#not the sentences

[new-berry]

Pep / KDB

NSFW-ish but nothing to warn for, just the world fuck really. NSFW in a church. Infidelity. Is Pep/KDB it’s own warning? Am I a warning?

Gretna Green

Not set last year? Set a couple of years ago. I literally haven’t even read this through. Spelling is an evil, but is it a necessary one?

It’s another Thursday. Even If they had set alarms they would have slept through them. Their phones on the coffee table, the screens flicking on and off. It’s nearly stopped raining. Spring is almost over, summer hasn’t quite started.

He’d like to blame drinking he’d like to pretend it was in the aftermath of a victory, that he was overcome.

On the chair next to Kevin’s bed, this temporary place, they have layered trousers and socks and underwear. Pep’s hands are efficient, and Kevin’s are practised at stripping clothes off in the dark. The sleeve of Kevin’s sweater is lying across the waistband of Pep’s jeans. Last night they twisted together. Pep hasn’t slept-in for years.

He wakes up first. The insistent nag of water has finally become impossible to incorporate into his dream. The window is cracked open and Pep watches the drops that hit the window ledge. He watches the carpet under the window slowly get darker with water. Someone else will clean it up eventually. The paint chipped at the corner. Careless streaks from a half assed cleaning service.

Kevin’s behind him and he shifts slightly, aligns their bodies more completely, even his elbow feels hot against Pep’s ribcage.

Pep holds his breath; he’s not ready for it to be over. For last night to melt away, evaporate off his skin like rainwater on concrete. Wants it to be cars he can hear passing by.

Soon Kevin is going to grab for his watch or look up and squint at the window. He’s going to realise that they could have nearly slept in. It’s not that either of them has anywhere to be, so much as there is somewhere they should not be. Here, together, it’s not Pep’s bed. He is the one who should have slunk away last night.

Kevin is going to wake up, is going to recognise the body under his arm.

“This is not a punishment.” Pep had said. Kevin on top of him, half wild, with glittering eyes and guilt. Under-prepared and stubborn.

Two weeks ago they accidentally ran away to Scotland. There isn’t any reason they couldn’t. Kevin’s latest meeting with the lawyer. The therapist. The family counsellor. The dangled chance of reconciliation.

Six hours of traffic barely speaking. Falling into a bed booked online.

Sleeping apart in the small bed. Small high windows with curtains they hadn’t closed properly. Small desk, small tv. Kevin rolling over away from the telephone. Half assed job vacuuming. Small towels in the bathroom. Kevin barely fitting under the shower head. Too awake. The line of his back too rigid, flotsam adrift. They didn’t fuck that night. They didn’t that morning. Barely touched. The points of their elbows, the bend of their knees. Pinned to the edges of the bed, a valley of sheets between them.

Pep had run his hand down the hard line of Kevin’s back. “Come have breakfast.” He said. They walked to the tourist part of town. Under baseball caps and blue surgical masks. Toothbrushes from Spar left in the bin. They won’t stay another night.

From 7.14 when Pep sent a text to his wife, Kevin buried in the steam of the shower, until Midnight, Kevin slipping out of the car without saying goodbye, they were tourists and lovers.

Eating breakfast with fresh juice and eggs. They walked slowly and Pep was not his boss. Kevin was not his player. The short holiday that Kevin would take with his family undiscussed. Pep’s family phantoms. Their jobs a ghost. They would probably reconcile. You can feel like a single parent married to a football player or a football manager. But maybe better to have him there than to admit something was wrong.

Pep’s phone twisted in his pocket. They both politely looked away from calls that could not go unanswered. Consumed with the quality of the scarves that fell out in piles of every open shop door, not the hushed conversations.

They didn’t stand out in the crowd’s meandering up the Royal mile.They kissed twice, they touched more. Hand draped over arm, fingers on a shoulder pointing something out. Backs turned for the whisper of privacy.

But now, two weeks later, Pep wants to roll over and kiss Kevin awake. He wants to know he could slip back into the bed, pressing his hands - warm from holding two cups of tea - against Kevin’s ribs while Kevin groped across the bedside table for his own drink.

Wants to kiss without brushing their teeth. Without tasting alcohol or even a victory. Pep wants to turn over and nudge his knee between Kevin’s. Wants to rock Kevin awake like he fucked him asleep.

Pep wants to say: that’s just traffic, that’s just the tv. Your wife is waiting for you to call her and will believe your lie this time. Let’s kiss. The battery on your phone is dead, there is no where to be and nothing to do except for you to tell me what you dreamed of.

Instead he shrugs out from under Kevin’s arm over his waist and feels the morning-rainy air strip away the touch of Kevin’s warmth. He lets the hallway pull the pressure of Kevin’s fingerprints off his shoulders and tugs on a sweater when he reaches the kitchen. It’s Kevin’s, thrown over the back of another chair.

Messy bachelor pad. She will take him back. A few weeks Time enough make her point. To stop doing it. To get better at hiding it.

It’s not even that it is particularly cold, standing shifting from foot to foot waiting for the kettle to boil. But in comparison it’s winter. Kevin too hot, right from his bones that feel too close to the surface of his skin. He curls in too close, too near, and he has always pulled away too quickly when he realises.

It wouldn’t be traffic he heard, this high up. It might have been rain that Pep heard, that woke him up. But he always wakes up early. In his life he’s that man who shrugs out of bed early to beat the kids and his wife up. Who makes appointments that start early in the day.

It’s Wednesday, or Friday, or Sunday. It’s morning, it’s raining probably pouring, it’s not cold enough for sweaters, or tea, or curling together in bed, the old man is snoring, and the water is boiling. Hot clear tears jump out of the spout of the kettle and dance on the hood of the oven like the rain on the roof five stories above them.

It’s morning, and Pep briefly pretends to hear the traffic through the open kitchen window, even from an apartment this high up. Even though it’s too early for the morning rush. He leaves Kevin’s sweater folded neatly in the couch. Grabs his phone, it’s morning and he has meetings.

[amediocregamer]

the only reason I go on Reddit now is to find these bad two sentence horror posts. they're great. they're bad. but they're great.

[mwagneto]

what the world looks like after a big cup of lemonade

[skippyisntfunny]

[sniperct]

[dramatic-dolphin]

when we were studying the bible in literature class (so we have the context necessary for later works that reference the bible), i think we were at the book of jonah, and one of my classmates was studying the text very intently, and then looked up and earnestly said "professor, i don't understand the will of god"

the teacher was just like. well sadly i am a literature teacher and not a priest so i can't help you there. but if it helps, many people throughout history had the same problem.

[pjharvey-moved]

making fun of americans is pretty much always ok if youre not doing it in an edgelord “you guys have so many school shootings” way or acting like we’re the only country that has racism. but like posts about americans and hamburger get me every time

[morganbritton132]

No one tells you when you get a Big Serious Job™ how many fucking abbreviations you’ll be forced to learn.

[beaft]

google help me

[creepymutelilbugger]

i honestly don't even care if ive already posted this. look at it again

[intermundia]

this is the single worst way i've ever read to describe an erection, frank herbert

[maines]

— Kathryn Hahn, The Tonight Show, september 12

[vampmilf]

doing important research on this fine sunday morning

[andyoullhearitagain]

Everyone gives Sherlock Holmes a hard time about being mean about Watson's writing, but honestly imagine you told your roommate "sure, you can write up an account of my work for the newspaper," thinking it would be like, about the murder, but then he publishes it and it's 90% about you, as a person, and it's a huge hit and now everyone in London knows that you hoard newspapers and do cocoaine when you're depressed. Because I think you'd be little miffed too.

[skippyisntfunny]