#belly breathing instead isnt... getting me enough air

[trenchgardens-ooc-ooc-ooc-ooc]

they should make a breathing that isnt hard.

[bloodycassian]

Short sword - Reader x Cassian bond. Shorter.

Prompt - i’m literally so obsessed with cassian rn could you write something with him? i was thinking something along the lines of a badass reader (i hate when the reader or oc is weak, like no we want a #girlboss) and idk you can continue the rest <3

"Get your winged bastards in the air. Now." You stood chest to chest with Thesan, not caring if your muddied armor smudged his fragile white robes. His eyes flared with rage, but he did not move. Such a bold move of a commander of a different court all together to be yelling orders to a high lord. The surrounding area seemed to pause, waiting for the impending fight. He scoffed, then finally turned from you. Those billowing robes began leaking light, readying him to winnow. You reached out, like a viper ready to catch its prey. Instead of the hood of that perfectly white robe, your hand was caught by a large tan hand. With a red siphon glowing atop it. You scowled, ripping your hand away from him. Thesan disappeared into a flash of white light. The surrounding crowd quickly got back to work when you shot them an icy glare. Seeing their legion commander bloodied and in a hellish mood was enough to strike fear in all of them. "We have our own forces to worry about." Cassian muttered under his breath so only you could hear. He kept pace with you easily, years of training and marching together ensuring so. Remembering how he would pin you so easily when you first started training only fuled you to train hard enough to be able to beat him. Hand to hand combat with him was your favorite, aside from the secret nights you laid together with him under an empty field of stars. You walked faster, boots slushing in the mud from too many soldiers in a small area. The smell of so many males was overwhelming to most, but years of camps exactly like this made you immune to any new smell. "And Thesan has his, which he isnt' worrying about in the slightest." You ground out through your teeth. You nodded to the server as you approached, picking up a bowl. "Thesan is posturing. How would it look if he took orders from a legionnaire of a different court?" "I dont give a shit how it looks, Cas. Your Illyrians are the ones that need the help." you took a bite of the stew. It burned your mouth but warmed your belly in a way that made everything else okay for a moment. It was bland, but after hours of battle anything tasted amazing. "Maybe you should be a little more concerned." You glanced at his dirty face. He scowled slightly, but didn't retaliate. He sipped his stew, much slower than you devoured yours. "I get you're pissed off, but we need to be strategic with our allies as well as the enemies." He said, voice soft. His boot knocked yours slightly under the table. A reminder to not rush. To not dive and give fully to battle. To not yield fully to that intense warrior side. Your heart gave slightly to that small touch. "We need to be able to come back from this." He set his spoon down, lowering a look at you. He didnt look away until your eyes met his. Your jaw clenched, holding back all the biting rage you had waiting inside. "We will make Thesan look a fool when we take that base without his Perregryns." You gave in to those warm eyes, knocking his foot back under the table. His grin was warm, welcoming. Proud. He took something from the bench seat beside him and held it out to you. Something wrapped in a thick white cloth. Marred by his dirty hands. "That's my commander." He said with a wild grin. He took the napkin from the plate and revealed a massive roll. Your mouth watered. You could have moaned. Maybe you did, because his laugh and blush made you glance around to see if anyone else had heard. "I need you here, always." He gripped your hand tightly before you took the roll. Your eyes met his, the strange seriousness there. The non comedic Cassian that you knew to rarely ever come out. You squeezed his hand back and nodded. Finally, he set the plate down in front of you. And you did in fact moan at the first bite. "Mother above, it's still warm." You savored the buttery softness in your mouth. Cassian laughed, wiping his hands with the napkin. "Only the best for you." You didnt care that people watched as you devoured the roll, or that you kicked Cassian under the table when he commented about those sounds you

made. You were distracted from the irritation Thesan brought, for the moment at least. Cassian and brought you that peace. You would be forever grateful. "Tell me, what was your plan once you had grabbed Thesan?" Cassian said around a mouth of stew. The dining hall around began filling up more as soldiers returned from their watches and switched shifts. The loud clattering of plates and bowls made the environment more welcoming. You wiped the crumbs from your mouth, taking a long drink and considering before answering. "I dont really know. Pray, maybe? That he wouldn't kill me. Or his Guards wouldnt I guess." Cassian rolled his eyes, but remained unsurprised at that. "Maybe hold him down as best I could in the mud until he agreed to letting his Peregryns fight with us." "I dont think mud will bother him much." Cas slurped the broth from the bowl, dripping slightly on to his black armor."I've seen him in battle." His eyes seemed haunted for a second before he shook it off. You watched as he finished the stew completely, much like you had minutes before him. You checked your sword at your side habitually. Like running your hand over your arm, feeling for any bumps or scratches. "You gotta stop doing that. You're going to put a wear mark in it." He scolded lightly, eyeing your hand on the pommel of your blade. You glared at him, he was always criticizing how much he thought you over relied on your short sword and not the longsword on your back. "Get the blacksmiths to forge a shorter long sword, then I'll use it." you stood, "Wouldn't that still be a short sword but lighter?" He fell right into your innuendo, face first. A rarity for him. You knew he would have caught it if you both weren't so battle ready. You said the rest a bit louder than necessary - "The length of the sword doesn't matter, what does is how it's wielded." You winked before walking away. soft chuckles rang out near him. He sat in silence and cursed at your back, watching you walk out of the dining hall. He noted each warrior that glanced a bit too long, and let his rage simmer. Save it for another time. He gripped his bowl a bit harder than necessary when he placed it in the bin of dirty dishes.

[pacific-rimbaud]

27 - panville (lets pretend its after their wedding) (lets also pretend this isnt me trying to extend bright objects epilogue in every way I can) (but just because you are the real queen of this ship)

Drabble #27: “I’m pregnant.”

by PacificRimbaud

Pairing: Pansy Parkinson x Neville Longbottom

Tags: WWII AU, unplanned pregnancy, hospital, brief mentions of war

Wiltshire, May 1944

“I’ve had a letter.”

Lavender’s voice dipped to a conspiratorial low, as though a letter was a secret Pansy both had an interest in and ought to be party to.

“From which one?”

Pansy shut off all attention to Lavender and inspected the label on a bottle of morphine tablets. Finding it sound, she filed it away in the back of the second shelf from the top in the medicine cabinet, and made a sharp graphite tick on the inventory form. 

“Lieutenant McLaggen. The fellow from Dunfermline. Oh, thank you.” Lavender received a wrapped bundle from one of the laundry girls, and set it down on the center of the table on the opposite side of the room. “He’s going to be in London next month, and wants me to come over on the train.”

Ticking at her form, Pansy fitted away a third vial, made another tick, and then filed a fourth in a martial row moving forward in the cabinet.

“You need to be careful with all that,” she said.

“Oh, I am.” Lavender checked the tag on the laundry. “I might seem silly, but I’m not daft.” 

Pansy scraped her pencil so hard against her form that it tore a small hole in the page.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“You alright?” Lavender asked, hand paused at the task of untucking the edges of the bundle.

“I’m fine.”

Lavender laid out the edges of the cloth wrapping, removed a stack of cloth face masks, and set them on the shelf in front of her. “It’s only you look a bit flushed, Pans.”

Pansy tightened the aperture of her attention down to a ruthless diameter, wide enough for nothing beyond the minute detail of dates printed on pasted labels and the tick of her freshly sharpened pencil.

Once the old bottles were secured at the front of the shelf and the new ones filed behind them, Pansy closed the cabinet doors and brushed her hands against the cotton of her pinafore.

“I’m going to get some air,” she said, her shoulder nearly glancing against Lavender’s on her way out the door.

“Alright, love,” Lavender called after her. “I’ll tell you about the letter I’ve had from Second Lieutenant Creevey when you’ve come back.”

For a long while, Pansy had thought of the hospital as a cheap robe hung on the exalted bones of Thornwood Abbey. The war would end, and it would fall away as immaterial and disposable as the wrapping on a parcel.

No stain, no echo, no vibration of its requisition would be left behind.

It would be her sanctuary once again, and only hers, free to take her tea in solitary silence by the large window in the drawing room, watching the mallards dabble in the lake.

As it was, the drawing room was filled with men who sent up prayers to God if they woke with a headache from the anesthetic.

Day by day, Pansy felt the memory of her home drain away, replaced as it needed to be by the urgent and essential now.

She passed Daphne in the hall outside the room where her servants used to eat their dinner. She intended to keep up her pace and offer nothing beyond a tip of her head, but Daphne slipped her hand into the crook of Pansy’s elbow. 

“Your captain is looking for you,” she said quietly. “I’ve tried to deflect him, but I think he’s gone to Pomfrey already and knows you’re here.”

A voltaic shimmer traveled down the surface of Pansy’s skin and back up again.

“Fucking hell.”

Pansy turned around and stalked off in the other direction, abandoning the idea of a turn around the rose garden.

She nearly escaped to the nurse’s dormitory that was once her own, solitary boudoir.

But naturally he recalled the narrow service stairs in the east wing, and opened the door to descend just as she arrived at the top.

“Pansy,” he said, almost breathless with a sort of half-panic. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Neville.”

He held his hat at his side, pinched between his spare, muscled fingers.

His hair was never fully tamed, and the impacts of having put his hat on his head and then removing it again made themselves clear.

Pansy flattened herself against the wall of the confining stairwell, grasping her own forearms in her palms behind her back.

“Well?” she asked. She pursed her lips and lifted her chin, fluidly performing the impatience and imperious nonchalance that constituted the entirety of her personality as far as most people were concerned.

“I’m leaving.” He breathed in, an intake of air meant to fortify and compose. “Today. Just now, actually.”

His dark eyes scanned her own, but her vision caught on the pink line of scar tissue running from below his left ear, over his cheekbone, through the outside third of his left eyebrow, then turning back to end in a jagged half circle at the hairline at his left temple.

The scar and a Victoria Cross he kept folded in a handkerchief at the back of his top bureau drawer were the only mementos he had been given for a wound that had done everything in its power to end his life.

The desire to trace it with her fingertips flooded her with so much force that she pinched the skin of both her arms hard enough with her fingernails that she sucked in a breath through her nose.

“I wish you all the luck, then, Captain,” she said, leaning hard into the clipped tones of her breeding to mask the quaver in her throat.

“Pansy, please.”

She might have persisted—would have persisted—had he been any other man, but his hand was at her hip, and then his elbow was crooked behind her nape, and she was in his arms, sighing against the mouth that had been mercifully spared of injury for her own selfish, covetous, unappeasable use.

“I’m going to write to you,” he muttered against her jaw.

“I told you. I won’t read them.”

“I don’t care.”

Pansy took his hand in hers, and folded it over her breast.

She might have known better. Should have known better.

He made her mindless with want.

His hand closed hard, in the way that she liked best, over her too-tender breast, and she gasped with the pain of it.

He pulled back instantly, skin flushed and lips heated for her, and stared at her with an expression of hurt and confusion that she hated, instantly and forever.

“Pans, I’m so sorry. I—”

She prayed, earnestly, fervently, for his stupidity.

But there was only one time she’d known him to be a fool.

His thinking was both careful and thorough, and after a moment his skin paled.

“You’ve been avoiding me for a week,” he said.

She wouldn’t tell him.

She refused.

He would go, and meet the enemy at the door with nothing to remind him of her except the knickers she’d folded into his pocket on the afternoon he’d first taken her, breathless, his scar still red, against the grass bordering the rushes at the edge of the lake.

He would go, and there he would be stupid, beating back disaster with the hard brick of his self-sacrificial love.

Maybe he would come back to find her Miss Parkinson of Thornwood Abbey, sitting in her drawing room with a cup of tea.

Maybe he would come back to find her another man’s wife.

Maybe he would come back with no desire to find her anywhere.

Maybe he wouldn’t come back at all.

“Pansy.”

She was hard as flint.

She was so soft.

She could have told him the hour of the disaster with devastating precision.

Lying on her back, a prohibited object in his bed, she’d been lost with him moving in her, bleary eyes half closed, muting her voice against the sweat at his shoulder, heels at the small of his back holding him tight to her as she gasped out that she loved him.

She had hoped he hadn’t heard, but outside the borders of her own unbearable arc of sensation, she was aware that he’d finished inside her.

If she’d moved immediately after, it might have been possible to have done something, but she couldn’t care about anything beyond how it felt to be held in his arms.

In the dreary dark of the stairs, he studied her with dogged and patient intelligence.

And then his fingertips stroked down her belly, and flexed over the secret below.

He moved quickly then, ducking down and tossing her over his shoulder, and marching with singular purpose up the stairs to the second floor.

Below her, the familiar carpet of her ancestral hall streaked away from the backs of his heels.

He finally stopped at the mahogany door to what was once the least-offered guest bedroom in the east wing, and pushed it open with startling force.

He set her down on her feet in the middle of the room, and tightened one of his long arms around her waist.

The chaplain sat at his desk ramrod straight, auburn hair slicked into an adamant wave over his forehead and spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose. He cradled a pen in his hand, poised over a sheet of paper.

“Captain Longbottom. Nurse Parkinson,” he said, mannerly and terse. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m going to need you to marry us, Father Weasley,” said Neville. “Straight away.”

Father Weasley laid his pen down in a strict perpendicular to his page, and folded his hands together at the edge of his desk.

“I’m afraid you’ll need to submit the proper paperwork. Then Major Weasley will have to approve. He’s on leave in Devonshire at the moment,” he said, shifting his pen a millimetre to the right, “and isn’t expected to return until Tuesday.”

“Get Brigadier General Moody to sign off on it. He’s downstairs in the wards.” Neville’s hand tightened on Pansy’s waist. “I’m...that is so say we’re—”

He turned to Pansy, pink-cheeked, eyes shining, and smiled with half his mouth like an absolute clot.

Pansy couldn’t bear to look at him. Instead she stared hard at Father Weasley until he puffed a beleaguered breath through his nostrils.

He looked at the face of his wristwatch, then drew open a drawer at the side of his desk, and pulled out a blank form.

“You’ll need a witness.”

Neville released Pansy’s waist, stalked to the door and stuck his head out.

“Malfoy,” he called out. “You’re needed.”

Half a minute later, Captain Malfoy strolled through the door entirely unbothered, half-eaten apple in hand.

“Hullo. What’s going on then?” he asked.

“Give me your ring,” said Neville.

Malfoy looked down at the emerald ring on his little finger.

“What do you want my ring for, Longbottom? Go and get one of your own.” He looked Pansy up and down. “Where’s your wee cap gone, Pans?” He took an enormous bite of his apple. “I shouldn’t think the priest has it.”

“Father Weasley’s marrying us just now,” said Neville. “You’re needed as witness.”

Malfoy laughed. “What? Right now? What’s the bloody great rush?”

“I’m pregnant, idiot,” said Pansy.

Malfoy’s eyes widened. “Well that’s extremely naughty of you.”

With an effort, he pulled the ring off his finger and tossed it to Neville.

“You’d better have something a fair sight better than that in your vaults, Longbottom. I hope you’re aware that our Pans has champagne taste.”

Pansy tucked her hair over her ear. “Fuck off, Draco.”

While Father Weasley scribed at the form, Pansy tucked her hand in Neville’s, and turned to face him.

“I’m going to write to you,” he said quietly, rolling Draco’s ring in his fingers. “Constantly. I don’t care whether you read them.”

For two weeks, Pansy had watched the mirror with mounting terror.

She’d seen her soft, glassy eyes. Her swelling breasts. The heat rising visibly at the surface of her skin.

Fatigued and faint, nauseated and utterly sick with love and longing, she shifted to fill the open geometry of Neville’s body.

“Normally we’d get two days, Pans, but we’re...I can’t—”

She pulled up on her toes, and his arms tightened around her, lifting her nearly off the floor and into the warm space he kept reserved for her at the side of his neck.

“Were you going to tell me?” he whispered hoarsely.

“You can’t worry,” she muttered against his pulse. “You’re not allowed.”

“I’m going to use every last piece of paper I’m given.” He pressed his face into her hair. “I don’t care if you read a single one.”

Pansy breathed him in, using every sense to press him hard into the soft wax of her memory. “I’m going to read them all.”

[haruno-sakura-san]

You're okay

Random Itasaku drabble noone asked for.

🌸🍡

Sakura felt really good. The kind of really good that a few mimosas at breakfast and a dip in their private hot tub could give. She peers over her third mimosa, watching Itachi lean his head back against the side of the hot tub, toned arms spread wide on the ledges. A predatory smile creeps on her face.

She floats over, and he cracks an eye open at her as she settles on his lap, taking his face in her hands and meeting his lips slow, sensual kisses. He tastes so sweet. She slides her tongue into his mouth, head going fuzzy, belly warming and she lifts herself up to settle flush against him.

Kami she wants to take him right here in open, bright light of day, but his large hands settle on her hips pulling back. A flick of his eyes toward their room is enough.

A few more slow kisses and she floats away, teetering over the edge of the tub and toward the door leading inside. She is out of the water but her head is still floating.

When he tugs her into the bathroom, all she can think about is how she wants him to keep feeding her those lazy kisses and nudge inside her with each one. She stumbles a bit as she drags her swimsuit over her head, feeling the room spin, and twisting her stomach.

Oh no, did she drink too much? She tells herself it will pass, even as she remembers the warning written on the tub. Effects of alcohol doubled because of thinning of blood and to only stay in for only 15 minutes. How long had they been in there?

She hears the shower water turn on from the other side of the curtain, Itachi's form dark through the curtain and wiggles herself behind her lover. The warm water hits her skin and the dizziness double, suddenly the room is spinning and she just wants to lie down. The nausea in her stomach kicks up too.

"I feel dizzy," she complains, but her tone is light an unworried. She leans her head against the cool tile.

Itachi chuckles a bit and reaches and arm toward her, "Come here."

She smiles at him and goes to him, turning her face up as she steps under the warm spray. It feels so good. Letting out a breath, she wraps her arms around him, pressing a cheek to the soft skin of his chest. As the spinning in the room slows, her eyes slip closed, her mind feeling pleasant, soft like she could just drift off to sleep right then and there.

There isnt anyone luckier than her, she knows that much. Music filters through the air, You Don't Own Me. Funny because it's the same song that was on the radio this morning as they drove here. Itachi made a joke about it because she'd elected to drive.

Sakura turned off the car and they were at his parents house. Mikoto smiling from the porch. The music is still in her head, stuck there she guesses, and Mikoto rushes up to give her a hug, then Itachi. Over Mikoto's shoulder she sees Fugaku glaring from a window in the far wing of the house. Disapproving of her very existence apparently. A quant smile is all he gets in return.

Sakura opens the front door and let's herself in, then he's there in front of her. Fugaku. He couldn't have made it there in such a short amount of time but he is.

The song is still bouncing around her head.

You don't own me. Don't try to change me in any way.

"Be on your best behavior today, Girl. Remember your actions reflect on the clan now." He orders.

She doesn't say a word, biting her cheek to keep quiet. What an arrogant, self absorbed -

Her head flops back like she's been struck, shaking like a tuning fork, that damn song skipping, again and again as her vision fades dark.

She blinks, opening her eyes. She's horizontal, lying on the shower floor, head limp and bobbing in Itachi's hand. Her eyes are wide but the edges of her vision are still fuzzy, her head crackling.

Did I have a seizure? Am I okay?

Itachi is completely calm, a small smile on his mouth, reassuring but also like something about this is funny. That is what instantly calms her. It couldn't be too bad if he was smiling like that. Later she'd realize it was all a careful act for her benefit.

"You're okay," he says lightly. She believes him instantly, but finds her mind slower to catch up with instinct.

"Am I okay?" She repeats back to him, confused and not realizing she'd already asked the question out loud before.

"You're okay," he repeats in the same tone.

Her muscles work again and she lifts herself up to sitting. The shower is off and as she thinks back, the last thing she can remember is looking up at the water raining down on her.

"What happened?"

"You fainted. I caught you though, so I don't believe you hit your head," his hand shifts of the back of her head like he's checking for tenderness. "I don't think you drank enough water in there." Referring to the hot tub.

He leaves and Sakura zones out looking at the shower floor. Then the weight of a towel is draped over her shoulders and a water bottle pressed into her hand. She takes a few tentative sips before the humiliation of what's happened sinks in. That she's sitting naked on the shower floor but for a towel, having planned for steamy shower sex, but ruined it by not knowing her own limits instead.

"I'm sorry." She groans.

"It's okay." He replies automatically. She glances under her lashes at him, crouching behind her, the same gentle smile. It fills her with an easy peace, too easy for what little she information she know. But she trusts him unconditionally. And with that loving look despite what a mess she is...Kami, she really, really loves him.

"I'm sorry," she says again, apparently not able to say anything else but that. He just pulls her into him and drops a kiss on her damp hair, like he understands.

"How long was I out?" She tries.

"Not long at all." But he answers a little too quickly, so she's not sure if she should take it at face value or not.

"What happened?" She asks again, but she's finally present enough to understand the answer. "I remember leaning against the tile and..." She takes another sip of water.

He runs a comforting hand over her town covered shoulder.

"I was just holding you and it felt like you were leaning really heavily against me. Your whole weight. You started slipping down and I realized you fainted. I just lowered you to the floor and turned off the water, then you came to."

She nods, embarassed again and tries to drink more water.

"I'm sorry." She says again and again he gives that soft, humor filled smile.

"You're okay."

She really believes it.

[dvddggs]

To the Four of Us (Part Fourteen)

premise: modern AU chronicling the squad as they make their way through college and deal with general life things.

words: 2,471

warnings: swearing (I always say this but isnt that a given at this point??? oh well)

a/n: ft. belly-patting dad hercules hAHAAA

all chapters: x

tags: @heythereitsloey @anitheunicorn @newyorkyoucanbeanew @lafbagxette @justafangirlwithanavy @iamgrayfox @ordinaryornate @schuylerjoon @angelica-peggy-eliza @trashyperson101 @crazydragon15 @geespilots @marvelous-hamilfan @5p00kygh05t @panda-powers @and-maria @lafeyettegunsandships @schokoobananaa @allthegoodurlshavebeentaken @aphboi

dedication: my dog molly bc she always keeps me company when i write aw

soundtrack song: The Middle - Jimmy Eat World

full soundtrack: x

SHOWER ME WITH AFFECTION ((just kidding but not really lmfao)

John was dumbfounded. He knelt beside Alexander in shock, having no idea what to do. He stared down at his already-swelling jaw while Hercules called an ambulance because no one was sober enough to drive him to the hospital.

Alexander’s eyes fluttered, unseeing, as he laid, passed out, in Lafayette’s lap. As Hercules described to the 911 operator what happened, however, he began to stir.

“Wh—what…” he said weakly, wincing in pain as soon as he opened his mouth.

“Oh thank god,” John breathed, touching a hand softly to Alexander’s cheek. “He’s awake, Herc—shh, don’t talk, okay, Lex?”

“Keep him awake, keep him talking!” Hercules called, repeating the operator’s advice to John.

“But his jaw,” John said weakly, heart pounding.

“I know, but they said you need to keep him engaged and alert. Okay?”

John swallowed hard and nodded as Lafayette brushed Alexander’s tangled hair out of his face.

“Can you tell me what happened, Lex?” John said softly, already feeling horrible for the pain Alexander was about to feel. But Alexander just shook his head and whimpered, gesturing to where Thomas punched him to indicate that it hurt too much. His eyes began to flutter shut again and John shook his shoulders frantically. “Alex, you need to stay awake, okay? Talk slowly, okay? I know it hurts but you need to talk to me. You need to stay awake.”

Alexander’s dark eyes were wide as he focused on what John was saying. He nodded slowly and inhaled sharply through his nose. John grasped his hand, trying not to burst into tears. He felt so guilty for causing Alexander pain but he didn’t have a choice.

“Tell me what happened, Lex. Talk to me.” he repeated quietly.

“I—ouch—got…punched,” Alexander whimpered, trying not to move his mouth too much. “John…it hurts.”

“I know, Sunshine. I know,” John said helplessly. “It’ll feel better soon, okay? I promise.”

John watched as Alexander babbled incoherently in order to stay awake. He stroked his jaw lightly, hoping the contact would at least bring Alexander a bit of comfort.

“Okay,” Hercules said, kneeling down with his friends. “Ambulance is on its way. Shit, Alex, you look horrible. You have chipmunk cheeks. Well, one chipmunk cheek.”

Alexander almost smiled a bit but was quickly overcome with a wave of pain at the movement.

“Don’t make him laugh!” John exclaimed, rubbing his cheek frantically.

This made Alexander laugh harder—John was like an overprotective helicopter parent. He felt his eyes watering because of the pain in his jaw as he laughed, but he couldn’t stop. Tears streamed from Alexander’s eyes and snot from his nose as he laughed and cried simultaneously.

“Oh, great work, John,” Lafayette said, wiping Alexander’s eyes. “Now he’s hysterical.”

“Stop it, Lex!” John commanded, a look of serious concern plastered to his features.

“At least he’s staying awake,” Hercules said, patting Alexander’s belly affectionately. “Everything’s gonna be fine, Alex.”

Alexander took a deep breath to compose himself and blinked, looking up at his friends with love in his eyes. In his peripherals he could see around twenty people surrounding them in a circle.

“Where’s Thomas?” he asked slowly.

Lafayette craned his neck to look around the room, then shrugged. “He and Madison may have left,” he said bitterly. “Man, when I get my hands on that guy…”

Alexander nodded and tried to relax a bit. The pain was not subsiding, as pain usually did, but seemed to get worse with each passing second. He closed his eyes as John ran a thumb gently over his cheek, Lafayette stroked his hair, and Hercules absent-mindedly patted his belly in full Awkward Protective Dad Mode. He was so thankful that his friends were there; he usually didn’t do well with pain so they were great in helping him to keep him calm.

“Alex,” Hercules said gently. “Open your eyes. You need to stay awake.

“M’awake,” he murmured without opening them. He winced in surprise as Lafayette bumped him softly on the forehead.

“Open,” Lafayette commanded.

Alexander grudgingly opened his eyes and scowled at him. “I’m really tired,” he slurred. “And drunk.”

John chuckled, though the sound was laced with worry. “Just…keep your eyes open. What are you going to eat in the hospital, Doll?” he asked in an attempt to keep Alexander talking.

“Jello.”

They chatted quietly and, as the minutes passed, the crowd subsided a bit. Finally, Lafayette spotted red and white flashing lights pull into the driveway through the front window of the house. To John’s annoyance, the paramedics strolled in calmly dragging a gurney behind them.

“Jesus,” John muttered. “It took them so long to get here that I’m literally sober enough to drive now.”

Hercules shushed him as they made their way through the small crowd towards Alexander.

“Hey,” the first paramedic said kindly. “How are you feeling?”

John furrowed his brow. “Obviously he’s feeling pretty shitty,” he blurted before he could stop himself.

“Okay, John. Time for us to go get some fresh air,” Laf said before turning to the paramedics and muttering, “Sorry. He’s the drunk boyfriend.”

The first paramedic smiled understandingly as Lafayette led John outside. Alexander shrugged in response to the question.

“Can you rate the pain on a scale of one to ten?”

Alexander opened his mouth to answer, but a new wave of pain smacked him in the jaw, so he frowned and opted to hold up ten fingers.

“What’s his name?” asked the shorter of the two paramedics, turning to Hercules (who was still patting his friend’s belly).

“Alexander Hamilton.”

“Alexander,” said the first paramedic kindly. “My name is Dave and this is my partner, Taylor. When you’re ready I need you to take my hand and try to sit up, okay? Take as much time as you need and then we’re going to help you onto the gurney. Are you ready?”

Alexander took a deep breath and nodded his head, but he really wasn’t sure if he was. Slowly, he took Dave’s right hand and Hercules’s left, and pulled himself into a sitting position. Dizziness overtook him and he started seeing black spots pop in his vision as he swayed into Hercules’s chest. He felt like he had no control over his body and, all of a sudden, he was terrified.

“You okay, Lex?” Hercules asked. He sounded calm on the surface but Alexander could hear the worry in his voice. He shook his head in response, trying to focus on beating the dizzy spell.

“It’s okay,” said Taylor the Paramedic. “Just take your time. You can sit for as long as you need to.”

From the corner of his eye Alexander could see John and Lafayette peering in through the big window. Lafayette’s eyebrows were turned down in concentration as he tried to decipher what was happening inside. John’s face was ghostly pale as he caught Alexander’s eye. He tried to smile encouragingly—even giving a thumbs-up—but it was not very convincing. Obviously Alexander must have looked pretty damn terrible.

“Okay,” Alexander said quietly. He’d imagined saying it strongly, sounding like a brave hero, but instead he simply whimpered. Nice.

Slowly—so slowly—Hercules and Dave the Paramedic hoisted Alexander up and laid him down on the gurney. About halfway up, Alexander lost control of his muscles and opted to go limp like a rag doll and let his helpers do all the muscle work. He was the patient, after all, and it wasn't like he was very big.

He was hooked up to a heart rate monitor and given an ice pack for his jaw, which made him sigh in relief as soon as it touched his skin. Why had no one thought to give him one till now? He made a mental note to ask his friends what they were thinking as soon as he could once again talk without wanting to weep from pain.

When he was rolled apathetically outside, John and Lafayette rushed over to him.

“Wow, Alex,” Hercules remarked. “It’s like you’re on your deathbed.”

“We’ll meet you at the hospital, okay, darlin’?” Despite everything, Alexander blushed as John kissed him on his non-bruised cheek. He loved the southern drawl that John set free when he drank.

Lafayette kissed Alexander’s forehead, which made him raise an eyebrow in surprise. Lafayette just shrugged, chuckling.

“Feel better, mon amour,” he said dramatically.

After Paramedic Dave and Paramedic Taylor loaded Alexander into the ambulance, he looked out at three of the best things about his life. Hercules and Lafayette stood on either side of John, their arms around him protectively. John blew Alexander a kiss, which would have made Alexander roll his eyes if it wasn’t so damn sweet. Hercules and Lafayette waved at him and then the doors closed as Dave and Taylor sat down on either side of Alexander’s gurney.

“Those are some great friends you have,” Taylor said, watching them out the back window.

Alexander nodded. They were.

“I’m seriously fine to drive, y’all,” John said as he watched the cab they’d called cruise towards him, Hercules, and Lafayette.

“John, you called Alex ‘darlin’ not one hour ago. You’re still drunk off your ass.”

“I’m not drunk off my ass,” John muttered, opening the cab door. As he stepped onto the road, he slipped on a small ice patch and stumbled, holding himself up by only the car door handle. “I hate the goddamn cold,” he mumbled grumpily as he climbed across the seats.

Hercules chuckled into his palm and took possession of the seat in the middle, while Lafayette climbed in after him and pulled the door shut.

“We need to go to the hospital,” Hercules said.

The cab driver grunted in response and took off down the street. It was only a few blocks away and they would have been fine to walk, but neither Hercules nor Lafayette felt like listening to John complain about the cold the entire time. When he drank, if he wasn’t horny-drunk, he was homesick drunk and all he did was talk about how much he loved warm, sunny South Carolina in a thick Southern accent. Lafayette loved it because then he wasn’t the only one with an accent, and Alexander loved it because John started to call him southern terms of endearment, but Hercules thought it was fake and super annoying.

“If we were back home we could have walked,” he said. “Do you know how warm it is there right now, fellas? Really goddamn warm.”

Lafayette giggled as the cab pulled into the hospital. Hercules handed the driver a ten dollar bill, telling his friends that they owed him, and they got out in front of Emergency.

They were instructed by the nurse to wait while he looked up Alexander’s status in the computer. He told them that there was a Mr. Hamilton who had checked in an hour ago and that they could go keep him company.

Alexander was sitting on a bed covered in paper, scanning the room disinterestedly with a bag of ice pressed to his face when his friends walked in. He smiled instinctively when he saw them, but yelped in pain and went right back to frowning.

“How’s the patient?” asked Lafayette as John rushed to Alexander’s side and squeezed his hands. Alexander shrugged and nodded towards his doctor.

The doctor who was in the room smiled at Alexander’s friends as he wrote something down on his clipboard. 

“That was quite the punch he sustained,” he said. “I need him to do his best to refrain from talking until we get the results of the X-ray back. I need to make sure that his jaw isn’t fractured and that his teeth are all in tact.”

Lafayette stuck out his tongue, disgusted by the thought of Alexander losing his teeth. He was so young—this was a tragedy. John pouted sympathetically towards Alexander, who returned the glance with sad eyes. Hercules tapped his foot anxiously as the doctor left the room.

“Alex,” he said. “I think I should call your father. It seems like this is pretty serious. I mean, even if your jaw’s not fractured, this is still kind of a big deal.”

Alexander’s eyes widened a bit—he’d forgotten all about his father for a moment. He nodded frantically, handing Hercules his phone and using his fingers to numerate the passcode. Hercules opened the contacts app and scrolled down to “Papa Washington.” He raised an eyebrow at the name and Alexander suppressed a chuckle.

As the phone rang on speaker, Alexander thought about what explanation he could possibly give his father without disappointing him. The more he thought about it, the more this seemed like his own fault. He hated to admit it but he kind of had the punch coming.

“Alex?” a groggy voice crackled through the speakers. They’d all forgotten that it was nearly two o’clock in the morning. “Is everything okay?”

“Hey—uh—Sir,” Hercules began awkwardly.

“Who is this?” George’s voice was no longer groggy, it was frantic. “Where’s Alex? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, uh, nothing…well—okay, that’s not true. See—”

“Oh, give me that,” Lafayette snapped, snatching the phone away from Hercules. “This is Alexander’s friend Lafayette; I’m the French guy you met when Alex moved in. There was a bit of an incident and your son is in the hospital. He…may, perhaps, have broken his jaw. He’s not allowed to talk until they get the X-ray results back which is why I’m calling you.” Alexander waved towards the phone. “Alex says hi,” he finished.

The line was silent for a minute before George spoke. There was a rustling which probably meant that he was getting out of bed.

“Okay,” he said, sounding exhausted. “Tell Alexander I’m on my way. I’ll be there as soon as possible. Thank you.”

“You are welcome, Sir.”

“Are y’all drunk?”

Lafayette glanced at Alexander, who shrugged, telling Lafayette to tell the truth.

“Sir, we are quite drunk, sir.”

They could hear George sigh before he said, “Well at least the dumbass won’t be feeling the full amount of pain, then.”

The line went dead and Lafayette handed Alexander back his phone.

“J’ai peur de ton père. He is terrifying. I feel like I disappointed him.”

Alexander laughed, grimacing through the pain until his doctor re-entered the room, clipped the scans up, and turned on the backlight.

Alexander blinked as he stared at the screen, having no idea what he was looking at.

“Okay,” the doctor said after a minute. He pointed to a spot just below Alexander’s ear on the scan. “See this? You want the good news or the bad news first?”

Alexander glanced at John, who said, “Bad news.”

“You fractured your jaw.”

[sherlockmonkeesstartrek]

OMG You are a goddess for sending me Terry!!!!! I LOVED IT SO MUCH!!!!! ps I would be very keen on reading the rest if u post it. *whispers* Smut isnt something i mind at all, lol. You made my day with that masterpiece!!

Well, I must say I don’t think I’ve ever been called a goddess before! What a compliment. Thank you. And as promised, here is some more. I’m not sure how the smut went, but I hope it’s not too bad ;)

You talked until most of your friends had left, and the other drunk parties around had mostly dispersed. You had tons of questions, all about the band, all about Terry, a man you’d only read about in papers, only heard about a while ago. You wanted the story from his mouth. And not just the story of how he got into the Hollies. No, you had to know a lot more than that. To really get a feel for the guy, you listened to as much of his life story he was willing to offer.

As he spoke, you realised that he’d known so many people, George Harrison and his brothers, John Lennon and Paul McCartney, the Swinging Blue Jeans of which he had been a member.

However, you also realised that, despite all this, the fame that the Hollies were beginning to give him, the tales of people he’d met, the stories he could tell, he was a down to earth young man, a shy boy stepping nervously into a pretty hectic world of which he’d only had a taste and was craving more. He had passion for what he did, a deep interest and love in music.

It was in that conversation that you decided how you felt about him. You liked him, perhaps better than Graham Nash. You’d always had the thought in the back of your mind since you heard Hollies Sing Dylan and Sorry Suzanne that perhaps his voice matched Allan Clarke’s better than Graham’s, but admitting it was hard until now. Until you look into his eyes, smile, because his own is so infectious, and confess to yourself as you listen to him talk that you are kind of falling for him.

And something in his shy glances up at you gives you the sense that he may feel a similar way. You let him finish talking, then gulp down the last of the drink you’ve been idly playing with between sips. He does the same. You’re both finished, you’ve spoken through the evening, practically until closing time of the bar. What more is there to do but ask;

“So, are you going home after this?” You almost pat yourself on the back for having the courage to even allude to anything further.

Terry’s eyes glimpse knowingly at you, “I was going to, yeah. Nothing better to do.”

For you, it is too easy. You’ve a naughty mind, people have told you so before. You can’t help it, though. It’s your playful side, your silly side and boy are you sure you’ll get a laugh out of him for the line you’ve just thought up. Laughing at yourself disapprovingly, you lean forward, pushing your chest out suggestively, and very deliberately, and open your lips.

“Well, now you have someone to do.”

Ok, so it wasn’t that funny, it sounded much better unspoken, as a secret joke only your privy to. But the slight shock and suggestiveness brings about a good enough, shy laugh from Terry’s lips. That is a win. You sit back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest, slightly pushing up your breasts and gaze at him with a sleek, flirtatious look, waiting for a reply. It may not have been a question as such, rather more of an offer, but you wait to see if he’ll take you up on it, if he even gets it in the first place.

For as much of a sweetheart as he seems, with such a young, innocent face, you know full well that he is a red-blooded man and there is no way that he really could miss at least the idea you’re suggesting. Certainly not when his smile has taken on a more amused, approving look to it.

“Would you be interested in coming back to mine for a…” He trails off as he realises he’s already bought you a drink. He’s bought you two, in fact. Asking you back for yet another one might seem like too much, especially when you’ve already been slow in finishing the ones you had, but what he seems to be forgetting is that it’s merely an excuse, a formality, a pleasantry. If he really is getting what you’re implying, it doesn’t matter what line he uses to get you back to his place, or even to go to yours. It’s just that, a line.

So, it doesn’t even matter if he doesn’t finish the sentence. To help him, you say, “Sure. Let me get my coat.”

He looks surprised, and pleased, of course. You chuckle to yourself as you get up and walk out amongst the tables. Your coat remains on one you’d been sitting on with your work friends. Not one of them are still around. As you pull the garment on, Terry joins you, waiting patiently, even helping when you fail to hook your hand in the coat’s sleeve. He pulls it up over your shoulder and draws both sides of the collar closer together to ensure it’s on properly and keeping you warm. As he does so, though, one of his long fingers brushes your neck. He’s quite cold, the feeling lingering on your flesh longer than the touch. You gaze up at him, wondering if it was intentional or not, but his expression is discernible. He merely carries on as if nothing happened, but beams brightly, eyes glistening like a kid who knows he’s done something bad.

“Ready?”

“Oh, I think I am.” And you think this is going to be fun. More fun than you originally imagined when the thought of you spending any time with him entered your mind.

He pivots on his heels, heading towards the door of the bar and you follow not two steps behind. Having no car and being probably too tipsy to drive, he hails a cab while you stand, cold at the road side, watching his timid gestures at the vehicles. The night may not be a kind one, it is England after all and autumn has set in with its brown leaves carpeting the pavements, but just the sight of Terry has you warm. You care not for the bracing wind that blows your hair mussed, nor the slight dampness that threatens in the air, a light shower hanging in the purple clouds above. You ignore your goosepimpled legs, shivering beneath your skirt with only a thin layer of sheer fabric protecting them and you disregard the numbing in your fingers, as you had a poor choice in coats, this one has no pockets to warm hands in. Instead, you are preoccupied from these discomforts by Terry. You notice that his dark moptop is long enough to be blown by the wind too, ruffling it. When he looks at you, strands of it brush his face, over his nose and over his eyes. You also see the way his flared trousers are rounded at the bottom quite perfectly as he stands, leaning slightly forward to flag down a car. They billow around his ankles, covering the top of his dark coloured boots.

Ah and when a cab does turn up, he pulls open the door for you, like a real gentleman. As you get in, you try your hardest to be dainty, composed. You have a knack for being clumsy. Thankfully, it seems to work- either that, or your clumsiness goes unnoticed- and he gets in after you, sitting right by your side. Now you’re touching, your arms, your calves. You can hear him breathing. You hear the rustle of his clothes as he sits forward and tells the driver where to go. You can hardly believe this is happening. Not only are you going home with a guy you met in a bar that night, which in and of itself is surprising, but this man is… well, if he is not a famous musician, he is sweet, he is damned good looking.

In your mind, you pat yourself on the back for taking this chance. You can’t wait for the payoff.

Which seems to be coming soon as the drive is short, the cab pulls up in a street that you half recognise and Terry helps you out of the car with an outstretched hand. He doesn’t let go once he’s got hold of you. Gently, he guides you to the front door, fumbles with his keys with his free hand and lets you both in.

As soon as the door is closed with you both on the other side, Terry spins you around and kisses you. His lips are full, soft to kiss, and he is very gentle, pressing you lightly against the wall, just so you have something to prop yourself up against. You hear, as you have closed your eyes, the clang of his keys tossed on a chest of draws beside you, then feel his hand draw up to rest on your hip. You bring yours up and cling to his torso, tightly. He has a wonderful, slender body to look at, never mind actually feel. Now that you do, though, you’re intoxicated. You have to feel more. You’re the first to make a move, sliding one hand to his front and tucking it into the hole between buttons of his shirt. His chest is dusted lightly with hair, one trail of it reaching to his belly button. He feels hot, smooth. You want to really hold him, so you start to unbutton the shirt, inviting him to do the same to you.

He unbuttons your shirt about halfway and appears to get impatience. He pulls apart the severed flaps of the garment, revealing your dark green bra adorned in a layer of black lace. He cups one of your clothed breasts, feeling it, before he breaks the kiss to look at what he is holding, appreciatively. That is until looking simply is not enough. He pulls down the bra and encloses his mouth around your nipple. You gasp, rising onto your tiptoes at the first shot of pleasure running down your spine. One of your hands involuntarily reaches up and knots its finger into his thick hair, while the other attempts to pull the coat still around your shoulders off. It ends up gathering at your back, falling only when you move, letting it pool on the ground. With this layer gone, Terry decides it’s time to shed some more clothes.

He finishes removing your shirt, then moves onto unhooking your bra after sliding his own shirt off his arms onto the floor. He kicks off his shoes while you unlace yours- you curse yourself for wearing strappy kitten heels- and peel off your tights. Then he grasps your waist, quite forcefully, which is a bit of a shock from a man who has been, so far, as gentle as a butterfly.

“Do you think we can make it up to my bed?” He asks. You mockingly consider it for a moment.

“If not, could we not make use of the stairs?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He continues to hold onto you as you both head for the stairs. Behind you, you’ve left a pool of clothing, making it look as though two people have evaporated into thin air, leaving behind only their outfits. Well, minus the trousers and your skirt. That’s the best bit to remove, no? You’re going to savour the moment with his, while he has other plans for you.

You both enter the bedroom, a cosy, slightly messy room whose defining feature is not the bed, which is pushed up against the far wall, but an acoustic guitar leant on a stand next to a leaking wardrobe. You recognise it from picture you’d seen of the Hollies on stage. It hits you once again just who’s room you’re standing in, goggling at as though it were a showroom.

But you’ve not much time to really look at it all, as Terry walks up behind you, feathering his hand up your thigh. As it gets higher, your skirt is hiked up sending a soft breeze that wakes the skin there. His hands are still pretty cold, so you feel his touch lingering, all the way up to your hip.

“May I?” He asks politely, tugging on the waistband of your underwear.

You peer over your shoulder, eyes half fluttering closed as anticipation builds. You manage to whisper, “Of course,” though you are sure that’ll be the last coherent phrase you’ll speak all night. You’re already moaning as he threads your underwear down your legs with one hand while the other parts you, parts your lips and feels between them.

He remains behind you, for some reason, after removing your underwear. He slowly nears you until he moves the hand pleasuring you to the front and presses his front against your back. You’re quite a lot shorter than he is. He can practically rest his chin on the top of your head, should he want to. He does not, it seems. He has more interesting touches to press against you, like the distinct hardness resting just above your butt. He’s hard for you. The idea ignites a flame of pleasure below your stomach. You ache for him. His fingers slowly rubbing you is not enough. You imagine what he looks like completely nude, what it would feel like to have him inside you.

For now, however, he makes you rest your head on his shoulder so he can reach your lips. He kisses you, still quite gently, which he pleasures you. You whimper into his mouth, begging with those small sounds for more. He begins to understand as you thrust your hips into his hand for more friction.

“Turn around.” He moves his lips from yours to speak, quietly. You obey, turning close to him so you don’t miss the heat of his body, the touch of his flesh, his chest. He moves you just a step back, barely even that, so he can reach down and unzip his fly. You watch hungrily as he pushes the trousers out of the way, reaches into his briefs and pulls himself out of them. His hardness accidentally brushes your stomach, which he would’ve apologised for had you not stolen the silly words from his throat by collapsing onto your knees and enthusiastically taken him in your mouth. He groans quite loudly, perhaps the loudest he’s been all night, which tells you that you’re doing a good job. In fact, you even think you’ve surprised him.

He places one hand on the back of your head, gripping your hair lightly, just for a handhold to steady himself, while the other reaches down to hold one of yours. You have your left hooked on his trousers which hang below his butt. He sides his fingers around your knuckles and clasps them tight when it feels really good.

When he starts to hold you that tight the whole time, he decides it might be time to stop.

“I’ve got to have you,” He tells you, helping you back onto your feet, “I’d hate to be short with you.”

You giggle, turned on and nervous, mostly because your legs have turned to jelly and you’re feeling clumsy with desperation. Thankfully, he saves you of embarrassment, keeping hold of you, guiding you to the bed. He kisses you, pushing you back until you buckle onto the mattress, until you’re lying on it, under him. He then brings up his hand, presenting two of his long fingers, the middle and ring finger. He places them into his mouth, sucks, slicking them up ready to insert them inside you. They slip in easy, because you are already wet for him, so he doesn’t spend all that much time playing around down there. He grasps hold of his rock hard member and guides it into you.

The first thrust causes every nerve ending to explode with pleasure. You grip the sheets beside you, pulling them up on one side to your mouth, muffling the gasps you cannot stifle. But Terry wants to hear them. Kindly, he intertwines his fingers in yours, making no space for the sheets. They fall back around you.

For much of the time he has you, you’re looking into his eyes. It is downright impossible in your state of mind to fathom what you’re looking at. You’ve been disbelieving of it all night: you bagged a Hollie and you thought it would really hit you when he was inside of you, having you hard in his bed. Apparently, it remained as surreal, like a trip, like a dream. Even more so as pleasure rose within you, spiking as he thrusts harder, lulling as he lazily does. And when he kisses you, you’re sure to study the taste, the movements. You never want to forget this. It’ll fuel your fantasies for the rest of your life. Most girls, they dream of being fucked by musicians. Who didn’t imagine a Beatle on occasion? There were many who probably dreamt of the Hollies. But all your dreams will merely be recalling this moment.

Because you’re not sure if he’ll see you again. You’re not sure if you’ll see him again. He’s busy and you’re the worst with keeping in contact with people. So, if this really is going to be the only time, you have to remember every little bit.

Like the look on his face when he realises he’s made you come. You lie beneath him, writhing, shaking, while he watches on, pleased and proud. It doesn’t take him much longer to announce that he’s about to climax too. He pulls out of you and wraps his hand around himself. You watch the pleasure take over his expression, the way his brow furrows and he bites his lip, then he spills over your stomach, which he goes to apologise for once the shockwaves have subsided. But, of course, you stop him.

“Don’t you dare.”

“What?”

“Apologise for anything. That was so hot.”

He smiles shyly again. How can he be shy? You roll your eyes at him, jokingly.

“Well, I think you need to get cleaned up. Would you like to take a shower with me?”

Your heart, which has already taken quite a beating and still thumps erratically in your chest, skips a beat. As if the night could not get any better. It does not take you a moment to think before you agree.

Then, as you both walk on shaky legs to the bathroom, he turns around and whispers, “I think its also far too late for you to go home. You might have to stay the night.”

“Oh no,” You feign disappointment, “that would be terrible.”

“Well, I am sorry, but I am also going to have to ask for your number.”

As though he read your mind, your scepticism in whether you’d see him again, he confirms in that moment that you’ll have to see him again. And you’re not complaining, not one little bit.