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indiaalphawhiskey · 2 years

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🌶️ 'Cause I wrote today Snippet

“Permission to continue, Captain?” Louis asked, sarcastically, to which Harry stuck out his tongue. Good enough, he thought. “All I’m saying is, I really don’t think we need to sell it. I mean, for all anyone here knows, we’ve been together thirty years and are in a sexless marriage on the brink of divorce.”

Harry’s scoff was loud and deeply offended. “Okay, first of all,” he argued, gesturing between them, “look at us. We’d never be in a sexless anything—”

And, okay, Louis thought, tipping his head back and forth, fair enough.

“—and second,” Harry continued without missing a beat, “this is serious, Lou. Mrs. Riaz went all out. I mean, the villa alone is five thousand—”

“What, like, per week?”

Harry looked at him like he couldn’t possibly be serious. “Per night.”

Louis felt like he’d been punched in the stomach, the air flying straight out of his lungs as his eyes bulged out of his head. “Five thousand pounds?” he choked out, feeling his vertigo kicking in.

“No. Butterflies,” Harry deadpanned, completely unhelpful. He threw up a hand, exasperated. “Yes, pounds.”

“Jesus Christ, Harry,” Louis hissed, panicked and barely above a whisper now, “what the hell did you and Noah do for this place? Build it from the ground?!”

“No, but,” Harry started to explain quickly, “the Kardashians stayed at their competitors’ property last summer, so their sales dipped massively. They didn’t think hiring celebutantes was on brand, so I pitched a twelve-photo spread and negotiated the earliest spot possible in Condé Nast. Then, I just squeezed them into my schedule at the last minute, and it worked.”

He waved off the story like it wasn’t massively impressive, but Louis would beg to disagree. Despite his mini heart attack, he could feel the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he remembered all the odd (and frankly, back breaking) photography gigs Harry had taken with gusto in the early years, to help them make ends meet – everything from children’s parties, to school photos, to low-budget proms; weekends spent setting up lights, and carrying equipment back and forth as a runner for barely-middle-tier photographers who wouldn’t even let him touch a camera.

And now… now, Harry had flown the world thrice-over, his name printed in the byline of every travel and lifestyle magazine worth reading, had enough pull to his name that he could drop a last-minute photo spread on the lap of Condé Nast and they’d be willing to ‘negotiate’, was apparently gifted £100,000 luxury hotel holidays and yet, when pressed, still thought the very best part of his entire career was that their son actually wanted to do it with him.

Discreetly, Louis pressed his lips together, fighting the full force of his grin and pushing back the flicker of pride that had begun to heat the bottom of his belly, in favor of tuning back into what Harry was saying.

“…and Noah even managed to get the proofs to layout in less than thirty-six hours. Plus,” Harry excused, his tone filled with genuine humility, “Mrs. Riaz is an heiress, so her concept of outrageously expensive is…” he gestured vaguely in the air, “a little different.”

Louis snorted. “Understatement, much?”

Harry ignored him. “Anyway, the point is,” he said, even quieter now, his gaze serious and unwavering as they walked into the shade of the main lobby, “unless you left the UK wondering how you were gonna blow a spare fifty grand, we actually do, absolutely, have to sell this.”

Clutching a hand to his heart, Louis’ jaw dropped theatrically in faux-offense. “Harry Styles,” he chastised in a scandalized whisper, “are you actually making me go halfsies on our thirtieth anniversary? Psh.” His head recoiled on his neck. “Kind of a dick move, dude,” he joked.

“I mean,” Harry chuckled, shrugging sheepishly as he shook his head. He pulled the door to the bar open and motioned for Louis to go ahead. But just as Louis stepped in front of him, fully intending to make a quip about how gallantly opening a door for him wasn’t going to make up for Harry being a cheap date, Harry smirked and leaned in close. His breath was warm, just skating the shell of Louis’ ear as he whispered, “Not if you were planning to put out.”

😏 More from the GAPT AU

For this anon. Sorry it took so long! I hope you see it!

#GAPT AU #GAPT snippet #fathers with benefits au #flirting fathers #i missed these boys so much #it was nice to get back into the doc #fingers crossed the writing stays

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unusualbill · 2 years

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Nothing For Us - Chapter 3

Warnings: Blood, self harm, skin picking

Roman stretched out in the backseat absentmindedly picking at his cuticles, and praying his splitting headache would go away. Forcing himself to focus on the passing scenery, he hadn’t even noticed he was shredding his skin raw.

"I think there's crackers in the glovebox," Peter said, eyeing Roman from the rearview mirror and pretending he didn’t see him wipe blood on the velour seats.

"Huh?"

"If you're carsick, you should try to eat a little something, it'll help settle your stomach." Peter turned his attention back to the road, attempting to see past the fog that had settled in "God, I sound like my mom."

Roman turned on his side, propping his shoulder against the door and using his coat as a pillow. He let out a breath that could almost be interpreted as some sort of pitiful laugh. He was not in the mood to think about family, and certainly not in the mood to be reminded that some parents actually love their children.

Peter turned on the radio to fill the silence. The garbled sound of some generic pop song from years ago drifted from the speakers, occasionally punctuated by pure static. He fiddled with the knob, trying to find a station that came in clear. Having no such luck, he switched to the car’s cassette player.

Roman made a sour face as a cheesy love song from the 1980s began to play. He could practically smell the hairspray emanating from the band’s lead singer.

"What the fuck are we listening to?" He asked unsuccessfully attempting to ignore the song’s flagrant use of the word ‘lovers’.

"Some mixtape Lynda had once, it's been stuck in the player for as long as I can remember.”

"Are all the songs like this? All lovey-dovey and shit?"

"Pretty much, it was from an ex-boyfriend of hers I think. Real corny shit."

"Gross."

Roman shifted positions, now laying on his back and resting his hands on his stomach. Though he had just fed, the gnawing pain in his gut has returned. The pain was dull for now, but he knew it wouldn’t last for long. The hunger was inevitable. He closed his eyes, listening as one song faded into another, trying his hardest not to think. The warm air from the heater and the feeling of cracked asphalt under the tires was almost enough to put him to sleep.

"What's our next stop?" He asked

Peter stayed silent, staring at the hills in the distance. He hadn’t planned much in terms of destination, he had barely planned on taking Roman with him. He left his fate up to the wind a long time ago.

"Whatever's at the end of this road, I guess. The destination doesn't matter."

Roman opened his eyes only to roll them. "Yeah yeah yeah, it's about the journey and all that shit. When are we stopping the fucking car? I gotta piss."

"Oh," Peter said, ashamed about how profound he had gotten "There's a gas station in a couple of miles, the tank is getting low anyway."

Roman exited the small gas station restroom to find his companion standing in front of the drink display.

“Welcome back,” Peter said, eyeing a can of cheap beer. “Your fly is down.”

“Shit,” Roman glanced down, zipping his jeans “Why the hell were you looking anyway?”

Peter ignored him, shoving two cans of beer in his jacket.

"The fuck are you doing, man?"

Peter glared at him and nodded his head towards the cashier, who didn't seem to be paying much attention. “Keep your voice down.”

Roman rolled his eyes.

"Man, at least get the good shit." He reached past Peter, grabbing a full case of slightly more expensive beer.

"You have a good fake?" Peter asked, his tone hushed.

Roman smirked, looking at the old man behind the counter, who seemed much more interested in the crossword puzzle from last week's paper. In fact, Roman wasn't sure if he had noticed the boys come in at all.

“Don’t need one.”

Roman sauntered up to the counter, setting the case of beer down along with a twenty-dollar bill. He gestured towards the cigarette display.

"And a pack of Marlboro Reds and some matches," He paused, chewing his lip "Lots of matches."

The cashier peered over his paper, looking the young Godfrey boy up and down.

"You got some ID for me, son?" he asked the obvious 17-year-old.

Roman glanced toward Peter a moment before going completely stone-faced.

"I don't need an ID, I look old enough."

The cashier furrowed his brow before lowering his paper and speaking slowly

"You don't need an ID, you look old enough."

Peter turned his head away from the cashier, not wishing to be involved. Instead, he focused on the wall, reading the advertisements and trying not to make eye contact with the taxidermied bear head that marked where the restrooms were.

"You'd be happy to sell me the cigarettes."

The cashier nodded, his eyes completely vacant. He retrieved the pack of cigarettes and placed them on the counter, along with several boxes of matches. His movements were slow and stilted, like a human marionette.

"Your total is-"

Roman interrupted him, tapping the twenty on the counter.

"Twenty will be enough."

The cashier took it, placing it in the cash register.

"Twenty will be enough." He repeated.

Roman pocketed the matches and pack of cigarettes and gestured for Peter to grab the case of beer. Peter hesitantly complied, tucking the case under his arm and heading towards the door.

Roman made eye contact with the cashier once more.

"We were never here."

Handing the case of beer to Roman to set on the floorboard, Peter climbed into the driver’s seat. "You have got to quit doing that."

"Doing what?" Roman wiped away his nosebleed as he got in the passenger’s seat. He stared at the blood smeared on the back of his hand, admiring the color. "We were never there, remember?"

Peter sighed, starting the car

"Fine, whatever. Just please stop doing the freaky roofie eyes shit. I swear your brain is gonna leak out of your fucking nose."

Roman turned to look out at the window, his thumb brushing absentmindedly under his nose.

The feeling of loose gravel under the car's tires soothed Peter, it felt like home. The low hum of the heater reminded Peter of being a child and laying in the backseat, eyes closed as his grandfather drove over twisted dirt roads, cutting through thick forests. He could almost feel the warmth of the sun as it dappled through the trees.

Sitting at a stoplight, Peter viewed his surroundings. The sky was a muddled gray dashed with clouds that almost seemed fake. A light fog hung in the air like steam clinging to glass, it was unmistakably Autumn.

Peter thought about his answer to Roman's earlier question. He knew deep in his heart that any good road trip's destination was a feeling, a moment, not a physical place. But what moment was he hoping for? He daydreamed about coming clean and telling Roman the truth, but even in his own fantasy, he didn't know what that truth was. All he knew is that people's dreams aren't connected without good reason.

Roman broke the silence with a sudden yell and a fist to Peter's shoulder.

"Punch buggy green! No punch backs!"

Peter rubbed his shoulder, watching as a green Volkswagen beetle turned down the road beside them.

"Hey, no distracting the driver, car rules."

Roman flashed his famous shit-eating Godfrey grin.

"You're just mad 'cause I said no punch backs."

Turning his attention back to the road, Peter paused a moment before he spoke.

"What the fuck did you call it just then?"

"Punch buggy?" Roman said, wondering if Peter was a little bit stupid "How the fuck have you been everywhere and not played punch buggy?"

"Oh, I've played it," Peter rubbed his shoulder again, feeling a bruise starting to form "But it's called fucking slug bug, man."

"Whatever man, who cares?" Roman crossed his arms in the same manner as a pouting toddler. "Slug bug sounds stupid anyway, at least punch buggy makes sense. You see a buggy, you punch."

"Right." Peter shifted in his seat, pulling down the car's sun visor and reaching for the radio knob to fill the silence.

Roman wasn't sure what he had done to cause such a reaction, but Peter's silence made him uneasy. He looked down at his lap, picking at the blisters on his fingers. Between the dried blood on his cuticles and the fresh blood pooling on his fingertips, the smell was intoxicating. It made him feel lightheaded and nauseous and blissful all at once, it was almost arousing.

He let out a shaky breath before stopping himself from picking anymore. He stared at his bloody hands, unsure of what to do with them.

He searched the floorboard for a discarded napkin, wiping the blood away.

"Ah, shit!" His wounds burned as he looked down at the napkin, which had previously been used to wipe away french fry grease, and of course, salt.

Peter looked over at Roman, who was now attempting to shake the salt out of his wounds. “Are you okay? What did you do?”

"I, uh, fuck that burns." Roman nearly put his wounds to his mouth but stopped himself short.

Peter pulled off to the shoulder, getting out of the car. Something about stopping abruptly on the highway made Roman’s stomach flip.

Peter shook his head as he popped the trunk "There's a first aid kit in the back, just stay there and don't touch anything."

Roman nodded, glancing back down at his hands in shame. He usually didn't let himself get that far. He watched as the blood ran down his hands and onto his wrists, paying close attention to every tear in his flesh and every drop of blood. He deserved it, didn’t he? He was a monster, a monster that fed on helplessness and innocence. He deserved to be in pain.

Roman’s thoughts were interrupted when Peter returned with a small metal box and a plastic water bottle. He opened the passenger's side door and instructed Roman to hold out his hands.

Roman complied, holding out bloody open palms. He avoided eye contact as Peter took them into his own, his touch calloused but gentle.

"I can't take you anywhere," He said, shaking his head "Is that salt?"

Roman winced as Peter poured water onto his wounds.

"Grabbed the wrong napkin, I guess."

Once the blood had been washed away, Peter took a closer look at Roman's hands. Once manicured nails now had shredded cuticles, and the damaged first layer of skin was peeling from Roman's fingertips.

Peter frowned, knowing the wounds were self-inflicted.

"Roman-" He started

Roman pulled his hands away, shaking them dry.

"Quit looking at me like that man, that's gay."

Peter elected to ignore that comment, instead reaching for the small box he had placed on the dashboard.

"Gimme your hands again."

"No," Roman said, holding his hands in his lap "Not if you're going to look at me like that."

A voice in the back of his head told him that maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.

Peter raised an eyebrow.

"I just need to bandage them, I'll be quick."

Roman complied with a sigh, holding his hands limp in front of him.

Peter held a clean paper napkin to his companion's first two fingers, squeezing tight. He felt Roman's eyes staring him down as he avoided eye contact.

He raised his head to speak, accidentally meeting Roman's gaze. He couldn't help but notice the look in the upir's Godfrey green eyes. Behind the contempt and annoyance, there was a little softness, a look that could almost turn to a smile.

"You're doing it again."

Peter let go of Roman's hand, letting the bloody napkin drop to the ground below and clearing his throat.

"What bandaid do you want?" He asked, rifling through his makeshift first-aid kit. "Looks like we've got rocket ships or Sesame Street."

Roman cocked a brow

"You're joking, right?"

Peter held out the box so that Roman could view it for himself. Inside the box was a pile of loose bandaids, a handful of cotton balls, and single-use syringes tucked away next to vials of something Roman couldn’t quite make out.

"Space, or whatever you said, just hurry up."

Once bandaged and back on the road, Roman sat with his arms crossed and his head against the window. The cool glass and bumpy roads soothed Roman as he tried to forget the events of that morning.

He could still see the look on that little girl's face, that smile with far too many teeth.

He could still taste her blood in the back of his throat.

Roman stole a glance at Peter, wondering how much his companion knew, whether or not he saw what a monster Roman truly was.

Peter brushed a lock of hair from his face, focused on the road.

Roman couldn't help but stare, his eyes tracing the silhouette of Peter's face. He brushed his thumb across the bandage on his finger, wondering why anyone would ever willingly care for him.

"Remind me to pick up a pack of hair dealies," Peter said, tucking an unruly lock of hair behind his ear.

"Hair dealies?" Roman asked with a snort. "You're gonna call me out for saying punch buggy and then turn around and call them hair dealies?"

Peter huffed, searching for a rubber band in the center console, but finding nothing. He reached across Roman’s lap to open the glovebox, but was only met with a pile of napkins and a stack of maps.

Roman dug in his pocket, producing the hair tie he had found in the cafe bathroom.

"Here," He said, practically shoving it at Peter. "Hair tie."

Peter looked at it a moment before taking both hands off the wheel to tie up his hair. The car swerved for a moment, but Peter steadied the wheel with his knees.

"Better?" Roman asked, smiling at the sight of Peter in such a glittery accessory.

"It's a little tight, where did you say you got it again?"

"Don't worry about it."

#bri babbles #nothing for us #hemlock grove #hemlock grove fanfiction #romancek #roman godfrey #peter rumancek #I missed these boys so much

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