#krumovik

the gREATEST ♥♥

  Of all the people she expected to see the Bulgarian seeker was not one of them. Although it wasn’t as if her current art pieces she was restoring gave her much time to roam outside the studio. 

A HEAD LIFTED, NOSTRILS FLARING to take in the delicious scent that had entered his hunting ground. The deer at his feet, under his hands, was forgotten, its blood congealing on his chin as the wind swept by. It only pushed the tantalising smell further around him, and Edward crept forward, alabaster fingertips digging into the dirt. Pupils enlarged at the thought of this grander prey. All rational thought was banished from his mind, the hunter, the monster, free to take what he willed.

Stopping at the base of a tree trunk, he leapt up into its branches, bracing himself to gaze down at his prize. A man -- or was he a boy? -- was down there, his heart pumping blood steadily around his body. Little did he know his death watched from above, ready to spring. 

Son. 

Shaking his head Edward came back to himself, even if only briefly. Carlisle was not there, not truly, but if his conscious was to have the voice of anyone, it would be his adoptive father. It was enough to get him to halt his breathing, and watch from above. Now he had gathered himself some more, he finally realised something. The boy below -- his blood smelt strange. Wiping his chin on his sleeve, he began to climb downwards, curious about this interloper in normally deserted forest.

The Exorcist stood outside of the dimly lit pub, letting out a sigh as he pried a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Even with his extremely limited Bulgarian, it was easy enough to communicate a drink order, but language barriers were the least of his problems. He was exhausted from work and he knew that he’d have to be getting back on the road soon. Where the demons went, John went.  

“Shit. Does that never stop happening to you?” 

He just has to comment, because jesus. Yeah, Robin had recognised him - Viktor Krum, come on now - but everyone knows why you choose to sit alone at the bar instead of with people at a booth, particularly if you’re drinking. 

Unless you’re trying to hit on that person, you just don’t approach. That’s some kind of unspoken rule, right? It has to be true even in England. England’s not so fucking backwards it lacks bar etiquette. 

With the Scottish winter starting its steady approach, it had only been a matter of time before he received a letter from his mother asking if he wanted a new set of winter robes to get him through the cold. He had thought of the gift in that moment. He wrote in response to his mother that he would require two scarves this winter instead of one, and therefore, as a consequence ( or, perhaps, a benefit – only time would tell ) of this request was that the gift scarf matched Draco’s own, with the exception of the insignia ; Draco’s had the Malfoy crest embroidered on the end, rather than the simple Slytherin snake that was on Viktor’s. Still, they were similar enough.

“I just figured you could use it, seeing as the one you’re wearing’s a rag,” Draco explained the reasoning behind his gift as though Viktor would otherwise be unable to guess what the purpose of a replacement scarf was. “And besides, you shouldn’t be wearing their colours anyway,” he couldn’t help but comment, “you’re not a Hufflepuff.”