(2) drabbles and (1) cover.
I wrote two drabbles this weekend.
Format: Pairing; Prompt; Prompter - "Title" (Rating; Word Count).
(1) Kon-El/Tim Drake; "Kon has a tabi-fetish. Or maybe he has a Tim-fetish"; batstalker - "Sexy Ninja Bird-Boy" (pg for boy-kisses and silliness; wc: ~500).
It was kind of cool watching Tim train sometimes. Sure, a lot of time it was boring, like when Tim was lifting weights, or when he ran a million miles at a slow, steady speed.
And sweet Jesus, did Tim run slow. Probably not, like, compared to other non-metas, Supers and Speedsters. Tim was probably a pretty fast runner. In terms of humans.
But when he was he was doing this? When his limber friend was shadow-fighting? Tim really let loose, didn’t seem to worry about hurting someone or hurting himself. He got *into* it. Like nothing could pull him out of the moment. Tim used every available surface and some not so available ones to tumble off of walls and beams, duck under shadows and behind corners. Hid behind the water-stained leather bags that hung from chains that rattled ominously in the cave.
Tim was poetry in motion. And Kon didn’t like to think of himself as a sap for the rhyming words and Pride and Prejudice crap, but Tim's blue gi was just a blur, never a break or pause in the cadence of each potential motion; each kinetic one.
And oh, dear God. The tabi.
Is it weird that he wanted to lick the notch that separated his big toe?
People said that it was Dick that had the beauty and the grace when he was in the air. That must be true and Kon couldn’t disagree. But, to watch Tim; small, sharp, lethal, and as fast as the dagger he just threw at his imaginary enemy.
“Hey. You’re early.” Tim said, knocking Kon out of his day-dream and grabbing a Nalgene water bottle that had been sitting on one of the blond ,wooden bench. Nimble Tim-fingers unscrewing the lid and then lifting the bottle to his pink, slightly chapped lips. And then he’s drinking deeply and Kon’s eyes watch the man’s Adam’s apple bob with each sip and the only reason he can actually tear his vision away from *that* was to watch a trickle of water curl down Tim’s jaw, down the side of his neck and well up in the boy’s cotton collar that had settled right below a graceful collarbone.
That Kon wants to lick. A lot.
“We can go. Just,” Tim bends and wipes his damp head with the soft, white towel; Kon can still hear the scrape of the fabric against three layers of pale, clear skin, “-just let me get changed really quick.”
Kon manages to stop himself, barely, from flying over to the boy and tackling him with about 43% of his full force. He practices restraint by merely racing over to him and grabbing an arm, as firmly as he can without bruising that... well defined, vascular forearm with just a light dusting of fine, black hairs... “Hngh! No!” Kon presses closer so that they are nearly all the way touching, “That won’t be necessary, Mister Drake.” Kon’s eyes rolled in the back of his eyelids as he felt the heat radiating off of the cotton of Tim’s Gi. Warm; alive, Tim.
“What? Kon you-”
Kon could only respond to Tim’s adorable bewilderment by threading a hand through the teen's hair that is slightly damp with hard-earned sweat. By pushing the boy’s lips towards his own and drinking in the air that was in Tim’s mouth, licking the insides of his lips and searching for the last drops of water that Tim had just drank. “You’re my sexy ninja bird-boy.” He couldn’t stop himself from grinding his hips against Tim’s pelvis and running a hand down his spine, pressing at his boyfriend’s tailbone and leaning down for another quick, shallow kiss, “I might be fetish-sizing your freaky ninja gear.”
Tim looked at him with narrowing, analytical eyes that Kon had always thought were especially hot. He pulled back and studied Kon even further. And then he smiled and leaned up and faked a kiss to Kon’s lips with a peck to the cheek. He pulled back and blinked at Kon with wide, clear blue eyes. “I’m okay with it; let’s go.”
(2) Bruce Wayne, Jack Drake, Tim Drake; None; For batstalker - "I Want to be Your Shirt" (pg-13 for angst and some blood; wc: ~850).
Tim had slipped on the blood that was stagnant on the ground. he remember because he hadn’t slipped in years. Slipping had been trained out of him.
He hit the ground hard, with enough force that there had been an angry purple bruise on his rib-cage the next day. The white of his cotton boxers and sweat-soaked t-shirt stained pink from his father’s blood. He remembers scrabbling up, slipping again, twice now, on the coagulating liquid before reaching over and wrapping an unprotected hand around the weapon sticking out of his father’s chest..
Two deep slices in the palm of his hand from where his fist tightened at the sharp edges of the boomerang. There was too much blood though. From his father. From the gash on his palm.
His grip kept slipping on the bloody silver. The blade pinned the white oxford shirt to the dead man’s chest while blood from severed arteries pooled out, stained everything red.
He remember being pulled away from the body on the ground; his father. And he remembers that it had been rough and that it had hurt. The burning in his hand, the pressure in his head, the hard, gauntlet-ed hands that bit into his skin and the textured fingers of it that pulled at his hair until he felt pieces of it float away. They fell down only to get stuck in the blood.
The rest of the day -- the night? His memory comes in waves. Someone with strong, sure, bare hands stuck him in a painfully hot shower, with steam and soap that smelled like the last three years of his life.
The next thing he remembered is waking up in his old room at Bruce’s house. Swathed in sheets and blankets. Hand bandages tightly, numb from some sort of topical anesthetic. His hair had still been a little damp. The clothes his limbs were in were not his own, but familiar.
And he doesn’t remember moving. Doesn’t remember making any decisions to move, but the next time he woke up, he had been in his father’s bedroom.
The room he shared with Dana. The bed that smelled like fabric softener and Old Spice and sheets that smelled like his Father.
A green D.I. sweatshirt was on top of the pile of dirty laundry and Tim crossed the room to shrug it on before he turned back to the bed. He was exhausted and when Dick’s voice carried through from the answering machine by the bed, it felt very far away.
***
When he saw Superman carry in Bruce’s charred, mangled body, Tim had tripped. He’d tripped over his own to feet that had been anchored to the ground, heavy as sandbags. He hadn’t tripped in years.
It hurt when he swallowed back the nausea and the way of panic was easier. And he remembers tightening his fists until they throbbed, until the two scars on his right palm pulled and burned.
Then he unclenched. There was work to be done. This was just another one; another death.
And that was actually what he had told himself.
He doesn’t remember grieving much for Bruce. He remember the guilt, though. The choking, cloying, lead-blanketing guilt. And then he remembers every second from Anarky to Red Hood to the way that Batsuit felt like a noose and a gun in his hand. And he remembers exactly how much pain he was in when he woke up on the medical cot in the cave, halfway cut out of a Batman uniform with a long chain of tiny sutures right where Jason had practically gutted him with a batarang.
The cracks resonated in his bones as he rolled off of the cot and stumbled over to the lockers where the spare clothes were kept.
He wasn’t sure what possessed him to open Bruce’s old locker; he hadn’t thought that there would be anything in there, but he spun the combo he had memorized and opened the locker anyways.
A pair of gym shoes, next to a few pairs of thick socks folded together. A threadbare sweatshirt hung from one of the hooks inside the far wall of the locker along with a pair of faded padded fighting gloves. A green water-bottle sat on the lower shelf and on the top shelf were a few folded t-shirts and a few pairs of folded boxer briefs.
The fighting gloves hadn’t fit his hands, he already knew this. But it didn’t stop him from putting a hand in one of them anyways. Didn’t stop him from tracing the seams slowly with the fingertips of his uncovered hand.
He stood like that for a few minutes, flexing his hand within the spandex, thinking about the last time Bruce had even worn them. Tim had no idea. After Damian had arrived, but not since he started seeing Jezebel Jet. But Tim hadn’t been the best partner at the time, so he couldn't remember.
Bruce's locker didn’t smell like anything but antiperspirant and the slight mineral-smell of the cave air, but there was something that cracked open in his chest and yawned wide, revealing more emptiness then the cave itself; screamed until he was biting the inside of his cheek so hard blood and saliva pooled into his mouth.
Tim shrugged on the sweatshirt, let it swallow him whole before he turned and hobbled up the stairs to the manor with one of Bruce’s t-shirts threaded through his fingers.
As Tim passed the Master Bedroom, he ignored the urge to see if Bruce’s sheets smelled like the older man. He didn’t want to bleed on them, anyway.
*
Bruce was back now. So there really was no reason to keep the sweatshirt in the back of his closet inside another jacket. There was no reason that he needed to sleep with the t-shirt under his pillow.
So Tim did the pragmatic thing and returned them to their home; to their owner.
It was silly to miss a shirt. So he pushed it back, out of his mind and thought about the Unternet. Thought about Tam Fox. Thought about Kon and Bart and Cassie. He didn’t think about the sweatshirt that wasn’t in his closet anymore, next to his Dad’s. He didn’t think about the one that was no longer under his pillow.
He actively didn’t think about the absence of these two pieces of clothing for a month until they showed up again. Neatly folded at the foot of his bed, with a note attached:
‘Keep them.’
I also was messing around with my guitar this morning. I decided to cover Soko's "I will never love you more". Sorry if I butchered your favorite song or something. *u*
Link: This takes you to my new Myspace page (Sam Sings). It's most likely where all my bathroom recordings will end up going. I generally hate myspace, but it's nice that it doesn't force people to download a file; you can just listen to it.
Let me know what you think about the drabbles!
Format: Pairing; Prompt; Prompter - "Title" (Rating; Word Count).
(1) Kon-El/Tim Drake; "Kon has a tabi-fetish. Or maybe he has a Tim-fetish"; batstalker - "Sexy Ninja Bird-Boy" (pg for boy-kisses and silliness; wc: ~500).
It was kind of cool watching Tim train sometimes. Sure, a lot of time it was boring, like when Tim was lifting weights, or when he ran a million miles at a slow, steady speed.
And sweet Jesus, did Tim run slow. Probably not, like, compared to other non-metas, Supers and Speedsters. Tim was probably a pretty fast runner. In terms of humans.
But when he was he was doing this? When his limber friend was shadow-fighting? Tim really let loose, didn’t seem to worry about hurting someone or hurting himself. He got *into* it. Like nothing could pull him out of the moment. Tim used every available surface and some not so available ones to tumble off of walls and beams, duck under shadows and behind corners. Hid behind the water-stained leather bags that hung from chains that rattled ominously in the cave.
Tim was poetry in motion. And Kon didn’t like to think of himself as a sap for the rhyming words and Pride and Prejudice crap, but Tim's blue gi was just a blur, never a break or pause in the cadence of each potential motion; each kinetic one.
And oh, dear God. The tabi.
Is it weird that he wanted to lick the notch that separated his big toe?
People said that it was Dick that had the beauty and the grace when he was in the air. That must be true and Kon couldn’t disagree. But, to watch Tim; small, sharp, lethal, and as fast as the dagger he just threw at his imaginary enemy.
“Hey. You’re early.” Tim said, knocking Kon out of his day-dream and grabbing a Nalgene water bottle that had been sitting on one of the blond ,wooden bench. Nimble Tim-fingers unscrewing the lid and then lifting the bottle to his pink, slightly chapped lips. And then he’s drinking deeply and Kon’s eyes watch the man’s Adam’s apple bob with each sip and the only reason he can actually tear his vision away from *that* was to watch a trickle of water curl down Tim’s jaw, down the side of his neck and well up in the boy’s cotton collar that had settled right below a graceful collarbone.
That Kon wants to lick. A lot.
“We can go. Just,” Tim bends and wipes his damp head with the soft, white towel; Kon can still hear the scrape of the fabric against three layers of pale, clear skin, “-just let me get changed really quick.”
Kon manages to stop himself, barely, from flying over to the boy and tackling him with about 43% of his full force. He practices restraint by merely racing over to him and grabbing an arm, as firmly as he can without bruising that... well defined, vascular forearm with just a light dusting of fine, black hairs... “Hngh! No!” Kon presses closer so that they are nearly all the way touching, “That won’t be necessary, Mister Drake.” Kon’s eyes rolled in the back of his eyelids as he felt the heat radiating off of the cotton of Tim’s Gi. Warm; alive, Tim.
“What? Kon you-”
Kon could only respond to Tim’s adorable bewilderment by threading a hand through the teen's hair that is slightly damp with hard-earned sweat. By pushing the boy’s lips towards his own and drinking in the air that was in Tim’s mouth, licking the insides of his lips and searching for the last drops of water that Tim had just drank. “You’re my sexy ninja bird-boy.” He couldn’t stop himself from grinding his hips against Tim’s pelvis and running a hand down his spine, pressing at his boyfriend’s tailbone and leaning down for another quick, shallow kiss, “I might be fetish-sizing your freaky ninja gear.”
Tim looked at him with narrowing, analytical eyes that Kon had always thought were especially hot. He pulled back and studied Kon even further. And then he smiled and leaned up and faked a kiss to Kon’s lips with a peck to the cheek. He pulled back and blinked at Kon with wide, clear blue eyes. “I’m okay with it; let’s go.”
(2) Bruce Wayne, Jack Drake, Tim Drake; None; For batstalker - "I Want to be Your Shirt" (pg-13 for angst and some blood; wc: ~850).
Tim had slipped on the blood that was stagnant on the ground. he remember because he hadn’t slipped in years. Slipping had been trained out of him.
He hit the ground hard, with enough force that there had been an angry purple bruise on his rib-cage the next day. The white of his cotton boxers and sweat-soaked t-shirt stained pink from his father’s blood. He remembers scrabbling up, slipping again, twice now, on the coagulating liquid before reaching over and wrapping an unprotected hand around the weapon sticking out of his father’s chest..
Two deep slices in the palm of his hand from where his fist tightened at the sharp edges of the boomerang. There was too much blood though. From his father. From the gash on his palm.
His grip kept slipping on the bloody silver. The blade pinned the white oxford shirt to the dead man’s chest while blood from severed arteries pooled out, stained everything red.
He remember being pulled away from the body on the ground; his father. And he remembers that it had been rough and that it had hurt. The burning in his hand, the pressure in his head, the hard, gauntlet-ed hands that bit into his skin and the textured fingers of it that pulled at his hair until he felt pieces of it float away. They fell down only to get stuck in the blood.
The rest of the day -- the night? His memory comes in waves. Someone with strong, sure, bare hands stuck him in a painfully hot shower, with steam and soap that smelled like the last three years of his life.
The next thing he remembered is waking up in his old room at Bruce’s house. Swathed in sheets and blankets. Hand bandages tightly, numb from some sort of topical anesthetic. His hair had still been a little damp. The clothes his limbs were in were not his own, but familiar.
And he doesn’t remember moving. Doesn’t remember making any decisions to move, but the next time he woke up, he had been in his father’s bedroom.
The room he shared with Dana. The bed that smelled like fabric softener and Old Spice and sheets that smelled like his Father.
A green D.I. sweatshirt was on top of the pile of dirty laundry and Tim crossed the room to shrug it on before he turned back to the bed. He was exhausted and when Dick’s voice carried through from the answering machine by the bed, it felt very far away.
***
When he saw Superman carry in Bruce’s charred, mangled body, Tim had tripped. He’d tripped over his own to feet that had been anchored to the ground, heavy as sandbags. He hadn’t tripped in years.
It hurt when he swallowed back the nausea and the way of panic was easier. And he remembers tightening his fists until they throbbed, until the two scars on his right palm pulled and burned.
Then he unclenched. There was work to be done. This was just another one; another death.
And that was actually what he had told himself.
He doesn’t remember grieving much for Bruce. He remember the guilt, though. The choking, cloying, lead-blanketing guilt. And then he remembers every second from Anarky to Red Hood to the way that Batsuit felt like a noose and a gun in his hand. And he remembers exactly how much pain he was in when he woke up on the medical cot in the cave, halfway cut out of a Batman uniform with a long chain of tiny sutures right where Jason had practically gutted him with a batarang.
The cracks resonated in his bones as he rolled off of the cot and stumbled over to the lockers where the spare clothes were kept.
He wasn’t sure what possessed him to open Bruce’s old locker; he hadn’t thought that there would be anything in there, but he spun the combo he had memorized and opened the locker anyways.
A pair of gym shoes, next to a few pairs of thick socks folded together. A threadbare sweatshirt hung from one of the hooks inside the far wall of the locker along with a pair of faded padded fighting gloves. A green water-bottle sat on the lower shelf and on the top shelf were a few folded t-shirts and a few pairs of folded boxer briefs.
The fighting gloves hadn’t fit his hands, he already knew this. But it didn’t stop him from putting a hand in one of them anyways. Didn’t stop him from tracing the seams slowly with the fingertips of his uncovered hand.
He stood like that for a few minutes, flexing his hand within the spandex, thinking about the last time Bruce had even worn them. Tim had no idea. After Damian had arrived, but not since he started seeing Jezebel Jet. But Tim hadn’t been the best partner at the time, so he couldn't remember.
Bruce's locker didn’t smell like anything but antiperspirant and the slight mineral-smell of the cave air, but there was something that cracked open in his chest and yawned wide, revealing more emptiness then the cave itself; screamed until he was biting the inside of his cheek so hard blood and saliva pooled into his mouth.
Tim shrugged on the sweatshirt, let it swallow him whole before he turned and hobbled up the stairs to the manor with one of Bruce’s t-shirts threaded through his fingers.
As Tim passed the Master Bedroom, he ignored the urge to see if Bruce’s sheets smelled like the older man. He didn’t want to bleed on them, anyway.
*
Bruce was back now. So there really was no reason to keep the sweatshirt in the back of his closet inside another jacket. There was no reason that he needed to sleep with the t-shirt under his pillow.
So Tim did the pragmatic thing and returned them to their home; to their owner.
It was silly to miss a shirt. So he pushed it back, out of his mind and thought about the Unternet. Thought about Tam Fox. Thought about Kon and Bart and Cassie. He didn’t think about the sweatshirt that wasn’t in his closet anymore, next to his Dad’s. He didn’t think about the one that was no longer under his pillow.
He actively didn’t think about the absence of these two pieces of clothing for a month until they showed up again. Neatly folded at the foot of his bed, with a note attached:
‘Keep them.’
I also was messing around with my guitar this morning. I decided to cover Soko's "I will never love you more". Sorry if I butchered your favorite song or something. *u*
Link: This takes you to my new Myspace page (Sam Sings). It's most likely where all my bathroom recordings will end up going. I generally hate myspace, but it's nice that it doesn't force people to download a file; you can just listen to it.
Let me know what you think about the drabbles!