#freaknixfics

[freaknix]

New CHURCHTARTS dry humping fic just dropped. Thats right! THATS RIGHT!

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[freaknix]

HEY...I wrote a Mckinley fic...ok..

its not very good but read...please..

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

freaknix...no art...FIC?!?!?

[freaknix]

Hey, chapter two of my ANB fic is done.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/76666486/chapters/209613111

^^^^^^

Listen to this while reading, PLEASE

@cheesethedonkey @fish-and-chip-sweetheart @idylls-oftheking @raysnewlow @kevinpricethebottomisallamerican @barelyapersonatall

[freaknix]

The first chapter of my Gordon and Roger fic is done!

you can read on ao3 or here...heh

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https://archiveofourown.org/works/76666486/chapters/200662996

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Under the wide and starry sky,

Dig the grave and let me lie.

Glad did I live and gladly die,

And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:

Here he lies where he longed to be;

Home is the sailor, home from sea,

And the hunter home from the hill.

-Robert Louis Stevenson

Living, like sailing, is unpredictable.

There's always more to it than its simple joys and sorrows.

The breath of a lover meeting the back of one's neck as gentle as the breeze meeting the sails of one's boat, the warmth of a kiss as comforting as rays of sun on one's cheeks, and the storm that comes after the calm as intense as an arteriovenous malformation.

Well, Gordon wouldn't describe anything before the storm anywhere close to calm, but that's how the saying goes.

Thankfully, that's the past.

In the present, weeks after his discharge, here he lies, feeling the breeze hitting his sails, the sun hitting his cheeks and cherishing the soothing sway of the sea. Here he lies where he longed to be; home is the sailor; home is the sea.

Every moment after his discharge from the hospital felt like sailing, this activity he used to despise turned into home; into what it always was, what he always failed to recognize it as: Roger.

Now, sailing, laying in his and his lover’s shared bed, Gordon can at last perceive this feeling.

Grabbing the opportunity, he holds, shakes, explores it, pressing and fondling over and under the sharp, dull and mild ridges of emotion; then tests the waters and deems them pleasant enough to scald in, to bathe in, to rinse off every one of his past restraints and revel in the warmth of sailing; of home; of Roger.

Determining his own lack of drowsiness, contrast to the barely rising sun hiding behind thin gaps in the window's curtains and contrast to the snoring man behind him, Gordon turns around in his lover’s arms, taking a moment to appreciate their chiseled form.

His hand began lightly caressing Roger's face, subconsciously treating him like something fragile, something fleeting.

Even after being assured by fate that his lover would never abandon him, not even after he fell into a coma, his unconscious mind was still convinced of his temporary presence.

Truly, how could one be positively sure of a person's companionship never fading?

One cannot, but Gordon figured Roger had tremendously more experience in the grieving-your-dead-partner department out of the two of them; so, considering his lover’s unyielding loyalty, he could disregard his worries, for now. Maybe he'd share these fears with his other half, but he chooses to cherish the calm of silent love encompassing them.

God, and how he loved. How he worshiped- how he adored.

“I can feel you staring.” A rough, sleepy voice resonated through his ears, snapping him out of his lovestruck trance.

Gordon let out a whisper of a laugh and grinned,

“Whoops.”

Barely letting him finish his interjection, Roger collided their smiling mouths together, morning breath mixing in a tender kiss that was more teeth than lips.

His rough, calloused hands, battered by years of setting sails and pulling ropes, began exploring the familiar land of Gordon's back, running his palms and fingers across the cold planes that he once got so close to being deprived of.

The previously tame kiss slowly found itself to become more desperate, tongues finally having a role in the theatre play of love.

Gordon clutched at the wide space that constructed his boyfriend's shoulders, one arm curling around his neck, hand playing with the soft coils under his palms; another clutching desperately onto the back of Roger's soft button-up pyjama shirt.

Taking advantage of his partner's preoccupation in playing with his hair, Roger swiftly towered over Gordon, parting their lips to maneuver his weight fully on his lover’s pelvis, and made a show out of undoing his shirt then stretching his lean form, flaunting it.

More gracious than a sail in the wind, warmer than the burnt skin on his cheeks and more nauseating than the sway of a boat, Roger practically glowed on top of him.

How did his previous self fail in recognising the guiding light that was Roger Delli-Bovi?

Love incarnate, Aphrodite’s descendant, the universe's most prized creation, lover of Gordon Micheal Schwinn.

“Hello, handsome.” Gordon said, cheekily.

The personification of love then began to pepper light kisses onto Gordon's neck and collarbones, lightly running his palms under his top; a Mr.Bungee merch t-shirt with a print of a frog sitting on a lily pad, worn only to sleep because god forbid people see him in that monstrosity. Gordon's words, not his.

The man on top of him chuckled,

“Hello to you, too.”

Helping his boyfriend shuffle out of the obnoxious piece of cloth separating him from the morning air, Roger began to peck and nibble at his skin, leaving behind spots that were sure to bruise; spots that would decorate Gordon like drops of water, drops that he'd get lost in, waiting for the wind to pick up.

But unlike other bodies of water, these drops belonged to Roger and to Roger only.

He wanted to make this fact known, wanted to convey this undeniable truth through words, but no syllables could carry the weight of his emotion, except for a distinct few.

So, like a man on a mission, he looked down at his boyfriend, grabbed his face and met his eyes.

“Gordon Michael Schwinn,”

He accentuated his words with a tender peck and an affectionate smile.

“Darling,”

Another peck

“Sweetheart,”

Yet another

“My dear,”

And another

“I love you.” He exhaled his words against the other's lips, barely above a whisper, barely above waves hitting sandy shores, barely above a note played on a piano; an exhale that carried all that is unspoken, all that is impossible to transmit through words.

Like a chain reaction, the musician felt emotion as intense as a symphony; a symphony of apprehension, tragedy, grief, reconciliation, passion and love; a symphony of their lives intertwined; their lives as one.

A symphony that shaped itself in the form of tears welling up in Gordon's eyes.

He wanted to hide, write a melody and take refuge in its lyrics, find shelter in its metaphors and safety in its indirectness; never needing to voice his feelings through anything but song.

However, he chose to live.

He couldn't run from life forever, couldn't deny himself the warmth of devotion; couldn't deprive himself of sentiment because of past convictions; those that assured him of his worthlessness.

Yes, he chose to live.

Grasping at his boyfriend's face, he brought their lips together to meet in a desperate kiss.

“Me too, Roger- God, how I love you.”

Moments like these felt so special, so significant, that he expected time to stop for the two of them.

But it didn't.

The birds kept rehearsing their spring song, the wind kept whistling, the sun kept rising in a silent tune; the music of the world kept going on.

But he had time.

He had time to kiss the ground, to pour his heart out into a ballad and to improve.

Roger gave him time,

Roger gave him song,

Roger gave him ground.

“I know, darling”

After taking his time pecking down Gordon's torso, the man on top of him grazed his sides with open palms and stopped at the elastic of his shorts.

“May i?”

“Yes- Please,”

Yes was a very good word.