Round 1//Challenge 1 - ENTRIES #1
Fandom: Fullmetal Alchemist
Story Title: Golden Questions
Character/Relationships: Roy Mustang, Edward Elric, Roy/Ed preslash
Rating: PG
Warnings: Ed is 18 in this.
It starts with an assignment but he’s been doing this for years. The carefully cultivated reputation as a ladies’ man with a different woman on his arm every night is a lie. They’re contacts giving him information and well trained to act the part. It’s how he’s able to get to where he has in such a short amount of time. He’s certain the higher ups were chuckling when they assigned this case to him. It’s right up his alley.
He flips open the folder to read over the intel again as he swivels his chair to face the window. All he has to do is wine and dine his way into the company of a woman who’s rumored to be discretely financing some alchemical research. Preliminary reports says it may have to do with time delayed alchemical traps. Very interesting if it’s indeed true. Roy wonders if he isn’t a little too well known for a covert operation like this.
Wouldn’t someone from the Intelligence Division be better suited for the job? Or maybe he’s being set up for failure? Whatever the case, he has to make this work. It’d be easier if he didn’t have to see Fullmetal today. There’s a tension between them he can’t explain. Ed’s golden eyes beg for an answer and Roy has no idea what the question even is.
Ed’s always brimmed with a fire not easily contained but lately it’s been dimmed. He looks at Roy with those questions in his eyes and Roy wishes he knew what he was asking. Ed’s not quite the brash, arrogant boy who declared he’d find the Philosopher’s Stone in a year after he joined the military anymore. He’s grown up into a young man with talent beyond his years and no patience for idiots. Roy smiles slightly. They’re similar in that regard, but Roy has learned to play the game while Ed refuses to even consider it.
Roy glances at the picture of the woman that’s to be his target. She’s stunning and right around his age. If he had the time for relationships or if he was interested in the female form, she’d be a perfect companion. But no, his tastes don’t favor her. If anything, they tend toward someone like Ed. His eyes widen. No, there’s not a chance…. Ed wouldn’t feel that way about him. He’s called him “bastard” for years.
There’s a murmur of voices in the office and he can pick out Ed’s familiar tone. He turns to face the door as he closes the file and tucks it into his desk drawer. Roy clears his throat moments before there’s a knock. Maybe this time he’ll have an answer for those golden eyes. He calls out, “Enter.”
Fandom: Supernatural
Story Title: Poetry to Fish
Character/Relationships: Castiel/Crowley
Rating: R
Warnings: Dubious consent. Torture.
It isn’t that he’s above a bit of fun, old-fashioned sexual and/or emotional manipulation - really, it isn’t, whatever his naysayers might say. (Not that he left many of those alive, when he got the run of this place.)
It’s just that- Well. The angel sort of takes the fun out of this at times.
Chains rattle. Pacing fills the chamber with the sounds of soft footsteps and the squelch of blood beneath shoe soles.
Crowley bites back a sigh of something - let’s call it irritation. Better to be irritated with the winged one’s pitiful self-masochism than something closer resembling sympathetic. Crowley is a more open-minded sort than his predecessor, but he isn’t soft or anything.
“You know… We don’t have to-”
“You told me the last time. We made a deal; deals have stipulations. This was one of them.”
Damned stubborn celestial beings. They’ll never make sense to Crowley.
“Have it your way, then. Let’s get the show back on the road, shall we?”
Castiel steels himself. He’s quite lovely, with pain and horror playing about his face, Crowley thinks; it’s a shame he doesn’t enjoy their sessions more. Hands travel slowly, gently, up the sides of a naked torso, trace the curves of a heaving ribcage, and still Castiel‘s face is nothing but grim and sorry. Fingertips linger, just there, like they’d reach around the bones sheltering a pounding heart and grip them tight if they could…
Then they do.
Castiel curls his fingers in the skin and flesh of Crowley’s side - and then through them. Blood dribbles then seeps down skin, sweat-slick and raised in goose bumps.
The agony is exquisite. There hasn’t been a being powerful enough - and, simultaneously, willing - to touch Crowley like this in a century.
Beyond his own, rough screams Crowley can hear Castiel breathing harshly. Buried inside Crowley’s body, Castiel’s hands begin to glow - and then to sear. Screams become a roar, and Crowley’s body arches off of the incline he’s chained upon.
It lasts only a few seconds - the brush of Castiel’s true essence against Crowley’s blackened form, hidden inside its tattered host, but it’s a second more than Crowley’s gotten before.
An actual touch. From an angel. Leave off on the tepid humor, children - an angel’s touch is no Roma Downey bear hug to an age-old demon. It’s the demonic equivalent of a lungful of napalm. There could be no finer torture for a force such as Crowley. And to think: he’d only tossed these little playdates into their initial negotiations for a laugh. He’d been sure that Castiel would balk at the very idea. He’s never been happier to have been mistaken.
Castiel withdraws as if he has been burned. As if the whole fire and brimstone bit were literal and he’s afraid of getting his wings dirty.
‘It’s a little late for all that,‘ Crowley thinks, but remains silent as Castiel mojos the chains away and the invisible bonds on Crowley’s powers, as well.
Crowley slides off the incline and onto his feet, legs bowing just a little, but doesn’t heal himself right away. He basks as much in the lovely ache of rent flesh on his frame as in the aversion of Castiel’s eyes, the sight of the angel with bowed head and trembling fists as Castiel rubs a break into the devil’s trap drawn neatly on the floor beneath their feet.
Crowley will give the Big Man up-upstairs this much: when he made his minions he did a right job of it. Even Castiel, the boldest and most visionary of his kind since Lucifer, cannot take for himself without feeling the need to be punished for it. His entire body is shuddering through the high of having touched the naked surface of a soul - even one as twisted and demonized as Crowley - and he hates himself for it. It’s clear in the expression on his face, the shadows in his eyes; his lack of resistance as Crowley steps close, whole and clothed and - if he might say so himself, looking quite dapper - and lays hands on Castiel’s coat.
“Deal or no deal, feathers, I have to say… I don’t think I’ve had this much fun on the rack since I still had my human bits,” Crowley admits aloud. “And that’s saying something.”
Castiel doesn’t seem to appreciate the compliment. “I’m not doing this for fun,” he is quick with the reminder. “I will not give you a reason to go back on-”
“Yeah, yeah. You don’t want me backing out of our deal. Whatever you’ve got to tell yourself, mate. I think you’ve learned to enjoy this arrangement of ours far more than you’re comfortable with, but what do I know?” He’s only been making deals (as the Devil) for some months now. Crowley gives Castiel a grin.
Castiel’s eyes narrow, signifying his return from the self-loathing funk he always slips into for a time after they’ve finished.
Crowley takes advantage while he can and plants a quick, wet one on the angel’s unresponsive lips. He usually saves the mouth-to-mouth for lesser contracts than theirs, but once you’ve had a bloke’s hands on your soul, what’s a little spit exchange, really?
Plus? It ribs Castiel something terrible.
“Til next time, yes? Tell you what: keep behaving yourself where it concerns Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber, and next time I’ll let you be the naked one when we bring out the chains. What do you say?”
The look on Castiel’s face is worth the damage done thereafter to Crowley’s wall tiles and the nice suit he’d just recreated.
Fandom: Law and Order: SVU
Story Title: Pick Up The Pieces
Character/Relationships: George Huang/Elliot Stabler
Rating: (PG, PG-13, R, NC-17) R
Warnings: Violence, some cursing
He didn't even know what had hit him.
One second he was walking home, almost moaning with anticipation at the prospect of a quiet night in with Elliot.
The next he was on the ground, pain exploding across his back and the ping of a metal baseball bat ringing through the air. He cried out, reaching for his gun, only to find his hands being grabbed by another person. He looked at the man’s face for identifying characteristics, but he was wearing a mask.
They pushed him to the ground; reeling from pain, he was easily knocked off balance.
"You're assaulting an FBI agent- you're getting at least ten years in prison-" he began, cut off when they hit him again, on his front this time, hard enough to make him worry about internal bleeding. He screamed in pain. After a moment, he managed to say, "You don't want to go to jail-" but he was once again cut off.
"Freedom," the first man hissed as he punched him on the mouth, "Freedom is just an illusion."
They hit him with the bat again. George screamed, feeling no less than three ribs shatter. Before he could even begin to recover, they hit him again, and again, with both the bat and their fists, until he was lost in a whirlwind of agony.
When one of the shards of his ribs pierced his lung, collapsing it and silencing his screams, he knew his chance for survival was slim. He gasped and wheezed for breath, but his attackers didn't stop until he began to cough, bringing up pink, frothy blood. They hit him one last time across his back, left him in a crumpled heap, a broken and bloody mess. He was only vaguely aware of the men searching his pockets and stealing everything of value before leaving.
George ground his teeth against the pain, sweat beading his forehead and hot tears pricking in his bruised, soon-to-be-black eyes. All he could do was gasp for breath and roll to his side, barely managing not to pass out from the pain the movement caused. The pain was bad enough to make him vomit violently, but the position made it easier to breathe and drain the blood that left his lungs with each frantic cough.
He was barely semi-conscious by the time he heard a voice calling for him, getting closer. He recognized it as Elliot, and he relaxed, knowing his lover would save him.
The sound of his footsteps got closer, and then his voice became frantic, footsteps getting faster and heavier, indicating that Elliot had seen him.
He gave a loud wheeze, the closest he could get to calling Elliot's name. Elliot let out a cry of shock, fear, and dismay as he caught full sight of him, whipping his phone out to call for an ambulance and crime scene unit.
"George, stay with me, stay with me," he pleaded. "Can you hear me?"
George barely heard Elliot's voice, was barely aware of his surroundings. He was so tired- he just wanted to sleep... His eyes slid shut, breathing slowing down drastically
"No, George, stay awake, c'mon," Elliot whispered desperately. George turned his head towards the noise.
Elliot began to palpate his torso, feeling for breaks. George whimpered, the only sound of pain he had enough breath to give.
"Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?" Elliot cried as he took in the overwhelming injuries and saw the shape of the forming bruises. "Those fucks beat you with a baseball bat?! Who the hell did this to you?"
George didn't reply, having already begun to surrender to unconsciousness again.. Anything that lessened the excruciating pain was okay with him, even if it meant death.
"No, George, you can't sleep, you have to stay awake!" he heard Elliot cry.
Without warning, everything went dark. George was vaguely aware of slumping backwards, head lolling alarmingly to the side as he lost control of his body.. A hand flew to his neck to search for a pulse, and the last thing he heard was, "George, no!"
________________________________________
Consciousness crept in slowly. His eyelids fluttered, and eventually opened. He coughed, throat sore from the breathing tube, and rasped, “What happened?”
"You were attacked," Someone whispered. Elliot.
Elliot looked more fragile and helpless than George had ever seen him, and it scared him even more than the agony he felt.
"I almost lost you; you died twice on the operating table. The worst of it is a collapsed lung and internal bleeding causing kidney damage, but you also have bruises all over, and your legs, four ribs, and right wrist are broken," Elliot said.
George's eyes widened. Elliot gently pushed against his chest, easing him to lie completely down. "You were in rough shape, which is exactly why we shouldn't talk about this yet. Just- just rest, okay?"
George nodded, but grasped Elliot's hand, pulling it off his chest and cradling it to his cheek.
"Oh, George.." Elliot whispered sadly. He kissed George's forehead. "I'm sorry. I should've been able to protect you..."
“No, Elliot, it’s not your fault,” George whispered.
“We’ll talk later, okay?” Elliot said.
George nodded, but felt unable to sleep with his worries about Elliot. If his lover was uneasy, so was he.
“I’ll be okay, George,” Elliot murmured reassuringly. “I promise.”
It was a lie, George knew; it would take weeks for George to recover physically, and months for the two of them to recover mentally. The physical injuries were nothing compared to the mental scars they’d both have after this.
George felt anger well up at his attackers, for hurting him and for causing Elliot so much distress. “When they attacked me,” George said bitterly, “They said, ‘freedom is as illusion’… Even if they go to jail, it still won’t matter to them, and in the meantime, we’re left to pick up the pieces.”
“We’ll work through it,” Elliot muttered. “Somehow, we will.”
George wished he could believe him.
Fandom: Supernatural
Story Title: My Soul to Take
Character/Relationships: Soulless!Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, explicit sexual situation, technically dub-con, general spoilers for Season 6
They should have killed each other.
There was no malice or desire behind the stray thought as Sam idly ghosted his hand over shivering flesh. It was just the logistics of survival, and Sam was going to survive.
Not as a useless, drooling bag of bones, but as an unstoppable hunter who had shook free of the bounds of hell, free of the bounds of his big brother.
Dean had always called the shots. He probably always would have if Sam’s pathetically weak soul still held the reigns.
Now it was Dean who made a strangled sound, back arching as Sam’s bored fingers stopped at a waiting nipple. A quick flick and then he twisted it soundly, grip clamping past the point of arousal, drawing it out into pain.
While Dean’s features tightened, his cock filled, curving up against the back of Sam’s thigh. The corners of Sam’s lips rose in tandem with Dean’s hardening length, not bothering to hide his smug satisfaction.
No one knew Dean like he did.
The skin beneath Dean’s pale freckles flushed with some mixture of embarrassment and arousal, maybe shame. Sam didn’t care enough to bother deciphering the cocktail of emotions that flickered over the hooded, green eyes staring up somewhere past him.
This was where Dean trying to kill him had gotten his brother. Not that Sam had room to gloat. He hadn’t been any quicker to snap Dean’s neck than Dean had been to pull the trigger.
Even when the word ‘monster’ had slipped so easily over Dean’s too perfect lips, even when Dean’s overly expressive eyes had drawn the connection between the blood still hot on Sam’s hands and the body on the floor at his feet.
Still, Dean was here beneath him now. Fair skin gleamed stark white against dark sheets as Sam mapped out every faded scar and contemplated what new ones to add to the collection.
Dean was his, always had been, he’d just been too stupidly conflicted to take advantage of what was so clearly there for the taking.
It wasn’t the bruising grip of Sam’s fingers that held Dean’s taught body spread ready and waiting, hips captured between the strength of Sam’s thighs.
Nothing physical could hold Dean.
Sam knew that Dean thought the choice here was his, that at any moment he could say to hell with it and walk away. He probably also thought he could kill Sam if he had to or at least reach him long enough to force that broken mess of a soul back down his throat.
Sam knew the truth.
As his fingers traced down the straining muscles of Dean’s abdomen, claiming every angle for his own, he knew it could be the slice of a dagger’s edge and Dean would still lie there accepting as scarlet rivets trailed down his skin.
Through the agony, Dean would continue to swear that long dead, little Sammy could still be saved.
The power he held over Dean was absolute, but soured by the knowledge that Sam was likewise irrevocably bound to his brother. He couldn’t break the hunter beneath him anymore than Dean could walk away from him.
For all their proclaimed independence, they now shared a soul. Maybe they always had.
When he brought his mouth to Dean’s neck, teeth scraping over the rapid pulse, he knew there was no escape. Swollen lips and hazed eyes met him as he unceremoniously bent Dean’s knees up to his chest.
It didn’t matter that Dean was offering himself up for wholly different reasons than Sam was taking him. It didn’t change the fact that while they may eventually die in each other’s arms, they would never die by each other’s hands.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Story Title: Choice
Character/Relationships: Severus/Regulus
Rating: R
Warnings: Mentions of sex
“I almost don’t want to,” says Regulus.
“I definitely don’t want to.” Severus scowls at his feet, which dangle from a desk in the abandoned classroom they’ve snagged for the evening. It was Severus who coerced Avery into standing guard, not that Avery’s good for much else.
Regulus, who has been lying facedown on the floor, rolls over to stare up at Severus. “You don’t? I thought you wanted the power.”
“Which is precisely what I won’t get from the Dark Lord. I’ve been fooling myself for years now. My blood is like a brand.” Severus sighs. “If only my surname weren’t recognizably Muggle…”
“Well, it doesn’t make a difference anyway,” Regulus mutters. “We don’t have a choice, do we? It’s join or die, at this point. And he already killed your parents."
“Thanks, Reg, I appreciate your bringing that up.”
“It’s true!” Regulus stands and slides onto the desk beside Severus. “It’s why I’m going to join now, instead of waiting till I leave. My parents may not be the greatest, any more than yours were, but they don’t deserve to die.”
Severus gives him a sideways glance. “And I suppose it has nothing to do with trying to keep seeing me.”
Regulus’s hand presses against his, and their fingers slowly twine together. “Nothing at all.”
Avery, bloody voyeur that he is, is probably listening in with increasing excitement. They’ve been alternating between conversation and sex all evening, and he was likely getting bored. Avery is a pureblood, and the only reason he isn’t marked already is because he’s too stupid to have thought of it, the way Regulus has.
Severus’s mind drifts away from bothersome thoughts about Avery as Regulus slides a hand beneath his robes.
“You know what my brother said when I told him I was going to be a Death Eater?”
“What’s that?” Severus murmurs.
Regulus grins into Severus’s shoulder, but the grin lacks humor. “He said it was a stupid choice. And when I told him it wasn’t a choice, he said you always have the freedom to choose.”
“Always said your brother was dim.”
Their conversation dies out as they turn their attention to more immediately pressing matters.
Fandom: Glee
Story Title: Prison or Protection
Character/Relationships: Blaine/Kurt
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: References to past bullying/homophobia. Set between 2x17 and 2x18, so spoilers through to those episodes.
"Doesn't it ever bother you?"
"Hmm," Blaine hums, not really sure what Kurt's asking because nothing could bother him right now.
They're hanging out in the living room, Blaine lying on the couch, head resting on a pillow in Kurt's lap ? never directly in Kurt's lap because that's too intimate for either to be comfortable with yet. His boyfriend, boyfriend!, is trailing fingers along his hairline and over his cheeks, as if he's fascinated by the shape of his face.
"Blaine," Kurt says, tone tinted with impatience.
"Sorry, does what bother me?" Blaine responds, rolling over onto his stomach and pressing one cheek into the pillow. Kurt tenses but Blaine doesn't immediately move, doesn't move at all when Kurt, after a minute, relaxes. His fingers start tracing over Blaine's closed eye and the corner of mouth.
"Dalton," Kurt says and lets the word hang between them. It's Blaine's turn to tense because he knows what Kurt's been considering recently, even if Kurt hasn't realized it himself yet. After a moment, he adds, "It's repressed. And repressive."
"How so?" It isn't how he wants to respond.
"I'm very thankful for the safety it provides," Kurt says, voice feather soft, as light as the fingers he's dragging down Blaine's neck now. Blaine struggles not to squirm and to concentrate on Kurt's words, because this is important. "But don't you get tired of the monotony? Of blending in all the time?"
"I like belonging," Blaine says, because it's true. "Fitting in isn't a bad thing."
He doesn't say that it hurts less than the alternative, though they can both hear it, sitting in the air between them.
"I just wondered," Kurt says eventually and now his voice is small, ashamed, and Blaine feels equal parts like an ass and terrified.
Since attending Dalton, Blaine knows that Kurt's had trouble with the way things work. He's heard enough about Kurt's time at McKinley and seen him interact with his friends to know that Kurt has always had to burn, not shine or glow, but blaze in order to be something. Being part of something isn't good enough anymore, because he was part of something before and since Kurt walked him through those once terrifying halls of McKinley before New Directions' Night of Neglect ? and wasn't that an apt name? ? Blaine's been so scared that Kurt would realize that.
He'd once described Dalton as a gilded cage, whispering to Pavarotti before seeing Blaine was standing there. And maybe it is. Maybe it's a beautiful, ornate cage that keeps its boys in pressed blazers and neat ties, hair of appropriate style, cut, and color, acting in a way befitting proper young men. In his more cynical moments, Kurt would probably make a snip about trained dogs that sit and stand and stay on command. That speak when told, specifically, to speak.
But Blaine's never really talked about his old school, where he wore cargo pants, sweaters from the GAP and Hollister, and a completely unruly, unrepentantly curly hair style. He remembers, very clearly, when he could act however he wanted because it truly and honestly didn?t matter.
He?s still find bits of erasers, spitballs, and ? on six completely separate but equally memorable occasions ? wads of chewed gum in his hair at the end of the day, no matter what. When he?d go into the boy?s room, no one cared what he wore or how he spoke. They?d still make a big show out of turning away and zipping up. He?d still freeze in the doorway, knowing he?d be too stressed to actually go anymore. Every month, like clockwork, the word FAG would be spray painted on his locker or, the very last time, carved in so violently that three of his text books had been scored, regardless of how he chose to act.
Blaine has never talked about his old school so he?s never told Kurt how he?d stopped using the school?s bathrooms three months before transferring. He has never mentioned how he only used his locker because he was told to after slipping on the front steps and injuring his back; he?s also never mentioned how he?d seen Joey Bartinelli toss down the folder he slipped on and especially not how he saw Joey and his friends trying not to laugh when he needed help up. He has never told Kurt that he cut his hair off to preserve that one strand of dignity he desperately needed rather than to accommodate some Dalton code of appearance.
And he doesn?t plan to say any of this to Kurt now. Kurt, who loves that thing he views as freedom because he sees Dalton as a cage and a cage is something to escape from. Because each day takes Kurt farther and farther from the idea that the bars are there to keep things out.
?It?s okay. I guess you just have to get your fill after school and on the weekends. You know, with standing out,? Blaine says, a pit of dread in his stomach because he?s taken AP English and this, right now? This feels a lot like that foreshadowing they were always talking about.
Kurt hums thoughtlessly, his fingers kneading gently at the back of Blaine?s neck.
Fandom: Jeeves and Wooster
Story Title: A Moment of Despair
Character/Relationships: Unrequired Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: PG
Warnings: 2nd person POV
It’s familiar, the way he gives you the cup of tea with the barest hint of a smile, and the way he shimmers to your wardrobe to select the suit for you to wear that day. He says something about altostratus clouds while he brushes the invisible dust off the deep-blue pinstripe suit but you don’t find it in you to care about the weather. The tea is perfect.
Over the brim of your cup you watch his every move, wondering how he still is by your side, every morning, every night, after everything. With a brain like his, he could go and run the whole country and no one would even notice the subtlety of his actions, except perhaps the people selling accessories he doesn’t approve of. Why is he here, in this room, in this apartment, when he is capable of so much more? What made him choose this profession, this city, this address? Why did he choose you?
Of course you know why he chose this career. He was a servant’s son, nothing more, nothing less, according to the society and its traditions and so he is stuck in the same job as his parents. To you, he is so much more. You wish, once again, you could give your fortune to him, so that he could be anything you think he deserves. You think how you don’t deserve the money you have, when all you are capable of is to do things no one appreciates. All you are capable of, you think, is to love him, silently, unnoticed.
A sigh so untypical of you escapes your lips when he glides to the bathroom to run your bath. You know where these thoughts leak; the letter still rests on your writing desk, the letter of impending doom. You have to marry Florence Craye, it stated in the beautiful penmanship of your least favorite aunt. Last night you spent pondering why you can’t choose, why they are always telling you what to do. The money you have should be enough to make you an independent man, yet your relatives are still meddling with your life.
You notice his presence in your bedroom again when he takes the half-finished cup of now cold tea from you. Your fingertips meet and you watch deep in his eyes. The kindness you see there is visible for your eyes only and it gives you courage to smile again and believe he has a plan. He always has a plan. How many times has he broken your engagements now? You try to count them but you can’t, there has been too many.
You wish you could kiss him, but you know all the possible risks, so instead you smile again like you always do. He may be a servant, but he still can choose to abandon you and you don’t know what you would do without him. So you hide all your illegal feelings and allow yourself just a moment of dreaming during your bath. Perhaps time will come when you don’t have to hide your love and you are allowed to love someone who is neither chosen by your aunts nor a girl.
Fandom: The OC
Story Title: Like Sparkling Water and Engine Grease
Character/Relationships: Seth/Ryan
Rating: PG
Warnings: Contains adults language, Allusion to Violence, Allusion to drug use
He should have known. Really. He’s not an idiot. He just fell into that idiot mindset that tells you everyone has a shot at the “American Dream”. Everyone has a shot at being something.
He fell into the mindset that this life was his; that he could have this.
And he can’t, not really. Not in any lasting, final way. Because this is Newport and he’s Chino. Like sparkling water and engine grease, the two just don’t mix.
And he should have known that this would happen. He should have known that Chino would catch up to him.
You can take the boy out of the hood…
It was inevitable that he would find him. That he would hate him, think he’d changed.
Ryan had changed. Or at least he’d thought he had. It felt like he had. From the second he laid eyes on a slouching figure in too baggy cargo pants, a superman shirt with faded lettering, eyes glued to a big, shiny, screen, long fingers tap tap tapping away on a controller that Ryan had only ever seen on television or in the locked off section of the electronics at Wal Mart; the heavy stuff that you can’t pocket easily, the stuff that costs about twice as much as their mortgage did.
Three times as much as those Jordan’s Ryan mugged from this kid one time… “Just passing through actually…”
Five times as much as their monthly grocery allowance; half of that spent on artificial happiness in dark alleys anyway.
If someone had told him that the day his life took a turn for the better would be the day he met Seth Cohen he’d have laughed in their face; probably socked them one just for saying such shit about him. Because, the thing is, Ryan hadn’t planned on staying. He hadn’t planned on being hit with an inexplicable amount of tenderness for someone he didn’t even know. You see, in Chino it was every man for himself.
It’s a dog eat dog world around here, kid…
You gotta look out for number one Ry. Ain’t nobody else gonna watch your back unless their looking to stab you in it.
But this was Newport. This was Newport and Ryan was a hero because Seth was vulnerable here in Newport. Well, Seth was vulnerable pretty much everywhere except for in the grand scheme of life, maybe, where money got you everything.
Ryan hadn’t planned on finding his match in a clumsy, sarcastic, comic book reading outcast who understood almost nothing of the world outside of his little personal bubble, but somehow was able to dig himself under Ryan’s skin; into Ryan’s heart. A flash of those sharp brown eyes and that crooked, knowing smile was all it took for him to be hooked.
Stay.
He hadn’t planned on Trey. On his problems finding him. On Chino coming back to haunt him.
And maybe it isn’t the most noble or righteous thing in the world that even after the fact all Ryan can see when he closes his eyes is the fear on Seth’s face. All he can remember is praying silently to the God he’d grown up despising.
Please…Please…Just don’t let Seth be hurt, just don’t let Seth be hurt cause if he dies…
He should feel guilty. He does feel guilty. Not because of Trey but because he can’t even drum up the wherewithal to be more than relieved that the person in that body bag isn’t Seth Cohen.
It doesn’t make him feel like any less of a fraud that he loves him, or that Seth says he loves him back. It just makes him feel more undeserving of the beautiful boy who he’s come to call his own.
He should have known he’d be driving back down this road; this same grimy, shadow filled road to nowhere. He should have known there was no way he could have him. He should have known there was no escape from Chino. He was never free from any of it.
He would never be free from himself.
Fandom: CSI: Miami
Story Title: Trapped
Character/Relationships: one-sided Eric/Ryan
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
He has hurt the one person felt love for from almost the beginning. ‘It’s the right thing to do.’ He would say to himself often.
It hurt both parties, but he stuck with this plan. Getting to close would hurt more. He needed to stay free, unchained and free from possible rejection, or worse. The thought of losing his heart all together. The inability to let go if this ever ended.
So he continued. Never getting close, always keeping a distant.
The plan was failing. The farther he pushed, the tighter the string around his heart became.
He was falling in love. When this revelation hit him, he was too far in. He just couldn’t stop.
“Why?” The object of his hearts affection, standing in his apartment. He wants an explanation for everything. “Why Delko? Just when I think everything is going well and we’re friends, I do something that upsets you.” He is using his glare. “You yell at me. You mock me. You’ve embarrassed me in the lab. Why?”
He wants to explain. He wants to say ‘I do it because I love you and I’m afraid.’ But he has too much pride for that. “You make too many mistakes Wolfe. I’m trying to make them stop.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit. That’s hypocritical, and you know it. I want the truth.”
He was tired of lying. They both were. “I can’t really tell you.” The former let out a frustrated sigh and walked out. “I can’t tell you because it would show how trapped I really am.”
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Story Title: I Don't Love You, and I Always Will
Character/Relationships: Arizona Robbins; Callie/Arizona
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
"We are standing in the middle of an airport, screaming at each other. We're already over."
You feel your own words like daggers in your heart. You turn on your heel and the last thing you see is Callie's initial, desperate anger melting into shock and hurt. Then you're facing forward, putting one foot in front of the other and somehow making it through the gate and onto the plane, even though the world is nothing but blurred prisms through your hot tears.
---
You’re ten years old again and sweet Samantha, her golden hair in long braids, is standing at your doorstep. She’s in tears, grasping at your shoulders and pulling you towards her.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” she asks, and you’re starting to cry too.
You don’t know what to say. You think about Ben last summer, and Alice two summers before that. You remember what you said to them, and how you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t say it again. But Samantha is the best friend you’ve ever had and when she holds you close like that, you don’t know why, but can’t deny her anything.
So you wrap your arms around her and whisper in her ear. “It’s okay, we’ll see each other again. I promise.”
The years ahead prove your words to be a lie, but it’s the last one like that you’ll ever tell. You learn to cut your ties when you leave, and to convince yourself that you’re all the happier for it.
---
You wake up and you’re on the plane. Seat 24A. You’re by the window and even though the sky outside is dark, you stare straight on out, desperate to ignore the seat beside you-the empty seat, where Callie should be sitting with her hand in your lap and her head against your shoulder. You’re choking back a sob when you hear a sniffle from two seats down. You press a hand to your lips, take a breath, and sneak a look at the girl in the aisle.
She’s maybe seventeen or eighteen, and she’s crying pitifully into a copy of Us Weekly. “Sorry.” She wipes at her nose. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” you assure her, and reach into your purse. “Here.” You hand her a tissue.
“Thanks.” She smiles through her tears and blows her nose. “I’m so sorry. I just--I, my boyfriend, and…” Her shoulders start to shake in dry heaves and you reach over to touch her reassuringly on the shoulder.
“I know,” you say. “It’s hard. I know.” Then your eyes are stinging and you squeeze them shut, but like closing them against the fumes of a freshly cut onion, this only makes it worse.
---
Some weeks later you’re on the phone with Teddy. She’s babbling on about something but you don’t know what because all you can think about is Callie. Her name is always on the tip of your tongue but can’t ever manage to actually say it, and Teddy never brings her up.
But in the omission she’s always there and you imagine that both you and Teddy feel her pressing in on the conversation.
“Arizona?” Teddy’s voice is tempered but sharp. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I, uh, yeah,” you say. You both know this is a lie. Teddy is silent on the other end. You feel like you should say something, but you’re exhausted and your voice is probably hoarse from all the crying anyway. Not that you’d admit it to Teddy.
Teddy must be fed up with your hedging because she goes ahead and breaks your unspoken rule. “Callie asked about you. Well, she asked me if you’d asked about her.”
You swallow against the lump in your throat. “What did you say?” It’s a whisper.
“I told her the truth.” Teddy sighs. “Damn it, Arizona. You’re an idiot.”
“Teddy-”
“No, Arizona. You and Callie-you were my ‘aspirational’ couple. And now she’s a mess, and you’re a mess and you need to call her. This clearly isn’t working out for either of you, and I know break ups never do-ha, that’s the point!-but I don’t know…maybe you need to reconsider.”
“It’s three years, Teddy! Three years. She would have been miserable here for three years, and she would have been miserable waiting there for three years.”
“So, what? You ‘set her free’? Oh, how humane, Arizona.”
You hang up on Teddy, which is terrible and you regret it immediately. But the sting of Teddy’s words is like a slap across the face. Laying bed that night, you wonder where it all went wrong. You thought you had a system, one tried and tested through years of moving around as a kid and later as an ambitious young surgeon. Cut your ties and set everyone free from the burden of expectations, or promises that are never kept and hopes that inevitably fade away. And you’re always free to move on, to give your affections-and maybe even your heart-to another.
And there it is. There’s the variable that screwed with the entire equation: the moment your heart had known Calliope Torres, it had ceased to be your own to give.
Fandom: Dragon Age 2
Story Title:Our mistakes make us who we are.
Character/Relationships: Isabella/F!Hawke
Rating: Pg-13
Warnings: Some adult language and references to sex between two consenting adult women.
You won‘t even remember Kirkwall in a few day. Really you won‘t remember a blasted thing about that city in just a few more days…Come now Isabella …perhaps if you say it a few million more times - that’ll make it true?
So you stole the Arishoks little tome…some….tome of..Cousland? No…Kusmond? What the bloody hell was the name.
Well…you could go and look at the damned book and see. But that----Never mind we’re getting off topic here…We’re…I…I’m getting off topic.
The point is you’ve managed to escape Kirkwall with the book, you’re half way to Antiva by now, and you’re seriously entertaining the notion of HEADING BACK. You’re FREE. Don’t be a fool.
Maker, do you see what that bloody woman has done to you!?! I suppose a few years of insurmountably satisfying sexual gratification doesn’t come without a price. But insoluble guilt for doing what you do - run from any situation that makes you uncomfortable- surely you can’t be held to blame for that. Hawke is a big girl. She knew what she was getting in to.
But at the same time, maybe the mantra needs to change, because Andrastes tits...it’s not Kirkwall you’re running from is it?
She deserves better than this you know. Of course I bloody well know I am the one going stark raving mad questioning myself… to myself .But that doesn’t change the fact that 5-no maybe 6 years of incessant companionship, camaraderie, and arguably some of the most acrobatic sex of your existence maybe- just maybe-she deserved a little more then to be swindled and left a simple note.
And what a note…you may have well have written:
Thanks for the Orgasms! I stole the Arishoks bookie-wook-thingie. Good luck with all this-
Kisses , Isabella
With such a charming bit of endlessly smooth woo pitching how could she EVER stay mad?
You’ve no one to blame for this but yourself. IF you go back, she still may NEVER speak to you again. Granted that might not even be an option since they’re going to hang your ass from the gallows the second you sail in. She’ll likely hand you over to the big brooding angry fellows, and who knows what fresh delights that may entail. Slavery, jail, perhaps forced sodomy. Lovley.
For arguments sake let’s say they don’t hang you, Hawk doesn’t turn you in , and lets blow sunshine up our ass and say the entire fiasco doesn’t explode in your face- I still highly doubt those blue eyes will come running towards you , arms and caution to the wind, proclaiming “OH Isabella! I am ever-so happy you’ve returned to me- Let’s forget all this betrayal business and put a smile on that pirate-ie face of yours!”
Well then again she might- This IS Hawke..shes err,,,different? She may forgive you, but the chances of that are akin to magically sprouting dangly man parts out your forehead. The point is things have changed. Things will forever be different because YOU muddled up.
Maker, LISTEN to yourself Isabella! ‘Things will never be the same’? What were ‘things’ anyhow? You were the one constantly pushing her away, keeping her at arm’s length. She is the bloody Champion of Kirkwall! She’s amassed enough wealth and has enough charm and influence to worm her way in to even the most pious of chantry sisters prudish knickers! She could have ANYONE in that city.
Yet she spent her time in the drunken splendor of your company. Losing at cards, and using your thighs as earmuffs.
Maybe she’ll feed you to the wolves, maybe she’ll forgive you. But turning this ship around is the only way you’re ever going to know.
Story Title: Golden Questions
Character/Relationships: Roy Mustang, Edward Elric, Roy/Ed preslash
Rating: PG
Warnings: Ed is 18 in this.
It starts with an assignment but he’s been doing this for years. The carefully cultivated reputation as a ladies’ man with a different woman on his arm every night is a lie. They’re contacts giving him information and well trained to act the part. It’s how he’s able to get to where he has in such a short amount of time. He’s certain the higher ups were chuckling when they assigned this case to him. It’s right up his alley.
He flips open the folder to read over the intel again as he swivels his chair to face the window. All he has to do is wine and dine his way into the company of a woman who’s rumored to be discretely financing some alchemical research. Preliminary reports says it may have to do with time delayed alchemical traps. Very interesting if it’s indeed true. Roy wonders if he isn’t a little too well known for a covert operation like this.
Wouldn’t someone from the Intelligence Division be better suited for the job? Or maybe he’s being set up for failure? Whatever the case, he has to make this work. It’d be easier if he didn’t have to see Fullmetal today. There’s a tension between them he can’t explain. Ed’s golden eyes beg for an answer and Roy has no idea what the question even is.
Ed’s always brimmed with a fire not easily contained but lately it’s been dimmed. He looks at Roy with those questions in his eyes and Roy wishes he knew what he was asking. Ed’s not quite the brash, arrogant boy who declared he’d find the Philosopher’s Stone in a year after he joined the military anymore. He’s grown up into a young man with talent beyond his years and no patience for idiots. Roy smiles slightly. They’re similar in that regard, but Roy has learned to play the game while Ed refuses to even consider it.
Roy glances at the picture of the woman that’s to be his target. She’s stunning and right around his age. If he had the time for relationships or if he was interested in the female form, she’d be a perfect companion. But no, his tastes don’t favor her. If anything, they tend toward someone like Ed. His eyes widen. No, there’s not a chance…. Ed wouldn’t feel that way about him. He’s called him “bastard” for years.
There’s a murmur of voices in the office and he can pick out Ed’s familiar tone. He turns to face the door as he closes the file and tucks it into his desk drawer. Roy clears his throat moments before there’s a knock. Maybe this time he’ll have an answer for those golden eyes. He calls out, “Enter.”
Fandom: Supernatural
Story Title: Poetry to Fish
Character/Relationships: Castiel/Crowley
Rating: R
Warnings: Dubious consent. Torture.
It isn’t that he’s above a bit of fun, old-fashioned sexual and/or emotional manipulation - really, it isn’t, whatever his naysayers might say. (Not that he left many of those alive, when he got the run of this place.)
It’s just that- Well. The angel sort of takes the fun out of this at times.
Chains rattle. Pacing fills the chamber with the sounds of soft footsteps and the squelch of blood beneath shoe soles.
Crowley bites back a sigh of something - let’s call it irritation. Better to be irritated with the winged one’s pitiful self-masochism than something closer resembling sympathetic. Crowley is a more open-minded sort than his predecessor, but he isn’t soft or anything.
“You know… We don’t have to-”
“You told me the last time. We made a deal; deals have stipulations. This was one of them.”
Damned stubborn celestial beings. They’ll never make sense to Crowley.
“Have it your way, then. Let’s get the show back on the road, shall we?”
Castiel steels himself. He’s quite lovely, with pain and horror playing about his face, Crowley thinks; it’s a shame he doesn’t enjoy their sessions more. Hands travel slowly, gently, up the sides of a naked torso, trace the curves of a heaving ribcage, and still Castiel‘s face is nothing but grim and sorry. Fingertips linger, just there, like they’d reach around the bones sheltering a pounding heart and grip them tight if they could…
Then they do.
Castiel curls his fingers in the skin and flesh of Crowley’s side - and then through them. Blood dribbles then seeps down skin, sweat-slick and raised in goose bumps.
The agony is exquisite. There hasn’t been a being powerful enough - and, simultaneously, willing - to touch Crowley like this in a century.
Beyond his own, rough screams Crowley can hear Castiel breathing harshly. Buried inside Crowley’s body, Castiel’s hands begin to glow - and then to sear. Screams become a roar, and Crowley’s body arches off of the incline he’s chained upon.
It lasts only a few seconds - the brush of Castiel’s true essence against Crowley’s blackened form, hidden inside its tattered host, but it’s a second more than Crowley’s gotten before.
An actual touch. From an angel. Leave off on the tepid humor, children - an angel’s touch is no Roma Downey bear hug to an age-old demon. It’s the demonic equivalent of a lungful of napalm. There could be no finer torture for a force such as Crowley. And to think: he’d only tossed these little playdates into their initial negotiations for a laugh. He’d been sure that Castiel would balk at the very idea. He’s never been happier to have been mistaken.
Castiel withdraws as if he has been burned. As if the whole fire and brimstone bit were literal and he’s afraid of getting his wings dirty.
‘It’s a little late for all that,‘ Crowley thinks, but remains silent as Castiel mojos the chains away and the invisible bonds on Crowley’s powers, as well.
Crowley slides off the incline and onto his feet, legs bowing just a little, but doesn’t heal himself right away. He basks as much in the lovely ache of rent flesh on his frame as in the aversion of Castiel’s eyes, the sight of the angel with bowed head and trembling fists as Castiel rubs a break into the devil’s trap drawn neatly on the floor beneath their feet.
Crowley will give the Big Man up-upstairs this much: when he made his minions he did a right job of it. Even Castiel, the boldest and most visionary of his kind since Lucifer, cannot take for himself without feeling the need to be punished for it. His entire body is shuddering through the high of having touched the naked surface of a soul - even one as twisted and demonized as Crowley - and he hates himself for it. It’s clear in the expression on his face, the shadows in his eyes; his lack of resistance as Crowley steps close, whole and clothed and - if he might say so himself, looking quite dapper - and lays hands on Castiel’s coat.
“Deal or no deal, feathers, I have to say… I don’t think I’ve had this much fun on the rack since I still had my human bits,” Crowley admits aloud. “And that’s saying something.”
Castiel doesn’t seem to appreciate the compliment. “I’m not doing this for fun,” he is quick with the reminder. “I will not give you a reason to go back on-”
“Yeah, yeah. You don’t want me backing out of our deal. Whatever you’ve got to tell yourself, mate. I think you’ve learned to enjoy this arrangement of ours far more than you’re comfortable with, but what do I know?” He’s only been making deals (as the Devil) for some months now. Crowley gives Castiel a grin.
Castiel’s eyes narrow, signifying his return from the self-loathing funk he always slips into for a time after they’ve finished.
Crowley takes advantage while he can and plants a quick, wet one on the angel’s unresponsive lips. He usually saves the mouth-to-mouth for lesser contracts than theirs, but once you’ve had a bloke’s hands on your soul, what’s a little spit exchange, really?
Plus? It ribs Castiel something terrible.
“Til next time, yes? Tell you what: keep behaving yourself where it concerns Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber, and next time I’ll let you be the naked one when we bring out the chains. What do you say?”
The look on Castiel’s face is worth the damage done thereafter to Crowley’s wall tiles and the nice suit he’d just recreated.
Fandom: Law and Order: SVU
Story Title: Pick Up The Pieces
Character/Relationships: George Huang/Elliot Stabler
Rating: (PG, PG-13, R, NC-17) R
Warnings: Violence, some cursing
He didn't even know what had hit him.
One second he was walking home, almost moaning with anticipation at the prospect of a quiet night in with Elliot.
The next he was on the ground, pain exploding across his back and the ping of a metal baseball bat ringing through the air. He cried out, reaching for his gun, only to find his hands being grabbed by another person. He looked at the man’s face for identifying characteristics, but he was wearing a mask.
They pushed him to the ground; reeling from pain, he was easily knocked off balance.
"You're assaulting an FBI agent- you're getting at least ten years in prison-" he began, cut off when they hit him again, on his front this time, hard enough to make him worry about internal bleeding. He screamed in pain. After a moment, he managed to say, "You don't want to go to jail-" but he was once again cut off.
"Freedom," the first man hissed as he punched him on the mouth, "Freedom is just an illusion."
They hit him with the bat again. George screamed, feeling no less than three ribs shatter. Before he could even begin to recover, they hit him again, and again, with both the bat and their fists, until he was lost in a whirlwind of agony.
When one of the shards of his ribs pierced his lung, collapsing it and silencing his screams, he knew his chance for survival was slim. He gasped and wheezed for breath, but his attackers didn't stop until he began to cough, bringing up pink, frothy blood. They hit him one last time across his back, left him in a crumpled heap, a broken and bloody mess. He was only vaguely aware of the men searching his pockets and stealing everything of value before leaving.
George ground his teeth against the pain, sweat beading his forehead and hot tears pricking in his bruised, soon-to-be-black eyes. All he could do was gasp for breath and roll to his side, barely managing not to pass out from the pain the movement caused. The pain was bad enough to make him vomit violently, but the position made it easier to breathe and drain the blood that left his lungs with each frantic cough.
He was barely semi-conscious by the time he heard a voice calling for him, getting closer. He recognized it as Elliot, and he relaxed, knowing his lover would save him.
The sound of his footsteps got closer, and then his voice became frantic, footsteps getting faster and heavier, indicating that Elliot had seen him.
He gave a loud wheeze, the closest he could get to calling Elliot's name. Elliot let out a cry of shock, fear, and dismay as he caught full sight of him, whipping his phone out to call for an ambulance and crime scene unit.
"George, stay with me, stay with me," he pleaded. "Can you hear me?"
George barely heard Elliot's voice, was barely aware of his surroundings. He was so tired- he just wanted to sleep... His eyes slid shut, breathing slowing down drastically
"No, George, stay awake, c'mon," Elliot whispered desperately. George turned his head towards the noise.
Elliot began to palpate his torso, feeling for breaks. George whimpered, the only sound of pain he had enough breath to give.
"Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?" Elliot cried as he took in the overwhelming injuries and saw the shape of the forming bruises. "Those fucks beat you with a baseball bat?! Who the hell did this to you?"
George didn't reply, having already begun to surrender to unconsciousness again.. Anything that lessened the excruciating pain was okay with him, even if it meant death.
"No, George, you can't sleep, you have to stay awake!" he heard Elliot cry.
Without warning, everything went dark. George was vaguely aware of slumping backwards, head lolling alarmingly to the side as he lost control of his body.. A hand flew to his neck to search for a pulse, and the last thing he heard was, "George, no!"
________________________________________
Consciousness crept in slowly. His eyelids fluttered, and eventually opened. He coughed, throat sore from the breathing tube, and rasped, “What happened?”
"You were attacked," Someone whispered. Elliot.
Elliot looked more fragile and helpless than George had ever seen him, and it scared him even more than the agony he felt.
"I almost lost you; you died twice on the operating table. The worst of it is a collapsed lung and internal bleeding causing kidney damage, but you also have bruises all over, and your legs, four ribs, and right wrist are broken," Elliot said.
George's eyes widened. Elliot gently pushed against his chest, easing him to lie completely down. "You were in rough shape, which is exactly why we shouldn't talk about this yet. Just- just rest, okay?"
George nodded, but grasped Elliot's hand, pulling it off his chest and cradling it to his cheek.
"Oh, George.." Elliot whispered sadly. He kissed George's forehead. "I'm sorry. I should've been able to protect you..."
“No, Elliot, it’s not your fault,” George whispered.
“We’ll talk later, okay?” Elliot said.
George nodded, but felt unable to sleep with his worries about Elliot. If his lover was uneasy, so was he.
“I’ll be okay, George,” Elliot murmured reassuringly. “I promise.”
It was a lie, George knew; it would take weeks for George to recover physically, and months for the two of them to recover mentally. The physical injuries were nothing compared to the mental scars they’d both have after this.
George felt anger well up at his attackers, for hurting him and for causing Elliot so much distress. “When they attacked me,” George said bitterly, “They said, ‘freedom is as illusion’… Even if they go to jail, it still won’t matter to them, and in the meantime, we’re left to pick up the pieces.”
“We’ll work through it,” Elliot muttered. “Somehow, we will.”
George wished he could believe him.
Fandom: Supernatural
Story Title: My Soul to Take
Character/Relationships: Soulless!Sam/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, explicit sexual situation, technically dub-con, general spoilers for Season 6
They should have killed each other.
There was no malice or desire behind the stray thought as Sam idly ghosted his hand over shivering flesh. It was just the logistics of survival, and Sam was going to survive.
Not as a useless, drooling bag of bones, but as an unstoppable hunter who had shook free of the bounds of hell, free of the bounds of his big brother.
Dean had always called the shots. He probably always would have if Sam’s pathetically weak soul still held the reigns.
Now it was Dean who made a strangled sound, back arching as Sam’s bored fingers stopped at a waiting nipple. A quick flick and then he twisted it soundly, grip clamping past the point of arousal, drawing it out into pain.
While Dean’s features tightened, his cock filled, curving up against the back of Sam’s thigh. The corners of Sam’s lips rose in tandem with Dean’s hardening length, not bothering to hide his smug satisfaction.
No one knew Dean like he did.
The skin beneath Dean’s pale freckles flushed with some mixture of embarrassment and arousal, maybe shame. Sam didn’t care enough to bother deciphering the cocktail of emotions that flickered over the hooded, green eyes staring up somewhere past him.
This was where Dean trying to kill him had gotten his brother. Not that Sam had room to gloat. He hadn’t been any quicker to snap Dean’s neck than Dean had been to pull the trigger.
Even when the word ‘monster’ had slipped so easily over Dean’s too perfect lips, even when Dean’s overly expressive eyes had drawn the connection between the blood still hot on Sam’s hands and the body on the floor at his feet.
Still, Dean was here beneath him now. Fair skin gleamed stark white against dark sheets as Sam mapped out every faded scar and contemplated what new ones to add to the collection.
Dean was his, always had been, he’d just been too stupidly conflicted to take advantage of what was so clearly there for the taking.
It wasn’t the bruising grip of Sam’s fingers that held Dean’s taught body spread ready and waiting, hips captured between the strength of Sam’s thighs.
Nothing physical could hold Dean.
Sam knew that Dean thought the choice here was his, that at any moment he could say to hell with it and walk away. He probably also thought he could kill Sam if he had to or at least reach him long enough to force that broken mess of a soul back down his throat.
Sam knew the truth.
As his fingers traced down the straining muscles of Dean’s abdomen, claiming every angle for his own, he knew it could be the slice of a dagger’s edge and Dean would still lie there accepting as scarlet rivets trailed down his skin.
Through the agony, Dean would continue to swear that long dead, little Sammy could still be saved.
The power he held over Dean was absolute, but soured by the knowledge that Sam was likewise irrevocably bound to his brother. He couldn’t break the hunter beneath him anymore than Dean could walk away from him.
For all their proclaimed independence, they now shared a soul. Maybe they always had.
When he brought his mouth to Dean’s neck, teeth scraping over the rapid pulse, he knew there was no escape. Swollen lips and hazed eyes met him as he unceremoniously bent Dean’s knees up to his chest.
It didn’t matter that Dean was offering himself up for wholly different reasons than Sam was taking him. It didn’t change the fact that while they may eventually die in each other’s arms, they would never die by each other’s hands.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Story Title: Choice
Character/Relationships: Severus/Regulus
Rating: R
Warnings: Mentions of sex
“I almost don’t want to,” says Regulus.
“I definitely don’t want to.” Severus scowls at his feet, which dangle from a desk in the abandoned classroom they’ve snagged for the evening. It was Severus who coerced Avery into standing guard, not that Avery’s good for much else.
Regulus, who has been lying facedown on the floor, rolls over to stare up at Severus. “You don’t? I thought you wanted the power.”
“Which is precisely what I won’t get from the Dark Lord. I’ve been fooling myself for years now. My blood is like a brand.” Severus sighs. “If only my surname weren’t recognizably Muggle…”
“Well, it doesn’t make a difference anyway,” Regulus mutters. “We don’t have a choice, do we? It’s join or die, at this point. And he already killed your parents."
“Thanks, Reg, I appreciate your bringing that up.”
“It’s true!” Regulus stands and slides onto the desk beside Severus. “It’s why I’m going to join now, instead of waiting till I leave. My parents may not be the greatest, any more than yours were, but they don’t deserve to die.”
Severus gives him a sideways glance. “And I suppose it has nothing to do with trying to keep seeing me.”
Regulus’s hand presses against his, and their fingers slowly twine together. “Nothing at all.”
Avery, bloody voyeur that he is, is probably listening in with increasing excitement. They’ve been alternating between conversation and sex all evening, and he was likely getting bored. Avery is a pureblood, and the only reason he isn’t marked already is because he’s too stupid to have thought of it, the way Regulus has.
Severus’s mind drifts away from bothersome thoughts about Avery as Regulus slides a hand beneath his robes.
“You know what my brother said when I told him I was going to be a Death Eater?”
“What’s that?” Severus murmurs.
Regulus grins into Severus’s shoulder, but the grin lacks humor. “He said it was a stupid choice. And when I told him it wasn’t a choice, he said you always have the freedom to choose.”
“Always said your brother was dim.”
Their conversation dies out as they turn their attention to more immediately pressing matters.
Fandom: Glee
Story Title: Prison or Protection
Character/Relationships: Blaine/Kurt
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: References to past bullying/homophobia. Set between 2x17 and 2x18, so spoilers through to those episodes.
"Doesn't it ever bother you?"
"Hmm," Blaine hums, not really sure what Kurt's asking because nothing could bother him right now.
They're hanging out in the living room, Blaine lying on the couch, head resting on a pillow in Kurt's lap ? never directly in Kurt's lap because that's too intimate for either to be comfortable with yet. His boyfriend, boyfriend!, is trailing fingers along his hairline and over his cheeks, as if he's fascinated by the shape of his face.
"Blaine," Kurt says, tone tinted with impatience.
"Sorry, does what bother me?" Blaine responds, rolling over onto his stomach and pressing one cheek into the pillow. Kurt tenses but Blaine doesn't immediately move, doesn't move at all when Kurt, after a minute, relaxes. His fingers start tracing over Blaine's closed eye and the corner of mouth.
"Dalton," Kurt says and lets the word hang between them. It's Blaine's turn to tense because he knows what Kurt's been considering recently, even if Kurt hasn't realized it himself yet. After a moment, he adds, "It's repressed. And repressive."
"How so?" It isn't how he wants to respond.
"I'm very thankful for the safety it provides," Kurt says, voice feather soft, as light as the fingers he's dragging down Blaine's neck now. Blaine struggles not to squirm and to concentrate on Kurt's words, because this is important. "But don't you get tired of the monotony? Of blending in all the time?"
"I like belonging," Blaine says, because it's true. "Fitting in isn't a bad thing."
He doesn't say that it hurts less than the alternative, though they can both hear it, sitting in the air between them.
"I just wondered," Kurt says eventually and now his voice is small, ashamed, and Blaine feels equal parts like an ass and terrified.
Since attending Dalton, Blaine knows that Kurt's had trouble with the way things work. He's heard enough about Kurt's time at McKinley and seen him interact with his friends to know that Kurt has always had to burn, not shine or glow, but blaze in order to be something. Being part of something isn't good enough anymore, because he was part of something before and since Kurt walked him through those once terrifying halls of McKinley before New Directions' Night of Neglect ? and wasn't that an apt name? ? Blaine's been so scared that Kurt would realize that.
He'd once described Dalton as a gilded cage, whispering to Pavarotti before seeing Blaine was standing there. And maybe it is. Maybe it's a beautiful, ornate cage that keeps its boys in pressed blazers and neat ties, hair of appropriate style, cut, and color, acting in a way befitting proper young men. In his more cynical moments, Kurt would probably make a snip about trained dogs that sit and stand and stay on command. That speak when told, specifically, to speak.
But Blaine's never really talked about his old school, where he wore cargo pants, sweaters from the GAP and Hollister, and a completely unruly, unrepentantly curly hair style. He remembers, very clearly, when he could act however he wanted because it truly and honestly didn?t matter.
He?s still find bits of erasers, spitballs, and ? on six completely separate but equally memorable occasions ? wads of chewed gum in his hair at the end of the day, no matter what. When he?d go into the boy?s room, no one cared what he wore or how he spoke. They?d still make a big show out of turning away and zipping up. He?d still freeze in the doorway, knowing he?d be too stressed to actually go anymore. Every month, like clockwork, the word FAG would be spray painted on his locker or, the very last time, carved in so violently that three of his text books had been scored, regardless of how he chose to act.
Blaine has never talked about his old school so he?s never told Kurt how he?d stopped using the school?s bathrooms three months before transferring. He has never mentioned how he only used his locker because he was told to after slipping on the front steps and injuring his back; he?s also never mentioned how he?d seen Joey Bartinelli toss down the folder he slipped on and especially not how he saw Joey and his friends trying not to laugh when he needed help up. He has never told Kurt that he cut his hair off to preserve that one strand of dignity he desperately needed rather than to accommodate some Dalton code of appearance.
And he doesn?t plan to say any of this to Kurt now. Kurt, who loves that thing he views as freedom because he sees Dalton as a cage and a cage is something to escape from. Because each day takes Kurt farther and farther from the idea that the bars are there to keep things out.
?It?s okay. I guess you just have to get your fill after school and on the weekends. You know, with standing out,? Blaine says, a pit of dread in his stomach because he?s taken AP English and this, right now? This feels a lot like that foreshadowing they were always talking about.
Kurt hums thoughtlessly, his fingers kneading gently at the back of Blaine?s neck.
Fandom: Jeeves and Wooster
Story Title: A Moment of Despair
Character/Relationships: Unrequired Bertie/Jeeves
Rating: PG
Warnings: 2nd person POV
It’s familiar, the way he gives you the cup of tea with the barest hint of a smile, and the way he shimmers to your wardrobe to select the suit for you to wear that day. He says something about altostratus clouds while he brushes the invisible dust off the deep-blue pinstripe suit but you don’t find it in you to care about the weather. The tea is perfect.
Over the brim of your cup you watch his every move, wondering how he still is by your side, every morning, every night, after everything. With a brain like his, he could go and run the whole country and no one would even notice the subtlety of his actions, except perhaps the people selling accessories he doesn’t approve of. Why is he here, in this room, in this apartment, when he is capable of so much more? What made him choose this profession, this city, this address? Why did he choose you?
Of course you know why he chose this career. He was a servant’s son, nothing more, nothing less, according to the society and its traditions and so he is stuck in the same job as his parents. To you, he is so much more. You wish, once again, you could give your fortune to him, so that he could be anything you think he deserves. You think how you don’t deserve the money you have, when all you are capable of is to do things no one appreciates. All you are capable of, you think, is to love him, silently, unnoticed.
A sigh so untypical of you escapes your lips when he glides to the bathroom to run your bath. You know where these thoughts leak; the letter still rests on your writing desk, the letter of impending doom. You have to marry Florence Craye, it stated in the beautiful penmanship of your least favorite aunt. Last night you spent pondering why you can’t choose, why they are always telling you what to do. The money you have should be enough to make you an independent man, yet your relatives are still meddling with your life.
You notice his presence in your bedroom again when he takes the half-finished cup of now cold tea from you. Your fingertips meet and you watch deep in his eyes. The kindness you see there is visible for your eyes only and it gives you courage to smile again and believe he has a plan. He always has a plan. How many times has he broken your engagements now? You try to count them but you can’t, there has been too many.
You wish you could kiss him, but you know all the possible risks, so instead you smile again like you always do. He may be a servant, but he still can choose to abandon you and you don’t know what you would do without him. So you hide all your illegal feelings and allow yourself just a moment of dreaming during your bath. Perhaps time will come when you don’t have to hide your love and you are allowed to love someone who is neither chosen by your aunts nor a girl.
Fandom: The OC
Story Title: Like Sparkling Water and Engine Grease
Character/Relationships: Seth/Ryan
Rating: PG
Warnings: Contains adults language, Allusion to Violence, Allusion to drug use
He should have known. Really. He’s not an idiot. He just fell into that idiot mindset that tells you everyone has a shot at the “American Dream”. Everyone has a shot at being something.
He fell into the mindset that this life was his; that he could have this.
And he can’t, not really. Not in any lasting, final way. Because this is Newport and he’s Chino. Like sparkling water and engine grease, the two just don’t mix.
And he should have known that this would happen. He should have known that Chino would catch up to him.
You can take the boy out of the hood…
It was inevitable that he would find him. That he would hate him, think he’d changed.
Ryan had changed. Or at least he’d thought he had. It felt like he had. From the second he laid eyes on a slouching figure in too baggy cargo pants, a superman shirt with faded lettering, eyes glued to a big, shiny, screen, long fingers tap tap tapping away on a controller that Ryan had only ever seen on television or in the locked off section of the electronics at Wal Mart; the heavy stuff that you can’t pocket easily, the stuff that costs about twice as much as their mortgage did.
Three times as much as those Jordan’s Ryan mugged from this kid one time… “Just passing through actually…”
Five times as much as their monthly grocery allowance; half of that spent on artificial happiness in dark alleys anyway.
If someone had told him that the day his life took a turn for the better would be the day he met Seth Cohen he’d have laughed in their face; probably socked them one just for saying such shit about him. Because, the thing is, Ryan hadn’t planned on staying. He hadn’t planned on being hit with an inexplicable amount of tenderness for someone he didn’t even know. You see, in Chino it was every man for himself.
It’s a dog eat dog world around here, kid…
You gotta look out for number one Ry. Ain’t nobody else gonna watch your back unless their looking to stab you in it.
But this was Newport. This was Newport and Ryan was a hero because Seth was vulnerable here in Newport. Well, Seth was vulnerable pretty much everywhere except for in the grand scheme of life, maybe, where money got you everything.
Ryan hadn’t planned on finding his match in a clumsy, sarcastic, comic book reading outcast who understood almost nothing of the world outside of his little personal bubble, but somehow was able to dig himself under Ryan’s skin; into Ryan’s heart. A flash of those sharp brown eyes and that crooked, knowing smile was all it took for him to be hooked.
Stay.
He hadn’t planned on Trey. On his problems finding him. On Chino coming back to haunt him.
And maybe it isn’t the most noble or righteous thing in the world that even after the fact all Ryan can see when he closes his eyes is the fear on Seth’s face. All he can remember is praying silently to the God he’d grown up despising.
Please…Please…Just don’t let Seth be hurt, just don’t let Seth be hurt cause if he dies…
He should feel guilty. He does feel guilty. Not because of Trey but because he can’t even drum up the wherewithal to be more than relieved that the person in that body bag isn’t Seth Cohen.
It doesn’t make him feel like any less of a fraud that he loves him, or that Seth says he loves him back. It just makes him feel more undeserving of the beautiful boy who he’s come to call his own.
He should have known he’d be driving back down this road; this same grimy, shadow filled road to nowhere. He should have known there was no way he could have him. He should have known there was no escape from Chino. He was never free from any of it.
He would never be free from himself.
Fandom: CSI: Miami
Story Title: Trapped
Character/Relationships: one-sided Eric/Ryan
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
He has hurt the one person felt love for from almost the beginning. ‘It’s the right thing to do.’ He would say to himself often.
It hurt both parties, but he stuck with this plan. Getting to close would hurt more. He needed to stay free, unchained and free from possible rejection, or worse. The thought of losing his heart all together. The inability to let go if this ever ended.
So he continued. Never getting close, always keeping a distant.
The plan was failing. The farther he pushed, the tighter the string around his heart became.
He was falling in love. When this revelation hit him, he was too far in. He just couldn’t stop.
“Why?” The object of his hearts affection, standing in his apartment. He wants an explanation for everything. “Why Delko? Just when I think everything is going well and we’re friends, I do something that upsets you.” He is using his glare. “You yell at me. You mock me. You’ve embarrassed me in the lab. Why?”
He wants to explain. He wants to say ‘I do it because I love you and I’m afraid.’ But he has too much pride for that. “You make too many mistakes Wolfe. I’m trying to make them stop.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit. That’s hypocritical, and you know it. I want the truth.”
He was tired of lying. They both were. “I can’t really tell you.” The former let out a frustrated sigh and walked out. “I can’t tell you because it would show how trapped I really am.”
Fandom: Grey's Anatomy
Story Title: I Don't Love You, and I Always Will
Character/Relationships: Arizona Robbins; Callie/Arizona
Rating: PG
Warnings: none
"We are standing in the middle of an airport, screaming at each other. We're already over."
You feel your own words like daggers in your heart. You turn on your heel and the last thing you see is Callie's initial, desperate anger melting into shock and hurt. Then you're facing forward, putting one foot in front of the other and somehow making it through the gate and onto the plane, even though the world is nothing but blurred prisms through your hot tears.
---
You’re ten years old again and sweet Samantha, her golden hair in long braids, is standing at your doorstep. She’s in tears, grasping at your shoulders and pulling you towards her.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” she asks, and you’re starting to cry too.
You don’t know what to say. You think about Ben last summer, and Alice two summers before that. You remember what you said to them, and how you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t say it again. But Samantha is the best friend you’ve ever had and when she holds you close like that, you don’t know why, but can’t deny her anything.
So you wrap your arms around her and whisper in her ear. “It’s okay, we’ll see each other again. I promise.”
The years ahead prove your words to be a lie, but it’s the last one like that you’ll ever tell. You learn to cut your ties when you leave, and to convince yourself that you’re all the happier for it.
---
You wake up and you’re on the plane. Seat 24A. You’re by the window and even though the sky outside is dark, you stare straight on out, desperate to ignore the seat beside you-the empty seat, where Callie should be sitting with her hand in your lap and her head against your shoulder. You’re choking back a sob when you hear a sniffle from two seats down. You press a hand to your lips, take a breath, and sneak a look at the girl in the aisle.
She’s maybe seventeen or eighteen, and she’s crying pitifully into a copy of Us Weekly. “Sorry.” She wipes at her nose. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t,” you assure her, and reach into your purse. “Here.” You hand her a tissue.
“Thanks.” She smiles through her tears and blows her nose. “I’m so sorry. I just--I, my boyfriend, and…” Her shoulders start to shake in dry heaves and you reach over to touch her reassuringly on the shoulder.
“I know,” you say. “It’s hard. I know.” Then your eyes are stinging and you squeeze them shut, but like closing them against the fumes of a freshly cut onion, this only makes it worse.
---
Some weeks later you’re on the phone with Teddy. She’s babbling on about something but you don’t know what because all you can think about is Callie. Her name is always on the tip of your tongue but can’t ever manage to actually say it, and Teddy never brings her up.
But in the omission she’s always there and you imagine that both you and Teddy feel her pressing in on the conversation.
“Arizona?” Teddy’s voice is tempered but sharp. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I, uh, yeah,” you say. You both know this is a lie. Teddy is silent on the other end. You feel like you should say something, but you’re exhausted and your voice is probably hoarse from all the crying anyway. Not that you’d admit it to Teddy.
Teddy must be fed up with your hedging because she goes ahead and breaks your unspoken rule. “Callie asked about you. Well, she asked me if you’d asked about her.”
You swallow against the lump in your throat. “What did you say?” It’s a whisper.
“I told her the truth.” Teddy sighs. “Damn it, Arizona. You’re an idiot.”
“Teddy-”
“No, Arizona. You and Callie-you were my ‘aspirational’ couple. And now she’s a mess, and you’re a mess and you need to call her. This clearly isn’t working out for either of you, and I know break ups never do-ha, that’s the point!-but I don’t know…maybe you need to reconsider.”
“It’s three years, Teddy! Three years. She would have been miserable here for three years, and she would have been miserable waiting there for three years.”
“So, what? You ‘set her free’? Oh, how humane, Arizona.”
You hang up on Teddy, which is terrible and you regret it immediately. But the sting of Teddy’s words is like a slap across the face. Laying bed that night, you wonder where it all went wrong. You thought you had a system, one tried and tested through years of moving around as a kid and later as an ambitious young surgeon. Cut your ties and set everyone free from the burden of expectations, or promises that are never kept and hopes that inevitably fade away. And you’re always free to move on, to give your affections-and maybe even your heart-to another.
And there it is. There’s the variable that screwed with the entire equation: the moment your heart had known Calliope Torres, it had ceased to be your own to give.
Fandom: Dragon Age 2
Story Title:Our mistakes make us who we are.
Character/Relationships: Isabella/F!Hawke
Rating: Pg-13
Warnings: Some adult language and references to sex between two consenting adult women.
You won‘t even remember Kirkwall in a few day. Really you won‘t remember a blasted thing about that city in just a few more days…Come now Isabella …perhaps if you say it a few million more times - that’ll make it true?
So you stole the Arishoks little tome…some….tome of..Cousland? No…Kusmond? What the bloody hell was the name.
Well…you could go and look at the damned book and see. But that----Never mind we’re getting off topic here…We’re…I…I’m getting off topic.
The point is you’ve managed to escape Kirkwall with the book, you’re half way to Antiva by now, and you’re seriously entertaining the notion of HEADING BACK. You’re FREE. Don’t be a fool.
Maker, do you see what that bloody woman has done to you!?! I suppose a few years of insurmountably satisfying sexual gratification doesn’t come without a price. But insoluble guilt for doing what you do - run from any situation that makes you uncomfortable- surely you can’t be held to blame for that. Hawke is a big girl. She knew what she was getting in to.
But at the same time, maybe the mantra needs to change, because Andrastes tits...it’s not Kirkwall you’re running from is it?
She deserves better than this you know. Of course I bloody well know I am the one going stark raving mad questioning myself… to myself .But that doesn’t change the fact that 5-no maybe 6 years of incessant companionship, camaraderie, and arguably some of the most acrobatic sex of your existence maybe- just maybe-she deserved a little more then to be swindled and left a simple note.
And what a note…you may have well have written:
Thanks for the Orgasms! I stole the Arishoks bookie-wook-thingie. Good luck with all this-
Kisses , Isabella
With such a charming bit of endlessly smooth woo pitching how could she EVER stay mad?
You’ve no one to blame for this but yourself. IF you go back, she still may NEVER speak to you again. Granted that might not even be an option since they’re going to hang your ass from the gallows the second you sail in. She’ll likely hand you over to the big brooding angry fellows, and who knows what fresh delights that may entail. Slavery, jail, perhaps forced sodomy. Lovley.
For arguments sake let’s say they don’t hang you, Hawk doesn’t turn you in , and lets blow sunshine up our ass and say the entire fiasco doesn’t explode in your face- I still highly doubt those blue eyes will come running towards you , arms and caution to the wind, proclaiming “OH Isabella! I am ever-so happy you’ve returned to me- Let’s forget all this betrayal business and put a smile on that pirate-ie face of yours!”
Well then again she might- This IS Hawke..shes err,,,different? She may forgive you, but the chances of that are akin to magically sprouting dangly man parts out your forehead. The point is things have changed. Things will forever be different because YOU muddled up.
Maker, LISTEN to yourself Isabella! ‘Things will never be the same’? What were ‘things’ anyhow? You were the one constantly pushing her away, keeping her at arm’s length. She is the bloody Champion of Kirkwall! She’s amassed enough wealth and has enough charm and influence to worm her way in to even the most pious of chantry sisters prudish knickers! She could have ANYONE in that city.
Yet she spent her time in the drunken splendor of your company. Losing at cards, and using your thighs as earmuffs.
Maybe she’ll feed you to the wolves, maybe she’ll forgive you. But turning this ship around is the only way you’re ever going to know.