d let himself be dragged anywhere as long as Sirius is firmly clasping his hand. Remus also thinks about how it’s not normal to feel that way about your friend, just like it’s not normal to feel sick to your stomach at the thought of no longer sharing a dorm with said friend and not having him around you every day anymore.

Remus definitely does not think about how Mrs. Potter insisted on hanging a branch of fresh mistletoe above the doorway to the kitchen.

He’s too wrapped up in the melancholic knowledge that things will never be anything like this ever again.

Christmas Day, 1978

There’s a sharp December chill in the air. Remus wraps his hands a little tighter around his mug of warm chocolate milk. He’s standing by the window in the living room, while laughter sounds from behind him coming from James and Peter sitting on the rug playing Exploding Snap. There’s a pleasant warmth in the room, but it’s as though he can feel the cold seep through the glass of the window. Despite that cold and the fact that their small balcony is coated in a layer of frost, however, their potted plants are in full bloom. He wonders how long Sirius expects him to belief he’s got a green thumb, instead of him having charmed the plants to keep blooming.

Suddenly, two arms are wrapped around his waist from behind and he’s pulled against a strong chest. A voice whispers close to his ear. “If it’s still too cold for you, I know a way of frolicking that doesn’t involve any snow, and will leave you hot rather than cold.”

Remus chuckles as he leans further into Sirius’ embrace, and places one of his hands on top of Sirius’.

“Even though you make a very compelling argument, I hardly think this is the time for that kind of frolicking.”

Sirius kisses his temple. “You’re probably right. Those Christmas preparations aren’t going to do themselves.”

As Remus nuzzles Sirius’ neck, he kind of wishes that those Christmas preparations were going to do themselves.

Remus is brought back to the present by Sirius grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the kitchen.

“Come on, Evans will be here soon and we’ve got to proof that it wasn’t a mistake to let us be the first couple to host Christmas at our place instead of her and Prongs, and we’ve still got tons of food to prepare!”

Remus thinks about how he’d still let himself be dragged anywhere as long as Sirius is firmly clasping his hand. Remus also thinks about how wonderful it is to feel that way about your boyfriend, just like it doesn’t stop being wonderful to hear Sirius say ‘our place’.

While Remus isn’t thinking about how Sirius insisted on hanging a branch of fresh mistletoe above the doorway to the kitchen, he’s less surprised when Sirius spins around and lovingly kisses him on the lips, as he’s been making a sort of habit out of that lately.

“Merlin Padfoot,” James says from where he’s lounging on the floor. “Maybe you needed the mistletoe as an excuse last year, but you don’t anymore.”

Sirius grins at him. “Just keeping the tradition alive, Prongs.”

Remus had been right about one thing. After that Christmas Day last year, things had never been the same again. But, Remus thinks as his handsome boyfriend enthusiastically starts his attempt at making Christmas cookies in their kitchen, he supposes not all change is bad.

[seasonsofeverlark]

Everdeen Scrooge

Author: @norbertsmom​

Prompt: Hunger Games Christmas Carol [submitted by @katnissandpeeta125​]

Rating: T

Summary: Several years after the war that ended President Snow’s tyranny over Panem, Twenty two year old Katniss Everdeen doesn’t want anything to do with the new Christmas holiday instituted by the New Panem Government. Can a ghostly visit make her change her mind?

Author’s Note: Special thanks to @mega-aulover​, my friend and beta, and all around expert on A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens, which this fic is based on. This post includes chapters 1 and 2 out of a total of 6. The other chapters will be posted separately.

___________

Chapter 1

Katniss expels a puffy cloud of air then releases her bow string. There’s silence for a moment as the arrow flies.

  “You got it,” Gale exclaims as he stands up from their blind. 

  In the distance, gobbling can be heard as several turkey hens flee, a large gobbler lay still in the snow with an arrow sticking out of its side.

  The snow crunches under their boots as they approach it. Katniss pulls out her arrow as Gale picks up the bird by its feet. “This is going to make a great Christmas dinner, Catnip.” 

  “Nope,” Katniss says, shaking her head. “That bird is going to make several meals for the next few weeks.”

  “But,” Gale tries, as he loops the turkey strap around its feet and neck.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll give you your share. You did help me track it, and now you can carry it.”

  “What about Christmas dinner tomorrow?” Gale asks as he lifts the strap over his shoulder.

  “I’m not wasting all that meat on one meal,” Katniss says as they start walking back to town. “I need to make sure we have food for the rest of the winter. Who knows when I’ll get a chance to hunt again.” 

  “Are you coming to our party tonight? You mom and sister are planning to be there. I heard them planning it with my mom.”

  “Nope. I’ve got to get a decent night sleep so I can come back out hunting in the morning.”

  “Come on, Catnip. The new government has given us tons of opportunities, better pay, more affordable food, better houses even. You don’t need to hunt every day. You really need to spend some time with your friends and family.”

  While it’s true that the new Panem government has provided better lives for all of Panem. After the war was over and President Snow was executed, a new government was created with representatives from each of the districts. Katniss still has a problem trusting that things won’t go back to the way they were before the revolution. 

  She and her family nearly died of starvation after her father died in a mine explosion. Ever since, she’s been very frugal with food and with money. Gale used to be as frugal as she is, but ever since he fell in love with Leevy Johnstone, he’s been different. She’s tired of the same old argument. 

  Her best client, Haymitch Abernathy was dead. Gone these past few months. He was a victor and a war hero, but no one paid him no mind because he kept people at a distance. Just like she tried to do. 

  He paid Katniss extra coin for good game meat on a regular basis. She missed the old drunk codger.  When he died not many people went to his funeral, only Katniss, Peeta Mellark, and the old Capitol Escort, Effie trinket attended. 

   “Let’s just get this turkey in cold storage so we can go into town to trade the rest of our haul,” Katniss gripes, ignoring his plea.

  After the oohs and aahs from her mother and sister over the turkey, and disappointment in their eyes from the news of Katniss’ plans for the turkey, she and Gale head to town to finish their trades. 

  With trading at the now legal hob, and other merchants in town complete, Katniss and Gale head to Mellark’s Bakery for their last stop of the day. Even though Seam folks are now welcome in the front of the bakery, trades are still conducted at the back door.

  Katniss climbs the steps to knock on the door, while Gale stands at the bottom of the steps digging around in his game bag for his trade. She wishes she could have gone to the bakery on her own, but Gale said he needs to get something too. 

  The youngest Mellark, Peeta answers the door. Peeta has been in charge of the bakery for four years now, after his two older brothers married girls who inherited their own family businesses. 

  “Merry Christmas, Katniss,” Peeta greets with a warm smile. “Are you here to trade?”

  Katniss is momentarily blinded by his warm easy smile. It always takes her a second to snap back into the moment. She really enjoys when they spend time after their trades chatting, but first there’s trading to do. She needs to stay focused. 

  “Yes I am here to trade,” she says as she holds up a pair of fat squirrels. 

  “You always get them through the eye,” Peeta says, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “She sure does,” Gale says as he walks up the steps behind her.

  Katniss clenches her jaw and levels Gale a shut up look. She needs a good sale. “I know how much you like squirrels, so I got an extra one for you, because I know tomorrow you’ll be closed. I wanted to make sure you have enough game meat to last you-" 

  "One day,” Peeta says, smiling, his blue eyes sparkling.

  Gale covers a laugh from behind her.

  “A lot can happen in one day,” Katniss defends. “Besides, you could always bring a dish to one of your brothers’ homes. I’m sure they could use the extra game meat. How many nephews do you have now?”

  “Two with one more on the way,” Peeta says brightly.

  “See I’m sure they could use the extra meat.”

  “Okay, hold on; let me get the bread for you and some coin for the extra meat.”

  “Perfect,” Katniss says, nodding.

  When her trade is done Gale steps up with a rabbit from his bag. “A small bag of cookies, please.” 

“Sure thing,” Peeta says, taking the rabbit into the kitchen.

  After Peeta leaves, Katniss gives Gale an incredulous look.

  “They’re a present for Posy,” Gale defends. “She’s really into the spirit of Christmas, especially the presents,” he says with a laugh.

  After Peeta returns with the bag of cookies, Gale tucks them into his game bag.

  Katniss and Gale turn to walk back down the steps, but Peeta speaks up before they get very far, “Hey, Katniss. Could I ask you something?”

  Kaniss looks back to Peeta, but he’s looking at Gale. 

  The two men seem to come to some kind of silent agreement and Gale says, “I’m going to head over to the sweet shop for more presents for Posy. I’ll meet you out front, Catnip.”

  Katniss is a bit stunned by their exchange, but shakes her head and walks back to Peeta. “What did you want to ask me?” she asks, hesitantly.

  Peeta stammers for a minute, “Would you, ah,” he rubs the back of his neck and looks down at his shoes before blurting out, “would you go out on a date with me?” He looks back up; his blue eyes plead for her answer as his cheeks turn red.

  “Oh, I-I don’t date,” Katniss stammers out before running down the steps. She runs down the alley between the shops and almost collides with Gale, who could not have made it to the sweet shop and back already.

   "You know you were cold toward Peeta,” Gale tells her.

  “I was not.”

  “Katniss, listen to me. that Merchant is decent folk and you treat him…”

  “Like what?” Katniss asks, narrowing her eyes.

  “Like that,” Gale points to her face. “You need to stop pushing people away. One day you’re going to find yourself all alone.” He walks away toward the sweet shop, shaking his head.

  Katniss brushes what Gale has to say aside. Just because he forgot what life is like when you don’t have enough food to eat, she’ll never forget. She heads toward home without him.

  “Come on, Katniss,” Prim begs from her seat at the dinner table. Her fingers tangled in the ribbon she’s trying to tie. “I need your help wrapping these gifts for the Hawthornes.” 

  “Sorry Prim,” Katniss replies from her spot on the floor. “I need to finish the fletching for my arrows. It’s supposed to be unseasonably warm tomorrow, so I can’t miss a day of hunting when I don’t know if I’ll get another break this winter.”

  Mrs. Everdeen sets the stew she’s been working to simmer and walks over to help Prim out, deftly tying the ribbon in a well-practiced bow.

  “Thanks mom,” Prim says, before turning back to Katniss.

  “But Katniss, tomorrow’s Christmas. You can’t spend the day hunting; you were out there all day today. What about presents?”

  Katniss sets down her work and looks up at her sister. “Prim, You’re eighteen now. You know we don’t need presents, right? It’s just a made-up holiday the new Capitol thrust upon us to get people to spend money on frivolous gifts nobody needs anyway. We can celebrate the new year next week, like always.”

  “That’s not true, Katniss. It’s not a made up holiday. We used to celebrate with daddy. Right mom?”

  “That’s right, Prim,” their mother agrees with a nod.

  “Well, that was a long time ago,” Katniss huffs. “Things have changed, if you haven’t noticed.

   “So you’re not coming to the party at the Hawthornes tonight?” Mrs. Everdeen asks as she ties the ribbon on the last gift.

  “Sorry, nope. I already told Gale I wasn’t coming. I’m going to get to bed as soon as I’m done here so I can head out at the break of dawn and spend all day in the woods,” Katniss explains.

  Prim turns back to her mother. “Mom, make her come with us, please.”

  “I can’t make her go, Prim,” Mrs. Everdeen says as she caresses Prim’s cheek. She heads back to her stew pot and begins to ladle several servings into a crock, leaving just enough in the pot for Katniss’ dinner. “Put the gifts in a sack, please. Katniss has a mind of her own, always has. If she doesn’t want to go, we can’t make her, but I think she’ll be missing out on some good fun.” Mrs. Everdeen looks over at Katniss with a pointed look.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Katniss says. “Someone needs to make sure we have food to eat around here.” And with that, the conversation is over. 

  Prim and Mrs. Everdeen head over to the Hawthorne’s home and Katniss cleans up her work, eats her stew, and heads off to bed.

  Chapter 2

  Katniss is startled awake by the sound of someone stumbling around in the kitchen. She looks across the room and sees Buttercup standing guard on the empty bed. Her mother and Prim are still at the party.

  It’s not unusual for a patient to show up for her mother in the middle of the night, but they don’t usually just walk right in. Katniss slips out of bed without making a sound, signaling to Buttercup to keep quiet, but he jumps off the bed and runs down the hall. Katniss grabs the large stick she keeps under her bed in case a critter gets in. It should take care of any unwanted human as well.

  She creeps out of the bedroom and avoids stepping on the creaky floorboard just past her mother’s bedroom. As she peeks around the doorframe into the kitchen she sees someone rifling through the kitchen cabinets.

  As she tip-toes up to the trespasser, silent as a mouse, she raises her weapon above her head with both hands. If she’s going to strike, she’s going to make sure she does some damage. She takes in a deep breath and the intruder must hear because he straightens up and begins to turn around.

  She hears the stranger say, “You don’t want to do that,” before she brings the club down with all her might. But it doesn’t make contact until it slams into the floor. She must have squeezed her eyes closed before swinging because she has to open them to see how she could have possibly missed at this short distance.

  She looks up and sees the transparent, smiling face of Haymitch Abernathy, District 12’s recently deceased victor. “Nice to see you too, Sweetheart. Got anything to drink around here?”

  Katniss stumbles back, dragging her club with her until the backs of her legs hit the armchair in the living room and she plops down. “H-h-how can you be here? You’re d-d-dead,” she sputters as she pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around the useless weapon.

  “Yeah, I know,” he laments. “Thanks for coming to my funeral, by the way.”

  “Of course, you were one of my best customers,” Katniss answers. “What am I saying? Is this some kind of Capitol trick? How are you here? Why are you here?”

  “It’s no trick, Sweetheart,” Haymitch explains. “The dead who isolated themselves during their lifetime are forced to roam the earth alone. My penance is to warn others before it’s too late. You don’t want to end up like me.”

  “I’m not alone,” Katniss squeaks. “I have my sister, and my mother… I have friends.”

  “Sure Katniss. You have them now, but you keep pushing them away. In time, your sister will marry and move away, and your mother will die. Then what will you have?”

  Katniss opens her mouth to answer, but Haymitch raises his transparent hand to stop her. 

  “Don’t bother with the excuses, Sweetheart. I know them all. This is my warning to you. You will be visited by three more spirits tonight. Heed my warning, Katniss. Change your life before it’s too late.”

[thiswasinevitableid]

Winter prompt fill 67 for sternclay? Doesn’t have to be a wedding I just love the 2nd half of this prompt. nsfw would be great

Here you go! It is indeed NSFW

67. you were supposed to have a beautiful winter wedding but you were ditched during the vows and my idiot sibling/best friend just cracked a joke about how maybe I’d finally tell you how I feel about you and you h e a r d

“She’s not coming.” Joseph whispers over his shoulder. 

“Joe, for all we know she got hung up in a dress emergency or something?” Lily, the best woman and Joseph’s sister, squeezes his shoulder.

When the groom turns his blue eyes on Barclay, the groomsman does his best impression of someone who thinks things will be fine.

“It’s only been five minutes.”

“Her entire wedding party is here without her. And they look as confused as we do.”

Barclay spots a member of the event staff slip in a side door and hand a piece of paper to Indrid, their friend who’s acting as an usher. 

“I, ah, have some bad news.” The pale-haired man joins them at the front of the church, “it seems the bride has had a serious change of mind and will not be joining us.”

Joseph grabs the paper, reading it over as the bridal party crowds around him. The upshot of all the commotion, and the arguing that follows the commotion, is that the bride has indeed called off the wedding and is en route to an airport. 

As the family confirms she’s alright, Joseph picks up the microphone.

“Obviously this is a, um, unexpected turn of events. It’s safe to say no one is getting married today, but everything is still in order for the reception and we’re all dressed up so, um, if people want to stay and take advantage of that, you’re welcome to. You’re also welcome to leave if you want.”

Several groups break off towards the reception hall, and Barclay pulls Joseph aside. 

“Joe,  are you sure? I mean, yeah, we’re all here, but I don’t think anyone is gonna hold it against you if you want to send everyone home.”

“It’s important to be flexible.” Joseph replies blithely. Barclay knows his best friend hates when plans change and is unlikely to suddenly lose that piece of his personality at the same moment he lost his fiancee. 

“Besides, I’d hate for that menu you helped us pick out to go to waste.” There it is, the Joseph Stern Professional smile ™, a sign that Barclay’s hunch is right.

“Screw the menu, man, I’m worried about you.” Barclay sets a hand on either of his shoulders. Joseph’s gaze snaps all the way onto him, and he knows he is losing this argument. 

“It’s still my wedding, Barclay. That means I get to run it in whatever way I think best.”

“Right, yeah, sorry.” He steps back, brushes lint from his arm, “you go on ahead. I join you in a sec.”

Joseph nods, turning to stride though the room in his dark suit, while Barclay watches the love of his life walk away.

-------------------------------------

“Uh, hi, I’m Barclay. You must be Joseph?” Barclay stands in the door of the dorm room, his backpack in his arms. 

“Yes. Um, nice to meet you.” The other guy stands, black hair and well-fitting X-Files shirt making him look like Agent Mulder on his day off.

“I didn’t choose a side yet, it seemed fair to wait until we were both here. I’m partial to the left but that’s more habit than anything else.”

“I’m cool with that. I, uh, I don’t have a ton of stuff to unpack so, uh if you need help let me know.”

“Thank you.” Joseph smiles, taking his face from cute to heart-stoppingly handsome, and Barclay decides he hit the roommate jackpot.

Barclay didn’t fall for Joe so much as cliffdive, throwing himself after the feeling he got whenever Joe laughed at a joke or told him a secret or talked for fifteen minutes about the methodology flaws in Ghost Hunters. Yes, Joe was hotter than convection oven and Barclay wanted to fuck him on the floor of every space they ever lived in, but more than that Barclay was so happy with him, and his friend felt the same way. 

The problem was, Barclay had a shy streak and was far from the only person to see Joe as a catch. And so they dated other people, sometimes happily and sometimes not, but never each other. By the time Joe met Iris, Barclay’s unrequited love had been thrumming in him so long it was no more than background noise. So when Joe ran proposal ideas by him, announced the weddings, asked Barclay to stand up with him, Barclay felt genuine happiness for him and the woman he loved. There’s no rule that says one cannot feel joy and knife-in-the-gut sorrow at the same time.

He’s only gotten better with age he thinks as Joe works the room, fielding condolences with ease. Barclay helped him choose the suit, black with blue lines in the stitching, because it flattered  but did not flaunt the well-maintained figure beneath. The last time Barclay saw him in just his underwear was when they lived together after college, and he fumbled his phone when he saw him at the beach last summer. He can picture it so clearly, what that body looks like under those clothes, and it makes him want to scream

“This whole day has been full of surprises.” Indrid sits down next to him, glass of soda in hand. 

“Kinda figured you and Duck would head home.”

“Most of  our friends are here, and the food looks good. Not to mention we’re both worried about-” Indrid nods towards Joseph.

“Yeah, me too. I mean, I admire his holding it together but, like, what if Duck had left you at the altar?”

“I’d have turned into a hideous red-eyed monster and flapped screeching into the night.”

“......”

“That was a joke.” Indrid grins. 

“Right. Man, hard to tell with you sometimes.”

“While this is an upsetting situation, there is a bright side; maybe now you will finally tell Joseph how you feel.”

A crash makes them both turn in their seats; Joseph is wiping his dropped (plastic) cup up with a nearby napkin, well within earshot. 

“Indrid I swear if he heard-”

“Oh, I am certain he did.”

“Dude” Barclay hisses as Joseph steals an unreadable glance at him. 

“For goodness sake, you two are a good pair. A pair you’ve been dreaming about for years. Tell him.” With that the other man stands, leaving Barclay alone with his thoughts. His thoughts are no help, so he joins Indrid, Duck, Aubrey, and Dani for some cake.

As the venue finally empties, he realizes he hasn’t seen Joe in an hour and panics until he finds him standing (swaying, really) in the staging room. 

“You, hic, know, hic, this explains, hic, why she didn’t want to move until hic, after the wedding.”

“Seems like it’s for the best, going home to a place where all her stuff is would fucking suck.” Barclay puts an arm around him only for the shorter man to slump most of his weight into his chest.

“The hotel’s paid for, and I have a week hic of vacation and a packed car.”

“You’re not driving anywhere. I can and will lock you in a closet if you try.”

“Or you could, hic, come with me.”

“On your honeymoon?” Thank god Joe is too drunk to notice his voice creeping up.

“On my it’s this or be miserable t home trip. Please, Barclay? We can hic, swing by your place to get your stuff.”

Barclay says yes. Purely to help a friend in need and not because of how said friend feels pressed up against him.

They’re an hour out of the city when Joseph fumbles with his phone, “Change of plans, were going here instead of the hotel?”

“I thought the whole point was the hotel was paid for?”

“It is, by her family, so fuck it. I’ve always wanted to go here and it’s the kind of place she’d never let us stay.”

They take the next exit and find the highway North rather than East. By the time they reach the massive pink building with an airplane in the field out front, snow is falling and Joe is half-asleep, mumbling “okay” when Barclay says he’ll go get them a room. The clerk welcomes him, shows him a list of available rooms, and he notices a high number of them have heart-shaped bed, “tubs for two,” and the word “fantasy” in the name. 

Just as he’s wondering what the fuck Joe’s gotten them into, he spots the perfect room at the bottom of the list. 

“Got a surprise for you.” He helps Joe from the car and unlocks the door. His friend takes in the silver and green decor, the posters, and the UFO-shaped bed. 

“This is the exact one I was hoping for.”

“I know, you giant nerd.”

“Be nice, big guy, or you’re sleeping on the couch.” Joe stumbles to the bed and starts stripping, at which point Barclay zips back outside to get their bags. By the time he’s back, Joe is under the covers and out cold. The king bed does look comfy…

Barclay sleeps on the couch. 

-------------------------------------------------

Joe remains dead to the world until almost noon the next day, so Barclay works on his cookbook edits and sends yet another thank-you email to Mama for letting him take his vacation with such little notice. He grabs breakfast, including a sandwich for when Joe wakes up and some aspirin to go with his coffee. 

“I hate myself.”

“Good morning to you too.”

Joe rolls over, dragging the pillow atop his head, “I didn’t mean to get so drunk, it’s just the only way I could get through all those conversations yesterday was to take a drink every time I felt like crumbling.”

Barclay sits on the bed, petting his head, “It’s okay, man, getting me to drive you to a weird sex hotel is not the worst thing you’ve done drunk.”

“I threw up in a mixer one time.”

“And I’ll never forgive you for it.” He laughs when Joe whacks him with a pillow. In the silence that follows, he remembers Indrid’s comment, and wonders if Joe does too. 

“...Is this really a sex hotel? I just thought it was kitsch aimed at couples”

“Go look at the tub.”

Joe groans, stepping out of bed in just his--god help him--silk boxer briefs. They must have been under the suit. 

“Are these...they are, there are handcuffs hanging by the tub. Well, weird as that is, I’m taking a bath.”

The day goes in an oddly non-awkward direction after that. They’ve lived together often enough that getting dressed and clean in close quarters is nothing new. Joe votes for hiding from the world  bit longer, so they settle in on the very squishy bed and watch a silver plated T.V, Joe laughing whenever Barclay yells at cooking shows they way other people yell at football games. 

He still sleeps on the couch that night. 

The next day Joe is up bright and early, suggesting they drive to a nearby tourist trap, using his phone to pick out a breakfast place that serves Barclays favorite local coffee blend. They follow that same process the next two days; find some strange roadside attraction or nearby bookstore, eat, and return back to the motel to lay side by side on the bed and to read or watch T.V.

It’s as they’re wandering around a strange, knock-off Carhenge that Joe sighs, “I sort of saw it coming, you know? Iris leaving. I proposed because I cared about her, but she was the one who brought it up, and every time we were visiting her family or she got off the phone with them, she’d bring it up more forcefully. I think she was under more pressure to settle down than I grasped. If our places were switched, I might have run too. Lord knows I wouldn’t want to marry me.”

Barclay crunches to a stop in the snow “Why the fuck not?” 

“Because I’m exactly the kind of guy you’d want to bring home to your family but not spend your life with. My job has weird hours and travel, my non-work clothes have cryptids on them, I can be too particular, and I’m not that exciting for someone whose job is special agent-”

“No, fuck that, you’re a catch.”

“You’re just used to me, big guy. Your objectivity is in question.”

“Yeah, well, you’re even more used to you, so I’m really the more objective one here.” 

“Maybe you’re right.” Joe stares at his footprints, then elbows the cook, “come on, lets go get lunch.”

Barclay is still full and happy, having warmed up via a soak in the tub (where he thought of four different ways to use the cuffs and then had to calm down his cock enough to get out), when he comes into the main room and finds Joe staring at his phone. 

“Oh shit, did she get in touch?”

“Yes. Iris, um, is on a cruise ship. As a yoga instructor. She says it’s something she’s dreamed of for years, that she’s sorry for hurting me, but that marrying me would have been a step in a life she did not want to lead. So. That’s that.” He puts the phone face down, cards his fingers through his hair, “Lord almighty I wish she’d just said no when I asked.”

“Me too.” Barclay imagines a different past, where Joe asked him instead, where he said yes because it’s what he’s been dreaming of since he was twenty-two. Where Joe is sitting in front of him, not sad-eyed and tired, but happy as can be. 

---------------------------------------------

This hangover is somehow worse than the one the morning after his non-wedding. Then again, he drank more in a shorter period, hoping to drown out the memory of the words on the screen. 

Or the words he overheard at the reception.

“Tell him how you really feel”

He’s had his suspicions about Barclay from time to time, most frequently when they were younger and he felt those deep brown eyes on his ass every time he turned around. But Barclay never took a chance; there were times after break-ups when Joe is certain anyone who was interested would have taken advantage of him being vulnerable and available, but instead Barclay cheered him up, the same way Joe did when Barclay’s relationships ended. Stern concluded neither of them wanted more. 

He would have taken more in an instant. His love for Barclay walked the line between romantic and platonic, and he would have crossed it the moment Barclay asked him to.

Now, he’s bathing with his eyes shut because any light is murder on his skull, his best friend waking up on the couch where he’s insisted on staying because clearly Joe’s lost his appeal. Who’d want to sleep with someone who got roaring drunk and needed babysitting?

He pops aspirin, drinks water, and lays down with his sleep mask over his eyes. Barclay moves around the room, talking softly in that gentle baritone that, not for the first time, makes Stern wonder what he sounds like when he cums. 

“You want me to run and grab breakfast?”

“No, I can get it for both of us. Lord knows you’ve done enough for me this week.”

“You gonna go downstairs blindfolded?”

“For you, I’ll risk a headache OW, owow.” His back locks up just as he tries to sit upright.

The bed sags, “Holy shit man, you’ve got a huge knot right here.”

“My back always does that when I’m stressed, it’ll be fine.”

“Nuhuh, lay down and let me see if I can get it out.” Barclay nudges him onto his stomach and he flops willingly, mask still on. 

“You don’t need to Ohhhhhhhhhnnn, I forget about those bakers hands.”

“Gonna knead you like dough, babe.”

Stern blushes at the name; he was always a little jealous when his friend called his boyfriends that. 

When thumbs pass below his shoulder-blades he moans, arches at the second of pain, “That’s it, that’s the epicenter.”

He can’t stop sighing as Barclay runs his hands over him, can’t stop wiggling his hips at every burst of relief. He pushes his ass up without meaning too, and a bitten-back whine reaches him. 

Fuck it. Even if he’s about to make a huge mistake, he wont have to look Barclay in the eyes.

“What did Indrid mean? At the reception.”

“Uh.” Barclay’s hands still, “uh. That I was worried about you.”

“Try again.” He grinds his ass back deliberately. 

“Joe, please, I’m hanging on by a fucking thread here. You’re underneath me shirtless and I am not gonna do this a dumb way.”

“Do what?”

“Tell you that, that I, no nope, I’m gonna do this back home, at the Lodge or something, make you dinner first and be all romantic so that you don’t think I’m talking with my dick when I say I love you.”

Barclay’s whole body tenses. Joe flips onto his back, regrets the sudden movement, and lifts his sleep mask. He takes one of his frozen hands from the air.

“I love you too.”

“Really?” Barclay sounds like a teenager whose crush just said yes to prom.

“Really. And I don’t think it’s just your dick talking. Although if you wanted to bring it into the equation I wouldn’t mind.” He sends a pointed stare at the half-hard shape under worn denim.

Barclay’s breathing is picking up, his posture trapped between movements. 

“Do you, um, do you want to kiss?”

His friend drops down in reply, smashing their lips together and parting his own imploringly until Stern slips his tongue between them. His big hands cup Stern’s face and his hips grind like he thinks his parents will be home any minute. 

“I love you, I love you so fucking much, Joe, ohgod, babe, please, please let me be good to you” the kisses on his face and neck are messy and the sweetest sensation he’s ever felt. 

“Barclay, you’ve always been good to me.”

“I meant this” he drags their dicks together, “kind of good.”

“Ohlord, yes okay, good point. Get your clothes off and bring me the purple bag that’s in my suitcase.”

Barclay grabs the bag, upends it and sends several sex toys, his strap-on underwear, and lots of condoms onto the bed, undresses as Stern sets one of the toys into the harness. 

“I need to put this back on.” He lowers the mask and hears a soft whine.

“I like seeing your eyes.”

“You’ll see them plenty, big guy, I promise. Now, open yourself up, please.”

“Oh hell yes.” A rip of foil, a pop of lube, and then Barclay straddles him, grunting delightfully. 

“Tell me when you get to three, that should be enough for this toy.”

Pre-cum drips just above the waistband of the underwear, and he gets a thrill remembering the few times he’d caught an accidental glimpse of Barclay’s dick. It’s big, that much he knows, and he’s going to have a lot of fun with it once he’s done reducing the man above him to tears. 

“T-three, babe.”

“Get my dick wet and then get to it.”

When he gets the gasp that tells him the toy is in, he smile and reaches to the underside of the base, “Remember that new dick I was excited about?”

“The vibrating one? OHFUCK, fuckyeahbabe” Barclay jerks and moans, his movements erratic even as he sinks all the way down. Stern echoes him, the pressure of the other man’s body makes the vibrations hit all the right spots. 

“Here’s how this is going to work, big guy; I’m going to get off while I fuck you, and if you can hold off on coming until I’m done, I’ll let you fuck me.”

“God yeah, Joe, fuck me, please.” 

He thrusts up and there’s a thud of Barclay’s hands hitting the headboard. The movement is rough on his stomach but he doesn’t care, grabs hold of thick thighs and fucks him, the other man working his hips in an attempt at rhythm.

The mask catches on a pillow, letting him see Barclay from the neck down. Lord, he looks good like this, big (Stern’s always loved how big he is), letting out the most appealing grunts and growls, dark hair covering most of his softly muscled body…

Wait a minute. 

He claps a hand over his mouth, laughing. 

“Whats, aAAhnnn, what’s so funny babe?”

“Remember when you found that Sasquatch dildo and bigfoot romance novel in my stuff?”

“Hard to forget.”

“I just discovered the source of the fantasy.”

“Are, are you saying I look like bigfoot when I fuck?” Barclay is shaking with laughter. 

“Kind of?”

“I’m putting that on a sign in my den.”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“Too late AHHhhnnnfuck, fuck, baby, pleasepleaseplease say you’re close.”

“Why? In a hurry to fuck me?”

“After ten fucking years? Yes.”

He focuses on rubbing off on the toy, holding Barclay in place to keep it at the right angle, orgasm building sudden and swift when he works his hips just right and Barclay starts whimpering.

“Shit” he bites out as it ripples through him, aftershocks jerking his hips and making them both groan. 

Barclay climbs off and he wiggles the underwear off and kicks them off the bed. 

“Okay, big guy, now you can fuck meSHIT, lordalmighty you  feel good.”

“Fucking knew it would, knew you were fucking made for me Joe, fuck you’re incredible.” The hand that’s not balancing him on the mattress is shoving Sterns left out and up so he can drive deeper, shaking the walls on each thrust. Stern wonders if there’s a way recreate ten years of pent up desire so that Barclay will fuck him with this same furious affection every night of his life.

He’s limp post-orgasm, happy to let Barclay manhandle him to his hearts content. When the other man sits up, dragging his hips into his lap, he moans louder than he had in years. 

“That’s it babe, lemme hear how good it is, fuck, no one’s ever looked this good taking my dick, c’mon, take it all the way, take me all the way while I cum in you.”

“Ohlord.” his toes curl weakly as bucks into him faster and faster.

“Fucking years, years I’ve wanted cum in whatever hole you’d give me, now I’m gonna and you’re gonna feel it for weeks, fuck, babe, that’s it, ohhhnn Joe, Joe” there’s a final growl as Barclay holds his legs open, the last jolts of his orgasm making his fingers dig into his skin. 

As he’s coming down and pulling out, Stern slips off the mask, blinking at the sight before him. Barclay, flushed and slick with sweat, staring at him like he’s a prize he’d never thought he’d see.

“Barclay?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you be my boyfriend?” He winces at how childish it sounds. A week ago he had a fiancee, for gods sake. 

“Yeah, hell yes, wait, Joe, you just got out of an engagement. You, you sure you don’t want some time alone or to, like, explore other options?”

Stern crawls over to him, beard scratching his palm when he turns his cheek, “Barclay, I’ve always been one step away from falling in love with you, and it turns out this was the step. I trust you, I get along better with you than anyone else, and apparently we work well in bed. If, um, if you don’t want this, if it’s too late, I understand. But if you want to be together, I want that too.”

Barclay blinks. Then he blinks again. And then he’s crying and Stern pulls him into the hug.

“Oh lord, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-”

“Joe, don’t apologize. I’m so fucking happy, I’ve wanted to hear this for so long it’s just” a shaky breath, “just didn’t expect it to hit so hard. I love you, Joseph, and nothing would make me happier than being your boyfriend.”

They stay like that for awhile, talking in confessions and professions of feelings. Then Joe kisses him, and pulls him towards the bathroom to clean up (and maybe use those cuffs) before heading out to lunch.

----------------------------------------

Indrid opens the message on his phone, smiles, and texts four words in reply. 

I told you so

[thewritingstar]

Like Fallen Snow

ahhh im super excited because I was @empress-of-mischief secret Santa for the Powerpuff secret Santa! I hope that this fic fills you will joy my dear. I rarely write for the blues and wanted to give it my best. I hope you had a wonderful xmas too. 

Pairing: Boomubbles

Fandom: PPG

---

Christmas was an exciting time of the year. Even Boomer who would rather be alone in his room blasting rock music in his headphones could be found sitting in the living room with his brothers early in the morning. It would start with them racing out of their bedrooms at an ungodly hour and putting on a pot of coffee for their monkey of a father before summoning their demon dad for gifts.

Having super villains for dads had some perks like giant lasers, rocket ships and enough weapons to destroy entire cities as if they forgot that the boys themselves were better than any military grade weapon. So when it came time to open gifts, even Boomer could give enough to smile as he unwrapped a taser gun that he automatically shot at Butch and blue fuzzy socks that matched the red and green ones.

Making sure the superpowered boys were happy on the holiday was something that Mojo and Him had decided was the best, not to keep them entertained but also to keep the running feud of who the best father was. Even though Boomer was happy to accept anything wrapped up with a bow, he had always felt something missing. He had to give Him and Mojo credit because as they got older, the gifts actually became personal.

They were now in their junior year of high school. The boys ‘bad-boy’ vibe wasn’t really cutting it with them and giant machinery wasn’t going to be the hot ticket for the year. Instead Brick ended up with a ton of books and gourment coffee, Butch calling him a big ass nerd of course, which was to prove his point that he was smarter than all of them and may or may not have been to either aggravate or impress a certain puff. For Butch his collection of vinyl recorders, skateboard parts and sport equipment was enough to keep him satisfied and have enough to spark envy with Buttercup. Boomer appreciated the brand new wall of guitars that he had been begging for, drums and a flute that he didn’t remember knowing how to play but hey, how hard could it be?

“Boomer, my dear boy, you keep looking at your phone. Is there somewhere else you’d rather be?” Him asked as he narrowed his eyes in a way that made Boomer snap his phone off.

Embarrassment crawled through him as all eyes were on him and even Mojo who was in the kitchen making pancakes but more or less listening in.

“Oh um, it was just I had a present for a couple friends and was wondering if I could give it to them before it gets dark.” Boomer responded.

“It's eight in the morning, dumbass. It's not close to being dark yet.” Butch said as he threw a football at the blondes head and let out a scream when the rubber turned to dust from the blue laser beams.

“You can say Bubbles.” Brick snorted and Boomer shot him a glare. That was a secret!

“Oh? She is quite the cutie.” Him smirked and Butch barked out a laugh as he smacked Boomers side with a wag of the eyebrows.

“Forget it, you all are weird. I’ll see you for breakfast, I’ll be quick.” Boomer huffed and went up to his room to change before flying out the window.

“Tell your little girlfriend hi for us!” He heard Butch shout and he knew damn well the whole neighbor hood could probably hear him.

“Not my girlfriend.” He mumbled to himself as he found his way to the park.

--

Since the beginning of his life it had always been the ruffs vs the puffs. Destined by his fathers orders and demands, Boomer always followed in that direction no matter what. He didn’t waver from the line drawn in the sand. Even though his brothers began to tip toe around it when they got older, stupid hormones, and yet he never strayed.

He could maybe understand their reasoning. It would make sense to be drawn to the enemy in a way he rarely understood, but still his blood flowed with destruction and determination to rule the world and some girl with pigtails wasn’t going to change that. Or so he thought.

He would consider himself an introvert to his counterpart’s over the top bubbly personality, her name truly suited her. Unlike their siblings, they seemed to rival the most in the sharing of traits.

And yet they had become friends first. It was a bonding experience over milkshakes and a painstaking talk about how they don’t live up to their siblings' powers, how they felt like they were the weak ones. He thought about how Brick and Butch had more muscle power but to hear Bubbles have her own doubts made his stomach turn and for some reason, their friendship bloomed.

Boomer could say that she was his best friend. Not too many people had gained the title of being his friend compared to her, who had most of the school fawning over her charm even if she didn’t notice. But that's what he liked about her. She was like him and while he was confined to her and shared his fears, she could do the same because at the end of the day, they were counterparts. One half of the same coin that would understand the other without any words.

So maybe that's why he was extremely nervous right now. They had been besties, as she called it, for a while and even though gift giving wasn’t out of the ordinary, he wondered what it would be like to be more.

Tell your little girlfriend hi for us!

Much more.

His thoughts were interrupted when the blue puff landed at the foot of the gazebo and sat on the bench next to him.

“Hey Boomie.” She smiled brightly and at first the nickname bothered him but now it was stuck like honey. It was weird when she didn’t say it.

“Hey Bubs.” He returned the smile. “How was your morning?”

“The usual. Blossom with her books and magazines, Buttercup and her weights and well I now have a new spring wardrobe. How about you?”

“Exactly that but I got a new guitar to tune.”

“Oooo you’ll have to play for me sometime.” She gushed and he felt the heat rise to his cheeks. It was the cold's fault, not the pretty blonde, he swears! “Now it's time for the present!” She clapped and put a tin that smelled that vanilla and cinnamon on his lap.

He already knew what they were as he had been bugging her to make her signature holiday cookies for months. Worth the wait.

“So I made you all some cookies, without my sister's help of course and then this is for you.” She handed him a box. The box was black with a navy blue bow. It was so perfect that it was almost comical. Opening the box, he removed the sparkly blue tissue paper.

“Oh wow, guitar picks.” He smiled as he took one out. It was wooden and had a small B with a heart engraved on it. “It's almost like you knew.”

“I had a feeling. You had been talking non stop about wanting one and whether I’d admit it or not, Him makes sure his dear baby boy gets a good present.” She giggled as she poked his cheek.

He rubbed his thumb over it, examining it and thinking about how nice it's going to feel while strumming. “These are really nice quality.”

“I made one from each adventure we went on. That’s made from a pine tree from our first camping trip with our friends. And this one is from the beach last summer.” She held up a slightly white one and at a closer look he realized that it was probably made from sea glass.

“You made these?” He asked in disbelief. “Is this made of bamboo?” He gasped. “When we raced to China?”

“Yep! I know it’s kinda lame but those places meant a lot for us, as friends.” She stumbled over the last part.

“I don’t think it’s lame at all. Pretty cool.” And he meant it. It was probably the most thoughtful gift he had ever received because it took him back to those happy days they had spent together.

“Cooler than a rocket?” She giggled.

“Even cooler than a rocket. Thank you.” He said and fished out her present from his pocket. “Mines not homemade but, ya know.” He scratched the back of his neck and handed her the small poorly wrapped box. “Don’t even comment on the wrapping.”

She held in a laugh. “I’m not.” Liar.

Carefully she tore off the paper and opened the box. “Boomer.”

“I hope it's the right one.”

She stared at the silver chain that had a silver pendant of the moon. When they walked through the mall, it had caught her eye and she spent the next hour talking about astrology and the phases of the moon. The minute that she went into another store, he ran back to purchase it. In the middle of August mind you.

“It's beautiful.” He could hear the sincerity in her voice as she turned her back to him and he helped her with the clasp. “Thank you, I love it so much.”

They sat in a comfortable silence for a couple minutes, taking a few bites of the cookies. The peaceful morning in the park with no one around was perfect, he wasn’t a fan of crowds and maybe that's why she chose this spot because she knew they would be the only ones here.

“Oh look, it's snowing.” Bubbles gasped as she held out her hand to catch the small flakes coming in. “Isn’t it beautiful?” She asked and when he said yes, his eyes hadn’t come off of her.

She stood and walked a few feet out to twirl in the new snow and he shoved his hands in his pocket to keep them warm as he watched her with a smile. If she would have asked him to join her a couple years ago, he would have probably said no and told her to shove off, and now, he would have gone anywhere if she just asked.

Staring at her made him realize that he wanted something more with her. There had been a few occasions where the air around them shifted and for a single second, it was like she thought the same thing, but they would get interrupted and that moment would die and he would sit there and remember that he is her best friend, nothing more, nothing less. But what if he was?

He got to his fit and joined her, kicking around some snow with his shoe as his mind kept racing about every single possibility. Does he just tell her? Just ask? What if he read the signs wrong? What if he messes everything up?

“Isn’t it romantic?” His thoughts were ripped away as he turned towards her. She was looking up at the sky. “Like a Christmas movie. The first snow of the season is said to bring promise to a new love, funny huh?”

Boomers eyes widened suddenly. Was...was she wanting this to turn romantic? This entire time had he been pining from a far when she was ready to take the leap? No. they had talked about relationships before, well hers at least. She was probably just saying it because she was a hopeless romantic.

But then again, Bubbles had always been the bold type. Always telling him that she had been dropping hints for some guy and now come to think of it...had she been talking about him?

“Yeah, romantic.” He decided to finally respond.

He watched as her smile turned down slightly as she looked at him with a gaze he didn't recognize. “Well, I should probably be heading back home now.” She said somewhat sadly.

“Oh yeah, before the snow sets. Thank you by the way.” He held up the boxes and she gave him a better smile.

“Of course. And thank you for this.” She tugged on her necklace. “I’ll see you soon.” She said as she turned around and began to walk.

Something within him was yelling. An eternal battle now raging in his mind. What if he? No, he shouldn’t. But, imagine the positives.

He was hoping for a Christmas miracle.

Boomer ran up behind her, matching her speed as he grabbed her hand and turned her towards him before dropping it and rubbing his arm.

“Hey Bubbles?” Boomer asked nervously. His cheeks had decided to betray him and turn a pretty pink shade as Bubbles tilted her head.

“Yes?”

He sent his boxes down as her eyes remained on him. His hand shook nervously at his sides while her baby blue eyes looked at him. Butterflies were doing cartwheels in his stomach now but he was already here so...

“I have one last present but-” He gulped. “Y-you have to close your eyes.” He said as he took a step forward.

“Close my eyes?” She said with a small smile as he came even closer to her. His hands took hers softly as his thumb rubbed a slight circle on her hand.

“Yeah but if you don’t like it, you can return it.”

“Is that so?” She giggled as she stared into his eyes almost knowingly. “Well, I shouldn’t keep waiting then.” She said as her eyes closed and he felt like the world had disappeared around them, leaving them in the snowy park.

Boomer calmed his breathing as he stared at her. The soft pink of her cheeks from the bitter cold and how the smallest bit of snow landed on her lashes. Never before had his heart pounded as heavily as it did now as he closed the gap and kissed her with the gentleness of the first fallen snow.

He felt the sudden push against his lips. It was a beautiful sensation that he never thought would happen as she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him further. It was an answer to a question he had been asking for months, hell, maybe even years. Wondering if he could step over this line in the sand and it would be okay. That their friendship, trust and loyalty wouldn’t be corrupted but instead, stronger. It was clear that the line had been stepped over, no, completely erased without a second thought.

Their lips pulled apart and he couldn’t tell if the redness up her neck was from the cold nipping at their skin or the intense blushing from what just happened. All he knew was that she was smiling at him, just like she always had before.

“Boomer?” Her voice was just loud enough for his ears.

“Yeah?” He said almost out of breath.

“I don’t need a gift receipt.”

That fluttering in his chest began again as his face broke out into the brightest smile she had ever seen.

“That's great news.” Boomer smirked as he spun her around and dipped her by the waist like he saw in all those cheesy romance movies. “Because the return date had just expired.” He said just as he kissed her again.

---

His hand was warm from the take out cup of hot chocolate while his other hand was laced with hers and it felt more natural than breathing. She took her own cup to her lips, tasting the sweet chocolate as it helped to heat up the rest of her body and he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or not because he was still in disbelief that he was here with her.

Bubbles caught him staring and instead of a playful scold, she inched closer to him and placed a quick peck on his cheek.

“Merry Christmas Bubbles.”

“Merry Christmas.”

---

I hope you liked it <3 

[anncanta]

Delicacy

Fandom: Dracula (2020)

Characters: Count Dracula, Agatha Van Helsing

Relationship: Dracula/Agatha

Rating: Mature

Warnings: None

Read on AO3

Or read below

There was so much snow that Agatha seemed to have lost the feeling of top and bottom. Large flakes swirled in the air, connecting, weaving, turning into thin white threads. They descended from heaven and stretched toward him from the earth. Stopping, Agatha squinted and threw back her head. Thousands of icy needles dug into her skin immediately. Turning away, she covered her face with a hood and ordered herself not to panic.

She was not in such distress. Agatha grunted – she was just alone in the middle of the Transylvanian forest, strayed from the road and knee-deep in the snow.

There is absolutely nothing to worry about.

Swinging from another gust of wind and deciding that it would be foolish to turn into a statue from the ice after such a long journey, Agatha pulled her hood down and stepped forward.

She didn't remember how she got to that house. She did not remember at all and was not sure whether the house was there. The golden glow in the windows could be just a dreaming oasis, a waking dream. Once upon a time, Agatha read about travelers, who crossed deserts. That books told about oases. Shaking her head, she tried to throw off her numbness and, falling with every step in the snow, went to the door, which was half-swept.

Agatha hit the door with all her might with her fist several times, then buried her forehead in it and settled in soft, crisp snow.

“Agatha, it’s more difficult to get rid of you than of hay fever,” was heard from above, and then she was dragged inside.

Agatha sat in a chair by the fireplace, banging her teeth and holding out her numb hands to the fire.

“Drink,” a cup of hot tea sprang up in front of her nose. Agatha raised her head. “This is not poison, do not flatter yourself. Besides, if I wanted to poison you, I would have done it earlier. I had a ton of opportunities.” Dracula's voice sounded annoyed. “Drink, your pneumonia may be about to begin.”

Without a word, Agatha took a cup and made a few greedy sips.

Feeling heat slowly spreading over her body, she leaned back in her chair and allowed herself to cover her eyes.

“What are you doing here, Agatha?” a new question was raised with sincere curiosity.

Opening her eyes, Agatha looked tiredly at Dracula, who sat in a chair opposite and staring at her.

“I wouldn't let you reach London,” she said.

“Oh, I see, my chances now are totally done,” Dracula held out, “I am in despair.”

Agatha stared angrily at him over the cup.

“Why don't you…”

“How did you find me?”

“Well, that wasn't a big deal,” Agatha shrugged. The heat from the fireplace, along with hot tea, completely melted the excruciating cold, and she felt herself starting to fall asleep.

“When I woke up... at the convent and realized that you were gone, I immediately went to Bistritz. I have a friend in the port, he told me that only one ship is leaving for London in the near future.”

“Demeter.”

Agatha shook her head, agreeing, and took another sip.

“The captain recognized you from my description. You were going to travel under your real name,” she said in an unbelieving tone.

Dracula smiled.

“Why not?”

Agatha made a skeptical grimace.

“There were just a few days to leave, so I concluded that you probably stayed in one of the Bistritz's hotels.”

“I hate the hotels.”

Agatha nodded.

“It became clear almost immediately. But in that case – where could you go? You have no friends in the city, besides, I don’t think you would like to be noticed.” She grabbed the cup with her fingers. “Returning to the castle is also not an option: it is at least eight hours before it, even if you change horses twice – you might not have time before sunrise. So – somewhere in the forest.”

“Not bad,” said Dracula.

Agatha smiled absently.

“But in order to come here, and so quickly... I know, I know, you burned with righteous anger and dreamed of destroying me,” he said, seeing her eyes darken, “...you should be sure that I am here and that exactly is me – how did you find out?”

“I bribed the huntsman,” she shrugged again.

“I should have eaten him,” Dracula grinned.

“And to remain without communication with the outside world?” Agatha raised an eyebrow.

“Your rationality is charming,” Dracula smiled again. “I understand correctly,” he added, looking around as if searching for something, “that you lost your bag of weapons and provisions in the forest?”

“Yes,” Agatha said dejectedly.

“You lost to nature itself. Don’t be upset,” he looked at her, clasped his hands, and laid his chin on them.

“Why did you let me in?” asked Agatha.

“Would you prefer to have stayed there?”

She averted her eyes.

She would have preferred never to know him, she wanted to say – or should she say so? It seemed right, and at the same time, somehow... childish. Suddenly tears rolled up. Holding her arms around her shoulders, Agatha squinted. How embarrassing. And how ridiculous.

“There's only one room upstairs,” she heard Dracula's voice. “The huntsman is miser: he took crazy money for this shack. But for want of something better, one has to be content with what he has.”

Agatha opened her eyes and forced herself to look at the count.

“I sleep in a box, so the bedroom is yours,” he said dryly, got up, and went out.

For a while, Agatha sat looking at the fire blazing in the fireplace, and then got up and wandered upstairs.

After a sleepless night, she slept all day. Going to the window and making sure that there was still a blizzard outside the walls of the house, she went down to the kitchen and began to peer into the numerous drawers and cabinets, hoping to find something edible in them.

“The basement is full of provisions,” she heard, opening the next door. Agatha emerged from the cabinet. “The huntsman, at least, swore that his pantries were always full,” the count stood at the door, arms crossed. “You are lucky – there is no one to compete for it.”

Hardly refraining from caustic remarks about her luck, Agatha nodded and headed for the cellar door.

Perhaps a huntsman is a miser, but he knows about food, she thought after half an hour, chewing appetizing pork ham and sumptuous homemade cheese. She did not suspect that she was so hungry.

“What will you do then?” arriving at the kitchen door, asked Dracula. “Would you try to convert me to your faith? Or will you tear the floorboard,” he tapped the wooden floor, “and still try to use brute force? Oh no, oak floorboards,” striking once more and listening to the sound, he held out with regret. “So what?”

Agatha got up from the table and took a can of tea mixture from one of the nearest shelves. Making tea always reassured her.

“Why did you let me leave?” not turning to him, she said, pouring the mixture into a teapot.

“Sorry?”

She turned around.

“You let me leave. I remember that quite clearly. You agreed not to touch Mina if I let you… Why didn't you kill me?”

“You weren’t tasty enough,” he looked mockingly.

Agatha nodded.

“Maybe. But I am the witness at the same time. I am the one who could tell people about what you have done. I am well known in the city. Known and respected. I…”

“Why, then, didn’t you collect respectable squires, equipping them with stakes like your nuns, and not take them with you?” his gaze was calm and sharp.

She turned away.

“I don't know,” said after a few seconds of silence.

“Well, I don’t know either,” he said briefly. “Don't offer me tea, you know that I do not drink, – neither tea, nor wine, nor whiskey,” he added sharply. “I wish you a good evening.”

The kitchen door slammed behind him.

Agatha furiously threw an empty cup at the wall.

The days dragged on painfully long, and an endless white haze seemed to hang outside the windows. Agatha could not remember that it had snowed so long in her life. In desperation, after a couple of futile attempts to open the door that seemed to have been brought up to the top, she suspected Dracula's intention in this – she read about something similar in vampire stories – but the count only snorted skeptically at the suggestion made by her.

“It's enough fog to cover the sunlight,” he said, “and if you didn't notice, I'm locked here just as you are. I could, of course, go outside,” Dracula smiled thoughtfully, “but to walk the path through the forest to the city in the guise of a wolf does not seem a good idea. I'd better wait for spring.”

Yeah, if this continues further, they both threaten to wait for it here, Agatha mused angrily, wandering around the house and trying to occupy herself with something. There were no books there, she did not like to cook, and sitting by the window made her sad.

She hadn't noticed, when she started to speak with Dracula. Do not snap, exchanging a couple of angry words, colliding in the living room or in the kitchen, and not trying to cheat each other. Apparently, he began to be seriously annoyed by the silence, which, like fluffy cotton wool, enveloped this small house. However, Dracula must be accustomed to silence, she thought, which does not mean that he likes it.

In a strange way, these conversations seemed familiar. Like the whole situation as well – a small room, shelves with some barrels, jugs and old cups, there are two of them, and they talk...

They talk about books. Dracula claimed that he loved stories – for some reason this did not surprise her; among his favorite authors were Calderon, Lope de Vega, and Tirso de Molina. According to the count, he personally knew the last one, and in 1630 de Molina even presented him with the first edition of one of his books – with a dedication inscription. “He was glorious,” Dracula smiled idly, noticing her inquiringly raised eyebrows, “I'm sure you would have liked him.” When asked why he only grinned mysteriously and answered: "He had a special taste for life." Agatha chose not to go into details. But she liked several poetic passages, read by heart by the count, and so a comedy retold from memory – about a noble lady entangled in her own lies. In any case, they were funny.

Somewhere between the exquisite lines and two cups of fragrant tea, she talked about how she found herself in a convent – after the quiet owner of a hardware store, whom she married to save her family from bankruptcy, died of typhoid and his older brother just kicked her out of the house. The new marriage was slightly better than the old one, Agatha said indifferently, unwittingly expecting another stream of ridicule from Dracula, but it did not follow. “There's a joy for the afflicted – a ray of hope,”* he quoted and started talking about something else.

“You should have sailed to England tomorrow,” Agatha said one evening when they were sitting alone by the fireplace. Chess was discovered in Dracula's luggage, but it seemed that there weren’t enough pieces in the set.

“The day before yesterday,” Dracula answered, placing the black pawns and taking the knight out of the box.

“Yes,” Agatha agreed, casting a thoughtful glance out the window. “This storm is terrible,” she sighed. “Everything merged into some kind of white haze. Everything is mixed up. Like it's one endless day.”

“Or an endless night. And you are with the losers again,” Dracula smiled.

“What?” Agatha did not understand.

“Never mind.”

“All the pieces are here,” Agatha said, taking a short look at the board. She decided not to spoil her mood, trying to figure out what he had in mind. It is possible that nothing – and just teases her. “I start.”

Dracula made an inviting gesture.

She won four games in a row. And lost two ones. The ratio of victories and defeats amazed pride, but for some reason did not please. Perhaps...

“You behave strangely,” she said, moving the queen.

“Stranger than usual?” he moved the pawn and defended the rook.

“If I may say so,” Agatha squinted at him. “And you never tried to stab me all evening.”

“Maybe I'm tired of it.”

“No, impossible,” she waved her hand. “You look exhausted, pale much more than before, and I...” She sat up abruptly. “You are hungry!”

“What a subtle observation,” Dracula snorted sarcastically. “Don't be distracted, Agatha, your left flank is on fire.”

“What is on fire, is your left flank!” Agatha got angry. She leaned back in her chair. “You did not expect to have to be here so long. Two days ago you planned to board a ship on which there must be...”

She faltered.

“Well, go on, what's your problem?” Dracula grinned.

Agatha frowned.

“On which you probably had food supplies.”

“Exactly,” he bowed his head, continuing to smile sarcastically. “And, believe me, I chose it carefully. Pity – the weather mixed the cards.”

“And how will you continue to cope?” ignoring his mocking tone, asked Agatha.

“I’ll have a meal with boars and foxes, they are in abundance here,” he drummed his fingers on the table. “It costs me nothing to open the door.”

For a while, Agatha silently examined him. He really didn’t look very healthy. And without that the pale, cheeks turned completely white, lips marked on a sharp face with a dark spot, deep shadows lay under the eyes.

Thundering on the floor with the legs of a chair, Agatha got up and went to the window. Behind the glasses, white porridge still flickered dully.

Agatha turned back to the fireplace and, unbuttoning the button, threw back the shoulder pad.

“Eat,” she said, looking to the side.

For several minutes nothing happened. Hearing the steps, she did not turn around.

“Why?” Dracula's voice was unusually serious.

She didn’t answer.

“Why, Agatha?” his fingers laid on her cheek, forcing her to raise her head.

She looked into his eyes.

“You are suffering.”

“Less than you suffered when I threatened you, less than Jonathan Harker or his fiancee, or any of those I ate or was going to eat.” He looked intently, not blinking. Agatha forced herself not to look away. “Why?” he repeated once more.

“Anyone deserves sympathy,” she answered, trying to speak with confidence. “Any creature...”

“You are lying,” he let her go and began to examine her, arms crossed over his chest.

“You too,” Agatha answered quietly. “I tried to open this door,” she said, seeing surprise flashing in his eyes. “And I couldn’t. You will succeed,” she breathed, “for sure. But you will take it off its hinges and the house will be left without a door. While you are hunting foxes and boars – which will take you four hours in such weather – attracted by the warmth and human smell, their relatives will come here. Do you often share prey?”

They looked at each other for a very long time.

“Come on,” he said finally.

Obediently, as if all her strength had been devoted to the recent struggle, Agatha went after him – from the living room to the hallway and up the stairs to the bedroom. She let him sit her on the bed and out of the corner of her eye saw him sit next to her.

“I can feel the weather,” he said quietly. Agatha turned and looked at him. “A thaw will come in two days, and it will all melt away,” he waved his hand at the gray dusk swirling outside the window. “And I can really hunt boars.”

She nodded.

He approached and bent over her.

“I'll try to be quick.”

The thaw lingered for a day.

Most of the snow had melted in a couple of hours, and by evening, Dracula, again unnaturally pale, opened the damp door and disappeared into the forest.

During the time that has passed since the day when Agatha offered herself to him as food, they never once remembered what had happened, as if this had never been. Nothing has changed either in her or in his behavior, except that the chess games have become longer and the conversations – shorter. Dracula looked gloomy, but she did not try to find out why – in the end, the fact that he had not bitten her to death did not mean that they had become friends, Agatha reasoned, sorting herbs in the kitchen and making mint tea.

However, she had no anxiety – perhaps because the sun finally appeared during the day, and the world outside seemed no longer monotonously empty and gray. At night, stars were even visible.

Dracula returned near the morning. Agatha sat on the carpet by the fireplace, her knees pulled up to her chin, and looked at the flame. She did not respond to the knock of the door that opened.

Behind her, steps rang out and subsided in the kitchen.

“What are you thinking about?” the aroma of nutmegs and rum tickled her nostrils.

Agatha lowered her eyes and stared at the mug of grog that had arisen in front of her.

“About who I am, after all, a hunter or a captive?” she said, looking at pieces of clove floating in a mug.

“And how did you come up with it?” Dracula settled to the right of Agatha and extended his legs to the fire.

“I could leave while you were gone,” taking a sip, Agatha held out absent-mindedly.

“That's right,” he leaned back, leaning on his elbow. “I did not lock the door and did not intend to.”

“Why?”

He shrugged.

The silence continued for several minutes.

“Who am I now?..” Agatha said quietly.

Dracula stood up and slowly pulled an empty mug from her fingers.

“You are Agatha Van Helsing,” he said, looking straight into her eyes, and pulling her to him, he kissed her.

It was strange... all of this. The taste of his lips mixed with the taste of grog. The stiffness of a linen shirt wrinkling under her arms. The strands of his hair that fell on her cheek, an incoherent whisper in a patter. To look from under half-opened eyelids at how he takes off his clothes – all without a trace, and what she expected, yes. This is completely... She's not used to it. Not that she did it too often... Decent matrons lift their skirts – and that's it.

What did she expect? In a couple of short movements, he pulls off her dress, behind the dress – her shirt, Agatha tries to protest faintly.

“I want to see you,” he pronounces clearly, moistly, into the hollow between her breasts. Agatha leans back, helpless, feeling like a fire floods her body as if it was open to the whole world.

And then comes calm and seething curiosity. He follows it, catches up, runs ahead, comes back, kindling it and indulging. Finds treasures and denotes new lands. And in this way, only his caution can compare with his recklessness.

Feeling that he was spreading her hips apart, Agatha shuddered in frustration: in her memory, all that was pleasant usually ended with it – if it was at all.

“Shhh,” she freezes at the touch of his insistent fingers, moans, and cries out, her eyes wide in amazement. Pleasure, unusual, strong, grows, pulsating, almost bordering on pain – and spills out into the sea, as in her old crazy dreams.

“Oh my God... this is... I never... never...” she whispered, catching her breath. Looking up at Dracula, she caught his pleased look.

“Your husband was an idiot,” Dracula nodded. “Let's not talk about him anymore.”

Agatha burst out laughing.

“You shameless monster.”

“Is that a compliment or a verdict of the Inquisition?”

“If you could tell them apart,” Agatha snorted. “However, I am not surprised. You have no limiting principles.” He looked at her, squinting. “No elementary decorum and rules,” she continued, feeling his arms tracing her bare shoulders. “But how could I allow myself to be so...”

He raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

“So... unrestrained,” she coughed, squinting at her limp body.

Dracula moved higher and looked at her for a minute, bowing his head.

“How not to remember the noble de Molina now,” he said thoughtfully, leaning on one hand and hanging over her.

“De Molina?” Agatha frowned. “In what sense?”

Dracula smiled and leaned over.

“My lovely prude,” he whispered, kissing her behind her ear. “My captivating liar,” he slipped his lips along her collarbone, and then lingered on her nipple. “My wise minx,” clasping her hands clutching at his shoulders, raised them up, held her hips with open palms, bent her knees, pressed them to her chest. Another movement, continuous, long, inhale, exhale. “My love and mistress.”**

Somewhere outside the window, a sound was heard – as if something had crumbled with a soft rustle. It must be remnants of snow, Agatha decided.

Spring is coming soon.

On a late March night, the hotel on the second floor of the Falcon and Lion tavern was dark and quiet. Making his way along the corridor, the last of the regulars, who went over a little, not so much as not to stay on his own, but enough to not want on these two to drag home across the city, stopped, trying to determine where the room was, the key to which the tavern's owner gave him.

“Only for one night,” he warned, “and tomorrow, you son of a bitch, I will charge you everything that you owed me in the past two weeks, including a bunk for today.” Fairly so. The man took the key out of his pocket and moved forward along the corridor.

All the doors seemed identical, differing only in numbers, and the muffled sounds that rang from the rooms. The man listened – for the most part, it was measured snoring, less often – swearing and hoarse moans. There were only a few steps left until the room in which he was to spend the night when the corridor was announced with an angry scream.

Stopping, the man froze in place. The snoring in the rooms stood still in fear, in the room by the next two doors someone sobbed, squeaked, and coughed. An alarming silence continued for a couple of seconds, after which the scream repeated.

After hesitating, the man approached the door, from which screams were heard.

“You said you won’t get anything!” the voice sounded so clear as if its owner was standing in the middle of the corridor. “You said you agreed to follow your diet.”

“I follow,” the tone of the lady's companion was not so angry as tired and displeased. “But when I was really hungry you could not just expect from me…”

“Innkeeper lost all his ducks and hens at once,” the woman said with an icy tone. “He claims there are thieves in the neighborhood, but I'm not sure, – it is too convenient for someone.”

“Don't you think, I'd go down to hens and ducks?” There was amazement in the man's voice, sincere and even some kind of discouraged.

The woman did not back down.

“I know it's not easy for you. I understand how this is... I promised to help you, and I will help. I am sure that we can find a way to solve your problem.”

“I will not eat cattle!” the man barked. The tavern regular, who had pressed his ear to the door, recoiled, almost dropping the key and the candlestick.

“You won't have to!” the woman exclaimed. “Listen to me, you yourself said that the future lies with science, it invents incredible things. We'll figure out how to arrange for you...”

The man interrupted her.

“Why do you think we will succeed?”

“Because I have been solving puzzles all my life, and I know that there is no one for which no answer can be found,” now a smile and tenderness sounded in the woman's voice. “Just believe me and don't try to eat everything. I know you can do it.”

There was a long sigh behind the door.

“Hens and ducks were stolen by a messenger boy. He's been hanging around here for the past two weeks. This was in the newspapers – he sold drinks and meat to the head of the Bistritz-Budapest train.” Pause. “The pink color suits you.”

“Go to hell.”

The room became quiet.

A regular of the Falcon and Lion tavern looked at the candle, then at the door of the room, stood still for a while, listening, and then shrugged and walked away.

You never know eccentrics on earth.

* Dracula quotes the line from the song of Lucia and Martha from the film "Martha the Pious" based on the play of Tirso de Molina. It is a part of the original text but is changed a little.

** Quote from the play "Martha the Pious" in the interpretation of M. Donskoy.

[ladyanput]

Seeing Green Ch.5

Well, everyone, I’m so glad you’ve all supported me thus far. Here\s a chapter that contains a lot of what people have been asking for~

“Good morning, Marinette." Marinette glared up at the intruder of her quiet breakfast, dark shadows quite clear under her eyes. She had had a long night last night, talking with the Bat crew, then spending a good chunk of the night trying to find Chat Noir. The fact that he was in Gotham of all places didn't sit right with her, but she couldn't fully explain why. "How are you going this morning? You look quite beautiful."

Adrien smiled expectantly down at her, taking a seat across from the girl, obviously not reading the mood of the room, of which Marinette wanted him nowhere near her.

"Adrien, what do you want?" Marinette used her fork to poke her fried egg, lowering her gaze so that she wouldn't have to look at that smile that was so practiced that it just didn't feel real. She flinched when he took her free hand and kissed the knuckles. She felt bile rise in her throat and she ripped her hand away. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Mari, listen… I'm sorry that I didn't stick with you during the whole Lila incident. I was a real jerk, I guess I was just scared that this would escalate and there'd be big problems." Adrien leaned forward, trying to catch her eye, but she refused to give him the satisfaction. So her basically being ostracized by her class hadn't been 'a big problem'? That made her grind her teeth, but a gentle nudge from Tikki immediately calmed her down.

"Adrien, I'd like to be left alone, alright? I'm not feeling great." Marinette muttered as she glanced out one of the large windows the hotel's dining room offered. The sight of the snow falling from the sky had been enough to make her groan, silently glad that yesterday's picnic had been cancelled. Honestly, who arranged a picnic during November?

"Marinette, please… You're a really special girl, and I realise now how great you are. I was wondering if you'd like to go out with me today?" Adrien blushed, and Marinette was reminded of a preteen who just confesses their love to their longtime crush. It didn't do anything to lift her mood, instead it only soured it. Way too late for that, Adrien, that ship has long since sailed.

"Not interested." Marinette stood, finding her appetite was now gone. She brushed past the model, making her way into the lobby. She froze when she saw Damian standing by the reception desk, her heart skipping a beat. He looked so handsome, his dark hair smoothed back from his strong, serious face. She practically skipped her way over to Damian, noticing the flowers in his arms. A pleasant flush flooded her cheeks, wondering who they were for…

“Damidear, you brought me flowers!” Lila darted her way across the lobby, throwing herself at the boy, sending him stumbling back a few steps. Marinette’s brows drew together, somewhat flabbergasted, until she spotted that her class had been where Lila had been standing. Ah, that explains it. “I’m so glad you decided to visit me, yesterday’s incident was so horrible.”

“Who are you?” Damian rose a brow at the girl, nearly scowling when she got a pout and tears welled up in her eyes. He tried to pull his arm from her grasp, but she sank her nails in hard, no doubt leaving bruises. “Please, let me go before I have to get security in here.”

“Wh-hat do you mean? Dami, you can stop with the act, everyone knows now that we’re dating, we don't have to hide anymore..” Lila let out a whine, glad she decided to dress up in her skirt she’d had hemmed so that it slid up her slim thighs, slowing off her body. 

Damian almost felt nauseous when the girl trapped his arm against her chest, rubbing her breasts against his arm. What the fuck was this girl’s deal?

“I will tell you again, let me go.” Damian roughly pulled his arm from her grasp, sending her stumbling backwards. A girl wearing glasses rushed forward and caught her, sending a furious glare to the youngest Wayne.

“What the fuck is your problem?! I understand the need for secrecy, but you don’t treat your girlfriend that way, no matter the circumstances!” She snapped, cradling the sobbing Lila close.

“I am not dating her. I’ve never met her before yesterday.” The cold, hard fury came forward as Damian towered over them, his grip on the bouquet tightening. “I have been interested in only one girl, and I’m telling you that’s not her! She’s-”

Damian’s gaze met Marinette’s, and he smiled that smile that sent her heart fluttering.

“She’s right over there.” Damian made his way over to Mari and pulled her into a warm embrace. Marinette returned the hug, laying her head on his chest, then let out a giggle when he kissed her forehead. “Hello, Angel. I thought you and I could spend the day together. Miss Bourbon informed me it is a free day?”

“Yeah, it is.” Marinette beamed up at Damian, giving his cheek a soft kiss in return. She took the offered bouquet, ignoring the accusations that Lila and her court were throwing their way; that Mari had stayed with Damian at the mall plaza to steal him away, that she was a homewrecking slut, among other things. She merely turned her gaze towards them, seeing them as they are; lost causes. Only Alix, Kim, Juleka and Rose strode forward and shouted in her defense, bringing the gazes of everyone in the lobby, guests and employees alike. She turned back to Damian, trying her best to block the ensuing chaos behind them out. “I would love to spend the day with you. I really need out of here.” 

“Marinette, wait! I-I wanted to take you out today, thought we could go for lunch. I can take us to the best restaurant in town.” Adrien grabbed her wrist, attempting to pull her out of Damian’s embrace, only causing him to tighten his embrace in turn. Adrien shot a withering glare to Damian, before turning a pleading gaze to Marinette. “Please, Mari, please don’t go with him. I-I can treat you a lot better than he can, he’ll only use you, you’ve only known him for three days!”

Sandwiched between the two men, Marinette didn’t know why she had been scared of them being similar, because they were quite the opposite. Damian was tall, dark, serious, and was protective. His actions spoke louder than words. While Adrien, while he claimed that he loved his friends, he did very little to actually keep them safe, going as far to keep the wool over everyone’s eyes and let Lila run wild. He certainly hadn’t cared about her misery, when she became an outcast, when Chloe became so bullied when her father was forcibly removed from being mayor, that she moved to a different school, he stood by, so afraid to create any sort of ripples, not realizing that a typhoon was already going on in front of him.

“I think we should go, it’s getting a bit unsavory here.” Marinette turned her back to Adrien, making his eyes narrow in fury. The couple, leaving everyone stare after them as they stepped out into Gotham.

“Good morning, everyone! Are you all prepped for your free day?” Miss Bustier strode on, completely unaware of what had just happened. Behind her, Miss Bourbon facepalmed at her mentor’s inability to read the fucking room.

…

Marinette strode through Gotham City park with Damian, beaming when they held hands, lacing their fingers. When she glanced up at him, she could see his cheeks had gone rosy, a small smile tugging on his lips.

“I’ll admit, I’m kind of nervous. You know, about this, about us. I mean, I’ve only known you for a few days.” Marinette forced out, leaning her head on his shoulder. She felt herself relax when he gave her hand a light squeeze, urging her to continue. “I… I don’t want to rush into anything, but I want to try and see where this can go. We just need to have some boundaries, because the last time I rushed into love, I got hurt.”

“Was it Agreste?” Damian let go of her hand and wrapped an arm around her when she shivered. At her nod, he rolled his eyes. The boy seemed like a coward to the vigilante, and a spoiled brat. Ever since he first saw Adrien on a magazine cover, he had wanted to punch him in the face. Today just made things worse. “He is a fool, not seeing you were right there in front of him, Angel. But I do agree that we should take our time with this. I feel for you, but I don’t want to scare you, Angel. I’ve never had this attraction to another person before.”

“I’ll have to go back to Paris in five days.” Marinette pointed out as they walked by a statue of a couple. She gazed up at it, refusing to meet Damian’s searching gaze. "The morning after the Wayne gala, I'll be flying back… And I don't know when I'll be back."

"We can text, call, Skype, there's tons of ways to talk. I'm sure my father will have business in Paris from time to time, I can visit then too." Damian offered, gently taking hold on her shoulders and had her meet his gaze. "Angel, we can figure out what this is between us. We don't have to rush into anything, but we can take a slow pace, and when we figure it out, we can finally say what we are."

Marinette found herself tearing up all of the sudden, then hugged him, feeling his strong arms wrap around her, holding her tight. They stayed like that for a while, not moving as the snow fluttered around them. Finally, they pulled apart. 

"Come on, there's a nice little coffee shop around the corner. Then… Mari, I'd like you to meet my family. They won't stop teasing me, since I talk about you often, and they won't get off my back."

"Dinner? Up at Wayne Manor? Um… O-okay, but what should I wear?" Marinette whispered, her brows drawing together, creating that pensive look that made Damian want to kiss her brow. 

"Just dress casually. We're just normal people, Angel, we don't dine in high class suits." Damian teased, earning a light shove from Marinette

"Fine, I think I'd love to come to dinner, if Miss Bustier will allow it." Marinette rolled her eyes, knowing that Miss Bustier wouldn't care in the slightest. Damian chuckled, as if he had read her thoughts, then carefully lead her towards the café. For the rest of the afternoon, that’s where they stayed.

…

“Lila, girl, don’t let that creep bother you, he doesn’t deserve you anyways. You always have Adrien, right?” Alya soothed, having dragged Lila and her boyfriend out for an afternoon of retail therapy. They were back in the clothing boutique they had been yesterday, eyeing the gorgeous dresses on display. Nino was off, looking for a good records store so that he didn’t deal with the toxic gossip. He had lost his confidence in dumping Alya.

“There’s the dress, Lila!” Alya pointed to the mannequin in the middle of the store, where a bronze coloured dress was, before she turned to the nearest employee. “We’d like to attempt that dress, please.”

The employee smiled, though it was a bit at the girl’s broken English. She took the dress off the mannequin and guided Lila through the posh boutique and to the changing rooms. Once Lila was inside, the tearful, heartbroken personality dropped and she scowled. The young Italian girl stripped down to her underwear and inspected herself in the mirror.

How on earth could Damian Wayne not want her? She was the definition of the perfect Italian beauty. She fluffed her hair, put into her signature hairstyle, to her beautiful, perfect face. Her hands slid over her petite chest, her slim waist and thighs. She was every man’s fantasy come to life, she knew that if she got Damian in bed, he’d be under her complete control.

She pulled on the dress, feeling the silk hug her curves perfectly. She was small, dainty, not a cow with flabby tits like Marinette had gained. She had heard about guys preferring ‘thick’ women, but she knew it was a lie. Miss Bourbon, the ugly cow, and Marinette had never had a boyfriend in their lives, so that just further proved her point.

“Lila, does it fit?” Alya called in, breaking her from her thoughts. Lila rolled her eyes and stepped out of the dressing room, grinning when she heard an excited squeal from her special toy. “That looks killer on you! That Wayne kid is an idiot for cheating on you with Mari. Hey, I got an idea, how about you wear that to the Wayne gala at the end of the trip? Show him what he’s really missing, make him beg for you back! That’d be big news, Damian Wayne crawling on his hands and knees to get his beautiful Lila back!”

“Do you really think that could work? I-I don’t want to force Damibear to take me back, it isn’t his fault that Marinette seduced him away by having sex with him, he’s a guy..” Lila sniffled and hugged herself tightly, as if to hold herself together. She wiped away her tears and hugged Alya tightly, to hide her grin. “I bet if you get us together, he’d be so appreciative towards you, Alya, he’d give you any favour you’d ask for…”

The thought made Alya perk up as Lila rushed back into the changing room. The two girls soon strode to the check out and Alya took out Nino’s debit card, the starry look of hope still in her eyes as she paid for Lila’s dress. As they exited the store, she missed seeing Lila shred up the receipt and take the tag off of the dress, promptly tossing them into the trash.

“Hey, babe, you guys get what you needed?” Nino strode up, all smiles as he hugged his girlfriend, kissing her cheeks, half listening to the response she gave. “Hey, there’s this cool track they have in the store and I just wanna grab it right quick, it could be pretty awesome to use in my next DJing gig. Can I have my wallet, babe?”

“Sure thing, just don’t keep us waiting too long, okay? I need to get back to the hotel and get a story put up.” Alya shrugged, halfheartedly handing the wallet to Nino before she turned back to Lila, going back to trash talking Marinette and Evangeline.

A few minutes went by, before Alya caught sight of Nino storming out of the records store, looking murderous. He grabbed Alya’s arm and dragged her close.

“Did you just spend around three hundred euros of my money at that boutique?” He hissed in barely contained anger, his eyes narrowing. 

“Yeah, I had to get something for Lila. She just got dumped, Nino, she really needed it.” Alya explained, frowning at her boyfriend. “Lila needs to get Damian back, she’s not letting Marinette win without a fight.”

“Alya, for the love of god, did you not hear what the Wayne guy said earlier? He never fucking dated her, he had never seen her before in his life.” Nino loosened his grip and stepped back before he did something he would regret. He ran his fingers through his hair. "Maybe if you actually listened for five fucking minutes, instead of having your nose in your phone or taking in Lila's bullshit, you would have gotten the message!"

"... Did Marinette and the pedophile get to you? Nino, you should know better, Marinette's been bullying Lila ever since she came to France, why would you take her side?" Alya demanded, shoving Nino back. Lila took a step back and grinned, noticing the gathering crowd.

"Alya, stop it! You took my debit card without asking and bought a three hundred dollar dress! I have less than ten euros left in my bank account!" Nino yelled, throwing his arms up in the air. Did she just not get it?! "You don't just do that, Alya, not over a dress for your stupid friend! Why didn't you use your own money?!"

"Nino, stop being selfish! You can make more money on your next gig, I need to help Lila get Damian back, my blog is at stake!" Alya pleaded, then set her hands on her hips, shaking her head. "Besides, I need my money for that new microphone that's coming out in a few weeks, to make my videos sound better."

"Fuck, it's always about you! About Lila! You never think, Alya, you just see the bright, sparkly thing and grab for it, without seeing the nails you'll have to walk on! You don't even care about me, all you care about is that stupid excuse of a blog you've got!" Nino roared. But his head snapped back when Alya's hand connected when his cheek, his glasses flew from his face and clattered loudly across the floor.

The air in the room was tense.

"N- Nino…" Alya's voice dropped to a shaky whisper as she stared in shock at her own hand, that was now reddening from pain. "I- I… I'm.."

"Just… Enough, Alya." Nino walked over and retrieved his now cracked glasses. He didn't give her a backwards glance and made his way towards the exit.

"Nino…? Wait, Nino? Nino, wait!" Alya screeched, hot tears sliding down her cheeks. She screamed after Nino, begging for him to come back, before it turned into a violent torrent of curses and vile insults. Quickly, she dropped to her knees in a sobbing mess.

 Lila knelt beside her and gathered her friend into her arms, hiding her victorious smile in the girl's hair.

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