#anyway... it's been a fucking blast to the past for a brief moment... so proud of dream once again. and happy for everyone in the community

[vicea]

i’m rewatching my reaction video and i didn’t know i looked like That /pos when i’m endeared AND enamored. thanks dream for reminding me what love looks on me...

#i simply can't stop thanking this man huh #anyway... it's been a fucking blast to the past for a brief moment... so proud of dream once again. and happy for everyone in the community #we've come so far it's happened <3

[elliesguitarstrings]

Silence (Part 5)

Masterlist//Series Masterlist

Peter Parker x Stark!reader

Summary: You and Peter have been best friends ever since he stepped foot into the avengers compound. After a year of being friends you realize you’ve developed a crush on him, but he doesn’t feel the same way… at least, you don’t think he does.

A/N: Last part!! I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoyed reading it :) I may or may not do an epilogue to this but we’ll see bc I have a lot of other stuff I want to work on.

Warnings: language, angst with a happy ending

~~~~~~~~

You lay on your bed, contemplating how in the world you’re ever going to manage ignoring Peter on patrol. Truthfully, you know you won’t be able to avoid him, but you want to go as long as possible without talking to him, which will be nearly impossible since it’s just going to be the two of you. Why couldn’t you just go with Nat, or Wanda, or like… anyone else?

Then the dreaded moment comes when your dad calls you downstairs to suit up for patrol. You rush down to the lab before Peter gets there, slipping into the suit you’ve been working on for the past few months. It’s nothing special, just your average stealth suit with a little bit of tech incorporated, but it’s yours. And now you can finally wear it for something other than basic training.

You admire your suit in the mirror, excited to put it to good use. In the reflection, you see Peter walk into the lab, already suited up in everything but his mask. Presumably he already knew you were joining him on patrol, but he still looks surprised to see you nonetheless.

Luckily, before he has the chance to say anything to you, your dad steps in.

“Great, you’re both here! Pete, you know the drill. Station at a tall building, look for bad guys, be back my midnight.”

Peter nods, “Yes sir. Same as always!”

God, what a suck up.

Your dad turns to you, “Y/N, follow Peter’s lead. He’ll brief you on the basics of patrolling and what to expect. Tonight’s a quiet night, but still watch out for trouble. And please, for the love of god, behave yourself.”

You roll your eyes, “Yeah, dad, got it.”

“Alrighty then kids, get to work. See you later.”

You follow Peter out, trailing behind him at quite a distance so you don’t have to talk to him.

Peter starts lecturing you about the basics of patrol (which you already know) as you walk out onto the roof of the compound, getting ready to head to Queens. He offers to swing you there, but you cross your arms and shake your head, still keeping your silent streak. Thankfully, you had installed jet thrusters into your suit, and while they aren’t very strong, they are enough to get you through the short trip to Queens.

As you fly through the city, you contemplate just going off on your own, away from Peter. But you decide that the lecture from your dad when you come back wouldn’t be worth the trouble.

You loosely follow Peter and land on a tall apartment building in the middle of the city. He sits on the edge of the roof, looking out over the city, motioning for you to come sit next to him. Instead, however, you swiftly turn your back and sit on the opposite side. Luckily, he takes the hint and doesn’t come to you, and the two of you sit in silence for a while, with both of you surveying each side of the city.

It’s not until about thirty minutes in that something finally happens. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a man in a black hood sneaking into a dark alley. You know if you say anything to Peter, he would want to come with you, so you slip down the building as quietly as possible, going to see for yourself what’s going on.

At first it looks like an average drug deal, something you could easily stop in no time. But then, you see one of the three hooded men pull a glowing weapon out of his duffel bag, something you recognize as alien tech. You try to sneak further around the corner to get a better look at the weapon, but you make the mistake of not looking down and you step on stick, the crack audibly heard by all three of the men in the alley.

You try to turn and run, but it’s too late. They already have you cornered, each of them equipped with one of the alien weapons, so you prepare to fight.

One of the men slowly inches towards you, weapon in hand.

“Well well well, if it isn’t little Miss. Y/N Stark. Daddy finally let you join the team huh?”

You don’t answer him and reach for the gun in your holster, but stop when you feel another gun pressed to the back of your head.

The man speaks again, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you sweetie. One shot of any of these weapons would kill you in an instant, so I’d do what we say.”

“What do you want from me?” you ask, trying your best to hide the fear in your voice, while also trying to devise an escape plan from this unfortunate situation.

“We’ve been looking for you for a long, long time Miss. Stark. We have questions about your dad and his little gadgets, and you have answers. And you’re going to give them to us, whether you like it or not.”

You decide that it’s now or never, so you take action.

“No.” you state, and swiftly kick the man behind you in the stomach, dodging the blast of his weapon as he shoots it towards you. He’s too hurt to try to shoot again, so you steal the weapon from his hands and hit him across the face, successfully knocking him out.

Unfortunately, you fail to pay attention to the two other men advancing behind you. Before you can even process it, the weapon is knocked out of your hand and you are pinned to the ground, with the smaller man holding your shoulders and the larger one restraining you with his knee. You writhe and struggle to try and loosen their grip, but they are too strong.

“So, you wanna play hard, huh little girl?” the larger of the two men drove his knee further into your abdomen, making you cry out in pain.

The other man speaks up, “Since you won’t cooperate, we’re just gonna have to make you,” he motions to his partner, “get the needle.”

Your eyes widen as the larger man pulls out a giant tranquilizer needle, still keeping you down with his knee. Both of the men tighten their hold on you, trying to restrict your movement. Still, you kick and writhe as much as possible, keeping the man from stabbing you.

“STOP FUCKING MOVING” the smaller man screams, following with a hard blow to your face, drawing blood from your nose and cheek.

At this point, you are helpless, accepting your fate as the needle inches closer to your neck.

“Not so fast!”

Peter.

The needle is snatched out of the masked man’s hand, catching him off guard and making him loosen his grip enough for you to swiftly knee him in the groin. Peter catches the needle and uses it to stab the smaller man in the neck, immediately knocking him unconscious. The man who you had previously knocked out starts to stir again, so Peter runs to fight him while you still struggle with the larger man.

Although the masked criminal is much larger and stronger than you, you are able to use his own strength against him, throwing him to the floor (you learned that from Nat). Establishing control over him, you repeatedly punch him in the face until he is successfully knocked out. Once you are sure the man is fully unconscious, you glance at Peter, who is already webbing up the other two criminals.

You motion for him to web up the man you just knocked out, and you call your dad to explain the situation.

“Good job Y/N, we’ve been looking for those guys for a while now, so not bad for your first patrol. I’m sending agents to come pick the three criminals and bring them to the compound for interrogation, so just wait there with Peter until they show up.”

“Got it dad, thanks,” you say, still breathing heavily from your fight.

“Proud of you kid.”

He ends the call and you smile to yourself, happy that you made your dad proud on your first day as a part of the team.

And then Peter ruins it.

“You’re welcome,” he says flatly.

With all the adrenaline flowing through your veins making your blood boil, you decide to finally break your silent streak.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, would you look at that. She speaks!” he comments sarcastically.

You roll your eyes, “What am I supposed to be thanking you for, exactly?”

“Uh, for just saving your ass out there. Or maybe you didn’t notice that you were about to get tranqued in the neck and kidnapped by some of the city’s most wanted criminals.”

“Oh please, I could have handled myself just fine.”

To be honest, you know you wouldn’t have been able to handle yourself, and deep down you are grateful for Peter coming and saving you, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

“Come on Y/N, we both know that you would have been fucked if I hadn’t come to help.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you Peter.”

“Yeah, okay. Go back to giving me the silent treatment. That’s what got us into this mess anyways.”

“I’m sorry what? How the fuck is this my fault?” your voice is rising increasingly in anger.

“If you had just stopped ignoring me for one fucking second and didn’t sneak off on your own, we could have handled this so much easier!” his voice rises as well.

“Why does it even matter anymore Peter? We took them down anyways, who cares how it happened?”

“Because you’re ignoring me Y/N! And I have no fucking idea why!”

Oh, so he wants to go there.

“Don’t play the innocent card here, you know exactly what you did.”

“Please, enlighten me, because I have no clue what the hell you’re talking about.”

“YOU’RE SHUTTING ME OUT PARKER!”

“I’M SHUTTING YOU OUT? YOU HAVEN’T SPOKEN TO ME IN THREE FUCKING DAYS! YOU’RE THE ONE SHUTTING ME OUT! WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING THIS Y/N?”

“BECAUSE I FUCKING LOVE YOU OKAY!”

Oh fuck, you just messed up. You didn’t mean to say it, but your mind kept wandering back to your conversation with Nat earlier and it just… slipped out.

Peter stares at you in bewilderment.

“What did you say?” his voice becomes noticeably softer.

Fuck it.

“I love you Peter. I’ve loved you since the first day I fucking saw you when you walked into the compound and we watched A New Hope on my bed and I fell asleep on your shoulder but I know you only see me as a friend and you like MJ and I just ruined our friendship but I-“

Peter cuts you off by pulling you into him and pressing his lips onto yours. After a few seconds he pulls away, resting his forehead against yours and taking your hands in his.

“I don’t like MJ, I like you. Fuck it, you know what, you already said it so why don’t I, I love you. I’ve always seen you as more than a friend but I never thought you felt the same way.”

So many emotions are flowing through your head, trying to process what the fuck just happened. The main one, however, is just plain confusion.

“But then- then why have you been avoiding me for MJ?”

“Is this about our friendiversary thing?”

You nod your head, still trying to get an answer out of Peter as to why he was being such a dick.

“Look Y/N, I know this sounds stupid, but I- I was avoiding you because when you woke me up and told me about our one-year friendiversary, it reminded me that we were just friends, so I got weird. It wasn’t just you that remembered it, I did too. And I was actually planning on telling you how I felt about you, but then I got scared and bailed. And then I invited Ned and MJ to come with us because I didn’t think I would be able to handle myself if it was just me and you. I’m so sorry Y/N, it was such a shitty thing for me to do and I hate myself for it-”

This time it was your turn to cut him off with a kiss, still holding on to his hands.

“I forgive you Peter. And also, I’m sorry for giving you the silent treatment for three days,” you laugh.

Peter starts laughing with you, “We’re both such idiots, aren’t we?”

“Yeah. We totally are.”

Both of you are still giggling as you kiss for a third time, this one more passionate. He wraps his arms around your waist and you move yours around his neck, drawing him as close as humanly possible. You deepen the kiss, the both of you completely getting lost in each other, and in this moment, its like you and Peter are the only two people on Earth.

You pull away from Peter only to rest for a moment and catch your breath.

“I love you Peter,” you smile.

“I love you too Y/N, so much.”

~~~~~~~~

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All: @pxkajesus @hollanddolanfangirl @roseke @agentsofparker @lifeasjazzz @damnrancidchicken @loopyolivia @iwannabekilledtwice @rafehogwarts @non-eexistent @rosiexx8 @nearlydanger9 @realityisabitch07 @midgardassassins @jbreenr @cap-marvxl @ellesmythe @deepestcolorgiantopera @that-one-person @clandestine-nerd @nevertrustapanda16 @ohabbyoh @rxmanxff @bubbleskz @quinn-spn58 @baby-pogue @strangebouquetqueen @thatforgottenangel @pjmjams @tiredstudenttrinity @isabella-bby @i-will-take-care-of--you @hollandprkr @ladykxxx08 @white-wolf1940 @runawayolives @geekgirleve @thathurtbrolol@heyiheardyouwereawildone36

Peter Parker: @blizzardbabe @ifyouwereanybraveryoudbealioness @newsies-yeet @zosia-cichoracki @elismacleod @parkerpeterparker2004 

Series: @t-hollanderr  @allycat449-blog @haley-talks-too-much

#peter parker #peter parker fluff #peter parker smut #peter parker angst #peter parker x reader #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x stark!reader #peter parker x stark!daughter #peter parker fic #peter parker fanfiction #tom holland #tom holland fluff #tom holland smut #tom holland angst #tom holland x reader #tom holland fic #tom holland fanfiction #peter parker series #tom holland series #stark!reader #stark!daughter #marvel #avengers #marvel fanfiction #avengers fanfiction

[asweetprologue]

so hard to say (so easy to do)

This is a follow-up to this fic I did for my halftober series, but can be read as a standalone! This is a whump fic, but all torture mentioned is fairly mild and there is a happy ending. A few people wanted a sequel so I’m finally able to oblige!  ao3

tw: hand trauma including broken fingers and mention of cutting near and around the forearms. 

***

He can’t remember how long he’s been here. 

Days? A week, maybe? It could have been months, and Jaskier’s not entirely sure he would notice the difference. Time began blending together so quickly after the first few sessions. The cell they are keeping him in is makeshift, once some kind of storage room in the dilapidated keep that the Nilfgaardians have occupied. It’s temporary, and so is his capture. One way or another. He will be disposed of the second they no longer find him useful. 

It’s a bit of a cat and mouse game. If he weren’t so thoroughly bruised, deep down in his core, he might be a little proud of how he’s led them along. They come every day, a few times, he’s not sure; there are no windows in his hasty prison. They never remove him from the chair he’s strapped to, and he’s been given only water, twice. He’s beyond hunger, his empty stomach just another point of pain alongside his other injuries. There are two men who work on him, one in what he assumes is the morning and one in the evening. They come in shifts. During the first few days - hours? weeks? - they would leave after he passed out, and he would be allowed to rest for a little while. Now they usually stay for a while, teasing him in and out of consciousness with wicked little hooks and blades. He faints too often for it to bring him any lasting peace. 

It’s a difficult thing to want to draw out, but draw it out he does. They ask him where the witcher has gone, and he tells them he won’t say, won’t give up his secrets (as if he has any). When they move to breaking his fingers, he tells them that he knows a few places, some towns that Geralt might be hiding out in, which he knows are safe to speak of. He tells them about witcher caches that he knows are long looted, old ruins where experiments past took place, unspoken but harmless truths. 

He never tells them the biggest truth: he has no idea where Geralt is. That way lies death, he’s certain. 

When he’s not entertaining Nilfgaard’s finest, he focuses on making plans of escape. None of them are particularly grand, or seem likely to work. Jaskier has gotten himself out of plenty of trouble in years past, but there’s not much one man can do against a full legion of soldiers. If he could get out of his bindings, he might be able to make it through the halls of the keep and sneak past the guards, but it’s a big if. It was a stronger contender in the early hours of his captivity, but now he doubts if he could even stand up for long. Weariness and pain have made his bones brittle, liable to crack at the slightest provocation. He fears if he tried to run he would do more damage than the Nilfgaards already have. 

He’s not sure if he’s thinking clearly. 

He doesn’t think about Geralt at all. He tries not to think about Geralt. 

He dreams of him, though. When he faints from the pain or exhaustion or thirst, he doesn’t dream, but a few times he’s managed to fall into a fitful sleep. In the dark of the cell he dreams of calloused hands and smiling, golden eyes. The worst is when he dreams that he’s woken up by Geralt’s side in their small camp, warm and content, only to wake again to the cold, damp dungeon. The smell of it chokes him, iron and piss and mold, and he gags on bile when he has nothing in his stomach to throw up. He sits in the dark, alone, his broken fingers throbbing along with his pulse as it rushes through his ears, every cut and bruise aching in the chill air. For a long while he just breathes, wishing so desperately to be held that he feels like nothing more than a child. 

They come for him again the next morning. Or night, he doesn’t know, can’t tell. The torch burns his eyes, and he closes them tightly to avoid one pain he doesn't have to endure. It’s better if he doesn’t look, anyways. 

In his brief glimpse of his tormentor, Jaskier could tell that the torturer this time is the thin man. His counterpart is huge, with shockingly broad shoulders and big, meaty, uncoordinated hands. Most of the bruises are from the big one, who prefers to slam his fist into Jaskier’s ribs when he doesn’t hear what he wants to. In his brief and endless time here, Jaskier has learned that he prefers the meat man. The thin man who stands before him now is a surgeon, precise and accurate in all his movements. His fingers are long and thin, and they reach so easily inside to pluck at Jaskier’s delicate veins and nerves. In a strange way, Jaskier can almost appreciate it, one artist to another. The human body is an instrument to the thin man, and the music he makes is pain. 

He can hear the sound of a cloth, rubbing across a smooth surface. It reminds him of Geralt, wiping down his blades with old silk, who he will not think of in this moment. Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, trying to will his mind into stillness. He’s not any good at this, not really. He can talk around the issue, sure, draw it out as much as he likes, keep them guessing. Jaskier would never let a single unintentional detail slip, this he knows in the depths of his being, past the music and charm and frivolousness. Nothing could make him betray Geralt and Ciri. He could run the Nilfgaardians round in circles for years if he wanted to. 

But he isn’t good with pain. 

This time the first knife to pierce his skin isn’t even preceded by a question. It comes with little fanfare, slicing into the pad of one of his twisted fingers in what Jaskier knows is a painfully intentional line. Exactly as big and deep as it needs to be to hurt him how the thin man wants it to. It burns against the swollen skin, already too sensitive. Jaskier lets out a slow breath, trying to brace himself for the rest. 

“I will no longer ask,” the thin man says. His voice is soft, with the almost musical lit of someone from near Toussaint. He always sounds breathy, like he’s been walking too quickly up a flight of stairs. “You know the question.”

Jaskier nods jerkily. He won’t speak for a while. He needs to draw it out, perhaps find a way to barter for some water or food. Information in exchange for things that might make his existence more bearable. Who knows how long it will be before - 

No. Don’t think it. 

The thin man hums and begins his work. 

Jaskier fades, coming back to himself only when the pain becomes the worst. He passes out a few times, but he finds no reprieve. The thin man waits for him when he wakes, and begins again. Jaskier doesn’t even know what he’s doing anymore. All he knows is that his skin has been replaced with fire. 

They haven’t even started working on his face yet, but the thin man had made some chilling comments about his eyes. Jaskier hopes they have time yet before that. 

He’s gritting his teeth through a particularly deep incision on the inside of his forearm - just shallow enough not to be dangerous, but wide enough to sting - when the door to the room shatters inwards. 

The chair that he’s in was bolted to the floor, which he expects is the only reason he doesn’t go flying backwards. As it is, his head rocks back from the blast and knocks into the wood, and he’s too dizzy from blood loss and dehydration and maybe a slight concussion to register what happens next. There’s some shouting, and a spray of something warm and salty across his face. A brilliant light, and then darkness. 

He keeps his eyes closed until he feels hands on his cheeks. When he opens them, he is met with gold, gold, gold. 

Geralt is here. 

“Melitele, that took you long enough,” he says, and then he passes out. 

***

When he wakes, there’s no pain. 

He sits up and winces, amending that thought. There is, most definitely, some pain. It crackles along his ribs and his joints, aching, but it’s dulled. He’s lying in a small room, warm wooden logs forming the wall next to his small cot. A fire crackles merrily away on the far side of the little cottage, basic cooking implements hanging above it. A table sits underneath a window to his left, where he can just barely make out a thin line of blue sky above a dense treeline. His bed is covered in rough, simple cotton sheets; the room is warm enough that it needs no quilt. When he lifts them warily to assess the damage, his torso is wrapped in fine linens, the kind Geralt likes to keep in their packs for when jobs go south. Three of his fingers are heavily wrapped as well, bound together to keep them stiff and straight. He fumbles as he picks up the still mug of water he finds on the little shelf beside the cot, and he drinks so quickly he nearly drops it on the floor. 

He’s so focused on the critical task of getting water from the mug into his mouth without spilling it all on the sheets that he almost doesn’t notice the front door opening. When he does, he jumps - can’t help it, suddenly filled with a bright spot of panic. It fades into sheer relief when he sees the slight silhouette and the faint, nearly white hair backlit by the late afternoon sun. Ciri stares at him, holding a wide, flat bowl against her hip while propping the door open with one hand. Suddenly the bowl goes clattering to the floor, dandelion greens falling in a floral carpet as she launches herself across the room at him.

“We were so fucking worried about you!” she says, throwing her arms around his shoulders. Jaskier laughs, the sound of it coming out rough but no less joyful for it. He lifts his sore arms to hug her back, ignoring the way it pulls at his healing injuries. 

“Now what would your father say if he heard you using such language?” he asks. One hand lifts up to card gently through her hair. Ciri pulls back a bit, and he tucks a stray piece of it behind her ear as she glares at him. Her green eyes are covered in a film of tears, but he won’t mention it. His eyes are burning a bit as well. 

“You know I only learned it from him,” she says, “and you. I’m angry with you. And him. You made us leave you behind.” She’s so young, he thinks, even with everything she’s been through. It makes something in his chest compress and expand at once. It’s a strange feeling, but not a bad one. 

“I know. I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it, mostly. “I didn’t want to. But I would do it again, to protect you. Both of you.”

A stray tear slips down her cheek. “You were so hurt,” she croaks. She takes a few breaths through her nose, biting the inside of her lip. “When they brought you back, Geralt was so quiet. Not like normal quiet, but like, like people get when they don’t want to talk about how bad it is. I’m sorry. It’s my fault.” She looks bereaved, guilt twisting her young features, and Jaskier can’t stand it. 

“No,” he says, firmly, as much authority in his voice as he can muster with it still raw from hours of screaming. “It was my choice, Ciri. The fact that people want to hurt you doesn’t make it your fault. I will always choose to protect you. Always.” He reaches out his free hand to take hers, squeezing it tightly. “You would do the same for me, Lioness.”

She nods shakily, and squeezes his hand back. He knows this isn’t the last time he’ll have to say it, but that’s alright. He’ll say it again. 

Ciri wipes her eyes quickly and pulls away. “I need to get Geralt. He’s been… not good. He needs to know you’re awake.” She stands up, rushing over to the door and righting her upended bowl, saving what she can of the greens. Jaskier takes a moment to arrange himself on the bed a bit, shuffling around until he’s more comfortable.

“Not good how?” he asks. Ciri shoots him a look. 

“Not good as in worried, of course. We all have. Even Yennefer. She stayed with you the entire first day you were back. It’s been -”

The door slams open again, this time revealing a panting Geralt. His hair is down around his face, looking slightly damp. He has on only a loose gray shirt over an old pair of trousers, the ones with a rip in the knee that Jaskier had told him to throw out but he’d insisted were good for at least one more season. Jaskier had been meaning to patch it up for a few weeks now. He’s so fucking beautiful Jaskier could cry.

“I was fishing,” Geralt says. He’s staring at Jaskier with wide eyes, one hand still on the door handle. 

Ciri says, “Um. I’m going to find Yennefer,” and slips out the door under Geralt’s arm. Geralt doesn’t even seem to see her. 

The door falls shut behind her, but Geralt seems rooted in place, staring at Jaskier with an expression that’s wide open and raw. It lands on Jaskier’s skin like a balm, tracing over every visible wound with desperate attention. 

“Well,” Jaskier says finally, “I’m not going to bite you.”

Geralt makes a hurt noise, and suddenly he’s across the room, crowding into Jaskier’s space. He hovers beside the bed, curved over Jaskier’s propped up form with his hands inches away from bandaged shoulders. He hesitates. Jaskier can’t stand it. 

“I didn’t get tortured for however long for you not to hug me once I’m rescued,” he snaps. “I’m not going to break.”

Geralt laughs, but it’s so strangled Jaskier isn’t actually sure it isn’t a sob, and then Geralt finally leans into him. His fingers come up to cradle Jaskier’s skull, holding onto the back of his neck like he really might fragment apart at too harsh a touch. His other arm circles around Jaskier’s chest until he can feel a warm palm spread along the base of his spine, anchoring him. Jaskier sighs, feeling the last of the tension leave him as he collapses against Geralt’s sturdy form. One wet strand of white hair tickles his cheek where he’s pressed against Geralt’s neck. 

“Four days,” Geralt says, so soft Jaskier might not have heard it if he didn’t half feel it through the rumble of Geralt’s ribcage. 

“Four days?” Jaskier repeats, turning it into a question. 

“How long they had you.” A hot breath leaves him in a long sigh, tickling Jaskier’s eartip. “Didn’t know if we’d find you in time.”

“I should have let Yennefer put that tracking spell on me all those years ago,” Jaskier says, aiming for light. Geralt just squeezes him a bit tighter, enough that it stings a little, before he eases off a bit. He doesn't let go. 

“She’ll do one as soon as she’s able,” Geralt says. “Used a lot of energy, healing you.”

“Exceptional job she did,” Jaskier says, soothing his nose along the line of Geralt’s throat. “My, ah. Well. Does she know if my - Any prognosis on, ah -”

“Your fingers will be fine,” Geralt says, bringing the hand on Jaskier’s neck down to cradle his bandaged fingers. “Yennefer said they’re mostly healed already, but she’s keeping them wrapped so you don’t aggravate them.”

Jaskier sighs in relief. “Well thank small mercies and powerful mages for that. How long am I bedridden for? I’m taking two days at least off of whatever orders Yennefer has given, knowing her she’s added an extra week just to keep me ‘out of trouble’ as she would describe it. I’ll not sit around a moment more than -”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupts. He pulls back, looking serious, almost grave. But his eyes are full of something else, something that makes Jaskier’s words catch and halt in his throat. 

“Yes, dear heart?” he prompts. Geralt closes his eyes. 

“I love you,” he says, soft and breathless. He opens his eyes suddenly, pupils blown wide as he meets Jaskier’s gaze. An expression that Jaskier has seen so, so many times steals across his features - scared, but determined. His witcher is a very brave man. “I’m in love with you. I didn’t know if I’d get to - if you would be -”

Jaskier reaches up to catch Geralt’s cheek in his wrapped palm, and Geralt’s eyelids flutter like he wants to close them, but he doesn’t. He stays looking at Jaskier, drinking him in as Jaskier is doing in return. His eyes are two spots of honey in the warm light of the fire and the afternoon sun spilling into the room. Jaskier leans forward and presses their lips together. His are too dry, and Geralt’s are a bit chapped. He bites them when he’s nervous, or worried. It’s also the most brilliant kiss Jaskier’s ever had - it feels like the relief of coming to a familiar place after a long time on the road, where you know the people and the food is good and everyone knows your songs. It’s cheerful fires in silver blue campsites, blankets shared on cold nights on the journey north, buttercups and dandelions braided into snow white hair. It’s coming home, the only way Jaskier has ever really known how. 

He pulls away, letting their foreheads fall together, just breathing in the space between them. Geralt smells like Roach, and fresh spring water, and lilac. “I know, sweetheart. I love you too.”

Geralt smiles at him, really smiles, beautiful and relieved. Ciri’s voice comes to them through the window, excited and drawing nearer, interwoven with a smoother tone that Jaskier remembers from hazy half wakeful moments. Yennefer will want to check on his wounds, will lecture them on getting distracted and ruining her hard work, but she will also smile and it will touch her eyes like it didn’t used to. But for the next few seconds, it’s just the two of them, and once again the moment feels unhurried and infinite. So he leans back in to kiss him again and steals Geralt’s quiet huff of a laugh to keep within his own mouth, and for a moment that’s everything there is. 

#geraskier #jaskierxgeralt #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #the witcher #geralt of rivia #jaskier #dandelion #ciri #writing #fan fiction #whump #tw: throwing up #tw: torture #brief head trauma but it's not discussed bc yenn heals it pretty immediately #passing out #my tags make this sound worse than it is probably lmao #my work #<5

[growup-thatbeautiful]

drive is out now!! It’s a Post Season Harringrove Hurt/Comfort and I’m pretty proud of it. Read it on ao3 here or below the cut. Likes and comments are very very much appreciated :))

Billy doesn’t drive after starcourt. Something about being behind the wheel makes him sick with memories that he can’t understand. They’re abstract and totally unreliable.

But it’s kind of always been like that for him. He's used to having gaps in his memories, except most of the time it’s because of trauma. Or that’s what Joyce tells him and the rest of them whenever they have nightmares about things they don’t remember happening.

He's been living with the Byers and El. He tries to be useful around the house, doing whatever he can because he really doesn’t have anywhere else to go. It’s hard, though. It seems like everything he does, he does wrong. He never had to learn how to fold sheets or clean dishes. Not only was neil hargrove terribly homophobic, but also misogynistic, which is a word joyce taught him because she teaches all her kids that stuff. And he’s one of her kids now. So, yeah. Neil never had Billy do the chores because “he’s not a true man, but he sure as shit isn’t a woman.”

It's alarming how quickly this odd family replaces his old one. Neil seems miles away. Neil doesn’t try to look for Billy, and that’s fine as far as Billy's concerned. He's got scars to cover up the ones Neil made. no need to dwell on that when he has so much other trauma to process., right? Kind of.

He does check up on max. Asks her if neils pulling any of the shit he used to get from his dad. double checks for bruises hidden under makeup or long sleeves, and never finds any. Good.

Joyce is good. great, even. She doesn’t blame him when he breaks a dish because he heard a noise. She listens when he says he needs some alone time, and she knows when he’s just saying that. She gives good hugs and has no problem giving him Jonathan's old room to stay in while he’s off at college. leaving Hawkins behind him, calling every night anxiously awaiting the return of It. Nothing happens, and eventually they relax. Or they try to. That part of billy’s been broken for a long time, though.

So Joyce starts fading into memories of his mom, and he tries not to blame her.

Again. He's never had a great memory anyway. He does remember his mom telling him that boys don’t marry other boys when he was five and told her he wanted to marry his best friend. Then she told him never to tell his dad. It's strange, because he can’t remember her saying that she loved him, even though he’s sure she did. Did she? Huh.

At least the painful memories he gets to keep. Neil beating’s. Beating up on Harrington that night he didn’t know what was going on. The car crash before his mind was taken from him. Max’s terrible scream of “Billy” mixed in with the ear-ringing pain. Waking up in a hospital with starburst scars across his body. Skin that isn’t his. They remind him not to get to comfortable, remind him that the kindness he’s being shown isn’t well earned.

Because Billy knows he wasn’t worth those hospital bills and sleepless nights. All he’s done to the people here is hurt and scar and he’s seen them with the deepest kind of fear in their eyes. Fear because of him.

Everytime he goes down a path like this, he tries to stay clear of everyone. Because. They all tried to hide how much hurt he’s caused. They don’t blame him like they should.

He didn’t know any of them well before. But he knows El didn’t always carry around that police badge or look up at every siren, praying for a familiar face only to be disappointed and try not to show it. Because if Billy survived, couldn’t the more-deserving Hopper? Apparently not.

He knows Joyce didn’t always search for Will in every setting and have those folded up pictures of the two men that died because of all the shitty things that happened. Because she can’t stand to forget their faces or not carry that burden for just a second.

Will didn’t always get quiet every time a draft went through the room or refuse to go out that front door first. Because so many things have been ruined for him.

The rest of the kids didn’t always jump at every noise or bunch together for every corner, carrying lucky momentous and items. Because God forbid they have a break.

He doesn’t see them a lot, but Nancy and Jonathan definitely didn’t carry around an emergency kit everywhere they went, packed with medical supplies and Nancy’s choice gun. Because they’re going to be there to help if anything tries to take another person they loves away.

Some part of Billy reasons that it’s not all his fault. He wasn’t one of those scientists or government agents that started the whole thing.

But he did enough. Enough to warrant all the shit that he’s going through. It’s not the healthiest way of thinking, he’s aware of that, but it helps him get by.

No matter how hard he tries, though, there’s always someone at the house that finds him. Curled up into a ball, dry hitching sobs and no tears because “Hargrove men don’t cry.” Billy gets damn close sometimes, but the fear that Neil’s going to come out from the cracks in the wall and kick him where he lays is too real.

There are usually soft words.

“We don’t blame your here, honey. That wasn’t you, that did all that stuff. And I’m not going to let anything else bad happen to the people under this roof.” Joyce’s strong and sure voice, only breaking at the edges.

“I know what it’s like to have him control you like that. I know better than anyone else, and I know how scary it is. Mom says it’s over now, though, and I can’t feel It anymore. I would tell you first if It came back.” Will never says anything more than that, which is comforting in itself. It’s nice to have someone else.

“They lost. You’re here. I’m here. Will’s here. It is safe.” El’s statement is simple, but she makes it easy to believe.

He believes them until he gets another new memory of what he did. The Mayors blood on the floor. Heather’s petrified screams. Standing before that thing and feeling nothing but a perverse sense of but awe and, buried beneath that, a screaming sense of horror and the constant feeling of slipping in the sand.

There are times, like right now, when he doesn’t want someone to make him feel better. He wants someone who can drive him away from here and sit in an empty parking lot and smoke away the thoughts. Someone like Steve.

He would do it himself. He would. But he can’t. Can’t get over that fucking gas pedal. So he calls Steve.

They’ve done this enough times for it to make sense for Billy to have Steve’s number memorized. And his work schedule. And to know when he with Dustin or Robin or any of the others on one of those group outings Billy can’t bring himself to go to. There are too many sad faces, too many broken homes.

It doesn’t matter what he wears. It’s just Steve, and they’ve gotten past the point of caring about things like that.

Which. Is obvious to anyone who looks at Billy, not that he sees anyone. He’s lost a lot of weight. Muscles that used to be defined are gone, replaced by scars. He can’t get them back yet, because he’s not strong enough to lift any of them. And because muscles like that can hurt and hit. His eyes are surrounded by heavy bags, bloodshot and tired. The new callouses on his hands are mostly scars from anxiety ridden breakages, and the pained nails are because El wanted to try the new dark blue out. His hair is greasy and flat, nowhere near what it used to be. It hangs around his shoulders in curled waves, so far from where he used to be.

He doesn’t even try to smile to the sad reflection in the mirror.

Steve doesn’t honk when he arrives. The first time he did that and the noise sent Billy spiraling, and Steve had felt terrible, cussing up a storm that actually helped Billy out of it. Luckily, it was just Billy home and no one else was there to witness they’re collective train wreck.

Before he leaves, Billy grabs something from the bathroom and stuffs it in with the rest of the random shit he brings.

Billy slides into the passenger seat, leans his head back against the headrest, and says, “So, Harrington, how you been?”

Steve, mercifully, looks the same as always. He looks good, the asshole. It’s a relief that he’s still able to feel that fire Steve lights up. Different than all the other King’s from California. A few more scars, but they all have that. His shades are pushed through his hair, brown strands flopping over lazily.

“Same as usual, so fairly shitty and on the brink of breakdown. You?” It would be a normal conversation if Steve wasn’t completely serious, corners of his mouth only ticking up when Billy reaches over and bats at the band-aid charm hanging from the mirror. A joke from Billy to say sorry for, you know, almost beating him to death for no real reason.

“Oh, you know.” He doesn’t need to say more for Steve to get the idea. It’s the same way they’ve been feeling for months now.

“Yeah.” The car ride over isn’t far from the Byers’ house, and they spend it in almost silence. Some pop station is playing low on the radio.

“This the shit you listen to, pretty boy? I expected more than this.” It’s an attempt at normalcy, something that they’ve slowly been working up to.

“At least I don’t blast out my eardrums every time I want to listen to music,” replies Steve quickly, smile evident in his tone.

And it’s normal. It’s them. The way they were before it all got so messy. For that brief moment, there’s no winter night or july 4th. For a brief moment Billy can entertain a reality where he went to the find Steve instead of a fight. A world where Steve, with those pretty eyes and snap remarks, could hold his hand and stop him from doing all the bad things in the future.

But the moment passes. Steve clears his throat and looks forward at the road.

They arrive to the quarry, water at the bottom glinting, tossing, teasing. The car doors slam shut, and they slide up on to the front of the car. Billy pulls his last minute grab out of the bag and hands it to Steve.

“I want you to cut my hair.” Steve takes the scissors and towel in his hand, looking at Billy.

He doesn’t ask if Billy’s sure. Billy figures that Steve knows at this point he wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t real. If Billy wasn’t sure. Steve cards a hand through Billy’s hair. It feels. Good. Real good.

Steve starts cutting, and Billy winces at the sound of the scissors closing around his hair. His past.

“I like to think it isn’t just part of me.” The comment comes out of nowhere, surprising Billy more than it surprises Steve.

“What?” Steve’s voice is calm, the sniping of the scissors is methodical.

“The anger. The aggression. The tendency to hurt. I like to think it’s not in my nature, but my nurture.”

“I don’t think you’re violent.” It’s a laughable statement.

“You’re joking. Did you forget most of last year? I’m the one with the bad memory here, Harrington.” Billy can practically hear Steve’s disapproving mother’s frown behind him.

“That wasn’t you.”

“Right, sure, whatever, bullshit. But what about…you know. Last winter.”

“What happened before that?” asks Steve patiently.

“Jesus, you’re worse than Joyce. My dad sent me after Max. Found her at Byers’ place with you. Hurt you a whole fucking lot.”

“Is that all he did? He just told you to go after her?” Billy ignores the way his stomach does flips when Steve runs a hand through Billy’s hair, straightening it out.

“So you’re my fuckin’ therapist now? What do you want me to say? He kissed my head and sent my on my merry way? That’s now how he works. I’ll admit, I was saved by his new wifey. He can’t use me as a punching bag when she’s standing right there, not like he did with mom. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Nothing worse than what you’ve done to me. And the insults weren’t too bad either. He forgot to call me a fag.”

“Oh. Shit, Billy, I-“

“It’s fine,” cuts in Billy, hating the pity in Steve’s voice. He’s not the one who should have it.

“You didn’t deserve that.” This time it does make Billy laugh. It’s a hollow and haunting sound, an echo of his charming boyish laugh.

“Sure I did, dipshit. You’re probably one of the people who knows best why I did, in fact, deserve it.”

“So then I’m the best person. to tell you that you aren’t that person. You haven’t been that person since you left him and all of that shit. Let me ask you something. Do you want to hurt people now?”

“No!” Billy startles himself with his sudden enthusiasm, and Steve jumps a little behind him. Steve is quicker to recover, though, and he runs a hand through the hair he hasn’t cut yet. It’s soothing. Billy barely resists the urge to lean into it. Ask for more.

“Did you ever want to hurt people? Like really, truly want to see them hurt?” Billy has to think about the question. Steve deserves an real answer.

Flashes fly through his mind, bringing on too familiar emotions. Anger, a need to make someone, anyone, feel the way that he’s feeling. Fear that not having this power over people would make him weak. Horror at what he’s about to do. Detachment, painful as he grinned and laughed.

“I just wanted to have control. Take some of the hurt I was feeling and give it to other people. It was a rush that I was addicted to. The thrill of the fight, the feel of flesh against my fist, the look of blood on my knuckles. I liked fighting, still do. I didn’t like hurting people.” Steve puts the scissors down on the car hood, fluffing Billy’s hair and sliding down next to him.

“I’ve been on the wrong side of the fists of two people I’m now okay with,” admits Steve. “Believe me, I know now to take a beating. I’ve been heartbroken by two other people I’m close friends with. I forgive too easily.”

“So you’re a compulsive truster and I’m a compulsive fighter. What a pair we make, huh Harrington?”

“Yeah.” agrees Steve, bumping his shoulder against Billy. “What a pair.”

Maybe it’s the haircut. Maybe it’s the sunlight confessions. Maybe it’s how carefree and happy Steve looks. But Billy feels lighter. Like there was this unspoken weight he had been carrying around that no one knew about. Or everyone knew about, but couldn’t help.

The thing is, Steve didn’t even say anything. He didn’t promise a better future, he didn’t say that he was safe. He shared some of the personal pain they all carry around.

“I don’t think I ever said sorry. I am sorry, you know. I. I didn’t-“

<i>Mean to hurt you. Want to hurt you. Mean to let you see how much I hurt. Want to need you.</i>

“I know. I’m sorry too. Someone should’ve known. About you.” Steve leans closer, and Billy chalks it up to the night chill as the sun settles below the glistening rocks.

“I was good at hiding things I didn’t want people to see.”

“Yeah, well you’re not alone there either.”

“You good at hiding, pretty boy?” Billy’s eyes flick down to Steve’s lips, and, is Billy imagining it or is Steve looking at him the same way?

“Apparently not good enough,” jokes Steve. His smile falls off of his lips, and he leans minutely closer. If Billy wasn’t paying attention to all of Steve…

The way his hair glows white and gold in the sunset. That wrinkle between his brows. The way one of his eyes is a little darker than the other. How he smells like cigarette smoke and that fancy hairspray, even when his hair is blown from the wind.

The way he looked that night. Cool and collected, then terrified and fighting for his life. So beautiful in the harsh starlight and then so abstract in the broken kitchen light.

Before he knows what’s happening, Steve is filling that gap. Kissing Billy like he’s trying to sooth the pain from their past. Maybe he is. Billy wouldn’t put it past him.

His hand finds a way to Steve’s hair, the same way Steve’s been running his through Billy’s now shorter hair. He curls it into the strands, holding on tightly. Soft.

The way Steve sighs his name takes Billy away from it all. The pain. The memories. The lack of memories.

They lay out under the stars for a few minutes, but Billy knows Joyce will freak out if she can’t find him. Not because she doesn’t trust him, he has to remind himself, but because she doesn’t trust others.

On the drive home Steve plays that pop stuff again, and Billy gives him the appropriate shit for it, a smile on his face the whole time. His fingers laced through Steve’s.

They arrive at the house, and Steve declines to come in. Gives the excuse that his parents will be waiting up when they both know it’s not true. Billy can’t blame him. Billy understands needing to be alone, needing to get away.

Billy leans through Steve’s window and wished that he could kiss him goodbye. Well. The teasing will have to do.

“Night, King Steve.”

“Goodnight, Asshole.”

If Joyce gives him a knowing smile at the door, Billy doesn’t smile back. Probably.

He definitely does. Maybe he deserves the smile. If Steve thinks he does.

#steve harrington x billy hargrove #harringrove fan fiction #harringrove #harringrove fanfic #harringrove fic #harringrove fandom #harringrove stuff #harringrove au #stranger things #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove #steve harrington fic #steve harrington #stranger things fic #stranger things post season 3

[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.

Also, leave feedback! I love reading what you guys thought of my writing!

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.

-

Reblogs > Likes

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.

Tag list: (just ask to be added!)

@a-nice-tea-time @skyluni @khiara1776 @beetlejuicebeetlejuicebeeeecause @slushy-sloosh-musical-person @i-can-get-extra-with-my-ships @iss-yaboi @patt0n-sanders @karixx-png @tryingtohealandgrow @justthehopeleft @pufflypuffle @swagdiplomatlightkid

#hamilton #alexander hamilton #thomas jefferson #jamilton #jamilton fanfic #jamilton fluff #jamilton fic #jamilton fanfiction #hamilton fluff #hamilton fanfic #ee #ee writes #ee does writing #ee's writing #ee.txt #fuck this took forever #jefferson #jefferson will be sad #patsy is here for a bit too

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Finally

A commission for @shortythescreen TYSM AGAIN AND I HOPE YOU ENJOY!!!

Summary: Anita has been friends with you for awhile and thought her yearning after you was simply her having a crush on you. Not seeing all the signs that pointed to you liking her back. Well, not until you two are in a sparring session and she pins you to the ground after some heavy flirting and goes for the kill. Only to find out you two are in fact, both into each other. Or!!!! In which Anita is oblivious of your adoration of her and once she finds out she fucks your brains out and calls you cute pet names like Princess and Baby Girl.

Reblogs > Likes. DNI if you are a minor or an ageless blog or you will be blocked.

Fandom: Apex Legends

Relationship: Bangalore/Fem! Reader

Warnings: R18+/NSFT, Reader is a cis gal, lots of pet names like Princess/Baby Girl/etc!, brief mention of hand around throat, big monster themed strap, breeding kink, Reader is a brat

Words: 6.1k

_________

Call Anita cliché, but she’d never met a girl like you.

She’d always thought herself to be the ‘not-so-romantic-’ type. Sure, she’d had relationships in the past, but that felt more like teenage exploration than it had been a real connection. Her 20’s had been too busy for her to even begin to think about having a relationship- IMC kept her real busy and made sure all her time had been eaten up. Well. Except for a fling here and there. And by the time she got to where she was now, she had the Apex games to participate in and friends around her.

So why worry about romance now, right?

When you showed up to compete, you didn’t seem like anything real special. Cute, sure, had your own sass about you but so did a lot of competitors climbing their way up the ranks to be known as Legend. You didn’t seem as arrogant or cocky as most competitors did, you seemed focused and determined, so you had that going for you. A plus in her book.

You had wound up clawing your way to the top through the same blood and gunfire as the rest of them did. You’d even gotten your fair share of hits on her. In fact, you’d managed to even take a few of the legends out- including her.

Anita was embarrassed to admit she hadn’t been exactly angry when you’d done it either. Your pleasant weight atop her, a small smirk on your face when you’d practically crooned out, “Nothing personal, Sarge. But, won’t lie and say this doesn’t feel great.” Before you’d taken her out with a knife removed from your thigh’s hilt.

That’s when you really caught her attention.

~Rest Under The Cut~

You were a new legend now, landing out on top of all the other competitors as champion. You’d proven your worth, and the Syndicate made damn well sure you got a great deal to make you stay. Seeing you out on the battlefield all geared up had been one thing, but to see you walking around the compound in casual lounge wear and doing things even like reading a book? That’s when Anita had realized there was something a little more about the way she looked at you.

Infatuation, she’d told herself, you were just hot. That should have been it. Not like she hadn’t thought that way about Ajay, Bloodhound, Wraith, hell even Witt had been smoking, what was the difference with you?

However, those feelings amplified as you two got closer.

It all seemed to click when one night you had been the one to offer a movie night for all the legends. When Anita laughed and said sleepovers weren’t her thing, you’d quirked a brow and asked if she was chicken. Cock fights and being baited into something like movies all because you’d poked at her and called her a coward- she should have known better. And yet she’d puffed out her chest and told you ‘In your dreams’ and showed up anyway.

The gall you had at making a swirl motion around your pinkie at her and mouthing ’Littlest finger’ and blowing a kiss her way SHOULD have made Anita red hot with anger. But instead, she’d been red hot with the feeling of begin flustered curling down her spine.

And the urge to wipe that damned cocky look off your face. Preferably with her mouth.

Freckled cheeks flushed and a huff exhaling from Anita‘s lips as she had turned her gaze away from you all snuggled up against Natalie’s side and trying to convince herself that it wasn’t because she was jealous. You just…looked nice and warm was all.

And maybe you looked extra cute when you laughed and threw your head back at a certain scene on the movie. And maybe Anita at some point didn’t totally wind up sitting behind you just so when you leaned back, you’d lean back all the way into her lap just to try and irritate her with your bratty attitude. And maybe, just maybe, Anita had pretended to look irritated just so you’d stay leaned back into her lap.

She didn’t exactly mean to fall for you, but not like it was hard. It felt like you were a ray of sunshine in her dark little corner at times. Even when Anita would be having a bad day and feeling a bit too touchy when it came to loud noises, it’s as if you just understood her, resting a hand on her arm and offering her solace in any way you could.  

Like one day Anita had been rather snappy, it was edging the anniversary of when her brother had…had been taken from her. Everything felt a little too much, memories waging wars in her head and she might have snapped at Makoa for something simple. She, of course, later would apologize to him for it, but in the moment, she’d been such a quick trigger. You had been the one to ask her to follow you until you guys found the nearest empty room being the gym. You’d sat her down on the floor, sat in front of her on your knees and held her shoulders firmly.

At first, she’d been irritated, rubbing her face and about to push you off. But, you’d spoken so softly to her. “Hey, hey, something else is bothering you and I’m not going to ask what, so don’t feel like you have to preach to anyone, okay? Let’s just sit here in the quiet until you can cool off. I’ll be right with you.”

Anita had looked at you like that was silly at first, but then when she caught your gaze your eyes had so much understanding written in them. She swears she teared up, but you didn’t even flinch. Not even when her arms had snug around your waist and dragged you forward into a tense hug that you had quickly returned, rubbing her back soothingly as she buried her face into your shoulder.

You were a good friend—hell, a great friend. She really isn’t sure what she did to deserve you, especially when on days she’d poke and downright be an asshole to you. It’s as if you knew without her ever needing to state the Why’s or the How’s. Not like she was taking all your kindness without giving, she’d found you were quite fond of physical touches like hugging when you were overwhelmed at things too. Now, Anita hadn’t been exactly the ‘hugging kind’, until once again, she met you.  

Although, it was a bonus for Anita to see you and for you to light up with a smile as you ran for her at full blast to wrap your arms around her waist and leave the scent of your perfume all over her. Especially if she’d lift and spin you just to make you shout with joy in that little way that always had her heart racing.

Man, Anita really had it bad, huh?

Recently, you two had been able to spend more time together. Not that Anita was even close to complaining about that. You had asked her if she’d be willing to train you on more hand-to-hand combat, explaining you hadn’t really had any that didn’t involve a weapon of sorts. You were great with a knife in close combat, but when it came to disarming someone or getting the upper hand with just fists, you weren’t trained in it.

So, that’s where this all started. Getting you in the sparring area of the gym, a flat ground surface with mirrors on the wall on one area to show your stance if you needed to practice. There, she taught you basics first of disarming someone, of how to knock someone off their feet and throw off their aim. You caught on quickly, tossing her over your shoulder and down onto the soft mats below when you’d yanked her arm back behind her and declared victory.

Anita can’t say she hated being under you, not when you were beaming so bright and proud of yourself.

But when your little bratty nature had come out? With a croon to your tone as you ruffled her curls. ”Maybe I’ll get even better than you in the ring, huh?” Then she no longer thought about being under you.

Anytime that little bratty attitude got the better of you, she thought of wiping that smug look off your face. Not with a hit, no, but by grabbing you by your throat and slamming your back to her chest. Making you watch your face in the mirror as her hand snuck down your pants to rub your clit until you shook and trembled while you had to watch your own pretty little face contort. Often times she got stuck day dreaming about that, throwing her off and making it easier for you to catch her off guard and tease her for it.

If only you knew how wrapped around your finger she truly was.

All your training leads to today, a more hands-on session without her actually teaching you anything. But rather, all your training coming into a sparring session. You look so cute in your workout clothing choice, if a little distracting. A black sports bra and a pair of tight matching yoga pants with your symbol on the thigh, your hair pushed out of the way and pulled back. The expanse of your neck was even more distracting, especially with more of your skin exposed.

Anita wondered if you would like to be marked up. If you would shy away from the pain or if you’d preen at it. Often enough times, hell, even just in this past week it’s all Anita could think about. Whenever she was alone, a hand down her pants and eyes shut as she imagined you beneath her. Taking her cock as your fingers twisted into the sheets and you preened and begged rather than that smart little mouth you always got. Saying her name again and again and again-

“Anita? Heellllooooo, paging Dr. Anita, do you copy?” Your teasing voice draws her out of her thoughts where she’s sat on the floor mid-stretch still. You’re bent over down towards her, waving a hand in front of her spaced out eyes until she blinks a few times and looks up at you.

“Yeah. Yeah, I copy. You already done, Nurse Brat?” She quickly switches the topic, matching your tone, switching legs to stretch and peeking up to see you beaming at her. It makes her heart clench, forcing Anita to look away and pretend to roll her eyes up at you instead when you happily nod.

Her own choice in outfit was camo tight yoga capris and her own sports bra, keeping her own movements free. She’s still riding the high of when you first saw her today, lowly whistling and looking clearly at her ass and complimenting it. Anita would have to try to wear tighter pants without making it too obvious she was trying to get you to look later.

After stretching, she tells you to take your position. Reminding you this was sparring to put everything you learned into motion, and that if you tripped up, don’t sweat it as this was just a practice run. Though, a smirk does rest on her full lips as she teases you. “Not that I’ll be going easy on you, princess.”

“Be as rough as you want, sweetheart. I can take it.” You croon back, fluttering your lashes all the while and making heat course through Anita at the way you say it. It sounded like you were implying more- but, no, that’s just probably her hope.

Right?

You throw the first punch and from there it’s like a dance between you two. Anita makes sure to dodge mostly, making sure you’re keeping your footwork correct and complimenting you the entire time on your frame. ‘Beautiful’, ‘There you go, baby girl, keep it up’, ‘Hey, almost got me there’.

Each time a pet name spills from her lips, your cheeks seem to get redder but not from exertion, and your movements just a touch sloppier. Anita might be paying too much attention to the way sweat curls down between your breasts, or how your lips pout a bit when you miss her but she manages to push you away and back, reminding you to keep your focus despite her own getting a bit foggy.

Wasn’t your fault you looked damn good like that, all pent up and sweaty. A healthy flush across your cheeks as you bounce on the balls of your feet and ready for her next pounce, a furrow of your brow in determination. Your lips part to take a breath and Anita’s eyes fall to them without thinking, and in a blur, you’re rushing at her to try and take her down with a low sweep.

She counters you, grabbing you by your waist to move with your momentum, spinning you until she can slam you down onto the ground beneath you both. You hit the ground on your back with a huff of air leaving your lips, a little out of it with a low groan of frustration leaving you.

There’s nothing but tension between the two of you. Anita’s heart pounds as she looks down at you and your cute little pout when you realize you’ve been defeated, parting your lips to maybe complain about your defeat. But you’re cut off when soft, full lips cover your own. Anita’s warm body fits on top of you, fitting a strong thigh between yours and her calloused hand cupping your cheek so adoringly. She considers pulling your hair, forcing your head back, but she parts after a moment so you two can pant and catch your breath together.

Your breath mingles with hers, only an inch apart and her being able to see your eyes half lidded and looking back from her eyes to her lips. It gives her the confidence in not wondering if what she felt between you two was just her imagination, but that doesn’t stop her from giving you a nervous, crooked grin and showing off one of her dimples. “Sorry ‘bout that. If I read anything wrong–”

“Jesus, no, I’ve been wondering when you’d finally do something.” You breathe back in an exasperated and whining tone. “Was practically popping my tits out the deciding factor for you?”  

“No. Been thinking about you for a while. But…your tits are always appreciated.” She teases right back, leaning down to ghost her lips over yours without touching, just to hear you whimper in frustration. Your fingers sink into her curls, trying to urge her down, but she quickly avoids your mouth to kiss your cheek and moving down your jawline to your neck. It’s a blessing at all to feel you press up against her thigh, dizzying her off your heat felt through both of your thin pants.

“You okay with this?” Anita sighs out against your neck, kissing up to your ear and smiling when you shiver when her teeth nip your lobe.  

“Thought I made myself clear earlier when I told you I can take it, Sarge.” You’re using that bratty tone again, raising your hips against her thigh where she can feel you lightly grinding. A soft sigh leaves your lips near her ear, and from there Anita isn’t sure she can keep herself cool headed.  

Her thoughts amplify, thinking about just whisking you away and fucking you raw and rough until you get rid of that little brat attitude you always carried. Maybe in the showers where anyone could walk in and see you- could hear you crying her name.

Instead, her fingers grip your hips, yanking you closer to her thigh and forcing you to move against her as her lips finds your neck. Her tongue moves along your pulse, delighting in how your breath hitches and your fingers tighten in her hair. “Little girl, there’s a lot of rules I have for you if you want to even think about ‘taking it’.”

From there, she sits back, dragging you into her lap. Your hands fall to her broad shoulders, squeezing as her hand on your hip squeeze fondly in return. Her other hand slides into your hair, yanking your head back and forcing your neck to be bared and making you hiss as she continues. “You know what a color system is? Red, yellow, green?” You nod as best as you can, and she hums approvingly. ”How would you feel if I told you I want to take you back to my quarters and fuck the brat right outta that pretty little mouth of yours?”

“Green.” You practically whine out.

“Aw, what’s the matter? Baby girl ain’t got such a bad attitude when she’s promised some dick?” Anita teases you, tugging your hair to emphasize her point on how good you’re being when your head follows the motion without resistance. When you huff in reply, rolling your hips into her lap without a peep of a response out of you besides a low whine, she’ll take that as a yes.

Your hair is released, your cheek instead cupped and her thumb sliding over your cheekbone as she turns your gaze to her. Anita wants to kiss you again, badly, but refrains as she strokes your hair back behind your ear. “I…I don’t want this to be a one-time thing either. Like I said earlier, been thinking about you for a while. So if you’re just lookin’ for a fuck buddy or–”

“Anita,” You cut her off, her name falling off your lips always making her flash a smile, this time a little sheepish at your tone. ”I literally asked you out on a date last month.”

“To that cafe? I thought that was as friends?”

“I literally held your hand and said you looked beautiful.”

“I…you weren’t just being friendly?”  

The look you give her of exasperation makes it all click into place. Any time you had flirted, any time you had brushed your fingers on her lower back, any time you had asked her to lean down so you could fix her hair, any time you had flashed her a smile and told her she looked great in her uniform-

“For such a smart woman, you’re so goddamned dense sometimes.” You laugh out when you watch it all click to place in her eyes. Anita’s cheeks flush red, huffing at you and hitching her arms around you as she begins to stand. You make a sound of delight as she lifts you up into her arms, your legs around her waist and her arms resting under your ass for support.

“Better late than never though, right?” Anita smiles up at you, feeling more and more at home with you in her arms and you beaming down at her in turn with your arms over her shoulders. You look like heaven, she thinks, the lights above you creating a halo around you and the sweat glowing on your skin. A devil disguised as an angel.

The walk back to her quarters is met with no traffic along the way. Able to hold you up with one of her arms to punch in her room code before getting you inside. There’s only a moment at the door where she’s kicking off her shoes whilst balancing you before she’s bringing you to the bedroom.

Her room is simple, minimal and clean. Just like she liked it. Her bed tucked against the wall opposite of the window leading outside, a dresser on the opposite side of the room away from her bed with a few pictures set up of her family atop and few knickknacks of her own- including a childhood bear. It sat with clear choppy repairs and a replaced eye near a picture of her and her brother Jackson in a candid image of them being caught mid arm wrestle and beaming at each other in their uniforms.

“Oooh, is that the infamous Tango I’ve heard so much about?” You croon at the bear before you’re set down on the bed. Anita follows your eyes over to her stuffed toy, rolling her eyes back down at you when you wiggle your fingers at him to say hello. “Should we go turn him around?”

You grin is quickly turned into a muffled laugh when her lips cover yours, swallowing down your laughter as Anita fits between your thighs. You manage to kick off your shoes to the floor, winding your legs around her waist as her hand squeezes your thigh and her other resting on your cheek to guide you through the kiss. When you smile against her mouth cheekily, Anita quickly nips your lower lip, moving her hand from your cheek to your hair to grip it and tip your head back.

Your gasp gives her easy access to lick into your mouth and hear your breath hitch through your nose. Your moan only urges her to grip your hair tighter, making you strain your head back and forcing you to part from the kiss and release the prettiest whine. Anita smiles against your flesh, kissing down your neck where she sucks over your jawline, sinking her teeth lightly there to leave a bruise and relishing in the mindless way your hips lift to hump against her almost frantically.

“Atta girl,” Anita murmurs against your neck, sucking another bruise there. She shudders when your nails slide down her back, gasping lightly when you reach down to grab her ass like the cheeky brat you are. You pull her closer to you, holding her still as your hips move a bit more obviously to try and grind against her with this sly little smile on your face edging through your pleasured sighs.

“Ever thought about being a toy, baby?” You tease her, using that little bratty tone you do when you want something. She knows she shouldn’t be baited into it, that you’re being a brat for a reason, that you want her to grab you by your hair and throw you around. But you really hone that feeling in when you roll your hips pointedly against her, letting her feel how you’re slick enough to be felt through your thin yoga pants. “Maybe you’re the one who needs to learn how to take it–”

Anita knows she’s fallen into it when she grabs your throat and you smile like it’s the best thing she’s ever done to you and fuck if she isn’t smitten with how elated you look at the action. Your smile falls into a pretty open-mouthed expression when she lightly squeezes, a hiss falling from her lips to threaten you. “Watch your mouth before you speak, princess, I don’t play well with brats.”

“And if I don’t want to watch my mouth?” You breathe out when she eases on your throat, making her quirk a brow down at you when you flash your pretty princess smile and flutter your lashes as if you didn’t say or do a damned thing. Wrapped around your goddamn little finger.

“I have other ways of shutting you up. Hold still. Don’t even think about moving.”

And you do, lying oh so prettily on her bed after crooning out a ‘Yes, ma’am’ just to get a further rise out of her. Anita moves off the bed, pulling off her sports bra, watching your eyes greedily fall to her freckled chest and making her confidence rise when you let out the softest, yearning sigh.

Her pants go next, her boyshorts sliding down over her hips and flicked in your face like a rubber band. A laugh falls from her lips when you squeak, jumping and tearing them off ur face with a clear shout on your tongue before you seem to lose whatever steam you had when your eyes fall down to between her legs. She knew she looked good. Soft curls resting there, trimmed with her clit large enough to peek from her lower lips, the curls following the happy trail leading up to her navel. Scars lingered on her body from the past, bullet wounds and knives or impact areas.  

“Like what you see, Princess?” Anita teases, a crooked smirk on her face when you nod your head eagerly. “Good. You’ll be getting up close and personal here in a sec. Lie back down for me, will ya? Or do I have to force you to behave again?”

Anita’s pleased when she doesn’t have to. In fact, you gleefully lie back down, doing a mock salute her way. It’s cute- and a bit flattering actually- to have you eagerly grab at her when she comes closer. Your hands slide over her thighs, making this soft, needy sound in your throat once her thighs frame your face. You look just as hungry as you sound when she looks down, resting a hand in your hair and seeing you bite your bottom lip as you look directly at her wet cunt.

Your arms hook around her thighs, clearly tugging to try and get Anita to lower down, but she holds steady above you. Her fingers card through your hair, soaking in how your eyes look up to her face with a pleading expression that has her weak. But she won’t cave, not yet. “C’mon, you’re so good at talkin’ a big game, and now you’ve forgotten basic manners?”  

“Anita-” You try to whine out, trying to pull on her thighs again with your brows knitting together and your face flushed at her implication. “Thought you wanted to shut me up?”

“Can’t blame a girl for wanting to be wanted, hm?”

You pout up at her, a full lip out pout that makes her want nothing more than to ruin you until you’re raw and aching. Anita gently tucks some of your hair behind your ear, briefly stroking along your cheek with her fingers, and that seems to do it. Just a little bit of softness having you whining out for her so prettily. “Pleeeease? Please, please, please, let me taste you? Anita- baby, I’ve been a good girl, please, please, please?”  

Anita could argue that if this was you being a ‘good girl’ then you two had a lot of training to do. But she’ll save that for another time, following your tugging until she can rest one hand on the wall behind the bed, the other in your hair and sharply inhaling when your tongue drags across her.

You don’t waste a moment for her, licking from her hole up to her clit where you press under it with your tongue in what she could only guess was to feel it jerk against your tongue. You moan like It’s the best thing in the world, dragging your wet lips across her sensitive flesh to wrap your lips around it and using your tongue in ways that make her thighs and hips tremble.  

Sighs and soft hitches leave Anita’s lips, so focused on watching you enjoying yourself to even think about speaking. But you part from her briefly, nosing at her thigh and looking up at her from under your lashes with the sweetest expression when you murmur just loud enough for her to hear, “Will you keep talking?”

Anita blinks a few times, her freckled cheeks flushing to her ears when you peek up at her almost shyly when you ask it. She makes a questioning sound, and you nose at her clit in turn to make her hips jerk and a brief gasp escaping her.

“I like to hear your voice,” You clarify, rolling your hips up behind her and against nothing in such a needy fashion that Anita nearly thinks about forgoing this whole ’lesson’ and just making you scream already. “Think you sound sexy.”

“I can do that.” She murmurs, gripping your hair again and guiding your mouth back with ease to her cunt where you get right back to doing whatever it is you’re doing with your tongue that feels so fucking good-

From there, she lets her mouth run. Not sure where it starts and where it ends. Crooning things to you like ’Gonna make sure everyone knows you’re mine by tomorrow’ ‘Might not let you get any sleep tonight’ ‘Baby girl might not even get to cum tonight’ that’s the one that makes you whine, gripping her thighs tighter and making Anita’s own breath shake.

Then a test of the waters when she croons out, “Maybe my little princess wants to get bred nice and proper by my cock–”  

Anita doesn’t even get to finish her sentence when you’re gripping her thighs tighter, moaning against her clit and seeming to work a little harder. Anita’s cut off by her own grunt, a low groan leaving her and a swear when your tongue keeps sliding across her sloppily. That does her in, cumming against your tongue with both her hands slamming into your hair and her head falling back. Her teeth draw into her bottom lip, humping along your eager tongue and catching when you pat her thigh so she can release you so you can catch your breath.

From there, it’s a blur of moving off you to rip off your clothes, much to your delight if your soft little whines are anything to go by. At some point she pauses in the middle of pulling off your pants to kiss you, a breathy giggle leaving your lips when she parts to kiss down your body and blowing a raspberry on your belly just to hear you laugh again.

There’s a double check you’re still okay before she’s moving off you to get everything prepped. A bottle of lubricant set on the bed near you and a harness disguised as some everyday briefs sliding onto her hips and her eyes looking at her collection of cocks. “How big do ya think you can take, doll?”

“I can take anything you throw at me.”

A quirk of her brow is seen as she looks back at you, but you seem perfectly content and honest in your answer. So she shrugs with one shoulder, trying not to grin as she grabs one of her bigger ones. ”Whatever you say.”

The cock in question is one her odder shaped ones. Marbled with black and gold colorations, with an almost tapered, rounded head that went into the same thickness and bulged with a bigger thickness as it edged the balls. It was thick enough to not be able to touch your fingers when they circled around it, but not too long to make up for its thickness. It was about seven inches total in usable length, definitely enough for you to feel it in total, but wouldn’t kill you. This time around at least.

Once it’s all in place, she moves back to you. Relishing in how you stare a bit too obviously at the cock and where there was a small tube running to her hip where a syringe was full of white, thick lubricant to act as cum. You’re not looking for too long, your head soon thrown back and to the side against her chest as she tucks up against you to lubricate her fingers and begin stretching you out.

You take it like a champ, turning your head into her shoulder as three fingers twist and curl into you. You cum against her fingers like this, humping against her palm and making noises she’d thought she’d only ever hear in her dreams. Your face gets peppered with kisses, even as your lips part and you whine and sob for her as she keeps finger fucking you open. Only when you beg and plead does she finally stop.

Soon the position is moved and she’s under you with your shaky thighs straddling her hips and your hands gripping her shoulders. The second you start lowering yourself down you let out a choked noise as her hands squeeze your hips, a predatory grin crossing her features when you make the prettiest face and hold still. “Aw, what’s the matter, baby? Too big for my girl?”

Your head bows forward in embarrassment, but she’ll hand it to you, you still keep going. Lowering yourself down, down, down until your pelvis is flush with hers and your nails digging into her shoulders. Anita strokes over your curves, down your hips and thighs and back up with soft, praising croons as your thighs quake. “That’s my girl. Good girl. You’re doin’ alright, baby, I gotcha. Just adjust, okay? Don’t worry about anything else.”

Once you’re able to adjust, her hands find yours and lace your fingers. Watching how beautifully you bounce on her cock, your hands squeezing hers and using her as leverage. The moans and whimpers leaving you make her tempted to roll you over, but she’s far too entranced with how your chest bounces, how pretty your face looks when your head falls back and you murmur her name. When her eyes fall down to your waist, she can watch your greedy little cunt take her cock again and again, making her mouth dry at the sight.

“Anita-” You whimper out her name in the prettiest tone, squeezing her hands with a quiver to your lips. Your hips are stuttering, looking a bit more frantic as you bounce on her cock and making Anita sigh at the sight. ”Anita, baby, please, I-I-”

Anita shushes you, releasing your hands to catch you in time and rolling you over quickly onto your back. Your legs wrap around her waist, her nails digging into your outer thigh and her lips catching yours to swallow your cries down as she pounds her hips into you. When you break the kiss, your nails are dragging down her back, your face burying into her shoulder to sink your teeth and making her grunt as you cum.

But Anita doesn’t stop there, only letting you catch your breath briefly as you lie back, an arm tossed over your forehead and heavy panting falling from you. Anita sits up, grabbing your hips and yanking you flush to her to fill you again with a jump to your hips and a cry. “Oh, baby, I’m not even close to done with you.” She promises, a dimpled grin on her face when you peek at her with such a helpless look.

From there you’re fucked again, starting off with slow, powerful thrusts to build you back up until you’re in that lost state again. Your eyes rolling back and fingers fisting the sheets as she fucks into you with precision. You’re yanked against her with each thrust, making your toes curl and those pretty sounds leaving your lips again that by this point are driving her crazy. She feels like a starving woman who finally got a meal again. She supposes that’s what yearning for so long did to her.

“What’s the matter, baby? Wanna be bred by my cock?” She croons out when you sob, tears pricking your eyes as they roll back. Anita thinks you’ve never looked more at home- let alone tamed in your life when you keep murmuring ‘please’ and ‘yes’ and her name as if you’ve forgotten every other word.

When you cum this time, she makes sure to press down on the syringe this time to fill you up just like what you keep pleading for. This happens two more times, fucking you in a new position and filling you up. The last one ending with you on all fours, your hair being pulled and your entire body trembling when you cum again.

You’re soon cleaned up, flopped on your side without an inch of feistiness or brattiness in your gaze. You look worn out when Anita returns to you after finishing cleaning herself up as well, returning to bed with herself in a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and offering for you to sit up so she can clothe you.

She makes sure to kiss everywhere she’d bitten or bruised as she pulls the large t-shirt over your head. Pulling the lounge pants up your hips and lying in bed with you, bringing your head to her chest and kissing your forehead adoringly. “You all good, princess?”

“Mmmmhhhmmmm.”

“Nothing hurt?”

“Nuh-uh.”  

“Ready to get some sleep then?” Anita laughs out softly, feeling you squeeze sleepily around her middle and nosing at her chest with another affirmative sound followed by your breath deepening. Damn, quick sleeper, huh?

Well. At least she knows a fun way to get you to stop acting like such a brat, Anita thinks with a smirk. But her thoughts shift when you squeeze her a little tighter, feeling you absentmindedly kiss at her and mumble something to yourself before settling again. Her heart pounds, looking down at you with such an adoring gaze and feeling on top of the world.

Damn. She really was wrapped around your finger.

#Bangalore x reader #Bangalore #Apex lemons #apex legends #nsft #lemon #commissions #princess writing

[bokunoheroanalysisforthefuture]

And the last chapter of the first volume! Though technically there’s after-chapter content that will be in a separate post from this, but for now, what matters is finishing up the quirk assessment and getting into the battle trial!

Honestly, it’s a good thing that I just shoved all the opening arcs from before the USJ together into one tag, because this chapter literally goes from the quirk assessment into the beginning of the battle trial stuff, and trying to separate them out would have been a mess and a half. Better to just have it all in the ‘opening arcs’ tag.

...weird title for something that only comes at the end of the chapter, but whatever, it’s not like we don’t see that happen later on in the series as well.

[No. 7 - Costume Change?]

And we immediately come back to where we left off, with All Might realizing what just happened and what Izuku did and even why! One of those little peeks that remind us that All Might is very smart! Also god, him with a small fanboy moment over how proud he is of his kid and how cool that workaround was, mmm this is the Dad Might content I signed up for. 

Izuku is still standing firm, even with his finger swollen and damaged, biting back the pain. Ochako is cheering about that record, Tenya notices Izuku’s finger is damaged and thinks back to the entrance exam, calling it a ‘strange quirk’, Aoyama says it’s stylishly done, and Katsuki is brain broke.

I’m sorry that’s just so fucking funny. He is such a goddamn gremlin, but he’s also completely shook. He thinks about how quirks never manifest past age four, but somehow Izuku has a quirk. 

He then recalls Izuku saying ‘he earned this’ and gets pissed, blasting forward to demand an explanation while Izuku freaks out-

Only for Katsuki to have his quirk cancelled by Aizawa and also get caught up in the capture scarf. 

Beauty. Grace. He’ll bite off your face. 

Katsuki notes the cloth is stiff, while Aizawa tells him that it’s a capture weapon made of carbon fibers and a special alloy wire, then tells Katsuki to stop using his quirk already. Which is interesting; can Aizawa sense when people are trying to use their quirks while under the effects of his? If so, is he sensing the aborted movement of whatever quirk factors exist, or ??? 

(All I’m saying is that that is some possible fuel for a Dad For One connection but for Aizawa instead of Izuku… you know, just in case.)

As we sort of saw from the last chapter, Aizawa’s quirk has the side effect of giving him dry eyes (he was putting eyedrops in his eyes after using his quirk on Izuku). Izuku thinks that sucks since his quirk is so awesome. Aizawa lets his quirk and scarf drop, telling the class to prepare for the next event.

Katsuki is standing where he was stopped, glaring at Izuku who is holding his hand while Ochako worries over him and his finger. He’s caught up in a flashback (which again, reminder that this is chapter 7 and we already have flashbacks), thinking about how up to then, Izuku was just another pebble in his path. We get a brief cut to a memory flashback (not a chapter flashback) to when Izuku and Katsuki were still friends, and Izuku was waiting for his quirk to come in still, and then repeats that Izuku was only supposed to be a pebble. Single track mind, much?

Discord:

Ah, that good Bakugou discourse. This is why you do this stuff in a server with friends.

Izuku narrates a short passage of time - over the rest of the events - while handling the pain of his injured finger. Aizawa tells them it’s time for the results, with Izuku thinking about how he’s going to get expelled because the only record worth mentioning was the throw, and how the endurance running failed hard because of the pain. Aizawa says he won’t explain the process behind the scoring process, just that they reflect performance.

And then he reveals he was lying about expelling someone. 

The trio’s faces. Aizawa’s manic smile. The trio’s faces. And Momo there like ‘what did you expect?’ God, I can’t help but giggle.

Izuku just fucking ascending to a new plane of existance here.

Aizawa turns to leave, saying they’re done there and that the documents about the curriculum and whatnot are back in the classroom. He then calls out Izuku, who is shaking in panic (probably about Aizawa changing his mind again - I wonder if teachers before UA pulled that sort of ‘syke’ on Izuku… yikes.)

Instead, he just gets handed a pass to the nurse’s office (not even filled out fully, incredible) and then turns and walks off.

The class is left to stare after Aizawa in bafflement, with Izuku’s narration noting that he’s safe for the moment, but still has too much he can’t do, and that he’s literally starting from the bottom - but here’s there to learn so he can get closer to his dream!

Class rankings:

And- ah, he walked past All Might, who calls him out as a liar. Aizawa either didn’t notice him watching or didn’t know it was All Might specifically who was watching, but either way calls it ‘wasting time’ - which makes sense when all the teachers know about his time limit that he’s spending there watching Izuku the kids do their trials.

All Might notes that April Fool’s was over a week ago, and that the ‘rational deception’ thing falls flat when he expelled an entire class of first years the previous year. Aizawa discards those with zero potential, but he went back on his word here, and then asks if he sensed Midoriya’s potential as well. While giving Aizawa finger guns. Have I mentioned this man is a complete dork yet?

Aizawa catches onto the ‘as well’ bit, and determines that All Might’s supporting the kid - which isn’t his usual style. He then starts walking off again, saying Midoriya doesn’t have no chance, but that’s all he’ll say on the matter. He then says that if the kid had no prospects, he’d cut him loose, since it’s crueler to let someone chase half-baked dreams. 

All Might determines quietly that it’s Aizawa’s way of being kind, but out loud states that they can agree to disagree. Meanwhile, in the background, Sero and Sato notice All Might, which probably leads to class 1a going after him and him fleeing for safety. 

We transition to when Izuku is heading home, with him exhausted because of his trip to Recovery Girl. Tenya checks in on him, and Izuku says he’s fine, with us seeing a temporary flashback to the nurse’s office. Izuku notes his finger’s better, but he’s exhausted all of a sudden (he doesn’t remember last time since he was unconscious). 

A couple of things:

Kamui Woods pez dispenser 

Oh, so if he doesn’t have stamina he’ll die! Good to know! :)

Anyways, Izuku thinks about how he can’t keep going on like this and has to figure out how to regulate his power fast. Tenya goes on to talk about how Aizawa had fooled them, making them think that was how it was, only for it to be a deception. (The irony that the mercy was actually unplanned all along gets to me.) Izuku is more relaxed around him now that he realizes Tenya isn’t scary, just super serious.

Ochako rushes over to catch up, asking if they’re heading for the station. Tenya calls her ‘Infinity Girl’ and Izuku repeats it mentally in surprise. Ochako introduces herself, and then brings up their names - though she mistakes Izuku’s name for ‘Deku’, because of what Katsuki said during the test. Izuku corrects her with awkward hand gestures, saying his real name and that the ‘Deku’ is just Katsuki being a bully. 

Tenya and Ochako both acknowledge this, with Ochako apologizing, and then mentioning how ‘Deku’ sounds like ‘do your best’, and that she likes it. Izuku goes beet fucking red and immediately replies that Deku is fine, with Tenya chastising him for not showing backbone while Izuku calls it like the Copernican Revolution and Ochako questions who Copernicus is. 

The narration takes over, noting that even if there’s a lot he can’t do, he’ll do his best, but having All Might and even some friends behind him… it’s more than he could have asked for. 

Good children. Best friends. God, these were the good days… more OG Dekucrew content please and thanks.

We get one panel of Toshinori that Izuku’s got no time to rest, and that tomorrow the real test begins. Then we’re onto the next day, aka the first day of actual classes - and oh, right, UA has clubs, that’s something that’s easy to forget when we never see it with the hero classes. I mean, considering that the actual hero training classes probably overlap the usual club hours, not surprising, but still.

Present Mic is shown to be the English teacher, trying to get the kids in the spirit of class, but pretty much everyone is finding it boring - asides from Izuku, who is actually trying to answer the question mentally, even if not out loud. The narration notes that the mornings are for normal classes, and that lunch is top-notch food for dirt cheap in the cafeteria (as cooked by Lunch Rush), and then hero training is in the afternoon… possibly after lunch? Which isn’t great when people could end up throwing up. Ah well.

These fucking dorks. Two peas in a quirkless-to-superpowered pea pod.

And of course, more meta from the class on how All Might’s drawn differently.

Anyways, All Might gets into Hero Basic Training, how it’ll mold them into heroes, and that there’s no time to waste as he shows off a card reading ‘battle’ before stating that they have battle training. 

Have I mentioned he’s a dork? There’s more ham here than in Shatner’s performances in the original Star Trek series!

Katsuki is thrilled with battle training, of course. All Might notes that for battle training, the class will need - as the wall clicks and opens several drawers with numbered cases, each with contents in accordance with the quirk registry and the special request forms fill out before admission - costumes! Which the class is super hyped about. Izuku is holding his backpack in excitement, and All Might orders the students to come out to Ground Beta in ranking order once they’re changed, to which the class agrees. 

As he takes his leave, he notes that looking good is important, and to look alive, because from today on, they’re all heroes! We also get some nice transition moments showing pieces of people’s costumes, with Izuku being the last one out as the rest show theirs off.

So cool! And what a way to end a chapter and a book! And a nice nod to the prototype costume for Izuku. Time to say goodbye to it before the end of this arc. 

Next time, I’ll try to get through all the bonus stuff for the end of the volume, and then we can get into the battle trial proper! Looking forward to that.

#chapter 7 #opening arcs #readthrough #boku no hero academia #my hero academia #midoriya izuku #uraraka ochako #iida tenya #bakugou katsuki #aizawa shouta #yagi toshinori #recovery girl #toshinori taking pride in how smart his kid is always gets to me man #he's like 'izuku figured out a way to use his power while minimizing the damage!' #'so cool!' #and i think that's very Neat of him #can't believe we're throught just one volume #and with so many more to go #alas I never expected this to be a short or easy project #still a fun one though! #hope y'all have been having fun so far with me!

[hypnoticwinter]

Down the Rabbit Hole part 30

“God damn it,” I grunt, tugging again at the padlock. Although the paint on the door is flaking and the hinges are rusty the padlock is shiny and brand new.

“This was the big plan, huh?” Fumi says, and I cast him a venomous look.

“I don’t see you helping,” I point out. He uncrosses his arms briefly to scratch at his chin and then crosses them again, leaning against the chain-link enclosure around the shed.

“What’s in there, anyway?” he asks. “It’s a breathing hole, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I nod. “Peter told me about it. It’s what he was using to – “ I cut myself off, thinking back to Elena’s reaction when I’d told her Makado and Peter had been smuggling people inside the Pit.

“Using it to what?”

“Nothing,” I tell him. “It doesn’t matter. Goddam it!” I yell, slamming my fist into the door. I can feel a cold touch of panic start to creep up my throat and I swallow hard, trying to will it back down. “It’s okay,” I say, thinking out loud. “There has to be another way in, there just has to. Fumi, do you know any - ?” I stop. He’s grinning at me, like a cat that caught a canary. “What?”

He points. “You notice anything about that door?”

“What - ?” I turn, look it over once more. “What are you talking about?”

Fumi steps past me, shoves the flat of his utility knife into the exposed hinge and levers it upwards with a quick motion, and then hands me the pin. I stare at it and then back at the door. “You have to be kidding,” I say, grabbing my own knife. Fumi is working on the second one down, laughing quietly to himself.

I smack him lightly on the shoulder and then step beneath him, get down on my knees to fiddle with the bottom hinge. “How long ago did you notice the hinges were on the outside?” I ask.

“As soon as you couldn’t get the padlock open.”

“You bitch,” I laugh. “So you were just sitting there watching me tug on it for five minutes?”

“I wanted to see if you’d figure it out,” he grins. “You have that side?”

I nod and then together we slide the metal door off of its hinges and lay it against the fence behind. The shed is little more than a sheet-metal cage surrounding the orifice, obliquely angled and wetly suppurating, about eight feet high and four feet wide. I grimace. “This is going to suck,” I say. Fumi nods.

“That’s an understatement,” he tells me. “Do you have any idea where this lets out?”

I shake my head. “Peter only told me it lead to somewhere in Bronchial. I don’t know much more than that.” I let out a groan. “Just like I don’t have much of an idea where Elena might be.”

Fumi pats my back lightly. It’s supposed to be a reassuring gesture I guess but it doesn’t make me feel much better. “We’ll find her,” he tells me.

The radio at his belt crackles and belches out a string of static. It makes me jump. There’s a great leaden weight in my stomach and again even though I hate how weak it makes me feel, my hands are trembling. From fear, from anticipation, from…from dread. Dread that I might be too late.

Fumi nudges me. “You ready?” he asks. I nod quickly, swallow hard, and then Fumi is pressing aside the musty flesh of the Pit’s breathing-hole and I, choking down the rising bile, follow him inwards into the twisting folds and venous cavities of the Pit’s lungs.

 * * *

 “How’d you get out?” I ask him. Fumi grunts, his helmeted head inclining back towards me briefly. I push another alveolar fold out of the way, ducking my head to get beneath the dripping, swinging flap of flesh. The bronchial tissue crinkles beneath my gloved fingers and, not for the first time, a frown of disgust furrows my brow.

I hear a slow breath in my helmeted ears. Fumi had showed me how to link the radios up so we wouldn’t have to yell at each other to be heard over the Pit’s gusting, noxious breaths, but one of the downsides is that it’s a hot mic – you can’t turn it off or you have to redo it each time. Fumi had already gotten into a habit of chuckling at me whenever I let out an unwilling little grunt of disgust every time I stepped in a particularly gloppy bronchial puddle and it made me want to smack him, but so far I was managing to keep my temper in check.

Part of me wants to rush, wants to blast through the tangled and twisting passages of Bronchial like a heat-seeking missile and rip and tear my way down to wherever the hell Elena is and carry her out of here come hell or high water, but a cooler, more rational part of me also knows that this isn’t something that can be rushed, not without us getting hurt as well. If I was moving any more quickly there’ve been at least a dozen places we’ve passed so far where I know I would have fallen, maybe twisted an ankle or – god – hurt my poor broken leg even further. Whatever magic the autodoc was capable of, I don’t think it figured I would be putting in this much use so quickly, and even though I try to treat it gently there is a dull, foreboding bone-deep ache settled heavily into the middle of the bone that makes me worried, makes me wonder how much time I have before I hurt it really seriously.

“I was hoping you’d forgotten about that,” Fumi tells me, and I blink.

“What –“ I start, but he’s already sighed and moved onwards. I rush up to follow him, find him pondering a narrow y-passage.

“I think it’s this way,” he says, pointing to the leftmost one, and before I can ask him if he’s sure or if we’d better check both just in case, he pushes ahead into it leaving me to follow, shaking my head. “I’m not proud of running,” he says. “Back when those two psychos shot the Sergeant. I was almost hoping you’d forgotten that I had.”

I hadn’t forgotten but I also hadn’t really cared. I was almost glad that Fumi had gotten away when he had. Erica and Marcus – I’m not sure whether or not they had even noticed him. “I don’t want you to feel guilty,” I tell him, “because you shouldn’t. They would have shot you just like they shot the Sergeant or Elena.”

“They shot Elena?” he asks, incredulous, and I nod, briefly recounting what happened. He lets out a muffled curse and shakes his head. “Roan, kid…you know there’s a decent chance she’s already dead, right? Even if the bullet missed anything too vital it’s not a good environment down here to have a hole in you. There are some seriously nasty bacteria and -”

“Yeah,” I snap. “I’m aware of that. And don’t call me kid.”

A frosty silence settles over us

“Sorry,” he says after a moment.

“It’s okay,” I breathe, although I’m saying mostly to try and convince myself. “I just – she can’t be dead, okay? She just can’t be.”

The Pit moans again and as before the flesh around us contracts rhythmically. Fumi and I both stop, forced to wait it out.

“I’m not trying to judge,” Fumi says, “but you’ve only known her for what, a week? Tops? Is the tail really that good?”

“Oh, fuck off,” I tell him, not even bothering to hide the serration in my voice. “You know, I heard what you said on the radio that day. Back before the briefing.”

“Refresh my memory.”

“You called Elena on the radio, asking where the new girl from Admin with the tight little ass was, you couldn’t find her to tell her to get to the briefing. I think you mentioned something about how you wouldn’t mind getting her alone and –“

So I embellished a little. He was squirming and I felt like being vindictive.

“I’m not proud I said that,” Fumi says, cutting me off, and there is a softness to his voice that makes me stop. The moan croaks out to a halt and with a shudder the flesh around us draws back and opens up. He turns and looks at me; the helmet pushes his cheeks together, makes him look like a dwarf, all ruddy cheeks and thick black beard. “If it’s any defense, I didn’t know you were listening. You were with Elena?”

“Yeah.”

“Even back then?”

“She was showing me the little graveyard,” I tell him. Unwillingly my lips quirk up into a smile. “I think I would have kissed her then if you hadn’t interrupted.”

Fumi laughs. “That’s rich,” he says. “You kiss people in a graveyard?”

I roll my eyes at him, push him forward. “Well, because of you I had to wait until the party. I don’t think either of us worked our nerve up again until then.”

“I knew she was into you,” Fumi mentions, starting off again. “That’s the reason I said that in the first place, cause I was trying to tease her. I just didn’t know you’d, you know, literally be right there.”

“You knew? What, did she tell you?”

“You couldn’t tell she was into you until the party?” he asks, equally quizzical, and I feel myself blush, let that one go unanswered.

We walk onwards in silence. Well, relative silence; Bronchial is a rhythmic forest of noise, a low dull rush of wind grinding at the back of my ears even through the helmet. I’d noticed back in the shed that they roof was made of something like chicken wire but even so it was bowed inward severely. I’d initially figured it to just be the weight of the wire itself pulling downwards but now I think it was the suction of the Pit breathing in.

Ten more steps. Fumi and I start to talk at the same time, and then I laugh and tell him to go while he tries to be gallant and tells me to go. I hope he doesn’t think I hate him.

“How did you get out?” I ask him, and he waves his hand.

“Right. The Cord isn’t the only way up, just the fastest. I circled back around, took a couple of elevators, and then high-tailed it all the way up. You can make it in about a day, if you hustle. I grabbed Makado as soon as I got up and told her what had happened and she locked everything down, sent me to the barracks for ‘rest.’ I think she was just worried I’d tell everybody what I’d seen. Then…I don’t know. I guess she went down herself, hot-rodded an IAV all the way down to the place you were. The fungal zone? We’re not supposed to go down there normally, it’s…ecologically unstable.”

“It was horrible,” I murmur, thinking of Peter. Thinking, unwillingly, of Klaus.

It was a familiar feeling, that rush of panic and then of calm, of everything clicking together and smoothing out, once I’d shot him. I had stood over him, the gun clutched loosely in my hand, still trained on him even though it was empty and the slide had locked back once I’d shot that last magic bullet, one in the chamber, Marcus’s parting gift to me from beyond the grave. I had stared at Klaus until he had lain still for quite a while and then I had knelt down next to him and grabbed the magazine from the floor, slotted it back into the pistol and released the slide, and then I went outside and had a good cry.

Fumi nudges me and I realize I’ve zoned out while he was asking me something. “Why do you like Elena? Really,” he repeats. “I’m curious.”

I give him a little grunt to indicate that I’m thinking about it. “She’s kind to me,” I say finally. “She knew I wouldn’t be able to cut it down there from the very start. She tried so hard to keep me out of the Pit and then once I was in she took care of me the whole way. She has a…a very strong sense of right and wrong. She doesn’t compromise for anything.”

I glance over at Fumi. The passage has widened enough at this point that we can walk side by side. He stays silent. He wants me to keep going, of course, but I don’t see any harm in it so I oblige him. “She was the first girl I had sex with,” I tell him, studying his reaction closely. He looks over at me, holds my gaze for a moment, and then looks away.

“Really?” he asks.

“Yeah. The night of the party.”

“First love,” he says. I laugh.

“A new experience, maybe,” I concede.

“Is it much different?”

“Hmm?”

“From being with a man. Is it different?”

I think about it. “Very,” I tell him. He nods.

“I mean,” he grins, “you’d think it would be, but I would never know…”

I elbow him lightly and then dodge the one he throws back at me. We walk on for a while further.

“You know,” Fumi starts, and then stops.

“What?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Oh, shut up,” I growl at him. “What is it?”

“No,” he says, pushing a fold of flesh out of the way. “It really is nothing, I was going to say something but I thought better of it.”

“Just tell me.”

He looks back at me for a moment, then shrugs. “I was going to say,” he says slowly, “that in all honesty Elena and I are not on the best of terms.”

“Oh?”

“A little while before you showed up, I had to turn her down. She didn’t take it very well. Made some…colorful comments about my heritage. Which are completely untrue, I might add.”

“Turn her do – oh,” I finish. I can feel my cheeks color beneath my helmet.

“You can see why I might have thought better of telling you something like that.”

“Well, it doesn’t bother me,” I say firmly. “That’s the past and whatever decisions she made were ones she made then, not now.”

“Do you really believe that?” he asks. “I mean, really – I’m just curious. I’m not trying to make you doubt yourself if that really is true.”

“Aren’t you angry at her?” I say, sidestepping the question. “I mean, if she came on to you and then acted like a bitch about it afterwards…”

“What I’m trying to say is, that was a particularly Elena thing to do.”

I think about that for a moment and then I find myself smiling. “Fumi…are you trying to tell me Elena is a slut?”

“That’s such a harsh word,” he says. “But…yes.”

“Are you afraid I’m going to get hurt? How big brother of you.”

“Please. I just think it’s something you ought to know about. Besides, if you’re as involved as you say you are with her, I’m sure she told you herself.”

That does make me stop. “She didn’t actually,” I say. Fumi raises an eyebrow. I can just barely see it beneath the glass pane of the helmet. “She told me that there was sex, occasionally. You know, between team members, but never any sort of emotional attachment. It would, I don’t know, disrupt the group dynamic or whatever.”

“Mm,” he grunts. “That’s maybe the idealized version of it, I guess. All I can tell you is that her and Slate were pretty hot and heavy for a while but they broke it off, I don’t know, maybe a month or two ago.”

I think about that, roll it around in my mouth. I don’t much like the taste. Slate had grown on me over the short time I’d known him but not that much. I think about him and Elena, about her flashing that dazzling smile at him, about him grinning that sly, knowing, fox’s grin at her, about his hands encircling her waist, cupping her lithe, muscular ass, and I feel a little spark of jealousy flare up in my stomach. Then I take a breath, deliberately, and let it out.

The night that Slate died Elena and I had held each other tightly in our tent and she had come close to crying but hadn’t. I’d told her it was okay and that if she needed to talk about it she could, but she had just shaken her head. There was grief in her eyes but it was low and cool and detached. We had held each other and I had traced my fingers up and down her naked body but we hadn’t made love. It had been too serious for that. I wanted her to know that I cared about her, that she had more meaning to me to me than just as a series of orifices. In the morning she had kissed me awake and had smiled so brightly that for a moment I’d thought the sun was rising, right there in the belly of the Pit, and it had all been okay.

“What are you smiling about?” Fumi asks, and I laugh. I almost trip on a tumorous, fleshy nodule growing out of the floor and he catches me, puts me back upright again.

“I was thinking about Elena,” I tell him, and he shakes his head, grin sprouting amid his forest of a beard.

“I could have told you literally anything about her and you’d still be head over heels for her, huh?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “The last relationship I was in wasn’t the best.” I shrug. “I only stayed in it for as long as I did because I – because I made some bad decisions and I figured that everything I touched turned to shit. Thor – my ex-boyfriend – he didn’t. So I clung to it way, way longer than I should have.”

“His name was Thor?”

“It was a nickname. His real name was Richard.”

Fumi nods. A little more silence passes, and then he nudges me.

“At least you have some self-awareness about it,” he says.

“Oh, I didn’t for a long time. But I’ve had a lot of time to do some soul-searching recently,” I say, formalizing masses of incoherent thoughts that have been bunching behind my eyes for at least the past two days, if not longer. “And I decided I wasn’t going to fuck this one up, if I could help it. I don’t care if she’s been wild, I don’t care if she’s a slut, she’s been kind to me. That’s what matters.”

Do I mean that? Is that what my soul thinks? Am I just trying to make myself feel better after discovering the Elena isn’t a saint? I think back to that first night that I kissed her, drunk and urgent on the steps of the barracks, the crickets playing symphony and the fireflies fluttering in a spangled backdrop. I think back to the way the hair on the back of my neck had stood up, to the tingling feeling in my stomach when her hand had knitted into my hair and held me closer to her.

The Pit’s lungs are interminable. Way after winding way, passage after passage. It’s only been about a half hour or so but it feels like ages. Fumi is of the opinion that we ought to head down to the Control Center and raid their armory, get some real firepower. Between the two of us we have two little .45-caliber pistols, that’s all, and even then we wouldn’t have them if Fumi hadn’t known where Crookshank had kept them stashed.

I’d accepted mine with hesitation but I knew it would have been the height of stupidity to go down here without being armed. My skin had crawled and I had felt a little like throwing up as I’d taken it from him, as the reliable weight of the pistol settled into my palm, and then I had slipped it into my holster and after a while I was able to forget that I was wearing it, that it was hanging off of my side ready to use.

But a .45 won’t do a lot to some of the things down here. That’s his argument, that he keeps repeating, while I, with mounting frustration, point out to him that the longer we wait, the more danger Elena almost certainly is in. I want to head straight down to the terminus of the Cord and look around for her. We bicker about it for a while until I, with some surprise, take a step around another alveolar fold and find my cleated boots clanking on metal grating. I let out a whoop and charge forward, pushing through another tight sphincter-like gap, and then I burst out into a long hallway, the same one Peter described to me – Jesus, just a few days ago. Or has it been a week already? I’m not sure. I don’t know what day it is, how long this misadventure has been perpetuated for. I turn back around and grin at Fumi, open my mouth to say something stupid, and then something bowls into me, sends me pitching forward. I catch myself but only just, and then something chitinous and hissing and many-legged is crawling over me and wave of white-hot revulsion floods into my stomach.

I reach back and batter at it but just from the angle I can’t do anything to it. It fixes its jaws to my shoulder, cutting through the suit like paper and I cry out in pain. I scrabble for my holster but succeed only in knocking the gun from it, sending it clattering across the metal floor. Fumi rushes forward, crying out my name, but the thing on top of me tugs hard at my shoulder and starts to drag me off. I manage to roll over onto my back and see something like an enormous louse, just inches away from my face, faceted eyes staring into mine. Its enormous mouthparts are coated in blood and my stomach flips as I realize it’s mine, leaking from my shoulder.

“Roan!” Fumi cries. He has his pistol out but he can’t get a bead on it, it’s too close to me.

“Help me!” I call out as the insect pulls me backwards another few feet. I’m too heavy for it to really manage, it’s not quite as much of a monster as an abyssal copepod is, but it feels as though it’s going to bite my arm off at the shoulder, and although I flail at it it just won’t let go –

I draw back and with all of my strength smash it in the face with one gloved fist, and to my shock it hisses and drops me. Immediately I roll out of the way, letting out a screech of pain when my shoulder makes contact with the ground and the jarring of it sends white-hot knives scurrying up my nerves, and then there is a thunderclap nearby and something thumps into the insect. The thunder roars two, three, four more times, and then Fumi is rushing to me and helping me up while my ears ring and the insect shudders quietly to itself as it dies, its head blown apart like a rotten pumpkin.

I sit there in silence as the ringing fades and Fumi washes the cut out with disinfectant, bandages my shoulder, applies an analgesic spray to it, patches me up. The cut apparently is deep but clean and didn’t, as far as he can tell from my range of motion, cause me any permanent damage. I sit there and shudder as the adrenaline gradually leaves my system, and then when he’s done he sighs heavily and sits down next to me.

“You doing okay?” he asks, me, and I nod slowly.

“What was that thing?”

“Just a lesser copepod.”

“Just?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Not an especially big one. Like the abyssal’s smaller, dumber, higher-depth counterpart. Minus the hands.”

I bury my head in my hands. There is a thick knot of worry in my stomach and I don’t know if I can untangle it alone. Fumi clearly doesn’t know what to do about me. “Roan, are you okay?” he keeps asking. He rests his hand gently on my shoulderblade and it makes me want to cry and laugh at the same time.

“How could she still be alive?” I say. It comes out almost like a sob. “If there’s shit like this up here where everything’s – where everything’s mostly harmless, how could she be alive? Something will have gotten her by now, something will have –“

“Roan.”

“Oh god,” I say. “She’s dead because of me, because I was stupid enough to think that she wouldn’t try and attack Erica, she’s dead because –“

“Snap out of it!” Fumi barks at me.

I give him a bleak look. “We should just go back.”

“Roan,” he says, “would Elena give up on you?”

I open my mouth, and then I shut it. Fumi raises his eyebrows at me.

And so with nothing left to say I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak, and then we get up and head off down the hallway, following the signs marked Control Center.

 * * *

 I check my pilfered wristwatch again and shift anxiously from foot to foot. Fumi’s been inside the control room for five minutes already. I can’t hear anything over all of the claxons blaring, here outside in the fat little corridor leading up to it, up two flights of stairs and behind another one of those horrible submarine doors. Worry’s gnawing at me, somewhere deep down in the pit of my stomach; what if they know Fumi and I are in cahoots? What if something’s wrong in there, what if he ran into Makado, or the FBI, or…

I bite my lip hard. Around me the Pit quakes again and rattles the little metal pod of the Control Center like someone shaking a tin of mints. I feel like an Altoid. It’s incredible how much less safe I feel inside here, with the high-tech stabilizing arms straining hard against the Pit’s gullet. I’d rather ride this out in Bronchial any day; Bronchial was comforting, even, because whenever the Pit moaned and grunted and flexed, all of the little flaps and craggy little polyps and bulbs and what the hell ever else all flopped over and covered us like a fullbody hug and just held us there, gently, almost, like the Pit was telling us that it would be okay.

I shake my head. “I have got to get out of here,” I mutter, and then I reach over and open the door and stride in and immediately find myself in the middle of a sea of chaos.

There are a couple more nerds here than before and they’re all up to their eyeballs in flashing lights and alarms, each of them on the phone or muttering into a headset or clustered around a fancy-looking holographic unit that displays a three-dimensional image of something that looks like a fat, squat beetroot that I assume is a model of the Pit. Fumi is talking to one of the nerds, rather urgently, his helmet unclasped and hanging at his side, his fingers hooked under the rear lip of it. He glances over when the door opens and sees me and his expression darkens. He’d told me to stay outside; I had given him a rundown of what Makado had done on the way up, through Bronchial and then into the main gullet of the Pit, and he’d said it would be safer if he went in alone and did the talking, after all, at least four of the nerds had seen me with Makado, they surely would have known what I was supposed to be going down for, but I had gotten so worried –

Nobody’s paying any attention to me. Scarcely anybody even bothered to look up when the door opened, and of those that did they met my tight, anxious face with blank stares and unfamiliar visages. I slip inside, duck behind a nerd rushing past with a stack of papers under his arm and slip over to Fumi. The man he was talking to has given him a shake of the head, with finality, and moved away into a back room that I know is a briefing or conference room. The last time I saw it it had takeout containers all over the place; I wonder if they’ve done any cleaning up since.

“Why’d you come in?” he hisses, leaning close to me so we can confer. I shrug.

“Got worried. Did you get the guns?”

“That fuck,” he says, jerking his head back at the conference room, “is in charge and he won’t unlock the armory for me. Wants Makado’s permission, which I’m obviously not liable to get, even if we could reach her.”

“Goddam it,” I mutter. “Look, why don’t we bust in there and just, I don’t know, take the keys?”

There’s another lurch from the Pit and I reach out, grab Fumi’s shoulder to steady myself. “What, you want to just mug the guy?” he asks.

“We are not coming all this way and not getting any of the hardware out of it,” I hiss. “Elena is dying –“

“Yes,” he barks, and then quiets himself. “Yes,” he says, “I’m aware of our time crunch. But if we do something like that, we’re going to get someone on our ass, and I’d rather worry about the wildlife instead of people. You’re already risking everything by coming in here –“

“Fuck this,” I mutter, and then I cast a wary glance around and slip into the conference room, dodging Fumi as I do.

Inside the conference room I find, amid a nest of takeout boxes, the tall, gaunt man Fumi was talking to, speaking in a hushed tone down the throat of a bright red telephone. He glances up as I shut the door behind myself and does a double-take. “Get out,” he tells me, pointing at the door. “You aren’t allowed in there, I already told your friend that I’d need – wait a minute,” he says. There’s a flutter of butterflies in my stomach while I wait for him to recognize me, and when I does I am momentarily shocked that he pales. He slams the phone down into its cradle and points a finger at me. “You had better stay right there,” he warns me. “I know exactly who you are. I’m going to call the surface right now and get them to send a team right down to get you back into custody. You’ve got some nerve –“

“Look,” I tell him. “Just give us the keys to the armory and we’ll be out of your hair. That’s all we want. We’re trying to help,” I say, and as if to punctuate my argument, the Pit groans again.

“Stay right there,” he repeats, and picks up the phone again. I whip the pistol out of my holster and train it on him.

There’s a sensation in my stomach like I’m falling, like I’ve just taken a leap off a cliff, the same lurch you get when you miss a step in the middle of the night and your brain didn’t think it was there, that same sensation of gutless horror like you’ll fall forever and stop suddenly. The man is staring at me; his eyes are very wide.

“Give me the keys,” I tell him. “I’m not going to ask again,” I say, thinking maybe it’ll sound threatening if by some chance my voice happens not to shake while I’m spitting my one-liners.

A part of my brain is screaming at me that I haven’t thought this through, what am I going to do with this guy once I’ve gotten the keys from him, what am I going to do if he calls my bluff, what am I going to do if –

The keys plonk down on the table and slide over to me. Before I can think I reach out and take them, ball them tightly in my fist. I give the man a look and open my mouth to say something but before I can there is another roar from outside and the ground pitches to the left and knocks us both off our feet. There are yells of surprise and horror from outside in the main room and a new alarm is blaring now, one with a much more urgent tone than any of the others. The gun’s clattered to the floor as well and both I and the gaunt man know it. It’s landed just between us, sprawled in a stack of upended file cabinets, just there on the floor. The red emergency lights gleam off its sleek metal lines and make it look like it’s been drenched in blood.

We dive for it at the same time, and he puts his hand in my face and shoves me away, but not before I can fit a hand around the barrel of the gun. I can’t think, my brain has been replaced with something animal, something screaming in terror, but I can feel my lips draw back in a snarl, and even as he arches his fingers inwards to claw at my eyes, the fist I made earlier snaps outwards like it has a mind of its own and slams with all of the might I can muster square into his face and I feel his nose give beneath my balled fingers, and he shrieks and claps his hands to his face. I grab the gun and train it on him again, a little unnecessarily, getting unsteadily to my feet as the control center, clearly at a very cockeyed angle, slips a few feet further down and nearly knocks me over again.

Fumi bursts in but because of the angle the door slams on his face right after he’s pushed it open. “Roan!” he cries. Through the open door I can hear complete pandemonium outside, but through the alarms and cries and panic I hear something that punches my heart straight up into my mouth, makes time slow down to a trickle, running through my agonized brain to give me more perceived seconds to dwell on the horror: I hear the sound of buckling, groaning metal, and then a loud snapping screech as it finally starts to give.

Continue with Part 31

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#mystery flesh pit #original writing #writing #writeblr #alt lit #spilled ink #thriller #mystery #horror #caving #disaster #romance #Michael Crichton

[gofordrakgo]

Friends

“ ‘Are you going to watch a movie?’ Shego glanced behind her to see Drakken standing in the doorway. It always threw her off to see him in clothing that differed from his usual lab coat. Seeing him now in black jeans and a light blue T-shirt made her blink. ‘I don’t know. I guess so,’ she lied. She wasn’t about to tell him that she’d only been looking through the movies because she’d been thinking about him.”

Shego never really spent much time thinking about Drakken. Sure, she wondered what fruitless plan to take over the world he would come up with next, and sure she cursed his name every time he got them caught, and sure she always worried about him a bit while they were in prison. But she never thought about him. 

She sat on the couch in the common area of the lair, staring at the medal he’d been given after the Lowardian invasion. It glinted in the sunlight, shining and iridescent above the fireplace. She hated it. That sounded harsh, but in a way that was the truth. She couldn’t possibly be more proud of Drakken, but she still hated what the medal represented. Not their overnight change from villains to heroes, though it surprised her she found she didn’t really care that much either way. No - rather, what upset her was that every time she looked at it she remembered once again that she almost lost him that night. 

They’d had more than their fair sure of rough patches in life. She’d spent hours patching him up, cleaning out cuts and icing bruises, and he had spent as much, if not more, time doing the same for her. It didn’t matter. None of it compared to the way she felt as she watched him disappear into the sky when she could do nothing more than uselessly reach a hand out towards him and listen to his screams. That moment damn near broke her. It hurt her enough to go looking for Kim freaking Possible for help. 

For the first time since she’d met him, she realized that she could lose him. He’d become a sort of permanent fixture in her mind. Something that she’d grown so used to that being without it would be bizarre. Leaving him for quick vacations was one thing. The idea of never getting him back was another thing entirely. 

Every time she looked at that damn medal it reminded her that anything could happen to him, that she could lose him at any time. And those thoughts spiraled into what she would do if something did happen - if he left, or died, or was injured so badly that he’d never be the same again. 

Hell, he’d mutated in front of her eyes and, although it freaked her out, she hadn’t been particularly frightened. Her only response - after they were sure he wasn’t going to drop dead where he stood - was to tease him for the petals that bloomed around his neck. What if mocking him, purposefully upsetting him, had been the last thing she’d ever done?

When he gave his acceptance speech, a very eloquently put ‘fuck you’ to those that didn’t believe in him, his vines wrapped around her waist, crushing her chest into his as he said that he never could have done any of it without her. 

Flustered by the shock of finding herself so suddenly close to him and embarrassed by the number of people who saw it happen, she considered blasting him as far away from her as possible. And then she just… didn’t. Maybe it had been the way he’d tentatively smiled at her, though she thought maybe she’d smiled first. Maybe it had been how warm he was or how well they fit together. 

In the week that passed since all of that happened, Shego, who never really thought about Drakken much, couldn’t get him out of her mind. 

She knew every single one of his flaws. 

His sweet tooth rivaled that of a toddler, and she often found candy wrappers lingering in the lab, or squished between the couch cushions. If he was upset she was bound to find him baking some sort of sweet-treat that he would gorge himself on if she didn’t stop him. 

He fidgeted constantly, whether that meant shifting in place or messing with things he shouldn’t. Once he blew up the TV she had just stolen because he wouldn’t quit fiddling with a malfunctioning ray gun, even after she told him to put it away. 

He scared easily, hiding under blankets when they watched horror movies and gluing himself to her side when the power went out and the only light in the lair came from her plasma powers. 

He tapped his fingers, he hated her music, he was quick to anger, and way too quick to forgive. He obsessed over ideas, even when he knew they would go nowhere. His sleep schedule was nearly nonexistent, he didn’t care about taking tropical vacations, he always cared too much about what she thought of him - except the times when he didn’t care about her at all. He probably wanted kids. He was obsessed with karaoke, all his favorite movies were meant for children, and…

Shego’s mind froze, mid-thought

What was Drakken’s favorite movie? She knew he loved that dumb snowman movie, because he made her watch it every Christmas, but thinking back on all of their past movie nights she couldn’t remember one that he’d actually chosen the movie for. 

He hated horror movies, she knew that, and yet nearly every movie she could recall watching with him was a horror movie. There’d been Bloodbath - a movie about a serial killer whose litany of victims were tortured and killed in brutal and unique ways, and Halley’s Comment - a more humorous horror film about a girl so distracted by her personal life that she was oblivious to the world being destroyed by a comet outside her window. It was funny, but the background horror had even had her on edge. Granted, she believed her anxieties surrounding comets were fairly justifiable, all things considered. 

There’d also been The Glistening, Juvenile’s Game, That, and Yell. All of them had been her choices, and he’d spent almost all of them clutching his knees to his chest and watching from between the gaps in his fingers. 

Shego rubbed her temples. She had to know what his favorite movie was. Why didn’t she know? She had to. They had a movie night at least once a week, if not more! How could she not know?

She leapt off the couch, and threw open the doors to the tv stand, scanning through their movie collection. She recognized a few musicals that belonged to him, some old cartoons, comedies, and a number of science-fiction and fantasy movies. He’d asked her to watch some of them with him: The Warlock of Zo, King of the Necklaces, Galaxy Fights… She couldn’t remember ever actually agreeing. Was his favorite The Tiger Ruler? Triassic Grounds? She should know the answer to this. 

“Are you going to watch a movie?” 

Shego glanced behind her to see Drakken standing in the doorway. It always threw her off to see him in clothing that differed from his usual lab coat. Seeing him now in black jeans and a light blue T-shirt made her blink. 

“I don’t know. I guess so,” she lied. She wasn’t about to tell him that she’d only been looking through the movies because she’d been thinking about him. 

He tucked his thumb into his pocket. “Can I join you? I’ll make popcorn.”

Why didn’t he bother to ask what movie she was going to watch? If he actually hated her choices shouldn’t he try avoiding movie nights? What was his deal? And - gah! - why couldn’t she stop thinking about him?

“Yeah, sure,” she agreed, then added, “Make two bags!” 

He returned a few minutes later carrying a giant bowl filled to the brim with popcorn, the buttery scent infiltrating the air. 

“What are you watching?” he asked, and she heard the bowl clink gently onto the table. A stray piece of popcorn bounced down next to her. 

He always made the snacks for the movies, she realized. She could heat up a bag of popcorn too, but he always did it anyway. And a lot of the time he didn’t just make popcorn, but rather he’d set up an entire array of snacks and candies as if they were actually at a movie theater. Once, memorably, he set up a chocolate fountain that he’d found abandoned in his mother’s attic. 

She rarely let him pick the movie, but he made the snacks anyway. Could she say she would do the same?

“Um... I don’t know,” she answered. “Why don’t you choose?” She pushed herself up and turned around to see him staring at her, obviously baffled by the unusual offer. 

“Really?” he asked after a pause that bordered on awkward. “Is this some sort of trick? You’ve replaced my movies with horror movies, haven’t you?” he accused, rushing past her towards the TV stand. 

He pulled a VHS out, seemingly at random, and opened it, sighing in relief when he saw she hadn’t messed with his movies. 

She snorted and gave his shoulder a gentle shove. “Wow, tell me what you really think of me, Doc.”

“Well, it’s not as if you’ve ever liked watching my movies, Shego. What was I meant to expect? That you suddenly wanted to watch something I’d actually enjoy instead of something gruesome and horrible?” The way he spoke didn’t seem at all cruel, or even particularly upset about her history of movie decisions. Instead, he spoke like he would be shrugging if only he weren’t busy hunching over to choose a movie. It still made her feel guilty somehow, which was not an emotion she was - or planned to become - accustomed to. 

“Just pick a movie,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. As she moved to sit on the couch, she could hear him whispering titles to himself. 

He finally made a choice and hesitated for a brief moment before popping it in the VCR without telling her what he’d chosen.

As she watched the actors dancing and heard bits and pieces of songs that were bound to play throughout the movie, she figured out that he’d put on Fancy-Free even before the title scrawled across the scene in bright purple letters. 

She suppressed a groan, knowing that she really had nothing to be annoyed about. She’d never actually seen it… Maybe he was right and she would like it. Although, a bunch of snot-nosed teenagers getting into trouble for liking music seemed ridiculous to her. 

“You said I could choose,” Drakken reminded her, a pleading note in his voice before she had the chance to say anything herself. 

She forced herself to shrug. “Do you see me changing it?”

He grinned at her and practically bounced into his usual seat next to her. She had a flash of desire that distracted her for the first ten minutes of the movie. Since when did she want Drakken to sit… closer? There was barely more than a few inches of space between them already. Since when did she want him to close that distance? 

She had to force her brain to shut off, so she could at least watch the movie, if not actually enjoy it. 

She discovered fairly quickly that Drakken had been right. She loved the movie. Snot-nosed teenagers or not, the movie was fun. By the end she found herself mouthing along as the titular song played the movie off.

“What?” she asked when she caught him staring at her an absent sort of smile on his face. It melted into a full-on smirk when she addressed him. 

“I’ve been trying to get you to watch this movie for three years,” he said. “You always said you wouldn’t like it.”

“Yeah. Well, I–” She almost told him she didn’t, because she knew that he’d roll his eyes but otherwise leave well enough alone. “Shut up,” she said instead, half a giggle escaping her before she managed to choke it down. “It was… fun, but I still don’t get why you love it so much.”

“I saw it when it first came out when I was in college,” he began, leaning back against the couch. Again, Shego wanted to move closer to him. “I didn’t really care about it at first, but it became my favorite movie after the first time I went to karaoke night. Fancy-Free was the first song I ever performed since all the other songs on the list had already been sung at least twice. I got a standing ovation, you know.” 

She liked seeing him talk about good memories. He so rarely did. Most of what she knew about his childhood were things that had gone wrong. The bully down the street that she never actually listened to stories about long enough to find out what he’d done, his father’s disappearance when he was nine that she never asked for details on, failed experiments, and failed attempts at making friends. She’d heard about it all, not that she listened to him. 

“Are we friends?” she blurted suddenly before she even realized that she’d thought the words. 

He froze mid-sentence. “Wha– What?”

“I… I don’t know.” She shook her head, already wishing she hadn’t spoken at all. What the hell did she think she was doing?

“No, wait, Shego! What do you mean?”

“I mean, we don’t like any of the same things! I hate karaoke, you love it. I love horror movies, you get all freaked every time we watch one. I want to go to the Bahamas or Hawaii for vacation, and your idea of a good time is baking cookies or building a robot. You’re a scientist and I–” 

Shego stopped herself before she could say that she was stupid. She knew she wasn’t, she’d graduated college after all, but she still sometimes felt intimidated by how smart he actually was. She didn’t bother learning how most of his inventions worked, because he seemed to always be moving onto something new before she’d wrapped her head around the last project. He had trouble with words sometimes, but she’d figured out after less than a week of working with him that it was a matter of his brain moving faster than even he could keep up with, rather than actual stupidity.

After her rant, she expected… something from him. Anything. A rant of his own, a shocked reaction, just something. What she got instead was a strange look and a simple, “So?”

“What do you mean, ‘so?’” Shego found herself getting angry quite suddenly. 

He shrugged. “I mean, ‘so.’ I know you don’t like karaoke, but you always come with me. Sometimes you even sing.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“And no, I don’t like watching horror movies but… well.” Drakken started to look flustered, nervous even. Like her, he was never great with emotions. He tapped the remote against his knee, before dropping it to the couch, and began lacing his fingers instead. “You do, so I watch them with you because… I guess because we are friends - aren’t we?” 

“Yeah,” she sighed, hoping he couldn’t tell how much it relieved her to hear him say that. “Yeah, I guess we are.” What kind of a shitty friend was she though? 

“Shego?”

“Yeah?”

“We both like the movie.” He gestured towards the screen as the credits cut to static and white noise. For a moment she stared at him, then she snickered, and then she began to laugh. Soon enough they were both cackling, blissfully leaving behind the feeling of dread the conversation had caused to coil up in her chest. 

“If you ever tell anyone that I watched - let alone enjoyed - this movie I’ll set your teddy bear on fire.”

#drakgo #drakken #shego #fanfiction #drakgo fanfiction #shego x drakken #drakken x shego #gofordrakgo #oneshot #Friends #9 pages #2587 words

[straightouttatheashes]

An Ultimatum

“Aeriden!” Pheonix barged into the backroom - making the man jump at his desk, spilling ink all over the page he’d been writing on.  “Aria? What...how did you get in here? You didn’t tell me you could pick locks otherwise-” “I can’t. Not well at least.” His sister waved her hand, which made Aeriden raise a brow, and look past her towards the front of the shop. “I’m going to have to replace that, aren’t I?” He muttered, before setting the inkpot aside, and lowering his quill - staring down at his ruined page for a brief moment. “...Is everything alright? What happened?” Considering she’d just broken into his shop, and loudly announced herself. So much for having a quiet weekend to catch up on work and re-organize the store. “I have a deal for you.” Pheonix put a hand down on his desk - a look in her eye that made him slightly nervous. “...Go on…” What came out of her mouth next, he definitely did not expect to hear. Well, the ultimatum, at least. “I can’t accept that you’re gonna just, study this magic bullshit. Not alone, at least. I found you someone who can help, who’s trained. But -” She leaned forward, attempting to drive her offer home. “I want to challenge you. If you win, you can go study. Do whatever you want. I’ll tell you who to talk to. But if I win, you give up. You stop everything and forget about it.” Aeriden held her gaze for a moment, narrowing his eyes. By now he knew of how deadly she was - her stories of her fights, her survival. It was a gamble, and he knew that. But he also knew she thought she’d have the upper hand because of this. “...You’re going to fight me. Really?” He laughed, honestly just trying to push those thoughts away and forget he’d even heard her proposal. “Aria...this -” “Is the only way I know how to bargain with you. You never said you’d give it up after what I said. So I’m doin what I do to settle shit.” Her hand raised, and then slammed onto the desk - knocking his inkpot over. Again. “If you beat me, I’ll stop. I promise. Take my challenge, Aeriden Brightfall.” There was a sharp tone as she spoke his name, and he locked onto her gaze….before sighing, running a hand through his hair, and giving in. “Fine, Aria. I accept your challenge, and the terms that come with it.” As soon as he accepted, Phe grinned and backed away from the desk - snickering a little at the ink spill. “Great. I’ll meet you by the coastline near the ruins at four. If you don’t turn up, Aeriden...I’m taking it as a forfeit.” Before he could answer her, or even quip back, Pheonix winked and left - the noise of the door opening and closing, signaling her final departure. Glancing to the pool of black leaking across his desk, Aeriden sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. She had no idea, did she? He couldn’t tell her. He had to go through with this. --- This is a stupid idea. He’s your brother. You’re going to fight your goddamn brother. This is stupid. It’s dumb. For a moment, neither one of them moved - a small distance away from each other, waiting for a signal from either side. But of course it would be her signal - she was the one that started it, after all. Pheonix watched as Aeriden stood there. No weapon, no armor. Just the clothes he’d been wearing when she’d busted into his store - minus the vest with that all familiar brooch. She’d only need to get up close to him, land a few hits...and he’d be down. The bet would be hers. He’d be safe from whatever bullshit he was going to get into, tutor or not. Little did she know. “I didn’t realize this was a staring contest, sister.” His voice cut through her thoughts, and she laughed. “No, it’s a fight! Sorry, I was...thinking. Anyway! We bow first, and then the first move is whoever’s got the guts to do it.” Aeriden nodded, watching her movements. As they both lowered into a bow, he exhaled slowly - feeling the tingle of magic, the chill of ice, snake up his arm. And the first move was his. Pheonix narrowly missed the large, sharp icicle that shattered against a tree behind her as she ran forward, dodging another one that shot up under her feet. As she got close - she grabbed his outstretched arm, yanking him forward to knee him in the stomach - but a sudden force threw her back, her body crashing to the ground as she shook her head to regain her senses. The fuck was that? Aeriden caught his breath, the split-second mind blast making his head pound, but Pheonix was already on her feet again before he could truly recover. A sharp jab connected with his stomach, and he doubled over as a strong kick sent him to the ground. Letting out a wheeze as the impact winded him - it was all he could do to quickly roll to the side and manifest a shield of sharp, jagged icicles around himself before his sister descended on him. If he wasn’t quick - she could end this with one blow. As the jagged spikes shot out - Phe brought her arms up, sharp tips tearing into her skin before she could catch herself and jump back before one of those spikes instantly impaled her. “Fuck, Aeri. You aren’t making this easy.” “A challenge is never easy, Aria.” He kept the shield up - trying to think of his next move...but she’d beat him to it. He felt the heat flare up against his shield - as Pheonix drove a fistful of flame into his barrier, icicles exploding, shattering, and falling to the ground. He could see the bloody wounds on her arms, and wanted to call the match off there, but this was his sister. She’s had worse...and she was passionate about this. He had to hold up her challenge...but he had to win. He could never say why...it would break her more than it is now. It was a little too late to notice the arcane missiles shooting over the top of the barrier - countering her own magic, which imploded upon impact. A pained yell escaped her as she once again found herself on the ground - smoke engulfing her hands and arms, the overwhelming shock of the arcane magic coursing through her. Spluttering, she willed herself to get back up - adrenaline kicking in. She needed to win. She had to… But Aeriden was on his feet - hand outstretched as a row of icicles appeared around him. “Aria, call it off, please. You can’t-” “I can!” She yelled back, spitting blood and glancing to her hands. Burnt. No matter. She didn’t feel it right now. “I’ll win, Aeriden. And you’ll stop this...and everything..will be..fine!” He couldn’t believe her. He could see the blood, the burns. The glow of her tattoos as she once again ignited her hands. She was going to do this, and see it through to whatever extent. Was she stupid? No. He understood why. But she had underestimated him. After everything she knew….she had still convinced herself she’d win. He was proud of her. So he bit back his regret, as he watched her become slowly encased in ice - starting with her feet. Not that she’d go down without a fight. The sound of icicles shattering, blasts of fire from each kick, each punch she gave drowning out her yells as Pheonix tried to get close to him. Her brother watched as the weight of the ice grounded her - rendering her immobile, one last punch connecting with his face - the crack sending a shock through his own body as tears stung at the corner of his eyes. Tasting blood, Aeriden looked back at her - one of the icicles of her prison digging into her neck. Silence. There were no words, and there didn’t need to be. He could see the defeat in her eyes. Yet...perhaps as soon as the match started, maybe she figured it out. “Aria…” “...Let me go, Aeriden. You won. ...Grats, yeah?” Pheonix spoke through gritted teeth. Not because of the sharp point that threatened to tear her flesh. Not because of the stinging pain that was now catching up to her as her body stood in it’s icy tomb, frozen. No, she’s had worse. What hurt, was the thought of what could be, now. She hoped...that Aeriden wouldn’t destroy himself. “I’m sorry.” As his magic released her, she dropped to the ground, catching herself on her hands and knees - letting out a choked sob, masking it with a cough and a small wheeze. They’d both need medical care...but she wanted to be out of his sight when she received hers. Afterall...she’d come out of this worse. She didn’t answer his apology with anything else but a small smile - shakily getting to her feet and weakly returning her damaged hands to her side. “You hold up okay, Aeri.” Pheonix sighed, chewing her lip - forcing herself to meet the concerned eyes of her brother. “I uh...had no chance, really.” “Then why did you do this? Even after finding someone to teach me, you still gave this last ditch effort….” He winced as he saw her wounds. “I dunno, I thought...after what I said. After like…” Phe began before shaking her head, wiping blood from her mouth. “Why can’t you let it go, Aeriden? You know my reason. Why won’t you stop?” The question hit him hard, and he felt himself unable to say anything. He couldn’t. She couldn’t know. Not yet… Pheonix noticed his hesitation, and frowned. She had at least thought he’d finally give her an answer. Didn’t he owe her that much? A reason? She didn’t believe his first reason anymore. Not...entirely. But he’d won, and she knew it unwise to call a rematch. “Good luck, Aeriden.” The sharp tone she used hurt her. “I’ll...I’ll see you another time.” Aeriden’s expression faltered, brows furrowing as he reached out to his sister. “Pip..wait..” “Pyraelia Sunmote. She’ll help you. You know her, so the rest is on you. And don’t use that fucking name.” He let her go - no doubt she had her own place to be. Someone to see to heal her wounds. A hand raised to rub at his own face, where she’d struck her last blow. Magistrix Sunmote... @pyraelia​ for mentions

#writing

[elusive---ivory]

Circus Act - Part 14

Sorry for the long wait!! I've been caught up in school and haven't been overall feeling the best mentally. I appreciate all of your support!! Thank you for sticking with me!!

WARNING: Violence, and Sexual themes

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14

Sandy could put her finger on it. Her anxiety seemed to get taunt her repeatedly as she drove to the corner store to buy some supplies for Arthur.

A bottle of clover green hair dye, and some face paint. Sandy looked at the bottle for a little while. Arthur's bizarre motives seemed to worry her more and more.

She headed back to the apartment with a small brown paper bag in hand.

Arthur was on the couch, with his head tilted up. His chin was rested under a gun. He quickly hid the gun underneath the couch cushions, before Sandy could see.

Sandy walked into the living room, handing Arthur the small bottle of hair dye.

"It was the last bottle." Sandy said, handing the bottle to him.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, looking at the bottle of green liquid.

He appeared to have a strange glint in his eye like before. His green eyes studied the liquid as it swisher around in the bottle. Arthur seemed so fixated on it, like it was a magic potion.

"I'm gonna be on the Murray show." He said to himself. "Aren't you proud of me, Sandy?"

She nodded, smiling at him. "I'm so very proud of you, Arthur."

Arthur grinned, chuckling a bit. He already knew her answer.

That's Life by Frank Sinatra started blasting on the radio.

Arthur stared intently in the mirror as the hair dye poured down his face. Green dripped from his hair as he danced around the bathroom in his underwear.

Sandy was sitting on the edge of the bed with a cigarette between her lips.

Arthur walked back into the bedroom, picking Sandy up from the bed to dance with her.

She giggled as Arthur twirled her around. He nuzzled into the crook of her neck, softly kissing it while slow dancing with her.

Afterwards, Arthur sat at the vanity in the bedroom, carefully applying white face paint.

Sandy sat back on the bed, staring at Arthur through the vanity mirror, admiring his features.

She did have that feeling in the back of her head, nagging at her. She'd been meaning to ask him about the gun she found, but never brought it up.

'There's probably an innocent reason to have a gun. Maybe it's a prop.' Sandy thought.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door buzzer.

"Coming." Arthur shouted, getting up to answer the door.

Sandy notice Arthur grab something, and put it in his pants pocket. She followed him out of the bedroom, curious to who was at the door.

Arthur opened the door. Randall and Gary were standing outside the door with a wine bottle in hand. Arthur glared at Randall, but his expression changed as he was greeted by Gary.

"Hey, Arthur, how's it going?" Gary said, walking into the apartment.

"Oh, hi guys," Arthur said, "come on in."

Randall and Gary walked inside the apartment.

"Hey fellas." Sandy greeted them with a smile. She was slightly surprised to see them, but happy nonetheless.

"Sandy, I didn't know you were staying here." Randall chuckled. "Looks like you got the girl after all, huh, Art." He teased.

Arthur smirked over at Sandy, who made her way to the kitchen.

"So, did you and Sandy get a new gig?" Gary asked.

"No." Arthur said, shaking his head.

"Ah, you must be heading down to that rally at city hall." Randall smiled, nodding his head.

"Oh, is that today?" Arthur asked, looking kind of surprised.

"Yeah." Randall looked confused. "What's with the makeup, then?"

"My mom died." Arthur said, taking a brief drag from his cigarette. "I'm celebrating."

Sandy looked over at Arthur from the archway that connected the kitchen to the hallway. She couldn't help herself but stare at Arthur's stature. He looked so unbelievably dreamy with his body slanted against the hallway wall.

There was something so hypnotic and charismatic about him, probably why she fell for him in the first place. It almost made her forget her terrifying worry.

"Right, that's why we came by. We figured you needed some cheering up." Randall said, gesturing over at Gary, who was holding a wine bottle.

"That's sweet." Arthur smiled. "But, no, I feel good. I've stopped taking my medication, and Sandy's been taking care of me over the past week or so. I feel a lot better now."

"Well, good for you. I'm sure Ms. Cheekbones feels the same way." Randall said, looking over to Sandy in the kitchen.

Sandy glared at Randall. Cheekbones. God, she hated that stupid nickname. She definitely didn't miss that when she quitted.

"So, hey, listen. The cops have been asking around the shop, about those subway murders." Randall said, trying to get Arthur's attention.

"They didn't talk to me." Gary pointed out.

Randall turned to Gary, shrugging. "That's because the suspect was a regular sized person. If it was a fucking midget, you'd be in jail right now." Randall chuckled.

Arthur let out a high pitched disturbing cackle.

Sandy looked over at Arthur. Something just didn't seem right. She stayed in the kitchen, just to keep watch on Arthur.

"Anyway," Randall continued, "Hoyt said that they talked to you, and now they're looking for me. I just want to know what you said."

Sandy saw for a slight second Arthur take out a small piece of metal.

"-because I just want to make sure our stories line up, and seeing as your my boy." Randall continued speaking.

Arthur nodded his head. "Yes, that makes a lot of sense. Thank you, Randall. Thank you so much."

Sandy's eyes blinked for just a moment, then saw Arthur stab Randall in the eye with the small pair of scissors, he hid in his pocket.

"Arthur, STOP!" Gary cried.

Sandy's mouth laid there agape, as she dropped to her knees. At first, she was in shock. Warm tears fell down her face as she cried silently on the kitchen floor.

Gary began to cry louder and louder.

Arthur slammed Randall's head repeatedly into the wall.

Once Arthur was done, he threw Randall's lifeless corpse to the ground.

Gary hid in the corner, still crying from watching the horror that played in front of him.

"Do you watch the Murray Franklin show?" Arthur asked. The way he said it was so casual as if nothing at all horrendous just happened.

Gary just stood there shaking.

"I'm gonna be on tonight." Arthur smiled. Blood splattered along his painted white face. His eyes looked dark and hollow.

Gary was just confused at this point.

"Fuckin' crazy, innit? Me on the telly?" Arthur said, in a fake British accent. Then, he giggled. "It's okay, Gary. You can go."

Gary was still shaken, trying not to look at the dead body in front of him.

Arthur, of course, gave Gary a quick scare.

Gary screamed as he stumbled towards the door. He tried opening it, but the door was locked.

"Hey, Arthur?" Gary asked, shakily.

"Yeah?" He said, then he chuckled as if it was a silly thing to do. "Oh, sorry."

Gary left in a panic, rushing out the door, just before that, Arthur gave him a small his on the head, and thanked him altogether.

Next, there was the frightening Sandy that was laying on the kitchen floor.

"Sandy." Arthur said.

Sandy gently lifted herself up. Her eyes were still wet from crying. "I know." She said.

Arthur's blood stained hand cupped her cheek, wiping away any tears.

"You're not my Arthur." Sandy said, quietly.

"Not anymore." Arthur replied. "I don't think I could live without you."

Sandy lips began to twitch into a smile. Her smile turned into laughter. "Oh god. That's ironic."

"How so?" Arthur asked, still holding her close.

"Believe it or not. I was gonna kill myself that night. I had nothing going for me. I felt so alone. So trapped in a loveless relationship. Dennis never gave a shit about me, but you. I saw something in you. Something I didn't see in anything else." Sandy began to laugh more. "Because of you, I'm finally free. I'm free, Arthur." She shouted.

Arthur smiled, softly. That's all he needed. He cupped both of Sandy's cheeks and began kissing her, roughly, smudging her cheeks with Randall's blood.

Taglist: @princessgeekface, @memory-mortis, @gloomyladyy, @jokerflecker, @joker-flecked-me, @mr--clown

#joker movie #joker film #joker x reader #joker 2019 #joaquin phoenix #joker arthur fleck #arthur fleck headcanon #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck #arthur fleck x oc #joker x oc #oc: sandra dolere #oc: harlequin

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 026: Obstacle Course Part 2 (Conclusion)

Previously on BnHA: The kids of class A busted their way through the sports festival obstacle course like the young gods-in-the-making they are. Everyone was like, whoa, these kids are kicking ass. Momo made a gun and I may have cried a little. Some girl from the support course macguyvered her way through with moon shoes and a utility belt. Fucking Deku tore through the entire thing carrying a giant metal plate and just whomping robots left and right and shimmying across the floating islands of Pandora like fucking Spider-Man. He then catapulted himself onto a bunch of mines in a fucking minefield and fucking surfed the resulting explosion and I’m fucking done you guys.

Today on BnHA: Deku nearly commits a murder but it nets him first place. Todoroki spits in the face of continuity. Everyone in class A advances to the second round of the festival. Midnight announces that round 2 will be a cavalry battle. Deku has a target painted on his back because no good deed ever goes unpunished.

(As always, all comments not marked with an ETA are my unspoiled reactions from my first readthrough of this chapter. I’ve read up through chapter 48 now, so any ETAs will reflect that.) 

oh my god look at these huge text boxes. are these all Deku?? this kid is fucking twacked out on something right now I swear

yeah I guess this is Deku’s POV from when he was like “RARRRRRRRR [BOOM]” from before

seriously this kid is out here channeling the Hulk or something

holy shit he actually dug up the mines in order to jump on them??

All Might what have you done. look what you’ve created

more like blasting shounen maniac

also I forgot Kacchan’s arm was frozen and I had to stare at it for a sec before my memory filled in the blanks there

so we’re all in agreement that Deku has actually gone crazy right?

“yup this is intense” totally fucking bananas

Kacchan has such an over the top wtf expression that for a moment I actually thought Deku had hit him in the head on the way down

he didn’t think about the landing. of course not. shounens never think about the landing

well maybe this guy can inadvertently help you out with that somehow

wow look at his face. Deku what have you done

now Todoroki’s making an ice path

by the way, so Todoroki apparently doesn’t need to physically touch whatever it is he’s freezing, then? because here he’s just stomping on the ground and it’s immediately turning to ice, but he’s wearing shoes. I can’t remember if he’s done this before, but I feel like up till now it’s always been his hands

in fact, I just went back and checked his intro in chapter 11 and it specifically said he freezes things with his right hand (left hand is the fire one). so I consider this panel a plot hole unless Horikoshi decides to come along and explain it later

(ETA: not only did they not explain it, they didn’t change it for the anime either. WHAT KIND OF GARBAGE IS THIS. I CAN’T BELIEVE THE ENTIRE SERIES IS RUINED JUST LIKE THAT OMG.)

Deku seems more worried about losing time on his landing than he is about, you know, landing badly and breaking every bone in his body. I guess once you’ve already done that a few times, you kind of become accustomed to it and it’s no big deal anymore

(ETA: let’s not talk any more about Deku not giving a shit about his own broken bones holy shit.)

why do shounen people always take such a long fucking time to fall

lol the other two are rushing past him while he’s slowly drifting into the frame upside-down

grab onto them and use them as your sled dogs!

holy fuck what is he doing lmao

this kid is really out here with his HEEERE’S JOHNNY face deadass about to commit murder live on camera in front of 100,000 people

oh thank god he didn’t actually hit them. though I feel like it wasn’t for lack of trying

he hit the ground again and of course, more land mines

I feel like he ended up murdering them anyway tbh

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TEACHING THOSE KIDS ERASER HEAD” lmao sob this chapter is epic

and EH is all “I didn’t even do anything they’re just like this”

Deku actually made it back first! holy shit. and all he had to do was go completely off the deep end and murder two of his classmates to do it

oh my god his mom is watching

I mean, of course she’s watching, but it only just occurred to me. is he actually going to use his quirk here at some point or what? and if he does, just what the hell is she going to make of that?

I hope he comes clean with her afterwards, honestly. I have faith in her ability to keep a secret that would put her child’s life in jeopardy otherwise

(ETA: Deku is a liar and a thief and his poor mom deserves better)

and speaking of that, scrolling back up to the panel above Izumama, there’s this other random guy watching Deku who seems to also recognize him

what’s this about exactly? a year ago would be right around the time of the Sludge Incident. does he remember him from that? or does he somehow know Deku from back in his middle school days?

(ETA: it’s the former, I overthought this)

actually there are a lot of people who went to school with Izuku and specifically knew him to not have a quirk, come to think. what are all of them going to think if he suddenly busts one out here in front of the entire country? I feel like that’s going to seem really fucking suspicious and raise a lot of questions

anyway, moving on here, it seems Tomura is watching too. what a creep

and his hands are gone, just like when he visited the school that day and (presumably) broke in

aww. Deku sought out All Might’s face in the crowd and he’s grinning at him and he looks so proud. he’s crying again sob. and All Might looks fucking ecstatic

now All Might is having an internal monologue about how so many modern heroes are in it for the fame and so they’re selfish, but Deku isn’t like that, and that’s why he chose him. and interestingly he says he thought that quality would be a potential weakness, but he’s happy to be proven wrong

“but you gotta stop crying all the time!” aww, let him be, he’s emotional, there’s nothing wrong with that. I was gonna add “and he’s still a kid”, but that implies that there’s anything wrong with an adult being emotional which isn’t the case either. I know he’s all about the whole “smiling through the pain” thing, but Deku’s not the type to keep his feelings so hidden, and honestly I think that’s also a strength rather than a weakness

people from the business course are discussing Deku’s draft stock now, and speculating on how they would market him

yeah All Might I kind of see what you mean here. it’s all about the PR, and the actual hero stuff has almost been taken out of the equation

there’s a panel explaining how the business course members don’t participate in the sports fest directly and instead they just walk around doing boring business things. I’m not at all interested in this but I am dutifully making a note of it

(ETA: though I would be interested if they did some more shit dealing with sudden fame and celebrity and marketing deals. it’s still ridiculous to me that a country with as huge an idol culture as Japan would not be attempting to do this with at least some of these U.A. kids.)

(ETA 2: finally in the latest chapter I read we at least had someone filming a commercial.)

Kacchan and Todoroki have arrived back at the stadium out of breath as losers. sorry losers

poor Todoroki. IN FRONT OF YOUR FAMOUS DAD AND EVERYTHING

Kacchan’s super pissed but what else is new. is your arm okay bud. also you probably could have blasted your way across that final part of the course similar to how Deku did, but you didn’t. you literally have only yourself to blame

oh wow, Ochako and Iida rounding out the top five! what a pleasant surprise

(ETA: yeah this misconception will be rectified shortly, so I’m leaving it)

Iida’s depressed because being fast is His Whole Thing and he still came in like fifth. honestly I feel like that does hurt him a little more than the rest, because if any heroes out there are on the lookout for a speedster, they’re probably going to be less taken with a guy that didn’t even manage to make the podium in the speed competition. but you still have the rest of the festival, Iida. and if all else fails, you’ll still have two more chances after this

Deku is literally hiding his face because Ochako came right up to him and started talking about how great he was

it was not close, Deku

now he’s saying he got lucky. that was part of it, sure, but dude you were a fucking beast out there. honestly it was scary

Momo made it in sixth! along with this piece of drifting garbage that seems to have gotten stuck to her somehow

I’m sorry you had to see this, everyone. Momo is brilliant, but I feel like she missed a golden opportunity to make another gun or something and solve our Mineta problem for good. they did say no rules, after all. any lawyer worth their salt should be able to work with that

oh wow, I thought Iida and Ochako were fourth and fifth, but apparently that Poison Ivy girl came in fourth! Ibara, huh? I like her a lot

and this Dia de Muertos guy came in fifth!!

MY GOD IIDA, SIXTH?? YOU HAD ONE FUCKING JOB

and Ochako is #16?? EVERYONE, WE’RE GONNA RIOT

class B seems to only have a few standouts, really. thank god tbh. it was hard enough trying to memorize the first twenty kids’ names

(ETA: for a brief moment it looked like this might not be true, but then it was true again lol)

can’t believe Kaminari’s all the way down at #24. what happened?

are there... two invisible kids here?

(ETA: this literally never came up again??!)

and Aoyama barely made it. the cutoff was at #42 for some reason. they could have easily set it at the much more normal number of 40, but they just liked you that much, Aoyama!

Midnight’s about to announce the second event, but she’s dragging it out so damn much and I can’t take it

“Cavalry Battle”! yay! what’s that

Tsuyu says they’re teaming up but imma need more deets

“participants will form, on their own, teams of two to four members each” okay I can already foresee a few problems here

-- and get into a horse and rider formation, oh my god

I LOVE IT

for a brief moment I was like “wow this is really tame compared to the first event.” but then I remembered that they all have powers and will presumably be trying to kill each other and I can see this getting really fucking violent actually

that said! I’m definitely here for it lol

damn she’s still going on. apparently each kid has been assigned a point value based on the results of the previous event. so that means Deku has the highest value I guess. well, he wanted to stand out

TEN MILLION POINTS wow. this seems a bit broken to me

Deku’s face is

pretty good

what kind of fucked up olympics punishes you for doing well though

ten million points, though. damn. and meanwhile that lucky s.o.b. Aoyama is only worth five

and wow, we’ve reached the end of volume three already! well that sure was fun

BONUS:

Mt. Lady again?

she’s ordering takoyaki

she’s trying to get it for free omg

it worked omg

that’s it. that’s the comic

wow

now there’s a second comic that seems almost identical to her first comic from an earlier volume. this accountant guy is complaining that she’s lost them so much money

she can apparently grow from her normal size up to about 67 and a half feet. and that’s it. nothing in between

aside from that slight bit of additional detail, this is literally the exact same comic strip from before. I want those twenty seconds of my life back damn it

#bnha #boku no hero academia #makeste reads bnha #can anyone tell me whether that second invisible kid ever shows up again? #there's some potential for laughs there even though we already have a 'kids with the same power' thing going on with Kimi and Tetsu #honestly it would make that gag even better #because they can't even have the 'we have the same power' thing be THEIR thing #poor kiddos #can't catch a damn break

[vampiresofabbeyroad]

20 Jan 2022 

Today’s win:

Oh my fucking god I’m on cloud 9 right now!!

Started my day rushing quite a bit, did a bit of research while on commute, then had my appraisal (which went really well). I’m surprised by how confident I can speak these days. Then had a team bonding sesh over lunch, which also went super well. I love my freaking team, we had a blast. I love how we’ve become friends.

Then did a bit of admin stuff and stayed in the office while waiting to celebrate a pitch we’ve won!! It’s a huge account and we’re gonna hire more people and I’m excited to just meet new people honestly. We had champagne, some local treats, and had a bit of socialising fun with my colleagues. We laughed like bitches. We were reminiscing about the past year, how involved we’ve been in each others’ lives. Oh! Before the celebration, we walked and had coffee at this new coffee/brownie shop near our office and we spent a good hour laughing, waiting for my oat milk matcha latte (I had to order oat milk cuz of diarrhoea #TMI), we walked in the rain, talked some more. All in all, that moment in the office, today, made me realise how lucky I am to be able to share these kinds of experiences with people I work with. How lucky I am to do what I love and have the support of these people. “Oh you wanna do more writing? Let’s make sure you have more opportunities to do that!” And they put me on a new brief with new challenges, and while it’s a struggle for me to navigate all these changes, the learning curve has been quite steep. I’m also getting to talk to a lot more people and be mentored by such creative but humble people. I know that teenage TJ would be so proud. She dreamt of this. She dreamt to be able to do creative work for a living.

I remember how devastated I was when I didn’t get into a local uni, but it’s true what they say about everything happening for a reason. Life gave me SUCH BETTER OPPORTUNITIES. Fuck. It makes me cry just thinking about it.

Anyway, I went home and drank some more since I already started in the office. I danced with my sister to some Paramore songs, which was wholesome. Then I had an almost 2-hour call with my bff. She updated me on her life, I updated her on mine. And she said a lot of things that really blew my fucking mind.

Side track, i have been reconnecting and talking to a lot more people the past few weeks and it’s been helping a lot. It’s been helping me unpack what I’ve been through and they’ve been helping me validate my feelings given that I really didn’t feel like I could do so with my ex.

ANYWAYYYYYY, she told me that she knows how I am as a person. I’ve known her since we were 15. She knows how understanding and empathetic I am (not to gas myself up). She knows I would’ve understood and accepted my ex’s decision to be friends with whoever he fucking wants. But the fact that he is who he is - condescending, insecure, had no goals, made me insecure about the relationship. In her words, “If he was actually a good person and he treated you right from the beginning, you would’ve been more secure about him being friends with his ex” WHICH IS FUCKING TRUE???? I already had inhibitions about him as a person. I wasn’t overreacting. GOD. It’s so clear to me now. 

She also reminded me to not blame myself for opening up. It just goes to show that they’re not the right people. 

If anything, this experience reminds me a lot of my breakdown after JC. I never would’ve realised what I wanted if life didn’t show me what I DIDN’T WANT. 

Honestly, life is too short to surround yourself with people who won’t positively impact your life. I mean, I actually thought that my ex and I could heal our childhood traumas together, or at least grow together in some way. But it seemed like he wanted to be stuck where he is/was (given him choosing his past). It’s really not my problem anymore. Nor was it my problem ever. I can’t believe I even tried to go to counselling to help myself help him navigate his mental illness. I guess you really can’t help people who don’t wanna help themselves. It’s on him to heal from his own past trauma. I’m just opening myself up to more deserving people in my life, and I’m being patient and I’m more than excited.

This year is gonna be exciting. I feel like I’m just growing so much as a person in my 20s. I’m learning about what I won’t settle for - whether it’s with friends or romantic relationships.

I feel like i’ve fulfilled whatever I want to fulfil in my early twenties, which is such an amazing feeling. I found my people then, and I’m ready to attract the right people in the second half of my twenties. I’m only 26. I have so much more to explore.

#well

[minwrathous]

ZEVWARDEN WEEK 2017 - DAY 4

Thursday, August 3 : AU Day What it says on the tin.

[ This is something I’ve thought about a bit. Basically ‘Surana isn’t the Warden’ AU. Anyway, this got a lot longer than I expected. About 4K words. Holy crap. ]

Kinloch Hold.

Zevran feels a cool hand touching his brow. He hadn’t realized how hot it was before the hand was placed there. He tries to move, to lift his head. He was in the middle of a fight! The Warden!

“Shh. Don’t move,” a voice says. Male. Cool, like the hand. “You’ve been injured. You need to lie still.”

Zevran settles. “The Warden.” His voice is harsh, his throat much too dry. “She…”

“Your friends aren’t here; they had to leave you here because you were hurt,” the man with the cool hand says, gently stroking Zevran’s forehead. Zevran can feel the healing magic flowing out from the hand. “They’re off trying to end all this.”

Zevran remembers now. They’d arrived at Kinloch Hold and found the place overrun with demons and blood mages. The Warden - Mahariel - had insisted on going in to try to clear it out. They’d been in battle when Zevran had been struck from behind and…

Zevran opens his eyes and finds himself looking up at another elf. Another elf with white hair, a worried expression, and tired violet eyes. Oh, Zevran thinks. His eyes…

Nymm. His name is Nymm and he survived the initial demon-fueled uprising because he was in an isolation cell at the time. He fidgets a little when he tells Zevran this. Zevran tells him not to worry; who is he to judge? What matters is that Nymm started helping others once he found his way out of his cell. He’s been hiding with a group of survivors in a large kitchen pantry, healing those he can and protecting the younger mages.

He’d been out scavenging for supplies with another apprentice when they’d stumbled across the Warden’s party. Zevran had been unconscious after taking the hard blow to the back of the head. That, combined with a deep gouge to his shoulder, had been enough to worry Mahariel.

So, the Warden had been forced to leave Zevran in Nymm’s care.

Nymm tells Zevran this as they sit and wait for the Warden to return. Or for the demons to finally take over. Or for Templars to burst in to murder them all. Any of the outcomes is just as likely as the other, so instead they focus on talking about other things. They talk about a lot of things, and Zevran realizes he’s starting to like this mage.

It’s hard waiting. But at least the company isn’t bad.

Finally, it’s the Warden that returns to them, and Zevran is very glad to see that his friends are victorious. Still, there’s a strange part of him that regrets leaving that pantry behind. But the day has been saved, and the mages can be left to sort themselves out. He bids farewell to Nymm.

When they leave the tower, there’s a new companion with them - an old woman named Wynne. For a moment, Zevran wishes that another healer had been able to come with them as well. But Nymm’s place is in the tower.

Zevran hopes that they don’t put him back in the cell; if there’s somebody else that’s earned a second chance, it’s Nymm Surana.

Redcliffe.

They do battle with hoards of the undead. They finally make it into the castle, only to find more undead, an imprisoned blood mage in the basement, and one possessed lordling. Wonderful. Zevran wonders if anything will ever go right on this blasted quest.

Warden Mahariel decides that she’s sick of magic, and Zevran can’t help but agree. But then she goes and decides to consult the mages at Kinloch Hold with their possession problem. It has to be a better idea than just trusting the blood mage, Jowan, or simply killing the boy, right? Well...Zevran doesn’t really agree there, but he trusts her judgement.

She sends Leliana and Sten back to the Circle while the rest of them wait. Hopefully the undead stay dead for the time being.

Sten and Leliana quickly return to Redcliffe with a small company of mages and Zevran is pleased to see a familiar white-haired elf. It seems that they’ve kept him out of the cells after all. But Nymm looks deeply unhappy when his is introduced along with the other mages. He barely meets Zevran’s eye.

Zevran wants to speak with him, but there’s no time. They’ve waited too long as it is, and the ritual must be done if they are to save the boy. Nymm steps forward to volunteer as the mages prepare. He insists that he will be the one to go into the Fade. Zevran feels a pang of worry at this - how can they expect the a healer to fight?

But nobody argues. Mahariel simply asks Nymm if he can do it. Nymm nods, and Zevran can’t help but notice that Nymm shoots a particularly cold look at the blood mage. Jowan quails under the look and Mahariel agrees that Nymm will be the one to enter the Fade.

Zevran watches as they prepare the ritual. It’s just as Nymm holds his hands over a bowl of glowing liquid that he finally looks over to Zevran. Nymm manages a little smile and a tilt of his head, but before Zevran can respond, there is a rush of magic and a flash of light. Two of the other mages catch Nymm’s body before it hits the floor.

“Don’t fret, lad,” Zevran hears a voice behind him say. He realizes that he’d tried to rush forward toward Nymm and turns to find that the First Enchanter is looking at him. “He is stronger than you might think; he had one our best Harrowing performances.”

Then why was he locked in a cell at the bottom of your tower? Zevran doesn’t ask. He turns away and says nothing instead.

The waiting is hard this time too. Zevran wonders what will happen if Nymm fails. Will he die? If he comes back, will he be himself? Will the Templar standing watch near his cot rush forward to kill him? Hours tick by, and the mood in the room blackens

In the end, Zevran doesn’t have to worry about the “what ifs” - Nymm wakes up, a tired smile on his face. Soon after, the boy is declared free of possession. The day has been saved again; congratulations are offered and gratitude is showered down on both the Warden’s party and the mages.

Later that night, Zevran has an idea of his own. He pulls Nymm aside and the two of them find an empty room in a wing that has been mostly untouched by the fighting. There, Zevran undresses the mage and offers congratulations of his own.

Zevran is surprised to find that the other man is not the blushing virgin he expected; the sex is good. Very good.

Zevran is also surprised to find a brief moment of tenderness after they’ve finished fucking. They remain on the bed, tangled up together, and share a long, slow kiss.

He thinks about that kiss again even after they part ways.

Denerim.

Zevran knows that it’s very nearly the end. The Landsmeet is over and Alistair will be the King of Ferelden, provided the Wardens are actually able to slay the Archdemon. Forces are gathering in the city as they prepare to mount the final assault. The dwarven warriors arrived the day before, the Dalish archers that morning.

Zevran is eating his evening meal when the mages from Kinloch Hold arrive. The dining hall gets a little louder as the new arrivals flood in to eat after their long march. He looks around and is a little disappointed when he doesn’t see a familiar head of white hair. He goes back to his meal and finishes. Perhaps they needed Nymm to stay behind at the tower.

Ah well. He’ll just have to figure out where he can get a drink. Maybe he can sharpen his knives one more time.

“Hello again,” a familiar voice says before Zevran can stand. “We keep running into one another, don’t we?” Nymm sits down on the bench across from him. He looks a little better than the last time Zevran saw him. Still tired, but not so unhappy.

“Hello,” Zevran says, and smiles over at the mage. “I only regret that it always seems to be under such unfortunate circumstances.” This earns Zevran a chuckle.

That night, he sneaks Nymm into his quarters. Zevran’s lucky to be associated with Warden Mahariel; he knows it’s the only reason he has a room to himself. He counts his blessing as they take advantage of the privacy. This time, Zevran thinks it’s a little more like making love; they take things more slowly, and there’s a lot more of the kissing.

Zevran’s glad.

The next day is full of preparations, and the night is again reserved for the two of them. He does take the time to visit Mahariel; the elf is not taking her separation from Alistair very well, and Zevran worries. There’s a strange look in her eyes when he leaves her; he makes a note to check on her before the battle commences.

Finally, it’s time. Nymm is away with his mages and Zevran is at his friends’ sides. It’s a fierce battle, much harder than anything they’ve faced before. Zevran is not with the Warden when she climbs to her doom; he has been ordered to hold the gate, along with Alistair.

He watches her go and realizes that he will never see her alive again.

Mahariel is triumphant in death, and her companions are left to cope with the victory she left for them.

Later that night, Nymm joins him in his room again. This time, the mage holds Zevran while he cries for his friend. It’s not something he’s proud of, but it’s something he needs. He’s grateful that Nymm seems to understand.

Zevran finds that he isn’t sure what to do with himself anymore; he’s a free man, but… He throws himself into helping the city recover from the Darkspawn attack. It’s good to have something to focus on. He finds ways to spend time with Nymm over the next few days, in between the cleaning and Nymm’s healing and the organizing of the keep. Eventually, it’s time for the mage to return to his tower.

“Come away with me,” Zevran says as they lie next to one another in his bed.

“I can’t,” Nymm replies, and looks at him sadly. “They’ll hunt me down.”

Zevran knows it’s true, as much as he wishes it wasn’t. The Templars of Kinloch Hold don’t take kindly to their mages slipping out of their stone prison. He knows the two of them have been living on borrowed time the past few days. And really, isn’t that the story of his life?

They make love one last time.

Antiva.

Zevran leaves Ferelden a few weeks after Mahariel’s funeral. He returns home so he can settle a few debts. He cuts a bloody swath through the Crows and makes them think twice before hunting him down. For now, anyway. From then on, he’s a free agent.

Sometimes he thinks about sending a letter to Nymm. He never acts on it.

Later that year he returns to Ferelden to visit Denerim on business. One thing leads to another and he finds himself traveling to Kinloch Hold. He’s welcomed there as a guest (and friend of the King), though some of the Templars are loathe to allow him to stay.

‘Important Royal Business’, he tells them.

One younger recruit asks his supervisor what sort of royal business involves bedding one of the Apprentices. There’s really no answer for that.

Things stay like that for a while - Zevran wanders the world, practicing his craft doing his best to enjoy his freedom. Every year, he returns to Ferelden for the same business with the Circle. (Some years, he even makes it more than once.) Before he leaves, he always offers to steal Nymm away.

It never works.

And then, six or seven visits later, Zevran arrives and finds that Nymm is no longer there.

“The Free Marches,” the First Enchanter tells him when he asks. “He’s gone to travel the Circles there, to help train healers. He should be back here in two years. Maybe three. By now, he should be in Starkhaven. Next is Kirkwall.”

Zevran notices how the First Enchanter’s face darkens a little when he says the word Kirkwall.

Kirkwall.

Zevran had decided to wait to see Nymm again. It’s too hard to gain access to Circles that don’t know him as a friend of the Hero of Ferelden and the King. But fate seems to have a sense of humor, and he ends up outside of Kirkwall anyway.

Fate also decides that he should meet the Champion of Kirkwall, a fierce woman named Hawke. And of course, the Champion’s lover is none other than his dear Isabela. Fate really is a tricky bitch.

The Champion helps him with his Crow problem, and later he helps the Champion (and Isabela) out of their clothes. Isabela is just as fun as he remembered, and her Hawke is very nearly as wicked. Afterward, while they’re sorting out their clothes, he asks them about Kirkwall’s Circle. Are the mages well-cared for? How hard would it be to visit?

He doesn’t like the Champion’s answers.

Zevran goes with Hawke to a place called the Gallows a few days later. She’s there to see her little sister, and she also has business with the woman in charge. Zevran is there as a courtesy to Hawke, and is left out of the meeting. When he asks a Templar if there’s a healer from Ferelden present, the man sneers at him. There might be, but even if there is, nobody is allowed inside.

No, this place isn’t as open as Kinloch Hold, and that’s really saying something.

When they bring Hawke’s sister out to the courtyard for a visit, Zevran finds that the Champion of Kirkwall has pulled a few strings for him as well. Accompanying the younger Hawke is a familiar elf with white hair. He sees Zevran and stares at him for a moment. Zevran smiles and approaches Nymm.

Hawke embraces her sister and leads her to a nearby bench to talk, and the two elves are left to stand together.

“You again,” Nymm says.

“I’m hard to get rid of,” Zevran replies, and reaches out to touch Nymm’s arm. He doesn’t like how thin he looks now, how tired. Nymm laughs though, and it lights up his face.

The two of them talk quietly for a bit, standing close together in the heavily-guarded courtyard. Kirkwall’s Circle is different, Nymm tells him. It’s not a good place to be. He doubts that they’ll let him journey on to Ostwick like he should be, and fears he’ll never get to leave. There’s also the looming threat of Tranquility.

“I should have let you steal me away before,” he says. “But it’s too late for that now.” He smiles sadly and something in Zevran aches.

They embrace after a guard informs them their time is up. He kisses Nymm’s cheek once before the mage is forced back through the gate. He takes Bethany Hawke by the hand and the two of them walk back inside.

“If I knew how to get them safely out for good, it would be a done deal,” Hawke says softly to Zevran. Her voice is low and quiet, but there’s steel in it.

“When you figure it out, I am your man,” he replies.

The Gallows.

Zevran is back in Kirkwall a few months later. He’d heard rumblings of more trouble and had come as quickly as he could. He finds a city tensely balanced on the edge; it’s waiting for something to tip it over into chaos. And of course, it doesn’t take long.

He watches as an explosion lights up the sky.

Well, that’d do it.

He finds himself back in the Gallows again, making his way through Templars doing battle with mages. It’s unfortunately familiar territory, but he does his best to assist mages when he can. Zevran finally catches up with the Champion and her companions.

Hawke has found her sister, but Bethany doesn’t know what happened to Nymm; she hadn’t seen him before the explosion.

Zevran fights along with the Champion, though he pauses every so often to check the corpses lining the halls. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he finds one with that familiar white hair. Luckily, it doesn’t comes to pass; he’s unable to find Nymm Surana, alive or dead.

The final battle is upon them, and the woman in charge of the place has started to glow. Zevran wonders if his life could possibly get any stranger. Then, the giant statues lining the place start attacking and Zevran immediately curses himself for jinxing it.

Zevran, of course, is knocked out by a particularly angry statue near the end of the fight. He isn’t conscious to witness Meredith turning into a living statue. But...maybe it’s better that way; it’s too hard to believe even for the people who see it.

He wakes a few hours later to a cool hand touching his brow. He knows this touch! His eyes snap open and he’s looking up into a face he knows.

“You know,” Nymm says. “You’ve really got to stop getting hit on the head. We can’t keep meeting like this.”

Zevran laughs and it feels like a weight has lifted from him.

Waking Sea.

“Are you sure you must go?” Zevran asks. They’re standing against the rail of Isabela’s ship, looking at the coastline in the distance. They’re a week out of Kirkwall, hitching a ride with Hawke and her companions.

“Yes,” Nymm says. “I’m an apostate here. I participated in the Kirkwall uprising. They’re going to come looking for me.” He sighs and leans against Zevran.

“But the Gallows...they said most of the blood vials were destroyed,” Zevran replies.

“Mine is back at home in Ferelden,” he points out. “If I turn myself in there, I might not be punished.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Zevran says.

“I know,” Nymm says.

“You...you said before that you wished I would have stolen you earlier. Well, you’re stolen now. Stay.” Zevran hopes he doesn’t sound as desperate as he feels.

“I know,” Nymm says again, more softly. “But things have changed. I’ve heard that there’s been talk of the mages gathering to dissolve the Circles. I saw what happened in Kirkwall; they’re going to need me.”

But I need you, Zevran doesn’t say.

He doesn’t convince Nymm to sail away with him in the end. Instead, they make the journey to Amaranthine and leave him there on the docks. The Wardens will help him get back to Kinloch, and from there… Zevran hopes he doesn’t end up back in that old cell.

Rivain.

Zevran is in Llomerryn when he hears that the College of Mages has been disbanded. He hasn’t been back to Ferelden yet to see if Nymm is safe in his tower; Zevran wonders if he’s even still alive.

Antiva City.

Zevran is back in Antiva City when he receives an unexpected letter from Nymm. He doesn’t know how the mage has managed to track his whereabouts from halfway across Thedas, but he’s pleased nonetheless. (The answer, of course, is magic. And a bit of borrowed Warden coin.)

Nymm says that he has been accepted back into the Circle, and he has joined a group of other mages trying to find a peaceful solution to the current trouble. There’s going to be a big meeting soon. He hopes to see Zevran some time in the future, but doesn’t know where he’ll be just yet. He apologizes again for having to leave.

Zevran unfortunately knows that the letter has taken its time in getting to him. He also knows that the gathering didn’t work out; the mages are already in revolt.

He sets it aside and tries not to worry.

It almost works.

Wycome.

Zevran is in Wycome when the sky splits open. He doesn’t notice it; he’s busy on a job, and Wycome is very far from Haven. He hasn’t thought about Nymm in a while, though deep down he still hopes that the mage is alive.

Word travels. The Conclave has been destroyed and the Divine herself is dead. Andraste has chosen a man who walked out from the Fade itself, and he’s gathering an army in the Frostbacks. An Inquisition, they call it.

Zevran dismisses most of it as gossip, though part of him worries about the larger ramifications. And maybe another part still worries about the mage.

A few days later, he receives a bird and wonders how in the world people keep finding him. He stops wondering when he realizes who it’s from. So, Leliana is involved in all the madness down south? Zevran thinks he might pay a visit after all.

Skyhold.

By the time he’s close to Haven, he finds out that it’s been buried under an avalanche. Of course it has. Well, no big loss there - he hadn’t liked that place the first time around. He’s directed to a new place in the Frostbacks called Skyhold. He’s loathe to travel farther in the cursed snow, but he’s a man of his word, and he’d already sworn he’d help Leliana.

He arrives at Skyhold cold and miserable. It’s an impressive castle, but he thinks they should probably invest in a better road. Upon noticing how much repair the castle itself needs, he changes his mind. He slips through the gates with a group of workers and makes his way to the tavern.

Things don’t seem as bad once his belly is full and he’s had a chance to warm up. The atmosphere around the keep is hopeful. These people have a purpose, and there is a great many different kinds of them around. Why, he’s even found that the newly appointed Inquisitor is actually a Qunari.

Zevran is leaving the tavern when he sees a group of mages walking by. He’d noticed a few others earlier, but it only occurs to him now that they’re wandering the keep freely. He’s only seen a few Templars around, and he doesn’t think they’re there just to watch the mages. It’s strange, but he finds he likes it. He wishes… No. He’s stopped wishing.

His meeting with Leliana goes well, though he’s a little worried by his old friend; she’s not quite the soft-hearted bard he remembers. Still, she welcomes him to the Inquisition and says that the Inquisitor is looking forward to meeting him the next day. For now, though, she gives him directions to the small room he’s been assigned. As he leaves, he can’t help but get the feeling she’s smirking at him.

He finds his room easily enough, though he gets a strange look from a pair of mages that pass him in the dimly lit hallway. It’s late though, and he’s too worn out to care. He opens the door, steps inside, and then pauses. Something is off. There’s a stack of books on the small desk, as well as a pile of parchment and an inkwell. A folded pile of clothing is on the chair in the corner, and the bedclothes are rumpled. This is already somebody’s room; he must have misheard Leliana’s instructions.

Zevran turns to leave and bumps into someone who is suddenly standing behind him. Shit. He has no excuse for not noticing somebody getting that close! He takes a step back and is about to apologize when he finds himself looking into a pair of violet eyes.

“...oh,” Zevran says.

“Oh,” Nymm agrees. His hair is longer now, held back from his face in a braid. He looks tired, but it’s the good kind of tired this time.

“This is supposed to be my room,” Zevran says dumbly. He wants to reach out and touch Nymm, but he’s scared that this is somehow not real. That if he does try to touch, the mage will disappear like a plume of smoke.

“That’s funny,” Nymm says with a soft laugh. “It’s already mine. Though…” He breaks the spell by moving in and wrapping his arms around the frozen assassin. “I don’t mind sharing.”

Zevran relaxes into the embrace once he realizes that it’s real. He buries his face against Nymm’s neck and breathes him in - he’s warm and solid and smells like elfroot and mint. They hold onto one another and Zevran feels lighter. Warmer. Better.

“Congratulations,” Nymm eventually murmurs. His hand caresses the back of Zevran’s head. “You didn’t even have to get knocked out to find me this time.”

Zevran laughs at that and pulls back from the embrace. He grins at the mage before grabbing his hand and dragging him back into his own room. The door is shut firmly behind them.

They have a lot to catch up on.

#ZevWarden Week #ZevWarden #Zevran x Warden #Zevran Arainai #M!Warden #M!Surana #Nymm Surana #Dragon Age fanfiction #AU #my writing #better late than never #holy crap i went overboard #my zevwarden week

[qqueenofhades]

HEllo! It's me again and boy do I have prompts! The one fic I want written more than anything in the world is Garcy + fake dating. Just give me all the "Oh we are totally pretending and there are no real feelings her AT ALL" pretty please I will love you forever

so as noted, i couldn’t quite think of a good fake dating idea, but please accept 2.3k words of angsty bedsharing + “we need to huddle for warmth,” because i am trash and have no self control.

The wind just about rips the door out of Flynn’s hands as hestruggles to close it, swearing under his breath. The dark, howling, snowingnight rushes at him, slashing sideways against his face, but after a momentmore, he manages to wrench the latch in, and some of the tumult stills. Onlysome, though. It’s still beating against the greased-paper windows, the chinks inthe logs, the tiny, sooty hearth, gasping and whining. Something in the windsounds so much like a child crying that it raises the hackles on the back ofhis neck.

This, however, is not what he has time to be presentlyconcerned with. They’re lucky to have made it here (a fur trapper’s cabin bythe looks of it, cruel toothed things and hooked knives and snowshoes anddrying skins hanging from the low rafters) and until the storm lets up, theyhave no chance of finding the idiot andhis sidekick again. The Time Team has spent the last three days sloggingthrough the wilderness of the Pacific Northwest in 1805, trying to catch up to theRittenhouse operative planted in Lewis and Clark’s expedition, and, it goeswithout saying, they do not have a Sacagawea to save their asses. They havestuck together as much as possible, but splitting up has been necessary a fewtimes, and, well. They can’t put Flynn and Wyatt together, seeing as they wouldprobably kill each other within five minutes, and also because they can’t leaveLucy and Rufus unprotected. No one, least of all Rufus, is keen to pair Flynnand Rufus, and despite the lingering tension (and Wyatt’s 0% approval rating ofthe idea), everyone knows that Flynn/Lucy and Wyatt/Rufus are the logicalpair-ups. That, therefore, has been the plan. As for where the latter two arein the blizzard, Flynn doesn’t really care.

Lucy is shivering so hard that her teeth rattle. Flynndouble-checks that the bar is wedged in, then kneels by the hearth, stackingsome of the damp wood from the pile. He takes out his lighter and tries to getit to catch, but it doesn’t. His breath is gusting silver in the freezing air,even inside the cabin, and he swears again. “I hate the fucking past.”

Despite her shivering, Lucy arches an eyebrow, as if to saythat if so, he is really in the wrongline of work. It takes him a few more attempts, but he gets a feeble, gutteringfire started, and they press in, shoulder to shoulder, trying to defrost theirfrozen hands. When they can finally move their fingers without them being indanger of snapping off, Lucy looks around. “Do you think there’s anything toeat?”

There are a few barrels and sacks and bunches of driedthings, a rust-bottomed cauldron on a trivet, and something that, by the smellwhen they uncork it, has been there for about a hundred years. Theygrimace and hastily cork it again, trying to put together an edible stew. Makes youmiss microwaves and five-minute meals, opening an app on your smartphone and gettingdinner delivered to your door. Even the most intrepid pizza guy would havetrouble making it here.

The stew isn’t that good, but it’s hot, and both of them areso hungry that they inhale it without complaint. There isn’t exactly a lot ofwashing-up to do, just stacking the bowls. Then Lucy says quietly, “I hopeWyatt and Rufus are okay.”

Flynn could give a damn if they are or not, but he supposesthat if they get killed, Lucy will be sad, and he might get shanghaied into yetanother stupid mission to save them. “I’m sure they’re fine. You three seem obnoxiouslyadept at surviving.”

Lucy flashes a slight, hesitant smile, almost despiteherself, that clenches Flynn’s innards unexpectedly. He’s still mad at her andhas been making sure she knows that, but the night is cold and dark and rawenough as it is, and he is briefly tired of punishing her. Half of it is hisown rage at himself, anyway. He’s like the storm himself, overflowing andravaging everything it touches, without regard for friend or foe. Ripping,tearing, freezing, devouring. They sit staring at the struggling firefor several minutes, not saying anything. It’s hardly warm enough to remove anyof their snow-driven cloaks and blankets, but since they have now thawed, they’rewet and uncomfortable, and they’ll probably catch their death of cold anyway.Flynn gets up, peels off a few layers, and hangs them by the fire, where theysmoke and steam.

Lucy glances sidelong at him, then does the same, goosefleshrippling across her arms as she hugs herself. Flynn is uncomfortably, intenselyaware of it, her proximity in the low light, the tangled knot of dark hair onthe back of her neck and falling in her face, which makes his fingers itch withthe urge to tidy it. Furious with himself, he clenches his fist until thethought goes away. (More or less.) Then he nods at the bed in the corner, anarrow cot with a straw-stuffed mattress, a ragged few quilts, and what lookslike a buffalo robe, thick and heavy. “Go get under that beforeyou bite your tongue off with your teeth chattering.”

Lucy looks at him for that extra brief, oblique moment, thendoes so, crawling under the heap of covers. Flynn himself is too cold, but alsotoo proud to ask her to bring one over, and besides, he should probablykeep watch. He takes out his gun, checks it thoroughly, makes sure it’s all ingood working order. He has no idea what he’s expecting to bust through the doorin the middle of a blizzard. The Abominable Snowman? Wyatt? The AbominableSnowman, Wyatt?

It grows late. Lucy’s breath slows, but he doesn’tthink she’s asleep. The fire is low, drying their clothes is leaching most ofthe warmth from it, and the chill is savage. He can hear Lucy’s teethcontinuing to chatter, no matter how hard she tries to stop it. He can bereasonably certain that they are not about to be hit with a midnight ambush,though it would be unforgivable for his vigilance to slip and permit it. Finallyhe says gruffly, “You sound like a nutcracker.”

“S-sorry.” He hears the straw of the mattress rustle as Lucytries to hunker further down. The bed is in the corner, however, and there isdefinitely a lot of wind swirling in. His teeth are starting to rattlethemselves. He’s spent time in Russia during winter (and Russia in general). Ifthere’s one thing he’s used to, it’s cold. But he always had modern microfiberjackets, hand warmers, boiling samovars of tea, modern buildings with modernfucking insulation. Not this joke of a cabin, perched in the butt-end ofnowhere, just a few logs and slaps of mortar keeping out the elements. He’d golook for more firewood, but he’d lose his way quickly. No flashlight, not evena lantern.

God, he hates the past.

Flynn considers a moment more, knowing that he isn’t goingto ask her, and neither is she going to ask him. Both of them are remarkablystubborn like that. He is angry with her, yes, but he also doesn’t want to sit hereand listen to her slowly freeze – if only since trying to explain to Wyattbloody Logan what happened would be even worse. He remains where he is. Then heturns, takes a few strides across the creaking floor, and shucks his boots, gunholster, and remaining jacket. She shifts almost automatically as he climbs inbehind her, putting himself between her and the wall, settling himself into theuncomfortable, scratching mattress. He pulls out the buffalo robe and tucks itfirmly over both of them, not sure where to rest his arm. Her hip is thenatural location, but, well. He holds it stiffly instead, awkwardly.

Lucy’s breathing catches slightly. He is big enough to engulfher nicely as they spoon, his chin on top of her head, the pillow thin andflat, but he doesn’t pay attention. He can feel a slight heat between themwhere their cold bodies press together, and after a few minutes, notices thathe has forgotten to keep his arm propped away from her. It falls around her,tucking her into his chest, and he makes a movement to pull it back. She shiftsinvoluntarily, stopping him.

Flynn can feel a definite and particular tightness in his chest(and elsewhere) that doesn’t necessarily have to do with the freezing air. He isforcibly reminded of cuddling with Lorena on lazy weekend mornings, feetsticking out from beneath the quilts, her warm and boneless in his arms,neither of them wanting to get up to make breakfast, until Iris ran in andtackled them. Lucy feels that same way, soft and warm and fluid and female,melting into him despite herself, until Flynn can feel himself unavoidably responding,and he tries to shift her away. No. Oh, no. She doesn’t get to know she’shaving this effect. This power. Over him. That she always has.

(Garcia Flynn is a very smart man in many ways.)

(He is a very stupid one in many others.)

Lucy subconsciously resists his effort to separate them,which has the effect of bringing them rather closer as she squirms around. Theyend up side by side, her half on top of him, the buffalo robe twisted aroundthem both, their faces very close, staring at each other in the dark shadows ofthe dying fire. He can see her pulse hammering in her throat. She is sprawled onhim, she shifts just so, and both of them can feel his hardness wedge nicelybetween her legs. It’s not entirely indecent – there are still at least five layers of clothing separating them – but it is also far from the innocentpursuit of warmth. Her eyelashes flutter, and he gulps back a choked breath,still trying to get her off. “Lucy – ”

She doesn’t answer. Still looking down at him. If theblasted woman is going to try to use this moment as blackmail, proving that heis lying out his ass when he says he doesn’t care for her or want anything fromher… well, it’s probably no more than he deserves, for being stupid enoughto get himself into this situation in the first place. She gives a slight,involuntary roll of her hips, dragging herself against him, and one of hishands rises, entirely without his consent of course, to grip hold of her. The otherrises to her face, giving in and tucking the loose strand of hair behind herear. Despite the cold, he can see a bead of sweat starting on her brow.

Flynn touches the bow of her lower lip, opening her mouth, runninghis callused thumb along the line of her teeth. Pushes a bit, into the warmth,as she sucks it for a moment, curling her tongue. Then he pulls back, strokingalong the line of her cheekbone, leaving a slight glisten on her skin. She grindson him again, harder and more deliberately this time, and he feels the frissonof shock and sensation to the back of his spine. If it feels this good with allthe clothes, he wonders, how much better might it feel without?

He’s not entirely sure if the same question has occurred toLucy, though from the look on her face, he’ll flatter himself that she is notcompletely hating this. One of her smaller hands finds its way into his largerone, fingers linking, as she pushes it back alongside his head. He’s still onhis back beneath her; she’s the one in control of this, guiding them throughthis strange, sensitive, silent – whatever it is. Their eyes remain locked,unblinking, as his other hand drifts down and settles on her hip, thumbsettling in the hollow, fingers tracing the line of her slender waist. He feelsimpossibly guilty, as if he’s straight-up cheating on Lorena, no matter theattractions of the current situation. As if she might walk in from the night, aghost of the forest, see this, and be horrified. If he does somehow see her again– if he had to explain –

Lucy can sense his misgivings, the way something has subtly changed,and it’s impossible to say what exactly crosses her face. After a moment,however, she lets go of his hand, and slides back on her knees, rolling offhim. The heat lingers, but muted, dulled, burning lower, like the flame in thehearth. Flynn closes his eyes hard, clenching his fist, still able to feel heragainst it. He is not sure if he wants to dream of Lorena and Iris tonight ornot. It feels better, safer, wiser to keep them away from this.

A voice jeers in his head, asking when he ever did the wise thing. He ignores it.

Lucy settles down next to him again,as he lets out a long sigh and tugs the robe straight, staring at the ceiling,listening to the wind wail. He waits. Her breath slows. This time, he thinks that she is in fact asleep.

He’s fairly sure that he won’t.Has gotten far too used to these long, lonely, bitter, silent vigils.

And yet, eventually, with Lucysleeping next to him, curled into his side – if she can fall asleep rightbeside him, let her guard down like this, she must know he’s certainly not going to hurt her, still trustshim, stupidly, stupidly – he does.

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