Fic - Chuck/White Collar/Burn Notice, Revenge, White Collar RPS
Fics and treats I wrote for Yuletide that I can post since Yuletide reveals are up:
Title: A Nice Old-Fashioned Letter.
For: Ash, for the prompt "Bryce Larkin - super spy and silly card writer - things Bryce would write to other characters."
Fandom: Chuck/Burn Notice/White Collar
Pairings: Many various canon and non-canon relationships.
Note: Goes AU from Chuck from the end of Chuck's Season 2, extending into futurefic. It is current with Burn Notice, and non-spoilery for White Collar.
Dear Casey,
I wanted to be the first to tell you this very important information.
I regretfully inform you that your record "kill rate" is no longer a record. Now that you know that I am alive, I am sure you will be relieved that you did not kill someone who was merely pretending to go rogue and was actually a good spy. I'm sure you were filled with self-loathing and regret when you thought I was gone forever. The fact that you seemed quite eager to shoot me again -- well, I'm just going to chalk that up to you being your charming self.
But as I said, your kill rate no longer includes me. Because you FAILED to kill me. And now you no longer hold the record.
Suck on that.
Yours truly,
Bryce
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Dear Fiona,
I wanted to wish you a happy October 21! Nobel's birthday isn't really a special occasion for most people, but I respect that you go your own way.
Have a great one,
Bryce
P.S. I told my friend about your celebrating this, and he said that it's sweet that you celebrate someone who cared so much about advancing human knowledge. He's kind of one of those guys who likes to solve things with talking, so I didn't know how to explain that you were celebrating Nobel because he invented dynamite.
P.P.S. Blow something up for me! (Something that won't be missed).
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Dear Michael,
Fiona has told me that you're a bit too prim and proper to have a casual threesome with me. I assure you, however, that I plan to conduct myself with all appropriate civility and decorum. Therefore, I am writing this letter to formally inquire into your interest in having simultaneous or very closely consecutive sexual relations with Fiona and myself. If you register at a sex shop, I will bring a gift from your list; otherwise I will bring a hostess gift for Fiona that I believe she will like.
I am currently working, but plan to be in Miami later this season. I propose a meeting at which we discuss all relevant regulatory bodies and negotiate concerns from interested parties. Then, Fiona and I will tie you to your bed and have our wicked, wicked ways with you. We will probably compete to see whose tongue is more adept at bringing you to desperate, begging tears. Then we will both attend to Fiona in courteous and gentlemanly ways, by which I mean we'll do what she wants. Probably she will ride you into next Tuesday while you suck my cock, if previous preliminary discussions with Ms. Glenanne bear out. Of course all this is contingent on the conclusions arrived at in the above mentioned meeting.
After said sexual relations, debriefing will consist of breakfast and an exchange of largely meaningless pleasantries. In the long term, if all parties agree, such transactions may re-occur at later times, though no commitments will be necessary for such to transpire.
I sincerely hope that I have demonstrated the utmost propriety in requesting the honor of your company in Miami. I look forward with bated breath to hear your reply.
Toodles,
Bryce
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Dear Michael,
Thank you for the lovely visit in Miami. Your hospitality was most gracious, as was Fiona's.
I am sorry to hear you felt my previous formal request was "sarcastic" and "mocking." I was hoping we would find an opportunity to discuss this further, but during my visit you appeared to be preoccupied yelling, "Yes, yes, right there, amazing," and so we never had a chance to explore this topic fully.
Perhaps on my next visit, we shall have more time to converse. It is my greatest hope that we do.
Very best wishes,
Bryce
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Dear Mozzie,
Good to hear from you!
I can assure you that Neal and I are twins, not clones. If Burke told you otherwise, it was as a joke. Perhaps we could retaliate by giving you higher security clearance than he has? That would probably really annoy him.
He sounds nice, though. I'm glad Neal likes him.
Thanks again for all your help with that business in Amsterdam! And Bruges. The way your brain works is quite sexy :)
Best wishes from your favorite (voluntary) government employee,
Bryce
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Dear Chuck Finley,
Thank you for your good work in South America. It is regrettable that my organization officially condemns your actions, both in general and specifically toward our operatives.
On a personal note, however, I found your treatment of my colleagues to be a bit hilarious.
Chin up. We all have to do our own thing sometimes. We can't let things stop us just because they say that we've "gone rogue" and "nobody knows where our loyalties lie" and "you can't just do whatever you want and expect everyone to just fucking deal with it" and "you don't get to cause an international conflict just because you think you're right." Blah, blah, blah, whine, whine, whine. Amirite?
Yours,
B.
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Dear Sarah and Chuck,
Happy Anniversary!
And extra congratulations on your upcoming adoption -- I know you'll make terrific parents to some lucky kid.
I know it is early to think about names, but I have some suggestions:
For a boy: Bryce. Really. Think about it.
For a girl: Bryce. It can be a girl's name too!
If you don't want to name your child Bryce (and I don't know why you wouldn't, but whatevs), then might I suggest: paghlogh-not-yIjatlh
Klingon names are such a rarity these days; don't you want to do your part to keep the tradition alive?
Love,
Bryce
P.S. Casey would make a terrible godfather. You need someone a little more laid-back. Someone who won't someday give them a fully automatic weapon for their fifth birthday. Someone with really great hair, maybe....
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Dear Fiona,
I understand why you're concerned about Michael's return to his former profession, but aside from the danger and secrecy and travel and conflicting goals, you don't need to worry. No, really, I have two very dear friends who are in the same business,and they are great at their job and they've been together for years. It CAN be done.
I'll be in Miami in December -- any thoughts on getting together again? This makes what -- 8 weekends together for the three of us? I visit you more than HQ, it seems.
Yours,
Bryce
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Dear Fiona,
I assure you that my friends are not, as you suggest, "some weaselly suit-wearing thugs whose idea of great oral sex is reading their energy security analysis out loud." I'm telling you, their sex life is still great, they are lovely and friendly people, and they are not weaselly at all. In fact, they are very, very hot and are exceptionally talented at oral sex. From what I hear.
They also don't wear suits.
I do, though. So, you know, thanks for that.
Seriously, you might really like them. And they can tell you about how they manage the relationship and balance it with work. I'm giving you Sarah's number. Think about it.
Anyway, I'll see you in a few weeks!
Yours,
Bryce
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Dear Fiona,
Yes, I'm very glad you liked Sarah and Chuck. No, Chuck was serious when he said that he doesn't like to shoot people. He didn't understand why you laughed so hard, but when I spoke to him, he said that you reminded him of his friend Casey. I defended you, of course, but Chuck explained that he meant it as a compliment. Whatever.
Anyway, I am not surprised that you and Sarah especially hit it off - it's always nice to hear that two such wonderful people are enjoying each other's company.
Perhaps you're thinking that I'm trying to make nice after not mentioning that I used to be involved with them. Yes, fine, I used to be with them, and I didn't tell you. But it was need to know and you didn't need to know.
Kidding! Just kidding! Please don't shoot me. (Seriously, I was KIDDING so PLEASE DON'T SHOOT ME).
It's just that I didn't expect it to come up, and it was so very long ago. And it's not like any of us are all that open with our pasts.
But yes, I should have told you that you were meeting my exes, not simply my friends.
It's just things with Chuck were always... complicated. Really complicated. And only part of the reason I can't talk about it is because it's classified. And I know how much you hate that word, and I don't blame you, but that word is currency to some of us (sorry).
And things with Sarah ended so abruptly, and then when I came back after my extended stay in Hotel Almostdead, they were clearly on the way to being something. And I had history with both of them, so for a short time, we were all together. I'm not going to lie and said that it meant nothing. It definitely meant something. But there were no promises between me and them. And it was for a few weeks only. And I haven't been with Sarah and Chuck since then, and now they really are just my friends.
Honestly, at the time, I didn't even think the two of them would work out -- they were too different.
Okay, really, it was that Sarah was too much like me. And I always assumed that I couldn't be with Chuck. I was never brave enough to be myself with him, and I wanted to keep him out of the spy world. Truthfully, I wasn't even sure if he could deal with it. Not just the danger -- I didn't think he could deal with the things I was willing to do for the job. I didn't think he could really stand to see that side of me. And so I assumed that it would be the same for Sarah, and I figured it would only last until one of them admitted to themselves that they couldn't work. I felt bad for them, but I knew Chuck would find someone normal and Sarah would find a spy or choose not to, and in the mean time they would make some great memories, and it's not like it was my place to tell them who to love. So I just wished them the best and hoped neither of them got hurt too badly when it inevitably went south.
It turned out not to be like that. They changed for each other -- both of them. Really and truly changed. Chuck became a spy, in every possible sense, and Sarah learned to let someone in - really and fully in. Even though she'd never before in her life known anyone that would have made that seem like a good idea. There was no reason for her to believe in happily ever after, not with the things she's seen and done, not enough to bet her heart on it, to change who she was for it.
She did it anyway.
And that was good to see. Really good.
I'm sorry I didn't tell you.
I'll be in Miami next week. I want to see you and Michael.
Bryce
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Dear Michael,
I'm sorry that you are now "inundated" as you put it with Fiona's "unreasonable expectations." And I am sorry you have decided that it's my fault. I can see how the fact that I don't think relationships among spies need to be total clusterfucks would inconvenience you. Obviously, that's some intel you would want to keep under wraps.
And I'm so very sorry my "interference" has made it much harder for you to brush aside people's real concerns simply by giving them that look. You know the look. The one that says 'I'm really sorry but this is just not something I can talk about at this moment, and I know there's never a good moment and that's unfortunate, and I acknowledge that my choices are a big part of why it seems like we're always in a moment where someone's life depends on my total concentration, and so yes there probably won't be any time soon when I can even think about this issue, but you know that if there were no problems in the world anywhere, then I would TOTALLY be cool with having this conversation.'
FYI, everyone you know? Hates that look.
Bryce
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Dear Michael,
Fine, I overreacted. I accept your apology.
I'll see you soon.
Best,
Bryce
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Dear Fiona,
Again, I am sorry for not telling you about Chuck and Sarah. And no, I have not slept with the whole CIA. But I don't think I ever suggested that you and Michael were my first threesome, and I don't know why you assumed that.
Hope we can clear this up soon,
Bryce
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Dear Fiona,
No, I do not consider myself a man-whore. I do not consider casual sexual encounters to be a bad thing, true, but I was not misleading you when I implied that I wanted the three of us to be more than casual.
Again, I am sorry that I did not tell you about my exes. You're right that you have enough secrets to deal with, though I'm not sure why you think that both Michael and I are "total shits sometimes."
You seem much less mad than you were before, however. Perhaps instead of being angry at me, you could just punish me for keeping unnecessary secrets? Maybe something involving ropes. Feel free to get creative.
Love and amends,
Bryce
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Dear Michael and Fiona,
Thanks for a lovely time in Miami. I am glad we had a chance to talk. And I am especially glad we had the chance to make up. So to speak. I am sore and exhausted, and my ego will be irreparably bruised if you do not indicate that you are as well.
I am not sure when I'll be back, but I was thinking about getting a place in South Florida. Sort of like a home base between missions. How would you two feel about that?
As for the issue of you two finding ways to work together now that Michael is back in the fold, maybe Fiona could find a way to make herself indispensible to the organization. Perhaps you'll stumble upon something that will help.
Anyway, I'll be in touch.
All my love,
Bryce
P.S. I sent Michael a box of yogurt cups from a dairy in California -- they have really good flavors. You know, in case you ever want some variety. It should be there soon.
P.P.S. When you open the box that came with the letter, you'll see a pair of sunglasses I got for Fiona. Try them on, Fi. You might be surprised how empowered they make you feel.
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(end)
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Summary: Nolan thinks that the Hamptons are like a fairy tale. A twisted, amusing, terrifying fairy tale.'>
For agnesbean: Nolan Ross' Bedtime Stories
Notes: Just for clarity: All references to Amanda or Emily are to the main character. The character who was born with the name Emily Thorne is not in this story except as a source of the name. Includes: Brief references to canon pairings. Thanks to Ash for the beta!
The Hamptons are a fairy tale land. Impenetrable castles gleaming in the moonlit mist, forlorn girls and boys staring out the windows from their tall, locked towers. Evil spells that try to make you forget the past.
Nolan remembers what it was like as a dirt poor 16-year-old, walking miles in his K-Mart suit and tie, trying to find a fairy godmother-type to invest in his inventions. He remembers looking up at the houses, the mansions, and almost getting dizzy from the steepness of the angle. He remembers learning that in fairy tale land, despite appearances, the reality was that almost everyone was a troll.
Now that he lives in a fairy tale (now that he doesn’t have to fight for every scrap, now that he has more money than he knows how to spend, now that he’s proven that he’s not nothing), he still sometimes imagines the Hamptons in these storybook terms. But, like all men who go back to read their childhood favorites, he finds that there was more to the tales than he realized.
He finds that these are not stories for children.
Snow White
When Emily Thorne comes to town, Nolan likes the new name. It reminds him of a single drop of blood falling slowly off a spiky stem of a rose. He is disappointed to find that the name is that of a real girl (albeit a girl nothing like Amanda). He thought maybe Amanda had plucked the name of her vengeance from thin air.
Nolan watches the war between Emily and Victoria unfold, and it reminds him of all those childhood tales where the evil matriarch tries to destroy the heroine. Whenever the Hamptons' version of the young princess and the evil queen talk, their smiles cutting deep and ragged as razor wire, Nolan feels a tightening in his gut and it's equal parts exciting and terrifying. Watching the two women verbally spar is like watching supercomputers play chess. It’s a thing of wonder, and he’s in awe of their complexity, their innovative moves, the layers of possibility in every sentence. But at the same time, Nolan wonders about what will happen if an artificial being decides to stop playing chess and start taking over the world.
Of course, people like Victoria Grayson already run the world. That’s why she has time for all that chess.
(And Nolan wonders if he's becoming more like them, as he gets better and better at moving people like pieces.)
But the two women are truly from a fairy tale: long ago, Victoria had sent Amanda out in the wilderness to be destroyed so that no one could threaten her place. But now Amanda was changing the Snow White story into something different, something darker and more luscious.
Snow White became the woodcutter, the axe who cuts out hearts.
She came back to the castle with a dozen poison apples, leaving them in the paths of the evil queen’s friends and allies, tempting them with the gleaming flesh of something promisingly sweet.
She seduces the evil queen’s son, planting herself in the middle of that Oedipal maelstrom like it’s just another plaything. Nolan wonders what it is like for Emily, for Amanda, to feel the heat of her enemy’s son, the only source of warmth in her enemy’s heart, frolicking in her bed, kissing her mouth, her eyelashes, her thighs. He wonders if it is strange to feel her enemy's legacy move inside of her, to whisper his love in her ear. Nolan wonders if, during all this, all Amanda sees is the queen. He wonders if that makes it better for her, if that makes her eyes gleam with triumph or if it breaks her heart.
Nolan knows that there are only a few ways for this story to end. Maybe Victoria destroys Amanda, or maybe Amanda, in trying to cut into Victoria, will fall on her own sword. Maybe Amanda will choose the prince, the childhood friend, maybe Snow White will choose the magic kiss over the bloody blade.
But probably not. Probably, Amanda will win the day. And then there will be nothing.
The Hamptons will go on. There will be scandal about the Graysons’ fall, and everyone will talk. But nobody will think this is a sign that their ways must change.
And Amanda? Maybe she will find someone else to be, someone with something other than revenge in her heart.
Probably, she will be the new evil queen.
Nolan thinks about what he will be in all of this. He imagines he is most like the Magic Mirror. He tries to be the conscience, the advisor, the magical helper. But mostly, he is stuck watching the drama play out, trying to make his voice heard, hoping that Snow White doesn’t one day become so angry that she smashes him, broken glass in all directions, because he has said something she cannot afford to hear, because she can’t bear her own reflection in his visage.
The Frog Prince/The Ugly Duckling/Cinderella
Once upon a time, there was a boy called Nolan. Nobody liked Nolan. He was weird and funny-looking and awkward. He was smart, too, and that made people like him even less.
Nolan knew how to make wonderful machines, but he couldn’t make them without help. When he went to all the nobles of the land, asking them for the chance to give them his wonderful machines, they despised him. Not only for being weird and smart but also for not being rich, for not knowing which fork to use, for not being one of them. He could have a hundred thousand dollars and they would still look at him like he were a peasant, as if he were the cindered girl who shouldn’t be allowed to touch the lace.
When Nolan met Mr. Clarke, everything changed. The frog became a prince. The ugly duckling became a swan. And everyone pretended to like him, even if they didn’t do it well.
But it was more than the money. Everyone Nolan had ever met had tried - directly or indirectly - to suggest that Nolan’s talent was just a dream, that his brilliance was all in his head, that he should stop his quest and go home. David Clarke believed in him and he believed that someday Nolan would be a huge success. He taught him to turn his technological brilliance into business savvy. And he was a friend when Nolan needed one, and the fact that David believed he would someday make money off of Nolan’s genius made the friendship seem more real, not less. This was another thing Nolan learned from him: that money could buy friendship, if money makes people spend enough time with you that they learn to see in you what others don’t.
The fairy tale ended soon after. Nolan got rich, and David Clarke got destroyed. A good man, in real life, ends up lonely and lost. The villains take the win.
Nolan visited as often as he could, now that he was David Clarke’s only friend. He listened to what really happened, to the things David needed for himself and for his daughter. Nolan made his promises. He even promised to abide by David’s wishes and not hack into documents that could expose the truth; David feared reprisal, and especially feared for his daughter’s safety. He even thought that Nolan should do his best to blend in, to enjoy his life and not give up his status out of loyalty to a man whom everyone had tried to forget.
But as Nolan started receiving invitations, started being greeted with smiles and requests from the same people who once slammed their doors in his face, as Nolan finally gained acceptance in the world he was once so desperate to be a part of, the banquets and balls left a bitter taste in his mouth.
And so he acted the frog prince, through and through. He hopped around leaving a trail of vague insults and sneer-laden smiles, reminding them that he was not -- could never be -- one of them. Just as they wouldn’t really forget that he was a frog before he was a prince, that he was once the worthless girl in the corner, covered in stench and soot, Nolan wasn’t going to forget either.
Rumpelstiltskin
Nolan enjoys seeing the real Emily. He enjoys being the only one who knows her real name. Even if it weren’t such a delight watching the humiliation of the Hamptonites, he would still like having this charm, this hold, over the woman who is perhaps more like him than anyone in the land.
Of course, she has this same power over him.
He wonders sometimes why it seems like she has power over him, why it feels like he is always doing her bidding. But then he remembers that she sees the man behind the ridiculous mogul profiles and the largely Nolan-invented rumors.
She knows his true identity; she sees when he is pretending not to know what he knows, and when he is pretending not to care when he does.
Even if he didn’t need to keep an eye on her, even if he didn’t need to remind her that she could choose another path, another story, even if he weren’t a bit (okay, entirely) terrified of her, he would still be stuck to her. She has his name in her pocket as much as he has hers.
Bluebeard
Nolan sometimes considers how many people have died to keep the Grayson’s secrets.
He estimates that the number is higher than for many of the people in the Hamptons, for many of those attending at their royal court. But in a land where entire empires are built on the fragility of lies, the Graysons are surely not alone in having blood on their hands.
Nolan thinks back sometimes to the time when he realized that there really were places where kings and queens had enough treasure to make your dreams come true at a whim. Even when his teenage self decided that they were all bastards, he hadn’t quite realized that it went beyond selfishness and short-sightedness, that it was more than jealousy and fury and greed. It was that all these things, these horrible, human things, did not mix well with power. It was dangerous to have the money and power to act on these impulses in darkness, to be able to build walls so high that no one can see your crimes.
Nolan knows that Conrad might well kill him and Emily if he finds out what they are doing. Victoria, too. Frank would have if he had gotten the chance. Obviously.
But one day, Nolan goes to visit Emily and finds Daniel wandering around the house, exploring the drawers and cupboards, clearly looking for his girlfriend’s secrets. He interrupts Daniel, pretends to know nothing, and waits until Emily arrives. He trusts that Emily knows how to keep herself hidden.
A question crosses Nolan’s mind, however, and it bothers him. He wonders what would happen if Daniel found out everything. He wonders how far Amanda would go to stop him from ruining her revenge.
Nolan is almost certain that Amanda would never outright kill someone to keep a secret. But the fact that he has to think about it is a worry. The fact that he has to think about it also means that he has let David Clarke down, that he has betrayed his greatest promise to his only friend -- to make sure Amanda Clarke isn't destroyed by the same people that destroyed David.
Sometimes Nolan wonders if his own home, gaudy and brightly lit and bigger than he knows what to do with, will someday house a lethal secret. He thinks about where in his house he would put it if he had to store something vile and incriminating, if he had to hang on to a reminder of the worst thing he’s ever done. The safe in the closet floorboards, Nolan decides, or if it’s bigger (and Nolan doesn’t want to think about hiding something bigger), he could put it in the back of the wine cellar and seal it off with a wall of plaster. He wishes he didn’t have to think about what he would do if his home someday became Bluebeard’s castle.
He thinks that if it happens, it will be because of something Emily Thorne does. He doesn’t like to imagine that anything else could turn him into the monster that his neighbors already are.
Hansel and Gretel
Mostly, Nolan is disgusted by the people of the Hamptons. Sometimes, he almost - almost - feels sorry for them. They seem like such children sometimes, petty, stupid children, fighting over toys and attention, whispering their secrets, pretending that their own little make-believe world is the real world. They remind him of children alone in the woods, wanting to give up and cry, but instead wandering in the dark, hoping they won’t be eaten by witches or wolves.
But the truth is, they are not children. They do not yell for their mothers and fathers in the dark, no matter how much they may want to. They are adults, and so they cling to their golf stats and their perfect centerpieces and their embezzled pension funds and their lovers’ bodies, hanging on for dear life, getting lost in the fire, the ice, the wind, the waves, falling deep into whatever abyss would have them.
Nolan is not much different, he has to admit. He is still sixteen, wandering around with tired feet and a tie that even he knows is bad, begging for someone to believe in him, sneering at them when he sees they are too stupid to understand the very technologies that give them their stores of treasure. He is still afraid to say no to a good opportunity, and he still clings tight to any body lying next to him, even if he knows why they’re there. Sometimes, he thinks he is still a stupid, lost child. And then he looks around and sees Victoria, who would do anything to stop her sand castle from washing away. He sees Tyler, who kicks the sand in your eye to impress the big boys, and he sees Daniel, who still thinks mom and dad can fix everything. He sees Lydia, who thinks that no matter what she loses, she can still have all the toys, and Jack, who, despite everything, always thinks he can save the day, his certainty almost making Nolan want to believe it, too.
He sees Amanda, who holds a magnifying glass over the crimes of the Hamptonites so she can watch them burst into flames like ants on a fine summer day. Amanda, who is still living in that day when she became a lost little orphan girl, alone and crying in the woods, who will live in that day forever.
Amanda, who returned to ravish the land that expelled her. The princess, the sorceress, the dragon, and the child all in one.
Nolan isn’t sure where this story will end. But the tale doesn’t help him sleep at night.
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For s2s: 5 Times Matty Made Simon Lose Control
Simon is good at controlling the chaos. That's what publicity is, after all: reining in the media beast so it does your bidding while making it all look effortless. He's the same way -- effortlessly and invisibly in control -- as he moves among and across social circles, as he advocates for what he believes in, as he herds nervous actors and producers to friendly press at events. Simon is all business, all the time (almost), and his confidence rarely wavers even when confronted with the latest crisis or some tabloid clusterfuck. He handles it gracefully and then moves onto the next task. He finds the nodes and angles in the chaos that allow him to direct what seems - to so many others - to be a frenzy of impossible unpredictable chains of causality. He sees the random, the mess, coming a mile away and knows just how to head it off
And it's precisely because Simon is so good at controlling the chaos, so absolutely brilliant at it, that Matty has so much fun making him lose it completely.
There are times when Simon's sure that's his primary motive.
1. Matty's tongue should give masterclasses. That's what Simon thinks, anyway. It should really be Simon's tongue who takes the prize, so to speak, since Simon is rather more experienced. But Matty's tongue is some kind of prodigy.
(Either that or Matty dated someone more skilled in that area than Simon. Which Simon really doesn't want to know.)
Matty's tongue can lull you into relaxing. Well, not relaxing. But being so caught up in the bliss of those sweet, slow circles that it starts to feel like it's going to be a blossoming of pleasure, something gentle and lovely, something that reminds you of honey and soft light. And right when you forget to pay attention (right when you forget who you're dealing with), a flick of the tongue, just entering the slit.
Your moan is more surprise than pleasure at first. But you can't help smiling anyway. It was silly of you to forget: Matty likes to play dirty pool. He doesn't give you the benefit of calling his shots.
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2. There are times when Matty's a horrible tease.
For instance: when he brings in ice cubes - which work beautifully at first - but then he uses them to quell Simon's erection again and again. And again.
Naturally, he waits until Simon is tied to the bed to do this. Turning him on, cooling him down, turning him on, cooling him down.
He thinks it's going to be fun to make Simon beg.
It doesn't happen, of course. Simon is not going to beg him for sex. Ever.
But it is possible perhaps that there was some moaning. And maybe some yelling. And maybe a request. Or a hundred.
But no begging. Definitely not.
After Simon victoriously endures it all (after Matty decides he's had enough), he rides Simon's cock, watching his face the whole time. Supposedly, Simon scrunched his face in some kind of desperate ecstasy which - according to Matty's impersonation of him later that night - made him look like a squirrel watching over-intellectualized German porn. Whatever that means.
Matty and his references....
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3. The very next time, Simon got his revenge: Matty in a cock cage, hot wax dripping all over his body, and the lovely, lovely sound of Matty begging. He wanted more pain. He also wanted release. He wanted more bondage and wanted to be fucked and wanted to come and wanted ten other things at once, and so his begging was hoarse and needy and utterly confused, asking for contradictions and nonsense. He was exquisitely lost. Desperate, even.
It was beautiful.
When Simon finally fucked him, he bent him over the chair in his home office, Matty's hands still tied behind his back. Simon leaned over as he moved inside of him to whisper in his ear, "This is what happens when you fuck with me, isn't it? Isn't it?" He demanded this admission, this surrender from Matty, this retaliation for turning Simon into a quivering mess the night before. He kept repeating his question, his demand, until finally Matty said, voice rough and honest, "Why do you think I did it?" and let out a laugh.
A laugh. As Simon was pushing into him, demanding answers. Matty laughed.
It was almost too much. The gall.
It was also, somehow, really fucking hot.
Simon moved faster, barely able to control himself, letting his pace get away from him, thrusting rough and messy as he hurtled toward orgasm.
The only recompense was that Matty came soon after, with a moan that sounded nothing like laughter.
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4. When Matty was in New York, they skyped as often as they could. But, privacy stalwarts they were, they hesitated to do much more over the screen.
Until one night, when Matty started casually relating the dream he had last night. His descriptions were vivid: all the things Simon was doing to his body. All the things Matty did back. The tastes, the smells, the textures -- Matty focused on all the senses other than sight, and for whatever reason, it was all the more visceral to Simon. But Simon managed to keep it together, to keep his veneer of seen-it-all amusement, to be a man of confidence, always unfazed (to be the kind of man Matty couldn't get enough of).
And then Matty started rubbing himself. Beneath the field of vision of the camera, attempting to hide the motions of his hand.
Matty was trying to hide the fact that his own story, his own dirty talk, was making him stroke his dick. His own dream about Simon made him helpless to stop himself from rutting against his hand. And he didn't want Simon to know.
It was about a thousand times more arousing than if Matty had jerked himself because he wanted Simon to see it.
As soon as Simon figured it out, he gripped himself and jacked off like a teenager who couldn't wait to be done.
Of course, after, when he saw Matty's triumphant smirk, he turned the computer off without so much as a good-bye.
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5. Simon lived a very controlled life. He had goals for the kind of life he wanted and he worked for those goals. Matty was not part of the plan.
Somehow, he ended up being a central part of the plan.
The chemistry was there from the start. But Simon tried never to forget that Matty was surely there temporarily. However much they liked each other - in bed and out - Simon wasn't about to throw caution to the wind. Gorgeous younger actor? One who moved in completely different circles? One who's probably far from ready to settle down? Simon wasn't going to pretend that they would be some fairy tale. That would make him just another Hollywood fool who thought a lover was the same as a family.
So he planned on keeping his investment in their relationship within reasonable limits.
Somehow, it didn't work that way. When Simon pushed away, Matty pulled close. Not necessarily needy, just... defiant. As if he were amused but annoyed that Simon wanted to keep the boundaries around his life nice and neat. The pretty young thing was willing to fight for their relationship, was willing to work to be let into Simon's life.
And of course, as with everything else, when he really needed to, Matty would fight dirty.
Again and again, Matty would find ways to make Simon trust where he didn't intend to. And then would live up to that trust. That was his one-two punch.
He also challenged Simon - constantly - but never made Simon feel like either of them were expecting too much. And gradually, piece by piece, Matty made Simon feel like he had a partner, like it was perfectly natural to think of someone else as an indispensible part of your life.
In all, Simon thinks that this was the most insidious way that Matty made him lose control. Everything was nice and simple. And then it wasn't. And somehow, through some deviousness of Matty's, Simon didn't even regret the change, didn't even regret the chaos that inevitably ensues when you make life more complicated.
Sometimes, Simon grumbles that Matty didn't play fair, tricking Simon into falling in love like that.
Matty just rolls his eyes. Probably planning for the next way he's going to make Simon lose his mind.
(end)
=========================================
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Title: A Nice Old-Fashioned Letter.
For: Ash, for the prompt "Bryce Larkin - super spy and silly card writer - things Bryce would write to other characters."
Fandom: Chuck/Burn Notice/White Collar
Pairings: Many various canon and non-canon relationships.
Note: Goes AU from Chuck from the end of Chuck's Season 2, extending into futurefic. It is current with Burn Notice, and non-spoilery for White Collar.
Dear Casey,
I wanted to be the first to tell you this very important information.
I regretfully inform you that your record "kill rate" is no longer a record. Now that you know that I am alive, I am sure you will be relieved that you did not kill someone who was merely pretending to go rogue and was actually a good spy. I'm sure you were filled with self-loathing and regret when you thought I was gone forever. The fact that you seemed quite eager to shoot me again -- well, I'm just going to chalk that up to you being your charming self.
But as I said, your kill rate no longer includes me. Because you FAILED to kill me. And now you no longer hold the record.
Suck on that.
Yours truly,
Bryce
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Dear Fiona,
I wanted to wish you a happy October 21! Nobel's birthday isn't really a special occasion for most people, but I respect that you go your own way.
Have a great one,
Bryce
P.S. I told my friend about your celebrating this, and he said that it's sweet that you celebrate someone who cared so much about advancing human knowledge. He's kind of one of those guys who likes to solve things with talking, so I didn't know how to explain that you were celebrating Nobel because he invented dynamite.
P.P.S. Blow something up for me! (Something that won't be missed).
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Dear Michael,
Fiona has told me that you're a bit too prim and proper to have a casual threesome with me. I assure you, however, that I plan to conduct myself with all appropriate civility and decorum. Therefore, I am writing this letter to formally inquire into your interest in having simultaneous or very closely consecutive sexual relations with Fiona and myself. If you register at a sex shop, I will bring a gift from your list; otherwise I will bring a hostess gift for Fiona that I believe she will like.
I am currently working, but plan to be in Miami later this season. I propose a meeting at which we discuss all relevant regulatory bodies and negotiate concerns from interested parties. Then, Fiona and I will tie you to your bed and have our wicked, wicked ways with you. We will probably compete to see whose tongue is more adept at bringing you to desperate, begging tears. Then we will both attend to Fiona in courteous and gentlemanly ways, by which I mean we'll do what she wants. Probably she will ride you into next Tuesday while you suck my cock, if previous preliminary discussions with Ms. Glenanne bear out. Of course all this is contingent on the conclusions arrived at in the above mentioned meeting.
After said sexual relations, debriefing will consist of breakfast and an exchange of largely meaningless pleasantries. In the long term, if all parties agree, such transactions may re-occur at later times, though no commitments will be necessary for such to transpire.
I sincerely hope that I have demonstrated the utmost propriety in requesting the honor of your company in Miami. I look forward with bated breath to hear your reply.
Toodles,
Bryce
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Dear Michael,
Thank you for the lovely visit in Miami. Your hospitality was most gracious, as was Fiona's.
I am sorry to hear you felt my previous formal request was "sarcastic" and "mocking." I was hoping we would find an opportunity to discuss this further, but during my visit you appeared to be preoccupied yelling, "Yes, yes, right there, amazing," and so we never had a chance to explore this topic fully.
Perhaps on my next visit, we shall have more time to converse. It is my greatest hope that we do.
Very best wishes,
Bryce
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Dear Mozzie,
Good to hear from you!
I can assure you that Neal and I are twins, not clones. If Burke told you otherwise, it was as a joke. Perhaps we could retaliate by giving you higher security clearance than he has? That would probably really annoy him.
He sounds nice, though. I'm glad Neal likes him.
Thanks again for all your help with that business in Amsterdam! And Bruges. The way your brain works is quite sexy :)
Best wishes from your favorite (voluntary) government employee,
Bryce
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Dear Chuck Finley,
Thank you for your good work in South America. It is regrettable that my organization officially condemns your actions, both in general and specifically toward our operatives.
On a personal note, however, I found your treatment of my colleagues to be a bit hilarious.
Chin up. We all have to do our own thing sometimes. We can't let things stop us just because they say that we've "gone rogue" and "nobody knows where our loyalties lie" and "you can't just do whatever you want and expect everyone to just fucking deal with it" and "you don't get to cause an international conflict just because you think you're right." Blah, blah, blah, whine, whine, whine. Amirite?
Yours,
B.
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Dear Sarah and Chuck,
Happy Anniversary!
And extra congratulations on your upcoming adoption -- I know you'll make terrific parents to some lucky kid.
I know it is early to think about names, but I have some suggestions:
For a boy: Bryce. Really. Think about it.
For a girl: Bryce. It can be a girl's name too!
If you don't want to name your child Bryce (and I don't know why you wouldn't, but whatevs), then might I suggest: paghlogh-not-yIjatlh
Klingon names are such a rarity these days; don't you want to do your part to keep the tradition alive?
Love,
Bryce
P.S. Casey would make a terrible godfather. You need someone a little more laid-back. Someone who won't someday give them a fully automatic weapon for their fifth birthday. Someone with really great hair, maybe....
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Dear Fiona,
I understand why you're concerned about Michael's return to his former profession, but aside from the danger and secrecy and travel and conflicting goals, you don't need to worry. No, really, I have two very dear friends who are in the same business,and they are great at their job and they've been together for years. It CAN be done.
I'll be in Miami in December -- any thoughts on getting together again? This makes what -- 8 weekends together for the three of us? I visit you more than HQ, it seems.
Yours,
Bryce
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Dear Fiona,
I assure you that my friends are not, as you suggest, "some weaselly suit-wearing thugs whose idea of great oral sex is reading their energy security analysis out loud." I'm telling you, their sex life is still great, they are lovely and friendly people, and they are not weaselly at all. In fact, they are very, very hot and are exceptionally talented at oral sex. From what I hear.
They also don't wear suits.
I do, though. So, you know, thanks for that.
Seriously, you might really like them. And they can tell you about how they manage the relationship and balance it with work. I'm giving you Sarah's number. Think about it.
Anyway, I'll see you in a few weeks!
Yours,
Bryce
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Dear Fiona,
Yes, I'm very glad you liked Sarah and Chuck. No, Chuck was serious when he said that he doesn't like to shoot people. He didn't understand why you laughed so hard, but when I spoke to him, he said that you reminded him of his friend Casey. I defended you, of course, but Chuck explained that he meant it as a compliment. Whatever.
Anyway, I am not surprised that you and Sarah especially hit it off - it's always nice to hear that two such wonderful people are enjoying each other's company.
Perhaps you're thinking that I'm trying to make nice after not mentioning that I used to be involved with them. Yes, fine, I used to be with them, and I didn't tell you. But it was need to know and you didn't need to know.
Kidding! Just kidding! Please don't shoot me. (Seriously, I was KIDDING so PLEASE DON'T SHOOT ME).
It's just that I didn't expect it to come up, and it was so very long ago. And it's not like any of us are all that open with our pasts.
But yes, I should have told you that you were meeting my exes, not simply my friends.
It's just things with Chuck were always... complicated. Really complicated. And only part of the reason I can't talk about it is because it's classified. And I know how much you hate that word, and I don't blame you, but that word is currency to some of us (sorry).
And things with Sarah ended so abruptly, and then when I came back after my extended stay in Hotel Almostdead, they were clearly on the way to being something. And I had history with both of them, so for a short time, we were all together. I'm not going to lie and said that it meant nothing. It definitely meant something. But there were no promises between me and them. And it was for a few weeks only. And I haven't been with Sarah and Chuck since then, and now they really are just my friends.
Honestly, at the time, I didn't even think the two of them would work out -- they were too different.
Okay, really, it was that Sarah was too much like me. And I always assumed that I couldn't be with Chuck. I was never brave enough to be myself with him, and I wanted to keep him out of the spy world. Truthfully, I wasn't even sure if he could deal with it. Not just the danger -- I didn't think he could deal with the things I was willing to do for the job. I didn't think he could really stand to see that side of me. And so I assumed that it would be the same for Sarah, and I figured it would only last until one of them admitted to themselves that they couldn't work. I felt bad for them, but I knew Chuck would find someone normal and Sarah would find a spy or choose not to, and in the mean time they would make some great memories, and it's not like it was my place to tell them who to love. So I just wished them the best and hoped neither of them got hurt too badly when it inevitably went south.
It turned out not to be like that. They changed for each other -- both of them. Really and truly changed. Chuck became a spy, in every possible sense, and Sarah learned to let someone in - really and fully in. Even though she'd never before in her life known anyone that would have made that seem like a good idea. There was no reason for her to believe in happily ever after, not with the things she's seen and done, not enough to bet her heart on it, to change who she was for it.
She did it anyway.
And that was good to see. Really good.
I'm sorry I didn't tell you.
I'll be in Miami next week. I want to see you and Michael.
Bryce
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Dear Michael,
I'm sorry that you are now "inundated" as you put it with Fiona's "unreasonable expectations." And I am sorry you have decided that it's my fault. I can see how the fact that I don't think relationships among spies need to be total clusterfucks would inconvenience you. Obviously, that's some intel you would want to keep under wraps.
And I'm so very sorry my "interference" has made it much harder for you to brush aside people's real concerns simply by giving them that look. You know the look. The one that says 'I'm really sorry but this is just not something I can talk about at this moment, and I know there's never a good moment and that's unfortunate, and I acknowledge that my choices are a big part of why it seems like we're always in a moment where someone's life depends on my total concentration, and so yes there probably won't be any time soon when I can even think about this issue, but you know that if there were no problems in the world anywhere, then I would TOTALLY be cool with having this conversation.'
FYI, everyone you know? Hates that look.
Bryce
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Dear Michael,
Fine, I overreacted. I accept your apology.
I'll see you soon.
Best,
Bryce
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Dear Fiona,
Again, I am sorry for not telling you about Chuck and Sarah. And no, I have not slept with the whole CIA. But I don't think I ever suggested that you and Michael were my first threesome, and I don't know why you assumed that.
Hope we can clear this up soon,
Bryce
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Dear Fiona,
No, I do not consider myself a man-whore. I do not consider casual sexual encounters to be a bad thing, true, but I was not misleading you when I implied that I wanted the three of us to be more than casual.
Again, I am sorry that I did not tell you about my exes. You're right that you have enough secrets to deal with, though I'm not sure why you think that both Michael and I are "total shits sometimes."
You seem much less mad than you were before, however. Perhaps instead of being angry at me, you could just punish me for keeping unnecessary secrets? Maybe something involving ropes. Feel free to get creative.
Love and amends,
Bryce
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Dear Michael and Fiona,
Thanks for a lovely time in Miami. I am glad we had a chance to talk. And I am especially glad we had the chance to make up. So to speak. I am sore and exhausted, and my ego will be irreparably bruised if you do not indicate that you are as well.
I am not sure when I'll be back, but I was thinking about getting a place in South Florida. Sort of like a home base between missions. How would you two feel about that?
As for the issue of you two finding ways to work together now that Michael is back in the fold, maybe Fiona could find a way to make herself indispensible to the organization. Perhaps you'll stumble upon something that will help.
Anyway, I'll be in touch.
All my love,
Bryce
P.S. I sent Michael a box of yogurt cups from a dairy in California -- they have really good flavors. You know, in case you ever want some variety. It should be there soon.
P.P.S. When you open the box that came with the letter, you'll see a pair of sunglasses I got for Fiona. Try them on, Fi. You might be surprised how empowered they make you feel.
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(end)
=========================================
Summary: Nolan thinks that the Hamptons are like a fairy tale. A twisted, amusing, terrifying fairy tale.'>
For agnesbean: Nolan Ross' Bedtime Stories
Notes: Just for clarity: All references to Amanda or Emily are to the main character. The character who was born with the name Emily Thorne is not in this story except as a source of the name. Includes: Brief references to canon pairings. Thanks to Ash for the beta!
The Hamptons are a fairy tale land. Impenetrable castles gleaming in the moonlit mist, forlorn girls and boys staring out the windows from their tall, locked towers. Evil spells that try to make you forget the past.
Nolan remembers what it was like as a dirt poor 16-year-old, walking miles in his K-Mart suit and tie, trying to find a fairy godmother-type to invest in his inventions. He remembers looking up at the houses, the mansions, and almost getting dizzy from the steepness of the angle. He remembers learning that in fairy tale land, despite appearances, the reality was that almost everyone was a troll.
Now that he lives in a fairy tale (now that he doesn’t have to fight for every scrap, now that he has more money than he knows how to spend, now that he’s proven that he’s not nothing), he still sometimes imagines the Hamptons in these storybook terms. But, like all men who go back to read their childhood favorites, he finds that there was more to the tales than he realized.
He finds that these are not stories for children.
Snow White
When Emily Thorne comes to town, Nolan likes the new name. It reminds him of a single drop of blood falling slowly off a spiky stem of a rose. He is disappointed to find that the name is that of a real girl (albeit a girl nothing like Amanda). He thought maybe Amanda had plucked the name of her vengeance from thin air.
Nolan watches the war between Emily and Victoria unfold, and it reminds him of all those childhood tales where the evil matriarch tries to destroy the heroine. Whenever the Hamptons' version of the young princess and the evil queen talk, their smiles cutting deep and ragged as razor wire, Nolan feels a tightening in his gut and it's equal parts exciting and terrifying. Watching the two women verbally spar is like watching supercomputers play chess. It’s a thing of wonder, and he’s in awe of their complexity, their innovative moves, the layers of possibility in every sentence. But at the same time, Nolan wonders about what will happen if an artificial being decides to stop playing chess and start taking over the world.
Of course, people like Victoria Grayson already run the world. That’s why she has time for all that chess.
(And Nolan wonders if he's becoming more like them, as he gets better and better at moving people like pieces.)
But the two women are truly from a fairy tale: long ago, Victoria had sent Amanda out in the wilderness to be destroyed so that no one could threaten her place. But now Amanda was changing the Snow White story into something different, something darker and more luscious.
Snow White became the woodcutter, the axe who cuts out hearts.
She came back to the castle with a dozen poison apples, leaving them in the paths of the evil queen’s friends and allies, tempting them with the gleaming flesh of something promisingly sweet.
She seduces the evil queen’s son, planting herself in the middle of that Oedipal maelstrom like it’s just another plaything. Nolan wonders what it is like for Emily, for Amanda, to feel the heat of her enemy’s son, the only source of warmth in her enemy’s heart, frolicking in her bed, kissing her mouth, her eyelashes, her thighs. He wonders if it is strange to feel her enemy's legacy move inside of her, to whisper his love in her ear. Nolan wonders if, during all this, all Amanda sees is the queen. He wonders if that makes it better for her, if that makes her eyes gleam with triumph or if it breaks her heart.
Nolan knows that there are only a few ways for this story to end. Maybe Victoria destroys Amanda, or maybe Amanda, in trying to cut into Victoria, will fall on her own sword. Maybe Amanda will choose the prince, the childhood friend, maybe Snow White will choose the magic kiss over the bloody blade.
But probably not. Probably, Amanda will win the day. And then there will be nothing.
The Hamptons will go on. There will be scandal about the Graysons’ fall, and everyone will talk. But nobody will think this is a sign that their ways must change.
And Amanda? Maybe she will find someone else to be, someone with something other than revenge in her heart.
Probably, she will be the new evil queen.
Nolan thinks about what he will be in all of this. He imagines he is most like the Magic Mirror. He tries to be the conscience, the advisor, the magical helper. But mostly, he is stuck watching the drama play out, trying to make his voice heard, hoping that Snow White doesn’t one day become so angry that she smashes him, broken glass in all directions, because he has said something she cannot afford to hear, because she can’t bear her own reflection in his visage.
The Frog Prince/The Ugly Duckling/Cinderella
Once upon a time, there was a boy called Nolan. Nobody liked Nolan. He was weird and funny-looking and awkward. He was smart, too, and that made people like him even less.
Nolan knew how to make wonderful machines, but he couldn’t make them without help. When he went to all the nobles of the land, asking them for the chance to give them his wonderful machines, they despised him. Not only for being weird and smart but also for not being rich, for not knowing which fork to use, for not being one of them. He could have a hundred thousand dollars and they would still look at him like he were a peasant, as if he were the cindered girl who shouldn’t be allowed to touch the lace.
When Nolan met Mr. Clarke, everything changed. The frog became a prince. The ugly duckling became a swan. And everyone pretended to like him, even if they didn’t do it well.
But it was more than the money. Everyone Nolan had ever met had tried - directly or indirectly - to suggest that Nolan’s talent was just a dream, that his brilliance was all in his head, that he should stop his quest and go home. David Clarke believed in him and he believed that someday Nolan would be a huge success. He taught him to turn his technological brilliance into business savvy. And he was a friend when Nolan needed one, and the fact that David believed he would someday make money off of Nolan’s genius made the friendship seem more real, not less. This was another thing Nolan learned from him: that money could buy friendship, if money makes people spend enough time with you that they learn to see in you what others don’t.
The fairy tale ended soon after. Nolan got rich, and David Clarke got destroyed. A good man, in real life, ends up lonely and lost. The villains take the win.
Nolan visited as often as he could, now that he was David Clarke’s only friend. He listened to what really happened, to the things David needed for himself and for his daughter. Nolan made his promises. He even promised to abide by David’s wishes and not hack into documents that could expose the truth; David feared reprisal, and especially feared for his daughter’s safety. He even thought that Nolan should do his best to blend in, to enjoy his life and not give up his status out of loyalty to a man whom everyone had tried to forget.
But as Nolan started receiving invitations, started being greeted with smiles and requests from the same people who once slammed their doors in his face, as Nolan finally gained acceptance in the world he was once so desperate to be a part of, the banquets and balls left a bitter taste in his mouth.
And so he acted the frog prince, through and through. He hopped around leaving a trail of vague insults and sneer-laden smiles, reminding them that he was not -- could never be -- one of them. Just as they wouldn’t really forget that he was a frog before he was a prince, that he was once the worthless girl in the corner, covered in stench and soot, Nolan wasn’t going to forget either.
Rumpelstiltskin
Nolan enjoys seeing the real Emily. He enjoys being the only one who knows her real name. Even if it weren’t such a delight watching the humiliation of the Hamptonites, he would still like having this charm, this hold, over the woman who is perhaps more like him than anyone in the land.
Of course, she has this same power over him.
He wonders sometimes why it seems like she has power over him, why it feels like he is always doing her bidding. But then he remembers that she sees the man behind the ridiculous mogul profiles and the largely Nolan-invented rumors.
She knows his true identity; she sees when he is pretending not to know what he knows, and when he is pretending not to care when he does.
Even if he didn’t need to keep an eye on her, even if he didn’t need to remind her that she could choose another path, another story, even if he weren’t a bit (okay, entirely) terrified of her, he would still be stuck to her. She has his name in her pocket as much as he has hers.
Bluebeard
Nolan sometimes considers how many people have died to keep the Grayson’s secrets.
He estimates that the number is higher than for many of the people in the Hamptons, for many of those attending at their royal court. But in a land where entire empires are built on the fragility of lies, the Graysons are surely not alone in having blood on their hands.
Nolan thinks back sometimes to the time when he realized that there really were places where kings and queens had enough treasure to make your dreams come true at a whim. Even when his teenage self decided that they were all bastards, he hadn’t quite realized that it went beyond selfishness and short-sightedness, that it was more than jealousy and fury and greed. It was that all these things, these horrible, human things, did not mix well with power. It was dangerous to have the money and power to act on these impulses in darkness, to be able to build walls so high that no one can see your crimes.
Nolan knows that Conrad might well kill him and Emily if he finds out what they are doing. Victoria, too. Frank would have if he had gotten the chance. Obviously.
But one day, Nolan goes to visit Emily and finds Daniel wandering around the house, exploring the drawers and cupboards, clearly looking for his girlfriend’s secrets. He interrupts Daniel, pretends to know nothing, and waits until Emily arrives. He trusts that Emily knows how to keep herself hidden.
A question crosses Nolan’s mind, however, and it bothers him. He wonders what would happen if Daniel found out everything. He wonders how far Amanda would go to stop him from ruining her revenge.
Nolan is almost certain that Amanda would never outright kill someone to keep a secret. But the fact that he has to think about it is a worry. The fact that he has to think about it also means that he has let David Clarke down, that he has betrayed his greatest promise to his only friend -- to make sure Amanda Clarke isn't destroyed by the same people that destroyed David.
Sometimes Nolan wonders if his own home, gaudy and brightly lit and bigger than he knows what to do with, will someday house a lethal secret. He thinks about where in his house he would put it if he had to store something vile and incriminating, if he had to hang on to a reminder of the worst thing he’s ever done. The safe in the closet floorboards, Nolan decides, or if it’s bigger (and Nolan doesn’t want to think about hiding something bigger), he could put it in the back of the wine cellar and seal it off with a wall of plaster. He wishes he didn’t have to think about what he would do if his home someday became Bluebeard’s castle.
He thinks that if it happens, it will be because of something Emily Thorne does. He doesn’t like to imagine that anything else could turn him into the monster that his neighbors already are.
Hansel and Gretel
Mostly, Nolan is disgusted by the people of the Hamptons. Sometimes, he almost - almost - feels sorry for them. They seem like such children sometimes, petty, stupid children, fighting over toys and attention, whispering their secrets, pretending that their own little make-believe world is the real world. They remind him of children alone in the woods, wanting to give up and cry, but instead wandering in the dark, hoping they won’t be eaten by witches or wolves.
But the truth is, they are not children. They do not yell for their mothers and fathers in the dark, no matter how much they may want to. They are adults, and so they cling to their golf stats and their perfect centerpieces and their embezzled pension funds and their lovers’ bodies, hanging on for dear life, getting lost in the fire, the ice, the wind, the waves, falling deep into whatever abyss would have them.
Nolan is not much different, he has to admit. He is still sixteen, wandering around with tired feet and a tie that even he knows is bad, begging for someone to believe in him, sneering at them when he sees they are too stupid to understand the very technologies that give them their stores of treasure. He is still afraid to say no to a good opportunity, and he still clings tight to any body lying next to him, even if he knows why they’re there. Sometimes, he thinks he is still a stupid, lost child. And then he looks around and sees Victoria, who would do anything to stop her sand castle from washing away. He sees Tyler, who kicks the sand in your eye to impress the big boys, and he sees Daniel, who still thinks mom and dad can fix everything. He sees Lydia, who thinks that no matter what she loses, she can still have all the toys, and Jack, who, despite everything, always thinks he can save the day, his certainty almost making Nolan want to believe it, too.
He sees Amanda, who holds a magnifying glass over the crimes of the Hamptonites so she can watch them burst into flames like ants on a fine summer day. Amanda, who is still living in that day when she became a lost little orphan girl, alone and crying in the woods, who will live in that day forever.
Amanda, who returned to ravish the land that expelled her. The princess, the sorceress, the dragon, and the child all in one.
Nolan isn’t sure where this story will end. But the tale doesn’t help him sleep at night.
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For s2s: 5 Times Matty Made Simon Lose Control
Simon is good at controlling the chaos. That's what publicity is, after all: reining in the media beast so it does your bidding while making it all look effortless. He's the same way -- effortlessly and invisibly in control -- as he moves among and across social circles, as he advocates for what he believes in, as he herds nervous actors and producers to friendly press at events. Simon is all business, all the time (almost), and his confidence rarely wavers even when confronted with the latest crisis or some tabloid clusterfuck. He handles it gracefully and then moves onto the next task. He finds the nodes and angles in the chaos that allow him to direct what seems - to so many others - to be a frenzy of impossible unpredictable chains of causality. He sees the random, the mess, coming a mile away and knows just how to head it off
And it's precisely because Simon is so good at controlling the chaos, so absolutely brilliant at it, that Matty has so much fun making him lose it completely.
There are times when Simon's sure that's his primary motive.
1. Matty's tongue should give masterclasses. That's what Simon thinks, anyway. It should really be Simon's tongue who takes the prize, so to speak, since Simon is rather more experienced. But Matty's tongue is some kind of prodigy.
(Either that or Matty dated someone more skilled in that area than Simon. Which Simon really doesn't want to know.)
Matty's tongue can lull you into relaxing. Well, not relaxing. But being so caught up in the bliss of those sweet, slow circles that it starts to feel like it's going to be a blossoming of pleasure, something gentle and lovely, something that reminds you of honey and soft light. And right when you forget to pay attention (right when you forget who you're dealing with), a flick of the tongue, just entering the slit.
Your moan is more surprise than pleasure at first. But you can't help smiling anyway. It was silly of you to forget: Matty likes to play dirty pool. He doesn't give you the benefit of calling his shots.
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2. There are times when Matty's a horrible tease.
For instance: when he brings in ice cubes - which work beautifully at first - but then he uses them to quell Simon's erection again and again. And again.
Naturally, he waits until Simon is tied to the bed to do this. Turning him on, cooling him down, turning him on, cooling him down.
He thinks it's going to be fun to make Simon beg.
It doesn't happen, of course. Simon is not going to beg him for sex. Ever.
But it is possible perhaps that there was some moaning. And maybe some yelling. And maybe a request. Or a hundred.
But no begging. Definitely not.
After Simon victoriously endures it all (after Matty decides he's had enough), he rides Simon's cock, watching his face the whole time. Supposedly, Simon scrunched his face in some kind of desperate ecstasy which - according to Matty's impersonation of him later that night - made him look like a squirrel watching over-intellectualized German porn. Whatever that means.
Matty and his references....
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3. The very next time, Simon got his revenge: Matty in a cock cage, hot wax dripping all over his body, and the lovely, lovely sound of Matty begging. He wanted more pain. He also wanted release. He wanted more bondage and wanted to be fucked and wanted to come and wanted ten other things at once, and so his begging was hoarse and needy and utterly confused, asking for contradictions and nonsense. He was exquisitely lost. Desperate, even.
It was beautiful.
When Simon finally fucked him, he bent him over the chair in his home office, Matty's hands still tied behind his back. Simon leaned over as he moved inside of him to whisper in his ear, "This is what happens when you fuck with me, isn't it? Isn't it?" He demanded this admission, this surrender from Matty, this retaliation for turning Simon into a quivering mess the night before. He kept repeating his question, his demand, until finally Matty said, voice rough and honest, "Why do you think I did it?" and let out a laugh.
A laugh. As Simon was pushing into him, demanding answers. Matty laughed.
It was almost too much. The gall.
It was also, somehow, really fucking hot.
Simon moved faster, barely able to control himself, letting his pace get away from him, thrusting rough and messy as he hurtled toward orgasm.
The only recompense was that Matty came soon after, with a moan that sounded nothing like laughter.
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4. When Matty was in New York, they skyped as often as they could. But, privacy stalwarts they were, they hesitated to do much more over the screen.
Until one night, when Matty started casually relating the dream he had last night. His descriptions were vivid: all the things Simon was doing to his body. All the things Matty did back. The tastes, the smells, the textures -- Matty focused on all the senses other than sight, and for whatever reason, it was all the more visceral to Simon. But Simon managed to keep it together, to keep his veneer of seen-it-all amusement, to be a man of confidence, always unfazed (to be the kind of man Matty couldn't get enough of).
And then Matty started rubbing himself. Beneath the field of vision of the camera, attempting to hide the motions of his hand.
Matty was trying to hide the fact that his own story, his own dirty talk, was making him stroke his dick. His own dream about Simon made him helpless to stop himself from rutting against his hand. And he didn't want Simon to know.
It was about a thousand times more arousing than if Matty had jerked himself because he wanted Simon to see it.
As soon as Simon figured it out, he gripped himself and jacked off like a teenager who couldn't wait to be done.
Of course, after, when he saw Matty's triumphant smirk, he turned the computer off without so much as a good-bye.
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5. Simon lived a very controlled life. He had goals for the kind of life he wanted and he worked for those goals. Matty was not part of the plan.
Somehow, he ended up being a central part of the plan.
The chemistry was there from the start. But Simon tried never to forget that Matty was surely there temporarily. However much they liked each other - in bed and out - Simon wasn't about to throw caution to the wind. Gorgeous younger actor? One who moved in completely different circles? One who's probably far from ready to settle down? Simon wasn't going to pretend that they would be some fairy tale. That would make him just another Hollywood fool who thought a lover was the same as a family.
So he planned on keeping his investment in their relationship within reasonable limits.
Somehow, it didn't work that way. When Simon pushed away, Matty pulled close. Not necessarily needy, just... defiant. As if he were amused but annoyed that Simon wanted to keep the boundaries around his life nice and neat. The pretty young thing was willing to fight for their relationship, was willing to work to be let into Simon's life.
And of course, as with everything else, when he really needed to, Matty would fight dirty.
Again and again, Matty would find ways to make Simon trust where he didn't intend to. And then would live up to that trust. That was his one-two punch.
He also challenged Simon - constantly - but never made Simon feel like either of them were expecting too much. And gradually, piece by piece, Matty made Simon feel like he had a partner, like it was perfectly natural to think of someone else as an indispensible part of your life.
In all, Simon thinks that this was the most insidious way that Matty made him lose control. Everything was nice and simple. And then it wasn't. And somehow, through some deviousness of Matty's, Simon didn't even regret the change, didn't even regret the chaos that inevitably ensues when you make life more complicated.
Sometimes, Simon grumbles that Matty didn't play fair, tricking Simon into falling in love like that.
Matty just rolls his eyes. Probably planning for the next way he's going to make Simon lose his mind.
(end)
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