Leave me a fandom, a pairing, and ONE LINE from a song or poem and I will write you a three line (minimum) fic. I will do AUs if I've done them before!
For once, Brad doesn't question anything when Ray packs their bags and stocks up on junk food and batteries for the GPS. Since he got back, his days have been a mindless drone of PT and sessions with useless Navy shrinks and getting the forms in order for his men to deploy without him.
It's early when they leave, and they hit Vegas before lunch. Ray makes a crack about strippers and blow, and Brad laughs. That's not a detour they'll be making, and even though there'll be a lot, Brad doesn't care. Up ahead are miles and miles of open road, the bright sunshine, cold beer when he's not driving, and Ray. At night, they'll get a motel and fuck until they're exhausted.
This, Brad thinks, is something he's always wanted. He just didn't know that until now.
Normally I don't feel attached to fic as soon as I write it, but I really love this piece. I'm glad you do too, and feel free to give me more prompts in it if you like.
Now that Will's had a few hits off the joint Tunny passed him, he's a little less paranoid about getting caught smoking in the park. It doesn't take long for him to feel like he's floating-kind of dizzy, but in a good way. He's glad he's doing this with Tunny, with someone he trusts.
He's not really shocked when they just sort of fall into each other, lips meeting as the joint dangles from between Tunny's fingertips.
It feels like someone's lit a spark inside Will, and he knows it's not from the weed.
Stafford/Christenson, canon or dystopia!verse, "Say you like it, say you need it, looking better, shining brighter." (The Knife, "We Share Our Mother's Health")
(This isn't really canon, but it's not dystopia!verse. I don't actually know what it is.)
"Come home," John says, trying to keep his eyes from watering even though he's alone. "I don't care about anything else.
The shitty reception at the pay phone makes the line crackle with electricity. "We can get our shit together," Q-Tip agrees. "I'm sorry for everythin', I….I'll be home soon, okay? Semper Fi."
John doesn't know where Q-Tip is. Soon is probably relative. But for now, he sits with his back to the wall, forehead pressed to his knees, with the receiver still in his hand. There's too much going on for him to think about getting up.
Skyscrapers rise between us Keeping me from finding you If the concrete architecture Dissapeared there'd be so few Of us left to navigate and Defend ourselves from the tide It's an underground illusion Tricking you from side to side
I meant for you to do it, but I'm honestly not a big fan of anon requests. If you would like to pick just one line of a poem or song, I will see if I can fill it after I've done the rest.
Brad normally drinks from women-their blood tends to be sweeter, with a more blended taste-but Nate is spectacular. He's so appetizing that he might even be worth monogamy, which isn't something Brad would even consider lightly. It's so difficult to pull back when he feels Nate's pulse weakening, and he pricks his own finger to heal the wound on Nate's neck.
Definitely a wise choice. Brad kisses the spot where he bit, and trails downward.
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It's early when they leave, and they hit Vegas before lunch. Ray makes a crack about strippers and blow, and Brad laughs. That's not a detour they'll be making, and even though there'll be a lot, Brad doesn't care. Up ahead are miles and miles of open road, the bright sunshine, cold beer when he's not driving, and Ray. At night, they'll get a motel and fuck until they're exhausted.
This, Brad thinks, is something he's always wanted. He just didn't know that until now.
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"Show you things that you've never seen, then I'll take you home." (The Twilight Singers, "Blackbird and the Fox")
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He's not really shocked when they just sort of fall into each other, lips meeting as the joint dangles from between Tunny's fingertips.
It feels like someone's lit a spark inside Will, and he knows it's not from the weed.
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Can I prompt you another?
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"Come home," John says, trying to keep his eyes from watering even though he's alone. "I don't care about anything else.
The shitty reception at the pay phone makes the line crackle with electricity. "We can get our shit together," Q-Tip agrees. "I'm sorry for everythin', I….I'll be home soon, okay? Semper Fi."
John doesn't know where Q-Tip is. Soon is probably relative. But for now, he sits with his back to the wall, forehead pressed to his knees, with the receiver still in his hand. There's too much going on for him to think about getting up.
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Skyscrapers rise between us
Keeping me from finding you
If the concrete architecture
Dissapeared there'd be so few
Of us left to navigate and
Defend ourselves from the tide
It's an underground illusion
Tricking you from side to side
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"The delicate architecture of your throat
Arcs sweetly away as my hands approach
Do you bleed diamonds
Do you bleed rubies"
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Brad normally drinks from women-their blood tends to be sweeter, with a more blended taste-but Nate is spectacular. He's so appetizing that he might even be worth monogamy, which isn't something Brad would even consider lightly. It's so difficult to pull back when he feels Nate's pulse weakening, and he pricks his own finger to heal the wound on Nate's neck.
Definitely a wise choice. Brad kisses the spot where he bit, and trails downward.
Reply
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