“It won’t work.”
He says it, matter of fact, on his back in freshly cut grass. It’s the front lawn, exposed, near a dirt rode that leads away from the property.
Jay hums, fingers drumming on his chest.
“Of course it will.”
There’s an internal flinch, somewhere inside Nick, somewhere Gatsby will never notice. His shirt, a grey polo, is bunched up a bit at his waist.
“How do you know that?”
The drumming stops momentarily, gives room for thought, for pause.
“Well it simply has to. That’s how these things work, you know? You know. Of course you do.”
Nick tugs at the hem of his shirt, it’s damp, morning dew most likely, but it drags on the grass, the soft blades tickling his lower back and he squirms.
“Something wrong, old sport?”
He hadn’t noticed Gatsby looking at him, brows drawn together in a look of quizzical concern; it didn’t match the crooked smile. Not at all.
“She isn’t going to leave him for you. That is not how it works. Not how it ever worked, I think. They’ve got images to keep up. They’re not like—”
“Not like me?”
For a moment, Nick almost thinks he’s appalled. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure what he would have meant by the finished statement. Were they so different? The lavish parties did not meet the quiet artistocracy of the Buchanan’s. They were absent of that need to present, didn’t need a billboard announcing their status as “better-than-thou.” Old money, they called it. Nick saw nothing old about it. Rusty, perhaps. Worn.
But Gatsby— Jay, turns back to his upward gaze, tension gone, drumming continues.
Was it that it wouldn’t work?
“No. Not like you in the damn slightest.”
Or was it that he wished it wouldn’t?
todosabrazos asked: nick x gatsby
There were plenty of little things that Nick had overlooked in the long run. The forlorn glances he pretended to miss, lingering fingertips against his palm that broke the boundary of a friendly handshake, the late night calls and requests he’d get for “Just a quick chat, old sport.” that he’d surrender to without much thought.
So it was no surprise, expected, if anything, when Gatsby paused upon slipping an arm over Nick’s shoulders one evening, looked at the man beside him, gazed really, as much as Nick detested using such an exaggerated term, and let out the lightest chuckle.
“I am about to do something incredibly stupid, I do hope you realize that.”
Nick let lips touch his own, let a matching arm slide over his hip, turn him, use him without much protest. Without any protest at all, actually. He sighed when it seemed appropriate, grasped when it was wanted, held when it was needed of him.
He considered it an entirely selfless act.
But there were things he missed, still. Little things. Like the way that smile turned oh so sad when Nick stood, gathered his clothing and began an utterly detached dressing. The way Gatsby positively insisted on buttoning his shirt for him, stretched out any and all contact until it had to be broken. Overlooked the fact that he never received a phone call again after that night. Not from him.
Some time later, standing among what might as well had been no one in particular, (pathetic excuse for a funeral, really.) he’d realize Gatsby had been waiting for him to call.
Realized he’d wanted to.
There were so many things Nick overlooked in such a short span of time.
So many little things.
Back sliding against the wall, shirt getting caught on slight imperfections, it’s tugged uncomfortably and bunched under his arms by the time he hits the ground— carpet, soft, splayed strands of off-white giving way under curling fingers and bare feet.
Just a little damaged.
There’s only the smallest crack there, tiny, maybe etched into the stone at the center of his back, cracked right under his left ear, splintered at the side of a thumb. He reaches, reaches with open hands everywhere at once and tries to seal it up, make it whole, perfect the imperfections.
A ragged sigh passes chapped lips— could those be— no.
No, that’s not it.
He bends his knees, brings them to his chest in a motion that pokes at the fires of a memory lost. Excites the burning embers of a child’s tears and a father’s disappointment. Of his own disappointment.
Wondering why he feels second best— second worst— second, second, seconds passing in slow motion time lapse, montage of all those times he smiled a winning smile right before time ran out.
“I love you” they’d said, “I love you most.”
Love. Me. Loved me.
He curls, curls over it and gathers it in his chest, gathers it between the freckles that map his mistakes.
Every hero has his doubts, he says. It’s okay, okay, gonna be alright, just like they all say. All said. Will say.
You’re just one man, he whispers. Just one, solitary man, with speed beneath polyester wings.
He’s not breaking, won’t reach that point, not now, maybe not ever.
But he feels that crack spreading, feels it right there, right—-
there.
Reblogs own writings from rp blog
Someone asked for Boostle drabble with a happy ending for once
And here is a recording of me reading it becaaaause, sometimes I feel like the way I’m reading something in my head is not how others are going to read it and it might lose some of it’s…UMPH. That’s a good adjective, yeah.
—————
It’s not the feeling of loss, the pain that accompanies acknowledging the fact that you’ve lost what you loved most dearly. It’s not the shock, the surprise, the burning behind your eyes or the lump in your throat when you look onto that closed casket and the scattering of tears in your peers’ eyes. It’s not any of these things that hurt the most.
It’s the solitude,
the loneliness.
It’s sitting in a chair opposite an empty one.
It’s saying a joke only in your head because you know no one is around to hear it.
It’s rolling over in a bed that used to seem so small, and reaching over to curl an arm around a body that doesn’t exist.
When silence becomes overwhelming, laughter becomes hollow, and the sound of your own sobs are a welcomed distraction from the ringing in your ears; that’s when it hurts the most. That’s when existing becomes a chore.
But there’s a bright side.
Because after you’ve starved for so long, any scrap of food is God sent. Every miniscule drop of hope dripped on your tongue is enough to saturate your insides.
So when there’s the distinct knock on your door, and there is no way to mistake that tell-tale rhythm of shave-and-a-haircut, you don’t care that there is every chance in the world you’re setting yourself up for a second serving of heartbreak. You don’t care because, shit, what have you got to lose?
And that pounding in your chest is so fresh, so human and real that your whole body is shaking, every cell shocked into reality by the unfamiliarity that is emotion.
And you pray, you pray harder than you ever have to no God in particular because you need this like you need air, you need this to be real, to be tangible and God please don’t let this be a cruel joke, just give me this, give me a break even if I don’t deserve one.
You don’t remember the door opening, don’t remember grasping or turning or pulling. You just remember a hand reaching out, palming your cheek and keeping you there, keeping you solid.
And how could you possibly forget hearing that rumbling sort of chuckle that started way down in his gut, rolled past his lips and weaved between every letter of that two word phrase; “Miss me?”
Yes, there were tears. There was an absolute flood and yeesh, you’re an ugly crier. But it was okay, everything was okay, because when you grasped onto the front of possibly the most hideous sweater you’ve ever seen, it didn’t fade away. When he wrapped his arms around you, supported you against him and held you with strength you knew no one else had ever felt, it didn’t wake you from a dream.
And when he nudged your nose with his, forced your head up and kissed away those tears, pressed searing promises of what was yet to come to your cheeks, chin, jaw and lips, well…
You forgot the meaning of loneliness.
This is the part where I torture Rochelle and Becca with angst because I hate them both
PREVIEW TO DRABBLE I’M WRITING ABOUT WALLY DEALING WITH BART’S DEATH
YOU FUCKS
———————
Innocent, so, so innocent.
He was pure, he was perfect, with all his little quirks and being absolutely insufferable at times, he was still perfect. Still innocent.
So despite all that had happened, despite rivalry and disagreement, there was the overwhelming urge to protect, to defend, to keep him from the evil in the world.
Because in his short 3 years, he had already witnessed enough of it.
And now, looking at a crisp photo in a popsicle stick frame, some still baring the coloration of the cherry ices he had so cheerfully eaten amid his highspeed art project, there was a smiling face, too many teeth, too much hair, too much joy to simply be contained in a still image.
A tear fell onto the paper, discolored a corner, trickled down and settled against the raised and splintered edge of the bottom stick.
Why?
acedtheblondetest asked: UH I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT GOD. OMGyesplease;w;
Disgust.
It wasn’t normal.
It was fueled by hatred, by guilt, by anger and regret.
Shame.
This wasn’t a physical thing, it was emotional warfare. It was desperation at a primal state; claw, bite, ravage, kill, devour.
Someone moaned, and it was swallowed with a growl and a bite.
Don’t you dare show emotion, don’t you dare like this.
“Hurt me.”
Wasn’t that the purpose? Wasn’t that how this all began? Because punches landed and spread into something exploratory and sickeningly curious.
“Fucking hurt me.”
But things had been civil. Civil, civil, civil. That’s what he was calling it now.
His hands were being forced around a neck and his compliance was immediate.
“Break it.”
Thumbs pressed, hips arched, another moan was felt somewhere between the two so he gripped harder—desperately. Don’t like this, don’t enjoy this.
He could feel the moan beneath his grasp.
“You sick fuck, just kill me.”
And he should have, oh god he should have. It would have been so much easier, because fuck morals, what morals could he possibly have now? How could he ever look anyone in the eye ever again without wanting to vomit where he stood?
But there was a part of him begging for punishment, and the only lashing he would receive would be the desperate grinding of his hips, drive in that shame a little harder. Make it permanent, tattoo it on every inch of flesh.
Someone was crying.
Good, good, thank god someone here was still human.
He licked tears that gathered on his lips, tried to figure out who’s they were but there was a face in his neck, a body shuddering, a bright light behind his eyes.
“It would be so easy.”
Soft breath was on his neck, gentle, comforting, revolting.
“But you want to suffer, don’t you?”
A bark of laughter, right under his ear.
Cackling against his lips.
And he laughed along.
“Yeah,” he chuckled, laughed through the tears,
“I want it to hurt.”
And it always would.
Corruption was absolute.
So I wrote another thing
Because I found out that Barry would make visits to Bruce’s place to bond over ~ forensics ~ and ~crime~, which is how Dick and Wally got to become all buddy buddy before being on a team.
And then I told Alia I was going to write disgustingly adorable fluff.
And,
yeah.
It’s Dick/Wally and it’s diabeetus.
It’s like sharing your flesh, your very being with someone else. Your heart is no longer yours but you trust that they’ll hold it safely in their hands, cup it and stroke it with an idle thumb, lavish it with the affection you barred it from for so long. Love becomes such a sad excuse of description for what you feel when you see them crack that smile as you catch their gaze from halfway across the room. It’s something so powerful, so deep and grounded in your very soul that there isn’t a shadow of a doubt that they feel the same way.
Right?
But you think, maybe I just have to ask. Maybe, I just have to set things out and find a way to put “do you feel like we share a soul?” into a socially acceptable question to ask. You just need the reassurance that this isn’t one sided. And you know it’s silly, because things are good, and you’ve only got the rest of your life ahead of you. But it still nags at you, itches at the base of your spine, creeps up the nape of your neck and curls up right at the center of your brain because man is it warm there. What if. What if, what if, what if.
So you decided enough is enough. You’re not going to stand for this kind of mind numbing anxiousness anymore, right? You’re going to set things out and knock a few things off the table to make room for this great big mess. You’re gonna look them in the eye and demand the truth. Demand that they express what you’ve yet to figure out how to put into words. It’s asking a bit much, but you have to try, right?
But something stops this.
Maybe you chicken out. Maybe you grow apart. Maybe you just don’t know if it’s worth it anymore.
Maybe someone puts a bullet through your best friend’s head.
Suddenly, asking isn’t an option anymore. Suddenly, you don’t have the rest of your life to lay it all out and risk it all. And that heart you had handed over so willingly isn’t crushed or broken, it’s just, gone. Because the hands that gripped it are gone, too.
And you don’t cry. You don’t mourn, because how do you mourn the death of yourself? How can you possibly comprehend walking into an old garage and not hearing tools clanking and muttered curses, when you were so positive it was never going to end? It’s not a numbness, no, you aren’t numb because clearly you’re feeling something, but the ability to acknowledge these feelings, figure them out and mutter them to a shrink, well, that’s just gone. And all you can think about, the only thing that keeps you up at night huddled over a wrinkled photograph and a dirty old sweater is; did they feel it, too?
Regret isn’t close enough, but it’s the first word that comes to mind.
I wrote a thing.
A Wally/Dick thing.
Mostly about Wally.
It’s drabbley and vague, more stylistic than anything.
But maybe someone will like it.
18 NOTES?????????????????????????????
I wrote a thing.
A Wally/Dick thing.
Mostly about Wally.
It’s drabbley and vague, more stylistic than anything.
But maybe someone will like it.
Conworth angst fic
POSTING OLD FICS HOW BOUT THAT
I had this headcanon with a friend of mine that Conrad and Worth were good friend and actually in a relationship when they were younger,
and of course Worth screwed that all up.
So,
yeah.
