this time i mean it, generation kill, gen (pre-poke/lilley???)

“Lilley had always been fairly certain his daemon would be a dog, when she finally settled.” Daemon AU

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half awake, in a fake empire, generation kill, brad/nate

“Brad’s sure there must have been a time when he didn’t go home with scarred knuckles and blood-lined teeth and a pocket full of crumpled bills like some cheap whore, but he can’t remember it much. He remembers his mother dying, he remembers leaving home, and he remembers the war. He doesn’t care to remember much else.” Warrior AU


shadows suspended in dust, generation kill, brad/ray

“‘How did it make you feel?’ Colbert asks him. Ray smokes and smokes and never answers and ignores the half smile on Colbert’s face.” Hannibal AU


your faith walks on broken glass, generation kill, brad/nate

“Nate always knew he’d see the stars closer than through his telescope with the cracked lens. He’d stand in the back yard for hours looking up, his grandfather’s horseshoe necklace warm on his skin. Made from a metal only found on a planet millions of miles from here, his grandfather said, when he gave it to him, and seven year old Nate held it in his hand and knew he’d go there one day.” Space AU

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It’s always fire, Mars finds. The beginning of everything, always fire. The end too, when you think about it. Fire and heat and anger, and really, aren’t they all the same thing, anyway?

Smoke pours upwards from the ruined city like it’s been released from a prison, and the sky is grey with ash, and the fire inside him rattles the wine red chains carved into his wrists, into his ankles. They broke once, they will not break again. He no longer knows if he wants them to. He touches the scars on his palms and throat, the shiny burns that dig deep into the fleshy parts of his hands, and closes his eyes. Thinks. Remembers. Tries to listen for Him, but nothing. He’s close enough to hear the flames crackling, and the people screaming, but he can no longer hear the voice of his God.

He can feel a scream building in his chest, in his throat, until it sears the back of his tongue like acid and he swallows hard, feels the scream burn all the way down to his gut. He breathes and he can taste smoke in the back of his throat. He coughs it back up, spits it out onto the frozen ground in front of him. He woke up this morning and looked at the snow on the ground and knew it had to be today.

He watches his city burn, and he turns his back on it. Walks away from it and knows he won’t go back. Can’t.

(The figure at his side keeps watching long after the city has become ash).


quickmanifyouloveme said:
Lewis Nixon was on the train first thing the next morning. (for the fic meme that you won't get to until Tuesday)

((Whoops, this kind of got away from me a little))

Okay so this would be the sequel to my (currently unfinished, shhhhhhh) coffeeshop AU, ‘so let me tell you ‘bout the way he looks’ and it would concern Nix heading to New Jersey in the interests of branching out and buying another store after being made co-owner of The Grind, along with Lip (which is currently how ‘slmtybtw’ is set to end) and he’s all miserable and (let’s face it) hungover. Anyway, he spends a lot of the fic moaning about how none of the places for sale are what he wants and then he finds this place, about 2000 sq ft and it’s all decked out with dark wood and gorgeous tiled floors and there’s even a kitchen out the back which he knows for a fact Joe Liebgott would sell his soul for, and he knows that he has to have it.

Back in New York, he has a meeting with Lip and Joe and they decide that Lip’s going to stay at The Grind and run it full time/run the deli counter, and they’re going to promote Guarnere to assistant manager/in charge of the coffee side of things, and Joe’s going to move to the store in Jersey with Nix and start up a small catering company as well as running the deli counter along with a couple of new hires. Nix is going to be manager of the Jersey branch, and so they start the interviews and bring on a new chef for The Grind and a couple of baristas for Jersey to begin with, and then at the end of the fic, Nix brings up the idea of Dick moving to Jersey with him, and of course he does because Dick hates lawyering, he’s not bloodthirsty enough and he’s saved enough money up over the years that he can take early retirement. Cue lots of jokes from Joe about how he’ll have to earn his living at the new store, and now most days, Nix knows Dick can be found in the kitchen with Joe, lightly dusted with flour and wielding an icing bag.


mytimehaspassed said:
(I was going to flail some Shameless US at you, but couldn't remember if you watched it??? So I went with a staple :D) Roe kills almost as cleanly as he heals on the battlefield, his knife sliding in deep, his palms clenched and stained with foreign blood, effortless French tumbling past his lips.

((I do in fact watch Shameless US, that would have been fabulous, but I am ALL ABOUT serial killer Roe, so.

I don’t really get this meme, whether I write the fic or tell you how the fic goes, and because i have like two hours before I need to go to the seminar I have yet to do the prep for, i’m doing the second one. okay cool))

OKAY SO I would set this in like, 1900s New Orleans, because I need violent, dark, god-touched healer Roe juxtaposed with bloodsoaked, still god-touched killer Roe with a smile like a knife edge and calloused hands that seem to absorb pain through the scars on his palms. I need him killing because it’s god’s will, and I need him killing silently, french prayers falling from his lips as he breathes them out, breathing in the smell of salt-and-rust blood. I need his battlefield to be Storyville, where there were 2000 prostitutes and 70 professional gamblers and where a teenage virgin costs 800 dollars and where no one has seen God for a very long time. I need him to act as his own God (and theirs, ultimately) for the sake of his people, and for the sake of his city.



homecoming in four parts; the world turns again, harry potter, remus/sirius

1.

Remus takes him home without thinking.

Doesn’t remember that the wooden door with flaking paint and the doorknob worn smooth with age and the threadbare rug in the hallway are just as much Sirius’ as they are his.

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