QAF fic update
With all of the anime fandoms that've consumed me and the trials of RL, I forgot that I still had this fic sitting on my computer.
Title: Sharing
Spoilers: Pre-S5 (does not include any S5 spoilers)
Warnings: The author is, once again, a spaz who hasn't updated in forever, so you may want to review the events of previous chapters.
Summary: Brian and Daphne cope with roommate issues when Justin leaves for LA.
Disclaimer: All characters are property of Cowlip, no matter how I contort them.
A/N: Thanks, sweetestdrain, for your awesome beta skills, and also to _alicesprings for reminding me to finish posting this fic.
Previous Posts: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
BRIAN’S POV
I’ve been cleaning up after the orgy for three hours now and haven’t even begun to tackle the bathroom. The drama with Daphne and her ex-boyfriend effectively killed the mood for me and most other participants (as a cosmic joke, it did so before I got off), so we were forced to break up the party prematurely. This brat is already killing my social life, but now she’s bringing her parents over, too.
Fuck. Sign of Armageddon #403 is flashing before my eyes. I need to go out tonight, get wasted, and be anywhere but the loft or else I’ll succumb to life in a sitcom: Meet the Family or some shit.
I continue wading through my bedroom, dumping condom wrappers, empty bottles, and spent condoms in a black garbage bag as I go. I already picked up the hand towels, but the place still smells like a jizz-filled tornado hit it. That’s the last time I invite that many guests without hiring a cleaning maid for the night. The inevitable happens and I arrive at the bathroom door, the last place I’d want to clean.
I’m sorely tempted to take another nap and convince Daphne to clean the bathroom for me. However, I’ve got nothing to bribe Daphne with except for money and even that is a bit sketchy because she’s been hired at the local GAP. Well, that and the fact that after her semen-on-the-couch tirade last night, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t pay her enough to tackle the bathroom.
I slide the bathroom door open and am confronted with the smell of citrus and Herbal Essence (fuck me, I can recognize that smell now?). She’s got to go soon . . . it’s either her or my masculine peace of mind.
Wait, this is odd . . . usually the bathroom is the most popular room for activities (what with the showerhead attachments, counter space, and full-wall mirrors). Something must have scared everyone off . . . and . . . ugh, I see it now. I was fucking blind to have missed it before.
“Daphne!” I yell. There’s no response, so I yell again. I wait a minute and then hear her sock-clad feet slowly pad across the floor. She enters the bathroom dazedly, still rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“Whatasit?” she mumbles. She stretches her arms out and then massages her neck. Aw, did I wake the little princess?
“What the fuck are those?” I ask, pointing to the pink, square-like objects that clutter my countertop.
Daphne blinks, whether in confusion or in an attempt to adjust to the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom, I’m not sure. “You mean my pads? You got me up because of my pads?!”
I squint at her and ask, “Your what?”
She casts me a look of irritation. “Feminine hygiene products, maxi-pads, things I use when I’m on my period to keep the menstrual blood from-”
“That’s enough,” I say, closing my eyes and holding up a hand against the offending images brought about by too much fucking information. After some reflexive shudders, I can speak again and even open my eyes. “What are they doing on my counter?”
She cranes her neck a bit and rubs some more at it, then stares at me as if I’m the crazy one. “I was in a rush before I left yesterday, and I needed a few.”
I cringe again, fucking women and their fucking pussies. She entirely missed my point. I try again and, shit, I never thought I’d have this conversation. “Your girlish necessities and shit should be in a box or cabinet, not left out like a fucking smorgasbord.”
I gesture to her make up (also scattered on the counter) and a suspiciously lacey pair of underwear on the ground. “I don’t leave my shit around for you to find. Everything has a place and it stays there when it’s not being used.”
She’s still rubbing her neck (what’s the matter with her neck, anyway?) when she eyes me skeptically and says, “Oh, really?”
She’s challenging me. She’s fucking challenging me. I raise an eyebrow and wait to hear whatever flimsy contention she can come up with.
Daphne asks, “So that wasn’t your eleven-inch dildo that I slept on last night and found in the sofa cushions this morning?”
Fuck. She smiles her Righteous Bitch smile at me and pads back out of the bathroom, still rubbing her neck.
DAPHNE’S POV
So far, I’ve been able to keep my parents under the impression that I’m actually living with a rich female friend who I met through Justin. There’s no way that they’d allow me to stay with a man Brian’s age, let alone give me money to help keep me there. I’m pretty comfortable with half-truths.
This particular lie has been fairly easy up until now because I only gave them my cell number (no chances of them catching Brian’s voice on an answering machine), I never gave them the exact address of my new place, and Lindsay helped bring over a few items from my parents’ house (“A friend of Justin’s is a friend of mine”). The probability of my parents running into Lindsay (especially with her specific hangouts) is totally slim, so I’m safe there.
Now, however, Mom and Dad want to see the new place that they’ve been helping to pay for. Luckily, Brian volunteered to be as far away from my parents as possible tonight, so his presence won’t blow my cover. I can just pretend that Lindsay, with whom I supposedly live, is out of town for the week. Surely I’ve left some telling, masculine sign in the loft that will give me away, but, for the life of me, I can’t see it at the moment.
All of Brian’s toys, cologne, condoms, and porn tapes have been stored away in his lower drawers. I spray another misting of Cucumber Melon to make sure that the residual smells of Brian’s orgy are sufficiently covered. Just as I make the last of my rounds, the intercom buzzes, and I hear my dad’s gruff voice come through. I let out a breath, calm myself, and buzz my parents up.
Like half a minute later (wow, that was really fast), the loft door slides open (wait . . . they didn’t knock), and I’m facing Brian in his club clothes. In the loft. With my parents on their way up already. Shit. Fuck. What do I do?
I hiss at Brian, “My parents are on their way up, and you can’t be here. They think I’m living with a woman!”
Brian looks unimpressed and moves toward his bedroom. “Whatever. Just leave me out of it and put my shit back when you’re done playing house.” He looks at his shirt in disgust and adds, “Some fucking queen spilled their drink all over my shirt and I need to change.”
“I can’t leave you out of it if you’re still here! Grab a shirt and go!”
Damn it, he wants me to get caught, the sadistic jerk. He peels his stained shirt off ever-so-slowly and, fuck, he knows what he’s doing. My eyes linger on the displayed muscles and . . . parents. There’s a knock on the door, and I have to face them now. Maybe they won’t notice a half-naked man in the bedroom. Shit, so fucked.
I open the door and greet my parents with extra-long hugs and buy time by asking what sort of pizza Dad’s brought. Mom, however, starts to wander around the place, and my eyes dart past possible give-aways to the major give-away that’s now standing in the kitchen, fully clothed (thank God).
Mom is startled by Brian and apologizes for not expecting anyone else to be there. She looks to me for an explanation. Um… think, think! Justin and I took AP courses in high school, I should be able to figure this one out! I say the first thing that comes to mind, the thing that I’ve seen in too many cheesy romantic comedies.
“This is . . . Phillipe, our housekeeper, and he’s just leaving. He doesn’t speak much English.”
Brian shoots a glare at me before bending to kiss my mom’s hand charmingly and nodding to my dad. He looks at me, smiles, and says something in a syrup-laden voice that none of us can understand. My guess is Italian, but it could be French (I always was hopeless in language courses). As he leaves, I grasp the rough translation of his words as being, “You are so fucking paying for this. Just wait.”
The rest of dinner passes without incident and soon my parents say their goodbyes. I inwardly rejoice that I’ve kept up the appearance. After I close the loft door, however, I can hear their voices as they wait for the elevator lift.
“I told you she was lesbian. She just doesn’t want to come out to us.”
“With only one bed in the entire place, I don’t really see how she expected us not to see.”
“I still don’t get it. We accept that friend of hers, Justin, so why does she hide that sweet Lindsay woman from us? Maybe they’re having problems? You know, it takes a lot of money to pay for a space like that . . .”
“Don’t be so meddlesome. They’re doing fine, I’m sure. Just look at that nice housekeeper they have.”
Title: Sharing
Spoilers: Pre-S5 (does not include any S5 spoilers)
Warnings: The author is, once again, a spaz who hasn't updated in forever, so you may want to review the events of previous chapters.
Summary: Brian and Daphne cope with roommate issues when Justin leaves for LA.
Disclaimer: All characters are property of Cowlip, no matter how I contort them.
A/N: Thanks, sweetestdrain, for your awesome beta skills, and also to _alicesprings for reminding me to finish posting this fic.
Previous Posts: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
BRIAN’S POV
I’ve been cleaning up after the orgy for three hours now and haven’t even begun to tackle the bathroom. The drama with Daphne and her ex-boyfriend effectively killed the mood for me and most other participants (as a cosmic joke, it did so before I got off), so we were forced to break up the party prematurely. This brat is already killing my social life, but now she’s bringing her parents over, too.
Fuck. Sign of Armageddon #403 is flashing before my eyes. I need to go out tonight, get wasted, and be anywhere but the loft or else I’ll succumb to life in a sitcom: Meet the Family or some shit.
I continue wading through my bedroom, dumping condom wrappers, empty bottles, and spent condoms in a black garbage bag as I go. I already picked up the hand towels, but the place still smells like a jizz-filled tornado hit it. That’s the last time I invite that many guests without hiring a cleaning maid for the night. The inevitable happens and I arrive at the bathroom door, the last place I’d want to clean.
I’m sorely tempted to take another nap and convince Daphne to clean the bathroom for me. However, I’ve got nothing to bribe Daphne with except for money and even that is a bit sketchy because she’s been hired at the local GAP. Well, that and the fact that after her semen-on-the-couch tirade last night, I’m pretty sure I couldn’t pay her enough to tackle the bathroom.
I slide the bathroom door open and am confronted with the smell of citrus and Herbal Essence (fuck me, I can recognize that smell now?). She’s got to go soon . . . it’s either her or my masculine peace of mind.
Wait, this is odd . . . usually the bathroom is the most popular room for activities (what with the showerhead attachments, counter space, and full-wall mirrors). Something must have scared everyone off . . . and . . . ugh, I see it now. I was fucking blind to have missed it before.
“Daphne!” I yell. There’s no response, so I yell again. I wait a minute and then hear her sock-clad feet slowly pad across the floor. She enters the bathroom dazedly, still rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“Whatasit?” she mumbles. She stretches her arms out and then massages her neck. Aw, did I wake the little princess?
“What the fuck are those?” I ask, pointing to the pink, square-like objects that clutter my countertop.
Daphne blinks, whether in confusion or in an attempt to adjust to the fluorescent lighting of the bathroom, I’m not sure. “You mean my pads? You got me up because of my pads?!”
I squint at her and ask, “Your what?”
She casts me a look of irritation. “Feminine hygiene products, maxi-pads, things I use when I’m on my period to keep the menstrual blood from-”
“That’s enough,” I say, closing my eyes and holding up a hand against the offending images brought about by too much fucking information. After some reflexive shudders, I can speak again and even open my eyes. “What are they doing on my counter?”
She cranes her neck a bit and rubs some more at it, then stares at me as if I’m the crazy one. “I was in a rush before I left yesterday, and I needed a few.”
I cringe again, fucking women and their fucking pussies. She entirely missed my point. I try again and, shit, I never thought I’d have this conversation. “Your girlish necessities and shit should be in a box or cabinet, not left out like a fucking smorgasbord.”
I gesture to her make up (also scattered on the counter) and a suspiciously lacey pair of underwear on the ground. “I don’t leave my shit around for you to find. Everything has a place and it stays there when it’s not being used.”
She’s still rubbing her neck (what’s the matter with her neck, anyway?) when she eyes me skeptically and says, “Oh, really?”
She’s challenging me. She’s fucking challenging me. I raise an eyebrow and wait to hear whatever flimsy contention she can come up with.
Daphne asks, “So that wasn’t your eleven-inch dildo that I slept on last night and found in the sofa cushions this morning?”
Fuck. She smiles her Righteous Bitch smile at me and pads back out of the bathroom, still rubbing her neck.
DAPHNE’S POV
So far, I’ve been able to keep my parents under the impression that I’m actually living with a rich female friend who I met through Justin. There’s no way that they’d allow me to stay with a man Brian’s age, let alone give me money to help keep me there. I’m pretty comfortable with half-truths.
This particular lie has been fairly easy up until now because I only gave them my cell number (no chances of them catching Brian’s voice on an answering machine), I never gave them the exact address of my new place, and Lindsay helped bring over a few items from my parents’ house (“A friend of Justin’s is a friend of mine”). The probability of my parents running into Lindsay (especially with her specific hangouts) is totally slim, so I’m safe there.
Now, however, Mom and Dad want to see the new place that they’ve been helping to pay for. Luckily, Brian volunteered to be as far away from my parents as possible tonight, so his presence won’t blow my cover. I can just pretend that Lindsay, with whom I supposedly live, is out of town for the week. Surely I’ve left some telling, masculine sign in the loft that will give me away, but, for the life of me, I can’t see it at the moment.
All of Brian’s toys, cologne, condoms, and porn tapes have been stored away in his lower drawers. I spray another misting of Cucumber Melon to make sure that the residual smells of Brian’s orgy are sufficiently covered. Just as I make the last of my rounds, the intercom buzzes, and I hear my dad’s gruff voice come through. I let out a breath, calm myself, and buzz my parents up.
Like half a minute later (wow, that was really fast), the loft door slides open (wait . . . they didn’t knock), and I’m facing Brian in his club clothes. In the loft. With my parents on their way up already. Shit. Fuck. What do I do?
I hiss at Brian, “My parents are on their way up, and you can’t be here. They think I’m living with a woman!”
Brian looks unimpressed and moves toward his bedroom. “Whatever. Just leave me out of it and put my shit back when you’re done playing house.” He looks at his shirt in disgust and adds, “Some fucking queen spilled their drink all over my shirt and I need to change.”
“I can’t leave you out of it if you’re still here! Grab a shirt and go!”
Damn it, he wants me to get caught, the sadistic jerk. He peels his stained shirt off ever-so-slowly and, fuck, he knows what he’s doing. My eyes linger on the displayed muscles and . . . parents. There’s a knock on the door, and I have to face them now. Maybe they won’t notice a half-naked man in the bedroom. Shit, so fucked.
I open the door and greet my parents with extra-long hugs and buy time by asking what sort of pizza Dad’s brought. Mom, however, starts to wander around the place, and my eyes dart past possible give-aways to the major give-away that’s now standing in the kitchen, fully clothed (thank God).
Mom is startled by Brian and apologizes for not expecting anyone else to be there. She looks to me for an explanation. Um… think, think! Justin and I took AP courses in high school, I should be able to figure this one out! I say the first thing that comes to mind, the thing that I’ve seen in too many cheesy romantic comedies.
“This is . . . Phillipe, our housekeeper, and he’s just leaving. He doesn’t speak much English.”
Brian shoots a glare at me before bending to kiss my mom’s hand charmingly and nodding to my dad. He looks at me, smiles, and says something in a syrup-laden voice that none of us can understand. My guess is Italian, but it could be French (I always was hopeless in language courses). As he leaves, I grasp the rough translation of his words as being, “You are so fucking paying for this. Just wait.”
The rest of dinner passes without incident and soon my parents say their goodbyes. I inwardly rejoice that I’ve kept up the appearance. After I close the loft door, however, I can hear their voices as they wait for the elevator lift.
“I told you she was lesbian. She just doesn’t want to come out to us.”
“With only one bed in the entire place, I don’t really see how she expected us not to see.”
“I still don’t get it. We accept that friend of hers, Justin, so why does she hide that sweet Lindsay woman from us? Maybe they’re having problems? You know, it takes a lot of money to pay for a space like that . . .”
“Don’t be so meddlesome. They’re doing fine, I’m sure. Just look at that nice housekeeper they have.”