Untitled

Pairing: Andy Dolan/the fortunate reader.

Light smut

The best beds are the best beds because of who inhabits them at night – or, as is obvious, inhabits them at any spur-of-the-moment occasion that you're fortunate enough to be invited along to. You couldn't imagine any better bed than the one you're lying on right now, fresh from the shower on a warm evening after an even warmer day. The shower is still running, cleansing the bed's wonderful owner.

This is the best bed because it's his bed. Andy Dolan's bed.

You're no stranger to this bed, you've been seeing Andy for a while now. He has let you cohabit it for just as long.

You were supposed to find something nice to wear for the evening. Andy has invited you out and you were wondering if you should put on some of the new pieces that Andy bought for you yesterday – though as you lie here you find yourself thinking that 'out' really wasn't where you'd most want to be invited right now. Imagining Andy in the shower has a tendency to have that effect on you.

As you lie there planning deviously how to best tempt him into letting you run your fingers through his hair, the shower stops. Silent moments follow. You know he's towelling off and is going to come out of there in not long, yet you haven't been able to make yourself get dressed. You smirk to yourself and cross your legs – maybe if you uncross them when he enters he'll take notice and postpone what is just a dinner date? The sushi might be as good as he claims, but you'd rather stay at home – well, his home anyway. Let him find something else to eat!

The door slides open and Andy steps out of it, towel around the waist, moving briskly towards one of the wardrobes. To the one where his drawers dedicated to underwear are – robes, workout wear, bathing shorts, and a few other things have also found their way onto its hangers or into its drawers. He doesn't look at you, but you know better than to assume that he hasn't noticed you.

"You should start getting dressed," he reprimands you. He tosses aside the towel before diving in after some fresh boxers, you prefer to study him rather than to give him an answer. After choosing a black one with a waistband adorned with pink cherry blossoms and some white kanji logograms, he puts them on.

“What are you going to wear?” Andy tries. He never was good at conflict. Sure he could scold you pretty thoroughly if he really was angry, but he's not good at being stern when he's just trying to control a situation rationally. You feel like you'd rather control things in your favour, thus you stay quiet. He would have to look at you at some point if you don't say anything, so you put on a mischievous smile instead – he has told you several times that it's the most attractive thing you can wear. You like his doofy smile better.

Andy sighs. He's onto what you're trying to do and he knows that if he looks at you then all is lost and you two spend the night in instead. So he keeps his stare firmly and defiantly planted in the wardrobe, the same one as before so he's not going to find anything nice to wear for the evening unless he's going for a swim or a jog – or he could just walk around in his undies, that is always nice according to you.

Of course, he can't remain cute-sulky for long before you burst into laughter, so of course you do. Finally he looks at you.

“What?” he asks annoyed. You continue laughing, but decide to be the one who throws him a bone rather than vice versa since you feel bad about laughing at him. You decide to change plans, be nice to him.

“We're going,” you assure him, though that was hardly what you had in mind just moments ago. “I just wanted to give you something to think about while we're out and about. I want you to think about this, think hard! I know I'm going to think hard...” His eyes are filled with a curious blend of emotions: Mild frustration, resignation, and whatever that gleam in them is – probably the same thing that has made him bite his lip and stare at you while, probably unconsciously, avoiding looking into your eyes. It's another of his doofy looks – you love them, every one – and you burst into laughter again.

His expression turns to disappointment as his eyes turn to yours. “Sorry,” you offer, though you aren't able to stop yourself laughing. “I'm so sorry! You're so cute with that look, and... I just wanted to...” Rather than finish the sentence you decide to show him what you wanted to.

Your uncrossing of your legs is somehow accompanied by a strange whine, like someone repeatedly jerking fishing line from a reel that has rusted almost shut, yet at the same time it sounds almost like an animal. The moment is ruined. No one is going to feel particularly attractive when that sound decides to involve itself in one's attempts at seduction. You certainly don't feel it any more. From the looks of it, Andy really had been thinking of what you wanted him to, but now things were returning to normal again. Disappointing.

The staff had gone home by this time of day so the door to the bedroom had been left open. The sound clearly came from somewhere beyond the hallway, but it's difficult to tell how far into the house the source is. Andy grabs the first and best thing in the wardrobe, a red, flowery yukata – you haven't seen him wear it before, nor does it seem entirely like his current style, so it might an older piece which he doesn't see as fashionable any more – and quickly drapes himself in it. You have barely gotten your underwear on before he hurries out of the room, yelling “Hey!”

You have managed to get pants on and located a top when Andy's next outburst comes from somewhere in the house: “What the fuck do you think you're doing in here? This is my fucking house!” For a second you imagine that someone has made their way into the house – a paparazzi perhaps? Then Andy yells loudly: “Hello? Hello! Is there anyone there? Don't think I didn't...” – the final words are left hanging. Perhaps there isn't anyone there after all? Something must have made that noise, though. Fully clothed you finally make your way into the hallway and down the stairs to the living room.

“I heard that!” he yells. “Oh, I heard that! Someone is fucking squeaking in my house! Or, whining! Squeaking or whining or whatever the fuck it is that you're doing – don't think I didn't fucking hear it!” You join Andy as he vents his rage to the basement stairs. As far as you can tell the basement stairs have done nothing wrong to anybody before so you assume that whatever Andy is raging at is still downstairs in the basement itself. Or at least he thinks it is.

“What's going on?” you ask him. He doesn't look at you when he answers, but keeps looking at the stairs as if the perpetrator of the squeaky-whiny noise is going to show their head at any moment and he needs to properly scold them the very second that they do.

“They're down there! I know they are!”

You stare too. No perpetrator ascends. That doesn't stop Andy from scolding them.

“I know you're down there! I'm coming down there! You better be fucking sorry when I come down there!” Andy sets down the stairs, the kimono flowing round his thighs. You follow at a little distance, giving him a little personal perimeter to blow up in if needs be.

The basement consists of a white-walled hallway with a bend and three doors, all three are closed. Andy curses out one door at the time and jerks each, but they are all locked. Following this discovery Andy curses once and then goes broodingly silent.

“What now?” you ask him. He stares at one of the doors as if he's planning to ram it down, then he looks at you.

“I'm fucking going in there!” His eyes are filled with determination. You decide to calm the situation a bit.

“Then you're going to need keys, but listen to me for a–” You're cut short as Andy bounds up the stairs again. “Hey!” you yell after him. “Wait! Listen!” Andy doesn't listen, or at least he doesn't wait nor reply. Instead he runs past the kitchen towards the servants' changing room. When you catch up to him he's standing in front of a fire hose cabinet, staring at it as if he expects it to make some new ungodly noise.

“I don't think hosing someone is going to solve anything, Andy,” you try to reason with him.

“It's not a fire hose,” he replies, “but this fucking thing is locked too.”

“What?” What he just said doesn't make any sense to you. This is beginning to seem like an evening for such things.

“It's to prevent intruders from getting the keys to the rest of the house even if they get in here,” Andy explains as if that explains anything.

“So... If they try to get the keys you hose them?”

“No, there is no hose. Just keys.”

“Oh. I see.” A key cabinet pretending to be a fire hose cabinet. You're not entirely sure how clever that is, but no part of the decor in this house was Andy's choice, he's told you as much every time he complains about how ugly the couches in the living room are, so this strange decision must clearly be someone else's. “But where is the key to the keys?”

“I know the servants have it available somewhere. Let's look in the changing room.” Of course, when Andy tries the door, it's locked and like all locked doors it gets its own little curse. Meanwhile you've studied the lock on the cabinet and it doesn't seem to fit a regular key, but a box key. Just like the water hose has outside. Without a word you leave to get it. Andy looks at you with confusion.

“What now? Where are you going?”

“Out to get the key.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” He jogs after you, trying to make sense out of what's going on now. One second he had a goal, getting into the rooms in the basement, which he pursued with equal amounts of determination and confusion. Now you've taken charge and he's just confused – Andy constantly needs to know what is going on, so you know that telling him less as little as possible will make him follow you wherever you want. He catches up with you as you open the door to the back.

“Hey! Don't ignore me!” Andy steps close to you, but doesn't touch you. He always seems hesitant to do that.

“It's not the normal kind of key,” you answer him. “It's this kind.” You pick up the box key from near the regulators to the water system, and hold it up. Andy blinks, still not quite sure if this is the right key.

“Why the fuck would anyone lock up all the keys and then put the key that unlocks all the other keys...” Andy takes a deep breath before he finishes the sentence: “Put that fucking key in the fucking garden, outside the house as if that's not wherefrom burglars arrive in the first place!”

“Calm down or you'll get on the front page of something again,” you whisper sensibly to him, reminding him that there may be paparazzo about. Not waiting for an answer you go back in again.

The box key fit the lock on the key cabinet. Unlocked, its door swings open without as much as a squeak.

“Which key is the one you need?” you ask.

“Well, uh...” is Andy's best reply. “They're numbered. The numbers probably mean something,” he concludes.

On the inside of the cabinet door is a diagram of fire escapes. It's a white sheet of paper on a strong red background. It's very noticeable where it hangs, as if it demands to be looked at. So you look. As does Andy. He's the first one to utter his eureka.

“The doors are numbered! They're numbered too! If there is a key numbered '301' and '302' then those are two of the basement doors. Uh... The third one has no number, though. Why doesn't anything work like it should in this fucking house?”

“Well,” you surmise. “There is no key numbered '303' so if it's here then it must have a different number. If we compare the numbers to the other doors to the keys, then the one left should be the one to the last door. And if there is more than one key left after the elimination process then we'll just bring all the ones that we have no match for.”

Andy blows his cheeks in exasperation. This is clearly testing his patience. Fortunately you don't need much time to deduct that there is only one key whose door is unaccounted for: 'B06', a strange number.

“B06,” you tell Andy. Instantly he thrusts his hand into the cabinet with such gusto that you sort of expect him to hold the key over his head in triumph afterwards, maybe accompanied by a small victory melody. You're almost disappointed when he just runs off with it instead.

“Andy! Wait a little!” you yell after him. When he shows no sign of slowing down you decide to jog after him in case he manages to create a disaster of some kind, social or otherwise.

You join Andy by the first door – number 301, if you remember correctly. He has already unlocked and opened it. Now he's wordlessly pointing a warning finger into the dark. You're not sure what his reaction would be, probably another hare-brained scolding – come to think of it, any other reaction to this situation than calling the police is hare-brained, so you guess you're being equally daft. It's too late to do anything about that now, though, so you might as well go ahead and reduce the potential damage as much as possible. To that end you put your hand inside the room and feel around for a light switch by the door.

There is one, and a quick flick of it reveals that the room is nothing more than a big fuse box and the main router to the internet connection. Andy looks disappointed for a second, before determination grips him again and he moves on to what must be room 302.

He thrusts a key at the lock, but after a bit of angry fumbling and muttering he decides to have a glance at it, reacts to what he sees with a snort and tosses the key over his shoulder. You presume that would be the key to 301. Sighing you go to pick it up. You hear the sound of a lock being unlocked behind you and as you bend down after the one key, the other hits you in the back, having been flung just as blindly by Andy.

“Seriously, Andy?” you admonish him, but as you turn to face him he's back to pointing, clearly expecting some kind of whiner/squeaker to come out of this room and face him. You sigh, then go flip the switch of this room too.

The light reveals another small room. This one has a water boiler, plenty of pipes, and a few flattened cardboard boxes. Andy bends down a little to glance under the boiler before he finally lowers his finger.

“Andy, could we possibly investigate the next door with less- Hey! Listen!” You try to reason with Andy, but he doesn't even wait for you to finish the sentence before he strides over to the next door to have a disagreeable interaction with its lock. You sigh, again, giving up on being reasonable. In any case, it's quite entertaining to watch him fumble with the lock while muttering obscenities to it, as if the door itself had made a offensive Tumblr post about him, so you settle for watching things unfold.

Andy finally manages to get the door unlocked and jerks it open. Then, because this has worked so well for him before, or perhaps in spite of it, he raises his finger of rebuke in an overly dramatic manner, as if he's challenging the whiner/squeaker to make a sound.

“You're in there- I know you're in there! I don't give a fuck why you're in there! Not a single fuck! Just get the fuck-” Andy lowers his gaze and stares at... the perpetrator?

A furry, chubby creature the size of a small dog, with small unimpressed eyes and a cap on its head, trots out of the dark. It stops in front of Andy, looks at him like it's the one who's tired of all the spectacle. From the corner of its mouth hangs a luxurious sausage, uncooked and with small dark specks of spice.

“What sausage is that?” Andy asks the creature in the same voice one would use to admonish a child of five that has been caught stealing sweets. The creature ignores the noisy being that it has just encountered and trots on past him towards the stairs up to the ground floor.

“Hey! Is that my sausage?” Andy yells after it. “Hey! Is that my Argentinian chorizo? Hey! Stop!” His fury rises at a steady incline. His finger has gone back to pointing, this time at the creature as it ascends the stairs, seemingly to making sure that the accusation hits the right recipient. The sausage is hand made by an Argentinian butcher in Brisbane, this much you know from what Andy has told you. You also know that he really loves those chorizos, with avocado, olives, cherry tomatoes, salad, some kind of herb ranch he's never given you the recipe to, and a fat, truffle-flavoured cheese you can't remember the name of. Andy often sports a troubled expression, there is a side to him there which you don't yet understand, but some things still bring a sense of bliss to him. This dish is one of those things. When he sighs contently with closed eyes you feel like empathically co-orgasming with him. His reaction to the thieving creature speaks just as loudly of how important the sausages are to him.

“Give me back my chorizo!” roars Andy.

“What are ye doin here?” says the open doorway.

Andy swing his finger back to the doorway, almost slapping across the face the strange figure that has appeared there: A bearded man in tartan and a 1930s goggled motorcycle helmet faces Andy. His hands have been balled into fists and sternly placed on his hips, and his chin juts out confrontationally, looking as if Andy has just interrupted some kind of important project.

“Who the fuck... are you?” Andy begins in utter consternation, and continues by disregarding his earlier statement by asking: “And why the fuck are you in there?”

“An this now, ye wretch!” scolds the bearded figure in the doorway. “Ye silly sod! What possess'd ye tae do that?”

“What?” Andy demands back, now pointing in the direction that the chorizo pilfering creature went. “Are you talking bout that thing? What the fuck is that thing? And what the fuck is he doing with my sausage?”

“That one's Georgie. He's as dangerous as ye can believe,” the beard declares proudly. “He's a combat wombat! An now ye've gone an let him oot!”

Andy pauses, his face covered in confusion. You're much too amused by the whole ordeal to help him out in any way. Andy's finger finally lowers. “A what?” he finally asks.

“A combat wombat!” the beard states slowly and loudly, as if this should have been obvious from the beginning.

“A 'combat wombat'?” Andy's disbelief is palpable. He takes a deep breath before bursting: “What the fuck do you mean 'combat wombat'?”

“Weel now, yir as thick as the Brit-” the beard begins with cracking patience.

“And what the fuck is the deal with making off with my chorizo?” Andy interrupts loudly, getting back to the topic that is important to him.

“Does wombats even eat meat?” you ask, but no one seems inclined to answer.

“Oh, so that is the way it is!” the beard harrumphs. “An here Ah thought the Aussies were kin to us an all. Havin been under the auld English boot heel like us an all. Under king and colonialism like us an all. But nae! Supportive like a bra until there is talk of jist one sausage, then the hooks come undone!”

“Oh, fuck you! Don't even try to take that one with me!” Andy retorts. “I noticed some chorizos were missing days ago and almost blamed the staff. I could have fucking fired someone for your antics with that... that... Where did that fucking thing go?”

“He's a combat wombat,” the beard corrects.

“His name is Georgie,” you interject pleasantly, “and he looks really cute in that hat.”

Andy gives you a look that indicates that he doesn't think you're taking this situation as seriously as it should. “They have broken into my fucking home, stolen my fucking chorizo, and all you can think about is that fucking hat?”

“It's a camera hat,” the beard informs, clearly thinking that this makes a huge difference.

“A camera hat? In my fucking home?” Andy explodes, finding that this does indeed make a huge difference, though likely not the same one that the beard had in mind. “A fucking paparazzi wombat in my fucking home?”

“He's a combat wombat,” the beard corrects again. “The hat is for security purposes.”

“Purpose? What purpose?” Andy asks suspiciously. “What has that fucking thing been recording?”

“His name is Georgie,” you add helpfully.

“I don't care if he's the fucking wombat Santa! He's sneaking around recording-” Andy yells.

“He's nae Santa, ye wee numpty,” the beard corrects. “An the recordin he's been doin is tae keep British influence oot o ma hideout. Keep an eye oot, so tae say. Keepin an eye on erethin.”

“What do you mean, 'everything'?” Andy starts pointing at the beard again. “Some kind of fucking one-of-a-kind pervert you are! Using a fucking wombat to peep around in my fucking house, that is fucking fucked up!”

The beard sees this as going nowhere and raises his hands in defeat. “Weel, Ah better get ma combatant back an all. That wee clever sod made off with the sausage before he was done with his trainin. Ah'm off tae get the ham!”

“What trai-,” Andy begins before interrupting himself. “Ham? What the fuck do you want with my ham?” You can barely contain yourself from bursting into laughter, but Andy would never forgive you if you did so you try your very best to keep silent.

The beard determinately strides past Andy and you, treating the question as to be too obvious to be addressed.

“You stay away from my ham!” Andy yells, pointing extra hard at the beard to get his point across.

The beard hastes up the stairs. Andy stands where he is, as perplexed as he likely has every reason to be. After staring after the beard for a time he looks at you, seeking support. “Did you see that? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

You throw fuel at the fire: “What do you think he's going to do with your ham?”

Andy blinks, turns towards the stairs and roars: “That fucking bastard!” Then he runs up them, his untied yukata flowing around him. You jog after, eager to see what kind of showdown is going to go down upstairs. You imagine that if the beard decides to point as hard as Andy is doing then it's going to resemble a pair of gunslingers from old Italian Western movies, though in a format simultaneously less sedate, because of all the shouting, and less deadly, because fingers aren't really guns.

The scene begins with the sound of a refrigerator door slamming shut. You ascend just in time to see the rest of it enact itself before you:

Andy is galloping towards the kitchen and still has more than a few metres to go before he reaches it. The beard, however, exits from it, rounding the corner of its arched doorway. His hand is raised ahead of him, in it there is a package of thin-sliced ham, opened, presumably just moments earlier.

The beard hollers in a tone of something that lies somewhere in-between command and whatever it is that Scooter does. “I got the ham! I got the ham! All troops tae me!”

“That's my fucking ham!” Andy snaps. The proceeds to grab at the ham the second he gets within reach of it. He does actually manage to get some kind of hold on it. Roaring he tries to jerk it out of the beard's hand. “Give... it... back!”

“Weel now, ya cunt! Ya wielder of strunty pokes! Never have Ah seen such disloyalty!” The beard bares his teeth, pulling the ham back, fighting as best he can for the control over it. “Do ye mean to starve ma army?”

“That thing isn't getting any fucking ham!” growls Andy. “Not one fucking slice of it!”

As if to spite Andy's protests, the beard uses his free hand to somehow dislodge one of the slices from the package, then proceeds to throw it as far as he can.

“You cunt!” roars Andy. “That's a slice of ham!” Then, in an attempt to get control over the ham package by unbalancing the beard, he manages only to topple the both of them down onto the floor.

Meanwhile the thrown slice follows a lazy trajectory through the air and lands on your head, but you're much too entertained by the spectacle to be too bothered by it. You pick up the slice and hand it down to your co-spectator, Georgie, who, having also arrived in time to behold most of the scuffle, seems rather unimpressed by the whole thing. The camera hat is still attached, though, so at least the whole show will be preserved for the future. Georgie, politely takes the slice of ham, squeaks and trots off with it, leaving through the patio door.

The sound makes both men stop rolling on the floor and look up.

“You're right,” you inform the beard. “He really does like ham.”

“What the fuck are you doing?” Andy asks with the incredulity of someone who has just witnessed the ultimate treachery. “Why... would you do that?”

The beard's response bears the same tone of being betrayed. “Ma troops! Come back! We're nae done...” He gets up and wails. “Georgie! Wait! Ye're all Ah've got!” Making off into the garden, following Georgie's footsteps, with the packet of ham, he keeps desperately calling for his only ally, the combat wombat, to return to him.

You saunter over to the patio door, close it and lock it. “And that's that, I suppose,” you tell Andy, voice full of satisfaction.

“Why did you do that?” Andy pouts. He still hasn't risen from where he is sitting on the floor. “You let them get away with my ham...”

“What's important is that they are out of your house now,” you comfort him. “What else was I supposed to do?

“You could... You should have called someone!” Andy reprimands sulkily.

“Who, Andy? Who was I supposed to call?” you ask.

“Anyone! The police! Or my manager! Or...” Andy runs out of suggestions.

“And did you want me to call the police and tell them that a strange person was stealing your sausages in order to train a combat wombat named Georgie to wage war an England?” you ask him patiently.

“And that fucking hat! Don't forget the fucking hat!” Andy adds sourly.

“Yes, and the fact that the wombat eats meat,” you say, finishing the summary. “What do you think anyone would say to this?”

Andy's shoulders slump. “They would say I'm mad... Fucking mad...” he concludes, making it sound like he has just lost absolutely everything.

“Well, you are a bit mad, Andy, but you're my kind of mad,” you reassure him. “And I saw all of it, you will never have to fear me doubting you. Likewise, you saw it too, which means that I don't have to fear being alone with this knowledge either. Besides, some things are best kept as a secret shared only with the most special other in one's life. You know, kind of like the best kinks?” You shimmy out of your pants, signalling that now that there are no more squeaky-whiny things left in the house to interrupt the enactment of said kinks, it's time to continue where you left off. You're much too late for the dinner reservation anyway.

Andy stares a bit at you, slowly resigning to your arguments, perhaps especially the pants-down one. Sighing he gets up and follows your tail back towards the bedroom. Still, he has some problems letting it all go.“I really wish we could have at least gotten hold of that fucking camera. Who knows what's on there?”

“We will never know,” you answer sagely. “But what I know I that the camera isn't here and that no one is going to see whatever you decide to do to me.” Your demure smile seals the deal, the activities for the evening decided. Even so, Andy closes and locks the bedroom door after himself.