TBS Prompt 01
You wake up, lying on the street, and someone is giving you mouth to mouth. How did this happen?
It's the first thing you notice, soon as you start to regain consciousness. It's a hand. Just a hand. Specifically, someone's in your own, fingers twined and palms flush. Somebody's holding your hand, while you wake up, sprawled in the middle of this stupid dead-end street.
Well, second thing you notice.
First thing you notice is blinding pain.
Rough tricks around these parts, you knew that, but still you came down here, it's getting desperate out there. Only now you're doubled over onto the pavement, heaving and retching into a sewer grate, bile stringing out over caked blood lips. Fucking gross. You feel... pretty much like you've just gotten hit by a car, which wouldn't be too out of the ordinary in a neighborhood like this, a hit-and-run. And you smell like piss and garbage and vomit and something else. All with someone calmly holding your hand and talking about how it's going to be okay.
Who the fuck is this guy?
You stare up at him, hair shaggy and uncut and hanging all brown and stupid in your eyes. He's smiling, and very black. Which doesn't matter to you so much as it still matters to 1969 in general, but you don't let go of his hand anyway, let him help you to your feet with an earnest wince. "You passed out," he offers helpfully, filling in the blanks you were just trying to figure out on your own. You were always shit at crossword puzzles.
"Are you okay?" he asks aloud, and you eye your surroundings like you didn't hear him.
"I'm Jared."
Jared the black guy, holding your hand. Huh.
"Come on, let me take you to my place, you look really banged up."
You remember faintly mumbling some form of 'okay' back, and it was all over from there.
"Make yourself at home," he says as if you'll be able to do anything other than your awkward door shuffle, hunched over yourself and bleeding.
His place wasn't bad. Padlocked twice over on top of the dead bolt and the hook and eye chain. You don't blame him; that television looks like it might even be in color. And his arm is definitely around you the whole way there, until you can stand awkwardly in the entranceway, while he re-bolts the door and nabs... bandages, or an ice pack, or... whatever he's doing.
"You must have been out there pretty long; this blood looks really caked." His hands are gently as he leads you to the sofa, black leather, as he settles down beside you and tilts your head a little, arises a hiss of discomfort. "Do you remember your name? What day it is?"
You're a cage lion when you answer your name, after a pause, blunt wariness and jagged hesitation. "Curt." And wait a beat, you have to think about the next one. ...It's a harder question. "Thursday?"
Jared's all warm smiles. "Tuesday." Oh. "Close." Not even. He touches a damp washcloth to your lip, waits patiently when you take in a sharp breath again and duck away, like he's done this before. "How long have you been on the street, Curt? I guess the others didn't warn you about this side of town."
You swallow and let him start again, tilt back your head so he can get at the blood dribbling down you chin and feel like you're four and you've gotten sloppy with the spaghetti sauce again. "No, I know." You cleverly avoid the first half of that comment. "Just... needed the money."
Jared smiles again, and even when he's doing it wryly, you feel reassured. "So, months, then?" he slyly remarks. You let actions take their place and speak louder than words, duck your head and help him shrug off your military vest, your thrift store bargain outfit scraped up at best, mostly spattered with red so dark it's almost black. You hope you can at least save the jeans, but you can't lift your arms too much; he has to cut off the shirt with scissors.
"So what's your poison?" As if on cue, he's slipping off what's left of one of the sleeves, showing off scrawny arms, riddled with track marks. You scowl like it's none of his business, take the sharp ache up your ribs as he gently prods at your bruises. You probably deserved it anyway.
"It's okay, most of them don't tell me," Jared offers, helps you wrap your chest with the ace bandages, even hands you a new t-shirt and gingerly shoulder you into it like some kid who hasn't quite gotten the hang of dressing yet. You're a week-old pup, barely able to piddle on the newspapers right.
"Are you hungry? Do you want something to drink?" he's asking, offering, treating you like a house guest rather than the stray cat he picked out of the garbage, covered in banana peels and now quite trustworthy of big noises and new faces yet. "You must be hungry, you look skinny as anything." You are, but you shake your head anyway. And he sees that, starts pulling things out of cupboards nonetheless, and the sticky sweet smell of something chicken-y has you wishing you hadn't already pretended to say 'no'.
You take the distraction to go through his vinyl. It's all fucking classical shit. Which is cool, but you can't pronounce half of their names. And a few you're fairly sure are kinds of pasta.
When he presents dinner, he does with a few clichés as well, a few things about how oh, it's nothing special, and he's not that great of a cook, and you almost laugh aloud because anything's better than McCheeseburgers for a quarter. It's not that you can't always afford food, it's that sometimes you really don't want to considering what's for cheap out there. One, glorious day, you'll save up for a Porterhouse, you know it. "It's fine," you reassure him, as he actually leads you over, sits across from you and tries not to grin when your face lights up.
Fucking chicken stir-fry, sticky rice, vegetables. Once upon a time, you probably would have screwed your face up and complained about stupid green beans and shit, but for now you're shoveling in like you haven't eaten in a week.
It's when you've shoveled in all you can, feeling kind of like you're gonna puke, you've chowed down so much, that you're watching Jared from across the table, over the brim of your glass. He smiles and you smile briefly back, before you know what you're probably going to have to do. Which you don't mind - it's not as if you've never done it before, it's kind of routine by now - and it's something nice to do for everything he has. Right?
You're on your knees in front of him and starting at his belt before he can say anything, get down to the fastenings before he carefully adjusts his glasses and calmly asks what you're doing.
"You don't want me to?" you ask confusedly.
"Trust me, I do," he breathes with a laugh, and redoes his belt. "I just don't want you to unless you want to."
Oh. ...Well, that's different.
It's not like tricks really think about whether you wanna fuck, whether your jaw is aching or your ass is sore, but you lean over that one last time anyway, you need to, it's your job. It's not like cashiers are always in the mood for ringing up candy bars, or accountants are always in the mood for adding shit. It was just what they did. Jared takes the pause as an answer, tells you to come here while he cups a hand under your chin and runs his thumb across your lips, leads you in for one, soft kiss, your palms braced on either one of his thighs as you lean in. Mouth to mouth, resuscitation without the death first, and a slow swirl of his tongue against your lips before he presses in for the one last kiss, and that's that. He stands a second later, starts towards the other room.
For some reason, you think of Brent. And you haven't thought about him in a while, but you do, and you touch your lips and follow him into the next room, the bedroom, lay back on his bed with him and stare up at the ceiling. It's quiet, for a while, but it's comfortable, nothing but the sound of breathing as you look up at the span of white above you. And you trace your fingers across track marks, imagine you're connecting the dots and making a giraffe before your finally speak up and tell him, "Heroin," and he just nods and lays there, no difference in the world.
You lean over and kiss him again - not because you feel like you have to anymore, because you want to - and when he kisses back, it's so gently you can't stand it. When you two fuck, it's the first time in a while you haven't just felt obligated to play the bottom, you actually don't mind, and you're sore but he's careful and he hits that one spot anyway. You actually enjoy sex, don't just boil it down to means of merely getting off and that's all there is to it.
Jared Atwood gives you a hundred bucks later, tells you to be careful and asks you not to spend it on drugs later. And you don't, not until Jono gets you some hash to help with the shakes later when you're crashing on his couch, in all meanings of the word. You say you're going to quit it for good this time and everyone rolls their eyes because they know you'll be back on the stuff in a month or two, if you're real good about this, but that you're even making the effort is kind of out of character.
Weird, what a meal and a few smiles can do to a guy.
Muse: Curt Wild
Fandom: Velvet Goldmine
Word Count: 1,638
It's the first thing you notice, soon as you start to regain consciousness. It's a hand. Just a hand. Specifically, someone's in your own, fingers twined and palms flush. Somebody's holding your hand, while you wake up, sprawled in the middle of this stupid dead-end street.
Well, second thing you notice.
First thing you notice is blinding pain.
Rough tricks around these parts, you knew that, but still you came down here, it's getting desperate out there. Only now you're doubled over onto the pavement, heaving and retching into a sewer grate, bile stringing out over caked blood lips. Fucking gross. You feel... pretty much like you've just gotten hit by a car, which wouldn't be too out of the ordinary in a neighborhood like this, a hit-and-run. And you smell like piss and garbage and vomit and something else. All with someone calmly holding your hand and talking about how it's going to be okay.
Who the fuck is this guy?
You stare up at him, hair shaggy and uncut and hanging all brown and stupid in your eyes. He's smiling, and very black. Which doesn't matter to you so much as it still matters to 1969 in general, but you don't let go of his hand anyway, let him help you to your feet with an earnest wince. "You passed out," he offers helpfully, filling in the blanks you were just trying to figure out on your own. You were always shit at crossword puzzles.
"Are you okay?" he asks aloud, and you eye your surroundings like you didn't hear him.
"I'm Jared."
Jared the black guy, holding your hand. Huh.
"Come on, let me take you to my place, you look really banged up."
You remember faintly mumbling some form of 'okay' back, and it was all over from there.
"Make yourself at home," he says as if you'll be able to do anything other than your awkward door shuffle, hunched over yourself and bleeding.
His place wasn't bad. Padlocked twice over on top of the dead bolt and the hook and eye chain. You don't blame him; that television looks like it might even be in color. And his arm is definitely around you the whole way there, until you can stand awkwardly in the entranceway, while he re-bolts the door and nabs... bandages, or an ice pack, or... whatever he's doing.
"You must have been out there pretty long; this blood looks really caked." His hands are gently as he leads you to the sofa, black leather, as he settles down beside you and tilts your head a little, arises a hiss of discomfort. "Do you remember your name? What day it is?"
You're a cage lion when you answer your name, after a pause, blunt wariness and jagged hesitation. "Curt." And wait a beat, you have to think about the next one. ...It's a harder question. "Thursday?"
Jared's all warm smiles. "Tuesday." Oh. "Close." Not even. He touches a damp washcloth to your lip, waits patiently when you take in a sharp breath again and duck away, like he's done this before. "How long have you been on the street, Curt? I guess the others didn't warn you about this side of town."
You swallow and let him start again, tilt back your head so he can get at the blood dribbling down you chin and feel like you're four and you've gotten sloppy with the spaghetti sauce again. "No, I know." You cleverly avoid the first half of that comment. "Just... needed the money."
Jared smiles again, and even when he's doing it wryly, you feel reassured. "So, months, then?" he slyly remarks. You let actions take their place and speak louder than words, duck your head and help him shrug off your military vest, your thrift store bargain outfit scraped up at best, mostly spattered with red so dark it's almost black. You hope you can at least save the jeans, but you can't lift your arms too much; he has to cut off the shirt with scissors.
"So what's your poison?" As if on cue, he's slipping off what's left of one of the sleeves, showing off scrawny arms, riddled with track marks. You scowl like it's none of his business, take the sharp ache up your ribs as he gently prods at your bruises. You probably deserved it anyway.
"It's okay, most of them don't tell me," Jared offers, helps you wrap your chest with the ace bandages, even hands you a new t-shirt and gingerly shoulder you into it like some kid who hasn't quite gotten the hang of dressing yet. You're a week-old pup, barely able to piddle on the newspapers right.
"Are you hungry? Do you want something to drink?" he's asking, offering, treating you like a house guest rather than the stray cat he picked out of the garbage, covered in banana peels and now quite trustworthy of big noises and new faces yet. "You must be hungry, you look skinny as anything." You are, but you shake your head anyway. And he sees that, starts pulling things out of cupboards nonetheless, and the sticky sweet smell of something chicken-y has you wishing you hadn't already pretended to say 'no'.
You take the distraction to go through his vinyl. It's all fucking classical shit. Which is cool, but you can't pronounce half of their names. And a few you're fairly sure are kinds of pasta.
When he presents dinner, he does with a few clichés as well, a few things about how oh, it's nothing special, and he's not that great of a cook, and you almost laugh aloud because anything's better than McCheeseburgers for a quarter. It's not that you can't always afford food, it's that sometimes you really don't want to considering what's for cheap out there. One, glorious day, you'll save up for a Porterhouse, you know it. "It's fine," you reassure him, as he actually leads you over, sits across from you and tries not to grin when your face lights up.
Fucking chicken stir-fry, sticky rice, vegetables. Once upon a time, you probably would have screwed your face up and complained about stupid green beans and shit, but for now you're shoveling in like you haven't eaten in a week.
It's when you've shoveled in all you can, feeling kind of like you're gonna puke, you've chowed down so much, that you're watching Jared from across the table, over the brim of your glass. He smiles and you smile briefly back, before you know what you're probably going to have to do. Which you don't mind - it's not as if you've never done it before, it's kind of routine by now - and it's something nice to do for everything he has. Right?
You're on your knees in front of him and starting at his belt before he can say anything, get down to the fastenings before he carefully adjusts his glasses and calmly asks what you're doing.
"You don't want me to?" you ask confusedly.
"Trust me, I do," he breathes with a laugh, and redoes his belt. "I just don't want you to unless you want to."
Oh. ...Well, that's different.
It's not like tricks really think about whether you wanna fuck, whether your jaw is aching or your ass is sore, but you lean over that one last time anyway, you need to, it's your job. It's not like cashiers are always in the mood for ringing up candy bars, or accountants are always in the mood for adding shit. It was just what they did. Jared takes the pause as an answer, tells you to come here while he cups a hand under your chin and runs his thumb across your lips, leads you in for one, soft kiss, your palms braced on either one of his thighs as you lean in. Mouth to mouth, resuscitation without the death first, and a slow swirl of his tongue against your lips before he presses in for the one last kiss, and that's that. He stands a second later, starts towards the other room.
For some reason, you think of Brent. And you haven't thought about him in a while, but you do, and you touch your lips and follow him into the next room, the bedroom, lay back on his bed with him and stare up at the ceiling. It's quiet, for a while, but it's comfortable, nothing but the sound of breathing as you look up at the span of white above you. And you trace your fingers across track marks, imagine you're connecting the dots and making a giraffe before your finally speak up and tell him, "Heroin," and he just nods and lays there, no difference in the world.
You lean over and kiss him again - not because you feel like you have to anymore, because you want to - and when he kisses back, it's so gently you can't stand it. When you two fuck, it's the first time in a while you haven't just felt obligated to play the bottom, you actually don't mind, and you're sore but he's careful and he hits that one spot anyway. You actually enjoy sex, don't just boil it down to means of merely getting off and that's all there is to it.
Jared Atwood gives you a hundred bucks later, tells you to be careful and asks you not to spend it on drugs later. And you don't, not until Jono gets you some hash to help with the shakes later when you're crashing on his couch, in all meanings of the word. You say you're going to quit it for good this time and everyone rolls their eyes because they know you'll be back on the stuff in a month or two, if you're real good about this, but that you're even making the effort is kind of out of character.
Weird, what a meal and a few smiles can do to a guy.
Muse: Curt Wild
Fandom: Velvet Goldmine
Word Count: 1,638