Date: Fri, 9 Oct 2015 21:49:41 -0700
From: Danul Patterson <danulpatterson989@gmail.com>
Subject: Misfits part 1 (gay sf-fantasy series)

DISCLAIMER:
	The following story is a work of fiction. All names, events,
locals, et al, featured in the work are entirely fictional. Any resemblance
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MISFITS: PART I : THE DREAM

	MARCUS JONES SAT UP IN bed and looked at the angry red eyes of the
alarm clock on his Davenport to his left. The hieroglyphs quickly resolved
themselves into the time and the date. 23:45. 3 November. He punched the
pillow to fluff it up and, turning his back to the alarm, lay down once
more. By midnight, the only sound in the room, apart from the chirping of
cicadas and the light murmur of the wind trickling in through the open
window, was his soft wheezing snore. That night he dreamed in colour for
the first time.
	The dream had been a series of rough spun fragments stitched
together as if by a child attempting to emulate her mother. It had no
continuity. It snagged in some places. In others in worked away into
nothingness.
	He recognized the pearly face of Ianto Tyler. How could he not
recognized the face of the boy that had been his best mate practically
since birth? Ianto was smiling wide-mouthedly and white toothed as a
Cheshire cat. The candle light caught in his eyes like living emeralds and
his copper hair, falling in curls past his shoulders, drank in the light
and gave back it ten fold.
	His face, that had been milky and smooth as a babe's bum, was at
once akin to raw hide. The smile became a grimace. Green pools of light
were as pits of tar. He snarled and bared his canines.
	Form there it jumped to an aged room, dark and damp; made of ice
and rank with the oder of passing time. There there was that thing; made of
smoke and eyes blue as flames. It spoke, thought it had no lips.
	Another jump. A cave lit by candles. Bodies of the dead lay
scattered like trash in a street and he lay at Marcus' feet. Pleading for
mercy. Marcus turned his back to him.
	Marcus awoke with a start. The dream was fresh in his mind and he
had to convince himself that it meant nothing. "I have got to stop eating
ginger snaps and ice cream before I go to bed," he mutter to
himself. "That's why my dreams are so crazy tonight." He shook off the
chill that had crept into his bones and once again lay back down. He knew
he would need all the sleep he could get. "Mum, will be up at half passed
six with our secrete cake," he muttered as he tried to drift off into
dreamland once more.




	THE SNOW WHITE OWL GLIDED silently over the snow capped trees of
Nobel Park. In one swift motion it landed, lightly as a falling feather, on
the windowsill outside the attic of the peach and cream Queen Anne. The
lady of the house lay slumped over the ornate oaken relic of a table. Her
head was nestled in her folded arms and the coppery brown hairs on her
forehead, the ones that were not wedged between her arms and face,
fluttered in the soft hissing of her breath. The pages of the ancient
leather bound tome, that lay open before her, stirred lightly as though
they were being blown by the wind, though there was no wind in the room and
the ventilation system did not reach into the attic.
	The owl went to pecking at the windowpane. Eventually, the sharp
clamour pierced through the gauze of her sleep and she awoke with a
start. Her survival instincts took over in that second and she flung her
hands into the air. The hands of the ornate grandfather clock, which had
been an anniversary form her third husbands mother, stood erect at twelve
and twelve as though suddenly seized by unseen fetters. The room was still
as death and the listless quite was broken only by the rhythmic pecking of
the owl.
	"I see some dumb bastard has removed the stake I left in your heart
those twenty plus years ago," she said as she crossed the room to let the
creature in. The bird landed in the centre of the room with an inaudible
thump and began transfiguring.
	Closing the window, the woman's first thought was to freeze him,
but, upon remembering her last encounter with him, she quickly cast the
though away and though of summoning a witches fire. "That would surely do
him in" she thought, "That and an elder stake." Before she could think to
utter the first words of the incantation she found a set of violet eyes
smiling at her devilishly.
	"Hello, my dearest Cassandra," the boy said in a voice to match the
look in his eyes, "Or should I call you Ms. Nobel, instead?"
	"It's Jones now actually, not that it's any of your business,
Apollo.'" Her right eyebrow arched into a perfect semi-circle and her lips
drew into a straight line.
	"You can't freeze me Cassandra." A flash of a smile danced across
has face.
	"It has been more than two decades since we last tangoed. You don't
have a clue as to what I can do to you."
	"Same old Cassie. Will you ever learn," he said as he sat in the
chair that Cassandra had been sitting in. The book closed itself and slid
across the table out of his reach. Stretching his arms out in a mock
gesture of invitation he said "Join me."
	"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just blow you up this very
second," she replied as she came to rest behind the chair opposite Apollo,
arms crossed like two bars of steel.
	"You, your daughter and I have a deal. A blood oath. The first born
son for the removal of a old enemy."
	"You can't have him," she barked as she sat in the chair in a whirl
of flesh and fabric, faster than she appeared to be capable of.
	"Even the mighty Cassandra Nobel can't break a blood oath."
	"To hell with blood oaths and deals with damn vampires, you can not
have my grandson. Take Bast instead." As if on cue the grey-blue Russian
Short hair sleeked into the room giving an almost inaudible mew.
	"I didn't want her when she was a witch and I don't want her now. I
want what was promised to me." The right corner of his mouth twitched ever
so slightly.
	The leather tome opened with a fluttering of pages, as though it
read her mind, and settled on a page. "Ah, of course."
	"Of course what?"
	"You forgot about one stipulation."
	"And pray tell, what might that be?"
	"You have to get him to kiss you."
	"Is that all. Have you forgotten to whom you speak?"
	"Oh, it can't be just any old kiss. It has to be the kiss of true
love."
	"Anything else you neglected to tell me," He shot back in a voice
that would turn a less hearty person to ice.
	"He's in love with someone. He just doesn't know it yet."
	"And what of you and Bette. Will you to not meddle in this affair?"
	"Though we the would wish to, by the rules we agreed upon on that
long ago day, we will not meddle in this, but can you do us just one
favour?"
	"What might that be?"
	"Tomorrow's his birthday. Can we spend it with him before we must
go into hiding. That wasn't part of the original deal I know, but, I think
it would help us to stay out of things until you've done what you intended
to."
	"That sounds reasonable," he said getting up and walking to the
window. "Now, I best be off then. You know how it is, so much work to do
and so little time to do it in." With that said he went back out into the
night.




	MARCUS SAT UP IN BED, rubbed his eyes, and looked at the alarm. 5:
30. 4 November. He knew he could not go back to sleep not after the dream
he had just woken from, and yet, he wanted to revisit that dream more than
he had ever wanted anything before. He wanted to see the boy again.
	This dream was different from the other dreams he had had that
night. This one had a wholeness to it. It's tributaries flowed together to
form a river that worked down to one point. The boy. Everything revolved
around him.
	It started off innocently enough. Marcus had just finished piecing
together the telescope. The telescope had been a birthday gift from great
aunt Victoria. Aunt Victoria had, for the first time since Albert had died
in his crib ten years prior, managed to send off the gift so as it arrived
on the fifth of November, the day after his birthday, and not on the fifth
of December - which happened to be Albert's, Marcus' younger brother,
Birthday.
	He had been looking through the eyepiece to see if he had
everything in proper working order when the house across the lane caught
his eye, or rather the boy in the attic window caught his eye. The boy wore
a brown distressed leather jacket with a red plaid lining. Under the jacket
was a brown wool knit cardigan and a red, white, and blue plaid button down
shirt. When the boy took off his tops, in one swift impossibly fast motion,
he revealed a swimmers body and a trail of dirty-blond hair leading down to
the V, which hid just below the top of his chequerboard boxers and his
low-riding blue jeans.
	His skin was paler than usual, as though he never went out in the
sun at all. He had the deepest pair of violet eyes that Marcus had ever
seen, like two endless wells they drank in the light of the winter
sun. Marcus loved the way the boy's mop of blond hair went wherever it
pleased, a look that Marcus himself could never quite pull off. His most
striking feature was his lips. Marcus had always been a sucker for a guy
with nice lips, and that boy had cherry red lips that could put Mick Jagger
to shame.
	The boy now stood in the attic, stark naked, looking for the entire
world like Eros incarnate. Marcus senced that this boy knew he had an
audience. He rubbed his uncut peice of meat against the cold glass of the
floor-to-ceiling window while slowly gyrating his hips. He pulled back
slightly and took his endowment in his hands and quickly began to abuse
himself.
	Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-three strokes was all
it took for the boy to spill his seed. As the thick mess of his semen
slowly dribbled down the glass, Marcus found himself wondering what this
boy must taste like. Whould he be as sweet as the rest of him looked? or
salty like Ianto? He then wondered if that monsterous peice of flesh would
even fit in his mouth, let alone elsewhere.
	Marcus forced himself to look away and was not shocked to see that
a woodie was near to bursting out of his red Fireman Darius Trunks. He knew
that he would not be able to return to some semblance of normality until he
had met this strange new God in the biblical since, so, he threw on a grey,
long sleeve, crew neck, under a heavy leather jacket, blue jeans, and tan
boots and headed down stairs.
	"Bette, I'm going out," Marcus said to his mom, who was in her
office, shoulder deep in the latest novels she was to edit.
	"Where are you off to, Mister?"
	"I'm gonna go for a walk. Might meet up with Ianto."
	"Will you be home for dinner?"
	"I'll call you when I decide."
	"Marc," Bette's voice suddenly sounded more serious, like she had
just started to really pay attention to her son , "May I have a word with
you, in my office, please."
	"Yeah," Marcus said as he walked into the office. He had had to
back track down the foyer hall and make a right to get to the office.
	"How long have you known Ianto?"
	"We've been practically inseparable since birth."
	"How close are you two?"
	"Mum, are you trying to ask what I think you are? If so, all you
have to do is ask." Marcus sighed as he flopped down in the chair opposite
her.
	"Very well, then. Are you gay?"
	"I thought you would have figured that out when I had my bedroom
painted hot pink when I was five."
	"You don't have to be so cheeky about it. So... is Ianto your
boyfriend?"
	"Ew, no. I mean I fooled around a little with him and Matthew when
I was in the eighth grade, but no. He's like a brother to me. No, I haven't
had sex yet, if that's what you are thinking. And when I do decide to have
sex, it will be with someone I love and we will be safe."
	"That's good to know. Tell him I said, Hello and don't forget to
phone."




	IN HIS RUSH TO MEET the boy in the attic, Marcus had forgotten one
thing. Number 1329 Prescott Lane was haunted. He considered going over to
Ianto's house and actually having a little fun with him or Matt. Matthew
Tyler was a stone cold fox with the Tyler's signature green eyes and
scarlet hair, a junior, and had a major case of the hots for Marcus. But,
there was something about the boy in the attic that made Marcus want to
brave the ghosts that dwelt in the house. He had to meet him. That was the
only thing that occupied the continuum of his mind.
	"You do know it's rude to spy on people," came a voice from behind
Marcus.
	"Of course, I do. What are you gonna do about it?"
	"What's your name," the voice whispered in Marcus' ear.
	"D-D-Davis. Marcus Davis," Marcus stammered as he was hit by a
sudden wave of nerves.
	"I'm Apollo Cole," the boy from the attic came from behind Marcus
in the blinking of an eye and took Marcus' hand in his, "And this is Nobel
House, my new home. Care for the five cent tour?"
	"Sure, why not."
	"Well," Apollo crooned, pulling Marcus into the house, "Right this
way, Mrs. Cole."



	MARCUS STRETCHED OUT IN HIS bed and replayed the dream over again
in his mind. His hand flew down to his resing appendage of its own accord.
In the memory of the boy, this Apollo Cole, was plowing Marc's virgin hole
with his thick pole of flesh. It felt so very real, even as he realized it
was only a dream, a very sexy and hot dream, he could still fell Apollo's
hot breath burning red marks onto the cold flesh of his neck. He could
still taste the treacly and slightly salty kisses on his lips. He could
fill the fullness of the boy cock in him, streaching him to his limits.
	Three strokes was all it took for Marcus to blow his thich
off-white nectur over his chest and stomach. He grabbed for the towel he
kept in the top drawer of his Davenport for easy clean up and wipped
himself up. Not a second after he was done there came a knock at his door.