(Supernatural, Gen, 370 words)
“Sammy,” Dean started, enough hesitance in his voice to let Sam know exactly where his loyalties lay, and Sam exploded.
“No! No, Dean, fuck you,” he snapped, “I don’t care, okay? I don’t care what Dad says or what Uncle Bobby thinks or…or…any of it. I didn’t make her up. She’s real.”
Dean’s face was a mask, wiped blank and emotionless and his eyes were guarded in a way Sam had seen more times than he could count, although this was the first time he remembered that hooded look being aimed in his direction (and that hurt more than he was willing to admit to). Dean spread his hands helplessly, “Then how come none of us have seen her, Sammy?”
“I don’t know.” There was something sharp and bitter burning at the back of Sam’s throat and he swallowed uselessly against it, “Maybe she just doesn’t want to see any of you. Maybe she thinks you’re all the shoot-first-and-ask-questions-later types that you are. Maybe, maybe…” He trailed off, sharp words caught on the edge of his tongue that he wasn’t willing to lash out with. Not against Dean. Not even today.
Maybe she thinks I’m the only one worth talking to.
He scrubbed his hand down his face furiously, “You know what? Forget it.”
“Sammy,” Dean said again, quietly, and to anyone else it would have seemed calm, maybe even placating, but there was a question, a plea in there, lurking under the syllables of his name if Sam was willing to listen to it.
“Forget it,” he said again, “I’m just gonna…be over there,” he waved his hand out across the scrap yard, “Talking to myself.”
It was a low blow and it struck home; Sam could see it in the slight slump in Dean’s shoulders, in the defensive way his brother shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and any other time he suspected the guilt would already be eating away at him. He could feel it, hovering on the edge of his awareness and just waiting its turn but right now he had a bigger problem to deal with.
The girl with the black eyes was going to be so pissed with him.
King Rocker (Generation X)
(Bandom PATD, Ryan/Brendon, 305 words)
Brendon can’t breathe.
Ryan’s fingers are tight on his throat; tight enough to leave bruises, harsh enough to burn like friction and Brendon can’t help himself, can’t stop arching into that pressure, denying himself as much air as Ryan is stealing from him. Ryan’s lips are bruising against his, his teeth sharp in Brendon’s lower lip, his tongue demanding in Brendon’s mouth and Brendon’s arching into it, tilting his head back far enough to make breathing through his nose difficult. Ryan’s pressed against his front; wiry but solid, restricting his movement, his wrists caught in one set of long fingers and pinned tight above his head and his chest caught tight against Ryan’s. The pressure’s enough to trap his breath and yet Brendon’s still pushing forward, taking as much as he’s given and leaving not a breath of air between them.
“You took everything,” Ryan whispers against his lips and the desperation, the desolation, woven around those words is enough to lodge a choking lump in Brendon’s throat that no amount of coughing or swallowing is going to clear and he can’t fix this, he can’t, its written plain as day in Ryan’s eyes for anyone that knows how to look. And Brendon does.
“Then fucking take it back,” he whispers back, fierce as always because Brendon never was any good at taking no for an answer, and Ryan huffs out a breath that’s too quick, too fleeting for Brendon to catch.
“Fucking idealist,” Ryan mutters and Brendon chokes out a breathless laugh.
“Try it,” he offers, half-genuine and half-taunt. Ryan’s eyes darken; a hooded fusion of anger and desire and promise that sends a breathtaking shiver down Brendon’s spine in the split second before Ryan’s mouth crashes back against his.
They’re done talking, just like always, but Brendon won’t be catching his breath yet.
Soldier’s Poem (Muse)
(Bandom Killjoys/MCR, Poison/Gerard, 478 words)
Gerard can’t remember the last time he saw stars.
Tonight’s no exception. Even up here on the roof, the sky’s as blank as ever; that ever-present sickly yellow cloud hidden under the cover of darkness but not gone. It’ll still be there in the morning but Gerard’s not thinking about that. Tomorrow’s another day and he’s thinking about stars, not what comes afterwards.
Stars are unchanging. Stars are safe.
“Whatcha doing, mocking bird?” Poison’s voice is quieter than usual and Gerard just shrugs.
Poison quirks an eyebrow at him, dropping down to sprawl at his side, “Didn’t we talk about that?” he asks, a lazy tease curling around the edges of the words, “Whatcha thinking about?”
He could lie about it but he can’t see the point. Poison knows him better than that. “Tomorrow.”
Gerard shoots him a glance out of the corner of his eye; Poison’s not looking at him, staring out into the darkness instead, and his stance screams relaxed nonchalance. He looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world and Gerard’s not fooled for a second.
“I want to come,” he says suddenly. It’s spontaneous, unplanned and he sees the words shock through Poison like electricity, bringing a tautness to his posture that’s hidden in a heartbeat, before Poison glances over at him, his gaze raking over Gerard and his lips curled into a smirk laden with filthy promise.
“That can be arranged.”
Gerard shakes his head, resolutely ignoring the thrill that shivers his way down his spine, “No, I want to come tomorrow.”
“Yeah, not going to happen,” Poison says flatly, “What would you do, mocking-bird? Stab the dracs in the eyes with your pencils?”
“I can use a blaster,” Gerard says, stung, and Poison shakes his head.
“Not well enough that I want you at my back,” he says, “You’re staying, even if I have to tie you to the bed to make it happen.”
“You’re not my keeper,” Gerard says, the words slipping out sharper than he’s meant them to, and Poison reaches out. His fingers wrap around the back of Gerard’s neck, warm against his night-chilled skin and he tugs, pulling Gerard off-balance, forward until his face is so close to Poison’s that it’s leaving him a little cross-eyed.
“I can’t do it if you’re there,” Poison breathes out, his words warm against Gerard’s lips and Gerard bites his lip, holding back a thousand protests against Poison’s confession (because that’s what this is and Gerard gets few enough confessions from Poison that he doesn’t want to discourage it), “I need you here to come back to.”
“To write your victory march?” Gerard offers the out and feels Poison’s smile against his lips.
“Something like that,” Poison murmurs, his thumb stroking over the thin skin of Gerard’s throat, and Gerard shivers.
Maybe he will see stars tonight.
Time and Time Again (Papa Roach)
(Supernatural, Sam/Dean, 399 words)
Sam’s left five times to date by Dean’s count. He’s lost count five times over how many times Sam’s threatened but not gone.
This’ll be the sixth. He can still feel the biting press of his brother’s fingers imprinted on his hips and the burn of his bite on his lips. He can still feel the sweat drying on his skin and chase the taste of Sam round his mouth with a flick of his tongue. He can still feel Sam’s weight on his hand and on his chest and the room still smells of the cloying heavy aroma of sex. By rights they should both be sprawled out across the bed, basking in a well-earned afterglow.
Instead, Sam’s hovering by the door, shoes in his hand and his shirt half-buttoned and with a look on his face that’s caught halfway between guilt and consternation which, under any other circumstances, Dean thinks he’d find hilarious. Dean’s at the bathroom door, his fingers curled tightly enough round the frame that he’s pretty sure he’s going to leave marks, and he doesn’t want to know what the expression on his own face looks like.
He’s not sure which is worse – whether it’s that Sam is leaving at all or whether it’s that he was obviously trying to sneak out while Dean’s back was turned.
Whatever. He’s not doing this again.
“Close the door behind you, Sammy. It’s fucking cold out there.” Every word comes out bright, in a razor-sharp, slit-your-throat kind of way and he sees Sam flinch.
“Dean,” Sam says, his tone beseeching and Dean doesn’t know what the fuck he’s searching for, but he isn’t going to find it here, “It isn’t what you think.”
He just shrugs, and it feels wrong; choppy and uncomfortable like his shoulders aren’t quite hinged right any more, “Never is.”
“Are you going to ask?” Sam’s eyeing him warily and, fuck, Dean is so tired of this shit.
“I’m going to sleep. You do what the hell you want.” He doesn’t add the as usual. He knows Sam heard it anyway. It’s a deliberately casual move, to unwrap his fingers from the doorframe and pad back across to the bed, slipping under the comforter with his back to the door.
The click of the latch sounds one hell of a lot like a gunshot. Dean hadn’t figured it would feel like one too.
Baby I’m A Want You (Bread)
(Bandom Killjoys/MCR, Fun Ghoul/Mikey, 273 words)
Poison’s a narcissistic fuck when all’s said and done. Ghoul doesn’t get it; sure, he’s as fond of his own hand as the next guy but he’s never even seen the appeal of jerking off into a mirror so, honest-to-hell, he can’t see why anyone would want to fuck someone with their own face. It’s fucking weird. He’s already seen Poison’s o-face more times than he wants to remember (one of the many, many joys of sharing a cramped diner for your main base-of-operations-come-home-sweet-home) and if he looks half the idiot Poison does when he comes, he doesn’t want to see it up close and in glorious techni-colour, thanks.
So yeah, Ghoul’s gotta draw the line somewhere and he has. Screwing around with his own doppelganger falls very much on the wrong side of that line.
Kobra’s double on the other hand; that quiet kid that Gerard stares at like he hung the moon before he breathes out Mikes like a reverent prayer? He’s so far on the right side of the line he might as well have circled the whole way round. Ghoul’s got a whole bundle of fantasies that revolve around that kid’s mouth and his fingers and that aura of cool-calm he projects that’s just begging to shatter under Ghoul’s touch.
And he doesn’t give a fuck what Poison says. It’s not creepy, it’s natural. Kid’s got an ass that deserves to be tapped and Ghoul is man enough to step up and take on that task. There is nothing fucking creepy about that and, as far as Ghoul’s concerned, Poison can go fuck himself.
Or, well, whatever. Narcissistic asshole.
We Got A Fight (Sham 69)
(Stargate Universe, Eli/Matt, 580 words)
There’s still fighting going on somewhere aboard the ship, Eli can hear it over the open comms. Distant screams and unintelligible shouts, the tinny echo of gunfire resounding across the airwaves; it could sound a lot like hope, like rescue, if he squinted a little and tilted his head far enough to the side.
It doesn’t. Eli can’t think about rescue. He can’t think about rescue or rebellion, backup plans or counter-attacks. He can’t even think about the armed men with hard-eyes and flat mouths blocking every exit. All he can think about is Matt. The odd angle of Matt’s neck where he’s sprawled unmoving on the floor. The way his body just crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut after the blaster bolt slammed home. The slowly spreading pool of viscous red that’s seeping out from under his chest to stain the floor of the bridge in a worryingly wide circle.
“You’re wasting time, Mr Wallace.”
The words break into his reverie and Eli starts, the room rushing back into sharp, distinctive focus. He wrenches his eyes away from Matt to stare wide-eyed at the woman (bitch) he is holding personally responsible for this nightmare. If they do make it out of this in one piece, Eli is going to spend a long, long time coming up with new and inventive ways to make her hurt and that might take a while. Eli’s an inventive kind of guy.
She stares back at him, cool and unaffected, with just the faintest hint of a knowing smirk curling on the corner of her mouth and Eli’s fingers twitch with the desire to claw her eyes out. “Your friend is dying,” she says, and Eli would have to be deaf to miss the message hidden in that stressed inflection, “His life rests in your hands. Do you want him to live or not?”
“Yes,” Eli says immediately and he knows, he knows, that Matt would kill him dead for that admission, for that lack of hesitation, but he honestly, truly, could not give a rat’s ass. This isn’t about his life; this is about Matt’s, “Of course I do. You already know I do.”
The woman jerks her head toward the consol at Eli’s side, “Then do what I need you to do or we will all stand here and wait until he has bled out the last of his lifeblood across the floor of your control room. The clock is ticking, Mr Wallace.”
“Yeah,” Eli agrees because he’d known what she’d been about to say and, oh god, if Matt’s stomach churns and twists like Eli’s is right now every time he has to take a risk, then Eli has no idea how Matt’s even able to get up in a morning, let alone lead mission after mission through the gate, “And, no.”
The woman’s head snaps up sharply, “What?”
“I said no,” Eli says, “But I do have a counter-proposal for you.”
It’s a desperate play and, fidgeting under the woman’s guarded scrutiny, Eli is pretty sure he’s fucked five ways from Sunday right about now. The only consolation, as far as he can see it, is that at least when she shoots him, he won’t have to watch Matt bleed to death.
“Talk,” The woman says shortly and Eli blinks. It takes a few precious seconds before it sinks in that his gamble worked and he feels himself blanche.
Fuck, now he actually needs a plan. And fast.
Hard Fucking (Tenacious D)
(Supernatural RPS, Jensen/Jared, 435 words)
“Beg me,” Jared murmured, his words vibrating against Jensen’s throat, and Jensen dropped his head back against the pillow with a choked groan.
“Asshole,” he muttered, and he felt Jared’s lips curl slowly into a smile against his skin.
“You love it,” Jared said, punctuating his words with a roll of his hips that sent sparks shooting across Jensen’s vision, lighting the backs of his eyelids as Jared’s cock brushed over his prostate in a teasing drag before Jared stilled his hips again. Jensen couldn’t bite back his groan.
“I hate you,” he countered, the words slipping out far more breathy and breathless than he’d intended and Jared laughed, low and easy. It resonated through Jensen everywhere they were touching; through Jared’s fingers, deceptively loose around his wrists, through his chest, a heavy weight holding Jensen still against sweat-damp sheets, through tangled legs, wrapped around each other as much as the bedclothes and, fuck, Jensen didn’t think he could hold out much longer against that type of concentrated onslaught.
He didn’t think he wanted to.
“Liar,” Jared whispered, his lips brushing over Jensen’s jaw with a touch that sent shivers tripping up Jensen’s spine to tingle in his fingertips, “You hate losing is all. Even if you losing is going to give us both what we want.”
“Take it if you want it,” Jensen said, with just enough of a smirk to make his point (because, goddamn, if Jared was going to leave that much of an opening, he was going to take it, no matter how wrung out he was feeling) and Jared’s fingers tightened warningly around his wrists in a way that made him arch up in a desperate attempt to get closer.
“None of that,” Jared said softly, “That ain’t begging, Jen, and I ain’t that desperate yet. The way I’m feeling, I can hold out here all night.” He gave another lazy roll of his hips and Jensen instinctively pressed down into it. “How about you? How’re you doing?”
“Fucked,” Jensen admitted.
Jared raised his head just far enough for Jensen to see his smile, star-bright and enough to make Jensen’s breath hitch, just like always “Kinda the plan, Jen. Just gotta ask for it.”
“You mean beg,” Jensen corrected and Jared hummed agreeably, dropping his head back down to press a kiss against Jensen’s jaw, his hair tickling soft against Jensen’s cheek and the movement making his stomach brush tantalisingly across the head of Jensen’s cock, sending fissions of pleasure dancing across his skin.
Jensen bit his lip. He could stand this for a little while longer.
Begging could wait.
The Air That I Breathe (The Hollies)
(Bandom PATD, Spencer/Brendon, 301 words)
“The thing is,” Spencer said conversationally, “I think I’m in love with you.”
Brendon promptly choked on his burrito.
It probably wasn’t his most attractive look; he could feel his chest heaving and the burn in his cheeks and he could barely see Spencer through the tears collecting in his eyes at the convulsions in his lungs. Then again, Spencer had already seen him at his most disgustingly gross anyway (as a sweaty, sticky mess after more shows than he could count anymore; falling down drunk and surrounded by the sickly stench of too much weed and whiskey as he staggered back up the stairs to the bus and throughout that one fateful bout of untimely-death-ick-flu, the horrors of which they are never, ever speaking about again if Brendon has any say in the matter) and they were still sitting here having this conversation, so…
Yeah, there was that.
And there was this…this thing that Spencer had just dropped on him. And Brendon had no idea what to do with that. It felt too big; he didn’t even know how to start to think about what it meant.
“I…I…I…” he stuttered and Spencer pursed his lips thoughtfully.
“I can’t remember the last time I made you speechless,” he said, “I might have to write the date in my diary.”
“Spence,” Brendon said, with more than a shade of desperation and Spencer smiled, wide and bright as always in that way that always made Brendon’s stomach flip a little bit.
“Relax,” he said, “I’m not asking for anything. I just, I don’t know, I wanted you to know. Now you know.”
Brendon didn’t argue, but he was pretty sure Spencer was wrong. The only thing he knew was that he knew a lot less than he had when they’d first walked in.
Born With Nothing, Die With Everything (Papa Roach)
(Supernatural RPS, Black Cartel, Jensen/Jared, 470 words)
“D’you have money when you were a kid?” Jensen had no idea where the question had come from; his self-preservation instincts normally kicked in long before his mouth started accruing bills his body didn’t have the credit to pay for and Jared had made it clear more than once just how out-of-bounds his past was as a topic of discussion.
Then again, Jensen’s self-preservation instincts existed somewhere so far beyond flawed that they might as well be non-existent and there was a steady hum of whiskey humming in his veins that wanted to know. Maybe he did have an idea, after all.
Jared was watching him from over the top of his own glass, his gaze as hooded and unreadable as ever, although his lazy sprawl in the chair suggested Jensen wasn’t treading on overly thin ice just yet. “What makes you ask?”
Always reasons, always motives, always consequences. Nothing was ever simple, not here. Nothing was ever worth it. Jensen shrugged, “No reason. Jus’ wondering.”
“Jensen.” Just his name, that was all, but then, that was all Jared ever really needed. Jensen was pretty sure he was fluent in implication these days and every syllable of his name on Jared’s tongue screamed caution.
“I…just, you know everythin’ about me and I don’t know anything ‘bout you from before,” Jensen waved his hand in a vague motion that he hoped to god Jared would translate to mean college and everything associated with it. He sure as hell didn’t want to have to say it.
Jared didn’t usually respond well to overt acknowledgements of that time.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it sweetheart?” Jared sounded more fondly exasperated than anything and Jensen let out a slow breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding, “I think the day you realise how futile these little attempts at subterfuge are, we might hold a party.”
Jensen let his gaze drop to the plush carpet. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, sweetheart. Just don’t do it.”
Jensen nodded mutely. It was acquiescence without commitment, agreement without obligation because he wasn’t going to do that. He wasn’t going to give Jared that ammunition for the next time his stupid mouth or his treacherous brain decided to betray him
“We weren’t rich but we had enough,” Jared’s voice was low, barely more than a murmur, and Jensen looked up sharply just in time to catch Jared’s enigmatic smile, “We never had to go without.”
Jensen stared at him, and he knew, he knew, his expression was blankly uncomprehending. He was damned if he could do anything about it though.
Jared’s smile widened and shifted, moving from an enigma Jensen couldn’t translate to a predatory curl he knew all too well, “I think we’re done for the night, sweetheart.”
It sounded like an observation. Jensen knew better than that.
The Real Damage (Frank Turner)
(Firefly, Mal/Simon, 393 words)
“Where is she?”
Mal was lounging against the doorframe of the infirmary behind him, a study in casual nonchalance reflected in the mirror in the glass panelled walls, and Simon reflexively clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding painfully together.
“She’s sleeping,” he said tightly, “And have no concerns, Captain. I’ve sedated her. She won’t present any more…inconvenience this evening.”
“Never had no doubt about that, doc,” Mal said calmly and Simon folded his hands deliberately on the countertop in front of him, “Ain’t her I’m truly concerned about.”
He’d been half-expecting this conversation but it still hit like one of Jayne’s sucker-punches. Simon took a long, slow breath before turning around, his fingers curled tightly around the counter behind him as he leaned back on his hands. This was a conversation that needed to be held face-to-face. “I understand, Captain. As soon as I’m finished here, I’ll start checking the Cortex for appropriate planets.”
Mal frowned, “Appropriate for what?” he asked and Simon felt the muscle in the side of his jaw spasm.
“For River and I, of course,” he said, “We can hardly waltz on to an Alliance heavy planet and expect to establish a new existence there with any degree of success. We-”
“Tama de!” Mal was across the room in a heartbeat; two quick strides and then his hands slammed hard against the counter either side of Simon’s hips, caging him in, and the gaze he fixed on Simon was uncomfortably penetrating, “I ain’t sure why we keep talking about this, doc, but I’m gonna tell you one more time and then we’re done. You and River, you’re my crew. I ain’t leaving you on some hellhole rim planet to rot.”
Simon swallowed, “But, I thought-”
“Maybe you ought to quit so much thinking,” Mal interrupted sharply, “You’re mine, Simon, and I ain’t gonna let you go. Not now, not ever. Dong le ma?”
Simon gaped, his wide-eyed stare reflected back in Mal’s ferocious glare for one tremulous second, “Yours?” he asked faintly.
This close, he couldn’t have missed the way Mal’s eyes widened with sick realisation if he’d tried. Mal flew backward as though he’d been burnt and Simon flinched.
“Both of you,” Mal said rapidly, “You’re both…I mean, I’m just…I…aw, hell.” He scowled, “We’re done talking about this, doc.”
He was gone before Simon had time to answer.
Tama de – Damnit
Dong le ma – Are we clear here?