#etxrnalstud

[ wraps you up in a blanket and hides you ]

HIDE ME. 

"There’s nowhere I don’t like to kiss Damon, c’mon…           Maybe his throat. Always makes him all mushy.”

7 Romantic kiss

Fourth of July. Okay, if Alaric is honest… he digs it, a little. And despite the shit and the chaos and everything that’s going so horribly wrong right now – crazy brothers and grieving mystical teenagers and all the rest of it – he wants to drink watered down beer from a plastic cup, eat chili made from recipes that shouldn’t have been handed down from generation to generation, and watch the damn fireworks.

Diana has other ideas. Her ideas mainly revolve around finding somewhere isolated where they can both drink to unconsciousness. She’s like a cat in a cage, although she could walk away anytime she wanted to. But she’s still here.

“I’m the bankroll,” she grumbles. “I spend a fortune on these things so I don’t have to come to them.”

“Shut up,” Alaric says, and on impulse, drapes an arm around her shoulder. She does grow on you. Like some sort of fungus, maybe. Gets under your skin. It’s the eyes, maybe. He’s not even angry about Isobel anymore. Past it.

“I’m serious, Ric,” she says, knocking his arm away. “I’ve listened to hundreds of versions of this stupid speech at hundreds of these events and…” he can almost hear he roll her eyes as he replaces his arm, but she doesn’t push him away a second time.

“And I’m serious. Shut up. The fireworks are starting.”

“Oh, my god. How old are you?”

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer. It’s her go-to strategy – calls him impossibly young and stupid when it suits her, and quite the opposite when it doesn’t. He sips the beer, and listens to the last of the speech (yeah… it’s boring.), and watches as they turn down the lights. Not just here on the stage, but in the whole square.

Alaric likes fireworks. Sue him. And he’s in a good mood, and those are rare enough.

Pinks and greens and silver and white. Spinning in the air, and that scent of… gunpowder, or whatever they use these days. He’s a kid again, and he pulls Diana a little closer, despite her wriggling, because if she really wanted to get away, she would.

“Five more minutes,” she whines, “and I’m leaving, with or without you.”

“Diana,” he says, and he’s about to follow it up with ‘shut. up.’, but instead, he turns her towards him, and his hands find her face, lit up with every color of the rainbow (and still all he can see is her eyes) and before he has time to calculate the terrible possibilities of why kissing her a second time is a terrible idea their mouths are pressed together.

Your muse walks in on mine undressing. How does yours react?

Your muse walks in on mine undressing. How does yours react?

Your muse walks in on mine undressing. How does yours react?