#but i imagine it makes more sense in hotter climates | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

mariasont · 2 months

Text

Our Minds Entwined-----------------------

ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4, ch 5, ch 6, ch 7

MDNI !!!!!--------------------------------------------------------------------

pairings: aaron hotchner x oc x spencer reid summary: in which jason gideon's daughter joins the fbi as the newest, youngest member warnings: soft dom spencer, sub oc, making out, sexual tension, age gap, fingering, dirty talk, i think that's it!

Chapter Six:

As the SUV rolled into the small, sunbaked town of Maricopa, Arizona, the heat hit them like a physical force. The town lay simmering under the relentless sun. The mercury had soared to a scorching 113, and the air summered with heatwaves rising from the parched earth. It had been weeks since Evelyn's last case, filled with a growing sense of belonging at the BAU, yet blemished by an internal battle against thoughts she deemed incredibly inappropriate--thoughts of Hotch and Reid.

As she stepped out into the furnace that was midday Arizona, the heat enveloped her like a suffocating blanket. She was clad in a light, sleeveless tank top that clung to her form, paired with loose-fitting cargo pants that allowed her some respite from the heat.

Behind her, Hotch and Reid were thankful their sunglasses hid the way their eyes followed the sight of Evelyn, her silhouette outlined against the harsh glare of the sun.

As Evelyn's gaze lingered on Spencer, the sight of his shirt sleeves casually rolled to his elbows, sent a warm shiver down her spine. She caught her breath, her teeth gently catching on her lip in a futile attempt to stop the fluttering in her chest. When he spoke, a dimple would flash momentarily on his cheek, a fleeting view that would leave her heart aching for more.

Her thoughts then turned to Hotch, whose commanding aura was accentuated by the way the heat caused his shirt to cling to his broad shoulders. She couldn't help but think of how he would look on top of her, pinning her own shoulders down. Even in the sweltering sun, he exuded an air of cool authority that was as compelling as it was intimidating.

Both equally alluring in their own right. It was a dangerous game, letting her mind wander like this.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the images. 'Focus,' she chided herself.

The sun bore down mercilessly on the small town of Maricopa, turning the air into a tangible curtain of heat. Evelyn wiped at her forehead, the fabric of her handkerchief quickly dampening as she exhaled a labored breath. "I knew it'd be hot, but this is like walking into an oven."

Hotch, his silhouette sharp against the blinding backdrop, offered a firm nod, the lines of his face set in stoic resolve.

"Focus on the case, Evelyn. The heat is just another variable to manage." Yet, even he seemed to succumb to the sweltering climate, his fingers deftly unfastening the top buttons of his shirt.

Evelyn's eyes traced the movement, a flush of embarrassment warming her cheeks even more as she imagined a completely different scenario.

God, she needed to get laid.

Spencer emerged last, his curls already beginning to curl from the oppressive humidity. "Actually, if we consider the heat index, it's more akin to a convection oven. The humidity amplifies the subjective temperature, making it feel even hotter."

Evelyn's smirk lingered as she absorbed Reid's attempt at reassurance. "Thanks, Reid. That's... oddly comforting," she quipped, the irony not lost on her.

The scene before them was a desolate stretch of road, a dusty turnout off a seldom-used highway. A lone car sat in the center; its paint job dulled by the sun's unforgiving rays.

Hotch's voice cut through the stillness. "Let's get to work. Keep an eye out for anything that might give us insight into the unsub's patterns."

The rest of the team was back with the local PD, leaving just the three of them to navigate the scene. They moved with precision, each step deliberate, documenting everything. The heat was a constant pressure, an invisible force that sought to overwhelm them.

Evelyn seemed almost like a mirage to Hotch and Reid. The fabric hugged her form as beads of sweat traced paths down her skin. As she leaned forward to inspect the car door, Spencer's attention by the curve of her breasts. He quickly redirected his thoughts, focusing on the task at hand.

"There's a discrepancy in the tire impressions," he began. "They're inconsistent with the victim's tire treads. It's possible we're looking a secondary vehicle, potentially the unsubs."

"The victim, Michael Torres, 34, he's far from his last known location at the diner. He was an accountant, no known enemies." Evelyn announces from memory, her gaze sweeping over the bleak scene, "but how did the unsub lure him out here? Especially if he brought his own car? How could he prevent the victim from just driving off? Going to the police station?"

"It's possible the unsub used a ruse to get Torries out here." Hotch suggested, his posture rigid as he folded his arms over his chest.

Spencer, his brow furrowed in concentration dragged his thumb across his bottom lip. "Or the unsub could have disabled the vehicle remotely after Torres arrived, preventing him from leaving."

Evelyn's eyes narrowed as she considered the implications. "That would require technical expertise," she mused aloud. "Do we have anything in his background that suggests he was targeted for his skills?"

Hotch shook his head gently. "Not that we've seen," he confirmed.

Evelyn's moment of contemplation was brief, her lips pursing in a thoughtful pout that captured the attention of both Spencer and Hotch. She reached for her phone and dialed Garcia.

"Tech Goddess Garcia, at your beck and call my queen," Penelope's voice rang out, a vibrant contrast to the arid scene around them.

Evelyn's laughter, light and unexpected, seemed to momentarily soften the edges of the harsh environment. "Hi, P. Can you cross-reference Michael Torres' financials? Look for any anomalies or recent tech purchases."

"On it, sug! I'll work my magic and get back to you," Garcia replied. Evelyn, with a smile playing on her lips, voiced her thanks before gently disconnecting the call.

"Also, let's consider the possibility of coercion. The unsub might have threatened someone Torres cared about," Spencer mused, his voice steady despite the heat that seemed to press upon them with an almost physical weight. Droplets of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his hair, now clung to his temples in damp curls.

"But there's no mention of a missing person connected to him," Evelyn countered.

"Right. Let's keep digging. The answer is here; we just need to connect the dots." A pause, then a slight tilt of his head towards Evelyn, Hotch's voice carrying the faintest hint of dry humor. "Let's get out of this heat, Evelyn looks like she's about to pass out."

Evelyn, caught off guard by the rare flicker of levity in Hotch's tone, stopped fanning herself. "Hey," she giggled, "I think the heat's getting to you too. You're starting to sound almost human." Her words were light, teasing, and in the vast expanse of the desert, she swore she caught a brief smile before he turned towards the SUV.

Inside the bustling precinct, the team gathered around a cluster of desks, papers and photographs spread out before them. Officers darted between the rows of desks, their voices a low murmur punctuated by the occasional crackle of radios. The conditioning was a welcome reprieve from the desert's furnace.

"Local PD says there's no pattern in victims' jobs or social circles. It's like the unsub is choosing them at random." Prentiss's voice cut through the buzz of the station.

Mirroring her team's attire, Prentiss donned a casual v-neck today, a file in her hand fanning the heat off her face. She paced the room, arms clasped behind her.

"There's gotta be a link," Morgan argues, his voice tinged with frustration. He stands firmly, his posture is assertive. His eyes, dark and focused, scan the team, seeking any sign of agreement, "unsubs don't just throw darts at a phone book."

"Unless we're dealing with a thrill killer. But this feels more... personal." Rossi spoke, leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed in thought.

Evelyn leaned forward, her gaze flitting across the faces of her colleagues, settling on Spencer's. "Three victims, three different lives. There has to be something that ties them together," she asserted.

"Well, they all suffered in that heat. Maybe that's our common thread--punishment." Prentiss suggests.

"Speaking of heat, I never thought I'd say this, but I'm actually missing those chilly Quantico mornings." Morgan manages with a wry smile.

Rossi, with a chuckle a knowing glance towards Morgan, retorts, "you? I recall a certain someone complaining all last winter."

Evelyn chimes in, her laughter crinkling the corners of her eyes as she gently shakes her head, "I think we can all agree, a little less sun and a little more snow wouldn't hurt."

The sound of a phone ringing cuts through their exchange. Evelyn glances at their caller ID and a smile forms on her lips, softening the tension in her jaw.

"Hi P, you're on with the team." Evelyn answers, switching to speaker. The device clicks and Garcia's voice spills into the room.

"Hello, my knights in standard-issue body armor! I have news," she announces, "all of the victims made purchases from a company called Key Innovations. They make those fancy remote car keys--like, the kind that can start your car from inside a building."

"That's our link." Hotch notes, " Get as much information as you can on the employees, Garcia. Evelyn, you're with me. We need to pay this Key Innovations a visit."

The SUV's engine hummed as it cut through the streets, a steady backdrop to the hush that had fallen over Evelyn and Hotch. She stole a glance at him, his profile etched with the usual stoicism, eyes hidden behind his dark sunglasses.

"You know," Evelyn began, her voice a soft flutter against the buzz of the AC, "I've never actually been to a company like Key Innovations. The tech must be pretty advanced, right? To remotely disable a car like that?"

Hotch's reply was curt, his gaze never leaving the road. "It's a specialized field. Their technology could be a critical piece of this case."

Evelyn's fingers danced over her badge, the metallic surface cool against her warm skin. "Right, right. Critical. It's just... well, it's fascinating, isn't it? How something designed to make life easier can be twisted into... this."

"It's often the case. Progress has it shadows." Hotch noted.

Evelyn, her hair coiled into a bun atop her head to escape the heat's caress, felt the air conditioning brush against the exposed nape of her neck. Hotch's gaze, though obscured, lingered a moment too long on the delicate curve.

"I've been meaning to ask--how do you stay so composed? With everything we see?" Evelyn asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Focus on the victims, the justice they deserve. It keeps things in perspective." Hotch replied, his voice steady.

"I guess I'm still learning that part," Evelyn sighed, "sometimes it all just feels overwhelming, amazing, but overwhelming."

"It takes time," Hotch says with a curt nod. "You're doing well."

"Thanks, sir. I just really love this job, you know? It's just that sometimes it feels like I'm running alongside professional athletes. And I'm just... me. I mean, I keep up, sure. I have my morning routine--high-protein breakfast, you know, eggs, Greek yogurt, the works. It's actually because of my anemia. Not a big deal, really. But it's like my own personal marathon every day, keeping pace with you guys."

Hotch remained silent for a moment, his eyes never leaving the road. Then, without turning, the corners of his mouth twitched upwards ever so slightly.

"Agent, take a breath."

Evelyn's rambling came to an abrupt halt, and she let out a small, nervous laugh. "Right."

The sleek glass doors of Key Innovations slid open with a whisper, ushering Hotch and Evelyn into the cool, modern lobby. The receptionist looked up, a practiced smile ready on her lips, but it faltered and died under Hotch's firm gaze.

"I'm Special Agent Hotchner, and this is Special Agent Gideon. We need to speak with your CEO," Hotch announced, his voice echoing slightly in the vast space of the lobby as we presented our badges.

The receptionist nodded, her fingers trembling slightly as she pressed the intercom button. "Mr. Landon, FBI agents are here to see you."

A voice crackled through, calm and collected. "Send them up."

As they ascended to the top floor, Evelyn's nerves buzzed. She watched Hotch, his every move exuding authority and purpose.

They were greeted by a man with sharp eyes that held a hint of caution and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Agents, I'm James Landon. What can I do for you?"

"We believe your products have been used in a series of murders. We need a list of customers who've purchased your remote car keys as well as your employees in the past six months," Hotch stated.

Landon's eyes flickered with concern, a shadow passing over his face. "Of course, I'll get that for you right away."

Minutes later, they poured over the list in a conference room. "Hotch," Evelyn points out, her finger tapping against a name on the list, "Look. Simon Travers, he processed the orders for all of the victims."

"Is Travers in the building?" Hotch questioned, his gaze never leaving the list.

Landon nodded, a hint of unease creeping into his eyes. "Yes, he's one of our programmers."

Travis was found in his office, a nest of gadgets and screen that hummed and blinked with a life of their own. His surprise at their presence was palpable, but he masked it quickly.

"Mr. Travers, we need you to come with us for questioning regarding the misuse of your company's products," Hotch state, his tone leaving no room for argument.

As Hotch and Evelyn escorted Simon Travers through the bustling corridors of Key Innovations, tensions hung in the air like static. Travers, with hands cuffed in front of him, a defiant tilt to his chin. He turned his head slightly towards Evelyn, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Must be my lucky day, getting arrested by such a pretty face," Travers smirked, his eyes raking over Evelyn in a way that made her skin crawl.

The comment sliced through the professional veneer of the moment, and Evelyn's stride didn't falter, but her eyes flashed with disapproval. Before she could respond, Hotch stepped slightly in front of her, his voice low and edged with a warning.

"Watch your mouth," he growled.

The interrogation room was awash with the harsh, unyielding glare of the overhead lights, which hummed incessantly above. They cast a clinical pallor on the team, their faces etched with the indelible marks of fatigue. Travers remained seated; his composure seemingly unshaken by the grueling hours of scrutiny.

In the midst of the tense atmosphere, Evelyn's yawn cut through the silence, a delicate yet unguarded moment that caught Spencer's attention. He couldn't help but watch her, the way her eyes fluttered closed slower than usual, her lashes casting long shadows down her cheeks, the way the corners of her mouth downturned in a soft frown of exhaustion. It was rare glimpse of vulnerability that Spencer found incredibly endearing, a contrast to her usual ball of energy.

Rossi, ever the observant one, caught the exchange and responded with a wry smile, "You know, in some culture, yawning is considered a sign of deep thinking. Or is it just your subtle way of saying we're boring you, Evelyn?"

Her tired eyes twinkled at the comment as she shot back, "If that were true, Rossi, I think we'd all be geniuses by now."

"We're done for tonight," Hotch declared, his voice devoid of his usual sharpness, worn down by the day's exertions. "he's not giving anything up."

"Because I have nothing to hide. I didn't do anything," Travers retorted, his voice unwavering.

Hotch let out a deep sigh, the sound heavy with the weight of a 14-hour deadlock. He rose from his chair, the movement sluggish, a signal to the oppressive heat that seeped into their bones. "Let's pack it up. We'll continue tomorrow."

The team's exhaustion was evident, Hotch's once crisp suit now clinging to his skin, tie loosened in a futile attempt to alleviate the sweltering heat. Evelyn's eyes were softened by the relentless temperature that mocked the coolness of the room's decor. As they collected their belongings, their movements slow, mechanical--each step was a battle against the invisible battle of the exhaustion and heat.

The hotel was a beacon of rest in the night, but as they arrived, the front desk clergy greeted them with an apologetic frown. "I'm sorry we're overbooked. You'll have to double up on rooms."

Hotch took the news in stride, quickly making arrangements for the team. "JJ and Prentiss, you're together. Rossi and Morgan, you've got a room. And Spencer, you're with Evelyn."

The hotel room door clicked shut behind Spencer and Evelyn, the sound echoing slightly in the compact space. They stood there for a moment, an awkward silence stretching between them. The awkwardness skyrocketing as their gaze landed on the situation before them. One bed. Of course.

"I can take the floor," Spencer suggested, grabbing Evelyn's bag, setting it beside his own by the dresser.

Evelyn's response came with a dismissive wave, "don't be ridiculous, it's big enough, we can both take a side." Her voice carried her usual confidence, though her insides were aflutter with what that might mean. "Do you mind if I take the first shower?"

"Of course, go ahead. I'll just... um, go over the case notes again while you do that."

Evelyn nodded and disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water soon filling the room. Spencer's breath hitched in his throat as he noticed the door slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of light within the bathroom.

With his case files before him as a cover, he watched as Evelyn stood in the crack, slipping her shirt gently over her head. Spencer knew he was supposed to look away, he knew that. Next came her bra, falling to the floor, leaving the slope of her back to Spencer, her hair dropping against the bare skin.

Spencer tore his gaze away as she reached for her pants, trailing a finger over the files with one hand and rubbing the bridge of his nose with the other. A few minutes later, the water stopped, an Evelyn emerged, a cloud of steam billowing out behind her. She hadn't realized the door hadn't closed fully, and Spencer quickly averted his gaze, his cheeks coloring with embarrassment.

"Oh! Sorry, I didn't mean to... I thought I closed the door."

"It's... it's fine. I didn't see anything." Spencer stumbled over his words, his hand instinctively reaching for the back of his neck.

Evelyn was now dressed in a tiny pair of pajamas, the fabric light and airy against her skin. It left nothing to the imagination, the shorts riding up with every step, her generous curves filling out all the right places, the outline of her nipples evident despite the heat.

"Well, I guess this is the one way to beat the heat, huh? These PJs are practically made of air." Evelyn joked as she ran a brush through her wet hair.

Spencer managed a nervous chuckle, his eyes darting anywhere but at Evelyn. "Yeah, the heat... it's definitely something."

Evelyn made her way across the room, tossing her hair into a loose ponytail, attempting to gain some relief off her neck. Her frame stopped at her bag, reaching down to neatly shove her clothes back in the duffel.

Spencer the flames rise to his cheeks as he attempted to keep his focus glued to the files before him. It took everything in him to not ogle the woman who stood in practically nothing and eventually his resolve didn't hold. He started at her ankles, rising slowly over her legs, taking his time, drinking her in. His eyes halted at the soft curve of her ass, God, he'd never seen an ass like that.

He cursed himself for thinking like that, for imagining his coworker, much younger coworker at that, in such a way. He felt like a pervert, imagining her in compromising positions, her hands braced against the dresser, his chest flush against her back.

Evelyn turned back towards the bed and Spencer covered his state with a clearing of his throat. She made her way to the bed, letting her bare legs slip under the comforter.

"Did you know," Spencer began, adjusting his glasses, "that the body is bioluminescent? We usually emit a small amount of light, but it's a thousand times weaker than the human eye can perceive."

"Well, if we start glowing any brighter, we might just save on the electricity bill," Evelyn quipped, a smirk playing on her lips as she tucked herself under the comforter. Her gaze lingering on his.

Spencer glanced at Evelyn, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "Actually, the human body could power a small light bulb with the energy it emits," he said.

Evelyn's laughter bubbled up uncontrollably at his response. She leaned in, tucking her head against his shoulder. Spencer's initial reaction was a slight stiffening, the unfamiliarity of the contact sending a jolt through him, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the temperature.

Evelyn settled into the bed, her body relaxing as she nestled her head into the soft pillow. Spencer, meanwhile, rose to dim the lights, leaving only the lamp beside him to cast a gentle glow across the room. He then rejoined her, sitting upright with the case files spread before him, his mind still entrenched in the details.

"Spence, it's late," Evelyn murmured, her voice tinged with concern. "You can go over that in the morning. You need rest."

He glanced at her, the faintest hint of a weary smile on his lips. "The mind has a remarkable capacity for nocturnal problem-solving," he replied, his gaze returning to the papers.

Evelyn sighed softly. "So, where do we go from here then?" she asked, shifting to face him.

"We keep interrogating him," Spencer explained, "we'll use the profile, find the leverage points and get inside his head. It's only a matter of time."

As he spoke, Evelyn's leg accidentally brushed against his. A flush of warmth spread across her cheeks, but Spencer seemed unfazed, his focus unbroken as he continued detailing their strategy.

Evelyn felt her eyes drift closed, the steady hum of his voice washing over her. The file slipped from Spencer's fingers as his eyes followed Evelyn's movement, the sheets rustling as she pulled them around her, hair falling against her neck, the tips tickling the exposed flesh.

He was suddenly very aware of how close she was, his thoughts turning from the case, his mind solely on her.

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she burrowed deeper into the blankets, the soft light framing her face, her long lashes fluttering. He let his gaze roam over her, his heart stuttering as her legs brushed his again. His heart beat a rapid rhythm in his chest, his hands fisting the sheets as his body responded to the contact.

He reached over to the lamp, flicking it off as he let the darkness envelop them both.

The night had deepened into its quietest hours. Spencer's eyes fluttered open to a soft sound, a distant echo that seemed out of place in the stillness. As his senses sharpened, he became acutely aware of the warmth against him, the gentle rise and fall of Evelyn's breathing. At some point during the night, they had gravitated towards each other, his hands planted firmly against her back and ass.

He quickly redacted his touch, palming through his hair as he made out the peaceful expression on her face. Her features softened in her sleep, her lips parted slightly, her arm rested on the pillow next to this, hand splayed open.

"Spencer," Evelyn whispered.

Spencer's gaze widened; she was still asleep. Compelled by a force he couldn't name, his hand sought hers, fingers intertwining with a gentleness that belied his racing heart.

Evelyn's moan drifted into the silence. The sound sending an unexpected pleasure through him. His hold on her involuntarily tightened. His eyes darted back to her, breath lodged in his throat, as he became acutely aware of the peaks of her breasts poking through her top.

Once more, she stirred, her breasts drawing close, her back arching ever so slightly. She was having a sex dream, he realized. Her leg swept across the sheets, sending a soft graze of her knee against his. He sucked in a breath as he felt the familiar surge of arousal, his cock hardening as his name fell from her lips again.

A hushed moan parted her lips once more as she shifted relentlessly, writhing softly. Finally settling her ass firmly in the nook of his front. Spencer exhaled a shaky breath, his hands gravitating to her hips with an urgency that betrayed him, fingers pressing into the fabric of her shorts in an attempt to still her movements.

This was wrong, he thought to himself, willing rational thought to take over. It felt like a betrayal to even entertain the thought, a silent war waged in the recesses of his mind. She laid before him, not just a coworker but a friend, one at least seven years his junior. And yet, the blood rushing to his cock and Evelyn's parted lips calling his name seemed to cut his IQ in half. A fog descending over his reason.

A wave of desperation guided his free hand up the delicate curve of her neck, entwining with the curls at her nape, pulling her closer into his chest. Evelyn's eyelids lifted slowly, a drowsy haze giving way to clarity as she registered the hold. The reality of their closeness, the arousal coursing through her, and the slickness between her thighs washed over her.

Her voice was a soft tremor in the stillness, "Spence," she whispered, her voice tinged with uncertainty, now fully awake.

"Seems like you were having a bad dream, Evelyn," Spencer murmured, his fingers gently coaxing her hair, drawing her into the warmth of his breath, his lips hovering close, "the mind has a peculiar way of weaving narratives when we're most vulnerable."

A wave of warmth surged to her cheeks, the dream's vivid memories flooding her senses, each one starring him. She found herself momentarily breathless as her body instinctively softened against his. Her thighs clenching, seeking to soothe the deepening ache that thrummed through her every heartbeat.

Words deserted her, her thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind as his fingers sketched a path along her hip, coming to a deliberate pause on the tender skin of her inner thigh, tantalizingly close to where she needed him to be. Her hand swept back in a natural arc, fingers threading through his hair, securing a tender hold as his lips brushed softly against the crease of her neck.

His fingers danced along the canvas of her thighs, igniting a yearning within her that propelled her body against his, driven by a fervent desire to diminish the space between them. Her panties were reduced to a soaking mess.

His fingers danced on her wrist, her body pushing into his in a desperate attempt to be closer.

"Tell me to stop." His plea unfurled in the hush, raspy and laden with sleep, as if each word was a desperate clawing against the silence. "Tell me to stop, Evelyn, because I think if I don't now, I'll never be able to."

"Spencer, please," came Evelyn's soft murmur, not even sure what she was asking for.

Her fingers curled tighter into the soft rebellion of his hair as she pivoted to face him, her gaze delving into his, drinking in the sight, absorbing every line, every contour. His eyes, wide and ravenous, betrayed a longing as palpable as the hands that ached to trace her every curve.

Her soft utterance was all the invitation he needed; his hands framed her face like a cherished verse, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was both reckless and rooted in need. His fingers made its way between them, as he flipped her onto her back, his body towering over hers. Evelyn gasped into his mouth as his fingers drew delicate circles on her clit, her body instinctively rising in an arch to meld with his.

"God, you're so fucking wet, Evelyn." His obscene words only seemed to amplify the problem, prompting her thighs to clench together, but his hands prevented her from doing so. A moan was her only response, her hands reaching out to desperately cling to him, distrustful of her ability to speak.

"You want me to make you feel good?" He questions, his fingers teasing Evelyn's entrance, tracing up and down her slit. Evelyn's nod was fraught with urgency, her head tilting back, surrendering to the softness of the pillow. Her fingers twisted into the sheets, gripping them tightly. "I know, princess."

His fingers plunged into her wetness, her moan coming out as a sob of relief. Her hands found their way around his neck as her hips grinded against the palm of his hand. A ghost of a smirk played on Spencer's lips at the reaction. His lips found her neck, settling at the sensitive flesh behind her ear.

His pace increased. As she threaded her fingers through Spencer's hair, it only spurred him on, his movements relentless. Her mind was blank, every thought eclipse of his face. Evelyn tried to speak, to say what? She wasn't sure. All that came were breathless moans.

"You're doing so good, sweetheart," Spencer's praise traveled all the way to her pussy, clenching around his fingers as he spoke, "look at you, you're such a mess princess."

The familiar coil of anticipation tightened in Evelyn's core, her breaths growing labored as she grasped at Spencer, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "Spencer, I--"

He silenced her with a decisive motion, his hands tracing the contours of her face as he pressed his lips to hers hard. Her sobs melted into the kiss as she writhed beneath him. "I know. Go ahead, let go for me."

His words were all she needed, her body convulsing suddenly as pleasure washed over her. Her eyes, brimming with the shimmer of tears, sought out Spencer's face. Her thumb finding his bottom lip as she grinded her body against his. A Chesire grin spread across his face, leisurely and content, as he eased his pace, letting her ride out her high.

Her eyes fluttered as she tried to recover, her mind a haze of disorientation. Her fingers danced lightly across his face and neck, exploring to warmth of his skin. With a gentle press of his lips to each cheek, he drew out a smile from Evelyn, dazed and luminous, her chest rising and falling. She had never felt so euphoric.

Her hands immediately flew to his pajama pants, dancing along the line of his boxers, drawing him closer, as her lips found his. A soft chuckle escaped him as he seized her wandering hands, halting their advance with a gentle firmness.

"Spencer," she uttered with a pout, her gaze intensifying as if to memorize his every feature, "let me return the favor."

"Can't let you do that, sweetheart," he protested with a smile. "If I did, I will never focus on another thing again. Remember, my eidetic memory would replay that moment with relentless precision every hour," he paused, planting a kiss on her temple, "every minute," another to her nose, "every second," and finally, a lingering kiss to her lips.

taglist: @nonamevenus @aceofspades190

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid x oc #aaron hotchner x oc #spencer red fic #aaron hotchner smut #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner x reader x spencer reid #aaron hotchner x oc x spencer reid #criminal minds smut #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner #spencer reid #Spotify

153 notes · View notes

eternal-moss · 2 years

Text

Candace redesign ft my brilliant editing skills.

Okay so- things I changed:

-I made her skin darker and her hair curlier because she is inspired by Kush which was situated in ancient Sudan and some of Egypt and if you look at literally any art from that time the skin is rarely as pale as her actual design

-I switched the long sleeve from the left arm to the right because I thought that having two large elements (shield + sleeve) might be a bit unbalanced

-I made the lower half of her clothes resemble a shendyt because I didn’t really like the undershorts

-I made her top half have more clothes (lol) and I kinda imagine the metal strips around her rib cage to go all the way round, like an exoskeleton, so that if a blunt attack hit her, she’d have some armouring that wasn’t too heavy

-I made her shoulder guard cover more of her shoulder

-I made her arms+legs+torso wider because I barely know anyone in real life who’s that skinny

Things I kept the same:

-The sandals; I used to have sandals like that and they are super comfy + allow for good movement. They are also good for hotter climates so it makes sense for her to wear them

-The ankh+necklace+shield; Candace is allegedly supposed to be based off the historical figure Kandake from Kush, and the Kushite kingdom spread into Egypt, which is why I think they added stuff like the ankh to her, as well as the eagle symbol on her shield which reminds me a lot of Rome.

She’s not the only person to have Greco-Roman influences in their character with Egypt, as Cyno, who is very heavily based off Anubis, has his own name come from Greek (κύων) which means dog, (and ‘cyno’ is still used in English as a prefix in taxonomy for dog like animals) because Anubis is either based off jackals or wild dogs.

#Genshin impact #Genshin fanart #Genshin Candace #Candace fanart #Genshin redesign #Candace redesign #longish post #my art #Sorry I’m not able to draw gold very well ππ #Candace #Redesign

425 notes · View notes

elwenyere · 1 year

Note

Late, but: On Stolen Time for the director's commentary meme

Thank you so much for this ask, my dear. <3<3<3

Asks are from this director's cut meme.

The first spark for "On Stolen Time" came to me while I was reflecting on the importance of autonomy to my understanding of Cassian and Melshi's relationship. On the most basic level, I think of them as two people who helped each other get free, and it makes sense to me that that would be the foundation for all their subsequent interactions. And then I had the thought: how awful would it be if the first time they fucked, it happened under circumstances where complete and unfettered consent was impossible?

And thus, my first sex-pollen fic was spawned. Spored. Manufactured in a nefarious Imperial lab.

Some things that I discovered and enjoyed:

The first idea I had for the fic was that Cassian and Melshi would have a wee fight over whether they were going to fuck the pollen out, because Cassian would obviously be focused on saving Melshi's life, and it would take a while for Melshi to admit/explain that he was more afraid of breaking something about what Cassian meant to him than he was of dying. I imagine that Melshi, like many other Rebels, would come to see his own death as a near-inevitability at a certain point, and that one of the things that makes that deal feel worth it is that he gets to keep fighting beside Cassian. So it might be more painful for him to imagine having to live with knowing that he'd fucked up the freest thing in his life than it would be to imagine dying.

Of course Cassian is not having that at all, and I imagine that both he and Melshi know that he's using his powers of manipulation (carefully, but definitely using them) as he chooses which arguments to make in order to convince Melshi he wants him (which is both true and also a point he needs to win to keep Melshi alive). Thus Melshi's, “You can be a real bastard, you know that?”: I think Melshi is still not totally convinced this isn't going to end the way he fears, but he has to let Cassian make the choice to try to save him for the same reasons he originally resisted that solution.

"Cassian runs cold" has been a hc of mine for explaining his preference for unseasonably large and numerous jackets (the way he's never quite adjusted to cooler climates), and I liked incorporating that here into a scenario where Melshi would be running even hotter than usual - in a way that's both a sign of the danger and an edge on the pleasure. (Also, as you have pointed out to me, I have a Thing for Melshi putting his hand on the small of Cassian's back. <3)

This was my first time focalizing narration through Cassian, and that was probably the hardest part of writing the story for me. Writing Cassian from the outside, there's a lot to play with in terms of how another character reads (or fails to read) the shifts and slips in his expressions, movements, voice, words. From the inside, one of the challenges for me is deciding how many layers of that performance Cassian is aware of himself: what would register consciously enough for it to show up in interior narration, and what is he looking away from so determinedly that it's only going to emerge indirectly - through displacement or silence or projection - even when we have access to his interiority? One of the ways I tried to play with that in this story is in the tension he experiences during sex among: (1) staying focused on his mission objective (to get Melshi off so that he doesn't die), (2) becoming affected by the intimacy of fucking someone he cares about (which ends up being a more overpowering factor than Cassian expected), and (3) experiencing a deep, low-level guilt about what happened to Melshi (which he's tried so hard to set aside in order to focus on 1 that it doesn't emerge consciously until he thinks Melshi's about to die).

Playing with those tensions led to my favorite line from this fic: "so few people had ever said Cassian’s name like that - like it was a place to rest instead of the key to some other door."

Thank you for giving me a chance to talk about this, fic, my dear!!! It means so much to know you enjoyed it. <3<3<3

#writer asks #director's cut #melshian #andor

10 notes · View notes

gemsofgreece · 2 years

Note

I hope you don’t mind the ask, but I was wondering if there are cultural differences, habits and “quirks” between different Greek regions and if yes, what may those be (like in my country each regions are very unique and there is quite the divide between North and South)

There are certainly some differences, however I believe that in general Greeks are particularly homogeneous. Different regions have slightly different folk tunes, a little different accents, a slightly different way of carrying themselves but these differences are small enough that I believe they are not easily detectable by non-Greeks.

(I am sorry, I wrote everything in a very messy way. I hope you can make sense out of it.)

First, there is the difference between West and East. West Greece is extremely mountainous but also has some islands that have the most west European-like version of Greek culture. In that sense, West Greece has a diverse culture, both based on agriculture and harsh living in the mountains and yet also the most gentle and European-influenced Greek culture of the sunny and lush green Heptanese islands. On the other hand, East Greece is exclusively islands with a hotter and dryer climate, and while supposedly they should be the most Anatolian-like, I feel like North Greece is slightly more Anatolian than East Greece (can be explained through history). East Greece probably has the most distinct version of Greek culture, in the sense that it might be the one least influenced by anything else. That's just a generic impression, I am not sure it is true.

In general, all islanders speak in a more sing-song accent than mainland Greeks.

There are big differences in architecture mostly between island and mountainous Greece.

Crete island on its own also is a little more distinct culturally as they are far from everyone else. They speak the Cretan dialect.

There are also the Greek Cypriots, of Cyprus (duh), which is its own country and the state runs differently than Greece. They speak the Cypriot dialect and when they speak fast to each other, you can't get a bloody word. They speak in Standard Greek around us "Kalamarades", as they call the Greeks of Greece. However when I met Cypriots for the first time, honestly I didn't see any cultural differences save for the strong accents. In fact, I used to imagine them more different than they proved to be.

I am not going to go through all the indigenous Greek minorities in other countries but distinct cultural expression can be seen in the Pontic Greeks in Turkey and the Greeks of South Italy. Greeks of Italy speak the Griko dialect and they have a cheerful Italian-influenced culture which they try to preserve. Pontic Greeks have suffered greatly and their cultural expression is more grave and solemn. They speak the Pontic Greek dialect which has many archaic elements and it is tough to understand too.

The biggest divide in theory, however, is between North and South Greece. While this divide has profound historical foundations, nowadays it is a residual idea that creates antagonism for no solid reason rather than an actual difference that truly distinguishes the Northerners from the Southerners. I say that as someone coming from somewhere in the middle; neither here nor quite there. In my opinion, apart from some minor details, they seem the same to me.

Northern and Southern Greeks have a little different accents. Northerners make some thicker "l" and "n" sounds whereas Southerners make some pronounced "ll" and "ñ" sounds. There are a few local accents in the North which to me sound like they are from the South though. In any case, we often make fun of all these accents. (I am talking only about accents, not dialects.)

They fight over using different words for the same meanings. I have partaken in this multiple times.

Northerners have the reputation of being more relaxed, generous, warm and friendly. This might be true when it comes to urban centers but many islanders and Southerners of smaller towns are definitely equally chill and relaxed.

For many reasons, both historical and geographical, the North is more multicultural and has more Balkan and Anatolian influences i.e in music and cuisine, but such influences have in truth overtook most of Greece to various degrees. North and South Greece still fight over which is the best at being Greece though. Like, honestly, Greeks quarrel over who's Greek-er 😂

Nowadays, the antagonism is reflected mostly through sports teams. Boy, do they hate each other.

I don't know if any Northerner and Southerner reads this and disagrees with the concept of being similar - this is my experience from living somewhere in the middle. There are differences that are clear among us but nothing evident enough to be spotted by non-Greeks unless they come to Greece for ages and have developed a good understanding of it. I'd say Greeks overall have a pretty unified sense of identity and cultural expression.

#greece #culture #europe #greek culture #anon #ask #greek people #greeks #pontic greeks #cyprus

36 notes · View notes

sunsrefuge · 1 year

Note

slightly weird one, but for whatever selection of folks you’d like—best to worst with temperature changes! who’s cool with any temperature/weather, whether it’s super hot or super cold? who only likes one extreme? who’d prefer it to be room temperature all the time? rank it however you want 😊 @kerra-and-company

Ooo i'll use my main cast for this!! :D Meaning those in my pinned post lol ((all of my temps are in F !! i do not know Celsius despite my many attempts to become familiar with it fkdjfh))

Best to Worst with Temperature Changes?

Phoenix - At this point she's just grown up traveling, so she's used to a lot of different climates! I'd imagine that she has no problem with adapting to new temperature changes, (unless it's very sudden and extreme ofc! but that gives anybody issues lol)

Vesnia - Also traveled a lot, but she's also the type to wish that the entire world was one solid, comfy temperature aksjdla She can survive in super hot or super cold, but she isn't living if that makes any sense gfkjHKD

Qlikk - Has a harder time, especially with hotter climates, but still more adaptable than the others listed below him ^^ he's traveled quite a bit! just... not for a really long time. :') he probably had the most trouble in the desert tbh!! he prefers like, temperate forest climates!! A little dip either way isn't too bad for him!

Liifa - Cold Bad !! Cold Bad !! what the fuck is snow? -- I'm half-kidding, he knows what snow is, he just doesn't like dealing with it. :D Something about ice and snow makes him uneasy; he hated Icebrood Saga. <3 Hot weather though?? give him 120 degrees (F) any day and he'll be vibing in a fucking cardigan. Heat is the only extreme he enjoys, he'll complain endlessly if he ends up anywhere under 50 degrees (F).

Eliana - She's quite adaptable, but super hot weather makes her feel wilty and super cold bothers her legs really bad, so :') Not as adaptable as she once was! She likes a little bit of chill, but has no complaints either way until it hits too much of an extreme!

Khozzak - he used to be so so much better at this. SO much better at this... but now he's kinda iced all over. He'd never go back to the desert like this, he's pretty sure he'd literally melt. putting him in the desert would be cruelty. please don't. ♥ the Shiverpeaks on the other hand... lookin' mighty comfortable now!! honestly temperature struggles might be the main reason Qlikk's talked him into settling down akjshdfsdg lil guy worries about his husband!!

#im not trying to spell F ♥ thank u for udnerstanding fkjfnvkjf #liifa's a reference to me growing up in the hottest part of texas and just. doing exactly that. idk guys i was like 13 #thank you so much for the ask !! <3 #c:Phoenix Rosemary #c:Vesnia Swiftreign #c:Qlikk #c:Liifa #c:Eliana of Dusk #c:Khozzak

2 notes · View notes

jefferoni-quotes · 4 years

Text

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

274 notes · View notes

tealin · 4 years

Text

Temperatures

As always, when you see one of these posts pop up you can head straight over to twirlynoodle.com/blog to see it properly formatted and with pictures. Tumblr didn't even take the crosspost last time so I don't know what's going on!

It’s all well and good to share photos of Antarctica – after all, it is a beautiful place, and we are predominantly a visual species. The photos can give you a sense of what it looks like, but not what it feels like. If people know anything about Antarctica, it’s that it’s cold. But how cold? And what kind of cold?

I cannot speak to the full range of Antarctic weather. I was down for exactly a month, in early summer, and aside from the first week, the weather was unusually calm and mild. To my great disappointment, I didn't see a single blizzard! But I did get enough to compare the feel of Antarctica with other places I have been, and I hope that by making those comparisons here, I will bring you a little closer to understanding quite literally what it feels like to be there.

Temperatures are misleading. A number can only give you an impression of what one might actually feel when one steps out the door. Humidity, sunshine, and wind are external factors that affect the perception of temperature; this can be further influenced by how much sleep or food you've had, BMI, resting metabolism, your accustomed climate, where you've just come from – so, 6°C can feel different from one day to the next, or to two different people standing side by side.

There are roughly two types of cold: dry and damp. The influential factor is water, because it takes a tremendous amount of energy to make water change temperature – this is why it takes so much power to boil a kettle, and why we bring hot water bottles to bed instead of hot gravel bottles. In dry environments, there is less water vapour in the air to suck up the heat coming off your body, so you get to keep more of it for yourself. It may be well below freezing, but you will feel the cold merely as a sensation on your skin, where it meets the air, and not something that goes right through you. Damp cold, because of the energy-hungry water in the air, feels a lot colder. It’s not enough merely to cover your skin, you need layers of fabrics that have moisture-repelling properties (wool is key; cotton is useless). Your precious body heat will leak out through any weak point in your clothing. Because of their different properties, dry air can be much colder than damp air and yet feel more comfortable. In my experience, damp cold is the worst when it’s above freezing, because below freezing the air can’t hold so much water. Damp climates, however, tend not to get much below freezing, so when people from damp climates imagine very cold temperatures, they imagine the insidious cold they know, only much much worse. It’s not necessarily like that.

Even the objective numerical value of a temperature presents a problem: my historical sources, and the United States of America, report temperatures in Fahrenheit, while the rest of the world operates in Celsius. Scientists prefer the metric system, but McMurdo is an American base, so it's functionally bilingual. I tend to think in Celsius, but as the historical record was in °F and I wanted to be able to compare what I was experiencing with what my guys experienced, I paid more attention to °F while I was down there. In this post, I will report actual temperatures in both, so you can look at whichever one you understand best.

When I left Britain in mid-October, we had been having a very mild autumn, after a hot summer. My hopes for hardening up a little on the way to Antarctica were dashed when Vancouver, though objectively colder, felt merely fresh and delightful, I assume because it was unseasonably dry. LA is always dry in the autumn and usually hot, so that was no surprise; Christchurch however was much warmer than expected, and because it wasn't as dry as LA, felt even hotter. After several days' delay there, I feared my blood was much too thin to be hurtled into ice and snow.

It is regulation to wear one's Extreme Cold Weather gear on the plane to McMurdo. Aware that I'd just had a fortnight of heat to thin my blood, and that they were just coming out of a cold snap down there, I was only too happy to take this precaution. When the plane landed, everyone piled on their balaclavas and tuques, and when the door opened, an icy-looking fog formed as our pent-up breaths met the cold air from outside. Here we go, I thought. As I approached the gangway I braced myself for the smart of cold air on exposed skin and the stiletto keenness as I inhaled, but . . .

. . . it was fine.

In fact, it was so fine that when I was allowed to change out of my ECW, I put on my street shoes, not even my cold-weather hiking boots. I knew dry cold from Utah and Alberta, but I was coming to understand that in an Antarctic context, “well it was -20, but it was a dry cold” isn't a joke, it's just a statement of fact. +6°C(42°F) would be miserable in damp Cambridge, but -6°C(21°F) was quite comfortable at McMurdo – if it wasn't windy, one could happily go about without a coat.

One always had a coat to hand, though, because the wind could turn up at any time, and it made a big difference. The first time I went to Cape Evans it was so mild as to be balmy – I was in snow pants because they were required for the snowmobile, but on top I stripped down to just my base layer and a medium-weight sweater, and was even a bit warm in that. It was -1°C/30°F, but I could happily have sat down to a picnic.

Before we left, I wanted to make a quick trip up Wind Vane Hill. I got hot climbing it, but while on top, a breeze kicked up, and before long I was wishing I hadn't left my jacket at the bottom. The reason I have my hands tucked in my snow pants bib in the above photo is because they were beginning to feel quite nippy. I always had a jacket with me after that, even if I cursed its dead weight the whole time. (It was usually my trenchcoat, not the big red parka, for this reason. I will go into more depth on clothing in a future post.)

A similar thing happened on my Basler flight. I'm afraid I don't know the actual temperatures where and when we landed – we were at the inland extremity of the Barrier, though, so everything I'd read told me it ought to be noticeably colder than McMurdo. It might well have been. But the only clue that it wasn't a perfectly warm summer day was that the slightest stir in the air breathed ice on my hands. It felt much the same at the much higher altitude site of CTAM. The interior of the continent is even drier than the coast: apparently, in the absence of wind and on a bright sunny day, this makes temperature barely perceptible at all.

A windless day is a vast exception in the case of Antarctic weather, though, and besides chilling a human body, the direction of the wind makes a big difference to the objective air temperature. A north wind, arriving from over the open sea, was comparatively mild. Most of the time, however, the wind was from the east to south, coming cold off the icy interior. This sends it funnelling through The Gap straight at Hut Point. The Hut Point Wind was infamous in the Heroic Age; even now it can be a pleasant day at the station, but one must remember to kit up just to walk around the corner to the Discovery Hut.

It did make for some great photos, though, because if the conditions were just right – which they were a few times in my month there – the wind would kick up some freshly fallen snow and things would look so very Antarctic. The funny thing was, on the days when it looked quintessentially polar, it was actually comparatively warm. The snow was so powdery that a fairly light wind could lift it, so it didn't have to be brutally windy to look brutally windy. The cold really sets in when a high pressure system stays in place for a while and keeps the air still; if there is turbulence, there is warmth, and if a weather system moves through – such as the kind that delivers snow – the temperature rises considerably. So in order for there to be fresh snow to blow around, there will have been a recent warm spell, whereas if it's starting to get cold again, the new snow will have compacted enough not to blow around. The strongest winds I encountered in Antarctica were at Cape Crozier, but you'd never guess it from my photos, which haven't a speck of drift. I am sure there are exceptions to this, but this was a dependable pattern in my time there.

Above: two images of light snow blowing off just after a snowfall, when it was comparatively warm. Below: 30-knot winds at Cape Crozier, but you'd never guess.

One of my oddest temperature memories was in one of those balmy drifty situations. I had been asked to give my history lecture over at Scott Base, and I was to wait for the Kiwi truck at a designated pickup point on the road coming over from The Gap. There are three official categories for weather in Antarctica: Condition 3 is when everything can operate as normal: it can be cold, it can be windy, but visibility is fine and the ordinary precautions will see you through. Condition 2 is when things are starting to get serious: drift and/or winds are reaching dangerous levels, extra precaution is necessary, and venturing outside is discouraged. Condition 1 is when everyone is required to stay indoors except on vital business as merely venturing outside is a life-threatening risk. During my month there it was always Condition 3, but within the hour of my pickup a Condition 2 had been declared on the Scott Base side of The Gap. My ride said she would be coming anyway, as she would be overwintering and needed the practice of driving in Condition 2, so I went up to meet her. I was hoping I would finally get a blast of Antarctica, but it gave me a surprise. For one, it was warm. And, yes, it was windy, but not desperately so, and the wind had a damp sweetness that, weirdly, made me think of swelling streams and crocuses. The Condition 2 had been called purely because of the drift, which was obscuring the road and therefore made driving more hazardous than usual. It was surreal to hear my driver checking in with her radio operator as if she were chasing tornadoes when it was really quite pleasant out.

My first few days at McMurdo were by far the coldest of my whole visit. When I first visited the Discovery Hut it was -18°C, or just below 0°F, and rather windy on the way back. That was when I learned that one can be feeling really quite cosy all over but one's outermost extremities can still suffer the cold – I distinctly remember wondering why my fingertips were tingling when I felt so warm, and a little while later my toes went numb and I had to stamp them back to life. The dryness, not sapping your core heat, can lure you into a false sense of security, and nab your digits while you're not looking.

After that, daily highs mostly hovered around the freezing point, and lows rarely dipped as low as -10°C/+14°F. This was really very mild – indeed, the people who'd been down since September could often be seen flitting about in t-shirts – and was an amusing irony for me personally. Twice in the past I'd visited Calgary in search of 'Antarctic' cold and hit, instead, a relatively mild spell; it turned out that in Antarctica I was getting exactly the same weather that I had thought un-Antarctic in Calgary. Not only was it the same weather on paper, but it felt exactly the same as well – the light, fresh kiss of frosty air on one's cheeks, surprising warmth in the sunshine but a breeze to keep you honest, and even the same granular texture to old snow. Altitude can give you the same feeling, as the thinner air cannot hold as much moisture as it can at lower levels, so if you've not been to the Prairies but have been on a ski holiday, you can use that as a reference point as well.

It is much harder to draw parallels with damper climates. At home in Cambridge, I have a sort of 'misery zone' between 4°-10°C (40°-50°F) where it's too cold to be warm, but not cold enough to be crisp, and the damp seems to seep through every layer to reach in and chill. As the thermometer plunges towards freezing and below, it is, ironically, more comfortable weather, because the colder the air is, the less moisture it can hold. In Britain I have sometimes found myself taking off layers as the mercury falls. When imagining Antarctica, people often extrapolate from their own experience of cold temperatures: If your base measure of cold is the 'misery zone' in a damp climate, such as Europe or the Eastern US, then you may think 'If 6°C feels like this, then -6° must feel that much worse' when in fact all the other factors at play can make it preferable. Even the cold days on my arrival at McMurdo were nicer, experientially, than a misty morning in deepest February back home. At one point, Cherry describes Antarctic summer weather as resembling a crisp sunny morning in September, and indeed from a British perspective Antarctica often felt more like a bright and breezy 13°C (55°F) than anything closer to freezing.

This gave me some perspective on the early explorers. If they had spent their lives on this chilly island, and then travelled to Antarctica over a chilly sea, they would be coming at it with all the assumptions one acquires from experience with humid cold. Finding not an amplification of your worst experiences, but instead a wonderland where the thermometer seemed to exist in a different reality – certainly the case when they arrived in midsummer – would encourage some overconfidence that we might consider reckless. Some, like Scott, had been down before and knew how deceptive the weather could be; his journals are full of chiding his team for not taking Antarctica seriously. But there were many who were new to it, and even after an Antarctic winter, sheltered as they were in an insulated hut by the sea, they did not fully grasp how dangerous things could get inland and how narrow the margins were. A breeze may be thrilling when it brings the truth of -10 to exposed skin warmed by the sun; when the truth is -40 it's instant frostbite. While I didn't get temperatures that low, my experience with higher ones can, I hope, help me imagine how that would go.

The dryness that made the cold so bearable granted me a reprieve from an opposing worry. Outside of Britain I generally find buildings overheated in the winter – I have to remind myself to pack light 'inside clothes' or else I suffocate. This is especially the case in the States, and McMurdo being an American base I foresaw having to strip five layers off and put them back on again every time I entered or exited a building. They may have been overheated, but I don't know – dry air saps the potency of heat as well as cold, so it was as comfortable to wear three layers as one, and that saved me a lot of time in the cloakroom. Thanks, Antarctica!

I had got so used to the nip in the air that I thought I'd be inured to cold for the rest of the winter, but once I was back on this cold damp North Atlantic island, the misery zone was as potent as ever. I may not have picked up thermoregulation superpowers in Antarctica, but I did come back with two secret weapons: merino wool base layers, and an utter disregard for my appearance so long as I was warm. I highly recommend both to anyone in a disagreeable climate.

#travel #antarctica #cold #travel blog #weather #mcmurdo station

103 notes · View notes

the-blind-geisha · 3 years

Note

For the love request, Alfyn Greengrass with a female reader that is semi-nsfw.

Cowslip- Winning grace, healing, rusticity, youth, pensiveness

Grass- Submission

Daphane Cheorum/Rose Daphane- I desire to please

Thorn apple- I dreamed of thee

A/N: I'd be delighted to~. Thanks for the request!

Y/N,

I got to tell you, it's hotter than any place on Orsterra out in the Sunlands. I guess I can thank my stars above that Sunshade is at least around to give me some form of comfort. You'd probably be twisting my arm about now, wondering why I'm all the way out here.

You know why. Should I go to such lengths to explain it to you? Ah, I don't mean to make that sound as though I am being dismissive of you, y/n, but I guess I wish to talk of other matters.

I've been on this quest for some time. I have to be honest, I am uncertain when I will depart from here. Y/N, I miss you dearly. We're miles apart and yet, when I gaze upward at the night sky, all I can imagine is your bright and beautiful smile staring back at me. It brings me such great joy that I can hardly find it within me to describe as I so want to. I am not sure why they remind me of you so much. I guess because there are so few things in this world that bring me to a sense of calm and for now—only you and the starlight seem to grant me this.

I can't stop doting on you. I can see you insisting it of me now, but as any flower requires rain in the blazing climate I have found myself within, I must say that I insist on you. Be what nourishes me, y/n, as I feel as though I am withering out here. You keep me going through all this hard work and pain of watching people suffer as they do. Being an apothecary is hard work—both emotionally and otherwise. However, I would never see myself on another path.

Not with all the good I've done. Not with how it brought us closer together.

Speaking of all of that, how is that cough of yours? Is it any better? Are you taking that medicine I made for you before I departed?

I'm a fool. I'm doing it again, aren't I? I said I wouldn't speak of work and here I am—scarcely able to keep myself under control when it comes to your well being.

But in all seriousness: are you doing well, y/n? I dream of you every night and the dreams... as pleasant as they are, I wish they were merely more than so. I wish I could have you here with me right now. I speak of the heat but I swear to you, Sunshade makes it quite enjoyable. It is unlike the world at home. Feels like the land is made of gold when you see the sun touch the sand and mountains. Crazy, hu? If I were a painter I'd bring home an image of it, but I am afraid I'm limited in such talents there.

I'm off of my target once more, I am afraid. Y/N, the nights here are far colder than you'd believe, and my bedside is worse in that regard. I wish you were there with me. I want more than the blankets to keep me warm. I want your body to heal my aching heart as I keep you in my grasp and never let you go. If my breath could soothe the pain that your cough had caused, I doubt my lips would leave yours alone. I want to explore every marvelous curve of you with my touch if you'd so allow me that honor. I wish to marvel at every part you deem as imperfection, as I see it all as flawlessness. There's not a single thing—time or illness—that can mar you, y/n. You are the cure to my loneliness, and I want you to know I would bow as your servant and do your bidding should you ask it of me.

Do you trust these hands to serve you properly? They've not let you down yet, have they? I wish to feel your bare skin against them yet again as I travel from your face, to your breast just to feel your heart beating hotly at my gaze of admiration, while painting a road of lust entwined with love down to your very center to rouse you onward in the chill of the night. I want your words to be ones crafted in a roaring flame to be one that speaks only my name as I say yours in return with loving want.

Y/N, I will be with you soon, and if soon comes not nearly enough, I will send for you. I have found myself falling to submission to my own desires. Can you fault me? I am only a mortal. A mortal man who has fallen for what I can easily describe as a goddess of perfection.

Forever yours,

Alfyn Greengrass

#much love for the RQ!#alfyn greengrass #alfyn greengrass x reader #octopath traveler #octopath alfyn #alfyn love letter #semi-nsfw #love #romance #pining #fanfiction #fanfic #mywriting #oreana writes #love letter #anon #mod answers #request

21 notes · View notes

fleckcmscott · 4 years

Text

Homemaking

Summary: In the middle of the night, Arthur finds comfort in routine. When Y/N follows, he doesn't mind at all.

Warnings: Smut, Swearing

Words: 4,640

A/N: This request came from @jokerownsmysoul! She asked me to expand on a paragraph in Ch. 25 of Watch What Happens. Thank you so much! I hope this meets your expectations!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

Changing the sheets and pillowcase on the couch at regular intervals. Emptying the ashtrays littered around the apartment. Taking the trash to the dumpster in the alley next to the building. Dusting, dusting, dusting. There'd always been a chore to do in 8J.

Outside of therapy, Arthur rarely mulled over the past, instead putting to use the skills he'd been learning to make the present worthwhile. But when he did, he could recall the moment keeping house had become important to him. More than a task to be completed.

Dinner had been freezer burned chicken nuggets and rice mixed with ketchup. Milk had served as an additional side. His mother had pecked the top of his head and told him to be a good boy. "Happy, I'll see you in the morning."

The length of her upcoming absence had registered once the door was shut. While she'd not been an attentive parent, she normally hadn't left him alone for more than three or four hours, plunked in front the television with a blanket, a cup of juice, and a toy. What had he done to make her leave for an entire night? Had she been mad at him for laughing during a presentation on the school's dress code? Was it because he hadn't finished his food? Then he'd feared the neighbors would start fighting, and he'd have to listen to their yelling again. Ickiness had built in his tiny body. He'd had to do something.

He'd dragged the step stool to the front of the sink. Squeezed too much yellow detergent in it. Turned on the water and tested the temperature with his wrist, the way he'd seen Penny do it when he'd dried dishes. Once his old stuffed giraffe sat on the counter next to him, he'd carefully scrubbed the swirls of dried tomato off the plates. Washed the stuck-on crumbs from the forks. Wiped the streaks off each glass. He'd felt calm when he was done. Grown-up. Accomplished. It hadn't taken him long to grab a rag and get started on the breakfast bar.

As he'd grown, housework continued to help him maintain his composure on days he'd needed distraction from his intrusive thoughts. The stresses of survival. But he also liked the sense of control it imparted. A mentally ill, disabled, put-upon caretaker who also worked fifty to sixty hours a week didn't have many choices. The lack of options left him feeling unmoored. As if the wind would blow and he would have no alternative but to go along with it.

Buying the good sponges, the ones with the green, abrasive side, was a decision in his hands. Doing the laundry on Saturday was the schedule he set. Serving dinner at seven (unless he had a late job) was the hour he picked. Small victories in a life of losses.

But now the days were filled with fewer defeats. His paradigm was shifting, albeit incrementally. Chores were no longer only a soothing necessity. Having a girlfriend meant they were also shared activities. Indications of partnership done together. (Except for cleaning the toilet, which Y/N, bless her, continued to do.)

She moved the floor lamp when he vacuumed. He put away their clothes after she folded them. With her at the office full time while he gigged and tried to break into comedy, he liked doing extra. Taking care of her. Contributing to the household they were building. He'd been the man of the house since he was fifteen; it was a role he continued to take pride in. Especially with all the "thank yous" and "I'm happy to be home with yous" she gave him.

Dishes had quickly become his favorite errand. They took turns washing and drying. He'd splash her lightly and she'd whack him with the towel. Random kisses abounded. Frequently, he'd reminisce about her coming to his apartment unannounced last November.

Surprises made him nervous. But it had been nice to see her a whole two days sooner than planned. He hadn't been certain of what to do. His intuition was to hang onto the doorknob to remain grounded and not err. When she'd said she'd missed him, however, some of his anxiousness had dissipated. Without that, he wasn't sure he would have gotten the nerve to invite her in, no matter how badly he wanted to.

The visit had gone well, their conversation sparse but kind. Even though she'd spotted his medication, she'd let him kiss her. Pin her against the counter and embrace her. Inhale the strawberry scent of her shampoo and thank whoever might have been listening that she existed. God, he'd felt like a teenager.

At that point, he'd imagined being intimate with her countless times. The evening after she'd introduced herself, he'd tuned into a variety show, tried to enjoy the music. Penny was already in bed. He'd been alone, laying on his beige and brown sofa, blanket strewn across him, cigarette smoke floating in the air. Y/N's pleasant visage had taken shape before his eyes. Their handshake lingered in his senses, making his fingers twitch.

He'd tried to ignore the hunger it'd caused. The acute ache. It struck him as wrong, somehow - he'd just learned her name. But his arousal had overcome any residual guilt.

The warmth of her cuddling his side as they watched TV had permeated his skin. He'd entwined their fingers. Put his arm around her shoulders. During a particularly slow song, her touch drifted to his thigh. He'd twisted to admire her lips, full and smiling at him. She'd been beautiful. Happy. His. As he'd lowered her to the cushions, his hand had sneaked into his briefs. It was the first of many occasions that he'd had to muffle himself so his mother wouldn't hear him moan Y/N's name.

It had been years since he'd felt a morsel of hope. But one had welled in him. Like the fool he was, he'd kept it. And for once, hope hadn't cheated him.

~~~~~

They'd gone to bed a couple hours prior, after the news and the late show. The normal five or six minutes of cuddling had ensued. With a soft "sleep well," Y/N had rolled onto her left side and turned out the light. He'd drifted off within a few minutes, ignoring the blare of a passing siren.

But then he woke to faint giggling. Drowsy bafflement fogged his brain as he peered in her direction. Whispering her name and pulling on the cover didn't quiet her. He shushed her gently, chuckling. She laughed harder. He wondered what she was dreaming, if she was amused by him or one of his jokes. Following a messy kiss to her cheek, he left to putter about the apartment.

Goosebumps rose in response to the breeze, but Arthur, sitting on a metal step on the fire escape, enjoyed the drags from his cigarette regardless. The nights were getting cooler as autumn approached. Y/N had told him the climate was much hotter in her part of Missouri. Did the leaves change there, too? They'd have to go to Gotham Park so he could show her the bright colors, so different from the city's usual grays.

He decided to keep himself busy - it was better than getting frustrated because he wasn't tired. But he didn't feel like journaling more. He checked the kitchen. Dishes had already been put in the cabinet. The counters were clean. She'd swept the linoleum and he'd wiped the table. There wasn't much left to do. Hm. Maybe the shower door could use a good scrub. It had been a while since either of them had tended to it.

As he worked, his circular movements on the pane of glass slowed, his stare glazing. They'd last been in there together a couple weeks ago. Though he'd acted spontaneous, he'd planned the whole thing. The radio was tuned to the station with Dr. Sally's show (which had been set to start in twenty minutes). He'd measured out a capful of Y/N's bubble bath, which he'd never seen her use. Facing each other, they'd lain in the tub, talking and trying to fit comfortably.

The faucet was quite low, though, and he'd bumped his head on it when he'd leaned back. Not too hard but loud enough to startle Y/N. She'd speedily washed and climbed out to give him more room, despite his insistence he was fine. "We'll listen together another night," she'd said with a smooch, kneeling next to the bath with her towel under her armpits. "When we're not so squished." Once she was out of the room, he'd submerged himself completely with a sigh.

Arthur had learned of Dr. Sally about four years ago. She was controversial, according to Murray Franklin, but ended up becoming a reoccurring guest. The frankness and positivity with which she'd spoken about sexuality had shocked him. (And made him wish Penny had gone to bed early, so he wouldn't have to watch it in front of her.) Outside of the handful of adult films he'd seen or magazines he'd gotten, he hadn't heard anyone talk about it without making dirty jokes or being evasive.

Sitting at the corner table in his living room and listening to her pleasant voice as she doled out advice became a habit. He'd made notes here and there. One thing she'd said stuck with him, though he couldn't recall the exact wording. The meaning had been clear - and what he wanted. Sex was the closest two people could be physically. It was important to connect mentally, too. To communicate.

He'd been tempted to call in. To ask how the hell he could meet or attract a woman. He had cologne. He wore pinstripe pants. What else could he do? It would have been nice to no longer have to deal with his circumstances and illnesses alone. But he'd abandoned that idea. He hadn't wanted to reveal himself as pathetic to the whole of Gotham. Weakness put women off. By his early thirties, he'd known discovering that part of himself would nev-

"If you wait until the alarm, I'll be happy to help you." Arthur turned and found Y/N standing in the doorway. Their floral comforter was wrapped around her shoulders, only partially covering her short nightdress. He noticed the deep V-neck its straps formed as she took a step towards him. "Was I snoring that loudly?" she asked, smiling wryly.

His cheeks burned and he stepped to the sink to rinse out the sponge. "I'm almost done. And you were laughing." The confused expression she wore as he studied her in the mirror prompted a slight smirk. "What was so funny?

She hugged him around the waist, and the heat of her caused his eyelids to flutter. "I don't know. But I didn't mean to wake you," she said, tone apologetic. Her fingers splayed on his stomach, and she pressed her lips between his shoulder blades.

A huff left him as he shrugged, patting her hand. "I don't mind," he rasped. Whenever he felt the tenderness of her touch, minding wasn't possible.

"Good," she said, her hold on him tightening. The promise of her next words sent an arc of electricity up his spine. "Because I'm not tired."

~~~~~

"And so my teacher, Mr. Howard, took me in the hallway, and told me I'd tucked my blouse into my sanitary belt." Snorting, Y/N adjusted the bed cover on her lap and crossed her legs "I fixed it and got back in there to take my algebra test." After a long sip of the chamomile Arthur had made her, she poked him. "All right. It's your turn. Tell me something embarrassing."

It was nearing three o'clock, but the time had flown by, sitting with her there on the couch. Neither had bothered to turn on a lamp. Instead, they enjoyed the intimacy provided by the faded, orange streetlights coming in through the windows. He liked how the play of shadows accentuated the girlish curve of the apple of her cheek, quite dissimilar from his own sculpted features.

The escalating game of twenty questions had started off easy, the information shared tame. She'd confirmed her favorite color was lilac, and when she'd asked for his preferred subject in school, he'd merely stated, "I hated school." She'd left it alone. He'd inched closer as she said he was funniest when he didn't try. And he'd admitted her divorce puzzled him, casually saying, "Why would anyone want to be without you?" A soft sound had caught in her throat and she'd leaned into him.

But she was challenging him now - the glint in her eye was obvious, sparkling even in the dark. It was his own fault, really. He'd been the one to take the game to another level by getting personal. Resisting the chance to learn about her was not an option.

Fiddling with the handle of his mug of decaf, he furrowed his brow. "Um." He'd fucked up around people a lot. Whenever his condition had made an appearance during a meeting at work, he'd wanted to sink into the floor. Sophie's conversation with him after he'd trailed her had been distressing, notwithstanding her kindness. It was difficult to pick a safe answer.

But after some deliberation, he found one that would fit the mood. "I used to- Used to dance in my living room." He scoffed at himself. Put his arm on the back of the sofa and brushed his hair back. "And pretend women - a woman - noticed me." He pulled at a loose thread in the cushion.

Y/N didn't miss a beat. "Was it me?"

"No," he said with a shake of the head. "I didn't really know you. Not yet." Her nod was slight, her stare going to her lap. A few seconds later she chuckled, covering her face. "What?" he asked.

The flush rising through her shoulders, to her neck, to the top of her ears intrigued him. While he was proficient at making her blush (a fact that tickled him), she never seemed to be shy about anything. She put her cup on the table, ran her hand along her forearm. "I was just remembering when you left after our dinner."

His eyebrows shot up and held there. "What happened?"

She waved dismissively. "I was swooning like a woman half my age." Her gaze flicked to his and his pulse flipped. "I'd intended to change so I could start putting everything away. But..." The corner of her mouth lifted. "I ended up on my bed. Wishing you were with me."

He exhaled sharply. "Oh." Had the details in her imaginings been similar to his? He wondered if candles were lit. If they'd gone slowly. If she'd told him she loved him. How close had it been to what he'd yearned for after spilling his heart all over his journal?

He surveyed her. Took in how she massaged where her neck met her shoulder. The way she opened her legs further as she shifted in her seat, the bed cover falling away. The desire in her half-lidded eyes made his mouth go dry. "I wished for you a lot, too," he said quietly, glancing at the carpet.

Given what he sometimes sketched in his notebook, painful things he didn't understand the impetus of, he'd worried his impulses would be freakish. That they'd be off-putting, like the rest of him was. But Y/N assured him they weren't and told him not to worry with her. That him getting up and telling her to never hit him when she'd slapped his ass in the heat of the moment hadn't offended her. That it was normal to like it when she nibbled his collarbone or the tendons of his neck. That her not being able to come sometimes had nothing to do with him.

The hesitation currently churning in his gut was ridiculous. While he was getting better at initiating, having built up some confidence (and feigning it when necessary), it wasn't yet second nature to him. He needed to now, though. And there was no reason for caution with her. Her sensitivity and consideration had borne that out.

It was that thought which finally spurred him to scoot closer to her, cradle her cheek, and kiss her firmly.

Her response was swift, as though she'd been waiting for him. The insistence of her tongue prompted the parting of his lips. She carded through his hair, tugged at his curls as she curved into him. Her nipples grazed his front through the chiffon of her nightgown, and he savored the fire stoking in him at the contact.

His fingers whispered lower, wandering between her legs to caress her through her underwear. The cotton was soaked through. She met his touch insistently, sighing his name. He couldn't recall hearing anything sweeter. Blood was rushing to his cock, lending him some daring. "I want you," he rasped, compelling himself to be assertive. And relishing the hint of power it evoked in him.

He focused on the front of his blue pajamas being untied. The slide of them and his briefs past his narrow hips. They gathered about his knees as she curled her fingers around his erection. "Shit..." He thrust into her grasp with a grunt. The swipe of her palm across the head felt like he was burning, and he twitched in her hand. She was smearing his slick over him, along his rigid length.

Demand was already building in his abdomen. Needing to last longer than three minutes, he withdrew to stand. The bedroom was too far to go. He moved the coffee table back, towards the television, and grabbed the comforter. "You really are in a hurry," she teased, stripping off her nightshirt while he clumsily arranged the thick cover on the carpet. Their eyes locked and he offered his hand. She took it eagerly.

With a soft grin, he guided her to lay beside him. He ran his palm down her back and cupped her bottom, adoring being immersed in her. He pressed her into the soft fabric beneath them as he settled on top. When he rutted against her heat, she hissed and sealed their lips.

A low groan left him. Would the sensation of her supple mouth ever become mundane? His former co-workers had often complained about their wives. Had become bored with them. Fed up. He couldn't fathom ever tiring of the taste of Y/N's smile. Or the excitement of having her feminine form so close to his.

He kissed her neck, stopping only when he reached the swell of her chest. Nuzzling her cleavage, he pushed her breasts together before taking a dusky peak between his teeth. She moaned and clasped his biceps. The increasing canter of her pelvis, how she asked him to enter her without words, was driving his fervor higher and higher.

But he was enjoying himself. The playfulness from their earlier game hadn't yet left. After pecking a line down her stomach, he boosted himself up. She was panting raggedly, clearly fighting to keep her eyes open as she ground into the air. "Please..." she breathed.

Voice thick with arousal, he asked, "Please what?"

She bucked against the grip he had on her hips. "Put your mouth on me."

He laughed lightly, grateful to be at ease rather than flustered. "You mean here?" His soft lips met her navel. "Or here?" A smooch to the top of her thigh. Backing away, he kissed her knee. "Maybe here."

Halting his retreat, her calf caught him by the shoulder. "You're such a tease," she said. Wantonly, she arched towards him, and he grasped the waistline of her panties. The tang of her scent hit him as he pulled them off. He shivered, then threw her thighs over his shoulders. He was ready to give into her, to give into what they both desired. But she shoved a couch cushion at him. "Here."

After a pause, he took it with a murmured "okay," the last syllable elongated. She propped herself on her elbow, helped him get it under the swell of her bottom and lower back. When he asked what it was for, she explained he could strain his neck. He pushed his face into her leg, snorting. That had happened last time, after a long day at work. He didn't think it would happen again. It was sweet of her, though, to consider him, so he didn't argue.

His gaze flitted to her vulva. While he couldn't see much in the low light, he was well acquainted with her body. The first time he'd really seen her, he'd been a little surprised. She wasn't like the models he'd seen in photographs. Her inner lips were visible, extended past her labia, especially when she was turned-on. Her clitoris was easy to find, thank god. Once, she'd told him she used to be self-conscious about it, the result of a doctor making a disparaging remark when she got her first IUD. She claimed it no longer bothered her, but Arthur knew the lasting sting of unkindness. And wanted her to know she was beautiful.

"Mm," he breathed, kissing her pubic bone gently. Then he dipped lower to press his tongue to her plump folds. She rolled up to meet him with a sharp cry. "I love your taste."

She giggled and his eyes darted to hers. Thankfully, it had become easier to watch her while he did this. Her pleasure at his compliment was obvious, what with the flirtatiousness of her gaze. He thought he could make out a growing ruddiness in her cheeks, and admired the round shape her lips formed.

It was impossible to lay still. His nose brushed her as he nestled in her short curls, gripping her thigh and skimming the soft skin. Her bud was engorged, jutting out slightly from its hood. The tip of his tongue darted out to flick at it, and her hand flew to his curls as she called his name.

He altered his angle, tilted his head to the side while he stroked her labia. She was getting wetter, her arousal more abundant under his attention. Knowing he satisfied her filled him with pride. Those lonely nights listening to the radio had been good for something.

As his fore- and middle fingers traced her entrance, slipped inside her, she whined and bore down on him. Groaning, his thin lips enclosed her clitoral hood. He concentrated on getting the rhythm right, coordinating the movement of his hand with the passes of his tongue. The clutch to his locks grew stronger as she rocked, pulling him harder to her flesh. One of her legs wrapped about his upper back, the other braced on her foot by his side. His thrusts quickened and he bent his knuckle, her increasing cries emboldening him further.

At her short wail, he lifted himself to look at her. Observe her frame as she bowed backwards. The rise and fall of her breasts with the exertion of her punctuated gasps. The way she blindly reached for purchase. He yanked the cushion out from under her. Unable to wait any longer, he crawled over her until they were face to face, wrapped an arm around her shoulder, and lined himself up with her opening.

His eyes screwed shut as he sunk into her searing, snug walls. He let out ragged breaths, tinged with low rasps. "I love you," he blurted.

She grasped his sides. "I love you, too."

Hips snapping into hers, he gritted his teeth. "Fuck, I love you."

"Fill me up," she whispered, her heels at his ass. "Fill me up."

Quickly, he reached between them to toy with her nub, wanting his actions to match the urgency of her pleas. But she took hold of his wrist, ran her thumb along it as she pecked his chin. "I'm good so enjoy yourself," she laughed. Then she pressed her forehead his. "I just need to have you."

Her hands cherishing his back, caressing and holding him close, elated him. She always managed to do that, to make him feel esteemed, even on days he didn't value himself. Sometimes he pined for their coupling to be endless. Being a part of her felt like home.

But he couldn't stop. She was gazing at him unblinkingly, adulation clear in the flecks of her irises. Begging him to come inside her. Saying she needed him. The scorch of her was potent, the friction staggering. Somehow, the undulations of her pelvis managed to meet his pace...

The tempo of his rushed movements became uneven. His brain suddenly went white, only aware of her surrounding him. Cock throbbing with pleasure, his hips stuttered involuntarily while he emptied into her, a gravelly moan on his lips. After those too few, exquisite seconds, he fell onto her, gasping and thoroughly spent.

Y/N's calf left his waist, and she let out a long breath. "I need a cigarette and I don't even smoke."

Arthur grinned, mind awash with dreamy stupor. "You're not gonna start. 'It's a nasty habit,'" he said wryly, quoting her. He rolled off and lay on his back by her side. Stretching the loose part of the comforter over his middle, he chuckled. "You know, of the few things I thought I'd be okay at, this wasn't one of them."

The smile she gave him let him know what she was thinking. She'd said she wanted to hear him compliment himself more, that he deserved it and didn't do it enough. When she nibbled his earlobe he jerked slightly, a tickle in his neck. "Gotham has no idea what it's been missing." Her tone turned serious. "But you can make it about yourself, too. I'd enjoy that."

Brows pinching, he frowned slightly. She'd appeared pleased just a minute ago. Had he done something wrong? Or was he misreading her now? He gaped, about to ask what she meant.

But she started again, smoothing her hand across his stomach. "Hey, I'm not complaining. I'm here for you, though. If you need to fuck a bad mood away, it's fine. If I don't want to, I'll tell you."

Rolling his eyes, he grabbed the stray couch cushion. "You never don't want to." He put it under his head, adjusted his neck until he was a version of comfortable. While it has true he had bad days, he tried to shield her from them. He'd be lying to himself if he pretended her suggestion hadn't crossed his mind. It'd never stuck, though - he couldn't bear the thought of using her. With her permission, maybe it would be all right. He pressed his lips together. "But I'll keep it in mind."

Eventually, Y/N sat and stretched, placed her palms on her back as she popped it. "I'm going to drift off at my desk if I don't go to bed." She stood shakily, grasping the arm of the sofa. "And I'll need a hot water bottle if I stay on the floor." After she gathered her clothes, she turned to him. "Are you coming with me?"

He pulled on his briefs with a shake of his head. "I can't sleep now."

There was a pause, then she gave a small shrug. "Keep me company until I do?"

Stilling, he looked up at her, a smile spreading across his cheeks. "Yeah," he said warmly, his heart in his throat at the request. A request couldn't deny. "I'll be right there." She bent and pecked his forehead, then scurried off into the bedroom, comforter in hand. He watched as she retreated, listened as she flopped down on the mattress. Hurriedly, he put the cushion back in its place and followed, already impatient to have her in his arms again.

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve, @howdylilflower, @sweet-nothings04, @stephieraptorr, @rommies, @fallenstarsabyss, @gruffle1, @octopus-plasma, @tsukiakarinobara, @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile, @another-day-in-chuckletown, @hhandley80, @jokerownsmysoul, @64-crayon

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck smut #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #arthur fleck x female reader #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

63 notes · View notes

d-l-dare · 3 years

Text

“The Impossible Cold”

Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice. Some believe the world will end in screams, others in silence. Some think we will all die alone, others think we might colonize with the few left. Many theories have arisen of how the world will meet its doom. They all end with one common idea in mind, it will end with one single thought, "I wish I had more time."

Stumbling through the cold, I hug myself tighter. I was thankful the gloves I had on were thick, for if they weren't I probably wouldn't have fingers right now. I've been making my way further down south for several days now. Just as the few survivors planned to do.

You may not have heard, but a sudden cold front crashed down over the Midwest. A nice, warm summer, suddenly interrupted by a cold so sharp that people who were swimming were suddenly trapped within layers of ice. Many didn't survive. Nobody knows what caused the sudden cold. Some may have pointed fingers at the climate change. Some believed that our God was angry with us.

Though it may seem there was no reason, it didn't mean it would suddenly reverse upon itself and leave us. It was hard to get much communication after the cold hit. The electric lines all froze, as did most water pumps. Nobody was prepared for the impossible, now many are gone.

The only thing we could think to do was travel south. After all, it had to be warmer over there, right?

*** There was a sharp wind blowing right toward my face, snow showering down upon me. I breathed hard, my mouth within the neck of my coat so that I could breath my hot breath upon my body and retain some heat. I tried distracting myself by thinking about what could be waiting for me and several others when we make it down south. I couldn't wait to be met with the burning sun, blistering my skin, sweat rolling down my face. It was difficult to imagine warmth with cold like this.

I looked around, my eyeballs feeling completely frozen over. I should have brought some protective eyewear of some kind. Is it even possible to get frostbite in your eyes?

As I walked, I saw an orange light in the distance. Did someone start a fire? In weather like this? I hurried my pace to see what the light was. As I got closer, I saw a fire blazing and roaring, a tree on fire. How can this be possible? The wind was howling and blowing snow every which way, there's no way a fire could still be lit in a storm like this.

I got closer and saw that no snow way even melting in its presence. This was completely impossible, breaking every possible law of physics. I was tempted to pinch myself at this point, as I was now convinced I was roaming around in a dream.

I tried approaching the fire in hopes that it would warm me up slightly before I take off again on my trail. As I got closer it began to feel colder. In fact, the closer I got the closer I felt frostbite attaching itself to me. What was happening?

I had no choice but to leave this impossibility to further my walk.

In a strange way, this made a lot of sense to me. The Earth was somehow taking the warmth and what should be hot and making it cold. The hotter something or some location is supposed to be, the colder it will become. That's when it hit me, if my theory is correct, I should be traveling north rather than south.

I turned myself around and began my hike anew.

3 notes · View notes

onceinabluehanguangjun · 3 years

Text

into you like a train (3/5)

warning: minor mention of a past injury

previous | next

ao3

The next day passed in silence.

No rambunctious man came knocking on the door and Lan Zhan took this as a sign that he could actually finish grading his papers. He sipped his tea and made sure he ate and kept his mind busy until night. He didn’t let himself think about Wei Ying until he was in bed again and his face wouldn’t leave Lan Zhan alone. He was good looking and kind and probably thought Lan Zhan was too weird to speak to.

Which was fine. Normal. It happened.

The day after that, though, Lan Zhan decided to go on a walk and attempt to enjoy himself since he would only be here for a couple more days. There were tons of paths around the cabin and the snow was beginning to melt, so it wasn’t as cold. He bundled up nonetheless and put in only one of his earbuds so he could still be aware of his surroundings.

It was going pretty well and he managed to feel relaxed despite the fact he was in the middle of nowhere. He supposed it helped that he’d met Wei Ying and learned how tight-knit this community was. It felt safe to wander around in. Which is the mindset he had up until he heard rustling in the trees and something rammed onto his leg before latching on.

His first instinct was to kick whatever it was away from him, but he thankfully had the foresight to look down first and managed to stop himself once he realized it was a child. Lan Zhan stared down at it as he caught his breath and the child stared back with wide, tearful eyes.

“What…” he trailed off, blinking down at it. Only that apparently didn’t sit well with the child because it immediately started crying. So much for relaxing.

He had about a full five seconds to worry about being accused of kidnapping before he heard another voice.

“A-Yuan!”

Within a few seconds, Wei Ying burst through the trees and skidded to a stop once he saw the child in question, catching his breath. He spared Lan Zhan a glance before he walked up and pried the child off his leg, hiking him onto his hip.

“What did I say about running off in the woods like that?” Wei Ying scolded.

“Don’t,” the child, A-Yuan, whined out. Wei Ying sighed and shook his head.

“Yeah, don’t, so don’t do it. You could run into a wolf that’ll snatch you up and steal you away and you’ll have to live in a cave and become a wolf yourself. Is that what you want, to become a little wolf-man?” Wei Ying told him, poking him in the stomach. A-Yuan gasped and dramatically hid his face in Wei Ying’s shoulder.

“No wolf!”

“Then don’t run away from me,” Wei Ying told him, “I should get you a leash.”

Lan Zhan blinked between the two, trying to make sense of it. Wei Ying, the drunken primary school teacher who makes pastries at the crack of dawn and goes grocery shopping for candy and energy drinks and spent hours with him a couple of nights prior, had a little boy. Was there anything this man could do that wouldn’t throw Lan Zhan off?

“I’m sorry, again, he gets excited when he sees animals in the woods and runs off sometimes,” Wei Ying said to him, laughing slightly. It wasn’t the big boisterous laughter from before though, it was a little uncomfortable. “I’m really ruining your vacation, aren’t I?”

Lan Zhan swallowed softly and thought about his brother’s words. Maybe it was fate. Maybe he wasn’t annoying him.

“No,” Lan Zhan said. Wei Ying blinked in surprise and then his smile broke out into the real thing.

“Good,” he said, carefully putting A-Yuan back down. He immediately latched onto Wei Ying’s leg and looked up at Lan Zhan with big, piercing eyes. Lan Zhan had never really been around children that little before, not since he was one. Even the kids he student taught were much older. “If it makes it any better, he only hugs the legs of people he likes. So at least we know he has taste.”

“He’s yours?” Lan Zhan asked despite his better judgment. Wei Ying put a hand on A-Yuan’s head and puffed out his chest dramatically.

“I gave birth to him,” Wei Ying said. Lan Zhan blinked and the other man divulged into laughter. “By proxy, of course.”

So he was married or perhaps had a girlfriend. That meant it didn’t matter whether Wei Ying was aesthetically pleasing or not. For some reason, that didn’t make Lan Zhan feel any better.

“Tall gege,” A-Yuan said, pointing up at Lan Zhan. Wei Ying grabbed his hand to stop him from pointing at him.

“Yes, very tall gege. Giant gege. Skyscraper gege,” Wei Ying said, winking at Lan Zhan as if they had some sort of inside joke, “Isn’t that right, Gege?”

Lan Zhan blinked and felt his ears grow warm, his hand clutching his phone a bit tighter at the tone of his voice. Wei Ying laughed, but he didn’t mention anything about Lan Zhan’s reaction if he noticed.

“Mn,” Lan Zhan hummed. Wei Ying smiled so brightly his eyes squinted and he scrunched up his nose. It was overwhelmingly cute in a way Lan Zhan had no idea how to handle.

“But let’s just call him Zhan-gege,” Wei Ying said. A-Yuan nodded. “Alright, well, I don’t want to bother you anymore and I promised this one lunch, so,” Wei Ying said, getting a better grip on A-Yuan’s hand so he couldn’t run away again, “It was nice seeing your face again, Lan Zhan.”

“Mn.”

Lan Zhan stayed still as Wei Ying went to walk away, but A-Yuan seemed to root himself into place with his eyes on Lan Zhan. It was a little awkward and disjointed, the two of them silent and just blinking at each other. Wei Ying snorted.

“A-Yuan, come on,” he said. A-Yuan looked up at him and then back to Lan Zhan and then looked back up to Wei Ying before waving at him to come down. Wei Ying smiled and crouched down, letting A-Yuan lean close to his ear.

“Zhan-gege’s all alone,” he not-so-quietly whispered. Lan Zhan instantly felt uncomfortable at that, but Wei Ying didn’t seem to think it was an accusation. He just rolled his eyes.

“Some people like taking walks alone,” Wei Ying explained, “Shushu does that all the time.”

A-Yuan looked back to Lan Zhan and then leaned to whisper again. “Zhan-gege eats lunch all alone?”

Wei Ying looked up to Lan Zhan for a moment. He seemed to be trying to say something with his eyes alone, but Lan Zhan didn’t know him well enough to translate.

“A-Yuan, let’s not bother him, okay?”

“But he needs a friend,” A-Yuan said, insisting like Wei Ying clearly wasn’t understanding. Lan Zhan was beginning to feel like this child was given a script directly by his big brother to guilt him into spending more time with Wei Ying.

Wei Ying sighed and stood up straight, looking at Lan Zhan. He looked so grown with A-Yuan there, it was a weird juxtaposition from the lively and childish man he’d seen every other time. It was intriguing.

“Feel free to say fuck off, but would you like to join us for lunch?” Wei Ying said, giving a small smile as he reached up to scratch the back of his neck, “No hard feelings if you don’t want to, but I thought I’d ask.”

Lan Zhan swallowed softly and looked down to the little boy who was looking up at him with big, pleading eyes. He thought about Wei Ying saying how most of the children up here don’t venture down the mountain for most of their lives, they don’t meet new people very often. He thought about his own childhood, how his uncle had kept them under strict rules to keep them in line and kept them away from others, and how that probably led to him being so inept at social interaction. Maybe… Maybe he could convince himself he was helping.

“Okay,” Lan Zhan agreed. Wei Ying’s eyes widened and then he smiled, looking so completely and utterly thrilled. It made Lan Zhan’s stomach hurt, honestly. Just… not in a bad way.

“Ah, it’s A-Yuan’s little face, isn’t it? Hard to say no,” Wei Ying said, reaching down to squeeze A-Yuan’s face in his hand. “Well, let’s go.”

Lan Zhan awkwardly followed them, listening to them both talk like it was just easy to rattle off a conversation like that with no fear of rejection. A-Yuan would ask a question and Wei Ying would immediately have an answer, regardless of if it made sense or not.

“Baba, what’s that?”

“Ice, you know that.”

“Why?”

“Because the snow is melting.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s getting hotter.”

“Why?”

“Because the temperature is never the same, changes every day.”

“Why?”

“Climate change, probably.”

“Oh.”

Lan Zhan thought about when he was little and if his uncle had allowed him to ask why that much. He couldn’t imagine that he had, especially since unnecessary noise wasn’t allowed. A-Yuan clearly didn’t have that rule as he asked questions and, when he didn’t have anything to ask, he would hum a little song he made up as he led the way.

Wei Ying bobbed his head along to the song, approving of it and not scolding if it was off-key or annoying. He just let it happen. Lan Zhan immediately felt his heart clench as he thought that he was probably a very good father.

“Zhan-gege,” A-Yuan said, looking up to Lan Zhan all of the sudden. It scared him a little. What if he didn’t have answers like Wei Ying? “Do you know my song?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Wei Ying cut in.

“Shh, Baba, don’t interrupt big kids,” A-Yuan said, eyes wide as if he was truly scandalized. Wei Ying smiled and looked over to Lan Zhan, miming a zipper over his lips. “Zhan-gege?”

“Which one?” Lan Zhan asked slowly. A-Yuan took a deep breath and sang a little tune about the snow falling. Simple, childlike, wordy.

“And it hits the ground and it sticks to the grass and the trees and the stuff,” Wei Ying sang along, leaning towards Lan Zhan and nudging his shoulder. Lan Zhan’s face felt warm.

When A-Yuan finished, he looked up to Lan Zhan.

“I don’t know it,” he admitted, “But I can learn.”

A-Yuan nodded like that was a valid response which was exciting enough, but the look on Wei Ying’s face made Lan Zhan feel like he was short-circuiting. It was something that seemed to be sheer adoration and soft and warm and for him. It was too overwhelming and Lan Zhan turned his eyes to the ground.

“Zhan-gege,” A-Yuan continued.

“Mn?”

“Wanna see the snowman me and Baba made?” he asked. Lan Zhan looked at Wei Ying who was already pulling out his phone as if to find pictures.

“Sure.”

“Baba,” A-Yuan said, reaching up for his phone, “I can do it.”

“Oh, you can?” Wei Ying teased before handing it to him. They both watched as A-Yuan carefully held the phone and went to the pictures, finding it easily. “Guess you can.”

“Zhan-gege,” A-Yuan said again, reaching up to him with expectant, grabby hands.

Lan Zhan looked to Wei Ying for permission and he held his hands up like he wasn’t a part of the equation. A-Yuan continued to wait patiently to be picked up until Lan Zhan did his best to do just that. When Lan Zhan looked over to Wei Ying for approval, all he got was the man smiling forward and continuing his walk.

“See, look,” A-Yuan said, showing him the pictures of him with a snowman with a smile that seemed to be a direct imitation of Wei Ying’s.

“Mn.”

He slid to the next picture which was a selfie with Wei Ying, A-Yuan, and the snowman. A-Yuan started to tell him about it with a sea of breathy, disjointed sentences that only made a little bit of sense. Lan Zhan nodded along and it was enough. He was beginning to think that children were much easier to be around than adults. They didn’t require that much input.

Before Lan Zhan even knew it, they were towards the bottom of the mountain and at a little restaurant. It was a part of the same circle of shops that the tea house was and was probably a way for the people on the mountain to make money. A-Yuan pointed excitedly at a fish tank the moment they walked inside the restaurant.

“Zhan-gege, look!”

“I’ll get a table,” Wei Ying said, leaving Lan Zhan with a toddler on his arms and an allegedly mesmerizing fish tank. He tried not to be overwhelmed by that responsibility.

“Hi, fishy,” A-Yuan cooed, his voice soft as he reached out. Lan Zhan caught his hand before he could touch the glass.

“That scares them,” he explained. A-Yuan nodded thoughtfully.

“Sorry, fishy,” he not-so-quietly whispered, “Zhan-gege, Zhan-gege, Zhan-gege.”

“Hm?”

“What’s its name?”

“I’m not sure,” Lan Zhan answered honestly. A-Yuan pouted for a moment.

“Can I name them?” he asked. And Lan Zhan didn’t see why not.

By the time Wei Ying came to lead them to the table, they’d compiled the names Fluffy, Fire, and Fins for three of them. Fire (a bright orange goldfish) was only allowed to be said in an angry voice, of course. He was a little sad to say goodbye, but he waved at them nonetheless. And, yes, Lan Zhan was convinced that children were better than people at that point.

Lan Zhan put A-Yuan down in his chair and he sat politely, eyes focused on the screen of Wei Ying’s phone. He opened some game on it and was immediately entranced. Which left Lan Zhan to have to make conversation with Wei Ying.

“He likes you,” Wei Ying reiterated, smiling, “He’s usually shy.”

Lan Zhan didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying said, tilting his head, “What do you like to eat? We’ve talked so much and I’ve never seen what you eat.”

Lan Zhan didn’t think they’d spoken that much all.

“I don’t eat meat,” Lan Zhan said softly, “But that’s my only restriction.”

“Ah, okay, okay, I can work with that!” he said excitedly, looking through the menu. Lan Zhan blinked and grabbed his own menu, carefully opening it. He wasn’t sure if Wei Ying was planning on finding him something or not.

And, honestly, it was a relief when Wei Ying did order for him and Lan Zhan didn’t have to worry about it.

“So, Lan Zhan, how do you like it here?” Wei Ying asked.

Lan Zhan thought about it for a moment. It was quiet and peaceful, which was good. The people, so far, were nice enough. All of his panicking so far was his own fault. Really, the only bad thing was that it wasn’t home.

“It’s nice.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought when I first moved here. I promise it grows on you a whole lot more the longer you stay. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” Wei Ying said decidedly, smiling as he looked over to his son. When his eyes came back to Lan Zhan, he leaned forward and made that face like they had an inside joke again. “Well, I’d like to travel more, but don’t tell him that.”

“Gusu is nice,” Lan Zhan said slowly, “Child friendly.”

Wei Ying raised an eyebrow and sat up straight. “Lan Zhan, is that an invitation?” Lan Zhan’s eyes drifted anywhere but at him, desperate to seem casual. It wasn’t an invitation. Or, at least, he didn’t think it was. “I’m teasing! Yes, I’ve been to Gusu, it’s nice. The liquor there is the best I’ve ever had.”

“I don’t drink,” Lan Zhan said. Wei Ying’s eyes widened a little and he laughed.

“Oh, then why did you put up with me?!” Wei Ying asked, laughing enough to get A-Yuan to look up at him, “You’re far too kind, Gege.”

Lan Zhan waited for a moment to try and gauge if the question was meant to be rhetorical or not. When Wei Ying didn’t say anything further, he decided it wouldn’t be terrible to answer either way.

“I didn’t want you to be cold,” he said‒if only because it sounded much better than saying he didn’t want him to die and freeze to the front door. For his part, Wei Ying smiled so wide his eyes formed little crescents and he gave that blissful little hum that made Lan Zhan feel at home.

It took Lan Zhan until the food came before he realized that probably wasn’t a good feeling to have for a man who was probably in a committed relationship with a son who also happened to live two hours away from his home.

And yet…

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, try this,” Wei Ying said, leaning over the table with a spoonful of whatever sort of congee he’d gotten. His fingertips touched the bottom of Lan Zhan’s chin and he found himself opening his mouth and letting Wei Ying give him a taste. It was strange and his eyes scanned the room once he sat back, expecting judging eyes to be on them. Instead, no one was phased. “Good?”

“Mn.”

“Baba, my turn,” A-Yuan said, opening his mouth wide. Wei Ying laughed softly and got a spoonful of A-Yuan’s own meal before shoveling it into his mouth carefully.

“Good, A-Yuan?”

“Mhm!” A-Yuan said, nodding as he did his best to chew with his mouth closed. Lan Zhan found himself grateful for that. He hated the sound of people eating.

“Try yours,” Wei Ying urged, eyes shining as he gave his attention back to Lan Zhan. The more he kept his attention on him, the more he found himself rather okay with it. Maybe even preferring it. That was strange.

Still, Lan Zhan looked at his own meal of what seemed to be primarily tofu and beans. It wasn’t too different from what he’d feed himself, maybe a bit more red-tinted than he’d typically choose. He grabbed his spoon to take a bite and‒

“Do you like it?” Wei Ying asked. Lan Zhan froze a bit as his mouth started burning. He swallowed it nonetheless, but he was sure he wasn’t subtle enough when he immediately grabbed his glass of water. Wei Ying just laughed. “There’s no way that’s spicier than mine!”

And maybe it wasn’t and Lan Zhan had simply been too distracted to notice that time.

“Let me try,” Wei Ying suggested, opening his mouth in a childish way that seemed to mimic A-Yuan more than anything. Lan Zhan, despite the burning in his mouth, found himself fighting a smile.

In the most out of character move he’d ever make in his life, Lan Zhan found himself taking a spoonful of his meal and feeding it to the man across the table. He was sure his face was on fire, but Wei Ying didn’t notice as he tilted his head left to right as he weighed if it was hotter than his or not.

“Hmmm,” Wei Ying hummed, “It’s definitely not hotter than mine, but, if it’s too hot, you can switch with A-Yuan.” Lan Zhan stared at him with a blank expression which just got Wei Ying laughing. “I’m teasing!”

“Zhan-gege,” A-Yuan called, reaching over with a spoonful of his food.

“Be careful,” Lan Zhan said mindlessly as he scooted the chair in a bit more so he wouldn’t fall, still taking the bite he was offered. A-Yuan smiled all bright and sweet. “It’s very good.”

When he looked back to Wei Ying, he got that soft little look again that made his heart beat a bit oddly in his chest. He turned his eyes down to his food so he didn’t have to focus on it.

“If it’s too hot, we can ask for something else,” Wei Ying offered. Lan Zhan shook his head. There were a lot of things he’d rather do than send his food back for something else, including skydiving or giving a speech in front of the entire country.

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Wei Ying said, voice teasing and sweet.

For the first time in his life, a meal wasn’t silent. Sure, Lan Huan had loud meals with his friends sometimes, but never ones that included him like this. A-Yuan and Wei Ying both kept him in conversation, a constant stream of ‘Gege’ all meant to make sure he knew he was being spoken to. It was better than going on a walk by himself.

Lan Zhan ended up paying despite protests from Wei Ying‒”I invited you!” “You paid for tea.” “That’s not at all the same amount of money as a meal for three!” “Mn. Too late.” “Lan Zhan!”‒and they left to head back home. A-Yuan was a bit quieter this time and Lan Zhan almost asked if something was wrong, but Wei Ying beat him to it.

“Come here,” Wei Ying told A-Yuan, crouching down in front of him. Lan Zhan watched as he used his sleeve to wipe his nose and then fixed his little scarf around him, tucking it into his jacket. “You want me to carry you?” A-Yuan shook his head which earned a raised eyebrow from Wei Ying. “You want to walk?”

“Zhan-gege,” A-Yuan said, holding his arms up to him.

“Eh, A-Yuan, let’s not bother Gege, okay? He carried you already,” Wei Ying said.

“I don’t mind,” Lan Zhan offered. Wei Ying looked up at him.

“Aiya, Lan Zhan, if you keep this up, how am I supposed to let you leave?” he teased. Lan Zhan decided any answer he had to that wouldn’t be a good one and instead just picked up A-Yuan. “You’re smiling again.”

Lan Zhan ignored him again, letting A-Yuan lay his head on his shoulder as he continued to walk. Wei Ying laughed and kept up the pace.

“Are we just going to Jiejie’s cabin?” Wei Ying asked. Lan Zhan looked at him over A-Yuan’s head.

“I can walk you home if you’d prefer.”

Wei Ying just smiled at him and shrugged. “Either way, I don’t mind. Whatever means I get to bother you longer.”

“You don’t bother me,” Lan Zhan said. I bother you, he didn’t say.

"I keep telling you, Lan Zhan, I'm very annoying," Wei Ying teased, though Lan Zhan was beginning to think they weren't jokes. Maybe they had more in common than he originally assumed.

"Mn, as am I."

"No, you're not, you're perfect," Wei Ying laughed. Lan Zhan kept his eyes forward.

"Then so are you."

Wei Ying took a deep breath, loud enough for Lan Zhan to notice, and let himself laugh it off. Again, Lan Zhan couldn’t help but notice how much his presence was a welcome one. In fact, he didn’t want him to leave. The only other person with who he’d felt so comfortable was his brother. It was strange.

Was this the way Lan Huan felt about everyone?

“Did he fall asleep that quickly?” Wei Ying asked softly, leaning close to check A-Yuan. Lan Zhan craned his neck to see he was indeed sound asleep, eyes closed and breaths even. The adoration Lan Zhan felt was only broken by the close proximity of Wei Ying’s breath on his jaw. “I can take him.”

“Wouldn’t that wake him?”

“Maybe, but he was just being a brat when he wanted you to carry him. Don’t feel obligated to,” Wei Ying insisted. Lan Zhan shrugged carefully.

“I don’t mind.”

Wei Ying’s fingers grazed his spine as he put some space between them again and A-Yuan’s presence was the only thing that kept Lan Zhan from shivering. It still covered his body in chills that didn’t make sense. He looked over to Wei Ying again and noticed the way the sun shined through the trees and seemed to capture him perfectly. Maybe aesthetically pleasing was too modest for him.

“Ah, Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying said, sighing loudly as he threw his arms out. Lan Zhan nearly shushed him so he wouldn’t wake A-Yuan, but the boy didn’t even stir and he had to assume he was accustomed to a father that spoke this much. “You are far too much.”

“Too much?” Lan Zhan asked carefully.

Wei Ying looked at him, exasperated almost. That almost sick feeling knotted in his stomach all over again.

“You watch over me when I get drunk and nearly ruin your vacation, you entertain me when I talk at you for hours, and now you’re entirely unphased and kind to my kid? I’m only one man, Lan Zhan, and you’re simply too good to be true,” Wei Ying stated. His tone of voice sounded like he was complaining, but his words and his smile told an entirely different story. Lan Zhan had no response.

“Mn.”

Wei Ying laughed that warm laugh of his and it led into a groan, his head tilting back. His face was flushed a deep red. This time, it was clear it had nothing to do with the cold or alcohol. Lan Zhan couldn’t take his eyes off him.

“What are you doing to me?” he asked. It was a question Lan Zhan was convinced was rhetorical. Wei Ying was in a relationship with a child and lived on his mountain that people never moved away from‒Lan Zhan had done nothing to mess with any of that. It wasn’t a real question.

So Lan Zhan didn’t answer and they finished their walk to the cabin.

Wei Ying used the key to unlock the door and Lan Zhan took A-Yuan to the bedroom without thought, laying him on the neatly made bed. He carefully moved the blankets to cover him up and Wei Ying grabbed the pillows to make a barricade between his son and the edge of the bed.

When they found themselves back in the main room, Lan Zhan found himself face to face with this man who was somehow both the most comforting and most anxiety-inducing man he’d ever met. Wei Ying stared right at him, not wavering from eye contact even a little. Lan Zhan waited for him to speak first.

“My adoptive mother doesn’t like me,” Wei Ying said. It came out of seemingly nowhere, but Lan Zhan stayed silent. “She’s convinced herself that her husband had an affair and that I’m the product of that affair, so she takes it out on me. Always has, probably always will no matter what. It’s fine. But… When I got a bit older, I learned it didn’t matter what I did because she would hate me no matter what. So I spiraled. Got kicked out of boarding schools, isolated myself, lost contact with my siblings, was just reckless and caused a lot of collateral damage. Got in a fight one night and Wen Ning tried to save my ass, but he got pushed and slammed his head on the edge of a concrete slab. He was unconscious for days because of brain swelling. And even then, he and his sister picked me up, dusted me off, brought me home, and helped me to get my shit together. I’m still trying to make up for the trouble I caused, but… Anyway, that’s why I was so drunk I couldn’t stand it. Anniversary of the day I nearly got my best friend killed, so, you know. Bad coping, whatever.”

Lan Zhan blinked a few times and he took in the words he was saying. Honestly, the drunk version of him didn’t seem like the type to get into fights. But, then again, maybe that spoke of his progress. He hadn’t seemed like that since he met him, either. He was kind and friendly and a good father.

“Date number two, so there’s your answer,” Wei Ying offered, voice a bit softer. It was only then that Lan Zhan realized he should’ve probably responded.

“Date number two?” Lan Zhan echoed instead of anything relevant. Namely, because every date he ever recalled had been uncomfortable and awkward and, so far, the two “dates” he’d had with Wei Ying had only gotten awkward when he realized they were dates. Wei Ying smiled and let out a breathy laugh, shrugging.

“Or something, I guess,” he said, still searching Lan Zhan’s face for something, “I stopped drinking every other night of the year, though, just so you know. And-and one day I plan to stop drinking on that day, just, so, like, you know you’re not getting into something toxic. If you want to get into something at all, that is. With me, I mean. Like, a thing.”

Wei Ying spoke a lot, often in circles, and yet that was the first time Lan Zhan hadn’t quite understood.

“I’m sorry?” he said.

“You still like me, right? That’s what I’m asking,” Wei Ying simplified. Lan Zhan found himself nodding before he could even really think too much about it. It earned him that bright smile as Wei Ying relaxed a bit more. “Good. Cool. Awesome.”

“Mn.”

Wei Ying stood there, his fingers tapping against his thighs as he looked at Lan Zhan. It was almost distracting, but, considering Lan Zhan’s sole focus was on him anyway, it didn’t really matter. Still, his eyes went to them, watching the way his hand moved. Did he do that before? Instinctually, Lan Zhan’s thumb rubbed between his fingers.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying said. Lan Zhan’s head lifted to look him in the eyes again, but he didn’t even get to see what his name was called for before lips were on his.

Lan Zhan had never been kissed before. He’d gotten close to it, but he usually stopped them with polite declines. This one, for some reason, he wasn’t so eager to decline. The whole process seemed to slow his brain down. Wei Ying’s lips were warm and comforting, similar to his voice and his laugh and his smile. It was fitting and safe and maybe Lan Huan was onto something when he tried to tell him how nice it was to have someone to kiss.

Wei Ying broke the kiss only a few moments after it started, keeping it chaste and experimental and it took a few seconds for Lan Zhan to open his eyes again. When he met his gaze, Wei Ying was smiling at him in the most hesitant way he’d seen since he met him.

“Was that alright?” Wei Ying asked. Lan Zhan nodded once before he remembered that there was a whole child right in the next room.

“Aren’t you married?” Lan Zhan asked. Wei Ying’s eyes widened in shock and confusion.

“What? Where did that even‒Oh, A-Yuan, no. No, no, no. I’m single. Very single. So single,” Wei Ying insisted, nervous laughter bubbling out of him, “Ah, Lan Zhan, I can’t believe you let me carry on that way thinking I was married, how shameless.”

Lan Zhan’s face grew hot at that, feeling a bit ashamed now that he thought about it. Perhaps he should ask that question earlier next time instead of letting what he thought was a married man insist they were going on dates. If there was a next time, that is. He didn’t really anticipate that happening considering it took so many years for Lan Zhan to even find this one person.

“He’s adopted. When I first moved here, I got really close to one of the older women who had lived upon this mountain her whole life. She raised A-Yuan, but when she died, I took him on full time. Sort of. It’s sort of a communal thing, really, but he calls me Baba and spends most nights sneaking into my bed, so he’s basically all mine,” Wei Ying explained, his normal teasing air coming back. He reached forward to nudge Lan Zhan, but kept his hand on his arm. “You’re silly.”

“I’m not‒”

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying laughed, his hand sliding down to Lan Zhan’s. He grabbed it and squeezed tight. Lan Zhan’s heart was slamming into his chest and his head was spinning and his stomach was tied in knots and yet he wanted none of it to stop. “Ask me anything and I’ll give you the answer. I’m sorry I confused you.”

Ask me anything, Wei Ying said. Lan Zhan swallowed as that sentence looped in his mind and he thought about, well, everything. Everything his brother told him, everything he’d read in stories and seen in movies, everything he’d never felt before, everything he’d convinced himself were lies. And yet here he was, wanting to kiss this man again simply because it felt nice. That was overwhelming and he decided he would think about it later instead.

Which, in itself was impressive.

“Can you kiss me again?” Lan Zhan asked instead of asking something about Wei Ying’s life. He’d learned a lot in the last few minutes, more than he’d learned in the many conversations he’d had with him before. He could take a break, couldn’t he?

Wei Ying smiled bright and nodded, leaning into him.

“You have no idea how badly I’ve been waiting to hear that.”

#wangxian #wangxian fic #lan wangji #wei wuxian #wen yuan #the untamed #mdzs #my fic

12 notes · View notes

our-time-is-now · 3 years

Text

July 2, 2019 - Fidanzato

(previous play)

You can find more information about the authors, translators, content warning and additional information about the plays in the pinned post on our blog.

Matteo: *has, together with David, switched from the flatshare to David’s place yesterday, because Laura and Matteo wanted to cook together* *unfortunately, Laura had to cancel last minute, because she forgot about another appointment* *so Matteo has cooked – not the new recipe they had meant to try out, but just pasta alla Luigi* *they have enjoyed the meal and they have moved to the living room afterwards to hang out on the couch* *David has turned on some boring movie and Matteo grumbles* Okay, but I don’t understand… why doesn’t he just tell his father that the key is in the trunk? It’s just insane!

David: *has turned on just any movie after dinner, but is actually too tired to concentrate on the action* *looks from Matteo to the TV and back at Matteo’s question* Huh? The key is in the trunk? *frowns* I thought that blonde dude had taken it… *laughs and looks apologetically at Matteo* Maybe I haven’t really been paying attention… *stretches and yawns* *looks back at Matteo* You can change channels, if you want – I don’t have to watch this. I just put on something…

Matteo: *frowns and is suddenly not so certain anymore himself* The blonde dude has it? *laughs and shrugs* Can be… *stretches out a bit and grabs the remote* *surfs two channels on, when suddenly his phone rings* *gets up, puts the remote down and grabs his phone from the table* Oh, grandma… *thinks for a moment he will not pick up, but realizes he cannot do that to his grandma* *stands up and answers* Ciao nonna…

David: *leans back and gets comfortable while he watches Matteo zap through the channels, when the phone starts ringing* *nods when he hears Matteo’s announcement and takes the remote to turn down the volume – you never know how the connection with Italy is*

Grandma: Ciao, my dear boy! We haven’t spoken in so long. Is everything okay? How are you doing?

Matteo: *looks quickly back to David when he turns down the volume* *steps into the kitchen, so David can watch on without being disturbed* Yeah, sorry, grandma, I wanted to call you so often… but you know how it is… I am doing fine, everything is perfect. And you? *purses his lips for a moment, because he always feels a little bit uneasy when he talks to his grandma, even though he loves her* *doesn’t really know why, whether it is because of his dad or because he isn’t out to her yet, or both*

David: *watches Matteo leave the room, but doesn’t really think a lot of it, except that maybe the connection is indeed bad and Matteo is searching for a better one somewhere else* *speaks barely any Italian anyway and therefore doesn’t think Matteo’s leaving has anything to do with him* *zaps along but cannot find anything cool* *finally sticks with a documentary about South-America and watches that*

Grandma: Yeah, you young people always have such an incredible lot to do and no time to call your grandmothers! I know, I know! Your cousins are just the same! Only Josephina calls regularly... But good to hear, my boy, that you are doing fine. I am also fine, but it’s getting hot here in bella Italia. I feel it gets hotter every year, don’t you agree!? I am busy watering the flowers in my garden every morning and evening, but they are hanging their heads all day nevertheless. It’s even too hot for them! How is your mom doing? Everything okay with her? And has your father contacted you yet?

Matteo: *notices that he has to make an effort, at the start, to understand the Italian properly* *feels then rather relieved, when he doesn’t have to think about it anymore after a while and is happy that his grandmother is talking so much* Yeah, it’s getting warmer every year, grandma… That’s climate change… *swallows then, when she mentions his parents* Mama is doing fine… really good. She would be really glad if you call her some time… *then breathes deeply in and out* And no. He hasn’t. And he shouldn’t. You know that.

Grandma: Yes, yes, climate change – if I’m lucky I won’t have to live through the consequences. Oh, good to hear your mom is doing well! I was thinking about calling her, but I’m not sure if she wants to talk to me. I tried once, shortly after your father moved out, but I felt like I was bothering her. And that’s not what I want. Maybe she thought that that old lady would be just like her son, but no! I don’t approve of what your father has done, you know that, my boy, don’t you? It’s just not right! Leaving a sick wife and son! Maybe I will call her again. Maybe it will be better, now that the divorce is not so fresh anymore. I’ve always liked your mom. Such a sweet woman! She used to help me out a lot, when you were here during the summer. But that your father isn’t contacting you… That’s not how I raised him! I know that you don’t want to talk to him. But he doesn’t know that! He should make an effort! He could at least apologize. He could be a man and look after his child! Does he even know that you have graduated!? That’s such a big step in your life! A father should know such things! But he hasn’t even contacted me recently. The last time I heard from him was three months ago! He is probably afraid I will scold him…

Matteo: *can’t help but laugh softly, when he hears his grandma talk, and notices he does really miss her* Oh, grandma… Mama will definitely be happy to hear from you… And about my father, I really don’t know… maybe mama has told him about my graduation, but if she didn’t, then he wouldn’t know…. *has been walking around and sits down at the counter* I know you don’t like to hear it, but I really don’t want to talk about him… What’s up over there, then?

Grandma: Yes, I will call your mama! This week, promised! I know you don’t want to talk about him. He has let you down. And not only you! Me too! And your mom! I haven’t yet given up hope, that he will come to his senses at some point. And if that happens it would be good if you were talking to him. But you are right, my boy… as long as he behaves like he is doing now, we don’t have to talk about him… What’s up? What’s up? We have a new ice cream parlour in town! It’s horrible! They are offering a scoop for 50 cents and everybody is buying it, but you know what, my boy? It tastes like water! And Luigi’s ice cream parlour – you know that one, don’t you? It’s been in the family for years… And I will put my hand in the fire for them, his ice cream is home made and with the best ingredients and fresh fruit – And Luigi has to lower his prices now, so that not everybody will go to the competitors… It’s terrible! Everybody is looking only at the price and not at the quality… And your cousins Mario and Philippo are coming to visit during the summer – Mario has moved to Verona and Philippo to Milano, but you know that, of course… but that’s why we aren’t seeing each other so often anymore… but I told them: The important things is to come in summer! Every summer! It’s tradition! Traditions have to be honoured! The tradition of your family has been disturbed by your father – but no, I know, we don’t want to talk about him! But nevertheless, it always was so nice to have you here! You can come alone, can’t you, this year, Matteo, my boy? Or with your mama? Or with your girlfriend… Visit your old grandma and let’s repair the tradition!

Matteo: *just swallows, when she talks about his father again, and decides to let it pass without comment* *can’t help but laugh again when she talks about the ice cream parlour* Oh, yes, Luigi’s ice cream is the best I ever had! *exaggerates a little, but thinks it’s cute his grandma is getting so excited about it* *wonders briefly, when he has talked to Mario and Philippo for the last time, and can’t really remember* *suddenly realizes with a burning feeling that he has seen a picture of the two of them in Verona on Instagram – that means, they are following each other on Instagram and he suddenly gets a bit nauseous when he thinks about what pictures they might have seen from him, then* Yeah, I saw that on Instagram, grandma… *then feels the funny feeling in his stomach is only getting worse, when his grandma mentions his potential girlfriend* Grandma, I don’t have a girlfriend… and it would be nice if you wouldn’t wait for that…

Grandma: Yeah, you know what’s good! Luigi’s ice cream is not something you can get on every street corner. One should be able to spend a euro for something like that! Instagram, Instagram… That’s something on your phones, isn’t it? Something like that Facebook. Some modern nonsense… We used to write letters and call each other. Nowadays people write each other these emails and send pictures on Facebook and Instagram, but they don’t really talk with each other anymore. I asked Mario if he could send me a picture of his girlfriend. He asked me if I have this thing on my phone… or if I have an email address. I said no! I mean t a picture! In a letter. And he said he doesn’t have any on paper! Just on his phone and his laptop! Can you imagine? Don’t the young people of today hang up any pictures of their loved ones in their rooms anymore?! Everybody is only ever looking to their phone… I’m not waiting for you to get a girlfriend – I’m just asking. One day you’ll have one. You are such a sweet, good-looking boy. You’ll find one soon. You’re 18. Just wait a while… But you can come without a girlfriend too… this year! And then next year maybe with your girlfriend. I miss you, my boy. It’s been three years since we saw each other… you have to come visit again!

Matteo: *would normally laugh about his grandmother talking so cliché-like about modern nonsense* *but can only think about how he will never have a girlfriend, how disappointed his grandmother will be* *shakes his head silently* I would like to come visit you… *breathes in deeply and looks in the direction of the living room* *thinks about David and how he is lying there waiting for him, about David’s smile and then briefly about how his lips taste, when they kiss* *swallows shortly* But not with a girlfriend… never with a girlfriend, grandma, because I will never have one. *inhales deeply* Because I have a boyfriend. *emphasizes the o in ‘fidanzato’ extra, so she will understand*

Grandma: Oh, I am so happy you want to come! This summer?! Matteo? What do you mean, never with a girlfriend? Of course, you will bring a girlfr… Oh... fidanzato... … fidanzato... Matteo, my boy, never say never. It is probably just a phase. He is a nice boy, I’m sure, but... you’ll find a girlfriend too. When you’re here, I can introduce you to Maria’s granddaughter… A truly beautiful girl, I swear! You’ll like her, I am certain of it…

Matteo: *holds his breath when she repeats the word twice* *then feels how everything inside him pulls together at her answer* *swallows heavily and feels his eyes burn* *says, a bit too softly* No, grandma. *then hears something about a Maria and says more determinedly* No, grandma! *has to swallow twice, before he can speak again* I don’t want any Maria and not any other girl either. And it’s not a phase. *breathes audibly and then says* I think I’d better hang up… My boyfriend is waiting.

Grandma: *doesn’t let Matteo interrupt her at first, but is then silent, when Matteo becomes more determined* *speaks only again when he says he wants to hang up* No, don’t hang up, my boy. Talk to me, please! This is something we can talk about. I mean, what is so great and wonderful about your boyfriend, that a girl couldn’t offer you too?! You’re only 18… You don’t have to decide just yet…

Matteo: *closes his eyes briefly, when his grandma doesn’t understand at all what it is about* *can’t even really be upset with her, since she has probably never before in her life met a gay man* *but has simply no energy right now to explain it to her* *says therefore simply* I’m gay, grandma. That is not a decision, it just is the way it is. *swallows* Stay safe, grandma. *hangs up and drops his head onto his arms*

David: *has watched the documentary with some fragments of Italian in the background and notices now that it’s been quiet for a while behind him* *feels actually also a bit thirsty and decides to go to the fridge and check on the way there whether Matteo is done with his phone call* *enters the kitchen and sees Matteo at the counter, sitting on the bar stool, his head on his arms, the phone in front of him* *doesn’t see Matteo’s face and can’t determine in what mood he is* *goes towards him, caresses his back once and gives a kiss on his hair* And? Everything okay? *goes over to the cabinet and gets two glasses*

Matteo: *startles a little at David’s touch and then looks up* *wants to pull David closer, but he’s already near the cabinet* *shakes he head at David’s question* No… *stretches out his arms towards David and pulls him closer* *puts his arms around David’s hips and leans against him* *inhales and then says* I came out just now. *swallows and sighs* She thinks it’s just a phase and I’ll find a girl one day…

David: *looks immediately worriedly at Matteo when he answers negatively to his question and is at his side in two steps, when Matteo stretches out his arms* *embraces him and pulls him closer* *is just about to ask what is wrong when Matteo tells him already* *murmurs just a surprised „Oh“ when Matteo tells about coming out* *holds Matteo tighter with his next words and sighs lightly* Oh, man, I’m sorry... *hasn’t really talked a lot with Matteo about his grandmother and really only knows that he used to spend the summer with her and loves her incredibly much* *can imagine, based on these facts, how disappointed Matteo must be about his grandmother’s reaction* *wants to comfort him somehow, but doesn’t really know how* *says uncertainly* Maybe... she just needs a little bit of time, to get to terms with it? Or is she so conservative she really can’t handle it? *caresses Matteo’s back and kisses his temple in consolation*

Matteo: *inhales deeply and smells David* *notices how that calms him immediately and relaxes him a bit* *only nods when David says he’s sorry* *shrugs* Yeah… she is an old-fashioned Italian woman after all… Don’t even know if she has, in all her life, ever seen a gay guy… *sighs lightly* I mean, of course, it’s disappointing for her… She probably imagined it all so beautifully, that I would come to Italy with my young, pretty, blonde girlfriend and she could show us off... *swallows and moves a bit, so he can look at David* *shrugs again* But that’s too bad for her, then.

David: *grimaces slightly when Matteo tells his grandmother is old-fashioned* *finds it then really hard to guess if she will at one point accept the fact that her grandson is gay* *presses his lips together when Matteo talks about the ideas his grandmother might have had, and for a moment he finds it hard not to feel it personally, but then he shakes of the silly feeling, because Matteo’s grandmother doesn’t even know him and can’t judge whether she likes him or not, and secondly, because this is about Matteo and not about him* *catches Matteo’s gaze and smiles at his words* *swipes the hair out of his eyes and says* But you are disappointed and that is somehow sad too… maybe you can talk with her again? Maybe she really needs a bit of time and you can clear up the whole issue in your next call… *stays close to Matteo but loosens his grip enough to pour them both some ice tea and offer Matteo a glass* What else did she say? Did you talk the whole time about this one theme or have you also discussed other stuff? *pulls a bar stool closer and sits down, because he has the feeling they will talk about this for a while* *takes a drink and grabs Matteo’s hand*

Matteo: *grimaces when David says he feels sad and shrugs* I can’t just call her and pretend nothing has happened… it’s her decision now, she can either accept it or not… *grabs the glass and drinks quite a bit* *grabs David’s hand almost blindly, when the latter sits down* No, we also talked about mama… and about my father, of course, and my cousins… family stuff, you know… she wants me to come visit her - she probably doesn’t want that anymore now...

David: *shakes his head* You shouldn’t pretend nothing happened… You should talk about it once more… I mean, not immediately, but maybe a couple of days from now… If she’s really that typically Italian, then maybe she’s not just conservative, but also stubborn, right? Or is that too much of a cliché? Because if she’s really stubborn, she probably won’t start about it again… *sighs softly* *thinks it would be painful and sad, if this really would lead to a break between Matteo and his grandma* *listens to the other stuff they talked about and nods slowly* *has a few questions and wonders which ones he should ask* *then finally asks* What’s her opinion on your father? Or about your mom? She’s your grandmother on your father’s side, right?

Matteo: *has to laugh, when David brings forth the Italian clichés, which are not far off* *nods* Yeah, pretty stubborn... *thinks it is somehow typically David, to try to turn everything in a positive way* *nods at his question* Yeah, that’s right… and she likes my mom, the two of them have always gotten along pretty well… and she doesn’t approve about how he has handled things… she says she hasn’t raised him like that… *shrugs again and sighs* It’s her decision… all of it… you know? It’s not something I can change… Its not like I made a mistake and promise to do better… Either she accepts it or not. *thinks it might maybe just be the case that his father’s family might not ever be his family too*

David: *listens to Matteo and strokes a bit absentmindedly with his thumb over the back of Matteo’s hand, before he entwines their fingers* *grins slightly when Matteo tells him how his grandmother thinks about his father* That’s something then… She also could have defended him. So at least on that subject she seems to be rather cool… *nods then to his next words and squeezes his hand* *murmurs* I know... *sighs softly and shakes his head lightly* You know, in my experience, really, people need time. And I can’t estimate how it is for your grandmother, but I can tell you that sometimes it is really worth it to give the people you care about a bit of time… *watches him pointedly – because the two of them are somehow experts in giving each other time when it’s needed – and then continues* You’ve known for a while that you’re gay. But you also needed time to accept it and be completely certain. I think we can’t expect people, and especially the elder generations, to immediately and automatically be cool with everything. If she was really looking forward to you standing at her door with a girlfriend at some point, then you have just disturbed basically her whole idea of the future. Maybe she needs a few days to build a new idea… *sighs again* … or maybe not. I don’t want to give you hope, I just don’t want you to give up immediately. You’ve always given me time… maybe… maybe you can try to do the same for her? *is a little bit shy, because he’s been talking for so long, and he doesn’t actually know whether Matteo even wants him to get involved* *grabs his ice tea, to take a sip*

Matteo: *watches David while he is talking* *smiles just a tiny bit when David references the two of them* *becomes serious again* *knows that David is right* *knows that it is logical what David is saying* *also knows however that this feeling won’t go away* *this feeling that it is not fair that things have to be like this, that he has to give people time to accept something that should be completely irrelevant* *or maybe not irrelevant, but not all-determining either* *wonders why it has to be so important and why his grandmother can’t just love him, regardless of who he is in love with* *knows it is possible, because he has seen it in others* *but also knows that David is right, and that the world simply doesn’t work like that yet* *sighs softly and can’t really capture all of that in words* You are right… she needs time and who knows what will happen… but… but somehow everything feels shitty right now… why does it have to be such a big issue?

David: *puts his ice tea back on the counter and looks at Matteo* *sees how he is thinking things through and waits* *smiles a bit sadly at his words* *shrugs and even laughs a bit* Yeah, you are right! It’s completely shitty… but we can’t change anything about it anyway. We just have to be happy about all of those for whom it’s not a big issue… *leans towards him and gives him a short but passionate kiss* *swipes through his hair and then looks at him earnestly* Just wait. Maybe she’ll contact you. And if she doesn’t, then you can try again… and then we’ll talk again, okay? *leans back a little and asks* And she invited you to Italy? Would you like to go?

Matteo: *shrugs a bit frustrated* Right... *kisses David back and smiles when he swipes through his hair* *nods* Yes, let’s see… *doesn’t know yet, whether he will call her again, if she doesn’t contact him* *nods and shrugs again* Yeah, at first… maybe, but only if it’s with you… and not, like, not as some sort of statement or something… *shakes his head lightly* Anyway, that’s off the table now, I assume.

David: *nods at Matteo’s words* *is rather happy that Matteo would want to go to Italy with him, but can also understand, he would want to feel welcome* *shrugs when Matteo says it’s off the table now* We’ll see… *doesn’t really know Matteo’s grandmother, but can imagine Matteo means a lot to her, and thinks it speaks for her that she’s not defending her son, but seems to be standing behind Matteo and his mom* *takes another sip and smiles softly* If you like, the two of us could go to Italy just like that too… you could show me everything… I mean, some day, when we have money… *somehow like the idea that he and Matteo will go on a holiday together one day, just the two of them, even though he is looking forward to the vacation with the rest of their friends*

Matteo: *nods lightly and takes another sip* *smiles when David proposes to go to Italy* Yes, I’d love to… when we have some money… just rent a car and drive away… *grins at him and leans towards him to give him a kiss* *has a wholesome feeling in his stomach now and thinks he wouldn’t have found a way out of the miserable feeling so easily without David* *he would have buried himself and surrendered to the emotion, but now he likes that he didn’t even mind being pulled out of it* *says softly* Thanks… for being there.

David: *beams when Matteo agrees to go somewhere together and nods* Okay, we’ll save up for it then! *smiles softly* *leans into Matteo and answers his kiss* *sighs, because he has the feeling Matteo is doing a bit better* *wishes nevertheless that somehow everything will turn out great for him* *raises his eyebrow briefly, when Matteo thanks him, because he actually thinks it’s only natural to be there for him, but smiles and says softly* You’re welcome… *is happy that he finally seems to be able to give something back to Matteo, who is always there for him too* *puts his hand in Matteo’s neck and pulls him close again for a short kiss* *then laughs softly* That’s what couples do, isn’t it? Be there for each other… or so I heard… *grins lightly*

Matteo: *smiles when David just accepts the thank you* *enjoys kissing him again* *laughs then too at his words* Yeah, I heard that too… We’re doing pretty fine, I think… *punches Davis lightly and grins* Do you want to go back to the living room and find out if they have found that stupid key yet?

David: *nods enthusiastically, when Matteo says they’re doing pretty fine and laughs again* Better than fine! We are the best! *punches back and wonders for a moment what key Matteo is talking about* *grins then and shakes his head* I don’t care where the key is. That movie was stupid… let’s see if we can find something better… Netflix, maybe? *gets up and pulls Matteo by the hand off his bar stool to come with him*

(next play)

#druck #druck og #davenzi #matteo florenzi #david schreibner #davenzi plays

4 notes · View notes