Crack Attack: A Collection of One-Shots and Other Disturbing Shit

Sweet Nothing (MrWaffles)

Warning: This one-shot is not for smut-virgins or anyone who is disturbed by sexual themes. This story is based very loosely on the song "Sweet Nothing" by Calvin Harris ft. Florence Welch (see above).

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Every time Preston flies up to visit, it feels like he has to leave too soon. He just got here, but he is already long gone. His flight has probably landed in Dallas by now. Why can't he be spontaneous like me and stick around for a few extra days, especially when neither of us want him to go? What is he doing at home that is so damned important that he can't do it on my computer? What is so special about his office?

I have a sneaking suspicion that he has someone back home that he doesn't want to tell me about, that he doesn't want to admit to seeing. Could he finally have another girlfriend, after all of these months of moping around and flying off the handle about how indifferent and backstabbing his last one was? Or is he hiding something else, someone else? He has made more than a few offhand comments and jokes about how he might be into guys, so could he have a boyfriend? Why would he not tell me? We tell each other everything, but...

Does he think I would be jealous? Let's be honest here: just thinking about the possibility of him choosing someone else over me again makes me jealous, but the thought of it being a guy just makes it worse. It pisses me off. Why doesn't he like me? What's wrong with me? I do everything for this guy, but he doesn't give me the time of day unless we're gaming together or at a convention. He gives me nothing. As soon as the conversation moves from a game or an event to our relationships (or lack thereof), he gets so touchy and defensive. He doesn't 'like to talk about it.' Is he playing hard to get, or is he truly that far in denial?

It has to be the latter. I can't even count how many times I have caught him staring at my crotch or my ass in the past year, and when we're together, he spends more time leaning on me, or hugging me, or somehow touching me than he spends sleeping and eating combined. That's truly saying something. Does he not see where this is going, or does he just not want to admit it? If he was hitting on me any harder, I would be covered in bruises. He frustrates me so much.

Just thinking about him frustrates me, and not just in an emotional way. We spent all weekend trolling through the city, with him in his tight t-shirt and jeans with that mischievous spark in his eyes. Half of the time we were at my apartment, he wouldn't even bother to put pants on, or close the door when he went to take a piss. Even the dim beams of the street lights at night weren't enough to hide the impressive crease in his grey sweatpants as we took our usual early morning run along the main street, his hand running periodically through his thick, dark brown hair to keep it out of his face. How can't he see how beautiful he is? Does he know it and intentionally flaunt it to get my attention? He gets to me so easily.

I sigh and take my headset back off and lay it down on the desk by my empty tea mug. I won't be getting anything else done tonight. Not with that microphone, at least. Preston knows just how to get to me, even when he isn't here anymore. I open a new tab on my browser and go over to Twitter, just in time to see the new selfie he posted from the airport in Texas. He looks like he finally got some sleep: his hair is tousled and his clothes are wrinkled, and the bags under his eyes look heavier than ever. Maybe he didn't sleep so much after all. I catch myself absentmindedly palming the stiff tent that had risen in my sweatpants and I reluctantly pull my hand away. I shouldn't be thinking about him like this. I'm completely hopeless.

I push my chair away from the desk and leave my computer to continue uploading the videos I had just finished editing. I can finish the rest of it later. I stretch and head down the hall toward my bedroom when something from the kitchen catches my eye. I had woken up in the early afternoon before Preston and decided to make him a plate of going-away waffles, one of the few things I know how to cook without burning anything. Waking up a sleeping cactus by slapping him across the face with a lukewarm waffle is now one of my favorite mini games. He had been grateful, no doubt, but it looked like he had wanted to say something else, too. What could he have been thinking?