ok so the foxes getting drunk together at the beach after classes let out for the summer. they end up playing chicken and everyone assumes dan and matt will be a team but matt is a little shit and he’s like “no i pick neil. and we’re gonna fuckin kick your ass babe”
(neil: … k)
dan is outraged and completely delighted. she and neil are about the same height so she needs someone suuuper tall to avoid giving them a height advantage.
so dan looks to kevin, completely expecting him to be like ‘you’re all stupid children, i hate you, i’m not doing this immature shit’ but he just chugs the rest of his beer and crushes it in his fist and says to matt and neil “we will crush you.”
Hermann’s head is pounding as he pushes the door open, and
knows, with a sinking feeling, that something is new.
It isn’t anything obvious, just a change in the atmosphere
of the lab, and Hermann scours his wretched memory again for some kind of memory of last night, to
find out what he must have done to spark this. But there’s nothing. He can’t
even remember what he was drinking- just that Newt was buying.
And for that idiocy
he deserves every bit of this hangover, but he can’t help but glance over to
Newton’s side of the lab, wondering what happened. Newt hasn’t turned to look
at him, and although he’s got his earphone in, they aren’t plugged to anything
and Hermann’s heart sinks.
He’d hoped- their first meeting had been such a disaster, it
had taken years of things to thaw a bit and then Hermann had mentioned it was
his birthday and Newton had- warmed, relaxed a bit. Offered a night out.
They had gone and Hermann- had ruined things, somehow. He
remembers laughing, Newt smiling, the alcohol warm and sweet inside him. It had
looked so hopeful, and now Newt refuses to look at him; he turns back to his
blackboards, stomach heavy and dead inside him in disappointment.
He picks up his chalk, hooks his cane on the steps and
climbs up the ladder, trying to find where he’d left off yesterday.
He can’t, everything just keeps coming back to his lost
evening. What had he done, after all? Newt did worse every month at Tendo’s
poker nights. Did he vomit over his clothes? Was he just an utterly embarrassing
drunk? Newt did both on a regular business. He’d been fairly drunk last night
too- he remembers, flushed, leaning against him, laughing.
Or- did he say something. It was what had happened last
time, when they’d met. Said the wrong thing, then Newt had snarled back and it
had all splintered between them. Had he said- something vile, and now Newt
preferred to pretend he didn’t exist? He can only remember them laughing, but
then- he faintly makes out a taxi drive home, Newt quiet beside him.
“Newton?” He tries.
Newt starts, pulling
his earphones out, “What?”
It’s sharp, and Hermann pulls back, as though he’d been
slapped. “Did I- do anything, last night?”
Newt blinks, “Don’t you remember?”
Hermann sighs, “I’m sure you can recall how much I drank-
what do you think?”
Newt gives a smile, an odd, sort of sad one, “Yeah, okay.
Nah, nothing big- you were just really drunk and chatty.”
Oh, well. “If I did say anything;” he continues, carefully. “I
didn’t mean it, please forget about it.”
Newt’s shoulders slump suddenly, then draw up tight as
though Hermann had just hit him. He forces a smile. “Okay, no problem.”
Hermann hesitates, he and Newt have been together long
enough for him to know that he’s somehow made things even worse. He can see the tension
in his body, the way he turns back a little too quickly.
“Newton-“ Hermann takes a step forwards, not sure what to
And he remembers moving forwards, like this. Swift and fast
and sure and he can’t remember if he was angry or upset but suddenly Newt was
right there, before him. Hermann catches his breath.
Newt’s eyes are dark behind his glasses, he hasn’t slept.
Hermann looks up over carefully. Newt raies his eyebrows. “What?”
“Did I hit you?” There are no marks, but Hermann hasn’t been
drunk more than three times in his life, he might be a horrible drunk-
“No!” Newt gives a sharp, strange laugh. “Shit, no; dude,
you were fine, just drunk, don’t
worry-“ he turns to get back to his studies.
Hermann doesn’t move, leans against Newt’s table- at least
he isn’t dissecting today- he looks at him because maybe if he looks enough, he
can remember what made him suddenly rush up to Newt last night, what’s made
Newt unwilling to so much as look at him now.
But for the moment, all Hermann can think of is the photo
Newt had sent him, when they were still only writing emails. He had looked at
that photo for hours, all the details of his face, his eyes, that wild hair.
It’s the longest he’s looked
since- well, since probably last night, but his memories are a mess. He can see
fine lines at Newt’s eyes, the faint red smudges where his glasses rub against
his nose; the way his eyes dart at Hermann, tiny jabs, looking away quickly
when he sees Hermann looking back.
His mouth flexes, tightens and- they look so soft. He can
feel then, again. Last night, soft and flexible and whispering against his. A
sweet touch and Newt had leant in for a moment- eyes flickering closed-
“Newton.” Hermann whispers.
Newt tenses, “Look, it’s okay-“
Hermann touches his cheek. Newt starts, looking up and
Hermann hesitates, half leaned in, waiting-
Newt meets his eyes, for the first time that morning.
“If you don’t want-“ Hermann starts.
“Oh, fuck that-“ Newt leans in and shoves him mouth against
Hermann’s, messy, sloppy, half-missing his mouth and smearing over his chin
until Hermann leans down and corrects their course, mouths warm and soft
together and- oh, he can remember
now. The mix of alcohols on their breath, the way Newt relaxes into him, then
“Didn’t want to mess it up;” Newt mumbles against his lips,
pulls away a little, “You were so smashed dude, you nearly passed out.”
“Thank you;” Hermann smiles, “That was very gallant of you.”
Newt smiles, the beginning of some kind of insufferable
smugness blooming on his face. Hermann sighs and doesn’t bother to check him.
He’s glad Newt waited.
Not and ask buuuuuut, last night Carl did a dj set at some venue in Madrid and he played Fuck Forever (like the most crazy moment in the audience) and then he was dancing like crazy with the gf (sorry dont remember the name) and taking pictures on stage with duck face, like he is a completely child. And left with Cant stand me now like "bye bitchies im leaving stop screaming my name" attitude.
Hey there! I can’t tell if you’re being critical or not but it sounds like he had a good old drunken time! He does tend to play Fuck Forever which is always an interesting choice. X
College AU, Roommates, Mutual Pining, Bathing/Washing, Sharing a Bed, Huddling for Warmth, Drunken Confessions of Love, Misunderstandings, First Time
Dean and Castiel are roommates. They’re best friends. Things are great the way they are. Except for the part where they’re in love with each other, but they’re both too scared to ruin their friendship by admitting it- until one night of lowered defences and lowered body temperature turns into something neither of them was expecting.
five times fucked ( l i s T E N .. . . L I S T E N. .. )
1. he can’t claim to feel much beyond drunken lust the first time he tumbles into her bed. one beer turning into two turning into three( at some point he loses count - she does too, the pair of them staying in the bar until they’re forced to leave ). and it’s not elegant, barely pleasurable - fumbling hands and sloppy kisses, panting voices and decreased stamina. but he ensures she’s satisfied before fetching two drinks from the fridge ( a quiet question from the woman as to how much he actually drinks - but she succumbs to bliss and lethargy before he forms a proper answer ). while he doesn’t slip out first thing in the morning - he doesn’t stay for breakfast.
2. a lack of sleep and a modicum of boredom lead to him dropping by her office a couple weeks later ( she is holding office hours and he’s still a student - just not HERS ). and perhaps it’s that disconnect between them ( coupled with quite enjoyable memories ) that has him ever so slowly closing her door, locking it, and taking her there on her desk ( she’ll later text him that she has an ink stain at the base of her spine, that one of her favorite pens had broken beneath her weight during his rhythmic movements ). he doesn’t text her back.
3. even professors, it turns out, can be convinced into a night out. his own rowdy group of friends have him properly sloshed when he stumbles into her. quite literally, as his frame is weighed down by three glasses of whiskey, his smile half cocked and lazy. he fucks her in the bathroom stall of a dive bar and the next morning, he debates calling her ( saying something - that he thinks she deserves more than some veteran who drinks to forget and fucks to remember ). but his phone is dead, his hangover near unbearable, and oak opts for a nap rather than some kind of reconciliation.
4. he calls her at 2 am, crying on the street corner outside a bar. can barely even get through his words ( can’t even form an explanation, just half sobbing out the name of the pub ). and when she lets him crash on her couch, his alcohol heavy limbs somehow still move, catching her wrist. and he begs for some kind of absolution from this hell ( there’s a moment, when she’s panting between him and the cushions that he thinks he wouldn’t mind her hands against his skin when he’s SOBER, when he’s solid). but this time, he slips out while she’s still asleep, leaving a scrawled post-it of gratitude plastered against her fridge. ( she doesn’t call, not that time - but she sees him on campus a few days later, just quietly asking if he’s doing alright - and he simply gives her a waning smile, and only whispers thank you).
5. there’s another date (somehow, despite his apparent lackadaisical care for both himself and any semblance of a relationship they could have had, she caves once more to his flashing grin and request for just one beer ). another date, another series of meandering conversations, another invitation back to her apartment. alcohol, certainly, is an excellent wingman. it’s when he catches himself just going through the motions that they stop. her hand against his cheek, a breathless question – are you okay? and it’s then that he whispers back – you deserve so much more. no further explanation given ( but she doesn’t make him leave - there’s a disquieting moment where he wonders if she LOATHES him, but when she simply offers him a t-shirt - leftover of an old ex - that he can’t help but wonder if that stirring in his chest isn’t a reaction to the number of drinks, but rather the unnerving sensation of staring to care about someone else ). it’s the last night he fucks her hard against the sheets, until her toes curl and she gasps his name. it’s not the last time he touches her, but it’s the last time his fingers graze her skin with little care, with reckless thought. it’s the last time she’s a distraction from his own mind.