I told myself there wouldn't be more of these, but here we are. I've decided to start a whole little series of weather related drabbles. I've got about 3 (whoops it's 4 now) more planned after this one, and there's plenty of weather out there. I'm not sure how concrete of a timeline these will follow, they might be angry in some, and happy-ish in others.

This is dedicated to Stella, who promised me gluten free baked goods if I could make this serious. I'm going to do my best.

The Thunder Clap

Chapter 2

Snow Day

It was a Christmas miracle.

Sort of. It was far into January, but it was snowing at the Murder House. Snowing is a loose term; dusting is probably better. Just some light flakes drifting down and coating blades of grass. The temperature was barely hitting 32 degrees.

Tate woke up that Tuesday and rushed to the attic window like a little kid on a snow day, waiting to hear if his school was closed. Of course, he wasn't going to school, but he had something else to hope for.

Just last week, Violet had invited him to play a game of cards. He wanted terribly to bring up their rain soaked kiss so many weeks ago, but this was such a rare occurrence, Violet initiating contact with him, that he kept his mouth shut. As she laid down her winning hand, he took a risk.

"If I win the next game, will you kiss me again?"

She scoffed.

"Yeah, and if we get four inches of snow I'll let you go down on me."

Tate was frozen, but Violet, the little trickster, smiled and shuffled the cards.

And when he won the next game, she put a hand on his cheek and gave him a quick, lingering peck on the lips.

That kiss was what drove Tate outside on that snowy day. She had jokingly said she would kiss him, but then actually followed through. He dug around in her father's office for a ruler or a yard stick or something with increments of measurement, and stationed himself outside, letting the snow build up on his shoulders.

It was the coldest Tate had felt in years, but the thought of Violet's warm, creamy thighs on either side of his head kept his spirits up.

Slowly, very slowly, the snow accumulated. It reached 3 inches, and Tate knew this was a miraculous day.

He figured, even if it never got to 4 inches, Violet would see how willing he was to touch her. Spending the coldest day of the year outside with a ruler was, in Tate's opinion, a pretty good way to show his commitment to her. He hoped beyond belief that she would take pity on him and let him into her bed to "warm up."

The back door of the house opened and Violet stepped out, wrapping a gigantic sweater around her shivering body. None of the ghosts were really prepared for this weather.

"Tate, what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm measuring the snow."

"Why?"

"You said if we got 4 inches of snow you would let me go down on you."

She looked at him in complete shock. "You are so stupid."

"So you didn't mean it?"

He could see the "no" poised on her lips, but she didn't say it. Instead, softly, "how long have you been out here?"

"I don't know, a few hours? I kind of lost track of time."

Violet smiled softly at him from her spot, leaning against the door. For a second, Tate held her affectionate gaze, and the cold gripping his chest and pinching his fingers didn't seem so bad. He knew suddenly that this little stunt of his had paid off. He probably wouldn't get to go down on her, but she was looking at him like she used to.

"You must be freezing." She approached him, stepping carefully down the wet steps, and brushed the snow out of his hair, then swept the tiny piles off his shoulders. "Why don't you come inside?"

"The snow's only up to 3 inches."

"That's alright."

"It's still coming down, I have to be out here to see if it reaches 4."

Violet's warm fingers lifted his face to look up at hers.

"Tate, it's alright. Come inside." She punctuated the two words with a motion of her head, gesturing towards the upstairs of the house. Her room. Tate could have cried he was so happy.

He followed her like a puppy, right up to her room. She shed her layers quickly until only her underwear and thin t shirt remained, then pulled Tate onto her bed, looking almost disinterested the whole time, like she was doing him a very inconvenient favor. But as soon as Tate hooked two fingers under the waistband of her flimsy panties, she lost it. She flung them off her ankle and Tate took a second to just admire the sight in front of him. He hadn't had Violet, let alone half naked Violet, this close to him in years.

She fidgeted, inching closer. He held her thighs with ten frozen fingers.

"Jesus Christ, Tate, your hands are freezing," she cried and twisted underneath his grip, but didn't push his hands away.

"Sorry," he breathed, and pressed an obscene, open mouthed kiss to her delicate folds. A relieved breath shuddered out of him; relieved to have his mouth on Violet again. She was breathing too, gasping and winding her fingers into his hair, forgetting about the cold grasp he had on her legs.

He was right. Her thighs felt magnificent against his cheeks. Warm and soft and better than anything he could ever imagine.

She was so wet against his lips. Her clit was swollen and pink, and throbbed against his pressing tongue. Violet's hands gripped his hair hard, and he smiled.

This was like a dream. He had dreamed of this. Feeling his Violet in such an intimate way. It was absolutely worth a day in the cold. To have her cumming against his mouth, around his tongue, was worth an eternity of days in rarely seen snow.

When Violet finally released Tate's hair and he was sitting up, he just watched her. She was flushed and breathing hard, her nipples straining at the fabric of her shirt, looking around like that was the best thing she had ever felt, and she was just as beautiful as Tate remembered. It was a pornographic snow day, a break from Tate's fuck ups and Violet's familial guilt.

It was a Christmas miracle.