Logs:I Was Born Sick, But I Love It

I Was Born Sick, But I Love It
cn: allusions to police/fash violence, sexual content, chemically altered sex, kink
Dramatis Personae Ryan, Steve
In Absentia	2020-10-17 "...after all we've been through. Wasn't even expecting you'd want to talk to me."
Location <PRV> Black House - Ridgewood
This stately townhouse has a cheerful yellow brick exterior, its front entrance spectacularly inaccessible but affording residents a commanding view of the quiet street below. Inside it's bright and airy and almost entirely empty of furniture. It has the pristine, sterile look that comes with professional renovation, but here and there the obvious custom touches -- whether from the previous residents or at the new owner's request -- shine through. The first floor is expansive, with a longish open floor plan that's quickly falling out of fashion. One entire wall of the living room consists of tessellated geometric mirrors, reflecting the truly massive and functional fireplace and even larger mosaic stone hearth. Beyond this the dining room and kitchen are conjoined; the space left for the as yet absent dining table looks vast and strange. A small half bath is tucked at the rear of this space, beside which the back door leads down into a small backyard with a patio sheltered by a quaint little pavilion and a strip of a garden along one side. The staircase winding through the heart of the house is lit by a generous skylight, and runs parallel the main hallway of the second floor, which joins two comfortably sized bedrooms room, with an expansive and luxurious full bath in between and not one but two hallway closets. On the top floor is a massive bedroom with as much glass as wall and its own full, if smallish, bathroom. French doors one one side of this attic room lead out onto a roof deck, whose stairs lead down into the backyard far below. The sirens and tear gas have not spread nearly this far into the city, but Ryan's brought plenty of evidence of the chaos back home with him as he stumbles through his backyard gate, late at night. There's bruising down one arm, visible when he strips his jacket off to just leave it, for now, in a heap on the garden patio. His breathing is hard, and not only because of the traces of tear gas lacing his clothing. "I'm sorry," it's definitely not the first time he's said that, this trip. "Oliver's not -- as used to crowds as Alma, I -- didn't --" He starts to reach for the buttons of his shirt but just drops his hand, drops down to sit on the back door stairs. "Thanks. Shit." He's on his feet again nearly as soon as he sat, and though his restless motions draw a wince he doesn't actually stop pacing or sit again. "Shit, I shouldn't have left, there's still so much -- fuck. They're getting bolder." Steve is just a step behind Ryan, his shield still strapped to his right forearm. His eyes go wide as he takes in the extent of the bruising on Ryan's arm. "Oh my God." He reaches for him, then quickly drops his hand. "It's ok to -- it's ok. You'll live to fight another night." His breath catches and he looks away suddenly. "Sorry," he murmurs. "You should ah -- decontaminate." He looks past Ryan at the windows of the house. "Will you be alright? I mean..." His head shakes, and he makes a frustrated noise. "I mean -- that was really intense and you..." His eyes drop to the bruising again. "I can stay a while, help you get settled down?" Then adds, hastily, "If you want!" "So should you." Only now does Ryan remember to unbutton his shirt and strip that off, too; there's a bruise as well on his ribs, though it's small and fainter. He shivers in the cold, the drizzle, head shaking hard. "I'm alright. Fuck. No. Nothing about this is alright. You should -- shit. Do you need a shower?" "I can shower when I get home," Steve hedges, though he almost immediately reconsiders. "Long way to Harlem, though. I'd appreciate if you could..." He frowns." I doubt if you've got anything that'll fit me, but we could toss my stuff in your washer?" He takes off the shield and then his black canvas jacket and the black athletic t-shirt underneath. Bunches the clothes together in his hands. "Thank you," he says quietly, his eyes dropping to the bruises on Ryan's ribs. "Should get you inside. You'll catch your -- you'll catch a cold out here." "Sarongs fit anyone, till the laundry's done." Ryan digs his wallet, keys, and phone out of his pockets, peeling his jeans off, too, and dumping them with the others. "I'll get them. I'll get -- a bag for them, I'll --" He probably isn't already catching his death of cold, but his hand is shaking as he unlocks the door to enter the kitchen. "The shit they were fucking saying, man. The cops I can deal with but those motherfuckers -- I wanted to --" He sucks in a breath, slow and hard. "I'm sorry. I should have been more careful, but he deserved better than..." His hand clenches tight around his keys once he's inside. Steve averts his eyes when Ryan strips off his jeans, but a moment later he follows suit. "Take your time," he admonishes, tender concern jangling loud. His nod of agreement to Ryan's assessment is jerky. "I knew there would be hate. There's been -- and God knows there's hatred enough out there on any given day, but --" The sheer intensity of his anguish steals the rest of his words from him, but he manages to keep quiet, at least. "You're -- you're going through a lot. Careful is hard when --" His voice drops low as he echoes Ryan's words, a vague, numb sort of solace in the midst of his grief, "-- when he deserved better." He follows Ryan inside. Empties his pockets into the hollow of his shield. Leaves that on the floor. Clutches his tear-gassed clothes awkwardly. "You don't think you broke anything, do you?" "It just doesn't seem -- fuck." Ryan is rooting under his sink, emerging with a trash bag that he shoves his clothes into. He steps closed, holds the bag out for Steve's as well before tying it closed. "No. No, nothing's broken." His fingers curl hard into the plastic top of the bag. "We've spent so many fucking years being careful, you know? While they hate us and slander us and lock us in fucking cages and try to --" His jaw clenches, hard. "And kill us. And we've always taken care with their lives, even when it --" He starts to lift a hand toward his eyes, but the crinkle of plastic reminds him not to touch his face. His half-curled fist thumps against Steve's chest instead, when it falls. "Fuck. I'm just so tired of being careful." Steve dumps his clothes into the bag with a murmured thanks. "I'm sorry." His voice is still low and quiet, his eyes still not quite meeting Ryan's. "I don't think I can rightly imagine how that must be, but it sounds -- stifling. Exhausting." He reaches for Ryan's shoulder, lays just the tips of his fingers carefully on the edge of the bruising. "But I can imagine...maybe sometimes hurting seems preferable." Ryan's breath catches, his eyes a little wider when Steve's hand touches him. The gooseflesh that had stippled his skin outside in the chill rain had begun to fade, but the light touch draws it back out. The roll of his shoulder is slow and deliberate, pressing up more firmly against Steve's touch, jaw tightening only slightly with the added pressure. "When I'm choosing it? Yeah." Steve's eyes go wider, too. For a moment he seems rooted in place. His hand presses hard into the bruise -- at first only because Ryan is pushing into his touch, but then his fingers knead the injured flesh, very gentle despite the strength of his hands. "You...do you like --" His voice is breathy, apprehensive and amazed and -- to his surprise and shame -- aroused. "-- this?" The last word is uncertain, barely audible, but even so he takes a step closer. At the harder press of Steve's fingers Ryan drops the bag he's been holding, his own hand splaying against Steve's chest. His skin grows more flushed, and the soft whimper that starts to form just catches in his throat, too. "I want this." Though soft, there's nothing uncertain about his tone, his other arm sliding around Steve's waist to pull the other man closer still. Steve's eyes flutter momentarily shut at the touch of Ryan's hand, his body solid and warm beneath it. "Oh God..." His whisper is just a touch strained, tight with comfort and pleasure and need. If he'd been hesitant before, the arm that curls around his waist evidently obliterates what remained of his reservations. He gathers Ryan tightly against him and bends to kiss him, fierce and hard. Ryan meets the kiss with an equal fervor, his body melting in against Steve's. His fingers dig hard at the small of Steve's back, gripping there like he suddenly needs the support. His soft moan against the other man's mouth comes with an accentuated echo of that Steve's own feelings; deep warm comfort, a heady freefall thrill of pleasure, need shattering and intense. Steve's powerful arms wind around Ryan, easily supporting much of his weight. His hands roam eagerly and linger now and again on the warmth of the incipient bruises. His breath hitches at the flood of sensations magnified back at him. "Please," he murmurs breathlessly against Ryan's neck and collarbone, the strength of his desire sweeping aside almost everything else. Tears sting his eyes as he lifts the smaller man and settles him on the edge of the kitchen table. "Please," this time there's pain and desperation, too, beneath the desire. One of Ryan's hands falls to steady himself against the edge of the table when Steve sets him there. His fingers curl against the sturdy wood, the harder-defined tension in his muscles pressing more sharply against Steve's fingers. The ripple of pain this brings, washing over from him to Steve with an acute anguish, is disproportionate to the moderate bruising, but he doesn't pull away. Just leans into the contact, fingers squeezing tighter against the hard wooden edge. "Oh God --" comes quiet, breathless, in between kisses pressed to Steve's neck and the line of his jaw; though his voice is soft the continued feedback escalation of emotions is anything but, breathtaking in its intensity. His other hand slides down Steve's side, against his hip, slipping under the waistband of Steve's boxers to push them down. Something in Steve welcomes the overwhelming flood of emotions, throws himself in headfirst with familiar abandon. Gasps as if surfacing for air when Ryan's hand slides under his boxers, his head falling back as his hips roll into the touch. The groan that finds its way out of him sounds pained -- is pained, but also delirious with pleasure. His head dips to kiss the bruises on Ryan's chest, his breath warm and coming faster even than it had when they were fighting and running in chemical-filled air. Somewhere in the chaos of his emotions there is anger, white and hot. He tries to shove it down and away even as he pushes Ryan down to the table, his hand rougher on the injured shoulder than he had been in his earlier restraint. The kisses he trails down the other man's chest and stomach are rougher, too, with a rasp of stubble and occasional nip of teeth. One of his thumbs hooks the waistband of Ryan's underwear and tugs hard, as likely to tear them as not if he isn't assisted. Pushing away that anger doesn't come easily; it's drawn into the flux of Ryan's empathy with all the rest, swirled into a hotter, brighter thing that sharpens rather than displaces the desire, the desperation, the pleasure. There's a flush in Ryan's face that deepens as Steve pushes him back. The cloth does tear; it's hard to tell whether this hurts or just surprises him, breath pulled in sharp, but his quiet whimper at the hand on his shoulder is more clearly pained. "Oh God," is a little bit more ragged, this time, eyes wide and dilated. He tugs Steve back up for another hard kiss; soft but fierce around it, "-- harder," sounds as much demand as plea. Steve tosses the torn cloth aside and settles his weight onto Ryan -- he is heavier than he looks, heavy enough to make breathing difficult -- the length of his erection hard against the other man's hip. He stops struggling against the fury that Ryan echoes back to him transformed, letting it carry him now as he pins his lover firmly to the table, grinding his hips slow and hard. The noise he makes is more a growl than a groan, low and dangerous. Ryan's pained whimper excites him, now, and his grip on the wounded shoulder tightens immediately at the request, easily hard enough to bruise even if he were not squeezing down on an injury. Distantly, so distantly there's a jangle of alarm in him, all but lost beneath the firestorm of grief and rage and lust. Steve's weight settling in against him elicits an immediate shiver, Ryan's body melting back against the table as his breath catches. He tips his face in against Steve's shoulder, though this does a poor job of stifling his cry when Steve's fingers tighten. "Oh, fuck --" It's just a soft breath against Steve's skin, the kisses that follow it fevered and erratically aimed; amid the whirling storm of feelings that batter them this slips, somewhere, pleading and urgent, into, "Fuck me." His mouth finds Steve's again, his hips rolling hard back into the contact. He does dredge up enough presence of mind to draw -- only slightly back after this, one arm still curled around Steve's body. "Upstairs. I have condoms." The thrill that runs through Steve at Ryan's reaction to his ministrations is so bright and so close to joy that it feels miraculous against the misery that has been his backdrop. "I will," his assurance is -- not /calm/, but certain in his conviction of this /one thing/ if nothing else at the moment, between quick, ragged breaths, between urgent, passionate kisses. He's still reeling when Ryan draws back, and a part of him balks, /wants/ desperately to hurt/please his lover more. It takes him a breathless moment to re-orient himself, but then he rallies with a will. "I've got you," he breathes softly -- with a fresh stab of desire and anguish alike -- as he pulls himself, then Ryan, off of the table, carries him easily in his arms up the stairs. --- The sheets have tangled in a twisted clump at the foot of the king-sized bed, and only now does Ryan seem to notice it, a ripple of goosebumps prickling at his bare skin. His initial attempts to sit up, start reaching for the covers, doesn't get far; he crumples back down against the sweat-damp bed with a wince, for now evidently deciding better of any further movement. The small speckling of bruises he began the night with have multiplied, and one of his eyes squints up as his fingertips dance lightly down one side as if taking stock of these fresh injuries. Ultimately he just sinks back against the many pillows with a soft exhale. The chaotic intoxicating psionic rush has died down, leaving them with only their own unadulterated feelings to contend with, now. It's possible that Ryan intends to say something when he turns his head to the side to look back at Steve, but all that comes out is a quiet groan. Steve's eyes flutter open when he feels the bed shift. His breathing is slow and steady despite the very faint sheen of sweat on his bare skin. He meets Ryan's gaze, a slow anxiety working its way up through him. Opens his mouth. Closes it again. Then sits up easily and reaches down to the sheets, tugging them them up over Ryan. "Are you alright?" His anxiety is rapidly blossoming into commingled guilt and remorse, wide blue eyes taking in the new bruises along the other man's side even as he tucks the sheet up around him. "I...I shouldn't have --" His breath starts to speed up, though in horror this time and not arousal. "I'm sorry." Ryan's next breath is a little more contented, once the sheets are covering him. His eyes have started to slip closed, but they open quickly again when Steve's breathing speeds. His brows are hiking up, and a slow crooked smile is spreading across his face. "Wait, you're apologizing?" There's a flutter of warmth, faint and amused, that drifts out with his words. "Where have you been the past --" He starts to grope toward his nightstand, but whatever he's looking for there isn't actually on it; this sentence just finishes with a soft pleased hum. "I'm sure the internet could let you know just how many people's fantasies include getting wrecked by you somewhere in there." It's still slow and stiff all the same when he rolls onto his side, head resting in the crook of an arm and his eyes skimming over Steve. "You okay?" Steve's eyes are still very, very wide, but his breathing eases back down to something like his normal pace. "I don't want to wreck anyone." He frowns. "Well. I don't want to wreck anyone I actually like." Then, blushing fiercely. "I mean to say I...think. Sex should feel. Good." He subsides back against the pillows, tugging the sheet up over himself, as well. "I don't know. I mean, I'm fine. You're the one I..." His eyes track down to the new bruises he left on Ryan's body, now covered by the sheet. The shame is milder, this time, "I just don't know what came over me." "You don't? It sure felt like..." Ryan's mouth twitches again, though this time doesn't quite make it into a smile. His eyes are intent on Steve's face, searching. "Did that not -- feel good?" His fingers curl against the sheets, hard. He takes in a deep breath, lets it back out slowly. "I needed that. I wanted that. I really -- thought you wanted it, too. I'm so sorry if I --" He swallows, hard. "I'm so sorry. Everything has been such a nightmare out there and you were here and wonderful and it was so goddamn good for a moment to forget about -- shit. I know I'm too fucking much sometimes, but I never meant for --" His head shakes quick, fingertips twitching rapid and restless against the mattress. "Was that? Too much?" Something flares hot and fierce in Steve at Ryan's words -- not guilt exactly, though something very akin to it. "Felt wonderful," he admits softly, at a delay. "I wanted that, too. So badly. I --" His breath catches in his throat briefly, embarrassment commingled with something much more intense and suffocating, tinged with a dull, empty ache. "-- needed that." His words surprise him. "I've just never..." His brows wrinkle, his eyes lifting to Ryan. "That wasn't too much. I just -- I just wasn't expecting..." He licks his lips, fear blossoming in him now that the tangle of other emotions have receded just a touch. "...after all we've been through. Wasn't even expecting you'd want to talk to me." Now Ryan does laugh, quiet, a sudden spill of relief in the sound. "Oh, God. Honestly?" He closes his eyes, rolls slowly onto his back again. "I didn't want to talk to you. You ever just -- get so twisted up about shit in your head, it's like -- way too much to start untangling, but --" His hand falls back to his chest, fingers pressing light and experimental at one of the bruises there. "Sometimes it's just way too much to put words on, yeah?" His shoulder lifts stiffly. "Sometimes I just need to forget all that and feel -- something. Get out of the mess in my goddamn head long enough to remember how to breathe again. I wasn't in a place to talk to you earlier. But I'm really glad you ended up here." Steve's pale blue eyes fix on Ryan, startled and relieved in his own perplexed way. But it's still a long moment before he replies. "Yeah, I've...gotten twisted up like that." His remorse is sharp and deep, but its edges are dulled by the weight of his grief and the warm solace of Ryan's acceptance. "Thought I'd lost you, too," he says softly, closing his eyes for a moment. "I've lost so many people, but --" He opens his eyes again, studies Ryan. The roil of his emotions quiets gradually, though never quite to what anyone would call calm. "-- I can breathe again."