Listening to Brian, laughing, brushing his hair back (and I want to kill myself for stopping the video accidentally). His hair is so long…. he brushed it back with his hands a few times during practice.
So, a lot of you guys liked the first one I posted. I’m actually surprised, honestly. But anyways, here’s another one for you guys. I was going to wait longer, but then I thought, why not?
Heads up though, there is mention of attempted suicide, so if you’re uncomfortable with that topic please don’t read.
Brian seemed off. He was always off for Brock, though. His power of empathy has allows him to read people’s emotions, and he was just never able to read Brian. Sure, social cues and facial ticks gave it away most of the time, but he wasn’t able to just tell. He was able to tell how excited Evan was the second walked in the room the day Brock was told that Evan had met Delirious. He could know how upset Lui felt when they brushed past each other in the hallway the day after David left for Ireland. He felt Tyler’s frustration over not being able to spend more time with Craig course through him whenever they were in proximity.
Yet he could never read Brian.
It could help if he could read Brian, now of all days. The Irishman seemed isolated from them, never saying more than a comment here or there. He wasn’t playing games as often as he used to, and wasn’t as energetic offline either. It was like he was trying to distance himself from everyone around him.
“Yeah, I noticed.” Tyler said one day when Brock brought it up at lunch. “It’s probably just life getting him down. He’ll be out of it in no time.”
“Yeah, but I just wish knew what kind of sadness it was.” Brock complained.
“Alright Mom, take it easy.” Smitty commented. Brock was often viewed as the “Motherly Figure” to his friends, and was such a popular nickname that even several of his teachers would accidentally say it when he was being overly sympathetic.
“Hold on. Back up.” Craig interrupted. “There are different kinds of sadness?”
“Yeah.” Brock explained. “Depression is different than loss which is different than heartbreak or guilt. Regret and pain and disappointment are two different things and so are all the others. They just feel … different.”
“Wow.” Lui commented, although it came out all distorted with his mouth full of cheeseburger. “That’s amazing.”
“It is. If only I could read Brian.” Brock muttered.
“Why can’t you read him?” Smitty asked.
“If I knew, than I probably wouldn’t be complaining.” Brock half yelled. “Can we please just change the subject?”
“Fine. But you’re the one who brought it up.” Tyler said. “Hey, how long do you think it is before Evan and Jon come out of the closet together?”
“You really think Evan of all people is coming out of the closet?” Lui questioned.
“Definitely.” Craig answered. “And I’m betting a month, max. We putting money on this?”
“I wouldn’t.” Brock interrupted. “Evan might as well kill us. I’m saying in … six weeks they’ll be out.”
“I’ll get back to you on my bet.” Smitty commented.
“You are not going ask John about it.” Craig deadpanned.
“Damnit.” The boys laughed, and the conversation continued on. Brock talked on with his friends, but his mind was only half in the conversation. His main focus was still Brian.
“Hey Brian, wait up!” Brock called out to his friend one Friday afternoon. Brian was walking home alone like he usually did, and none of his friends had a problem with it. Just, his friend being down had dominated all of Brock’s thoughts this past week and he just needed to know. He cared about Brian and not knowing someone’s emotions was something Brock was not comfortable with.
“Oh hey, Brock.” Brian said. After that he looked down and avoided his friend’s gaze.
“Are you okay?” Brock blurted out, almost instantly regretting it. But since it was out, he might as well keep going. “You’ve been out of it all week.”
“Must be easy to tell with your Power of Feels.”
“No, it’s not. With other people, yes. But my power never seems to work on you.” At this statement, Brian froze. Brock, concerned, put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. It was cold. Practically freezing. “Why are you so cold, Brian?” Brock whispered, only removing his hand when Brian brushed it away. The latter glanced around quickly, frantically almost, before responding to his friend.
“I’ll explain. Just not here. Somewhere a little more private. Follow me.” Brian turned to his right and hopped over the fence close to the hobo trails, as people commonly referred to the paths in the woods behind the school. Brock hesitated following him. “C'mon Brock. Can’t hop the fence?”
“I could. Or I could just walk through this gate.” Brock then opened and walked the gate Brian had just hopped.
“Always me.” Brian complained as Brock laughed. “It’s always fucking me that misses the obvious shit like this!”
The two stayed silent for the short time it took them to get to Graffiti Rock. The name was self explanatory—it was a rock covered in graffiti. Brian sat down on the rock and motioned for Brock to sit next to him. Brock declined.
“Okay.” Brian took a deep breath before starting. “The reason I’ve been so down is because my dad passed away.” Brock wanted to say something but Brian cut him off. “And don’t say something like ‘Oh, I’m sorry for your loss’ or some other bullshit like that. I’ve heard it a thousand times over from family already. But my dad was one of the few people who knew the truth.
“When I entered middle school, I was suicidal. In 7th grade, I decided to end my life by … by overdosing on opioids. When I was in the hospital, these government agents found me. To this day, I still don’t know they did. But they did, and they asked me to become a part of a government experiment. One that could cure my … violent tendencies.”
Brian then took off the jacket he always wore, revealing a white muscle tank underneath. He grabbed the area around his wrist with two fingers and pulled up. Brock gasped at the wires and metal underneath Brian’s skin. “I’m a cyborg, Brock. Not human, but not a robot either.”
“So when you said your power was super strength …”
“It was.” Brian rushed in. “I wasn’t lying when I said that. And I think it still is. I don’t … I just.” Brock finally took the invitation to sit, wrapping his arms around his friend.
“Who else knows?” He asked.
“Only a few. My family, my therapist, and this one guy at my old school. I didn’t want to tell him, but his power is persuasion and he’s really good at using it when he wants to.” Brock nodded, only saying one thing more before settling into a comforting silence.
A/N: Sorry this is so short and rubbish. This past week or so has been really busy, but I wanted to get quite a bit out before I go on holiday next week, so the next chapter is nearly ready and a lot longer. I just want to keep you on your toes for a couple days.
You can have it all, Lord Every part of my world Take this life and breathe on This heart that is now Yours
Have It All // Bethel Music
One of my favourite worship songs at the moment.
A song that of which I pray a can be more like, to surrender everything. Not just choose when I want to be with Him. But sincerely living out my life like Jesus, as He becomes the light in front of me, and the shadow that falls behind me. So that I may be filled with His presence all around me.
The Arrangement: A Victorian Fraser Christmas Tale. Prologue One.
Set in 1850: Victorian Britain.
“Oi! Wretch, you’ve mail,” the quartermaster barked, kicking Claire swiftly in the ribs as she dozed on the workhouse floor. Being ‘well to do’ had labelled her as different from her *new* peers and sleeping amongst them had elicited only negative responses. Therefore, she had made herself at home under some old, forgotten equipment in a far off forgotten corner of their draughty government imposed prison.
The small envelope hit her on the head and she feigned sleep, waiting anxiously for the grumpy old man to disappear. As his footsteps vanished down the corridors of the empty building, she reached out and pulled the letter to her chest praying it was what she thought it might be. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to bat away the memories of how she’d come to be sequestered here of all places, fifteen and alone.
Uncle Lamb often left Claire in the capable hands of his man servant, Firouz, when he was called to duty abroad; being only young, she was a burden when travelling long distances. In return he wrote and brought home strange artifacts for her.
Having lost her parents before her first birthday in a tragic horse and cart collision, Claire had been thrust into her uncle’s mad world. Taken from country to country, she often travelled on dirty ships with hostile crew members. But, as she’d reached her teenage years, Lamb had thought it more beneficial for her to have a stable upbringing with a *good* education.
Boarding school had been his first suggestion, but Claire had been nothing but defiant when it came to being abandoned in a grotty old schoolhouse with people she did not care for.
Lamb, very conscious of Claire’s natural stubbornness, had succumbed pretty easily and had removed her before any serious damage could be done. But he still refused to sacrifice her schooling, and so, had hired Firouz to act as caregiver and educator during his absences.
Then, halfway through her fifteenth year, disaster had struck. Lambert Beauchamp had been aboard a ship bound for the America’s, a large passenger freight that had been caught short in a storm. The wreckage had been spotted by a returning ship.
No survivors were recorded, and no bodies retrieved.
It hadn’t taken long for the news to be conveyed to all relatives aboard the capsized vessel.
In mere weeks, Lamb’s Oxford home had been stripped and sold off and Claire had been torn from Firouz and thrust into a workhouse, a ward of the state. With no living relatives to claim either her or her dowry, she’d been left at the mercy of the government as a minor with no rights and no time to grieve for her loss.
Daylight shone through the grimy, tiny, windows of the tall brick building, shining a tainted black-yellow light over Claire as she shook the memory of the horror of her ordeal from her filthy skin. Misery wouldn’t solve her situation, not now. Instead, her only hope lay in the hands of one Brian Fraser.
Running the off-cream envelope through her dirty fingers, she brushed the pad of her thumb over the seal.
“Je suis prest.” it read, and she was, she surmised; ready to be out of this place for good.
Brian stood and watched as the rider cantered off, back on his journey to London no doubt.
“Is this the only way, my own?” Ellen’s voice drifted over the fading sound of hoofprints against the dry ground.
“Aye, mo ghaol. I ken it isna ideal for us, but I canna leave the bairn to rot in a *workhouse*,” he spat the word as if it were poison on his tongue, the stale, retched scent of the last one he’d been in clinging to the roof of his mouth as he shuddered at the recollection.
“Ye’ve a good heart, Brian Dubh…” she whispered, brushing the stray strands of his long black hair from around his ears, “tis why I married ye. But what if yer condemning the weans to a life in an unhappy marriage. Ye ken Jamie weel. He loves ye fiercely and he’d do anything to make ye proud. But he’s like me, aye? What if he falls madly in love wi’ another?”
Brian’s heart sank as he contemplated the risks. “Yer right, mo nighean ruaidh, o’ course ye are. I wish things were different, I wish that Lambert was still here wi’ us so that we didna have to make such bold moves. But he isne. So I have to rescue his niece, *we* have to do all we can to get her safely awa’ from that fate…” Wrapping his arm around Ellen’s waist, he pulled her to his side, drawing strength from her presence alone, “however I can.”
“I do love ye so, a ghràdh,” she returned, her heart swelling in affection for the lengths he was willing to go to in order to protect a lass he’d never even met. “Whatever comes o’ this, I’m sure our Jamie will see the benefit of it. And, I’m sure wee Mistress Beauchamp will be ever grateful.”
The harsh October chill whisked through the Scottish air as Brian and Ellen turned, as one, towards Lallybroch. Deal done, all they could do was wait. Claire would need to turn sixteen before she’d be released for her impending nuptials. Only a few days stood between her and freedom, the Frasers could only hope that she survived those and made it to them unscathed.
Rubbing her aching arm, Claire pulled at the tatty dress she’d been given for her long journey up to the highlands. Winter had well and truly set in. The deal that had been proposed months before had taken longer to secure than she’d have liked and it was mid-November before her freedom had been assured.
Dowry lost to unscrupulous fatcats and lawyers, Claire stood outside the vile workhouse with only a battered suitcase and a few measly possessions to call her own. Luckily, that hadn’t stopped Brian Fraser from coming to her aid, money or no, he’d been determined to do his duty by her.
“Mistress Claire?” came the deep Scots burr, breaking Claire from her thoughts as she twisted on her heel in the direction of the calm voice of her rescuer.
“Y-yes, that’s me,” she replied, her voice nearly lost to the rattle of carriages as they whizzed passed, splattering her already soiled dress with mud and muck from the over-clogged cobbled streets.
“Ach! Good. I have an inn for the night, ye dinna mind I hope. Only it’s a long ride back to Broch Tuarach and I didna ken if ye would wish fer a comfortable bed for the evening afore we start out.”
Blushing, Claire dipped her head and curtsied as best as she was able, conveying her appreciation. The overcrowded workhouse had been such a nightmare that she hadn’t stopped to contemplate whether accepting the marriage proposal of a man she’d never met could land her in an even worse situation than the one she’d actually been living. Now, watching as Brian Fraser offered out his hand to her, his kind eyes soft as he’d allowed her to make the first move, she felt the sweet rush of relief fill her right to the marrow.
“Thank you, sir. Yes, that would be most pleasant.”
“Nay, lass, no ‘sir’,” Brian admonished, a smile gracing his soft features, “we’re to be father and daughter-in-law after all, aye?”
At this reminder, Claire gulped. Fear overtaking comfort she’d allowed herself to feel.
Brian, seeing distress colour her features, took her by the hand and brought her to his chest, as gently as he was able.
“Jamie’s a good lad, Claire lassie. I promise ye he’ll do right by ye, no need to fret. Yer uncle was a good friend, he helped us in so many ways, and I wouldna do his memory a disservice by condemning ye to a bad marriage. I ken that words dinna mean a whole lot to ye at the moment, but I’m asking for yer trust on this, please?”
The lulling lilt of his accent soothed Claire as she rested her head against Brian’s chest, inhaling the soft scent of hay and whisky that clung to him like a fine musk. He smelt as a father should, she thought, fatigue seeping through every inch of her.
Nodding, she grasped her hands together behind his back, accepting his request. Having expended all that energy to obtain her immunity, she had to allow him that one courtesy.
Sparking, the fire crackled, filling the gaps in silence in Lallybroch’s main living room. Sitting around its warmth, basking in the glow, all three Fraser siblings sat with a wee dram each discussing the spring harvest regime.
“Jamie, lad?” Ellen called, hating to disrupt the harmony that she usually revelled in.
Dusting himself off, the youngest Fraser stood, placing his (now empty) tumbler back onto the silver tray by the decanter as he answered his mother’s request.
“Aye, mam?” he responded, kissing her cheek softly as she pulled him from the room.
“If everything has gone t’ plan, yer da should be well on his way by now, ken? We’ve everything prepared here. The bands have been read, so it shouldna take more than a week afore ye can be wed properly, ye and Claire.”
There was a faint tinge of sadness in her tone that worried Jamie. As a strong lad of eighteen, it was uncommon for him to still be without a bride, Janet and William were both married after all. But Brian and Ellen being as they were, they had left their youngest be, certain that his heart would guide him right in the end. Now, with his union sealed to a woman he hadn’t even met, Ellen was feeling supremely guilty for breaking the vow she and Brian had made in reference to their youngest surviving bairn.
“What’s amiss, mam?” he questioned, not wishing to see his mother so torn.
“Do ye begrudge me and yer da for arranging yer wedding like this, son?” she broached, a demure lilt to her usually upbeat voice.
Jamie swallowed back any doubts and shook his head, a small smile pulling at his lips.
“Nay, mam, I dinna,” he began, his mind wandering as he pictured what Claire Beauchamp might actually be like. “I dinna ken what a work-house is, and I think I’m fair lucky that I don’t from what da says. The puir lass needs our help, and I wouldna see her in the hands of the English either.”
Ellen’s eyes shone with tears at hearing his words. A conscientious man by nature, Jamie had always been wise beyond his years but seeing him standing tall, his vibrant red hair clubbed at his neck, made her proud of the man he’d become.
“Yer a fair lad, Jamie.” Reaching her hand out, she laid it gently against the soft arc of his high cheekbones. “How can she no’ fall for ye?” she whispered, more to herself than to him causing him to flush bright red.
“I dinna ken, Mam. Maybe she’ll be put off by a rather large Scots farmer?” he jested, a twinkle in his eye. “After all, I do have a tang of horse about me, aye?”
– — –
Claire dozed lightly as the carriage bumped over the winding roads that lead her and Brian up into the Scottish wilds. Having spent nearly a week on the road, the weary pair were glad to be nearly home.
Home. The very word sent tingles down Claire’s spine. She had spent the last six months locked away in a building filled with the forgotten under the constant supervision of a number cruel guards. In that time, she’d seen women birth babies they had no means to care for, she’d witnessed families torn apart by famine and poverty, and she’d seen death in the most horrific ways. Mangled in the machinery, women often lost limbs as well as their lives.
The foul stench of spilt blood and feces wafted around her as if she’d willed it to be so and she wrapped her arms around her middle to avoid losing the contents of her stomach in the close confines of the carriage.
“Claire, are ye alright lassie? Ye’ve gone sae green…” Brian interjected on seeing her crumple in front of him.
Nodding, she lay her head against the cool wood of the interior, unwilling to discuss it whilst they were still on the move. The motion combined with the memories was bad enough, but to dredge it up and have to actively talk about it during their rickety journey would not end well.
Letting the subject drop for the time being, Brian turned his attention to the scenery outside as it flashing by in brown and white blurs.
“The roads along here used to be impassable in winter, aye? We’re lucky now that they have men clearing the way for us, else we’d be stuck in Inverness until the worst of the snow passed,” he chatted, animatedly moving his arms in front of his chest as he pointed to the melting icicles hanging from the trees that lined the thin mud path.
Subdued by his tales of his childhood, Claire began to calm. She dropped her arm as she sat up straight again, relaxing her back against the soft cushions that lined the seats. Sitting for so long had its disadvantages and she squirmed, her back aching at the contact.
As well as various injuries from the worn machines in the factories, Claire had been thwacked with the strap more than necessary. In her final weeks in Oxford, with the taste of freedom coating her tongue like the finest of foods, Claire had been less cautious with her words. Her captors had not been the type to let her sass go unpunished and the final straw had been to strip her bare, haul her in front of the entire factory and thrash her to within an inch of her life with their threadbare leather belts.
Now, angry, sore welts lined the fine skin of her back. Lacing over one another, they were a staunch reminder of the bother her sharp tongue could get her in.
Sensing her anguish, Brian reached below and passed her his whisky flask, eager to offer her some relief. He didn’t know the ins and outs of her injuries, but he could guess that she wasn’t unharmed. Not many escaped the close confines of a workhouse without some form of physical abuse.
“Nearly home now, wee Claire. That willna fill yer belly, but it will make ye forget the hunger, aye? I’m sure Mrs. Crook will have something nice to eat once we’re back, too.”
Taking a swig of the spirit, Claire coughed as the sharp liquid hit the back of her throat.
“I want to thank you, Mr. Fraser…” she sighed, her sweaty palms running over the skirts of her dress as she tried to make herself as comfortable as possible, “for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Ach, Claire. Call me Brian, please, lass? Mr. Fraser is as bad as ‘sir’, ken?” He chuckled as he took back his flask and placed it back in his top pocket.
The sun was hanging low on the horizon as the horse and carriage began its ascent towards Lallybroch. Claire sat up straight, eyes focused out of the window on the faint glow of candlelight ahead, heart racing with nervousness as reality squarely hit home.
Silence filled the enclosed space as the intrepid adventurers came to a stop. Refusing to make eye contact, Claire waited for Brian to leave and come back to open her door before making a move to exit, her feet seemingly attached, firmly, to the floor.
Seeing candlelight flicker to Brian’s immediate left, Claire made it her mission to keep her gaze rigidly affixed to the floor.
“Come now, lass,” Brian cooed, his warm palm resting on her knee as if he were talking to an agitated animal rather than to a wee slip of a girl. “It’s no’ sae bad as all that. Come inside, there’s bannocks and honey.”
At the mention of food, Claire’s belly rumbled loudly, the echo of it resounding around the small space as she admitted defeat and allowed Brian to lead her from the carriage and out into the Scottish night.
“I ken yer uncle didna get chance to bring ye to meet us. Which, under the circumstances, was unfortunate. But he loved the big house.”
Blinking back tears, Claire glanced up, finally. “Y-yes, he did. He told me many stories about its fabulous architecture and its history,” she responded, unable to hold back the fond recollections of Lambert Beauchamp and his excitable recounts of his adventures.
She missed him terribly.
“Good evening, Claire,” a tall red-headed woman interjected, disturbing Claire’s thought as she took her place by Brian’s side, a lovely smile tugging at her pinked lips. “I’m Ellen Fraser. It’s so nice to finally meet yer acquaintance.”
Holding her hands behind her back, Claire couldn’t help but feel a tiny kinship with the Fraser matriarch. Even with only an introduction, Ellen Fraser felt like the mother Claire so desperately needed.
Slowly but surely, the Fraser brood began to step out of the shadows of the main doorway, assessing their newest family member as they looked her up and down.
“Hallo, Claire. I’m William, and this is Janet…”
William Fraser truly was a giant amongst men, and Claire’s eyes widened as she took in his massive stature.
“Ach, awa’ wi’ ye, Willie. I am Janet, Claire, but ye can call me Jenny, aye? Everyone else does,” Jenny quipped, patting Claire on the shoulder as she shoved her eldest brother aside as if he weighed nothing.
Overwhelmed, Claire simply nodded along, grateful that they had left her intended until last.
Jamie, tapping his fingers lightly against the thick wood of the doorframe, had remained hidden in the entranceway. He had watched from the window of the sitting room as his mother had rushed out to greet his father, intrigued by what would emerge from the family carriage but unwilling to spook the poor thing before she’d even stepped foot on Broch Tuarach soil.
Shifting his weight, he pondered his next move. He was half determined to meet his affianced, intrigued as he was by the prospect. But he also half longed for the sanctuary of his rooms, away from the pressure of marrying a complete stranger.
His heart picked up pace as he peeked his head around the door, watching as his mam held the candle she had aloft, lighting Claire’s face. A yellow glow surrounded her, illuminating her features as her eyes darted to and fro, from one Fraser to another.
“Ah Dhia…” he muttered, his lungs contracting as she blinked her large blue eyes, her eyelashes casting a beautiful shadow over her stained cheeks.
She was dazzling. Her delicate face tilted away from the luminous blaze of the wee flame, shining an orange hue along her graceful neck.
“Blessed Mary and Bride,” he muttered, moving outside into the courtyard as if compelled to do so by an unknown force.
“Och,” Brian exclaimed, his shoulders relaxing as he saw Jamie emerge, eyes glazed and mouth open, “laddie, come aye? Introduce yerself…”
Suddenly an eerie stillness swept through the quiet highland evening as all eyes rested on Jamie, his expression turning coy as he came forward, an alluring blush covering his cheeks.
Claire, her heart thudding loudly, shuffled her feet, her thin broken shoes disturbing the damp ground and sending small puffs of wet dust floating around her ankles in dark flurries.
He was *ravishing*. A subtle mix of statuesque grace and enticing handsomeness.
“Claire,” he began, forgetting his manners for the smallest of seconds, “I-I mean, Mistress Beauchamp,” he corrected, dipping his head in a courtly bow, “it’s a pleasure to meet ye. I’m James Fraser…”
His words pulsed through her and she felt alive, her whole body ignited with courage as she advanced towards him. Above all else, Jamie Fraser was beguiling. The word floated into her subconscious as she unconsciously reached her hand up to move a stray curl from his brow.
Hovering her fingers just above his ear, Claire suddenly came to, her brain finally catching up to her body as she went to pull back and then just –stilled.
Taking her hand under his, Jamie pulled her palm to rest over his heart and held her there, his touch light and gentle.
“…and I hope ye and I will grow to be fond of one another, ye ken?” he finished, humour lacing his tone as he stood tall in front of her.
“Please,” she replied, finally finding her voice, “call me Claire, Jamie.”
Twitching her fingers against his thin shirt, she focused on the fast rhythm of his heart as she counted its soothing beat.
He was as scared as she was. She could feel it.
“Thank you….” she burst out, taking a deep breath before continuing, “for, –well–, y-you know.” Losing her nerve, Claire let her chin fall to her chest.
Seeing her unease, Jamie leaned his forehead against hers, growing bolder by the second.
“Dinna fash, lassie,” he whispered, completely forgetting his audience, “there’s two of us now.”
ok in light of that glorious new steam train could we pretty pretty please have Brian fucking Ross on a desk saying "this is what happens when you disobey your daddy"
“Fuck!” Ross moaned as he through his head back.
With every thrust he just wanted to shout, letting it all out. Him and Brian just finished playing who’s your Daddy. It lead to some very sexy whispers that Ross was too ashamed to admit turned him on so much. As soon as they ended the episode, Brian pushed Ross over the coffee table and had been playing with him ever since.
“Say my name,” Brian groaned between thrusts.
“No, you know what to call me.”
There was no way Ross was gonna Brian that outside of the game and teasing. It felt so wrong, but turned him on more. Every thrust became harder as Brian kept demanding he called him that. Gabbing the back of his hair, Brian pulled Ross’s head back, making his back arch. Every thrust became deeper then ever before, hitting his prostate dead on. Ross could feel his voice strain as he moaned louder, thanking god that the room was sound proof.
“This is what happens when you disobey Daddy.”
“I’m-I’m so close.”
Reaching around, Brian held tight at the base of Ross’s cock and stopped thrusting but still staying deep inside him. It was hard for him not to whimper, wanting release so badly.
“Then say it.”
“Daddy please! Let me cum. I’ll be a good boy, Daddy!”
Brian let out a low moan as he started thrusting again, working Ross’s cock as well. It wasn’t long before Ross was seeing stars. He felt like he was gonna pass out he came so hard. Brian came inside him after a few more thrusts.
After getting down from his high, Brian looked around in a frantic to find a towel or something. Luckily, he found a whole roll of paper towels and tissues. He gently cleaned up Ross and some of the cum off the carpet that could come off. Kissing him on the forehead, Brian softly brushed Ross’s cheek with his thumb and gave a smile.
Imagine Brian and Holly dates. They just go out to a little restaurant and Brian is so polite complimenting her and asking about her day, then when the dates over holly grabs brian’s face and kisses the shit out of him till he’s a blushy mess
Or they go to holly’s place to play vidoe games w/ ross and they’re all snuggled in blankets and laughing for no reason
Fvcking imagine brian gently brushing holly’s hair out of her face when she’s stressed and/or really concentrating on a project. Kissing her forehead and shit.
Brian loves to listen to Holly play the ukulele and if he can he’ll join her on the piano
Brian and holly spending their free time together just talking about music or Doctr Who or D&D just beginning nerds and becoming completely invested in what the other is saying
Brian comes over to record some videos for Holl’ys channel and spends the whole time flirting with her and ross and getting dressed up in pink flower crowns :3c
Holly/Ross/Brian tickle fights need to be a thing
Holly teaches Brian things like How to hold a pigeon or how to sew
imagine brian being curious about drawing and wants to learn so holly takes the time to lean over him and show him her sketches
Brian and holly going on mini-road trips around california showing each other the cool places they v isit w/ ross coming along and taking selfies
IMAGINE BRIAN AND HOLLY FALLING ASLEEP TOGETHER ON THE OFFICE COUCH AND EVERYONE IS GUSHING OVER HOW SWEET THEY LOOK