Kay, this oneshot is for Parchment Quill, for getting me past the oh-so-sweet 200 reviews landmark. Thank you so much, not only or getting me there but also for being a regular reader and reviewer of this story.

You requested: oranges, (check) e-mails, (check) bunnies, (check) lots of adorable boy love (check) and freaks (check) and/or spades (kind of check. I really had no idea where the get the spades in, so I cheated…sowwy.)

Hope you enjoy this. It's been my priority in writing for some time and I did my best to come up with something worse the time it takes to read it.

Confessions of a Stalker

(because I couldn't be bothered coming up with something more subtle and less lame)

It's Friday afternoon, and I'm standing in front of my locker, getting my books for my last lesson of the week. All around me, school kids are chattering as they pick up their stuff, eyes bright as they exchange their plans for the weekend. My friend Sybil is also chattering away, but I ignore her. Instead, I carefully angle my locker door, orientating the mirror stuck inside towards that locker, knowing that he will be there, because he's there every Friday afternoon, with that stupid friend of his, picking up his stuff and adorably unaware of my gaze riveted (through the mirror) on him.

And indeed, here he is. Floppy blond hair falling around his precious pink face, bright blue eyes sparkling as he laughs at some story that stupid friend of his is telling, his tie tugged loose around the collar of his shirt. He has a packet of Skittles in his pocket and he occasionally pops a handful of them into his mouth while he drops books and sheaves of paper into his bag. Then he zips his bag shut, closes the locker door, locks it. His locker key is on a keyring that has a little picture of this girl attached to it. I know he's going out with her and everything, but that's only because he hasn't realised how much he loves me yet.

My locker door suddenly slams against my face and I fall back, landing embarrassingly on the floor. My face feels like a boiling kettle when I see the love of my life walking past, a tiny apologetic smile on his face, and then that stupid friend f his follows him, smirking at me and spitting:

"Take it like the bitch you are, fagtard."

But who cares what he says or does, because, oh my God, today he looked at me! And smiled! I let my head fall back on to the tiled floor of the hall, a warm feeling of pure contentment filling my heart with molten gold.

Hello, my name is Clement and I'm Sammy Holt's personal stalker.

It's finally Friday evening and I'm standing at the kitchen counter, my mother's bright pink and yellow apron tied around my waist, my hair secured out of my eyes with a number of hairpins stolen from my sister's shelf. I'm making…orange juice.

Pure, real orange juice. With actual oranges.

Because real homemade orange juice kicks carton orange juice's ass a million times over.

Mom comes in, removing her coat and smelling like the cold from outside. She dumps her shopping bags on the table, and says:

"Hello, sweetie."

I say:

"Hush…never break an artiste's concentration when he's composing."

"What the hell, drama queen? Composing my ass. Go get a life, gayboy," my sister lovingly says.

"Hello to you to, precious Adrianne. How are you today, my darling sister?"

"Peachy as can be, gayboy," Adrianne says, grabbing a packet of biscuit from the pantry.

"Adrianne, darling," Mom says, with the sweet air of a mother who needs a favour off her child.

"Yes, Mom?" Adrianne asks with the air of suspicion of a child who has seen it coming form miles away.

"Well…I have a favour to ask you," Mom says, contritely.

"No shit?" Adrianne says, raising her eyebrow.

"Language!" Mom squeaks, but lets it go with a sigh because she needs a favour. "My friend Marcia Spade is going away with her husband for the weekend and she needs someone to baby-sit her little girl. Evie is seven and she's a really quiet child, she won't be much trouble. Marcia and I will even pay you."

Adrianne sighs.

"Mom, I really would have done it," I scoff and Adrianne throws me a murderous glare. "But I have flute lessons, remember?"

"Oh no!" Mom says, slapping her forehead.

"Gayboy, however, having no life whatsoever is completely free this weekend."

Mom turns to me with stars in her eyes and I hastily start to protest that I've extremely busy, before suddenly remembering that I'm kind of short on cash these days.

"…how much would you pay?"

What I love best about weekends is that I get to dress just as I want, and since I'm going to be babysitting a seven-year-old girl, I won't have to worry about glares and 'fucking fag's. So the morning before leaving home for 'work', I gleefully put on my supercool pair of black jeans that I actually got in the girls' department of a store but actually don't look like girl's jeans at all, I swear. I have my beautiful long-sleeved fishnet top, and my super-awesome 'Make Music Not War' T-shirt that Sybil gave me for my last birthday and that she designed herself. Then I have my oversize 'Sacramento' chav-hoodie, my bright red woollen cap and scarf, and red converse trainers, which are the best. They're so pretty. And emo. But who cares.

I love clothes.

So what? Sue me.

Not literally, of course. I'm broke. That's why I'm babysitting, remember?

I mean, I can't help loving clothes. They're so pretty. And nice and cool and they look so good and feel nice and without them we'd be…well, naked.

"Hey Barbie!" my sister's voice reaches me from downstairs. "Get your princess-ass down here! You'll have to find time to kiss every single article of clothing you own another time because I'm leaving now!"

I sigh. Why am I so misunderstood?

"Coming!" I call, grab my messenger bag, my phone, my keys, my MP3-player and my gloves, and rush downstairs. On my way to the front door, I run through the kitchen, and grab a bag full of oranges. For orange juice, because I bet Mom's friend only has carton orange juice.

I throw my bags on the back seat and get in the front beside my sister. She's only older than me by three years and she already has her license. Lucky cow. I push down the mirror and get out my eyeliner, carefully tracing lines under my eyes. My sister threw me a disgusted look and scoffed:

"You're so freaking gay, Clem."

"You're only jealous because I apply my eyeliner better than you," I tease.

She drives on a bump, and another, and another until I look just like Dani Filth. I swear and try to remove the macabre eyeliner, but only end up by having huge smudges around the eyes that make me look either like 1) A panda, 2) A sleepless psychopath or 3) Helena Bonham Carter in Sweeney Todd.

I decide to get into my emo-mode, and unwind my earphone from around my MP3-player. I put on my music, and my sister just can't resist asking:

"What're you listening to?"

I smirk:

"You Kill Me With A Kiss And I Love You With A Razor by Slash Fest of Utter Suicidal Bloodbath."

She winces, and I turn on the volume of Foo Fighters' latest song on a little louder, but not loud enough to ruin the doubtless colourful imagery that is now filling her mind. I really do love my sister, you know. She's so easy to manipulate.

Fifteen minutes later, Adrianne stops the car in front of a tall, pretty, normal house with a pretty little normal garden in front of it.

"Get out of my car, gayboy," she orders.

"I love you too, Addie-dear," I smirk at her.

I get out, and get my messenger bag, my back-pack in which I have a change of clothes for tonight and tomorrow, and my precious bag of precious oranges. Then I wave goodbye at my sister, who answers with the finger (I just love how she so obviously adores me) and walk up to the front door of the pretty, normal house. I knock and the door is almost immediately opened by a woman with the large, darkest eyes I've ever seen. They kind of remind me vaguely of someone, but then again, I'm a great believer of The Blanket Theory™ and for me, the feeling of vague familiarity has almost become like a state of being rather than an occasional impression.

"Hiya! You must be Clement!" she says, smiling a smile that could fit almost perfectly in a Colgate advert. "Lilly-Anna said you would be coming instead of Adrianne."

"Um…yeah," I say, nodding. I'm so bad with strangers, it's not even funny.

"I'm Marcia Spade, though obviously you probably guessed. Come on in, I'll show you the house and introduce you to Evie."

I followed Mrs Spade inside, finding myself in an eerily pretty and neat blue corridor. She then lead me around the house, showing me the kitchen, the living room, the phone, the bathroom, Evie's bedroom, and Eben's room, where I would be staying.

Eben's room was large, messy and scary. Posters of scary-looking bands and scary pictures covered the walls, scary-looking books shared the shelves with scary figurines. A dozen of scary doll-heads hung scarily by the hair from the ceiling, and everything that wasn't covered with a scary thing was a scary red colour. Even the cute fluffy bunnies in the large cage beside the window looked scary, by principle.

"Eben should be staying at his friend's for the weekend, so you can sleep in here, okay?" Mrs Spade says with a perfectly calm smile.

I try not to gulp too loudly and nod.

"Evie knows how to look after the bunnies. Aren't they adorable?"

Mrs Spade enthusiastically led me to the cage, and pointed the little bunnies out with her index:

"This is Slaughterer, this is Murderer, this is Bloodshed, this is Massacre and this is Axe-Wielding-Serial-Killer," she says.

I look up to see if she's joking, but her face is perfectly straight.

"Um…cool names," I say lamely.

"Eben chose them," she explains.

I think to myself that it isn't really an explanation, but she's walking out of the room and I follow hastily, glad to be out of this veritable devil's lair.

From downstairs, a masculine voice calls:

"Honey! Are you ready! I brought Evie! Is the babysitter here?"

"Coming!" Marcia squeals, and rushes downstairs, dragging me in her wake.

A man and a girl are standing at the foot of the stairs, both as blonde as the woman's is black-haired, as bright-eyed as the woman is dark-eyed. Mr Spade is in casual clothing and a goatee, and waves at me when I come down, and the girl is dressed in pink and lace, and narrows her eyes at me, looking me up and down.

"Honey, Ev, this is Clement, Lilly-Anna's son," Mrs Spade flashes her Colgate smile around at her husband and daughter.

"Nice to meet you," I mumble, shaking the blond man's outstretched hand and trying not to wince when he almost crushes my fingers into spaghettis.

"I thought Adrienne was going to come," the girl says, her tone unforgiving.

Out of my way, mortals. I can deal with children. I'm king of children, baby, did I never tell you?

"Aw, shucks, I'm so sorry but Adrienne was unable to come! I promise I'll do my best to be as good as a girl," I promise solemnly, giving her the Clement Puppy Eyes™.

She frowns still.

"Will you play Barbie with me, then?" she asks, her tone dripping with suspicion.

"Of course, honey," I say reassuringly. "I kick ass at playing Barbie."

"Can you draw princesses?" the cross-examination continues.

"Darling, I'm totally the best princess-drawer in the universe."

"You'll watch Beauty and the Beast and Little Mermaid and Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty with me?"

"Of course! I love them! I know all the songs by heart! We can even have a karaoke! My speciality is Little Mermaid but Beauty and the—"

I notice that Mr and Mrs Spade are staring at me a little strangely, and shut up hastily. Evie, however, grabs my arm, tells her parents: "Alright, you can both go, we'll be fine," and drags me into the living room.

"Um…okay. Well, if you need anything remember you can contact both of us or Eben! The numbers are on the fridge okay?"

"Okay!" I shout back.

"Well, um, take care and be good, both of you. Love you Evie, honey!" Marcia calls emotionally through the doorway.

"Love you too!" Evie yells back.

The front finally door slams shut, and I'm alone with my charge at last.

By the time both needles of the living-room clock reach the number twelve, Ev and I have become best friends forever. I'm in my stripy pyjama bottoms and oversized sleeveless 'You're jealous because the voices only talk to me' T-shirt, Evie is in her Fairy Princess nightgown, and we're both wrapped in a cocoon of blankets. Orange peels litter the table, the living-room in plunged in darkness and we're both staring shiny-eyed at the screen, both humming along to 'Let me be your wings…' We spent the whole day playing Barbie, then dressing up, then I drew her a million princesses while she coloured them, then I introduced her to rock and we had an air-guitar competition to Greenday and Nirvana, and then we ate, and then we got into our pyjamas and watched Beauty and the Beast, Anastasia, Cinderella, and we were now making our way through Thumbelina.

At some point, Evie told me:

"You're even better than a girl."

I thanked her kindly.

"I wish Eben were like you," she then added.

I frowned. Judging from the state of Eben's bedroom and, according to it, his state of mind, her wish wouldn't be coming true anytime soon.

"You can come visit me from time to time if you want. Then we'll be able to dress up properly; you'd love the stuff I have," I told her bracingly.

It's so much easier with children, I think. I spent the whole afternoon indulging in girly activities and I didn't get a single 'fag!' I love little Evie so much!

I move to hug her, and her head lolls limply off my shoulder. She's asleep, bless her sweet soul. I switch off the TV, and help Evie up the stairs, to her room and into her bed. She snuggles into her pink and white pillow and I draw the blankets up around her, tuck them around the mattress, kiss her forehead and go out, leaving the door ajar. Then I go brush my teeth and tiptoe into the notorious Eben's room. The doll heads look even scarier in the dark, and I suppress a shiver. I thank God I'm so tired, and pray that I don't have a nightmare that wakes me up screaming in the middle of the night and freak the cute kid out. I slip between the blood-red covers, feeling weird about sleeping in a stranger's bed, but pretty much as soon as my head hits the (red) pillow, I fall asleep.

I wake up what seems like five minutes later by a loud yell of:

"What the fuck?"

I bolt upright, trying to persuade myself to open my eyes. There is no Chuckie-like creature standing at the foot of the bed…there is no Chuckie-like creature standing at the foot of the bed.

I hear the light switch being clicked on, and then the disbelieving gasp:

"What the—fagtard?"

I actually feel myself blanch. I feel the blood leave my face completely, and my heart freeze over. The mantra in my head changes to: please let it be some Chuckie-like creature so long as it's not Sammy's idiot friend…please let it be some Chuckie-like creature so long as it's not Sammy's idiot friend…

I open my eyes and indeed, the dark eyes and hateful glare of Sammy's stupid friend meets my gaze.

"You're…you're Evie's brother?" I ask, and feel my heart drop even lower in my stomach when my voice comes out as this tiny squeak.

He frowns, and then understanding floods his face:

"You're Adrianne's brother?"

I nod and stare in fear as he attempts to drill holes in my head with the might of his glare.

"What the fuck are you doing in my bed?" he snarls.

Realisation hits me: I, Clement Crowell, am lying in Sammy's stupid friend's bed. Is it even possible for me to blush more than I'm already blushing?

I throw the covers off me and leap out of the bed. Because life doesn't hate me enough, my foot catches against the sheet and I trip and fall flat on my face. I want to know which person I killed in a previous life. They'd better be worth this punishment.

"Ebz?" a voice calls, and the moment I hear the voice, I realise that it wasn't just any person I killed in a previous life, but Ghandi himself.

"Hey, Sammy, check this out: fagtard's my sister's babysitter!" Sammy's stupid friend snorts.

I scramble to my feet and look up at Sammy as he enters the room and peeps at me over his stupid friend's shoulder. His adorable little face is all flushed and his hair is falling all over his fairy-blue eyes and his cute cheeks and oh my God he looks so beautiful I want to glomp him.

"Hey!" the love of my life calls, smiling at me. "You go to our school, right? You're…"

"Clement," I squeak.

"Oh you!" Sammy says.

I feel my knees wobble with the emotion because oh my God Sammy Holt actually spoke to me! And he smiled at me! And recognized me!

"Stop drooling, fagtard," Sammy's stupid friend snorts.

I quickly stop staring and grab the bag I dropped at the foot of the bed, hastily making my retreat. When I reach the door, however, I find my way blocked by Sammy's stupid friend. His eyes are really very black, just like his mother's, except that on her they look cute and youki-like, but on him they look like a demon's eyes. Or how I imagine a demon's eyes to be. There's a smirk on his smile, which is the opposite of Sammy's: pale and sharp, instead of pink and soft. Even his hair is the opposite of Sammy's: black, the tips dyed red. I think Sammy should dye the tips of his hair red too because on his blond hair it would look pink and that would just look gorgeous on him.

"Where are you going, fagtard?" Sammy's stupid friend asks. "My bed not cosy enough for you?"

I'd like to know what I did to that guy to make him hate me so much. I'd really like to know.

"I'm just going to sleep downstairs," I say.

"Aw, did we chase little pretty-boy away?" Sammy's stupid friend sneers obnoxiously, and randomly steps up to me and pulls on a strand of my hair hanging in front of my face. "Surely you aren't…scared?"

"Of course not," I scoff, because, whatever, who does this guy think he is anyway?

Sammy's stupid friend takes another step towards me, and because he's getting too close, I step back.

"Leave him alone, Eben," Sammy's voice says reproachfully.

My knight in shining armour! Diving the dragon away from me (his damsel-in-distress)…how I love him…

"You're such a fucking spoilsport," Sammy's stupid friend says, stepping away from me.

Die, foul beast! Who do you think you are to insult my prince? Who are you to insult the flower of sheer perfection that is Sammy Holt? Die, I tell you, die!

"Get the fuck back into bed and go the fuck back to sleep, pretty-boy," Sammy's stupid friend snaps at me, pushing me towards the bed.

I duck past him and rush out of the room, muttering:

"I'll be more comfortable downstairs."

Downstairs I settle down on the couch, wrapping my Sacramento sweatshirt around my shoulders because I'm cold and I usually like to sleep with several layers of blankets piled on top of me. I close my eyes and try to go to sleep and dream of my prince, but my eyes open when I hear someone walk into the room.

"Take this and go to sleep. Disturb Sammy and I and I'll make sure you never get to see out of both eyes again, got it?"

Sammy's stupid friend dumps a blanket on top of my head, and I'm sure he doesn't even get my rapid nod before he walks back out. I tuck the blanket around me, and wait for sleep to claim me, but it just doesn't come. The awareness that my Prince is just a couple dozen steps away from me just doesn't help.

An hour passes during which I change position about a thousand million times, and I finally decide to go to the bathroom. I tiptoe up the stairs, and pause briefly behind Eben's room's door, listening. The sound of profound breathing indicates to me that both boys are sleeping in there, and I'm simply unable to resist. Quietly as I can, I open the door and peek inside: Sammy's stupid friend is sprawled flat on his stomach all over his bed, his legs and arms hanging off it and his mouth gaping open, and Sammy is cuddled up in a blanket on a mattress pulled from under the bed. His gorgeous hair is splayed on his pillow, and shines faintly in the dull glow from of moonlight through the window…he looks so beautiful and perfect…I can't resist: I tiptoe into the room, and kneel by the mattress, bending forward over my precious Sleeping Beauty. He's muttering something in his pillow, and I bend a little closer, trying to catch what he's on about and wishing it was my name he was mumbling.

I…I want to kiss him. He just looks so cute and adorable, like a fluffy bunny rabbit, and flip it, I don't care. I lean forward to kiss his cheek.

I feel my hair being grasped and my head being yanked back and I try not to gasp too loud. I turn my head slightly and meet the fathomless black eyes of the last person I'd ever have wanted to catch me in the act of trying to kiss my (secret) beloved.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he asks, his words slurred.

"I, um, I was walking past your room to go to the bathroom and I heard Sammy mumble something and I thought maybe he wanted something, so I came in but he was mumbling too low so I just leaned forward a bit to hear what he was saying because maybe he was having a nightmare and I should have woken him up or—"

"Shut up and get in," Sammy's stupid friend mutters, shifting a little so there's space in his bed and pulling me by my hair so I almost fall against him.

"What the hell—no!" I hiss, trying to pull away.

"Get in now or I wake Sammy and you explain to him what you were doing," Sammy's devilish friend snaps.

I wince, but, god, how awkward would that be?


I climb in beside him, lying as close to the edge and far from him as I can. He lets go of my hair, throws the blanket over me and snuggles into his pillow, closing his eyes. I stare at his face, waiting for him to fall asleep properly so I can make my escape.

I never really noticed before but his face is kind of…nice. Really bony and delicate, I guess, with simultaneously refined and defined features. His nose is sharp and pointy and his cheekbones do this really cool sweep-thing that I wish my cheekbones did. His hair is pitch-black in the dark of the room, and kind of emphasizes the pallor of his skin…I feel my eyes grow heavy, and then my mind goes soft as marshmallow and I actually see little pink ducks chasing blood-stained bunnies in candyfloss clouds…they're pretty.

The next morning, I'm awoken by a persistent poking in my side. I swear and lash out to strike at my foul assailant, but a voice reproachfully whines:

"Why are you attacking me? I only want breakfast!"

I bolt upright.


"What? Come on, Clem, I'm hungry!"

I get out of bed and shake my hand through my hair because it always feels weird in the morning.

"Okay, princess, let's go."

I walk through the bathroom, rinse my face and mouth, and follow my adorable charge down the stairs. In the kitchen, Evie and I put on an apron, and I teach her how to cook my favourite Sunday morning recipe: Appleum Delicium (squares of peeled apples cooked in butter and sugar). Then I make some coffee for me, hot chocolate for her, do some fresh orange juice from real oranges (Evie acknowledges that real homemade orange juice kicks carton orange juice's ass a million times over), load the whole n to a tray and we make our way to the living-room. When we enter, I nearly drop the tray: Sammy, my beautiful, perfect Sammy, is sitting in the couch, watching TV and munching on some cornflakes while his stupid friend, Eben, is lying on the floor, his legs on the couch, a packet of cookies at his side and flipping through the seventy of so million pictures Evie and I drew yesterday.

I try not to blush. I try not to remember that I spent the night sharing that guy's bed. I try not to be too aware that I'm in my pyjamas, my hair a tangle of knots and my skinny arms exposed for all to mock. I try not to mind that my beloved is seeing me at my worse. I rally do try.

I fail.

"You've gone al pink, pretty-boy," Eben says, looking up from the drawings.

I ignore him and walk up to the coffee table, laying down my tray and sitting on the opposite side of the couch from where Sammy is sitting. Evie comes to sit beside me, and says to her brother:

"Leave Clem alone. You can't have him."

I blush, because, come on…could she have said anything worse?

"Can't I? I wouldn't be so sure if I were you, Evie," Eben smirks.

I ignore him again, and hand Evie her plate of Appleum Delicium. Sammy looks away form the Tv and smiles at me and I feel the butterflies do their adaptation of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake in my stomach.

"Morning," he says, to me, yes, me! "Did you cook this?" he asks, pointing to Evie's plate.

I nod, too tongue-tied to speak.

"Can I have some?" he asks candidly. You can if you let me eat you, I think to myself, but instead I hand him my plate.

He thanks me and eats a spoonful.

"Wow! That's so…wow! I could never have guessed you could cook."

I blush. He hands me my plate back with a beautiful smile and I ask:

"Do you want me to do some for you? It's really easy."

"Oh, no, thank you, don't bother, it's fine," he flounders, and I want to eat him so bad. I want to eat him with marshmallows and whipped cream.

"I want you to do some for me! Come on, pretty-boy. You can teach me," Eben says. I want to hit him. Hard. With a blunt crowbar.

I want to say no and ignore him but I can't appear mean and nasty in front of Prince Sammy, and besides Eben's my employer's son…I heave a sigh, and stand up. I hand my plate to Sam and say:

"You can have it. I'll make some more for myself when I do some for your s—your friend."

Phew. I almost said 'stupid friend'. Sammy takes the plate with an adorable "You sure?" and begins tucking in. God, levels of cuteness such as his should be illegal.

"Come on! Stop drooling and cook for me!" Eben says, grabbing my arm and yanking me out of the room with him.

I hate him so much.

I walk into the kitchen, grab the apples, and begin to peel them. Even comes up behind, and puts his chin on my shoulder to look at what I'm doing. I try to shrug him off, but he clings on, and I give up. I cut the apples into cubes, melt some butter in a frying pan and dump the apple in. Eben hands are dancing up and down my upper arm, and it's flipping irritating.

"Get off," I snap, trying to move out of his reach.

"You're so mean," he whines, stepping away from me.

"You think?" I snap, whipping around. "Asking you to stop invading my private space is wrong, but constantly shoving my locker door in my face and calling me names is perfectly acceptable, is it?"

"Hey, I have an excuse! I'm in denial, I get to do that kind of stuff! You should pity me!"

"Well, I don't. Whatever you're in denial about, get over it already. Pass me the sugar."

In a previous life, it wasn't just Ghandi I killed. No, no, no siree Bob. Judging from the size of my punishment, I must have committed some sort of gruesome, inconceivably horrendous massacre of some kind.

I mean, come on. One would think that two teenage boys with money and a free Sunday ahead of them would want to go out, enjoy their young lives? But no, of course not. Going out would man would mean leaving Clement alone and spare him the torture, wouldn't it? So of course that's an impossible plan, what do you think?

I never expected to have the company of my crush and his homophobic friend while I babysitted my seven-year old female charge, and so the change of clothes I brought went accordingly: a tight-fitting pale-blue shirt with a dumb-looking sheep on it, abundantly ripped jeans covered in drawings and fake love messages Sybil had decided to decorate it with, and the long-sleeved fishnet top from the day before.

When I finished dressing and went down, I peeked inside the living room to check whether the love of my life and the demon were still there, and indeed they were. Thankfully, I was able to buy time by going back upstairs with Evie to dress her. After that, since they were still downstairs, I persuaded Evie to come out with me to buy some more fresh oranges so she could do homemade orange juice for herself when I'd be gone, and we almost managed to get at the door before Eben appeared in the living-room doorway, frowning.

"Where the fuck are you taking my little sister, fagtard?"

I glared at him.

"We're going to buy orange," I announced.

"Fuck oranges. Come in and play Scarface with us."

I scoffed.

"Scarface is a game for people with no imagination and a superiority complex," I told Eben, and grabbed the door handle.

I felt myself being grabbed around the waist and turned around the glare at Eben, who had just thrown himself against me.

"Stop playing hard to get and come with me, pretty-boy," he snapped, dragging me into the living-room with me.

"Ebz! Stop stealing my babysitter!" Evie whined, following.

"Listen, it's fine," Eben said pacifyingly, thrusting me into the couch and jumping at my side. "Tell us what you did yesterday and we'll do that. Like this we'll all have fun."

I felt my stomach sink as Evie smiled enthusiastically.

"Well, Clem did princesses and I coloured them and then we practised the fine art of air-guitaring and we watched movies and we ate ad we dressed up and…"

I want to die.

In the end, after Eben failed to manage to get Sammy and I to dress up as Disney princesses, we settled on having an air-guitaring competition. Evie and I teamed up against Sammy and Ebem, and of course, we won. After that, Eben dragged me back into the kitchen and made me cook something. Then we all played Cluedo, and Eben won every single day and got s big headed I got fed up and decided to stop playing and put on the end of Thumbelina for Evie and I. We settled in the couch and contentedly watched the masterpiece cartoon until Eben decided that it wasn't playing Cluedo with only two players and threw himself on the couch beside me, slinging his arm around my shoulder ad crooning:

"Aw…poor Thumbelina. Don't cry, pretty-boy. Daddy Ebenezer is here to kiss your tears away."

He kisses my cheek and I shove him off the couch.

"Don't bite me. You'll give me your rabies," I tell him.

"So cold, so aloof…" he mutters, getting back up next to me and sitting with his knees raised against his chest and his arms around his legs.

When Evie begins to fall asleep I wake her up, and take her upstairs to get her into pyjamas, make her brush her teeth and then tuck her in bed. She makes me tell her a story, so I decide to tell her the story of A Series of Unfortunate Even. By the time I finish recounting book one (the Bad Beginning) she's sound asleep, and I switch off the light and tiptoe out.

I go back downstairs, where Eben and Sammy are sprawled on the couch, watching the end of Thumbelina. Sammy's eyes are all wide and teary and cute and aw, he looks like a fluffy bunny rabbit. I want to eat him. Eben, on the other hand, is sprawled back with the pillow I used the night before hugged to his chest and his shirt riding up to show the pale skin of his slim hips and despicably fit stomach. He looks hot, and I must confess that if I weren't head over heels in love with Sammy, I'd definitely fancy him.

Wait. That sounds so wrong.

I shake my head to clear the confusing thoughts and walk over the couch to pick up my two bags. Then I take out my MP3 layer, put on Foo Fighters again (Best of You is such a gorgeous song…it's like warm French baguette and black chocolate bar sandwich: it just gives me this incredibly awesome feeling that's like kind of really intense and just wowful) and go put my bags in the corridor, preparing myself to leave as soon as the Spade parents are back.

"Hey, pretty-boy. What are you doing?" Eben asks, appearing in the living room doorway just as I'm about to open the front door to check for the car.

"Just checking whether your parents are here."

"Whoa, are you eager to leave or what?"

"Pretty much, yeah. You may think I'm some sad loser, but I do actually own a life."

Wow, Clem you just blew me away with this comeback! I mentally congratulate myself.

"I don't think you're a sad loser. It's just that sometimes your so blind and oblivious and blatantly gay that it kind of gets to me is all," Eben says.

"Whatever, man. Just go back to watching wrestling matches or whatever it is you do to prove your manliness to yourself."

I'm on a roll with the snappy comebacks, baby!

"Actually, it's Sammy who loves wrestling. I prefer contemporary dancing."

Oh my god ew! Ew! EW! The love of my life loves wrestling! EW!

His parents arrive two hours later, finally delivering me from the torture of having to randomly play hide and seek with Sammy and Eben. They thank me warmly, and say that they might appeal to my services again (which sounds so nasty when they put it this way, especially with the eyebrow signals Eben sends me through a wink over his mother's shoulder) and pay me. I thank them, gleefully pocket my money and begin to make my discreet escape when Even grabs my elbow and says:

"You know what, pretty-boy? I'm going to give you my number."

I open my mouth to protest, but he dashes upstairs and comes back down twenty seconds later holding his private notebook that's white and covered in this really cool brio graffiti that he surely didn't do himself—he just isn't the artistic type at all.

He opens the book at a randomly doodled page and scrawls down a series of number. He rips the page for the book and hands it to me. I take it and stare at it in disgust, before noticing an email address scribbled into a corner. 'sammy-rocks-teh-world-at-hotmail-dot-com' Oh my god. Is it my love-crazed imagination or did I jus get myself Prince Sammy's email address?

"Thank you!" I yell to Eben, suddenly loving the idiot, and run out of his house clutching the piece of heavenly paper to my chest.

From: oranges-kick-major-ass-so-stfu-at-ogletheorc-dot-net

To: sammy-rocks-teh-world-at-hotmail-dot-com


I've got another confession to make.

Uh, sorry. Foo Fighters rip-off.

I'm just nervous.

The fact of the matter is: I am your secret stalker and I love you and I just wanted you to know.

I love you.

Je t'aime. Ti quiero. Ich Liebe Dich. Ai shiteru.

I just can't help it. Thought you should know.

Eternally yours,

Your secret admirer.

From: sammy-rocks-teh-world-at-hotmail-dot-com

To: oranges-kick-major-ass-so-stfu-at-ogletheorc-dot-net

'Secret Admirer' my ass, Clem.

Your email address mentions orcs and oranges. You quote Foo Fighters and sound like a hopeless romantic. Exactly what part of 'secret' don't you understand?

Anyway. I was expecting an email from you, to tell you the truth. My friend guaranteed I'd receive an email from you. And here we go. Bless you and your predictability.

No-one ever told me they loved me quite the way you do. You may be a hopeless romantic and sport an unhealthy obsession with Foo Fighters and oranges, but you know what? You're totally the kind to grow on someone.

Plus, your eyes are pretty.

Email me again about anything you want or I will get my best friend to crush your soul with a glance. Mention these emails to anyone, including myself, and I will personally make sure you can never snap your fingers again.

Take care of yourself.

The Self-Appointed Love of Your Life

From: oranges-kick-major-ass-so-stfu-at-ogletheorc-dot-net

To: sammy-rocks-teh-world-at-hotmail-dot-com

You know, you really don't sound like yourself when you're emailing. It's like you have a split personality or something. Like Yu-Gi-Oh, kind of, except that I hate Yu-Gi-Oh but right now I can't think of a better example oh wait yes I can: kind of like Daisuke and Dark in D. which you probably don't have a clue what it's about and I'd tell you the story but it would take too long but anyway.

I didn't realise I'd sound this obvious. And I don't have an unhealthy obsession about Foo Fighters! You want to know about unhealthy obsessions? You should see the number of Justin Timberlake posters on my sister's walls. It's like some sort of creepy shrine or something. She's taken the whole fan thing to an entirely eerie level, I swear.

My eyes aren't pretty. They're brown, which is a boring a colour and no matter what way you look at it no one with brown eyes will ever have pretty eyes. And if you start saying things like that then soon you won't be able to call me a hopeless romantic because you'll be much worse. I'll be your Hopeless-Romantic-sensei, it will be cool. Then we'll be able to do a Darth-Vader and Obi-Wan thing with the pupil became the master thing and it will be awesome.

Is it me or is this email kind of too long? It's kind of weird emailing you, you know, because you're so different from how I'd imagined you to sound like. Or read like, or whatever. Let's not be technical.

I've got to go because my sister is kicking me off the computer. I know it's her computer and everything but jeez, I mean, I'm her little brother man! Don't I get special treatment? I guess not.

It's a hard life.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Be my valentine?


From: sammy-rocks-teh-world-at-hotmail-dot-com

To: oranges-kick-major-ass-so-stfu-at-ogletheorc-dot-net

I kind of got curious about your email domain so I googled the website. You know what, Clem?

You are sick.

That said: hello lovely how are you! It's evening and I'm home from school and I'm feeling hyper because I've had too much jaffa cakes on the way home. This means this email might get a little wonky at times but what the hell. I figure none of my emails will ever get as wonky as yours.

Telling someone their eyes are pretty isn't hopelessly romantic, jackass. It's sexy. It's sexy in an excruciatingly subtle kind of way.

How is brown a boring colour? Brown is all the colours form all my acrylic paint set tubs put together, and it's the colour of cookies. Diss brown one more time and I will get my friend to crush your soul. He would too, if I asked him.

Are you saying you don't have any Foo Fighter posters? Does having a couple of posters make you a rabid fan? Man, don't exaggerate. Having posters is being a normal fan. Quoting the band in a love letter, or email or whatever, is downright stalker-level-fandom. It's like the Beatlemania except without the Beatles. The Beatles suck, I hate them. Girls who screech suck, I hate them too.

And I actually agree with you on the Yu-Gi-Oh thing. Though I love the games and I'd totally kill my own mom for a pair of those awesome cards, Yu-Gi-Oh is so totally overrated, don't you think? D. sucks too. Man, you want something good? Try Bleach. Or Superwoman.

Just kidding. I hate Superwoman. Her boobs are scary.

There's no way you would be my sensei in any way. Don't fool yourself, squirt. I'm your sensei/sempai/master a thousand times over. Just admit you're my bitch already! After all, aren't I the prince to your soul or something? You love me, damnit!

No, I will not e your Valentine. We're in the middle of December. Ask me in a few month and write me a romantic poem and I might reconsider.

Take care of yourself and try not to let yourself be crushed by a car of something.

The Self-Appoint Love of Your Life.

From: oranges-kick-major-ass-so-stfu-at-ogletheorc-dot-net

To: sammy-rocks-teh-world-at-hotmail-dot-com

Ugh, you suck. Who cares if it's December? Can't we celebrate Valentine at Christmas and Halloween at Easter or something? Like a Jack-and-Sally scenario? Please pretty please?

Here's a poem:

Your eyes are like headlights in my soul

They startle, they immobilise, they dazzle,

They reduce me to a stuttering fool

You and I are two pieces of a single puzzle

And I love you more than I love manga

My love is worse than Beatlemania.

There. Cheezy enough Mr Write-Me-A-Romantic-Poem?

The Beatles don't suck. How can you say they suck? You obviously have no taste in music. Just to prove a point I will watch A Hard Day's Night just as soon as I'm done writing this email to you. Seriously, what we do for love…

I sill have you know that I am not sick. And I bet you probably enjoyed what you found on you're just in denial. Denial, I tell you! I mean, come on…seen that picture on page seven? Check it out if you haven't. How can you not fall in utter lust for this gorgeous creature?

Yeah, I have a fetish for monsters and disabilities. Limps and goblins turn me on. What can I say?

Yes, I am your bitch. NOT. We'll see when I get you handcuffed to my bed. Then we'll see who the bitch it. When you're begging for more and I won't let you have anything and you'll have no choice but to say whatever I want you to say—then we'll see…he he…

How is telling someone they have pretty eyes sexy? Sexy is "you make me burn baby", I'm sure of it. Shall I be your sensei in the art sexiness too? C'mere, young Padawan. You have much to learn ;)

Whatever, man. D. kicks Bleach's sorry ass, end of story. Now go back to your boobs-filled manga. Apparently you seem to have issues with your masculinity or something. I bet you secretly fancy Superwoman but lie about it because you know you're a freak. Freak!

But I love you. You know I do.

You know, it's kind of weird emailing you like this in the evening and during the weekends and stuff and then seeing you at school and you're no different from usual. Honestly: would you mind very much if I just came up to you one day and randomly kissed you? On the mouth? Please? I think if you told me you wouldn't mind I'd do it. Like, in one instant. Screw what people think. I love you, and I'm not ashamed of…on and on I've got nothing to hide…you know what I'm on about.

Actually, if you say you'd mind, I would just take it as you playing hard to get and trying to prove that I'm your bitch or something. So whatever. I'm kissing you whether you want it or not, okay?

I love you. No, I don't just love you. I love you. Okay? I love you.

I love you.

Yours eternally and over and over again…

Your Very Own Personal Temporary Bitch Soon To Be Seme.

From: sammy-rocks-teh-world-at-hotmail-dot-com

To: oranges-kick-major-ass-so-stfu-at-ogletheorc-dot-net

Clem? I want to ask you something. You're my bitch, and you love me, so prove it and be absolutely honest, okay?


Remember how you once said in an email that when I emailed was like a different personality than how I actually normally am? Well, here we go. Here's the million dollar question: if you had to chose, to pick one of the two, which would you say you prefer, out of the two personalities? The email one of the normal one? Completely honestly? Hm? Tell me the truth, I beg you. If you tell me the utter truth not only will I agree to you kissing me but I'll also kiss you back. With tongue. And shove my hand down your pants, or something. Please?

No, I don't have an obsession with boobs. My best friend is a massive fan of Marvel comics and trust me, this is enough to scare one for life. I was too young to see some of the things in there, far too young. I was disturbed, deeply disturbed. Lend me your sweet loving arms so I may stop these shivers by drawing on your body warmth…yummy.

Oh, alright, I do admit that the one on page seven in the ogletheorc gallery looks tasty. What, are you telling me that if I role-played as a limping goblin you'd be incredibly turned on? Fine then, if I do that then in exchange you have to were a white tutu-dress, stocking, suspenders and a satin bow in your hair. And a corset. Then we'll be like the limping, frustrated goblin raping the faery princess, how about that? Fantasy-role-play. A geek such as you could never resist that.

In fact, I bet you're turned on just reading this. Stop jacking off this instant! From now on the only hand allowed down your pants is my own, okay? Damnit, Clem, you love me! Stop cheating on me with imaginary goblins and orcs and your hand! Okay?


The poem was beautiful, honey. I'll keep it forever and when we go to the tattoo parlour together to get my name tattooed across your chest I'll get the poem tattooed in a bracelet around my wrist, alright? That hopelessly romantic enough for you, sensei?

Fine then. Screw Christmas. Answer the question at the beginning of the email, and according to what it says I might ditch Christmas and have Valentine's instead. With you. But bribery in the form of kinky role-play must be put in place, alright? Otherwise we don't have a deal.

Now get to replying. I don't care what anime you're watching or what you're doing or how hard your sister is kicking you to get off the computer. I need this answer, damnit!

Take care of yourself. I don't like my toys to be damaged.

Your Master and Seme Whether You Want It r Not.

(I didn't know what seme was and then I googled it and now I know and let me put it simply, squirt: Meseme, youuke. Deal with it.)

From: oranges-kick-major-ass-so-stfu-at-ogletheorc-dot-net

To: sammy-rocks-teh-world-at-hotmail-dot-com

Oh, yaye, kinky role-play…I didn't know you were such a closet perv. It's kind of hot. So, fantasy role-play, a kiss with tongue and me being seme for one night (that's my condition, kay, and I insist) in exchange of me telling you honestly whether I prefer the email-you or the actual-you?

Huney, you really didn't need to use this much bribery, but whatever. Since you're offering. I look forward to getting a kiss from you.

Yes, I prefer your email-you. It's kind of more psychotic and weirder and hotter. I mean, seeing you in school it's kind of weird picturing you as a goblin-role-playing seme, but when you email it just sounds incredibly convincing. You almost make it sound sexy to be your bitch.

So, hands down, email-you wins. Which is kind of weird.

Ah well. I answered the question. Now…payment?

I'm waiting for the signal form you, lovely. Beloved. Darling.

I love you so much. I love you. I really love you.

I really do.

Eternally yours,

And yours again and again and again for as long as I'll have energy to breathe.

Your Bitch.

From: sammy-rocks-teh-world-at-hotmail-dot-com

To: oranges-kick-major-ass-so-stfu-at-ogletheorc-dot-net

I want you to know that it isn't Sammy you've been emailing for all this time. It's me.

Ebenezer Spade.

From: oranges-kick-major-ass-so-stfu-at-ogletheorc-dot-net

To: sammy-rocks-teh-world-at-hotmail-dot-com

I've got another confession to make, my frieeeend…

I'm no fool…

Because seriously, dude:


-A Week Later-

It's Sunday evening and Evie is already in bed and asleep. The Time Thieves is on the TV, the flickering image on the screen the only source of light in the dark living room. We're sprawled on the couch with our legs tangled in each other and a blanket thrown over them. A bowl of fresh strawberries and grapes is standing on the coffee table beside the jug of fresh homemade orange juice. Massacre and Slaughterer are sauntering around on the floor. I'm leaning against a warm body with my head on a hard shoulder.

"Your stupid hair is getting in my face, fagtard."

"Take it like the bitch you are, closet-case-kid."

"I thought we agreed that you were my bitch."

"You owed me one night as the seme, remember? And this night is the night."

"You mean I won't even be able to use the silk ties I prepared upstairs?"

"No. Screw silk ties. When you're a man, you use handcuffs that chaff your wrists so I can kiss the raw red skin afterwards."

"You dirty old sadist you."

"You know you love it."

Eben abruptly pounces on me, pressing my body into the soft couch and putting all his weight on me. His beautiful face is inches from mine, the red-tipped hair tickling my face, his fingers slowly inching their way underneath the hem of my We Know Where you Live shirt, and I can hardly breathe and then he kisses me and his lips are hard and hot against mine and his tongue slips into my mouth and slides against my own tongue and it's like having pure sugar injected in your bloodstream and I can hardly breathe and I don't want to breathe, because this is perfect and he is perfect and why the hell am I trying to act all tough and seme-like?

I'm so completely his bitch.

And I love it.

And here, ladies and gentlemen, is the end of our little story. Hope you enjoyed the fluffy romance. I'm a sucker for fluffy light-hearted romance.

Now, I'm off the write the Valentine's day oneshot I promised…it's going to be tough though, what with the random feast that is the list of things I have to include in there…wish me luck.

Take care amigos.

Asta la vista babeh.

(sorry. I needed to say that.)