#but let’s admit it false had the cooler skin

[cornercritter]

lil sketch. i should play around with halftones more

[free-pool-trash]

dancing with our hands tied - peter maximoff

here it is you guys... the ✨very spicy✨ sequel to delicate which can be read here <3 (had to keep the rep song title theme going here)

please for the love of god let me know how this is I’ve never written smut before so please go crazy with the asks/comments/reblogs on this one I’d really appreciate it😩😓

word count: 4k 😳 (it’s not all smut dont get too excited)

warnings: +18 content, sexy times, unprotected wrap it before you tap it, swearing, i tried to keep vulgarity on a low level but i decided to just commit towards the end lmao, insinuation to sex from the beginning , some fluff and a tiny bit of angst sprinkled in there too, wandavision spoilers

You can definitely read this as a stand alone but it’ll make more sense if you read delicate first !! enjoy <3

masterlist

The days you spent in WestView had been tiring. Wanda seemed to be losing her composure with each day that passed, you watched how she became more and more skeptical of Peter and found yourself growing all the more anxious with the situation you’d run head first into. But, you were with Peter, your mind and his mind were free of Wanda’s influence and she’d been kind enough to appoint the pair of you your own house in the neighbourhood, a few doors down from her own, so, you couldn’t complain too much.

Today was a relatively quiet day, but you had a feeling that just meant you were in the calm before the storm. Tonight was, apparently, Halloween. Despite the fact that it was nowhere near October, you were more than happy to play along with Wanda’s over the top festivities.

Peter and Tommy had just zoomed into your and Peter’s bedroom, sporting matching outfits and excited expressions as they looked at you expectantly, “Well? What’d ya think?” Peter asked, motioning between himself and Tommy. The littlest speedster awaited your answer with wide, hopeful eyes, wanting validation from his cool uncle’s even cooler ‘friend’.

Yeah, you’d made out on Wanda’s couch but you still hadn’t addressed the question of where exactly your relationship stood. It felt as though the pair of you were both actively avoiding the awkward conversation, opting instead to simply fall into bed together every single night and completely disregard the boundaries of friendship in favour of hearing each other moaning until the early hours of the morning.

With a smile you let out a low whistle, “Looking good boys. I gotta say, Tommy, I think you’re outshining your uncle right now.”

You had to laugh when Tommy smirked triumphantly at Peter, “I told you she liked me more than you.” He boasted proudly and your laughs grew louder when Peter huffed angrily. He crossed his arms over his chest and jutted his bottom lip out childishly.

“Y/n, tell him you like me more.” Peter demanded, again, childishly.

You only grinned, “No comment.” You told him airily, making your way to your closet and hesitantly pulling out the latex costume Wanda created for you off of the rail, holding it by the hanger skeptically.

It was Peter’s turn to let out a whistle when his eyes scanned the skimpy looking leotard suspended by the hanger. The fabric mimicked the design of Peter and Tommy’s outfits although it seemed Wanda had gone out of her way to make yours ever so slightly sexier. The leotard was strapless with a sweetheart neckline and a silver lightning bolt ran through the light blue material. The only saving grace was the silver tights that hung from the hanger as well, at least you’d have some kind coverage. With one last peek into the closet, your eyes landed on a pair of white, knee high gogo boots.

“Christ…” You muttered, eyebrows furrowing at the thought of wearing the ensemble out in public, if it was cold tonight Wanda would be in for an aggressive telling off. With a deep sigh you turned to the two speedsters who were both staring at you, waiting for you to say something. “I guess we’re all gonna be matching tonight.”

“Sweet!” Tommy exclaimed while Peter only smirked. Peter, with a lot of effort, moved his attention from your costume to his nephew.

“Why don’t you go hang out with your brother for a while? I gotta talk to Y/n for a sec.” Tommy welcomed the suggestion, only nodding his head before he had sped out of your house and back to his own.

A gust of wind hit your face as Peter sped himself in front of you, the man didn’t hide his intentions as he gripped your hips and pulled you flush against him. Swaying his body against yours and bringing his lips to the exposed skin of your neck. He trailed his lips up your neck, sucking and nipping, smirking when you let out small noises of approval. When his lips reached the spot behind your ear, he gave a final, harsh suck which had your breath hitching and whining when he pulled away.

To be honest, you’d love to be able to call him your boyfriend and be certain that he thought of you as his girlfriend, but at the moment you were perfectly happy with whatever the fuck the two of you had going on if it meant you could keep feeling him against you like this.

“I cannot wait to see you wearing that.” He all but groaned against your ear, his voice deep and gravelly. The butterflies in your stomach went feral at his words and you had to pull your bottom lip between your teeth to keep from letting out a moan from his tone of voice alone, not to mention the fact that his crotch was pressed up against yours, he was excited to say the least.

Your hands slid up his chest and settled on either side of Peter’s neck, you gently pulled his head out from the crook of your nape and teasingly raised an eyebrow at him, “Maybe later I’ll let you help me get out of it.”

A wicked grin spread across his lips, he squeezed your hips in response, tugging you into him even further for some kind of relief then pressed his lips to yours briefly, murmuring against them, “That’s definitely a plan I can get behind.”

Giving him one last kiss, you pried his hands from your hips and pushed him away, “Alright, get lost I need to get ready.”

“Meet me at Wanda’s?” You nodded at his question, letting out a deep sigh you hadn’t noticed you’d been holding when he finally sped out of the room.

After a second of cooling down, you pulled on the outfit and you’d be the first to admit; Wanda knew what she was doing with this one. You looked incredible, albeit a little stupid in the costume, but still incredible.

When you made your way over to Wanda’s to meet up with the others, you let out a laugh seeing as Wanda was essentially wearing the same outfit as you, only with the added extras of a cape and gloves.

“Hey! Why are you dressed the same as Uncle P and Tommy?” Billy asked you curiously, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he glanced between you and Peter for answers. The speedster in question was smirking proudly, his arm finding a spot wrapped around your shoulder.

“Because she’s totally obsessed with me.” He lied with an over dramatic sigh, causing Tommy to laugh.

You rolled your eyes, elbowing him in the ribs playfully before focusing your attention onto Wanda, “I think it’s safe to say that Wanda and I will be winning best couples costume.” Wanda gave you a knowing grin and a not at all subtle wink in response to your statement.

“Only the best for the best.” She replied, walking forward and linking her arm with yours, stealing you away from Peter who whined in protest, “Oh hush, you can have her back later.”

Telepathy definitely had its perks, one of those perks being you could tell there was more to Wanda than just being an evil puppeteer. The two of you got along extremely well, you were actually growing to see her as a friend. It helped that you knew her story, though. You sympathised with her, knowing full well that if you lost the love of your life you’d probably create a false reality to be with him too. You’d already followed him into a fake reality so you supposed it wasn’t really too much of a stretch to imagine yourself in Wanda’s position.

As the night went on, yourself, Wanda and Peter were sitting around in town square, the twins having run off somewhere. Tensions were high between the interreality siblings at the minute, Peter seemed to be having the time of his life getting on Wanda’s last nerve, poking and prodding at her lifestyle choices.

“Lay off, Pete.” You warned quietly, your stare serious as you felt Wanda becoming impatient with the mutant. Your breathing stopped for a moment and you let put a horrified gasp, your hand clapped over your mouth as you stared at the image in front of you.

Peter’s skin was grey, his eyes were milky and he was littered in what you could only assume to be bullet holes- he was dead- no, you realised as you caught Wanda’s pained expression, he was Pietro.

Wanda regained her composure after a few seconds but the sight of Peter dead was enough to shake you to your very core and you found yourself shaking where you stood.

You didn’t even have a chance to regain your composure before shit had hit the fan. It had happened in a blur, Billy and Tommy were frantic and worried about Vision being in trouble and next thing you knew Wanda was sending Peter flying with a ball of energy after he made a smartass comment about Vision not dying twice.

Quickly, you ran to Peter’s side, he was groaning in pain and looking up at you through squinted eyes, “What the hell was that all about?” He grumbled, hiding his head in your lap when you got down on your knees beside him.

With a sigh you let your body fold against his, wrapping your arms around him and letting your head rest against his shoulder, the image of him bleeding out still too fresh and real in your mind. You could berate him for his brash behaviour another time, for now though; you just needed him close.

“Come on, dumbass. Let’s get you home before you decide to cause more trouble.” You mumbled, pulling him up with you. Ignoring his whining while you led him home, your arm remained firmly around his waist the whole way despite the fact he’d recovered from the blast Wanda dealt him after only a few minutes.

When you got back to the house that Wanda had deemed yours upon your arrival, you finally allowed yourself to breathe. Peter was staring at you with a guilty expression as you released a heavy breath through your nose and shuffled into the kitchen, the heels of your boots scraping on the hardwood as you walked.

Like a lost puppy, Peter followed you. Once he reached you lent against the sink he wrapped his arms around you from behind. He knew you weren’t angry at him by the way your arms immediately moved to grip his and tug them tighter around you.

“You know, her real twin- Pietro… he died,” Peter’s face contorted in confusion when you began to speak, he listened with concern as he could already hear your voice beginning to shake, absentmindedly he caught himself tucking you closer against his chest. “For a second… you must have said something that hit a nerve but for a few seconds…” Your voice hitched and you shook your head in an attempt to knock the image out of your mind, though you had a feeling it would haunt you for as long as you lived. When Peter noticed you’d started chewing at your bottom lip, as you always did when something was causing you anxiety, he gently turned you around in his arms so that he could look at you, his arms remaining firmly around you, yours finding a place resting against his chest.

“What happened, sweetheart?” He cooed, his eyes very much alive and staring into yours.

Swallowing thickly you answered, “You looked like him. You were dead.” You told him quietly and he was sure the look of grief on your face, brought on by the thought of him dying, would haunt him for a lifetime.

Your eyes watered as you took in his face. Scanning every part of it, his brown eyes that made you melt, the dimples that could still be faintly seen even when he wasn’t smiling, the lips that took up the vast majority of your thoughts and that tiny furrow between his brows as he looked down at you with worry.

You loved him.

Of course, you’d known this for years. But you needed him to know, and even though you were already well aware the overwhelming feeling is mutual, you needed to hear him say it.

His thumb running under your eye pulled you from your thoughts, “I’m not going anywhere, baby.” He whispered softly, his hand cupping your cheek as his thumb ran back and forth over your cheek bone. Your stomach flipped at the pet name and you nuzzled against his touch.

“Good. I don’t want to lose you ever again.” You confessed, looking up at him through your lashes fondly as his lips formed an almost sad smile.

Gently, he brought his lips down to meet yours, pouring his heart into the kiss, hoping it would make up for the turmoil he felt responsible for causing you. Too soon, he pulled away.

“Believe me, I’m never leaving your side. I mean come on, I’m without you for like three days and I end up being mind controlled by my sister who isn’t even my sister.” He chuckled out, a grin growing on his face as you began to smile too. He let his eyes close blissfully when you brushed your nose against his, a toothy smile on your face.

“You, Peter Maximoff, are completely hopeless.” You whispered through your smile as he opened his eyes to look at you. His own face sporting an adoring smile.

Your heart skipped a beat the second his next words passed through his smiling lips, “Without you, Y/n L/n, yes I am.” Within a second your arms were around his shoulders and your lips were moving frantically against his. Peter’s hands wasted no time in sliding down to your thighs, gripping them and propping you up onto the kitchen counter.

Your legs automatically wrapped around his waist and your hands got lost in his hair, keeping him as close as humanly possible while his lips migrated to your jaw.

An appreciative hum left your throat as he lapped at the underside of your jaw, leaving a mark before trailing his lips back to your mouth. His tongue licked at your bottom lip as he kissed you, moving it into your mouth the first chance he got. Peter moaned into your mouth when you gave his tongue a light suck.

You grinned at the sound and leaned your weight forward so you were primarily resting against his body, your arms and legs wrapped tightly around his body, your ass barely resting on the counter by that point. Welcoming your movements, Peter’s hands glided up from your thighs to grip your ass and pull you from the counter completely.

He carried you clumsily through the halls of the house, bumping into furniture and pausing to press your body against walls, his eyes closed and lips never separating from yours. You were about a foot away from the stairs when you felt your back make contact with the plaster behind you, your chest heaving when Peter abandoned your lips in favour of littering wet kisses across your chest, no doubt leaving a trail of hickeys in his wake.

You let your head fall back against the wall, enjoying the sensation of Peter nipping and licking at your skin, the man diving back to your neck as soon as he realised that your head thrown back made it entirely exposed to him. You released a breathy moan when his lips ghosted over a sensitive patch of skin, he moved his tongue frantically and you shuddered at the feeling of his hot breath hitting your bruised skin.

“Peter…” You whined when he pushed his crotch up against yours, pressing you further into the wall smirking against your neck when you called his name.

“Yes?” He asked teasingly, rutting his hips against yours once more, deliberately attempting to pull another moan from you, he obviously succeeded. His smirk broadened when you let out a huff and tugged his hair so he’d look at you.

Peter swore he was in heaven when his eyes met yours again, your face was red and your eyes were half-lidded, pupils blown wide with lust as your chest heaved. He could’ve exploded on the spot when you tugged your bottom lip between your teeth and looked at him innocently, all the while grinding your hips slowly and firmly against his. Peter clenched his jaw and let his eyes fall shut, his hands gripping your hips so tightly that you were pretty certain the area would have bruises come tomorrow. You were struggling to care about that though, focusing your energy on the man who had you pinned against the wall.

You brought your lips to Peter’s neck, repaying the favour, not detaching until you left a dark, albeit small, purple bruise on the underside of his jaw. Deciding to prolong the teasing for a little while longer you moved your lips up and let them hover by his ear and you began to let out soft little moans in response to his grinding, the action caused Peter’s movements to become more frantic and your lips to form in a smirk as you felt him hardening against you.

His breath was laboured when he murmured, “Let’s take this upstairs, yeah?” Before you could even answer he had sped the pair of you to the bedroom and you let your feet return to the floor.

As he stood in front of you, you took him in, swollen lips and Halloween hair completely tossed, not to mention the tent in his trousers that was very visible despite the layers of his costume. When your bodies collided again, it was a frenzy of hands, the both of you practically tearing the fabric off the other until you were in nothing but your underwear, kissing sloppily and stumbling towards the bed.

Peter’s lips attached to your chest again the second your back hit the mattress. He groped at your right breast while his tongue sucked on the other, swapping over before you pulled him back up to you.

The way he slotted between your legs and how his forehead rested on yours felt so perfect, you couldn’t help but grin.

“You’re gorgeous, sweetheart.” He muttered between kisses against your lips, his hands kneading your breasts as he did.

You were practically dripping by the time his hand slid down your stomach and under the band of your underwear. For someone with super speed he was moving agonisingly slow at the moment, his hand rubbing languidly over your wet core while he swallowed your moans.

“Fuck- God, Peter please.” You whined, your hips bucking into his hand, desperate for more friction than he was giving you.

The sound of your voice, so needy for him, was all he needed before he was pulling your underwear off, tossing the thin material over his shoulder haphazardly and shimmying out of his own boxers, clumsily kicking them away from his ankles, earning a giggle from you.

When he kneeled on the bed between your bent and separated knees you sat yourself up, sliding one hand up his bare chest and resting it against his shoulder while the other slid downward, only stopping once it was wrapped around his shaft. Peter sucked in a harsh breath when your began pumping him softly, the man completely losing it when your thumb swiped over his tip collecting the precum that had gathered and using it to wet the length of his dick as you continued to fuck him with your hand.

As much as Peter was loving the image and feeling of you jacking him off, he knew if you carried on he wouldn’t be able to last much longer. Still, he didn’t have the heart to pull your hand away when you were making him feel so good. His head found it’s favourite spot in the crook of your neck and he groaned out against the skin that was littered with little purple and red marks from his earlier work, which he’d be sure to admire later, “Shit, Y/n-“ He croaked through a moan, hands gripping your hips as he fought the urge he had to thrust into your hand, “M’not gonna last much longer if you keep doing that.” He groaned out, almost reluctantly, not truly wanting you to stop while simultaneously craving more.

You stopped your motions at his statement, giggling when he let out a strangled noise of disappointment at the sudden lack of pleasure. Doing the honours, you lined him up with your entrance, letting him take over when his lips connected with yours.

Peter gently pushed you back until your head was resting against your pillow and your back was flush with the mattress. His lips continued to mesh with yours as he pushed into you inch by inch until he bottomed out. The deep groan he released was music to your ears and your hands gripped his biceps when he began to thrust in and out.

A symphony of moans filled the room as Peter had managed to set a steady pace, trying his best not to let his mutation get the best of him, as much as he wanted to just go to town he was determined to make you feel as good as you made him feel and judging by the way your head was thrown back and his name fell from your lips like a prayer; he guessed he was doing an okay job.

In only a few minutes Peter had you gasping and clutching onto him like your life depended on it as he picked up speed, one of his hands reaching down between your bodies to rub your clit, his hips snapping against yours. Soon enough, you felt the pressure in your stomach release, your walls clenching around Peter’s dick as your back arched and you released around him. After only a few more staggered strokes, Peter moaned your name against your lips, finishing inside of you and thrusting lazily, riding out his high and subsequently helping you ride out yours.

You let out a blissful sigh when Peter pulled out and rolled over to lay on his back beside you, his chest heavy and his blonde hair sticking slightly against his forehead.

“That- that was awesome.” He mumbled, intertwining his fingers with yours, holding your hand by his side.

Over the last couple of nights you and Peter had, admittedly, ended up in a similar position but neither of you intended for it to happen. It’d usually start off innocently enough, with cuddling or just talking and then one of you would move in just that little bit closer and things would escalate. But there was something about this time that felt a lot more emotional than the few times before. “It was.” You agreed with an airy giggle, squeezing his hand affectionately.

A gust of air shook you from your haze. Peter had taken it upon himself to clean up the mess the pair of you had left between your legs, a pair of his boxers and one of his t-shirts now adorned your body matching him as he wore the same.

He was on his side facing you, his arms holding you against his chest securely the same way they had the night you’d shown up in WestView and urged him to kiss you. When he took you in, he kicked himself for missing out on so much of you for so long.

He was certain, one of these days he’d actually speak the three words that followed him around whenever he thought about you, but as he watched your eyes flutter closed, he decided the words would be best spoken some other time. He was well aware you already knew, just as he was well aware that you loved him, it needed to be said. Eventually, but not quite yet.

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

The Sommelier (Hannigram x Female!Reader) pt. 25

Y/n puts an end to everything.

@dovahdokren @deadman-inc-bikeshop @lov3vivian @wisesandwichshark @scpdragon

⚠️HUGE⚠️ trigger warnings: rape, drugging, sex trafficking, VERY graphic descriptions of violence, physical violence (please let me know if I leave anything out)

Hannibal could walk through a valley of human suffering and not even flinch. You couldn't tell if that made him subhuman or superhuman. You, however, were just human.

You wanted to be a badass. You wanted to kick the door down and make a scene. But one woman was enough to break you.

She was wearing only a large t-shirt. A cloth bandage covered in blood covered her pubic area like a makeshift pair of underpants. She laid limply against a stone. Her arms were punctured where needles had been.

"I don't..." she mumbled, clearly intoxicated beyond function. "...don't make me..."

You knew you couldn't afford to stop. But compassion kept your feet firmly on the ground in front of her.

"What is Chase making you do?"

"I can't-" She said, pressing her forehead against the rock. "I can't be an unwoman-"

She began to slam her head against the rock with clear intent to take her own life. Without thinking, you grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her into the grass. She sobbed, a bloody, but thankfully, survivable, gash on her forehead.

"Tell me your name." You demanded, squeezing her shoulders.

"...Tiffany." She said with a sudden lucidity.

The name unlocked a memory in you. It was the still image of a sunny young girl, immortalized on a faded missing person's ad hung up at the grocery store. Tiffany Rose Pierce, it read.

"I'm gonna get you out of here, Tiffany." You whispered. "I'm gonna get all of you out of here."

"Vanguard won't like that." She said, slipping back into a state of minimal consciousness.

"Stay here." You instructed, pushing yourself back to your feet.

You readied your gun and slowly, carefully pushed the cabin door open. Suddenly, the stained glass window was the least of your worries.

The entire area was lined with cheaply-constructed bunk beds, like an overgrown henhouse. Women with distinctively long hair were shackled to the lower bunks. Their shaven counterparts, the unwomen, were forced to be the slavedrivers. They held the chained women down.

You heard the rattling of chains coming from the right. It was accompanied with screaming and wet slapping.

"Take daddy's cock you filthy fucking broodmare." A familiar voice grunted.

The only way you could look at him was behind the barrel of your gun. He was exactly how you pictured him while listening to his voice in the car. Unremarkable, middle-aged and serpentine.

"Pastor Armitage!" You yelled.

To hear someone call him by his title in the midst of violating a person was enough to send him into a panic. He sputtered and his entire face turned red.

He didn't suffer for long, though. A 12 gauge shell right through the face took care of that. Fragments of his head, his blood and brain matter splattered everywhere. His knees buckled and his limp body collapsed.

The room fell silent. Smoke trickled out of your barrel.

"Where's fucking Chase?" You asked the room.

Someone weakly pointed up the stairs. You met her eyes and nodded.

"Sorry about the mess."

Now you knew how Hannibal felt. Blowing someone's head off made you acutely aware of your own head on your shoulders. You held it higher. You felt no remorse as you ascended the staircase with your gun blazing.

You came across a room with some words etched in the door. 'Skin room'. You launched your foot squarely into the door, causing it to violently swing open. 

You examined the room from behind the gun. Chase had done a hell of a job dressing up this cheap cabin bedroom like a hotel suite, but the smell hit you before you could be fooled. A brick chimney, a wine cooler and a mahogany desk were positioned so the eye would gravitate towards the luxury while the nose picked up the brutality. The stained glass window was suspended in front of the real window, absorbing the mid-morning light and giving the room an eerie sepia tint. 

You cocked your gun to announce your presence. You heard the sound of running water, and then a side door swung open. 

“You’ll forgive me a couple minutes to freshen up.” Chase said, shaking his hands dry. “Cleanliness is close to godliness, after all.” 

You said nothing. You didn’t want to dignify him with a conversation. 

He bent over and pulled a bottle of wine from his cooler. He placed it squarely on the desk. You looked at it, then did a double take. He grinned sadistically. 

“Is that...” You leaned in to get a closer look. “1907 Heidsieck Monople Gout?” 

Chase shrugged. “You tell me. You’re the wine expert.” 

You’d heard many a conflicting story about the legendary 1907 Heidsieck. Some said as many as 2,000 bottles were pulled up from the depths of the freezing Baltic sea. Some said a single bottle could go for half a million dollars. With that kind of precedent, you never thought you’d ever have to worry about it. Yet, there it was. Right in front of you. 

“I’m saving it for a special occasion.” Chase said, suddenly reminding you where you were.

You returned to your gun. “For when you kill me?” 

“For when I save you.” Chase smiled, his unnaturally white teeth glistening in the sepia light. “See, Miss [F/N], you survived two of my attempts on your life. God has smiled down on you.” 

“Or, maybe,” You interrupted. “You’re just horrible at killing.” 

Chase raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

"A knife through the hand hurts like a bitch, but it isn't fatal." You shrugged. "And you didn't do a good enough job beating the fear of death out of Catherine. Else she might have actually gone through with it. Maybe if you'd sent Tiffany-"

"God loves you." Chase interrupted before you could poke more holes in his attempts on your life. "Why you're still alive when so many less deserving of death have died is beyond me, but god works in mysterious ways, doesn't he?"

"She sure does." You smirked.

Chase cleared his throat. You'd pegged him as the type to get irrationally angry at the implication of god being a woman, so his reaction surprised you.

"Well, let's get down to business, shall we?" He gestured to a seat across from him.

You narrowed your eyes. "I don't think so."

"Pity." He pouted. "Not even for poor Mr. Graham?"

It dawned on you that he probably still thought he had Will, and you could use it to your advantage.

You held your gun at your side and hesitantly sat down in the seat. A gluttonous smile spread across Chase's face.

"So it wasn't wine after all." He said. "It wasn't even your own life. You're only willing to save your soul for the sake of your precious Will Graham."

"What do you care?" You growled through your teeth. "This is just a power grab for you. You wouldn't know what genuine empathy for another person feels like."

He grinned, as if someone had just flipped his 'on' switch. "Jesus does."

"Did Jesus use his influence to lure teenage girls into a sick breeding ring?" You sneered. "I don't remember that from VeggieTales."

"Genesis 1:28." Chase said. "And God blessed them, and God said unto them, be fruitful, and multiply."

"I suppose you also don't eat shellfish or wear mixed fabrics." You rolled your eyes.

"It's always the same arguments from you atheists." Chase scoffed, adding a distinct bite to the last word. "When are you going to show some actual proof that the bible isn't an infallible model for human morality?"

"Maybe when you stop eating shellfish and wearing mixed fabrics." You repeated.

"They are minor sins at best." Chase grimaced. "I have gotten right with Jesus. You, on the other hand, oh, you. Your sins are weighty."

"I did just blast a rapist's head off." You admitted. "And it's going to be two very soon if this one doesn't get to the fucking point."

"I know about your exploits." He squinted. "With Mr. Graham and the man with the Nazi accent."

"He's actually from Lithuania, which, if you wanna be technical," you corrected, just for the sake of being annoying. "Is an ex-Soviet state, but whatever."

Chase tensed up at being corrected. "I know about your hedonistic sexual activities with two men, your exploration. But in the bible, Satan approaches these two people called Adam and Eve..."

"No he didn't." You shook your head. "It was a serpent. The devil wasn't a concept when Genesis was written."

Chase gritted his teeth. "God made one man and one woman. Each to fill each other's sexual desires, within the context of marriage, entirely-"

"But Adam had two spouses, didn't he?" You cocked your head and smiled. "Eve wasn't even the first woman in Adam's life. That was Lilith."

Chase heaved a frustrated sigh. "How do you know that?!"

"I was raised catholic." You said in the tonal equivalent of smacking him upside the head. "I was forced into religion at a young age and brainwashed to hate myself."

"See, that's where we agree." Chase tented his hands, thinking he found a genuine point of connection. "Organized religion is a cancer on society. Christianity is fundamentally about a relationship with god."

You laughed. It was the first real, good laugh you had in a while.

"Don't laugh." He scolded. "I am sorry that that was your experience with religion and that the Catholic church modeled a false teaching of who god is and what he wants. Not all christians-"

You wiped a tear from your eye. "Homie, you killed four people in front of me."

He placed his hand over his heart. "And christ forgave me. And he can forgive you too."

"Alright, this has been fun and everything," you said, standing up. You aimed your shotgun and cocked it. "But, I did come here to kill you, so, open wide."

Chase put his hand squarely over the barrel and pushed it out of the way. "You don’t have the guts to pull the trigger."

You pulled the trigger and blasted his hand clean off. Any hope of reattachment was shattered, as bits of his hand painted the walls and floor.

You opened the gun and let the two empty shells fall to the ground while Chase screamed in agony.

Instead of going through the motions of reloading, you smashed him over the head with the gun. He wrapped his good hand around the barrel and attempted to wrestle it away from you. You took this as an invitation to corner him against the wall with the still-hot barrel against his neck. He smashed his forehead into your nose, sending you tumbling backwards.

The shotgun fell to the ground. You pinched the bridge of your nose to control the blood flow. Chase wrapped a champagne towel around his stump and picked up a small revolver on his desk. He let off a shot, which lodged itself into your shoulder. By the time he let off the second shot, you were on the ground. The third shot didn't fire, just let out a flash and a bang.

"Goddamn blanks!" He cursed.

He tore open a drawer and rummaged around for bullets, giving you a window to come up from behind and gouge your fingers into his eyes. He screamed, dropping a handful of bullets. He flailed aimlessly, then charged backwards, slamming you into the cheap drywall.

He felt around for the bullets without the advent of eyesight. You knew you wouldn't be able to take aim with your shotgun with a bullet lodged in your shoulder, so you dove for the revolver.

Chase grabbed you by the ankle and dragged you down. You hit the floor with a thud, the collision making the bullets jump. Chase grinned, using the sound to place them. He turned around and reached for one, while you scooped up another that had rolled under the desk.

You scrambled to your feet. Chase's hand was just centimeters from the revolver. Thinking fast (but not so thoroughly), you grabbed for the revolver. You wrapped your hand around the barrel, putting yourself at a disadvantage if he fired off another blank.

Chase, however, wasn't that forward-thinking, and opted for a childish game of tug-of-war instead. Knowing he had the brute strength advantage, you waited for him to pull back and released your grip. Chase tumbled, cursing on his way down.

With no thought on your mind but ending this, you launched your foot into his sack, causing him to scream and drop the gun.

Just as you thought it was over, just when the gun was in arm's reach, he kicked your knees backwards and you fell. You swallowed the pain and army crawled for the revolver.

"I don't think so." Chase spat, smiling like a maniac. He grabbed your face with his good hand and his fingers slithered down your throat.

"Choke..." he demanded. "Choke, demoness."

Strengthened by animalistic instinct, you crushed his fingers under your teeth. The sound of snapping bone filled the inside of your head and a sudden rush of blood flooded into your mouth. He withdrew his hand, leaving a finger behind to limply fall down your throat.

You coughed and gagged while Chase screamed. A single bloody digit dislodged itself from your windpipe, flew across the room and landed on the desk.

Chase sputtered something resembling a laugh. "Maybe you're not such a dumb bitch after all."

You grabbed the gun and pushed yourself up with the help of the desk. The finger stared up at you as you loaded the single bullet.

You positioned the finger onto the trigger and guided it with your gloved hand. Then you aimed it at his forehead. Dead by his gun, by his trigger finger. Bleeding on the ground in his private bunker while the empire he built collapses around him. A coward's death. It was poetic enough an end as he deserved.

"You want to say a prayer before you meet god?" You offered.

"My soul is saved." Chase said through ragged breaths. "My place in heaven is secured."

Bang. One bullet, right between the eyes. A bloody fingerprint on the pistol. You dropped the revolver and collapsed. You just laid there, listening to your phone buzz.

[dindjarinbae]

All my Love (Din Djarin x Reader)

request from @buckythewhitewolfx :  Hi there! I love your writing! I saw that you are taking requests, so would you like to write a one shot of the mandalorian x reader where they have sex for the first time and Din is all shy, clumsy but also touch starved? You can decide the level of smut, nothing that will make you uncomfortable ❤ Thank you!

hi just a little warning, this is the first smut i’ve written in ages, so it is not the best. anyways this fic is 18+, so keep that in mind. it is part two to my previous din fic, so i’ll leave the link to part one below. anyways, i love soft din, i loved this. i am so sorry it took so long, i kept getting distracted, lol.

PART ONE

TW: brief fem!receiving oral, vaginal intercourse so it is fem!reader. this is 18+, so plese don’t read if this makes you uncomfortable.

WC: 4798

To say you were cold was an extreme understatement. You weren’t used to the coldness that came with hyperspace. It was a complete absence of heat, and while the Crest was temperature controlled, it wasn’t comfortably temperature controlled. Just enough to keep everyone on board alive. Now Din, ever so stoic, was unfazed by the cooler temperature, and the kid was tucked away in his little pod, bundled up warmly. And you? Freezing. Absolutely freezing while you sat on top of your bunk, a blanket draped around your shoulders while you shivered. The tip of your nose had turned adorably pink and the tips of your fingers as well. About twenty minutes more of the temperature making you freeze, you’d had enough. You kicked your legs over the side of the cot and you trudged your way up to the cockpit, making sure the blanket stayed with you at all times. You walked inside and stood there for a moment while the stars made streaks of light through hyperspace. Mando- or Din, you had to remind yourself- did not turn around or acknowledge your presence in any way. Typical. You huffed and brought your hand down on his chair once before moving it to clap down on the top of his helmet, but his hand was much faster and he gently caught your wrist between his fingers. “Is there something you came up here for or are you going to huff and puff like the kid?” He asked, his voice thick with annoyance, but you could tell it wasn’t real annoyance, even through the modulator. “Yes actually. It’s freezing cold and I guess I don’t know what I want you to do about it, but is there like... heat somewhere on this panel?” You asked and motioned towards the stretch of buttons in front of you. Din released your wrist and you pulled it back towards your chest, your cheeks turning pink from him this time instead of the cold hull. He shook his head and tilted it backwards just slightly. You couldn’t see his eyes, but you knew they were on you, “No. Y/n, this is an old ship. There’s not heating,” he said, and you could hear the amusement in his tone. “Extra blankets? Clothes? Jackets? Coats? Cloaks? Anything?” You asked and sat down on the co-pilot seat next to him. Din just shrugged and was quiet for a moment before he spoke again, “There’s probably a few extra blankets in the storage compartment by the door,” he finally answered before turning back towards the window. You stayed there for a moment, watching the streaks of starlight glint off of his helmet and get endlessly replaced with new dashes of light. “Do you take it off up here? When you’re alone?” You asked without thinking. This question seemed to catch him off guard by the way he stiffened and held still for a long time before he gave one nod, “When you and the kid are asleep,” he answered and relaxed once again. “Do you like having it off?” He took his time answering this before sighing, the tail-end of it just catching through his modulator, “It’s... bittersweet. What’s got you so curious tonight?” He asked, turning his head towards you. “Oh. I was just wondering I guess. Did I make you uncomfortable?” You asked, pulling your bottom lip into your mouth with your teeth. Din just shook his head, taking notice of your pink nose, “Go get those blankets. If you want to come back up here, you’re welcome to. It’s warmer,” he stated and turned forward once more. Truth be told, he silently hoped you’d come back up to keep him company. He’d never admit aloud that he’d come to adore your constant talking. You nodded and shuffled out of the cockpit, only to return (to his absolute delight) a few moments later with the blankets wrapped around your body. You sunk back down into the co-pilot chair and draped some of a blanket over your head like a hood before letting out a relived sigh. Din took this opportunity to turn his chair towards you and he folded his arms over his chest while he watched you, and he did take note that the red on your cheeks was not from the cold this time, and this made him smirk just slightly under his helmet, “I take it you didn’t travel hyperspace until you came along with me.” You nodded once and kept your eyes on where his should be, “I hadn’t even been off of Naboo. I’m still not used to how cold it gets up here. How did you get used to it?” You asked softly and he gave you a shrug while he motioned towards himself. “Layers.” That was a dumb question. Of course he was fine underneath his thick layers and beskar armor. He shifted just slightly and sighed again, “You might not get used to it entirely. I guess you just figure out how to handle it. Like the blankets. Or like how the kid hunkers down in his pram. Adaptation,” He went on to explain while slowly drumming his fingers over the side of his arm. You nodded to his response and raised your eyebrows, “Did you have to adapt? To your armor, I mean.” Din could only nod to reply to your question and you leaned your head back against the seat, your eyes growing heavy. He noticed this and turned back to his original position while you let the lights of hyperspace against his helmet lull you to sleep. This was not a warm sleep. In fact, it was colder this time than you had ever remembered hyperspace being. And though you were asleep, Din could not help but take notice of you shivering just to the right of him. He looked over at you and his heart nearly swelled in his chest. Ever since he had revealed his name to you in a flowered field back on Naboo and you had spoken it then fallen asleep on his shoulder, he had steadily been falling in love with you. From watching over you as you slept, to leaving secret kisses against your head when you weren’t awake (or at least to his knowledge), he could not stop the feelings he continuously received for you. And he wanted to, he really did. Falling in love was undeniably unfavorable for a Mandalorian for the reasons that were painstakingly obvious, and to this, Din was no exception. He grew tired of watching you shiver and he also grew tired of the longing to be close to you, so he set the ship to autopilot and he stood up. He lifted you easily upwards and made his way carefully down into the hull. You stirred, but did not wake. He was grateful for that. Din laid you ever so gently onto your bunk and tucked the blankets tightly around you before he sat down on a crate opposite of your bunk. Still, you shivered and shifted to find warmth in a new position before he finally wanted to yell. He stood up and walked to a panel of buttons by the door and he pushed the vast majority of them down, every light in the hull snapping off, so nothing- and that means absolutely nothing- was visible. Din made his way back to your bedside and swallowed down the anxiety in his throat caused by the sheer magnitude of his next set of actions. He silently began to strip himself of his armor and other layers until he was just as clothed as you were underneath all those blankets. Last to go was his helmet, which he removed with shaking hands. To say he wasn’t used to this was an understatement. The most skin you had ever seen on this man was his hands or wrists. Nothing more, but certainly less. He lifted the helmet from his head and the cold air in the hull surrounded his face instantly, and he realized how cold it really was. Maybe he’d have to invest in getting a heat source of some sort equipped in the Razor Crest. He couldn’t see you, but he could hear you. And all he could think of right then was ‘poor thing’. Your breathing was mirroring your shivers and your teeth chattered every so often. He’d lay with you just to warm you up, he told himself, as if he was not convincing himself that underneath this “for warmth” ruse was not just the simple want (need?) to be as physically close to you as he could. Din finally bit back doubts and he climbed onto the bunk right behind you, sliding silently into your pile of blankets. His arms awkwardly fumbled around your torso until he found a place for them that didn’t seem so awkward. He drew you backwards into his chest and let out a relieved sigh. The sudden presence of warmth was enough to pull you from your light slumber and you gasped quietly, squirming around before calling out to him in fear that someone unidentified was pressed up against you. “Shh, shh, y/n, I’m right here. You were shivering,” Din said and tightened his arms which had circled your waist. You almost didn’t question it. And was a hard almost. You gasped again, but this time it was because the voice behind you was unfamiliar, but certainly not unrecognizable. It was Din. Of course it was Din, that much you knew. But it lacked the metallic graininess, the barely there static that stood background to his voice. He did not have his helmet on. You’d be lying if you said that it didn’t completely intimidate you, but it would also be false to say you weren’t highly intrigued at the same time, “Din... Your creed,” you stuttered lamely and he only snorted in reply. “Tell me, then. What are you worried about seeing right now?” He asked and in your flustered state, you had to take in the fact that the hull was completely dark. You sighed in shaky relief and then shook your head, “I guess nothing,” you replied. A few more moments of shock passed before you began to really appreciate the gesture, despite the risks he was taking with such a grey colored loophole. How many times had you thought of being this close to Din? The answer was far too many, and this was probably something you wouldn’t admit. Whether this was real or some cruel dream your mind spun, you decided to take full advantage of it and you grabbed his wrists and you pushed his sleeves up just slightly so that you could rest your palms against his warm skin. If Din had any reservations or any nervousness left in his body about holding you, they went out the window with the simple skin-to-skin contact. He sucked in a breath of air and pulled you towards him so that your back was flush against his firm chest. He was impossibly warm for the temperature around the two of you, and you relaxed gratefully into him. It was silent for a long while, and every so often, you’d push his sleeves up a little more absentmindedly to feel more of his skin. It was truthfully just as you had imagined many times before, the skin of a warrior. It was soft, warm, and there were dips and ridges of scars, some deep, some shallow, and each one of them was so uniquely Din. It had been almost two months since he had revealed his name to you, and you could recall from that night forward, almost every night, the near-silent hiss of his helmet being removed and then the soft, gentle kiss that was always placed in the center of your forehead. His kisses were meticulous, cautious, just as he was, and you wondered if he’d ever kissed anyone before, and of course this thought led sequentially to the thought of his lips against yours. Had he ever kissed anyone like THAT before? You rolled around in his arms a bit until you faced him and he clutched the material of your shirt, almost desperately, like he was desperate to have you close to him. You stretched your arms out in front of you and you wrapped your arms loosely around his shoulders, and you swore that you heard Din let out the quietest of gasps. Your fingers slowly moved along the back of his neck and into his hair. Oh, his hair. You don’t know what you expected of his hair, but you weren’t expecting for it to be so soft and shaggy, curling softly at the ends. He shivered under your wandering fingers and you slid them around to rest right underneath his jaw. He quickly caught your wrists and he was silent, his grip feather light. “Din... can I touch your face?” You found yourself asking, your voice sounding far away, “Has anyone ever touched your face since you were a child?” Din lifted your hands up by your wrists until they rested upon his cheeks, a light sheet of facial hair brushing against your palms, “No. Not since The Mandalorians saved me,” he answered, his voice low. His answers were concise and short, you expected nothing less of Din. Your fingers had a mind of their own and they traced along his sharp cheekbones and mapped out each little scar on his face. You moved them along his forehead and over his strong nose and you were pleasantly surprised to find a neatly trimmed mustache outlining his upper lip. Your fingers stilled at the corners of his lips and you could feel the soft, warm breaths he released rhythmically. Your own breath was caught in your throat as you very slowly inched your fingertips towards his lips. Perhaps you were moving too slow or perhaps Din had his own desires in that moment, but he grabbed your wrists once again and he pulled your left hand to his lips. In the dark, you stared into blackness and you felt the warmest kiss fall upon your fingertips. HIS kiss. His lips were also not what you were expecting, but then again, what could you expect, truly? They were warm, plush, and perhaps the only unscarred part of his body. He took perfect care to make sure each fingertip was kissed with the same gentleness and amount of affection. Oh, the affection in each kiss. It made your heart flutter in your chest, and you wondered when he had time to pick up such affection for you. And Din, on the other hand, he had suspected early on that you had grown too fond of him, but he never addressed it, and until this second, he never planned to. You weren’t the hardest to read, in fact, you were practically an open book, and each emotion you had, you wore written on your face. Any and all question about being in love with you dispersed now within his mind, because right now with your touches and with each kiss he planted on your fingers, he became more convinced that he’d never be able to go without you again. Not now. He had lived almost all of his life deprived of moments like this, moments to fall in love with. Moments where he could truly be close to someone. The closest thing he’d ever had to closeness was meaningless sex for an emotionless release between jobs, and even then, he didn’t take his armor off, much less his helmet. But you invoked the strongest feelings he had ever felt for anyone, ever. When he finally had kissed each finger upon your left hand, he raised your right to his lips and replaced your left with it. You laid in awe as his lips travelled your fingers, and you waited until he finished to brush your thumb across his bottom lip, and you bit yours, wanting nothing more than to kiss him right then. But out of nerves and respect of how far he wanted to go, you waited for him to make any kind of move to indicate that he wanted to kiss you. And that didn’t take long. One second your thumb was against his lip, and the next second his nose was bumping delicately against yours, “Y/n,” Din breathed, his words falling against your parted lips, “Can I kiss you?” He asked, and it nearly took you aback. Din Djarin, a rugged bounty hunter with more scars than anyone else you knew, who could take whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it, who held himself with so much confidence, it could be considered cockiness, had a slight tremble in his voice, a flicker of unsureness. So you replied in the best way you knew how to. You pressed your lips fully against his, your hands sliding ever so stealthily into his soft, thick tangle of hair. No hesitation was shown on his part, and he returned the kiss just as soon as your lips were on his own. The kiss was sweet and clumsy, nothing like the man with the hard exterior who seemed to be good at everything he did. His nose pressed against yours as he squeezed your waist just slightly and he brushed the tip of his tongue against your bottom lip, and you eagerly parted your lips to grant his tongue access to your own. He pulled his lips away from yours all too soon, and you would have objected if it weren’t for the instantaneous relocation of his lips onto your throat. You closed your eyes and left your fingers within his hair, allowing his lips to explore each inch of the cold skin on your neck. Each kiss sent a rush of warmth through your body, and you were finding it much easier to be adequately warm now. You moved your hands out of his hair absentmindedly and slid them underneath the collar of his shirt, his lean back noticeably releasing tenseness underneath your touch. Din pulled away from your neck, and for the first time, you actually heard him try and catch his breath. The next few moments were wordless and almost blurry, but you know for sure that you were able to rid him of his shirt and he was able to rid you of yours. Both of you moved your hands along each other’s skin. Arms, chest, torso, back... anything you could reach. He seemed to be so comforted by your wandering hands, and his quiet, content sighs confirmed that. You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it, six simple words rolling anxiously off of his tongue: “i love you, i want you.” The silence after his words swirled around your head as you tried to comprehend what it was he had just said, and your lips fumbled to respond to him. When you finally chased down your voice, you reached for his hands which laid against your sides and you let out a shaky breath, “i love you, too. I want you, too,” and if there were lights on at this moment, he would’ve seen the dark pink blush that had crept up your cheeks, but thank god that he couldn’t. “Have you ever-“ he began, but you cut him off promptly. “I have. Have you?” You asked and bit down on the the tip of your tongue, not sure what to expect his answer to be. A quiet yes left his lips and you pressed your own together tightly, wondering if he had more to add to that. He didn’t. Instead, Din located the center of your chest and he brushed his fingertips downwards in an invisible line down your stomach and to the waistband of your pants. Your breath hitched embarrassingly loud in your throat and he seemed to notice this because he stilled his fingers, “Can I take these off?” He asked, his voice softer and more timid than you had ever heard it. Though this time was unfamiliar with him, it certainly wasn’t unwelcome. It was so nice to know that he wasn’t so stern all of the time, and you realized in a hurry that you wanted this side of Din all the time. You nodded in response to his question, then remembered he couldn’t see you in the pitch blackness. “Yes. Please,” you whispered, not able to help the desperate tone your voice took at the end, and you prayed silently Din didn’t notice. You fool, of course he noticed, the chuckle that left his lips confirmed that. Stupid, meticulous Mandalorian Din carefully pulled your pants down over your legs and when he pulled away from you and you heard shuffling, you imagined that he was doing the exact same. From that moment on, the entire mood shifted. The cold hull was nearly sweltering now, and you could feel a thin layer of sweat veil your face, and it only got impossibly hotter when you felt his mouth press right against the center of your chest. He began to trail slow kisses down your stomach and just down past the waistband of your underwear. He stopped there and didn’t move for a long moment. Impatience clouded your mind and you whined before reaching down to yank your underwear off. Something about him was making you desperate for friction, for touch. his touch, specifically. He seemed to find this amusing, because he let out a scoff that sounded an awful lot like a muffled laugh. You felt his nose brush up against your navel and your breath hitched in your throat just before his lips came down to make contact with your skin. This was enough for a calamitous gasp to escape your lips, and your hands fumbled around to find his hair, but he caught your wrists mid-reach, and he rested them in his hair. He liked that, you concluded. The heat of the moment blurred each second almost deliriously, and the only thing that brought you back to focus, was the warm, open mouthed, blissful kiss Din left against your clit. You attempted to throw your hips upward, but his he seemed to predict this, and as he always was two steps ahead of you, he held your hips down to the mattress with one of his hands. Excitement crackled within your stomach and you had to remind yourself to stay quiet as to not wake the sleeping child on the opposite side of the hull. Din’s hand held you down tighter and you anticipated he’d make another move. And you were correct. His lips moved downward ever so slightly to leave another hot kiss against your folds, which were increasing in wetness by the millisecond now, it seemed, and this didn’t go unnoticed by Din, who let out a groan against your core. He eased his tongue out from between his lips to lick a stripe up to your clit, when you yanked his hair, growing impatient. “Din. Please, I need you. I’m sure there will be other times for this,” you whimpered, your breath a frantic indication of your sudden desperation. He paused and you were afraid he wasn’t going to oblige, but after a moment, he was pulling away from you. The sound of clothing being taken off excited you even further, and you reached around for him giddily. Your hand caught his shoulder and you gave it a soft tug, trying to get him to come down closer to you. He (thankfully) obliged and moved down so that the two of you were chest to chest, one of his arms resting beside you to hold himself up. “When did you fall for me?” He asked, breaking the silence around you two. His question made you blink a few times and you waited a moment before answering him, “I guess when you came and saved me and the baby that one time... I don’t know. After that I just... saw you differently I suppose,” you replied quietly and reached up to find his face in the dark. You rested your hand on his cheek and brushed your thumb over his cheekbone, to which he leaned into, “What about you?” You asked, biting your lip. “The day I took you back to Naboo, in the flowers. You fell asleep on me,” he responded, quick as lightning, and that was the first immediate vocal response you’d gotten out of him almost all night. You remembered this night clearly, as it was the first time he’d kissed your head. “You know, I’ve been awake each time you’ve kissed my forehead. I stay awake for it,” you whispered softly and closed your eyes, waiting for a response that never came. At least, it wasn’t a spoken response. His lips once again captured your own and he kissed you deeply; passionately. He took this opportunity to gently lift one of your legs up over his waist and you were quick to tighten it. Everything went fast from there, and clumsily so. You messily wrapped your arms around his back and he shifted around for a moment before finding a position above you to align your hips. You clung to him tightly and twisted your fingers within his hair as he carefully eased his cock inside of you. Of course the very few times that you’d fucked anyone before had nothing on Din. The size of his length stretched you, leaving you stinging blissfully in his wake. You let out a quiet gasp and gently pulled his hair, invoking a deep groan to unfold from the center of his chest, “Din, please.. m-move,” you stuttered and he gave a gentle nod, giving in to your request. He started almost aggravatingly slow, carefully pumping inside of you fully before slowly sliding himself almost completely out before doing it again. Either he sensed your frustration or he grew frustrated himself, but whatever the case was, he quickly began to pick up speed with his thrusts, his hips jerking backwards and forwards. You moaned, quietly at first, but soon after, another one tumbled from your lips, louder. He tossed his head backwards immediately following your moan and he drove his cock into you just a little bit faster, “Fuck. Do that again,” he groaned in reference to your moan. You squeezed your eyes shut and gasped for a moment before letting out another one of those moans he seemed to adore. The more moans that left your lips seemed to encourage him to increase the speed of his thrusts, and they became harder and faster, causing your eyes to roll back. You didn’t even feel his arm move before he pressed his thumb down over your clit and rolled it in a slow circle. You sucked in a harsh mouthful of air before nearly choking out his name, and you heard him swear underneath his breath. He timed the movements on your clit with his deep thrusts and truly, just when you believed you’d plateaued in your pleasure, his cock hit a glorious spot inside of you, and you yanked at his hair, which had him grunting out a series of foreign words which you figured to be Mando’a, but you couldn’t be sure. And really at the moment, it was the last thing on your mind as you were seeing white flashes underneath your eyelids as he hit that spot, over and over and over and over until you were just barely breathing to try and hold your orgasm back. Din leaned down and pressed a sloppy kiss to your lips, and the quality of his thrusts became that of his kiss. He was close. But it was you that came first. You arched your back high off of the mattress and wailed his name into his mouth as you came around him, becoming impossibly tight around his cock. He gave a few more hard thrusts before he was releasing inside of you as well, his lips moving lazily against yours. He moved his thumb slowly over your clit as to guide you down from your orgasm. His thumb came to a stop after a while and he dropped his head down to your chest. You wrapped your arms around him and played with the hair on the back of his head, feeling warm within your post-coital intoxication. “You stay awake for my kisses?” Din asked after a while and you giggled softly, holding him just a bit tighter now. “I do. And I’ll keep doing so if I can get a few of them on my lips from now on.” “As you wish, Cyar’ika.”

[mandoalorian]

Sugar and Spice [Maxwell Lord x Reader] - Chapter 3

Summary: When you are evicted from your apartment by your toxic ex boyfriend and have no place to go, who do you turn to? Alone in the city as the countdown to Christmas begins, you find yourself applying for a job as the assistant of the world’s biggest entrepreneur; Maxwell Lord. Little do you know, he has other intentions for you. No doubt about it, this Christmas will truly be like no other.

Word count: 4k

Warnings: Eventual smut, mentions of a previous verbally abusive relationship, typical 80s misogyny (but very little of it), mentions of food and drink, alcohol consumption. This is a sugardaddy x sugarbaby fic soooo… a daddy k!nk too oops.

But in this chapter - more tension and also male and female masturbation

Author’s note: Chapter 3 wheyyy! I'm super sick at the minute, but nevertheless I hope my illness isn't reflected in this piece of writing. Yikes. I hope everyone is enjoying so far! Remember if you wanted to be added to my taglist feel free to let me know!

MASTERLIST | SUBMIT REQUESTS

PREVIOUS - CHAPTER THREE - NEXT 

The rain drops pelted heavy against your skin as the cool winter ambience sent a shiver down your spine. Once dismissed by Maxwell Lord, you practically raced out of the building. The contrast between the heat you felt in his presence and the December air was immeasurable. You took a big gasp of air, letting rain drops fall on your face and soak through your clothes. You stood there in the middle of the busy street trying to process what just happened.

You had been successful. Your elaborate plan had worked out and you had gotten the job. Only, it was unlike anything you had ever done before. Maxwell told you to expect a call sometime tomorrow and before you left, he made sure you were comfortable with the prospect of his job offer. First things first— tell Tristan the good news. Hopefully then, he would let you stay in your apartment a little while longer.

Before you could grab a ride from a cabbie, the doorman tapped you on the shoulder. "Ms Minerva?" His tone was completely different than earlier, more polite and friendly. "Ma'am? Mr Lord has requested his driver take you home. He didn't want you to get wet in the rain but," the doorman looked you up and down. "I see you're already drenched from this God foresaken rain. I’m Andreas, by the way."

Maxwell had asked his own, personal driver to take you home? You felt butterflies erupt in your stomach from his kind gesture, but you worried about the authenticity of it. How genuine was he? Maxwell Lord was someone who built up his reputation and business on lies and false hope.

"Oh really, that's quite alright," you dismissed the offer. "I can just get a cab."

Andreas put his hand out, halting you from walking away. "I'm afraid Mr Lord insists." He told you, taking out a sleek black umbrella and opening it up. He held it above you, protecting you from the rain.

"Could you tell Mr Lord that I'm grateful for his offer, but I can make my own way home?" You said through gritted teeth.

"I'm afraid not," Andreas said with a short shake of his head. "Whatever Mr Lord wants, Mr Lord gets."

So that's how it was going to be.

Before you could reply, a black limousine with tinted windows pulled up on the road in front of you. A few passer-bys on the street, hands full of their Christmas shopping, shot you a strange glance as you slipped into the car. Andreas shut the door behind you and suddenly you found yourself sitting in a car that probably had more worth than your entire life’s savings.

The seats were sleek and black leather, the floor was carpeted and you spotted a small ice cooler by your sofa seat. You carefully clicked it open and examined the insides. It was just various bottles of alcohol- mostly spirits. You couldn’t help but smile as you continued to explore the limousine.

Upon meeting him, Maxwell Lord was not what you expected, but now you had found the perfect opportunity to learn more about him. You spotted a velveteen box nailed to the floor so you opened it up and found a variety of odd things. It was like a rich man’s junk drawer. Everything from gold fountain pens, jewellery, condoms, multiple checkbooks were mixed inside this box. Nosily, you scurried through it all, taking out the occasional item and examining it closer. You couldn’t believe it. You had never met someone who was just able to leave such expensive items lying around in a random box inside their own limousine.

This whole experience felt like a fever dream.

The lights in the limousine were dimmed and so you searched around for a switch or button of some kind to brighten the interior of the car. Your fingers tapped into a switch and rainbow disco lights flickered on, illuminating the limousine multi-colour. It looked more like a party bus. You didn't even realise the driver had already got into the car and as he turned on the ignition and began to drive, you jolted and fell back at the sudden force, into the plush leather seat. You scrambled to belt yourself up and compose yourself.

"Ma'am, where will I be taking you?" the driver called from the front of the limousine, as he tried to navigate through the busy Christmas roads of DC. You yelled your address back to him and he made a brief sound of acknowledgement.

After a few moments of sitting in still silence, despite the rainbow disco lights beginning to give you a headache, you heard a buzzing noise. You scrambled around in your seat, looking for where the noise originated from, when you found a phone nailed to the wall of the limo. Maxwell Lord’s limo had its own carphone! Of course it did.

Your eyes widened when you realised it was ringing and you contemplated answering it. It could be anyone! It could be someone important or a business related matter. It could be private. Thoughts raced through your mind as the phone continued to buzz.

"Are you going to get that?" The driver called out again.

You took a deep breath and took the phone off the hook, nudging it between your ear and your neck. "H-hello?" you asked, your finger anxiously twirling in the wire connecting the phone and the dock.

"Apologies for calling so early on, I usually wait a few days before calling back my female suitors," you weren't sure if your heart rate eased or increased when you heard Maxwell's voice. His voice sounded easy-going, and you were sure you even heard him chuckle slightly at his own remark. "I trust you weren't made uncomfortable by Andreas insisting you got a ride home."

"I have to admit, Mr Lord, I don't usually get into cars with strangers." you huffed, squeezing your eyes tight shut.

"Smart," Maxwell replied quickly. "So why did you this time?" His voice was dark and had a lulling undertone. He sounded similar to when he saw you during the interview earlier on, and the memory made that familiar heat erupt once more in your stomach.

You struggled to find your words. "I- I uhm-" you weren't exactly sure why you had agreed to Andreas. You would've never agreed to such a proposition before. But this is what Maxwell Lord wanted. And you didn't dare want to disappoint Maxwell Lord. You didn't understand because you didn't even know the man— nor did you have any care about him whatsoever prior to your meeting today. But since you exchanged those words in his office, you had been feeling a certain kind of way. "I trust you." you admitted with a defeated sigh. It was true. You trusted a man you had barely even spent half-an-hour with. You trusted a man who built his business on lying to the people of the world.

On the other end of the line, Maxwell was smiling to himself. His feet were on his desk and he was nursing a glass of his favourite whiskey. He could never tell you, but he craved to hear your voice again. He was already thinking about the next time he could see you. He put the glass down on his desk and with his free hand, palmed at his hardening manhood.

"I'm glad," Maxwell replied smoothly. "Trust is going to be very important in our kind of arrangement." There was a beat. "Speaking of which, would you owe me the pleasure in accompanying me to dinner tomorrow night?"

"D-dinner?" you blurted out, feeling your cheeks heat up. Dinner with Maxwell Lord— this is not how you thought today would go. Sitting in a limousine and being asked out by the cover boy of Forbes magazine.

"I know a really nice restaurant by the river. Black-tie dress code type thing." His voice was like silk. It was getting hot in the limousine. You needed air. The thought of him taking you out for dinner at a restaurant, having a nice meal and enjoying his company felt like a dream. Then you were hit with the reality of your financial situation.

"Oh Mr Lord, I'm sure it's lovely but I don't think I can afford-"

"I think you're forgetting the terms of our arrangement darling," Maxwell snickered on the other end of the line. It was true— you had. For a moment you thought it would be a normal date. But this wasn't a relationship. He was right, it was an arrangement. "What I have, is yours. You are to want for nothing."

There was something romantic about his sentiment, you once again found yourself forgetting the true nature of his words. "Well then," you gulped."Dinner sounds great."

Maxwell's smile grew wider. "And then back to my place." his invitation sounded more like a command than a question, and the authority in his voice was enough to get your panties wet. You pursed your lips together to suppress a moan at the thought of going back to his house. You wondered what it would be like. Would your arrangement commence tomorrow night?

"I'd really like that." you let out a shaky exhale. Your hand dropped in between your legs and you slowly began to touch yourself through the thick material of your denim jeans. You ached to get home and take them off. There was something that felt so naughty about getting off in the car of a man you had just met. Especially when that man was Maxwell Lord.

Maxwell felt the same. He had intended to take you back to his place to go through a contract and discuss the specifics of your arrangement— but if the night led to something else, he certainly wouldn't be opposed. You were driving him wild; like no other woman had ever. He unzipped his pants and slipped his hand under his boxer shorts, slowly beginning to pump his length while holding the phone in the crook of his neck.

"You- you have something pretty to wear?" he asked, trying to remain as composed as possible.

"Maybe, maybe just my little black dress." you whispered in response, pressing your forehead against the cold window to try and release some tension.

Your description left much to the imagination, but Maxwell wasn't complaining. He wondered about the black dress: how short it was, exactly? How did it fit you? Did it accentuate his favourite parts of your body? Maxwell's eyes fluttered shut as he carried on stroking his length, a small grunt escaping his lips. It didn't go unnoticed by you.

"I'll have my driver pick you up tomorrow evening," Maxwell hummed. "6pm."

You couldn't even reply— he already put the phone down. Maxwell slouched back into his chair and worked at his already hard length. His thumb swept the precum that beaded at his tip and he continued pumping, wishing that the wetness around him was from your mouth as you devoured him.

He imagined your pretty lips suck him and his cock began to throb in his hands. He imagined having to push your hair out of the way so he could get a good look of your face whilst you took him in your mouth. He imagined your eyes wide and your cheeks hollowed as you fit him inside of you. He wanted to fuck your mouth, wanted to make you gag and have your saliva make a mess all over him.

Maxwell gasped as he spilt his seed all over his tailored suit pants. He kept his sensitive cock in his hand for a few moments after, feeling it soften. He wanted to soften inside of you. Already, he was enamoured by you. Desperate to feel your touch, your wetness. Desperate to hear your screams of pleasure.

When you got home, you had planned on seeing Tristan, alerting him of the good news. New job. Then maybe, he'd let you live in your apartment just a little bit longer until you could afford rent. You decided he could wait until tomorrow. Hurrying into your small flat you locked yourself in the bathroom and turned on the shower.

You discarded your clothes, letting them pool into a puddle on the floor. In your frenzy, you had forgotten to open a window, so the steam from the hot water warmed your skin and small beads of sweat drew along your collarbones and chest as you ran your hands over your body. You bit your lip, hard, remembering the image of Maxwell's hands in the office which you had so carefully ingrained into your head.

You thought about his thick hands squeezing your tits, the pad of his thumb rubbing over your nipples and pinching hard enough to make you squeal. You wondered how his touch felt. You imagined him rough, and ruthless, but since meeting him today, and the way he diverted all your expectations, you wondered if he would have any surprises up his sleeve for your time in the bedroom. You let your fingers gently trace the skin of your stomach, a feather light touch that tickled slightly. You closed your eyes, imagining the wealthy CEO stood behind you, arms wrapped around your naked body and planting sloppy wet kisses into the crook of your neck.

With complete certainty, neither you or Maxwell could stop thinking about each other. Maxwell wanted to call you over in the dead of night when he couldn't sleep. His body ached for you. He felt a neediness that he had never felt before. Of course he could just call one of his assistants. He paid them enough, they would be able to come over and satisfy him (to some extent), but the problem was, they weren't you.

You had done something to him, and now nobody else could even begin to compare to you. You consumed his every thought. Maxwell had once almost married a rival CEO. He was meant to be in love with her but… the feelings were not the same as this. The feelings he felt for you were far beyond lust, but he couldn't put his finger on what exactly they were. He cursed himself, feeling frustrated. This wasn't him. But he was completely and utterly whipped on you.

And you weren't much different. You swore you were in love with Tristan. You had been in an on and off relationship with him for two years but once again, the feelings you had for him were so different to the feelings you now possessed for Maxwell. It was indescribable. You wrecked your room, trying to find the perfect shoes and accessories to wear with your promised little black dress. You wanted to be perfect. You wanted to look perfect. And it was all for Maxwell.

He had you whipped, and you hated him for it.

You lived your life wanting to only impress yourself. You didn't think twice about the way men felt about you. It never mattered. But this was Maxwell Lord. Everything was just different.

So when your 'date' finally came around, you were both equally bursting with anticipation.

When you slid in the back of the limousine, Maxwell couldn't keep his eyes from you. His gaze was glued onto your amazing figure which he loved so much, and the way your little black dress clung to your body and accentuated all your perfections. Your little diamond earrings sparkled under the car's dim light and there was something so beautiful about the simplicity of it.

Truth be told, Maxwell Lord was nervous. He didn't date. He couldn't remember the last time he went on a proper date (he wasn't even sure if you classed this outing as a date). He wasn't one for relationships either. Hell, a woman could count herself lucky if she lasted a week with him. He liked the spontinuity of fucking different women, no strings attached. Throwing them away like garbage the second he got bored. He had the power to do that. It was just the way he was and he had no intentions of that changing.

Although, maybe his intentions were slowly changing and he hadn't yet realised. You offered him the kindest smile he had ever seen, your eyes glistening like jewels. And oh, he felt his cheeks warm up. He leaned over to the window on his side and pressed his face against it, the cool winter air calming his nerves. When your fingers graced the material of his tailored suit pants, just over his thigh, he swore his heart stopped.

"You look nice." you beamed at him, your heart blooming when he finally turned and his brown eyes met yours. You didn't expect Maxwell Lord to disappoint, in any sense, but especially not when it came to fashion. The power suit he was wearing was practically dripping in wealth, and you were almost certain every inch of him was wearing designer names from his suit jacket to his gold cufflinks in his shirt.

"So do you." Maxwell returned the compliment, gawking as he took in your exquisite form. You felt your cheeks heat up under his gaze and you awkwardly looked down at your match black heels, scraping them against the carpeted floor of the limousine. "That dress- I saw it in Louis Vuitton last year?" Maxwell pointed out and you looked down, reacquainting yourself with the outfit you had chosen to wear.

"This? Oh no no," you chuckled earnestly. "I got this from the thrift store for seven dollars like a month ago."

You regretted those words as soon as they left your lips. You did not just admit to Maxwell Lord that you had bought the dress he had been so enthralled in, from the moment you entered the limo, second hand. To your surprise, he gave you a toothy grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling in delight and that adorable little dimple appearing in his left cheek.

"We're here," he announced as the driver pulled up on the side of the road. You gazed out the window in awe. The whole street was lit up in gold Christmas fairy lights, and the restaurant that Maxwell had selected, was highlighted with tinsel and a huge Christmas tree in the front window.

"Wow," you couldn't help but whisper at the gorgeous view. You hadn't even realised Maxwell had already slipped out the car and opened your side door for you. He held his hand out for you, and of course you grabbed it. His hands were soft and warm… he definitely moisturized. He helped you out of the limo and shut the door behind you, sliding an arm around your waist as he guided you into the restaurant.

"Be careful not to slip on the black ice." he warned as he helped you slowly walk in your heels. Still hand in hand, you looked up at him with the biggest smile. You hadn't felt a happiness like this in a long time. He didn't look at you back, instead of focusing on successfully navigating inside the restaurant without falling over.

The restaurant was empty. Not a soul in sight. Your eyes snapped to Maxwell, waiting for him to give you an explanation. He caught on, offering you a small and understanding nod.

"I rented the restaurant out." He explained, raising an eyebrow as he examined his surroundings. Your gaze followed his as you took in the merrily strung Christmas lights and the beautifully decorated tree by the front bay window.

"Why would you do that?" You quizzed him.

"You never know who is sitting among us," he explained. "Journalists, paparazzi, crazed fans."

Ah, there it was. The part about Maxwell you had completely forgotten about. He was famous. Everyone in the world knew who he was and if you had known anything about Maxwell before meeting him, it was that the tabloids loved to pry into his personal life. So, you were somewhat understanding. But that didn't stop the devastating feeling of your heart sinking into your chest. He wanted to hide you. It made sense, I mean, you had only just met and you were only his sugar baby, but it still hurt. You done your best to ignore the strange feelings and told yourself you could still have a good night with him. But the thoughts didn't escape your mind.

You and Maxwell were ushered to a seat by a lit fireplace and passed menus by a beaming waiter. "Can I get you a drink while you decide on what to eat?" he asked with an enthusiastic smile.

"Just a bottle of your finest champagne with two glasses," Maxwell replied, not even looking at the waiter but flicking his wrist and gesturing for him to scurry away. The waiter left both of you in a frenzy, and you couldn't help but giggle. "Is something funny?" Maxwell prompted you, raising an eyebrow. You pursed your lips again but shook your head 'no'. Maxwell's eyes flicked back down to the menu and you burst into another fit of giggles. "Seriously, what is it?" Maxwell asked sternly and you straightened your posture, taking a deep breath and trying to compose yourself.

"That poor waiter looked so afraid of you." You admitted quietly. Maxwell shrugged his shoulders like it was no big deal.

"A lot of people are afraid of me."

"Why?" you beckoned, leaning closer to him.

Maxwell hesitated and put his menu down. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"A lot of people used to be afraid of my mother," Maxwell admitted. "I'm afraid I'm going to end up like her."

"Why were they afraid of your mother?" you questioned him, thanking the waiter as he promptly brought you the two glasses and bottle of ice cold champagne. You began to pour it out.

"She was so cold. Bitter… heartless…" Maxwell scowled, quickly taking a glass of champagne and downing it in one quick gulp. "I worry that, maybe, others perceive me in the same light as they perceive my mother."

"That they think you're cold, bitter and heartless?" you quizzed, and Maxwell winced at your words. He didn't reply, instead buried his gaze into the cream coloured table cloth.

You extended your arms and reached out, taking hold of his soft ring clad hands. Maxwell's breathing hitched under your touch. You noticed the way his hands were considerably larger than yours but even still, you rubbed comforting circles into his skin with your thumb. He interlocked his fingers with yours and you offered him a warm smile. "I don't think you're cold, bitter and heartless."

Maxwell sighed. "You don't know me."

"I see the warmth in your eyes," you whispered. "I know there's more to you than meets the eye."

Taglist: if you want to be added let me know! (if your name is crossed out it means I can't tag you)

December Magic: @kiwi-the-first​ @100layersofdaddyissues​ @mrschiltoncat @honeymandos @thisisthe-wayson​ @this-cat-is-dea​ @blonde2bomshell

Permanent: @goth-topic ​ @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria ​ @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl

[tintinwrites]

wholesome barbecue | Santiago ‘Pope’ Garcia x Reader

A/N: This is my first time writing for Pope I hope it’s good! I don’t know if the gender is ever mentioned of Frankie’s baby but it’s a girl idc. Special thanks to @damerondjarin​ for encouraging me to write this by being a hoe for it and @bisexual-space-slut​ for helping me with the tiny amount of Spanish in this!

Rating: 18+

Warning: Oral sex (F receiving). Naughty words. This happens in Frankie’s bedroom I’m sorry, Frankie

Word count: 2,743, apparently!!

Summary: You and Pope are visiting Frankie’s family and you’re both a little frisky during a barbecue.

GIF credit: WHAT DO YOU KNOW IT’S THE BABE WHO WANTED THIS.

Tags: @huliabitch​ @yougottakeeponkeepinon​ @mandoplease​ @loki-is-a-lesbian @justabeautiful-letdown​ @the-bird-suit​ @arkofblake​ @neverlandlibrarian​ @thedevilwearsvibranium​ @jennibradley​

                                          --------------------------

“You actually showed up.”

“Yeah, well, there’s nothing else to do in this town.”

Frankie leveled Pope with a falsely serious stare, then grinned as they embraced with pats to the other’s back, though they kept a bit of space between them.

This was for the little baby resting with her back against her father’s chest as she nestled in the crook of his arm, gazing up at Pope when they pulled apart with wonder at this strange face she hadn’t seen much.

You laughed at her little furrowed brow then moved to wrap an arm around Frankie, pressing a kiss to his cheek which he’d learned to politely return once he realized you greeted him and said goodbye to him in the same way every time.

The first trip you’d ever taken with Pope was to visit his best friend and you’d gotten along swimmingly with both him and his wife, and you would wager you loved them almost as much as your boyfriend did.

You decided to go on a little vacation this summer and somehow you agreed that you’d have the most fun visiting Frankie to see the baby.

He said it was his wife’s idea to throw a barbecue for you, but he kind of looked in his element with the baby in one arm as he grabbed a beer that was sitting on the side of the grill with his free hand.

“There’s some in the cooler over there if you want.” Frankie nodded to a cooler full of ice, beer, and sodas, and Pope walked over to grab one.

“I can’t believe how big she’s gotten.” You booped the little baby on the nose and wrapped your arm around Pope when he returned sipping on a beer.

“Fuck if I don’t know that. You guys’ll have to have one to remind us of how small they are.”

“Hell no.”

Pope’s quick answer was followed by a sip of beer and a smirk directed at you to let you know he was open to whatever you wanted, his palm pressing flat against the small of your back.

When Frankie’s wife walked over and you greeted her with a kiss on the cheek, the four of you talked about whatever as your boyfriend’s hand slid down your back to push into the pocket of your shorts.

He’d made it very clear when you were getting ready that morning that he enjoyed the way your ass looked, pinching it as you walked out the door then leaning over to smack it when you’d stepped out of the car.

Santi, you would reprimand him with a little whine though you really didn’t mind it.

It wasn’t like you were a stranger to slapping him on that perky ass of his right back.

You had to admit that there was something about being on vacation with him that made you a little extra horny and his fingers were massaging your ass as they stayed in your pocket and you—

“Burger or hot dog? Or we’ve got veggie versions of both.” Frankie interrupted your thoughts as he put the baby in his wife’s arms and turned to open up the grill.

“My girl likes a good foot long.” Pope grunted at the elbow playfully poking into his ribs.

Grilled foods and sides were all served up and you sat with Frankie, his wife, and some of their friends, talking about jobs, and children, and gossip, and all those other things adults seemed to exclusively talk about.

You were not paying much mind to everything they were talking about, though, because a certain man sitting in a mismatched colored folding chair next to you knew that you were friskier on vacation and was running his hand up and down your thigh.

Innocent touches strayed a little bit higher, a little bit more to the inside of your thigh, and you immediately grabbed onto his hand when his fingers brushed below the zipper of your shorts.

He smiled, leaning in to nuzzle his nose into your hair and whisper into your ear, “I know they made a cake for dessert, but I’d much rather eat your pussy right now.”

“Fuck, Santi,” you hissed, squirming in your chair.

“Why don’t you say you’re going to the bathroom and wait in the hall for me, hm?” He kissed your cheek.

You nodded; sex in any kind of public setting was something the two of you had talked about or teased about to turn each other on, usually when you were in bed, and the thought of actually fucking in someone’s house in the middle of a barbecue was definitely something that intrigued you.

You were quickly mumbling an excuse to everyone that you’d be right back, going into the cool, air conditioned house and making your way to where you’d memorized the bathroom was.

He obviously didn’t follow you right away so as not to make people suspicious, and you moved around the hallway to look at a sweet picture on the wall of the baby when she was a newborn.

Arms wrapped around your waist slowly, lips pressing down the side of your neck. “We’re not having a fuckin’ baby.”

“I didn’t say that we were!”

“Don’t go to another guy for it though, okay? I can make one.”

You laughed, turning to him and kissing him.

The first kiss was deep and needy, followed by a few other chaste kisses as he guided you into a nearby room.

“Are we about to fuck in Frankie’s bedroom?”

“No, I’m about to eat you out in Frankie’s bedroom.”

You were truly a terrible person as you moaned into yet another kiss, then he pulled away and you could see that military training in his eyes. “Take off your clothes.”

He made sure you were listening to his direction before he went around the room to draw all the curtains, being sure no one would see a glimpse of you or what you were doing as well as darkening the room.

It took a moment for both of you to adjust to the dimness, but soon he could see the silhouette of your naked body and you saw him walking towards you, fully clothed.

He found your lips almost instantly now that he could make out your features into the dark, hands grasping at your hips to firmly but gently guide you down to sit on the very edge of the foot of the bed.

“Santi, baby, your knees,” you gasped when he moved his lips away to kneel between your legs, trying to pull him back up.

“I’m fine, honey, I might not be able to run like I used to, but I can still kneel.” He took your hands off his arms to set them on the bed on either side of you, then moved to hook your legs over his shoulders.

There was no comforter on the bed seeing as it was summer in a humid state, but you gripped tight to the sheets under you as he began pressing light, teasing kisses on your inner thigh.

Your lips parted when he kissed where your thigh met your pussy and...he moved over to kiss his way down your other thigh, much to your frustrated little whine. You were sure you felt him smiling against your skin as he kissed back up.

He put his head right between your legs and kissed feather light on your folds, close but not where you wanted him, and you grabbed onto his hair to try and guide him to your clit.

He swatted your thigh, not hard enough to hurt you at all but enough to tell you that you were not supposed to be pulling him where you wanted, that he was in control and he knew exactly what was going to get you off best.

You could just barely make out his eyes in the darkness to see him glaring up at you, huffing lightly through his nose in both frustration and amusement at your impatience.

But he said nothing, leaning in and flatting his tongue against you, dragging it purposefully from your entrance to your clit.

Your hips followed the movement of his tongue, lifting up off the bed with your calves braced on his shoulders as you gave a pleasured sound between a gasp and a moan. He wrapped his arms around your thighs to yank you back down onto the mattress, repeating the motion with his tongue and pinning your squirming thighs to the bed.

He lapped at you slowly as he worked up to your clit, sucking hard on the spot and grunting softly at the sharp tug of his curls.

You were fisting his hair so tightly, your eyes closed and your mouth hanging open in the ecstasy of his wet mouth sucking and licking at your clit, quickly approaching an orgasm with how relentless he was.

When you untangled your fingers from his hair and tried to lay back on the bed, he immediately stopped what he was doing and pulled away to grab onto your hands. He pulled you back up and met your lustful eyes with his own pleased yet stern ones in the dim room. “Stay.”

You might have whined, but you made yourself stay sitting, both hands gripping onto his hair now to help with that; he started to lap long, slow licks against your clit and wrapped his arms around your thighs again.

His grip was a little bit looser now which allowed you to use him as you sought out all the pleasure he was willing to provide, and you were practically on top of him at the sensation of his tongue moving down to push into your entrance.

It was so fucking sexy to him that you were practically humping his face and he let you lean off the bed a little to brace yourself on him, moaning at your taste and positioning to make his nose nudge into your clit with each little movement of your hips.

You liked it as much as he did, enjoying partly controlling the friction on your clit matched with his tongue licking into you like he was enjoying a fine meal.

You always came pretty damn fast when Pope ate you out; there was something about the wetness and how he knew exactly what he was doing. He knew what you liked for his tongue to do on your clit, knew how to tease you into being absolutely turned on and never too much so as to frustrate you.

The man knew how to perfectly prepare you into being almost ready to cum with barely even touching you, of course he’d bring you to that glorious edge with only a few flicks of his tongue.

He knew you inside and out, too, and there was this little noise you’d make that told him it was starting to feel really good and he was putting the right amount of friction on the right spots.

Normally he’d be praising you with phrases like that’s right, baby or go on, sweetheart, I know it feels good, come for me, but with his head between your legs, he hummed against you and moved a little bit faster for you.

His unrelenting tongue made the tingling that seemed to bounce all over your cunt and thighs grow, then what you could only describe as burst.

You pressed right up against his face and were still there for a moment as your cunt squeezed, then you let out a loud moan at your muscles releasing and clenching hard.

Pope licked you through it to extend your strong orgasm as long as he could, lapping up your cum until you were twitching and gently smacking him on the head to tell him it was too much, and he laughed softly and laid his head on your thigh.

Both of you were quiet for a long moment and he knew you were to your happy, satisfied state where you were all fuzzy after an orgasm as you started stroking his hair. “Let me repay that.”

“You don’t have to. If you wanna, let’s wait until we’re back at the hotel or they’ll realize both of us aren’t using the bathroom or something.” He kissed your thigh then pulled out from under your legs, walking over to open the curtains.

The light in the room showed off your gorgeous body perched on the edge of the bed, looking like you might have been made of jello with how good you came, and he let his gaze roam over you like it was his first time seeing you naked.

He always looked at you like it was his first time seeing you naked.

A wink as your gazes met, he moved to where you undressed and bent over to pick up your favorite lacy, black underwear of his.

“Oh, shit, that sure did mess up my knees,” he groaned dramatically.

“Mhm.” Sure, you knew he was sassing you and trying to rile you up, but you were staring at that nice ass of his.

“C’mere, we can’t let you go out there like this.”

“I thought public nudity was admired.”

One thing that you so loved about Pope was that he was a capable man who could be tough with people when it was needed, but he could also be quite tender.

This showed in him allowing you to take hold of his shoulders as he helped you step into the panties and shorts he’d ‘demanded’ you take off.

You pulled on your bra and top on your own, leaning in to kiss the taste of yourself that was on his lips. “I wanna get out of here and suck that beautiful cock of yours.”

You kissed each other passionately a couple more times before you started to make your way to the back door with his hand squeezing yours tightly at the mere thought of how much you wanted to suck him off.

Frankie was the first to notice you stepping out of the house, grabbing another beer out of the cooler and cracking it open.

He looked suspicious, but he took a sip of the beer.

“You two pee together?” He quirked an eyebrow.

“The couple that pees together stays together.” Pope grinned, slapping him on the arm.

“I think that’s the grossest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Ya think?”

Pope looked at you to see you were looking at him both impatiently and lustfully, and he quickly looked at Frankie. “We need to get going, man, but let’s do something tomorrow.”

“I think the ladies were texting about wine or something.” The two men shared a full hug now that the baby was being entertained by somebody else, and Frankie looked at Pope in confusion when he pulled back to pat him on the cheek.

“Probablemente deberías lavar tus sábanas.” This confused him even more, but he wasn’t able to ask what he meant as he walked with you to let Frankie’s wife know you were leaving.

When you were in the car and buckling in to leave, you looked at him. “Did you tell Frankie to wash his sheets?”

Pope’s laugh told you more than enough.

You let out a laugh of your own, reaching out to shove his shoulder.

“You are so bad!” Your little shove was joking and you were pretty horny, gently rubbing up and down his bare arm.

“We’re leaving a nice, wholesome barbecue so you can suck my dick.” He started the car and glanced each way down the street as he pulled away from the curb.

The drive was comfortably silent with the radio playing some rock song softly in the background, your fingers tickling over his skin, and then his phone pinged in his pocket. “Can you see what that is, baby?”

You reached into his pocket with your hand lingering perhaps a little too far to the side, but you did pull out his phone and looked to see who texted him.

When you snorted, he glanced over at you and stopped the car at a red light to see what it said.

What the fuck did you do?! read the text from Frankie.

Pope probably cried a little too hard from laughing considering he was going to have to really make up for making his girl cum on his best friend’s sheets.

[jefferoni-quotes]

hotter than this heatwave

Jamilton, 13,045 words

I am begging y'all, don't let this flop it took an ungodly amount of time and I am so proud of it. Full fic under the cut.

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Hamilton is hot.

There’s no other way to say it. He’s hot, miserably so. Even with the air conditioner full blast, and a fan directed straight into his face, he’s simply sweltering in the heat. His childish refusal to remove his shirt (even in the privacy of his own home) isn’t helping the sweat cease in their races down his back, and the base of his ponytail sticks to his neck. He grimaces every time he even tries to move, and thus he’s resided himself to the expanse of couch, positioned himself under an open window. But there’s no breeze, none reaching him anyway. If he lifts himself on his shaking arms, and peers out the window, he can see the trees aren’t swaying. The leaves bustle occasionally, but it’s far from the usual dance they perform. He can hear all too clearly conversations, chatter from those subjecting themselves to the summer heat. Perhaps Alexander is more a winter person, ever since he had moved to America he had been, after all, he saw snow, something he thought only existed in movies, and immediately fell in love with the season. Being able to choose if he was to be pleasantly warm, or surprisingly cold during winter was an experience. To have the option of curling up like a cat by the fire, or lying in snow, making snowmen and such. And Christmas dinners- Alexander could go on and on for hours about the wonders of the coldest time of year, alas Hercules would disagree, argue Summer was so much better. But Hercules is Irish, he has enough of the cold to last him a lifetime. Now Hamilton would bet the man wishes he had just held his tongue, because he must be suffering in the heat too. 

Fuck heatwaves, and fuck New York.

He thinks to himself as he throws a cushion across the room in frustration. It hits his air conditioning unit, and before he knows it the apartment is plunged into a volcano. The unit malfunctions, turns off and doesn’t turn back on, even when Alexander shoots up from his languid position and desperately tries to fix it. He beats his fist off the top with pent up frustration, sincerely hoping that magically it would be fixed. Alas, it was not, it gave one last spluttering attempt to turn on before dying with a not so graceful clank. What sin has he committed to be tortured in such a way? It feels as though Satan himself is clawing his way up from the circles of Hell, and has declared Alexander’s apartment his spawn point, where the Heaven vs Hell war will begin. Whatever war is about to commence, Alex is on Satan’s team, as God must have something against him to send this wave of heat his way.

“Fuck!” He yelled, kicking the machine and cursing even louder at the shock of pain coursing through his toes. He clutches his foot, hopping around his apartment like some hurt rabbit and hisses through clenched teeth. He finally jumps his way ungracefully back to his couch, collapsing onto it in one foul swoop. His legs involuntarily give out under him, and he’s almost thankful for it as he half considers stripping out of his shirt, aching for some kind of relief. He starts tugging on the hem of his shirt, mulling over the idea before pushing his own hands away in disgust. A respectable man always remains fully dressed for any occasion. What if a visitor were to come by? He would likely demand their exit from his home, but he would at least like to do so in style.

The rooms are quick to grow stuffy, uncomfortable and as though the walls are too close and getting closer. Suddenly removing any clothing is a thought long forgotten, quickly replaced by the innate desperation to escape the closed doors of his apartment. He scrambles for purchase on the arm of his couch before forcing his muscles to revive and motor him towards the exit. He passes by his kitchen, opens the fridge for a moment just to feel the coolness on his body. He closes the door before all his food defrosts, albeit reluctantly. He would stand there all day if he could. Leaving the kitchen, he examines how his kettle has evaporated of all remaining water inside. There goes Plan B of making iced coffee, or worse, iced tea. Who could subject themselves to the bath water like clutches of cold tea? Disgusting.

He doesn’t stop to grab sunscreen, doesn’t consider sunburn a thing as he grabs his keys and shoves them in the pocket of his ratty cargo shorts. He pushes his feet into sandals, Birkenstocks, brown ones. He half contemplated putting socks on with his sandals, and automatically laughs at how much that would irritate Jefferson if he just so happened to run into him. The man is obsessed with his looks, conceited and vain in every way. Alexander wouldn’t be surprised if the man carries a pocket mirror on him, just to examine his appearance and remind himself of how goddamn gorgeous he is. Because he is gorgeous. Alexander is stubborn, not blind, and even he can admit the things he would give up for a fling with the man. His pride would never allow him to plead Jefferson for a one night stand however, and he knew Jefferson would never come to him, so that fantasy may as well remain just that. A fantasy. 

So he leaves the socks behind, but not because he cares what others think. Of course he doesn’t… simply because socks would just be extra layers. He doesn’t care if people think his hair is a mess, which it is, so he drags his hand through it. The hand comes back damp, and he grimaces, wiping it on the tan material of his shorts. And he certainly doesn’t care that one of the buckles on his sandals is about to break. He glares at it, willing it to sew itself back together. It does not. Hamilton sighs and folds, giving up on attempting to appear presentable. It’s not like anyone else outside looks much better, save for the few teenagers posing on the streets in incredibly short shorts with a Starbucks they probably waited an hour for. 

Alexander practically throws his door open and is met with a pleasurable breeze as it swings, which quickly dissipates into a blast of scorching air, as though opening an oven too quickly. You would think after being born in such a humid climate he would’ve grown used to the hot weather. Apparently, this was a false assumption. He fishes his keys back out of his shorts and locks the door, standing out in the lobby of his apartment complex. 

Now that he’s escaped the confinement of his home, Hamilton doesn’t know what to do. He could run down to Starbucks, take his mind off the heat with an ice cold Frappuccino. However, that would only distract him for a moment, perhaps an hour, until every drop of coffee has been drunk, and he’s left with an empty cup and a smoldering heat once more. And besides, if he's so desperate for an iced coffee then he could just make his own. That idea drains down the gutter, because he doesn't have any ice and there's no way water would freeze very fast in this temperament. He can briskly walk to work if he so pleases, despite being ordered to stay off, but that would require changing into a suit and now that he thinks about it… does his office even have air conditioning? 

A long, broken sigh escapes his lips and he drags a hand through his hair, which has grown ever so slightly damp with sweat. Maybe a walk to clear his head, and if he strolls in the right direction, the wind will hit him perfectly and he should cool down. 

He accepts this as the perfect idea and walks his way out onto the street, practically able to feel the burning tarmac through the soles of his sandals. He hopes there are no poor dogs or felines roaming the streets, or on daily walks on this day. The pavement would be far too much for their paws. Alexander feels which way the warm breeze is flowing and begins to trek directly into it, finding a sense of overwhelming relief at the sensation. (Even if it is relatively brief.)

Alexander’s feet carry him wherever they please, walking him down long streets, past empty stores. He stops to glance into a bustling Starbucks, hears through the glass a man screeching at a barista who is refusing to take his order because, “no shirt, no service.” He continues past, rather glad he had decided not to go inside, as it looks far too crowded, even for a small man such as himself.

His strides are short but swift, floating him along the streets with an air of confidence that he is known to possess. It is undeniably cooler outside, a welcome surprise as a gust of wind blows his hair from his face. He hears the simultaneous sighs of alleviation from the few on the streets, clearly walking around for the same reason as Hamilton. 

Time ticks by and Alexander allows his mind to wander, as it all too often does when he gives it the chance. His thoughts speed past a mile a minute, tempting his brain to consider them longer, grabbing them like falling petals before letting them drift to the ground and blow away once more. 

He passes through Time Square, finding it bustling, more so than he had imagined. However, it’s not ‘Christmas Crowded’, the eloquent name given to Time Square by Lafayette for when the area becomes full at the most amazing time of year. He makes his way past people, brushing shoulders and probably contracting some undiscovered disease off of some of them. It’s New York, he wouldn’t be surprised. He jumps out of his skin when some man behind him traces their fingers up his spine, but when he turns around the person is gone, laughing to their friends. He scowls, half considers shaking his fist and exclaiming about “kids these days!” But he doesn’t, he just shivers despite being roasted alive and continues on his way. 

He spaces out again, wondering about work and then he doesn't know what he starts thinking about. But in his head he can picture a man. A man with a jawline that could cut glass, eyes blacker than the depths of the sea, yet shining as though filled with fire. He can see springy curls, imagines himself running his fingers through the mystery man's hair and cooing as he mumbles his disagreements. He sees a dark complexion, sharp cheekbones, with soft edges. The colour purple is prominent in his clothing, and it takes a moment further for Alexander to identify the male in his mind.

He zones back in as soon as he realises he's thinking about Jefferson. Again. He's thinking about Jefferson in a good way, thinking about doing couple things, about dates. And he grimaces. He convinces himself it's just a fluke, only because he sees Jefferson every day at work. 

He starts checking the watch on his wrist, which is starting to heat up in the sunlight. It’s been almost an hour and forty five minutes since he began walking, and he checks the number on the street. It’s all okay. He can always catch a cab. He looks around and finds himself no longer in the bustling parts of New York, but instead part of a classy suburban area. Rows of white picket fencing and neat little gardens, full of wilting flowers meet his eyes. In the lawns of a few are men and women of all ages tending to the plants, feeding them with water to try and keep them going through the unbearable summer heat. 

All the homes are different colours, some a perfectly average, cream white, others slightly more lavish baby blues. There’s one where the exterior walls are a glowing lemon colour, and it fills Alexander with an unexplained wave of joy. Then again, the colour yellow always has. It feels warm, welcoming, like a friendship long awaited. Something that has awakened the craving in him that demands the enveloping arms of a smothering hug.

A child - probably around eight - runs down the street, being chased by who looks like his friend. The girl racing after him knocks him to the side and he goes down on a patch of grass, flat on his back while his friend stands over him with a look of pure pride. Her curls bob as she jumps up and down beside him with glee, and Alexander observes as the boy stands. They lean against the tree beside them for a moment, before he mutters something and this time the girl takes off sprinting, the boy following five seconds later. He chuckles at the purity of the situation and takes it upon himself to continue his walk. It’s warmer than ever, but he doesn’t care as much anymore. 

The kids race ahead, the girl much further ahead until she stops. Alexander observes from the sidelines as he walks, and the boy taps her on the shoulder. They stand there, childlike joy radiating from their area. 

Alexander breezes past them, halfway down the stretch of street. The houses grow larger than the previous as he continues to walk, yet still feel as homely. An amazing feat really. He can hear the soft patting of his Birkenstocks as they tap off the pavement each time his feet hit the floor. A car trundles past, down the street, at what must be 10 miles an hour, giving kids on the road time to move out the way. He doesn't catch a glimpse of the driver, but he has respect for them nonetheless. 

As he passes a large, pastel green house, a tall woman exits her garden. She’s old, that much is obvious, but she doesn’t live up to the ‘little old lady’ aesthetic. She’s tall, she’s not hunched and the only part that gives away her age is the wrinkles lining her face. She brushes a grey curl from her face, tying back her hair afterwards. She’s mumbling under her breath, something that sounds like, “it starts soon! The concert!” And for a moment he feels awfully bad for her, thinking she has Alzheimer’s or something similar.

She has a thick Southern accent, and reminds him of Jefferson in a way. Her curls are similar, perhaps not as bouncy or as soft looking (in fact the only similar thing is that they’re curls,) but it has the same obvious care put into maintaining their pristine appearance. Her skin tone isn’t at all similar to his however, she’s pale while Jefferson’s complexion is almost tawny in a way. He can’t see her eyes from where he stands, but if they’re anything like Jefferson’s, then they must be dark, and perhaps they sparkle like his does when he gets passionate about what he’s speaking of… And when did he start thinking about Jefferson so much? Why does he know Jefferson’s eyes glimmer in certain lighting, or burn with a fire when they argue? Why is he paying so much attention to the man's pupils, and how they fail to hide the emotions his stone-cold face manages to maintain? When did he begin to study his rival so closely that he noticed all these oddities? Little details; like the way his lips twitch into a soft smile when talking to Madison, or recalling fondly his time in Monticello. Or now his eyebrows quirk upwards whenever Alexander opens his mouth to speak during meetings, conveying his irritation, yet innate fascination with the words flooding the room. How does he know that Jefferson’s curls would be soft to touch, without ever being close enough to feel them between his fingertips. Why does he feel that the man could go pliant with a scratch to the right place of his scalp? Where did all this knowledge come from? The depths of his bustling mind-palace? Or is it some fountain of information that Alexander and few others have access to? Is there some key to access the quirks about Jefferson, a key that he has? Or does he simply have the mould, a fragmented ideology of a key? Has Jefferson personally handed him this key, trusted him with it? Or has Hamilton snatched it from his clutches like a criminal from an off-guard prison warden? To think of it, why does Jefferson - the ever flowing river of confidence - stash his emotions away, hiding them like a gold hoarding dragon in a cave. He sits on them as though a mother bird would protect her eggs. He keeps them unseen to the passing onlooker. Is he scared? The idea is ridiculous. Thomas Jefferson? Scared? Hell would freeze over before the moment Jefferson is frightened. Or is anxious a better word? Why does he covet to know what it’s like to wake up secured in those arms? (God those arms.) Why does his head claw for the intelligence to feel Jefferson? (Whether that be a warm hug or a simple swing of their hands, linked together?) Why is Alexander asking himself all these questions? Why is his brain grasping and reaching for the answers, as though the forbidden apple that he craves a bite of.

Why does he care?

It’s a recurring thought, one that his mind cannot seem to formulate a complete answer to. Perhaps because it’s the nice thing to do? But no, fantasizing about someone’s eyes like some schoolgirl is not a “nice thing to do.” It’s a crush, is what it is. Wanting to know more about Jefferson, seeking the answers to his many personal questions is not simply because it’s a nice thing to do. It’s because he needs the answers. His mind demands he become closer with the man, the vain, uncaring man. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Out of all the people his heart could sing a yearning song for, it chose Thomas fucking Jefferson.

Why has his attention been undeniably captured, held hostage, by the Southern fuck?

This one, he can justify. It’s a simple answer really, one that is half the solution to his hundreds of other questions, the ones that buzz in his ears like insistent flies. And it’s two words, one word if you so wish to keep it incredibly succinct. 

His wit.

His brain, his intelligence only matched and rivalled by Hamilton’s own. The way his fingers tap out word after word on keyboards, or scratch out essays upon essays onto paper with pens, pencils, whatever he can get his hands on. His intense expanse of knowledge that spans from American finance, to Shakespearean literature. His ability to argue and debate and speak for hours and hours with Alexander without losing his pace. The way his mind formulates sentence after sentence where he debates and there’s a fiery, yet somehow icy cold, passion in his tone. The fact that Hamilton finally has an equal. Where it’s unlike arguing against Burr, a stone wall of indifference. Jefferson is a stone wall that Alexander knows exactly how to make crumble. And he does. Over and over, yet Jefferson keeps rebuilding, stronger than before. He makes Alexander fight for his right to get his ideas across and as much as if pisses him off… he can’t deny that he loves it. He adores having to work his way up, enjoys knocking away obstacles that continue to respawn. What’s life without a little competition after all? Alexander enjoys hiking, and Jefferson is the ultimate mountain to climb. 

But he wants more. He needs to know more about this mysterious man. He wants to know what it’s like to share sweet moments with him, wishes to be granted passage to his heart. He wants the key to be given to him, not stolen away. He wants Jefferson to trust him. He wants to know his talents, his skills, his hopes, his dreams. He wants to know about his past, his present and his future. Wants to know his real personality, the one he has secured in a vault. Because Alexander is stubborn, this much as already been said, but he’s not stupid. He can see the twitch in his fingers, the brief panic that flashes through the man's dark eyes whenever he has to present in Congress. He can hear the way he stumbles and stammers his way through speeches, as though he’s ready off a particularly shitty script. It’s only when they debate, when they argue with that familiar intensity, that the inferno is let loose.  And Alexander is happy to be consumed in its flames. 

The thoughts are almost enough to frighten him. The way they consume his constantly changing mind until he can think of nothing else. The burning heat in the air has been forgotten, replaced with a searing, white-hot pain through his chest. A heart attack maybe? More likely a soul attack. Hamilton uses his clairvoyance, he isn’t stupid. He knows this crush has been around since the day they had met. Since the first inklings of their argumentative ways. The kindling that sparked a fiery rivalry. One sure to last a lifetime. Well, maybe on Jefferson’s end. Alexander has felt this way, this white hot pain for a while, but now his body registers it and it hits all at once. Like a slap to the face, a punch to the stomach and a kick in the balls. It’s never hurt this much. Not with Aaron, not with John, not even with Eliza. The three most important relationships of his life had never been this intense, and he and Jefferson aren’t even together. Perhaps that’s what caused the pain to harm him so much. The craving of a thing he can’t have.

He gets the same feeling, the same way he felt around his other relationships. With Aaron, it was calm, predictable. It was boring. He needed more, he needed a spark, something he could bounce off of and then melt together. Aaron was grey. Monotone, and straight lined. He was a man who needed something still. He required security and promises to stay the way they were. But Alexander was a storm, unpredictable and wild and fully intent on ravaging the waters, while what Burr really needed was a lighthouse. Someone who was a beacon of light to shine him to the right place. Hamilton could never provide that.

John had been close. He had been orange. Intense, swirling like a fire, like a burning heat. But not enough. He was too quick to back down, to agree and leave arguments unsettled. He didn’t put up enough of a fight, backed down from debates and left Alexander with many more points to push across. They had the same opinions, there was no need for a friendly debate. It just wasn’t enough for him. There was passion, but not in the way Alexander’s heart craved. John needed something grounding, someone to match his intensity with a cute yellow or a fellow orange. And he found that, he found that in Peggy and Alexander was happy to watch him go. He wanted his orange to be happy.

The third person had been blue. Eliza was the sea and the sky. She was beautiful and calm and swaying. She was helpful and loving, quick to input her opinion only to retract it later on. Alexander had thought she was perfect. She was, Eliza was perfect. But Alexander was not. Blue didn’t mix right with whatever colour Alexander was. Blue turned dark and foreboding, into something he didn’t want to experience. Their fire had been wrong, and if Eliza was the ocean, then Hamilton was the smoke on the water clouding her. She needed a similar colour, a green like the Earth whom she could surround and heal. Or another blue to swim with. It appeared Alexander was neither of those.

But Jefferson. Jefferson was different. He was intense and angry and punched out. He was red. A dark crimson that demanded attention at all times. A matching light to Alex’s own. They bounced off each other, before they crashed together in a mess of colours, an abstract painting of similarities. Jefferson was passionate, he had an intensity that matched Alexander’s previously unrivalled one, and he loved it. He loved red. Red was the colour he needed, the colour that felt best in his heart of hearts. And that’s when he knew that he was red too, that he was a candy red. He was bright and flashing and Jefferson was dark and mysterious and together they were perfect. Together they formed a shade of undiscovered colour. 

That’s what Alexander needed. He needed his red. Everyone else had theirs! It was his turn! It was finally his shot to find love, and he had no intentions of throwing it away.

In his time thinking, he’s almost completely forgotten the putrid heat, and the fact that the woman from before is walking down the street just a foot or two away from him. She’s brisk, in a hurry clearly, occasionally checking the time on her surprisingly high class smart-phone. In fact, another person joins him on his venture down the street, the little girl from before, but without her friend. And if he thought the woman reminded him of Jefferson, then this girl is the spitting image of him. Same hair, but longer and tied into puffy pigtails, the same wide and toothy smile as she taps Alexander on the side.

“Hey there, Mr!” She waves, and the first thing he can think is Stranger Danger. Did this girl's parents never teach her the importance of not talking to random people on the streets? “I’ve never seen you round here before, are you lost?” He supposes that he sort of is. He doesn’t know his way home, but somehow he’s not concerned. He can call a cab, or an Uber or Lyft. There are plenty of ways for him to arrive back home. But the fact that she asks him this is evident that this is one of those neighbourhoods. One where “everyone knows everyone.” Which is sweet, but annoying, because now he stands out. He wants to blend in with the crowd for once, but as he looks around, that’s been impossible for a while. He notices everyone out in their gardens or on the streets are white, which is expected at this point. It’s a flaw in the American housing system, one that he should bring up in Congress. Perhaps he could get Jefferson to support him for once, team up even. That’s the dream. 

He hasn’t said much for a few seconds, and the kid looks up at him with large, expectant eyes. “Oh, I’m not lost, no. Just going for a walk,” he nods gently and she seems to understand. He thinks she’s just going to run off after receiving an answer, but she seems insistent to interrogate Alexander a little more. 

She hums to herself, “what’s your name?” She asks ever so superficially, like an employer ready to write someone up for bad behaviour or poor customer service. Alexander knows those write ups all too well, it’s the reason he’s been forced off work today, something he was happy to let happen as soon as the heatwave hit. Work doesn’t have good air conditioning, if it has air conditioning at all. 

“Alexander,” he answers with a flick of his head, casting his glance to the sky. They’re still walking, nearing the end of the street. The old lady has stopped, and the little girl has too, which subsequently has Hamilton stopping. He looks down at her, chin tilted down as she glares up. She seems livid at his name, and he wonders what he’s done wrong until he realises she’s staring directly into the sun as she tries to suss him out. Her gaze is warm and welcoming however, childlike and pure and it’s a nice break from the cool stares he’s used to.

She nods happily, “my name's Patsy, I’m eight,” she grins and turns on her heel, casting one final look over her shoulder. “I’m going to play, if my Pops leaves the house tell him that’s what I’m doing!” She runs off, leaving Alexander wondering who her father is. The old lady is leaning on the fence of the house in front of him, glancing up to an open window. She looks like an NPC in a video game, purposefully placed in a specific spot just for unimportant exposition. Alexander is an expert in certain video games, and if her position isn’t just begging for him to go interact with her. She seems as though she may have some enchanted knowledge to pass down onto him, maybe even a cherry pie recipe if he’s lucky.

He walks over to her side, resting his forearms on the flat tops of the white fence. The house in front of him is painted a soft violet, it’s pretty. There’s neat rows of tulips and petunias in the lawn, which is freshly trimmed so it seems. There are bushes in the middle of the grass, cut into a point. Everything is seamless, blending together. It’s homely and calm, and Alexander smiles. The woman is smiling too. He glances at other things in the garden. Tucked away into the left corner by the porch is a barbecue, and not too far from that a wooden bench. There are thin cushions resting on it, but no one sits there. The lights in the house are off, the windows open along with the curtains. But when he looks in, he sees no one. Then again, he can only see directly into the window and up, so anything at the other end of the room is out of sight. Perhaps he should’ve worn his glasses today, unable to see very far in front of his face. In the driveway is a family car, a blue Chevrolet still spongy with a few soap studs. Newly washed, he notes. 

“It starts soon,” the elder comments, gesturing vaguely to the home before them. So she’s not an NPC. Alexander can’t put his finger on if that’s annoying or perfect, because he doesn’t have to start the conversation.

Yet his interest has been piqued, he was always a curious soul. It gets him into fits of trouble occasionally, but for now it seems as though the only thing he can get out of it is an intriguing talk. “What’s starting?” He asks quietly, tone low. His lips are dry, and he smacks them together to coat them with saliva to hopefully stop them cracking.

“The concert,” she answers, as though it’s the most typical thing in the world. Alexander is about to open his mouth to argue against that fact, to insinuate that a concert happening in someone’s home is ridiculous - (Even if all the Disney Channel movies taught him otherwise.) - but the woman is talking again. “Tommy always plays at three in the afternoon on a Sunday.” She seems transfixed, and every time Alexander tries to speak she hushes him. She holds up her hand to silence him, and it gives him the same feeling George Washington gives him, authority radiates from her and Alex finds himself actually shutting up. It’s two fifty-nine now, and he’s waiting for the music to start from this mysterious “Tommy.” 

He’s impatient, and authority only hushes him for so long. He fidgets, picks paint off the fence and then speaks. “When does it start?” He hisses, bored. Come on, it’s three! Almost at least. 

“I told you, he plays at three.”

“It is three!” Alexander whines pathetically, crossing his arms over. He’s stood still in wait for long enough, and if music doesn’t start in the next thirty seconds he’s going to walk away and never look back. He’s all set to move when the lady grabs him by the shoulder.

She hisses, “it’s starting!” 

And indeed it is. Through the open windows, pouring out the house are the sweet chords of an expert violinist. It’s a harmony, seems sad, longing almost. The melody starts slow, and carefully picks up pace as it goes. He can only imagine who the player is, male or female it doesn’t matter. His mind whirs with ideas, forming the musician in his mind.

Their hands would grip the bow with precision, glide across the strings with a focussed expression. He can see their- no, his, eyes turned down to the instrument, pupils darkening as they get lost in the notes. The violin is balanced on his shoulder, tucked under his chin and his hair falls into his view but he keeps playing. The straight, actually, it’s curly. The ringlets of curls are brushed away quickly, in one movement as he continues to play. 

Alexander spaces out, losing himself to the music. It appears the lady beside him does the same, but he can’t be sure. He tries to put a colour on the tone of it, tries to decipher the meaning behind the song. The violin fades into an instrumental where it’s clear the player should be singing, but they don’t. He tries to picture a face, going as far as to close his eyes and block out everything but his own imagination and the melody flowing to him. It’s like a siren call, coaxing him towards sudden death. And Alexander is all too happy to submit to the urges. 

He finds a face, dark eyes, curls, complexion. Once again he’s picturing Jefferson. Over and over the man comes to mind. He tries to push him away, attempts to imagine someone else standing in the home and playing just for him. But it’s futile. And the song does feel like it’s for him. It feels like it matches the music his heart sings, the yearning harmony that lathers his soul is rivalled by this player. By Jefferson. It’s not like he’s ever going to meet the violinist, so he’s free to picture whoever he pleases. 

He’s sweating, it’s the heat, it must be. His palms that are clenched into fists by his sides are coated in a thin sheen of sweat, his forehead growing damp again. He makes no effort to wipe it away, he lets the heat sweep over him. He allows the flames to engulf him, the chords of the song floating to him still. 

But as soon as it’s begun, it ends. The violin fades out, leaving the music buzzing pleasantly in his veins. The lady smiles, nods and starts to walk off, back to her house. The concert comes to a close, curtains shut and shun all backstage visitors away. But when has Alexander ever abided by the rules? 

His feet march him into the garden, down the lawn and up to the porch. He steps up the stairs, both of them at once. He’s having trouble summoning courage, something that’s rare for him. Typically he isn’t walking up to a strangers home just to congratulate them on their musical talent… that he probably isn’t even supposed to hear. 

It takes Alexander a long minute of just standing there before he swallows his pride and taps his knuckles off the door. There are footsteps, coming closer and as they do he rids himself of the urge to run away. 

He’s almost expecting Jefferson, he’s built him up in his mind and placed him on a pedestal. Or maybe it’s better to say that he’s trying to force the man into a treasure box, as he does with all the things he loves. His mother’s memory goes in there, his pens and his laptop and the pendant necklace from his mother. He’s trying to push Jefferson into the box too, to keep him by his side but he won’t stay. Perhaps it’s impossible to keep a person preserved in a treasure chest, or maybe it’s just Jefferson. He needs room, he needs space to evolve and change and grow and Alexander’s treasure chest can’t provide that. Alexander can though. He just has to let Jefferson stay out of the box. 

Like he said, he’s almost expecting Jefferson to be at the door. But he still gets shocked when it actually is. It actually is Thomas fucking Jefferson standing in the doorway and Jesus he’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt so tight it should be illegal. It’s difficult enough for Alexander to handle when he can practically see Jefferson’s chest through his sheen white dress shirt at work, but this is too much. This man is an Adonis. He’s the sun, Alexander is an icarus and he feels as though he simply has to fly closer. 

“Hamilton!”

Shit, has he been speaking this whole time? Alexander flicks his gaze to Jefferson’s face, and fuck him he’s wearing glasses. Chunky black hipster frames that balance on the bridge of his nose. Christ, he’s in deep isn’t he? 

Jefferson waves his hand in front of Alexander’s face, grabbing his attention. “Hu-uh?” Alexander stumbles out his words pathetically, lighting up red soon after. He goes the same crimson as Jefferson’s shirt, the colour he identifies the man with. He looks like he’s about to slap Alexander across the face if he doesn’t start properly talking soon.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jefferson hisses, venom laced in his tone. He’s like a snake, coiled up into a spring, ready to attack and bite at the next to approach. In his hands (lord, those hands!) he holds a clear water bottle, knuckles white with the ferocious way he grips it. He brings it up to his lips and takes a careful sip, eyes trained like a sniper on Alexander.

Hamilton collects himself, gathering his thoughts, which shouldn’t be as difficult to do as it is. He coughs into his fist, realising how dry his throat is. The aspect of water is welcoming, and he wants to reach out just to snatch the plastic (reusable, how environmental) bottle off of Jefferson to guzzle down the remaining liquid. Alas, he does not. Because that would be weird. 

He still hasn’t answered, thus Jefferson continues with a hiss. “What are you doing here?!” He’s not angry, Alexander knows this. He has seen the man angry. 

One time, he had seen the man in his furious element. The cabinet meeting had just ended, and Jefferson had stormed out after Washington had taken Alexander’s side once again. It wasn’t Hamilton’s fault he was better! Jefferson had stalked towards his office, and Hamilton had followed after him, the cheap fake leather of his shoes squeaking on the polished linoleum. Alexander had continued his argument, much to the dismay of the taller man. Jefferson had tried his very best to slam the door on Hamilton’s face, using all his force (which was a lot) to close it behind him, but Alex managed to stick his foot in the gap and wretch it open, still blabbering away. Jefferson had collapsed into his office chair, held his head in his hands and muttered to himself as Alexander got closer. His voice had stayed a constant, boisterous and accompanied with gesticulating gestures until he lost his cool and whipped Jefferson’s seat around himself. 

“Answer me already! You spit and stumble your way through speeches, I bring out the real you! I bring out the fires! Show me him and argue back!” The animosity had been high in Alexander’s tone, he liked the unabashed Jefferson who fought with him. The man who poured wisdom from his tongue like his mother language. Why he held it back when talking to anyone else baffled him beyond belief. But this meeting he had barely spoken, just shared his points with a quiet voice and sat back down, not bothering to debate Alexander. He was furious, made sure to target Jefferson in some of his words just to try and get a rise, a reaction, anything! But it had not worked, so he resorted to his last lifeline, and followed the man to his office. 

Jefferson snapped his gaze up, and there it was, the fire he so dearly wanted. The red-hot passion that licked at his pupils, threatened to burn Alexander. “You bring out the real me?! No, Hamilton,” he had spat his name like it was some dirt on the bottom of his polished shoes, “you bring out the worst in me! You bring out the angry, tired part of me that doesn’t want to deal with your bullshit!” 

“My bullshit?” Alexander had smirked as though he had won, and in his sense he had. For a moment at least. Because he had gotten a reaction, the thing he craved as much as air. He had gotten his red to reply and that’s all he really needed. He was happy from here on out. But, he could always push it further. So he had. “Care to explain to me what my bullshit is? Is it my financial plan? Is that what it is, Jefferson?” He had remained sickeningly-sweet, words sugary like honey, dripping in the same way. 

Jefferson had laughed, hysterical really. A break from his usual smug laughter. A break Alexander didn’t enjoy very much. He was never one to like breaks, preferred to continue in a way he always had. And he and Jefferson had a dance, a specific way they did things that they had yet to break. A routine that Jefferson was so arbitrarily destroying just with a fit of chuckles. “Your financial plan is a piece of insulting garbage, but that is not what I mean-“ he had scoffed, and rose from his seat, towering over Alexander with a menacing glint. “-You are a parasite to me, you trail around like some sad puppy, desperate for attention! But why me? I stammer through speeches, but alas it’s better than talking a million miles a minute where no one can understand you! You bring out the fire, the hellfire! You make me want to snap you into pieces and scatter you on my lawn like fertiliser. Do us all a favour and get out!”

A little shocked by the imaginative insult, Alexander resisted. “No.”

“No?”

“No.”

Jefferson had him by the collar next, shoving him up against a wall, face so close he could feel the hot breath of his rival on his face. “You talk a big game, Hamilton, yet you forget to follow through. The fire you bring out in me is the worst part about myself and I’d prefer to hide it away,” he had growled, low and rumbling in his chest, “you’re not good enough to lick the dirt off my shoes. You must think you’re so special, yet all you do is hump the President’s leg until you get what you desire. God knows why he takes your side on every political matter.” He had dropped Alexander after that, left him scrambling to his feet. “Get out of my office.”

Scared, but stubborn, Alexander had supplied a retort. “Or what, old man? Gonna make me?” 

Jefferson had grit his teeth together, grinding them so hard Hamilton was surprised they hadn’t faded away. “Or else.”

“All bark and no bite.” Alexander scoffed in return, making his way slowly to the door. He cast a look over his shoulder in time to see Jefferson physically slump back into his chair, looking tense and stressed and he couldn’t help but feel bad. He had felt Jefferson’s eyes on his back the whole time he had left, felt them searing holes through his jacket and burning into his skin. Not that he was complaining though. 

And once again, Alexander peers up at him with wide eyes. “Oh, well um-“ he directs his gaze over Jefferson’s shoulder, “it’s kind of a long story.” He’s hinting quite obviously at his pleas to come inside, and Jefferson must catch on because a hint of realisation casts over his dark eyes, the eyes Alexander spends so much of his time thinking about. 

“I have time,” came Jefferson’s grimy reply. One long finger came up to push his glasses up by the rim, unlike anyone else who would push them up by the bridge. Alexander inadvertently stashed this information away in his treasure chest. He taps his foot in a way that almost feels surreptitious. Or perhaps that’s the incorrect word. Jefferson keeps looking over Alexander’s head, then glancing behind him, eyes darting in all directions. 

Alexander has the sun beating down on his back, and he can see Jefferson squinting in the light. It’s hot again, too hot in all the wrong ways, and Alexander only feels hotter with Jefferson’s eyes on him. “Well- uh- it started because my AC unit broke and-“

“Hamilton, I didn’t ask for a life story,” Jefferson fiddles with the hem of his t-shirt, looking almost nervous. Which was ludicrous! Jefferson? Nervous? That… made a lot of sense actually. His stammering through meetings, his constantly tensed shoulders, the time he had overheard Madison and Adams talking about him a few years back, saying “He was born stressed out about something.” It makes the shuffling around start to add up, how he loses his cool around Alexander and loosens up because he stops thinking. He stops worrying and starts concentrating solely on deconstructing Hamilton’s argument. He feels a little rush of pride at that, that he can get Jefferson to let go. Yet at the same time, it feels like it’s perverse knowledge he isn’t supposed to have access too, which brings him right back around to the key metaphor. A metaphor he’s using so often it’s beginning to lose meaning, and he’s beginning to imagine an actual key, which confuses his head even more than it already is. 

He’s broken from his thoughts by Jefferson speaking once more, “would you like to come inside?” He asks quietly, shifting foot to foot. Alexander steals his gaze downwards, unable to look Jefferson in the face as he processes that question. His rival (whom he’s established as the man he wants to date, and god it feels so much more real when he thinks of it like that), has just invited him into his home. His home that Alexander always imagined to be bigger, more spectacular and less… welcoming. “You could inform me of why you’re standing on my doorstep in broken sandals over a glass of Chardonnay?”

“How am I supposed to say no to that?” Alexander responds almost mockingly, stepping into the home as Jefferson moves aside. He shuffles and a hand goes up to card through his curls, and Alexander wonders if they’re as soft as they appear. He resists the urge to stride over and find out for himself as he steps inside. “I would take my shoes off, but I feel as though barefoot is even more disrespectful.” He hums absent-mindedly.

Jefferson seems to tune back in at that as he flicks his gaze to follow Alexander. “And since when have you cared about being respectful towards me?” His words are sharp, upset almost. It’s strange, but Alexander kind of likes the vulnerability, it feels special. As though Jefferson is trusting him with the real real him. “Just leave your shoes on,” he adds carefully onto the end with a flippant wave and a frown. 

Alexander does just that, but wipes his feet on the welcoming mat Jefferson has placed in his hallway. “What’s your liquor of choice?” Jefferson asks, sauntering off towards his kitchen, voice growing quieter as he walks off. Alexander finds his eyes following his back, watching the way his red shirt clings to the muscles of his back, and he swallows slowly, with intent. 

“I believe I was promised Chardonnay, Mr Jefferson!” Alexander calls after him, taking it upon himself to look around the hallway. It’s cooler inside, thank god, but it’s not chilly. Jefferson knows how to set his AC without breaking it, Hamilton could never relate. The walls are painted a warm brown, framed family photos lining the hall. There is one, where Alexander counts twelve people in the image. The camera quality isn’t great, but all the people in the photo are similar in appearance, the only two who stand out are the ones who look like parents, as their hair is turning grey and there are wrinkles along their foreheads. He spots Jefferson - well, Thomas because he’s managed to figure out everyone in the photo is a Jefferson - rather quickly, he’s the second tallest in the picture, just after the one who looks like his father, but he looks younger, smiling wide at the camera and holding a baby boy on his hip. He looks much too young to have a son, so he must be Jefferson’s brother. 

There's another photo of him cradling a small child in his arms, a newborn, little girl based on the pink wool hat on her head. He looks older than the previous photo, so Alexander deciphers that this is his child. He looks around. There are no children about. He’s smiling wider than he’s ever seen before, down at the baby whose eyes are tightly shut. Alexander grins to himself and ghosts a finger over Jefferson’s face, or at least over the glass. There’s a corner of a woman’s face in the top left, she looks tired. Jefferson does too, bags under his eyes and smile creases by his lips. But he still looks… god, what word can he use?

The next photo makes his fond smile fall faster than a rock from the top of a cliff. A wedding photo, Jefferson in his mid-twenties, dressed in a suit (that hugs him in all the right places, damn) and kissing a short woman in a flowing white wedding dress. He looks so happy, beaming as his hands rest on her hips. A wave of jealousy crashes over him as he studies the image closer. It’s outdoors, must be in Virginia, and the two newlyweds are standing under an arch laced with pink roses and light pink tulips. He frowns, there goes his chance. But it won’t hit him yet, it only will at around midnight, when he’s emailing Washington where he will pause and scream for a minute as it sets in.

He’s so focused on the wedding pictures that he doesn’t even notice Jefferson coming up behind him. “That’s Martha,” the low voice by his ear makes Alexander jump out of his skin, clasping a hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out. “Sorry, did I scare you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer and continues to talk, “I thought you would’ve been in the living room, but I suppose I never told you to make yourself at home.” Alexander turns around and chokes on a breath. Because fuck, Jefferson is right there, glasses slipping down his nose, cheeks dusted red and lips inches away from his own. He swallows again, takes a step backwards and hits the wall with his back. 

Jefferson hands him a champagne flute with a bubbling glass of white wine, and Alexander nods in return. "Thank you," he studies Jefferson carefully as he flicks his chin up quickly and takes a step away, giving Alexander room to finally breathe. He quickly glances back at the few photos on the wall, catching a glimpse from his peripheral vision as Jefferson sips from his glass. "Martha was…?" He waits for the other to finish his sentence impatiently. 

"My wife," Jefferson answers with ease, gulping back a small drink. "A million years ago at least." He chuckles. And Alexander doesn't quite understand. Typically, divorcees don't keep photos of their marriage hanging in the entrance way to their home. Apparently the confusion is evident in his expression, because his host keeps talking. "She passed away eight years ago, just after giving birth." 

Alexander bites down on his bottom lip, regretful. He was just thinking about how jealous he was, thinking about going home, calling Laurens or Lafayette and talking shit about Jefferson and his supposed wife. Well he certainly wouldn’t be doing that anymore. “Oh,” he says, rather ineloquently, “I’m sorry.”

Jefferson shrugs, takes another long drink from his glass, like the conversation pains him. It probably does, Alexander realises. “It’s alright, it was a long time ago,” he drawls, making sure to not finish his glass. It’s half full now, and Alexander sips the sparkling liquid. Jefferson clears his throat, looking much like he does during meetings. Uncomfortable, small almost. “Well, can I tempt you to sit in the parlour with me?” He raises an eyebrow, leads them through to a room with windows that are almost floor to ceiling, spar for the comfy looking window seat (covered in a knitted quilt and tartan pillows) that Alexander plops himself down on. The other man seats himself by a small round table, mahogany for the looks of it. 

Alexander wants to speak, as always. His tongue flicks in his mouth, forming words but Jefferson cuts him off. “So, Alexander, tell me, what brought you to my doorstep on this… boiling afternoon?” It doesn’t slip past him that Jefferson uses his first name. The way it rolls with his accent, drawling slow as always until Alexander is hanging onto every syllable. 

His brain catches up with the question after being so hung up on the way his given name sounds on Jefferson’s lips, and the fact that he would love to hear it in other contexts- God, he needs to stop. But the man is right there and- No. “I broke my air conditioning unit, and needed to get out.” He shrugs and takes a slurping drink of Chardonnay, perhaps if he irritates Jefferson enough, he’ll see the fire he wants.

“That doesn’t explain why you knocked on my door,” Jefferson flicks his wrist and places his glass down. Alexander can practically hear the cogs in his brain (that wonderful mind) whirring as he thinks. He can see the intelligent man putting the puzzles pieces together, in order to view the whole picture. He stops to admire his fellow Secretary’s brilliance far too often, and he always has. It’s a constant, a comma in his life where he pauses and admits to himself that Jefferson is smart. And sometimes he hates it. He hates that Jefferson is so so bright, but is full of only stupid things to say. Like he doesn’t learn both sides of the argument before presenting. Or perhaps that’s just how humans work, they’re always going to be biased. 

Alexander coughs into his fist again, seeing Jefferson grit his teeth that he had the audacity to slurp his expensive (probably French, pretentious bastard) wine. “I decided to go for a walk,” he began to explain, as confident as always. “And then I ended up here,” he chewed on the inside of his cheek, “because I heard you playing violin and wanted to come speak to whoever the player was. Didn’t know it was going to be you.” 

Jefferson appears uncomfortable. He finishes his glass in one large gulp and places his now empty glass on the table. He pushes his glasses up his nose by the rim once more, sighing softly. “You say that like it was bad playing.” He said quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances at his empty glass, refilling it with only his eyes and exhaling as it refuses to fill. How disappointing.

“No, no!” Alexander waves his hands in a flurry, almost spilling his Chardonnay on the laminate flooring. Jefferson’s eyes catch the droplet that flies from the glass and lands on one of his quilted cushions. Hamilton is too busy explaining himself to realise. Why is he being so considerate of Jefferson’s feelings? (He has a crush on him, he knows this. He knows it’s because the man looks so much more vulnerable in his own home, in shorts and t-shirt and glasses. And oh fuck he’s staring again.) “I wanted to come tell the violinist how incredible their playing was!” He watches the man who is supposed to be his rival smile, genuine and pure, and his heart soars. Butterflies swarm in his stomach, flapping their wings at a hundred miles an hour. It’s like he can take flight, all because of Jefferson’s shy little grin, watching the way his lips twitch upwards. It’s so different from his other sly, wicked smirks, all teeth and hatred. Is it hatred really though? Alexander doesn’t have the time to ask himself all of these questions again, he’s never going to find an answer. 

"I've played ever since I was a child," Jefferson replies, tapping his fingers off his thighs. As Alexander has established, everything about this man seems to be carved by the gods out of stone and his legs are no exception. 

"Impressive." He isn't lying. Alexander finds it wildly impressive, violin is a difficult instrument to master. He believes Jefferson mutters something along the lines of 'thank you', but he isn't particularly paying attention. He needs more to drink. He doesn't want to have to think anymore, so he doesn't. Instead, he downs his glass. 

“Want a refill?” Jefferson drawls, rising to his feet and taking both empty glasses. All Alexander can do is nod and watch as the man walks off, eyes concentrated on his back and definitely not other places because that would be crude. 

Alexander crosses his legs (sits criss-cross applesauce) on the windowsill seat, fluffing a pillow behind his back and cautiously leaning back to rest against the window panes. He’s almost scared of breaking them, or of the glass popping out. So instead he turns and tucks his knees in slightly, sitting along it sideways to lean on the wall that slightly juts out. He must appear comfortable, because when Jefferson comes back in he laughs carefully. “Made yourself at home I see?” He hands Alexander the glass of Chardonnay, and he notes that in his other hand is the bottle. 

“Yeah, got a problem with that?” Alexander responds sarcastically. Jefferson plops himself down - surprisingly - beside Alexander, in the small space between his feet and the other wall. He hadn’t expected the sudden closeness, and all cognitive thought grinds to a stop when he realises he can smell Jefferson’s overpriced cologne. It’s probably perfume, when he thinks about it. Flowery and reeking of money. But Alexander thinks (after smelling it before, and now smelling it here) that he’ll kill Jefferson if he ever wears anything else. 

Jefferson sips from his glass. “Not at all.” Alexander wants to stretch his legs out, but felt as though he couldn’t do that. Jefferson was right there! What can he do? Put his feet on the man’s lap? … he could do that. He could actually do that. “Whatcha thinkin’ about, Hammy?” He purrs teasingly, raising a curious eyebrow and chuckling to himself. Alexander can’t help but notice the slight flush of his cheeks, the dusty pink across his skin. He eyes him suspiciously, before he finally realises that the man must be a lightweight. Now there’s something he didn’t expect.

“Hammy?” Alexander quirks an eyebrow, suspect. It’s amusing how Jefferson seems to relax that slight bit as he sips his Chardonnay. The slightly older man just nods in return, bringing his glass to his lips and taking another drink. Alexander does the same, swirling the wine in his champagne flute with a chuckle. “Just that I wanna stretch out.” He shrugs and continues to drink, observing as Jefferson’s face scrunches up unattractively. Somehow, Hamilton still finds it adorable. Who would’ve thought he would find Jefferson cute? How strange.

“Then just do it,” Jefferson suggests with a smile, shrugs his shoulders and sips his drink. Alexander is surprised, never would’ve thought Jefferson would allow him to kick his feet up. It feels intimate, like a cute-couple thing to do. He hesitantly stretches his legs out, untucking his knees and placing his feet up on Jefferson’s lap, who hums his approval. 

Alexander sips his Chardonnay, starting to speak. And Jefferson? Jefferson starts to listen. 

Half an hour, and the rest of the bottle of Chardonnay later, the two are on the right side of tipsy. They’re just drunk enough to feel comfortable enough to sit shoulder to shoulder, resting against each other without looking like they’re being forced into the close proximity. Except they are no longer shoulder to shoulder, in fact, they’re closer than that. Alexander has his head on Jefferson’s lap, his glass long forgotten on the table, along with Jefferson’s champagne flute too and the empty wine bottle. Alexander is continuously muttering about the current political climate, ranting quietly while Jefferson listens, occasionally inputting his opinion.

“Are you not gonna argue with me?” Alexander raises an eyebrow. He’s trying to irritate Jefferson, and pokes his cheek to try and agitate him more. But Jefferson doesn’t react, other than blushing an even darker crimson. The colour he is. He’s crimson, but now he’s dull and Alexander misses his booming red. 

Jefferson hums to himself, eyes fluttering shut. Alexander reaches up and pushes the other man’s glasses up his nose by the bridge. Jefferson flicks his eyes open suddenly and stares down at him, catching his wrist in his hand. Alexander feels paralysed, feeling his large palms around his own bony wrist and holding it in a loose grip. He doesn’t answer the question, “it’s so nice outside. Why are we still sitting here?”

“Why indeed?” There’s a ever so slight slur to his words, drawn out a little more than usual. Alexander kicks his feet to the ground, standing so casually it’s like he stays and hangs with Jefferson all the time and not never at all. He turns to face Jefferson, overlooking his features. He’s never had a chance to look at him so relaxed, and he notices how tense Jefferson typically is compared to now. At work, his shoulders are straight, hunched up to his ears and his posture is a horizontal line. Whereas now, he’s a little more slumped, tension gone from his body. It’s a breath of fresh air, one he never thought he would experience and accept so easily.

Jefferson rises to his feet, and typically he would be towering over Hamilton yet now, he doesn’t feel as dominating. Instead, he’s softer, edges aren’t as sharp or predatory. The mirthful glint in his pupils has faded, but the fire still licks at his eyes. It’s a welcoming heat, like the fireplace on a freezing day. And despite the current heatwave, Alexander finds himself wishing to curl up by the fire like a purring cat. “Come on, let’s go sit in my backyard.” 

Alexander expects to trail after him, certainly not for the man to offer his hand to Hamilton. But he takes it, ignoring the way his heart pounds in his chest and the way his head is screaming at him. “You’re holding his hand! You’re holding Thomas Jefferson’s hand! He offered it to you! You didn’t even have to ask!” His pulse races in his ears, as he leads the two of them into his back garden. It’s beautiful, a large monkey puzzle tree in the far right corner, casting a lovely shadow over a section of the yard. Jefferson guides Alexander over to the tree and sits down under it, gesturing next to him. “C’mon, Hammy, I don’t have all day.” Alexander feels his heart flutter again, starting to race at the ridiculous nickname. If anyone else used it, he would be quickly driven mad. It’s all because of this damn Secretary. 

Alexander takes a seat by him, leaning against the bark of the tree and exhaling. It’s warm, but at least vaguely cooler under the tree. Jefferson certainly seems to appreciate it, as the slightly intoxicated man removes his glasses and places them on the trimmed glass next to him, tips his head back until it hits the tree truck and breathes out happily. Alexander eyes the expanse of skin by his neck, and starts to feel like a particularly famished vampire, gazing at the muscles of someone’s neck of all places. But there’s a familiar itch in his fingertips, the urge to have his face tucked into the crook of his neck and just breathe. The thought would be scarier if it wasn’t for the alcohol in his blood. He feels confident, confident enough to lean against Jefferson and carefully hide his face in his shoulder. Not his neck, sure, but it’s close. 

Alexander can feel his counterparts breathing stutter and he gently nuzzles against him, appreciating the muscle under him. “Hamilton, are you alright?” He’s sobered up, the shock of Alexander curling around him like ivy clings to a house seemingly having knocked the wine out of his system. He allows Alexander to wind himself tighter around his body, like it's cold out and he’s the only viable source of heat. It’s not. It’s still absolutely sweltering, evident in the way sweat beads at Jefferson’s brow and Alexander longs to reach over and smooth out the developing stress lines. 

“Mhm…” Alexander hums his answer and buries his head into Jefferson’s neck, finally finally being close enough to him.  Yet… somehow he’s dying to be closer. “I’m great, perfect! Even,” he giggles, the alcohol definitely making him a fun drunk. He’s a lightweight, that’s for sure, but when it hits him, it hits all at once. He’s got a rush of flirtatious courage surging through his veins, hot in his blood. 

Jefferson moves his hand across and gently caresses Alexander’s pink cheeks, observing how he keens into it like a cat. That’s exactly what Alexander reminds him of, a cat. Hissing and violent in his worst moments, yet clingy and desperate for attention in his best. It’s a good thing Jefferson likes cats then. He drags an arm around Alexander’s shoulder, taking in his appearance. Small and (gross, his back is damp) hunched over, tucking into him and smiling, pink lips twitching into a happy grin. He’s so soft like this, vulnerable in a way Jefferson’s never seen him before. He’s intensity is being channeled into a new emotion, and Jefferson knows he’s still red. Still a fiery red, but it’s dragged in a different direction. It’s pulling him into love, and it makes his stomach do flips. Because if he has to be honest to himself, he’s had a crush on this ridiculous gremlin (excuse of a man) politician since the day of their first Cabinet meeting. Alexander could keep up with his thunderous talking pace, and he loves it. He loves it so much. “You’re sure?”

“Well,” Alexander decides it’s now or never, “I suppose there’s a way it could get…” he darts his tongue out and licks his lips, “even better.” He moves an inch away from Jefferson, eyes flickering between his eyes (no longer covered by lenses) and his lips, which look all too kissable. Jefferson doesn’t seem to catch on, just catches Alexander’s gaze with his own intense one. 

“How so?” He raises an eyebrow, arched brow almost judging him. 

“Kiss me,” Alexander breathes, tilting his chin upwards and leaning forward, hoping Jefferson will close the gap. And he does. God he does. He leans down and in, dipping his head and pressing his lips softly to Alexander’s own. They’re soft and insistent and gentle against his own chapped ones. And Alexander finds himself sober, before getting drunk on the feeling of Jefferson kissing him and ha! He’ll be able to rub this in Lafayette’s face later! Suck it, Frenchie! 

Alexander cards his hand into Jefferson’s curls, because he’s scared he’ll never get the chance to feel them again. They’re as soft as they look, springy between his fingers and wonderful to the touch. It’s such a wonderful kiss, their first kiss, and Alexander wants to keep on kissing him forever. Jefferson makes a quiet whimpering noise and Alexander forces himself to pull away before he melts and never does. “Jefferson,” he breathes across his lips.

“Thomas,” the other corrects delicately, a meer whisper before he’s tangling his hand in Alexander’s hair and tugging Alexander back to meet his lips. It’s feverish this time, desperate and needy. The roasting heat must be getting to them, because they’re rivals, are they not? Well, not anymore. Because he’s pretty sure enemies don’t kiss in summer heatwaves, under monkey puzzle trees in their rivals back garden. But they do now, because Alexander isn’t giving this up for the world. Not now. He has his red. 

“Thomas,” Alexander repeats Jeffer- Thomas’s words as they break away again. The name feels heavy on his tongue with the taste of its owner on his lips. Like it should be a sin, a sin to have enjoyed that so much. But he will gladly go to hell if it means getting to experience that intimacy again. The base of his ponytail has started to be tugged out, knotting where his fingers have tangled in the locks. He lays his head on the man’s shoulder, starting to slide half in and half out of his lap. It’s insane, the burning feeling in his chest as he locks this memory away in his treasure box, saving it for a rainy day, just in case this was a one time thing.

Thomas cradles Alexander’s chin in one hand, thumb hooking under his jaw and tilting his head up so that he can look into his eyes. Hamilton could get lost in those eyes, as he has many times. So many times during cabinet meetings he has stared at Jefferson, at those dark eyes and simply dove in, gleeful at the aspect of drowning in them. Only for the man to spout some ridiculous shit and drag Alexander out of the waters, slap him around and take him to his senses. “Yes, dear?”

That voice was going to be the death of him.

“I-“ He lost all forms of cognitive thought, the train must’ve derailed when Thomas pressed their lips together. Because fuck, he can even feel the violin chords buzzing in his veins again and it’s all so much and he loves it. Alexander flicks his gaze around Thomas's face, (he really has to get used to calling him that) kiss-swollen lips, the deep blush across his cheeks. He must look like an awestruck child from Thomas's perspective, because the man chuckles and takes his free hand through Alex's hair, taking it out of the pony tail in one movement. "Red." Alex mutters finally.

"Red?" Thomas repeats with a cocked eyebrow, hands Alexander his hair tie and brings both hands back to his lap. He really isn't sure what Hamilton means. What does red have to do with anything? If he had to put a colour to this moment, he would call it tickled pink. Intense and warm, but full to the brim of love and devotion. Pink.

Alexander nods, presses a finger to Thomas's chest, and another to his own. "Red," he nods, taking his fingers away, instead splaying his palm across Jefferson's chest absent-mindedly. "That's our colours. We're red."

Thomas never imagined he would be agreeing with Alexander so easily. With Martha, their relationship had been a soft pink. The fire was there, buried beneath the surface of dedication and loyalty. It was comfortable, it was perfect. He never needed anything else, because everything he needed was in Martha. But was he pink? Certainly not. She was his high-school sweetheart, the only real relationship he had ever had. He didn't count the many women (and men) in France, they never lasted longer than a night of sub-par activities and a morning of awkward goodbyes. 

"We are, aren't we?" Thomas hummed, eventually pulling himself from his thoughts before he sunk too far. Thinking was a dangerous activity, one he didn't take time to do in fear of never emerging again. 

"But," Alexander continues, and Jefferson's heart sinks. There's always a catch, isn't there? "We're the opposite reds. You're the darker red, most definitely. You're secrets and feelings are locked away, while I display mine like the lights on Broadway." 

Thomas gulps. Never before has he been called out so boldly, or in such a forward manner. Yet Alexander has hit the nail on the head, first try and won the prize so it seems. He softens a little further, slumping against the tree. A low hanging stick swats at his head, and he bats it away with one hand.

"You keep everything behind lock and key… no one else has the key, I don't think," Alexander draws little swirls and patterns with his fingertip on Thomas's chest, the art fading as fast as it appears. He feels the man quiver, trying to hold himself together, and he knows that stone wall he hides behind is breaking. 

He shakes his head in a curt motion. "Ja- Madison has a key," he corrects, inadvertently agreeing with Alexander, "Martha… Martha had a key." He finishes there, hands folding into each other, fingers fidgeting with discomfort. His face contorts as he screws it up, not allowing his mind to drift, forcing himself to stay in the moment. Stay in the tickled pink time. But how do you make pink from two reds?

"I'd like a key," Alexander adds, "if you'd be willing to lend me a spare." He glances up at Jefferson through his eyelashes, shall he offer something in return? The key to his treasure chest perhaps? The place he stores his most prized memories? 

Jefferson chews on his lip. "I think you already have one. Whether we realised it or not… you've always had one." The metaphor is starting to confuse him, muddling with his mind. So many keys, and so many possible doors they could unlock and it's all a bit much. What door should he go through first? None of them have labels, none of them have a clear cut future secured behind them. How does he choose? Maybe he should let Alexander choose for him, go along for the ride.

Alexander smiles. He drapes himself further across Jefferson, kicking one of his legs over both of the man's and leaning into his shoulder, tucking himself there. The hot air, accompanied by the events that just occurred have sobered him almost entirely, but it feels so much better to experience this without the alcohol tainting his memory. "Thank you."

"For what?" Thomas raises an eyebrow, because as far as he's certain, he should be thanking Hamilton. Or cursing him. Cursing him and whatever magical force drew them together. This may just make him believe in fate, in destiny. He wasn’t a Christian, not anymore anyway, but this had him thanking god. Thanking every god for bringing them together. This was good, he could sit under this monkey puzzle tree, feeling the way he is now for the rest of eternity. Not good, no, that didn’t do this justice. Amazing? Fabulous? Stupendous?

"It's a preemptive thank you, since you'll be paying for tonight's date. Say seven o'clock." Alexander smirks up at Thomas, watches as the man chuckles. That laugh, there's a sound he could get used to. And to know he caused it? Fills him with joy. The laugh is like yellow. He doesn't know why, it just is. Colours fit everything, his mother was a deep navy blue, his father a cold icy white. Lafayette is purple, a mix of strength and flowing like the sea, but passionate like red. Hercules is green like juniper, he’s a grounding presence, one that Alexander can rely on to stay strong for them all. Angelica is pink, full of passion, but for some reason she just doesn’t hit that red mark. Washington stands bold in yellow, along with Peggy, but much like Thomas and Alexander, opposite ends of the spectrum. He can’t say why these colours fit, where he got them from or why they are this way, but it just does. It all slots together, everyone in his life has an assigned colour. And he thinks they always will.

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Alright, I'm sure the neighbour will be fine taking care of Patsy for a bit," he hums. It's nerve wracking, because Jefferson doesn't have a clue if Alexander is alright with kids or not. His brain is screaming at him that Alexander is going to see sense and run, hear the talk of kids and sprint. After all, they're both in their mid thirties, so it's normal for someone their age to have a child. What if Alexander doesn't like kids? God, was this a mistake?

“Patsy? The little girl playing out in the street?” Alexander asks, laying himself across Thomas. He feels comfortable, like himself already, and he feels like this could go places. Because reds match, and opposites attract. They’re just lucky they’re opposite reds. 

“Yeah, yeah, she’s playing with John,” Thomas sighs out his nose, grabbing his glasses and pushing them up his nose. He smiles at Alexander and giggles, actually giggles, a sound that makes Alexander’s heart fly like doves around his chest. “Dress comfy, I hope you like picnics.”

“Picnics?” Alexander raises an eyebrow. “I love picnics.” It’s true. Hell, if they picnic in the back of Thomas’s garden, criss-cross on a blanket under this tree, that could be one of the best dates of his life. 

“I’m glad, it’s my dream date,” Thomas admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “look at us, getting to know each other already!” He chuckles again, noticing the flush it causes to Alex’s cheeks. Gorgeous. He cups his jaw, watches as the smaller man leans into the touch with a soft purr. 

“You know what’ll make it even better?”

“What, if I bring more Chardonnay?” 

“No!” Alexander bats at his arm playfully.

“Then what?” Thomas asks through laughs.

“If you kiss me again.”

And he does. God, he does.

-

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please this is 13,045 words I spent to much time on this I'm begging yall, if you liked it please reblog it, I dont want this to go unnoticed.

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[resident-fungi-fren]

Rainy Gays

Summary: Virgil hosts a radio station with Janus, and since it’s the only station that runs in their small town, just about everyone listens to it. 

He still didn't expect one of those people to be his soulmate.

Ships: Intruxiety (Virgil and Remus) and hints at Roceit (Roman and Janus)

Read on Ao3

Chapter 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Good morning gaybies and gentlethems, you’re listening to Rainy Gays Radio, and we’re your hosts, I’m Janus,”

“And I’m Virgil, clearly the superior host, and that’s why it’s my turn to talk about the weather. Let’s see, looking outside, there’s some clouds, oh shit is that a bird? Nope, false alarm, it’s just another cloud. Rude little shits, pretending to be birds. That’s false advertising. Anygay, it’s supposed to rain later this week, so we really will be rainy gays then.”

“Wow, what an original joke Virgil, you totally don’t use that one every time it rains.”

“Nope, never in my life, shove off Janus.”

“Why Virgil, I’m wounded. I thought we were friends, and now you betray me? I never thought you’d be the one to stab me in the back, my dearest friend, how can I go on without you?”

“Perish.”

“Well, just for that, I’m not paying for coffee later. You can buy your own latte.”

“Rude, how dare you revoke my caffeine privileges, and on today of all days!”

“Wow, what a subtle transition into today’s caller topic, you’re a master of subtlety.”

“Shut-“

“No. Today’s topic is what everyone’s talking about. The new drink over at [INSERT COFFEE SHOP NAME HERE], the only coffee shop in town, and therefore the lifeblood of said town.”

“What would we do without it?”

“Perish.”

“Bite me, you’re not allowed to use my tactics against me.”

“I just did darling~. Now listeners, here’s your chance to burn no more than ten minutes and call in, tell us all about your thoughts on the new drink, Virgil dear, remind me of the name?”

“Black Hole Latte, I think it’s supposed to be blackberry or somethin? I haven’t had my coffee yet today, is it showing?”

“Yes dear, you look like shit.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“Anytime darling. You know the drill by now, we’re taking callers starting, now.”

“Here’s our first caller, that’s quick, people must be extra bored today. You’re on air now, spill the tea. Or the latte.”

“Hey, it’s Thomas, have either of you tried the latte?”

“Not yet”

“Negative Thom-a-roony.”

“Well, it’s not bad, it’s definite blackberry, but honestly I’ll be sticking with my usual, I’m not a huge fan of branching out.”

“You gotta mix it up sometimes, keeps things exciting.”

“Indeed, variety is the spice of life.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep that in mind, but for now me and my regular coffee are going to chill in the nice safe bubble.”

“You know man, that’s such a mood.”

“Thank you for calling Thomas, lovely to hear from you again.”

“Anything to burn a little more time away from work. Speaking of which, I’ve gotta go there now. Later!”

“See ya. Say, we’ve known Thomas for a few years now, does anyone know what he does for work?”

“Of course we do, he’s uh, hmm, actually, I don’t think we do. A real enigma, that man.”

“Yeah, he’s a real tough walnut to crack.”

“Here’s our next caller, you’re on air now.”

“Hey kiddos!”

“Hey Pat”

“Hello Patton, aren’t you at work right now?”

“Yeah I am, but I just wanted to let you both know how proud I am, you’re doing great! And I tried the new latte on my way to work, it’s super yummy! I think you’d like it, Virge, it’s got some nice fruity notes! Just make sure you don’t drink it too late or you’ll never sleep!”

“Will do Popstar.”

“That’s all, love you both!”

“Love you too Pat”

“I do as well.”

“See you both later tonight!”

“And that was our resident puffball, Patton.”

“At least she didn’t drop another pun, I’m not sure how many more Logan can take.”

“Yes,  we might have been in need of a new soundboard tech had Patton not resisted the temptation to pun.”

“Oh shit there’s been another caller waiting.”

“Oh dear, sorry for the wait, you’re on air now.”

“Really babe, keeping the sole provider of coffee waiting?”

“Oh it’s just Remy.”

“Just Remy? Careful Virgil, or you’ll be getting decaf for the next week.”

“Please forgive my sins, oh merciful coffee god.”

“Relax, I didn’t call just to blackmail you. I just wanted everyone listening, which we all know is pretty much anyone, that if I hear any shit about my new latte I have no qualms about putting you all on decaf for the next two weeks, so think carefully before you call.”

“Remy, I do think that’s considered censorship, which is in fact, illegal.”

“So is fishing off a giraffe in Idaho, that didn’t stop me then, and this won’t now.”

“Wait, you went fishing off a giraffe? In Idaho? When exactly did that happen?”

“A story for another time, I’ve got a coffee shop to run, later babes.”

“Alright, later-“

“Oh, one more thing, some weirdo came in and ordered it and poured in half a bottle of green Gatorade, and it was the most interesting thing that’s happened all day.”

“Did you say Gatorade?”

“I did, and now I’m saying bye, see ya, sianara, farewell, later bitch.”

“Wait who- and they’re already gone. Well, now I know there’s someone new in town, no one here would ever add anything to one of Remy’s coffee.”

“Excellent deduction Virgil, you should start a true crime radio.”

“You’re right, I should.”

“That was sarcasm, you’re not allowed to quit on me now.”

“Yeah yeah I know, but a guy can dream.”

“Dreaming is for the weak and the innocent, and you are neither.”

“I’d get mad but you’re right.”

“Did you just admit that I was right?”

“Oh look a new caller, how convenient-“

“Virgil answer me damnit- hello you’re on air now.”

“You know, I thought the coffee was good and all, but it was much better once I added my usual shot of Gatorade.”

“Did you just say- oh dear I think Virgil might need a trashcan.”

“Wow Virgil, do always make that wonderful gagging noise? I’d like to see what other noises you can make, with that lovely voice~”

“Dear random stranger, I think you broke my co-host, and possibly my back as well, seeing as I just fell out of it”

“Is that what that thump was? I was almost concerned for a moment.”

“Who the hell puts Gatorade in their coffee?!?!”

“Oh Virgil, glad to see you’ve recovered.”

“Don’t you play innocent, I will end you on air.”

“Wow, the sexual tension between the two of you is reeling right now.”

“Uhh, no thanks. Janus and I go way back, there’s no romance there, plus, we’re not soulmates.”

“Yes, Virgil is a dear friend, and while I love him, it’s purely platonic, and we’re happy with that.”

“Cool cool, does that mean Virgil’s single?”

“That’s what you got from that?”

“Yeah, you sound like you’re pretty hot.”

“I think you broke Virgil again, Gatorade stranger.”

“Oh, my name’s Remus! Though Virgil can call me whatever he wants, lover, dear, daddy, all acceptable.”

“Dude, you’re on the radio.”

“Oh, I’m very aware of that fact emo.”

“How do you know I’m emo?”

“You sound like it Gerard Gay.”

“Fair point.”

“As riveting as this conversation is, I think my brother is gonna stab me if I keep talking, so bye for now!”

“Why is your brother- and he’s gone, okay.”

“Final caller, you’re on air now, please don’t flirt with Virgil again”

“Is that what he did? I’m so sorry about my brother, Remus has zero filter.”

“Dude it’s fine, surprisingly we’ve gotten weirder calls.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, one time we got a telemarketer for a lingerie company.”

“That is weird, but trust me, doesn’t even touch on what Remus is capable of.”

“Good to know.”

“If he turns out to be a frequent caller, will you keep calling to apologize? You do have a lovely voice, so I wouldn’t be disappointed with the arrangement~”

“Oh I, um,”

“Stop flirting with the callers.”

“Callers? Do you do this often?”

“Only when they sound like a sunrise personified.”

“I’m hardly a sunrise, but yes, I wouldn’t be opposed to calling in again, Remus’s contributions aside.”

“Oh my god, I know the show is called Rainy Gays, but please stop flirting before I vomit again.”

“Apologies Virgil, we’re almost out of time anyway. Any chance I can get a name before we have to go, my dear?”

“Oh, Roman, my name is Roman.”

“A name fit for royalty~”

“Janus I swear to god-“

“And that’s all the time we have, for now, tune in later for your daily traffic report and water cooler conversation.”

“We’re not done talking about this-“

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Virgil glared at Janus as he packed up, the smug bastard smirking every time their eyes met. They had no right, looking so self-satisfied, how dare they flirt so smooth when Virgil was cursed to be an eternal gay disaster?

He huffed, and Janus snorted, and he threw them a glare.

“You could at least pretend to be sorry.”

“But Virgil, that would be a lie, and I would never lie, it’s a blatant mark on my character!”

“We both know that’s a load of bullshit.”

Logan walked out of the sound room, rolling his eyes. “With the way you two carry on, it’s no wonder the listeners think you’re romantically involved.”

They both gasped and spluttered, grievously offended. “How dare-”

“Just try not to flirt with the callers so much? You’re both incorrigible.” He straightened his tie, and slung his bag over his shoulder, heading out. “Don’t forget to lock up, we don’t want another raccoon breaking in.”

“Logan, don’t say such things about Virgil, his eyebags and crummy food choices don’t warrant name-calling!”

Janus just smirked when Virgil hissed at them.

“Plus, his hissing is distinctly cat-like.”

“You little-” was all he got out before he threw his balled-up scarf at them, which they caught with ease. Smug bastard.

He ruffled through his bag, then his coat pockets, then his bag again. He sighed, and scrubbed his hands through his hair. “Have you seen my keys? I can’t find them, and Joan will skin my alive if I lose another set.”

Janus sighed and pinched the bridge of their nose. “Virgil, have you ever considered getting a keyring? Or something to keep track of them?”

“Hey, I do! I got the stormcloud one, remember!” He protested sheepishly, “but then I lost that too. It’s with my keys, wherever those are.”

“Virgil, you are a disater, how are you still allowed to live on our own?”

“I have you and Pat as neighbors.”

“Fair enough, your keys are hanging on the key rack, right where you hung them up when you got here.”

“Oh.” He sheepishly proccured his keys, and then held the door open for Janus once they were ready, and the two headed home together.

“You taking the bus?”

“Not today, it’s quite nice out and I have the energy for it, a walk will be good for me, and for you too, a little vitamin D won’t kill you ya know.”

Virgil gasped dramatically, feigning offense. “Exxxxxcccuuussseee you! That bright motherf***er,” he pointed to the sun, “is absolutley trying to kill me. Skin cancer, sunburns, heatstroke, cataracts? All from the sun!”

“Virgil the sun doesn’t have an vendetta against you, it has one against all of humanity.”

“Bold of you to assume he’s human!”

The voice came from behind them, making them both jump, and Virgil couldn’t help what blurted out of his mouth, truly it wasn’t his fault.

“MOTHMANS LITTLE HOE! WHo the F*** STILL SNEAKS UP ON ME!?!?!”

He spun around, and dropped his jaw as he layed eyes on the most drop-dead gorgeous man he’d ever seen. Was showing that much skin even legal?

The man gasped and looked down at his wrist, and his eyes widened before he looked back up at Virgil, grinning. “Well well well, looks like you’re my soulmate, Gerard Gay!”

Virgil sighed, “f*** me and my big mouth.”

[shortkingzuko]

title: loves’ cold embrace

relationship: hama/kanna

mentions of canon typical violence

summary: She misses the chill of the tundra, the crashing of the ocean and the shattering screams of icebergs colliding. She misses the soft embrace of caribou fur and leather in her parka and the softer embrace of the woman she was stolen from. She misses the howling winds that used to sing her to sleep as they passed over the great iced plains, and the gentle voices of her family as they laughed and needled each other. The ocean that used to live in her chest is now a desert, barren and dry. -- OR;Like the moon in the sky, Hama's love never really leaves her.

this is the fic i wrote for @avatar-rarepair-exchange-2021 :~)

read it on ao3 (and get the rest of my tags and notes) or read it under the cut !!

Hama doesn’t think too much about her childhood. It makes her feel too mournful, too angry, too beholden to feelings that, at her age, her heart can’t afford to feel. What few memories that do creep into her consciousness are so wrapped in nostalgia and childhood innocence that Hama can’t even recall if they’re real or fabrications of what she wishes she lived. Certainly, she had caught fish with her family, but were the nets ever as lively as she remembers? Was her girlhood parka truly that soft and was that wind actually so forgiving against her cheeks? Hama doesn’t dwell on it, simply letting the fuzzy memories tumble in her head, comforting, warm, forgotten and ignored.

There are two memories, two days, which consistently force their way to the forefront of her mind, drawing her attention and draining her energy. One, of course, is the day she was taken from her hold, stolen, like an amputation performed without so much as a strip of leather to go between her teeth. And in contrast to the searing pain of that one, the other is much kinder. Softer, warmer, more friendly in its own way.

At the age of fifteen Hama was proud and kind and bored, days of choring and practicing and schooling all blending together into barely distinguishable slush, finally broken by the announcement that a girl on a boat with a blue sail was approaching. Almost half the village rushed to see the newcomer, and Hama pushed her way to the front of the crowd, only a few heads behind the chief and other warriors, just in time to see the girl pulling her boat up the icy shore.

Her face was sharp and her lips chapped from weeks uncountable at sea. Her clothing was familiar but strange, the patterns and beading not quite right, the shade of the leather just a bit off, but almost recognizable. Her boat was wrecked but its pieces would be salvageable for other things, and the chief softly told her that her trip was a one-way one. Hama could never forget the fierceness that laid behind the girl’s eyes, the determination in her voice as she said, “I know.”

She brought news of the location of Fire Nation ships, bags of leathers and dyes and scrolls that had been unseen in the South for decades, and perseverance that seems to infect everyone with whom she spoke. Her name was Kanna, she was from the Northern Water Tribe, and, to Hama’s delight, she was here to stay.

    In the weeks that followed Kanna’s arrival, Hama can barely separate herself from the older girl. Everything about Kanna was just so interesting - the stories of her travels, the few morsels that she would share of her life in the Northern Tribe, her laugh, the way she styled her hair, the different ways that she tried to fish - everything about her made Hama want to cling to her and never let go, like the barnacle at the haul of a ship. To her delight, Kanna didn’t seem to mind. Anytime Hama called to her from across the village square, Kanna would always wait, smile back at her, unmoving until Hama caught up and they could both continue on their day.

She doesn’t recall when they shared their first kiss, or who first pressed their lips against the other. All she remembers is the warmth of her cheeks after it happened, how her lips tinged, and how excited she was when it happened again. Was the tone playful? Was it shy? Was Hama pretending to be cooler, more mature than she actually felt? (Hama knows, almost for certain, that the latter is correct.)

Hama knew that she was beautiful, knew that she was smart and impressive and that many other teenagers would fall over themselves to try and keep her attention, and yet it was Kanna’s sly smile and gentle gaze which made Hama feel weak in the knees and made her feel like the ocean lived inside her chest. They shared soft kisses, giggling in-between the press of their lips. They slipped each other’s hands into the sleeves of the other’s parka, embraced each other tightly and often when they were supposed to be working. Kanna’s hands were strong - as evident by her ability to haul even the most lively nets out of frigid water and by her tendency to make the string on bows just a bit too taut - and yet she only ever cupped Hama’s face with the utmost care, running a calloused thumb over Hama’s lips, and only ever playfully tugging on her ears to get her to hurry up. The gentleness itself was not uncommon - Hama remained beloved by her family, her friends, and her waterbending teachers, even with the exciting arrival of the Northerner - but when it came from Kanna it felt more special than Hama cared to admit.

It was a sweet, simple existence, one that Hama was tricked into believing could exist forever. Black snow may fall, fish populations may dwindle, and one by one, Hama’s teachers and family may disappear, but surely she would be next to Kanna forever.

Of course, that was a belief that Hama soon realized to be false.

The Fire Nation prison was a pain like nothing Hama had experienced before. Beyond the chains that dig into her skin, and the sharp sting of hands and batons against her flesh, and the endless jeers and insults that the scum that keep her confined throw at her, there is an ache, one that dulls with time but never leaves. The distance from the ocean, from her ocean, pulls at her heart and at her core, begging her to return, seemingly uncaring that if she could, she would. For the first months and years, the moon seems to taunt her through the skylight, staring down at her, unhelpful and cruel in her judgment.

The only pain worse than unbecoming, the twisting and dimming of self, is the reformation that follows it. The destruction of all Hama once knew about herself, the bending and breaking of who she was and its eventual obscuration. In a way, it’s freeing. In a way, it feels like damnation.

Hama thinks back to the girl who grew up in the South Pole and the girl who sat and rotted in a cell. She feels like a distant friend, a playmate she outgrew but loved dearly. The line which connects herself to that woman of the past is tenuous, well-worn, threadbare, yet still intact. She picks up the mantle that that girl left behind and carries it with her, ignoring the aches and pains that the weight of it gives her. When Hama escapes the prison, she’s so parched she can’t even cry as she mourns for herself.

She escapes, but she cannot leave. She has neither a ship to sail nor the sea legs that she once did. When the moon dips below the horizon it takes her strength with it and she is back to her weakened state. Even if she could get a boat, Hama wouldn’t be fit to waterbend home for many months, maybe years, and she knows that without it she will surely die at sea. The thought is almost tempting.

Being away from her home fills her with many emotions. Fear, shame, confusion, anger, longing. She misses the chill of the tundra, the crashing of the ocean and the shattering screams of icebergs colliding. She misses the soft embrace of caribou fur and leather in her parka and the softer embrace of the woman she was stolen from. She misses the howling winds that used to sing her to sleep as they passed over the great iced plains, and the gentle voices of her family as they laughed and needled each other. The ocean that used to live in her chest is now a desert, barren and dry.

The Fire Nation itself is as much a prison as the cell she escaped from, but as Hama decorates the house she built with trinkets and blankets and as many splashes of blue as she thinks she can afford. She convinces herself that it’ll have to do for now. She gains some of her strength back, bids her time as she forces a smile to the citizens who would hang her by the neck if they knew what she truly was. She gains their trust, even delivers a few babies that will grow up to slaughter the innocent. It’s not a home, not peace, the life she carves out for herself, but it’s enough to survive on.

Hama focuses on her anger, letting it simmer in her chest, flowing through her like the tides, waxing and waning with the moon. She has neither nation nor family in the destructive land that she lives in, has neither home nor comfort nor love to soothe the piercing ache in her chest and soul. All her joys are temporary, fleeting, ending when she feels the urge to turn to her mother or siblings or Kanna and has to accept, once again, that they are not next to her. Hama holds onto her anger like a beggar grips a silver coin, edges cutting into her palms and dirt getting into her wounds. She holds onto her anger because she knows without it all she has left is the stillness of the ocean after a storm.

Even the half-life Hama carves out for herself doesn’t last forever. The little waterbending master shows up, with a face so similar to her dear Kanna’s, and beats her at her own game. There is a whispering pride to any master that is bested by a student, but mostly Hama is tired. Burned out and smouldering. The Fire Nation takes her away in chains once again, and Hama disgusts herself with how quickly she resigns to her fate.

Guards spend little time with Hama, and she’s kept at a distance from the windows. Still, the stone tomb that they keep her in echoes, and soon she hears whispers of the war ending, the prospect of future peace out on the horizon. Hama doesn’t know how to feel, knowing that the world may enter a time of peace and that she is still locked away like an animal. Perhaps the Southern Water Tribe will be able to flourish again. Perhaps a small part of her spirit can finally rest.

She figures that whatever the future holds, she will not be privy to it. The Fire Nation was all too happy to lock her up and throw away the key, and Hama doubts anyone back home remembers her enough to ask after her - even so, anyone she knew who is still alive probably thinks she’s dead.

And yet, she gets a visitor, soon after the guards have whispered about a  boy taking the throne. The visitor walks to her cell without fear, looks at her through the bars with sadness, not disgust. His eyes are familiar, and Hama knows that he is from the Southern Water Tribe before he announces it. She doesn’t dare call what ignites in her chest hope, even when he tells her that he’s chief.  Hakoda of the Southern Water Tribe. It echoes in her head, like the dripping of a tap that hasn’t been turned off.

He comes back more than once, all within a few days of each other. Each time with sadness and respect in his eyes, telling Hama about the political ongoings of the world, of their home, of Hakoda’s family. Apparently, the little waterbending master that sent Hama to her new cell is Hakoda’s daughter, a fact he tells her embarrassedly, asking for forgiveness.

Hama shrugs. It’s too hard to be angry without hope to do anything with it.

“Will you continue to visit?” Hama asks, instead of answering. “I hear that negotiations are coming to a close.”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Oh, you know. At the market.” Hakoda cracks a smile at her attempt at a joke.

“That’s actually what I was meaning to tell you,” He says, shifting on the stool that he sits on. Hama raises a thin eyebrow. “Part of the negotiations are about you.”

“...Oh,” Hama says.

“It’s… tricky,” Hakoda continues, either oblivious to or ignoring Hama’s silence. “The Fire Lord, Zuko, uh, is worried about what some of his new ministers will say if he allows your release, and it’s complicating-”

“Release?” Hama questions, furrowing her brows.

“What? Of course, release. We’re trying to get all the surviving Water Tribe prisoners back. Your case is just a little more… controversial, so it’s taken some time to sort everything out.”

Hama almost laughs. “And, supposing it takes much longer?”

Hakoda looks ashamed as he says, “If it takes much longer to sort out, then I will have to return home with the prisoners that have already been released, but I’m not abandoning you here. We have to leave delegates here to deal with other reparations, and we’ll make sure that you coming home is always a priority.”

Hama doesn’t know what to say to that. The prospect of returning home after so long, it excites her, fills her heart with a flurry of anxious joy that can’t be tamped down, regardless of her attempts to remain practical.

“Unless… you don’t want to come home?”

“Of course I do,” Hama snaps, despite her best efforts. “Of course I do… I want nothing more.”

Hakoda smiles, tiredly, and Hama feels her age when she looks at him and sees a young man who is worked down to his bone. “As long as you do, I’ll keep fighting for you.”

Hama smiles, and in the heat of her cell, she feels the comforting breeze of home. “Please, Chief Hakoda, tell me about Kanna’s beading again.”

    The chill of the Water Tribe greets her like an old friend, long before she can see the land. It nibbles at her old joints, makes her nose and ears pink with delight, and Hama puts off slipping the donated parka over her head for as long as possible, relishing in the welcoming sting of the wind. The anorak isn’t hers, of course, and the fit is a little off, but Hakoda tells her that his mother -  her Kanna - can help her sew a new one, and as soon as everything is settled the hunters will go out to hunt.

Hama spends as much time on the deck of the ship as she can, knowing that she’s certainly getting in the way of all the warriors and deckhands who are too polite or pitying to ask her to move. She doesn’t want to miss the first sign of land, the first sign of  home in countless moons.

It feels like her heart is being returned to her chest when she spots the first mountain peak, the first thin trail of smoke from a friendly hearth, and then the first gleam of packed ice forming familiar igloos. When they finally reach the shore and, amongst the crowd of faces peering at her with admiration, confusion, sadness, anger, and joy, she spots the unmistakable face of Kanna, it feels like her heartbeat has finally been returned.

It’s a strange shock, to see the face that she thought of so often so different from last she saw it. Everything about her is different; her hair, her skin, her clothing, even her height has changed as a consequence of her more hunched form, and yet she is still the most beautiful woman that Hama has ever laid her sights on.

Hama has so little hope, she refuses to waste it on the implausible notion of returning to Kanna. It is clear that Kanna has lived a full life without her, she has a son who is chief, two lovely (if annoying and persistently optimistic) grandchildren, and the respect of the entire village. The girl in Hama’s memories is not the woman wrapping her arms around her, not the woman pulling Hama into her chest and crying into her shoulder, not the woman whispering thanks to the spirits as she exclaims how much she’s missed Hama.

Being back in Kanna’s arms feels the same as it did to see the glistening mountains from the sea. It feels like coming home. Kanna leads her back to her home, grasping her arm the entire time, and tells her that they’ll start building Hama her own house soon, but in the meantime, she is welcome to stay with Kanna’s family.

“I believe your granddaughter will object to that,” Hama says. Kanna nods.

“Yes, she will,” Kanna replies, the love in her voice unmistakable. “If her remarks get too snide, let me know and I’ll make her wash the dishes for a month.”

Hama is right- Katara displeased with Hama’s presence in their home, as is Sokka. But Kanna’s firm gaze and Chief Hakoda’s unsubtle attempts to pull them off to the side for conversations keep the children’s tone from getting too snippy and makes them bite their tongues most days. The anger and fear are mostly gone from their gazes and it is the memory of the last encounter in the Fire Nation that fuels their emotions. Sometimes when Hama wakes suddenly in the night, and patters out from Kanna’s bedroom trying to calm her heart rate, she’ll see Katara or Sokka, hunched by the fire. In those moments, they share a quiet moment of understanding, a moment of recognition, of being souls who are hurt and have hurt more than their bodies ever wanted, and the children seem extra conflicted when the day finally comes.

Hama doesn’t fault them for it. She’s a little pleased that they’ve latched onto the relief that comes with vengeance, how  right it feels to dwell on past anger. Kanna scolds her when Hama explains her philosophy to her, says that it’s no good to dwell on the unchangeable past instead of the influenceable future.

“What good is looking towards tomorrow if you don’t remember the injustices of yesterday?” Hama asks, stretching out her hands that are stiff from sewing. The fabric of the Fire Nation was so thin and delicate - almost uselessly so - and it’s difficult to transition back to sewing the thick materials of the south.

Kanna hums as she considers Hama’s question. This is a new development, to Hama at least. The Kanna of her memories was quick as a whip, her words always at the tip of her tongue, ready to fly out as soon as anyone else had stopped talking. This Kanna, in contrast, tends to consider what has been said before speaking. She mulls things over before replying, taking her time to come up with important answers.

“There’s a difference between remembering and dwelling,” is what Kanna opts for. “You don’t need to keep the fire in your chest burning any longer.”

Kanna sets down her needle and reaches out to grasp Hama’s hand. Her grip is firm and Hama knows that it is full of love.

“You have me to warm you now.” And while that doesn’t erase the years of turmoil that Hama has lived, while it doesn’t uncloud her sight with cynicism, in this one regard, Kanna is right.

    They’re both worn and weary, Hama knows, in different ways. Gone is the softness that used to surround them, the air of innocence that falsely clung to them, as it does to all children in a war, the optimistic spark in their eyes that betrayed the facade of realism that they tried to put up. They’re both old now, more cynical (Neither of them  really trust the child that now sits on the Fire Nation throne, regardless of what Kanna’s son and grandchildren say), and there are so few worlds left for them to venture together. Sometimes, Hama wonders what could Kanna possibly think to achieve, with her gentle touches and kisses filled with light.

Still, Kanna walks with her, arm in arm, as they go through the village. Kanna sits with her in bed in the mornings as they wait for a pot of water to boil for their breakfast. They weave blankets and stitch clothing together, and each time Kanna makes sure to scoot her chair over so that they’re pressed close to one another.

Hama isn’t foolish enough to think that she and Kanna were fated, but she does concede that perhaps Kanna has always been it for her. The distant glow of the horizon, the glint way off in the future beckoning her closer, the sparkle of possibility, maybe it’s always just been Kanna.

Kanna’s lips are no longer plush and smooth; they’ve become wrinkled and thinner with age, but they’re no less soft, and they hold no less love than they did over fifty years ago. When they press against Hama’s own lips, they press with as much care and joy as they did when both of them were more youthful, and Kanna still sneaks kisses to Hama’s cheeks at the moment before they leave their home to go outside. As if Hama would ever try to stop her if she knew they were coming.

The tenderness, the softness, with which Kanna holds her is enough that sometimes Hama can fool herself into imagining that they’ve had a long life together. That they’ve never been apart since that day that Kanna dragged her boat up the shore and filled Hama’s heart with light.

Hama has lived an entire life away from her beating heart, an era where her love was not by her side. She holds no false illusions - Kanna has also lived a life without Hama. One that was full of love and tragedy and life and death. She has a beautiful and headstrong family to prove it, has the respect of the whole tribe and enough wit to make sure that everyone knows it. Kanna got the chance to share her love with others, while Hama spent years half-wondering what could have been, wondering if their love could have lasted, wondering if she truly loved the beautiful girl from the North or just loved the idea of being in love with her. An entire lifetime of wonder and worry and pain, only to be soothed by Kanna’s unspoken assurance that their hearts will henceforth beat as one.

She is too old to imagine a grand future of adventure anymore, too old to want that future as well. The future she wants is one of peaceful walks and holding hands until she has to let go because her joints ache. A future of asking for help to braid her hair, and of feeling Kanna’s rough, gentle hands as they caress her face and neck while collecting all the strands. Grinning when she feels gentle lips press against her neck before she finishes getting dressed. Feigning interest in the indecipherable speech of toddlers and impressing children with simple waterbending tricks. Laughing at the antics of young men with egos that are too large and laughing at the young women who still swoon over them. Cooking for a family. Being part of a family. Seeing a smile before falling asleep.

Hama is too old to be an optimist but she thinks she has a pretty good shot at finally living the life she wants.

[kyber-kisses]

Out Cold

Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: sick!reader, some cursing, Dean being a big softie

Summary: after a particularly harsh hunt, the reader returns to the bunker worse than when she left. Dean goes into mother hen mode.

A/n: I know there are about a million fics like this already, but I’m a sucker for em, so I wrote one myself. I hope y’all enjoy! (Gif credit goes to owner.)

“Dean, would you please keep your eyes on the road?” Sam sighed, shifting once more in the backseat as he glanced between You and Dean. The younger brother having been generous enough to let you take his normal seat on the way back from the hunt.

“I’m sorry, but don’t you think this whole thing is weird?” Dean motioned with his freehand at the figure next to him.

“That she’s sitting up front?”

“No!” He quickly shook his head, “She’s asleep. Y/n never sleeps in the car. Ever.”

Sam sunk back in his seat, rolling his eyes, “We just finished up a massive hunt. She’s probably tired, Dean.”

“But I’m telling you, she never sleeps during drives. Even when she is tired.” Taking his eyes away from the road once more, he looked back over at you, your head resting against the window. Even in your unconscious state, your eyebrows were furrowed almost like you were in pain, and your skin looked a shade paler than normal. You mumbled in your sleep, shifting to try and find a more comfortable position.

Yes, something was not right.

“When she wakes up, I’ll ask her.” Dean sighed, eyes going back to the road, his concern clear on his face, allowing Sam to see it in the rear view mirror.

Dean was always worrying about you though. There was nothing new about that.

*. *. *. *. *.

You were out cold for the remainder of the drive, which only allowed Deans worry to grow. Sam passed out eventually, leaving Dean in total silence as he drove the final stretch back to the bunker, the clock on the dashboard telling him it was close to one in the morning. The almost orange glow of the passing street lamps illuminating your face as he drove down the empty streets of Lebanon. The only noise coming from the engine and the soft drone of the radio turned down low.

You always said this was your favorite time. The world was quiet and peaceful. It was one of the reasons you always stayed up during drives. You liked watching the chaotic world fizzle out and get replaced with this dark serenity. But for once, you were unconscious and missing it.

Eventually the wheels of the impala rolled into the bunkers garage and the vehicle was put into park and turned off, the normal hum of the engine now gone and replaced with total silence. The change being enough to shake Sam awake.

“She still out?” He yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he sat upright.

“Yeah,” Dean sighed, pocketing his keys as he turned to look at you. In proper lighting, he could now see how pale you really looked, along with the thin layer of sweat coating your skin. “Just go to bed. I’ll take care of her.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

There was a moment of silence before the familiar click of the door opening, Sam sliding out of the backseat with his duffel and lazily making his way into the depths of the bunker. It wasn’t long after that Dean climbed out of his seat, walking around the hood of the car to open your door.

At the sound, you shifted again, slightly opening your eyes to quickly see where you were. The only thing catching your hazy thoughts was the set of green eyes looking at you with worry.

“Are we home?” You mumbled, still trying to chase the sleep that was settled heavy over you.

“Yeah, we’re home.” Dean smiled, squatting down to your level, “how you feeling?”

“tired.”

The hunter shifted on the balls of his feet, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead, “Jeez, y/n. You’re burning up.”

You let out a yawn, eyes closing as you leaned into his touch, his skin so much cooler than your own. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, try again.” Dean huffed, bringing his hand back down to his side, “you’re sick.”

“Mmm no I’m not.”

Dean let out another sigh. It was like talking to a brick wall. “Yes you are. Luckily, you have me though.” He smiled, standing up slightly so he could tuck his arm underneath you, hoisting you out of the vehicle and into his arms, earning a groan of protest from you.

He took his time carrying you down the hallway , trying not to jostle you around too much as you did tend to let out a whine every time he did. He could feel the heat from your skin through his shirt, your head resting in the crook of his neck. You felt so fragile in his arms, like one false move would make you crumble.

Pushing his back against your slightly ajar door, he stepped into the dark of your room, using one of his elbows to flip the switch. Luckily the heat had been turned off while you were all away from the bunker, leaving your room much cooler than normal. Hopefully that would somewhat help cool you down.

“You just had to go and get sick, didn’t you?” He sighed, being as gentle as possible as he laid you down on the bed.

“Don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad. It just hurts me to see you like this.” He smiled, brushing a strand of hair away from your eyes, feeling the heat radiating off your skin as he did.

“You should go to bed. You’ve been driving for hours and it’s past one in the morning.” You mumbled.

“Yeah, that’s not happening. We need to get that fever down. Plus, I’m not tired. I’ll get my four hours eventually.”

“If I wasn’t so weak, I would hit you.” You sighed, shifting your head on the pillow as you closed your eyes.

“Oh, I know you would.” Dean chuckled, squeezing your hand, “I’ll be right back.”

With that, he gave you one last look and departed from your room, disappearing down the dimly lit hallway.

Dean Winchester never ceased to amaze you. He usually gives off a tough exterior, but deep down he was just a big softie. You loved that about him. You never asked him to take care of you, but he always did. There weren’t proper words for how thankful you were for him.

It was only a few minutes later that he returned, a bottle of water and container of ibuprofen gripped in his hands, along with a neatly folded washcloth.

“Alright, sit up.” He sighed, the bed dipping under his weight as he sat down, passing over the water before unscrewing the lid and fishing out a couple pills. You gave him a small thank you, swallowing them down with a generous gulp of water. Another wave of dizziness worked over you, making you lean back with a groan.

“I’m dying aren't I?”

“You’re not dying. Now stop being dramatic.” Dean sighed, leaning forward to press the cool cloth to your head.

“You must like being a mother hen a lot.” You groaned, hand going to rest atop Deans, which still held the cloth to your forehead.

“I do not!” He exclaimed, only to pause, shoulders dropping, “fine, it’s like crack to me.”

“I knew it.” You smiled, sending him a small wink.

“Alright, shut it.” Taking the bottle back off your nightstand he handed it over once more, “You need to keep drinking. We gotta keep you hydrated.”

“I don’t wanna.”

Deans head fell back as he let out a groan, “You're a damn child, you know that?”

“Yes.” You smiled, taking the water bottle from his hand and taking a few more sips. Even if Dean had just sent you a small smile, you could see the worry on his features. Lowering the bottle from your lips, you set it back down. “You don’t need to worry, Dean. I’m just a little sick. Happens to the best of us.”

“I can’t help it. I’m always worrying about you.” He admitted slowly, taking your hand and pressing a firm kiss to it.

You felt your heart skip in your chest at his action, and then the added heat growing to your face. He was so gentle. So caring. And no matter how long you had known him, it still amazed you.

When Dean saw the redness creeping up your cheeks, his worry continued to grow. “Woah, are you getting worse?” He questioned, peeling the cloth from you forehead and replacing it with the back of his hand.

You quickly slapped his hand away, instantly regretting it once you saw the hurt expression he was wearing. “I’m sorry. I -“

“No. Don’t apologize. I’ve been bothering you since we got back. Hell, I woke you up.” Dean shook his head, hands falling to his side in defeat. “I was just trying to help.”

“I know, but let me just apologize. I didn’t mean to smack your hand away like that. I just freaked out when I realized you made me blush.”

You watched his expression change, his eyebrows knitting together, “what did I do exactly to make you blush?” He mused, giving you a small grin.

Damn him. Damn him and his big green eyes and childish grin. He was going to be the death of you.

“I’ve said too much already.” You groaned, taking the extra pillow besides you and pressing it over your face, hiding your new found embarrassment. Your plan didn’t last long, because you heard him let out a light chuckle, his fingers wrapping around the pillow and prying it from your face.

“Oh, don’t go hiding from me now. I still gotta take care of my patient.” He smiled, giving you that soft gaze that always made you feel like a pile of goo.

And then the bastard had the audacity to lean down and press a firm yet gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment before he pulled away, his calloused hand resting on the side of your face making you shiver.

“You cold?”

All you could do was nod, still rendered speechless and scarlet from his gentleness. He pushed off from his seat on the bed, picking up your legs so he could pull your comforter over your now shivering body. You couldn’t help the whine that escaped you as he did. Your muscles still ached and every little bit of movement had you feeling nauseous.

“I know, I know. Just bear with me Sweetheart.” Dean sighed, sitting back down once the comforter was tucked snugly around you.

“You’re a fucking great human being, you know that?” You yawned, nestling deeper into you comforter in hopes of getting warmer.

“I try.” Dean smiled, kicking off his boots and discarding his jacket as you laid down next to you, gently wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close.

“Dean, you’re gonna get sick if you stay.” You mumbled, finding it impossible to not curl into the warmth he was giving you. You didn’t want him to get sick.

But he was so warm. . . And he smelled so good.

“I don’t care. You’re stuck with me.” He sighed, closing his eyes once he was comfortable, “now go to sleep. You need rest.”

“Okay, but if you get sick, both Sam and I are gonna beat your ass.” You yawned again, tucking your head against his chest as sleep quickly found you once more.

*. *. *. *. *.

Sam has to do a double take the next morning as he walked past your open door, which was usually always closed. Shifting the books that were in his hand, he backtracked, tilting his head in confusion as looked into your room.

The lights were still on, but both you and Dean were out cold. His brother was wrapped tightly in your comforter, shivering even in his unconscious state while you were sprawled out next to him, having kicked off the sheets in the middle of the night.

In simple words: you both looked like crap.

The younger Winchester let out a sigh, rubbing his face, “So it looks like I’m gonna have to take care of both of you now, huh?”

He should have known this would happen. When it came down to you and him, Dean couldn’t help but go into full mother hen mode. . . and unfortunately that sometimes resulted in the idiot going and getting himself in the same exact mess.

The End.

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[peachebunnys]

Pain, with love VII

Pairing: Horacio Carrillo x reader

Summary: Arranged marriages are tough, but add that with having a drug lord on the loose? Horacio Carrillo can only imagine what’s coming for him. 

Warning: Mentions of kidnapping, mild torture, non-canon compliance, bad writing

a/n: this isn’t going well for Horacio, isn’t it? lowkey was inspired by artificial love (exo)

5.1k words

Chapter 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Chapter 7;

The morning was quiet, just what Horacio had grown accustomed to. The sun had yet to rise, and the only source of light in the streets were the gentle warm glow from the streetlights, illuminating only parts of the empty driveway. The air stilled, with no movement outside on the roads. Many would find the atmosphere eerie, but Horacio knew that it’d be the only peace he’d have for a long time. 

He sits by the edge of the bed, casting a quick glance to your sleeping body, watching how the pale moonlight shines on you. With only the sound of the fan and your snores to listen to, Horacio started breathing deeply and slowly - a habit he’d do before leaving for work. It helped ease his stress and worries, and as he looked back at you, he couldn’t help but feel a sharp pang in his heart. 

He peers at you again, this time while twisting the ring on his finger, playing with the small jewelry as he marveled at how beautiful you were. He lets out a soft sigh, thinking back to what he had said the previous night and how you had immediately crashed your lips against him. The confession, the very confession that would’ve made him absolutely delighted, now plagued his mind, brewing more insecurity and guilt. 

You do deserve better, he thinks, but you don’t think so. 

He gets up slowly, walking over to your side to adjust the blankets that now threaten to fall off the bed. He gently tucks you in and watches as you shift to get more comfortable, smiling slightly with the motion. He reached out to you, and for the first time without hesitation, he brushed the hairs out of your face and leaned in to plant a kiss on your forehead. 

You were starting to stir, and Horacio took that as his cue to leave, clutching his peaked cap in his hand as he walked out the bedroom door. The house was dark, save for the light that came from the streetlamps that was barely lighting up the living room. The portraits of the both of you now hung on the painted walls, proudly staring back at him as he walked past the kitchen towards the main door. 

Even with the poor visibility, he stopped and stared, observing the way you so happily clutched his arm for the photo. He was dressed similar to how he was now - in his colonel uniform and peaked cap, standing proud as ever next to your smaller frame. He’d admit, the two of you did look like the picture perfect couple, and he found himself wishing that was true. 

If only he could be the man you needed him to be.

He walked closer to the portrait, brushing his fingers gently over the canvas material, ghosting just above your face. You have the prettiest smile in the world, he thinks, and he’d do anything just for you to smile at him like that everyday. 

But you already do. 

Horacio wears his peaked cap, glancing at his reflection on the wedding photo next to the large portrait. He stares at the picture, and then back at his reflection, feeling the insecurity once again bubble in his chest. 

He’s fallen in love with you, that much he knew, but he just didn’t think you felt the same. She doesn't love me, it’s just artificial love. Sure, you did confess your feelings to him, but he didn’t quite believe it - how could a woman like you, fall in love with a devil like him? A man whose hands were stained, deep red and unremovable. He was a sinner, damned and lost, undeserving of your pure love. 

Your kiss felt like salvation - a saving grace from falling, yet so hot it seared his lips. He felt like icarus, with wings made of wax melting with your touch. He wouldn’t last, that much he knew, and it wouldn’t be long till he loses himself in your love and support for him. 

He knows he doesn’t deserve you, a presence so innocent - like an angel sent down for him. But if you’ll have him, if you’ll have him no matter what he says, he’d fall to your feet, heeding to your every request for the rest of your lives. He’d do anything for you, and that’s what Horacio found frightening. Never has he felt so strongly towards someone, a love so strong he could barely contain it within.

He adjusts his peaked cap firmly on his head, carrying the light briefcase towards the door, silent in thought as he thinks back to you. 

Love was frightening, but Horacio was willing to lose himself for you, with you. 

His footsteps were rhythmic thuds against the marbled floor, boots heavy with every step he took. The sound echoed throughout the hallway, bouncing off the walls that the two of you beautifully decorated just weeks prior. He stood before the main door, patting down his uniform to check all his items before he walked out the house. Too deep in thought, he misses the sound of the bedroom door opening, the creaking from the hinges coming as a long drawn out sound. 

“Horacio?”

He hears it, your gentle sleep-laced voice, calling out to him in the dead of the night. Your voice was barely louder than a whisper, but it rang in his ears, making his heart beat faster. 

“You’re leaving already?”

He stops his movements, hand resting on the door knob as he continues looking forward. He doesn’t answer, not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t want to face what would come next. 

He feels your palm rest against his arm, with the other moving towards his cheek. Your touch was soft, guiding his face to look back at you. You were still in your sleep clothes, eyes threatening to close with each passing moment. 

He must have accidentally woken you up, resulting in you finding yourself alone in bed. The feeling that surfaced in you - pain and fear, had only made you rush out the room, in hopes you’d be able to catch him before he left.

Your eyes were fixed on him, watching him intently as you cracked a small smile, “have you packed everything you need?”

His breath hitches, eyeing as you moved your palm down his arm and towards his sleeves. He lets out a non-committal grunt, an agreement to your question that you’ve just asked. He looks down at you, surveying you with curiosity as you hold out his hand to adjust the cuffs around his wrists. He had forgotten to fasten the button properly, so it seems, and you’ve managed to notice it despite the poor lighting in the corridor. You very carefully pushed the buttons through the holes, adjusting it just enough for him to look neat and comfortable. 

The two of you stare at the cuffs silently, watching the police emblem reflect the streetlights from outside. Horacio watches the conflict in your eyes, struggling to make a decision he knew nothing of. 

You took a short breath, muttering a soft ‘fuck it’ before tip-toeing to kiss Horacio’s cheek, feeling the softness of his shaved skin against your lips. You moved your arms around his strong torso, laying your head gently against his chest - like how you regularly found yourself falling asleep to over the past month, with the exception of last night. 

“Promise me you’ll be safe?”

You expected it, his arms around yours as he kisses you, his unbroken promises coming out as hushed whispers while he presses his lips on the crown of your head. And now you found yourself wishing that had happened. Instead he gently holds your shoulders, nudging them back in an attempt to remove you from the hug. His eyes once again flooded with pain as he looked at you, nodding silently at you before reaching for the door knob again. 

“I promise.”

The door closes behind him, the loud thud solidifying the fact that whatever had happened last night, your abrupt kiss and confession, was only one-sided. 

You wiped the tears that threatened to fall, eyes glassy as you thought back to whatever had happened the previous night. Your steps were light and slow, walking back to your room in shame as you realised you’ve pushed Horacio further away from you - when all you wanted was to be in his arms again.

Love was frightening, you think, and how you wished he would love you back. 

--

The rest of the day felt like hell to Horacio, with Javier and Steve working with him closely to track down more of Pablo’s labs. They had tried various methods to weed out the information from the men arrested during the raid, only for their frustration to grow after learning that their loyalty ran deeper than the fear of death. 

Gatcha, for the most part of the interrogation, had provided the team with false information, laughing every time they had come up empty. Despite the lack of power he currently had, he enjoyed the sight of the exhausted Search Bloc men coming back with no new leads, taunting every one of them each time they failed. This, in turn, made Horacio’s anger grow, deciding to take it upon himself to do the interrogation instead.

How much can you make a man bleed?

The room’s lights flickered, the air becoming much cooler as Horacio looked through the heavy leather bag he had brought in. The colour of the bag was starting to fade, becoming a dull brown that pales in comparison to the table it was on. Horacio neatly lines up the tools from the carrier, admiring the way the light shined on their metallic material. 

He drags a chair forward, sitting before the drug lord while observing him with slight amusement. He holds up a knife, no longer than the size of his palm, with a handle that was pure black. The tip of the weapon reflected off the harsh white lights, creating a glistening effect. 

The drug lord wheezes, tilting his head back as he let out a guttural laugh. 

“You really think that’s going to scare me? You assholes can’t make me flinch even if you tried.”

Horacio hums in response, staring at the shorter man in silence. Gatcha was firmly planted to his seat, hands tied behind so tight that Horacio knew he’d have several nasty rope burns once this was done. That was if Gatcha would be alive to feel it.

Gatcha had opened his mouth to speak, and Horacio could already feel his eyes roll at whatever the man was about to say. Without warning, he surged forward towards Gatcha, the chair that he once sat on now carelessly knocked onto the ground. The punch was swift, aimed directly at the drug lord’s nose for maximum damage. What Horacio didn’t know though, was that his force was so strong it had led to Gatcha falling backwards, blood pooling at his lips and nostrils. 

The thick red fluid dripped down the man’s chin, staining his teeth that were now bared at him. 

“You fucker, how dare you put your hands on me!”

Horacio crouches next to the man, balling his fists in the collars of Gatcha’s cotton shirt, “listen up motherfucker, I think you’ll soon find out that I dare to do pretty much everything, and that includes killing you if you don’t give us the information on the fucking labs.”

Horacio lets go of the collars, allowing Gatcha to once again drop against the hard cold floors. He fishes out his knife and places it under the other man’s chin, slowly dragging it down his throat, careful not to break the skin. 

“I can do this all-” Gatcha spits his blood on Horacio’s face, the fluid splattering on his cheeks, “fucking day.”

Horacio purses his lips together, forming a thin line as he nodded at the other man’s statement. He stands up from his crouched position, looking down at Gatcha who was still stuck to his seat, occasionally groaning from the pain inflicted. Horacio signals for his men to tend to Gatcha, carrying his seat back up while he admires the whole array of tools to use at his disposal.

“You’re in luck Gatcha,” Horacio walks back to the man with a larger blade, digging the tip just slightly into Gatcha’s thigh, “I can do this all fucking day too.” 

The hours went by torturously slow for Gatcha, and now he sat across Horacio again covered in more cuts and broken bones than before. His breathing was laboured and he looked at Horacio through swollen eyelids, mouth in a downward snarl while he bared his teeth once again. 

Horacio had managed to make the man break, getting the information they had needed after forcefully dunking his head into a container of cold water. Gatcha was starting to cough up blood, gasping for air with choked breaths as he rattled out the locations of the hidden labs. Horacio had called in a unit to check the reliability of the information, only to be pleased when they had relayed in the message of it being true. 

The colonel walked over to the table again, recklessly dumping back his tools into the worn out leather bag, smirking at the fact that they were one step closer to catching Pablo Escobar. They still had a long way to go, but this was the first step of driving Pablo into a corner, to make him helpless and powerless enough to take him down. 

“I’ll kill you- you son of a bitch, I’ll fucking end your life once I get out of here.”

Horacio softly hums, continuing to clean the torture tools and dumping them back into his leather carrier. He examined each and every tool to ensure its cleanliness before placing them back, paying no mind to Gatcha’s mindless anger. 

“You have a wife don’t you?”

The question had caught him off-guard, sending a chill down his spine. Horacio’s back had straightened, tensing at Gatcha’s words. He holds the knife tightly in his hand, fearing what the drug lord would say next. 

“She’s beautiful, I’ll admit. Such a pity to be married to such a violent man like you.” 

No, he’s just baiting you Horacio.

“Wouldn’t it be horrible if something happened to her?”

He’s trying to make you crack.

“Listen here you insolent bastard,” Horacio rushes over to Gatcha, spitting on his face before gripping his chin roughly, forcing him to stare at Horacio’s cold unfeeling eyes.

“Your empty threats mean nothing to me, especially when you’re stuck in this fucking basement. Your men are all dead, or have you conveniently forgotten that as well?”

Horacio pushes Gatcha’s head back, resting his foot on the gap between the other man’s legs. 

“You can’t fucking do shit to either me or my wife, so why don’t you shut the fuck up or-,” Horacio’s picks up the clean blade and holds it close to Gatcha’s crotch, digging the tip slightly into his pants,”I’ll fucking cut your balls off, bitch.”

Horacio swiftly kicks the chair, allowing Gatcha to fall backwards with his hands still tied behind the seat. Unable to move from his current position, Gatcha lets out a loud howl, aggressively shaking in place to sit back up. 

“You’re going to regret it,” Gatcha spits out blood on the nearby cement floor, laughing as his teeth stains red again, “you’re going to fucking regret it.”

Horacio walks out the basement, carrying the tools in his hand. His boots hit the hard cement floor, heavy footsteps echoing the room as the man that was sprawled on the floor continues moaning in pain. His hands and clothes stain red, chest heaving as the anger in him brewed. 

He stomps back to his office, the blinds rattling as he slams the door shut behind him. His hands were balled once more and he walked over to his bottle of scotch to pour himself a drink. The strong scent of the alcohol and the burn that came with downing the drink at one go did help in relieving his anger, but there was just something about what had happened in that basement that just didn’t sit right with him. 

Horacio slumps back into his office chair, thinking back to what Gatcha had threatened a few moments prior. The words repeated in his head, and with each passing minute, he grew more worried for your safety. 

But Gatcha was here, in police custody, where he wouldn’t be able to escape. 

His men too were few in numbers, a result of the raid on the safehouse that had killed the majority of them. Mindless threats, Horacio thought, a means to make him crack and make a mistake. 

He refused to ponder over the drug lord’s words anymore, opting to create new plans with Javier and Steve instead. The three of them had then started to work tirelessly, carefully crafting a ploy that would surely blindside Pablo and his men. They were at it for countless hours, too focused on work to notice that the sun had already set. They had only noticed the passing of time when Steve’s phone was starting to burn up, with Connie calling him every once in a while to check up on him. 

The blond had finally suggested they took a break, calling it a day before answering the phone call from his wife. Javier had left soon after, reminding Horacio to return home soon too, thanking him for the good work he had done for the day. 

Horacio barely nodded, struggling to keep away his things as the exhaustion started to plague his entire body. The office was now quiet, with the only source of light in the building coming from his room. All the other men had either gone home or for their night deployment, leaving Horacio alone in this huge police station. 

Horacio rubs his weary eyes, drinking from his flask occasionally to ease the stress that was piling on him. The skies were finally dark, hinting the end of another day. He looks up at the clock that stares back at him, realising that it was already half past eight. 

He thinks back to you, wondering what you were doing at this very moment. 

Had you eaten dinner? Were you waiting for him? Had you already gone to bed? 

He struggled to concentrate on the documents in front of him, mind wandering back to you. 

Always you. 

His radio is alive again, with some of his men updating their status and position, scattered around the streets of Bogota as the annual night festival commenced. 

Horacio remembered you briefly mentioning it, that you’ve been meaning to go for this festival for a while now. You had asked him in passing though, wondering if he would consider going with you. Horacio realised he never actually gave you a proper answer, the conversation between the two of you now playing clearly in his mind. 

In that moment, a week ago, when you had asked if he was interested in following you for the festival, he was simply too caught up in the way you were speaking so sweetly, that he had forgotten to reply. That memory now burned in his mind, and he cringes slightly at how hopelessly in love he has been with you. 

You had always brought up sides of him he never knew existed, and as he held you in his arms at night, he could only think of the indescribable emotion you constantly made him feel. What was it?

Love? 

Passion? 

Happiness? 

It was different, being with you. The life he’s ever known before was filled with anger, blood and tears - ones that would constantly colour his nightmares. Every time he looks up at you, he expects your disgust for the man he’s become - the battle hardened, stone cold man that was incapable of love. With hands stained red, he remembers, I will only bring you harm.

Instead he sees you, your kind eyes and bright smile, staring back at him as if he had gifted you with the moon and the stars. And that, he thought, was enough to bring down the walls he had so carefully built up over the years. What was it about you, that had him begging for more? 

Was it the fact that you relished in his presence? 

Or was it the fact that you made him feel like he was worthy of love? 

Horacio packs his items, shoving them into his briefcase without a second thought. He cleans up his table and decides to call it a night, looking out to the beautiful cloudy sky before finally leaving the office. The weather in Bogota was unpredictable, with more rain than sun. Horacio could feel the slight drizzle as he walked out the office, boots stomping in puddles as he quickened his pace to his vehicle.

He had a lot to amend between the two of you, realising that whatever he had done the night before was simply cowardice. He should’ve held you close to him, returning the affection you had so proudly confessed. Instead he had walked away like a fool, with a tail between his legs, leaving you to sleep alone in a bed far too large for you. 

And for what? Because he was afraid? Because he felt like he didn’t deserve you? This was pathetic, and he knew that. The sounds of wet granite under his boots crunched, rain slowly drenching the ground before him. He jingled the keys in his hand, finally mustering the determination to make things right. He knew what he had to do - to walk through the door of your shared home and hold you; kissing away the pain of yesterday with another promise. 

A promise to never hurt you ever again.

He had to make things right, knowing that he couldn’t afford to lose you. You were the light in his life, finally opening his eyes to the simple joys- one which he wasn’t prepared to lose. He couldn’t let you slip through his fingers, not when you meant the world to him.

He enters his car quickly, deciding to head back as soon as he could - to keep you company on this uneventful night. He had a long day, and despite the events that had transpired just hours ago, all he wanted to do was to fall asleep with you - realising that with you, he could finally be free of the shackles he called work. As he started up the vehicle, his radio called out to him, this time with a faintly recognizable voice lacing with worry. 

“Colonel Carrillo,”

Horacio cocks his eyebrow at the lifeless object, driving out of the driveway and onto the road. The weather was no different than that night the Search Bloc had conducted the raid, with the skies becoming gloomier as Horacio drove further into the heart of the city. 

“What is it?”

He was surprised, to say the least, as to why the Centra Spike agent would be calling him at this time of the night. Horacio found himself caught at a traffic light, and as he looked around, he assumed that the traffic situation would only get worse the further he drove into the city. The streets were alive with the endless amount of cars that were on the road, and Horacio assumes it's due to the night festival that was commencing not too far off. His eyebrows furrowed as he continued to listen to the agent’s rambling over the radio, hearing the transmission get shaky as he drove through the crowds of people and cars. 

“Colonel, we’ve just intercepted a transmission from one of Gatcha’s men, they’re planning on holding a hostage situation. Details unknown, we’re still trying to look into it. ”

“What?”

Gatcha’s men?

A hostage situation?

The information simply didn’t make sense to him - how could Gatcha’s men hold a hostage situation, when they were so few in numbers? 

Were there more that Horacio had missed out? Were there ones that escaped the raid? 

The questions plagued his mind, and he was growing more frustrated with each passing moment. The relentless honking from nearby cars was doing nothing to ease the stress that was getting to him, and being stuck in traffic did nothing to help either.

Who, or why were they doing this? Horacio couldn’t think of anyone in particular whom Gatcha would want to get his hands on, coming up empty with each person he could think of. It couldn’t possibly be a politician or an enemy, seeing that he didn’t have the power to do such a bold crime like this. 

So who could it be...?

Horacio lets out a loud groan, leaning back against his car seat to look at the rear view mirror. The traffic was only increasing, and the music from the nearby festival pounded in his ears. This is going to be a long night, he thinks, and he purses his lips in annoyance, recognizing the fact that he was going to return home to you fast asleep. 

So much for making amends.

“Where is this transmission coming from?” 

Silence. 

The streets were shining, the streetlight reflecting its glow of the wet ground, sparkling as Horacio drove through the densely filled roads. There was a light pitter-patter on the hood of the car as the rain and leaves from nearby trees hit the front lightly. The radio’s static noises filled the vehicle, and with each passing moment that Horacio got no reply from, the noise only seemed to ring louder in his ears. 

Frustrated, he picks up the radio, slamming his fingers on the buttons while demanding an answer from his men, “agent, I asked where is this transmission coming from?”

“Colonel Carrillo... It looks like-”

“Hurry up and tell me damn it!”

“25th street, the call transmission came from 25th street!”

Horacio felt his heart stop, forcefully stepping on the brakes as he gripped the steering wheel harder. The force was enough to lunge him forward, his firm chest crashing into the dashboard in a rough manner. The wind in his lungs had been knocked out, and his eyes widened as he processed the information. 

It couldn't be, it couldn’t be right?

That was where he lived. 

They had came after you.

Beads of sweat were forming on his temple, and Horacio could feel the heat of the car suffocate him. It felt like a punch to the gut which had caught him off-guard. Red light, orange light, green light. The colours flashed on his dashboard, colouring the interior of the car with the bright traffic lights. As soon as the cars started moving, Horacio could feel his heart rate spike, fingers trembling in the slightest and he prepared himself to get home to you.

Horacio had stomped on the accelerator as soon as the lights turned, speeding through the packed streets of Bogota with a complete disregard for traffic rules. He narrowly misses every single vehicle, driving recklessly in the rain as he raced against time to get to you. The rain was pouring harder now, the visibility getting poorer as the minutes went by. 

He had put you in danger. 

Gatcha’s voice filled his head once again, the words he had thought to be false now painting a gruesome picture. 

Red, 

white, 

screams of fright. 

The image of you bleeding out made Horacio grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles turning a ghostly colour as he continued driving through the compact streets. 

He did this to you.

He had put you in danger. 

His face paled, jaw clenched tightly as he found his hands trembling just a bit. The sweat that formed just above his eyebrow now trickled down his temple, damping his military green uniform collar. The sweat was cool, a stark contrast to his face that was burning with anger.  

How could he be so careless?

How could he have been so blindsided by the potential threats Gatcha had promised?

Horacio tries his best to steady his breathing, only to find himself panting and more nervous than he’s ever been. The wind from outside howls, and Horacio felt like an ominous threat had hung above him. It was a nightmare that he could only wish he could wake up from.  

You’re going to be okay, he repeats to himself, I’m going to make sure you’ll be safe.

He chants the words to himself, desperately clinging on to every bit of hope he could get. He couldn’t believe it, it just couldn’t be you. The ringing in his ears got louder, and Horacio could feel his body tense at the thought of what they’d do to you. These men were despicable, and they would stop at nothing to prove a message. 

Blood. Bruises. Cuts. Broken. 

The images yet again flashed in his mind, and he could feel himself breaking. It simply didn’t make sense. There had to be something wrong with the transmissions, how could someone as powerless as the man locked up, still have a hold over him? 

Horacio thinks back to the intel he had received, carefully dissecting the message word for word. “...One of Gatcha’s men… planning on holding a hostage situation.”

It’s just Gatcha’s men, right?

Gatcha was still cooped up in that pathetic excuse of a jail cell, probably laughing at the unfortunate event that Horacio was currently facing. A plan that Horacio was so very sure was orchestrated by him. His blood boiled, and Horacio knew that as soon as this was over, Gatcha would be a dead man for ever thinking he could lay his finger on you. 

Without Gatcha to worry about, he had a shot of bringing you back safely, which was Horacio’s biggest priority as of now. Gatcha’s men were like soldier ants, many in numbers but brainless without their leader. That man was like a demon, and Horacio could feel the hairs on his skin stand as he thought of how dangerous it would’ve been for you if he was there.

For all he knew, you could’ve been dead by now.

The static echoed through the car again, breaking the earlier silence that Horacio felt was starting to suffocate him. The air was hot and heavy, drenching Horacio with sweat as he continued driving through the night. 

“Colonel Carrillo, we might have another problem.”

His breath hitched, the air once again stilling as he waited for the bad news. And just as he thought it couldn’t get any worse, the howling of the wind grew louder. 

“Gatcha has broken out of prison.”

[lokimostly]

Polaris (Ch. 9/?)

Loki x Reader, Pirate!AU Word Count: 3,122 Warnings: “solo smut”, injury Summary: Your life has always been set in stone. Born to a wealthy merchant family in the Caribbean, you’ve spent your years as an heiress in the daytime, escaping at night to wander the streets of St. Thomas. Now, on the eve before your life settles into mundanity for good, you discover someone who could change everything– if you choose to trust him, that is.

A/N: Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who live in the US and celebrate! I’m thankful for each and every one of you. <3 

Chapter One ~ Chapter Two ~ Chapter Three ~ Chapter Four ~ Chapter Five ~ Chapter Six ~ Chapter Seven ~ Chapter Eight ~ Chapter Ten ~ Chapter Eleven ~ Chapter Twelve ~ Chapter Thirteen ~ Chapter Fourteen

All you could do was worry.

Loki’s promise of returning to you only made your anxious waiting worse — was there a possibility that he might not return in one piece? You truly had no idea how difficult the storm was to sail through. The pounding rain against the hull and occasional roll of thunder was a noisy backdrop to your anxious thoughts. 

There was no point in picking up your astronomy book again— the constant rocking made the words swim on the page, and you gave up quickly. Everything kept shifting back and forth. You blew out all the candles, leaving the lantern by the door glowing as the sole source of light. It was barely afternoon, but the sky outside the window was dark, with no contrast where the clouds ended and the waves began. You could only imagine what it felt like to be on deck and in the midst of the wind and rain— you didn’t envy Loki. Instead, your stomach churned with worry for him.

After mulling about and putting away any desktop objects that might roll onto the floor, you stripped off your clothes and pulled on your chemise. The trousers were admittedly freeing, but the fabric was stiff. Still, you would definitely be wearing them more often.

You paused with the trousers half-folded over your arm. They were Loki’s clothes, not yours. You shouldn’t be making imaginary plans around him, no matter how small.

A huff escaped your lips. You were thoroughly enraptured by him now, despite your best efforts. Damn him and his honey-coated words, his sharp jaw, sea-colored eyes, his muscled arms...

You threw the trousers into the drawer and dropped onto the bed dramatically, pulling the covers over your body in one angry motion. You glared in the dark. 

I could never take what isn’t freely given, no matter how tantalizing you may be.

But you did want him to take you. You could admit that to yourself now.

You flipped onto your back and pulled the covers down a bit, stewing silently and staring at the paneled ceiling. It was driving you mad. 

Just once, you wanted to let yourself indulge in him without feeling guilty for it.

You sighed, chewing your lip before reaching between your legs. You needed a distraction from the storm anyways – and nothing else would satiate your frustration. This, at least, you could control.

You exhaled and closed your eyes as you found a familiar rhythm. Memory blended with fantasy as you recalled the feeling of his hands – their careful touch when he held you so securely while dancing. You imagined their gentle caresses trailing over your skin, while his lips whispered sinful praises against your ear. Every way he had touched you, each honey-coated compliment and sinful inference, was ushered to the forefront of your memory to be put to use. 

Thunder rolled above you and you forced yourself to ignore the rise of anxiety that it brought to your chest. You thought instead of Loki’s hungry gaze when he’d looked at you in the mirror. The way he’d pinned you against the tree in the gardens – even now, the recollection of his words made you shiver.

how long will it take before I find you in my bed, whimpering in the dark, begging me for the comfort your husband cannot give? 

You sunk deeper into the sheets, reaching up to grip your pillow as you let yourself go completely. It was his fingers instead of yours between your legs, his mouth on your skin and driving you to the edge of bliss. Your body tensed, clenched, and shattered.

Your mind slowly floated back to your body as you laid in the dim lamplight, breathing hard. Unknown minutes passed. The wave of endorphins dripped through your veins, gradually giving way to tiredness. Sated, you pushed your hair from your face and shifted further below the blankets, nestling into the safety of the bed. Your hand reached up to rub your face, and you felt the cold metal of your engagement ring brush against your flushed skin.

You pulled your hand away to stare at the garnet. It glowed dimly in the light, like a drop of crystallized blood wrapped in silver. Beautiful in its craftsmanship – like an elegantly tied noose. 

An unfamiliar emotion rose in your chest: something deeper than rebellion, cooler than anger. Thor would not be your husband – not if you had anything to say about it. You reached up, pulling the ring from your finger, and set it on the bedside table. Your hand felt almost lighter with the absence of such a heavy emotional weight.

For the first time, finally, you were taking hand of the reins. Your future laid in the direction of wherever this pirate ship was going, and you couldn’t be more resolute about it. The thought made you smile as you drifted off to sleep, lulled by the rocking of the ship and the mingled noise of rain and thunder, oblivious to the storm around you. 

~ 

Loki moved carefully as he climbed down from the crow’s nest. His hands held tightly to the wet rope as rain pelted against him from every side– going hand over hand, taking a measured breath for every rung. The ship’s violent pitching meant almost certain death for any misstep.

Climbing the rigging up to try and catch a glimpse of the horizon had been utterly fruitless. Loki didn’t want to admit it, but this was chalking up to be less of a storm and more of a hurricane. The waves were growing more violent at every hour, and the risk of keeling over or hitting a reef was running high.

Lightning flashed in the dark clouds. He reached for the next rung and his hand slipped on its slick surface. The deck flew up towards him and he grabbed madly for the rope, catching just enough friction to slow his descent before he hit the deck and crumpled.

Volstagg, standing at the helm with his bear-like arms straining against the wheel, shouted across the deck. “Cap’n! You alright?” 

Loki grunted and waved his hand dismissively, resting on his elbows for a moment before standing to his feet. The deck was slippery with rainwater – everything was slippery with rainwater. Loki cursed as he wiped water from his eyes, holding onto one of the posts to keep his footing. The flesh of his hands burned red from the ropes.

He started towards the helm when the ship pitched itself again, and stumbled. Thomas abandoned the half-tied rope in his hand to catch his captain before he fell again. 

“Go below!” He shouted over the rain. “We can ‘andle her!”

Loki shook his head stubbornly. Rivulets of water dripped down his face and ran off his jaw– there wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t soaked through. “I’m alright.”

“You’ve been awake nearly three days,” Thomas insisted. His young face was cast in an earnest frown.

Volstagg handed the wheel off and stepped down, setting his paw on Loki’s shoulder. “Aye, we’ll call should we need you. Get some rest.”

Loki’s hollowed eyes stared at Volstagg for a long moment before he conceded with a nod, letting go of Thomas’s arm. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion as he made his way cautiously across the leaning deck. He ducked his head instinctively when lightning flashed again, followed by a long roll of thunder. His eyes were blurred with fatigue.

Loki descended the wooden stairs and shook his head, wringing water out from his clothes to lessen their incessant dripping before he opened the door to the Captain’s quarters.

There was only a single lantern burning by the door, casting the room in a dull orange glow. Loki looked around. He spotted the vague lump in the bed where you were curled up and smiled faintly, a small laugh escaping through his nose. He’d been afraid that you would be beset with worry – which was a rather indulgent thought, you worrying over him – or feeling sick on account of  the ship’s violent rocking. It was surprisingly comforting to him, to see you curled safely asleep in bed. In his bed. 

The floorboards creaked painfully loud beneath his feet as he crossed the room, peeling the wet shirt from his body. His limbs ached from the cold. Even though the room was warm, Loki couldn’t stop shivering. He winced as he reached to put the shirt on a hanger, feeling the soreness of his side where he’d hit the deck. No doubt there would be a full set of bruises on his ribcage tomorrow, if they weren’t blossoming already.

He shut the dresser door gently, holding onto the handle when the ship groaned and rocked. Loki’s tired eyes fell to the object rolling off its surface, and he caught it before it hit the floor, holding it up in the light to inspect it.

Your ring.

He set it down instantly like it burned him. It should be on your hand, not set atop the dresser. Why had you taken it off? His mind searched for an answer and found none. He looked down at your face turned against the pillow, hair splayed and eyelashes still against your cheeks in sleep, your left hand noticeably bare. But your angelic expression held no answer. 

Perhaps it had merely been uncomfortable to wear for so long… but that answer left Loki dissatisfied in the same way that your response to his question had earlier, when he asked you about the content of your dreams.

Loki reached for the ring and picked it up with a degree of hesitation. He opened the drawer and set it beside the thrice-folded letter, closing the false bottom and pushing it shut. His eyes fell on you again, and he sighed. “Ever you remain something of a mystery to me,” he murmured, reaching down and tucking back a piece of your hair with his long fingers.

The ship rocked, and you shifted in your sleep, causing him to withdraw his hand. The last thing he wanted was to disturb you – and sleeping in the same bed would certainly do that. With an exhausted exhale, Loki turned, walking across the room and collapsing into the desk chair. He pulled the fabric of his jacket mostly over his chest like a blanket, setting his chin in his hand and letting his eyes fall closed. His body ached uncomfortably and he shifted.

“What are you doing?”

Your voice came slow and sleepy from the bed, but it startled him nonetheless, and he jerked. “Erm–”

“Are you sleeping in the chair?” You asked, your voice turning accusatory as you began to wake up. You sat up in the bed, holding the coverlet to your chest. Your hair tumbled over your shoulders, falling into your face before you pushed it away with your free hand.

Loki dropped his gaze. Your white chemise hung from your shoulders, but for propriety’s sake you might as well have been naked.  “I…” he couldn’t think of a suitable lie. “Yes. I had no desire to disturb you.”

“This is your bed.” 

Loki’s eyebrow twitched. “I know that.”

“You should sleep in it.” 

He reached up and rubbed his face, sighing against his hand. “My lady,” he began sarcastically, “I have no intention of impressing myself upon you–”

“I want you to.” 

He stopped. Opened his mouth– closed it again. This had to be a dream. He had hit the deck and broken his neck upon impact; that was the only possible explanation.

Loki’s hand dropped slowly and he lifted his gaze, not daring to breathe as he looked at you. His stomach had turned to a flutter of moths. You gazed back at him in the orange lamplight, with a puzzled expression, before it turned quickly to shock, and then a flushed shade of scarlet. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean– I want you to sleep in the bed,” you clarified, pointing to the spot beside you to make your point. “Not– not to sleep with–”

“Right, of course,” Loki agreed quickly, nodding emphatically as heat spread to his own face. He wanted to pitch himself over the side of the railing. How could he possibly have thought that you meant anything otherwise? He cleared his throat, shaking his head a few times, as if it would get rid of his mortified emotional state, and tried to reassemble whatever was left of his composure. “No, I’m afraid not.”

Your eyebrows pulled together in a frown and you glared at him. “Which is it?”

“Pardon?”

“Is it ‘of course,’ or ‘I’m afraid not?’”

“The latter,” He snapped. “I was trying to be considerate. It’s a miracle you were asleep at all, in the midst of a hurricane–” He stopped and clamped his mouth shut. His heart twisted inside his chest as you visibly paled and your shoulders tensed. Your eyes flitted to the paneled window, staring through the dark glass before setting on him again. There was a beat of silence. 

“Why are you here?” you began, the coverlet fabric bunched in your fists. “If ... if the storm is truly as formidable as you say, shouldn’t you be up there?”

“I would be,” he admitted. “But my men insisted.” When you didn’t reply, he continued on. “I couldn’t stay awake.” He cleared his throat, raising his eyebrows and gesturing vaguely to his left side. “I fell from the rigging.” 

Your reaction was immediate. “Are you hurt? may I see?” 

Loki hummed in affirmation and pushed himself up, discarding his jacket and coming around to your side of the bed. Your cheeks tinged at the sight of him half-naked – his lean, muscular figure shouldn’t have surprised you, but you had trouble looking away from him all the same. Captaining a ship obviously kept him fighting fit. 

You felt the dip in the bed when he sat down on the edge, raising his arm for you to observe his side. 

Your mouth opened in silent shock at his mottled skin, cut in some places and bruising all over. You reached out, touching your fingers gingerly to the discolored ribs. 

Loki inhaled quickly through his teeth and you withdrew your hand. “I’m sorry.” 

He shook his head and dropped his arm. “No need.” He blinked slowly, losing his train of thought and staring off for a long moment. The quick glimpse you had seen earlier of his exhausted state was much worse than you imagined— he was beginning to shiver, the dark circles beneath his eyes more prominent in the dim light. 

You wanted to run your thumb over his cheek and press a kiss there for good measure. Instead, you nudged him with your leg. “You might as well sleep here,”  you suggested gently, raising an eyebrow. “Since you made it this far.” 

Loki blinked, withdrawing from his thoughts and chuckling. “Was this all a scheme to get me into your bed, little one?” He purred. The tired gravelling in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and you stuttered. “N-no, I–” 

He reached out and put a long finger to your lips, smirking tiredly. “Shh.” He nodded towards the other side. “Move over?”

You obliged, scooting over to the other side so that Loki could get in. You silently mused that he probably wouldn’t have asked you to move if he hadn’t been in his current state. You weren’t certain he could have walked it around to the other side without stumbling.

Loki settled with a sigh, lying on his undamaged side with the coverlet pooled around his waist. You slid below the covers and stared at him through narrowed eyes, watching as he raked a hand through his raven hair. Even beneath the covers, he was still shivering.

You mustered the courage to speak in the dark. “Cold?” 

He inhaled, shaking his head against the pillow. “Just damp.” 

The ship rocked and your stomach turned over as a crash of thunder rolled above you. You screwed your eyes shut, trying to imagine yourself on solid ground and in your own bed – not inches away from temptation personified. It had been so easy to fall asleep only hours ago… 

But Loki obviously had no such trouble. He was completely still, save for his slow, steady breathing. His dark hair fell in curls against his pillow.

Thunder crashed again and an unintentional gasp escaped your mouth. You pressed your hand to your lips, wide-eyed in the dark as the ship rocked again, more violently this time. You tried to swallow your heart and shifted further under the covers. Loki, on the other hand, didn’t make a sound. You had never assumed he would be such a heavy sleeper.

Which, against your better judgement, gave you an idea.

You took a deep breath, and scooted closer– just within reach to feel the warmth coming off his skin, and find some semblance of comfort in the wake of the storm. The familiar smell of rose, saltwater and leather accompanied your newfound proximity to him, and you reached out to tease a strand of his hair into a loop around your finger – soft. Your heartbeat slowed inside your chest, and you closed your eyes.

Then you felt his hand wrap around your wrist.

Your eyes flew open and you stared at him, frozen in shock – he was still turned away from you, one arm reaching over. Not a heavy sleeper, you thought as your stomach dropped. He wasn’t sleeping at all. You waited for the reprimand, the sinful comment, but for a long moment all that met you was harrowing silence.

Finally, Loki drew a breath. “Storms like these make children of us all,” he murmured. His words were slow and careful as he thumbed unconsciously over your wrist, before letting go. “They frighten us more than we would prefer to admit.”

You weren’t sure what to say; you had a feeling that he wasn’t speaking to your actions alone. Thunder rumbled again, and you tensed at the deep vibration.

Loki turned onto his back with a pained grunt, rolling his shoulders against the mattress to find a position that didn’t hurt his side. Then he closed his eyes, sighed, and lifted his hand in offering.

You stared at it in motionless shock for so long that you could feel Loki’s patience wearing thin.

He raised his eyebrows, eyes still closed. “Do you want it, or not?”

You took his hand. His long, calloused fingers completely engulfed yours. It was such a small connection, but you could feel his every heartbeat through his skin, strong and steady. It may have been your imagination, but whenever the ship took an abrupt turn, his grip tightened ever so slightly. The simplest of gestures, and yet it was more of a comfort to you than any of Thor’s words or actions had ever been.

Why couldn’t it have been him? You wondered, before sleep reclaimed you and the sounds of the storm faded away once more.

- - -

A/N: thanks for reading! <3 

Tag List (CLOSED): 

@neontiiger, @un-consider-it, @jessiejunebug, @nerdypisces160, @lokiisntdeadbitch, @e-wolf-90, @cursedmoonstone-blog, @kikaninchen-2, @bluebellhairpin, @evy-lyn, @midnight-queen-1, @travelingmypassion, @harrybpoetry, @adefectivedetective, @absolutecraziness13, @kumikokagato, @randomfangirl7, @timetraveler1978, @tarynkauai, @arcanethamin, @ornate-ribcage, @julianettedoe, @kinghiddlestonanddixon, @yespolkadotkitty, @befearlesslyauthenticc, @ladybugsfanfics, @thisisaclusterofablog, @groupies-do-it-better, @just-the-hiddles, @quenilla, @amyy-moonlightt, @pandacookieowo, @thatweirdwalangpake, @alexakeyloveloki, @littlemissporter, @yes-captainstark, @justawriterwithdreams, @beautyandflannel, @eyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy, @myoxisbroken, @rjohnson1280, @the-republic-and-face-of-texas, @snapessecretdiary, @sailortaylorfin, @cottoncandy1010, @androgynousdeputyfarmhero, @blackcherry26-blog, @saljstuff, @devilbat, @scarlettghost13​, @arch-venus25

[keelywolfe]

Drabble: Home (baon)

Summary: All small towns aren't created equal.

Tags:  Spicyhoney, Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Andy(Jeff)

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

~~*~~

Read in on AO3!

or

Read it here!

 ~~*~~

Jeff hadn’t been living in New New Home very long, only a couple months and he'd learned a few things since then. For one, the Monster community wasn’t very large and New New Home couldn’t be properly called a city. It was more of a town and a small one at that.

He’d grown up in a small town, where everybody knew everyone, including all their personal business, and when he’d moved to Ebott for college, Jeff had been pretty sure that was exactly the kind of life he didn’t want to have again. Funny how it turned out that the town wasn’t the actual problem, only the people living in it.

In New New Home, he could take a walk down the street and know that everyone he saw would smile and wave. People still knew him by name but absolutely none of them would be on the phone in moments, vindictively eager to blab to his parents about what they’d seen him doing or where he went or who he was with, and they could couch the words with all the false concern in the world. The truth of it was they were hurrying to share malicious gossip before anyone else could and waiting for the inevitable fallout.

Not that there weren’t plenty of wagging tongues in the Monster community, heck, Blue was a champion at it, but somehow, it was different. His tidbits were always wrapped in fondness and if he mentioned that so-and-so started dating whose-their-face, it was always with the greatest hope that the date went well and that a second would follow, and if his worries for Stretch might be over the top, well, he kept it mostly to himself.

Jeff never knew before coming here that gossip could be kind.

The Bun Bakery was within walking distance of their house and it was an uncommonly warm day for spring, sunny and bright. Perfect for a leisurely stroll. Edge’s baking would always be Jeff’s favorite, but he guiltily admitted that the Bun Bakery was pretty damn close second. Plus, Edge didn’t make the little cinnamon bunny bites they did, always fresh and warm right from the oven, the sugar and cake almost melting away on his tongue.

The older Bun lady behind that counter didn’t even ask Jeff for his order anymore, already scooping the treats into a paper bag the second the doorbell jangled as he stepped inside.

Today, though, he decided to change it up. “Can I get two bags this time?”

“Hungry, are we?” Gemma laughed, shaking out another small bag. Her long ears were folded down underneath a mesh hairnet. The Bun family was huge, and Jeff was still getting the hang of it, but he was pretty sure this was Edge’s assistant Janice’s cousin. Pretty sure.

“I could probably eat ten bags before I got sick of them, but I’m trying to keep my girlish figure,” Jeff said wryly. “This one is for a friend.”

A minute to swipe his card and Jeff was back outside in the fresh air, heading back the way he came as he started in on his own bag of goodies.

Edge and Stretch lived on the same road as Blue did, all Jeff needed to do was hang a right instead of a left at the intersection. The garage door was open and he could see the vague outline of Edge inside. He was sitting on the concrete floor next to his motorcycle, his bad leg stretched out in front of him, all velcro-ded into that knee-high boot that acted as a sort of splint.

“Good morning, Jeff.” To Jeff’s not at all surprise, Edge didn’t even look up from what he was working on. Dark fluid was running from the engine into a shallow pan on the ground.

"Hiya. Just stopping by, thought I'd bring Stretch a treat." He held up a bag of cinnamon bunny bites, his own empty one crumpled guiltily into his fist.

It really was fascinating to watch Edge whenever someone mentioned Stretch. Edge always looked sort of fierce, his skull was sharply angular where the others were more rounded. His visible teeth were jagged and sharp, the crack through his socket adding an aura of danger, and his bearing tended towards aloof on a good day. He made Jeff sort of think of a lion, standing alone on the savanna, fierce and proud.

But one mention of Stretch and his entire expression sort of…softened. Not literally, but Jeff couldn’t think of a better way to describe it. His intense crimson eye lights went fuzzy at the edges, the corners of his mouth turned up in an almost smile. Maybe people who didn’t know him couldn’t tell, but to Jeff’s eye it was practically a physical statement of adoration. It never lasted long, vanished back under the stoic pretty quickly, but Jeff knew it was there, lurking under the surface.

“I’m sure he’d appreciate that, he never turns down sugar,” Edge said dryly. “He was napping, last I saw, you can knock on the door and see if he’s awake.”

“I’ll text him in a minute,” Jeff decided. He hunkered down, instead, peering at the motorcycle curiously, “What are you doing?”

“Maintenance.” Edge wiped away a trickle of sweat from his forehead with the back of his gloved hand where it wasn’t smeared with grease. “I won’t be able to ride it anytime soon, but the engine still needs maintained. Hand me the socket wrench?”

Jeff hesitated, not wanting to admit he didn’t have half a clue what a socket wrench was. Edge only pointed patiently, and Jeff handed it over. He watched as Edge used it expertly, and his mouth, like it so often did, decided to run off without him. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“You can ask.” The implication being that Edge might not answer. “Now the new filter.”

Jeff handed over the rounded, ribbed thing Edge pointed out. “When did you know you were in love with Stretch?"

At first, he didn't think Edge was going to answer. His hands kept moving, screwing in the new filter, then picking up a funnel to add fresh oil to the tank.

"That's a difficult question," he said at last. “You know I love him. I can say that now. When we first started dating, it wasn't so easy.” His eye lights flicked briefly to Jeff. “Being with Stretch is like not knowing I was colorblind my entire life and then looking into the sky after a storm to suddenly see a rainbow.” That softness went over his face again and his voice dropped until Jeff had to strain to hear. “Colors I never knew existed until I knew him.”

Not really an answer to the question, but Jeff let it go. That was a better answer to an unasked question, anyway.

“Done,” Edge said decisively. He stripped off his dirty gloves and set them with the pile of oily rags. “All right, then, let’s go in and wake up my husband, shall we?”

Jeff stood and automatically held out a hand to help Edge up. He faltered at the last second and almost drew it back; metaphors aside, he didn’t know much about proud lions on the savanna, but he knew that Edge bristled over showing even minor weaknesses and he wasn’t big on touching either if it wasn’t Stretch doing the feeling.

Edge never hesitated, setting his bare hand firmly into Jeff’s. The bones of his hands were cooler than Stretch’s, rough with scars, the sharpened tips didn’t so much as graze Jeff’s skin. He let go without undue haste when he was back on his feet and if Edge realized the import of that one small action to Jeff, it didn’t show. He only grabbed his cane and headed towards the door. “Are you staying for lunch?”

“Um…yeah,” Jeff said weakly, then stronger, “Yeah, sure. What are we having?”

He followed Edge into the house, into the living room where Stretch was starting to stir on the sofa and as predicted, his sleepy smile turned to pure delight when Jeff handed over the bag of treats even as Edge scolded him affectionately not to ruin his appetite for lunch.

A different small town, a different family, and for the first moment in an achingly long time, Jeff felt like he was home.

-finis-

[lemonietrinket]

Sanctuary ||| Seungmin x Reader

Summary: A cumulation of issues combine to leave you terrified on summer’s night in your bed. Longing for sleep, you decide to escape, against what your nyctophobia tries to tell you.

Genre: Angst, but big Fluff after Warning(s): Fear of the dark, fear of death inferred, vague description of a (not real) ghost and cause of death, portrayal of a scared reader Word Count: 2822 Theme Song: None really but this is the ambience I listened to   AN: A request from @idontknowapil​, i hope this wasnt too scary/morbid for you! (dark writing is kinda in my bones), i hope the fluff after makes up for it

~~~

It was too hot in your stuffy room. Summer had hit full force this year and hadn’t let up for weeks on end, and it didn’t help that your fears had done so too.

You couldn’t be sure as to when you’d awoken, but you were certain that it was too long ago, and with the power out, you still lay awake most likely hours later.

Even with the windows wide open no coolness entered your bedroom, and in fact the mechanic had proved to be more of a curse than a blessing. The crickets were overwhelmingly loud, and the breeze proved to be just carrying humid heat across the air. The only other thing it had done was shift the curtains and branches beyond your room uneasily, creating figures that shifted in the weak moonlight and you prayed were false. 

The thought of something lurking outside, where it could slink into your room where you couldn’t see terrified you, and it added to the sweat that had gathered upon every inch of your skin. 

You wanted the window closed so desperately, you wanted the damned crickets to be quiet but you also longed to hear proof that you weren’t alone with the possible phantoms. You tried to focus on remembering saying goodnight to everyone in the apartment, there being no way for them to magically disappear, but it was not enough to fight your irrational brain. 

You swallowed thickly. You were stuck on your side to the covers of the bed, facing away from the door—another example of your damned luck—and beginning to become unable to ignore the parched feeling in your throat. You needed to feel the relief of being uncaged, but you were petrified of the possibilities that could occur if you stuck even a single toe out from under the blanket. 

Your breathing faltered as you saw a strange silhouette arc across the billowing curtain, gently swaying like the skirt of a girl lost to the creatures of the night. The lace of her dark veil fluttered limply upon a face that you saw crooked, then blinked, and was gone. 

Your thoughts spiralled as you shut your eyes tight. You didn’t want to become the girl, you didn’t want to follow in her footsteps and become like a curtain.

You bit your lip to stifle a warbled whine. This was no good. The heat was suffocating, the bed felt as if it was stretching—you couldn’t stay. Neither could you walk to the window, stand by the ghost of what you feared would become of you, and reach your hand out into the darkness to shut it out. God forbid something had already got in.

You slipped your hand to your mouth, taking as deep breaths as you could manage. 

There is nothing in the dark, the dark can’t hurt me. There is nothing in the dark, the dark can’t hurt me. There is nothing in the dark, the dark can’t—

You moved like a flurry, kicking your blanket off as if to dazzle any waiting predator and charging to the closed door. Your brain imagined locking sounds over the drum of your heartbeat, following footsteps behind the wild thud of your own, and you tried to shut the thoughts out.

Not caring about the noise you swung the door open and slammed it shut once you were through. You hissed however at the consequences, as in your tired state you had become clumsy, accidentally whacking your hip on the frame as you slipped through. 

Standing by the door in silence, you heard no noise from behind it, but neither did you hear any on your side which did little to calm you.

Peering into the dark of the hall, you counted the hazy outlines of the doors until you marked the one you needed. It wasn’t the furthest one, to some good fortune, but neither was it near. There was a good five metres between you and sanctuary. 

Needing to now mimic the quiet around you, you began to tiptoe across the wooden floorboards, palm clamped to your lips as you tried to not think about what would happen to you if something burst from each door as you passed them, or even if you just heard one open—worse yet if it was yours.

“There is nothing in the dark, the dark can’t hurt me,” you repeated in your head like a mantra, keeping your eyes low, as if to avoid offence to anything that could take it. 

It took so long for you to reach the room you were after that you’d begun to think that you were trapped in a nightmare with a cliche corridor that never ended. 

Your hand rested on the doorknob, surprisingly chilled compared to the rest of the night, when a thunk ricocheted from above you straight into your skull.

A gasp left your system before you could hold it, your voice yanked into it hoarsely, as you immediately pushed through the door. It came to a close with less sound this time, as you felt more awake and were subsequently able to control it this time, but you still sank to the floor, your back against it.

The sound was from the pipes, it was a sound you heard during the day every time it just happened to get quiet enough in the dorms, it just happened at the wrong time.

You knew you’d chosen the room well, as it was situated where the sun would not hit it as boldly, hence it didn’t feel like a sauna. Only the small windows were open, you noticed as your eyes scoured the room to check, and you noted that the curtains were tied back to likely avoid the thing you’d fallen prey to. And, as you listened to the silence, you noticed the crickets were much more distant here too.

Just as you were beginning to catch your breath however, there was a slow, drawn out shuffle to your right, at a distance much too close for comfort, and your heart immediately jumped into full gear. 

Forcing yourself to twist your head to the origin of the sound, your eyes were confronted with the sight of a silhouette, rising in the dark.

Your breath hitched as you snapped your eyes shut and hid behind your arms. “Th-there is nothing in the dark, the dark can’t hurt me! There is nothing in the dark, and the—!”

“Y/N...?”

The room was plunged into golden light as if an angel had fallen into the room. Though perhaps in a strange way, one had.

Peering up from your bundle on the floor at the familiar voice, you saw your sanctuary. 

Seungmin was leaning on one arm, rubbing his sleep-filled eyes with his hand as he grimaced against the light from his bedside lamp. “Ahhh, this thing is too bright,” he murmured groggily to himself, moving to rub his cheek indented with the lines from his clearly mussed up pillowcase. 

He looked so sweet with his hair dishevelled, not that you were paying much attention this right at that moment. Relief instead seeped through your body as you slowly staggered to your feet, you heart gradually beginning to calm itself.

“Y/N? Are you ok?” he enquired, watching you sway slightly as the adrenaline left you.

You nodded, hand smoothing your hair from where it had gotten stuck at your face, feeling guilty for the rude awakening you’d just given him. “I’m sorry, Min, I’m really sorry I didn’t mean to cause such a racket, a-and wake you like this—”

He sighed, but there was no malice in his intonation. “You got scared again didn’t you?”

“What?” you stammered, watching as he slowly settled back down onto the mattress. “Again?” 

It wasn’t that you thought this was a first time occurence—not at all, this was far from being the first occasion since you moved in with your new roommates. No, you were much more worried about how he knew about it, which meant he’d heard you panicking before, and it wasn’t difficult to believe others had done too.

Meanwhile Seungmin didn’t even bat an eye, shifting himself across the bed so as to leave enough room for another, bringing his thin blanket with him. “I’m just glad you came to get help this time, rather than suffering alone,” he said, “come on.”

Under normal circumstances, you were certain that he would never have you on his bed with him, and neither would you join him. But these were different times, and the fear of the night pushed you to pad across the short distance without a second’s thought, settling into the slightly cooler covers.

Feeling plenty warm enough, you rested your head on the pillow where he had slept prior, anxiously keeping your eyes upon him. He was still no less groggy, but he was somewhat more awake with your presence now there with him.

“Thank you,” you whispered, finding a place for your arms just outstretched from your chest so as to retain as little heat as possible. 

Even though you wanted to sink into a state of peace at last, you knew it was perhaps wishful thinking. Your relationship with Seungmin was close, but at a weird stepping stone. You were pretty sure he liked you much akin to how you liked him, but neither of you seemed to make a move; you kept that ‘good feelings’ distance, never actually holding his hand when you could, or clearing his cheek of crumbs when the opportunity arose. And there was little chance of a confession tonight, at whatever hour it was in the morning. 

Still, there was some progress made, even if it was only miniscule. 

Seungmin meanwhile hummed in acknowledgement, tucking arm beneath his head as he blinked at you dazedly. “Do you want to keep the light on?”

You nodded sheepishly, not really wanted to admit it with your words.

“That’s ok, I just will have to face the other way to sleep that’s all,” he chuckled tiredly, deciding to move the conversation elsewhere, “the crickets are out at full force tonight.”

You managed an airy laugh. “Y-yeah, I’m pretty sure they’re camping beneath my window.”

As he laughed at your response, you couldn’t help but take in his scrunched up face for how cute he looked. His cheeks looked so precious, you just wanted to cradle them in your fingers. You glanced down to look at his own, only to spot how close your hands were. He too had one splayed further across the no man’s land between the two of you, and it became apparent to you that if you moved your hand only an inch across, you would be able to lace your fingers with his. 

The phantom feeling of his touch upon your skin sent a blush to your cheeks in a ripple. You were thankful that the heat probably meant you were already flushed in the face and so he wouldn’t notice.

“It’ll be autumn soon, they won’t harass you for too much longer hopefully,” he said, shifting further down his pillow so your shadow blocked out some of the light. You felt a twinge in your gut, as it would probably be much more comfortable for him if the lamp was turned off. His eyes blinking and relieved from the striking pale auburn, he was able to take the sight of you in better and it meant he spotted the crestfallen tone in your features—you hid it well, as with many things, but he’d become accustomed to catching the small slips in the facade (not that he’d ever admit to you how often his eyes were drawn to you when you weren’t looking).  “It’s ok, really! I don’t mind the light being on. If it will help you, then I’m more than happy to have it on its brightest setting.”

You battled with yourself then to not think about the meanings of his words too deeply, otherwise there would be no way you would get a single wink of sleep that night. Instead you rolled onto your back, reaching to the light.

“We can turn down the brightness a bit though! Just... tell me how.”

“J-just tap it. The base.”

The bulb dimmed at your touch, and you returned to the covers, to find him a tad closer—or at least you thought he was. It could be a trick of the light, which is what you write it off as, feeling the rationale return to your mind. 

You once again got comfortable, this time drawing your knees a bit closer to your body, the cool of the room finally beginning to seep into your skin. The difference was huge, apparently, as you also started to feel a lethargy sink into your eyes. 

“Better?” you enquired softly, gazing at him in the faded gold, hopelessly enraptured by how the light fell across the faint waves and lost curls.

He nodded slowly, his eyes slipping closed every few seconds. When they were open, catching the glimmer of the light, they seemed to follow the slopes of your face. And then he was yawning, and you felt your heart simper as his hand slipped up from its place between you to hide it as best you could.“I’m sorry, I’m so tired.”

His hand fell back onto the covers, but as if to prove your earlier judgements, it did not return to its original position. 

His hand brushed yours ever so delicately, the warmth of his skin sending a shock through your blood so strong that you were surprised how still you were able to remain.  You expected him to quickly remove his hand, awkwardness taking to his face and leading him to roll over. 

But he did not indulge in any of that, his hand staying by yours. 

You didn’t know what to think. Raising your eyes to try and meet his, you found he would only let you for a fraction of a second, before they swept away, and eventually hid behind his eyelids as he sighed.

“I think... I’m going to have to sleep, now,” he uttered, his voice faraway.

You figured he was exhausted, and it was something else you shared in that moment too, his words allowing the sleep to pass onto you more thoroughly. 

“Yeah, same,” you swallowed, forcing your eyes closed and feeling relief as you felt the dip of sleep finally surround you. “Goodnight.”

His echo was the last thing you heard as the room was plunged into absolute peace. The sound of his quickly slowing and rhythmic breath was enough to lull you fully into sleep, just as only a good sanctuary could. 

You awoke very gradually, feeling a haze of warmth enveloping you while sunlight streamed through the uncovered windows. Even as your eyes opened ever so slightly, you still felt the weight of sleep holding you to the bed, not that you minded—

It took you a few moments to notice that weight was not only metaphorical, but also literal.

Rousing a bit further from your slumber, you shifted, only to make contact with something warm, alive, and very much sleeping behind you. 

Peering down you found an arm slung haphazardly over your waist, the hand folded into the covers rather uncomfortably, and a pair of feet resting with yours. 

You moved your weight as best you could so to get the best look possible at what was going on as the events that happened before the sunrise returned to you in mismatched increments. Finally able to see clearer, you were confronted with Seungmin pouting as he slept, his body pressed against yours and his blanket strewn over his thighs and nothing more. 

Your heart melted as the realisation sunk in, much as you laid down into the mattress once again. Now on your back, you allowed yourself to gaze at his features, allowed the proximity but without the majority of the nerves.

He squirmed briefly in his sleep, brows furrowing, before he settled again, his hand now gripping at your shirt rather than the covers. 

You sighed carefully, feeling your breath shallow as you paid more attention to the feel of him beside you. You weren’t sure how long this would last, since he was infamously an early bird, so you were shocked in that sense. But as the memories began to fit in place, a much more intense blush compared to the one during the night took to your face. 

Reaching a tentative hand to him, you slowly caressed a single stroke across his cheek, your fingers ending by his rosy lips. You relished the contact, feeling your heart kick into a thrum.

You knew this couldn’t continue for much longer, otherwise your were sure your heart would burst. He was your sanctuary, you needed him more than just when times got rough. You wanted to be with him more than just then.

Trying to steady your breath, you smiled at his tranquil form. Your mind was made up, and you felt a strange bout of courage course through your veins. You’d tell him today.

Until then, the two of you could rest, and you lavished in the thought of that, as well as what lay ahead in the future.

Feeling across to turn the bedside lamp off, the sun’s rays filling the room with safety, you gently ushered his head to nuzzle closer to your neck. 

Safer days lay ahead. 

~~~

AN: hm idk if this is good or awful. i enjoyed writing the spooky element tho like a bit too much (clearly my soul has been longing for some action sksksk)

[photos used in paragraph breaks arent mine, but i did edit them myself]

Masterlist

[freegrain]

Promot - phosie where Hope is for some reason sick "Have you ever treated a sick tribrid? What even happened" or sth like that some angst but a lot of fluff

Heyo, sorry for taking to long, but I hope you enjoy this! {AO3} 

Lights swam before her eyes, too bright for her to stand. And slowly, she dragged herself from unconsciousness. Hope opened her eyes to see Josie hovering over her. 

"Oh, thank God you're awake!" Josie gasped. "I was so worried!" 

"Jo? Hey, uh, what's going-" Hope was cut off by a wave of nausea and she groaned. "What even happened?" 

"You were poisoned. By the manticore," Josie said casually. "We finished it off but it still got to you." 

Hope glanced down at herself and her eyes widened when she saw the bandage winding its way around her torso. It was stained a dark purple. That explained the pain and headache. Hopefully it wasn’t too bad. 

"What…" 

"It… should be curable," Josie said. 

"Should?" Hope tried to sit up but then her head spun and her vision blurred. “Ugh…” 

"Hope?" Her girlfriend sounded worried and she couldn’t blame her. This wound did not seem good. 

Hope blinked her eyes to focus on her. "Where's Penelope?" 

Penelope had been fighting the manticore with her. The beast hadn’t held back when it attacked them and she didn’t see her other girlfriend anywhere. Josie was here but Penelope- 

"Okay," Josie reassured her, taking her hand. "She's actually trying to extract the manticore's venom. For a cure." 

Hope sighed in relief. She was glad. If she lost her girlfriend in a fight, she’d never be able to forgive herself. Not when she could have saved her. But Penelope was a capable witch and able to defend herself. She should have known she’d be okay. 

"Hey, you're going to be okay, alright?" Josie said. 

Hope gave her a weak smile. She couldn't let her see how sharp the pain was, cutting into her stomach like an acid. Soon it would spread through her. She didn’t know how fast acting manticore poison was but oh, maybe she’d find out. 

Josie left and returned, dabbing her forehead with a rag. It was cold against her skin and Hope winced. 

"You're burning up," Josie said, voice falsely calm. 

Hope groaned. "Maybe I'm just hot-" 

Josie rolled her eyes. "That too." 

She left the rag on her forehead in an attempt to still her rising fever. Josie pressed a light kiss to her lips and it was only when Hope noticed how cool they felt in comparison did she realise how unwell she actually was. 

"So… this bad, huh?" 

Josie chuckled. "Bad enough. Maybe now you'll let me take care of you." 

"A pretty girl waiting on me hand and foot? Maybe I will let you." 

Josie blushed despite herself. "Penelope had really rubbed off on you." 

"What? Can't I flirt with my girlfriend?" 

"No, that's my job," said an amused voice. 

Penelope appeared in the doorway, spinning a thin vial between her fingers. A dark bruise was spreading down her arm but otherwise, she looked okay. Hope was relieved. 

"Hey, you're awake," Penelope said as she sat down on the opposite side of her. "How you feeling?" 

"Better now that you're here," Hope grinned. 

"Oh? Oh, she's good," Penelope smiled with a glance at Josie. "Is Hope always like this? Or am I missing something?"

Josie laughed. "Fever-ridden Hope is a bit of a flirt, I think." 

"I like it." 

Penelope offered Josie the vial. "Think we can do something with this?" 

Josie nodded, eyeing the substances. "Definitely. Might take a bit though." 

Hope smiled, though a fresh wave of nausea came over her. "Take your time. I could stare at you two all day." 

"You start, I'll keep our sick girlfriend company." 

Hope shifted over in the bed as Penelope slid in next to her. Josie took the vial and went to the other side of the room. Hope vaguely heard her start to work on making a cure. But her attention was taken by her other girlfriend. 

"Damn, you're warm," Penelope said in a worried voice. 

Hope didn't feel very warm. In fact she cuddled close to Penelope because there was a chill she couldn't get rid of. She shivered and Penelope’s frown deepened. 

"I'm fine," she insisted. 

"I wouldn't trust that," Josie called over. 

Penelope nodded, fingers starting to stroke though her hair. Hope felt bad that she was putting them both through this. She never liked to worry them. That should be her job—she was the tribrid that protected them. 

"Are you okay?" Hope asked. 

Penelope nodded. "A little beaten up. But okay." 

Her girlfriend touched her stomach gently, eyeing the purple bandages. Josie had done a good job at patching her up. 

"Doesn't look good, does it?" Hope whispered. 

Penelope grimaced but didn't answer. 

Her silence was answer enough. Hope sighed. She was starting to feel tired. 

"Rest, okay?" Penelope murmured. "I'll check on Josie." 

She was trying to hide it but Hope knew she was worried. Both of them were. Hope could have been worried but honestly, she was just too weary. The fight had taken a lot out of her. And so when asked to rest, she was only too able to comply. 

Penelope leaned down to kiss her before leaving her side. Hope smiled at her before she drifted off to sleep. 

-- 

"She's not good, is she?" Josie whispered to Penelope as she joined her. 

Penelope shook her head grimly. "She's strong but that manticore stabbed her in the stomach. It will spread." 

Josie sighed. "I'm trying. I don't exactly know how to make a cure from this."

Both of them had taken Chemistry of Magic and knew about making cures but Josie never thought she'd have to make one. If she had, she might have studied harder. But she hadn't and now she had to focus hard to save Hope. 

Penelope sat down next to her. 

"I could try contacting someone." 

"I don't think we have time." 

By the time anyone else made it out there, Hope would be beyond saving. And Josie couldn't let that happen. Hope had gone through so much, she didn't deserve to die sick and poisoned. 

She didn't deserve to die at all. 

So they worked together while Hope slept  Penelope sat close to her, giving pointers when she thought about it. 

Josie was glad she was there with her. If she’d been alone, she didn’t think she’d be able to hold it together. She couldn't lose Hope, didn't think her heart could handle it. 

But Penelope sat by her side as she worked on her potion. She touched her arm, stroked her thigh, just gentle reassurances for both of them. They would get through this. And Hope would be okay. 

Behind them, Hope groaned in her sleep. 

She wasn't getting better. 

Part of Josie had hoped that her supernatural healing would win out over the poison in her system but that wasn't the case. She was dying. And they were the only people who could save her. 

And it wasn't easy. 

Penelope stroked soothing circles across her back as she leaned closer. 

"Mix the elixir," Josie murmured under her breath. "And then add sage…" 

She hoped it was enough. There was only so much they could do. 

"I think that's it," Penelope said gently. 

And it was. This was the end result. 

The cure was a strange orange colour, a few bubbles reaching the surface every few seconds. She didn't know if it would work but there was only one way to find out. 

Penelope kissed her temple. "I believe in you, JoJo. If anyone could do it, it would be you." 

Josie nodded. "Okay." 

She wished she had the same faith in herself but honestly, she didn't. 

Penelope followed her across quietly. 

Josie opened Hope's mouth and she didn't stir, which was a bad thing. Still alive but barely. She poured the cure in and closed her mouth, forcing the liquid down her throat. From there, all they could do is wait. 

Penelope sat on the other side of Hope, taking both their hands in her own. 

"Hey, I'm here," she said softly. "Okay?" 

Josie squeezed her hand. And Penelope squeezed back. 

Hope didn't wake up but her motions ceased. She calmed down. Was she sleeping? Or dying? Josie stared, begging her to wake up. But the cure wasn't immediate and would take time to work. 

And so they waited. And waited. And Josie prayed to whatever force was out there for Hope to survive. 

-- 

"Penelope? Josie?" 

Sometime while watching an unconscious Hope, Penelope had fallen asleep. She hadn't meant to but after such a long and strenuous day, she hadn't had a choice. Her body was taxed. 

She opened her eyes to see Hope blinking down at her. 

Josie sat on the other side of Hope, still asleep. 

"Babe, you're okay," Penelope gasped as she wrapped her in a hug. 

She was cooler too, a good sign that her fever was gone. 

"I feel better," Hope admitted. "It worked. I'm fine." 

Perhaps not completely fine but fine enough that caused for celebration. Penelope kissed her quickly before turning to their girlfriend. Josie looked so cute when she slept. She almost hated to wake her. 

Penelope nudged Josie gently. 

And Josie stirred, staring at the two of them with sleepy eyes. Those pretty eyes then widened when she realised exactly what she was looking at. 

"Hope!" 

Josie hugged her too, pressing her face into her hair. "I was so worried!" 

"You and me both," Hope chuckled. 

"Make that three." 

"I knew I could count on you two," Hope said, still holding onto Josie. "Always here to save me, aren't you?" 

"Well, where would you be without us?" Penelope teased. 

Josie sighed contently and leaned back, arms still holding her like she didn't want to let go. "Though I could do without worrying about you."

Hope chuckled. They could never not worry about each other though. With the lives the led, they were constantly getting into one danger after the next. "There isn't anything that we can't get through. Together." 

Penelope smiled at her girlfriends. Yes, together. Together, they could do anything. 

[gripefroot]

Troublemakers

The flashing red lights and blaring siren have Bucky jumping out of bed before you even get a chance to lift your head from the pillow. Blinking around blearily, you see his shadow outlined by the red, his chest heaving as he runs his hands through his hair.  

“Emergency,” he grumbles, and with a sigh you crawl out of his bed, too. A little slower, but your heart is picking up its pace a bit as he grabs your hand to drag you to the door. 

Code Blue means intruders at Stark Tower. Code Yellow means lockdown. Code Orange is fire. Code Black is ‘call your mother and tell her you love her.’ Code Red? Evacuation.  

“I need clothes,” you tell him, a little belatedly as he shoves his shoulder through the door. “And so you do.” Although it’s hard to complain of your view - you tilt your head back, and watch the curve of his backside in those fantastic black briefs you’d helped him pick out a few months ago. 

“No time.” Bucky’s voice is clipped, and he picks up the pace as the two of you hurtle down the hall - Steve and Sam’s doors are already opened, clearly deserted, and Bucky cusses under his breath. The jogging turns into a run. A split second later, you turn into the common room and bump straight into Bucky’s bare back as he stops suddenly, to see -  

Tony, Steve, Sam, Natasha and Clint - all howling with laughter at your sudden appearance. It takes about half a second to figure out what’s going on (the emergency lights and sirens are mysteriously not on, in the common area), and you cover your hand to keep from giggling as Bucky splutters.  

“What the crap?” he demands.  

“Nice,” Natasha says, and pulls out her phone to take a picture. Immediately Bucky puts his empty hand in front of his crotch, (they’re tight briefs - like you’d said, you had picked them out) - and for once, you’re grateful to be wearing a t-shirt with your underwear, even if it is worn and white and practically see-through, anyway. Squeezing Bucky’s arm, you rest your chin on his shoulder. 

“I think that since they’ve woken us up on a weekend, they get to treat us to breakfast,” you tell him with a grin. 

Sam stops mid-laugh, turning to a groan. “Oh, man - I forgot about that.” 

“You can turn off the noise now, FRIDAY,” Tony says - well, he wheezes, clutching his belly as Clint offers a high five.  

“I’m glad I didn’t bet on them being stark-naked,” Clint says, as Steve pulls out a wallet from his running shorts.  

“Buck-naked,” you correct, and Bucky growls low - it’s a little exciting, really.  

“If I’d known pranking these two could be so much fun, I would’ve outed them sooner,” Natasha remarks, as Steve hands her a crisp bill, too.  

“I’m horrified,” Bucky snaps, at the room in general - Clint swallows another chortle, and Steve assumes a solemn expression. Sam and Tony don’t even try, and Natasha just looks more amused. “What are you, a bunch of kids? I was thinking aliens or Hydra, that I’d be attending a half-dozen funerals at the end of the week - ” 

“It’s okay, Bucky,” you interrupt, giving his arm another squeeze. “Just goes to show, you can’t always trust the people you want to.” And you send Stark a good-natured glare. 

“Oh, you trusted me?” Tony pretends to gush. 

“Not anymore,” Bucky grumbles. “I’m going back to bed.” 

“I’m sure we can find a way to amuse ourselves,” you say lightly, as Sam pretends to gag. This lightens Bucky’s mood somewhat - he chuckles, and wraps an arm around your shoulder to steer you back to his bedroom. A belated thought, and you turn back to call over your shoulder, “I can’t wait to see what you make us for breakfast!”  

“Man, this was your idea!” Sam’s voice snaps at Stark. “Now I feel like I was the one pranked - I have to make those two nasties breakfast, and I had to see them practically naked? What kind of sick joke is this?” 

You can’t help laughing as you return down the now-quiet hallway, Bucky pressing a kiss to your temple.  

“Don’t worry,” you whisper to him, as he locks the door to his dark bedroom and pulls you further inside. “Tony’s just opened the way for retaliation; you know that, right?” 

“I know,” Bucky murmurs, and his hands pull you close by the waist as his lips ghost over your cheeks and lips. “We can brainstorm afterwards. Let’s really make Sam regret this.” 

“Oh, let’s!”  

Not even six a.m. on a Saturday, and apart from the false alarm, it starts off so good.  

It would be even better if Tony was bothered by the same things that Sam was - his retribution would have to wait.

Six days, to be exact. The next Friday, you wander into the kitchen of the Tower where Bucky and Steve are indulging in a post-breakfast snack, and you grin as Bucky’s eyes rest on you, and dance. He knows. He always does.  

“I’m running out for a few things,” you say, for Steve’s benefit. “Wanna come?”

“I’m assuming this invitation isn’t meant for me,” Steve replies, but he’s grinning. 

“Sorry, Cap. Buckys only.” 

“I’m a Bucky,” Bucky says, shoving the last of the muffin in his face as he stands. “I’ll go.” 

“Perfect.” 

His eyes never leave yours, and he winds around the table to wind his fingers through yours, and you smile all the way down the elevator.  

Not hiding your relationship is really nice.  

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” Bucky asks, as you step onto the sidewalk, and the usual Manhattan crowd flows in around the two of you. It’s blisteringly hot for August - but that’s the point. Your lips twist into a smirk.

“You’ll see.” 

At a convenience store, your purchases are simple: a can of tuna and a bottle of superglue, with a pack of gum for good measure. As you’re checking out, Bucky deadpans,  

“I still don’t see.” 

With a laugh you leave the store, Bucky trailing - and you catch his hand to start pulling him in the direction you need to go.  

“This isn’t the way to the Tower,” he points out.  

“I know.” 

“This is going to be a surprise, isn’t it?”

“For more than just you.” You cast him a smile, and he chortles along, shaking his head.  

“Insatiable,” he murmurs, in a way that makes your spine tingle. “You’re ruthlessly insatiable, you know that?”

“Oh, I know.”  

About four blocks, briskly walked, bringing the UN headquarters into sight. Across the street, the parking garage - and Bucky follows you into the cooler shade.  

“Isn’t Tony at the summit today?” Bucky asks, as you pull out your phone. 

“Yeah.” A little hacking displays that Tony’s ride is on the second level. Up the stairs - and you suspect Bucky might be starting to get the idea, because he’s positively bouncing along. “Alright,” you say at last, pausing at the driver’s door of the purple sports car. “Watch me work my magic. You’re about to fall in love with me all over again.” A wink for Bucky - and he lifts his brows in expectation. 

A tap on the window, and a robotic voice sounds: “Authorization please.” 

Your phone responds, a little crackly but loud and clear: “Sergeant Rogers, 18 dash 45 dash 12 bravo bravo alpha sigma delta.”  

“Thank you, Sergeant Rogers. Enjoy your ride.” And the locks of the doors pop open.  

“Not bad,” Bucky says in a slight drawl. “And you’re right - I am falling in love with you all over again.” 

“Good,” you say, yanking two of the doors open. “We gotta find a place to put this can of tuna where Tony will never find it.” 

“You’re gonna open it, right?” 

“Of course! But not yet - there’s no need for us to suffer.”  

Bucky laughs, crawling into the backseat to start looking around - you open the glovebox (too obvious), and feel under the passenger seat (too tight). As he’s ruffling beneath rugs to search for secret compartments, he says offhand,  

“You know, I once got trapped in a deadbeat town in Canada in the 60’s and had nothing to eat but canned tuna for about four months.” 

“Gross,” you wrinkle your nose. “There’s not a lot I would turn you away for, but smelling like tuna is probably one of them.”  

“You’re saying you wouldn’t want to have sex with me if I ate so much tuna I was practically a fish myself?” 

“Yep.”  

Bucky’s head peeks out between the front seats - you laugh, and tweak his nose. “I’ll have to keep that in mind, won’t I?” he teases, eyes sparkling bright blue even in the dimness of the car. “You wear me out sometimes, babe.”

“You love it.” 

He gives an exaggerated sigh, and dips back down to search the car. “A burden I gladly bear.” 

It’s a good thing he hides right after that - because you would’ve liked to pinch him for that one.  

Bucky ends up finding the perfect hiding place - hanging half out of the back door, he slides a knife beneath the driver’s seat, opening some leather to expose wires and gadgets. You pass him the can of tuna, which he opens next with a wrinkled nose (it is a hot day) - and slides it under the seat. Perfect.  

“I thought we might have to cover our tracks,” you say, pulling out the tube of superglue next. Bucky scoots away with a laugh, so you can duck down and glue up the leather. Unless someone’s on the floor of the car, they’ll never notice. You smooth it over with a grin, and with happy anticipation of Tony’s reaction.  

“Let’s turn on the heat in the car and run it for a while,” Bucky suggests as you close the back door.  

“Genius.”  

He folds himself into the front, pushing the ignition so that it rumbles to life. A few buttons to push, and he leans his head back against the headrest, choking slightly as the stench drifts through the car.  

“Too bad we did the tuna first,” you sigh, leaning an arm against the door, only too happy to be outside with the fresh air. “Otherwise we could’ve really desecrated the car.” 

Bucky laughs. “We’ve desecrated plenty of Stark’s cars already, though.”

“Well, he doesn’t know that,” you point out. “And Tony being horrified by the knowledge of your bare ass rubbing against the seats of his car would be the best part.”  

“We should tell him.” 

“I think he’d probably pretend not to care,” you admit. “Not much rattles Tony Stark.”  

The hot air blowing from the car is making your skin break out in sweat; combined with the humidity sneaking into the parking garage, it’s getting really miserable. The tuna is only part of it.  

“Good enough,” you say, wafting your hand in front of your nose. “Let’s go.”

“Gladly.” Bucky turns off the ignition and steps out of the car, still choking a little. “Ugh, I’m so glad Steve’s gonna get blamed for this. I don’t need anymore 5 a.m. alarms from Stark.” 

“I’m sure it’ll teach him...for a while,” you laugh. 

Friday nights are poker nights - and Natasha suggests turning on the news to watch while the pizza is being snatched up. Tony’s voice can be heard on the television, and while you’re trying to keep your last slice away from Bucky and his paws (though to be fair, it doesn’t seem like he’s reaching entirely for the pizza - and Sam is yuck-ing across the table) - a interesting phrase has everyone quieting at once: 

“Tony Stark was one of the delegates at the Summit today; he was sat by the President of Bhutan, and gave our reporters a lengthy statement on the issues discussed today. More interesting than that, however, was the footage we caught of Mr. Stark driving  away from the Summit. He nearly caused an accident on 42nd Street, when he suddenly pulled over and jumped out of the car to vomit on the sidewalk. 

He gave no statement following the incident.”

Bucky’s eyes are wide. Yours probably are, too - a split second, and then you burst out laughing, and Bucky’s deeper laugh joins in. Natasha’s head snaps to you.  

“What did you do?” she asks curiously. 

“Ask Steve,” Bucky says. 

“What?” Steve says.  

“Well, I’m heading out tonight,” you say, and stand, grabbing your water bottle and an extra napkin. “See you guys.

“I’m out, too.” Bucky is quick to follow, and as FRIDAY announces Stark’s return, you rush with Bucky to the stairs. Tony’s bellowing for Steve in the back the perfect background music.  

Serves them right.