A Spinelli/Maxie flashfic!
Feels like it's been ages since I've written Spixie. I missed them. Been so busy—seriously, I haven't even been able to hang out at the OA board. Ah well….
A short little something for the flashfic contest. Unbeta-ed, please point out any mistakes. Time limit was one hour, prompt I received was orange.
The summer is hot and Spinelli has a million and one things to say about global warming and ozone and what to expect twenty summers from now, but Maxie won't hear any of it. She peels an orange with her manicured nails and drips juices on Stone Cold's countertop, sucks it off her fingers, and although he's sure all she's thinking about is how the humidity is ruining her hair, he can't stop thinking about—well, you know. And that's not very gentlemanlike, not at all, but at least he can blame it on his brain being boiled to mush.
A heated breeze passes through the open penthouse, feels like an open oven. Spinelli's hair touches his eyelashes, damp and dropping, the salty sweat making his eyes water. He watches Maxie and her treat, guesses the shade she's chosen for her nails; peach, apricot, salmon-and gets distracted by the tune of one of these things is not like the other.
His blonde haired, sharp eyed companion is bitchier than usual, her tongue heated by the weather like a sword being forged over flame—but he won't complain because the power outages across the city have kept him up three nights in a row and he's crabby and tired and sore—and it's always better to be miserable with someone else than all by yourself.
Spinelli feels less like a Jackal and more like a roasted pig, basting in his own sweat—not a pretty picture, no, but an even less pretty feeling. His Maxie presses pieces of fruit to his mouth with sticky fingers when he tries to tell her that oranges are actually berries, they have seeds—and although he'd like to distract himself from the heat by talking he'd much rather be distracted by a flash feeling of her skin on his chapped lips.
Body heat is not a cure for this blistering warmth, but the burn it gives is slow and deep and delicious. He leans a little closer, palm in a puddle of citrus, and she lets him. He talks about chinese apples while his lips sting and his nose takes in the sharp tang of citrus sinensis and girly perfume he'll never now the name of. She's not impressed, but she'll indulge him with the pretense of interest, he knows, because she only watches him quietly as he goes on. And while he talks he thinks, as soon as I'm done with this, then he'll tell her how he thinks she's beautiful with her messy hair and tank top and this weather too hot for makeup. He probably won't, but he'll think about it, in the same fashion that he thinks about sweaty skin and ice cubes and the expanse of flesh between Maxie's neck and shoulders.
She kisses him when he's halfway through everything he can remember about commercial agriculture, a kiss as hot as the city pavement. And, god, he'd never really, really, really liked oranges until now, the taste and Maxie's tongue, the harbinger of snark, invading his mouth and his senses. It's too hot to be pressing her so close, but he does it anyway, slides his sticky hand under her shirt and makes plans to kiss her until he can only taste Maxie. Their kiss is lethargic and wet, no need to hurry, the day in Port Charles is just slowly melting away around them and they could happily keep this up until the sun closes its eyes and then some.
They could, except—"What do you think you're doing?"
Spinelli pulled back slowly, reluctantly, head heavy with heat and Maxie. Jason, Stone Cold, defender of all that's good and evil and Corinthos, wiped the sweat from his forehead and sighed, "It's too hot for that."
"There's no such thing as too hot." Maxie laughed, dirty and suggestive and completely unembarrassed, as usual. She hooked her fingers on the collar of Spinelli's ratty t-shirt, pulling him back. So hot, Spinelli thought at the feel of her heat through both their clothes. He thought of that saying play with fire and you're gonna get burned, a good piece of advice, but god, if it felt anything like this—
"Hey!" Jason interrupted again, now looking vaguely disgusted/annoyed/blank. "Seriously, not in my kitchen. Take it upstairs."