Hello, hello! Here I am with a side-story to "Bursting the figurative
bubble."
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and I will always own nothing. My life is pointless.
Slash Alert! Featuring Race, Spot, and some guy on guy action.
Get Ready for...*trumpets blow and little angels hold up a banner*
*Lucky*
Number four was a black horse that was registered under the name of Lucky. Up in the stands, however, most people called him the Slug. It was for good reason, too. The Slug was the slowest horse in the race, and always came in last. For some reason unknown to the spectators, the Slug just kept coming back race after race. It was damn irritating.
Race couldn't figure for the life of him why someone would name such an unlucky horse Lucky. Is was like some kind of cruel irony. Race kind of felt sorry for the horse, but pity alone wouldn't make him bet on that horse. Which was why he had bet on number six, a copper colored horse named Silver; again with the irony.
Silver was doing great though, and had a chance of winning. At least, that's what Race told himself. If Spot were here, Silver would win. Spot was his good luck charm, and he often told him so (much to the chagrin of Spot). It was true, though. Race wasn't superstitious by any means, but good things always happened when the blond boy was around.
The King of Brooklyn had been meeting him at horse races for months now, and the present situation was the only one Race could think of that the Brooklyn newsie was late. A flush of guilt worked its way into his stomach; he had promised to meet Spot by that statue today, but Mush had been there, looking all sad, and he would have been late to the race! In his mental legal system, his actions were perfectly justified.
"You know," a voice drawled from next to Race, "I was going to hold a grudge and go back to Brooklyn and ignore you, but that's what a goil would do."
Race was surprised-how did people always manage to sneak up on him? He looked over to see a slightly pouting Spot, who couldn't seem to decide between watching the horses, and watching Race. Spots gruff explanation did sound like something a girl would do, and Race let Spot know this.
"Dear me, doll-face, you got all worked up over a little promise?" He placed a cigar in his mouth and leered at Spot. "Perhaps a make-up kiss is in order!"
Several men in front of them turned to see what Racetrack was yelling about kisses, only to see two boys standing together; one looking smug, and the other looking mortified. Luckily, the men at Sheepshead perceived everything in a drunken stupor. At least the men who watched the races near Spot and Race did. Since the men had turned back to the not-so-exciting race, they missed the whack Spot delivered to Race's knee with his cane. Race cried out in pain, a cry that all of the horse speculators ignored.
"Dat hurt, ya bum!" Spot ignored Racetrack as well, who was unsuccessfully trying to hide a grin. Race loved that grin.
Spot had perfect lips; good for pouting, good for smirking, and Race was willing to bet they were great for kissing. He often imagined that after kissing Spot, the boy would draw those pretty lips into a pretty smirk, with the sides of his mouth turned up slightly, like the cat that ate the canary. Oh yeah, Race loved that look.
Although Race wasn't aware of it, Spot was thinking of him too. Of how Race's eyes crinkled when he had a cigar in his mouth, and his mouth was drawn into that concerned look he got when he was afraid his horse might lose. It was worth it just to see the delighted look on his face when he did win; like a little kid on Christmas. He always dragged the cigar away from his mouth before letting out a whoop of joy. It was cute...and extremely amusing.
Both boys happened to look at each other at the same time. Spot began to lean closer to Race, and Race did the same. They had only moved a few inches before a man cried "c'mon Lucky!" The blond boy looked at his companion in horror before looking away pointedly.
Race went into immediate denial. 'He must have thought I was gonna tell him something, and didn't think he could hear me over the horses,' he thought. After all, why would Spot be leaning in to kiss him? Spot was another boy! And Race didn't have time to think about kisses that didn't even happen, Silver was nearing the finish line.
"C'mon Silver," he cried.
Spot had placed a bet on Dusty, the gray-speckled horse that was almost directly beside Silver. Spot didn't understand the names of all these horses, and figured the best way to go was with a jockey who picked a sensible name for his horse.
Unfortunately, sensibility wasn't the way to go on that day, as Silver sped ahead of the other horses and passed the line. Dusty was seconds behind him, the other horses right behind Dusty. And of course, Lucky was the last horse across the line.
Spot turned to watch the ritualistic act of happiness from Race. He threw out his cigar, let out a whoop of joy, and turned to Spot. Without warning, Race planted his lips on the other boys.
To say Spot was upset with the change in routine would be a total lie. Suddenly the win didn't seem so important anymore, not with the way Race was moving his lips against Spots. Race wasn't too disappointed either. Spots lips were fantastic for kissing, soft yet determined against his. It was nice.
Until a greasy old man slammed into Race as he was passing. "Ey, girlie boy, go kiss ya boyfriend someplace else." He sounded drunk, and disappointed. Which meant it was most likely one of the dead beats cheering for Lucky.
Race and Spot pulled away from one another and looked everywhere except at the other. Neither paid any attention to the grumbling man throwing dirty stares at them. Thoughts on each other, and eyes anywhere but, the situation was a tad bit awkward.
"So, Silver won, huh?" Spot was still panting. 'Hey, it was a long kiss!' he defended himself in his head.
"Yeah...lunch at Tibby's? I'll pay." Once he collected his winnings, paying for lunch would be no problem!
Spot wondered briefly if this was a date kind of thing. It would make sense, after that mind-blowing kiss. He was suddenly horrified. What if Race had only been so happy he had to kiss someone? Just to reassure himself-and feel Races lips against his again-he pulled the Italian closer and pressed their mouths together.
Race was pleasantly surprised by the display of affection, and didn't hesitate in returning the kiss. It wasn't nearly as long as the first one since Spot pulled away so quickly. His face quickly became guarded as he waiting to see how Race would respond. He didn't have to wait long.
Race grinned. "So...was dat a yes?"
Spot gave a curt nod, his face belaying no expression. As soon as Race inconspicuously grabbed Spots hand, however, a smirk appeared on Spot's face. The shorter boy noticed, and said, "Ey, maybe they should call me Lucky, huh?"
A quick laugh before, "Nah, Racetrack is a good name."
Race laughed too. "Well, I not only won the bet, I won you. I'd say I'm pretty lucky."
Before walking out in public, Spot dropped Race's hand completely. Race only stared at him as he caressed his chin as if thinking really hard about something. "Well," he said casually, casting a smirk in Race's direction before turning and sauntering away calling, "I am da king of Brooklyn. I guess dat makes you my queen from Manhattan. Yeah, you are pretty lucky to have a great guy like me. But I still think Racetrack is a better name. More manly, if ya catch my drift."
He just stood there in awe for a moment. Spot had said-and he-he called him..."Ey, take dat back! I ain't no girl!"
Spot only laughed. Race was so cute when he was angry...
The End!
Well, that was it. Sorry if anyone is disappointed, I'm still working on improving my writing skills. Anyone who previously gave me tips, thank you. Leave lots and lots of reviews!
Disclaimer: I own nothing, and I will always own nothing. My life is pointless.
Slash Alert! Featuring Race, Spot, and some guy on guy action.
Get Ready for...*trumpets blow and little angels hold up a banner*
*Lucky*
Number four was a black horse that was registered under the name of Lucky. Up in the stands, however, most people called him the Slug. It was for good reason, too. The Slug was the slowest horse in the race, and always came in last. For some reason unknown to the spectators, the Slug just kept coming back race after race. It was damn irritating.
Race couldn't figure for the life of him why someone would name such an unlucky horse Lucky. Is was like some kind of cruel irony. Race kind of felt sorry for the horse, but pity alone wouldn't make him bet on that horse. Which was why he had bet on number six, a copper colored horse named Silver; again with the irony.
Silver was doing great though, and had a chance of winning. At least, that's what Race told himself. If Spot were here, Silver would win. Spot was his good luck charm, and he often told him so (much to the chagrin of Spot). It was true, though. Race wasn't superstitious by any means, but good things always happened when the blond boy was around.
The King of Brooklyn had been meeting him at horse races for months now, and the present situation was the only one Race could think of that the Brooklyn newsie was late. A flush of guilt worked its way into his stomach; he had promised to meet Spot by that statue today, but Mush had been there, looking all sad, and he would have been late to the race! In his mental legal system, his actions were perfectly justified.
"You know," a voice drawled from next to Race, "I was going to hold a grudge and go back to Brooklyn and ignore you, but that's what a goil would do."
Race was surprised-how did people always manage to sneak up on him? He looked over to see a slightly pouting Spot, who couldn't seem to decide between watching the horses, and watching Race. Spots gruff explanation did sound like something a girl would do, and Race let Spot know this.
"Dear me, doll-face, you got all worked up over a little promise?" He placed a cigar in his mouth and leered at Spot. "Perhaps a make-up kiss is in order!"
Several men in front of them turned to see what Racetrack was yelling about kisses, only to see two boys standing together; one looking smug, and the other looking mortified. Luckily, the men at Sheepshead perceived everything in a drunken stupor. At least the men who watched the races near Spot and Race did. Since the men had turned back to the not-so-exciting race, they missed the whack Spot delivered to Race's knee with his cane. Race cried out in pain, a cry that all of the horse speculators ignored.
"Dat hurt, ya bum!" Spot ignored Racetrack as well, who was unsuccessfully trying to hide a grin. Race loved that grin.
Spot had perfect lips; good for pouting, good for smirking, and Race was willing to bet they were great for kissing. He often imagined that after kissing Spot, the boy would draw those pretty lips into a pretty smirk, with the sides of his mouth turned up slightly, like the cat that ate the canary. Oh yeah, Race loved that look.
Although Race wasn't aware of it, Spot was thinking of him too. Of how Race's eyes crinkled when he had a cigar in his mouth, and his mouth was drawn into that concerned look he got when he was afraid his horse might lose. It was worth it just to see the delighted look on his face when he did win; like a little kid on Christmas. He always dragged the cigar away from his mouth before letting out a whoop of joy. It was cute...and extremely amusing.
Both boys happened to look at each other at the same time. Spot began to lean closer to Race, and Race did the same. They had only moved a few inches before a man cried "c'mon Lucky!" The blond boy looked at his companion in horror before looking away pointedly.
Race went into immediate denial. 'He must have thought I was gonna tell him something, and didn't think he could hear me over the horses,' he thought. After all, why would Spot be leaning in to kiss him? Spot was another boy! And Race didn't have time to think about kisses that didn't even happen, Silver was nearing the finish line.
"C'mon Silver," he cried.
Spot had placed a bet on Dusty, the gray-speckled horse that was almost directly beside Silver. Spot didn't understand the names of all these horses, and figured the best way to go was with a jockey who picked a sensible name for his horse.
Unfortunately, sensibility wasn't the way to go on that day, as Silver sped ahead of the other horses and passed the line. Dusty was seconds behind him, the other horses right behind Dusty. And of course, Lucky was the last horse across the line.
Spot turned to watch the ritualistic act of happiness from Race. He threw out his cigar, let out a whoop of joy, and turned to Spot. Without warning, Race planted his lips on the other boys.
To say Spot was upset with the change in routine would be a total lie. Suddenly the win didn't seem so important anymore, not with the way Race was moving his lips against Spots. Race wasn't too disappointed either. Spots lips were fantastic for kissing, soft yet determined against his. It was nice.
Until a greasy old man slammed into Race as he was passing. "Ey, girlie boy, go kiss ya boyfriend someplace else." He sounded drunk, and disappointed. Which meant it was most likely one of the dead beats cheering for Lucky.
Race and Spot pulled away from one another and looked everywhere except at the other. Neither paid any attention to the grumbling man throwing dirty stares at them. Thoughts on each other, and eyes anywhere but, the situation was a tad bit awkward.
"So, Silver won, huh?" Spot was still panting. 'Hey, it was a long kiss!' he defended himself in his head.
"Yeah...lunch at Tibby's? I'll pay." Once he collected his winnings, paying for lunch would be no problem!
Spot wondered briefly if this was a date kind of thing. It would make sense, after that mind-blowing kiss. He was suddenly horrified. What if Race had only been so happy he had to kiss someone? Just to reassure himself-and feel Races lips against his again-he pulled the Italian closer and pressed their mouths together.
Race was pleasantly surprised by the display of affection, and didn't hesitate in returning the kiss. It wasn't nearly as long as the first one since Spot pulled away so quickly. His face quickly became guarded as he waiting to see how Race would respond. He didn't have to wait long.
Race grinned. "So...was dat a yes?"
Spot gave a curt nod, his face belaying no expression. As soon as Race inconspicuously grabbed Spots hand, however, a smirk appeared on Spot's face. The shorter boy noticed, and said, "Ey, maybe they should call me Lucky, huh?"
A quick laugh before, "Nah, Racetrack is a good name."
Race laughed too. "Well, I not only won the bet, I won you. I'd say I'm pretty lucky."
Before walking out in public, Spot dropped Race's hand completely. Race only stared at him as he caressed his chin as if thinking really hard about something. "Well," he said casually, casting a smirk in Race's direction before turning and sauntering away calling, "I am da king of Brooklyn. I guess dat makes you my queen from Manhattan. Yeah, you are pretty lucky to have a great guy like me. But I still think Racetrack is a better name. More manly, if ya catch my drift."
He just stood there in awe for a moment. Spot had said-and he-he called him..."Ey, take dat back! I ain't no girl!"
Spot only laughed. Race was so cute when he was angry...
The End!
Well, that was it. Sorry if anyone is disappointed, I'm still working on improving my writing skills. Anyone who previously gave me tips, thank you. Leave lots and lots of reviews!