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Entry tags:
Sharon & Match: Ma’am, I'm a Homosexual
Returning to the mansion either very early or very late depending on your definition, Match finds a girl in his bed. She happens to be Sharon.
There was a bare arm protruding from beneath the sheets.
Presumably the body it was attached to was somewhere beneath them, too, but the arm was all that was visible. It was long and pale, but not in a way that indicated the owner was merely fair-skinned. Rather, it was the unhealthy pallor of skin that had never seen sunlight. Cave salamanders would have envied its natural glow.
Either way, it hadn't been in Match's bed when he'd left that morning.
The bag of cans that had been loosely held in the teens hand hit the floor to scatter across the room as Match stood there. As each breath of air left his lungs the temperature of the room rose, panic freezing him in place as he tried to get his bearings. "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit-" He raised his hands to push his hair back, desperately trying to will himself not to have a panic attack as everything set in. "Shit, I can't explain a dead body. Oh god oh godohgod."
The sheets stirred as the figure beneath them rolled onto their back, then stretched. Another pale hand extended to lace fingers with the first over the intruder's theoretical head, and the way the sheets pulled against the foot of the bed indicated the stranger was quite tall. A moment later the figure sat up, yawning hugely before she replied.
"Very dramatic. Do not worry. You will not be called to testify." The unperturbed remark came from a plain-faced girl with wide-set yellow eyes, who gave Match a sleepy blink. She had a mass of purple hair which was somehow both wildly uncombed and flattened by bedhead.
She might also have been naked. Which was to say that, while her nakedness could not be totally confirmed, it certainly appeared that way and the only thing shielding Match from this cursed knowledge was a falling sheet.
Never in his whole life had Match ever moved so fast to yank the sheet up and over the girl's shoulders, clasping his hands firmly atop them to keep her modesty — and more importantly him from seeing anything he very much did not want to see. “Ma’am, firstly I am a homosexual and even before that — this is my room, and I don’t have a roommate.” His attempt to glare down at her was greatly diminished by the utter confusion that had remained on his face. Yellow eyes and purple hair but… Catseye was a cat. Well, something like a werecat with oddly human hands. Maybe he missed the memo announcing that there was a new arrival and that he'd gotten himself a roommate.
The girl gave him a bland look. Then, in deference to his homosexual sensibilities, she further gathered the sheet to her chest to avoid exposing Match to the secondary sexual characteristics she did not have.
"So scandalized," she remarked. "Yet I have been naked every other time you have seen me."
“I have never seen you before in my life.” Match stated vehemently as he shook his head, finally taking a step away from the girl. He gave her a wide berth, watching her cautiously. “Unless I’ve got a heterosexual personality? In my brain?” This was whispered in horror and he took another step back, his back hitting the door in his urgency to get away from.
The girl stared at him. Match appeared to be suffering whatever the opposite of "gay panic" was. Heterosexual anxiety, perhaps. Either way normal brain functions were not currently engaging, least of all critical thinking. She wondered if she should be concerned.
"Okay," said the girl, grasping at the sheet, "appear to have broken you. Shall go elsewhere." Grumbling at the necessity, she pulled the rest of the bedding free and turned her back to the boy so she could secure the sheet around herself from a position that wouldn't further scar his young mind. From beneath the fabric emerged a long purple tail, twitching.
The gasp that sounded through the room at the reveal would have put a D-list starlet on an afternoon soap opera to shame, as he raised one hand to his chest in bewildered shock, his mind finally putting one and one together in true dyscalculia fashion. “Catseye?” Her alias was sharp, still edged in shock as he slowly sat against the solid door, back sliding down.
“But you’re a werecat!” It was said much in the same fashion that a child complained about having to eat their vegetables, though Match’s voice was deeper.
"Yes. Is the 'were' part." The newly-swaddled Sharon slipped from the bed and tried her feet. The movement was unsteady, as if she was trying to stand on sea legs. She steadied herself against the nightstand and glanced at the traumatized Match. "You are all right?" she inquired, wobbling slightly. "In need of an adult?"
“I want my grandma,” Match groaned into his hands, before tiredly scrubbing at his face with his hands to squint up at the girl, and thank god for the cover, though part of him noted he’d need new bedding. “Are you offering to be an adult or to get Angelo or Sooraya? Because you cannot run around in a sheet.”
He hefted himself off the floor, and though he was a little calmer visibly, the wide berth continued as he made his way to his dresser to pull out spare clothing he’d gotten at the center. “We’re… about the same height, so these should work. I’ll turn around and you tell me when you’re done?”
"Decline, thank you. Clothing is tyranny." And a potential encumbrance. Nonetheless, Sharon was feeling generous. "Shall find an adult for you," she said, making her way towards the door to the hallway. She kept her hand on things as she moved: a dresser, a wall, the back of a chair. She kept overbalancing. Her center of gravity, which had spent the last quarter of the year calibrated for a quadruped, was not acclimating well. She had the nagging sense she was walking on her own ankles.
She paused at the door. Anyone looking may have noticed the way she bit at her lower lip, as if she felt the slow creep of reservations. Then she shook her head in a flurry of purple and squared her shoulders.
"Drink water and sit," she instructed. "I shall return."
And with that, Sharon Smith made her exit.
There was a bare arm protruding from beneath the sheets.
Presumably the body it was attached to was somewhere beneath them, too, but the arm was all that was visible. It was long and pale, but not in a way that indicated the owner was merely fair-skinned. Rather, it was the unhealthy pallor of skin that had never seen sunlight. Cave salamanders would have envied its natural glow.
Either way, it hadn't been in Match's bed when he'd left that morning.
The bag of cans that had been loosely held in the teens hand hit the floor to scatter across the room as Match stood there. As each breath of air left his lungs the temperature of the room rose, panic freezing him in place as he tried to get his bearings. "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit-" He raised his hands to push his hair back, desperately trying to will himself not to have a panic attack as everything set in. "Shit, I can't explain a dead body. Oh god oh godohgod."
The sheets stirred as the figure beneath them rolled onto their back, then stretched. Another pale hand extended to lace fingers with the first over the intruder's theoretical head, and the way the sheets pulled against the foot of the bed indicated the stranger was quite tall. A moment later the figure sat up, yawning hugely before she replied.
"Very dramatic. Do not worry. You will not be called to testify." The unperturbed remark came from a plain-faced girl with wide-set yellow eyes, who gave Match a sleepy blink. She had a mass of purple hair which was somehow both wildly uncombed and flattened by bedhead.
She might also have been naked. Which was to say that, while her nakedness could not be totally confirmed, it certainly appeared that way and the only thing shielding Match from this cursed knowledge was a falling sheet.
Never in his whole life had Match ever moved so fast to yank the sheet up and over the girl's shoulders, clasping his hands firmly atop them to keep her modesty — and more importantly him from seeing anything he very much did not want to see. “Ma’am, firstly I am a homosexual and even before that — this is my room, and I don’t have a roommate.” His attempt to glare down at her was greatly diminished by the utter confusion that had remained on his face. Yellow eyes and purple hair but… Catseye was a cat. Well, something like a werecat with oddly human hands. Maybe he missed the memo announcing that there was a new arrival and that he'd gotten himself a roommate.
The girl gave him a bland look. Then, in deference to his homosexual sensibilities, she further gathered the sheet to her chest to avoid exposing Match to the secondary sexual characteristics she did not have.
"So scandalized," she remarked. "Yet I have been naked every other time you have seen me."
“I have never seen you before in my life.” Match stated vehemently as he shook his head, finally taking a step away from the girl. He gave her a wide berth, watching her cautiously. “Unless I’ve got a heterosexual personality? In my brain?” This was whispered in horror and he took another step back, his back hitting the door in his urgency to get away from.
The girl stared at him. Match appeared to be suffering whatever the opposite of "gay panic" was. Heterosexual anxiety, perhaps. Either way normal brain functions were not currently engaging, least of all critical thinking. She wondered if she should be concerned.
"Okay," said the girl, grasping at the sheet, "appear to have broken you. Shall go elsewhere." Grumbling at the necessity, she pulled the rest of the bedding free and turned her back to the boy so she could secure the sheet around herself from a position that wouldn't further scar his young mind. From beneath the fabric emerged a long purple tail, twitching.
The gasp that sounded through the room at the reveal would have put a D-list starlet on an afternoon soap opera to shame, as he raised one hand to his chest in bewildered shock, his mind finally putting one and one together in true dyscalculia fashion. “Catseye?” Her alias was sharp, still edged in shock as he slowly sat against the solid door, back sliding down.
“But you’re a werecat!” It was said much in the same fashion that a child complained about having to eat their vegetables, though Match’s voice was deeper.
"Yes. Is the 'were' part." The newly-swaddled Sharon slipped from the bed and tried her feet. The movement was unsteady, as if she was trying to stand on sea legs. She steadied herself against the nightstand and glanced at the traumatized Match. "You are all right?" she inquired, wobbling slightly. "In need of an adult?"
“I want my grandma,” Match groaned into his hands, before tiredly scrubbing at his face with his hands to squint up at the girl, and thank god for the cover, though part of him noted he’d need new bedding. “Are you offering to be an adult or to get Angelo or Sooraya? Because you cannot run around in a sheet.”
He hefted himself off the floor, and though he was a little calmer visibly, the wide berth continued as he made his way to his dresser to pull out spare clothing he’d gotten at the center. “We’re… about the same height, so these should work. I’ll turn around and you tell me when you’re done?”
"Decline, thank you. Clothing is tyranny." And a potential encumbrance. Nonetheless, Sharon was feeling generous. "Shall find an adult for you," she said, making her way towards the door to the hallway. She kept her hand on things as she moved: a dresser, a wall, the back of a chair. She kept overbalancing. Her center of gravity, which had spent the last quarter of the year calibrated for a quadruped, was not acclimating well. She had the nagging sense she was walking on her own ankles.
She paused at the door. Anyone looking may have noticed the way she bit at her lower lip, as if she felt the slow creep of reservations. Then she shook her head in a flurry of purple and squared her shoulders.
"Drink water and sit," she instructed. "I shall return."
And with that, Sharon Smith made her exit.