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kakashiswilloffire · 3 years

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Friend Killer Kakashi

ao3

words: 2.2k

warnings: angst, mention of gore, mention of vomit, no comfort

He was ready to crawl out of his own skin. His whole body flushed with waves of heat, prickling uncomfortably in his chest, like thousands of pins jabbing both inside and outside of himself. He stopped, gripping the counter to hold himself steady while he dragged shallow breaths into his lungs. He knew he needed to take a deep breath, he was telling himself to take a deep fucking breath, even just one, why can’t he just even breathe correctly, how the fuck was he supposed—

The sound of his fist interrupted him before he’d even realized he had struck out. Knowing it would be several minutes before the pain really set in, he smacked his hand against the counter again and shook his head viciously. Silver strands, oilier than he usually let them get, stung as they met skin while the weight of his hair shifted.

He sucked air thickly into his nostrils then pawed at his nose, grimacing at the spices that overwhelmed the air around him. He tossed the pan into the sink, not caring that it still sizzled or that the oil splashed onto the cold tiles beneath him. He was trying to make pan fried eggplant to go with the premade miso soup he’d picked up last week. It had been a shitty week and he just wanted to make his favorite meal to make everything hurt a little bit less. There was no way it’d be as good as what Gai made, or whatever Dai had done when he first made it for him, but Kakashi figured it would do, and since it would be the first thing he had cooked himself all week, there should be some sense of achievement and dopamine to relish in when it was done. Unfortunately, it had gone terribly.

He couldn’t remember exactly what spices went on the eggplant. Salt, pepper, minced garlic, and then Gai would riff from there. Kakashi hated that—he was fine as long as he could follow a recipe. Gai, however, could just pour a splash of soy, or a squeeze of lemon, or even a drizzle of honey on anything and it was phenomenal, and also, unrepeatable. He could remember what the version he wanted tonight should taste like, and it didn’t matter what bottles he shook out into the pan, it never smelled right. The oil just kept popping onto his arms and hands, and the eggplant got slimier, and everything started to smell way too strong.

Kakashi Hatake, master of a thousand jutsu, and fucking garbage at cooking.

Whatever.

Running his hand along his forehead, he tried to find a single thought to focus on rather than the swirling mess in his head. Rin’s death a few months ago had hit him hard, much like he had hit her. He knew Gai hated to hear him think like that, but she would be alive if he hadn’t been there. If his hand hadn’t crushed through her chest, her ribs scraping along—

He lurched forward, the smell of the kitchen and the visceral memories getting to him at last. His shoulders jerked erratically as he retched into the tiny sink then sunk to his knees. The cold of the floor helped ground him while he wrapped his muscled arms around his stomach, leaning his head against the cabinet until the room stopped spinning.

Pathetic.

Obito would be absolutely pissed to know this was what he died for.

Gai wouldn’t be back from his mission for at least four more days. Kakashi was on a temporary leave pending the results of the investigation into Rin’s death. Ibiki had tried to reassure him the other day that unofficially it was looking good, and should turn out in his favor soon. He was almost certain to be found not at fault. Kakashi had scoffed—even if that was the official ruling, her murder was entirely his fault.

While they weren’t living together, Gai had taken it upon himself years ago to have a spare key, or maybe several spare keys, to his apartment copied and he kept one in a pocket in that garish green spandex at all times. With everything going on, Gai had been by every other day or so that he was in the village. The couch still had a crumpled blanket at one end he had used the last time he stayed overnight, and the one throw pillow with the Hatake crest that Gai wouldn’t let him get rid of. He tossed it out of his way as he flopped down on his back, letting his legs kick up and rest over the top of the dingy couch.

Why did anyone bother with him? Why would Ibiki go to the effort of leaking confidential information about his investigation to him? Why would Asuma invite him out for drinks every Friday night? Why would Kurenai and Genma leave bottles of sake in his mailbox with notes that everything would be fine? Why would Gai.. anything relating to him?

He couldn’t even hold the memories back long enough to successfully make dinner. He hadn’t even reheated the miso soup, and that was only two steps. He couldn’t save Obito, he couldn’t save Rin, he couldn’t convince Gai to leave well enough alone.

What if Gai was next?

Fuck.

He couldn’t let Gai be next. There were a lot of things he had failed at, but damned if he wouldn’t succeed in this. He could not, under any circumstances, let Gai any closer, any further into his life. The further away he could get the overly-enthusiastic shinobi, the better.

He nodded, swinging his legs around to the edge of the couch and letting that propel him into a seated position from which he sprang up. He walked over to the tiny end table and wrenched open the single overstuffed drawer, digging through for a pad of paper and the first writing instrument he could find, a blue pen with the academy’s logo printed on it.

Gai—

I don’t know how to tell you this, but you have to stay away from me. It’s for your own good. No one close to me is safe, even from me.

Sorry. Please understand.

—Kakashi

He read over the messily scrawled note, then tore the sheet off the pad and crumbled it in a fist. There’s no way Gai could read that and not have about a billion questions. Especially with how they had relied on each other through the years, from Dai’s death to Rin’s, this wouldn’t be remotely good enough to get Gai to stay away.

He sat down on the couch again, tapping the pen absentmindedly against the faded lined paper. What do you say to someone to convince them to be done with you completely?

When the key scraped into the lock, he froze.

The door swung wide open, Gai slumping into the apartment. His jumpsuit was nicked and torn and his hair didn’t have its usual luster. He was clearly exhausted, though not chakra exhausted. Kakashi felt the familiar pangs of panic begin to hit—how was he back so soon?

“Hey, ‘Kashi. The client blew the mission terms totally out of proportion—he made it seem like it’d be almost an A rank, and instead it was like a grueling C rank. We’re still not sure if the pay will be adjusted accordingly, but Ebisu is arguing it shouldn’t be because we did still run into trouble—Stone ninja near the border tried to take Chouza out. Recognized him somehow, but no worries, Konoha’s magnificent Green Beast was on the scene and we handled them without any major issues.” He grinned and flexed, posing for a moment before relaxing now that he had reached his destination and sliding his vest off and onto the hook by the door.

“How have you been? You eaten yet? Yakiniku is running a special according to Chouza—he asked me to join him for a post-mission meal and I told him I’d have to swing by here and see if you wanted to tag along. You like their short rib, right? Or are you still on the vegetarian kick?”

It never failed to impress Kakashi how Gai could fill a space, whether it be with his words, his personality, or his posing. No matter how he did it, though, it always was genuine and warm, and it was nearly impossible to maintain the solemn composure he frequently fronted. They made a nice contrast as a pair. Shame they would never have the chance to explore the friendship further.

He looked down at the crumpled paper on the ground and kicked it under the couch, setting the pad and pen aside. Unfortunately, he was going to have to explain in person.

He walked past Gai without making eye contact, the other man stepping out of his way without resistance. He lifted the vest off the hook next to his own vest, brought it briefly to his own chest, and immediately regretted it when the scent of his rival slammed into him. Once again, he shook his head vigorously, then shoved the vest back at Gai.

“Get out.”

He laughed, taking the vest back and slipping it on without understanding. “Want yours as well?” he asked, reaching for the door.

Kakashi felt flushed again, realizing that Gai meant for them to get dinner together. He walked back into the small living room, keeping his back to the door.

“Don’t need it. Get out.”

Gai’s laugh died in his chest, questions rising to the surface. “I… You okay? Did something happen while I was gone? Your investigation results? I told Ibiki to send word if they made the announcement, that asshole—”

“No, Gai. Nothing happened. I just…” Kakashi swallowed and felt his heart frost over. “Just did some thinking. Realized I’m better off without you.”

He scoffed. “Very funny, Kakashi. Come on, grab a jacket or something, Chouza said he’d wait on me to get back.”

“I mean it, Gai. You’re holding me back. The stupid challenges, do you think I actually care? I’ve always been stronger than you, and now that I’ve got the Sharingan, it’s comical, competing against you. I can see all your moves from miles away. You broadcast like a bull. You’re loud, annoying, and a useless ninja. I want you out of my life.”

There was silence for more than a full minute. It might have been as long as the two of them had gone without speaking, ever. Then Gai crossed to Kakashi in two steps, grabbing his left shoulder and spinning him around to face him.

“I know you’re not saying all that ‘cause you mean it, Kakashi. Look me in the eyes and think about this.”

Kakashi steeled himself, making full eye contact with the single grey eye. “Why don’t you think about it, Gai? Honestly? What kind of a ninja can’t even use ninjutsu? Everyone’s just humoring you and letting you make a fool of yourself. You’re a walking lesson in how to not be a shinobi.”

Gai blinked hard, his eyes beginning to shimmer. He cocked his head to the side, his grip on his rival’s shoulder only strengthening.

“’Kashi, I know things are hard for you. I know your brain lies to you sometimes. It’s okay. Listen, we’ll stay here tonight, I’ll cook, we can watch a movie or something, I’ll keep watch so you can sleep and we’ll talk more in the morning. There’s no pressure. I care about you, Kakashi. Let me help you.”

His eyes were swimming now, the passion making tears roll slowly down his face. The silver-haired man refused to move or answer. Swallowing, he made one last effort to persuade him. “Kakashi… please. Don’t do this. I love you.”

Kakashi’s heart, freeze dried, now shattered, crumbling into a powder and blowing away on a light breeze. Of course Gai loved him, and he loved Gai, but could Gai really mean that he… could he love him the way?—

Impossible.

No. Of course not. And even if he did, that just put him in all the more danger.

His resolve strengthened, he scowled back. “Fuck off, Gai. A ninja that only uses taijutsu is useless in battle. Don’t you remember how your dad died? Couldn’t save himself, could barely save you. What did you even do to try and help him?”

He was grateful for the fist that slammed into his jaw, shutting him up and knocking him into the wall.

“Fuck off, Hatake.”

He only dimly registered the door slamming, and possibly coming off its’ hinges. After a beat, a glint of silver flew through the air and lodged into the wall directly opposite the door. Slowly, he gathered himself up and limped over to it, realizing with a sharp ache that it was the key to his apartment. Turning to the mirror propped near the door, he stared down the version of him with grey circles under his eyes, thumbing at the blood growing at the corner of his mouth.

Friend-Killer Kakashi was starting to sound more like him by the moment.

#kakashi can't cook #kakagai #kakagai angst #kakashi angst #kakashi hatake #maito gai #might guy #kakashi oneshot

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balladeer-angelo · 4 years

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92 for Jill x Reader please my gay heart needs it

apparently, I needed it too because I went all the fuck out on this one. like, jesus, summer, your love for women is showing lmao HERE YOU GO, LOVES

Jill x Fem!Reader (NSFW)92. “I’m not going to touch you unless you beg.”

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Despite how hot-headed she could be, and how quick she was to jump into action out on the field at the drop of a bullet, Jill was almost deceptively patient and methodical when she decided to spend her quiet nights with you. There was a meticulous pace that her fingers followed as they danced across the slope of your neck, your rising chest, the dip of your waist, the hillside of your hip. You'd come to discover that women like her seemed to have a penchant for slow-dancing without music. There was only your breathing, her sighs, the rustling of clothes, the wooden floor creaking beneath your feet as the both of you swayed together; got swept up in each other, drowning willfully as you stayed anchored to each other's bodies.

A song that can't be heard stops playing and another dance begins. She presses you down onto the bed, slips her tongue in your mouth and follows the swell of your breasts with her palms. You mirror her, tugging down her tank top to tease her nipples, now taut and rosy. Jill hums, a disapproving little sound even though her skin reacts to your touch like a scorching wind. Her hands take your wrists and push them into the pillows above your head, telling them to stay put. She was the one in charge of stoking the hearth fire between the two of you tonight.

Those strong hands slipped back down your arms once they determined you were going to behave. They cupped your face with a tenderness you wouldn't expect from someone like her at a first glance. Everything left unspoken she conveys through her bite, teeth passionate little daggers set against your neck and you're reminded who you're burning for. Jill takes great joy in hearing you whimper, in feeling the waves of your body washing against her as her fingertips continue to push all of your buttons.

She pinches your nipples, squeezes your waist, brands your naked skin with her mouth. She sucks at the flesh of your hip bones to paint you with matching bruises, her favorite accessory on you. You buck your hips up in a silent plea. She's so close to where you want her. Your legs are already spreading to accommodate her, giving her all the space she needs, wants. You want to give her everything. Jill feels some indescribable delight at how honest your desperation for her is.

"Look at you. Such a sexy little thing, all spread out like this for me."

Her purrs are like midnight, and she's staining your thighs with pink moonflowers that will bloom until daybreak. Her lips keep getting closer and closer to yours. She keeps leaving open-mouthed kisses on every inch of you except for where you need her most. You're burning. Jill can tell by how heavy your breaths are; and how you're obediently keeping your hands where she left them but your body won't stop squirming.

Deciding to be a little more merciful, she gives your sopping velvet folds a slow, soothing lick, flicking the tip of her tongue across your swelling clit. You jolt and clutch at the pillows, filling the room with the melody of your mewls.

Cute, Jill thinks. Something she can dance to.

Her hands massage the meat of your thighs while she starts to tread a measure to the sound of your breathing. Every time you inhale, she nuzzles her nose against the soft hairs of your pubis, committing your scent to memory. When you exhale, she does the same, breath like a glacial fire on your wet skin. When you bite your lip to stifle your moans, she nudges the hood of your clit back with the tip of her tongue and embellishes it with kisses that demand a response. When you rock your hips upward, she smooths you back down, pins you to the bed with fingers that dwindle between the lines of authoritative and provoking. She knows you want something.

"You know I can't read minds, baby. If you want me to do something, you're gonna have to be a little more verbal."

The stubborn bull within you rears its head and you nearly shove your face to the side to keep your indignant blush a secret, groaning quietly. But you were never very good at keeping secrets from Jill Valentine.

Her voice is almost unnervingly sweet, and it has you thinking about the first time you had eaten a fig when you were younger.

"C'mon, I just wanna hear that pretty voice of yours." Her teeth sink into your inner thigh again, more pressure behind it, threatening to devour you alive.

You yelp and toss a pillow at her head though she just laughs when it hits her, impervious to your little tantrums.

She pushes it away and tries again a little nicer this time, but the persistence in her voice is unwavering to the heat of your glaring pout.

"Just tell me what you want and I'll give it to you. It's as easy as that."

"With you, nothing's ever that easy." You huff. "You're too greedy, always wanting more."

She smiles against your leg, giving it a kiss. "Humor me."

First, you sigh, long and loud so she can hear it, so she can feel your flustered annoyance against her face when it comes billowing out of your nose. Then you inhale, steeling yourself for the inevitable teasing that's sure to follow as soon as you voice your desires.

You look her right in the eyes. Those stupidly pretty, blazing blue eyes.

"I... I want you to touch me."

"How?"

You blink and your heart starts to pound. No matter how many times you've done this song and dance, no matter how carefully she's mapped out every inch of you, she still toyed with you as if this were some new affair.

"You know how." You grunt. She shrugs. The slyest cat in the neighborhood and she knew it.

"Maybe I do. But I wanna hear you say it. Just a few little words and I'll make it ha-"

"I want you to finger me!" You almost shout, your voice subdued by the internal awareness that you had neighbors above and below you.

Her grin makes your face burn even hotter and you swear you're going to ignite right before her eyes.

"Ohh~ Is that right?" She hummed.

You nod and she sits up on her knees between your legs, pushing your thighs to your stomach. Your pussy throbs with need and you can feel your silky cyprine dribbling onto the sheets. She's barely even gotten started and you're already soaking for her.

Jill drags her dull nails across the back of your thighs, trailing inward toward the apex of you, decorating you with soft red threads. You feel a thrum of an unfettered fever beginning to take root in your belly as she inches closer and closer.

"You know..." Her fingertips teasingly flickered over the hairs atop your aching mound. "There is one more thing I'd like from you."

Your head falls back and you release an exasperated groan. "Ugh, god. There it is. I knew it."

Jill giggles, ever so pleased with herself and your reaction. "I want you to beg for it."

"Jill, c'mon, please don't ma-"

“I’m not going to touch you unless you beg.”

To prove to you the vitality and validity of her claim, her hands began a slow crawl away from your hammering flesh and towards the inside of your knees.

She really wasn't going to give it to you easy, was she? On any other night, she might be a little more kind. Spare you all the teasing and embarrassment for something a little more passionate, with laced fingers and tender moments that feel like a slip of the tongue. If you didn't get to feel her touch inside you tonight, you were sure you would crumble like the cinders in a dying fire.

Swallowing the thick, tart pill of your pride, you peer up at her with a flushed face and determination.

"Please..."

"What's that?" She turns her head to show you her right ear. "I can't quite hear you, baby."

You raise the volume just a little, wiggling your hips impatiently. "Please! Jill, I want you to touch me!"

Jill hums to herself as if picking apart your declaration to find that pit of sincerity inside though she’s felt it already in your soft weeping flesh. Her hips rock back and forth just a little to grind herself against you. The fabric of her shorts catches on your bare skin like itchy, taunting thorns.

"Please, babe? I just want to feel you inside me. I wanna come for you. I want to come all over your fingers. I want to taste myself on your lips when you kiss me. I just... I want you, Jill."

Her lips part slightly and she simply stares at you for a second longer than intended, causing the hive in your head to stir with even more cries of humiliation. Maybe it's because of the harsh glow coming from the neon lights perched outside on the opposite building of your apartment, but you thought you could see a dusky pink color blooming across her cheeks.

Her eyes flutter to the floor for a moment as she seems to collect herself. You wished you could read minds at that moment. You go to speak, ask if you said something wrong, but she takes that chance away from you when her fingers return to your glistening folds and you gasp, pleasantly surprised. Jill rubs you at her leisure, falling back into that diligent cadence of hers as she coats two of her digits with your generous silken honeydew.

As she looks down at you she finds herself falling in love all over again with the way you sing and dance for her.

"Well...since you asked so nicely."

#jill valentine x reader #jill x f!reader #jill valentine #re3make #re drabbles #GODD I AM JUST GAY #TAKE IT #TAKE IT AND RUN

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claudiafekete · 3 years

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This is another ordinary story of “how xxx fandoms changed my life” -

- or maybe not. you decide. I want to write it down. trigger warning for politics, discussion of sexual violence, mild gender dysphoria It’s also horribly long. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

When I first came to tumblr, I had just graduated from APH. Short for Axis Power Hetalia. I learned about it in the form of manga. For years it was my everything - I learned what fanfic or fanart meant and I learned the basic online etiquette. As I grew in years, it accompanied me.

Until it didn’t.

Shortly after I fell into solangelo.

It’s a fun story, how I picked up PJO years after years of absence. My brother was whining about something written in Magnus Chase. “What do you think the Norse Gods were going to do to Percy that Annabeth was crying?” He demanded. I expressed my confusion. He kept on with his different theories and I made the decision to look it up online later.

My online search of Percy Jackson’s fate soon revealed something unknown to me before: solangelo. The first canon gay ship I ever knew. Therefore, at the ripe old age of 19, I threw myself into this endless hole called “tumblr” for the first time.

It was the most LGBTQ+ friendly place I had ever been. I joke you not. It was also the place where I was taught not only how a healthy relationship should look like, but also how sex should or could be like. You don’t learn anything healthy about sex in Chinese or Mandarin using fandom, at least during the years I was in them. There were rigid 攻/受(roughly translated as top/bottom) stereotypes that everyone rushed to squeezed their characters into them. A lot of time though both person might ship A with B, they wouldn’t interact because one thought A should top and another thought B should top. Their different topping designation resulted in depictions of the characters’ personalities so dramatically differed that you couldn’t recognize them as the same characters. Other than the refreshing relationship dynamics, Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard offered me a chance to take a look at my gender identity. I had known that theoretically non-binary people existed outside of binary gender, but I hadn’t known how one might live as one or describe themselves as one. I’m not trying to claim that Alex Fierro’s story is the only story of non-binary people. I’m trying to say that it was the starting point for me to make exploration and find the label “agender” for myself.

I stayed in APH for 6 years. I had expected to stay in solangelo for longer.

Entered June 2019 with its whispers and anxious demonstrations. Entered folks pouring into streets in Hong Kong. Entered tear gas and facemasks and sticks and a bullet scarcely missing the heart and journalists beaten by police. Entered young students not of age disappearing mysteriously. Entered people dressed in white attacking citizens and not arrested by police. Entered dead bodies that were probably “被自殺 (being suicided)”.

Entered a city falling into the hands of tyrants next to your door, and you didn’t know how to help. You didn’t know what to do with yourself with your clean and spare hands. You were so far away from the frontline, you were angry and helpless and hopeless for that.

It was the first time I witnessed, first-hand, how the Chinese government directed the discussion online, so that it seemed as if there were random mobs who were disturbing the peace of Hong Kong and possibly taking money or being trained by US. “Bullshit. Would there still be so many kids hurt on street if we have received any kinds of training for this?“ Of course, the majority of Chinese people inland wouldn’t hear that. Hong Kong is a former colony. Any calls of outrage toward the present government must be made by disillusioned young people who were unaware of colonization and imperialism.

That was why I took refugee in Good Omens. I needed to run some where to stop myself from scratching myself to blood. I needed to some works for these clean and spare hands to do so that they wouldn’t pick up something destructive, such as a knife.

If the PJOverse fandom had felt the best place on earth, well, the Good Omens fandom lifted me into paradise.

I’ve never seen so much kindness being showed under one tag. The creators and actors were all kind and interacted with the fans in their own ways. We were encouraged to do everything, anything, to build art with it however we liked. We as fans were recognized. We were seen. We were ... cared for. It was overwhelming, in a good way. For that, I would be forever thankful to Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett and Michael Sheen and so many others in the production. I would be forever thankful to artists who liberated body types and freed the ties between gender expression and genitals. I would be forever thankful for the fantastic creators out there.

Would it seem as if I’ve only cherished the mutuals I met in Good Omens fandom? It wasn’t my intention. There are friends I keep in touch long after I fell out of love with APH. There are mutuals I got to know through solangelo and I feel, I hope that we are friends. Everyone who has chat with me I do my best to remember. (Though I do left conversation in weird places, become so ashamed of my incompetency that I do not continue them.)

What I’m trying to say is, as good as the solangelo fandom was, I still ran into biphobic posts here and there. It was only once or twice – but it was a constant reminder that being bisexual didn’t seem “valid” to some of the other LGBTQ+ members out there. Who cares what cis-gendered, heteronormative people said? Bullets that shot from friendly fire hurt the worst.

Besides, with a large and vibrant fandom like Good Omens, it’s easier to feel less alone and more… seen.

Damn right. Even after writing more that 5000 words in English it is still so easy to fall back into the comfortable nest of mother tongue. I can read simplified Chinese characters as well as the traditional Chinese characters I grow up using. There probably will never be getting the accent right but soundlessly devouring words in front of a screen? I excel at that.

That was what’s happening when the days rolled into January, 2020. I flew to US as an exchange student and exchanged long letters with a young Chinese woman I met in Good Omens fandom. I’ve never felt so alone in life. English as in creative writing has never come more naturally for me. The words burst in my head and arranged themselves freely on screen or on papers. I’ve never felt more hopeful about my writing ability.

The days rolled into March, 2020.

The first time my mom told me to come home over home, I laughed. The second time, I frowned. Before she pleaded me for the third time, I had grabbed a ticket.

I hadn’t imagined the disease plaguing China and its neighboring countries would affect the whole world.

You lived the rest of the story. I fled back to Taiwan.

That was where Doctor Who came in. Or David Tennant. Such a strange time. For fourteen days I was the only living human in the house. I watched Casanova – or was it later? Hamlet definitely came before that. Then I could live with my family again. I handed in my homework and wrote in a different language than the people around me were speaking. My parents were working. My little brother was in school. When there was no one to talk to me I either read or watch Doctor Who to pass the time. I fell for Thirteen. I fell for twissy. Falling fast and hard and completely won over by their glamour.

I started internship. There were some small breaks where I could catch an episode or half, but never as much time as before. I dipped into fandom wiki and found that no matter how much research I did, there would always be details I overlooked simply because I could not afford hours watching all the episodes. No matter how hard I squeezed my schedule for time, no matter how much I devoted myself to the series, it would never be enough.

So I gave up, and let it go. For the first time in quite a while, I willingly gave up something for the simple reason of “I want to live a more comfortable life”.

Came summer. Damp air combined with biting heat and piles after piles of biochemical terms made life agonizing. An ordinary kind of pre-pandemic “agonizing” which felt like a luxury in a world that was ending.

Hong Kong fell.

It was bound to happen. Once I heard protestors fought their way into the legislature I knew, for almost an year I knew, nothing good would come out of this. CCP would never allow its subjects acting out of hand. With such open despise to the authority, CCP would take nothing but a full conquest at the end of it.

See where we are now. As long as you’re “interfering” the political climate “inside” China, it doesn't matter which nationality you hold or where you were or how long it has been since you made the statement. “According to the law”, China can come for you. No, better, it can tell your country to hand you over. What a clever empire. What a graceful empire.

What a horrifying empire.

With the news I spiraled down fast. I kept away from the young Chinese woman I was exchanging letters with, I kept away from any kinds of Chinese social media, and the worst of all, I kept away from Good Omens, for it was sweet and kind and hopeful, for it reminded me of a time where fighting seemed to make a difference. I was empty and exhausted and a husk. Something must come out to fill the void. Someone needed to paint me in colors so that the world wouldn’t notice I was fading away.

I was surprised at who took the brush.

After ten years, the first man I ever have a crush on strolled back into my life.

He was over thirty, but I always pictured him in his early twenties. Dark hair, eyes of grey or silvery blue. Loud laughter that sounded like a bark. Swift and elegant. Intelligent. Prideful. Stubborn. I embraced him as I’ve done ten years ago as a little child.

When I looked past him, I saw someone else.

Worn, weathered, with wry humor. Attentive and considerate. Tortured by the world yet never stop giving out kindness. Countless scars. Grey hair unfitting to his age. I didn’t pay him much attention ten years ago. This time, I looked.

Let me introduce you Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, my very first crush and the man who is too much like my last crush.

2020, a month before Fall semester started, I trekked cautiously, timidly back into Harry Potter fandom.

The fandom of August 2020 was very different from fandom of 2010. The lack of author, for one – it became mandatory to denounce the author’s transphobic statement and other bigotry setting. I’m glad that everyone is doing their best to make it a friendly place for minority groups. Though I’m afraid, by making it a white or black situation with short statements and no discussion, it wouldn’t really help people understand why she is wrong in this. However irrefutable the author’s guilt seems to us, it is not something obvious to those who are unfamiliar with the subjects.

But it does feel good to see blogs and fics with the introduction such as “If you support the author’s transphobic bullshit this place does not welcome you”. It feels reliving.

The second was, I found the type of work I’m actively pursuing changed.

Back when I was young – when I was so little I didn’t even know what the word “fandom” meant – I read Character x OFC and some M x M. During the APH period I read an alarming amount of M x M and countless historical AU. When digging through solangelo, beside the canon divergence stories, simple AU like coffee shop grabbed my attention. Coming out stories were my comforts. The best of Good Omens fics were either in canon verse discussing desires, bravery, humanity and mortality, or setting in an AU with the promise of sweet, fluffy endings. Doctor Who almost always focused on Time and Space. Love was twisted and so often tainted by anger. Monster and god were very alike.

I came a full circle back to the Marauder era, and found myself not looking for heroes, but for young fighters struggling desperately in a seemingly hopeless war. I looked for people who were frightened but never, never ever going down without a fight.

I used to find characters and events unfolding in foreign places, now I want characters who are close to what I am or what I want to be.

---

So, that’s it, my grand journey through multiple fandoms and basically a journey of self-discovery. It’s messy, sometimes painful, but always with so much joy blooming along the way.

Something doesn’t change. I’m still obsessed with words. I’m still a sucker for happy ending. I’m still wishing someone will come and love me the way I need to be loved.

Something does. I stop imagining that some magical power will come into my life and solve everything. I stop looking for others to save me from myself. I start believing that though wounds hurt, some of them do teach us to be a better person.

Long ago, I saw my friends and I as rabbits, without proper weapons to defend ourselves. That wouldn’t do. I thought. For my friends I’ll grow into a snake with fangs to protect them. Maybe I have grown into a snake. Maybe I haven’t. But I do hope I won’t stop fighting for those I love, with those I love.

I hope I won’t give up.

#APH #axis power hetalia #pjo #percy jackson #solangelo #tw: politics #tw: sex mention #magnus chase #magnus chase and the gods of asgard #alex fierro #hong kong extradition bill #hong kong demonstration #good omens #doctor who #tw: personal review of pandemic #harry potter #sirius black #remus lupin #hong kong national security law

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shipaholic · 3 years

Text

Omens Universe, Chapter 13 Part 2

Nearly made it to Alpha Centauri!

Warnings for this chapter: the terrifying vastness of space; vertigo; and more child endangerment than we’ve seen so far.

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 13, cont.

Of all the infinite spaces they’d found themselves in recently, this one truly made each of them feel small.

Nebulae crackled in the corner of their eyes. Comets sparked across the heavens like distant fireworks. There were stars, billions upon billions of stars, a riotous tumble of them. And planets, cold and grand, passing by like ships.

Aziraphale had never been here before. For the life of him, he had no idea why. No - perhaps he was afraid of the vastness. Of feeling engulfed.

He leaned, half-consciously, towards Crowley. Their fingers brushed. Slowly, as if moving underwater, Crowley gripped Aziraphale’s hand.

Aziraphale tore his eyes away from the magnitude of space and looked at Crowley. He was in profile, lips slightly parted. His eyes shone with starlight. Aziraphale wanted to kiss him and keep watching him forever. He remembered Crowley had probably seen this room before. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of years in the past. Perhaps it hit him harder to come back than Aziraphale to see it for the first time.

“Did I ever mention I helped build some of these?” Crowley whispered.

“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale whispered back. His heart brimmed over.

He happened to know the only part of Her creation missing from this room was the Earth. That was because it was on the top floor. He saw it the last time he presented his weekly report to Gabriel, floating in the air like a large, sedate disco ball. They would all use it in three days' time to transport themselves to Earth for Armageddon. Every angel in Christendom, pouring out of the sky.

Aziraphale peered around. There didn’t seem to be much of a filing system in here. Maybe all he had to do was…

“Alpha Centauri?” he said.

It was like going for a gentle stroll and accidentally stepping off a skyscraper.

Space lurched. The detritus of the universe streaked towards him, and past him before he could think about screaming. Two blue dots came out of the darkness like all-knowing eyes that meant the end of all things. They expanded until they were the size of suns, filling his vision, pinning him under their gaze, until with a heart-stopping wrench -

It all stopped.

Space was still again. The binary star system of Alpha Centauri lay before them, winking blue.

Aziraphale shook off the feeling he’d just freefall dived from a million miles up. He glimpsed Crowley’s face, and got a sudden idea of what it must have felt like for him, before all this happened. The Fall. He squeezed Crowley’s hand. Crowley’s eyes were glazed. Slowly, he came back to himself and squeezed back.

Aziraphale remembered, a fraction later than he should have, to check on Adam.

The boy’s face was white with exhilaration. “Wicked,” he whispered to himself.

Spacedog yipped and scratched his flank with his cybernetic back leg. His ears jiggled inside his fishbowl helmet. He didn’t look impressed. Aziraphale supposed he was made for this environment. Then he went back to deliberately ignoring Spacedog, because while Spacedog’s existence was remarkable, Aziraphale found him far too ridiculous to dwell on.

“We want Proxima Centauri B,” he said.

This time they all braced themselves. There was a relatively short, painless lurch forward as the room zoomed in on the planet orbiting one sun, Proxima Centauri. The planet was pockmarked like porous stone. It turned ponderously in the light from its star.

“Oh!” Crowley leaned forward in wonder. He pointed down at the craggy little planet. “I remember this! This one was one of mine.”

Aziraphale watched him puff out his chest and smiled.

“Yup. I totally helped with this one. Well. I looked over the plans. Well. I graffitied a rude word in some space dust.” Crowley paused. “They probably took it out.”

“How lovely,” Aziraphale said, dryly.

This was it. Triumph rang through his head. He was about to become an outer space fugitive. He couldn’t believe they’d got this far. There was only one step left, and they were home free. Or… not home. Not yet. But definitely free.

“Crowley, do you trust me?”

Crowley’s head snapped round. “That’s a funny question at this stage,” he said, sounding perturbed.

“Sorry. I need to be sure, though, or this next part won’t work.”

Crowley’s golden eyes regarded him.

“I trust you, angel.”

Aziraphale turned to face him. Crowley did the same, mirroring him. Aziraphale caught his other hand, holding them both, bare and gloved.

“Fuse with me.”

Relief lifted Crowley’s face.

“Oh, thank Satan. I was worried for a moment.”

Aziraphale gave a chuckle. “Sorry for being dramatic. I wasn’t -”

He broke off. He hadn’t been sure. If Crowley had truly forgiven him, yet. It would be understandable if he needed more time.

Apparently not. Crowley was attempting to loosen up in the receptionist’s tailored trousers. He stretched his inhumanly bendy spine, wiggled his snaky hips. It would have been rather alluring if Crowley wasn’t, as Aziraphale well knew, an awful dancer. It still was quite alluring, actually.

“Remember how to do this?” Crowley grinned.

“Of course. Like riding a velocipede.”

Crowley groaned and laughed. He began… a kind of shimmy, Aziraphale supposed. It was very wriggly. It had a slight drunk-wedding-guest-cum-gay-bar aspect, not that he’d been to a wedding or a gay bar in over eighty years.

Now that push came to shove, he felt rather foolish doing this in front of an audience. He avoided looking anywhere near Adam and broke into a modified Gavotte.

They danced towards each other. They were taking it slower than the urgency of the situation asked for, if he was being honest. But it was thrilling, the build up without touching, the coy flashes of eye contact. Aziraphale felt Crowley’s body heat through his silk blouse. Crowley’s long, skinny chest wiggled inches away from him. His gem glowed softly, like it was warming up.

Aziraphale clasped his arm, and his own gem flared.

They melted together.

Zadkiel stumbled out, wide-eyed and flushed.

“Wow. I need to get a room.”

He noticed Adam.

“Ummmm. Hello there. We’ve sort-of met, sort-of haven’t. I’m Zadkiel.” He held out his hand.

Adam glared as he took it. Some weird grown-up stuff had just happened, and he was ready to zip away from it at the speed of light.

“They just… turned into you,” he said.

“Yup.”

“They’re really bad dancers.”

“So am I!”

“Right. Why’d they do that, then?”

“Well… they’ve been apart for a while, and while they’re not human, as you know, er, I know for your species the whole dancing thing can be something of a mating ritual… has anyone ever given you the Talk?”

Adam looked deeply disgusted.

“Why’d they turn into you?” he asked, in slow, measured tones.

“Oh! So they can’t track us.” Zadkiel flashed a grin. “The people we’re running away from can tell whenever Aziraphale or Crowley use their powers - their alien powers, that is - but I don’t show up on their, errr, alien scanner things. So they can’t follow us to Proxima Centauri.”

This was going to require a lot of discipline, he realised. If they wanted to be good intergalactic space fugitives - and Zadkiel absolutely did - there would have to be no more performing of miracles unless fused from now on. One thoughtless snap of the fingers from either of them, and it would all be over. Zadkiel hoped the other two were up to it.

He squared up to the orbiting planet below.

“Enough explanation. It’s time to go. Are you ready?”

Adam nodded. The blue lights of Alpha Centauri shone in his eyes.

“Brilliant. Hold on to my arm and don’t let go no matter what.”

Adam scooped up Spacedog,[1] along with the Book, and looped his spare arm through Zadkiel’s. He may have shown up unexpectedly, but he was a reassuringly large presence.

Zadkiel performed the ritual on himself and Adam. Nobody needed to leave their gems behind accidentally at this stage. He guessed it would be messy in Adam’s case.

“Here we go -”

Zadkiel reached out.

His fingertips dissolved as they neared the planet. Then his whole body melted into a stream of atoms, and this really was a freefall, dimensions compressing around him, his body stretching back miles, stars streaking across his vision. He was made of mist and he was rushing through a cold tunnel faster than any living thing had ever moved

~*~

They popped out at the other end, mouths agape like fish.

The first thing was the silence.

It was crushing and absolute. It was the silence of a void. A sea of darkness full of pinpricks of light that only made the darkness more infinite. He remembered, from two different perspectives, rowing across a lake that had been like this.

Then, the planet.

It spread out below him. A hard, mountainous, canyon-pocked waste-scape. He could see where it curved, the crescent of light like the rind of an orange. He could see the shimmering corona of its atmosphere. He could see the granite and sandstone and marsh-coloured patches of its body, all merging like a paintbox left out in the rain.

He had never seen anything like it. A new world. Untouched. Alien.

He had to admit it was a cracking view.

Adam’s fingers dug into his arm. The green dog yipped at a hysterical pitch.

Zadkiel looked down at the boy and noticed the third thing.

Adam gasped for breath that wouldn’t come. He stared into Zadkiel’s eyes, terrified, as his lips turned blue.

---

[1] Neither of Zadkiel’s components knew what to make of the dog. They’d each secretly hoped that fusing would bring some wisdom on the subject. Zadkiel was happy to report: nope. The dog thing was really weird.

(Link to next part)

#omens universe fic #omens universe #good omens fic #good omens #ineffable husbands #steven universe #yeeeeah so Aziraphale and Crowley are terrible guardians #who forget that children need things like oxygen #and to have their eyes shielded from thirsty fusion dances #any gross space-inaccuracies I wish to preemptively attribute to Antichrist-induced cartoon physics #I spent an afternoon on wikipedia looking up details on Proxima Centauri B #and the best I could come up with for a description was still 'the planet... was... brown...'

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imagineawlwlikethat · 5 years

Text

Do You Need One? (Carol Danvers x Reader)

Length: 2k

Warnings: Slightly suggestive language, but barely, and like one curse word lol

Small author’s note: Carol isn’t Captain Marvel here, just a regular human, and this is post haircut, cause there aren’t enough fics with it lol. Also there is a small part where the reader talks about being a WOC, if that’s off putting to you for some reason 🤔 other than that, I didn’t describe the reader on purpose, feel free to think of them how you want. (This was based off of a dream I had, hopefully it translates how I wanted 💀) Now that that’s out of the way, this is my first fic I’ve ever written, it’s basically fluff wrapped in some tension, but the good kind 🤭 so let me know what you think, and suggest some more ideas in my inbox!

••••

You walk into City Hall, and see a sign pointing you in the direction of the room you’re looking for.

The sound of your heels walking echoed in the large hallway, matching your heart rate. You were surprised you were so calm considering how excited you were for tonight. This is your first meeting for a local human rights organization you heard about at work, and you’re eager to get started.

Walking in, you’re happy to see that it hasn’t begun yet, the others are standing around and mingling, holding white paper cups that are no doubt full of that crappy meeting coffee there always is. As you walk deeper into the area, someone in the back calls out.

“Hey, can you guys all grab a seat in the middle for me please?”

You and the others go and take your seats, and as the crowd disperses, you see who that voice came from.

A woman in her late 20’s, maybe 30, with short blonde locks that you want to run your fingers through, and facial structure to die for. Her jawline is so perfectly shaped, you’d think she was sculpted by Michelangelo himself. What got you though, were her eyes. Besides the fact that she was already looking at you, the color of them almost made you stop in your tracks. They were a deep brown, nearing hazel as she walked closer to you, choosing a seat directly across from you in the circle.

She’s so damn hot you don’t know how she wasn’t the first person you noticed when you walked in. She introduces herself to the group as Carol Danvers and even though you always thought that was an older lady’s name, you decide you like it on her.

As she’s talking, you take this time to really look her over, from toe to head. Her outfit was casual, but deliberate, you could tell. She was wearing black military boots, unlaced, worn from years of use, you guessed. Ripped black jeans, but the distressing looked homemade, which for some reason you admired. A grey, vintage Iron Maiden T-shirt was covering her torso, and she was wearing a black motorcycle jacket on top of that. Her entire outfit screamed gay, which makes you chuckle a bit. If she wasn’t, you were going to be confused and very disappointed.

By the time you tune back into what she was saying, you realize that she was finishing up a speech about the organization.

“That’s basically what we’re about, anyone have any questions?”

She looks around at everyone, but her gaze feels like it lingers a little bit longer on you. You shake your head and pretend like you weren’t just swooning over her the last couple of minutes.

A few minutes pass, and you realize that the room is warmer than it was when you walked in. Maybe it was the compacted body heat, or the lack of ventilation, or Carol looking at you like that, but you were starting to sweat. Someone else says what you’re thinking out loud, and one by one, everyone takes off their jackets, your blazer included, and hangs them on the back of their chairs. You even unbutton your shirt a little more to get some ventilation.

You notice that the sleeves of Carol’s t-shirt are rolled up, and that means her arms are on full display, which sends you into another wave of gay panic. It’s obvious that she works out, and when she crosses her arms, you’re sure you’ve died and that this is heaven.

Sometime during the meeting, you lean back against the chair and close your eyes, rubbing the side of your neck and trying to work the tension of the last week out. This captures Carol’s attention, and she misses a question someone directs towards her. Her body language changes a bit, she knows she got caught; maybe not by you, but her entire demeanor is carefully crafted, and the fact that you’ve managed to crack it is enough to make her very curious about you.

Throughout the hour that the meeting lasts, there is intense amounts of eye contact between you two, and frequent exchanges of info, which shouldn’t thrill you as much as they do, but every interaction is like a rush of adrenaline, and you’re suddenly a junkie. She runs a hand through her hair at least once a minute (you’ve started counting). Every time she does, her bicep flexes a bit, consciously or not, and this time, you can’t help but think about what it would be like to have that arm holding you up while she—

Someone coughs and interrupts your daydream, which makes you snap back to reality and cross your legs, the heat flowing between them suddenly obvious to you.

At the end of the meeting, Carol concludes it by thanking everyone for coming.

“I’ll see you guys next week, same day and time.”

Everyone stands from their chairs, says their goodbyes and starts to walk out. As you finish putting your blazer back on, Carol calls you back from leaving to have you fill out your new member info sheet for the organization. You get a little excited because there was definitely tension during the meeting earlier but there was other people around, and for a moment, you wondered if they caught on.

“I have the paper over here.”

She leads you to an old desk in the corner of the room, small and brown, definitely an antique, with a single, dimly lit lamp atop it. The light made the area seem almost romantic, but you pushed that thought out of your mind as quickly as it entered.

You take a seat, with Carol in the chair across from you, and lean forward to fill the form out; email, phone number, the works. The desk space between you is so limited that Carol sees something she believes is both a blessing and a curse.

Your shirt is unbuttoned enough now that it suddenly becomes very obvious that you don’t have a bra on. Carol arches an eyebrow at that and shifts in her seat, but doesn’t say anything. She decides to break the comfortable silence and ask you about yourself.

“Have you always wanted to fight the good fight?”

You look up at her and after a moment, you decide to give her an honest answer.

“As a woman of color, I’ve always felt like I’ve had to fight for my right to exist in multiple spaces, and I want to share those experiences and resources with others who are fighting the same injustices.”

Carol is so impressed with your answer that she doesn’t even respond, she just nods.

You crack a smile and ask “Was that a good enough answer?” A blush of pink starts to creep up her neck, but her face remains neutral, and she nods again, smaller this time. You smile bigger and lean over again to continue filling out your information. She looks you over and her mind goes in a million different directions.

Carol doesn’t know what she was expecting when she saw you walk into the room, but it certainly wasn’t the woman sitting in front of her. You finish filling the form out, sit back upright and hand it over to her. Your hands brush as you pass the form back (a move on her part cause the paper was big enough that your hands didn’t have to touch). You look down to play off your surprise and suppress a smile. When you do, you finally notice that you aren’t wearing a bra and say so.

“Oh shit.”

You laugh, maybe a little too loudly, and cover your mouth to stifle it.

Carol tries to pretend she hasn’t already noticed and cracks a smile.

“What are you laughing at?”

You look back at her, and realize that her pupils seem slightly bigger than they did before.

“I forgot I took my bra off earlier, and I’m just now realizing that I went the whole meeting without it on”, you tried not to laugh, “I hope no one noticed.”

You weren’t trying to be flirty, you just find most things funny. If it came off that way to the woman across from you, that was just a bonus. Carol tries to offer a solution right way.

“Oh. Do you need one? There’s probably one in the back somewhere.”

Now it’s your turn to raise a brow at her. You chuckle and politely decline because you know you have it somewhere. You started to wonder why she would even have a spare bra laying around, but you decided that was a question for another day.

“That’s ok, mine is probably in my car somewhere, and it’s actually freeing not to have one on, I didn’t even realize until I looked down.”

When you said that, Carol’s eyes immediately glanced at your chest and the blush from earlier came back stronger. Still, her facial expression stayed the same, and you wondered how she was able to do that so easily. She leans back in her chair, recollecting her emotions and trying to calm herself down a bit without being obvious about it.

‘So, how does someone lose their bra and not notice?’ She cracked a grin that showed her teeth, and you liked how much her eyes crinkled when she did so.

“One, I didn’t lose it,” you laughed, “and two, I was showing a guy friend how to take off a bra without taking off your shirt, and apparently I’m so good at it that I forgot to put it back on.”

Carol visibly deflates at that but only replies with “Mm, sounds fun.”

You pick up on her change in behavior immediately and you try to explain without sounding too eager.

“I told him that I’m better at it than most cause I’ve had plenty of practice on other women.”

You make sure to smile quickly so that Carol will get the hint.

She perks up again but tries to play it off, saying “Ah, that makes sense.”

Her heart starts beating a little faster, she doesn’t want to think that she has a shot with you now, but she just can’t help herself. You think it’s cute and just nod.

“Uh huh.”

Since you’ve filled out the information sheet, there’s no reason for you to stay any longer, which brings a small frown to your face, but all good things must come to an end.

You both stand from your seats and Carol reaches a hand out to shake yours before you both part ways. Realizing this is a perfect opportunity to physically show your attraction, you take her hand softly in yours, shake it slowly, and let it slip out of yours, all the while maintaining full eye contact, which gave you a rush like no other. Carol feels a surge of heat through her body as she realizes she needs to know more about you. Before she realizes what she’s doing, she throws out a dinner proposal, surprising even herself.

“Can I see you again? Before the next meeting? Dinner maybe?”

You were pleasantly surprised; all throughout the meeting and the whole time you were both at the desk, she seemed so calm and collected, you certainly didn’t expect this.

Boosted by a sudden wave of confidence, you decide to leave her wanting more. You glance over at the paper on the desk where you just wrote your number down, and a plan formulates in your mind.

You look her in the eye and tell her “You know how to reach me now”, wink, and walk out of the room. As you exit the building, your heart is beating so fast, you’re sure that you’ve never felt alive before this moment.

You reach the parking lot and unlock your car, getting inside to reflect on the last 20 minutes. You think back to your and Carol’s conversation and a smile settles on your face, growing until you’re laughing at how you acted, you never would have expected that from yourself. Your phone vibrating in your pocket cuts your laugh short, and you dig it out to see an unknown number calling you. Having a pretty good idea of who it is, you smile as you press the answer button and bring the phone up to your ear.

“Not one to wait, are you?” You realize you’re holding your breath and release it slowly, hoping Carol doesn’t hear how nervous you are.

“Not when I see something I like.” She sounds more relaxed than she did a few minutes ago, and you melt a little at her forwardness.

“You did wait long enough for me to walk to my car, so I’ll give you that.”

“So is that a yes to dinner?” You hear the smile in her voice.

“It’s a yes if you try not to give me another used bra.”

She laughs, pink rushing up her neck for the umpteenth time tonight, but this time, she doesn’t feel the need to hide it and smiles wider than she has in a long time.

“Deal.”

••••

#the formatting fucked up somehow so i apologize for that #anyways enjoy!#carol danvers fic #carol danvers imagine #carol danvers #carol danvers x reader #captain marvel fic #captain marvel imagine #captain marvel x reader #captain marvel #marvel #marvel imagines #marvel imagine #my writing

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vegafiction · 6 years

Text

@badthingshappenbingo

Word Count: ~1.6k Prompt: Broken Rib(s) Chara(s): Lance & Keith Pairing(s): Klance Fandom: Voltron: Legendary Defender Warning(s): mild cursing, Present Day AU

Inspiration struck late at night. This wasn’t on the list of things I was supposed to do, but after watching season 6 of VLD, I just wanted to write some mildly whumpy klance things. I used a different writing style this time. Please enjoy!

He stares deeply into the mirror, scrutinizing every inch of his flawless skin and flattening down unruly wisps of brown hair on the top of his head. He checks his teeth, his eyes; smooths the carefully plucked hairs on his brow then straightens his clothes until he is the picture of perfection. He flashes a charming smile at his reflection and imagines the response his date would say before pressing his forehead against the mirror. A heavy sigh escapes his lips.

This is as good as it’s going to get. He thinks, his confidence suddenly draining. “Come on Lance! Pull yourself together. It’s not like it’s our first date or anything.”

He throws himself across the bed, barely missing the pointed edge of his nightstand. He glances up at the pictures on the nightstand. They’re memories of a time long since past with friends and loved ones, but Lance ignores the collage of fun memories in favor of a framed picture of him and Keith sitting on the older boy’s motorbike.

It was taken by his older sister, who had snapped the very moment Lance buried his face into Keith’s neck out of embarrassment. This was their first date—awkward and sweet; the air of uncertainty and puppy love.

Lance smiles warmly to himself, his confidence returning. Climbing to his feet, he smoothes out the wrinkles from his shirt and grabs his keys and wallet from the nightstand.

“Lancito!” One of his sister’s call, “¡Tu novio está aquí!”

“I’m coming down!”

With one last inspection in the mirror, Lance hurries down the stairs and into the foyer. Keith catches sight of him before his sister does. The smile that spreads across his face melts Lance’s insides. His knees go weak on the last step. He stumbles.

Keith catches him before he can fall.

“Hey,” He chuckles, violet eyes warm.

“Hey,” Lance breathes. “Nice muscles—I mean—n-nice catch!”

“Thanks, I’ve been working on them.”

“Ugh,” Lance’s sister groans. She makes a show of rolling her eyes and playfully gags. “This is so gay, I can practically see the rainbow.”

“Veronica!” Lance squeaks.

He distances himself from Keith far enough to catch his sister’s smile. She shakes her head playfully, dark eyes bright with mirth.

“Take care of yourselves today, okay? Have fun and be home before ten or Mamí will come for both of our hides.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Lance intertwines his fingers with Keith’s and leads him out of the house. Veronica leans against the door frame.

“Take care of my baby brother, Kogane!”

“I always do.”

Lance huffs. He shoos Veronica away then takes the spare helmet Leith brought for him and climbs onto the seat behind Keith. He wraps his arms around the older boy’s waist, enjoying the warmth and firmness of his broad back.

The motorbike roars to life. It pulls out of the driveway then speeds down the road until it’s nothing but a distant rumble.

Lance is on cloud nine. There’s nothing quite like riding on your boyfriend’s motorbike in the heat of summer, the wind whipping his clothes and the loud roar of the engine revving up every now and again blasting in his ears. Keith wasn’t a reckless driver—at least not when Lance was his passenger.

He tried to keep away from the busier streets and kept weaving out of traffic to a minimum. But there was a stretch of road that barely anyone used that was perfect for high-speed riding. It was mostly abandoned, with the occasional joggers, bike riders and dog walkers popping up every now and then.

It was hidden away by a cluster of trees. Lance couldn’t remember how they had found it in the first place, but he was grateful they had. The silent road was peaceful and isolated—like it was an entrance to a world meant only for them.

Lance leans into Keith’s back, his heart full of adoration and happiness. He sighs contentedly. He feels like the luckiest guy in the whole world.

“Shit—!”

The motorbike jerks to the left with such force, it takes all of Lance’s strength to keep from falling off. He can feel the tension in Keith’s body through their embrace. He opens his mouth, but it snaps shut through the force of gravity as the bike swerves further left.

They’re speeding through forest and foliage until the front wheel snags on an upturned root and throws them both into the air.

Keith crashes to the ground with a heavy thud. He rolls across the forest floor until finally, he stops a few feet away from the bike.

Lance sails past him. He crashes haphazardly into a nearby bush then rolls and rolls until he comes to a stop at the foot of a tree. He wheezes from the pain; his vision blurred and spinning.

“K-Keith?” He calls, but his voice isn’t loud enough to project across their distance. He shuts his eyes in an attempt to steady himself. He can taste the copper in his mouth.

He takes a breath. Pain shoots along his sides like molten fire. It spreads across his chest, making him wheeze and form tears along the edges of his eyes. It recedes for a moment, long enough for him to focus again, but it pulsates to the rhythm of his heart.

Lance tries to push himself upward. He screams.

“LANCE!”

“K-Keith...!” He wants to cry. The pain enveloping his entire right side and chest cease burning the moment Lance remains still.

He tries to crane his neck to catch sight of Keith but all he sees are the boy’s unsteady steps as he hobbles Lance way.

Keith falls to his knees beside his injured boyfriend and tries to lift him to his feet. Lance’s agonized screams fill the air.

“Shit! I’m sorry Lance, but I have to roll you over.”

“No, don’t—!”

Lance’s words trail off into another scream as Keith hurriedly flips the boy onto his back. His breath comes out short and rapid, his lung expansion hindered by the pain on his side. It hurts to breathe too deeply, but Lance feels lightheaded.

He snaps back to reality at the sound of Keith’s anxious voice. Keith is leaning over him, spilling out words of reassurance as calloused fingers check along Lance’s body for any visible injuries.

Lance inspects his boyfriend’s face. Small scratches dot his cheeks and brows; a large bruise was forming beneath the skin along his jaw. He stares into those worried violet eyes and despite the pain radiating beneath his skin, Lance feels more pain from Keith’s expression than his own predicament.

“I think you broke a rib.” Keith’s voice cracks at the confirmation. He gently lowers Lance’s shirt and stares into his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see the deer until it was too late—shit!”

Lance manages to steady his breathing enough to keep himself from hyperventilating. He reaches for Keith’s face with his left hand and gently caresses his boyfriend’s face.

Keith leans into the touch. “I need to get help.”

“Don’t leave me here.”

“Lance, your ribs—I don’t know how badly injured you are but if they puncture a lung—“

“I’m coming with you,” Lance says stubbornly. “I saw you hobbling. I know you’re hurt! I’m coming whether you help me or not.”

Keith groans, but he relents.

It takes all of Lance’s willpower to keep from crying out the next time Keith helps him to his feet. He needs another few seconds to steady himself and fight away the nausea until he feels confident enough to move.

Lance can feel other parts of his body ache and scream; can almost pinpoint exactly where on his body new bruises are forming but more importantly, he can see the sheen of sweat dotting Keith’s brow and how pallid his skin has gotten. He can barely walk, let alone bare Lance’s weight so Lance does what he thinks is best: he throws his boyfriend’s arm around his neck and shoulders Keith’s weight.

“No, what are you—“

“Your ankle is hurt and mine are fine.” He says matter of factly. “I can bear your weight.”

“Dammit Lance, you’re going to make your injuries worse!”

“Like you were going to do for me? Face it, Samurai, we’re both idiots in love.”

Keith snorts but doesn’t refute. It takes all of their energy to stay focused on the road.

It takes them an hour to make it back to civilization, thirty minutes to finally reach Keith’s house and less than ten seconds for Lance to finally pass out from the strain of having to half-carry his heavier, bigger boyfriend home.

He wakes up to the sight of a white paneled ceiling and the scent of antiseptic in the air. He feels groggy and tired, his body numb and heavy as though weighed down by invisible weights. His room is dark and quiet save for the dull chatter of noise just beyond his door.

His head lulls to the side, heavy against his neck. He realizes sluggishly that he’s in the hospital and his sudden numbness was the sweet, sweet release of pain control medicine.

Beside him, Lance notices Keith. Crutches lean against either side of his chair. Bandages were wrapped along the length of Keith’s head. The bruise on his jaw had darken to a nasty purple but it was the frown on his face that told Lance everything he needed to know.

He laughs.

Keith jerks awake, startled. “You’re awake! How are you feeling?”

“Sedated,” he slurs, still chuckling. “You?”

“Fractured ankle. Minor concussion. I’m fine.”

“Good.”

Keith sighs. “Your family is going to kill me. You could’ve died today.”

Keith leans into the bed, fingers wrapping around Lance’s until he has the boy’s hand cradled against his bandaged forehead.

“I’m so sorry.”

“s’ok. I love you.” Lance grins sleepily.

“I love you too.” He murmurs and presses a kiss against the boy’s hand. His frown from earlier softens, but it doesn’t quite disappear.

#nada rambles #klance #lance #keith #voltron #nada writes #badthingshappenbingo #long post #lance voltron #keith voltron

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lavenderprose · 6 years

Text

Here’s a bit of an untitled short story that might end up being a titled long story, who knows. It’s based on my need to make things as Gay and as Sad as Michigan as possible.

From Detroit, it’s a three-hundred mile drive the tip of the mitten. It’s a straight shot up I-75 and it could theoretically take less than five hours, but with stops and traffic it’s closer to six. Almost exactly halfway up, give or take ten miles, there is a tiny town next to Lake Huron that seems to be made up of an abandoned gas station, a McDonald’s, and a cheese and charcuterie shop all surrounded by an endless expanse of tall and yellow grass. The shop sells a type of cheese that is named after the town, and venison sausages, and T-shirts that say LOVE where the O has been replaced with the lower peninsula.

Topher buys a small clamshell package of cheese cubes and venison sticks and sits outside at a stone picnic table. In the summer—and Topher has been here in summer—the beating sun makes the heat off the pavement almost unbearable, and sitting at the tables an impossibility. But it’s April. A lonely tree that started breaking through the pavement of the parking lot when Topher was a teenager is now more than ten feet tall, and the buds are emerging after a long and harsh winter.

“It’s been a long time since I was this far up,” says Caleb. He has his glasses on the tip of his nose and his arms folded on the table, cool as you please. Next to him, Parker is tapping a McDonald’s cup with the last of a chocolate milkshake rhythmically on the table. Caleb, who’s prone to car sickness, has forgone food.

“I always forget how it smells,” says Parker. Topher’s eyes, caught somewhere in the middle distance, don’t catch where he’s looking—but he thinks it must be towards the lake. From this distance, it’s only really visible as a line of shimmer on the horizon, but Parker is a water baby. Sometimes, when Topher thinks of Parker as he was when they first met, he can only picture him as a pair of shoulders and a head floating above some given body of water. “Cleaner somehow. I guess.”

“You guys grew up here, huh?” says Caleb.

Parker gestures expansively with the hand that isn’t holding the milkshake. “Yes. Right here in this parking lot.”

Caleb recrosses his arms on the table and mutters something under his breath, maybe something like why do I put up with you. Topher takes a chilled and over-salted fry from the almost empty box next to Parker’s elbow and says, “Not here. About fifty miles west, like here.” He raises his right hand, flat and facing Caleb, then points to a spot below the join of his middle and index fingers.

“Middle of damn nowhere,” says Parker.

“Then, after my mom died,” says Topher, tracing his finger up along his middle finger to the very tip, “I moved here.”

“When your uncle took you in,” Caleb ventures, after a moment in which he’s obviously carefully choosing his words.

Topher feels his throat try to close and pushes back against it, but the pain stays there. He flattens his hand against the table and breathes until he has enough air to respond, but even then it’s only to say, “Yeah,” in a low, breaking voice that he can barley recognize himself in. The instant regret shows on Caleb’s face in a wobbling of lips and a shimmering of eyes, like he himself might start to cry.

“Topher,” Caleb says, in one of those low and gentle tones that Topher can hardly stand under normal circumstances, let alone right now. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Topher whispers. “Please.” He rises and pulls the keys out of his pocket, steps into the glare of the sun over the crest of the roof. The car has been sitting in a patch of sunlight that has made the upholstery hot and the air stuffy. Topher turns the ignition and opens the sunroof, and watches Caleb and Parker make their way slowly towards Caleb’s truck.

The rest of the way up, Topher pushes the Malibu to 85 and arrives twenty minutes before Caleb and Parker. The house is set back about an acre back from the road, up a long gravel drive lined by trees and trespassing signs. The old Corvette sits in the driveway, and Topher pulls up behind it. The front of the house looks exactly as he remembered it from five or twenty years ago—mint green paint, low porch, rusty windchime. There is an old and fading wooden sign nailed next to the door with the address number and Williams in an attractive font. It’s been there for longer than Topher can remember, and he thinks it must have been painted by Peter’s mother or grandmother.

The screen door, which has always had a problem with latching, is swinging in the wind. Topher watches it sway for a moment as he gathers the willpower to rise from the deep seat of the Malibu. When he does, he approaches the house slowly, and stoops to retrieve the spare key after staring at the front door for several long moments.

The kitchen still smells the same. It’s there, underneath the odor of something in a pan on the stove going bad, and the fruity smell of a bottle of orange juice open on the counter. Topher turns his eyes away and the lump rises again, and he stumbles back to the dining room to lower himself onto a chair.

He puts his head in his hands, and the tears fall hot. The waves wash up from the lake and crash against the rocky beach, and it almost covers the sound of Topher’s sobs. The doors to the living room from the screened in back porch are swaying in the breeze, the plants are dying. Peter Williams was sixty-two years old when he died three days ago, and Topher had not seen him in five years.

Behind him, the screen door swings open. Topher startles violently and sends the cloth placemat on the table spinning to the floor. Through the kitchen, someone calls, “Hello?” and Topher furiously wipes the tears from his cheeks.

“Hi!” he calls back, and leans back around the kitchen archway. “Hi, yeah, hello.”

The man standing in the kitchen is taller than Topher by several inches, blonde and stocky. He’s got a thick trunk and limbs, muscle with a softening layer of fat. Attractive. His hat and shirt both say Lawson Orchards.

“Hi, I’m sorry,” he says, and takes off the hat in a small-town sensibility that Topher had almost forgotten existed. “I’m—I live down the road, and I’ve been watching the place for the last couple of days because I heard, y’know, that—well, I was—I know that, uh, Mister Williams had…has passed.”

Topher clears his throat and nods. “Yeah. Thanks. Um…thanks. I’m Christopher. I’m his—”

“His kid,” says the blond. “I—yeah, I know. I recognize you. I’m Sam. Sam Lawson. Do you remember me?”

It takes a moment, but the plump and red face of a boy several years younger than himself floats back into Topher’s memory. Sammy Lawson was a pitiful creature at age fourteen, the last time Topher thinks he laid eyes on the kid. The summer before Topher went off to State, Sammy was short for his age, overweight with pimples on every sunburned inch of his body and all of that thick straw-yellow hair cut into an uneven mop. Fourteen years later, he’s still got the generous belly of someone whose mother still makes a cherry pie every Saturday afternoon, but it suits him now.

Topher licks away the salt of a tear clinging to the curve of his top lip. “Yeah,” he mumbles, throat still thick. “I recognize you. I remember you.”

“I was a couple of years younger than you. When you moved here, I was ten—”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I think you babysat me, maybe once or twice.” Sam clears his throat and then, seemingly out of some compulsive need to end his thought, finishes with, “Our dads knew each other.”

“I never knew my dad,” says Topher, fully aware of how strange it is to say in the moment. His brows furrow even as it’s coming out of his mouth.

“Right. Sorry. Your uncle. Peter. Old Pete and my dad. My dad’s Leigh. You know.”

“I know.”

“Right.”

Sam Lawson swipes his misty forehead with his wrist and then sets his red baseball cap back on his sweat-damp hair. Obviously feeling the melancholically awkward weight of the air, he sets his broad hands on his hips and glances around the kitchen, at the spoiled pot on the stove and the open bottle of orange juice—anywhere that is not directly at Topher.

“I was the one,” says Sam, after a moment.

“Excuse me?”

Sam wiggles his hand oddly toward the open door. “I was doing some work for him out in the garden. Just moving some stuff around, getting it all neat for spring. He couldn’t do so much anymore, y’know, ‘cause of his knees and stuff.”

“Right,” Topher says.

“Anyway, I get here about six in the morning, since I gotta go work in the orchard at nine, and Pete knew I was coming and everything, so I start to work. And around seven-thirty, I hear him get up, and then around eight, I hear—well, I hear him yell, and then a big bang. And I come in and he’s on the floor. And—” Sam stops, either because of Topher’s face or the small and pitiful noise that airs through the room from the depths of Topher’s throat. Sam’s jaw visibly tightens. “Sorry. Me and my big mouth.”

One of Topher’s hands grips onto the edge of the wooden counter, and the other curls into a tight fist next to his hip. In twenty minutes, he’ll realize that his own nails have dug deep enough into his palm to create four bleeding half-moon marks. For a very long and thick moment, there is almost complete silence.

“Do you think it was painful?” Topher asks after this, and even he doesn’t know why.

Sam Lawson blinks at him like a deer in headlights.

“I think heart attacks usually are,” he says then, and the lump returns to Topher’s throat. Then, as a second and much more gentle thought, Sam adds, “But I also think that where he went—I think you don’t remember things like that, after.”

Topher snorts.

“I’m sorry,” he says, warbly and accidentally shrill, “But I just don’t—"

Caleb’s truck grinds gravel in the parking lot and saves Topher from himself. He parks behind Topher’s car at a distance that Topher will probably yell at him about later, but in the moment, he just crowds to the door with Sam and watches Caleb and Parker dismount from the F-150.

“You sure hauled ass to get here,” says Caleb, everything about him a little shadowy standing as he is on the other side of the screen door. “You must’ve been going something like twenty miles over the speed limit.” He says it with a kind of Here-There-Be-Dragons tone that says he hasn’t forgotten the exchange at the rest stop, over two hours ago now. Topher had, in fact, forgotten, but he doesn’t feel in a charitable mood, so he lets Caleb stew.

“Only ten,” says Topher, opening the screen door because it seems that neither Parker or Caleb is going to take the initiative, and it’s getting kind of strange to be pressed elbow-to-elbow with Sam Lawson. The kitchen wasn’t made to contain four grown men, considering that it’s really only a row of counters and the fridge set about eight feet opposite from the sink and the stove, but they manage with Topher and Sam standing on opposite corners and Caleb and Parker both leaning against the counters, unconcerned with sharing space for obvious reasons. “The speed limit goes up to 75 somewhere past Bay City. That new law.”

“Hmm,” noises Caleb. “Forgot about that.” His eyes settle on Sam, with obvious inquiry. “Hi.”

“Oop, hi,” says Sam, holding out his hand. There are calluses in all the places you’d expect, or so Topher supposes. “I’m Sam Lawson. Live down the street. Chris and I…” Sam obviously looks for a way to describe their non-relationship, and fails. “We knew each other. When he lived here.”

“Caleb Shaw-McGuire,” Caleb says, smirking because he knows how much Topher dislikes being called Chris. “Topher and I work together down in Detroit. This is Parker, my partner.”

Sam swiftly moves his hand from Caleb’s to Parker’s to shake. “Partners as in…?”

“The married kind,” says Parker, and Sam nods easily.

“Right, yeah. That’s what I—yeah.” Sam takes steps towards the door, looking like he isn’t quite sure how to arrange his face. “Well, I’m…I just wanted to let you know how sorry I am, Chris, and if you need anything, me and my family would be more than happy to help out. I’ll, uh—I’ll see you around. Nice to meet you two.” He nods to Caleb and Parker, and exits to the tune of screen door banging once-twice-thrice against the doorjamb before finally latching on the fourth try.

Caleb’s hands go to his pockets and his lips purse. They while away a moment, because it’s one of those moments where nothing you could say feels right. Parker is still pressed together with Caleb with no real need now, but it’s more about comfort than anything else, at this point. The smell of the pot on the stove is making Topher’s stomach churn.

“What now?” asks Caleb finally.

“It’s a lot of hurry up and wait,” says Topher. “I’m still waiting for his sister to call me back and tell me which goddamn funeral home he’s at. I told her to make the decisions until I could get up here and now she’s being withholding as all hell. She’s always been like this.” His teeth grind.

“Do you want to go lay down?” asks Parker, meaning well.

“No, Parker, I fucking don’t.”

“Alright,” says Caleb, before the situation can escalate. “Let’s clean up then. The fewer people who see the house like this, the better.” Without waiting for a response, he picks up the pan from the stove and crosses to the sink with it. Parker sniffs the orange juice. Topher exits to the dining room to close the porch doors and return the fallen placemat to its tabletop home.

#Maggie's Fic #I guess that's the appropriate term??#even though it's not fic??#wtv

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ollie-oxen-free · 7 years

Note

Have fun on your trip! How about some Spiceyhoney with the hurt/comfort feels?

Anon: “I would love to see a sickfic, with Fell playing nurse! Whatever pairing!”

im sorry this took so long ahhhh im such a piece of shit, im trying to get around to those requests that i said i would write after, like, a whole fucking month. (also my gay ass considers sick fics hurt/comfort so)

Fell was stirring a pot of soup when he heard the shuffle of feet enter the kitchen, the sound stopping before a small thud was heard. He sighed, turning around to see Stretch out of bed again, sweaty and flushed, laying spread-eagle on the tile. His hoodie had been taken away after he had spilt juice all over himself to be washed, leaving just a black tank top, and he was pressing every exposed part of his body that he could on the cold floor. Fell scowled, turning down the heat on the stove before walking over, grabbing underneath of his armpits and lifting him up from the floor. Honestly, it had been at least a day or two since he last swept, and the last thing he needed was his lover managing to get sicker from the dirt of the floor, no matter how unlikely it was that such a thing would happen.

“Stretch,” he said, trying to keep the patience in his voice like this hadn’t already happened three times before, “you need to stay the fuck in bed.”

He received a groan in response and he rolled his eyes, standing up and lifting the other with him, setting him on his feet. He removed his hands. “Go the fuck to bed and stay under the covers.”

Stretch whined. “It’s too hot!”

Fell felt his eye twitch. Patience. Patience is needed. “Ten minutes ago you were complaining about being cold.”

His eyes widen as he sees Stretch sway a bit on his feet, legs shaking and giving out underneath of him. He rushes forward to catch him, grunting a bit as he supports the full weight of the sick skeleton until he manages to get his feet under himself, still supporting him as he stands up a bit straighter. Fell sighs, brow creasing in worry as he looks over at his lover, face pressed into the shoulder of his shirt and the top of his skull glistening with sweat. “Stretch, are you alri--”

He sneezes, face still pressed into his shirt, and Fell stiffens at the action, closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath as he presses his mouth into a thin line. He feels Stretch pull away, sniffing harshly, the wet sound resounding in his head. There’s a few moments of tense silence.

“Did you get snot on my fucking shirt.”

“Uh.” The voice is scratchy and thick from mucus and coughing, the lazy drawl of the words barely able to make its way through. “No…?”

He sighs, opening his eyes and looking down at the wet spot on the front of his shirt. Wonderful. He pulls the shirt off over his head, taking special care not to get that disgusting shit anywhere near his face. He wads the shirt up, throwing it in the trash can and making a mental reminder to purge the bin with fire later that night. He looks back around to see Stretch grinning at him, sending a wink his way at the fact that he was now standing shirtless in the kitchen. If it weren’t for the flush of a fever over his face and the fact that he was visibly shivering, Fell almost would have thought that he was back to his shit-eating self.

He rolls his eyes. “Glad that you’re able to find the humor in this situation. However, you still need to get the fuck back to bed.”

He walks up to the other, reaching out to grab his arm and help him, but stops short when Stretch moves back, seeming almost offended. “I can walk back m’self.”

Fell raises a brow. “Really now? Well, by all means,” he gestures down the hallway that leads out of the kitchen and to the bedroom. “Be my guest.”

Stretch looks from the hallway, to Fell, and then back to the hallway again before crossing his arms over his chest, sniffing indignantly. “...Fine.”

He takes a shaky step to the hallway, and then another, and Fell almost turns around to go back to the soup before he sees his knees buckle underneath of him and he rushes forwards, grabbing him around the waist to help support him once more. Fell huffs. “Honestly, how did you even manage to make it to the kitchen if you can’t walk five steps without falling?”

“...I leaned against the wall.” He sniffled. Then, quieter, “I didn’ wanna be alone.”

Fell looked at him for a bit before he sighed, straightening up and lifting the other with him. So that was it then. He walked over, half-dragging Stretch to the kitchen table and setting him in the chair there. “You can stay here, then. The soup is almost ready, anyways. Just don’t get up from that seat.”

He received a sniffle in response as he walked back over to the pot on the stove, stirring it a few more times before he got out a bowl, ladling the soup in that. He brought it over to the table, setting it in front of Stretch, pulling out his own chair and sitting down himself. Stretch lifts the spoon to his mouth, blowing on it before he takes a sip.

He makes a face, pulling it away from his mouth. “Jesus, Fell. You tryin’ to kill me?”

Fell crosses his arms in front of his chest, leaning back against the chair. “Please stop wasting what’s left of your voice on complaints about soup you can’t even taste.”

Stretch gave a cocky grin, opening his mouth to say something else before he broke off into coughs, the force of them racking his entire body. Fell pushed up from the chair, going behind him and rubbing circles on his back until the coughs faded. Once he calmed down, he started to shiver again, teeth clacking loudly in the quiet room. Fell looked up and out the window, seeing encroaching darkness as the sun began to set. He gave his back a few more pats before bending down, speaking softly.

“Try to eat some more. I’ll go get your hoodie.” Stretch nodded so he left, pushing in his chair and going to the laundry room to grab the neon orange disgrace to clothing. He grabbed a shirt of his own, pulling it over his head before he walked back to the kitchen, noting with satisfaction that almost all of the soup from the bowl was gone. Stretch was visibly shivering at this point and he made a face, walking up and handing him the freshly washed hoodie. As he pulled it on over his head, Fell walked over and grabbed some medicine, setting the pills and the glass of water in front of the other. He took them with no small amount of grumbling.

Fell took the bowl, hesitating in front of the sink before he opted to just set it beside. It wasn’t lazy. He would wash it later.

He came back to the table and helped Stretch up. Tried to, at least, since the other started flailing his arms around in complaint that he could “support himself.”

Fell just gave an annoyed glare, keeping his arm wrapped firmly around the other’s ribcage as he helped support his weight. “I’m certain that you can. It’s not like I’ve watched you try to walk by yourself at least five times now, only to have to catch you when you almost fall.”

It’s silent for a moment. Stretch sniffles. “...Sarcasm duly noted.”

Fell huffs out a laugh as he helps the other into their bedroom, going to the bed and tucking him in the covers there. He’s met with almost immediate snoring and he rolls his eyes fondly, going to the closet and pulling out a spare blanket and pillow before leaving the room, going to the couch. He tosses the pillow by the armrest, laying down and pulling the blanket to lay loosely on top of himself.

He’s halfway to sleep, in that floating feeling that comes when your body finally begins to fully relax, when he hears the bedroom door click open. He opens his eyes and sits up, any trace of sleep forgotten as he watches Stretch walk towards him, comforter wrapped around his shoulders and trailing behind him in a train. They meet eyes for a few seconds, and with a sigh Fell motions the other towards him, moving the blanket off to the side and scooting over to make room on the couch. Stretch’s face lights up before he shuffles over, moving into the space that was made for him and throwing the comforter over both of them, sniffling once before he tucked his head into his shoulder.

Fell sighed, adjusting the comforter before wrapping an arm around the other, tugging him a bit closer before he closed his eyes once again, sleep taking ahold of him quickly.

#spicyhoney #blue-means-stop #anon #requests #not shown: fell waking up the next morning and being PISSED because now both of them are sick #if i could title this is would be #You Know That Sick People Are Contagious Right?

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thejovianmute · 7 years

Text

A Different Way Home, Ch 1 (FMA, Roy/Ed)

Title: A Different Way Home

Author: TheJovianMute

Rating: Explicit (in later chapters, this first one's pretty mild)

Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist (any, since it's AU)

Pairing: Ed Elric/Roy Mustang

Tags: Alternate Universe, Prostitution, Hooker Roy, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Rape, Violence, PTSD, Eventual Happy Ending

Summary: Roy's standing on a freezing street corner, his body for sale and his pride long-since-gone, when the boy in the red coat approaches him.

Author's Notes:

A long while ago, in a brief burst of confidence, I posted my first fic. Since then my confidence tanked, and I haven't managed to convince myself to do it again. Then Ed and Roy Week popped up on my dash, and I remembered I'd started a RoyEd fic which would pretty much fit the bill. So I pushed myself to finish the first chapter properly, and here I am, posting it with an hour to spare - go me! I'm determined to keep going with this one - I'm not a fast writer, but I'll get there eventually.

This is set in a modern-day, alchemy-less Amestria. Roy's a little more broken than the one we know, and has fallen a lot further down. I've come across a few hooker-Ed fics but haven't yet found one with Roy on that side of the fence, so decided to flip the tables. There's some dark stuff in later chapters, but the payoff will hopefully be worth it - hurt/comfort is pretty much my favourite thing <3

Chapter 1:

Roy shivers in the freezing night air, the chill of the bricks he's leaning against seeping through the worn cotton of his t-shirt. He'd kill for a jacket, but he gets more attention without it; the t-shirt a size too small to show off the lines of his body. He no longer has the definition he once did, knows he's skirting the edge between slender and 'too thin' these days, but that seems to appeal to a certain sort of customer.

Not that he's having much luck tonight. He's been standing on this frigid corner for half an hour already without a hint of interest. Business is always slow on a Monday night, he knows, but hopefully it will pick up - not only does he need the money, but even just five or ten minutes in a heated car would give him a chance to warm up a little. He rubs his hands together, trying to create a little heat with the friction. It's times like this that he almost - almost - misses the desert heat.

Roy's scanning for potential marks when he catches sight of the figure in red walking his way. He squints a little to try and make out more detail; his vision is particularly poor at night, faces little more than shadowed blurs until they get within a couple of feet and he can make out actual features. The figure's small, though, and has what he assumes is a spill of long golden hair over one shoulder. Roy spares a moment to wonder whether the girl knows what kind of risk she's taking, walking through this part of the city alone at night. It's none of his business, of course - and considering where he's ended up it'd be a little hypocritical for him to be giving advice on poor life choices. The girl slides from his thoughts quickly enough as he goes back to looking out for tricks, occasionally stamping his feet, trying to restore circulation to his icy toes.

But the figure in red stops in front of him instead of continuing on past, and - despite what is indeed a long blond ponytail - the flat chest and angled jawline he can finally make out reveal the error in his assumption: this isn't a girl at all, it's a teenaged boy. The boy has his hands shoved into his pockets, feet planted solidly, his expression a mix of curiosity, determination and defiance as he stares at Roy intently.

"Can I help you?" Roy asks mildly.

The boy's eyes are a bright, almost luminescent amber beneath the sodium glow of the streetlights, matching the fall of golden hair. It's a striking look, especially paired with the black pants and shirt, topped by the blood-red coat.

The kid continues to stare at him, and Roy is just about to let loose a sarcastic comment when the kid abruptly finds his tongue, blurting: "How much?" The words seem to startle the boy as much as they startle Roy, if his mortified expression is anything to go by.

Roy raises an eyebrow, and then makes a show of looking the boy up and down. He's not the best judge of age, but he doubts this guy is older than fifteen or sixteen. "I don't fuck kids," he says bluntly. The boy is cute, but even if underage was his thing - which it isn't - he wouldn't risk that kind of pick-up out in the open like this.

The boy's expression darkens, his face flushing with a sudden anger, but he makes a visible attempt to rein himself in before replying. "I'm not a kid."

Roy raises both eyebrows this time in blatant disbelief.

The kid scowls at him. "I'm eighteen. I'm a goddamn university student."

It's possible, Roy muses, looking the guy over again. He has something of an ageless face himself, able to pass for twenty as easily as thirty - another thing that draws his clientele to him. The kid is short, only a scant inch or two above the five foot mark, but his build is solid enough, his shoulders square.

Still, it's better to be paranoid than arrested. "ID?" Roy asks.

"Seriously!?" The kid explodes, muttering dire invectives under his breath. "I'm being IDed by a hooker? What the fuck is my life?"

"You're welcome to try a hooker with a more flexible moral code if you so desire," Roy says, gesturing further down the street to where he knows some of the other guys work this time of night. There's a small group of them that band together for protection, but Roy's always been a loner.

The boy glances in the direction Roy indicates, but quickly shakes his head. "No. No, I want you." His cheeks flush pink with embarrassment as he says it, but his mouth presses into a determined line, as if daring Roy to doubt his resolve.

And that is interesting. Roy wonders what exactly it is about him that's drawn this particular kid. He knows that his mixed-race features are a draw for some men: the raven hair and dark eyes of his mother, combined with the pale Amestrian skin of his father. But generally it's the bigger guys that go for the Xingese look; the ones who get off on having someone smaller and lighter to manhandle and dominate. It's not something Roy particularly enjoys, but he's not in a position to turn down anyone willing to pay for his time.

Speaking of which. The kid is reaching into his pocket now, still scowling, pulling out his wallet and flipping it open, sliding out a small rectangle of plastic. He holds it up for Roy to inspect with a defiant expression. It's unexpectedly appealing, the stubborn little V between his brows, the determined jut of his jaw. So many of the men he encounters are jaded and emotionally numb, using him to try desperately to feel something, that this kid's spirit burns magnesium-bright in comparison.

Roy looks down at the card, making out the colour and layout of a local driver's licence, but in the dim lighting he hasn't got a hope of reading the text, and he curses his deficient vision yet again. Still, it makes little sense for the kid to show him a licence which proves him to be under-age, so odds are it backs up his claim. It could be a fake, of course, but these days the fakes are so good he probably couldn't make out the difference even if he could see.

"All right," Roy allows, deciding to go with it for now.

The kid puts the card back in his wallet and shoves it back in his pocket with apparent satisfaction. "So, how much?" He asks, repeating his original question.

Roy is somewhat nonplussed by the kid's stubborn determination. The guy's gorgeous and seems personable enough, if a little forthright, and Roy wonders what the hell he's doing picking up a hooker. The kid could walk into any gay bar or club and would draw men like flies to honey -

Roy knows exactly how popular young-looking twinks are with the gay crowd.

Still, it's not Roy's place to question the motivations of his clients, he's just here to do his job and get paid.

"Four thousand cenz for a hand, six for my mouth, ten if you want to fuck me. I don't fuck without protection, and anything kinky costs extra." The spiel is rote by now, and Roy rattles it off without even an internal flinch - unlike his first few days on the job, when every crude word had bruised his sense of self to the core.

The kid considers this for a moment. "What about if I want you to, uh, fuck me?"

Roy manages to keep his expression bland despite the unexpectedness of the question. It's not something he's been asked for before - which is fortunate, because he's not the sort who can get an erection on command. He's not sure he could get into it enough to be able to fuck a client; he can't recall many previous tricks who have genuinely turned him on. And it's been a long time - longer than he wants to think about - since he last had sex because he wanted to.

His first instinct is to reject the request, tell the kid that that particular activity isn't on the menu, but something makes him hesitate. There's a long-buried part of him that's flickering to life, tentative embers glowing faintly in the darkness. The kid is gorgeous, there's no denying that, but Roy's had good-looking customers before and looks have never been enough to jump-start his engine alone. It's a combination of everything about this particular kid - his earnest eyes, his stubborn, determined mouth, and the bright, aggressive flare of life inside of him - that draws Roy like a moth to a flame.

He thinks, to his surprise, that maybe it's something he could do with this kid. With him, rather than to him. It's a dangerous way to think - he learnt a long time ago that trust and hope in other people only ever leads to pain - and moths are all-too-often consumed by the flames they seek. But still, that faint, tentative flicker of desire is there inside of him, and he thinks that perhaps it could be fanned into flames of genuine - and perhaps mutual - want.

"Fucking's ten thousand, either way," he says, hoping it comes out more casually than he feels.

The boy nods acknowledgement, seemingly unaware of Roy's inner turmoil. "So, where do you, uh… usually go, to do… it?" He asks, wincing at the awkwardness of the words.

"Car or hotel, generally," Roy answers, resisting the way his mouth wants to curl into a smile. The kid's naivety is amusing, but Roy can't quite help finding it adorable as well.

"Would it be all right to go to my place?"

Roy shrugs. "If you'd prefer. It doesn't make any difference to me." He usually ends up in cars or hotel rooms because his clients don't want a whore sullying their their own beds - even if they don't have wives or girlfriends to hide him from. But Roy has no issue with the idea itself - a home is likely to mean heating, and a reasonably comfortable bed.

The kid hesitates, and then asks boldly: "What about if I wanted you to stay all night?"

"The entire night?" Roy raises an eyebrow, and the kid nods confirmation.

On a slow night he makes a couple of hundred. On a good night, he can take home a hundred thousand, although those are the nights he ends up crawling into bed at dawn, feeling scoured and hollow and used. But to be out of the cold for the entire evening is pretty appealing; tempting enough for him to apply a discount on what he'd otherwise be tempted to charge.

"Sixty thousand," Roy says. "Payment up front."

Roy wonders whether the price will be enough to scare the kid off. He hardly looks like the sort who has hundreds to burn on hookers whenever he feels like it. Nothing about him indicates wealth: his boots are worn and scuffed and the tears in his canvas satchel have obviously been mended by hand. Nothing he's wearing is designer or labelled. He looks like any other university student, with enough cash to scrape by, even if the last few meals each month are instant noodles.

But the kid doesn't so much as wince, nodding as if the amount is entirely reasonable.

"All right, then," the kid says with satisfaction. "It's a deal."

"Agreed."

There is silence for a few moments as the kid's expression transforms into something uncomfortable, his gaze sliding off to the side and his weight shifting from one foot to the other. It's the sort of awkwardness he usually sees when somebody is working themselves up to ask for something particularly kinky or degrading. Roy has a moment to start worrying about what exactly the boy wants to do to him, before the kid seems to come to some kind of conclusion, raises his chin defiantly, and pulls the glove off his right hand to reveal a fairly high-tech prosthesis.

"Will this be a problem?" The kid asks, holding the hand out towards Roy and curling each of the metal fingers closed and then open again. With his other hand in a fist, he reaches down to knock on his left thigh, which echoes hollowly. "Leg, too."

And that is not at all what Roy expected; he actually has to work to keep the surprise from his expression this time. The boy walks and moves so naturally that Roy would never have suspected two of his limbs weren't natural if he hadn't been told. The mechanics and joints visible in the flexing right hand are more advanced than anything he's seen before, and the boy's obviously had them long enough to make controlling them second nature.

Still, he imagines that two missing limbs could potentially make things awkward when it comes to intimate relations, and for the first time he has some inkling of why the kid is approaching him rather than going out to a club to pick up. He can only imagine the kinds of reactions the kid might receive from random hook-ups, especially in the gay scene, which tends towards the worship of bodily perfection.

But Roy has no issues with damaged bodies, not after the kinds of physical trauma he's seen, and the damage inflicted upon his own. If anything, he finds himself feeling an odd kind of brotherhood with this boy and his imperfect body, and he has a sudden desire to show the boy that desirability has nothing to do with being physically whole or perfect. Maybe that's something he'll get a chance to do tonight.

"They're not a problem for me," Roy says, letting his expression speak his sincerity.

The kid's discomfort evaporates, his grin blooming fierce and radiant. "Great!" He declares. "Let's do it!"

Roy lets himself smile this time - the boy's awkward enthusiasm is ridiculously endearing.

The kid winces as he twigs to the accidental double entendre, but he recovers quickly and holds out his hand. "Oh, hey - I'm Ed."

Yet another surprise - most of his tricks remain deliberately anonymous, and those who give him a name use obvious aliases. Roy never asks, and never offers his own in return. But he has no doubt that Ed has just handed him his actual given name without a second thought, and something in Roy warms at this small display of openness and trust. It also compels him to offer the same in return, despite his better judgement urging him to remain safely behind the shield of anonymity.

"Roy." The name sounds almost foreign to himself, it's so rare that he has reason to use it these days.

Roy reaches to shake the outstretched hand, realising at the last moment that he's reached out with his right while the kid's offered his left. There's an awkward moment where he's forced to switch hands before grasping the one offered. For a moment he just assumes the kid must be left-handed, and then it hits him - of course the kid prefers to shake with his natural hand rather than the prosthesis. He wonders what other adaptations the kid's had to make to fit into a two-handed world.

The kid - Ed - doesn't seem ruffled by the moment of awkwardness, his grip firm and sure. Roy doesn't think he's ever shaken the hand of a trick, either; apparently it's to be a day of firsts. So far Ed isn't so much bending the rules of convention as shattering them, and Roy's usual ability to keep himself at a distance along with them. He has to remind himself that no matter how friendly and sincere the kid is, he's still just a client. It's one night's work, and then he'll probably never see the kid again.

"Shall we?" Roy asks, as Ed continues to simply stand and grin at him.

"Oh! Oh, yeah, hell yeah! Let's go." Ed gestures for Roy to follow him, and Roy obediently falls into step beside him as they continue on down the street together.

Ed has no fucking idea what he's doing.

And Al is going to kill him.

He certainly hadn't set out to hire a hooker tonight. He'd been fed up and frustrated as he'd left campus this evening, bored of the same rut his life has been stuck in lately, sick of the same paths he's been treading and retreading day by day. The afternoon had dragged interminably and he'd grown more and more antsy and irritable, even snapping at Al when he'd called to let Ed know he wouldn't be home that night. By the time he'd shoved his books into his satchel at the end of the last lecture, he knew he had to do something to try and break himself out of the petulant, pigheaded mood he'd sunk into. He'd decided to start with something simple and take a different route home - he'd figured that maybe he'd stumble across a new take-away place, or a comic book shop he hadn't come across before.

Instead, he'd found Roy.

The guy had caught his attention from a distance: a slender figure with his back temptingly arched, shoulders pressed against the bricks behind him, one knee bent with his foot flat on the wall. He was only wearing a t-shirt and jeans, and Ed shivered sympathetically - the guy must be freezing his ass off. All the same, the t-shirt did offer a nice view of his flat chest and belly, and the long, toned muscles of his arms.

As he'd got closer Ed had filled in more details: straight black hair that fell to the tops of his ears, the shine of it a silver halo lit by the streetlight above, a stark contrast to the paleness of his skin. His eyes were dark and alert, flickering to each of the evening travellers as they passed him by, assessing them intently. He was the sort of good-looking that Ed found most attractive - sharp, lean and confident, with just a hint of danger about him. The heat of want flared in the pit of his belly, startling him with its intensity - it was rare that Ed felt so attracted to anyone on first sight.

It had taken Ed an embarrassingly long time to realise that the guy was a hooker. He'd already passed several men loitering along the street who had watched him go by with the same contemplative gaze, but he hadn't really thought anything of it. It wasn't until he found himself in front of the guy that all the pieces fell into place. A few moments later he realised he was standing there staring like an imbecile, and was receiving an assessing look in return.

"Can I help you?" The guy had asked in a rich, smooth tenor. He was well-spoken, his accent precise and refined - not what Ed had expected from a street worker, and for a few moments he was taken aback.

And then, without any actual input from his brain, he'd blurted: "How much?"

Ed was caught somewhere between horrified and aghast at his own impulsiveness. Of all the stupid, impetuous things he'd ever done, this had to rank up there with the best of them. What the hell was he thinking? Had his dick somehow taken total control of his brain? He'd never even had sex before, much less with a guy, and now he was suddenly deciding to proposition a gay hooker?

But the desire was still there, bright and hot and growing as he stood transfixed by the guy's dark, astute gaze. Ed wanted him, wanted to feel the warmth of his mouth and solidness of his body against Ed's own. So why the hell shouldn't he hire a hooker, if he wanted? It wasn't a crime. It wouldn't hurt anybody. It's what the guy did for a living - there shouldn't be any shame in it, for either of them. Ed had to lose his virginity some time, so he might as well do it in a way that let him call the shots.

And he had the money, sitting in the bank account he and Al jointly shared. The legacy of their absent father, he and Al had sworn never to resort to it out of need - and they'd fucking stuck to it, supported themselves without any help from the asshole's pity cash. But that meant the money was still just sitting there, and Ed felt a satisfying sense of pleasure at the thought of how displeased the bastard would be to know his son was contemplating using it to hire a gay hooker.

Meanwhile, said hooker was giving him the once over - and calling him a goddamn fucking kid. Well, if Ed hadn't been resolved to go through with this before, he certainly was now. If there was one thing he was good at, it was pushing back against assholes who thought he was too young to do something. He was old enough to drink, drive, and hire a goddamn hooker if he wanted, and he'd damn well prove it if he had to, despite the indignity of being carded by a sex worker.

Once they'd sorted the details, Ed had a moment of sobering realisation - having sex with this guy was going to mean getting naked. Which - yes, ok - should have been obvious from the outset, but forward thinking had never been Ed's strong suit. He had no idea how the guy was going to react to his prostheses. It wasn't like he was ashamed of his artificial limbs; they were hella useful, and he'd have a much fucking harder time managing without them. But the looks and comments and questions got damn tiresome after a while, so he typically went gloved simply to avoid the hassle. It wasn't something he'd could avoid if he was going to fuck this guy, though, and he had no idea how the guy was going to react to a double amputee.

But Ed wasn't a coward, and he wasn't going to let fear get in the way of something he wanted. He took a deep breath, lifted his head, and pulled off the glove - putting it all out there for the guy to see, even as he braced for the reaction.

But none of the expressions he expected - distaste, awkwardness, or worst of all, pity - materialised. The guy looked thoughtful for a moment, and then met his gaze evenly and said it wasn't a problem. Ed wasn't always the best at reading people, but he knew a genuine reaction when he saw one. The guy had seen his disability, acknowledged it, and accepted it - without any kind of judgement.

That's when Ed realised that he was kinda gone on the guy. It was entirely ridiculous - it wasn't as if he really knew anything about him: they'd spent five minutes together and barely exchanged a handful of words. But even the little he'd seen made Ed think that Roy was someone worth getting to know, and he'd found himself wanting to, just as much as he wanted to fuck the guy.

It wasn't a smart thing to want, not from a hooker he was paying to spend the night with and then would probably never see again. He tried to resign himself to the fact that Roy would be gone come morning - all they'd ever have, most likely, would be this one too-short night.

But then again, he thought, his irrepressible optimism twisting it back around - they had this night. Even if they never had anything beyond tonight, he was still going to be able to talk to Roy, touch him, connect their bodies in the closest way possible and get to know him as well as anyone could in a span of only hours. This night was his and he wasn't going to squander it, or waste time wishing it was something more than what it was.

He was going to spend the night with Roy, and that was pretty fucking awesome, no matter what happened afterwards.

"Shall we?" Roy asks, breaking him from his reverie, and they set off down the street together.

So that's how Ed finds himself escorting a hooker back to his apartment one freezing Monday evening. It might not be the most well-thought-out plan he's embarked on, but he doesn't think he's going to regret it. He darts a glance at Roy, and finds Roy looking back at him - Ed flushes with nervous embarrassment and Roy gives him a knowing smirk that gets him flushing for an entirely different reason. Ed's not sure how even just the curve of Roy's lips can be so damn sexy.

Even if Al does kill him, Ed thinks this might be worth it.

#royedweek #royed #fma fanfic #my fic #hooker fic #a different way home

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cassiebones · 7 years

Text

Muse

The One Where Everybody is Queer

It’s the sight of those arms that has Lena Luthor walking up to the sunny, smiling blonde in the middle of the university courtyard—sitting with half a dozen other college students, of all shapes and sizes and sexualities—and clearing her throat, her sketchbook pressed against her chest.

The blonde glances up at her and squints and it’s only then that Lena realizes that she’s probably silhouetted by the sun, her face in the shadows. But she can see the blonde’s face perfectly.

Oh god it’s so damn perfect.

She wears glasses over a pair of sky-blue eyes and her hair is almost always in a ponytail or some kind of braid—at least it is whenever Lena spots her across the quad, perpetually lying in the grass with the lesbian couple, who always hold hands or cuddle against one another and laugh with her—and today is no different. Today she has tiny yellow flowers woven in between her braids, making her look like some kind of woodland fairy, her rosy cheeks raised with her smile, her adorable button nose wrinkled slightly as she attempts to squint through the sunlight to find Lena’s face.

Usually, when Lena sees her, the blonde is wearing a sweater or a button-down, or something plaid that always makes Lena’s heart pound faster with hope. Because this girl is gorgeous and, yeah, plaid doesn’t always point to queer, but so often it does and wouldn’t it be just her luck if the girl who wears such queer clothing was actually 100% straight?

Today, however, it’s warm. Today, the blonde’s hair is in a ponytail and she’s wearing a deep blue tank top and a red bandeau underneath and her shorts are cut-offs and Lena can feel her heartbeat in her throat and oh god, she’s been standing here for a really long time not saying anything, hasn’t she. They’re all staring at her now; the lesbian couple and the spiky-haired boy with his maybe-boyfriend, who is in her photography class, and their other two friends, who are tangled up together with books in their hands. They’ve all stopped what they’re doing and they’re staring.

It’s like the first day of high school all over again, when Lena—who had skipped several grades—showed up to a classroom filled with teenagers that were all twice her size. Even the teacher had thought she’d shown up to the wrong school.

Only this was worse. Because she was in college, nearly in her last year, and she had only just turned eighteen a few months ago. Because she had a major crush on the blonde, but more than that, she thought she was beautiful and if she didn’t ask her question now, she might as well evaporate into thin air because it was getting more and more embarrassing by the second and—

“Are you okay, Lena?”

Her eyes widen and her heart skips a beat and her throat threatens to close because

“You know my name?” she blurts before she can stop herself and then she’s blushing as the blonde smiles brightly up at her, because she’s never even bothered to learn her name. She just knows that she’s pretty and blonde and, wow, she knows my name!

“Of course I do,” she giggles. “You’re in James’ photography class, right?” She motions to the black guy, who gives her a lopsided smile and a wave, his arm still slung around the smaller guy’s shoulder. “He showed me some of your work; it’s really good.”

“Th-thanks!” Lena says and she can feel her face getting hotter. Her light skin is probably the color of a beet by now as she runs her hand through her impeccably combed hair, probably mussing it. She doesn’t really care too much when this blonde bombshell is smiling at her like this, though. “Um, I’m sorry I don’t know your name.”

“That’s okay,” the blonde says, standing up. Predictably, she’s taller than Lena—but not by too much. “Kara Danvers,” she says, sticking out her hand. Lena takes it and feels a frisson of electricity run through her. “I’m a Freshman here this year,” she explains. “Otherwise, I probably would have been in photography with you and James. Mine’s not as good, though.”

“Don’t listen to her,” James laughs. “Kara’s photos are great; she’s just humble.” Kara rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Um, this is my sister, Alex, and her girlfriend, Maggie,” she said, motioning to the lesbians, who lean against each other like their lives depend on it. They each wave at her and Lena waves back with a shy smile. It’s nice to see happy queer couples like them around campus. It gives her hope. “They’re both seniors,” she explains. “So are Lucy and Vasquez,” she points to the two others entangled on the grass.

“They/them,” the one Lena assumes is Vasquez says, with a small grin. “Nice to meet you.”

“Same,” Lucy adds.

“Last, but certainly not least,” Kara continues, “this is Winn. He’s a Sophomore tech major.”

“I like machines and cute boys,” Winn says, with a small grin. James kisses his cheek.

“Don’t we all,” Kara laughs and Lena’s face almost drops at that. So she is straight.

Bummer.

“Sorry, Lena,” Kara says, turning back to the dark-haired girl, who’s trying so hard to keep the light in her green eyes. “You wanted to ask something, didn’t you?”

“Um, well, I…it’s nothing,” Lena says, starting to back away. “I just…I should…” She starts to turn, but then she feels a hand on her wrist and heat blooms all over her body as she looks down to see Kara’s fingers wrapped around her joint and she looks up, meeting the other girl’s concerned gaze.

“Don’t leave,” Kara says, something like hope in her eyes that has Lena practically swallowing her own tongue. “You can ask. It’s okay.”

“Uh…” Lena looks down at her wrist, which feels like it’s on fire just from Kara’s simple touch. “I…um…”

“Yes?” Kara asks, stepping forward a little bit. It’s almost too much.

Lena swallows thickly. “I was wondering,” she says, “if you wouldn’t mind…um…being my next subject.”

Kara furrows her brow and tilts her head like a confused puppy. Oh god, why does she have to look like a puppy? “Your subject?” she asks.

Lena nods. “For my art class,” she explains. “Well, one of them. It’s all about accurate anatomy and we’re supposed to pick a subject—like a family member or a friend—and I’m not really close with my family and I really don’t have a lot of friends, except for Jess, but she’s really busy getting her degree in anthropology and doesn’t really have the time to spare, so I either have to pay somebody to be my model or ask around and I can totally pay you, if you need me to, but the lines of your body are really great, especially your arms, and your face, and your…everything. So it would be really great if you say yes, but you don’t have to obviously, and I can’t breathe.” Lena takes a big breath, filling her lungs with sweet, sweet oxygen and then bites her lip as she waits for Kara to process everything she’s just said.

It takes a moment, but then the blonde’s lips are breaking into a wide grin and now she’s flushing and Lena wonders how it’s possible for her to look even more gorgeous than she already did, because it really shouldn’t be.

“You think the lines of my body are beautiful?” Kara asks, her head tilting again and Lena can do nothing but nod. “Wow. That’s…that’s really sweet, Lena. How could I say no?”

“You totally can if you want,” Lena blurts. “I don’t want you to feel pressured. If it’s something you’re not comfortable with then—” Lena’s eyes practically burst from her skull when Kara reaches out and presses her fingertips to the other woman’s lips, stopping her from talking with a soft touch.

“Lena,” she laughs, “I would be honored to be your model. Is tomorrow okay?” Lena nods, Kara’s fingers still pressed against her lips, and she fights the urge to kiss the pads of her fingers. “Great!” Kara exclaims, finally removing her fingers—and Lena tries not to keen at the loss—and pulling a pen out of the pocket of her shorts, grabbing for Lena’s wrist again. “Sorry,” she says, when she sees the look of confusion on Lena’s face, “I don’t have any paper with me.”

Lena’s eyes flicker down to the sketchbook in her hands, filled with paper, but then they return to Kara’s face. Alerting Kara to this would only mean that she would stop touching her and Lena did not want that at all. So she stays quiet and tries not to swoon at this blonde goddess’s touch.

When Kara releases her wrist, Lena feels the loss, but also a buzzing where their skin touched. “Call me,” Kara says, brightly. “Or text. Whatever. We’ll find a time and place to meet tomorrow. You can even come over to my dorm; my roommate will be out all weekend, so we’ll have the place to ourselves, for art or…whatever.”

It’s the ‘whatever’ and the glint in Kara’s eyes that almost has Lena tripping over her own gay as she nods and starts backing away. “W-will do,” she says, before she turns completely away and damn near skips back toward her dorm, the numbers burning into her skin as she stares down at them written, beautifully, on her wrist.

TBC

#supercorp #supergirl #sanvers #college!au #fanfiction #everybody is queer #my spite is palpable

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lopithecusfanfiction · 7 years

Text

The End of the Star: Chapter Ten

Author: Lopithecus Pairing: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3067 Alternate: AO3, fanfiction.net Author's Note: N/A

Chapter Ten:

The door to the room bursts open and Bruce and Kal jump awake, untangling from each other in an instant. They both sit up hastily in bed, wide-eyed at who they see. Lex’s arms are crossed, and the bald man smirks at the two while Jor-El’s eyes are narrowed and the Kryptonian seethes. “See what I mean, Jor-El. Exactly as I showed you.”

“Zha,” Kal whispers, quietly enough for only Bruce to hear. But Bruce can’t respond. His breath has caught in his throat and his heart pounds hard in his chest. “Ukr,” Kal’s voice shakes.

Jor-El stares at Bruce, eyes full of pure hatred. “You!” The Kryptonian stomps up to the bed and grabs Bruce.

Kal pulls Bruce back out of the way, yelling in Kryptonian. Jor-El doesn’t take this well and backhands Kal across the cheek. Jor-El reaches for Bruce once more, taking a firm grip on his arm and dragging him from the bed. Bruce stumbles from under the blanket as Jor-El yells in return at Kal. Jor-El shoves Bruce in the direction of his gown where it lies from when Bruce had taken it off that night in order to have sex with Kal. Bruce trips and falls to his knees. “Dress. Now.”

Bruce stands, snatching his gown as he does. He could take Jor-El but chooses not to. Not for his own sake, but for Kal’s. He doesn’t want to create more trouble than is already happening. He pulls the gown over his head, ignoring the way Lex is looking at him with that smug, pleased look. Lex, Bruce decides, is someone he will definitely take down if the man takes even a single step towards him, and he won’t stop until he’s a bloody smear beneath his fists. He glares at Lex with heated hatred for him. It only makes Lex’s smirk widen.

Jor-El and Kal are still yelling at each other, Kal now having gotten out of bed as well. Bruce wonders if Kal had attempted to come to him, to see if he was ok after being shoved to the ground. Jor-El takes hold of Bruce’s arm again, the hand is clenched so tightly around Bruce’s bicep, that it is bound to leave a mark. Jor-El starts to drag Bruce away but Kal steps in front of them, his voice pleading, and Bruce can see the tears pooling in his eyes. Jor-El speaks harshly towards Kal, and Kal flinches. Jor-El then pulls Bruce along once more, stepping around Kal.

As they reach the door, Jor-El addresses Lex. “Go.”

“Of course.” Lex turns and leads the way.

Jor-El starts walking. “Bruce.” Bruce hears Kal say quietly. He tries to look back at Kal, but Jor-El roughly pushes him forward once more. Soon they are out of eyesight of Kal.

Jor-El escorts Lex back to the designated room. Bruce is then lead away and out of the House of El. They walk past a few buildings before arriving at their destination. Jor-El takes Bruce to the Kryptonian style elevators and they rise up. The doors open and Bruce can see cells lining the walls. He had thought Krypton didn’t have cells, or at least that’s how Kal made it sound. But then again, they did need to have some place to hold a criminal until they could go to trial and be sent to the so called, Phantom Zone.

Jor-El shoves Bruce into one of the cells and locks it. The Kryptonian stands there staring at Bruce silently for so long, that Bruce decides to speak first. “How did you know?”

“Lex Luthor.”

“And you believed him? Why?” Jor-El doesn’t answer so Bruce tries a different tactic. “How long are you going to hold me here?” he asks. He fears that he will be held prisoner here and never see Earth again.

Jor-El quells his worries. “Until you save Krypton and are sent home.”

Bruce feels relief at that, knowing he hadn’t just screwed up the possibility of going home and seeing his family again. “And Kal? What are you going to do with him?”

“That is none of your concern,” Jor-El grinds out, teeth clenched and eyes so angry, it’s as if fire is shooting from them. “You corrupted my son, Bruce Wayne.” Bruce clamps his mouth shut tightly. He doesn’t want to incriminate Kal even more by telling Jor-El that Kal was gay from the beginning, and he had nothing to do with it. That is bound to get Kal into even more trouble with Jor-El. “Now he will have to go through a cleansing.”

Alarms go off in Bruce’s head. “Cleansing? You mean conversion therapy?” Bruce can’t believe what he is hearing. He’s starting to feel sick from it. “Wow, Kal told me the lot of you are homophobic but I didn’t think it was this bad,” Bruce says, not being able to help himself. He knows Jor-El most likely doesn’t know what the word homophobic means but he doesn’t care. He’s pissed, and Jor-El is the one pissing him off, so he is going to take it out on him. “What the fuck is wrong with you? This is your son you’re talking about.”

“Kal-El would have never lain with a man if it weren’t for you.” A short, loud huff of a laugh escapes Bruce’s mouth in contempt. Wouldn’t Jor-El be in for a rude awakening if he knew about Zan-Nur. “What is it?”

Bruce sneers. “Oh sweetheart that is none of your concern.”

Jor-El fumes, grasping the bars of the cell so tightly, the knuckles turn white. “You will stay in this cage Bruce Wayne, only being released to help save Krypton. You will never see my son again.”

“You couldn’t keep him away from me before Jor-El. What makes you think you can now?” Jor-El’s eyes narrow so much that the Kryptonian is probably wishing he could shoot laser beams from them. Jor-El stares at Bruce for a few more seconds, before turning and stomping away. Shortly afterwards, a guard appears and stands near the cell, back towards Bruce. Like Zod and Nam-Ek, the man says nothing to Bruce.

Bruce takes a deep breath and sits down on the floor. He wishes he knew what was going to happen to Kal. He doesn’t like being left in the dark like this. With a sigh, Bruce looks around the cell. It’s empty except for a lone toilet. There’s no sink and no bed. The one window is barred, but open in order to allow air to circulate. The floor is concrete, or what passes as concrete to Bruce, who doesn’t actually know the real material it is made from. The wall is made of the same material. He gets up and walks over to the window. He’s high up, and if he had to wager a guess, he would say he was on the top floor. It’s a strange place to have cells but at least it’s not in some dank cellar.

The door to the cell block opens and Bruce turns back around, expecting Jor-El to have come back. However, it is Lex. The smug bastard hands the guard some coins and the Kryptonian smiles. Lex speaks to the alien, and the guard nods before walking away. Lex approaches the cell. “He will only be gone for a few minutes.”

“Here to gloat?”

“Of course not Brucie.” Lex’s hands wrap around the bars of the cell. Bruce resists the urge to reach past the bars and strangle the bald man. “I’ve come to see my handiwork come to fruition.”

“How’d you do it?”

“I’m surprised neither of you noticed. Though, I suppose the two of you were a little too… preoccupied.”

“Answer the damn question Lex,” Bruce demands, his anger and impatience rising.

Lex jeers. “It was easy really. All I had to do was convince General Zod or Lieutenant Nam-Ek to let me leave the research lab in order to,” Luthor actually air quotes, “go to the bathroom. Then I went to your room and left a little present under the desk.” Bruce scrunches his eyebrows in confusion. “A camera Brucie. I put a camera in your room.”

Realization dawns on Bruce. “The pieces you were stealing.” Lex nods with a proud smile. “You built a video recorder out of them?”

Lex drums on the bars. “That I did Brucie. You should have seen Jor-El’s face when I showed him the pair of you having sex last night. The best part was when you two confessed your love for one another. I thought the poor alien was going to explode.”

“Why?”

“Because I hate you Brucie,” Lex says, as if it’s obvious. “And I wanted to see you suffer.” Luthor leans closer to the bars. “Tell me Brucie, was Kal-El fucking that Zan-Nur guy while he was also fucking you?”

Bruce’s fist flies past the bars, and punches Lex in the nose. The man stumbles backwards, tripping over and falling onto his rear end. Lex’s hand goes to the now bleeding nose, and begins to laugh maniacally. “Fuck off Lex!”

Lex’s laughing increases until the guard comes rushing back. Lex points one bloody finger toward Bruce. “He attacked me!”

The guard twists in Bruce’s direction and the next thing Bruce knows, the door to the cell is opened and the guard is approaching him with some kind of rod. Bruce tries to back up but it happens too fast and the Kryptonian shocks him with the rod, locking up all of Bruce’s muscles as electricity courses through his body. “Ahh!” He falls to the ground as the electricity stops, trying to catch his breath and stay awake. It’s a losing battle, however, and the last thing he sees before passing out is Lex’s leering smile as the Kryptonian guard helps the man up.

*~~~*

Later that night, Bruce sits in the cell with his knees drawn up to his chest and head bowed between them. His arms are stretched out in front of him, his elbows resting atop his knees. He would try to sleep but he doesn’t think he can. Not when he is in a new environment, and not when he has gotten used to Kal’s presence and warmth beside him. He misses the Kryptonian already, and the ache is almost unbearable.

The door to the cells opens with a quiet sound, but Bruce doesn’t spare a glance towards it. When he hears the visitor speak to the guard, he recognizes the voice immediately and quickly looks up. Kal is handing the guard a few coins and whispering to him in Kryptonian. Once again, the guard nods and leaves, but this time he hands Kal the keys. Kal approaches the cell and unlocks it as Bruce scrambles to stand. When Kal enters the cell, Bruce rushes up to him and wraps his arms around Kal’s neck, kissing him hard. Kal kisses him back, hands landing in the middle of Bruce’s back. They stay locked together for a few seconds, enjoying each other’s touch and presence.

Soon, however, they have to pull away. When they do, Bruce cups the sides of Kal’s face. “I thought I wouldn’t see you again.” He rubs a hand through Kal’s curly hair and looks him over. “How much trouble did you get into?” Bruce whispers.

“Lot.”

Worry forms in Bruce’s chest. “Are you getting sent to the Phantom Zone.”

“No, Ukr not tell anyone,” Kal says in a low voice.

Bruce places a hand on Kal’s chest, and sighs a breath of relief. “That’s good. Damn it Kal, we are probably lucky that Lex decided to show your father instead of some other Kryptonian. I have a feeling we would be in a lot more trouble if he had.”

“We both go Vrrosh :Dokhahsh if Lex do that.” Kal grabs a hold of both his hands. “Bruce, Ukr really mad. Really, really mad. Ukr want send me away.”

“I know, he told me. He wants you to do some kind of cleansing.”

“Zhi. It help with me zhao men.”

“It won’t,” Bruce insists. “It’s just a way of trying to scare a person so you pretend to be straight and conform to your society’s expectations.”

Kal shakes his head. “Straight?”

“Scaring men into liking women and women into liking men. Trust me Kal it won’t work. You cannot let him. It will just mess you up, scar you, mentally.”

“I not know how change Ukr’s mind. He think something wrong with me.”

“Uh…” Bruce tries to think, closing his eyes and concentrating. “Did you tell him about Zan-Nur?”

“Zha not dare.”

Bruce opens his eyes and looks Kal in the eyes. “Good.” Bruce swallows thickly. “Tell Jor-El I forced you.”

“Rrehd? What?” Kal’s head shakes negatively. “Zha. Ukr have moving pictures, um, record? From Lex. Will not believe me.”

“You tell him I forced you to say all of that. That I forced you into roleplaying lovers, that I wanted it to be the first time we said I love you to each other. I want you to tell him you didn’t want to do it, but I threatened you. You say to him I threatened you and Kara and if you didn’t do it I would hurt you both. Tell him that, Kal.”

Kal’s head is shaking again. “Zha. I not tell him that. That make you dol, bad, person. Zha.”

Bruce cups Kal’s face again. “Zhi. You have to Kal, or you’ll be sent away to a place that is just going to hurt you. Please,” he forces Kal to look at him in the eyes. “Sokao. Let me take the blame on this. It’s the only way Kal.”

Tears are shining in Kal’s eyes. “Zha. I find way out and find way help you.”

“Zha, Kal. You know this is the only way. If you try to rescue me, you’ll only get into more trouble.”

A tear slips out of Kal’s eye and Bruce wipes it away with his thumb. “But not be able see you.”

“I know.” He leans Kal’s head down, and kisses that furrowed brow tenderly. “Zhao,” he whispers against Kal’s flesh.

Kal’s head lifts, hiccupping and more tears roll down those smooth cheeks. “Zhao.”

They stare at each other, drinking in each other, to imprint it on their memories. Bruce loves this man so, so much. Bruce smiles reassuringly at Kal and rubs his thumb along the damp cheek. “You better go before the guard comes back.”

Kal nods and leans down, pressing a soft kiss to Bruce’s lips. The Kryptonian lingers before pulling away. Wiping at the tear streaked face, Kal steps out of Bruce’s embrace, and out of the cell. The man Bruce knows he loves closes the door and locks it again, setting the keys down out of Bruce’s reach, near where the guard was standing. Before exiting the room, Kal looks back at Bruce. Again, Bruce smiles at his lover, trying to reassure both of them at the same time that everything will be okay. Without another word, Kal disappears through the door.

Bruce slumps back down to the floor. He feels lost, unmoored. Inside his chest, his heart clenches painfully. The tears that he tried to hide from Kal now flow freely. He can’t help but wonder, when did he become this person? A man who was in love. Bruce had actively rejected love from his life, except for Alfred and the boys. He had always told himself that to feel so strongly for another person was dangerous, and his point was proven. He shook his head at himself, and a disdainful laugh escaped him. He was a fool. A fool for allowing himself to fall in love. A fool because he was in too deep to do anything about it.

The guard returned to the post outside his cell, and picked up the keys, ignoring the human. Bruce tried to muffle his harsh breathing as his throat closed up, and his chest constricted with pain. He hadn’t felt this desolate, this isolated, since the death of his parents. It ached. The hurt continued to grow inside him as he worried for Kal, for whatever fate had in store for them. He knew he would do anything to protect his lover. Did he do enough to convince Kal to lie? Bruce would willingly accept the burden if it meant saving Kal from whatever this conditioning treatment entailed. The thought of the agony such a procedure could potentially cause, pulled at his core. Bruce was afraid, not for himself, but for Kal. What if Jor-El sent Kal away anyway? What if this treatment wiped Kal’s mind completely? He didn’t know, but his imagination supplied him with horrific possibilities. The tightness in his chest grew. Bruce clenched his fists helplessly. Damn Luthor, if only he hadn’t goaded the man, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.

Bruce’s mind kept supplying him with reasons why it was his own fault. If he had rejected Kal that evening at the pond, maybe he could have been spared this. That night came back into focus. The way the twin moons reflected off the water. The droplets lingering in Kal’s long lashes, the feel of warm lips on his own. Bruce bit the back of his hand to stop from crying out in anguish. If only he’d been stronger, he could have protected Kal. Deep inside, Bruce knew he couldn’t have rejected the Kryptonian. He’d been lost to those curious, scared eyes from the first time he saw them. The way his heart had sped up every time Kal entered the room, the way his breath hitched at every smile.

Bruce cursed himself as weak, derided himself for giving in to emotions and feelings when he should have known better. But it was too late. Bruce had lost his heart to one person, and nothing would ever be the same again. And now, there was a chance that Bruce would never be allowed to see Kal again. Ignoring the guard, he howled his heartbreak into the night, his voice breaking as waves of torment washed over him. All he could think, over and over again, was how he was so fucked up. And he hadn’t just fucked himself over, he believed that he had destroyed Kal in the process.

That night, a fundamental part of Bruce, a piece of himself, irreparably broke.

A/N: Thanks for reading!!

#DC Comics #SuperBat #Superman #Batman #Clark Kent #Kal El #Bruce Wayne #The End of the Star #My Fanfiction #sfw

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writingcommons-blog1 · 7 years

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“What Wasn’t to Grow” by Zemerluan M.

There was no sweet. No sesame chicken. No black-eyed things with swollen breasts and broken legs. No primal howls, no lions or dinosaurs. No train cars, no homeless. No wealth. No coffee grounds, no fingernails, no love. No suffering. No pretenses. No sadness, no guilt. No glass and concrete, no cemeteries. No spaceships, no novels, no paints or brushes or skinks or centipedes or headaches. No urge or misappropriation. No chocolate, no comic books. No sidewalks. No bullets, no more words or spines or salad forks. No endearing smells. No more plastic or supermarkets or child locks in car doors or memory or wet clothes on cold radiators. No more wading into rivers, no falling out of love, no votes left to cast, no hands to construct cheap furniture, no brains to consider their own senselessness, alone in the dark. No more hurry, no more keeping score.

No timestamps or routine or overpriced drinks. No sociopolitical spectra, no tuxedos. No rice or viruses or computer mice or record collections or formalities or false modesty or flags to wave. No more photographs or affairs or vows or laughing, or even the very last whisper of fleeting, desperate hope before it all went.

None of it.

None of anything I could think of, none of anything anybody could think of remained. The reality was that there were too many people in the world, too many things remained that resembled people and implied people and hurt people to continue. Too much pollution in the air and the water and in ourselves. Too much dissonance, disparity, noise. There was far too much. There needed to be quiet, so the world would tremble. So I could breathe. It was fairly easy, to know restriction removed from everything, about as easy as getting up from your bed and flipping the light switch. The softness of the motion wove over the continents and the seas, and it all just went. How easily it all uproots itself completely and just melted, gone into something warm and far away. All of the noise was gone. The universe becomes lighter, duskier. A slight, thin shadow is cast over the prairie and the forest floors and the bottoms of the seas. The sun spins sallow and turns a sloppy pirouette as it begins to fold. No act of god, no armageddon, no apocalypse. No greater plan or power. There just was. That what wasn’t, simply never was at all, wiped from the annals of the souls of atoms, only a sliver of a ghost left in the machine to feebly and unconsciously serve as a vessel for that which was to peer into this new time and wonder. And there, in what would have been the fields of asphodel, that is, if there were any around to recount the myth, is where I sit and let it all wash over me, too, waiting in vain for something to return, or for me to end.

I was there in the long, gilded grasses, and wondered at the sky and how much longer the world would last like this, without anything to keep it up. The sun was a little more than a day old now, and nothing faced it but feathery, golden grass, the kind that seems almost fake. But for all of it, there was no judgement to be passed or scorn to be flinched at. I might have done the same thing if I had the will. To just stop it all. It is a comforting idea. But even as the forests slowly cracked and fell to stone and the lichen of forever ago, and the seas grew wider and denser and spawned voids of almost-memories and deep cold in of themselves, and I simply sat and let myself be rubbed out of the world, I felt a pang of regret for all the bumblebees and ladybugs that had to have gone away for this to come about.

The grass and the chaff and the mountains and the willows. Rocky cliffsides grown brittle, old footholds, and brown leaves in the pebbly riverbed. Through the trees, moonlight dribbles through cracks in the bark, pooling emerald on the forest floor. Moss is creeping silently, mushrooms unfurl. The spaces where whales never were still moves like them. I remembered the old world and could not find anything in me for it, save a quiet sense of urgency. The wind rises and pulls a current through the fields where I sit. I have not known my fill of this place, but I am an oversight here all the same, so I am content. I can feel it come for me, too, the absence of force, like memories that are only real between sleep and waking. I am swept up in it, the grandness and the wind and the ancient and the valleys. I don’t even get a chance to breathe. _______________________________________________________________________

Quietly, and without much tact, the world pulls the pieces of itself together as best it can, adroitly assembling its soft, sunken edges before the foot of a white, rigid bed frame swathed in an unapologetically red bedspread. Splaying out in the ink before morning, there is no alarm decrying the start of a new day, no immediate resolution that needs to be met; instead, the small room is darkened, the frigid radiator, standing stock still, shameless in its dusty corner. There are modest metal shelves plastered in novels and biographies and mementos, gone brittle and almost forgotten. The closest thing to a nightstand is a little blue step stool next to the bed, the unwilling receptacle for keys, mostly used gift cards, post-it note lists, a few dollar bills, and a pair of beaten-up headphones. Dark, abstract forms lying dejectedly on the tiny shag carpet come into focus as the sky begins to stretch and shudder- pairs of pants and a multitude of t-shirts with fading graphics seem to slip into being, leaving the odd sock or pair of boxers to their own futures, somewhere neither here nor there. It is a strange little place, molded from the desperate scramble of goings-on with heavy eyelids and a wonderful bedhead in mind. Nelson Algren, Haruki Murakami, and Roxane Gay tough it out together in a plaintive little stack next to an arm melting off the side of the bed, absorbed in corduroy lines and spasms of involuntary movement.

Dusty sunlight begins to feed through the blue-cloth blinds; ignorant birds stationed outside in the tree next door take their time making as much noise as possible in the archaic hopes of finding a suitable mate. The little garden curated by the elderly Chinese landlord is out of place and struggling to survive, cut from the rest of the concrete in a slapdash, innocent fashion. That garden looks as though it was hewn from fever dreams and charcoal drawings, earth lumpy and rich black, wiry sprouts shooting out at odd angles, solid and still in the June sun, but it is all happy to be nonetheless. The promise of winter melons and squash and bean sprouts tended by that earth have lasted a lifetime already, strapped tightly to the earth by the fear of the shadow cast by the red brick, two story apartment.

Inside, it is carpeted foyer stairs and dark hardwood floors throughout. In the apartment he lives in, records line the hallway, just below coats and hats set out all year long; there was almost no more room to spare. Forgotten maps and twenty-year old illustration sparsely decorates the wall. A white ceiling fan sits motionless overhead, collecting dust above the bulk of a vast record collection- all of the visible artists vaguely unknown to him. Tiny, hexagonal tile plasters the thin bathroom floor, beyond which his parents’ room sits warmly in its part of the home; secluded and welcoming.. Metal molds of teeth and eyes and the new National Geographic sits below a frosted window in the bathroom with a large plant beside it. Everything is close together, every possible space is used, but there remains an idea of cohesion and nothing is claustrophobic, surprisingly. Photographs of David Bowie and John F. Kennedy and himself as a child are strung along the walls- cards and paperwork lies across the top of the piano and table his family found in the alley some years ago. A machete adorned with traditional leatherwork sits peacefully behind a lamp next to the flat screen television sent to his family on accident. There are a multitude of things and ideas and halfway done projects, but almost nothing seems like it’s out of place. It’s lived in and old and there are memories of good tidings and friends come and gone and cold winter nights and pensive yelling and familiar smells. It’s exactly what you’d expect, and that counts for a lot.

Pulling his mind out of the tar pits of black dreams forgotten before conception, he knocks over his keys before finding his phone. A few messages, but the important thing is the time.

11:46 a.m.

A summer breeze floats into the room and reminds him of outside. He sits up and stretches hard. His body feels good today. He patiently listens for other footsteps before deciding that he is alone. Swinging his legs off the bed and hoisting his frame awkwardly towards the shelves that hold most of his clothes, he considers the day and pulls on blue shorts and a white shirt. Figures breakfast is a good idea. Meandering into the pantry, he snorts at the cereal and goes about toasting a bagel. Yawning twice while it heats up, he collects a butter knife and the cream cheese. The birds have gone, from the sound of it. The screen door lets the same breeze into the kitchen. Things are okay. Letting the bagel crisp a little, he walks around the apartment for a minute or two and reacquaints himself with the space. Removing the bagel, he sloppily handles the cream cheese, sucking his thumb clean of the stuff a few seconds later. Everything is returned somewhat carefully. The bagel is plain. The cream cheese is plain. The kitchen is almost aglow in the dark. No lights are on. Natural light only proliferates the areas by the windows. It is quiet. Slowly eating his bagel, he checks his phone, dully excited about the messages.

Wait. He forgot to get water.

Sitting back down, water in tow, he scrolls through his friend’s 1 a.m. masterpiece, horribly sweet and unmistakably drunk. He considers the world again before he carefully swallows the next bite of bagel. He takes a breath.

Cleaning up the bagel crumbs, and in the mood for something interesting, he pees and flosses and brushes his teeth and combs his hair and puts deodorant on. Retrieving his keys and opening the screen door, he walks barefoot out into the backyard and stops for a second or two to look at the sky. Looks like rain. He opens the gate and walks carefully down the gangway. He made a note to leave his headphones inside. He feels a little naked without them, but it is good to remove oneself from comfort zones sometimes. The concrete is warm and nobody is on his block. Walking down the street, he makes mental note of the absence of the college kids who sometimes walk around. He sees a beer can left next to a sapling.

Silent, he goes to retrieve the can. He’ll throw it in the recycling bin when the alley begins at the end of the block. Having something in his hands, the sudden occupation of the warming, negative space between his fingers, is unpleasant this morning. The slight calluses on his feet rub pleasantly against the sidewalk, and he remembers to take a deep breath. The breeze continues at uncertain intervals, and the trees shake drily. Definitely looks like rain. He reaches the bin and tosses the can. The sound of it hitting the bottom of the bin surprises him. He fears he might have disturbed everyone in the neighborhood. Quickly walking past the alley, the noise still rings in his ears for a few seconds. Remember, he says to himself, it is 12:30 p.m. His face is hot. He reaches the end of his block, and takes a look in both directions. On one side, a sleepier, greener few miles of apartment buildings and aging houses. On the other, the sound of cars and his train stop and a college campus and more beyond but he cannot be bothered to remember it now.

He turns left. The sky is an absence of melody- simply bright shadow where there once was a sun. A more profound awareness of himself and his body begins to prod at his skull. He always forgets how much hair grows out of his legs. Most of the buildings he passes were built a century ago, he’s told. He always takes his shoes off before entering a home with hardwood floors. He figures that the craftsman who created those pretty, timeworn pieces would not care too much for shoes tracking nonsense everywhere. He blinks twice, quickly, and returns to the middle of the sidewalk. He had been straying back and forth, but since there didn't seem to be anyone walking with him then, he figured he could be a little selfish with the space. The sidewalk, he decided, is much too solid. Not meant for the likes of bare toes. It is interesting to him, that the human body had developed feet with arches, with curvature and definition, to adequately traverse the hills and uneven ground of a pre-human world. And yet, everything now is flat. Probably doesn't help that he wears skate shoes most of the time. The wind becomes cooler and he wonders how early man survived without heating and indoor plumbing. A silent thank you to distant ancestors and their dogged perseverance. A porch groans some feet away. The noise is not sharp enough to startle, but some uneasiness sets in. Quickly moving now, he seeks to remove the chill from his skin. Turning another corner, still keeping to the left, dark red apartment buildings and old limbs arc wildly overhead. It is almost silent. The trees whip violently in the wind for a time. It begins to drizzle. The filling stench of rain on asphalt is in his throat. He wants to run, but there are people on this street. He’s not in the mood to be glanced at. He settles for a slow jog. After he passes the couple walking down the street, he turns another corner onto a more shaded block. The rain comes down a little bit harder. He looks directly up at the sky. A raindrop falls directly into his eye. Gasping a little bit, he shakes his head down and trips over his own feet a little bit. This sobers him, but also rekindles his burning desire to run, to reinvent the bagel-making and the stretching from an hour ago. There is nobody but the stormy wind and the sedans lining the street and the almost-white columns of the church across the street. Given the city, this is nothing short of a miracle.

He consults himself.

He reaches a decision quickly.

He remembers himself as a small child, head newly shaven, infatuated with ancient creatures in a younger world.

His feet are taloned, scaled, primed to beat through the impending downpour.

The breath before the kickoff is always empty.

His calf constricts.

His newly-made body rips through the smell of wet asphalt, shoving sideways against the wind, hurling it back for breath and the illusion of strength amidst the forest growing in his lungs. Everything is green and wet and the impending storm whispers at him to stop. Red brick and a passing police car collide noiselessly behind him in the vacuum of his wake. Every clamp that stretched his bones and forced him cast his own flesh down, forgotten. He feels like his insides are made of heatless, open light, older even than the sensation of walking on one’s own feet. His heart is gone. His nerves are shot. His pulp is evaporated, sweetly rising into the sky, beckoning the storm thunder. He is something old, so old that it has forgotten what it is, how it was, how it went. It is in these moments and never again. The second he remembers to wish that this moment would last but a minute longer, the light goes and his insides go dark once more, clumped wetly together in a fashion that barely churns at all. He slows, and finally stops. The storm starts at this moment. His skull is awash in a tingle that maddens him. He takes several gulps of air, and then a deep breath. He keeps walking forward on his raw feet, looking for something more in the curtain of rainwater and his dripping hair. His shirt is stuck to him. He crosses another alley. He takes a few more steps before he feels something grating in him. He goes another half block before he looks down and sees a trail of pink behind his waterlogged blue shorts. Turning his left foot over, he sees a reasonably large piece of glass stuck in the toe immediately next to his big one. Wanting desperately to break something precious, he hobbles awkwardly back to his darkened apartment, hoping beyond hope that the lights are still off.

Fumbling for his keys, he keeps one hand on his leg for dramatic effect, as though he wanted to guilt trip the powers that be. Opening the back doors and dragging his leg in, he retrieves a paper towel and holds it there with his heel, scooting it along the floor so as to not get blood anywhere. Flipping the light on in the bathroom, he hoists his foot up to the sink and assesses the damage. It definitely is a piece of glass in his toe. That much is certain. There is something calming about it, a clear, difficult-to-define form gently resting in the red and the pink. The glass is angular, and if he were to look into it, he could have made out a rich rose hue. The more he stares, however, the more it begins to hurt. Uncomfortable with the thought of having to pull the glass out of his foot, of disturbing that picture, so completely natural, worried him. He sighs, positions his thumb and index finger as cleanly around the most rigid corners of the glass, and draws his hand swiftly towards himself, constricting his fingers as he did so, so as to grip the glass and pull it free in one motion. A new dribble of blood makes its way lazily out of his toe, falling past his foot to find the white ceramic of the sink. He laid the glass aside and began to dab at the cut with a cotton swab doused in isopropyl alcohol. It starts to sting. He retrieves a band-aid, wraps it tightly around his toe, returns his foot gingerly to the floor, and cleans everything up. He holds the glass in his palm for a moment or two, considering whether or not to trash it. He compromises, and shoves it deep into the soil of the potted plant sitting on the windowsill. He let the band-aid wrapper flutter into the garbage, and strode gingerly out of the bathroom, off to change out of his semi-drenched clothes.

He steps into the living room and sits down on the couch. He considers turning on the T.V., but it’s been years since he’s watched anything substantial. He’s not even sure if people make television programs worth watching anymore. He sits and wilts, eventually focusing on an arbitrary point on the wall, an arbitrary point in space. Any other. He leaves himself for a little.

he sighs

His phone is still damp from the rain, and it is warmed by his hand, shaking slightly. He rubs the screen on the sofa cushion, and lets it rest there for a moment, appreciating the quiet and the moments in between concerning himself with things that must go on in his life. We all confront things and deal with potential problems, and a lot of technology kind of exacerbates that shit, he thinks. There will always be too many things he does not want to have to think about. Beginning to take a deep breath, his lungs stop him short with a spasm and a hiccup, which detaches him from the last of his catharsis. He is now consciously aware he is alone in the apartment. It’s nice. Turning his phone over, it is a slew of emails demanding to be attended to, loan offers and paperwork to be filled out and reminders of his high school graduation only weeks before. He will most likely never see any of those people again. He hated high school, but he liked the folks he had to suffer alongside. Blankly deleting emails while he remembers walking across the stage at the Navy Pier ballroom, he sees another text, and gently cherishes the beauty of a vested interest in that which has not yet seen the light of day..

Outside, the sky darkens.

It is not text, but a picture. Quality is lacking, but it is obviously a sunny beach with many smiling countenances fighting for space in the photo. It is of a place that is very far away, and probably, from the looks of the buildings stretching above the beach in the distance, very expensive to reside in for any period of time. He recognizes only one face- it is just as jovial and playful as the rest. The sky there is cloudless and more shades of blue than he knew could fit in the atmosphere. For a moment, he is swept up in the giddiness of that beach. If any were still around, he might have contracted a classical painter to immortalize this scene forever. Soon enough, the twisted, smiling forms jostling for position and the amateurish quality of the photograph and the resounding aura of happiness and completeness overwhelm him, and his hands, shaking slightly, quit the app.

Quickly standing up, he does not anticipate the head rush that overwhelms him. He nearly topples to the floor. Annoyed by his own clumsiness, he walks shamefully to the bathroom, touching his chin, absentmindedly massaging his stubble. It took him three days to grow it. Stopping before the mirror, he is momentarily confused yet again by the sight of his own face glowering back. He often forgets what his own face looks like, never certain of its complexion or features besides the skin tone mildly reminiscent of an undercooked gingerbread man. Other than that, his face is a mystery to him. Looking at it now, in the low light of the bathroom, it seems gaunt, hastily chiseled. If only Picasso was known for his sculpture. He admires his own features for a moment, before the body in the mirror seems more fitting for this world than his own. Turns away. Holds his head in his hands and sits down on the toilet. Stands up again. He does not know why he happens as he does.

He begins to speak. This is the only way he can quiet himself, the pieces of his mind pulling at every conceivable thing to waste his time on, every frustrating burning isolating screaming quiet terrible tender thing confronting him, mired in the rest of the world. The sound of his voice is terribly low and strange, like some sinister incantation in a language long dead. He does not know why it happens. He speaks faster, stumbling over words that so many public speakers handle with ease. The parts of his arms that have not touched the sun are much whiter than the rest of him. He is the in between. There is still nobody home. He is still talking, not aware of any of these things right now. He is saying that he does not know why it happens, why the thing at the back of him insists on violently squeezing his heart, intent on unearthing things in him that he has forgotten exist. He does not know why the world is not fair. He is wondering if equal unfairness is fair. Yes, he says, it must be so. The sun suddenly hits his face, and he has to squint to catch a glimpse of the innumerable shapes before him, writhing silently in assent. The invisible America beyond murmurs with him. He is the President, he is aide to the President, he is Undisputed and Complete Ruler of the World. He wants to make it better. He will make it better. For everybody. Yes, did you know that if all of the food that is wasted by Americans is instead redistributed to those in need, world hunger would literally come to an end right then and there? And if the governments of the world simply got over themselves, if all of the terrible politicians and worse leaders simply grew a pair and pooled their resources for the betterment of the world, we’d all be much better off. He is not sure if he is a socialist or a democrat or a Marxist or communist. These things mean little to him. He just wants a peaceful world full of an environment that is not choked with smog, that is not on the verge of the verge of collapse. He wants a world in which everyone has equal opportunity. He is not an idealist. He is not a pessimist. He wants a world that publishes interesting things in the news and reigns in big pharmaceutical companies and the fast food industry and the prison system and intersectional inequality and he wants it better. It would not be difficult. It would be really very easy, if we all put everything down and worked towards it. He wants to see the redwoods one day. He wants to drive his partner out to national parks and little diners off the side of the road and interesting pit stops in an environmentally friendly, inexpensive car and just enjoy being together. His audience shudders in delight and triumph. Maybe it can happen. He has a vision in his cloudy, disagreeable head. One of a life well lived. He is older, perhaps in his forties or fifties. He has seen many things, but he sits at a little chair in an elderly home somewhere pretty, maybe on the edge of a little wood under a mountain, and he would just write what he liked with some whiskey on the side. There would be a lake somewhere nearby, and he’d maybe have a cat that would come and go and winter and spring would be distinct parts of the year. He wants to be alone. He almost wants to have a child, just to prove that he could raise it well. The house on the edge of the wood recedes into the gloom when he remembers the five-thousand-dollar private loan he still has to fill out some paperwork for.

He doesn’t want to be famous or important, so long as he can have his little house and his cat and his liquor and his forest. But it seems like he’s going to have to fight to make it there, and he is just

he’s just so tired.

He stops pacing . Looking back into the mirror, not much has changed since seven minutes ago. He wants his reflection to beat the shit out of him. Dares it move independently. Lightly grazing the mirror with his knuckle, he stumbles out of the bathroom and moves to his bed at the back of the apartment. It is the same as he left it. Things are strewn all about, but he finds his earbuds and his phone and lays down. The wi-fi doesn’t extend to this part of the house, but he plays a YouTube video anyway, since he doesn’t have the song he wants downloaded. A full, melodic anthem of abuse and righteous, illegal dreams enters his head, and he isn’t sure how much longer he’ll be able to loop this song. He falls asleep on the seventh run through, rain still pattering, sliding down the windows, and the soft glow of the sun setting in him pours out into the room. He will wake up ravenous and parched and confused as to why his toe hurts.

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