#facetspera

2. Do Unto Others - Mindless Self Indulgence

3. Killing in the Name - Rage Against the Machine

4. 21 Guns - the American Idiot Broadway Cast

5. Just Like a Drummer - The Wave Pictures

6. Cobrastyle - Teddybears Sthlm & Mad Cobra

7. Days of the Week - Stone Temple Pilots

8. The Crane Wife 3 - The Decemberists

9. Sububan Knights - Hard Fi

10. Another Song for the Weekend - A Day to Remember

11. Please Be Mine - Jonas Brothers

12. Body in a Box - City and Colour

13. Fly From the Inside - Shinedown

14. Promise - Butch Walker

15. Hate & War - The Clash

16. No Pulse - Ramin Djawadi

17. Sentimental Heart - She & Him

18. I Had Me A Girl - The Civil Wars

19. Jet Pilot - System of a Down

of what?? but either way congrats!!

Of my relationship with my boyfriend.  B/c we live in different states during the summer, we did celebration type stuff this past weekend when he came down to visit me, and I am going up to see him on Friday.  :D

facetspera replied to your post: Today’s my one year anniversary!  !!!

You’re so cute. Hadn’t realized that it’s been that long. <3 Congrats, darling-dear. :)

Marcus/Esca, comfort!fic. (I will let you choose: Marcus has PTSD nightmares about his knee or Esca broods out by the river about his time confined in the arena.)

Esca digs his toes into the dirt, fresh and clean and sweet. It's perhaps too cold for him to be barefoot, but he'd rather suffer a cold than feeling confined in his boots for one more second. He looks up at the sky, and thanks the gods that the trees let in a little starlight. He can see a little sky. He feels free enough to fall asleep, to fall away from the world.

He takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. 

"Is something the matter?" Marcus asks, almost brutishly. Everything Marcus does is indelicate. His hands clumsy unless there is a sword in them. Esca appreciates that he is easy to read, but sometimes he dreads how perceptive he can be.

"Not at present," Esca hedges. He doesn't want to talk about it, not now, not ever. Maybe one day, after he is dead, he will be able to let it go, the way that Marcus had saved his life so cavalierly, and then walked away. A thoughtless creature, except Marcus seems to value more life than his Seal brothers, even the life of a slave. 

"Then something bothers you in the past tense," Marcus postulates, "Or in the future." Esca sighs again. Marcus cocks an eyebrow as if to say see.

"I lied. I am bothered at present by your line of questioning." Esca says, testy. "I'd like to let it go."

"You can't let it go," Marcus says, "if you keep it clutched tightly to your chest." Marcus pauses, and Esca mulls it over. "You don't have to tell me right now, or ever at all, but you do have to tell someone, eventually." 

"I don't want to." Esca says mulishly. 

"You don't right now," Marcus reasons, and maybe he does have some grace after all, "but if, in the future you need someone to talk to, I hope you will consider me at your service." 

Esca laughs bitterly at the irony of that statement, but later, when he finds himself viewing Marcus as a human being instead of a slave, he rethinks Marcus's offer. 

He doesn't tell him right away, but he does tell him. When he does, Marcus places his hand on Esca's shoulder, nothing too friendly or forward, but genial enough. The hand on his shoulder doesn't feel like a cage, bars of friendship closing around him, but rather a mooring, a foundation to cling to in the great, empty world. 

"Thank you," Esca says, one night, petting Shadow's flank. 

"I have never asked for your thanks," Marcus says, "but I accept them as freely given. And though, unless you're talking about the new shoes on this beauty," Marcus pats the side of Shadow's neck, and Shadow butts his head against Marcus's shoulder. "I have no idea what you're thanking me for, you're welcome." 

So you should do that thing where Teen Wolf people are The Losers.

Allison perches on a gravestone, and idly scopes their location. Stiles clicks away on his tablet, though where the fuck he's getting wifi in a cemetery is beyond Scott. Stiles has on a jacket over his stupid Hurricanes shirt - but lacrosse he had whined, when Peter had complained.  

Scott looks at Derek. "She wants to meet in a cemetery," he says, trying to reason with him. 

"Foreboding," Stiles pipes up, ever loyal to Scott. Derek rolls his eyes.

"Not many people here," Derek says, looking around. Scott sighs. There are plenty of people here, he thinks, just none of them are alive to see them get taken out by this girl. 

Peter puts his hand on Derek's shoulder, a show of support, and Scott cringes internally. 

"What do you have on this girl," Derek directs towards Stiles, who looks up, his mouth open and wet. Stiles does this thing, where he's stupidly endearing when he isn't paying attention. 

"Besides a pant-busting crush?" Stiles says, "Everybody wants a piece of her. International life of crime, no convictions. She's too fast or too smart to be caught. Probably both, given her specs." Stiles sounds enamored of her. Derek looks pissed off. 

Oh right, she burned down their hotel. 

"So she can help us," Derek says hopefully, "take down Max." Allison scoffs discreetly, and Peter scoffs loudly. 

"You're not going down for a girl," Peter says, and his tone is something approaching gentle, "Not after Kate." 

"Or Erica," Scott adds in, just to lighten the mood. 

"Let's face it Derek," Peter says, slightly creepy. His eyes are hot when he looks at Derek, his hands petting Derek's tense shoulders, "every time you go down, it's because of a girl."

"Allison is a girl," Derek says huffily.

"Allison isn't a girl," Scott says. And before Allison can get huffy about it, "Allison is our sniper. Being a girl has nothing to do with it." Scott looks at her, and smiles. She smiles back. Stiles looks up just in time to awkwardly intercept their dopey smiles, and Scott can see one slide on his face almost unaware. Allison pats Stiles's hair, and Scott smiles fondly at them.

"Well isn't this cute," Lydia says behind them "A powwow." Allison must have seen her coming, and not decided to warn anyone. Allison scratches Stiles's scalp and smirks at the way Stiles blushes. 

Derek blushes too, but for different reasons. Lydia's heels are way higher than advisable in a cemetery, but she seems to be taking it in stride. Her skirt is short short, her short legs looking long and sleek between the mini and high heels. 

In short, she looks too well put together to be in a cemetery at ass o'clock in the morning. Scott doesn't like it. Peter doesn't seem to like it either, but Derek just asks her to detail their mission.

--

It falls apart quickly. Stiles forgot his gun, Lydia is the daughter of Martin, the drug and arms dealer they took down, and Scott gets shot. 

Peter goes darkside, and Derek kills him. They don't take down Max, but they maybe cripple him. Allison pets Stiles's hair as Scott looks at the gunshot wound on his arm. It's a through and through, so there is only tissue damage.

"It'll heal up," Scott says, and maybe Stiles is delirious when he grabs Scott's wrist and presses his mouth to it, but he smiles, and Allison doesn't pull the knife out of her boot and stab him in the throat, so maybe it's something that has been coming for a while.

"Love you," Stiles slurs, looking up at Allison, but he squeezes Scott's wrist.

Allison pets his hair, and says "You too, dumbass," and a tumbler that Scott didn't know was out of place clicks, and unlocks the way his world should be. 

"Yeah," Scott says, pressing his forehead to Stiles's. "Don't ever get shot again."

Roman/(Peter): Roman jerking off in the bathtub thinking about bloodplay with Peter.

He thinks about Peter's hands. Fuck. It's always Peter's hands. His precisely clipped fingernails, his stocky fingers. Roman thinks of the welts on his skin they could raise, and jerks into his fist. 

The water threatens to slosh over the side of the tub, but Roman doesn't care. He is surrounded by all encompassing warmth and he is thinking of Peter. 

Peter, his hands covered in blood from Lisa Willoughby, as gross as it had been, coagulated and stinking, had left an impression. Roman wasn't sure if it was a good one yet or not.

He thinks of Peter's hands covered in fresh blood, of Peter waking up matted in the fur and entrails of a deer, his hands covered with almost-fresh blood and having to drag the kill home to his mother. Lynda's clucking tongue. "What are we doing to do with you?" She asks fondly. Peter is still naked, covered in the blood of his kill.

Peter's hand, wrapped around Roman's thigh, his dick, covered in blood and sticky. Covered in Roman's blood. 

Brad/Ray, Brad feels particularly needy and crowds Ray's personal space all afternoon.

Brad shows up at his house unannounced. "You hate Missouri," Ray says, when he opens the door to Brad standing there, his bike parked in the driveway . His hair is sweaty and matted from the helmet, and from driving for however many hours he drove today on his damn bike. 

"Yes," Brad says. Shrugging his shoulders a little bit. His t-shirt is white, and more than a little sweaty. It clings to his shoulders and his stomach. 

Ray doesn't ask. 

He opens the door wider, turning back towards the kitchen. "You know where the shower is," he throws over his shoulder. 

He pulls two pork chops out of the freezer, and finds his broccoli. Fuck if Brad is going to go hungry while he's here. 

He hears the shower turn on, and he runs some water while it's still hot to defrost his chops. 

He cuts the heads off the broccoli, and puts them in the collander to wash off before he fills his pan with water and drops the collander in to steam.

He's just cutting into the pork chops to make sure they're done when Brad comes in, smelling of his soap and wearing fresh jeans and a black t-shirt.

Ray cuts him a glance, standing in the doorway. 

"Make yourself useful, asshat." Ray says. He sees Brad's slightly lost look, and it's so out of place, that Ray can't help but feel a little sorry for him. "Wash off the lettuce," he commands, his voice gentle.

Brad pulls the head of crisp, red lettuce out of the crisper, and goes to the sink. He methodically breaks off the leaves, washing them off and breaking the stems out. He pats them dry with a towel from Ray's counter, and puts them in a bowl. 

"There's a cucumber in there if you want it too." Ray says, and Brad turns back to the fridge and pulls it out. He washes it off along with the knife that Ray had used to cut the broccoli, and slices the cucumber over the salad. 

It's weird, having Brad actually take Ray's orders. Having Brad not-quite ask for them, but beg for them all the same. Ray tuns the heat off and covers his porkchops. He pulls the lid off the broccoli and pokes it with a fork. Perfect. He turns the heat off that, and turns around. 

"Come here," Ray says, standing in the middle of his kitchen with his arms spread. Brad steps closer, awkwardly, as if he's asked for something that he isn't sure if he'll get. Ray waves his arms a little, as if to remind Brad that, hey, freely given hugs and all the bullshit. 

Brad steps closer, and Ray wraps his arms around Brad's middle. He presses his face into Brad's chest, and hears the steady, but quick thump of his heart. 

"I missed you too, you gargantuan freak." They stand there until Brad's heart rate slows, which isn't that long, all in all.

"You drove your bike all the way here?" Ray asks, the though just occurring to him.

Brad shrugs.  "It was cheaper than a plane ticket, and I can run away whenever." He doesn't finish the thought, but Ray gets it.