#slushy and surrounded and wading through

[modernmutiny]

Y'all really know I was raised by witches when I think to myself "why am I feeling so Much lately? Oh duh it's samhain" 🤦🏻‍♂️

[cognacdelights]

you give me problems [2]

the romantic tirades of indie routledge series masterlist

my outer banks masterlist

add yourself to my taglist

kathleen by catfish and the bottlemen

summary: during one of the hottest days of the summer, indie decides to taunt her brother’s best friend with a provocative performance involving an orange popsicle. 

warnings: implied sexual content. dirty talk. cursing.

She had perched herself on the battered, cedar wood steps of the porch - directly in his line of vision. A mischievous glint illuminated her wide doe eyes as they met with his for a brief, succinct moment, before he continued his conversation with her brother. The petite brunette was very much aware that her perfectly positioned, bikini-clad body remained in his line of sight; the tattered and torn camping chair - which he had claimed as his thrown several months prior - faced her almost front on. With a playful grin gracing her make-up-less complexion, she brought the orange-flavoured popsicle to her lips, a sinfully brilliant scheme echoing through her twisted mind.

At first, he didn’t pay her much attention - assuming that she was using the fruity, frozen snack as a means of cooling down her rising temperature. After all, it was a necessary commodity during the peak of the summer months. Thermometers across the subtropical, Mid-Atlantic paradise had reached well above thirty degrees celsius over the last several days, and there was no expectation of an Arctic weather front dominating the heavens any time soon. However, as his unsuspecting, cerulean eyes wandered the familiar, mundane scene before him, they couldn’t resist diverting themselves back to the sun-drenched vixen.

With her dark, salacious eyes concentrated purely on him, her tongue leisurely circled itself around the tip of the fruit juice popsicle. The motion itself was painfully slow, allowing her taste buds to thoroughly indulge themselves in the tangy, citrus juices that liquified under the pleasant warmth of her tongue. A devilishly angelic smirk etched itself into her roseate features, before continuing her performance. Taking the very tip of the popsicle into her mouth, she began to suck lightly, running her tongue along the circumference to remove the slushied ice in the process.

She could feel his acute, searing gaze on her, scorching her exposed skin as it glimmered ever so slightly under the relentless ultraviolet rays from above. The rugged, blonde-haired boy shifted his weight around in the beer-stained camping chair, bringing the half-consumed bottle of Heineken up to his lips in a half-hearted attempt to disguise his discomfort. Of course, if anybody were to question him on the subject, he would never admit to viewing his best friend’s sister in such an alluring, sensual light because, well, she was his best friend’s sister; there was an unwritten rule that adamantly declared that sisters - both older and younger - were most definitely off limits. And he knew this, all too well - yet he couldn’t tear his enraptured gaze from that damn popsicle.

Teasingly, the audacious girl ran her tongue in one continuous, gradual stripe down the length of the popsicle, until she encountered the unpleasant, earthy taste of the sodden, wooden stick. She cocked her head to the side, almost innocently, as her taunting eyes flickered upwards - confirming that she still held the raucous blonde’s full, undivided attention. As his yearning, indigo eyes bore attentively into hers, she took the span of the melting ice block into her mouth. Once again, the movement was languid and sultry; it was a precarious manoeuvre, especially considering that her older brother, John B, and the remaining members of the self-appointed Pogues were seated just several feet away in the matching polka dot deck chairs that they had borrowed from the neighbours.

The cold, chilling sensation of the ice touching against the back of her throat sent invigorating pulses of energy through her scantily clad silhouette. Continuing to push the popsicle further inside her salivating mouth, she allowed the orange-infused ice to force it’s way down her trachea until she had completely devoured the entire thing. Steadying herself, she denied the raspy gagging sounded that was desperate to surpass her juice-coated lips the satisfaction - internally silencing it. Not only did she want to prove that she could handle it, but she was cautious of alerting the three other Pogues to her seductive escapade. Retrieving the citrus-flavoured ice stick from her throat, her movements remained slow and sensual as a stray droplet of fruit juice meandered down her chin.

Her tongue began to trail nonchalant, lascivious circles around the length of the popsicle, savouring the sour, tangy juices. His clammy, bear-like hand grasped the beer bottle tighter as he fought with all his might to suppress the fervent, inflamed sensation that had gradually overwhelmed his toned, athletic body. Involuntarily chewing on the already chapped skin of his bottom lip, his clouded, hazy eyes hovered over Kiara, his head nodding in agreement along to her impassioned rant as he feigned interest in her words. However, only a meager few seconds had passed before he found himself devouring the unholy sight of the golden-complexioned temptress once again.

His eager, cobalt eyes observed intently as she proceeded to take the fruit-flavoured ice pop into her juice-stained mouth for the second time, valiantly sucking on the bittersweet juices before retrieving the melting popsicle from the cavities of her cheeks. It was an achingly languid cycle; in and out, in and out, in and out. A low, lustful growl clawed desperately at the back of his throat - craving to be released into the fresh, salt-laced air that surrounded him. With his hardening dick beginning to press against the tight constraints of his patterned swimming shorts, he couldn’t resist her suggestive, raunchy taunts much longer and stood from his dirt-covered camping chair.

“Where are you going?” Kiara questioned his sudden movements - her dark, feathery eyebrows knitting themselves together into a inquisitive frown. She brought the green-tinted bottle up to her lips as she took a swig of the cheap, bitter-tasting beer, as she waited expectantly for his response. Her murky, sable eyes followed his chiselled, sun-kissed silhouette as he waded through the pile of discarded, empty beer bottles and cans - making his way towards the porch steps.

“I gotta wring it out,” he answered with a casual shrug of his shoulders - his lust-filled, cerulean eyes avoiding hers at all costs. Although he deployed his most convincing, mundane voice, his perjurious words rolled off his tongue with a subtle uneasiness detectable in his inflections. The slight waver in his gruff, raspy tone would be his downfall, which was why the scruffy-haired blonde had opted for as little words as he could manage; the less words he uttered, the less chance of detection. The less chance he had of gravely violating his eight year long friendship with the wavy-haired, brunette boy he had come to love as a brother.

The parched, dried-out grass crunched under the pressure of his scuffed, workman-style boots as he neared the sprightly girl residing on the uneven porch steps. With her wicked, flirtatious eyes fixated on him, she continued her slow and sensuous assault on the fruit-flavoured ice block - forcing the tangy popsicle to hit against the back of her throat as she, once again, swallowed the diminishing span. His halted in his tracks, crouching down so that his ravenous, indigo eyes were level with hers. They bore resentfully deep into hers as his tongue lasciviously traced itself across the chewed-up line of his bottom lip.

Leisurely, she pulled the orange-infused popsicle from the depths of her throat as a saintly, mischievous smirk dancing its way across her blemishless complexion - tugging the corners of her rose-tinted lips upwards. Her peach-toned lips were swollen from the exaggerated contact with the contrasting, cold snack, and stained with the glistening, fruit-infused nectar. With her fingers still clenched around the saturated, wooden stick, and drenched in the sticky, citrus juices, she tilted the remains of the orange-flavoured popsicle towards the defeated blonde, “want a lick?” Her voice exuded innocence, yet still carried sultry, velvet undertones. She knew damn well that she was coaxing him further towards the edge - and she was basking in every second of his sexual torture.

Tenderly, he brushed his calloused thumb over the delicate skin of her chin, wiping away the wandering trail of fruit juice, “behave.” His usually playful, light-hearted tone was stern and demanding as he brought his thumb up to his thin, chapped lips. Dragging his tongue across his juice-soaked thumb, he lapped up the pleasantly zesty syrup, before continuing to make his way towards the Chateau’s entrance. His footsteps were heavy and lumbering as they ascended up the several uneven stairs - however, he had merely reached the vicinity of the open doorway when she spoke again.

“Say that again, but with your hand around my throat,” the words flowed so casually from her swollen mouth, yet her tone reflected yearning and desire.

“What was that?” he challenged her coarse, suggestive words as his loud, burly footsteps came to an immediate halt. His untamed eyebrows raised out of pure awe, despite his unsettled expression being out of her sight - her salacious demands catching him completely off guard. The shaggy-haired blonde kept his back to her, refusing to allow her the satisfaction of witnessing his now quite obvious erection as it left a visible imprint against his swimming shorts.

“I said,” she peered over her exposed shoulder, her voice sugary and honey-like as a chaste, holy grin etched itself into her sun-soaked features, “it’s a nice day, we should go out on the boat.” From his toned, well-worked back muscles peeking through his off-white t-shirt, to the loose clenching of his meaty, ring-clad fingers - her insatiable, corrosive eyes scrutinised every inch of his slim physique.

“That’s what I thought,” he replied plainly, before disappearing through the abundance of clutter - into the bathroom.

[star-spangledstud]

PARADISE

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader 

Summary: The Avengers enjoy a hard-earned vacation.

Word Count: 3700-ish

Warnings: Fluff (None)

Blistering heat. Skin sticky from several layers of coconut-scented sunblock with built-in self-tanner, causing a dewy glow to set upon your bronzed, heated skin. A bright pink cocktail stood beside the tanning bed you were laying on, a slice of fresh lime and a tiny blue umbrella hanging off the side of the glass. Drops of condensation made their way down the length of the fishbowl shaped glass, collecting on the palm tree coaster it sat on. You sipped it every minute or so through a neon yellow plastic straw, allowing the icy drink to cool you down while the alcohol warmed the back of your throat as it went down.

You turned the page of your romance novel, green doe eyes covered by large black sunglasses following along the words written on the tattered paper. A glance up from your book to the pool area in front of you revealed toned bodies in brightly colored swimming trunks and skimpy bikinis sprawled everywhere. Natasha sat beside you on Wanda's sunbed. She'd braided her hair and was busy putting flowers in it. Fake daisies by the looks of it, made of cloth with little plastic stems. You smiled and took another sip, savoring the sour taste and slushy texture and took a mental note to order the same thing over dinner later. Then, you turned back to your book.

Steve loved summer. Perhaps it was the stark contrast provided by the sun's rays to the ice he was trapped in for so long or the scent of nature in bloom all around him that sparked his admiration for the season. He wasn't sure. All he knew is that he enjoyed the blistering heat and the breeze carrying the scent of fresh flowers across the resort.

His skin had become wrinkly from spending hours on end in the pool with the guys, but he was finally starting to win the game of volleyball against Sam and Thor, and Captain America did not like to lose. He'd tried to convince Tony and Bruce to join them but they were sitting in the shade, stacks of paper and two laptops covering the sunbeds around them. You smiled and shook your head at them, but didn't comment on their constant need to work, even though it was Tony's idea to take everyone away for a two-week paid trip to paradise in the first place. Maybe he just really loved showing off his money. You didn't care, because you were sipping on your fourth free cocktail.

Your eyes drifted back to the water glistening beneath the rays of the sun, to Steve, who was laughing so hard at something Peter said his hand went to his chest.

Steve felt your eyes on him as soon as you lowered your sunglasses to the bridge of your nose so you could watch him lose the game. He held his hand up to the guys, motioning for them to continue without him. Peter begged him to stay, knowing he could never win the game by himself, but Steve already waded to the edge of the pool. Instead of using the metal stairs, he gripped the edge of the pool and lifted himself out in a fluid motion. Water dripped from his torso and out of his shorts, leaving a trail of it on the marble tiles as he closed in on you.

He softly took a hold of your calves, lifting your legs and placing them into his lap so he could sit down on the sunbed. You placed your book on your chest, marveling at drops of water that ran down his milky white torso. That boy did not tan.

"Tired?" You teased, eyes drifting to Thor smashing the ball across the water.

"I can go all day, remember?" He replied, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"Sore loser then," you retorted, "nothing wrong with admitting defeat."

"'S not in my genes, I'm afraid," he paused, "so, what' cha reading?"

Even after the sun had set behind the palm trees, the heat remained. The air was still heavy and humid by the time you woke up from your pre-dinner nap and the second you stepped out of your shower, your skin was sticky again. You'd already given up on washing your hair. It would just get greasy again.

It was nearly nine when all of you met up at the restaurant. Overlooking the beach, you had a perfect view of the waves that crashed upon the shore from your seat at the table. You ordered the same ridiculous cocktail and were sipping it quietly, listening to your teammates conversating. Shadows of the palm trees waving gently in the breeze cascaded across the candlelit tables, hypnotizing you for a moment.

Tony's laugh broke your trance and you smiled, not really having listened to the joke. He stood up, scraping his chair back across the cobblestone. His glass of white wine swirled when he rose and he used a fork to tap the side of his glass. Silence immediately fell over the table.

"A toast, to the most annoying yet best teammates a guy like me, could ever ask for," he grinned, "the only reason why I'm saying this is because I've been day-drinking. They make hella Pina Coladas here."

"We know," Natasha said, grinning widely, "we love you too, Tony."

Waiters circled around the tables that had been pushed together to accommodate all of you, plates filled with various kinds of gourmet dishes balancing on their arms and in their hands. You raised your glass, smiling while everyone else did the same.

You looked at Steve, who had taken a seat beside you. He'd traded his swim shorts for a pale blue button-up shirt of which he'd rolled up the sleeves. A shark-tooth necklace, courtesy of one of the salesmen down at the beach who just wouldn’t leave him alone, hung around his neck. It was perfectly visible through the undone buttons on his chest. His hair was fluffy and soft from being in the water all day. You could tell he hadn't tried to style it with gel.

You almost hated yourself for watching him, even from the corner of your eye. It was a habit that had crept into your system over the course of four months. A habit that resembled an addiction to drugs. It was just fun at first, but your constant need to have your eyes on Steve had turned into a necessity, into a way of life.

The two of you had always hit it off. He was the first person to introduce you to the rest of the team when you were initially hired and he had taken it upon himself to show you the ropes and guide your training after that. He made you feel comfortable in an environment filled with strong, confident people during a time in which you felt like a small fish in a big pond. He watched your back on missions and took you to the city on days off - although admittedly, he mostly brought you along for his own selfish reasons.

He forced you to take him to places like McDonald's and KFC, not because the food - although advertised as such - was finger-licking good, but because he'd missed out on the experience of greasy fast food when he was growing up in the previous century. He forced you to take him to BestBuy, not because he was in the market for a new smart-fridge, but because he needed you to explain the appliances that had been invented after he went into the ice without judging him for his continuous stream of questions. It wasn't until your throat was sore from all the talking that he would take you to a coffee shop so you could sit down and enjoy a hot beverage. Not Starbucks though. Way too crowded and the drinks were too complicated. What the hell was a Frappuccino, anyway?

It was during those days where you began to glance at him. Peaks, out of the corners of your eye when he was trying to figure out whether to order a Quarterpounder or a Big-Mac. Admiration for adjusting so quickly in a world so far away from his own, for accepting it. Glances turned into zoned-out stares that focused on his features until he'd wave his hand in front of your face and ask you what planet you were on. Your cheeks would heat up every time, a sight he loved - but would never admit - and you would stammer and make up a stupid excuse about being tired.

You hated the feeling of butterflies fluttering around in your stomach whenever he would brush his arm against yours during the movie nights, or when his knees would hit yours as you sat opposite each other in the coffee shop. You hated the lopsided smiles he gave you when he thought you weren't looking and hated how close he would stand to you in the kitchen when you were making breakfast, shirt off and sweatpants riding low on his perfectly sculpted hips.

You hated how you'd begun to develop a crush on Steve Rogers. It just crept up on you, silent and deadly like a black viper. It had wiggled its way into your heart and settled there, causing it to hammer skip every time you were near him. You wanted to punch yourself for acting like a lovesick puppy because you were sure it was a one-sided thing and yet even as you laid in bed at night with thoughts racing and images of Steve flashing before closed lids, you couldn't turn your fucking brain off long enough to think clearly.

You and Steve were friends. Not just friends, either, but best friends. You spent so much time together it made Tony gag. Natasha couldn't stop obsessing over the two of you, constantly trying to prove that you were secretly dating. Even Bruce caught wind of the closeness of your supposedly platonic relationship and when he caught the two of you in the common room late one night doubled over in hysterical laughter, piles of blankets and fluffy pillows surrounding you on the couch you were sitting on, even he was convinced there was more going on than you were letting on.

As you were sitting on a tropical island, surrounded by the people that you cared for the most, a part of you wished there was. How nice it would be to experience a vacation at a fancy resort in the tropics with a romantic partner. You snorted, picking up your knife and fork while shaking your head. There was nothing going on between you and Steve and as far as he was concerned, there never would be. You were friends, after all, best friends at that, and there was no way that Steve could be interested in you in any other way. He was so perfect in every way and you were just, ordinary. Plain, a Big-Mac without toppings.

Dessert came before you even realized what was going on. You were buzzed at this point from all the cocktails you'd consumed and instead decided to order a glass of ice water to accompany the chocolate lava cake you had ordered. You only ate half, stomach feeling like it was going to burst at any point if you ate any more. Steve, being the gentleman he was, took the fact that you placed your spoon down as a sign and finished it for you.

"Y/N?"

You hadn't heard him coming.

He was standing behind you suddenly, shirt unbuttoned further than before and hair blowing in the wind that had started to pick up. Of course, it had been Tony's idea to host a private party after dinner in the club that was attached to the resort. Employees of SHIELD and the Avengers were dancing inside, booze flowing just as smoothly as the music. You'd stepped outside for only a moment in desperate need for some fresh air and time to think. 

It was still warm outside, the soft breeze feeling wonderful on your slightly reddened skin. 

"Hey," you said, elbows leaning on the railing that separated the resort from its private beach, "what are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same question," he said smartly, offering you a sip of his sprite, "This is a nice place."

"It's beautiful," you mused, watching the gentle waves and the pearly white sands ahead.

"Yeah," Steve mumbled, "it is."

Seeing you in a white triangle bikini was the single most amazing thing Steve had ever seen. It had taken all his strength not to rip you from the beach and into your bungalow where he could kiss you and have you all to himself at last. The salty water had transformed your hair into waves, and the sun had kissed your skin and made you glow. You were on a towel on your stomach, book in front of you and sunglasses hiding your eyes. A bottle of sunscreen poked out of the tote bag you brought and a bottle of water stood perched up into the sand. It had to be warm by now, but you didn't care.

He loved seeing how much you enjoyed this. How naturally you adjusted to the change of pace, how you blended in with the scenery as if you'd always been there. He got to see a side of you he'd never seen before when you were in New York, where the rain seemed to permanently hang over the city. He loved how you interacted with people you were so used to seeing only at work,  but this also made him jealous. He was used to being one of the only people you would hang out with in private but now, you'd practically been glued to everyone but him. How badly he wanted to take you out for a stroll on the beach alone or enjoy a cocktail with you with no-one else watching. Hell, he'd even dance for you at that club with the music he could hardly call music if it meant he got to spend more time with you alone.

He was playing volleyball again, on the beach this time. Half of your party had gone out on scooters for an island excursion, but not you. You had decided that your book was more important, and so you were reading the final chapter with the sun cascading on your back. He'd tried to get you to join him earlier, but once again, you'd declined. Not now, when you were so close to finishing the book. The main character was about to confess her love for the man she'd been chasing for years. She had finally built up the courage to tell him how she really felt. Her words caused your stomach to clench and your heart to pound. You had to know how it would end.

But even the most experienced of readers required a break every once in a while. You were hot, extremely hot and in desperate need of something to cool you off. Alas, the water you'd brought had warmed up, offering no relief from the constant heat blazing down on you. You got up, placing the book into your bag so it wouldn't get covered in the sand and stretched your limbs.

You looked around the beach for a while, noticing it was a lot quieter with half the staff gone for the day and exhaled, allowing a deep breath to escape your lungs while you began to jog across the hot sand.

"When are you going to tell her you're in love with her?" Tony asked with a smug smirk on his face and the ball in his hands.

Steve swallowed, catching the ball with ease.

"You're supposed to hit it back, not catch it and stand there like a dead guy," Tony commented, "Anyway, you dig her and for some reason, you're too afraid to just man up and tell her. Why?"

"Because," Steve said, "we're just friends."

"Yeah, no shit Sherlock. Look, nothing's ever gonna change unless you act and you're an idiot if you think she doesn't feel the same way. Plus, I made a bet with Tash, so you better step up your game and get to it. Like, right now."

"Tony, I can't do that."

"Give me one good reason. Go on, I'm waiting." Another cocky smirk.

"We're coworkers."

Tony rolled his eyes, "Oh please, Fury doesn't give a shit and neither do I. Sign a couple of forms if you have to. Listen, pal if you don't make a move soon, someone else is bound to come in and sweep her off her feet and you'll be sorry forever."

Steve thought for a moment, watching as you walked further away from him and cursed Tony for being right. Again.

"She's the only one who can tolerate your shit, Rogers. Don't let her get away so easily."

Your feet were just touching the water when a hand around your upper arm stopped you from walking into the ocean. You'd ventured out to a more quiet area of the beach, where the only sound audible was the crashing of waves and seagulls over your head. You could still see your towel from where you stood, but the details had become blurry. Perfect.

"Hey,"  you said, voice sounding startled after you'd turned to look at whoever was holding you.

"I don't know why I allowed Tony of all people to convince me to do this, but I wouldn't be here if what he said to me didn't have a truth to it so I suppose it was for the best." Steve stammered, hands now on your shoulders as if to shield them from the sun.

"What are you talking about?" You asked, confused.

"Do you like me?" He asked, cheeks reddening more and more with each passing second. You couldn't tell through the darkness of your sunglasses, but he didn't know that.

"Of course I do Steve, you're my best-" He cut you off, testosterone and adrenaline taking over now.

"Not like that. Listen, you make me happy. Like, happy, happy. I don't mean the kind of happy that I get when I run into Sam at the gym and he has a fresh smoothie and a bagel for me, or when we successfully complete a mission and return home safely. It's not the kind of happy I get when I drink my favorite coffee, or when I see a dog at the park."

"What are you saying?" You whispered, eyes hidden by tinted glasses sliding across his face for any sign of fuckery.

There was none. You're suddenly painfully aware of the water swishing against your legs, aware of the grains of sand beneath your feet and his touch, which burned hotter than any sun in the universe could ever do. It's like you'd taken a step inside the book you were just reading.

"You make me feel things I haven't felt before, but want to feel all the time. I crave you when you're not there. The brush of your fingers, the softness of your voice and your laugh, Y/N, I need to hear it all the time and hell, I don't want to even think about having to share it with anyone else because I can't stand to bear the thought." He realized he was being dramatic, but he didn't care.

It disgusted him how easy it had been for Tony to convince him to tell you, but he was right. Walking on eggshells around you was ridiculous and even though Steve realized that being this honest could ruin everything in a matter of seconds, he also knew that lying was a habit he hated and he had been lying to himself for far too long by pretending to accept your friendship as the endstage.

Your hand was on his chest before he knew what was happening. A small smile played on your rosy lips, yet there was hesitation hidden behind those sunglasses. Hesitation, because what if the only reason why he said those words to you was because of a stupid bet? You were almost convinced of it, but his blue orbs told you the truth far better than any of his words could ever do. He was searching for confirmation, waiting for you to tell him you felt the same. Hell, they were begging you to say something, anything just to get the anticipation out of the way. It was like a horror movie, where you knew a jump scare was coming but you didn't know when.

"I do like you,"  you said finally, "more than dogs at the park."

An amused expression on your face allowed him to finally breathe again. Bright blue eyes still intensely scanned your face, just to make sure you too were telling the truth. He wasn't a walking lie detector - unlike Natasha - but he could tell you were honest.

"I want to take you out," more adrenaline, "properly. Not a coffee shop date, but a real date. With flowers and dinner."

Your heart clenched, second hand finding his chest, "I would like that."

It was hard to stand on the tip of your toes while being in the sand. You sank a little, so it kind of defeated the purpose, but still, you did your best to gain some height on the tall man in front of you. His piercing blues traveled across your shoulders, followed a trail of glimmering sunshine along your body and you sighed, almost fearful you ended up with a heat stroke and were currently delusional. Or drunk. Or both.

But his lips, salty from the ocean water he took in when he went under a while ago and soft, felt very fucking real. You could hardly believe it because did dreams really come true, but hell yeah they did, because you were in one right now and you were not asleep. You were kissing, mouth on mouth and it didn't stop there, because your tongue soon slipped in - you blamed the alcohol you had earlier for your sudden boldness. Blamed him too, for overwhelming you with it.

You didn't even care about the fact that Tony and some level 6 SHIELD employees were watching you guys make out on a private beach. Didn't give a damn about the fact that Tony picked up his phone to call Natasha about how she now owed him $200, or how your sunscreen was starting to wear off and your skin would soon turn red. You finally had Steve right where you wanted him, really had him now, and you didn't plan on letting go anytime soon.

[saintaugustinerp]

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 16TH.

The Augustine Weekly Gazette runs an article exploring some of the school’s “secret traditions.” Predominantly, the focus is on the annual Bonfire organized by the senior class: its origins, its legacy, the long-standing pretense of secrecy. Alongside the printed text, photos appear that present a retrospective: there are some grainy ones from the newspaper’s archives dating as far back as the class of 1972, but most of them are more recent, depicting grinning faces captured half-in and -out of the firelight like worshippers at a pagan ritual. Most students won’t give these photos more than a passing glance. The editors always make sure not to implicate anyone with photos where they’re too drunk, or doing something indecent; no one worries that they’ll be exposed for crimes they can barely remember committing. But there’s one photo from last year that might give a reader pause, if only because it seems like it was included by mistake. It’s too dark, a little blurry. The glow of the fire has been replaced by the shadowed bodies of trees. The figures in it seem to be in the woods, and the collection of people is an odd one too- most of the faces are recognizable, but not all of them are equally familiar. If you look closely enough, though, you can pick out more details than you saw at first glance. A shock of pale white hair. Red lips, parted into a feline smile. A sharp profile and hooded gaze that you know you’ve seen in the halls before. Down at the bottom of the page, credit is given: Photography Contributor, Elizabeth Bright. 

To most, the photo means nothing. The gazette will end up discarded in the trash and its contents will be just as easily forgotten as last week’s. But a select few will see it, and maybe their blood will go still. Is it a message? A warning? A mistake? Are there more? What does it mean? What does she want? Nothing about it is incriminating; it’s an innocent photo, though a strange one. But it raises questions to which only one person has the answers. The problem is, how to find out, how make sure- without tipping the whole hand?

THURSDAY, JANUARY 17TH.

Light creeps slowly down the mountain sides. The morning that dawns on campus is cold and clear, and Alix Deschamps, along with a small group of other students, decide to skip their classes and go skating on the frozen surface of Lake Lucerne. The weather is far from warm, but the sun has been very strong the past few days; it’s created a strange combination of slushy, melting snow underfoot and sharp icicles poised to fall overhead. A fake thaw like this makes the body feel restless, like the soul is stirring awake before the winter is even over. Everyone is eager for a spring that’s still months away. The group sits to lace up their skates, swapping aimless chatter. Alix sits on a nearby rock. When she looks down at her feet, it’s then that something catches her eye: a dull glint of silver, some piece of rusted metal lost to the oblivion of snow. Probably fell out of someone’s pocket and got buried early in the winter. Ungloved fingers reach down to work it free from where it’s wedged beneath the rock, and she comes to the realization that it’s a lighter-- and then, the slow, spreading chill of a second realization. She knows whose lighter this is. With her thumb, she clears the snow and dirt away from an engraving she’s seen before: The Wells family emblem, a tree with a hearth beneath it. The lighter was a gift. A gift given to him by his sister. She doesn’t have to flip it over to know what initials will be on the back: F.L.W.

A friend has come closer. Their frown is directed down at the thing in her hand. “What is that?” Her response is hesitant, but the set of her jaw, the look in her eyes, both are hard. “It’s Freddie’s.”

FRIDAY, JANUARY 18TH. 

No one saw who did it. It was already there, hours before sunset, when the first group of seniors came up the mountain to begin clearing snow and dead leaves away from the scorched circle in the middle of the clearing. The words were spray-painted somewhat sloppily onto the surrounding pines. Each broad trunk bore one individual letter:

                                                          R I P   F R E D S !

As they stacked logs, piled them high with bark scraps and pine needles now brittle, dry, ready for burning, the seniors glanced up again and again as if they half-expected the words to be gone each time they looked. Should we try and wash it off? Only shrugs were exchanged. When the first partygoers came wading through the deep snow, bottles swinging from their fingertips and cheers erupting at the sight of the fire, the message was still there to greet them. Some frowned at it, perplexed. They sought out other faces in the crowd that were also going dark. Others raised their uncorked wine bottles, their monogrammed whiskey flasks, and echoed back the words in a cheery toast, passing it around and around over the course of the night like a song-less refrain. Their interpretation was a simple one: the dead are gone, so why not drink to their memory?

But the intent of this strange memorial is hard to know. Was it done in anger? As a sick joke? Or is it a genuine gesture for a boy who died, tragically, one year ago to the day? The yellow paint remains visible even once the sun slips behind the mountain, with only the fire providing light. Empty bottles collect in the snow like debris washed up on a beach. It feels wrong to turn your back to the words completely, but studying them for too long invites a chilly unease, one that creeps in past the warmth of alcohol and fire and familiar company. There are some new rumors going around, inspired by the events of the previous day. “I heard it it still had his blood on it.” “So is that where it happened? Did he fall into the lake and drown?” “How could you fall? There’s nowhere to fall from.” The lighter, the words on the trees. The night itself. A convergence of omens. But the party goes on despite - or maybe in spite - of them all.

THE 2019 BONFIRE

“The origins of the Bonfire aren’t exactly known,” the article in the Augustine Gazette concluded, “but the spirit in which it’s held has remained unchanged over the decades. It marks the start of another year, the flipping of a page, old making room for new. To many generations of Augustine students, it has been regarded as a symbolic night of change and growth, a toast to the exciting openness that lies ahead of us all. On Bonfire night, we bury the past, and we make a celebration out of the future.” Burying the past, that’s what this night is supposed to be about. Yet something feels different this year- whether it be those dripping letters painted onto the trees, or the name of a dead boy once again on people’s lips, the past hasn’t been buried, it’s been resurrected. On all sides, there’s the feeling of something bad closing in; some old monster watching from the forest, eyes burning like coals. For some, it’s given the name of guilt. For others, it is grief. And for the rest, maybe the unease comes from the way the leafless branches rake up against the sky like hands calling for attention; maybe it’s the darkness that seems darker than usual, the fire that doesn’t scatter shadows so much as create more of them. Whatever it might be, every one of them will begin to realize that the Bonfire has become something different now. This night isn’t a celebration anymore. It’s an anniversary. 

/ OOC INFORMATION /

WHEN? ➢ IC: FRIDAY JAN 18 ➢ OOC: THURSDAY JAN 17TH -- tbd

WHERE? THE DASHBOARD

WHO? THE ENTIRE AUGUSTINE STUDENT BODY

Enjoy everyone, and feel free to let us know if you have any other questions regarding the event!

[kelpiesedge]

Calling all YA fans! We have a special early Christmas present for you! Award-winning author Claire McFall has written a brand new chapter in the Ferryman saga! Read on to find out what exactly happened at Dylan’s Christmas Dance. 

Look out for the series finale, Outcasts, in March 2019!

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It was snowing. Not the beautiful, pristine blanket of white that glistened in Christmas movies; this was more wet, slushy, gross snow, churned up and muddied by cars on the road and then spat onto the pavement. Which was why Dylan was wearing a glittering, purple party dress… and wellingtons.

She had her shoes in a plastic bag, though, her fingers clinging to the handles and slowly going numb thanks to the cold night air. Her other hand was toasty warm, tucked into Tristan’s. Dylan peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. She’d tried to talk him into hiring a kilt for the dance, but he’d balked at the idea of donning “a skirt” and instead was dressed in his black school trousers and a dark blue shirt that made his eyes seem to glow in an unearthly way. He’d hacked at his long hair the week before, instructing a barber to cut it tight to the sides of his head, leaving a deliberate disarray of spikes on top. Dylan had been horrified as she’d sat in the waiting area of the hairdressers – she loved running her fingers through his hair – but Tristan said he was sick of it getting in the way. It had been a shock at first, but now that Dylan had grown accustomed to his new shorn look, she had to admit it suited him. It emphasised the angles of his face, gave him a leaner, fiercer look.

She grinned, shaking her head at him when he eyed her quizzically. She wanted to pinch herself. She, Dylan McKenzie, was heading to a Christmas dance, hand in hand with the best-looking boy at school; the best-looking boy in Glasgow (or anywhere, really). Loving that fact was shallow, and she’d never admit it out loud – she pressed her lips together tightly and just smiled when Tristan followed up his look with a questioning squeeze of her hand – but she did love it. A year ago she’d never have dreamt she could experience this kind of happiness.

The only thing marring her evening was she couldn’t tell anyone the boy beside her was all hers. To everyone else at Kaithshall Academy, she and Tristan were cousins.

As they got close to the school, she gently disengaged their fingers. And felt the loss immediately – not just because it was cold. Tristan tried to regain her hand, but she dodged his searching fingers.

“People will see,” she murmured.

“So?” Tristan replied, though she knew he wasn’t serious. They’d had this discussion several times before.

There was a queue to get into the school, tickets once again being carefully checked – and rechecked – by the industrious McManus. He glowered indiscriminately, Scrooge standing in the way of all the Christmas fun.

“What’s in the bag?” he demanded when it was Dylan and Tristan’s turn to present their tickets. “Are you trying to sneak alcohol into a school event, young lady?”

“It’s my shoes,” Dylan answered, holding the bag open for him to inspect.

He peered in, like the contents might jump out and attack him, pursing his lips disapprovingly at the pair of spike-heeled sandals that Dylan had bought in a moment of madness and was now dreading having to dance in.

“Hmmm. And you?” He scowled at Tristan, who was wearing a thin jacket over his shirt. Tristan just stared back at him, refusing to be cowed – or searched – and to Dylan’s delight McManus backed down first, raising a disgruntled arm towards the entrance. Dylan suppressed her smile as they hurried inside. She had the feeling the bad-tempered history teacher considered every pupil he was forced to admit a personal affront.

A giant Christmas tree dominated the school’s reception area. It stood at a slightly drunken angle, and the baubles and tinsel had been thrown on in a haphazard, uneven fashion, but the lights twinkled merrily. Along with the jaunty Christmas music filtering in from the assembly hall, it gave Dylan a sparkly, festive feeling.

Or maybe that was the glass of very spiked eggnog that her dad had slipped into both their hands while her mum tried to organise pictures in front of the fireplace.

“Come on,” Dylan said, grabbing Tristan’s arm and tugging him along towards the cloakroom. They both ditched their jackets and Dylan yanked off her wellingtons with relief. Hanging on to Tristan for balance, she slipped her shoes on and stood up in them experimentally. They’d been fine in the confines of her bedroom and she thought she’d be okay – so long as she stayed in this exact spot and didn’t try to make any sudden movements.

“These may have been a mistake,” she admitted to Tristan.

“It’s all right,” he grinned back at her. “I’ll stay close by, so that if you fall, it’ll be straight into my arms.”

Dylan snorted. “That’s an awful line,” she grimaced.

“Sorry.” Tristan’s eyes twinkled, completely unrepentant. “I blame your dad’s eggnog. What the hell was in that?”

“Brandy,” Dylan told him. “Eggs and cream… but mostly brandy. Come on, let’s go check out the hall.”

The music got louder as they entered, belted-out Slade lyrics competing with the din of several-hundred teenagers crammed into the space.

“I thought you said this would be country dancing?” Tristan shouted.

Though most of the young people in the hall were crowded around the chairs that lined the room, a fair few – mostly girls – were in the middle, moving, well, more accurately, gyrating to the music. The headteacher, standing by the refreshments table like a bouncer, was looking distinctly pale, probably at the thought of wading into the middle of the scantily clad group and trying to enforce school-appropriate dance moves. Good luck with that, Dylan thought.

“It is,” Dylan shouted back, taking wicked delight in crushing the relief on Tristan’s face. “See?” she pointed, “The ceilidh band’s setting up. It’ll start in a minute.”

“Great,” Tristan monotoned, and Dylan laughed.

“Say it like you mean it!” she told him, amused.

They’d had several country dancing lessons in PE over the last few weeks. For Dylan, who’d been forced to practise the set pieces since primary school, it was nothing new, or special. She was just delighted to have someone to dance with – the people who couldn’t find a partner had to pair up with a teacher. Tristan, on the other hand, hated it.

It was strange. Normally, he moved confidently, gracefully; he was at ease with his body. At the Halloween dance, he’d burled Dylan around like he’d spent every day doing it. But apparently, doing a pas de basque was completely beyond him, and the progressive dances – where you had to keep changing partners – utterly baffled him. Dylan found it endearing – and hilarious. For once, she was the leader and not the klutz.

“Promise me I’ll only have to dance with you,” Tristan pleaded.

“I promise,” Dylan replied, “I don’t think it would be right to inflict you on anyone else anyway!”

She certainly didn’t want him dancing with Cheryl, or Steph, or any of their moronic friends. The whole bunch of them were, of course, in the thick of the writhing, dancing bodies.

The song ended and, instead of the thumping bass of another pop song, the screech of fiddles and an accordion pierced the sudden quiet.

“All right!” Mrs Peters, the Head of PE, clambered up onto the stage, microphone in hand. “Pairs on the dance floor for a Gay Gordon!”

“You know this one!” Dylan exclaimed.

“Yippee!” Tristan deadpanned.

Feeling light and happy enough that she was all but bouncing on her overly high heels, Dylan hauled Tristan onto the dance floor. Positioning herself in front of him, she grabbed his hands, placing one down by her side and the other over her shoulder.

“Just watch everybody else and do what they do,” she instructed. “You’ll be fine.”

Tristan nodded, expression grim. He looked like a prisoner about to face the walk to the executioner’s chair.

“I love you,” she told him, unable to contain her smile in the face of his misery.

“Humph,” he said.

If they weren’t surrounded by half the school – and if they weren’t supposedly cousins – she’d have kissed him.

The music changed into the rhythm for the dance and they started forwards.

“Forward two, three, four.” She twisted, tugging Tristan’s hands to make him do the same. “Back two, three, four. Forward two, three, four.” Twist. “Back two, three, four. Now,” she dropped one of his hands, “just walk.” Putting all of her weight on the ball of her foot, she spun beneath Tristan’s arm. “Okay, waltz! Round and round and round we go, ready to start again!”

By the third time through, Tristan had it, and Dylan was able to stop her muttered instructions and just enjoy the flow of dancing with him. His warm hands, the strength of his body when he held her, his martyred expression…

“See?” she commented when the music stopped. “You can do it!”

“Great. Please tell me we can spend the rest of the night sitting on one of those lovely comfy chairs over there. Or better yet, find some quiet, dark corner where we can—”

“Right folks, next up is a Strip the Willow. Everybody into sets of eight, please.”

Strip the Willow – Dylan’s absolute favourite. Spinning, twirling and burling – and if your feet didn’t leave the floor you weren’t doing it right. She bit her lip and eyed Tristan hopefully. He looked at her, then at the chairs, then at the dance floor. Heaving a sigh, he turned and wordlessly led her towards the chaos of pupils trying to get into position.

Dylan got Tristan through a Strip the Willow, a Canadian Barn Dance and even a Dashing White Sergeant, though he was clearly unimpressed that he had to share her with Robbie Muldoon from their science class for that one.

The next dance, a quickstep, was a progressive and Dylan gave in to the horrified (and terrified) look on Tristan’s face and let him drag her out of the hall. They bypassed the queue for the toilets and Tristan tugged her a little way up the technical corridor. This was out of bounds, the lights off, but he shouldered through the double doors until they were encased in near-night darkness.

“Tristan! What are we doing here?”

“Guess,” Tristan replied, nudging Dylan over until her back was to the wall and he was towering over her. “I want to collect my reward.”

Dylan smiled, her hands finding Tristan’s in the dark. That was how she’d enticed him here in the first place, promising a kiss for every dance he survived.

“If we get caught—”

“We won’t,” he promised. “Now, by my count that was four dances, and I think I deserve double for that last one.”

“Hmmm. Maybe…” Dylan lifted herself up until her nose was level with his chin – Tristan was too tall for her to get any higher.

“Will this convince you?” He pulled something out of his pocket and dangled it above Dylan’s head.

“What on earth is it?” Dylan peered in the dark.

“Mistletoe,” Tristan said, looking pleased with himself.

“Where did you get mistletoe?” Dylan snatched it out of the air, felt the hard, unyielding shape of it. “This is plastic! It totally doesn’t count!”

“Use your imagination,” Tristan insisted. He plucked it out of her hand and held it once more over her head, his expression aggrieved.  

“You’re adorable,” Dylan told him, grinning. She kissed his jaw, all she could reach until he dropped his head and pressed his mouth to hers. He kissed her until she ran out of breath and was forced to pull away.

“Merry Christmas,” she whispered. “Your first Christmas,” a bubble of laughter, “and your first Christmas dance.”

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered back. “My first Christmas… and hopefully my last Christmas dance!”

“We’ll see,” Dylan hedged. “I’ll sneak you more eggnog when we get home.”

“I’ll need it,” he grumbled.

The soft strains of music changed and Dylan turned her head.  

“Tristan!” she said. “It’s the Flying Scotsman. Come on, we have to do this one! Please!”

He groaned, burying his face in her neck, but he let her lead him back down to the hall and out onto the floor where they joined the throng preparing for the dance.

Her heart lifted at the whirling to come. Standing opposite Tristan, waiting to start, Dylan felt her throat tighten and her eyes glisten. He looked stoic, resigned… and pretty miserable. And he was doing it for her, because he loved her. It was a gift beyond measure. 

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Hungry for more? Both Trespassers and Ferryman are available to buy now! Get your copy for Christmas here! 

(And look out for the series finale, Outcasts, in March 2019!