#blob writes

[wajjs]

superlantern……….

He is so unused to getting drunk that by the time morning comes, Clark truly doesn't foresee a killer hangover wearing him down. As soon as he opens his eyes he regrets it, and the sunlight filtering in through the badly closed blinds feels both good on his exposed skin and like torture for his eyes.

He had foolishly said yes to Kilowog inviting him to drink some of his wine. Aged Bolovaxian Purple, the big alien had said while laughing with Hal hanging onto his shoulder and laughing while looking at Clark with eyes too pretty to ignore.

Pretty.

Pretty?

Sure, Hal is objectively pretty, in that 'classic beauty' sort of way. But also there's the wildness in his eyes, his sun kissed skin, and the dimple under the right corner of his mouth that shows itself whenever he smiles. Which is more than half of the time.

And so Clark found himself unable to say anything else but yes, of course, I'll join you for a round. And Hal laughed, fluid like water as he moved from Kilowog to Clark, sighing contently while resting his chin on his shoulder, his breath tickling the side of Clark's neck. Hal had already been drunk, or at least wine happy, but he still kept going, egging Clark on.

Right. Clark vaguely remembers trying to win against Kilowog to see who could take the most shots of Bolovaxian Pure White (oddly similar to rum in taste, but definitely stronger). The rest is a blur after that, up to this morning with him waking up in a relatively comfortable bed and with his head feeling like Zod is punching his skull from within.

"Curtains," Hal mumbles by his side, burying his face in Clark's chest to hide his eyes from the sun.

Clark blinks, not thinking twice as he carefully places a hand on Hal's head, stroking his hair. He gets it. The sun is—

Hal.

He's on the bed with Hal.

He's on the bed with Hal after drinking so much and.

Clark looks down. His hangover matters less than then fact that they're both completely exposed, not an inch of fabric covering any single part of their bodies. Hal mumbles something, mouth dragging against his clavicle, and shifts a leg so that he's half straddling Clark's lap. Clark holds his breath, freezing.

Just now he's noticing, wrapped around his finger on the hand he's got placed atop Hal's head, the gold wedding ring.

He swallows. What even is in bolovaxian wine?!

[gayformlessblob]

if i kept working on my raeda x howls moving castle au would anyone read it be honest

[wajjs]

dinahalollie forcefem 🙏🙏

Oliver only realizes what's happening probably two months into Dinah's long and careful plan. Of course it takes him two months, he's fairly sure that if he had realized earlier so would've Hal. But this far along, well... this far along, he's just got to play along and reap the benefits, right?

He hides his amusement behind the rim of his glass. Dinah's working her magic and Hal is the beautiful, perfect, recipient for it: bewildered as Dinah combs her fingers through his long hair, longer than it's ever been, curling in sinuous waves. They're on the couch, and despite their size difference Hal is the one that's almost on Dinah's lap.

They're paying him no mind, which suits him just fine. Oliver knows that once she's got Hal all ready, she'll let him join in. So he takes a sip of his whiskey, content in getting comfortable in his seat so he can better enjoy the show.

"You look so pretty with long hair," Dinah says, her voice the sound of temptation, making Hal swallow as he shifts on the couch but doesn't pull away. "I'm glad you're letting it grow, Hal."

He brings up his ringed hand to rub at the back of his neck, shooting a slightly nervous look at Oliver. "You told me to—"

"Yes, of course, and you listen so well, don't you?" Dinah reaches out to grab his hand, pulling it back down and trapping it on her lap, her thumbs drawing imaginary circles across his knuckles. Hal looks back at her and it's like he's seeing something for the first time. The blush high on his cheeks is...

Oliver takes another sip of his drink. He has to, really, because if he doesn’t then he'd be striding towards Hal to smash their mouths together. It’s much too soon for that.

"Dinah," Hal whines under his breath and she moves in closer, ready for the kill.

Oliver can feel his cock straining against his pants already, and it's only worsened when he watches the woman he loves kiss the man he loves, when he sees how she's purposefully smearing her lipstick over Hal's mouth, how one of her hands is now grabbing a fistfull of hair, tugging on it.

When Dinah pulls back, she's not the one that's breathless. She grins, carefully swiping her free thumb across the length of Hal's bottom lip.

"Makeup suits you, baby," she says, and Hal breaks into shivers. "Let me doll you up."

"I don't..."

"You want to be ours, don't you?" Dinah cuts him off, not giving Hal room for any kind of second guessing. "You're going to be our lovely babygirl."

[wajjs]

"Shit," Guy shakes, his hands slipping on the warm blood spilling from Hal's wound high up on his left thigh. "Shit, Jordo, this is—"

Hal laughs, though he's looking paler by the second, and winces as he lays back down on the dirt ground of the cave. "Bad day to... have no rings..."

"Shit, fuck, Hal," Guy's getting desperate. Clumsily, with fingers stained red and sticky with dried blood, he unbuckles Hal’s own belt and then wraps that up as tight as possible roughly an inch above the cut. He looks back at the other’s face as soon as he's done. He feels his heart stop for a second. "Jordan! Wake up!"

"Mmmawake," he mumbles, lifting a hand to flop it all around and then letting it fall back on his stomach. "S fine."

Guy Gardner doesn't cry. He doesn't.

"It's not fine, asshole! Yer bleedin' out, the fuckin' rings aren't workin'!"

Jordan snorts. His eyelids remain closed, but the movement of his eyes is easy to track nonetheless. "So-o-rry. Meant t'say you're fine."

The sound that comes out of Guy's throat is a mockery of a laugh. The need to sob is too present in his voice for it to be even a chuckle. He looks at the ring around his middle finger, the green covered in red. But rage isn't overtaking him. He's just.

He's just desperate. Desperate to make Hal hold on. Desperate to buy them more time.

"Why," when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper, "why did you do that?"

It takes Hal over a minute to reply. His breathing is starting to even out. "Cause it's you," he says as if that's the most obvious thing in the world, as if that makes sense, as if getting badly injured is worth keeping Guy safe. "It's always... you."

[wajjs]

There's a name etched on Guy's wrist, scribbled right above his veins, and Guy knows exactly who it belongs to. There's a name etched on Guy's wrist, it's been there since he was a kid, it's been there through bruises and heartache and the pain of his dad's fists. The name has always been there. Guy can reproduce the scratchy letters from memory, both visual and muscular.

The asshole who the name belongs to knows that Guy carries his name on his wrist. His face had remained carefully blank when he saw it, and Guy's bitterness had reached an all-time high.

Hal Jordan is the asshole. And Guy's never seen the name on the asshole's wrist, because he's got none. He didn't wait a second to let Guy know, to avoid hopes from being born. Hal's unmarked. Guy carries his name.

Guy still wonders what Hal's kisses taste like, despite knowing they are a long one way street. Hal catches him staring and winks at him. Like an asshole.

[wajjs]

Hal looks at himself in the mirror. There are frown lines between his eyebrows, next to the corner of his lips, crows' feet next to his eyes.

Hal looks at himself in the mirror, thinking he's as old as his dad was when he died. Hal never thought he himself would live to be older than his dad.

Hal looks at himself in the mirror and he doesn't see the reflection of a good man. He doesn't think he ever truly was. But with the blood of the Corps in his hands and the radioactive dust of blown up Coast City in his lungs, there's no denying the lack of goodness in him.

He's outlived his father. He's outlived his mom.

Hal drapes an old towel over the mirror. He doesn't need to look at himself anymore.

[wajjs]

( prev )

A blank wrist in a world of marked ones. The name just never showed up, no matter all the two minutes hacks, the tricks, the ignoring it till it pops up. No matter all the things tried, the wrist remained unmarked, and so life carried on. Hal has learned not to think too hard about it. It's one less thing out of his control. It's one more thing that's just like his dad.

He knows Carol's wrist is marked. He has read the name, someone he hasn't met yet but he's pretty sure Carol already knows. She still falls in bed with him, and when they're good she traces her name with the tip of her manicured nails across his wrist. When they're bad, she kicks him to the curb.

Hal's used to what his romantic aspects look like with a wrist unmarked. He's not quite expecting it when Guy angrily shoves an arm under his nose as if Hal can read from that angle, and he's expecting it even less when he physically holds onto Guy's forearm to see what's going on and his eyes immediately zero in on his name.

Harold Jordan.

That's his handwriting. The color is green, and that's his handwriting. Hal can't play it off and say that's probably someone else with his same name. Hal also knows that if he were to try that, Guy would punt him into the next planet three galaxies away. Rightfully so.

Instead he sighs and exposes his blank wrist. Nothing there, nothing at all, just like it's always been.

"Tough luck, Guy," he says, and he doesn't show it but he does genuinely feel bad about it. They get along as well as oil and water mix up together, but that doesn't mean Hal doesn't like Guy. He wouldn't be a bad partner to have.

"Damn," Guy is still staring at Hal's wrist, no name has magically appeared there in the minute that went by. "Yeah. That's some tough luck."

They never really talk about it again.

Hal's unmarked. Guy carries Hal's name. What else is there to say?

—

It was a bad fight. Well. Guy enjoyed the fuck out of winning, but it was a bad fight nonetheless. Bad enough that he landed in the infirmary and other lanterns hooked him to wires and machines and random alien medical stuff he's never going to figure out.

He landed there and wakes up there as well, laid out on a bed that has no business being so comfortable. Guy doesn't like being on bedrest. The bed being nice to lay on almost feels like it's slowing him down. But as soon as he grumbles to himself, he hears rustling by his side and he feels a weight on his left hand, right around his wrist with an asshole's name on it.

He turns his head and that's when he sees him: Hal's asleep, sitting on a chair he definitely dragged in from Oa's cafeteria, his hand wrapped around Guy’s wrist, fingertips resting over the pulse point. Covering part of his chickenscratch godawful handwriting.

"Fucker," Guy croaks out, throat strained from yelling. But he's smiling as wide as he possibly can. "Asshole. Idiot. Bastard."

[wajjs]

here's a humble ⚡️ if i'm not too late!!

not exactly a wip but a discarded idea I think you would personally like:

Clark doesn't know what's wrong with him—that is, aside from the obvious: that he's broken up with Lois, that he cannot back down from a fight, that he has definitely bitten more than he could chew, that he's just, just so... stupid, Lois would say. Has actually said to his face during their breakup that Clark feels is his fault but realistically it's a shared responsibility.

Aside from all that, Clark doesn't know what's wrong and he has an inkling that this is space related, and he does not have enough information about his own biology to know the exact cause. He's thought about asking his cousin, but she's out of planet, and she's also his cousin, and he doesn't think this is something that's proper to ask to a lady. He cannot ask Bruce either, he already bothers the man enough. He needs to ask someone who knows about space. About aliens. About—

He's paging Hal Jordan's comm signal before he can finish thinking the thought through. Surely no regrets will come from that.

——

The emerald beam of Hal’s ring washing over him makes him squirm in his seat. It’s a shade off from having the same gleam as kryptonite, and he's had enough of that to last him for a lifetime. Luthor loves the stuff so much, is the thing, and Clark is tired of having to deal with it on a semi regular basis. He's aware that Green Lantern rings can also be used to create constructs that would have the similar effect on him, but he trusts Hal with his life. He'd never do that to Clark.

"Huh," Hal's lifting an eyebrow, still in his normal clothes instead of his Green Lantern uniform, and it's the first time Clark has enough time to actually appreciate his friend's looks. "Well. That's interesting."

"What?" Clark jumps up, wringing his hands together, "What's going on with me? Am I sick?" He would totally hate that. He's always been the worst at being sick.

He's paying so much attention to Hal that he notices when his heartbeat picks up speed. He can smell the start of his nervous perspiration, too.

"You are..." licking his lips, Hal runs a hand through his hair, messing it up a little, "you are going through a cycle. It's common, according to the archives in Oa."

Clark blinks. "A cycle? Like menstruation?"

"Eh, in a way," he shrugs, not meeting Clark's eyes, "the ring said you should've gotten it earlier in life, but maybe with the power from the sun and all that, it probably got altered. Anyway. Cycle."

"That's why I've been so..."

"Horny?"

"...weird?"

Hal sucks in air through his teeth at his unfortunate interruption. Clark notices how he's got a hip cocked to the side, how narrow his waist is, how—oh, lord, he's getting those thoughts again.

"Listen. It's, uh, hormonal mostly, kind of like... heat, in other species, and you may want to find someone to go through it with, or try to deal with it on your own, or ignore it, but just. Yeah. You're fine. Not sick, not dying, not poisoned by kryptonite."

Clark is hearing Hal's voice, but not quite listening to the words. He takes a step closer. Hal's back to staring at him. "I don't... have anyone right now."

"Right," he swallows and Clark tracks the movement with way too much interest. "Do you want me to..."