shimmy_shinedown

IT. HAS. BEEN. FOREVER.

2015-06-12T08:48:37Z

Literally forever. Do I still have any LJ friends?? Have I been gone too long?
Well, I plan on coming back into the ff scene. Probably with a Shameless (U.S) fic.
Anyone interested?

Not Quite A Step

2013-08-31T07:22:07Z

Title:Not Quite a Step
Author: coquilleon
Summary: Relief floods through his veins when he feels Eames tugging at him
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC- 17
Warnings: It's smut, guys! Pure smut, with a little (sad) plot. Rimming, drug use, bareback, mentions of character death, rough sex. If you're into that kind of thing.
Notes: Ao3 link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/949037

When there's a knock at the door, Arthur is ninety percent sure that it's the hotel manager, coming to politely inquire as to any illegal activities he may currently be engaged in. It's a testament to how fucked up he is that he doesn't even startle, or at least try to spray the place.

No.

Actually, the testament is the fact that Arthur is doing this in the first place. He hasn't for… Jesus. Years and years.

The knocking sounds again and Arthur looks idly around, finally deciding to lay the still smoking blunt on the crystal clear glass table in the middle of the sitting room. One more swig of Jack and he's still wiping the back of his hand across his mouth when he swings the door open.

"Really, Arthur, at least invest in some Febreeze if you're going to smoke something so potent." Eames stands in the doorway. He's still wearing his suit, and even though he' seen him in it, it still strikes Arthur as strange; he looks odd in such a dark, not to mention, solid color.

He shrugs. "I was promised it would be the loudest. And it is. Better be, for what I paid for it."

Eames grins, and breezes in around him. He turns around to see Eames looking around, to the ashing blunt on the table next to the open bottle, to the rolling paper already split open. His gaze comes back to settle on him and even though he says nothing, Arthur knows he looks like shit. Complete and utter shit. His hair is still wet from the shower he tried to drown himself in a little while earlier, his eyes are most likely bloodshot (weed and alcohol the culprits, that and only that he will swear) and he's in a white under shirt and black sleep pants. The shirt has a hole on the shoulder. Arthur didn't even know he owned anything with holes in it besides his button downs.

"I'm not going to lie," Eames begins as he reaches around Arthur to closes the door behind him, and Arthur grunts.

"Why break old habits now?"

"I didn't exactly expect this, but it was a close shot." Eames picks up the large baggie of sticky, green buds between his first two fingers, inspecting the crystals. "The narcotics are a surprise. If I's known that that's what you were after, I'd have paid Yusuf a visit before I came on over. He's got blocks of hashish underneath his couch."

Arthur says nothing to this. He's already across the room and dropping onto the couch, leaning over to grab the heavy bottle from the table. He picks up the blunt and sticks it between his lips. He doesn't watch to see what Eames is doing, no doubt taking in the less than Arthur neatness that always accompanies any hotel room he inhabits. There are papers scattered on the desk, a few on the floor. His suit, the one he wore earlier today, is in a heap on the floor, the suit jacket halfway in the bathroom, socks haphazard. His PASIV is in the chair across from the couch, standing straight up, shiny and gleaming even in the low, amber lighting of the room. He stares at it as he flicks the lighter and inhales.

He feels the couch shift beneath him when Eames takes a seat and says nothing when he has the bottle taken away from his loose grip. He hears the other man take a hearty few swallows and when he's done, Arthur wordlessly hands over the spliff.

"How are the sprogs?"

"Confused." And they are. James is crying constantly, and so is Phillipa. But hers are punctuated with questions. And Arthur can't answer any of them, none of them can because the only people who know, who truly understand why any of this is happening, are both gone. One in the ground and the other on the run.

"Anyone heard from him yet?"

"Did you expect him to reach out to anyone yet?"

Eames doesn't answer. Just takes a draw. They sit there like that for a long time, passing the blunt back and forth until it gets small enough to burn Arthur's fingers. He feels Eames' eyes on his back when he leans over to roll another one and gives him a lighter when he's finished.

"She's in the ground now," he says and hands over the wrap. And it just doesn't matter how many times he says it, does it? "Mal. She's gone. I'm not going to get shot in the head or strangled to death and wake up to see her in the chair next to me." Eames doesn't answer, just inhales deeply and tilts his head back. "I mean… unless she was right. And she jumped and fell into another reality." He feels Eames look sharply over at him and he shakes his head. "I didn't mean it like- I know. I know what really happened. I… just wonder. Where is she? What's she doing? Does she know?"

He doesn't answer right away, just reaches his arm out, allowing his fingers to tangle clumsily with Arthur's own when he goes to hand over the wrap. Arthur inhales deeply, so much smoke filling his mouth that some of it billows out and up into his nostrils in a thick white cloud before he sucks it all back down. It all comes out in one angry gust. "I don't know what-" he cuts himself off. He does know. He knows, but he can never come out and say it.

To be fair, Eames doesn't exactly either.

"So it's me, then." It comes out quietly, a hint of amusement hidden between the words, and there it is, about as forward as either of them will ever get about this whole thing.

"Yeah. It is." He doesn't look at the other man and another silence falls between them.

There's something a little off in the way Eames says, "You really know how to make a bloke feel special," and Arthur smiles thinly at that.

He knows he's shit at this. They all know it, even if no one comes out and says it. Well Mal does. She did. "Dreadful," was the word she'd used, tugging on his hair a little to keep his head in her lap when he feigned movement to get up. "But you will get better," and her fingernails dragged lightly over his scalp.
"You already are."

The drugs, and drink, and grief have made him impulsive, impatient, ready to have Eames sweep everything from his mind. But Eames is relaxed, slouched down at the other end of the couch, smoke billowing from his barely parted lips and his head tilted back to rest on the cushions. His eyes are closed, and his mouth is full, and he looks so peaceful… and Arthur needs to touch him because he looks so…

He's careful when he takes the half smoked blunt from between Eames' fingertips and places it between his own lips before rising up onto his knees to straddle his thighs. Eames's hands automatically come up from their place on his own chest to settle on Arthur's hips, thumbs pressing in briefly into the hollows of his hips. Arthur takes a long drag, pulls until he can't anymore, and sets the blunt down in the empty crystal candy bowl next to the armrest. He leans down, arms bracketed on either side of Eames' head and hesitates a moment to look down into his face, the thought that he must have hundreds of those too long lashes flittering through his mind briefly. And then he's pressing his lips to those full ones. They part automatically to take the smoke - takes it all in before one of those hands is tangled in Arthur's short hair, pulling him in and slipping his tongue inside, smoking billowing out to curl and snake around their heads.

Relief pours through his veins when he feels Eames tugging at him, fingers slipping underneath his shirt. His hips buck up and Arthur rides it out with a twist of his body, using his hold on the couch to pull himself even closer, grinding down and biting at the plump slickness of Eames' bottom lip.

He's gripping Arthur to him now; posture the total opposite of just a few moments ago -his neck strains upwards, and his shoulders are taut with pulling his smaller frame close. But Arthur doesn't want to do this here – he wants to be spread out, totally bare. He pulls away, pushes Eames' hands away and watches the way the other man slowly blinks up at him as he stands. His hazy eyes slide down to where Arthur's erection is eye level and making the front of his pants tent almost obscenely. He wets his lips, staring and Arthur feels his pulse spike thickly.

"C'mon."

He falls out of his shirt and onto the bed, his skin burning up and his head swimming. Eames stares down at him in the near darkness, and Arthur lets him. He watches Eames' gaze follow the way his hand slides down his chest to cup the bulge in front of his pants. The friction feels good, just enough to make him shiver and he lets out the shadow of a moan, toes curling.

There's a beat of stillness and then Eames is swearing underneath his breath and ripping off that awful plain black shirt he'd worn to the funeral. It flutters to the ground and Arthur thinks that he'll get rid of it later; have a garish, awful printed one sent to wherever Eames will be to make up for it. The bed dips as Eames crawls up to kneel between Arthur's legs, which spread to welcome him automatically, and Arthur is reaching for the other man before he's even halfway to him.. He's cupping his face, palms flat on each of his cheeks, the stubble he can't ever seem to grow so evenly on his own face scratching slightly at the soft skin. The silkiness of his hair against his fingertips is a familiar contrast and Arthur knows he's eager as he meets Eames in the middle, lips already tingling.

The first press is insistent and warm, a slight dryness that soon turns slick and hot as Arthur parts Eames' lips with his own tongue. Eames' hands are flat against the pillows, and keeps moving forward until their bare chests are pressed together. He pushes Arthur back down onto the bed, grinding his hips as a hand slides up over sharp collarbones to settle on Arthur's throat. He bites at Arthur's lips, sharp, slightly crooked bottom teeth digging into the tender flesh and his thumb presses lightly, first against his Adam's apple and then to the soft junction underneath his jaw. Not too hard, just enough to have Arthur's breath stutter in his chest and fingers tightening on Eames' biceps. His eyes are still bright in the darkness and Arthur can see them fix on his own, watching. Fingertips stroke this throat, random patterns before Eames large palm is wrapping around, thumb nestled right underneath his ear and Arthur's hips buck at the possessiveness of the movement. Faint resentment should follow – Eames is taking advantage, laying it out so plainly for both of them to see, but he knows it isn't like that. Is too tired to pretend.

They kiss like that, Eames' body covering Arthur's almost completely; hips grinding in easy, slightly maddening circles, for a long time, and Arthur lets the tension bleed from his body. This is what he needed - needs. Eames, right here, in his room, in his arms, and sharing air. He lets the rocking motions and the gentle slide of the other man's tongue against his own take him somewhere else. Nothing else matters right now, not a damn thing-

Mal's smiling eyes, Dom's crazy stare=

-except this – he'll allow the self-indulgence. He's tired of trying to keep it together all the fucking time. And he knows if he has to do it a minute longer with no relief he'll snap.

Eames cups his ass, gripping it so firmly Arthur half rises from the bed. The kiss becomes more intense - he bites at Arthur's lips, kisses him deeply, before pulling his face away to kiss his cheeks, his nose, his temple, the soft skin on the shell of his ear. All the while he kneads Arthur's ass roughly through his pants, and Arthur breathes heavily into the space next to his shoulder. His hand squeezes, pulling the cheeks apart, fingers dipping in and running up and down the cleft. Arthur feels how hard Eames is when he rocks down, pulling Arthur up by the hip to meet him halfway. His voice is gravel when he speaks, low and wrecked in Arthur's ear. "Can I?" he whispers and Arthur has a moment of hazy confusion for a split second; is Eames really asking for permission to fuck him when Arthur is clinging to him like a maiden in a harlequin novel? But then he feels those thick, long fingers press against his hole through the fabric of his boxers, middle finger pushing in slightly before circling and it clicks. Arthur, whose fingers were already pressing into Eames' shoulder blades, convulse quickly and he nods, almost frantically, against Eames' stubble

Eames lets out a noise, a low, rumbling satisfied sound the starts in his chest as he pushes another sloppy kiss onto Arthur's swollen mouth and he moves down, down, down Arthur's body, plush kisses on his chest, his heaving stomach.

He's too turned on, too wired on too much, and he tries to get a hold of himself while Eames hooks his fingers in the waistband of his sleep pants and pulls down. He breathes in deeply through his nose, thinking it will help, but the air gets lodged in his throat when he realizes Eames is doing the same thing, only he's breathing Arthur in. Nosing at the hair around his swollen, leaking cock, red from no direct contact. His hips lift automatically, seeking, but Eames just kisses the base, tongue darting out to drive Arthur crazy, and then Eames is pulling him apart.

Those hands grip him behind the thighs now, pushing them up and out of the way, spreading him open wide to Eames, who's settled onto his stomach. He stares and stares, pulling his lower lip into his mouth, letting it slip back out, and his tongue is pink and shiny when he lets it out to wet the obscene curve of the upper. Arthur squirms, ears and cheeks burning, his cock bobbing hard and straining in the air. Eames' hands slide down to his ass, holding him open, thumbs digging into the firm flesh on either side of his hole. Arthur wonders every time what he's thinking as he looks; what is running through his mind when he strokes tenderly at the puckered, dusty pink skin, only half aware of the shivers he sends up Arthur's spine when he does it? But the sight of Eames' eyelids slipping shut slowly, the utterly engrossed look that falls across his features, as if he's about to savor this, has his brain short-circuiting.

And then his tongue is there, slick, and hard, and searing. So wet, so insistent, and the madness engulfs Arthur again, that fever like feeling underneath his skin, so hot and good he literally can't think. Can't concentrate on anything except how fucking. perfect Eames' tongue feels pushing inside and circling the inner rim, letting the tip of his tongue catch before pulling out and laying down slow, filthy French kisses before starting all over again.

Arthur's happy Eames can't see the way his eyes have rolled into the back of his head, lids slipping shut, and mouth falling open. Fuck, fuckfuckshitohmygod, and it's just as amazing as every single time before. So utterly fucking amazing. Eames wiggles his tongue inside once more, fucking it in a half dozen times, quick, focused, and suddenly slows down and backs off. Licks only the rim, pulling back every few broad strokes to look at the way Arthur can feel himself winking open and closed. Without warning, he feels the twists of his tongue inside and Arthur's hips jerk sharply. He tries to pull away, just for a second, the sensations too much, too fucking good, but Eames won't let him. Just lets him get a few inches up the bed before growing impatient, sitting up enough on his knees to wrap his forearms around each of Arthur's thighs and haul him back. He's relentless, tongue plunging and teeth nipping so lightly. Arthur's whole body is loose, pliant underneath Eames' ministrations. So he only manages to let out a small sound of protest when one hand inches up Arthur's chest bypassing his absolutely dripping cock, and fingers push at his lips.

He sucks them down easily, the saltiness fading quickly underneath his tongue. When they're wet enough, slick with his spit, Eames pulls his hand away, and soon Arthur feels two of those fingers sliding smoothly inside of him. He feels the vibration of Eames humming, pleased at the feel of him. He uses his fingers to fuck him, tongue darting around in circles and between when he scissors them apart, and Arthur can't take it anymore. He moves one of his own hands down, which had been doing an undecided dance between clutching the sheets, the pillows, Eames' hair, and his own hair to wrap a sweaty palm around himself, but Eames slaps his hand out of the way as he leans up onto his knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Take those off," Arthur demands, hoarsely. "Take those stupid, fucking pants off and come fuck me, Eames. Now." And he's usually not a talker during sex, but it drives Eames absolutely mad. It shows in the way he darts up off of the bed, fingers thick and a little fumbling with the buttons of his fly. A thin packet of lube lands on his chest and Arthur rips it open with his teeth. His own fingers are clumsy when he coats them and slips them inside of himself.

He can barely open his eyes now, but through the haziness he can see Eames watching him again, naked and standing near the bed, stroking himself in slow, corkscrew motions. "Eames." And his voice sounds a little too thin and strained for his liking, but then Eames is between his legs again, fingers joining Arthur's in stroking the tiny ridges, or dipping inside to tease at the bundle of nerves that he's learned just how to work to make Arthur see stars.

"No more of that, Darling," he says quietly, almost to himself, and he pulls Arthur's fingers away, letting them tangle briefly, hot and sticky. He watches Eames furrow his brow in concentration as he lines himself up. The thoughts of condoms fly errantly through his mind, but then it's forgotten when he feels the head of Eames' cock push inside. "I've got you." He relaxes immediately, not that it takes much effort – he's already putty in the other man's hands. There's no resistance when Eames just keeps pushing. It's a slick, hot, endless stroke and then he's all the way in, hips pressed against Arthur's ass, their eyes locked. And it seems like Eames looks at him for full minutes, eyes flying all over Arthur's features - lips, cheeks, chin, nose, but always coming back to rest on his blown eyes, and it's too much for Arthur. He closes his eyes and lifts his hips, hoping Eames will get the idea.

For a few more moments he can feel Eames taking in his closed eyes and flushed cheeks, and what? What is he-

-and then he moves, thrusting in shallow, but hard enough to punch the breath from Arthur's lungs. He settles each hands on either side of Arthur's shoulders, lifts himself up, and looks down their naked stomachs to where their bodies are connected before pulling out nearly all the way and snapping back in. He does it over and over again, indulgent, lazy strokes that simply revel in the sensations of having the hot, tight slickness of Arthur all around him, no barriers.

It's fucking luxurious, to lay back let the sense of rightness overtake him – lavishing underneath Eames' attention, allowing his hips to raise and meet nearly every thrust with a twist of his hips. He knows what to do here, has done it so many times before. He lets out a displeased noise when Eames pulls all the way out and is forced to open his eyes again. He watches with heavy eyelids as Eames sits back on his calves, cock in hand – he angles it carefully and pushes back in roughly and Arthur's neck goes taught and then his head and shoulders snap back into the pillows. Stars are bursting at the edges of his vision and tangy electricity plays in the back of his throat.

Over and over, Eames presses, rubs, pushes into that bundle of nerves with the head of his cock, and Arthur keeps wondering if he's ever going to be able to catch a full breath. He reaches his arms up, threading his fingers through Eames' hair, and tugs. Eames comes readily, burying his face into his throat, mouthing and kissing sloppily, sucking roughly on the skin there as Arthur drives his hips up to meet every thrust.

He loves fucking Eames. It's easiest to admit at moments like these, when he's drunk, and high, and breaking apart at the seams. He loves fucking Eames and he loves when Eames fucks him; loves the way Eames knows his body like every single one of his forgeries. Intimate knowledge that, even if Arthur knows isn't real, feels so damn genuine he can feel something constrict in his chest if he looks it for a moment too long. It's become like a drug; he admits it to himself, will even say it aloud, as much as he can, like he did earlier tonight when he's got a loose tongue and nothing to lose. It not every time, because he's still fucking self-sufficient, but when things go way south – a job gone absolutely down the shitter, almost dying in the middle of a country where no one can understand you, having your best friend commit suicide and your other best friend flee the country- Eames over him, inside of him, seems to be the only thing that keeps Arthur from razing villages.

His legs are hooked around Eames' slim hips now, ankles crossed at the base of his back and his arms twined around his broad shoulders, and he knows he's clinging. But Eames is clinging right back, kissing every inch he can reach, and whispering nothings against Arthur's skin. A particularly sharp thrust in the exact right spot has Arthur biting back a strangled sound.

"No, no, no," Eames is whispering right into the skin behind his ear. "Don't, darling. Let me hear you, come, on." He leans back to sit up again, and pulls Arthur's hips with him, settling him into the V of his legs, Arthur's own legs spread wide on top of his thighs. He's breathing hard, skin shimmering with sweat, but he still strokes in slowly, with purpose. In and back out, takes a hold of the base of his dick and angles again. Shivers run down Arthur's spine when Eames rocks even more consistently against his prostate. And it's not fair, this methodical fucking, every nudge, every single movement made to drive him out of his mind. He can't help it when he lets out a broken sound, but it feels so good. Again and again, Eames pushes in and Arthur stops holding back. He's pretty sure they sound like a filthy porno to the people next door.

Through his haze he goes to sit up, maybe catch his breath, maybe to pull off of Eames' dick so he can breathe, he's not sure, Eames has got him so dizzy and floating, but as soon as he's upright, Eames is hauling him in chest to chest, hips fucking up rapidly, filling him up so completely, and Arthur has to wind one arm around Eames' shoulders while the other hand slams flat onto the wall behind them, holding on. He feels his mouth drop open, form around the word "fuckfuckfuck" over and over again. He feels Eames' sharp smile against his shoulder blade, feels big hands clutch at the meat of his ass and pull the cheeks apart, fingers rubbing around the stretched rim of his asshole where they're connected. It's a slow, careful movement, reverent in a way that's very much at odds to the way Eames is fucking Arthur's brain through his skull.

His own hips are rutting senselessly now, knees planted on either side of Eames' hips, both arms wrapped around his broad, tattooed shoulders, and from the faint tang of copper, probably biting his own lower lip bloody.

He's hot, sweat dripping into his eyes and down the curve of his back, but he hardly notices, not with Eames clutching and grabbing at him, fucking him senseless, and talking talking talking- begging. For Arthur to speak. "Come on, love, talk to me…"

He doesn't answer at first, just keeps fucking himself on Eames' cock, loving the way those hands slide up his spine to bury in his hair.

"I need to come, Arthur," he whispers, almost urgently, hands in Arthur's hair, holding his head steady. His gaze is startlingly open, raw. He speaks against Arthur's lips. "I'm so close, Darling; I just need to hear you. Let me hear you-."

"Fuck me," he blurts out, mind racing. "Come inside of me. I want to feel it, sticky and wet… You've never fucked me raw before… I've never fucked anyone raw before. Never felt it dripping out of my ass and down my thighs. You're the only one, you can fuck it all up inside of me and lick me clean-" and that's the trigger, apparently, because Eames fucks up into him so hard, slams upwards. Once, twice three times, and all Arthur can do is try to keep the noise down so front desk won't actually come to his door.

And he says Eames name. He whispers it into his hair, forces it out in a jumble of letters because he needs to hear it as he comes. He hasn't even touched his cock, but thick, white ropes rush forward, out through his flaring slit, and smearing hot and sloppy onto the other man's stomach and chest – its outlining and filling in his tattoos, clinging to his skin in a way that Arthur can vaguely appreciate through his haze of fucked out bliss. He goes easily when Eames surges upwards, center of gravity off when he's briefly in the air and his back is suddenly being pressed into the pillows.

"Arthurarthurarthur-" It's a stream of consciousness spoken into his clavicle, cut off by a bite into his shoulder as Eames' hips snap three, four, five times and he's coming. He allows himself to watch this, watches as Eames' wet mouth drops open, a perfect 'Oh;' watches the way the muscles of his arms strain as he tries to keep his full weight off of Arthur, and the way his hips stutter in the most beautiful way. And he can't be sure, but he thinks he can feel it, feel Eames coming inside of him, really coming inside of him, all of his essence flooding up into Arthurs insides and his cock gives a feeble, almost painful twitch at the thought.

He won't pay any attention to that thought either.

So many things he isn't thinking about, tonight.

He runs his hands lazily all over Eames' chest as the other man recovers. His eyes are still closed, and he's still breathing heavily, but his hips have stopped pumping. Arthur can't stop touching, runs his fingers all over, tweaking Eames' nipples, running down his chest, scratching softly through the coarse hair on his stomach.

He lifts his hips up, squeezing around Eames' dick still inside of him, easy and slutty, and loves the way Eames hisses and follows him back down, until they're chest to chest and kissing deeply again, tongues tangling.

Finally he slips out, and when Eames slides down to rest his head on Arthur's stomach, Arthur doesn't protest. Just threads his fingers through the sweaty strands and closes his eyes when he feels a soft, lingering kiss pressed to his hip.

Softly, breath skating across his belly button. "Alrigh'?"

He breathes out, not thinking about anything. "Alright."

Here With Me

2012-08-30T02:57:43Z

Title: Here With Me
Author: coquilleon
Summary: Charles is home from the hospital
Characters/Pairing: Charles/Erik
Genre: Romance
Rating: G
Notes: FLUUUUFY! A cotton candy tree sprouted in my flower pots as I wrote this.

His eyes flutter open to a darkening room. Blinks and shifts. A sound from across the space, quiet and gentle, floats over to where he lays in bed, and Charles looks over his shoulder to see Erik's back to him. The muttered curse when the door squeaks makes him smile sleepily and turn around to face his boyfriend trying to creep inside without waking him. A quick glance at the digital clock at his head reads six forty-three in the evening.

"Erik?"

Erik whips his head around and grins sheepishly. "Hey, sorry. I was trying not to wake you."

Charles blinks sleepily, mind still half asleep, body feeling lethargic. "It's okay," he yawns. "I needed to wake up anyway, or I won't get any sleep tonight." He says it, but it's not entirely true – this bed is ridiculously comfortable. Better than any hospital he's been in. Even better than his bed back at his parent's house. Charles thinks he's more than a little biased, to be honest– he shares this bed with Erik, and is inclined to think it above all others because of the fact. Something warm trickles through his veins as he watches Erik kick off his shoes, back still to him.

He and Erik live together now – not only as best friends, which is really all Charles thought the extent of their friendship would be for such a very long time – but as boyfriends. Who are in love. As lovers. And he will never admit to Erik that he actually gives them that title, but it sends his mind (and heart) for a loop every time he does. Even though he hadn't seen the apartment until two weeks ago, it already feels familiar, what with all of Erik's things lying about, and Charles' own clothes in the dresser drawers and closets. Their slippers near the head of the bed and colognes standing side by side on the dresser. It all feels so utterly right, that he has to close his eyes and breathe deeply for a moment, sometimes, he gets so happy. It feels like home.

There are bandages, pain relievers, and antiseptic on the desk, and his crutches and wheel chair against the wall near the bed, but that's the extent of bringing the hospital home with him. Although, he will miss Nurse Juliet's cookies. And hugs.

Feeling the bed dip, Charles realizes that he's let his eyes drift shut, and opens them again. The sight of Erik's long lashed, dark green eyes so close to his blue, has something fluttering happily inside of his chest. "Hey," the other man whispers before leaning in to press a soft kiss to Charles' lips. He lingers for a moment, before nuzzling their noses together and pulling back.

"Hey," Charles breathes back. He's about to ask what he's been up to today when a movement between their bodies captures his attention. Looking down hails a huge pair of brown eyes and big floppy ears. Charles stares.

"Yeah, I, uh," Erik clears his throat and cups his large palm over the puppy's head and pets softly. "I saw him last week and I- I thought you'd like him?" It comes out as a question, but Charles can't answer right away. The tiny basset hound puppy shuffles forward from underneath Erik's palm, noses at Charles chin, and licks tentatively, before flopping back down and squirming onto it's back. Erik tickles his fingers along the small white belly and the puppy wiggles, settling in. "They say dogs speed the healing process, you know? Something about happiness and hormones, and… I know you can't take care of him by yourself yet, so I'll help. I mean, I was going to help anyway; I already got him toys, and food, and a bed..." He trails off in the face of silence, and Charles sees his hand stop moving. "You don't like it."

Charles swallows hard, but it doesn't get rid of the lump in his throat, or the burning of his eyes. Erik got him a puppy. After making him the happiest man on earth and kissing him for the first time in the hospital five months ago, and asking him to move in, and taking care of him while he's still healing, and driving him back and forth to the hospital for physical therapy, and watching science documentaries with him all night long when the pain in his legs keeps him awake… After all of that, Erik went out and got him a puppy. An adorable puppy with huge eyes, and floppy ears, and a tiny warm body. This is… this is so… it feels as if his heart is expanding in his chest, swelling to press against his ribcage, trying and failing to contain all the utter love he feels right now. It hurts a little, how much he feels for the man lying next to him. The man worrying if he likes his present.

Charles sniffs, and wipes at his eyes, still looking down at the puppy lying between them. "I love him. I really, really love him Erik."

"I wasn't sure which one to get," the other man answers, a little quickly. "They had so many at the shelter, but they were all so jumpy, or mean, or crazy… I don't know. This one seemed to… fit." He smiles hesitantly when Charles finally looks up again to meet his eyes. Slowly, as not to startle the puppy between them, Charles leans forward to press his lips gently to Erik's, who sighs upon contact. The small sound breaks something in Charles in the best way possible and he presses a little harder, flicking his tongue along the tender flesh underneath the other man's lip. It's soft and sweet, lingering and a little salty from the one tear that managed to get loose.

"I love him. Thank you." It's whispered against smiling lips and punctuated by another light kiss. The tender hand that caresses through his hair briefly has Charles sinking into bliss. The puppy wriggles between them, and Charles uses a finger to scratch underneath its chin and down its plump little tummy.

"So," Erik asks as he kicks off his pants and joins Charles underneath the covers. "What are you going to name him?"

Charles continues to rub at the hound's tummy, whose big brown eyes are dropping sleepily while its left leg twitches slightly.

"I think I'll call him… Cerebro."

Superheroes (8/8)

2012-08-30T02:48:59Z

Part 7

The sharp sting of the antiseptic scent still bothers Erik but he's used to it now. The bustle and buzz of the nurses, orderlies, and patients at this time of day is another thing he's become accustomed to, actually preferring it to the eerie stillness he encountered that first night he came to see Charles.

He clutches the drawstring of the Nike bag in his hand, careful not to tilt it too much to either side. A passing nurse smiles as she walks by wearing her Sunny Day scrubs and holding a chart, and Erik smiles and nods back. They all know him on the floor now – or at least know him the way he knows them, not by name but by sight. To most of them, he's 'that tall guy who comes by almost every day and stays for hours' while, in his mind, they're all mostly regulated to titles like 'short nurse with the shiny red hair' or 'nurse with the mean eyebrows' or 'pretty, black nurse who makes everyone cookies and who Erik secretly wants to hug all the time because she seems so cuddly.'

Outside, the tree branches sway, the brisk May breeze catching the leaves in a crazy dance. He can't see the street from this floor, but he's sure the sky matches the pavement, grey and murky, cracked by wispy clouds even though it's only a little after noon. He catches sight of his reflection in the thick glass and absently notes that he doesn't look all that panicked or even that worried. To be fair, though, ever since he woke up this morning and decided what was going to happen today, an odd sense of calm had settled over him. Sure, his heart skips a few beats here and there randomly, but besides that, Erik is feeling fine altogether. Well, he feels fine in between all the hoping it isn't all some kind of 'calm before the shit storm' situation.

The elevator dings for what seems like the hundredth time in the twenty minutes since he's been here, and the glance over his shoulder is automatic at this point. It's when he sees that it's finally Charles emerging that he turns fully and grins, heart giving one of those small jolts and hand tightening on the bag in his hand. As usual, Charles is dressed in his hospital gown and a pair of the many thick socks Mr. Xavier occasionally brings him – this time it's the red ones with the purple stripes- and is being pushed in his wheelchair by 'nurse who always smells like citrus.' "Nurse Laura," Charles always reminds him.

When Charles sees him standing there, his big blue eyes light up and even though Erik feels something in him dip pleasantly at the sight, he wonders how his best friend can manage to always look so happy to see him every single time. It's almost as if he doesn't expect Erik to show, even though they've been doing this routine for close to five months now.

"Hi, Erik," Nurse Laura greets, brown eyes twinkling as she comes to a stop in front of him.

"Hey," Erik nods to her before looking down at Charles. "How'd it go today?"

"Better." It's said mildly, but Erik can still see how Charles' forehead is still a little dewy and cheeks a little flushed from the exertion. It's the truth, Erik knows – Charles' physical therapy is going better. He remembers how hard it was for his best friend to even move those first couple of months. He knows the very fact that Charles is even getting up and walking the short length of the bar in the therapy room is impressive – it still doesn't mean it's easy. His heart almost tore out of his chest those first few times Charles came back to the room, shaking and clammy, having to nearly be lifted back into his bed and not opening his eyes for a full ten minutes once he was there.

Erik smiles down at Charles and uses a wide palm to brush the other man's floppy brown hair away from his forehead. I've got contraband as your reward,he thinks and grins when Charles' face breaks into an almost giddy smile. He smoothes his hand down to the back of Charles' neck, trying to make the hair stay flat and it works for a second, before it all falls back into place. He rubs his thumb along the edge of the other man's ear before letting his arm drop back at his side, looking back up in time to see Nurse Laura watching them with an amused and suspiciously soppy expression on her face. Immediately, Erik feels his cheeks and neck flush, and he clears his throat before looking away.

"He's being modest- he did really well today, actually," Laura says as they begin to walk towards Charles' room. "The therapist said he did a full thirty minutes before he had to take a break." She rubs Charles' shoulder warmly.

Charles ducks his head briefly, but Erik catches the flush on his cheeks. "I've still a long way to go," he says quietly.

"True," Erik says casually. "But you've gained three minutes from last Friday. You're getting there."

"He's right," Laura nods. "You're actually on the faster tip of this whole thing." Erik steps aside to allow her to wheel Charles into his room, and watches from inside the doorway as she helps him up, and into the bed. She grabs a hold of the wheelchair again, and smiles at them both. "Alright," she sings. "I'll leave you two alone."

She always says the same thing, with the same tone of implication and both Charles and Erik's faces always flush. He's noticed, though, that neither of them ever bothers to correct her. He waits until the door is closed quietly behind her before he balances the bag on the edge of the bed, and opens it. "You're ridiculous, you know that right?" he chides as he pulls out a super-sized cup of Coca Cola he's been careful not to tip over this entire time. He hands the sweating plastic to Charles who takes it eagerly with both hands and reaches back into pull out the crumpled, slightly greasy, Checkers bag. "I could be killing you with this stuff, you know. Isn't it against some kind of law to have this many calories in a hospital?" Charles doesn't answer, just rolls his eyes as he takes a greedy sip of the drink held in one hand and does a kind of grabby hand with the other. Erik smirks as he hands it over. He lets the now empty bag drop to the floor with a quiet 'swish' and settles on the side of Charles' bad, one knee drawn up to rest atop Charles' blanket clad thigh.

Watching the way his friend's face melts into a ridiculous kind of bliss when he bites into a seasoned fry does funny and (by now) familiar things to his stomach. Erik's not oblivious; he knows what this is. It was there, small and soft in his chest before he left the country (and not an insignificant part of the reason why he got on that first plane.) But now, ever since he's had more than enough time to reallyconsider life without Charles, it's flared harder and brighter than ever. It sits in the back of his throat, tangy and prevalent, always ready to tangle on his tongue and slip past the defenses he's not really sure he has in the first place.

"-know won't hurt them."

Erik shifts on the bed and focuses back in Charles, who he notices has a dollop of sauce on the side of his mouth. "Hm?"

"I said, what they know won't hurt them." He licks the sauce from the corner of his lip. Uses his thumb to make sure it's all gone and sucks the pad into his mouth.

"I'm sure they know by now. Unless they think I hang out at fast food places, since I always reek of grease and salt."

Charles shrugs. "It's only once every two weeks."

"I read something once that said once a month was the limit."

"That was for McDonalds."

"Isn't it the same thing?"

"Do you see anyone making movies about Checkers?" The laugh rumbles in Erik's chest at Charles' cheeky response. "Besides, you've seen what they've been feeding me here. It's driving me mad."

"Yeah, yeah." Erik grins. They fall into a comfortable almost silence where Charles digs into his cheesy bacon fries and a soap opera plays lowly on the television that hangs on the opposite wall. It's nice. Calm. And Erik still feels… It.When he woke up this morning, he felt It.That weird, not entirely foreign, weight in his gut. It rang of anticipation and the normal amount of fear. But more prevalent was the feeling of resignation. The kind where you didn't know, not really, that you were working up to something, but then you wake up or snap out of being an idiot and realize 'today is the day.'

To be honest, he's just wondering what's taken him so long.

He clears his throat and already feels foolish – he doesn't plan to say anything aloud. So,he thinks, deciding to just jump into it and sees Charles look up at him. So, you know how you always hear people say there was thismoment they knew something. Like when they play the right lottery numbers or something like that.

Yes.The way Charles' head sort of tilts to the side in curiosity sends something warm spiraling through his chest.

Or, you know, how, in the books or the movies, when there's that 'aha' moment when they- when they realize they really like- love- someone. That they absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt need them around forever.

Charles nods and a smile plays on the edges of his lips. You mean every romantic comedy ever made?

Erik's returning smile is brief. Yeah. He's quiet for a moment. He looks down at the quilt his own mother made him take over the second time he visited. When Charles was still broken and asleep. His fingers pick at the dark blue thread. And you're sitting there reading this book or watching this movie, and when it happens all you can think is 'what a cliché.' But then- ithappens.To you. And it knocks so much sense into you. It does it so hard and so fast that you're knocked on your ass and you can't even breathe.And to be honest he can't really breathe right now – from where his eyes are trained on the pattern of the blanket he can see Charles' hands are utterly still. A few moments pass, but the quiet this time is tense, weighted down and sparking.

Erik-

He rushes on. And you're sitting there. And you can't breathe, or move, or think, and you start hating yourself. Because you would havelet this person go, you know? You would have felt all these things for so long and they wereright there and you didn't say anything. And by the time you're finally ready –another flash of Charles with an IV in his arm, and skin pale against blooming blue and purple. By the time you're ready, you've taken your own fucking time, and it turns out it could have been too late-

"Erik." The sound of his best friend's voice, hoarse and a little disbelieving makes him look away from his idle hands. His own eyes are burning a little, and he blinks hard, opening them again almost immediately while raising and lowering his eyebrows quickly. He inhales deeply and shakes his head, even as he takes the greasy fry box and sets it on the bedside table. Sliding closer brings both their chests and faces within inches of each other, and the way Charles doesn't move away is more than encouraging.

Those big blue eyes that he's loved so damn much, for longer than he can remember don't blink, don't waver.

Erik can feel how raw his own throat feels when he speaks. "I know you'll say it wasn't my fault. But I still should have been here." Charles opens his mouth to speak, but Erik keeps going. "Not just for this, but- I just should have beenhere. I have no idea what the hell I was thinking. I don't know what I was looking for. I saw some great things, some amazingly beautiful stuff Charles." He gives a small self-depreciating laugh and ducks his head, scratching his thumb nail against his forehead before letting his arm drop. "But it didn't matter- it didn't matter where I was, the minute your face popped up on that computer screen I'd forget everything else I saw that day. Would forget where I was for a second, just knew I wasn't right next to you-"

A small strangled sound is the only warning he gets before Charles' lips are on his own. It's jarring. His heart gives an all mighty heave and his stomach seems to erupt, butterflies going insane with drunken happiness. Charles tastes salty from the fries and sweet from Coca Cola syrup. Something happens- it feels like the world tilts, or jolts, or something and suddenly a fire explodes in Erik's veins. His mouth opens against Charles', gasps at how utterly goodit feels to finallyhave him in his arms, warm, and solid, and alive. As if they have a mind of their own, his hands move up- one cupping a soft, heated cheek while the other slides into thick, silky-soft hair. Charles makes another sound, an aching whimper that has Erik surging into him, and when the other boy pants hot against his lips, Erik takes the opportunity to slip his tongue past teeth and into his mouth.

It's a full body shiver that rips through him when slippery hot flesh slides against his own smoothly – it feels silken and heady, so much so his head feels like he's floating. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it occurs to him that he's probably hurting Charles with how tightly he's holding him close, but Charles makes no complaints, just cups his hands on either side of Erik's neck, using his thumbs to lightly caress right underneath his jaw.

The salt and sweet fades after a while to leave just the deep, essential, Charlesflavor and Erik already knows he's hooked. Runs the tip of his tongue along the ridge of the roof of the other boy's mouth, feels the uneven ridges of molars, bites at the plump bottom lip, and shivers at the way Charles is near to trembling in his arms.

The pounding of his heart is echoed a split second later by Charles', can feel it every time it beats against the front of his chest soaking through the thin fabric of his sweater. They kiss until he feels his lungs burning, and they pull away with huge pulls of oxygen through their mouths. It's when Charles breath cools on his face that he realizes his cheeks are a little damp. He smiles anyway – smiles at the way Charles is dazed and windswept, smiles at how utterly clueless they both have been, smiles at the way Charles grins back and wipes quickly at his own damp cheeks. He smiles because there's no reason in his world not to smile.

He leans in again, loving the way Charles' arms come up to slide over his shoulders warm against his neck, easy and smooth like they've been doing it forever. A kiss, a small one, lips barely parting. Another and another, again and again, he presses lush, indulgent kisses against plump lips.

"You have no idea," he murmurs, lips sticky and swollen.

He feels Charles' grin against his lips. Whispers, "Yeah. I really, really do."

End

Superheroes (7/8)

2012-08-30T02:46:29Z

Part 6

This taxi isn't moving nearly as fast as it should be.

Not at all, and it's driving Erik insane. His heart is racing, his mind is heaving, his hands are trembling, and everything should be moving just as quickly, just as frantic and jerky, as it all feels to him. Instead, everything is slowing down, crawling, and it's almost as if he's trying to slough through the atmosphere. The temptation to shove every car away with a flick of his hand laps at his mind; he couldn't care less if they crash into each other, shattering as the press away on each side - it'll leave the roads clear.

He contents himself with messing with the stop lights so that they all turn green.

"Please," he asks, "is there any way you could go faster?" And now his voice is shaking, more-so than his hands.

"Listen, guy, I'm goin' as fast as I can without getting us killed," the driver replies, turning his head slightly to talk over his shoulder. Brooklyn, Erik thinks faintly. His accent is thick, the kind of New York accent that people imitate for fun, and, once again, with a sickening lurch, Erik remembers he's back in the States – the drivers in Italy are so much more polite. "The damn roads are iced over," the driver (Vincent Rutgers the ID between the slots of bulletproof glass reads) continues. "All the damn rain." And yeah, Erik knows the roads are dangerous and slippery. It's the reason why he's back home.

He sighs, sits back from where he was leaning toward the partition and settles into the cracked leather seats. He tries to quiet his busy mind by staring out at the grey, December evening, but the sight of the dirty streets, graffiti walls, and bustling people tire him out almost immediately. A sharp feeling slices through his gut once again, and he leans forward, this time putting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands.

He can't breathe. It's so hard to even think-

He shouldn't have stayed away for so long. Erik knows that if he were here this wouldn't have happened. Somehow,he could have stopped this from happening… not that he's exactly sure what he would have done, but…

Breathing is becoming harder, each inhale becoming shorter, faster, and his head begins to swim. Faintly, as if listening through a thin wall, he can hear himself beginning to hyperventilate.

"Hey, buddy." And the driver's vaguely concerned voice breaks through the panic. "You okay back there? Do I need to pull over?"

"No! No." Erik pulls his hands away from his face, scrubbing roughly before letting them drop, and leans back again. "Please… don't stop. Just keep going."

o o o

It feels like more, but its only twenty excruciating minutes later when they arrive. Erik grabs the worn backpack he threw a few essentials into before leaving his rented apartment in Venice, and shoves what feels like way too much money at the cabbie. He doesn't wait for his change (he's not even sure if he handed the man American bills) – just slams out of the car and hurries toward the entrance of the building. He ignores the ambulances idling at the sides, and the nurses who know better, huddled in winter coats over scrubs by the automatic doors, indulging in a smoke break.

As soon as he crosses the threshold, the sharp scent of antiseptic hits his nose. Erik's always hated hospitals, and this very smell is no small reason. But that doesn't matter right now; what matters is-

Third floor, Mr. X said the third floor. There's an elevator right across from where he stands, but Erik wastes no time waiting for it to arrive, and instead locates the nearest stairwell. He takes each step three at a time, and by the time he reaches the third floor he's panting, chest hurting slightly not at all from the exertion. He hurries down another fluorescently lit hall. A quick survey of the lobby shows no sign of the Xaviers, but he didn't really expect them to be here; they're probably at home, trying to get a little rest before returning.

305… 307… 309… 311… 313-

313.

Room 313. This is the room; the brown plaque on the wall says so. This is where Mr. X told him Charles would be when he'd made that long distance call, but staring at the bruised, almost unrecognizable, body on the bed, Erik can't believe that this is his best friend. This fragile, broken thing, with tubes in his arms, and another down his throat, and the casts on both his legs making hills under the pristine sheets…

Bright blue eyes closed... still in the coma he's been in for two days.

This can't be his Charles. There is no way. Erik left Charles not even two years ago at the airport outdoor kiosk. He'd hugged him so hard the other boy's feet had left the ground, ignored the playful slaps on his back, and focused on the warm breath on his neck. Charles was smiling and laughing when Erik looked over his shoulder before disappearing through the airport doors. Charles was smiling and laughingfour days ago on a surprisingly clear webcam feed. So it doesn't make sense, what Erik is looking at, even though the conversation with Mr. Xavier explained everything: icy roads, dark streets, and a car that couldn't stop in time. How Charles had been almost home, less than five minutes away, having decided to walk instead of drive to the grocery store to pick up that hot chocolate with the cinnamon he loved to drink late on cold nights.

He'd tried not to imagine Charles, small and lithe, bleeding and motionless; pale skin glowing against a dark, wet road while a frantic driver dialed 911. But the image, each time worse than before, played over and over in his mind.

But seeing Charles now, he realizes that reality is a hundred times worse.

He drops his bag on the floor, not caring if it bangs loudly - he's half hoping for Charles to stir. To scrunch his nose the way he does when he's just waking up, vaguely grumpy, slightly rumpled, and entirely beautiful, but he doesn't move. Nothing moves except for the steady spikes on the heart monitor and the gradual rise and fall of a slender chest, covered in a hospital gown.

Despite his limbs feeling like gelatin, Erik manages to drag one of the heavy oak chairs over to Charles' bedside and drops down into it. Immediately, he reaches for Charles' hand, heart lurching when he finds it slightly cold to the touch, and moves his other hand to cradle the fingers. He rubs gently, transferring his body heat as best he can, ignoring the way his vision has become increasingly blurry. When the tears start to slip down his face, he doesn't let go to wipe them away.

"Hey, Mr. Genius." He says this quietly, but he can still hear the crack in his own voice, struggling to make noise around the lump lodged in his throat. After two years of being so far away, it's automatic for Erik to speak aloud instead of directing his thoughts directly into Charles' mind. The urge to do so again is nearly overwhelming, though. The thing is- Erik is barely hanging in there as of this moment. If he were to project his thoughts in Charles' mind and not get an answer… He knows he'd lose it completely.

"I-" What can he say? What can he doto make this better? "I'm - God. I'm so sorry, Charlsie," he tries, voice catching on the old nickname. Charles always says he hates it, but Erik knows better - he sees the way Charles' cheeks always flush this pretty pink color when Erik would mumble it against his hair, laughing it into the skin of his neck before being pushed away...

The sound that rips up from his own throat is quiet, but it hurts.It hurts so fucking bad, and Erik can't stand it. "I'm so sorry. I should- I should have been here. I should have flown straight back instead of going back to Venice. I..." It's becoming too difficult to breathe again. He swallows hard, and moves a little closer to the edge of the seat, closer to the bed. "They said- your dad said that the doctor told your family… that you might not be able to-" He squeezes his eyes tightly together for a moment and is suddenly ambushed with an image, a hazy memory sharpened, of Charles, six years old and sweet, running away to hide behind a massive evergreen. The sun shines into Erik's eyes as he peaks through his fingers, cheating as he counts. He opens his eyes again, and the image fades away. Unwilling to let go of his best friend's hand just yet, he turns his face to wipe his wet cheeks on his sweater covered shoulders. When he's able to speak again his voice is rough but a little more controlled. "But fuck that, Charles. You'll be fine."

Squeezing Charles hand, now warm in his grip, he leans forward to press his lips against the soft skin. "We'll be fine," he whispers against blue veins.

We'll get through this.

Superheroes (6/8)

2012-08-30T02:43:59Z

Part 5

newworldOrdr: this is weird

ProfX: What is?

newworldOrdr: talking to you like this.

ProfX: We've IM'd each other before, Erik

newworldOrdr : i know that. but it's different when I'm IMing you from across the world and not from across town

ProfX: I suppose you're right.

newworldOrdr : of course I am. how's college going, Mr. Genius?

ProfX: Don't call me that. And it's going alright – I've got a schedule that works for me and a roommate that isn't horrible. So far, at least.

newworldOrdr : give it some time - bet you five bucks he'll turn out to be nuts. you'll come home to find him sniffing your boxer briefs.

ProfX: =/

newworldOrdr: haha! anyway, how's the food?

ProfX: Wonderful.

newworldOrdr : You lie.

ProfX: You'll never know.

newworldOrdr : that's weird too

ProfX: What is?

newworldOrdr : not being able to hear you inside of my head.

ProfX: You can't expect me to able to speak to you while you're all the way in Rome.

newworldOrdr : yeah, about that – work on it

ProfX: Yes, well, when you stumble across a giant helmet that can allow me to get to you that far away during your travels you let me know.

newworldOrdr : that's your job, Mr. Genius. Invent something. Aren't you going to be a scientist?

ProfX: I'm studying biology, with a focus on anatomy and genetic modification.

newworldOrdr: ...is that not the same thing?

ProfX: You're ridiculous

newworldOrdr : so you always say.

newworldOrdr : i miss it.

ProfX: Driving me insane in person?

newworldOrdr : that too. but no, i was talking about having your maniacal laughter in my head.

ProfX: I don't have a maniacal laugh

newworldOrdr: of course you don't : )

newworldOrdr : you're the only one I let in my head, you know that right?

ProfX: I'm the only one who can get into your head

newworldOrdr : whatever, you know what I mean.

ProfX: I do.

ProfX: But I've got to go. Early class in the morning. And at the risk of having you call me a female – I miss you.

newworldOrdr : alright. and yeah.

newworldOrdr : yeah I miss you too.

newworldOrdr : you girl.

o o o

Charles,

Only you would insist on handwritten letters in the 21st century. You're lucky you're my best friend, or I would have told you to shove it. Don't tell my mom though – she'll want one too.

So yeah, Italy. It's… beautiful.

Obviously.

When's the last time you heard someone say Italy is a pit?

Want to know a pit? Germany. I swear, those people are all around pretty horrible. I still have that black eye from that one fucker. I know I already said this, but I had no idea that woman was his little sister. And why would I? He looked like a bull. Hit like one too.

Anyway, I know you'd love it here. In fact you should drop out of Oxford, pack your bags, and catch a plane.

No?

Fine.

You're no fun at all, Charles, anyone ever tell you that?

Since I've been here I'm pretty sure I've gained about fifty pounds – Olive Garden has nothing on the real stuff. There's this bakery around the corner, and their bread… it's like a baked ball of heaven. Seriously, if I could somehow get the stuff to you fresh I would.

The women here are all beautiful. The men here are all beautiful. Everyone here is beautiful. It's a little bizarre. I feel like I'm walking around in a Dolce and Gabana ad. I'm leaving here in a few days, (Cairo, here I come) but I'm sure this will be my last stop before I come back. It's that great.

I'm gonna leave it at that. I'm not good at this whole 'writing letters' thing, and you know it, and you know you're lucky to have even gotten this much. I'd tell you I miss you, but you already know that. Besides, you're the sop out of the two of us.

And I know it'll be Halloween, but don't eat too much candy next week – you'll just end up puking it all up in front of your fancy friends and they'll discover what a lightweight you are. Yeah, I know the last time that happened was when we were seven. I'll never let it go.

You wasted all those M&M's.

I've stuffed some pictures in here of everything I've mentioned. As you'll see, my thumb is hardly in any of these.

I'm getting better.

I'll try and steal some treasure from a pyramid for you (not really - expect a bottle of sand.)

Erik

o o o

ProfX: I'm snowed in

newworldOrdr: i'm getting really great reception on this beach

ProfX: You are the absolute worst sometimes.

newworldOrdr: love you too

newworldOrdr: whatever. don't act like you don't love the snow. every Christmas break all you ever do is live under your ridiculously expensive blankets for two weeks.

ProfX: These blankets are an invesment.

newworldOrdr: mhm. besides, Croatian sun doesn't mess around – you'd burn like hot stove out here

ProfX: Ouch. Yeah, okay, I like the snow better. But I'm bored

newworldOrdr : watch movies like you always do

ProfX: We always used to do that. Watching movies isn't that fun alone

newworldOrdr : then invite a friend over. i know you've made some. you haven't stopped talking about whatshisface for months

ProfX: Sam. And I don't want him in my room

newworldOrdr : what about Kacey?

ProfX: Her either

newworldOrdr: Travis

Prof: Nope

newworldOrdr : Now you're just being fussy

ProfX: Oh shut up

newworldOrdr : all i'm hearing is 'Erik is the only one I want in my bed'

ProfX: …

newworldOrdr : i'm flattered. Really i am.

ProfX: I'm going to take a nap.

newworldOrdr : good. some quality time with your blankie will do you good. or should i say, some quality time with your investments.

ProfX: i hope you step on a jelly fish

newworldOrdr : do they even have jelly fish in Croatia?

ProfX: No idea

o o o

To: Charles Xavier

From: Erik Lensherr

Subject: i probably won't remember that I sent this email, come tomorrow morning

Charles,

Remember that time in tenth grade when you corrupted us both and insisted we get wasted on St. Patrick's day? And before you say that that was me, let me point out that you were ENTIRELY too drunk to recall anything from that night correctly. Anyway, remember how we tried to sneak into that bar, but you (still) looked like a nine year old, so we just ended up swiping some of your mother's stash? And then you got so drunk on Ravenscroft and Stolichnaya that you tried to climb that tree to save a cat that turned out to be a weirdly shaped branch? And then we had to explain your twisted ankle to your dad?

Good times, right?

There's no point to this, to be honest. I just felt like bringing it up because it's St. Patrick's Day, and I'm in Ireland, and I wanted to make fun of you one last time before I die of liver failure later on tonight.

I'll try to remember to take pictures. That way if I make it till morning, you can see what a fool I've made of myself in a foreign country.

Hello, cirrhosis! I don't believe we've met...

Erik

o o o

"Hello?"

"Yeah, this call is going to cost about a million dollars. A minute."

A yawn. "Erik?"

"In the flesh. Or voice."

Rustling. "Hey. Where are you calling from? It's nearly three in the morning."

"Sorry. It's, like, five in the afternoon here."

"Here?"

"Sydney."

"Oh." Silence. "So, to what do I owe the pleasure of an actual phone call? You do know this is going to cost a million dollars a minute, don't you?"

"Yeah. I know. Just, uh." Pause. "I had to call. It's your birthday, Charlsie."

"Don't call me that."

"But you love it."

He can hear the smile through the phone. "I really don't."

"Mhm." Softly, "Happy Birthday."

"I- thanks. Thanks."

Breathing.

"It's weird, isn't it? Not celebrating together."

"Yes. It's-" another rustle. "It's pretty odd."

Silence. "It's really cold here."

"It's on the other side of the world."

"It's April."

"That's how weather works, Erik. It's a little different everywhere you go."

"Shut up."

A laugh and a hitched breath.

"I-" haven't met anyone that I connect with as much I do with you. I miss seeing your smile. I miss the way you roll your eyes when I call you Charlsie. I- "-miss you, you know."

Quiet. "Yeah. I miss you too, Erik."

Breathing.

"So, uh. I'll talk to you in a few days?"

"Of course," and there's the smile again, Erik can hear it. "You've raised the bar – now I've got to call for your birthday, don't I?"

"You'd be the worst best friend in the universe if you didn't."

"I had a feeling you'd say that."

"I only speak the truth."

A soft laugh, and a stutter in a heartbeat. "Of course you do."

"…bye, Charles."

"Goodnight, Erik."

Superheroes (5/8)

2012-08-30T02:38:03Z

Part 4

The tassels have switched sides, the emerald green robes have been shed, and the sound of pictures being taken, mingled with proud, tearful exclamations, are over and done with.

Graduation.

It came with nervous knees and sweaty palms and went with sighs of relief and wide smiles, and now Erik and Charles sit in the mostly deserted park down the street from Charles' home. Their suit jackets and shiny dress shoes have been long discarded onto the grass, and ties loosened around their throats. They've rolled up their sleeves and stuffed their socks into their pockets, more to enjoy the way grit gets between their toes and up trouser legs. They've long outgrown this sandbox, but neither of them move from where they sit.

The setting sun cuts a swath of orange light across Erik's eyes and he keeps his head down to avoid the glare. Gripping a handful of sand, he moves his arm in lazy figure eights and loosens his fist gradually, watching the golden bits fall in a steady stream. A sudden grin breaks across his face and he rubs his knee against Charles'. Remember when I dared you to eat a fist full of this stuff?

Beside him, Charles laughs quietly at Erik's question. Yes, he answers, I was sick for a whole week.

You were only sick for a day, and stretched it out into a week. Charles laughs again, louder, and Erik looks over at his friend quickly, smiling at the way his freckled nose wrinkles slightly. I still felt so bad, though, Erik thinks. He remembers how upset he'd been to see Charles choking on the small handful of rough particles. He also remembers how he'd apologized more than a dozen times, going as far as to give Charles his favorite stuffed zebra to hunker down in bed with. It didn't matter that Charles forgave him the first time he'd said sorry – he still spent hours on the edge of Charles' bed, floating and bending his first set of knitting needles into any and every shape Charles asked for.

He can hear the grin in Charles' voice when his friend begins to float another thought his way. Remember that day, when you kept pushing me higher and higher on the swing? The laugh is building in Erik's chest, even before Charles finishes - he knows exactly where he's going with this. I kept saying 'Erik, I don't think this is a good idea,' and you just kept telling me to 'hold on tight.' Completely ignoring my pleas-

Oh, please, Erik laughs aloud. You loved it-

You froze me in mid-air! Charles insists. In front of a huge crowd of people-

A sharp bark of laughter pushes itself out of Erik's chest. He remembers that day crystal clear - God, his Mama had been so vexed when she looked over from the playground benches to see more than a dozen kids and their parents agape at the sight of Charles' swing frozen midair, chain link bars held out perfectly straight, and eleven year old Erik's wicked smile. He can recall Charles' large blue eyes a mix of nervous and excited, shining with happiness.

I didn't get dessert that night, Erik thinks wistfully, and Charles gives an amused snort.

I could have fallen and really hurt myself.

Nah, Erik thinks, casually. I'd never have let you fall.

They sit side by side, fingers buried into the sand, the surface sun warmed at first, but getting cooler the further they dig their fingers down. A few more moments pass in silence before Charles' quiet thought floats over.

We are officially adults now.

Something tightens in Erik's chest at the note of longing in his friend's voice, heart leaping uncomfortably in his chest. He doesn't answer, just buries his fingers further down, the surface giving easily. He digs as if he's looking for something, vaguely - maybe searching for the bottom. He can't recall ever getting to the floor of this thing when he was little, working with hands much smaller than they are now, but it never worked - the rest of the surrounding sand always fell easily into the hole he'd just dug.

After this summer, its college, Charles continues, and Erik's stomach gives an unpleasant lurch. And then careers, and… Charles shifts next to him and sighs aloud, quietly. It's happening so quickly. Or it feels like it, anyway.

Out of the corner of his eye, Erik sees two of the few children left, brothers it looks like, with their matching, flaming red hair, run off to where their mother has just called them inside from a few houses down. He wants to let out a hum of acknowledgement or even nod at Charles' words, but he can't seem to move anything except for his fingers that just keep digging, digging, digging.

I've already put a request in for us to be to be roommates, Charles says, leaning a little closer to where he's trying to build a little tower without the aid of water. It keeps falling into a puddle of crystals. And since it was done so early, I can't think of a reason why they'd say no. Father said that he'd take us to get things for our room. Later on, of course –

I'm leaving.

It's the first time he's pushed the thought to the forefront of his mind, and Erik digs his fingers in. His heart starts beating double-time in his chest, and he's sure Charles can hear the blood rushing in his ears.

A few feet away a father calls for his daughter, who jumps off of the swing and runs towards him. Her excited chattering fades away as she grabs his hand and tugs him down the street. And suddenly all that is left is the setting sun and Charles' silence. Erik doesn't look over to his best friend, but grabs a fist of sand, lets it filter through his fingers, and looks up and out into the trees. I meant to tell you before, he tries to explain into the silence, staring straight ahead. It's true - he did try to tell Charles about his plans for after high school, once graduation was over and done with, but every time he would try to bring it up the other boy's bright blue eyes would light up at the prospect of going to college together - finally being on their own but always having a piece of home in each other.

But the truth is, Erik can't imagine going through another cycle of homework, and tests, and grades; school, academics, that's always been Charles' thing. Everyone knows Charles is going to go to college, get the best grades, graduate first in his class out of three thousand, and go on to discover the cure for cancer, or find the missing link, or manage to take over the world in the most humane way possible.

But Erik? Erik wants travel, go to different countries and cities, not leaving until he's fluid in their native tongue. It's the only thing that's ever really made sense to him, always being able to absorb different languages like a sponge. The pull to travel is so in-ground into him, that he can't imagine sitting behind a desk while a bored teacher over-pronounces words before listlessly handing out an exam.

The thought is suffocating.

He bets he's the only person to ever feel their heart sink when they received one of the thick envelopes from Oxford.

I just wanted – I just wanted to be sure before I said anything. Charles still says nothing in reply and Erik looks back down at his dusty hands, the stone in his stomach growing heavier and heavier. I don't think college is for me. I want to learn languages, but not in the classroom, you know? And I really was- and he can't get his thoughts straight, not when Charles is being this quiet. I really want to be with you- live with you, and share a room with you, and watch you get drunk at frat parties and listen to you use your drunk pick up lines, but- He stumbles again. School's just not- I can't...

He trails off. The sun sinks lower, disappearing under the horizon.

It's alright, Charles says softly, finally, and out of the corner of his eye Erik can see Charles bow his head to look at his own gritty fingers tapping against the sand. I figured that... you were going to do that. Erik stares and Charles cracks a little smile. I didn't look into your mind. Believe it or not, after thirteen years of friendship, you're pretty easy to read.

Erik grins at that and Charles bumps his shoulder into his. Have you told your parents? He shakes his head, and Charles lets out a huff of laughter. Your mum is going to kill you. Erik groans, knowing Charles is most likely right, but he's not too worried about that. The weight in his stomach is fading gradually, disappearing completely when he feels Charles move closer to him and rest his head on Erik's shoulder. So, he thinks once he's settled, where are you going?

The sun has set by now, the sky a dark, inky blue, and when he looks up, he can see the stars before he closes his eyes and buries his face into Charles' clean smelling hair, inhaling deeply.

Everywhere.

This Thing, Between You and Me

2012-08-30T02:24:53Z

Title: This Thing, Between You and Me
Author: coquilleon
Summary: It's starting to hit Elena just how human she and Alaric really are.
Characters/Pairing: Elena/Alaric
Genre: Romance/Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG - 13
Notes: I feel like there's a kinship here.

She recognizes that look – it seems to be a permanent expression on her own face these days. He's lying on top of the sheets, hands folded loosely on his chest, ankles crossed. His eyes don't leave the ceiling the whole time she leans in the doorway, head against the pane, watching. He's thinking hard about something, thoughts spiraling deeper and deeper until it feels like he's in a trance. He hasn't said it, but... she knows. "You okay in here?"

Unknowingly, Alaric proves her right when he barely stirs, eyes blinking slowly once, twice, before sliding down to fix on her. "Yeah, I'm…" Closes his eyes for a few moments and opens them back up. "You doing okay?"

Elena shrugs and pushes way from the door. "I'm…" She walks further into the bedroom – first her parents, then Jenna's, now Alaric's. She remembers burrowing under the blankets with Jeremy, squished in between their parents when the Southern thunderstorms got to be too much. It wasn't even two months ago when she and Jenna chose to stay in one night, clad in pajamas, junk food placed strategically around the hills made by their legs underneath the covers and had a Sandra Bullock marathon. Now, she perches on the end of the bed, back against the foot board. Casting glances around the room hails Alaric's boots, his jacket, a few textbooks, and his shirts in the closet. She's used to the room, used to his stuff, but the combination of the two familiar things don't merge seamlessly.

She looks back at Alaric, who's watching her quietly. "I'm okay, I guess." They both know it isn't true. Elena can't help but wish she'd just left the sentiment unfinished like he did. The empty house creaks, nothing moves outside, and she knocks the tips of her fingers against the toe of his boot. His eyes slide away from her to fix back on the ceiling, sinking back into whatever thoughts had taken hold of him not so long ago, and soon she's treading through her own minefield.

~..~..~

The acrid smell of something burning hits her as soon as she's through the front door. "Ric? Jeremy? What's that smell?" Its second nature for every worst possibility to flash into the forefront of her mind, (so much blood, Uncle Jon lying motionless on the floor, a hooded figure darting around in the shadows, Jeremy dead, neck twisted at an unnatural angle) and it takes a little effort to force away the apprehension that speeds her pulse. The bang of a pot going into a sink sounds and a second later the hiss of water evaporating into mist. "Jeremy?"

Elena hangs her bag on the banister and goes into the kitchen. Ric's there, his back to her. "Ric?" He looks over his shoulder and gives a sheepish smile. "I uh," he turns back to where he holds a sauce pan under the faucet. "I forgot I left this on the stove."

Relief trickles into her veins. "What were you trying to make?"

"Just some spaghetti." He turns the faucet off, sets the full pot down to soak, and turns to face her. "Got distracted, sorry."

Elena smiles and moves toward the sink to see the damage. She's about to ask what he was distracted by, but when she turns her head, catches a whiff of brandy on his breath. He doesn't see her smile slip, waits until she can hitch it back into place as she stares down into the murky, tomato water, and flashes another grin at him. "I'll cook. Go into the den."

"I can-"

She pushes against his shoulder, and turns to reach into the already cabinet for a box of noodles. "Go."

~..~..~

"No harebrained scheme to find Loverboy, today?" And Damon's voice always makes her feel something odd – regret, anticipation, pressure. She shrugs, and settles down into the couch. Alaric fiddles with the coffee maker in the background.

"No, I guess there isn't," she mutters and tries to ignore that spark of hopefulness in his grey eyes.

~..~..~

"Still have no idea what you're doing there?" Alaric asks as he passes her a mug and Damon is long gone.

"Nope."

~..~..~

"How are things at home?" Caroline's golden hair shines in the sunlight as they walk. It's muggy and hot out here, making even shorts and tanks tops seem unbearable.

"Okay. I've barely seen Jeremy lately. And Alaric…" Why is it that she can never elaborate when it comes to him?

Caroline is silent for a moment, matching Elena's stride and bumping their shoulders. "Elena…" And Elena hates that tone of voice. It never means anything good. She doesn't look over to Caroline. "People… they're starting to talk."

"People are always talking, Caroline."

"Yeah, I know. Just- they think it's weird. That Alaric is living there. I mean," she rushes to clarify. "I know what he's doing there, just keeping an eye on things. But… it just seems-"

"Yeah I know how it seems." To be honest, gossiping neighbors is the least of her problems right now. Caroline must realize that, because she lets the subject drop.

~..~..~

The beer bottles clink together as she picks them up from the dark living room table. The only light that shines is the one in the entrance way and it casts the rest of the place in a murky orange light. A half empty whiskey bottle rests in the middle of all the papers and she can't help but think that she's happy that Jeremy isn't depressed, anymore – all the influx of available liquor could have been a problem.

Well, more of a problem.

Overhead she hears the sound of footsteps, a door closing, and the shower starting up. She picks up a wide tumbler and worries that one day he'll be too drunk to avoid tripping over the edge of the tub or slipping in some water, and she'll have to break down the door to help him avoid a concussion. Imagines busting in to see him unconscious, beads of water rolling off of his naked body as she tries to help him-

She swallows hard and picks up the whiskey bottle to hide behind the potato chips in the pantry.

~..~..~

She drops down beside him on the couch and tucks her feet underneath herself. She doesn't feel like being alone, and can't find Jeremy. He's never around these days, but whenever she does see him he has a harassed look about him that she's too selfish to ask about. He knows that if it gets really bad he can come to her.

Right?

And asking Damon to hang out would just send a message. Wrong or right, Elena doesn't know yet.

"What are we watching?" she asks as she leans around him to grab a beer. Ignores his raised eyebrow and holds her grip away from him when he halfheartedly tries to take the bottle away.

"James Bond."

"Casino Royale?

"Goldfinger. What's that face for?" he says, teasing at her scrunched nose. "You have no idea about the classics."

"Yeah, yeah." But she grins anyway, taking a few sips of the bitter liquid in the bottle before handing it back over. Puts her head on his shoulder when he takes it back.

~..~..~

"This is a bad idea."

"Was a bad idea," Elena says, tongue a little too heavy in her mouth, not that she notices. Not when her feet swinging back and forth seem so mesmerizing at the moment. "I'm already drunk-"

"You're not drunk. You can't get drunk while I'm living here – the rumors-" And he's drunk too, must be if he can't remember that the rumors possibly can't get any worse.

Elena snorts. "Fine. Tipsy. We're tipsy together. That's not so bad."

"That's not so bad," Ric echoes and pushes himself away from the kitchen counter to make his way over to the island where she perches on the marble. "But it's still bad," he mutters and grabs a beer.

"Then why'd you let me drink?" She means it to come out annoyed, but it only comes out curious. She looks at his profile, a few inches away from her. Watches as he takes a drink of Guinness, and sets the bottle down before looking into her eyes.

"Figured you had some stuff to forget, too."

The moment hangs, heavy and thick, and their faces are a little too close. Her pulse speeds up, and can smell the faint scent of whiskey on this breath. Or maybe it's her own - with their breaths mingling its hard to tell.

It's when she blinks and looks down at his lips, slightly parted and soft looking that he seems to snap out of whatever it is that is happening. "No- I uh-" He sets the bottle down, and turns to leave the kitchen. There's a brief pause in his steps, as if he's going to turn around and say something else, but then Elena blinks and he's gone.

Perfect Timing

2012-08-30T02:15:10Z

Title: Perfect Timing
Author: coquilleon
Summary: Damon and Elena meet a little sooner, while her throat is still bare.
Characters/Pairing: Damon/Elena (?)
Genre: Romance
Rating: PG
Notes: What if, what if...

She meets him right after she meets his brother, and feels a little bad for changing her mind so quickly.

She's sitting in front of her parent's tomb stone, scribbling away in her diary – it's weird knowing i'm not going home to tell dad how my first day was, bonnie thinks she's a witch, caroline is still kind of a bitch, matt lingers, jeremy isn't doing well at all, i'm worried, there's this mysterious new boy name ste- when the sound of a trodden on branch snaps through the air and she's looking up quickly, heart jumping, into eyes so light they don't seem real.

She starts to stand, scrambles to grab her things, but this stranger, in a leather jacket that fits like a glove, looks into her eyes, tells her "no," and sits next to her. Sinks down smooth and graceful, casual like they'd agreed to meet up right here, in this very spot, earlier today. It should unsettle her – the mother and father she sits before at this moment warned her time after time about strangers, especially such handsome ones, but Elena can't find it in herself to move away. The wind blows, and she catches his scent in the midst of her own shampoo - he smells like the upcoming fall and something fresh, like running water, or ozone.

This man, he looks her in the eyes, tells her not to be afraid, and apologizes for startling her. But even as he says it, and no apprehension floods her limbs signaling the contrary, Elena isn't sure if he means it. His voice has an edge of wickedness, and his eyes glitter with mirth, as if he knows everything and she knows nothing at all. She is drawn in immediately, has this insane urge to just do whatever he wants and... and... she doesn't care. A distant voice that sounds like her own tells her that that isn't good. But she and he are talking now and it's easy to ignore that voice, push it away.

He mentions Stefan in passing, says his little brother just started at the high school – it's how she makes the connection, because they look nothing alike - but even when she realizes she can't find it in herself to feel flakey and frivolous. Damon, he introduces himself as Damon Salvatore, rolls the R's and smirks, he looks at her like Stefan does – the only true resemblance they share. His eyes drink her in like he knows her, has seen her before, but she's the one who can't remember when. And he's not telling.

He says something macabre about death and dying, but it's delivered in a witty and clever manner, and when Elena's done laughing the way he's gazing at her, awed and a little hungry, struck, makes her heart stutter in her chest. As if he can hear it, his eyes flit to where her heart beats in her chest, and then he's standing, quick and lithe like a cat. He, Damon Salvatore, the name rolls around in her mind, holds his hand out to her and she takes it, stands. He meets her eyes again, intent. "Come to dinner with me." And she says yes.

Of course she does.

Better Now Than We Were Before (2/2)

2012-08-30T02:03:36Z

Part 1

Call him old fashioned, but Ron is a one woman kind of bloke. Besides Hermione (and he doesn't count Lavender) he hasn't had any other girlfriends. He doesn't do one night stands, or meaningless sex, because, well, it's not for him. He loves the idea of being with the same person forever. Loves the security and stability the notion brings. Sees what his mother and father have and intends to have the same.

When he was younger, all of his strong emotions came out in frustration, and anger, and blind loyalty. Nowadays it resembles more of falling hard and fast, not really intending to ever look back.

In short, he's not a commitment-phobe.

That's Harry's department.

o o o

Their fingers are laced and Siobhan is looking for a book on how to deal with fussy baby Crups when Neville rounds the corner.

"Ron! Hey." His friendly face splits into a grin.

"Hey, Nev. What're doing here?"

Neville holds up a thick, brown leather bound book. "Need new methods to tame Devil's Snare. I've got a new strain that doesn't respond as intensely to light so…" He shrugs and Ron smiles. "How've you been? We haven't seen you around lately." The reason why hangs in the air, unspoken.

"Yeah, I was Ireland for a while. Still am actually. This one wanted to come to Diagon," he tugs gently on Siobhan's hand, and she curls easily into him.

"Hello," she holds her hand out for Neville to shake. "Siobhan Finnigan. And you must be Neville."

Neville nods and shakes her hand. He casts Ron a mildly surprised look, but his lips twitch into a pleased smile as he and Siobhan talk about Calming Draughts and their effect on still developing animals.

Ron ducks his head, tips of his ears warming slightly, but he doesn't let go of her hand.

o o o

Heard you're dating my cousin. Good luck to ye.

Come have a fucking pint.

-Seamus.

Ron grins at Seamus' short letter and places it in his beside table.

o o o

He rolls over and her side of the bed is empty. Getting to his feet he shuffles down the hallway, only to stop when he hears her voice. "...really nice. And his hair, Gran! I love it. So red and thick. And he's got these freckles on his back-"

He hears the tinkle of a laugh, older, what Siobhan's will be later on down the road. "Well, I'm glad you like him, dear. But the most important thing is that he's treating you the way you deserve."

"I really do. And he is, Gran. Better than I deserve really. He's wonderful. And smart. He speaks sometimes and... I don't know. He's just, I like him a lot." The way her voice sounds makes Ron's heart jump and his stomach erupt with butterflies.

"I'm sure it will all work out."

"I hope." And she really does sound like she means it. "But they never tend to stick around do they." Her words are met with silence for a few moments, and he can imagine the face on the other side of the Floo giving her a sad look.

"Honey..."

"S'alright." Falsely chipper, hardly convincing. "He's here for now, until I become to much for him to handle. Anyway, I need to get back to bed. Work in the morn-"

"Siobhan." Forceful in a gentle way. "It will work out. I can feel it."

"Thanks, Gran." But she still sounds defeated, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Night. Love you."

"Love you too, dear."

The fire goes out, and Siobhan sits in the dark. Ron can't see her expression, but he can imagine. He backs away slowly and slips back into bed. Ten minutes later, she gets in as quietly as she can. He waits until she's settled to roll over and pull her back into his chest.

o o o

After another meeting at the Ireland branch, he Floos into her flat and calls out her name.

There's no answer and he finds Siobhan sitting on the floor at the end of her bed, back against the chest she keeps there. There's a little bottle full of cerulean blue liquid cradled in her palms and she doesn't look up when Ron sits down in front of her.

They sit quietly for a few minutes, and its when he raises his hand to tuck her hair behind her ear that she looks up, that aching look in her eyes again.

"It makes you feel good." It's not a question. She nods, and presses her face against his palm, as if savoring the feel of his hand. As if he won't ever want to touch her again after finding out that she does this. He runs a thumb over the thin skin underneath her eye. He takes the bottle from her hand and twists off the cap. A pearly sheen rises from the opening and the smell of cherries wafts through the air. "We're still young," he whispers and raises the bottle to his mouth. Tips it to place a drop on his tongue before taking a hold of her chin. Her lips fall open automatically and he drops a small amount on her palate.

As he screws the top back on, he can feel it taking effect already, his body floating, his skin feels like clouds and her hands in his hair like a warm spring breeze. "Feels good," he murmurs against her lips. He has the fleeting thought that his mum would kill him if she knew he was doing this, experimenting with drugs, but damnit all, it's his life. He wants to feel something different, for once.

o o o

He wakes up to a room bathed in grey light and a finger tracing the line of his nose. Images from last night flash to the forefront of his mind.

"What're you doing?" The words are a rumble in his chest, still rough from sleep.

"Nothing," she answers softly. Her finger still moves, down the bridge, back up, dancing across freckles, then across his forehead. He stays still, lets her explore, all the while his heart tight. He's never been looked at the way she's looking at him now. Like he's the world. Her hair is a thick tumble of curls and her shoulders are silken and bare. Even though she's covered up from the sheets he knows that she's naked, can feel the heat coming from her skin, remembers undressing her slowly just a few hours ago. Her long eyelashes frame sleep heavy eyes and Ron's breath catches for the hundredth time at how utterly beautiful she is.

After a few minutes the fingers stop tracing his skin, and Siobhan palms his cheek briefly before sliding it up to push his hair away from his forehead. She rests it there, palm warm and dry, taking in everything. He doesn't know what she's looking for but for some reason he isn't nervous at what she'll find.

Fingers slide into his hair as she shifts with a loud exhale and then she's pressed against his side, nails scratching gently at his scalp, the bend of her elbow cradling his chin. Her cheek is warm against his chest and he's sure that she can hear the harsh beating of his heart, but she only presses a kiss to his flesh as if to soothe him.

With a press of his hand against the curve of her arse, she tangles their legs together, skin on skin, satin flowing over him.

Before he drops off, Ron takes note that the aching look is gone from her eyes.

o o o

She's hot and alive in his arms, chest pressed against his own, knees bracketing his hips and sinking into the overly soft sofa. His hands are massive on her small waist, the skin of his palms damp where they slide underneath the dark green shirt and onto smooth skin. The room is hot, too hot, Ireland's summer just as brutal as Scotland's and London's but Ron doesn't care. His heart is beating fit to burst. He feels wild and out of control, electric, as their sweat mingles and she grinds down into his lap.

This, this is what he needs. This right here, this girl in his lap, her hands tangled in his too long hair and laughing sweetly into his mouth, all his. Whispers of, "bad influence" and "need you" drifting over his drug sensitized skin. He has no idea where she got the tiny vial full of sloshing gold liquid that so resembled Felix, but Ron didn't hesitate when she'd dropped a spot of it onto her tongue and slid inside of his mouth, sharing the taste.

His nerves buzz and velvet is everywhere, hanging in the air, sinking into his skin. So good, feels so good-

She pulls back and he follows; laughs when he buries his face into her neck, sweet with the perfume she put on earlier and musky from the humidity and arousal. His teeth slide slick and sloppy over the skin of her throat and the resulting wiggle makes his hips buck up into her. Grins when he feels the shudder run through her body. She sways back, and he pulls forward and it's like flowing water as she falls into him, shirt now up and over her head, dropped to the floor.

"RonRonRonRon…" and then his shirt is off too, his hands are back on burning skin, and her delicate hands are tugging at the button of his jeans andthis, this is what- this is what he needs.

o o o

"Spoke to Hermione today." Ginny's legs swing from her perch on the tire swing. Ron says nothing, content to stare up at the cloudless sky and enjoy the warm breeze on his skin. "She and Harry are having a rough time of it."

He blinks.

"She was going on and on about how he won't commit. It's been six months. I think she expected a ring already. Which is absurd, seeing as how it'sHarry for God's sake." Ron smirks at that, because it's true. Harry always wanted the wife and kids, but somehow wanted to skip everything in between.

"Anyway, she said that she's thinking she made a mistake. Leaving you." Ginny's tone is lofty, purposely aloof, and Ron doesn't know how to respond to that. A few moments pass in silence. Then- "Expect an owl, any day now."

He closes his eyes.

o o o

He Floos in to find her curled up on the couch. He thinks she's asleep, until he hears the shuddering inhale. It's not the first time he's found her like this, upset and angry with no idea why. Her emotions are like a roller coaster - up one minute, down the next and Ron doesn't understand. But he kicks off his shoes, and sheds his coat before curling up behind her, covering her small body with his.

He ignores the way she apologizes, choosing instead to kiss her neck, burying his face into the soft skin and inhaling deeply.

o o o

The pub is loud, shouts, and laughter, and a group of elderly drunken wizards in one corner that keep bursting into choruses of Nellie Dean. Still, it's nothing compared to the clubs Siobhan has taken him to when they're both on a high. While Ron has come to enjoy those immensely, he still feels a certain kind of warmth when he sits in the Three Broomsticks. It's so like home, it makes his heart squeeze a little too tightly for a moment.

He's currently nursing an ale. Some fancy imported shite that he's treating himself to – he thinks he deserves it. He hasn't said one snide thing to Harry or Hermione all night. He hasn't said anything at all really, but that's the point, isn't it? One step at a time and all that. Seamus, Dean, and Neville are also crammed into the booth, Luna perched on Neville's lap.

"So!" Seamus turns to Ron and raises one eyebrow. "Me cousin? And how's that workin' out fer ya?"

Suddenly all the attention is on Ron and he shifts in his seat, ignoring the way the edge of his shirt rides up against the leather seat. Usually he'd be embarrassed, with every eye on him, but he's gotten used to the way Siobhan's gaze burns. This right here? Nothing compared to that.

"Excellent." The words come around a grin wrapped around the neck of his beer bottle. "Really excellent. She's… she's something else."

Seamus' snort of laughter follows his words. "I bet." He takes a hearty swig of the dark beer in his flagon. "I love the girl, Lord knows I do, but she's mad. I don't know how you blokes do it. She likes you though. Talks about you more than the others. You should probably be afraid."

Ron ducks his head and laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck which has grown quite warm with Seamus' words. When he looks up, he catches Harry's gaze. Green eyes hesitant, his lips trying for a smile. Ron looks away.

"Yeah, well," he says, ignoring the hurt that floats across the table, "I like her more than the others too." Understatement. She runs hot, sizzling through his veins. "So, I guess it's working out."

Seamus grunts his agreement. "She coming tonight?"

"Yeah," Ron nods and takes another swallow. The buzz is starting. "Yeah, she should be here soon. Said she had to close up shop."

"Good. I miss her daft arse."

Conversation moves on, Neville's chin resting on Luna's shoulder as he tells about this massive plant in his garden that tried to devour him alive. Their table adds to the laughter of the place, and its easy to ignore the way he can feel Hermione's gaze on the side of his face.

He didn't lie; he does like Siobhan more than the others. He never felt the way he does with her with Hermione. What he and Hermione had was warm and familiar. Not totally safe, because Ron still has a mending heart and two less friends. But safe enough. What he and Siobhan have...

"Hey." The whisper in his ear sends sparks down his spine and the cool hand that rests on the bare skin of his lower back melts his bones. God, everytime she does this. Instantaneous and Ron is hooked. The noise fades from the room as he turns to face her. Powder sugared freckles, sharp smile, and warm eyes. Thick hair mussed from rushed Apparition and cheeks flushed pink.

He pulls her in, tiny and soft against his hands, into his lap and she goes easily, laughing slightly. He grins back, nuzzling her nose, skimming her lips with his own. The buzz that started with the beer has been taken up a notch. When he slips one hand into her hair, pulling her in for a full on kiss, something, the same part of him every time, snaps into place. He barely hears the hoots and cat calls.

"Hey." His greeting his low and spoken against her smile, a little delayed. By the way she looks fondly at him and smoothes his hair away from his forehead, Ron doesn't think she minds too much.

"About damn time," Seamus says loudly, grinning at his cousin.

"Oh shut up." Siobhan laughs and leans over to tug on Seamus' hair. "Missed me that much then?"

"More like I'm sick of your damn owl poking me to death every time it delivers a letter."

"He still hasn't forgotten how you tried to turn him pink."

"I was seven."

Siobhan shrugs and leans into Ron, who presses a kiss to her bare freckled shoulder. "Messed with the wrong owl I suppose."

Seamus rolls his eyes and Siobhan turns to the rest of the table. "Since Ron doesn't seem as if he's going to introduce me anytime soon, I'll do the honors." Ron tweaks her side and she squirms, laughs. "I'm Siobhan. And Seamus is, unfortunately, my ridiculous cousin." Seamus flicks his bottle top at her, but she dodges it.

They all wave and grin, introducing themselves one by one. Harry's eyes are slightly wide and Hermione carefully polite.

Once it's all over with, Siobhan turns to Neville. "Hey, I keep meaning to send you an owl; have you been growing any Puffapods? I've some kittens at the shelter and crazy things would go mad with joy if they had a few."

Ron lets their words fade into the background. With his palm resting underneath her shirt, gentle on the curve of her belly and his cheek against her shoulder, he feels content. He reaches for his bottle again, and this time he can't prevent his eyes from sliding to Hermione's. Where her gaze was weary before, now it's reproachful, maybe even a little betrayed. Not that that makes any type of sense – she's the one who left him. Said he wasn't passionate enough, didn't have any ambition, no drive. She has no right to look at him like that. He looks over to Harry, who tries to smile at him again, and this time Ron smiles back. It's the most he can do right now, especially when what he really wants is to tell Harry to be careful.

o o o

They lay on the carpet. Bright colors are on the ceiling, bending and molding, acting out scenes of Ron's childhood. Memories he forgot he had. Siobhan shifts beside him, throwing a lazy leg over his own and rests her chin on his chest. He looks down at her – light, light green rim her huge pupils and he knows, somewhere in his mind, that his eyes are the same - mirror images except that his ring of green is denim blue.

She raises her slender fingers to touch his lips, tugging the bottom down slightly and he feels the press of a pill, chalky, against the wet, inside flesh. It dissolves on his tongue like bursts of champagne and they both giggle as she pops one like candy.

The warm line of her body smoothes further up his own and she spreads a whole palm on the side of his face. She's so small, so delicate compared to him. She's lovely, she's beautiful. There are bubbles in his nose, and in his brain, under his skin, and she's the air and the sky. Everything. Right here, holding him in her palm.

She opens her mouth, closes it again. Grins. "I love you, you know."

Music notes dance in the air.

o o o

Grindle Grounds popped up a few years ago and is kind of Ron's secret pleasure. It serves tea, and coffee, and hot apple cider. The cases are full of crèmes, pastries, and cookies, and there are plush couches and chairs covering almost every inch. Soft music plays and the crowd is quiet, usually so immersed in a book or text that they don't even realize there are other people in the place.

He's sitting in an insanely comfortable couch, Siobhan curled up against his side, face pressed to his throat. Their teas rest on the table, cold and forgotten as her lips caress the sensitive skin behind his ear, whispering nonsense words, sweet sentiments in Gaelic, and dropping light kisses.

He's in heaven. Her hand lies on his stomach, moving up and down, sometimes straying a little to far down and Ron feels her grin against his skin when his hips cant upwards involuntarily, his fingers curling around the back of her neck. She's driving him mad.

That's why it takes him a few moments to realize someone is standing in front of them. Hazy eyes focus on Hermione, shifting from foot to foot, an impossibly large tome held in hand.

"Hermione." Siobhan greets her first, and her voice is still husky from mild arousal.

"I didn't know you two came here." Hermione's voice sounds high and pitchy to Ron's ears. Her cheeks are flushed pink.

"It's my first time actually." Siobhan pulls slightly away from Ron, but stays close. "I've never been before, but Ron loves the place so I figured why not."

"Oh." She looks to Ron now. "I didn't know you liked it here." Ron shrugs, disinterested. He knows what she really means; I didn't know you liked to come to places that actually carry books. He doesn't get into it though, doesn't want to be having this conversation right now, or at all. Her hair, her eyes, her skin, everything that used to enthrall Ron about Hermione is gone. When he looks at her now he feels nothing even close to what he used to feel when they first started dating. Now she's an irritant, a pest that won't stop sending him owls, or trying to Floo, or looking at him reproachfully.

"Do you come here often?" Siobhan asks and Ron ignores Hermione's answer, absently lifting his girlfriend's hand to his mouth to kiss her knuckles. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Hermione sit in the small armchair across from their couch and he remembers Ginny's words.

"Where's Harry?"

There is a slight pause before Hermione answers. "Oh, about. Probably at the Ministry. It's where he always is these days anyway." Slightly bitter, enough to be awkward. Ron doesn't comment, even though they both know that that is where Harry always was even before he and Hermione started dating. Why she expected that to change is anyone's guess.

It's a pattern, Ron realizes in that moment, Hermione always wanting people to change.

"What's he do over there?" Siobhan asks politely. She must know, she does get the Prophet every morning.

"Auror."

"Oh, like Ron."

Hermione stares. "Ron's not an Auror."

"I am actually," he cuts in. "Tactical division for the Ireland branch." He got the job weeks ago, but didn't want to make a big deal about it all. The only people who know about it are his family, Neville, and Siobhan.

"Good for you." She doesn't sound like she means it.

"It's a wonderful opportunity," Siobhan continues, eyes warm as she looks over at him. "He's still helping, but in a logical way, you know? He stays behind, makes important decisions, but I don't have to worry about him getting hurt in the field."

"And the pay's not anything to kick in the face, either."

"Oh, and!" she bounces slightly in her seat, pulling her feet underneath herself. "There's talk of him being promoted, already. The Minister wants him." Ron feels his face heat but says nothing in the face of her praise. He slides down further in his seat and presses his lips to the back of Siobhan's hand again.

"Well," Hermione says, voice floundering as if at a loss. "That's impressive Ron. I'm happy for you."

"Thanks. I figured it was time I get my business in order, made a name for myself." It's a dig, but he doesn't look at her face to see the reaction his words bring. He's tired of this awkward stilted conversation, and wants to get back to what was happening before his ex- girlfriend decided to invite herself over. Putting aside all pretenses of being polite company, he pulls Siobhan into his arms and whispers against her ear, "gonna wear your school kit for me later. Hm?" Teeth on her earlobe, hand caressing the side of her face, and the resulting shiver makes him grin.

"Ron," she admonishes quietly. Her face is pink, but the liquid excitement in her eyes makes his heart beat faster.

"I should be going." Hermione rises from her seat, expression shuttered.

"No, stay. Ron was just-"

"No, I have somewhere else to be anyway." Her smile is stiff.

"Tell Harry I said hello." He throws it out there, a little meanly.

"You could send him an owl that says the same thing." The words simmer in anger, but all Ron does is grin.

"Nah." And then he's kissing Siobhan's throat, and- Hermione who?

o o o

HARRY POTTER AND BEAU OF SEVEN MONTHS, HERMIONE GRANGER, SPLIT.

Rumors of infidelity.

Granger still pines for ex, Ron Weasley.

Jealousy. Betrayal. And who is the new woman on Weasley's arm? Turn to page 12 for full story.

The Daily Prophet lies on the kitchen table, face up, headline blaring for all to see. But Ron hardly notices, not when there's an inked in mustache absently drawn over Harry's picture.

God, he loves this woman.

Better Now Than We Were Before (1/2)

2012-08-30T01:57:30Z

Title: Better Now Than We Were Before (1/2)
Author: coquilleon
Summary: It's the typical story. Boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, girl cheats with best friend, boy finds his own piece of heaven. What? That's not how it goes?
Characters/Pairing: Ron/OC
Genre: Romance/Hurt/Comfort
Rating: NC - 17

Notes: I always thought Ron got a raw deal. Also, slight Hermione and Harry bashing. Drug use and hints at a mild undiagnosed mental disorder. It's not as bad as all that though. Promise.

The argument starts the same and ends differently, finally tipping and hurtling off of the edge. It's hardly a surprise when she collapses onto the edge of the sofa, elbows on her knees and fingers gripping her hair, gritting out "This isn't working." It's hardly a surprise, but it still hurts, makes Ron's heart scream in his chest.

The times of defeating villains and laughing under the night sky are over and done with. Real life has set in and Hermione is "making a name" for herself in the field of research while Ron "has no ambition." He "doesn't live up to his potential" and damnit all to hell she "can't stomach it anymore." Can't- can't look at him like she loves him anymore because she doesn't, not when he isn't passionate enough. Not when she's "in love with someone else-"

"What?" The word is sharp, like a gunshot in the small room, and he can see her shoulders hitch.

"I- Ron..." she raises her head, runs her fingers through her hair and down over her face, only to let them fall, the sound that they make when they slap down onto her legs loud and resigned. "I didn't mean for this to happen. Neither of us did-"

"Us?" His face burns. "Us? I didn't- Who's us?"

Magically straightened teeth tug at a pink bottom lip and she better answer right now before he looses it-

"Ron..." The word is pleading, begging for him to understand. And he does. It clicks into place and breaks something inside of him.

As he turns to gather his coat and wand, he can't help but think it's a nice change that she actually had enough faith in him to think he'd catch on so quickly.

o o o

"What are you going to do now?" The words are quiet and serious. A tone that used to be so rare is now the base of George's being, running through the parts deep inside of him that no one can reach.

"I. I don't know. I need to stay here until she's out. Can I?"

His brother nods. There's always room empty here now.

Ron sleeps on the couch anyway.

o o o

THE COUPLE THAT WAS 'MEANT TO BE' SPLITS. RON WEASLEY AND HERMIONE GRANGER OVER.

Read how Hermione Granger, a third of the Golden Trio, has sacked Ron Weasley for The Boy Who Lived. How is Weasley handling it? And how does Harry feel about breaking up this century's It couple? PLUS: Ginevera Weasley Speaks. Page 15

o o o

He's gotten better. A lot better at controlling his temper and mood swings. The testimonial of such the very fact that Harry isn't lying face up on his living room floor.

"Ron." And it's said in the same pleading tone as Hermione's but it hurts more, cuts deep to the quick, because this is Harry. His best friend. The one Ron almost died for more times that he can count. The one he followed into the darkness, and laughed with late into the night, and the reason why he endured how it felt to have Voldemort tangling with his soul, reaching in through his mother's knitted sweater to fester in his chest. Harry who could have anyone.

It hurts more than anything.

But Ron is tired and frustrated. He's standing in the middle of the flat, now half empty, and he's so tired. So when he tells Harry to get out, the statement snaps and floats in the air like a blanket on a line, threatening to smother. And when the fire flares, and the room is empty, Ron is relieved.

o o o

His mother is worried. His father too. Ginny, and Charlie, and Bill. God, even Percy gets a furrow in his brow when he looks at Ron, and Percy doesn't give a shit about anyone besides himself.

"Everything alright?" Bill asks, hushed and strained. They're sitting in front of the fire, and Ron can hear his mother bustling around the kitchen behind them.

"Yeah, of course." It's a lie, one that comes automatically. They all know the answer, proof of such in the fact that neither Harry nor Hermione have been by the Burrow, the threat of mum's thinning lips and flashing eyes enough to keep them away.

Bill stays quiet, eyes concerned, but Charlie jumps in and answers for him. "You look like shit, little brother. You've lost so much weight. When's the last time you ate? When's the last time you slept?" He leans in, elbows on his knees.

The minutes tick by and Ron doesn't answer.

He doesn't know.

o o o

He sees her in a pub, in Ireland. England was a prison and he needed to escape, so this is where he ends up, in some nameless pub, nestled in a town surrounded by hills of viridian.

It's been two months and he can breathe a little easier.

The place is loud, raucous and cheerful like any respectful pub on a Friday night. He has his ale (dark, rich, bitter enough that the first few sips made your forehead wrinkle) and is sitting alone in a corner booth when he spots her sitting at one of the high tables scattered about the place.

Her skin is light, like coffee that is five sixths milk, as if somewhere down the line some one darker than lily white had woven themselves into her family tree. The mahogany of her long, thick hair spills wildly down a slender back in waves, and makes the light aqua green of her slanted eyes stand out vividly. As he watches, she slides off of her stool and he notices she was a tiny thing, barely higher than the very table she's just vacated, but even from across the room she seems larger than life, smile clever and wide.

But the thing that gets Ron the most, the thing that blows the bitter thoughts of Harry and Hermione out of his mind, makes him want to put down his tankard and take this girl into his scarred arms, are her freckles. They're everywhere, cinnamon powder held in a cupped palm as the wind blows gently. They're scattered across the bridge of her nose and cheeks, down onto her bare shoulders and trickling down her back. Ron wants to kiss every one of them, has the sudden, primal urge to bury his face against her throat and hear her gasp.

A practiced, familiar hand gesture and the barkeep is going over, eight shot glasses balancing in the air. Four before her and the rest before the burly man who sits with her.

The group around watches, grinning and cat calling as she holds up her fingers counting, one two three, and the race begins. She downs all four mini glasses with ease, the clear liquid disappearing quickly. Slamming the last one down, she throws those thin freckled arms into the air and gives a laugh of victory.

As Ron watches, she laughs and slaps the loser's arm playfully, gentle teasing evident along with affection. The crowd disperses somewhat and for the rest of the night, she and the man talk and laugh, and her eyes glitter in the darkened light, and Ron watches.

She reminds him of someone.

o o o

The owl isn't a surprise. What is, is how long it took to finally arrive.

Not that it matters.

Once he sees Hermione's quick scrawl on the envelope it goes straight into the fire of the room he's currently renting, filling the small space with the smell of charred ink and parchment.

He feeds the owl a few treats before it shows itself to the open window.

o o o

It's his third night at the same pub by the time Ron strikes up enough confidence to approach her. It's all for naught, because she gets to him before he can get to her. She slides into his booth, lithe and graceful, and Ron's beer goes down the wrong pipe.

"Hi." Her voice is high, little, and charming. It fits her perfectly.

Coughs. "Hi."

They stare at each other, the buzz of the place not quite loud enough to push away the awkwardness creeping in.

"I'm Ron," he says. "Ron Weasley."

She nods. "Siobhan Finnigan."

The resemblance strikes him when the surname hits his ears, and even though he's sure there are hundreds of Finnigans in Ireland Ron asks anyway. "Related to Seamus by any chance?"

She nods, laughing, eyes shining. "Yeah. Oh Lord, he's infamous ain't he? What'd he do this time 'round?"

The smile pulls at Ron's mouth, feeling out of place after being away for so long. "Nothing lately. That I know of anyway." Haven't been around much."Nah, we used to go to school together. Roommates."

"Falling asleep to the dulcet tones of him pulling one out, I'm sure."

Even as he laughs he feels the flush rip across his skin. "Some nights, yeah. Forgot the Silencing charm."

Another laugh like wind chimes and then she's leaning forward, hands wrapped around her bottle, eyes warm. "That's Seamus for you. But enough about my inappropriate cousin. Tell me about yourself."

Ron doesn't know why the request is so startling. Maybe because he can't remember the last time anyone wanted to know him and him only. No questions about his life followed up with the phrase And how does Harry feel about that? "What? Like what?"

"Anything." She grins. "It's the reason why I came over here, isn't it?"

Ron shrugs. "Not much to tell."

She looks at him for a long moment. Says softly, "I doubt that."

o o o

Siobhan Finnigan is one year younger than Ron at twenty one years old. Her exact height is five feet one inch. Her parents decided to send her to Beauxbatons instead of Hogwarts because they felt like she needed more culture, only to have their dreams of a poised young woman shattered when a hellion came back in her place. She can hold her liquor better than someone twice her size and has a truly wicked sense of humor. Her favorite color happens to be the same shade of blue as Ron's eyes and she works at an animal hospital for magical breeds. She dances ballet and has cat named Sadie. She can't walk in high heels and has a penchant for putting flowers in her hair.

Ron finds most of this out in the booth at the bar. The rest as they lay breathless on the bed in his room, sweaty and tangled in the sheets.

There's something about her though, something fragile and delicate, something that already has Ron thinking that he has to be careful with her. It showed in the way she trembled when he kissed her softly, and the sound she made when he whispered I've got you into the shell of her ear as he pushed inside.

He knows that she wants something real.

Ron figures this out when she whispers the words against his mouth, sugar sweet tongue running underneath the edge of his lip, sending shivers down his spine.

And maybe it's a little soon, but Ron wants something real too.

o o o

Another owl, this time from Harry.

The parchment sits on the bedroom dresser for three hours before it's thrown into the fire.

o o o

They're sitting on the grass, and everything is so green. The wind rushes past, sweetly, and Ron closes he eyes for a moment. He looks at her, barefoot in her little blue dress and hair fluttering in the wind. Siobhan doesn't look at him when she speaks, choosing instead to pull the grass from the dirt. "You helped saved the world." The words are quiet.

Ron shrugs. It's the first time in the three weeks that they've met that she's even mentioned anything about what he's done, despite the fact that she gets the Prophet every morning. "Nah, that was all Harry."

She wrinkles her nose. "I don't think I like him very much. I'm on the fence really."

"And why's that," and Ron can't help but be a little amused, not when her nose scrunches like that.

"Well, what he did was really shitty. What both of them did really." She tugs at the grass, again and again, slender fingers diligent. "But if they hadn't been awful, I wouldn't have met you."

"You might have."

"I wouldn't have been able to have you."

He doesn't contradict that statement. It's probably true. "Good thing, then." He says it low and she still doesn't look up, but he can see the small smile that quirks her lips.

o o o

He has a meeting at the Ireland branch of the Ministry and she needs to let out some tension. She'd been tense and snappy the entire morning. With an apology kiss, she asks him to meet her at the studio on the corner of Grande and Shippings when he's all done.

When he arrives she's not outside, so Ron slips in. The sound of music muffles his steps as he walks down a short hallway, following the melody that echos in the space. He stops in the doorway and watches.

She's flying. Twisting and leaping, hair wild. She hasn't seen him yet, and she's lost, smiling as she twirls, toes pointed, arms and legs extended, both graceful and fluid. The music crashes and swells, something wild with violins and pianos that Ron has never heard before, and every move she makes blends seamlessly, as if she composed the piece herself with every motion in mind. The violins fade and then it's just the piano, rising and rising, keys banging and she's spinningspinningspinning, perfectly on one foot like those ballerinas in the music boxes mum always kept out of reach. A laugh bursts forward, a sound of such pure joy that it seems to make the room brighter. When the music ends suddenly, she takes a final leap, arms raised and back arched, legs extended, and Siobhan falls - doesn't bother to land on her feet, choosing instead to collapse onto the floor in a breathless, heap, staring up at the ceiling.

Ron watches as her chest heaves up and down, hands coming up to brush the damp hair away from her face. She lays there for a few minutes before shaking out her shoulders and rising to her feet in one fluid movement.

In the mirror he can see that her expression has changed, eyes sad and expression aching. She roughly brushes away the few tears that have fallen and Ron feels the sudden urge to kiss her senseless. It's mixed with the same urge he felt that same night, to be careful so that she doesn't break. There's something going on there, but he doesn't know what.

She bends to gather her bag and its when she straightens up that she catches sight of him in the mirror. The aching expression leaves, and another grin, this time entirely for him, lights up her face.

"Hey," she says quietly when she stands in front of him, skin dewy from sweat and neck a little flushed. "Thought you were going to wait outside."

When he gathers her face in his hands, cradling her skull gently and bends to kiss her lips softly, Ron hears a small sound get stuck in the back of her throat. She squeezes her eyes shut as she grips his wrist tightly and presses her body closer.

Part 2

Knock On My Door

2012-08-29T07:22:15Z

Title: Knock On My Door
Author: coquilleon
Summary: Charles visits Erik at work. Things get a little... intense. :Superheroes timestamp:
Characters/Pairing: Erik/Charles
Genre: pr0n
Rating: NC - 17
Notes: This is the... sexier side of the Superheroes verse... heh. Tell me if you guys like it! If not, then we can forget this even happened and I can take them back down to adorable and thinking that sex is cuddling!

Hernandez on the left pile… Miller in the drawer… Coquin in the case…

The clock ticks loudly in the background, each click grating on Erik's nerves.

Levington in the middle… Chow in the bottom left drawer…

It's not the best way to organize his files, by languages, but it works out. And to be fair, it isn't really just by languages – its language, then priority, and then case matter, so, yeah, it works.

Erik sticks Young into the top drawer, right after Kim, and sighs. This is… tedious. When Jenkins and Roberts Law hired him he thought it would be more exciting – interpreting for the clients who didn't speak English very well, if at all. But it turns out that when the firm said they mainly cover immigration cases they didn't mean defending someone who may or may not have snuck a whole drug cartel into the country. It's more like he or she didn't find work fast enough and are being threatened with fines. In other words – it's boring. Extremely boring. But he gets his own office, and filing cabinets, and the sense of pride that comes with knowing that he's helping someone's life change for the better. He feels useful and not just like some rich kid who got to travel the world thanks to his massive trust fund while everyone else toughed it out in college.

Still, as he places Ebanks into the middle folder on his desk, Erik can't help but wish Mr. Perkins had kept Rosalita Cortez has a client – he's almost positive she murdered her husband if the shifty way she answered questions about his whereabouts were anything to go by. He wouldn't be surprised to see her on the evening news in a few days.

A knock at the door interrupts his less than charitable thoughts. "Come in."

The knob turns, the door opens, and when he looks up he sees Charles standing in the doorway. Warmth trickles through his veins, and he lets Ebanks' folder drop. "Am I interrupting?"

"No, no, come in." Erik grins and stands up from his chair for a stretch. His lower back aches a little from all the hunching over he's done today. "What're you doing here? I thought you had class."

"I did. We ended early – Professor Lee dumped all the essays on me to grade, but I decided I'd stop by for lunch before heading home." He holds up a bag Erik didn't notice when he first walked in. Erik smiles as he watches Charles unpack a plastic carton of mixed fruit to rest on the desk top. He perches on the edge so that he's facing Erik. "How's your day going?"

Erik shrugs. "Boring. We don't have anyone scheduled to come in until three and even then it's a boring case."

"About what?" Charles pops a piece of melon into his mouth.

"You know I can't tell," Erik chides and puts a grape into his mouth, chewing it slowly.

"I can always look," and he wiggles his eyebrows in a way that makes Erik snort a laugh.

"But you wouldn't."

"You're right, I wouldn't." Charles smiles, and reaches over to straighten Erik's tie. He stays still and, when that's finished, pulls Charles' hand up to his lips to kiss the knuckles absently.

"I just want this day to be over," he mutters. And he knows he's whining, but it's true. He just wants to go home, change into something that isn't a suit and tie, and flop down on the couch with Cerebro to watch Wheel of Fortune while Charles sits in his favorite blue chintz to grade hundreds of essays.

Charles slides off of the desk to stand in front of Erik, smoothing his palms up and down the crisp forest green shirt underneath the dark blue suit jacket. His voice is cajoling and indulgent; he's used to Erik's moods, knows the difference between when he's seriously annoyed and just a bit grumpy. "It can't be that bad."

Erik shrugs and wraps his arms around the smaller man's waist, swaying them to and fro slightly. He pretends to think hard. "It is. I suppose it would be a little better if I had a sexy little secretary who brought me forms to sign and bent over way too far to pick up pens."

Charles laughs, ducks his head, and looks back up, mock serious look on his face. "Cecilia is out there." He nods his head towards the outer office. "I'm sure she'd pick up pens for your pleasure."

Erik pulls a face. "God, don't remind me." He's still not over how she tried to follow him into the men's bathroom when he first started working here. "Besides," he smooths his hands down to squeeze Charles' bottom softly. "She's not really my type."

A stern look. "I'm not going to play secretary for you, Erik."

"Even if I ask nicely?"

Another laugh, blue eyes shining. "Even if." He tugs on Erik's tie when the taller man pouts. "And don't give me that face." Those little tendrils of happiness unfurls inside of Erik's bones. Just having Charles here boosts his energy. Boredom forgotten, Erik bends to nuzzle his face into the crook of Charles' neck. "You're ridiculous," Charles murmurs even as he moves his head to the side to give expose more of his throat.

"So you tell me," is murmured against fresh smelling skin, and Erik feels the shiver run through Charles' body.

"See, I could never be your secretary. I don't even work for you and you're already distracted. You'd never get any work done."

"I'd manage."

"Mhm."

"I would." Erik pulls away from pressing his lips to Charles' Adam's apple to look down into his face. "A file here, a 'pen drop' there, maybe a kiss every once in a while…"

"A kiss would definitely distract you," Charles says quietly, even as he leans into Erik. His voice is pitched in that certain way that causes Erik's heart to speed up in his chest and heat to run down his spine. And suddenly the mood has shifted - from playful to heavy. Those sparks, still so new and intoxicating, burst between them in the air, charging the space.

When he speaks again, his own voice is low, rougher than usual. "Nah, I'd be fine," he squeezes Charles' ass again, hauling him slightly closer. He bends, so that their foreheads are touching, lips barely grazing. "But let's test it out anyway. Just to be sure."

The thought that he shouldn't do this while he's at work, not when he's in his office and anyone could barge in, flits through Erik's mind briefly. But he leans in closer anyway to bump his nose gently against Charles'. For a moment he takes his hand away from where they were gripping and kneading to aim it casually at the door. Without taking his eyes away from the man in front of him, he slowly turns his fingers and hears the lock on the door click as the tumblers slot into place.

The first touch of lips is fleeting – a brief sensation of slick and pillow soft that has his skin prickling and insides melting. Charles goes to move away, teasing, but Erik follows, heart beating quickly already as he presses one hand to the small of the other man's back and laces the other through soft, sun-warmed hair. Feels hands gripping his shoulders, but all that really registers is the hot breath skipping across his chin and the hot, wet, silken heat that is Charles' mouth. The sound of Cecilia talking to a client on the phone beyond the door fades away as they kiss; everything fades as Erik slips his tongue past lips to lick at the roof of Charles' sweet tasting mouth. Tastes grapes and melon before it fades away to leave just the taste of Charles -that taste that's indescribable, and unique, and so addicting. Fuck, he tastes so good, always tastes so good-

His bottom lip is being nibbled on, and he can't focus, can't remember why this is a bad idea. Not when Charles is arching into him like this, hands desperate on the back of his neck and in his hair. Rubbing against him so shamelessly and Jesus-

It's always like this now - the combination of waiting for years to act on poorly buried feelings and the feel of warm hands on hot skin always seems to take a simple kiss from zero to sixty in no time flat. It blows a fog into their minds, clouding judgment and obscuring discretion, their entire focus pinpricks only large enough to encompass each other. He knows that this will fade eventually, this need to get under each other's skin as quickly as possible, but for now the burning urge is there and they rarely ignore it, too eager to make up for lost time. Erik presses closer, grinds his hips against the other man's, and feels his knees almost buckle at the friction, at the zipping, tangy feeling of Charles' hard cock pressing against his own before shifting to straddle his leg. Pulling away with a gasp, he watches through hooded eyes -watches Charles work himself on his thigh, making these little pleading sounds, wanting it so badly-

A broken sound is punched from his chest, collides against lips he presses back in to a kiss bruised mouth and suddenly Erik is lifting, holding Charles up with one arm, while the other frantically sweeps away files and papers, and fruit that may get in the way. The image they must make, Charles small and spread open enough for Erik to stand in between his legs, documents everywhere, ignored as Erik bites his way into Charles' mouth – his cock twitches at the mental picture, and he can feel a small bead of pre-come surface before sliding slick down his still trapped shaft.

Their lips don't separate for a long moment, not even when Charles grips the edges of Erik's suit jacket and pushes it back and away, tugging and pulling until it finally lies on a heap on the office floor along with the everything else. The sound of rustling clothes and heavy breaths fill the space, whispers of please and c'monc'mon that has Erik nodding and pressing kisses to Charles' jaw and neck while his fingers fumble with belts and buttons.

The sound Charles makes when Erik wraps his hand around his cock has him shivering inside, veins throbbing. He's heavy in his hand, hot and red, leaking pre-come and getting Erik's palm tacky with it. He remembers vividly the first time he and Charles made it past first base - when inhibitions and the vow to take it slow snapped in half, and careful, hesitant hands were finally gripping parts they'd been dying to for touch for years. He remembers nearly coming untouched when he'd looked down the lengths of their flushed bodies to witness for the first time just how much pre-come Charles drips when he's turned on. He'd seen it in porn before – grown men with thick cocks, squeezing their fists around swollen purpled heads while long, clear strings dripped down to pool in the dips of backs, or into mouths. It was always an image that got him off faster than anything else, and to see the fantasy attached to Charles, writhing and crying out into his ear–

A shiver rips through him. The thick, sticky sound of foreskin covering the slit before pulling back to reveal a shiny head has them both whimpering into each other's skin. There's some more fumbling, the clink of a belt buckle against buttons, and then he's being engulfed by a warm palm that holds firm and strokes with a single minded purpose, thumb rubbing across the dome for an excruciating couple of seconds before moving down to rub at the bundle of nerves right beneath the ridge.

Erik can't breathe; his lungs are burning, but that doesn't stop him from fucking his tongue into Charles' mouth, tasting every inch, and swallowing all those little noises that the other man just can't hold in. Keeps on doing it until Charles is moaning almost continuously, hips straining and jerking up into his grip, humping and meeting Erik's fist every single time. It's when his body tenses slightly that Erik finally rips his mouth away to watch.

He loves watching Charles fall apart, loves to see him come, hard, thick pulses of white splashing out to cover his hand, loves the way his wet, pink mouth falls open and his blue eyes close for those few blissful seconds before opening again, dazed and shiny. The sight, like always, pushes Erik over the edge, has him moaning long and loud, uncaring of who else can hear, as hot, thick splashes of come bubble over Charles' fist, smearing a little onto his stomach, and the tails of his shirt.

The room smells heavily of sex, muggy and hot, settling on their tongues as they suck in labored breaths through their mouths. He sighs and rests his forehead against the Charles' own sweaty brow, accepting the deep, lingering kiss that leaves no corner of his mouth untouched, lazy and slow, and so damn hot it has his cock twitching in anticipation for a second round.

"You," he says lowly, kissing Charles' bottom lip, "are going to kill me one of these days. Or get me fired."

Charles grins and accepts another kiss, this time to the corner of his mouth. "I can stop coming for lunch."

"Mm mm," Erik says, giving Charles' cock another sticky squeeze, moaning quietly when he hears the way he hisses. Casts an eye around at the files and grapes scattered all over the office floor. "You can come by anytime you like."

Grey Morning

2012-08-29T07:13:30Z

Title: Grey Morning
Author: coquilleon
Summary: Elena and Damon have a quiet moment right before dawn.
Characters/Pairing: Elena/Damon
Genre: Romance/Friendship
Rating: PG
Notes:Takes place immediately after Ordinary People. This is personally my favorite thing I've written. Maybe. Damon wears boxer briefs and there is early morning cuddling. ^.^

Five a.m.

The light that shines through the lace curtains is weak, signals that today the sky will be grey. Dark and stormy, and a mere step up from night, and it makes Elena grateful. It matches her mood, for once – that's the thing about Virginia; it's sunny all the time. Sometimes, she wants it to be disgusting out – rainy, and grey, and windy, something that befits the mood that inevitably sets in with witnessing someone being murdered, or having someone you trusted completely turn into a monster, or having to watch an already broken girl shatter after you drop the bomb.

So when she opens her eyes and sees that the southern sun will most likely take a day off, Elena is satisfied – she plans to take a day off too. She's so tired, so exhausted, from just everything- Rebekah's story so dreary and just damn depressing that it's seems to have added another thin layer of weight on Elena's own shoulders just by hearing it.

Getting up with a satisfying stretch that makes her bones crack, she pads across the chilly hardwood floor to the dark bathroom, all the tea she drank the night before pressing against her bladder. Afterwards, she flushes, washes her hands, and splashes some warm water onto her face. Swishes some around her mouth and spits. Big brown eyes meet in the mirror – the bags are there, more obvious without makeup to cover. The bruise on her neck has yet to fade completely, waxy yellow tinged with green.

A quick flash in her memory – standing in front of this mirror maybe a year ago – her skin glows from a life free from stress. The morning melody of the Gilbert house plays- the sound of her father unsuccessfully trying to get Jeremy to wake up, the running water in the sink in front of her, and the music floating up from the radio in the kitchen where her mother is making breakfast, most likely already dressed for work, hair perfect and makeup in place.

In this memory, Elena's reflection looks healthy, if a little tired – homecoming is in a few days and she and Matt are going to be homecoming king and queen. And even if they aren't it doesn't matter. They'll still be together forever, anyway – a few crowns won't change that. Then-Elena smiles tiredly in the mirror, the fiery orange sun shines through the strands of her hair as she loads up her toothbrush, and then the memory flickers and fades, and all that is left is the Elena of now – tired. Standing in this dark bathroom, her skin pale and grey just like the sky outside.

She sighs, swishes and spits again, and dries her hands and face in the towel near the door before walking back into the bedroom to slip back into bed. Her step falters a little, just for a moment, when she sees Damon is still there, asleep. His black shirt and slacks are rumpled, dark hair an inky mess across her pillows. It's a sight that's familiar now, and a fact that she won't dwell too much on right now.

When she slides back under the sheets, they're cool and welcoming. He stirs a little, but doesn't seem to wake up. She could spend a long time looking at him, kind of does, to be honest. Studies the way his eyelashes smudge his cheeks, and how, even in sleep, his pale skin carries a healthy pink flush. Elena looks at his lips, a little thin but attractive all the same, and how straight his nose is, perfect in its alignment. For about five minutes she just watches him sleep, but with a sudden woosh and a double edging of her vision, the moment morphs into a few months ago when instead of Damon its Stefan, and she's happy again. As happy as she can be with her life falling down around her. It hits her in her bones, sharp and unpleasant; a kind of rip across her chest when she inhales, and it's what makes her reach over and shake Damon awake.

She's had enough nostalgia for the morning.

"Wake up." Her own voice is low and rough with sleep. "Damon," she shakes him again when he doesn't move. He groans and swats at her hand. "You fell asleep here last night. Again."

"Really," and his voice is muffled from the pillow he's buried his face in. "I had no idea, not with me being in your bedroom and all-"

"Shut up," she murmurs and watches as he sits up, stretches, and gets up to head to the bathroom. She tries to block out the sound of him peeing, isn't successful, and wonders if he uses her towel or Jeremy's to dry his hands in after he washes them. Sauntering back into the room he looks around casually, evidently still sleepy, before he begins to unfasten his pants.

"What are you doing?"

"Do you know how uncomfortable it is to sleep in pants?" he asks. His boxers are dark blue; Stefan was a boxer briefs kind of guy. He undoes a few buttons on his shirt before getting back into the bed, this time under the mound of covers, and Elena wonders why this isn't bothering her. It should be, shouldn't it? This, lying in bed with a pantless Damon should make her feel uncomfortable or… something. But all she really feels is mild irritation that he just assumed she'd be okay with it - and a little more annoyance that he was right.

"So, tell me the rest." His socked feet brush against her bare ones as they face each other.

"The rest of what?"

"Last night you said you'd tell me the rest tomorrow. Tomorrow is today – what happened with Rebekah?"

"Later, Damon," and it comes out like a sigh as she closes her eyes. "I… I just want to… relax for a bit. Before today falls down on us."

"You little ray of sunshine, you." She doesn't say anything to his sarcastic remark, doesn't even open her eyes. But she can feel him staring at her – his light blue gaze is a weight on her skin and where it used to be unsettling, a predator's stare, now it's… not. "How're holding up?"

"Good," she murmurs. "Fine? As good as I can be." He doesn't say anything in response, but when his palm lands on her hair gently, fingers smoothing away errant flyaways, she opens her eyes slowly. And the expression in his own – it's the same one that's been breaking her down lately. Chipping at her defenses, bit by bit, until all she feels right now, when they're in the dark, cozy, and warm, and muzzy, is a pull. A need to get as close as possible and just embrace every single thing about him. But she ignores it, that and the warm feeling in her stomach, and she smiles tiredly. "Really, I'm fine."

In the hazy, drowsy gray of early morning, it's okay to shuffle closer until her face is pressed against his chest. The fabric of his shirt smells expensive like his cologne, and a little tangy and smoky, most likely from that bar he was at last night. Thinking of which, she should probably mention Stefan, ask why Damon thinks he's on their side now. But as his hand smoothes up and down her back, and she fingers with his buttons, it doesn't seem right.

"How are you doing?" and the words bounce against the skin of his chest and back onto her lips.

He's quiet for a long time, and Elena wonders what he's thinking. He's quiet for so long that she thinks he hasn't heard her question. But then his lips are pressed against the silk of her hair and he breathes in deeply. "I'm good."

The quiet words bring a lump to her throat, one that she swallows away hastily, and she squeezes her eyes shut. No one moves around in the house, no birds chirp outside of the window, and no cars pass by on the street. All she can hear are their mingled inhales and exhales, and soon, the soothing motion of his hand on her back and the scent of his skin lull her back to sleep.

Just Carry Me Home Tonight

2012-08-29T07:07:17Z

Title: Just Carry Me Home Tonight
Author: coquilleon
Summary: Completely AU. When Caroline drags Bonnie and Elena to a group cabin a few days before Christmas, they all get more than they bargained for when they all get unexpected 'gifts' Also joining in on the fun? Damon, Alaric, Matt and others. Multiple pairings.
Characters/Pairing: Mainly Damon/Elena. But there are a few pairings in this one.
Genre: Romance, Humor
Rating: MA
Notes: I keep coming back to this when I'm feeling comfy and cozy. Just curious - who do YOU guys want to see paired up?

Inhaling introduces mini icicles to the lungs – little chips of ice that dangle off of the bronchioles, shaking and dislodging with every exhale, only to be replaced again in the next second. The sky is grey; not the pleasant kind that hints of a sun that is just waiting for its time to shine, but a hard, battleax grey that threatens of a storm. Piercing gusts of wind sends the clouds tumbling over each other while it bites through the padding of her coat, and even through her boots and three layers of socks, Elena can feel the crush and blue-tinged cold from the snow beneath her feet.

She didn't want to come here.

Well, she did, just – before everything. Now all she really wants to do is be in her bed, back in Virginia; back under her blankets with the heat turned up so high her landlord will be tempted to kick her out, eating those dill pickled flavored chips he-who-must-not be named (dubbed so by Caroline) got her hooked on, and watching the Golden Girls box set she found on sale at Best Buy. The blood rushing under her skin turns her cheeks and the tip of her nose red – she can't see it at the moment, but she knows she looks like one of those drunks who have been perma-inebriated long enough to have a permanent flush.

"Caroline," she bites out, fingers clutching onto the handles of her suitcases already numb even through the leather and faux fur lining of her gloves. "Hurry up - it's freezing out here."

"I'm trying." From the back Caroline looks like a giant Hostess Sno Ball – big pink jacket, pink fuzzy gloves, and pink skull cap with a poof ball on top that bobs and shakes with every tug at the doorknob.

"You'd think they would have doors that work," Elena hears Bonnie mumble from her right side.

"It's just part of the resort land," Caroline grunts, twisting the key. "But they take care of it still. I'm sure the door is probably just-" twist "frozen" a push and a grunt "shut." The sound of snapping icicles puncture her cheery exclamation of "Yay! See, it worked." And indeed, the door to the large cabin swings in and all three ladies grab their bags and rush inside.

"Thank God," Bonnie shivers as Elena follows her inside and kicks her boot clad foot back so that the door shuts behind them. Bonnie rips off her own matching purple skull cap and leather gloves. Her dark hair sticks up in a static halo and it makes Elena huff out a small laugh to herself.

"It's beautiful," Caroline squeals, excited, and as Elena drops her bags and peers around she has to admit her friend is right. The sticky door had her thinking the inside would yield the worst – cobwebs, no heat, ratty furniture - but it's the exact opposite. Shining, dark walnut wood is everywhere, and the light fixture above is a mosaic of orange and gold that casts everything in a relaxing autumn like light. The chairs and sofa are brown and dark tan, all chintz and leather, the rugs look soft and clean. To the left, the kitchen sparkles, more of that clean walnut wood, mixed expertly with steel and black marble to create a warm, homey feel.

Straight ahead there are stairs (wooden and slotted) that lead to a second floor where Elena can see four bedrooms, side by side. A glance to the right yields a short hallway and three more doors – probably the second bathroom and two more bedrooms Caroline mentioned.

"Um, how were we able to afford this place again?" Bonnie wonders aloud as she drags her suitcase further into the living room before giving up and flopping down into one of the chairs. Her tiny body sinks into the soft fabric.

"Well, like I said, it's on the resort land, but not actually part of the resort. It's like, separate or something."

"Shouldn't that cost more?"

Caroline shrugs. "Probably."

"Probably?" Elena aims at her incredulously. "It's a private cabin, Caroline. A huge one."

"Yeah, but it's shared, remember. The cost is split the six ways. I mean, I assume it is – the guy on the phone said that it would be full for the whole two weeks." Caroline glances around, pink poof ball shivering atop her head. "Speaking of which – hurry up and pick your rooms, ladies. Before those other people start coming in."

"Why did we decide to get a shared cabin again?" Elena asks, trying not to cringe at the edge of a whine that manages to creep into her voice.

"Adventure! Meeting new people, yada yada," Caroline mumbles as she attempts to drag her five bags up the stairs all at one time. "It'll. Be. Fun," she grunts.

Bonnie gives Elena a brief glance, raises an eyebrow, and rolls her eyes before grabbing two of her own bags and following Caroline up the stairs. The idea rolls around her head to follow, but as Elena watches Bonnie wrestle one of the bags from Caroline's hands and slings it over her own shoulder before it can fall through the slots in the banister, Elena decides to just take one of the rooms on the ground floor.

She eyes the main room once again, noticing for the first time a very impressive fireplace and the plasma screen television that hangs directly above it on the wall and wonders briefly if the former will ever be used during their two week stay, before hauling her own bags into the nearest bedroom. It's just as impressive as the common area – same wood motif, large bed with a supremely comfortable looking thick, burgundy blanket, fluffy pillows. There's one large picture frame window with curtains the of the same color pulled to each side to show the grey sky and the snow covered pines, and across from the bed is another plasma screen, albeit smaller and on a stand atop the dresser, but nevertheless, still nice.

Unwinding her scarf, Elena eyes the bed. It really does looks ridiculously comfortable. And now that some of the heat is returning to her body, her limbs feel heavy. She pulls off her gloves and hat, stuffs the scarf and gloves into the knit, and shrugs off her jacket. She'll pick them all up soon, she decides as she tiredly toes off her shoes and crosses the room to flop down onto the bed. Oh yeah, this… this feels nice. Really nice. From the commotion she can hear distantly above her head, Caroline and Bonnie seem to still be struggling with their own belongings. They won't notice if she stays in here for a while. She'll just close her eyes for a minute, just until they come bursting in to see her bedroom and, like clockwork, to ask, onceagain, if she's really okay.

And just like clockwork, she'll lie, and say 'yeah, I'm fine. I'm happy it happened this way,' and they'll give her those looks. But that won't happen for at least another- she glances at the round, burnished clock on the wall - half an hour, so she allows her eyes to slide shut, body relaxing into the softness that is this mattress (that was, apparently, manufactured in heaven) and waits.

o o o

"This is kind of gay."

"No, it isn't." Alaric answers absently as he makes a left onto Rockbridge Road. At least he thinks it's Rockbridge Road – the little wooden sign they passed was still covered in snow, not yet dusted off by the resort groundkeepers or a powerful gust of frigid wind, but this is the only turn off he sees. Besides, the lady on the GPS assures him that this is where he's supposed to be.

"It's a little gay."

"Damon, how is this gay?"

"Two guys, going by themselves, on a two week vacation to a cabin atop the snowy peaks of Vermont? That doesn't hint at a little Bareback Mountain to you?"

"I'm pretty sure you mean Brokeback Mountain."

"Whatever." In the passenger seat, Damon eyes the dark sky.

"You've been going through my porn again, haven't you?" Alaric doesn't get an answer, and he spares his best friend a glance before turning his eyes back on the road. "Dude, it's a shared cabin. They'll be other people there."

"Knowing my luck, it'll be all guys," is grumbled into the small space of the rented Explorer, and Alaric rolls his eyes and makes a right.

"When did you become homophobic?"

"I'm not homophobic, idiot. I just rather this not be a sausage fest."

"Mhm." Another left, and a few hundred feet, and suddenly the cabin looms ahead, a burst of brown on the otherwise white scenery. Alaric read all about the place on the resort's website, but it's still pretty damn impressive. A lot larger than he thought it would be, despite already knowing the floor plans. He pulls up slowly to park carefully next to the other, most likely rented, Explorer. A turn of the key in the ignition and the engine rumbles off. "Well, whatever. We'll see soon enough – looks like whoever it is already here."

He ignores the almost mutinous look on Damon's face and slips on his gloves, bracing himself for the bitter wind he sees shaking the fresher snow from the tree branches. He leans over to fish one of the heavy brass keys the main desk gave to him out of the glove compartment. He leaves the hatch open so Damon can grab his own. "Hurry up and grab your shit – all of it. I don't plan on making two trips out here."

-/-/-/-

Damon drops his bags as he enters the cabin and hurries to shut the door behind him. It's fucking freezing out there – cold, dark, and dreary. Why Alaric thought this would be relaxing for him is a mystery, but Damon can admit that the inside of the place is pretty impressive. Large, spacious, and, most importantly, warm.

"Not bad," Alaric says as his eyes roam the large living room. There's a shuffle and a thump of what sounds like a dresser drawer closing, accompanied by very feminine voices that has Damon looking up. Two girls walk out of one room, chatting quietly.

"Not bad at all," Damon mutters, and he can almost feel Alaric roll his eyes next to him. Both young women are beautiful, even though they are the complete opposites of each other – one is tall and fair, blue eyes and long, light blonde, silky hair flowing to rest on her shoulders. The other is short and tiny, smooth caramel skin and light brown eyes, her dark hair falling down her back in soft curls.

Their conversation comes to a halt when they spot Damon and Alaric in the foyer. The blonde one beams as the tiny one offers a small smile.

"Hey, you guys!" The blonde leads the way down the stairs and soon they're all shaking hands. "I'm Caroline, and this is Bonnie. I guess we'll all be living together for two weeks." She must be a cheerleader or something, Damon thinks to himself. There is no way she isn't focusing all of that pep and energy into something. And then a brief image of this girl cheering in a short little skirt and top flits briefly through his mind and he can't help the subtle leer that pulls at the corner of his mouth.

"We've already picked our rooms," Bonnie tells them, gesturing up to the balcony before stuffing her hands into her back pockets. "And Elena probably already has too, but they're all pretty nice. So, no duds."

Damon looks to the side and sees a few closed doors, already deciding he'll take one of those. It's close to the bathroom, kitchen, and television. Perfect.

"Thanks, ladies," Alaric says politely.

"So it's only the two of you?" Caroline asks

"Yup. Just me and Ennis here." Damon claps Alaric hard on the shoulder with a smile that his best friend answers with a tight grimace.

"Ennis?" Bonnie intones, clearly confused.

"Nothing," Alaric says quickly, cutting off anything Damon was about to say. He smiles at both girls who are eyeing them curiously. To Damon, a murmured "You do know you just admitted to being the bottom right?" as he turns to grab his own bags.

"Shut up," Damon mumbles. Not his best comeback, admittedly. He watches the girls flop down onto the sofa and Alaric walk up the stairs, before he sighs heavily and picks up his own bags. The first door he opens turns out to be the bathroom (good sized, clean, brighter than the rest of the place). He crosses the hall and opens the second door.

The first thing he sees are two dark blue suitcases just inside of the threshold. He's about to back out, when his eyes land on the middle of the room.

Caroline and Bonnie are very pretty, but this girl asleep on the bed is… gorgeous. Her olive toned skin seems to glow in the low light of the lamp beside the bed. Chestnut colored hair spills all over the cream colored pillows, and incredibly long eyelashes brush softly against her cheekbones. Her features are delicate, almost perfect in their relaxed state, but it's when she shifts and her eyelids flutter open that Damon feels his heart do a ridiculous flip flop in his chest. She has eyes like a goddamn doe – big and almond shaped, a deep liquid brown that has him barely catching himself from falling into them instantly.

"Guess this room is taken," he manages to say, smirk firmly in place.

The girl (Elena his mind fills in) smiles sleepily at him as she sits up and runs both hands through her hair. Damon feels his heart give an extra, wracking beat that reverberates right down to his toes.

Maybe he doesn't give Alaric enough credit; this is turning out to be a great vacation.

o o o

The wind blows hard enough to knock a drift of snow clear off of a loaded branch and manages to land with a startling splat on the windshield of Matt Donovan's pick-up truck. He breaks suddenly and wonders, for what seems like the millionth time, why he thought it was cheaper to drive here himself rather than take an airplane and just renting a car. But then he remembers, again, that with the cost of staying in this place for two weeks withoutincome paired with the mere cost of tickets this time of year and renting a car… it was just too much for him financially wise.

He shouldn't have even shelled out money for this vacation but… he couldn't be totally alone again this Christmas. And yeah, his eyes prick as he shifts the gears to park and climbs out of the cab into the freezing cold to brush the crushed snow off of his windshield, because it's truly pathetic that this is what it comes down to; spending the holidays with virtual strangers because the thought of his cold, empty house on the twenty-fifth (and really, beyond) makes his heart trip and fall into his stomach. But he swallowed his pride after seeing pictures of his ex with an exuberant smile, engagement ring, and fiancé behind her, big hands rested on her bulging, adorable baby bump on the internet. He'd stared at the image for exactly 46 seconds before logging off and searching for a cabin far away.

Windshield cleared mostly of debris, Matt climbs back into the cab and pulls the door shut a little more forcefully than needed. "Sorry," he murmurs absentmindedly – Becky-Sue didn't deserve that. And yes, his truck has a name, but he didn't name her, Vicki did. Right when he first bought it; came outside in one of his T-shirts and shorts, bare feet bearing the summer warmed concrete, and grinned at him as she slapped the hood good-naturedly-

The lump in his throat appears sudden and only slightly unexpected. He swallows hard and starts the engine again, rumbling though the wind and snow and up the hill that levels out to expose the impressive group cabin. Two fancy Explorers are parked side by side and he pulls into the space beside them. This trip might not have been the best idea, he thinks as he eyes the two matching SUV's. Knowing his luck, the place is probably bursting with couples on a semi-romantic holiday getaway. Well, it's too late now – the deposit and payment are both non-refundable.

Sighing, Matt grabs his bags from the passenger seat and unlocks the cab door.

Too Bad

2012-08-29T07:00:10Z

Title: Too Bad
Author: coquilleon
Summary: Damon is too drunk. Its late, and he's drunk, and it all comes down to him wanting too much or just enough.
Characters/Pairing: Damon/Elena
Genre: (weiRd) pR0n? kinda.
Rating: MA
Notes: This came from a weird muzzy night of no sleep and too much illicit drugs. It's dark(er). And also, Dub-con

Soft breath and soap scented skin. Parted lips and smooth flesh. Elena sleeps and Damon watches – something he hasn't done in a while. At least, not without her knowing. It's 3 a.m. and he's drunk, and all he wants to do is sink into her. Take of his four hundred dollar shirt, jeans from the Gap, shoes from Armani, and just lie down next to her under the covers. Have her warmth seep into him and push out all the bad.

Because he is bad. Bad like the Originals whose mother wants nothing more than to kill them all. Bad, bad boy like his own mother used to say when she would catch him with his little hand in the cookie jar. He takes one last sip of beer, and bends down to set the brown glass down carefully. A quick teeter, totter, fingertips against the rug to catch himself and everything is okay. Her fingers catch his eye, curled into a lose fist, relaxed. He wants that hand on his face, smoothing down his cheek. It's as if his knees have a mind of their own and they bend, bringing him to a kneel right next to the bed - the contrast of the warm rug on his shins and cool wood at his caps sends a little jolt through his nervous system.

Drunk. Too, too drunk, like Stefan used to say when he would run into Damon at a bar. It was the first thing he would always say – they wouldn't have seen each other for years, decades, but there was his brother's smooth voice in his ear saying he was a lush. And Lexi would be there - always there by his side while the stool, the car seat, the couch, the other side of the bed next to Damon was either empty or bloodstained.

Too much – he feels too much. He knows that. Just like now, as he takes her hand gently and presses the palm to his face he feels full.Too, too full, heart spilling over into his guts, filling those up with God knows what. He'd think his heart would break if there weren't so many cracks already.

No one loves him.

Not now.

His mother used to – she was beautiful. Light as clouds, sweet as honeysuckle air. Long black hair, sparkling green eyes, pale smooth skin. She was happy, and vibrant, and alive.Until one day she... wasn't. And then she was gone, and buried, and he went to war.

He'd go to war for Elena. Is, right now. It's war in Mystic Falls, everyone knows that. He'll go to war, live, and eat, and sleep in the battle field. Probably even die there. But it's worth it. Even if she doesn't love him – not the way he needs her too. That first and only kiss was too sweet, too tempting to let go.

He shifts on his knees, and he'stoo. drunk. That's why his leg catches the bottle and it falls with a dull thunk onto the red, navy, gold weave of the rug. It's enough – she's more alert now, her sense sharpened. They have to be with the life she lives. He feels her hand contract against his face where he holds it gently. With a start, she pulls it away and he lets her. But he stays kneeling and watches as she gathers herself, looks around squinting into the dark.

"Damon?" He doesn't answer, just watches as she sits up on her elbows, long hair a curtain in the moonlight. "Damon, what's wrong."

No one loves him – that's what it comes down, that's the problem if he's honest with himself. And for once, when he's drunk, he can admit it.

It's pathetic and he's too tired.

Elena sits up, almost too skinny limbs clumsy with sleep, but then her stomach is in his eye line, legs on either side of him. "Damon…" Hands on his shoulders, face, fingers smoothing down the hairs on the base of his neck. "Damon, what's wrong?" And her voice is so compassionate. It cares. It stings, and he looks down at her bare thighs. Her thumbs rub at his cheeks. His foot hits the bottle. Nothing moves outside.

He's too, too drunk.

"Damon, please. You're scaring me. Is there something wrong?"

He looks up at her, sinks into her eyes, nearly black in the dark. He's too, too full.

"Damon…" And it's barely a whisper. That's why. That's why he leans in closer, straightens up. Her voice is a whisper pulling him in. Her breath is fast and quick against his lips, but her hands are still on his face and he matches the gesture. Tangles his fingers in her hair, rests their foreheads together, thumbs testing the softness of her bottom lip, loves as the edge of teeth graze the pads.

Imaginary or real, he doesn't know. Probably never will. But he feels the palms on his face pull him in closer, ever so lightly.

The sensation of her lips against his own cuts another crack in his chest, one that echoes throughout his whole body. Her chest against his, his knee on the bed, flashes of moonlight silhouetting her hips. The beer and brandy turns every move into a gentle whirlwind. The hands in his hair tugging (pushing?), the soft moans (protests?), the way she twists and writhes against the bed sheets (trying to escape?), it's all a whirlwind and he's too, too lost with nothing left to lose.

She tastes so good on his tongue...

He's too, too bad.

Dance With the Devil

2012-08-29T06:55:20Z

Title: Dance With the Devil
Author: coquilleon
Summary: It takes dedication and endurance. Long hours, bloody feet, and the competition a mere three feet away. It used to be an escape but now Elena's world is crumbling. They both want to save her in their own way. Dance AU.
Characters/Pairing: Elena/Elijah Elena/Damon
Genre: Romance/Hurt/Comfort
Rating: NC - 17
Notes: Iiiiii'm not even sure? I will finish this.

Istruttore always says to have complete focus when dancing.

Ballet needs preciseness, perfection - every position, pointe, pirouette, absolutely correct. It always rang true with confusion for Elena – under the brilliant influence she dances better. The gradual rise and fall of the chemicals in her bloodstream making every twist like running water, and every leap like the gentle swell of a dove's feathers. The spike in her libido, automatic and uncontrollable, adds a silken sensuality to the way she moves her hips. Tempting, delicate, innocent. She doesn't do it all the time – she needs a clear head to get the initial moves perfect. But afterwards, in the dim, grimy lighting of the bathroom, locked in the last stall, there's the powder dissolving bitter on her tongue. The burning inhale of herbal air filling her lungs, or the quick sharp sting of a needle under the flesh of her inner thigh, always to the melody of that dripping tap. But the brief pain is always worth it as the looseness, the confidence, fills her up, pushing up against her skin. Telling her to move, commanding that she become a constant note in every song, and she listens. Imagines her body twirling and curling to become the A sharp or D flat on every line of the bars and she blends.

Istruttore always says to stay away from drugs - needles will kill, smoke will take away your stamina, but she thinks he's wrong. He's a wonderful teacher, the Best of the best, encouragement sparse, gestures of affection rare, but he's wrong this time, Elena knows.

She twirls, flows into a leap, lands like fresh snow, the drugs warm in her system – a comfort – and she's perfect and beautiful. Painfully, perfectly thin, eyes closed against large pupils, she spins and spins and spins, one with the wind she creates with her long brown hair. One with the music that flows upon it.

Perfection. This is perfection.

o o o

"Hips straight, damnit! Stop the music." The piano and chimes of Saeglopur comes to an abrupt halt and every dancer stills. Istruttore waves his hand, a familiar gesture that tells them all to sit against the mirror, under the barre.

"Caroline, Elena. Stay on the floor." Elena looks to the other girl, sees her flushed red cheeks and sweaty blonde hair tied up in a neat bun. "Caroline. Fouetté rond de jambe en tournant. Allegro. Three of them." She does as she's told, feet perfect, form perfect. She's barely finished her last turn before he barks the same to Elena. She isn't even halfway through the second when she feels strong, angry hands on her hips. They jerk her roughly, but she doesn't protest even though his fingers are digging into her flesh. "Hips straight, goddamnit. This isn't elementary. Do it right." He lets go and she turns, quick and precise. He claps his hands quickly, twice, and she leaps, grande jete perfect. "Balloon! Again!" Elena jumps, sweat dripping down her face, salty on her lips, falling into the eyes fixed on her own reflection in the mirror. "Pirouette à la seconde!" Her heart flips over in her chest as she changes positions and spins, but the angle is all wrong and her ankle gives a cry of protest. It's unfair, they never do pirouette à la seconde, the girls. When her knees hit the ground he pays her no mind. "Caroline go. Three." Once again, she's perfect. Second position aligned and then she's turning quickly, a feather in the wind. From the ground, Elena watches Istruttore nod briskly when she is done, and pat the other girl's sweaty cheek gently, thumb straying underneath her eye. "Beautiful," he says and pulls away.

"Everyone up. The music will start again. Do. It. Perfectly. Be like Caroline!" He strides to the front, past Elena who is rising to her feet. The piano fills the room but before she can even raise her arms, he points his finger at her and thumbs over his shoulder sharply before fixing his eyes on the rest of the class. Go take a break.

Her stomach dips and she doesn't move to go. Instead, throwing herself into the dance, forcing herself to flow with the others, make herself weightless as Matt raises her above his head. Each move leads gracefully into the other, even when the music picks up speed and they're all a blur of limbs. Elena falls into a graceful heap after those three pirouettes, just as she is supposed to, and silence fills the studio.

Istruttore's cool brown eyes survey them. "Good. That was better." That was perfect, Elena wants to say, but keeps her mouth shut. "Go get some water and go home. We're done for today." Elena glances out of the wall of windows and is surprised to see that the only light comes from the streetlights, hazy and orange. She doesn't meet his eyes as they all file out to the changing room.

o o o

"Elena. A moment, please." She doesn't want to speak to him, or even look at him, but Elena finds her feet making their way towards where he stands as the last few dancers trickle out to their cars, or the bus stop, or the tunnel to catch their train.

"Yes, Istruttore."

He is flipping through CDs and doesn't look up at her as he speaks. "That is only for when I am teaching you to dance, Elena. You know that. It is Elijah when we are alone." She says nothing and shifts on her feet, watching them pointe and flex even in dirty black slip-ons. The soles are pounding and her toes feel like they're bleeding. He puts the CDs down on the folding chair he bangs on the wooden floor sometimes when he's frustrated. Soon his spicy, smooth cologne surrounds her and his calloused hands cradle her small face. "Two totally different worlds, Elena."

"You didn't need to do that," she says quietly still not meeting his eyes. His grip tightens as he forces her to look at him.

"Yes. I did. Caroline is the best. She dances seven days a week. She is better than all of you, she is better than you." Tears prick at her eyes and she looks away, over his shoulder and up at the water spotted ceiling. He pulls her closer. "I want you to be the best Elena. That's why I push you like I do. Look at me." She does. "I want you to be better than her and it takes dedication that I know you have. I've seen it in you, I've seen you lose yourself in the music and blow us away. Every day I want to see that." A tear slips down her face as she nods. In a movement similar to earlier he strokes her cheek. He kisses her temple and breathes her in. "I know you can be the best," he whispers and she nods again, quickly, before pulling away gently.

o o o

She feels the relieving sting of a needle before she leaves the studio. The train sways back and forth, but she practices her spins for the whole 45 minute trip on the way back to her house.

Dedication. She has the dedication.

She does.

Quiet

2012-08-29T06:47:49Z

Title: Quiet
Author: coquilleon
Summary: Everything is so different now...
Characters/Pairing: Harry/Colin
Genre: Romance/Hurt/Comfort
Rating: PG
Notes: I've always wanted to write them. There's something gentle, and quiet, and caring about this pairing. in my mind anyway. I'm sure I didn't do it justice.

It's so quiet.

Moonlight floods through the glass free window, glinting off of the few jagged stained edges that remain attached to the stone's frame. It casts shadows underneath and around the rubble, highlights the dust, and makes the blood on his arms shine. A warm breeze, tinged with the frost that lingers from the winter, rustles the rags that used to be his shirt and tickles his split lip. His hair is burned, singed at the tips - he can smell it when the wind shifts the other way. Fresh grass, dust, and the metallic tang of blood. That's how he'll always remember the month of May.

He's just fought in a war.

The fact makes his head spin, almost as unexpected and surreal as the time he first learned he was a wizard. He was born to create magic. The same magic he uses to develop photos that can literally say a thousand words, and to mix potions, and to fly on a broomstick. The same magic he used tonight, to hurt. To kill. To protect.

It's a little overwhelming. But it's over. There are no more screams of agony, or the pounding of giant's feet, or the sickening, gut roiling terror that comes with You Know Who's voice echoing inside of your head. The dust, at least up here in this broken tower, is settled. The bodies of his classmates and friends lie in crooked rows downstairs, his brother is probably worried about him just wandering off, and his entire life has just been shifted entirely off of its axis, but as the wind fingers through his hair Colin can't help but give into the need to just tilt his head back, breathe in deeply, and let the moonlight press gently against his eyelids.

It's so quiet and he's alive.

"Oh- Hullo, Colin. I didn't know anyone was up here…"

His stomach clenches automatically before it does the customary swoop up, then down, knocking into his heart on the way – it's signal to start beating double time.

Harry.

If it were any other time he'd start blabbering. Stuttering and blushing, brain too focused on his rushing heart to get anything right. But he's exhausted. So tired, and dirty, and bloody. Things like love and hopeless crushes don't belong here.

He opens his eyes slowly and looks away from the moon to the young man outlined in the doorway. He shifts in his seat on the cracked window ledge.

"Yeah. It's just me."

"I'm sure you'd rather be alone right now." His hair is a mess, even more than usual. It looks like he's gotten electrocuted, or just woke up from a nap in the common room. He's dirtier than Colin, dried mud smudges all along his cheek bone and down the column of his neck. There's a thumb print in the corner of his glasses lens, on the right side. Colin feels his fingers twitch to wipe it off. He looks away.

"S'alright."

He feels Harry staring at him and Colin knows the other young man can see the changes. He's not much bigger than he was when they first met, but he's filled out some, grown up more. No more eagerness to wake up earlier than needed to watch Quidditch practices, or to beg for autographs, or not so subtle hints that they should spend more time together. It's been a while, he thinks almost bitterly. It must be a surprise to look at a person one moment and see a gibbering mess of an eleven year old and in what seems like a blink of an eye they're ready to take their N.E.W.T.S and suddenly so war weary.

After a few moments Harry beings to move across the room, toeing over fallen stone, and any fleeting grudges melt away as Colin drinks him in with quick glances. Not counting the Wanted posters he hasn't laid eyes him for a year. He's taller too, broader. The muscles in his arms flex under smooth, pale flesh, and from the gash in his shirt Colin can make out his lean torso. He looks away again, eyes darting to the side when the other boy sits beside him. Silently, they both watch the few stragglers out on the grounds. Dotted around the lake families and friends embrace while two others carry away what looks like a dead Death Eater.

"You stayed. To fight for me." Harry says after a few moments, voice quiet. "Thank you."

The words hit Colin as absurd – as if he would have gone and let his home for the last six years go under without at least trying to prevent it. "I stayed to fight for me too. And for Dennis, and Ginny, and Dumbledore..."

Harry stays silent, still gazing onto the grounds.

"I wanted to stay."

Broken sobs echo on the air, floating up towards the highest tower.

"It was my fight," Harry says finally.

"It was our fight," Colin replies dully. He closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall behind him. Something expands in his chest; it takes a few moments for him to realize that it is the truth, not seeing any point in staying buried. What does it matter now, really? He could have died tonight with so many unspoken words that were begging to bust out… Pointless. "But I was always going to stay… Don't even think it was ever a question." The small laugh bubbles in his chest and falls out over his lips, hallow. He feels old. Older than his sixteen years. "Everyone knows I'd fight for you, Harry… die for you…" And suddenly it's too much. The shock from what he's just witnessed and done washes away, swept out of his body to be replaced with something that burns at the base of his ribs. He swallows hard, but the lump doesn't go away. The tears still burn at his eyes and cut a track down his left cheek.

Flayed open. That's how he feels now. Surrounded by dirt, and blood, and death there's no room for secrets, no matter how badly kept they are. He would have died for this man in front of him. He realizes in a rush he would have died at the age of sixteen for Harry Potter, the boy who only grudgingly gave him the time of day. The burn in his eyes redoubles, hot tears spilling over the edges when a rush of hopelessness tries to overtake him.

He feels Harry shift beside him, the warm space that was his body replaced by the nippy wind. The familiarity of the action rips another cut across his heart and he squeezes his eyes together briefly. He'd much rather be alone right now, turns out.

Colin expects the vacated space but not the warm, gentle palm against his cheek. He jumps, startled, and when his eyes fly open Harry is standing right in front of him, viridian eyes angry, and sad, and burning. The smudge is still on the edge of his glasses, and Colin is so close he can see the ridges of the finger print.

"Don't." His lips are trembling as Harry wipes away cold tears with a rough thumb. "Don't- you don't have to…"

Harry's mouth tastes like ash, and salt, and fresh water. Then he just tastes like Harry. Sweet and warm and Colin feels like he's going to fly apart. Another hand on his face, pulling him closer, holds him together, but only barely. His hands are trembling, everywhere is trembling as he grabs onto Harry's shirt, fingers tangling in the rip and brushing against hot skin. "I want to," is breathed into his mouth, smothered by another press of lips. "I just- I want to…"

Surreal. It's all so surreal. Surreal, and tragic, and happening right now, Harry's body heat seeping into his own where their chests are connected. He wants to think more about it, quiet his rushing brain so he can just think but then he feels a warm, thick tongue slide in beside his tangling and tasting and he's useless.

The war is over, and above the mingled sobs of pain and cries of joy, the wind tumbling over the shards of glass, and their beating hearts it's so quiet.

I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaack!! :D

2012-08-28T17:27:57Z

Hello, all. I doubt anyone even reads this journal/knows it exists anymore. But I'm opening up all of my stories again. ALL of them. I decided making a new community would be superfluous, you know? So, I'm just opening old stories back up, going to be adding the new stories/installments, updating my masterlist, and maybe even start writing personal journal entries.
I'm in the process of opening up everything as we speak (but I've work in a few hours so the rest will be done later)
Hopefully it'll only take a day or two to update everything. :)

Update

2011-09-05T04:09:13Z

Hey everyone! I've been super busy (real life kicking my butt all up and down the WORLD) but I just wanted to let you all know that I've gotten all of your sweet messages and friend requests. Regarding my stories, I plan to move them all to a new journal and keep this one closed down. Once I get a break in life to do that, I'll post the link to my new journal to where you can read all my fics again, and just read my random thoughts (both of which I'm super surprised you even care about!)
Also, if you don't feel like waiting for me to make a new journal you can just go right here ---> http://www.fanfiction.net/u/2045653/Co_Quill_Eon and read alllllll my fics there :)

Oh and also! I have become the new recapper for The Vampire Diaries on TvGasm. If you enjoyed my recaps before, now you can just head on over to tvgasm.com after the aired episodes and join in on the discussions!

Thanks again for all the sweet messages and comments! And I'm so glad you enjoy what I write!
I love you guys!

Gunpowder

2011-08-11T21:45:03Z

Title: Gunpowder
Author: coquilleon
Summary: AU. It's just a game they play (X-Men: First Class fic)
Rating: pg - 13
Pairing: Erik/Charles

War is boring.

Not active war, of course. But the time in between the raids, training, and target practice? Mind numbing. With no television or internet and a radio that only gets local stations (static, propaganda, static) everyone is this close to coming out of their skins nearly everyday. Not now though. Right now, Erik watches Alex nearly trip over Sean's feet, laughing as he straightens up, and allows a small smile.

Alcohol. The saving grace of battle – when your options have suddenly narrowed down between going cationic with boredom and shooting up a small village of rebels, between having to choose to avoid harming children or shoot the little boy who's about to whip a grenade at your head… you need something to quiet the noise that starts to rattle against your skull.

Private Lensherr grins as he watches his comrades unwind, tips his head back, allowing his eyelids to lower lazily, and enjoys the sound of a classic rock CD (one of the many) someone was smart enough to bring along.

Camo green and grey uniforms fill the semi large room, his brothers milling about and chatting easily. Almost everyone has a beer in hand and a bare head. Erik himself hasn't had a drink all night, but he was never one for anything that wasn't finely aged scotch.

Kiss' Detroit Rock City fills the room and he watches Alex struggle to stay standing for a few moments before losing the fight and falling down onto the dusty, broken-in couch.

"Gay chicken!" he shouts from where he is now sprawled almost indecently over Sean. The proclamation is immediately met with laughs and groans alike. Hank's worried, raspy inquiry of "Gay chicken?" is lost to everyone but Erik in the noise. "I'm serious. Gay chicken."

"Don't ask, don't tell, and you want to play gay chicken?" Charles' crisp voice, loose with laughter and liquor, rises above the din, and a rumble of chuckles float through the room.

"What the hell else are we going to do?"

Erik wants to say exactly what they've been doing before Alex suggested the ridiculous notion, but he won't be the one to bring the mood down. He knows how they're feeling, needing absurdity to counter the reality - they lost Armando two days ago and are collectively in the process of coping; the five second movie still plays in Erik's head. Armando whole and fine, the green landing at his feet, sand and dirt stinging skin, and a bloody, burned body is all that's left.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Breathes in.

"Gay chicken?" Hank asks again and this time his voice is heard. "What's gay chicken?"

"Come here." The image fades, pushed delicately behind the wall constructed in his mind and a small smile tugs at Erik's lips, unbidden, at Alex's tone of voice. He creaks his eyes open. There are hoots and cat calls and Hank doesn't move from his seat beside Erik. "Seriously, come over here."

Erik stretches forward and prods the back of Hank's shoulder with the tips of his fingers. His reluctance is palpable as he down his beer and gets up to move across the barrack to stand in front of Alex, who, after a few false starts, manages to haul himself up to stand in front of Hank. "Alright, you know regular chicken, yeah?"

Hank nods and everyone's quiet enough so the other man's voice travels. "So it's the same shit. Just gay."

"Gay as in-"

"As in gay, asshole." More snorts of laughter. Erik looks up and over to where Charles has moved to lean against the wall beside Erik's chair. He's got a smirk on his face and a beer in his hand.

"Why do I have a feeling this is an awful idea?" Charles murmurs as Alex explains the rules.

"Maybe because it is." Charles gives a huff of laughter and Erik leans his head back against the wall to see the mess that is his drunken fellow soldiers.

"-to lean away loses," Alex finishes up.

"What's the point in-"

The groans drown out Hank's question and Alex grins.

"Alright, let's get started!" A devilish grin splits his face and suddenly his hand is cupping the back of Hank's neck and pulling down. The taller man nearly looses his balance and crashes lips first into Alex. A split second later he's jerking away and a howl from the surrounding men go up.

"Winner!" Alex shouts, hands up, and accepts a drunken slap from Sean. Both hands miss their marks and Erik hears Charles laughter ring in his ears. Hank's face is beet red and he tries to speak, to say something, but he ends up just grabbing another beer from the ice chest and settling down into the shadows.

"I hated this game in college." Erik looks up to see Charles watching the proceedings, clearly entertained.

"You played?"

Charles nods and takes a sip of his beer, eyes never leaving what Erik sees out of the corner of his eye is Sean and Azazel narrowing in on each other. "I did. It was Oxford – an overwhelming amount of young men with no outlet to experiment. Dying to try something new."

Before Azazel even gets halfway to Sean's face, Sean is backing away, shaking his head and taking the 'boos' from the surrounding crowd with good, albeit, drunken grace. It's not a surprise – Azazel is a scary man, ruddy and strong. He's dead drunk at the moment and it's surely the only reason why he's participating. Erik would hate to be the one on the receiving end of that flashback come morning.

"Were you one of the masses?" he inquires, focusing back on Charles. "Confused and itching to get a taste?"

Charles' lips curl around the neck of his bottle in a smile, a self-satisfied expression. "Not even a little bit."

"Oi." Alex's shout causes Erik to turn back to the ridiculousness in the room. Alex is looking at him from the couch where he's laid out again against a semi-passed out Sean. "You two look cozy over there."

Erik knows what's coming. Knew it even before the first round. And sure enough-

"Do it - your turn guys."

There's a sharp rise in noise level, and it's expected. Erik knows how he's seen to the others – stoic, silent, not really one to fool around. He never interrupts when the others need to get rowdy, but he never really participates, either. Despite knowing the reaction he'll get, he still shakes his head, smiling slightly.

"C'mon!" Alex throws his hand out and a few 'boos' ripple through out the room. "Everyone else was willing."

"You traumatized Hank."

"Are you saying I'll traumatize you Lensherr?" He looks up to see Charles' glittering blue eyes, full of mirth. Erik doesn't answer and Alex cat calls. "You can always back away." It's said low but Erik's senses sharpen. He knows a challenge when he hears one.

Rolling his eyes at how predictable he is, Erik sighs, gets up from his chair and leans over to snatch the video camera from Janos' hands. No hard evidence. He slips it into his back pocket and turns to face Charles. Who he towers over.

The other man is small anyway, shorter than almost everyone else in the camp, with enough muscle to be a few steps above lithe but not on the level as built. He may be small, but he's quick and good with a gun, and really, to Erik, that's all that really matters in the end.

The shoulders of Charles' camo green shirt, tucked into his grey-green camouflage pants, stretches and pulls over muscle as he downs the rest of his drink and sets the empty bottle on the floor. He's still smiling and it's an easy one- satisfied and entertained because he knows he's going to win this.

They stare at each other for a few moments, Rolling Stones floating in between the spaces, before Alex's voice breaks through the chattering voices to shout "Do it already."

Erik rolls his eyes again, but feels another small smile play around his mouth. Charles leans in and he does too, having to bend slightly to make up the height difference. He still looks so satisfied with himself that Erik places his hand on the side of Charles' throat, thumb tracing the underside of a strong jaw, just to see his reaction. He's not disappointed when some of the smugness leaves the other man's face and his eyes widen slightly. He grins victoriously and Charles loses the surprised expression in exchange of fond exasperation.

Closer and closer, and really, this is ridiculous. He should just pull back now...

Closer, and now their foreheads are touching, briefly, and Charles' hand comes to rest lightly on his waist.

Just back away and take the jostling like a man. No one would question it – no one expects him to really go through with this.

He sweeps his thumb against smooth skin, and there's a simple, basic pleasure in the action. Something that Erik hasn't felt in such a long time, has stifled, that he's almost forgotten.

The grin fades, his head tilting automatically to the right, because they're close enough (when?) and he can feel, taste, the exhale of moist breath on his lips. The innate feeling of goodness that comes from skin on skin contact washes through him again, pushing out the thoughts of forgetting this whole mess.

The hooting has gotten louder and he can hear Alex's soused cackle in the background, but it's only in the split second before their lips touch, when he feels Charles' long lashes brush against his cheek and as those big blue eyes close taking with them all the sound in the room, that it hits Erik, like a fist to the chest, that he's in trouble.

Soft, so soft, plush like the pillows he used to lounge against in his bed on lazy Sunday mornings. He falls into the kiss, and it feels like relief and the ache that he's been stifling makes itself known again. Neither of them is pulling away, and it registers distantly in his mind that that is the point of this – to jerk away, laughing and grimacing. Proclaiming your disbelief at such a daring action. But the hand on his waist tightens and his fingers play in the dip of a spine, and he's sinking into a kiss that reminds him of home.

It's been too long – that much he knows. It's screaming at him, telling him to back the fuck away while he still can and save his reputation. It's unreasonable, the pang he feels, when he pulls away first, swiftly to cover his ass. Laughing and pulling a subtle face, sucking on his bottom lip quickly to savor the taste before wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand and shaking his head.

The faux gracious "you win this one, Charles," is clunky in his mouth, and he doesn't look in the other man's direction as he walks over to the couch, accepting the sympathetic pats on the back as he passes, and pushing away Alex's feet to drop down into a seat.

The game is over and he waits five hundred and sixty seconds to let his eyes flick over to Charles.

He's smiling and laughing, talking quietly to Hank whose embarrassed blush has been swapped for the flush of alcohol. Erik stares, watches how Hank turns away to push away a somehow revived Sean, clambering for a hug, and Charles looks down at his own unopened beer bottle in his hands, jaw working and tongue peeking out for a slow lick of his lips. Tasting.

Superheroes (4/8)

2011-07-09T08:41:20Z

Title: Superheroes
Author: coquilleon
Summary: Charles has a date
Characters/Pairing: Erik, Charles. alluded future Erik/Charles
Genre: Friendship/General
Rating: PG - 13
Notes: Erik and Charles are in 11th grade

"You should give it up," Angel says bluntly, lunch tray landing loudly on the table. Hank jumps at the sound, cheeks flushing red hot and guilty as he tears his gaze away from the table a few feet away. "It's not gonna happen," she continues, sliding into the seat across from him.

Hank doesn't meet her eyes, choosing instead to twirl his plastic fork around in his spaghetti. "It might. I mean. Maybe…"

Angel looks over her shoulder to the table that has held Hank's attention nearly everyday for almost two years. He doesn't need to look over as well to know what she sees; Charles Xavier and Erik Lensherr sitting together, eating silently, and literally gazing into each other's eyes. Well, that's not fair – they don't gaze as much as… communicate with their facial features. It sounds awkward and odd, but Hank can't find another way to put it. He doesn't think he's ever seen Erik and Charles actually speak to each other. That's a lie – he's seen them speak to each other a few times, but even then it's in low, private murmurs no one else can hear.

He darts another look from under his fringe – Erik is leaning into Charles, as if listening to something the smaller boy is saying. Charles' mouth doesn't move, but after a moment Erik smirks anyway and brushes their shoulders together. And the look Charles gives him-

Hank looks away.

"They are attached at the hip," Angel says, turning back to Hank.

"They're best friends," he mutters, cutting his pasta into tiny, mushy pieces. "You and Moria are always together."

"That's different," Angel says, flippantly, tearing open a bag of chips. "I'm obviously not in love with Moria." Hank opens his mouth to speak, but Angel continues, one pierced eyebrow raised. "And don't even say that they aren't in love. Or at least doing each other. Dude, three years ago," and Hank rolls his eyes because he's heard this story a thousand and one times. He privately thinks Angel should be over it by now. "Winter Ball," she continues, oblivious. "I asked Erik, remember? He's there for maybe two hours tops, won't even dance with me, and acting as if he doesn't know what the hell to do with himself. I go the bathroom, and when I come back he finally walks up to me and says, "It was great, I'm glad you asked me. I really am. But Charles is sick, and I promised him I'd stop by later, so..." and then he's just gone."

"Not that you minded it much. It's the whole reason why you and Azazel are dating." Now it's Angel's turn to roll her eyes, but Hank ignores her. "Besides, that doesn't prove anything-" Hank starts to say, but he's jostled by another person sitting down next to him. Moria's long, brown, sweet smelling hair sweeps across his face as she flips it over her shoulder. "What are we talking about?"

Alex, and Sean sit on either side of Angel, and Hank wants to stop this conversation now. Too many people around to tell him this is an awful idea and, by extension, hopeless endeavor. Not that it really makes a difference – he's sure his massive crush on Charles Xavier isn't going anywhere anytime soon.

"Hank is, once again, contemplating asking Charles Xavier out on a date," Angel announces, crunching into a potato chip.

Alex snorts. "Good luck, bro."

"Thanks for your vote of confidence," Hank replies, mulishly.

"Shut up," Alex says, opening his bottle of Coke and guzzling it down. He burps and Hank wrinkles his nose. "You know what I mean. It has nothing to do with you – you're a freakin genius and Xavier is too, so you got that goin for you. And you're pretty hot for a nerd." Hank feels his cheeks flare up again, ears burning, and Angel gives an inelegant huff of laughter. "But fuck all that's gonna do for you if you can't get past Lensherr."

"You won't get past Erik," Sean chips in, not looking away from his hamburger.

"You really won't." Angel says.

Hank feels his heart sink. It's the normal response to this line of conversation. The result is always the same – 'Don't even try. It will just end in eternal sadness.' It shouldn't matter. It really shouldn't – it's just a crush. A crush he's had for two years and has done nothing about. He just- It's his last year, and he's graduating soon, and he just wants the one date at least… to see where it goes…

"I think you should try," Moria says quietly, and Hank shoots her a small, grateful smile.

"Do we even know if he's gay?" Sean asks. The table goes quiet.

"He does wear those little sweater vests," Alex says after a moment, and Moria rolls her eyes.

"That's like saying we know you're bi because of your sneakers."

"That makes exactly no sense," Alex says.

"Exactly my point."

Hank smiles a little as Alex goes on to brag about his date this weekend with that blonde guy on the football team with the tattoos. He lets his gaze stray back over to the table a few feet away. Charles' big blue eyes shine, crinkled at the sides, a result of the wide smile that shows off his white teeth. Erik murmurs something, a sly smirk on his face as well. But Hank focuses on Charles and feels his heart try to flutter back up into his rib cage, feeble wings beating hard.

He's going to do it – he's going to ask Charles Xavier on a date.

He's got to try.

o o o

"Hello, Hank." Charles smiles kindly up at him, big blue eyes immediately pulling him in, and Hank's mouth goes dry. Why is he doing this? Alex, and Sean, and Angel were right. Charles is going to say no, and Erik is going to corner him in a deserted hallway, smiling sharply has he interrogates Hank. He looks around quickly, despite knowing that Lensherr has P.E right now and as a result is all the way at the other end of the school.

Realizing he's been silent for far too long, Hank jumps into speech. "Hey, Charles. Howzitgoing?" He tries to smile, but it feels more like a grimace, and he should just walk away now.

Charles stares up at him, directly into his eyes, and the seconds crawl by. He stares, unblinking, and Hank feels as if he's trying to read his mind. God, that's the last thing he needs, Charles Xavier seeing all the things Hank wants to do to him…

Finally, after what seems like years, Charles gives him a soft smile, and looks away, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. He looks at the floor, Hank's shoulder, and then back up into his face. "I'm good, fine. And you?"

"Good… good." Another break of silence and Hank feels like sinking into the floor, because, really, how awkward can he be right now? Charles' smile gets even more kind and he shifts on his feet, closer into Hank's personal space. The creamy skin of his cheeks has a slight pink flush to them and it's so endearing Hank feels his heart give an affectionate lurch.

"So!" he begins, too loudly. He coughs, and tries again. "I mean, so, would you like to- I don't know – There's this, this new exhibition on the pier. Well it's not new exactly, but it was gone for a few years and now it's back. It's an in depth look into the human body. It's actually called Bodies, and there are bones, and tissue and… everything… just laid out…"

It doesn't exactly sound romantic, but he knows Charles will like it. Charles is in his advanced biochemistry class, and he's still a grade under Hank. It's the perfect thing for them to go to.

Isn't it?

"That would be great," Charles says.

Hank blinks.

"Really?"

Charles smiles up at him and shifts his books into his other hand. "Yes, it sounds fascinating. I've heard about that exhibit and have always wanted to go see it. It's perfect really."

"Yeah," and Hank is grinning now too, relieved. His friends are not going to believe him when he tells them. "And afterwards we can, I don't know, get some ice cream and see the street performers. Sit on the beach."

The smaller boy's grin gets wider, and he nods. "Sounds wonderful."

Hank feels giddy. "It's a date."

Charles laughs. "It's a date."

And just like that, Hank has a date with Charles Xavier.

o o o

Why are you so quiet? Erik asks him an hour into their studying. It's after school and they're in Charles' room. The fresh spring air blows softly into the space, carrying the noise of children playing, and Charles hesitates. Not that he's sure why. He wants to tell Erik that he has a date, but for some reason he feels oddly about it, his heart pumping a little too fast at the idea. He watches as Erik absent mindedly bends and twists one of the thick metal knitting needles he carries around just for this purpose. His eyes track the way Erik's long fingers move, smooth and strong through the air, and feels an all too familiar shiver run down his spine. It's moments like these that he's glad Erik isn't the one who can read minds.

He recalls how nervous Hank was earlier today. How his clear skin flushed red and his eyes shone bright blue behind thick black frames and under windswept hair. It made a very attractive picture. Charles blushes as he also remembers what he'd seen flash briefly through Hank's mind before remembering the boundaries he's set up for himself – plush red lips against his own. Big, smooth hands, usually found wrapped around ball point pens and glass beakers, cradling Charles' face... brief images of skin against skin and words breathed heavily into the curve of damp throats.

Charles clears his throat and ignores his burning face.

I have a date.

Erik pauses for a moment, hands ceasing its fluid movements for a split second before continuing. He keeps his eyes fixed on his papers. Oh? With Moria?

Charles shifts in his seat on the bed, opens his mouth, closes it, and fixes his own gaze on the textbook open on his lap. Uh, no. No, it's with… Hank.

Everything seems to go still and Charles keeps his own eyes fixed on his book. Neither of them move, the metal knitting needle bent into a pretzel floats midair, and Charles really, really, wants to delve into his friend's mind. It's a real force of will, but he holds back and damns his boundaries.

Hank McCoy? The tone of Erik's thought give nothing away, but Charles already knew it wouldn't. Erik is so used to keeping only what he wants to be heard on the surface – Charles has been in his head most of his life and as a result, he's got the best defenses Charles has ever felt in a mind before.

Yeah. They fall into an uncomfortable silence again. Why? Why is this so odd? It's just the pier. Charles explains, because for some reason he feels the need to. There's an exhibit. The Bodies exhibit. It's on Friday night.

Friday?

Yes. Charles pauses. I was hoping you wouldn't mind-

I don't. Erik thinks quickly. I don't mind. It's good. I'm glad you – you and Hank McCoy are going out. He's a nice guy.

If you don't want me to go-

Why wouldn't I want you to go?

Finally, something shifts in Erik's thoughts – a ripple of sensation that echoes. It almost sounds like a dare, and Charles is tempted to just let everything out. To say that if Erik doesn't want him to go he won't. If he just asks him, Charles will do a rain check with Hank. Or not. He could call Hank and tell him that he can't go at all - not if Erik doesn't want him to because he wants Charles all to himself.

This is Charles' perfect opening. He can just… say it. Project it. Tell Erik that he's had a massive crush on him for three years now, and that every time Erik smiles at him his breath catches. Or whenever Erik's fingers brush Charles' skin his heart beats double time. He could tell him, he could. He could…

No reason, Charles says instead, and the clock ticks. A few more moments pass and the metal of the knitting needle begins to twist again.

I hope you have fun.

Charles' gaze on the textbook pages blurs.

Yeah. Me too.

o o o

Erik isn't one to lie to himself. So halfway through telling himself for the fiftieth time that he doesn't care that Charles, at this very moment, could very well be laughing at some stupid science based joke told by Hank McCoy, he stops.

He does care. He cares, he cares, he cares, and he doesn't want Charles out with Hank McCoy, especially when he's supposed to be here, on their Friday night.

He doesn't know why, though.

He honestly doesn't

When he thought Charles was going on a date with Moria Erik couldn't have cared less. He and Moria have gone out a few times over the years and Erik has never given it a second thought. But apparently there's something about Hank McCoy…

He stops trying to watch some documentary about the honey badger and irritably turns the television off. The image of the beast ripping the skin off of a rattle snake blinks out of existence and Erik lies back in his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

It's not like he didn't know Charles likes boys too. He's always known that - it's never been a secret or something to be ashamed of. Hell, even Erik gives the side eye to that blonde kid with the tattoos on the football team sometimes – the guy's a dick, but he has those shoulders that make him the best linebacker on any school team in the county.

He looks over at the clock.

Twelve twenty-four.

They're probably on their way home now. Or maybe Charles is already home, standing on his front step, looking up into Hank McCoy's face as it gets closer and closer as he leans down-

Erik furrows his brow and shakes his head, the irritable feeling scratching at his insides growing. Why is he thinking about his best friend and Hank McCoy kissing? It's not really his business for one thing. Charles can kiss whomever he likes - God knows Erik has done his fair share of it with various girls in their grade. And he highly doubts Charles was lying down in his bed during Erik's date nights, wondering if he was pressing Emma into the backseat of her car. Not that he thinks Hank has Charles pressed into the backseat of his car. Charles wouldn't do that - make out with someone on the first date. And besides, he's seen McCoy around school; a senior that acts as timid as a freshman and hangs out with friends much louder and rowdier than he will ever be. His nose always in a book and pushing his glasses up with his finger. He barely even celebrates when he wins the track meets for the school team, choosing instead to grin crookedly amidst the backslaps and cheers, ridiculously high cheekbones stained red. Erik doubts Hank has the balls to be so forward as to lay Charles down in the backseat of his car.

He might though.

If they hit it off.

Which they probably did, because Charles is shy too, and he's always reading, and they're both science nerds who get excited over the prospect of the discovery of a new species of fungi. Not that Erik doesn't think a new species of fungi is… interesting. It dawns on him that Charles probably doesn't know that. He should let him know, and then the both of them can go to more science exhibits without Charles feeling like he's dragging Erik around, boring him to death.

And he likes to read. He's more into learning different languages than thesis statements about the multiplication of cells but still, a book is a book.

Right?

Erik looks at the clock again. Twelve forty-seven. He turns away from it onto his other side and punches his pillow into shape. When he shuts his eyes tight, resolutely bypassing anymore thought about Charles, Hank McCoy, and what might be going on at this stage of their date, it feels like a rebellion.

o o o

Did you have a good time?

It's Saturday, and Erik and Charles are in the park by Charles' house. They lay on the grass, in the sprawling shade of their favorite huge elm. Erik darts a glance over to Charles, but his face is turned upwards, eyes closed. He's displeased to see a small smile curving Charles' lips. He looks away.

Yes. It was surprisingly enjoyable.

Why surprisingly?

Well, Hank never really seemed one for the humor. He's usually so quiet, you know?

Yeah… They fall quiet and the sound of kids screaming 'you're it', and the click of bike stokes fill the silence. After a few minutes Erik asks, What did you two do?

Just dinner, and the exhibit. Then we got ice cream and sat on the beach, talking.

Erik tries to infuse his thoughts with good humor, even though his stomach is doing an odd maneuver he's yet to feel ever before in all of his sixteen years. Just talking?

Yes, Erik.

So you wouldn't know if he's a good kisser?

Charles doesn't answer right away and Erik feels his heart drop a few notches. Straight into the wriggling mess of knots that used to be his stomach. He's simultaneously happy and frustrated that Charles has learned boundaries when it comes to his telepathy. Maybe if he broke his own rules he could tell Erik why he feels like shit. He feigns good spirits. Aha! Fess up. And why is he doing this to himself? Why does he keep asking quest-?

It was nothing serious. Charles pauses again, and Erik doesn't need to look over to know that his smile has gotten a little bigger. Just a kiss goodnight.

Good enough for a second date?

Maybe.

Yes.

…Alright, yes. We're going to the movies Friday night.

Friday, huh? Erik hates himself the moment he projects it over to Charles. He doesn't want to seem needy. And sure, he doesn't like it that fucking Hank McCoy (and when did his name become a epithet) has stolen his best friend for the second Friday in a row, but that doesn't mean Charles shouldn't go and enjoy himself.

Yes… Now Charles sounds unsure. That is alright isn't it? I could-

No, no. It's fine. I think I have plans anyway.

Oh?

Yeah, uh, I was thinking of asking Emma out. Well if he wasn't before, he is now. He wants to dwell on the fact that she will probably say no, as rumor has it she's dating some Californian transplant nicknamed Riptide, but he's too busy fixated on the fact that he just gave into the insane urge to lie to his best friend about something so stupid.

Oh. Charles sounds funny. Erik isn't imagining it. He's not. That's… we'll both have dates.

I guess so. Erik shrugs mentally and all falls quiet again.

Everything stays the same – the kids scream, and the bikes ride past, and the birds tweet. But something has shifted. He can feel it and he knows Charles does to.

Something is different and Erik doesn't like it.

o o o

The warm sun shines down on his skin through the break in the leaves and Charles contemplates telling Erik that Hank thought they were together. That apparently the whole student body thinks they're dating and madly in love, but decides against it.

It would be a laugh, that's it.

What would it accomplish, really?

o o o

"Dead man walking," Alex says right into his ear, lips brushing against the shell, and Hank whips his head around.

"What are you talking about?"

Alex nods his head and Hank looks around in the same direction. Despite the noise and what seems like hundreds of students milling around the hall, his eyes are immediately drawn to Charles who is digging around for something in his locker. His mind goes to goo for a second; just as it has ever other time he remembers leaning down to finally kiss him. He recalls the fresh, sweet taste of the other boy's mouth and feels his own begin to break out into a goofy grin. He wants to sink into the memory, but the sudden prickling on the back of his neck has Hank looking up to stare directly into Erik Lensherr's eyes.

He does not look happy.

At all.

In fact, if Hank wasn't sure that Lensherr wasn't a killer he'd be extremely worried. He still is really worried, to be honest. Lensherr glares at Hank, eyes a flinty, and furious kind of green that reminds him of grenades, and Hank feels a shudder zip up his spine. The other boy doesn't blink, holding Hank hostage with how hostile he appears. Hank feels like he's staring down a hardened dog, his only reward for looking away being sharp teeth around his throat.

Finally, Erik looks away when Charles slams his locker shut and nudges his arm. Hank tears his gaze away from Erik, who is now smiling down warmly at Charles. As if he wasn't just promising Hank a slow death with his eyes.

Sean flips his shaggy red hair out of his eyes, gives a low, sharp whistle and leans his back against the lockers. "Man, he is one scary motherfucker."

"I'm just surprised you actually did it." Alex says, and sounds just as impressed as he did the first time Hank told him Charles said yes.

"Course he did," Sean replies, pushing himself away from tan metal. "He's stupid enough." He turns to Hank and slaps his palm down on his shoulder, expression mockingly somber. "Man, you must really want that English ass. Good thing you can run."

He and Alex burst into laughter and Hank swallows around the sudden lump in his throat.

Superheroes (3/8)

2011-07-07T11:27:41Z

Title: Superheroes
Author: coquilleon
Summary: Charles hates being sick
Characters/Pairing: Erik, Charles.
Genre: Friendship/General
Rating: G
Notes: Erik and Charles are in 9th grade

Charles hates being sick.

He hates the way his head pounds and how his nose feels as if someone stuck silly putty up both nostrils. He hates the way his throat gets so sore and how his whole body aches. And he absolutely despises how he's always so exhausted and, even though all he wants to do is sleep, can never find that comfortable spot in bed or on the couch.

He lays in his bedroom now, heavy curtains drawn even though it's dark outside, the winter sun having faded quickly. He huddles under the blankets feeling small, and achy, and grumpy, willing himself to fall asleep. It's the best he can do - try and rest constantly, hopefully waking up to slightly clearer airways.

He tosses and turns, hears his school appointed copy of The Catcher in the Rye hit the floor with a thud. Using a flat palm, he brushes the hairs that stick to his forehead back and behind his ears, and huffs out an irritated, uncomfortable breath. He's hot, way too hot, but the moment he throws the blankets off of his body, he's too cold. Reaching out blindly he feels around for a tissue, but when his hands meet with nothing but his glasses and an empty cough drop bag, frustration bubbles up.

He hates being sick.

Eventually, he finds a comfortable position (half way on his side, one leg out from under the blankets) and begins to drift off, fever induced images floating through his muddled mind, when the door to his bedroom flies open and a small blur of blonde hair hurtles in. She only slows down to carefully climb up onto the bed, and soon his little sister is crawling towards him on all fours to peer down into his face, all blurred freckles and big brown eyes that blink quickly.

"Are you feeling better?"

Charles shuffles, irritation prickling at his skin as he turns to lie on his back. Gently placing a hand on her shoulder, he pushes her away. "No." he says thickly. He winces at how stuffed up and hoarse he sounds. "You shouldn't put your face so close to mine - you could get sick too."

Raven shrugs and sits back heavily, red satin dress fluffing up around her. Charles can't help but smile at the picture she makes; red dress with a black sash in the middle, long blonde hair in ringlets held back by a black headband, legs covered in white stockings and shiny black shoes on her feet. "All ready to be Father's date for the party, then?"

Raven nods, excited, even as Charles' own throat tightens. It should be Mother accompanying his Father to his colleague's Holiday celebration, Raven small and swinging between their hands. But she's in another one of her moods – the one where she says she's going out for that expensive cheese she "simply cannot live without" and ends up sending a postcard a month later informing them that she is in Bali, or Dubai, or someplace equally as exotic and far away. He shakes away his slightly bitter thoughts and focuses on his sister chatting away merrily. "And Daddy said that Santa might be there, so I'm gonna ask him for that huge dollhouse I saw at the toy store we went to when we went to the city. You know the one with the big piano you can jump on?" Charles nods – he's sure Raven will get the dollhouse. Not from Santa, but from their father who will literally bend over backwards to spoil her. Not that Charles begrudges him the fact – Raven, still small for her age with a face as round and sweet as her mostly intact childish enthusiasm and mentality, is hard to turn down at the best of times.

"I'm sure Santa will see to it," Charles says.

Raven nods and smoothes out her skirt as she looks around the room. "Where's Erik?"

Charles' slightly good mood flees. He sinks back into the pillows, turning on his side and pulling up the covers. "Not here."

Raven rolls her eyes. "Duh. Why not? It's Friday. Erik always comes over on Fridays. Did you two get into a fight?"

Charles sighs and closes his eyes, the exhaustion from earlier kicking back in. "No, we didn't."

"Then where is he?"

"The Winter Ball, I would suspect." He's tries to ignore the way his stomach coils uncomfortably – he was supposed to be at the Ball as well. He'd put so much work into the whole thing, joining the dance committee despite Erik's incredulous laughter. He'd managed to find a date in quiet Moria from History class and had picked out his best dress shirt and pants. He'd been excited, ready to go, and dance, and have everyone admire how great the gymnasium looked. That is until three days ago, when he'd felt that horrible tickle in the back of his throat.

"You should come anyway," Erik had told him on the phone last night. "Stuff your pockets full of tissues and we can sit at a table all night if you're too tired." The small smile that curls his lips against the pillow flees quickly when he imagines Erik with Angel, dancing and having a good time without him. He doesn't mind, really. He wants Erik to have a great time – he just wishes he were there to see it.

He searches his mind for a new topic, one to rid his mind of the image of Erik and Angel slow dancing while silver tinsel glitters all around them. "Remember to keep 'you-know-what" under control." He hears Raven sigh heavily and he opens one eye just in time to see her golden honey hair shift to glossy black and then back to blonde.

"I know, I know," she grumbles. "Daddy already told me. It's not fair though. What I can do is super cool."

"Regardless," Charles tells her, eye winking closed again.

"Erik is right," she says, sounding as wistful as an eight year old can. "We are better. Regular people should be begging to see our talents."

"You need to stop parroting Erik." He hears Raven take a breath to begin again, but he cuts her off. "We aren't better than any other man. We're all human." And he really is too weak to be discussing this right now. He hears Raven mumble something under her breath. "Excuse me?"

"Said we're not human."

"And what are we? Or," he pinches the bridge of his nose, "what did Erik tell you we are?"

"Mutants."

"Lord." He's heard Erik say the same thing, refer to them in the same way, but he had no idea he'd been telling Raven his theories. Charles doesn't know how he feels about it.

"It's true. We are," she says matter-of-factly. She smoothes her skirt again. "We're better."

Charles hums, too tired to argue. And luckily he doesn't have to, as moments later his father's voice comes floating up the stairs.

"Raven, darling. Time to go." Charles feels the bed shake and dip as his little sister jumps off, talk of mutants instantly forgotten.

"Bye, Charles!" she calls as she hurries out into the hallway. "Love you!"

"Love you too," he mumbles, the words most likely unheard over the sound of his bedroom door slamming shut. A few minutes pass quietly, the distant sounds of Raven chattering and coats rustling lulling Charles into an odd sense of contentment. His eyelids begin to feel heavy. Now, he'll be able to sleep…

Can I come in? Erik's voice nudges softly at Charles' mind.

Charles' eyes blink open, and he answers of course muzzily, automatically, despite his confusion. The knob turns and the door opens wide to reveal Erik. Charles feels a shot of envy at how much taller Erik has gotten in the past few months. He's already reached 5'11 while Charles is still a measly 5'4.

His friend's hands are full with shopping bags and his familiar overnight duffle is thrown over his shoulder. He's wearing those black slacks and green button down shirt they'd picked out of the store last week, along with his shiny new shoes. I thought you were at the dance, Charles thinks and Erik shrugs as he drops a stack of DVD's messily onto the end of the bed.

I was, is all he says in reply. Your dad said he won't be out too late, seeing as he's with Raven. He shrugs off his duffle bag so it falls into the floor with a soft wump.

What happened? Charles sits up, back against the pillows and folds his hands on his lap.

It was lame, he says, easily. The music was awful and Angel kept trying to get me to dance with her. You know I don't dance.

You dance, Charles thinks, smiling slightly. He pulls up the memory of them together out on the patio of the country club. He remembers how fresh the newly cut grass smelled, and the way the music drifted out of the ajar glass doors, floating on the evening air mixing with Erik's grumbles of "never need to know the waltz anyway" and "why in the world would anyone want to box step?" Still grinning, he projects the image into Erik's mind and watches a mild pink flush seep into his cheeks.

That didn't count, Erik thinks roughly as he sits on the edge of the bed. You got it into that fancy little brain of yours that you wanted to teach me. It was easier to just let you get it out of your system. Charles grins and watches Erik pull up two full grocery bags onto the bed. Out of one bag he pulls a jumbo bag of gummi worms, a bag of Jolly Ranchers, a bottle of ginger ale, and a jumbo bag of Twizzlers. I tried to get mostly soft stuff, he explains, arranging everything to rest against the wall. I saw those Dill Pickle chips you like so much, but I figured your throat and all...

Charles just nods. His head still feels heavy, and his limbs lethargic, but his chest begins to warm in a pleasant way, heart squeezing. He watches as Erik unpacks the second bag – Nyquil, another bottle of ginger ale, a massive bag of cough drops, and two boxes of extra soft tissues. I left the ice pack in the fridge downstairs. I know how hot I get when I'm sick… He trails off as he looks up at Charles, and Charles guesses that his happy surprise shows completely on his face, because Erik's flush returns, darker than before.

Joy fills Charles' body, warm and light, and this is why Erik is his best friend. Most of their classmates think him unfriendly – sullen, and quiet, angry at the world. Charles was actually surprised when Angel walked up to Erik's table during lunch and asked him to the ball. Not because Erik is bad looking, (because he definitely is not,) but most of the people at school are intimidated of him.

But that's because they don't see him like this. They don't see how he's skipped one of the biggest dances of the year to come watch movies with Charles, who is most likely highly contagious. They don't get to watch how he arranges everything from the second bag neatly on Charles' bedside table. They don't know how… how…

Charles can't find words as he looks at Erik, who's toeing off his new shoes. Pick a movie, he says as he unbuttons his shirt and unzips his duffle to fish out another. Small smile still firmly in place, Charles takes a stuffy sniff and leans forward to grab at three movies randomly. Sin City, Die Hard, and Horton Hears a Who. His chest gives another pleasant squeeze at the last one. It's his favorite.

This one, he says and turns to Erik who is now barefoot and clad in a dark green long sleeve cotton shirt and black and grey checkered pajama pants. His green eyes flick to the movie held in Charles' hand and he grins.

Figures. He takes the case from him, and crosses the room to slide the disk into the DVD player and grab the remotes. Kicking empty grocery bags and his duffle out of the way he lifts the covers and slides into bed. Shove over.

You're going to get sick, Charles warns, but moves closer over to the wall anyway. He feels Erik shrug.

I'll be fine.

Soon the sounds of Horton the Elephant fills up the bedroom, but Charles isn't paying attention. He watches Erik watch the movie - takes in how the light from the television washes over his features, throwing them into sharp relief. He watches long dark lashes brush against high cheekbones every time Erik blinks and the way his long throat pulses every time he swallows.

Charles' stomach twists again, but, unlike earlier, this sensation makes Charles feel warm, almost giddy.

What are you looking at? Erik asks, without turning his eyes away from the screen.

Nothing. And Charles is glad that it's so dark – he has a sneaking suspicion that his face has gone pink.

He fixes his eyes on the television screen and burrows under the covers, which oddly enough, are exactly the right temperature. He feels Erik shift closer, getting comfortable, and a long arm wraps around Charles' shoulder, lazily pulling him in. It should be odd, being this close to another male, especially at their age. But they've been doing this since they were five, huddled up on the couch watching Sesame Street in the morning still in their pajamas.

He allows himself to melt easily against Erik's side, not an ounce self conscious as he snuffles, somewhat miserably, against his chest. Closing his eyes, he revels in the sound of the movie and the feel of Erik's thumb absently sliding both smooth and rough over his collarbone.

Finally he sleeps.

Part 4

Ready, Set,

2011-07-02T11:44:21Z

Title: Ready, Set,
Author: coquilleon
Summary: A RPF. Hannah Bell, budding screen writer/ director extraordinaire, and current X-Men: First Class PA, stumbles upon something she shouldn't have on Jekyll Island.
Pairing: Michael F./James M
Genre: Romance/Humor
Rating: PG - 13
Notes: This is COMPLETELY AU (to my knowledge) so McFassy don't sue me for slander. Thanks bunches for persephone20 for helping me out with this!

I'm going to faint.

The last of the tepid water drains onto my tongue, the flimsy plastic of the water bottle crumpling easily in my clammy palm.

I'm going to get even woozier than I am now and fall into a dead faint like those old movie stars in black and white films or those women who wore corsets too tightly back in the day. Hopefully by the time I hit the sand I'll be out cold and won't even feel it when my skin sizzles and melds to the hot, tiny particles.

I know I sound like a drama queen right now, but believe me; it is thathot out here. The Georgia sun seems indecisive with its decision to fry my skin off, but is obviously leaning towards 'yes' on that front. I stare out into the distance, hands hanging limply at my sides, empty bottle still clutched in one fist. The leaves on the trees aren't even rustling. There is no wind, not even a slight breeze carrying the hint of relief. You'd think there would be some reprieve – we're on an island for goodness sakes.

My shirt sticks disgustingly to my skin as I chuck the water bottle and reach up to adjust my headset.

My headset. The black foam kinda soggy where it rests against the skin of my neck. It's a reminder that I should be grateful for my near heatstroke.

I'm finally, finally,on the set of a sure to be blockbuster. Finally, after all those years of being a set P.A. on dozens of television pilots that didn't get picked up, and 'indy films' that barely made a blip on anyone's radar (not even featured on Rotten Tomatoes) I'm here. I'm on the set of an X-Men movie, freakin X-Men. And sure, I've been up since four a.m, and my shorts have seem to have shrunk in the heat, and the sun is licking my skin, but I'm here, finally with big names. I got fucking Kevin Bacon's lunch order yesterday for Christ's sake. And I know what you're thinking – yeah that's pretty cool, but is that really something to aspire to? First of all, yes. But that isn't what I happen to be aspiring to.

This time.

No, actually, this is all about me getting the experience I need to make it in this world. You have hundreds of young people like me that want to be the one to write the next hit movie. The one that makes the critics roar, and audiences feel things, and have Ebert and Roper praising on their ancient knees. When they all talk about wanting to be a writer for a hit movie all they really focus on is the actual writing. And don't get me wrong – I spend almost every waking moment working on the perfect script, but I've decided to get a leg up on the competition – in between writing I've been trying to get behind the scenes as much as possible. I have this thing about being able to direct my own works properly, the idea that everything will get mangled in the process if I don't have both my hands and feet on it.

So as I run lunch orders, and get tons of bottles of water, and blot actor's foreheads I learn about soundstages, and angles, and echoing. I get to see what works best in a frame, and all about lighting, and locking up, and how to hold a boom mic out of the shot, and it's all made me so pumped to get my work out there. I can see the credits now:

Directed and Written by Hannah Bell –

There is a burst of static coming through my headset and I hurriedly pull it up over my head.

"Timothy." Jim's voice crackles into my ear. Jim Cassack is the AD, and besides all of the other tons of duties he has, he's also the one responsible for all of us P.A's, making sure we don't break any props or accidentally maim any of the actors. There is silence on the line and I turn to look out over the water. It is quite pretty. The whole island is. Even though I've lived in Georgia on and off for the past five years, I've never been to Jekyll island. The sky is a brilliant cerulean today, and the water shimmers grayish blue. A little shift in the air brings a slight breeze and I close my eyes, savoring the feel of it while ignoring the sound of the helicopters above gathering aerial shots.

Another burst of static. "Timothy." There is still no answer. "Timothy?" I'm sure Timothy has turned his headset down. He's always doing that, for what reason I have no idea. That's like turning off your computer when you're a graphic designer. These headsets are a P.A's lifeline during filming. I happen to sleep with mine on every once in a while. But I've been told I'm over zealous. Jim's irritable voice sounds over the line. "Alright, who's the closest to the ship?" I look to my left and see the rubble; it's surrounded by other stage hands and palm trees. Matthew Vaughn is pointing something out, hands sweeping across the scene, and three people are nodding, one of them inching towards the wreck as if itching to rearrange some aspect of it.

"I am."

"Who is this?" I pause at the question – I'm the only Scottish P.A. on this set. Who else does he think this is?

"Uh, it's Hannah."

"Alright, Hannah," he begins. "I need to you run over there and pick up Magneto's helmet. Well, first I need you to see if it's even around there. And if it is, find Michael and give it to him. Tell him to try it on, see if it fits, and tell me what he says. Got that?"

I nod, and then remember he can't see me. "Yeah, I've got it."

The air goes dead in my ear as I begin my trek towards the wreckage. Once again, I curse having to wear sneakers in the sand. Being barefoot would be so much easier, but it's a safety thing, especially with all this debris dropped about. I find the helmet resting on a spare piece of metal. It feels hot in my hands, warmed by the sun and it hits me again as to where I am. God, I'm holding Magneto's helmet…

A quick look around doesn't reveal Mr. Fassbender, but honestly I didn't expect him to be around. He and Mr. McAvoy are attached at the hip, and I've barely seen them both all morning except during the one shot we did before Vaughn yelled cut, unhappy with what he was seeing. Probably whatever he was gesturing to a few minutes ago. My heart picks up a little as I head towards a thicket of palm trees. Interacting with Mr. Fassbender and Mr. McAvoy is probably my favorite part of this whole deal, honestly. They're fun, and funny, and clever and so different than some 'celebrities' I've had the displeasure to work with. They both insist that I call them by their first names, but it's still weird to me. Seems too informal. Mr. Bacon insisted on the same thing when I first spoke to him, asking him to stand still while I adjusted a few chairs in a shot. Just the prospect of calling him 'Kevin' made my mind melt.

The number of people around thins out the further I walk and soon I'm alone, navigating through the trees. I don't even know why I'm going in this far. Why would he be hanging out in the middle of a copse of palm trees? The sun bears down on the back of my neck, and I contemplate turning back around, to head back to the caravan. But Jim was in the caravan when he gave me the task - I could hear the sound the television in the background along with the sound of a hairdryer. Besides, it's not like it's a big island – you're either on the set, in the caravan, or in the trees.

Three minutes later, and there is no sign of Mr. Fassbender. My hand strays towards the button on my hip, about to ask Jim where he last saw him when I hear the low murmuring of a voice to my left. I roll my eyes; it's probably Timothy, trying to find service for his cell phone, but I go in that direction anyway, helmet held loosely in my fist. The sound of murmuring gets closer and I'm just opening my mouth to tell Timothy to forget his phone call, that Jim has been trying to get in contact with him, when a glimpse of yellow catches my eye through the trunks. It has to be one of the cast members - they're the only ones dressed like that this morning.

Hurrying forward in sand is hard work while wearing these damn sneakers. Not that it matters in a few seconds when I stop dead, my mind trying to get around what I'm currently seeing. The first thing that registers in my mind is that it's way too hot to be making out in latex body suits. But it seems as if both men aren't noticing the scalding heat, too wrapped up in each other to worry about anything as trivial as falling out from heatstroke. The gears in my head have completely stopped turning, but there is a resounding clunk as I take in the whole scene, realize what I am seeing, who I am seeing.

Mr. Fassbender has Mr. McAvoy up against a tree, and he holds his face in his large hands, cradling it like something precious. The way he kisses him, the way Mr. McAvoy's hands hold on tightly to the other man's hips causes my breath to catch in my throat. Mr. Fassbender pulls back a little to say something quietly, lips brushing against lips, and Mr. McAvoy grins before leaning up to tug at his lower lip with straight, white teeth.

They look good together – great together. The way Mr. Fassbender towers over Mr. McAvoy makes the other man look so small, protected, and the way their bodies meld together so naturally… No wonder they work so well together in scenes.

The gears in my head start churning again, somehow managing to pull away from the scene enough to fully take in what is happening. Or rather what it all means - because two hot guys making out is all fine and dandy when said men are single, but I know for a fact, that Mr. Fassbender is with Ms. Kravitz and Mr. McAvoy has a Mrs. McAvoy at home along with a new baby son that he coos to everyday on the phone. Randomly I thank the stars that Jim sent me and not Timothy. It's a miracle he wasn't the one to find them like this – he would have run to the magazines as soon as he could. Me? I'm just trying to figure out a way to back away without them hearing me and how I will explain to Jim that I couldn't find Mr. Fassbender for the fitting. He'll think I'm an idiot; how can you not find someone on a five acre island?

The sneaking away aspect shouldn't be that difficult though, seeing as how the kiss has gotten way more intense in my moments of contemplation. Mr. Fassbender's leg is between Mr. McAvoy's rolling his hips in a way that make a different kind of heat flush through my body. The smaller man moves his hands down to grab handfuls of latex clad arse, causing Mr. Fassbender to let out a muffled moan and sharply jerk his hips, and Christ, that's fucking hot and I need to get out of here-

A burst of static. "Hannah? Did you find him?"

Everything freezes, my heart, the birds in the trees, the men a few feet in front of me, all of it stills completely for an excruciating moment before Mr. Fassbender whips around and Mr. McAvoy's eyes snap open. I can feel my own eyes widen to the size of saucers as they both move quickly away from each other. Shit. "Hannah?" Jim sounds pissed. "Hannah? What the hell, where are all my people today-"

I fiddle with the button on my hip, eyes still fixed on the two men in front of me. "I'm-" my voice cracks, and I clear my throat. "I'm here, Jim. I just found them. Him! I found him. Singular-"

"What? Listen, did he try it on? Does it fit?"

"Gimme a sec." I walk forward slowly and hand Mr. Fassbender the helmet. "Try this on." My words come out like a whisper. Averting my eyes as he takes the heavy thing from me only causes my gaze to find Mr. McAvoy's, who's own eyes are completely blank, face devoid of any emotion. I bite the inside of my lip, lace my hands behind my back, and look away from him and at the sand. His eyes on the side of my face burn way more than the sun.

"It's still too small." Mr. Fassbender says, tone even. I nod.

"It's too small," I say into the mic.

"Alright" Jim puts his hand over the mouth piece and says something to someone around him, the words muffled. He comes back. "Alright, we need to get him in here. In the makeup trailer to get measurements."

"I'll let him know." The air goes dead again.

All three of us stand around awkwardly. I've been a part of plenty an awkward shape in my life, but I'm sure this one is the most bizarre. And I am counting that one time last year at a Christmas party that somehow turned into a group outing to see a 'donkey show.'

Hesitantly, I take the helmet back from Mr. Fassbender. Well, I hold my hand out for it, and he eyes me for a moment before handing it back. "They need you. In the makeup caravan for measurements. To measure your head." I wince at my poor choice of words, cheeks flushing scarlet. Mr. McAvoy gives an amused snort, but almost immediately the awkward prickly silence begins to descend again, and I can't handle it. I've never been good at handling pressure. I'm kinda high strung. My mum says I get it from me Da. The only difference being, while I take medication, he builds wee ships in bottles. Which is counter productive, really, seeing as how the small pieces make him so irritable he tosses it aside. There are tons of half built ships in bottles all over my parent's house.

"I won't tell anyone, yeah?" I look to each man, trying to exude trustworthy with my eyes. "I promise I won't say anything, s'not my business to be telling." I can hear my accent getting thicker with every word I speak, and I try not to wince. My Scottish brogue always comes out full force when I'm more than a wee nervous. "Really though, s'not. You two can carry on like, but I-" I shuffle my feet, kicking sand as if it is a rock on concrete. "I would be more careful, yeah? Being out here where anyone can find ye and all..."

And I just said that. I just gave two movie stars cheating on their significant others advice on how to do so. My mum always said Hollywood would change me… She also says the same about wearing heels taller than two inches. I don't know where she gets her information from these days.

They are still quiet, watching me and I shuffle on my feet a few more times. My mind is racing, thoughts becoming too fast to keep up, and my heart beat is becoming erratic. I quickly hand the helmet back to Mr. Fassbender, who takes it bemusedly, and dig through my back pocket. Pulling out the brown bottle, I pop the top and fish out an Ativan. Yeah, I know I probably appear to be insane, but look, I have anxiety issues alright. It was either let these actors I truly respect and admire see me taking my medication, or fall to the sand, clutching my chest for panic.

I like to think I made the right choice.

I tuck the bottle away and dry swallow the white pill. We all stand around waiting for it to take effect. Well, that's what I'm doing, anyway. The men just look at me, probably thinking they offended my delicate sensibilities.

I take the helmet back.

"You won't say a word?" Mr. McAvoy asks and I nod.

"This would be a phenomenal story for the tabloids," Mr. Fassbender says coolly, and I look up, and up (Christ, he's tall) at him.

"I'm sure it would be." The Ativan is doing its thing already. I feel a lot more confident and less like I'm going to go into shock from seeing two of my favorite actors commit adultery. "Good thing I don't need the money, yeah?"

That's a lie; I'm broke all the time. The money would be great. I could pay my rent... maybe buy some food... or socks without holes.

They still eye me somewhat skeptically, but my medication makes it that, oddly enough, I don't really care. It's not like they're going to kill me and bury my body on Jekyll island in order to keep their secret. At least not today. Jim knows where I am.

I fiddle with the helmet in my hand and without thinking I put it on. It's too big on me. I look up at both men, whose lips are quirked in little disbelieving smiles. I must appear mad. "Come on then," I say turning around. "Jim is waiting." I feel like this should be a bigger deal. Like they should probably ask once more if I'm going to take their secret and run off into the night, cackling and desperate to share the sordid details with all and sundry. But all they end up doing is following me back through the trees while talking quietly among themselves .

The helmet lists towards one side and impedes my vision somewhat.

But who cares?

I'm wearing freaking Magneto's helmet.

Superheroes (2/8)

2011-06-19T06:23:55Z

Title: Superheroes
Author: coquilleon
Summary: Erik won't let anyone pick on Charles.
Characters/Pairing: Erik, Charles.
Genre: Friendship/General
Rating: G

Erik scowls down at the scratched and worn wood of the table in front of him. He traces the words and random symbols scratched into the surface. The pads of his fingertips drifting over Kacee was here, and r+t 4ever, and sixth grade SUX. The sun beats down on the back of his bowed neck and the light breeze blows the sound of his classmate's screams and laughter his way.

He is in time out.

Again.

Not that he's really upset about what he's done. When Erik is upset about something he's done wrong, it's usually because if he could go back he wouldn't do the same thing again. Like that time he hid his mama's car keys so that he wouldn't have to go to the dentist. They'd lost the appointment and the fifty dollars charged for doing so, and his mother was almost livid when he sheepishly floated they key chain down from where it lay inside the hanging lamp. This time he isn't sorry at all. He would have done what he'd done this time again, and again, and again if he got the chance to.

A penny at the edge of the table catches his eye and he doesn't even check as he lazily drags it over without lifting a finger.

You shouldn't do that, comes the familiar voice in his head, almost as constant as his own. He stands the penny up on its side and makes it spin slowly. You shouldn't have pushed him, either. There is a tug at his swinging feet and he pauses in his penny spinning to look down. Two large blue eyes stare up at him from under the table.

He deserved it, Erik thinks back, annoyed.

And its true - Azazel is always picking on the younger kids. Even kids his own age, in his own grade. He thinks all because he's the biggest sixth grader in the whole school gives him the right to be a bully. And the teachers never catch on; he disappears so quickly after shoving or hitting a kid, or when he steals the treats from lunchboxes.

I was okay. He feels Charles shift at his feet and lay his head on his knee. His own hand automatically plays with the ends of the dark hair brushing against his bare skin even as he resumes his task of making the metal move, lengthen, and twist a few inches off of the table.

Erik says nothing to this, but lingers on the feeling of shoving stupid Azazel on his butt.

Charles and Erik had been playing marbles – some old game Charles' parents had taught both of them last week. One marble had gone zooming way out into the grass beyond the dirt circle and Erik darted up to go retrieve it. His small hand had been closing around the silver orb when Charles' sharp cry reached his ears, followed by a familiar, taunting laugh.

A quick look over his shoulder showed Azazel was indeed the one laughing, teasing a pink faced Charles. As he got closer, Erik could see that Charles' neatly pressed khakis were now smudged with dirt and his hair hung into his face, but it was the sight of his watery eyes and trembling lip as he looked at his scraped, red palms that had Erik's own hands darting out to shove Azazel hard in the chest.

Erik's heart beat quickly in his chest; all because Charles was smaller than the rest of the fourth graders, and dressed properly, and shared everything, even his favorite red grapes, and had a pretty voice did not mean he was a target for Azazel. Especially if Erik was around to protect him.

He had been pulling his foot back for a well-aimed kick when Mrs. Lindsey blew her whistle and hauled him away.

And now he was sitting at this stupid bench while stupid Azazel was pretending he was hurt, and having dumb Mrs. Lindsey fuss over him.

Mrs. Lindsey isn't dumb, Charles' voice says, reprimanding in that gentle way he has.

She is, Erik thinks, mulishly. He lets what used to be a penny drop with a dull clang against the table. Show me your hands.

He hears Charles' sigh as he pulls back from resting his head on Erik's leg and holds his hands up. Anger eats at Erik's belly again – the usually soft, pale palms are red, scratched, and puffy. He is going to kick Azazel in the face after school –

Don't do that, you'll get in trouble.

You can just make anyone who sees forget.

He hears a huff of a laugh from under the table. You know I can't do that anymore. Mum said I can't.

I won't tell.

I can't. I can't make everyone forget. Charles shifts uncomfortably. It's hard enough making one person forget something.

Whatever, Erik grumbles, but gently pets the skin around the tender parts of Charles' palm. He wants to kiss it better like his Mama used to do for him (and still does, but no one knows that except for Charles) but the angle is off and he can't duck his head that far under the table. Mrs. Lindsey will see and then Charles will get in trouble too.

That's okay, what you're doing, Charles tells him. It feels nice, and Erik can tell it's the truth by the content feeling rolling around in his veins. He knows it isn't his own - he still wants to hurt Azazel.

But right now Charles is happy so Erik guesses he can be okay. Charles shifts again so that he can keep his hand in Erik's and rest his head back on the bony knee, and Erik stares out into the trees beyond the fence.

He's calming down now, and he likes the way Charles lays heavy against him. It reminds him of when they tangle together in front of the television during their Friday night sleepovers. He hopes his parents will let them have it this weekend - he's sure Mrs. Lindsey will tattle...

Thank you. The words are quiet, but they make Erik's chest glow and feel warm anyway.

Yeah, he thinks, he's okay.

Part 3

Superheroes (1/8)

2011-06-17T02:03:14Z

Title: Superheroes
Author: coquilleon
Summary: Erik and Charles meet cute. Very cute. Like, five year olds in pre-school cute.
Characters/Pairing: Erik, Charles.
Genre: Friendship/General
Rating: G
Notes: Alright, so! This is completely AU. I've been searching the fandom for something like this but I have yet to find it so I decided to take a crack at it. Charles and Erik still have their powers, but there is no Holocaust and no dead mother for Erik. This takes place today - in the time of colored televisions, and Superman, and Arthur on PBS. Charles and Erik don't meet while Erik is dying trying to kill Shaw, but rather in pre-school. I sincerely hope you all enjoy. For right now this is a complete piece, a oneshot, but if enough of you enjoy it, I will most likely write an accompanying piece set in the future. Heck, I might still write an accompanying piece if you all think it's horrid *laughs* I'm quite taken with these two in this universe. :)

Erik Lensherr is a 'solemn child.'

At five years old, he doesn't know what that means. It's just something his mama says quietly into the cradle of his little neck when she scoops him up and carries him around as she does her housework. "You are just as I was," she says as she stirs the soup, matza thick and doughy, floating fat to the surface. Her voice soothes him - more than any toy or television show with men in brightly colored suits jumping around ever could. He lays heavy and limp in her arms, head against her shoulder, thumb in his mouth. Every breath he takes fills his tiny lungs with the scent of her perfume, light and powdery. It mingles with the scent of the rich soup and the fresh bread that she allowed him to slap into shape before he watched her place it in the oven earlier. "You are a 'watcher.' You study the intentions of others." Erik doesn't know what 'intentions' means either, but it doesn't matter, because his mama's voice is seeping into his tired body, and pretty soon he is drifting off, the warmth of the kitchen and his mama's soft body latching onto his bones.

A large hand on his tummy, shaking him gently, wakes him up soon, though. He is still above the ground, in someone's arms, but it is not his mama. He shifts, and his fingers wrap around the little metal buttons he knows are part of his father's uniform. His bare foot knocks against the empty gun holster, and his father hooks a hand behind his knee. "It's time to wake up." Erik buries his face into the hot, spicy smelling skin of his papa's neck. The resulting chuckle rumbles through his whole body. A big hand rubs his back, gently. "Just some soup," he says. "A little bowl, a ball of matza. You love matza. And then back to bed. You start pre-school in the morning."

Erik's stomach wriggles unpleasantly and his father's buttons shake in their holes. Erik is not excited about pre-school. At all. When his father explained what it was it sounded awful – a strange place, with strange people that he's never ever met before. And the worst part is that he can't even use his superhero powers there. Because Erik does have superpowers, just like Superman, or Spiderman, or Green Lantern. And not the fake ones that the other kids in the neighborhood pretend to have, tying bed sheets around their necks and zooming around with their hands held in front of them, shouting and screaming and pretending to move things out the way. Erik can really move things out of the way. Some things. Little things. Metal things. That's why his papa has to take his gun off as soon as he gets into the house and hide it.

Mama and papa tell him it is because the other kids will not understand – they might be afraid of him if he begins to move things around without touching them. "But they might think its cool," Erik had answered, imploringly. "They might think I'm a superhero, and want to be my best friend because I can protect them from, from… from the bad guys! With guns! Who don't use them for good deeds like papa does."

They had exchanged a look then, the one Erik doesn't like because it always means they are sharing a secret he doesn't know about.

"They might," his papa says slowly. "Or, they might… not."

"Let's try it for the first week," his mama says, smiling at him kindly, eyes warm. "You won't use your superpowers at school for one whole week, and if you feel okay about it then you can stay, and play all the games, and make new friends, and sing songs. How does that sound, boychick?" It's the sound of his mother's favorite endearment for him that had Erik nodding.

"I don't want to go to pre-school," he says now, pulling back so he can look up into his father's face. "I want to stay home with mama."

His father sighs. "We talked about this, Erik. Try it for one week."

Erik says nothing, and during dinner he makes all of the spoons except for his own, float up up up towards the ceiling.

o o o

The other children here are too loud, Erik decides. He'd watched from his father's arms that morning as they all ran around, picking up toys and dropping them down in front of other kids to play. He knows some of them, the ones that live in the neighborhood, but none of them talk to him. He sits in the corner, by himself, and his chest hurts. He wants to go home, wants to go back home to his mama who always plays with him when she's not busy and who let him wear his favorite blue shirt today because she said it would bring him good luck. His little hands ball in the fabric, tugging at the hem. All the kids play with each other, but none invite him over. He watches as a pregnant woman drops her child off. The little boy presses his ear to his mother's stomach as she chats with the teacher, fingers absently running through her son's hair. The boy stays still for a few moments before turning to whisper something to the baby inside and kissing the protruding outline of the bellybutton pressing against the pretty sundress. Erik looks away and back towards the kids playing merrily without him. His stomach gives another twisty jerk, and he can feel his bottom lip trembling, and his eyes are getting blurry with unshed tears-

Don't be upset.

The voice isn't his own, but is right in his head. He begins to look around but before he can a little boy with tremendous blue eyes plops down in front of him. It's the boy who was listening to his mother's stomach. He's got on tan pants and soft looking brown shoes. There is what looks like a sweater with no arms over a white button down shirt. He looks too fancy for pre-school, Erik thinks. Even his voice, when he speaks, sounds too fancy for pre-school where everyone is wearing jeans, and sneakers, and is screaming like that Banshee on that episode of Arthur that make Erik grip onto the couch pillows. "Hello, my name is Charles Xavier, and it is a pleasure to meet you." Charles holds a hand out, but Erik doesn't take it. The voice that comes out of this boy's mouth is the same that was just in his head.

"How did you do that?" he demands. Somewhere in his mind he thinks his mama would be upset with him for being so rude.

"Do what?" Charles asks, dark hair flopping into his eyes. His hand is still out.

"I heard you, in my head. How did you do it?"

Charles lets his arm drop and he stares at him for a long moment. Erik feels uncomfortable. He feels as if this other boy is looking straight into his mind, and it's like he can feel something pressing against his brain. He scowls. His mama and papa told him never to hit another person, but he wants to hit Charles, even if his eyes are the same color of Erik's good luck shirt. Charles is looking at him strangely just like his parents said the other kids would, and it's making his tummy tie up in knots.

I'm like you, Charles says finally. But he doesn't really say it. His voice echoes in Erik's head again.

"What do you mean you're like me?" He demands, and he can feel his hands balling into fists.

Please don't hit me, the voice says. I don't want you to be upset - we're both superheroes.

Erik opens his mouth to speak, but thinks better of it. What do you mean?

This is my super power. I can talk to people like this. And I can see what they think. You can move things.

How do you know that? Erik is still suspicious, but he isn't angry anymore. He doesn't know why, but he trusts this boy with his weird clothes and bright eyes. Plus, he's nice. The only one who has spoken to him. And they both have superpowers. Charles won't be afraid or be mean to Erik like the others will.

I can see it, Charles says, and he is smiling now, and it is strange because Erik can feel the smile in his head. It's warm, and bright, and makes him happy too. I can see you- you made the spoons float away last night! The boy giggles and Erik does too, shifting closer so that their faces are closer together, heads bowed.

My mama said I can't use my powers, Erik thinks, a little angrily. She and papa said that the other kids would get scared and be mean to me.

I won't. I won't get scared or upset or anything. And Erik can feel the promise just like he could feel the smile. We're best friends. Like Batman and Robin! They giggle again and joy pours through Erik's body. It's not like the same joy he gets when he's with his mother – it's close though. Charles isn't part of Erik's family- he isn't Erik's mother or father so he doesn't have to like him. But he does. He chose Erik to be his best friend.

Who's gonna be Batman and who's gonna be Robin? Erik asks, grinning, laying his hand out, palm facing upwards, on the colorful carpet.

You can be Batman, Charles says and puts his smaller hand in Erik's. You're bigger.

Part 2