scottish wolves

anonymous asked:

Sorry, do you still take prompts? Because if you do maybe ypu could write Jamie/Malcolm with cuddlecore, Malcom is a cin(sin)namon roll and needs all the hugs, especially from his personal pitbull.

(A prompt from Jan 20 that I have been sitting on a bit of unfinished prose for. Hope this hits the spot.)

“What the fuck are you looking at?”

Jamie opened his mouth to say “fuck all”, then shut it. The expression on Malcolm’s face was not the usual sort of grimace he had after a long day and night and day of mopping up the excrescences of toddler politicians.

So Jamie shut it and instead grabbed Malcolm’s tie, hauled him down for a hug. They were home, alone– Malcolm would put up with it. Would allow himself to be kissed, briefly. Malcolm tried to pull himself away after that, but Jamie was having none of it. Sat down on the couch, hauling Malcolm down with him, protesting and spluttering and swearing the whole way. Pinned him there, one hand on his shoulder pushing down, the other in his hair stroking. Short hair, so short, starting to go gray. Dark in the back, light at the temples. Malcolm stopped struggling and let out a long sigh. He shifted so his head was pillowed on Jamie’s thigh, and Jamie knew he had him. Stroking, stroking, never stopping.

Malcolm let out a little sigh. His hand came to rest on Jamie’s knee.

“Fuck,” he said.

“Done with.”

“Until tomorrow.”

“Don’t think about it.”

“Fucking impossible.”

“It’ll be all right.” Jamie reached down and worked at Malcolm’s tie until it came loose. Malcolm cooperated, undid a button or two, then clasped Jamie’s hand in his. Cool, dry, soft, long fingers. A fucking artist’s hand. Not a butcher’s. Politics was an ironic mistress, making Malcolm do these things. Malcolm, who was sighing and kissing the ends of Jamie’s fingers and closing his eyes again.