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fific7 · 3 years

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Unexpected - Part 3

King Caspian x Reader

Summary: What happens if you push the respectful and well-behaved King Caspian a little too far? You’re about to find out.

A/N: The final chapter. This does not follow canon, it’s mainly a mix of fluff and angst with some lemon zest 🍋 Friends to Lovers AU.

Warnings: 18+ NSFW due to sexual content including debatable consent at first, loss of virginity and oral and unprotected* sex between consenting adults. Some drinking & swearing.

*Irl, please don’t go wild in the country without protection.

(My video edit)

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Ever since his hasty departure from your study, Caspian had not exactly avoided you but had taken to just popping his head round the door and wishing you a cheerful good day before disappearing again. You had smiled to yourself. It certainly did seem that you had some kind of an effect on the King. You weren’t absolutely sure what that was, but it appeared to be a positive one.

You were excitedly planning an outfit for that evening as a banquet was being held to celebrate Cornelius’ birthday. No-one had mentioned how old he actually was and you weren’t sure if that was because they didn’t know or if they were just being tactful. You’d bought him three new quills as his gift, which he’d accepted gratefully as he was always snapping the tips off his.

Later that afternoon, there was a brief knock and Caspian’s smiling face appeared round your door. “You are coming to the birthday banquet tonight, aren’t you, my lady?” You nodded, “I am, Caspian.” “Well… I’ll see you there,” he grinned, and then he was gone.

Smiling, you went back to mentally reviewing the dresses in your wardrobe. Tonight you’d make sure you looked your very best for Caspian.

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Meanwhile Caspian walked off down the corridor, deep in thought. He was sure that she’d noticed that he was keeping a physical distance between them the past few days, but it was the only way he could think of to avoid making a complete fool of himself. Again. Like he had the last time. His face burned every time he thought about it. She’d known why he’d rushed off, he was sure of it.

He would have to dance with her tonight. It would look strange if he didn’t, and he felt his stomach tie itself into a knot. How on earth was he going to keep himself under control? He would just have to figure out a way… somehow.

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Eventually, after several changes, you’d chosen a deep ruby red velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline, your hair was artfully pinned up and you had added a sparkling necklace and earrings.

The music played, the tables were laden with food and drink and Cornelius was thoroughly enjoying himself as the centre of attention. The courtiers whirled around the room in spirited waltzes and you watched as Caspian danced with girl after girl after girl. Everyone apart from you, in fact. You had a sick sinking feeling in your stomach - it looked like you’d got it all wrong, he obviously didn’t have any feelings for you at all. You blinked fiercely as you felt your eyes fill up. Well, your mother always said pride comes before a fall, and you supposed that you’d been prideful in thinking that he felt something special for you.

Taking a large drink of your wine, you considered leaving the banquet. What use was there in staying? Just to watch Caspian dancing with all the other women, while you - a sorrowful heap of jealousy - sat in the corner by yourself? No, that was not going to be you, you thought.

Standing, you smoothed your dress and started to move out from behind the table, only for Cornelius to lightly grip your wrist. “You’re surely not going already?” he questioned you. You nodded, “Yes, my lord. I.. I have a headache and should retire to my chamber, I think.” He did not let go of you, “Oh, my lady, can’t I persuade you to stay just a little longer? It is my birthday after all!” he smiled mischievously at you. Oh, he had to make you feel guilty, didn’t he? You sighed, “Very well, my lord, just for a very short time though.” He refilled your wine cup, “Have some more wine,” he encouraged you, “I’ve heard it’s very efficacious in treating headaches!”

Laughing, you sat down and took the goblet from him. “Indeed? I confess I haven’t heard that said of wine, my lord.” Nodding vigorously, he replied, “Oh, yes - I am sure I read that recently somewhere - in a medical book or suchlike.” Out of the corner of your eye, you saw a figure approaching you, one of the Kingsguard. Before you turned to look fully at him, you saw a look of annoyance flit over Cornelius’ face, before his usual small smile returned.

“May I have the pleasure of the next dance, my lady?” asked the handsome soldier, whose name you didn’t know. You nodded and stood, taking his outstretched hand and allowing him to lead you onto the dance floor. The orchestra finished playing the previous waltz, and prepared to play the next one.

Caspian’s dark eyes met yours as he straightened up from bowing to his partner. Something flashed in them and you looked away, up at your own partner. Wasn’t he happy to see you dancing with someone? Well, that was a shame, you thought - he can just have a taste of his own medicine! The music began and you and the soldier began to dance, thankfully neither of you treading on each other’s toes. You saw that Caspian was dancing with yet another lady. Hmmm, not so bothered then, you thought somewhat bitterly.

Throughout the dance, however, any time you looked towards Caspian his eyes were on you. Continuing to look away, you’d wait a few moments and look again. Yes - still looking. Now you were confused, if he didn’t care, why was he staring? Maybe it was just a ‘big brother’ kind of thing. The dance came to an end and you and your partner bowed to each other, and as you stood straight again you realised with a start that Caspian was standing slightly to the right of your soldier, gazing at you.

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Caspian’s heart had jolted in his chest when he saw her take the floor with one of his Kingsguard. Jealousy raged through his veins. She was only supposed to dance with him! He continued staring over at them as the dance progressed, barely looking at his own new partner, and as soon as the dance finished he quickly bowed, mumbled a thank you and hurried over to her and the soldier.

The soldier bowed his head to his King and took himself off at speed. Caspian was still looking at her, and eventually she cleared her throat and said, “Good evening, your Majesty,” bowed her head slightly and also started to leave the dance floor. “No!” he exclaimed, and her eyes met his again, a confused look in them. “I mean… don’t go, I was about to ask you to dance.” She gave him a small smile, “And are you asking me, your Majesty?” Now it was his turn to look confused, “Why, yes… I am,” he replied and extended his hand towards her.

Taking it, she followed him to a more central area of the dance floor and as they reached it he swung around, pulling her close against him and drinking in her scent. He heard her give a small gasp and realised what he’d done - the waltz the orchestra was playing required a side by side promenade at arms’ length for a few steps before traditional waltzing then took over. Hastily, he released her and they performed their promenade steps, before he was able to take her into his arms once more.

“You look absolutely beautiful,” he breathed next to her ear, “I was overwhelmed when I saw you arrive.” She laughed, not meeting his eyes, “Really, your Majesty? I didn’t think you were even aware I was here.” “What?” he said, totally confused, “Of course I knew you were here!” She still wouldn’t meet his eyes as they moved around the dance floor. “Well, it’s just that you were so busy with all your dance partners I didn’t think that you were, your Majesty.”

Caspian felt like a thunderbolt had hit him. Of course! What a damn fool he was. He’d been so busy trying to distract himself from mooning over her, that it hadn’t dawned on him what it might look like to her - that he was totally ignoring her. He’d noticed that she’d gone back to calling him ‘your Majesty’. He desperately thought of how he could explain this without giving himself away. “Oh… no, no… I’m, I’m always aware of… of where you are,” he said then winced as he realised how lame that sounded. “I thought I would save the last dance for you,” he added, hoping this would redeem him somewhat.

She finally looked at him, a slightly reproachful look in her eyes but she didn’t speak. “I’m so sorry if it looked like I was ignoring you,” he said in a rush, “I just didn’t want to seem too eager.” She laughed but he could tell there wasn’t a lot of humour in it, “Don’t worry, your Majesty, that definitely wasn’t the impression you gave.”

Caspian was panicking. How could he be so stupid? Now she was upset with him, and he only wanted her more than ever - she looked stunning in her ruby red gown. He held her even closer to him and decided to stop talking, maybe he could just show her how he felt by holding her close. He saw her eyes widen and realised that had been a mistake too. There was no doubt that she’d felt his rampant erection, even through the heavy fabric of her dress.

He made a sudden decision and danced her rapidly across the floor back to the table, hastily sitting down and tugging her into the seat next to him. He pulled his tunic down as far as he could over the bulge in his lap and leant forward slightly, embarrassed and running his hands over his face. “Are you alright, my King?” she questioned him. He looked sidelong at her, “I think you know exactly what’s wrong with me.” Then in an even quieter voice, “The same as in the orchard that time.”

He saw a blush start to rise over her face. So she did remember it.

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Oh! you thought, your mind racing back to that encounter in the gathering dusk. You had thought about it frequently over the years with a mixture of excitement and embarrassment. You knew you’d been quite forward in your curiosity, and often wondered if Caspian ever thought about it too. And now it seemed that he had. With a frisson of jealousy, you’d also wondered what other sexual experiences he’d had since.

“I… we said we’d never talk about that, Caspian.” While dancing and when he’d pulled you closer to him, you’d felt that hard length of his against your stomach and knew exactly what it meant. But now here he was, bringing up the subject himself.

“We said we’d never speak of it to other people,” he corrected you, gazing into your eyes, “but maybe we need to discuss it further between ourselves. Come, let us leave the banquet for a while so we can speak in private.” He stood up and held out his hand so you also stood, taking it and following him as he led you out of the banqueting hall, aware of the many envious glances from the other women as you left with the King.

They could think what they liked, you thought. They will know you were childhood friends, although you’d made a point of never telling that to any of them. Castle gossip will have ensured that they all knew about it in any case.

Caspian led you upstairs to one of the empty salons and outside onto the large balconied terrace which was attached to it. He knew his castle well, you thought. Due to its position in one of the towers it wasn’t overlooked by any other window or balcony, and the size of the large terrace prevented anyone from seeing anything if they looked up from the grounds.

He came to a halt and turned towards you, his eyes blazing with something - you weren’t sure what - as he looked into yours, “I…I want,” he faltered, “I need…!”

You opened your mouth to ask him what he wanted and needed but before you could speak, he pushed you up against the terrace wall, you felt his mouth on yours and he was kissing you passionately. You realised he was also raising your dress and felt the fabric creep past your knee and then halfway up your leg.

Looking down you saw that Caspian had unlaced his breeches, just as you felt his fingers brush past your undergarments. Because unlike last time, it was he who had hold of his manhood and before you fully realised what he was doing, he’d slid his erection inside you and continued to push until he was fully sheathed. You were gasping and his dark brown eyes looked more like deepest black as he stared into yours, before he lowered his head onto your shoulder, groaning and whispering your name.

“Caspian!” you eventually managed to breathe, “what are you doing?!”

“What you wanted me to do that night in the orchard,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice rough.

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Caspian gripped her hips through the dress fabric and began to thrust up into her. She’d wanted him to do this to her those few years ago, right? She’d told him he was a coward because he’d pulled out. So now he was only taking what he could’ve had under the pear trees that evening, wasn’t he?

He heard her voice, through her gasps, “We were children, Caspian, who didn’t know any better. Now we do. What if you get me pregnant?” Caspian stopped thrusting, she needed to hear the truth.

“I don’t care! I’ve wanted you every second of every day since!” his voice broke, “Don’t you realise I’ve always been in love with you?!” He leaned his head back slightly and looked into her eyes, “Tell me you don’t want me to do this and I’ll stop.” She hesitated and he immediately began thrusting again, kissing her and pulling her closer to him. Eventually he felt her fists pummelling his chest, “Caspian! Please! I can’t get pregnant.”

He stopped with a heavy sigh, resting his forehead on hers for a moment before straightening up and pulling out of her. Taking his dick in his hand he turned away from her, frantically rubbing and squeezing his length before finishing quickly, bending over slightly and catching his seed in the palm of his other hand.

Turning back towards her, he found he was looking at empty space. She was gone.

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You ran as fast as your fancy dancing shoes would let you to your chamber. Throwing yourself headlong onto your bed and beginning to sob, you wondered how on earth you’d got yourself into this stupid situation. Because you teased him! your brain yelled back at you, it’s all your fault and you know it! Caspian is such a polite, shy, well-behaved boy and look what you made him do!

Eventually your tears stopped flowing and you wearily got up from the bed, struggling a little to unlace your dress at the back but eventually managing it. You’d had to learn how to do that as you didn’t have a lady’s maid, unlike at home. Having washed your face, taken down your hair and changed into your nightdress, you had just lain back down in bed and pulled the quilt over your head when you heard a single knock at your door.

You knew it was Caspian, that one knock had been a special signal between the two of you since you were children. Knowing in your heart that you shouldn’t answer it, you nevertheless got up and opened the door.

It looked as if Caspian had also been crying, his dark eyes were as wide as saucers. “I need to explain.”

You nodded and stood back, allowing him to come into your chamber.

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He locked the door behind him, he didn’t want any interruptions during the discussion he was about to have. She’d walked back to her bed and sat on the edge of it, looking down into her lap. He followed her over there, also perching on the bed next to her.

He drew in a deep breath then said in a low voice, “I’m truly sorry for what I did earlier.” He looked down, “You looked so beautiful but you danced with him, you were in his arms and I was so very jealous! I wanted you so much. But what I did was unforgivable.” He heard her exhale then she said, “I have to say, it’s not how I imagined losing my virginity, Caspian.” His head flew up, “But that… we… didn’t that happen when we…?” She shook her head, blushing, “No, not properly. You didn’t get far enough inside that time,” and looked up at him, “but you did this time.”

Now he felt himself blushing. “Oh! I always thought I lost my virginity to you that evening,” he said, “And you? That means you haven’t been with anyone else?” He held his breath and then she shook her head, her eyes downcast again. He felt an immense sense of relief, blowing out a big breath of air. There was a short silence and then he heard, “Caspian?” He looked over at her, “Yes?” “How many women have you been with since then?”

He leapt up off the bed, drawing himself up to his full height, “None!” he shouted, then as he saw her jump, lowered his voice, “I have been with no woman except you.” Suddenly he knelt in front of her, and he met her intent gaze, “I’ve never wanted anyone else apart from you.” He noticed her eyes welling up, and a few tears slid down her cheeks. He reached up and gently wiped them away, “Why are you crying, my darling?” he asked, “Doesn’t that please you?” She managed a feeble smile, “I’m crying because I am pleased to hear that, yes.”

Caspian’s brain hurt a little as he heard this; he wondered if he’d ever understand women. He decided the wisest course of action would be to remain silent and just smiled back at her, nodding as if he fully understood. She sniffled a little and then said more boldly, “Caspian, when you were… you know… earlier, you said you’d always been in love with me.”

His mind rapidly rewound to when he’d been trying to make love to her, had he said that?! He really didn’t recall - his mind had been on other things! - but as it was the truth in any case, he nodded. He took hold of her hand, “Yes, it’s the truth. I’ve loved you since I met you.” “But we were just children.” “It doesn’t matter. You’re my soulmate, I’ve always known that. It was truly awful when I had to flee the castle as I knew I wouldn’t see you - maybe ever again - but I had no choice, and I just had to try and put you out of my mind until Narnia was safe.”

He got up and sat next to her on the bed again. “It was really difficult. Just recently, everything was starting to return to normal and I was about to try and find you, when you arrived here as Cornelius’ assistant. It seemed fated that we should be together. But you kept on saying how I was your dear friend and.. and my heart broke. I was sure that’s all you felt for me - friendship.”

She shook her head, “No, Caspian. I don’t think I realised it until I came to the castle and saw you again, but I think I’ve always loved you too.”

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Caspian’s face had the hugest grin on it as you finished speaking. “Really? You love me?” You nodded, “Yes, I do.” Suddenly he was back down on one knee, “Then please - make me the happiest man in Narnia and marry me!” You must have looked like an idiot with your mouth forming a large O, but eventually you managed to say “Yes!” Then he had jumped up, pulling you off the bed and wrapping his arms around you, whirling you round while you squealed and he kissed you.

After the two of you had calmed down somewhat, he left to go back to his own chambers as even although you were now betrothed, it wouldn’t be seemly for him to spend the night with you, even if you just slept in the same bed. He promised that he would have a ring for you by the next day and while you’d assured him there was no rush, he’d insisted that he wanted a betrothal ring on your finger as soon as possible.

You lay awake most of the night, too excited to sleep. It seemed incredible but all of your most precious dreams had come true.

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The next morning, Cornelius had appeared in front of your desk as usual and throwing aside his usual decorous manner, had hugged you. “I am so pleased to hear your news!” he declared. “I’ve never seen Caspian so happy. He was bouncing around like an over-excited rabbit this morning,” he chuckled, taking your hand and squeezing it while you laughed at his description of Caspian’s reaction. “I know the two of you will be so happy together,” he continued, “Now! We must start planning the wedding!”

When Caspian came to your study later that afternoon, he led you out from behind your desk, went down on one knee and proposed to you once again. This time, he produced a small jewellery box from his tunic pocket and opened it, showing you a ring with a large pear-shaped diamond as the centrepiece. It was beautiful and as Caspian slipped it onto your finger, he whispered, “To always remind you of the pear trees in the orchard,” with a small mischievous grin at you.

“How did you get the ring so quickly?” you asked him, as you were amazed that he’d managed to find such a beautiful, perfect ring in the space of one morning. He’d winked at you, “I have my contacts, that’s all I’m going to say.” You never did find out for sure, but there was one diamond merchant in the town nearest to Cair Paravel who had similar gems and you thought it might be from there.

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One thing you did know for sure, the other ladies of the court’s eyes were out on stalks as they glimpsed your new ring when you joined them for dinner that evening. Every single one of them was praying you were going to tell them to whom you were now betrothed and eventually - when you had still said nothing and dinner was nearly over - one of them could keep quiet no longer.

“My lady… umm, I cannot help but notice your beautiful ring!” You dipped your head, “Why thank you, my lady,” you replied. She smirked at you, “But you are not willing to share the name of your betrothed with us?” You shook your head, a faux-regretful look on your face, “I cannot as yet, my lady. My betrothed has to be the one to announce it,” you went on, with a small shrug. Of course, this just meant that their curiosity ate them up even more.

But Caspian had advised you that he had to firstly tell the Grand Council, then your parents, the courtiers and the people of Narnia in that order - that was the accepted, traditional procedure and that was that. So you had to keep quiet, although in truth you were literally bursting to tell everyone!

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When the news was finally announced, everyone showered congratulations onto you and Caspian. Although you did get the feeling that the other ladies of the court gave their best wishes through gritted teeth and with fake smiles. You knew that they were secretly devastated as you’d won the prize they had been trying to win, and you felt slightly sorry for them as you knew you’d have felt the same if Caspian had asked one of them to marry him.

In the meantime, Cornelius - much to your surprise - had indeed become almost your sole wedding planner, and very good at it he was too! He’d already arranged just about everything. In fact the only thing you had left to worry about choosing was your dress.

Caspian was getting nervous about the actual ceremony; he was worried he was going to forget his vows when he tried to say them to you. You had just told him, “Make them up! As long as you mean them, it doesn’t matter what you actually say.” He’d laughed, pulling you into his arms and kissing you hungrily, but then the two of you had to spring apart as two female courtiers appeared round the corner without warning. You’d all nodded to each other; they pretended they hadn’t seen you and Caspian kissing, and you two pretended you hadn’t been caught.

Until you were married this was frowned on in public, in what you considered to be one of various out-dated court traditions. You’d be shaking up some things once you were Queen, you smiled to yourself.

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Caspian was super-excited on his wedding day. He was nervous, yes - but it was a good nervous. Apart from the fact that in a few moments he’d be joined together for all eternity to the woman of his dreams, tonight, their wedding night, they would finally - finally - be able to make love properly. He couldn’t wait.

Their first two attempts hadn’t exactly been stellar successes - and of course, they shouldn’t even have been trying the first time around! - but he just knew that it would be third time lucky. No guilty childish fumblings, no adult angry/jealous sex… it would be just the two of them, lying in amongst the crisp cotton sheets and deep quilts of their marital bed. No prying eyes, no interruptions, no rush - it would be just heavenly. He already felt a little thrill of arousal.

He heard the musicians begin to play the joyful wedding music and he turned to see his beautiful bride - in a gorgeous white dress and holding a bouquet of delicate white flowers - bathed in sunlight and standing in the entranceway. Would he ever feel as happy as this again, he wondered? He didn’t think he would.

She paused for a few seconds and then began to walk gracefully across the Great Hall towards him. Approaching him, through her veil she met his gaze and gave him a dazzling smile.

His smile in return was even brighter and totally blissful.

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@paracosmenthusiast @jessevans

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#king caspian #king caspian x reader #king caspian fan fiction #king caspian fanfic #ben barnes #voyage of the dawn treader

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traitor-boyfriend · 6 years

Text

So Viel

Words: 3004

Pairing: Stan/Kyle

Summary: Kyle finally returns home from a year abroad.

There’s an uncomfortable buzz of anticipation shelved in the back of Stan’s brain as he turns onto the main road, his fingers tapping idly along to the crackling radio. Home for all of six hours, there’s a lot that Stan can’t wait to show Kyle upon his eventual homecoming from a year abroad in Germany. He wonders whether to lead with his newly-chipped front tooth, courtesy of the only hockey game he neglected to wear a mouth guard, or the outline of an eventually complete tattoo on his left arm. Neither will matter; the first thing Kyle is sure to notice is that Stan is finally sporting an adult haircut. It’s nothing special -- just exceptionally short. More of an overgrown crew cut than anything. The wind brushes his bare forehead and he reaches to part the spindly wraith of where bangs used to be.

His phone buzzes with a text from Kyle.

My mother is driving me crazy. Please hurry.

Stan grins to himself and assures Kyle that he’s on the way, hoping that the hasty cleaning of his car done beforehand is enough to prevent too big a hissy fit about it. He thinks as such before knocking an empty and forgotten coffee cup beneath the passenger seat at a red light.

Ike is the first to answer when Stan rings the doorbell; he’s seventeen now with all the acne to prove it, the budding facial hair along his chin that’s as ordinary and ugly as it is exceptionally disconcerting. He listlessly invites Stan to wait inside while Kyle remains holed up in the bathroom.

Gerald flicks a newspaper corner in his direction as a greeting; Sheila wanders in from the kitchen and gives Stan a terse nod of acknowledgment, her cherubic hands pruned with dishwater. They exchange half-hearted pleasantries about the weather, the news, a shared eagerness in having Kyle home, and Ike makes sure his performative grunt of irritation is heard. Though he’s not sure when it started, there’s a tightrope balance to maintaining friendliness with Kyle’s mother now – as if any moment he may be ushered from their home by a wicker broom out into the street like a mangy cat. She suddenly insists on calling him ‘Stanley’ and remarks about his tattoo. She calls it “interesting” and nothing more.

Kyle emerges from the bathroom about five minutes later. Shower gel and shaving cream follows him, as does an air of humidity. He fiddles with minor details of his outfit when ambling through the hall before noticing Stan.

“Your hair!”

Stan smiles and runs his fingers through what little of it is left. “You like it?”

Kyle smiles ear to ear before declaring that he hates it.

He playfully gives Stan’s cheek two gentle slaps, hand falling to his shoulder. “I liked your hair long,” Kyle says. “You don’t even look like you anymore.”

“I could say the same to you,” Stan smirks, directing his attention to Kyle’s perfectly coiffed and incredibly stylish undercut. Kyle asks if it looks stupid, to which Stan assures him that it doesn’t. It looks very nice on him. By far, it’s the most fashionable aspect about him – the rest of Kyle clad in the same oversized earth-tone flannel shirt he’s owned since ninth grade, scuffed ankle boots, and a charcoal pair of jeans that are looking a little worse for wear.

The lingering distance dissipates between them in a quick hug; Kyle collects his things with Sheila warbling about their whereabouts from the other room, Stan not protesting as he is carelessly rushed out the door.

Kyle is immediately drawn to the tattoo once outside, taking Stan’s arm and examining it with clinical fervor in the flood of porchlight. He asks what it is.

“A rabbit smoking a pipe,” Stan says.

Kyle turns Stan’s arm at an angle once, twice, releasing the sturdy grip on his flesh. He nods. “Interesting,” he says.

They head to the new and improved Shakey’s, which is neither new nor improved but rather under different management; such management includes the obtaining of a liquor license and excommunicating itself of its titular mascot, which makes Stan both relieved and slightly sad. Several of the overhead lights are burnt out, a dim fog of body heat and grime nesting in every small nook, the floors still sticky as ever. A backwoods baby blanket of childhood baseball games and poorly planned birthday parties. They order a large cheese pizza and a pitcher of beer.

It’s still surreal to be sitting with Kyle again – to be able to see and hear him clearly. Though he understood, it was difficult for Stan to cosign to a year of dwindling phone calls and video chats, to a blurry, garbled visage of Kyle that lived on in his cell phone or webcam that may be disconnected at a moment’s notice. A year seemed intolerable, and far too long to live with the phantom ache of reaching for Kyle only to find him missing. Fostering companionship in others was futile; it was a stark realization on just how little he confided in anyone else. His first sip of beer is cold and crisp and tastes both familiar and brand new.

Obligatory small talk and catch-up questions out of the way, the two fall into the familiar rhythm of silent communication: pointed flickers toward the homey rednecks worthy of their ridicule and concealed snorts, jested kicks beneath the table, cheeks burning bright and eyes filled with light. Stan tells a joke and Kyle grasps breathlessly at his arm as he laughs. Every touch feels so good it hurts.

Kyle pecks his pizza like a sheepish bird, but with encouragement to drink he becomes equally greedy as Stan, the two of them batting greasy fingers at each other like when they were teenagers calling dibs on the unevenly large slices, ready to pounce if the other tries taking more than his fair share. Stan smiles and stares, feeling prematurely drunk. Kyle asks a defensive, “What?” as a long sliver of mozzarella falls from his lips; Stan only shakes his head and grins.

He has a fresh bite in his mouth when Kyle reaches across the table and snatches his chin. He commands Stan to swallow immediately and show his teeth, which he does.

“Christ, what did you do to your beautiful teeth!”

“It’s one tooth,” Stan says. “Hockey.”

Kyle’s internal ticker begins to rattle off, flailing his arms in fury over what a stupid and dangerous sport it is – how it’s bad enough that Stan feels the need to play, but he’s also the reason Ike plays now too, so he’s basically the only responsible party if any injury befalls him – and speaking of responsibility, to be so irresponsible as to forget his mouth guard? What was he thinking? Does he know how much worse he could’ve been hurt?

Stan patiently waits for Kyle to exhaust himself. He does so quite dramatically, flopping back into the booth with a dissatisfied puff. Stan smiles sweetly.

“It’s not that bad, and I’m getting it fixed,” he says. “You don’t need to worry so much.”

Kyle hardens. “Well, I do worry about you,” he says, quiet. His gaze briefly pans to the other side of the restaurant before returning to Stan, holding his drink close without sipping from it. For a moment, Stan wishes to preserve him in exactly this way – loving scowl, knobby knuckles curled around glass, gap teeth bit down on his bottom lip. “And don’t tell me what to do. I’ll worry about you as much as I goddamn please.”

Stan grins and accepts this as an inevitability.

Soon after, he regales Stan with stories of Germany: no tipping the waiter, nothing open on Sundays, the electrifying terror of driving on the Autobahn. It amuses him greatly to admire all the little ways Kyle is both inconvenienced, fascinated and utterly irritated by arbitrary social conventions, exhausting himself regardless of whether he chooses to defy or comply with them, his curious fixation with their very existence reading as evidence to something greater of who Kyle is as a person – though, of what, Stan isn’t sure. All he knows is it makes Kyle very interesting to listen to.

Stan is responsive to the intricate cultural comparisons, albeit only mildly until Kyle makes mention of a man named Lukas. A friend of his host family. He’s expecting the bomb before Kyle drops it; Stan isn’t sure when or where his odd possessiveness of Kyle first emerged, but it beats tried and true as ever, hallowed in his chest by mention of the man being six years older. Kyle insists it wasn’t ‘weird’ or ‘manipulative’ or any of Stan’s other fears – Lukas made the whole experience all the richer. Lukas was sweet. This is worse somehow.

And then the conversation of romance turns its head to Stan. Kyle asks about Andrew. Though, he doesn’t address him as such. Andrew, to Kyle, is “that swimmer, or whatever he was” and nothing more.

Stan says shakes his head and sips his beer. It’s a slightly tender wound that Kyle jumps to salt almost immediately. He raps his nails against the table, obviously waiting to be given the gory details, an unabashed lust for melodrama. The real story is far less glamourous. A nice girl from his botany class who frequently loaned him pens pulled him aside before class several weeks before and informed him that she saw Andrew with his tongue in the mouth of some unrecognizable stranger the night before. It took Stan an additional week to confront him about it. Easily the most upsetting part of the whole ordeal was the ease and unrepentance of Andrew’s confession to it and the months-long secrecy behind it. Reliving it in technicolor vividness makes Stan feel foreign in his own skin.

“That’s it?” Kyle asks, incredulous. “He was just out with some other dude at a party? Not even trying to hide?”

“Yeah.”

“God, what a dick.”

“Yeah. But I liked him, y’know.”

“Oh, I know… and I’m sorry, I guess. He was a dick though. I could tell from the moment I met him – when he told me he liked Bukowski, I was, like, ‘Oh, I bet this guy’s a dick.’”

“You think every guy I date is a dick.”

Kyle snorts. “Yeah, because they usually are. I swear, Stanley, you have the worst taste in men.”

Stan nods reluctantly. Andrew did cheat on him, so it’s not as if Kyle is wrong. He isn’t privy to the consequences of wrongness with the same triage as Stan. He thought to be suspicious when he still wouldn’t say “I love you” after six months of dating; everyone assured him he was merely being paranoid. And sure, maybe he was, but it wasn’t for no reason, he wasn’t simply imagining things, but he felt a need to—

“You can do better, dude,” Kyle says, furrowing his brow, a crown of righteous indignation atop his head on Stan’s behalf. He offers a tender touch of the hand, a thin sheen of pizza grease still coating his fingers. His eyes soften. The overhead light makes Kyle look like an angel. Stan feels something dizzy stir in his stomach. “Way better.”

He thanks Kyle and they polish what’s left of the lukewarm beer, leaving their money on the table.

In the parking lot, they sit in Stan’s car with the radio on and the windows down. He’s a little buzzed but decent to drive, though he finds it best to wait given the unmarked police car across the street, not wanting to end on a dour note with an arrest. Wind blows steady and cool with the suggestion of a possible storm in the coming days. Kyle doesn’t argue over Stan’s choice of music, and the delicate bleating of an acoustic guitar serves as a lovely if ominous backdrop to the brisk bite in the air.

A year in Germany has only exacerbated Kyle’s smoking habit, and he offers a cigarette to Stan before pulling back in embarrassment.

“Shit, sorry,” he mumbles. His cigarette hovers near the opening of the pack without being tucked away. “I shouldn’t even be smoking around you.”

“It’s okay,” Stan says. “I don’t mind.”

“No, it’s not – God.”

“Dude, I haven’t had an asthma attack in four years. Really, it’s okay.”

Kyle apprehensively twirls the cigarette in his fingers. Stan can tell he’s itching for the relief of nicotine – unable to smoke at home for fear Sheila might catch and promptly berate him – but continues to stare at Stan with lilted worry. Stan scoffs and shakes his head; he reaches for Kyle’s lighter and sparks it for him, the flicker of fire illuminating Kyle’s short and uneven lashes.

Kyle smolders and leans towards the flame. “You’re so good to me.”

Though he isn’t sure when, the smell of cigarette smoke, particularly when mingled with the aura of belonging to Kyle, had transformed from something previously chemical and unpleasant. It was homey now. A familiar pillar to the foundation of his life, like the endless drift of pine needles and gasoline, effervescent chill of snow on his bedroom window, the bellowing of his parents arguing through paper-thin walls. Something that could always be relied on as a universal constant.

He watches Kyle drag and sigh and wave his emphatic hand while he prattles on about the arduous event his mother made of picking him up from the airport, but Stan has trouble paying attention. There’s something even more captivating about the sharp curvatures of Kyle’s face in low light, the wet shine to his teeth when he delights himself with a particularly funny observation. He finds himself wanting nothing more than to kiss Kyle, but beyond that, to allow his face as close to Kyle’s as possible in a dangerous precursor. Just to be close. Very close. So he does, touch-starved and aching and utterly helpless to the allure of self-destruction.

Kyle asks what it is that Stan is doing.

And Stan finds himself kissing Kyle’s cheek before his brain has made any conscious decision to do so. It’s soft and chaste and fearfully quick. It’s the only way he knows to address this benevolent, pernicious connection between them that refuses to be severed, come hell or highwater. Or Germany.

Kyle blinks, oblivious and dumbfounded. Stan’s heart sits crooked in his chest doing its best to find any way to contort itself in search of relief.

“Stan, I, uh.” Kyle murmurs, his voice a gravelly whisper. He laughs to himself and Stan fears it to be mean. Kyle flickers him a glance. “You don’t want this,” he says. He sounds pensive and sad. “Me, y’know.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“No, you don’t. You can do better.”

“No. I can’t.”

It’s an admission that leaves a hot tickle in some part of his body indistinguishable from his heart or his stomach.

Kyle doesn’t speak right away. He swallows, saliva bobbing in his throat, staring out the windshield until he repeats Stan’s name again, twice, three times in a daze, and its everything he finds himself ever wanting to hear – his name said with that exact inflection of confusion and desperation and loving fondness.

Stan goes for his cheek once more and finds himself on Kyle’s lips instead. He gives a low whine against Stan’s mouth, accepting the first timid brush of Stan’s tongue; it feels so good it hurts. Kyle nips at him eagerly. It’s a gentle stasis, slow and warm and on the brink of collapse at any moment.

Kyle pulls back first. He clears his throat and drags on his cigarette, letting the smoke escape through his nose. Stan tries to find where exactly it is that he buried his voice. “Is, uh. Is this a date now?”

“Do you want it to be?”

Stan is thrown by the question. Kyle looks at him with obvious curiosity; his tone is void of its usual smarmy sarcasm, plain and honest, as if asking whether or not he should be anticipating rain later of if he has something stuck in his teeth. He shouldn’t, and he doesn’t, and Stan is unsure how to respond. He stares beyond Kyle’s eyes with a hand still gripping to a gelled patch of his hair.

“I missed you,” he breaths.

“I missed you too,” Kyle says. He pensively bites on his bottom lip before pawing at Stan’s face, fingers tracing the curve of the shell of his ear. The heat of burning ash radiates against his skin. “I missed you so fucking much, Stan.”

They spend a minute or two like that: hands wandering around the other, foreheads almost touching, but not quite. It’s a culmination of all the years Stan stole little moments, because that was all he had and would be given – hands brushing together, slightly-too-long hugs, drunk over-affection, one of Kyle’s angular hands soothing his back during a two-a.m. meltdown while the other hastily wiped at Stan’s wet eyes, gentle but firm yet exhausted commands to stop crying. He’s not sure how he’s been able to go this long without allowing it a name; he’s terrified of possibly having to continue it this way.

“Say something romantic to me in German,” he asks. It’s all he can think of.

“It’s not that kind of language,” Kyle says through a grin. “It’s not romantic at all.”

Kyle pulls away to savor what’s left of his almost-extinguished cigarette; he flicks the filter beneath the neon storefront, blustering the acidic fog of smoke out the window.

“Can we go back to your house?” Kyle asks. He bats his eyes at Stan, fiddling with the folded cuffs of his pants. “I’m so tired. I’m still kind of jet-lagged.”

Stan smirks, newly emboldened by Kyle’s indirect shyness. “And you wanna sleep in my bed?” he muses.

Kyle rolls his eyes and sighs with a lofty hue. “If you’ll have me.”

Stan grins, laughing. “Of course,” he says. “You’re the only one I would.”

#south park #kyle broflovski #stan marsh #sp style #i wrote this for kit a while ago and cleaned it up a bit GOODNIGHT.

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quarantinecountry · 4 years

Text

Notes from a quarantine country // n. 6

The full lockdown we went through in March was strange but, in the end, tolerable; the easing up of the codes of conduct this week removed the burden of the watchful eyes from balconies and the fear of looming authoritarian tools, from tanks to apps and drones. But the in-between was hard. As activists we’ve been extremely busy – visiting the homeless shelters, supporting food banks, taking on food distribution, helping people access the new and hastily assembled forms of welfare support. We left our homes and, to varying degrees, reclaimed parts of our collective life. This, however, has forced us into a growing realization that in the end, whatever our governments may say, decree or ban, decisions about how to absorb and confront contagion end up as a choice much closer to home, and often individual. And that means bearing the uneasy burden of autonomy, one that can easily push you off balance. Having to lay down your own rules and boundaries of physical contact and exercise, of planning daily life according to impossible calculations of contagion is very different from planning according to a nation’s laws – emergency, non-sensical, justified or otherwise.

There have been police road blocks and document-checking here in a way that, as I understand, other European countries have not experienced so widely, brought on no doubt by Italy’s being caught out as Europe’s canary – but this quite patent removal of freedom has not been, I think, the condition from which we have been eager to escape. The surrealness is mainly internal. I feel like my character, my persona, formed like anyone else’s for a myriad of human interactions, is largely obsolete, like I’m covered in excess skin. In a world of limited sociality, only some of your aspects are called upon. Conflict and warmth, humour and solemnity exist but take on a limited few forms. Anna Freud said somewhere that we all draw on ten or twelve defense mechanisms every day to protect our ego; even here I feel like my arsenal is diminishing. I think this is the feeling from which we all want to break free, this metamorphosis in reverse.

Sicily has remained in what is, perhaps, a unique position: our island seclusion marked by the shock of the national epidemic means that we quite possibily have, in global terms, the strongest lockdown with the lowest contagion. I believe the reports that less people have died in Sicily in recent months than in any normal period of time. No traffic meant no car accidents, and shutdown in all likelihood stopped the spread of more usual diseases. In the Italian and European North they argue about factories opening and people being forced to go back to work; here the war is on the beaches: whether there have been too many people enjoying themselves, whether this is responsible. After all, our beaches are our factories, and across society you can hear the sound of people holding their breath and regretting that they ever criticized “over touristification”.

The economic crisis that is unfolding now is so wide-reaching that really it feels stupid to look at a stock market graph or the oil price in order to measure it. These now indicate facts to which only the most isolated could be blind (although of course isolation is fast becoming normalized). There is little point in discussing oil prices when all my comrades are engaged in distributing food parcels. There have been some small victories: a friend in prison managed to video-call his cousin; the farmworkers trapped in their shanty houses had water tanks installed by the local council; the self-employed workers (which includes many street vendors with their mobile tables of kitch plastic goods from the Chinese wholesalers) all received a monthly bonus of 600 euros.

Perhaps it’s normal to begin a crisis as a catastrophist and gently evolve into a more moderate despondency. For me, this means I have less expectations of ‘the great collapse’ and more anxiety about the consequences of capital’s effects of “creative destruction” – or what Naomi Klein has equally eloquently described as the ‘shock doctrine’. But whereas Klein sees (correctly from her standpoint in the belly of the imperial beast) the hand of the big corporations, here in the European South the market forces are more disaggregated, even if no less potent. A friend tells me that her family’s wholesale business of plastic cups and white goods to bars and hotels has been swiftly transformed into a provider of plastic screens and sanitizing devices; one of the social-minded local restaurants is paying the bills through providing meals to the homeless; sub-contracted adult educational programs are advertising their new online courses; airbnb properties are going back on to market as normal rooms for rent.

I think that the smartphone really represents the effects of the 2008 crash, this luxury product that now no-one can do without, the object that best represents our all-connected, all-contagious world ever since. I wonder what the post-2020 product will be, what capital has in stall for us now.

Months ago, I recall walking round town, searching for some kind of sign of something to write about; in a writer’s block, I felt despondent about the lack of decent symbols in our world, something worthy of Jesi or Jung. It was Halloween I think, and I was also searching for a hasty costume for a party, a pair of light-up devil’s horns on an Alice-band (which I never found, and turned up costumeless). Instead, rising up before my eyes, was a bunch of these strange balloons that have become popular over the past couple of years: a transparent plastic ball bigger than your head, propped up on a metre-long stick that propels LED lights through some kind of fibreglass rod, projecting spots of coloured light into the glossy globe from within. A whole futuristic sphere, illuminated by its fantastic lights, bought from the Chinese wholesalers, sold on the streets by Bangladesh fathers, perhaps helping a few people eek out a little more of a living. It’d struck me since how much these awkwardly large toys appeared to have multipled at the stalls even without anyone really seeming to buy them. Pop!

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