Fic: Where All The Ladders Start
Title: Where All The Ladders Start
Pairing: Spoony/Linkara
Word Count: 233
Prompt: Those masterful images because complete/Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?/A mound of refuse, or the sweeping of the street./Old kettles, old bottles and a broken can,/Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut/Who keeps the till./Now that my ladder's gone,/I must lie down where all the ladders start,/In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: A note on the timeline - this is before the club existed. And I really hope you like this, Freya. *worries*
Spoony was never going to admit it but he had no idea where he was. Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the joy of the barfight that clouded his brain but somehow he had ended up on the rough side of Chicago.
And it really was rough. The street he was walking down was disgusting, full of trash and smelt old and diseased.
He kicked a can noisily into an alleyway to vent his frustrations and he had obviously disturbed someone by doing so. It was a guy, probably younger than him but looking older and tireder than he should. He wasn't homeless, he looked clean enough but he seemed to fit in with the mess and the grime.
"I'm guessing you're lost?"
He was cuter when he was speaking. And even though it was obvious what he was and even though he loved the pussy, Spoony was sorta tempted. He hadn't been laid for a while...
"Sorry dude, this street really doesn't look like a decent place to lie down with anyone."
The slut leant against the wall, looking him over and folding his arms. "You learn to get by."
He came closer and the hooker backed up a little, his eyes going wider and that strong, world-weary persona fading.
"What's your name?"
The man pulled him into a kiss, harsh and desperate and full of need. "It doesn't matter."
Pairing: Spoony/Linkara
Word Count: 233
Prompt: Those masterful images because complete/Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?/A mound of refuse, or the sweeping of the street./Old kettles, old bottles and a broken can,/Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut/Who keeps the till./Now that my ladder's gone,/I must lie down where all the ladders start,/In the foul rag-and-bone shop of the heart.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: A note on the timeline - this is before the club existed. And I really hope you like this, Freya. *worries*
Spoony was never going to admit it but he had no idea where he was. Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was the joy of the barfight that clouded his brain but somehow he had ended up on the rough side of Chicago.
And it really was rough. The street he was walking down was disgusting, full of trash and smelt old and diseased.
He kicked a can noisily into an alleyway to vent his frustrations and he had obviously disturbed someone by doing so. It was a guy, probably younger than him but looking older and tireder than he should. He wasn't homeless, he looked clean enough but he seemed to fit in with the mess and the grime.
"I'm guessing you're lost?"
He was cuter when he was speaking. And even though it was obvious what he was and even though he loved the pussy, Spoony was sorta tempted. He hadn't been laid for a while...
"Sorry dude, this street really doesn't look like a decent place to lie down with anyone."
The slut leant against the wall, looking him over and folding his arms. "You learn to get by."
He came closer and the hooker backed up a little, his eyes going wider and that strong, world-weary persona fading.
"What's your name?"
The man pulled him into a kiss, harsh and desperate and full of need. "It doesn't matter."