who needs love when there's southern comfort.

( pccf rambling. )

here, have a teaser. this one's hers, and just, ngh.

They lie there, breathing together, hiding from the world while their bodies cool and the sounds from outside start to filter back in through the open window. Brendon figures he should pull out, roll away, be angry with Ryan for pushing him into this or with himself for nodding along—cry, yell—something; anything other than just curling himself tighter around the body next to him and burying his face against the dark hair. It doesn't make sense for him to cling to Ryan—not when it's Ryan that's making him break—but thinking of letting go is worse, so Brendon clings. His body starts to shake, so he squeezes harder, the emotional equivalent of trying to swim in quicksand and probably just as futile, but it's what he's got, so he'll take it. And when he closes his eyes and breathes in the smell of Ryan—of them, and this, skin mingling together—then at least he knows that it wasn't all a dream.

...so THIS happened.

in celebration of working out a difficult scene with red, you get this now instead of tomorrow. sigh.

if you follow my twitter you're prepared for this nonsense. fuck my life, this is ridiculous and indulgent and i want to write it more than anything ever.

( in which colin and sophie brainstorm turn-of-the-century-scottish-peasant!ryan AND <s>BRENDON</s> THE BOY WHO MAKES BAGPIPES. )