#peach writes

Although Toshinori is the former symbol of peace, he cannot sit here and call himself a brave man. Not when his hands are clammy and shaky because his pretty partner is sitting next to him. Little does he know, you're feeling the same way. He's a distracting presence for you, how can he not be?

Your body seems to be a perfect mold against his own. The fabric of his shirt is soft, the blanket on top of you a comforting weight, and the scent of his cologne as intoxicating as his presence. But you're just as nervous as he is, so progression of the night is a standstill.

But tonight, something is different. Maybe it's because you're in the privacy of his own apartment, or the intimate bubble created by you and him underneath the blanket, cuddled up like this.

It's perfect. It's terrible. He wants more contact with your skin, to be close. To hold, to kiss, to watch your face as he finds the most sensitive parts of you and —

He isn't the type of man to think like this, not usually. It's not that Toshinori doesn't know how to take initiative, because he certainly does. You can't be a hero without being able to, after all. But with you? It's hard. He's like jelly to your every whim, wish and desire.

Toshinori is simply not the type of man who wants to make you uncomfortable. He wants to bend to you, to worship you. The thought consumes him often, even now — especially now, when he glances over at you. He swears that you glanced his way, and he wonders if your attention is as divided as his. "Are you okay, Toshi?" The question is a check-in that makes his heart jump into his throat. He nods his head slowly, swiping his clammy palms against his pants. You have a way of making him feel like a clumsy teenager, he can't help but muse.

"I'm... A little distracted by you." He manages, turning his body slightly toward your own. Your eyebrows lift in surprise, your cheeks flushing with a rosy pink before your lips curve into a smile.

"Yeah?"

"Yes." Toshinori breathes out, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck. “You are… Um. Very close. And very…”

The blonde trails off as you lean closer. You lift a hand, hesitating before placing it on his chest with a small smile. Your face is a bright red, and Toshinori is sure that he isn’t far behind on looking the same. His cheeks burn and his heart pounds in his chest. He wants to hold you closer.

So he does. He moves his hand from where it had been resting on your waist at a respectful distance, to the hem of your shirt. His fingers fidget nervously with the fabric. And then they continue, a slow roam that makes your breath catch. Toshinori has big hands, and seeing the way that they go over your side and toward your thigh…

It’s beautiful, it undoes your own anxiety. Maybe not to the extent that others would feel, but enough to lean forward and kiss him, soft and slow. He reciprocates, his hand trailing from your thigh to your ass. The former hero’s hand moves over the fabric, exploring the space of your body he hasn’t had the nerve to touch until now.

The kiss is soft and slow, easy and natural compared to the exploration of his hand against your body. It’s a rhythm that helps you to both relax, that makes you eager for more of him. When you eventually part, lips swollen and breathing uneven, Toshinori looks dazed… In a good way.

And if someone could actually explain how that were possible, he would back down. He would understand. But he needs...something. Something more. Something than "why don't you ever think of Thomas, Logan" as if Logan can do anything else.

It doesn't help that Roman and Dece- Janus argue all the time, even when they agree, so Logan also has a pounding headache developing. He does not want to be here anymore. He does not want to stand here, trying not to clutch at his tie or his pockets too tightly, while he feels like his skin is buzzing and wants to be removed post haste, and like everything is too loud. He knows that it is objectively not loud enough to damage his eardrums. But it feels like it must be, and he doesn't like that. It makes him unsettled. Wrong.

Logan doesn't want to be wrong.

"Thomas, do what you like," he blurts out, the others' words coming to a jangling halt as everyone stops to peer at him, looks of confusion and/or annoyance stamped on everyone's faces. "I require- ehm- goodbye."

And with that, cheeks burning in shame, Logan sinks out, collapsing into a puddle on the neat blue covers of his bed.

That could have gone so much better, he berates himself. The sting of tears in the corners of his eyes is unacceptable. Disgusting. He's better than this. This is not logical. There is nothing to cry over! 

But he can't seem to stem the steady, slow drip of tears down his cheeks, not even when he hugs a pillow to his chest, or tugs the covers loosely over his hips. It feels better (his skin is no longer vibrating, his ears are no longer overwhelmed), but he's still...wrong.

Logic is wrong.

He doesn't know how to fix it. This has- it's been coming up for a while, over and over, and he doesn't know how to fix it. He's afraid he can't fix it. There's no way to fix it. And one day, Logan will just shatter into a thousand pieces and never be able to glue himself back together.

Footsteps, in the hallway. Logan freezes. He can't bear it right now if someone opens the door. There's a light tap, a pause, and then another light tap. Virgil. It's Virgil outside Logan's door. Virgil was up there with him, but seemed even more anxious than Logan at the proposal on the table. 

"Logan?" comes Virgil's voice, soft and hesitant. "Are you in there? Are you alright?"

This is a familiar dance. Logan stifles a sigh in his pillow. 

"I'm fine," he calls back. He ruthlessly shoves down the desire that follows, the one that pleads silently for Virgil to not believe him, to open the door anyway, to hug him or maybe just sit quietly with him, to listen to him, to watch documentaries with him (he always enjoys Virgil's colorfully scathing commentary). To just be there, be a comforting presence, reassure him that he's not wrong for being frustrated, he's not wrong for feeling ignored...

But, as it usually goes-

"Okay, if you're sure," Virgil calls dutifully back. Logan listens to his footsteps retreat down the hallway. He sighs, pretending the ache in his throat is from earlier. Maybe it is. Maybe he just didn't notice until now. It is preposterous to think that Logic requires something as inane as a hug.

ii.

It's not even a video session with Thomas that upsets him this time. It is Remus, bursting dramatically into the kitchen and shoving past Logan, causing him to spill his coffee down his shirt. Thankfully, it is no longer piping hot, and he will not suffer any injury. 

Unfortunately, it's still humiliating to be standing there, watching Remus try to wash his own backside through his pants with the kitchen sponge, as Roman tries to wrestle it away from him, and Patton and Janus exchange amused looks. He's certain at least one of those looks is directed at him. Because he must look absolutely ridiculous like this. How can anyone take him and what he has to say seriously, when he is damp and espresso-scented? His face flames.

He knows it was an accident and that logically, this should not affect anyone's opinion of him one bit. But this is the other sides he's talking about, and they operate on emotions all the time. Logan doesn't think he can bear it, if anyone laughs at him. He just can't. Call it a failure if you want, he certainly feels like one.

"Logan!" Patton exclaims, finally realizing what's happened. "Hey-"

Logan sinks out without a word, disappearing into his attached bathroom so that he can remove his coffee-drenched shirt and tie. It has even splattered over his pants, he realizes with dismay, shucking them off, too. It is uncomfortable, left in his underwear, but he will manage. He always does.

He has just finished dealing with his stained outfit and started to put on a clean one, when someone knocks on the door. It's a quick, enthusiastic rat-a-tat-tat, and he knows who it is even before they open their mouth.

"Oh, Logan, sweetie, are you okay? It wasn't hot, was it? Are you hurt? Should I come in?"

"I'm fine, Patton," Logan almost snaps back, as he adjusts his tie in the mirror. "It wasn't hot. I will be fine."

"Well..." Patton trails off. Longing suddenly swells in Logan, fierce and painful. He doesn't even know what he wants, not really, just not...this. He wants Patton to tell him that it's okay, to help him get a fresh cup of coffee, to provide that soft stream of chatter that Logan enjoys so much in the right headspace. To make jam thumbprint cookies with him later, perhaps, the ones with Crofters, where he's not laughed at or mocked for enjoying their jam. The room where 'infinitesimal' goes to die.

But the words die in his throat, unspoken, and Patton leaves. Logan lets his head fall against the wall, frustration building up in his head in a whole new way.

It's not fair. He can't articulate why, but it's just not.

Patton wouldn't do it anyway, probably. Logan is probably being ridiculous about a simple spill. It's fine.

iii.

It doesn't help the next day that Virgil gets a panic attack in the middle of the living room.

They're all piled in there, working on various activities. Logan is on his laptop, studiously attempting to rearrange Thomas's schedule to fit in all he needs to do (it's not going well), and Patton's curled up on the couch, scrolling through his phone and looking at cat and dog videos (the sound is on low, but Logan knows a meow when he hears it). Roman and Remus are bent over something in the corner, arguing in relatively quiet tones (for them, that is), and Janus is sipping a cup of tea, head slightly tilted and bobbing along to what appears to be music no one else can hear. He also keeps snickering into his glove when Remus makes a particularly scathing or witty reply.

And then there's Virgil. Virgil, slouched on the floor with his phone, but when Logan glances up for a moment, he notices that Virgil's hands are trembling, barely able to hold onto the device. The eye shadow under Virgil's eyes is darkening on its own, streaking down his cheeks.

"Virgil?" Logan speaks, concern spiking.

"I-" Virgil's phone drops, unheeded, to the carpet, as he wraps his arms around his bent knees, burying his face in them. He's still shaking, and Logan can hear a sob or two escape.

"Sweetheart," Patton exclaims, alarmed, as he hurries over. He doesn't touch Virgil, not yet, but he sits down near him. "Breathe, sweetie," Patton says, but Virgil seems too far gone to notice.

"Patton," Logan says. Patton looks up at him, wide-eyed behind his glasses. "Patton, tap the rhythm on his hand," Logan continues, demonstrating on his own wrist. "Four, seven, eight. There you go." Patton's shoulders straighten with determination as he begins firmly tapping it out, matching taps with his words.

When Logan looks back up, Janus is staring at him, a little pale around the mouth.

"Terrible suggestion indeed, Logan," De- Janus murmurs, but he can see the uncertainty in Janus's mismatched eyes, the way his gaze keeps tracking what's happening with the anxious side. Roman and Remus haven't noticed, but that might be because Remus has just poured an entire bucket of neon green slime over Roman's head.

"You scoundrel!" is all Logan hears Roman shout, before he turns his attention back to Virgil and Patton. Virgil's breathing has slowed down, though it is still a little shaky. He keeps apologizing for his tears in between breaths, and it hurts to hear that, just a little. Hurts to hear that Virgil still considers himself such a burden, for such things as crying. Of course Virgil can cry. He should cry. It only makes sense. 

"Thanks, Pat," Virgil says, once he's finally calmed down and caught his breath. "I owe you one."

"Oh, of course you don't," Patton says, squeezing him against his own side. Virgil is pliant under Patton's grip. Clearly accepting of the moral side's hugs. Logan doesn't understand what that's like. He thinks he wants to.

"Logan reminded me to tap the breathing pattern, by the way!" Patton adds on. Virgil looks up, and Logan freezes, struck by the gratitude in Virgil's face.

"Thanks, Lo," Virgil says. His smile is soft. Logan's face goes red.

"Any time," he says stiffly.

iv.

Logan feels horrible.

He had been ignoring it all day, certain that he could persevere through the tasks required for this afternoon, but his migraine apparently had other plans, for it's knocked him flat. No pre-video meeting, no calendar adjustments, no going over anything, no editing.

No, it's time for Logan to lie in his dark room and try not to whimper too loudly in pain. Because that will only make it hurt more. Not to mention the nausea that surges up his throat every time he thinks of doing anything.

He's heard footsteps all day, people passing each other in the hallway, so he doesn't think of anything unusual with the next pair, until they tap on his door.

"Logan?" It's Patton again. "I haven't seen you all day...is everything okay? Are you in there?"

For a moment, Logan can't help but fantasize. Can't help but imagine Patton creaking open the door, hands already full of the perfect tray of migraine remedies. Patton would bustle around and fluff up his pillows and help him take some pain medicine. He would be quiet, calming, let Logan get some rest, while still being present. He wouldn't be alone anymore. Perhaps they could even nap together, could wrap themselves up in his comforter and cuddle until Patton is called away on other duties. Sleep always helps his migraines.

He wants to curl up and rest his head on Patton's shoulder and drift off to sleep. His eyes sting again as he realizes that he hasn't even answered the other side yet.

"I'm okay," Logan croaks back. "Just- bad headache. It will ease soon," he lies. He has no idea how long it will last. It could be hours, or days, or even weeks. He hopes it is not weeks. That would be near impossible, if he could not handle his duties anymore. What would Thomas think?

"Tell me if you need anything," Patton adds, and retreats back down the hall. Logan groans, wishing to be incinerated on the spot. Why is he being like this? He could have all of the comfort he desired if he could just make himself ask for it.

Maybe it isn't logical to have all of these feelings. Surely, logically, he can ignore the yearning for comfort, the desire for a soothing word. To be taken care of, the way he sees the others take care of each other. Maybe it's unreasonable to assume that anyone wants to hear how dismissal makes him feel.

But he is not just Logic. He is Logan.

And Logan wants a hug.

And maybe it is logical, instead, not to assume that the others will just know what he wants. Hasn't he demanded his boundaries be respected this whole time? Haven't they tried? Has he not seen the effort put forth to not just assume what he wants or needs, and instead rely on him to tell them?

Logan would have groaned if he wasn't in so much pain.

Is this all a problem of his own making?

v.

If it is, it's not as easy as just opening his mouth and asking for comfort. He discovers that quickly the next morning, when he comes down the stairs, still bleary-eyed and groggy from his migraine the previous day, to see Patton bustling around the kitchen, making breakfast. He's already started the coffee going, and the familiar smell makes Logan's eyes sting.

"Logan!" Patton exclaims when he spots him, setting the spatula down and coming forward, stopping just shy of him. It hits him that Patton has still made an effort to keep his voice quiet. "How's your head? Did the migraine go away?"

"It is adequate," Logan says, clearing his throat. "And it- it seems to have finished, yes." You could ask now, his heart suggests. He is not accustomed to trying to listen to it. Go on, ask for a hug.

Patton turns back to the eggs he is absolutely not burning (they're meant to look like that), and Logan clears his throat again. This cannot be that difficult. The others do it all the time. Virgil does it all the time, and he is the embodiment of anxiety.

"Patton, could I-" The words stick in his throat, clogging up his vocal cords. Patton looks back at him, inquisitive.

"Yes, Logan?"

"Get past you to the mugs," falls out of Logan's defeated mouth. 

"Of course!" Patton chirps, squeezing himself closer to the stove. "There you go!" With nothing else to do but what he's said, Logan slips past Morality to snag a mug. His favorite is already washed and in the cupboard. The dark blue one with constellations.

"Thank you," Logan says. It is not just for the cleared path to the mugs.

As he sits at the table, watching Patton make breakfast (he would offer to help, but Patton has a system, apparently, and Logan isn't entirely sure what it is) and sipping his coffee, he ponders. All right. If simply blurting it out won't work, then what will? Does he need to practice in the mirror instead? He has achieved some success with practicing cue cards in the mirror before.

Is it too much to start with asking Patton? Perhaps he could ask someone else first? He has had several pleasant conversations with Virgil before. And Virgil doesn't feel the need to fill a room with noise, either. They have passed many days and evenings simply sitting quietly, doing their own things. Yet he knows that Virgil enjoys things like hugs, so he would not be demanding too much of someone touch averse, he thinks.

It is not much of a plan, especially not for him, but Logan isn't entirely sure what else to do. He could try to research it, how to communicate his wants and needs more effectively, but the simplest way to do that is to encourage Thomas to research those things, and while he would be delighted if Thomas did that, he thinks it would raise questions with the others.

Later, Logan finally determines, as the others fill the kitchen, noisy and jostling each other for space. Virgil slides into a chair next to him and gives him a tired nod. The shadows under his eyes are worse this morning, suggesting a sleepless night.

"Good morning," Logan tells him quietly. "You look like you could use some coffee."

"I'll get it in a sec," Virgil says, with a jaw-cracking yawn. "Migraine gone?" He adds, peering at Logan. Logan nods. Virgil smiles at him. "Wicked," he says, then faceplants into the table.

vi.

"I would appreciate it if we could exchange a hug," Logan carefully recites, staring at himself in the mirror on the wall. He looks like the robotic puppet he was turned into, he realizes with disgust. 

"Could you hug me?" He tries again. "I would like one. If that is alright, of course. I would never want to pressure you or demand an expression of comfort if-"

No, that's terrible, too. He can practically see Patton's face scrunch up in confusion, or Roman laugh at him. The worst part is, he thinks Roman would still hug him. But how could he enjoy it then? After being mocked? Laughed at? It already feels sometimes like the others' continued dismissal of him and his purpose hurts far more than Remus's physical weaponry. Remus can chuck knives and explosives at Logan all he wants, they have no effect.

But words?

Logan swallows. His face is pale in the mirror. He has lines on his forehead and around his eyes. Faint shadows under his eyes. He looks tired. He grabs hold of his own elbows, shoulders slumping inward.

"Could I have a hug?" He asks his reflection. "I don't feel well."

He brightens. Could that- is that enough-

It has to be, right? It sounds similar enough to some of the things he has heard the others say. Roman is usually more melodramatic, at least if it comes to physical malady. Virgil usually just makes grabby hands at whoever's closest. He's not sure what Janus or Remus do. Remus has fallen on Roman's head from the ceiling before. Is that a call to physical comfort or physical violence? Or both? Patton's unbelievably cuddly, always wanting to hold hands or pat someone's back or brush their hair away from their face.

But that is not all Logan needs to practice.

"That...hurt my feelings," he tries to say, but the words are stiff, stilted. They don't come out properly. They hitch in his throat, make his chest ache. Like he's not allowed to say them. Like he's not allowed to have them.

Someone taps on his door.

"Video rehearsal!" Roman's exuberant tones carry through the wood. "Come on, Specs!"

"Coming," Logan calls back, striving to control his tone. He looks at his reflection and straightens his tie. He still looks tired, but that can't be helped. Hopefully the others will chalk it up to his migraine. Hopefully Thomas will chalk it up to that.

vii.

By thirty minutes in, Logan's head is pounding again. He feels physically ill. The arguments are the same he's always heard, and he's so tired of being ignored. Of being pushed aside. Like Thomas doesn't need his contributions. Like Thomas doesn't need logical thinking. He doesn't understand. They've been through all of this before. Do they not know that it's hurting him, or do they simply not care?

After a particularly scathing crack about his schedule writing skills from Creativity, Logan's simply had enough. He'd like to see Roman write them. Hasn't he been trying recently? To remember that Thomas needs space to create, as well? To let Roman have his moment, his "time in the spotlight," as it were? Has Logan not encouraged him to let his brother assist? To stop dismissing Remus's contributions as nothing but pointless, juvenile drivel? He doesn't see the point of creativity, not really, but he knows Thomas does. He wants what's best for Thomas.

Logan's tried so hard and it's all- it doesn't matter, it's pointless, and he-

He sinks out without a word. All of his practice attempts in front of the mirror mock him. As if anyone would hug him now. As if anyone would want to listen to his point of view now. He's behaving like a child throwing a temper tantrum, just leaving without even saying anything this time. Tears spill down reddened cheeks as he sits glumly on the edge of the bed.

And then Virgil knocks on the door.

"Lo?" He calls, and the sound is so gentle. "Are you okay? What happened?"

Logan opens his mouth, ready to say that he's fine, then pauses. Is this also not practice?

"No, I'm not," he says instead, forcing out the words. "I- I am tired of being mocked. I- I am frustrated, and I do not like it."

"Lo, can I come in?" Virgil asks. Logan nods, then remembers Virgil can't see him.

"Yes, you may," Logan says. Virgil gently turns the doorknob, opening the door and slipping inside. He closes the door behind him, something Logan appreciates. He doesn't want anybody to gawk at his possible emotional breakdown.

"Hey," Virgil says softly. "Can I sit next to you?" Now, Logan nods. Virgil sits down gingerly on the edge of his comforter and bumps his shoulder against Logan's.

"You know, I thought no one would ever listen to me if I wasn't an asshole," Virgil says, seemingly out of nowhere. "It's taken a really long time to figure out I don't have to do that. That maybe people will just...listen to me, if we can all actually, y'know, talk. Better said than done in this mind palace, I know, but yeah. You helped with that."

"I don't think I know how to do that," Logan says. His voice is hoarse. "I- I was practicing earlier." He reddens out to his ears at the admission.

"Yeah?" Virgil asks. He smiles at Logan. "What did you practice?"

"Can I have a hug?" Logan asks in a small voice. "I don't feel well."

"Of course you can," Virgil says, and wraps hoodie-clad arms around Logan. The position is slightly awkward, and Logan doesn't know what to do with himself, but it is warm and soft and he-

He really likes it.

"Do you think you'd like a movie night?" Virgil asks, not letting go. "We could watch one of your favorites."

"As long as Roman does not rig the vote in favor of Frozen again," Logan replies, his voice muffled. Virgil laughs. "I refuse to watch that movie again."

"Same, bestie," Virgil says. He shifts, and Logan is speaking before he realizes he is.

"Please don't let go yet."

"I won't," Virgil says, his voice soft. "I've got you, Logan."

"Thank you," Logan says. He is exhausted again. He knows this is only the beginning, that he will have to practice this like any other skill. He will have to work at it, because it does not come naturally. But maybe- 

It’s not your first work day this summer, not by far. Cyprus is always welcoming — you’ve been doing this for four years, travelling out to Larnaca during peak vacation season and working the bar at one of the major hotels. So you’re familiar with everything you run into at a no-children-allowed hotel during summer with an open-bar policy.

What you weren’t prepared for, however, is Dana Evans in room 843. The first night, she had practically bounced over to the cocktail lounge to order a drink, and you had the sudden feeling of every brain cell leaving your body. Blonde hair just past her shoulders, a navy blue bikini top, white shorts with a lace trim that you wanted to sink your teeth into. She was grinning, and happy, and didn’t seem to mind having to repeat her order. “One old fashioned on the rocks. I’m celebrating.” After finally relocating the parts of your brain that controlled speech and movement, you got started on the drink and asked a follow-up question. “Celebrating what?” The older woman had grinned, shadows of crows feet at the corner of her eyes, and you’d felt a little lightheaded. “My divorce. It finalized a week ago, and I’m taking myself on the opposite of a honeymoon. Two weeks, sunshine and the pool and all inclusive.” Her joy was contagious, so there had been a huge grin on your own face when you held out the drink. “Then I wish you a happy single life. Enjoy!”

From there, it had evolved slowly. On her third order she asked your name, and you asked hers. On the second night she stayed at the bar, rather than walk over to the karaoke stage. By the fifth night, she was a comforting staple in your shift. “So, what about you, sugar? Anyone special in your life?” You were used to listening to people (it sort of came with the job description) but they rarely wanted you to talk, so Dana’s question brought you pause before you realized she actually expected an answer. “No, not really. I have a few flings now and then, but I mostly just enjoy being my own person.”

Your reply seemed to be the right thing, because Dana seemed pleased; nodding slowly as she took a sip of her drink, the fifth of the night. Her hair was even lighter now, her skin tanned, and she was wearing a turquoise sundress tonight. It was nearing the end of your shift, and you began picking away dishes. “Any last calls tonight, ma’am?” The usual question, and you expected the usual answer; a glass of ice water with lemon to go. But no. Tonight, Dana’s eyes were dark with arousal and full of a promise you couldn’t quite decipher. It sent a shiver down your spine when she followed the silence with a slow shake of the head and the tug of teeth on her bottom lip. “No, thank you. But when you’ve closed up, I’d like to see you upstairs.” Before you’ve even attempted to recover from hearing those words (really, you must be hallucinating), she’s downed the last of her drink and placed a plastic keycard on the table. “Think about it. You know where to find me.”

You had pocketed the card; just to keep it safe, of course. During dishes and wiping down the bar, it was practically burning a hole in your thigh through the linen dress. Should you go? It would be unprofessional and not very smart, really — but boy oh boy, you were sure it would bring with it the best sex of your life.

In the end, your lizard brain won out. Against your better judgement you found yourself in the elevator, cradling the small plastic card that held the key to your next adventure. The rising elevator seemed to take a torturously long time, and when you stepped off at the eight floor your heart was pounding against your ribcage. You weren’t usually wandering the halls so it took a minute to locate the right room, but suddenly you were right there. Staring at the numbers, feeling lightheaded with anticipation. You almost knocked — it was common courtesy after all, when arriving at someone else’s place — but then remembered you had a key. Your fingers shook slightly in bringing the card to the reader, but with a click you found yourself able to tug the door open. “Hello?”

She let you take a small step inside, and then another, before a hand slid up the exposed skin of your arm and the door slowly closed behind you. “I’m surprised,” Dana’s voice was low and practically purring, and your head dropped backward as if it could bring her closer against you. “I didn’t think you would dare.”

With a contented hum, arms suddenly snake around your hips and tug your back tight against her chest, leaving you breathless. This was actually happening. You were here, in her room, and she was touching you. “Uh, yeah. I dared. Apparently.” A wry, nervous chuckle, but a warm hand with calloused fingertips stroked across your collarbones. “No need to be worried, darling. I’ll take care of you.” She’s so at ease, despite the strange and unusual situation, that eventually your own shoulders drop too. You melt into the touch, suddenly gaining confidence that has you turning around — backing her up against the wall of the hotel room. “Let me take care of you, first. Please. You’re the one on vacation.” You finish the sentence with a wink, before you sink to your knees before her without hesitation. Her breath hitches, and you smirk up beneath your lashes, a hand sliding slowly up her leg. “Saying something, darling?”

The comment has her letting out an amused snort, but in the next moment her head is falling back against the wall as your fingers meet… skin? A shudder runs down your spine and you fight the urge to close your eyes, instead glancing up at her again. Your voice is husky when you speak, fingers now trailing the dip where her thigh joins her pelvis, getting to know her body with just your fingers. “Were you not wearing any underwear down at the bar either?”

The way your words heave with arousal only serves to make her give a cocky grin and shake her head, and you can’t fight the chuckle that leaves your own chest. “Kinky.” But then your other hand is gathering the skirt of her dress and bunching it above her hip, and you groan at the sight that’s revealed. Tan lines along her hipbones, dark blonde strands curling atop the silky smooth skin of her pubic mound. You want to taste her, so you waste no time. Within moments your face is pressed against her despite the uncomfortable angle, eyes closed and fingertips digging into the flesh of her thigh as you hold her leg to the side. Tongue toys between her folds, teeth graze her clitoral hood, lips greedily wraps around her already swollen clit.

Each hitched breath and stuttered movement urges you to increase your efforts, a woman starved where you kneel on the wooden floor. Her sounds increase; whimpers and mewled whines she can no longer contains, strong fingers curl in your hair as if desperate for something to hang on to. You don’t relent; working her closer toward the edge. When her knees start shaking and almost buckle, you still don’t pull back. You only push your body between her thighs and lift one leg over your shoulder, taking her weight on to make sure she doesn’t fall. Then, the same hand finds its way between her strong thighs to join your mouth in its efforts, and you groan against her when two fingers slide in to the third knuckle without much resistance at all.

It pushes Dana into the orgasm you’ve chased, crashing into it with a string of curses. You cherish every twitch of her muscles around your fingers and greedily swallow every drop that gushes onto your tongue. Insatiable, eager, fingers and mouth relentless even as your jaw starts aching. It’s a bad angle, and it’s overworked — but god, you could die happy right here. Maybe you have died? You being in heaven would certainly explain most of what just happened. But, you realize regretfully, your lungs start craving oxygen. So you slowly lift your head, grinning up at her with slick covering the lower half of your face, and you drink in the sight of her above you; eyes closed, lips parted, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. When her own chin tilts downward to face you, there’s a sated expression of lust and relaxation on her face but it soon grows into mischievous promise.

Before you can consider what she might be planning, she’s grasped you by the upper arms and urged you back on your feet. For a moment you worry she’s going to send you on your way, but she nods towards the bed. “Let’s get comfortable. And naked.” The bluntness doesn’t surprise you — she’s been open and honest without hesitation, ever since you first met. But the order does make nerves grow in your stomach; worry that perhaps she will be unhappy with what she sees.

Turns out, you didn’t need to worry. Afterward, you don’t remember getting undressed, or when Dana discarded of her own clothing. You can only recall the feeling of having her climb on top of you, the scent of her enveloping you — coconut lotion, whiskey, floral perfume and a faint shadow of mosquito spray. You don’t think the scent will ever leave your brain, honestly, but that’s the very last thought to enter your brain before she’s suddenly got her hand between your legs. Eyes locked on yours with a ferocious focus that you couldn’t tear your gaze away from even if you tried. Fingers trail between your thighs, stroke through swollen folds until she can touch your desperate, sensitive clit. You jolt at the touch, but it must be evident in your eyes that you’re not intending on getting away because Dana only grins.

From there on, there is not an ounce of mercy in her movements. You’re putty in her hands, and she takes full advantage to fold and shape you to her will. Toys with your clit, pushes fingers into you so deeply you wonder if she’s digging for gold (and the thought makes you giggle). Eyes roll when her tongue meets your clit, and you can’t seem to remember how to think. Her hands and mouth are everywhere, touching and tasting and driving you absolutely insane. It’s okay — you don’t need to think, she’s got you. And she makes the most of it.

By the time you’re both catching your breath, she must have gotten at least three (four?) orgasms out of you. You’re all but passed out on the bed, grinning, and you’re both glistening with sweat. She drops down beside you, a hand on your face now gentle rather than arousing, and you tilt your head toward her. She meets you face to face, noses touching, and her voice is barely a whisper when she speaks up. “Can I kiss you?” The request surprises but doesn’t deter you, and you nod once — the only sign she needs. Her lips close over your own; slowly, gently. She tastes like whiskey, like your own cunt, like promise. A taste that has your eyelids fluttering shut and your body arching toward her own, and you’re both drowning in the kiss for what somehow feels like both forever and barely a second.

She was still half asleep when she stepped outside into the cool foggy night after the TARDIS had landed, her pink curls a mess after being buried under her thick blankets. He had always had bad timing. Had a tendency to show up at the worst possible times somehow. The whole "gone for a year" fiasco with Rose could be easily remembered in moments like this as she fixed her jacket around her form. For a Time Lord, his timing was just shitty.

She crossed her arms, fighting back a yawn as the TARDIS door opened and he stepped out, stopping the moment he saw her. Then that infuriating smile of his started to grow on his face, a type of smugness that seemed to never leave his form the moment he laid eyes on her. "Ah, there you are. Just the mutant I've been looking for; aren't you a sight for sore eyes, Stark?" He hummed as he leaned against the doorway, a warmth filling his gaze as he met her gold eyes. He missed those eyes. Missed those short pink curls, missed the way she pouted when she was tired. He missed…everything about her. Even if it was just a short week for her, it was longer for him. Time travel always made it difficult when it came to long distance…whatever they were.

The Doctor cleared his throat, one hand fiddling with his sonic while the other scratched at the back of his neck as he glanced away when he realized he was staring too hard. "Anyways, I was in the solar system around this time frame and I just thought I'd stop by, see how you doing and…maybe…pick you up?" He started as he glanced back at her, twin hearts fluttering at the yawn that escaped her lips as she pushed her glasses back in place on her nose. Stars above, he wanted to just pick her up and steal her away all over again. He let out a breath as his cheeks grew warm, a flash of determination flickering in his eyes as he tosses his sonic in the air, catching it easily before pressing the button, causing a familiar buzz to fill the air between them as he smiled down at her. He held it up to her, so the blue light washed over her features. "So what do you say, Kore? Fancy a trip in the TARDIS?"

She stared up at him with half lidded eyes, pouting slightly as a huff escaped her lips. "Do you have any idea what time it is, Doc?" His smile faltered for a moment, shifting awkwardly on his feet as she stared him down. "Uhhh, 10 o clock?" He asked with a shrug. He was caught off guard by her annoyed and tired tone as he lowered his sonic, thumb shifting from its button. "It's 3 am-" "Shit." His eyes squeezed shut as he flinched, like her response was a smack to the arm. He didn't mean to come here this late at night. "I thought I came early for once." His eyes snapped open when he heard a snort from her, head picking up to see her roll her eyes. "Doctor, the day you're early or properly on time, will be the day the TARDIS stops throwing a fit when you mess with her wiring." She sighed as she stepped closer to him, one hand reaching up to poke him on the nose. A small smirk tugged at her lips seeing him recoil with an taken back expression at the poke. "That was one time!" He huffed, shoving his sonic in his coat, pouting in a way that just made her smirk grow. His eyes darted to the side as he crossed his arms, looking more like a pouting toddler who was caught with his hand in the cookie tin than an all powerful Time Lord.

Kore sighed, patting him on the arm as she shifted past him through the door, pink curls brushing against his coat sleeve. For a second he thought she was just going to walk past and go find a spot to sleep in if she didn't go to her own room on the TARDIS. He was ready for her to say "maybe tomorrow." Then there was a tug at his tie, making him stumble after her. His eyes widened as he was pulled inside and she glanced up at him over the shoulder. "Well? Where are we going? Think I can steal you for a cuddle while we're on our way?" Kore asked with a flutter of her lashes that made his hearts stop for a split second.

There's a defense mechanism that locks in, underneath my skin, that acts as a human deterrent. I look at my best friend and there is something primal and soft that begs to lean my body against her and touch her with a casual intimate care. But when she laced her fingers with mine, pushing up against my stiff palm like digging through stone, I had to look away. She knelt down by her puppy and took my hand in hers, pressing my knuckles to her forehead to show her puppy that I am safe, that I can be trusted, but the little creature watched me like a sentinel behind my best friend's back, wary and right.

I think I told you it might be bullshit; I can only remember myself contrary in the string lights. You insisted that it could be true. "What if everything changes," you said, "what if it's right and today" - we were far past midnight - "and today the-"

"The world ends?" I finished for you.

I don't think that's what you wanted to hear, the careless laughing way I said it. I stared at the back of my best friend's house today, hours after you left, and I thought about fate. I bent over backwards and stared up at the stars, framed by the staircase up to the porch we sat. The world didn't end, nor did it change substantially, and I'll admit I didn't want either. I want to stay the same forever, but the goddamn stars keep moving.

I've played this game before, and I've been the one to lose every time. I'd like to say I'm a good sport, but there's only so many hits you can take before it starts getting personal, and I'm afraid my jagged edges are sharpening in preparation. I can't let you be another meteorite I strain every muscle to push to the top of the hill only to fall back in the same bloody crater. You have to understand; where you see fate in the stars, glinting just for you, all I can see is apocalypse.