#jefferson fic
Text
freedom of the press 08 | thomas jefferson
title: freedom of the press 08
words: 10k
warnings: a lot of angst sorry. 09 will be happier if i can publish it in less than 2.5 years this time. addiction/substance abuse mentions, STI mentions
pairing: thomas jefferson x reader
desc: the 2020 republican presidential frontrunner is an obnoxious, morally bankrupt people-pleaser, but what happens when you become the person he’s most eager to please?
tags: @stargazelaurens @ivory-haired-queens @exoticxchicken8 @assbuttstyles777 @distinguishedpotsticker @fukaaaaaaaa @hereforthepsyche-assessment @ivetoldamillionlies @fangirl570 @thealaddinkid @lasciviouspeach @snazzydoesthings @shy-and-awkward-daveed @rachelhermionerose @soft-weeb-s @gryffinclxw @anamrnk @daveeddiggsit @ayayayayana @marinovakovich @cryinghazelnutt @thefandomgirl03 @a-hopeless-fan @cloudynblw @tinywhim @lolidunnoaboutnow @siriusorionblackiii @fanfic-addict-98 @nyxie75 @i-know-i-can @yxseminx @yavin4andor @sugacita @sstrawberry-fanta @youtxbemusic @queenwilty @someinsanefangirl @foudre-aqua @whatevs2000 @rwr-ites @maxi-ride @moose-on-the-l00se @itshaileyn @toxicidity @malos-moving @luckyfriesss @lovecass123
"YOU SENT ASHLEY my fucking article?"
"Woah, honey, slow down," Angelica said, voice staticky through the phone, but Y/N was fuming. She was sure that everyone in the diner below her apartment could hear her yelling. "Yes, I sent it. You asked me to, last night."
Y/N furrowed her brow. "...What the hell are you talking about?"
"Seriously?" she asked. "Don't tell me you've forgotten. You promised you only had two drinks."
Y/N's stomach turned. She distinctly remembered downing half the open bar at the campaign fundraiser the night prior after the way her conversation with Thomas had ended. She less-distinctly remembered Angelica driving her home -- she'd been in North Carolina on a different assignment, but it turned out the CEO she was reporting on happened to be one of Thomas's biggest donors. "Okay, so maybe I stretched the truth a little, but what does that have to do with anything?"
"It has everything to do with everything," Angelica said flatly. "You told me to send that article to Ashley in the middle of your soliloquy about how Jefferson was ruining your life. You were rambling, but you were coherent; I wouldn't have expected you'd wake up having forgotten all of it."
The more she spoke, the more was coming back to Y/N, though. Flashes of Angelica checking her out of her hotel, driving her several hours back north to DC.
"Fuck," she finally said, palming her forehead as though it'd restore her memory. "Wait, why would I have you send it to her instead of just doing it myself?"
"I don't know," Angelica said mildly. "Maybe you were too far gone to write the email."
"You said I was coherent," Y/N replied, raising an eyebrow. "So which is it? Was I drunk beyond belief, or did I just seem a little tipsy?"
"Honey, I don't know; you were just a little out of it. And you did just tell me you’d lied to me about how much you’d had to drink." Angelica sounded exasperated, but Y/N wasn't done.
"Forward me the email you sent Ashley. I need to see when you sent it and what you said."
"Why? I—"
"Because I don't believe that I asked you to do that," she snapped, and Angelica paused for a long moment, taken aback.
"...Why don't you believe me?"
"Because I'd already decided that I wasn't going to send it," Y/N huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"And so you think I did it behind your back?"
“That’s exactly what I think.”
There was a long pause; all Y/N could hear from the other end of the line was static.
“Y/N—”
“Either forward me the email you sent Ashley, or own up to it,” she cut her off, having no desire to hear Angelica push another excuse. “Prove me wrong.”
“I can’t.” Angelica’s tone was biting, and Y/N’s scowl deepened. “I did send it, but you know what? I’m trying to save you from yourself.”
“What the hell do you mean, ‘save me from myself’?” she asked incredulously. “You were the one who told me that only I could decide what I wanted to publish.”
“You spent an hour on the trip home talking about how Jefferson was ruining your life,” Angelica reminded her. “So why don’t you want that article published? Why are you trying to protect him?”
“Because even he doesn’t deserve this.”
“Why not?” she asked. “Why doesn’t he? He’s been ruining your career, antagonizing you on Twitter; do you even remember how worked up you were yesterday? Talk about your integrity all you want, but that doesn’t mean you have to protect him.”
“It’s not about protecting him,” Y/N defended. “It’s just what I think is right.”
“And why don’t you think this is right? That’s what I don’t get.” Angelica’s huff sent a rush of static through the phone that made Y/N wince. “Honey, this would fix all the damage he’s done to your career; isn’t it only fair that you publish? You've been drowning in bills, and I know it's taking a toll on you. You deserve the money you'll get from this. Besides, you don’t owe him anything.”
You don’t owe him anything.
Y/N couldn’t reply; Angelica’s words reverberated in her mind like an echo — they were true. She didn’t owe him anything. That was what she’d been telling herself, it was what she’d been telling everyone else, and it was what she'd spent the past night arguing with him about.
And he’d agreed. She didn’t owe him anything.
“I… I can’t have this conversation right now, Ang,” she sighed. “I know you meant well, but this wasn’t your place to get involved. Now I need to figure out what my next move is.”
“It’s too late to stop the article. Ashley already has it.” Y/N winced at her words, and Angelica continued, “If you refused to give her the sources, she’d fire you. I know this job means too much for you to just throw it away when things get hard.”
"This isn't 'things getting hard'; it's me losing the reason I wanted to be a journalist in the first place."
"And if you want to stay a journalist, you'll send Ashley the tape of your interview with Adams," Angelica said. "She can't publish without it."
“Don't act like somehow you know what's best for me, Angelica."
"It seems like I know better than you. Your finances have been the worst part of your life for years, and those are your exact words," she said, and Y/N scoffed. However, there was truth to it. "If you just waited it out and let Ashley transfer you to another department, would you even be able to pay your bills? Or would you lose your electricity? Your running water? What would you do the next time a student debt payment rolled around?"
"Well, thanks to you, now Ashley's threatening to fire me altogether.” Y/N scowled. "If I lose my income, I sure as hell won't be able to pay off my debt."
"Then follow through with the article," she urged. "You know it's what you need to do. You have to do this for yourself, Y/N. You think Jefferson's never broken his code of ethics to get ahead? Do you even think he has one?"
“Of course—” Y/N had to cut herself off. Her first instinct was to defend him, but she didn’t see any way she could convince Angelica of anything without her believing she’d been indoctrinated. “It isn’t about him. It’s about me, and it’s about my integrity. It doesn’t matter what he’s done.”
“Ashley already has the article. Don’t forget that.”
"You shouldn't have sent it in the first place,” Y/N said. “This is my job, and it's my career; you aren't allowed to make decisions like this on my behalf. At least the tape will buy me time.”
“That buys you two weeks, tops.”
“Then I’ll make the most of it.”
____________
THAT’D BEEN THE first stop on her damage control from the previous night, but she still had a long way to go. Lafayette was gracious enough to get her Dolley’s phone number; Y/N had a number of things she felt she needed to clear the air on, but her conversation with Dolley wasn’t exactly short.
Y/N spent the better part of two hours trying to convince her not to tell James what she’d heard. Apparently, she’d been holding her tongue since she walked in on them at the state dinner months before, but she felt like she’d learned too much the night prior to keep it from him.
She couldn’t tell James, though — at least, that was Y/N’s firm conviction. If she spilled everything to James, he’d have done everything in his power to keep Y/N away from their campaign. After all, since whatever there had been between her and Thomas was over, James didn’t need to worry about anyone’s conflict of interest.
Y/N’s throat tightened when she realized that.
But Dolley didn’t budge, and Y/N was ultimately forced to give up her desperate plea.
A week passed. Y/N returned to her normal schedule at the diner, and Thomas returned to avoiding those shifts whenever possible. (Although, according to Mira, he hadn't stopped by at all.) To the untrained eye, everything was business as usual; Y/N was working both her jobs, going to election events, and interviewing politicians, but to her, there was nothing usual about what she was doing.
She hardly slept that week. It wasn’t because of Thomas, she’d like to have claimed; she was just busy, balancing everything she needed done, working two jobs and trying to figure out what needed to happen for her to keep the Adams article from getting a green light. This was just how she was getting by.
So when Lafayette called her the next Friday, she almost didn’t pick up.
Or, really, she didn’t pick up until the fourth consecutive time he called.
“Hey, Lafayette.”
“What happened between you and Thomas?”
“What?” Y/N was curled up with her laptop on her couch, indulging in retail therapy against her better judgment. At his words, she furrowed her brow. Why was he bringing this up? Why would he have known? “What are you talking about?”
“Do not act as if you do not know what I am referring to,” Lafayette snapped. "He 'as not been 'imself since his fundraiser in North Carolina. So what happened?"
"I…" Y/N furrowed her brow as she processed Lafayette's words. Had he really taken it that poorly? Y/N knew he wasn't thrilled about the development between them; that much went without saying, but they both knew it was for the best. What Thomas wanted, she couldn't give him. Not then. "What d'you mean 'he hasn't been himself'? And why the hell do you think I have anything to do with it?"
“I do not know ‘ow to explain it, Y/N.” Lafayette sighed. “‘Ave you ‘eard from him recently? He 'as been… distant."
She swallowed hard at the question. "Not… not really. Why, what has he told you?"
"Nothing. And zat is exactly ze issue." His tone was short, and the words left little room for discussion. "Did you talk to him about ze article?"
"No, actually."
"...Really?" The surprise in Lafayette's voice was unmistakably genuine, and it made Y/N crease her brow.
“Yeah, um… why is that such a surprise? Did he say something?”
“No. He has ‘ardly spoken to me since ze fundraiser, and I cannot decipher why. I supposed zat something ‘ad happened between ze two of you because of your article, but…” He trailed off, and Y/N could hear in his voice just how stumped he was. “Did anything happen that night?”
“I mean, no, nothing important," she said, brow creased. "Why do you think I have something to do with this?"
“When I asked him what was wrong, ‘e told me to ask you,” Lafayette replied. "So here I am. There 'as to be something, Y/N."
“Don’t worry about it, Lafayette,” she said, rubbing her forehead as though it’d make her headache subside. “It doesn’t concern you.”
"So there is something zat you are not telling me." She winced at the accusation in his voice, but she couldn't claim that he was wrong.
"Okay, fine, but it wasn't a big deal. I swear."
“Perhaps not for you,” he countered, "but you should ‘ave seen Thomas.”
“Is he really doing that badly?” she asked hesitantly, unsure of whether she wanted to hear the answer. "Maybe he's just stressed."
“He has ‘ardly left his apartment, chérie. I went by earlier to check on him, and he would hardly speak to me. He looked like a mess.”
"What d'you mean 'looked like a mess'? Is he okay?" The question was hesitant. "He's, like, safe and everything, right?"
"Alors... he is safe, yes. But he is," --Lafayette hesitated for a long moment, and all that could be heard was static through the line-- "self-destructing, I suppose is ze term. I do not believe zat it is my place to share anything further, though."
"...Well, shit. I didn't think it was that serious."
“You did not think zat what was zat serious?" he asked, voice exasperated. "Can you not simply be forthcoming with me?"
“Nothing, like, big or tragic happened between us,” she said, and she could hear the defensive edge creeping into her own voice. “We just… talked, and we decided it was in both of our best interests to stop sleeping together. That’s all I have to tell you.”
“Zere ‘as to be more to ze story.” Lafayette’s voice, though muffled through the phone, had a stern undertone. “Please, do not withhold things. I am simply trying to help.”
“I don't know what to tell you, honestly,” she said. “What’s done is done. I can't help him anymore. He wouldn't want to see me.”
“Why did you decide to end things?” he asked. “My impression ze other day was that you were happy.”
She winced. That afternoon at Lafayette's place felt so long ago, after what'd changed. “It just had to happen.”
“Is it because you are publishing ze article?”
“I… no. It isn't.” She swallowed hard. Whether she was publishing it seemed like an extraneous detail.
“Then what happened? What did you say to ‘im?”
“I didn't say anything wrong. I've told you all that went down,” she insisted. “We just… You know we’re not in a relationship. The choice to stop all this was mutual.”
“Was it really?”
“Yes. He was the one who suggested it.” That much was true. However, she wasn’t sure how candid the suggestion had been when he initially brought it up. “Whatever's weighing on him, it has to be more than what happened with me. I don't think our conversation would've affected him all that much."
“Y/N, please, be straightforward with me. He told me to speak to you about zis." The concern in Lafayette's voice was neither light nor well-concealed. "I am worried about him. Zis is serious."
“Then I don’t know what it is,” she insisted, throwing a hand up in frustration. “I'm sorry, Lafayette. You know this wouldn't be something I'd want for him, but I can't help you.”
He sighed audibly. “I realize zat I will not be getting any more information from you, Y/N, but I am not done with trying to figure zis out.”
Y/N swallowed hard. “And I wish you the best of luck.”
____________
SHE WANTED THE weekend to herself after that. She didn't think Thomas would be taking this all so hard, but then again, she'd bottled everything up the moment she returned to D.C., pretended she'd believed every word she'd said to him, and she figured he'd do the same. It didn't seem like him to dwell.
And yet, there he was, dwelling, and so there she was, too, worrying about him. Her stomach was in knots.
Lafayette called her a number of times, sent her countless texts. He asked her to come over and talk to him about what happened, but she had no interest. He'd get nothing out of it, and she'd only feel worse. Besides, she couldn't run the risk of seeing Thomas in their building when she was there for Lafayette. He seemed to be unavoidable whenever she was there, but then again, maybe that was why Lafayette asked her over in the first place.
She called off all her shifts over the next couple of days, claiming a head cold, that she didn't want to get anyone else sick. Mira sounded skeptical, but she let her go.
Despite her reluctance to leave her apartment, though, when Dolley called and asked her to come over to talk, she was in a double bind. She hadn't told James anything yet, she said, and she wanted to hear what Y/N had to say about it all before she did. If she didn't want James to resent her until the end of time, she supposed she didn't have much of a choice. She was struggling to pinpoint why she still cared so much about his opinion of her, though.
But she thought she owed it to Thomas to try to contain the fallout.
“Hey, Dolley. Thanks for hearing me out.” She shrugged her coat off, left it on the bench beside the front door of James and Dolley’s house.
“Of course, dear. I figured it was only fair." Dolley gave her a sympathetic smile as she came to pull Y/N into a gentle hug. "Can I get you anything? I was about to make myself a cup of tea, but I could put on a pot of coffee, too, if you'd like."
"Actually, tea sounds really nice."
"Alright. You just sit tight, make yourself at home, and I'll be back in a minute."
Her mind was racing as she curled into Dolley’s couch, glancing around her house. She knew James wasn’t home, but she couldn’t help her paranoia that, somehow, he’d hear her, astral projecting from his lunch meeting into his bedroom.
But Dolley came back after putting the tea kettle on the stove, and Y/N had to get herself out of her head. She’d boiled her advocacy down into a nice, itemized list; Dolley took a seat beside her, and Y/N began giving her the hard sell.
I’ll spare you the details — after all, it’s everything you already know. You’d been there, a fly on the wall beside the hotel hot tub, and you know that Dolley telling James what she’d heard would accomplish nothing — he'd likely resent Y/N for it (not that she'd blame him; she knew the problem her relationship with Thomas presented for their campaign). However, with everything between her and Thomas having been put to an end, it'd accomplish nothing. James would have her barred from their events to prevent her from becoming a distraction, but it wouldn't change anything, by then, and only hinder her career.
And besides, she and James were friends. She didn't want the brief, silly fling she'd had with Thomas to ruin that.
She finished monologuing, and, as if on cue, the doorbell rang.
She raised an eyebrow, glancing at the door and then back at Dolley. "Were you expecting someone?"
"I—" The tea kettle started whistling, cutting her off abruptly as she turned her head back toward the kitchen. Dolley sighed. "Oh, hell. Would you mind getting that while I get the door? I need to go see who's here."
“Yeah, sure.” She went to the kitchen as Dolley stood to get the door, and she found that Dolley had made her life fairly easy. There sat two mugs and a box of teabags on a little wooden tray, so all she did was put the little kettle on a potholder before returning to Dolley’s living room.
She couldn’t have been gone for more than a few minutes, but when she came back, she and Dolley weren’t alone.
She nearly dropped the tray.
“Thomas?”
He and Dolley both looked up from where they sat on the couch.
“Y/N.” The minute he met her eyes, she froze. Lafayette was right — he looked like hell. The bags under his eyes were deep, and he clearly hadn’t shaved in several days. His beard was growing in patchy. “What are you doin’ here?”
“I…” She was struggling to speak past the lump in her throat. “What are you doing here?”
“Dolley invited me.”
Her eyes widened as she turned. “What the hell, Dolley?”
“Oh, would you relax? You two need to talk, and you well know it,” Dolley snapped, and Y/N’s grip tightened on the handles of the tray she held. “Come here and sit down.”
“No. I...” She set the tray down on the side table nearest her, and Dolley furrowed her brow. “I'm leaving. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but there’s nothing more to say.”
"Come on, Y/N—"
"She's right, Doll," Thomas sighed. "We already ended things."
"Please, neither of you wanted to. You're just both too stubborn to say it."
"Don't act like you know the full story," Y/N scoffed.
"So you don't want to fix this?"
"There's nothing to fix." Dolley hummed skeptically as Y/N proceeded past her, grabbed her jacket from the bench by the door. "Thanks for having me, though. I'll see you."
"If either of you leaves, I'm telling James everything."
She paused. "Dolley, you can't—"
"I can, and I will. Now, get back here."
"This is blackmail."
"I won't deny that." Dolley raised an expectant eyebrow when Y/N turned back to her. "Are you going to come sit down, or was this a waste of both our afternoons?"
“Dolley.”
“Would you two like a minute to yourselves?”
“I…” She didn’t answer, instead turning to Thomas, waiting for any sort of a cue. He was watching her, though, and when their eyes met, both of them fell silent. She swallowed hard.
“That might be best.” Thomas’s words were soft, but Y/N couldn’t speak, not with the lump that was building in her throat. Dolley glanced between them, and maybe she could see the silent dread in Y/N’s eyes, but she didn’t say another word, just nodded before she left the room. And with that, Y/N and Thomas were alone.
She swallowed hard. When she finally took a seat, it was on the far end of the couch. Y/N felt certain that Dolley’s draping coats and resting books on every other chair in the room was deliberate.
He was the first to speak.
"So, what're you doin' here, then?"
"Dolley invited me, too." She pursed her lips. "I came to talk to her about… everything she heard."
"Why?" Thomas looked genuinely bewildered, but Y/N didn't understand his confusion.
"I was trying to convince her not to talk to James about it." She shrugged. "I mean, it's not like it's worth her telling him now. It wouldn't change anything."
"Then why d'you care if he knows?"
"I…" She trailed off, unsure whether there was any delicate way to say that she didn't want him to be on the receiving end of any hostility from James just because he'd fucked her a few times. She didn't think he deserved that. "I guess I'd rather James not think I'm sleeping around to get ahead."
"'N you're really that worried about his opinion of you?"
"More than I should be." Her voice was quiet. "Anyway, what issue do you have with that? This whole thing affects you, too, you know."
"Oh, believe me, I know." He huffed, folded his arms as he sat back against the couch cushions. "I, er… I came for the same reason. Didn't want James chewin' me out over it."
“James loves you. Even if she does tell him, you know he won’t be able to be angry about it.”
“James ‘s one of my oldest friends,” he agreed, “but when we’re workin’ together, that doesn’t matter anymore. He’d be furious.”
“Even after the fact?”
He shrugged. “We knew everything we were putting at risk here. He’d tell me my priorities weren’t in the right place, or that I shoulda been taking our campaign more serious than… whatever you ‘n I were doin’.”
“Then I guess it’s good that we stopped,” Y/N replied weakly.
“Yeah.” Thomas didn’t meet her eyes. There was a long moment of silence after that; she could tell his mind was elsewhere with the absent stare he wore, fixed on the ottoman of one of the armchairs, but his brow was furrowed. He was deep in thought. She pursed her lips. “What were you gonna say that night?”
The question caught her off guard; her eyes widened, and he looked up calmly to meet her eyes, wearing an inquisitive look.
“What?”
“The night of my fundraiser.” She pressed her lips together into a thin line. “When Dolley came in, she cut you off. I haven’t been able to keep my mind off’a it.”
God, she hated how he was always so blunt. He always spoke his mind, always said what he was thinking, and it was one of the things that scared Y/N most about him. He hadn’t been able to keep his mind off of that one little moment, that fragmented sentence.
“I… I don’t remember.” Her answer was honest, but Thomas wasn’t satisfied.
"You never meant to…?"
"Hm?” Y/N furrowed her brow, and Thomas's noncommittal shrug didn't help much. “'I never meant to' what?"
"That's what I've been trying to figure out."
Oh. She pursed her lips, and her movements were hesitant. She knew what he was talking about — that'd been the last thing she said before their tense conversation ended abruptly the night of his fundraiser. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
Thomas scoffed. “Really? I don’t even deserve the truth about this?”
“I’m not lying.”
“Yes, you are.” His tone was unshakeable; he was beyond convinced of his words, and Y/N shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “After everything we’ve been through, I know you better than this.”
“And what have we been through? Hm? Fucking on your kitchen counter? I’m sorry to say it, but I’m not quite sure that’s the peak of intimacy.”
“Yeah, alright,” he acquiesced, “but what about all the time we didn’t spend fucking?”
“I…” Y/N trailed off, her jaw tight, entire body tense. “We both knew that was why we were together in the first place. I stayed over because I didn’t wanna travel through the city in the middle of the night. There wasn’t much more to it.”
“Oh, sweetheart, we both know that if you really just wanted to get into my pants, there was no need for you to spend so much time at mine.” His tone was frustratingly condescending, but he was right. “Don’t tell me the reason you made dinner with me, watched all my cheesy old movies, even watered my damn plants was ‘cause I give good head.”
Y/N scowled. "Fine. I like spending time with you. But that doesn't make us anything more than friends."
He hummed in acquiescence, giving a subdued shrug. "Guess not. Making out on the kitchen counter does that well enough, though."
"Okay, we were friends with benefits," she conceded, but Thomas didn't look quite satisfied. "What? What's wrong with that? We're friends, and we slept together."
"Don't try and tell me this is all in my head." Thomas scowled. "Yeah, we slept together. But we did a lot more than that. I know very well I'm not delusional for thinking something more was goin' on there."
“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” Y/N scoffed. “You know it was never like that; it wasn’t what I wanted.”
“No, I know.” Thomas shifted on the couch to face her, and his gaze was heavy with scrutiny, with skepticism. “You didn’t wanna get too involved. You made all that clear as day.”
“Then what’s the problem?” The undertone of irritation in his voice was putting her on edge, and he let out a dry, breathy laugh, shaking his head.
“That you’ve been lyin’ to me.”
“What? I never—”
“I don’t mean your intentions. You never wanted us to be more than friends. That’s just fine,” he reasoned, and how measured his tone was made Y/N furrow her brow. “But what I wanna know now is if you did end up gettin’ more attached than you meant to.”
“I… ?” Her voice was breathless. It sounded as though his question had knocked the wind out of her, but Thomas just continued to watch her expectantly.
“You heard me. You know what I’m askin’.”
“Does it matter?” she asked, but the words sounded hoarse. She could feel her hands trembling where she rested them on her thighs, and she folded her arms to hide it. She didn’t want Thomas to see how uneasy she was.
“It does to me.” He pursed his lips, leaned forward to rest on his forearms on his thighs. Y/N didn’t respond. “If you’re not gonna gimme an answer on that, the least you can do is tell me what you were gonna say that night. Just give me something to go on here.”
“It won’t change anything.” Her voice was heavy.
“Then just tell me." He sounded tired. "I can't go on wondering if this was all in my head."
“Thomas…”
“Please,” he said. “What’d you ‘never mean to’ do?”
“Hurt you.” Her words were nearly inaudible as she stared down at her legs, unable to bring herself to look up and see how he was watching her. “Which feels silly to say now, but it’s the truth.”
His jaw was tight. He nodded. “Great.” He let out a heavy breath, leaned back off of his legs to sit up in his chair. “Great. ‘M gonna go tell Dolley we’re finished with talking. Don’t think there’s anything else to say.”
Y/N’s eyes were wide as he stood, particularly as she hadn’t moved an inch. “Wait, what?” He looked down at her with an expectant eyebrow raised when he went to grab his coat. She frowned. “I mean, yeah, sure, fine. But…”
“But what?” Thomas immediately challenged it when she trailed off, shaking her head.
“But that’s it?” she asked. “You’re just gonna leave now after you pressed for me to tell you that?”
He let out a humorless, breathy laugh. “‘Course I am. What else am I supposed to do with, ‘oh, I never meant to hurt you, Thomas’?”
Y/N wrinkled her nose at his mocking impression of her voice, taken aback by his shift in demeanor. “I don’t know. You’re the one who kept asking.”
“Mm, you’re right. My bad, sweetheart.” His tone was mocking as he pulled his arms into the sleeves of his coat, shrugged it onto his shoulders. He glanced back at the doors to the rest of the house. “‘S Dolley in the kitchen? Hang on a sec.”
“Hey, wait, slow down,” Y/N said, and she sounded affronted.
“What? You don’t wanna leave?”
“I… yeah, but…” She frowned. “Why do you sound so angry? What did I do?”
“I’m not angry.” The strain in his nonchalant gaze and his clenched jaw both said otherwise. “I can just appreciate some good irony, ‘s all.”
“What?”
“Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean,” he said. “You’re too smart for that, c’mon.”
“I got the implication,” she replied, struggling to keep her tone in check, “but no, I don’t know what you mean by it. What have I done to wrong you so sincerely? Hm?”
“Oh, please, I can’t do this again.” His frustration was unbridled in his voice. “Hasn’t even been a week since we went over it. Try ‘n think.”
“Do you mean in North Carolina?”
“When else?”
She huffed. “Alright, fine, but I don’t know what you want me to say to that. Do you really want to re-hash that argument?”
“Not in the least. ‘S why I’m leavin’,” he said frankly. “You take care of yourself, now.”
“Wait, come on,” she protested, finally standing up alongside him. “You seem even more mad now than you did last week. What’s your problem?”
He raised an eyebrow, and the amusement in his small smile was sardonic. “Right now? Sugar, you’re my problem. What’s hard to understand about that?”
How condescending his tone was made Y/N grit her teeth. “Then what do you want from me? What am I doing so incredibly wrong right now that I deserve—?”
“Same thing you’ve been doin’,” he spat. “Pretending to care about me ‘n then turnin’ around and makin' me feel silly for believing it."
"Hey, what?" The offense she took was clear in her voice. "Of course I care about you."
"Oh, save it. There's nothing to prove anymore. No need for the act."
"What the fuck do you mean 'act'?" He rolled his eyes at her question, went back to buttoning up his coat, and she scoffed. "I'm still talking to you."
"'N you're not sayin' anything I haven't heard."
"Then what do you want from me?" she asked, throwing her hands up in exasperation. He looked her dead in the eye.
"Something you can't give me."
She was stunned to silence for only a moment after his biting words, and as he finished putting his coat on, she drew in a shuddering breath. "So that's what this is about. You're angry because I haven't sucked your dick in a couple weeks."
He huffed out a disbelieving laugh. "Please. If I needed to get off, I could go anywhere I wanted."
"Oh, right, because the women are lining up down the street to fuck you."
"That's not what I mean, and you know it," he snapped.
"Then what do you mean?" She folded her arms, raised her eyebrows.
He paused for a moment, tongue burrowed into the corner of his cheek as he watched her. "I mean that I actually want you. Am I not bein' clear enough? I don't just wanna fuck you once in a while 'n then pretend to be strangers. But I have no idea what the hell you want from me, so I'm leaving. You can tell Dolley I said g'night."
"I will," she replied. "And I'm sure James will love hearing everything Dolley knows about us hooking up. Have fun dealing with that fallout."
He let out a mirthless laugh. "Thanks. Whatever he has to say, it'll be much easier than havin' to deal with you."
––––––––––––––––––––
mailto: [email protected]
Ashley:
I hope this email finds you well. Thank you so much for all your feedback on the Adams article; it’s been incredibly helpful in my redrafting process. However, many of the claims he makes about Jefferson’s past remain unsubstantiated, and I have faced numerous obstacles in finding a source who is willing to corroborate. None of Jefferson’s contacts who know him well enough to confirm or deny are willing to comment. As such, I am reaching out to request a two-week postponement on the publishing of the article while I straighten out the facts supporting it.
Thank you in advance,
Y/N L/N
––––––––––––––––––––
THOMAS’S WORDS HAD stung. He left that day with no further ado, and Y/N was left dwelling in the days that followed. She couldn't help but wince every time she recalled what happened. Her guilt was weighing on her even heavier than before.
"Mija, where is the order for Marcus?"
It was Mira's voice that broke her train of thought, pulled her out of her head. She blinked hard and found herself in the middle of absentmindedly assembling a sandwich. She checked the receipt— shit. Marcus had specifically asked for no mayo.
Y/N huffed as she trashed the bread and pulled out another roll. A minute later, she slid his order out in a basket complete with fries and a pickle, yelled it out over the counter, and went on to the next one. They were closing in ten minutes: why the hell were there still orders to make?
She slumped against the kitchen counter, resting on her hands against it after she finished the lobster roll for Sriya. Mira walked in to her left.
"Ay, this mess," she huffed, untying her apron and scrunching her nose as she surveyed the room. Y/N nodded, her blank stare not leaving the floor in front of her. Mira furrowed her brow. "Oye, you with me?"
Again, she nodded absently, and Mira frowned, folded her arms. "And you are happy to wash all these dishes, too? I can leave you here to mop the floors?"
The robotic nod she received in return made her sigh. "Mija." She snapped her fingers; Y/N visibly jumped, eyes wide. She looked at Mira. "What is wrong, hm? Why are you acting dumb?"
"Hey, uncalled for," Y/N defended herself, wearing a small frown as she looked over at Mira's impatient expression. "I'm just distracted."
"By what?"
She shrugged. "I don't know… work, I guess."
"You are at work," Mira pointed out, and Y/N sighed.
"You know I mean my other job. There's a lot on my mind. I'm sorry if I've been slacking here."
"Mm. Apology accepted," she said, and Y/N could only roll her eyes.
"Glad to hear it."
"But actually talk to me now, hm? You are giving me half answers." Mira raised an eyebrow, hands on her hips. Y/N pursed her lips.
"It's not a huge deal. Just an article I've been working on," she said. Her stare was absent. After a minute, she cleared her throat. "But hey, um, sorry to change the subject, but can I ask, has Thomas Jefferson been around here lately?"
"'To change the subject,'" Mira repeated skeptically. "So he is your problem. It is always a man."
Y/N furrowed her brow. "I thought you loved Thomas."
"Sí, sí, pero te quiero más," Mira replied matter-of-factly. Y/N couldn't help her small smile. "You know you always come first for me."
"Thanks," she said softly.
"But why do you care about Thomas Jefferson coming here now? Hm?" Mira asked, making Y/N frown. She assumed she was off the hook. "All you ever do is complain about him. Shouldn't you be happy?"
"So he hasn't been coming here?"
"Ah, ah. My question first."
Y/N shrugged uncomfortably. "I don't know. I just haven't seen him during my shifts. I was curious."
Mira paused, eyeing her skeptically for a moment before she pulled her apron off over her head and folded it in her hands. "Yes, he has been by."
"Really? When?"
She nodded. "He was here yesterday."
"Did he seem… okay?"
Mira paused. "What do you mean?"
"I dunno." She shifted under Mira's disbelieving gaze. "I've heard he hasn't made many public appearances recently. Just wondering if something was going on."
"He seemed fine." Mira tossed her apron onto the counter. Y/N nodded, pressing her lips together. "He asked about you."
She froze. "He did?"
"He did," she confirmed. "Why did he ask about you?"
“What? I don’t know.” Her brow was furrowed, and her tone was defensive. “What did he ask?”
“The same thing you asked me about him. What is going on?”
“Nothing, I don’t—”
“No me mientas. I saw him leaving on a Saturday morning two months ago when I came in to open.” Mira’s tone was sharp, and Y/N’s stomach dropped. “I am not stupid; simply tell me what is happening."
“Mira, it’s really not what you think; he was just here while I was closing, and it was the night of that horrible blizzard, and his car wouldn’t start, and the roads were closed…”
“So you had an innocent little slumber party with Thomas Jefferson?”
“I just let him stay here for the night,” Y/N defended. “He didn’t really have any other options.”
“So why is he coming around here asking after you?” Mira folded her arms, and when Y/N shrugged, she sighed. “Please be honest with me. It is obvious that there is something more going on than you want to admit.”
Y/N’s long moment of silence following her words told Mira more than Y/N meant to divulge. Mira pursed her lips.
“Por favor, dime. I am only asking because I care about you.”
“Well, I appreciate it, but there’s nothing to be worried about,” Y/N assured her. “I’m obviously fine, and he’s apparently doing alright as well, so there’s no problem. I’ll come talk to you if there ever is.”
Mira looked her over as she cleaned up the counter she stood before. “Are you really doing fine, though?”
Y/N went to take out the trash.
–––––––––––––––––––––
SHE SETTLED BACK into her usual closing shifts at the diner within the week, returning to working the dinner rush. She could only feign illness to stay away for so long, and this wasn’t the shift Thomas typically came in during, anyway. Besides, she needed the money more than she needed to avoid him.
That week passed with little intrigue, limited to her favorite (and least favorite) customers alongside a surprise appearance from Lafayette on Wednesday night. Thankfully, he showed up during peak hours, so it wasn’t difficult to evade his questions under the guise of taking care of other customers. She assumed he left shortly after he came, but around an hour later, she noticed him in the back corner chatting animatedly with the old man who always ordered nothing but coffee and read his newspaper for hours. She couldn’t help but smile.
She was slowly walking back information from her article about Thomas, claiming she had another source denying the validity of its original claims, but she wasn’t sure her editor was buying it. Ashley was impatient, and her approach had always been to publish first and follow up later. It was surely only a matter of days, maybe a week, before the article went live without anyone corroborating it. Y/N was operating on stolen time.
But at that point, it couldn’t be her greatest concern.
The following Wednesday was slow at both the office and the diner. Thomas hadn’t appeared much in public since his fundraiser in North Carolina, so Y/N didn’t have much to write about to distract her from the exposé she was doing her best to stall. She had resorted to redundant think pieces about his economic policy platform.
When she arrived at the diner for the night, Y/N was already counting the hours until she could curl up with a glass of wine and watch Parks and Rec until she passed out on the couch. She’d take a night with Aubrey Plaza over her regulars any day.
She was working the kitchen with Jac until Mira left for the night, pushing Y/N to the register in her place. It wouldn’t have been a problem for her if not for the first face she saw when Mira brought her out to the front.
He was absentmindedly checking his phone when she approached, and she cleared her throat as she stepped up to the register. He looked up, and his eyes went wide.
"Hey." She spoke first. "What can I get you?"
"Hey." His voice was hesitant. "Sorry, I… thought you didn't work Wednesdays anymore."
She didn't meet his eyes, staring past him at the diner's patrons as she tapped her fingernails on the counter. "This is my usual shift."
"I know, but Lafayette said…" He trailed off, shaking his head. She raised her eyebrows, finally looking directly at him. His eyes were bloodshot. "Nevermind. 'M sorry. Can I get a roast beef on rye and a cappuccino to go?"
"Yeah. It'll be out shortly." Her words were soft, absentminded as she eyed him. He looked more put-together than she'd seen him when they were at Dolley’s, but the heavy frames of his glasses didn't hide the growing bags under his eyes.
He nodded, leaning down to pay, signing the screen before him. "Thanks, sweetheart."
He was tucking his card back into his wallet as he spoke, and as her eyes widened, he froze, both of them processing his words at the same time. He didn't say another word, though. He sighed as he turned to walk away, and she didn't interrupt him.
She sent his order to the kitchen and grabbed a cup for his coffee, marking it with his name. She stared at it for a long moment before glancing back up at him. He was seated at a table by the end of the bar, typing frantically on his phone.
They had his order out for him in around five minutes, and it was Jac who called it out to the dining room when he put it on the bar. Y/N went ahead and made his coffee herself, forcibly switching places with her coworker to transfer herself off of the register, and she was finishing it right as he came up to collect his sandwich.
"Cappuccino for Thomas?"
Her voice was weak as she met him at the end of the counter, and he gave her a halfhearted smile.
"Thanks."
As she handed him the cup, his fingers brushed against hers, and she couldn't bring herself to let go.
"Give me a call?" she asked quietly when he met her gaze. Her eyes were hopeful, and he swallowed thickly.
"Take care of yourself." His tone was impersonal as he broke her stare. She pursed her lips. He pulled the cup from her shaking hands.
––––––––––––––––––––
THOMAS DIDN'T CALL. Y/N wasn't sure she was really expecting him to after how he came in on Wednesday and made it clear that he'd been trying to avoid her. Still, her heart rate picked up every time she received a notification, not letting her rest until she had confirmed it wasn't him. She was let down every time.
She was the last employee there before they closed on Friday, as Jac had to leave early for a date, so she was left wiping down the counters as she waited for the final few customers to make their way out of the diner.
She looked up when the bell above the door rang, expecting the last person to be leaving, but instead, Thomas Jefferson was walking in. Her eyebrows shot up.
She came over to meet him at the register. "Did Lafayette also tell you I wasn't working Fridays?"
"Nah. 'M actually here to see you," he said. His expression was blank, his tone businesslike. "You did ask me to call, didn't you?"
"Yeah." Her voice was small. "At this point, I didn't think you were gonna."
"I didn't plan to." They both glanced over as the bell above the door chimed again, letting them know the last person had left the diner. "But it's been on my mind. I don't have time for that typa distraction, which is why I'm here."
"Right," she said softly. "Can I get you anything?"
"Coffee would be great if it's not too much trouble."
"Of course." The coffee pot was still hot and sitting under the machine, so it didn't take her long to pour him a cup in one of the mugs she'd just cleaned (one cream, two sugars). She turned back to hand it to him. "Here you go."
"Thanks." He accepted it as he sat down across the counter from her, putting it down in front of him. When he pulled out his wallet, Y/N raised an eyebrow, and when he started fishing out bills, she couldn't help but sigh.
"Put your money away; this is on the house," she said, and he glanced up with his dark brow knit.
"You should know by now that I can't be bought."
Her eyes widened at his words, and she looked him over skeptically for a moment as he put his wallet away. He held her gaze for another moment, watching her expectantly, and after a beat passed, the corners of his lips quirked up, giving the only indication that he might be joking. She rolled her eyes.
"How could I forget about your impeccable morals?"
"No idea." He reached for his coffee, and he took a delicate sip as she leaned against the counter across from him. "Why'd you ask me to call?"
"I wanted to talk to you, but I didn't think a text would cut it."
"What do we have left to say right now?" The bluntness of his question caught her off guard, and her eyebrows shot up as he watched her expectantly. "The conversation we had at Dolley's made it pretty clear any talk we had was gonna be more of the same."
She frowned, crossing her arms in front of her as she drew back from the counter. "If you think this is a waste of time then why did you bother to come here?"
"I don't think this is a waste of time," he defended. "I'm just not sure what you want from it."
"I don't know if you do, but I still have more to say," she said. He raised an eyebrow.
"Then why didn't you say it while we were at Dolley’s?"
"Because we started fighting, and you were angry, and I…" She sighed. "I didn't know how to. You had every right to be angry, but I didn't want to think I was in the wrong."
"So what's changed?" he asked, watching her expectantly.
She shrugged hesitantly, looking down at her hands on the counter. "I haven't been able to stop thinking about what you said. I felt bad, and… I've been worried about you."
"You've been worried about me?" he repeated skeptically, and when she looked up, she didn't like the disdainful look in his eyes.
"I have." When his disbelieving stare didn't budge, she sighed. "The last couple times I've seen you, you haven't seemed like yourself. You looked… tired."
"'Course I'm tired; I'm running a presidential campaign," he said flatly, and Y/N pursed her lips.
"I know, but then Lafayette called, and…" She trailed off when Thomas huffed. "I dunno. Mira told me you asked about me, and then Lafayette started talking like he knew something I didn't. So I was worried."
"Of course Lafayette called," he scoffed. "He can't just stay out of our damn lives, can he?"
"He means well," she reasoned, but he looked unimpressed.
"He needs to learn a thing or two about boundaries," Thomas said, "but I'm doing just fine. If that's all you wanted to talk about, I can head out."
"No, c'mon," she pleaded. "I didn't bring you here just for that. Bear with me."
Thomas said nothing but raised an expectant eyebrow as he took another sip of his coffee, waiting for her to continue.
"The real reason I wanted to talk is because I owe you an apology. Several apologies, really."
He put down his mug, leaning back in his chair. "What for?"
"You know what for." She gave him a tired look, and he shrugged innocently.
"Maybe." He drummed his fingers on the ceramic absentmindedly, watching them bounce on its glossy surface. "But I wanna know if you know what you're apologizin' for."
The bored look he wore made her feel small. She swallowed.
"I'm sorry for treating you how I did."
"You're gonna have to be more specific."
"I think if I tried to be specific we'd be here quite a while."
"I've got time."
"It's late."
"You don't have work tomorrow." He paused, considering himself. "As far as I know, that is. Won't pretend I still know your schedule."
"It hasn’t changed as much as I pretended it did,” she said quietly. “So I guess I’ll start there. I’m sorry for lying to you about my schedule and trying to pretend I hadn’t been avoiding you. I should’ve been upfront when you asked about it.”
“Yeah, you shoulda," he agreed with a nonchalant shrug. "I never got an explanation on why you were avoidin’ me either, but with how you started deflecting when I asked about other men, I’m not sure I want one.”
“Woah, I wasn’t deflecting anything about other men,” she defended, brow creased. “I told you in no uncertain terms that I had no desire to hook up with Lafayette, and you decided to push that and scrutinize my dating life.”
He rolled his eyes. “‘S great to know you and Lafayette aren’t sleeping together, but you can’t pretend you were straightforward with me.”
“What was I not being clear about?”
“You’re really gonna make me do this again?” Thomas huffed, glancing to his right as disbelief flashed in his eyes. “I dunno why you wanted to talk to me if we were just gonna rehash this.”
“I’m being serious.”
“Every time I've asked whether you were sleeping with other people, you told me you didn’t owe me that information, ‘n it all became some big fight about me actin’ controlling,” he said. “If you don’t wanna tell me, fine, but don’t act like you’ve been transparent. We both know you’re keeping me in the dark for a reason.”
“I’m not, actually,” she said, looking him in the eye. “I haven’t been with anyone else. Not in any capacity. If I were having sex with other people, I would’ve been asking you to be a lot more careful.”
“So you didn’t call me up to tell me I needa get tested for chlamydia?”
“No, just syphilis.” Her tone was lighthearted, but Thomas didn’t offer any sign of amusement. She cleared her throat. “You’re the only person I’ve been with since we met, so the last thing you have to worry about is me passing on some incurable STI.”
“You haven’t slept with anyone else since I’ve known you?” There was surprise in his creased eyes as he fixated on the first part of her sentence. She shrugged.
“I guess I haven't.” She eyed his incredulous stare. "I didn't think this would be that shocking, either."
"You've been careful as possible to make that unclear," he said. "So if there's nobody else, then why all the lyin'? If you wanted space, you coulda just said so. I'm an adult; I can handle it."
"I know you can," she said quietly. She rubbed at a smudge on the countertop, trying to avoid his gaze. "I just… I've felt guilty about being with you and… whatever this is. Whatever we are. So much happened so fast between us, and the more time I spend in the outside world the more I feel like it was a mistake."
"'A mistake'?" The hurt in his tone was clear, and she sighed, resting her forehead on one of her hands.
"I don't mean it like that, but you know what the reality is here. We knew it from the start."
"I shouldn't have come here," he muttered, setting down his mug and moving to stand. Her eyes widened.
"Wait, hear me out," she pleaded, but he was off of his seat, buttoning his coat. "I got a lot more attached to you than I meant to, alright?"
That stopped him cold.
"I haven't been able to stop thinking about what you said at Dolley's, and I'm sorry I spent so much time deflecting." She pursed her lips, watching him hopefully, and when he met her eyes, his tense shoulders softened. "I really like being with you, but with what our lives are, we can't be doing this. We’re not good for each other."
"I never asked you for any kind of a commitment," he defended. "You shoulda just told me if you didn't wanna do it anymore."
"I do want to keep doing it, though, and that's why it's such a problem." She sighed, her back sagging as she leaned against the counter. "I got too close. It's ruined all my objectivity as a journalist."
"You're good at your job," he reasoned. "The way you write about me's gotten more nuanced. I don't think that's a bad thing, sweetheart."
"No, you don't get it. This is a presidential race, and as a frontrunner, people have had enough of hearing about your politics. They get it by now. They want to hear about you and your ugly past and all the things that make you an unqualified leader." Her voice sounded hopeless, and it made him frown. "You've told me too much for me to play it straight. I care too much to be able to decide what the public does and doesn't need to know. I got this assignment because I wanted to serve up your dirty laundry on a silver platter, but I don't think I have it in me after everything that's happened."
"There's not much in my past worth hiding."
"Isn't there?"
"If I've made it this this far into my career without bein' hurt by what I do behind closed doors, I'm not afraid of anything you're gonna dig up."
"You were an alcoholic."
His wide eyes snapped to hers, and she didn't dare speak.
"'N how the hell d'you know about that?"
"So it's true?" she asked quietly.
"I was grieving my goddamn fiancée. She was all I had; I was surviving," he snapped, and she pursed her lips. "You try losing the love of your life 'n tell me it doesn't screw with your head."
"I don't blame you, Thomas, and I'm not judging you." Her soft words didn't save her from his skeptical gaze. "I’m sorry that you went through that. You didn’t deserve a second of it. But now that I know this, I’m supposed to publish an article about it. My editor wants to make this front page news, but I want to kill the story because I got too close to you."
"If I was anybody else, would you even know about this?"
"I got this information from an interview." She spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. "My source wants to remain anonymous, but it's sound enough to publish without someone else corroborating it."
"Are you tellin' me you're planning to publish an article about me bein' an alcoholic?" His voice was incredulous; he watched her as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. The look in her eyes was pained.
"I don't want to," she said. "I don't want to make this public because I care too much about you. I don't even know whether this would be a fair article for someone to write because I've lost all perspective on writing about you."
"So don't write the article," he said, and she could barely stand to look at the worry in his eyes. "'S all in the past. I'm under control now; 's not who I am. That was me at my worst."
"My editor already knows about the interview," Y/N said softly, and she winced at the dread she saw flash in his expression. "If I don't publish this, someone else will, and I'll lose my job in the process."
"Who did the interview this came from?"
"I did." Her words were tearful.
"Then you can still stop this," he said firmly. "Refuse to write about it. Don't send your boss the notes from the interview, or the tape, or whatever you've got."
"Thomas, it's already written."
Her words struck him silent, and all he could do for a moment was stare at her in disbelief.
"I'm trying to stop it from running. It's a rough draft, so my editor still needs me to—"
"I opened up to you about my fiancée's death, 'n you just turned around and wrote an article about it?" His quiet voice was heavy with hurt.
"It's not about that. It doesn't even mention Martha, and my editor doesn't know about any of that," she pleaded. "My source doesn’t know about her, so nobody else has to. But there are people out there trying to crush your campaign who know about your struggle with addiction. The information’s out there; it’s only a matter of time before someone goes public with it."
“So you figured you may as well fast-track destroyin’ my reputation? You wanna tell the whole world who I was in my weakest moments?”
“Wouldn’t you rather the story be written by someone sympathetic to what you’ve been through?” she asked. “If I withhold the source from my editor, she can’t run the story, I lose my job, and some asshole who wants to see you suffer casts this all in a much harsher light.”
“All I’m askin’ for is time,” he pleaded. “We’re in the middle of the primaries; if this comes out now, I’m through.”
“I’ve delayed it for as long as I can. My editor wants a final draft by the end of next week.”
“The end of next week,” he repeated softly, looking down at the counter. His teeth were gritted; his jaw tense, but he was eerily still. Y/N felt sick. “You asked me to come here to apologize and tell me you cared about me just so that you could, what, feel better about yourself before you stabbed me in the back?”
“I felt bad about how we left things.”
“And this is so much better.” His voice was harsh, thick with irony as he looked up at her. “You’re unbelievable, you know that? You have some goddamn audacity, trying to make peace with me knowing damn well you just wrote an article that’s gonna destroy everything I’ve been working for.”
“This isn’t going to kill your career. It won’t even kill your campaign; the primaries are almost over, and you’ve won. You’re the candidate; take your victory lap,” she said, and the source of the indignation in her voice was hard to pin down. “I’ve been writing articles for months in opposition to your presidential run, and you never cared. We even laughed about it. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that there’s finally some news that might make a dent.”
“This isn’t the same thing, and you know it,” he snapped, rising from his seat as his hand hit the countertop. His mug clattered against the surface.
“And what’s so different? I’ve said the harshest things about your career that I could think of; no matter how bad it got, you were still texting me on Friday nights asking me to come over.”
“This isn’t about my career. This is about me.” The words were firm, and he looked Y/N dead in the eye as he said them. “You don’t care about me; you care about climbin’ corporate ladders ‘n being national news. Nobody who really cared would be able to hear about what I’ve been through ‘n capitalize on it.”
“It’s not like that, Thomas, I—”
“Don’t call me,” he cut her off abruptly as he buttoned his coat. “Don’t text me, don’t talk to me, and don’t come near me. I’ve had enough of this goddamn game you’ve been playing, and I’m done having this conversation over and over again where I give you the benefit of the doubt n’ all you do is remind me that I’m expendable.”
“Wait, don’t—”
“I said I’m done,” he said. “And we’re done. You… you need to take a long, hard look at yourself before letting anybody else into your life.”
Y/N could barely speak with the lump building in her throat. She could barely breathe. Her eyes stung as she looked up at him, and she was afraid to move. All she could manage, her voice hoarse, was, “I’m sorry.”
“Goodbye, Y/N.”
When he walked out, he didn’t look back.
#freedom of the press#hamilton#alexander hamilton#hamilton film#hamilton fic#thomas jefferson#thomas jefferson fanfic#thomas jefferson imagines#thomas jefferson imagine#thomas jefferson x reader#jefferson imagine#jefferson fic#Jefferson#jefferson x reader#Jefferson x reader imagine#thomas jefferson x reader smut#jefferson x reader imagines#hamilton x reader#hamilton x reader imagines#daveed diggs x reader#daveed diggs imagine#daveed x reader#daveed imagine#lafayette#marquis de lafayette x reader#lafayette x reader#lafayette x reader imagines#lafayette x reader smut#lafayette x reader imagine
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lavender's blue
summary: If there was one thing Jefferson could always rely upon, it was that you didn’t much care for sense.
pairing: jefferson x f!reader
word count: 6.4k
warnings: canon-typical angst?, reader with unspecified magical abilities, reader is alice-in-wonderland-appropriately weird y'all (affectionate); kind of open-ended but in a hopeful bc canon-compliant way <3
please note that my blog is rated 18+. minors dni. ageless/empty blogs will be blocked without warning.
a/n: i started this as a submission for @sparkledfirecracker's cheesy writing fest challenge, but it didn't turn out very cheesy or even remotely on time. still, thank you for the wonderful prompts your wheels of fate gave me, and congrats on your follower milestone 💛
prompts used: jefferson + friends to lovers + forehead kisses
masterlist | read on ao3
What Regina couldn’t have anticipated, what no one ever could have, really, was that you had always been unpredictable. A loose end. A ticking time bomb. An unlocked door.
It was a curse in and of itself, most of the time, albeit one with a lowercase c. You’d always craved a normal life, but that didn’t mesh too well with your impulsiveness. Normalcy craved planning, devising, executing, in that order, precise decisions and arrangements that weren’t to be changed at a whim.
You were as wild as a flower in spring.
It was what Jefferson liked most about you when you first met, back when he was still jumping worlds like one of them would give him an answer. Instead, he found you, back in the Enchanted Forest you both called home, on a day that had started out like any other.
You were smack dab in the center of the meadow the hat spat him out on, and you were spinning around yourself until, he supposed, your skirts finally circled just so, and then landing on your back, laughing. Your feet were bare and dirty from stamping the ground like you were proving a point.
When he stepped closer, you propped yourself up on your elbows and blinked up at him with a grin. The sun cast his shadow in such a way that his head seemed to touch your heart. Jefferson noticed that, even then.
"Is there a reason you’re trampling on the dandelions?" he asked.
"Some people don’t deserve a wish," you simply said.
He couldn’t argue with that.
"And what about you?" he said instead.
"Well," you mused, closing your eyes, the tilt of your lips unwavering. "I think I already got my wish for the day."
"And what was that?"
There was magic brimming within you, and a lot of it. It made Jefferson’s hands shake and the hat cough out trails of smoke, even though it didn’t need to go anywhere, but you … you didn’t even seem to notice.
"Something blue," you answered.
Curiouser and curiouser, just like your smile. That was the thing that kept him distracted long enough for you to anticipate his next question, to point, still without looking, back at the hat and the purplish haze it had wrapped itself in.
"Lavender’s blue, dilly-dilly," you continued before he could voice his confusion. "I mean, I wanted flowers. But I suppose one doesn’t argue with chance, don’t you think?"
There was an almost dangerous glint in your eye when you faced him again, and that settled it.
"Why not?" he asked, and held out his hand.
You stared at it in amusement. "Are you in the habit of challenging fate, stranger?"
"Only if I know I can win," he said. "And the name’s Jefferson."
You took his hand, then, and he could never be sure if it was meant as an introduction or a leap of faith. It didn’t matter, really, when it ended up being both. When he’d pulled you to your feet, there was a small bottle in his palm, its contents glittering like liquid stardust.
He blinked.
"You can keep that if you want," you said, turning your skirt pockets out and carelessly dropping the rest of their contents on the ground. "It’s all too heavy."
Jefferson watched as you plucked a single dandelion and shook it until the wind did the wishing part for you. Then you turned without another glance at him and walked away humming, your magic patting the hat like a pet and then vanishing with you.
He’d spend weeks thinking about you simply handing him the very potion he’d intended to steal, and he still couldn’t figure out how you’d even known.
***
In this life, there are several things you know.
You know you’re a florist. You know you’re well liked, which is nice and feels new, even though you’ve lived here all your life. You know your hands can fabricate the most splendid arrangements, bouquets and wreaths in all the colors Maine has to offer, and most days, you know you’re perfectly content doing just that.
Other days, though, you know you want to see every single petal turned to ashes.
Because you also know this voice deep inside your bones, not quite your own but almost, too familiar with your habits and routines and endless, endless smalltalk. You know it keeps telling you that something is missing, something you might find again if only you set this whole damn place aflame.
So you think, what’s the harm.
And as the flames lick at your window settings and burn the roses to a crisp, you tilt your head slowly and something inside stirs, like a sleeping dragon twitching as it wakes. You realize then, that in between all the things you know, you almost missed something quite important.
Tea.
Thankfully, no else one gets hurt. The building barely even carries any damage.
When Sheriff Humbert finally lets you leave, it’s already dark outside, far too late for a neighborly visit, but you go anyway. You should have driven, but by the time you think of that, you’ve almost climbed up the hill already. The forest seems to whisper to you; you ignore it.
It’s a grand house, and you can tell it’s empty by just looking at the front of it. Not without furniture, but without a heart. You knock, knock, knock, and the sound seems to echo through the whole forest.
When the door opens, it’s with a creak that almost sounds like a yawn, and Jefferson freezes, his eyes widening as they meet yours. They’re more tired than you remember.
"I didn’t forget," you say before he can get a single word out, handing him the small parcel. The paper has worn wrinkly in your sweaty palms. "I just burned down my shop today."
If he’s surprised, or concerned, he doesn’t show it. He hovers in the doorway, his fingers carefully unwrap the delicate teacup, and there’s a wisp of a smile of his face as they trace the tiny, nonsensical little spout.
"What’s this for?" he finally asks, his voice strangely raspy.
"Don’t you remember?" you say. "It’s your unbirthday."
He lets you in, then, and your boots sink into the carpeted floor, like the ground is trying to swallow you up. The front door clicks shut.
"Tea day is Tuesdays and Thursdays," you continue on, wandering deeper into the house, making a wrong turn and taking a few steps up the stairs before suspecting—recalling—that the kitchen is to the right. You huff frustratedly. "You didn’t remind me last week!"
"Well," Jefferson calls from somewhere out of your sight. "One never knows with you."
Dark wooden cabinets. Checkerboard tiles in the kitchen. You decide you’ve broken enough rules for a day and cross them strictly diagonally until you hit a corner cabinet, pulling it open. Empty, empty. "It’s my unbirthday too, you know," you say when you hear his steps approaching again.
"What are the chances?" His voice is still hollow, in a way, as hollow as this house, and you feel like you’re missing something, but it’s so, so tiresome to think about.
"Look at that," you say, shaking the last couple of crumbs out of a crumpled up, sad-looking biscuit wrapper. "I should have come up earlier."
Jefferson sighs as he leans against the counter, watching you continue to rummage through the shelves, drawers, cupboards, trays.
It’s the saddest tea you’ve ever prepared, without a single thing to nibble on and the tea leaves trapped in silly little cotton bags, but you move opposite each other like you’re playing a game of chess, which consoles you a little.
He wins, you think, but you don’t actually know how to play.
***
Jefferson was never entirely convinced you were from the Enchanted Forest. It didn’t suit you, the dirt of this world, the whispered promises of happily ever afters and wishing upon stars so your dreams came true.
You went for the things you wanted without an ounce of remorse and without a single glance over your shoulder.
Then again, none of the other worlds he’d passed through seemed to fit you, either. Wonderland might have come closest, but you lacked its shrillness, the blunt terror in its colors and way of life. And you hated playing cards.
He wasn’t sure how you kept running into him whenever he least expected it, but you seemed to make a habit of doing just that. You seemed to enjoy pretending not to notice him staring whenever he did find you, mesmerized as if it was that first time all over again.
There was something about your presence that made any room you inhabited feel different, and the woods and sky and earth would all vibrate at a different frequency whenever you were around. It wasn’t just your magic, it was all of you.
Of course, he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.
"See something interesting, dearie?" a voice laced with insanity asked from behind his shoulder.
Jefferson’s eyes never left you, even as he felt Rumplestiltskin’s gaze bore into his neck. You appeared to be counting the toadstools, reciting something in sing-song he couldn’t make out from where he was standing.
"Did you make a deal with her, too?" he asked, voice carefully neutral because you never knew what the Dark One would pick up on and use against you. He already had more on him than Jefferson liked.
"Oh, no. All magic comes with a price." The same phrase, a thousand times, accompanied by the same shimmer in his eyes. He didn't have to look to know it was there. "Just because you’re yet to pay yours doesn’t mean that’s true for everyone."
"So she’s mad?"
"What’s mad?" Rumplestiltskin tutted. "We’re all mad, in our own way. The most powerful most of all."
You lifted your head to look at the two of them and waved. Jefferson lowered the hat over his forehead, finally turning away.
"Then it surprises me you don’t seem to use that to your advantage," he said, crossing his arms.
The Dark One’s grin spliced his mouth with gold. "I like the result of my bidding to be as expected."
It seemed as good enough a cue to leave as any. He didn’t come very far, though, had barely taken the hat off to embark on his next journey before you caught up to him.
"Where are you going this time?"
He smiled to himself, because even with all your whimsical moods he knew you well enough by then to understand you hated being ignored. "Camelot," he answered just as the hat began swirling.
You stepped closer, bare feet crunching the fall leaves on the ground, and when he turned to meet your gaze, the curiosity in your eyes made his heart stumble over itself as he held out his hand, again.
You took it without a moment’s hesitation.
***
There’s a road that leads into town, but it doesn’t lead out. You like how this doesn’t make any sense; it almost feels normal.
Jefferson hates it, of course. It’s easy to read on his face, contempt tinting his every look and gesture an unbecoming shade of green. He hates this world and this wrong life and the fact that everything he wants is right under his nose and yet so far out of reach.
You get that, you really do. But the constant worrying and thinking just drags you down, doesn’t it? No. Ridiculous. So you decide to make a change.
Or rather, things fall into place again.
You work at the library now. People don’t like you as much, but it’s not like that thing at the flower shop was your fault, so they get over it. You love books too much to even consider setting them on fire, and there’s a lot less customer interaction involved, which minimizes the smalltalk. You’ve never liked smalltalk.
You’re perfectly content with your life.
That Friday you find Jefferson hunched over yet another map of the area, tracing the paradoxical routes that should lead onto the interstate and yet never do. Cars break down, bikes crash into trees that appear out of nowhere, and hiking somehow just leads you to walking in circles until you find yourself on main square once again.
It’s a puzzle that’s missing half its pieces, and you’d care about it more if you had any intention of leaving.
"Where do you want to go so badly, anyway?" you asked him once, when his eyes were red-rimmed with lack of sleep and that desperate determination.
"Home," he said, and the finality of that word made your insides twist.
Food and drinks are strictly forbidden in the reading hall, but you sneak him a thermos filled with coffee, anyway, the time for tea long passed.
He smiles at you tiredly as you take a seat opposite him, frowning at the pile of books you’re going to have to sort back onto the shelves past closing time. "Who are you today, then?" he asks, his voice hoarse as if he hasn’t talked all day. He hasn’t taken his scarf off, either, so maybe he’s getting sick.
You squint your eyes at him. "If you’re coming on to me, it’s not working."
Jefferson huffs, and then turns back to his maps. "Not at all."
Maybe it’s working a little, you think as you continue to watch him. After all, there’s method to this madness of his, passion to his pursuit, even though you don’t really understand it.
If he notices you staring, he shows no sign of it, and you’re not about to make him aware of it, not when you’re just starting to get to know each other. Besides, the longer you ponder the possibility of him, the stronger your head starts to pound.
You need to lock up at nine and Jefferson leaves you with another crooked grin that suggests more familiarity than there should be between the two of you. You return it with a bump of your shoulders, and then you watch him walk down the street with his hands in his pockets until he rounds a corner and you roll the shutters down.
Once again, you can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t quite right here.
Because of your migraine, you spill the leftovers of the coffee over a particularly rare collection of fairy tales later that night. The gold-edged pages bleed ink all over the maps, rendering them essentially pretty trash for the perfect townsfolk of Storybrooke. You fold them up as a gift, and then you put your keys into the letterbox for them to pick up on Monday.
***
For a while, it was the two of you on his travels through the different realms, exploring and stealing and doing the unexpected. It was your specialty, after all.
And then, just like that, for a whole while, Jefferson didn’t see you again, not until after he’d met and lost Grace’s mother. It was a particularly cold night in December when he woke to his daughter tugging at his sleeve and a strange noise from outside.
It was rhythmic, swooshing, almost like the wind but accompanied by something like a hum. When he stepped to the window, though, there was nothing outside but darkness and whirling snowflakes.
He managed to get Grace back into bed after some crackers and tea, her eyes drooping closed as she huddled up with the corner of her blanket in her mouth. Jefferson watched her drift back to sleep, and then he returned to the window, because he had this feeling that he couldn’t quite shake. Like someone was calling for him without ever saying his name.
He found you clearing the path leading up to the cottage with your bare hands, the frilly cloak around your shoulders not nearly warm enough to keep out the icy sting of winter. Your fingers were already starting to turn an unhealthy color, and a thin layer of snow sat at the crown of your head like a frozen hat.
Jefferson cursed and grabbed his coat from the bench next to the door.
"What are you doing?" he hissed when he reached you, wrapping you up within seconds. You blinked up at him. Your lashes were glittering with ice.
"It needed cleaning," you said matter-of-factly, without keeping your voice down.
Quickly, he ushered you inside and made you sit next to the fireplace. You only seemed to realize the oddness of your situation now that warmth was returning to your limbs, looking around the room in slow confusion, like you were trying to piece everything together.
Jefferson was putting the kettle back into the fire when you got up again, his coat still draped around your shoulders, and stepped closer to the bed.
"You had a daughter," you said, peering at the sleeping toddler with something almost like a frown. "She’s beautiful."
"She looks like her mother."
"Nonsense. She looks just like you."
The red on his cheeks felt almost like a betrayal, but you didn’t mean that, anyway, so it didn’t count. Still, he was stunned enough to drop his mug, and the sound of it shattering on the floor woke Grace up again. She would be three in spring, then, and she was a smart girl, but she’d stopped talking months ago, instead resorting back to the wails of a much younger child whenever she was upset, and she was hard to calm.
He couldn’t blame her.
Whenever he held her like this, he felt as helpless and alone as he did that first time when she was crying for her mother and there was no one there but him.
Except this time, Jefferson wasn’t alone. To his surprise, you stepped closer and started humming, and then singing under your breath.
To his even bigger surprise, it seemed to soothe Grace.
It was an old song, a familiar song, and you placed a calming hand on his shoulder as he cradled his daughter until she finally fell asleep again. You were still cold enough he could feel it through his shirt, but your voice carried a warmth he wasn’t used to anymore.
You took your tea in comfortable silence, and when the first rays of sunshine started creeping through the branches outside, you told him that you had to leave again. He almost asked how long it would be this time.
Instead, he led you to the door and shook his head as you tried to slip out of his coat. "The weather is supposed to turn again," he said, looking you up and down because he didn’t know when to expect you next. He never did.
"You’re different," you said, and even though you didn’t sound as disappointed as he felt at those words, they still left their mark.
"You’re not," he said, and meant it as a compliment. Somehow, when you met his eye, it didn’t seem like one anymore.
"I wouldn’t be so sure," you answered, and he had no response to that.
You kissed him, then. Sweetly, like a blushing bride would. For a moment, he didn’t know what to do with himself.
It was over far more quickly than he’d have liked, and you stuffed your hands into his coat pockets.
"I’m sorry," you said, and for the first time, you wouldn’t look at him.
But Jefferson could do nothing but stare, even as you finally turned and wandered down the path again, because there you were, with your heart on your sleeve, and he’d just lost his wife, and he didn’t know up from down anymore.
***
Stepping into Jefferson’s sitting room is a little like entering a creature’s belly and sitting down next to its beating heart, pressing so close you can feel it pulsating through you.
There’s a large grandfather clock staring at you from next to the fireplace, and on the mantle there’s a small, wooden alarm, and from there, it’s six and a half steps to the cuckoo clock on the far wall that makes a little rabbit appear every fifteen minutes.
Then, it’s another twenty steps past the living room table to the clock on the even farther wall and the bookcase he stores his silver pocket watch on, in a blue box on the high shelf, next to a dusty collection of fairy tales and an old hat he used to wear on Fridays.
Or was it Sundays?
"You could just go talk to her," you tell him on a Thursday, taking another sip of tea.
Jefferson sinks back in his chair, knuckles at his temples. His chin is still held high in bottomless defiance, but his eyes are so tired. "It’s not that simple."
"It’s not that complicated, either," you shrug. "You’re her father, after all."
"Except I’m the only one to know that."
"I know," you say, and you’re not sure yourself if you mean to sound reassuring or scolding. The thought is head-achingly heavy, so you drop it and pick up a tune instead, quietly humming to yourself as you continue your circles around the room.
It’s an old melody, ghosting through your mind more often than not, a little sad and happy at the same time. You feel Jefferson’s weary gaze on the back of your head, and somehow it makes you smile.
"You remember how it’s supposed to work back at home, though, right? True love conquers all." You chuckle to yourself. The song in your head starts to buzz. "Or," you continue with a dismissive lift of your eyebrow, "are you just going to wait for that savior to appear? How long has it been, ten years?"
"Eight years, three months, two-hundred and seventeen days."
Huh. You could have sworn you’ve been here much longer.
"Then there’s still nineteen years and …" You think for a moment, then shake your head. "You know what, I’m not going to get that right if I tried, and I don’t want to, so let’s just say a while."
He almost laughs at that, a soft, pained look in his eye that you’re not supposed to find charming.
"You’re going to go insane in that time," you say softly. "I would."
"I know." It’s already starting to tug at the tilt of his smile and the twitch in his eye. He hasn’t quite learned to stop caring, yet, and of course he hasn’t. That wouldn’t be like him.
He’s always been your mirror, so why would this be any different?
Things stay they same, and they stay the same, and they stay the same, and you’re sick of it. Apparently, there’s a thing such as too normal a life, and it makes your skin crawl.
So you start tailoring again. Your evenings are long and there’s just a few people that come in regularly, that ask for golden thread to fix their buttons and flaxen yarn to hem their suits. It’s quiet. Terribly quiet. Too quiet.
There’s not a single clock in your shop, and you realize you miss the ticking as soon as you crawl out of the belly of the beast. So you keep returning.
"We used to share a bed," you recall, lifting your arm so Jefferson can reach for the thread you’re holding out as you both sit on the floor, your tools and fabrics spread out over the entire room. You love watching him work, even though you don’t quite understand why he’s so obsessed with making hats. Maybe you just forgot.
"We did", he answers, not even looking at you. It makes you roll your eyes.
"So why don’t we now?"
"That would be rather complicated." His stitching is impeccable.
"Why?" Something throbs between your temples.
"Several reasons, dear." He tilts his head. "Aren’t you late?"
The unpleasant feeling in your chest disappears when you look at the clock. "Shit."
You hastily gather your things and start running to make it back to your shop in time, barely remembering to catch your breath enough to say goodbye, and so you miss the look on his face as he watches you, staying behind in the big house in the middle of the woods.
***
You visited more often, now that you knew about Grace, but Jefferson didn’t know if that was for her sake or for his. One thing that was very clear, however, was that you didn’t care at all about the dirty looks you got from everyone else whenever you strayed off the path to wander towards his cottage, unchaperoned.
Sure, they pitied him, but he was grieving, they said, and you were young and beautiful.
"They’re all so terribly starved for entertainment," you sighed, and then you handed him another pretty pebble you’d found on your way. He put it into the bowl on the window sill.
Grace was getting old enough to get used to you, then, to recognize the hands that tickled her chin and sometimes pulled her up when she fell on the forest ground. She loved your surprises, and your stories were her favorites to listen to when it was bedtime, even though she usually fell asleep long before you stopped talking.
"Did I ever tell you," you continued when the embers were barely glowing anymore but your eyes were shining in the moonlight, "about those pirates that I ran into near—"
"Why did you stay away so long?"
You blinked, and so did he. He hadn’t expected himself to actually ask, not after all this time that you had been back in his life. But the question was out now, sitting between you on the broken floorboards of his broken life, and the night stretched your silence into infinity.
"I wrote you letters," you told him, and it was true, but it wasn’t an answer. So he kept looking at you, and the silence scraped its nails against your skin. "I don’t know," you finally said in a way that told Jefferson you did know and didn’t want to tell him. There was a flustered hum to you that almost made him want to take it back, but the magic that followed each and every of your whims didn’t retreat. Not even a little.
"I was falling in love with you." He’d never admitted it out loud before. Who would he have told?
You laughed nervously, looking over at Grace. "Not very much, clearly."
"You never gave me the chance to do it properly."
"You don’t want me. I could never be a mother." Still, you talked quietly enough not to wake her, and you brought her trinkets and playthings whenever you’d been away for a while. You never brought him anything, but he still felt like he was getting a rare gift every time. It must’ve counted for something.
Besides, this was the first time you’d attempted to reason with him.
"I didn’t have her then," he said anyway, as if that was an argument.
"But you were always going to."
"And what about you and me?"
You bit your lip. "I’m inconvenient."
"I know," he said.
"You can’t rely on me."
"I know," he said.
"You deserve better than me."
Jefferson shook his head, and for the first time since he met you, you looked unsure. So, for the first time since he met you, he was the one doing the incalculable.
He kissed you.
You pulled him closer immediately, all logic forgotten as you crashed into each other, finally on the same page of this twisted story. You kissed him like you wanted him to be the happy ending to your storybook, even though you weren’t cut out for that kind of tale.
You both tried to be, anyway.
***
You’ve run the teashop now for … you’re not quite sure. Forever, maybe. It sure feels like your whole life has been spent between boxes of fragrant leaves, with a kettle always shrieking somewhere in the house and you humming whatever tune it sings to you.
But your hands are dirty, and no matter how much you brush your nails under scalding water, there always seems to be grime underneath them. Like you’re repotting plants in your sleep. Or clawing at the ground.
Your life is filled with sound, with constant chatter and gossip, because your front door is barely a five minute walk from Storybrooke secondary and the schoolgirls have developed an obsession with the shortbread and ginger muffins you serve with their tea. They reward you with whatever pocket money they can find at the bottom of their school bags and any gossip about their teachers they’ve eavesdropped on that week.
You constantly have a headache, but it’s fun, in a way. And you get to see Grace.
Your hand stops midair as you reach out for the lavender tea the girl ordered, staring unfocused until she clears her throat expectantly.
“Sorry,” you say, still dazed, “lost my train of thought there.”
The girl—Paige, you remember now, you heard her friend say her name when they entered the shop, Come on, Paige, and something about it made your stomach turn—tips her head to the side in a way that’s familiar, even though you don’t know why. “Can I have that to go?“ she adds, a quick look over her shoulder to where her friends are giggling.
“Sure.”
You only serve tea in loose leaves, because you believe trapping your window to the future in a small bag doesn’t do anyone any good, even though most of your customers don’t know how to tip their residue into their saucers in the proper way. You do it for them, sometimes, if they leave enough cold tea in their cups for you to do it after the door has clicked shut behind them. You knew about the mayor’s adoption papers going through before she knew about it herself, and you’d felt pretty smug about that.
The perfect amount of time to steep lavender tea is five minutes and forty-six seconds, and because you can’t trust a child to particularly care for such precision, you keep the steaming paper cup behind the counter until your timer goes off. You stir a dollop of honey in, humming to yourself, before you hand Paige the cup. She doesn’t really look at you, already distracted by another snippet of conversation, but she still flashes you a quick smile before hurrying to catch up with the others. The bell above the door jingles again, and the man stepping inside holds the door open for the girls to file outside, chattering excitedly. His other hand is balled up into a fist so tight it makes his knuckles stand out white.
He takes a deep breath before he turns and regards you. “You’re in a good mood.”
“I suppose so,” you say, even though it interrupts your humming. “Can I get you anything?”
His smile is small, but beautiful. “I think you already are.”
It’s then you notice you’ve pulled out one of the mugs from your good set without even asking, heaping two and a half spoonsful of your favorite blend inside like it’s the most natural thing for you to do upon his entrance.
Before you can apologize, he turns the sign in your window to 'closed' and sits down at the counter with a patient look, eyes very intense as they search yours, his face unreadable. None of it feels threatening, just … expectant.
So you continue with your instinctual movements, even though you’re not sure how you know what he’s waiting for. You feel like there’s something you’re missing, and it doesn’t come to you until you hand him his mug.
The mask falls when he says your name, your real name, and your lips twist into a smile that’s so unsure of itself it almost curls inwards.
You remember, you remember.
Every single lifetime falls back into place until the one that came first stays at the forefront. You cling to the thought like someone fights with a dream to be allowed to stay a little longer, battling oblivion with the resolution of a dragon slayer.
"How long was I gone this time?" you ask, hands clasping the counter more tightly and blinking fast as if that could keep the forgetting away.
"Hard to say," Jefferson answers. "A few weeks. You’re getting better."
You know he’s lying, because in the beginning, it would only take you a couple of days to remember. Now, your moments of clarity seem to be farther apart every time. "Was she nice?"
If you were going to remember any of this in a while, you’d really miss being the girl from the tea shop. You’ve been enjoying this version of things, the simplicity and the small dosages of variety, like little treats in this viscous monotony.
He shrugs with one shoulder. "She’s you."
"So, no."
His smile always seems sad these days. "So, nice in the ways that matter. You always are."
Somehow, you doubt that. "What day is it?" you ask.
"Seventeen years, six months, forty-five days."
You don’t ask him if there’s been any progress; you know there hasn’t been. Instead, you round the counter and put your arms around him. You feel him sag against you, his sigh of relief barely audible against your shoulder. You can’t help but wonder how long it’s been since Jefferson’s touched another person.
He pulls you close enough for you to feel his heartbeat in your own chest, and you barely breathe as you tighten the embrace even more, trying to hold both of you upright.
"Your hair’s getting longer again," you mumble after a very long time, dragging your thumb against the back of his neck.
"Don’t lie," he answers hoarsely, lifting his head without opening his eyes, your noses bumping before he rests his forehead against yours. "I miss you."
It breaks your heart, how easily it slips out.
Your lips seek his carefully, then more confident, because you don’t know how else to express your own feelings. This kiss, like all the ones before, is a promise you both know you won’t be able to keep.
Hope still tastes bitter on his tongue.
***
He’d always hated Wonderland, but he’d never hated it more than when he got stuck there and felt his sanity slip through his fingers a little bit more every day. Time didn’t make sense here, nothing did.
But if there was one thing that he could always rely upon, it was that you didn’t much care for sense.
"There you are." A voice as familiar as an old song woke him up from another nightmare. "What on earth are you doing in this hole?"
Jefferson opened his eyes. You were like a vision, not even paying attention to the disbelief in his eyes as you dusted off one of the useless hats.
"How," he croaked.
You chuckled a little and continued to look around the room. His cell. His locked cell with guards posted outside.
He sat up so quickly his vision went black for a moment. "How are you here?"
"You were gone so long," you said. "I was bored."
"You—" He held your cheek, your waist, your shoulder. You felt cool to the touch, but solid, real. Eyes innocent and glittering with your usual mischief, as if this was completely normal. "Have you seen Grace? Is she alright?"
"She misses you, too."
He didn’t even pay attention to it, then, but he remembered that little "too" at the end later, many, many times.
"Can you get me home?"
Your smile was soft and sad and sliced him in two all over again. You gently tugged at the bow around his neck, and then you simply said, "No."
So he raged. He bargained. He begged.
But you could not, would not budge, even though your eyes grew heavy as you listened to him. Like this was a disappointing development for you.
He already knew he was nothing more.
He stared at you when he was done, chest heaving, still on his knees in front of you even though he could no longer meet your eye. You didn’t say anything.
"Are you angry with me?"
"No," you said again. You brushed your hands through his hair and slowly sank down to his level.
It was only then that he realized tears were falling from his eyes. Gently, you wiped them off his cheeks, and then, holding his face in your hands, you pressed a kiss to his forehead before touching your own to the same spot.
"Grace sends this," you whispered.
Jefferson closed his eyes, heart twisting with that unspeakable ache.
"There’s something you need to know," you said, your voice already carrying the weight of it. As if all of this hadn’t been enough. "Something bad is coming."
"Isn’t it always?" he asked, but then he felt your magic flicker in a way it never had before. Like it was nervous.
And then lightning struck outside.
When he looked at your face, your eyes were rolled back and your magic was lashing out in all directions, clashing against the walls in terror. "There’s danger if I dare to stop and here’s a reason why," you sing-songed, unfocused, and Jefferson caught your hands before you clawed at your own face. "I’m over-due, no no no no, goodbye, hello." You hiccuped.
Dread washed through him in an icy shockwave. He’d seen you in a state of confusion before, many times, but this was different, not just overwhelmed but panicked. Your magic was literally spilling out of you now, like it was trying to escape whatever fate you’d seen coming, and you would’ve doubled over with it had he not held you upright.
"Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run, run run." You giggled. "Did you know I’m a bunny in a book?"
"Sweetheart, you need to focus."
The next thunder rolled outside and you screamed, but it seemed to knock some sense back into you because your eyes weren’t quite so glassy anymore when you looked at him again. "Oh, this next part won’t be fun."
Something knocked at the door and then it burst open, dark purple whirls of magic filling the room within seconds, accompanied by roaring winds and a thumping sound that reminded him of a beating heart. Your hands came up to cup Jefferson’s face and you gave him the saddest, most knowing smile he’d ever seen on you.
The wind almost swallowed your voice, but whatever magic hadn’t left you yet let him hear your words anyway.
"Some people really don’t deserve a wish."
Then, everything went black.
thank you for reading!! if you want to see more of my writing, check out my masterlist or follow @intrepidacious-fics for update notifications!! you can also buy me a ko-fi if you feel so inclined <3
#jefferson x reader#jefferson fic#jefferson x you#jefferson fanfiction#jefferson oneshot#once upon a time fanfic#ouat fanfic#lavender's blue
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Warnings and Reminders - Please do not plagiarise, copy, repost/republish, adapt, or translate any of my work on any social media platforms, apps, or third-party sites. The only platforms I post my work on are: Tumblr and Wattpad. I do not own any character of any franchise (Marvel etc.) All my works are fiction and may be dark or triggering content: READ ALL WARNINGS BEFORE PROCEEDING.
𝐉𝐄𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 '𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑' 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:
♡ 𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇 ➳ 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒔𝒕 ❥ 𝒔𝒎𝒖𝒕 ❦ 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌
೫˚🖤❀ *ૢ🥀೫˚🌑
𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐬𝐤 ♡
summary - being the obsession of six men isn’t so bad.
೫˚🖤❀ *ૢ🥀೫˚🌑
#imyourbratzdollwork#imyourbratzdollmasterlist#jefferson x you#jefferson#jefferson hatter#jefferson fanfiction#jefferson fic#jefferson fluff#jefferson angst#jefferson imagines#jefferson oneshot#jefferson imagine#jefferson one shot#sebastian stan characters
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I can’t remember OUAT that well so bare with and please make corrections if necessary I just dunno who else you could do this for: Jefferson remembering the reader and running around trying to find her only to realise, she’s not alive anymore and can ya make it proper angst like so full of hope then…bombshell basically.
the worst kind of curse ✧ jefferson/mad hatter
angst city™ library | send in a request (consult request faqs first)
request: I can’t remember OUAT that well so bare with and please make corrections if necessary I just dunno who else you could do this for: Jefferson remembering the reader and running around trying to find her only to realise, she’s not alive anymore and can ya make it proper angst so full of hope then…bombshell basically.
pairing: jefferson x fem!reader
word count: 253
warnings?: angst, not proofread
Jefferson had thought he had remembered everything about his life in the Enchanted Forest. He remembered Grace, he remembered thinking that he would do just one last job and he’d never have to worry about money again. He remembered arriving in Storybrooke via the curse, he remembered being the only one who did remember. But there was one memory that he didn’t have until now. One very big memory, about you.
You, his beloved wife. Why had Regina made him forget you? Wouldn’t it have aided in his suffering by making his remember that he had a whole family he could never contact? What was her motive?
When the curse was broken, he was initially terrified of what would happen when he saw you and Grace again. Would you be ashamed? Would you be upset with him? Would you tell him to fuck off? Would Grace want nothing to do with the father who abandoned her?
But then, he finally got over his fears, and he went looking for the two of you.
But he only found Grace.
And as he held her in his arms, he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “Where’s momma? Have you seen her?”
And she sobbed quietly, whispering, “She died, papa. After you left.”
You were gone. He lost you. He didn’t even get to say goodbye. He didn’t even know you had died. He would never get to say goodbye.
And oh, that was far worse than any curse that Regina could have ever cast on him.
#jefferson imagine#jefferson x reader#jefferson x fem!reader#jefferson x female reader#jefferson x y/n#jefferson x you#jefferson fic#jefferson fanfiction#jefferson fan fiction#jefferson fan fic#jefferson fanfic#starrywrites#starryevermore
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hobie meeting rio: oh im so happy to meet you mrs.morales. mm, is that pasta? it smells bloody amazing.
hobie meeting jeff: hi jeff. stares directly into his eyes, slightly squinting
#punkflower#miles morales#hobie brown#rio morales#jefferson davis#spiderman itsv#spiderman atsv#into the spider verse#across the spiderverse#spiderverse#miles gets his hopes up SO high with rio and hes SO happy showing hobie to his dad thinking he'll be nice and then that.#he almost fucking dies#putting this into a fic btw
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Slideshow!
⚘ 1610!Miles Morales x black!fem!reader
⚘ fluff! use of n word like once, teen romance
⚘ summary: Miles and Y/n make a slideshow to convince his parents to be able to be in his room with the door closed.
⚘ wc: 631
You and Miles were on his bed, sitting in silence a foot or so apart, which was odd because you two were never normally this awkward. Occasionally one of you would glance at the wide open door, revealing Miles's parents walking by here and there, which is why you two kept your distance.
For context, when you and Miles first started dating, you two weren't allowed in his room and had to stay in a public space like the living room; however, y'all are obnoxiously loud. When you two were playing games, loud. Even just talking, you two laughed loud. Except, when it was a movie night, it was quieter because y'all were so wrapped up in the plot.
To be honest, y'all were fine in the living room, but it was rough always being told to quiet down. The volume of you two in the same room was too much, so Miles suggested to his parents that you two go to his room instead of being confined to only the living room. Under one condition, the door stayed wide open.
And so there y'all were sitting side-by-side in a semi-awkward silence.
You feel the weight on the bed shift closer to you, and an arm makes its way over your shoulder, "Hey."
"Nigga, what?" you say without thinking at his cheesy attempt to make a move on you.
With a pout, he takes his arm off your shoulder and leans back upright, "You ruined the moment."
You giggle at his pouting, feeling a little bad about your reaction, "My bad, stink, it was a natural reflex. Try again," you offer, tossing your locs over your shoulder.
Miles clears his throat before leaning back over, putting an arm over your shoulders again.
"Hey." He says with a smirk and a tilt of his head.
"Hi," you respond, tilting your head the same way, your eyes glancing down at his lips before back up at his eyes.
"You look really pretty right now," He compliments, leaning in.
"Thank you," you whisper with a smile, leaning in as well.
You hear someone clear their throat walking past the doorway of his room, causing both of y'all to quickly move away and back into the awkward silence.
~
A week or so later--that situation happening again and again--you and Miles were on Facetime brainstorming ideas for the slideshow y'all planned to make to convince Miles's parents (mainly his mom) to let y'all have the door closed.
The both of you knew it was ambitious to shoot for something so big, so that's why you had to create the best slideshow presentation of all time.
"Okay, what do we think about this template?" you ask, turning your camera around to show a classy slideshow template.
"Perfect." he nods, and you add him to the slideshow.
~
A few days of hard work and planning go by, and it's now the day you two scheduled to present the presentation.
In preparation, the two of you coordinated your most trustworthy-looking outfits and practiced how you would present. Y'all knew you both were being extra, but at the end of the day, it didn't matter because y'all were having fun.
"Greetings, esteemed guests," Miles opens, gesturing to the title slide on tv.
You and Miles alternated presenting slides, explaining how having a door closed is reverse psychology, decreasing the chances of anything happening. Also, the classic, if the door was closed, grades would improve (don't know how, but there was a graph to prove it), along with a few other random and made-up examples.
"Thank you for your time," you close, and the two of you bow.
Following suit, his dad gives a round of applause, "That was actually pretty impressive."
His mom sighs, "We'll think about it."
Thanks for reading!
Ngl i wanna do a part two but at the same time i dont know if it'd be any good... if youd be interested in part two lmk
part 2
#cherry's works ‧₊˚✧ . ˚#atsv x black reader#atsv x reader#atsv#spiderman atsv#miles morales#miles morales spiderverse#atsv miles#miles x reader#miles x black reader#miles morales fic#atsv fic#rio morales#jefferson davis#miles morales atsv#miles morales x reader#miles morales x black!reader#spider verse#spiderman miles morales#miles morales spider man
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Do you ever think about. About how Jeff looks at Miles and sees Aaron? A creative and mischevious boy in a unkind world? Do you think about how maybe Jeff sees Miles hide his sketchbook and come home with spray paint on his fingers, 30 minutes pass curfew, and he wants to scold him but just can't cus he sees the boy Aaron used to be before they grew distant? You think he saw that shift in Miles after Aaron's death, that heavy look in his son's eyes, the same way his brother had? A bit wary, a bit too anxious - you think he gets scared that Miles' eyes will soon turn cold like Aaron's? You think he saw Miles' eyes in Aaron's when he found him in the dark alleyway, you think when he held his cold body he saw the little boy he grew up with?
You think Aaron in Earth 42 sees Jefferson in Miles G? He sees that overtly serious young man his brother was in the way Miles has his back too straight, his smart mouth and sass resulting in funny comebacks and witty comments just like his brother used to do. You think he sees that same raw urge to help that Jeff had in his nephew's eyes? The sorta urge to help that'll get you killed? You think he sees Jefferson's mural and thinks about how Miles has the same forehead, the same eyes? Do you think he worries about the spark in Miles' eyes blowing out like Jeff's did? You think he sees Jeff as a lil boy again every time Miles comes back from a successful mission as the Prowler - so bright, like he's reaching too close to the sun?
You think Jeff thinks about his son and wants to tell Aaron, "He's so much like you. I don't want that." You think Aaron wants to tell Jeff the same about his nephew? You think deep down they want that more than anything? You think they see the other when they look in the mirror, when they look at Miles? You think they're hoping that Miles could be better than either of them, that he'll be just fine?
I do.
#i do so much omg#y'all don't get it they're brothers#I'm yapping so much but I genuinely think so much about them#They're BROTHERS#SOB#if they don't reflect on Aaron or Jeff in BTSV I'll cry#CRY I TELL YOU-#atsv#itsv#miles morales atsv#atsv miles morales#miles morales#miles g morales#42 miles morales#1610 miles morales#aaron davis#jefferson davis#atsv aaron davis#atsv aaron#atsv jefferson davis#atsv jeff#headcanon#uncle aaron#42 aaron davis#bigsischats#bigsisyaps#atsv headcanons#itsv headcanons#miles morales fic
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Fella didn't have two words for you, you coming here.
Now you're his.
#austin butler#gale cleven#branden cook#alexander jefferson#masters of the air#I mean#can you blame him?#it's Buck#he doesn't even need to say a word to me#now where's that jealous bucky fic
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Ok so I just had A Vision
Super minor spoilers for Across the Spiderverse under the cut
Ok so, imagine after Beyond the Spiderverse, Miles's parents find out he's Spiderman and they're chill with it, BUT
The other Spidermen will hop over to Miles's dimension every now and then to hang out. And ALL of them are calling Rio and Jefferson by their first names. (And like, they're happy that Miles has so many friends and what not, but like, seriously, they're about to have an aneurysm)
And then Pavitr walks in one day like, "Hi Mr. Morales! Hi Mrs. Morales!" all happy and smiling. And Rio, absolutely floored, whispers to Miles, "Marry that boy."
#across the spiderverse#miles morales#pavitr prabhakar#rio morales#jefferson davis#chaiflower#pavitr x miles#someone please make this a fic
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hi!! before i go i jus wanna say, I love your work 🙏🏽 and I finally watch hamilton last night so I might write for it as well 😋😋 but i have a drabble idea.
anyways— thomas having a dance/ball for a campaign during the election and he meets aaron’s little sister, mc, who snuck in. and he can’t help but take interests in her.
“Now, what’s a lady like you doin’ getting a drink just for yourself? Nobody’s offered to do that for you yet?”
Y/N froze as her fingers met the stem of the champagne flute. She had promised herself she would stay to the outskirts of the ball, and her only goal for the night had been to avoid courting attention. However, the packed room was warm, and it was only more so at its perimeter under the lights, and the crisp bubbly had looked oh-so-inviting.
She turned with a polite smile as she picked up the glass, but her eyes widened when she saw the man behind her with his gleaming smile and his velvet suit. She recognized him instantly; after all, she’d seen him before, and he’d even been in her home, but they’d never formally met. He raised an eyebrow when her smile faltered. “I’ve only just arrived. I haven’t had a chance to speak to much of anyone just yet.”
“Then I’m gonna have to count myself lucky to have found you when I did. Thomas Jefferson.” He offered her a hand as he introduced himself, and when she took it, he dipped down to press a soft kiss to her knuckles. Her eyes went even wider.
She cleared her throat as he drew himself back up to his full height, still holding her by the fingertips, and it took a moment for it to occur to her to withdraw her hand. “You’re the host of this ball, then, if I’m not mistaken. Thank you for opening your home to us like this.”
“Believe me, sugar, the pleasure’s all mine,” he said. “Who’re you here with? Feel like I’ve seen you around, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Oh, um, my family’s here somewhere. I came on my own, though, and I was planning to meet them here.”
“Your family?” He pursed his lips. “You’re not a Schuyler, are you?”
“No, no, certainly not,” she replied before hastily adding, “although the Schuylers are lovely people, of course. To be a part of their family would make one lucky.”
“So you know the Schuylers, then?” he mused, and she nodded. His growing smile was making her mouth go dry. “I know where I recognize you from; you’re a Burr, aren’t you? Aaron’s sister?”
“I am, yes.” Her smile was tense, laced with unease. His grin was bright as he plucked a drink for himself off of the table behind them.
“So why haven’t I seen you at one of these before? Your family trying to keep you locked away from all the politics?” he asked, and as her eyebrows fell, he could see the look in her eyes sour.
“They’ve decided I can’t be trusted at this kind of event,” she said bitterly, and he quirked a brow. “Aaron claims he’s afraid I’ll say the wrong thing and jeopardize his career, but really, I think he just can’t deal with the idea of splitting people’s attention between us.”
“But you finally proved yourself trustworthy?” he asked mildly, taking a sip of his drink, and she shrugged uncomfortably.
“I suppose so.”
“Then where’s your dear brother now, hm? Why aren’t you here with the rest of your family?” He watched her expectantly, and when she didn’t answer right away, his grin broadened. “They don’t even know you’re here, do they?”
“No, and you’re not going to be the one to tell them,” she said sharply, pointing her champagne flute at him. He raised his eyebrows, amused by the fervor in her tone. “I had to walk miles alone in the dark to get here; I am not being thrown out as soon as I arrive.”
“Well, sweetheart, if you’re not with them, then really, I should be sendin’ you on your way.” Despite the threat, his voice was breezy, and she frowned.
“And what do you have to gain from kicking me out?”
“The respect and appreciation of your family,” he suggested blithely. “The knowledge that I’m not leavin’ a young lady to walk home alone ‘n vulnerable at the end of the night. ‘S just the right thing to do, really.”
She eyed his small smile for a moment before slowly asking, “But despite that, you’d rather I stay, wouldn’t you?” He shrugged unabashedly. “You’re quite shameless, aren’t you, Mr. Jefferson?”
“Only on a good day.” He winked as he took a sip of his drink. “After all, you went through all that effort to get here. There’s gotta be a good reason for it, huh?”
“Of course. I’m here to expand my mind just like everyone else," she said, and he raised an eyebrow.
“And not for the charming future president we’ve got roaming the ball?”
“Oh, I wasn’t aware there was one. Let me know if you see him?”
His full laugh proved him undeterred, and Y/N’s self-satisfied smile was reluctant. "'M glad to see you inherited more of the family wit than your brother seemed to."
"Please, don't tell him that. A lady needs to keep some things a secret."
"It'll stay between us, then," Thomas said, "but I don't think I ever got your name."
"Why, so you know whose presence to report to my brother?"
"So I know who to ask after the next time I see him." His response was quick, and it had Y/N on her heels. Her eyes were wide, eyebrows raised, but when she opened her mouth to answer—
"Y/N." Both she and Thomas turned on their heels at the loud voice to find her brother striding across the room toward them, and her groan was unchecked. The fury in Aaron's voice was barely contained. "What in the world do you think you're possibly doing here, sneaking out after dark? How did you even get here?"
"I brought myself, since nobody else was willing to take me," she bit back, and Thomas raised his eyebrows as he took a sip of his drink.
"That wasn't your decision to make," Aaron snapped. "We are a family, and you have to respect that—"
"Respect what? That you have total control over my life in the name of family values? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?" she asked. "I respect that you have a career and a reputation to maintain, but I am a person, and—"
"And nothing, Y/N. Put the drink down, and leave Mr. Jefferson at peace," he demanded, and Y/N narrowed her eyes, her jaw set. Aaron turned to Thomas, and much of the fire in his voice had subsided when he said, "I'm sorry for her intrusion, Thomas. We didn't know she had followed us here, and we'll send her home at once."
"Now, Aaron, what makes you think she's uninvited company?" Thomas asked, and both Y/N's and Aaron's brows were raised. "Y/N's my guest here this evening; 's the opposite of an intrusion."
He frowned, glancing between Thomas and Y/N. "You mean you're responsible for her presence here tonight?"
"Well, I invited her, so I suppose you could say that," he said casually, and if he winked when he caught Y/N's eye, Aaron didn't think anything of it. Aaron's lips were pursed and his shoulders tense as he glanced between them.
"Why didn't you tell me Thomas had invited you?" he asked Y/N, and she shrugged.
"I didn't think you'd want to hear it, and I didn't want you trying to prevent me from coming."
"If I'd known he asked you to come—"
"So, what, my personhood is dependent on his permission now?"
"Your presence here is, at least."
"As a Burr, I would've been welcome either way."
"Not unattended, however."
"I can attend to myself just fine."
"You know that isn't what I mean when—"
"Aaron, was there somethin' else you needed?" Thomas cut him off, and Aaron's gaze was affronted when it snapped to him. However, he held his tongue. "I was just about to ask Y/N to dance, assuming that's her decision to make 'n all."
Y/N had to bite back her smile at his words, and although Aaron seemed to recognize the challenge in them as his jaw ticked, he said, "Of course. I'm sorry to have interrupted."
"Don't sweat it. Your concern for your sister is awful sweet, even if it isn't needed here," Thomas responded, his smile warm.
"'Concern' isn't how I'd describe it," Y/N muttered bitterly, and Thomas nudged her with his elbow. She frowned.
"Carry on 'n enjoy the rest of the ball, though, and please send my best to your wife," he said. Aaron could only offer a tense smile in response.
“You as well. I suppose I should go find Theodosia.” He looked down skeptically at Y/N. “How are you planning to get home?”
Y/N’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I…” She hadn’t thought that far, so her gaze was hopeful when it snapped to Thomas, who held her with a hand at the small of her back.
“I’ll arrange for a carriage to take her home,” he promised. “Don’t you worry, Burr. She’s in safe hands.”
“Right,” he said hesitantly, looking Thomas over. “I’ll leave you to it. Don’t do anything stupid, Jefferson.”
“‘S like you don’t even know who you’re talkin’ to,” Thomas said incredulously, and Aaron scoffed.
“I’m sure.” He barely spared them both another glance before departing unceremoniously, shaking his head all the while, and Thomas chuckled. Y/N turned back toward him.
“You’re a regular local hero,” she said sardonically, but the smile in her eyes betrayed her bored tone. Thomas grinned.
“I do try, sweetheart,” he said lightly, “maybe even in a way that deserves a ‘thank you’?”
“Thank you.” Her voice was sincere. “Really. I owe you.”
“Well, if you mean that,” he said, and his eyes were shining as he looked down at her, “I wouldn’t mind making good on that dance I mentioned. Unless you’re in a real rush to get back to your dear old brother.”
He offered her his arm with an eyebrow raised, and she left her empty glass on the table behind them when she took it, drawing a wide grin from him. “How could I say no to our charming host?"
#send me asks!#hamilton x reader#freedom of the press#hamilton fic#hamilton#thomas jefferson#lafayette x reader#lafayette#daveed diggs imagine#daveed diggs fanfic#daveed diggs x reader#daveed fic#hamilton fanfic#alexander hamilton#hamilton one shot#hamilton musical#hamilton the musical#aaron burr#thomas jefferson fic#thomas jefferson x reader#thomas jefferson x reader drabble#dorkfilmz
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New plot bunny: the Tuskegee boys are just settling in at the stalag but they already notice the strange relationship between Buck and Bucky. Weird behaviour ranging from domestic arguments and conversations carried out entirely through facial expressions to flirting and physical affection. Not to mention the bunk sharing even though it’s not that cold at the moment.
The other boys are already used to it and they saw it progress gradually anyway, but the newcomers are exposed to it out of the blue and have no idea how they should react to it. They decide to follow what the others do and just ignore it, which can be quite awkward when so many of them are locked in one hut and they all have to listen to those two bicker in the corner.
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all bow to our lord and savior jamilmads
shoutout to @cyanspica’s fic: Three’s a Crowd
#hamilton#hamilton musical#hamilton fanart#thomas jefferson#alexander hamilton#jamilton#jeffmads#madilton#(is that the name for it?)#modern au#finally delivered on my jamilmads content#cyanspica you posting chpt 2 inspired me to finish what i started after reading chpt 1 lmao 😭#the fic is so good check it out if you havent already#im already starved for more#jamilmads#whats the context here? i have no clue#them being overwhelming gay is the context
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trading paper dolls
Fandom: Masters of the Air
Rating: T
Word Count: 2228
Summary:
Tired of the pin-up girls, Alex draws Buck Cleven in a similar style, never intending for the sketch to fall into the hands of Bucky Egan.
“You even lookin’ at that paper? Ain’t seen you look at that paper in five minutes.”
Alex smiled to himself as he redirected his gaze to the sketch he was working on. Macon was right: he hadn’t been looking. He didn’t need to. He’d done half a dozen of these sketches already since getting forced into this camp and they were all the same—a collection of curves. Eyes, cheeks, lips. Shoulders, breasts, waist. Hips, thighs, calves. Little round rear, if the request came with a specification for that kinda thing. He had his style. He could draw pin-ups in his sleep.
“I thought your neck didn’t work,” he reminded Macon without twisting his own to look up at him in the higher bunk. “Guess it works just fine for snoopin’ over my shoulder.”
“‘Snoopin’’?” Macon echoed, sounding affronted. “Bullshit, snoopin’. Ain’t no privacy here to violate, Alex. You don’t want me to be able to see over your shoulder, you better go sit on the roof.”
Alex released a soft snort and kept sketching. His latest connoisseur of provocative art wanted a brunette. That was easy enough; Alex added a quick outline of hair—more curves—and shaded it in.
“You get tired of that?” Macon asked a few minutes later. Apparently, he’d abandoned the book Alex had brought him.
“Why, you get tired of the smokes these boys are payin’ me to draw ’em?” Alex shot back.
“Not drawin’—drawin’ that. Your little paper dolls.”
Paper dolls. Alex hadn’t thought of it like that. (He liked Macon too much to be insulted; even if he had been insulted, it wouldn’t be enough to put even the smallest dint in the loyalty they had to one another. Nobody was going to watch out for them like they’d watch out for each other.) The drawings were sweet, in a way, with the coy smiles and O’s of surprise on the girls’ mouths, with the way their delicate fingers twirled telephone cords and pressed with childlike thoughtfulness into their dimpled chins. They belied what the boys who asked for them claimed to want: somethin’ sexy to look at while they pulled themselves off whenever they were alone. Or felt alone. Or even felt alone enough.
No, Alex knew what he was really giving them: a little reminder of tenderness. Tenderness even above femininity, because only one guy had asked him to draw a gal in something see-through, another in a negligée (Like Rita Hayworth in Life, he’d said), and the rest had just wanted to see anything that wasn’t a uniform. Props? A tray of muffins coming out of an oven, a basket of kittens, a field of wildflowers. Things that spoke of home comforts and abundance, that evoked softness and pleasing scents. If these drawings of his were like paper dolls, it made sense, because the boys were playing with them—playing make-believe. And so Alex didn’t mind that he’d done six of these already. It made the white boys happy. It passed the time. It kept him and Macon in whatever pitiful item counted as a luxury on this day, this week. If Alex were to be here as long as some of the boys had been here already, he figured it’d help having something to occupy his mind.
“Not yet,” he said, and drew a pair of sunglasses dangling from the girl’s hand, then put a look on her face like she knew you’d watch her bend down to pick them up when she inevitably dropped them. “Anyway, what else would I draw?”
“Pin-up Hitler?”
They both cracked up.
“Alright, alright,” Macon said as their laughter trailed off. “How ’bout these boys?”
Alex lifted his pencil from the paper. That was another one done.
“Our boys?” he checked distractedly, examining his work.
In the silence that followed his words, he could just about hear Macon rolling his eyes.
“The boys in this bunkroom,” Alex corrected.
“Yeah. Think you could draw ’em?”
At this, Alex swivelled around to look at Macon, eyes narrowed and unimpressed.
“Of course I could, but I shouldn’t.” Expression clearing, he raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Don’t you want them to like us? Trust us?”
“Maybe I don’t like or trust them,” Macon replied. Alex sighed, then Macon added, “I never said show the drawings. Just do it for our entertainment, shit.”
“And what are you paying me in for this entertainment?”
“In the promise that I won’t snitch to the white boys that you doin’ pin-ups of ’em,” Macon said, chuckling.
Alex grinned and shook his head.
“I’ll think about it.”
“Well, you know. If you ain’t too busy.”
They laughed harder this time, until Macon swore and laid back, rubbing his neck.
Alex did think for a while. He sat there thinking, then got up and walked over to the window to take a look at the bleak view as he thought some more, then sat again. His pencil was there on his bunk. He had more paper. The other guys from their bunkhouse weren’t about—walking someplace, or scheming, maybe. Buck Cleven had let Alex in on the general idea of a breakout, which was significant, but he knew he was still a newcomer, still on the outside.
It was that frustration that made Alex pick up the pencil. It was the fact that Buck had been the only one to initiate a conversation with him that made Alex choose him as his subject. He just knew his face best, had looked at it openly while they’d talked. Round eyes, full mouth. Not so different from his regular paper dolls.
When Egan and Brady wandered in, Alex calmly slipped the sketch of Buck behind the commissioned drawing of the brunette with the sunglasses. When he got the chance, he’d hide it someplace better, but he doubted there was a more suspicious group on earth than his fellow kriegies; if he tried now, it’d give them reason to distrust him, and if they discovered what he was attempting to conceal... it would be hard to explain.
He retraced lines he’d already drawn, darkened the girl’s hair. Brady and Egan were playing cards on the other side of the room. Alex was thinking about casually lying back and pulling out a book he might tuck the drawing of Buck into when DeMarco swung through the doorway and announced Nazis were ordering men out of the neighbouring hut to toss the rooms.
If he hadn’t had to help Macon down from the higher bunk, Alex might’ve had time. If he could’ve done more than flip the pages over, they might not’ve been noticed. If he hadn’t submitted to Egan’s authority as a superior officer and let him be the last out of the room, ensuring the rest of them got out safely, Alex might not’ve worried as he stood outside in the cold, waiting for Egan to follow them out. Waiting, it seemed, for too long before Egan stepped out and the Nazis shoved past him on their way in.
When it was over, Alex walked back inside to find that one of the pages he’d left on his bunk was no longer there.
—
Bucky leaned against the side of the hut, fingering the folded paper in his pocket. He’d creased it in half quickly, and the edges didn’t line up, giving his fingers something to worry as he stood there, mind swooping and turning like one of the planes the man to whom the paper belonged flew.
It hadn’t been nosiness driving Bucky across the room once DeMarco, Brady, Jefferson, and Macon were out. It hadn’t been mere curiosity. Bucky knew Buck had spoken to the new guy, Jefferson, about helping them work out the topography surrounding the camp. Bucky’s fear, when he saw those pages left behind, was that one of them might have featured some kind of map. And then all their gooses would’ve been cooked. The Nazis would’ve known they were thinking of escape more seriously than a distant fantasy that involved a place to get a steak dinner instead of the crap food that barely kept them alive. Rifling swiftly through Jefferson’s pages was self-preservation—the preservation of the whole group of them. Bucky hadn’t expected to find what was now in his pocket.
Looking at it made him less sure of how to feel, and so he kept teasing himself instead, stroking the edges of the page without taking it out of his coat. Part of what he felt was relief; since it wasn’t a map Jefferson had been drawing, there had been no close call. It also meant Jefferson wasn’t stupid, hadn’t left anything so valuable, so incredibly damning, sitting out in the open like a present for their jailers. But that line of thinking got tangled up with another of the emotions the paper provoked in him: impulsive, hot-headed fury that Jefferson would do a thing like that, would draw Buck like that. Bucky wanted to demand Jefferson tell him who the hell he thought he was to put that down on paper. Only, a confrontation would’ve escalated immediately into a scene—Bucky didn’t trust himself to handle it coolly, not this—which would likely mean having to explain exactly why he was so angry with Jefferson. Buck would see the drawing. Onlookers would see a fracture in their group and think they were weak. It was no fucking good, and so Bucky stood there touching the paper until he couldn’t stand it any longer and, after glancing up and down the corridor between the huts, slipped the page out for further scrutiny.
It was a good likeness; Bucky had known it was Buck right away. If he fought back all the other complex feelings he had about it, he could appreciate that Jefferson had a talent. Bucky cast his gaze around again, then permitted himself to enjoy the drawing on the basis of its artistic merit alone. That was certainly the shape of Buck’s face. Those eyes could belong to no other. He could see what Jefferson had intended with the pose—Buck’s chest thrust forward, his ass pushed out—but it wasn’t as exaggerated as many pin-ups Bucky had seen, and there was still a recognizable Buck-ness in the set of the shoulders, the way the forearms crossed and rested on the bent knee. Jefferson had put Buck in the room they called the library, one of Buck’s shoes planted on a chair as he stared unflinchingly at his observer, those eyes that could belong to no other set in the face with a shape Bucky knew well. And the mouth. The mouth was unmistakably Buck’s too. Like this, Buck could acknowledge what a pretty mouth it was, how swell it would’ve looked on any female pin-up model, but how right it was on the face of his best friend.
Bucky swallowed and refolded the paper. He undid his coat just enough to stuff the drawing into the breast pocket of his shirt, a little closer to his body, a little more secure, he told himself. He possessed no plan for what he’d do with it. Buck, of course, could never see. Jefferson sure as hell wasn’t getting it back; Bucky decided that having to wonder what had happened to the drawing would have to be sufficient punishment for having the nerve to do it in the first place. In a tight moment, Bucky knew he might have to eat the paper. He might have to chew and swallow, forcing Buck’s confident stare and plump lips down his throat. He would hold this depiction of Buck inside himself, break him down and digest him. No one could take it from him. No one would know.
He sniffed and flicked a finger across the end of his nose. He strolled along in the shadow of the hut and, just before stepping out into the pale winter sunshine, pressed his hand to his chest over the place where the drawing rested. No one would know.
Conscious of the need for his shoes to not wear out in case the ideal escape conditions presented themselves, Bucky kept his steps light as he crossed the dirt yard. One of the guards was watching him and Bucky offered a sarcastic smile.
“Beautiful day, huh, Fritz?”
He kept walking until he found Buck. It seemed he was always walking until he found Buck.
They were not yet out of things to say to one another, and there were always new silences to not fill. They could talk close—what petty grievances did they have about the smell of Crank’s socks, the way Murphy had started chewing his fingernails?—and they could talk far—making up baseball scores for the teams back home. Bucky was comforted by their talk, by the undemanding presence of Buck at his side.
Buck was talking to Jefferson, and when Bucky sidled up, he slung an arm around Buck’s shoulders, feeling the paper in his pocket crumple slightly. He looked at Buck as he carried on speaking like Bucky was no interruption. He watched Buck’s lips move, listened to the low, slow, sure sound of his voice. Feeling Jefferson’s eyes on him, Bucky shifted his gaze and stared back. I’ll keep your secret, he told Jefferson with a lift of his eyebrows, and you keep mine.
#my writing#MotA#Masters of the Air#Alexander Jefferson#Richard Macon#Gale 'Buck' Cleven#John 'Bucky' Egan#Bucky x Buck#MotA fic
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i wanna write a fanfic but
what the FUCK am i supposed to write for???
spiderverse is dead. nobody wants to read about a spidersona either
i’m not really in the loop of what everybody is drooling over rn
i love deadpool but that’s not gonna be a good idea to post cause it’s not gonna get any attention unless i post it after the new movie which comes out in forever
i got a lot of angst ideas for a million different characters but all the angst tags(that i follow) are DEAD
@dolligent @kyoscrayons @urmadiik @janaeby and any of my other moots or random people if y’all have any ideas please send them immediately 🙇🏽♀️🙏🏽 even if they’re of something i said would be boring/unpopular
(i suck ass at angst and writing hobie 😭💔 i’m gonna work on it i swear but not on this account)
#across the spiderverse#kaidan’s thoughts#atsv#hobie brown#fic ideas#deadpool#deadpool x reader#miles morales x reader#spike spiegel x reader#jefferson davis + reader platonic#spidersona
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— letting you do their hair
— thomas j, alexander h, and phillip h x gn reader, john laurens x masc reader
+ black coded reader for thomas and john! modern-ish au!
PHILLIP H !
✩ he loves letting you do this hair. sometimes you don’t even have to ask, he’ll ask you.
✩ he only trust you and his parents to wash it and take care of it
✩ you style it a lot for him and eliza loves it
✩ tender headed as fuck
✩ if someone flirts with him in public, especially if they bring up his hair, he’ll just go on and on about you
✩ “oh my hair? yeah it’s nice, ain’t it? my (s/o) did it. Aren’t they so skilled?”
✩ you teach him how to braid his hair and style it the way you do so he can do them himself if there’s a time you’re not around
☆ watching your favorite shows 🤝 washing and drying his hair
THOMAS J !
☆ he is so protective of his hair. like he’s the only one allowed to touch it
☆ so obviously it took you a lot of begging and convincing but he eventually gave in
☆ he’ll make snarky comments and act like a baby when you first wash his hair or attempt to style it but a little pop with the comb gets him to shut up
☆ he almost fell asleep the first time you braided his hair, but he likes to pretend it never happened
☆ so embarrassed to ask you to wash his hair and you can’t help but tease him for it
☆ after a while, he had you braiding his hair once a week for an extra curl
☆ you guys have matching bonnets
☆ he will literally call James mid hair session and just start talking about the government with him
☆ he was very skeptical about your products but eventually they become the only thing he uses
ALEXANDER H !
☆ he was genuinely surprised when you asked him to do his hair
☆ he hadn’t had anyone to do it or take care of it for years, especially since his mother passed
☆ “you’d do that for me?” he’d question, genuine shock on his face
☆ and it takes all of both of you to not start crying when you do take care of his hair
☆ the first time you washed it for him was the most relaxed you’d ever seen him
☆ it was the most loved he’d felt for a while
☆ then there were times were you just played in his hair
☆ whether we was working or just watching tv, you were putting silly little styles in his hair. and it he loves it. he thinks it’s adorable.
☆ some mornings, he ask you to put his hair up for him or slick it back for him just so he can have the best start to his day
☆ his hair was very first thing he asked you to do when he came back from war
☆ scalp massages >>>
☆ they’re one of the only things that convince him to leave his office, just for a little bit
JOHN L !
☆ after he meets you, he refuses to do his hair unless you’re away on a trip
☆ he whines and pleads, making an excuses on “how you do so much better” and “how loved it makes him feel” while giving you kisses
☆ but if you’re truly tired, of course he’ll give you a break
☆ you came home once and found him wearing your bonnet/durag
☆ you also do most of his haircuts
☆ he doesn’t mind his hair growing out but he knows it’s getting too long when you start beating him while play fighting
☆ to him if you’re winning, his hair is messing with his vision and it’s a “handicap”
☆ definitely gets popped with the comb everytime you do his hair
“john, could you turn your head just a little bit?” you question, your frustration already growing. he couldn’t help but tease you constantly, it was in his nature. he slightly turns his head with a small smirk on his face, knowing he was pissing you off.
“john, don’t play with me right no—“ you cut off your words when john grabs you by the waist and pulls you in and onto his lap. his hand gripping the outside of your thigh to support you as you straddle his legs.
“this angle good enough for you?” he asks, giving you his typically stupid grin. you can’t help but softly smile as you look at him, your previous anger from before leaving.
“t’s fine, i guess.” you shrug before going back to attempting to cut his hair.
“see? why let anyone else do my hair when i can have you do it for free and get a lap dance at the same time?” he says nonchalantly, continuing to scroll on his phone. his free hand caress your thigh and slithering back to ass.
“john, i swear you’re going to wake up bald one day.”
#dorkszn#dorkfilmz#hamilton musical#phillip hamilton x reader#hamilton drabble#hamilton fanfic#hamilton x reader#alexander hamilton#thomas jefferson x reader#thomas jefferson fic#alexander hamilton x reader#john laurens x reader#john laurens#hamilton fluff#hamilton angst#hamilton an american musical
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not impressed
SUMMARY: in your eyes, nothing is special about the lsu quarterback.
WARNINGS: cussing, drinking, smoking, fuckboy!joe, fratboy!joe, cocky!joe, euphoria inspired
- - - -
You're new to LSU, transferring from a small community college back in Georgia. It's only been a few months here in Louisiana for you but things have been good so far. Joining the majorette team and becoming popular around campus. Men want you but you don't want them, too caught up in enjoying your new college life.
You adjust your bra top, gaining looks from a few college boys that were standing around you. Rolling your eyes, you check your phone for any new messages. Somebody at LSU decided to throw a party for the football team, typical. Your majorette teammate, Naomi, had dragged you out the house so you could find yourself a man just for the evening.
But all the dudes at the party right now were either weird or sluts, huge whore bags. That's how a lot of men on campus are, especially the football team. You never understood how girls would just flock to them, only seeing dick and a potential to become a NFL wife. Shit like that never amused you, you have big dreams too, who wants to be cooped up in a house all day with three to four kids plus having to cook and clean? Yeah no.
Naomi walks back in the living room from using the bathroom, re-joining you on the couch, "You okay?" She asks. Before you can answer her, a loud group of men enter the house and you just know it's the football team.
You roll your eyes before sending a knowing look Naomi's way, she laughs silently before scooting closer to you. "I'm fine, this party is about to give me a headache though," You mutter and Naomi hums in response, "Well, we can always go back to the dorm."
"No, no, I never go out and I want to. It's college, we're supposed to be having a good time." You say in response. Justin and Ja'Marr walk in the living room, giving daps to people they know before heading over to you and Naomi.
You may have not cared for the football team but you've grown fond of Justin and Ja'Marr. They're like two bad ass twins. Ja'Marr shoves your forehead making you slap his wrist in response, "You asshole!"
"We ain't know y'all was coming. Especially you, Y/N, you an old lady, you probably got old people teeth in ya mouth right now." Justin teases gaining a laugh from out of Ja'Marr.
"Don't push it, I'll flick your little ass." You push Justin back slightly with your foot. He fakes a hiss before laughing again, "Stop playing before I get my boy, Joseph on yo ass."
"Ooh! See me personally, Y/N, I would never go for that." Ja'Marr shrugs his shoulders.
"You go for that and then some, Ja'Marr," Naomi rebuttals making you laugh. He sucks his teeth before tapping Justin on the shoulder, they both walk off weirdly.
"Losers," You mumble under your breath and Naomi giggles at your comment. A few seconds they return with the hottest topic on campus, Joe Burrow.
"Keep messing with us and our dawg Joey B gon Mickey Mouse two-piece y'all ass," Justin says and you look over at Naomi before the both of y'all bust out in laughter.
"Y'all weak, I can beat y'all up, easily, light weight." You reply standing up but only to get softly pushed back on the couch by Joe.
"You haven't even seen me fight."
"Well first off, I wasn't speaking to you, but since you opened your mouth, I don't need to see you fight. You look like you'd get beat up." You tell Joe, gaining attention from a few of his friends and teammates.
"Joe you gon' let her talk to you like that?" You hear somebody ask from the kitchen. You stand up getting in Joe's face, "He sure is, because "Joe" isn't going to do a got damn thing to me."
Joe turns his attention over at you as Justin and Ja'Marr slowly back away from the scene. "It'd be best if you watch your mouth."
"Is that suppose to be a threat?" You question while about to to take off your shoes. Naomi stands up and grabs your hand, leading you upstairs into a random empty bedroom.
"Girl! You can't be talking to Joe like that." Naomi blurts out and you turn your head at her. "Y'all scared of him or something? He doesn't faze me."
"Nobody disrespects him-
"How was I disrespecting him by telling him the truth? Do you seriously think he'd win a fight?" You tilt your head meeting Naomi's eyes, she looks away attempting not to answer.
"Exactly, just because he's known doesn't mean anything to me. You should know this by now."
Fixing your hair in your pocket mirror, you catch Naomi staring at you. "What?"
"You know he's going to be on your ass now, right?"
You look at Naomi, "No, no, I don't know, enlighten me."
"He's just like the big guy around here and everyone just respects him. You might be the only person who treated Joe like he's a regular human being," Naomi stated.
"He is a regular human being!"
- - - -
You're currently sitting on top of the kitchen counter drinking some jungle juice. After you and Naomi's conversation, you both decided to rejoin the party. You gained a few looks from people who are believed to be close friends of Joe. You don't care though, you weren't going to treat Joe as if he's superior because in your eyes, he's not.
Joe walks in the kitchen with a woman on his arm, she stumbles over her feet before putting her head down when a few people snicker. You shake your head, turning your attention back to your phone.
"You look lonely," The three words make you snap your head at a man who looks drunk out his mind.
"I look completely fine, do you?"
Joe moves past the two of you, mumbling, "Shouldn't you be anywhere but here?" under his breath. You laugh quietly before focusing your attention back on the dude in front of you.
Before the dude can even reply to your question, Joe taps him on the shoulder and the two of them walk off somewhere. You roll your eyes, waiting on Naomi to get done flirting with whatever man she can have for the night.
This party is lame, and you're two seconds away from beating thee infamous Joe Burrow up. Such a prick! Getting mad at you for not playing with him. Such a dweeb in your eyes.
Justin and Ja'Marr slide next to you, "Yo!"
You laugh before sitting up straight, "I haven't seen you two all night. Must've been getting pussy."
Ja'Marr shrugs playfully before looking away, letting you know that he indeed, got pussy during this party. "That ain't the topic, what needs to be talked about is you and our boy, Joe."
"What about him?"
Justin scoffs, "What about him? You can't be talking to him like that! He big dawg. We was tryin' put y'all on with each other, but you damn near punked him in front of his folks!"
"Justin's right. He coulda had you drooling for him at any moment." Ja'Marr adds in his two cents making you squint your eyes at the both of them.
"Ain't he a fuckboy? He's a blunt, passed around!" You loudly say making people snap their head in your direction.
"Nah! Nah! Don't be saying that." Justin puts a hand over your mouth when Joe appears back in the kitchen.
"Who a fuckboy?" He asks, the whole time he's staring directly at you. Joe knows you said it, he just wants to hear the words come from you. But you can't because Ja'Marr is currently trying to make up some kind of lie.
"See, you gon' get yourself caught up, Y/N. Real shit, Joe don't play them games." Justin tells you before mushing you back softly.
"Fuck yo' teammate who is also your friend, respectfully."
- - - - -
"Wanna take a swim?" A frat boy asks you, you nod your head slowly stripping off your clothes and placing them near Naomi's belongings.
You grab the dudes hand and walk towards the pool, people staring at the both of you murmuring words under their breath.
Joe and his teammates are smoking cigars when he sees you stepping into the pool, "Just what the fuck are you doing?"
You snap your eyes over at him, "You see I'm in the pool, cunt." People start oohing and Joe's face turns red. Never has a woman disrespected him constantly.
His teammate, Tyler, taps Joe on his shoulder, "You gon' have to handle that." Joe's friends murmur words in agreement. He peers his over at you again, watching you attract people with the way you're moving your body.
"Yeah, you right. I can't take the disrespect for too long."
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you like the girl, Joseph." A child-hood friend of Joe's, Derrick, says. Joe hears a few people agree with his friend, sucking his teeth, Joe flicks Derrick off.
- - - - -
The party is slowly coming to an end and you're grabbing all of your belongings when suddenly Joe walks up to you. "You know, it's very disrespectful to call somebody a cunt.
"Hm, am I suppose to care?"
"No.. but I-
"Exactly, I knew you weren't slow! Have a good night.. Mr. Burrow." You give Joe a fake smile, walking off to your car with Naomi trailing behind you. Joe can't help to grin, his first time ever being told off by a woman. He's impressed but you're not.
"I think he's definitely into you," Naomi mumbles once you two reach your car. You hum, not really thinking too much into the thought. Maybe, maybe, Joe might have a crush on you. But who cares, certainly not you, right?
#joe burrow#joeburrow fanfiction#joe burrow imagine#joe burrow fanfiction#joeburrow#joeburrow fic#joe burrow fan fic#joeburrow x reader#joe burrow x reader#nfl imagine#lsu football#ja’marr chase#justin jefferson
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