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worldsover · 5 years ago

Text

No More Drowning ft. Olivia Hye

length ✦ 7138

genres ✧ drunk hookup; outercourse; roommate!Olivia

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Perspiration deluges your white Taekwondo uniform. You make it fit loose so that it doesn’t stick to your skin. A refreshing breeze now annoys you as it whistles through your damn window that never sealed completely shut. At least you didn't need to turn on a fan today.

“Hey Captain,” you greet the commander of none. Hyejoo lies on a small blue couch, the only pristine spot in the living room. Her outfit suggests that there would be the usual cool air expected of the season but the fall is humid and stuck in the climate of a couple months past. It’s incredible that there is not a bead of sweat formed on her face. You study her and somehow she’s handsome in your eyes which is probably not a word others would use to describe the stunning woman reclining with her feet up.

“Wassup,” she says.

“You gonna-”

“Clean up? Yeah, yeah, lemme finish this round.”

Her face is welded to her screen though her eyes dart around maybe holding a hint of remorse at the clothes that litter the cramped living space and the dishes in the sink.

“I’m not an impostor! Ahhh!” Hyejoo shouts into the screen. Certainly none of her actions follow through on that guilt.

“How'd this even happen? You got pyjamas on the floor, shirts on the chairs. You a camgirl or something?"

"I'm a camgirl? I can see your tits dude.” Cover your pectoral cleavage in faux shame. ”Yo, I swear I just saw green-"

"And all these energy drinks? Come on Hyejoo, no way your heart lasts more than a year.”

“Wow, meanie.”

You look at your watch. “It’s like 9:40.”

“Shit, right, the marketing test.” Hyejoo’s fingers show no pretense that she’ll stop playing. She definitely didn't see your disapproving face. “Oh relax, I still got time,” she says anyway.

Finally, she looks up at you and her brows crease. “What?” you ask.

"You look good today."

Your heart floats just a little. You always appreciate the little compliments she gives. They were just ones that friends, good friends, would say but you’ll take anything to keep you going. Well, it’s enough to get you to clean up for her again.

“It’s gonna be a long shower by the way.” She giggles and you step over empty cans and bottles when you walk to the bathroom.

“No prob, I’m heading out soon,” Hyejoo says.

“Sure you are.”

Her exaggerated yawn seems not so exaggerated by how she stretches her entire being before putting her phone away.

“Oh, soon means now. How long’s it going to take?” you say.

She shrugs her shoulders. “One, two? I dunno.”

In a rush to get all her supplies in her bag, a series of metallic clangs sound out when finished beverages fall over like dominoes.

“Fuck. I’m so sorry about that, I really am. I can buy you lunch if you want something?” Hyejoo starts picking up a few of them to set aside in the corner and you help her.

“Nah, I’ll still be in the shower by then.”

Hyejoo scoffs. “If I'm addicted to caffeine, you're addicted to water. A sandwich sound good?”

“Yeah sure. I got a lot on my mind, Captain.”

“That include me?” A dismissive puff of air exits your lips. No, no way. She walks up to smell your uniform. Your acute awareness of her distance or lack thereof causes you to ignore her pupils' subtle drift downwards.

“You’re a weirdo, you know that?”

"Get to your shower stinky."

You wave Hyejoo off then enter the bathroom. The scurry of little steps and a slam from the front door echo the whole apartment. Never any privacy in here. These sounds give way to the jet engine of your shower with its pressure betraying the bargain rate of your rent. Soap washes away your muscles' ache and the sun’s beating on your skin. It's been unusually warm since the leaves turned brown. Water builds up in the tub.

Something's not adding up. There it is again. That plunging in your heart. Sparring always helps a bit after your early morning manual labor carrying bags of sand. However, it does not stop the resurfacing of your every mistake as there's nothing but your mind in the shower. You don't have a plan and your future is void because money and work hours kill you as much as school. You're not even getting all the wages you earn and there's nothing you can do about it. Past choices bubble up in that unkind way. The cup fills and clear blue liquid engulfs you.

Lift yourself out the tub to catch a breath that you don't deserve. Deliberate respirations do nothing to slow down your heart rate. The only thing that can is a captain. You could wander the ocean on a raft with her alone but you have no idea if she felt even close to the same. Maybe she's just the most important friend you've ever had. Light from the small window hits the tiled floor. Unplug the drain. Right, you left your clothes in your room so wrap yourself with a green towel you find hanging from the doorknob.

Shit! There's not a mouse in sight but you shriek like there is one when Hyejoo materializes in the confined kitchen. Hyejoo expresses no surprise herself as she sits cross legged on the miniature wooden dining table playing yet another mobile game. Laundry baskets and garbage bags hold all the previous mess. Your surprise at her appearance transforms into surprise for her proactiveness. You want to give her thanks but no words escape your lips.

"You gonna put on some clothes? Perv. That’s my towel too."

Your hands push off invisible blame. The hands of the wall clock reads five minutes before noon. "Woah, woah, wait a sec. What happened to the midterm?"

"Walked out in the middle of it. Couldn’t deal. Dropped."

"Wait, what about the refund?"

"Sunk cost dude.” Hyejoo sniffs a wide white shirt hanging from a chair next to her. “This yours or mine? Ehh, it's clean either way."

You catch the shirt and smell it. A little vanilla. It's hers. “Thanks Captain.”

“Even sniffing it? Really a perv.” You almost forget a single piece of fabric separates full exposure of your genitals but the realization makes you blush anyway.

“Nah, you smelled it first and. Whoever smelt it, dealt it.”

“That’s not what that saying means.” Hyejoo gets up from her awkward seat.

Incredible how many new ways she can throw you off like when she bumps into you with her eyes are still on her phone. Hyejoo's clumsiness will be your death as the towel slips down and hangs solely from your half erect dick. Cool, you're just a clothing rack now. She turns you around with one hand and snatches the large shirt with the other. Your bare moon is in full view.

"You gonna put this on or just stand there?" she says with no qualms about the absurd sight of your newly cleansed rear. You scramble to wrap the towel tightly around you to tame your erection but there's no way she hasn't noticed by now.

"Y- yep, I, I will do that, for sure." Turn back around and take the shirt to put it on carefully. It’d be oversized for her but it fits you snug. Your ears must have joined your cheek’s redness because your nipples poke through the thin white fabric.

Hyejoo takes a single glance away from her screen at your makeshift towel skirt and laughs. "Actually, you look cute like that. Just keep the towel on, it's less to clean."

Wide-eyed, you say, "What if ahjumma barges in?"

"What if? Whatever, no fun." She sticks her tongue out then gets comfortable on the couch while her diligent and nimble fingers peck at the screen.

Return to the restroom and deal with your erection before it becomes a problem. You’ve seen hints of her comely body before and it helps you undress her layered attire in your imagination. Instead of the black button-up long sleeve and track pants she wore just moments ago, you picture a crop top, her hair tied up and white panties, and it's that latter image that affixes to your mind. On a particularly balmy day, Hyejoo wore only her underwear because she had nothing else to do but game and it hasn't stopped plaguing your fantasies ever since. Your hands are Hyejoo’s, soft and loving just for a moment.

"You taking another shower in there or what?" Hyejoo shouts, “I’d definitely hear from here!”

Reality smacks you in the face. She had no fear of you, no worry that you’d take advantage of her. Were you even a man? Stop your jerking and get up.

Open the bathroom door absentmindedly and thump. It smacks her head. You don’t even think about why she was standing right next to the door, instead sweeping aside her hair from her face. Red doesn’t come from where you hit her.

Simultaneously, you and Hyejoo say, “You okay?”

“Um, I’m, look-”

Her blush grows but she interrupts your blabbering, “I didn’t hear you respond and thought you, uh, died in there or something.”

Nearly reached la petite mort if that counted but instead you say, “No, I just. Had a lot to consider.”

“Sure.” You’ve never seen her this flustered since it’s enough for her to scurry back to her room. Hopefully things wouldn’t be too awkward.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

“I fucking hate you!” Hyejoo yells.

“Oh yeah? Same!” you retort, probably too loud.

Her tone goes down. “Were those the lines?”

“Ehh, as long as we get the gist of the argument down.”

Hyejoo and you stand on the stairway up to your rooftop apartment in your rehearsed spots. She looks a little confused on how to start what she wants to start but you poke at her when you see the landlady walking towards the stairs.

“Chill out!” she yelps.

“Chill out, you’re telling me to chill out?"

"Seriously, oppa," that's about as strained as a human can say a word, "You’re such a slob!”

“Shut up, look at me straight in the eyes and tell me you’re not just as bad,” you say, trying not to laugh but Hyejoo’s punch knocks the wind out of you. Your pain is only half acting. Her sympathetic look does nothing to soothe you.

"Ya!" The elderly woman interrupts and forces you two apart. “That’s enough! I get you’re cousins but even I don’t fight this badly with my family.”

Hyejoo whips her pupils towards you as though to ask the same question you had, if you sold the illusion too hard.

“I get that living with your kin is tough but at the very least, no murders on my property. Not until one of you graduates.” The old lady squints and turns to each of you saying, “Promise me. No hitting. Not in my sight.”

You nod then Hyejoo’s sigh becomes an assenting nod when the landlady smacks her wrist nearly black and blue. Satisfied at her hard work reconciling family matters, she walks back down her stairs to do her usual wandering around the neighborhood. Hyejoo and you take a second to stretch and relax.

“Ha. Do as I say, not as I do,” Hyejoo says as you both sit on the concrete steps.

You caress your tender rib. “Or don't do at all. Ow. You wanna be a Youtuber? They do boxing and gaming, and you'd kill doing both." Hyejoo's laugh is rich and all that it takes for you to forgive her. You exhale. "Hopefully that gets her off our backs for a while.”

“How do you even manage Taekwondo? You’re so fragile and-" Her sentence is interrupted when she looks at your built arms.

"No way they hit as hard as you, Captain." You miss her carnal look when you close your eyes and think about the nickname that you aimlessly threw out one day.

She stands up. Your eyes violently spread open at her “Kya!” Hyejoo’s fighting stance and shouts masquerading kihaps are totally off. As much as Hyejoo could kill you, a Taekwondo fighter since your childhood, she could also be incredibly cute too.

You tsk. "All that power and no technique."

Hyejoo sits back down none the more ashamed and scratches her head. "You think it would’ve been easier if we came clean?”

“Ahjumma could never allow two strangers to live co-ed. No way. I’m still surprised you came up with that so quickly.”

“It just came out so naturally, oppa!” she says in a deriding high pitch. “Yeah right I ever call you that again.”

Ring ring. You answer the call and Hyejoo's quizzical stare turns concerned at your breathlessness from the words that drill into your ear. They slam, they crash and their volume could break your eardrums even though they’re said as calmly as possible. The hole in your raft grows bigger and leaks more so even when you reach the abandoned shore, you're marooned.

"Fuck, fuck, god."

Sprint for the next bus. Pay no heed to the girl chasing you. Dammit, this can't be happening. Every problem gets fucking magnified because you can't have anything good and if you did, never could it last for more than a goddamn millisecond. You embark on the most anxious ride of your life even though you already know exactly what's going to happen. Transfer buses. The skyscrapers hover over you and gloat about how you’ll never enter their doors. Asphalt and glass swelter you when they reflect radiation down the sky. Your skin hurts. You get off the bus and arrive at the headquarters of the construction company. At the front of the building stands your boss.

Slap. "Did you not get the message? Were you under a tunnel?"

You get on your knees and bow. "Sir, I'm sorry."

"No one else is going to hire a goddamn delinquent like you."

"Please. I thought you understood." You nearly prostrate yourself

"I have no idea what you're talking about. There's a lot of assault on your record."

You stop yourself from blurting out that you fucking know. Defending yourself from bullies is assault? He already knew this was bullshit since that's why he hired you in the first place but now he's backtracking like a rat.

"I'll do anything to work here." He shakes his head while you hold back a tear. "Please. Just. Just tell me why?"

"You got greedy."

"Greedy?" You raise your head and then your tone. "Getting paid for the work that I do is greed?"

"You're on your knees and wanna talk back? Get out."

Bang. A closing door. Your head slumps back down and not a single person on the bus would misunderstand your emotions. You take the longest way home, unsure if you even deserve to go back. Any time, you could give up. Ponder your choices. Never going to get a job again. Never going to school. Never will have a chance to learn or a chance to improve. Never going to have money and never will have a place to live. Never going to see Hyejoo again. You have to give up.

One missed phone call from your polar opposite. She can do so much better. The longest way home turns longer when it goes straight to the sea as you decide to live life as a fisherman with your uncles. You were always invited. You wasted your time in the city. There's no stress here.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

There's no happiness either. Weeks passed even though only days passed. That’s life on the water. Everything spins. Fortunately, you manage to keep your stomach in not wanting to inconvenience the bus driver, the only other person in the vehicle.

You look at your watch as you near Hyejoo's home. She must be asleep by now but you carry each foot heavily when you walk up the steps anyway. Apologies, excuses and petitions that you wrote in your head blank away when you open the door when you see a woman asleep on the couch with earbuds on. Her unconscious head bounces to a slow rhythm. Your lungs fail your mouth's movements to form words because of all that creamy skin covered only by a green towel that creates an outline of her captivating curves. Hyejoo's legs beg to be licked and her collarbones direct your gaze to the bulging flesh poking from the top of the towel with her nipples an inch from your sight. Any other day and you’d ravage her on the spot. Stupid brain tells you to leave and stupid you follows.

You're outside when you hear Hyejoo say, "Hey! Motherfucker, where'd you go you son of a bitch?"

She steps out with no regard to her state of dress and you spin around watching for any witness. You notice her hold back when she hits you but her consecutive punches send a message anyway as each strike punctuates her words, "What, makes you think, you can worry me, like that?"

"Woah, you should. You should get back inside your house," your voice breaks and you back away.

"Hold on now, you're really about to go? Like this?" Hyejoo says.

"You. You look busy. I have to go."

"I'm sorry, I was just messing around with you. Come on, you're really telling me-" She notices your tumultuous expression and sighs. “Fuck it, we'll worry about it tomorrow. First of all, come in. With me. Into our home.”

You follow her into her apartment. She quickly returns from her room in a simple white tee and red gym shorts revealing the supple shape of her ass.

“I'm not gonna ask, okay? Tell you what. When you have a problem, the only answer is late night soju, beer and?” she says.

“Chicken, it’s gotta be. Come on, I see the bones right there.” You point to the countertop dishes. “I’m surprised this place isn’t messier."

"I can handle myself, thank you very much. And that. That was leftover, dry, sober chicken. We're going to munch down on that good crispy skin and we're doing it goddamn wasted." You can't help but match her smile, more radiant and genuine than yours.

Hyejoo pulls out all the alcohol from the small fridge while you call for delivery before both of you step outside the home. It’s night but the heat would make you believe the moon disguises the sun with how it shines on the green roof. What a weird fall. Only the trees remind you of the season. A short plastic table as the only furniture easily moved outside means that you’d have to sit close together on the floor, not that you minded.

Her silence confuses you but she becomes her usual self after you both down glasses of mixed beer and soju and especially after she sees the delivery man bringing an absurd amount of plastic bags for two people.

“Let’s. Go!” she shouts sloppily.

The poor worker looks at you so you give him a knowing nod and point to the beer and soju cans strewn about. His thumbs up as he walks away beguiles you. You look at Hyejoo and realize all the cleavage she’s showing with the shirt she chose. It's as revealing as the towel she wore earlier. Did she not put on a bra? Stand up quickly and search for the guy but his motorcycle revs and he’s already out of sight. That fucker probably saw something he shouldn’t have. You’re never gonna order from that chicken spot again. You bite angrily into the spicy crispy wing. Alright, maybe you just won’t order at this hour or whenever that dude works. Hyejoo chows down with drumsticks on each hand and it’s clear she’s responsible for a majority of the finished carcasses. The stains on her shirt would not make her look any less goddamn cute.

“Cheers!” Glasses clink. How many drinks, how many, burp, were you down? She burps too, you burp together. It’s funny. There was a lot of conversation but it slips you.

"I said I wouldn't talk about it, but Doyun and Michael, worried sick. They came here, everything.” Hyejoo garbles her words.

"Just ‘cause I don't show up to the club for a few days?"

"I'm telling you, a lot of people care. For you. I know I do."

It’s been a while since you started your little escape. All the food’s gone. You’re more sober now. You swear. The nighttime is so comfortable that Hyejoo brings out her blanket to lay on, along with a spoon and a watermelon.

"You're gonna have to wash this later," you say.

“Alright fine. Don't. Don’t rest yourself besides a pretty lady.“ Stab. ”On a perfect starry night.” Stab. “And don’t have some of this delicious watermelon."

One more stab at the watermelon she splits it open. Her devilish look suggests she might do the same to your rib cage if you don’t acquiesce. Lie down next to Hyejoo on the flimsy layer of cloth. You share pieces of the fruit and notice water spilling down her mouth. Definitely sober by now. She’s maybe half a meter away.

"Starry's a strong word to use.” You twirl your finger at the scarce lights in the black backdrop. “Lady too with the way you eat-" She playfully covers your mouth and flicks your forehead.

You don't know when your laughter and banter slow down, or when you start inching closer to her. It doesn't matter.

“Fishing is boring. They make it look all dramatic on shows and you’re just waiting. The night sky’s much clearer though.”

“You gotta. When you do something like that, gotta lemme join in at least.”

“You’re really fine on going on a trip with a man, alone, faraway on the sea?”

“If it’s you.”

“I don’t count, not much of a man at all. I just run away from shit and-”

"Shhh,” she shushes you loudly. “You can count on me.” Hyejoo says and you don’t let her voice project into empty space.

“I will.” It sounds a little forced from you.

“You will,“ she sounds so sure of herself, ”you’ll be okay.”

Your head lays in her neck. A finger in a cup, breaking surface tension so a drop escapes past the rim. You have no outdated sentiments on displaying emotion but you held back often pretending your tenacity was as strong as your body. Not this time. Your cup overflows.

Only moonlight refracts on your tears and Hyejoo wipes them away. You have no idea what she’s thinking as she gazes into the few stars visible in the city. Turn on your side and Hyejoo does likewise to face you then puts a couple of fingers in your hair. Cup her face in return and it wears many emotions, such as impishness, meekness at a few times, and an often impenetrable focus, but above all it’s the standard for beauty in how it assumes no blemish. Her triangle mouth is distinct, welcoming, but you hesitate. Her minute sugary fragrance overwhelms the variety of smells in the air. Crickets and distant occasional traffic. Hyejoo’s head tilts forward then places her lips light on yours and your world is silent. Your heart’s pulse slows so it doesn't interrupt.

“Captain,” you exhale out when she finally retreats her mouth. The name sounds ridiculous in this setting. “Ma’am?”

“Whatever sounds right to you,” she yields, though the subdued caresses on the definition of your arms, and less subtle grabs on your black shirt, convey that she’s in charge even if it’s a gentle direction. "Just Hyejoo is fine."

It's like she’s teaching you how to spar for the first time though neither of you are virgins. Hyejoo gives another kiss then turns you recumbent. You could not and would not stop her now especially when she straddles your denim covered thighs. Take off your shirt and her hands rush to aid you.

“But I’d prefer we don’t think at all.” Is she drooling?

“That’s what got me into trouble. Thoughtlessness.” Your eyes somehow wander away from the woman and her sumptuous yet clothed ass grinding on you.

“What do you think of me?

“Huh?” you say and your eyes snap back to her.

The underside of her shorts warm your groin. “I said, what do you think of me?”

“I think, ugh,” her weight striking a sensitivity in your pants makes you moan, “I think, you’re the most beautiful woman I know.”

“What a player. Well, that’s all you need to think.” Hyejoo rocks back and forth. “Fuck, this is going to be good.”

Lay your hands on her hips and Hyejoo takes your right one, lifting herself just enough to let your dick breathe.

“Why do you need that hand?” you say.

“Feel this.” She takes your hand to knead the thin cloth under her mound and you feel just the tiniest hint of moisture build on your palm.

Pull away to take a base whiff of your slippery fingers. It’ll be a new addiction. The smell of alcohol and the most delicious fried chicken in the world couldn’t compare.

"It's been like this around you since the day we met." Hyejoo bends down and etches every word of the confession into your eardrums, her tone even raspier. "This is all for you."

“Really?” You give her a peck and it turns frisky when tongues join the mix and teeth nibble at lips.

“Mhm.” Her lips vibrate on yours. Hyejoo gropes your crotch over your jeans. “I know it's going to be perfect.” She unzips and pulls down your pants to your knees. You take them off your legs completely and she searches for your wallet.

"I just lost my job and you're gonna rob me?" She breaks her serious character with a snicker. You sniffle and your mood lightens, “And how’d you know I had a condom in there?”

“Just had a feeling.” She winks.

Not an implausible cold reading but you can't count out the possibility of her snooping through your personal effects. You don't mind her proclivities this time. Hyejoo traces your every muscle’s curve with her index and middle finger and focuses especially around your pecs.

“I have to concede. I love these muscles of yours. Ever since that first day I met you at the open house. Maybe I’m just a simple woman.”

“Simplicity is sophistication.” Her fingers draw a line down your torso.

"Indeed. But I'm most interested in this hunk of meat right," she frees your cock from its confines, "Here." Hyejoo licks her lips.

“How is it?”

You’re already hard but Hyejoo's hands deftly work your shaft stiffer. “It’s so thick and this vein right here. It’ll hit just right.”

"Fuck, Hyejoo," you utter when she spits a little on your cock before she unrolls the condom on your erection. Hyejoo slips aside her shorts.

You don't get a view of her pussy with how she sprawls herself on top of you, but the slickness of her lips and the warmth that she emanates from between her legs immerses your senses enough. The missionary with her on top lets her control by the way she guides your cock and presses down on you.

“Oh god, I was right, fuuck,” Hyejoo proclaims when she sinks herself carefully into you and, on the next bounce, smacks her butt right into your waist. Her snugness clenches and quakes on your cock. Willowy arms share a similar hold of your body when she embraces you. You need her as badly as she needs you. You take heavy breaths, especially through your nose. Even her sweat is so alluring. The velvet texture that surrounds you keeps taut on your dick no matter how forcefully she rides herself on top of you. Squelches and quiet moans to a higher power pepper the warm night air.

Hyejoo removes her shirt and slings it away before bowing back down to lick your ears "God, your tits are perfect," you say even though your hands squeeze her buttcheeks in time to her thrusts. Her perky breasts recoil back and forth as they rub your chest while hard nipples juxtapose their softness.

No chance someone would come up to this little rooftop at this hour or have a good view though your cheeks flush at the thought. What if you had extra chicken coming? Or what if the landlady decided to check in on you two late at night? What if-

Hyejoo nudges her forehead against yours. She knows your habits. Your worried face is too familiar for her not to react so she nuzzles your neck and surrounds you with kisses.

Her husky voice vibrates your whole face. "Just focus on me." She makes out with you before her tongue dips into every crevice of your face the same way your cock does in her pink pussy.

Your dick slips out for a second and you take the time to admire her beauty and your fortune.

“Telling me not to drown and you’re going to inundate me,” you say in between her smooches, "With all these kisses."

“Well. Mwah.” Another peck. "You're so delectable.”

“So I’m just chicken to you then.” This deep kiss is probably to shut you up. You’re fine with that.

Regret on her mouth that she pulls away from you. One of you rips off her shorts, the last piece of clothing obstructing you two from total symmetry. Who cares who sees. You’re both fully naked with not a woe for the surrounding world. Delicate hands splayed across your upper body grasp tightly and again, your pecs get particular attention while she fondles your nipples.

She adjusts her back straight up and now she’s on her knees seated on your erection. The cowgirl stance allows her to find a new cusp of your cock head inside her. Hyejoo gyrates on you and you notice the understated lubrication of her pussy begins to overpower everything else in existence. Her musk vaguely reminds you of the ocean while its pheromones have you just as wobbly. It’s enough that, even though you're on your back, you have to hold her waist to avoid keeling over. Nails dig into your chest.

“God, yes, you, your cock, everything, just fuck into me.”

Hyejoo relaxes her body weight and relinquishes the rhythm to you. Pick up a new wind in your sails when you hear her gasp as you pinch her nipples. The momentum has you use all your stamina as though your rigorous fitness had one culminating purpose. You would make Hyejoo cum with only your cock. Rotate and circle your pelvis in pursuit of her most tender spot and an uncharacteristic high pitched wail confirms the location of the treasure. It’s difficult holding yourself up to reach the sensitive wall but she realizes your shared interest.

“That’s, that’s the spot. When I touch myself and think of you, it’s right there, fuck, it’s right there.” There’s no speed or power in your movement, only deliberate jabs and graceful nudges at the softest flesh. Sure it’s work, but damn did you get paid for it since she somehow sops even more between her thighs. Truly the reciprocating delight of friction and silkiness on your dick’s tip is worth it. Your name mixes profanities and wet slapping noises as Hyejoo bucks her hips in climax. Prized juices cascade all over your lap. Her highest vocalizations pierce your ears and her pussy tries its best to milk you but Hyejoo keeps as still as she can to hold your cock’s ideal positioning. Smear the fluids that coat her thighs slick with your hands and lick at your fingers, thirsty like you’re stranded.

Those thighs, by smothering your cock and removing your condom, soothe the pangs of when you pull out. Hyejoo is still in her cowgirl position reeling from her climax and her contorted face is yet more polished than any art you’ve consumed.

Seize the opportunity. Bend your dick forward. The topside of your shaft now rubs on her well-formed ass cheeks, moisturized by the wetness on your cock. Its cradle is different from her pussy's with perfect round cushions in her buns and a tight asshole that greets and tempts your shaft every time you thrust. It’s a siren call you’d have to answer another day. Fucking her bare buttcheeks satisfies you plenty enough.

She lifts up to let your erection return to its idle upward stance and you fuck her thighs in response. Her labia gnaws away at the bottom of your shaft and it begs you to shove it back in especially with how its liquor intoxicates your dick. You don’t forfeit, already overwhelmed by the thickness of her legs and her saliva dribbling from her mouth to help her juices. Hyejoo squirms as you repeat fucking her ass cheeks and fucking her thighs, and it makes the both of you feel heady. Alcohol and lack of sleep would probably do that too.

“Please. Hyejoo,” you implore, flexing your cock to scrape by her pussy lips.

“You want to?” She teases your bare tip but even just the spread of her satin pink on your head makes you shoot just a little. “I. I dunno.”

“Can we?”

“No.” You regret your loud sigh and feel selfish since you already had more satisfaction than one man could ever experience in his life. ”No, not no. No, as in no thinking.”

Plunge back into her wetness. Your cycle in and out continues with you eager to make her climax a second time. Maybe it’s the third time? The only thing you can recall is that this round, you can feel every corner of her pussy on your shaft tensing and relaxing without the latex protection. All of everything is a blur. Hyejoo could be clutching and ogling your muscles. She might be kissing your neck or maybe she’s bobbing up and down to show off her tits and her tummy. God, that midriff would look perfect coated in your cum. You could live forever with Hyejoo mounted on your cock and riding. A ringtone interrupts forever once again. It’s from that number. What was that number? Fuck it, no thinking. Her bouncing tits hypnotize you away from substantiality.

She snaps her fingers. “Hey! Hey. This is, fuck that feels so good, god your cock is just right. Ah fuck, I really think you should answer that.” You take an eternity to slow your boat. Hyejoo points to your phone on the table next to you. Work. She’s right. Both of you take a second to stabilize your breathing. Try to push her off but she refuses, shifting her mass onto your lap and keeping her pussy’s hold tight and warm on you.

“Really?” You groan, “You’re the one who told me to answer it.”

“It’s so late and they haven’t stopped calling.” She rests her head on your chest and yawns. “Your cock is sooo big in me. Don’t even need to move.”

Channel your practice silently jerking off to keep your cool though years of doing that couldn’t prepare you for this. Your hands certainly tried but never could imitate her pussy’s plush tightness. Really wish you didn’t have to but finally, you answer your phone after minutes of ringing. The voice on the other side mumbles a greeting. Didn’t expect to hear him. “Joonho. Why the fuck are you calling now?”

“It’s me! Joonho.”

“Yeah, I know. The hell you calling for?”

“Now that’s no way to speak to your boss, is it?”

“Huh?”

“I said that’s no way to speak.”

“I got that!”

“Hyung. That asshole, management fired him.”

“You telling me-”

“Yeah, they caught him stealing.”

“How the fuck?”

“Dude got too big for his britches and aimed up with his theft too. Mr. Son really didn’t like that shit.”

You cheer in your head. It wakes up the girl resting on you. Guess that wasn’t in your head. “Fuck man.”

"I know right. Fuck him!" You're not on speaker but Hyejoo must’ve heard him say that. You massage your ringing ear.

“Ow. But thank you. Seriously, it’s so late. You could’ve called me tomorrow.”

“I’m drunk as shit man. Sounds like you are too.” You don’t even realize how much you’re slurring your words. “Should I pull up, maybe we drink a little more?”

Stare at the woman still holding your cock in place, fluttering her lashes at you. Hyejoo mouths if you’re gonna take much longer. “I. I don’t think I will. We’ll have to meet up some other time, okay?”

Understanding that you’re winding down your call, she gets back upright and starts bouncing again. “You gonna pass out or something?” Joonho says.

“Something like that” Hyejoo teasingly drops her waist into you and waits, then lifts herself. You purse your lips. “Listen, ah.” And again. Purposeful slams into your cock too loud not to be picked up by a phone. “God. I gotta go, I’ll text you again tomorrow aight goodbye,” you rush your words.

She holds her hair up in pleasure and her profane cries let everyone living below know that you’re fucking the most gorgeous girl with more energy than you’ve ever had. For all the pressure on your sensitive nerves, it’s that image of Hyejoo satisfying her need with your cock that brings you closer.

“I’m almost there! Fuck, fuck.” You pull out and despite her drowsiness, Hyejoo diligently takes your dick with both hands, scoots back and bends down, slobbering on it with her mouth while her fingers stroke the skin of your shaft.

Hyejoo’s lips pop when she releases your cock’s tip. “Where do you wanna-”

“Those fucking perfect abs,” you shudder.

She takes advantage of your previous thrusts’ zeal on her thighs and repositions herself in cowgirl one last time to bend back and choke your cock with her toned legs. One single motion is all it takes. A tsunami and a storm clash. Didn’t remind her that you hadn’t cum at all away at sea as you explode. You call out, “Hyejoo, god, yes, fuck, Hyejoo, yes,” at every wave of pleasure. Shove desperately and Hyejoo’s eyes grow big at how much semen streams out of your slit because the volume of cum nearly rivals the fluid she ejected from her wetness. Her inner thighs, her lap and her stomach all soak in stickiness. She holds onto your arms as she finds enjoyment not only from your cock’s throbbing on her clit, but at your biceps and other curves. An inquisitive pinky takes a sample of your cum to lick up then, to your surprise, she collects all the cum she can with both hands and swallows it down.

“Ahh,” she presents her tongue to you.

Finally, you sit up and no amount of exhaustion would stop you from nibbling her neck as thanks.

“Relax, you hungry beast. You just came all over me and now you’re trying to tell the world we just fucked.” She gives you a little suck on your lips instead.

“I don’t mind.” You clash at her mouth and your teeth click. She smiles and gives you a deep but final smooch. Both of you breathe stiltedly and take time to readjust into the world once again.

“Me neither, if I didn’t have a presentation tomorrow.”

You fall back and feel everything aching in a good way. “Ah shit, school.”

“What did I tell you earlier?”

“Hmm?”

Hyejoo falls flat next to you and clasps her hands into yours. “You will be okay. I called them with an excuse. Speaking of which. You’re gonna find out sooner or later that a certain cool as fuck girl blew the whistle on that son of a bitch.”

This whole thing feels like it should be temporary, like a one-time thing. Any more and it’d be weird, yet her confidence makes you reroute all that anxious energy in your heart’s pace into something good. It’s not love but, “Thanks. I just. Thank you.”

“You are always welcome.” Her lips curl up.

“So. You a snitch now, huh?"

"Relax,” she hisses the end of the word. ”Maybe I snooped through the construction company records, maybe I didn’t. You didn’t hear from me, ‘kay?" She nudges your side with her elbow.

“Hey!” You laugh a little, ticklish in that spot. “Okay, okay. How’d you manage that anyway?”

“Joonho didn’t mention it? Well, I have my connections,” Hyejoo says.

You breathe out and you deserve it. “You really are the Captain.”

“Damn right. Guess you’re stuck on this boat a little.” Yawn. “Longer.” Her eyelids slowly descend.

Watch Hyejoo fall asleep and realize she’s nude and still a little sticky. You decide to make a smart decision just once by putting away all the garbage in your apartment. She giggles reflexively when you clean her up and you struggle but manage to put on her previous outfit.

After you get dressed yourself, you lie next to Hyejoo and watch the few lights in the sky all distanced from each other. You feel a little reticent but the old lady shouldn’t fret if the outdoors is a better bedroom for one night. Close your eyes. Drift away into the best sleep you’ve ever had even if it’s only you and a blanket separate the hard concrete rooftop from the atmosphere. Dreams of water are gracious for once. The ocean lacks bounds and you smile for it. Who cares about tomorrow? It’s made of sticks and rope fashioned from whatever bamboo you could find but the raft holds two. That’s all you need.

✦✧✦✧✦✧

"A college roommate scenario where the male reader is living with LOONA's Olivia Hye and she's attracted to him sexually since he moved in due to his physique. Then one day, he got home all stressed and the two hooked up eventually." - @optimisticwritersworld

AFF, AO3

Pretty sure this was supposed to be all casual but then I started adding to explain the co-ed living scenario and the stress, so here we are. Watch out for more LOONA though no promises on timelines

#kpop smut #loona smut #request #male reader #reader insert #title tracks

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 years ago

Text

One Night 🌙 1

Warnings: noncon sexual acts (to be warned later in series); consensual sex (one night stand, dirty bathroom sex)

This is dark!Andy Barber and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: One night changes your entire life.

Based on these lyrics:

‘It's New York, baby, always jacked up (Hey) Holland Tunnel for a nose, it's always backed up [Sniffing] When she's alone, she goes home to a cactus (Uh) In a black dress, she's such an actress [Sniffing] Driving me crazy, but I'm into it, but I'm into it I'm kinda into it It's getting crazy, I think I'm losing it, I think I'm losing it Oh, I think she said "I'm having your baby, it's none of your business" "I'm having your baby, it's none of your business" (it's none of your, it's none of your) "I'm having your baby, it's none of your business" "I'm having your baby, it's none of your, it's none of your...’

for @kittykatlow‘s 200 Follower Celebration

Note: I haven’t written Andy yet but here’s the first part of a short series! The darkness will come slow so warnings will be given on all chapters just to protect people. Anyways, let’s get started.

Hope you enjoy it. Thank you. Love you guys!

Please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

Warmth hazed your vision. A stronger heat radiated from your chest. You were so deliciously drunk you barely noticed the smell of piss that undercut the dusky cologne of the man against you. His short beard tickled you as he kissed your neck hungrily.

You clung to the top of the stall as he pinned you against the metal divider. Your legs wrapped around him as your skirt bunched up around your thighs. Well, you'd borrowed the denim atrocity from Felicia but that didn't matter much.

He hiked your skirt higher, rolling it around your waist as his large hand stretched over one half of your ass. His other hand fumbled between your bodies as he struggled to undo his fly.

His breath shuddered and his deep voice whisked over your lips as he looked into your eyes. Your eyelids were heavy with liquor and you felt like you were floating. He was drunk too, his cheeks flushed red with rye.

"Are you sure?" He asked.

You grabbed the back of his neck with your free hand and pulled his lips to yours. You kissed him sloppily as your hand snaked down his shoulder and around to his chest.

Lower, you grasped the top of his pants and slid down his zipper. You reached into his boxers and pulled your head back with a giggle. You stroked him and tugged the front of his pants and boxers below his dick. He groaned as you turned your hand and fondled his sac.

"I'm sure," You breathed as you grasped his length again. "I want you."

You pulled aside your panties and rubbed his head along your folds. You teasingly guided him to your entrance. You squeezed him tighter with your legs as you welcomed all of him. He gasped and kneaded your ass as he slapped the stall with his other hand.

"Oh god!" He groaned as he pushed himself as deep as he could go.

You purred and tilted your hips into him. He lifted you and began to rock, gliding you up and down his cock. You bit your lip as you gripped his shoulder tightly.

A toilet flushed but you barely noticed the slosh of water. Your other hand stayed hooked around the top of the wall as the man worked in tandem with you.

His hot hand left the wall and he pushed it between you. He pressed his thumb to your clit as he stepped back slightly. You hung at an angle between him and the side of the stall as he watched himself play with you. Watched him slide in and out of you, faster and faster.

Your thighs tensed around him as your voices mingles in a drunken melody over the beating of your flesh.

"You cumming?" He asked gruffly and flicked his thumb faster.

You let out a strangled moan and your eyes rolled back. You gasped, ‘yes’, and the waves rolled under your skin and crested in a great deluge.

"You gonna make me cum?" He growled. "Yeah, baby, I'm gonna cum."

You tried to blink away your dizziness as his words cut through your drunken haze. He kept your body bouncing against his. You wanted him to stop but couldn't think of why. More, you wanted him to keep going.

"Here it...comes," He jerked into you several times as he hung his head back. He grunted and slowed to halt as his entire body trembled. A long sigh escaped his lips.

He pulled out of you slowly and lowered you back to the floor as your legs fell from around him. You braced the metal wall and wobbled in your chunky heels.

His cum leaked down your leg and you drunkenly reached for the roll of tissue. You wiped yourself with the rough one-ply and missed the toilet bowl as you tossed it.

His zipper was loud as you fixed your panties and pulled your skirt straight. He sniffed and puffed his chest.

"That was..."

"Fun." You finished for him. "My friends are gonna start looking for me."

"Ah, yep," He nodded. "Luckily, I don't have that problem."

"Shouldn't drink alone," You murmured. "You'll get in trouble."

"Think I already did," He laughed and unlocked the stall door. "You okay?"

"I think I'm great," You grinned dopily.

You nodded past the door and he returned the gesture. He left as you waited there. You stumbled out of the stall shortly after the bathroom door closed.

You crossed to the mirror and stared at your reflection. Through the alcohol burning the pit in your stomach, the shame began to seep through.

You hadn't expected a night at the bar. Didn't expect to be dancing on a stranger to old 90s jams. Or to be riding him by the toilets.

You also hadn't expected to have your hours cut at the diner. The job you'd worked forty hours a week for almost ten years gave away your hours to the owner's daughter so she could "pay her own way".

You shook your head and stepped away from the sink. Your drunken antics had already led you to stupidity, it would do no good to get yourself worked up. Not in this state. Not here.

Best to go find Felicia and tell her it was time to go.

🌙

Usually you worked Saturday breakfasts but Brittany had that pleasure now that she was saving for college. All the better as you didn’t even roll out of bed that morning. You were so hungover that your mom even came in to check on you. She left a bottle of tylenol and a glass of water beside your bed. And you didn’t miss the look she sent your way.

You were too old to be drinking like that. Too old to be living in your parents house. Well, that wasn’t entirely within your control.

The day was spent in the dark. Still, silent.

Sunday you woke up, mostly recovered. You did your laundry, a hamper full of clothes formerly strewn across your bedroom floor. You dropped the denim skirt in last, a string of semen dried across the hem. Felicia didn’t need to know.

As you wasted time on your phone, you still had a shadow over you. You could barely remember the night. Only glimpses of the bar and the bathroom stall. The vibrant sensation which had overwhelmed you. The soft tickle of a thick beard and eyes bluer than the ocean. Eyes a deep and ominous as the harbour.

Monday saw you back to work. You served coffee to the regulars as the small flat screen mounted in the corner played the news. You went to grab the order from the window and returned to Brenda and Leah; the two widows who argued over soap operas and ogled the cook.

As you set their plates down you glanced up at the screen. You froze as you saw the familiar face staring back at you.

‘...Barber’s wife and son were found a year ago today. His wife lost control of their vehicle and crashed into the side of an overpass. While his son, Jacob, remained on life support for only a month, his wife, Laurie remains in the hospital. Doctors await Mr. Barber’s decision as he returns to his position as Assistant District Attorney for Newton.’

You blinked and felt a warmth on your hand. Leah’s creased fingers cupped yours.

“You okay, sweetie?” She asked.

“Uh, yeah, I just… Did you need more coffee?” You cleared your throat.

“Oh, no, doctor says I need to cut back on the caffeine.” She said.

“We have decaf.” You offered.

“I’m good with water.” She smiled.

You nodded and backed away. You went to the large industrial coffee machine and replaced the filter for a new pot. You made another round of the diner as you offered refills and tried to outrun your own thoughts.

That was the man. You knew it. It all came flooding back as his picture shone on the screen. That night, in your drunken trance, you’d sworn you recognized him but you also had half a bottle of sambuca burning out your brain. You were sure now as you recalled the stall, the feel of his body against yours, the heat of his flesh, the sheer pleasure etched across his face. You knew it because that tickle formed in your core and did not relent.

You checked the clock. Only nine. You had a whole six hours left. You just couldn’t focus now as you avoided looking again at the television. He was married. Worse, his wife was in a coma. Sure you two were drunk but that wasn’t an excuse.

Had he taken advantage of you or was it the other way around? Either way, you wouldn’t go to that bar again. Thankfully, you’d likely never see him again. Newton was a big enough town for that.

🌙

Your shift at the diner ended and you raced to the cafe three blocks down, barely dodging a car as you crossed the street. You had less than ten minutes to get in and change into your other uniform. Two months since the diner pared down your hours and your second job offered just enough to augment what you’d lost, though your days often lasted more than twelve hours and your nights were shorter and shorter.

You felt sick at the smell of the quiche baking in the oven as you entered. You slipped behind the counter and into the back room. You passed the racks of empty muffin tins and dipped into the storage room. You quickly exchanged your minty green shirt for the plain black one with the golden name tag.

You rubbed your stomach as you clocked in and tiptoed out behind the counter.

“Am I on cash?” You asked Taylor as she plated the quiche for her customer.

“Dishes,” She said staunchly and turned back with a fake smile to serve up the smelly egg tart. “You’re late.”

“No, I punched in on time,” You argued.

“Yes, but you should be on the floor five minutes early. We’ve had this conversation.” She smiled as another customer entered. “Now go do the dishes.”

You went to the end of the counter, where the sink was hidden next to the espresso machine. You ran the hot water and dumped the stack of square plates into the deep sink. You took the hose and began to scour each before setting it into the silver rack above. Your stomach flipped again and you gulped back the mouthful of bile which rose suddenly.

You shook it off and kept on. When you finished you dried each plate, bowl, and mug carefully and set them along the pristine shelves. You went back to Taylor and she huffed.

“Take the other till,” She said as if you were clueless. “It’s almost six, that’s mean the rush is coming.”

You nodded. You saved your retort as it threatened to come up with your lunch. Maybe those leftovers weren’t as fresh as you’d thought. You went to the other machine and greeted a customer. As you took their order, you struggled not to spew and repeated it back to them, each word measured and fearful.

“I’ll just get that coffee,” You said and turned to fill a paper cup from the machine. “I just need to pop back to grab cinnamon.”

You spun, not awaiting a response and rushed into the back. You flitted through to the back door and opened it just in time for your guts to spill over the tarmac. You wretched, mindful not to dribble any on your apron, and stayed bent over your mess. You waited, making sure it was all out and stood.

You let the door shut heavily and tore a wad of paper towel from the wall and wiped your mouth. You shuddered at the curdle in your stomach. You grabbed a bottle of cinnamon and headed back out. You didn’t need to give Taylor anymore reason to be a bitch. You’d rather nausea than her attitude.

🌙

When the nausea didn’t persist for a week, you caved and went to the clinic. You spent your day off in a waiting room and cursed yourself. It wasn’t a flu, you had no coughing or sneezing, or any other outstanding symptoms.

After a round of questions, there was one that caught you entirely off guard. ‘Are you sexually active?’ Not exactly.’ ‘Well, when’s the last time you had sex?’ ‘Two months ago’.

You stared at the doctor. Dumbfounded. It couldn’t be. You couldn’t recall if he had... inside of you. Had he? Had you let him?

“Okay, well, we’re just going to take a blood sample and rule out pregnancy before we proceed.” Doctor Neshi was short and her dark hair was greying at the roots. She never smiled but wasn’t unkind.

You nodded and she set aside her clipboard. You made yourself sit still as your blood was taken and you were left to wait in purgatory. Please, please, please. You couldn’t be pregnant. And with a stranger’s baby. Well, you knew who he was. Most of Newton did. But you didn’t know him.

You swung your legs as you sat on the bed, hands folded in your lap. You felt your stomach. Was it bigger? Was it all in your head? Too many croissants from the cafe? The door opened and you sat straight, dropping your hands to your side.

“Miss,” Dr. Neshi closed the door softly and turned to you. “It would seem you are pregnant and that is likely the source of your illness.”

You shook your head and sighed. You touched your forehead and held in a sob.

“I can prescribe you anti-nausea medicine safe for pregnancy and it is our policy to provide all those in need with resources on their options in this situation.” She went to the counter in the corner and gathered a handful of fliers from the stand there. “These will be good to start with. I would suggest a visit to the hospital, they provide counseling service as well as several others offered in these.”

She held out the brochures and you took them from her stiffly. You hopped off the table and swallowed.

“Thanks,” You said breathlessly.

Her expression was almost sympathetic. Almost.

“Sorry, dear,” Her voice showed more than her face as she showed you out of the room.

You walked out onto the street and shuffled through the pamphlets. Adoption, abortion, pregnancy care, home birth…

You were going to be sick. Again.

#andy barber #defending jacob #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #andy barber x reader #dark andy barber x reader #dark!andy barber x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #short series #mini series #series #writing challenge

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boilyerheid · 4 years ago

Note

15. “Just say yes.” for that hickeytozer AU with the makeup, please?

Sol reads the flyer slipped under his door as if it's a taunt. A cruel little I know something you don't want other people to know. He's relieved he got to it before his roommate noticed the gaudy slip of paper sitting on the dingy carpet (because Edward has a boyfriend, yeah, but he's quiet about it. Not hiding it but not shoving it in anyone's face - one of the lads, like. not a fucking pansy wearing makeup), and waits anxiously until he can corner Neil between class and training when they won't be missed.

"What the fuck is this?" He shoves the ratty little bastard into the nearest supply closet, thankful that the campus sports centre is furnished with an unending number of the damn things and this one doesn't hold anything they'll need for football. Neil watches him from where he's landed against a stack of cracked judo mats, looking a lot steadier than Sol feels as he brandishes the crumpled invitation with as much vitriol as he can muster.

"It's a flyer, Sol. I know the academic requirements in this shithole are minimal, but-" Sol's hand viciously twisted in the front of his shirt cuts Hickey off with a squeak. Sol's jaw is set hard enough to start giving him a headache (like a man, he's handling this exactly like the kind of man his dad is, and doesn't that say a lot), and Neil starts talking as he stares him down. "It's just a meetup. Thought you might be interested."

"And why the fuck would I be interested in that?" Trans, nonbinary, and marginalised genders, the flyer said in a cheery script, questioning folks welcome! It did something very weird to Sol's stomach when he read it, sent him into a spiral between anger and anxiety that he's not sure he's pulled himself out of yet. He's not a-. He's just-. He's not. "Bit of bleeding eyeliner doesn't mean I'm... You said you weren't fucking making fun of me."

"I'm not making fun of you," Neil's face twists quizzically and he does that thing again, moves like he's certain Sol's not going to smack him for it, and reaches up to set his slight hand under the hinge of Sol's stubbly jaw. Sol doesn't know how he feels about not being feared when he's trying to put the fear into someone, especially doesn't know how the fuck he feels when Neil softens his voice to speak again. "Hey, angel, I'm not. I just think-"

Sol shoves him back into the mats and steps away in a flash of panic, because when he talks like that Hickey somehow makes him feel so... small. And he likes it, and it's the last thing he should like, because he's a big, tough lad and that's a good thing, it's what he's born to be, so that's how he is.

"Stop doing that! Stop talking to me like I'm-" he spits, chest suddenly heaving for a lack of air in the close little room. He wants to punch something, he wants to run a hundred miles away from here, he wants Neil to touch him like he's delicate again so badly he could puke. And he does want to puke now, gripped with a crushing doom because he knows he can't put this genie back in the bottle, now he's realised he wants to be treated like a lass he can't...

"Shit, okay, sit yourself down before you fall." Sol is vaguely aware of Neil talking, but it seems very far away from the terrifying spiral inside his head.

He's stuck inside himself for a long while then, feeling like he's dying and overcome with a deluge of images crashing over each other - his sister's lip gloss, the eyeshadow palette hidden in the bottom of his sock drawer, his lipstick on the corner of Neil's mouth in their dingy bathroom. His dad's disappointed face, his mum's disgust, the rest of the team laughing at him for being such a...

"I think you should go," Neil says quietly, when Sol's out the other side and breathing almost steadily with his head on the lad's whippet-thin shoulder. They've both missed training by now. Sol's not sure he could face being told to man up by the coach today, anyway. "It might help."

"Nothing to help with," Sol mumbles, very aware of the fact he feels like a wrung-out sponge and that Neil's had his arm around him for the past god knows how long. The soft, rhythmic rub of his thumb on Sol's shoulder is far more comforting than it should be, especially when he's got nothing to be falling apart over.

"Just say yes, eh? I'll go with, if you want." Neil drops a kiss to his hair, far too bloody familiar for whatever the hell they have going on here, but it makes Sol feel smaller, cared for, and he's run out of space to deny that he likes that after this evening's display. "Me ex runs it, Sol. I'm really not making fun."

Sol makes a noncommittal sound in way of answer, and Neil scoffs quietly like he's caught between annoyance and affection. It makes Sol feel a bit better sitting in the stuffy supply room, like they're getting back onto the familiar ground of giving each other shit, but then Neil mutters something playful about bloody women never make up their mind, and suddenly Sol's sobbing into his mate's shoulder without being able to find a single word as to why.

Shit. Maybe he'd better go and see what this group are all about. Just to shut Neil up, he tells himself, even as the lad strokes his hair and tells him that things going to be okay where Sol's soaking his shirt. Be a bit hard to humiliate himself more at this rate, anyway, what would a little investigation hurt?

#the terror fic #solomon tozer #cornelius hickey #hickey/tozer #tozer x hickey #modern au #nonbinary tozer #cw: panic attack #sol my precious baby you'll get there!!!#all the gender feels tonight for sol #prompts

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oneweekoneband · 5 years ago

Text

i didn’t though

youtube

When I was twenty and tractable I listened to “Treacherous” and I believed Taylor Swift was telling me something, because “I’ll do anything you say / If you say it with your hands”, is not content meant for straight people, even though legally they, too, are allowed to hear it, and they do generally have hands. When Taylor Swift drank beers with Karlie Kloss at a Knicks game in 2014, I believed she was telling me something even more forcefully, because, really, why be at Knicks game if not just to kill time politely before fucking whoever you’re there with. When reputation was released and it contained “Dress”, a song about buying a certain item of clothing to look good for a person you love specifically not “like a best friend” so that after “all the pining and anticipation” they can remove it from your body and you can drink wine together in the bath, I believed Taylor was screaming a confession at me, and I was more than ready to receive it. When I heard from multiple sources just last year, amidst the aggressive rainbow-deluge of the Lover promo cycle, an ultimately false rumor that said Taylor was going to come out in a Rolling Stone cover story I, somehow, incredibly, brain as smooth as a baby’s ass, believed that too.

I have believed a lot of things. And it’s a nice diversion, to believe like that. But, more recently, I’ve found that the detective in me has turned away from this one. The only facts I’ll ever know about Taylor Swift are those she wishes to share, and speculating about what secrets she may or may not be hiding is a distraction from the real, joyful work of appreciating all these already literally, unequivocally, very gay songs. I’ve found, well, that I just don’t care anymore, which sucks, as I detest the squirmy idea that I might be growing as a person. But the truth is one really can write extremely, objectively homoerotic love songs yet be, for all intents and purposes, terminally straight. And like that poignant tweet about Lin Manuel Miranda tells us, you can seem gay, because of, like, your whole deal, and then it turns out you’re just annoying. You can even have a torrid love affair with your one-time supermodel best friend and in the end just want to marry some guy from The Favourite (Allegedly from The Favourite. I have seen that film three times and could not pick that man out of a lineup if my life depended on it.) and maybe there’s nothing to announce to anybody about it at all. Sexuality is complex and personal, and Taylor’s own sexuality doesn’t much matter to me, outside of how I always think it’s nice to know there’s yet another bisexual white woman out here in the world being even more irritating than me. (I say this strictly in terms of labeling; it ought to go without saying that Taylor’s various psychosexual obsessions with things like Amy from Gone Girl, and The Kennedys, and her house in Rhode Island matter to me immensely.) It doesn’t matter because it has no bearing on the fact that she keeps dropping queer classics.

Anyway, yeah, most good Taylor Swift songs are gay, just like most good things, generally, and there’s a number of viable picks on folklore, except not “betty”, no matter what the collective banshee’s wail of the Internet tells you. The gayest thing about “betty” is that it’s Taylor putting herself in the mind of a skateboarding teenage boy, which, yes, admittedly, is a big homo vibe, but nowhere in or around this song are any people of the same gender identity smashing bathing suit parts together, or even thinking about doing so, and when there are so many better options available, I feel it is prudent that we have just the barest hint of standards. As queerness itself is malleable, wonderfully, painfully individual, and comes in no one standard format, so too is determining which song on a Taylor Swift album is the most gay a singular, complicated calculus we all must do for ourselves within our own hearts, and, of course, there are no wrong answers, unless it so happens that your answer is not “the 1”.

“the 1” made me lose my grip for a moment. A cool lament, calmly wrenching, right off it was sucking out my bone marrow and I wasn’t able to name why. (Well, except, obviously, that the twin unit of, “You know the greatest films of all time were never made,” and “You know the greatest loves of all time are over now,” is pure, not from concentrate, peak embarrassing & devastating & all the more embarrassing for being so devastating Swiftian lyricism.) Finally, weeks after the release, out walking the streets of Los Angeles midday, masked and fractious, lower back sticky, brain a little mean, buying a soda at the gas station just to talk to someone, it came to me that “the 1” is a spiritual sequel to Red’s drum-heavy forever banger “Holy Ground”. The Taylor of “Holy Ground” reminisces frantically about a lost love, some near-miss from youth. That drumbeat is a racing heart. The animating nervousness of “Holy Ground”, the way you can almost hear the narrator’s limbs flapping wildly against her body when she says that she’s dancing, has from the beginning marked this song to me as a story of looking back on some sort of formless and magical teenaged queer encounter. “Holy Ground” is looking at a precious memory like it’s a firefly in cupped hands—small and special and easy to lose—being not entirely certain what the memory means, since whatever it was that happened back then, you never really talked it out. “Holy Ground” is about a love that for all its vitality did not work out, but it is appreciative rather than sad. “But sometimes I wonder how you think about it now,” Taylor sings, “and I see your face in every crowd.”

“But we were something, don’t you think so?” asks “the 1”, imploring an ex to confirm her version of events, to agree that she’s remembering it right. Taylor has not ever struggled in her work with place and the self and matching the two against one another on the wriggling timeline of the human life. I was there I was there I was there. The question here is something else. Not was it real, but was it real to you, and do you remember now what that was like. Do you remember who I was then? What we were? The truth as it pertains to the heart of another is guesswork at best, and a troublesome kind. Memories break and bend, or weren’t even recorded right to begin with, every brain a dirty liar, and for two separate, imperfect creatures to share the responsibility of preserving one history together is a disaster. The hard facts then are grounding. Essential. “I thought I saw you at the bus stop / I didn’t though”. Everyone has past romances that they still ask questions about, yes—I am not practicing my virulent heterophobia today—but none of my queer friends are without at least one were-we-or-weren’t-we in their past, a clinch with another that was incandescent and unnameable, long over but dangling forever there loose outside the neat boxes of friend or lover. To be a queer person is to exist already beyond and without the organizing structures of heterosexuality, and this can be difficult, dangerous, but in liminality there is freedom, and in years of painstakingly debating whether I wanted to be or bang so many various somebodys I have, along the way, put the pieces of myself in the order they fit best. So then there are loves where you aren’t sure if that’s technically what it was, if it’s what they’d call it, too. Or loves that were undeniably real, only we were too busy back then with trying to turn into ourselves to keep it. And loves from the very start, from walking together on colt legs, exuberant and unprepared, and the memory is a blessing, and the memory is guilt.

“the 1”, to the ear, is softer and slinkier than “Holy Ground”, but the lyrics are dismantling. “Holy Ground” says, “And darling, it was good / Never looking down”. Full of longing, but cheerful and sure. “the 1” is older, resigned. On “the 1” Taylor mourns a love not only because it has ended, but because she can sense, from the safety of time’s remove, that it was a love which deserved better, could have been better, if things had been only a little different, if they’d felt brave enough to try just a little more. In this version of nostalgia, the golden haze of “Holy Ground” is ribboned by a vaporous shame, a regret. The song relates a story of a love that is farther out of reach and meant more than what the little girl of “Holy Ground” could have dreamt. “In my defense I have none / for digging up the grave another time / but it would’ve been fun / if you would’ve been the one”.

#taylor swift #folklore

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has-gilgamesh-doneanythingwrong · 4 years ago

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SLEEPOVER☆CHAOS

In which my mastersona, Seihai-kun; joins Gudako and Mash for one heck of a fun sleepover!!!

Secrets and hidden emotions are finally exposed! ;)

(naw i just like sleepovers)

Cold, billowing gusts of snow rattled against the glistening window panes; as the mundane, clinically white halls of Chaldea sparkled like brand-new.

Yes.

For the first time in ages, Seihai had volunteered to assist with the cleaning!!

'Well, it was either to help with clean-up or join the servants for a session of group counselling with Kiara...' The mere idea of pouring their heart out to their fellow allies made a cold shiver run down Seihai's spine.

No way in hell did they want to let others know about their inner demons; especially not when he was also attending today's session. To Seihai, that was akin to a recipe for disaster.

And in addition to that, Kiara was eerily perceptive as a counsellor. It'd be IMPOSSIBLE to hide anything from her. Seihai had seen how even Gudako's cheery outer self faltered before Kiara's intelligent wiles.

'It's much more relaxing to clean the place instead.' Resting their vibrant red cornrows onto one of the latest prototype model of the Chaldea Speedmop 2000 (nightingale had an entire stock of them in order to keep chaldea as clean as possible), they sighed.

Life had been a real struggle as of late for Seihai. Lacerating wounds. Ferocious beasts. Storylines bursting at the seams with treachery and Machiavellianism. In other words, the missions were hell. It was tough- unbearable even- to carry on, to keep on pushing forward like Gudako, Mash, the Staff and Servants were; but deep down, Seihai knew that they had no choice but to follow ahead.

However, it grew. A festering, deep pool of regret; self-abasement and shame. Was it really alright for Seihai to be here? Weren't they just a nuisance? Were they even worthy? Did anybody at Chaldea even care about them, anyway? Who could they open up around?

As a horrendous deluge of negative self-talk smashed into Seihai with all the force of a tidal wave; encasing them within a moment of anxiety so painful that they felt as if they were about to drown- a miracle occurred.

'TAP TAP!!!!' Tapping them ferociously on the shoulder, Seihai leapt out of their very skin to face such an intrusive force. "H-HOLY SHIT WHAT THE FUCK- oh, Gudako."

"What do you mean by 'oh Gudako'?!! It's none other than me, Gudako; your beloved homie and most trusted ally!! I was looking for you. Kiara was disappointed that you couldn't make it to counselling today. Told me that she's happy to meet you one-on-one, if you got some extra time." Gudako all but winked, as her golden eyes glimmered mischievously.

'You little shit,' Seihai couldn't help but laugh at that. "Alright, I'll visit her tomorrow. How was the group therapy?"

"Oh, it was awesome! We all had a good laugh, shared our stories and gave each other some support." Gudako was more or less beaming with joy. "It's so nice here, in Chaldea. Everyone's so supportive of one another. There's no shame here, Seihai. I hope you know that."

"Haha, of course I do!" An itchy, aching laugh that was even faker than the fakest of plastics erupted from Seihai's throat. Well fuck, looks like their skills at faking had subsided greatly as of late.

'Oh shit...she's onto me..' Seihai recognized that expression clearly. Gudako's eyes were wide, almost brimming with tears, as her eyebrows arched incredulously.

That only meant one thing- she was finally onto Seihai's bullshit.

"Hey, Seihai. If something's up, tell me! You always listen to me ramble on and on about all of my feelings too. Let it out!" Gudako gives Seihai a friendly shake of the shoulders. "AH!!!!"

"Oh lord, Gudako. What's happened now?" Seihai guffawed softly at Gudako's vibrant pose. "You got a new idea? C'mon let it out!"

"Oi, you're the one who needs to let things out more!!! I am doing perfectly fine, thank you. Well anyway. Seihai?"

"Come with us. Join us on our sleepover tonight. Let's chat, just like old times. You, Mash and I. How does that sound?" Gudako's expression was apprehensive, linking her palms together. "I want to help. If that's okay with you..."

'SHIT, I'M WEAK TO SLEEPOVERS!!! DAMNIT!!' There was something so precious, so special about being privy to the personal thoughts and opinions of others; that Seihai was infinitely weak towards. And a sleepover with Mash and Gudako? Lucky!

Seihai instantly looped their ebony hands with Gudako's scarred palms. "Look, I'm going. You better bring some popcorn and snacks, or I'll drain your room of food, Gudako!" Seihai's joke brought a smile to Gudako's face immediately.

"Hell yeah! I'll see you at 10. You better not flake on me!"

Gudako was most certainly one of the most beloved homies around.

SLEEPOVER TIME!!! (yeet)

Decked in the most casual pyjamas and a pale gray dressing gown, Seihai trooped into Gudako's room with all the force of a warrior. It was time to commence battle!

'ONWARDS I GO!!! YOU'VE GOT THIS ME!!!' Seihai slammed into the door as bravely as they possibly could. 'YEAH BOI! I AM NOT NERVOUS, I AM WORTHY AND AWESOME! I am valid, I've got this!' With an entire array of self-affirmations tucked under their sleeves, they boldly seized their targets.

"Yahoo, beautiful ladies. It's me." Seihai posed languidly, as an excited Mash and ridiculously energetic Gudako ran up to her. "Wow, this is my first time here...nice room you've got, Gudako."

Gudako's room was filled with an array of posters, dvds, cds and technological gear; however neon lights also paraded the walls, giving it a very 'cyber beach party' feel.

"Oh damn, the finest one of them all has arrived." Gudako smirked, swaying from side to side. "I'm glad you came."

"Me too...Senpai was yammering on and on about how she wants you to join in with us more often," Mashu beamed softly, tucking her hands politely behind her back. "Thank you for making it here. Truly. I am very grateful for this."

At this, Seihai's eyes widened with shock. They were so used to being alone; and dealing with everything on their lonesome. So to see these two seem so joyful by their mere arrival came as a deep surprise to Seihai. 'Y-yo...I can't handle this...Shit.' It was time to clam up.

Awkwardly ruffling ruby red locks of hair, Seihai turned to the side. "Don't worry about it, I think you two are great people. So...what have you both got planned for today?"

"Well, senpai and I usually tend to enjoy a good romance movie..." Mash began.

"...And imagine ourselves in their situation as well." Gudako's grin was enormous, as Mash's cheeks flushed ever so slightly. "It's so much fun when we do that. Mash and I have very interesting viewpoints on romance. Hehe." Gudako's expression was wistful and warm, her eyes filled with affection.

'Damn, they've got it bad for one another...' Seihai blankly mused. 'Are they just close friends? Are they in love? Hell if I know,' They wondered.

"B-but, as you're here, we wanted to make things much more simulating for you as well. So we decided to choose a legendary movie..."

"... that's named SHREK." Gudako's face was extremely serious. "The movie that fucking destroys all other movies, because it is just that darn good. What do you say? Want some SHREK TIME??"

"Of course, Shrek is love AND life, after all." Grabbing a huge bowl of popcorn, Seihai sits to the right of Mash and Gudako. "How may times have you watched it?"

"I've genuinely lost count..." Gudako sighed. "How about you, Mash?"

"Only twice...I don't really understand the jokes and references made..." Mash hung her head dejectedly. "Sometimes I wonder if these movies are wasted on me."

"That's not true at all, Mash. I have all the time in the world to explain them to you. You won't be left out, alright?" Ruffling Mash's hair softly, Gudako smiled blissfully.

"Senpai...Thank you. In return, I shall explain all sorts of magecraft theories to you so that you can rise above all of the clock tower mages. I'll be cheering you on!"

"Aah, Mash; what have I done to deserve someone as good as you? C'mere." They were now snuggling closely together.

"Yep, Mash! You heard Gudako. This movie isn't wasted on you at all! All knowledge has to start from somewhere. You may be lost now, but you'll eventually possess enough referential knowledge to enjoy this soon. Be nicer to yourself, okay?" Ah, there it was. Seihai couldn't help but throw out some positive vibes. Worried that they had gone too far, they cringed- only to be met with wide smiles.

"You're so right, Seihai!" Gudako was now caressing Mash's hair. "Hehe, you always give such wise advice."

"Seihai, you're so kind...Thanks." Mash grinned.

"Ah, no problemo! Just didn't want to see you hurt yourself."

As Seihai quietly watched over the two's warm cuddling session, a slight pain twanged at their heartstrings.

In Chaldea, they had no connections as close as that. There was nobody like that for them, whose arms they could be held in; who they could bond with so closely. Nobody who they could cry with in the worst of times; nobody who they could while away the darkest phases of night with...nobody at all.

It had always been them, and them alone.

No matter how many people they connected to on a surface level; how many people they met and spoke to; who they relied upon and trusted within their lifetime- Seihai had never experienced a close bond with anyone.

For the first time in a while, the arid, bitter taste of jealousy clawed across their throat.

'Ah man, they're so cute. Kinda wish I could love and be loved like that too.' Seihai silently watched the movie besides them, as blue rays of light danced upon their face. 'Damn, now I'm mixed between feeling both happy and jealous for them. GUHHHH!!!'

Sometimes... being emotionally distant from others sucked.

But they couldn't let desperation consume them. Whenever they were desperate for friendship and love, they'd let the wrong people in, and would end up even more battered and bruised than before...

'I just gotta keep on being my own pillar of emotional support, no matter how desperate I am for some hugs.' Seihai sighed.

'If this is the price I have to pay to live honorably to my true self, than so be it.'

"So...Mash, Seihai. Let's share some secrets. Have any of you got somebody who you like? Fess up to your dear Gudako!!!"

What was once an extremely loud and rancorous viewing of Shrek (Seihai laughed throughout the entire thing, as Gudako cracked an inane amount of jokes) had now become none other than a GOSSIP SESSION.

'FUCK...' Seihai's face paled at this. Of all the topics to discuss, why did it have to be this??? Whilst Seihai's face was creased up with pure pain and terror, Mash was blushing like a cute tomato.

"W-well senpai, I...You see, I..." Gudako was leaning in so closely towards Mash that she was bordering on pinning her to the wall.

"Hmm, what? What is it, Mash?" Her voice was a husky whisper. "C'mon, tell me who..."

'Bruh. GUDAKO!!! That's not helping at all.' Seihai wanted to facepalm at their antics. 'They really are this dense to each other's feelings, huh.' It was adorable, yet somewhat amusing to watch as well.

"A-AH! I GIVE, I GIVE!!" Pushing Gudako to the side, Mash panted in agony. "S-SEIHAI! WHO DO YOU LIKE??"

"OI, DON'T THROW ME UNDER THE BUS LIKE THAT! WHAT THE HELL!!!" Seihai couldn't help but yell, as a dastardly cold wind dashed through their spinal cord. "Fuck, well okay, there is somebody I like, but..."

"Spear."

'Shit...' Seihai's eyes were as large as saucers, as they spun in Gudako's direction; her smirk pernicious.

Did Gudako KNOW?!

"Looks like Seihai's in a spear of trouble." Gudako winked proudly at them. "Mash, save Seihai the embarrassment. We all know who they like already!"

"T-that's true..." Mash had finally calmed down, much to Seihai's own chagrin. "Yes, we do know."

"How? I mean, should I be worried by this??? How many of you know??" Seihai's arms pooled with cold sweat. "Damn you!"

"More or less the entirety of Chaldea?" Gudako admitted, chowing nonchalantly on a massive pocky stick. "You're not very good at hiding your emotions, you know. Seihai, we in Chaldea understand you much more than you may realize. You can open up a little more, you know?"

Overwhelmed by this, Seihai snaps for the very first time- their hazel eyes burning with repressed rage. "How can you say that, damnit?! How can you understand me, when I mainly hang out alone; when I can barely connect with anybody in Chaldea; when I don't even fucking belong in this damned place??? How can you say that, when I have a fucking useless one sided affection that I've been trying to hide, but everybody now knows of??? How can you say that Gudako??? You don't know shit about me, nor my feelings!!"

At this outburst, both Gudako and Mash's faces soured. Roughly gripping Seihai with her war-torn hands, Gudako shakes them by the shoulders, her golden eyes burning with passion.

"You don't think I see it, Seihai? How you fucking pour out all of your feelings by accident, only to withdraw back into yourself again? How you look longingly over at Mash and I, craving a bond of your own? How you reluctantly look over towards staff and servants, aching to talk to them but not knowing what to do? You don't think I see you crying, see your eyes fill with affection for a certain someone every now and then; that I don't pay attention to your feelings?!! I CARE FOR YOU, FOR FUCK'S SAKE!!! WE'RE FRIENDS, AREN'T WE?!!!"

"S-senpai, stop! Seihai, I'm so sorry, Gudako just gets a bit...well, passionate sometimes." Mash manages to successfully pull Gudako back. "Err, Seihai?"

Tears. A flowing river of tears dropped from Seihai's eyes as they sobbed quietly into their palms.

Gudako cared?

Somebody actually did acknowledge their emotions, and actually looked out for them?

'What, what...It can't be...But I thought that only I could care for myself and understand my emotions that well...How could she?' Before Seihai could even look up, Gudako had wrapped them within a fierce hug.

"Seihai. Look, I don't know what's happened in your past, or what's convinced you to be your sole caretaker and self-support system without letting anybody else in." Gudako ruffles their hair. "But I want you to know, that you're NOT alone. Yeah, maybe you've not found your close homies yet. But Mash and I are happy to hear you out, we all are!! Even the person you like sees you as a friend, hehe. You don't have to worry about hiding yourself behind a mask of peerless positivity and self confidence anymore."

"Gudako..."

"You know, you were there for me when I was crying about having to be strong. And you know, I struggled to open up as well. But yeah, Mash...well she came along, and now I feel so much better! Look, I just want you to not beat yourself up for this. It's okay."

"Gudako, you're gonna make me cry. Damn, you're really hitting me in the feels today. I got a real case of the 'crying in the club at 3am vibes' right now."

"Oi, no making shitty jokes to cope. Here, we show our vulnerability like real warriors!" Gudako declared triumphantly, as Mash laughs.

"Gudako, I swear...you really are a wonderful homie. I'm sorry that I tried to hide away from you...I am so grateful that you care enough to seek me out like this. Thank you."

"H-HOLY SHIT, WE CRACKED OPEN THE COLD ONE. MASH TAKE A PHOTO!"

"Senpai, please stop the joking."

"S-sorry..."

"I'm glad," Mash also sat by Seihai's side. "I just want all of us to be happy. And Seihai, I am sure there are many wonderful beings out there that you may eventually grow close to! You already believe in yourself, which is a great start! I know you won't have to be so lonely anymore!" Lacing her palms together, Mash spoke a prayer. "I wish that someday, you will meet people too. And that you'll stop fighting alone."

"Mash, you're gonna make me explode with tears. You're being so nice right now that I'm going to cry." Seihai blushed.

"You heard her, Mash! Why are you so damn cute, I'm falling in love!!" Gudako was clutching her heart dramatically. "Ahhh....Mash is such a beauty!!! Thank you, for blessing me with such a wonderful person!"

"S-SENPAI!!! STOP!!!" As the two began to pillow fight, laughing all the while; Seihai smiled softly at them both.

'So I'm not fighting alone after all...I'm not the only person who values myself in this world anymore...' Seihai could finally put down the weapons that they had grown so used to aggressively defending themselves with.

From now on, they'd do their best to trust in Chaldea more. And maybe attend group therapy from now on, as well.

'So this is how it feels to open up to people.'

It was an unforgettable sensation.

THE END

holy smokes this is so fucking LONG

#my writing #fgo #fate series #mastersona #gudako #mash kyrielight #its 2868 words LMAO #mashu potato #ok i love mash and gudako. and i thought 'let me throw my mastersona at them and see what shit happens' welp it was much more chaotic #gilgablog

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megabees · 5 years ago

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no need for proclamation | a beauyasha fic

a what-if look at what would have happened if Beau and Yasha began dating during the harp scene in episode 98

alternate title: 5 times the Mighty Nein didn't know Beau and Yasha were dating, and one time it was literally spelled out for them

find it on ao3 or read below

They have a conversation, out there on the beach.

Yasha with her harp, and Beau, muscles unfurled, feeling at peace for the first time in a while.

The ocean brings clarity for them. They who were not raised by the sea find their anxieties pulled out and caught in a riptide, their bodies returned to them smoothed and polished like a piece of glass swept out into the waves. In the dry plains of Kamordah, Beau had never seen the ocean. Its vast blue stares back at her, forcing her to appreciate how big it is, how she is miniscule in comparison. Beau: big and brash, loud and bold, a born leader, finds herself taking peace in the vastness. In the grand scheme of things, the ocean remains the same. She means nothing to the waves. There is peace in this. If nothing matters, she can do what she wants.

Similarly, Yasha grows up in the Moorlands, surrounded by hills and grasses, but the rocks don’t best the constance of the waves, crashing and settling on the shore. For her, someone who struggles so much with desire, with understanding that her mind is her own, the waves show an unstoppable force. A small child can try to stop the waves from their end, but they always come to the shore anyway. Her path may deviate, like the waves occasionally fade, but she comes back to the same place. Her harp, calming. The waves, swelling and settling. Her mind is her own, she takes fate by the hand.

In front of the ocean, two women come to similar conclusions, and they have a conversation.

They leave the beach holding hands, a new relationship formed.

-------------------------------------------------

The Nein catch on far slower than they realistically should. Yasha and Beau aren’t hiding it, per say. They’re just not making a grand announcement.

That’s how the Nein does things. You keep a secret until someone weasels it out of you, and then it’s known. There’s no need for a proclamation.

Or so Beau and Yasha thought. After the past three weeks, full of longing glances and not hiding the way they act around each other, they’re beginning to doubt the obviousness of their actions.

------------------------------------------------

They tried to hint to Jester, that day on the boat making statues for the Traveler, through subtle flirting and glances, but she never noticed.

“You have really good legs, Yasha”, Jester remarked.

Beau catches Yasha’s eye as she says it, gives her a little up and down look. Calculating, as if she wants to know each and every inch of Yasha’s legs.

Heat flashes up Yasha’s face.

“Yeah, the slit was very, uh, high. Helped with moving around.”

Another knowing glance from Beau to Yasha. When Beau thinks of that night, she thinks of two things. Firstly, the Ruby’s singing and the hypnotic way the fish moved around her. Secondly, she thinks of the way Yasha looked in that dress, shades of grey, black and white illuminating her eyes and her lips.

As the conversation gets more intense, Beau can’t help her hand from drifting behind Yasha, using it partly to steady herself on the slow rocking of the boat and partly to just get closer.

Yasha makes a similar move, placing her hand on Beau’s lower thigh, as she once again apologizes for running Beau through with Skingorger.

“It just adds to my aesthetic. Makes me look more interesting.” Beau is so focused on the hand, slowly and comfortingly rubbing her thigh that she almost misses Yasha’s flustered compliment towards.

“You’re already very interesting….You’re both very interesting.”

It’s Beau’s turn to flush. Don’t think she hasn’t noticed Yasha’s propensity to hide a compliment to her within a compliment to everyone. It’s cute.

It’s fun to be in those stages of a relationship, learning those new things about each other.

Jester’s probably too busy thinking of Travelercon, they can keep it lowkey for a little longer.

----------------------------------------

It turns out though, that neither of them is *great* at keeping things low key.

If you ask Beau, it’s Yasha’s fault. Yasha’s too beautiful and talented, and she keeps showing it off. That harp haunts a few of Beau’s dreams.

(Harps require some deft finger skills, if you catch the drift.)

Yasha gets up to perform for the village of Vo, and she’s surrounded by all these people. Beau watches the way her hands shake, how she searches the crowd for a familiar face, and yells out “Freebird!” so that Yasha can find her.

For Yasha, Beau’s a grounding face in the crowd of people. Someone who doesn’t care how she does, who just is there to support her. All of the Nein is, but this song is for Beau.

Caleb lights Yasha up with silent bolts of lightning, mesmerizing the entire village of Vo, illuminating Yasha with her own personal spotlight.

It’s funny, you know. Prior to meeting Yasha, Beau had always hated storms. In the winery, grapes that got too much rain produced thin and watery wine, and when there was a thunderstorm, the workers couldn’t harvest the grapes. It meant her dad was always angry when there was a storm. Loss of profit, and all that.

Once she met Yasha though, a storm signified Yasha for her. Thunder became part of the comforting rumble of sleeping with the Nein, and lightning illuminated how different her life looked from five years ago.

Even when Yasha was gone, Beau hoped every night to hear a storm. Maybe it meant Yasha was returning to them.

So it’s not her fault she’s put in a stupor by Yasha’s performance. That’s her girl.

It unlocks a deluge of feelings in her chest. Beau’s shell-shocked, as the Nein discusses the performance absent of Yasha.

She can’t help but allow herself to chime in.

“That was amazing.”

She makes sure to tell Yasha how amazing it is later that night, in hushed tones wrapped up together.

----------------------------------------------

After that, they begin to find their stride in how they act around their friends.

In battle, Yasha has a free pass to be as protective as she wants. Beau’s more fragile than she, and is somehow easily swallowed? Yasha’s confused on how the beasts they keep fighting manage to find Beau in their mouths more than anyone else.

Either way, Beau usually ends up taking more damage than anyone else notices.

Nothing against Jester or Cad as healers, but they tend to focus on the group’s overall health levels, and Beau likes to play off her injuries.

Vulnerability isn’t easy for Beau, so Yasha keeps a watchful eye.

She’s already lost one partner, she doesn’t need to lose another.

They’re traipsing through the forest, and Yasha looks away for one moment, and suddenly Beau is on the ground unconscious.

Nosy Expositor can’t keep her hands to herself, Yasha supposes.

She gets Beau back up, taking lightning damage and healing her.

For Yasha, her healing hands are a way of showing Beau her affection. They symbolize forgiveness, and they symbolize hope. It’s just a way of showing how she cares. Yasha’s not great with words, she speaks through her actions, and she hopes Beau understands.

That being said, as if she’s gonna let her girlfriend get healed by just Fjord.

“It’s not a competition, okay!”

“It’s a competition.”

Fjord’s got nothing on her. She’s there for Beau.

This is re-enforced, of course, when Beau asks Yasha to carry her following the fight. There was a time, when Yasha was just regaining her mind, where Beau asked Caleb to carry her following the fight with Obann instead of Yasha, and while Yasha would never admit it to Beau, it hurt a little.

Carrying Beau is Yasha’s thing. They’ve had this joke running through the time they’ve spent together, and Yasha isn’t a fan of other people trying to butt in on that.

Perhaps she’s a bit protective, a bit jealous of Beau. How is she to not be, though, when she was gone for so long and Beau got so much closer with everyone else. For Yasha, post-Obann was a new fear. The Nein had pursued her for so long, but they also made new friends, and what if the Nein had liked them more than they liked Yasha? It’s hard to feel like part of a group when you’re never there. Plus, she was helping someone raise a terrible god, and killing Beau’s co-workers, and while none of it was in her control, she did it.

The fact that the Nein forgave her? That Beau forgave her and still wants to be with her?

Yasha’s still not sure how she got so lucky.

This thought is reinforced with Beau in her arms as they walk through the forest to face a false god. Yasha loves to be able to help. Jester and Cad might be the healers, but Yasha loves the feeling of Beau’s small, lithe body in her arms.

She just wants to hold Beau forever, shelter her from any oncoming attacks.

It’s with this thought that she misses Beau giving Jester a thumbs up as they venture further into the forest.

Who needs subtlety?

----------------------------------------------

When Yasha catches Beau in the air with her new wings, part of her is sure it’s gonna tip off the rest of the group.

It’s so romantic. It was probably a beautiful visual.

Unfortunately, it seems like the rest of the Nein is either being incredibly dense or incredibly respectful, and Yasha’s too held up in her brand new wings to decide which they are.

She flies up and over the mountain with Beau swooning in her arms, and it’s perfect. The sun casts a beautiful golden haze over the island, and Beau’s skin shines in the sunlight.

Yasha might have the wings, but Beau is her angel.

Then the wings disappear and they plummet into a shallow pond.

Yasha’s not thrilled the wings last for such little time, but at least she gets to see Beau soaking wet from the pond, giggly and delighted at the flight.

In that moment, Yasha is overwhelmed with love. It’s too early to say, but she’s been in love before. She knows what that rush feels like, that off balance feeling of “oh shit I’m in deep”.

A small secret, then. Something to unpack on her own time. There’s no need to speed it up, to burden Beau with this until she’s ready.

This love, it can be just hers to have for a bit. She’s allowed to want that.

Beau brings her back to herself, pulling her out of the pond and her own thoughts in one fell swoop.

Holding hands and giggling, they make their way to the edge of the cliffside, overlooking the mountain awash in sunlight. Looking out, Yasha is overcome and she leans over to give Beau a quick peck on the lips.

“I’m happy to have you here with me.”

“Oh? That true, sap?”

Yasha laughs, nodding her head and breaking eye contact, and leads Beau to the edge to point the way down back to their friends.

“We should probably head back, they’re gonna think we’re dead.”

They take a little extra time on the way down though since the Nein hasn’t noticed their other hints. It’s put to good use.

----------------------------------------------------------------

The day they visit Molly’s grave is when they give up any attempt to be subtle at all. Throughout Rumblecusp and the days after, their relationship has switched from being a complete secret to being something that they could easily explain if asked, but no one has outright asked them if they’re dating, so it just hasn’t happened.

Either the Mighty Nein is very dense or very respectful. Yasha’s sensing it might be half and half, because Caduceus had a very meaningful conversation with her about wanting things and patience, but Jester and Veth keep giving Beau looks when they think she should make a move.

Yasha and Beau talk about it at night. It’s funny to them that everyone keeps dancing around the topic. Neither of them is sure about where they got the idea that they can’t just ask, but it’s fun to just have this to themselves.

Until they go to visit Molly’s...no..Lucien’s? grave.

Yasha has a lot of feelings around Molly and his grave, and she’s not exactly thrilled by Caleb’s suggestion that they dig him up to get some answers to questions they don’t even know yet. Feels almost rude, to take a friend out of the ground to inquire about his personal life.

She mentions it to Beau, in a hushed whisper, and Beau attempts to stop Caleb’s focused energy by hinting heavily at it, but his focus is so intense that he brushes her, and Jester, who picks up on both Beau and Yasha’s discomfort, off.

He gets like that sometimes.

They teleport there, and Yasha is struck by how normal it looks. His coat is still there, though it’s blown off the stake they put in to mark his grave, and for a moment, she lets herself hope that he’s still there.

Beau’s hand finds its way into hers as they watch Veth and Cad dig up the grave, a thread of reality keeping Yasha tethered there, eyes locked onto the now empty grave.

She removes her hand from Beau’s, and instead moves it to the small of Beau’s back, pulling Beau closer to her for comfort. Beau’s body is tiny, but it’s something to grasp as they both figure out what this means for their future.

At one of the lowest moments since she regained her mind, Beau is there with her.

She squeezes Beau’s hand once. Beau squeezes back. They’re ready to tell everyone now.

----------------------------------

They tell everyone in Caleb’s fancy tower, after Yasha decides to throw caution to the wind and make a joke about Beau’s fancy sex mirror above her bed.

Jester and Veth are overjoyed, Fjord and Caleb both want to make sure they’re taking care of each other and won’t mess up the group, and Caduceus just nods happily, though they’re sure he knew all along.

As they sit around the fire, Yasha and Beau link pinkies and bask in the laughter and joy of their family.

Things will be okay.

#critical role #beauyasha #beauregard lionett #yasha nydoorin

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atths--twice · 5 years ago

Text

Shelter in a Storm

Now I KNOW I’ve posted this before but it was months ago and seriously, we need all the happy we can get these days, am I right?

A prompt on Twitter stated: “I’ve read a lot of fics about M&S sharing a bed/tent/sleeping bag because it was cold... but a tree house?”

I mean... how could I pass that up? I hope you enjoy it. ❤️ Set during season 6, sometime in fall/winter. *shrug*

“I know it’s not ideal,” Mulder said above a crack of thunder and the deluge of rain. “But, at least it’s shelter.”

“Shut up, Mulder,” Scully growled under her breath, shivering in the cold air, her breath billowing out in front of her.

Glancing over, she narrowed her eyes at him and rubbed her arms harder, trying to bring some warmth into them. He was blowing into his hands, white condensation escaping through his fingers.

A tree house. A fucking tree house. How did they end up in situations like this one? In a tree house beside a currently empty home, in the pouring rain, night as black as pitch, and no way to get down, the little shits absconding with the ladder.

Three days in some tiny town, a case leading nowhere and local youths who had been hounding them since they arrived. A call had come in that a person was hurt and in need of help. A voice calling from the tree house turned out to be a recording, which they only discovered as the tall ladder was taken away and the group of youths laughed, carrying it with them running through the field.

“Little shits,” she muttered through chattering teeth, her hands in her armpits, hoping to gain some warmth.

“I have no service on my phone and I doubt they’d be able to make it out here in this weather anyway,” he said, and she rolled her eyes. He shone his flashlight around and searched the tree house, moving things about as he did.

Flashlights were the only lights they had and even those were too dim in the thick inky black night that surrounded them. Despite the fact that they were in a tree house, she had to admit that at least it was a decently constructed one.

It was not one made by kids looking for a fun few hours with scraps of wood, but rather a prefabricated one; though with an annoying lack of stairs. It was one floored room with built in shelves, storage bins that doubled as seats, and three small windows. There was a rug and a portable heater, which was more of a waste of space as it did not work.

Comic books, candy wrappers and empty soda cans, littered the floor along with the cassette player that had been playing the cry for help. Flipping up the collar of her coat, Scully shivered again, hating the town and wishing she could personally arrest each of those smug little pricks.

“Aha!” Mulder shouted and she jumped as she looked over at him. He had one of the storage bins open and was pulling a sleeping bag from inside. He threw it to her, the musty smell hitting her as she caught it.

Unrolling it, not caring about the smell, she unzipped it and wrapped it around herself with a shiver. He pulled another one out and set it aside, reaching back inside the bin.

“Look at this.” He held up two plastic bags with a smile. “They must spend a lot of time here, judging by these and the mess all around.” Opening one of the bags, he took out some hand warmers and handed them to her.

She took two of them, shaking them quickly, and they began to warm up. Holding them in her hands, she brought them to her cold ears and she sighed as thunder cracked and lightning flashed.

“I think we should zip the sleeping bags together and conserve body heat. It’s fucking freezing in here,” he said, unzipping his bag and reaching for hers. She let him take it and then held the hand warmers to her face.

Zipping them together, he cleared a space on the floor and laid it out. Taking off his shoes, he pulled the sleeping bag open and grabbed the plastic bags with a glance at her. She nodded and took her shoes off, setting them in a corner.

“Hand me a few more of those hand warmers,” she said, putting the two she had into her shirt, inside her bra. Taking more from him, she shook them and put them in her socks and then the pockets of her pants.

She slid inside the sleeping bag and he followed after adding the warmers to his socks and pockets. Leaving the plastic bags and flashlights by their heads, they both lay down on their sides facing one another.

“Little shits,” he breathed and she nodded, still hearing their laughter as they ran away. “I know it doesn’t really fix anything, as we’re still in this damn treehouse, but at least we have the limited supplies we have. Some jerky and chocolate bars too.”

“Mulder…”

“I know, Scully. They’ve been pushing and harassing us since we got here, but a call for help… how were we supposed to ignore it?” he asked and she sighed.

“I know. I do. It’s just…” Thunder boomed, cracking so close it felt as though it was right on top of them. She closed her eyes and let out a breath, waiting for it to stop.

When she opened them, Mulder was staring at her, and she sighed again. He lay his arm above her head and raised his eyebrows. She lifted her head and he moved his arm. Laying her back down, she scooted closer to him, his arm now being used as a makeshift pillow.

“I’m going to list the good and then you can say the bad, so we can have a tally for later when I will inevitably see that eyebrow raise with annoyance at this memory.” She scoffed as she moved even closer, seeking the warmth of his body.

“Okay… one: we made it up here before the rain started, so we aren’t cold and wet. Two: this tree house seems to be weatherproof, knock on wood,” he said, knocking the floor, causing her to laugh as her head bounced slightly. “Three: we have these sleeping bags and hand warmers. Four: there is some food to keep us from starving. And five… well at least we’re together and not shot or seriously injured while we have to hunker down with no cell reception.”

She shook her head against his shoulder, his arm moving to her back, as hers went around his waist. Another shiver went through her, though her feet and hips felt warm. Sliding a leg between his, his feet brushing her own, she sighed.

“Your… your turn,” he said, clearing his throat and swallowing hard enough for her to hear. She smiled, moving her foot to brush his toes, and his breath caught.

“My turn,” she breathed. “Hmm. Okay. One: we’re in a tree house and not our motel rooms. Two: it’s goddamn freezing in here. Three: we don’t even know if we will be able to get down tomorrow. It’s a long drop should we attempt to jump. Four: we don’t have any water. Five: we’re here together.” He exhaled and shifted, pulling back to look at her.

“That’s a bad thing?”

“Yes. Well, kind of?”

“Please explain that logic to me.” She laughed and readjusted her head on his shoulder, breathing in his scent as she tried to get warmer.

“It’s simple really,” she sighed. “If you were gone and I couldn’t reach you, this weather being what it is, I would be out looking for you. Ergo… it’s good and bad. Good as the heater is broken and we need the other for extra body heat. But also bad, as either of us would be out looking for the other, thus shortening the time we have to spend in this tree house and these musty smelling sleeping bags.” She took a deep breath at the end of her long explanation and he was oddly silent.

“Well…” he said after a few moments. “I can’t argue with that logic. Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?” she asked as lightning filled the room with bright white light.

“You would need the ladder and using it in a thunderstorm would be quite irresponsible as electricity is attracted to metal. So to borrow your word- ergo, one of us would still be up here as the other stood below, sans ladder or with a giant metal conductor waiting to kill us both, and soaking wet in the freezing rain.” He drew a deep breath of his own and she grinned.

“I see you’ve given this great thought.”

“I am quite brilliant. Oxford graduate, you know.”

“Oh, did you go to Oxford? I had no idea,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she rolled her eyes.

“Have I not mentioned it?”

“Not today, you pompous ass,” she replied, pinching his side. He jumped and she chuckled. “For an Oxford graduate you are, however, quite stupid at times. Who in their right mind would use a metal ladder in a thunderstorm? You ever hear of a wooden ladder, genius?”

“Ahh. Outsmarted once again. And by wood no less.” She laughed loudly and he pulled her tighter to him as thunder cracked so loudly it reverberated in her entire body.

“I don’t like this storm,” she whispered and he hummed.

“At least we’re here together,” he whispered back and she nodded, closing her eyes and pressing in as close as she dared.

“It belongs in the good column. You were right,” she murmured, suddenly very tired.

“I’m going to make you repeat that tomorrow when this awful night is over,” he said into her hair.

“Don’t hold your breath,” she whispered, falling asleep to the sound of his laughter.

___________

“Agents! Agents, you up there?” Called a voice and Scully’s eyes flew open. She was lying on her right side, Mulder holding her tightly, her back to his front. No longer cold, but very warm from the sleeping bags and their intimate position.

“Agents!”

“Hmm,” Mulder mumbled as she began to disentangle herself from his embrace and sit up. “What?”

“It sounds like the sheriff is down there,” she said, on her knees as she made her way to one of the windows. Opening it, she looked out and saw the sheriff and two of the boys from last night. Little shits.

“Yes, we are up here. No thanks to those two, plus two others,” she said sternly and the boys hung their heads.

“Yeah. We have the other two in custody for stealing a car,” the sheriff called up.

“Little horrible shits,” Mulder said behind her and she looked back at him. He was balling up the sleeping bags, shoving them back into the storage bin, and then reached for his shoes.

“We’ll have a ladder here shortly. Carl is on his way,” the sheriff called up and Scully looked back out the window.

“Thank you, Sheriff.” She nodded and closed the window, picking up her shoes. Taking the long cold hand warmers from her bra, pockets, and socks, she put on her shoes.

Mulder removed his own warmers and tossed his on the floor beside hers. Picking up the plastic bags, he put them on top of the storage bins and looked at her.

“Can I interest you in a chocolate bar?” he asked with a half smile.

“No, you’re buying me breakfast when we get out of this damned tree house. I want some pancakes and bacon. I don’t want to spoil that with old chocolate bars,” she said cheekily.

“Oh. I’m buying breakfast, am I?” he asked in surprise as he put on his shoes.

“You are indeed.”

“Hmm.” He grinned as she smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Seems you should be paying as my list was longer.”

“Yes, but mine was more sound. Ergo...”

“Ergo nothing. You told me I was right last night.”

“I would never.”

He tilted his head and she rubbed her lips together to keep from smiling. A metal clang was heard and then heavy footsteps as someone was climbing up towards them. The door on the floor opened and the sheriff popped his head inside.

“Y’all okay?”

“Perfectly fine,” Mulder said, his eyes holding hers for a second before looking at the sheriff. “Though we’re rather hungry. Can you recommend a good place for a conciliatory breakfast?”

The sheriff gave him a funny look but then nodded, disappearing back down the ladder. Mulder stood, hunched over, and took a couple of steps towards the door.

“Ergo…” he said softly with a smile, glancing at her with a wink before following the sheriff out the door and down the ladder.

She grinned and stepped to the door, already imagining platefuls of hot fluffy pancakes covered in syrup and butter.

#The X Files #XF Fanfic #Season 6ish #Sleeping Together #Sleeping Bags #Tree House #Thunder and Lightning #Rain #Cold #Cold Weather #Huddling for Warmth #Pros and Cons

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ryttu3k · 5 years ago

Text

Night Road quote text dump, because I've been deluging a friend with quotes and want a place to keep them all.

We're a bit like that, yeah:

They direct you to a hulking Malkavian named Severian, and the sullen giant directs you in turn to Gibberish Mike.

Fortunately, it turns out that "Gibberish" Mike is just Australian.

Practical concerns:

"That's it!" Elena says, leaning over your shoulder. "That's his yacht. Oh, and this is all about him. Very useful." She snaps a picture of the email with her phone, then the two of you get out of there before the technician returns. You head down the elevator and then back to Elena's Datsun.

You're so pleased by how well that went that that it takes you a few minutes to remember you're in Arizona.

"His yacht?" you finally ask.

Fun with bungalow ownership:

After a day of fitful dreams, you throw on your leather jacket and engineer boots and get ready for another night. You step outside to check your Integra. A neighbor parks next door in her Ford Super Duty and gives you a friendly little wave. You've been practicing this. You're ready.

"Howdy, neighbor."

"Howdy!" she responds before heading inside.

Fucking nailed it. You're one of them.

This is legitimately how I got the Messy Critical achievement:

You grab a hoe.

You rip through the underbrush with savage efficiency, staying a few steps ahead of the pushcart as Julian scans. You work in a trance, chopping and hammering. Only when you hear Julian shouting do you realize that you're holding a busted length of wood.

The head of your hoe is buried in the beautiful round black door of Prince Lettow's Rolls-Royce.

Raúlblocked:

You head to Raúl's place, but he's not there. You find a note hidden above the door that reads, "Problems in Phoenix. (Jesus Christ has returned? Stole a car?) Contact me right away for major jobs and I'll come back. Already missing you." And there's a ProtonMail address with some of the security contact codes you agreed upon earlier.

But it looks like Raúl will be occupied dealing with the Lord and His automotive crimes, and he won't be able to wander around Tucson with you.

Pattermuster doesn't get paid enough:

"Hello? What? Well, the blood can't be 'everywhere.' Surely that's an exagger—okay—okay, fine. Okay. Okay, I'll get—okay. Five minutes. What? No, Sissy Spacek. No, Sissy—you're thinking of Rosemary's Baby. No, Carrie had the prom scene. With all the pig's—yes, it was Sissy Spacek, I'm sure. That much blood? Jesus. Okay, hold—five—okay, five minutes."

Valid question:

Do they teach ax fighting at Quantico?

Julian Meyer:

"Man, it's been a while," Julian says, leaning against your door frame. "I remember the nights we spent keeping that elder asleep with offerings of blood, the days curled up together in the desert. Wasn't it romantic?"

"That never happened, Julian. You made up our relationship and tried to sell it as a novel until the old Prince of Tucson threatened to execute you." '

"Vampire romance was big at the time," Julian says with a shrug. "And I changed our names. I still don't know why no one wanted to buy it."

Dammit I thought I was done with uni:

"Awful," Dr. Caul says with a little shudder. "But now your real studies can begin."

Your real studies consist of a syllabus (thirty pages) and a trunk full of books (35,000 pages).

"Are you disappointed, Rook?" she says with a little laugh. "Were you expecting something more mystical? A bolt of cosmic enlightenment? A conversation with your Holy Guardian Angel, who would reveal the answers you seek?" She bangs the trunk as technicians get ready to load it into your car. "Get reading."

An enthusiastic boss:

You reunite with Pattermuster down in the morgue, where he's pumping his fists as a thin-blood on a gaming laptop watches with a worried expression because she can't tell if he's incredibly happy or insanely mad.

"Rook!" Pattermuster shouts, his eyes full of Blood, "you did it! You brilliant child, you did it! We're safe. Oh, thank God, we're safe." He pulls you into an embrace, then punches a brick wall because he's so happy, showering all three of you in dust.

I thought that was Finland?:

You catch all sorts of whispered gossip as you cross the rooftop garden.

"Camp Scheffler?"

"Gone. That Outlander courier had something to do with it."

"I heard the Russians helped the SI burn it down."

"That's ridiculous. There's no such thing as Russians."

Pot, kettle:

"Julian," the Eagle Prince says, "you will locate Reremouse with the equipment Vane brought. Once we find him, we will strike shortly before dawn. I have prepared a stake sufficient to pierce even his old hide."

"That easy, huh?" Julian says.

"No, but—"

"Your plan is ridiculous, convoluted, and dangerous," Julian says.

"And you have a better one?"

"Absolutely," Julian says. "We use Stonehenge to teleport him to Mesopotamia."

The must-have appliance:

He's a black outline in the glow of a single yellow bulb... and then the bats descend.

And then the bats get torn to pieces, because Pattermuster pulls his two katanas out of nothing and turns into an undead Cuisinart for a few seconds.

But aesthetic:

Leave it to a vampire to bring a sword to a gunfight.

It is pretty cool though:

"Oh my God," Julian says. "You're going to use the car engine to fling Prometheus into Reremouse's heart."

"Dammit, Julian, I am not doing this because it's fun. I am scrambling for every advantage I can because we only have one chance to stop Reremouse, and if we fail, the Second Inquisition will descend on us like wolves on a wounded deer."

"It's still cool," Julian mutters.

A e s t h e t i c:

The Camarilla looks unkindly on vampires who dress like Elvira, Mistress of the Dark, but what's the point of being dead if you can't look the part?

#JustToreadorThings:

You sleep badly and awaken to an aching and acute Hunger that crowds out other thoughts. But when you approach the Rolls-Royce, you find Lettow and Julian seated on a blanket, evidently in fine spirits. They're holding stainless steel mugs as they watch the last purple streaks fade from the western sky. There's something perfect about the composition before you: the two Kindred in their working clothes with their backs to you, the blue-black clouds, the faraway mesas framing the scene.

"I fear we've lost the Aesthete," Lettow muses. "Luka? Luka!"

It's just good sense:

A lot of keypads use 0911 as an emergency override for police and fire. That doesn't work, but a common default password causes the elevator doors to slide right open.

Change your defaults, people.

They draw the line at 31%:

Not all problems can be solved by putting a brick through a window, but at least 30 percent can.

Descriptive:

That's when your Nissan makes a sound like a bunch of typewriter keys dropped in a blender, and the whole truck lurches to a halt.

Munch munch:

"There are tags attached to all the payroll numbers," you say. "FNMA. PFC. What are they?"

"FNMA?" Antonio says. "That's Fannie Mae. The loan commission. Privatized in 1968. PFC…"

"Pavlodar Fried Chicken," Janet says. "Damn Commies."

Courier what did you do:

When you try to start your Mercedes, it vomits black smoke. That's not good. You kill the engine.

"Pop the hood," Julian says. "I'll get it up and running."

He checks the motor. There's a long pause.

"Did you melt a bunch of cheese in here or something, Vane?"

“I remember crawling out of a Nieuport 20 outside Gibraltar," Prince Lettow says. "The engine looked like that. Of course, ours had been on fire."

"Engine looks like Vane fed a bunch of sardine cans into a paper shredder," Julian says.

Almost!:

So Lettow is cute. I'm going to talk to him and see if he might be interested in a handsome young courier who almost has his own car.

Scientist life:

A beaker of cold coffee on her desk has a pencil in it; she flicks the pencil away and drains the entire beaker, then looks you in the eyes.

Domesticity:

"Wow, Vane," the Banu Haqim says, "did you finally settle down. Where's the wife and kids? Why don't you get me a beer, and we can talk about football and quote some Bible verses at each other?"

I really want to know where the fake werewolf came in:

"...so the whole fucking Cadillac is on fire, and I'm kicking and kicking, trying to get the window to break!" Dove says.

"Right, right, because —" You're trying to follow this story, and it isn't easy.

"Because I'm still handcuffed to the guy who was pretending to be a werewolf, right. And I finally kick through the window, rip half the dead fake werewolf's arm off to get free — I'm out of my fucking mind now, with all the fire — and I finally crawl out of the car."

"And get clear before it — do they blow up?"

"Escalades? I dunno, probably not," Dove says. "But anyway, I'm finally clear, so I run across the parking lot, laughing because I'm just thrilled not to have met final death chained up to that guy. And I barely have time to look up before Lettow comes screaming around the corner in a Ford Bronco with the lights off and runs me over. I was in the wrong Cadillac the whole time."

"No!"

"Two black Cadillac Escalades in the parking lot of the Marriott," Dove says. "How was I supposed to know which one — anyway, that's why I don't get to drive anymore. That's why Lettow wants assholes like you driving."

"Driving what?" you ask. "Because I need a car."

Dove shakes her ugly head. "I'll get you something. Give me a few hours to work on it, and I'll send someone to find you."

Cars are everything:

You still don't know how Julian plans to go from "divert a few funds and data streams from the Camarilla" to "transform the global information panopticon in a way that ends the Masquerade but keeps vampires safe," but he has a nicer car than last time, so he must be doing something right.

Guys please be nice to Raul:

"There appears to be a vampire hunter outside," he says, "investigating your electric vehicle."

"Send your bird to peck his eyes out," Julian says. "I'm not going outside until I find my sneakers."

Cheese?:

Over the next few minutes, you cough up a glorious wad of bullshit involving MKUltra, the Philadelphia Experiment, Star Wars (the movie), Star Wars (the Reagan-era government program), Jackson Pollack's CIA connections, the history of federal cheese, and the secret mastermind behind the seventies gas crunch.

In fairness it's a pretty rare sound:

You're way up in Limberlost, near the mall and the Walmart, when Riga settles on the roof of a Safeway. You reverse into the parking lot in case you need to get out fast and scan the cars at the pumps. It looks quiet. Then you hear a faint ringing.

The sound is musical, hypnotic. It reminds you of your childhood, and for a long time you just sit there in the driver's seat, remembering what it was like to be alive. But what is that sound? What memory from…?

Oh, right.

The pay phone next to the ice merchandiser is ringing.

It's a skill!:

Not every member of Clan Toreador joins their august ranks because of their great beauty or artistic genius. Some people end up vampires because of their extensive knowledge of Adobe After Effects.

Big Pirates of the Caribbean energy:

"I'd kind of like to give Lettow here a horse and a sword and let him tear through an entire police barracks," Julian says. "Tell me that wouldn't be fun."

"One thing I learned from Napoleon," Lettow says, "is that the most powerful cannon is useless if you cannot see your target. We know the location of one small encampment. That isn't enough to start shooting."

"You knew Napoleon?" Julian asks.

"Napoleon was my horse," Lettow says.

#vampire the masquerade #vtm night road #vtmnr #vtmnr spoilers

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mhafiction · 5 years ago

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Rain, Cats, and Coffee

Pairing: Shinsou Hitoshi x Reader

Fluff

Synopsis: The fake-dating trope on a small scale with a dash of the rainy-day umbrella cliche. And there’s a cat cafe.

Note: Hitoshi is one of my favorites! I think this fic makes him look a little nicer than he actually is, haha -K.

Another slow day in class. Being a general studies student didn’t really carry the same allure of working as an aspiring hero, but you tended to look on the bright side of things. You always wanted to work in the hero course, but with a quirk like yours. . . well, let’s just say it was basically unheard of. You peeked at the window, watching the gloomy, overcast sky. You prayed that the weather would stay amicable enough; walking in a storm was rarely ever pleasant. As if on cue, a deluge of heavy rain pattered onto the school roof, the sound almost completely drowning out your teacher. You giggled, casting a glance to your desk mate.

Shinsou Hitoshi. To be fair, outside of school, you two weren’t terribly close. You didn’t really hang out on weekends or walk home together. But Hitoshi was your confidant, and the sole person who got you through class . You looked forward to the little interactions with him every day, whether it was a conversation before a lecture or a shared smile at a joke only the two of you knew. Hitoshi was a serious and aloof sort of person, but he had a sense of humor that only you seemed to see. The blunt and deadpan type. Everyone wondered how you got him to trust you and open up to you so quickly. The truth was, you both had the same ridiculous ambition: to be a hero. You found his quirk fascinating, and though you’d never say it out loud, you had developed quite a crush on the purple-haired boy.

Shinsou gave you one of his strange grins and nodded towards the teacher, handing you a note. You opened it and suppressed a laugh at Hitoshi’s rendering of him: a grotesque caricature. He had written below the picture in barely coherent writing and you tried to decipher it. BLEHG Y/N I’M DYING. I hate this class so much. How’d you do on the test yesterday?

You thought a bit, then quickly scribbled your response. The teacher turned around at the wrong minute and cocked an eyebrow at the two of you. He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Y/LN, Shinsou, if you have time to pass notes back and forth, I’m sure you have time to answer this question.”

When the bell rang, you almost bolted out of your seat, giving Shinsou a small wave. You had a study group after school, and as you opened the door to leave, you remembered the rain. Damnit. You watched other students open their multicolored umbrellas and bustle home. You rifled around in your bag for yours.

Wait, what? Where is it???

You dumped the contents of your bag out onto the ground. It wasn’t there. Great. Now I have to walk over to the cafe in the rain. Not deterred in the least, you held your bag over your head and took off running. The cafe was new, reportedly a cat themed one with cute little beverages and snacks. You had never been to the place, but as a lover of everything cute, you knew that it was meant for you. It’d be nice to enjoy a warm drink with some friends! Your phone buzzed.

Hey, I’m sorry guys I can’t make it to the group tonight. We had a club meeting I just found out about.

Oh you too?? I have a project I need to finish in the workshop today. I can’t go either

Ah, support course students. They didn’t seem to get any sleep. Well, that left you with-

Sorry! I’m home sick :(

Really?? Her too? You sighed. Well, you were already here. Might as well look at what they have.

The menu hung in the window, sufficiently cute enough for you. Latte art of cats, pastries in the shape of cat paws, cute little cat-pun names. The piece that pulled it all together was an introductory poster displaying all the cats that resided within the shop, each of them with little accessories. Your eyes caught on a couples deal they had. Pay half the price for the largest drink on the menu and get two free pastries on the side. What a deal! And so easy to exploit. If only your friends had been with you, then you really could have feasted like kings.

Still mulling this over, you noticed that the rain suddenly stopped. You looked up. No, it was an umbrella. You looked behind you, locking eyes with Shinsou. “Ah, Y/N. Where’s your umbrella?”

“I forgot it at home.”

“Oh, be careful. You could have gotten sick. If you ever need to, I’d be happy to-“

“Can I treat you to a drink, Hitoshi? Or maybe a snack?” You smiled. He was suprised, and it showed. Rubbing the back of his neck, he turned his head away in an attempt to draw attention away from his blushing face. “Oh, why not?”

“Okay, but we have to pretend we’re a couple.”

Shinsou choked. “What?” You were still smiling as brightly as ever. Not even embarrassed. Hitoshi was going bright red.

“Just go with it.” You grabbed his arm, putting away the umbrella. He stammered a little, flinching at your touch. But he couldn’t say no to you. Small droplets of water had collected on your hair. It was cute, he had to admit, and it’s not like he really minded having you cling to his arm like that. Or the fact that you had invited him on a date to a cat cafe. That was literally his dream date. Wait, was this a date? It didn’t matter. He was happy just to spend time with you.

The hostess looked up at the two of you, smiling a welcoming hello. You two signed some waivers and agreed to a time slot. You stated your orders to the hostess. “We’ll have your couples discount, ma’am.”

“Of course! You two are so cute together by the way, such a beautiful couple.”

You smile, looking over at a flustered Hitoshi. He grinned at the hostess. “Thank you.”

“How long have the two of you been together?”

He flicks his gaze to you. “Oh, I’ve lost track. Do you remember, kitten?”Though, he did seem to be enjoying himself. You almost burst out laughing at the pet name.

Once you were properly settled in, you apologized to Shinsou .

“I’m sorry to spring the whole fake-date thing on you,” you giggled, sipping your (very large) drink. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Shinsou smiled. A small kitten had fallen asleep in his lap, and he gently stroked it. How could he be upset at you? “It’s okay. I’ve been meaning to come to this place for a while, anyway.”

“Still, I do feel kind of bad though!” You whined. “Why didn’t you tell me you don’t like sweets?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah, yeah. You like cats.”

“I like you, too.”

You looked back up at him, a little taken aback. Hitoshi grimaced. Did he say that out loud? Oh no.

Now you were going to think he was weird and clingy, and he’d have to go back to being that quiet hermit boy with a villain quirk. He just had to go and say something like that, huh?

“I like you too, Hitoshi!”

Hitoshi tries to hide his shock, and smiles. Good. You hadn’t thought he meant it in that way. He resumed his attention to the kitten, nibbling a bit on his crossaint. You watch him, taking in how calm and at ease he looked. It was nice to see him in his element. His eyes meet yours for a second, and you shoot up, looking around at the cafe. “Aha, look at this calico Hitoshi. She’s so cute!”

A cafe worker approaches the two of you with a decorated camera.

“Excuse me, would you two like to be on our photo wall?” He gestures to an overwhelmingly cutesy display near the counter. Lovers and friends with bright beams were pictured on every little Polaroid, decorated with stickers and phrases. You looked over to Hitoshi, who shrugged. Turning back to the worker, you nodded. “Yeah, sure!”

“Okay! Perhaps a kiss for the two lovers?” He lifts up the camera eagerly.

You freeze. Shinsou laughs. “Sure thing, mister.”

He leans over the table, eyes meeting yours. Was he really going to ...?

When you don’t pull away, he gives you a peck on the cheek. The camera flashes, and the worker lets out an ‘awwww’. He sighs, handing you one of the shots. “Young love!”

The picture sure came out nice. You touch your cheek. And the kiss wasn’t half bad, either. Shinsou watches your every move, worried that he had overstepped. You weren’t saying anything, and he couldn’t quite read your expression.

Once you finished your drink, you made an attempt at banter, which he half-heartedly returned. Usually, you two had no trouble talking, but their was a certain weight that hung in the air. Soon your slot was up, and you decided to head home.

As the two of you walk out into the rain, Hitoshi grabs your hand.

“Hey, Y/N.” You tense up a bit. Shinsou looks down at his feet.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have... you know.” He blushed, and you kept yourself from scooping him up in a hug then and there. Why are you so cute, Hitoshi?

“Don’t worry! It’s payback for the fake-date.” You winked, patting his hand gently. You kept it there for a little while.

Shinsou still seemed a bit bothered. He breathed in deeply, mustering his courage. He had to tell you. Now.

“Well, the thing is I do really like you. But not in the way you think. I just think...you’re pretty, and smart and just amazing, Y/N.” He looks at you, eyes shining. “I think you’re brilliant. And I love spending time with you, and sometimes I think about-“ he falters, growing a bit timid. “K-kissing you.” He stewed quietly awaiting your response. You seem to be in catatonic shock, and Hitoshi worries he’s ruined your friendship for good. He sighed. “I love you, Y/N-“You laugh, uproariously, and he’s a bit offended. Were you making fun of him? Mocking his feelings for you? He didn’t peg you as so heartless.

But before he can say anything, you pull him into a kiss. It’s soft and gentle, and it feels so right. Hitoshi lifts you up, pulling you deeper into the kiss till it turns into a frenzied passion. The rain falls hard and your umbrella is abandoned on the ground for the time being. You pull away, just for a moment, to breathe. He looks ethereal, covered in raindrops and looking into you with those beautiful eyes. You wished that there was a way to get a moment tattooed to your body. Hitoshi Shinsou, the boy you had been crushing on since you met him said that you were pretty. And brilliant. And he had just kissed you. Twice!

You press your forehead to his, sighing with contentment. “I love you too, Hitoshi.”

#shinsou x reader #shinsou hitoshi #shinsou x y/n #bnha shinso hitoshi #mha shinsou #mha x y/n #bnha x reader #mha #bnha #bnha x y/n #mha x reader

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skinsharpenedteeth · 5 years ago

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Truth or Dare - Halloween fic

Hey there! Here’s a Kinktober prompt fill and the prequel to a College AU 5+1 I’m planning. I guess it’s a little unkind to Maria? I don’t know. I don’t hate Maria, but I could live without her character. No body is dating anyone in this, so it’s not that kind of Maria unkind. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy it! Definite smut after the cut.

Kinktober prompts filled: Nipples/petting, Costumes, Getting Caught, Body Modification Words Count: 7.5k AO3

It was nearly midnight on Halloween and Alex was *over* frat/sorority mating rituals. The first half of the party had been drunker-by-the-minute sorority girls offering to help him experiment with his sexuality in case he ‘wasn’t sure’ that he was really, really gay and the second half had been bro’s approaching him after their girls had whispered about him to test if he was really, really gay. Once the herd had been assured he was super duper gay and not willing to perform party tricks to prove it, he’d been left blissfully alone. Well, sort of blissfully. Alex was bored out of his skull. He’d been leaning against a hallway wall for the better half of an hour sipping rum and coke and people watching.

Maria had drug him here under the false pretense of introducing him to someone from her Algebra class only to have them mysteriously not show up. Now she was holed up in a corner dressed like a vintage playboy bunny and talking to some curly haired dude bro dressed as a caveman while Alex drank alone and stared lasers through them. He could be working on homework or picking up a shift at the 24/7 diner right now…or sleeping! The dude bro would catch his eye every so often and give him frank, curious up-and-downs, until finally he seemed to say something to Maria about it because she turned and looked at Alex, rolling her eyes. Oh, hell no. A few minutes more of close conversation between them and with a put-upon sigh, Alex watched Maria make her way over to him.

“You’re being creepy,” she announced, sipping her drink casually as she mirrored his position and leaned against the wall to face him. Alex rolled his eyes and proceeded to scowl at her.

“Well, it is a Halloween party,” he deflected, sipping his own drink and cringing inwardly at the idea that Curly Caveman might think he was a Creepy Gay.

“Yeah, but you’re a pirate on the look out for some booty, not a ghoul. Go find someone to talk to or to not talk to. I should have this,” she indicated Curly Caveman with a backward jerk of her head, “finished within an hour or two and then we can go back to the dorm.”

Curly Caveman was walking over to them and Alex tried to ignore how little the animal print loin cloth covered of him. Alex tried not to memorize every inch of him, but his brain was not cooperating. Maria, while being self-centered and completely unreliable, had excellent taste in boy toys. Curly Caveman slid up next to them and eyed them both with a cautious smile. He turned to Alex and gave his costume a good once over.

“Dread Pirate Roberts?” Curly asked, smiling appreciatively.

“At your service,” Alex flirted. He couldn’t help it. Technically Maria had called dibs, but she could literally fuck anyone at this garbage fire of a party and he wanted to have a little fun too.

“Alex, this is Michael. He belongs to Alpha Alpha Beta. We have Composition together. Michael, this is Alex, my best friend since junior high,” Maria introduced them. They did the head nod acknowledgment thing at each other and then awkward silence descended on the group.

“Hey, why don’t we go upstairs? Michael has a room here. Maybe we could play a game or something? It’s just so loud down here and I’d love to be able to get to know you better” Maria suggested, a mischievous glint in her eye as trailed a finger down Curly’s naked torso. Curly Caveman—Michael‐‐ looked consideringly at the crowd around them and nodded.

“Lead the way,” Alex commanded, waving them towards the stairs across the room. He thought he saw Michael look between himself and Maria and take a bolstering inhalation before turning and starting for the stairs. Alex had an excellent view of his ass and thighs as he started climbing the stairs ahead of him. What he could do with those wrapped around his waist….

“Ow!” Alex exclaimed after a sharp elbow found a soft spot on his ribs. He looked sharply at Maria who was glaring at him.

“I see that look in your eye! He’s mine, Alex. He’s obviously straight. We’re going to drink a little, play a game or something and then you’re going to excuse yourself for twenty minutes so I can get to know him better alone. Deal?” Maria whispered insistently. Alex gave her a sharp look in return.

“Maybe. Maybe you should excuse yourself in twenty minutes and I’ll get to know him better. You owe me for dragging me to this God forsaken hetero garbage fire so if you’re not laid in the next half hour, you’re taking me back to the dorm and then you can come back or whatever on your own. Tonight was not cool of you,” Alex retorted. They’d stopped at the top of the stairs and now Michael was at the end of the hall standing in front of an open doorway watching at them curiously.

“Like you would’ve done anything else with your night, Mr. Responsible. You’re twenty and in college, this is what you’re supposed to do with your weekends in case you forgot!” Maria whisper yelled at him even as she smiled charmingly at Michael down the hallway.

“You guys still want to hang up here?” he asked, looking uncertainly between them. Alex watched Maria put back on her flirty girl face and saunter over to him. Alex rolled his eyes as he saw the extra hip she put in her walk as she approached Michael’s room. He wanted to cut her bunny tail off and stuff it down her throat for putting him through this. Sighing, he followed and nearly jumped out of his skin as Michael put a hand on his lower back to help usher him into the bedroom. He caught Michael’s eye over his shoulder and nearly died at the shy little smile and wink he gave him.

“Come on in, darlin’. Hope the floor is okay? My roommate is pretty territorial about his bed and stuff,” Michael explained, not breaking eye contact with Alex for a long moment before turning back to Maria. Well, well, well…

They gathered in a circle on the carpet with their drinks. Alex reached up and pulled off his mask and head scarf, throwing it next to himself before taking a long swig of his drink. Then he went ahead and took off his leather gloves. Michael was watching him from across the circle and he pointed to his boots in clear question on if it’d be okay for him to take them off. Alex figured he might as well get comfortable. The rum and coke, though barely making him feel floaty and buzzed, had definitely made him feel hot in the close confines of the party downstairs and he was enjoying being able to shed some of his costume to help cool down.

“You guys want to play truth or dare?” Maria suggested, sitting on her hip with her body angled so if Michael wanted, he could get a very thorough view of her cleavage in the costume. Michael looked at her and smiled, glancing over her and then back to Alex. Alex swallowed at the heat in his eyes, but he wasn’t sure yet if it was for Maria or for him that the heat was there. The bedroom was lit only by a weak lamp on top of a desk by the window. It smelled like sweat and old laundry and cheap detergent…and rain. Not like mildew or wet cloth, but the smell of the air minutes before a deluge started. Alex took a deep breath and hummed an easy agreement to Maria’s plan, noting that Michael had waited on him before doing the same.

“So Michael….truth or dare?” Maria started, smiling and fluttering her eyelashes. Michael smiled and his eyelids lowered as he flirted back.

“Truth,” Michael answered, glancing between the two of them. Alex smirked back at him for his answer and Maria looked slightly disappointed but shrugged it off.

“Okay. I’ll start off easy. How old were you when you lost your virginity?” she asked, sipping her drink and looking at him thoughtfully. He looked a little taken aback at the question and Alex jumped in quickly to save him.

“Wait, what are the rules? If we refuse a dare or truth or whatever, what are the consequences?” Alex interjected before Michael could answer. That stalled them for a moment and Michael gave him a grateful look as he took a nervous sip from his red Solo cup.

“Hm… How about if you refuse to answer a truth you have to do a shot? If you refuse a dare, you have to take off a piece of clothing?” Maria suggested, looking at Michael like a shark stalking a fish. Michael laughed and looked down at himself.

“I guess I better not refuse any dares for awhile then,” Michael replied with a smirk. She seemed to take that as a challenge and Alex groaned inwardly. Michael obviously didn’t know Maria very well if he thought she’d let him get away with that.

“So then… do we have anything with which to do shots?” Alex asked, looking around the room as if a bottle of liquor was just sitting conveniently on a shelf ready to go.

“Uh…” Michael stuttered for a second, looking blank before reaching under his bed and pulling out a mostly empty bottle of jalapeno vodka and looking sheepish as he offered it to them.

“Uhm, no. No, no, no. My mom owns a bar and absolutely not,” Maria said, waving her arms and shaking her head for emphasis.

“It’s not that bad,” Michael protested, laughing at her.

“Yeah, I’d be happy to drink it and I don’t plan on backing down from a challenge. If you don’t like it, you could go grab something from downstairs?” Alex suggested, trying to look innocently over at her while also thinking about having Michael to himself for a few minutes.

“Ugh, fine. We’ll finish this off and then maybe get something else,” she conceded, grabbing the bottle and putting it in the middle of their circle. “So Michael, as you were saying….”

“Uh, what was the question again?” he asked, leaning back onto his hands and looking much more relaxed than earlier. He wasn’t a super hairy guy, but Alex wanted to run his fingers through the dark hair on his chest and stomach. Leaning back put his body at a very good angle for ogling.

“How old were you when you lost your virginity?” Maria prompted, looking expectant.

“13,” he answered shortly, not seeming to want to elaborate. Alex wondered what the story was there.

“Very precocious,” Maria commented, smirking and looking over Michael’s body lasciviously. He gave her a somewhat brittle smile in return.

“Okay. Alex,” Michael said, switching his attention from Maria’s eye-fucking stare to look at Alex directly. Alex hummed in acknowledgement and set down his drink. “Truth or dare?”

“I dare you to French kiss Maria.”

“Gross,” Alex replied tonelessly to which Maria let out an indignant yelp. “Sorry, Maria. I love you, but I’ve got a lot of clothes to go before I have to start giving in to stuff I don’t want to do.”

Alex immediately lifted his black, blousy pirate shirt up and off his body, tossing it next to him where he’d thrown his mask, head kerchief, and gloves. Michael was watching him, an appreciative grin on his face as he looked over Alex’s bare torso. Alex wasn’t as buff as Michael, but he’d spent too long living in a military household and competing on the swim team to be considered scrawny,so he knew he didn’t have anything to be embarrassed about.

“Oh wow, you have your nipples pierced?” Michael exclaimed, leaning forward on his hands and knees so he could look closer at Alex’s chest. Alex grinned knowingly over at Maria as he leaned forward and stuck out his chest to let Michael look at the silver bar bells through his nipples. She rolled her eyes and shook her head, mouthing the words “he’s straight!” at him over Michael’s shoulder. Alex mouthed a sardonic “O-K” at her before turning his attention back at Michael whose hand was hovering inches from his chest.

“Can I touch one?” Michael asked, a little breathless and obviously fascinated. He hadn’t seemed to notice the silent conversation Alex and Maria had conducted over his head.

“Sure, you can,” Alex all but purred. Michael pressed his hand to Alex’s chest, the space between his thumb and forefinger framing one of Alex’s nipples. Slowly, he slid his thumb under the bar, not quite touching it, but gauging Alex’s reaction. Alex bit his lip, holding it between his teeth as he stared at Michael’s inspection of his body modification. Then he was pulling his fingers together, pinching the end of the bar and pulling the bar gently away from Alex’s body. Alex sucked in a breath, but held down any other sound, teeth pressing harder into the soft flesh of his bottom lip. Michael let the bar go and fall back against Alex’s chest before dragging his thumb down over the center of his nipple. Alex had to shift at that because this was starting to feel way too good to stay innocent.

“Wow, are your nipples like super sensitive now or were they always sensitive?” Michael asked, looking up at him through his eyelashes. His thumb was still sweeping over Alex’s nipple and it was driving him a little bit insane. Michael definitely knew the effect he was having on Alex.

“They, uh… they’re actually a little less sensitive now, but they’re still pretty sensitive in general,” Alex breathed, trying to keep from pushing into Michael’s touch with Maria staring daggers at him.

“Yeah, when Alex was in junior high his nips were so pointy. You’d always see them through his shirts and it became a thing that people would tweak his nipples in the halls between class. He would get so embarrassed,” Maria offered, obviously feeling ignored and malicious. Alex turned to her with a controlled blank expression and blinked at her, completely embarrassed she’d bring up that little bit of his personal history to someone he’d just met. He knew he was blushing but refused to acknowledge it and give her the satisfaction.

“That must’ve sucked. I was fat in junior high. Kids that age are the fucking worst,” Michael offered, sitting back on his side of the circle, also blushing slightly. He gave Alex a small smile of understanding and Alex melted a little bit inside.

“I did fine in junior high,” Maria replied, sipping her drink. Alex felt a flash of anger roll through him at her comment and decided it might be time to get a little petty. She had done ‘fine’ her whole life.

“Truth or dare, Maria,” he asked, noting that his voice was a little tight.

“Dare,” she replied, smiling like she knew he was going to try and embarrass her back if she chose truth.

“I dare you to lick every doorknob out in the hallway. Every. Single. One,” he dared, watching her face scrunch up in disgust.

“Ugh, gross,” she replied, looking over her shoulder at the doorway and considering it.

“Feeling chicken?” Alex taunted, watching her over his drink which was starting to run a little low. He knew Maria couldn’t stand backing down to a challenge like that.

“No! Fuck you. Michael, do you have mouthwash?” she asked even as she stood up, adjusting her bodysuit. Michael laughed and nodded before getting up himself. Alex followed after Michael offered him a hand and helped pull him up from the ground. They followed her to the doorway to watch her complete the dare. She stomped across the hall in her ridiculous black heals and immediately bent over to lick the doorknob. She shrieked in disgust and then went down to the next one. There were seven doors on one side of the house and six on the other. Alex felt Michael rumbling chuckle behind him as he pressed part of his chest against Alex’s back while they hung out the doorway watching. Alex felt a tentative hand press against his lower back and when he didn’t startle or remove it, he felt Michael’s hand smooth over to his hip and then up until his nimble fingers sedately started playing with his nipple piercing.

“You’re playing with fire,” Alex warned him in a low voice that wouldn’t carry to Maria who was about halfway done with the doorknobs.

“Am I?” Michael responded; lips close enough to Alex’s ear for him to feel the slight heat of his breath. “Maybe I like it hot?”

Alex turned and gave him an accessing look, trying to figure out if he was serious or just being a cock tease. He decided to test the idea a little further and shifted his hip minutely, rubbing the swell of his ass over Michael’s loin cloth covered crotch.

“Want me help your make the bed rock, Flintstone?” Alex ask coquettishly. Michael snorted, but let his hand drift to rest on Alex’s large leather belt.

“Looting for some booty, Pirate?” Michael responded, bouncing his crotch off Alex’s ass playfully. Alex groaned at the joke but couldn’t deny that his stomach was tightening in response to their flirtations.

“That was terrible,” Alex laughed softly, looking over his shoulder affectionately at Michael’s grinning face.

“What was terrible?” Maria asked breathlessly as she tottered over to them from the last door to Michael’s. She looked a little unsteady after running around and bending over every few feet, but still cheerful.

“We’re exchanging puns,” Alex explained blandly, even as he felt Michael’s hand drop away from him and his body shift to let Maria back into the room. Alex tried not to feel so disappointed at the loss of contact, but he knew it was necessary. That thought didn’t calm his racing heart though. Alex sucked in a breath and straightened his spine before he turned back to the room. He could see Maria in the rooms Jack and Jill en suite bathroom already swishing mouthwash like her life depended on it. Thinking about the habits of frat dudes, Alex surmised it just might.

“We still playing or what?” he called from the door, shutting it behind him as he made his way back into the room. Maria held up a finger and spat the blue liquid from her mouth into the sink before coming back into the room and immediately picking up the jalapeno vodka and taking a large mouthful of it. Alex and Michael watched her with twin looks of impressed shock on their faces.

“That was by far the grossest shit I’ve ever done, but no one can say I’m a bitch that doesn’t follow the fuck through,” Maria announced after she’d swallowed the vodka. She took another long pull before recapping the bottle with an expansive sigh of relief. She looked down at the bottle in her hand for a moment before looking back at Alex and Michael. “This shit really is pretty good.”

“I told you!” Michael exclaimed, excited someone else agreed with him about the alcohol.

“You guys are nuts,” Alex said laughing.

“Alright, alright, alright. Settle in, let’s keep this going,” Maria announced, relatively elegantly slipping down into a cross legged sitting position on the floor while still holding the bottle in one hand. Michael and Alex followed suit and when they were settled Maria turned back to Alex.

“Truth or motherfucking dare, Alexo,” she challenged, eyes squinting menacingly. Alex wasn’t falling for it.

“Dare,” he chose, sitting back on his hands and watching her unfazed.

“I dare you to finish this bottle,” she announced, shaking the jalapeno vodka at him. He eyed it warily but judged that it maybe had a double shot worth of liquor left.

“Sure, hand it over. Does that mean you’re going to go get us another bottle of something else to finish the game with?” he asked, taking the bottle from her offered hand.

“Sure, but I have to see you drink that first,” she said, narrowing her eyes. She knew he hated the taste of jalapenos. He liked other peppers just fine, but jalapenos made his lips curl.

“Fine,” he agreed, unscrewing the top. He tilted his head back with the bottle and opened his throat, letting the liquid just slide down into him, barely touching his tongue before he was swallowing it. It was over in a second and he grimaced as he set down the bottle.

“Yuck. You guys are lying liars. That shit is disgusting,” he remarked, looking around for the trashcan. Maria was giggling at his discomfort, but Michael was staring at him with eyes a little wider and pupils a little bigger than they had been a moment ago.

“Your face is the best! Jesus, that was worth it,” Maria crowed next to Michael, laying her hand on his thigh in an ‘innocent’ attempt to steady herself after her fit of laughter. Michael grinned and laughed a little too, but his eyes didn’t leave Alex’s.

“Okay. I’ll go grab some booze. Don’t get bored without me,” she commanded, standing up and wiggling her hips at Michael as she sashayed out of the room. The door shut behind her and left Alex and Michael in relative silence.

“Michael, truth or dare,” Alex said quietly as soon as he was sure Maria wasn’t going to come right back. Michael stared at him with heat and knowing in his eyes, a smirk perking the corners of his mouth up.

“Dare,” he challenged, still smirking.

“Hm… I dare you to piss on your suitemate’s bed,” Alex dared, not really expecting Michael to do it. Michael full on smiled at him before standing up and taking a step closer to Alex. He ran his thumbs under the waist band on his loin cloth before pushing them down past his hips and letting them fall to his feet, leaving him gloriously nude and only a foot away rom Alex’s watering mouth. Alex looked up at him with a raised eyebrow and a small, knowing smile on his face.

“I don’t have a death wish,” Michael answered, cocky grin still in place. Alex shifted to his knees in front of him, his hands landing on Michael’s thighs and rubbing up and down them as he stared up at Michael with blatant hunger in his eyes. Michael was half hard in front of him and getting harder. Alex was really hoping he was about to become a notch on this guy’s bedpost.

“Are you just fucking with me?” Alex asked softly when Michael grasped himself and started stroking his cock slowly right in front of Alex’s face. Alex almost went cross-eyed trying to watch his hand smoothing up and down over his thickening shaft.

“What do you mean?” Michael asked, hand slowing as he looked down at Alex seriously.

“This isn’t your gay experiment is it?” Did Alex really care if it was, he wondered? The way his pants were beginning to feel uncomfortably tight and the fact that he’d been unconsciously leaning closer to Michael’s naked body said ‘no’, but he wanted to know exactly what he was getting in to.

“Hell no. I’m bisexual. Practicing bisexual. Experienced bisexual. I know what I want,” he finished, reaching out his unoccupied hand and curling his fingers under Alex’s chin. “Which is definitely you if you’re up for it.”

“I’m up for it,” Alex agreed quickly, shuffling closer on his knees and shooing Michael’s hand away from his dick so Alex could grasp it, angling it towards his mouth where he immediately gave the underside of the shaft a long, thorough lick with his tongue before closing his lips around the head and sucking. He swirled his tongue around the crown, a full-body throb going through him at how turned on he was to be doing this.

“Oh shit,” Michael groaning, hand immediately resting on Alex’s shoulder for balance. Alex hummed and set to work with his tongue and lips, trying every trick he knew in an effort to drive Michael up the fucking wall. He pushed himself, relaxing his throat and taking Michael in deep over and over again as he stroked and gently tugged at his balls. He let his hand creep further back, massaging Michael’s perineum, before stroking a dry, questioning finger over his asshole. The noise Michael made was shockingly desperate and his hips jerked forward choking Alex for a moment.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Michael apologized above him as Alex came off him coughing and wiping at his eyes.

“It’s fine. I surprised you. Have you ever…?” Alex asked, petting Michael’s hole gently while his other hand slowly stroked him, Alex’s spit smoothing the way.

“Fuck, yes. Have you?” Michael asked, pushing back lightly against the pressure of Alex’s fingers.

“Only a couple times…. Do you want to?” Alex asked, feeling a little shy at the question. Michael nodded enthusiastically and backed away, walking over to his bedside table and opening the top drawer. He pulled out a condom and some lube which he tossed on his bed before turning back to Alex with a grin.

“Well, get up here!” he said, and Alex realized he’d been frozen in shock. This was not how he expected this night to turn out. Michael’s utter confidence and enthusiasm towards being fucked was… surprising. Hastily he stood up and approached Michael by the bed.

“I know this is a little backwards, but…” Michael started before cradling Alex’s head in his hands and rushing forward to kiss him. Alex responded immediately and with enthusiasm. He opened his mouth and almost swooned as he felt Michael’s tongue sweep over his, inviting him to respond. He did, following Michael’s lead, and his hands started wandering over the expanse of Michael’s skin at his disposal. He found himself trying to pull Michael closer, over and over, hands on his waist, his back, his ass, just trying to keep him close. Michael, for his part, was trying to get Alex’s belt and pants off, but Alex’s insistence on keeping them pressed together kept hampering his progress. Finally, Michael had to break their kiss to talk.

“If you don’t let me get your pants off, this isn’t going to end the way we want it to,” he said, breathlessly as Alex’s mouth simply moved from his mouth to his neck and was biting and sucking the flesh there. Alex came back to himself, nodding wordlessly and bringing his hips back far enough for Michael to finish the job of getting him naked. His mouth, however, he couldn’t convince to leave Michael’s skin. He felt his waist band loosen and the fabric of his pants and underwear drop to the ground. He kicked the offending garments backwards, not paying attention to where. Then Michael’s hands were sliding against his skin and pulling him back against his body.

“Fuck, you’re distracting,” Michael commented as he backed up until he could sit on the edge of the bed. Alex planted a knee on the mattress to follow him but was stopped by Michael’s tongue smoothing over a nipple and quickly being covered by his mouth. He hissed in pleasure and pushed his hand into Michael’s curls, cradling the back of his head and holding him steady. Michael hummed in pleasure and palmed Alex’s ass as he teased the tightened flesh.

“Bite it,” Alex gasped out, watching Michael’s mouth work on him. Michael met his eyes through his eye lashes and Alex saw the flash of white as his teeth grasped the flesh and pulled, letting the skin scrape achingly slowly as it was released. Alex cursed and his cock, which had been mostly ignored, gave a desperate throb at the pleasure-pain mix. Michael, spurred on by Alex’s reaction, immediately switched to the other nipple and gave it the same treatment. Alex grabbed himself and found he was leaking precome already from the attention. He smeared the sticky fluid around the head of his cock and stroked downward as Michael kept sucking and biting at his chest, making his nips puffy and swollen against his skin. He felt himself getting embarrassingly close to coming from just the feeling of Michael’s mouth on him.

“We gotta stop, fuck,” Alex said desperately, tightening his hand in Michael’s hair but not pulling. Michael stopped and looked up at him, confused. “No, not all of it. But I’m going to come if you keep doing that and we didn’t get that lube out for nothing.”

“You were about to come from just me playing with your nipples?” Michael asked in awe, looking like he’d like nothing but to dive back in and see that scenario play out.

“Yes, you’re very, very good with your mouth,” Alex huffed out the compliment with a laugh as he put his hands on Michael’s shoulders and pushed him playfully to lay back on the bed. Michael pulled himself back until he was laying on the mattress and beckoned Alex to follow him, spreading his legs immediately to allow Alex in between them. Alex leaned down to kiss him, hands smoothing down the sides of Michael’s ribs and waist, just enjoying touching him for a minute. When he came up for air, he reached over and grabbed the lube from beside Michael’s pillow. “You still sure?”

“Yes, fuck yes. Please and thank you,” Michael said with a grin. He flipped over and grabbed his pillow, jamming it under his hips before spreading his legs wider for Alex.

“Jesus, yes you are,” Alex mumbled to himself, turned on at how into this Michael seemed to be. He grabbed the condom and rolled it on before slicking up his fingers. He started slowly by rubbing small circles around Michael’s hole to spread the lube. He leaned forward and trailed kisses over Michael’s shoulder and back. He pressed inward with a finger and then backed off, trying to slowly work him open.

“Dude, I fingered myself in the shower like three hours ago. You can move a little faster than that,” Michael said over his shoulder. Alex’s brain stalled out on the image of Michael in the shower, wet and soapy with three fingers up his ass and his hand on his cock.

“Jesus,” Alex whispered, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against Michael’s shoulder blade. He pushed a little harder with his finger and found that it did sink in quite easily. Michael gave out a soft moan at the feeling and Alex decided to press his luck. He withdrew his finger and came back with two, still pushing in easily but not so easily he wouldn’t need to stretch Michael a little more. “You can’t be real.”

Alex pumped his fingers in and out of Michael, scissoring them and twisting his wrist slowly. He withdrew and added lube before starting to press back in with three. He took this more slowly and Michael seemed to appreciate it. He was moaning more loudly, his body pushing back against the pressure of Alex’s fingers, the muscles in his back flexing and relaxing as he tried to chase his own pleasure against the pillow beneath him.

“You ready for me?” Alex asked after a particularly loud groan from Michael. Alex hoped so, he was still on edge from Michael’s mouth on his nipples and now the absolutely pornographic sound of Michael’s vocalizations as Alex pumped his fingers in and out of him.

“Yes! Get in me!” Michael directed, sounding almost frantic. Alex chuckled a little and withdrew his fingers before he shuffled his body forward on the bed. He positioned himself, rubbing the head of his cock through the mess of lube at Michael’s hole, before beginning the push inward. He took it slow, pushing in and retreating several times before he was able to press his hips flush against Michael’s cheeks. Alex let out a heavy breath, panting slightly as he tried to get through the initial bliss of being so tightly wrapped in another person. He leaned forward and settled his weight on his hands to either side of Michael’s ribs. Before he could ask if Michael was ready, Michael took the lead from him and started shifting his weight below him. After the first couple of times, his movements became surer and Alex found himself watching as he started to fuck himself back on Alex’s cock in precise, fluid movements. When he squeezed his rim as he pulled away, Alex let out a gasp and one of his hands went to Michael’s hip to steady himself.

“You’re just going to do all the work down there?” Alex asked breathlessly as he let Michael continue to work himself back and forth on Alex’s cock. Alex was utterly turned on by how desperate Michael seemed to get fucked, how ready he was to take what he wanted, and how fucking hot he looked doing it.

“You didn’t seem like you were going to get to it, so I thought I’d start without you,” Michael teased through a pleasure filled groan. Alex bent down and bit his shoulder lightly, making him moan again at the sharp feeling.

“Then I guess I’ll have to start doing my fair share,” he responded before drawing back onto his knees and grabbing Michael’s hips to pull him up as well. He started thrusting in a counter rhythm to Michael’s backward pushes, making their skin slap together loudly as he was buried over and over as deeply as possible. Michael was swearing softly under his breath, his hand under him working his cock to the feeling of Alex filling him so completely, his cock pushing over Michael’s prostate and winding him up.

“You feel so fucking good, Michael,” Alex groaned as he tried to stop himself from just rabbitting into the man below him. His body was a hot velvet clutch around Alex’s and he found himself getting lost in the heady feeling of it.

“Fuck, you’re ruining me,” Michael moaned beneath him sounding impossibly turned on and needy. Alex privately agreed that Michael was ruining him also. They were getting close, moaning getting louder and more frantic as their bodies chased each other’s movements. Michael was back on his stomach with Alex’s gripping his shoulder as he made sharp, pointed thrusts that had Michael white knuckling the sheets in ecstasy. The door suddenly banged open and startled both of them into freezing, bodies pressed tightly together as they looked to see who had broken in.

Maria was standing in the doorway with a bottle of rum and a mutinous expression on her pretty face. They stared at each for a long moment, Alex trying his damnedest not to move, but feeling like he’d probably start fucking Michael again soon if they didn’t end this stand-off. The feeling of Michael around him was almost too good to waste in a pointless conversation.

“Goddamnit, Alex,” Maria started, walking further into the room and slamming the bottle onto the desk at the end of Michael’s bed. “You promised you wouldn’t do this again!”

“Again?” Alex asked, wracking his brain, trying to remember to what she was referring. He was feeling a little dumb since most of the blood in his body was not centered in his upper half.

“Again?!” Michael asked incredulously, looking over his shoulder towards Alex and then back at Maria. The movement shifted him away and back onto Alex’s dick. It was only an inch, but it made Alex’s stomach muscle clench in an effort to stay still. He squeezed Michael’s shoulder in warning, earning him a small squeeze of Michael’s rim in retaliation.

“You remember Valenti?” Maria asked, crossing her arms over her chest and waiting for his response.

“Kyle was going through an experimental phase. I was helping a bro out. Besides, you had no claim on him!” Alex defended himself, a little affronted she would bring up something so far back in their history now. That had been freshman year of high school and it was just a kiss.

“You knew I had a crush on him!” Maria exclaimed, stamping her foot angrily.

“Still not a claim. Besides, you ended up dating him like two weeks later and you thought he was boring! It’s not like you lost out in the long run,” Alex pointed out. Michael cleared his throat below him, the tightening of his abs doing wonderful things to the parts of him surrounding Alex.

“While this is fascinating and I would love to explore your competitive hooking up history, I would like to point out that Alex is actually inside my body right now. Right this minute he is deep, deep within me. And as much as I’m enjoying the feeling of being high cock warmer, I’d also like to come sometime tonight, so…. Can we finish this in like ten or fifteen minutes?” Michael asked, seeming a little blasé about having Maria stare at them while they were connected and in such a compromising position. With less alcohol or maybe if it had been someone else, Alex was sure he’d be dying of embarrassment and probably be in the bathroom trying to figure out an escape route, but he couldn’t fathom pulling out of Michael at that moment just to save a little face.

“More like twenty. Someone here took my head out of the game. It’s almost like I’m going to have to start over,” Alex joked, pushing his hips forward a little and earning himself a grunt and playful slap on the thigh from Michael.

“Not til she’s gone,” he teased back, looking oddly soft as he stuck his tongue out at Alex over his shoulder.

“Ugh, guys are the fucking worst. Alex, you’re the fucking worst. We’ll have words about this later and you can find another ride back to the dorms!” she yelled, grabbing the bottle of rum and storming out the door, furious that they’d started to ignore her.

After the door slammed shut there was silence.

“Well, that was awkward,” Alex commented. Michael pulled forward and off his dick, getting to his knees and turning around to face him. Alex held his breath waiting for his response. Was it too much? Had Michael decided the exchange was too awkward for them to keep going? God, Alex prayed not.

“She’s the one who took forever getting the rum. She could’ve joined in if she’d gotten here earlier,” Michael joked, wrapping his arms around Alex and beginning to kiss his neck and jaw.

“Gross. You may be bi, but I am super gay. I love her, but no. So much no,” Alex commented even as he tilted his head back to give Michael’s mouth more access on him.

“So much no?” Michael asked, biting at the prominent cord in his neck and letting one of his hands pinch and tug at one of Alex’s nipples.

“Fuck, yes. Yes to this,” Alex breathed, moaning and wrapping his arms around Michael, hand immediately going behind him to play with his stretched, slick hole. “But so much no to her.”

“Lay back for me, then and we’ll get back to where we were. I don’t stop for pedestrians,” Michael whispered against his skin as he pushed Alex’s hands away from him. Alex laid back on the bed and Michael straddled him immediately. He reached behind himself to hold Alex’s cock and line it up with his hole before lowering himself down.

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good. Your cock is perfect,” Michael moaned, tilting his hips in a shallow grind against Alex. Alex whined at how good it felt, his hips rocking up in counter point to Michael’s. Michael’s hands came to rest on his chest, catching Alex’s attention before he said breathlessly, “Hold on, darlin’.”

Michael lifted his body and started a brutal pace with his hips. Alex almost couldn’t keep up, but he bent his knees to plant his feet so he could thrust up as best he could. He did hold on, his hands going to Michael’s hips and he bounced on Alex’s cock, his hand jacking himself over Alex with abandon. He looked so good chasing his own pleasure. He looked confident and lost in the sensations he was experiencing and Alex was mesmerized by the sight of it.

“Fuck, just like that. I’m going come,” Michael bit out, a high pitched whine pushed out of him as his cock started to spurt onto Alex’s chest and stomach, his ass clenching over Alex’s cock and wrenching an orgasm out of him at the same time. That had never happened to Alex before and it was almost too much for him.

When it was over, they collapsed against each other, breath heaving from their chests, bodies sweat soaked and sticky, ebbs of euphoria flowing through their muscles. Michael reached down while Alex was still recovering and, holding the condom, slipped his body off of Alex’s so he could lay down on the bed next to him, shoulders overlapping in the small twin.

“We should do that again,” Michael commented once he’d gotten his breath back. The tingling feeling that had taken over Alex’s body made him feel come drunk and dopey.

“Tonight?” Alex asked, wondering if he had the strength to have that good of sex for a second time in 24 hours. Weren’t there universal laws about that much pleasure in so short a time?

“Well, sure. But like, some other time too. Maybe after dinner or a movie or something,” Michael suggested. Alex felt his body go cold. He didn’t date. He was too fucking busy to date. He was working every possible odd job on campus to pay for school since his dad had cut him off for not following the family legacy. So he didn’t date. He didn’t do parties. This was such an anomaly for him to even be out tonight. He cringed at the necessity of what he was about to say, knowing it was going to ruin the afterglow of their activities.

“I can’t. I don’t date. This was fun, but it won’t happen again,” Alex explained, sitting up suddenly. He needed to go. He stripped the condom off and looked around the trash bin. Michael rolled to his side behind him and rubbed a hand over his back comfortingly.

“Are you not out? Cause I can be ‘just bro’s with you if it’s—” Michael started, but Alex cut him off. He’d finally remembered where the trash can was and tossed the condom into it.

“No, it’s not that. I’m absolutely out. Fuck closets. No, I just don’t have the time. It wouldn’t be fair. Look, it’s not a big thing. Maybe I’ll see you around campus sometime?” Alex said in a rush and tried to offer some unlikely run-in as a placation. He stood up and grabbed his pants from the floor, pulling on his underwear and then them quickly. He grabbed for his things off the floor without looking up at Michael. He could feel his silence like an oppressive weight on his skin and the judgement radiating from the bed didn’t help the claustrophobic feeling coming over him.

“So that’s it? Fuck ‘em and forget ‘em?” Michael asked in an angry, hurt tone. Alex turned and looked at him, anger starting to rise in him in response.

“Like you learned how to fuck like that being a monk? It’s a hook-up at a party, Michael! You don’t even know me,” Alex spat out, pulling his shirt out of the mass in his arms and pulling it on with angry jerky movements.

“I just thought there was a connection there, but ya know, you’re probably right. I’m probably just a cock-slut with dependency issues. Shit, and they say frat bros are fuck boys,” Michael mumbled the last bit under his breath as he too got out of bed. He headed over to his dresser and yanked out a pair of boxers, shoving his legs into them and then up his hips before facing Alex again. “Have a nice life, Alex.”

“You too,” Alex bit back, turning and leaving the room. He had to stop on the stairs to put on his boots, but he didn’t stop after that. He walked right out of the frat house and towards the dorms. It would be a long walk, but he wasn’t too worried about it. The longer he walked, the worse he felt about what had happened with Michael. He should’ve handled that better. Ruefully, he stopped and looked over his shoulder back towards the house and swore he could see someone standing in Michael’s window. Sighing, he turned and started walking again. It might’ve been nice, but it wasn’t to be. Alex reminded himself for the next two miles that he didn’t have room in his life for anything more, no matter how good the sex was or how addictive the smell of rain against his skins seemed to be.

#kinktober 2020 #malex #malex fic #rnm fic #roswell nm #college au #kinktober #alex manes #michael guerin

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eury--dice · 5 years ago

Text

history, huh?

chapter 4: proxime

check the notes for links to other chapters and ao3!

(also would like to note a general cw for alcohol and child abuse in this chapter - see ao3/message me for more detail and please be safe and avoid if necessary)

Adam kind of wanted to go back and slap his former self before he could announce anything was “perfect.”

It was only once the turkeys were deposited in his room by blank-faced handlers that he began to regret his decision. The turkeys stared ominously at him, eerily silent for all of five seconds before they started to move and gobble.

And they didn’t stop.

SOS, he texted Ronan simply, receiving a lone question mark in reply.

iMessage chat to HRH shitty bird boy

Resumed 28 November, 2019, 12:36 am

It’s the turkeys. I saved taxpayers needless expense and now they’re going to peck me to death.

told you to stop playing the hero, Parrish.

NOW IS NOT THE TIME

CORNBREAD IS EYEING ME

Some support would be appreciated here

i’m going to assume that cornbread is one of the turkeys and not a sentient loaf of cornmeal?

No, Your Highness, I’ve been performing a complicated experiment involving a snack to see if it can gain intelligence. The crocheted eyes appear to be working.

No shit, Sherlock, good assumption.

And excuse you, in the South, we make cornbread with real corn.

if you’re going to jest don’t include hobbies that seem plausible

The science experiment or the crocheting?

both.

When would I do either of those?

fuck if i know, that’s your business.

Oh shit oh shit oh shit

Meatloaf is gobbling again.

Is gobbling a precursor to attack?

Would google it but I’m too afraid to take my eyes off of the dinos.

gobbling is widely known as a war declaration amongst turkeys

i’m surprised a smartarse like you wouldn’t know this.

Oh, fuck it, Adam thought, and before he could talk himself out of it and resign himself to a night of gobbling, the dial icon had been tapped and the glass of his phone felt cool against his hearing ear.

“Have you ever shared close quarters with a turkey?”

Adam could feel Ronan’s unimpressed silence through the phone. “No, I have not. Why the hell would I?”

“Privileged,” Adam muttered. “You don’t know how sadistic these turkeys are.”

Cornbread chose that moment to gobble rather loudly and antagonistically. Adam’s eyes snapped to the bird, his muscles freezing in pure fear. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“Christ,” Ronan said, and his tone had softened somewhat. “Did a turkey make that noise?”

“Yep,” Adam breathed.

“That is not natural,” he insisted. “What the fuck?”

“I told you!”

A squawk sounded on Ronan’s end, and when Ronan spoke his voice was a great deal gentler than it had been. “Good baby, your noises aren’t demonic…”

“I’ll assume you’re not speaking to me.”

“Fuck no. Every word out of your mouth comes straight from hell.” There was a muffled rustling nose, something that was probably feathers against skin.

“Your bird?”

“Raven. Keep up, please.”

“Ravens are birds,” Adam said, but it was probably futile. “What’s its name again?”

There was a brief pause on Ronan’s end. “Her name is Chainsaw.”

Adam’s voice fell flat in response. “Chainsaw.”

He heard a kerah. “Something wrong with that?” Ronan said, his accent drawing out the o in ‘wrong’ like it was already a guilty verdict .

“It just doesn’t seem very...royal. Or bird-like.”

“It’s a good cry better than cornbread and stuffing.”

“I didn’t name them,” Adam defended. “Blame the American people.”

“But I already blame them for so much.”

“Add it to the laundry list.” Adam flinched back as the other turkey squawked deafeningly.

It was the first time he and Ronan had spoken on the phone, and until then, he hadn’t even realized it. All it took was Cornbread’s evil gaze to snap him into reality.

Silence settled between them for a moment. Adam barely dared to breathe between the awkwardness of his conversation with Ronan and his clearly impending doom at the hands of something only distantly related to dinosaurs.

“If you get mauled by those turkeys, may I give the eulogy at your funeral?”

Adam snorted, drawn back to the feeling of the phone clenched in his hand. “Ignoring the fact that I’m the son of the President and you’re the Prince of England, absolutely.”

“Good. I’m already drafting turkey-related jokes.”

“Don’t you dare dishonor me by bringing up the cause of my demise.”

“It’s a good thing Cornbread will have clawed your esophagus out and you’ve no possible way to object.”

“Jesus.” Adam shivered. “Now I have a third part to my nightmare.”

“I would trade you Chainsaw, but she goes for the eyes and I have the feeling you’d rather keep those.”

“Your feeling is correct.”

“Also, I would fucking die for her.”

“...Strong feelings, apparently, for a bird that doesn’t seem royal-approved.”

“That’s half the reason I love her,” Ronan admitted. “Most definitely not approved.”

“Just like your tattoo?”

The line went quiet for a moment. “Yes,” Ronan finally said. “Just like my tattoo.”

That line was back, and Adam inched ever-closer to touching it with his toes.

“No trade, then. I’ll just slowly perish alone in my room. If this causes a fiasco in the press be sure to make fun of me properly.”

“Of course,” Ronan said, just as Stuffing let out a deafening gobble. “Can’t you get Sargent to intimidate them into silence? Or, wait, is it charming them into liking her? I can’t figure her out from your description.”

“Knowing Blue it could be either,” Adam admitted. “And she’s...busy.”

“Busy how?”

“Back in Virginia busy.” Adam stretched out his shoulder, keeping a wary eye on the turkeys.

“Virginia? With family?”

“Most of her family is Maura, and she’s still here,” Adam hedged, weighing the little he knew about the Sargent family with what he could say to Ronan. “But yeah, of a sort. Thanksgiving’s a rough time of year. She’s trying to help out, even though it’s not technically where she’s from. Raising money, ensuring shelter, I think she’s even got a protest planned.”

“Different shade of Sargent, then.”

“Same shade,” Adam corrected. “Different circumstances.”

Ronan hummed on the other end of the line. Adam scrambled for words, trying to lighten up the air. Stuffing squawked as though to mock his tied tongue.

“She’s been busy for the last few weeks, anyway.”

“What type of busy would this busy be?”

"Just start a new sentence. You sound ridiculous." Ronan stayed silent to his jab, clearly electing to ignore him. “...Date busy.”

“Good for her,” Ronan said, but he must have heard something else in Adam’s silence because he continued. “Wait. No. No fucking way. Not with Gansey?”

“Yes with Gansey.”

“Wow, third wheeling’s gotta be even more fucking awkward, huh?”

“God, I hope not.”

“The way you described them I thought they’d never wake up to it.”

“Me too,” Adam said. “And I’m thrilled for them, but I’m also very offended that their feelings are getting in the way of saving me. Gansey went with her.”

“Oh, you drama queen. Just sleep in Gansey’s room if the gobbling is that bad.”

“They can escape, Ronan, I swear to you. They’re like the raptors-”

“They’re named after fatty foods. You’ll be alright. Go the fuck to sleep.”

“...Yeah, alright. But you need to sleep too.”

“Wouldn't dream of letting you sleep alone,” Roman replied, his tone dry. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

As Adam let his phone fall onto his pillow, Stuffing chose to bash her wings against the cage. After almost falling out of his bed in fright, Adam quickly decided that Ronan might have been onto something about sleeping in Gansey’s room.

If he made it through the night, he owed Ronan a thank you.

***

Christmas rolled around with a mighty fervor.

It felt like one moment, Adam was sitting back down in class after Thanksgiving to crack down on some new essays, and the next he was watching evergreens and pine decorations get thrown up along White House walls in perfect synchrony.

The normal White House Christmas was an ordeal, one that did its best to stress family but mostly stressed political strategy. Nothing changed that year to make it different, but they did have a smaller affair in addition to all the festivities. Christmas Eve was, in many ways, the eye of the storm. An extreme amount of chaos was behind them, and a deluge to follow come Christmas morning, but Christmas Eve dinner was dependable, private, and blessedly relaxed. Adam, somehow, found himself looking forward to it.

He sat on one of the staircases - it really didn’t matter which one, as they all blent together, only distinguishable by where they could take him - with the decorations hanging around him and a book in his lap. For once, there wasn’t any work, and even the most work-centered version of himself was forced to concede and enjoy a few hours of pleasure reading. He had grabbed the first book he could find off of his shelf and set off. Apparently, his hand had gravitated towards Fahrenheit 451. Not exactly light enough to match the twinkling reds and golds he spotted in his periphery no matter how he turned, but a personal choice all the same.

“If you keep sitting on staircases, someone is going to walk into you,” came Gansey’s voice from behind him.

“It’s their fault for not watching their way,” said Adam. “I’m sitting with my back to them. How am I expected to know?”

“By not sitting on staircases,” Gansey repeated. The air rustled as Gansey lowered to sit on the step next to Adam. “Some nice, light reading?”

“Yes. Everything okay?”

“Grand. Mostly just avoiding Helen unpacking and my parents stressing over napkin rings.”

“Gansey Christmas sounds wonderful,” Adam said dryly. “I assume they’ll all be here tonight?”

“Of course. They’d never miss it.”

“Helen is well?”

“Fantastic, apparently. Primed to get engaged soon, she says, and the helicopter’s got a new paint job.”

Adam could almost forget how much the Ganseys looked like a new Kennedy-like dynasty, but their swarming every year always reminded him. Their Christmas photos, too - always at DC landmarks, bleached teeth and ghost-pale skin and all-American born and bred grins. And the occasional snap stories from Helen of her mid-piloting a flying vessel didn’t help.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, not surprised to find the words genuine.

He got to see the Gansey family anxiety for himself only a few hours later, donned in an ugly Christmas sweater Blue had insisted on. Mr. Gansey cast a discerning eye around the room while Mrs. Gansey smiled tightly at his side, dressed pristinely. Helen chatted idly with Blue, though Blue looked prepared to bolt at a moment's notice.

“Ho-ho-horseshit?” Maura questioned, snapping him away from his reverie and gazing around like a caged animal. Her eyes traced over the pattern on his shirt.

“Blue’s homemade gift,” he said by way of response, to which Maura only sighed heavily. Her sudden appearance reminded him he had a task to perform, the small handled bag digging into his palm suddenly given a purpose. He held the bag out to Maura with a small grimace, watching one of her eyebrows quirk. “I was told to give you this.”

Maura withdrew an identical sweater from the bag. “Sending you to do her dirty work, hm?”

“I suppose so.”

“Hm,” was all Maura replied, until she lifted her analytical gaze to him. “Thanks, Adam,” she said, and in one of the greatest surprises of the night, slid her arm over his shoulders and drew him into a quick hug. “Now sit down. We’ve gotta start wrangling dinner if we want this to end before midnight.”

Adam took his place next to Gansey at the smaller table, unfolding a napkin and laying it across his lap. The gals at the table slowly began to fill in as Gansey chatted about the recent tabloid conjectures.

“The youngest is back in the tabloids, you know, trying to get him on drug use again.”

“Oh, really?” Adam muttered, eyes scanning idly over the periphery of the room. His eyes snagged on the Christmas decorations, simpler than the majority of the White House decor. A few string lights here and there, hanging baubles, the occasional pile of fake snow. His finger tapped at the stem of his empty wine glass.

“Last time he disappeared for public for a while. Heaven knows if that’ll happen again.”

He felt an itch inside his deaf ear, one he knew he wouldn’t be able to reach. “Disappeared?”

“Yeah, just...gone, no public appearances…”

It was a vague memory, or perhaps a memory of a memory. Just a snatch of something that made the hairs in the back of his neck stand up. He tried to focus on Gansey’s words, but all at once they started sliding around, unclear and blending with the too-loud noises of dinner being served. A cacophony of clacks and laughs and voices. His head burned.

Gansey’s voice lowered. “Are you alright, Adam?”

He scooted his chair backward quickly, muttering something like “back in a minute” to Gansey before rushing away. He felt eyes on the back of his head, but he didn’t pause or slow until the door to his bedroom shut firmly behind him and he leaned against it, completely alone.

“Parrish?” Ronan’s voice said in his ear, low and urgent, and oh. Adam hadn’t even realized his phone was in his hand, much less that he’d managed to press Ronan’s contact or raise it to his ear. He did briefly remember the ringing, but then words were falling out of his mouth and he didn’t waste any more brainpower on how he reached that position.

“I don’t want to…to bother you,” Adam said, and only someone who had known him for a long time would know how much it took Adam to say those words despite the fact that it was a mantra in his head repeating infinitely. Blue, who had known him since the age of five, had heard him say it only a handful of times. Gansey had heard it perhaps a handful more, though that was mostly because Adam felt strangely indebted to Gansey no matter how much he tried to change it. Ronan should not have known, but Adam had a feeling he would anyway. “You hate phones and it’s Christmas Eve and-”

“Adam,” Ronan said abruptly, and the use of his first name stopped him short. “It’s two in the morning. I’m just with Matthew. Talk.”

“Hi, Adam,” came a cheerful voice, somehow sounding like an even better picture-perfect British monarchy member than Ronan or Declan. “Ronan’s told me everything about how he-”

Adam missed Ronan’s ensuing muttered comment, something that most likely resembled a threat, but soon the voice that Adam assumed to be Mathew let out a trailing laugh, the sound growing fainter as he likely moved away from the phone.

“And fuck you!” Ronan called, with his mouth moved away from the receiver, before his attention returned to Adam. “He’s gone now.”

“It’s okay,” Adam said. “I didn’t mind.”

“I know,” Ronan said simply. “But I thought it might be easier. Now go.”

“I-I just,” Adam fumbled with his words for a moment, his free hand curling into a fist on his thigh. He felt, strangely, like he was back in Aglionby PE class trying to participate in a football scrimmage. He’d always come just short of catching the ball. He’d known what he was supposed to do, where his hands were supposed to go, the sequence of events following the initial contact, even the proper footwork. But whenever the ball reached him, he felt the disconcerting motion of closing his arms around nothing, always a second too early or too late, leather slipping from his arms like butter in a hot pan. “Couldn’t be at that dinner any longer.”

“Why?” Ronan asked, and it was a good question, a good question that Adam had avoided so many times over he barely knew how to respond. He almost deflected like he always did, but Ronan asked the question differently than everyone else. There was no expectation in the question, no real drive to know the answer other than making Adam feel better, no guarantee of hearing the full truth or any version of the truth at all. Why. Why respond now?

“I was little,” he said, and fuck why did he go down this road at all? “And everything was overwhelming when I was little, and everything is overwhelming now, but it’s even more overwhelming at Christmas.” Ronan didn’t say it again, but still, it traveled across an ocean to hover over Adam uncertainly. Why?

“I don’t remember a lot about it. I don’t know if that’s because of...how it was, or just because I was so small. Younger than three, I think.”

“I barely remember anything from then,” Ronan said, the closest thing to reassurance Adam had received from him.

“Yeah,” Adam said. “Yeah. I guess. But I remember...I remember the double-wide. The great American double-wide in the great American trailer park with the great American alcohol and the great, raging American father.”

Ronan’s breath shifted ever so slightly.

Adan screwed his eyes shut. “I don’t...my mother wasn’t there. But she was the one who put the Christmas lights up. I couldn’t stop staring at them. I can still remember...they made the tan wall look almost golden. Just where the lights touched it, of course.” His voice trailed off, realizing how tangential it sounded. Softly, he added “I don’t know why I remember those lights.”

“Our minds remember random things,” Ronan said, perhaps to bring Adam back to the story.

“Yeah,” Adam agreed, blinking quickly. “Yeah. He didn’t...he didn’t like that. Me looking at them, I mean. So he...he took them down.”

The silence pressed in at his ears, threatening to close in on him just like walls.

“I see,” Ronan said.

“And he…” Adam swallowed, feeling his Adam’s apple scratch tightly against his neck. He pressed his free hand to his deaf ear. “I don’t remember a lot after that, either. But the bulbs were...hot. It was freezing inside, so they should have been, too, but they were lightbulbs, I guess, and so they were hot. At some point, I fell into a railing. It burst my left eardrum.” At that moment, he could feel that second in startling clarity - pinpricks and needles and blood vessels dancing on his skin, sharp, pointed, wild attacks, and the loudest noise he’s ever heard in his life, making him collapse to the ground and forget everything else. Pain, bright and white and flashing and throbbing in time with his heartbeat until he wanted to melt into the floor. Adam was the better part of two decades removed from it, and still, the thought of that moment made his stomach turn over and over.

Adam knew he didn’t imagine Ronan’s intake of breath then.

“And my mother got home, and when she saw we left and never came back.”

The walls pressed closer to him until Ronan said “Well, shit. Fuck. Jesus.”

Adam brought his hand to his mouth, pressing it until the pressure began to ease up in his gut. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, muffled against his fingers.

“No, shit, Parrish. Don’t you dare apologize.” There was a quick exhale, something that sounded like leather sliding down a headboard. “That’s what you remember of Christmas?’

“Yeah. I don’t - I don’t remember a whole lot.”

“Well, thank God for that.”

Not even Blue and Gansey knew that story. They knew the vague details, of course, how his smiles turned tight around the White House decorations and he preferred to slip into his room early on holidays. And that Robert was the reason for his being deaf in one ear. He could just never get the entire story out around them.

Telling Ronan about it was easy, though, in a way that it shouldn’t have been. He was supposed to hate Ronan, even if it became more clear with every passing day that he was far from hatred.

“I guess I should. It’s not like I’ve done any of that in a long time.”

“You don’t have to.” A slight pause. “I can.”

Adam tried to keep the doubt out of his voice. “You can?”

For a brief moment, Adam thought Ronan might hang up on him. But then he said, “Can I tell you a secret, Parrish?”

After everything I just put on you, you could tell me a thousand secrets. You know I’ll keep every single one. I’m trusting you with a story that no one else knows, that no one else will ever know. I could do nothing less than keep your secret.

All he said was “Of course.”

“You know my Irish father? My Irish storytelling father? My Irish-Catholic father?”

“Right.”

“He passed down more to me than just his Irish stories.”

It took Adam’s brain a moment to catch up. “I...see.”

“All three of us...well, behind closed doors, that’s what we practice. Believe. Whatever shit you want.”

“Right. So no… C of E.”

“On the record, of course. Off the record...no. None at all.”

Adam hummed in response. He couldn’t think of what else to say.

“So...I will. If that’s okay.”

“Yeah. Of course.” A knock sounded on the door, sounding suspiciously like Gansey’s familiar tapping. He rose slowly, crossing to fall onto his bed. “I should probably let you go. Don’t want you to have too prolonged contact with any screens.”

“Disgusting,” Ronan said. A beat passed. “Are you a bit better?”

Adam shut his eyes, feeling the tension coiled in his chest ease up slightly. The line between the two of them materialized at his feet, on the backs of his lids, and he could nearly touch it with the toe of his shoes. “Yes,” he admitted. “Thank you.” And of all the words for Adam to say, they were the easiest and hardest to accomplish.

“Thank you,” Ronan said, and if Adam didn’t know any better he would think the words sounded harder to say for Ronan than Adam. But the line clicked and fell dead before Adam could say anything. He stared at the phone for a moment until the screen switched off from disuse, leaving him in the dark. Only then did he stand and cross the room to perch on the edge of his bed.

Gansey’s head poked through his doorway. He hesitated as though asking for permission, and Adam nodded.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt anything."

“It’s fine,” Adam hedged. “We were wrapping up.”

Gansey fell heavily into Adam’s desk chair just as he always did. “Everything alright?”

“Now it is, yeah.”

He seemed to be trying to put all the pieces of the puzzle together. “That wasn’t Noah, was it?”

“No, of course not.”

Gansey nodded once. “So it was Ronan.”

“What?” Adam sat up a little too quickly, blood rushing to his head. “Why would you say - how do you-?”

“You don’t exactly have a wide circle of friends. Guessing is easy.”

“I hate your knowledge of my loneliness.” He swallowed roughly. “And we’re not... friends.”

Gansey cocked one eyebrow. His thumb raised to run over his lower lip. “Really?” He challenged.

And, well. No. Not really. Adam thought of their strings of messages, the trade of information between them so easy and simple. He couldn’t pretend that they were enemies anymore, or that their general feelings weren’t positive.

“Really,” He said, launching himself up off of his bed. Smoothing out the wrinkles in his pants, he glanced back over to his friend. Gansey was studying him with a distantly memorable expression, as though trying to discern a difficult Latin translation but determined not to ask for help.

“Well,” Gansey said, blinking once, twice. He stood abruptly, noting Adam moving towards the door. “Let’s off, then.” “You’re not British, Gansey, don’t say that.”

“Mm, you’d know all about their phrases, wouldn’t you?”

“Do not.”

Before Adam reached the door, Gasney stopped him, saying his name so lowly Adam almost missed it. He turned and waited for Gansey to speak.

“Are you sure you can go back?” Adam mustered a smile. No, he thought, but Ronan’s voice echoed in his head. Don’t apologize. Maybe he could make it through after all, have a slightly better memory of Christmas. “Yeah, I am.” And he turned the doorknob to let them spill out into the hallway.

***

iMessage chat to HRH shitty bird boy

Resumed 29 December, 2019, 5:17 pm

Look. I’m just saying.

Ignoring the fact that bearer bonds haven’t been legally in use since 1982

That henchman says that they’re valued at $100,000 USD

(£75,700 for your British ass)

and then Alan Rickman says they earn 20%

When the interest rate on corporate bonds was 9% when Die Hard came out??

And also there’s never been a US bond worth more than $10,000??

stop letting sargent force you to watch die hard

for the love of god stop

it’s a MOVIE

It’s not Blue, actually.

It’s your best friend.

henry??? how??

Netflix party

He got my number (thanks for that)

And wouldn’t stop texting insisting we watch it

Or he (as threatened) will “release the bees??”

I’m not sure what he meant but here I am.

Accidentally desecrating Alan Rickman’s legacy.

Blue’s here too but it’s not her fault, at least.

that asshole

how dare i not be included in everything he does

“Why the hell is Ronan on the guest list?” Adam demanded, casting his eyes over their virtual list for what felt like the hundredth time. Planning for their New Year’s Eve fundraising event/PR dream/blowout party had been well underway since before Christmas, but crucial developments always occurred in the weeklong stretch between Christmas and New Year’s. Like the inclusion of the Prince of England on their exclusive invitation list of all the most famous and powerful twenty-somethings from around the planet.

Blue, seated sideways in an armchair and eating a container of strawberry yogurt at a glacial pace, said “I thought you added him?”

Adam wouldn’t put it past her to add him and feign innocence - she had some hidden agenda with him and Ronan, anyway, one he wasn’t quite sure of - but her ignorance seemed genuine. At once, they both turned to Gansey. He kept his face blank.

“Good question, Adam,” he said, refusing to back down under their stares. “But the real question is why didn’t you invite him?”

Adam, too, did his best to look passive. “Why would I?”

“He’s your only friend that’s not currently in this room?”

“Plus he’s great for the press,” Blue chimed in.

Adam just looked between them, and Gansey sighed.

“Look, Adam, it’s - it’s great that you actually get along with him. Like him.”

“Do not,” Adam retorted automatically. His phone buzzed, and he felt his cheeks darken a little with the knowledge that it was probably Ronan. Gansey and Blue were probably staring at each other and having one of their silent conversations, but he didn’t trust himself to look at them without giving anything away. Not that there was anything to give away. “You invited Cheng too, right? Ronan won’t come if he doesn’t.” “Thought you didn’t care?” Blue asked, and he shrugged.

“They’ve both RSVP’d yes, Adam, so I’m sure your best friend will be there.”

“Lovely,” Adam muttered, ushering them along the rest of their planning.

Just before eight PM on the thirty-first of December, Adam curled into his desk chair with a textbook perched on his bent knees. Blue, already dressed and made up while laying spread-eagle on his bed, fiddled with the hem of her shirt. She’d managed to convince PR that a self-designed outfit would make a splash, and Adam had to agree with her - she really did have a knack for design and upcycling.

Technically, they should have been heading down to play host to all types of young, influential people, buttering them up for cash and future favors. But much as the media loved their wild parties, none of the White House Trio were particularly fond of them. They preferred a quieter scene, but quiet didn’t raise money and make headlines.

That didn’t mean they couldn’t hole up and enjoy the peace and quiet before then.

Gansey, who by far had the greatest social battery, was therefore left to field early attendants and the press on the lawn. He’d come and drag them out of Adam’s room soon enough, of course, but before that time came there was relative peace.

“I guess we’ll get one more of these,” Blue said. “At least.”

Adam lifted his eyes from the book and looked at her. “Yes,” he said softly. “I think I’ll miss them?”

She laughed, a deep laugh that eased a bit of the pre-party anxiety in his chest. “I won’t. I hate this party.”

“But don’t you like flirting with all the daughters of Oscar-winning actresses?”

Blue hummed. “That is fun. They’re never ready for it.”

“They never are.”

“I’ll be doing less of that this year, though.”

“And hopefully forever?” Adam teased. The sudden air of wistfulness descending around Blue gave him a hint of pause. She took a moment to respond.

”Maybe,” she muttered. “Shut up.”

Adam let it go for then, sensing genuine distress in Blue’s stiffened shoulders.

“They wouldn’t be so bad if everyone didn’t get so blacked out.”

“Well, we have liability waivers now. And I think you mean it would be worse.”

Adam sighed. “I guess no one would show up without the promise of alcohol.”

“Exactly.”

Contrary to how Blue and Gansey made him live, Adam really didn’t enjoy drinking that much. When he did, he preferred to do so quietly - sitting in the music room with the rest of the trio, celebrating a good grade with his family, breaking out something to make a night-in a little more exciting. Events like the Royal Wedding were a one-off, where he needed distraction and alcohol presented itself.

He didn’t want to think about the need for distraction just then, with Ronan and Henry Cheng most likely en route to the White House.

A few quick, precise knocks came at the door. Gansey. He popped his head in.

“You two need to show up soon or it’s going to look suspicious,” he greeted. Blue made a tiny noise of discontent and made to turn her face into Adam’s pillow, but must have remembered her makeup and decided otherwise.

Adam heaved a sigh and stood, smoothing one hand over his hair. He’d straightened and smoothed it down for the event, knowing the cameras preferred him in all of his polished glory. He glanced between Blue and Gansey, but their gazes didn’t flicker from each other. Something about the hunger in their eyes made Adam ache, a tight knot settled in his chest. Gansey moved into the room and Adam out of it. He cast a glance through the doorway over his shoulder, trying to gauge if he should wait for them. By the low, urgent whispers carrying between them and Gansey’s hands rested on Blue’s elbows as they stood nearly flush, his presence was no longer necessary.

Adam trailed down the hallowed halls until he reached the mingling mass of people in the East Room. He turned on his smile, trying his best to become invisible. It didn’t work. At every turn, another person grabbed his shoulder to catch up, another drink pressed into his hand, another question hurled his way. At some point, he started to feel a bit numb in the fingers, tiredness and giddiness from the schmoozing seeping into his bones.

Blue appeared at his side. Her smile had dampened somewhat, but he could tell she was enjoying herself from the set of her brows. Something, however, was off at just that moment. She inclined her head behind her, and that was all the explanation Adam needed.

Ronan often had that upsetting effect on people.

Adam took a moment to observe the scene. Ronan and Henry Cheng stood several feet away, engaged in conversation with Gansey, who walked backwards tidily through the crowd as though herding them towards Adam. Ronan’s face remained passive, clad in his black-leather best. Adam’s skin felt hot and itchy under his shirt, and he looked instead to Cheng. In his Madonna t-shirt, Cheng drew attention to himself in waves. Between his eccentric origin story and absently friendly expression, not to mention the excited manner in which he partook in whatever Gansey was saying, Cheng would surely be the hot commodity of the party.

“Making friends?” Adam asked Blue, pulling a face at the same time she did.

“He’s your best friend,” she replied just as Gansey reached them. Blue reached out a hand to stop him from colliding with them, stretching her arm so that it was almost straight, and he caught her hand easily with a squeeze.

From what Adam could tell, their conversation centered around some vague school memory from Eton, but it dissolved as soon as Blue and Adam broke their circle. The brief silence was broken quickly by Henry Cheng, who announced, “Well, if it isn’t the man with the worst opinions about Die Hard.”

Against his will, Adam felt the corners of his lips twitch. “And the man who cried over Alan Rickman dying in Die Hard.”

Henry shrugged. “I wear my emotions proudly.”

“We fucking know,” Ronan said, breaking his silence. Adam hated how nicely the tight leather jacket accented his pale skin and high cheekbones, looking almost regal in his rebellion. “You monologued about the unbridled joy in your heart over the Madonna song playing when we first arrived.”

Henry grinned. “I will not apologize for being stable in my masculinity, Ronan, unlike all you repressed British types.”

“I need a drink,” Ronan declared loudly, plucking one from the closest tray and downing it in one graceful motion as one might serve a tennis ball. Henry did not appear phased by the sudden dramatics.

“Now, let’s see if I get everyone.” He turned his head to Gansey, moving around the circle. “We’ve got King Ganseyman, of course. Adam Parrish, the least valid person I can think of for purely petty reasons. And of course our dear Periwinkle.”

Adam cocked a brow and subtly shifted his eyes to look at Blue. She looked fit to claw out someone’s eye even though her own eye scars were obscured in makeup; her hand had tightened significantly around Gansey’s, and he gave no indication of pain from the movement beyond the barest twitch of his mouth.

“Clever,” she said at last, sparing him a tight, sarcastic smile. “I’ve also read the labels on nail polish to pick up a few new words. It’s nice to know you can read.”

“Yes, well, you have to start your journey to literacy somewhere,” Henry said grandly. “I appreciate your support, of course.”

Adam caught a flicker of amusement pass of Blue’s face. He had a sinking suspicion that maybe Blue wasn’t as averse to Cheng as she put on a show of.

“Are you literate enough to read off a drink order?” she said.

Henry grinned, white teeth lining in rows in his mouth. “I suppose I can string a few words together.”

Without letting go of Gansey, Blue surged forward, looping her other arm in Henry’s. The three of them trailed off towards the drinks, Blue and Henry moving determinedly and Gansey, bemused and grinning at their sudden acquaintanceship, lagging a step or so behind. Adam gazed after them for a moment, but Ronan took a step closer to be heard over the music and he turned his head to look at him.

“She’s gonna have them wrapped up all night.”

Adam raised a brow. “You can read her that well?”

Ronan gave his head the tiniest, nearly imperceptible shake. “No. I know Cheng and Gansey.”

The heat of the room was starting to cling to Adam’s skin; he rolled one shoulder uncomfortably. “Of course. Eton gang’s reunited.”

“For better or worse,” Ronan agreed lowly.

Adam meant to ask what he meant by that, but he never received the chance. A hand tapped Ronan firmly on the shoulder, and Adam watched as he turned automatically. His face broke into an uncharacteristic grin at the sight of the person behind him. Adam felt his forehead crease as the figure wrapped their arms around Ronan’s shoulders and he hugged them back almost as enthusiastically. For a moment, the only sight was the overlapping of pale and dark skin, the stranger’s feather-pink jacket contrasting with the black leather Ronan wore.

Then the two separated, and between the black bralette, exuberant eyeshadow, and tight-coiled hair shining under the strobe lighting, Adam recognized Hennessy - up-and-coming London artist, an occasional nuisance. and precisely the type of person that thrived at these parties.

“You bastard,” she said to Ronan. “I didn’t know you were gonna be here.”

“Henry was live-tweeting the whole flight.”

She scoffed lightly, rubbing at an invisible spot of dirt on Ronan’s cheek. “I've had him muted since uni.”

“Don’t let him hear that you haven’t been keeping up on his page.”

“Aww, it’s sweet you worry for me, little fox, but I can take that pissant any day of the week.”

Ronan pulled back slightly. “Of course you could, but Henry goes more for psychological violence.”

“Yes, well, I can get him in that too.” Neither acknowledged Adam standing nearby. Hennessy shook her head, curls bouncing with the movement and picking up all kinds of strobe lighting. “Where is he, that shadow of yours?”

“Cheng could never be anyone’s shadow. He’s too out there.”

“And you’re the one he chooses not to abandon, hm? How sweet.” When she smiled, she looked very much like a painting, striking and set and venomous enough to burn at the slightest brush. Ronan appeared impervious.

“He’s making friends.”

“Hm. How boring.”

Ronan’s voice lowered, but Adam thought he could hear him say “Jordan’s not here?”

Hennessy’s lips, the same vibrant shade as her lids, pulled a little tighter. “Nah,” she replied, casual enough. “Working on some deadlines, poor thing.” Her eyes flitted away from Ronan’s face for the first time, landing squarely on Adam instead. Her grin widened. “Well, there’s our treasured host. Late to your own party?”

“I have learned a few things from you over the years, Hennessy,” Adam replied, slipping a hand into his pocket in an attempt to appear more casual than he felt.

“Fuck, I guess you have,” she admitted. Compared to Ronan’s accent, her voice sounded slipperier and rounder, sliding through the air until it reached his ears. She lifted a hand to land one last pat to Ronan’s cheek before gliding on to land a similar one to Adam. She paused briefly in front of him, lowering her hand.

“You look happy,” she noted. Waggling her fingers in a wave, she turned back so both Adam and Ronan could see her. “I need a drink to get through all these boring political types. Ta, darlings,” she said, before disappearing back into the crowd as quickly as she had arrived.

Adam exchanged a look with Ronan. “So you know Hennessy?”

“I’d hope so, yeah,” Ronan said, but he didn’t elaborate. “You?”

“We've met a few times.”

“Pity,” Ronan said, standing like he wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands.

Adam rolled a few words around on his tongue - questions, mostly, infused with the sudden jealousy he felt simmering low in his gut - but instead all he said, so out of character, was “Do you want a drink?”

His shoulders seemed to soften slightly. “Can’t let Sargent have all the good ideas, I guess.”

“I’ll tell her you thought it was a good idea.”

“Fuck off.”

Ronan appeared a little more at ease with a drink in hand, and eventually, Adam lost him to the crowd. He stood stranded for the briefest of moments before Henry Cheng appeared, for the second time that night, at his side.

“Adam Parrish,” he said, handing off a drink that looked clear and deadly. It took his fingers a moment to remember to grab it rather than letting it splash to the ground.

“Cheng,” Adam said, letting the déja vû wash over himself. “Thought we already had our introductions.”

“Of course,” Henry replied, tone too even and pleasant for the chaos around them. “Just wanted a chat with the movie critic, is all.”

Adam cast a skeptical eye around the room. “You’re sure this is the best place?”

“No time like the present, my friend.” Henry threw an arm around his shoulders, guiding Adam towards the dance floor and obscuring his own voice further. “How about you down that there drink and enjoy yourself? You look positively coiled and ready to strike.”

“I’d really rather not. What is it you wanted to talk about?”

“Well, if you’re so connected to sobriety, so be it,” Henry said, stealing the drink back. He nodded over Adam’s shoulder as he lowered his head back down from the drink, and when Adam glanced he saw a flash of Ronan’s leather among the crowd. “Our Ronan is looking fit, no? I’m proud of him for getting out of the house.”

“Some house,” Adam muttered, not expecting Henry to hear. All the same, his companion let out a startled laugh.

“Could say the same to you. But yes,” he said, leaning closer, “between you and me, the palace is always quite disarming.” Straightening and throwing a wave over his shoulder, Henry added, “Perhaps you have more reason to get used to it than I do, however.”

“More reason?”

Henry smiled, then, and somehow it appeared as menacing as Hennessy’s had earlier. Maybe he’d learned from her. “Friends of the royals make quite frequent trips, I’m afraid.”

“What, you’re not approved enough?”

“‘Fraid not. Heir to a fortune is not the same as First Son, Parrish, and I believe you’ve a wonderful slip of parchment ensuring just how approved you are.”

“I can’t find it in myself to be surprised you know.”

“Well, imagine being me if I didn’t!” Henry exclaimed, drawing the attention of a few popular influencers as he splashed a drink in their direction with his aggressive gesturing. “I was only on the receiving end of the HRH’s rants for three bloody years before you wrestled each other in frosting at the greatest wedding of the decade-”

“We didn’t wrestle-”

“And then you turn up a week later, acting all buddy-buddy for every camera you find - well, it would look suspicious had I not known!”

“Mhm,” Adam drawled, cutting his eyes back to Henry. “I bet Ronan can’t keep a secret from you.”

Henry grinned again, baring his teeth. “You’ve read him so well, McClane.” He sighed theatrically barely a moment later. “And debunked my argument succinctly.”

“That’s the price to pay for knowing all of Ronan’s thoughts, I suppose, Gruber.”

“Among many others. I’d expect his Niamh to know that well enough, though.”

Adam felt himself freeze as Henry’s hand came in contact with his shoulder, a friendly pat. His Niamh. As if that meant anything, as if those words fit together in any logical pattern. His Niamh, and his mother’s voice - almost golden.

“Or you will soon enough, mate,” Henry said. “Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

And Henry Cheng disappeared into the crowd, popping up laughing with Blue a few feet away.

Adam surrendered gaining any grip on this night right then.

At some point, Hennessy found him, pressing a drink into his palm - what was with all his friends and acquaintances plying him with alcohol? - and said, “Well, I’d think you were avoiding me as you have at the last two of these parties.”

“Never avoiding,” Adam defended, mustering a smile as he lifted the drink to his lips without thinking. “Just generally indisposed at events.”

“You’re making some good choices, then.”

“What’s done must be done.”

She raised a single eyebrow. “Rather defeatist of you, Golden Boy. Don’t remember that from your time on the campaign trail.”

Adam grinned. “I’m a fully realized creation. I have the capacity to change.” “There he is, bringing out the philosophy at parties.” She nodded to something that might have been Ronan if Adam focused his eyes and squinted enough. “Don’t remember him, either.”

“Have I mentioned you look fantastic?”

“I know, darling, and I note your deflection.”

“My point stands.”

“And it’s valued.” She slid an arm over his shoulders, uncomfortably warm, to lean closer to his ear. “But we’re gonna have a conversation when you’re not overwhelmed at a party you don’t want to throw. I’m serious about the ignoring.”

“I know you are.”

“Mhm. And if I were you, I’d go check on your boy. But I’m not you, so I’m going to enjoy myself.”

As quickly as she’d appeared, she slid off into the crowd, joining the numbers of people Adam had completely lost to the mob. Everyone seemed able to navigate it but him.

As the clock neared midnight and another drink disappeared from Adam’s hand, leaving his blood buzzing pleasantly through his veins, he slipped out one of the ornate double doors. He breathed in fresh air like a man coming across water in the desert, the haze around his mind clearing with every breath. He ambled to a free bench, his legs still stiff and straight from overuse. The stone bit into his long fingers as he curled his hand around the bench seat, but he welcomed the feeling because it was so far from the thriving mass of bodies indoors.

At some point, he opened his eyes again. His eyes had briefly registered another figure outdoors by the statue when he first exited. Only once his eyes were open and scanning did he recognize the figure, a silhouette of black leather cut harshly from the ethereal white exterior of the Residence.

“Everything okay?” He called to Ronan.

“Yeah,” Ronan replied without turning to face him. “Just...getting some air.”

It was easier to associate this Ronan with the one he heard on the phone - so far from that royal persona projected everywhere, a voice in a face with no expectations on it. Ronan could have been anyone, his accent lax and his posture eerily straight in a contrast that made Adam feel a bit winded.

“It’s loud in there,” he admitted.

Ronan didn’t respond, but Adam’s statement wasn’t one that required response.

“I thought this would be more your scene,” Adam finally said, challenge creeping into his voice. He wasn’t sure if it was a genuine challenge or if he was just falling back on old habits instead of saying something he might regret.

“And I didn’t think it would be yours.”

“Fair enough, since it’s not.”

Ronan threw him a glance over one shoulder at that. “Makes perfect sense to throw this function, then.”

“Well, the media doesn’t exactly eat up overpriced textbooks and econ calculations, so I do what I can.”

“Mm,” Ronan hummed in something that sounded like agreement. “They do love the sex, drugs, and rock and roll, even in places it’s not happening.”

Adam stood, placing his hands on his knees like he had bad joints. “Unless if you actually went to 239 parties last year, I’d guess you know all about that exaggeration.”

“Do you stalk my tabloids, Parrish? The fuck?”

“No, Gansey does. With everybody. He just reads all his findings to me.”

“Terrifying,” Ronan muttered. “If I die of mysterious circumstances, you’ll both be on the shortlist of suspects.” “What?” Adam challenged. “You’ll keep it in the breast pocket of your blazer?”

“Sure,” Ronan replied. “I have to keep it folded up close to my heart, of course. Keep your lovers close but enemies closer.”

Ronan tilted his head in the direction of the statue, silently beckoning Adam to stand by him. It felt a bit like a confession, like his permission implied passing some silent test.

Briefly, in his buzzing brain, he wondered what side of that spectrum he fell on.

“Did you get sick of watching Blue and Gansey?”

Adam shrugged, pulling to a stop just next to Ronan. He kicked absently at the ground with his toe. “A bit.”

“That has to have been a weird development to get used to.”

“A bit,” Adam repeated.

“Still, it hasn’t been too long.”

“I think they’ve been a thing for longer,” Adam admitted.

Ronan turned his head, and suddenly Adam felt the icy cool of his eyes trained on Adam’s face. “Why?”

Adam shrugged. “I don’t know. It just seems obvious, looking back. They’ve clearly been together for a while. August, at least.” He crossed his arms over his chest, the December-January chill suddenly settling over him. “I think they were...protecting me.”

Ronan snorted, the gesture not a bit princely. “Protecting you?”

Adam fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt.

“I’m damaged goods, Highness,” he said at length. “I’m fragile.”

Even though Adam didn’t turn to him, he felt Ronan’s eyes probe deeper as though imploring Adam to look back to him. “That’s a fucking lie,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.

Adam snorted, but Ronan was not deterred.

“You’re not fragile,” he repeated. “If you’re fragile, the world is being held up by - by dental floss and craft glue. No, a weak person couldn’t do what you do. Bullshit for the cameras at least once a week, keep up your grades, work on policy with Czerny, keep up your ratings so that they never dip - that’s too much for someone who is fragile.”

“Oh, then you must be superhuman, with all the bullshitting you do.”

“Of course I am, Parrish,” Ronan said, turning his eyes up and away from Adam.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, elbows rested on the cold metal fence guarding the statue. The night sky hung above them, pale in all of the light pollution of the city, but if Adam strained he could see the faint points carving themselves into the sky and drawing themselves into pictures and promises. Ronan’s heat radiated next to him, leather almost snagging on cotton. The fact that this was their first time seeing each other in person since the hospital photo-op did not escape Adam’s notice, but neither did the easy way in which they managed to coexist despite the time and distance removing them from that point.

When the moment grew too heavy, he said, “Did you look at my Wikipedia page?”

“No.”

Adam arched an eyebrow.

“...Matthew may have done some light Googling.”

Adam laughed. It wasn’t his carefree camera laugh, the ones that kept up his ratings, but it was a laugh nonetheless, one that dispersed through the air as though worried it could be stolen away at any moment. Ronan’s face shuttered abruptly. His expression became inscrutable, and Adam didn’t realize he’d looked happy until he no longer did.

All at once, Adam remembered the line separating them, and he felt certain they were touching it with their feet almost overlapping, face to face and chest to chest.

“You didn’t have to come,” Adam said softly, his normal voice suddenly feeling far too loud for the little bubble forming around them, devoid of anyone else. “Not if you didn’t want to.”

Ronan didn’t speak for a moment, by choice or to gather his words, Adam didn’t know. “I did.”

Adam just shook his head, choosing to stand in comfortable silence. A star winked in the sky.

“Non est ad astra mollis e terris via,” Ronan whispered, his lips barely movin g. There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.

“Itaque imus ad astra, per aspera,” Adam replied, barely thinking about it. So we go through hardships to the stars.

Ronan visibly started at his use of Latin. Adam smirked as if you say you’re not the only one with a posh education.

“Shooting for the stars, Highness?”

Rona turned his eyes back to the sole bright star. “I might as well be.”

“I’d doubt whatever it is that’s bothering you is as hopeless as that.”

Adam couldn’t take his eyes off of Ronan, noting the way his lips thinned. “Oh, but it is. In my position. In my life.”

“Non ergo qui in vobis sunt terminum tibi.”

Ronan turned his head toward Adam again, and Adam felt a spark of fear over what he might do if he turned his head to meet Ronan’s eyes, blue as a never-ending lake stretching on and on until he drowned against the sand.

He turned his head anyway. The stars suspended above them, the leaves ceasing to rustle and shuffle, the party inside fading away until everyone disappeared into nothingness. Ronan lifted one hand from the railing and slid it along Adam’s cheek, his skin heating and jolting at the touch like Ronan himself was made of electricity and stardust, like the galaxies that Adam had once been were meeting their long lost particles in Ronan’s hand. In Ronan’s eyes, he could have sworn he heard words turning over and over.

Adam heard him whisper, then, the words that must have been bouncing in his head. “Pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of our death,” he muttered, the tail-end of something Adam couldn’t quite place. He parted his lips to speak just before Ronan kissed him.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not, he didn’t worry that he was kissing someone - kissing Ronan . For once in his life, he forgot about everything else. He didn’t worry about anyone inside or what anyone might think. That would come later.

Ronan’s lips pressed to his, and he tried to string a coherent thought together but was instead met with abstract, overjoyed ideas floating aimlessly in his brain instead.

The press of Ronan against him was hard, sharp lines and corners poking into his chest and his hips and his legs, but his lips were soft and Adam tasted whiskey and powdered sugar on Ronan’s tongue and Ronan’s teeth flashed against his lip and he thought he might die, that the feeling may kill him if he did that again.

He didn’t have a chance to test that hypothesis, because Ronan pulled back and stepped away so quickly Adam almost fell forward onto his face. And then he hurried away, leaving Adam standing like an idiot outside of the White House ballroom at a party he was supposed to be hosting after just kissing a male member of the monarchy.

His only thought was, absently, if they’d kissed at midnight.

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dvp95 · 5 years ago

Text

i don’t want to go

pairing: dan howell/phil lester rating: teen & up tags: memory loss/amnesia, established relationship, introspection, hurt/comfort word count: 7.4k summary: There are long-term effects of brain injuries, because of course there are. Phil’s got a list in his phone and on the fridge that Dan takes very seriously. It’s more or less a joke to Phil.

a fifth installment of amnesia au? yeah

read on ao3 or here!

Phil has a migraine again.

It's not surprising with the amount of stimulus all around him, but it doesn't stop him from being annoyed by it. He bites his tongue and follows Dan through the shop, making noncommittal noises whenever he holds something up. Dan doesn't seem particularly bothered by Phil's lack of interest.

“Maybe not,” Dan is saying to himself, because he doesn't need Phil in order to carry a conversation.

“Why not?” Phil asks. He doesn't care, really, but he can't keep drifting like he's dreaming, Dan's solid presence the only real tether he's got.

Dan blinks like he's surprised that Phil is contributing. Phil tries not to be irritated by that. It's not fair to Dan when the source is at Phil's temples, behind his eyes, a constant throbbing pain that won't go away until he sleeps.

“We got her something like it a couple years ago,” Dan explains, putting the purse back where he got it from. “She still uses that one, seems silly to get her a new one already.”

“I think girls usually have a few bags,” says Phil.

“Yeah. Doesn't mean we need to supply her habit. Let's keep looking.”

Phil doesn't bother pointing out that he's never met Louise and has no idea what she likes, because Dan is on a mission. They've had to put off the shopping late thanks to check-ins at the hospital and sporadic, unsuccessful house showings with Ellie. Dan has done some shopping online already for both of them, but he’d insisted on at least one afternoon of walking around the shops and buying ridiculous stuff. Tradition, or whatever.

Normally Phil loves Christmas, and shopping for the people he loves is a huge part of that, but right now he just wants to go home and lie down with a heat pack over his eyes.

He locks his jaw so he doesn’t say something he’ll regret and lets Dan lead them through the narrow pathways that this small, overpriced boutique allows. Every time Phil idly tugs at a price tag he feels uncertain and undeserving and, okay, annoyed. That specific combination is more or less his default mood as of late, but it gets exacerbated when he has to deal with a lot of strangers or the familiar dull, insistent pulse of pain in his skull. He’s dealt with migraines his whole life, but they’ve gotten so much more consistent and painful. He’d been warned about that by one of his many doctors - it’s a fun little reminder that his brain doesn’t work the way it’s supposed to anymore.

If Phil said he has a migraine, Dan would take him home immediately. He’d turn off all the lights and shut the blinds and let Phil use his thigh as a pillow; the unscented candles would be lit and Dan’s long fingers would be petting Phil’s hair, rubbing his temples, helping the pain and irritation seep out of Phil’s body.

But, if Phil said he has a migraine, then Dan will also worry, and he will worry loudly. He’ll be quiet while he’s helping Phil, because he’s a good fiancé like that. A good person like that - Phil is sure that Dan would do whatever he could to make anyone feel better, because he’s got a soft heart and relatively good intuition. Then, Phil will fall asleep, or the headache will release him for a little while, and that’s when Dan’s worry gets unbearably loud. Questions about how long it’s been hurting, reminders of things the specialist told them as if Phil wasn’t also in the room, maybe even phone calls if he considers it to be particularly worrisome.

He means well. Phil knows that he means well.

“Perfume isn’t really a good gift,” says Dan. Maybe he’s been talking the whole time that Phil’s been on another planet. There’s no real way to tell. “Not for Louise, she’s too particular.”

“If you say so,” says Phil. He squeezes his eyes shut while Dan’s back is turned, pressing the heel of each palm against them like he can somehow massage the headache away. He doesn’t do it for too long, doesn’t want to draw attention to himself, so after a couple of seconds he returns his hands to his pockets and does his best to ignore their tremor.

There are long-term effects of brain injuries, because of course there are. Phil’s got a list of them in his phone and on the fridge, and he’s supposed to say something to Dan or his doctors whenever he experiences them. Dan takes it all very seriously. It’s more or less a joke to Phil.

Memory loss. Well, it hasn’t gotten worse, so Phil counts that as a win.

Loss of balance. Seriously? Phil isn’t going to report every time he trips over his own feet, cracks in the sidewalk, nothing at all.

Mood swings. Phil’s pretty sure that Dan keeps his own record of that, and he has to remind himself not to get grumpy about it or it’ll just be another goddamn entry in the Phil.exe Stopped Working log.

There are more than Phil can easily keep track of, and he’s sure that there are more things that his doctors and specialist and Dan are all watching for. It's frustrating, because he'd rather everything just go back to normal, and he's sure that Dan is only going to work himself up by looking for things that aren't inherently symptoms.

Christmas used to be Phil’s favourite time of year. Nothing got him quite as excited as the smell of pine and his mum’s holiday baking. He can tell that Dan likes it too; Dan keeps dragging him places and showing him unfamiliar things and claiming tradition on it all. Phil’s got no reason to be suspicious, but he knows that he would definitely use his fiancé’s lack of knowledge to his advantage, so there’s a part of him that sees six packets of mince pies in their trolley and wonders if he’s being screwed with.

It’s still nice, he supposes. They do up the tree and Dan shows him all their ornaments with the sort of soft dimpling that Phil fell in love with. Back in love with. Whatever. Their flat isn’t decked out the way that it would be if Phil took initiative, but he’s really struggling to muster up excitement for the holiday right now.

Dan notices. Obviously Dan notices. They spend every waking moment together, basically, and Dan knows him well. It would be stranger if he didn’t notice.

“You’ll feel better when we go see your folks,” Dan says, a sad sort of smile curving his pretty mouth. He’s wrapping presents, signing both of their names on all of them, and Phil feels downright useless. He didn’t pick anything out for their friends or families and he can’t even make a cube look as nice as Dan does. “It’s impossible not to be in the spirit around your mum, you know that.”

Familiar dread settles in Phil’s gut, and he shrugs. It’s easier to go back to his notebook than to explain that, actually, the last thing he wants right now is to see his family. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if it was just his parents and Martyn, but it won’t be.

His mum has already texted him a few times to tell him great aunt so-and-so is excited to see him again or that the younger kids in the family know what's going on with him and think it's 'so cool', so Phil is prepared for a deluge of extended family travelling to the Isle. He's never been good at being the center of attention, and he's really not looking forward to an entire week of the What Does Phil Remember game. Even the thought of having Dan with him, celebrating together and being out, something Phil can barely wrap his head around, isn't enough to ease the anxiety.

Dan is looking forward to it, though, and Phil feels guilty for not wanting to spend time with his family, so. He doesn't say anything.

Instead, he turns back to his notebook. He finds things slipping through his fingers so much more easily now than they used to, and he isn’t sure if that’s from the brain injury or from getting old, but he hates it either way. Scribbling things down helps, sometimes, even if it isn’t full sentence journalling. Lots of doodles and half-thoughts mixed in with actually useful things; he’d had a list of potential gifts to get for people that he turned out not to need.

He’s sure that if he’d insisted on picking something out himself, Dan would have been more than supportive. The thing is, Phil is too busy fighting his own body to put effort into talking the world’s most opinionated man out of a bucket hat for Martyn. Dan knows better, anyway.

Maybe that rankles more than Phil wants to admit. Maybe this whole thing, really, rankles.

Phil doesn’t like getting angry. It happens, frequently, but he doesn’t enjoy the feeling. He should be able to enjoy this. He’s got a mug of cocoa and the beginning doodles of a storyboard and a gorgeous man wrapping presents under a gorgeous tree, and it’s his favourite time of the year. If anything, he should be happy. Ecstatic. Grateful.

There’s pressure at Phil’s temples again, and he feels that bubble of anger start to swell. It fills him like a helium balloon from the depths of hell, hot and all-encompassing and sudden.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his teeth. If Dan asks, he’ll just say that he’s tired. He uses that line a lot lately. It’s obvious that Dan doesn’t believe him, and Phil doesn’t make any particular effort to sound more genuine, but Dan hasn’t pushed him on it yet.

That’s good. Phil thinks it’s good, anyway. He doesn’t like being angry, and he doesn’t want to know how it feels to shout at Dan again.

He doesn’t like it, but he is. He is angry. He is so goddamn angry.

There are good days, even in the guilty stress of Christmas planning. There are days where Phil can tangle up with Dan and trade lazy kisses, days where he can go to Starbucks alone, days where his mum calls and they talk about everything under the sun just like they used to. Sure, Phil has to be careful not to touch Dan in ways that are instinctive but not welcome, careful to text Dan every ten minutes when he’s out by himself, careful about what he says to his mum so that she doesn’t start to cry, but those aren’t hardships, exactly, and they don’t make Phil’s good days any less good. It’s just harder and harder to brush them off.

It’s like a parasite, the anger. Even when it’s dormant, Phil feels twinges of irritation to things he normally doesn’t mind at all. The sound of Dan humming when he’s puttering around the kitchen is something he’s loved for as long as he can remember, and now it takes actual effort for pre-coffee Phil not to snap at him or leave the room.

Today is a good day. There are no lingering traces of an ache in Phil’s broken head, his parents aren’t adding any stress to his plate, and he can remember why he loves the annoying things Dan does.

Phil is trailing after Dan again, but that’s because he’s been doubled over laughing at something Dan muttered under his breath and they’re trying not to catch each other’s eye so they don’t bust up again. He follows Dan, reluctantly, into an aisle and starts poking at all the health food packages as if they’re suspicious.

“You like quinoa, stupid,” Dan giggles. He gently smacks at Phil’s hands, and Phil tangles their fingers together. It’s just for a moment, because Dan is actually attempting to shop for healthy food despite Phil’s best efforts, but it makes Phil feel lighter than air. He can hold a guy’s hand, however briefly, in a grocery aisle. He can just do that. It’s terrifying and exhilarating every time he does it, and he can’t help but look around them in a wary move that’s ingrained into him no matter what Dan tells him about things changing.

Nobody is paying them any mind at all. The giddiness in his chest spreads through his whole body, and Phil decides that he wants to feel this way all the time. He knows that it isn’t logical, that his life right now has serious stumbling blocks and that he can’t control the mood swings, but he’s old enough to know that optimism is a conscious choice he has to keep making or he’ll become someone he doesn’t like at all.

He wanders off while Dan reads ingredients on something new he wants to try and manages to add three more snacks to the cart before Dan notices.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on in there?”

Dan’s voice is quiet and his fingers are running through Phil’s hair. He never comments on the length of it, on the fact that Phil is obviously growing it out, but Phil does wonder if it bothers some part of him. If Dan thinks he’s regressing, or clinging to the parts of himself he can control. Phil doesn’t even have a good rebuttal for that.

“In where?” Phil asks. He’s sleepier than he wants to admit and stubbornly ignoring the way his eyes keep drifting shut. He wants to finish this movie, at least, before he hauls Dan off to bed for a good cuddle.

Dan chuckles softly and gathers Phil’s fringe up to kiss his forehead without a barrier.

“Stupid,” he says, absolutely oozing with fondness. Phil wants to curl up in Dan’s love like a blanket sometimes, a safe haven from the rest of the world. “There's something going on in here.”

His long fingers tap Phil’s forehead, so gentle, and the puzzle pieces click together in Phil’s very tired mind. He laughs and turns his face further into Dan’s shoulder. There’s a million reasons he should keep his feelings to himself, but Dan has a way of slipping past all of Phil’s walls. Right now, in this moment, Phil can’t remember a single one of those million reasons. He yawns and buries his nose into Dan’s collarbone. The trace of mint and musk clinging to Dan’s skin makes him feel even calmer.

This is a safe haven. Phil isn’t much of a talker when it comes to his feelings, but he wants to tell Dan what’s going on with him. He wants to be the kind of husband who can answer that question instead of bottling everything up until it explodes.

“I don’t wanna go away for Christmas,” he whispers it like a secret, right into Dan’s chest.

For a long moment, Dan is quiet. Only the pause of his fingers in Phil’s hair indicate that he heard Phil at all.

“Why?”

There’s hurt and bewilderment in Dan’s voice, because of course there is. Phil is too tired to feel a proper frisson of irritation, but he can’t hold back a sigh. He presses the softest kiss to Dan’s collarbone and comes up to give him a sleepy smile. “Sorry,” he says. “I just mean I want to stay here with you forever.”

It’s the truth, but it’s not the whole truth. Phil watches the quiet confusion in Dan’s big brown eyes turn to mush before he rolls them.

“Alright, if you’re bringing up the F word,” says Dan, “then it’s definitely bedtime.”

“You have a lot of F words,” Phil notes. His smile feels more genuine now. “Famous, forever…”

Dan shudders dramatically and presses his fingers into Phil’s ticklish sides to make him laugh, too loud for the time of night.

“Fuck you,” Dan says, dimples in full force. “C’mon. Bed.”

“There’s still like half an hour left,” Phil protests. He doesn’t actually care much about the ending of the movie, but it’s fun to dig his heels in and get Dan all fond and exasperated. He can’t bite back his grin fast enough.

“You don’t care,” Dan laughs and stands up, turning off the TV sometime in the process. Phil is very impressed by the multitasking.

“I don’t,” Phil agrees. He’s all too happy to leave the topic of Christmas on the sofa, in the twinkling lights of their objectively very pretty tree. He pulls Dan into a soft, lingering kiss and then gestures at the ceiling as if it’s an explanation. “Mistletoe,” he says, and then darts around Dan to get to the bathroom first.

They haven’t hung any mistletoe. Dan’s bark of a laugh follows him through the quiet, dark flat and makes every corner of it feel brighter.

In the morning, Dan looks up from his phone. “Were you serious about not going anywhere for Christmas?”

Phil hasn’t had his coffee and there’s a twinge behind his left eye, so all he can really manage to do without scowling is shake his head. It seems to be the answer Dan was looking for, anyway, since it makes his shoulders relax and his lips curve up a bit. Phil feels a little guilty for lying and some irrational annoyance at Dan for not being able to tell, but he focuses on his coffee and on that pretty pink patch on Dan’s cheek to ground himself.

Through his whole life, Phil has never liked hospital or being prodded at by doctors, but he’d gotten off easy before now. He’s found himself sitting on a flat mattress or an uncomfortable chair in the past six months far more often than he ever wanted to. They run tests and they ask him questions and never figure anything out.

It’s a surefire way to get Phil’s migraines to make an appearance. The combination of fluorescent lights, difficult conversation, and stress from the lack of any progress hasn’t failed to make it feel like someone is jackhammering his frontal lobe yet.

Dan has a hard time sitting still at the best of times, so he tends to pace around the room whenever they have these appointments. Even so, he manages to hold the thread of what the doctors say better than Phil can. It’s probably important for Phil to be paying attention to what his neurologist is saying, since he’s here to follow up with her after his last episode, but Phil is having such a hard time concentrating lately. Especially when it’s the same stuff, over and over again: they don’t know what’s causing this, common things keep getting ruled out, he’s a mystery but he’s not in any danger, etc.

They’re starting to sound like Charlie Brown’s parents to Phil at this point. He relies on Dan to tell him the important bits later.

Normally the various doctors he’s seen since he first fainted haven’t minded if he zones out a bit. They call it a symptom and say his concentration isn’t going to be what it used to be, don’t accept Dan’s apologies for it, but the truth is that Phil just can’t listen to them talk about him like they’re verbally shrugging and not lose his entire mind. Today, though, his neurologist makes a point of getting his attention.

“Phil,” she says, and Phil realises that he doesn’t actually know her name.

“Sorry, what?”

She doesn’t sigh, but Phil imagines it’s a close call. Dan stops his pacing around the room and stands with his arms crossed and brow furrowed, giving his full attention even though he isn’t being spoken to.

“Phil,” she says again. “How are you feeling?”

“About what?” Phil asks.

Her lips twitch. “In general. I know this whole experience must be a lot for you, and I was wondering if you were talking to anyone about it.”

“I talk to you guys,” says Phil, gesturing around her office to indicate the doctors as a whole. “And to Dan, and my family.”

Phil doesn’t make a habit of lying to his doctors, but he hates that it does feel like a lie to say he talks to his family about his feelings. They’re just… in mourning, basically, for someone that Phil will probably never be again. Dan is too, but he’s a lot more open and easy to talk to. He sees Dan’s eyebrows raise at the answer and has to hold back a giggle.

“I was actually asking if you’re in the process of seeing a psychiatrist,” the neurologist clarifies. Phil’s brief amusement from the exchange sours quickly. He’s not sure what the doctor and Dan see on his face, but she’s quick to keep talking. “You’ve gone through a trauma, Phil, and it’s very normal to struggle with it. Talking to someone unbiased and professional can be a helpful way to wrap your mind around what you’re going through.”

There’s something she isn’t saying, as well. Phil hears it anyway. He has a suspicion that his doctors think his memories could come back if he goes to therapy, like he’s repressed them or something instead of them being stolen from him.

Phil doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to keep the frustration out of his voice if he does.

“That’s a good idea,” Dan says, more to Phil than to the doctor.

Of course Dan thinks it’s a good idea. Dan goes to therapy and enjoys it. Well, okay, ‘enjoy’ is a strong word. It benefits Dan, gives him tools that he can use on days where getting out of bed feels impossible, gives him an emotional outlet that he desperately needs. Dan feels things so strongly and so deeply that it scares Phil, sometimes.

Phil… doesn’t. He’s got better things to do with his time than worry about the why and how of every fleetingly wayward emotion - he’d rather push it down, move past it, on his own time. He imagines spilling his guts to a complete stranger and almost laughs. He can’t even tell his mother how he feels about being treated like a circus freak or tell his fiancé how he feels about celebrating Christmas this year. Hell, Phil doesn’t even tell waitstaff when they bring him the wrong thing. It’s funny to picture him laid on a sofa and laying out his whole life for someone to poke and prod at.

He knows he’s still making a face, and he sees something in Dan’s shutter. Phil taps his own knee at the same time that Dan taps his own finger against his forearm. One, two. We’ll talk about this later.

“Can I ask something that might sound a bit rude?”

“You can ask anything you’d like,” Phil’s neurologist says. She looks inordinately surprised by him even offering to speak, which almost makes Phil laugh again.

“Well, I just,” Phil starts. He doesn’t like the way Dan is staring daggers at him like he’s waiting for Phil to make a wrong move. Purposefully, he angles his body away from Dan to talk directly to the doctor. “I just want to know. Are we running out of things to do here? On the medical side of things, I mean. Is this a last resort, might as well try it, sort of thing? Or do you genuinely think that my brain will work better if I let someone analyze it every week?”

Dan makes some kind of noise. Phil ignores it.

“I believe that psychiatry is a very important tool for recovery in many of my patients,” she says. To Phil, that sounds a lot like a non-answer. He’s pretty well-versed in those himself.

“Okay,” he says, trying to keep his tone level. “So you think this is all in my head?”

“Only in the sense that your head is where you keep your brain,” she says, rather kindly. “And your brain has been through a lot. Traumatic brain injuries can affect you months and even years after the original incident, and I was only suggesting that you consider an avenue that has helped others with symptoms and difficulties following such an enormous thing.”

“I don’t have any difficulties,” Phil says, stubborn. He can feel Dan’s gaze and already knows what he’s thinking, but this isn’t a knee-jerk reaction. He doesn’t think he needs to go to therapy.

“It’s up to you, entirely your decision,” she says, which makes a tense part of Phil relax. He knows that logically, but his anxiety appreciates it being said out loud. “I’ll give you some reading to take home about the benefits of therapy while your brain is in recovery mode, okay? Take some time to think about it before you dismiss it.”

The topic changes to something about blood work that Phil has already heard, so he feels comfortable zoning back out.

He chances a glance at Dan, who is practically vibrating with things that he’s surely desperate to say. Phil taps his own knee again to circumvent the argument happening in front of one of his doctors and watches as Dan’s jaw clenches.

Irritability. Phil keeps his eyes fixed on the window in the backseat of their Uber so he doesn’t have to look at Dan. He’s got a throb in his temple and every time Dan makes a noise like he’s about to talk, it makes irrational annoyance spike through Phil. He doesn’t want to snap, but he thinks he might if Dan actually speaks to him. Luckily, the drive is without incident.

Anxiety. Well, Phil already had that going for him, so there’s no way to tell if the brain injury made it worse. The silence between them in the lift lassos Phil’s Worst Case Scenario thoughts into the forefront of his mind. What if Dan has finally had enough of this?

Impaired social skills. The door shuts behind them and Dan turns to face him, hands on his hips. Phil lingers for four whole seconds and then murmurs something about taking a nap, escaping downstairs.

Phil lies on his stomach with his face buried in Dan’s pillow and wonders exactly how many side effects he can check off today. He’s clearly already fucked things up.

Obviously, Dan doesn’t let him get away with wallowing alone.

“We’re talking now,” he says, firm. Phil noses further into the pillow for a moment and considers not responding. It isn’t that he wants to make Dan angry, it’s that he doesn’t want to get angry himself, and staying quiet seems like the most effective way to stay calm.

He knows Dan won’t accept that, though. Dan isn’t the type to walk away from Phil, no matter what mood he’s in.

So Phil sighs, rolling onto his back. “I don’t want to go.”

“I can tell,” Dan huffs. “I really think you should, though. Therapy is -”

“No,” Phil cuts him off. He interrupts Dan more often than he interrupts anyone else - due in part to the sheer amount of time that Dan spends talking - but he never likes doing it when they’re having a serious conversation. His head hurts, though, and he can’t lie here and listen to Dan espouse all the wonderful things about getting psychoanalyzed when that’s only a little bit what this is about. “No, Dan, I’m not just talking about therapy.”

A beat. The mattress dips where Dan sits down, but they don’t reach for each other yet. “Okay. What else are you talking about?”

“I don't want to go to the Isle,” Phil tells the ceiling, because that's easier than watching the disappointment crest over Dan's face. “I don’t want everybody asking me questions and looking older and making me feel like I’m broken. I get enough of that here.”

“Excuse me?” Dan asks, and Phil squeezes his eyes shut like he won’t be able to hear the hurt in Dan’s voice if he can’t see. Dan’s palm presses to his thigh, making him jump a bit. “Phil, hey, no. Look at me.”

Phil bites his lip and sits up. He takes a couple of breaths before he opens his eyes, though, letting his anxiety run rampant on what kind of emotions he’s going to see in Dan’s big brown eyes when he does. In the end, it’s primarily confusion. The bad things are there, too, the hurt and disappointment and maybe anger, but it seems like Dan is mostly just unsure why Phil is saying the things he’s saying.

“I don’t want to see my family,” Phil whispers, swallowing around the guilt rising like bile in his throat.

“You love your family,” says Dan. “And you love Christmas.”

“I do,” Phil agrees. His voice is still quiet, like someone other than Dan might hear him if he says it any louder. Dan’s mouth twists unhappily. He tangles his fingers with Phil’s and squeezes, just on the edge of too tight.

“So what’s the deal? I don’t understand.” The admission seems to take something out of Dan. He curls closer to Phil and rests the back of his free hand against Phil’s forehead.

“I don’t have a fever, Dan,” says Phil. He doesn’t duck away from the attention, though, because Dan pushes his fringe off his forehead and leans in to kiss it. The simple action quiets the noise in Phil’s mind so much that he smiles a little bit. “And I’m not going to fucking break, y’know, but I might if I have to be around so many people I barely even know anymore while my head pounds and they act like I’m a teenager.”

Something like comprehension hits Dan’s expression, but he still isn’t happy. “You do know them, though.”

“Not really,” Phil says with a little shrug. “I love them. I’d rather see them separately, though. I don’t want to feel like an animal in a zoo or something, babe.”

“So, what, you want to just stay home?” Dan asks.

His tone makes it sound like that’s ridiculous, unheard of. Phil looks down at their joined hands and lets himself really think about it. What would his family really do if he claimed not to be up for travelling? They’d be disappointed, obviously, and some of them might lay the guilt on a little strong, but.

But. Phil can see it. Christmas morning in this bed, legs tangled with Dan’s and trading lazy bribes for who has to get up and make coffee. Giving Dan his gift under the tree they decorated together, watching the way he’d light up, doing sappy things like dancing to carols in a kitchen they don’t own. It sounds infinitely better than his cousins asking him questions he doesn’t know the answer to and trying not to jump every time Dan holds his hand in front of family members.

“I do,” Phil says, as honest as he knows how to be. “You’re my family, you dork. I want to spend Christmas with you.”

“I’ll be with you wherever we go,” Dan reminds him.

Phil knows that, but it isn’t the same. He doesn’t have to play a role when it’s just him and Dan. He can be a little grumpy and headachy without being paraded around afterwards. He can feel a sense of himself in his favourite holiday instead of forcing himself into a role that he isn’t sure suits him anymore.

“The whole thing has been making me anxious for, like, weeks,” Phil admits. Dan’s brow furrows, but Phil doesn’t have the energy to feel bad for keeping that from him. “I want a lowkey Christmas. I want to just… spend the day with you and make our own traditions and give you the only present I was able to pick out myself. I don’t want to deal with coming out or, I dunno, hearing about all the tragedies I’ve been so fucking lucky to miss out on being around for. I’ll have a headache all week, Dan, and you must know that.”

For a long moment, Dan doesn’t say anything. He raises their joined hands to his mouth and presses soft kisses over the back of Phil’s hand.

“I didn’t know that,” Dan says, quiet. The disappointment is still obvious in his expressive eyes. Phil is fairly sure that Dan couldn’t hide genuine emotion if he tried.

Phil thinks about Dan teasing his mum over not being able to find an app, trading friendly jabs with his dad, making his brother laugh so hard that he’d doubled over at the table, and he realises that this is disappointing to Dan for more than the standard reasons.

He doesn’t know much about Dan’s family - only as much as Dan is willing to share on any given day, which is barely anything at all - but he knows how Dan feels about Phil’s family. Now he’s got a whole new guilt complex. Maybe he ought to suck it up, for Dan’s sake, so that Dan can spend Christmas getting spoiled rotten by Phil’s parents and he can know what it feels like to be loved unconditionally.

“I’ll tell you what,” says Phil. He squeezes Dan’s hand. “If you stay home this Christmas with me, and maybe do dinner with your family or with our friends instead of travelling, then I’ll go to therapy. I won’t even complain.”

Dan makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob and rubs at his eyes with his free hand. “You will,” he says.

“I will,” Phil agrees with a sheepish smile. “But… this is what I want. And I’m sorry.”

“I’ll think about it,” says Dan. Phil has been living in this flat long enough to know that I’ll think about it is basically an acquiescence from Dan, since he tends to make his mind up quick and firm. Dan must see that relief on Phil’s face, because he laughs and leans in for a kiss. “Okay, okay, it’s a good deal. I can even recommend a therapist.”

Phil understands why Dan feels comfort here as soon as he sits down. The small office has cushy chairs and a neutral palette, surely designed to put anyone at ease. Phil can see the personal details around it that he knows helped Dan specifically, though. The bookshelf, overflowing with biographies and small giraffe statues; the diplomas bracketing a framed vinyl that Phil doesn’t recognise but is certain that Dan appreciates; the friendly fern in the corner that practically waves at him when the door opens and shuts.

“Hi, Phil,” the young woman says. Her tone is polite but warm, less like a customer service agent and more like a friend of a friend. Her thin dark braids are pulled up into some sort of updo that looks extremely complicated to Phil at a glance. She’s wearing blue jeans and a blouse with birds on it, and Phil can’t help but point to the pattern on his own shirt.

“We match,” he jokes weakly. Surely she can only see his collar, because Dan’s borrowed jacket is obscuring most of his own birds, but she smiles anyway.

“That’s a funny coincidence,” she says, taking a seat. She’s almost directly across from him, but Phil can see the light filtering through the blinds and the happy leaves of her fern clearly if he doesn’t want to look her in the eye. “I’m Robin.”

“I knew that already,” says Phil. He can’t help the apologetic edge, even if he’s not sure what he’s apologising for. Knowing her name? Being here? Imposing on what should be Dan’s space because he’s more broken than he originally thought and doesn’t know how to trust a stranger? Phil wants to verbalise exactly zero percent of that, so he shrugs his shoulders to indicate that he’s sorry and doesn’t want to acknowledge being sorry.

There’s a moment of silence, but Phil doesn’t feel the need to fill it. He wonders if that’s her tactic with Dan, giving him as much opportunity to spill his guts as she possibly can. That probably works well enough for him. The silence just sort of makes Phil itchy.

Finally, Robin nods. She fiddles with her phone for a moment before placing it face-down on the arm of her chair. There’s a notebook in her lap, but she doesn’t open it.

“Okay, so,” she starts, and Phil has to look down at his own hands so he doesn’t look right in her wide, dark eyes. This is nerve-wracking enough without eye contact added onto it. “Today, you and I are just going to get to know each other a little bit. You’ll get a feel for the process more quickly than you’d expect. I’d just like to go over our confidentiality agreement with you first, if that’s alright.”

Phil nods back at her, eyes still glued to his chewed-down nails.

There’s a voice, and surely words are said, but Phil doesn’t retain any of it. He feels a familiar stirring of anger and does his best to ignore it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, genuine. He looks at her mouth to try and really see the words that she’s trying to say. He knows that they’re important, knows that they can’t move forward with this until he hears them. “Can you repeat that? I didn’t…”

He trails off, but Robin smiles encouragingly anyway. “Of course I can, Phil. If I ever say anything that you need me to repeat or if I’m moving too quickly for you, just let me know. And always remember that interrupting me is totally fine, I don’t mind. You’re the one in control here.”

“Thank you.”

Phil kind of wants to make a joke about her interruption rule and Dan, but despite Robin’s assurance of control, he’s not sure that he’d be allowed to. He’s still working through that thought process when he realises that her mouth has stopped moving again and she’s watching him so carefully.

It’s hard not to jump to immediate anger and embarrassment, but Phil swallows those down with his pride and says, “I’m really, I’m so sorry. I didn’t… understand again.”

Robin hums and opens her notebook. For a heart-stopping couple of seconds, Phil is convinced that she’s writing horrible things about him for her colleagues to read later. Of course, that doesn’t happen - the things that Phil’s anxiety convinces him of rarely do - and instead, she simply hands him a ripped-out page. It takes a couple of tries for Phil’s head to stop swimming before he can actually read it.

“That’s our confidentiality clause,” Robin says easily. “Take as much time as you need to absorb it, and then let me know if you have any questions.”

There’s a lump in Phil’s throat at the kind gesture, and he has to take a deep breath before he can focus on the words. He’s never been to therapy before, but nothing about the confidentiality part of it is surprising to him. He can understand, at least, why they have to go over it, and he’s grateful that it’s in plain words for him.

“I don’t have any questions,” he says. He holds the paper out, but Robin shakes her head.

“You can keep that, if you’d like.”

Robin doesn’t say in case you forget again or because you need it. Phil folds the paper into one of Dan’s jacket pockets.

“There’s not a clock in here,” Phil notices. He’d wanted to see how long it took him to absorb such simple information, but it’s kind of a relief not to be able to find one. “I don’t really like clocks.”

“Neither do I,” Robin says, and he thinks she’s just trying to relate to him until she shudders and adds, “They remind me of exams, you know? And watching it tick down gives me some anxiety.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“I keep time on my phone,” she explains, tapping a short fingernail against the back of her phone case. “A quiet beep is going to go off every fifteen minutes so that we both have a better structure of the hour we have together. If that bothers you, I have other methods of timekeeping that don’t involve watching a second hand tick down.”

“That doesn’t bother me,” Phil says honestly. Robin smiles at him in an encouraging sort of way, but he doesn’t have anything he wants to add.

The beat of quiet is left on purpose, he’s sure, before Robin speaks again. “Alright, Phil, let’s get to know each other a little bit. I’d also like to hear what you’re looking to get out of this experience, since I understand the goal here is to be referred to someone permanently?”

Phil doesn’t know about ‘permanently’. He nods anyway.

“Yeah, I think… I thought it would be helpful to see you, since you’re,” he says, and then he can’t figure out how he wants to end the sentence. Since she knows him already, sort of, and knows the situation, and because Dan trusts her and Phil trusts Dan. He decides to finish his thought instead of bothering to find the right words. He’s sure that Robin is smart enough to fill in some blanks herself. “But I know it would be weird for Dan if I kept seeing you. He didn’t say it would be weird, but. It would be. I figured this would be a good…”

He trails off again, twiddling his thumbs, and this time Robin makes a suggestion. “Stepping stone?”

“Yeah, kind of. Is that bad?”

“Nothing you say is bad,” Robin says, almost as if it’s knee-jerk. “I think it’s very telling of how considerate you are, actually. I do a lot of intake for referrals, which you might know or might not, so this isn’t a strange situation for me. I imagine it’s stranger for you.”

Phil laughs. “A little bit, yeah. I don’t really know… what to do.”

“Why don’t you start by telling me a little bit about yourself,” says Robin. She closes the notebook and sets it aside, absent-minded body language that already makes Phil feel more comfortable. It feels less like he’s being analyzed when there isn’t the chance of her scribbling down things he says.

“You already know a lot about me, though. Probably more than I do.”

“I think,” Robin says, and then takes a moment to think before she continues. “I think, Phil, that you’ve had enough people telling you who you are. I want to know who you think you are.”

Another lump in his throat. Phil swallows hard and looks at the fern in the corner, because that’s easier than looking Robin in the eye. There are a lot of things he could say about his sense of who he is and about how it’s felt to be told about himself for the past few months, but all of it feels too personal. He knows that’s what he’s here to do, to talk about his feelings, but that doesn’t mean he’s comfortable with it.

“I’m Phil,” he tells the plant. “I like Buffy and making videos and I really want a dog but I have to buy a house first.”

Fatigue. It’s impossible to tell if it’s a symptom or a deep-seated desire to keep Dan in bed longer when Phil has a hard time waking up on Christmas morning. He presses his weight against Dan and nuzzles into his sensitive neck and pretends like he’s not on the verge of falling back asleep at any moment.

Reduced concentration span. Phil has to look at the first couple pages of the scrapbook a few times before it really sinks in. Even then, he still can’t focus on the words. He understands what he’s looking at, sees the Skype usernames and the timestamps from 2009 and his own familiar use of emoticons, but he can’t actually read it right now. He’s too overwhelmed by the gesture. Overwhelmed, too, by how gorgeous Dan looks in his long shirt and bunny slippers and curls an absolute mess and dimples so deep that Phil wants to poke at them. He can’t help but launch himself at Dan in a move that feels, somehow, familiar.

Impulsiveness. Phil might not be an expert on picking presents for his friends or family members anymore, but he knows Dan now. Dan’s fingers are shaky as they flatten out the flight confirmations, and his voice is even shakier when he says, “Tokyo?”

There’s a list of symptoms on their fridge. For the first time since it was put there, Phil doesn’t feel like he’s under a microscope. It’s a good Christmas.

#words words words #amnesia au #phan #phanfic #phanfiction

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vincent-frankenstein · 6 years ago

Note

The wind was harsh, not harsh enough to hide the crunching of leaves under his feet. He hoped that wouldn't ruin the surprise. (For the two lines)

Around the house, past the backyard, ducking from tree to tree with a nimble, practiced ease until he reached the grandest of them all — a massive oak that stretched high above the ground, winding branches still laden with burnt-orange leaves.

He ran to the tree, pressing up against the cold, rough bark. His eyes narrowed against the wind. Peering around the corner once, twice, he made a quick assessment of the street beyond. Empty. Perfect.

“Any sign of ‘em, daddy-o?”

Patton squeaked at the sudden voice, slapping a hand over his mouth. His partner-in-crime swung down from the branches above, hanging upside-down from a particularly thick branch with ease. He wore a devilish grin and maniacally gleaming eyes, sandwiched between his bright green scarf and his octopus-patterned beanie.

“Not yet,” Patton said, “but I’m sure they’ll be here soon! You got the goods?”

“Do I got the —” Remus cut off with a laugh, rolling his eyes as he rolled himself across the branch, laying sideways like the Cheshire Cat. “What do you take me for? Of course I got ‘em.

He reached up into the branches above, producing two brightly colored toy guns from the mass of leaves above. He tossed the smaller one — a repurposed Nerf gun, modded by Remus himself to shoot his own special brand of glitter bombs — down to Patton, and cocked his own, a water gun filled to the brim with an awful mixture of mayonnaise and vinegar.

Patton traced a hand along his shining weapon, a mischievous grin growing on his face. Above him, Remus twirled the end of his mustache between two fingers, giggling under his breath. To anyone else, they would have looked insane — two strange men in the most garish homemade Christmas sweaters imaginable, giggling together under a tree with a pair of heavily modified toy guns — but they didn’t care. They had no choice in the matter. The Great Sanders Prank War had to go on.

Especially after last week. God, Patton had no idea chocolate cake could be used so… chaotically. He’d never see cake the same way again. And if teaming up with Remus meant that Roman and Virgil would pay for their crimes against humanity, then so be it.

Besides, he’d spent so much time planning with Remus that he’d begun to realize the other wasn’t nearly as uncaring or terrifying as he thought. His boyfriend’s brother was actually quite… nice, when it came down to it. He could match Patton’s own brand of chaos without breaking a sweat, and always managed to take it a step further, adding that extra diabolical edge that every prank needed.

“This is gonna be so good,” Patton whispered, excitement buzzing beneath his hushed voice.

“It is, isn’t it?” Remus said, clapping gleefully. “And it’s exactly what those bastards deserve! Although, I gotta admit, that thing with the frosting and the worms… a stroke of genius.”

Patton shuddered. “It was so… wiggly.”

“Yeah! Like intestines!”

“Gross!” Patton chirped. He peeked around the tree again, scanning the empty street, and… “There! They’re — they’re there!” he said, whacking Remus on the arm several times excitedly. Remus made a near-feral noise in the back of his throat and flattened himself against the branch, gun at the ready.

Roman and Virgil strolled down the sidewalk without a care in the world, completely unaware of the horrible fate that awaited them. Oh, they’d never be able to get the glitter out of their clothes, and the mayonnaise! They’d smell for weeks! Fitting revenge, after the great Cake Debacle.

Remus grinned, shooting Patton a wink. Patton readied his gun. Roman and Virgil approached, and revenge followed like a dog at their heels, a sweet prize waiting on the other end of a trigger ready to be pulled —

“What are you doing?”

Patton yelped, turning and shooting on instinct, and Remus fell from the tree with a loud swear. “Cecil!” Remus groaned, a heap of limbs on the ground. “You pile of dicks!”

Cecil closed his now-glitter-covered umbrella, raising an eyebrow at the deluge of puke-green glitter that fluttered away in the wind. Behind him, Logan stood with his arms crossed, the small bit of his face visible above his thick scarf hardened in a look of disappointment.

“You must not have heard me,” Cecil said with a dry look. “What are you doing?”

“We’re tryna prank Ro n’ Virge!” Patton said, pouting. Thankfully, Roman and Virgil had just walked right by their hiding spot, too caught up in their own animated conversation to notice the failed prank.

Logan sighed. “Is this a continuation of that infernal prank war?” he asked, rolling his eyes. Patton pursed his lips, rocking up and down on the balls of his feet.

“Mmmmaybe?”

“Fuck yeah it is!” Remus said, setting his hands on his hips. “We were gonna smoke those pussy-ass bitches, but yall ruined it!”

“Just in time, apparently,” Logan said, raising an eyebrow. “You realize a prank of this magnitude will only cause Roman and Virgil to seek retribution, right? The war will only continue until one of you ends up hurt.”

“Yeah, duh,” Remus said, rolling his eyes. “That’s the point of a prank war! Those bastards earned it, anyway.”

Logan barely suppressed a shudder. “I will admit, that cake fiasco was… rather nauseating. However, the proper course of action would be to take the, ah, high road and —”

Cecil held up a hand and Logan fell silent. “This is revenge for the cake?”

Patton nodded earnestly. “It’s just a bit of innocent fun!” he said. “Nothing that won’t wash out. No one’s gonna get hurt, Lo, I promise.”

“Yeah,” Remus said with a heavy sigh. “Patsy wouldn’t let me incorporate chainsaws into our revenge like I wanted. It’s completely dismemberment free!”

“Regardless,” Logan said, shaking his head. “Nothing good will come of continuing this conflict. I suggest that you pack up your... weapons, and head back inside.”

“No,” Cecil said, and the world held its breath as he turned to Patton and Remus, his face set as stone. “I want in.”

The reaction was immediate. Remus let out a wild whoop of joy, throwing his arms up in the air, and Patton burst into startled giggles, his eyes wide. Logan closed his eyes and let out a long, slow breath through his nose, his gloved hands curling into tight fists.

“And thus, logic has been figuratively thrown out the window,” he said, nose twitching with annoyance. “Cecil, I implore you to see reason —”

“Keep talkin’ and you’ll be literally thrown out the window!” Remus said, looping an arm around Cecil’s shoulders, his face alight with glee. “We’re the ultimate teamup! Nothing can stop us now!”

“Logan,” Cecil said, “do you remember what was unfortunately sacrificed in the aftermath of the cake incident?”

Logan’s face hardened. “A decent portion of my Crofter’s stash. I recall.”

“Mhm.” Cecil nodded sympathetically. “I understand where you’re coming from, really. A crime like that, it deserves to go unpunished!”

Logan hesitated, his eyes narrowing. Patton and Remus shared A Look; if Cecil managed to convince Logan to their side, Roman and Virgil wouldn’t stand a chance. The prank war would end with a decisive victory; they’d be decimated before they could even think of revenge.

“A-Absolutely not,” Logan said. “Participating in such a thing would be illogical, not to mention childish. I’ll have no part of it.”

Cecil hummed, offering a nonchalant shrug. “Oh, you’re right. It’s not like Roman and Virgil will see your inability to prank them back as weakness and focus their efforts on you! I could never see them doing such a thing, they’re just so respectful of you.”

Patton and Remus ‘ooh’d softly. Not only were Roman and Virgil one of the most formidable Prank War team-ups in the history of the Great Sanders Prank War, they both already had reasons to target Logan. Roman would pounce on any opportunity to infuriate Logan — it was just in his nature. And Virgil, he just wanted revenge for that time Logan had convinced him running off to form an MCR tribute band wasn’t the best idea.

Logan knew all of that. He knew he wore a figurative target on his back. If he didn’t strike first...

“Besides,” Cecil said, triumphant victory already sharp on his tongue, “your Crofter’s stash doesn’t really need avenging. It’s just jelly, after all.”

“It is not —” Logan stopped. Took a breath. Yanked his scarf back into place in lieu of his tie. “You... may have a point. A small, small —”

“Infinitesimal?” Patton suggested, with the exact chaotic energy of the :3c emoticon. Logan looked like he was barely restraining himself from yelling.

“Small point,” he finished, shooting Patton a look that made Remus burst out laughing. He sighed, shoving his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “What exactly does this prank entail?”

“We’re gonna shoot ‘em up with glitter and mayonnaise!” Remus declared, hefting his gun up into the air like it was some great marvel of science. Logan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“That’s it?” he asked. “Hm. I suppose you have a good foundation — Virgil despises anything sparkly, and the mayonnaise will ruin Roman’s outfit, it’s definitely a good starting point. What if you were to...”

And thus, Logan joined the Great Sanders Prank War. Roman and Virgil wouldn’t know what hit ‘em.

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hatari-translations · 5 years ago

Text

Hákon interview on ‘Vloggað um ekki neitt’ - translation/summary

This video is a 25-minute interview of Matthías by Hákon from Iceland Music News, about a play that Matthías was commissioned to write for the National Theater (Þjóðleikhúsið). In the process, they talk about how they met, the beginning of Matthías’s interest in theater, and the experience of being a teenager being constantly lectured at.

As it's quite long, I'm not going to translate word for word; this will be mostly summarizing, with choice quotes.

The play in question is called Vloggað um ekki neitt (Vlogging about nothing), and it's written with a specific age group in mind - the theater commissioned him to write a play for two actors aimed at ~13-15-year-olds. The theater's educational department does this, selecting demographics and commissioning educational shows meant to appeal to those groups.

Matthías thinks it's a challenge to write for this particular group; it's not obvious that a play for teenagers should be such and such. "I think teenagers just want to be treated like sapient beings, people with taste, and then it's pretty hard to be deciding, 'Yeah, this is like this, because you're teenagers.'" What's annoying about being a teenager, he posits, is that society as a whole is always trying to patronize you.

Hákon says that he remembers, from being a teenager, that there's also a pretty huge maturity gap between thirteen- and fifteen-year-olds. Matthías agrees, and adds that when you're a teenager you're developing your tastes and your self-image, feeling yourself reflected in the things that you like that somebody else might not, and that makes it difficult to categorize you as an age group. The last thing you want is being told, "This is for you, because you're fifteen" - either you like the thing or you don't.

"I also think that teenagers are generally... you aren't going to be telling them anything they don't know. I can imagine that if I were fifteen and I were invited to see a play that some random Matthías Tryggvi dude has written with your age group in mind, I'd just be like 'Okay, this is going to be some drug prevention bullshit, I've heard it all before, I know exactly what it's going to be like, I've been to the theater, I know what this is.'"

Hákon says teenagers as an audience vary a lot. He brings up Skrekkur, a popular youth talent competition for the 13-15-year-old stage of Reykjavík schools, where groups of teens will put together a short theatrical performance, each school will pick one to represent them, and then the schools compete. Matthías notes Hákon has hosted Skrekkur and participated in it, but Hákon corrects him, saying he never participated; at the time, as a young teen, he didn't think theater was very cool at all. Matthías says, "Those upbeat, positive types were just a bit intolerable. That's where I was at, too, at that age." They agree that they were basically the 'difficult' teenagers that might be in the audience.

Matthías says that he saw Leg (Uterus), a black comedy musical about teenage pregnancy by Hugleikur Dagsson, at this theater, and thought it was awesome. (This was in 2007! I saw it too, and it was pretty great. I was 17 at the time; Matthías would've been thirteen.) He loved Hugleikur's books and their grotesque humour, which he still jives with. Leg really opened up the world of theater to him, surprised him with what theater could be. And he hopes Vloggað um ekki neitt could be that for at least one teenager.

They move on to talking about the play itself. Matthías notes it's still in progress, and he's been working on writing it on and off for more than a year (I'm going to guess he was contacted by the theater about doing this during or after Hatari's participation in Söngvakeppnin; Hatari's huge popularity with youth probably made the directors of the theater immediately pin him as likely to write something teens could get excited about). He expects it to go into rehearsals this fall.

The play is about two people trying to become successful vloggers on YouTube. Matthías says really it's kind of like what they're doing right now, "just projecting yourself, and what you have to say, no matter how ill-advised it may be, out into the world." Hákon will be playing one of the two characters, Konráð.

Matthías notes that one thing about writing teenagers, and characters on social media or YouTube or the like, is that you're entering their domain. His main source on YouTubers is his fifteen-year-old sister. "It's their home field, they know how this works, they know what's cool. So very early in the process, I just admitted defeat. I'm not about to write cool social media content for these characters, or write it to be cool. They're always going to fail. It'll be some kind of attempt the characters are making to make good content on YouTube, but it's doomed to fail, because it's the audience that knows what good content is."

Hákon does think the characters are making honest attempts, having read the script so far, and they're honest characters, critical of themselves, perhaps too critical at times. "Yeah, they're scared to take the leap, scared to publish the material they're recording." Hákon says that's probably a common issue for vloggers, whether to publish something or ditch it or start over. Matthías says he's pretty sure PewDiePie, who his sister introduced him to, records a deluge of material and has somebody else editing it for him. It's become a bit of a production, even though it's just him at his computer playing video games (or other things). The characters in the play have that dilemma, as they're making content but are unsure how to present it and edit it.

Hákon talks about how as an artist you have to have a degree of self-reflection and be able to recognize when an idea isn't going anywhere. Matthías says when you're recording or writing or creating something, you enter a bit of a manic state, start to have delusions about how awesome it is, which the characters do, only to hit a wall and realize actually that sucked. Hákon: "And then they might also get delusions about how terrible it is, because it might be neither amazing nor completely awful." Matthías: "Maybe just a little tacky."

Hákon goes over how this isn't the first time the two of them work together, having attended the Academy of the Arts together. He notes Matthías wrote Þvottur when they were in their first year, as a side project, and that was how they met. He says Matthías has a recognizable style; Matthías says "That's fun." Hákon asks if Þvottur was Matthías's first play; he says no, but it was a kind of first effort anyway, as it was the first one he directed. He also notes that Hákon helped him with that, having more experience, and others - at which Hákon brings up that Klemens helped as well, as he built the set. "Which was 'simple but clever' according to a critic," Matthías adds.

Matthías's actual first foray into playwriting was when he and a friend took part in translating-slash-adapting Gertrude Stein's "Doctor Faustus Lights the Lights". "It's a really interesting piece, very experimental, in some sense not very conventional in its textual structure. And it was really - again, a whole new world opened. Whoa, is this a play? Okay, wow." Working on this adaptation/translation with director Brynhildur Guðjónsdóttir was hugely inspiring for him. "After that process, I've really gotten into it, seeing students at the school acting out lines that Ingólfur and I had been polishing."

From there, he moved on to Ungleikur, where young people work together to write, direct and act in their own plays. He wrote three pieces for it all in all, and then Þvottur independently. He says it was really good to be able to make that connection and try this out at the Academy of the Arts.

Returning to Vloggað um ekki neitt, Hákon asks what besides his sister sparked the idea for this piece. Matthías talks about how he attended his sister's civil confirmation ceremony (the non-religious version of a Christian confirmation; confirmations are so commonplace and important in Iceland that any thirteen-year-old that simply doesn't have one would be considered weird, so there's a non-religious version done by the Icelandic Ethical Humanist Association). At the ceremony, there were a bunch of speeches by various speakers, and he thought it was really clear there how much everyone was trying to lecture them. One of the speeches was a parable about frogs. The frogs were all hopping, but then some people came and yelled insults at them. All of them immediately floundered somehow and fell out of line, except one of the frogs, and the punchline of the story was that that frog was deaf. He could just see in the faces of the thirteen-year-olds that nobody could make heads or tails of this story; it was completely irrelevant to them. He thinks this desperation to push you to succeed and not do this and that and think about your health and your mental health all just becomes noise at a certain point. He can relate to that, remembering when he was a teenager himself.

Hákon agrees that that tends to be how you experience this stuff as a teenager, and that this is also visible in the play, which includes that parable about the frogs. The play also shows a sort of exaggerated version of preventative education. Konráð and the other character, Sirrý, are trying to educate teenagers watching their vlogs ("a hopeless project when everyone's just watching PewDiePie," Matthías quips). So the characters are including a lot of hard facts about drugs, cigarettes, sleep, exercise, screen time, bullying, etc., which they're kind of aggressively trying to convey to the audience. The idea, for Matthías, was to create a character who's just spewing all that stuff and all that noise at a camera, not knowing who's even watching.

They talk about how Matthías has been appointed as one of the City Theater's two playwrights for next winter, after Vloggað um ekki neitt is done, though he expects to still attend the rehearsals ("You're not chained to the City Theater" - the National Theater and the City Theater are the two big competing theaters in Reykjavík). He also might become one of three people working on "Þjóðleikur", a project where playwrights write short plays with many characters, to be produced and performed by groups of teens around the country.

"And then Hatari gets mixed up with all this." "Yes. Hatari will be - maybe there's a performance of Vloggað um ekki neitt, and I'm there in costume, and Klemens and Einar are there, and we do a song or two and then introduce the play." (He's joking.)

As they sign off they sanitize their hands and remind everyone to keep two meters apart (Matthías is unsure if they've quite been placed two meters apart here; Hákon thinks it is two meters, but I'm with Matthías in thinking it seems like a bit less).

#matthías tryggvi haraldsson #vloggað um ekki neitt #interview #translation

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