“We Have The Face For Radio”

Karasu 122108

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Chapter One

Ah, now how did I begin this again? Ah, yes, book signings. Have I mentioned how much I hate them? Good, because I do. When they’re my book signings.

I do, however, like to go to others’ signings. It’s… more interesting. To see all the fans that my friend has. Or that this random author has.

It’s… entertaining.

Between you and me, my author friends and I, when we hang out and have a few drinks, we like to play a game of sorts. Each of us breaks out our laptop, goes to whatever fanfiction writing site we can think of, and we each pick out a fic written about our stories.

But we don’t pick out the ones that are the best written, with the most amazing plot, the in-character characters. No. We pick out the worst.

Whoever has the worst fandom has to buy the others a round of drinks. Then we all clap him or her on the back, tell them that it’ll only be for a while (because everything is a fad), and toast them.

They’re both winning and losing.

It’s a joyous celebration.

Depending on whom I’m with, we play variations of the game (once finding the worst fic got to be too hard because they all sucked royally). With my mainstream, het-writing friends, we find the worst LGBT (yaoi, yuri, slash, femmeslash, whatever you want to call them) with the most kinks (bonus points if it’s more than just a rimjob or a good fuck without lube), and we read them out loud.

With my LGBT-writing pals, we look and see if we can find a het fic with the main character. If not, then we look for the worst cross-over fic. If we can’t find any of that, then we play the “drinking game” with our fandoms.

These games can go on all night.

It’s a good way to form a bond with the people you meet.

…

I only played it once with him.

Since he was a het-writer, we tried to find the worst yaoi or yuri we could find. He found one with his main male character and his “best friend” doing the naughty in the barnyard (his story was almost like Pride and Prejudice or one of those novels). Bonus points went to the author because he had the main character rape the other with a bullwhip and they “tried out” the horses.

The one I found, however, beat it all.

I’ve been on the internet a while. And I guess you fans don’t realize that authors have access to your pages. But, oh, we do. We read what you write. We know what “squicks” most of you. What makes you “fap.”

And, apparently, what made our fans “fap” was real person slash (or RPS as you lazy-asses like to call it) of him and myself.

At first… I was repulsed.

I mean, this was You writing about me taking it up the ass by him.

But as I read more…

--

“You’ll never believe what I found,” I couldn’t hide the… almost disappointment in my voice. What I found would guarantee that I was going to buy the drinks tonight. And possibly for the rest of time.

He looked over my shoulder, “What is it?”

I wanted to shut my laptop. I should’ve shut my laptop. But I didn’t.

“It’s… RPS.”

He laughed, “Of…?”

“Us.”

That made him stop. It almost seemed like he stopped breathing as he bent further over me. You’d think… upon hearing about gay fanfiction about us, he’d want to get as far away from me as possible. But no, he just leaned over me, trying to read what was written in tiny Times New Roman font on my screen.

“It’s really… well-written.”

“That’s all you can say?” I scowled, placing both of my hands on the lid of my laptop. I wasn’t going to waste my time reading this. (Not because I didn’t want to. But because I knew I couldn’t exactly… masturbate with him in the room. Oh, come on. You knew I was bound to. I am human after all. And some of you fanfic writers know how to tickle my porn bone.)

“What do you want me to say?” He smirked to me, his thin lips curling as I watched.

I turned back to my laptop, prepared to close it, “I don’t know. Something that doesn’t praise the writer for typing up their sick fantasies about you fingering my ass. How about that?”

He hopped over my couch (which was really badass, in my opinion), catching my laptop’s lid before it slammed down. “C’mon, don’t close it just yet. Let’s read it.”

When I looked at him like he was the most insane person on the face of the planet, he put his argument in reverse, “For the lulz, of course.”

I held his gaze for a few moments (in which, he pulled the “puppy face” that I have an extremely hard time resisting), and finally said, “Fine. We’ll read it ‘for the lulz.’ If it’s what you want.”

“Thank you, wifey,” he pecked me on the cheek, snuggling up close to me, his eyes glued to the screen.

“No problem, hubby,” was my dry reply. Secretly, I really enjoyed him calling me his “wifey.” But I had to be cool. This relationship (as… non-existent as it was) was in my hands. It was on my time. It was all part of my plan.

He was going to fall in love with me. Hopelessly-devoted-to-you-singing, save-the-last-piece-of-cheesecake-for-you, spend-the-night-wooing-you-outside-of-your-window, love-you-so-much-I-hate-you love. Yep.

Since I had already experienced all of the above (and yes, that cheesecake was really fucking delicious and hard to save), I was going to make him go through it all. Because that’s just how I was. That’s how I wanted him.

And that was how I was going to have him.

“You’re zoning out again,” he poked my side, those luscious lips tantalizing me from their place, mere inches away from me. “P.S.: do you mind scrolling down?”

“Ah, but that takes the suspense away, pookie.” I, indeed, scrolled down. To the part where I “forcefully crashed” my lips with his.

Yeah, because I’d be the one to initiate.

Sometimes, You disappoint me.

He rolled his eyes, humouring me, I could tell. “Thanks, sugarplum. If you’re this nice to me, we can always annex some of these… things into our bedroom behaviour later.”

It was my turn to roll my eyes, “Oh, I can’t wait for you to ‘run your slick tongue down my throat and across my collarbone.’ All night long.”

“You know it.” He elbowed me, commandeering my laptop so he could scroll down the page and read at his own pace (since, apparently, I have some sort of reading disorder or something and I can’t keep up).

We read those awful fanfics for a while, joking back and forth about “our” sexual adventures. We even made a little mini-game out of it. Pick out fandom’s favourite words and use them as many times in a sentence as you can.

It was… entertaining to hear him say the word “cock” more than five times in one sentence.

The word I chose was “shithole.” Fun, fun.

I said it seven times.

--

“Have I ever told you how much I enjoy hanging out with you?” His voice ghosted along my skin as I tucked him in on the couch (because I would’ve been damned if he slept in my bed… temptation was too strong a master).

I quirked an eyebrow, “You have, but stroke my ego again, big boy.”

It was a half-assed joke, but it still elicited a laugh from him. “You’re my best friend. And I really appreciate you letting me crash here so often.”

Waving him off, I shook my head, “Nah, you get my creative juices flowing if you know what I mean. Besides, when you live alone, you’ll take in any stray off the street.”

He smiled to me, the sap gone from his voice (which was great; I didn’t do too well with sap). “Well, you do know that once you feed me, I’m yours.”

“Aw, shit, you should come with a warning label,” I ruffled his hair. “G’night.”

“Nighty night.”

I lifted his arm braces and his prosthetics up, walking them over to the loveseat so neither of us would trip on them (so technically he couldn’t trip but whatever) in the middle of the night.

Then I flicked out the lights.

And went to bed.

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Author's Note: I still have no clue where I'm going with this story. But hey, I'm having fun. :3 It's my little pet project. Something I've (kinda) always wanted to write.

From a writer to a writer.

That sort of thing.

Eh. XD