#after my dental work my mouth is so damn sore and killing me

[llondonfog]

twst (horror) tober — day 3 (sharp)

➤ Day 3: Sharp | “Careful, you could hurt someone with that.”

His father warns him of such as Silver hefts the practice sword with wide-eyed wonder, the weight of a budding world lying in the palm of his hand as his fingers wrap around the grip and pommel.

It is a plain thing— blade made of tapered, sanded wood held in place by a thick cross guard and rustic, brown leather-wrapped handle. The hilt has worn down over the years, faded where many a trainee wielded it with all the might of their deepest wish: to become a knight in the royal guard, to wear the emblem of their kingdom over their chest with untold pride and undying honor.

To Silver, it's the most beautiful sword in the world.

Despite his father's cautious reminder, Silver can see him smile faintly from where he stands, arms crossed in an attempt to hide his biased pleasure as his son takes his first step along the arduous path to share his mantle. His father may not be the most expressive man, but Silver knows where to look for his kindness, his love. They even match today— his mother had laughed so fondly at the sight of them at breakfast with their golden locks held back in place, dressed in similar training outfits that his father had commissioned the royal tailor to create, as Silver diligently reached for second helpings of every plate his father had selected.

"My most handsome knights," she had murmured, kissing his father on a pinking cheek and her giggling son on the top of his head. "How well our people will sleep tonight knowing that they have the two of you to protect us all."

His father gestures to a training dummy with a breastplate and pauldrons of armor already assembled, the dull sheen of metal beckoning in the mid-morning sun. A buckler of hammered steel is held protectively before it, and Silver's heart leaps into his throat at the sight.

"We've sparred with batons enough," his father continues in that same patient tone, all the time and peace in the world to train his only beloved son. "I think that it is time for you to test your hand against what a true opponent would use to block an attack. Your swing needs to be able to withstand a shield rising in front of you, it would not do you any good as a swordsman or a knight to lose your blade in battle because you could not keep a grip on it."

Silver nods solemnly in agreement; it is not mere prattle that his father speaks, he did not become the foremost knight of their kingdom, their realm, by negligence and sheer luck alone. Chest brimming with the joy of knowing his father deems him ready for advancement, has seen the diligence and dedication of Silver's daily practices, he turns to face the dummy, readying his wooden blade.

The faceless straw head stares impassively back at him as he judges the distance between them, the weight of the sword in his hands, the force of the impact he ought to carry through in order to dislodge the shield without injury. Silver can feel his father's gaze, warm with silent pride, resting like laurels over him, invisible in its comfort and steadfast in its praise. He can do this.

He readies his stance, the lightest touch of a summer's breeze lifting his fringe as he all but feels the rushing power of young muscles tensing together to propel his swing—

And drops the sword in shock, hands stinging from the impact as it clatters painfully off his shin.

"Silver!"

Within an instant, his father has rushed to his side, those auroral eyes so identical to his own flush with concern. Calloused hands gently take his own, flipping them over with care and searching his body for bruising, but Silver all but brushes them off, babbling incoherently with a fright so innate, he cannot remember where it emerged from.

"I—I saw someone! Father, I— I know I did, they were standing just behind you!"

For his credit, his father does take a bemused glance behind himself to the empty practice field, but it is simply just that: a desolate training ground that he had ensured would be free of guards and servants for the quality time of training his son.

"Silver, I . . . I do not doubt that you were concentrating, but perhaps it was merely a shadow of a bird? You know how they often enjoy gathering here to watch you spar, are you certain it was a figure that you saw?"

He cannot stop the trembling of his fingers, the bone-deep curdling of his blood. His father soothes a hand through his hair, tucks him into the warm safety of his side, and wipes away the shaken tears that have begun to spill from his eyes, murmuring sweet nothings that have no effect on his reeling nerves.

He knows what he saw— the figure standing behind his father, clad all in shadow with emerald eyes gleaming like the jewels in his mother's crown, pitch-black horns spiraling to the sky.

And clasped in their long, thin fingers, dangling like a noose from blackened talons— his father's necklace, the ring glinting like a warning in the suddenly cold summer sun.

[spencersawkward]

i’m so happy ur on tumblr now!! i love between the lines so much, could you write a blurb or one shot about mgg and a younger co-star, but like very spicy if possible 🙃, idk i just love that scenario🥵.

i was literally about to write "omg i love this concept too!" and then i was like “well no fucking shit, sophi.” lol. YES i can 10/10 write you a one-shot with a similar scenario! also thank you for your kind words that was the first fic i ever wrote so it’s very near and dear to my heart!

summary: reader goes to a holiday party with her co-stars and best friend, Matthew... but all the fun happens in the dressing room.

content warnings: this one is quite dirty but i’m also proud of it lol. unprotected penetrative sex, oral (female receiving), degradation, use of the term “little girl,” creampie, age gap. dirty talk?

pairing: Fem!Reader/Matthew

word count: 4.7k

masterlist

"no."

"what do you mean, 'no’?” Matthew laughs, looking between me and the mirror.

"I look like the Ghost of Christmas Past." I lift up the soft white tulle of the dress, watching it float back down to settle over my skin. he's got his eyebrows raised and there's a smirk on his lips like he's holding back a laugh. I resist the urge to reach around and hit him.

"would you rather wear that?" he points to the punch-stained gown that's now laying pathetically over the back of the vanity chair. I genuinely ponder the idea for a moment.

"honestly, the crime scene vibes might work well with the theme of our show."

"seriously, it's not bad, Y/N!" he insists, drawing my attention back to the mirror.

"you're just saying that because you're the one who spilled on me and you don't want people making fun of how clumsy you are." I cross my arms over my chest. he gives me a dubious expression in our reflection on the wall.

"do I seem like I care about that?" he challenges.

"I--" the truth is that no, Matthew is not the type. Matthew is the kind of person to flounder in front of anyone and proceed to crack a joke about himself. he's humble. but I kind of like when we talk like this, our back and forth.

after a year of working together on the same show, he and I have grown incredibly close. I'm friends with all my co-stars, but he and I just have the natural friendship chemistry that makes me want to spend all my time with him. when we're not on set, we're hanging out on his couch or ordering dinner or driving out of town to check out wacky sites around California. we just have fun. pure, clean, honest fun.

of course, in my dreams it isn't pure or honest. frankly, there's a lot of sordid scandal to what goes on in my head when he accidentally touches my arm or brushes his fingers over mine. the amount of times I have gone to cast parties trying to work up the nerve to kiss him are embarrassing. he's older and more experienced and, obviously, he has no interest in me.

but that doesn't matter.

the only reason I'm standing in a dressing room alone with him is because he knew someone on the crew who could hook me up with a replacement for the night. he left while I slipped out of the old one and came back in only after knocking and checking, like, twice to make sure I was decent. he's so respectful that it's almost like he's afraid of making me think the wrong thing-- which makes me feel absolutely stupid for my almost schoolgirl crush.

"come on, you look great. let's go enjoy the party."

"was this a dress one of the victims was wearing?" I ask with a laugh.

"probably. not like we carry a lot of gowns on set." he grabs my hand, makes my heart leap into my throat. he only does it to urge me along, but it still feels intimate as I follow him out of the room, tossing one more evaluative glance at myself in the mirror. I seem terrified.

we continue to do our rounds at the party, Matthew filling my glass of eggnog even though I hate it. I wince and take a sip while we talk to some of our co-stars.

"what's wrong with you?" Shemar chuckles at my expression.

"lost a bet."

"with whom?" he glances between Matthew and me, knowing damn well already from the mischievous grin on the former's face.

"I told you not to take it." Matthew says over the rim of his glass.

"if you mention it one more time, I'm gonna throw up eggnog all over your outfit." I threaten him, but we're both smiling. Shemar frowns.

"what was the bet?"

"you know David-- the guy I was telling you about?" I reply quickly, determined to give my side of the story. Shemar nods; I told him last week when David oh-so-chivalrously danced up on me at a club and asked me out. usually in those situations, guys just want a one-night stand, so I was impressed and agreed. "anyway, Matthew said if it turned out that he was a weirdo, he would get to pick my drinks for the next week whenever we go out."

"your drinks? that's specific."

"she's so picky!" Matthew teases me.

"leave me alone, you dick!" I elbow him and he dodges just in time.

"tell him why he was a weirdo." he grins. the glare I give could kill. but Shemar is waiting expectantly for me to share the information, so I sigh and set my jaw before telling the truth.

"he collects antique dental tools."

"what?" Shemar laughs disbelievingly. I throw my hands up.

"I don't fucking know. we went back to his apartment and he showed me his whole collection."

"you're attracted to weird people, Y/N." Matthew says. I raise my eyebrows and almost say something that dooms me. I hold my tongue, however, and turn back to Shemar with a reserved smile.

"anyway, how are you?"

...

the cast holiday party is actually pretty fun. I tend to leave these functions early in favor of my couch and some ice cream, but something about the bright colors and the smell of wintergreen in the air makes me want to linger in the studio.

I stuff myself with sugar cookies and Matthew mercifully lets me switch from eggnog to Sprite. normally, I'd drink at such an occasion, but I'm a messy drunk and this is one of my first real jobs as an actress. I don't want to even come close to jeopardizing that by breaking some expensive equipment or something.

my throat gets a little sore from all the talking I do-- Paget and I spend about half an hour horribly belting out Christmas carols at the baby grand piano they brought in. they originally had someone hired to play it, but the guy disappeared about an hour ago.

by the time it hits around ten pm, my limbs are tired. I thought people would be leaving (a lot of them have families), but the party is still very much raging when I start to wind down. maybe it's because I'm sober.

"hey." Matthew sidles up next to me as I sit at the piano bench with a slice of lime in my mouth. I like to suck the juice out of them; sour things are my favorite.

"hi." I pluck the fruit out and drop it back into my soda. he sits next to me, his cologne filling my senses with the kind of sensual warmth that it shouldn't be making me feel. he always smells so good.

"ladylike." he gestures to the movement.

"is that why you call me 'princess?'" I smirk, half-joking.

"once-- I called you that once!" he defends. it's not a lie. he used the nickname when he was mocking me for my somewhat selective food preferences. it was sarcastic, but I wish it wasn't. something about the way he said it in the moment made me blush.

"is there a reason you've come to grate my nerves?" I raise an eyebrow and he turns away from me as he bites back a smile. I pout. "what?"

"you're talking like a Jane Austen novel."

"what's wrong with Jane Austen?" I defend, skin heating up. his proximity is doing things to me that it shouldn't.

"nothing," he glances at me before moving his gaze to the ivory keys. "do you play?"

"elementary level, sure." I giggle. he runs his fingers over them, never pressing down hard enough to release a sound. I'm entranced by the delicate nature of his actions, the veins and the curve of his fingertips, the sheer width of his hand. I think about it too much for it to be healthy.

"show me." it's a direct order, one that doesn't feel directive but still ends with me placing both hands on the piano and wracking my brain for something to play. I decide on a piece that Paget and I were doing earlier, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

I've never been quite good at piano, and the nearness of his body is like an anvil on my fingers, but I play anyway. and it feels good. his eyes are on me, drawn to my tracings over the instrument as they press and lift and glide.

"sing." I tell him.

"no!" he protests. I don't stop playing, only now getting into the thick of the tune.

"oh, come on. just the chorus..." I plead, turning my head to beg. "please?"

I bat my lashes playfully, fully intending it as a joke, but Matthew softens a bit. for a fraction of a second, I think he looks at my mouth. he turns his head back to the piano and lets out a quiet "here we are as in olden days... happy golden days of yore..."

"there you go!" I egg him on, and he starts to get more into it. his voice is absolutely off-key; he's no singer, and somehow that makes him even more endearing to me.

Matthew has always been this flawless, intimidating figure in my mind. even when we first met, I was certain that he was hiding something because everything else about him is so... perfect. he's funny, sweet, genuinely kind, handsomer than hell. it didn't make sense. but knowing that he can't carry a tune makes me feel a bit better. it humanizes his beauty.

while he sings, I can't help looking at him. his side profile is even more enchanting; the curve of his features meeting a smooth elegance in his jaw and cheek, especially when his mouth is open. he catches me smiling at him and returns it with his own gleeful face, now totally fine with singing like a fool in front of everyone. nobody is even really looking at us-- they're several drinks in and lost in their own universe of drunken laughter.

there's something kind of magical about that, I think. we're sober. when the song draws to a close, I lift my fingers off the keys and into my lap.

"you're quite the Pavarotti." I joke.

"the who?" he furrows his brow with a smile.

"he's a famous opera singer."

"oh," he laughs, "thanks, Mozart."

I twist my face up as I hide my smile. this is also part of the reason I could never tell Matthew how I feel; we just fit together too well. he almost always gets my references and I understand his, even though there's an age gap between us. he's an old soul with a youthful heart.

"how's your night going?" I ask him softly, changing the subject. he sets his hands on his lap, absent-mindedly toying with his fingers. it's not a nervous tendency at all. he does it whenever we're on set.

"as of right now? pretty damn good." he replies with a smile. I get warm again at the implication. he doesn't mean it like that, but god, do I wish he did.

"very smooth." I compliment appreciatively.

"how about you?"

"it was kind of boring, but then this rando sat next to me and started singing Christmas songs and it got a little better." I say flatly, grabbing my glass off the top of the piano and running my fingertip over the rim. he drops his head in a giggle.

"you're something else."

"insult?" I clarify.

"definitely a compliment."

"I like compliments."

"well, I wasn't lying before. you look really beautiful in that dress."

"the murder dress?" I glance down at it to hide the absolute wideness of my eyes at his words. he's completely flustering me and I'm starting to find it hard to breathe. he said I look beautiful. not "pretty," not "great"-- beautiful.

"yes, the murder dress." he gets a little pink in his cheeks, and that makes me want to explode on the spot.

"well, say goodbye to it because I'm gonna go change back into my plebeian clothes," I stand from the piano bench. "it's past my bedtime."

Matthew looks up at me with an unreadable expression and I feel my heart flutter in my chest. I hate leaving him. "do you wanna come with me? like-- walk with me?"

"sure." he nods, stands, and follows behind. I can feel his presence like a delightful reminder of the emotions surging in my stomach. we wind through the crowd of party-goers until we end up back in the dressing room, away from the party. it's quiet.

Matthew walks in with me, carrying our drinks in his hand, and he's about to stroll back out so I can change when I touch his arm. the door shuts automatically behind him.

"wait," I swallow quickly. "can you unzip me?"

"oh." Matthew looks at me, then at the glasses in his arms, then at the vanity. he sets them down and comes back quickly, his frame behind me while his fingertips locate the little piece at the top of my gown. my breath hitches in my throat when he brushes over my spine by accident, one nail dragging accidentally against my skin as the fabric slowly gives way. I don't know if he hears it-- it's nearly imperceptible-- but he definitely hesitates once he reaches the place where my back starts to curve into my ass. he pauses, doesn't breathe until he reaches the end of the zipper.

"there you go." he mutters. his voice is a little more hoarse than usual, and he clears his throat as he steps away. I know he's going to back out. he's going to back out of the room and wait for me to slip into nothing and I know, somehow, that he's going to be thinking about how I look in here with my clothes off. he's going to wish he stayed.

and I'm going to wish he'd done more than stayed.

before I can lose my nerve and allow the moment to be swallowed up by practicality, I shrug the straps of the dress down my shoulders and let gravity take over. it drops to the floor, leaving me in only my bra and panties. I can sense him behind me; he's silent for a moment.

"Matthew." I say, the name sitting on my tongue like a sugar cube. perfectly formed, slowly dissolving.

"y-yeah?" he stutters for the first time since I've met him.

"are you looking at my ass right now?" I ask, still turned around. the way he's frozen in place tells me that I'm right.

"yeah." he admits.

"you can touch it, if you want." I murmur softly. part of me doesn't think this is real, the way each sentence leaves my throat like it's been pre-planned. truly, I don't understand how my brain is moving so quickly.

"are you... sure?" he's hesitant, but even I can taste the longing.

"yes."

his hand smooths over my butt, softly at first like he's still not believing his own eyes, before moving back to grab it. he squeezes the flesh, and a low exhale from him tells me that he's excited.

"do you want more?" my voice barely carries. my head is almost foggy from how good it is to have his grip on my body, even in such a simple way. I can feel myself getting wet.

"how much more?" his lips brush over my shoulder and I get goosebumps. my mouth opens and closes for a moment, searching for the right words.

"however much you want."

it's flint and steel, the way he sparks. the air literally leaves my lungs when Matthew grabs my hips and spins me around to face him. my lips part as I peer up at him, at the lust that now darkens those hazel eyes and the way he holds mine. his touch is certain. he pulls our bodies together, tilts my chin up to kiss me.

it's passionate, strong, the kind of kiss that causes me to lean back a bit just to receive the full force of his desire. but I return the affection easily, moaning into his mouth. I've never been held the way that Matthew holds me. like I'm made of sugar glass, like he wants desperately to feel the soft give of my skin and make a home of me.

the heat between our bodies is almost overwhelming, and I sigh when he subtly pushes our hips together. his erection is against my stomach.

"fuck." I mutter when I pull away for air. Matthew doesn't stop his perfect movements, though, tugging my earlobe between his teeth and starting to leave love bites up my skin and over my shoulder. he chuckles against my throat. I shiver.

"you alright, little girl?" he asks.

"just--" I let out a moan at the sensation of his fingers exploring my bare waist. he reaches behind me to unclasp my bra. "just surprised."

"about?" he slides the straps down my shoulders and looks me in the eye. the lack of physical contact makes me whine.

"that you want me."

"how is that surprising?" he smiles, using one index finger to guide me to look at him.

"you don't seem like it."

Matthew raises his eyebrows as if I'm a crazy person. truly dumbstruck. "what?"

"you-- well, I don't know." I frown, but Matthew takes my hand and moves it over his torso until my palm is resting over the considerable bulge in his pants.

"is this enough proof?"

I struggle for words, sputtering. "yeah-- yeah, it is."

he bucks into my hand a little and I bite my lip, eyes moving up to meet his. something passes between us that I don't fully understand, but feel in my bones. I have never, in my life, wanted someone to fuck me as much as I want Matthew to fuck me right now. my jaw clenches.

"I need you." I tell him like this is the most relevant piece of information that will ever pass between us. he smirks.

"yeah?"

"mhmm."

"then lean against the wall and let me give you what you deserve." he orders. for a second, I try to think through what he means. then I look behind me at the open space and back up, him following me closely. his hands move up to cup my breasts, kneading and tweaking my nipples as he kisses my lips. the coolness against my back causes me to gasp, and he swallows the sound with his tongue before moving down my body.

he's torturously slow, taking one of my nipples into his mouth while he shrugs off his suit jacket. he switches to my other peak, one hand splayed over my stomach, and then proceeds southward with his lips. his kisses are delicate, open-mouthed, as they find their way to the waistband of my panties.

he hooks his fingers in them and looks up at me.

"can I eat you out, baby?" he asks. I bite my lip.

"please." like a beg.

"oh, you're polite tonight." he smirks, tugging the garment down my legs and discarding it somewhere in the room. I don't respond, and he doesn't seem to need me to, because he pushes one leg up for better access to my pussy. "let's see if it lasts."

my back curves off of the wall involuntarily when he holds the flat of his tongue against my clit suddenly, trying to roll my hips against his face. my fingers tangle in his hair, one leg resting over his shoulder.

he starts to flick at my clit. I lose grasp of my own language.

"Matthew, that feels so good, I--"

he attaches himself to my bundle of nerves, seemingly turned on by the sounds I'm making for him. he groans as he laps at the wetness between my legs, dipping into my folds and sucking the soul out of me. I whine and use his curls as leverage to gain more friction. he peers up at me.

"needy little girl." he mumbles against my pussy. I shove him back into me.

"make me cum, then." I beg. I can practically feel the devilish smirk on his face as he devours me like he'll never get enough. every twist and lick of his tongue is sending me to new places. I'm panting, chest heaving, while I grab my own tits and buck into his mouth.

he moans. my orgasm hits me like a wave, causing me to nearly thrash with pleasure as I cry out.

"Matthew, keep going, fuck yes!" I feel tears prick the back of my eyes, the culmination almost too much to bear as we hold contact. he stares into my fucking soul as he eats me out, and I want to stay like this forever. it's hard to support myself with my legs going weak, but I love it. the sensations are otherworldly. it's only when I'm about to collapse that I push his face away from me.

"I love your pussy." he tells me, licking his lips as he sets my legs down. I grin and let my head fall back against the wall.

"thanks."

"come here, princess." he takes hold of my hips and guides me over to the mirror, turning me so that he's standing behind my frame. the pet name causes me to smile.

"what?" I reference our reflection. he stares at me, reaching around to squeeze my tits.

"I wanna fuck you in the mirror." such a vulgar thing, said so beautifully. he kisses my cheek. "if that's okay with you."

"I don't care what position we do as long as you're fucking me." I breathe honestly. he chuckles and draws me towards him so his clothed boner is against my ass. I reach behind and work the button on his pants. he undoes the ones on his shirt. we're silent, him watching my naked body move like he's trying to memorize every detail.

when he's finally stripped, he lets me stroke his cock for a couple moments before pushing my upper back forward so I'm holding onto the sides of the mirror. I see him biting his lip as he lines himself up at my entrance.

"you ready?" he checks. I nod and he smiles at me once. pushing in, the smile melts into a jaw-dropped haze, eyes rolling into the back of his head. "Y/N..."

"it's so big." I try to breathe. he's so deep, I grip the mirror until my knuckles turn white. he's going to snap my body in two with the angle of his cock, filling me easily.

"tight little thing." he grunts as he holds himself inside. I can only watch in shock as I try to adjust to the sheer feeling of him. Matthew runs his hands over my sides, my ass, touching whatever he can. "how's that?"

I start to wiggle my hips and he groans at the feeling of my walls desperately swallowing him up. "Matthew, I need it."

"need what?" he thrusts into me and I have to fight a scream.

"need you."

"fuck... yes." he hisses out, sliding into me. "you're so wet I don't even need to try."

I bite my lip to withhold my sounds and he stares me in the eyes in the mirror as he starts to fuck me harder, building a pace with his hips. he growls a little if he hits certain angles, getting ruthless.

"so many times when I wanted to be inside you, princess..." he trails off. I start to play with my clit with one hand, using the other to stabilize myself with the mirror. the idea turns me on.

"when?"

"whenever you have attitude," he pants. "tonight, in that innocent fucking dress. making me wanna pound you like a little slut."

I make a high-pitched sound at the shudder of pleasure that jolts through my stomach at his words, wanting more. I've never heard him talk this way before.

"Matthew, shit--" I rub myself in circles, caught between watching his face and watching the way his hips slam into mine.

"you're begging to be fucked, you know that?"

"am I?" I smile sweetly in the mirror. we're in our own world, locked in a fantasy that I never want to leave. I can feel him in every corner of my body, sinking beneath my skin. he digs his nails into my ass.

"mhmm." he hums. I can feel the familiar weight in my stomach that indicates how close I'm getting. a knot that screams to be undone by his perfect length. I would do anything for more of this. I can taste everything good in the world on my tongue.

"I'm so close." I whine.

"I can tell," he studies my face in the mirror. "so pretty when you're breaking."

"oh--" I feel my thighs tense and my body pulses, the euphoria almost overwhelming. we move steadily, rhythmically, and he pushes my climax to new levels. "faster." I cry.

Matthew is quick to respond, gripping me closer while he plows into me like he's never going to have my body again. the sound of it is filthy, perfect, a mess. he groans at the sensation of my cunt pulsating around his cock.

"cum for me, princess." he moans, losing himself in the embrace of my core. the foggy stare in his eyes is like drowning in the ocean. I sink below, not caring at all about the consequences of him inside me. fuck working together; I need him. "where should I cum?"

"in me." I groan.

"beg." he commands easily, watching my face contort in pleasure. I could pretend to fight it, to give a little attitude, but I don't want to. I love begging for him.

"fill me up, Matthew. please." each word punctuated by the breathlessness of my voice. he gets even more ferocious with me, beating up my pussy until I'm sure he's going to leave me sore.

"right there, right there," he gasps, hitting the same spot that makes me go cross-eyed. "such a good little slut."

his cum shoots into me, deep and warm and erotically twisted, and I nearly collapse. it feels weird, but so good at the same time. full. he groans out my name and withdraws, quick to grab my shoulders and hold me up as I almost fall. I hadn't realized that most of my body weight was supported purely by his thrusts.

"whoa." he lets out a tired laugh, gentle in his touch. I'm heaving air into my lungs.

"sorry." I apologize, my body unstable.

"are you okay?" he seems genuinely concerned and I nod.

"yeah, I'm fine. just a little overwhelmed."

"here," he scoops me into his arms and brings me over to the old love seat in the dressing room, laying his jacket down before putting me on top of it. "can I get you something?"

"Sprite." I gesture to the glass on the vanity, and he smiles as he goes to get it. I gulp down whatever remains of it. "thanks."

"of course." he keeps glancing at my face and the red marks on my hips where he was clutching me like a lifeline. "I'm sorry."

"what?" I set the cup down. "don't ever be sorry for fucking me like that."

"no, I meant--" he laughs, but then he sees my playful expression and realizes that I'm genuinely alright. I think my legs were asleep.

"you're a saint." I tell him. he frowns and shakes his head bashfully. I'm already getting up and collecting my clothes. "or maybe what we just did prevents you from reaching sainthood. I don't know."

he places his hand on my lower back, kisses my forehead tenderly.

"seriously. you're okay?"

"I'm perfectly fine," I assure him. "but I would be better with a milkshake."

Matthew breaks into a slow grin, staring at me like I've done something miraculous.

"how are you so perfect?"

[austinpanda]

Letter to a Dead Friend

Dear Steve--

I just had a dream where you really pissed me off, even though you’re no longer alive. It made me think about you and want to talk to you.

Firstly, I feel bad about our last non-meeting. I was visiting Seattle, you lived in the area, and you were going to come visit the brightly-colored shithole we had arranged on AirB&B. You were going to do all the driving, and you were going to bring Asian food. I think you were going to bring me a pad thai, and you were going to pay for everything. But because the husband was feeling a bit overwhelmed by all the people (this was our first day of vacation, so it was the same day we’d flown there) we decided to try again another time. I politely cancelled and explained why. You understood completely. Then I returned to Austin, and you died within a few months.

Secondly, I miss you, although I spent most of my adult life coveting your adult life. You went to work from Microsoft, and by the time I had my first boyfriend, you were already married to someone beautiful and awesome, and you had enough money that you were able to buy a brand new Porsche Boxter convertible with cash. You had a great house and all the money you needed. I never had any of that shit, with the exception that I also had a gorgeous and lovely spouse. (But heck, those don’t cost nuthin, wink.)

I was the best man at your wedding, which means I had to produce the ring when the officiant said so, with no warning, causing me to go desperately into my pocket, while hundreds of people looked at me. Thankfully, it was where I’d left it. Then I had to give the toast at the reception. I did wonderfully at that. I had a good story to tell and three glasses of pink wine inside me. The speech and the toast went well. I told the story about how we made your car roll back while you were adding coolant, just to make you spill the coolant. The car rolled back onto your foot, though, and it made you exceedingly angry. You were not injured, but it ended up being a hilarious thing that I wished I hadn’t done.

Like I said, I spent most of my adult life being sore about how much money you had and how little I had. To be clear, I shouldn’t think shit like this. You worked hard for your money. You just happened to have been born into a situation that, with the addition of a bit of hard work, resulted in you being rich. I was born into a situation that, with the addition of a bit of hard work, resulted in me being unable to afford dentistry or ankles that work. Learning how to allow your friends their good fortune, despite crippling jealousy, was never a bad thing.

I just woke up from a dream where Zach and I were helping you move. There was this cabinet full of shit that I was working on preparing to move, and when I came back into the room, you were sitting down, removing the cellophane from a new deck of playing cards with a razor blade. Because I was working my ass off, and you weren’t, and I was laboring as a favor to you, I complained about it. You said something sarcastic, I said something angry, you said something unkind, and I decided it was time to leave. I told Zach to get ready to go. I remember that, in the dream, your glasses had an odd characteristic. They were not smooth glass, they were faceted, kind of like a disco ball. I remember the weird glasses making me even angrier.

Then I woke up, feeling angry at someone who doesn’t exist any more. That’s some bullshit, and no mistake. Sure, I feel badly about missing the last chance to see you, but heck, I didn’t know it’d be the last chance. There’s an obvious lesson there, I suppose.

I’m sorry I spent so much of my adulthood being glad that you didn’t get along better with Jason. I was kinda crazy in love with Jason when we were all friends in college, and I didn’t like having to share him with anyone. After college, when Jason started not liking you so much, that pleased me, because I knew you’d be fine, and I’d have more Jason to myself. That was an asshole thing to think. I should have tried to encourage Jason to be more understanding, and I should have encouraged you to be less...someone born on third base, thinking he hit a triple to get there. (True or not, it’s the belief of someone born to privilege, and it makes those less fortunate grind their teeth.)

You were so fucking funny. You were the only one in our group who was skinny, so I assumed you’d live forever, while the rest of us would start to peel off in our 50s from heart disease. Lights down, you up and die.

I don’t know what killed you. Your family was tight-lipped about it. My theory was that it was related to your liver, but it hardly matters. You apparently left some confusion behind, however, because when you type “Stephen Toulouse,” into google, it auto-fills “cause of death.” Quite a few people who want to know what happened, and probably never will. But you do have your own Wiki page. I remember missing your red hair from back in college, because when you got the convertible Porsche, the hair became an obstacle, so you cut it all off. I had a theory that you really cut it off because you were going bald, but I was sufficiently pleased with the thick, luxurious quality of my own hair, that I never felt the need to poke fun at you for it.

I wish I’d seen you that last time. I have an ill-conceived notion that, if I’d seen you, I would have been able to tell what alcohol was doing to you, and, having a father who drank professionally, perhaps I could have done something about it. All I would have done was nag you to get treatment, though. I’m not one to discourage people from doing fun, unhealthy things. Usually I’m the one with the bacon-covered donut in my hand, encouraging others to sin too, so my own sins would shrink by comparison.

So...sorry I didn’t try harder to keep in touch. You didn’t keep in touch with me at all, so I don’t feel guilty about it, but I’ll own this fact: A lot of the reason I didn’t keep in touch with you was because I was jealous of your life. (He doesn’t need my friendship; he’s busy being a millionaire and having a perfect life.). Wish I’d spoken with you a few more times. I should have known that having all the money you need doesn’t make for a perfect life. Sometimes it only increases your burden.

There are people for whom paying the bills isn’t ever a problem. Dental emergency? Car emergency? Grab the pitchfork and start throwing money from the giant pile onto the problem, and bam, no more problem. This is a dangerous thought for me to think. The solutions to my problems aren’t going to apply to anyone but me, and someone who isn’t burdened by poverty isn’t necessarily going to live happily ever after. (They damn sure won’t have to worry about making rent in the meantime, but money doesn’t cure cancer.)

So...that’s our friendship, I suppose. I got to know you from about my junior year in college until about this time last year. I could have done stuff better, but some things I got right. I thought I did a good job as your best man. I kept a cold 20-ounce of Dr. Pepper nearby and offered it to you a few times, before the ceremony, and because of nerves, and possibly a dry mouth, you accepted. That made me feel thoughtful. Also you were sick of people telling you the key to a good marriage was communication, so I found different ways of saying that, over and over again, to keep your spirits up. “Want to hit this soda again? Cause, you know, everything will work out just fine as long as you two communicate with each other.” *smirk, soda*

I wonder if you’re anywhere now, or if you’re nowhere. I hope my friendship was something you deemed of value. I think you did. You were a funny, intelligent motherfucker. I miss you.