hot
sky
blue

Hot Sky Blue

by Livia Julad and Calico

Author's notes: (by Julad) So, one day in chat we were all complaining about our unfinished stories, and ended up swapping stalled drafts. I took home this lovely, sexy, half-written scenario of Livia's and toyed with the middle and rewrote the ending. Then I suggested to Livia that Calico could do a pretty good job on the sex, which turned out to be the understatement of the year.

Mandragora and Resonant did their usual wonders on beta, and lo! it was done and the whole thing hadn't been half as painful as anything else any of us have ever done.

Also: we called this a PWP for archive purposes, but that's just the closest thing for a story which doesn't seem to fit any label. Could be AU but might not be, could be First Time if you like those, could be Drama depending how you define the word. It's a choose-your-own-category story.

Finally, you get three author websites for the price of one.
Livia: http://internettrash.com/users/livia
Julad: http://members.dencity.com/anhedonia/julad
Calico: http://members.dencity.com/anhedonia/calico


I'm on the sidelines of the court, lounging near a chain-link fence. It's a perfect day, the kind that makes you believe against all reason that the summer will last forever, the kind that sends cavedwellers stumbling outdoors to see eternity shimmering in an immaculate blue sky. The heat beats down through dry air, making me sweat. It's so hot I can feel it burning through my shorts, so hot my scalp prickles under my hair.

I blink against the sun as the pack arrives. Tall, athletic types, moving in a close knot towards the court. They don't notice me; they're here to play the game, and the game is serious business. Insults are tossed back and forth lightly, but with intimidating posturing. They appear to be rival tribes of some sort. I can see that this is more than a release of energy and aggression. In the heat of the day, in this acceptable social context, observed and appreciated by an audience, what was once a simple game alchemizes into something more. It becomes performance, almost. Ritual.

I like rituals.

I observe the pack. They move like a flock of birds, a single wheeling shape made up of individuals all moving according to some equation I don't know, can't even guess at. And then he catches my eye, one man a little taller than the rest, a little smoother in his movements. He's wearing sweat-shorts that show off his long, strong legs, and a baggy sweatshirt that does nothing to hide the breadth of his shoulders.

I lean back, pressing my shoulders into the chain-link fence. Excitement curls in my belly, and I let arousal push me to a heightened awareness. The tension is part of my personal ritual, here, and the danger too. The delicious, terrifying chance that he might look up and catch the hunger in my eyes...

Then the tall blue-eyed jock steps out a little from the pack, crosses one arm over the other, and reaches down. He catches the hem of his sweatshirt with both hands and pulls up, arms twisting as they rise.

He's not showing off. But he is posing. It's a macho display, pure confidence, all the more sensual for being so completely unconscious, so natural.

He's got a tank top on, but as he drags the sweatshirt up, lifts his arms over his head, the undershirt gets dragged up as well and I get just a glimpse, a flash of pale, underexposed skin-- chest, belly, so bright in the sunlight it's blinding.

I squint to catch the details as he tugs the sweatshirt over his head, strips off the sleeves. My eyes flicker over the shadowed terrain of his muscled chest, and then gravity takes over as he lowers his shoulders and the rumpled undershirt falls back down, and it's over.

With that same unstudied, animal grace, he balls up the inside-out garment and tosses it aside. His hair is tousled slightly, temptingly. His expression as he turns away is cool, expectant. Attitude again. Game face on. He shrugs his shoulders. He's ready to play.

The starting shout sounds out like the sunshine itself, clear and sharp. The air around us seems, with an exaggerated crispness on the verge of hazing, to carry the dry scuffles of shoes and the metallic bounce of the ball directly into my ears.

I lose sight of him briefly in a tussle and then he emerges, long legs striding outwards as arms reach for him as he floats past them, untouched and untouchable and perfect. The ball strikes the concrete and then returns to the curve of his hand as if enchanted. Those large fingers press down confidently, knowing their magnetism; as if his hands understand, even if he doesn't, the inevitability of everything he touches being drawn back over and over.

The two teams maneuver for a moment, locked into a stalemate pattern, and then he has the ball again and makes a break for the basket, slamming it though the hoop with such suggestive primal efficiency that I shiver in the sunlight. He does the rounds with his team, jostling them briefly with proud elbows and hi-fives. The others huddle closely, slapping backs and rubbing shoulders, but he steps back and the team disperses, turning their collective attention back to the game.

They move, and I'd lose the ball but for their tightening knot of legs as they weave between each other in instinctive co-ordination. Another scuffle, then a run, and then I see him clearly again and he's skimming the ball out of his opponent's control and driving it neatly across the asphalt to another man in his team.

The players dart and reform while he stands back from the action for a second. Poised but motionless, I can see his chest moving shallowly as he watches the ball pass down the ranks towards the other basket, and then he snaps into action again as the balance of the game turns.

I watch him charge toward the guy about to shoot, and my breath sticks in my throat-- they're gonna collide-- but moment before contact, the other man feints and ducks, and my jock's right there, in his face, radiating dangerous ability. If I were in his opponent's shoes, I'd be panting. He's flexibly poised in a half-crouch, hands up and guarded, calves taut--goddamn, I'd love to sink my teeth into them. Salted with sweat, hard and flexing beneath my hands; be so fucking beautiful, to work my way up those legs and then give him a blowjob he'd never forget, my hands gripping against his ass, steadying myself with handfuls of the clinging, sweat-slick shorts, his fists in my hair.

That might distract him from play, of course, and he might not forgive me if he lost his chance to recapture the ball. The tension breaks again, another scuffle knotting as the pack lunges and backtracks, and then he darts out and knocks the ball down. Shouts of protest from the other team cut his motion short, and the ball scatters uselessly for a second before the other man collects it. Grinning, he waves off the hoots of the other team, thumping his opponent on the chest with the back of his hand. Before his opponent can return the touch he turns away, and those succulent long legs take him over to a blue gym bag at the sidelines. He bends down, those shorts riding high and pulling taut, and the rest of the court shimmers away like a heatwave, and everything but the curve of his ass is lost.

Stepping into my line of sight, one of the other jocks blocks my view, and I can feel myself getting instantly frustrated. It's like, he could be stripping back there, get out of the fucking way.

Okay, so he isn't stripping. He's just standing there, unconscious and effortlessly desirable, and that's reason enough to need a front row seat. When the obstructive morons get out of my view I can see he's twisted off a bottle lid and tipped a slug of water into his palm. I watch him splash it against his neck and the top of his tank, and can imagine the water, bitter with the taint of his cologne, trickling down to trace the lines and contours of his chest.

He tilts his head back, swallowing chilled water and smoothing the trickles that escape round to the back of his neck, then breaks off and slides the condensation-clouded bottle over his forehead and down to his cheek.

Fuck, I wanna feel that. I can imagine it so clearly, walking over to him and smoothing my hands over his face, feeling his skin's surface coldness undercut with thick, steaming heat. Imagine his lips against my palm, holding fast. Or, wait-- maybe he comes to me? Oh, yeah. That works. One minute he's drinking from the bottle, completely unaware of me, ducking his head to tip the rest over the back of his neck. I'm staring, breathless, as water pours down and soaks into the darkening fabric of his undershirt, adhering it to his chest, while the rest splashes onto the ground and I can almost hear the sizzle. And then he turns, sensing my thoughts from across the court. A glance around at his lounging teammates, a calculated stare across at me which I return defiantly, and then he's walking toward me, direct and smooth, moving purposefully through the rippling air.

I bite my lip, holding still though my muscles are itching to exert themselves, and wait until he's an arm's length from me before I let a fragment of smile escape. Hot sky blue eyes stare down at me, serene and potent, as he lifts a hand, placing a testing finger on my lips. I smile a little wider.

Perfect.

The sun beats down on my shoulders. His breath is cool and moist against the sweat trickling towards the base of my throat, and the pack stands and watches, in silence, as he leans in to taste it. He's the one in control here; he can do whatever he wants. He can touch me, and he does, hands moving around my waist, sliding down to rest on my ass; he does touch me, even though he's untouchable himself.

I let the wire cut white pressure lines into my gripping fingers, and don't even try to reciprocate. My head falls back and I let him do whatever he wants, resisting the urge to touch back.

Oh, yeah. His lips sip lightly against my skin, tasting in short, maddening brushes of his tongue. Frustration uncurls inside me like a snake stretching in the sun.

I shift my head mindlessly from side to side, and have a moment's fear that my hair will tangle in the mesh, adhering back on itself, and I'll be trapped. Then he licks harder, and I've gasped shallowly and raked the back of my skull against the mesh, realizing that hey-- this is my fantasy, I'm not gonna get caught.

Unless I want to.

I feel his teeth, still cooler than my skin, gliding against the edge of my collarbone, and I suck in baked air through dry, dry lips. His hands move from my ass, taking my wrists and pulling until my numb fingers detach, then lifting them above my head. I shiver, feeling more and more exposed.

He raises them as high as they'll go, then he tucks my hands against the wire, holding them until I get the idea and tangle my fingers myself, till I'm clinging to links in the fence in a pose that feels like outright surrender. I'm spread high and wide, like I'm an idol or a sacrifice; like this man draped in sweat is the priest officiating the ceremony.

He steps back to evaluate his work, pauses, then steps closer, chest nearly brushing mine. He puts one finger under my chin and turns my head with one finger until my cheek rests against the side of one raised arm. I can feel my bicep trembling, the strain of gripping the fence shivering down through the muscle inside. I keep my eyes down, but at the edge of my vision I can see his eyes narrow as he evaluates the change. A smile at the corner of his mouth indicates that I'm arranged to his satisfaction, and the ritual can proceed. I shiver in anticipation.

I like rituals.

He lowers his head, licks a slow path from the tip of my chin to the lobe of my exposed ear; I freeze, hear a deep, ragged sigh escaping my throat, and feel suddenly grateful that I can rest my spinning head on my arm.

He's in close, now, and I can smell the sweat which gleams across his shoulders, salty and rich. It's not from what he's doing now-- oh no, nothing like that; this is from the game, the exertion, the activity in which he has expended his energy. I'm too easy to make him raise a sweat; I'm the idle half-time amusement, a frivolous respite from the real business of the day.

He exhales hotly against my ear, sending cold feathers down my back, then bites my neck. And oh my god. Pain and possession, in one vicious, lingering sting. Some people, they do subtle, get a slow and quivering build to effect. This guy does calculated acts of aggression. This guy does instantaneous impact.

This guy, in fact, does biting until my breathing stutters and speeds, while grinding the thick palm of his hand against my crotch. Then, pausing, he flicks his tongue once over the bite, and abandons me to the air.

Like, abandons me. Steps back. Actually steps back and leaves me, shaking and swallowing. The fucking bastard just casually backs away with this incredible, deliberate, even gaze locked onto me... I grit my teeth, try and calm down. No use. I'm actually humming with energy, here. I feel weak, like my wrists and knees only hold me up because he wishes it.

I realize-- oh, fuck-- I realize his eyes are lingering on the heat mark I can feel throbbing against my neck. He's assessing me calmly, and apparently pleased with his work. I want to turn my head, set my shoulders and face him, but it's not happening. Can't happen. I'm pinned by piercing, possessive fire-and-ice blue. My breath goes hard, and I'm hyper-aware of it, my chest moving just out of my line of vision, my whole skin aching with thick, heavy, bone-deep need.

Fuck, and my cock's about as hard as I can remember, burning fullness just waiting for that body to come back and give it a good time-- and he's still just looking, those eyes glittering over me like a spattering of hot rain. The sun hits my skin broadly, drying these shivers I seem to have developed, just at the stroke of his gaze. What the fuck is he waiting for, an embossed invitation?

Or maybe, encouragement. Maybe agreement. I shudder in the bright light of this day, press back hard into the fence, revel in its hard, abrasive caress. The jock-- my jock-- glances down at that, a tiny smile playing at the edge of that diamond-cut mouth; yeah, he knows too well that that's the kind of touch I'll beg him for if he doesn't give it to me in the next ten seconds.

I think I'm swaying. The heat's curling off my skin, evaporating in a dance of coolness. Where he licked the base of my throat, I've got this endless tingling. It's dry, now, prickling with sweat, and I'm hating it for driving me this wild.

I've got all of what, two heartbeats-- and my heart's going pretty fast--before he's stepped forward to tower over me, taking my jaw in three firm fingers, body closing the gap as he drops his head and crushes his tongue into my mouth. Fuck, yes.

He lets his weight push himself into me, and we're pressed together hard, perspiration welding skin to skin, the fence creaking against itself, a pattern of heat and cold through my worn, damp shirt. His heat fills my lungs when I gasp for air, engulfing me in his aura of sweat and musk and something probably called Ocean and that particular salt that's just so fucking male. Ocean, yeah, or any supremely macho aftershave I could never wear without feeling like I was wearing more bravado than actual confidence.

My mouth opens wider, though I'm not sure I had much say in that decision; he moves his hand up into my hair, tugging a handful back as his tongue slides through my low, involuntary moan. My scalp burns, making me still more breathless. He's hard, against me. His knee nudges at my legs, and I can hear my soles grating on the court, my feet stuttering further apart to give him access.

Fuck, what access. He's lean, strong, fiercely hard between my legs--bluntly parting my thighs like it's his right, his prerogative. He grinds his hips a fraction against me, getting a purchase, thin sweaty fabric bunching and sliding, slick heat shooting right through from his cock to mine.

My fingertips are aching, due to the blood pushing at them from inside. Circulation: interrupted. I hiss against his mouth and flex my fingers, easing until the wire's bite has fewer teeth, raising on the balls of my feet to release some of the tension. He feels it, freezes, his grip not faltering on my hair as he stops attacking my mouth, head coming up to stare at me, and I feel a blinding rush of lust at the warning in his eyes.

"Thought I told you not to move," he says quietly, lips barely moving, voice grating directly into my cock. I'm lost, though; he did? Fucked if I remember it. Then again, its not like my hearing's been the most efficiently operating sense of the last five minutes. Touch, tracking a thousand beads of sweat as they ease up out of me and join the building slickness of my skin, touch measuring heat and hardness, telling me how fucking hot for me he is, yeah, touch is the only sense I've got right now. If he wanted me to listen, he should've drawn the words on me with his tongue.

I get the feeling he's not interested in explanation. I get the feeling I couldn't give it coherently anyway. That's what comes of being groped in the sunshine with an entire basketball team looking on hungrily.

Oh, the team. Fuck. I'd forgotten about them.

A flickering glance reveals them lounging in the shady background, observing with lazy intrigue as their dominant hunter toys with a likely bit of prey. The thought shudders through me, and I go very, very still.

Slowly, he moves his free hand, warm fingertips pushing firmly up the smooth, exposed skin of my inner arm, up and up, then rounding the curve of the heel of my hand and pressing his palm across mine, back into the fence. My fingers unpry from the metal, and he's there, folding his fingers down through mine, lacing them, hard and deliberate, hoisting me higher and then hooking his own fingers into the fence. My arm has to stretch, the muscle pulling inside; he's got bigger reach than me. My toes are the only parts of me touching the ground. I'm totally trapped.

The inside of his palm, crammed against my hand, is hot and slightly sticky. His fingers are wide, pushed between mine, right down to the third knuckle. His lips press once against my temple, and it's not one of his cool kisses. This is warm lips, this is hot breath, in this scalding sunshine, burning right through my skin like some sort of fucking acid and making me shake against his weight.

"Better," he drawls, and now I'm shivering, fuck, shivering like anything, like I've just been plugged in and this current's riding me, because he sort of twists and then shoves forward, hard and curt and fuck, if I keeled over now I'd stay packed right up close here; if I thought there was pressure before, then it's time for a heady degree of hands-on re-education.

His other hand slides out of my hair and down my side again, pushing under the waistband of my shorts like he frequently amuses himself groping random spectators of his private, privileged game; like an alpha male perfectly accustomed to taking what is offered by ardent observers.

My head rubs back on the fencing, turning from side to mindless side as his fingers glide confidently down, against my ass; proprietary, yeah, like fucking ownership. I squirm against him, trying to move in both directions at once. Our hips are rocking, now, a steady exploit of the shimmering sensational friction that comes with thin little slippery shortts full of hungry cock. Fuck, I'm panting, chest moving hard, eyes closed until I feel his teeth skate my jaw, my cheek, and then I moan and tilt my head so he can get at my mouth again.

His tongue plays around my lips, then goes deep just as his hand pushes right down my pants and he's fucking cupping my bare ass in broad daylight; shit. A rouse of catcalls shocks me into biting him, my head reeling with scattered applause. The team. Applauding. Raucous, friendly jeering. Fuck. My brain kicks in: fuck, they're congratulating him. Compliments, man, got your hands down his pants in record time-- what's that, 0-60 in under eight seconds?

I feel his shoulders move; the fingers pinning my hand high above my head are shifting as the muscles ripple down his arm, and I realize gradually he's giving them the finger.

I start to grin, but in the same breath, his teeth have clashed against mine, and he forces the realization into my mouth; fuck, I bit him. I bit him. His hand-- the one down my pants, which I haven't forgotten for a second-- reaches deeper, between my legs, fingertips hooking up deliberately and brushing my balls. I jerk forward, gasping, and our teeth click again; there's no escaping this, nowhere to go, nowhere but the insistent grind of his satin hot-iron dick against my crotch. It's fucking amazing, but shit, that feather-light touch again, that's torture, pure and simple, the direct route to driving me insane.

My body's arching and begging and pretty much shorting out, arteries seizing like blown fuses all over my body. I gasp as he sucks firmly on my tongue, and damn, this guy is fit, he's not even breathing heavily yet--although I can feel his heart thud staccato as his hard chest presses into mine.

He rubs against me, wriggling his fingers deeper. My balls send shots of deep bright light right through me, stunning and debilitating. I moan, right into his mouth-- hell, and he likes that, he makes this pleased noise in his throat right back at me, shifting his arm until he's got his wrist down my pants and my balls in his hand, his knuckles pressed into his own thighs through my shorts, and that feels so good and so fucking dangerous, I get about as hard as I've ever been in my life. He squeezes gently, just enough to illustrate the threat, and that's it, I practically come on the spot. I'm pinned by my wrist high and by his hand low, and my lungs feel like they might burn but I can't tear my mouth away from the lips holding my head still.

His teeth close suddenly, catching my lower lip and dragging against it. His fingers retreat smoothly back between my legs, and my breath comes hard, and my nipples are rubbing against him as my chest heaves. Little sparks, adding to the blaze of sensation consuming me.

I lick at his teeth, wanting his tongue back down my throat, then hiss and moan as his hand abruptly changes direction. His fingers slide purposefully against the crack of my ass, then scissor and spread, pushing my cheeks apart. His hips stop moving, just press in solidly instead, and I go with it and writhe against his hand. My cock's trapped, and I'm practically vibrating against him, getting to heights in desperation my body can barely tolerate.

I think the guys behind can guess from his movements what's going on. They're murmuring again, growling approving comments that are probably for his ears only, but mine are pounding so hard they can't make sense of the sounds anyway.

He brushes a finger down my ass, terrifyingly light in the midst of all this fire and brimstone, and I jerk against him again. He chooses that moment to go with my earlier wish, shifting his tongue back into my mouth and sucking the air out of my lungs. I feel my head spin, kissing back and sucking on his tongue. He growls, one finger pushing deeper down, slick with sweat, and then shit, he's wormed the end of it halfway inside, and that burns because sweat doesn't make up for the fact this is a big guy's finger, wide and solid in up to the fucking second knuckle, and suddenly it strikes me that what with my writhing and the catcalls from the rest of the team, anyone on the other side of this fence is getting a fucking eyeful.

I buck back against his hand, driving his finger deeper, half expecting to be spun round and have my shorts scraped down to my knees, anticipating the feeling of his cock pushing balls-deep inside me before the pack has time to catch its collective breath.

But. He doesn't. He hisses into my mouth when I bear down on his hand, and if I was capable I'd swear that I felt his cock pulse through his shorts. He detaches his hand from the fence, grabbing my hipbone and pulling me impossibly closer; my hand stays up there, clinging. My mouth is freed and then he's panting against my cheek, finally panting, that hard-won hot breath totally fucking unbelievable. Air rushes headily through my lungs, tasting of salt and sweat and that Ocean bitterness again; its athletic debauchery unravels the last blurred edge of my control. His finger twists inside me, nudging a fraction deeper, and that's it, coiled pleasure is snapping free of restraints; it's building, climbing-- the sensation as he rides harder against my hips is devastating, the sun pounds down onto overheated skin and trickling wetness caresses everywhere else-- He slides his finger out, pushes it back in hard, and that's it, I come apart at the--

The ball rams into the fence with a ringing jolt, and I'm back on the court with the sun baking down on my hair-- I look up sharply and catch my breath, hard. It's him, he's coming over, jogging lightly to catch the ball with one hand. It behaves for him; who wouldn't? He turns without seeing me and pitches it from the sidelines.

I need to gasp our my desire and disappointment, but I keep silent. My blood is fizzing, exhilaration and fear and dehydration and lust thudding through me with every pound of the basketball against the court. I stare at the ball, not him, hoping I haven't been too transparent-- there's risk and then there's stupidity, and even when my brain is melting with summer heat and lust, I should know the difference.

My lips are tingling with sensory memory, or perhaps it's the evaporation of moisture as I lick them. He melds back into his pack and I watch, dazed, fantasy spinning petulantly through my head before I realize I can't recapture the mood and stash it away for later.

I almost wish the ball had hit me. At least then he'd have said something. He looks over his shoulder, though, and sees my eyes on him, and I wonder belatedly where my eyes were resting while my mind was lost in heatstruck mirage; if he realizes where my imagination has been.

Maybe my imagination is still bubbling over in the heat, but it seems like his moves are more languid now. He could be tiring, I theorize, but the curt strength with which he shoots the ball into the chest of his teammate is instant falsification. He's confident of winning now, perhaps, and playing with more attention to the exhilaration of stretched legs as he leaps, luxuriating in the sunlight lingering on his gleaming arms...

Or maybe, just maybe, he knows what I'm thinking about. Maybe he can smell the simmering desire seeping from my skin, or see from across the court that my eyes are dilated black in spite of the brightness. And maybe, just maybe, he likes men. Likes cute and sharp and bold; maybe likes what he sees when he sees me looking.

He's performing now, or at least that's what I tell myself. Performing for an audience of one. He stretches during a pause and-- yes!-- the shirt goes up, stomach taut with a faint smattering of hair pointing suggestively downward. The game pulses into a flurry of action and he's moving again, shoulder muscles flexing, arms glistening in the brightness as he catches, bounces and passes. There's nothing unnatural about his moves or his stance, nothing exaggerated or contrived. The serenity of his motions suggests that he is sinking into the zen of graceful masculinity that so absorbs my eye.

When I can drag my attention away from my jock, the rising tension in the game is obvious. It looks like the next few points are decisive ones, and the teams are getting desperate. A push sends a player down onto his hands and knees, and there is sudden bright red on both legs as he rolls. "Keep fucking playing!" he yells when teammates pause, and they do, with a vengeance. The ball is grabbed, passed, and the pack swing back to surround it. A shout, and another player stumbles to the edge of the court, wheels around and heads back in.

When my tall one gets the ball, there's an edge of panic to the players who surround him. They grab his arms, and I tense, but he shakes them off in the act of pelting the ball down the court, into the hands of an unguarded teammate. A leap, a slam, simultaneous shouts of glee and anger, and the game is over.

They merge in united triumph for a bare moment, slapping backs and yelling. The losers walk away first, shrinking the group little by little, and soon the pack disintegrates. The players' unity is gone, their differences surfacing to visibility. Some form smaller groups, standing around and talking. The one with the scraped knees sits down with a friend and a first aid kit. Some of them collect bags and wander over to assorted women lounging on the bleachers, miles of smooth, hairless skin exposed by tank tops and short shorts, slathered in suntan oil. I examine them carefully, wondering if any are with him. I can't imagine it-- they look too poised and perfect and passive to satisfy him.

I'm right; he doesn't spare them a glance. He sits down on a bench directly across the court from me, grabs bottled water and drinks deeply. A few sparkling rivulets escape to flow down past the jawline, caressing the tendons appearing and vanishing in his neck as he swallows.

The last stragglers leave the court, leaving only the two of us, and I should go as well. The afternoon is waning now, and I only meant to stop here for a moment before heading indoors somewhere. I've got work to do, places to be, things to get done before night falls and I can venture out in dark anonymity to engage in other, emptier rituals. For a second, looking at him, I wish I didn't have to satisfy the need in a way that only makes it return, stronger.

I sigh and reach down for my backpack, but freeze as he looks over, eyes glinting even across the shimmering court. His muscles tighten as he straightens up. Inwardly I tense, but instinct makes me lounge indolently against the mesh as he approaches.

"So, Chief," he says. His hand lands on the fence, just above my shoulder, and the metal creaks under our combined weight. Hot sky blue flickers over me, in the efficient reconnaissance of a man sizing up a man. "Are you going to watch all afternoon... or do you want to play?"

[end]