(awwww yessssssss anon let me kiss you on the mouth)
"You keep running from me." Arthur sighs, trench coat up to his mouth as the rain falls on him. His eyes are luminous in the dark and everything in Matthew screams for him to welcome his sire, to fall to his feet and ask for forgiveness. "Let me in, love."
Matthew sighs and slides open the balcony door, and Arthur comes in, draws Matthew close, sliding cold fingers across his cheeks, to tuck his hair back. He makes Matthew look at him, but he has a soft, almost heartbroken expression. Matthew never thought the other vampire could look at him in such a way, not after Matthew left in a rage over a century ago.
"You’re too thin." Arthur murmurs, like it is the day he turned Matthew, like he still thinks Matthew is the glimmer in his eye. And it makes Matthew catch his breath, makes him feel ashamed. "Feed from me."
"I’m not a fledgling." Matthew replies, tone more petulant, now, in front of his sire. He’s pushing, he knows, but Arthur just leads him to bed and Matthew eases the wet coat off him before they fall into the warm tangle of blankets.
"I lost one hundred years to care for you. I did not run after you. Let me have this moment." He says, undoing his collared shirt. Matthew just watches, quiet and unsure. "Let me have this moment, and then I will give you anything you want."
"I don’t have the strength, Matthew, to keep playing this game with you." Arthur doesn’t look at him, just settles against the headboard and holds out a hand. "I spent a century being too proud to chase you. Today I trade that pride for you, if you will permit it." And permission is never a word Arthur used, not even when he took Matthew from the street and cosseted him at his side.
Miss Smieska, I'm going to be visiting Canada late next year. What would you recommend I definitely try at Tim Horton's? (/u\) I like sweet but not overly sweet.
oh my gosh! Where in Canada? EEEEE well bad news, everything at Tim Horton’s is laced with sugar h-hahaha. Try the coffee at least once if you like coffee, but I mean … there’s nothing special, its just … timmies is everywhere. The donuts are laced with sugar but at least try a maple dip!! Boston creams are good too … UM UM ..there’s the bagels, muffins and biscuits but again.. nothing extraordinary … I like to get ice capps during the summer tho u3u and a french vanilla cappuccino during the winter …!
OH TIMBITS. yes. timbits. Get a box of 10 assorted and just .. indulge. Don’t feel guilty just… indulge.
Arthur meets him in a pub, and he’s utterly enchanting. His golden hair falls into his eyes as he talks, cheeks flushed from beer, and he tells Arthur that he’s on exchange, will be going home in a few days (all the way across the ocean, too, Arthur sighs); and Arthur listens, listens and nods, poison-green eyes narrowing on the flutter of the other’s hands as he talks, a little shyly, only giving Arthur half-looks, like he’s embarrassed.
Arthur already knows what he’s going to do, knows it even before the boy leaves money on the counter, and he helps the boy home, past the forest, an arm slung across the boy’s back, his gaze sweet when the boy smiles at him, gaze dark as he stares at the forest, warning away his compatriots from this sweet child.
He leaves the boy at his own apartment, gets a clumsy kiss for his troubles, and then he takes another one, a harder one, pressing the boy against the painted door, hand wrapped around his nape, claiming his generous mouth.
"Matthew." Matthew murmurs when Arthur pulls away, his mouth fetching red and wet.
Arthur grins, tucks that little bit of knowledge, and says, “Good night, love.”
(A week later when he has Matthew safely at his side, locked away from the endless clamor of the Court, caught in his soft cloak away from the smell of autumn decay, he catches just a flash of anger before he smoothes it away with a kiss, makes it forgotten with a brush of fingers across the other’s temple. Sometimes, sometimes, he sees a linger of that hatred when Matthew looks too long, seems too alert, and, well, Arthur takes care of that. He does tell the boy his name, though, after a while, because he’s in love and, honestly, where is Matthew going to go?)
He says his name is Alfred, so Matthew scrawls it across the red front of the disposable coffee mug in something that’s half-cursive, half-sloppy and rushed. When the coffee’s done (and thank god for simple orders, though Alfred had kept shooting longing glances at the specialty menus), he hands it back to Alfred, their fingers brushing slightly.
Alfred, smiling, takes it, and then spots the tip jar and apparently decides to dig around in his pocket for extra change (he’d paid with a card, and the signature on the blue VISA had been all straight, strong lines, in fat, black Sharpie.) His coffee, in the same hand that he’s gathering the change in, proceeds to drop to the ground.
Matthew stares. Alfred winces, the expression muted by his glasses. “Gravity,” he mumbles, then shrugs and grins, and adds, “what can you do about it?”
Matthew isn’t really sure, seeing as gravity is a constant. He points that out and Alfred laughs warmly. “Not for me,” he says. He taps a finger at the logo of his white polo.
(Alfred drops a dozen things on their first date, looking more and more disappointed each time they don’t float; Matthew sighs, but picks each and every one up)
It’s been several rain-soaked, blood-tainted weeks since he was last heard from the boy and, while Arthur knows he should be concerned - knows deep down that something is wrong - for some reason he is not surprised at all when a pale-faced, shit-baked private shows up at his tent door at three in the morning, sweating through his greens and his knees audibly knocking together. He knows the news headed his way will be bad, will be downright awful, but he’s not sure what’s making him think this way. For all he knows, the kid might be bearing good news - the war’s over, morons, Hitler popped off during the night, so you can all piss off home out of it.
A man can dream, he thinks, stifling a bitter smile and masking a groan as he stands, so why can’t a nation?
Arthur gives the twig of a boy a critical once-over and then ushers him in out of the icy rain that does not wish to relent.
“Out with it,” he grunts, dropping back down in his wooden chair, legs stretched out in front of him and locked at the ankles. “I haven’t got all da—” He pauses, checks his pocket watch and frowns at the cracked glass face. Jesus, he thinks. “I haven’t got all morning.”
“I’ve recieved word, Sir,” he says, voice a wavering accent that might be a mixture of French and English, and Arthur realizes that the kid is from Canada. It’s the accent, of course, the peculiarity of it. Acadian or Quebecois, he’s not entirely sure. “One of the Captains, Matthew Williams, Sir. He’d been reported M.I.A some time ago, after our foray into enemy territory, Sir.”
He feels like someone has thrust their hand into his gut and is twisting his organs, wringing the blood and purpose from them.
The private licks his lips. They’re white as bone, while his eyes are bloodshot. A jarring reversal, and Arthur wonders if part of the reason as to why he’s shaking so much has to deal more with exhaustion, exposure to amphetamines, or an awful combination of both, than standing in a poorly-protected room on a battle field that just previously saw more blood shed than either side wanted to think about. “They found him, Sir.”
Arthur says nothing, The hand in his gut clenches, tugs, rakes its nails down through his innards, and then repeats the process several times. He’s certain he hears a bomb go off somewhere, but that might just be in his head.
“He’s … he’s dead, Sir.”
After a moment of sitting there, staring at the impossibly young private before him - Isn’t there an age restriction on this shit? a voice at the back of his mind babbles. Why isn’t anyone enforcing the damn thing? - Arthur moves to stand. Then, not moving right away but still staring around him as though seeing things for the first time in a long time, he dismisses the Canadian soldier with a sharp wave of the hand. He can’t bring himself to speak, not right away, but the gesture and the look on his face that accompanies it speaks volumes and, without another word, the private bolts.
When the boy scurries out of the tent as though Hell is rolling up in a panzer tank behind him, Arthur runs a hand down over his face and wonders how long it’s going to be before his sees Williams again.
And, a perverse smile curling his lips upward, Arthur wonders who’s gong to pay.
It’s not for another few weeks that Arthur finds out who, precisely, is going to pay.
And it’s from the mouth of the Devil himself that he hears it.
It’s just past one in the morning, the skies have been quiet, the waters still, and for the first time in days gunfire doesn’t puncture the night, bombs don’t chime the hour, and shrapnel doesn’t go whistlin’ Dixie at the oddest hours. No Jeeps or tanks or trucks roaring down into their camp, bearing news, either good or bad or a mixture of both.
The world is silent. It is stifling.
Arthur can’t quite say he’s relaxed, but it’s peaceful enough around him so that he can lie on his cot and stare at the sloping, leaking ceiling of his tent. You’d think, given his stature, his rank, he’d be outfitted with better accommodations but, then again, this probably was the best of the tents their division had. He feels almost guilty for having it, really, compared to what some of the other officers have.
The smell is what catches Arthur’s fleeting attention first, as the stench of a rotting, bloated corpse is wont to do.
Sitting up so fast it was a wonder he doesn’t fracture anything in his back, Arthur stares across the tent at the door way. There is the silhouette of a man there, scantly illuminated by the dying light of Arthur’s lantern, and, when the man inhales on the cigarette he clenches between his teeth, the embers cause a slight glow to illuminate the lower half of his face. Disconcertingly enough, the man is missing a chunk of his left cheek as well as small portion of his nose.
"Evening, Matthew, how’s the weather on your side of the world these days?"
He finds Matthew behind the rubble of a wall, one-armed and trying to light a crumpled cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth. His right arm is in his lap. His left hand is struggling with a lighter.
The sea wind is cold, sending dust whirling around them and throwing up Matthew’s limp hair.
“There are at least three snipers trained on you.” Matthew calls out, not looking back at him. His thumb is still flicking the lighter, and he shifts, stretching his legs and sending up a storm of dust when his boot hells scrape across the ravaged ground.
omf bby.okay so I saw this bootyful tumblr account and I have this 2p Canada Instagram account and I decided to make him a merman for idk how long. can you make some fancy ass art for mertalia 2p Canada. I have pictures of butts to trade with you .3.
that is a most excellent trade. I approve. A+ /)u(\
“Oh, I will be cruel to you, Marya Morevna. It will stop your breath, how cruel I can be. But you understand, don’t you? You are clever enough. I am a demanding creature. I am selfish and cruel and extremely unreasonable. But I am your servant. When you starve I will feed you; when you are sick I will tend you. I crawl at your feet; for before your love, your kisses, I am debased. For you alone I will be weak.”—Koschei the Deathless in Catherynne M. Valente’s “Deathless” (via pathokinetic)
is it sad that I started crying when I started to play Zelda: Ocarina of Time on the 3DS I just got?
considering i had not played it for about 10 years probably since I had to sell my N64 to afford a PS2, and I just suddenly got hit will feels. Suddenly seeing everything in a new upgraded light …. especially when you can change it to first person POV and you have to physically move your DS to move the in-game camera ? shit I lost i t
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I wanna do it I wanna do iiiiit
1- Alfred and Matthew make a gingerbread house. I’d love it if it started off cute and fun but then they take it way too damn seriously near the end and gdi why did you set it on fire!!! THIS IS NOT HOW WE SOLVE CONFLICTS, BRO. Fic or Art
2- Both of them sitting in the dark, basking in the glow of Christmas tree lights, cute kissus or just sweet nothings or cuddling oh gosh /) )3( (\ babies -Art (could be 2p if you’d like)
3- s-s-s-smut….? Both meet in the ice palace for some catching up … can be mythical or something … spirit of winter and all that … Fic or Art (again, could be 2p)
4- One of them gets sick on Christmas and mister grumpy buns is a big grump but the other feeds him turkey noodle soup (hey gotta use that turkey somehow) and they both cuddle up to watch classic holiday specials (its a wonderful life, rudolph, christmas carol, etc) -Fic (could be 2p uwu)
Matt smiled as he felt downy soft feathers cuddle into the crook of his neck, cheeping quietly and contentedly. The chickadee nestled between his skin and the collar of his shirt, tucking its head against his neck instead of under its broken wing, and Matt felt the harness of a tiny beak nudging at his skin.
"Sweet dreams, Chickadee," he murmured. That close to his throat, any loud noise he made would startle the poor thing. The bird gave a soft peep and he felt that beak press to his skin again, which made him think that maybe it was giving him a goodnight kiss.
Matt stared, somewhat awed by the mop of blond hair that was snuggled into the crook of his neck, still hardly daring to believe the face it hid. He felt a nose poke him and Matt had to repress a smile. This had to be his little Chickadee, even if he wasn’t a bird any more.
"Sweet dreams, Chickadee," he said softly, reaching up to stroke that cloud of soft blond hair, only to pause half-way when he felt softer lips against his skin and his heart did a flip in his chest.
"Chickadee?" the boy looked up, though Matt supposed he wasn’t really a boy, just young looking. There was a confused expression on his face and with as gentle fingers as he had ever held that tiny, feathered body, Matt tilted his chin up a little and pressed a kiss to those lips.
The result was that Matt was nearly knocked off the couch when Chickadee threw his arms around his neck and very enthusiastically kissed him back.