Title: Sinners, Aren't We All?
Author: Keith
Fandom: South Park
Setting: Michael's Bedroom
Pairing: Michael/Firkle Smith
Characters: Michael, Firkle Smith
Genre: Romance
Rating: K
Chapters: 1/1
Word Count: 703
Type Of Work: One-Shot
Status: Complete
Warnings: Gay, Slash, Yaoi, MLM, Fluff, Cthulhu Mention, Witchcraft
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Summary: It was stupid, how simple and likewise profound this one little thing was.
AN: Hey guys, it's me again! I just thought I ought to say that if you want vague updates and talk to me more, I have a writing Tumblr, too! Twitter is Sunshinecackle, and Tumblr is Writteninsunshine! I also have a writing Discord that is currently pretty dead. xD If you want it, please contact me on Twitter!
So, I've been going through it, and I needed to write another cute thing today. I finished something angstier, though I don't know if it'll get edited and out before this one or not. At any rate, this one's just a little cute thing. Sometimes I just need that. I hope you enjoy it!
Sinners, Aren't We All?
It was stupid, how simple and likewise profound this one little thing was.
Reclined on his bed, smoke lazily billowing from his lips, Michael considered the works of ancient poets and new-age know-it-alls in equal measure. Casually, his deep brown eyes dropped to the body beside him, and he thought absently to check to make sure Firkle was still breathing. His hand would likely stir the younger goth if he did reach over to touch him, but watching for Firkle's shallow breaths was futile.
It was like even his slumbering state knew Firkle was not entirely unlike a corpse. Cold, impassive, evoking thoughts in Michael everyone would say he shouldn't touch in the good, Catholic company of the people in town.
Instead, his hand brought his cigarette back to his lips, and he inhaled deeply, silently as he could. In the quiet of the room, every sound felt like it was too loud. A simple breath shattered the silence, loud enough to rattle one's bones, and Michael found himself waxing poetic about the soundlessness battling the sharpness of his breaths.
But why focus on that when the only light in the darkness lay still, unspoiled, beside him?
Angelic wasn't really a word most would use for that face. Typically, it was blank, those large eyes unblinking and willing to bore holes into whatever he chose to grace with them. Michael felt truly blessed by something from the depths whenever he caught that wide-eyed stare on him. It raked over him like a physical press, and he knew what the world felt like when those windows to Firkle's soul closed, dropping off of him.
Cold, impassive, routine in a way that ate at him. It chewed on his flesh and made nests in his bones, an uneasy reminder of what it was like when the gaze left him barren and alone and empty again. Firkle's constantly alert, endlessly watching eyes were all he needed on him to feel comfortable, no matter where they were. He was almost like a favorite coat, something necessary in all weather even if you had to sweat it out.
Or, rather, that was always how Michael had worn his favorite coats.
Hand itching to run through Firkle's hair to his neck to feel for a pulse point, Michael dug it into his own hair with a sigh around his cigarette, smoke rushing from his lips, flavored with a breathless chuckle. Waking Firkle wasn't a danger for him, but if the younger male had fallen asleep first, he probably needed it. Perhaps he was in a dream with Cthulhu… But if that were the case, then he was sleeping deeply enough to be touched by Michael, at the very least.
Reaching down slowly, his fingertips ghosted over Firkle's shoulder, then his neck, pressing against his pulse point just hard enough to feel for it. The younger goth gave a soft breath but didn't seem to wake, and Michael waited for a moment, just relishing in the feeling of Firkle's skin on his. Trailing upwards, he gently shook out Firkle's hair from where it had gotten stuck beneath his head, a soft, fond smile on his lips.
A quick glance at the clock told him that it was the witching hour, and he was pleased to see Firkle having a dream with his deity during it. It seemed to fit well enough, he thought, and as he stubbed his cigarette, turned off the lamp, and set his book aside, he hummed under his breath. Scooting down, he covered himself up to his stomach with the blanket, turning to curl around the smaller male and pull him close.
"I hope you dream well," He whispered, "And it is productive." Speaking it into existence seemed like the best way to help, and he kissed the top of Firkle's head, then his forehead. Firkle didn't stir, which told Michael he was definitely in R'lyeh, and it only brought a tender look to those dark eyes. Petting his hair once more, he closed his eyes and sunk into Firkle like he was made for it, falling quickly into a dreamless, light sleep.
If anyone tried to disturb Firkle, they would have to go through him.
AN: I keep writing these little short vignettes with Michael/Firkle for comfort and I feel like they do really help. I'm happy to have them done for myself. I hope you all enjoyed it!