mehehehe.....piarles + 25 or 45 🫶
25 = Green Card Marriage
45 = Vampire and Hunter
hehehehehehehe... let's see about 25 and 45 🤭👀
"It's brilliant, Charlito!" Pierre insists, spreading his arms like he's saying, come on. "I'm a hunter, so I'm allowed to settle in any country I want. If you're married to me, you'll be allowed to settle there too, and you can get that position at Rutgers like you have always wanted."
Charles folds his arms. "I'm a vampire, Pierre," he reminds him, pointedly. "Or have you forgotten?"
Pierre folds his arms, too, mirroring Charles' own pose. "Of course I haven't forgotten, calamar."
Calamar. As always, the nickname takes Charles right back - to that day in the back of his parents' garden, when Pierre had decided to come over for a surprise visit and he'd found Charles. Drinking. It had only been from a blood bag, of course (Charles would never kill a person, and he'd been too young then to know about charming someone to let him drink just a few sips) but it had still been more than enough for Pierre to understand what was going on. Pierre had frozen where he stood, eyes blown wide.
And Charles had thought, no no no, and he'd thrown himself at Pierre before he could think better of it. "Please don't leave, Pierrot, please, I promise I'm not evil and we're not evil, I don't care what they say on the news because it's not true, we don't hurt people, we don't hurt anyone, just... please don't go. You're my best friend, please -"
Pierre had stopped him there, putting a gentle hand over Charles' mouth. "I don't care that you're a vampire, Charles," he'd said with surprising firmness for a ten-year-old. "You're my best friend too. And, anyway, you're less of scary vampire and more like... a clingy little squid."
"I'm not!" Charles had shrieked, but of course Pierre had taken to calling him that every day from that moment on. (Charles never protested too much, because the nickname always felt like Pierre's way of saying I know what you are and you're my best friend anyway; I'm not going anywhere.)
"... Charles? Earth to Charles?" Pierre is asking, waving his hand in front of Charles' face. "Ah. Hello again. Did you go to vampire-planet?"
"You know we're from the same planet as you," Charles says immediately, rolling his eyes. "Or didn't they teach you that at hunter school?"
"Mmm, no, I think I skipped that module," Pierre says, and then he grins cheekily, tongue between his teeth.
Charles swats at him, and Pierre catches his wrist easily, his Hunter-trained reflexes quick as ever. Charles' breath catches.
It shouldn't be hot. It should be the opposite of hot, for fuck's sake - those kinds of reflexes are trained to kill people like Charles.
Except, Pierre didn't become a hunter to kill vampires. No - he did it for Charles. Not to hunt him, but to learn how to protect him from other hunters.
So, yeah. It's seriously hot when Pierre shows off some of those skills of his.
"Are you going to let go of me?" Charles asks, swallowing thickly. He can't help the way his gaze flickers to Pierre's fingers wrapped around his wrist, still holding him tightly in place.
You could hold me like that any time you want, Charles thinks, and fights against his blush. It shouldn't even be possible for vampires to blush, for fuck's sake, but Pierre manages to get Charles to do it anyway.
Pierre, thankfully, seems oblivious to Charles' spiralling thoughts. He winks at Charles, playful and cheeky as he always is. "Nope," he says, popping the p. "Not until you agree that my idea is brilliant."
And, right. Right. Charles had almost forgotten the reason why they're even here - Pierre's stupid, hair-brained scheme to get Charles his dream job at Rutgers.
Rutgers, which still does not allow any supernaturals onto its teaching staff, let alone Monégasque vampires.
"It's a terrible idea," Charles says flatly. "They'll never let me teach there if they suspect I'm a vampire."
"But if you're married to a hunter, nobody will ever suspect you're a vampire," Pierre points out, triumphantly. "See? It's genius."
Charles has to admit that it's... clever. Absolutely insane, yes, but clever.
Pierre must be able to read it on his face, because his eyes light up like his favourite F1 team has just won a race. "See! You do think it'll work!" he crows.
"I don't think -" Charles tries, but Pierre cuts him off with a dramatic sigh.
"I've done all the research, Cha. Trust me, there's no way that this can go wrong."
There is, Charles thinks, only a little despairingly. It's not so much that he's worried about getting caught - no, Charles is pretty good at charming officers by now. Half of the time, he doesn't even have to use his hypnotism.
What he's far more worried about is the fact that he'll be married. To Pierre.
Pierre, who he's only been in love with since the first time he called Charles "calamar" and stayed when anyone else would have left.
Pierre, who Charles knows would taste sweeter than anyone else in the world. Because that's the thing about being a vampire and being in love with someone: even one tiny sip of their blood will sustain you sixteen times longer than a random person's would.
It's bad enough just like this, when they're just friends, and Pierre throws his head back to laugh or slides his arm around Charles' waist, and Charles has to fight with himself to keep his fangs tucked away - because even though Pierre is so close and smells so good, he is not Charles' to taste or Charles' to have.
It's hard enough to hold himself back when they're just friends. Charles has no idea how the hell he'll be able to do it if they're fucking married.
But as always when Pierre suggests a hare-brained scheme, Charles is helpless in the face of his sparkling blue eyes and half-cheeky, half-pleading smile.
"Okay, calamar," he agrees, and even though he might just have signed the warrant for his own death-by-slow-torture-of-wanting-his-best-friend-too-much, it's worth it a thousand times over for the way Pierre beams at him and uses the wrist he's still holding to tug Charles into a tight hug.
"Rutgers, here we come!"
(50 Romance Prompts Ask Meme)
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you see your God die
it doesn't matter how it happens
shot in the alleyway, cancer, AIDS, car crash, the cross
it's early Saturday morning, the sky is pink
and you breathe in a world where god does not
you're not a non-believer
you know God is real, God is good, he's all-powerful and all-knowing and all-loving and
cold in your arms
you don't lose faith
you kneel and you whisper Our Father, you break bread and drink wine, and you look at your hands performing sacrament to a buried God
there's dirt underneath your fingernails
from dust to dust
you think about God's body, wrapped in burial shroud and six feet under and you laugh
you laugh and than you cry and you scream and plead and beg and pray and there's no-one to answer you because
you saw God die
and you are still alive, abandoned in a world where God is a corpse rotting in the dirt
you're just a human
how do you grieve God?
~ they will call it Holy
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