8 Works by dtbird
Listing Works
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Andy’s wrist sits steady on the wheel. She puts her other hand on Nile’s thigh and Nile exhales in a rush. Andy’s palm is warm from her grip on the leather steering wheel cover. Her ring finger grazes the line where Nile’s thighs are pressed together, forward and back against the soft hair there.
“In that case,” Andy says, “don’t mind me.”
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In which the team debates the metaphysical nature of lasagne, Nicky loses his can opener, Joe asks the big question, and Nile has a conniption about a French skiing village.
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This is what Sunday afternoons were invented for as far as Nicky is concerned, making love, making time. There’s a reason they call it that too. Nicky has no idea how long they’ve been at it besides the fact the sun is lower in the sky than when they started, painting Joe’s skin gold through a gap in the curtains and warming Nicky's side. It's heady, unhurried, and there's not a thought in Nicky's mind 'sides the way Joe feels underneath him, clenched up around him, the heat and the friction.
Series
- Part 5 of the brooklyn verse
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Love Scene by nicelytousled (dtbird)
Fandoms: The Old Guard (Movie 2020), The Old Guard (Comics)
30 Apr 2021
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If someone else were to enter their room and switch on the lamp they would be able to gather clues as to how he and Joe spend their nights. The hand-knotted afghan rug by the balcony door is askew, and a pair of empty whiskey tumblers sit on the coffee table glittering in the light. The bed is unmade, a discarded tie looped lazily around one of the slats in the headboard, and a chair is pulled out haphazardly from the heavy wooden desk in the corner. The desk itself is littered with drawing paper and charcoal pencils and crescent moon shapes scratches into its surface. The space smells like them, like Joe, like men and sex and sleepless nights. Nicky can almost feel the phantom sting of carpet burn on his knees.
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There’s another world war on, and Andromache says their skills are best distributed widely. The world is a safer place, she says, when the sun never sets on them, so they split up.
Much like its predecessor, this world war won't be the war to end all wars, but Nicky thinks it's having a mighty good go at it anyways. The Western Front is just as despondent as it was twenty years ago, though, and being a medic is just as unforgiving. Nicky eats and sleeps and drinks himself blind with the rest of his company, and decides who gets to live and who can't be saved, and misses Joe with his entire body.
And he's not one for love declarations, not the way Joe is. He tends to keep the things he says out loud simple and exact and consistent. He can't wax poetic to save his life, not that it would matter, but lately he's practically tearing at the seams with things he wants to tell Joe.
Thank God for the postal service.
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Joe gives a slow exhale. “Sometimes,” He begins, and he speaks quietly, like it's a secret only for them, not to be shared with the stove or the sink or the kitchen cabinets. “It’s like I feel too much for my body to contain.”
Nicky invites him with his eyes to continue. He has very inviting eyes.
“For example, sometimes I’m so in love with you that I have to do something about it. I can’t just sit with it,” Joe admits.
Nicky’s face cracks into a hesitant smile. “Yes, I understand that.”
They stand in silence for a moment, Nicky watching the food, Joe watching Nicky.
“I think I like that feeling,” Nicky says. “I like to be overwhelmed with you.”
Series
- Part 2 of half a year
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There’s a jasmine plant climbing up the wall behind them, Nicky notices, all the way to the second-floor window of the cafe. The clean shapes of the petals catch the light, lovely in their simplicity. The symmetry to be found in plants has always pleased Nicky.
He reaches over and picks one, careful to leave the stem long, then leans into Joe’s personal space and feeds the flower through a buttonhole in his shirt. “Here,” He murmurs.
Joe looks down at his shirt lapel and smiles. “Thank you,” He says, earnest.
“Beautiful,” Nicky adds. It’s true, he is.
Joe’s smile melts into something old and comfortable and sincere. He looks at Nicky with warm, familiar eyes. “Thank you,” He says again, “You make me feel it."
Series
- Part 1 of half a year
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There's a toad in the kitchen.
It’s slowly making its way across the cool, rust-coloured tile towards Bucky, where he’s sat cross-legged on the floor. It’s little hands and legs, or maybe just legs, Bucky’s not sure, move individually as it marches steadily forward. It has webbed toes, and bumpy green skin, and a look on its face that says it knows exactly where it's going. Bucky's not sure if he’s ever seen a toad before. If he has, he doesn’t remember.
Series
- Part 1 of If I Had Your Voice