#85 - Hetero Incognito

Today’s words: Mark, Poison, Fund, Juvenile

Word count: 585

Completion time: 39 minutes

Summary: Is someone still bisexual even if they get with someone of the opposite gender? No. Obviously not. Bisexuals who get with people of the opposite gender realise that heterosexuality is where it’s at. They shed their bisexual skin and step into the tight-fitting lycra clothing of the glorious hetero. 



--

I think that everyone goes through a ‘bicurious’ stage, whether it’s to add a little interest to one’s personality, or because yeah, they find people of the same gender attractive, no matter how deep or not those feelings go. Once, a classmate was willing to fund me if I kissed a girl in front of him; that was how attractive same-sex relations were, so no wonder people wanted to be affiliated with it. Only a few people graduated from ‘bicurious’ to ‘bisexual’, and I was one of them.

I was made to think of other girls as any smart person would think of poison – something to avoid and not to be ingested by any means. But, dear reader, I had already acquired a taste of the sweet nectar that was a fellow females’ lips, to go back after that was unthinkable.

The first girl was Charli, who I spent four months with. In her I saw my future, my only light, and to be around her would excite only positive emotions. I’ll never forget the way her body felt whenever we embraced. The second was Madeleine.

I met her when I was a little older and she entirely caught me by surprise. I never expected to fall for someone like her but, like an enthusiastic bungee jumper with a weak bungee cord, I fell, and hard. We met at a concert through a mutual friend and ended up kissing during a song (or several) that I don’t even remember the name of. I would have kicked myself a thousand times if I didn’t ask for her number, so I did. We were together for a little over two years until the magic just dissipated.

For eight years I indentified as bisexual, until I met him.

The juvenile affections that I shared with Charli and Madeleine were a mark or smudge on a page compared to my feelings for Owen.

Yes, I had shared many years with girls, but the introduction of a penis into my life and my vagina felt like a fire hose that blasted away any and all of my bisexual tendencies. How could a mere vagina compare to the powerful, regal stature of the phallus? There is no better cure for bisexuality in women than a penis; was it not Freud who said that women have penis envy? That is all the evidence you need, wayward reader.

What of the men who do not possess a penis? Well, men are superior in any way regardless, as society makes sure to tell us, so how could I ever think myself bisexual when women are far overshadowed by men?

Owen treated me better than any woman could: he kept my emotions in check, made sure to inform me what clothes looked best on me, and paraded me around like a trophy he had won in a football game. I felt wanted. Hell, I felt loved.

The next time that you ask if a woman is really bisexual when they get with a man, the answer is no, no we are not. Even though we were attracted to women in the same way that we were attracted to men, men are superior in intellect, strength, and performances of the carnal nature.

The promise of a relationship with a man has forever eliminated any deep affection that I ever had for women, and I am glad for it. I am glad that Owen has shown me the light, and that light is entirely occupied by men.

#70 - Toenail

Today’s word: Toenail, Sausage, Bandana, Octopus

Word count: 619

Completion time: 34 minutes

Summary: There is none...I don’t know how this story happened. I blame ‘toenail’.

--

There it was, a lone toenail on the otherwise pristine red carpet. White, curved like a crescent moon, and slightly jagged where it had been ripped off. It seemed like Layton was the only one who had noticed that something was amiss because Oliver was still reading American Psycho, one leg brought up to his chest, the other stretched out in front of him as he leant against the armchair. Occasionally, his face would contort or he’d mutter a hushed ‘gross’ between laughter before turning more pages.

Oliver had long red hair that fell over his shoulders like the tentacles of an octopus, something that Layton had never failed to notice. He wondered how hair could sit like that naturally. He envied it a little.

Layton had been looking at the toenail for a good two minutes before he looked up at his best friend and said, “Do you mind?”

Oliver smiled, but Layton was sure that it was at the book, not at anything beyond the world of fiction. He blinked a few times before returning Layton’s gaze. “Sorry, did you...” his face was still recovering from some silent laughter as he closed the book, propping it open with his thumb, “...say something?”

“I said, ‘Would you mind not leaving your scummy toenails scattered around the place?’” he directed his eyes at the nail and back at him. “I know we need to decorate but...” He tried to conceal a titter by turning away, but he couldn’t stop his shoulders from shaking.

“I’m wearing socks...”

Layton turned back, putting on a serious expression. “And I’m wearing a t-shirt, that doesn’t mean I don’t have chest hair.”

“You don’t have chest hair,” he opened the book again, “and that is not my toenail.”

He gasped in mock offense. “I’ll have you know that I got my first hair when I was nine – had girls all over me.”

“You’re a dick sausage.”

Layton laughed hard, pushing his white and black bandana further into his head, exposing an unnaturally even hairline. “That’s not a thing.”

Oliver smiled with one corner of his mouth and tilted his head. “It could be. Like...a sausage in the shape of a dick?”

“How is that worse than being called a dick?”

He closed the book more definitely. “Because not only are you a dick, you’re a dick made from dead pig guts. And that’s grim.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?”

He put his hands up as if surrendering. “What can I say?”

“You could say, ‘Sorry for leaving my manky toenail in the middle of the living room floor, Layton.’”

Oliver made a face as if to ponder the situation before kneeling on both knees picking up the offending toenail, turning it over between his fingers. “You know...” he made a move towards one of Layton’s feet, pressing the nail against Layton’s big toe as if it were a puzzle piece, “...if the nail fits...” he stopped, squinting his eyes and pouting his lips in thought.

“Can’t think of a rhyme?”

“No,” he looked up at Layton, red curls framing his face like a beautiful picture frame. “This happens every time...”

“Quite an interesting position you’re in right now.”

He looked at the toenail he was still holding and dropped it, wiping his fingers on Layton’s jeans. Instead of pushing him away, Layton only looked down at him and smiled.

“Before the guys get back home, do you wanna...?” Layton hinted, flicking his eyes towards the stairs.

Oliver stood up, pulling Layton up when he was on his feet. “You’re still a dick sausage.”

Layton’s eyes rolled and he squeezed Oliver’s hand, walking towards the stairs. “Yeah, whatever you want.”

#66 - Not To Stereotype

Today’s word: Elephant, Toenail, Pigeon, Spaniard

Word count: 428

Completion time: 1 hour

Summary: Everyone just stop stereotyping

Note: This is not to have a go at girls who get sexualised, this is purely ironic

--

It was a very typical club – typical booming bassy music, typical loud lairy drunks, typical high-pitched heel-wearing girls, typical raunchy rowdy guys.

But, not to stereotype.

Three girls, all probably underage and desperate for sex, were sitting at the edge of the club in a booth with red chairs. The booth stood directly opposite the dance floor, giving them the perfect view of people who were trying to impress others with their twerking, grinding, or what one might call a drunk pigeon dance (it doesn’t need explaining; just imagine a drunk pigeon trying to dance).

Gabby, the blonde with platform shoes strapped uncomfortably to her feet, shouted to the others: “Hey, if you had to pick, what kind of guy would you go out with?”

“Would Prince Charming be too obvious?” the brunette, Charlie, asked before examining her recent manicure.

“It’s obvious, right?” the third girl, Leslie, stated.

The others raised their eyebrows in expectation.

“...A black guy,” she filled in for them. “It’s obviously a black guy.”

“Why?” Gabby asked.

“They’re all hung like an elephant, duh.”

“Ohhhh,” Gabby and Charlie chimed in together.

“I dated a black guy once,” Gabby bragged, holding her head up and glancing sideways at both girls.

Leslie’s face lit up. “Really?”

Gabby nodded.

“What was it like?” Leslie put both elbows on the table and leaned forwards, scooching herself closer to the other two who sat opposite.

She tapped her nose with her forefinger. “A lady never tells,” she giggled, putting a hand to her mouth. “You’ll have to find out for yourselves!”

“Tell you what, though,” Charlie began, staring into space and slowly smiling. “I wouldn’t mind a Spaniard.”

“What?” Gabby.

She looked at Gabby. “You know, Spanish men.”

“Oh...”

“Yeah, they’re just so sexy, you know? The accent, the skin tone, the passion in their eyes. ...Like Antonio Banderas.”

“Who?” Charlie.

“The guy who played Zorro.”

“In what?” Gabby.

“The Legend of Zorro...”

“Oh... Yeah, I guess Spanish men are pretty sexy. A lot of foreign people are, I suppose!” her face changed and she nudged Charlie in the arm. “Well, except...”

Two Asian men of indeterminable race danced up to the booth, both with a drink in their hand.

“One of them looks like a toenail,” Gabby whispered to the table.

They all laughed; it was very hilarious.

The man who reached them first put a hand on the back of the seat that Leslie sat at and leaned forward, smiling at them all. “Well hello, ladies.”

“Stop sexualising us!” Leslie exclaimed, trying to force herself to cry.

#61 - Did My Heart Love Til Now? ....Probably

Today’s words: Horrifying, Love, Exquisite, Mood

Word count: 702

Completion time: 1 hour 47 mins

Summary: Love in a really inappropriate place

--

The loud voice echoed through the building, dominating the atmosphere. At frequent intervals, heavy emphasis would be put on certain words, words one should pay particular attention to, shaking awake any drowsy bodies that dared get too comfortable. The voice commanded that you follow its every word, like a pendulum commanding the gullible. Almost every word was important, judging by the volume of the voice and the intensity of the arm gestures. Several people in the audience nodded strongly after important-sounding sentences, but most were probably acting like the nodding dog, or imitating their neighbour.

The mood was tense, too tense, and all I could think of was how great (no, exquisite would be the right word...probably) it would be to have an orgasm, even one of those weak ones that felt like a mildly satisfying piss.

Orgasms had the power to cure headaches, stress, even period pain...they were nature’s medicine (must remember to google ‘orgasm pain remedy’ for more).

The most uptight people probably only needed an appendage between their legs to cure them of their – seemingly perpetual – misery, I guarantee.

The person standing behind the microphone talked at such length, it was like he had only just then regained his voice after ten years of mutism. He refused to place his mouth more than a couple of centimetres away from the mic, like he was prolonging an inevitable, long-awaited kiss with a lover.

Keisha sighed involuntary at the spectacle before her, crossing her right leg over her left and slowly rocking back and forth. No-one else looked as bored as she did, so she tried to construct her best serious expression, but it felt like her face had been plastered with PVC glue.

As she slyly looked around the sea of sombre faces, she spotted a girl with pink hair who, hair aside, stood out to her – she was bopping her head and rolling her eyes, checking her watch mere seconds before she had checked it the previous time. Keisha smirked.

As she was inspecting the candyfloss girl, several noises erupted through the room – the creaking of benches, material swishing against material, the shuffling of feet. It was time for everyone to move to the front.

Keisha joined the line of people, making sure not to lose sight of the rose-colour hair that had been the lamp to her moth. There were two lines, both facing each other, and the girl had joined the other line. If she got the numbers right, they would meet at the front at exactly the same time. She counted twenty-six people in front of her, so she allowed seven people to move in front of her. The moths went wild.

Slowly the line moved, made slower by certain people taking too long at the front. She got a headache from willing the line to move faster.

As soon as I saw her, I knew that I couldn’t leave without saying anything. She’s the type of person you need to talk to just so they know your face and remember your voice, the itch that’s painful to leave unscratched.

Scratch that

Too cheesy

She was just nice to look at, that’s all.

After a few more minutes, Keisha made it to the front and was face to face with the girl she had dubbed as Pinky in her head. She was just as beautiful as she had been from afar, but no point dwelling on her features – beauty is subjective.

At the front of both queues, there was a long oak box that people were free to look into (as the nature of the event expected, but didn’t compel), so the girl hadn’t even looked at Keisha yet – her attention was on what was inside the box.

“This is horrifying...” she mumbled to herself. “He looks just like he did when he was alive.”

Keisha put both hands on the edge of the wood, not bothering to look into the box, but instead looking over at the girl, seemingly suspended in time. She felt like Leonardo DiCaprio in Romeo + Juliet just as he spots Juliet close-up for the first time.

 I’m not gonna fall in love with her, misunderstand everything and kill myself...am I?

#28 - So Serious

Today’s words: Unveil, Document, Opifice (craftsman, artisan or maker of things), Libyan

Word count: 568

Summary: Baker, a self-confessed professional of sorts, comes up with a flawless idea to save everyone from being unfriendly ever again

“Euston, we have a problem...” Baker said with distress as she walked across the room, trench coat flapping behind her knees.

“Yes?” Euston responded, putting the tip of his shoe on the end of the desk and tilting his chair back slightly, more amused by the water stains on the ceiling than Baker’s ‘problem’.

Slapping several papers onto the desk, she looked at her partner, flicking her eyes at the paper then back at Euston. “I am an opifice by profession, but there’s more to me than being a master of crafts; I’m a thinker too, you know? I use my hands and my head.”

“I know.” A nod to verify her words.

“There’s a little too much...hostility in the world, don’t you think?” A deliberate pause as she waited for Euston to agree.

“...Yes?”

“Yes,” satisfied, she continued. “Well, detailed in this document are plans to end this negative behaviour once and for all.” She perched on the edge of the desk, crossing one ankle over the other. “I thought to myself: what do people, as a whole, like...?”

Euston raised his eyebrows expectantly as he folded his arms.

“You might want to put all four legs of your chair on the floor for this.”

After opening his mouth to protest a little, he complied.

“I now unveil to you...” she pointed at the papers behind her, “Project Make-People-Be-Friends-Because-No-One-Likes-A-Bellend.” Nodding slowly, she widened her eyes at Euston, forcing him to nod, too.

“You’re a poet, too?” Euston sniggered as he looked away.

“Evidently I am, yes.” No hint of humour. “Anyway, here’s my hypothesis: people are generally a lot friendlier to people who have said something nice to them. Case in point: earlier on I was on the tube which, as you know, is one of the most hostile, claustrophobic, unfriendly places in London. I was just standing up,” she mimed holding onto a rail, “looking sadly at a newspaper that someone was holding, skim reading about the Libyan Interior Minister’s resignation, when someone complimented my hairpin.” Another pause.

Assuming that she desired a response of some kind, Euston offered: “And...?”

“I’m glad you asked,” uncrossing her legs, she stood up, spun around once and smiled. “I was happy...the compliment made me happy!”

“That’s generally what compliments are designed for.”

“I’d had a really rotten day,” she emphasised ‘really’ by putting both of her hands up like she was hushing some children, “and those few words of reassurance completely reversed my mood. So, all we need to do to prevent another Word War is to have designated ‘Complimenters’ to compliment all involved and bam...world peace.” Holding both palms out like she had completed a dance routine, she looked eagerly at Euston.

A heavy pause from Euston this time. “You’re serious?”

“When am I ever not serious ?” she questioned, taking out some red lipstick from her pocket and applying it to her lips before extending it to both cheeks, creating a make-shift Chelsea-smile.

“Something as serious as war can’t be solved by...compliments!” Voice raised, he too stood. “It’s like you’re making a mockery of world issues! They’re a serious thing, people die every day; you think they’re going to put their guns down just because someone comes out of nowhere and says, ‘What nice grenades you have’? You know sometimes, I really think you--”

“Nice belt buckle, Euston.”

“...Really? Aw thanks, it’s the Batman  logo.”

Baker smirked.

#26 - Business Before Pleasure

Today’s words: Cribble (coarse sieve or screen), Confer, Measure, Astonishing

Word count: 633

Summary: Some jobs are so rewarding...

I hear more and more friends these days complaining about their jobs...

“The pay is terrible.”

“My manager pretty much hates people.”

“I’ve daydreamed about killing my co-worker before; if she pushes me to the edge of my sanity, will you be there in court to back me up? I’ll even pay for your expenses since I know train fares are mad crazy recently.”

...I had to take the last person aside to confer with them and make sure that they weren’t a closet killer who would ‘come out’ by producing a severed head and making ‘jazz hands.’

My job though, I can’t complain; the pay’s decent, I get to meet a lot of friendly customers, and my hours are very negotiable since I’m self-employed.

It took a while to find it of course, like using a cribble against a lumpy carton of juice, I had to filter through the undesirable bits before I could finally drink it (some may ask why I don’t just buy juice without lumps in it, but I had to use the word ‘cribble’ somehow).

The last customer I visited was one of the friendliest people that I had met on the job – he was polite, welcoming, and he had the shiniest blue eyes and dark brown hair that I had seen in a while. As soon as he opened his front door, I froze.

“Oh hey, you’re from the agency, right?”

His voice was deep and creamy...I wanted to extract it from his throat and add it to a mug of tea.

I managed to gather enough strength to nod my head. “Yeah. Mr... Anderson, is it? Hello, my name’s Mindy. Are you free right now?”

“Yeah, of course, come in! Oh hey, don’t worry about taking your shoes off, this carpet’s nothing special.”

“Ah.” I was immediately embarrassed for trying to wrestle with my laces as I was used to doing in other peoples’ homes.

“It’s great to meet you; you want a cup of tea or something?”

I blinked rapidly. “Yeah, I mean, if you don’t mind?”

“It gives me an excuse to have some too,” he winked as if he had just revealed something in confidence.

It felt good imagining that we were sharing secrets. NO Mindy, you are here for business only. I exhaled and straightened out my skirt, preparing for the next thing he said.

“Is Tetley okay?”

“Sure, yeah.” To be honest, he could have offered me the cheapest, bitterest tea known to man and I still would have agreed on impulse.

--

“So,” I swallowed the last of the sweet tea and put my Business cap on. “I suppose, I should...”

“Please.”

He stood up and went to get it out.

It was bigger than I was anticipating. “Astonishing...”

He laughed. “That a good thing?”

He was so close to me. I could tell that I was blushing, I just hoped that he didn’t notice. “Very good, I mean, yeah, bigger than I thought.”

“Really?” Evidently I had stroked his ego. “I never thought the size was anything special.”

“You’re mistaken.” That sounded aggressive, so I softened my voice. “Yeah, it looks healthy. You’ve treated it really well, I can tell.”

“I do my best.”

I rummaged around in my bag until my fingers brushed against the plastic tape measure. “Do you mind if I measure it?”

“Oh no, of course, go ahead,” he held it steady as I wrapped the tape around it.

Our hands almost touched.

“It feels incredibly smooth; do you use any special treatment on it?”

“I don’t think so, no. Just the luck of the draw, I guess!”

“Well, you’re clearly treating it well, it looks very healthy, and this home is the perfect environment.”

“Excellent!”

“Yeah, I don’t often see adopted dogs this happy!”

#24 - Tomb Raider Lament

Today’s words: Egyptological, Add, Observation, Weeping

Word count: 498

I’ve been stuck twice on Tomb Raider today, so that's the reason for this story. Inspired by Tomoya and Sunohara's relationship from Clannad...

~

Megan walked into the dimly-lit room to find Ethan propped up against the bed on a beanbag, game controller in hand. “Hey.”

A frustrated grunt was the only reply.

She took it upon herself to saunter into the room, stepping over the control’s black wire and perching on the edge of the bed. “Haven’t you already played this game?” she leant forward slightly.

“Yes, but I haven’t completed it; I’ve never completed a Tomb Raider game before.”

“Why not?”

“Fuck you, that’s why.”

Megan’s gaze slowly made it to Ethan’s face, eyelids lowering. “If someone asks you a question, you reply accordingly...you piece of shit.” She said quietly, glaring at him.

He looked up, eyebrows raised and bottom lip between his teeth. “Oh, you weren’t making fun?”

“No.”

“Well,” he looked back at the small TV screen that rested on a pile of books, “it’s easy to get lost after a while. Some of the levels are so big that I just end up going round and round in circles. Gets frustrating.”

“Oh yeah, I remember that time you texted me whilst weeping when you were stuck, as if I’d played the game myself.”

“I texted you for moral support! You don’t need to play the game for that! And hey, how’d you know I was weeping?”

“You put, ‘*weeps like a pathetic human being*’ at the end of the text.”

“Don’t make things up!”

She put a hand on his head. “There there.”

“I’ve never cried over a game!”

“Can I make an observation?”

“You like ignoring me, huh...?” was muttered under his breath.

“There’s probably a reason why that pressure point is there,” her hand that was on his head pointed at the screen.

He looked at where her finger was pointing.

“And since there’s nothing there to drag onto it, it would make sense for you to stand there and see what happens, right?”

He bent his knees up and put the controller between his legs before saying: “You’ve never even played this game before, how would you--”

“...”

“...”

“It worked, didn’t it?” A satisfied grin.

“...”

“...”

“...I’m kind of craving some ice cream.”

Her head collapsed onto her knees. “Hey, now who’s ignoring who...?”

“Don’t get excited just because you were right about this,” he continued to play now that the game had advanced, “it was obvious.”

Her head snapped up. “Yeah....okay, that’s why you were stuck for about an hour, if you add in the times that you paused to consider restarting the whole game again.”

He waved his hand in the air as if trying to shoo away a pesky insect. “You’re distracting. Hey, another part of the tomb is opening!” he leant up. “Egyptological!”

“...You’re playing in South America...”

“You can still read; your kindergarten teacher must feel a sense of pride right now.”

“Like I said – you’re playing in South America. Egypt is in Africa.”

“...”

“...”

“Go get me some ice cream.”

“Who’s the guest here?!”

#21 - My Story

Today’s words: Greasy, Conceive, Idea, Art

Word count: 446

Summary: Sometimes you need to take a little inspiration from your own life, right?

My body, completely burned out, slouched over my desk in the dimly lit studio. I stared into the Pixar-like desk lamp as if I were interrogating myself.

“Come on, James. What do you want to write? HUH?” the volume of my voice took me by surprise. “...So, even I can yell that loud, huh?”

Finishing the last couple of chips from the white paper packet, I decided to write the date in the top right-hand corner of my notebook, just to feel pen against paper and hope that it would trigger something inspiring. The salty taste made me smile.

“The fourth...ah, no no,” I scribbled ‘04’ out, “fifth of August.”

Yes. This pleased me.

Looking at the date like a proud parent, my expression slowly morphed into one of horror when I realised that my finger had left a greasy print at the top of the page.

“Unclean,” I muttered, staring accusingly at the semi-transparent stain. The grease allowed me to see the lined paper on the next page, as if I were looking into another dimension (a dimension where I still hadn’t written anything, apparently). Though maybe...ah, maybe if I looked at the mark long enough, it would act like a crystal ball of sorts and tell me what to write?

“Alright...” I readied myself, both hands at the edge of the desk, “I need an idea. Anything.” I leant forward and stared, tilting my head.

After a while, I started to get a dull pain at the forefront of my skull. “Maybe this is how I conceive ideas.” My nodding head backed me up. “Soon a beautiful baby story will burst out of my head, drag its body onto the pad, and start rolling around on the page. When it’s done, I’ll have something that’s well-prepped for submission.” I laughed...nay, cackled. “Yes. This is art.” I nodded with more certainty. “I am an artist,” my own voice whispered encouragingly.

It took longer than it should have to realise how ridiculous a man hunched over a desk looking at a grease stain for inspiration was. I looked over my shoulder. No-one should have to see me like this.

“You’re not helping, you’re supposed to be helping.” The stain didn’t respond.

Stubborn piece of shit.

...

Inhaling once, I realised what I could do.

The fingers gripping the pen almost choked it as I brought the tip to the page and began:

His body, completely burned out, slouched over his desk in the dimly lit studio. He stared into the Pixar-like desk lamp as if he were interrogating himself.

“Come on, James. What do you want to write? HUH? The handsome man cried despairingly.

Yes. Perfect.

#17 - Storm

Today’s words: Help, Stormy, Spearhead, Remarkable

Word count: 1604

Summary: What would happen if Tamaki was scared of thunderstorms instead of Haruhi?

Ouran High School Host Club fanficton. When I thought of 'help' and 'stormy', I thought of how scared Haruhi is of them. Plus, I recently finished the Ouran live-action, so....

At first I was hesitant about Tamaki-senpai’s suggestion to stay at his family’s guest house with the others, but with the promise of professionally-made European cuisine and my own king-size bed for three days, it was hard to refuse.

The first day has gone quickly – we went swimming, played some table tennis, had a Host Club Mahjong tournament (Mori-senpai won almost immediately, taking all of us by surprise), then finished it off by relaxing in the outdoor bath. The female bath was only separated by a tall wooden fence, so Tamaki-senpai ended up talking/shouting to me as I tried to relax.

“Haruhi? Are you there, Haruhi? ……HA-ru-HIIIII-!”

“Yes, yes!” I cried, glaring at the fence as I lowered myself further into the steamed water until my chin was submerged. “What is it, Senpai? This is the only time I’ll have to relax before I go to bed, so make it quick.”

A loud gasp. “Remarkable… ‘What is it, father dear?’” he corrects, trying to imitate my voice. “I didn’t raise you to be so disrespectful. If only you could see how handsome I look right now. Mother!”

I hear Kyouya-senpai’s lazy voice: “Yes, very handsome.”

A full minute goes by before a scream pierces the fence like a spearhead.

“Ah, what is it??” Honey-senpai. “Tama-chan, are you okay?!”

“Oh! Yes…I just…I caught my reflection and I got a little startled.”

Not this again…

Unfortunately, he continues. “I forgot how good I look…naked.”

My butt loses its grip on the bottom of the bath, causing me to fall into the hot water. When I resurface, trying to cough up all of the water that I inhaled, I hear more conversation.

“You can’t see your reflection in a place like this,” Kaoru starts.

“The water’s too steamy,” Hikaru finishes.

“Ah-hm!” Tamaki-senpai exclaims. “That is correct but I’m not talking about the water. Behold!”

A pause.

“…You brought a hand-held mirror into the bath…” Kyouya-senpai.

“You see, Haruhi, this is the power of your father – always prepared. Bet you feel silly now, don’t you?” He shouts in a smug tone.

My hair’s now completely wet and my face refuses to settle on a bearable temperature. I know that I’ll faint if I stay in for much longer, so I get out.

“Don’t, you Haruhi?” he repeats after silence from my side. “Haruhi. Haruhi answer me. HARUHIIIIIII!!!”

I clench my fists and easily rival the volume of his voice: “You don’t need a mirror in a bath, you idiot!! Pervert!!”

Two sharp gasps are audible like he’s just been winded before a big splash of water silences him completely.

“Tamaki!” The twins scream in a panic.

Gurgling follows. 

My hair is still a little damp from the bath as I lay in bed, but it cools me down. I smile remembering the last words that I heard before I went inside...

“Don’t go towards the light, Tamaki!”

“Think like Nekozawa! Embrace the dark!!”

Is it normal to have a chandelier in a bedroom? I ponder as I squint at the small chandelier on the ceiling. Come to think of it, the rest of the room makes the chandelier fit right in – tall elegant curtains, two sofas by a fireplace, a golden statue in the corner…it’s the most sophisticated room I’ve been in aside from the rooms at school.

As I’m admiring the style of the room, a sharp roll of thunder interrupts my thoughts. I had completely forgotten that a stormy night was predicted at some point, so it makes me jump even more.

Sitting up, I look through the window across the room, surprised by how much rain is already falling; it’s like the mansion is being put through a car-wash. I haven’t seen a thunderstorm in what feels like years, so this really is something. My heart is beating double-time as I spot a flash of lightening in the distance.

Another crash of thunder prompts a loud banging from the room next to mine. I nearly jump out of my skin.

I get out of bed and slowly walk towards the wall where the noise came from. He passed it off as a coincidence earlier, but I know for a fact that he put my room next to his intentionally. “Senpai, that’s you banging, right?” I say a little louder. Ghosts don’t exist, I know that, but the chaos outside makes me think irrationally for a second.

The thunder strikes again and with it, the knocking get more persistent, almost violent. A cold sweat consumes me. Stop being silly, Haruhi, I say to myself, it’s definitely Senpai’s knock.

Once he tells me to come in after I knock gently on his door, Tamaki-senpai shoots up from his position by the wall, putting both hands on his hips. “Hello, Haruhi. …Glorious night, isn’t it?” His clown-like smile unnerves me, but I understand the meaning behind it.

I lean against the doorframe and fold my arms, raising an eyebrow at his performance. “You alright in here?”

“Me? Oh, yeah, yeah.” He turns on his heel and gathers his bed sheets, draping them around his shoulders and sticking his chest out. “A price needs a robe, right?”

“What are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” He responds too quickly. Holding the sheets around him with one hand, he points at me with the other shaky hand. “You…you snore too loud, Haruhi, cut it out!”

I lower my eyelids and close the door in case the others haven’t been woken by the thunder. “I’ve been awake this whole time.” He needs help, so I don’t want to leave him just yet.

He opens his mouth and hesitates, slowly drawing his arm back into the duvet.

“Are you okay?”

“Never better.” His voice is a little shaky too, and he wraps the sheets tighter around his shoulders.

“You sure?”

He laughs nervously. “Haruhi, I appreciate your concern, but I’m f--”

The thunder interrupts him and he drops the sheet in order to run towards me. I see the whole thing in slow motion; his eyes are wider than I’ve ever seen them which causes a weird pang in my heart. He hugs me so that I can barely move my arms, shaking like he’s outside in the cold rain. “…Senpai.”

“It…” I hear in a small, strained whisper by my ear, “it’s just…loud.” These words are pronounced as though they had been waiting patiently to get out. “Don’t leave, okay? Promise me.”

I read the atmosphere and know that it would be a bad time to tease him. “I promise.”

He settles down slightly.

“But, you’re gonna have to let me go a little. Just for a little while so I can comfort you properly, okay?”

“You won’t leave?”

“Don’t be silly, how can I leave?” I know you’ll drag me back inside even if I tried , I add in my head.

The monster grip on my body loosens, just before the thunder makes another appearance. I quickly hold his head to my chest and we collapse to the floor due to the spasm that his body makes. My legs are in a slightly awkward position, but I don’t mind too much. I lean against the wall behind me and stroke his hair before covering both of his ears.

“Bear with it, it’ll pass soon.”

He responds by holding me tighter and sniffing.

The storm lasts for about ten minutes more and we stay in the same position.

As soon as the storm is over, I move my hands from his ears and look down at him. “Senpai, the storm’s over, are you ready to go back…to bed?” My voice slows as I realise that his eyes are closed and he’s breathing rhythmically.

I’ve never seen his sleeping face. In fact, it surprises me that he’s capable of making such a peaceful expression. Almost all of the panic is gone, though his eyebrows still look a little irritated.

“Hey, I thought you were meant to be the parent,” I say in a low voice.

~

When I wake up, I have no idea where I am. Where’s the kitchen? The futon? The pile of books by the wall? There’s a small weight on my chest and my field of vision is filled with blonde hair. That’s right, I was shielding Senpai from the storm and we must have fallen asleep like this. It surprises me that we’d stayed in the exact same place for hours. My back aches and my legs feel numb.

“Tamaki, good morning!” someone slams the door open and runs into the room. It’s Hikaru…or Kaoru, my vision’s still blurry.

When I look back at Tamaki, he’s raised his head and is looking at me with tired eyes. At almost the same time, our faces heat up and we scramble away from each other.

“Oh~~?” Hikaru sings with a dirty smile. “We seem to have interrupted something special here, Kaoru.”

Kaoru steps into the room from outside and stands next to his brother. “Very special,” he joins in, looking at me and Tamaki-senpai in turn.

“We just fell asleep like this!” I’m not helping the situation. “It’s a misunderstanding!”

“Haruhi’s chest was too comfortable!” HE HELPS EVEN LESS!

“Senpai…” I start, trying to control the anger that's desperate to be let loose.

“Yes?”

“Choose your words properly!” I cry, kicking him in the head before pushing past the twins and slamming the door to my own room.

The last thing I hear before I pull the covers over my head are Hikaru and Kaoru fussing over Tamaki as he wails like a baby.

You deserve it…idiot prince.