A/N: You guys have no idea how happy all your reviews make me. I literally beam and suppress my squeals of delight when I notice a new review, not to mention your suggestions and words of encouragement kep me going. This spring break allows me to post two chapters this time, so you won't be reading an author's note on the next one, not to mention there will be a nice... surprise in the end of the one your are curently reading. Also, this chapter is part of the idea challenge I made. The lucky winner for this chapter is Alexabeamer whose prompt was something that made me smile. So, trying not to look like a complete idiot and rather shy on this, here goes.
((EDIT MAR/30/2011: JESUS CHRIST, THIS TOOK MORE THAN EXPECTED ))
According to Wikipedia (because he can't be arsed to search more thoroughly), intimacy generally refers to the feeling of being in a close personal association and belonging together. It is a familiar and very close affective connection with another as a result of a bond that is formed through knowledge and experience of the other. At this point, he has known Desmond for three months and they somehow function, although he himself is not sure how this is possible. After all, their schedules crash, they constantly fight (more like argue, and those are sometimes one-sided. Lazy American), and he sure as hell hasn't even treaded the dark waters of sex (no, he's not afraid, that is ludicrous, he is not some virgin woman. Just a virgin man). They've tousled about sometimes, usually instigated by Desmond (the sex-fiend), they now go out to those dreadful parties Rebecca always dragged him to (he can complain to Desmond all he wants with the infuriating prick smiling all the while), and all in all, his life has become far more active both in the night and in daytime as well.
Which is rather odd considering Desmond can't go into the sunlight (he keeps insisting this is part of his stupid vampire obsession but Lucy actually confirmed that the man has some sort of acute photosensitivity. It doesn't explain his goddamn tan by the way), and for some reason people now tell him he seems more approachable (Rebecca says with a shit-eating grin that he's been humming lately. He blatantly denies this.)
It's been a wonderful couple of weeks, blissful even (dear Lord, he's going sappy), filled with nights full of Desmond, better work days and great school evenings when It comes. The fires of Hell Itself descend upon him and all his classmates as the dreaded Midterms smite them all with the wrath of an unforgiving toddler (they can be right bastards). Now, this is the point where he scoffs at everyone panicking and pulling all-nighters trying to cram while abandoning all social life to finish the twenty page essay you were supposed to be working on three months ago because in his case, he's already passing his tests with flying colors and cleaning the details out of his thirty page essay.
At least, that's what happened last semester.
This semester, he's actually part of the student body panicking and ripping himself from all human contact because oh my fucking god, I've done absolutely nothing may god have mercy on our souls (insert copious amounts of screaming and cussing). See, this is why Shaun has no social life. Without social impediments, he can concentrate head-on in his work. Miles, however, kept him constantly preoccupied and ridiculously love stuck (yes, stuck) on his cellphone, ignoring all those little warnings he'd left to get ready for his assignments. Even now, immersed fully in a book and ignoring everything except some man named Al-Mualim (why are there so little resources! He just had to pick conspiracies didn't he! Bright idea there, chap! Stunning!), his cellphone is buzzing in his back pocket, and he can almost hear the American whine.
He can bugger off for all he cares; his grades are on the line here dammit!
There's a frustrated snarl when the book only gives vague references about an assassin order and its subsequent downfall when the next master suddenly disappears (what the hell kind of name is Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad?) leaving a whole order and a pregnant woman like headless chickens (this amuses him for a total of 3 milliseconds before he's back to raiding the library). He keeps searching, practically on the brink of (not tears) ripping his hair off when he finds there's an old text that can give him a bit more information. His momentary high spirits are brutally slaughtered when he finds the text is in bloody Syria.
Somebody please bring a defibrilator.
The worst part is there are no images whatsoever. None. Nada. The only thing that comes out is a strange 'A' shaped symbol, but nothing else (and it somehow seems familiar, like he's seen it somewhere) so he gets that and races to the department where, with a wince, he dives deep into the horrid recesses of the internet. He finds a bit more then stops dead on his tracks when he finally (insert chorus of singing angels) finds an image of the bugger (he's bloody fugly by the way).
It infuriates him how laid-back Rebecca is because the goddamn wench didn't even try to finish her economics paper saying that she'd just drop the lowest grade. Like hell he'd do that. Of course, in a manner of weeks, she goes from making fun of him to trying every conceivable thing possible to get him to eat. No time for that! He has to finish this, and by his standards!
Behind the Brit's back and finally at her wit's end, Rebecca slyly takes Shaun's phone and sends several texts. She couldn't move him at all, but she knew there was at least one person capable of making him eat (or sleep. He was running on his third day with nothing but coffee and her Monsters. That was just plain unacceptable)
Wat do u mean he hasn been eatin?
yeah, im srs. just keeps wrkn on his stpd prjects :P he's all shaun of the lvng ded
fml. fine, heading over
BRINGT TAKE OUT
wat! its ur turn!
yea but ur the one comin over :3
bitch
fag
Alright. He'd found some shady blog advertising something called a 'Codex'. It'd arrive sometime next month, not the best time as he only had two months to finish everything, but from that to nothing, it was acceptable. Curiously, the woman who'd sold it to him seemed relieved to rid herself of it, mentioning something about the object being wildly searched by some monster. He'd scoffed at this, and was surprised to read he'd be receiving more than he bargained. In his honest opinion, it sounded quite much like some cheap horror movie hook up. He rolled his eyes, printed the receipt and went back to his paper.
Monsters. As if.
"Hey."
One of these days he was going to throw his heart out (violently, so Desmond would die out of guilt.)
"M-Miles, bloody hell, knock that off!"
"Sorry. What's this I hear about you not eating?"
He snarled. "Rebecca."
"Yes, her. She's worried. She also demands you stop hogging the Wi-Fi. She needs to go on a raid this week."
"Oh that's wonderful; I'll go ahead and stop my work so she can get back to her internet life. Has she mentioned she's going to fail one of her subjects because she's too lazy to start on her projects?"
"She mentioned you don't have to turn the draft of one your works until next month."
"Exactly. Do you understand then, how completely lagging I am? I have practically close to nil resources, I need to make several reviews and I also need to-"
It's hard to keep up with an argument when you have a pair of lips on your own. When the bloody git parted and lingered there, with a bag behind his back, he chuckled and murmured.
"I have those dumplings you like and shrimp lo mein."
...curses, the fool knew his weakness! The brown of his eyes slimmed considerably as he glared at the twinkling black.
"Fine."
May it be on record that he tried his bloody damndest to resist his stupid face. The table was cleared of its precious contents and the food was placed neatly in front of Shaun (the bastard even had a thermos of real Earl Grey for him. Not that he felt pampered or anything). It always made him curious, watching everyone around Desmond eat and the man never taking a bite, not even when it was offered. He'd seen him drink water, cokes, even energy drinks, but he'd never seen him take a bite. He chewed the thought out (along with his lo mein) and gave him a suspicious glare to which the scarred man only smiled pleasantly. See? Idiot, that was all he was!
"Why have I never watched you eat?"
"Because I-"
"Eat before you get here, yes, yes, but I haven't even seen you take even a piece of bubblegum to your mouth. What, are your tastes too refined for what I eat?"
In a matter of seconds, the smile went from pleasant to rueful, and he chuckled darkly, like he was laughing at some morbid inner joke.
"More like my diet is a little too gross for you."
"Oh come now, what are you, a vegan?"
That glint again of amusement. The Brit watched un-amused as Desmond shifted in his seat and leaned back precariously on the feet of it.
"I'm a humanitarian."
Shaun made a face. "What does that have to do with eating habits?"
"Nothing, Shaun, just a joke. Ask Becca, I'm sure she'll know. Now that I answered your question, you answer mine."
"Which would be?"
"Why are you panicking over projects due in two months in Spring Break? We should be going out, have fun by the beach or something, go to the fair, hit the clubs."
Was this moron for real? Shaun ate a considerable amount of dumplings to keep himself quiet for a bit. Of course that didn't work for the reason that Shaun rather liked to discuss things.
"Really, Desmond? The beach? What, are we going at night when it's freezing, because if I remember correctly, your skin isn't very amused with UV rays. As a matter of fact, it blisters in anger when they're acquainted."
"Night's the best time to go skinny dipping."
This close, this close to choke on his food. While Desmond was patting his back trying to remind him how to properly get food from point A to point B and definitely not to point Q, he tried his best not to envision them both very cold, very naked and very alone in the water. Still waiting for that defibrillator, by the by. He waved the other away who was by now chuckling at his beet red face and expression of mortification (one of these days he was going to get back at him. One of these days!) He glared at him, hard, to emphasize his anger but only received the infuriating calm smile. It begged to be punched.
"How about we go out right now?"
"What? Alright, this is the last confirmation I needed. You're bloody insane."
"I'm serious, we could go, right now. There's close to no one there, it's quiet and peaceful. You need a break anyway."
"I do not need a break, I need to finish this."
"Just this once. I'll never move you out of your work again. I'll keep bringing you food back though, I like you alive."
Have you seen those movies where one of the two is more outgoing? Does things you personally would never do? Shaun felt Desmond was like this, in these moments (if a little dense.) A second to think how ridiculous the suggestion is, and then the acceptance that it's not every day you receive such requests. It's not common, and maybe that's why it sounds so exciting. Maybe that's why a few minutes later he's clinging to him while they dodge cars and head to the beach. When they finally arrive at Loyola Park, it's almost three in the morning but he doesn't feel tired at all.
"Well would you look at that, it actually is a nice view."
Desmond chuckled. The bike is stationed on the sand, with the parkourist sitting on it, looking at the lapping waves, the wind lightly ruffling his clothes. Shaun is sitting on it as well, facing the moron and wondering why they're seated like this (if he's honest, he wishes he'd been hugged, but like bloody hell he's going to admit to that.)
"I told you."
"We're not skinny dipping."
"Party pooper."
He's elbowed, thought it's more of a playful push. It amazes him how controlled Desmond is, if you watch him carefully. The way he does actions with a certain sort of calculated force. He's always considered this odd, but at least it means he won't be bruised. He's seen the man tumble with Rebecca, and they don't play nice.
"I shouldn't be here, I should be getting my resources. This is stupid and ridiculous, not to mention the epitome of sappy. A beach of all things, I'm such a fool for romanticism aren't I? I swear if you go to my apartment with roses come next Valentine I will-"
The man has to quit shushing him with kisses (not that they're not appreciated, just, well, never mind.) If Rebecca ever gets wind about them kissing on a beach, she'll have a field day for months to come. They part with him breathless and Desmond smiling. Makes the Brit wonder when he's not smiling.
"You've got to stop that."
He's peppering all these little kisses all over his jaw, smirking, and Shaun is dead sure Desmond feels very smug right about now. "Stop what?"
"Shutting me up with a kiss, you keep doing that when I'm what do you think you're doing?"
Was it always this hot? Really, they're on the beach, there's wind and the bloody git is leaning over him sucking on his Adam's apple. He's holding himself in place by the back of the bike and his heart is trying its absolute best to get out of its ribbed confinement (or maybe tap-dancing). He doesn't answer, but he looks up, and dear God he's not smiling either. Shaun wonders for a brief moment if this is how a rabbit feels when an eagle is staring down at it. They're kissing again, but it's a bit more desperate. There's something underneath and he pretty much knows it's sexual frustration (it's worse because it comes from both parties.)
They stop again, breathless and more than a little hot and bothered. Is it ironic that he feels himself smirking now? Desmond's looking at him, searching, maybe for a negative, a no-go. Carefully, his arms wrap around the redhead and he leans closer still.
"We should go back. It's rather public here."
"Hurry it up then."
They're speeding back in a blink of an eye. So much for a break what with Shaun's heart rate much faster now. He feels the nibbling sensation of fear along with excitement, doesn't know what to think, except that he's gonna get laid.
Becca won't be able to use the virgin jokes anymore.
Have you ever had sex? Oh, yes, I've just asked that. See, movies and books and even people greatly over exaggerate it or describe it minimally, so by the end of it, you have no idea what to expect. When your first time comes, you're not as excited as you thought you'd be. After all, everyone seems to forget that whether straight or gay, sex hurts. Not to mention you're taught since you're a teenager that it's all rainbows and flower meadows only to learn firsthand that it's just you and someone else using all five senses (and it's going to get messy, romantic or not. And you'll have to clean it up.) Also forgotten is the fact that sex isn't perfect, it can be fucked up, and your nerves can make something go from hot and arousing to embarrassing and hilarious in five seconds flat.
Shaun's first time (with anyone. One word and he commits murder) was... odd. Not odd in holy fuck we had some real, deep, kinky shit going on, more like I've no idea what the fuck just happened but it was awesome.
For starters, foreplay was... just, wow. He had no idea he was that sensitive (no, not woman sensitive, just, well. Did you know the largest sex organ we have is actually our skin? Desmond knew that. Oh, God did he know that.) They had to check if Becca was in first and then they were racing to his room like a couple of teenagers (and giggling like them. He excludes himself from this, of course.) It's nothing but tongues and hands, with the bloody git feeling under Shaun's shirt with the tip of his fingers, pressing only in certain parts, and he's thinking about the paper he still has due, the laundry that hasn't been washed, and dear God I'm going to get fucked.
Now, here's the part where the little speech above kicks in. Shaun is so focused in what Desmond is doing that he doesn't notice his book bag on the floor, or that his feet get wrapped in it, or that he's three seconds from tripping. So when they both crash down, Desmond atop him and Shaun's glasses going askew, they just stare at each other for a couple of minutes. The laughter after this soothes their nerves (and he's not kidding. He feels a little less stressed and terrified as shit. He's still terrified, but not as much.) and the elephant trying to make residence in the room goes away.
Desmond is chuckling as he kisses him, and its this tiny moment that calms their hormones a bit. "That was embarrassing."
"Entirely your fault by the way. Attacking me like some crazed teenager."
The glasses are placed in their rightful place, with almost revered care. Shaun doesn't know if he should take them off or keep them on. What the hell do you do when you have glasses and you're about to have sex? Wear contact lenses?
"We don't have to do this."
It's so sudden it takes several minutes for it to register in his brain (after all, his blood is in another place.)
"What? Oh, bloody hell, no! You've been a nice lad not hurrying it up and all, but there's a limit and I'm very much human, so I have very human needs! We are going to shag, we are going to enjoy ourselves, and we are doing it now before I rationalize it so I can brag about it tomorrow!"
He'll change a few things here and there, but hey, who cares.
"You look cute when you're flustered."
"Oh shut up and kiss me already."
There's no better way to say that. Hell, they even stay there for a little bit (and the little thought comes in; he hasn't swept the bloody floor). He's about to snarl that he wants to be on the bed when the act itself takes place, not on the goddamn floor, when he's being taken by the hips and raised up on said furniture with ease. Does he eat that little or is Desmond that toned? They're on that part where they start taking articles of clothing off when he remembers.
"Wait, wait, wait!"
What? Weren't you the one saying something about fucking and fucking now?"
He gives him a slap of sorts because adults or not, that is some crude language right there (not that it's arousing. No, not at all.)
"Condom. And bloody lube. You have it or we don't do jack."
"Of course I have some, what am I? An idiot?"
When the items are take from the hoodie he was just wearing, he can't help but stare incredulously. How did he not notice that!
"What the-? Did you always carry that?"
"You never know."
"Bollocks, you always knew, you wanker."
See? Good example of the afore mentioned paragraph. One minute hot and sexy, next it looks like a pre-acted sitcom. At least he was completely entertained (and aroused. That's a big bonus right there.) After the little Condom/Lube Catastrophe is averted and the jeans are the next to go, his jittery fears are right back and in front row seats when he sees, really sees Desmond. That question about him being toned? Yeah, he's a fucking sculpted god. Now, if he could only hide his flat stomach, that'd be wonderful and they'd be even (a historian's diet consists of coffee and anything edible near you.) And of course, the bloke decides to rub it in by kissing him downwards, from his neck to his navel. Because really, this is the best time to do so.
Fun fact: When you're having sex, you're brain doesn't shut down. On the contrary, it goes into overdrive. He's got all these ridiculous nonsensical ideas going on while Desmond is unbuttoning his pants. He's thinking about his paper, the Codex he's going to get, the way Desmond tends to rub his nose when he's nervous and when the mouth wraps around him, all slick heat, he's thinking about that time they were at the apartment's rooftop. They were talking nonsense, just like what's passing through his head in that instant. He hisses, hips jerking up, and he thinks about that one time Desmond almost choked on a cup of water, laughing so hard with Becca hitting him on the back. With that tongue rolling around him, that bloody throat constricting him, he's thinking about Ibn'La-Ahad but he doesn't know why.
That wonderful mouth comes to a halt too soon (along with the stupid thought vomit. There's seriously no other way to name it) but any complaining stops when he sees the condom being opened and Desmond's jeans being removed. His heart is hammering in his chest so fast because that can't possible fit. Is it audible?
Hello, heart, yes, I know you're there. If you'd kindly shut up, it'd be appreciated.
Now see, this is the exact part where it goes odd. He's panicking, wondering just how much it'll burn (or hurt. What if it's searing pain? He'll bail if it entitles that), when instead of wearing the condom himself, Desmond puts it on Shaun. While he stupidly watches Desmond readying them both (he's sure he's doing his ever famous Goldfish Impersonation), he's thinking that he actually didn't expect this. By the standing they have, he thought the one doing the... uh, penetrating would be Desmond. Not that he's complaining. This means he can actually goad that he shagged the American. Instead of just watching and keeping his mouth shut, his mouth decides to finally make some other noise apart from panting and moaning.
"W-What are you bloody doing?"
Years of amassing an impressive vocabulary and this is what he spews? His family would be so proud. The wanker, as always, doesn't answer, just smiles and straddles him. He's then being guided into tight warm heat and jesus christ bloody hell. A hand can never compare to this. They're dead still, Desmond panting, looking a bit uncomfortable, but before Shaun can ask anything he's moving. It's too bloody slow, but it's so bloody good and his hands find purchase in those hips, vile tempting bones just protruding slightly from the skin, the muscles flexing, moving as he's being ridden.
Are you reading this right?
Because obviously, this has to be the amalgamation of every single bloody wet dream he's had for the past months. It has to be some sort of dream, or a hallucination, because he's the one doing the fucking; he's the one feeling the heat around him, tight and wonderful; he's the one digging his fingers into tanned skin; he's the one making Desmond moan. You know that talk about paces and how they suddenly turn frenzied? That one is true. But see, that's because you're not close to the goal. When you're taking a test, the last five minutes are no longer under your control. You just want to finish, you're desperate so you do whatever as quickly as you can. Sex is kinda like that. They both start slow, restrained, but controlled and it's fine. He's feeling this strange sort of tingling when the scarred man (oh, his mouth isn't the only thing scarred. We are discussing his torso, you perverts) starts speeding up, holding to Shaun's thighs to help himself. He doesn't know exactly when it starts, but when it does, it's glorious.
This is the time your brain truly goes blank.
The talk about stars is bull, but the little white spots you see behind your eyes because of the sheer intensity is true. That's exactly why they call them stars. So in a way, it's true, but it's bullshit. The weight on top of him for the first ten seconds is comforting, and then it gets annoying after the last bits of his orgasm fade away (also called afterglow. That one's not bullshit either. Kinda like an after-orgasm, just not as intense, kiddies). They untangle from each other, with a hiss and a wince (poetry, not pretty, but ah well) and they 're staring at the cracks in the apartment's ceiling.
"We're sticky."
Desmond looks at him, with his dorky smile and his tired eyes. He could be a model. Maybe he is, within one of his bloody weird jobs.
"We just fucked and the first thing you say is that? Son, I am disappoint."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Becca can tell you."
There's a groan after this little smart comment. What is with this man and Rebecca? (Not dating. Last time Lucy joked about them dating they began gagging. Something about bromance only. He still didn't get it.) He wants to clean up. He really does. But now that they're on the bed, and he's warm, and sleepy, and maybe tired (sex is indeed a strenuous activity), he doesn't want to. Not now.
"...When we wake up, I expect us to be clean."
There's a kiss to his shoulder and Desmond's arms wrap around him (along with his legs. You don't want to know about the tickling sensation. Just, no.) The glasses are finally taken off and placed in the little table besides the bed.
"Yes, Master."
"Really funny."
Desmond's eyes snapped open. Had Shaun been awake, he'd been startled to see them shine an eerie gold. He sat up and smelled the air, the scent weakly but perceivably there. He snarled. What was he doing here? As quickly and quietly as he could, he got out of bed and dressed. Before he exited the room, he stopped and stared at the redhead, door half-way closed.
If he found out...
He glared. No, not yet. Maybe later. But if he knew now...
The door was gently shut, along with the front one as he stepped out into the cold, and straight into the person originating the scent. He was walking in slow circles about the street, mumbling and muttering to himself.
"Sixteen!"