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crack_van2010-02-20 09:17 pm
sandystarr88.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2010-02-20 09:17 pm
Entry tags:
Go Your Own Way by tkp (NC-17)
Fandom: DC UNIVERSE: BATMAN NOLANVERSE
Pairing: Jim/Bruce
Length: ~40,000
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: N/A
Why this must be read:
I don't really know where to begin with this story, the author describes it as Bruce Wayne spend[ing] time on Jim Gordon's side of the tracks and overall having very little plot. Personally, I'd call it a very intricate character study with two of the most heartbreaking characterizations of Jim and Bruce that I've ever read.
By the time he was rubbing a towel roughly over his thinning hair, he was able to begin to be afraid of all the trouble Wayne could make with a frying pan. He couldn’t conceive of any reason Wayne should have gone near a cooking stove in his life. Gordon threw on his old brown suit, his glasses. He never even bothered trying to fix his hair any more.
When he came back to the kitchen, Wayne was finished, and the kitchen hadn’t burned down. The eggs looked sort of gray and Wayne had dumped them messily onto paper plates, but Gordon’s eggs never looked much different, and he didn’t care anyway. They sat down at the table and ate, and Wayne didn’t seem to at all remember what they’d just done on said table.
“These are really good,” Gordon said, surprised. There were flavors in them he didn’t recognize. Namely, flavors that weren’t egg. “Delicious, actually. What is that?”
Wayne talked with his mouth half full. “James Gordon, your spice rack makes me sad,” was all he said.
“Spice?”
“James Gordon, your life makes me sad.”
Well, that was true for him, too. Gordon pushed away his plate, hesitated, and said, “I have to go to work.”
Wayne pushed Gordon’s plate back toward him. “Finish your eggs.”
Gordon rolled his eyes. “I didn’t make you finish your milk.”
Wayne had a glass of milk half downed by his plate. “Yeah, you were just exercising your sick and twisted dominate tendencies.”
Gordon set his jaw and steadfastly didn’t look at Wayne. “You like it.”
“Oh, I like it. I like it lots.” Wayne smirked, and nudged Gordon’s fork. “Doesn’t mean you don’t finish your breakfast. Come on, be good. I want to fatten you up. It’s my new project.”
Gordon finished his eggs. He thought for a couple minutes about what Wayne’s old project had been, but that inevitably reminded him of what he’d done to Wayne on the table. Gordon kept thinking about twisted tendencies. When he got up to throw his paper plate away, he said, “About what I said.”
“When?” Wayne got up too, put the forks in the sink.
“When you were on the table.”
“Yeah.” Wayne took a big glug of milk. “Yeah, that was good.” He came toward Gordon, set his glass behind Gordon on the counter, trapped Gordon against the cabinets. “Real good,” he said, and kissed Gordon again.
Gordon wanted to say, I don’t want you to believe what I said, because he didn’t want anyone to believe that about themselves. He didn’t want to believe it about himself, either.
He didn’t know how to say it.
“We should do it again some time,” Wayne was saying. He kissed him again, warmly, pressing up against him. “God, maybe right now.”
“Wayne,” Gordon said.
Wayne pushed his tongue in Gordon’s mouth, worked his lips hard over Gordon’s, then pulled away with a groan. “Yeah, I know. Work. Always work work work.” Wayne went over and got his coat.
Gordon still didn’t know how to say what he wanted.
“What time is it?” Wayne said, pulling his plush, expensive coat over Gordon’s threadbare house clothes. “Think we missed the morning commuters?”
Gordon blinked. “It’s not even nine. There’ll still be traffic.”
“Right. Maybe I’ll walk a bit before I get on the rail. You should get going.”
“Right,” Gordon repeated slowly. It was the first time he had seen Wayne actively avoid publicity. Then again, Wayne had never left Gordon’s house the morning after before. Gordon got his brief-case, turned off the lights, let them out of the apartment. Wayne started to go one way. Gordon watched him for the briefest of moments, still thinking of what to say. Then he turned to go the other way.
As soon as he did there was a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back, up against the door, warm lips kissing him all over again. “Forgot to thank you for breakfast,” Wayne said. “Alfred’s always telling me to mind my manners.”
“You made breakfast,” Gordon pointed out.
“Then I’m extra polite.” Wayne still had Gordon trapped against the door. Gordon was still holding his briefcase. “Thank you,” Wayne said again.
Gordon looked at Wayne’s eyes. They were asking for something, and Gordon didn’t know what. Gordon said, “Okay,” anyway, and could feel his shoulders slumping.
Something in Wayne’s face softened; then he was touching Gordon’s sticking-up hair, the wrinkles near his eyes under his glasses, his moustache. “James Gordon,” he said, for the third time that day. “You make me happy.”
Then Wayne was walking away again. Gordon thought he should probably go after him. Say, I shouldn’t make you happy. Kid, it shouldn’t be me. But Gordon knew he wasn’t going to stop fucking the boy, so it didn’t really matter.
He didn’t even know what it meant, anyway. With Wayne, it could be momentous or insignificant. Wayne could be just as happy with everyone he fucked, all the ones that gave him those bruises, everyone who gave him cocaine to snort at parties, everyone who worshipped him, sucked his cock, licked his ass, everyone who told him he was worthless and would never amount to anything.
Gordon’s hand tightened on the brief case, and he walked in the other direction.
Go Your Own Way
Pairing: Jim/Bruce
Length: ~40,000
Author on LJ: [Bad username or site: @ livejournal.com]
Author Website: N/A
Why this must be read:
I don't really know where to begin with this story, the author describes it as Bruce Wayne spend[ing] time on Jim Gordon's side of the tracks and overall having very little plot. Personally, I'd call it a very intricate character study with two of the most heartbreaking characterizations of Jim and Bruce that I've ever read.
By the time he was rubbing a towel roughly over his thinning hair, he was able to begin to be afraid of all the trouble Wayne could make with a frying pan. He couldn’t conceive of any reason Wayne should have gone near a cooking stove in his life. Gordon threw on his old brown suit, his glasses. He never even bothered trying to fix his hair any more.
When he came back to the kitchen, Wayne was finished, and the kitchen hadn’t burned down. The eggs looked sort of gray and Wayne had dumped them messily onto paper plates, but Gordon’s eggs never looked much different, and he didn’t care anyway. They sat down at the table and ate, and Wayne didn’t seem to at all remember what they’d just done on said table.
“These are really good,” Gordon said, surprised. There were flavors in them he didn’t recognize. Namely, flavors that weren’t egg. “Delicious, actually. What is that?”
Wayne talked with his mouth half full. “James Gordon, your spice rack makes me sad,” was all he said.
“Spice?”
“James Gordon, your life makes me sad.”
Well, that was true for him, too. Gordon pushed away his plate, hesitated, and said, “I have to go to work.”
Wayne pushed Gordon’s plate back toward him. “Finish your eggs.”
Gordon rolled his eyes. “I didn’t make you finish your milk.”
Wayne had a glass of milk half downed by his plate. “Yeah, you were just exercising your sick and twisted dominate tendencies.”
Gordon set his jaw and steadfastly didn’t look at Wayne. “You like it.”
“Oh, I like it. I like it lots.” Wayne smirked, and nudged Gordon’s fork. “Doesn’t mean you don’t finish your breakfast. Come on, be good. I want to fatten you up. It’s my new project.”
Gordon finished his eggs. He thought for a couple minutes about what Wayne’s old project had been, but that inevitably reminded him of what he’d done to Wayne on the table. Gordon kept thinking about twisted tendencies. When he got up to throw his paper plate away, he said, “About what I said.”
“When?” Wayne got up too, put the forks in the sink.
“When you were on the table.”
“Yeah.” Wayne took a big glug of milk. “Yeah, that was good.” He came toward Gordon, set his glass behind Gordon on the counter, trapped Gordon against the cabinets. “Real good,” he said, and kissed Gordon again.
Gordon wanted to say, I don’t want you to believe what I said, because he didn’t want anyone to believe that about themselves. He didn’t want to believe it about himself, either.
He didn’t know how to say it.
“We should do it again some time,” Wayne was saying. He kissed him again, warmly, pressing up against him. “God, maybe right now.”
“Wayne,” Gordon said.
Wayne pushed his tongue in Gordon’s mouth, worked his lips hard over Gordon’s, then pulled away with a groan. “Yeah, I know. Work. Always work work work.” Wayne went over and got his coat.
Gordon still didn’t know how to say what he wanted.
“What time is it?” Wayne said, pulling his plush, expensive coat over Gordon’s threadbare house clothes. “Think we missed the morning commuters?”
Gordon blinked. “It’s not even nine. There’ll still be traffic.”
“Right. Maybe I’ll walk a bit before I get on the rail. You should get going.”
“Right,” Gordon repeated slowly. It was the first time he had seen Wayne actively avoid publicity. Then again, Wayne had never left Gordon’s house the morning after before. Gordon got his brief-case, turned off the lights, let them out of the apartment. Wayne started to go one way. Gordon watched him for the briefest of moments, still thinking of what to say. Then he turned to go the other way.
As soon as he did there was a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back, up against the door, warm lips kissing him all over again. “Forgot to thank you for breakfast,” Wayne said. “Alfred’s always telling me to mind my manners.”
“You made breakfast,” Gordon pointed out.
“Then I’m extra polite.” Wayne still had Gordon trapped against the door. Gordon was still holding his briefcase. “Thank you,” Wayne said again.
Gordon looked at Wayne’s eyes. They were asking for something, and Gordon didn’t know what. Gordon said, “Okay,” anyway, and could feel his shoulders slumping.
Something in Wayne’s face softened; then he was touching Gordon’s sticking-up hair, the wrinkles near his eyes under his glasses, his moustache. “James Gordon,” he said, for the third time that day. “You make me happy.”
Then Wayne was walking away again. Gordon thought he should probably go after him. Say, I shouldn’t make you happy. Kid, it shouldn’t be me. But Gordon knew he wasn’t going to stop fucking the boy, so it didn’t really matter.
He didn’t even know what it meant, anyway. With Wayne, it could be momentous or insignificant. Wayne could be just as happy with everyone he fucked, all the ones that gave him those bruises, everyone who gave him cocaine to snort at parties, everyone who worshipped him, sucked his cock, licked his ass, everyone who told him he was worthless and would never amount to anything.
Gordon’s hand tightened on the brief case, and he walked in the other direction.
Go Your Own Way