#why did I give this smut piece such a poetic title

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Rigor Mortis (part 9)

College roommate!Miguel O'Hara x reader

(AO3 Mirror) (Wattpad) Series Masterlist, Main Masterlist,

Part 8, Part 10

summary: You both come to a realisation.

warnings: smut! f! masturbation, grinding, humping, fingering, (implied) recreational drug use, alcohol, dubcon (-ish! reader is drunk but the interaction is consensual, tagging just in case xx), teeny tiny bit of mutual pining. 18+ Minors DNI

a/n: yuhh

Thank you to my beta readers, @tianyhi and @urgonnaneedabiggership (they also write Miguel fics, I highly recommend! my favourite is this series), I couldn't have done it without you guys <3

Join my taglists here

wc: 7.2k

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

all that light lost in gaps

You're gone, in the morning.

…he should've expected it. Miguel stumbles out of sleep, groggy and disoriented. He finds himself reaching out for something in the half-light. 

He finds himself reaching for you. And when you're not there, leaving a person sized gap at the crook of his arm, his stomach churns. He pretends it's not disappointment, or the sharp crack of yearning ; settling at his chest like a crowbar, and prying open his ribs. It's worry, he decides resolutely, a perfectly normal, healthy amount of worry. As your roommate; and nothing else, he keeps reminding himself; he's just worried about where you've rushed off to, especially after yesterday. 

Senior year. He was assigned a bullshit paper in a Civics class – one he'd usually half-ass for an easy A. He'd wax poetic about morality – amorphous, vague platitudes about duty and societal expectations. By the end of the year, he had it down to a science: a couple thousand words remixed and plucked from lesser known philosophers, videos online, and overdue library books. Either he was getting too good at it, or his teacher was too stupid to notice; but regardless, he coasted through the class right up until graduation. His last paper, and he remembers it distinctly, was on the book of the same name; aptly titled What We Owe Each Other. A plodding, pluralistic read; of which he had only scanned through, anyways. Extra credit, anything to graduate early, and he'd had more than enough on his plate at the time. 

 And so, he wasn't expecting the B+ underlined and circled in red ink on the front page. It felt like his teacher had handed it back to him face down, slammed onto the desk like the thunderous crack of a whip. And he didn't need that A, strictly speaking. Yet, he had found himself staying over after class, crinkling that piece of paper in hand as he'd asked why. 

She sighs. Miss Hunter's glasses slip down her nose, as they are prone to do. 

"You're an outstanding student. I hear you're graduating early, and you're off somewhere prestigious in the fall. This is… definitely not a bad grade, and it's nothing, I promise you."

It doesn't work like that, for him. His teacher doesn't get it, but it will eat him up inside-out if he's not able to understand. 

"Was it my referencing?" He fumbles with the strap of his bag. 

"No. Not at all–" 

"I did the extra reading…the article you mentioned in class, and–" 

He's cut off by the scrape of a desk chair. Miss Hunter gets up to close the door, before settling on her desk. 

Arms crossed, she seems tired. Worried, maybe, but it doesn't register with Miguel. The thought doesn't even cross his mind, that there are others with the capacity to worry about him. 

"Technically, it's well written. As usual, Miguel." She gives him a weak smile. "It just… lacked heart."

His brows jump up. "...heart?" 

"There's not really a narrative voice, here."

He taps at the paper on the desk, frustrated. "You didn't ask for a narrative voice, though. You didn't ask for… for heart. I read the book, I did the extra reading, and I wrote a report. That was the brief."

"Not quite." She says it gently, but it still sounds like nails on a chalkboard to him. "The brief was vague, intentionally so. 'What Do We Owe Each Other? Discuss.' I gave examples, sure: excerpts from the book we touched on in class, articles, academic papers, etcetera. They were… suggestions."

"...suggestions." He's incredulous. 

She nods. "You followed it to the letter, Miguel. You gave me a summary, with a few key links. Fully referenced, yes. Well-written, yes. But this feels like a sum of parts. It doesn't tell me anything about you; your perspective, your angle. Your voice."

He's biting back choice words. It sounds like bullshit to him, for lack of a better word. Flowery, hoity-toity BS; served up to him on a steaming platter. That's it? 

Maybe it shows on his face, because she's asking, as delicately as possible, 

"Is everything okay?" 

Instinctually, he seizes up. 

"Yeah. Yes. I'm good."

"I know you don't take this class as seriously because it's not an AP, or an elective, or maybe not as challenging as you need it to be. And that's okay, Miguel. I'm happy for you to use my class as a break from all the other stuff." She swallows thickly. "You're not from our usual feeder schools. The Academy is particularly rigorous. But considering your… situation, we can make exceptions. If there's anything I can do–" 

"There isn't a 'situation'."

"Right. Of course, I'm sorry. But if you need a couple days off of school because of…" She pasues, saying the next part softly. "Because of the baby… I mean, you're already acing my class–"

"No." He says it firmly, eyes trained onto the wood grain peeking out from underneath piles of documents. He wants to ask how she knows, and how he's always the last to find out that rumours have spread, and–

"Miguel." Her voice cuts through dense fog. She repeats her previous statement. “If there's anything I can do–”

“If you want to help, you can give me that A.” It's bone dry, said with the kind of sarcasm he's grown accustomed to. He wears it over his shoulders, sometimes; draped to keep out biting cold, or unfamiliar warmth from a stranger - it all feels the same, now.

She gives him a rueful smile. “Need more than that, m'afraid.”

Heart. Voice. What We Owe Each Other – and he doesn't know why that phrase sticks in his throat. It's been drilled into him since childhood; family and community, helping each other out of the starting blocks; and beaten out of him during adolescence. The creaking and cracking of bones after each step, where out in the world it's a different matter entirely. 

His mama has bad taste in men, and he finds himself picking up the pieces. Gabi is more sensitive than he'll ever admit, trying not to cry amongst broken plates and chicken-wire hidden in a bouquet of peonies: prickly words that cut and hack, and it's Miguel that wipes the tears from his brother's cheek. That devastatingly gentle sigh when he had told his mama what he had done - how he had fallen for a soft bed and even softer lips at the ripe age of 16 and a half - and Miguel carries that weight. What We Owe Each Other – and he's only ever fed entitled egos. Not his family, of course, but he's been burned. He's had more than his fair share of it. 

He doesn't owe the world shit, he thinks. 

He doesn't owe you shit. 

It doesn't help that he's been stuck in place, grasping at cushion covers and a raggedy blanket. Trying not to drown in the heady scent of you, he's been dragging thick fingers over the fabric as if in a trance. You don't owe him anything, either. Nary an apology, an explanation; so much as a sorry spilling from pretty lips in that way where they quiver like a gentle flame. 

He's touched them, felt them drag across his skin like the finest silk, and dropped to his knees in search of something you've never given him. It doesn't matter if you don't; kiss him , that is; the swirling, desperate sort that leaves him heaving and creaking and begging for more. He thinks he'd still scuff up the denim at his knees if you asked, regardless - he'd do anything , if it was for you. 

It's not realistic to expect anything from you. You don't need to tell him where you've gone or why you've left so early. You don't need to, and yet he finds himself reaching for his phone. 

Miguel sends a well placed message; deft fingers tapping away at the screen. Before he changes his mind, it's sent; and he's chewing his lip whilst waiting for a steady three dots. Lyla is slower than usual, but she comes through. She doesn't ask questions - because she knows him better than he knows himself - and gives him a thumbs up. 

They'll call each other later, that much he's sure of, but for now he reads between the lines. Short bursts of text, like firecrackers flashing across a night sky, and only through nonsensical emojis and odd slang can they understand each other. 

This part, he can do. And he'll do whatever he needs to, not what he owes.

~~~

You make it to Pam's just after it opens. 

At 7 o'clock sharp, you've made the journey; in an empty subway car, spilling out onto the streets like treacle left in the neck of a bottle. It's not quite a squeeze, passing by only a handful of people, with nothing but a jacket thrown over last night's clothes. In a daze, you realise too late: it's Miguel's. A dusty, worn thing; brown leather crackling at the sleeves and heavy on your shoulders. It feels like a hug, and it feels like him : warm and stiff. It smells like him too, and you bury your nose in the collar on the subway, sleeves kissing your palm like his hand is in yours. 

It's a feeling that takes you all the way to the doors: past the slats bolted shut and down a familiar alley. You push past them, sneakers on slick tiles, and give a weak smile to the woman that perks up from behind the counter, kicking away the mop and bucket. 

"Hiya, welcome to Pam's! How can I–" 

"Oh, God , no." You wave her off. "Take your time. I need a minute, if that's okay."

Settling on the barstool, you watch as the young woman smiles, picking up a rag and wiping at the counter. You sit in it, for a while. 

Dregs drip in through the front. The bell at the top of the door chimes, tinny and cheerful in the relative gloom of a quiet morning. 

It's cold , outside. Autumn, biting at your fingers and nose. Eventually you opt for a coffee, piping hot to stave off that chill. Bitter, the aftertaste lingers at the back of your throat. You find yourself picking at the chipped mug, chasing away that taste with fluffy pancakes. The combination doesn't feel quite the same – not after many a morning with your roommate. 

You settle into the seat. You wrap that old jacket around you. You sip at tart coffee and pick at your nails. A quiet morning, one to yourself, one to keep hidden at the crook of your chest. Some semblance of peace , wrapped up in the spindles of a dandelion. That is to say; delicate and fleeting, whipped away by the breeze. 

You've decided not to think too hard about it. That kind of thinking ends dangerously, you've realised: with long, hot nights spent tossing and turning. It ends with a head full of cotton, and a pounding at your chest. With blood, with tears, with a stranger in your bed. And so, you go for the cleaner option. The safer one, all things considered, that's less likely to end in a broken heart. 

You float around for a while. Walking without a real destination, trying to ground yourself. Eventually, you end up home,  opening the door to an empty apartment. There's no traces left of a night spent in Miguel's arms. Good, you think, slipping your shoes off at the door. It doesn't feel good , but if you say it enough times you just might believe it. 

The cleaner option; the one with less gristle and bone; is a familiar one. You settle into a shower; steamy and soapy, taking your time to clean out the blood from under your fingernails. The grime, the dirt ; you watch it swirl into the drain, hands running across soft flesh. You try to do it like Jamie did, once upon a time. It doesn't feel right, and has you leaning onto the cool tile. The shower head sputters, a shaky pressure on your back but you lean into it and close your eyes. You rub a hand at the crook of your chest, and then down, down, down, circling your breast and then following the curve of hips to the apex of your legs. Tipping your head, letting the hot water stream through your hair and then your back; and you touch, feel , and you can almost taste him ; sweet and saccharine Miguel, at your lips. 

With two fingers flat against your clit, you rub little circles at the nub, dipping into your hole for much needed wetness. Your other hand travels up soft skin, pads of your fingers grazing collarbone, and then they curl around your neck. With a little pressure, your thumb grazes your jaw. Like he does, except your hands aren't as deliciously rough or as large. You slip a finger in, and then two, water pounding your back and eyes screwed. You push past that initial tightness, searching for a little give. When it comes, cunt clenching around your fingers, just shy of that sweet spot as you press your clit with the heel of your palm; you're imagining it's your roommate. He'd wrap those thick forearms around you, press his cock to the crest of your back and touch you like you deserve. 

You do it like Miguel would, reverent , touching you as if you were clay at a potter's wheel. In the hands of God herself, you cum; falling, falling, falling; tumbling down white water rapids and spit back up into the rushing water. You're panting, now, out of breath.

When you sink onto your bed, you realise it's not quite enough. Still in a fluffy robe, steam curls from your skin like clouds – ones that smell of cheap body wash and shampoo. Before you know it, you're reaching for your phone, sending two quick messages to a certain somebody. 

[Sent: 15:32]

hey mig

[Sent: 15:32]

where did u go? 

You don't expect a quick reply - he's never been much of a texter. But those three dots pop up in no time at all, much to your surprise. 

[Received: 15:33]

Out. 

[Received: 15:33]

Running errands. 

It's succinct and to the point – of which you expect nothing else from Miguel. Your thumbs fly to the screen to reply but another message tugs the rug out from under your shaky legs. 

[Received: 15:35]

Is everything okay? 

[Sent: 15:35]

yeah

[Sent: 15:36]

all good

When that provides no response, you're left chewing on your lip, anxious. He's seen the message, he's read the message; but for some reason, several minutes go by and there's no response. 

You're ready to give up and chalk it to your roommate's hot-and-cold nature, when your phone rings. 

Immediately, you pick up. 

" Don't believe you." His voice rings out, tinny, nestled amongst the covers. 

"Hey, Mig." You settle down on the bed, putting him on speaker and placing it by your ears. 

" Did you hear what I said?" His tone is deep and intense, making you shiver. It's not quite the same, of course, but you're reminded of nights spent with his lips tucked close the shell of your ear. 

You swallow. "Yeah. I… I did."

" You sure? Because you suck at lying."

"Don't be an asshole." 

" Think I get a free pass when you disappear for the whole day."

You roll your eyes. “You didn't call–”

“ Would you have answered?”

Ouch. He sounds frustrated, the quiet chatter of his background bathed in heavy silence. Silence thick with tension, and you almost choke on it.

He breaks it with a heavy sigh. “ You okay? ”

“No. Not really.”

“ Okay. ” He lets it sit for a while, before saying, “ I'll be home, soon. There's leftovers in the fridge, and you should eat, sweetheart. You want anything from the store? ”

His voice is so, so soft. It crackles like kindling on a fire: warmth that blooms and spreads to your chest. Like slipping off frozen gloves to thaw off in front of a heater, and he just makes you feel impossibly warm. 

“Not really, thanks.” You mumble it, and hear a satisfied grunt from the other end. Before you change your mind, you say, “Sorry. M'sorry.”

Miguel gives a light chuckle and you think you can hear him smile, the kind you always chase after a stupid argument: one that tugs at the corners of his pretty lips.

“ You've got nothin' to be sorry about .”

He gives you a moment to feel the weight of his words, and ends the call. That heat at your chest blooms. 

If Miguel O'Hara is the Sun, then maybe you don't mind being pulled into his orbit; bathing in steady light and warmth.

~~~

He comes home with flowers. A beautiful bouquet; delicate and balanced, featherlight wildflowers and brush, interspersed with sprays of blue and purple and pink. It's wonderfully dense, reminding you of the tangles of colour a child might decorate a picture with in wobbly crayon. Simply put, it's nothing short of a vision, and you notice how delicately he places it on the dining table.

With the rest of the grocery bags, Miguel clatters in, and you can't help but be curious. You're poking through the bags, sitting on the counter as he puts them away – after offering to help, of course, but he bats you away easily. Your bare legs bristle in the chill brought on by the window cracked open, and he just breezes past. 

The cabinet opens with a thud , and your roommate busies himself with putting away food. Carefully, you watch the way the muscles of his back flexes this way and that - cut and lean under that thin sweater. He’s otherwise occupied, and so you take the opportunity to stare, playing with a loose string at the hem of silky shorts. And so, it makes you jump when your phone buzzes beside you. Innocuously, you glance at the notification, and your eyes go wide.

“Who’s that?” Miguel asks, voice light. With that freaky sixth sense of his, he doesn’t need to turn around to know, it seems. 

“Lyla.” You murmur, reading the rest of the message.

“ ...And? ”

“Uh. Well…” Blinking, you can’t quite believe what she’s asking. “ Girl’s Night . I-I mean… she’s asking me to come with her for a Girl’s Night.”

“Really?” His tone is surprising, and you can hear how he beams by its lilting nature. Maybe he’s laughing at you, maybe he’s not, but you snap back regardless.

“ ... don’t act so surprised.”

“ You sound surprised.” He laughs.

“It’s different when I do it.” You say simply. “I just… I didn’t expect it. I didn’t even know we were close enough to–”

“Bullshit. You text her all the time.”

“A couple of times, Mig.” You correct him, trying to pin down a suitable response to give Lyla. You draw a blank. “I don’t want her to feel like she has to, or anything.”

He turns around, sleeves still rolled up. The look he gives makes you wither: one that could say about a million things. You think it means cut the crap , but he could just be constipated: you haven't quite mastered the art of reading Miguel O’Hara.

“Do you want to go?” He gets closer, hand flat on the counter next to your thigh. 

You nod, and his hand creeps up and up. 

Giving you a little smile, he shrugs. “Then go.”

It makes you shy. Bashful , even; and you’re wriggling as he squeezes the flesh. A hand on his forearm, and he’s close; so much so that all you can feel is the press of skin, and feel gentle breath fluttering past your cheek. You’re stuck underneath the gaze of his pretty lashes, and entranced at the way he licks his even prettier lips. A sudden thought seizes you - so heavy it makes your chest tight and leaden. 

Oh. You want to kiss him.

In a moment, it’s gone. A broad palm nudges your thigh aside, and you’re shifting so he can reach the drawers just by your legs. You oblige, falling back into familiar routine. 

Life moves on. Like Miguel said it would, and you find yourself entwined with the idea of time passing. Lying awake each night, picking out sand from underneath your fingernails, after clawing your way out of the hourglass. Steady, slow dregs; and it's tipped over each morning, restarting the clock. 

The flowers disappear from the dining table. Miguel retreats into the folds and dark corners of your apartment; you see him less and less. Passing ships in the night, you seem to miss each other by a fraction of a second. All of a sudden he's busy , and all of a sudden you're swamped with work. You only see each other at night, looking out for the bits and pieces left as proof of life: sometimes he'll leave a hot flask out for you in the mornings, and you'll greet him with a cheesy soap in the evenings. If he's not leaving later and later after work, that is. 

He looks tired, you note. Exhausted; prone to little yawns as you turn to him every now and then whilst watching on the couch. It's sweet, the way his frown has made way to a dopey smile, but it's frayed at the edges, tinged with something you can't quite place. You let him sleep that night, bringing pillows to lay his head on, and wrapping him up in that old blanket. 

Girl's night creeps up on you. It shakes you by the shoulders when you collapse on the sofa after a long day – and you're rushing to get ready. There's no Miguel to make sly remarks or prod you into action, this time. You wonder what he'd say about what you're wearing; a leftover dress buried in boxes from your ex's apartment. 

Short, tight, snug; it has you feeling glamorous – but you hope it doesn't look as fanciful as it feels. Too much; yet again, you're worried about being too much. Even though you're running a little late, you take the time to carefully apply makeup; something shiny on your lids, a dab of blush, and gloss slathered onto your lips. When you sling on little heels, and snatch a petite bag from the hooks near the door, there's barely enough time to catch that last glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Down and out you go, into a dusky night.

~~~

“I had to go through her manager– and wait, can you believe this girl has a fucking manager, now?” Lyla bats at MJ's shoulder, and the redhead laughs good-naturedly. 

“It's not– she's exaggerating! My manager's just my mom, I swear.” 

“It's a good thing, no?” You smile, taking a healthy swig of a brightly coloured cocktail. 

“It means she is booked, and–” Lyla hiccups, raising an unsteady glass that threatens to tip. MJ straightens her elbow instinctually, before raising her own. “ – very busy .”

It's your turn to laugh, glass held high in the air. With a clink , there's a clash of crystal that's all but drowned out by the chatter in the upscale bar.

Somewhere fancy, courtesy of Lyla. One of those places that serves tiny portions in big, empty plates, a fusion of cultural food with white, upper class owners. No-doubt the result of summering somewhere in the ever-broad global South , Lyla had said slyly, under the lip of a menu. 

There's powdered sugar on the rim of your flute. It dissolves on your tongue. You down the rest. Sickly sweet, and you wipe what drips onto your lips. 

It has you checking your phone. Miguel hasn't called, not that you were expecting anything. Whilst Lyla and MJ talk, you scroll mindlessly through his chat; a smattering of one word answers. Missed calls. Unanswered messages.

" –what about you, babe?" 

Your eyes snap back up to meet Lyla's, expectant. 

"Uhhh…"

"Nevermind." Sharp eyes travel to your phone, and there's a flash of recognition. "Miggy said you're in school. He said you're gonna graduate early, this year."

"He said that?" You're confused. "I mean… I'm trying but it's not looking like that, right now."

She wags a finger, shaking her head like she's trying to remember something. "No, no, he seemed adamant. Said you're working hard, doing well."

"Doing better ." You correct her, shyly. 

" Bullshit. " She says it the way Miguel does, and it makes you laugh. You see it now; he's the product of the people he loves. A kind of Frankenstein's monster, he's stitched together those bits and pieces; he's made himself beautiful. You wonder what piece of you he carries. If he even holds you that close to his chest. 

"I bet you're doing amazing. " MJ finishes. Her smile is warm, and copper-coloured; it feels hazy and ambered in your little corner. "Better than me, anyways. I would rather die than go back to college."

"Back?" You ask. 

"Oh, of course! You don't know." She giggles, leaning in like she's about to say something scandalous - the drink is clearly doing its job. Her next words are an exaggerated stage whisper. "I dropped out."

" Seriously? " You play along, with faux shock. 

"...damn right she did." Lyla gives a drunken wave to a nearby waiter, asking for another glass of wine. Something expensive, she whispers, giving a deceptive smile. 

"It just wasn't for me, I guess. I went because everyone around me was going, even Pete. Uhh, English Lit, or something. And it didn't… I–I mean it just wasn't–" 

"It didn't click."

" Right!" She snaps her fingers. "It was too much. I didn't know what I was doing, I was 18, for God's sake. Think I stuck at it for a bit too long, honestly."

"...and the world didn't explode." You breathe. 

MJ answers with a knowing nod. She chugs the rest of a crisp Mojito, raising the empty glass once more. 

"To doing better ."

You're quick to follow. "To doing better."

Lyla frowns, looking for a glass that's tucked into the corner. The room must be spinning already, with the way she pats around for it. You nudge it towards her with an elbow, and she's raucous; crumpling into a fit of giggles. 

One drink turns to two, two turns to three, and then four ; until you're ready to spill out onto the busy strip. When the waiter places a slip of paper into the centre, one with so many zeroes it makes your eyes bulge, you don't even have to pretend to reach for your wallet. Gleefully, Lyla picks up the bill, sliding a shiny Amex card onto the dish. 

She's generous, you note, as she buys a bottle of wine to go when MJ picks up her bag. She's perceptive, too. You see it when MJ wrings her hands, still tipsy and stuttering in her heels as you pile onto the street. She's making apologies already - I've got an early start and need to see my May - but Lyla intercepts. There's the gentle clink of a bottle thrust into her hands, something expensive, and she kisses the apples of her cheeks before sending her off in a taxi. 

Her own cheeks are ruddy, rosy with drink and she splits into a wide smile. The back of her hand comes up to your neck. Warm , she whispers, before linking arms with you like a schoolgirl off to do something they shouldn't. 

Eventually, with shaky legs, you end up in a nightclub. She knows someone who knows someone, apparently, and you're ushered into a packed place just off 76th. Lights and pounding music, a flurry of limbs; you let the crowd take you in. If this is what it means to be a part of a whole; some writhing, heaving beast, to be more than your hand in someone else's and theirs in yours; then you could live here forever, you think. Forever, for the night, for the next ten minutes; you blink , and time passes. 

You're having fun, you think. Letting the blood rush to your head, hips swaying to the music and you don't push away the quiet snap of a phone camera, nor it's red recording light. Dancing, singing, many seem to be pulled into orbit around you. This is how it works , pushed into an ebb and flow of people held together by broken lyrics and a thumping bassline. You let it wash over you, all-consuming, dragging yourself into murky depths. 

You're in a booth, now, anchored by a dainty hand around your wrist. Pupils blown, she cups your face to inspect you, to figure out where you've gone. Someone's bought you a drink, there's a stranger's arm around your shoulders, but Lyla pushes them both away. Too much? It's a question, of which you shake your head firmly - lolling and with a distinct lack of fine motor skills - no. Not enough. 

You blink. Bitter liquor hits your throat, and you chase the taste of somebody else's lips. A stranger, and even under the influence you know it doesn't feel right. Bile rises, and you're gone, clamping onto your stomach and trying not to hurl. 

You blink. You're on the sidewalk, with a heavy head on someone's shoulder. The strap of your heels dig into your ankles and you fumble with it, trying to stop the road from spinning. Lyla holds you up, not much more up to task than you are. 

A car pulls up, and at first you don't recognise it; entranced by shiny rims coming to a stop. You look up, still buried in Lyla's thick jacket; and you see it. You see him. 

Miguel's wearing glasses. That's the first thing you notice, stumbling to your feet. Immediately, your face cracks into a dopey smile, leaning onto the lip of the open window. He gives you a once over, swallowing thickly, brows drawn. 

Quiet chatter flys straight over your head. Lyla arguing, Miguel wagging a finger at her; but all you can see is him. It's like you've got blinkers on, tunnel vision making you focus on the curve of cheekbone, and the way his eyes scrunch up around black rims and glass. 

You clamber into the backseat.

“Get in, Ly.”

The other woman seems resolute. “ M'not –”

“Did you take something?”

“Fuck you.” Flashing a middle finger, she wraps up her coat like a robe, walking away down the road. 

He's adamant, driving up next to her. You keep your head on the glass where it's cool.

“Let me take you home. Please. ”

Frowning, she stops. When he leans over to open the passenger's side, she slips off her boots, and sidles in.

Their voices feel like a blur. You can barely register, only picking up half of the words hissed under their breath.

“... I called you, you can't give me a lecture…”

“...not fair, Lyla…. can't keep babysitting…”

“... fucking hypocrite… not the only one… I'm going through some shit…”

“...too far…. always taking it too…”

He drops her off outside of the apartment. From the backseat, you're sobering up; able to catch his heavy sigh as he watches her through the window. It's only when he sees her walk in does he turn to you, passing bottled water kept in the console.

“You want to come out to the front?”

You like the way he says it, for some reason. Any anger or frustration he had towards Lyla dissipates. He doesn't bring that into a quiet conversation with you.

He's too solemn, too serious, and so you clamber into the front over the console; limbs and legs everywhere, as obnoxiously as you can. A slight elbow to his chest, a hand clutching his shirt; you want to make him laugh. As you settle onto the seat, you see it: huffing dramatically, he gives you a small smile.

Miguel reverses back out onto the road.

You blink, and you're home. Legs still shaky, he helps you up the stairs, settling you onto the sofa. Car keys clink onto the dish by the door, and he slips off his coat – that brown one, your favourite, you think.

Fumbling with the strap of your heels, it must be too painful for him to watch as Miguel settles by your feet. His big, strong hands are surprisingly deft when he undoes the dainty buckle.

“Are you mad at me?” Meekishly, you watch and he shakes his head, not making eye-contact. Maybe it's the alcohol, but you're staring; looking for that light in his eyes amongst the dark room. 

Now, he looks up. “What?”

“M'just looking.” You say, chewing the inside of your cheek as one shoe slips off. “ I'm not allowed to look?”

The other one comes off, and he hisses when he spots a little cut where the strap dug into your ankle. He can't help it, rolling it gently in his hands, trying to ease the pain with a massage.

“You wear glasses.” You say it softly, more to yourself than to anyone else. Giggling now, you cradle his face and he sits up. “I didn't know that.”

“ That's not – I've always worn glasses. You're just not paying attention.” He shrugs lazily, but he's smiling.

“Not true , Mig. I would've noticed.”

“You're drunk–”

“When it's you, I always pay attention.” Absent-mindedly, your hand curls into his hair. He keens . “Like… your hair's getting longer.”

Gently, he shakes out of your grip, getting up. “I know, I know. I need a haircut.”

“I like it.” Starry-eyed, you look up at him. “You're so pretty, Mig.”

It makes him heave. Still tipsy, your legs spread ever so slightly, hand taking his and pulling him closer. Placing his hand on your thigh, you let it trace up, up, up, catching at the hem of your short dress.

He practically caves in, collapsing next to you on the couch. 

“You should–” His eyes are glassy as you ease yourself onto his lap. “ F-Fuck . You should go to bed, sweetheart.”

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you roll your hips, watching as he groans wantonly. 

“But I'm not tired.” His hand ends up on your waist, applying just the right amount of pressure. Underneath, you can feel him stir, increasingly hard under loose sweats. “And you haven't touched me in weeks. ”

You're exaggerating, but it goes to his head anyway. He buries his head into the crook of your shoulder, whispering into the bare skin.

“I know, I know…”

“Just the tip, Miguel.” You're grinding your clit onto him, pussy barely covered by a thin thong. Whispered into the shell of his ear, you're a siren, honeyed words dangerously close to breaking him down. “Just the tip, and I promise , I'll let it go. Please , baby.”

Your dress rides up, and his hands come down to palm at your ass.

“ Please…” You're pleading, lips on his neck as he squeezes, forcing you down to hump directly over his cock.

“Oh, shit.” His hips jump once, twice; and then he stills, hands at your hips and ass to stop you.

Desperate, you whine, trying to fight against it. He doesn't let up, hand cradling your chin so you can look him in the eye.

“ Bed .” He says, shakily. “Not like this.”

He slips you off, noticeably adjusting his pants. Legs spread wide, head tipped back as he sighs; he looks delicious , and you're fighting off the urge to let him take you right there and then. 

You stumble through the little hallway, pushing past some doors. Something clatters into your thigh, and you hear a dull thud as another thing falls to the floor. Frustrated, you strip down to your underwear, something light and lacy and it leaves very little to the imagination. 

There's a bed, and you collapse on it; swimming in the silky sheets. It smells like him - musky and oaky and gentle - and you think you must be dreaming already. And then, you sit up, realising too late - this isn't your room. 

Miguel wasn't too far off, hearing the thumping and clattering; hesitant as he opens the door. You're wrapped up like a present, spilling out of lingerie on his bed. He swallows, turning away to dig into his wardrobe, intending to pull out a baggy shirt for you.

“ Miguel .” You croak, but he ignores the want in your voice, so heavy it goes straight to his cock. “Miguel, please. ”

All his shirts blend together. He can't concentrate.

“Do you think I don't want it? Because I do, fuck, I need it. So bad, baby, please.” Your body heaves with a half sob. 

Heart splintering, he turns. Finally, you meet his eye. You spread your legs.

“ Here. Right here .” You tap your clothed cunt with shaky fingers, pulling your thong to the side. His eyes drink it up, the way you glisten when your cunt eats up the fabric. You know he's watching, and you take advantage of it, circling your clit with the pads of two fingers. “Like this . When I touch myself, I think of you… d-did you know that?”

Swallowing roughly, he can't take his eyes off of you.

“What… What else?” He croaks.

“I think of your tongue, a-at my pussy. And your fingers… God. ” You slip a finger in, and he watches as your cunt clenches around it; gushing and sloppy. “Your l-lips. Meant it, before. When I said you were pretty. Want to sit on that pretty face and watch you melt– oh-h- fuck- ”

He wants to lick it up, all that slick that sluices from your hole. His mouth waters, just thinking about it. 

“Put another one in, for me.” He says it low, sinking to his knees to watch you fuck yourself. 

Nodding, you oblige. 

“Does it feel good?”

“ Yes. ” You don't hesitate. 

“Can you fit another one? Want to see how good she looks when she comes, sweetheart.”

Three fingers in, now, and he slides your thong a little further aside; reaching up to press his thumb to your clit. Light streams in from blinds cracked open and highlights your thighs perfectly. Nevertheless, he adjusts his glasses to make sure he doesn't miss anything.

The twitch of your leg, the way your hand cramps up, the way your lips curl into a delicious O - he sees it all, commits it to memory.

“ Faster , please.”

“ Doesn't –” You're frustrated, clearly chasing something that refuses to surface. “Not the same. Can't fucking reach. ”

He titters, nipping at your thighs and soothing the bites with the flat of his tongue.

“Poor baby. Will you let me help?”

Fervently, you nod, slipping out your fingers as he takes off his glasses. They're discarded, too foggy to be useful right now.

“Did I tell you to take them out?” He sighs and gestures for your hand. Wrapping his lips around them he sucks them clean, humming lightly. He pats your clit with a wet slap, content. “Put two fingers in, sweetheart.”

Doing as he says, your head feels full - cotton wool and bubble wrap, only able to focus on the pleasure building behind your clit. And when he slots two fingers in next to yours , it rips out a gravelly moan. 

“ Here? ” He says dragging himself deeper, curling his fingers up. “Or is it… here? ”

You groan, limp against his hand as you feel impossibly full. It reminds you of the stretch of his cock; creaming around the base of his two fingers and yours. That wonderful curl as he pumps himself in and out, cupping your hand in the process to make sure you match his pace. He can feel your walls spasm around him, impossibly soft and velveteen. 

“Can't say no to you,” His eyes are low, grunting as he palms himself roughly. “Even though… fuck … even though I should.”

It's wet, the slap slap slap of skin against skin echoing in his room. Miguel sits up, pressing his lips to your neck, and you take the opportunity to slip your other hand into his sweats. You start pumping, in time with his ministrations, eyes blown as you swipe your thumb over his weeping slit.

You know he likes it rough, and you jerk him into your palm; fast and hard and you watch as he matches your pace. Even now, you're competing, trying to catch the him up; to see who can make the other cum first. 

You push back on his fingers, hips slotting against his, whispering nonsense into his neck. You're too fucked out to care; confessions you never thought would see the light of day. All the little things you like about him, things he says, things he does; and you don't even register the ochred flush smattered along the ridge of cheekbone.

He spills into your hand, and you're quick to follow; cumming around him as his fingers stutter in and out. It feels good , dangerously so, and has you pressing shaky kisses around his mouth, and nipping at his bottom lip.

He stills, but you're greedy, aching for more. You want him in you; seating his thick cock deep inside, painting your walls with hot cum, and pushing it back in with deft fingers. Every part of you is on fire, barely satiated by your heated foray.

You tip back onto the bed, and he joins you; caging you in with thick forearms, looking at you like you've stolen all the stars in the sky. That feeling , again, slams into your chest like a bullet. Messy hair, ruddy cheeks, hand gently tracing your jaw; he looks gone, and oh so soft. You want to kiss him ; and it's a thought that sticks, embedding itself somewhere you can't reach to dig it out.

“ Miguel .” You whisper, enough alcohol at the edges of your mind to stop thinking and spill your guts to him, unfiltered. “Are you sleeping with someone else?”

His eyes flit over your face before answering and he shakes his head. 

“No. No. Just you. Only you.” 

“ Don't believe you .” But you want to. So, so desperately. “Promise me?”

“I promise, sweetheart.” He swallows. “Are you?”

“No. Don't think I could if I tried.” It comes out watery, stuck at the back of your throat.

He just looks, for a moment, cradling the back of your head. 

“I want to kiss you.” It spills out from your lips.

“I know.” 

“Then why won't you kiss me?”

“Not a good idea.” He strains, kissing your forehead, and then each cheek. Hesitating, he places a gentle peck to your chin. “Ask me tomorrow.”

He says it simply, too easily; and it makes you want to sob. When Miguel slips away, and you hear the sound of a light turned on in the bathroom, you can't move. Catatonic; you blink, and he's cleaned you up, and slipped a shirt over your shoulders. Laying back in his bed, you watch as he lingers by the doorway, shrouded in shadow. 

Goodnight. Y ou think you say it out loud, but it echoes in your head. 

He says back, but not really. Instead, he leaves that goodnight hanging by the doorway like an old coat, and you wrap it over your shoulders. 

It keeps you a little warmer through the night.

_

_

_

Rigor Mortis Taglist: @bunnyrose01 @lavenderslemonade @tsukkie-daisuke @malxoxo @thekidscallmebosss @vvitcxen @theyoutubedork @doublevirgogirl @jnghs @taleiak @noblesavagex @cumikering @rebeccawinters @evanpetersrightbigtoe @saucypeanuttt @pix-stuff @maliarenee @truthuntolddd @honeycovered-bandaids @aiyaaayei @aeeliy @amplsblog @sikrettt @opuffmango @spear-bitch @maddielikesmoths @lemonpepsi @sweet-strawberryhoney @lacedinweb22 @bubbsby @jing5uan @ellaandorersoct @hibarbiesblog @valentxi @kittym1ka @delulu-dia @melovetitties @yohoe-hoe @acollectionofcells1 @froggi-mushroom @thund3rthighs

@bonthebunnie @natthernandez @strawberrymiguel @twwcs @mammonispunk @um-well @renn-pumkin-head @ietherealkistar @smallishbook @sonderspider @spear-bitch @cryingintheclubdhmu @mageneire @notdyl4n @slezhara @funkyfoxx0 @smol-beb @iceclaw101 @lixhizy @errorundyne-exe @707xn @beantokki@twentysomethingwereyote

#miguel o'hara x reader #across the spiderverse #rigor mortis 😼 #miguel o'hara #miguel o hara x reader #kat_writes😼 #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara smut #miguel x reader #spiderman 2099 x reader #angst #heavy angst #mutual pining

[officerjennie]

Title: As the Clouds Whisp Overhead

Summary: Jaskier gets off on Geralt's soft thighs and tummy. Literally. Geralt relaxes back and lets him, enjoying the show. Weight gain spoken of positively. Pairing: Geraskier. WC: 3.5K+

CW: smut, brief mention of weight loss due to difficult times (past)

It had been a rather easy spring, all things considered.

Geralt lazed in the field, not really watching the clouds that drifted overhead, his eyes closed and breaths deepening into an almost meditative state. The smell of wine and cheese was almost drowned out by the wildflowers about them but it was still there, as was the scent of apples, salt, the road, and the lingering oils that Jaskier had insisted on wearing ever since he’d discovered Geralt’s nose was sensitive to the others that he used to reek of.

Said bard was currently shuffling their lunch about, putting most of it away for later, humming one of his newest tunes as he folded back up the blanket he’d apparently bought for just this occasion. Though they’d eaten plenty of meals without it or the basket he’d purchased at the market as well, Jaskier had insisted that a picnic was a special affair and deserved the right accessories to make it just right.

Geralt had just let him do as he wished, not worried about his friend’s coin purse - and not worried about his own, for once. Usually the end of winter spelled a time of heavy work for him but he’d lucked out on a couple of easy and well paying jobs right off the bat - so he thought a bit of down time wouldn’t be the end of the world for them.

The song on Jaskier’s lips was one he hadn’t quite finished yet. Geralt had already heard several different renditions of the first verse alone, lyrics tweaked here and there, the exact lilt of his voice changing back and forth as he tried to settle on what he believed would sound the best. And despite his occasional grumbling over the repetition it was a rather relaxing tune, one he didn’t mind listening to.

Beyond that, there was a sort of...intimacy that came with being trusted with Jaskier’s unfinished works. The knowledge that Jaskier wasn’t always his best around him, was able to fuck around with a song and riddle the air with curses of “bollocks” and “cock” while he tried and failed and tried again to make it just right. That Geralt could see him like this and not the perfected performance that he was to the rest of the world, the mask that was firmly in place right up until the moment he didn’t want it to be.

And that moment just so happened to frequently involve witchers, whether directly or indirectly. How many times had he gone feral on someone for just saying the wrong thing about one of Geralt’s colleagues? Just early that spring he’d jumped someone for spitting on the ground over Lambert’s name, and Jaskier hadn’t even met him yet.

Something like pride welled up in his chest at the thought, though it was a quiet thing. Jaskier should be more careful, he shouldn’t be fighting their fights - but it meant the world to him all the same that he wanted to. Especially for his brothers.

“You know, I’ve never been one for cheese and crackers as anything more than a snack, but that was simply delightful.” Jaskier’s voice came closer as he talked, and the flowers and grass were disturbed next to him as the bard flopped over at his side, quickly snuggling in when Geralt moved his arm to make room for him. “We’ll have to go back and ask again what the name of that cheese was. Never have I ever given so much thought to pairing and wines and all that stuff - my youngest sister was always more interested in that sort of thing, and really if I heard her say one more time that my palette wasn’t refined enough I might have had to hide frogs in her bed again.”

Jaskier settled in nicely at his side, slotting in like they were made for each other, fit perfectly together. He chattered away and Geralt mostly tuned him out, something Jaskier loved to fake hurt over though they both knew it was just that: fake. Over the years Geralt had perfected hearing what he needed to hear and simply listened to the tune of Jaskier’s voice, the song of his highs and lows, his sighs and breaths and every heartbeat becoming the song that was his bard.

Meditation came easier around Jaskier than it did anyone else. Even around his own family it was a struggle. Lambert was a little shit at the best of times and Eskel simply existed larger than he wanted to, and Geralt was always tuned into his brothers, paying attention to them because he knew just how limited theri time was together. But with Jaskier, he could rest, relax, simply let himself be like he’d never experienced with anyone else.

His arm rested at Jaskier’s back, hand loose on his side, barely hanging on and feeling his bard breath in and out as he spoke. Jaskier’s fingers tapped a rhythm where they were rested on his chest, though eventually they moved, sliding down to rest against his stomach and making Geralt hmm at the pleasant warmth they brought.

They’d stripped earlier to bathe in the nearby river and had mostly dressed, though Jaskier had forwent his doublet as Geralt had his armor. It was nice, being out in the wild, away from the faux sense of safety that inn rooms allowed them and yet still able to be this content without his armor on. Just their loose clothing, not enough to be considered decent in any sort of societal setting, simply existing and being and just…

Geralt was content, and he didn’t consider that a bad thing. Not in the slightest.

A breeze rustled the field about them, loose silver hair tickling his face though Geralt didn’t have the bother in him to brush it out of the way or tuck it behind his ear. The air smelled nice for once, no clogging dust on the wind, no rotting anything nearby nor farms to make his nose want to clog itself. Since the summer was still a ways off the sun wasn’t too harsh on his skin, his chemise enough to keep any possible chill away though it was warm enough in this part of the country, everything pleasant and not too much.

There was also a lovely set of fingers that had wormed their way under his chemise. Jaskier hadn’t bothered to push it up, had just scooted his hand underneath, and with very gentle circles had begun to rub patterns into the soft flesh there. It was enough to make Geralt melt beneath him, a soft hmm on his lips accompanied by a sigh as he felt his every muscle relax at the touch. The winter had been extra good to him, Eskel having returned with more coin than expected from his path which had meant more meat for their stews, and the lot of them had eaten extra well.

Jaskier had never shied away from letting him know exactly how much he appreciated it when he ate well. There had been a few times on their own path that food had been scarce, and despite witchers having an accelerated metabolism Geralt had always done his best to see after his bard first and foremost - so when times were tough his body showed it, and Jaskier had played his fingers raw when he saw the worst of it just to make sure the both of them could eat their fill.

But there had been no such worries or struggles yet this year, what with the good winter and the well paying contracts that had followed. Geralt’s stomach was full and soft, protecting the muscles and other important organs underneath, and the rest of him was showing the spoiling as well. His thighs had grown softer, somewhat straining against the material of his pants but it wasn’t quite uncomfortable yet - he knew well enough to keep his clothes somewhat baggy, to make room for the waxing and waning that came with the path. His chest, too, had grown softer, encouraging Jaskier to nuzzle into it at any given opportunity.

Those calloused fingers found some of the scars that ran across his belly, caressing them gently. Some stretch marks veined their way across his skin as well, hidden at the moment by his chemise but Jaskier felt his way across them all the same, giving off a gentle sigh as he snuggled in closer and traced his love wherever he could reach.

Geralt could not have thought of a more peaceful way to spend the afternoon. The clouds blurred as his eyes slid closed at the tender affection, his breaths deepening. Deep breaths in through his nose, smelling the wildflowers. A rabbit was nearby, chomping as quietly as it could on some grass, its hops barely whispers as it braved further away from its burrow. Geralt could hear the gentle chuffing of its babies hidden away, the call of a hawk overhead that sent the rabbit scurrying. The scent of budding trees, of a little mouse that had found some seeds to munch. The scent of his bard, his oils and shampoo and the hint of river on the both of them, and the growing scent of-

A snort brought them both a bit out of the peace, and Geralt cracked his eyes just enough to smirk down at the startled confusion growing on his bard’s face.

“Really?”

Those pretty pink lips pouted up at him as if Jaskier wasn’t fully aware of what was growing in his pants. Geralt made a show of raising one of his eyebrows, raking his gaze down, down his bard, straight to stare at his crotch just long enough to get his point across before flicking his eyes right back up.

It took a few seconds for his bard to catch up, Geralt watching the thoughts clear as day on Jaskier’s face, until red spread pretty across his cheeks and darkened the speckle of freckles there. Jaskier sputtered a bit and Geralt had to bite back a wider grin, starts to words that had no finish dropping between them before Jaskier cut himself off with a whine, ducking in to nuzzle into his chest and push the rest of his body closer.

“That’s not fair, Geralt - what, can you, I don’t know, smell it or something?”

Geralt didn’t respond to that, just reached up to tug a stray curl back behind Jaskier’s ear. His bard peeked up at him with another adorable pout jutting out his lower lip, his nose scrunched up as he waited for his ‘ridiculous suggestion’ to be shot down.

But it wasn’t shot down. And Jaskier frowned, and then he squeaked, climbing on top of Geralt to straddle him and poke a very firm finger straight into the chest he’d just been nuzzling.

“You and your- your entirely unfair witcher ways! Are you telling me you could tell all this time? Every time?” Geralt didn’t stop his grin this time and the indignation just grew, hand gestures growing wider. “That is- Geralt, how am I suppose to walk through life knowing you can smell my erection? How am I ever supposed to get up of a morning knowing my every waking naughty thought will be given away? Which yes is entirely too often but you’re entirely not fair, have you looked in a mirror in the past decade? Cruelty, unfair, entirely too sexy for your own good, for anyone’s own good-”

Jaskier went on like that, ranting like only he could, while Geralt eventually tuned his words out just to listen to the lilt of his voice. And the bard made a rather pretty picture himself, straddling him like that. His chemise was loose, showing off curls of dark hair that Geralt could run his fingers through for an eternity and never be bored of it. Broad tanned shoulders, a soft stomach barely hidden underneath his clothes, his pants a wonderful shade of green that fit in with the waking world around them.

A very pretty picture, but a noisy one at the moment. Geralt sighed but Jaskier went on, wildly flourishing his hands as if it was the end of the world that Geralt could smell his arousal. An arousal that had notably not died down, still pressing against the fabric of his pants, catching Geralt’s eyes and making him tilt his head in that way that Jaskier insisted was ‘adorable’ - though Geralt didn’t think he was capable of such a thing.

His thigh twitched with a rather mischievous thought, and as Geralt’s gaze traveled back up to Jaskier’s face, cheeks still stained pink from his rather unnecessary embarrassment, he thought there perhaps that voice would do better singing for him than ranting about his dramatics.

He’d been called an asshole before, and Geralt had never disagreed with the label. But he was lucky enough that Jaskier for the most part never minded - and he greatly doubted Jaskier would mind his next movement.

As Jaskier waved one of his delicate looking wrists in the air, dandelion seeds drifting on the wind about them, Geralt shifted beneath him until he had room to lift up one of his thighs. Before Jaskier could catch his movement it pressed up into him, cutting his bard off with a gasp, his eyes fluttering as Geralt’s smile showed teeth.

“That’s-” Jaskier pressed right down onto his thigh, his hands coming down to support him, and he didn’t waste any time in making it more enjoyable for himself. Shifting down, one hand placed on Geralt’s chest to support him, Jaskier straddled his thigh and slowly ground down onto it. A pretty moan escaped his lips and his tongue darted out as if to catch it.

It was a lovely show, watching as Jaskier pressed down onto him, sought out his own pleasure by rubbing against his thick thigh. Geralt pillowed his head on his arms and just watched, not moving his leg, letting Jaskier set his own pace and feeling pride bubble up in his chest at how pretty he sung for him. On a particularly rough grind Jaskier whimpered and rutted against him faster, making Geralt’s own cock twitch - but he wasn’t really in the mood for pleasure, so he ignored it in favor of the show.

Though he made for a beautiful picture, back lit by the sun and clouds, a pretty blue above that couldn’t quite beat the beautiful blue of his eyes, Jaskier wasn’t purposely looking good for a show. He didn’t touch his own skin like he did when he rode Geralt, didn’t skim his hands down his chest and stomach to show it off. Didn’t bite his lip or run and tangle his fingers into his curls. The emotions that crossed his face were not stressed or controlled, his noises slipped out without thought, his body moving without any purpose beyond pleasuring himself - and it made it a moment Geralt wanted to sear into his memory forever. That Jaskier could let go like this for him. That he trusted that Geralt didn’t mind, trusted that Geralt did not judge him for his desires. How human Jaskier allowed himself to be, imperfect and all the more beautiful for it.

“Fuck,” Jaskier cursed on an exhale, his movements already shaking, his cock dripping enough precum that it soaked into the front of his pants. Geralt could almost feel it wetting his own. “Geralt I- fuck you’re gorgeous, so gorgeous, I want to-” his hips stuttered, breath catching on a moan, brown curls caught on the wind and dancing. “Can- can I get off on your stomach? Gods it’d be so soft, feel so good, I- fuck.”

That was something he’d never requested before. Geralt quirked an eyebrow, belying another twitch of his own cock, but he grunted out “If you must.” And he had to bite back a chuckle at how quickly Jaskier’s fingers went for the ties of his pants.

Jaskier’s cock was leaking profusely though that wasn’t anything he didn’t already know. It looked like it was aching from it, hard and red and angry when he fished it out of his pants and smalls, and Jaskier whined as he couldn’t help but stroke himself a few times. His hips bucked with it, a greedy and wanting noise slipping from between his wet lips - but then he was slipping down Geralt’s leg to straddle his hips, and his cock was pushed against the soft skin of his stomach.

It didn’t slide against him very easily. The precum leaking from the tip helped, but Jaskier didn’t seem to care, holding onto his cock and gently rubbing it against him, jaw wide and loose like it was the single most pleasurable act Jaskier had ever experienced. Geralt cocked his head and tore his gaze away from Jaskier to watch his cock rub circles on him, precum dribbling faster and catching in the hair that curled white all over his abdomen.

Honestly, Geralt didn’t quite understand it. Wasn’t entirely sure what had Jaskier’s breath coming so fast, his heart beating so quick at rubbing against his soft stomach. But he didn’t really care. Jaskier’s hips jerked and he fought to keep himself reigned in, to keep his movements steady and slow, and Geralt just watched him and let him. Let him take this pleasure, smelling the arousal coming off of him in waves, listening to the rhythm of his breaths and body and heart. And Geralt memorized every little detail, from the flutter of his long eyelashes to the way his fingers dug into Geralt’s side, nails just at the edge of biting him.

Jaskier whimpered, long and shaking, when he came. It was desperate, his face scrunching up, eyes shut tight as if he was grasping onto the pleasure with all of his might. Geralt reached out to take hold of one of his hands, letting Jaskier clench his fingers as hard as he needed, bringing them up to brush his lips against the knuckles as Jaskier spilled all over his stomach.

His bard almost collapsed onto him, but Geralt moved him before that could happen, bringing him down with a shush at his further whimpers and letting him rest once more in the crook of his arm. And Jaskier came down slow, heartbeat eventually matching the rhythm of his deepening breaths, eyes still scrunched up tight as if he didn’t want to let go of what he’d been feeling.

When Geralt ran his fingers through his curls, they were damp with sweat. He hummed, not minding, just holding him close as he melted against him.

Eventually, Jaskier stretched, letting his arm flop against Geralt’s chest and legs tangle with his once more. He almost made an effort to open his eyes. Almost. Instead he frowned lightly, nuzzling into Geralt and as he moved impossibly closer.

“Want me to return the favor, love?” His words were light things that could have been carried off by the wind if Geralt’s hearing had been even slightly worse.

In truth, Geralt was turned on. How could he not be when Jaskier had ridden his thigh and stomach so beautifully? But he thought it over for a minute, the cool breeze tickling his face with a few stray white hairs, the scent of wildflowers coming back to him as the one of arousal dissipated.

“No,” he said finally, pulling Jaskier closer to kiss the top of his head. Despite the interest his body had shown he found he wasn’t in the mood himself, content enough to let Jaskier have his pleasure and leave it at that.

Jaskier just hummed, not questioning him further, and a small smile tugged at Geralt’s lips knowing there would be no hurt feelings over it. His bard’s fingers eventually went back to lazily tracing patterns into his skin, though he made a bit of a yucky face when they found the sticky mess he’d left of Geralt’s stomach hairs. Still they were both far too content to clean up just yet, not even wasting the energy to tuck Jaskier’s softening cock back away in his pants as they laid there, relaxed, enjoying the non-harsh sun and the clouds that lazed across the sky overhead.

“Coin for your thoughts?” Jaskier whispered into his chest after a time, and Geralt grunted, not even opening his eyes to look down as he responded.

“A bigger food budget.”

A moment later, and Jaskier’s laugh filled the field around them, sharp and uncontained, a laugh that was so far away from the performance he played that it drew a chuckle out of Geralt as well. That they could be themselves around each other, that they could be so carefree and human, was the most joyous thing Geralt had ever found in his long, long life - and that they’d discovered a new way to have fun was exciting, and Geralt was certainly going to take advantage of this new discovery. How could he not, when his reward was a well-pleased bard melting in his arms.

#why did I give this smut piece such a poetic title? #geraskier #geralt #jaskier #the witcher #fanfiction #mywriting #lemony #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt of rivia #geralt/jaskier #jaskier/geralt #gerskier #and now back to writing the stuff I'm supposed to be working on

[queenxxxsupreme]

To Follow The Heat of The Flame (Netflix!Eskel x f!reader)

A/N: Ah so I figured Eskel and witch!reader needed some angsty angst :) Also I don’t really know where all this whimsy poetical type titles for the Witcher and The Witch universe fics are coming from.... I’m trying to come up with a good title for the Witcher and The Witch universe so just bear with me while I work on that

Warnings: 18+, mentions of adult scenarios but no actual smut, angst, angry!Eskel, hardass!reader, two emotionally constipated people trying to navigate feels, 

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: After you told Eskel about how the scar on your chest came to be there, you find yourself fearful of letting him in. This leads to complications between you and the witcher. 

Note: If you haven’t read them already, I would suggest reading the previous pieces that belong in The Witcher and The Witch Universe. In order, they are To Any Semblance Of Touch | Down A Chilling Hall, A Fire Grows (contains smut) | To Survive Is To Suffer

Just as you were settling down into the water of the hot spring that rested below Kaer Morhen, you felt the atmosphere shift and heard a portal open somewhere behind you. Casting a glance over your shoulder, you spotted Triss.

“I knew you’d be down here.” She smiled. “Yenn and I were looking for you.”

“I am so tired of being cooped up in that gods damned keep.” You sighed.

Triss took her clothes off, setting each piece down on a rock to keep the snow from getting them too cold, and then joined you in the spring. 

“Is everything alright?” She furrowed her brows together. 

You turned your head to look at her, your hand coming up to absentmindedly mess with the emerald pendant that hung around your neck. 

“Yes. Everything is fine. Why do you ask?”

“You don’t seem fine.” She waved her hand, uttering a few words under her breath. A bottle of wine and two glasses appeared beside her on the rocks. She poured wine for the both of you and passed around the drinks. “You’ve been distant for the last few days. Staying in your room, avoiding everyone. It’s quite odd coming from you.”

You took the glass from her, swirling the liquid around just a little.

“Eskel knows about Branimor, Triss.” Your voice was quiet as you spoke. 

Triss choked on her wine, bringing her hand up to her mouth. 

“He what?”

“He saw it.” You let the pendant go to place your hand on your chest. “The scar. He didn’t ask about it until later…. A few days ago, actually. And now he knows.”

“Y/N, hold on a moment.” Triss put her glass of wine down. “When did Eskel see you without a top on?”

“Last week. We…. He followed me around the keep and I suppose things just got out of hand.” A grin came to your lips, so you tried to hide it by taking a sip of wine. 

“Oh my gods, Y/N!” Triss giggled. “I thought for sure that you’d never come to your senses!”

“Come to my senses?” You raised your brows in disbelief. “About that brute? He’s a pig and an absolute asshole, Triss.”

“Oh, but Y/N. You can’t deny the chemistry you both have. There’s just a connection there.”

“A connection.” You repeated, shaking your head in disbelief. “The only connection we have is the desire to tear each other’s clothes off.”

“Sometimes that’s the best kind of connection.” 

You finished off the wine in your glass before putting the empty glass on the rocks beside you. You then began to move towards the center of the hot spring. 

“So, he asked you about your scar?” Triss inquired, refilling her own glass and then adding a little more of the sweet liquid to yours. 

“He did. He was…. He was curious, I suppose. Everyone gets curious when they see something like that, something out of place.” You moved your hand around in the water in front of you. 

“And you told him the truth?”

You nodded your head, your eyes hesitantly flickering over to meet Triss’s. She raised her eyebrows, doubting your answer. 

“Well, I didn’t give any details. I don’t care for the details. But I was honest.”

“Is there anyone who does know the details?”

You were quiet for a few moments.

“You and Yenn are the only two who know what really happened.” You cupped your hand to bring the hot water up onto your shoulder. “Geralt only knows somewhat because he was sent to kill me afterwards. And you and Yennefer, well…. You’re like sisters to me. You’re some of the few people I trust.”

She smiled lightly, eyes flickering down to the water. 

“Yennefer never questioned me about it.” You shook your head softly. “When I asked if she wanted to know, she said she didn’t care what had happened. We’ve known each other since we were girls at Aretuza. She knew I’d never kill the very king I was serving without proper cause. But I just had to tell her what happened, Triss. No one else would listen to me, except for you.”

“Sometimes we can’t carry the burden ourselves.” She spoke gently. “And that’s okay.”

You waved your hand over the surface of the water in front of you, causing bubbles to form from the heat and steam to rise off of the surface of the water. 

“How was it with Eskel?” Triss moved to rest against the rocks, laying her head back and closing her eyes. She changed the subject knowing very well that you’d be more comfortable talking about something else. 

“How was what?”

“Sex.”

You rolled your eyes.

“It was…. I won’t lie, Triss. It was fantastic.”

“You said he followed you down a hall?”

“Yes, but we didn’t fuck in the halls. It was in my room. On the vanity actually.” You said matter-of-factly.

“A proper gentleman.” She giggled. You reached for your glass of wine, trying to hide your own grin. “I would imagine he’s rather romantic. I’ve met a handful of men who were absolute assholes but could be the most romantic people on the Continent.”

“He was anything but romantic, Triss.”

“Do you see yourself being with him?” 

You turned your head to meet her gaze. You were quiet for a few moments as you thought about a proper answer. 

“Why would you ask that?”

She shrugged her shoulders lightly.

“No reason.”

You rolled your eyes.

“There’s always a reason for everything you do, Triss.”

“Well, sometimes I just get a feeling with a certain pairing, and I want to know if my feeling is correct with you two.” She smiled innocently. “So, what say you?”

You moved to lean against a few rocks, staring up at the sky. 

“Fucking around? Sure. But romantically involved? I doubt it. Neither of us seem suited for a relationship of any sorts. I would imagine he likes to have the option to have company whenever he can when he’s on the Path, while I…. I prefer to have only myself to look after.”

“Eskel doesn’t require a babysitter, Y/N. He’s a grown man.”

“The bounty on my head makes it far too dangerous for anyone to be affiliated with me.”

Triss nodded her head softly. 

“And I’d probably poison the bastard with how annoying he is.” 

***

Eskel sat at a table with Coen, Geralt, and Lambert, listening as Lambert and Geralt argued and bickered back and forth. 

The large doors to the hall opened and in walked you and Triss. Eskel perked up, interested in watching you. 

“Where did you gals go?” Lambert asked. 

“Down to the hot springs.” Triss answered. 

You shared a little glance with Triss before moving away from her and making your way towards the doors on the other side of the room. You weren’t going to be staying in the hall like she was. 

Eskel slipped away from the table and managed to get to the door just as it was closing, but when he opened the door to follow you, you were gone. 

His stomach churned as his fear had been confirmed. You were avoiding him. 

***

You sat in a chair nearest to the fire in your room, busying yourself with reading. A knock on the door pulled you from the alchemy book. You lifted your head, letting out a small breath. 

The book was placed on an end table as you rose to your feet. You went to the door and pulled it open. 

Eskel stood in the hall, arms crossed and blue eyes on you the second the door opened. 

“Is there something I can help you with, witcher?”

He looked at you for a few moments as if he was stunned. 

“You really are the cold-hearted witch they say, aren’t you?”

You said nothing. You weren’t entirely sure what had upset him, but you had a feeling it had something to do with ignoring him for the last few days.

He shook his head, chuckling coldly as he looked down the hall. 

“You had me strung along like a fucking fool-,”

“I did nothing, witcher.” You spoke quietly. His hands fell to his sides and the furrow between his brow seemed to deepen. 

“The flirting we did back and forth? That was nothing?”

Again, you were silent. Eskel ran a hand over his face, his touch lingering on his scarred cheek.

“Was it because I asked about your scar? Because I pushed to know about what happened in Cravaria?”

“That has nothing to do with this.”

“Bullshit.” He spat, shaking his head. Your silence and reluctance to speak or react to him only fueled the fire burning in his chest. 

Why was he so angry about losing your attention? Why was he frustrated that you didn’t seem interested in him anymore? Why couldn’t he contain himself and his emotions the way you seemed to be doing?

“Just the other day you wanted to know what I thought of you. Before we fucked.” His tone was harsh and biting. “Do you want to know now?”

“Eskel-,”

“I think that maybe the stories I’ve heard of you are true. The great and powerful Y/N of Lyria.” He waved his hands dramatically. “Aretuza’s gem lost to a cold heart. Cold and heartless indeed. Hell! In less than a day, you destroyed the very kingdom you served for twenty years!”

“You weren’t there, witcher.” Part of you was upset that he’d bring Cravaria up after you had just told him of that event. He had seen just how terribly affected you were still by the fall of the kingdom, by the trauma you endured at the hands of the king you were supposed to serve. 

You didn’t want to have this conversation with him. You couldn’t have this conversation with him. You knew very well you would lose your temper if you fought back.

Anger and pain began to bubble in your chest. Your scar started to tingle.

You turned away from him, unable to face Eskel any longer. 

“What happened to make you so standoffish with me?” His tone wasn’t so harsh at that moment. Instead, he sounded degeated. 

You shook your head, running your hands over your face. Before he could press you for an answer, a portal opened in front of you. 

Eskel reached out to grab your arm, but you were already gone. He clenched his hands into fists, cursing the gods. 

***

“Fucking witch.” Eskel muttered under his breath. 

The table of witchers and sorceresses fell silent as the youngest wolf made his way through the Great Hall. 

“You sound like you’re in a pleasant mood.” Coen commented. 

“Fuck off!” Eskel growled. He was in no mood for games. 

“Who pissed in your ale?” Lambert furrowed his brow. 

“Y/N.” Geralt sighed. “What happened, Eskel?”

The dark haired witcher turned to face him, pointing an accusing finger at Geralt.

“The next time you decide to bring a fucking sorceress to the keep, I’ll fucking feed myself to a clan of nekkers.”

“I told you not to mess around with that she-beast.” Lambert shook his head. “There’s plenty of stories of her nasty habits.”

“I’ll go check on Y/N.” Triss stood from the table, her words directed mostly to Yennefer and Geralt. 

“No need, Marigold. She’s gone.” Eskel waved a hand dismissively at the mage.

“What?” Geralt and Triss spoke at the same time. 

“Where did she go?” Geralt asked. 

“Hopefully back to the fucking pits of hell she came from.”

“Eskel, this is a serious matter.” Triss told him. “Y/N has a price on her head.”

“She disappeared through a portal! I don’t fucking know where she went.” The witcher grabbed a tankard and began to pour himself a drink. 

“Fuck.” Geralt sighed. 

“And we can’t track her, can we?” Coen asked. “I can’t sense her chaos, so I’d assume she’s untrackable.”

“You would be correct.” 

“She can handle herself.” Lambert swatted his hand in the air. 

“Have you forgotten she killed the King of Cravaria?” Yennefer looked down the table to the witcher. “The entire North wants her head right now.”

“That was three years ago. Surely everyone has calmed down from that.”

“She’s got wanted posters in every establishment north of the Yaruga.” Coen shook his head. “Haven’t you seen them?”

“I learned from Geralt not to go after wanted women. They always end up back here.”

“She would have gone somewhere she feels safe.” Geralt thought out loud, ignoring his brother. 

“Perhaps the herbalist she has a thing for in Vengerberg?” Yennefer suggested. 

“He died half a decade back.” He shook his head. 

“What about that mage from Rinde?”

“All I know is that the mage is from Rinde. She’s never told me anything about him, so you or Triss may know better.”

“I doubt she would have gone to see him, Yen.” Triss shook her head. “She wouldn’t want to risk getting him into trouble with the Chapter. But perhaps she would have gone to Jaskier.”

“Where is that bright bastard staying for the winter?” Coen looked to Geralt. 

“Oxenfurt. Triss is right. She’d be with him.” The White Wolf agreed.

“We’ll find Y/N.” Yennefer met Triss’s gaze. Triss nodded her head softly. 

As the two sorceresses left through a portal, Geralt moved towards Eskel. 

“Walk with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to.” Geralt glanced over his shoulder to his brother. 

The younger wolf sighed heavily but followed Geralt nonetheless. After stepping out of the keep, they began to walk along the ramparts together.

“What happened between you and Y/N, Eskel?”

“She’s a coldhearted wench, Geralt. All the sorceresses you befriend, they’re pisspoor. You need new friends.”

The White Wolf chuckled lightly, shaking his head. 

“I should have listened to those damned stories. Who the hell hears of a murderess and decides ‘oh I choose that one’?”

“More than half the stories aren’t true, and the ones that are, are grossly exaggerated. Just as they are with witchers. Y/N has just been dealt an unfair deal in life.”

“Haven’t we all.” Eskel muttered. “You knew her before she came here. You were supposed to kill her after that mess in Cravaria.”

“Did she tell you about Cravaria?”

“Yes, and about Branimor. Bastard’s lucky he’s dead.” Eskel clenched his hands into tight fists by his sides. “After she told me about that, she started avoiding me.”

“Y/N…. she isn’t the kind to get attached easily, Eskel.” Geralt shook his head lightly. “But to find out whatever reason it is that she’s ignoring you, you’ll have to talk to her.”

“Fucking sorceresses.” He shook his head. “They’re difficult ones.”

“They are. Perhaps the most difficult beings you’ll ever encounter.”

“How do you manage Yennefer?” Eskel came to a stop, watching as his brother walked away from him. 

“I don’t.” Geralt spoke over his shoulder. “And the sooner you learn you’ll never manage Y/N, the sooner you’ll recover your sanity. Or at least what remains of it.”

“She’ll be the death of me, I swear it.” Eskel muttered under his breath. But what a splendid death it would be. 

***

You returned later that evening with Triss and Yennefer. They had found you with Jaskier, just like Triss had suggested. You were having a few drinks and chatting with the bard at a tavern in Oxentfurt when the sorceresses showed up. With your help, Jaskier managed to talk them into staying for just a couple hours.

You made no attempt to greet any of the wolves in the Great Hall. You just wanted to get to your room. But of course, that wouldn’t happen. 

Eskel followed you from the hall, but this time not without your knowledge. You heard his nearly silent footsteps, listened to his heart thump in his chest. 

You left your bedroom door open, a silent invitation for the witcher. He lingered by the doorway with his arms crossed and chest puffed up in irritation. 

“Have you had your fun away from here?”

You stopped just in front of a full body length mirror. Your hand came up to rest on the square emerald pendant around your neck. Your eyes met his in the reflective glass. 

“I needed time to think.”

“About what?”

“What I wanted.”

The witcher paused for a moment. 

“And what is it that you want, witch?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Like hell it does.”

You turned away from the mirror, subsequently facing him. 

“What happened? Was it something I said that is making you act this way?”

“No.”

“Then can you please tell me for fuck’s sake what is wrong? What has made you afraid of me all of a sudden?”

“I am not afraid of you, Eskel.” Your eyes shot up to meet his.

“You’ve been avoiding me like the plague for the last three days.”

“The entire North has wanted me dead for the three years, so pardon me if I don’t want you caught up in my mess.” You snapped. Why was he so persistant? Why couldn’t he just let you ignore him? Why couldn’t he just bother you when he wanted something from you and then leave you be? What more could he possibly want?

Eskel stood there for a moment, staring at you as he took in your words.

Had talking about Branimor’s death made you realize how dangerous it could be if it was known that the witcher was an associate of yours? That was the only thing Eskel could think of that made sense, but even that didn’t make a whole lot of sense. 

Eskel gave you that stupid sideways smirk of his. 

“I think it’s a little late for that, doll.”

You shook your head. It wasn’t too late. He was still a free man. He wasn’t too far in. He was safe. 

“Once this winter is over, I will be gone.”

His heart dropped, but he did his best to hide it.

“Where will you go?”

Your eyes met his. For a moment, you thought of being sincere. 

“Like I’d tell you, witcher.”

“Then I suppose I’d just have to follow you.” He shrugged his broad shoulders.

“You already seem to do enough of that.” You rolled your eyes at him. 

“Oh come on, witch. You love when I follow you through these halls.” Eskel closed the space between you in just a few slow steps. He brushed the back of his hand along the side of your face. “We always have a grand time, don’t we?”

His hand slipped around to the side of your neck, slender fingers tangling in your hair. 

“Witcher.”

“Witch?”

You held his gaze for a few moments before your eyes trailed down to his lips. 

For a heartbeat, all of your fears melted away. You weren’t afraid to get close to the man before you, to let him in. To hell with anyone who might try to use him against you, who might try to bring him harm just to get to you. The only thing that existed in that moment were you and your witcher. 

“You’re playing with fire.” You warned him, your warm breath feathering across his face.

A low chuckle rumbled deep inside his chest. The very thought of tempting the flame inside you brought him a terrible sense of joy, excitement, and wonder. 

“I know.”

“Stupid witcher.”

His lips brushed across yours, teasing you, leaving you wanting more. 

“I’ll be down in the hall if you’d like to join me.” He whispered in your ear.

You were left stunned in silence as he walked out of your room, his warm touch leaving you and the cold air taking his place.

“Bastard!”

His chuckle echoed down the stone hall.

Taglist will be reblogged because tumblr hates me :)

#eskel x reader #eskel x reader fluff #eskel x reader angst #netflix!eskel x reader #netflix eskel x reader #eskel x witch #eskel x witch!reader #netflix!eskel #the witcher and the witch #the witcher #the witcher netflix #eskel #queenxxxsupreme

[frumpkinspocketdimension]

fic writer interview

tagged by @meikuree -- sooooooo... I realise this was 35 days ago but like... really did the whole “oh, i got a text! I’ll reply to it later!” adhd thing with this...

gonna tag people up here, and then responses will be at the bottom because it’s my post now and that’s how I’ve decided it will go. no pressure to do it, anyone who wants to do it also can, this is your free invite

@thefaustaesthetic @junozeta @searchforthescars @ghostmartyr @eviefrie @stardustedknuckles @lionettscourage @enechelon

name: dilapidatedcorvid

fandoms: I... used to write for CritRole and the Locked Tomb? On a writing hiatus at the moment, liable to return when Hermes grants me a vision

two-shot: *nervous laughter* I don’t actually have any... but if you count two works in a series, I have Glass: A 1920′s Bootlegger AU (NSFW), Camp Hupperdook: A M9 Adventure, and Sins, Smugglers, and Syndicates: A Tommy Gun Tragedy (NSFW)

most popular multi-chapter: I’ve decided we’re not going to talk about That Fic, so I only have one multi-chap, which is Glass (NSFW), so I’m going to broaden this question to include oneshots too

by hits? Taste Your Lips, Feel Your Skin (Kiss Me Slowly) (NSFW)

by kudos? Blue Eyes, Black Jeans (I’ve Been A Fool)

by bookmarks? I Get on My Knees and Pray (NSFW)

by subscriptions? Glass

actual worst part of writing: in general? putting a fic that exists in fragments in my brain (mostly in Vibes and phrases that slap immensely) onto paper. But I really hate when I’m trying to get something done in a certain amount of time and my brain refuses to go and give me ideas and words. Feeling stuck fucking sucks

how you choose your titles: at one point they were all song titles but lately they’ve been one word titles that sum up the theme or vibe, or really just any part that slaps particularly, and I’m starting to really like that format

do you outline: no, I am simply given visions and sit there for four hours until I’ve gotten to that part and then I wait for the next vision whenever it arrives, this is why I can’t write for shit on a timeline, sorry

I have outlined once before, but that was for a 30+ chapter behemoth that we were trying to get done before a timeline and it turns out I find it very hard to be creative when I’m penned in (it also didn’t help that I was writing it with someone else), and also I never write fics that long in general. I am the master of the one shot that’s All Vibes No Plot

ideas I probably won’t get around to but wouldn’t it be nice: Er, I’ve been sitting on a nsfw Beauyasha piece for a while, but other than a few lines, I don’t have much. I’ve also thought of a Expositor Beauregard/Volstrucker Astrid one-night-stand buildup fic, but again, it’s on the wayside at the moment. There has also, at several times, been a fourth installment of All of the Canyons in My Mind in the works, but it is unlikely to manifest at this point in time.

At one point I have mentioned and toyed around with the idea of Harrow/Ianthe flesh magic smut for TLT but quite honestly you likely won’t be seeing it for a while, I’m not writing for TLT in the near future until some of y’all learn to behave, you don’t deserve to read my smut until that happens

callouts @ me: I’m not great at plot, this is known. A lot of my fics tend to be very in-the-moment and introspection based to avoid that particular weakness. The last fic I wrote that was plot-focused rather than introspection-heavy or (buildup to) porn is a 2.7k crackfic from a year ago. Also, I spend too much time on the “it’s not perfect yet’ stage and then eventually hate everything I write until someone else reads it and hits me over the head with a rolled up newspaper

best writing traits: er, in the words of one of my last commenters, my writing is “verbose, poetic, lyrical, rhapsodic smut”. I think the words most often used to describe my writing are “lyrical” and “atmospheric”, which like, fuck yea tutti frutti. I am also told I am very good at certain character voices, which, also fuck yea

spicy tangential opinion: some of you write essentially entirely new characters in fanfic, slap book character names on them, and call it a day, which is great, I’m all for you writing that stuff. Hell, I did 125k of that, I can’t be a hypocrite about it. My greatest regret with that is that some people went and started taking those essentially new characters and interpreting them as faithful representations of the book characters, which they are not. It’s on the reader to know what’s for shits and giggles and what’s a faithful representation, or else the fandom read of characters goes sideways and looks nothing like the original text. And if you’re disappointed by the next book that comes out because your interpretations are influenced by pieces you couldn’t recognise were for fun and not particularly serious, then I can’t help you

#about me

[creideamhgradochas]

Thanks to the lovely @sgtjbuccky for taking the time to answer these! Get to know more about Salina, go give her a follow and then show her some love!

These questions are from this list. You should check it out, there’s 50 questions all together and they’d be great to ask your favorite fic writer!

1. How old were you when you first starting writing fan-fiction?

I honestly can’t remember! I began writing very early, so around the age of 11! But I gotta admit, I had no idea what fan fiction even was back then!

2) Do you prefer writing OC’s or reader inserts? Explain your answer.

I want to say both, actually. I believe that even if they’re reader inserts, they’re still kind of an OC. Yes we refrain from describing the physical traits, but the personality, and backstories of the reader insert are created by us writers, so in a sense reader inserts can also be OCs!

3) What is your favorite genre to write for?

I have several favorite genres actually! Romance, drama, action, and comedy.

4) If you had to delete one of your stories and never speak of it again, which would it be and why?

I actually already have deleted one of my fics and never spoken of it again! It was back when I first began posting. About reader being the Avengers’ getaway driver and it was fun/fluffy/flirty, but I kinda panicked and deleted the entire thing. I don’t even know if any of the OG’s remember it! It was up for barely two days!

5) When is your preferred time to write?

Definitely at night, after midnight!. It’s like my brain is a poetic basket of gold at that time!

6) Where do you take your inspiration from?

All sorts of things, from stories I read, to music I hear, to dreams I have. Daydreaming about scenarios is always a good source of inspiration as well!

7) In your Peach Scone fic, what’s your favorite scene that you wrote?

Oh there were so many golden moments in that fic! But I’ll have to say my favorite scenes to write was Bucky fainting, nearly choking on his tie, and the confession scene!

8) Have you ever amended a story due to criticisms you’ve received after posting it?

I have been very fortunate not to receive any direct criticism to the stories I write. I did, however, once have a reader that criticized my way of portraying a certain character in a fic even though the request required it - but I did not change it.

9) Who is your favorite character to write for? Why?

As I mostly write for Bucky, it’s safe to say he is my favorite. It has a lot to do with the lengths you can take his character, from cocky to sweet to the biggest cheeseball in history. That’s mainly what I love about fanfiction, we can portray our favorite characters the way we want! I have a special love for Steve as well, and I will be dedicating some love for him soon as well!!

10) Who is your least favorite character to write for? Why?

I wouldn’t say I have a least favorite character to write for!

11) How did you come up with the title for the Peach Scone?

I merely based it on the song the fic was originally very loosely based on!

12) How did you come up with the idea for Peach Scone?

It came to life from a request, and people wanted Bucky to confess his love so I just came up with a few attempts he’d have to go through before being able to say the magic words!

13) Do you have any abandoned WIP’s? What made you abandon them?

I have at least 10 abandoned WIPs! When inspiration lacks and I can’t move forward with the fic I usually leave it be, and at times I go back to it and other times I don’t!  

14) Are there any stories that you’ve written that you’d really love to do a sequel to?

Yes!! I’d firstly love to do a sequel to Always Be You because I believe they deserved a happy ending, yet I didn’t give it to them (cause it’s good to be mean at times). And for Run to Me - I love my mobster! Boss Bucky, but I’m also a bit conflicted with wanting to continue it, I’d never forgive myself if I managed to ruin the characters somehow!

15) Are there any stories that you wished you’d ended differently?

Yes, as mentioned above Always Be You deserved a happy ending!!

16) Tell me about another writer(s) who you admire? What is it about them that you admire?

I have tons of writers I admire, and they all know who they are! Especially here on tumblr, my mutuals are my babes and I admire them all in one way or another! They make me want to continue writing and together it’s amazing to create a support system!

17) Do you have a story that you look back on and cringe when you reread it?

Not plot wise, but the writing can make me cringe when I read some of my older works - which is why I want to go back and edit them one day!

18) Do you prefer listening to music when you’re writing or do you need silence?

Music for sure, makes the creativity flow!

19) Have you ever cried whilst writing a story?

Oh hell yes. I am very expressive when I write, and crying while writing is almost a must!

20) Which part of your Peach Scone fic was the hardest to write?

Probably part 5 where Bucky is high. I had to remember not to make him too cocky or self confident so I wouldn’t lose his dorky portrayal completely! It was a bit harder than the rest of it!

21) Do you make a general outline for your stories or do you just go with the flow?

I always make an outline - it helps me keep track of what I want in reach paragraph/chapter - that way I know what to include and when to include it.

22) What is something you wished you’d known before you started posting fan-fiction?

The fact that if a fic doesn't do “good”, the disappointment hits way harder than one should realize. I’m trying and also always preaching to focus on writing for oneself to keep this feeling at bay, but we’re all humans and I think many people feel this way!

23) Do you have a story that you feel doesn’t get as much love as you’d like?

I really liked my fic “Always Be You” but it wasn’t really to many people’s liking, why, I don’t know, but hey I will never try to force my stories down people’s throats! I do know those who read it loved it and that’s enough for my heart!

24) In contrast to 23 is there a story which gets lots of love which you kinda eye roll at?

It’s not that I don’t like the fic, I do, I just never thought I managed to write it any good, but “Bootycall” got tons of love and it left me so stunned!!!

25) Are any of your characters based on real people?

Yes! I often take inspiration from my friends when looking for certain characters traits, and as writing reader insert I believe a piece of the writer itself is always there.  

26) What’s the biggest compliment you’ve gotten?

Oh I’ve been so blessed with all the love I’ve gotten, I still have difficulty fathoming it at times! But I was once called a “Literary deity” and I don’t as a writer it can get any better than that. I still cry thinking about it.

27) What’s the harshest criticism you’ve gotten?

Someone once told me the journey of my characters was wrong, when it is my story. Kinda harsh!

28) Do you share your story ideas with anyone else or do you keep them close to your chest?

I often keep them to myself, and sometimes share if I want an opinion on if it would be any good!

29) Do people know you write fan-fiction?

They don’t! Or my brother knows, but that’s about it, no one else I know irl know!

30) What’s you favorite minor character you’ve written?

I haven’t actually written the character just yet - but it’s hopefully in an upcoming Steve x Reader fic. The reader’s twin is gonna be fun to write, and then I really like Mia from Run to Me because she was a sweetheart and I would’ve loved to write her way more than the two single scenes she was in.

31) What spurs you on during the writing process?

Music, and when the ideas just flow!!

32) What’s your favorite trope to write?

I’m a sucker for allI the classic tropes - friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, every single AU I can get my hands on. Basically it all! Fake- dating trope, I mean it’s all gold. I haven’t written enough of all these glorious tropes!

33) Can you remember the first fic you read? What was it about?

I do! It was a Harry Potter fanfic, more specifically Dramione, the classic “secretly dating”and honestly it was so good, I’m kinda bummed I can’t remember the title of it! It could be fun to go back and reread it!

34) If you could write only angst, fluff or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why?

Fluff for sure. Even if I do like a good round of angst as well, fluff is my go to. Life is so hard and full of problems all the time, with a goof fluffy piece all of that can be ignored!

#milestone celebration #ask the author #sgtjbuccky

[jeonfinite]

end of the year fic meme

total number of completed stories: 5 total word count: 51225

Overall Thoughts Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d predicted? I wrote way more than I predicted bc I never thought I’d produce fic at all, but I actually published a oneshot or chapter at least once a month since june. What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted in January? I would’ve never guessed I would become 100% certified jinkook trash this yr and would’ve laughed in your face if you told me otherwise lmao. I didn’t even know who jungkook was until feb!! in fact despite always having a soft spot for bts and following all of their music releases I was like actually ‘I don’t think I’ll ever truly stan them’ lmfao. my life is a joke. What’s your own favorite story of the year? forever yours. it’s basically everything I ever want to happen in a fic. seokjin as an academy award winning actor? jinkook writing a song together? jinkook going on cute dates and continually supporting the other as they fall deeper in love? ugh my heart. the idea is so dear to me and it’s my baby. and even tho bangtan disbanded in the fic, they all found their own success and they’re rly close friends. I fucking love the ending too omg. I did my best to make it rly gratifying and make up for all the stuff jungkook went through earlier. plus I love fics based on idol/band verse, canon/divergence/future fic and I liked weaving in canon elements to it. it makes it feel more real imo.

Did you take any writing risks this year? uh, not rly? other than writing and publishing my first fic ever. and I guess actually shading big hit/bang pd lmao. as far as I know of, no one has done that before? and multiple ppl have called me brave for doing so lol. Do you have any fanfic or profic goals for the new year?

to try to write longer fics I guess. there’s this 10k fic I’ve been planning forever but still haven’t gotten around to even tho I kept meaning to write it next lol.

From my past year of writing what was… My best story of this year: definitely forever yours. honestly sometimes I feel like it’s my peak lmfao. like I will never able to match some of those descriptions ever again. whenever I’m struggling to write something and I go back to it I’m like HOW DID I WRITE THIS?? and when ppl tell me I’ve made them cry and laugh omg. I almost don’t believe it. I don’t think any of my fics have elicited such a reaction and I think it’s the one that affected me most. I hurt my own non existent heart. My most popular story of this year: forever yours lmao. not only does it have the most hits/kudos/comment/bookmarks, but it’s the fic I most often see ppl reccing, screaming about, and quoting on twitter. I love it tho. pls continue screaming about it and @ me!! The story of mine most under-appreciated by the universe, in my opinion: lights go on again. it’s gotten the least attention of all my fics so far. idk if it’s bc ppl are sick of me already or if I rly offended that many ppl by insulting their precious bang pd oppa lmao. also yo where all the jin stans at? I thought at least they’d appreciate its contents lmao.

but also rollin’ the deep bc I actually like that one a lot now and it’s the second least popular lol. but it’s on par with light me up and I expected that based on the content. ofc the fics with jin winning an oscar and shitting on the mother/son trope would gain the most traction so I’m not surprised. The most fun story to write:

us against the world! the idea of everyone hitting on jin and jungkook getting jealous was too good to pass up. I had so much fun writing taehyung’s scene omfg. I actually started it with it lmfao and it seems like most ppl agree. hoseok’s always makes me laugh and ngl I feel like a genius whenever I reread that fic lol. :’) definitely my peak humor and probably the funniest/crackiest thing I’ll ever write.

Story with single sweetest moment?

it’s a tie with forever yours’ birthday scene and light me up’s christmas decorations. but overall rollin’ the deep made me melt the most with how overwhelming sweet it was. I live for soft sweet jinkook doing grossly romantic things for each other ok. The story with the single sexiest moment:

jungkook wearing lingerie in light me up, definitely :x tho the smut scene in forever yours is infinitely better imo. I will unfortunately never able to write a smut scene that good again but I think it’s the intimacy of the moment and the way it’s written that makes it so special, hence why I like it so much. The most “holy crap, that’s wrong, even for you” story:

idk? me attempting smut even tho I’m terrible at it? quoting myself I actually said “writing sex is honestly so hard already I would never waste my time writing it just for the sake of it if it didn’t have any meaning” yet the smut in light me up was the first scene I started writing. I am a goddamn hypocrite lol. but it’s sth I thought I’d never be able to write bc a few years ago I would get so embarrassed by the idea and would want to throw myself off a cliff at the thought lol. The story that shifted my own perceptions of the characters:

none of them rly. I just write jinkook like I how see them. their interactions just come so naturally to me that it’s one of the easiest and most fun things to write in my fics. The hardest story to write: honestly… light me up. all my fics get rly hard to write one point and I always start off hating the first drafts bc they’re complete garbage but I fucking suffered the most writing that one. literally took fucking forever to wrangle the sex scene into what it was. it was hot ass fragmented mess that I had to slowly unravel and reorganize one sentence at a time. I didn’t even want to look at it bc it was so bad lol. and two of the most pivotal points; the lights  and lingerie were awful at first so I struggled to make them good enough to rly stand out and to a standard I was pleased with. and transitioning the first scene into the second one where jinkook kiss under the snowfall and the ending were fucking hell too. you can ask kaleidotears, I was bitching to her the entire time lmao. albeit vaguely bc I didn’t want to spoil anything. I started a month in advance bc it usually takes me that long to produce something and as the date approached closer I was lowkey panicking and almost thought I wouldn’t make it lol. The biggest disappointment:

lights go on again. not only is the reception lackluster compared to my other fics, but it’s honestly the weakest thing I’ve written so far. I’m seriously considering orphaning it but idk :( The biggest surprise: idk. I was honestly fucking shellshocked when us against the world got over 1000 hits in less than 24 hrs tho. I never expected that kind of reaction, especially for my very first ever fic. I honestly thought no one would want to read my fics lol. but also when ppl say I’m their favorite or one of their favorite authors?? like in what in the hell. I consider myself an amateur bc I have never written consistently before in my life. I’m new to the whole fic writing scene. I’ve actually spent the majority of my life hating my writing lmao. or when ppl praise things I think I’m shit at lol. I also like rollin’ in the deep a lot more than I thought I would considering it was just a dumb fluff piece to satisfy my thirst. I wrote the first 1300 words in a waiting room and I was like I don’t have to make this perfect bc it’s stupid fluff but I legit melted writing it. oh and publishing the first chapter of forever yours in two weeks after my first fic. how in the hell did I ever write 9k that quickly I will unfortunately never able to do that again.

The most unintentionally telling story:

I’m not sure what this even means? a lot of myself does bleed into my stories I think. like even if the mood varies depending on the scene I feel like my voice carries through? they just sound like me and it’s something that can’t be repicated lol. like my fics have a shit ton of cussing which is part of it lmao. but also sometimes I give jinkook aspects of myself like seokjin doing aegyo and being clingy when drunk (which is actually real omfg I’m a genius sorry) and jungkook not realizing when other ppl like him. also by reading my fics you can tell which groups I stan, what foods I like, etc. and ofc when I start waxing poetic about their looks or voices or talents that’s all me lol. Highlights + Wrap-up Favorite Opening Line(s): “And the Academy Award for Best Actor goes to… Kim Seokjin!” — forever yours; ch1 twenty four

The world is fucking taunting Jungkook.— forever yours; ch2 fiction

Jungkook feels sick. Bile mounts up his throat; it tastes like bitterness, hurt, betrayal, anger, resentment, and heartbreak, flowing through him in chaotic discord. His voice breaks underneath the staggering weight. — forever yours; ch3 smile, again

they’re all from forever yours lmao. the first one is for very obvious reasons but the other two I find the most riveting. I tend to start my fics with dialogue or with “seokjin/jungkook …” bc I’m so creative lol Favorite Closing Line(s): they lose themselves in each other until the world fades till there’s nothing but seokjin and jungkook, just their mouths and bodies and hearts uniting into one against the world. — us against the world

I’m forever yours. — forever yours

I like connecting the endings to my titles clearly lmao. but those endings are the strongest and the ones  I’m most proud of. the other ones are all kind of similar and end with jinkook in a bed saying I love you haha. Favorite 5 10 Lines from Anywhere:

it’s relatively quiet outside and the weather is beautiful; the clear, azure skies provide an obstructed pathway for the gleaming sunshine to burn the foliage in a palette of fiery crimsons, rich golds, and vibrant oranges. the oppressive summer heat has finally faded into a cool, refreshing breeze with the advent of autumn. seokjin tugs jungkook into his side for a surge of warmth as they amble towards the car, the crisp air nipping at their skin, rustling through his bunny ears, and fallen leaves crunching beneath their feet. — rollin’ in the deep

Snowfall blankets the landscape like an instagram filter, casting a creamy, dreamy lighting over the scenery. It looks like they stepped into a fairytale. — light me up

Jungkook hums sweetly, toying with the strands of hair behind Seokjin’s nape. The melody is so soft and sweet like a souffle that Seokjin wants to devour it—so he does, capturing Jungkook’s lips and licking the inside of his mouth. — light me up

The parade marches through as they eat, a symphony of prismatic floats and musical instruments decorating Main Street with whimsy. Seokjin sways alongside the music and Jungkook joins him, their bubbling giggles adding another layer of sound to the percussion. — forever yours

Seokjin is so beautiful but he’s never been more gorgeous than when his chiseled, naked body and pink strands glisten with sweat while thrusting deeply into Jungkook, dark eyes smouldering with lust and headiness, handsome face contorted in concentration intent on pleasuring Jungkook, and plush, pretty, pink mouth falling open as melodic sounds escape his lips, sweeter than his blessed high notes. It’s too much for Jungkook. — forever yours

“You’re gorgeous. My beautiful baby boy. Sweet marshmallow bunny.” — light me up

the bright white of the headband contrasts with his dark hair, haloing a soft crown of light around him, and coupled with the afterglow of his orgasm, he looks angelic. seokjin tells him as much and he flushes a pretty pink, a perfect complement to his ivory rabbit ears. — rollin’ in the deep

jungkook licks his lips as they stroll past a lone vendor selling hotteok, and when seokjin kisses him, cornering him in the enshrouding, secluded thicket of maple trees, seokjin tastes sweet like brown sugar, like cinnamon, like the warming comfort of fall spices and home-baked treats. — rollin’ in the deep

It’s empty this late at night, their only company being the summer breeze rustling through their clothes and the mild rippling of the waves. The water glitters beautifully underneath the stars in the darkness but it pales in comparison to the way the moonlight dances off Seokjin’s freshly dyed pastel hair to illuminate his gorgeous features. He looks magical, bright eyes sparkling and pink strands shimmering. — forever yours

The kiss is everything Jungkook dreamed and fantasized about but beyond his imagination. Seokjin tastes like coffee and chocolate and cream, their dessert lingering on his tongue, and Jungkook licks up every last morsel of flavor. He can’t get enough; Seokjin is so sweet and soft and warm against him like a freshly baked cake. He’s addicted. He wants more. — forever yours

also the iconic:

“Fuck PDogg hyung and Bang PD hyung” — forever yours

you know what this is too fucking hard. I’ll do a separate post with my top 5 lines from each fic. these are just 10 lines I’m particularly fond of and rly wanted to highlight bc no one else has.

Top 5 Scenes from Anywhere You Would Choose to Have Illustrated:

1. JUNGKOOK WEARING LINGERIE AND BUNNY EARS but particularly the part with jungkook sitting on seokjin’s lap growling he’s sexy and seokjin laughing at him for being adorable. literally if my drawing skills were good enough and I had a tablet I would fucking illustrate this myself

2. seokjin gifting jungkook diamond studs on the balcony underneath fairy lights and the seoul night sky

3. jinkook kissing under the snowfall and surrounded by christmas lighting + decorations

4. jinkook holding hands while walking outside in the fall foliage and seokjin kissing jungkook in a thicket of maple trees

5. JINKOOK PERFORMING THEIR FUCKING DUET AT JUNGKOOK’S SOLO CONCERT

+ bonus sakura petals swirling around seokjin with seokjin cornering jungkook against a tree to swipe stray ice cream off his lips and licking it off his thumb and watching the fireworks at disneyland with seokjin’s head nestled onto jungkook’s shoulder and arms wrapped around his waist.

Fic-writing goals for 2018: to finally write the ideas on my ever growing list. my last three were completely unplanned and were random spur of the moments. but I wanted to write something for jin’s bday. I could’ve written something short from my list but I wanted to do christmas lights and jungkook in lingerie so :x also to take my sweetass time until I’m perfectly happy with everything before publishing and not rushing out fics anymore. I’ve learned that when I try to write something as fast as possible for others—it goes wholly unappreciated like the last chapter of forever yours and light me up. like half of the original commenters disappeared despite finally getting the happy ending they cried for and being so excited for the fic? lol idk what happened but there’s no way I could’ve messed up the last chapter that badly… but yeah it’s just not worth the stress lmao. ppl just don’t understand the effort, time, and pain it goes into producing something.

#jinkook #writing #meme

[holmessexual-subtext]

like a secret (or a sin)

Title: like a secret (or a sin)

Pairings: Ian/Anthony

Rating: NC-17

Genre: Angst, Smut

Warning: cheating

Summary: Contrary to popular belief, distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder.

There’s Ian, there’s Anthony, and then there’s Ian and Anthony. While doing the press tour for Ghostmates in New York, Ian and Anthony struggle to figure out where one label ends and another begins, finding out that sometimes, the lines aren’t as clear-cut as they seem.

This is their (love) story, told in hotel keycards and plane tickets from LAX to JFK.

Author's Notes: I haven’t written anything in a while, so I’m trying to shake off the writer’s block. Hello again, fandom! The title comes from “Only You” by Matthew Perryman Jones.

I know there’s a million other fics about cheating out there. I thought I would try my hand at it. I’m not trying to romanticize cheating, and I apologize if it seems like I did.

Fic is here (archiveofourown). I no longer post fics on livejournal.

Disclaimer: I do not own Smosh. I do not make money from this. I also don’t own Matthew Perryman Jones’ “Only You”.

Contrary to popular belief, distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder. It’s quite the opposite, actually.

Ghostmates is coming out, and while Anthony cannot be more excited for the premiere, he wouldn’t give this up for the world. This is what he has been looking forward to. Doing a press tour means isolation, means leaving the west coast for the east, means being alone together (or maybe being together alone?).

Of course they’re not truly alone (they never are). There will always be someone watching—a young fan, the press, someone’s camera, the world—but here, they’re not as closely watched. It’s one of the things Anthony likes about New York; everyone’s too busy with themselves to watch other people. Here, he and Ian could be anonymous.

(Is there really such a thing as being anonymous? There’s IP addresses and browser histories and website cookies and—)

They’re in LAX and Anthony can feel his palms sweating, can feel the beating of his heart. He’s almost there—they’re almost there—and this, this is what he lives for. The painful anticipation and the sweet release. Poetic, that.

The gate opens, and Anthony and Ian stand up at the same time. They fall in line, quiet (for once). Anthony hands his boarding pass and watches through unseeing eyes as the ticket attendant smiles at him and hands him his ticket back. He thinks he nods, though he’s not quite sure.

(He’s not sure of anything, these days.)

He walks forward, careful not to let anything show on his face. He’s so close. He just needs to make it to his seat and wait, that’s all he needs to do. All he needs to do is wait.

He puts his carry-on luggage in the overhead bin and sits beside Ian, quiet as he makes sure he has his seatbelt on.

There’s something funny about safety, he thinks as he watches people walk down the narrow aisle to their seats. Safety’s subjective. Anthony’s the kind of person to strap himself to a seat, but at the same time, he’s the kind of person to risk compromising a relationship for a week of escape.

(Alone together or together alone?)

When the plane finally, finally, takes off, Anthony looks around and slowly puts his hand on the middle armrest.

Ian holds his hand through turbulence.

(When the cat’s away, the mice will play—)

   There’s falling, and then there’s flying, and then there’s this: travel in the form of turbulence, love in the form of betrayal.

(Mosaic art is still art, regardless of the broken glass pieces that comprise it.)

He and Ian get (separate) rooms down the (same) hallway. It’s easier this way, he reasons as he opens his door and turns the lights on. This way, they can meet up before breakfast more quickly.

(This way, there’s less distance.)

He doesn’t know whose room they’ll end up using more, but he has an idea. He has an idea, because even though this is only their second press tour in New York, they’ve done this thing before, and Anthony knows, it’s him who will break, him who will seek out Ian, him who will leave the (safety of his) room for Ian’s.

Anthony knows better than to think he will ever know better.

He lies on top of (undisturbed) sheets and looks at the ceiling for a little while.

He should get something to eat, maybe. He should (probably) text Miel to let her know they’re here (safe). There’s a lot of things he should do.

There’s a lot of things he shouldn’t do.

He waits.

He waits until he eventually has to get up and find a nearby restaurant that has vegan options.

He orders his food.

He vlogs.

He stays in his room the entire night.

A part of him knows why he’s doing this. He’s doing this because a part of him needs the lie, and to make a convincing lie, one has to have some sort of proof.

This is his proof: pristine sheets and lying (alone) in the darkness.

He wonders what Ian is doing at this very moment. Is he waiting for Anthony to come? Is he enjoying his night?

(Is he even in his room at all?)

It’s his birthday. Anthony would go and see him, but he knows himself too well to pretend that he has the kind of self-restraint needed for him to still end up in this room at the end of the night.

Thinking about Ian has become more consuming since they landed in New York. Miel is a star, but Ian is a black hole, heavy and all-consuming and—

(unexplored?)

(No.)

Ian is an adventure Anthony can only have when he’s away from home.

Home is such a funny concept, Anthony thinks. Miel isn’t home, despite how much he wishes she was. Los Angeles is a close second, but with the constant traffic and the ever-changing landscape, it doesn’t feel right the way Sacramento feels.

Ian is: home and an adventure away from home, trust and betrayal, an alternate reality Anthony chooses not to think about when he’s not in a hotel he can forget about (but won’t).

Ian is: temptation incarnate.

Anthony is: weak.

(Maybe he’s not as weak as he thinks. He’s waiting, isn’t he?)

He’ll call Miel tomorrow, right before he eats breakfast.

Maybe.

(Miel is: too good for him.)

   “How is it so far?”

Anthony looks out the window. Gray overcast skies hang over the skyscrapers, looking like it can’t quite decide if it wants to rain. Below, people are walking, locals and tourists alike, minding their own business as they head to their own destinations.

“Cold,” he says, turning away from the window. “Colder than I thought it would be.”

“Maybe I should visit you,” Miel says, off-handed, and Anthony feels his heart sink like a stone in his chest. “LA’s hot as balls.”

Anthony laughs, small and just that little bit forced. “It seems like an overcorrection to fly here just because it’s hot there.”

“You’re right,” she says, and Anthony feels relief wash over him like cool water. “It’s just, you know, I miss you, you big goof.”

I miss you is probably the right thing to say here, but the truth is, Anthony doesn’t miss her.

Anthony wouldn’t give this up for the world.

“I’ll be back in a few days,” he says instead, because there are too many lies already, despite the fact that he hasn’t done them yet. He doesn’t want to add to his (growing) list of sins, if he can help it.

(Anthony isn’t particularly religious, so he doesn’t know: does it make a difference the number of sins if he’s going to hell anyway?)

“And I’ll see you then. Until then, though…text me.”

“Of course,” Anthony lies.

Miel ends the call and Anthony turns around, looking at his (packed) suitcase.

He’s not staying here tonight, he knows. He has (re)packed his things like he has (re)packed his morals, giving up basic human decency for a chance to relive a fantasy he and Ian had hit the pause button on for a year.

This, he thinks as he takes his suitcase and leaves the room, is his new start. His second (third, fourth, et cetera) chance at an alternate reality. This is forgetting and remembering, is one step forward and two steps back, is breaking something for the sole purpose of making something new out of it.

This, he thinks as he knocks on Ian’s door, is a new him from the old.

Ian opens the door, takes one look at Anthony and his suitcase, and wordlessly steps to the side.

(Ian is a new partner from an old friend.)

Anthony puts his suitcase near the left side of the bed.

Ian closes the door and approaches Anthony slowly, letting him call the shots, the pace, the everything.

(When they had talked about stopping this back then, Ian had still let him call the shots. He’s considerate like that, Anthony supposes, though Anthony can’t help but wish that Ian had fought just a little bit harder for his case, for the desire to be in a relationship without all the pretense and the hiding.)

(Anthony wishes he hadn’t fought the idea off as hard as he had.)

The curtains are closed. Reruns of something called Deadly Wives play on the television screen.

Ian takes one step forward, and Anthony can’t take the waiting anymore.

Anthony walks toward him with single-minded purpose and kisses him, lips hungry for something he hasn’t tasted in a year. His hands find their way to Ian’s waist, gripping just this side of being too tight, creasing the dark sweater he has over a long-sleeved button-up shirt.

Every time he and Ian take a break from this, whatever this is, Anthony’s always afraid it would be the last. Now’s not an exception to the rule.

All his fears are chased away by Ian kissing him back. He feels Ian’s hands make their way up his sides as Ian’s tongue darts out and seeks permission from Anthony’s closed lips. Anthony opens his mouth, and it feels a little bit like offering a part of himself for the taking.

Ian’s arms rest on Anthony’s shoulders, his hands reaching up to tangle his fingers in Anthony’s curls, and Anthony feels goosebumps erupt on his skin.

Slowly, they part. Anthony doesn’t back away much, eager to stay where he is.

“You went to the gym?” Ian asks, soft.

Anthony keeps his eyes closed. He can feel Ian’s breath on his face, intimate. “Yeah,” he answers, equally soft, unwilling to let the loud sounds of the outside intrude on this private moment.

He’s been waiting for this for a year.

“Breakfast?” Ian offers, not bothering to pull away, and Anthony wants to say no, wants to shake his head and convince Ian to stay here in their little space for just a little longer.

He doesn’t want to go outside just yet.

“Yeah,” he eventually says, opening his eyes to find Ian’s concerned gaze on him.

“You okay?”

It’s that concerned tone, that soft, welcome voice that rolls like honey in Anthony’s mind, still the same after all these years.

“Yeah.”

Ian furrows his eyebrows. “We can get room service instead, you know.”

Anthony shakes his head. “Nah,” he says.

It’s time to face the music, anyway. They can’t stay here forever no matter how much Anthony may want them to.

“Okay,” Ian says, as understanding as he has always been. “Okay.”

   It’s CBS first, then it’s NBC.

In between interviews, he and Ian find time to walk to the New York Public Library and basically enjoy what little time they have with each other.

“I forgot it was your birthday last night,” Anthony lies with a half-laugh, holding up his phone with one hand as he looks over his shoulder to see Ian’s reaction.

“Yeah, how dare you,” Ian says, eyebrows furrowed but unoffended.

“I said ‘happy birthday’ in the morning, and then I was like ‘oh yeah, we’ll just hang out tomorrow night’, and then we get back to the hotel and I just stayed in the hotel—dude. I’m sorry.”

“You’re gonna have to make it up to me,” Ian says, and Anthony feels his cheeks warm.

Anthony looks down, not bothering to mask his smile. “I’m gonna make it up to you tonight.”

“You don’t want to lose your best friend card,” Ian says in his unflappable tone of voice, and it’s a warning, a reminder.

“I know!” Anthony says, and it’s not just an answer to what has been said, it’s also an answer to what is staying unsaid. “I’m so sorry, man.”

This, this is what he does best. He puts friendly (manly) titles to remind himself of the situation. He says man and dude so effortlessly; it has become second-nature to do so. It feels like shedding skin every time he calls Ian nicknames that aren’t necessarily romantic, but at the same time, it feels like putting on armor, feels like chainmail made out of words that cannot be misconstrued to mean something else, something deeper.

(Eventually, the heavy armor will make his thinning skin bleed, but he doesn’t want to think about that. Not yet.)

They go to a place called Blue Dog Café for brunch. Ian orders pancakes and a hot chocolate. Anthony orders a salad. They sit together and hold hands under the table when they can.

From there, it’s interview after interview after interview. They don’t really get time to themselves beyond sitting alone together (or together alone) in dressing rooms, green rooms, and building lobbies, and even then, there’s always someone or something watching.

When they’re waiting, they mostly focus on their phones to pass the time. Ian watches Youtube. Anthony makes his move on the Scrabble game he has going on with Mari. They might not be alone, but Anthony still enjoys it.

There’s something to be said about just being with Ian in a comfortable silence. He feels safe, welcome—he feels at home.

(Safe, welcome, home—funny words, all of them. Maybe that’s what Ian is, in the grand scheme of things, a concept explainable by phenomena that contradict themselves.)

“What is it?” Ian finally asks, looking up from his cracked phone screen and meeting Anthony’s eyes.

“Nothing,” Anthony says, a small smile playing on his lips.

   The restaurant is low-lit. It would be the absolute perfect place to just have dinner with Ian without worrying about snoops or eavesdroppers, if only they had managed to be alone. Sadly, Anthony hadn’t quite managed to get the two of them away from their press tour manager and assistants, so it’s not just the two of them like Anthony would have liked.

Ian leaves the table to go to the bathroom.

Anthony (barely) stays where he is.

“Excuse me, miss?” Anthony says, ignoring the questioning looks of his co-workers as he calls the attention of the nearest waitress.

The woman—Angie, her nametag says—walks toward him with a smile. “How may I help you?”

Anthony checks to make sure Ian isn’t on his way back to the table yet. “So, the guy who was sitting here? It’s his birthday. Do you guys do anything special, or…?”

Their press tour manager laughs, finally getting what Anthony’s trying to do.

Angie nods, smiling. “Of course! A few of us will sing, and we have a little bit of cake for the birthday celebrant.”

“Perfect,” Anthony says. “He’s in the bathroom right now, but maybe later? When we’re done eating dinner? That way he doesn’t expect it. His name’s Ian, by the way.”

“Of course!” Angie says, enthusiastic.

It’s not long before Ian’s back from the bathroom. Angie takes their orders and they lose themselves in easy conversation.

When all their orders are on the table, they all take a few pictures before going back to the conversations they paused. Somewhere to his right, he can hear their manager complaining about traffic.

“Hey,” Anthony says, voice dropping to a low whisper as he looks at Ian across the table. “Happy birthday.”

Ian smiles, and it’s not the one that he always has ready for the cameras. It’s the one that’s reserved just for them, a private kind of smile that only Anthony has the honor of seeing. It’s soft and genuine, a barely-there twist of the lips that promises something more.

(Anthony wonders if Pam gets to see that smile too. He knows it shouldn’t matter, knows that he has given up the right to be jealous the moment he told Ian that they could not make this into a real relationship the way they both want to, but he can’t help it. He has always been bad at sharing.)

“Don’t think this gets you out of making it up to me,” Ian says, teasing. His voice is equally soft, soothing. It’s that smirk now, still familiar and welcome. Ian’s lips are curled up at the edges and his eyes hold a knowing look to them, genuine even when teasing.

Anthony takes a deep breath and meets Ian’s eyes. “Of course not,” he says, voice low and serious. “I’m still making it up to you, don’t worry.”

And this, this is what Anthony lives for: the heated look Ian shoots him, the anticipation bubbling under his skin, the knowledge that even for just a few days, he gets to have this (have him).

Pam and Miel are faraway thoughts. For now, it is Ian and it is Anthony, and it is them alone.

Anthony subtly calls Angie’s attention.

“So I know I still owe you for missing your actual birthday,” Anthony begins when he sees Angie walk back to the kitchen, presumably to grab Ian’s small piece of cake.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees their manager grin.

“It’s okay, dude,” Ian says, contrary to what he and Anthony were just talking about in hushed tones. Besides the roles they play in front of the camera for their Youtube channels, this is another role Ian is familiar enough with to play in his sleep. Ian can pretend with the best of them, Anthony knows. He’s seen him pretend to be content with what they have for years.

It’s selfish, Anthony knows. He’s selfish. He has never been a risk-taker the way Ian just naturally is—he knows there’s uncertainty there, something that he isn’t entirely sure he’s ready to face. A relationship is steady and built to last. A relationship is living in a reality he has helped create.

This is different.

This is exciting and new and not falling into (old) patterns. This is something Anthony can fully enjoy without worrying about fucking things up and completely losing the person who means the most to him. This is Anthony and Ian, and despite this not really being a formal relationship, they make it work.

Because that’s who they are. They make things work even without meaning to. Or maybe that’s just Ian, somehow always calm even in the face of a storm, the one constant Anthony can rely on. Even in the mess that is whatever the hell this is, Ian is the serenity within it, the peace that Anthony just wants to bask in.

Maybe that’s why he had said no before. Relationships are messy, sometimes even messier than this, and Anthony’s not going to risk losing that peace just because of a title. He doesn’t even care that they don’t call each other boyfriends.

…Right?

(You can’t have your cake and eat it too.)

“No,” Anthony replies, watching as Angie walks out the kitchen doors with a couple of coworkers behind her. He takes out his phone. “Listen, I told you I would make it up to you, so—”

“—happy birthday to you,” they all begin to sing, “happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Ian. Happy birthday to you!”

Angie puts the cake in front of Ian, and Ian looks at Anthony with that look, the one that’s just a little exasperated and a little amused. He’s smiling though, so Anthony laughs when Ian flips him off.

He can think about these things later, Anthony thinks as he watches his coworkers greet Ian and engage him in conversation. There’s time for these things later. For now, Anthony gets to celebrate Ian’s birthday with him.

(What does it say about Anthony that he’s willing to let the important things wait?)

One by one, they all bow out and head back to the hotel until it’s just Ian and Anthony left. Their manager reminds them of their early day tomorrow before heading out, shooting a smile at them as she grabs her coat and heads out.

Anthony is familiar with this. In the end, it’s always just going to be him and Ian. No one else stays, and Anthony thinks he’s okay with that.

He would rather have no one than someone else.

And that—that’s the truth, isn’t it? Even beyond this, what little time they have with each other, Anthony would still prefer no one over someone else if Ian were out of the picture, would rather have nothing in his hands than a broken imitation of what he could have.

(No one looks for their reflection in broken glass pieces clumsily pieced back together.)

   “What do you say? Was that the—the best, uh, birthday of your life?”

They’re walking down the streets of New York. It’s probably dangerous to have his phone out at this time of day, but Anthony doesn’t particularly care. He wants to have this.

“One day-late belated birthday?” Anthony continues, looking at Ian and barely suppressing a smile as he sees Ian waddling in his coat in the cold New York night.

“Yeah, it was definitely the best belated birthday ever,” Ian says in a such a matter-of-fact tone that Anthony can’t help but chuckle.

“But we sang Happy BirthdayHHaahdhH to you and embarrassed you.” Anthony looks at Ian. “I think that’s—that’s all you need for a good birthday, right?”

It’s a question laced with uncertainty. He’s far too aware of the fact that he had let Ian’s birthday go by without doing anything with him, bound by the fear that he won’t be able to hold himself back at the end of the night. This—this is way less than what Ian deserves. Ian deserves everything.

(Anthony doesn’t deserve Ian.)

“Actually, I don’t know if that’s ever—I’ve—if I’ve ever gotten that before,” Ian says, matter-of-factly.

Anthony raises his head, eyebrows rising. “Are you serious? No one’s ever sang—”

“—yeah, cause,” Ian starts to say, shaking his head, “I’ve always made people the victim of that, but I don’t think I’ve ever been the victim of it.”

“Oh my God,” Anthony says, his mind running a mile a minute, because surely Ian has gotten this before, right? It’s not a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Everyone experiences this sort of thing at least once before turning 18.

Anthony thinks back to all the other birthdays they celebrated (together):

Ian’s 14th, when they had a sleepover at Ian’s house, determined to play video games throughout the entire night and only making it until one in the morning before they passed out on each other’s shoulders in the living room.

Anthony’s 16th, when he and Ian celebrated the fact that Anthony could finally get a driver’s license by driving down the freeway and stopping at an IHOP at two in the morning.

Ian’s 18th, when Anthony was invited to go on a camping trip with Ian’s family, discovering that there might just be something more to these thoughts Anthony’s been having about Ian lately and realizing that these thoughts won’t ever really go away.

Anthony’s 20th, when Ian took him to a secluded part of the beach at three in the morning and kissed him sweetly, hesitantly, and with all the desire to let Anthony know that all these things he’s been feeling are not only real, but reciprocated.

Ian’s 20th, when Anthony realizes that they can’t possibly have a relationship and have it end well for the both of them while they juggle this new business and this new fame.

Memories upon memories crowd Anthony’s mind. There’s just no way that no one’s ever done that to Ian before.

There’s just no way that Anthony’s never done that to Ian before.

(And yet.)

“Uh,” Anthony says, suddenly speechless. “Uh, what do you want to do with the rest of your night?”

“Um—um, let’s see,” Ian says, thinking. “I got Pokemon.”

And Anthony—Anthony laughs. It’s such an Ian answer that there really isn’t anything else to do but laugh. Ian has a tendency to move the spotlight when it’s (rightfully) on him, has a tendency to answer serious questions with deliberately underwhelming answers, has a tendency to make Anthony fall deeper in love with him despite resistance.

Ian is push and pull, is time and space, is attraction and repellency. Ian is all the basic laws of physics and all the paradoxes in the world combined, and Anthony—

Anthony is the experimental lab rat that can’t quite decide where to go, is the uncertainty present in every room, is the friction that slows down movement.

(Friction is a force that both resists movement and allows it.)

   “You think any of these books are worth reading?”

“Uh…all of them. Let’s read all of them.”

Anthony laughs and brings his phone in front of him to capture Ian’s expression.

There’s something about Ian’s smile, Anthony thinks, that makes it impossible to resist him. It’s the kind of thing that grows on you, the kind of thing that’s difficult to just forget. It invites you to share the moment, to smile, to forget anything else exists but him.

It’s that very smile that Anthony wants to capture with his phone. He fails, of course, what with the low lighting and the dark backdrop, but he continues on doing it anyway. A crappy iPhone video beats no video at all.

“Let’s read all of them tonight,” Ian says, looking at Anthony. “Let’s just, like—let’s just go crazy.”

Anthony smiles and brings his hand forward as he gestures toward Ian. “That’s my birthday gift to you,” he says, barely stopping himself from laughing outright, “I’ll read the books to you before bed.”

“Oh thanks,” Ian jokes, his voice high-pitched.

It’s not long before they order their respective drinks. It’s a moderately classy place, the kind where you don’t just down six bottles of Budweiser without getting a few judgmental looks at best and a stern talking to at worst, and everything feels just that little bit more intimate. This is vastly different from their respective 21st birthdays, when they celebrated being able to legally drink by hitting as many bars as they can, seedy or otherwise.

They’re older now, Anthony thinks, and as he takes his drink from the waiter with a smile, he also thinks they’re more mature. Gone are the days when they can just down shots of whatever they could afford without any thought of the consequences. Now, they’re more aware of themselves, to an extent.

Anthony looks at the small circular table separating him from Ian, looks at the lone candle on the tabletop, and thinks, isn’t there a saying about how with age comes wisdom?

He looks up from the candle to meet Ian’s eyes, and remembers the next part of the saying.

He knows what’s going to happen tonight. He’s going to be utterly powerless to stop it, because what’s the point of waiting longer when he’s here now? When there’s nothing else to stop him?

Ian knows it too. His eyes are dark in the low lighting of the restaurant, knowing and expectant. This—this is movement from point A to point B. That’s all this is.

Right?

It’s not as simple as that though, because Anthony finds that he can’t quite meet Ian’s eyes, because Anthony looks away as his mind runs through all the different scenarios that can happen, or could have happened, if only he had allowed himself the privilege of doing so.

One more year. One more year until they both turn 30, until they both have to start figuring out what they really want. Anthony thinks he knows what it is that he wants—he just doesn’t know if he’s ready to make the choice yet.

And isn’t that the thing? You’re supposed to be sure of the important things when you’re 30, right? This year—their last year before the hit the big 30—is supposed to be a time for fresh beginnings and endings. They’re supposed to have figured things out by now.

Anthony should have figured things out by now.

(With age comes wisdom, the saying goes, but sometimes age comes alone.)

Anthony clears his throat, suddenly finding his mouth dry. “One year until you’re 30,” he starts to say, “what do you think?”

Ian shrugs. “We’re getting older,” he says, unaware that he’s just stated what Anthony thought about earlier. “Kinda weird, huh? We didn’t really think the Youtube thing would happen, and yet here we are.”

“Here we are,” Anthony agrees. He takes a sip of whatever the hell it is he ordered.

Here they are. Men on the cusp of being 30, unsure of the future and what it is that they both really want.

Maybe that’s just Anthony generalizing. Ian has always been the more forward-thinking of them, he thinks. He’s sure that Ian knows what he wants. It’s not fair for him to say we, when really, what he means is I.

(I’m not sure about what I want, I’m lost, I want you, I love you—)

Anyway.

“So,” Anthony begins, raising his glass to take a sip from his drink, “any birthday wishes?”

Ian shakes his head, a small smile curling the edges of his lips upward. “I don’t know, world peace?”

Anthony laughs, his worries swept away by just being in Ian’s presence. “Sounds generic.”

“It does,” Ian agrees, nodding his head. “I don’t know. I mean, I want a good year. I want to stay healthy.” He looks down at the table, his fingers still curled around the thin stem of the glass. “I want to be happy,” he murmurs, voice low and soft, and Anthony knows what Ian’s talking about, knows that this is Ian’s way of requesting Anthony to figure things out and to figure things out fast.

Anthony swallows past the lump in his throat. His hand grips his glass tighter as he forces himself to keep his eyes on Ian.

“Hey,” he finally says when it doesn’t seem like Ian will be looking up soon, “look at me. Please.”

Ian looks up, hesitant, and here, in the low-lighting of a restaurant in New York, thousands of miles away from where Anthony first met Ian, Ian looks impossibly young.

Anthony never meant to do this to him. He never meant to make Ian feel this way, to make him emotionally strained, to keep him pulled taut like a string between an actual romantic relationship with a wonderful woman and whatever the hell it is that he has with Anthony.

Anthony never meant to hurt him.

(Anthony very carefully doesn’t think about how the road to hell is paved with good intentions.)

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, because he can at least begin with that. This is something he knows he owes Ian.

Ian shakes his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, adamant.

“You’re wrong. I do.” Anthony sighs and lets one hand creep up to rub the back of his neck. “I have everything to be sorry for.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ian asks, curious.

Anthony takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.”

Ian looks back down.

Anthony continues.

“I’m sorry that you’re stuck in the middle without a choice. I’m sorry for ending things between us and then starting this—this clusterfuck. I’m sorry that I haven’t made a decision yet.”

(I’m sorry I can’t be enough, he doesn’t say.)

“Do you really want to talk about this here?” Ian asks, and even now, he still wants Anthony’s opinion. He’s still considerate, still understanding, still so frustratingly him that Anthony finds he almost doesn’t know what to do.

This isn’t the kind of thing they should be talking about (in public). Hell, this isn’t even the kind of thing they should be talking about on Ian’s birthday. There’s something about New York though, something about the kind of freedom it allows Anthony to feel whenever he’s here, something about the kind of recklessness it fans into flame inside Anthony, something about being anonymous (again) in a sea of unknown faces.

New York makes Anthony want to be something else.

There’s still that part of him, however, that knows better. It may not be a part of him that Anthony listens to often, but it’s still there, and it still gives him unsolicited advice.

And that—that’s enough.

“I—you’re right.” Anthony licks his dry lips. “I’ll get the check.”

   The walk back to the hotel is uneventful. Anthony is too lost in his thoughts to start a conversation, and Ian is too understanding to start one for him.

An uncomfortable silence masked as a comfortable one. A masquerade consisting of the two of them against the rest of the world.

By silent agreement, they both head to Ian’s room.

Ian closes the door behind him with a soft click. Anthony finds that he doesn’t really know what to do, so he walks to the bed and sits down with a soft sigh.

Ian sits beside him, close, yet not close enough. He’s silent, content to let Anthony think over what he wants to say, and Anthony finds that he’s so unbelievably thankful that there can’t possibly be any words for what he feels.

This (amazing) man. Ian has given him so much without even thinking about what he has been giving away, and Anthony has been taking everything that Ian’s been offering, (always) without regard for what Ian’s been sacrificing.

It shouldn’t be a surprise, but it is. He’s thought about this plenty of times—

(unbidden, an image of him lying awake at night with Miel lying next to him appears in his head)

—and yet none of those times has accomplished what this single night has. Never before had he been struck so immensely by this guilt, a stabbing pain in his chest that intensifies with every breath he takes.

This is what Anthony does to people he loves: he asks them to offer him their hearts while ignoring the blood dripping from their palms.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, because that, at least, will never change. “I know I’ve been saying it a lot, but you—I just.” Anthony sighs and lets his head fall forward. He puts his arms on top of his thighs, clasping his hands as he tries to think of words that will be able to adequately express everything that he feels.

A pause. And then—

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

Anthony would like to believe that. He really would. It would be so easy to forget that this entire thing is just a fantasy, to forget that this entire thing is not only hurting his girlfriend Miel who is waiting for him in Los Angeles, but also Ian, his best friend and maybe, just maybe, something other than that, a relationship Anthony doesn’t quite dare naming yet.

It would be so easy to think that he doesn’t have any fault in this.

(Except.)

Except there’s a reason why he’s so careful to make sure he takes vlogs inside his own room, there’s a reason why his heart thuds louder and quicker every single time he thinks about the possibility of Miel actually flying here and visiting him, there’s a reason why every thought of going back to Los Angeles in a few days or so makes his chest hurt and his every thought stutter to a stop.

There’s always going to be a reason.

(Ian will always be the reason.)

“You’re wrong,” he says, his voice quiet. He doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want to turn away from what Ian is offering—a fantasy to be lived for a few days without guilt or worthless sacrifice—but there has always been a time and place for everything, and just like how now is the time and New York is the place for this little make-believe world of theirs to be indulged in, now is the time and this is the place for Anthony to finally be held accountable for his actions.

Anthony clears his throat. “I just. I know I’ve been sending mixed signals lately, and no, before you say anything, let me just say that even though we both know what my decision is, I never really outright said no.”

Ian shakes his head. “I don’t, I mean—okay? Even if you didn’t outright say no, it was pretty clear what your decision was,” he says, his voice soft and defeated, entirely without malice the way his voice should be. Ian sighs. “Let’s just—I don’t know. Let’s not bring that up, okay? As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t have much to do with anything anymore.”

“No,” Anthony says, vehement as he pushes himself off the bed and stands in front of Ian, unable to sit still as he tries to make sense of the million thoughts running through his head. “You’re wrong. This has everything to do with everything. And you know what? You’re right. I didn’t have to tell you ‘no’ for you to realize what my decision was.” Anthony’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “After all, what could be a stronger ‘no’ than not showing up where I was supposed to a long time ago?”

There’s a time and place for everything, Anthony thinks, and his time and place had been in early 2015, at his and Ian’s house in Sacramento.

(Anthony remembers this: Ian asking him if he wants to give this—them—a try)

“What do you want me to say?” Ian asks, voice soft. He sounds defeated and confused, and Anthony never meant to make him feel this way.

Then again, there’s always that saying about good intentions.

(Anthony remembers this: not saying no.)

Anthony sighs and kneels down in front of Ian, needing Ian to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Ian shakes his head, unwilling to accept the apology he so clearly deserves. “What do you want me to do? What do you expect me to do, Anthony? Because I think at this point we both know there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you.”

And isn’t that the (godawful) truth?

The thing about wanting is this: Wanting is abstract, a feeling that isn’t necessarily positive in its effects. Anthony goes after what he wants the way thieves go after things that shine, and he knows it’s high time to understand that not all that glitters is gold, but Ian has always been more than that. Ian is worth more than his weight in gold.

(Anthony remembers this: an agreement to end relationships they both knew they weren’t happy in to give what they had—what they still have—a chance.)

“Punish me,” Anthony says, pleading. “Forgive me. Fuck, I don’t know.”

“Jesus, Anthony,” Ian swears under his breath and stands up, walking as far away from Anthony as he can without leaving the room. “You don’t even know what you want.” He raises a hand to run his fingers through his hair in frustration. “You still don’t know what you want.”

Anthony bows his head, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

Ian tightens his jaw and drops his hand to his side. “What the fuck are you sorry for?” he asks, voice rising, disturbing the illusion of calm the room previously had. “Are you sorry for doing this in the first place? You agreed, Anthony!”

Anthony stands up, still not quite able to meet Ian’s eyes.

(Anthony remembers this: not being sure about the future of his relationship with Ian, but being so damn sure of his unhappiness with his fiancée that he breaks up with her.)

“Don’t—don’t be sorry for this,” Ian pleads, though he still can’t quite approach Anthony. “Apologize for anything, just. Not this. Anything but this.”

Anthony walks towards Ian slowly, approaching him the way wildlife rescue would approach a wounded lion. “It’s not that, Ian.”

Ian freezes.

(Anthony remembers this: an agreement to meet at their house in Sacramento at a specific date and time to prove their dedication to trying to make their relationship work.)

It’s not that, Ian.

Anthony could smack himself upside the head.

“I didn’t mean that.”

Closing his eyes, Ian takes a deep breath. Anthony can practically see Ian internalize the tension the way he internalizes everything else, emotions included. Anthony sees it in the way Ian hands curl up into fists at his sides before he forcibly uncurls them, fingers extending outward. He sees it in the way Ian’s eyes—normally so expressive—devoid of any kind of emotion. He sees it in the way Ian’s look is deathly calm, the eye in the storm.

Ian nods. “Yeah, no, I know.” He takes a deep breath. “What did you mean?”

He doesn’t know, Anthony thinks as he watches Ian stand as still as a statue. Gone is the fidgeting Ian always seems to be doing, the minute movements that endear him not just to Anthony but to every single one of their fans, the little quirks, the little twitches, even aborted movements wherein he starts to move before stopping himself. He doesn’t know, because there’s lying, and then there’s lying, and no matter the fact that it in itself is a bad deed, the intentions change everything, despite what people may say.

All this time, Ian’s been lying to save Anthony from everyone else. Anthony can’t begrudge him finally lying to save himself.

A step forward.

Another one.

Another one.

Anthony keeps on going, watching for signs that Ian truly does not want him near him at all, before coming to a stop just in front of him.

They’re older now. This close, he can see the evidence of this on Ian’s face—the smile lines starting to form at the corners of his eyes, the freckles on his cheeks that have only darkened with time, the small crease on his forehead that tells Anthony that Ian has absolutely no idea what Anthony is about to do.

“I’m sorry,” he begins, voice only slightly trembling as he tells Ian what he should have told him a long time ago, “for not being there when I should have been.”

(Anthony remembers this: not going.)

Ian releases his breath in a shaky exhale, his eyes slipping closed. Anthony watches as the fight melts off Ian’s shoulders, the tension that has been keeping his entire body standing leaving him in one exhale.

Slowly, Anthony leans in.

Ian opens his eyes.

With barely two inches between them, Anthony looks into Ian’s eyes and whispers, pleading, “please let me kiss you.”

Ian looks at him, his expression inquisitive, as if truly doesn’t know just how much he affects Anthony by just being in his life, as if he doesn’t know how much gravity his every word and every action has in Anthony’s world, as if he’s not aware that there are moments when Anthony feels like he is the sole reason Anthony exists.

Ian nods, a small minute thing that Anthony would not have noticed if he weren’t just two inches away from Ian.

The press of their lips is soft at first, a hesitant movement that is both too much and not enough. Ian’s lips are chapped, an effect of both the cold, biting wind of New York and the way Ian worries his bottom lip whenever he’s deep in thought.

The movement of their lips together is a study in contrast and contradiction—smooth lips against rough ones, rough lips smoothing out a kiss into something gentler, something slower, something Anthony has no patience for. A meeting of two lost souls, maybe, if Anthony were the kind of person to write poetry in the midst of immense feeling, if Anthony were the kind of person to have that much faith in something as abstract as the idea of romance.

Love—what a funny word. There is no direct way to quantify it, and yet here Anthony is, his lips parting against Ian’s as his hands uncurl from his sides to slowly make their way up to cradle Ian’s head. He has never been surer of anything in his life than the fact that this, what he feels for Ian—it’s something else.

Truth be told, the word love cannot quite exactly encompass everything that Anthony feels about Ian, the word love isn’t exactly enough, but he will settle for it. It’s the word that comes closest to it, he thinks.

(Not betrayal, he thinks. Never betrayal.)

Know this, he thinks as hard as he can, as if by doing so he will be able to let Ian know everything he’s been feeling without saying them out loud, there will never be anyone like you.

Ian’s lips part under his in a soft, barely-there moan, and Anthony smiles, the edges of his lips curling up as he thinks about the privilege this man has given him, allowing him to share in his successes and his failures, allowing him to kiss him as thoroughly as he would like, even if only for this one moment.

Anthony’s right hand makes its way around Ian’s neck to cup the back of his neck, fingers in Ian’s hair. Vaguely, he feels Ian put his hands on Anthony’s hips, not quite pulling him forward, but not pushing him away either. He’s just…holding him there, as if afraid that Anthony will disappear the moment he lets go.

Anthony pulls away and presses his forehead against Ian’s. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice soft in the empty room, “I’m so, so sorry.”

In the distance, a siren rings, but Anthony doesn’t pay any attention to it. He and Ian are in their own world now, far away from the city that never sleeps and the various noises that characterize it. Here, all that Anthony can hear are their breaths, slightly labored and interspersed with gasps and moans. Here, all that there is is the two of them. Nothing else matters.

Anthony watches as Ian’s eyes slip closed even as he instinctively leans forward. Here, they share warm breaths and something else—something more—that Anthony isn’t ready to vocally acknowledge yet.

Pressing a kiss to Ian’s left cheek, Anthony whispers, “I’m sorry.” He follows that with another kiss, bending lower to press a kiss on that spot under Ian’s ear, then another, this time at the point where Ian’s neck meets his shoulder. All the while, he feels Ian’s hands clutch him tighter, nails biting into his skin.

“I’ve forgiven you,” Ian says in a breathy whisper as Anthony proceeds to suck a hickey into a spot just an inch or two from the junction between Ian’s neck and shoulder, making sure, even at this point in time, that whatever mark he leaves, Ian will be able to hide.

Anthony knows. “I know,” he says simply, once he’s done marking Ian and his lips have escaped the almost painful clutches of the collar of Ian’s button-up that he still hasn’t removed yet. “I know, but that won’t stop me from saying it.”

Truth is, he doesn’t think he deserves forgiveness.

“I know,” Anthony begins to say, pausing in between words in favor of pressing chaste kisses up Ian’s neck until he reaches his lips, “that you don’t blame me.” His hands slide down from the back of Ian’s head to the bottom of his dark sweater.

Ian’s lips fall open the moment Anthony’s lips press against his once more. Slowly, his hands slide to Anthony’s lower back, encompassing Anthony in a hug that isn’t quite enough. There, his fingers make a home for themselves as his hands grip tight, undoubtedly wrinkling Anthony’s sweater beyond repair.

Pulling away from the kiss as much as he can without banging his head against the wall, Ian catches Anthony’s bottom lip in between his teeth, fanning the sparks in Anthony’s belly into a full-blown fire. Anthony watches as Ian’s eyes open, the blue replaced by a thin dark ring surrounding his dilated pupils.

They’re both out of breath now, sharing the same warm air the way they seem to share everything else with each other—without complete and utter regard.

Anthony tightens his grip on Ian’s sweater and slowly pulls it up, giving Ian enough time to stop him if he wants to. The material is soft against his hands, and as he raises it up, up, up until it isn’t on Ian’s person anymore, he thinks about what they are about to do.

This is what they are now: lovers that can only exist in a specific space and a specific time. They may love each other, but only under the cover of darkness, like thieves in the night.

Anthony tucks his head in the junction of Ian’s neck and shoulders, mouthing the spot that he knows drives Ian wild. Ian tilts his head even further, giving Anthony more space, and Anthony smiles against Ian’s skin as he hears his low, rough groan, as he feels the vibration of his vocal cords just a few inches below his skin.

What was it like, before this? Surely there is a before, in the way that there is a now, in the way that there is an after that Anthony is doing his best not to think about. Try as he might, though, he can’t quite seem to remember never doing this, can’t quite seem to recall moments when he didn’t miss the feeling of Ian’s skin against his, of Ian’s lips against his, Ian’s beard scratchy against his cheeks and chin.

“If you know that I don’t blame you,” Ian says, voice shaking as one of Anthony’s hands snakes up to bury itself in his hair, “then why the apologies?” Anthony’s lips move to his throat, his mouth closing over Ian’s Adam’s apple, and he breaks off with a moan.

Anthony pulls away from Ian’s neck and leans in. “Because,” he says, his lips gently touching Ian’s with every word he forms, “you deserve them.”

(I don’t deserve you, he doesn’t say, because surely, Ian knows that.)

Moaning, Ian untangles his fingers from Anthony’s sweater and reaches down, eager to remove both the sweater and the shirt underneath it. Anthony helps him, unable to wait any longer for the press of skin against skin, and when Ian’s hands drag against his torso as he lifts up Anthony’s shirt, Anthony feels twin lines of fire burning through his skin.

(Is this what Pam feels, when Ian’s with her?)

Dropping Anthony’s shirt and sweater to the floor, Ian’s hands find their way to the back of Anthony’s head and brings him down ever so slightly, his lips meeting Anthony’s without difficulty, the both of them used to this dance of theirs. Anthony feels the warmth blazing in his belly go further down, a raging inferno that can no longer be ignored.

Shaking hands reach down to unbutton Ian’s shirt. Anthony is more than just distracted, so it takes him a few tries before he finally gets the first one undone, then the second, then the third. At this point, Ian has abandoned Anthony’s lips in favor of his neck, tongue darting out to lick a stripe just below Anthony’s ear. He gives a shaky exhale, and Anthony moans, closing his eyes and tilting his head to the side just a little bit more, feeling goosebumps rise on his skin.

“Jesus,” Anthony breathes out, his voice shaky as he tries to make sense of the slew of sensations.

Ian smiles against his skin. “Blasphemy,” he murmurs, before pressing kisses down Anthony’s neck, towards his left shoulder.

Ignoring the electricity running up and down his spine, Anthony opens his eyes and continues unbuttoning Ian’s shirt. “You know I’m not—ah,” he breaks off when Ian bites down just hard enough to leave a mark on his shoulder, “religious.”

Ian hums in agreement against his skin. “Good,” he says, before pulling back and batting Anthony’s hands away as he unbuttons his own shirt quickly, unwilling to wait any longer.

“Good?” Anthony asks as he pushes Ian’s shirt off his shoulders.

“Yeah,” Ian says, hands already unbuckling Anthony’s belt. “Some people would say that what we’re doing is a sinful act.”

Anthony swallows past the lump in his throat and leans in, catching Ian’s bottom lip with his teeth before kissing him, tongue slipping in and exploring the nooks and crannies Anthony has been trying his best to forget. He feels Ian’s hands pause in their mission to unbutton his jeans, and he clutches him closer, heaving chests pressing together.

After a few moments, he pulls back, feeling his lungs burning as he struggles to take in air. “I’ve already accepted that I’m going to hell,” he says in a low voice, meeting Ian’s eyes.

Ian raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“In every religion,” Anthony confirms, and Ian laughs, surprised.

There’s something about Ian’s laugh, Anthony thinks, that makes it stand out against the rest, that makes Anthony want to seek it out in a sea of people, that makes Anthony want to hear it for the rest of his life.

(Is this what Pam hears every day?)

From there on, everything is a blur. Ian succeeds in unbuttoning and unzipping Anthony’s jeans and Anthony helps him out by toeing off his shoes before slipping out of his pants. It’s not long before Anthony undoes Ian’s pants as well, before they’re both moving towards Ian’s bed without any care for the clothes littering the floor.

“What do you want?” Anthony asks, falling back onto the bed with a small bounce. The bed squeaks under him.

Ian takes his time watching Anthony, eager to have the image burned in his mind. Anthony’s skin looks like burnished bronze under the dim lighting of the hotel room, and the way he’s positioned on the bed makes him look ethereal, something too beautiful to look upon, let alone touch. The shadows make him look untouchable, and his black Calvin Klein boxer-briefs leave nothing to the imagination, making him look like art, personified.

“You,” Ian finally says after a few moments, tongue darting out unconsciously to lick his lips.

Mouth dry, Anthony watches as Ian bends down and starts crawling up the bed until he can fully lie against Anthony and kiss his lips without difficulty. He returns the kiss eagerly, moans slipping out as he does so.

“You’re amazing,” Ian breathes out when he pulls away for more air. One hand comes up to affectionately bury itself in Anthony’s curls, and Anthony, upon feeling this, smiles.

“So are you,” Anthony says, because he needs Ian to know.

Nothing else will be like this. Nothing will compare.

Ian grins at him. “Cheesy.”

Anthony rolls his eyes. “You like it.”

Ian huffs out a laugh. “You’re right,” he says, even as he shakes his head fondly. And then he leans down and whispers it right against Anthony’s ear, his lips moving against the soft, sensitive skin, and Anthony shudders, his cock jumping against the tight, restraining fabric of his boxer-briefs.

“Fuck,” Anthony murmurs, eyes slipping closed. He places his hands on Ian’s shoulders, fingers holding on tight. He might end up leaving marks, but that’s okay. He doesn’t really care. They have a few more days. They’re fine.

A low chuckle, and then Ian says, “that’s the idea.”

Anthony opens his eyes and glares at Ian, though it is entirely without heat. He feels too much love for this man to ever feel genuinely angry with him, he thinks. “You’re too coherent,” he says, voice low.

“Make me incoherent, then,” Ian says with that gleam in his eyes, the one that tells Anthony that Ian’s pushing him because he has a plan.

(Is this what Ian is like with Pam?)

Using his hands, he pulls Ian down towards him and kisses him thoroughly, tasting alcohol and chocolate when his tongue slips back in and entwines with Ian’s own. Without warning, he removes his right hand from Ian’s shoulder and brings it down, down, down, and cups Ian’s erection through his boxer-briefs.

Groaning, Ian pulls away from the kiss and tightens his hold on Anthony’s hair. Anthony swallows back a moan and continues rubbing Ian’s erection as much as he can in the awkward position he has his hand in. Ian bows down until his head is pressed against Anthony’s right shoulder, wordless moans slipping out his mouth as Anthony continues pressing his fingers against the outline of Ian’s cock.

“Incoherent yet?” Anthony asks, taking his hand away from Ian’s cock.

“Fuck you,” Ian mumbles against his skin.

Anthony chuckles. “That was kind of on the to-do list, yeah. You need to keep u—oh,” he says, breaking off into a moan when Ian presses down and moves up, effectively rubbing his clothed cock against Anthony’s, making Anthony’s cock jump and spurt pre-come.

Leaning up and placing his hands on either side of Anthony’s head, Ian starts to buck into him in earnest, the bed squeaking as it moves with him, the headboard just slightly tapping against the too-thin wall. Anthony lets out a whimper as Ian brings one hand down to cup his erection, Ian’s pale fingers in stark contrast against Anthony’s dark boxer-briefs, made even darker by the wet stain of pre-come. Ian thumbs the head of his cock just so, and Anthony’s hips buck up, eager to follow the sensation.

“Fuck, please,” Anthony chokes out between strokes. He’s not too sure of what he’s asking for, but he knows that he wants it, and he wants it now. Skating his hands down Ian’s chest, Anthony turns his attention to Ian’s boxer-briefs, fingers hooking into the elastic waistband and bringing it downward, making Ian shudder as he struggles—and fails—to keep himself from moaning when the elastic waistband rubs against his erection just so.

“Yeah, no, I got you,” Ian says, voice breathy. He slides his boxer-briefs down his legs with little assistance from Anthony, and then proceeds to tug down Anthony’s boxer-briefs as well, looking up and straight into Anthony’s eyes as he does so. “I got you.”

Ian sinks down slowly, and Anthony has to stop himself from thrusting against the tight, wet heat of Ian’s mouth and choking him. His eyes screwed shut, Anthony blindly reaches for Ian’s hair, needing something to hold onto as wave after wave of sensation assault him. Ian hums around his shaft, and Anthony bucks up, unable to stop himself, making Ian groan low in his throat and continuing the cycle of pleasure Anthony finds himself the willing prisoner of.

Needing to catch his breath, he grips Ian’s hair and just barely stops himself from coming when he feels the deep vibrations of Ian’s groan. “St—stop,” he says, breathy with exertion.

Almost immediately, Ian stops, lifting himself up and looking at Anthony, a silent question in his eyes.

“No, no,” Anthony says, seeing the worry in Ian’s eyes. “I was, uh, about to come.”

Ian smiles, then slowly lowers himself back down onto the bed, making his intentions clear. Anthony raises his torso a little bit to follow Ian’s movements, head tilted to see just what Ian has in store for him, but he quickly gives up on looking when he feels the first tentative lick of Ian’s tongue on the head of his cock, his upper torso falling back onto the bed and his head making a home for itself on the white pillow.

“Ah, ah, shit,” Anthony says, hips bucking up uncontrollably as he feels Ian’s tongue form figure eights on the head of his cock, his tongue paying particular attention to the slit in unpredictable intervals. He feels Ian’s hand close around his shaft, warm and tight, but not warm or tight enough. His hand stays there, present and undemanding, Ian seemingly content to hold him as he pays attention to the head.

“Shit, shit, shit, ah Ian, please,” Anthony begs, breaking off when Ian brings him into his mouth once more, sinking until his nose is pressed against the wiry hair on Anthony’s groin. Anthony feels the tentative touch of Ian’s fingers against his balls, feather-light as they skate against the taut skin.

The air is hot with anticipation. Anthony feels the edge, feels himself about to cross the barrier between tension and pleasure, and he grips Ian’s hair even tighter as his moans get louder, as his thighs shake harder from the onslaught of pleasure.

Ian pulls away just enough to talk, his lips moving against the tip of Anthony’s cock. “That’s it,” he says, voice low and gravel-rough, “come for me.” He presses against Anthony’s perineum, unhesitating, and Anthony feels himself come apart, the almost-unbearable heat in his groin leaving him in a blinding climax as he spurts white all over his chest.

Distantly, he can hear someone sobbing out a moan, and then—

Silence. Or at least, as much silence as there can be in the city that never sleeps.

“Jesus,” Anthony manages to say, voice hoarse. “C’mere, Ian, I wanna see you.”

Ian obliges, crawling up until he’s face to face with Anthony, darkened eyes meeting blissfully relaxed ones. There’s a smile on his face, the one that lets Anthony know that Ian is proud of what he’s done to him, the one that speaks of possessiveness, the one that Ian doesn’t often let other people see.

This is Ian’s talent. He takes Anthony apart and puts him back together, somehow making him feel more whole after being broken into pieces. He is an artist, and Anthony is both his muse and his art, and God, how humbling it is to be the sole recipient of that kind of focus—of that kind of drive—from a man like Ian.

Though his limbs still feel like jelly, Anthony turns onto his side so he’s fully facing Ian. For a few moments, he can do nothing but look at him, his entire being doing its best to commit everything that it can about this moment to memory. He looks at Ian’s eyes and memorizes the dark rims surrounding his dilated pupils, looks at Ian’s lips and lets the image of kiss-stained lips burn into his eyelids. He breathes in and lets himself enjoy the smell of this—of them—of sex and sweat and the tiniest scent all hotels seem to have. He lets his hand reach out and touch Ian’s hair, fingers running through the soft strands, and he commits to memory the feel of it against his skin.

Ian smiles, relaxed and uncaring of the sheer need he must still be feeling, and Anthony commits that to memory too.

He’s supposed to know better, at this point.

He’s stopped caring, he thinks.

He reaches down and grips Ian tight, enjoying the way Ian’s eyes slip closed as he groans. Anthony is careful to keep his eyes open for as long as he can, because this is something he doesn’t know when he’ll get to see again.

Anthony leans into Ian and kisses him, tongue seeking out the warm heat of Ian’s mouth. Ian unhesitatingly parts his lips and lets Anthony in.

A twist of the wrist, and Ian is falling apart in his arms, a low groan spilling from his lips as he unconsciously thrusts against Anthony’s hand, thick ropes of white coating Anthony’s thighs and hand.

Uncaring of the mess between them, Anthony hugs Ian tight as he waits for him to come down from his blissful high, Ian’s tremors calming instead of worrying.

For a few moments, they’re both content to silently bask in the afterglow. There is nothing quite like this, after all, and even the sirens outside and the distant sounds of a lively gathering can’t destroy the world that Ian and Anthony have created here, in (Ian’s) bed in his (own) hotel room. Anthony, for his part, is content to lie there as he waits for Ian to catch his breath, his own hand lightly rubbing Ian’s back up and down in an effort to soothe him.

There will never be anything like this.

(Ian is: irreplaceable.)

Eventually, Anthony pulls away and leaves the bed for the adjoining bathroom. He finds a small towel and wets it with warm water, cleaning up the mess on his stomach and thighs before rinsing the towel again and bringing it into the bedroom with him.

He meets Ian’s eyes as he gently wipes him down.

Does she do this for you? Anthony doesn’t ask, because he doesn’t have the right to ask, because Ian will never answer him, because that way lies madness.

Dropping the towel on the floor, Anthony crawls into bed and lies (close) beside Ian. For a few moments, he can do nothing but lie there, still catching his breath as he looks at the plain white ceiling of Ian’s hotel room like it has all the answers to all the questions he’s ever had about the two of them.

This is their (love) story, told in hotel keycards and plane tickets from LAX to JFK.

Ian turns on his side and looks at Anthony, quiet even as he tries to catch his breath. Anthony looks up from where he’s settled snugly against Ian, silently lifting his torso up when Ian offers to put his arm around him.

Settling back down, Anthony turns on his side and looks at Ian once more, content to bask in the relative peace and quiet that surrounds them. Right here, it feels like they’re safe from anything else, feels like they’re far away from New York even as he hears sirens in the distance.

Anthony takes a few moments to observe Ian. This close, he can see the constellation of freckles on Ian’s face, can see the thick eyelashes resting against his cheeks as he closes his eyes, can see the fine hairs of his beard.

Anthony is never allowed to be this close, and so he settles in and proceeds to memorize as much of the moment as he can. This isn’t something he can have once they’re back in LA—Ian is an experience that Anthony won’t ever get enough of, but won’t be able to revisit.

“You know,” Ian says, voice low and hushed as he opens his eyes to look at Anthony, “you’re wrong.”

Anthony raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

Ian takes a deep breath. “I may deserve to be apologized to,” he says, leaning forward until his nose is practically touching Anthony’s, “but you don’t deserve to constantly do the apologizing.” With careful fingers, he touches Anthony’s bottom lip before lifting his chin to direct his attention back to Ian. “I don’t blame you, and there’s a reason for that. Just…trust that I know what I’m doing.”

“I do,” Anthony says, because it was never a matter of not trusting Ian. It has always been more a matter of not trusting himself.

Ian smiles, a small upward curve at the corners of his lips. “Good.”

Anthony closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy the peace and stillness of the moment. The sweat has mostly dried on his skin, making him feel colder than what is necessarily comfortable, and he burrows into Ian’s side further, chasing the warmth of his skin. He feels Ian’s arm tighten around him, and he sighs.

“I should go,” Anthony says, though he doesn’t move.

Ian hums, indicating that he heard him.

This is the way he responds. He never says no, because to do so would be to ask Anthony to do something Ian knows he’s not ready to do. He never agrees or says okay either, because Anthony knows it isn’t okay.

(This is the way Ian responds: while between a rock and a hard place, Ian stops and lets Anthony decide if he wants to bash his head against the rock or against the hard place, accepting Anthony’s decision—whatever it may be—without question or comment.)

Anthony bites his lip.

(This is the way Anthony responds: while having Ian between a rock and a hard place, Anthony decides to bash his head against both surfaces.)

“I don’t want to go,” he admits.

These words won’t do anything. Anthony says them anyway.

(Why?)

(Because.)

These words won’t do anything to help him, but he says them anyway, because this is the place for privacy, and this is the time for truthfulness. He is (desperately) in love with his best friend, and he doesn’t want to leave (his side).

He’s been so careful of what he’s been saying or doing lately that finally breathing out the words makes him feel relief.

He opens his eyes and looks at Ian, (un)surprised to see the pain in his own blue ones.

Anthony takes a deep breath and presses a kiss to Ian’s bare shoulder in apology, feeling the back of his eyes burn.

The words won’t help him, maybe, but they will hurt Ian.

Maybe he should have thought of that.

“So…stay,” Ian says, voice quiet.

(It is: a question plea statement.)

“I can’t.”

(It is: an answer apology assertion.)

Ian sighs. “I know.”

(It is: what it is.)

Anthony shivers as the cold air hits his skin. “I should leave.”

Ian takes a deep breath. “Yeah, you should.” He smiles a sad facsimile of a smile, lips curled up at the edges, but a wrong kind of curl somehow, like a part of a slinky that’s been bent out of shape.

Ian rolls away, and Anthony feels goosebumps erupt on his skin. Without Ian’s body heat, he starts to shiver more, and for a little bit, he actually thinks he can take it if it means that he’ll be able to stay here. Eventually, he remembers, and he sits up and scoots to the edge of the bed, already looking around for his own clothes.

It takes a little time for him to put his clothes on, but in the end, this is how it goes:

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says, watching Ian put a new pair of boxer-briefs on across the room.

Ian looks up and smiles at him, that same sad smile Anthony doesn’t like seeing on his face, and says, “I understand.”

When Anthony leaves, he closes the door softly behind him.

   Hey, Anthony types on his phone, you up?

Still feeling half-asleep, Anthony lets his eyes drift closed and his hand holding the phone fall back down on the bed. He feels sleep-warm as he tries to get even more comfortable under the blanket and comforter, and as he turns, he can feel himself drift off further even as he feels the sun’s rays on his skin.

Wait.

Sun rays?

Anthony’s eyes fly open, only to be met with the sight of an open window.

Fuck, he texts.

Ian’s reply is quick. Why? And yeah, I’m up.

Anthony forces himself to sit up, one hand coming up to rub the sleep out of his eyes. He’s careful to gather the comforter on his lap to cover the essentials—he’s not trying to give anyone a free show. He blinks at his phone, thinking simultaneously about what to reply and what to wear.

I left my curtains open. And I’m naked under the covers.

Sucks, man.

Anthony raises his eyebrows, a small smile forming on his face. What, no offer to help?

Ian’s answer is immediate. Nah, you’re on your own.

Laughing, Anthony shakes his head. Asshole.

Thanks.

Sighing, Anthony clicks on the camera app and proceeds to take a short video for the vlog he’s forming in his head. When that’s done, he very gingerly shifts and puts his feet on the carpeted ground, careful to bring the blanket with him. A lot more awake now, he looks out the window to see if anyone’s looking into his room.

“Jesus,” he mutters, standing up and holding the blanket around his waist with one hand, making sure to cover not only his front, but also the back. He shuffles to the window and slowly shuts the curtains, blocking the light and immersing the room in darkness.

With the inside of his room completely blocked off to any onlookers outside, Anthony feels comfortable enough to walk back to the bed and place the comforter and blanket there. He then pads over, fully naked, to the bathroom, fingers absent-mindedly scratching his head as he tries to figure out if he should shave.

A shower and shave later, Anthony finds himself in front of the mirror with his phone. He feels silly doing this—it reminds him too much of Kalel back when she would vlog about her outfits and clothing hauls—but he does it anyway, telling himself that he needs material for his vlog. The next few days wouldn’t be included in the vlog, he thinks, because those will be just for him and Ian, and no one else, not even Pam or Miel.

When he’s finished vlogging, he nods to himself in the mirror and makes sure to grab his wallet and hotel card key. With a slight twist of the wrist, he opens the door, locking it behind him when he steps outside.

It takes him only a few moments to find himself in front of Ian’s door, rapping his knuckles against the door in a steady rhythm.

Ian opens the door, hair still a little wet even though he’s fully dressed, and Anthony finds himself overcome with the desire to go inside and never leave. He feels his heart thud heavily in his chest, feels his palms sweat with anxiety or excitement, he doesn’t quite know, and this…this isn’t normal. He isn’t supposed to feel like a teenage boy about to go with his boyfriend to prom. He and Ian are grown men, and grown men don’t feel like this, do they?

Do they?

Anthony has never felt like this with anyone else. Never did he once open the door to the sight of Miel and have his first thought be, oh God, I’m in love with you. Never did he once open the door to the sight of Miel and be bombarded with memories of when they first met.

And yet.

Ian opens the door and Anthony feels himself falling further in love, feels himself want to walk into his room and accept everything he’s been silently offering all these years. Ian opens the door, and Anthony is standing in the carpeted hallway, suddenly aware of all the different times this has happened before, a kind of déjà vu that hurts more than Anthony expected it to.

How many different times has this happened before? Anthony has lost count of all the times he stood in nondescript hallways in various hotels, waiting for Ian to open his own door and welcome Anthony in.

It would be so, so easy, he imagines. It would be so, so easy to just give in and walk inside, to just accept everything that Ian’s been silently offering all these years without thinking about the repercussions or consequences.

But that’s not exactly true, is it? He thinks about everything, always mindful of what might be seen. He knows every consequence and repercussion, knows every lie to say and every proof to fabricate, anything to save…what? His image? Himself? Ian?

Miel?

“Are you okay?”

(no.)

Anthony focuses back on Ian and smiles, the brittle edges of his smile showing more of what he actually feels than what he intended to show. “I’m fine.”

Ian gives him a knowing look, but doesn’t comment further. “Okay,” he says, accepting Anthony’s answer, before stepping outside and locking the door behind him, one hand still grasping his wallet and key. “So.” He looks at Anthony, worry present in the furrow of his eyebrows and in the narrowing of his eyes, and stops a few steps away from Anthony, looking like there’s nothing else he would want than to be allowed to touch him and console him (in public).

Anthony meets Ian’s worried look with a determined expression. Ian has always been a worrier—worried about his mom and dad and their failing health, worried about his sister and her relationships, worried about his nephew and his studies, worried about his friends and their lives, worried about Anthony and his—

—well.

The thing is that Ian has always been worried about the people he loves, and though it is an honor to be loved by him, sometimes Anthony wishes that he doesn’t worry as much. It makes him feel like he’s a goldfish in a fish tank, always watched and observed. And Ian has always been an observer.

“I’m fine,” Anthony repeats, this time with a steadier voice as he tries to convince Ian that he’s fine. It won’t work, of course, because at this point, Ian has spent more of his life knowing Anthony than not, but Anthony does it anyway. The point here is not to convince Ian that Anthony’s just fine; the point here is to convince Ian that Anthony’s fine enough to go through with their plans for the day, both the professional and the personal.

Ian still has that look on his face, unbelieving and worried at the same time, and Anthony finds himself wanting to hug him tight and place his head in that space where his nose will be in that junction between Ian’s neck and shoulder. He wants to breathe him in and fill every space inside of him with Ian until he doesn’t feel empty anymore.

He wants everything with this man. He wants a private lover and a public significant other, wants both the inside of the room and everything that lies outside of it.

“Okay,” Ian says, though he clearly doesn’t believe him. He shakes his head a little bit, as if to clear the thoughts from his head, before starting to walk down the hallway, slowing down until Anthony’s walking beside him. “So. Plans for the day?”

Anthony exhales in relief, grateful for the change in topic. “We have that interview with Wired, the Build Series,” he says, counting off the interviews with his fingers, “and there’s that, uh, food thing?”

Ian raises his eyebrow, amused. “Bon apetit?”

“Yeah, that one,” Anthony says as he stops in front of the elevator and presses the button with a downwards arrow. He watches the button light up in red light before turning back to Ian. “We have to go to Youtube Space too.”

“Oh yeah,” Ian says, prolonging the “yeah” in realization. “We’re doing breakfast first, right? I didn’t order room service.”

Anthony nods. “Yeah, sure. I didn’t order room service either. We’ll do lunch after we do Bon Apetit and Wired. After the Build Series interview and Youtube Space, we should be free.”

“Sounds good,” Ian says, nodding.

The elevator doors open with a quiet ding, and Ian and Anthony both step into the elevator in silence. The inside of the elevator is all stainless steel and chrome, the inside of the elevator doors showing their reflection as they close. Anthony watches Ian press the button for the ground floor and notices the fact that they’re alone here.

Anthony closes his eyes and feels himself slip into an old, worn fantasy the way another person would slip under a soft, hand-made quilt. The image of him just pushing Ian against the wall of the elevator and kissing him within an inch of his life splashes against the inside of his eyelids, and somewhere in the back of his head, he hears the sound of Ian’s moan, something hardwired into his brain that he’s not likely to forget.

The elevator dings, and Anthony’s eyes snap open, immediately seeking the floor number at the top of the doors.

Level three. Not ground.

Anthony moves to the corner of the elevator with Ian as an entire family walks into the elevator complete with an infant in a stroller and an elderly grandmother with a gummy smile and a foldable aluminum walker. A guy that Anthony assumes to be the dad turns to them with a friendly smile and a “sorry, folks.”

This crowded, no one’s paying attention to them. Anthony looks at the security camera in the other corner and realizes that because of the tall dad, he and Ian would be barely seen.

Here’s his chance, he thinks as he watches the mom scold her children for shouting in the elevator. With everything so crazy, here’s his little moment of solitude, a pocket of calm in a sea of activity.

Not allowing himself to hesitate, Anthony reaches for Ian’s hand and holds it, fingers finding the spaces between Ian’s own and squeezing.

Beside him, Ian inhales deeply before squeezing back, his hand warm and (un)surprisingly a little rough in some parts. That would be from constantly holding a pen, Anthony thinks as he looks at the number at the top of the elevator doors change. His hands are that way because of the fact that back when it was just the two of them handling Smosh, Ian did most of the writing, most of which he’d done by hand.

Ian used to write a lot on his hand back then too, Anthony recalls. Ian doesn’t have the best memory, so to avoid forgetting important memos, he would write in either blue or black ink on his left palm.

In front of them, the family doesn’t pay them any attention. The kids, thank God, don’t seem to know who they are.

Anthony lets himself revel in the experience of finally getting to hold Ian’s hand in a semi-public place. There’s something about it that’s different. Maybe it’s because it feels like an informal declaration, or maybe it’s because it feels like another step out the door of the space in Anthony’s head that’s labelled specifically just for him and Miel.

(Intimacy is such a funny thing.)

Anthony sighs when the elevator dings once more, ringing in the hollow space. The elevator doors open, and the family slowly exits.

Anthony lets go of Ian’s hand and walks out, refusing to let himself look back and see Ian’s reaction. He curls his hand into a fist before opening it wide once more, fingers splayed out as he feels the ghost of Ian’s touch, the memory of Ian’s fingers entwined with his own.

(It’s funny how simply holding Ian’s hand affects him in a way that’s so vastly different from making love with him in an anonymous room in a hotel thousands of miles away from where they live.)

Aren’t things supposed to be easier than this?

   There’s a saying somewhere about how some things are supposed to fall apart first before they can fit back together.

Anthony’s not much of a love quotes kind of person, but sitting in a small French-Italian café with too much lighting and not enough space, he figures out what he’s been slowly putting together in his mind.

He shifts, and his knee bumps against Ian’s under the dark, wooden table. Ian looks up from his blueberry pancakes with a silent question present in his furrowed eyebrows, his mouth slightly downturned in worry, and the question in his eyes slowly turning into concern when he realizes that Anthony hasn’t touched his food.

Stop being concerned about me, Anthony thinks as he averts his gaze to look out the window instead of meeting Ian’s eyes. Stop caring about me. I’m not worth it.

I’m going to break your heart.

Anthony inhales sharply at the thought and lets himself imagine what that would be like. Ian would be the consummate professional. He would internalize his emotions the way he internalizes everything else, would make sure that the work gets done despite the situation. He would be calm, cool, and collected, Anthony thinks, but that would just be that. They wouldn’t hang out anymore, and though they wouldn’t risk letting the crew even begin to suspect that something’s different between the two of them, they wouldn’t be able to be near each other if it isn’t absolutely necessary.

(An eye for an eye, right? Break Ian’s heart and let Ian break his own. Aren’t relationships supposed to be a two-way street?)

Anthony looks at Ian, and his heart thuds painfully in his chest.

(This isn’t a relationship.)

“Hey,” Ian says when he sees Anthony finally looking at him. It’s hushed and meant to be private, a reminder that can barely be heard above the late-morning hustle and bustle of the café.

“Yeah?” Anthony replies, finally starting to cut into his own stack of pancakes for lack of anything better to do. He looks down and watches his own hand make a clean diagonal cut with a stainless-steel knife, feeling a little bit like an outsider looking in, like someone other than him is controlling his body and there is nothing for him to do to stop it.

“Look at me,” Ian says, and if it sounds like a plea, that’s because it is.

Anthony looks up. “What?” he says, his tone sharper than what he intended it to be. Immediately, he feels ashamed for snapping at Ian, but before he can apologize, he looks at him with a keener eye and realizes that the sharp tone has slid off his back like water down a turtle’s shell.

Ian has always been good at knowing when Anthony doesn’t mean something, such as this anger that’s just as easily gone as it appeared.

“Listen,” Ian says, voice hushed as he puts his hand palm up on the table, in that little space between their plates, “this is supposed to be our time, right?”

Our time. A hard and heavy lump shoots up Anthony’s throat and gets stuck there. It’s hard to ignore, and harder still to swallow past. “Yeah,” he eventually chokes out.

“So stop overthinking.” Ian’s voice is simple and to-the-point. He smiles ruefully, and immediately Anthony knows that under the table, Ian’s knee is bouncing up and down the way it usually does when he’s restless or anxious. “I know that’s hard to ask from you, but I just.” He takes a deep breath. “I can’t keep you from thinking what you want to think or, well, doing what you want to do for that matter, but I just…fuck.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Anthony says, shaking his head and putting his hand on the table as well, grasping Ian’s hand without any concern for who might see them. “Don’t be sorry.”

It’s funny, Anthony thinks, how sometimes it’s the writers who run out of words.

(It’s funny, Anthony thinks, how sometimes it’s the comedians who laugh at times like these.)

The thing is, Anthony knows what Ian’s trying to say. He says stop overthinking and means stop thinking about her, like he still hasn’t figured out that Anthony’s entire world revolves around him, that he’s in Anthony’s thoughts night and day. Anthony can’t blame him for thinking like this, though, because Ian’s a smart man, and he’s figured out that Anthony still hasn’t figured out everything yet.

And isn’t that what he’s supposed to have done by now? Figuring things out shouldn’t be this hard.

(What does he want?)

Ian smiles from across the table, his blue eyes somehow brightening in delight, and Anthony feels his head thud painfully in his chest.

(Him. Anthony wants him.)

   Wired is an easy interview. Every time Anthony watches Ian explain to someone why his phone is in a Ziploc bag, he has to stop himself from laughing out loud. It’s such a ridiculous situation that Anthony finds it hard to keep himself from grinning. Ian’s normally very careful with his things, and so to have this happen to him feels unreal.

Bon Apetit is easy too. Doing press tours usually gets boring pretty quick because of the repetitive and unimaginative questions, but today seems to be different. It’s gimmick after gimmick, and soon enough, Anthony realizes that he and Ian don’t have to entertain each other during interviews anymore the way they used to before to avoid falling asleep.

Lunch is easy and less angst-ridden than breakfast was. Chatting easily with the rest of the press tour crew in a small Mediterranean restaurant takes so much of Anthony’s focus that he doesn’t get the chance to think about his and Ian’s relationship as much as he thought he would. It doesn’t matter anyway—Ian is seated far from him, nestled between their press tour manager and an assistant sent by Google to accompany them to Youtube Space later in the afternoon.

It’s hard to find time alone. When they’re not with the crew, they’re in front of the cameras, filming interviews with various people. Anthony finds that he’s restless, eager to get everything finished so he and Ian can finally be away from prying eyes.

There’s only so much Anthony can do to try to ignore the phantom itch in his fingers.

“You know,” Ian says when they’re (finally) done for the day, opening the glass door and exiting the Youtube Space building beside Anthony, “today was a lot more hectic than I thought. I thought we would be free to do anything we wanted two hours ago.”

Anthony shrugs, one hand absently zipping up his jacket the rest of the way. “We need better work on our schedules, I guess,” he says, already looking for a taxi. He and Ian had waved away the rest of the press tour crew, choosing to just head to their hotel on their own time in a taxi.

Ian hums. “So…what are we doing tonight?”

Anthony looks at Ian, carefully gauging his expression. “I don’t know,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets. This time, he’s going to let Ian make the decisions. “What do you want to do?”

Ian shrugs, looking up at the sky. “I was hoping we could maybe hang out,” he admits, voice low as if the admission is shameful, “but you know, it’s up to you.”

Anthony looks at him. Just once he would like Ian to stop thinking about Anthony and start thinking about himself.

“What do you want?” Anthony asks, curious, because he’s done with taking liberties and making all the decisions.

(This is the new him, remember?)

Ian looks at him. He’s searching for something, Anthony knows, because his eyes are roaming over his face with a purpose. He must find it, whatever it is, because he smiles at Anthony and admits, “I don’t really know. I just know I want to spend time with you.”

Anthony sucks in a deep breath. Around them, people continue walking to their destinations, uncaring of the two of them, or the fact that they’re just there, stationary on the sidewalk. The entire world keeps on moving, and yet Anthony doesn’t feel like he’s moving with everyone else. He feels half a step out of sync with everyone else, and hearing Ian say those words makes him feel like he’s stumbling, like he’s falling further out of step with everyone else.

The amazing thing is this, though: Anthony exhales, and he feels all right again, like stumbling was the only thing he needed all along to fall into step with everyone else again.

Sure, it’s a cheesy thought, but it matches Ian’s cheesy line.

“Okay,” he responds, even though it’s not okay, because Ian isn’t supposed to affect him like this. Anthony didn’t sign up for feeling like drowning whenever he’s away from Ian and feeling like falling whenever he is.

(What did he sign up for?)

Anthony flags down a taxi and gets in.

(He doesn’t know.)

Their taxi ride is a surprisingly short one. The driver weaves in an out of traffic in a way that only an experienced New Yorker would know how to do, and within a few minutes, Anthony’s handing money to the driver and stepping out of the taxi into the cold New York afternoon.

For a few moments, Anthony can’t do anything but merely look at the hotel he and Ian are staying at. He only has a few days here left. He might as well make the most of them, right?

“I’m going to pack up my suitcase,” Anthony mumbles as he and Ian step into the lobby. “I’ll be in your room soon.”

Ian looks at him, eyes discerning. “Okay,” he replies, but Anthony hears the (unspoken) worry and the questions that Ian didn’t breathe into life.

They step into the elevator in silence. Elevator music, soft and unobtrusive, plays in the background, something Anthony didn’t even notice earlier that morning, busy as he was focusing on other (more important) things, such as the rowdy family they rode with and the feeling of Ian’s hand in his.

Anthony closes his eyes and inhales deeply. If he thinks hard enough, he imagines he can feel Ian’s hand against his up to the very minute detail, the contrast between his rough palm and his soft fingers, the difference between the warmth of his touch and the coldness of his fingertips.

Here, with no one else in the elevator but the two of them, Anthony doesn’t dare reach for his hand, no matter the fact that he (clearly) wants to. Too many people might be watching their every move. It’s just not safe.

(When did he start to value safety over happiness?)

Opening his eyes, Anthony bites his lip and directs his attention to the changing floor numbers at the top of the elevator doors instead of trying to subtly look at Ian through the corners of his eyes. Anthony finds himself impatient to get out of the stifling silence of the elevator, and weird doesn’t even begin to explain it, because—

—didn’t he want to be here?

Didn’t he spend weeks counting down the days until he and Ian were supposed to fly to New York from LA? Didn’t he spend hours already planning when he’ll (inevitably) stay in Ian’s hotel room? Didn’t he spend (too much and yet not enough) time covering up his tracks and being careful by vlogging in his own room so he can have evidence against a relationship (with Ian) that no one has accused him of having?

Doesn’t he want this?

The elevator doors open with a low whoosh, and Anthony steps outside without looking back at Ian. He forces himself to move, step by step, until he’s right in front of his hotel room and taking his room keycard out of his pocket with slightly shaking hands.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath when the light remains red. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and releases it in a shaky exhale.

He knows what this is, of course. He knows all too well the feeling of a heart beating (too) loud and (too) hard.

This is guilt.

He (finally) gets the door open on the sixth try. He walks in and quickly closes the door behind him, his hands shaking less once he’s alone in the relative privacy of his hotel room.

“Get a fucking grip,” he says, though he doesn’t quite move away from the door. Instead, he leans back against it and closes his eyes.

What is he doing? Hurting Miel and Ian at the same time just because he can’t decide what he wants more—this isn’t what he wanted.

Anthony sighs.

Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Him, knowing what he wants but unwilling to choose between one or the other?

(Sacrifice safety and familiarity with Miel for passion and adventure with Ian? Or is it the other way around?)

He swallows past the lump in his throat and pushes himself off the door, forcing himself to move to the bathroom and start taking his things, his hands absently grabbing his toothbrush and razor from the sink as his mind struggles to wade through all the things that he knows about his current situation (with Ian).

One hand grabs his shoes by the door and he thinks about the way Miel looks in the morning, when she’s sleepily kissing him goodbye on the lips right before he leaves to run through the streets of downtown LA. Another hand grabs a plastic bag from the table to put his shoes in and he thinks about the way Ian looks in the morning, smiling at him in that trusting way when Anthony leans over the (hotel) bed and kisses him on the forehead.

He grabs his laptop from the table, and he thinks about going home to Miel and her dog, about eating dinner with her as he tells her all about his day and she tells him all about hers. He puts his laptop in his backpack, and he thinks about (possibly) going home to Ian and his dog, about eating dinner with him as they exchange jokes and business commentaries.

Anthony thinks about loving her (him) passionately and without limitations, thinks about the way her (his) legs intertwine with his under the (hotel) sheets, thinks about just how seeing her (him) brightens his entire day. He thinks about her (him) in his life and how much better his life has become because of her (him), thinks about the way his heart seems to skip a beat whenever he sees her (him), thinks about the way he loves her (him) so much that it seems like love cannot even begin to describe what he feels, this gaping space that could be filled with so much more if he only let it.

(In the human body, there are potential spaces, cavities that can exist between two bodily structures that are normally pressed together.)

This is what he’s done and what he continues to do: he finds the similarities between them and focuses on them instead of on the differences because then maybe he can ignore the fact that he’s settling for something (someone) else when he doesn’t really have to.

So why settle for something (less) else?

(punishment?)

(no.)

It’s fear, he decides. Mask fear as selflessness enough times—reason to himself that this arrangement will be better for him and Ian in the long run enough times—and maybe he’ll eventually start to believe the lies he’s been telling himself all this time.

(Lie to himself the way he lies to Miel whenever he talks about trips with Ian away from LA, right? Maybe then he’ll start to believe himself the way Miel does, too.)

He looks at the haphazard pile of his belongings in his suitcase and sighs.

Thing is, there isn’t even any contest. There hasn’t been one since he started justifying this new-old relationship with Ian.

(Unbidden, the memory of Ian’s hand in his springs to mind, the feel of his fingers intertwined with Anthony’s branded into him so completely, it would be impossible to forget it.)

With high risk comes high reward, right?

Question is: how much is he willing to risk?

(Not enough, he thinks as he looks at the small box sitting in his suitcase, beneath a pair of jeans and wrinkled polo.)

Anthony takes out his phone.

He vlogs.

   They’re both lying naked in Ian’s bed, Anthony nestled against Ian. Outside, New York City is bustling with activity. Inside, the soft hum of the hotel air conditioning accompanies Ian and Anthony’s breathing.

It’s as close to a feeling of peace Anthony will ever get.

Ian shifts a little, and Anthony moves to let him get settled before lying close beside him again. This close, he wishes he can just take out his phone and start recording this the way he records everything else. He needs the reminder, he thinks, that this really did happen. That this isn’t a figment of his imagination.

“We’re going to need to get dinner soon,” Ian idly comments, one hand absently coming up to play with the curls of Anthony’s hair.

“Do we really need to?” Anthony asks, just this side of whining.

Ian chuckles, a low, affectionate sound. “Food is a necessity, yes.”

Anthony smiles. He closes his eyes and turns on his side so that his body is facing Ian’s. He feels Ian’s arms tighten around him, and his smile grows just that little bit more.

“You’re making me not want to leave this bed,” Ian says, voice soft.

Anthony opens his eyes, laughing. “I hope I’ve been making you not want to leave this bed since I got in this room.”

“Well,” Ian says, pausing to think about his next words, “for a moment there, I did want to leave the bed to pin you against the door. Does that count?”

Anthony thinks about Ian pinning him against the solid wooden door with his fingers wrapped around Anthony’s wrists, and he blushes. “Yes,” he lies.

Ian shakes his head in amusement, or at least tries to with his head still comfortably positioned on one of the soft, white pillows. “Come on,” he says, starting to pull away. “Get up. Let’s do something.”

Anthony groans as he feels Ian retract his arm from underneath him. “What is ‘something’ in this scenario?” he asks, enjoying the view of a naked Ian walking to the window and peeking between the curtains to look at the view they have of the busy New York streets. Ian turns around, and Anthony says, “am I the ‘something’?”

Ian snorts. “Cheesy,” he says, though he walks back to the bed and leans over Anthony. Anthony leans toward him and kisses him softly, familiar lips moving against his own in the way only the two of them know—brief and without tongue and so, so good.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Anthony says, a little breathily, when they both pull away. “You don’t fix what’s not broken.”

Ian smiles, and Anthony watches, as if in slow motion, the way his eyes crinkle at the sides, the way his lips curve up at the edges, the way he looks ready to burst out an amused chuckle in the moment.

This is a memory he would like to keep forever.

“You’re right,” Ian says, before holding Anthony’s hand and tugging him up just enough that Anthony is forced to sit up. “However, I am starving, and we need to get up some time.”

Anthony sighs.

“If you get up,” Ian says, smiling that cheeky, convincing smile of his, “we’ll do something special.”

Anthony raises an eyebrow in question, not moving from his spot on the bed.

“We’ll do something you want to do—”

“—so we’ll stay in bed?”

“—that is not staying in bed,” Ian finished.

Anthony thinks about it. Truth be told, it’s hard to figure out what else he wants to do with Ian that doesn’t involve both of them naked and, preferably, a bed. It’s one of the few things that they can only do here, away from LA and all the craziness it entails. And right now, Anthony wants to take advantage of this entire thing while he can.

They only have a few days left. He’s going to make every single moment count.

“I want a dance.”

Ian’s eyebrows furrow. “A dance?”

It’s not often that Anthony can catch Ian off guard, so he revels in the feeling for a few moments before nodding.

“All right,” Ian says as he shrugs in the way that perfectly conveys the expression of fuck it. “Come on, we’re dancing.”

Smiling, Anthony graciously admits defeat and finally puts his feet on the ground. He stands up from the bed, uncaring of the fact that he’s buck naked. “I mean serious dancing, okay? Not dancing to, like, club music, or whatever.”

“Serious dancing?” Ian says, grinning as he taps his phone. Almost immediately, an instrumental music begins to play on the tinny speakers of his phone, familiar and yet not quite.

“Mozart?” Anthony guesses, because he’s not the best at this sort of thing, and really, the only two composers he can name are Mozart and Beethoven. And he can’t even remember Beethoven’s entire name.

“Nah,” Ian says, stepping closer to Anthony. “Tchaikovsky.”

Anthony shakes his head, amused. “I am not dancing to this with you,” his voice turning into a whisper when Ian steps even closer to him, until their toes are touching and there is only a few inches between their lips.

“Why not?” Ian whispers back.

“Because this is ballet music.”

Ian grins. “You said you wanted serious music.” He pauses, looking over his shoulder to see his phone on the nightstand. “This is fancy, too. Oh, and it’s Nutcracker, by the way.”

“Ah,” Anthony says, nodding. “I couldn’t figure out the name.”

Ian holds out his hand. “Come on, let’s dance.”

Anthony raises an eyebrow. “To this?”

“I have Youtube on autoplay,” Ian says by way of explanation. His hand is still outstretched, patiently waiting for Anthony to grasp it with his own. “Maybe Beethoven will play after this. Or Mozart.”

“Knowing what you watch, there’s a big chance that the next video might end up being a GTS episode,” Anthony says, shaking his head, but he takes Ian’s hand anyway and steps closer to him. He smiles and closes his eyes, content.

“That’s even fancier,” Ian says, his voice soft, like he doesn’t want to break whatever spell they’re in. “We’ll just have to see, I guess.”

Anthony opens his eyes. “You’re wild,” he says dryly.

“I like to live dangerously,” Ian whispers back, and Anthony throws his head back in laughter.

Eventually, the music ends, and something more soothing comes on. At this point, Anthony removes his hand from Ian’s grasp and puts his arms on Ian’s shoulders, leaning forward to place his forehead against Ian’s. His eyes closed, Anthony sways in place, moving when and where he instinctively wants to.

Here, it’s just the two of them. Their breathing is soft, and their feet are steady as they try to sway to the tempo of the piano piece playing on Ian’s phone. Ian’s hands are just barely on Anthony’s waist, reverent, as if Ian can’t quite believe that his hands are allowed to be there, as if Anthony is something precious to protect.

Anthony opens his eyes to see Ian looking at him intently, eyes roaming over his face like he’s looking for something important.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Nothing,” Ian says, meeting his eyes. “I’m just…I want to remember this.”

It’s as close to an admission that this isn’t enough for Ian as Anthony will ever get.

(why cheat?)

Anthony looks at Ian’s lips, red and plump and kiss-sore, and he leans in, closing his eyes the moment their lips meet. This kiss is passionate, but not hurried—a kiss shared by two lovers who are kissing for the sake of it.

Anthony pulls away from the kiss and doesn’t stop swaying with Ian to the rhythm of the music. His feet make tiny steps, and he watches as Ian follows his lead, watches as Ian tilts his head until he has his head on Anthony’s shoulder.

(because.)

They’re not even dancing anymore. The most they’re doing is swaying in place while they have each other in their arms in the middle of Ian’s hotel room in New York City. It feels magical, almost, feels like something Anthony hasn’t felt before.

(he makes me feel alive.)

The music comes to an end, and suddenly, the sounds of New York come rushing back to him. He hears the honking of cars in the distance, hears sirens, hears the crackle of thunder as the clouds threaten to bring about rain.

Anthony opens his eyes.

This close, Anthony thinks, Ian’s eyes are so, so blue.

“Hey, Anthony?” Ian’s heart is almost heartbreakingly soft, like he’s asking for something he’s not sure Anthony will give him.

“Yeah?” Anthony answers, equally soft.

Ian gives him a small smile, almost self-deprecating in the way it is presented. “I love you.”

He says it simply, says it in the way he does everything else. It’s a statement that doesn’t need a response, the way Ian meant it to be.

(This is how Ian loves him: he keeps everything open-ended, never forcing Anthony to give him an answer, never pleading, always understanding.)

Anthony, feeling that burning feeling in the back of his eyes, leans forward and presses his head against the side of Ian’s neck. He closes his eyes as he feels Ian start to move them once more, one tiny step to the side followed by another tiny step to the other side.

He presses his answer to the pale skin on Ian’s neck, just a few a couple of inches away from an angry red hickey. “I love you too,” he confesses, lips brushing over sensitive skin, quiet and yet loud enough in this pocket of space and time that they have managed to pause for just a few moments and have all to themselves.

Anthony feels Ian suck in a sharp breath, and he settles in closer. “I love you,” he says, letting his words leave his mouth and immediately sink into Ian’s skin until Anthony can imagine the words branding themselves onto Ian’s neck, “I love you.”

(There’s a saying, somewhere.)

Ian stops swaying and leans back, forcing Anthony to remove his head from where it is comfortable nestled on Ian’s shoulder.

Anthony opens his eyes.

(It’s a Catholic thing, mostly.)

Ian smiles at him, genuine and happy, like he got something he wasn’t even hoping to get, and Anthony feels his heart thud painfully in his chest.

Ian leans in and presses a soft kiss against Anthony’s lips.

(It’s about hating wrongful deeds, but being compassionate to those who have done them.)

Anthony lets out a happy sigh and pulls Ian in closer, kissing him back with all he’s got.

He feels Ian’s hands let go of his waist to slowly make their way up his naked back.

(Anthony thinks he might have overdone it.)

“Bed?” Anthony asks in between gasps of breath once they both finally pull away.

“Bed,” Ian answers.

(Truth is, he’s never been a good Catholic.)

Ian walks Anthony over to the bed and follows Anthony as he falls down, one hand coming up to brace himself against the mattress.

Ian presses his mouth against the side of Anthony’s neck.

(He thinks he might have overdone it, at any case.)

“Jesus,” Anthony breathes out, eyes shut tight as he feels electricity run down his spine and settle in his groin.

He feels Ian grin against his skin.

(But still.)

Anthony opens his eyes as Ian pulls away and leans over him, the artificial lighting of the hotel room somehow bathing him in light like a halo, making his hair seem more golden than it really is.

“I love you,” Anthony says.

(Hate the sin and love the sinner, right?)

   Central Park at six in the morning feels relaxed in the way that nothing else about New York feels quite like it. Starbucks cups in hand—a cup of hot chocolate with almond milk for him and a caramel latte for Ian—they sit down on one of the benches and quietly sip at their drinks.

They’ve done this before. While on the press tour for their first movie, they had gone here too, had taken a few moments out of their busy schedule to just sit and think, to enjoy the (relative) stillness this place can offer.

No place is perfect. Anthony fully expects some fans to make their way here and ask for pictures with him and Ian.

“We only have a few days left,” Ian says, quiet.

Anthony looks up from the ground. It’s the first time Ian has addressed that issue since they got here. “I know,” he says, for lack of anything else to say.

For a few moments, they’re both silent. Anthony watches as various joggers pass them by, absently sipping his hot chocolate. New York weather at this time of year is indecisive, and today it is even more so. While the day promised them warm sun and an okay weather, they stepped out of the hotel to biting winds and a weather that’s threatening snow.

“What do you want to do with the rest of our time here?” Ian asks, putting his drink beside him and rubbing his palms together.

(Not: what do you want to do when we go back to LA?)

Anthony shakes his head.

Another sip of the hot chocolate.

“I don’t know.”

There are limits to what they can talk about here. Even while in a (mostly) quiet space, there’s always the possibility that someone’s watching, or that someone’s approaching. By now, making sure their tracks are covered has become second-nature to both of them.

Here they are, older and more experienced and maybe, just maybe, a little more jaded. Not more mature, no, but jaded, the way people who hope for the best and are constantly disappointed tend to be.

The problem with him is he’s never learned.

He’s supposed to have figured things out by now. To be fair, there’s a lot of things he’s supposed to have figured out by now, but this, especially, is at the top of the list.

(Some days, it’s the entire list.)

Thing is, they’ve fallen into a familiar pattern, an infinite loop filled with things they shouldn’t be doing. Goodbye has stopped being final and started being temporary. Love has stopped being a feeling and started being a label. Betrayal has stopped being filthy and started being pure.

Truth is, Anthony’s been feeling like this for a while, like he’s in front of the camera filming another Smosh video with Ian even when he’s not. Try and try again, right? Do a take, do another take, do as many takes as you need until you get the shot you want.

(Kiss Ian. Kiss Ian again. Kiss Ian again and again until you feel like you’ve managed to tell him through actions what you really feel.)

Lather, rinse, repeat.

“Let’s do something new.” Ian bites his lip. “Let’s do something interesting.”

Anthony raises his eyebrows. “Ideas?”

“Touristy shit,” Ian says, with the determination of a man walking to his death sentence.

Anthony laughs, a surprised burst of sound. “You don’t have to sound so pained about it, man.”

Ian shrugs. It’s his go-to reaction for everything, these days. “Technically, I don’t have to do anything.”

Anthony snorts. He shakes his head and grabs his drink. “Don’t get philosophical on me.”

“Okay, how about this?” Ian asks, turning in his seat to look at Anthony. “Breakfast, then touristy shit. We can even go to the Empire State Building.”

“Why the Empire State Building?”

“I don’t know,” Ian says, voice quiet. “I’ve never been there. Figured now is as good a time as any.”

Anthony smiles. Ian never did like going to touristy places. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to go there.”

“I know,” Ian says, meeting Anthony’s gaze. “And yet I’m asking.”

It feels like a privilege, somehow.

Maybe it is.

   Breakfast goes like this:

A table near the back of the small café they found near Central Park, an order of blueberry pancakes for Anthony and an order of eggs and bacon for Ian, quiet conversations lost in the din of other people’s conversations.

Breakfast is the two of them sitting on the same side of a small, secluded booth, knees touching under the table and their fingers intertwined while they wait for their meals. Breakfast is soft, secretive smiles shared over large plates of freshly-cooked food, their casual conversations ranging in topics from their press tour to the weirdest Youtube video they’ve seen lately.

The Empire State Building trip goes like this:

Overpriced tickets bought from a random person on the sidewalk, heading into the lobby and immediately avoiding all the tourists trying to get their pictures taken in front of the Empire State Building replica, walking into the elevator with a crowd of people and ignoring the desire to hold each other’s hand while no one is watching.

The Empire State Building trip is getting to the top deck and watching Ian take multiple pictures of the New York skyline, is giving in and asking a stranger to take a picture of the two of them, is not bothering to resist the urge to put his arm around Ian’s shoulder while their photo is being taken.

It’s not anything new, at least for Anthony. He’s gone to the Empire State Building plenty of times before, and breakfast has always been uneventful for him. There’s something about experiencing both with Ian, however, that makes everything feel brand new to him.

This is the acting out of a fantasy.

Anthony looks at Ian, looks at the appreciative expression on his face, the awed smile gracing his lips, the way the wind is ruffling Ian’s hair into slight disarray, and knows he would take him everywhere, if only he were allowed.

Tokyo, London, Paris.

(What would it feel like to be alone with him somewhere else?)

   This is wrong.

Anthony wants to believe that he’s never deluded himself into thinking what they’re doing is right, but at this point, he’s not entirely sure anymore. Too often he tries to justify actions despite the consequences.

They’re back in Ian’s hotel room, hands wandering as they blindly lead each other to the bed by the lips. Ian’s hands are pools of fire on Anthony’s skin as Ian tries to remove Anthony’s shirt without pulling away from his lips. Anthony raises his arms to help Ian out, immediately leaning forward and capturing Ian’s lips into a kiss that speaks of (too much) emotion when Ian finally has his shirt in his hand.

From there on, everything is a blurry mess.

Ian kisses his way down Anthony’s neck, reverent, like he’s marking parts of Anthony to prove to himself he still has this, no matter what. He keeps on his way until he reaches Anthony’s nipple, dusty rose and peaked from arousal, and takes it into his mouth without warning.

Anthony releases a breathy exhale and brings his hands to Ian’s head, trying to keep him where he is. He feels a line of heat go straight down his spine and pool in his lower belly.

Ian pulls back, only to lavish attention onto Anthony’s other nipple.

Pushing through the haziness in his mind, Anthony directs them both to the bed and falls down onto it without any sort of grace, pulling Ian down with him. Ian pulls back from his torso and takes a minute to just stay there, on top of him, looking at him like he’s something precious, and Anthony finds that he’s more breathless now from a look than he was before from actual contact.

There’s something about Ian, he thinks as he takes Ian’s shirt off with Ian’s help. There’s something about how he can look at you in that way he has and remind you of just how much you mean to him.

(Is that how he looks at Pam, too?)

“I’ve missed you,” Anthony admits, his hands roaming up until they’re both on Ian’s bony shoulders. His skin has always been smooth, Anthony belatedly thinks, despite the fact that he’s never been a fan of lotion. He lets his thumbs rest in the small dip between Ian’s shoulder and collarbone. “I’ve missed this.”

Anthony watches as Ian removes his right hand from the bed, raising it to remove Anthony’s hand from his shoulder and bringing it to his lips. His mouth a little dry, Anthony swallows as he feels the soft warmth of Ian’s lips against the back of his hand.

It’s a chaste kiss and nothing more.

Amazing, how much a simple action like that can make Anthony feel so much.

As soon as Ian lets go of Anthony’s hand, Anthony leans up and kisses him, lips immediately sliding against eager lips, a kiss that cannot be called as chaste as the one Ian just pressed against the back of his hand. He feels his eyes slip closed the moment Ian’s lips open to let his tongue in, feels a moan growing in the back of his throat as Ian’s tongue curls against his, feels that moan slip out when he feels Ian’s hand slip to the back of his neck to hold him steadily against him.

Hands moving downward, Anthony lets out a shaky moan when he feels Ian through his pants. Anthony pulls away from the kiss in an effort to get Ian’s belt unbuckled, but his effort immediately goes to waste when Ian moves in and starts kissing down his neck, his mouth hot and moist against Anthony’s skin. Anthony curls his hands into fists and closes his eyes, feeling that almost unbearable line of heat zap down his spine and pool in his groin.

Letting out a sigh, Anthony uncurls his hands and presses them against Ian’s crotch. Ian lets out a quiet sigh, his hot breath making goosebumps erupt on Anthony’s skin.

One simple touch.

Concentrating to the best of his ability, Anthony opens his eyes and manages to unbuckle Ian’s belt after a few tries, his hands slightly shaking as Ian continues his way down the side of Anthony’s neck. It’s not too long before he has Ian’s jeans unbuttoned. He’s about to go and unzip Ian’s jeans when Ian sucks a hickey an inch above his nipple and lights his nerve endings on fire.

His hands go slack and his eyes slip closed. “Fuck, Ian,” he half-stuttered, voice broken and just this side of gravel-rough. Ian moves even lower, capturing his nipple in his mouth, and Anthony’s hands fly up to grip Ian’s hips, unyielding underneath his fingers. He arches up, eager to chase the sweet heat of Ian’s mouth, and his mouth falls open in a silent groan when he inadvertently presses against Ian’s groin.

“Shit,” Ian breathes out against Anthony’s skin, no doubt having felt the same thing Anthony just felt, that pool of immense heat in his lower belly, that teasing brush of hard heat against hard heat.

It feels almost unbearable, the constricting tightness of his own underwear against his erection, and Anthony suddenly feels like this is too slow, like there is a time for passion that takes its time, and that is not now.

Now is supposed to be moving against each other with wild abandon, rough kisses marking its territory in sensitive spots only the two of them will be able to see in these few days they have together, short fingernails raking down each other’s back and leaving thin lines of redness nonetheless. Now is frantic and easy and taking pleasure as freely as it is given.

Holding Ian in his arms more securely, Anthony turns until he’s on top, until he’s looking down and seeing Ian looking gorgeously debauched against rumpled white sheets, his hair ruffled beyond any hope of salvaging, his lips kiss-sore and his torso stained with handprints.

This is a painter’s wet dream, Anthony belatedly thinks as he settles on Ian’s lap and moves forward to feel his own denim-clad groin brush against Ian’s. Too bad Ian is all his.

(Or is he?)

Eager to push away the thought before it can fully form in his head, Anthony unzips Ian’s jeans with unhesitating fingers, pulling down his jeans when Ian lifts his hips up to help him. He leaves the jeans pooled around Ian’s ankles, letting Ian remove them himself by wiggling his legs, and zeroes in instead on the wet spot on Ian’s black boxer-briefs, his cock clearly outlined by the fabric.

Anthony watches as Ian captures his bottom lip with his teeth, biting down before letting go. Anthony leans in until his nose is just barely brushing against that wet spot on Ian’s boxer-briefs, until he has Ian’s legs bracketing the sides of him. For a few seconds, he lets himself just breathe in and out slowly, Ian’s scent so much stronger and headier where Anthony is.

Teasing is half the point here, anyway.

From the corners of his eyes, Anthony can see the minute shaking of Ian’s thighs, tense with anticipation. Smiling to himself, Anthony moves in and licks right around the wet spot, where the head of Ian’s cock should be beneath the opaque fabric. Almost immediately, Ian bucks up against him with wild abandon, and Anthony places his hands on Ian’s thighs, gripping them tight in an effort to minimize movement.

Ian’s fingers slide into Anthony’s hair, and Anthony lets out an open-mouthed groan against Ian’s crotch.

“Fuck, Anthony,” Ian stutters out, gripping Anthony’s hair tighter when Anthony leans back in and licks a stripe up his cock. “Come on, please.”

There’s something about hearing his name come out of Ian’s lips like this, Anthony thinks. There’s something about how Ian stutters out Anthony’s name, breathy and low, like a filthy confession. Anthony doesn’t hear him moan out his name enough, in his opinion, but there’s nothing to be done about that.

(Is that how he moans out Pam’s name too?)

Anthony drags in a sharp breath and viciously reaches up and tugs Ian’s boxer-briefs down.

He’s not going to think about that (today). This is for him and Ian. No one else.

As he continues dragging Ian’s boxer-briefs down his legs, he lets the knuckles of his curled fingers skim down Ian’s skin in a teasing caress. When he finally gets Ian’s underwear off, he takes a moment to press a gentle kiss to Ian’s ankle, smiling when he sees Ian’s toes curl, before moving back up and capturing Ian’s mouth in a kiss.

Ian’s tongue curls against Anthony’s, and he feels lightning shoot through his veins, feels another moan bubble up his throat. His skin feels too tight and too loose at the same time, somehow.

Anthony’s head feels light. It may be because of the lack of breath in his lungs, yes, but then again, it may be because of something else. Like Ian’s hands, for example, the way they’re steadily making their way down until they’re just above Anthony’s cock, his thumb a mere inch from the head, or Ian’s tongue, clever as it twists and curls and explores every single nook and cranny in Anthony’s mouth.

Opening his eyes—at what point did he even close them, he wonders—Anthony reaches down and unbuckles his own belt, mouth slipping against Ian’s until their shared kisses are as messy as the sheets they’re on. The moment he has his jeans unzipped, he feels Ian’s hands against his still-clothed cock, hot and teasing and not even remotely enough.

Anthony breathes out against Ian’s mouth, his eyes slipping closed as Ian’s hand cups him through his boxer-briefs.

Ian pulls away from Anthony’s mouth just enough so he can press kisses up Anthony’s cheek until he reaches Anthony’s ear. “I’ve missed this too,” he whispers, soft lips brushing against the shell of Anthony’s ear. “I’ve missed you too.”

He presses a kiss to Anthony’s ear, chaste, and it should be weird, but it really isn’t. Instead, Anthony feels a little ticklish, a sensation that is quickly forgotten when Ian moves down to suck a hickey on Anthony’s neck, just below his earlobe.

Completely lost in the sensation of Ian’s lips against his skin, Anthony nearly forgets about Ian’s hands on his erection, at least until he realizes that one of Ian’s hands has wriggled itself into his boxer-briefs, clever fingers touching his cock in an almost-reverent manner, feather-light.

“Jesus, Ian,” he breathes out, head bowing down as he succumbs to the pleasure. His skin feels on fire.

Too soon, Ian removes his hand from Anthony’s boxer-briefs, and for one moment, Anthony finds himself bereft. That is, until he realizes that Ian removed his hands so he can help Anthony undress. The moment he feels Ian tug down his underwear and jeans, he sits up all the way so he can do it himself, too impatient.

When he falls back down on top of Ian, skin sliding against sweaty skin, it feels right. Ian’s body is an oasis against the flame that Anthony can feel consuming his being.

“Fuck,” Anthony breathes out when he accidentally moves against Ian, their cocks brushing. Beneath him, Ian is flushed, his eyes tightly closed as his mouth opens in a silent moan.

He doesn’t know what it is that makes him think. Maybe it’s the way Ian looks against the sheets, a wet dream consisting of pale skin and dark red fingerprints, or maybe it’s just the way everything feels, raw and tender even as they’re both impatient for completion. He doesn’t know what it is, but the thought comes to his mind anyway, unbidden.

(What would it be like to have this in his own bed, in his own house, instead of an anonymous hotel?)

Ian chases the thought away by bucking up, purposefully rubbing against Anthony. “Shit,” he mutters, eyes opening when he bucks up once more. “Fuck, Anthony, please.”

With an amount of self-restraint that surprises him, Anthony stays where he is, unmoving even though every single nerve ending is begging him to move, Goddamn it, just move, until his entire body is slick with sweat, until his cock is rubbing insistently against Ian’s, until he can hear Ian utter his name once more in a broken moan. “Please what?” Anthony asks, struggling to remain cool, his abdomen quivering from the effort it takes to remain still.

Ian watches him, and despite the fact that his irises are nothing more than a thin rim of dark, stormy blue around dilated pupils, Anthony can tell that he’s planning something, can tell that there’s a gleam in those eyes, the way they do when Ian thinks of something mischievous.

Anthony feels Ian’s hands grip his waist, tight and unyielding, and has to struggle to rein in a groan. One hand moves until it is flat on Anthony’s back, his touch like a searing brand on Anthony’s skin.

Slowly, oh so slowly, Ian pushes down, and Anthony follows, leaning down until there’s barely any space between their chests, close enough that their chests brush against each other with every heaving breath.

“Please what?” Ian whispers against his ears, lips brushing his ear as he carefully enunciates each word. “Is that what you’re asking, Anthony?”

Anthony gives a slight nod, anticipation making him feel more jittery than he appears. He wants to know what Ian will do next. This has turned into a game, somehow, and it feels like Ian’s about to win.

He’s okay with that, he finds.

(There’s not much he wouldn’t do for Ian, at this point.)

“Well, here’s what I want,” Ian continues, unaware of the thoughts running through Anthony’s mind. “I want you to move against me with intent. I want you to stop teasing me. I want you to leave marks on me. I want you to use me, Anthony, in the best way possible.” He bites lightly on Anthony’s earlobe, tugging it softly before letting go. “Please.”

And just like that, Anthony loses it. He feels electricity run down his spine, feels precum spurt out as Ian’s words ring in his ears.

His hips move, and Anthony throws his head back, liquid heat running through his veins as he feels that brief contact with Ian’s cock. He moves again, making sure to open his eyes this time, and his effort is quickly rewarded. Underneath him, Ian is half-lidded with pleasure, bottom lip caught by his teeth in an effort to reduce the moans coming out of his mouth.

Anthony moves again, viciously, chasing that sweet hot pleasure-pain. “I want to hear you.” He adjusts his hands on the bed to allow himself better leverage. “Come on, Ian.”

Ian releases his bottom lip and immediately gasps when he feels Anthony move against him. His fingers grip Anthony even tighter, urging him to move against him faster, harder, with more abandon, until they’re both coming apart and coming together. He trails one hand up to press against a hardened nipple, smiling when Anthony moans.

“Shit,” Anthony breathes out. He feels drunk, almost, feels lightheaded and warm all over, feels like he’s on the very edge and that the slightest push will send him tumbling over into depths unknown. Panting, he removes one hand from the bed and wraps it around Ian’s cock, easily moving up and down using Ian’s slick. Beneath him, Ian is vibrating with tension, his head thrown back on the white pillows and his mouth deliciously open, sinfully red and gleaming with saliva.

“Fuck, Anthony, ah,” Ian groans, voice gravel-rough.

His name coming out from Ian’s mouth like that feels like something holy.

(He wants to make him scream his name out like a proclamation.)

With a clever twist of the wrist just underneath the head of Ian’s cock, Anthony pushes Ian further up at the edge. Underneath him, Ian is a mess, his head turning back and forth as if he can’t quite decide where he wants to settle, or if he even wants to settle, for that matter.

As revenge, perhaps, Ian removes his hand from Anthony’s nipple and reaches down to hold Anthony’s cock instead, his grip just this side of too-tight, the way he knows Anthony likes it. Ian’s hand around him feels hot and heavy and not enough, and his own hand falters on Ian’s cock before resuming its up and down motion, eager to make Ian tumble to the edge before he does.

Anthony reaches down with his other hand and cups Ian’s balls in his hand lightly, enjoying the soft groans coming out of Ian’s mouth as Anthony feels the warm weight of his balls in his hand. He tries to ignore his own building pleasure, focusing instead on the way his thumb teases the tip of Ian’s cock with every upward stroke of his hand, but it gets harder and harder to focus the longer Ian keeps up with his steady strokes. It’s harder and harder to maintain his position as well, his abdomen tensed up as he braces himself over Ian using only one arm, and every time Ian pumps his hand around him, he feels himself quiver and lose just a little more control.

“Come on, Anthony,” Ian pants out, “let go for me.”

Anthony grits his teeth. “You first.”

He doesn’t know why it’s suddenly so important to him that Ian comes apart first. After all, it’s not like this is a competition he needs to win. There is no prize and there is no punishment. There’s only him and Ian and this, a memory that they can never talk about again, borne in secrecy and betrayal.

(So why the challenge?)

It’s control, he thinks. He needs to feel like he knows what’s going to happen, needs to feel like he’s not just stuck in a train wreck he can foresee but not avoid.

In the end, it’s him who comes first. Ian’s hand is perfectly rough around him, the pressure of his thumb swiping the pre-come across the head of his cock with every upstroke too intense for Anthony to bear. He comes with his head thrown back and a shaky groan rumbling through his throat, his hand slack on Ian’s cock, his nerve endings buzzing with what feels like electricity.

When the heat finally dissipates, Anthony opens his eyes and resumes stroking Ian up and down, his eyes never leaving Ian’s face. Ian letting go of himself has always been a kind of beauty Anthony can never hope to replicate, and he’s not missing his chance to see that now. Beneath him, Ian is a sweaty mess, his head tilted on his pillow and his mouth open in a constant stream of profanity. His hands are clenching and unclenching on the sheets.

He’s gorgeous.

Another twist of the wrist, and Ian is gone, flung over the edge. He comes with Anthony’s name on his lips, white streaking across his sweaty abdomen.

Anthony falls to Ian’s side, his chest still heaving as he tries to breathe as evenly as he can.

When his heart rate is back to normal, Anthony turns his head to find Ian looking at him intently, like he’s trying to figure out a puzzle with missing pieces.

“What is it?” Anthony asks, his voice soft.

Ian shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

In response, Ian smiles at him, fond, and moves his hand. He entwines his fingers with Anthony, and Anthony feels his heart lurch in his chest.

“I’m sure,” he says, and Anthony believes him.

   The feeling of soft sheets around him, the feeling of a warm body against his back, the feeling of a hand curled almost possessively around his stomach.

(home?)

Anthony sighs, content, and shifts, not quite leaving the embrace.

(depends.)

He opens his eyes slowly, eager to revel in the stillness of the moment, this pocket of relative peace they have somehow managed to save for themselves. Beside him, Ian sleeps soundly, his head bent toward Anthony, his breathing coming out slow and steady.

(Home is such a funny concept.)

Sleep-warm and truly relaxed for what feels like the first time in ages, Anthony feels no desire to leave the bed, much less leave Ian’s side. Instead, he shifts and turns on his side to curl an arm around Ian’s waist, smiling when he sees Ian burrow into him even closer.

Ian is affectionate in his sleep, and Anthony lets himself have this. He doesn’t see Ian like this enough, after all.

The white sheets are bunched around their lower backs. The cool air of the A/C is refreshing against his bare skin, but Ian doesn’t seem to agree, if the way he’s constantly shifting and curling up against him is any indication. Anthony watches as the sheet slips down, down, down, until Ian moves once more and the white sheet exposes a bony hip, milky white except for a spot where Anthony’s fingers left small bruises.

Ian shivers, and Anthony carefully raises his arm and grabs the white sheet, bringing it up to cover Ian’s chest. He’s careful not to wake Ian up, wanting to let him have his rest, but he seems to have failed, because when he puts his arm back around Ian’s waist, Ian’s eyes slowly open. Anthony watches as sleepy confusion gives way to alert understanding, watches as a yawn turns into a fond smile.

“Hey,” Ian whispers into the small space between them. “Good morning.”

It’s hard to describe in words just how peaceful this entire moment is. Anthony doesn’t even know where to begin, if he were asked to describe this. Then again, he has never been the writer between the two of them—that’s always been Ian.

If he were asked to paint a picture of this moment for others to experience, where would he start?

Would he start with the way the sunlight, though blocked by the heavy hotel curtains, casts a welcome glow in the room? The way the New York traffic seems distant this high up? The way everything feels like background noise compared to the intimate silence they have right here, in this bed?

Or would he start with what he can see in the hotel room? Would he start with their clothes, haphazardly arranged in various areas of the room? Or would he start with the way their belongings are mixed in their temporary home the way their lives are intertwined in a knot they can never hope to untangle?

What would Anthony pay attention to?

(Ian. It’s always Ian. It’s always going to be Ian.)

He would start with Ian, he thinks. He would start with the way Ian’s arm around his waist is a solid, comforting weight, the way Ian’s skin is soft against his, the way Ian’s smile is fond and indescribably happy. He would start with the way Ian is pressed close against him, comfortable and safe, his body free of tension and his face free of worry.

He would start with his eyes, vividly blue and open, trusting, he thinks, or maybe his smile, easy and content, a gentle curve upwards that conveys more than words can ever hope to convey.

He would start with the way he feels for him, the way a simple smile can get his heart racing, the way a simple touch can get his nerve endings sizzle with heat.

“Good morning,” Anthony replies, smiling when he feels Ian’s arm tighten around him.

Is this what Pam wakes up to every morning?

A stab of jealousy makes Anthony’s heart jump in his chest.

He’s not going to think of that. He doesn’t have the right to be jealous, after all. He gave up his claim on Ian when he didn’t meet him in Sacramento all those months ago.

Ian yawns, his eyes closing and his nose scrunching in a way that makes Anthony think, adorable.

“What do you want to do today?” Ian asks, shifting even closer. At this point, it’s frankly surprising that there’s any space left between them, what with the amount of times Ian has moved closer to Anthony and vice versa. “Our flight’s tomorrow morning. We should make today count.”

Anthony’s heart sinks as he thinks about their flight the next morning. He tries not to let it show on his face, however, because this is supposed to be a peaceful moment, not one that is filled with heartbreak and thoughts about whether or not they’ve covered up the events of these past few days well enough that they can go (home) to their girlfriends and convincingly lie.

Now is not the time for worrying. That’s for later. Now is the time to enjoy his last day (alone) with Ian for the foreseeable future.

(Or ever, he thinks. He sees the way Ian looks when he opens his phone and sees his wallpaper—a picture of him and Pam under an umbrella with his arm around her. The sight of it makes Ian’s face shut down with guilt and regret. The sight of it makes Anthony want to punch something.)

Anthony hums in agreement, trying to be as nonchalant as possible. “What do you want to do? I’m down for anything.”

Ian smiles, closes his eyes in contentment. “I don’t know,” he says, settling under the covers, “but for now, I think I’d rather stay here.”

I’d rather stay here, too, Anthony thinks, but doesn’t say.

(There’s no use in saying things that have already been heard.)

“That’s new,” Anthony says, smiling. “Usually, you’re the one who’s pulling me out of bed to get breakfast.”

Ian opens his eyes. “I never pull you out of bed and you know it.” He shakes his head as much as he can while still lying down. “You’re the weird one in the relationship who insists on running in the morning. If anything, you pull me out of bed.”

Trying to ignore the goosebumps forming on his skin when he hears Ian say “relationship”, Anthony moves forward and presses a kiss to the tip of Ian’s nose, chaste and simple. A kiss freely given without any expectation of something more. “Yeah, well,” he says, pulling back, “you pull me into bed, so we should be even at this point.”

That smile again, sweet and fond. “You pull me out of bed more than I pull you into bed,” Ian protests half-heartedly. “That’s not equality.”

“Okay,” Anthony begins, voice soft, “so how are we going to solve this problem, then?” He moves his arm from where it is curled almost possessively around Ian’s waist so he can run his fingers down Ian’s bare back. “Do you have any suggestions? Maybe you should pull me out of bed for a change.”

A low chuckle erupts from Ian’s throat. “Or maybe you should pull me into bed instead,” he says, joking.

Anthony lets a grin slowly appear on his face. “Maybe,” he says, shrugging. He sees the pleased look on Ian’s face morph into something slightly more serious and a lot more knowing, and he allows himself to smirk even as he tries to say his next words in the driest tone possible. “I mean,” he says, only just barely managing not to laugh outright, “equality is important, yeah?”

Another smile. This time, it’s knowing and not at all chaste, accompanied by devious eyes and hands that are starting to wander. “You’re right,” Ian concedes, nodding toward him even as he has his head on the pillow. He turns and Anthony turns with him, his arm around Anthony’s waist shifting so he can settle on top of Anthony and support himself with his hands on either side of Anthony’s head.

The sheet has slipped. Anthony shivers, feeing the cool hotel room air on his bare skin, but he doesn’t mind. He likes this.

Ian bends down to press a kiss to the side of Anthony’s neck. “We have time, right?” he whispers.

I don’t know, Anthony thinks. I’m starting to think that we don’t.

“Yes,” he lies, breathy, his hands curling into fists and crumpling the bedsheets as Ian’s hot mouth comes in contact with sensitive skin. This close to their departure, Ian can’t leave marks. They both know this. He toys with the idea of letting him leave one anyway.

(What would Miel think when she sees the marks? Will she immediately assume the worst?)

Ian pulls away so he can press a kiss to Anthony’s lips, tongue delving in and curling against Anthony’s own tongue.

(Will she immediately assume it’s Ian who left the mark there?)

Gasping, Anthony barely notices it when Ian pulls away from the kiss and makes his way down, down, down, until he’s under the sheets and his head is only just visible from under the white cotton. Anthony feels his hands, light and careful, as they caress Anthony’s inner thighs before pushing them outward, undoubtedly exposing his hot length to him.

Anthony feels Ian’s hot breath against the tip of his quickly hardening cock.

Oh God.

   It’s nearly time for lunch when they (finally) manage to get themselves out of bed.

They make a point not to follow each other into the bathroom, knowing all too well that they will never get to leave the hotel room if they give in to temptation. Instead, Anthony goes and showers first, taking the time to scrub himself clean, before wrapping a soft white hotel-provided towel around his waist and exiting the bathroom to Ian’s approving gaze.

Sometimes, he imagines what it would be like to end things with Miel the way he ended things with Kalel.

(End relationships for Ian the way he would do anything else—everything else—for Ian.)

It will be hard. Their fans will almost certainly be divided on the issue. It will be his second failed relationship in five years.

But then, the traitorous part of his mind thinks, think of the possibilities.

Getting out of the shower to find Ian’s gaze on him like that, happy and disbelieving that he gets to have this—have Anthony—every single day. Anthony thinks of early morning lie-ins and kisses shared in the privacy of their own bedroom, freely exchanged without having to think about the consequences or the lies and alibis they’re both going to have to make up for when they get back.

No more lies.

It could be so easy.

For a moment, Anthony is frozen where he stands. It’s a beautiful scene in his mind, but that’s all it is—a scene. A fantasy.

The thought slips away like a wisp of smoke and he lets it go without a fight.

Ian walks into the bathroom, smiling at him fondly, unaware of the thoughts running through his head. The door closes behind him.

Anthony lets out a shaky breath.

He needs to end this.

(It will hurt in a way no other break-up has ever hurt him before despite the fact that this, whatever the hell this is, is not a relationship, no matter how much he wants it to be—)

When Ian gets out of the bathroom, Anthony’s dressed except for his jacket. He’s slowly folding and refolding his clothes, trying to figure out how to make them fit back into his suitcase.

“Packing already?” Ian asks, holding one small towel up to dry his hair.

Anthony hums under his breath in affirmation. “Might as well get started.” Anthony makes the mistake of looking up from the pair of jeans he’s trying in vain to fold properly to look at Ian, and for a few moments, he finds himself unable to speak. He feels his breath catch in his throat.

Ian’s bare chest is exposed to the chilly air of the hotel room. His nipples are hard from the cold, and Anthony watches as a stray drop of water makes its way down Ian’s neck and chest, until it reaches the edge of the white towel wrapped around Ian’s own waist.

Anthony swallows past the lump in his throat and forces himself to tear his eyes away from Ian’s half-naked body and focus on the pair of jeans in his hands. “We both know I’m probably going to wake up ten minutes before we’re supposed to leave the hotel tomorrow, so.”

Ian laughs. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, walking to where his own suitcase is opened on the floor by the nightstand. “I should probably start packing too.”

“You have time,” Anthony says, resisting the urge to look up. He hears the distinctive sound of Ian’s towel hitting the floor, and he has to wet his suddenly dry mouth before he can speak again. “You actually get up when your alarm sounds, unlike me. Plus, we still have tonight.”

“True,” Ian says, sounding distracted. Anthony sneaks a look and finds him bent over his suitcase, presumably looking for a clean pair of jeans. His ass is clothed in a tight pair of black boxer-briefs, and Anthony can’t quite look away.

Anthony clears his throat. “Maybe we shouldn’t leave the room today,” he suggests, his gaze back on the pair of jeans he still hasn’t folded properly. It’s starting to crease worse in between his hands, the dark fabric looking worn out despite only being worn once during the entire trip.

“Shouldn’t?” Ian asks, standing up straight.

Anthony meets his gaze. “Couldn’t,” he corrects. “Maybe we could just stay in.”

“We already stayed in this morning,” Ian says, shrugging into a short-sleeved polo and buttoning it up. “We should probably get used to being seen in public again.”

It is: a reminder.

(It is: as close to a rejection as Ian will ever give him.)

“Yeah, you’re right,” Anthony says, sighing as he gives up on the pair of jeans and folds it the improper way. He can’t quite manage to be calm, however, and he ends up jamming the pair of jeans into his already too-full suitcase, his anger and frustration just barely restrained by his willpower.

“Hey.”

Anthony looks up. His jaw is tightened and his entire body is tensed beyond belief.

“What’s wrong?” Ian asks, finally finishing buttoning up his shirt and moving to where Anthony is standing by the other side of the bed.

“This!” Anthony shouts, hand carelessly flying out to encompass everything in the room. “I hate this! I hate what we’ve become, Ian. I hate that we have to hide everything. I hate that whenever we’re somewhere else I’d rather stay in than actually go out and see the sights because we have no privacy. I hate that I can’t hold your hand in public, much less kiss you in public, without having someone proclaim to the rest of the world what we’re doing, never mind the fact that it’s okay.” At the end of it all, Anthony is gasping, struggling to take in air, and for a few moments, he takes his time breathing, uneager to have another panic attack. Eventually, Anthony takes in a deep breath and says what he’s been thinking for longer than he can remember. “I’m sorry. I just—I wish things were different.”

Beside him, Ian is waiting, as patient as always. He’s as steady as a rock even as he watches Anthony fall apart, silent as he waits for his turn to speak.

“I wish things were different too, Anthony,” Ian says, voice soft, “but Anthony, you chose this. Not me.”

(You chose this. Not me.)

Here is a list of things Anthony has chosen:

-       An invitation to a party in 2010

-       A phone number from a girl named Kalel

-       A chance to move away from Sacramento to live in LA

-       An engagement ring

-       Two tickets to Tokyo

-       A kind of commitment he wasn’t really sure he was ready for

And here’s another:

-       A break-up with a fiancée for the chance to live a life wholly different from what he had planned when he proposed

-       A conversation with a friend (lover) about the possibility of them being together, freely and without fear of being discovered, for the first time in what feels like forever

-       A meeting time and place as confirmation that they both want this

-       A deliberate ignorance of the time and date, resulting in him not going to Sacramento.

And yet another:

-       A relationship with another wonderful girl who makes him laugh almost as loud as his lover (friend) can

-       An agreement made in secrecy to meet each other in the dark during trips away from home

-       A kiss to seal the deal

-       An abundance of lies to cover up the sins

-       A trip away from home to promote an upcoming movie

-       Stolen glances and moments, like holding hands in a crowded elevator or kissing each other senseless in a hotel room they’re not supposed to be sharing in a random New York hotel

And there are too many things he’s chosen for himself, too many escape routes he’s made but never used, and isn’t there a saying about how hindsight is 20/20?

“You’re right,” Anthony finally says, defeated. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped. That’s—that’s not your fault.”

(It’s mine, he doesn’t say, because he knows Ian hears it though it is unspoken.)

Ian gives him a tight-lipped smile. “I’m sorry too.” Before Anthony can respond that Ian has nothing to be sorry for, Ian sits down on the bed, bouncing a little bit before finally stopping. “Do you realize that this is how it always ends?”

Anthony sits down. He’s not quite close enough to be touching Ian, but his hand, from where it is placed palm-down on the bedspread beside him, is mere inches away from Ian’s own hand. He wants to hold Ian’s hand in his, but at this point, he’s not entirely sure if he’s allowed, much less welcomed.

“What do you mean?”

“This,” Ian says, gesturing to the two of them with the hand that isn’t near Anthony. “The two of us. When the time is running out, it’s always like this. Tensions run high and we inevitably snap at each other.”

Anthony lets out a short, humorless laugh. “I snap at you and you take it, you mean.”

Ian shrugs. Anthony very carefully notes that he doesn’t quite disagree with him.

“I’m just saying,” Ian says, looking down. “Maybe this is why we didn’t work out. Why we wouldn’t work out.”

Anthony’s eyebrows rise. Ian has never suggested ending this weird agreement they have before.

He ignores the sharp stab of pain in his chest.

(Are you doing this for Pam?)

“You know what?” Anthony asks, his voice rising in pitch as he feels panic start to slowly but surely settle in the pit of his stomach, “you’re right. We should go outside today. We should be in publi—”

“—Anthony,” Ian interrupts, his voice soft but firm. “This was bound to happen sooner or later.”

And he’s not wrong. Anthony had expected this to happen sooner or later. But not once did he ever think Ian would be the one to break it off, not once did he ever even consider the possibility that Ian would ultimately be the one to change the rules—

And there it is again, a question in the back of his mind, something that cannot be ignored: why did he never think Ian would be the one to break it off?

He had trusted that Ian would remain the same, would be the patient lover and caring friend, letting Anthony call all the shots in the (selfish) way he had always done. Somewhere along the line, it had slipped from his head that Ian is human too, that there is bound to be a line somewhere that he himself has drawn, like a line in the sand created with the use of a twig, a demarcation between areas that neatly separate things into acceptable and unacceptable.

Hysteria starting to bubble in his throat like poison, Anthony stands up from the bed, palms curling into fists. “What do you want me to say?” he spits out, barely able to see past the frustration clouding his head. “Of course I knew that this was bound to happen sooner or later. I just—” Anthony looks up at the ceiling, unwilling to let his tears of frustration succumb to gravity. “I guess I just didn’t expect it to happen now,” he finally lets out, his voice whisper-soft and broken.

He doesn’t notice Ian, too wrapped up in his thoughts as he is. It comes as a surprise, then, when he feels Ian’s arms around him, enveloping him in warmth in the middle of Ian’s hotel room. His own hands are stock-still at his sides, tension running through his veins.

Slowly, the tension seeps out of him, and he allows himself to lean into Ian’s embrace, his own arms wrapping around Ian’s waist. He places his head on Ian’s shoulder.

“Do you really think we will never work out?” Anthony chokes out, not entirely sure if he even wants to hear Ian’s answer. “If we were together, I don’t think we’ll run out of time the way we do now.”

Ian’s voice is soft as he speaks close to Anthony’s ear. “What does it matter?” He pauses, before continuing. “You won’t let that happen anyway.”

The saddest thing is: he’s right.

   Lunch is a silent affair in a nearby Italian bistro with a large selection of vegan options on the menu.

Ian and Anthony are led by a petite waitress with dark brown skin and corkscrew curls down a narrow hallway to a booth near the back of the restaurant. It’s not quite as spacious as Anthony thought it would be, and beneath the table, his knees knock into Ian’s as they both take their seats on opposite sides of the table.

Smiling, the waitress leaves them be, assuring them that she will be back in just a few moments with a couple glasses of water and the menus.

Anthony finds that it is impossible to meet Ian’s eyes, much less talk to him. Here, they are basically guaranteed privacy—no one will be able to overhear their conversation over the loud din of the homey little bistro, provided they keep their voices soft—and yet Anthony finds that he wants anything but that, wanting the public eye to be attuned to their every move so that Anthony won’t suddenly blurt out things he’s not in his place to say, like are you doing this for Pam or do you love Pam the way you love me or I wish I chose you.

“Hey.”

Anthony looks up. Ian is looking at him with worry in his eyes, his eyebrows furrowed as he takes in Anthony’s form.

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” Anthony asks, sitting up straight on the table and looking at Ian. Somehow he knows they’re about to have another one of those talks, and it’s never a good idea to look down when they’re about to have an important conversation.

“That,” Ian says simply. “You don’t need to overthink everything, Anthony.”

Anthony shrugs. “It’s hard not to. You’re ending this.”

Before Ian can respond, the waitress—Naomi, her nametag says—comes back with two glasses of water, drops of condensation present on the glasses she holds in her hands. There’s one slice of lemon on the rim of each glass, precariously placed and bright compared to the color scheme of everything else.

“Here you go,” she says with a polite smile, handing Ian and Anthony the glasses of water. She removes two menus from under her arm, handing them off to Ian and Anthony. “Have you guys been here before?”

Anthony accepts the menu with a smile and looks at Ian. Ian is looking at the first inside page of the menu, and though Anthony himself hasn’t opened the menu, he knows Ian is looking at the appetizers.

Have you guys been here before?

(Ian’s 20th, when Anthony broke up with Ian, Anthony’s 27th when Anthony broke up with Kalel for Ian, Ian’s 29th when Ian broke up with Anthony for Pam—)

Do you realize that this is how it always ends?

“No,” Anthony finally chokes out, and he can see from the corner of his eyes that Ian is looking at him strange, but he doesn’t pay (too much) attention to that. Instead, he smiles at Naomi and says it again, “no, we haven’t been here before. What would you recommend?”

“I personally really like the stuffed mushrooms,” Naomi says, leaning over and pointing to the item on Anthony’s menu. “Our homemade bread is pretty fantastic too. Now, keep in mind, we do have vegan and gluten-free options for most items on the menu, so there’s that. So, what can I get for you?”

“Ah,” Anthony says, looking at the menu for a perfunctory glance before looking up and meeting Ian’s eyes. Truth be told, he doesn’t quite have the appetite to eat right now, but he’s not about to miss this just because he’s not hungry.

“Do you know what you want?” Ian asks, and it’s a question with the sort of ambiguity that Ian knows Anthony won’t miss.

Naomi, smiling and attentive, doesn’t know the second layer of the conversation only Ian and Anthony understand, doesn’t understand the double entendre in the question, and Anthony finds that he almost envies her for it.

You, Anthony doesn’t say. Instead, he says, “we’ll have to take a minute to look at the options.”

Naomi grins at them. “Okay, you guys take your time. I’ll be right back.”

Anthony can tell from the corner of his eyes that Ian is looking at him with that look again, the questioning one, the one that tells Anthony that Ian’s just as confused as him, if not more so.

“Listen,” Ian finally says, putting the menu away and placing his hands on the table, “we need to stop with the ambiguity, Anthony.”

“Do we?” Anthony asks, putting his own menu away. Though his voice is challenging, it is also soft, (too) aware as he is of the people around them. “You asked the question first, not me.”

He’s being petty.

(You don’t get to this point in your life without learning the art of being passive-aggressive.)

“Maybe you need to stop reading in between the lines,” Ian challenges.

Anthony snorts. “Maybe you need to stop thinking you know everything.”

“I never thought I did!” Ian whisper-shouts. “For fuck’s sake Anthony, don’t you notice that I let you make all the decisions? I never know what’s going on in your head. I know jack squat about what you have planned in there.”

This. This is why they fall apart.

(Constant. Perpetual. Unending. Like Groundhog Day, except instead of Bill Murray, there’s Ian and there’s Anthony and there’s whatever this is between them—)

Here it goes again.

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says, heartfelt. “I’m sorry for fucking up. I’m sorry for trying to blame this on you. I—you’re right. I end up making the decisions most of the time, and to be completely honest, I think it’s because you’ve been letting me decide for so long that I’ve just gotten used to it.” Anthony pauses. “I also think I’ve been making all the decisions because it scares me to finally hear you say no.”

“Like now?” Ian asks.

“Like now,” Anthony confirms. “Sometimes, I want to tell you to just give me a few moments to think about this, about—yeah. And I can’t blame you, you know? I’ve been thinking all this time, and I still haven’t chosen anything. And I can’t be mad at you for finally deciding for both of us. That’s not fair.”

Ian inhales deeply. He lets his breath out, and it sounds final. “It isn’t,” he agrees.

“I want to ask you to give me some more time,” Anthony continues, because now that he’s saying all this, he doesn’t think he can stop, “but I know that no matter how much time I get, my answer will still be the same for the foreseeable future. And that’s not fair to you. I can’t begrudge you wanting something more than that.” Anthony bows his head, letting his gaze linger on his hands, restless on the table. “But Christ, Ian, it’s—it hurts. And I know I should understand, and yeah, maybe to some degree I do, but it’s still painful, and I just. I don’t know.” Anthony takes a deep breath, then takes his time to release it. “I guess I just wish it didn’t have to end this way.”

With a careful hand, Ian raises Anthony’s jaw to make him meet his eyes. “You were never going to choose me,” Ian says, soft.

“I already have,” Anthony says, truthful, and there he is again, saying words that won’t help him but will hurt Ian, because he’s never been good at this sort of thing the way Ian is, has never been good at walking the fine line between speech and silence.

“That’s not enough,” Ian says, taking his hand back and placing it on the table. “Choosing me isn’t enough. You were never going to do anything about it.”

He sounds so sure. Anthony hates that he sounds so sure, because he’s (absolutely) right.

Choosing is easy if you don’t have to do anything but choose. Choice without commitment is meaningless.

(Choosing Ian, yet staying committed to Miel, choosing Miel, yet staying committed to Ian; where does one choice end and another begin?)

“I’m sorry,” Anthony says (again).

“You keep saying that,” Ian points out.

“That doesn’t make it any less true,” Anthony replies.

Ian sighs.

Naomi soon appears, her cheerful grin in place, and Anthony doesn’t even think about it, just goes and orders a random item from the menu. Ian orders the stuffed mushrooms for both of them and a lasagna for himself, and then Naomi is walking away from them once more.

“So that’s it, then?”

Ian shrugs. “That’s it.”

(This is how the world ends.)

Anthony takes a sip of his water.

(Not with a bang, but with a whimper.)

   After lunch, Ian and Anthony walk to the nearest subway station.

They end up in Chinatown.

There’s too many people in a too little space. Everyone’s minding their own business, too busy trying to get to wherever they’re trying to go to actually apologize when their elbows hit someone else on the street. There’s all kinds of people as well: businessmen in suits and college students with pastel-colored backpacks and Asian street vendors trying to sell cheap-looking iPhone cases and selfie sticks.

For a few moments, Anthony revels in the anonymity.

Then he realizes: he doesn’t need that anymore.

He and Ian are done with that. For all intents and purposes, they’re just friends now.

And the thing is, Anthony thinks as he absently avoids walking into a fire hydrant, he can’t even mourn this like a proper break-up.

No one knew. No one even suspected. He can’t mourn something that never officially existed.

This isn’t the kind of last day Anthony wanted, but there’s nothing else to be done. Ian’s right. They both knew this had to stop. It wasn’t like there was any other choice.

Ian ends up buying eggrolls at a small, yet packed, store in between a Chinese herb shop and a small fruit stand. Somehow, they both find themselves walking further down the road, the crowd thinning out until there’s actually room to breathe.

“You know,” Anthony says as he watches Ian bite into an eggroll, “this is what we talked about the last time, too.”

Ian raises a hand to wipe the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin. “What?”

Anthony shrugs. “I don’t know. I think we both talked about needing space.” He smiles, wan. “And yet we ended up in this situation anyway.”

Ian looks at him. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, I don’t know.” Anthony puts his hands in his pockets. “Maybe things aren’t as final as they seem. We seem to end up in the same situations. Maybe this,” he says, gesturing to the two of them with one hand, “is never really off the table.”

“Maybe,” Ian says, “or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.”

“Maybe,” Anthony concedes. “Even then, somehow I don’t think I’m the only one hoping.”

Ian lets out a humorless laugh. “You don’t have to hope. You could always just make a decision and commit,” he points out.

This is the closest Ian has ever come to actually pushing Anthony for a decision.

(Anthony has to wonder: is the reason why Ian never asks him to decide because he’s afraid of what Anthony’s decision might be?)

“You’re right. But as you’ve pointed out, we both know I won’t do that,” Anthony says, shrugging.

Ian hums under his breath in acquiescence.

Here they are in New York with its dirty side streets and its faceless crowd, walking with a respectable amount of distance between them, talking about why they fell apart (and how, when, where, etc.), standing in being the personification of the aftermath of a ruinous relationship.

They’ve been here before. They’ve gone through this time and time again. And though they’re supposed to know better, they never really do.

A few more steps, and then they decide to turn around and walk right back. Slowly but surely, the crowd starts to grow the nearer they get to the subway, various people going about their day.

“Didn’t you go here with Miel, once?” Ian asks, conversational. He finishes the eggroll and throws the wrapper onto a nearby pile of garbage.

Anthony shakes his head. “No,” he says after a moment. He supposes he should feel guilty for not thinking about Miel as much as he thinks he should as her boyfriend during this trip, but there are other, more important things to be guilty about. Like this, for example, or for the lies he’s about to tell her when he touches down at LAX.

Miel’s going to pick them up, is the thing. He’s going to have to hug and kiss her in front of Ian, going to have to lie to her while he can still feel the phantom pleasure-pain of the bruises Ian left on his body just a few days prior. He’s going to have to tell her he missed her and that he loves her, all the while knowing that Ian is watching and that Ian knows better.

And this—isn’t it supposed to alleviate the guilt?

Breaking up before anyone can find out about them—isn’t that the smart thing to do?

(But guilt isn’t a simple stain to be washed away with a break up and an apology, guilt isn’t a mistake erased by putting an end to a relationship the way a period ends a sentence, guilt isn’t forgotten and forgiven like petty crime—)

“Listen,” Ian says, looking at him, “I’m sorry. For ending it this way, I mean. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

It’s sincere.

Anthony doesn’t think he can take sincerity, at this point.

“No,” Anthony says, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t be. You were right. There was no other way to end it. And I hurt you more than you hurt me.”

Ian releases a shaky breath. “Maybe next time it will end better for us.”

Anthony’s eyebrows rise. “Are you saying there’s going to be a next time?”

Ian sighs. “Yes. No. Fuck, I don’t know.”

But no, there isn’t going to be a next time, Anthony thinks, despite wanting it. There isn’t going to be a next time, because when all this is over, they’ll probably end up avoiding each other, because after this trip, they’re both going to be (more) attentive to their girlfriends, because there’s an engagement ring in a black velvet box in Anthony’s suitcase and it isn’t, as much as he wants it to be, for Ian.

(He knows himself better than to think he will ever know better, remember?)

Their ride on the subway is a silent one, and when they’re finally in front of Ian’s hotel room, they’re both somehow even quieter.

It feels a little like goodbye, and they’re not even away from each other yet.

   “I think,” Ian says later, much later, when the sky outside Ian’s window is dark with only the glittering lights of New York City skyscrapers serving as a source of light and they’re both lying on Ian’s bed, on top of the sheets with the clothes they wore to Chinatown still on, “you should probably sleep in your own room tonight.”

Anthony doesn’t even try to fight it. “You’re right.” He looks at Ian, seated beside him with his head on Anthony’s shoulder. “Do you want me to go now?”

“No,” Ian says simply. He breathes in, deep, then exhales. “I want you to stay.”

Anthony inhales sharply. He places one hand on Ian’s head, fingers running through soft brown hair. “Do you know what you want?” he asks, because he didn’t get to before.

(Here they are, men on the cusp of being 30—)

Ian doesn’t reply. For a few moments, he breathes in and out, content to stay silent, and Anthony doesn’t press for an answer. Ian’s been patient all this time for him. He figures it’s time to offer him the same courtesy.

And anyway, this is peaceful. The calm after the storm. This is when they get to pick up the broken pieces of whatever they used to have in silence.

Anthony breathes in and out with Ian. Outside, New York moves on.

“I don’t think I do,” Ian finally says, his voice soft. It sounds like a confession he’s ashamed to be making. “I used to think I knew what I wanted, but I guess—I don’t know anymore. And that sucks, you know? Not knowing what you really want. I thought I would have gotten everything figured out by now.”

Ian has never been the type to talk about his feelings freely like this, but then again, Anthony has never been the type to cheat. He supposes there are exceptions to the rule for everyone.

“I don’t think you ever really figure it out,” Anthony says, tilting his head to lean against Ian’s on his shoulder.

Ian sighs. “This is why I’m a ‘go with the flow’ type of guy, I think.”

Anthony smiles. “Let life decide for you so you don’t have to?”

“Yeah.”

A few more moments pass in silence.

Anthony tries not to think about how by this time tomorrow, they’ll both be in their respective homes with their (respective) girlfriends. The day after that, they’re going to have to go back to their (old) dynamic of being (just) friends.

(Isn’t this what he signed up for?)

(No.)

This is where reality and fantasy blend, where Anthony gets to hoard memories before stepping into the real world once more, a world where Anthony can’t tell Ian just how much he loves him, or run his fingers through Ian’s hair just like this, or hold his hand in public, or kiss him in private.

You can always try having this in LA, a traitorous part of his mind suggests, and he sucks in a sharp breath. They could, yes, but the risk is too high and the consequences are too severe. There, anyone can see.

Please let me stay, he wants to ask, but no, that’s too dangerous. If he asks, he’s not sure if Ian will be able to say no. And right now, someone needs to say no for the both of them.

“I think,” Anthony begins, before pausing and clearing his throat. He tries again. “I think I’m going to propose to Miel.”

Beside him, Ian freezes. He is hesitant when he asks, “so soon?”

Anthony swallows past the lump in his throat. “I—yeah. I think so.”

(He sounds unsure. Truth is, he’s never sure of anything anymore, these days.)

“Okay,” Ian says. He starts to fully sit up, removing his head from Anthony’s shoulder, and Anthony sits up himself. Anthony’s hand falls away from Ian’s hair, and he puts it on his lap

This is Ian’s way of putting distance between them.

(There’s a saying about how distance makes the heart grow fonder—)

“Okay,” Ian says again. He’s looking down, his gaze firmly settled on his lap where his fingers are restlessly tapping an impossible beat against his clothed thighs. When he notices Anthony watching him carefully, he stops, his fingers going still. He places his hands palm down on his lap and looks up, eyes unreadable as he looks at Anthony. “I think you should go.”

(And haven’t they had this discussion before? Leave, stay, go, don’t go—)

“Yeah, I should.”

(And just a few nights ago: “I should leave.” “Yeah, you should.”)

Slowly, Anthony gets up from the bed, even as every nerve ending in his body is screaming at him not to go, not to leave things like this between them.

“One last thing,” Anthony blurts out.

“What?” Ian asks, confused.

Anthony walks around the bed to Ian’s side and leans down, pressing a firm kiss to Ian’s mouth with lips that don’t quite want to leave.

The uncertainty fades away when Ian starts to kiss back, his hand rising to cup Anthony’s head, his lips moving against Anthony’s own. Anthony feels Ian’s tongue touch the seam of his lips, asking for permission, and he moans his answer, his tongue meeting Ian’s as they curl against each other.

The need for air finally makes Anthony back away, one hand coming up to let his fingers rest on his bottom lip, plump and red and kiss-sore.

This doesn’t feel like a goodbye kiss.

It feels like a see-you-again kiss.

(Maybe it is.)

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Anthony says, soft.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Ian confirms.

   In the end, this is how it goes:

Breakfast is a stilted, entirely too formal affair in the lobby of the hotel, both of them entirely too aware of the people around them. Anthony gets a bowl of Cheerios with almond milk. Ian makes himself a little waffle and smothers it in syrup.

They both check out of the hotel, handing the receptionist their respective room keys. Anthony has a belated thought about what the housekeepers might think when they see his room so clean and unlived in. He pushes the thought away quickly.

The ride to JFK is silent, Anthony careful not to sit too close to Ian in the back of an Uber. He pays for the ride when they get to the airport, thanks the Uber driver, then thanks Ian for grabbing his luggage from the back of the car before heading in, the automatic doors sliding open with a whoosh and a blast of comfortably warm air.

They wait for a little bit at the gate, both of them busy with their own phones. Anthony sneaks glances of Ian from the corner of his eyes. Ian doesn’t look up.

It takes a little time, but they make it to their own seats, with Anthony having the window seat. They place their luggage in the overhead bins and quietly sit down, settling in and buckling their seatbelts. Neither of them initiate conversation.

And later, much later, when the plane is speeding down the runway, preparing to take off, and everyone is silent as they listen to the head flight attendant telling them to stay in their seats with their seatbelts buckled:

“This was a nice trip,” Ian finally says. He places his hand on the middle armrest where Anthony’s hand is and takes Anthony’s hand in his, their fingers intertwining effortlessly like they’ve been doing it for years. “Thank you for this, Anthony.”

And there it is, that (too-loud) beating of his heart, that pain his chest that seems to radiate outward with every minute they’re closer to landing in LA.

Anthony squeezes Ian’s hand. “Thank you,” he manages to choke out.

“Welcome aboard,” the flight attendant says, “and thank you for choosing American Airlines. We hope you enjoy your flight.”

The plane begins to ascend. Outside, the city gradually becomes smaller and smaller until there’s nothing left to see but white clouds in a blue sky.

Ian pulls his hand away.

#ianthony #ianthony fic #ianthony fanfic #ianthony fanfiction #ianthony fan fiction #ianthony fan fic #smosh fanfiction #my fic #patricia talks #can i just say that??? i haven't posted an ianthony fic in a year oh my god who ever thought i would be back lmao #don't hesitate to talk to me about the fic! <3

[janiedean]

Pick whatever you like- fighting/practising/exercising together leading to smut. Also any overused cliche trope that every ship has: fake dating, mild jealousy which leads to hilarious situation, etc. Colleen introduces him to pop culture that he missed (bonus if it's GoT for obvious reasons). Smut? :D You could write anything for that ship and I'd read it lol. And no hurry I'm glad someone's even asking for prompts

you said ‘the two of them watch GoT.’ I comply. starting with crack is always a good idea. HOPEFULLY IT’S DECENT if not forgive me I’m still getting the feel of the characters but the next one should be better xD

--

“And we should watch this... why?”

Colleen is suddenly quite sad that her phone is charging in the next room over, because the expression he pulled deserved to be saved for posterity and she could have taken a picture, but that’s sadly not going to happen - she doubts he’d hold it for thirty seconds.

“You look more perplexed than I’d have thought.”

“... Game of Thrones? It just sounds stupid. How do you play anything with a throne?”

She snorts as she turns on the DVD player. “Well, you said you wanted to catch up with pop culture before we leave, and this is the rage these days.”

“Bloody and ambitiously epic... it’s addictive... once you start, Thrones dominates your life?” He reads from the back cover of the DVD as she puts the first one in the player. “Seriously?”

“What can I do, everyone loves some bloody drama.”

He says nothing as she fiddles with the settings and whatnot, and she’s almost ready to go with the first episode when he clears his throat.

“So... wait a moment, this bloody drama is some fantasy stuff in a world with weird season where people fight over some throne while they should be worried about... the mysterious darkness beyond? Sounds ridiculous, but all right. I guess.”

“Hey, if you like it and we end up marathoning it, we should be done just in time before we leave.”

“... You mean, people spend an entire day watching television?”

“Some people spend the entire day meditating.”

He laughs, putting the case away. “Fine, you’ve got a point. I guess we’re giving these... thrones a try. I’m skeptical, though.”

“We shall see,” she says, lying back on the sofa and pressing play. The opening titles have started by the time she’s leaned against his side, his arm wrapping around her shoulder, and -

“Skeptical? You’re humming the damned theme song.”

He stops at once, his cheeks going slightly red. “It’s - it’s catchy?”

She has to laugh a bit at that, but never mind that. She’s only watched the first two seasons but she remembers why the show in general was catchy. She’s sure he’s going to reconsider.

--

By the time episode five rolls by, he hasn’t told her to just quit this and do something more interesting - they did stop to get something to snack on, but they’re apparently going onwards.

“Sorry,” Danny says as the episode five credits roll by, “are seriously all of these people worried about a throne when they have... zombies just outside their borders?”

“You know, people not seeing immediate danger because they worry about their interests, shouldn’t be news to either of us.”

“Okay, point taken, but - it’s ridiculous. The people at the - the Wall place are obviously the only ones who aren’t complete idiots.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Oh, because you see anyone else being smart about that?”

“Wait for season two.” If Danny doesn’t appreciate the greatness that is Brienne of Tarth she’ll be sorely disappointed, but she thinks he will.

“I’ll trust your judgment,” he says, and nothing happens until -

“Huh,” Colleen says, staring at the screen. She hadn’t realized, but -

But.

She turns towards Danny. Then towards the screen. Then towards Danny again.

“... Something wrong?” He asks.

“Well, not really, but... Loras, uh, he kinda looks like you?”

Okay, she was wrong before. This is the face that should have been immortalized in a picture, not the one Danny pulled before.

“Come on,” Danny says, “no way.”

“You have the same nose.”

“We have not,” Danny says, sounding absolutely outraged at the prospect. “Like... no! Never mind that he’s a lot younger than I am anyway -”

“You also kind of have the same eyes. And face shape. And -”

“I don’t know where you’re seeing it.”

“I don’t know how you’re not.” It’s almost creepy - they could be twins.

“Oh, I’m settling this,” Danny says, grabbing his phone from the side of the couch. He types something quickly before hitting send. Colleen takes it from him and he doesn’t try to stop her from doing it, so she figures it wasn’t private information or anything of the kind. She looks at the conversation, and -

Shit, he really sent Ward a message reading Colleen thinks I look exactly like this Loras guy in Game of Thrones and I’m sure I don’t, please tell me I’m right. Well, at least it’s... nice that they’re on good terms, she decides. Considering that meanwhile Loras has just finished blowing Renly while discussing how they should play the damned game of thrones, this entire thing is just getting extra weird.

Anyway, the next five minutes go by without interruption, and then the phone vibrates. Colleen takes it before Danny reaches for it.

“Just read it,” he sighs, and now he has his head on her shoulder, not the contrary.

“Hm, well, you do look like him a bit, maybe not exactly, but like, the face and the hair. Not the personality, if she meant that. Hell, no, I didn’t. Also - are you two actually watching Game of Thrones, hell, yes. Wait, I’ll reply, you just pay attention to the rest.”

“At least he’s objective.”

Colleen wants to laugh - as if, Ward’s about the least objective person she’s met in a very long time, but if that’s what Danny likes to think. She replies with yes, what’s so weird about it anyway, and I just meant the face, not the rest, and sends it over.

Loras shows up on screen and gives Sansa the flower. Danny looks frankly disturbed. The phone vibrates again.

I don’t know if I want to know how he’s reacting to it.

Colleen replies before Danny can snatch the phone back from her and do it himself, but he grabs it just after.

“Well, he has a crush on Jon Snow? The hell - it’s not that I have a crush, he’s objectively the best character!”

“... At least you aren’t alone thinking that.”

“Hey, you should appreciate someone who sacrifices their life for the better of -”

“Please, wax poetical about his hair instead.”

“His hair?”

Good thing that the phone vibrates before she can go into that particular piece of pop subculture.

“Oh, he agrees!”

What? If there’s one thing she wouldn’t have expected from Ward was the guy actually liking Jon Snow, but never mind. The texts actually reads then there’s some hope for him yet, he has more than decent taste.

What the -

Sorry, do you actually like Jon Snow, Colleen texts back. Danny’s head has somehow ended on her thigh and her fingers find their way into his hair. Okay, fine, maybe he looks like Loras but his hair is definitely superior to Loras’s, Colleen thinks and doesn’t say.

Ward’s reply arrives when they’re almost done with episode five.

Why shouldn’t I, the reply reads. Objectively the best character. By the way, does that mean you’re halfway through season one?

Yeah, why?

There’s no reply for a while and so Colleen forgets the phone and keeps on running her fingers through Danny’s hair instead, and she almost jumps on the sofa when it vibrates.

That obviously means Danny takes it rather than her.

“What does he say?”

“Oh, that this episode is apparently very good. He’s right, it’s definitely better than the one before if you ask me.”

Right, Colleen thinks, but... Jon Snow isn’t in it?, she realizes a moment later. Why the hell would the guy recommend them this one if the character they were discussing isn’t even showing up?

Whatever. She’ll worry about watching the damned thing instead.

--

“What the hell,” Danny shouts when poor Ned gets arrested.

Colleen keeps her comments about good-hearted people trusting others too much to herself.

--

“I need a break,” Danny says the moment Ned loses his head, and - right. Nine episodes in a row of this show maybe can be excessive. He’s also obviously trying not to cry, so Colleen just stops the show and puts the remote away.

“You know,” she says, “I think about most of the people who watched this ended up crying or something. No one’s judging you.”

“It’s just - it’s unfair,” Danny blurts out, wiping at his eyes. “And people are crazy into a thing that’s so miserable?”

“It gets worse,” Colleen shrugs - better warn him now.

“Worse.”

“So I’m told, I only watched up until season two.”

A moment later, Danny grabs the phone.

Does this really get worse?, he texts Ward.

Guess why, the reply for this one arrives a minute later. Did Ned just die or what.

“Why does he know?”

“Everyone knows,” Colleen says, and Danny tells her to just go on with it. She does.

--

“The finale wasn’t half as depressing,” Danny says almost in relief as the three baby dragons shriek and the camera pans out.

Colleen doesn’t tell him that two seasons from now, from what she knows, he might not agree. “I’m worried, though - the people going across the Wall aren’t turning into zombies, are they?”

“Uh, they hadn’t last I checked,” she replies truthfully.

She doesn’t even stop him from texting Ward.

We’re done and I guess we’re going on tomorrow, the text reads. And then - If you want to drop by or anything please do.

How is Danny so nice, she doesn’t even begin to guess.

“Shit,” he says, “I’m beat. Are we seriously spending five days on the couch? I'm going for a five hours run after that.”

“Well, we can move to the bed if you don’t mind that.”

That’s when the phone vibrates, but that’s also when Danny’s hands move around her back and she hooks a leg around his waist. She glances at the screen, reads Ah, wasn’t Robb’s coronation a great scene and decides that she’s going to ponder why Ward’s not mentioning anything related to his supposedly favorite character tomorrow, or anyway, a hell of a long time later.

For now, she has more interesting things to do, she decides as her mouth slots against Danny’s.

Maybe they can go to bed later.

Epilogue

Colleen’s cellphone rings as they’re a bit past the middle of season two.

Has S2 killed Danny’s spirits or what?

She snorts as she watches Danny murmur under his breath that Robb’s new girlfriend is absolutely insufferable.

No, she replies. Then adds, but he might have gone to check something on the internet and now he’s sad that apparently everyone hates Theon because his struggle was somehow relatable and he didn’t deserve his crappy father or something.

She sends it. Then adds, ah, and he’s glad Jon’s finally ran into a girl who likes him.

She doesn’t have to wait for long for the next reply, which is -

When he’s done moping, you can tell him he has excellent taste in characters.

Okay, sure thing -

Jon Snow, I mean, arrives separately a moment later.

Well, she hadn’t assumed he was talking about anyone else, but all right. She informs Danny, who mutters something about Ward also having excellent tastes before dropping his head on her thigh again and voicing his relief that at least they haven’t seen Loras in ages and he doesn’t have to feel creeped out by his face anymore. Or something like that.

If anything, he did admit without a problem that Brienne was awesome, so -

Colleen’s definitely not going to be sorely disappointed by his choices anytime soon.

End. 

#ironwing #danny x colleen #colleen x danny #danny rand #colleen wing #my fic #OKAY I HAVE ANOTHER THREE PROMPTS WHICH I SWEAR WON'T BE AS CRACK #I figured I'd lose my v-card with this bc i actually know got lol #anon I tried #ch: danny rand #ch: colleen wing #ch: ward meachum #anyway okay my quest to bring this ship some extra content has started #more tomorrow u___u #Anonymous #ask post