very late indeed

i see all your “viktor can’t cook but yuuri can” headcanons and i see your “actually, i bet viktor’s pretty good at cooking, and yuuri is the useless one” headcanons and i raise you “viktor and yuuri are both absolutely useless at various types of housekeeping and their first month in saint petersburg is a disaster.”

hear me out: obviously viktor didn’t feel any genuine happiness in between the ages of seven and twenty-seven (with one blip on the radar in sochi) and because of that he threw himself wholly into figure skating and never bothered to learn any relevant life skills like how to drive a car, how to pay his taxes, how to operate a vacuum cleaner… yuuri, on the other hand, knows how to drive an automatic and can keep a house passably clean if he wants to, but cooking? absolutely not. back home in hasetsu he’s always spoilt by hiroko’s cooking, and in detroit he was too busy training and studying to have a healthy lifestyle. it was all, like, college hall food and lean cuisine microwave meals. do they have lean cuisine in america? yuuri is also definitely a Notorious Skipper Of Meals, so sometimes he just… wouldn’t bother…

and now they’re living together in this upmarket flat and there comes a point when they realise that neither of them know how to play house. that point is precisely three days into their cohabitation, when they’ve barely left the house, not even for the rink, because it’s just been one marathon shag after another. the sink is stacked with unwashed dishes with stains from microwave meals and dirty glasses and there’s a stain on one of the rugs which neither of them remember happening and viktor, who has never spent so much time indoors, discovers he has a dust allergy. just about the only thing they’ve done is take care of makkachin and head out out for walks.

as much as they wish it could, their life cannot revolve around their dog, so they get to negotiating: they draw up a roster for chores, who does what when, and they venture outside to hit up a grocery store for proper fruit and vegetables (”there will be no scurvy in this household!” viktor declares), neglecting to check the weather, and end up caught in a snowstorm. their shopping is sodden and when they get back indoors all they want to do is get close to each other for warmth and, well, you can imagine how that ends.

so, cooking. they decide their first proper meal is going to be katsudon, because of its importance to them (a few minutes of viktor teasing yuuri about how sexy it is turns into an hour in the bedroom and a very late dinner indeed) and how hard can it be? yuuri’s seen his mum cook it heaps of times. they don’t need a recipe, what are you talking about, viktor. well, needless to say, it does not work out. they undercook the rice and it is barely edible. they overcook the pork and make an absolute dog’s breakfast of crumbing it. the kitchen looks like a war zone. yuuri has bits of egg in his hair. they end up ordering pizza.

over the weeks, they do get better at it. viktor wants to have another go at katsudon but yuuri decides that going from zero to hero is a bit amibitous, so they start small, making things like omelettes and soups and levelling up slowly. actually, cooking is one of the things that comes easiest, after they figure out how much fun it can be. the housework is another matter. since it’s been so rarely occupied, viktor’s flat is a dustbowl, and every time he tries to dust he has a sneezing fit and lies on the couch like a regency maiden, beleaguered by his life of drudgery. yuuri knows how to clean, at least, but he has an unfortunate habit of getting distracted halfway through, which to be honest is mostly viktor’s fault, for distracting him. and now that they’re going to the rink more often, they’re home less, so if there’s a pile of both their clothes at the foot of their bed, then that’s a problem for another day.

everything comes to a head when yakov comes over unannounced one friday evening and has to step over jackets and half-used dust cloths to get to the bathroom and he goes absolutely ballistic on them and installs himself on the couch, refusing to leave until they’ve tidied the place up. “what’s the problem?” viktor says. “just let him stay. he can cook for us.” yuuri gives him the long-suffering look of a man who is engaged to his childhood crush and is going to be in the honeymoon period for the rest of his life; he looks viktor dead in the eye and says, “vitya. we are not fucking with yakov in the other room.” the flat is cleaner than it’s ever been within two hours. yakov stays for dinner, and it’s all very pleasant and domestic, but viktor is suffering from some serious sexual frustration, and the moment yakov is gone he hauls yuuri into the bedroom and they stay in there for the rest of the weekend, barring taking makkachin out for walks.

but after that. after that, they make an effort. by the time they start to throw semi-regular (dinner) parties, it’s almost like they’re respectable housekeepers, and no-one is any the wiser.

“My fingers jammed against one of the decorated hairpins, and I yanked at it impatiently. Tangled in my hair, it stuck.
“Ouch!”
“Here, milady. I’ll get it.”
I hadn’t heard him pass behind me, but I felt Fergus’s small, clever fingers in my hair, disentangling the tiny ornament. He laid it aside, then, hesitating, said, 

“The others, milady?”
“Oh, thank you, Fergus,” I said, grateful. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

His pickpocket’s touch was light and sure, and the thick locks began to fall around my face, released from their moorings. Little by little, my breathing slowed as my hair came down.
“You are worried, milady?” said the small, soft voice behind me.
“Yes,” I said, too tired to keep up a false bravado.

“Me, too,” he said simply.

The last of the hairpins clinked on the table, and I slumped in the chair, eyes closed. Then I felt a touch again and realized that he was brushing my hair, gently combing out the tangles.
“You permit, milady?” he said, feeling it as I tensed in surprise. “The ladies used to say it helped them if they were feeling worried or upset.”
I relaxed again under the soothing touch.
“I permit,” I said. “Thank you.” After a moment, I said, “What ladies, Fergus?”
There was a momentary hesitation, as of a spider disturbed in the building of a web, and then the delicate ordering of strands resumed.”

“At the place where I used to sleep, milady. I couldn’t come out because of the customers, but Madame Elise would let me sleep in a closet under the stairs if I was quiet. And after all the men had gone, near morning, then I would come out and sometimes the ladies would share their breakfast with me. I would help them with the fastening of their underthings—they said I had the best touch of anyone,” he added, with some pride, “and I would comb their hair if they liked.”
“Mm.” The soft whisper of the brush through my hair was hypnotic. Without the clock on the mantel, there was no telling time, but the silence of the street outside meant it was very late indeed.

“How did you come to sleep at Madame Elise’s, Fergus?” I asked, barely suppressing a yawn.
“I was born there, milady,” he answered. The strokes of the brush grew slower, and his voice was growing drowsy. “I used to wonder which of the ladies was my mother, but I never found out.”

-Dragonfly in Amber 


2
ΩPlease don't dawdle, Alice! We're very late, indeed!

coffeesugarcream  asked:

For the fic prompt thing - okay, this may sound veeery specific but...Feyre and Rhys helping Lucien to heal and defending him from Tamlin's manipulative influence? I don't know the contest or anything but HOW cute

Bless your soul for this prompt. I always love writing about my ginger child. (This… got a bit out of hand.)

Found on AO3 here!

————-

“Oh, like you’ve never –”

Feyre, two floors above and distracted by the note she’s writing to Rhys, still flinches at the snarl that cuts Lucien off. Tamlin takes issue with others mouthing off to him as much as any High Fae, and Lucien has been very mouthy indeed of late.

It’s been three months. Three months of planning and plotting. Three months of pretending to shudder at the very mention of her mate’s name. Three months of simpering and placing her lips on Tamlin’s cheek when needed and resisting the urge to disembowel him.

A lot has changed in three months. Cassian’s almost completely recovered, though he isn’t flying yet, and it’s doubtful whether he ever will; Elain’s started a garden of moonlace and jasmine on the roof of Rhys’s home in Velaris; Azriel and Mor are evidently, in Rhys’s words, “a thing.”

And Lucien…

Feyre isn’t sure whether it was her return that triggered the change, or the discovery of his mate, or maybe even the banishment of Ianthe, but something like a flame – bright and vibrant as his hair – has been rekindled in Lucien. She hadn’t realized it was gone until it was back. His eye no longer dulls, sweeps over her in hopeless despair. She catches him absentmindedly humming snatches of a folk tune, or playing a few tentative keys on the pianoforte, or braiding flowers into his hair. (She wonders how much he notices the mating bond; the flowers in question look remarkably similar to the ones Rhys describes Elain coaxing out of his roof.)

Of course, along with these changes comes a revival in Lucien’s quick tongue and sharp wit. She remembers it from her early days in the Spring Court, when it was directed at her.

Lucien, she thinks, has a knack for using it on exactly the people who will react the worst.

Just as her note disappears, Lucien storms into the room, slams the door behind him, and flings himself onto the couch. “That bastard is getting on my last nerve,” he growls.

Feyre shoots him a warning look. “Lucien –”

He waves a weary hand. “He’s out. Don’t know where. Meeting with Ianthe, for all I know. But not before…” The hand drops, and he rubs slightly at the blossoming bruise over his cheekbone.

Feyre hesitates, troubled. Lucien’s been invaluable in the past two months. He snapped a month after the Hybern fiasco, pushed back against Tamlin like he hadn’t since Under the Mountain. Afterwards, Feyre (still a bit reluctantly) tended his wounds as he muttered bitter words about what he wished he could do to change – all this, he said, change all this, everything he’s done.

She’d promised Rhys that she didn’t trust anyone at the Spring Court, but the genuine pain in Lucien’s face, the whirring of his golden eye as he made sure Tamlin hadn’t damaged it, cracked her composure. She told him. Not everything – not their plans, not details about the Inner Circle – but enough that she saw shock, then suspicion, then finally hope light his face. She explained about Rhys, what he was really like, why she was in love with him. Before Hybern, Lucien would’ve refused to believe it. Afterwards, he couldn’t ignore it.

“Mouthing off to him isn’t going to solve anything,” Feyre says, but her heart isn’t in it. She’s so relieved by the return of Lucien’s silver tongue that she would write a play just to hear him snark his way through the lines.

“I know, I know.” He lets out a frustrated sigh. “How do you do it? Just – keep quiet when he gets like this?” Feyre gives him a look. “All right, any time he opens his mouth?”

As she’s about to answer, Rhys’s response appears in midair and drops into her hand. “Like this,” she says, waving the page at Lucien. “Someone to talk to.” She feels a pang of unexpected sympathy. She knows Lucien wishes with all his heart that he could talk to Elain like she talks to Rhys, but that’s just not possible.

Lucien rubs his eyes. He looks tired. Not tired the way he did before – not hopeless – just bone-weary. “Maybe I should start writing to him, if he’s that pleasant of a correspondent.”

Feyre laughs again, but it isn’t as genuine as before. Since they allied, Lucien’s been taking the brunt of Tamlin’s outbursts. He doesn’t have daemati powers, and Feyre can’t always be with him to soothe Tamlin’s fury, tweak his thoughts. And that isn’t even taking into account the pain of being without his mate and the aftereffects of the months between Under the Mountain and Hybern. Lucien’s spirit is unquenched, but constant stress erodes even the hardest of hearts. And, Feyre thinks, that would not quite be the word to describe Lucien’s heart. It’s softer – like gold, perhaps:  resilient and invaluable, but able to be marked even by the slightest pressure.

“Lucien?”

“Hmm?” He glances at her, the note in her hand, and away again.

“If…” Feyre hesitates. “If there was a chance to leave the Spring Court – I’m not saying there will be, but if – would you take it?”

Lucien’s silent for a moment. His fingers absently stroke the textured wood of his chair. “Where would I go?” he finally says. “Not to the Autumn Court.”

“What if you could go to the Night Court?” Feyre asks carefully.

Lucien’s eyes snap to her, fingers stilling. In the silence, she can hear his golden eye whirring, adjusting and readjusting, seemingly unable to focus on her. “What?”

Feyre almost winces at the rawness in his voice. “You heard me.”

“I would take the chance,” Lucien finally says. “If I could.”

“I’ll remember that,” Feyre says, her voice quiet.

*************

She’s very nearly too late.

Afterwards, she thinks she should’ve seen it coming – should’ve seen how fast Tamlin’s sense was deteriorating, should’ve seen how vulnerable that left Lucien, the one within the blast range who didn’t have the powers of all seven High Lords.

Feyre hears Lucien’s scream from three floors away, and her blood runs cold. She winnows before she thinks about it, stepping through the fabric of space towards her friend. She can still hear the echo of his cry when the world resolves around her.

“Tam, please – please –”

“You’ve been spying for them!” Tamlin’s voice is all animal snarl, and his claws have burst through his knuckles. “Don’t try to deny it. After everything they did to Feyre – after they took your mate away –”

“You don’t understand, Tam.” Neither of them have seen Feyre yet, but she can see them. Tamlin has Lucien cornered, and – she feels a jolt of horror as she realizes that one of Tamlin’s knives, his Illyrian knives, is embedded in Lucien’s gut. His long, pale fingers are clenched over the steel, scarlet blood welling up between them. “Please, don’t do this. I’m your friend. I’m still your friend.”

“Liar!” Feyre sees, as if in slow motion, Tamlin pulling an arrow from his quiver and nocking it. Leveling it at Lucien’s heart.

Come. Now. That’s all the warning she’s able to give Rhys before she flings up her hand, and Tamlin’s arrow shatters against her shield.

“Don’t hurt him. Don’t you dare.” Darkness dances over her outstretched fingers, forming into talons for a moment before dissolving into shadow once more.

Tamlin whirls to face her. “Feyre? What…” The words die in his throat.

“Surprise,” Feyre snarls, the heavy wings only Lucien has seen before settling between her shoulderblades. “Touch him again, and you’ll pay in pain.”

“My, my, Feyre darling…” Unlike the first time he appeared in the Spring Court, there’s no clap of thunder, no lightning flash of darkness, that accompanies Rhys’s arrival. Instead, he simply steps to her side, straightening his lapels, his darkness winding into hers like a sweet caress. “Such manners. And to a High Lord, too. I never would have thought it of you. Oh, wait…” He gives her a wicked grin.

“Prick,” she murmurs affectionately. Thank you for coming so quickly.

Anytime, Feyre. He glances at her, violet eyes soft. I’ll always come to you when you call.

“You –” Tamlin nocks another arrow, but seems not to know who to point it at. “Fuck. Fuck. Get away from her, you bastard.”

“Tam,” Lucien croaks. He’s still bleeding, his face paling by the second. “Tam, for the Mother’s sake, leave it. You can’t – they’re mates, they’re in love. Let them be.”

You,” Tamlin snarls again, whipping around to face Lucien, dropping his bow and grabbing another of his knives, lunging at the red-haired Fae now that Feyre is distracted –

“Ah, ah, ah…” Rhys winnows between them with a sharp crack. “I think little Lucien’s suffered enough, don’t you?” Feyre stares, a smile growing slowly on her face, as Rhys turns around and carefully pulls Lucien to his feet. Then, as Lucien stumbles, his eyelids fluttering, Rhys (not without a small sigh) sweeps the other male into his arms. “Don’t read anything into this,” Feyre hears Rhys murmur to him. “This is the first and last time this will ever happen.”

“We’ll be leaving now, Tamlin,” Feyre says, striding over to join her mate and her friend. “Next time we see each other… you’d better have chosen the right side. Because if not, it’ll be the last.”

“Is that a threat?” he snaps, hands white-knuckled on his knife.

“No, Tam,” Feyre croons. At her command, the temperature and light in the room drop, as if the sun has gone out. “It’s a promise.”

Then she places a hand on Rhys’s shoulder, and they winnow.

Request -5- (make up sex) (mature, obvs)

Dear anon! Here’s what you requested! They fight and then have make up sex! Hope you like it :) xx

The room was dark, the only light coming from the television, but you didn’t even know what channel you were on. It was late, very late indeed and you kept constantly checking your phone, waiting for Ed to message you or call.

He should have been home a while ago and you started to worry, but then realized that you surely would know if something had happened, so you just kept waiting. Ed had been away for a long time and you missed him terribly. He had promised to come straight back home once he was back in the country, but either he wasn’t able to or he didn’t want to. Either way, you were angry that he didn’t even call to tell you that he would be late, or maybe not come home at all on that day.

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anonymous asked:

A classic someone walks in on Andreil fic lmao ;)

ok so I’ve to say writing from Nicky’s point of view is always so much fun !!! thanks for the prompt it was super relaxing n fun tbh, hope you like it.

on ao3

“Shit, I’m late” And though it’s not that common for Nicky to be late to things, classes are important for him, mind you. It’s not that usual that he stays up the night to study and he hasn’t really, in fact, he’s spent the night playing Overwatch with Matt and Dan. He’s always liked them and having time to share with them is kind of fun, despite wanting to make comments they wouldn’t approve of. Anyway, it’s not like Aaron and Kevin approved of his comments, “Have you seen that one ugly ass giant blue book with yellow shit on the cover?”

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boys' night

“What is this called, again?” Robin asked, frowning at the stadium entrance. “Hockey?”

“Yeah.” Henry tugged on his hand. “Come on, guys, let’s go. We don’t want to miss all the good stuff.”

Looking somewhat concerned, and shooting a glance at Killian for support, Robin proceeded. After the curse was broken, the two of them had decided that Henry, having been through the wringer, kidnapped, body-switched with Pan, lost his father, and so on and forth, could really use a vacation, and had teamed up to give the boy a good time. Whatever he wanted, they said. Henry had chosen a hockey game – he wanted to see the Boston Bruins – and so, despite their communal total ignorance of what any of these words meant, Killian and Robin had valiantly booked three train tickets to the city (neither of them felt up to tackling I-95, even if Emma and Regina had attempted to teach them how to drive). Now, after many fits and starts, they had found their way to the arena, and shuffled inside with the black-and-gold clad crowd.

There was a moment of minor crisis at the ticket booth, as Robin was puzzled by just how the credit card was supposed to work, but they got it sorted out without too much incident and clanked through the turnstiles. Henry wanted to go to the team store, so Killian and Robin dutifully shadowed him there, whereas it was Killian’s turn to purchase the boy a stuffed animal bedecked in a fun-size version of the team colors (the appeal of which he did not understand, but it made Henry happy, so let it be done). Once they had done so, Henry then wanted food (why had no one informed them how bloody expensive these sorts of things were?) So after acquiring something called “hot dogs” and “nachos,” as well as one jumbo soda for Henry and plain beer for themselves, they finally climbed up to find their seats.

Henry was chattering away, while Killian and Robin shot shifty glances to either side and attempted to look perfectly at their ease. Neither of them had the faintest clue what was supposed to happen next, so they followed Henry’s lead in standing for the anthem, clapping when the Bruins were introduced, and shouting rude items at their opposing number, some outfit entitled the “Vancouver Canucks.” It did not take them long to grasp the essential rules, however, and they were soon far too involved for their own good, yelling advice at the large men whizzing around the ice and viciously checking each other into the boards. Killian figured out what “drop the gloves” meant before anyone, and had to be restrained by Robin when he began yelling that the bastard was not fighting fair and he was displaying very bad form indeed. Henry was giggling furiously, but Killian still had a face like a thundercloud as he subsided into his seat (some pernicious uniformed gentleman called an “usher” was throwing censorious glances their way).

At the period break, they went out, got more food, stood in a tediously long line for the necessary, and then resumed their places. This was the way it went down to the “wire,” when the Bruins were trying to defend a one-goal lead and due to some unsportsmanlike idiocy on the part of one of their players, were short a man (he had been put in a box, which seemed rude) as time was running out. Killian, Robin, and Henry all stood and shouted with the rest of the crowd, gasped when the puck spun off the post as one of the Canucks took a desperate shot, and then burst into raucous cheers when the home side claimed the victory. Then they joined the slow throngs issuing out of the stadium, into the cold Boston night.

Henry had had altogether too much excitement by this point, and was wavering on his feet as they waited for the train, propped up by Robin. Then when they climbed aboard the warm car for the several-hour trip back to Maine, Henry keeled the other way and conked out on Killian’s shoulder. He didn’t move, not wanting to disturb the boy, not wanting to lose this moment, as the train started to move and the lights of Boston turned to indistinct blurs. He and Robin caught gazes over Henry’s head, and smiled a little wryly, a little sadly.

It was very late indeed by the time they got home, climbing off the bus. Henry was still asleep, so rather than wake him, Robin hoisted him up like a sack of potatoes. “I’ll see you later,” he whispered. “Take him back to Regina’s. Breakfast in the morning, maybe?”

“Aye, sounds good.” Killian grinned, watching them vanish into the cold night. Then he turned, let himself into the flat, and quietly climbed the stairs. Eased open the door into the bedroom, undressed, and carefully turned back the covers on his side of the bed.

He didn’t want to wake her. Just wanted to watch her; she looked so peaceful, freed for a single moment from the madness and hustle of their lives. But as he crawled in next to her, Emma stirred. “Hey,” she murmured. “Good time at the game?”

“Bloody marvelous, love.” Killian quickly pulled the quilts up, not wanting to let the warmth out. He made himself comfortable, and she nestled up against him, already falling back asleep, her tousled hair smelling like shampoo and sleep and Emma. He kissed her head, pulling her close, the boneless curves of her body against his, still a blessing he would not, could never get used to. And, closing his eyes, let dreams sweep him gently under.

chalkstains  asked:

I'm trying to make posters for women's history month for my university's Society of Physics Students to put up in our physics building. I've been looking for female physicists of color in particular, because we don't see enough of them; do any women (historical or still alive) come to mind that I could make posters for? I've found a few, but the fact that I've had to dig for a lot of them is extremely upsetting.

I’m so sorry this took me forever, and I realize it might be way too late.  It’s very upsetting indeed that I can’t think of any names off the top of my head myself.  I do have a lady scientists of color tag, so hopefully there is something helpful for you there!

Baby It's Cold Outside

For everybody who’s curled up away from the cold. 

I really can’t stay
(Baby it’s cold outside)
I gotta go away
(Baby it’s cold outside)
This evening has been
(Been hoping that you’d drop by)
So very nice
(I’ll hold your hands, they’re just like ice)

The fire roared and crackled, casting a warm glow on the only two inhabitants of the large manor that Christmas Eve night. Klaus and Caroline sat on the floor, legs extended in front of them, basking in the warmth of the flames and the comfort of one another. An empty bottle of wine sat between them, a half-full bottle of whiskey was being shared between the two, the liquid loosening their inhibitions and causing their laughter to ring freely and their words to tumble over one another. Slowly, inch by inch Caroline found herself closer to Klaus until her shoulder bumped his, their thighs touched and she found that she didn’t mind one single bit. Their conversation wound down into a lull until the chime of the old grandfather clock in the hallway rung out and Caroline realized how late it was getting.

“Soo…I should probably get going,” she said, her words regretful as she moved to get up but a large warm hand encased hers’ immediately. She turned to see Klaus staring at her intently, an easy smirk spreading across his face.

“Stay a while love, there’s no need to rush. Besides, it’s cold out there. ”

“Klaus, I should really get back to my hotel, I need to call my mom and wish her a Merry Christmas, and then tomorrow I need to call Bonnie-“

“These all sound like tasks that can be accomplished from here, love,” said Klaus, narrowing his eyes playfully. Caroline sighed, she knew he was right. There was absolutely no pressing reason for her to leave, but if she stayed, then she would be crossing a fine line, a line she had come closer and closer to crossing for the past year.

It was one thing to keep in touch by phone, to send letters or drawings, but when the days came that Caroline found herself visiting Klaus, spending the evenings catching up on what they had each been doing with their lives, that was when Caroline had to give up the pretense that she still thought of Klaus as the evil-hybrid who terrorized Mystic Falls. Now, he was her friend. And every time she saw him, she stayed later and later, and tonight…well, it was very late indeed.

“Maybe I could stay for just one more drink,” said Caroline with a small smile, and allowed Klaus to pull her back down, settling next to him and accepting the glass he put in her hand.

“Drink up sweetheart, it’ll keep you warm,” he said with a wink.

“You didn’t put something in this, did you?” she asked, teasing him right back, a little surprised at her own playfulness.  

“Would I even need to?” he fired back and they laughed over their drinks, Klaus settling his arm around her shoulders. “We’ve come a long way from Mystic Falls you know,” he said, almost nostalgically.

“Don’t tell me you actually miss ‘small town life’?” said Caroline with a snort. Mystic Falls would always be her home, but the world was a big place, and seeing it all was taking up most of her time. “I thought New Orleans was your ‘kingdom’?”

“Oh it is, don’t doubt that and I’m still waiting for the day you pay it a visit,” he said, nudging her lightly, “but I what I meant was that you and I – we’ve come a long way.”

It was the truth, they had come a long way to get to the comfort level they had now. But his comment on New Orleans had rankled her, just a little. It had been so long since she had allowed herself to dwell on the mess of hybrids and witches schemes and hurt feelings over a baby that had never even existed in the first place. That had been a dark time. It was so easy to just meet with Klaus whenever he was travelling in the same area she was (which happened too often to simply be coincidence,) that she hadn’t thought about ever going to New Orleans with him. Now she let the thought bounce around her head a little – would it really be so bad?

Feeling a little too hot suddenly, she pulled away from Klaus, catching the hurt that flashed in his eyes. “I really should go,” she said gently, standing up. “But thank you for a great night, and Merry Christmas.” She had barely walked a step before a hand wrapped around her wrist in a death grip and Klaus spun her aound, staring down at her with frustration.

“Don’t do this again, Caroline!” he demanded, gripping her forearms tightly. “Don’t just run away every single time you think that the idea of you and me could become a reality. I’ve allowed it in the past but no more – you know you’re ready!” His voice was angry, pleading, and desperate, and Caroline found herself trapped within his stare.

“It’s not up to you to decide when I’m ready,” said Caroline, desperate to break the emotional hold he had on her. “Besides, my friends, what would they say? They’ll be suspicious, they’ll think-“

“Who cares what they think?! What do you think?” Klaus implored.

“I think- I…” she broke off, her heart racing, her breathing becoming labored. This was it, the point of no return, if she ran now she knew instinctively  that he wouldn’t be so willing to give it another shot. She looked up at him, and it was the pure sincerity in his eyes that broke her.

“My friends know I’m visiting you, and if I don’t call soon…well, I guess they’ll figure it out,” she said softly, a smirk curving her lips. She barely had time to appreciate the shock on his face when he pulled her impossibly closer and crashed his lips against hers, wrapping his arms around her waist, while hers wound around his neck, their tongues battling for dominance, tasting the whiskey on each other’s breath but not caring. They absorbed each other, letting the weight of the past lift off their shoulders, and enjoying the unhibited pleasure of finally, finally getting their chance.

Eventually, they did pull apart, and Caroline laughed softly, basking in the warmth of Klaus’ body and not protesting a bit when he pulled her back to the couch in front of the fire, his hands trailing up and down her body, his lips finding exposed skin and making their mark. “I guess I’ll be staying the night,” said Caroline coyly, and Klaus grinned wolfishly.

“Good thing too sweetheart, best to stay as warm as possible – it’s cold outside.” 

the bed-sharing fic!

OK, here. This isn’t edited or beta’d or any of that ish, but I just finished it so I’m posting it here. I’ll look it over and ppost on AO3 in the morning, probs. But you late-night (or early morning, depending on what part of the planet you occupy) tumblrites get to see it first.

under a read more, find a bed-sharing eventually leads to kissing fic. johnlock. it’s 2.4k words, which is probs too long for a post, but oh well.

Ignore the html tags, i justp ut them in the doc these days so i don’t have to go back and find stuff when i copy pasta into AO3.

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