(no subject)
After this, Apollo remembers being in love with awkward bastards-- that it can be bad, and it can be good.
Basically an Authority Fanfic; rated R for m/m sex.
Lovely pictures of pre-Authority Apollo and Midnighter found here.
He'd stopped to watch the boys on the trampoline, ogling at a distance.
Any red-blooded male-attracted person would have. Viktor was heartbreakingly beautiful when he smiled that way.
It had been adorable, the way they'd looked at each other...
He'd chuckled to himself. Oh, just kiss already. Nobody here would care.
And then they had.
And then the dark haired boy had drawn back. And they'd had a Talk, stooping together, Viktor's face open and hurt, the dark haired boy caged and sulky.
Oh, Apollo thought to himself, memories coming back.
They'd left. Together. That was something.
Poor Viktor was in it deep for an awkward bastard. If only he didn't understand. PERFECTLY.
That night, snuggled comfortably on the mattress hidden in the storeroom, he'd found his mind running-- thinking of awkward bastards and loving them; thinking of three years with an empty bed, single father, separated but not divorced.
Three years, and he'd never brought a new man home. Jenny had even suggested it, once or twice, in a sad 'Daddy, you have no life,' way.
Oh, god, and then Mid had come back. And they'd barely spoken, and they were still in different bedrooms, but the day before he came to this (bloody goddamned fucking) island, Mid had hijacked him into a corner and just.. held him for a while. They'd stood for almost two hours, just arms around each other and breathing.
Viktor, you poor, gorgeous idiot, don't fall in love with him. It HURTS, with an awkward bastard.
It's wonderful with an awkward bastard.
Tired, alone, on a mattress-- the last three years of his life, only the tired was new.
He shut his eyes, not even sure if he wanted to jerk off.
Like a film reel, history unrolled...
In The Beginning.
In The Beginning.
The team was dead, except for two lone survivors-- Apollo and the Midnighter.
And Apollo couldn't TALK to him, not really. He'd managed about the same level of bright, friendly conversation with him as anyone else, but the thing was...
well..
There'd been a very pretty nurse attendant when he'd woken up. Only the best for the Authority. And as he'd looked at her, and completely failed to respond to perky breasts, round ass, a tight uniform pulled over curves-- his memory was gone, but he KNEW she was aesthetically a lovely woman-- he'd realized with a sick feeling that Henry Bendix had taken his sex drive from him.
He'd felt a little sick, actually, stepped out into the world in a haze of depression, asking himself what the hell he'd signed up for here...
And there'd been somebody running practice drills in the gym, and it had hit him like a hammer, the relief...
There should have been a hallelujah choir as he stopped and stared at that muscle-bound leather-wrapped black figure, coat flapping behind him as he demolished punching bags and whipped through the room like an acrobat.
Apollo had gone blank, just seeing (toned, muscled thighs / flat stomach / wide pecs / broad shoulders / angry snarl) and the light had broke down on him.
Bendix hadn't unmanned him. He was just as gay as a spring lamb.
...and that's a hell of a burden to be on somebody, and it was worse when the somebody was the last surviving member of your team, and you were on the run together...
"The odds against us are long," the Midnighter had told him flatly, when he finally got up the guts to do the right thing and offer to leave. "They get six times worse in any scenario where you leave."
But it was hard. It was worse than hard, it was goddamn UNBEARABLE always being in such close quarters with-- he was so-- the mask covered up his face, Apollo'd never seen him without it. But he could see the lips, which was really, really bad enough. And that strong chin. And through the holes in the mask, brown eyes--
The urge to reach-and-touch was like a muscle ache, constantly. And the constant knowledge of the want and the need spinning just under his head-- even in the worst times, as they rested in gutted buildings, sleeping out of habit-- it made him nervous and sick to his stomach.
They flew when they could, getting as much distance as possible, and that meant that Mid was on his back. With his arms around Apollo's neck.
He'd started having wet-dreams about it. And they always started with flying, and with sudden warm lips on his neck.
And there were the frustrating dreams, the ones where Midnighter said, suddenly, 'we'll have sex, if you can find a safe place-'
Those were the worse because they reflected reality. There was no safe place. In his dreams, and in real life, endlessly searching...
They'd found the gutted out store about three weeks after everything went to shit. A fire had burst it open-- the same fire that had killed this whole strip of small town. Everything was shut down, boarded up.
But in the basement of the building was a hot water heater, untouched. And the electricity, by some city screwup, was still on.
And there was a bathtub.
And there, not questioning their good luck, they both took hot baths and Apollo'd soaked and soaped his uniform, the only piece of clothing he had, and hung it up to dry.
"I should do that," the Midnighter had said gruffly, and he'd just-- peeled his leather off, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary.
His hair was short, the remains of an almost military buzz cut. Sandy blond. His back was a mass of scars-- the implants hadn't been put in with finesse. His face was square, blocky.
Apollo'd had to turn away before he could see anything else.
"Apollo?" the Midnighter's voice had come to him, and goddammit but it sounded more naked.
"Yes." He stared at the wall, cracks in the brick.
"..there's a better than one percent chance the attraction you keep displaying is the effect of a syndrome like Stockholms-- because you never have contact with anyone but me, and we have to keep in close contact, you manifest it as attraction. It doesn't necessarily mean you're homosexual."
Apollo had whirled on him, naked and angry, and the temperature in the room had risen about five degrees as his solar charge flared out...
There weren't words. "Fuck you," he said, and stalked away to the only other room in the basement, slamming the door behind him.
There were two mattresses. They wouldn't be sleeping on broken glass tonight. Hurrah.
He sat on one mattress and stared at the wall a while longer.
And then the door opened.
"I'm queer, deal with it," he snapped, but the Midnighter didn't say anything.
He tensed up as bare feet crossed the room, shut his eyes and curled up like a sulky five year old--
And then his nerves exploded. It was spectacular; a single warm contact on his neck and his whole body had jerked like a man shot-
Midnighter. Had pressed his lips. To the back of his neck.
Very slowly, Apollo turned around, jaw dropped. He'd met the brown eyes, looking frankly at him, and that square, blocky, beautiful face was almost .. worried.
"I didn't want to assume," Midnighter said, and somehow Apollo knew that was an apology. "The other ninety-eight point seven percent chance was that you were attracted to me. But I'd wanted to check first." And he was trying to sound so aloof and logical, and Apollo saw right past it into the worry and the shyness and realized that while the tactical computers in his brain were excellent for predicting the outcome of a fight they were shit for interpersonal relations-
And it had come to him, crystal clear, that they were both naked and close to each other but not actually touching, and this was unnacceptable.
He'd shot out an arm, grabbed Midnighter by the shoulder, and thrown him to the mattress-- only Midnighter, the perfect fighter, twisted with it, grabbed his arm and moved with the strike, and wound up with his chest smashed against Apollo's, and their foreheads together.
Apollo had stared and shivered for a whole second before he put a hand in that buzzed, sandy hair and pulled Midnighter in for a kiss.
It was supposed to be short and tentative, but once started, Apollo couldn't bring himself to stop. They just kept on-- until a few minutes later Midnighter's tongue had tapped on his lips and he'd opened his mouth.
A few minutes later-- less than half an hour, he was ALMOST sure-- they'd fallen together on the mattress, tangling their legs together, not trying to grind or hump but just to get every single square inch of skin that they could get pressed together.
When they broke, a while later, Midnighter had said very softly, "I think my nerves just exploded."
Apollo had pulled Midnighter's head against his chest and clung on to him.
They'd used one mattress that night, and the feeling of bucking and squirming and coming into a calloused hand was almost as good as the sound of Midnighter coming as Apollo jerked him off.
Two weeks later, Midnighter had tortured a man to screaming death with his bare hands.
That night, Apollo had laid down and waited for an hour alone before he got up and glared. "Are you coming to bed?"
"...do you want me to?" Midnighter turned to him, face concealed by the mask.
"What the hell kind of question is that?"
"I thought today would have turned you off."
Apollo had crossed his arms and glared until Midnighter took off his gloves, his mask, his leather, and come to bed.
He'd taken one of Midnighter's hands in both of his and looked at it.
Same hand that had ripped a man's stomach out today.
But it wasn't going to hurt him.
"I love you, moron," Apollo said with a sigh, and pressed the hand to something that hadn't been turned off by the day at all.
Awkward bastard.
Apollo remembered. Even from the beginning, an awkward bastard.
You fell hard and fast for them.
Apollo curled on the matress with blankets over him, and clenched a hand around his ring.
Miss you. Miss you, Mid.
He shoved his mind back into the memory of being held for the first time. He got to sleep.
Basically an Authority Fanfic; rated R for m/m sex.
Lovely pictures of pre-Authority Apollo and Midnighter found here.
He'd stopped to watch the boys on the trampoline, ogling at a distance.
Any red-blooded male-attracted person would have. Viktor was heartbreakingly beautiful when he smiled that way.
It had been adorable, the way they'd looked at each other...
He'd chuckled to himself. Oh, just kiss already. Nobody here would care.
And then they had.
And then the dark haired boy had drawn back. And they'd had a Talk, stooping together, Viktor's face open and hurt, the dark haired boy caged and sulky.
Oh, Apollo thought to himself, memories coming back.
They'd left. Together. That was something.
Poor Viktor was in it deep for an awkward bastard. If only he didn't understand. PERFECTLY.
That night, snuggled comfortably on the mattress hidden in the storeroom, he'd found his mind running-- thinking of awkward bastards and loving them; thinking of three years with an empty bed, single father, separated but not divorced.
Three years, and he'd never brought a new man home. Jenny had even suggested it, once or twice, in a sad 'Daddy, you have no life,' way.
Oh, god, and then Mid had come back. And they'd barely spoken, and they were still in different bedrooms, but the day before he came to this (bloody goddamned fucking) island, Mid had hijacked him into a corner and just.. held him for a while. They'd stood for almost two hours, just arms around each other and breathing.
Viktor, you poor, gorgeous idiot, don't fall in love with him. It HURTS, with an awkward bastard.
It's wonderful with an awkward bastard.
Tired, alone, on a mattress-- the last three years of his life, only the tired was new.
He shut his eyes, not even sure if he wanted to jerk off.
Like a film reel, history unrolled...
In The Beginning.
In The Beginning.
The team was dead, except for two lone survivors-- Apollo and the Midnighter.
And Apollo couldn't TALK to him, not really. He'd managed about the same level of bright, friendly conversation with him as anyone else, but the thing was...
well..
There'd been a very pretty nurse attendant when he'd woken up. Only the best for the Authority. And as he'd looked at her, and completely failed to respond to perky breasts, round ass, a tight uniform pulled over curves-- his memory was gone, but he KNEW she was aesthetically a lovely woman-- he'd realized with a sick feeling that Henry Bendix had taken his sex drive from him.
He'd felt a little sick, actually, stepped out into the world in a haze of depression, asking himself what the hell he'd signed up for here...
And there'd been somebody running practice drills in the gym, and it had hit him like a hammer, the relief...
There should have been a hallelujah choir as he stopped and stared at that muscle-bound leather-wrapped black figure, coat flapping behind him as he demolished punching bags and whipped through the room like an acrobat.
Apollo had gone blank, just seeing (toned, muscled thighs / flat stomach / wide pecs / broad shoulders / angry snarl) and the light had broke down on him.
Bendix hadn't unmanned him. He was just as gay as a spring lamb.
...and that's a hell of a burden to be on somebody, and it was worse when the somebody was the last surviving member of your team, and you were on the run together...
"The odds against us are long," the Midnighter had told him flatly, when he finally got up the guts to do the right thing and offer to leave. "They get six times worse in any scenario where you leave."
But it was hard. It was worse than hard, it was goddamn UNBEARABLE always being in such close quarters with-- he was so-- the mask covered up his face, Apollo'd never seen him without it. But he could see the lips, which was really, really bad enough. And that strong chin. And through the holes in the mask, brown eyes--
The urge to reach-and-touch was like a muscle ache, constantly. And the constant knowledge of the want and the need spinning just under his head-- even in the worst times, as they rested in gutted buildings, sleeping out of habit-- it made him nervous and sick to his stomach.
They flew when they could, getting as much distance as possible, and that meant that Mid was on his back. With his arms around Apollo's neck.
He'd started having wet-dreams about it. And they always started with flying, and with sudden warm lips on his neck.
And there were the frustrating dreams, the ones where Midnighter said, suddenly, 'we'll have sex, if you can find a safe place-'
Those were the worse because they reflected reality. There was no safe place. In his dreams, and in real life, endlessly searching...
They'd found the gutted out store about three weeks after everything went to shit. A fire had burst it open-- the same fire that had killed this whole strip of small town. Everything was shut down, boarded up.
But in the basement of the building was a hot water heater, untouched. And the electricity, by some city screwup, was still on.
And there was a bathtub.
And there, not questioning their good luck, they both took hot baths and Apollo'd soaked and soaped his uniform, the only piece of clothing he had, and hung it up to dry.
"I should do that," the Midnighter had said gruffly, and he'd just-- peeled his leather off, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary.
His hair was short, the remains of an almost military buzz cut. Sandy blond. His back was a mass of scars-- the implants hadn't been put in with finesse. His face was square, blocky.
Apollo'd had to turn away before he could see anything else.
"Apollo?" the Midnighter's voice had come to him, and goddammit but it sounded more naked.
"Yes." He stared at the wall, cracks in the brick.
"..there's a better than one percent chance the attraction you keep displaying is the effect of a syndrome like Stockholms-- because you never have contact with anyone but me, and we have to keep in close contact, you manifest it as attraction. It doesn't necessarily mean you're homosexual."
Apollo had whirled on him, naked and angry, and the temperature in the room had risen about five degrees as his solar charge flared out...
There weren't words. "Fuck you," he said, and stalked away to the only other room in the basement, slamming the door behind him.
There were two mattresses. They wouldn't be sleeping on broken glass tonight. Hurrah.
He sat on one mattress and stared at the wall a while longer.
And then the door opened.
"I'm queer, deal with it," he snapped, but the Midnighter didn't say anything.
He tensed up as bare feet crossed the room, shut his eyes and curled up like a sulky five year old--
And then his nerves exploded. It was spectacular; a single warm contact on his neck and his whole body had jerked like a man shot-
Midnighter. Had pressed his lips. To the back of his neck.
Very slowly, Apollo turned around, jaw dropped. He'd met the brown eyes, looking frankly at him, and that square, blocky, beautiful face was almost .. worried.
"I didn't want to assume," Midnighter said, and somehow Apollo knew that was an apology. "The other ninety-eight point seven percent chance was that you were attracted to me. But I'd wanted to check first." And he was trying to sound so aloof and logical, and Apollo saw right past it into the worry and the shyness and realized that while the tactical computers in his brain were excellent for predicting the outcome of a fight they were shit for interpersonal relations-
And it had come to him, crystal clear, that they were both naked and close to each other but not actually touching, and this was unnacceptable.
He'd shot out an arm, grabbed Midnighter by the shoulder, and thrown him to the mattress-- only Midnighter, the perfect fighter, twisted with it, grabbed his arm and moved with the strike, and wound up with his chest smashed against Apollo's, and their foreheads together.
Apollo had stared and shivered for a whole second before he put a hand in that buzzed, sandy hair and pulled Midnighter in for a kiss.
It was supposed to be short and tentative, but once started, Apollo couldn't bring himself to stop. They just kept on-- until a few minutes later Midnighter's tongue had tapped on his lips and he'd opened his mouth.
A few minutes later-- less than half an hour, he was ALMOST sure-- they'd fallen together on the mattress, tangling their legs together, not trying to grind or hump but just to get every single square inch of skin that they could get pressed together.
When they broke, a while later, Midnighter had said very softly, "I think my nerves just exploded."
Apollo had pulled Midnighter's head against his chest and clung on to him.
They'd used one mattress that night, and the feeling of bucking and squirming and coming into a calloused hand was almost as good as the sound of Midnighter coming as Apollo jerked him off.
Two weeks later, Midnighter had tortured a man to screaming death with his bare hands.
That night, Apollo had laid down and waited for an hour alone before he got up and glared. "Are you coming to bed?"
"...do you want me to?" Midnighter turned to him, face concealed by the mask.
"What the hell kind of question is that?"
"I thought today would have turned you off."
Apollo had crossed his arms and glared until Midnighter took off his gloves, his mask, his leather, and come to bed.
He'd taken one of Midnighter's hands in both of his and looked at it.
Same hand that had ripped a man's stomach out today.
But it wasn't going to hurt him.
"I love you, moron," Apollo said with a sigh, and pressed the hand to something that hadn't been turned off by the day at all.
Awkward bastard.
Apollo remembered. Even from the beginning, an awkward bastard.
You fell hard and fast for them.
Apollo curled on the matress with blankets over him, and clenched a hand around his ring.
Miss you. Miss you, Mid.
He shoved his mind back into the memory of being held for the first time. He got to sleep.