Coming Home

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I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I hear screaming and bombs going off. Instead of sitting on the ratty secondhand couch in my trashy apartment, I’m transported back to Iraq. Back to sleeping curled around my M16. Back to breathing in sand and hot dry air all day long. Back to that day.

Before I get into that, I should give you some background.

My name’s Kane. Staff-Sergeant Kane Mckinney until that day. After that day I was “Unfit”. A security risk.

Ah, god, I’m getting ahead of myself again. Anyways, I joined the Marines right out of high school. Two hours after I got my diploma I was in the recruiters office signing papers. A month later I was on the plane to San Diego.

There was a reason I wanted to be gone so fast. The day I graduated was also the day I told my father that I was gay. He wasn’t happy, to say the least. He said that the Marines weren’t going to take a “Fucking fairy faggot like you”. He wasn’t amused when I laughed at him for that. Even at eighteen, I was a full half foot taller and forty pounds heavier than he was, beer gut included.

He was a stupid old drunk.

In the Marines, only a few people knew my preferences. My drill instructor guessed gaziantep escort during bootcamp, but thankfully, had enough heart to keep it quiet until after I graduated. He asked me the night before I boarded the plane back home. Lucky for me, Ray was a good guy, and is still one of my few friends.

He’s worried about me. That last time we spoke, I was coming off the plane in Seattle. To say that I was going off the deep end would be an understatement. Not only had I lost everything, but I was back here. In Seattle. The one place I never thought I would ever come back to.

I grew up in Rainier Beach. It’s southeast of the city, and considered one of the dirtier places of Washington. I know that it definitely wasn’t all sugar and spice and everything nice growing up. My days were more filled with grime and blood and fear and sadness.

Now it’s all back. I’m back in the grime and every time I sleep, blood and fear take 1st place in my dreams. As for sadness… I’m lonely. I know that I, of all people, don’t deserve happiness… But I haven’t held a man in so long. I think at night that maybe my nightmares would go away if I had someone next to me. Maybe if I had someone to wake up to the pain would dampen. But it’s all just dreams. No guy would ever get near me.

My scars would scare anyone who was considering me right off. But even besides those, I have so many counts against me it’s ridiculous.

First, I’m huge. I know some guys like that, but most don’t appreciate MY kind of huge. I’m not a bear. I’m just ridiculously scary big. That’s what one of my exes in high school told me. He said that he was scared when I held him too tight, and that he didn’t like to sleep in the same bed as me because if I rolled onto him, he wouldn’t be able to push me off.

I’m 6’7″. Yeah. That big. 6’7″ and 274 pounds. All of it muscle. In the Marines, my build was advantageous. I excelled in bootcamp, and in Afghanistan, our enemies ran once they saw me coming. I was faster, stronger, bigger, and all together intimidating. Which was great then. But now, it doesn’t exactly make for good dating material.

But, it is perfect for my job as bouncer at Neighbours. Several times, I’ve gone out to split up a fight, and the idiots are already backing away.

It’s been years since I held a man in my arms that wasn’t dying or being carried out of a building. I just want to feel another mans hands on me, another heart beating next to mine.


I met a guy. The perfect guy. Goddamn, if only I had offered to give him and his friend a ride home or asked for his number. No, instead I just stood there and shook his hand dumbly while he smiled up at me, thanked me, and walked out of my life.


He had been everything I ever daydreamed. Sweet, delicate without being fragile. His name was Emerson.

His eyes were a striking green that even when watery with tears, had managed to sear right down into me. His whole gorgeous face was sprinkled with freckles, and from what I could see, they littered the rest of his body as well. His hair had been a deep coppery red and was lustrously curly. He was just the right height to fit under my shoulder, about 5’8″, I’d guess. His hand in mine had made me never want to let go. His skin was soft, even the groomed fingertips freckled.

The shirt he had been wearing was formfitting to his tight lean body. It was a sheer green mesh, and the little dents of his nipples had practically made my cock leap out of its cage. I was drooling by the time my eyes had traversed further down his body, to the shadow of abs under his shirt and the outline of his thighs in tightly fitted dark wash jeans.

All in all, absolutely and utterly perfect.

I have to see him again.

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