#ficwar2013

“We both have no home to go back to... so we can go anywhere at all.” Hakkai/Gojyo, or the whole ikkou even.

"What should we do now?" Hakkai asks, of course it's Hakkai. He's the one with the plans, the one who thinks about the future as something more than amorphous thing that happens. A route to be planned. Gojyo had thought that some of what Sanzo had said had turned him away from this planning thing, but Hakkai is a planner. He plans. It's part of who he is, and it's saved their asses more than Gojyo wants to admit.

"We could take a trip somewhere." Gojyo says, half joking.

Hakkai stares at him with a very polite “Die in a fire stare.” Gojyo smiles.

“I keep thinking that I want to go home,” Goku interjects, “But I can’t think of where it actually is, other than here.”

Gojyo looks at him like he’s an idiot. “We’re in the middle of a desert, Goku, you little brat. This isn’t your home.”  Goku bulls up, ready for a fight, and Sanzo runs his fingers through Goku’s hair. The fight seeps out of him, bit by bit.

“What he means,” Sanzo says, almost disinterestedly, lighting up a cigarette, “You doltish asshole, is not so much the physical plane of here,” Sanzo gestures with his cigarette to their surroundings, “but the greater plane. Our little monkey,” Sanzo says, half mocking, but still fond, “is saying that in the greater scheme of things, he is home.”

Goku looks up, something shining in his eyes, and Sanzo shows the briefest moment of acknowledgement.

Gojyo gets it.

“Huh,” he huffs, thinking it over. “So,” he turns to Hakkai. “Where are we going next.”

“Home.” Hakkai says, sarcastically, but coaxes Jeep to life anyway.

“Asshole.”

“Then your home is an asshole,” Hakkai reasons. Gojyo waggles his eyebrows.

“You don’t say,” Gojyo says, and Goku starts squawking about being hungry. Sanzo idly offers him a box of strawberry pocky.

“Just drive,” Sanzo says, rolling his eyes. “I don’t care, anywhere at all.”

.... Roe/Spiers? Doesn't even need to be shippy, I just enjoy the dichotomy of everything Spiers and Roe are. Would never say no to shippy though. (ilu?)

"Gene," Roe hears, and for a second, he doesn't place the voice. It is the most gentle voice he has heard in a long time, so he's surprised when he turns around and it's Spiers. Roe can’t quite place it, but he thinks that maybe, just maybe, this is the voice that Speirs used before he was in theatre, before he became a man who runs through mortar fire with no fear instead of just a man who could.

Speirs has a weird, oddly intense look on his face, and Roe realizes that Speirs is trying to be gentle. It’s weird, and it would seem disingenuous if it weren’t so out of place. “Speirs,” Roe says, like a question. Roe often uses the least amount of words to get his point across.

Speirs points to his face, high on his cheekbone, and Roe looks at him uncomprehendingly until Speirs says “You have blood on your face.” And hell if it ain’t weird that Roe thinks that Speirs sounds fond.

His hands fly up to his face, and stop when he sees them, covered in other men’s blood and dirt and he stops, frozen, caught between cleaning his face, and realizing that he’ll just make it worse.

“Here,” Speirs says, rubbing his thumb across Roe’s cheek, and he hisses, a forgotten hurt flaring along with the heat in his skin at Speir’s touch. Speirs gasps, a little “ah” that tells Roe that he is surprised that it was a cut instead of a casualty splatter. “You’re hurt,” Speirs says, his voice almost flat with concern.

“It’s just a scrape,” Roe says, “I’ve seen worse.” Speirs’s eyes harden.

“Take care of yourself,” Speirs says, harshly. He sounds angry, and for a second Roe doesn’t understand why. “The men need you.” He says, and Roe hears, just as loudly as the mortars falling, I need you.

There’s a crack, and a desperate cry. “Medic!” the forlorn cry echoes through the forest. Roe’s feet move before he told them to, and Speirs is almost forgotten as he dashes between splintered trees and falling dirt.

“Save our men, Doc,” Roe hears Speirs yell, over the sound of distant thunder.

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. 

Peter/Roman, they share Roman's last cigarette.

The kind of cigarettes Roman smokes cost six dollars a pack. This is neither the kind that Peter can steal, nor buy for himself, so they always make him feel dizzy and weird. Like there's construction in his veins, jack-hammering going on in his foundations, but he doesn't know what they're building or why. 

Roman digs the pack out of the glove compartment, leaning over into Peter's space, his shoulder pressed close to Peter's. He's warm, and that seems out of place for the upir, but Peter mentally shrugs it off, as Roman pulls a single cigarette out of the pack and lights up. 

"Sorry," Roman says, "I only have the one." He flicks a glance towards Peter's face, eyes green and inscrutable as an algae covered pond. "Guess we'll have to share." There's something in his voice, but Peter doesn't identify it before Roman is sucking the smoke in, and letting it curl out of his mouth. He passes the cigarette to Peter, and Peter takes a drag, deliberately not thinking about how weirdly intimate this gesture is. About how weirdly intimate all of the things that pass between them are.

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. 

Brad/Ray/Nate, Ray breaks his arm doing something spectacularly stupid a la Jackass and somehow wheedles sympathy sex from Brad and Nate.

"Man," Ray whines dramatically, "this sucks." He shifts his hips on the couch, the cast on his arm falling off the pillows propped under it. "Shit," He mutters to himself, propping his arm back up. "Brad" he wheedles, "snookums, sweetie, sugarpie." Brad turns away from the dishes he is washing, to arch an eyebrow at Ray. He looks funny, half hunched over the kitchen counter, wet to his elbows with dishwater. "Babycakes." Ray pronounces, with finality that shouldn't be there. Brad closes his eyes briefly, as if steeling himself for some torturous quest. Ray waits. It's not like he can't be patient, just most of the time he isn't. 

"What is it," Brad asks, almost flatly. "Honey," Brad adds, an afterthought. His voice is even more flat than it was before, as if Ray is being an imposition. He is.

"Bring me a coke?" Ray asks, all sweetness and love. Brad huffs, and what has Ray done to deserve all this huffiness.

"Get it yourself, corporal." Brad says, turning back to his dishes. Ray's dishes. Water sloshes when Brad picks up a plate, and it splashes on the front of Brad's shirt. Serves him right, Ray thinks.

Ray doesn't move.

He waits a beat before: "Braaaad." And when that elicits no response, "Braaaaaaaaaad." Brad doesn't seem to hear him. Fucker. 

Ray kicks the table and says "Fuck. Ow," In a very convincing tone. Brad whirls around, tiny droplets of water and suds spraying the wall, and dripping on the floor. He still has a bowl in his hand. Ray cracks up from where he's still sitting on the couch.

"You redneck, inbred, cornshit asshole." Brad says, sounding part relieved and part angry. 

"Aww, baby" Ray says, sarcastically, "I didn't know you cared so much." 

"I hope your dick falls off from your excessive masturbation," Brad says, "Because I am never sleeping with you again." 

Ray gasps, "Say it ain't so!" Ray puts his hand to his heart, and adopts his best southern accent. "You'll abandon me to the wild, while you go off cannoodlin' with your purdy-mouthed cap'n? How could you do this to me, your best gal?"

Brad snorts. "You jumped off a fence into a bush and broke your arm." 

"I was startled!" Ray defends, an argument he's had before,  "I didn't jump, I fell." 

Brad clucks his tongue, as if he doesn't accept this explanation.

"Seriously homes," Ray levels, "why in the actual fuck would I do something on purpose that fucked with me regularly getting laid?" The fingers of his right hand wriggle sadly, jutting out of the confines of the cast. "I can't even button my own pants." He mourns. 

"Poor baby," Brad says, sarcasm bleeding through his tone. He is the person, however, who has to help Ray button his pants. Most of this Giving-Ray-Shit bullshit is for show.

"For the record," Nate says, from the kitchen table. He has been quietly revising his master's thesis for the past three hours, "you can still get laid with the cast." Ray looks up, hopeful.

"Yeah," he reasons, but his face is full of glee. "But it won't be the same." His voice sounds so rueful and sad. If Brad weren't looking directly at him, he would possibly be fooled by how sad his voice sounds. 

How Ray manages to sound so goddamn sad while his mouth is curling that smugly, Brad will never know.

"Nate," Brad warns evenly, and Nate looks up, his eyes tired and bruised behind his glasses. There's a pencil behind his ear, and graphite smudges on his hands - how they got there, Brad isn't sure, since his thesis is saved on the computer in front of him. 

"Brad," Nate says, just as evenly. They share a moment of silent communication, one just as fond and knowing as Brad and Ray's. 

Brad sighs his defeat. 

Ray throws up his arms in victory, the bent cast almost clocking him in the head. "Motherfucker," he says joyously. 

He wriggles his hips, and lays back on the arm of the couch, kicking his pillows across the floor. 

He props his arm up on the back cushion of the couch, his hand throbs like a bitch if he doesn't keep it elevated, and sprawls on the couch like a starfish with a broken leg. 

He snaps his fingers, and says in a bogus french accent, "I am ready for the ravishing now, yes?" He hears the click of Nate's laptop, the splash of Brad washing the suds off the bowl, the muffled rustling of the towel as Brad dries his hands, the damp plop of his shirt against the kitchen floor. He doesn't hear so much as a creaking board in the floor to tell him where Nate and Brad are, or whether they're close.

He does feel the heat of bodies close to him, one over the trunk of his body, and the other standing at the side of the couch next to his head.

Ray feels the anticipation zing through his veins, his sweatpants riding low on his hips. The couch dips, and Ray feels calloused fingers graze the underside of his stomach, up under his shirt, and damn, Recon motherfuckers. Silent and Deadly. 

Ray gasps, opens his eyes, and watches Brad touches his cheekbone, the healing scrape from the bushes mostly forgotten in the searing shock of having broken his arm.

Ray pushes his head into the touch, and looks up at Brad, upside down through his eyelashes. Brad's eyes are hot and dark, and Ray appreciates the smooth expanse of skin he can see, the muscles of Brad's torso, smooth skin broken only by splashes of color curling around his sides.  Nate's fingers splay across his stomach, and Ray sucks in a breath.

Brad touches his fingertips to Ray's cast, and Ray can't feel it, but he imagines he can. Brad's fintertips drag, his fingernails scraping against the plaster. Brad curls his fingertips over Ray's oversensitive fingers, still slightly swollen. "Aww," Ray says mocking, but it's a little raspy, "It's so sweet that you want to hold hands." Brad squeezes his fingers around Ray's, not quite hard enough to be painful.  Ray smiles, wide and genuine. Nate settles over him, between his thighs, and presses a kiss to Ray's collarbone, under the stretched collar of his t-shirt, the underside of his jaw. Nate kisses the corner of Ray's grinning mouth, quick and then he's gone. Ray whines, but Nate pulls away far enough that he can press a quick kiss to their fingers, slotted together. 

"Oh my god," Ray says, "You assholes are so sweet. Maybe you should take up knitting and knit me a sweater or something." He feels the hot rush of happiness settle over him. these snarky assholes care about whether he is in pain or not. Oh my god.

Nate presses his mouth, jesus christ his mouth to the pad of Ray's middle finger, sweet and innocent until his tongue curls out around it, sucking it into his mouth. Ray whimpers, his cheeks flushing, and Brad squeezes his hand tighter. 

"Yes," Ray says. "Yes to whatever. Please with the fucking now, oh god." 

Nate really has a dirty grin, especially wrapped around Ray's fingers, his teeth pressing into the skin just hard enough to leave white marks when he pulls away, to feel the pulse and throb of Ray's increased heart rate.

Nate touches his face, his fingers sliding over Brad's where the cut on his cheekbone is. "I'm going to fuck you," Nate says. Ray's breath hitches, "and you are going to suck Brad's dick." Shit. Ray loves Brad's dick. He loves it in his mouth, the way he can't take all of it, but he tries. He tries so hard. He loves the way his throat feels, after, stretched out and raw, and his mouth almost chapped and slick with spit. Ray isn't neat at blowjobs, but he's enthusiastic and he loves them. Brad hooks his thumb in the front belt loop of his jeans hiking them down.

"Dick," Ray says, admonishment and demand at the same time. "Right now," he groans. Nate hooks his fingers in the loose band of Ray's sweatpants.