also on ao3 || title from “the name of the game” by abba
check, please! and its characters belong to ngozi
***
Dex spins around in his chair when he hears a small knock on his door. Nursey’s standing in the doorway, watching him. His eyes dart away when Dex turns to him and although his expression is carefully reserved, he can’t quite figure out what to do with his hands.
“Hey Dex,” he starts, looking everywhere except actually at Dex. “Can I ask you to do me a huge favor?”
“Uh. Sure.” Dex stands. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Nursey rubs the back of his neck. “So my cousin’s getting married this weekend and I kinda told her I was bringing you?”
“Okay…” Dex says slowly.
“I mean, you totally don’t have to go if you don’t want to, I’ll just make up an excuse for why you can’t go—”
“Nursey,” Dex cuts him off, frowning slightly. “I’ll go.”
Nursey blinks, surprised. “You will?”
“Yeah.” Dex doesn’t really understand where Nursey’s shock is coming from, but maybe Nursey’s just been so wrapped up in his own head lately that he’s convinced himself Dex wouldn’t want to go.
Nursery cocks his head. “And you’re okay with… being my date in front of my family?”
Dex nods. Again, he tries to get a grasp on Nursey’s strange behavior, but he can’t figure out what’s got him so tightly wound. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. I just thought it might be kinda weird for you to…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.” The tension in his face disappears, replaced by a relieved smile. “Thank you so much. I’ll take you out to Annie’s when we get back. My treat.”
He’s gone before Dex can say anything else.
Dex turns back to his computer, trying to shake the feeling he’s missing something.
“Hey, Whiskey. Whisk. Yo! Earth to Whiskey, hello?“
Belatedly, Whiskey looks up from his phone.
Tango is watching him from the opposite stall with a somewhat bemused expression.
“Whatever Beth is texting you about, it absolutely can’t be that interesting.”
Whiskey reluctantly locks his screen, despite the fact that those three little dots clearly indicate that Miguel is already texting him back. Again. Almost as if Miguel is actually enjoying their near constant back-and-forth just as much as Whiskey is.
There’s an oddly fluttery feeling in Whiskey’s stomach. He feels… Calmer than he thought he would, sure, but still more nervous than he’s been before a game in a long time. To think that Miguel is out there, in the audience, about to watch him play – to think that Whiskey is taking Miguel back to the Haus, after, that Miguel is coming along to the kegster. Whiskey still has no fucking clue what he’s going to tell the team, unless you count the vague idea of as little as possible.
At least he’s managed to pick out an outfit.
“Whisk? Hey, Whiskey!”
Whiskey looks back up at Tango – he has no idea how long he spaced out this time, but apparently it’s been long enough for Tango’s expression to shift from amused into suspicious.
Fuck.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I was just asking if you’d want to run by Stop-n-Shop, after,” Tango says, slowly. “Hey. Are you-”
“Let’s show those Yale boys what we’re all about!” Whiskey lets out a breath as coach Hall steps into the locker room, effectively interrupting whatever Tango was going to ask. "Remember, we want to be the ones setting the pace tonight – we’re going for a strong offense, right from the get go. Lyons, Brant, make sure you’re always keeping an eye on each other, and on Chow, even when you’re moving up the ice. Piper, Whisk, I’m going to need to borrow you two for a couple of minutes – please come with me. I promise this will be quick.”
Whiskey looks up, meeting coach Hall’s eyes and giving a quick nod. Then he searches for Pips’s gaze across the locker room, raising an eyebrow in question.
Excuse me. EXCUSE ME. I know we’re deep into the crickets and all and I’m 200% aboard that train, I promise, but also: Dex and Nursey GOT ENGAGED? I’m gonna need more than a parenthesis about that. I can be on two trains at the same time and that one seems to be crashing into the fucking sun and I want to be ON IT.
Caroline, I do not at all deserve your patience and general enthusiastic energy. The wording of this ask brought me great happiness. I am so sorry that it took me a little while to actually get to it. But hey: I never forgot about it, and now, at long, long last, the CCU engagement fic is finally up on ao3!!!!!!!!
Because I really like 5+1 constructions, I wrote it this way: five times Dex thought about marrying Nursey, and the one time he actually proposed to him.
Thank you for your patience. I very much hope you enjoy!!!!!!!
Will should cut his brother some slack, though. It’s his literal wedding day.
“Can’t believe he’s actually married,” he remarks, maybe to Liv or maybe just to say it out loud.
“I know, right?” His cousin pauses a second to grin again, then elbows in his direction. “Think you’ll be next?”
He almost chokes on nothing at all. “Me?” he echoes, like he hasn’t been thinking about the concept of his own wedding all day, like it’s an unthinkable idea. “Uh… I highly doubt it.”
“Ooh, you’re blushing.” Liv rubs her hands together gleefully. “Deny and deny, but your ears tell the truth.”
He frowns and covers his ears. “I’m not getting married anytime soon, Liv. I’m not even—” He stops himself before he can say I’m not even dating, because despite all the lying to his parents surrounding Derek already, less than a month into their relationship, this feels like a lie that would be unfair. Instead, he tells Liv, “I’m busy,” which is not untrue.
“That’s what they all say,” Liv sings. “You wait, Billy. One day you’ll be breaking it down on the dance floor just like Drew.”
i annotated this fic in ibooks and now i just gotta figure out how to share it but yeah THIS WAS EVERYTHING I COULD’VE ASKED FOR AND MORE!!! JUST!!! SOFT FEELINGS!!!! dreams of a future together!!! I LOVE THEM SO MUCH!!!!!! THIS TRAIN IS CRASHING INTO THE SUN AND I’M LOVING IT
Quick ficlet for my Bencole people. Featuring domestic Quindo. Cross-posted to the ao3 cricket ficlet collection.
//
Sebastián is completely unsuspecting, when the Snapchat comes in.
The house is quiet, and he and Quinn are in bed. He figures they’ll actually go to sleep soon, or at least soonish, but for now, they sit up against their pillows, with the light still on. It’s long past Violet’s bedtime; Quinn put her down at least an hour and a half ago, and after sitting out on the patio with him for a bit, Sebastián carried his husband to bed for little to no reason other than he just felt like carrying him.
He’s watching a Coyotes preseason weekly recap on his phone, and next to him, Quinn is knitting. His yarn is royal blue and bright red; he’s working on a scarf he keeps swearing he’s going to mail up to Remy to wear to games when his season starts. To celebrate his contract, Quinn said, when he told Sebastián what he’d be doing, all self-satisfied smiles. I think he could use something new in Montreal colors, don’t you?
His needles clack together every now and then, and the audio on Sebastián’s phone is low, but it’s not like Quinn would be bothered by that anyway, seeing as he took his hearing aids out for the night hours ago. Their house, Sebastián is happily aware, is a safe zone for Quinn, has been since the day they bought it to build their life in together.
A notification buzzes his phone, and the banner at the top tells him he has a Snapchat from Rhodey. Which isn’t weird, until it is— because what time is it in France right now? It has to be, like, seven in the morning, right? In what world is Rhodey awake at seven in the morning on vacation?
WARNING: contains marriage proposal. the whole thing is soft af. inspired by this post on instagram. link to ao3.
Derek doesn’t see the actual invite until the night before the event. When he does see it, he’s pretty sure Dex has kept it away from him for fear of him going all Shitty on the institution that is Dex’s new employer, and okay, that’s fair, but it also makes him sort of … nervous?
“How fancy is this thing?” Derek asks on Monday night. They’re on the couch, as usual, Dex is flipping through TED talks and Derek is laying down with his head in Dex’s lap, reading a book that’s turning out to be increasingly boring and badly written. Dex has one hand tangled in Derek’s hair, absentmindedly scratching his scalp. Derek’s thoughts are drifting.
“Hm?” Dex says.
“This thing on Saturday. How fancy is it? Like, what’s the dress code?”
WARNING: contains marriage proposal. the whole thing is soft af. inspired by this post on instagram. link to ao3.
Derek doesn’t see the actual invite until the night before the event. When he does see it, he’s pretty sure Dex has kept it away from him for fear of him going all Shitty on the institution that is Dex’s new employer, and okay, that’s fair, but it also makes him sort of ... nervous?
“How fancy is this thing?” Derek asks on Monday night. They’re on the couch, as usual, Dex is flipping through TED talks and Derek is laying down with his head in Dex’s lap, reading a book that’s turning out to be increasingly boring and badly written. Dex has one hand tangled in Derek’s hair, absentmindedly scratching his scalp. Derek’s thoughts are drifting.
“Hm?” Dex says.
“This thing on Saturday. How fancy is it? Like, what’s the dress code?”
Dex had told him a few weeks ago that they’d been invited to a function at the university, that they were both free according to their calendars, and that he’d intended to RSVP yes, unless Derek had any objections? Which Derek didn’t. Dex’s had his doctorate for a couple of years now, they’ve attended a fair amount of academic functions and events, Derek is used to them. This is their first one at Columbia, though, so he wants to make sure they follow proper etiquette, to not draw even more attention to the fact that they’re two men. It shouldn’t be an issue, but like, better safe than sorry, in this case.
“Black tie, I guess?” Dex says, frowning down at him. “Why?”
“Yeah, but is it like, strict black tie, don’t even think about wearing pink socks, or is it like, creative black tie?” Derek very much hopes it’s the latter, because Dex looks so good with the forest green tie.
“Babe, I don’t know.”
“Can you check? I just need to know if I need to, like, cut my hair.” He’s growing it out, and it’s already long enough to put in a ponytail.
Dex’s grip on his hair hardens. “Don’t you dare,” a warning in his voice. Derek smirks up at him.
“Chill. I won’t. But just--”
“Yeah, I’ll check.”
Derek is satisfied with that, and returns to his book.
*
On Friday, the night before, Dex has his D&D night, so Derek does his goodnight sweep of the apartment alone; checks that all the windows are closed and locked, all the lights are turned off. He hesitates in the doorway of the office/library/guest/glorified storage room. Dex is not a neat freak by any means, but he does keep his desk immaculate, so when there’s an envelope on it, it’s pretty hard to miss. It looks fancy.
Derek picks it up, and it’s not until his second read that he even catches it.
Dr. and Mrs. William Poindexter
It’s a mistake, Derek knows it, it’s a sloppy copy paste error because they’ve used the same template a million times, but it is also sort of rude. They’re not even married (yet), so the whole thing just feels awfully presumptuous, and Derek understands why this particular invite hasn’t been tacked to the fridge like usual. They will get married. Probably. There’s just been--Dex’s PhD, Derek’s teaching certificate, Derek trying to properly get control over his anxieties, time has just ... passed. But Derek at least lives with the assumption that they will get married. One day.
He puts the envelope back, goes to bed, and doesn’t say anything about it when Dex gets home and crawls into bed next to him.
*
Luckily, the dress code is more creative than formal, and Derek would be ashamed of how much he stares at Dex if he wasn’t so incredibly handsome.
“You have to stop,” Dex mutters under his breath the fifth time he catches Derek staring at him in as many minutes.
“Why? I’m your wife, I’m allowed,” Derek says with a smirk. Dex starts rolling his eyes but stops halfway through the motion and stares sharply at Derek.
“What?”
“You left the invitation on your desk,” Derek says and presses a light kiss to Dex’s cheek, a reassuring I’m not mad about this and won’t make a scene gesture.
“I corrected them when I RSVP’d, and they apologized,” Dex says anyway, eyeing Derek sort of warily.
“Good. Oh, can I read the email? Would Shitty be proud of it?”
“Shitty would be embarrassed about how polite I was, but Shitty isn’t in a queer relationship and doing his first six months at Columbia, so I don’t really care.”
Derek grins at him. “I love you,” he says, aware that he’s probably looking like a lovesick puppy.
“You’re ridiculous,” Dex replies, but gives him a kiss. “Come on, I want you to meet the guys I work with,” he says and takes Derek’s hand and starts guiding him through the room.
“You gonna introduce me as your wife?”
“Yes, because that would make perfect sense after talking about my boyfriend for the past two months,” Dex agrees, rolling his eyes again.
“Oh, so you talk about your boyfriend at work, but not your wife? Rude,” Derek says, just as they arrive in front of a group of people who seem to know Dex. They get a couple of raised eyebrows, and Dex glares at him.
“Derek, these are my coworkers. Guys, this is Derek, the idiot I’m dating.”
“Dating, William, really?” Derek scoffs. “We’ve been living together for ten years, and you haven’t taken me out on a date since my birthday, which was in February. That hardly classifies as dating. Hi,” he adds, addressing the group with a smile.
Dex shakes his head in exasperation, but lets it go. Derek squeezes his hand in thanks.
*
“I wouldn’t mind, you know,” Derek mumbles sleepily when they’re seated on the subway home, hours later. He’s a bit buzzed on wine and champagne, but he’s not drunk. He wants to rest his head on Dex’s shoulder but he’s too tall for that to actually be comfortable, so he settles for leaning close, probably preens a little when Dex slides an arm around his waist.
“Wouldn’t mind what?” Dex asks.
“Being your wife,” Derek says. He feels Dex go completely still against him, and when he turns to look at him, all the leftover amusement from the champagne buzz has left him and he’s staring at Derek with a Very Serious face.
“What?” Dex says, and Derek can’t tell if he’s just confused or if he’s also mad. Derek is wide awake now, at least. He opens his mouth to say something, but he can’t figure out what.
“What?” he settles on, echoing it back.
“I--Derek, are you proposing, on the subway, using the words I wouldn’t mind?”
Derek is about to protest, but then he thinks back, and realizes that he may, in fact, have been proposing. Sort of.
“No?” he tries, anyway. Dex’s only response is a single raised eyebrow. Okay. “But also kind of yes? Sorry?”
Dex sighs, puts his other arm around Derek as well and hugs him, tight. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he says.
“That’s not an answer,” Derek observes. He’s not too worried, though. The situation doesn’t feel like a No.
“You technically didn’t ask a question,” Dex says. He lets Derek go and settles back, one arm still around Derek’s waist. “And besides, if I don’t answer, we can pretend this didn’t happen, and you can get a do-over. I refuse to have C chirp me for this for the rest of our lives.”
“C has zero chirping rights when it comes to proposals,” Derek says indignantly. “He didn’t even propose, Cait found the ring in his fucking sock drawer!”
“Do you even have a ring?” Dex counters, which shuts Derek up, but that’s also partly because they’ve reached their stop and need to get off.
Neither of them says anything until they’re up on the street. It’s cold, and Derek forgot his gloves, so he puts one hand in his coat pocket and grabs Dex’s hand with the other.
“Will,” Derek says after a few seconds, which makes Dex stop. Derek is suddenly extremely nervous, even though he knows, with every logical bone in his brain (whatever), that he has nothing to worry about. “When I get a ring, and ask you for real ... are you gonna say yes?”
Dex tugs him so close that their chests are touching. With the hand not holding Derek’s, he cups his cheek and kisses him, sweetly. “Yes, Derek,” he says, softly, privately. “I’m gonna say yes.”
fic: I’d marry you with paper rings (Nando/Quinn, NC-17)
Man, I don’t even know. I’m maybe writing a fic that’s forced slow burn, and I needed to write something light and easy. Mel’s Cricket Series has brought me so much joy and happiness during this weird and crappy spring, and when I read this post, I was like, yes, let’s write my obligatory crossdressing fic that i apparently write for every ship i ever write for, and this thing just ... happened.
@poindextears, thank you for letting me take your characters and have my wicked way with them. Also, I’m sorry.
Here’s this thing on ao3.
Nando would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit worried about the way Quinn has been behaving today. He’s not sure anyone else has picked up on it, but then again, no one else spends as much time as close to Quinn as Nando does. He doesn’t really know how to explain it, but if he had to, he thinks he’d describe Quinn as skittish today. He hasn’t shied away from Nando’s touch, really, but he has tensed up slightly every time Nando’s hand has reached below, like, shoulder level. It’s weird, Nando doesn’t like it.
Something about the check in at the hotel is taking longer than usual. Everyone else has already been sent off to their rooms, but Quinn is still talking with the guy behind the desk. He has to stand on his toes to properly reach up and it probably shouldn’t be as adorable as it is, but it’s not like Nando makes the rules. His boyfriend is adorable, that’s just the way it is. And, finally, his boyfriend is done being Team Manager. Nando sincerely hopes everyone will behave tonight, so he can have Quinn as his Boyfriend until they wake up tomorrow. He grabs their bags and starts heading along the corridor everyone else had gone into, but Quinn’s voice stops him.
“Sebastián. This way.” Nando turns around, and Quinn is standing by another corridor, reaching out a hand. Nando is confused, but where Quinn goes, he follows, so he walks over and takes his hand.
“Where are we going?” he asks as they head down the corridor towards an elevator.
“To our room, of course,” Quinn says, then starts humming a song Nando doesn’t recognize. Nando sighs, but he doesn’t ask any more questions. He’s learned a lot during his almost-four years at Samwell, and one of those things is when it’s just completely useless to try to get Quinn to talk when he doesn’t want to.
They take the elevator to the fourth floor, then Quinn leads them through corridors and around corners. There is no way Nando will be able to find his way out of here alone. He squeezes Quinn’s hand. Good thing he won’t have to.
Finally, Quinn stops in front of a door at the end of a hallway and taps the keycard against the lock. The door beeps, lets them in, and Nando barely has time to drop their bags on the floor before Quinn is on him, kissing him like they’ve been apart for weeks. Nando responds in kind, but he barely has time to put his hands on Quinn’s waist before Quinn pulls away.
“I’m going to take a shower,” he says. Nando looks at him, surprised. He doesn’t bother pointing out that it’s pretty useless to take a shower before they have sex, because Quinn knows that as well as he does. But, if Quinn is taking a shower now, that might mean he’s not up for sex, but that’s also weird, because between the two of them, Nando is usually the one who begs off. Not that it happens often (because hello), but when it does, it’s usually Nando.
That doesn’t mean he won’t respect Quinn’s wishes, though, of course he won’t try to talk Quinn into having sex with him. “Okay,” he says, and if he wasn’t already pressed against the door, he would take a step back. Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets. Quinn reaches up to press a kiss to his jaw, then grabs his bag and locks himself in the bathroom. Nando stands by the door for a few seconds, confused by what just happened, before he grabs his own bag and moves further into the room.
There’s a double bed, which is standard for the two of them nowadays (Nando loves that he’s dating the team manager), a desk, a tv. Standard room. He drops his bag and starts to pull off his clothes, preparing for bed. It’s quick work, then he grabs the tv remote from the desk and lies down on the bed. He kicks the bedspread down and then starts to channel surf, with the sound of Quinn’s shower in the background.
A few minutes later, he hears Quinn coming out of the bathroom. Nando moves to grab his toiletry bag, his attention mostly on the tv, but he flicks one glance at Quinn and freezes.
“Uhm,” Nando says, then swallows. Quinn, his outrageously hot boyfriend, the love of his life, is standing in front of him wearing nothing but a sweatshirt. Nando’s sweatshirt. It’s a navy blue soft-washed thing that Nando barely recognizes, he hasn’t used it in a long while, which means Quinn probably dug through his closet to get it. Nando doesn’t mind, especially when this is the result. The sweatshirt is too big on Quinn, it reaches halfway down his thighs and the arms have been folded up to show his hands. At the neck, the opening is wide and shows Quinn’s collar bone. His hair is ruffled in the way he only allows it to be immediately after a shower, and Nando is going to explode with how much he loves Quinn. Also, he’s going to have to jerk off in the bathroom, because Quinn looking like this does things to Nando.
He takes a breath to steady himself and then stands up. His erection is showing and he knows it, but at least he no longer feels guilty at being turned on by the sight of his boyfriend looking like a wet dream.
“Get back on the bed,” Quinn says in a no bullshit voice. Nando is used to it by now.
“Baby, I just need to—”
“Sebastián. Get back. On the bed,” Quinn repeats, much sharper, and Nando’s dick twitches. He gets back on the bed.
“Are we gonna have sex?” he asks, because he needs to know. Quinn kneels on the bed and stares at him.
“Of course we’re going to have sex,” he says. “Did you think we weren’t?”
Nando shrugs. “I mean ...” he waves a hand towards the bathroom. Quinn rolls his eyes and crawls towards him.
“You’re an idiot,” he says, but the tone of his voice makes it sound like I love you.
Nando settles back on the bed and drags Quinn towards him, onto his lap. “I’m your idiot, though,” he says, wrapping his arms around Quinn’s waist and pressing his face into the curve of Quinn’s neck. He smells like soap, and his skin is still slightly damp from the shower, and Nando loves him so much. “I love you,” he says, because he needs to. He doesn’t need to see Quinn’s face to know he’s smiling.
“I love you, too,” Quinn says, and then he grinds down on Nando’s lap, reminding him that while his boyfriend is the sweetest man he’s ever met, he’s also a sexual deviant who’s going to break Nando one of these days, honestly. “Not having sex,” Quinn continues under his breath as he settles into a much-too slow rhythm. “As if. I even flirted with the reception staff to get us a room without anyone next door.”
“Baby,” Nando groans, equal parts impressed and jealous. Given the chance, Quinn is loud during sex, and between the Haus and Quinn’s dorm, there aren’t many chances. They didn’t even realize just how much being loud was a thing until this past summer, when they’d spent hours in Nando’s childhood bed, both sisters and Mama out of the house. Nando’s dick twitches just at the thought of Quinn not having to hold back anything tonight. If he’d had any lingering tiredness in him after the game, it’s fully and thoroughly gone by now.
He slides his hands from Quinn’s waist, down under the sweatshirt to grab his ass, but stops when his fingers don’t meet the soft cotton or bare skin he’s expecting. He lifts the hem of the shirt to get a look and holy fucking fuck Nando is going to die, and when his Mama finds out the cause of death she’s going to revive him only to kill him again, but it will be worth it.
Quinn, his beautiful, sexy, adorable Quinn, is sitting on his lap, draped in Nando’s sweater, and lace panties. They’re a dark, rich purple, contrasting beautifully to Quinn’s winter pale skin, and Nando doesn’t know what to do. He wants to look at Quinn forever but he also wants to put his hands and his mouth all over him and worship him. Also fuck him.
“Is this—okay?” Quinn asks, suddenly unsure when Nando is having a minor breakdown. It makes Nando pull himself together, a little bit, enough to realize that there is no way he can let Quinn be even the tiniest bit unsure if Nando likes this or not. He moves his hands up to cup Quinn’s face and kisses him, trying to put everything into it. They usually discuss it at least twice before they bring anything new into bed, but Quinn hasn’t said a word about this, so Nando gets why he’s worried, but Nando also has absolutely no complaints whatsoever. And it’s not like it’s a completely new thing, Nando hasn’t exactly been discreet when they prep for Rhodey’s shows, but they still haven’t discussed it, not in this context. So yeah, Nando gets why Quinn might be worried, so he really, really tries to convey with his kiss how much he absolutely doesn’t mind, how much he loves it, how turned on he is just by the short glimpse he caught. Which—Nando should do something about that. He needs to see.
“Wha—Sebastián!” Quinn yelps as Nando grabs him at the waist again and flips him over, onto his back. He straddles Quinn’s thighs and pushes the sweatshirt halfway up his stomach, and then he just—looks. It’s maybe the best thing Nando has seen in his entire life. Quinn is hard, and some part of Nando will probably never get over the fact that he brings out this reaction in Quinn.
Nando drags a hand down Quinn’s stomach, lets his fingers ghost feather light over Quinn’s cock, over the lace.
“Say something,” Quinn says finally, and Nando realizes that he hasn’t, in fact, said anything for several minutes.
“Oh my god,” he breathes, stroking his palm over Quinn’s cock, feeling it twitch against him. “Quinn, baby, you—you’re the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Nando says, and Quinn blushes. “I love you so much,” he says, again, because he has to. He rubs harder against Quinn, and Quinn responds by arching up against his hand and letting his head fall back, exposing his neck. Nando leans forward and presses a kiss against the flushed skin, then opens his mouth and sucks a mark there. It’s winter, Quinn wears scarfs all the time anyway. Quinn moans, and Nando can’t help but preen a little. He is the cause of that moan.
Nando’s own dick is rock hard in his boxers, and he groans when his hips jerk down on their own accord, making him grind against Quinn’s thigh.
“What do you want, baby?” he asks, because seriously, Nando wants everything right now, he can’t decide, Quinn’s going to have to call the shots here. Quinn’s hands clench where he’s gripping Nando’s sides, and he draws in a sharp breath.
“You—your mouth, please,” Quinn says, almost whines.
“Yeah?” Nando works his way up Quinn’s neck with kisses, then finally reaches his mouth and kisses him properly. “You want me to suck you off?”
“Yes, fuck,” Quinn breathes out against Nando’s mouth, and okay, if Quinn’s already cursing, this won’t take long.
Well. It won’t take long the first time.
Nando kisses Quinn for another couple of seconds before he tears himself away and crawls down the bed again. Quinn is still wearing the sweatshirt, and Nando is in no hurry to take it off him, he loves seeing Quinn in his clothes.
He also loves seeing Quinn in lace panties, which was not something Nando expected to learn about himself, but he’s not sorry at all about that revelation. Quinn’s cock is straining against the purple lace, and it must be a boy model, because there seems to be more room for that than what Nando would’ve expected. He wonders if Quinn bought them the last time he was in Boston, or if he ordered them online, if he has more, and which colors, and—God, Nando is about to die.
He knows they will talk about this, later, so for now, he just bends down and presses a soft kiss to the tip of Quinn’s cock. Quinn draws a sharp breath, and when Nando glances to the side, he sees that his hands are gripping the sheets. Nando would absolutely love to drag this out for hours, but he’s too turned on, Quinn is too turned on, they actually need to sleep at some point, so in what should be considered an act of mercy, Nando pulls the front of the panties down enough to get Quinn’s cock out, then takes half of it in his mouth in one go.
“Fuck,” Quinn shouts, as if it’s been punched out of him. This is why they take advantage of hotel rooms.
Nando smiles, sinks further down, takes more of him in his mouth. After three years, he likes to consider himself an expert on sucking (Quinn’s) cock, and he really, really likes doing it. He loves the feeling of Quinn’s cock in his mouth, loves that he can render Quinn into this whimpering mess with just his mouth, loves that he can glance up and watch his reaction, loves when Quinn sometimes tangles his fingers in Nando’s curls and presses him down, never forcefully, but enough that Nando gets the hint. He even likes the taste, which wasn’t something he expected, but sure does make things a lot easier.
He likes it even more when Quinn is not fresh from the shower, like when they meet up after Quinn has had an intensive dance rehearsal. He hasn’t dared to say that out loud yet, though.
When Nando pulls off to breathe, Quinn whines. It’s such a difference from his normal, composed self, and Nando feels privileged that he gets to see it, gets to draw it out of him. He has to reach down and stroke himself a couple of times, just to take the worst of the edge off, and for the briefest of moments, he’s tempted to just kneel and jerk off until he comes all over Quinn. It passes when he takes Quinn’s cock back in his mouth. He swallows around him, takes more of him, and Quinn groans.
“Fuck, you’re so good at this,” Quinn pants, and Nando smiles around him. He slides his hands down Quinn’s thighs, grabs him behind the knees and pulls his legs up to rest on Nando’s shoulders. It gives him better access to grab Quinn’s ass, to run his palms over the lace there, and Quinn moans, jerks his hips up to fuck into Nando’s mouth.
It takes just another few seconds of enthusiastic sucking from Nando before Quinn’s hand settles on his neck, a sure sign that he’s close. Nando sucks harder, runs his tongue up the length, squeezes Quinn’s ass again, and that’s enough. Quinn grabs his neck harder, a warning, and Nando has no plans to pull off but appreciates it anyway, swallows easily as Quinn comes in his mouth, all while Quinn keeps up a steady stream of fuck and oh god.
He pulls off when Quinn tugs at the curls at the back of his neck and looks up to grin at him. He presses a kiss to the inside of Quinn’s thigh before he crawls up again, hovering over Quinn, covering him, as he bends down to kiss him.
Quinn kisses him back lazily, licks into his mouth, licks the taste of himself out of Nando’s mouth, and it probably shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
They stay like that for a while, but despite Nando’s fairly rigorous training routine, he still can’t hold himself up on his arms like this for long. He swings one leg over Quinn so he can kneel beside him, kisses Quinn one more time, then gets off the bed to grab the lube.
During their first spring together, when they started getting intimate, they’d gone to the student health center for STI testing. They’d both been clean, not that Nando hadn’t expected anything else, but his Mama didn’t raise no fool. They still use condoms sometimes, because cleanup is easier, but after some experimenting, they’d found they both enjoy the sloppy, filthy part of it. So Nando grabs the lube, no condom, and gets back on the bed.
“Flip over,” he says and takes off his underwear, Quinn doesn’t obey, instead he kneels on the bed and brings his arms up around Nando’s neck and angles his face up to kiss him. Nando wraps his arms around him and drags him closer, settles one hand on his ass and cups Quinn’s head with the other.
Quinn’s crotch rubs against Nando’s thigh, and his dick is still hanging out. It looks a tiny bit silly, but feels incredibly sexy, and Nando is so, so glad that multiple orgasms come easy for his boyfriend. It allows for situations like these, where he can suck him off and then fuck him, and it’s—amazing.
Nando moves his hand a little, puts his fingers against the crack of Quinn’s ass, presses gently against the lace, and—He draws a sharp breath and looks down at Quinn.
“Baby,” he says, unsure, and Quinn’s shy smile is answer enough. Nando is going to die. “Did you—Have you—All day?” Nando asks, incapable of complete sentences. Quinn nods. Him shying away from Nando’s touches all day suddenly makes sense. Nando quickly thinks through what they’ve been doing today and groans, then presses harder against the base of the plug that Quinn has had in his ass all fucking day. Through breakfast, the bus ride, the game, everything.
“How are you even real?” Nando asks and moves his hands so they’re inside the panties instead. He doesn’t allow Quinn to answer, kisses him instead, grabs the base of the plug and twists it.
Nando is ... well equipped. Quinn loves it, so it’s not an issue or anything, but it does require some preparation. Butt plugs aren’t a new thing for them, and Quinn has worn them for a longer period before, but during those times, they’ve both been in on it, and it’s been low-stakes situations like just hanging around campus or maybe during a home game. He’s never had one in for this long, in secret, while just going around his business.
“Okay, baby,” Nando murmurs, pressing another kiss to his lips before looking over Quinn’s shoulder, down his back, to where his hands are straining against the lace, pressed against Quinn’s ass. “God,” Nando breathes. He pulls down the waistband of the panties, settling it just below the curve of Quinn’s ass. When Quinn makes a motion as if to pull them off, Nando grips his ass harder. “No,” he says. “Leave them on.”
Quinn gives him a dirty smile, as if he isn’t the one wearing lingerie. Nando smacks his ass, once, and Quinn gasps and goes absolutely still. They rarely do that, because Nando isn’t really a fan, but Quinn loves it. Nando takes advantage of Quinn’s stillness to reach for the lube, then sucks another mark on his neck as he gives him another smack.
“Fuck,” Quinn moans, pressing against him, trying to get impossibly closer. “Baby, please.”
Nando presses soothing kisses against the mark he just made, simultaneously uncapping the lube and coating the fingers on one hand. With the other, he gently drags the plug out of Quinn’s ass. Quinn moans, and Nando kisses him, swallows the sound, even though he doesn’t really have to, here, in this room. He presses two fingers in, easily thanks to the plug, and god, Nando hopes he never gets used to this, never takes this for granted.
He adds another finger, and it’s only thanks to the fact that he’s so much bigger than Quinn that this position is even possible. He can’t actually fuck him in this position, though. Nando pushes Quinn away, gently, but can’t decide which way he wants him. Quinn on his back means he can keep the panties on, but Nando sort of wants to see his face.
Quinn, as always, seems to read the dilemma on his face. “I can wear them again,” he says, gently, as if that statement doesn’t break Nando’s brain. At least it helps him make up his mind.
“On your back,” he says, and Quinn grins at him as he obeys. He finally gets to take his underwear off, throws them carelessly onto the floor, spreads his legs.
Nando grabs the bottle of lube and moves to kneel between Quinn’s legs, again. It’s definitely one of his favorite places in the world. He lubes his dick, quickly, adds more lube to his fingers to press into Quinn with a couple of fast pumps. Lining up his cock with Quinn’s hole, he meets Quinn’s gaze, raises an eyebrow in silent question and gets a nod in return. Nando starts to push in, slowly. This part is always the hardest (hah), because there’s no getting around that Nando is big and Quinn is small and no matter how many times they do this, it’s not like his ass will stretch. Not that Nando would want it to, because this feels so good, but it wouldn’t exactly hurt if they could do it a little bit faster sometimes.
A minute later, Nando is fully inside of Quinn, and leans down to kiss him. He pauses there, waits patiently until Quinn moves his hips a little, fucking himself onto Nando’s cock. That’s when Nando moves back to kneeling between his legs, carefully pulling out almost all the way before pushing in again.
Quinn is still wearing the fucking sweatshirt, and if Nando’s brain wasn’t already broken, it would definitely break at the sight of him like this, with his head thrown back, throat exposed, one hand around his cock and the other clenched in the sheets until Nando reaches for it and tangles their fingers together. It’s such a soft gesture, feels at odds with what they’re currently doing, but it also feels right.
Little by little, Nando increases his pace, until he has to let go of Quinn’s hand and grab his hips to keep them steady. Quinn has his legs wrapped around Nando’s waist, his heels digging into Nando’s ass, and it’s—perfect. It’s perfect, perfect, perfect, Nando is so happy, lucky, turned on, in love, he’s going to explode.
He slips during a thrust, just a little, but enough to change the angle, and Quinn’s responding moan is obscenely loud.
“Fuck, oh my god, honey, god, keep—there, please,” he moans, begs, and Nando does his best to keep fucking him from the slightly different angle. He’s close, he has been close since Quinn got out of the bathroom dressed like that, and it’s not going to take a lot more for him to—
“Quinn, baby, I’m—,” he stutters, past being able to make sense, but Quinn gets it, of course he gets it. He clenches around Nando’s cock, jerks himself faster, brings his other hand down to stroke his balls. His fingertips brush against Nando’s dick and it’s like his fingers are made of electricity, the tiny touch sparks something deep inside of Nando and he just, it feels like he just combusts from within.
Nando is pretty sure his brain leaves him for a moment, because when he comes back to himself, he’s laying on top of Quinn, his face pressed against Quinn’s neck, his cock still inside him, and his breaths coming in heaving gasps. “Fucking hell,” he pants, and feels more than hears Quinn’s responding weak chuckle. He feels Quinn’s heavy breaths, feels his come sticking to his stomach and seeping into the sweater, feels the satisfaction that settles on both of them.
Quinn drags his hands out from between them and settles them on Nando’s back instead, and Nando doesn’t care that they’re sticky, he needs a shower anyway. Quinn does, too.
“I love you,” Nando says, turning his head to kiss Quinn, slow and indulgent, before he kneels up again to pull out.
“I, ah, I love you, too,” Quinn replies, grimacing a little.
“Sorry,” Nando whispers, but Quinn just smiles back at him. It’s par for the course, and it’s worth it.
Nando lies down beside Quinn and wraps an arm around him, pulling him close. “Thank you,” he says, pressing a kiss to Quinn’s mouth, then another.
“For what?”
Nando shrugs. “For getting us this room. For being awesome. For ...” He trails off, glances quickly towards where Quinn threw the panties earlier, and Quinn grins, understanding.
“I take it you like them?” he says, aiming for innocence and failing completely.
“I love them. I love you,” Nando says, and he doesn’t even know how many times he’s said it tonight, but it can’t be too many because there’s no such thing. He grabs Quinn and rearranges them until Quinn is laying on top of him. Nando strokes his back through the sweater, slowly moves his hand further down until he’s cupping Quinn’s ass. He presses his fingers gently against Quinn’s hole, sticky with lube and Nando’s come, and can’t help but smile when Quinn hisses.
“Sebastián. I’m too tired,” he says, and Nando kisses the part of him closest to his mouth, which happens to be the top of Quinn’s ear.
“I know,” he says. He isn’t aiming for a third round, he just can never help himself with this, dreams of a day when he gets to just lay Quinn out on a bed and see how many orgasms he can give him, what Quinn will sound like at the end, how he will look, and okay, Nando needs to stop right now before he does want a third round. “I can’t wait until we get to do this every day,” he says, a smile on his face like there always is when he thinks about them living together.
“Every day?” Quinn replies, and Nando hears his smirk. “Sounds optimistic.”
“Oh shut up,” Nando says, pressing two fingers inside of Quinn just to spite him. “You know it will happen, at least in the beginning.”
“True,” Quinn concedes, obviously torn between tearing himself away from Nando’s teasing and just giving into it. Nando makes the decision for him, because they do really have to sleep. He drags his fingers out, wipes them on the sweater and then gently pushes Quinn off of him.
“I need to shower,” he says, stepping down onto the floor and holding out a hand to Quinn. “Wanna join?”
“Why yes, Mr Hernandez,” Quinn says, taking his hand. “I’d love to.”
I'm just wondering, what would happen if quinn + nando met holster and discovered he loves musicals?
Ray, first of all, I humbly ask your forgiveness at the sheer amount of time I sat on this ask. In my defense, I was planning a fic. And it’s not that long of a fic, but I just... well, you guys know the drill. I answer all asks, but sometimes the order they fall gets a little wonky.
And I wanted to write this one out! So may I present: the “Quinn meets the OG Samwell Hockey crew” fic, up now on ao3. I’ll paste a bit of it below the cut.
I’m posting this on a Monday because QTH, but according to my timezone, it’s nowhere near evening yet. Let’s say I’m just getting a head start on QTH today, and posting a bit early. Also, Quinn and theatre aren’t exactly the main point of this. It’s more just a prominent backdrop to his meeting of the other characters. But also, it takes place during DEH season, and double also, a few of the drama club kids from this fic are in the very beginning of it.
Anyway. In which Quinn Cooper (freshman, theatre kid, softcore WAG) meets the six OG SMH alumni.
(Ask me anything about the crickets!)
//
Saturday rehearsal lets out early.
Well. By ‘early’, Quinn guesses, he actually means it lets out on time at 5:00 instead of the usual 5:30 or 5:45. But it feels early not to be let out late, at this point in the production process.
It’s not even that rehearsals have been going catastrophically wrong. Of course, at this point, there’s the given oh my goodness we open in two weeks and people are still missing cues, and the ensemble needs to project if they want a chance of being heard over the pit band, which, by the way, only comes to rehearsals during tech week, so we have five tries with them to get it right, and, of course, the classic I made a lyric mistake during If I Could Tell Her last week in a run and it threw Claire and I off and now I live in constant fear of tripping up again like that— but. For the most part. They’re at a good place to be as a cast and crew, given their current proximity to opening night. The reason they’ve been staying late is that, during notes, Dr. C tends to have a lot to say. But today, the break between the two runs is shorter, so they finish earlier, which means notes start earlier.
Usually, end time on a rehearsal doesn’t affect Quinn’s life, but tonight, ending at 5 is nice, because it means he won’t be late to Sebastián’s game the way he thought he would be.
He walks out of the stage door with Cole, who’s laughing to himself about some note Dr. C gave them on the opening number (Kelsie, you’re supposed to be exasperated, not look like you’re in physical pain). “Dude,” he’s saying, as he swings his bag over his shoulder, “I swear I saw the light leave her eyes.”
Quinn laughs, too. “I suppose she can’t handle the responsibilities of parenthood.” He might feel a little bad talking about somebody behind their back, in another situation, but Kelsie has been passive-aggressive or just outright mean to him, Cole, and most of the rest of the cast since the day they got started, so he doesn’t really care.
Cole snorts at his latest comment, but before he can reply, there’s a voice from behind them. “Gentlemen!” Reid tosses an arm around each of them, falling into step between them. “Esteemed colleagues. Where are we headed? Any plans for the evening?”
“I think I’m getting food,” Cole says. “I’m starved. And Allison said she might come. Do you guys wanna go?”
Quinn gives him an apologetic smile. “I’m going to the ice hockey game. But thank you. You’re kind to offer.”
“Ohh.” A knowing grin crosses Cole’s face, and Reid looks just as ready to poke fun. “Okay, man. We see how it is.”
Reid scoffs. “Ditching us for your hockey boyfriend.” He shakes his head at Cole. “What do we call that?”
“Whipped city,” he and Cole say in unison, and then they high-five.
Quinn laughs. “You guys should come!” he tells them. When he’s met with identical gazes of identical gazes of theatre-kid horror, he adds, “I know, I know… it seems a little silly at first, but I enjoy the games!”
“Yeah,” Cole laughs, adjusting his round glasses. “And that definitely has everything to do with the sport and nothing to do with seeing your boyfriend in hockey gear.”
Quinn laughs again. “Oh, hush,” he replies. Getting made fun of by Cole and Reid isn’t so different from Ben and Remy’s ‘chirping’, come to think of it. “I do mean it, if you want to come.”
“Thanks anyway, dude,” Cole says, “but I’m so hungry.” He pulls out his phone. “I don’t know where Allison went. Reid, are you coming?”
Reid shrugs. “A man might consider it.” He nudges Quinn. “Dude,” he stage-whispers. “You’re just gonna let us hang out with your mom like that?”
Quinn shakes his head, laughing still, as they reach the double doors in the lobby. “I suppose I am,” he replies, then walks backward to push the door open and waves. “Have a nice night, you guys,” he tells them. “I’ll see you Monday.”
Reid waves back, and Cole flashes the rock-on hand signal— unlike one Benjamin Shaley, Cole actually knows the difference between ‘rock on’ and ‘I love you’. “Have fun!” Reid says, in a singsong voice. “Don’t thirst too hard.”
Quinn rolls his eyes, grinning all the while, as he walks out the doors.
He tightens his scarf for the walk across campus. It isn’t dark outside, but it’s not particularly bright, either— the sky is the same dreary, overcast gray that it was when he walked from the dorm to the Dramat this morning. It’s chilly, but not below freezing, he thinks. He wonders if Sebastián wore his scarf with his gameday suit today.
Faber and the Dramat are pretty much on opposite ends of campus, but Quinn can do the walk, at a brisk pace, in about seven minutes. When he arrives, he has to wait in a little line at the box office, where he shows his student ID and pays three dollars to get in.
It’s loud inside the arena, but at least he’s learned to expect that by now; he turns his volume down before he’s even through the doors. Coming here was a little intimidating, the first few times, but this semester, he has an effective system in place.
He always sits in the same spot, and usually Caitlin Farmer is there, too. Denice sat with them at his first game, but she’s normally relegated to the bench, given that being the team manager is, in fact, her job. Caitlin makes good company, and she lets him watch games without listening, sometimes, when he feels like it. The girl John Hopper was dating also sat with them in January, but Quinn is pretty sure they broke up, since he hasn’t seen much of her lately.
So once inside, he makes a beeline for his usual spot. The boys aren’t on the ice yet, but there’s music playing.
And then arises a small situation. As he approaches the place where he usually sits with Caitlin, he sees that the whole area is occupied. Very much occupied, in fact, and though Caitlin is there, the group of people she’s with are all unfamiliar to Quinn. His spot, next to Caitlin, is taken by an artsy-looking young woman with dark, undercut hair.
Quinn stills, for a moment, and surveys the scene. It’s logical, of course. It makes sense. Obviously, Caitlin has real friends, people she’d prefer to watch the game with aside from Quinn, a freshman who’s here for his boyfriend. He should let her be, and sit somewhere else. He’ll turn his ears off, and watch the game like that. It’ll be good.
He turns to go, and he’s scoping out another place to sit, one that won’t intrude on anyone else’s experience, when there’s a call of, “Quinn!”
He squints, because he knows that voice, and that’s when he sees her— Denice is among the group of unfamiliars, waving one arm over her head. She was obstructed by the others, four tall boys— men— in a row on the bleachers, but she’s leaning away from them now, and smiling his way. “Come and sit!” she adds, patting the spot next to her.
Last night @freakinbagels sent me their donation screenshot, so as promised, here’s a fic to say thanks :) here’s a link to what I’m offering in return for proof of bail fund donations, and here is a link to all the bail funds around the country!
Their prompt was OMGCP and Tinder, specifically someone going on a Tinder date while having what they thought were unrequited feelings for someone else :)
________________________
Dex downloads Tinder three times. The first time was when he first moved onto campus his frog year; his sister told him everyone does that sort of thing, you don’t have to, I’m just saying it’s an option if you want it. He’d deleted it in the spring after a date that had left him with a sunburn of the words “do me ;)” on his back. The second time, a fluke, while searching for a fake fire app to prove a point to Nursey who still believed the lighter app was the pinnacle of coding.
The third time he’s a junior in the Haus rolling out dough for a pie, and Nursey downloads it for him.
“What the fuck are you doing with my phone,” Dex says. He pats flour onto his rolling pin.
Nursey says, “Nothing,” in the sort of tone that means something. Dex glares at him. “It’s really hard for you to pull off ‘intimidating’ when you have flour in your hair, you know that right.”
Dex sets the rolling pin down, leaning across the table, and sees the flame icon slowly loading on his home screen. He spares a second to be grateful that this is all Nursey’s doing. He doesn’t have any incriminating photos or anything — on his normal camera roll anyway, Snapchat is a different story — but still?
He says, “You trying to get me laid?”
Nursey scoffs. “‘Get you laid,’ pshaw. I’m trying to get you romanced.” He pauses. “But I mean. Yeah, I am.”
(ao3) a warmup i wrote before i tackle my bigger wips. 1k of soft flirting haha
~
Dex’s moment of clarity comes to him mid-kegster, of all places. And although it’s slightly ironic, he’s not surprised. There’s something mystical about kegsters– a certain magic in the air that can only be curated by the mix of free-flowing alcohol, the liminality of midnight hours, and music that your body feels more than hears. If anything, he almost gets more drunk on that than the tub juice.
He’s just past tipsy, slightly more sober than Nursey, and they’re both swaying to the upbeat pop song that’s blasting through the speakers. Dex barely has to lean in for Nursey to hear him, and the proximity is intimate in a way he never thought possible for the two of them, and yet. Here they are.
“You’ve got a pretty good sense of rhythm,” Nursey is saying over the music, “You know. For a white guy.”
Dex rolls his eyes and shoves him playfully. “You’re not so bad yourself, for a klutz.”
Ransom’s not actually from Toronto. His accent sounds like he’s from Toronto, he roots for the Leafs like he’s from Toronto, but saying he’s actually from the city of Toronto is a goddamn lie. It’s false advertising, is what it is. At least, that’s what Holster thinks when they’ve driven two hours outside the city and are still forty five minutes away from Ransom’s house.
“Bro,” Holster begins for the fifth time. Ransom glances over at him, one eyebrow raised in a perfect arch. “Not to be a dick, but seriously, how much longer?” He asks as he slumps back against the seat. “My ass is going numb.”
“Well, we can’t have that,” Ransom says mildly, smoothly turning on a blinker before drifting over to the left lane. “I have plans for that ass.” He grins, a quick, dirty flash of teeth Holster can only see when they pass beneath one of the many lampposts that line the highway.
“Cool, when I see your parents I’ll just be like, sorry, you have a lovely home but I can’t chat, your supposedly heterosexual son quote ‘has plans for my ass,’ unquote, P.S. we’re dating!” Holster says, waving his hands to heighten the drama. Ransom laughs in the seat next to him, hands relaxed around the steering wheel. Holster’s gaze travels from his nimble hand to his corded forearm, up over his rounded bicep and strong shoulder, slipping over his neck and chin and finally up to his face. He looks happy, relaxed, and Holster doesn’t know how much longer that’s going to last. Coming out is unpredictable and —
Before Holster can finish his thought Ransom suddenly changes lanes again to slip onto the exit ramp. Holster looks over, about to ask if they’re finally in Ransom’s little town, but the tightness at the corner of Ransom’s smile quiets him. He waits, silent, while Ransom guides the car onto a smaller road, then an even narrower street, then on a dirt road. He doesn’t speak until the car comes to a stop, headlights cutting through the darkness that’s draped over them. Ransom turns the car off suddenly and climbs out; Holster follows.
He’ll always follow. He knows it, Ransom knows it, and soon Ransom’s family will know it, too.
Holster’s eyes are still adjusting to the darkness but Ransom finds him easily and wraps a warm arm around his waist. “Close your eyes, Holtzy.” He instructs. They take a step forward together, ever in unison, and Holster follows Ransom’s murmured instructions until they’ve walked down a small incline. Holster’s feet are bare, sandals sitting uselessly under the glovebox where he’d kicked them off approximately twenty minutes into the drive from Buffalo. His soles sink into the soft grass. Ransom’s hands float over his body, turning him by the hips and settling on his shoulders to gently push him down until he’s sitting on the grass. Ransom sits beside him, close enough for their shoulders to touch. His knee brushes Holster’s thigh; he must have crossed his legs.
Holster settles his hand over the curve of Ransom’s knee to press his thumb along the small scar he knows Ransom got falling out of a tree their Frog year during Initiation. Holster had carried him all the way back to their dorm, singing songs from Les Miserable at the top of his lungs. He hums a bar from “Bring Him Home” just to hear Ransom’s breathy laugh and feel the soft punch against his arm. Works every time.
“Tilt your head back,” Ransom says, and presses a kiss just behind Holster’s ear when he does so. “Now open your eyes.” He instructs, lips grazing Holster’s ear. He shivers but obeys; the universe opens up.
“Wow,” He breathes, hooking a hand around his knee as he leans back, trying to take in as much as possible. The sky is dappled with stars, swirling white and purple with galaxies and clouds of gas billions of light years away. The Milky Way stretches over them, the galaxy’s arm as close as Ransom’s beside him. Holster’s seen the stars but never like this, not even in Iowa.
“Yeah,” Ransom agrees. They’re quiet as Holster sways this way and that, back and forth, as he tries to assemble the stars into semi-familiar constellations. He sees squares, triangles, circles even. Satellites arc overhead, moving quickly enough to track. He’s just identified what he thinks is definitely a celestial erection when he hears a soft rustling behind him.
When he turns, Ransom is there holding up his phone. Holster grins softly, intimately. Ransom takes a picture and quickly scoots back to his side. Holster wraps an arm around him.
“Look up,” Holster murmurs, voice heavy with some emotion he can easily identify but isn’t quite ready to share. “I found a giant dick.”
Ransom’s laugh carries down the hill and over the meadow, splitting through the hushed silence darkness always seems to carry with it. Holster kisses him just to muffle it, or so he tells himself. Pulling Ransom onto his lap, though, the galaxy stretched behind his head like a halo when Holster looks up at him between kisses, well. That’s for another reason altogether.
It could’ve been worse, Whiskey decides, as he finds himself trudging his way across the unsurprisingly crowded campus with Ford and Tango, on a mission to get to the murder Stop-n-Shop before the disposable cups are completely sold out. Really, it could’ve been so much worse.
They’ve already passed by more than three sets of Powerpuff girls, and Whiskey is pretty sure he could look in any direction and immediately spot at least one Alexander Hamilton. At least one. Among all the outrageously flashy costumes around them, the three of them actually look a little bit low-key despite their carefully coordinated ridiculousness. Which honestly suits Whiskey just fine. And thankfully, it doesn’t seem to bother Ford and Tango at all – the two of them look kind of absurdly excited in their matching black cloaks and house scarves.
It’s actually pretty endearing.
“We’ve gotta get a group picture, later,” Whiskey says, surprising himself.
Ford turns towards him, beaming.
“I know, right? I’m so glad I finished knitting in time!”
“Totally,” Tango agrees enthusiastically. “Hey, do you really think the theatre club will really need these cloaks back? ‘Cause I could get used to this.”
“So sorry, Weasley, but Chanelle will murder me if I don’t have them back by Monday.”
“Chanelle, huh? D’you think she’s the culprit behind the ol’ Stop-n-Shop murder?”
“I mean, if someone ever spoke to her before her second cup of coffee in the morning? Probably.”
After zig-zagging between two separate teams of superheroes trying to herd one another in place for a picture, they finally get to Stop-n-Shop. At once, Ford’s expression turns serious.
“Okay. Ready?”
“When you are,” Tango says gravely. “Let’s just hope at least one of us makes it back out alive.”
They get into formation, and slowly elbow their way inside the shop.
It’s packed, literally packed. Whiskey carefully steps between Tinker Bell and Gandalf as he heads towards the back of the shop, just as planned. A look over his shoulder tells him Tango’s already made his way over to the registers and is trying to figure out where the line ends, so he can get in it and hold a spot for them. He can’t even see Ford anymore, but he’s sure she’s doing everything she can to get over to the section for kitchen essentials, where it’s most likely they’ll actually find what they’re looking for.
Whiskey turns around again, and resolutely keeps making his way towards the back. There’s a shelf around there that has office supplies, and a selection of scented candles, and sometimes seasonal wrapping paper. There’s a slight chance there’ll be some kind of cups or mugs around there, too. Obviously, they’ve got to exhaust every option.
It’s for the good of the Halloween kegster.
Unfortunately, the store is no less crowded near the back. Whiskey has just carefully avoided colliding with a pair of Power Rangers when he finds himself walking right into a guy in a unicorn onesie, instead.
“Shit – sorry, I’m so sorry.” Whiskey steps backwards, only there’s a shelf behind him, so it doesn’t really help very much. “Didn’t see you there, I was-”
The guy looks up. Whiskey falls silent.
It’s Miguel.
Intro to statistics, Wednesdays and Fridays.
“Oh,” Whiskey says awkwardly, only to immediately realize that doesn’t even make sense. “I mean, hi.”
Anyways, y’all better start saving your fave fanfics and fanart under the Disney labels cause it looks like they’re trying to curb fair use/fanworks and I’m sure there’s going to be mass panicked deletions even though it’s probably unnecessary cause AO3′s legal team will fight for us.
You know that 400K yall were so fucking mad about OTW raising?
Yeah, its gonna pay for the travel expenses and court costs that the legal team at AO3/OTW when they protect your shit from getting C&Ded.
DO NOT DELETE YOUR STUFF! IF YOU GET CONTACTED BY DISNEY - GO TO THE ORGANIZATION OF TRANSFORMATIVE WORKS , CONTACT THEIR LEGAL ADVOCACY DEPARTMENT! ASK FOR HELP!!
THIS SHIT RIGHT HERE IS *WHY* *THEY* *EXIST*
Note that Disney would have one Hell of a time serving C&Ds to authors at AO3 - because there is no “contact author” option other than leaving a comment.
They’d have to contact the SITE, which is to say, the Organization for Transformative Works, to deliver a C&D order or a DMCA takedown order.
And the OTW is not going to remove fics because someone sent a letter that says “actually those characters belong to me and you can’t use them that way.” The OTW was created to FIGHT that kind of claim. They are ready.
Don’t delete your fics out of fear. WE OWN THE SERVERS. They can’t threaten the hosts into deleting anything.
And if Disney thought they had a strong legal case against fanfic, they’d’ve shut down the archive a decade ago, when it was penniless and unknown, instead of waiting until it had won several battles in Congress and got worldwide acclaim for a Hugo Award.
They’ve left campus in order to shop for new running shoes, and have made a spontaneous detour to a nearby thrift store Nursey wanted to check out. Which is a bit funny, in hindsight, since Nursey’s wandered around the whole place without really looking at anything, while Dex has picked up a few mismatched mugs that’ll make a nice addition to the Haus collection as well as more than a few tiny flower pots that look absolutely perfect for succulents. Now, though, it seems like something has finally caught Nursey’s attention.
Dex peers around his boyfriend, trying to figure out what in the world it is that’s made Nursey’s expression turn so suddenly wistful.
It’s a table.
A large, rectangular wooden table made out of what must be black walnut. The legs are made of high gauge steel, giving the whole piece a very sleek, trendy feel. It’s the kind of table you’d find in a rustic-looking cabin on the edge of some tourist-packed national park, or in an entirely too large and exhaustingly modern kitchen where some poor interior designer has made a desperate attempt to bring out a slightly more homey vibe.
Dex purses his lips.
Black walnut. Really? When there’s perfectly nice, durable, affordable red oak in the world? And if you’re dead set on wasting all your cash on the most ridiculous type of wood you could find, why the fuck wouldn’t you even bother to sand off the edges properly?
“Yeah,” Nursey says, a little hurriedly. “I know. It’s stupid.”
Dex tears his eyes away from the table to look at Nursey.
“It’s expensive,” Nursey elaborates, even as he lets his fingertips glide lightly across the surface of the table, his smile soft. “And it’s not like I need a fucking table. I’m just… Yeah. No.”
Dex looks back towards the table, considering it once more. It’s still fucking ridiculous, obviously. Nothing could change that fact.
He gingerly steps around the mattress on the floor, where Beth and Melanie are still fast asleep, and manages to close the door behind him with minimum sound. Across the hallway, the door to Chowder’s room is ajar, and Whiskey can hear two people snoring in there. It’s no surprise, really – Leo and Jeremy were still dominating the Haus dance floor when Whiskey finally stumbled up the stairs last night. Or, more accurately, this morning – Whiskey thinks it might’ve been around half past three, but he’s not entirely sure. In any case, those two could probably sleep for a week.
A kegster is always a kegster, but last night? Last night was a kegster.
Whiskey will have to remember to get Chowder something as thanks for letting Beth’s friends crash in his room. Then again, Whiskey thinks with a grin, it probably wasn’t a huge inconvenience for Chowder to stay over at Cait’s.
Whiskey sleepily pads his way into the Haus kitchen, only to be met with… Nothing. A resounding abundance of nothing.
There’s nobody in the kitchen.
Whiskey blinks.
Dex did say he had a thing this Sunday – something about a mandatory captain’s meeting at too fucking early o’clock. Obviously, he’d have left for that already, or he’d be running late. Meaning, Dex isn’t at the Haus. Dex won’t be making post-kegster breakfast.
Whiskey’s whole body is still buzzing with adrenaline as they pile into the locker room at full volume. There’s lots of shouting and laughing, and even a few atrocious attempts at actual singing. Whiskey can’t seem to stop grinning as he joins the others in calling for Dex to make his speech, as he fistbumps Pips and Louis and Joyo, as Tango sweeps him and Ford up in a belated, private, three-person celly.
It’s only when Hops suddenly calls out to Whiskey from all the way across the room, that Whiskey abruptly stops smiling.
“Yo, Whisk! That girl who kept waving at you – cute brunette, right behind the glass – that’s your girlfriend, isn’t it?”
Whiskey takes a moment to make sure he’s got his expression under complete control, before he turns around.
He’s been meaning to mention it to the whole team, as opposed to just Tango and Ford. Now’s as good a time as any.
“That’s my cousin, Beth, she’s here with some friends,” he corrects, keeping his tone light. “Actually, my girlfriend and I broke up.”
It’s really something, the way the whole room kind of just… Quiets. Samwell Men’s Hockey doesn’t do quiet.
Hops, to his credit, looks sufficiently apologetic.
“Shit, man – I didn’t know.”
“You’re fine,” Whiskey says quickly. “It’s all good. You couldn’t know.”
“That girl you dated lives in Phoenix, right?” Louis chimes in smoothly. “Must’ve been tough, being so far away from her. That’d make any relationship difficult.”
It’s a decent assumption, and one Whiskey certainly wouldn’t mind if they all made.
“Yeah, well,” he says vaguely. “We weren’t together for very long, so.”
There. Now they all know, and Whiskey has at least tried to downplay the whole fucking thing. Hopefully, they’ll all instantly forget about the fact that Whiskey ever dated anybody. Because it’s not like Whiskey wants to talk about it. Or rather, there’s actually nothing to talk about. They were together, and now they’re not – end of story.
Could you please tell me about the first time Nando gets fined (because of Quinn). What does Quinn think about the whole fining thing?
Yes, absolutely, anon— and thank you for asking!!
I’m going to cross-post this to ao3 along with a couple other drabbles that have come as results to asks, but I won’t do it yet because those other ones aren’t done. In the meantime: have this!!
Set about 24 hours after this most recent Quindo fic on ao3.
(Ask me anything about the crickets!)
//
Technically speaking, tonight is not Quinn’s first Samwell Hockey party.
Because after all, the whole reason he met Sebastián was his actual first party, the Halloween one, which was only a few weeks before now but feels like it was forever ago. He came here on his own accord, based on the invitation Denice extended, completely unknowing of what to expect. And he survived. A real frat party. In fact, he came out practically unscathed.
And even in the time since Halloween, he’s been in the Hockey Haus one other time, on the night of Winter Screw. That time, too, was doable; he emerged with a cute boy’s number, even. So tonight, two weeks to the date after Winter Screw, being in the Hockey Haus is not a new experience. Nor is the party atmosphere.
But it feels different. Tonight, it’s better, more comfortable, less of a social experiment and more just a social event. Because tonight, he’s here as a hockey boy’s boyfriend.
He’s a little giddy, maybe. It’s been about twenty-four hours since they made it official, after Quinn went to his game last night, and tonight he walks into the hockey party feeling like a new man. He’s wearing the freshly stolen Samwell Hockey hoodie of Sebastián’s that he managed to end last night by acquiring, with his one pair of jeans, if you can believe it.
He’s here on invitation, and although he was with Sebastián for several hours after the game last night, it feels like it’s been forever since he saw him. They had an away game today— or, as Sebastián calls it when they play off-campus, a roadie, not to be confused with Rhodey, the team’s nickname for Sebastián’s best friend, Ben (goodness, it must get confusing)— so, anyway, Quinn hasn’t actually seen his brand-new boyfriend all day. The game was only at Brown, so they didn’t have to stay in a hotel, and it landed them back on campus after a 3-0 win, according to Sebastián’s excited text to him earlier.
Sebastián♥️: we won!!!!! 3 to nothing. it was swawesome!!!!!!
Me: Congratulations!!🥰🥳
Sebastián♥️: thank you!! ❤️❤️ i miss you!
Sebastián♥️: come to the haus tonight? we’re throwing a kegster!
Quinn really has no idea why they’re called kegsters, but he shows up at the Haus after he eats dinner anyways.
It’s a hopping place, but maybe that’s just how the Haus always is after dark. Meeting up with Sebastián takes him all of two minutes, because he’s tall and loud and cute as can be, and when he sees him through the crowd, his face lights up, and he cries, “Quinn!” and then kisses him right in front of everybody and nothing in the world matters at all.
It’s been about an hour since he got here, or at least Quinn is pretty sure it’s only been an hour. Sebastián is drinking, but only a little, and the music is loud (Quinn has his volume turned way down), and the hockey guys are all being really nice to him, as he sticks to Sebastián’s side like glue. They dance a little, but Quinn is so awful at dancing when it isn’t choreographed that he laughs his way off the unofficial dance floor in the living room after half of a song.
Mostly, they just talk to other people. From a meeting over lunch at Commons last week, Quinn already knows Sebastián’s two freshman friends on the team, Ben and Remy, and of course he knows Tony, through Denice, as well. But tonight, he meets others— like the captain, the redhead, whose name is not actually Dex but Will, and his boyfriend, Derek; they remember him from the Halloween party. (“I found out they were dating in October,” Sebastián murmurs into his ear, one hand on his back, as they walk away after talking with them for awhile. “They’re really cute together. I basically want to be just like them when I grow up.”
Quinn laughs and goes to kiss his cheek as they walk through the ruckus. “When you grow up?”
Sebastián shrugs, and his smile in the party lights makes Quinn’s stomach turn inside out. “When I’m a senior.”)
Now, Quinn stands by a table, spectating over a rather intense game of cup pong. It’s Sebastián and Ben versus Remy and another player on the team, River, who has spectacular hair. He and Remy are a million times better at sinking their shots than Ben and Sebastián are, and the whole sight is mildly entertaining.
“Fuck!” Ben cries, when one of his attempts bounces off the rim of a cup and onto the floor. “I’m fucking cursed, I swear to God.”
“You have a serious problem,” Remy replies, retrieving the ball from the ground and dusting it off on his shirt. He passes it to River, because it’s his turn, and Quinn watches as his toss arcs perfectly over the table and lands with a plop in the closest cup on their side.
“Shit,” Sebastián laughs, because it’s his turn to drink, but the cup is only filled about a quarter of the way, so he downs it with minimal effort. Quinn laughs at the scene.
“You two are awful at this,” he remarks, looking up at him and Ben, and Ben feigns offense, putting a hand to his heart, while Sebastián laughs at the ceiling.
“You’ve only been dating him for a day and you’re already chirping his pong skills?” Ben shakes his head and lets off a low whistle. “Tough crowd, boys.”
“Here.” Sebastián presses the ball into his hand, and Quinn looks up at him to widen his eyes as he says, “You take a shot.”
“Yeah, show us what you got!” Ben is grinning from ear to ear. “Can’t chirp if you can’t back it up.”
Chirping, Quinn recalls, is hockey speak for teasing. He guesses he did ask for this. As he lifts the lightweight pong ball to the light and studies the cups across the table, he feels dozens of partygoing eyes all on him. The newcomer. The freshman. The boyfriend.
You know what? Screw it. He’s going to try.
“Okay,” he replies, stepping forward to get a better angle, and Ben hollers gleefully into the crowd. He looks over his shoulder to Sebastián for a second, who is smiling like crazy.
“Whenever you’re ready, baby,” he says.
The pure adrenaline of being called baby alone is enough. Quinn lines up his aim, squints, and sends the ball flying toward Remy and River’s triangle of cups.
It seems to move in slow-motion, but when it does land, with a plunk, it’s in their centermost cup.
The general vicinity around Quinn erupts. “OHHH!” Ben cries, jumping up and down, and Remy starts laughing hysterically at his friends. Quinn receives various high-fives and claps on the shoulder from people he doesn’t even know.
“Yo, he owned you,” River says, pointing to Sebastián and Ben, and then drinks the contents of the cup Quinn sunk it in. River nods to him, adding, “Good shot, frosh.”
Quinn falls backwards, into Sebastián’s waiting arms, and when he looks up at him again, Sebastián is grinning at him with something vaguely impressed in his eyes. He leans down to whisper, “That was kind of hot.”
There’s a flutter somewhere in Quinn’s stomach, and he grins back at him. “I’m afraid that might be the extent of my lucky frat party talents,” he replies. “Not to disappoint you or anything.”
“Oh, trust me, baby,” Sebastián mumbles. “There is nothing disappointing about you.”
The kiss they exchange after that doesn’t last quite as long as Quinn wants it to, but that’s only because they get a moment to themselves before Ben is shouting, “Hey, Nanny! Not to interrupt your gay hours, but it’s your turn.”
Sebastián pulls off of him and laughs, keeping him close to his chest. Quinn is dazed. He tastes like beer and sweat, and he wants… more of this, please.
He finishes the game of pong with Ben, and once it’s done, they make their way over to what could be considered the edge of the dance floor. There’s some random electronic song playing, and it’s musically atrocious but good for moving around to. Quinn hasn’t had a drop of alcohol tonight, nor does he plan on it, but parading around at Sebastián’s side like this is intoxicating all on its own. He’s here, with him, and it’s almost like Sebastián is showing him off, and it is beyond lovely.
“I’m an awful dancer,” Quinn confesses, as Sebastián is trying to get him to move with him to the music.
Inches away with his hands on his waist, Sebastián knits his brows like he doesn’t believe him. “You do theatre!”
“I’m awful at this kind of dancing,” he amends, hooking his hand around his hip. No one has ever touched him quite this much before. He doesn’t want it to stop.
“We don’t have to dance,” Sebastián replies. He looks past him, in the direction of the kitchen. “We could take a breather? Go find Ford and Tony?”
“Mmm…” So close to him in this crowd, Quinn isn’t so keen on the thought of leaving it. He steps a little closer to him and shrugs. “We could do that.” He pauses, tips his face up towards his, and meets his eyes in the low light. “Or we could stay here.”
He kisses him gently, at least at first, but Sebastián seems just as on board with the general idea as he is, because he pulls him very close all of a sudden, holds him tight with his big hands around his back. He still tastes like the party, and Quinn presses up against him, threading one hand through the slightly sweaty curls on his head. Sebastián’s lips are soft, but his kiss is anything but. It’s close, and warm, and so good, and Quinn has a feeling he’s about to leave the ground, but then—
“Nando.” The voice booms through the sound system over the music. Quinn jerks, and Sebastián pulls away to look up toward the noise— his teammate, the Swedish one who does the music, is holding his funny little DJ mic and looking right, directly at the two of them. “I’ve seen enough tonight,” the DJ continues. “Five dollars in the Sin Bin for that shit.”
Dispersed throughout the party, the hockey players heckle at this announcement. “Foooiiiiineeeee,” someone yells, and Quinn recognizes Ben’s cackle over the noise. The DJ gives them both a nod, waving his mic kind of menacingly, and Sebastián looks somewhere between amused and put on the spot.
“It’s a fucking kegster!” he calls, in the DJ’s direction, and puts Quinn down firmly on his feet.
Quinn has no idea what just happened. He winds his arms around his neck, watches the DJ laugh at Sebastián, and then cocks an eyebrow up at him. “Sin Bin?”
“God—” Sebastián shakes his head, squeezing him around the waist. “Okay, so there are fines on the hockey team? For PDA? I didn’t think I was going to get busted, but Louis just called me out.”
“Oh my goodness.” Quinn bites back a laugh. “So every time we kiss in public, you have to pay?”
“I mean.” Sebastián pauses. “I just got ten dollars for the whole night, so, like. Not technically.” He looks around, then reaches for Quinn’s hand and pulls him a little ways out of the crowd. When they stop, they’re against the wall near the kitchen, close to the spot in the Haus where they met for the first time. Sebastián winds an arm around his waist, then adds, “But they’ll probably fine me again, given the opportunity.”
“So…” Quinn pauses, rests a hand on his chest. “Where does the money go?”
“Oh, anywhere,” he replies. “Dex mostly uses it to upgrade stuff around the Haus or buy things we need.”
“That’s…” He has never heard of a system like this in his life, but it sounds mildly entertaining. Except when it interferes with kissing his brand-new boyfriend at a party. “I don’t understand sports culture.”
“Sometimes, I don’t, either.” Sebastián kisses his forehead, in a manner that’s significantly softer than he was on the dance floor. “Are you doing okay?”
“Me?” Quinn raises his eyebrows. “Are you kidding? I’m great.”
“Oh.” Sebastián smiles. “Cool. Good. Okay. ‘Cause so am I.”
Tilting into his arm, Quinn looks around the room for a second. The DJ is still dancing around to his own beats, and Ben is nearby, talking to a girl Quinn recognizes vaguely as his Winter Screw date. They’re secluded, but the party is still hopping, and looks like it will be for the foreseeable future.
“Hey,” he says, lowering his voice a little, and rises on his tiptoes. “I have to tell you something.” Sebastián angles his ear towards him, and he cups his hand around it, all secretive, feeling silly and so, so head over heels all at the same time.
“There are no fines for kissing in my room,” he whispers, then pulls back to wink— and the knowing, flustered smile Sebastián returns is maybe the best sight he’s ever seen.
He’ll prove that. Later. But first, he’s going to enjoy the party.
this week on “working from home”: i haven’t showered, have spent all working hours in pajamas, i’ve read the whole crickets series, and today when a client called and asked if he was calling at a bad time i told him “nah it’s ok i’m just watching musicals on youtube” (and then it turned out i’ve been so bad at reading my emails this week that i didn’t even know what he was talking about) (i’m a production manager my job is literally reading emails and knowing what the clients are talking about)
but like. time well spent? the crickets fill me with soft feelings, which is a nice break from the constant dread i’m feeling towards anything work-related nowadays.
