operous; nonsensery by etacanis

[Teen Wolf] [Derek/Stiles] more than on the run

2013-01-18T15:40:07Z

Title: more than on the run
Pairing: Stiles/Derek
Rating: R
Summary: Derek tells himself he doesn't make Stiles leave because it's dangerous to travel alone when you look like a prime target for raiders and it's nice to have someone watch his back for once.
Warnings: brief sexual harassment. It's nothing major, but skip section iv if it'll trigger you.

Notes: Written for my trope_bingo card, prompt was AU: apocalypse. Much love to Lena for cheering me on through writing this.

While zombie apocalypses are my true love, this is a post-nuclear apocalypse, heavily inspired by the Fallout series, Fallout 3 and New Vegas especially. It's not particularly a fusion, it's not the same verse, but if you're familiar with Fallout, there are things you'll recognize in this fic, the usage of bottle caps as currency in particular. If you haven't played the games you should because they're awesome.

I've taken some liberty with geography, if the names of towns match any real places, it's completely coincidental.

Nuclear weapons are bad, kids. Don't play with them.

i.
Derek finds him crouched over the corpse of a dog, it's face a mess of blood and fractured bone. The guy is poking at it with a stick, a disgusted look on his face, shudders wracking his body.

"It is edible," he offers. The man jerks, his entire body moves with him and he falls back on his ass, leaving him blinking up at Derek. He's younger than Derek had expected, still wide eyed and soft faced, red running high in his cheeks. He can't be more than sixteen. Eighteen would be pushing it. "You looked like you didn't know if you could eat it. It takes some work but it is."

"I don't think I want to." He gets to his feet, kicks at the animal as he does but sticks out his hand to Derek. Derek doesn't take it.

"Good shot," he says instead, gestures at the head. "Lucky?"

"Fuck you." There's no real anger in the kids voice, a slight smile on his lips. He rocks onto his heels, scrubs a hand over his hair and smears dirt and blood and grime across his forehead. "I'm just that good." He sighs as he drops to a crouch again, balances on the ball of his feet and surveys the corpse again, the tight slope of the ribs, the way the veins stand out in the legs. "If you can make it edible, I'll share with you." Usually, Derek would say no. It's already on the tip of his tongue, his sister's words playing in his head - don't trust anyone, Derek, nobody in this life will do you a favour for free - but his stomach is rumbling and he doesn't feel like another night of drinking dirty water to shut it up and taking anti-radiation pills in a half futile attempt to stave off the sickness. Honestly, no matter how good of a shot the kid is, he doesn't look like he could hurt Derek, not really. He's pale around the edges and the bags under his eyes are beating Derek's, dark and heavy, not-quite distracting from the redness of his eyes. He doesn't look like a risk Derek can't afford to take.

"Fine," Derek says. "But we go to my camp."

ii.
It turns out the kid is a) not a kid, just marginally eighteen (which was legally an adult before everything got blown up, man, so there, he says, all haughty arrogance before Derek points out that he wasn't, however, of legal age to drink and takes the whiskey off of him), b) named Stiles and c) looking for his father.

It also transpires, once Derek turns to tell Stiles to leave only to find him curled up around his pack fast asleep, once he wakes up the next morning to a hot breakfast, once Stiles looks at him and says it's not safe to travel alone in a tone that brooks no argument, that he's incredibly difficult to get rid of.

Derek tells himself he doesn't make Stiles leave, doesn't slip away himself, because he's right, because it's dangerous to travel alone and the kid looks like a prime target for raiders and it's nice to have someone watch his back for once. Derek ignores the voice that reminds him that it's been a year since Laura died, reminds him that the constant pitch and lurch and strain in his chest means he's lonely.

iii.
Stiles has never met anyone who didn't come from anywhere before. He doesn't understand Derek not having a home because even though his home sucks, just like anywhere else, it's still somewhere he belongs. Derek doesn't have that. Derek's been a nomad for as long as he remembers, travelling the wasteland one foot fall at a time.

iv.
He should have been paying attention. He knows, he knows raiders will take any chance they can get and yet he'd set his gun down, left it out of arm's reach and now he's got a knife to his throat and the stench of rotting meat surrounding him.

He hasn't slept in days, hasn't eaten properly in longer, gets dizzy if he doesn't stand up slow and careful and this is the way he's going to go out. Dirty, starving, not even enough energy to put up a decent fight. Laura would be ashamed and that, not the metal against his gullet, not the overwhelming sense of you're going to die is what makes Derek's heart stutter, what makes his stomach clench and his eyes burn. Laura would be ashamed. Laura, at least, refused to go down without a fight. Laura took down four raiders before they got her and Derek's going to be killed by just the one.

"Well you are a pretty boy, aren't you?" The raider's left arm is wrapped around his chest, his teeth grazing against the curlicue of his ear as he talks. Derek wants to shove his elbows back, crack some ribs at least, maybe get him to loosen his grip just enough but every time he shifts, every time he even breathes too deeply, the knife bites in, he can feel the slick wetness of his blood against his throat. He's got two ways to die, wait for the raider to kill him himself or push himself onto the knife. Neither is particularly desirable, both make his breath catch and burn in his lungs.

He tenses, blood is dripping below his shirt now, slow traces staining through the thin material but he's ready, he's ready, he's lived longer than some, in a few years he'll be staring down thirty and out in the wasteland, that's practically old age. It's not like he has--

The raider's brains explode. One minute he's snuffling at Derek, licking at the tendons in Derek's neck and the next Derek's covered in blood and gore and Stiles is stepping out from behind a rock, swinging his rifle over his shoulders.

"I told you I was a good shot," he says, hauling Derek's pack onto his shoulder. Derek watches as he scrabbles at the raider's pockets, comes away with some ammo they can use, a handful of bottle caps and thinks, for the first time since he realized how much of a hassle it is to have to share what little food he has, that going with Stiles wasn't just another of his terrible ideas.

v.
There's no word of Stiles' dad in Jefferson, Tulusak or Gentry. Stiles finds people who know of him, who say 'oh, the Sheriff from out west?' and get his hopes up only for them to say they have no clue where he went. In every town, Derek watches the light, the hope, in Stiles' eyes dim a little. In every town, the chattering stutters, locks itself up inside of Stiles. In every town, Stiles becomes less like himself, the version of himself that Derek's getting to know, the version that Derek's learned to tune out unless there's that inflection to his voice, the one that suggests danger even as it debates the limited merits of powdered eggs like nothing's wrong, the one that even talks in his sleep, the one that taps his fingers against the handle of his gun or hums under his breath.

In the Rust Bucket, they get lucky. They hadn't really planned to stop in but Derek's assault rifle stops working three miles out and he doesn't like to be without it, doesn't like the slowness of the shotgun that Stiles prefers. It's Stiles who says they should carry on, they've still got a day or so to the lakes, they don't need to slow themselves down any more than usual. It's Derek who forces them to, who shrugs off Stiles' complaints and heads for the gates. Stiles trips after him, muttering unhappily the whole way, bitching and whining about Derek always slowing them down.

"Go ask around," he says once they've bartered their way inside (it's considerably easier than Derek was expecting, all they lose is a carton of shotgun shells and three bottles of clean water, not like Haven where it'd cost them a hundred caps just to get in). Mostly, he's sick of Stiles pouting. Mostly, he wants him out of his hair for a bit. A part of him though, the little part he's so good at ignoring, worries he's the only one with any hope left for getting the information they need to find Stiles' dad. There's a huff of breath from Stiles, a sneer and a scowl but he's handing over the things he needs repairing and the caps for them. He doesn't say anything to Derek, but Derek wasn't expecting him to. "If you're not back by the time I'm done here, I'll come looking for you." Stiles just shrugs, scuffs his feet against the floor and heads off up the road, dust kicking up behind him.

He's nearly done in the store, the owner's wife just about patching a hole in Stiles' pack when Stiles himselfs barrels through the door, feet skidding against the floor. He's breathing heavily and his face is flushed, eyes bright and mouth wide in a grin.

"Someone knows where he went," he says, grabbing for Derek's sleeve like he might not be paying attention. Derek is, he's staring at Stiles and he's trying to bite back a smile and he's hoping the owner doesn't kick them out for the ruckus. "Derek, he's gone to Fort Defiance."

Derek doesn't point out that that doesn't bode well, that everyone knows how hard it is to get into Fort Defiance. Everyone's heard the stories about women and children dying outside the gates just because someone thought they might be sick or that it might have been a raider trap. Everyone knows how paranoid the people of Fort Defiance are. The last bastion of civilization, they call themselves, like nobody else thought to set up a town inside walls.

It takes all Derek has in him to keep Stiles in the town. It takes forcibly dragging Stiles into the room they're renting for the night and locking the door to keep him from straight up running out through the gates.

"The Fort's at least two weeks away, Stiles," he says when Stiles pouts at him, kicks at his feet like he's a little lost child instead of the adult he keeps maintaining he is. "One good night's sleep won't do any harm." He doesn't look convinced, still looks like he might slip out when Derek's sleeping (and Derek doesn't want to work out why that'd be a problem, why he's apparently so against heading on towards the coast like he'd planned to before this kid got him all curled up and walking in the opposite direction). "I just want one night in a bed, Stiles, and then we'll go and find your dad." The scowl lingers for a moment but Derek can tell the exact moment Stiles gives up on the fight, his shoulders slump and he exhales with a huff before he slumps back on the cot pushed close to the wall.

"One night," he says, kicking his shoes off and pulling his feet up under the covers. If they're anything like the ones on Derek's bed, they're scratchy and uncomfortable, a guarantee of a restless night's sleep, but better than the damp rocks they've been sleeping on. "We leave at dawn."

vi.
"Do you ever think about revenge?" Stiles asks, staring up at the ceiling. He thinks Derek might be asleep, he can't tell because Derek lays completely still when he's awake and completely still when he's asleep. "For your sister."

"Sometimes," Derek says. Always, he means. When he can't sleep, he thinks of slitting the raider's throat, thinks of kicking her until she begs for mercy, thinks of not giving it. He doesn't have a name, just her sneering face stained onto the back of his eyelids.

vii.
"We're going too slow," Stiles snaps. The sun's long set and Derek, Derek has had enough. They're behind schedule - Stiles' schedule, which hadn't been particularly generous in the first place - caught up with rivers bursting at their banks and Derek understands, he does, Stiles forgets he knows what it's like to lose family, but that doesn't mean he's going to push himself or let Stiles push himself further than their limits can take. On full bellies of food, with enough water, decent sleep when they could get it, sure, but they've been living off jerky and sips of water for three days now, sleeping three hours at a time because they're in raider territory.

"Do you want to find your dad or do you want to die of exhaustion before you even get there, Stiles?" His tone's too harsh, too rough, but his feet hurt, his shoulders hurt, his stomach is cramping. He just wants to sleep.

He's not too tired, however, to miss the swish of movement, the thud of his heavy steps as Stiles comes towards him, arms swinging. He twists round, drops into a crouch and catches Stiles around the waist, pushes him down into the dirt and holds him there -- Stiles might be lighter on his feet, quicker, scrappier, but Derek has the weight, the muscle.

"Fuck you, Derek." Stiles bucks his hips, wrenches his arms, punches at Derek's thighs, snaps his teeth at his face when Derek leans in close.

"Shut up, Stiles." Their faces are close, too close, he can feel the angry chuff of Stiles' breath, he'd go cross eyed to focus on the furious set of his mouth. "You've been limping for two miles, don't think I missed you getting dizzy earlier. We need to fucking rest."

"You just--" He twists, tries to get out from under Derek, kicks his heels against Derek's calves and claws at his forearms. "You don't give a fuck about my dad."

"Yeah," Derek says. His hands are hard against the ground either side of Stiles' head, a rock digging into his palm, dirt mingling in the cuts lining his fingers. "That's why I'm coming with you. Because I don't give a shit, Stiles."

He doesn't know who moves first -- it's probably Stiles trying to get him off again, it's probably him trying to keep Stiles against the ground -- but they're kissing, biting at each other's mouths, Stiles scrabbling at his shoulders and fisting his hands in his shirt. It's sloppy and messy and Derek's sure his mouth is going to bruise, sure that this is going to end in someone bleeding, they're panting hard breaths against each other and even as they kiss, Derek can feel Stiles fighting him for that little edge.

"Stay," he says, pushes himself up, gives Stiles just enough space to get away. He doesn't. He doesn't go anywhere, he stays, there in the dirt, one hand fisted in Derek's shirt, his mouth red and his breath coming in gasps.

Derek's not sure what it means, but he'll take it.

viii.
They're nearly shot at approaching the Fort, bullets ricocheting around their ankles, kicking up dust and dirt. Maybe the guards figure out they're not raiders, maybe they just want to be certain of a headshot but they let them approach.

"I'm looking for my dad," Stiles shouts as soon as they get within hearing distance. "Richard. He's a Sheriff--" Derek presses in close behind him and Stiles is shaking, hands quivering where he holds them up in platitude, we come in peace. "I was told he'd be here." One of the guards nods, turns to talk to the other behind him and Stiles doesn't stop shaking. He drops his hands to his side, clenches them by his thighs like holding onto himself tight enough will stop the shuddering.

"He's here," the guard calls back. "But how do we know you're his son?"

"Please." His voice cracks, breaks and Derek stumbles forward with it, puts his hand on Stiles' shoulder like he can help him hold together. "Please."

Richard's in a bad way. They find him in the clinic, hooked to an IV. At first, he doesn't look too bad, his skin is pale and waxy, sweat beading on his forehead despite the room's cool temperature. Derek's still got his hand on Stiles' shoulder, just in case, and he feels Stiles relax, feels weeks worth of tension and terror flood out of him.

Then the Doc pulls the covers back, reveals the wound on Richard's arm. It's swollen and inflamed, leaking pus, the veins dancing away from it stark and dark. The smell is worse, it smells like raiders, it smells like death, and Stiles tenses up again.

"There's not much I can do," he says, already pulling the covers back up to Richard's neck. "He needs antibiotics."

"Is he going to die?" Stiles asks. He sounds small, lost, the most scared Derek has ever heard him be. He should leave, he should go back to the room they've gotten and leave Stiles alone -- he's been here, watching Laura pale and wan on a clinic bed, he's seen the same defeated slump in a doctor's shoulders that tells him everything he needs to know. He lifts his hand, goes to move away and pull back. "Don't," Stiles says, his voice hush and low. "Stay."

ix.
Stiles fucks him hard that night, like if he just holds on tight enough, digs his hands in, bruises Derek just the right amount, everything might change. He fucks Derek like he's desperate, like leaving bite marks along collarbones grounds him and brings him back. Derek's not quite sure what to do, he kisses back and loops his fingers through Stiles' and whispers it's okay like it might actually be.

x.
Richard dies five days after they arrive. Stiles says by his side for twelve hours every day, clings to his hand and rambles. Derek catches him sometimes, overhears stories and remember when's, you can't leave me, dad, I only have you, dad, please, he hears about Stiles' mom and little things Stiles hadn't already told him about his life before. He brings Stiles food, sandwiches and water and stays until he's sure he's eaten it and then he leaves, gives Stiles his time alone because he knows, he knows that Stiles would stop him if he wanted company.

On day five, Derek comes with the sandwich and finds Stiles on the floor, his breath coming in broken gasps, his hands covering his face. One glance at the bed, at the rumpled sheets, at the uncomfortable angle Richard's body's at and Derek knows. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to do, he'd punched the first person to offer him platitudes after Laura, had smacked the doctor straight in the face and broken his nose. He'd almost punched him again when the doctor had just looked at him with something akin to pity. He probably would have, if it wasn't for wanting Laura to have a decent burial.

"Stiles," he tries, crouching down low next to Stiles. "I'm not going anywhere." He drops to his knees, leans forward and rests his hand on Stiles' shoulder, his lips against his forehead in a barely there kiss. "You're stuck with me now." Stiles' breath shudders and shakes but he pulls his hands away from his face. He's a mess, a complete mess, worse than he had been when Derek had first found him, months ago now even though it feels like barely days ago. He kisses him again, pushes Stiles' hair where it's getting too long back for his forehead and pulls him in close, holds Stiles tight against him and breathes with him, soothes him through the tremors.

It's not going to be okay, it's really not, but it might just skim the line, it might just be fine.

Prompts: Trope Bingo Card

2013-01-06T18:45:30Z

[Teen Wolf] [Stiles] Erecura

2012-12-11T13:59:54Z

Title: Erecura
Prompt: Space Travel
Word Count: 400
Rating: PG
Original/Fandom: Teen Wolf
Pairings (if any) N/A
Warnings (Non-Con/Dub-Con etc): None
Summary: Stiles wakes up first. | The start of a Teen Wolf space AU fic.

Stiles wakes up first, snaps his eyes open wide and regrets it. Bright lights catch on white walls and metal and it's startling, too bright, it's searing through his eyelids and dancing spots across the dark after he screws his eyes up shut. He catches a glimpse of Scott and Jackson before he does, both of them still asleep, hands crossed over their chests like they're waiting for their own funerals.

"Oh my God," he says, clapping a hand to his face and pushing himself upright. "That light is unholy." He listens to the patter of feet across the metal grating, the subtle whirr of mechanics moving those feet. A hand settles on his shoulder, cold fingers against bare skin.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Stilinski," the android says, fingertips pressed to Stiles' pulse now. Monitoring vitals, Stiles guesses. Making sure he's actually alive. Making sure he's not going to stand up and have a heart attack. Making sure he's not going to spew blood. All potential side effects of stasis. "Welcome to Erecura."

"How long did it take us?" He peels his hand away from his face, cracks an eye open and squints at the android. He's more humanoid than the ones back on Earth, could actually pass for a human quite easily. There's no hinges at the joints, no blank stare.

"One hundred and three years." He pulls his hand away, reaching for the tablet at the end of the bed. As he picks it up, Stiles catches a flash of the screen, his name, his age - both pre-stasis, the age his body is and post-stasis, the amount of years he has technically been alive - a bunch of graphs and charts. "Plus six months and twelve days."

"Cool." He opens both his eyes, now the light seems a little bit less painful. On the other two slabs, Jackson is still asleep but Scott is begining to stir. Through the glass panel walls, Stiles can see the second ward - Allison and Lydia are both already awake, standing up and working out the stiffness in their joints. "Can I-" he gestures to the door. "I'm starving."

"Of course." The metal grating is freezing cold against his feet, sparks of chill running up his legs. "But Mr. Stilinski, the captain would like to see you as soon as you're ready."

[BINGO CARD]

2012-11-19T11:33:25Z

derek/stiles	allison/erica	derek/jackson	lydia/jackson	scott/isaac
loss of control	dancing	flowers	winter holiday	call in the night
allergies	medical	apocalypse	sleepy or exhausted	future
family	sneaking around	*	jealousy	roommates
confession	exhibitionism	wrestling	sweet sixteen	sharing clothes
spring cleaning	spin the bottle	favors (sexual or otherwise)	staying out late	locker room

[Generation Kill] [Brad/Nate] The Wild & The Tame

2012-10-16T09:56:23Z

Title: The Wild & The Tame
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: R
Summary: He's not supposed to care.
Notes: For this prompt
WC: 1202

The alarm wakes Nate up, the insistent impersonal beeping that greets him six out of seven days. He takes a moment, stares up at the ceiling and acknowledges that he's alone in bed and that the sheets are too cold for Brad to just be up already.

He shuts off the alarm as he gets out of bed, toes curling into the thick rug before they meet the unforgiving coolness of the hardwood floors. There's no lights on and Brad's sneakers are still by the backdoor. His coffee mug is by the sink. There's no coffee in the pot. There's a note on the fridge, Brad's quick scrawl and Gone to see Ray. Gone to see Ray, Brad's very own code for going to drink too much, fight too much, fuck hookers, don't expect me back too soon.

The note crumples in his hand and Nate reminds himself not to care.

"You signed up for this," he says, the vague reflection of himself in the window shaping the words back at him. "You agreed to it." The coffee machine whirs, spits out a tepid espresso into a mug that's too big. He knocks it back and scrubs a hand over his face. He's not supposed to care.

It's not going to be a relationship if we do this, Brad had said. We're not going to be boyfriends like it was the worst thing he could think of, said like the very word tasted of poison. It's just going to be us.

Okay, Nate had said because what else do you do? What else can you do when you're given something you wanted and thought you might never have? You say okay and you think we'll see how it goes and you think about change without ever quite calling it change.

Two years and a house they don't officially share and they're still not boyfriends and Nate's still reminding himself he doesn't care.

Nate comes home a week and a half after Brad had left to lights turned on and the smell of spaghetti sauce on the stove.

"Hey," Brad says, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans. Hey, like he's been gone for a day. Hey, like they've both just gotten back from work. Hey, like there isn't a hickey on his neck, thick and bright and new. "You want some spaghetti? I'm starved."

"Sure," Nate says. He hangs his jacket up and stands. He's awkward in his own home. He's seen war and he's been to Harvard and he is a grown man and he's awkward in his own living room. "Me too." He wants to sigh. He wants to not have to pretend he's okay with this. His eyes keep straying to the bite on Brad's neck and he doesn't care who the girl was, doesn't care how much Brad paid, he just cares. "How's Ray?"

"Fine, y'know, he's Ray--" Brad pours the spaghetti into bowls, ladles sauce on top. There's a pot of grated parmesan beside them. "He got fired again." Nate hasn't seen Ray in a while, months, probably gone a year now. He's Brad's friend, not Nate's. Brad's always kept that separate, thick black line down the middle of them, Brad's, Nate's. Most of the guys from Iraq are firmly in Brad's space. There's a couple in Nate's and a little overlap, just a touch, but Ray and Walt and Poke are Brad's. Nate couldn't take them if he tried. "His bitch of a girl cheated on him, that's why I went up there."

Nate ignores that comment. He takes the bowl from Brad, leans into the gentle touch against his hand and presses his calves against Brad's when they sit down, Brad's bare feet on top of his shoes.

"How was work?" Nate hums. Brad curls his toes against the dart of Nate's ankle, tucks the soles of his feet under Nate's trousers. "My mom keeps telling me to get a job here." Brad's staring down at his food. "Fuck knows what I'd do. Maybe I'll become a hippy journalist like you."

"There's nothing hippy about economic reports," Nate says. It's not the first time. "You could--" He stops. He doesn't know. Brad had his career. Brad wasn't supposed to ever not be a Marine.

"Exactly." Brad says. He looks up at Nate, a crooked smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "This sauce ain't too bad." Nate smiles back, keeps his eyes away from the hickey and hopes it doesn't look as fake.

Nate rides Brad, fists clenched in the sheets, Brad's hands tight on his thighs. It's not his favourite, not enough friction, not particularly comfortable, but he'd seen the stiffness in Brad's leg, the way he rubbed at the skin when he thought Nate wasn't looking, a desperate touch like a massage might fix damage surgery couldn't.

Brad's always been the silent during sex, never talking, just huffs of breath and touches conveying want and need and desire. A bruising touch for faster, a gentle caress for slower. Always, from that very first desperate fuck, a silent presence as Nate struggled to catch his breath, form words and moans.

Tonight though, tonight there's a near constant murmur of noise, Nate, Nate, yes and Nate's not quite sure what it means. It's putting him off guard, it makes him want to ask, he tenses when Brad wraps an arm around his hips and shapes words against the expanse of his neck-- They've been doing this for years, it had started after Iraq, pressed against Nate's desk, it had evolved and changed and it had been and it had not been but this is new and strange and it feels like it should be wrong. It doesn't sit right with Nate. It makes him feel like he should be preparing for something.

For the first time, he wants to call Ray and ask exactly what Brad's visit entailed.

After, Brad wraps his arm around Nate's hips, huffs little breaths against his hair. He could be asleep. Nate knows he's not.

"Are you--" Nate says, catches his voice on his own breath. "Do you mind it here? Because--" Because what? You could leave? Brad knows that. Because we could change? They couldn't. Brad's silent, but his fingers tap out a rhythm against Nate's skin. He shuffles a bit, moves to try to find a more comfortable position. Once upon a time, they could sleep in MOPP suits, in holes scored in the desert landscape. Once upon a time.

"Nope." It's almost like a sigh. Brad doesn't stop tapping out his rhythm. He doesn't offer anything else.

Maybe it's enough. Brad rolls in closer, hand to Nate's stomach, now he's tapping out a guitar solo Nate can't pinpoint.

"Okay," Nate says. "Okay."

The alarm wakes Nate up, the insistent impersonal beeping that greets him six out of seven days. He takes a moment, stares up at the ceiling and resists the urge to curl further in the warmth of Brad beside him.

[Generation Kill] [Ray] become a storm

2012-09-18T15:36:17Z

Title: become a storm
Subject: Generation Kill | Ray
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The way light and darkness mix under my skin has become a storm. | Ray, post-Iraq.
Notes: For this prompt.
WC: 445

Ray wakes quickly, he's asleep and then he's not, he's wide awake and half out of bed, reaching for a gun that's not there, not even bothering to try and figure out what woke him up because he's so used to the answer being danger.

It takes him a moment, a moment of scrambling at his side and feeling air and not dirt and being naked, not in a MOPP suit, but he remembers that he's home. He's safe, safeish, safer because this neighbourhood isn't great but it's definitely not Iraq.

He misses waking up slowly. He misses waking up beside somebody, but he can't share a bed anymore, not yet at least, he tells himself it's a not yet because hell no, he is not letting the Corps fuck up the rest of his life.

It's still dark outside, but he's wide awake now. There's no point in going back to sleep. There's things to do - jobs to look for, moms to convince that everything's okay, ex-comrades to send emails that aren't funny to.

His roommate has left dishes on the side again. Ray can't find it in him to care. He used to care, because his momma had instilled a habit in him. He glances again, three plates, stacked by the sink. It doesn't seem worth the effort to care. His phone's blinking at him from where he'd left it last night, red light accusatory, bad friend, bad son, pull yourself together but it's just a photo of some chick's tits from Walt and two missed calls from his mom.

The news tells him about Iraq, pert blonde woman who's probably never seen anything more horrifying than a sad kitten reeling of a list of the dead with less concern than she'd have for her nails. Ray wants to punch her, he wants to pull her extensions out, he wants to make her fucking care.

That scares him. He was never a violent person. He never hit anyone until he joined the Corps. He'd been angry, sure, but he wasn't violent.

He turns to QVC, then he turns the TV off. Outside, something rackets the trash cans and a car backfires and his muscles tense and it's like he's waking up again, the mix of dejection and rage clouding his mind parting to make way for instinct until he smothers it down again, reminds himself he's not in fucking Iraq anymore.

Danger doesn't exist anymore, not in the way it had in Iraq, now the danger is him-fucking-self.

He wasn't trained to handle that.

[Prompts] 30 Prompts/30 Days - Round 3

2012-09-14T21:32:31Z

1. travel
2. poem
3. art
4. science fiction
5. photo
6. original
7. art
8. angels & demons
9. photo
10. poem
11. quote
12. an unresolved fight
13. utopia
14. image
15. 2 pieces of art (your choice): one | two
16. “mirror verse” - what’s good is bad, what’s bad is good; opposite of canon reality.
17. poem
18. major character death
19. fata organa
20. art
21. art
22. poem
23. photo
24. art
25. dog tags
26. photo
27. poem
28. song
29. 3 words (your choice):

Pyrrhic: of a victory, having high levels of casualties or damage on both sides
Elusive: difficult to find, catch, or achieve; avoiding or having a tendency to avoid or evade
Ambivalence: simultaneous, conflicted feelings towards a thing, person, etc.

30. photo

[Generation Kill] [Ensemble] On The Road

2012-09-09T19:56:19Z

Title: On The Road
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad, Ray, Nate, Walt, Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: "There's where we came from, but home is the bus." | Sequel to Lisztomania.
Notes: For the prompt "Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?"
WC: 531

They become familiar with cities through their gas stations and their arenas. Nate couldn't tell you what there is to do in Texas, but he could give you a rundown of the best and worst rest stops. Walt keeps a tally, for their next tour, he says, so they know where not to go so Brad doesn't spend hours bitching about the state of the bathrooms again.

Home seems like a faraway concept when you're drinking coffee at three AM in the twenty third gas station parking lot in three weeks. There is not home, not really, because they all gave up their apartments for the tour.

"There's where we came from," Brad says, hunched over into himself against the chill. "But home is the bus."

"That's depressing," Nate says. The coffee isn't even tolerable, it's awful, thick and bitter and closer to mud than any recognizable drink, but it's not the worst they've drunk recently.

"It could be worse." There's a bark of laughter from the other side of the bus, where Walt and Ray are tossing a football back and forth. "We could live in our parent's garage."

Walt's always the first up in the morning, wakes up with the sun just breaking on the horizon. He sets up breakfast - cooks bacon and eggs when he can, leaves a box of cereal on the table more often.

Ray's the last to wake, stumbling his way from his bunk closer to lunch time. Brad and Nate get up somewhere in between, Nate so he can watch the morning news and Brad just because.

"We should get a hotel room one night," Brad says, his legs twisted around Nate's, his body contorted, bent at the shoulders. "I just want to fuck you without thinking that Ray's probably on the other side of the curtain jerking off like the deranged hick he is."

There's a clatter of noise, a scuffle and then:

"I would never intrude on anyone's privacy like that, Bradley."

Ray is loud. He snores, he sings constantly, he farts, he burps, he whistles to himself - Ray is very rarely silent. Even when he's bone dead tired, so tired he can barely move, he still mumbles to himself, working out his thoughts in a quiet monotone. It doesn't take long for them to figure out that when Ray is silent, something is wrong.

"Brad is totally our mom," Ray says, slurping down his coffee. He smacks his lips, clatters the cup against the table. "Which I guess makes Nate our dad."

"Ray-"

"No, Brad, shut up, you're totally our mom." Nate's hiding a smile behind the lip of his mug, Walt is out right nodding.

"It's true," he says. "You're totally the mom." Brad is silent. He scowls at his cornflakes, ignores the brush of Nate's foot against his ankle. Ray slurps his coffee some more.

"You're both totally fucking grounded though," Brad finally says. "For talking smack to your mother."

[Generation Kill] [Brad/Nate] Lisztomania

2012-09-05T22:05:24Z

Title: Lisztomania
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It was Ray's idea, but Brad doesn't admit that easily.
Notes: For the prompt musician AU. It's...a musician AU! I like this verse this verse can stay.
WC: 629

It's the thrill of being on stage, with a guitar in his hands, with Walt at his back and Nate to his front and Ray...Ray's usually pretending to hump everyone. There's nothing better than that rush, than leaving everything else behind, all the bullshit, life, forgetting everything but the set list and the chords, thinking about nothing except when to let Nate get his breath and when to let Ray show off. It's like the best fuck, but better. It's like the best rush, but better. Drugs have nothing on it, nothing on the complete oblivion of just being on stage, performing to an audience of people who love you, and Brad's not a self absorbed man.

It was Ray's idea, but Brad doesn't admit that easily. Ray takes stock of their talents - Brad can play guitar decently, Walt's pretty good at drums, Nate's got a great voice even outside of the shower and Ray's passionate, at least. He ropes them into the garage, forces Brad to write songs and forces Nate to sing them and he sits back and takes the credit.

It wasn't Brad's thing at first, too much time spent with other people and not enough time spent alone, especially once Ray decided they had to go on tour, but he fell in love, with the sound, with the rush, with Nate, maybe, but Ray doesn't say anything about that in interviews. He's got some kind of self preservation urges left in him.

"You were awesome tonight," Nate says, slips into Brad's bunk. It's the only semblance of privacy they have these days, wedged in like sardine cans. "Hounds sounded amazing." There's a racket of noise coming from the front of the bus, machine guns and grenades and Walt's laughter and Ray cursing. It's almost a sanctuary, breathing in Nate's exhales, legs pulled up so he can fit on.

"Did you see the girl in the front row?" Brad asks. "She had your name on her tits." Nate shifts on the bed, tucks his legs up and fits them in the gap between Brad's, calf pressed to thigh, feet slotted underneath.

"I saw." Brad slides his hand along the seam of Nate's jeans, traces his calf, there's a hole growing in the knee. They can afford new jeans. Brad remembers when they couldn't, when it was a choice between food or electricity, another attempt at something like fame or having somewhere to sleep for the night. "I can't believe the tour's nearly over."

"I can't believe Ray's mom never washed his mouth out." Nate's hand settles over his, fingers interlocking. At the front of the bus, Walt laughs and Ray screams and the bus keeps on rolling.

Nate kisses him on stage and it's a protest, a statement and absolutely nothing at all. He's been on Brad's side of the stage all night, pressing into his space before moving away, some fucked up kind of the hokey pokey until, in the middle of Brad's solo in Dear Frederick, he straight up leans into Brad's space and kisses him. It's nothing special and it's nothing passionate but it's enough, and Brad screws up and the crowd screams and even over all the noise, Brad can hear Ray crowing with laughter - but Nate's grinning against his lips and stroking a hand along his arm and just for a moment, maybe, Brad can forgive Nate for the amount of attention this'll put on him.

[Generation Kill] [Brad/Nate] Let The Water

2012-08-29T16:26:46Z

Title: Let The Water
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: R
Summary: That should be awkward, being caught by your ex-girlfriend's brother while you break onto his property.
Notes: For the prompt shelter. Inspired by this film.
WC: 825

He sees Nate for the first time in years when he's breaking into Christy's backyard, and maybe that should be awkward, being caught by your ex-girlfriend's brother while you break onto his property but it's not, because Nate just grins and lets him into the garage to get his surfboard.

"I thought you were in L.A.," Brad says, tucking his surfboard under his arm. "Being a fucking hipster or whatever."

"Or whatever," Nate says. He glances after Brad, glances back to the corner where another surfboard sits before he shrugs. "Mind if I come?"

"Sure," Brad says, easy grin on his face, managing to look cool and relaxed, chilled out while standing up. "I need someone's ass to kick."

Nate slots himself into Brad's life like it's nothing, just slides right in there with breakfast and beers and surfing. He bridges the gap between Brad and Christy too, makes it something a little less than awkward when she comes home to Brad on her sofa, like the old times, except she's sneaking up to her bedroom with Ray, not Brad.

Nate slots himself into Brad's life and then he starts asking questions.

"I thought you wanted to join the Marines," he says one day, stretched out on the sand beside Brad. His skin his freckling, it's definitely browner than it had been last week and Brad doesn't want to think about how much attention he's been paying to notice that. "You're still living with your sister, right? What happened?"

"Things happened," Brad says. "Life."

"Was it Christy?" Nate asks, too blunt, too close to the truth that it makes Brad want to to curl in on himself. "It was fucked up what she did, you know-"

"Leave it, Nate." Brad keeps his fixed on the ocean, doesn't turn around at the click of Nate's teeth closing together, doesn't turn around when he hears Nate getting to his face, doesn't let himself tense when Nate rests his hand against Brad's shoulder for a moment.

"It's okay, Brad," Nate says, voice as soft as the hush of the sea. "It's okay." Except Brad is really sure it's not.

Brad kisses Nate.

It's something about the atmosphere or the beer coating his throat or just the way Nate looks at him, like he's got all the faith in the world and the only thing he believes in is Brad and he's happy with that. It's any of those things and it's just Brad, who thought, at first, that maybe he just wasn't over Christy, except Nate is nothing like Christy.

Brad doesn't know what it is, but it makes him kiss Nate, makes him lean over and cup his jaw and kiss him. Nate kisses him back and surely that should be enough, that Nate wants this too, that Nate wants to kiss Brad back, wants to touch him and - and - and -

Brad doesn't know shit, because he runs away. He says no like it hurts, because it does hurt, and he runs the fuck away, like a little girl, like a coward.

The sea takes him back, cradles him and coddles him and leaves him on the shore when he's done. It cleanses him, gives him time to clear his mind and time to forget everything except staying on the board because staying on the board is sometimes directly related to staying alive. It gives him peace and quiet then it lets him go, calmer but no cleverer.

Christy's waiting for him on the shore, sandals and a pastel peach cardigan and Brad wanted to marry her once, wanted to slide a golden ring onto her finger (because she thinks silver looks cheap) and marry her, even though Christina Colbert was always a strange sounding concept.

"Don't hurt him," she says, reaching for his hand. "I don't care what you do but don't hurt him," she says, holding on tight to him. He doesn't say you hurt me but she knows it, and she doesn't say I'm sorry, but he knows it.

Nate's hips are flush against his, his head tipped back, his throat bare, and Brad's heart is pounding like he's a scared virgin.

"Brad," Nate gasps, levering himself up, dropping himself down. Brad's hands scrabbled against his skin, desperate for purchase, his blunt nails leaving trails of pink against Nate's skin. "Brad.

The air is thick, it's hard to breathe, but everything is perfect, everything is perfect and Nate is rocking against him and Brad still doesn't know shit, but this is perfect.

[Generation Kill] [Brad/Nate] No Man Is An Island

2012-08-28T22:09:58Z

Title: No Man Is An Island
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Brad finds Nate on a ship headed for Guadalcanal.
Notes: Sequel to Exquise - WW2 AU, reincarnation/daemon verse. For the prompt "And then I saw him and nothing was ever the same again. The sky was never the same colour, the moon never the same shape: the air never smelt the same, food never tasted the same. Every word I knew changed its meaning, everything that once was stable and firm became as insubstantial as a puff of wind, and every puff of wind became a solid thing I could feel and touch.". Probably should have been a little angstier but I felt like being nice for once.
WC: 716

Brad finds Nate on a ship headed for Guadalcanal. He is Nate this time, full of loyalty and trust and grand ideas, pride and naivety and he's an officer again for the first time in a while. There's a photo in his cabin of him in his dress uniform, Iolanthe pride of place on his shoulder and it makes Brad's heart swell. He doesn't say anything, doesn't even smile, just turns back to Nate, his Lieutenant now, and lets Portia nuzzle against his knee.

"I've been assured that you're the go to man for advice," Nate says, leaning against his desk. He's smiling at Brad like - like the time in London Brad thinks, before he shoves that thought away, keeps it locked away - like they're going on an adventure or a trip and not to war. "Off the record, of course. Smith only had good things to say about you."

"I try to make myself useful," Brad says, carding his fingers through Portia's fur.

"I'll bear that in mind," Nate says. It's strange to salute Nate after so long. It's strange to see Nate after so long. He wouldn't ever say it, wouldn't know how to say it - how do you explain reincarnation, soulmates, immortality, all in one go without sounding completely insane - but he's missed Nate, missed Nate in the past six lifetimes in which Nate existed but not Nate. That alone is hard enough to explain, how Brad can be Brad, always and how Nate can be Nate but not always.

He doesn't say anything at all. He smiles and leaves and he goes to his bunk and he pointedly does not think of where this could go.

Guadalcanal is hell on Earth. Guadalcanal breaks Nate's spirits, crushes it into tiny pieces and all Brad can do is stand back and watch and try and distract his men from noticing that their commander is falling apart.

"It's not your fault," Brad says, already knowing it's gone over Nate's head. Nate has been shaped differently in this life but he's still Nate, and it's not your fault means nothing. "This is just bullshit."

"This is war," Nate says, shrugs his shoulders. The rain seems to drum down harder, dripping through a hole in the patchwork of Nate's tent. They listen to it for a moment, listen to the men outside gossiping like their mothers. Iolanthe chirps, like she's trying to cheer Nate up too. "Brad," Nate says and he sounds so fucking broken that all Brad knows how to do is lean forward and kiss him and hope, hope desperately, that this goes well.

Nate's hands fist in the collar of Brad's shirt and for a moment, he's certain he's going to be pulled back and punched, shot if he's terribly unlucky, but Nate just lets out a sob of breath and kisses him back, hard and violent and their teeth clash. He curls into Brad like he's shelter from the rain, the weather, the war and keeps his hands tight on him, even when he pulls away to breathe.

"This is okay," he says, voice faint and fragile like he's not sure. "Right?"

"Right," Brad says, dots a kiss to the rough edge of Nate's jaw, slips his teeth against it for a moment. "Right."

They survive, make it through The Pacific and the war and they survive. They leave people behind, memories behind, they leave a little bit of health behind and they're both scarred and battered and bruised, but they've slotted together, just like they're supposed to.

"I heard that you're good for advice," Nate says, leaning against his desk. He can't keep a smile off of his face. The ship chugs onwards, headed for home, headed for a lot of things and a lot of nothing.

"I try to make myself useful," Brad says, and cards his fingers through Nate's, just because he can.

[Generation Kill] [Ray/Walt] Wishbone

2012-08-24T16:13:28Z

Title: Wishbone
Subject: Generation Kill | Walt, Ray, kinda Ray/Walt
Rating: PG
Summary: He's probably just projecting.
Notes: Weird format, weird verse, I'm not even sorry. For a combination of prompts: “I know you're fine, but what do I do?" & gif & art. Last two from delamuse.
WC: 432

The gas mask has left bruises on Ray's face, wide strips of not-quite blue cupping the side of his face like hands.

They're like rough kisses of safety, Walt thinks. Because his momma used to hold him there and kiss his forehead. Years ago now.

The mask's in his hands now, swinging loosely, barely resting on his finger tips, swaying, desolate and hopeful all in one go.

He's probably just projecting.

The bunker is cold and later, they'll press together, feet against calves and arms so tangled they won't know which belongs to who, save for the black markings on one set and the innocent, naive paleness of the other. It will be for warmth, not romance, but it's easy to pretend when your breath is mingling and it's like you're the only two people left alive -

That might be the case these days. He doesn't think about that.

It's not romance and it never will be romance but Walt's downfall always was his imagination, bullet wounds blooming into something else, images trapped behind his eyelids, technicolour wonder.

He blames Iraq for the way he feels. Not the way anything that sounds like a gun makes him twitch or the way he wakes up shaking more often than not, still. He doesn't blame Iraq for that. He blames Iraq for the way looking at Ray is like curling up in a patch of sunlight and having the shit kicked out of him at the same time.

Ray's quieter these days. War and Ripped Fuel and alcohol and drugs will do that to you. He doesn't talk so much, doesn't ramble on. He speaks when he's spoken to and he'll share thoughts but there's a reason for everything.

Walt longs for a conspiracy theory in the same way he longs for everything to be some fucked up nightmare.

It doesn't help that most days, they keep their gas masks on nearly twenty hours a day. They were rusty at first, but the old training kicked in, into a gas mask in less than ten seconds. The alarms still work and maybe they don't need masks in a shelter, but they wear them anyway. Ray doesn't trust the ventilation.

Walt doesn't trust the government.

They sleep curled around each other, gas masks clenched in hands and Walt falls asleep to the sound of Ray's deep breathing, secure in the knowledge that Ray, at least, is okay.

Walt isn't.

[Generation Kill] [Brad/Nate] Still Standing

2012-08-23T22:51:45Z

Title: Still Standing
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: PG
Summary: Choking, not breathing.
Notes: Sequel to Catamaran and Reflex. HS!AU except now they've graduated! So. Not really! For the prompt Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers; it starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters. TY to Nadia for helping me brainstorm a little <3
WC: 499

It's not like the burning anger of Amber breaking up with him for Stephen, Nate saying I got accepted to Dartmouth is harder than that, it pulls at his stomach and he chokes on his words and he doesn't want to say it, but his eyes are burning.

But, he wants to say, that's too far away. But, he wants to say, that's not what I had planned.

He doesn't say either of those things because they leave the bitter taste if you're too fucking weak, Brad in his mouth and that's worse than the choking.

"I guess that's it then," he says, instead. "Was it even worth the effort?" he says and slams the door behind him before Nate can barely say his name.

Ray gets him drunk, drags him down to the cove between their houses and plies him with cheap vodka he bought with his new fake ID and expensive whiskey he stole from his step-dad's liquor cabinet until Brad is alternating between wanting to bitch about Nate and wanting to punch Ray for bitching about Nate.

They sleep on the beach, curled up in their shorts and t-shirts between the rocks and Brad's head pounds in the morning. He's not quite sure how to say thank you and I needed that so he claps Ray on the back and buys him pancakes for breakfast and he goes home. Head still spinning, he signs the paperwork that's been sitting on his desk for a few weeks.

He avoids Nate, doesn't run past his house, doesn't answer his texts, doesn't hang out with Ray and Walt if they're with Nate. He pushes himself physically, focuses on the near constant burn in his biceps instead of the way the choking feeling refuses to go away.

Nate comes to him a couple of times, sits out on the curb like they used to but Brad ignores him, ignores his sister coming in with that look on her face and ignores the way she says Brad like she's sick of it. She doesn't know what there is to be sick of.

He pushes himself, and he doesn't think of Nate, packing his bags to move to the other side of the country. Walt and Ray leave him to it.

He tells his parents about the Marines over dinner and his dad is proud and his mom is worried and that's the way it's supposed to be. His mom asks what Nate's doing and Brad shrugs his shoulders like he doesn't know and Sarah tuts like she does but nobody asks.

The summer ends and Nate goes and Brad's waiting, waiting for San Diego and a future different to Nate's and slowly, he's forgetting what it's like to breathe normally.

[Teen Wolf] [Derek, Stiles] Friendship Is Magic

2012-08-21T15:31:16Z

Title: Friendship is Magic
Subject: Teen Wolf | Derek, Stiles.
Rating: PG
Summary: Being a werewolf meant never needing words.
Notes: Not actually a crack fic, I just couldn't think of a title ok. Prompt was "That's what people do who love you. They put their arms around you and love you when you're not so lovable." but yeah I just kind of went nowhere near that?
WC: 334

Being a werewolf meant never needing words. All through his childhood, Derek had never had to say I'm sad or I'm angry or I don't know what I feel, I don't know if this is anger or self loathing or sadness because there'd always been someone close by who just knew, who could feel it already, the roil and the wrench and the bottom dropping out of his stomach.

Being around humans, even just Lydia and Stiles, meant he couldn't just rely on those feelings, his instincts, it meant words, it meant that Stiles, with his surplus of words, felt strange to him, foreign. He's never quite sure what to do with Stiles, the constant noise unnecessary, annoying, distracting, the chatter that shrouds are you okay and it's cool if you're not and I'm not either pointless.

"Oprah says you should talk about your feelings," Stiles says. "So if you wanted to talk about the fact you just literally ripped someone's head off - which was pretty freaking awesome by the way - you could."

There's a beat, a second of silence.

"Because that's what friends do," Stiles says. "Buddies, comrades, people who occasionally save the world from a certain doom together. Whatever."

"Stiles," he says, tries to keep his voice level, average, calm.

"Are you going to tell me to shut up?" Stiles' knee is bouncing where he sits, jittering, not enough adderall or maybe just the adrenaline Derek can still smell pouring off of him. "Are you going to glower and say it like you're thinking about ripping out my vocal chords?"

"Stiles," he says, plows on through the chattering. "I'm okay."

Stiles mouth shuts with a click of teeth against teeth and he nods, knee still bouncing, smiling just a little to himself.

[Generation Kill] [Brad/Nate Genderswap] The Right Things To Say

2012-08-20T20:15:03Z

Title: The Right Things To Say
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate, vaguely implied Ray/Walt - all genderswapped.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: An out of place puzzle piece.
Notes: Inspired by this poem and also the prompt genderswap from delamuse. For reference - Nate -> Nat(alie), Brad -> Bri(anne), Ray -> Rae, Walt -> Wallis. Also the USMC is ALL LADIES ALL THE TIME.
WC: 416

She's never quite sure where she fits in with Bri, with her cool confidence, with her honesty, with her quick witted intelligence now that she's out of the Corps. It had been easier then, a Lieutenant and a Sergeant, perfectly clear parameters in which to operate. There'd always been a little blurring of the lines; Bri had more experience after all, a little more on the job knowledge but still, she'd still been in charge.

It's not about power, it's not, it's about knowing where she stands. It's easier for everyone else; Rae's the annoying best friend, if Bri ever were to have a best friend, and Wallis balances Rae out, and Nat stands at the edges, sleeves too long, feeling too young, a roil of feelings she's compartmentalized and tries to ignore deep in her stomach.

It's easier when Bri goes back to Iraq; she's the friend waiting, except Bri doesn't have friends. The feelings don't go away, but they're easier to cope with when she doesn't hear Bri or see Bri, when she's got things to do and people to distract her, when the ache to touch and to tell can't be there because there's noone to touch and noone to tell. It's easier when Bri gets back and meets a man, tall and clever just like her, a match for her in the way nobody else is, just as anti-social and quietly angry as Bri and Nat can't help but think they're perfect and I'm glad for you, don't look at me like that Bri, it's great and she doesn't choke, ever, because she's better than that, better than the hard point in her throat that wants to say no, it's awful because he's not me, Bri, don't you get it? and wants to say you're so intelligent but you're so fucking stupid and she's better than the voice in her head that says of course she knows.

She's better than that and maybe, one day, this will all seem silly. Maybe, one day, she won't feel like a puzzle piece squeezed into the wrong place, a patch of green just like the others, but with round corners when square are called for.

[Generation Kill] [Brad/Nate] Of Things That Break & Untitled

2012-08-17T16:03:10Z

Title: Of Things That Break
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: You are tired, (I think), of the always puzzle of living and doing; And so am I.
Notes: For this prompt; not even sure what this verse is anymore.
WC: 466

He lets Nate sleep, sits and stares out of the window and times his breaths with Nate's, a long inhale, a beat, a slow exhale. Nate's duffel bag is on the end of the bed, unpacked, unopened, almost forgotten.

The air hangs heavy for now, the bitter taste of words unsaid caught in Brad's throat. He hadn't known what to say when he'd opened the door to find Nate, a duffel bag and that stupid hopeful expression Brad had thought he'd never have to see again. Nate hadn't said anything either, he'd just shrugged, curled his shoulders inwards and looked like he was so close to passing out. There'd been nothing to say with Nate barely standing straight.

He curls his toes into the bedsheets and wishes for bunks, wishes for a foot locker, wishes for somewhere else to sit. Anywhere but this close to Nate.

The sun has risen by the time Nate wakes up, curls up, stretches his shoulders and nudges his knuckles into the headboard and finally, slowly, opens his eyes. He looks confused for a moment, blinks blearily up at Brad but the fog seems to clear. He rubs at his eyes and says nothing.

"What are you doing here?" Brad says, stands up and moves himself away from Nate, finally, puts space back in between them. He'd get out of the house entirely if he could, run away, get away from Nate and everything Nate means, everything Nate is. "I'm an enemy of the state, you can't be here." It doesn't hurt to say anymore. It doesn't squeeze at his heart and his lungs and his stomach the way it once had. It's just a fact.

He's Brad Colbert. He's thirty four. He has two sisters, a mother and a father. He likes speed and tech. He doesn't drink coffee. He's an enemy of the state.

"I-" Nate says, shakes his head, licks at his lips. "I missed you," he says, and Brad doesn't let that make him happy. "Ray told me you'd be here."

"You shouldn't have come," Brad says, turns his back and turns away and Nate says Brad, calls his name like it's all he has and he sounds broken, broken and hurt and lost and that, that grips Brad like ice, that makes his stomach drop and his heart hammer because Nate shouldn't, there's no reason for him to sound like that, he's Nate Fick, he stands up for what he believes in and he always knows what believes in and-

"Brad, I left," he says. "I left too."

Title: Untitled
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Back story to Of Things That Break. Idk, I was trying to figure out the verse.
WC: 336

Brad meets Nathaniel (call me Nate) Fick on a Tuesday. He shakes his hand and he doesn't smile and he doesn't laugh when Ray says looks like our commander is a thirteen year old, homes and forget rolling into battle with a sword, Brad, we're going to fight the God damn Kars with pacifiers and nap time but he thinks Ray might have a point.

At least, he thinks Ray might have a point until he hacks the databank and finds Nate's credentials.

They go to war on a Wednesday. They do nothing for weeks and weeks and Nate desperately tries to keep morale up, doesn't push them too hard and doesn't give them shit about leaving their shirts untucked. He trains with them and eats the same shitty food as them and he joins in the chess tournaments and let's everyone kick his ass. Slowly, everyone falls in love him, though they'd never say that - except for Ray, who proposes at least three times a day. At best, most people will offer that he's competent. Brad never says anything, keeps it to himself and ignores the looks Nate sends his way.

They go to battle on a Thursday and Nate is everything Brad hadn't expected. He commands the crew like he was born to it, pilots the ship when Ray needs sleep like he knows how much Brad hates to. Brad doesn't want to know if he does.

They go home on a Friday, and that's when Brad notices the pattern, staring at a calendar covered in kittens in his sister's kitchen.

He doesn't kiss Nate on a Saturday on purpose. He leaves it to a Monday, presses Nate to his desk and kisses him like he means it and smirks when Nate says well that was out of left field because it wasn't, it really fucking wasn't.

[Generation Kill] [Brad/Nate] Exquise

2012-08-16T15:56:44Z

Title: Exquise
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Be careful of lonesome roads, men who travel them will not know of your ways. | sparrow and the wolf.
Notes: For this prompt, a combination day too, with La Doleur Exquise: The heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have. from delamuse. Um, reincarnation daemon verse? fuck if I know.
WC: 389

For a moment, Portia's attention is caught, her ears pricked, staring down the cobbled pathways spreading out ahead of them. It takes a breath, barely a whistle, for her to turn back to Brad. For a second, she nuzzles against the tips of his fingers, her nose cold and wet against the pads of his hands.

"He's not here," she says. "The boy with the bird."

"He'd be a man now," Brad says, cards his fingers through her fur, lets her ground her in this moment. "It's been a long time."

"We'll find him." The wind blows, the smell of honeysuckle twisting and winding. A bakery is opening their windows, getting ready for the day. Bread is baking and people are waking and Brad is lost, though he'd never say it aloud. "I'm sure we will."

"Not that I don't respect the infinite wisdom of the Corps, sir," Brad says, keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon and not on Nate, Nate who is, for once, Nate. "But I have a wolf to fit into these tin cans." Nate's bird, Iolanthe, is fluttering her wings, preening as she rests on Nate's shoulder, claws tight against the camo. Portia barks a laugh, startles Trombley's Nash from her perch on the hood.

"Marines make do," Nate says, but he's smiling, Brad knows he's smiling because it's so hard to focus on the horizon with a sand dusted Nate so close, so close for the first time in a long time. "Give her the backseat."

"He already does," Ray crows. "We all suffer because Bradley here is a dick sucking show off and had to have a God damn wolf for a daemon." Brad doesn't even take the chance to tell him to shut up, too fixed on the curve of Nate's smile and the golden hue of his skin. It's been too long.

They do find Nate, but he's not Nate in this life time. He's Gus. He's bright green eyes and a quick wit and Iolanthe on his shoulder, but he's not Nate. He's not Nate and this isn't a world for Brad, not anymore.

[Generation Kill] [Brad/Nate] sun cut ribbons

2012-08-15T15:00:55Z

Title: sun cut ribbons
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Life goes on.
Notes: Inspired by we don't eat by james vincent mcmorrow. assasins!verse because i love it more than air. same verse as of the wild ones, fever and the sound of silence.
WC: 408

Brad leaves and life goes on. It's Brad, there's no drama, no nothing, a letter to Godfather and a quiet I'm sorry with moonlight on his face and then there's nothing. There's a bed made for two and too much food and a basket full of laundry that Nate forgets to get done.

Life goes on, but the road changes. Nate doesn't take assignments anymore. He doles them out, watches other people put their lives at risk. He doesn't take on any mentorships, gives them to Walt and Rudy and Mike and watches them take men and women under their wings, watches them shape people the way he'd shaped Brad.

He doesn't keep the better assignments in a separate folder anymore. He doesn't give anyone a choice. He doesn't ever think Brad would love this.

He forgets when he orders a pizza that the usual means a six cheese and buffalo chicken. He forgets that he's never liked Heineken.

He talks to himself, because there's nobody else to talk to. He gets a dog, a ridiculous labrador mix with floppy ears and a stupid grin and he calls it Helios and there's nobody there to laugh at him so he does it himself. It's not the same.

A year passes and Nate adjusts. He sees a woman for a month or two, she's smart and she's gorgeous and she's funny and she's the sort of woman that Nate had once seen himself marrying. He can't imagine it now, the wedding, the children. It ends amicably. They have coffee once a week and Nate will one day go to her wedding to a man nothing like him.

He eats alone. He walks Helios. He goes to work.

He sees Ray shot and he tries to find a way to tell Brad, a phone number, email, social networking, anything, but there's nothing.

Ray gets better without Brad and Nate doesn't. Ray retires and Nate doesn't. He watches Ray and Walt go and he ignores the grey hairs starting to come in and he doesn't call what he's doing waiting.

Brad comes back and life goes on. It's Brad, there's no drama, no nothing. Nate comes home from work and Brad is on his sofa, paler, hair shorter, Helios drooling against his his thigh and there's a quiet I'm sorry with sunlight in his eyes. There's a bed made for two and never enough food and the laundry always gets done.

[Generation Kill] [Brad/Nate] Reflex

2012-08-14T16:05:15Z

Title: Reflex
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: They're tangled together, Brad's legs locked over his, their feet curling together over the edge of the bed.
Notes: For this prompt. I kind of went with summer and sleep and yes? Same verse as Catamaran. Had to write this in the LJ post entry box so excuse any weird formatting/abysmal spelling.
Word count: 634

Nate wakes with the sun, sweat already beading on his back where Brad's arm rests. His legs are baking beneath the sheets, a combination of too fucking hot outside and Brad's body heat radiating against him. They're tangled together, Brad's legs locked over his, their feet curling together over the edge of the bed.

For a moment, Nate closes his eyes again, shuts out the light and the coming day. Brad'll wake up soon, always up early, always wide awake the moment he wakes up. They'll spend the morning together and then Nate's parents are home, back from a week away and it'll be back to pretending Brad is just a friend, that Brad sleeps on the floor when he's over. Nate squeezes his eyes shut and doesn't think about that.

He drifts, wakes again with Brad pressing a kiss to his shoulder and the sun shining brighter through his curtains.

"I gave you half an hour," Brad's saying as he rolls over Nate, hovers above him for a second before he lands on the floor. "Get up. We're going for a run." By the time Nate rolls onto his side, rolls himself up into a sitting position, Brad's already got his running shorts on, low on his hips, no shirt, just the sharp relief of his hips and the lines of his abs.

Nate doesn't say it's too hot for a run or it's too early or go by yourself as he pulls his shorts and sneakers on, but he tries to think it loudly. Brad just watches him, sour faced like Nate taking the time to tie his laces is personally hurting him.

It is too hot to run, even if the sun's barely in the sky. They're sweating by the time they reach the end of the street but Brad twists their usual routes, pushes them down towards the beach and the salty breeze coming off of it. It's almost cool, almost refreshing, the same way the spray catching at their ankles makes it almost okay. Brad keeps on though, a punishing pace most of the way, sending glances over his shoulder if Nate backs off, doesn't quite keep up. For the most part, Nate ignores him, focuses on the dimples at the base of Brad's back and the line of his spine and the way his muscles flex as he runs.

"You're getting slow," Brad says, later, settling himself on the sand. Nate sprawls out beside him, chest pressed to the sand, head pillowed on his hands.

"You're getting too fast," Nate says, nudges at Brad's thigh with his elbow. "You should try out for track in September."

"No." End of discussion. "I have computer club." Nate snorts at that, doesn't even try to bite back the laugh.

"You hate computer club." He squints up as Brad, sunlight harsh in his eyes. Brad's staring out over the sea, deep in thought or possibly just thinking about what he wants for breakfast. It's hard to know with Brad, sometimes.

"I hate the people in computer club," Brad mutters, stretches out and lays down on his back. He keeps five inches between them, ignores Nate's outstretched arm. "They're fucking retards. The computers are fine." There's nothing to say to that - because sure, Brad hangs out with some of the guys from computer club, Ray's something almost like his best friend but -

Well. Brad summed it up well enough.

"We should head back," Brad says, getting to his feet. He pulls Nate up after him, rolls his eyes when Nate trudges slowly on. "We should go in your pool when we get back," he adds and for a moment, he leans against Nate, brushes their hands together and twists his fingers around Nate's.

"Sounds good," Nate says, and holds on tighter.

[Generation Kill] [Nate] Untitled

2012-08-13T13:43:31Z

Title: Untitled
Subject: Generation Kill | Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Random free write. Fuck knows what's going on tbh. Post-nuclear apocalyptic verse, I guess? No editing, I've not even reread it, nothing.
Notes: Technically for this prompt. I just stuck the music on and wrote. It was kind of nice to start with a free write bc a lot of time on the last 30 days I got so frustrated with shitty writing, wheras the precedent set with this is abysmal writing that hasn't even been looked over again.

In his weaker moments, he longs for the safety of the shelter. The cafeteria line, his mom and her records, the shaky metal steps, the constant maintenance work needed. He longs for his library, his room, his bed.

The wasteland has nothing. No cafeteria, no mom, no music unless he can get a radio signal. It's rare though. The only thing he has to maintain out here are his guns. He has no books, no room, no bed.

He has sand and ammo and bottles of water and whatever food he can scrounge. He has things to trade and nobody to trade them with. He has anti-radiation pills, just in case. He has a world ahead of him.

He drifts through towns, introduces himself to people in bars (Nate, from shelter M-13, nice to meet you) and motels and he listens to their stories and doesn't share one in return. He meets women with pretty smiles and gentle hands and he apologizes when he leaves.

They ask him what he's looking for. He tells them he doesn't know. Shrugs his shoulders and says I'm not quite sure yet and they laugh and they call him naive and he just smiles because he's heard that one before.

He spends some nights in caves, curled up into himself in a desperate search for warmth. He waits out rain and snow and cold and he doesn't light fires because he knows what's out there but he doesn't know, and he'd rather not risk it, not yet. He never has enough ammo.

He dreams of home, of dark corridors, of the warmth beneath the ground, of his mom and his sisters and a half-remembered father. He dreams of friends and understanding and the same books he'd grown up, the same music, the same people. He dreams of going forwards.

He goes forwards.

[masterpost] 30 Day Challenge R1 fics.

2012-08-10T15:21:26Z

Doctor Who/Generation Kill Fusion
Orange Sky
Brad, Nate | PG | "What do you want to see?" Nate asks.

Generation Kill
Anywhere But Here
Brad/Nate | PG | It's easier to pretend there was nothing between them when Brad stays in the corps and Nate doesn't.
hazy sunshine & the smell of home
Brad/Nate | PG-13 | Nate can't remember when it became a thing for him to spend the summer in California.
Submarine
Ray/Walt | PG-13 | They didn't talk in Iraq, and they don't talk now.

Assassin Verse
Of The Wild Ones
Brad/Nate | PG-13 | It's one way of making the world a better place.
Fever
Brad/Nate | R | The sun rising behind their backs, endless road stretching out in front of them.
The Sound Of Silence
Brad, Nate | PG-13 | It's you or him.

Fallout Verse
A Backwards Walk
Brad, Nate | PG-13 | When the man walks into camp, Nate isn't quite sure what to think of him.
On The Town
Ray/Walt | R | When the troopers come to town, Walt's pretty sure he's the only one that doesn't mind so much.
Strangeland
Brad/Nate | PG-13 | The first time Nate presses his hands to Brad's tattoo, he flinches away.

Ghost Verse
Haunting These Halls
Nate | PG | It must be a prank, a joke, a coincidence.

Highschool Verse
Catamaran
Brad/Nate | NC-17 | Poetry traces under his thumbs. | AO3

Medieval Verse
our own world
Brad/Nate | PG-13 | "King Nathaniel," Brad says.

Space AUs
Surface Tension
Nate | PG-13 | Colony Mathilda is a shithole, there's no way else to put it.
The Sea Won't Bring You Home
Nate | PG-13 | On his 103rd Monday, rain hammers down, turns the dusty streets to muddy streets and there's no chance of anyone coming back.

Vampire Verse
with the black sky
Brad/Nate | PG-13 | This is something fucking up his life just because it can.
mercy
Brad, Nate | PG-13 | He tries not to think that he's harbouring an enemy, he calls it giving a friend a place to stay instead.

Werewolf Verse
Search & Destroy
Ensemble | PG | The house had been beautiful once, mint green siding, candy coloured motifs and a porch ringed with flowers.

Harry Potter
Let Go
James/Teddy | PG-13 | The door shuts behind Teddy and it's not the first time but it's probably the last time.
of collision in the dark
James/Teddy | PG-13 | It's not enough.

Muggle/Modern AU
Life Doesn't Stop
Godric, Salazar | PG | You never really expect them to leave.

Myth Verse
Winter Bones
James/Teddy | PG | The Fates don't fall in love.

Supernatural Creature Verse
Morning Moon
Godric, Salazar | PG-13 | The smell of blood is thick in the air, fighting and pushing at Godric's senses.
Wars
Godric/Salazar | PG | "Couldn't get enough of me, huh?"

Third Wizarding War Verse
Paper Thin
James/Teddy | PG | They run.

Original
Black Dirt
Unnamed OCs | PG | A demon, a white woman, a shifter.
Sinking & Descent
Silas, Myrna | PG | Silas wakes up to the flash of LED lights over his skin, red, red, blue, red, selling booze or cigarettes or sex or maybe all three at once.

Teen Wolf
Canal
Lydia | PG-13 | She doesn't need a shrink to know she has coping mechanisms.
What Fast Is
Derek/Stiles | PG-13 | It meant three feet of distance between them.

Zombie Apocalypse Verse
Desperate Hours
Derek/Stiles | R | Scott died first. Scott came back first. Allison shot Scott first, point blank range, blood and brains everywhere. | AO3

[prompts] 30 Prompts/30 days - ROUND 2

2012-08-09T23:56:24Z

1. compilation
2. quote
3. song
4. photo
5. photo
6. "I like you. People say I’ve got no taste, but I like you."
7. song
8. poem
9. "That's what people do who love you. They put their arms around you and love you when you're not so lovable."
10. quote
11. "Be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers; it starts so soft and sweet and turns them to hunters."
12. “I know you're fine, but what do I do?"
13. photo
14. fusion
15. poem
16. "And then I saw him and nothing was ever the same again. The sky was never the same colour, the moon never the same shape: the air never smelt the same, food never tasted the same. Every word I knew changed its meaning, everything that once was stable and firm became as insubstantial as a puff of wind, and every puff of wind became a solid thing I could feel and touch."
17. shelter
18. Write a story that starts as the sun goes down and ends as the sun rises.
19. gif
20. road trip
21. song
22. “We laugh and laugh, and nothing can ever be sad, no one can be lost, or dead, or far away: right now we are here, and nothing can mar our perfection, or steal the joy of this perfect moment.”
23. fanmix
24. musician AU
25. A young person wakes up in a place where everyone knows them, but they doesn’t know anyone.
26. first anniversary
27. "Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?"
28. photo
29. poem
30. photo

[Generation Kill] [Brad, Nate] The Sound Of Silence

2012-08-09T23:06:07Z

Title: The Sound Of Silence
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad, Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: It's you or him.
Notes: Inspired by this song. LAST DAY OF THE 30 DAYS OMG. Sequel to of the wild ones and fever. Idgaf i love this verse. DON'T KILL ME NADIA.

It wasn't supposed to end like this.

Nate doesn't know how it was supposed to end, he hadn't thought that far ahead but it wasn't supposed to end like this, with the barrel of a gun at his temple and Brad turned away from him, arms bleeding.

Nate doesn't need to be able to see him to know what Brad looks like. He knows the set of Brad's lips, the hooded eyes, completely emotionless, completely stoic.

"It's you or him," The Man says, Jack or Noah or Micheal or X, depending on the day, depending on who you ask. Nate doesn't want to give him a name. He's less human without a name. That's how it works.

"Me," Nate says. He watches the clench of Brad's fists behind his back, undoubtedly the only hint of emotion he'll show.

"Me," Brad says.

Today wasn't even supposed to end like this. It was meant to be an easy kill. It was meant to be done in five minutes, home in time for the nine o'clock news, in bed by midnight. The information Scwetje pressed into their hands, manila folder stamped with the date in red already creased, should have been right.

At least, Nate thinks, the press of the gun still too close for comfort, Schwetje will be fired for this. It's a small comfort as Brad repeats himself.

"Me," Brad says. "He doesn't-"

He catches himself, Nate imagines he can hear the click of his teeth as he slams his mouth shut.

He wants to know what Brad was going to say. The gun at his temple trembles.

"I think," The Man says. "I'll just kill both of you." The gun stills. Nate tenses. Brad clenches his fist, blood falling like tears to the floor.

A shot rings out. The room goes dark.

[Generation Kill] [Brad/Nate] Fever

2012-08-08T22:16:56Z

Title: Fever
Subject: Generation Kill | Brad/Nate
Rating: R
Summary: The sun rising behind their backs, endless road stretching out in front of them.
Notes: For the prompt criminal AU. Um. It's set in the same verse as of the wild ones which is how it's a criminal au okay THIS IS JUST CLEVER INTERPRETATION.

They take a vacation, drive up to the lakes on Brad's bike, enough clothes for the weekend stuffed into a rucksack, everything else left behind. No phones, no books, no laptops, no guns. They borrow Mike's cabin, promise to leave it in good condition and set out, the sun rising behind their backs, endless road stretching out in front of them.

They swim, cannonball into the depths and float and stare up at the sky and share the shower afterwards. Nate mouths to conserve water to the arch of Brad's spine, to save the planet as he traces the muscle of Brad's thighs.

They eat cereal for breakfast and sandwiches for lunch and more cereal for dinner. They drink lukewarm beer and sit on the porch and pass cigarettes back and forth and they don't say much. They don't talk about work or Ray's new plan or Schwetje's latest fuck up and they don't talk about the assignments waiting for them on Nate's desk.

They sleep on the floor, Nate's head pillowed on Brad's bicep, Brad's leg curled around Nate's. They get bitten by mosquitoes and they stink of Aloe and Nate's skin freckles. They swim and they sleep and they fuck, gentle kisses and rough hands against thighs and Nate's knees blossoming with bruises and rug burn on the back of Brad's neck.

They listen to Elvis cassettes because it's all they have and Brad misses the internet and Nate misses his books and neither of them admit they wouldn't rather be anywhere else.

The weekend ends and they repack their things, lose three pairs of socks and lose a pair of shorts. The sun shines against the bike as they set off, the black paint getting too hot to the touch, the road not so endless this time.

[Generation Kill] [Nate] The Sea Won't Bring You Home

2012-08-07T15:45:47Z

Title: The Sea Won't Bring You Home
Subject: Generation Kill | Nate, vaguely implied Brad/Nate
Rating: PG-13
Summary: On his 103rd Monday, rain hammers down, turns the dusty streets to muddy streets and there's no chance of anyone coming back.
Notes: Inspired by this poem. Kind of a weird Space AU, I guess.

The main street sits quiet, doors boarded over, shutters down. It's like the entire town is on vacation, everyone up and gone for warmer climes. It's a sign of the times. It's like being king of the world. It's like being so impossibly lonely.

The wind sings, whistles it's way through the buildings and still he stands. He's waiting for something. He's been waiting for a while now. He's patient. He doesn't strain to hear the hum of engines any more. He's stopped dreaming about them.

On his 103rd Monday, rain hammers down, turns the dusty streets to muddy streets and there's no chance of anyone coming back.

He sits inside the house he'd claimed as his. He reads New World by Francis J. Aberjiany for the thirty-third time. He watches the rain and doesn't think about the way the sky lights up when it rains back home. He prunes the flowers growing out of control in the conservatory and not for the first time, wishes he knew what they were. He writes a poem and throws it away. He writes a page in his journal. He's come a long way from his first entries, come a long way from hoping for rescue. He thinks about writing a book; a man stranded on an evacuated planet. He thinks he'll write about a woman being evacuated instead. He thinks he'll write about the war he's not fighting.

One day, the sun shines and shadows flit across the atmosphere. Another evacuation, more soldiers rolling out, he can only guess. The radios don't work here. He hasn't heard music in too long. He doesn't know if the war is even over.

He's never slept alone before. Growing up, he'd shared a room with his brother. He'd gone to university and shared a room there. He joined the Galactic Corps and shared rooms with between two and thirty men. He became an officer and shared a room with one. He'd fallen in love and shared a room with another.

It's an education, sleeping alone.

He doesn't like it, not even a bit.

He doesn't think about who he left behind. He doesn't wonder if they're sharing a new bed with someone else.

They come for him on the 204th week of his unintentional exile. He spends most of his day watching shadows and not hoping.

At first, he thinks he's imagining the engines. He blames the wind. But the shadow gets darker and the engines get louder and then a ship is landing, tiny and fragile, slap bang between the grocery store and the pharmacy and he still doesn't let himself hope, he thinks scavengers and not friend but he stands there and watches anyway.

The hatch descends, shadows and darkness but then, then, then there's Brad, standing there, an eyebrow raised and arms crossed over his chest.

"You chose the worst vacation spot," he says.

"It was peaceful," Nate says and his heart stammers because he must be dreaming, he must be dreaming, but Brad looks so real but he smells different and he's more muscular and there's a flash of dark ink beneath his sleeve and-

Nate hugs him. He's not sure if he's ever going to let go.