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.au fic: The Hours of Instruction - D/M (eventual NC17) 4.?
Title: The Hours of Instruction
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M
Rating/Warning: PG/PG13 for now; R/NC17 eventually.
Disclaimers: If the boys were mine, this season would not be happening.
Advertisements: Catholic school AU. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
wordclaim50 challenge #01 (AU) and philosophy_20 challenge #08 (Faith).
Chapters: 01; 02; 03.
Notes: This fic has officially eaten my brain. I can't remember the last time a multi-part fic cooperated so well for me.
CHAPTER FOUR
“On what major point of doctrine, Mr. Fitzgerald, did the Council of Nicaea anathematize the Arians?”
“That the Son was not consubstantial with the Father?”
Professor Rose stared at him unblinking for what felt like an eternity.
“Very good, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
Martin slid back in his seat, limp with relief. He’d only stared at their textbook for ages last night, trying to work out the microscopic differences between Arianism and orthodoxy to the exclusion of all else. And Danny, watching him from across the room, hadn’t helped at all.
Professor Rose continued with his lecture as though one of his students was not having a heart attack, droning, nasal voice a definite cure for insomnia; half the boys in the class were staring vacantly, and Martin had given up on taking notes an hour ago. The only person still going strong was Joseph Preston, the boy who’d sat next to Martin at orientation, writing away like Professor Rose was God or something.
“As Mr. Fitzgerald,” Professor Rose said, “has so correctly pointed out, the Creed as formulated in 325 stipulated that those believing the Son was of a different hypostasis and thus not– what, Mr. Fleming, is the Greek word for consubstantial, as we know from Origen?”
This, in addition to boring his students to death, was another one of Professor Rose’s favorite activities: ambushing them with questions.
Ryan Fleming, who sat next to Martin, sighed miserably. A tense moment followed, with all the students in the class staring at their books, their hands, the clock, at anything but Ryan and Professor Rose. Martin tried to will the word into Ryan’s head, but apparently his telepathy wasn’t working, because after a long and horrible silence, Ryan said he didn’t know what the Greek word for ‘consubstantial’ was, and in a tone that implied he didn’t care.
“Homoousios, Mr. Fleming, homoousios.” Professor Rose looked around at all of them, tense and aggravated at the stunning breadth of teenaged ignorance, and Martin knew they were all going to suffer for Ryan’s misstep.
And, sure enough, Professor Rose pronounced judgment a heartbeat before the bell rang for next period:
“In light of your difficulty in grasping the foundations of Catholic doctrine, for next week I would like – in addition to your scheduled reading on the post-Nicene years – a five-page essay discussing the significance of the Nicene Creed as orthodoxy’s reaction to heresy.”
“God, Fleming…” Zach Bryson, who sat on Fleming’s other side, muttered, exasperation barely hidden by the frantic clatter and shuffling of twenty boys escaping from hours of searing torment.
“Like you knew what it was,” Fleming said.
The other boys continued to torment Fleming in between laments over the essay assignment and complaints over the utter pointlessness of the course, and while Martin thought knowing where a belief came from might be important, he had to agree with them. The course was pointless.
“It’s not like I’m going to have to know about homo-whatever in the real world,” Fleming complained to Bryson as they walked by. ‘I mean, what’s the point?”
Martin left his classmates behind, turning down the side stairs of Owen Hall – an actual hall, the humanities building – and heading for Raine. Fifteen minutes to make it to the locker room and change for swim team tryouts, and what sadist made these schedules anyway? Completely unreasonable. Some sort of penance, probably, or maybe the administration realizing that if they kept the students exhausted they – the students – wouldn’t have the time or energy to get into trouble.
He was so busy musing over the twisted, evil logic of the people in charge of Trinity that he needed a moment to realize Danny had fallen into step beside him. Careless and disheveled as ever, walking the very edge of respectability, with his shirt untucked underneath his jacket and his hair spiking up defiantly.
Thick, nice hair, either black or the kind of brown that passes for black, and Martin wondered what Danny would say if he told him he’d like to run his fingers through it.
“Having fun?” Danny asked, smirk plastered firmly on his face, the bastard, not having to take Rose’s class.
“I can’t even begin to tell you how much.”
Danny laughed, quick and bright, and fell silent again.
“So, is there an actual reason you’re talking to me or did you just want to make sure I was suffering?” Martin risked a glance from the corner of his eye, saw Danny looking at him, smirk still in place, but looking-looking, and why he was doing that and what he was seeing, Martin had no idea.
“Mostly the second,” Danny admitted, “but I was also wondering, y’know, where you were going, what you were up to.”
Considering that Raine was set off from the two main quadrangles and only one path led to it, Danny’s first question was pretty well answered, so Martin simply said “the pool” – which was, he realized, a mistake (even if it was the truth), as Danny’s grin widened into something positively… lascivious was probably the word.
“It’s tryouts for the swim team,” Martin added, which only made it worse.
“Really?” Danny’s grin was wicked, triumphant, like he knew exactly what he was doing to Martin and enjoyed it. “Maybe I’ll come watch.”
“Don’t you have better things to do like, I don’t know, study or sacrifice kittens or something?”
“Not at the moment, no.” Danny shoved his hands in his pockets and kept walking, closer than probably necessary, close enough for Martin to catch the scent of hair gel and laundry detergent, feel warmth and electricity when Danny’s elbow brushed his.
Martin’s life really sucked sometimes.
Other times, though, it was really good, and for the life of him, Martin had no idea which one of those times this was.
* * *
The Raine Athletic Center was massive, neo-Gothic complete with saints and gargoyles on the outside and inside dazzlingly sophisticated. The aquatic complex sported a fifty-meter main pool, a smaller one for divers nearby and, like all tiled places, swallowed up sound and spat it back as weak echoes – splashing, low conversation, Coach Dombrowski shouting at someone to get a move on.
Martin knelt at poolside, brushed fingers across the surface of the water. Water usually brought clarity for him, the clarity of not thinking, one of the few places he could be like that – be breath and action and nothing more.
Today, not so much.
After warm-ups, Coach Dombrowski had interrogated all ten of them on their distances, best times, how long they’d been swimming competitively, and that was fine, expected, and Martin was confident enough in himself to know Dombrowski approved, and very nearly sure that he’d make the team with little difficulty.
But as they filed into the pool area to start time trials, Martin caught sight of Danny lounging in the bleachers, eyes seeming fixed on a notebook balanced on his knees – utterly transparent, because even from that distance Martin knew Danny was looking right at him, hot prickles of awareness coursing over his body, and never mind there were a few other boys scattered here and there so it wasn’t like Danny was the only one watching.
He was the only one looking.
“Fitzgerald, Lane Four!” Dombrowski barked. “You’re after Garner.”
Garner, the boy in question, had just started on his hundred meters. Martin obediently tried to loosen up, checked his goggles, tried very hard not to acknowledge the fact that he was wearing only, like, a gum-wrapper sized scrap of fabric and that Danny was not fifty feet away, watching the whole proceedings.
And goddammit, he’d never had a problem with this before.
Deep breath. Garner was on his return trip back down the pool, plowing through the water like a locomotive, and Martin needed to focus. He could practically hear his father, the one time he’d bothered to show up for one of Martin’s competitions – Visualize, Martin, visualize – and resolutely shoved that memory and voice aside. Tried to think about not thinking, about only himself and the water, no distractions, no Danny – utterly ridiculous that last, but he had to try.
Then Garner was hauling himself out of the pool, breathing heavily, and Dombrowski gestured for Martin to step up.
He did, pulling his goggles into place, stared down the blue corridor between the ropes marking off his lane.
Was off at the buzzer, not enough awareness to be relieved that Danny hadn’t distracted him badly enough to miss the start, long, shallow glide through the water – a blank space before he surfaced, already on his rhythm, and God it was good, stroke and stroke and stroke, breath even though he felt like he could keep going forever, and not just good, great.
Racing turn at the wall, pushing off, and another space before picking up the rhythm again, breaths a little deeper now as the pace began to tell, though Martin had no idea how fast he was going, had no idea about anything except the water and the flex of his body and the burn of breath in his lungs, warm against liquid coolness, and –
– and his outstretched hand hit the wall hard enough to sting.
The water rocked gently around him, soothing his breath into something more manageable, and distantly, Martin heard Dombrowski congratulating him.
“C’mon, get out.” The coach clapped his hands, bringing Martin back to the here-and-now. “Michaels, as soon as Fitzgerald gets out of the way, you’re in.”
Martin hauled himself out of the pool, the motion automatic, because that’s what you do when you’re done swimming and someone else needs the lane. His gear was piled along the wall with everyone else’s and he wandered over to it, pulling off his goggles as he went, half-acknowledging the compliments of the other boys and Dombrowski’s order to stick around.
Chlorine stung his eyes and he impatiently shook it away, reached for his towel.
Thought, the second he picked it up, of Danny.
Reflexively, he looked up, and yeah, there Danny was, looking back.
* * *
“Like a fucking bullet,” Danny was saying at dinner that evening, gesturing in a way that Martin supposed was in imitation of a man with a nervous twitch firing a pistol.
“Shut up,” he said, feeling his face go hot.
Danny had been unexpectedly enthusiastic, prideful almost, about Martin’s performance, as though he had some sort of personal stake in Martin making the swim team. It was good in a way Martin couldn’t identify, better than good maybe, but also disconcerting, Danny bouncing from sarcastic tormenter to cheerleader.
“What? It’s true.”
Maybe it was a different form of torment. Danny could not possibly have missed Martin’s embarrassment or his obvious unwillingness to talk about how he’d done in tryouts. Yeah, that had to be it, a new way to make even the best parts of Martin’s life a living and excruciating hell.
Kieran and David had offered quick congratulations before turning back to a fantastically complex chemistry problem. Matt was listening tolerantly, for what reason Martin couldn’t determine, and Ashley…
“So, like, do they make you shave your legs?” Ashley asked around a mouthful of chicken.
“It reduces drag,” Martin mumbled, and poked at the risotto while Danny and Ashley laughed.
* * *
“You don’t advertise much, do you?”
Martin almost froze in his tracks. That question could not possibly mean what he thought it meant. Oh God no, Danny had already figured it out and was going to call him on it.
Danny must have taken his terror for bewilderment, though, because he added, “I mean, it really bugged you, me talking about your tryouts.”
Oh, thank God. Not that then.
“Yeah, kind of.” Martin shrugged, no more comfortable with this conversation than Danny’s dinnertime enthusiasm. “Why?”
A shrug of Danny’s own in answer. “Fleming says you’re kicking ass in Rose’s seminar, and you’re like… like…” He trailed off, actually looking apologetic. “You’re pretty smart, y’know?”
“Um, thanks.” And Danny complimenting him? Had he stepped into an alternate universe where good was evil and Danny was nice to him? Martin took a deep breath, trying to be discreet about it as he struggled for a way to deflect the conversation, turn it somewhere else. “Cassell thinks you’re, like, the god of pre-Revolution history.” Which was true enough.
“Eh.” Dismissive, but Danny still sounded pleased.
Silence settled around them, comfortable for once, sun sliding down toward late evening, and Martin thought: I could get used to this.
“You looked really hot in your Speedos, y’know.”
Or maybe not.
-tbc.-
Post-fic notes: All the stuff Professor Rose is lecturing on? Don't ask how I know it.
By: HF
Email: aesc36 @gmail.com
Pairing: D/M
Rating/Warning: PG/PG13 for now; R/NC17 eventually.
Disclaimers: If the boys were mine, this season would not be happening.
Advertisements: Catholic school AU. For
wordclaim50 challenge #01 (AU) and philosophy_20 challenge #08 (Faith).Chapters: 01; 02; 03.
Notes: This fic has officially eaten my brain. I can't remember the last time a multi-part fic cooperated so well for me.
CHAPTER FOUR
“On what major point of doctrine, Mr. Fitzgerald, did the Council of Nicaea anathematize the Arians?”
“That the Son was not consubstantial with the Father?”
Professor Rose stared at him unblinking for what felt like an eternity.
“Very good, Mr. Fitzgerald.”
Martin slid back in his seat, limp with relief. He’d only stared at their textbook for ages last night, trying to work out the microscopic differences between Arianism and orthodoxy to the exclusion of all else. And Danny, watching him from across the room, hadn’t helped at all.
Professor Rose continued with his lecture as though one of his students was not having a heart attack, droning, nasal voice a definite cure for insomnia; half the boys in the class were staring vacantly, and Martin had given up on taking notes an hour ago. The only person still going strong was Joseph Preston, the boy who’d sat next to Martin at orientation, writing away like Professor Rose was God or something.
“As Mr. Fitzgerald,” Professor Rose said, “has so correctly pointed out, the Creed as formulated in 325 stipulated that those believing the Son was of a different hypostasis and thus not– what, Mr. Fleming, is the Greek word for consubstantial, as we know from Origen?”
This, in addition to boring his students to death, was another one of Professor Rose’s favorite activities: ambushing them with questions.
Ryan Fleming, who sat next to Martin, sighed miserably. A tense moment followed, with all the students in the class staring at their books, their hands, the clock, at anything but Ryan and Professor Rose. Martin tried to will the word into Ryan’s head, but apparently his telepathy wasn’t working, because after a long and horrible silence, Ryan said he didn’t know what the Greek word for ‘consubstantial’ was, and in a tone that implied he didn’t care.
“Homoousios, Mr. Fleming, homoousios.” Professor Rose looked around at all of them, tense and aggravated at the stunning breadth of teenaged ignorance, and Martin knew they were all going to suffer for Ryan’s misstep.
And, sure enough, Professor Rose pronounced judgment a heartbeat before the bell rang for next period:
“In light of your difficulty in grasping the foundations of Catholic doctrine, for next week I would like – in addition to your scheduled reading on the post-Nicene years – a five-page essay discussing the significance of the Nicene Creed as orthodoxy’s reaction to heresy.”
“God, Fleming…” Zach Bryson, who sat on Fleming’s other side, muttered, exasperation barely hidden by the frantic clatter and shuffling of twenty boys escaping from hours of searing torment.
“Like you knew what it was,” Fleming said.
The other boys continued to torment Fleming in between laments over the essay assignment and complaints over the utter pointlessness of the course, and while Martin thought knowing where a belief came from might be important, he had to agree with them. The course was pointless.
“It’s not like I’m going to have to know about homo-whatever in the real world,” Fleming complained to Bryson as they walked by. ‘I mean, what’s the point?”
Martin left his classmates behind, turning down the side stairs of Owen Hall – an actual hall, the humanities building – and heading for Raine. Fifteen minutes to make it to the locker room and change for swim team tryouts, and what sadist made these schedules anyway? Completely unreasonable. Some sort of penance, probably, or maybe the administration realizing that if they kept the students exhausted they – the students – wouldn’t have the time or energy to get into trouble.
He was so busy musing over the twisted, evil logic of the people in charge of Trinity that he needed a moment to realize Danny had fallen into step beside him. Careless and disheveled as ever, walking the very edge of respectability, with his shirt untucked underneath his jacket and his hair spiking up defiantly.
Thick, nice hair, either black or the kind of brown that passes for black, and Martin wondered what Danny would say if he told him he’d like to run his fingers through it.
“Having fun?” Danny asked, smirk plastered firmly on his face, the bastard, not having to take Rose’s class.
“I can’t even begin to tell you how much.”
Danny laughed, quick and bright, and fell silent again.
“So, is there an actual reason you’re talking to me or did you just want to make sure I was suffering?” Martin risked a glance from the corner of his eye, saw Danny looking at him, smirk still in place, but looking-looking, and why he was doing that and what he was seeing, Martin had no idea.
“Mostly the second,” Danny admitted, “but I was also wondering, y’know, where you were going, what you were up to.”
Considering that Raine was set off from the two main quadrangles and only one path led to it, Danny’s first question was pretty well answered, so Martin simply said “the pool” – which was, he realized, a mistake (even if it was the truth), as Danny’s grin widened into something positively… lascivious was probably the word.
“It’s tryouts for the swim team,” Martin added, which only made it worse.
“Really?” Danny’s grin was wicked, triumphant, like he knew exactly what he was doing to Martin and enjoyed it. “Maybe I’ll come watch.”
“Don’t you have better things to do like, I don’t know, study or sacrifice kittens or something?”
“Not at the moment, no.” Danny shoved his hands in his pockets and kept walking, closer than probably necessary, close enough for Martin to catch the scent of hair gel and laundry detergent, feel warmth and electricity when Danny’s elbow brushed his.
Martin’s life really sucked sometimes.
Other times, though, it was really good, and for the life of him, Martin had no idea which one of those times this was.
The Raine Athletic Center was massive, neo-Gothic complete with saints and gargoyles on the outside and inside dazzlingly sophisticated. The aquatic complex sported a fifty-meter main pool, a smaller one for divers nearby and, like all tiled places, swallowed up sound and spat it back as weak echoes – splashing, low conversation, Coach Dombrowski shouting at someone to get a move on.
Martin knelt at poolside, brushed fingers across the surface of the water. Water usually brought clarity for him, the clarity of not thinking, one of the few places he could be like that – be breath and action and nothing more.
Today, not so much.
After warm-ups, Coach Dombrowski had interrogated all ten of them on their distances, best times, how long they’d been swimming competitively, and that was fine, expected, and Martin was confident enough in himself to know Dombrowski approved, and very nearly sure that he’d make the team with little difficulty.
But as they filed into the pool area to start time trials, Martin caught sight of Danny lounging in the bleachers, eyes seeming fixed on a notebook balanced on his knees – utterly transparent, because even from that distance Martin knew Danny was looking right at him, hot prickles of awareness coursing over his body, and never mind there were a few other boys scattered here and there so it wasn’t like Danny was the only one watching.
He was the only one looking.
“Fitzgerald, Lane Four!” Dombrowski barked. “You’re after Garner.”
Garner, the boy in question, had just started on his hundred meters. Martin obediently tried to loosen up, checked his goggles, tried very hard not to acknowledge the fact that he was wearing only, like, a gum-wrapper sized scrap of fabric and that Danny was not fifty feet away, watching the whole proceedings.
And goddammit, he’d never had a problem with this before.
Deep breath. Garner was on his return trip back down the pool, plowing through the water like a locomotive, and Martin needed to focus. He could practically hear his father, the one time he’d bothered to show up for one of Martin’s competitions – Visualize, Martin, visualize – and resolutely shoved that memory and voice aside. Tried to think about not thinking, about only himself and the water, no distractions, no Danny – utterly ridiculous that last, but he had to try.
Then Garner was hauling himself out of the pool, breathing heavily, and Dombrowski gestured for Martin to step up.
He did, pulling his goggles into place, stared down the blue corridor between the ropes marking off his lane.
Was off at the buzzer, not enough awareness to be relieved that Danny hadn’t distracted him badly enough to miss the start, long, shallow glide through the water – a blank space before he surfaced, already on his rhythm, and God it was good, stroke and stroke and stroke, breath even though he felt like he could keep going forever, and not just good, great.
Racing turn at the wall, pushing off, and another space before picking up the rhythm again, breaths a little deeper now as the pace began to tell, though Martin had no idea how fast he was going, had no idea about anything except the water and the flex of his body and the burn of breath in his lungs, warm against liquid coolness, and –
– and his outstretched hand hit the wall hard enough to sting.
The water rocked gently around him, soothing his breath into something more manageable, and distantly, Martin heard Dombrowski congratulating him.
“C’mon, get out.” The coach clapped his hands, bringing Martin back to the here-and-now. “Michaels, as soon as Fitzgerald gets out of the way, you’re in.”
Martin hauled himself out of the pool, the motion automatic, because that’s what you do when you’re done swimming and someone else needs the lane. His gear was piled along the wall with everyone else’s and he wandered over to it, pulling off his goggles as he went, half-acknowledging the compliments of the other boys and Dombrowski’s order to stick around.
Chlorine stung his eyes and he impatiently shook it away, reached for his towel.
Thought, the second he picked it up, of Danny.
Reflexively, he looked up, and yeah, there Danny was, looking back.
“Like a fucking bullet,” Danny was saying at dinner that evening, gesturing in a way that Martin supposed was in imitation of a man with a nervous twitch firing a pistol.
“Shut up,” he said, feeling his face go hot.
Danny had been unexpectedly enthusiastic, prideful almost, about Martin’s performance, as though he had some sort of personal stake in Martin making the swim team. It was good in a way Martin couldn’t identify, better than good maybe, but also disconcerting, Danny bouncing from sarcastic tormenter to cheerleader.
“What? It’s true.”
Maybe it was a different form of torment. Danny could not possibly have missed Martin’s embarrassment or his obvious unwillingness to talk about how he’d done in tryouts. Yeah, that had to be it, a new way to make even the best parts of Martin’s life a living and excruciating hell.
Kieran and David had offered quick congratulations before turning back to a fantastically complex chemistry problem. Matt was listening tolerantly, for what reason Martin couldn’t determine, and Ashley…
“So, like, do they make you shave your legs?” Ashley asked around a mouthful of chicken.
“It reduces drag,” Martin mumbled, and poked at the risotto while Danny and Ashley laughed.
“You don’t advertise much, do you?”
Martin almost froze in his tracks. That question could not possibly mean what he thought it meant. Oh God no, Danny had already figured it out and was going to call him on it.
Danny must have taken his terror for bewilderment, though, because he added, “I mean, it really bugged you, me talking about your tryouts.”
Oh, thank God. Not that then.
“Yeah, kind of.” Martin shrugged, no more comfortable with this conversation than Danny’s dinnertime enthusiasm. “Why?”
A shrug of Danny’s own in answer. “Fleming says you’re kicking ass in Rose’s seminar, and you’re like… like…” He trailed off, actually looking apologetic. “You’re pretty smart, y’know?”
“Um, thanks.” And Danny complimenting him? Had he stepped into an alternate universe where good was evil and Danny was nice to him? Martin took a deep breath, trying to be discreet about it as he struggled for a way to deflect the conversation, turn it somewhere else. “Cassell thinks you’re, like, the god of pre-Revolution history.” Which was true enough.
“Eh.” Dismissive, but Danny still sounded pleased.
Silence settled around them, comfortable for once, sun sliding down toward late evening, and Martin thought: I could get used to this.
“You looked really hot in your Speedos, y’know.”
Or maybe not.
-tbc.-
Post-fic notes: All the stuff Professor Rose is lecturing on? Don't ask how I know it.
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Poor Martin and his nerves. And Danny's pride in him. Unh. You're killing me. And the ending? Dear god, bless you for that.
“You looked really hot in your Speedos, y’know.”
*wibble* Did I mention that I love you?
As to the Prof. Rose stuff? I love it. I love when there's actual substance like that. If you're setting a story in a place, you need to have the stuff that goes with that place. And you've got it here.
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Oh, but I like stalkers!Um, what I mean to say is, you're scary and a freak and stay away from me!
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Awrrr *blush*
As to the Prof. Rose stuff? I love it. I love when there's actual substance like that.
What Rose was asking is from a class I took... and the question he asks Martin was a question the instructor asked me. Got it wrong, though *wry look*
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And now I'm late again because I couldn't wait until after school to read this part *g*.
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OMG, I'm so going straight to hell. I'm a Catholic who was educated in a Convent and who likes stories about boys in Catholic school. Oh, poor Sister Rita (my ex-headmistress) will probably turn in her grave if she ever hears of this. Must remember to recite "10 Hail Mary and 10 Our Father" tonight.
Oops, forgot to tell you how much I enjoyed this story and this universe. That boy Danny, he sure knows how to make Martin uncomfortable, doesn't he? I just can't wait for the next chapter. Oh please let it be soon, pretty please.
Ok, I'm off to reprint my report.
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That's what you get for reading fic while on the clock ;)
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That's the tenth level, the one Dante didn't tell you about. It has all the slash writers, too ;)
the comment about Martin "not advertising much" - it was spot on.
Thanks! I think Martin's definitely more comfortable with being a man of mystery... Makes it easier to get away with things *g*
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I am also at work as I read this. Luckily for me, my computer screen faces the wall. Unluckily for me, that does mean everyone in the office could see my insane grin the whole time. It's a bit of a giveaway. *sheepish*
*waits impatiently for next chapter*
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Only in Vermont at the moment *nods*
I am also at work as I read this.
ZOMG AMY'S BOSS!!!!
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So very Danny. Hahahahaha.
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Yes, yes I do *g* And as for Speedos, I think Martin will be wearing them again, though I'm not sure when at the moment.
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The part where Martin is swimming and Danny is watching is very intense and hot at the same time.
But OMG! That last line! *g*
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Still trying to work that out. There are a couple ways Martin could go on this.
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(Anonymous) 2006-05-19 01:09 pm (UTC)(link)btw, I can see some of your posts.. do you have a filter?
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RL stuff is locked (or should be), fic isn't, though some of it is still locked, as I haven't gotten around to making the entries public yet. But, if it's fic you want, chances are it's up in an archive somewhere (everything D/M is at Pretty FBI).
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Holy fucking flail! Eeeeeeeeeeeee! Okay, originally I had copied and intended to comment on the fingers through Danny's hair, because I so want to read that, but then Danny comes out with *that* and omg! ::flail:: Oh, I'm not sure I can wait for the next chapter. I am literally on the edge of my seat and yes, just yes! So, so in love with this. So in love.
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If all goes well, it will be written.
If all doesn't go well... Well, I'm not going to think about that.
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HAHA! Best line to date:D This story is still awesome, and I still love you OH SO MUCH for writing it! *waves flag*
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omg how i love this. I love it like crack. It is the new crack. this deserves hott men.
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*is dead*
Luckily I had already left a comment to HF because coherence has abandoned me.
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Oh, you know it :D Such things do not easily wear off.
it was so sweet the way Danny kept talking of Martin's swimming skills
Not entirely sweet... I think there's something to Martin's speculation that Danny knows talking about him makes him self-conscious, so Danny's doing it at least a little bit on purpose.
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God. Poor Martin. That class!
“Don’t you have better things to do like, I don’t know, study or sacrifice kittens or something?” - That made me think of that whole "Every time you masturbate, a kitten dies" or whatever thing. Was I supposed to think that? Haha, if not, the line is funny; if so, the line is *hot.*
Danny bouncing from sarcastic tormenter to cheerleader. - Very nice mental image! Heh. I have a kink for male cheerleaders, and Danny would certainly make a hot one.
And, oh, those last lines. Didn't see it coming. That's one mean cliffhanger. Hmph.
*loves series*
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Man, I would have paid to see that facial transformation ;)
God. Poor Martin. That class!
It is one of the more horrible experiences I've ever had :/ *tries to scrub all knowledge of the development of orthodox Christianity from brain*
That's one mean cliffhanger. Hmph.
*innocent*
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No, seriously. Because this is awesome and Martin's so utterly uptight and adorably so and Danny is this brilliant cocktease and YOU RULE.
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Danny is this brilliant cocktease
The boy does have a talent.
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I am cruel only that I may be kind :D That, and I need material for chapter five and all :D
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Ah, you and me both!
And, “You looked really hot in your Speedos, y’know.” *killed* me. God, I love this fic. *g*
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*is secretly a fairy god(d)mother*
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I'm really enjoying your story and I can't wait to see where you'll take them from here.
The last line was utterly brilliant. *smiles* *glomps* *waves*
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(i also took some of your icons from your gallery!- hope that's ok?)
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