#they fucking robbed Glisten's wardrobe

[chocobje]

The MCs! also introduction to stages I don't think I stated those in the first post

Bonus:

[cacoetheswriting]

haunted - andrés de fonollosa

Warnings: mild cursing, haunted house (glimmering lights, weird noises etc.), a lil smutty but nothing too explicit Word Count: 1.2k Request By: anonymous: “Do you mind writing something Halloween-themed with him and fem!OC, maybe they’re trying to rob a house that looks like it’s haunted, and the OC starts imagining things and Andres teases her on that matter? Maybe using some prompts from the list you’ve reblogged recently: 16. ”If you say let’s split up, I swear to God.” // 17. “Did you hear that?” Something like, Halloween+weird stuff+unresolved sex tension? Or actually, anything with Berlin/fem!OC will work, so it’s totally up to you”

-

A desolate house stood before you, mouldy and overgrown with ivy. Paint crumbling, shutters hanging loose, a number of windows boarded up - everything about this place screamed haunted. 

You turned to Andrés who was a couple of steps behind, making sure no-one saw the two of you. “Are you sure this is the place?” You whispered. “Positive.” He replied swiftly and walked up to the front door, passing you. “It just doesn't look like anything valuable would still be here.” 

The older thief smirked and titled his head to meet your wandering gaze. “Is the princess scared?” He asked. You rolled your eyes but didn't respond because the truth was you were scared, terrified even. 

Taking a deep breath you joined Andrés by the front door. Explicit graffiti greeted you on the front porch. The older thief twisted the handle of the door, it creaked. The sound send shivers down your spine as the two of you took a step inside. The door slammed. You jumped startled by the sound making Andrés laugh. 

The entrance hall was airy and eerie. A large chandelier hung from the ceiling above; the missing crystal pieces broken and scattered on the ground crunching under your feet with every step you took. An uneasy breeze blew down the corridor and grasped you with a chilly touch. You glanced in that direction, drawn to the source of the gust. That’s when you saw something. A blue glimmer. 

You glanced at Andrés wondering if perhaps he saw it too but he was gone. 

Panic set in. 

“Andrés?” You hissed. No response. “Andrés where the fuck are you?” The floorboards shrieked under you marking your every move. “Andrés I swear-” Suddenly something tugged at you. A high pitched scream escaped your lips as you turned away from your attacker. 

“Relax princess, it’s just me.” 

Andrés’ arms wrapped around you, almost in a comforting way. He placed one hand at the back of your head pulling you in closer. You rested against his chest waiting for your breathing to calm. 

After a brief moment he began to pull away. Both of his hands now cupping your face which he examined with a wary look on his face. “Better?” You nodded; not really sure what to say since he was never one to provide solace or consolation. 

“Good.” He dropped his arms. “Now let’s-” “If you say let’s split up, I swear to God.” You interrupted, glaring at him. He chuckled obviously not intimated by your death stare. “I was going to say let’s try upstairs first.” 

Room by room you made your way together through the empty house. The only light illuminating your way came from the flashlight you carried. The floors got dustier the further you went. Torn wallpaper everywhere you looked, cobwebs, broken vintage furniture sloppily covered with what you presumed where once white sheets - as if someone was planning to return here but never got the chance. 

The two of you rummaged through cupboards, wardrobes, wall fixtures, and grabbed anything you deemed valuable. There were oil paintings all around - too heavy to carry around. Andrés examined each one and mentally marked their location; “I’ll come back for them when we’re done with the rest of the house.”. 

Something slammed. “Did you hear that?” You turned your head briskly to locate the source of the noise. “You’re imagining things.” Andrés brushed off your concern and walked inside the next room. You glanced down the hall for another moment before following him. That’s when you saw it again; the glow. Or did you? You shook the feeling away, perhaps Andrés is right and your mind is playing tricks on you.

You focused instead on the room you were now in. A beautiful antique wooden bed stood in the middle of the space. It was the first piece of furniture that seemed to have passed the test of time. You approached it slowly, your fingers trailed gently across the dusty comforter. 

Andrés looked at you from the other side of the room. He watched as you placed the flashlight on the bedside table and placed both hands on the mattress, pushing it down softly. The bright light enveloped around you, outlining your perfect figure. He swallowed hard. 

“Looks comfortable, doesn't it?” You didn't respond. It was as if you were in some kind of trance. You gripped the headboard with one hand, the hardwood smooth under your touch. His mind raced and he found himself imagining you on top of him, grabbing onto that wooden headboard for support, moans of pleasure escaping your sweet lips. 

You glanced up to meet Andrés’ gaze. He was now stood at the edge of the bed, only a few steps away from you. “We can’t really steal the bed you know.” He teased. “I know.” You replied with a smile. “There’s just something serene about it. Something luxurious.” Your eyes glistened. 

Andrés sauntered around the piece of furniture closer to you. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you in. Chest to chest the two of you stood there in the empty eerie room looking at each other. 

The weird tension circulating around the both of you made your cheeks flush red. For the first time tonight you were glad this place was so dark because it meant Andrés couldn't see the colour change on your face. Although you were certain he could feel the increase in your heartbeat as it thumped in your chest. 

It was suddenly hot. Very hot. 

His hands made their way up your sides sending a wave of electricity through you. He stopped when he reached your ribcage, his index fingers now resting just below your breasts and you cursed yourself for not wearing a bra because if he went any higher he’d definitely feel how hard your nipples were. 

The flashlight you left on the bedside table flickered. Your heart now in your chest. Your body aching. Suddenly the light cutoff completely. The room fell dark. 

You couldn't see anything, you couldn't see him, but you could feel him. You could feel him leaning in; his hot breath hitting your lips. You could feel his hands travelling further up your body and squeezing your perfectly shaped breasts. You could feel his erect member twitching through his trousers against your inner thigh. 

He was about to kiss you, give in completely to the exotic and unfamiliar force attracting him to you, but the flashlight switched back on illuminating the darkness and breaking the spell. He pulled away slowly. Both of you breathless. 

It took you a moment to compose yourself. You felt ashamed. Guilty even that you had come so close to breaking the one rule you set for yourself - don’t get involved. It seemed he felt the same because avoiding your gaze he reached around you and picked up the flickering flashlight. 

“We should go.” He stated quietly. “You were right princess, there is something creepy about this place.” He turned on his heel and walked towards the door. Sheepishly, you followed. Your heart ached as his last words ringed in your ears. 

Back in the entrance hall you took one last glance around the eerie space, down the corridor where you first seen the weird glow. But there was nothing there now. The house was still. As if the demons occupying it were leaving with you.

-

masterlist

[panda-noosh]

Bad At Love {FINAL}{Photographer!Keith x Prodigy!Reader}

Words: 5629

 Summary: Keith Kogane was known for being the good-boy-gone-bad. You were known for being the emotionless prodigy that only ever showed up to school to stop her foster parents from getting arrested. Whenever you two are put together on a school project after briefly meeting during detention, you find your world tipping upside down as you realise that there’s more to life than science and logic.

 Pairing: Photographer!Keith x Prodigy!Reader

 Notes: p1 – p2 – p3 – p4 – p5 – p6 ; WHAT A FUCKING JOURNEY WOW. As always, this story would literally be nothing if it wasn’t for you guys and all the support you showed; I’m so, so thankful for all of it and I honestly don’t know how to express that in a way that is satisfying for both me and you, so I’ll just put it simply – thank you so much. You shaped this story in ways that only I as the writer will understand. Your comments after every update pushed me to keep going whenever I was in the deepest of writing slumps. So thank you so much. I hope the ending did the story justice. Aticus x

Chapter 7

  If Ann-Marie was confused about the fact that you had brought Keith home with you today, she didn’t bring it up. In fact, she seemed to almost want to keep her distance as you pushed open the front door, leading Keith by the hand up the staircase, dodging the kitchen as much as you could.

   Keith was still worked up, you could tell. His eyes were puffy, jacket pulled up around his cheeks in an attempt to hide the redness that the tears had scribbled into his skin. His hand gripped yours too tightly, but you didn’t pull away. You squeezed back, looking over your shoulder at him every now and then and giving him the warmest smile you could muster up at a time like this.

   The school day had been a drag. You and Keith only had two classes together, meaning Keith was left to fend for himself for the rest of the day. He was shaking. During the two classes you two had together, he fidgeted non-stop with his pens and pencils, could barely look up at the board, had his hood pulled on over his head and had barely given you a glance as you took your seat.

   You didn’t take it personally. At the end of the day, he had jogged up behind you, took your hand in his and the two of you had walked to his pick-up truck with you telling him the currently underdeveloped plan that you were hoping to use for the time-being. Until you had something better to go along with.

   As hard as it was for you to admit, you didn’t know what to do – didn’t know what you were doing. All you knew was that you would not let Keith hurt any more. Not whenever you had every chance to stop it, to put a smile back on his face, to let him live a life of freedom that he had been robbed of by a man who was meant to love him unconditionally.

    You led Keith into your bedroom and quietly shut the door behind you. Neither of you spoke. Words weren’t needed, because all had been said. In the library, you had told Keith all you needed to say to him; he would be okay. You would make sure of it.

   Keith takes a seat on the edge of your unmade bed, taking a quick glance around the small room you had been sleeping in for months. Clothes litter the floor, books tossed left right and centre, your wardrobe door open to reveal a number of Korean lettering from your studies of the language that you were now fluent in. You watch him from the doorway, arms folded over your chest, wondering what was going on inside his mind. Did he think all of this was a good idea? Was he scared?

   You can only assume that he is; anybody would be. He had told you in the car park that he hadn’t told his father that he was staying with you, meaning his dad would no doubt be ripping his hair out trying to figure out where his son was. You had told Keith to turn his phone off just in case his dad decided to text him; Keith had done just that.

    He looks up at you after inspecting the room, eyes glistening with a fresh batch of tears which hadn’t budged since this morning. “I’m very tired.”

    You smile lightly and point towards the set-up of pillows behind him. “Sleep.”

   Keith hesitates for a moment. You walk towards him, pull yourself up onto the bed behind him and gently wrap your arms around his shoulders, tugging at his jacket. Keith seems startled as you begin to peel the material off of him, revealing only a plain black t-shirt underneath. You toss the jacket off to the side of the room.

    “I’ll get you some of Patrick’s pyjama bottoms if you like.”

   A blush fires Keith’s cheeks as he shakes his head. “N-No. It’s okay. I can sleep in jeans.”

   You nod before clambering off the side of the bed. Keith watches you as you do so, barely a flicker of emotion in his eyes and the look on his face crushes you. You were used to seeing him angsty, moping around with his hair in his face – that was his brand. That was how he chose to show himself to the school, but you had enough faith in your friendship to believe that that changed when he was around you. He smiled more when he was with you. He made jokes. He was the old, sarcastic Keith that had been ditched – and now you knew the reason why.

   Seeing him back to square one made your heart ache, but you fought it off. Time would heal him.

    “Where are you gonna sleep?” Keith asks, making you stop dead at the door.

   You turn to look at him over your shoulder. “I’ll explain everything to Ann-Marie and Patrick and then I’ll sleep on the sofa. You need to get your rest in.”

   Keith frowns. “Come sleep with me.”

  You go to reply, half-ready to go into further detail about your plans to sleep on the coach, half-ready to argue with him if he objected, but your words fall short once you register what it was he had actually said.

   You narrow your eyes, tilt your head to the side as if you had misunderstood; you were sure you had. How else could you possible explain what it was you had just heard?

    “What?”

   Keith reaches out, eyes drooping from exhaustion, arm barely held upright with the lack of strength his body was granting him today. Hesitantly, you step forward and let him place a hand on your hip, and it is then that he tugs you down onto the bed beside him, an arm still wrapped around your waist as he shuffles back and leans into the pillows, letting out a sigh of contempt as soon as he does so.

    “Let’s just nap together,” he says. He says it so calmly and it makes your chest burn with something you can’t quite pinpoint. You don’t know what it is.

   You swallow thickly and nod, trying not to show off the flustered blush which is heating up your cheeks in this moment. Keith lets his eyes close, removing his hand to allow you to shuffle up the bed beside him, pushing your legs into the quilt and leaning back against the pillows. Like a reflex, Keith’s arm juts out, just at the nape of your neck, and you don’t pull away. You aren’t sure if you want to or not, the comfort that suddenly seizes you being enough to make you want to stay in this position, no matter how weird it may seem to the outside world.

   Keith sighs, shimmies down a little further before he rolls onto his side and drapes his arm across his stomach, drifting off to sleep almost immediately. It takes you a moment to do the same, eyes trained on Keith’s sleeping figure; he seems peaceful now compared to how he had been all day. His hands are still as they rest on your skin, his eyes closed, his breathing finally settling in his chest and slowing down to a pace which doesn’t scream of panic.

   You smile lightly to yourself before allowing your own eyes to close, your own breathing to pace, your own bones to relax into his grip. Despite the butterflies attacking your insides, sleep overtakes you a lot sooner than usual.

    “Y/N-ah. Y/N. It’s time to wake up, babe. You’ve been asleep since you got home.”

   You grunt, eyes peeling open to welcome the unwanted sunlight which streams in through your cracked open curtains. Your bones ache from the position you had fallen asleep in the previous night, though as soon as your mind is clear from grogginess, you sit bolt upright, remembering exactly how you had fallen asleep.

   Ann-Marie stands over you, a playful smirk on her face as her attention darts between you and Keith, who still lay asleep beside you. His arm falls from your stomach into your lap as you bolt upright, his other hand sliding down the pillow; he doesn’t move.

   “You got something you want to tell me?” Ann-Marie questions.

   You shake your hands in front of your face. “Would you sh? He’s tired. He had a long day yesterday.”

    Ann-Marie chuckles, folds her arms over her chest. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

   “Please let him lie in today. I’ll explain everything to you as soon as I get up, alright?”

   “The school will be asking questions, Y/N.”

   “Let them ask. You’ll understand once I explain it all.”

   Ann-Marie seems unsure. Her eyes dart back to Keith, catching a glimpse of the vulnerable position the usually-protected boy is in right now; curled up with his knees pulled into his lower stomach, head resting on his outstretched arms that had once held you to sleep. He grunts in his sleep every now and then, licking his lips and shifting with a sigh leaving his mouth.

    Your foster mother inhales deeply and shoots you a warning glance. “Just this once. Patrick won’t be happy to know I’ve let you two sleep in and not him.”

   “He’ll have to deal with it, won’t he? Now, sh. You’re voice is too loud.”

   Ann-Marie rolls her eyes before leaving your room. The silence which follows is a tense one, one filled with a weird understanding of just what it is you are doing, of what exactly happened the previous night, of what you felt when his arms wrapped around your body and pulled you close as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You look down at his sleeping form, the way his black hair dips into his eyes and the way his biceps protrude from beneath his black shirt – it all seems a little bit surreal. As if you’re going to wake up and Keith is still stuck in an abusive home with his father, and you’re still getting shifted between foster families and neither of you know what to do with the emotions which seem to be overflowing nowadays.

   You reach out and brush your fingers across Keith’s forehead, shifting his hair out of his closed eyes. His eyelashes flutter at the movement, mouth opening to release a groan of exhaustion that is eventually replaced with a fluttery sigh.

   He stretches his body out like a cat on concrete, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he does so. You watch him in amusement as he nearly tips off the edge of the bed, catching himself on the bedside table.

    “What time is it?” he asks. His voice is groggy, out of use.

   “I have no idea,” you reply. “But I got us the day off school, so you can thank me later.”

    Keith’s eyes dart open wide, turning to look at you with his jaw slightly open. His smile has faded, and his hair has fallen back into his eyes but you simply chuckle at his expression. “You did? How did you manage that?”

    You open your mouth to reply. Keith raises a hand, stopping you.

   “High IQ. I forgot.”

   You grin, clambering off the bed. Your bones crack as they stretch out for the first time in what must have been over ten hours – your nap had certainly gone a lot longer than you had thought it would have. You don’t entirely mind, because for the first time in months, you felt genuinely energized. Whether that was due to the amount of sleep you got, or whether it was due to who you had woken up beside was a completely different matter.

   “You know, I’m going to have to turn my phone back on eventually,” Keith says, suddenly. The mood shifts immediately. You clench the edge of your wardrobe, biting your tongue. “I’m also going to have to leave the house and get my stuff at some point. I’m going to have to face him, Y/N.”

    “Not on your own you don’t.”

   “You’re not going with me,” he says. You turn around, eyebrow raised. “He’s dangerous. I don’t want you anywhere near him.”

    “Well I don’t want you going back into that house on your own. Not after finding out what happened there.”

   Keith’s lower lip wobbles. He pushes his palms into his eyes, rubbing the sleep out of them before he lets them drop heavily into his lap. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so helpless in my entire life. Nobody was meant to find out about what happened to me. All the hassle that is-“

   “I already told you, Keith. You’re not going to do be doing it alone.”

   “That’s the thing, though!” Keith stands up, falters a little bit, catches himself on the wall behind him. “I feel bad dragging you into all of this. It should have been my problem to deal with, not anybody else’s.”

   “That’s ridiculous. Don’t you think for one minute that I find any of this bothersome. You’re my best friend.”

   Keith’s face falls, barely noticeable if it weren’t for the way his chin dimple disappears for just a moment. He tries to disguise the way his face had fallen by putting on what he clearly hopes to be a happy expression, though to you it seems more forced than anything else.

    His voice is quiet when he speaks, barely above a whisper, sounding on the brink of sadness. “Well then, who am I to argue with that?”

   You smile back at him, unsure of where the sudden tension had stemmed from. It was going to be a long day – an emotionally draining day for everybody involved, but looking at Keith now made you realise that it would all be worth it eventually. You two would pull through at the end, Keith with his justice clenched tightly in his fist and you with a happy best friend, a settled conscience.

   It would all be okay. You just had to keep telling yourself that there was going to be light at the end of the tunnel, and you were closer to it than you thought.

    Keith’s body presses tightly against yours as the two of you make a show of piling onto the sofa in front of a confused looking Ann-Marie. She’s pulled her thick hair into a bandana by now, sweat glistening off her forehead from the work she had been doing around the house whilst waiting for you and Keith to finally come downstairs and tell her what was going on; Keith had had a panic attack from what you could tell. Your extensive knowledge on the subject had prepared you well enough that you were able to calm him down with soothing instructions for him to breathe, but the aftermath of it had taken a while to come down from. Keith was ready for another nap, but his overexerted heart was beating too fast in his chest to even think about calming down.

   You had sat with him for the bouts of an hour before he finally said he was ready to go and see her, and now here you two were.

   He does a good job of hiding his anxiety when he’s actually in the situation. Though his hands are clasped tightly in his lap and he can’t keep his eyes still, you’re proud of him for even being here in the first place.

   “You two both look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Ann-Marie comments, before she gasps, eyes widening. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

   You splutter. “What? Ann-Marie, no. Just listen, please.”

   “I’m nervous. I’ve never had to deal with this kind of thing when it came to you; you never brought anybody home.”

   You choose not to reply to that particular comment, not wanting to drag it on further than necessary. “Keith and I have something to tell you that is quite – uh – distressing.” Keith stiffens at the side of you. You reach over, take his hand in yours and intertwine your fingers. “You work for the government, right? Helping children and stuff?”

   Ann-Marie nods.

   “What do you do whenever a child is getting physically abused by their parent?”

   That is all it takes. Ann-Marie’s expression falls from it’s usual peppy grin and crescent eyes, replaced by a frown and a tight grip on the towel she is holding. Her eyes dart to Keith, who now has his head ducked into his lap in an attempt to look anywhere but the pitied eyes of Ann-Marie.

   You squeeze his hand a little tighter, telling him it’s okay and that there’s absolutely nothing for him to be ashamed of. He barely responds, his fingers even seeming to go slack in your own.

   Ann-Marie leans forward and places a hand on Keith’s lap. “Is it you, darling?”

   Keith’s bottom lip quivers as he nods.

   “The black eye?”

   Keith nods again. Your chest tightens, wanting to take away any and every piece of pain he is feeling right now but being unable to do so. The words were out there now, spoken to a professional, to somebody who could do something, and yet none of it felt like enough because Keith still wasn’t smiling.

   “I need you to tell me the details of the abuse, honey. I need to know everything; who did it, their motives, how long it’s been happening, what they do to you. Answering these questions will be the only way we can get you the help you need.”

  Keith looks up, eyes tear-glazed. He looks so innocent, so fragile. You feel like you’re holding him together with your hand in his, that if you let go he’ll fall apart and be unable to be put back together again.

   “I don’t want to – I don’t want to talk about it.”

    “Keith,” you begin, leaning forward. His eyes meet yours and he doesn’t budge them; it’s just you two in the room all of a sudden, the furniture and Ann-Marie melting away until it’s only the two of you gazing into each others eyes. “You have to do this if you want justice. We can take breaks between the descriptions if that’s what will help. Take it one step at a time, alright?”

    He lets out a shaky breath that sounds close enough to a pant that you’re almost sure he is going to have another panic attack at any moment. You squeeze his hand a little bit, watching as he looks down at your intertwined fingers, takes a deep breath and looks back up at Ann-Marie.

   “It’s my dad,” he says. His voice cracks. You lean back in your seat, biting on your lip to stop your own tears from falling; you aren’t even sure why you want to cry. You were the moral support, the background character who had just kickstarted the heroes journey.

   Ann-Marie nods. You watch her has she scrambles for a note and pen, two materials she carried around with her everywhere she went due to her unnecessary need to write down every little weird quirk you do so she can send the stats back to the foster system.

   “Your dad,” she hums, scribbling the words down quickly. “And how long has the abuse been going on for?”

   “He’s been neglectful and mentally abusive since my mum died; I was three. But it didn’t start getting physical until I was fourteen.”

   “Neglectful and mentally abusive? Can you go into details about what kind of stuff he did that made him neglectful and mentally abusive?”

   Keith swallows, shooting you a desperate glance which you respond to by smiling. He turns back to Ann-Marie, voice shaking. “I was cooking my own meals at the age of three because he never knew how to do it. His dinner consisted of alcohol and whatever microwaveable shit he could find – he never thought to buy me anything like that, though, so I had to learn how to cook so I could live. Whenever I cried or got upset, he’d lock me in my room until I calmed down. He did it after my mum died because he didn’t want to deal with his grieving, infant son.”

   Ann-Marie’s jaw sets, but she keeps her professional look on and nods along to everything Keith is saying, trying to keep the look of anger off of her face. You had lived with her long enough to spot it from a mile away.

    “And what about the physical abuse? What about that black eye?”

   “Shoved me into an open cupboard because I dropped my camera down the stairs.”

   “Did the camera break?”

   “Would that make what he did any better?”

   Ann-Marie quickly shakes her head, waving her hands in front of her face as a way to dismiss of the suddenly awkward atmosphere. You squeeze Keith’s fingers, trying to calm him down but he’s suddenly ripping his hand out of yours and folding his arms over his chest, heavy pants escaping him.

    Here we go.

   “Have you told anybody except Y/N about the abuse?”

   “No. He would have hung me up by my feet if I’d have even thought about it.”

   “Does he have a history with alcohol or drug abuse?”

   “History? The old man’s still drowning his sorrows every night.”

   “So that could be a reason he loses his temper so easily?”

   Keith scoffs, shaking his head. There’s a smile on his face, but it holds nothing but scorn, nothing but sadness and anger and frustration all balled into one. It’s a look you had never seen him wear, and it frightens you a little bit to say the least.

   He leans forward, places his arms on his thighs to keep himself from tipping forward completely. You’re almost certain that would be something he does at this moment, despite being completely sober. He doesn’t look to be in the right mindset at all.

   “My dad has never lost his temper a day in his life,” Keith says, voice low and oozing with a new-found hatred. “My dad lost his wife, and that made him lose his mind. He’s never had a fucking temper to lose-“

   “Keith-“

   He jerks upright, swings an arm over the back of the sofa so he can look at you fully. “You know the worst thing he ever did to me? He made me believe that I couldn’t have friends, people I loved. That was why I dropped all of my old friends back in second year – I truly believed they would all find out about the abuse, about how weak I was and they would leave me, think of me as a joke. I pushed them away before they could do it to me, and it’s all because that excuse of a father got himself so deep in my head that I couldn’t even think for myself, couldn’t even weigh out the possibilities to see just how much bullshit he was really talking. It takes a lot of power for somebody to be able to do that, you know.”

   Ann-Marie purses her lips. You can barely look up. The words are drilled into your skull, the severity of Keith’s situation settling in your brain in a way it hadn’t before. It terrifies you that the man you had spent almost every day with for the past few months had been going through such terrible things, hated himself in such awful ways, and you had no idea. The one person you truly, truly cared about was suffering and you hadn’t even picked up on the signs.

   Being a genius made you believe that everything would be so clear to you. No secrets could get past you – surely not with your intelligence, your look on the world. It was impossible.

   At least, you thought. You had hoped. But Keith Kogane had, once again, proved you wrong.

   “I’m surprised you’ve stuck around,” Keith says, keeping his eyes trained on the side of your head. You clench your fingers in the fabric of your jeans, unable to meet his gaze in fear of breaking down completely. “You can’t even look at me now. I knew it wouldn’t be long.”

  “You’re being ri-“

   “Ridiculous?” Keith scoffs. You’re shocked to feel him shift, pushing himself up off the sofa and snatching his coat off of the back of it. “You know what, this was a waste of time. We’ll just let him rot in the knowledge that somebody official knows about how scummy he is – we don’t have to take legal action. Too much effort anyway.” He swings his coat over his shoulder, makes a quick escape to the door. Ann-Marie yells after him, but you stay silent, watching him go. It burns your chest to see him so mad, to see him walking away from the help you had offered because of his own fears, but even you have to admit you don’t blame him. That was how the human brain worked – for some people, anger was the released emotion whenever they got overly stressed.

    Ann-Marie groans when she hears the front door slamming shut. “Go after him.”

   “Maybe we should leave him to cool down for a little-“

   “Y/N, for crying out loud, you are in love with that boy and by the looks of things, you’re the only person who’s been there for him these past few months. Go after him.”

   Your eyes widen but you don’t give yourself a chance to deny anything she had just said, because all of it was true. The sternness in her voice has you grabbing your coat and marching out the front door long before you can talk yourself out of it with scientific probability on how the situation will turn out. For once, you’ve managed to silence that part of your brain, and maybe it was because it’s Keith you’re chasing after; you don’t have time to think. You don’t have time to be careful and wary and smart because it’s him that’s on the line.

   Keith isn’t in sight when you open the door. You look both ways down the street, seeing his pick-up truck still parked in the driveway which gives you a swell of hope that perhaps he plans on coming back to spend the night; he has nowhere else to go unless he wants to go crawling back to his father.

    You choose the left side and start running down the pavement towards the park the two of you had first hung out in. The memory seems so long ago now, and yet you still find yourself drawn to the park like it had tied you to it somehow.

    His red jacket comes into view, and the earth seems to become a little duller at the sight before you. He’s sat on the same park bench the two of you had sat on before, his head ducked into his hands, his shoulders shaking with a ferocity you had never seen before. His sobs are loud, crying out for help but passers-by simply walk past, giving him only a small glance before ushering their kids off in hurried frenzies and averting their gaze, pretending they hadn’t seen anything.

    You walk straight towards him, sit down at the side of him and pull him into your chest.

    No words need to be exchanged. Keith breaks down, wrapping his arms around your waist and burrowing his head in your collar bone, spittle flying out of his mouth at the violent sobbing, tears streaking your shirt, his entire body quivering in your grip. You bite down on your lip, close your eyes, tilt your head into the crook of his neck as you loosely run your fingers through his black hair.

    “Fuck,” Keith hisses. “I thought this would be easy. I’m getting help, and I just lose my shit like that.”

   You shake your head, holding him tighter. “It’s okay. It’s a natural human response.”

   “Nothing about me is natural.”

   “Don’t say that. Not to me. You mean the fucking world to me, Keith Kogane, and I will not sit back and watch you hate yourself because of what somebody else did. You are going to be fine. I promised it once and I’ll promise it a thousand times.”

    “Promises don’t mean shit.”

   And then the words are uncontrolled, and you don’t know what it is you’re even saying anymore as you pull away, cup his face in your small hands. “I promised myself that I would change for you and become a normal person. You said I didn’t have to, so I dropped it. But I’ve changed naturally since getting to know you. I feel things now, Keith. I feel happy, and sa,d and angry, and jealous, and my heart gets all fluttery whenever you smile at me. I see your name pop up on my phone and my face just starts to smile against my will. Remember that time you promised to integrate me into society some more? You kept that promise and you didn’t even mean to.”

   Keith blinks. “What are you saying?”

   “I’m saying that you’re the toughest, most nicest son of a bitch I have ever had the honour of mingling with, and whenever I say I will help you through this, I mean it.”

   He shakes his head. “Please say it. Please say the three words.”

   “I love you.”

   “Oh, thank God.”

   In seconds, Keith has grabbed your hands off of his face and is pulling you towards him by your wrists. Your eyes fly open in surprise once your lips meet his, a clash of dried skin, the flavour of salty tears that drip between your mingling mouths, but you have never felt anything like it before. Your heart beat has never picked up so fast without warning, your hands never moving so quick as they did to get out of Keith’s grip and wind around his shoulders. Keith’s own hands find purchase on your face, his fingertips barely caressing your jaw, but it’s just enough that he is able to control your movements, guide your untrained lips to they work with his in perfect harmony.

   He groans whenever your hands tug at the back of his hair, a reflex which startles you. You didn’t realise you had it in you, or that it would be pleasurable in any way for him, and yet judging by the way his grip tightens slightly on your jaw and he shuffles impossibly closer to you, he had enjoyed it.

    “I love you too,” he mumbles against your lips. You go to pull away, wanting to hear him say it without the added obstacle of your mouth, but he pulls you back and you happily oblige. “I’ve loved you from the moment we went to the park together, remember?”

    “How could I forget?”

   “You’re panting.” Keith pulls away finally, leaning his forehead against yours. You watch as he sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, lets his eyes flutter closed before he’s opening them again and staring so deep into you that it makes your spine quiver. “Did I actually get Y/N L/N flustered?”

    You pull away fully, swiping your thumb over your bottom lip. “I meant what I said, Keith. Are we gonna go back to the house to finish off the interview, or do you want to put this all behind us?”

   Keith’s face falls again, fresh tears brewing in his eyes. You feel your heart shake, feeling awful for bringing the mood down again but you can’t sit around and dance around the topic at hand just because you and Keith had kissed.

   He sighs and nods. “Fine. I’ll go back.”

    By the end of the interview, Keith had had two panic attacks and hadn’t stopped crying. Ann-Marie had closed it early, claiming she had enough information to go to the police before she left you to handle Keith’s sobbing state.

   You held him close to you and rocked back and forth gently. “You did so well. I’m proud of you.”

   He nods against your collar bone, gripping your wrist as if he’s afraid he’ll float away if he lets go. “I’m going to be okay, aren’t I? I don’t have to go home.”

   “You can stay here as long as you like whilst Ann-Marie contacts your uncle.”

   “I don’t wanna go with my uncle. I want to stay with you.”

   You smile warmly, snuggling your head into Keith’s hair. He pulls you closer at the action, wanting to feel your skin on his, wanting to feel your body slot perfectly against his own. “You won’t be moving away. As far as I know, the man was kind enough to move here so you won’t have to change schools during your final year. We’ll still see each other.”

   “Not as often as we would if I were to just stay here.”

   “Not even I’m going to be staying here for much longer, Keith. We’ll still be together.”

    Keith goes silent for only a few moments after that, peppering sweet, lazy kisses along your jawline as he finally settles down from the sobs he had just fought through. He plays with your fingers absentmindedly, and yet the action alone is enough to make your heart flutter.

    “Thank you,” he says, at last.

   “For what?”

   “Don’t act dumb, Miss IQ of 160. You know full well what for.”

   You smile. “It was my pleasure, Mr Brooding Photography Student.”

   “I’m so happy I met you. Who would have thought I’d have fallen in love with a child prodigy with the most annoying personality on this planet?”

    “And who would have thought that I’d have fallen in love at all.”

[my-dear-anonym]

Falling Through Time: Book 2

Masterpost

Jamilton Series Masterpost

Basking in Firelight

Part Forty-Four

Wardrobe Choices

----

Warnings: None. Thought y'all deserved a break.

----

Did you know that helping start a rebellion, dying, coming back to life in the flashiest way possible at a rebel rally, restarting the rebellion, fighting in the rebellion, leading the rebellion, being the main reason to have won the rebellion, being the overall public face of the rebellion, helping make the new nation, and framing freedom for the people would get you placed on the presidential ballot without anyone even asking you? Because Jefferson didn't. Well... he actually kinda did, but he didn't give it much thought. Not that he had to worry. George Washington and John Adams would be president, but that still left the places for four vice presidents open. Jefferson did worry about that. He'd either be thrown into vice presidency or onto another cabinet, both of which he didn't ever want to be a part of again. Jefferson hated politics.

But he was just so God damn good at it.

He had the charm, the popularity, the background, the hair. He had it all.

If it was up to him, he'd be in Monticello, piddling away til his heart's content. But the people never let him have his way and he'd always put the nation first. The nation was always first and foremost.

Rain was pounding against the window panes as Jefferson plucked at his violin's strings, staring ahead absentmindedly, his vision unfocused and blurry. The flames of the fireplace lit the otherwise dark house. They were comforting, soothing even, it felt like there were countless good memories in their warmth. Then it was a different rain that was thundering against the ground and a different fire that crackled nearby. The room became a cave and instead of a violin being on Jefferson's lap, it was Hamilton's head as he was sleeping soundly, Jefferson stroking his hair.

The memory quickly faded away as Jefferson jolted, springing up from the couch and twisting around the room, looking for any remnant of the memory clinging to his living room. There was none. But it was still fresh in his mind like he just lived it. He could still feel Hamilton's warmth. Jefferson's mind suddenly jumped to one of the other few memories he possessed of Hamilton. One where Jefferson had him pinned against the wall of Monticello, their hot bodies pressed together, how Jefferson had ached for him, how their mouths clashed together in fiery passion. The need that had burned through every inch of Jefferson's body. The pain he felt when he pulled away, taking every bit of his self-control to do so. How that sensation felt as if he was living it at that very moment when Hamilton stood before him in his office the day he remembered.

He shook both memories from his head and fished out his phone from his back pocket, sending a text to Hamilton for him to elaborate on the fuzzy memory he just remembered. As always, Hamilton's response was immediate, giving the details that his original recounting of the story lacked. Jefferson could feel the fuzziness of the dream sharpen slightly at each word but couldn't remember anything else.

***

Hamilton and the crew sat at the local pub where they always met up at on Saturdays. They had to go through extraordinary lengths to keep the paparazzi from finding them out and the owner of the place was kind enough to lend them a back room so the locals wouldn't bother them. With the help of Jefferson's coin of course. Nothing in the world was free after all. People were still untrustful, it was survival of the fittest, a mind frame that the oppressiveness of King George III and his associates rule imposed on most of the Eastern States of America. One that Jefferson hoped to reverse with the new governmental system they created. He missed the days where anyone was willing to take in a stranger, feed them a warm meal and a soft bed for the night without having to worry about waking up to find they'd been robbed or never wake up at all.

But for now, Hamilton, Jefferson, and all the rest were sitting around the table, having a good time. Jefferson was enjoying a little bit of wine while everyone else was chugging down various stronger types of alcohol.

"Who knew you two would be placed on the presidential ballot? I never saw that coming," Madison said.

"Me neither but now I can hardly walk out my door with how many people are constantly outside. I'll have to move," Jefferson sighed.

"I've already changed hotels," Hamilton said. "Twice."

"You should see Washington's house," Lafayette laughed, "He closed all his curtains and refuses to come outside."

"And at the first opportunity, Adams took off for Boston," Mulligan informed. "But I hear there are still people all around his house too."

"How do you know these things?" Burr asked.

"I've got a network," Mulligan shrugged.

"I hear the crowd outside Lafayette's house puts everyone else's to shame," Laurens grinned.

"It's my irresistible good looks and my charming French accent," Lafayette laughed.

"Maybe I should wear my hair up more then," Jefferson said.

Everyone looked him blankly. "Why?" Hamilton asked, voicing everyone's confused thoughts at the random statement.

Jefferson sighed, grabbed a hair tie from his wrist, cause he'd be damned if he didn't have one when he needed one, and pulled up his hair. "Bonjour bitches," Jefferson said in a perfect French accent, smirking at the entire table as they went into shock. Everyone's mouths were hanging open, Laurens was looking back and forth between Jefferson and Lafayette like he was about to pass out.

"Holy fuck," Mulligan whispered.

"Hey Lafayette, take out your hair tie," Burr said, still staring at Jefferson.

Lafayette reached up and undid his hair which came undone with an audible poof, like in a cartoon. "Hey y'all," Lafayette said in the most horrendous attempt at a southern accent.

Laurens clamped his hand over Lafayette's mouth, "Never. Ever. Do that again."

"How did we never realize how exactly alike you two looked?" Madison asked.

"Maybe it's Lafayette's magnetic personality compared to Jefferson's off-putting one that we see," Hamilton suggested.

"Seriously? How has no one noticed this except me?" Jefferson asked, still talking in a French accent.

"Dude, stop. My mind can't take it. It thinks you're Lafayette and I don't want to accidentally agree with you on something," Hamilton replied. "And take out that fucking hair tie."

"You know what? It feels kinda good to have the wind on my neck. It's so free. I think I'll keep it up for a while," Jefferson smirked, leaning back in his chair. Lafayette put his hair back up.

"Oh fuck. Now how do we tell them apart?" Laurens asked.

"Clothes," Burr replied flatly.

"Oh. Right," Laurens said, studying the difference in their wardrobe choice. Jefferson was dressed sharply, with a form-fitting gray vest over a purple dress shirt paired with matching gray dress pants. Lafayette, on the other hand, had chosen to go with a tank top with a button down thrown over it. "What's your deal with magenta?" Laurens asked.

"What's Hamilton's deal with green?" Jefferson asked.

"Hey! You're the one that-" Hamilton stopped short. Jefferson wouldn't remember that he'd been the one to tell Hamilton that green brought out his coloring and his eyes. He took a deep swig of his drink. Burr always told him to talk less. Maybe he should start trying that out and seeing if he managed to keep out of these situations.

***

The elections were fast approaching and Jefferson refused to take part in any campaigning whatsoever. He had enough on his plate with his memory loss as it was, he didn't need the added responsibilities of leading a fragile nation. Hamilton, however, had different ideas.

The last thing Hamilton wanted was for Jefferson to be president but what he wanted more than anything was for Jefferson to be himself again. Not necessarily with all his memories, though that'd be even better, no, what Hamilton wanted was to see that cocky strut, shit-faced grin, and the overbearing confidence he always used to have. He wanted to hear Jefferson's southern drawl as he disputed things with such intricate webs of facts and carefully chosen words that were tied up neatly with a bow of sass and witty remarks. So elegantly said that no one but Hamilton could refute his words.

That's why Hamilton was standing on Jefferson's door with a package in his hands, waiting for Jefferson to answer the door. What was taking him so long? Hamilton pounded impatiently on the door again. It swung open, perfectly framing Jefferson who was wiping the sweat from his forehead with a damp towel with one hand, holding a gleaming gun with the other, as he and Hamilton always did when answering the door. Due to Hamilton's shortness, he was eye level with Jefferson bare, dark-skinned chest, glistening with sweat and radiating heat.

Hamilton realized he was staring open mouthed when Jefferson cleared his throat and asked, "Is there something I can help you with?"

Hamilton's eyes snapped up to Jefferson's face, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "What were you doing?" Hamilton asked.

"Exercising," Jefferson replied.

That was when Hamilton noticed the music playing in the background, the playlist Jefferson always used when he and Hamilton sparred or he did anything active. Well, that explained his appearance. "Can I come in?" Hamilton asked.

"Sure." Jefferson swung the door open and stepped inside. He pulled out his phone and paused the music that was blasting through the house and went to the kitchen where he chugged down some water. Hamilton was enjoying every second of Jefferson walking around without a shirt. "So what did you need?" Jefferson asked.

Hamilton tossed the package at Jefferson, "We're going somewhere and you have to wear this."

Jefferson looked at him quizzically before tearing open the package and pulling out a long, heavy magenta coat and the matching velvet vest and pants. He could feel the reinforcing Kevlar beneath the fabric. "Your old one was getting ratty and is dyed super black now. It would never make a statement. We need to make a statement," Hamilton explained. "Now go take a shower and put them on. We got to get going, it starts soon."

"A statement?" Jefferson put the clothes on the counter. "Why do we need to make a statement? What do you have planned, Hamilton?"

"It's none of your concern. Just do it, okay?"

Jefferson grumbled complaints as he scooped up the clothes into a ball and stomped off to the shower. That was easier than Hamilton had anticipated. While Jefferson was in the shower, Hamilton changed into his own new set of clothes.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Hamilton lost his patience. He pounded on the bathroom door, "I swear Jefferson if you're not out in five minutes I'm turning off the hot water and freezing your ass!"

The door swung open, revealing Jefferson dressed in his magnificent suit, hips cocked to the side, cane in hand. Hamilton's felt his breath hitch and his heart thud painfully. Jefferson was a fabulous god again, not only a fabulous god, but he looked exactly like himself for once, complete with that confident smirk.

Jefferson was looking Hamilton up and down, smirk tugging at his lips. Oh, that smirk. Hamilton missed that smirk. "How did you get these anyway? They fit perfectly like they were custom tailored," Jefferson finally asked, brushing past Hamilton.

"Oh, I broke into your house while you were gone, hacked into your account, went through your order history, ordered an exact replica, and had them delivered to my home."

"Very funny. Now, how really?"

"No, I'm serious, that's exactly what I did. Well, Mulligan found out and offered to improve them, for a fee of course. Gotta make a living. Oh, here's your wallet back."

"Do I have a security issue to worry about?" Jefferson asked, slowly taking back his wallet as if Hamilton might have done something to it.

"I stole Madison's key."

"Ah. So where are we going?"

"To make a statement."

----

[verrottweil]

prêt-à-porter

pairing: sanji/lucci

since oda said sanji would be a stylist in a modern!au, it made sense to write something like this. And with this, i mean shameless smut :)

on ao3

.

This has been a long time coming. Ever since they exchanged words backstage at the Donquixote’s ready-to-wear fashion show, seizing each other up in the dressing room mirror’s reflection.

Sanji swallows down a lump in his throat, fidgeting with his tie as he watches with heavy-lidded eyes how Lucci invitingly settles down on the bed. Lucci puffs out his chest, holds his chin up high, and slightly spreads his legs so Sanji could dip his knee between them, if he wanted to.

The smile on his face is sharp enough to tear Sanji’s heart to ribbons.

When he finally manages to undo his tie, he takes a step closer to the bed, barefoot and with his heart hammering away between his own two ears. What he’s feeling right now is eerily similar to what he was feeling the time they faced off in a fighting ring. They did so on Lucci’s invitation, since Sanji didn’t take him seriously when he said that he was interested in martial arts. Supermodels weren’t supposed to be, especially not the everything-goes ones like Krav Maga or Muay Thai.

He had made a point of telling him so. They went out for drinks afterwards, to some trendy cocktail bar uptown. People were ogling them the moment they entered. Probably because Sanji had two band-aids slapped over his swollen, bloody nose and a black eye.

Nobody could see that Lucci had a bruise the size of Sanji’s foot on his chest, after all.

Lucci reaches out for him, brings his hands to his waist and hooks his thumbs into the belt loops of Sanji’s pants. Pulls him closer. The gleam in his eyes is accentuated by the dimmed bedroom lights; shadows splay over one side of his face. Whoever invented the turn of phrase devastatingly handsome must’ve had Rob Lucci in mind.

His mouth’s drier than the desert, parched for another kiss, another taste, and Sanji reflexively rakes his teeth over his lower lip.

Lucci tips his head back, exposing the column of his throat and a hint of collarbone. Sanji settles his knee between Lucci’s legs, flush against his crotch, and puts a steadying hand on his shoulder, before leaning in and touching their mouths together, eyes screwed shut. When Lucci tugs the button-up free from his pants and slides his hands over his bare flanks, Sanji can’t suppress a curt, guttural groan.

His hands start to shake a bit and, fuck, he’s frighteningly nervous about this.

Fingertips press into his skin and when he opens his mouth in response, Lucci slips his tongue inside, never one to let an opportunity go to waste. They break the kiss and Sanji watches how Lucci slowly skims the tip of his tongue over his upper lip and smirks afterwards, satisfied, with just a hint of teeth, like how a cat would clean its maw after a meal.

“Pants off,” Lucci demands then. Authority colors his tone of voice and Sanji understands why so many stylists are anxious – afraid, even – to work with him.

His hands come down to rest on Sanji’s hips and he positively leers, when he suggests, “Unless you want me to pull them off for you?”

Sucking in breath between clenched teeth, Sanji straightens and unbuckles his belt. Meanwhile Lucci leans back and tilts his head to watch him undress. Sanji lets out a shuddery exhale when those warm hands leave his body. Lucci watches attentively how he opens the brass button of his dress pants and unzips, standing there with his belt and pants open, the blue fabric of his boxer-shorts in full sight. He slowly shimmies out of his pants, feeling clumsy and graceless one step at a time.

Lucci smiles that wickedly-sharp smile of his and before Sanji can react, he’s up on him again, nosing along the outline of Sanji’s cock. “I’m going to suck you off,” Lucci promises, looking up at him, cheek against his thigh, breath hot against Sanji’s crotch.

“Fuck,” Sanji answers back unintelligibly, hauling a hand through his long, blond fringe. “Fuck… Shit, you can’t just say things like that…” His sentence comes to a stammering halt when Lucci kisses his dick open-mouthed, tongue insistent and warm and wet through the thin fabric of his underwear.

Fingers tug at the elastic waistband of his boxer-shorts, and every inch of bare skin that appears along the nook of his thigh gets licked and nipped at. His cock bobs free from his underwear and sags slanted across his pubic bone, half-hard already. Sanji brings a hand to his mouth when Lucci tongues along the length of his shaft; the soft, well-groomed hairs of his goatee brushing against hypersensitive skin.

“Holy shit,” he whispers hotly against the palm of his hand, bucking up against Lucci’s face despite himself.  

Sanji’s looking down on Rob Lucci giving him head, but he can scarcely believe any of this is happening. Has been happening. They’ve skirted around each other after the fashion show, and after the sparring session, they started dating. Lucci is the Italian supermodel Sanji’s looked up to during his late teens, whose photoshoots and interviews he regularly cut out of whatever magazine they were featured in and plastered against his bedroom wall.

When they happened to meet on the job, Sanji was so worked up from doing Donquixote Doflamingo’s makeup, he took jabs at Lucci the moment he sat down in that dressing room chair. Fast forward and now Sanji can call him his boyfriend.

Lucci opens his mouth and slides it down over Sanji’s cock, savoring him slowly. Inch by inch. Until his nose is buried in Sanji’s pubes. He puts one hand on Sanji’s right hip, thumbing over the bone there, far more tender than when he gave him those glaring red-purple hickeys on his neck earlier this night, or when he grinded against him hard in the kitchen. His soft, black hair tickles against Sanji’s thigh.

For a moment Sanji thinks he forgot how to breathe and feels his face heat up. His gaze flits from Lucci to anywhere else in the bedroom; from the very modern, black wardrobe to the small chest of drawers that’s serving as a nightstand, to the large rectangular window that almost takes up an entire wall, looking over the city’s skyline.

Inevitably, his eyes fall back on Lucci.

In the dead quiet of the room, the soft sounds of his boyfriend sucking him off reverberate obscenely loud between his own two ears.

“Lucci,” Sanji hisses hotly against the palm of his hand when he hollows his cheeks and sucks him deep; his cockhead nudging against the back of Lucci’s throat. “Fuck, please, fuck, fuck, fuck—” and his litany of fucks is broken off abruptly when Lucci lets up and wraps a loose fist around Sanji’s cock.

With half-hooded eyes, he looks up at Sanji while deftly unbuckling his own belt with one hand. The buckle clanks dully against his thigh.

He nudges Sanji’s glistening cockhead with his lips and slips his hand down his own designer boxer-briefs. His mouth gleams wetly in the dimmed bedroom lights. Sanji groans at the sight, screws his eyes shut for a moment and bucks falteringly into Lucci’s hand, against Lucci’s mouth. His body’s tense, his cock hard and leaking precum, and the muscles in his legs drawn taut as he rocks weakly on the balls of his feet.

Pinned down by his gaze, Sanji watches flustered how Lucci takes the head of his cock back into his mouth. Breath rushes out of his nostrils, caught between the palm of his hand and his face.

He feels like they’re shooting a porno. The thought that Lucci’s jacking himself off with Sanji’s cock in his mouth is almost enough to get him tumbling over the edge. But just when his balls clench and his thighs start to tremble, Lucci promptly stops and rises to stand, slowly dragging Sanji’s button-up over his abdomen, his stomach and ribs, and nipping at the newly-exposed skin.

His cock bobs haplessly against his lower belly.

Sanji makes a low, keening sound at the loss of Lucci’s hot mouth. “I almost…” He says as he puts both hands on Lucci’s shoulders, not knowing whether he should shove him back down to finish the job or grab him tight and draw him into a searing kiss.

“Shit, I’m so close, so close you… you bastard,” he patters breathlessly.

Lucci stands straight now, just that bit taller than him, and smirks. “I know,” he responds in a throaty, smoked-through voice. Presses their bodies flush together and kisses him demandingly, with that air of confidence Sanji so desperately wanted to have ever since he was a kid. Sanji feels the jerking movements of Lucci’s hand through the fabric of his underwear against his own aching cock.

Every nerve-ending in his body is on fire. He tastes the salty tang of his own precum when Lucci licks into his mouth.

After the kiss, Lucci hauls his hand out of his underwear, and together with his pants, pushes them down to his ankles in one-go and steps out of them. Even the dimmed bedroom lights can’t conceal the dusting of dark, downy hair on his legs, standing out against his sun-kissed skin. Sanji’s eyes are drawn to Lucci’s cock almost immediately; long, and thin with an upwards curve, already drooling precum at the tip.

He swallows haplessly, a curt dry click that echoes around his skull. His fingers clench into Lucci’s dress shirt.

“Shirt off,” he orders, bringing a hand to the hinge of Sanji’s jaw, looking him straight in the eye. His pupils are dilated, gobbling up the bright color of his irises, indistinguishable. “Then get on the bed. I’m not done with you yet,” Lucci punctuates the last part of his sentence by stroking Sanji’s cock once, twice, grinding the heel of his palm over the swollen head.

Watching Lucci unbutton his own shirt with deft fingers, makes Sanji somewhat self-conscious about his own fumbling. He shrugs off his button-up and clambers onto the bed.

Every movement makes him uncomfortably aware of how his hard-on bobs against his abdomen.

Lucci slowly tugs the sleeve off his right shoulder and discards his dress shirt onto the floor with a nonchalant gesture, looking every inch the supermodel. “Against the headboard. Spread your legs.” And when Sanji doesn’t comply fast enough, he adds with a switchblade smile, “Spread them wider, honey.”

He dips his left knee into the mattress, cock jutted out, and gets on all fours. The bedroom lights add a warm, golden glow to his black hair and the outline of his strong shoulders There’s something effortlessly graceful about the way Lucci moves. He crawls over with the ease of a big, lazy cat and kneels between Sanji’s legs.

They make eye-contact again and Sanji knows there’s a deep red blush high on his cheeks. The palm of Lucci’s hand feels impossibly warm on his kneecap, even warmer sliding down the expanse of his leg to the crook of his thigh. His stomach clenches in anticipation of the orgasm he’s on the cusp of having, if only Lucci would fucking touch him again.

His cock aches when Lucci finally nudges it with blunt fingertips. “Yes, fuck yes, yes,” Sanji patters incoherently, the ‘yes’ more a hiss than a word, the sibilant dragged out between grit teeth. He jerks back violently and hits his head against the wall hard when Lucci slides two fingers down his shaft, down to his balls.

Lucky for him, Lucci leaves him no time to get embarrassed about it.

Steadying him by the back of his neck with one hand, he brings his fingertips to Sanji’s lips and whispers hotly, “Suck.”

Is he going to spread me without any lube? The question bounces around the back of his mind. Aside from that one colleague he’s had a short-lived relationship with at the beginning of his career, Sanji doesn’t have, well, a lot of experience with guys. He’s not the type for one-nightstands either. Not at all, really. But, he’s pretty-fucking-sure he doesn’t want to get rawed like that during their first time.

Hesitantly, Sanji opens his mouth, closes it again, turns his face to the side and then hisses heatedly under his breath, “We’re not fucking doing this without the proper prep, okay?” He tries to duck his head entirely, so Lucci can’t see how badly he’s blushing, and tacks on, “So get the lube already, you asshat.”

Lucci scoffs in return, a sound that doesn’t betray whether he’s amused or annoyed, and shifts his weight around on the bed, leaning in closer. His voice has this deep, throaty quality to it when he speaks. “I wasn’t planning on fucking you without it,” here he takes a deliberate pause to grab Sanji by the chin, as if to emphasize his point. “I just wanted to blow you good tonight. Understood?”

“But if you’re so eager to get fucked…” He trails off, not even bothering to feign innocence as he places his hand on Sanji’s hip and then goes back down on him. His other hand comes to rest on Sanji’s chest, a comfortable, warm weight.

When Lucci takes Sanji’s hypersensitive cock in his mouth again and sucks him off mercilessly, he manages to wrench loose a long-winded whine, punctuated by Sanji writhing helplessly against the headboard, eyes screwed shut. His thighs start to spasm, like little needle-pricks under his skin. Subconsciously, Sanji spreads his legs as wide as he can, toes curling and hands clutching onto the sheets. Lucci doesn’t even let up for a second.

The telltale red-white-heat of his orgasm blindsides him for a moment and his mind scrambles to keep up, short-circuited. Lost in the high that he’s coming hard down Lucci’s throat without warning. His breathing’s haggard, and he feels like his lungs should be burning up, like he just ran a marathon.

Sanji watches dazedly how Lucci settles upright again and wipes the cum at the corner of his mouth away with the back of his hand, smirking in satisfaction. Fuck, that’s insanely hot—it’s the closest thing to coherent thought his brain manages to get. He feels boneless, warm and sticky at all once, and he can’t bring himself to move as much as an inch when Lucci looms over him, holding his cock in one hand and Sanji’s right thigh in the other.

“Hold still,” he says, his tone of voice’s thick, all hot and bothered, and close, so close.

Lucci moves his hand away from Sanji’s thigh so he can steady himself, giving his cock a couple of quick jerks. The tendons in his throat stand out sharply as he tilts his head back, sweat glimmering in the dip between his well-defined collarbones. He groans as he spends himself all over Sanji’s abdomen. Some strands of hair sticking to his jawline and cheeks, his chest’s heaving violently, and it’s the first time Sanji’s seen him looking so disheveled, so done away with his customary composure and that air of confidence he always dons.

He could get used to this side of him.

The sight of Lucci’s cum glistening in between his wiry pubes feels strangely erotic, territorial even, as if Lucci marked him. Sanji isn’t as turned off by the thought as he imagined himself to be. He stretches languidly and rolls over onto one side, pressing his legs tightly together and propping an arm under the pillow.

“Do you want to take a shower?” Lucci asks then, snapping Sanji from his daze. He hauls a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. His silhouette’s cut out by the cityscape in the window behind him; the column of his throat gleams with sweat and the color of his tattoos looks a richer purple in the scarce lighting.

Sanji scrunches his brows together in response and mutters snappishly, tiredly, “What? Are you afraid I’m going to get cum on your sheets?”

“Why do you think I came all over you?” He rebukes promptly, the hint of a smile playing along the corners of his mouth.

.

They’re in the bathroom and Sanji’s counting the bitemarks on his neck in the mirror. The bright glare of the thin fluorescent tube overhead accentuates the bruises on his throat. Lucci’s toweling his hair dry and Sanji can clearly see the pale outline of his scar, spanning shoulder to shoulder, and the muscle definition in his back. The bathroom door’s ajar, leaving the white lighting to stream inside the bedroom in one thin line.

He turns his gaze back to his own reflection and thumbs the hickey in the juncture of his shoulder. There are two toothbrushes in a glass on the sink, next to a half-empty bottle of Dolce and Gabbana’s the One and a set of tweezers.

“Is there something the matter?” Lucci asks, looking at him from over his shoulder. His hair sticks to his skin, gleaming like wet silk and done away with its natural waviness.

Sanji turns around and brings both his hands behind him, holding onto the sink. “Just admiring your handiwork.”

He heaves a sigh and wonders aloud, “How the fuck am I supposed to go to work with all these fucking hickeys on my neck?” It’s not like he really needs an answer, but he bets his paycheck that bastard’s going to give him one anyway.

“Show them off,” here Lucci smirks, drapes the towel around his shoulders and takes a step towards him. “Speaking of work, I have that shoot for Fendi tomorrow at seven…” He nears even closer, so akin to a predator it makes Sanji’s skin itch. “You can stay around the apartment a bit longer if you like,” he offers casually, hemming Sanji in against the sink. “I don’t mind,” these last words deceptively soft, a hush of breath against Sanji’s cheek.

His eyebrows furrow together. “When and where do we meet up then? After work? Unless you want to come all the way over to the salon to pick up your key,” Sanji says, trying to keep his gaze trained on Lucci’s eyes. His mouth is way too tempting.

Besides, they both need to go the fuck to sleep already.

“I have a spare,” Lucci responds, bringing their bodies flush together. He pulls the towel from his shoulders and flings it over the rack next to the sink. Wedges his leg between Sanji’s to knock his knees apart. It’s unfair how warm his bare skin is in comparison. “I’ll leave it on the kitchen counter before I go,” he says before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the hinge of Sanji’s jaw.

Automatically Sanji leans into the touch and brushes the button of his nose against Lucci’s temple in turn. He wraps his arms loosely around Lucci’s lower back and mutters, “Thanks, I’ll give it back next time we meet up.”

It was the wrong thing to say apparently, since the look Lucci gives him speaks volumes. Sanji doesn’t take too long to catch up however, and grinning ear to ear, he exclaims, “Oh.” He feels a sudden giddiness washing over him at the prospect of owning a spare key to his boyfriend’s apartment. It makes their relationship so much more official. Warmth spreads from his chest throughout his entire body, and if it isn’t love, it’s something dangerously close.

“Let’s go back to bed,” Lucci suggests then, pulling away from his embrace and walking over to the bedroom. He pushes the door wide open and his blurry shadow stretches unsteadily over the floorboards, before he steps further inside and flicks the lights on.

Sanji tries – and fails – to shake that stupid grin off his face, and trails behind him.

[my-dear-anonym]

Basking in Firelight-Jamilton Sequel-Part Forty Three

Masterpost

Part Forty-Three: Wardrobe Choices

Warnings below

----

Did you know that helping start a rebellion, dying, coming back to life in the flashiest way possible at a rebel rally, restarting the rebellion, fighting in the rebellion, leading the rebellion, bring the main reason to have won the rebellion, bring the overall public face of the rebellion, helping make the new nation, and framing freedom for the people would get you placed on the presidential ballot without anyone even asking you? Because Jefferson didn't. Not that he had to worry. George Washington and John Adams would be president, but that still left the places for four vice presidents open. Jefferson did worry about that. He'd either be thrown into vice presidency or onto another cabinet, both of which he didn't ever want to be a part of again. Jefferson hated politics.

But he was just so God damn good at it.

He had the charm, the popularity, the background, the hair. He had it all.

If it was up to him, he'd be in Monticello, piddling away til his heart's content. But the people never let him have his way and he'd always put the nation first. The nation was always first and foremost.

Rain was pounding against the window panes as Jefferson plucked at his violin's strings, staring ahead absentmindedly, his vision unfocused and blurry. The flames of the fireplace lit the otherwise dark house. They were comforting, soothing even, it felt like there were countless good memories in their warmth. Then it was a different rain that was thundering against the ground and a different fire that crackled nearby. The room became a cave and instead of a violin being on Jefferson's lap, it was Hamilton's head as he was sleeping soundly, Jefferson stroking his hair.

The memory quickly faded away as Jefferson jolted, springing up from the couch and twisting around the room, looking for any remnant of the memory clinging to his living room. There was none. But it was still fresh in his mind like he just lived it. He could still feel Hamilton's warmth. Jefferson's mind suddenly jumped to one of the other few memories he possessed of Hamilton. One where Jefferson had him pinned against the wall of Monticello, their hot bodies pressed together, how Jefferson had ached for him, how their mouths clashed together in fiery passion. The need that had burned through every inch of Jefferson's body. The pain he felt when he pulled away, taking every bit of his self-control to do so. How that sensation felt as if he was living it at that very moment when Hamilton stood before him in his office the day he remembered.

He shook both memories from his head and fished out his phone from his back pocket, sending a text to Hamilton for him to elaborate on the fuzzy memory he just remembered. As always, Hamilton's response was immediate, giving the details that his original recounting of the story lacked. Jefferson could feel the fuzziness of the dream sharpen slightly at each word but couldn't remember anything else.

***

Hamilton and the crew sat at the local pub where they always met up at on Saturdays. They had to go through extraordinary lengths to keep the paparazzi from finding them out and the owner of the place was kind enough to lend them a back room so the locals wouldn't bother them. With the help of Jefferson's coin of course. Nothing in the world was free after all. People were still untrustful, it was survival of the fittest, a mind frame that the oppressiveness of King George III's and his associates rule imposed on most of the Eastern States of America. One that Jefferson hoped to reverse with the new governmental system they created. He missed the days where anyone was willing to take in a stranger, feed them a warm meal and a soft bed for the night without having to worry about waking up to find they'd been robbed or never wake up at all.

But for now, Hamilton, Jefferson, and all the rest were sitting around the table, having a good time. Jefferson was enjoying a little bit of wine while everyone else was chugging down various stronger types of alcohol.

"Who knew you two would be placed on the presidential ballot? I never saw that coming," Madison said.

"Me neither but now I can hardly walk out my door with how many people are constantly outside. I'll have to move," Jefferson sighed.

"I've already changed hotels," Hamilton said.

"You should see Washington's house," Lafayette laughed, "He closed all his curtains and refuses to come outside."

"And at the first opportunity, Adams took off for Boston," Mulligan informed. "But I hear there are still people all around his house too."

"How do you know these things?" Burr asked.

"I've got a network," Mulligan shrugged.

"I hear the the crowd outside Lafayette's house puts everyone else's to shame," Laurens grinned.

"It's my irresistible good looks and my charming French accent," Lafayette laughed.

"Maybe I should wear my hair up more then," Jefferson said.

Everyone looked him blankly. "Why?" Hamilton asked, voicing everyone's confused thoughts at the random statement.

Jefferson sighed, grabbed a hair tie from his pocket, cause he'd be damned if he didn't have one when he needed one, and pulled up his hair. "Bonjour bitches," Jefferson said in a perfect French accent, smirking at the entire table as they went into shock. Everyone's mouths were hanging open, Laurens was looking back and forth between Jefferson and Lafayette like he was about to pass out.

"Holy fuck," Mulligan whispered.

"Hey Lafayette, take out your hair tie," Burr said, still staring at Jefferson.

Lafayette reached up and undid his hair which came undone with an audible poof, like in a cartoon. "Hey y'all," Lafayette said in the most horrendous attempt at a southern accent.

Laurens clamped his hand over Lafayette's mouth, "Never. Ever. Do that again."

"How did we never realize how exactly alike you two looked?" Madison asked.

"Maybe it's Lafayette's magnetic personality compared to Jefferson's off putting one that we see," Hamilton suggested.

"Seriously? How have none of noticed this except me?" Jefferson asked, still talking in a French accent.

"Dude, stop. My mind can't take it. It thinks you're Lafayette and I don't want to accidentally agree with you on something," Hamilton replied. "And take out that fucking hair tie."

"You know what? It feels kinda good to have the wind on my neck. It's so free. I think I'll keep it up for a while," Jefferson smirked, leaning back in his chair. Lafayette put his hair back up.

"Oh fuck. Now how do we tell them apart?" Laurens asked.

"Clothes," Burr replied flatly.

"Oh. Right," Laurens said, studying the difference in their wardrobe choice. Jefferson was dressed sharply, with a form fitting gray vest over a purple dress shirt paired with matching gray dress pants. Lafayette, on the other hand, had chosen to go with a tank top with a button down thrown over it. "What's your deal with magenta?" Laurens asked.

"What's Hamilton's deal with green?" Jefferson asked.

"Hey! You're the one that-" Hamilton stopped short. Jefferson wouldn't remember that he'd been the one to tell Hamilton that green brought out his coloring and his eyes. He took a deep swig of his drink. Burr always told him to talk less. Maybe he should start trying that out and seeing if he managed to keep out of these situations.

***

The elections were fast approaching and Jefferson refused to take part in any campaigning whatsoever. He had enough on his plate with his memory loss as it was, he didn't need the added responsibilities of leading a fragile nation. Hamilton, however, had different ideas.

The last thing Hamilton wanted was for Jefferson to be president but what he wanted more than anything was for Jefferson to be himself again. Not necessarily with all his memories, though that'd be even better, no, what Hamilton wanted was to see that cocky strut, shit faced grin, and the overbearing confidence he always used to have. He wanted to hear Jefferson's southern drawl as he disputed things with such intricate webs of facts and carefully chosen words that were tied up neatly with a bow of sass and witty remarks. So elegantly said that no one but Hamilton could refute his words.

That's why Hamilton was standing on Jefferson's door with a package in his hands, waiting for Jefferson to answer the door. What was taking him so long? Hamilton pounded impatiently on the door again. It swung open, perfectly framing Jefferson who was wiping the sweat from his forehead with a damp towel with one hand, holding a gleaming gun with the other, as he and Hamilton always did when answering the door. Due to Hamilton's shortness, he was eye level with Jefferson bare, dark skinned chest, glistening with sweat and radiating heat.

Hamilton realized he was staring open mouthedly when Jefferson cleared his throat and asked, "Is there something I can help you with?"

Hamilton's eyes snapped up to Jefferson's face, a slight blush coloring his cheeks. "What were you doing?" Hamilton asked.

"Exercising," Jefferson replied.

That was when Hamilton noticed the music playing in the background, the playlist Jefferson always used when he and Hamilton sparred or he did anything active. Well, that explained his appearance. "Can I come in?" Hamilton asked.

"Sure." Jefferson swung the door open and stepped inside. He pulled out his phone and paused the music that was blasting through the house and went to the kitchen where he chugged down some water. Hamilton was enjoying every second of Jefferson walking around without a shirt. "So what did you need?" Jefferson asked.

Hamilton tossed the package at Jefferson, "We're going somewhere and you have to wear this."

Jefferson looked at him quizzically before tearing open the package and pulling out a long, heavy magenta coat and the matching velvet vest and pants. He could feel the reinforcing Kevlar beneath the fabric. "Your old one was getting ratty and is dyed super black now. It would never make a statement. We need to make a statement," Hamilton explained. "Now go take a shower and put them on. We got to get going, it starts soon."

"A statement?" Jefferson put the clothes on the counter. "Why do we need to make a statement? What do you have planned, Hamilton?"

"It's none of your concern. Just do it, okay?"

Jefferson grumbled complaints as he scooped up the clothes into a ball and stomped off to the shower. That was easier than Hamilton had anticipated. While Jefferson was in the shower, Hamilton changed into his own new set of clothes.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Hamilton lost his patience. He pounded on the bathroom door, "I swear Jefferson if you're not out in five minutes I'm turning off the hot water and freezing your ass!"

The door swung open, revealing Jefferson dressed in his magnificent suit, hips cocked to the side, cane in hand. Hamilton's felt his breath hitch and his heart this painfully. Jefferson was a fabulous good again.

Jefferson was looking Hamilton up and down, a smirk tugging at his lips. Oh, that smirk. Hamilton missed that smirk. "How did you get these anyway? They fit perfectly like they were customed tailored," Jefferson finally asked, brushing past Hamilton.

"Oh, I broke into your house while you were gone, hacked into your account, went through your order history, ordered an exact replica, and had them delivered to my home."

"Very funny. Now, how really?"

"No, I'm serious, that's exactly what I did."

"Do I have a security issue to worry about?"

"I stole Madison's key."

"Ah. So where are we going?"

"To make a statement."

----

Warnings: