#omfg i missed this account so much screams and yells

[apileofwizardbooks]

I'M BACK BABEY‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

[edierone]

Found a whole goddamn notebook in the dumpster this time

no idea whose handwriting this is or why they’d write it or who it’s supposed to be about but it’s fun isn’t it? happy ficlet fantasy friday!

Drifting up from a warm, dozy sleep, she feels the bed shifting under her, and the weight of an arm draped across her. She smiles, keeping her eyes closed, snuggling against him. He keeps moving, though, instead of settling in, and she mumbles, “What’re you doin?”

He’s propped himself up on one elbow behind her, the arm over her doing something complicated.

“Taking a bed selfie.”

“Huh?” She still hasn’t opened her eyes. What the fuck time is it, anyway?

“A bed selfie.” 

Like that explains it.

One eye, then the other, slides reluctantly open, and she can make out his iPhone a few inches away in the dimness. They’re both in the frame, grainy and low-res; her hair is spilled out over the pillow, her bare shoulder exposed, his muscled arm disappearing into the corner where his hand is holding the phone. His thumb touches the button.

“It’s gonna be a week till we see each other again — I need a souvenir for when I get lonely,” he says.

Aww, he’s gonna miss me!, she thinks, charmed. Better give him something good to keep him warm up here.

“Hi, sexy!” she purrs, rubbing her backside against him.

He laughs, low in his throat, then kisses her temple, caressing her face with his own. He leans over her, resting his phone hand on the bed next to them.

“Mmm … love you,” he murmurs against her ear.

“Love you too,” she sighs. She turns her head to get his lips properly on hers, but something catches her eye.

“Babe — you’ve got it in video mode,” she giggles.

“What? No I don’t — oh yeah — ha! Nearly made a bed selfie sex tape. Hold on a sec —”

He squints at the phone, holding it back out a bit, then touches the button again, stopping the recording.

She kisses him lightly, eyes slipping shut again, and says “Send that to me tomorrow, will you? I might get lonely too.”

She knows he’s smiling in the dark, she can hear it when he says, “I’ll send it to you right now.”

“Mkay,” she sighs, feeling the heaviness of sleep creeping up again. She’s not sure how many minutes have gone by when she hears him again, all the cozy flirtiness gone from his voice.

“Uhhh … hm. That’s not — how did I  — shit.”

“What is it?” she manages, vaguely alarmed by the flat worry she hears. Before he can answer, there’s a distinctive ping from her own phone on the bedside table.

She’s awake now. “Did you schedule a tweet for this time of night?”

He looks at her, confused. He has no idea what she’s talking about. She sits up, turns on the lamp and reaches for her phone, and sees a notification illuminating the screen.

And there it is, the reason for that sound, the custom tone she’s had put on her phone solely for his posts that tag her on social media sites: He’s somehow managed to tweet something, minutes ago, from his public account, and mention her.

“Bed selfie - miss you already,” it says, and then the video.

“Oh no …”

Her heart is triphammering, she feels a little sick. He looks at her, face full of dread.

Wordlessly, she holds it up for him to see. He presses the “play” icon, and they watch, heads together.

The camera is unsteady, and the lighting is isn’t great — but the sound is clear, and it’s absolutely, definitely her, and him. Together, in bed, obviously intimate and comfortable … and sexual as all hell. Twenty-four seconds. Time stamp, 3:23 a.m. today.

“Ffffffffuuuuuuuuck,” he groans.

“Oh shit,” she breathes.

“How do I get it back? Can I delete that? Oh goddammit —“

“Christ — how did you even DO that? Why do you even have the app on your own fucking phone?”

“I was — I don’t know! I sent it and then I went to check my email and then I looked back — you know I don’t know how this shit works! I thought I was messaging it to you — it’s fucking three thirty in the morning, I can’t —”

“Give me that!” She takes his phone, deletes the tweet, but knows that’s not all there is to it. She shoves it back into his hand. “Call whatsherface, Kylie or whatever her name is, the girl that does your social shit — call her right now. Or text her — both! Get hold of her right now!”

He’s frantically trying to do just that, while she opens her own Twitter app and deletes the tweet from her feed. It’s only been sixteen minutes since it was posted, and it’s the middle of the night, maybe nobody saw it?  

Yeah, no.

It’s 3:45 a.m. in Vancouver, but it’s midday in Europe, and early risers are already up in New York. Fuck.

She watches, fascinated, as the number of notifications on her page begins to climb. Against her better judgment, she takes a look at what’s coming in — not sixty seconds after the time stamp, there’s a lot of “holy shit” and “OMFG” and “this is real! I live!” and so on.  She opens her stealth tumblr account — same fucking story. There are screen caps already! What the fuck is wrong with people? It reminds her of one of those virus-outbreak movies, where one sick person infects ten more and they infect twenty more each and yada yada the breakdown of civilization. This won’t end civilization, but it sure as hell might fuck shit up for the two of them (including, probably, the final nail in the coffin of that other thing she’s had going on the last few months).

And then, shortly after they’d deleted the goddamn tweet, now five minutes in the past, a flood of “wait, what happened?” “WTFF what is going on” and “THE LINK WON’T WORK THE TWEET IS GOOOONE!”

Meanwhile, he’s located Katey or Kimmy or whomever, who’s now yelling at him from someplace with loud voices and music. She’s only half-listening to their conversation, but the gist of it seems to be that there’s nothing they can do now but damage control — they deleted it from their accounts, sure, but any number of people have seen it, re-tweeted it, screen-capped it — and downloaded and saved the video for re-posting.

Annnnnd here’s one on her tumblr dash: “i am the goddess of true love! I bring you deleted video, resurrected! Look upon my works and rejoice!”

The video is in it. Fuck. She touches the play icon, hears “It’s gonna be a week till we see each other again” — double fuck.  It’s the real thing. It works. “Mmmm, love you …”

He finally hangs up on Kristie/Kelly/Kyra.

“ …You’ve got it in video mode” [giggle]

She hits pause, afraid to look at him right now. They’ve been so, SO careful, and protected themselves so well — everything ambiguous, smokescreens deployed, deniability maintained … well, mostly. Nothing they can’t handle. But this here — this is the smoking gun. She wants to shout at him, to ask him what the fuck he was thinking, how could he be so careless, how could he expose them like this, why didn’t he just wait till tomorrow to send it to her like she asked? Put on his goddamn reading glasses, for fuck’s sake?

But she knows he already feels awful, so she just squeezes her eyes shut and tries to breathe calm into her body. She doesn’t want to have a screaming fight right before she flies to another continent. This isn’t the old days — she’s fucking calm and fucking mature and they will deal with this like fucking grownups.

He sits on the bed, folded up with his head on his knees. An inarticulate groan comes from his general direction. “They’re gonna dissect this like the fucking Zapruder film,” he laments, and she barks startled laughter.

He looks up at last, surprised that she’s not trying to strangle him.

“How bad is it?” He gestures toward her phone.

Cringing slightly, she selects a representative post from tumblr: It’s the video, reblogged from the alleged “goddess of true love,” and right underneath it, a gif of Elmo in front of flames. The post has 290 notes already. The tags are a jubilant, nonsensical volcano of words and phrases she only partly understands — fucc me uppp, slay my entire ass, asdfjkl;lskj, platonic adult friends, i love dying and death and being dead, MURDER ME, why are they like this NEVER STOP, fight me, they’re gonna kill me, im spiraling, it’s a dumpster fire and i’m in it.

“Whyyyyy …” he moans, dropping his head into his hands.

“Most of America is still asleep, too. Just wait. It’s going to be so much worse.”

More inarticulate sounds of misery from him, then: “You know, if somebody assassinated the fucking President, the news wouldn’t spread this fast,” he mumbles. It’s only a slight exaggeration.

She flops dramatically onto her back, addresses the ceiling: “So. What do we do now? Deny and obfuscate?”

He laughs, loud and happy, for the first time since the phrase “bed selfie” came into their lives. “Fuck yeah!”

He stretches out and rolls over onto her prone body, covering her like a blanket, starts kissing his way down her neck. She shoves at him — not very convincingly — and grumbles “What’re you doing? Shouldn’t we start doing damage control?”

“Now??? Nahhh … it’s already out there.” He kisses her deeply, then murmurs into her ear, “We’re gonna do the time — might as well do the crime.” Reasonable, he’s always so reasonable …

“Hard to argue with that,” she says, shivering a little, running her hands over his broad back. Her heart speeds up and heat pools at her center, her physical responses to his touch as reliable as ever, yet still somehow surprising even after all these years. “Guess we’re pretty well fucked —”

“Oh, yeah,” he says against the hollow of her throat, then raises his head to look her in the eye — his expression the same one that’s gotten them into this kind of trouble a thousand times in the last 25 years, and will a thousand times more. “We’re definitely gonna be that.”

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

@justholdinghandsok @becksndot5 @whatfallsaway @iva69s @guitargirl48 @emceecapitalc  @inkcollectorus @lostlastsforever756