#Rated M for much violence and probably some sexy times at some point

[salutmonmec]

EVEN THE DEAD DESERVE A SONG

an Elu Hunger Games AU

ao3 link

Lucas has been in love with the same boy since he was five years old. 

Now, he will be forced to fight him to the death.

What a fucking nightmare.

CHAPTER 1: THINGS FALL APART

… He is underwater.

It’s cold.

He’s sinking.

The surface isn’t far, and he can make out a blurry figure. They lift their arms, draw their elbow back until their hand hits their jaw.

An arrow breaks the surface, clips his ear. A cloud of red erupts on his left side. He can’t swim, never learned how. The elbow draws back again.

He is sinking in a sea of blood.

His mouth opens in a silent scream.

Lucas wakes with a gasp, jerking upright, a hand against his chest where his heart is about to burst from his ribcage. What the hell was that? The bright afternoon sun is beaming down on his nap spot, lighting the grass up to neon green and forcing him to squint. Lucas could not have been asleep for more than a half hour, but the troubling nature of his dream made it feel like years. He stands with a groan, joints popping. He gathers up his make-shift bow and slings the quiver over his shoulder. Only two or three more hours of light left, have to make this quick. A stick breaks about twenty meters to the right, followed by the sound of frantic hooves. Before he can help himself, a smirk splits his face. Perfect.

----

The buck’s head lands on the booth counter with a hollow thud, still bleeding a bit through the new hole in its left eye. Lucas rests his head on his arms, gently poking the soft fur of the beast’s ribcage. The booth’s owner, Ben, slowly gets up from his chair, flashing a wide gap-filled smile. He is on the skinny side, just like everyone else in District 12, cheeks always smudged with some kind of dirt. Right now, his eyes are lit up like torches.

“How the hell did you manage this Lallemant? You are a crazy son of a bitch, I swear.”

Lucas shrugged casually, shooting Ben a grin. “I have my ways.”

“Well bud, I can give you… 26 ration cards, should almost last you the month.” He leans over the buck, bending to Lucas’ eye-level. “The capitol changed the color again, this time a nice, deep, I’m-richer-than-you purple. Go crazy kid.” Lucas reached over and slipped the small mountain of cards into his bag, mouthing Ben a silent thank you and giving him a quick wink.

He turns around, slamming right into the back of an asshole. Yann spins around, ready to curse out the offender, but Lucas gets there first, sticking a middle finger in between his eyes. Yann lets out a loud laugh, shoving Lucas away playfully. “Fuck you, you shithead!”

“Wanna walk me home honey bun?” Lucas wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, making Yann roll his eyes.

“Jesus Christ, I’ll be out in a minute,” he states with a half-hearted wave as he turns back to the person he was haggling with. Lucas grins at him, shouldering open the door to the warehouse. Cool air hits him like a wave, the breeze lifting his hair off his forehead, drying the budding sweat on his skin. Peacekeepers march past him, their white uniforms glowing in the twilight. Who the fuck wears white in a place like this? Lucas looks down at his own clothes, torn and tattered from years of use. No matter how many times he tries to wash them, the black coal dust in the air finds its way into the seams. It’s as if the land wants to brand him, making sure that everyone knows where he comes from. You come from the dark, dank depths of the Earth, where no one ventures besides those who were unfortunate enough to be born into it. Never forget that.

A laugh shakes him out of his thoughts, head snapping up to find the source of the sound. A small head of tawny curls bouncing, a gap-toothed smile on her round, freckled face. Madeline Demaury, sitting on the shoulders of her big brother, laughter bubbling its way out of her mouth as he dramatically pretends to drop her. Eliott spins in a quick circle, his face now fully towards Lucas. God, he is beautiful. His blue-grey eyes are curled up in half-moons, mouth open, catching the tail end of a chuckle. His happiness is contagious, and Lucas finds himself struggling to hold back a smile. The setting sun is lighting up the Demaurys’ hair to an infuriatingly gorgeous shade of auburn. He pushes a flyaway strand of his straight, boring brunette locks away from his eye, cursing his bad genetic luck. At least he was fortunate enough to be alive at this very moment, witnessing the striking beauty of Eliott Demaury’s cheekbones, his long legs, shoulders deceptively broad despite his lanky figure. Fuck, he is beautiful.

“So, are you ever actually going to talk to him, or are you just going to stand there drooling all over yourself for the rest of your life?”

Yann’s strong hand lands on the shoulder that isn’t leaning against the warehouse wall. Lucas doesn’t take his eyes off Eliott. “Fuck you.”

As Yann snickers next to him, Eliott and Madeline sit down on their front porch steps. The front door behind them opens, and out runs seven-year-old Camille, launching herself into the lap of her brother. Eliott scoops her up, whispering in her tiny ear, making her giggle and nod enthusiastically. He sets her down, grabs her hand, leading her and Madeline inside the house. As the door shuts behind them, Lucas’ chest twists with a feeling he can’t place. He slowly turns, shoves Yann playfully. “What the hell are you so cheery about? You know what’s tomorrow right?”

“I for one, am not going to let the threat of imminent death stop me from roasting my best friend. What kind of life would that be?” He says with an easy smile, slinging an arm around Lucas’ shoulders. “Let’s get the fuck out of here before the Keeps’ come back.”

Lucas shoots one last look at the Demaury’s porch. The sun is fully behind the trees now, casting long shadows that flutter across the closed door, which, much to Lucas’ amusement, is painted a bright shade of baby blue. In this light, the house could have been abandoned, the warmth of Eliott’s presence long gone. Turning back towards Yann, his chest twists again, heart rising in his throat, threatening to choke him. Why do I feel like this is the last time I’ll see this?

----

An alarm blares ridiculously too close to his face. Cracking one eye open, he flops his arm across his body, slamming his hand in the direction of the obnoxious dinging. The clock slides off the edge of the table, hitting the floor with a loud thud. Still ringing, of course. Fucking hell. Lucas rolls his half-asleep body into sitting position, squinting at the light breaking through the cracks in his blinds, stopping the alarm with a half-hearted kick.

It’s Reaping Day.

Pushing himself off the tattered mattress, he sees his Reaping shirt, a blue-denim button up that he never really grew into, laid out on the end of the bed. Its folded, freshly washed and pressed. His mom must have been up for a while now. Throwing on a pair of faded black pants, he tugs the shirt on, slowly buttoning the front, shaking his head as the sleeves drop past his wrists. Frustrated, he rolls them up to mid-forearm. As a kid, he always thought his Dad was larger than life. Now at sixteen, he is starting to think he may have actually been right.

Walking to the bedroom door, he stops in front of the broken mirror to its right. Eyes a little too big, hair a little too wild, shoulders a little too slim. He rubs at a small bit of dirt on his neck, spits in his hand and tries to push his hair back into something resembling a normal human. His Dad’s shirt is hanging loosely on his frame, but he doesn’t mind. Everyone wears the wrong size clothes to the Reaping, spending money on extra ration cards rather than fancy shirts that will only be worn seven times in their life.

A rattle in the kitchen grabs his attention. Mama. She is scrubbing aggressively at a pot, the edges clanking against the edges of the small sink. She sees him in her periphery, turns her head and flashes him a warm smile. “You ready to go?”

He purses his lips, shoulders moving in a small shrug, “as ready as I can be, I guess.”

She sets the pot down, walks over to gently press a kiss to his forehead. “Only two more years, then we can move past this whole mess.” Glancing over his face, she wets her thumb and starts rubbing at a spot above his eyebrow. A laugh bubbles its way out his mouth as he scrunches up his face, shaking his head. “Mama, stop its fine,” he shoots a pointed glance at the small television set in the corner, “want me to get it set up for you?”

She waves him off. “Oh no, I got it.” She looks at him with a small, sad smile. “You know I would go, I just think the crowds would be a bit much for me today…” Lucas glances at the dark circles marring the smooth skin under her eyes, and nods. “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”

“I’ll be fine darling,” she kisses him on the forehead for the second time, lips popping with a loud smack. “Say hello to Yann for me!”

Sliding into his shoes, he pushes through the front door, Yann leaning against the railing at the bottom of the steps. His shirt fits him perfectly. Asshole.

“Let’s get this fucking over with, shall we?”

----

A large bead of sweat makes it way slowly down the back of his neck, tickling his skin as it catches in his collar. It’s getting close to midday, the sun huge and deadly in the sky. The stage is in the middle of a giant dirt patch, no tree in sight to provide some semblance of shade. Everyone between the ages of 12 and 18 in the entire district are being herded into the stage space. The fine, dark dirt getting kicked up by hundreds of shoes, swirling in the air like smoke. Yann and him are stuck in the identification line, waiting for a finger prick and a drop of blood to confirm that yes, they are in fact, Lucas Lallemant and Yann Cazas. He is trying to distract himself by staring intensely at a rock on the ground that looks sort of like a fish, when someone trips into him. Not just someone, a big someone. Lucas puts out a hand to steady himself, his other one landing on the waist of the offender before he can stop it.

“SHIT I’m so sorry…” Eliott rushes out, head whipping frantically from side to side, “Camille still needs to learn that running through people’s legs is not proper Reaping Day etiquette.” His blue eyes finally settle on Lucas. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Say something. Anything. Oh God. He nods instead, not trusting his mouth. His left hand is still on Eliott’s waist, but he can’t seem to make it move. Eliott’s gaze is warm, softly flickering back and forth across Lucas’ face. His cheeks betray him then, flushing so intensely it’s almost painful. Eliott’s mouth breaks into a smirk, eyes playful as he gently backs away, turning in the direction of Camille’s giggles. Lucas’ arm settles back down at his side, hand tingling like a live wire. He watches until Eliott’s head disappears into the crowd, trying to settle the rapid beat of his heart.

“Oh wow, are you gonna be okay bud? Do you need me to give you CPR?” Yann snickers, clapping a hand hard in between Lucas’ shoulder blades. His cheeks are even warmer now. “If you don’t talk to him after this is over, then I will.”

His brain finally starts to register his surroundings again, and he turns to give Yann a hard shove, grinning despite himself. “If you go near him, I’ll shoot you in the foot, I swear to God.”

After the quick finger prick and a few more snide comments about his love life, they shuffle their way into the section marked “16”. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the top of a messy head of tawny hair, standing in the middle of the eighteen-year-old section that is marked off closest to the stage. His hand feels like it’s buzzing. Get it together Lucas.

At that moment, the crowd of teens were hushed, and the familiar dramatic tune of the national anthem blaring through the crackling speakers. Footage showing the war plays on the big screen, hard to see in the midst of the blinding sunlight. The president’s booming voice narrates, explaining the origin of the games, why it makes sense that they have been sending twenty-four kids to the fight to the death for twenty-seven years. Yann pokes his side, sending him an eye-roll. Lucas raises his eyebrows, a smirk dancing on his lips.

The film ends, and silence follows. A chair moves on stage, heels click on the hard surface. Hurried clacks echo through the space, and a woman hustles up to the microphone, one hand holding up the massive pile of blonde curls on top of her head. Daphné Lecomte. The Capitol representative for District 12 for the past few years, although she could not be older than twenty-five.

“Jesus, I swear her hair gets bigger every year,” Yann whispers in his ear with a breathy laugh. Lucas coughs to hide a chuckle, garnering looks from a boy and girl standing in front of them. He grins down at the ground while Yann elbows him in the ribs.

“Welcome everyone, to the Reaping for the 27th Annual Hunger Games!” Daphné says enthusiastically, her ridiculous Capitol accent extremely apparent. “As always, we are here to choose the two people who will have the historic honor of representing District 12 in- “ A strong wind gust sweeps up the stage, threatening to topple her hair tower. She steadies herself, tugging down on her neon pink skirt, “ i-in this year’s games!” She claps her hands together in excitement, gesturing over to someone on the side of the stage.

Emma Borgès saunters over to Daphné, clearly already wasted out of her mind. It isn’t even noon yet. She stumbles over her own feet, falling right into Daphné, who tries to gracefully push her upright. Emma gives the crowd a fumbling, slow salute, then takes her place next to the bowl of names at the center of the stage, swaying lightly on her feet.

The only District 12 champion in history. She won when she was just thirteen, outliving everyone thanks to her affinity for climbing trees. The spectators of the 20th games decided the killings weren’t going fast enough, so they flooded the area. Nineteen tributes had already been killed or died from the terrain, the last four drowned in the flood. Little Emma had been high up in a tree at the time, making her one of the youngest victors of all time. She was never really the same after that, spending most of her days getting drunk at the single district bar once she turned eighteen. Now every year, the two unlucky tributes not only have to fight to the death, but also deal with a drunk Emma Borgès as their mentor. What a fucking joke. Yann always had a massive crush on her though. He sneaks a glance over at Yann, who is openly staring at her with a dumb smile on his face. Idiot.

Daphné shuffles her way over to the glass bowl, struggling to drag the microphone with her. She smooths her skirt once more when she is settled. “Alright, let’s begin!”

She peers down into the large glass bowl, filled almost halfway with name cards. Every single person in this room has their name in there at least once. The twelve-year-olds are placed in only one time, and every year older is another slip added. When you are eighteen, your name is in the bowl seven times, making it more likely that an older tribute is picked. This ultimately makes the games more enjoyable for viewers, as a bunch of scared little kids running around would prove to be boring television after a while. You can add your name more times in exchange for ration cards, which is what most families end up doing in District 12. He had heard a rumor that Eliott’s name was in the bowl 32 times, but he hoped desperately that it was exaggerated.

Daphné’s pink-gloved hand reaches in slowly, swirling the cards around, trying to build anticipation. Lucas’ chest tightens, his forehead beading with sweat. Twelve cards with your name on it. That’s it. Only twelve. Daphné finally latches on to one, lifting her hand out of the bowl with a flourish. The crowd unconsciously leans forward, watching with wide eyes as she struggles to open the seal with her gloves on. The card rips open, and she clears her throat, lips approaching the microphone.

He knows before she even gets the words out. Her tongue pushes against her bottom teeth as her mouth opens, forming the beginning of the “L” sound.

Time slows down.

His chest heaves.

This can’t be happening.

He doesn’t even hear her say it, barely registers the echo of the ending syllable. He sees Yann’s shoulders collapse inward with a shuddering breath. His feet move before his mind catches up, walking with slow steps into the aisle leading up to the stage. Two peacekeepers walk up behind him, one placing a hard hand on his shoulder. They push him forward, his body refusing to move at anything above a glacial pace. He shoots a frantic glance back at Yann, who is staring at him with wide eyes, shoulders lifting up and down with the beginnings of hyperventilation. Lucas steels his eyes, desperately hoping Yann can read him. It’s okay... I’ll be okay. Yann nods imperceptibly, only for Lucas. A tiny pang of relief overshadows the crippling panic for a brief second.

His leaden feet move up the stage steps, and he moves to stand beside Daphné. She wraps her arms around him in a light hug, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Lucas! Well, aren’t you a strapping young lad! Now, how old are you sweetie?”

She moves the microphone in front of his face.

He can’t breathe.

He clears his throat.

“Sixteen.”

Sixteen, and I am going to die in a week.

Daphné claps her hands together again, snapping Lucas out of his thoughts. “Let’s give a round of applause for the courageous Lucas! The first District 12 tribute of the 27th Hunger Games!”

No one in the crowd moves a muscle. Dead silence.

“O-Okay then!” She clears her throat. “On to the second tribute!”

As she reaches in the bowl again, Lucas lifts his chin high, surveying the sea of young faces staring back at him. His heart is in his throat. He lands last on a pair of blue-grey eyes, wide and stricken under dark eyebrows, mouth closed in a tight line. Eliott. The realization suddenly dawned on him, there is still one tribute left. Oh God please anyone but him, please… oh God ple-

“Madeline Demaury!”

And God decided to laugh in his face.

There were a few gasps from the crowd. It’s exceedingly rare for a twelve-year-old to get drawn. Even more so a girl. The kids in the “12” section start to murmur to themselves, parting to reveal Madeline, her curls braided away from her face at her temples, showcasing her wide eyes and rosy, freckled cheeks. She straightened her pale green dress as the Peacekeepers appeared on either side to bring her up to the stage, pushing her shoulders back, putting on a brave face. From his spot on stage, he could see that her right shoe was untied. She is so young.

Before she can take her first step, Eliott shoves his way out of his section, landing on his knees in the center aisle, a cloud of dirt huffing into the air as he scrambles to his feet. He moves toward Madeline, but Keepers jump into action, pulling his arms behind his back, keeping him rooted to the spot. Lucas watches, horrified, as Eliott struggles against their grip. He manages to rip one arm free before a third Peacekeeper latches on to him. “Let me go! Get tHE FUCK OFF OF M-” He whips himself around, trying to face the stage despite the vice grip on his wrists. He sends a murderous glare at Daphné.

“I VOLUNTEER!”

“I volunteer as tribute.”

This can’t be happening. Wake up Lucas, WAKE UP. He digs his fingernails into his palms, drawing blood.

He is awake.

This is real.

Daphné is still standing next to the bowl, mouth open in shock. She quickly closes it, and makes a gesture to the Peacekeepers. They release Eliott, pushing him forward, and he falls onto his knees with the force. Madeline cries out, squirming out of the Keeper’s grip on her shoulder, and launches herself into her brother’s arms. Lucas can see Eliott’s lips move at her ear, and she starts sobbing, holding him tighter. The Peacekeepers come up behind her, pulling her out of his arms, dragging her away. Her screams pierce through deafening silence, filling up the space, cutting deep into Lucas’ soul, suffocating him. Eliott gets shakily to his feet, eyes shining, and he walks with long strides up to the stage. He stops next to him. Lucas continues to stare ahead, afraid he wouldn’t be able to handle whatever expression settles on Eliott’s face.

“My goodness! This is so exciting! District 12’s first ever volunteer!” Daphné drags the microphone over to Eliott, holding it up to his lips. “What’s your name handsome?”

“Eliott Demaury.”

“Oh, let me guess, was that your adorable little sister?”

There is a beat of quiet as he swallows, clearly trying to restrain himself from slapping the hair straight off of Daphné’s head. Eliott’s eyes narrow as he leans down.

“Obviously.”

Daphné clears her throat. “W- Well, there you have it!” She squishes her way in between the two boys, grabbing both their hands and lifting them straight into the air, beaming with excitement. “A big cheer for the District 12 tributes of the 27th Hunger Games, Lucas Lallemant and Eliott Demaury!”

Maybe it was the heat that finally caught up to him. Maybe the vice grip around his chest finally cut off his oxygen supply. Maybe his brain short-circuited with the dawning realization that he was now in a fighting death match with who he thought was possibly the love of his life. Whatever it was, Lucas’ body couldn’t take it anymore. His right hand slides out of Daphnés grip as he sways to the left. He hits the ground with a dull thud, vision going black around the edges. The last thing he registers is a head of tawny waves blocking the sun in his vision, the edges of his hair glowing auburn.

God, he is beautiful.

And then, everything is black.

[riotwritesthings]

I'll cave in (whenever you see fit)

A BIG BIG HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!! to @warmachinesocks​

thanks for being you that’s big sexie of you. Here’s a thing.

Winteriron, M, 5k - Vampire!Bucky, human!Tony, an abduction, a rescue, and some dry humping

Bucky knows better than to get involved with a mortal, and he pays the price when Hydra kidnaps his boyfriend. Tony is human, he's questionably in distress, and he is Handling It. (minor violence, surprisingly soft all things considered.)

~~~

Bucky should have known this would happen. Fuck, he should have known.

An immortal should never get involved with a human, that’s rule fucking one because it never ends well for anyone.

Especially not for the human.

But he’s selfish, so fucking selfish, and the first time Tony smiled up at him, open and happy, Bucky knew he was doomed.

He knows something is wrong the second pushes the door open to find the basement apartment completely dark. The only light is the weak streetlight pouring in through the one tiny window, near the ceiling in the kitchen.

Even in the dark, Bucky can easily tell that the place has been trashed, though it is only a subtle difference from the organized chaos Tony usually keeps his workspace in.

The apartment is too quiet, too still, and he knows instantly.

Bucky fucked up. Badly.

Because it had been entirely too easy to get used to the warmth of Tony’s smile, of his skin, the way he so easily made a space for Bucky in his life.

It had been so easy to let himself get comfortable in Tony’s weird basement apartment that’s half home and half machine shop, perfectly Tony. The way the apartment is brightly lit with industrial lights at all hours of the day and night so Tony can see whatever brilliant new invention he’s working on next.

Bucky never had a chance at not getting attached, because in all his years he’s never met anyone like Tony.

Tony is perfect, and brilliant, left with nothing after his father's company was stolen out from under him and Tony just built himself a new life, tries to help wherever he can. He keeps erratic hours and never minds that Bucky comes and goes at all hours of the night, that Bucky can't go out in the daylight.

Bucky hasn’t been in the sun in nearly a thousand years, but with Tony in his arms, so warm and bright and alive, he could almost remember what it felt like.

And now Tony has been taken.

Bucky knew who was responsible even before he found the symbol burned into the wall. It’s Hydra. Of course it is, and those bastards won’t care that he’s human, that he never should have been involved in any of this, all they’ll care about is hurting Bucky as much as they can.

And they picked exactly the right target.

Hydra has been after him for nearly as long as Bucky has been not-alive, determined to wipe out all vampires at any cost. Even once the war was over, even after all the other hunter’s guilds signed the peace treaty, Hydra refused to give up their mission and for some reason they’ve taken a personal vendetta against Bucky. Probably because he’s evaded them so many times.

And now they have Tony.

The thing is that Bucky hasn't really known Tony that long, not even by human standards, but he is completely, irretrievably in love. He’s ready to burn the whole world down to get Tony back, even if Tony never forgives him for it.

But he’s not going to be able to find where Tony is being held, not on his own. Not in time.

The downside to immortal friends though, is that Bucky hasn’t actually seen any of them in years, because what’s a couple decades between centuries old beings? Steve is back in Europe for a while, working on his painting, and Bucky hasn’t seen Natalia in nearly fifty years now, which means she probably won’t turn back up for another fifty.

There is one more option, Bucky is just less than thrilled about it.

It’s no secret that the other hunter’s guilds don’t approve of Hydra’s methods, the amount of collateral damage they leave in their wake. The lengths they’re willing to go to.

Like kidnapping innocent humans.

It’s definitely still a stretch to hope they’ll be willing to help someone like Bucky find Hydra, but he has to try.

And he does have one idea of where to start.

Bucky and Sam don’t like each other very much, and that’s been the standing opinion for the last decade. Which for a hunter and vampire, is basically a lifelong friendship.

It’s at least enough that Bucky can show up at Sam’s door without immediately getting himself staked.

The door flies open and Bucky blinks, because it never fails to surprise him how old Sam has gotten. Every time, Bucky is a little bit expecting Sam-as-he-met-him, still a kid, on his first hunt and clearly terrified but so determined to save the world, so idealistic. And now he’s so jaded, older and tired and it’s just one more reminder of just how badly Bucky has fucked up.

Tony is going to go cold and tired and it will be all Bucky’s fault.

“You’re here about Hydra,” Sam says flatly, no preamble, and at least that answers Bucky’s question about whether or not Sam even knows that Hydra is setting up camp in his territory.

"Tell me where they are," Bucky demands, resisting the urge to flash his fangs just yet because he's not here to threaten answers out of anyone. Not unless he has to.

Although he doesn't find it encouraging that Sam doesn't answer, just clenches his jaw and swings the door open a little wider, letting Bucky see that the extra heartbeat he hears belongs to Clint. Standing in the hallway with a crossbow in hand.

Bucky lets his lip curl up a little, because apparently this is going to be that kind of conversation.

“What do they have against you, anyways?" Clint asks conversationally, like he's not holding a loaded weapon with an expression that says he'd really like to use it. "Seems very personal at this point."

“What, you want the entire list?” Bucky snaps and finds that he is more than willing to give the whole sordid story if that's what it takes.

But he doesn't have the time for that, Tony doesn't have the time.

Instead he grits his teeth and demands “Tell me where they would take a human hostage."

It has the desired effect, both of the hunters tense and Clint’s eyes go wide, and maybe now they’ll realize that this isn’t about him.

The only thing that matters is Tony, and Bucky doesn’t even care that he’s not just admitting to that weakness, he’s basically screaming it from the rooftops by telling them. Doesn’t care that Sam’s eyes narrow in painful understanding.

“We can’t tell you that,” Sam says and he really does sound regretful, but Bucky snarls because that is not what he wants to hear. “Even if we don’t agree with what they’ve done, they’re still—“

“If you don’t tell me, I will kill you,” Bucky interrupts, his voice low and harsh and it’s gratifying to hear the spike in heart rates, it means he still has a chance of convincing them, whether by threat or force.

“Barnes—“ Sam tries to interrupt, but Bucky doesn’t have time for this.

“And then I’ll find out where he is anyways,” Bucky promises, “the only thing you’ll accomplish is slowing me down.”

“You wouldn’t,” Clint says, but he doesn’t sound sure and his grip on the crossbow is white-knuckled, “you’ll start a war you can never come back from.”

“Try me,” Bucky hisses, flashes his teeth and lets his eyes flare. He wants them to know how deadly serious he is.

Clint raises his crossbow, but Sam sighs.

“In the old warehouse district,” Sam says, shoulders tight with anger and fear, “on the far west edge of the city.”

“You’ll regret this,” Clint calls after him as he stalks away, but Bucky knows that he won’t.

Not if he can just get to Tony in time. Nothing matters beyond making sure his selfishness doesn’t get Tony killed. He doesn’t care what it costs, Bucky is more than willing to leave everything and go on the run again, all he cares about is making sure Tony is alive to hate him.

Sam’s information is good, so at least Bucky won’t have to go back when he’s done here.

He’s been dealing with Hydra for centuries now, and Bucky can easily identify the abandoned factory as a Hydra base. It’s the new bars over the windows, the reinforced doors, the impression of movement just below the surface of the dilapidated building.

He only has a couple hours before the sun comes up, and then he’ll be trapped in the building with who knows how many Hydra hunters. He has to find Tony and get out as quickly as possible.

He has to make sure that at least gets Tony out.

Hydra are still setting up their bases more or less the same way they always have, the same holes in security, and getting into the building is easy. Finding the makeshift holding cells is even easier, on the south-most side of the building, but the problem is that all of the cells are empty.

The entire wing of the factory seems to be empty and there’s fresh blood splattered across the walls and the floor, still wet and shining in the fluorescent lights.

The building is too filled with the smell of mold and decay for him to tell whose blood it is, for him to have a hope of picking out the familiar sweet tang that means Tony.

He can hear the sounds of commotion in the distance, what sounds like screams and gunshots further into the factory. It’s the same direction the trail of spilled blood is leading, and Bucky grits his teeth as he follows it.

The base is nearly deserted. Bucky only sees a couple hunters as he follows the sounds of the fight. Everyone he runs into is scrambling for weapons or the exits, and they don’t seem to be expecting him at all. They seem like they’re afraid of something else entirely, like they’re trying to escape.

Bucky doesn’t let them.

They took Tony, and he doesn’t even want to let himself imagine what they’ve done to him. On the slim chance he manages to get Tony out of here, Bucky can’t have any of them going after him again.

He has to make sure they never even think about going after Tony again.

The sounds of screams get louder as he moves into the heart of the warehouse, up the stairs to the offices. The blood is thicker here, splattered across the walls and the floors with evidence of a struggle. Smeared like someone has been dragged down the long hallway kicking and fighting.

With every empty room and bloody handprint he passes his rage grows, and by the time Bucky reaches the last door all he can see is red.

He slams in the door so hard that it splinters apart, chunks of cheap plywood flying everywhere. There’s a smell in the air like acrid smoke, like melting electronics and fire and blood, nearly overwhelming.

Bodies litter the room, dead and dying, but all he sees is Tony.

Bucky has spent the last four hours trying not to let himself imagine all sorts of horrible things. Tony hurt, Tony dead, bleeding, tortured, screaming. Rightfully cursing Bucky for getting him into this mess, rightfully wishing they'd never met.

He’s not prepared for what he actually finds.

Tony is alive, bloodied and bruised but so vibrantly alive, a knife in his hand and a vicious smile on his face as he plunges it into the chest of a Hydra hunter.

Bucky freezes uselessly in the doorway, watching in awe as Tony rips the knife free again, paying no mind to the spray of blood as he spins on his heel. Buries his blade in the gut of someone trying to creep up behind him.

And all at once it’s over.

The room goes still as the last hunter falls with Tony’s knife in his neck, Tony’s knees against his chest baring him down to the ground.

Bucky doesn’t even need to breathe, but still he finds himself choking on air as he watches Tony slowly right himself again, looking over all the destruction he’s caused.

Then Tony looks up, catches sight of him, and the expression on his face shifts from cold and vicious to warm and happy in an instant. Bucky’s cold dead heart lurches in his chest.

“Hey sweetheart, about time you got here,” Tony says, tossing him a jaunty wave with the knife still in hand.

Bucky crosses the room almost in a daze, headless of the blood that slicks the floor and the bodies he has to step over. All he can see is Tony and as soon as he’s close enough he traces his fingers reverently along the line of Tony’s jaw, ghosting over the dark bruise starting to form.

“Are you okay?” Tony asks, nonsensically, leaning into Bucky’s hands on him like Bucky isn’t the most dangerous thing in the room.

And hell maybe he’s not, Bucky certainly doesn’t feel dangerous. Not faced with Tony’s bright eyes and warm skin.

He feels weak, feels completely undone.

Bucky laughs, soft and strangled, and he hasn’t been cold in centuries but his hands are shaking as he cups Tony’s face in his palms.

“No,” he chokes out around another laugh, because he’s not okay, not anywhere close. “I thought- I didn’t know if you were- Tony--”

“Hey, hey,” Tony cuts him off, pulling him in closer and tucking Bucky’s face down into the curve of his neck. Where Bucky can hear the rapid thump of his heart, smell the adrenaline and the sweat that clings to his skin beneath all the blood.

And oh god there’s so much blood, covering Tony’s skin and his clothes and the room around them. Bucky can barely smell Tony through it and he tucks his face a little harder into the hollow of Tony’s throat.

“I’m okay,” Tony promises, fingers of one hand pressing into Bucky’s hair, his other hand resting on Bucky’s side and still wrapped tightly around the knife. Still prepared, and Bucky has never loved him more.

He drags his tongue up the line of Tony’s neck, through smears and splatters of blood. It’s almost a disappointment, definitely a thrill, that none of it is Tony’s.

“What did you- how did you even-“ Bucky keeps interrupting himself, can’t get a full thought out. He’s too concerned with lifting his head and pressing his lips to every inch of Tony’s perfect, unharmed face.

“I keep telling you, I’m a bad bitch,” Tony says, that beautiful smug grin on his face and Bucky just has to taste it.

Tony melts into it so easily when Bucky kisses him, his hands demanding but so gentle, like the room around them isn’t full of carnage. Like Tony isn’t the one who put it there, like he doesn’t have a care in the world except letting Bucky lick into his mouth, taste the adrenaline and determination and life straight from his lips.

Bucky has never tasted anything like it, has never met anyone like Tony, and he could have lost this.

He has to get closer, closer. He doesn’t even realize he’s backing Tony across the room until the back of Tony’s thighs hit a metal table, and Bucky just keeps pushing. Until the table clangs against the wall, until Tony is bent backwards over the surface.

Bucky follows him down, breathing him in, pressing between Tony’s thighs and still trying to get closer.

The table clatters, covered in knives and crossbows and stakes and Bucky doesn’t give a fuck about any of that. It doesn’t matter how much noise he makes now, Tony is the only living person in the warehouse, the only heartbeat on this rundown block. The only thing Bucky needs to worry about.

He certainly doesn’t give a fuck about the bodies that still litter the floor except that none of them are Tony, thatTony put them there.

Bucky doesn’t care about the bridges he’s burned, has never cared less about the impending sunrise. All that matters is Tony.

And Tony isn’t pushing him away, isn’t complaining. He just hooks one leg over Bucky’s hip and arches up against him, finally dropping his knife to drag both palms up Bucky’s back, pulling him in closer.

Tony is so warm beneath him, wrapped around him, always pulling Bucky in when he should be pushing him away.

“Fuck,” Tony sighs against his lips, one hand in Bucky’s hair again. Tony’s legs tighten around his waist, entire body rolling against Bucky’s, his voice shaking slightly as he says “I was so worried about you.”

Bucky wants to laugh again, because that’s soTony, worrying about Bucky while abducted and fighting for his life. Caring about Bucky in the first place when he should have run, should still be running, should leave Bucky far behind and never think about him again.

Nevermind that the idea has pain lancing through Bucky’s chest like he didn’t even think was possible anymore. He’d take the pain of losing Tony happily if he knew it meant Tony would be safe.

He will walk away, once they get out of here, that’s what Bucky tells himself. He just has to breathe Tony in this one last time and then he’ll walk away.

If Tony will let him. Which doesn’t seem likely, so far Tony has seemed determined to stay by Bucky’s side no matter what, and Bucky can never deny him anything.

The warehouse might be empty now but there’s no telling how long it’ll be before more hunters show up, and they should be getting out of here, Bucky knows that. But he can’t tear himself away from Tony’s warmth, from Tony’s hands moving over him.

Bucky can’t stop thinking that he could have lost this. That if he hadn’t found Tony alive and well Bucky would have made an even bigger mess. There would be no end to the carnage.

When he pulls away from the kiss Tony is panting raggedly and if Bucky had the spare brain power he’d feel bad about that but oh, he really doesn’t right now. Doesn’t care about anything but pressing his lips to Tony’s blood-splattered cheek swearing “I never would have stopped looking for you, never.”

“I know,” Tony promises, still trying to pull Bucky back into another kiss despite the way his words come out weak and breathy, his chest heaving against Bucky’s and his heart thundering.

So alive, alive, alive.

“I’d have done anything to get you back,” Bucky growls, dragging one hand down Tony’s side to his hip, digging his fingers in and shifting them until he can feel the hot brand of Tony’s cock against his hip.

“Fuck!” Tony gasps and the scent of his adrenaline spikes higher, turns sweet and warm as his fingers tighten in Bucky’s hair. “I know, I know, c’mon honey--”

And Bucky can’t say no to that, can never deny Tony anything.

Still, even as he lets Tony haul his face up again Bucky can’t stop the words from spilling out, his voice an awful snarl as he says “and if they’d hurt you--”

It’s probably for the best that Tony slams their lips together again and cuts him off, he doesn’t need to know all the monstrous things Bucky would do in his name. Much better to just let Tony kiss him, let Tony flick his warm tongue over Bucky’s blood smeared lips and the tips of his fangs, like he doesn’t have a fear in the world.

Tony’s heart rate kicks up harder, his next inhale weak and ragged against Bucky’s lips and Bucky forces himself to pull away. He lets Tony catch his breath and moves on to biting his way along Tony’s jaw, not enough to break the skin, just enough to get the taste of his skin on Bucky’s lips.

He tastes like sweat and arousal and need, so much love pouring off of him that Bucky can practically taste it. He’ll never get enough of it, doesn’t ever think he’ll stop being caught off guard by it.

“I told you,” Tony pants out when he finally gets his breath back and for a second Bucky doesn’t even know what he’s talking about, too distracted with the wet drag of Tony’s lips over his cheek. “You don’t have to worry about me,” Tony says, one of his hands landing on Bucky’s ass to pull him in closer, harder, arching up into the demanding roll of Bucky’s hips as he moans out “‘m not gonna let anything happen to you either.”

Bucky laughs raggedly, grits his teeth, presses his face into the curve of Tony’s throat and the craziest part is that Bucky believes him. As crazy as it is he has no problem believing that Tony is equally ready to burn the world down. That the bloodbath around them is only the start of what Tony would have done.

The heat building between them is so intense that even Bucky feels warm, feels like he’s burning. Like he’s absorbing all that wonderful warmth and still Tony has so much to give, never runs out of it, never pushes him away.

Bucky growls, lifts his head to make it easier to resist the urge to sink his teeth in and instead rolls his hips against Tony’s, swallows Tony’s shaking moan with another fierce kiss. “You’re so- fuck, gorgeous, the way you looked tearing thorugh them--” Bucky can’t even find the words to describe it but Tony’s scent spikes, proud and smug and fond.

So damn addictive.

He can feel the needy throb of Tony’s cock against his hip, against his own when Bucky shifts a little more, and he grinds himself down against Tony. Chasing the shocks of heat and pleasure that shoot through his system everytime Tony jerks beneath him, everytime Tony cires out and drags in a ragged breath and then clings to Bucky harder, pulling him in and rocking up against him, so alive. Tony’s heels digging into the back of his thighs, hands moving restlessly over Bucky’s skin, sliding up under the back of Bucky’s shirt and leaving burning trails in his wake.

Tony feels so amazing wrapped around him, so alive, warm and demanding as his fingers dig into Bucky’s skin, his breath escaping in gasps and moans. The impossible heat between them continues to grow, until Bucky is sure it’s going to burn him away entirely, he can’t possibly survive something like this.

He can’t possibly keep it, not something like him.

“Bucky,” Tony whines and he’s shaking now, blood roaring through his veins. So close to Bucky’s fangs as he drags his lips up Tony’s throat.

“C’mon baby,” Bucky growls, clenching his teeth against the urge to bite, “lemme feel you sweet thing, wanna hear you.”

“I’m-” Tony gasps and then cuts off with a keening moan as Bucky pins him down more firmly, grinds against him harder. Tony tries to wiggle a hand between their bodies but Bucky grabs his wrist, presses Tony’s hand to the table beside his head.

“Just like this,” Bucky pleads, his own cock throbbing as he slows the rock of his hips, dragging his cock firmly along Tony’s until he shakes. “Just like this baby, wanna watch you make an even bigger mess of yourself, wanna fuckin’ lick you clean when we get home.”

It’s a nice thought, even if Bucky doesn’t know if he’ll actually get a chance, has no idea what’s going to happen next. At least the idea of it has Tony moaning louder, arching up against Bucky’s grip on his hip and on his wrist, always trying to get closer.

“Bucky, Bucky-” Tony wails beneath him, nails digging into Bucky’s skin, thighs tightening around Bucky’s hips, and Bucky can feel the way Tony’s breath catches in his chest. The way his heart pounds as he drags in one more breath and then breaks.

And this, this is Bucky’s favorite sound, the way Tony’s voice cracks on a loud moan as he falls apart, the stuttering jump-skip of his heartbeat. Hundreds of years wandering the earth and he’s never heard anything like it, could happily listen to all the sounds Tony makes for the rest of his endless life.

“Bucky,” Tony sighs, dazed and slurred, fingers still tight in Bucky’s hair even as his entire body shakes. “Fuck, c’mon honey, I’m right here, let me have it, let me feel you.”

He can hear Tony’s thundering heartbeat like it’s his own, can practically taste it on his tongue, and a feral sound rumbles out of Bucky’s chest as he tips over the edge, snarling against the all too delicate skin of Tony’s throat and clutching at him tighter, tighter.

“I love you,” Bucky confesses in a voice that’s so broken it’s practically a whisper, like his greatest secret. The worst thing he’s ever done.

They need to leave, need to get the hell out of here. Bucky should probably leave the city entirely, go back on the move, leave Tony far behind where he won’t get hurt.

That’s the plan.

He knows all that, but Bucky can’t seem to bring himself to let go, can’t stop kissing Tony over and over and over, feeling the warmth of Tony’s skin beneath his hands. Like it’s the last time he’ll ever feel it.

“Come on,” Tony breathes against his lips, “we gotta get out of here before the sun comes up.”

Bucky groans, but he knows Tony is right. He can feel the approaching dawn in his bones and the last thing he wants is to be trapped in a Hydra base full of corpses all day. Or to still be here when more hunters show up, to have to leave through the sewers.

So he reluctantly pushes himself upright, mourning the way Tony’s lingering warmth starts to fade as soon as they’re not pressed together anymore. Tony’s hand is so much steadier than his own as Bucky helps him to his feet, so warm and alive and unafraid.

Bucky wants to pull him into another kiss. Wants to drop to his knees and press his face to the wet patch slowly spreading across the front of Tony’s jeans, taste him, lick him clean just like Bucky had promised. Doesn’t want to face the real world just yet because that means facing the fact that he has to leave.

That he doesn’t get to keep this.

Tony’s hand is still steady in his, his smile small and fond and he leads Bucky out of the warehouse, through the room of bodies and the bloodsplattered halls. Bucky pulls them to a stop just outside the heavy door he’d ripped his way through, paying no mind to the lightening color of the sky.

Burning to dust would hurt less than this.

“I need to leave,” Bucky says, the words tearing their way out of his throat, “I may have... made some threats. In order to find you. And Hydra isn’t going to stop as long as I’m here.”

He hasn’t even told Tony why Hydra is so determined to ruin his afterlife, not entirely, and now he doesn’t have time. Tony has been dragged into Bucky’s mess and he’ll never know why, and the only upside is Hydra will blame the bloody mess inside on Bucky. They’ll hunt for him more furiously than ever, and the best thing Bucky can do is lead them far, far away.

This is why not getting involved with humans is rule fucking one but Bucky doesn’t regret it, knows he never will. And as much as it kills him he can’t ask Tony to come with him.

Tony nods, like he expected it, and then asks “where are we going, and how long do I have to pack whatever’s left of my apartment?”

Bucky gapes at him.

It hadn’t occurred to him that he wouldn’t need to ask, and Bucky knows he should be relieved but all he feels is guilt. He loves Tony, but at what cost? He would do anything for Tony, and Bucky is ruining his life.

“You- your home,” Bucky tries to protest, his entire body going cold, colder than anything he’s ever felt before. “Your workshop--”

“You saying I can’t rebuild?” Tony interrupts, “I’m insulted, honestly. How dare you doubt me.” His smile is wide, and cajoling, like he’s trying to cheer Bucky up. Like he’s trying to convince Bucky.

“You’ll have to leave everything,” Bucky insists and maybe he does need convincing. It feels a little like he’s lost his mind, like he’s dreaming. He had a plan. “Your entire life, to hide with me, I can’t- I can’t promise the next time you’ll even see the sun.”

Bucky doesn’t need to breathe but he’s wheezing for breath now, his empty chest aching it’s so full of confusion and guilt and hope. He can’t let Tony do this, he can’t ask for this, he can’t--

Tony grabs Bucky’s face in his warm hands, palms calloused and still tacky with blood, as steady as they are when he’s building the future. As steady as they were around the knife, as when he was leading Bucky out of the bloodbath.

“Bucky,” Tony says simply, dark eyes so impossibly bright even in the sickly fluorescent light that spills out of the warehouse. “Bucky,” he repeats, low and sweet and amused, his voice wavering slightly as says “You are my sunshine.”

Bucky laughs again, can’t believe how much he’s laughed on a night that started out with his absolute worst nightmare. Even if it is a little hysterical.

He had a plan, but he also knew better than to get involved with a human, knew better than to stay in one place this long in the first place. Tony has been wrecking all of his plans without even knowing it for months now anyways.

What’s one more.

“You’re stealin’ all my lines,” Bucky accuses but he doesn’t mind, oh he doesn’t mind at all. He gets to keep this, keep Tony, the brightest thing he’s ever seen.

“I love you,” Tony says, so matter-of-fact, and it almost knocks Bucky’s legs out from under him. Every single time.

“That’s my line,” Bucky says, and he smiles, and his hand is steady as he wraps it around Tony’s wrist. “I love you,” he says anyways and tangles their fingers together, doesn’t plan on letting go anytime soon. “Let’s go.”

[the-scandalorian]

Tempered Glass: Chapter 6

Pairing: Din Djarin x Female Reader Rating: M (will become explicit) Word Count: 4k Warnings: slow burn, sad feels/angst, canon-typical violence, cursing, sexy thoughts, pining Summary: When Fennec Shand reveals your true identity to the Mandalorian, you do your best to pick up the pieces. Notes: I’m sorry this took me so long!! I rewrote it like six times because I couldn’t get it to feel right. Next chapter should be much faster. Taglist: @bbdoyouloveme​​ @beskarhearts​​ @dincrypt​ @dunderr​ @honey-hi​ @just-me-and-my-obsessions00​ @mbpokemonrulez​  @oloreaa​ @red-leaders​ @speakerforthedead0​ @spideysimpossiblegirl​​ @theflightytemptressadventure​ @ubri812​ @zoemariefit​​

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Image from The Art of Star Wars: The Mandalorian

Fuck. Panic coursed through your veins and paralyzed you. Your brain moved infuriatingly slowly as you tried to think of a way to stop the disaster that was unfolding before your eyes.

And yet...despite your fear and despite the fact that this terrifying, high-level bounty hunter had once tracked you, hearing Fennec call you sweetheart made your stomach drop—in a pleasant way, not at all like when Toro had done the same. She was beautiful, strong, mysterious, intimidating. What little you saw of her fighting style confirmed that she was lithe and exacting—catlike in her grace and prowess. A sexy armored bounty hunter.

I have a type.

You shunted that wildly unhelpful train of thought out of your head to refocus on the crisis at hand.

You looked at Mando. “I—”

“What’s she talking about?” he prompted. You couldn’t tell if you were projecting because you felt guilty or if he really did sound a little hurt.

You opened your mouth again to respond, but Fennec beat you to it.

“Oh, you don’t know?” Even in the dark, you could see Fennec’s eyes sparkle in delight as she addressed Mando. “I don’t know how this one stayed off your radar,” she explained. “She was wanted by the Empire for years. Huge bounty... She looks a little different now—check her chest for a scar to make sure, but I’d bet her bounty it’s there.”

Mando had already seen the scar. He knew Fennec was right.

You caught the hungry look on Toro’s face as he drank in everything Fennec was saying. His eyes trailed down your face and landed shamelessly on your chest. You could practically hear the wheels turning in his head as he tried to think up a way to confirm your identity and claim the reward for both you and Fennec. This little fucker.

Fennec looked at you, and you took a step back involuntarily. “You’ve gotten sloppy, baby. There’s been chatter for weeks that you resurfaced on Nevarro. If I hadn’t been pinned down here, I’d have come for you myself.”

Her words felt like ice sliding down your throat and settling in your stomach. You’d figured that news of your sighting would probably get out, but you had hoped against hope that the blue-haired bounty hunter had been taken out before she’d been able to spread the word.

Mando was silent, fists clenched tightly at his sides, visor glued on Fennec. Pulling yourself together, you grabbed his arm and dragged him a safe distance away.

“I was going to tell you. I’m sorry,” you blurted, once you were out of earshot.

“It’s fine,” he replied stiffly, his gaze trained decidedly to your right.

Somewhere in the back of your mind you registered that even though it was just the two of you, his voice retained its icy, detached quality, all the tender familiarity gone.

“No, it’s not. I should have told you sooner. I-I wanted to—believe me—but I didn’t know if I could trust you. You were—you’ve been worried that I might turn you or the kid in, haven’t you? I was worried that you’d do the same to me if you found out. The longer I spent with you, the more I felt like you wouldn’t, but I had to be completely, totally sure. I couldn’t take the risk. You can understand that, right?”

He said nothing.

“Look—I really want to be able to trust you. I want you to be able to trust me. I just didn’t know where to start. It’s not easy for people like us to trust blindly, you know?” You hated that your voice sounded almost pleading.

Still, he said nothing, a blank beskar wall. The comfortable warmth that had developed—slowly, painstakingly—between you two over the past weeks had dissolved in an instant.

“Mando. Talk to me, please.” You reached out for his arm, but he stepped back. He still wouldn’t meet your gaze.

“Not now. Not here.”

“But—”

Your heart sank when he turned abruptly and walked back to the others.

You watched as he grabbed Fennec’s arm roughly, hauling her to her feet, and you trailed behind as he lead your party back down to the foot of the cliff. When you reached the bottom, Mando threw Fennec to the ground.

“Uh oh, looks like two of us have to walk,” Fennec taunted, eyeing the lone bike.

Mando jerked his head, motioning you and Toro to follow him.

“Alright, so what is the plan?” Toro asked Mando.

Reluctantly, you refrained from asking him if he could contribute for once instead of letting Mando do literally all the work; instead, you turned to Mando and supplied, “That dewback isn’t far.”

Mando didn’t look at you. To Toro, he said, “I need you to go find it.”

“And leave you here with my bounty and my ride?” Toro asked incredulously. “Yeah, I don’t think so, Mando. I’ll only go if she comes with me, so I have a guarantee that you won’t leave.” Toro gestured toward you.

You and Mando spoke at the same time: “No.”

“Either she comes, or I don’t go.” Toro was obviously pleased with himself for thinking of this plan, a smirk painted on his face. 

You shot him a scathing look before turning to Mando to offer, “I’ll go get it alone.”

You’d love to put some distance between you and Toro, between you and Fennec, and honestly even between you and Mando at the moment.

“Suit yourself,” shrugged Toro. “Less work for me.”

You ignored Toro. “I remember vaguely where it was.” You pointed.

Mando pressed a button on the side of his helmet and scanned the horizon, stopping vaguely where you’d pointed. Finally, he trained his visor on you. He looked from you to Toro to where Fennec was seated and to you again, deliberating. You could tell he didn’t want you to go alone, but he also didn’t want to leave you here with Toro and Fennec. “We’ll go together.”

You nodded, knowing you were in no position to complain. Now that your secret was out, it was evident that both Toro and Fennec would capitalize on your value at the first chance. And, even now, when your dishonesty had been revealed to him, Mando still felt compelled to protect you, his generous heart winning out over whatever malice he felt toward you.

A small part of you resented him for that; it didn’t rub you the right way that he didn’t think you could take care of yourself. A larger part of you knew it was exactly why you liked him so much.

It would be convenient if he were a selfish ass. You could convince yourself you didn’t owe him anything, that you’d done nothing wrong. But no. 

This is why it’s easier to be alone.

You felt both angry and guilty, an awful combination that manifested in the urge to hit something—a deep yearning to break Toro’s nose flashed through your mind when you caught the smug expression on his face as he looked from you to Mando. He was enjoying the palpable tension that had materialized between you a little too much.

“Watch her,” Mando reminded Toro, gesturing to Fennec. “And don’t let her get near the bike. She’s no good to us dead.”

Without a look or a word to you, he turned and started toward the dewback. 

***

You walked in awkward silence, knowing you’d have to be the one to break it, but you delayed the inevitable, admiring the array of stars spread out above you. Mando stomped up and down the swells of sand, staying several paces ahead.

You meandered your way through a storm conflicting emotions: anger at yourself for getting into this situation (rightful), anger at Mando for being infuriatingly honorable (misplaced), guilt that you’d hurt Mando (well-founded), fear about your safety (appropriate), fear that Mando was about to break your heart a little bit (honest), irritation that you were trekking through a damn desert and there was an aggressive amount of sand in your boots (fair but trivial)... and a myriad of others that were too nuanced to unpack.

After deliberating for a long time, you decided to take an offensive position and offer to leave preemptively to save Mando the trouble (and to save yourself from having to hear that from him). You steeled yourself with a deep breath and interrupted the oppressive quietude of the night, jogging for a moment to catch up with him.

“We can go our separate ways when we get back to Mos Eisley. I know I’m too much of a liability to keep around, especially with the kid.”

He turned his head to look at you, the night sky reflected in his visor.

“I have enough credits to get off world some other way.”

“If that’s what you want.”

It killed you a little just how much it wasn’t what you wanted. You were supposed to be totally independent—you’d chosen this life when you joined the Rebel Alliance, knowing that if by some miracle you managed to survive, you’d be hunted for years. The call for your blood wouldn’t—and didn’t—end with the Battle of Endor, especially when Imperial remnants remained strong. And years ago, condemning yourself to this life for a just cause had seemed brave and romantic. Now, here you were, desperate to build a connection with someone else, despite the risk. And you were starting to think that truly being brave would mean accepting that risk.

At what point is it worth giving up ease for happiness, for something more?

You gathered up what nerve you could muster and took a leap.

“It’s not what I want, but I know you feel betrayed. I really am sorry I didn’t tell you—I was planning to, but I was scared. Scared that you’d take advantage of that... scared that you’d take back your offer to stick together. And the longer I waited, the harder it got to come clean.”

“I understand.”

The frostiness of his voice had given way to something a shade softer, but it still hadn’t returned to its former warmth.

You nodded.  

As it became clear that he wasn’t going to say anything else, the disappointment started to settle in, trickling into the hollow of your chest. He understood, but it evidently didn’t change the fact that the fragile trust that had evolved between you was shattered.

Well, fuck.

You suppressed the wave of emotions that threatened to overtake you, focusing instead on making a new plan for yourself. There would be time to work through the feelings later, alone. Your thoughts wandered to where you might go next, running through a mental list of options. Nothing sounded appealing. 

None of the places that came to mind would be stocked with a shiny, withholding Mandalorian and an ancient green toddler.

You walked for another twenty minutes before Mando spoke again.

“I want to trust you too.”

You stopped. “What?”

He halted too, turning to face you. The dark sky painted his beskar deep shades of liquid indigo, speckled with pinpricks of starlight, that moved as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “I wish you... uh... had felt safe enough to tell me that, but I understand why you didn’t.”

You knitted your eyebrows together. “Wait. You’re not mad?”

“I haven’t given you any reason to be open with me. And I guessed you were running from something.”

“Oh.”

“The Empire part caught me off guard—but I knew there was something.”

Of course he’d figured it out...that seemed so obvious now. He’d be able to spot that from a mile away. Plus, he knew you. You spent the last month or so learning his tells and quirks, but you hadn’t stopped to think that he was doing the same with you.

He continued: “But the kid and I are also wanted by the Empire. We’d have the same problem even if you weren’t here.”

“True...” You were struggling to recover from the whiplash.

“What are you wanted for?”

“I was an Intelligence Officer in the Alliance.” It had been years since you’d shared this information with anyone, but the words fell from your lips as naturally as if you said them every day, like you’d been ready to tell him all along and your mouth had finally caught up with your heart.

“Yeah, that makes more sense,” he said. “Explains a lot of your skills.”

You scoffed. “Fair.”

Mando cleared his throat and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “But... it’s...uh, nice to not always be alone.” He punctuated the end of his sentence with a shrug, a little embarrassed.

Relief washed over you.

You smiled. “For me too.”

“Good,” he agreed, nodding decisively.

“Shit, you really let me think you were furious,” you laughed, feeling infinitely lighter but still trying to wrap your mind around this abrupt turn.

“Sorry,” he apologized, “I was... trying to figure some things out.”

You shook your head in exasperation and started walking again, but you froze when he said your real name. You’d known your name would sound good in his voice—everything did—but the way it rumbled and rasped through the modulator was borderline sinful, agonizingly personal.

File that away for later.

You looked back at him, and he cocked his head: “So you’ll stay?” 

“Yeah, I’ll stay,” you agreed, a broad grin on your face.

You both started walking again, and suddenly, trudging through the sandy desert in the middle of the night didn’t seem so bad. The dewback came back into view as you crested another sand dune.

Mando looked over at you. “Din,” he offered. “My name is Din.”

You glanced up at him, surprised. “Din,” you repeated back to him, feeling it out.

Despite the contradictory definition of the word, it suited him. He was the opposite of a cacophony, a man of few words—though to be fair, he did often cause a commotion. But as a name... Din was short, to the point. It evoked a lot of feeling for just three letters, and that felt right.

“I know your real name now. I thought it was only fair that you know mine too, but only use it when it’s just me and you and the kid,” he explained.

Your throat was unexpectedly tight.

You reached over to squeeze his arm at the elbow, where there was a gap in the beskar. He didn’t pull away.

“Thanks,” you answered, looking up into his visor. 

You hoped he understood that you were thanking him for more than just his name—for his understanding, for his trust, for his protection, for his vulnerability. You couldn’t say that all out loud at the moment, but you hoped he knew.

He dipped his helmet in acknowledgement, and you dropped your hand. 

When you finally reached the dewback, Din approached slowly, speaking to it in a calm, lilting voice. It warmed to him slowly, and he grabbed the reins.

He hauled himself up onto its back and then extended a hand down to you. You took it, and he pulled you up easily to sit behind him. You wrapped your arms around his middle.

“Is this okay?” You weren’t really sure why you asked this time. Things had shifted between the two of you, so you were compelled to check that the casual contact was still welcome.

He cleared his throat: “Yeah, fine,” he confirmed.

It had been a long time since you’d been physically affectionate with anyone, besides the occasional casual, short-lived tryst. It was nice to wrap your arms around someone familiar and comfortable, someone who knew you.

The dewback started forward. Din directed it back toward the cliffs with the reins in his fist. It wasn’t a huge distance, but the dewback was a slow means of transportation.

You had little idea what all this meant for your daily reality with Din. You had both shared that you wanted companionship, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was interested in anything more than that. However, for you at least, this was undeniably no longer a superficial interest that you harbored; you had real affection for him. And it seemed like he maybe was starting to feel same way about you? Or maybe he was just getting comfortable with having companionship? The man was starved for human interaction, so it was hard to know if he was warming up to you or warming up to companionship in general.

One step at a time.

Time slipped by as the dewback lumbered on. You rested your cheek against the scratchy fabric of his cape and closed your eyes. The rhythmic movement, the darkness, and comfort of the position lulled you into a light sleep.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been asleep when Din woke you, squeezing your now limp arm that was resting on his thigh above his beskar plate.

“Alive back there?” he asked in a low voice.

Leaned against him, still groggy with sleep, you felt the question rumble through his chest.

You sat up straight, pulling your arms back to your sides. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

He chuckled. “It’s fine. We’re close.”

The two suns had risen, bathing the landscape in the golden glow of early morning. You looked around and saw that you were a short distance from where you’d left Toro and Fennec. You couldn’t see them yet, but you figured they were hidden behind one of the many large boulders strewn across the landscape.

As you drew nearer, though, you could tell something was wrong. Only one figure came into view—and it was crumpled on the ground. Din registered this as well: his shoulders stiffened, and he pulled the reins tight to halt the dewback’s slow advance.

It was Fennec’s body on the ground. Toro was nowhere to be seen.

“Fuck,” you breathed.

“You were right about him,” said Din. “Stay here.”

Din dismounted and approached Fennec’s body. She looked dead, but he crouched to check. He tried to find a pulse, and after a moment, he stood back up and shook his head.

As Din walked back toward you, the realization dawned on you both at the same time.

“He didn’t—”

“The kid—”

“She must have—”

“We have to—”

Din hurried back onto the dewback and directed it toward Mos Eisley, doing his best to make the lumbering creature pick up its pace. It didn’t help much.

The ride back was interminable. You definitely didn’t fall asleep this time, adrenaline keeping you on edge as the hours passed. Both you and Din were incredibly tense, speaking very little, thinking only of the child.

***

Night had fallen again by the time you reached Mos Eisley. The speeder bike that Toro had been riding was parked outside Peli’s. Fury and fear spidered through your veins at the thought of him with the kid.

Din jumped off the side of the dewback and looked up at you expectantly, his arms outstretched. You maneuvered your leg over the side and slid down a bit until his hands gripped your hips, and he lowered you until your feet hit the sand. You could have easily jumped down on your own. He knew that. You knew that. You’d let him help you anyways.

You paused outside the bay to draw your blasters.

“Here,” Din offered you the flash charge.

You slipped it into your jacket sleeve, where it stayed tight against your wrist. Together, you crept through the door and down the stairway that opened up to where the Razor Crest was parked. It was eerily quiet.

You scanned the space, jumping slightly when one of Peli’s pit droids scurried past.

“Took you guys long enough.”

Toro walked slowly down the open ramp of the Crest, the barrel of the blaster in his hand pressed to Peli’s back. The child was held in his other arm.

“Looks like I’m calling the shots now. Huh?” he sneered.

The urge to hit him flared up so acutely that you clenched your fists. You hissed at him: “Don’t you da—”

“Drop your blasters and raise ‘em,” he ordered, cutting you off.

You and Din exchanged a look before throwing your blasters to the ground. In a subtle movement, you shifted the charge from your sleeve to your fist as you placed your hands behind your head.

“Cuff ‘em,” commanded Toro, nudging Peli forward and throwing two sets of cuffs to the ground.

She moved toward Din.

“No, start with her,” Toro drawled, jutting his chin toward you. “To think I almost cut Mando out of this deal,” he laughed. “I would have gotten you and Fennec, but this is so much better. I get to collect the bounty on you and this target here that Mando helped escape,” he pointed his gun at the baby and all your muscles tensed in protective rage, “...and I get to turn in the legendary Mandalorian himself—a Guild traitor.”

Peli walked behind you. You grasped the charge in your fist so that she would be able to see the top of it. You heard her quiet, sharp intake of breath.

“Fennec was right,” Toro continued smugly. “Bringing you three in won’t just make me a member of the Guild—it’ll make me legendary. Three high-value targets on my first try. Wow, I should really thank you guys.”

Peli was fumbling with the cuffs behind you, taking longer than necessary on purpose.

You hoped she was ready to duck because you’d heard enough of Toro’s self-congratulatory monologue. You released the charge.

In the split second of blinding light, you, Din, and Peli sprinted in opposite directions, taking cover. Toro groaned and attempted to cover his eyes, shooting blindly at the empty space where you had been standing.

Din took Toro out in one shot.

You were closest to where he fell, so you charged forward with your blaster trained on his body. The baby wiggled out of Toro’s arms and ran toward you. His big eyes were watery and his arms stretched toward you, his fingers making little grabby motions. He chittered nervously as you scooped him up with your free arm, and he buried his head in your shoulder.

You kicked Toro’s blaster away from his body as Din approached to make sure he was dead. After he checked his pulse, Din tugged the pouch of credits from Toro’s belt and tossed it to Peli. “Here,” he said.

With a gasp, she caught it and emptied the pouch in her hands. Credits tumbled out, a few falling to the ground.

“That cover us?” Din asked.

Peli looked shocked, scrambling to pick them all up. “Yeah... uh, yes. This is gonna cover you.” It was clearly far more than she was expecting.

You passed the child over to Din, and he looked down at the baby, tilting his helmet in...what? Affection? Relief? This was a head tilt you hadn’t defined yet.

Peli approached him and looked down at the child. “You take care of him, you hear?”

Din nodded.

“Thank you for watching him,” you said to Peli, genuinely grateful that she had turned out to be trustworthy.

“Besides getting held at gunpoint... I guess it wasn’t too bad,” she replied, smiling down at the baby. She’d clearly grown fond of him, and you couldn’t blame her. After a moment, Peli mumbled a goodbye and walked away, eagerly counting the credits in her hands, her pit droids skittering after her.

You stood there, finger caught between three tiny green ones, as the kid babbled and cooed up at you. When you looked up, Din’s helmet was trained on your face.

He tipped his head toward the open ramp of the Crest in a wordless invitation.

You smiled at him, a comforting warmth settling in your chest, and he followed you into the hull.

***

Chapter 7

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Of Dust and Ashes: Chapter 39- The Last Page (End of Book 1)

AN: And so, we're at the last page of this book. But fear not, dear friends for the story is far from over. We'll have a few stand alone one shots that are mostly just a peek into the state of the world through some OC's lives during the snap and then we'll pop on over to book Two and the second half of this story. I do hope you'll join be for a peek into the lives of Rita Blackmore and Sharon Watson as well as any other OC's that decide to speak to me and tell me how the snap impacted their lives in a snapshot. Please do reach out and let me know if you have questions about how the snap impacted the lives of a given 'type' of person or occupation as these snap shots give me a lovely chance to share details that would otherwise remain on the cutting room floor.

I hope to see you all in Book Two.

Find my other work on the Masterlist- some angst, some fluff, some sexy smut for all flavors.

pairing: Clint x OFC Series rating: M Series warnings: adult themes, occasional smut, violence, mental health struggles- if it can be warned for, it’s probably in here at some point tbh

Kofi

All donations and Kofi purchased and sent my way will go toward paying down my student loan debt.

Current balance as of 3/26/22: $45,612.83

Chapter 39: The Last Page

They were sitting in the kitchen when there was a loud beep that echoed through out the room. The day had been typical, average for the new normal before that sound. Spring had brought warm air and chased away the last remnants of winter and leaving the promise of new growth behind.

“What was that?” The chair scraped against the dining room floor as she stood in a rush.

“Power switched over.” Clint looked around as if something would give away the change. “The generator sounds when it powers on and off- it’s an automatic, no worry system. Tony didn’t want Laura to have to fuss with it when I was away.”

“They got the power back on?”

“Looks like power bills are going to become a thing again.” Clint joked though is face showed no sign of laughter.

“Just another thing back to normal.” Hands shook as she stepped away from the table. It should have been a good thing. The world would recover and people would stop being hurt if things went back to normal. That’s how things got better, right?

“Are you okay?” Clint’s hands on her shoulders acted to ground her, to keep her mind from floating away from her.

“I should be,” She whispered.

“But are you?” He pressed, fingers digging into the muscles of her shoulders and keeping her well and truly planted there, in the kitchen with him.

“No.” The admission made bile rise in her throat. “I don’t want it to go back to normal.”

“It’ll never go back to normal for us.” Strong arms wrapped around her as he pulled her to his chest. She went willingly enough, clinging to him and the promise of his voice. “We don’t have to pretend that the world moves on.”

~~~~~<3

With the return of electricity, the world did indeed begin to return to normal at a faster rate.

On their next trip into town a few days later, they found seeds of normalcy. The soldiers were still there, though their numbers did not grow. There was a market set up on the sidewalks, farmers and householders selling what items they’ve been able to produce in the time since the world stopped. Trading and bartering were well in practice and the people did not look at each other with fear as they had before. Or rather, without as much fear at least. Occasionally, the money of the world before changed hands.

The grocery had indeed reopened. They walked the aisles, many of which were bare still, out of curiosity more than need for any goods. They had managed to ration and maintain their inventory over the winter and while there was significantly less flour, sugar and rice in their stocks, they still had plenty. There were signs posted limiting how many of which item could be purchased.

There were supply shortages as production was only beginning to limp forward. Things like toilet paper were on the shelf and limited. Trucks began to move goods again, though sporadic, limited and inconsistent. When the trucks did stop, they unloaded limited goods at each spot and mostly contained canned and paper goods.

“It’s so weird.” Dee whispered as they grabbed a pack of salted nuts and looked at the expiration date. It was a month over but they had made it into the stores. In the world before, stores would never sell expired food items but this was a very different world, still standing in the shadow of what had been before. “Expired.”

“We’re buying expired nuts.” Clint laughed and leaned into her ear to whisper, “At least my nuts are not expired.”

Dee choked on air, trying to stifle the laughter at the lewd joke. It had felt like a museum in the store, everyone inside had been milling about in near silence. “Don’t say things like that!”

After paying with cash as was required at all official stores that the government had opened or helped open, they settled for walking around the small city center. Booths and carts were set up, selling mostly food items. Some men had coolers with signs leaned against them advertising meat or dairy for sale.

“Do you think its safe?” Dee whispered when they first spotted them. In the world before, raw milk was frowned upon and most cheeses and yogurts were pasteurized. Storage temperatures for meat and dairy were strictly regulated. None of this was true for the meat and dairy being sold out of coolers in make shift booths and stalls.

“Safe enough.” Clint wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her into his side. “In many places around the world, this was the normal for markets. People just made sure to check for freshness and cooked their food well to avoid getting sick. It’s a skill most in what we insisted on calling the first world nations had lost. A lot of people got a crash course in it though. What do you think about selling the chickens?”

“Why?” His arm tightened around her, squeezing her shoulder into his side in a comforting embrace as she carefully questioned his words.

“I was thinking when we can count on fuel supplies, maybe we could hit the road, travel.”

“You don’t want to stay at the house?” It was his home, his family home and the idea of him leaving it in a more long term way seemed strange to her. For most of their life together, they had spent it at the farmhouse or trying to get back to the farmhouse.

“Do you?” She was aware of the weight of his arm around her. What weighed more, his arm or the questions in the air?

“Not really. It will always be home and it served us well all winter but there are ghosts there. I don’t want to live with ghosts,” the way he smiled down at her, he could be talking about abandoning a favorite camping spot, not his family home. “I don’t think you want to either. Neither of us deserve to.”

“What will we do?”

“Wing it?” He shrugged. “Travel, see the world and… I don’t know, see what happens.”

“Wing it.” She laughed. It was so against everything she would do. It was against everything she should do with the world returning to normal. She should be planning to return home, have her window fixed and repair whatever other damage was done to her home. She should be figuring out of her job was going to return to existence and if she would still have employment.

What she should be doing was packing up the RV and heading west. She should be figuring out what money she had. The proper thing to do would be to try and find out what happened to their bodies (Was anything left?) and see to it that they were buried properly. She should be planning two long overdue funerals with too small coffins.

“Can we,” She swallowed a lump in her throat as bile rolled in her stomach. “Can we not let terrible people hurt people again? There’s been so much suffering. So much pain. I don’t want it swept under the rug so they can go back to normal. It- It feels like that’s what’s going to happen. What is happening.”

She didn’t understand the reality of what she was asking or how that would look in reality. What she did know was that Clint Barton was a hero. He was her hero. And heroes do not let the bad guys be bad because that was easier. Perhaps he was the last real hero left. She didn’t know if she could be a hero herself but if he wanted to continue his life mission, she wanted to help him.

“Okay.” Stopping in the street, he turned her to face him, searching her eyes for signs of fear, of understanding, of sanity.

“Okay?” She didn’t know what she was asking, not really but somehow he understood the permission she was granting him.

He knew what she wanted in her heart even if she was unable to face the horror of it. “Okay. But I make the rules if that’s what we do.”

“You lead,” she agreed. “I follow.”

~~~~~<3

It took less than a week to sell the chickens. It felt unsettling to see the coop clean and empty. The garden and make shift greenhouse were picked clean of produce over the week.

Much was processed and canned. Excess was sold for the money of old. What plants they could plant in the ground with a reasonable hope of their survival in the yard and field were planted. Those that were sure to die were potted and sold as well. They held hope to return to the farmhouse frequently, picking what produce was naturally ready to harvest, restock and rest in the safety of home.

There was a finality in the packing of the motorhome. This time, rather than packing for a few days away, they packed for a life away. They spent a week in all, packing and checking their supplies over again and again.

The dresser and closet in the bedroom was stocked, packed full of clothes. Extra shoes were tucked neatly in a drawer. Many pairs of pants filled drawers along with underwear and socks. They packed fewer shirts, expecting to not be as hard on them but still, they traveled in excess. The drawers under the bed were packed full of blankets, extra sheets and pillows as well as tarps.

Clint had secured a net to the overhead bunk that was secure enough to tie down, allowing the space to be utilized for extra storage. Clint filled the space with lidded baskets containing air tight canisters of flour, sugar and rice. Weapons were stashed near the door side of the bunk. Guns and knives were tucked away. Swords sheathed and secured to the wall. Quivers of advanced trick arrows were secured in place along with hundreds of standard arrows.

The propane tank was full. The batteries were charged. The solar panels were cleaned. Clint had even gone so far as to connect to the internet for the first time since the week his family were stolen from him to arrange legal ownership of the motorhome through less than legal means.

Cups, bowls, plates and cutlery were clean and stocked in the shelves. Where she had to make due with the knives and cooking supplies she had managed to get a hold of before, now she had a toaster and a knife block secured in a cabinet. The pots and pans they used most were stored along with cutting boards and mixing bowls.

Measuring spoons and cups were tucked away. Jars and bottles of spices, salt and flavorings were tucked into the spice rack in the small pantry. Cans of vegetables and fruits were tucked into the pantry right along with bins holding onions, potatoes, apples and citrus.

Meats were packed into the freezer as tightly as possible. The fridge was filled with more meats and bins of leafy greens. Eggs were tucked on a shelf, carefully placed to keep them whole. A glass jar of milk and a block of cheese- products of expensive trades with a local dairy farmer who was very protective of what remained of his herd.

When there was nothing left to back and nothing left to clean, they had nothing left to do but face the reality of the last night in the comfort of the farmhouse.

“It’s not too late to change your mind.” Clint’s arms wrapped tightly around her.

With the restoration of power, the natural gas plant also began to return to functionality. They no longer needed to heat the farmhouse with the wood stove or electric heaters.

That didn’t change the routine of building a fire in the wood stove at night and allowing the embers to die down during the day on the off chance it got cold before dark.

The fire roared in the open wood stove, throwing light out into the room along with the heat. The windows were cracked open. It wasn’t cold outside but it was cold enough to justify some added warmth. The fire was excessive, she knew that. He didn’t have to tell her. Opened windows balanced the heat thrown into the room to keep the space comfortable.

“Are you sure you want us to do this? We can unpack.” There was nothing he wanted less in the world than to force Dee to do anything.

“I do,” she assured, leaning into his chest. “Do you want to? I don’t want us to go unless we’re both on board. All or nothing.”

“All in, Babe.” Grabbing her hand, he spun her around to face him. He caught her hand in his. They spent the last night in the farmhouse dancing to the rhythm of the popping fire. “You and me, against the world.”

Clint pulled her closer and she melted into him. There was safety in his arms that she would never grow tired of.

“You know,” she whispered into his neck as she rested her head on his shoulder. “I wish the decimation never happened.”

“Me, too.”

“But in a world where it had to happen, I can’t imagine not being with you. I’m so fucking thankful that I met you. That you saved me, took me in. That you love me.”

“Sounds like you’re getting ready to propose.” He teased and she laughed. “I love you, too. Everything you just said- the same.”

“So good with words.” She teased him as they swayed as the sunlight dimmed with the setting sun.

“Yeah, yeah.” His laugh was rich and warm. It was a sound she would gladly listen to for ages, until the day she died.

“Forever?” She whispered as she looked up into his deep eyes.

“Forever.” He promised, resting his head against hers’.

~~~~~<3

It was warm and their naked bodies were covered with only a sheet. Trust had sought out cooler sleeping arrangements not that anyone complained about having the privacy. The fire had kept it far warmer in the home than it needed to be overnight.

Sweat had slicked their bodies when they fell together into the bed. It seemed fitting to spend the last night in the farmhouse tangled together in a mass of limbs, breathing each other in as he sank into her and she writhed around him. This was the home that they had fallen in love in.

Though neither said it, they were once again saying goodbye to a chapter of their lives. It had been a short chapter but a very defined one just the same. It’s pages were spotted with blood and the bitter taste of sadness and fear. What better way to celebrate the end of a chapter than surrounded by pleasure and whispering the names of one another as if a sacred prayer.

In the morning light, they were still very much entangled around one another. Neither was in a hurry to rise with the sun this last morning. Soft lips planted sleepy kisses on the mop of her hair, announcing that he was awake without making an effort to wake her.

“Morning.” She whispered, shifting to plant a tender kiss on his warm chest.

“Keep doing that and we’re not leaving this bed anytime soon.” The words were mumbled into her hair as he shifted to lay in part on his side, facing her.

“Showers, breakfast then head out?”

“No more kisses?” He pouted.

“You said if I kept on we wouldn’t be leaving. Can’t have that, can we?”

Clint leaned forward and captured her lips in a hot kiss. Strong arms pulled her to his chest. For a moment, she indulged in the feel of him, the way his strong chest crashed into the soft swells of her breasts. He ground his hips into her, making his desire well known as if she hadn’t seen the tent in the sheet before he shifted.

Leading kisses made their way down his neck. He leaned back, relaxing into the touch and where he had planned on it to go. Rather than lower, it lead to a void in the bed next to him.

“Excuse me?” He whined like a petulant child. “Get back here.”

“I’ve got to start our last breakfast.” Dee spared him a wicked smile as she buttoned one of his flannel shirts over her naked body.

“You can’t leave me here with this!” She laughed as he gestured to his member, poking rather comically up from the hem of the sheet.

“I’m sure you know how to take care of it yourself. You’re a big boy-”

“You can see I am.” He cocked an eyebrow as he interrupted her, hoping to bait her back to the bed.

“And you know how to use your hand.”

“But I don’t wanna.”

“Or you can take a cold shower. Go on, figure the boner out and come down to breakfast.”

“Can we have sex in the kitchen?” She laughed at his last attempt, not bothering to give him an answer as she made her way out of the room. “Aww, boo! You’re mean!”

“I don’t have to make coffee.” She called from the hall, laughter lighting up the space more so than the golden light of the rising sun.

“I’ll be good! Coffee please!”

It was a good way to spend the last morning in the farmhouse. The space deserved to be filled with light and laughter before being left to stand alone. The home needed to be left with warmth and love echoing within it.

It had come so close to being a memorial to the past, to pain and heartache. It was very nearly a tomb to hold the ghosts of his family. With all the love and laughter that had filled the home before, it was good to leave it with warmth and love now.

~~~~~<3

She watched in the side mirror as the farmhouse faded in the distance. It was perched on the rise of a slight hill and as the home on wheels rocked over the slightly uneven dirt road that would take them to the gate and the pavement.

As the house grew smaller and smaller, so did the time she had left to turn back. She could physically feel the time counting down and the cliff of change loomed as the gate came into view. There was no reason she should feel this impending change so physically but still, she did.

The farmhouse faded and became nothing as they crossed the expansive property that belonged to Clint. In a way, she supposed it belonged to her too for as long as she was his and he was hers.

“Having second thoughts?” Clint’s fingers were entwined with hers as he navigated down the road at a steady pace.

“No,” She mused, pulling her eyes from the mirror and directing her attention to him. The morning sun was warm upon his face, lighting it with shades of gold that highlighted the tan that had only begun to color his features as spring bloomed. “Just saying my goodbyes to home.”

“We’ll come back.” He squeezed her hand.

“I know.” A soft smile graced her lips. “Home is with you anyway.”

“So fucking cheesy.” He laughed as they crossed the threshold of the gate, It closed firmly behind them with a clatter of metal. “Right or left?”

“Left.”

And so, one book comes to a close and a new one begins. For Clint and Dee, the world will never return to what it had once been. The light was gone from their lives and what remained was a dim ghost of it, filtering through the clouds of dust still lingering in their memory. The damage was done to these two, as it had been done to countless others.

Now these two wayward souls have begun to heal but what scars will the wounds leave behind? How will these scars impact their futures?

Let us go now together onward, down the road as we follow them. What will they write within the blank pages of their book together? What will their story hold?

Will they find light and joy? Perhaps they’ll wed and build a life somewhere where none knows either of their faces. Perhaps they’ll find darkness. Will they cling to pain? Will there be bloodshed?

For all the questions, the answers lay on the road ahead of them and the experiences they shall share. Let us follow them together.

~~~~~<3

Tag list: @usedtobegoodfriend96​, @alcoholic-muffin​, @theoneanna​, @alexakeyloveloki​, @toozmanykids​, @j-u-s-t-4​, @missaphrodite23​, @winterisakiller​, @bambamwolf87​, @nonsensicalobsessions​, @tinchentitri​, @xoxabs88xox​, @queenoftheunderdark​, @carissime72​, @myoxisbroken​, @coyotesongwriting​, @wegingerangelica​, @faemapfae​​, @tnystrk-exe

[wordsnwhiskey]

As It Should Be | Chapter 5: Breaking In The Newbies

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x F!Reader x Frankie Morales

Summary: After a rough and emotional night, Frankie makes a decision on Jack’s offer. Before they can get to that though, the morning debrief with Champ brings back a familiar face and Jack has you and Frankie teach the junior agents a lesson during combat training.

Rating: M

Warnings: Canon typical violence, guns, swearing, discussions about safewords.

A/N: Alright, a lot of stuff needed to happen here and we’re going to have a little action and see Frankie show off a bit. It was important to me that the discussion of safe words and Jack checking again for consent happened in a chapter separate from the actual smut. For me, it further emphasizes that Jack doesn’t want Frankie to feel pressured to accept or do anything he doesn’t want to because it’s “in the moment”. Consent is sexy, friends.

I have to give my love and thanks to mi esposa @danniburgh and my friend Agent Capri Sun for the beta reads, the fantastic constructive criticism and encouragement!

Masterlist | Series Masterlist | Chapter 4: Company | AO3 | Art

The morning sun stirred Frankie. Even with his eyes still closed, he could tell the room was alight, but the warmth that surrounded him had nothing to do with the sun and everything to do with the body next to him. He opened his eyes and realized he was definitely not in Whiskey’s guest bedroom. Instead, he was very much curled into Whiskey’s lightly rising chest. Frankie blushed, very unused to being the little spoon, and moreover, not used to someone’s morning wood poking at him. Whiskey was gently roused from sleep by Frankie’s small movements. He lifted his arm from around Frankie’s waist and stretched.

“G’morning Flyboy. You were having nightmares, so I brought you in here.

“Oh, sorry for waking you up and… thank you.” Frankie felt guilt sting at his throat.

Whiskey grunted and rolled out of bed to go shower.

“Nothing to worry about, partner. I’m no stranger to those kinds of nightmares.”

Frankie was grateful Whiskey understood and made no effort to pry. With a grunt of his own, Frankie got up from the bed and made his way to the kitchen, intent on trying to get coffee going while Whiskey showered.

Whiskey finished his shower and stepped out to dry off, then wrapped his towel around his waist. He was drawn to the kitchen by the smell of coffee, Frankie’s initiative quirking the corners of his mouth into a small smile. He leaned against the kitchen counter and watched as Frankie poured their coffee, handing Whiskey’s to him black. Jack hummed his approval, a sound which he noted made Frankie preen a bit.

“Good boy.” Jack gestured to the coffee with a small wink as the air seemed to be pushed from Frankie’s lungs. “Now, as much as I enjoy the view of you in just my shorts, let's get you into something you can wear at the office.”

Frankie was rooted to the spot, Jack’s “good boy” ringing in his ears and sending a wave of warmth throughout his entire body. Jack didn’t comment, just let his smirk speak for itself as he took his coffee back to his room and opened the doors to his closet. His fingers tabbed at a few of the hanging suits as he looked back to see that Frankie had finally uprooted himself and joined him.

“We’re similar in build, so you ought to be able to pull off one of my suits…”

Frankie winced.

“Right, well then, let’s go with something a touch more casual.

Jack grabbed a pair of jeans, a blue button down, white t-shirt, belt, and socks, handing each article of clothing over to Frankie as he moved around his closet.

“There, that should do you. Comfortable, but still presentable for Statesman.”

Jack gave him a smile only to notice Frankie shifting his weight.

“Thanks,” came Frankie’s reply as he turned to get dressed. He didn’t mind going without boxers, but the sudden realization that he needed more clothes of his own hit Frankie as he dressed in the clothes Jack had given him.

“Hey Jack?”

Whiskey hummed in acknowledgement as he finished getting dressed himself: jeans, suspenders, white button down shirt, and a navy wool blazer.

“I was thinking about your offer last night, and… I’d like that.”

Whiskey turned to look at Frankie, giving him a once over, distantly thinking about how good Frankie looked in his clothes, and a mischievous smile lit up Whiskey’s face.

“I’m looking forward to it, Flyboy. We’ll discuss things a bit more at the end of the day in my office. It’s about as close to neutral territory as we’re gonna get for that conversation. For today though, I want you to be a good boy and stick to me like a shadow. We’re meeting with Champ first thing. Then, we’re gonna have some fun.”

Frankie nodded, rocking back on his heels for a moment, then fell in step with Whiskey as they headed out, both of them grabbing their respective hats as they went. The ride in Whiskey’s Bronco was quiet, and soon enough they were riding the elevator up to their floor in the Statesman tower.

You were seated at the conference table facing the double doors with Pope to your right.

“You sleep alright, Pope? Hope Ginger didn’t keep you too late.”

“She’s something, that’s for sure, Hawk, but she did let me go, eventually.”

He gave you a good natured laugh that slowly lost its shine.

“You hear from Fish, Hawk? Ginger told me where she put him up and I went to check on him last night, but he never answered.”

Worry bloomed in your chest, not that it had really gone away after seeing Frankie leave yesterday. You figured if he wanted or needed to talk, he would have reached out to you. Honestly, you had hoped he would have checked in with Pope at some point since he probably felt more comfortable with him. Just then, the conference double doors opened, giving way as Jack strode in, greeting you with a smile and tilt of his head. Relief eased the tension in your chest and shoulders when Frankie followed closely behind Jack. Your eyes darted over to Whiskey, fixing him with a questioning gaze as you realized the clothes Frankie was wearing belonged to Jack.

“Fish!” Pope practically jumped out of his chair, rushing over to Frankie with a duffle bag in tow. “I was worried about you, hermano. I went to the hotel, but you didn’t answer.”

To Frankie’s credit, his face didn’t betray much, but both you and Pope knew that Frankie didn’t have any other clothes aside from what he had left with.

“Uh, yeah, must’ve just missed you.”

You could tell Pope was filing the information away for later. Your eyes wandered to Jack’s again and you raised an eyebrow. At least you now had an idea why he had cancelled on you last night.

“Here, Fish. I figured you’d want your go bag.”

“Gracias, hermano.”

They clasped arms, then took their seats. Frankie grabbed the orange tinted glasses he had left the day before and put them on, adjusting them on the bridge of his nose. His gaze fell to yours and he gave you a small smile, but before you could say anything, Champ’s holo image flickered to life.

“Catfish! You’re looking mighty fine! Much better than yesterday.”

“Yes sir, thanks.”

Champ nodded. He’d been worried about how the man would fare, especially considering the news yesterday.

“Right, down to the business at hand. It does appear that a new cartel is making their play at center stage, picking up where Poppy left off. They’re not following Poppy’s business model, though. From what we understand, the group is headed by four individuals: Isabella Gómez, Duke Hernández, Steven Weisel and Emily Weisel. They’ve taken to calling themselves La Linda Rosa, likely after the Red Agent flowers. Up until now, they’ve been your run of the mill cartel, but it’s our belief that the Weisels have been instrumental in their production and processing of Agent Red. Recently, the Weisels purchased land in Colombia, and from our drone coverage, they may have set up processing plants there. We don’t know why the sudden shift to Agent Red, though. The plants themselves go for $500k per plant, and they take time to mature. We don’t think the Weisels are responsible for acquiring the plants, so that leaves either Isabella or Duke.”

Frankie’s attention drifted from Champ to the pictures on the screen and swore.

“Fuck. Pope, you know who that is, right? I thought they were in Australia?”

Pope did a double take, recognizing his old informant’s brother. The Statesman stared at the two men, waiting for them to elaborate. Frankie sighed and settled into his seat a bit more, knee bouncing anxiously.

“Four years ago, Pope came to me and the rest of our old team to take out Gabriel Martín Lorea and make out with the money he had stockpiled. Pope’s CI, Yovanna, and her brother, Duke, both worked for Lorea. In exchange for helping us, Pope got the brother out of jail and we dropped them off in Peru with papers to Australia and $3M. Looks like Duke wasn’t satisfied with life in Australia.”

Ginger frowned and pulled up Duke’s known associates, Yovanna’s picture following the others on screen.

“Yovanna appears to still be living in Australia, but it’s possible Duke grabbed the money and ran.”

Frankie closed his eyes, lifting his cap and carding his fingers through his hair before placing the hat back on his head and sighing.

“What’s the plan? Sounds like the plants and processing facilities need to be taken out, and then there’s the compound, too.”

Pope nodded, then sighed as well. This was bringing back memories for the both of them.

“We’ll also need to be wary of the local agencies. They’ll be on the lookout for anyone suspicious, especially if it’s anything like how it was with Lorea.”

Champ nodded and tilted his head to Ginger.

“We’re doing our own recon and then we’ll break out teams. Pope, Catfish, we’d like you to at least help with intel, and given your experience in taking down Lorea, if you’re up for it, I’d like you both on the compound assault team.”

You saw Pope and Frankie share a look, Frankie’s jaw clenched and then he nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“Great, not to worry boys, Statesman has the best resources, stateside or otherwise. For now, I’m sure we can keep you plenty busy. Whiskey, don’t forget, today is your day for combat training with the new recruits. Bourbon, Cranberry needs you to test equipment in the lab later today.”

“Pope, could you actually stick around again for a bit? I’ve got some more intel I want to run through with you.” Ginger chimed in, and you were surprised he didn’t grimace at the idea of being locked in a room for hours again.

With that, the meeting was over, Champ’s holo image disappeared and they took their glasses off. Jack stood up and Frankie was quick to follow him, much to your intrigue. You stood up as well. You were eager to watch Jack have his way with the new agents. It was always fun. Whiskey seemed to know you would be following and beckoned for you to enter his office first, followed by Frankie, and Jack closed the door behind him.

“Go ahead and set your bag down wherever you’d like, Flyboy.”

Frankie dropped his bag in a corner then promptly started to rifle through it, pulling his shoes out and quickly swapping his dress shoes for them. He let out a sigh of relief as he rolled up on the balls of his feet and rocked back on his heels. He hated dress shoes.

You took a short minute to admire Frankie in the blue button down while he rolled up his sleeves. Jack’s fingers wrapped around your wrist and he tugged you into him.

“Missed you, darlin’.”

Smiling, you took his face in your hands and tugged him down for a kiss.

“Missed you too, Jack.”

You murmured against his lips, and you resolved not to ask about last night. Whatever happened, Frankie must have reached out to Jack, not you or Santi, and you’d leave it at that. Jack hummed contentedly for a moment before he pulled back and winked at you.

“Are you coming to watch us break in the newbies, darlin’? I was thinking you and Flyboy could do the first demo.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously, but there was a playfulness in them as well.

“Us?” You questioned Jack with a raised eyebrow.

“First demo?” Came Frankie’s question as he whirled around to face you and Whiskey.

Jack’s smile broadened and he started out of his office and towards the elevator, expecting you and Frankie to follow.

“What are we demoing, Whiskey?”Frankie asked, more pointedly this time.

“Well, our newbies are scheduled to learn about disarms and what happens when the enemy goes for their gun. I thought it’d be good to have them start out seeing Bourbon disarm you.”

Frankie huffed as he crossed his arms and leaned against the elevator wall. You smiled as you leaned against the wall opposite Frankie.

“It’ll be just like old times, Fish.”

He groaned and shook his head.

“Why have me do the demo though? I’m not a Statesman agent.”

Before you could respond to reassure Frankie, Jack chimed in, eyeing him with nothing short of gleeful mischief. Jack enjoyed breaking the new agents in almost a little too much sometimes, but it was good for them, and he was good at it.

“No, you’re not, you’re ex-Delta Force, Frankie. These agents have had plenty of training, but they don’t have your experience, Flyboy. They’re gonna learn the difference today.”

Jack shared a similar philosophy with you when it came to combat training and sparring. You had been a terror in hand-to-hand, still were, you were proud to say. You knew there was often a size disadvantage, but you had learned to use your opponent’s momentum against them, and more importantly, you didn’t follow convention. In sparring matches, most people fought like they were sparring, which was fine for beginning, but there was a big difference between practicing and being in an actual fight. You never advocated for an all out brawl, but you refused to follow the typical learned pattern that people naturally gravitated towards. Tom had been predictable and a sore loser. Will was predictable but sweet. Benny, well, there was a reason he was semi-pro, which left Santi and Frankie. Santiago was fun, and you had lost your fair share of matches to both him and Benny. Frankie had a spark in his eyes when he sparred, but no matter how hard you had tried to get him to let go, he refused. It had nothing to do with anything silly like you being a woman, more to do with the fact that Frankie never seemed to just let himself go in that way. You had only seen him let go a bit twice, both times in the field and well worn down by the day.

The elevator dinging startled you out of your reverie, and you followed right behind Jack towards the training room. Frankie assumed they would be entering a gym of sorts, but he was sorely mistaken, and he realized the ‘floor’ they were on must have been composed of several. The ‘room’ was really more of a training complex housed in the unassuming tower. To the right, a group of 20 people stood, waiting. He gave them a cursory glance, and then his eyes were pulled to the range. He’d definitely have to visit to let off some stress. He followed as you and Whiskey led the way to the group of agents and hung back slightly as the group stood to attention.

“Well, look at this promising group of newbies, Bourbon. D’you think they’re up for today’s lesson?”

You let the smirk on your lips turn into a full crooked smile, you had more than a small idea as to what Jack was going to do. Looking over your shoulder, you caught Frankie’s eye and nodded for him to join you.

“I don’t know, Whiskey, simple concept, but we’ll see what their execution is like. My money is on our guy.”

The agents before you bristled, full of young pride that was well-earned. Whiskey’s hand clasped over Frankie’s shoulder as he introduced him to the new agents.

“Y’all are in for a treat. Our friend, Catfish, here, has generously volunteered to help train you on close quarters combat and disarms. Bourbon will demo the defense first. Catfish,” Whiskey took a pistol from the long table off to the side and handed it to Frankie. “Your objective is simple: shoot a blank at Bourbon.”

Frankie’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and his eyes sought yours to make sure you were comfortable. An answering smile was good enough for him, and he checked the pistol, confirming there were no live rounds, before looking back up at you. The two of you easily slid into a ready position, and Jack gestured for the new agents to give you some room.

“Halcón, when you go for the takedown, ten cuidado con mi espalda. Ya no soy joven.” [be careful with my back. I’m not young anymore.]

It only mildly annoyed you that he already knew you were going to go for the takedown, after priding yourself on your spontaneity earlier, but you pushed that out of your mind as you both stood a few steps apart. There would be a split second when Frankie pulled his pistol and took a readying step. That would be where you would have an opening and make your move. A tense handful of seconds that seemed to stretch on filled the air. Jack watched the new agents, the tension between you and Frankie seemed to embed itself in the junior agents’ lungs as they all waited with bated breath.

Nothing telegraphed Frankie’s quick movements as he drew his pistol, but on instinct, your body was moving. He saw your left hand fly out to redirect his momentum and push his gun hand away, quickly shifting to plant his weight, keeping you from landing the takedown this early. The training you and Frankie had received taught you to be efficient and end things quickly. That was easier said when you had spent years training together. The junior agents seemed to still be holding their breath while you traded blows. Your moment of opportunity came, and you took it. Frankie seemed to understand what was happening but his balance was off. You stepped into him, your hip bumping his as your hand came to grip over the top of his pistol. The next thing everyone knew, you were both on the ground, the gun skittering harmlessly away, and Frankie’s arm in an arm bar. He grunted and quickly tapped at your leg to surrender, and you let him go. The class was quiet until Whiskey broke the silence as you helped Frankie to his feet.

“I hope you lot were paying attention to Catfish here, he did a great job demonstrating what to do when facing a difficult opponent like Bourbon. For this exercise, the rest of you will attempt to take a shot at Catfish and he will disarm you by whatever means he deems necessary.”

You can’t help but let out a small laugh, knowing Whiskey was being intentional with his wording.The laugh died quickly, however, at the words of one of the junior agents.

“How was that a good example? He lost, he was disarmed. We should be practicing against someone better, who would last longer.”

At your side, you saw Frankie stand up straighter, his feet moving shoulder width apart as his hands clasped behind his back and he fixed the younger agent with a steely gaze. Even as his breathing remained calm, it was obvious the words had gotten to him. Whiskey’s good natured grin turned into a smug smirk.

“Davis,” Whiskey began, calling the man out by his last name and emphasizing he hadn’t earned a Statesman moniker. “Since you’re so eager, by all means, approach Catfish when you’re ready and show us how your Statesman training fares.”

Frankie kept his gaze leveled at the cocky junior agent, noticing in his periphery that you had moved away to give them plenty of room. Davis moved to be a few steps in front of him. Frankie continued to hold the stare as he questioned Whiskey.

“Are you sure about this, Whiskey?”

Whiskey nodded, Frankie’s gaze flickering over to him for the briefest of seconds, then he brought his hands to a loose ready position at his sides. Davis drew his pistol, but Frankie grabbed the barrel with his left hand, stepped forward and hooked his right foot behind Davis’ lead leg and pushed on the agent’s chest with his right hand. Davis went down, but found himself suspended by Frankie’s hold on his shirt. The class was filled with littered gasps and snickers. The ‘fight’ was over before it had really begun. Frankie helped right the agent and stepped aside to let him retrieve his firearm.

“Attaboy, Catfish! Davis, looks like you’ve got some work to do. Here’s another lesson, agents: Statesman agents aren’t your only competition out there. We’ve got some fancy gear and trainin’ here, but there’s a world of intelligence agents and mercs out there. Catfish served with Bourbon, and that should tell you all you need to know.” He paused a moment to let the information sink in as Davis returned to the line to lick his wounds. Then Whiskey called the next agent.

Frankie breathed in, then out through his nose, and got ready. As they went, the junior agents in waiting began to pick up on a few of his techniques, and he had to adjust, but time spent practicing and training at Benny’s gym had prepared him well for this.

You watched as Jack’s eyes danced while he followed Frankie’s movements. The circumstances earlier had prevented him from truly appreciating how efficient and capable the quiet man was. The last of the junior agents had made their attempt and consequently failed. Frankie’s breath was coming more unevenly now, and rightly so. What he had gone through would be exhausting for anyone.

“Well done, everyone, a round of applause to Catfish for taking the time to demonstrate y’all have a lot to learn before getting approved for field work. Now go on and line up at the range and get warmed up. We’ll be running sims next.”

The junior agents dispersed to the range towards the back of the room. Frankie let out a breath and rolled his shoulders to let out some of the tension he had been carrying, then started heading for the range, eager to let off some more steam.

“Where do you think you’re going, partner?”

Frankie frowned, his eyes darting between you and Whiskey in confusion.

“I thought we were going to go shoot?”

Jack smiled then winked at Frankie.

“They’re warming up, you still have one more person to disarm, Flyboy.”

Frankie’s fingers twitched, and you could see that the exercise earlier had worn at his usual restraint.

“No lasso.”

Whiskey handed you his lasso, then unloaded his revolvers and passed you the ammo. He holstered his revolvers again and stepped into position in front of Frankie. You watched as a new kind of energy seemed to crackle between them, and some of the junior agents seemed to sense it, stopping to watch as well.

Whiskey was fast, but training at the boxing gym had helped Frankie with his speed. As Whiskey drew his revolver, Frankie sprung forward. He didn’t bother to grab the gun. Instead, he brought his fist down on the barrel, sending it skittering away. Whiskey’s fist connected with Frankie’s side, and you heard, rather than saw, Frankie’s reservations fall away with a snarl. He took hold of the inside of Jack’s blazer, grabbing the grip of the other revolver holstered there and made to pull it out and take the ‘shot’. Jack’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. He hadn’t expected Frankie to go on the offensive, but he found he was impressed. He liked a challenge. Before Frankie could draw the revolver from the holster, Jack grabbed his wrists and wrenched them down, then back up quickly to break Frankie’s hold, and then Jack threw them both to the ground. Both men recovered quickly, but in the chaos, the revolver had fallen to the ground and Frankie scrambled for it. Just as his fingertips touched cold metal, Whiskey’s whip flicked the revolver further away, and they closed the distance to grapple with each other again.

Your match with Frankie had been a well practiced dance, and this was too, in its own right. However, where yours had been fluid, Whiskey and Frankie were bordering on feral. For a moment, it appeared that Frankie had gotten the upper hand. Whiskey staggered backwards, about to fall, but as he went, he flicked his whip, the corded length wrapping around Frankie’s throat. He tugged, sending them both to the ground. Frankie grunted and struggled against the snare he was in. Whiskey wasted no time in scrambling up and pinning Frankie, his knee to the pilot’s back. Frankie continued to struggle until Whiskey leaned down so that only the other man could hear.

“Easy now, Tiger, save your strength for tonight. You did good.”

Frankie relaxed under Jack’s weight and nodded. Whiskey got off of him with a grunt and unwound the corded length of the whip from Frankie’s neck, then pressed a button on the handle to recall it. He helped Frankie up and dusted him off a bit.

A few of the junior agents were still watching in awe. It was rare to see a senior agent like you or Whiskey truly need to put some effort in, and to see it twice in one day was something else entirely. You walked over to the two men and put your hand on Frankie’s shoulder.

“You did great, Fish, nice to see you let loose for once.”

He scoffed good naturedly and swooped to pick his hat up from off the ground.

“You guys had quite the audience while you were at it, too.” Your smile was barely contained as you raised an eyebrow at Jack.

This time it was Whiskey’s turn to scoff.

“Well, I hope they’ve been practicing. They’ll be running the sim after Frankie does.”

Whiskey patted Frankie on his shoulder then gestured for him to follow. He led him to an enclosed area that occupied the majority of the left side of the training complex. A small structure that looked like a house sat inside the enclosure, and you knew it was furnished to match whatever simulation scenario had been determined. Whiskey stopped at a table just outside of the enclosure and gestured to the rifle, combat knife, folder, and headset.

“Alright, Flyboy, I know you’ve done this sort of exercise before. Your brief is on the table there. Good luck.”

You and Whiskey walked a bit further along the enclosure to two screens. One cycled through a variety of camera angles while the other would connect to the headset once Frankie turned it on.

“You’re really having Frankie run the simulation?”

Whiskey nodded, “I didn’t have him help with the demo just to teach those newbies a lesson, darlin’. He’s been through hell, and I figured getting him to work through some of that in sparring and the sim would help. That, and, well… you can’t blame me for bein’ curious, Bourbon. Last time I got to see what he could do, we were a bit busy trying not to get shot.”

You can’t help but to chuckle and shake your head, your attention going back to Frankie as he geared up.

“Frankie turns into a different person on missions sometimes, used to scare the hell out of people on base who saw it. No one ever suspected it because he was always the quiet one, but he’s just as competitive as the rest of the guys on the team. He was just always scary good at keeping a level head and focusing on the mission. You’ll see.”

Frankie put on the kit provided for him then flipped through the brief before lowering the headset and advancing. The brief had been fairly simple: infiltrate the compound, rescue the target, and escort the target to the exfil location. They even provided a decent description of the target. The virtual course populated guards patrolling the 3 entrances. He opted for the path of least resistance with only 2 guards posted.

From the screen, you and Jack could see Frankie take a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing even as he crept towards the two guards. You knew it was because he was willing himself to let go, to let his instincts and muscle memory take over. He was lightning fast as his knife came out and he landed brutal and precise fatal blows to the targets on the screen. In a normal situation, he would hide the bodies but the miracle of technology meant he didn’t have to. It was beautiful in a devastating way to watch Frankie move with such confidence, stealth, and precision. He peered around a hallway, noting the sudden influx of guards and catching a glimpse of red at the end of the hall. The brief had indicated the target would be in red, and it made sense that there would be more guards to ensure the target didn’t run off. He counted five hostiles in the hallway.

Five guards, five bullets.

Once he had downed the hostiles, Frankie stepped through the hallway, catching a glimpse of the target and swore at how cliché the scenario was. The brief had just said the target had last been seen wearing red.

“¡Me están jodiendo! ¿En serio? ¿Una mujer en un vestido rojo?” [They’re fucking with me. Really? A woman in a red dress?]

You could both hear Frankie through the mic link in his headset, and you couldn’t help but laugh. It quickly died as you and Whiskey tensed. The woman in red was a decoy, one that statistically caught the majority of users by surprise.

“Ma’am, are you-” She moved just barely and he saw the glint of where a gun was holstered. Frankie didn’t finish his sentence. Instead, he fired a shot to her chest and grumbled to himself before moving on. Normally, it wouldn’t have taken him that long to figure it out.

Whiskey whistled, thoroughly impressed. It wasn’t long after that Frankie found the real target and reached the ‘exfil location’.

“Damn, sweetheart, you sure picked a good one.”

He winked at you, and you grinned back as Frankie pulled off the headset and his kit, then walked over to you.

“Alright, agents! Catfish successfully completed the sim in 15 minutes, that’s your time to beat!”

A chorus of groans echoed in the training room. Whiskey ignored them and clapped Frankie on his shoulder.

“You did good, Flyboy, really set the bar high. Most people get caught up by the decoy.”

Frankie’s chest puffed out a little at the praise, but he was soon shaking his head. Before he could deflect the compliment, Whiskey squeezed his shoulder.

“Feeling hungry, Flyboy? Figured the three of us could grab a quick lunch before Cran steals Bourbon here away from us.”

“Yeah, I’m starving. Didn’t expect you to keep me busy like that.”

Vermouth entered the training room, and you waved him down.

“Hey, Vermouth! Watch the junior agents for us. Whiskey’s just got them running the sim. We’re going to go grab lunch!”

Without waiting for Vermouth’s answer, you grabbed Whiskey and Frankie’s hands, dragging them out of the training room and to the elevator.

“There’s a deli not far from the office we can walk to, and it’s late enough that we should miss the rush.”

Walking arm in arm with both of your boys, you could think of very few things better than right now. You didn’t care that you were in the middle of downtown New York. All that mattered was Whiskey on your right, and Frankie on your left.

Frankie did his best to relax and not let his anxiety and internal struggles get the best of him. Whiskey’s words echoed in his mind: “When it comes to me and Bourbon, keep an open mind and try not to overthink it.” That was a lot easier said than done, but he was working on it.

You were right, the timing made it so that you had missed the lunch rush. You all ordered your food, Whiskey stepping in to pay with a look that silenced both you and Frankie, then you all went to sit down.

Whiskey practically sprawled in his chair, his legs encroaching your space under the table and Frankie’s space next to him. Frankie sat somewhat stiffly but the more he ate, the more he seemed to relax. You nudge his foot with yours playfully to grab his attention.

“How’s your back? Mr. Ya-no-soy-joven.”

The three of you laughed, and Frankie shook his head with a wide grin on his face.

“I’m not! Gotta leave that shit for the young guys who think they’re invincible.”

“Young guys like Davis?” You shot back, smug on Frankie’s behalf.

“Cocky kid had it coming.”

There was no anger in Frankie’s eyes, only the slightest lilt of mirth in his voice as his gaze met yours, then Whiskey’s. Whiskey leaned forward and barked a laugh while patting Frankie on the back.

“He sure did. The lot of them were in need of a reality check. That’s why Champ specifically likes to have me or Bourbon take at least one pass at our junior agents. After all those hours spent training, they tend to forget that there are much bigger fish out there.”

Conversation flowed easily between them for the rest of their lunch. It reminded Frankie of the prior morning, when they were enjoying breakfast and everything just felt right. It felt as if all of the pieces of the puzzle were coming together, and this time, this time, it didn’t feel fleeting.

Walking to the office was much more comfortable than the walk to the deli had been. You noticed that Frankie was far less stiff under your touch on his arm, even leaning into you occasionally. You parted ways in the elevator. You were heading to the lab to play guinea pig for Cranberry, and your boys were headed upstairs to Whiskey’s office. Frankie seemed hesitant to let you go, and you did your best not to spook him, your heart fluttering in your chest.

Given everything that had happened, things needed to be almost wholly in Frankie’s court, at least until he was more comfortable around you. You had certainly noticed, however, how easily Frankie and Whiskey seemed to allow each other into their respective spaces. The elevator doors closed behind you as you strode down the hall. You were glad that they were comfortable together, though. It had definitely been a concern of yours, considering their respective pasts, but you also thought that there was the potential for them to relate and understand each other better than most.

The rest of the day passed by slowly, and as directed, Frankie remained Jack’s shadow. Jack did his best to keep from laughing when 5pm rolled around and Frankie began to subconsciously bounce his knee. He was scrolling on his phone, lower lip pulled between his teeth and brow furrowed as he tried to focus on whatever was on the screen.

You knocked on Jack’s open office door, raising an eyebrow when you saw Frankie startle at the sound. He wasn’t usually this jumpy. Jack’s gaze met yours, and you could see the amusement and mischief that bubbled in his eyes.

“Hey there, darlin’, you getting ready to head out for the night?”

“Just about, wanted to come see my boys before I do.”

Frankie’s knee stopped bouncing at your words, his phone falling into his lap as he looked up at you. You motion for him to scoot over a bit as you sit down on the couch next to him and rest your chin on your hand.

“We’re still on for dinner tomorrow, right?”

You posed the question to the room in general, even though the three of you knew that it was really directed towards Frankie.

“Uh yeah, I’m-I’m looking forward to dinner tomorrow,” Frankie says after clearing his throat and gives you both a shy smile. Leaning over, you take his large hand in your own and give it a squeeze.

“Great!” Standing up from the couch, you smooth your clothes, give Frankie a kiss on his cheek, and then kiss Jack. “I’ll find us a place, and we’ll figure it out more tomorrow. Night, Frankie. Night, Jack.”

A minute later, you’re gone, and suddenly there’s nothing keeping Frankie’s mind off of the time, which is painfully close to 6pm, when Jack said he’d be done with work. The moment the clock turned that final, eternal minute, Frankie sat up straight, attentive, and alert as his eyes watched Whiskey.

Jack leaned back in his chair, stretching, then relocated next to Frankie on the couch.

“I don’t want you to feel obligated to do anything tonight, Flyboy. If you feel like you’re not up for it, we’ll just grab dinner and head home.”

Frankie shook his head and took a steadying breath.

“No, I want this. I-I could really use it, Jack.”

Whiskey nodded, eyes wandering over Frankie as he adjusted on the couch.

“Alright, I use the green, yellow, red system. You need me to stop for whatever reason, call red, and that’s it, no questions, no hard feelings or fuss. I’ll get you cleaned up and help you come down. Sound good?”

Frankie nodded, his tongue suddenly thick and his mouth dry in anticipation. Jack tutted.

“I need you to use your words, Flyboy.”

Frankie swallowed, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

“I understand, s-sounds good.”

“Good. Now…” Jack pulled a small pad of stationary paper and a pen from the side table. “I want you to write out what you’re ok with and any hard or soft limits you have.”

Frankie nodded, then took the pen and paper and began writing.

[click for better quality]

A blush took hold of Frankie as he handed it back.

“It’s what I can come up with off the top of my head, for tonight at least. I’ll let you know if anything else comes up though.”

Jack’s eyes were dark as he perused the list, looking up from the paper to Frankie, he stood up with a smile.

“C’mon Flyboy… we’re gonna have some fun tonight.”

Thank you for reading! Reblogs & comments are much appreciated!

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[disgruntledspacedad]

The Rules of Engagement (2/5)

part of the The Better Love Series 

pairing: Javier Peña x fem!reader

summary: (slow-burn, sexual tension, angst, a little bit of h/c in later chapters) He’s a DEA agent. You work for Centra Spike. Peña’s not your boss, exactly, but you’ve been fwb long enough that certain people are starting to think of you as An Item, and that just won’t do.

words: 5.9k

warnings: 18+ for alcohol, language, smut, violence. we are starting to earn that m rating now, folks

a/n: at the end. unbeta’d, as always.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five

MASTERLIST

You wake the next morning feeling better than you have any right to feel, given the guaro you’d drank last night. You tiptoe into the living area to check on Javi. He’s slumped over, one arm thrown over his head, the other crushed under the throw pillow, blanket crumpled on the floor below him. He’s snoring softly.

You grimace, just knowing that it’s going to be a rough morning for him.

You start with coffee, naturally. While the water is heating, you rummage through the kitchen, not making any particular effort to be silent - Javi has to wake up eventually - but still trying to keep from banging around too much. 

“Fuck,” you hiss, staring indignantly into the fridge. You’d cooked all the eggs last night, and there’s nothing left for breakfast. 

“Whhhaa?” Javi sits up slowly. All you can see is a dark bird’s nest peeking over the sofa. Given last night’s realization and your fascination with his hair, you decide that’s probably a good thing. 

“No groceries in,” you admit apologetically. He’ll have to make do with coffee. 

“Ugh,” you hear him groan from the living room. He must have slumped forward or something, because you can’t see him anymore. “Ears.” His voice is pathetic. 

You pour the coffee into two mugs, automatically adding creamer to yours, sugar to his. It occurs to you that making Javier Peña’s morning cup of coffee should not come so naturally to you. 

You roll you eyes at the thought. All the more reason for this to stop.

He’s doubled over on his knees, head in hands, fingers carding through his wild hair. You bite your lip. 

He does look pitiful, and admittedly, you are partially to blame. You set his coffee down in front of him, along with a couple of aspirin tablets. “Here,” you do your best to keep your voice soft. “This’ll help a little.”

He glares darkly at you, looking like an indignant little boy, and reaches for the coffee. Gulps. Grimaces as he burns his tongue. Slams the cup down. Sighs. Picks up the pills. Tosses those back, too. Closes his eyes. Falls back onto the sofa as easily as he’s able with his aching head. 

Okay, then. Javier Peña is not a morning person. You’d known that already - it’s endearing, but old news. Javier Peña with a hangover, though, is an absolute drama queen. This, you file away as new information. 

You reach for his coffee cup and refill it. 

He side-eyes you as you approach him with his second mug. “You,” he says accusatorially, pointing a crooked finger in your direction and leering in a way that’s both disturbing and appealing. “You promised me magic eggs.” 

“You’re not wrong,” You tell him, settling down with your own coffee cup. “But I did say to hold off on that last shot, too, didn’t I?”

He growls, eyes world-weary and bloodshot, and reaches for his mug. “Point,” he admits reluctantly. “Ugh.”

“If you’re going to puke, please try to make it to a trashcan first, preferably the one in bathroom,” you tell him as you start rummaging around the cabinets for anything that could be remotely edible. “The tiles there are easier to clean.”

“Christ,” he whines. “I’m not that fucked.” He stands, then wobbles, bracing himself on the back of the sofa and breathing heavily, looking a little green. 

“Right,” you say dryly, turning back to your cabinets. Cereal, but your milk has probably gone off by now. There’s a pack of lentils in the back of pantry that you’d bought god-knows-when, but those take far too long to be cooked for breakfast, and besides, who even likes lentils anyway?

You jump as Javi presses his chest against your back, looking over your shoulder to inspect your depressingly empty cabinets. “Looks like we’re shit out of luck,” he grumbles as you try not to react to the fact that you can feel the rumble of his voice as he speaks. “What kind of woman are you, anyway?” he wonders aloud as he reaches around you to rifle through your disappointing pantry. 

You whirl, jabbing him with an elbow. “The kind who doesn’t cook you breakfast!”

He smirks at you, moving closer, and oh, that caffeine must be working, because he’s grinning now. “Oh really?” he asks, damn near pinning you to the cabinet doors. “Because that’s not what I remember from last night.”

You roll your eyes, side-stepping him before he starts grinding into your hips. You couldn’t avoid reacting to that. 

“What you remember was a rescue mission, Peña, not domestic bliss. If I hadn’t made you those eggs, you wouldn’t be capable of standing here teasing me this morning, and that’s a promise.”

His smirk softens into a genuine smile. “Well then, I owe you one, I guess.” He glances at his watch, then back at you. “Let me take you for breakfast? There’s a little cafe down the street that’s quick and discreet.”

You turn to frown at him, bag of lentils rattling as it drops to the floor. 

He stares right back at you, naked save for his boxers and socks. His hair is a mess, his face a little swollen from last night, eyes just a tiny bit glossy, but his expression is dead serious. He holds a hand out to you, as if he’d like to escort you down the stairs right now. 

You can’t help it. You laugh. 

He rolls his eyes, downing the rest of his coffee in one go and setting the cup on the counter as he approaches you. “Ears,” he says softly, and something in you fucking trembles at that voice, all cracked and hoarse in the early morning. “I owe you breakfast.” He reaches for your hands, gathers them to his chest. “Let me.”

You tilt your face up, as if you expect him to drop a kiss on your forehead, then jump back as if burned. His erection is digging into your thigh, needy and insistent, and it takes everything in your power to step away instead of grinding into him. 

You take a deep, shaking breath, feeling yourself flood with need for him. He’s looking at you, far more observant that he ought to be capable of, as hungover as he is, and it spikes something resentful in you. 

“Yeah?” you say, keeping your voice light and teasing. “You gonna do something about that, first?”

He doesn’t even pretend to be confused, just reaches down to blatantly adjust himself. “If you aren’t, I guess,” he says evenly, one brow cocked in question. 

Goddamn it. 

You lick your lips, an unconscious move that makes his cock twitch. 

You swallow back a smile, suddenly relieved. Even if it doesn’t feel like it, you still have the power here. “Nah,” you grin up at him, teasing, swiping your tongue behind your teeth in a way that you know drives him crazy. “It’s hardly been a week, remember? I’m not that desperate yet.”

His gaze narrows as he sizes you up. A hand deliberately slips beneath the hem of his boxers. “You sure, babe?”

“I’m sure you’re more than capable of handling that,” you tell him sweetly. 

The expression that answers you is predatory. “I’ll just borrow your shower, then.” He winks at you. “Be ready in ten.”

♠

You’re ready in five. 

He takes an absurdly long time. You halfway consider banging on the bathroom door to remind him not to run out your hot water, but decide not to give him the satisfaction. Just as you’re starting to get truly annoyed, the water shuts off. He opens the door moments later, all wet and dripping, towel hanging low over his hips. 

Asshole.

He makes no issue of changing in front of you, but hell, you aren’t going to leave, either - you need access to your own bathroom, for godssake - and you do your best not to look at his glistening skin as he slips into yesterday’s clothes. You tell yourself that it’s no big deal, we all have bodies, and his is nothing you’ve never seen, anyway.

You can’t help but notice, though, when he bends over, fully dressed, and snatches a pair of your panties from the floor. 

You eyeball him from where you’re perched on the counter with your feet in the sink. Javi meets your gaze in the mirror and holds aloft the panties, draping them suggestively over his chest, and then, before you can even scowl at him, he’s winking at you, balling them up and stuffing them into the back pocket of his jeans. 

The fuck??

You decide not to say anything. They’re just cotton undies, some of your favorites, sure, but comfy, not sexy. Complaining will definitely give him points. Instead, you roll your eyes hard enough to dislodge your contacts, forcing yourself to sulk open-mouthed in the mirror as you blink to settle them back into place.

By the time you’ve done that, he’s standing beside you, brushing his teeth as if nothing is amiss. 

You glance down. Even with a second day of wear, those jeans are tight enough that you can clearly see the outline of your panties in his back pocket. 

Motherfucker. 

“Ready, Ears?” he asks as you finish tying back your braid. Cool as fucking anything. You can’t even tell he’s hungover, the absolute cuntstain. 

“Sure.” You hop down from the sink, allowing him to catch you, even though it’s totally unnecessary. For just a second, your body is pressed against his, heat and damp of the shower emanating from his skin, his belt digging into your belly.

He grins down at you, bright-eyed and thoroughly obnoxious, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. “So this place has the best waffles…”

♠

You make it to the office just after 0830. Not late enough to truly raise eyebrows, but your face still flames as you slip into your headset. Nobody bats an eye except for Torres, who glances up suspiciously. You shake your head at him, and he ducks back down, attending his station as if he’d never noticed you walk in.

Work keeps you busy. The Search Bloc boys are swarming, prepping this and that for their afternoon excursion to Medellín. Centra Spike is flying two teams over the targeted neighborhood, doing their best to patch in for any last minute intel, and the whole day devolves into chaos.

You’ve forgotten all about Javi until you happen to pass him in the hallway on your lunch break. He’s in full Agent Peña mode, talking to Murphy with his fists on his hips, flaying his leather jacket out behind him like a pair of demon wings. You can’t help but notice the outline of your panties bunched up at the bottom of his left back pocket. 

The contrast of the image, the smooth as silk DEA agent displaying the outline of your fucking underwear on his ass for all to see and wonder about, is enough to set your body on fire.

You make a quick detour to the bathroom, hunching over the sink to look in the mirror. The woman staring back at you has wide eyes and swollen lips. Her cheeks are burning. Her braid is frazzled, and she’s wearing a stunned, dumb expression on her face. 

‘Oh, honey,’ you think condescendingly to your reflection, ‘you have no chill.’

It occurs to you, suddenly, that the women’s bathrooms at the CNP Headquarters are frequently cleaned and rarely used. Mirrors surround you on three walls. Anybody could walk in behind you, lifting your skirt and pushing aside your panties as he thrusts into you, and you could watch it all from your position over the sink.

Shame and desire are literally flooding you. Angrily, you enter the nearest stall, dragging your soaked panties down your legs. You bundle them up and swipe at yourself with them, stuffing in the wastebasket with a growl when you're done. 'That’s two pair of undies that man has lost me,' you think viciously, cursing your body for reacting so strongly. Goddamn Javier Peña for taking your underwear to work with him in the first place, the kinky-ass kleptomaniac bastard. 

There’s too much going on for you to be preoccupied like this right now.

You exit the bathroom when you fucking finally feel clean again, smoothing your skirt over your ass and checking yourself out once again in the mirror. 

This woman still looks a little flushed, but her eyes are glittering now, narrowed in annoyance. You definitely don’t have any panty lines to worry about. You smooth down the flyaways that are attempting to escape your braid and sigh, thinking you can easily pass for just having a busy work day. 

It’ll have to do.

♠

Search Bloc is scheduled to board the chopper at 1400 hours. 

It’s no big deal. You know with all your heart that your intel is good - you’d triple checked it twice before even handing it to Javi - but something about the hustle and bustle at the embassy has you on edge. You make your way to the landing pad, not even trying to justify a reason for being there. 

You just want to see Javi one time before he leaves.

And there he is, standing just afield of the chopper with Murphy and some other member of the Colombian brass whose name you hadn’t bothered to learn. Their heads are pressed together, hair waving in the wind of the chopper blades, shouting, pointing. 

Your heart speeds. Javi’s wearing that fucking bulletproof vest, the green one that hardly covers him in any capacity that actually matters. Dread pools in your belly as you take him in - salmon colored shirt sleeves exposing tanned arms, padded armor that extends over his subclavian artery with less breadth than a teenager could get away with wearing in a typical high school classroom. His heart is covered, thankfully, but his neck is vulnerable, as is most of his shoulder. One of your good friends had been a medic in Desert Storm, and you’ve heard enough of his horror stories to know that a gunshot wound to the clavicular area is nearly always lethal. Never mind one to the neck or head. 

You take a breath, then another. You’ve done your job. You know without a doubt that the conversation you’d listened to, over and over, had verified Verdugo’s presence in Medellín. 

More importantly, you’re confident in Javi’s abilities. He’s sharp, and he’s a survivor. He can protect himself, you’re sure of it. 

As if he’d sensed your thoughts, Javi whirls, looking back at you with his hand raised to block the sun. You meet his gaze, waving subtly in acknowledgement. 

“Be careful,” you mouth, not certain if you’re close enough for him to read you lips. 

Please. 

His only response is a sharp nod. 

♠

It’s barely been a day, and already it’s burning a hole in you, missing him. 

You tell yourself that it could just be libido that’s burning a hole in you, too.

He’s left one of his shirts on your floor, the asshole. It’s the yellow one that reminds you of your neighborhood mailman back home. You pick it up and immediately throw it in the dirty laundry, quick as if it had burned. You don’t want to see him. You don’t want to smell him.

You just want him safe.

You sit on your sofa, staring idly at the lopsided stack of playing cards that he’d left half-shuffled on your coffee table. 

♠

Rumor is at Centra Strike that the Search Bloc team has run into some “legal problems.” The situation is pending intervention by the local authorities. 

“There’s nothing for you to do, Ears. Go home.”

♠

You bump into Ana on your way up the stairs. 

“Hey!” she lights up when she first sees you, but then her face settles into a thoughtful frown. “You look worried.” She moves closer, all gentle concern, resting a hand on your shoulder. Behind her, Emilio is watching, probably picking up on more than he lets on. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” you tell her, mustering up a half-hearted smile. “Everything is fine.”

She grimaces like she doesn’t quite believe you, but squeezes your arm and lets you go anyway. “Men are the worst. Come find me, Ears, if you need to talk.” 

You nod, biting your lip. “Thanks.”

♠

You’re just getting ready for bed when the front door creaks open, and Javi slips in. 

Something in your chest leaps to see him, but your grins fades as you glance up from your book. 

Javi looks terrible. His shoulders are slumped, motions jerky and exhausted as he drops wallet, keys, gun, cigarettes, pager, one by one, onto your kitchen counter. 

“Hey,” you say softly, setting the book aside and rising to your feet.

“Hey,” he breathes, more of a huff than a word. He shrugs out of his jacket, skirting around the coffee table to settle heavily on the sofa. He leans forward on his elbows, head bowed, staring absently at the worn carpet.

Jesus. 

Carefully, as if approaching a wild animal, you move in beside him, not quite close enough to brush his shoulder. You take a moment to reign in your palpable relief at seeing him here, alive and unharmed. How you feel is not important right now.

What’s important is Javi, who’s slumped with his hands clasped over his knees. Dejection leaks from him in tangible waves, and you can’t help but move closer, resting your hand on his shoulder in silent comfort. He trembles subtly at your touch, but doesn’t flinch away. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask after a long moment. It’s the only thing you know to offer.

He inhales sharply at your voice, as if he’d forgotten you were there, then heaves another massive sigh, pressing his palms into his eyes and digging his fingers through his hair. 

“There’s a fucking leak in the Medellín force,” he bites out tersely. 

You stiffen as if he’d poured ice water down your back. “Oh god.” All that intel, all those men, delivered directly to Verdugo, to Escobar…

“Yeah,” he growls, muscles of his back tensing. “We walked right into a trap.”

“Fuck,” you breathe, the implications hitting you one by one. You’re struck with the sudden urge to wrap your arms around him and cling for dear life, emotions tangling and snarling in your chest - gratitude, overwhelming relief, concern, curiosity. You manage to hold still, settling for slowly rubbing his shoulder, your fingers carding back and forth against the thin material of his shirt. 

It’s overwhelming and frustrating, your powerlessness in this situation. He’s come straight to you, again, but you aren’t sure what to say, or how you can help. 

“I’m here,” you whisper after a long moment, because it’s true. You are.

He takes a deep breath, then another. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t move, but some of the tension seems to drain from him.

“Somebody had prepared them for our arrival,” he says at last. His voice is stretched thin, eyes glazed as he stares into space, reliving the day. “Once we reached the house, we were surrounded. Had to shoot our way out.”

Oh, Christ. 

“I lost four men.” He drops his head again, covering his face. 

The thought of Javier Peña being ashamed, feeling like he has to hide from you, is so ridiculously unfathomable that you just can’t allow it. You reach for his hand, twining your fingers through his so quickly that you aren’t even aware you’ve made the decision to do so. He glances down at your clasped hands, startled and a little awestruck, and then raises his eyes to meet yours. They’re dark and wet, wide with wonder and a question. 

You squeeze his hand once, tightly. 

He inhales sharply, tipping his head over and back to rest against your chest. The movement surprises you, but it’s not unwelcome, and you shift to accommodate him, arching against the arm of the sofa, wriggling you leg out from beneath you and encircling his shoulder with your free arm.

You sit there in the dark like that for a long moment, just breathing, existing. 

“And that’s not all,” he confesses after a long silence.

Wait, really? You’re not sure if you even answer aloud, you’re so caught up in what he’s saying.

“Afterward, they implied there was a problem with our warrants, that we shouldn’t have had access to that neighborhood to begin with.” Javi huffs. “Trying to get our visas pulled.”

Horror floods you. “But-”

He tilts back to make upside down eye contact with you. Any other time, you’d think he was being cute, but now, it’s nothing but exhausted desperation. “It’s okay,” he reassures you. “It didn’t go through - our paperwork was solid.” He chuckles mirthlessly, shaking his head at the stupidity of the situation. “Good news is, though, we know who the rat is. He won’t be a problem anymore.”

You try not to think too hard about the implications of that.  

“But still,” his expression hardens. “It’s a headache.” 

Understatement. “Yeah,” you agree wholeheartedly. You imagine Javi having to deal with bureaucracy bullshit right after fighting for his life in a shootout. Anger flares in your chest. “I’m sorry.” The words burst out of you, impassioned and thoroughly useless. “They target you in the only way they know how, Peña. It’s because you’re a threat. You’re getting close, or they wouldn’t bother.”

He scoffs. “Yeah, tell that to the Lopez family. His wife is weeks away from delivering their first baby.” He raises the pitch of his voice, expression of mock sympathy twisting his face. “I’m so sorry, señora, but on the bright side, we are getting really close to catching Pablo Escobar.”

His words cut you like broken glass, rending you raw. You’re horrified to feel tears gathering in your eyes. 

You can’t even be angry, though, because he’s right. 

You inhale shakily, and he flops over, burying his face in your clavicle. You don’t even hesitate, just gather him closer, carding your free fingers over his neck and shoulders in earnest now. This is deep shit, goddammit, well beyond your realm of experience. You don’t know how to comfort him, you just know that he needs something, and you’re willing to offer whatever you have to give.

 “I’m sorry,” you repeat, squeezing your still-clasped hands to remind him that you’re here. He squeezes back, exhaling another deep, shuddering breath, and relaxes so far into your touch that his lips are resting in the hollow of your throat. 

It occurs to you, suddenly, that you might be taking advantage of him. He’s here seeking your comfort, and as justified as that is, you’re not sure if it’s entirely fair to him, given how you feel. Not that you’re getting any sort of sexual or emotional gratification from this moment - not by a long shot. Still, though, it reeks of deception somehow. 

Javi cracks an eye open, tilting his face up to question your sudden stillness. 

“Is this okay?” you whisper, meeting his gaze. You’re not sure exactly what you’re asking. You’re feeling vulnerable, all flayed open and too-exposed, like you’re crossing a boundary of some sort. 'Can I touch you like this?' you wonder. 'Is it too intimate? Am I allowed to comfort you, just for comfort’s sake?'

‘Am I breaking the rules?’

He blinks up at you, and despite your best effort at remaining expressionless, those dark eyes pin you with an intensity that makes you swear he’s pulling the thoughts straight from your brain. 

You stifle a gasp, barely managing to hold his gaze without blinking or squirming.

“Yeah,” Javi whispers after a long moment. He allows his eyes to flutter closed, and you breathe a long, slow sigh of relief. “It’s good.”

♠

You blink yourself awake early the next morning, squinting at the pale sunlight that filters through your smudged window.  

You didn’t have the heart to leave Javi last night, and eventually, you’d both fallen into an exhausted sleep, an awkward tangle of limbs on your tiny sofa. He’s sprawled out with his head cocked back, right arm crushing a throw pillow beneath his jaw, one leg extended, the other foot draped over the coffee table. Sometime in the night, you’d nestled into the crook of his neck, unconsciously straddling his thigh, and he’d hooked his free arm around you, snaking a hand beneath your shirt to splay his fingers across the bare skin of your stomach.

You glance up, heart rate speeding double-time as awareness of your situation seeps in. 

It’s not the first time you’ve woken up to Javier Peña. But never like this. Never on the sofa. Never pressed into him, all wrapped up and tangled in one another, warm and soft and sleepy. Never fully clothed, and definitely never after the vulnerability he’d allowed you to glimpse last night.

 A rush of affection and deep, aching need floods your core. Your muscles tense unconsciously as your hips tilt into his leg, desperately seeking friction. 

You stifle a gasp, sucking down the overwhelming urge to kiss him awake, to throw a leg over him properly and grind deliciously against his hips…

You stop, breathing raggedly.

You’ve always had a thing for morning sex. There’s something deliciously intimate about it, all hushed whispers and slow rocking beneath blankets, still clinging to the heat of sleep. It’s gentle and private, a secret without guile, and these new, intense feelings that you’re harboring for Javi have you absolutely leaking and trembling at the mere suggestion of it.

You have to get out of here.

Carefully, moving as slowly as your shaking muscles allow, you duck beneath his arm. He shifts, humming, and you catch your breath, watching carefully as he curls into himself with a soft sigh. 

Goddamn. 

You stand there for a long moment, heart hammering in your chest, confirming that he’s still out. You can’t help but trace his face with your eyes, noting the uneven patches of stubble that have grown in during the past three days, the curl of his dark lashes, the stripe of soft belly that his shirt leaves exposed, his hot, heavy breaths, slow and deep with sleep. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You run the shower hot, not even pretending to stifle your arousal. The thrum of the water is a welcome weight on your shoulders, tickling sensitive skin as it soaks your hair and sluices down your body. You follow its trail with your fingers, slipping them over pebbled nipples, teasing briefly, then dragging down your belly. The sound of the spray grounds you, drowning your moans. You recall the image that you awoke to, the pressure of Javi’s arm curled around you, your hips angled just perfectly over his thigh, the heat and slow, steady throb of life that pulsed from the crook of his neck. 

You tilt your head just slightly, arching into him, peppering his jaw with gentle kisses. His eyes flutter open, and he shifts, opening himself to grant you access. You straddle him properly, sliding up his chest to curl into him, and he smiles lazily. 

“Good morning,” you whisper, capturing him in a slow kiss, sucking gently at his lower lip. 

“Mmm,” he moans incoherently into your mouth, still pliant with sleep. His erection digs into you, and you grind over it, one long, slow roll of your hips. 

He bucks, hitching a sharp breath into your mouth.

“Javi,” You pull hard at your sex, mimicking the pressure of rocking against him, groaning and bucking into your hand. The water continues to beat steadily on your back and shoulders, and you slide to the floor, thumb teasing at your clit, fingers arching to find that perfect spot deep inside you.

You bring your opposite hand up to graze against your face, fingers spayed across your cheek, thumb dragging down your neck.

“Come here,” Javi grins lazily up at you. He cups your jaw in his hand, pulling you so close that your foreheads press together. You rub your cheek against his stubble, nipping gently at his pulse point as you line yourself up. You don’t need any foreplay - you’re already dripping for him. His eyes drift shut and his breath hitches as you slide down onto his cock as slowly as you can manage. You rock back and forth, finding an easy rhythm as you adjust to the pressure of his length inside you, and he bucks to meet you halfway, thrusting faster as you sink deeper. 

“Is this okay?” he whispers up to you with doe eyes. He’s more awake now, but still soft, still gentle. 

“Perfect,” you promise, adjusting your the angle as you bend down to kiss him again. 

With no warning, he swipes his tongue greedily behind your teeth, sucking steadily as he circles your back to dig hard at your ass with those gigantic hands, arching deep into you at the same time. 

You gasp. “Javi!”

The bathroom door slams open with a bang, and you’re jerked back to reality. Javi, real, live, awake Javi, is staring at you in wide-eyed shock. 

You don’t even have time to be embarrassed. 

His face hardens in an instant as he takes you in, eyes narrowing, lips curling into an expression that’s damn near feral. “What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses, spitting the ‘f’ hard. 

“What’s it look like?” you answer breathlessly. You know you look ridiculous, panting on shower floor, knees hiked up with your feet pressed to the glass, fingers still nestled inside you. You are thoroughly exposed to him, and yeah, in the back of your mind, you know that there’s part of you that should be ashamed at being found in this position, but right now, there’s no room in you for any emotion except for anger. 

It burns in you suddenly, white hot indignation. “Goddammit, Javi, what do you want??”

His face is disbelief and thunder, frozen in a snarl that is terrifying in its intensity. His fingers are curled at his sides, muscles braced for a fight. Your heart hammers in your chest. He is every inch the man who guns down killers for a living. “You called my name."

Ah, and there’s the shame. It floods you like water, cool and cloying, and suddenly, you’re desperate for the ground to open up and swallow you whole, shower and all.

“Oh,” you think you might say, or something similarly useless. 

He growls, stalking forward as if he’s about to yank the shower door open, then stops as if jerked. You can only watch, transfixed, as his expression shifts from livid, to devastated, to carefully blank. It’s over in the blink of an eye, so quickly that you question the validity of your own observation, and then, before you can even think, Javi is whirling on his heel, slamming the door behind him with a ferocity that makes the glass walls shudder.

You lie there on the wet tiles, fingers still resting on your sex, reliving the scene over and over until the water runs cold. 

You’d called his name. 

Shouted it, or moaned it, or screamed it, who even knows. The point is, he’d heard you. 

Wincing, you replay your fantasy, or what you can remember of it. 

Well, shit. 

The anger comes roiling back, poisoned with brittle resentment. You stand, shuddering as you slam the tap off. 

That motherfucker. 

He had no right. He’d slept in your house, eaten your food, barged into your bathroom, intruded on your private shower. 

As if he belonged here.

‘But…’ shame whispers hoarsely in your ear, reminding you that you’d wanted him here. You’d welcomed him into your home, given him your goddamned spare key, rubbed his neck, tucked him in.

Fuck, you’d called his name.

With the second recollection comes vague fascination, and maybe curiosity. Javi was so angry. Furious, damned near trembling with it. That aborted little move toward you, as if he’d like to either strangle you or shove his tongue down your throat, you’re not sure which. The careful restraint, the hasty retreat. 

What did it mean?

Arousal flares, but distant, dimmed. You’ll get off on this fantasy one day, you’re absolutely certain, but it will be a long time before the sting of the memory fades. 

Slowly, shakily, you exit the shower, shivering as you reach for your towel. One thing is absolutely certain.

You really don’t want to go to work today.

♠

He doesn’t look at you. 

You don’t look at him. 

Well, then. 

You’re tempted to make a snide crack about fragile masculinity’s fear of female sexuality, but then you remember how fucking observant he is, how attentive, cataloguing your every expression, noting what you liked and what you didn’t, how he’d make a point to watch you as you’d come, like he was savoring the experience every time.

Something shockingly akin to grief swells in your chest. Automatically, you shift to watch him from the corner of your eye. He’s hunched over his typewriter, shoulders slumped and head bowed, long fingers peck-pecking away, brow furrowed in concentration. 

It’s the same little furrow that you recognize from when he’d first studied the card game you’d left on your coffee table. You recognize the shoulder-slump, too, and the stiffness he’s carrying in his body, as if stress is locking all of his muscles painfully in place. He’d been that way last night, too, when he’d first come home.

You inhale sharply. You can’t fucking do this anymore.

You rise suddenly, nearly knocking your chair over with the force of the motion.  You gather your notebook and pens, nodding to Jacoby as you exit the room. 

“I’d like to request a transfer,” you announce as soon as Strechner lets you into his office. 

It’s bold of you. Bill Stechner, CIA station chief in Colombia, is your boss’ boss’ boss. He is undeniably a big fish, important enough that he is rarely available even by appointment, aloof and irreverent and informal by all accounts. You’ve spoken to him only once, for all of thirty seconds. 

“Oh really?” Stechner hardly glances up from the magazine he’s reading. “And why’s that?”

“I’d like to take a more active role in Centra Spike,” you barrel on. “You’ve seen my credentials, sir - fifty-four recon fly-overs in Kuwait, along with advanced training in data analytics and RDF. The training required will be minimal, I’ve proven myself capable here.”

Stechner clicks his tongue, setting the magazine aside. “Have you?” he wonders. “Because I was lead to believe that the Medellín sting that was initiated on your intel was an unprecedented failure.” 

Well goddamn, this was a mistake. Anger and shame flood you, and you can feel the blood draining from your face. Stechner’s thoroughly blasé tone isn’t helping staunch your reaction at all. You draw a deep breath, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood.

“I refuse to take responsibility for that, sir -”

He scoffs, waving you off with a lazy hand. “Bill, please. Or Stechner, if you must. We don’t do formalities here.” He tugs at his canvas jacket and lifts a brow in your direction. “You were saying?”

“I was saying, Mister Stechner,” you speak slowly and calmly, as if addressing a small child, “that I cannot take responsibility for the corruption of the Colombian National Police.” You take another deep breath and continue. “The intel that I vetted for Centra Spike was good. We both know it. Those deaths fall on Martinez and the men in Medellín. Not me.”

Stechner watches your for a long minute, head cocked in consideration. 

You force yourself to shut up. Your heart is beating so loud that you’re certain that he can hear it, and you want nothing more than to slam the door shut on your way out of his office and be through with this conversation. 

After an eternity, Stechner hums. His expression doesn’t change, but you get the feeling that you’ve passed some sort of test. 

You hold your breath, waiting. 

You need this.

“How’s your Spanish?” he asks after a long moment.

You don’t even hesitate. “Mejorando, señor.” It’s not quite a lie - you are getting better.

Stechner raises his eyebrows in challenge.

You meet his gaze, expressionless. 

Suddenly, Stechner grins. “I’ll consider it,” he says, rising to his feet.

You return the smile tightly, a wash of relief rushing over you. "Thank you, sir."

♠

Word travels fast at headquarters.

“Heard you applied for a transfer,” Murphy calls as you duck past his little corner of the hallway. “Ballsy of you, confronting Stechner like that.”   

“Applied,” you remind him firmly, doing your best not to react to the way Javi stiffens behind him. “We’ll see what happens.”

Murphy smirks. “Well, I heard you got it.” He clasps your shoulder. “Congrats, Ears. That’s great.”

“Thanks, Murph,” you smile wanly at him. 

Somehow, you don’t feel like celebrating.

♠

author’s notes/confessions:

inspired by a conversation with @tiffdawg​ - she gets all of the credit for this hot mess. Tiff, if you’re sick of tags, just let me know. :)

masturbation scenes are a nightmare of tenses. Again, I welcome comments and gentle criticisms. I am well out of my depth here.

part of the Better Love ‘verse. Check it out on AO3 {here}.

Merry Christmas to those of us who are celebrating today. Love you all! 

[idk-my-aesthetic]

Ok the whole thing w/ clogging up ao3 tags is stupid for multiple reasons, like how it fucks with screen readers for one, but the MAJOR issue is that having too many tags isn’t actually a problem w/ ao3

Like seriously guys? There is a lot to criticize. And I say this as someone who heavily relied on fandom spaces to get me through some really really hard times and still loves ao3. I can say I love what it does for fandom while also acknowledging there’s some seriously fucked up shit going on both behind the scenes and with ppl who use the site. It’s literally like saying “I love tumblr but I acknowledge there are literal nazis on here and as a Jew/human with a working brain I hate them and that they’ve been here so long”

Like. I get u think ur sticking it to the man or whatever. And idk I partially agree bc. There’s so much nasty shit and some technically illegal shit that I don’t want to even mention! But ur not even wasting the moderators time or anything ur just being obnoxious and then everyone starts discoursing on tumblr and I’m legitimately tired of it. I don’t wanna see ppl defending gross stuff and I’m tired of talking about the ppl who do defend gross stuff bc I don’t wanna remember that they exist bc I have shit to do irl and not enough space in my brain for them

So. Idk ima propose at least a temporary solution before I have to hear one more argument for or against censorship bc y’all seriously don’t understand how to have a nuanced conversation

How about instead of asking AO3 to take down gross fics (which may or may not be morally correct but will 100% reopen a very over done conversation) instead we ask for some specific plausible things

1) when you use ao3 explicit and unrated fics are automatically filtered out. They do this on ff.net. Yes it may be like 2 extra clicks for ppl who wanna read explicit stuff but ppl who don’t are going to do that anyway, and it protects the people who don’t know to do that and don’t want to read graphic tags. Most importantly it requires consent to browse explicit fics. Yeah you need to give consent to read explicit stuff, but you can look through the incredibly graphic tags/summaries without consenting to anything. It’s literally the default. Which is both upsetting to ppl who don’t wanna see that and also maybe a bit of a legal loophole they should close up

2) a “suggest tags” feature. This would be moderated by authors not ao3 staff. Basically ppl can like..... idk entire a series of tags and you can choose if you want to add them or not. The person submitting them has an option to be anonymous or not. Obviously the author doesn’t have to add every random tag and it might be annoying but it would help with making sure triggers got tagged. It would be helpful if it didn’t let you suggest tags that were already suggested/on the fic but I’m not too picky. Like I said the point of this is to make sure ppl can block stuff properly, and it honestly might also help authors with visibility bc like. Obviously you know the tags you use but you don’t know what tags other ppl look for. Again maybe it may be obnoxious with ppl having a lot of tags but people already have a lot of tags

3) a dispute rating button. Now before someone bitches at me that the ao3 moderators don’t have time to go through disputes- I know I already took that into consideration. Basically the idea is when you dispute the rating the site will ask you what rating you think it should be and anonymously log it. So if someone rated something M but you think it should be an E the site will log that and send a message to the author. The author has a choice if they actually want to listen to ppl and change the rating or not. They don’t actually have to listen to the ppl disputing the rating. Unless they get a certain amount of disputes. I was thinking maybe like 50 or so?* So if 50 ppl say “hey this really needs to have a different rating” then and only then would the moderators take a look at the fic. And the moderators would then figure out what the rating should be.

(*idk if 50 is the right #. I was thinking it should maybe work on like a percentage of your hits in the fic?)

3.5) have a sexual content marker. This is marked as 3.5 bc i feel like this idea if implemented would be misused. But yeah in theory you could just have a sexual content marker that could be clicked by the OP and then automatically filtered. Again you could use the system from #3 but again I feel like ppl would missuse it.

Anyway yeah. I wanted to give some viable solutions ppl on both sides might actually agree with. Like I get not wanting to make concessions with gross ppl, but it’s a lot faster so I’m ok with doing it for now while the rest of y’all continue to debate or w/e

Final note- please for the love of g-d learn how ratings work. Ask someone else’s opinion if you have too. I have seen so many explicit fics marked as mature or teen it’s a legitimate problem. I’ll give a quick rundown of what each rating means but pls guys

General- g- basically go by what you’d see in a Disney cartoon

Teen- pg/pg 13 - there are swears there’s violence, sex may be mentioned, you might call someone sexy or smthn idc, but no one is shown having sex or or discussing/thinking about it in detail

Mature- R - injuries/gore may be described with more detail. Uhh there could be some heavy making out and the characters might talk about sex or feeling sexually attracted to someone. But actual sex is not shown!! If you have to mention or refer to someone’s genetalia in any sexual way you should probably move it up to an E. Even if ur characters are fully clothed the entire time. Also If you’re talking about kinks outside of a quick joke or reference you should probably move it up to an E.

Explicit- NC 17- sexually explicit content. (You can put non-sexual violent stuff under here but most ppl leave it under mature)

TLDR/oversimplification(for the ratings) -

General: nothing sexual

Teen: implied sex

Mature: refrenced sex

Explicit: shown sex

General tldr:

Some criticisms of Ao3 are valid and needed, and some are just stupid and infuriating (specifically talking about the tag thing stop it’s annoying and ableist). There is constant arguments and drama surrounding those criticisms, and I decided to offer some solutions that actually have a chance at getting implemented, even if I would prefer a different option.

[wiltking]

My 2021 LGBT Reads So Far

I'm 12 books into 2021 and I'm here to talk about the best and the worst, the good the bad and the ugly. Under the Read More I'll be talking about Everyone on the Moon is Essential Personnel, The Prey of Gods, Silk and Steel, Maurice, and the Land Fit for Heroes Trilogy.

Content warnings for each book are included at the bottom of the page.

Everyone on the Moon is Essential Personnel by Julain K. Jarboe - Short Story collection with trans characters + trans author ★★★★☆

A collection of body-horror fairy tales and mid-apocalyptic Catholic cyberpunk stories about bodily autonomy and transformation, the importance of negative emotions, unhealthy relationships, and bad situations amidst the staggering and urgent question of how to build and nurture meaning, love, and safety in a larger world/society that might not be "fixable."

This collection was more than I expected. Admittedly I'm not usually drawn to short story collections, I find them difficult to enjoy due to their abruptness and disjointed narratives. But there's not a single story here that I didn't like for some reason or other. Despite how much they vary in topic and tone, I found something to like about all of them, and I'm having a hard time picking a favorite out of the bunch. Self Care, Estranged Children of Storybook Houses, and I Am A Beautiful Bug! stood out to me the most, but each story was its own whirlwind of emotion and ideas, to the point where I feel like I can't correctly put into words why I enjoyed this collection so much. It's weird and difficult and beautiful. It's an experience - at once painful, cathartic, freeing, and discomfiting. But a joy nonetheless. The coolest thing was seeing all these different trans experiences form different angles and perspectives. I'm very interested in keeping an eye on this author's future works.

The Prey of Gods by Nicky Drayden - Adult Scifi with M/M and a Transwoman MC ★★☆☆☆

In South Africa, a new hallucinogenic drug is sweeping the streets. At the same time, the makings of AI uprising start to gain traction, and an ancient demigodess hellbent on regaining her former glory makes plans to shake things up.

I liked this book at first. It was weird, in a way that I like things to be weird. I liked the variety of characters and their intertwining paths. I liked the story and the setting. But in the second half, weirdness turned to absurdity and I found myself slowly losing interest and immersion in whatever the hell was going on. I don't want to say this was a bad book, because I still enjoyed it overall, I just think it didn't align with my tastes very well at the end. The characters were still a joy, and I have to say I'm happy to see gay and trans characters existing in these kinds of strange and interesting stories. I'm excited to see our stories expanding in this direction.

Silk & Steel by Ariana Nash - Adult M/M Fantasy ☆☆☆☆☆

I didn't deign this book with a review when I finished it because I wanted to forget it as soon as possible. This book made me lose braincells. It made me question why I keep doing this. There's not a single thing about this book that I enjoyed, except for the concept. Desperate Elvin Assassin meets Miserable Dragon Prince? Sign me up! Or so I thought. Instead I got constant sexual assault out the wazoo, a weak plot, and characters I struggled to care about. To put it simply, not my cup of tea.

Maurice by E.M. Forester - Historical M/M Romance ★★★★★

A classic. But somehow I made it this far without having read it before. I went in without expectations and very little knowledge for what the story was about. Almost immediately I was hooked, and by the time I reached the second half I couldn't put it down. While it was a challenging read at times, I adored the story. The characters. The romance. The conflicts. The tone. The ending. This book left me feeling very good and I'm so thankful it exists.

A Land Fit For Heroes trilogy by Richard K. Morgan - Adult Fantasy with a Gay Male MC. rating: its complicated

Ringil Eskiath, enlisted by his estranged mother to find his missing cousin, embarks on a grumbling journey to track her down with only the sword on his back. At the same time, the gears of a bloody prophecy jolt into motion.

I liked the first book. I really did. I loved Ringil as a broody angry sword-weilding character fueled by revenge. I loved Archidi and all her knives. Egil was kind of gross from the start but I was willing to see where his progression would go. I should have known that when the sex scenes failed to be the least bit sexy, it was probably my subconscious trying to warn me the rest of the series would be just as much of a cocktease and eventual letdown. That I would be sitting there with an aching brain, a flaccid heart, and questions that would never be answered. This is one of the most disappointing series I've read in a long time, made all the more painful due to how much I loved the first book. I genuinely don't know what Morgan was thinking. But by the end of it I couldn't stand the pretentious, vague, boring dribble that everyone was reduced to. It's just bad writing, babe.

-

content warnings:

everyone on the moon is essential personnel - misgendering, implied self harm

the prey of gods - R*pe, Gore, Self Harm, Misgendering, Implied Sexual Abuse of a Child, Child Abuse/Neglect, Death, Drugs, Violence

silk & steel - incest, abuse, violence, sexual assault, explicit sex

maurice - suicide ideation, homophobia

a land fit for heroes - r*pe, csa and pedophilia, homophobia, gratuitous use of the f-slur

[binary5tar1117]

Cold Brains, Warm Hearts

Chapter 1: Saaaaaffffe

Pairing: Yoonmin (Yoongi/Jimin)

Genre/AU: Warm Bodies AU, Horror Romance

Rating: M for mature, R

Warnings/Tags: Violence and gore, Zombies, Minor character death, unfinished (in that there are unlikely to be more chapters)

Summary:  Yoongi is just minding his own business, going about his life, when he happens to meet Jimin, the most beautiful human he's ever seen. Though, "going about his life" is more like wandering in aimless undead shambles around a mall as a literal zombie. And "he happens to meet" is really closer to he and the other zombies try to eat Jimin and his friends brains. But eventually they all live, like actually live, happily ever after! AKA An AU based on the movie/book Warm Bodies

A/N: Written for Day 7 of a 30 days of drabbles event @thirtydaysofdrabbles The word was “zombified”. I’m so horribly behind but I’m still pecking away at some! Also, while it was supposed to be a drabble its more like a chapter one of a potentially longer fic. I’m soooooo terrible at finishing longer fics though that I want to warn people that it is very unlikely it will ever be finished. I think it’s kinda cute just as a chapter 1 though. ALSO....I never actually name Jimin but it’s Yoonmin so the pretty boy Yoongi meets is Jimin.

Link: AO3

Yoongi wasn’t sure how long he’d been zombified. That was one of the many fun parts of being a zombie, there wasn’t really much of a past or a future, just the unending drudgery of now. Occasionally he’d have flickers of memories from life but never anything specific. He mostly flitted from one whim to another as he wandered the mall he unlived in. Sometimes he’d sit at the dust covered tables in the coffee shop or run his hands along the rows of records in the music store. 

Yoongi wasn’t the only zombie whose whims seemed to take him to places he must have been familiar with in life. He regularly saw a zombie in a dirty apron prowling around behind the counters in the food court and another in the tech store with black plastic framed glasses and a fedora seemingly pondering the broken displays. 

It’s also how he made his only friend, if the undead were capable of making friends. All they could really do was sit next to each other and grunt, only occasionally managing an actual word. He didn’t know his name. Something that started with an N. He never got further than “Nnnng” when trying to say it. Still, Yoongi considered them friends. They frequented the same haunts and occasionally shared their taste in music when they were feeling particularly wordy.

“Ugh,” Yoongi grunted. He pointed, with his whole hand since articulation could be hard, at an album showing some generic looking guy attempting to be generically sexy in a generically green shirt. He didn’t remember the artist's name but he could remember the annoying break up song he was most famous for.

N grunted his disgusted agreement and pointed to a different album, this time black with pink horses on it. 

Yoongi jerkily nodded his head. “Nyuuuuugh.” He tried to say nice but words never seemed to make it to his mouth. N grimaced, his upper lip pulling back awkwardly in a way Yoongi suspected was supposed to be a smile. 

They may have had this exact exchange before and it had been lost in the sludge that was their brains. It didn’t matter, once forgotten, they’d do it over again but the vague sense of “friend” would still linger. 

Yoongi sometimes wondered if they had been friends before their undeath. It seemed unlikely. N was wearing the remnants of a suit, black slacks grimy with age and who knew what else. Yoongi on the other hand had on a tattered oversized hoodie with headphones around his neck. N probably wouldn’t have given Yoongi the time of day if they were alive, but who knows. He still couldn’t give him the time of day now that they were undead.

The worst part of being a zombie though was the hunger. It would rear up out of nowhere and spread between the zombies in the mall like the plague that had initially killed them. They would start to congregate together and the groaning and growling would get louder and more frenzied until one of them would stumble toward and exit and the rest would follow. 

And so the hunt began. 

They ambled around in the group trying to find a whiff of life to follow. It wasn’t so much a smell as a feeling. Maybe the same feeling that pulled them to what they’d done as humans pulled them to humans themselves. 

So when they finally found a trickle of that golden thread, they picked up their pace as much as they could and followed it.

A group of humans were tearing through boxes in a warehouse. They called back and forth to each other in playful tones. Yoongi hated that he had no control over the hunger, once it kicked in and locked on, his little bubble of consciousness was just along for the ride. He could only watch as the humans realized too late the horde of zombies was on them. They fled; they fought. It was bloody and gory. Yoongi mostly tried to block it out. 

A few escaped but a couple went down. It was enough for the group of zombies to feast on. Descending on the poor human and tearing him to shreds. Yoongi was among them, and among the luckiest. He managed to get a few spongey handfuls of brain. 

As much as he hated the hunger and hunting and the violence and mess of it all, eating human brain was the best feeling. Whatever spark or energy it was that drew zombies to hunt the living, it emanated from the brain. One tender mouthful filled Yoongi’s senses with life, the life of the person he consumed. Visions of little league games and homemade cookies danced in his mind. 

He felt a little guilty though. If they left they brain alone, he'd rise again as one of them. If the brain is what stored that spark of life, both for humans and zombies, it meant without a brain he was truly gone for good.

Filled with the energy of the hunt, he stuffed a few handfuls in his pockets, guilt or not. He would savor them later, truly relish getting lost in the images that dances in his mind like a good drug. 

The few bites of brain filled him up quicker so he was among the first to stand up, blood still dripping from his hands and mouth. He wanted to wipe it away but he didn’t really have the coordination for it. He ambled among the boxes waiting for the others to finish. And that’s when he saw him. A human, hiding curled in a box, his eyes wide with fear. 

Beautiful. Yoongi had forgotten the concept of beauty until he saw the human but there was no other word Yoongi could have used to describe him. His delicate features and soft hair, and most importantly the feeling he gave Yoongi. All humans had a spark of life but this one… it shown so bright Yoongi didn’t even feel the need to attack in order to feel satiated by it. 

A snarl from the feeding reminded Yoongi even if he had no urge to eat this one, the others might. He couldn’t allow that. Yoongi approached the human in a slow shuffle. He looked up, and gathered his breath for a scream. Yoongi brought his finger to his lips as best he could and shook his head. The human made a choked sound but didn’t scream. 

Yoongi got closer and crouched in front of him. Up close he had to blink for a second. The human was covered in sweat and grime and blood and looking at Yoongi is such shock and horror, he shouldn’t still be beautiful and yet he was. And he shone. 

Yoongi had to do something to keep the others from eating him. He smeared some blood from his hands across the humans face. The human shuddered and whimpered softly. It helped some but Yoongi needed more. He wiped his hand through a cut he’d gotten on his arm from the fight earlier. It was slowly oozing his own congealed black blood. He spread that across the human’s chest. It seemed to work better so Yoongi put more on him until the stench of death covered the human’s spark of life. 

“Ssssaaaagghhhhhffffff,” Yoongi groaned. He frowned. He could almost feel the word slowly making its way from his brain to his mouth. He tried again.

“Saaaaaafffe,” he said.

Other zombies were finishing their meal now and starting to gather to head back. Yoongi pulled the human to his feet and groaned at him, trying to somehow communicate that he should play along.

“Prrrrrrgh… P-Prrrrgh.” Pretend! Yoongi shouted in his brain but it didn’t want to work this time. Instead he held out his arms and shuffled in an exaggerated way. 

The human was still wide eyed with shock but he nodded once and started to shamble alongside Yoongi. 

It wasn’t long before the rest were done and they started off. N came over to shuffle alongside Yoongi and the human. He looked at the human quizzically but shrugged vaguely and let it go. Some were lost and some were added every hunt. A new face wasn’t that big of a deal.

Yoongi wasn't sure exactly what he was going to do with his new pet human when he got back to the mall. He just knew he had to keep him safe.

[flameraven]

Good Omens Fic Rec Masterpost - Part Two

 Hello hello I have read MANY MORE fics in this fandom now so it’s time to add on to my previous recs. Part One can be found here: https://flameraven.tumblr.com/post/187742832545/good-omens-fic-recs-masterpost General info! No fics rated higher than M, and that’s usually for violence not sex. I headcanon the husbands as being in an asexual relationship, so any fics I rec will have no sex, or only have sexy stuff alluded to or briefly mentioned.

The Soft Zone (TM)

all the days - G / darcylindbergh

War of Attrition- G / out_there / 8k - 3 gifts Crowley gives Aziraphale

A Meddling of Houseplants - T/ wingedspirit / 6k - Ophelia (a peace lily) is tired of Crowley and Aziraphale’s hopeless pining, and takes matters into her own leaves.

Sweetest in the Gale - T / wingedspirit / 3.8k - Gabriel can sense Aziraphale’s love for Crowley, and confronts “Aziraphale” about it before his execution

Deck the Halls - G / forthegreatergood / 18k - two idiots attempt to acquire mistletoe for the holidays in order to convey their feelings for the other.

Tartan Wrapping Paper - G / Arej / 2k - Crowley may not have quite gotten the message about the tartan all those years ago

a prize-winning philodendron - G / Elsajeni / <1k - Crowley does look, and sighs heavily. “Angel,” he says, “of all the plants you could have tried keeping, why did you start with something this fussy?”

Silver and Gold - G / asparkofgoodness / 1.5k - Crowley buys a ring.

Futile Devices - G / ticketybye / 3k - Yes, Crowley has imagined. He has craved. But being in Aziraphale’s close proximity has had to be enough. He’s not even sure he deserves that. But this, this feels like it felt to be commissioned the stars. It feels like being entrusted with something precious and fragile.

The Weight of Words Unspoken - G / rattatatosk / 1.8k - Aziraphale has always hinted to Crowley when he needed to leave. After the Apoca-wasn’t, he asks Crowley to stay.

J’Aime (I Love) - G / yourpaceangel - Crowley is searching for what the ‘J’ means.

the other way round - G / darcylindbergh / <1k - Aziraphale gets hair pets for once.

Take My Hand (Take My Whole Life Too) - G / soft_october / 1.5k - Crowley is trying not to go to fast, ends up stalled out completely. Aziraphale decides he will have to get creative. 

In Good Hands - G / Sunjinjo / 14k - Aziraphale was created wearing a golden ring. It’s now the last remaining aspect of his original attire.One day, he tries to take it off. The rest follows naturally. (Marriage Proposal)

One Golden Glance (Of What Should Be) - G / Sunjinjo / 8.5k - Crowley takes up painting after the Apocalypse.

Misfit / Safe Haven - G / Mothfluff / 2k - Aziraphale provides a safe space for the Soho queer community to gather

seasons, changes - G / the_pen_is_mightier / 2k - In the autumn Aziraphale and Crowley go out apple picking.

on the necessity of a temptation - M / darcylindbergh / 4.5k - Crowley squinted at him. He said, slowly, as if sounding around the words [...] “But doing things is what we do. Why would—what would be the point of me being here otherwise?”

In Other Words, Baby, Kiss Me - T / mikkimouse / 4.5k - Five times Aziraphale kissed Crowley and one time Crowley (finally) kissed him back.

It's Getting Hard, This Holding Back - T / ZehWulf / 13k - Crowley decides to lure Aziraphale into Explicit Gestures of Romantic Affection. Aziraphale sets a cuddle trap

give you more to hold on to - T / cryptidkidprem / 4k - Crowley nods. "It's..." He looks down at their joined hands, and takes a long, deep breath. “We’re not— We’re not supposed to need this, y’know?” He lifts their joined hands up, lets them fall again. “You and I. Angels, demons. We're not meant to need all this. This touchy-feely stuff, all this affection, this—” a hitch in his breath— “Love.”

two parallel lines -lineffability

don’t let me wake up - acuteangleaziraphale

how to let go - jlmarch

Mornington Crescent -politeanarcy

Wingfic

Symmetry in Favor - G / kedreeva / 8k - Five times Crowley preens Aziraphale's wings, and one time Aziraphale preens Crowley's.

London Calling - G / forthegreatergood / 30k - Come for Crowley’s ridiculous 1970′s bed, stay for Feelings and extensive wing pets.

Hurt/Comfort

Be Ye Therefore Merciful - T / AmberDiceless / 9.5k - Book!Verse. Crowley does something utterly unexpected, and Aziraphale must face an opponent who cannot be thwarted.

Pigeon Girlfriends with a Long Preamble - T / SleepySelfLoathing / 8k - All Crowley wanted was to spend a nice night in with his husband, so of course he ends up summoned by a bunch of cultists instead. Why would he expect anything different....This would probably be a lot easier to deal with if he wasn't wearing Aziraphale's fluffiest bathrobe.

All Creatures that Have the Breath of Life - G / Elsajeni / 4k - Aziraphale fishes a very sodden Crawly out of the water during the Flood.

Touched by an Angel (And it Bloody Hurts) - G  /hedgehog-o-brien / 7k - Aziraphale can’t touch Crowley without burning him.

Douse the Fire, Help Me Breathe  - G / Arej / 1.5k - Even demons fear fire, when they've watched their world burn.

In a City Under Aerial Bombardment  - G / battle_cat / 3k - After the church and the bomb and the books.

Small Mercies - G / rattatatosk / 4k - Crawly gets smited. Aziraphale lends a hand.

Easier Than Air - G / A_Candle_For_Sherlock / 3.5k - The world hasn't ended, and everything is fine. They're fine. It's terrifying.

attachment - T / artenon / 4.5k - Crowley crosses over to open the passenger door for Aziraphale, and Aziraphale’s attention is drawn to Crowley’s uneven gait, the light, too-quick steps and the rocking back and forth on his heels as he holds the door open and waits for Aziraphale to get in.“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, heart sinking, “your feet.”

Hell Freezes Over - M / charliebrown1234 + Turcote / 18k - The year is 2002, and Crowley and Aziraphale are sent to Alaska to investigate a decommissioned entrance to Hell. What could possibly go wrong? 

Better The Demon You Know - T / mikkimouse / 1.2k - When Crawly falls out of the sky and into the flood, he gets help from a very unexpected source.

Gently, gently - G / the_pen_is_mightier / 3k - Heaven is cold and lonely. Hell is filthy and crowded. Aziraphale badly needs to be touched; Crowley needs fresh air, and light, and space. They can’t seem to connect on days after they’ve returned from their respective head offices.

Of Firsts and Foremosts  - T / kedreeva / 6k - Aziraphale is left vulnerable and injured as his first molt approaches. Crawly comes to the rescue for the first time.

The Brazen Serpent - T / ImprobableDreams900 / 11k - Some other angels come to help Aziraphale at the end of the Isrealites’ 40-year exile in the wilderness, unfortunately for Crawley.

hold my hand tight (we'll make it another night) - G / cryptidkidprem / 3k - The night at Crowley’s flat. He’s having a hard time not panicking.

Harbours of My Own - T / wingedspirit / 30k - Crowley knows that, as a demon, his freedom is limited. He doesn't get to have a home; he doesn't get to love. Aziraphale would very much like to change that, but he, too, is limited in what he can do. It takes the better part of six thousand years, but they'll get there.

crack me open, feel me shatter - T / rattatatosk / 2.5k - Crowley dreams of the Fall. Aziraphale is there to catch him when he wakes.

Angst (w/a Happy Ending)

Where His Angel Dares to Tread - M / PinkPenguinParade / 16k - Crowley is taken by Hell. Aziraphale disguises himself as best he can for the rescue mission. Newt and Anathema help.

Remembrance of Things Past - T / Fyre / 18k - Hell takes Crowley’s memories all the way back to Eden as punishment for his crimes.

Drunk Theology - G / battle_cat / 3k - Aziraphale had been hoping tonight for Giggly Drunk Crowley, which was his favorite drunk Crowley. That didn’t seem to be how things were working out, though.

Like a River Flows - T / kedreeva / 15k - Five times Crowley was not allowed to love Aziraphale, and one time he succeeded.

The Cultivation of New Growth - T / Vitreous_humor / 3k - “I mean,” he said carefully, “if you want a plant, let me give you one of the snake plants or maybe the big coleus. They'd be good for the shop, pretty stalwart in the dark...You don't want this one, it's rotten.” “Actually,” Aziraphale said firmly, “I do want that one.”

The Holy Essence of Experience - T / Dragonsquill / 4k - They know how they feel, but giving it a name would be too dangerous.   Ineffable husbands from the beginning to the end of the world, aware and wanting.

AUs/Crossovers

be mine tonight (be mine forever) - T / artenon / 11k - Human!AU. When Aziraphale finds out his coworkers have made a bet that he won’t bring anyone to the company party, he asks his best friend Crowley to go as his date just to spite them. Things quickly spiral out of control.

Siren’s Song - T / kedreeva / 30k+ (WIP) - Siren!AU. Crowley, a lone siren, calls a ship to wreck upon his reef, but finds when he meets pirate captain Aziraphale that sirens are not the only ones able to lure another creature to their heart's desire.

Adopt Don’t Shop - G / lucky_spike / 6k - Cat!AU based on Chekov’s “Good Meowmons” comics.

The Ones Who Walk Away From Nevaeh  - T / soft_october / 15k - AU based on “The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas”

The Grinch Who Sold Christmas - T / darcylindbergh / 60k - Human AU / Hallmark Movie AU. Crowley is a big city lawyer sent to seal the deal that will destroy the quaint town of Tadfield forever, right before Christmas... and then he falls in love with the town, and a certain bookshop owner. Ridiculously sappy fluff that hits all the right notes.

The Odd One Out  T / RainyDayDecaf / 2k- A meeting of many different Crowleys and Aziraphales.

Beat Again - T / TeaCub90 / 7k - Human AU. Two neighbours keep each other and their respective conditions company in the dead of night

Outsider POV

Ophidiophobia - G / lyricwritesprose / 7.6k - Pepper is afraid of snakes. When this is abruptly revealed in an encounter with Crowley’s serpent form, she immediately goes about trying to cure herself of it.

What’s in a Name? - G / lyricwritesprose / 4k -  “You do realize,” Brother Francis said, “that Warlock is just your name, not some sort of, of directive?”

Damaged - G / lyricwritesprose / 6k - Aziraphale is struggling after the Apocalypse. Madam Tracy offers some advice. (Very good spooky/nonhuman Aziraphale in this one.)

Angel’s Favor - T/ PinkPenguinParade / 10k - A hundred years ago, Aziraphale gave one of his feathers to a woman who helped him. In the modern day, her descendant calls in the favor.

Protective Camouflage -  G/ politeanarcy/ 2.3k - The Antichrist isn’t the only one with defenses against being noticed.

Disposable - T / lyricwritesprose / 7k - Eric the Disposable Demon attempts to become Crowley’s vassal after the Apoca-wasn’t. Nothing goes the way they expect after that.

on deceiving appearances - G / asideofourown / 2k - The Disposable Demon realizes the truth of Crowley’s deception in Heaven.

Anthony J. Crowley, Retired Demon and Airbnb Superhost - G / TheOldAquarian / 3k - What are you supposed to do when you've been fired from your sweet job in Hell for thwarting the schemes of Satan, you've got a swanky flat in Mayfair, and you're looking for an excuse to spend all your time in someone else's bookshop? Obviously, you turn to the dubious world of short-term vacation rentals.

Other

the best laid schemes - T / asideofourown / 4k - How Crowley got his Rat Army

Incongruous States of Being - T / ZehWulf / 8k - “Who would win: Aziraphale or Crowley.” “Oh!” Aziraphale startles. “Well—such a question. It’s not as though either of us has engaged in so much as fisticuffs in ages, and one does need to keep up practice with these sorts of things.” His fretting dies abruptly when Crowley cuts over him clearly, baldly: “Aziraphale.”

No one expects the Spanish Inquisition - T / WoodsWitch / 12k - The Arrangement is 500 years old, and Crowley and Aziraphale have been having a fine time in Renaissance Florence. Things start to go a bit pear-shaped with the arrival of a Friar Savonarola, so Crowley suggests that they meet up in his favorite refuge from the rest of medieval Europe: Spain. ((Don’t let the title fool you, this is an incredibly in-depth and well-researched historical fic and deserves way more hits than it has.))

[kurokoros]

devil’s in the details (prologue) | dabi

Rated: M (language, eventual violence, eventual smut)

Words: 1.1K

Pairing: dabi x fem!reader

Summary: Waking up hungover is one thing. Waking up hungover to discover you’ve made a contract with a demon is something else entirely. Even worse? Neither of you can read the terms and conditions. And until you figure it out, you’re stuck living with a would-be arsonist that doesn’t know the meaning of subtlety.

Chapters: Masterlist | AO3

AN: You know, this was supposed to be a cute, comedy au and then I went and gave it a plot and now here I am with a complete outline and 25 chapters planned. Buckle up bitches, things are going to get rough.

Taglist: leave a reply or shoot me a message to be added

***

The inside of your mouth tastes like tequila and vomit. That’s the first thing you notice when you finally force your eyes open, only to whine and immediately shove your face back into your pillow when a beam of sunlight blinds you. And you left the curtains open last night. Brilliant. By now, you’d think you’d know better than that on nights you go out drinking, but drunk you is a colossal bitch sometimes. The amount of times you’ve left little “surprises” for yourself is kind of astounding, actually. It’s a wonder you haven’t seriously injured yourself yet.

You groan pathetically as your head starts to pound. There’s no ignoring the sunlight now that you know it’s there, and you definitely won’t be falling back asleep anytime soon. Idly, you wonder if you should just smother yourself with your pillow instead of getting up today. That would certainly be preferable to dealing with people and things, and holy shit is your neighbor listening to BTS right now at—you grope blindly for your phone sitting on the nightstand and reluctantly crack open an eye to check the time—nine-forty-seven in the morning? What the fuck?

The thumping K-pop beat grates on your nerves and makes your stomach roll. Bile rises in your throat, ultimately making the decision to get up for you, and you scramble out of bed, racing towards the bathroom.

After throwing up the contents of your stomach, you feel a lot better than before, but definitely not more sober.

Bleary-eyed, you wander into the kitchen, still very hungover and only half-awake. The minty taste of your mouthwash is heavy on your tongue, and you wrinkle your nose as you glance around the room, looking for something even remotely appetizing to appease your growling stomach. Your mouth is dry, your head hurts, and the thought of actually eating something makes you queasy all over again, but you need something to erase the unholy combination of day old tequila, vomit, and mouthwash from your tastebuds.

Resolute in your decision to attempt making food, you pad over to the fridge, dragging your feet and mumbling options under your breath.

You grimace when you actually open the refrigerator. It’s mostly bare, and you swear as you remember you still need to go grocery shopping at some point this weekend. Looks like it’s going to be toast and water for breakfast. Eggs and orange juice are your other options, but like hell you’re going to make anything that takes more than exactly thirty seconds of effort to achieve. And you’re not so much of a glutton for punishment that you’ll drink that demon juice so soon after brushing your teeth.

With a shake of your head, you close the fridge and grab a mug from the cabinet instead. You flick on the sink, humming to yourself as you watch water start to fill the glass.

Someone clears their throat behind you.

You don’t react, happily shutting off the sink and setting the mug aside, ready to start on your toast.

A sigh. Then, a deep, unfamiliar voice calls out your name, irritation lacing their tone.

It takes you an extra second to register that there is, in fact, another person standing in your kitchen with you. A person who absolutely should not be there. But you’re still hungover, so all you do is spin around on your heel, nearly face plant onto the ground as your sense of balance fails you, and blink stupidly at the man sitting on your table like he owns the place.

He’s hot, in a classic, bad boy kind of way. Dark hair, ripped jeans, more piercings that you can count, and a pair of mesmerizing blue eyes that would be easy to get lost in. Deep, purple scarring covers the lower half of his face, and the silver staples cutting across his cheeks glint beneath the kitchen light. 

Oh, yeah. Definitely your type.

The bad boy—one-night-stand?—sighs when you continue to stare. His brows furrow in annoyance, but otherwise he’s the picture of indifference. “I’m looking for someone,” he tells you. Okay, so not a one-night-stand. Maybe a friend of your roommate then? Or a serial killer let in by Emiko. Your roommate is sweet and a little bit stupid, but hey, you really can’t complain when she pays her half of the rent on time and sometimes makes you tea when you’re stressing over exams.

And if this is a serial killer, that means you won’t have to take that math exam on Monday. Win-win.

Christ, you are beyond hungover right now, and the random, sexy asshole sitting on your counter at ten in the freaking morning doesn’t even make your list of top ten bizarre things you’ve woken up to after a night of drinking.

The stranger calls your name again, gaining your attention again. “That your name?” His head cocks to one side as he looks you up and down in a way that’s definitely more judgmental than interested.

Should you call the cops? Probably. Will you? Probably not. Instead, you answer his question with a quick bob of your head—a mistake. The world around you spins, and your stomach flips sickly, and holy shit you don’t think this is how gravity is supposed to work—and gesture to yourself. Why the sexy bad boy is looking for you, you haven’t the faintest idea. But here you are.

He grins at you, all teeth, and the staples holding him together pull at his skin. “Good,” he says in a lazy way that makes you think it is, in fact, decidedly not good. “The name’s Dabi,” he continues, sliding off the table and standing up on long legs that make you feel incredibly small in comparison. “I’m a demon. You made a contract with me last night.” Dabi reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out a crumpled napkin from the party you went to last night. Unfolding it, he holds it out to you.

You squint. Oh, yeah, that’s definitely your signature in the bottom corner. The rest is all squiggly lines that you can’t make out, the ink bled out entirely in one spot thanks to a red stain that you really hope is just fruit punch. Either way, that is definitely your handwriting, and it is definitely illegible.

Wait a second, holy shit, did he just call himself a—

You gaze snaps from the napkin to his face, and, nope, that’s not a trick of the light, his eyes are actually glowing, what the fuck?

Dabi sighs for the third time when he takes in your bewildered expression. “I think we need to have a little chat.”

And you, still hungover and definitely not prepared for this, finally voice the thought that’s been rolling around in your head for the last thirty seconds and counting. “What the actual fuck?”

[kaesaaurelia]

books and reading in 2021

Overall I’d like to read at least 65 books for 2021 and I’d like for most of those to be new-to-me and things I either already own or have listed as to-read on Goodreads.

So far I have read 11/65 books and 4 fanworks.

Themed reading challenge checklists and brief book reviews are under the cut.  I may or may not finish any of these challenges; again, my goal is to cut down my to-be-read list and unread books I own, and themes and deadlines help me pick a book rather than hemming and hawing.

Book reviews answer the questions “Did I like it? Was it good? Would I recommend it?” (please note these are very different questions) and how many stars I rated it.

I may put fanfiction, webfiction, and other things that are very much not traditional books down on here as well, depending on how booklike I’ve decided they are.

The FFA reading challenge, 2021 (2/12 books)

JANUARY - The Pandemic Year - a medical thriller, or a book about medicine The Poisoner's Handbook: Murder and the Birth of Forensic Medicine in Jazz Age New York by Deborah Blum Did I like it? Yeah! Was it good? I think so.  Sometimes the prose meandered in such a way that I felt the author was kind of saying dun dun dun! under her breath at me, and I was like “idk, is that significant?” but usually it was good. Would I recommend it? Do you have a strong stomach? Then sure. 4 stars

FEBRUARY - Macavity/Ratigan - a genre you wouldn't normally read Jane Doe by Victoria Helen Stone, book 1 in the Jane Doe series Did I like it?  Yes!  Very much!  The power fantasy of being able to take vengeance against people who hurts your loved ones, without feeling bad about it, was really appealing to me, a person who feels guilt over a frankly ridiculous number of things.  It was also genuinely funny. Was it good?  I thought so.  The narrator had a really strong voice that struck the right balance between creepy cold indifference and endearing little moments of self-discovery. Would I recommend it? Yes, but with the caveat that there’s some pretty serious emotional abuse of the protagonist’s false persona (which she encourages and privately gloats about), and she also gets close to committing serious violence, including fantasizing at length about it. 5 stars

MARCH – 100+ Comments of Terror - a book set in the arctic, or a book about an expedition In the Land of White Death: An Epic Story of Survival in the Siberian Arctic by Valerian Albanov (ordered)

APRIL - Sexy John Oliver Rat – a book about animals, or a book with a character called Oliver or Olivia A Libertarian Walks Into a Bear by Matthew Hongoltz-Hetling (hardcover)

MAY - A Feud in Wolf-Kink Erotica - a book involving wolves, the legal system, or ripped from the headlines Song of the Summer King by Jess Owen (ebook)

JUNE - Showerhead Wank - a comedy of manners, an etiquette manual, or a book where someone wanks or has sex

JULY – My Shithead Is What You Are! - a book with profanity in it, or a book about themes of censorship

AUGUST - Yep, Still Indoors - a book involving travel, or being stuck in one place

SEPTEMBER - Socktopus, Maybe? - a book where someone has a secret identity, or a book about aquatic animals

OCTOBER - Politics is Sequestered – a book involving politics or politicians Boss: Richard J. Daley of Chicago by Mike Royko (owned in DRM’d ebook)

NOVEMBER - It's Canon in Spanish - read a book originally written in Spanish, or set in Latin America

DECEMBER - Apple Is a One Syllable Word - a book about language/linguistics/etc., or a book with a two syllable title. 

Around the Year in 52 Books (8/52 books)

A book related to “In the Beginning...”: (Using the subprompt a book set in the ancient world) The Odyssey by Homer, translated by Emily Wilson Did I like it? Yes; it was definitely a less comfortable read than prior translations I have read, but a more interesting one, I think.  A lot of details leapt out at me that I had either forgotten or that had been overlooked in the 3ish literature classes I have read the Odyssey for. Was it good? Yes! Would I recommend it? Probably, with the caveat that if you are just in it for a cool mythology story you would probably prefer an adaptation rather than a translation. 5 stars

A book by an author whose name doesn't contain the letters A, T or Y The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis Did I like it?  I really read this for the worldbuilding of Hell, so I liked that; to some extent I did also like some of the musings on how a lot of human foibles that people like to think of as virtues can actually be kind of shitty.  On the other hand, Lewis and I disagree about a lot of things -- mostly that whole Christianity thing.  So I liked it with caveats. Was it good? It was okay!  Again, I was not really there for the Christianity stuff.  I am never there for the Christianity stuff.  I am either precisely the wrong audience for all of C.S. Lewis’ stuff, or, if you look at it a certain way, precisely the right audience, but even if you look at it that way, he is never going to convince me; I wrote furious postcanon fanfiction about the dwarfs when I reread the Narnia books as a teenager and realized they were meant to represent people like me. Would I recommend it?  Probably not?  Unless you frequently write demons or other evil creatures trying to figure out how humans work, which I guess I am. 4 stars but only because that reveal at the end is great

A book related to the lyrics for the song "My Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music (The cover depicts a rose with raindrops or dewdrops on it.) Ensnared by Rita Stradling Did I like it? In a sense.  In a sense, I enjoyed this book.  It was a Beauty and the Beast retelling, and I like Beauty and the Beast.  There were robots, and I like robots.  And it certainly gave me something fun to talk about.  However, it also inspired me to try and figure out when and why I acquired this book, and while I still don’t know why I bought it, I was relieved to find that I only paid 99 cents for it.  For a more thorough description of the plot, please see my Goodreads review.  It was a weird book to start with, and then it really, really didn’t age well. Was it good?  IT SURE WASN’T. Would I recommend it?  No.  However, if you decide to read it I’d love to hear what you think.  Please.  Please talk to me about this book. 2 stars

A book with a monochromatic cover The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair That Changed America by Erik Larson Did I like it?  Yes, very much!  Also it accidentally became fic research.  I genuinely was just thinking “where do I slip Leonard into this narrative so he can try and fail to sabotage the Ferris Wheel?” and then I began to think about how much Leonard would admire and envy H. H. Holmes’ ladykilling ways.  But in general it was a really good read and had a lot of... Chicagoness, which I of course am fond of. Was it good? I thought so!  Obviously a lot of the narratives of Holmes’ murders were mostly the author’s speculation, but there were a lot of great research tidbits in there, and the picture the author paints of the World’s Fair was vivid and wonderful. Would I recommend it?  Yes, with the warning that this is true crime and there is vivid narration of several murders, including the murders of several children. 5 stars

A book by an author on USA Today's list of 100 Black Novelists You Should Read Wild Seed by Octavia Butler, book 1 of the Patternmaster series Did I like it?  Yes, but it was intense.  It takes a lot of skill to keep me reading and invested through so many horrors; the protagonist’s children and loved ones die on-page multiple times, in horrible accidents or senselessly murdered, and it hurts every time, but I kept reading.  Admittedly I am (predictably) extremely here for immortal enemies-to-lovers-to-enemies angst, so that was probably part of it. Was it good?  Yes!  I am kind of sad that I’m not just moving on to the next in the series (there are 3 more books), but also, god, I’m not sure I could handle it. Would I recommend it?  Yes, definitely, with the caveat that it is very dark and very sad. 5 stars

A love story Deal with the Devil by Kit Rocha, book 1 of the Mercenary Librarians series Did I like it?  It was good!  I gather both of the authors who are Kit Rocha were (are still?) in fandom, and it shows in the right ways; it doesn’t shy away from depicting sex pretty explicitly but there’s a lot of emotion in it, and the main couple is a m/f couple without the book being unpleasantly heteronormative.  Like, yeah, it’s about a big butch macho dude who’s broken inside and a woman who’s very caring, but the big butch macho dude is genuinely kind and not like, violent for the hell of it or overprotectively jealous, and the woman doesn’t drop everything to Heal His Pain.  (Also I think most of the characters, including the romantic leads, are established to have had same-gender lovers at one point or another without that being considered unusual or wrong in the setting, so that’s nice.)  It’s also a cheerful and optimistic post-apocalyptic book about two found families coming together to make the world a better place, despite the very grim backstories of pretty much everyone in the story, which is really nice. Was it good?  It was okay.  It was good popcorny reading; it’s not winning any literature prizes, but it sets out to be fun and readable and exciting, and it is all of those things.  Also, as noted above, the prose has a lot of the strengths of fanfic (not being afraid to mix genres, not being afraid of writing sex earnestly and emotionally but also explicitly, strong emotional focus) without the much-derided stereotypical weaknesses of fanfic. Would I recommend it?  Probably?  This isn’t a must-read; it’s happy to be idfic so if it sounds like it’d scratch your id I would recommend it, but it might not be Your Thing and that’s okay too. 4 stars

A book that fits a prompt suggestion that didn't make the final list (Using the subprompt a book related to a local industry or small business) The Gangs of Chicago: An Informal History of the Chicago Underworld by Herbert Asbury Did I like it? NO.  NO I DID NOT.  It made me genuinely angry.  It was a useful read for fic research and unfortunately I’ve got it in my little fic-writing reference material corner in my office but I DID NOT LIKE THIS BOOK IT WAS VERY BAD.  Many questionable or outright incorrect assertions and implications, and extremely racist and sexist.  For details, see my review on Goodreads. Was it good? It was actively bad. Would I recommend it? Not unless you are interested in it historiographically, or on the off chance that you are trying to find some fiddly details about a particular bit of Chicago crime history, but also have no responsibility to make sure those fiddly details are correct when you use them in the project. 1 star

A book set in a state, province, or country you have never visited The Last Duel: A True Story of Crime, Scandal, and Trial by Combat in Medieval France by Eric Jager Did I like it?  It was okay.  It was definitely interesting but not amazingly life-changing. Was it good?  It was fine!  I did think the underlying rape case was handled surprisingly sensitively given that this was a male author writing about 20 years ago about a medieval rape accusation and trial, but there is a chapter that is basically just the victim’s account of her rape, and it’s very brutal. Would I recommend it?  Do you want to understand more about trial by combat in the Middle Ages, and/or learn about how medieval people treated rape victims?  You should definitely read this book.  But if that doesn’t particularly interest you, probably not. 3 stars

A book you associate with a specific season or time of year Summers at Castle Auburn (ebook borrowed from CPL)

A book with a female villain or criminal Sin in the Second City: Madams, Ministers, Playboys, and the Battle for America's Soul by Karen Abbott (owned in paperback)

A book to celebrate The Grand Egyptian Museum The Oasis by Pauline Gedge (ebook)

A book eligible for the Warwick Prize for Women in Translation The Memory Police by Yōko Ogawa (on hold at CPL; est. 3 week wait)

A book written by an author of one of your best reads of 2020 The Once and Future Witches by Alix E. Harrow (on hold at CPL; est. 10 week wait???)

A book set in a made-up place Kushiel's Dart by Jacqueline Carey (paperback)

A book that features siblings as the main characters Sisters One, Two, Three by Nancy Star (ebook)

A book with a building in the title

A book with a Muslim character or author

3 books related to "Past, Present, Future" - Book 1

3 books related to "Past, Present, Future" - Book 2

3 books related to "Past, Present, Future" - Book 3

A book whose title and author both contain the letter "u"

A book posted in one of the ATY Best Book of the Month threads

A cross genre novel

A book about racism or race relations

A book set on an island

A short book (<210 pages) by a new-to-you author

A book with a character who can be found in a deck of cards

A book connected to ice

A book that you consider comfort reading

A long book

A book by an author whose career spanned more than 21 years

A book whose cover shows more than 2 people

A collection of short stories, essays, or poetry

A book with a travel theme

A book set in a country on or below the Tropic of Cancer

A book with six or more words in the title

A book from the Are You Well Read in World Literature list

A book related to a word given by a random word generator

A book involving an immigrant

A book with flowers or greenery on the cover

A book by a new-to-you BIPOC author

A mystery or thriller

A book with elements of magic

A book whose title contains a negative

A book related to a codeword from the NATO Phonetic Alphabet

A winner or nominee from the 2020 Goodreads Choice Awards

A non-fiction book other than biography, autobiography or memoir

A book that might cause someone to react “You read what?!?” Missing 411: Eastern United States by David Paulides (terrible pdf copy I’m not paying $100 for a book about extradimensional bigfoot)

A book with an ensemble cast

A book published in 2021

A book whose title refers to person(s) without giving their name

A book related to "the end"

There’s No Business Like Snow Business February Reading Challenge (8/8)

Snow is precipitation in the form of small white ice crystals formed directly from the water vapor of the air at a temperature of less than 0°C (32°F).

Read a book that has snow on the cover or snow in the title. Killing Dragons: The Conquest of the Alps by Fergus Fleming Did I like it? It was okay.  There was more about the personalities involved in early mountaineering than I did about actual mountain-climbing, which was fine, but didn’t get really exciting until those personalities got really dysfunctional. Was it good?  Again, it was okay.  The prose wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t gripping, and there was some odd (lack of) translation on occasion.  The research seemed thorough and solid, though. Would I recommend it?  Not really, unless you are specifically looking to research the Alps or early European mountain-climbing enthusiasts for a writing project or something, in which case, of course. 3 stars

Precipitation: Read a book that has any weather related term in the title. Trail of Lightning, book 1 of The Sixth World, by Rebecca Roanhorse Did I like it?  Yes!  This took me back to my first forays into urban fantasy as a preteen/young teen.  I loved the Diana Tregarde books and also Harry Turtledove’s The Case of the Toxic Spell Dump, and whenever I want urban fantasy that’s kind of the pattern I’m looking for?  An unfriendly world full of myths that are real and living and breathing and otherworldly but also they are probably trying to bum a cigarette off you.  I haven’t reread my favorite childhood urban fantasy because I think it probably won’t hold up, and later urban fantasy has mostly been not quite what I wanted, but this book was like being that kid all over again.  I’m not super familiar with Dine folklore/mythology so it was neat to learn a little bit about that, too, although obviously to learn those stories maybe don’t go to an urban fantasy novel. Was it good?  It was pretty good!  The prose wasn’t like, stylistically exciting, but it conveyed the plot well, and I did like the narrative voice, and the characterization was good, I thought. Would I recommend it?  Absolutely.  Content warning for violence (as per urban fantasy) and a child dies violently early on in the book, but if you were the kind of kid I was but you’re not really into paranormal romance or Harry Dresden, give it a try. 4 stars

Small: Read a book that has less than 200 pages. A Butt in the Mist: Stirred to the Core of My Bodice by the Duchess Triceratops of Helena by Chuck Tingle Did I like it?  I mostly did, but it wasn’t super exciting.  I liked the free book afterwards better.  It was funny, but Chuck’s been funnier. Was it good? This 4,000 word book was written with all the quality and attention to detail that I have come to expect from beloved author Chuck Tingle. Would I recommend it? Not really?  It was funny, but I think I like his more metafictional stuff better, and I think he gets a lot weirder with his m/m stuff; if I’m reading Chuck Tingle, I want it to be weird. 3 stars

Snow is formed of crystals and is a slang term for diamonds. Read a book in which a gem or other mineral can be found in the plot, title, or cover art. Ombria in Shadow by Patricia A. McKillip Did I like it?  Mostly!  I love the lush visuals of McKillip’s prose; they more than live up to the also gorgeous covers.  Dreamy fairytale stuff but with solid emotions and a good sense of place. Was it good?  I think so, although the dreamlike quality of the prose does mean you’re liable to miss something if your attention drifts. Would I recommend it?  Yes, I think so. 5 stars

Snow is a dessert made of stiffly beaten whites of eggs, sugar, and fruit pulp. Read a book with a dessert on the cover, or read a book in which a dessert is made. Chocolate Chip Cookie Murder by Joanne Fluke, book 1 of the Hannah Swensen series Did I like it? I enjoyed parts of it, but I thought it really suffered at the beginning, when our introduction to the detective was “not like other girls, not interested in DATING and MEN” and our introduction to her older sister is “she was a DITZY CHEERLEADER and now she’s married with a kid but she’s a HORRIBLE CAREER HARPY who WORKS ALL DAY and puts her child in DAYCARE and CAN’T COOK” and that was all just very tiresome.  The sister does turn out to have redeeming qualities and useful interests, but the way these two and their mother interact is all like, if you were asking yourself whether there’s such a thing as toxic femininity and what that would look like, it’s these women.  Aside from that, it was fine; it was a cozy mystery novel about a bakery specializing in cookies.  I will say, I did appreciate the Midwesternness of the small town Midwest setting. Was it good?  Not really.  I did kind of have to handwave a lot to let the detective get away with all the HIPAA violations and crime scene disturbing that she does, but it is a cozy mystery. Would I recommend it? Probably not; I’ve heard this series gets better so if you’re interested in the series and/or like the idea of cookie-themed cozies, maybe start with a different book, unless you’re a completist like I am. 3 stars

Snow is slang for cocaine. Read a book about drugs or drug addiction. The Man With the Golden Arm by Nelson Algren Did I like it?  It was not a fun read, by any means, but Algren’s prose is fantastic and it was such a novelty to see such a familiar accent represented by eye dialect.  (Which I know has fallen out of fashion and is considered the mark of a bad writer, but I really don’t mind it if it’s done well.)  It’s one of those books where nobody has a fair shake and everybody is doomed, but it doesn’t feel gratuitous.   All the characters are horrible to each other, but in fairness they are also horrible to themselves; it’s all they’ve ever known. Was it good?  Yes.  It was extremely good and I’m considering buying a physical copy so I can write things in the margins.  This is actually really weird for me to do; in high school we occasionally had to turn our books in so our teacher could be sure we were writing in them Correctly, and I found it a little painful, but I did want to do it with this book. Would I recommend it?  Yes, if you’re up for a really depressing story about heroin addiction and poverty. 5 stars

White is the color of snow. Read a book that contains white in the cover. The Lathe of Heaven by Ursula K. Le Guin Did I like it? I definitely did.  I haven’t read much Le Guin yet for some reason, and while this did initially start off feeling exactly like just another ‘70s SF story where in the future we’ve solved all of psychology and it’s super mechanistic, it was really fascinating and surprisingly, unpleasantly prescient. Was it good?  I thought so!  There were some parts of it that were pretty awkward about race, from a 2021 perspective, but it does actually deal with race in a way that made me think “yes, that’s exactly what would happen as a consequence of this plot, and it would be horrible, oh no, oh shit,” and it is horrible. Would I recommend it?  I am not sure I would!  I would recommend it in like five years, assuming those five years are not much like the last five years.  Hoping and praying that those five years are not much like the last five, really.  The premise of the book -- which I haven’t explained, I realize -- is that in this near-future environmental dystopia, the main character can change things in real life by dreaming about them, and he would like to not do that, only he is put under the care of a psychiatric researcher who tries to play God.  So this poor man literally wakes up every day to a brand new dystopia and it felt... familiar. 4 stars

To snow someone is to deceive, persuade, or charm glibly. Read a book about a con artist, or read a book about deception. Empire of Deception: The Incredible Story of a Master Swindler Who Seduced a City and Captivated the Nation by Dean Jobb Did I like it?  I did.  I have joked that my own personal reading challenge this year is to fill up the Chicago shelf/tag on my Goodreads account, and this book was recommended to me in that spirit, and I always like hearing about a. Chicago; b. the 1920s; and c. con men conning people. Was it good?  The prose was fine; it was fun but I think the thing I appreciated most was all the punny newspaper headlines. Would I recommend it?  If you are someone who perks up at the sound of at least 2 out of 3 of the themes of “Chicago,” “1920s,” and “con men,” yes. 4 stars

2021 Q1 challenge: Changes (3/20)

Read a book that features:

The word "change" (Changes, Changing, or other variations) in its title. Weeds: How Vagabond Plants Gatecrashed Civilisation and Changed the Way We Think About Nature by Richard Mabey Did I like it?  It was all right.  I like hearing about plant history, and the chapter on plants unexpectedly surviving/thriving on battlefields and bombing sites was particularly interesting to me. Was it good?  It was okay, but kind of poorly-organized; there were chapter themes but it felt awfully stream-of-consciousness sometimes. Would I recommend it?  Maybe not unless you’re really into botany and Western anthropology.  (As in, the study of Western cultures; this book does not do much with other cultures.) 3 stars

The theme of money or money on its cover (loose change). Spinning Silver by Naomi Novik Did I like it?  I really, really liked it to the point that I feel kind of silly about it, gotta say.  I’m really, really hit or miss on the author’s work (both fanfic and profic) but the themes of this were perfect for me; Russian fairytales, a cynical but earnest sort of Judaism, creepy fairy abductions, interesting worldbuilding, and women coming together to help each other.  (Also some interesting enemies-to-lovers stuff that wasn’t really developed on the “lovers” side, which I would have dug.  Like its precursor, this book has a lot of f/f friends-to-lovers subtext and hostile canon het.) Was it good?  I don’t know?  I liked it enough that I genuinely don’t know if it was well-written. Would I recommend it?  I would, but I’m not sure you should trust me on this???  Again, this book really, really hit me in the id. 5 stars

An adaptation of its original format (book-to-manga, translation, etc.) Murder on the Rockport Limited! by Clint McElroy et al Did I like it?  It was okay, but not nearly as good as the original podcast’s murder train arc.  The art was good and all, but, eh. Was it good?  It was fine.  I’m not sure how into the DM/character conversations I am, and I found myself having to pause and reimagine the dialogue in the various McElroys’ voices, which wasn’t good because it meant I wasn’t automatically reading them in those voices in my head, which is a major litmus test I use when I’m deciding whether I want to keep reading a fanfic. Would I recommend it?  Definitely not as a standalone thing. 3 stars

The author's initials found in the word "change" Helen of Sparta by Amalia Carosella (in progress)

Separate book sections or part of a series of three or more books (make change) The Seduction of the Crimson Rose by Lauren Willig (in progress)

An author or character writing under a pseudonym The Maker’s Mask by Ankaret Wells (in progress)

A topic or character about which you feel differently now than in the past. La Belle Sauvage by Phillip Pullman

Changing one's mind about a life decision. A Tapestry of Magics by Brian Daley

Switching careers/jobs. The Goblin Emperor by Katherine  Addison

Relocating to a different city, state/province, or country. Fire Season: Field Notes from a Wilderness Lookout by Philip Connors

Cultivating new daily habits. How to Be Fine by Jolenta Greenberg and Kristen Meinzer

A character who shifts shapes or identities. The Lie: A Memoir of Two Marriages, Catfishing & Coming Out by William Dameron

Life changes due to age Two Old Women: An Alaskan Legend of Betrayal, Courage, and Survival by Velma Wallis

A medical transformation Specials by Westerfield, Scott

A life-changing experience. Going Clear: Scientology, Hollywood, & the Prison of Belief by Lawrence Wright

A changing household The Girl from the Other Side: Siúil, A Rún, Volume 1 by Nagabe

An action or phenomenon that transforms society or the world. Hard Times: An Oral History of the Great Depression by Studs Terkel

Replacing one thing with another (change out) In Vino Duplicitas: The Rise and Fall of a Wine Forger Extraordinaire by Peter Hellman & Charles Constant

Technological innovation Tubes: A Journey to the Center of the Internet by Andrew Blum

A game-changer. The Sleepwalkers: How Europe Went to War in 1914 by Christopher  Clark

Fanfic Reading Challenge recs (1)

I have a private checklist with the fanfic reading challenge data, but will not be sharing all of the fics; fanfiction is generally an amateur endeavor, and many people do not enjoy receiving (or stumbling across) criticism of their work.  Bad reviews are normal and accepted as part of commercial publishing, and professional authors (hopefully!) get paid for their work, so I’m comfortable criticizing published novels.  I would prefer not to publicly criticize someone’s writing when they are just writing for the joy of it, especially since some of the tasks require me to read first-time authors’ fics, fics with relatively low kudos counts, fics for ships I don’t like, etc.  So I’m only putting the recs here.

Romancing the Tome by Anti_kate Good Omens; Aziraphale/Crowley; ~40k words; rated Explicit Romance novelist Aziraphale Wilder is pulled from his carefully ordered life when his sister is kidnapped and held to ransom. With the help of antiquities forger Anthony J Crowley, he braves the wilds of Scotland to rescue her and keep a priceless book from falling into the hands of dangerous book thieves. Did I like it?  Yes!  It was cheesy and cute and basically what I want out of this kind of romcom AU fic.  I’m not normally into human AUs and this one wasn’t like, super deep or anything, but it was very fun. Was it good? I thought so!  The dialogue was great, I enjoyed the characterization, the sex was good.  I do think the Crowley in this fic is pretty self-loathing in a way that I don’t see canon Crowley being at all, but I have a weakness for that and I also think self-loathing works for a human version of Crowley.  One thing it doesn’t shy away from is Crowley doing genuinely awful stuff (instead of being a misunderstood woobie) and yet the resolution is sweet and lovely anyway. Would I rec it? Yes!  Go read this fic.  It’s fast-paced but long enough to be worth settling in to read, it’s funny, and it’s sweet. 5 stars

In Holy Matrimony by Myracuulous Good Omens; Aziraphale/Crowley; ~6.7k words; rated General From the private journal of Alisha Jones, wedding planner, concerning the nuptials of Anthony J Crowley and Aziraphale and the planning process thereof, containing an account of chosen decor, guest list construction, and the holy war against the Antichrist that nearly ruined six months of professional organization and a very nice dinner. Did I like it?  Yes!  It was extremely cute, and I always really like outsider POV.  I did appreciate the fact that poor Alisha definitely knew something was definitely weird, but kept telling herself not to question it because a gorgeous wedding with an unlimited budget and zero issues with scheduling, catering, guest limits, etc. is a great problem to have. Was it good?  It was pretty good!  The climax and wrap-up felt a bit rushed, mostly due to the limits of outsider POV, but I did enjoy Aziraphale unexpectedly embracing his inner groomzilla while also being unfailingly sweet about it. Would I rec it?  Yup, especially if you want wedding comedy/fluff and outsider POV

Wrong Turn by anticyclone Good Omens; Aziraphale/Crowley; ~38k words; rated Teen And Up Lots and lots of somethings are wrong. First, Crowley's nearly hit by a car. Then he almost brains himself tripping over new and excessive piles of books at the bookshop. To add insult to near-injury, Aziraphale starts throwing knives at him. Safe to say his day could be going better.

The thing that's the most wrong of all is the universe, of course. In this one there was never an Arrangement. Aziraphale and Anthony (they can't both be 'Crowley') aren't friends and they certainly never agreed to prep for Armageddon. Unfortunately, the end of the world is two days away.

So that's something Crowley really has to fix before they can figure out how to get him home. Did I like it?  Oh yes.  I had read bits of this on ffa previously, and also anticyclone is a good writer (and a friend) so like, I was expecting it to be good; I was not disappointed. Was it good?  Yes!  I was particularly impressed at how much alternate backstory is set up in little hints here and there, and then explained more thoroughly in ways that take the AU Aziraphale and Crowley by surprise when they do finally get to talking. Would I rec it?  Yes!  Especially if you like a nice dose of enemies-to-lovers along with your friends-to-lovers, and also the awkwardness of meeting your alternate universe self.

Finished in January, not for reading challenges (3 books):

The Way of Kings, book 1 of The Stormlight Archive, by Brandon Sanderson Did I like it? It was fine. Was it good? I think so.  I am maybe not the best audience for epic fantasy at this point, partly because I’ve read a lot of it and partly because I habitually read 3-7 books at once at any given time. Would I recommend it? Maybe, but I feel like most of the people who would enjoy it have probably heard of it already. 3 stars

Get a Wiggle On, a Good Omens fanzine Did I like it? Yup! Was it good? Mostly, although as usual with zines and anthologies, quality varies piece by piece.   Of the fics I particularly liked “A Head Above Water,” “The Grapes of Mild Irritation,” and “Concerning the Great Serpent Glykon and the Angel Clothed With the Sun,” all of which are now available on AO3. Would I recommend it? If you like snakey Crowley, yes. 4 stars

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne Did I like it? Yes, very much!  A very silly thing I particularly liked (which unfortunately you cannot really replicate) is that the edition I have is an illustrated hardcover book from 1926 which I picked up cheap at a used bookstore, knowing I would like it because Jules Verne.  I didn’t think much about that specific date when I bought it, but I am now writing a fic set in 1926, with a character who has a habit of reading adventure novels and who I have specifically mentioned enjoyed Jules Verne in his childhood, so when I discovered the date the coincidence made me very happy.  The book itself smells very nice, it’s nice to hold, and as I was reading it I kept thinking about what Danny would think of the book, and whether he would try reading it aloud to Crowley, and wondering if the book smelled as nice in 1926 as it does now.  Maybe I will have Aziraphale give this book to him as a very small thank-you for all he has done to keep Crowley alive and well. Was it good? For the most part.  Jules Verne is prone to wandering off on tangents where he shows you his research, but I’m sympathetic to that, and there’s some really cool and atmospheric scenes in this book.  My favorite character was definitely Captain Nemo, who we don’t really learn much about.  Could have done without Conseil, the bland servant character who could be a naturalist in his own right, if he had any opinions of his own, or the period racism/imperialism, which unfortunately is so built into this kind of adventure novel.  But the environmentalism was a nice surprise, and you can definitely read some critiques of certain aspects of (Western?) culture at the time into Captain Nemo’s behavior; I have not yet read The Mysterious Island where Captain Nemo also appears, but I do get the impression a lot of people read him as being disgusted with imperialism. Would I recommend it?  Probably!  With the caveats above.  It was a good adventure story with some awesome visuals, and I kept thinking about what a pretty movie it would make with modern SFX, and how sad I would be that they would inevitably not spend just 3 solid hours on cool fish and interiors of the Nautilus and scenes of the lost city of Atlantis and Captain Nemo being very mysterious and dreamy scary, because they’d probably shoehorn an awkward romance into it. 4 stars

Finished in February, not for reading challenges (2 books):

The Deception of the Emerald Ring by Lauren Willig, book 3 of the Pink Carnation series Did I like it? I did.  It was a silly Regency romance novel with espionage elements, it is the third of a series I have enjoyed, and it contained an accidental/forced marriage to preserve a lady’s honor despite neither party to the marriage particularly liking or wanting to have anything to do with each other, and some misunderstandings about that.  Also spies. Was it good?  Not really.  It was fun and I liked the characters, but I don’t think the writing was of particularly high quality.  The handling of certain elements of English imperialism was not great, and bothered me enough to note it in my review on Goodreads. Would I recommend it? I’d recommend the series if it sounds like something you’d like; I might not recommend this specific book. 3 stars

The Light Brigade by Kameron Hurley Did I like it?  No.  It was very dark, and I did not enjoy most of the book.  A lot of it was because it was very gritty and grim, and because I frequently don’t enjoy military fiction; a lot of it was because many of the dystopian aspects of our present reality that came to a head in 2020 were magnified in the book.  Part of it was also that the protagonist’s entire reality and memory was being denied for much of the book, and I think it reminded me of being gaslit.  (This is not a criticism of the book, or some kind of weird accusation that the book or its author was somehow abusing me, I just have this personal history.  In fact, it turns out the main character is being gaslit to some extent, and the author writes it very well.)  It was a minor relief when she finally decided the stuff she was going through was real, and a huge relief when she was able to talk to someone who believed her. Was it good?  Yes, I think so. Would I recommend it?  Not right now, but I think this would be a good book to read at a time when the world feels more stable.  I don’t say this because I want you to wait until everything’s fine to read it; I say this because it feels like a good anti-complacency read. 4 stars (3 for not being an enjoyable read, 5 for the actual plot; it averages out.)

In progress, not for reading challenges (1 book):

Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation by 墨香铜臭

[redfoxwritesstuff]

Of Dust and Ashes: Chapter 34

AN: This bitch is back. Looking at weekly updates (I know I said that LAST YEAR than ghosted but this time I have six complete chapters written and waiting still). Dust has been difficult to think about considering the facts of the last 24 months. If it gets difficult to stay in this world, I may drop updates to biweekly to allow breathing room.

Find my other work on the Masterlist- some angst, some fluff, some sexy smut for all flavors. 

pairing: Clint x OFC Series rating: M Series warnings: adult themes, occasional smut, violence, mental health struggles- if it can be warned for, it’s probably in here at some point tbh Chapter warnings: Suicide, large game processing, talk of breastfeeding.

Kofi and Cashtag: $leeanneduyn (please never call me Leeanne- I hate my name)-

All donations and Kofi purchased and sent my way will go toward paying down my student loan debt. If every follower were to donate even just 75 cents each month, I could make my monthly payments when it resumes. I don’t expect nor hope for every follower to donate. But as the USA government won’t follow through on student loan forgiveness, I’m not above asking for help as this is a debt I was forced to take on by my abusive ex-husband.

Current balance as of 1/30/22:   $45,612.83

Chapter 34: Through the Dust

It was hard not to be impressed by the haul Clint brought in. The meat from the large bull would be enough to feed both Clint and Dee through the winter while still leaving meat for Sasha and Rachel. The trick would be using it up before it spoiled.

Sasha and Rachel would need to learn to butcher and cook the raw meat, how to store it and keep it from spoiling. It wasn’t more than so many around the country were faced with. The art of butchering and preserving meat was long lost for much of the populations within first world countries.

How many would die from starvation? How many would be killed from spoiled meat?

Clint made quick work building a smoking shack. While he would much rather have preferred to smoke the meat in large quarters, that simply wasn’t an option. It would have taken far too much time. Instead, Clint stripped much of the meat into small strips and smoked those.

They planned on spending a night or two at the clinic, using that time to prep and preserve much of the moose and teach the two women how to survive. Sasha was a far better student than Rachel but Dee still planned to teach them how to make a simple flat bread.

There were cans of soup and vegetables and bottle after bottle of partially used oil. Clint and Dee didn’t keep any oil for themselves out of the haul. Cooking oil wasn’t hard to come by yet.

People didn’t think about oil. In their cellar back at the farm house, they had jugs of olive and vegetable oils, lined in neat rows. There was no reason for them to bring any back. Fat and sugar quickly could become as valuable as gold as people rediscover the stores of energy needed to simply survive. At least, it would be if this event went on long enough.

Dee and Sasha made trip after trip to bring things inside while Clint knelt in the snow over the massive carcass of a moose, preparing it to dry and smoke. Dee was sure he would kill himself wrestling the partially dissected and dismembered beast out of the truck but somehow he managed to survive.

“Do you have another pot?” Dee asked as she and Sasha brought the last load in.

Rachel sat in a chair, attempting to nurse while looking over the pile of food. “It’s mostly flour. Flour isn’t food on its own.” She said. Her voice gave away her worry.

“You’re going to have to learn to cook differently,” Dee reminded “Eat differently too. Flour is great- you’ve got flour, water and oil. That’s all you need for a flatbread. It’s not the best but it will probably make up a good bit of your diet.”

“There’s some lettuce plants. A tomato plant. Clint brought some frozen peppers, onions. Some are jarred too. Jarred tomatoes. We’ll manage.” Sasha said.

“Is it enough?” Rachel chewed her lip. “Will it be enough?”

“It will be.” Sasha knelt by her side. “I’ve multivitamins that we’ll supplement with. Samples out the ass- Doc hated to give them out. That’ll help make sure we get everything we need and cover gaps. We’ll just do the best we can.”

Rachel and Sasha had begun to bond while Clint had been away. Dee was sure it was in part due to Lizzy. Sasha had wanted that baby in her care from the moment she saw her. Now in exchange for having Rachel stay with her, she was getting exactly what she wanted.

“Clint and I will see about finding some things for Lizzy in the next few days.” Dee offered. “Some baby toys, bassinet- things like that before we leave

“Thank you.” Rachel said in surprisingly honest sincerity while Sasha returned with a pot nearly the size of the one used to make stew.

“We don’t have much kitchen things here.” Sasha admitted. “This was the best I could find.”

“We’ll see about getting you more.” Dee assured. She didn’t want these people to die. She didn’t want them to struggle more than they had to.

Dee took the pot outside with her. The air was cold and it was just getting colder. Clint knelt over the carcass, intent on his task. The body was in pieces now. And he was stripping meat from bone. Smoke filled the rudimentary smoker, filled with thin strips of meat hung over a rack.

“How’s it going?”

“Almost done.” Clint answered, flexing red slicked fingers that surely had to feel frozen. “Just gotta wrap the pieces in plastic and pack it. A good bit should smoke up nice.”

“How much are we leaving?” Dee asked, glancing back to the clinic turned home.

“Half.” Clint answered.

Dee set to work filling the pot with snow that looked to be clean. Everything had the slightly gray tinge to it but they had to take what they could get. She packed it tightly into the pot, filling it with as much snow as she could before heading inside again, leaving him to his gruesome task.

Clint had secured them meat for the winter. The least she could do was warm water for him to be able to clean up with. That water didn’t need to be clean or pure. It didn’t need to be safe to drink. It just needed to be warm enough to thaw his fingers and wash away the red.

She set the pot on the wood stove and watched as snow melted down. There wasn’t nearly as much as she wanted but it was better than none. When it was good and hot she took the pot back outside and added more snow.

“What are you doing?” Clint asked as he wrapped the last leg in plastic and tossed it in the bed of his truck. There was some wood in the bed with the meat but little else now.

“Warm water for you to wash with.” Dee held the pot out proudly. She didn’t have the stomach to help break down the moose but she had wanted to help in her own way.

Clint smiled. White puffs mixed with the cold air with each breath. Steam floated up from the pot in Dee’s hands. Clint’s hands were smeared with gore, staining the skin though he had scrubbed them with the snow. There were smears of red on his face. His fingers likely brushed his skin when he’d bring them up to try and warm them with his breath.

Reaching up, behind his neck, he grabbed a handful of his shirt after slipping his jacket off. It’s sleeves were dark and stiff with blood. She could only guess if the blood on it was dried or frozen. The air was bitter cold and would only get more so as the evening moved on, giving way to night.

He didn’t pay the frigid air any mind though as he pulled his shirt up and off, tossing it to the side. She held the pot for him as he dunked his hands in the water. A moan slipped from him as he scrubbed the red away. He splashed the water up his forearms, washing away the red smears.

The water in the pot almost reminded Dee of the strawberry jello she would make with her children in another lifetime. The color was the same though the steam wafting up from the pot smelled only of iron.

She couldn’t figure out how he could stand there with his jacket off, his naked flesh exposed to the cold while he splashed around water that had to be quickly cooling. The droplets of pink tinged water that splashed up onto his chest and stomach had to be ice cold almost instantly.

“Much better.” He said as he flicked water from from his wet hands.

“How are you not freezing?” Dee asked, eyes trained on his body. It was not out of the normal to see him without a shirt. He would often work outside without one during the warm months. There was something alluring though, seeing him like this while surrounded by the purity of snow.

“I am. So. Cold.” He laughed, running his hands up and down his arms in an effort to smooth the goose flesh.

“Go inside, I’ll rinse this with snow.”

“Fill it with more, if you don’t mind? I’d like to rinse again.” She nodded at him as he rushed inside, not bothering to pick up his shirt or jacket.

She wasn’t sure if the jacket could be saved. If she washed it, it would probably take forever to dry. A damp coat would suck the heat out of whoever was wearing it, defeating the point. It was better to leave it, she decided.

Clint had other coats at the house. It wasn’t as if this was his only coat. As far as she knew, they had no intentions to do anything where they would be exposed to the weather. He really wouldn’t need it until they made it back to the house. The truck had a good heater and seemed reliable.

She was fairly sure that he didn’t have another shirt in the truck though. Her eyes followed him as he walked through the door. Each step had the muscles in his back flexing, twisting and bunching subtly. His body was a sight of perfection to her and she hadn’t had to share that sight with anyone until now. She found herself rather displeased to know that Rachel and Sasha would be blessed with the sight of him.

The pot was warm still. Steam curled up from the water. Rather than dumping it, she plucked up his shirt from the ground and pushed the sleeves inside. The rest of it was reasonably clean. After stripping off her gloves and coat, she pushed up her sleeves and set to work washing as much of the blood out of the sleeves as she could while keeping as much of the rest of the shirt as dry as possible.

After a few minutes, she dumped the water. It stained the ice red and in most areas melted snow and ice away, leaving patches of gravel exposed. She realized that they had been standing in what had been a parking lot. The idea that there wasn’t grass underfoot was strange though it shouldn’t have been.

In places like this, away from the cities, it was easy to forget the world that had been before. It amazed her how quickly the world seemed to move on, that she seemed to move on.

With a shake of her head, she pushed the thoughts out of her mind. It didn’t matter. She scooped up fresh snow quickly,  Scooping up fresh snow into the pot, she counted on the warmth of the pot to melt it down. What she ended up with was more like a slush but it was better than nothing. That slush combined with the heat from her hands worked well enough to rinse out the sleeves.

They weren’t clean by any means but they were cleaner. Tossing the shirt aside, she dry washed the pot with snow and packed it full again. The shirt could be washed again after Clint washed his arms. After the shirt was hung by the wood stove to dry, maybe he would wear it.

Dee shook her head at herself as she made her way inside. She was acting like a jealous school girl. It was ridiculous. The only person she could loose Clint to had turned to dust before she had ever met him. He loved her. She was the only one alive that he loved and that was what mattered. No one could threaten what they shared.

Once inside she hung the shirt from the back of a chair for now. The snow quickly warmed and melted. Clint was more than happy to scrub at his arms a second time, properly rinsing the blood from his skin as best he could. The water was only tinged a light pink when he was finished. Dee used it to rinse out his shirt a second time before hanging it up to dry.

After tossing the water outside, Clint wrapped his arms around her. Whispering in her and said “Thank you” in her ear as she leaned into him.

“For what?” Dee asked, soaking in the warmth from his chest as she turned in his arms, resting her hands on his chest.

“Washing my shirt. Getting me the water.”

“You did get us a moose, it’s only fair.”

“We make a good team,” Silence stretched as she simply let him hold her, feeling his heart beat under her hand.

“How long will we be here, really?” There was nothing she wanted more than to go home. Even though they were among people that were almost friends, it was exhausting to be aware all time time. She could slack, she could leave it to him but she wanted to hold her own weight.

“We’ll make sure they’re getting along tonight. Tomorrow we’ll go out and gather them some supplies- pots, pans and shit like that. We’ll head home tomorrow night, probably if all goes well.”

“Oh,” was all she said, it was just the plan they had agreed on earlier.

“We won’t stay another night unless we absolutely need to,” he insisted. “I promise.”

“I’m being selfish,” she resigned. She was a mother. A single mother at that. She knew how hard it was to raise children. It had been so damned hard in the world before and now? Now the odds were stacked against any single mother.

“I know.” His chin rested on her shoulder, a feat that required some slouching and must have looked comical to anyone who had seen it as he curled into her. He admitted, “I want to go home too.”

That night, they had a hearty moose stew and flatbread cooked over wood stove. Together, they took a full inventory of what little cooking supplies the clinic possessed. They worked into the night, helping Sasha set up two treatment rooms to resemble private bedrooms as well as they could. A third treatment room was well on its way to becoming a nursery.

They didn’t start to really plan in earnest until Sasha and Rachel were sound asleep in their makeshift rooms. They would help them, set them up to survive and the rest was up to them. It helped to hear him say it again. It was an icy feeling, knowing how quickly she was ready to wash her hands of the baby, of perfectly fine human beings and retreat into their isolation.

“There’s houses not too far out- we should be able to pick them up a crib or something, some other baby crap. Grab them some kitchen supplies-”

“Maybe you’ll be able to grab another moose.” She laughed, slipping her arms around his waist and admiring their work so far.

“I’d rather wait to bag another moose for a few months. If people hunt too much, their numbers won’t bounce back.”

“Even half the moose are gone.” Dee mumbled into his back.

“Even half the moose.”

They’d been talking while he slowly worked an exam bed out of the room next to where Rachel slept. There wasn’t much they could do to make it quieter but Sasha and Rachel both slept through the noise.

It was concerning, that they slept through the noise. They should have woken up. It wasn’t safe to be a sound sleeper, not anymore.

If he was honest though, if someone were to break in- these women were screwed anyway. Their best defense was in hiding. If they were lucky, they would all sleep through someone ransacking the clinic and the intruder wouldn’t bother to look in exam rooms.

~~~~~<3

Morning came and sore backs greeted the couple sleeping in front of the wood stove. The baby had woken a few times in the night and Dee had sat up, coaching Rachel through trying to nurse.

They’d managed to get a few solid latches. There was hope for Rachel’s supply to grow but Dee worried about how easily the women grew discouraged. It didn’t take long for her to ask for a bottle, though Dee wouldn’t get it until she was sure the baby had taken from the breast everything there was to give. Even then, she limited what she gave by bottle.

In the short term, it meant waking far more often in the night but it would be best to stimulate the supply. It was what they needed to do. There simply wasn’t any way to promise that they could find enough formula to keep the baby fed otherwise.

By morning, Rachel was beginning to have better luck with latching the baby to her breast. It would take time for them to both learn to feed but it was a start. The rest was just up to time and hope.

“Rise and shine,” Clint mumbled into the top of Dee’s head.

“Don’t want to,” She mumbled back, trying to snuggle closer.

“The sooner we get things done, the sooner we can go home and you can sleep through the night in a real bed.”

Making a face, Dee rolled away from him. The bed sounded good. The safety of the farmhouse sounded good. Being along sounded good. Being along together sounded good. “Fine.”

They made a breakfast of omelets and as they ate, Clint went over the care and keeping of the plants he had brought for them. He went over composting and making use of waste. He lectured the importance of being water smart and water gathering and then. When it felt like they had nothing left to tell them, they left.

Dee relaxed into the passenger seat of the truck and looked out at where Trust sat by the door. She didn’t want to leave him behind but it was better for him to rest for the day. He deserved the rest and he needed it more than he seemed willing to admit. It didn’t make it any easier to leave him behind with people she hardly trusted though.

“He’ll be fine,” Clint reassured, putting the truck in gear and slowly made his way down the long driveway.

“He better be,” She answered.

The highway was empty. There were a few tracks in the snow, mostly Clint’s. The world was so empty now and she still found that it would give her goosebumps and set her on edge.

While they looked through houses, many of which Clint had already visited on his prior visit, they didn’t speak much. The neighborhood streets had the feeling of a crypt to them. The world was dead and much of those who were left to walk through the settling dust were little more than zombies.

They split up to save time and Clint made a point to stop at the house of the man he had met before. There was no answer to his knocking and a stone settled in his stomach. He found the doorknob unlocked.

Clint didn’t want to go in but he did anyway.

He knew what he would find inside that home but he needed to find it anyway. The man lay on the couch of a neat living room. Absently, he picked up the pill bottle from the coffee table. Oxy with a whiskey chaser.

There were worse ways to go. There were better ways to go, too.

There was a throw blanket draped over the back of the recliner that would likely never be used again. Grabbing it, he spread it over the man before heading into his kitchen. It was a small decency before he took the supplies that the man had no further need for.

The snap cost the universe half of all living things. The moose population would largely survive and rebuild. The foxes, the rabbits, rats and birds would all begin rebuilding their numbers in a simple short time. They would recover. Their numbers would boom over the year.

But would man? How many more people died than were dusted? For how long would they keep killing themselves and each other before they began to rebuild?

Would they rebuild? Could they?

~~~~~<3

Again- if you’ve enjoyed my writing, feel free to send a tip my way. All tips go to the student loan balance.

@winterisakiller​​, @tnystrk-exe​​, @nonsensicalobsessions​​, @alcoholic-muffin​​, @coyotesongwriting​​, @usedtobegoodfriend96​​, @theoneanna​​, @alexakeyloveloki​​, @toozmanykids​​, @j-u-s-t-4​​, @missaphrodite23​​, @tinchentitri​​, @bambamwolf87​​, @queenoftheunderdark​​, @xoxabs88xox​​, @carissime72​​, @myoxisbroken​​​, @wegingerangelica​​, @faemapfae​​, @darylandbethfanforever9​

[searchingwardrobes]

The Early Leaf’s a Flower: 3/11

So this is where things really start to shift from the original, and this is probably one of my favorite chapters. I probably worked harder on it than any other! This is also where Neverland mythology begins to come into play. Right before starting the rewrite-a-thon, I re-read J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan to my eight year old. The famous line “all children, except one, grow up” really hit me for the first time. Wait a second, all children except one? Every version of Neverland I had ever seen, from the cartoon, to Spielberg’s Hook, to Once, portray Neverland as a place where no one ages. But that’s not what the novel says!! Then, later on, the book casually mentions that the Lost Boys are constantly changing because some get killed in battle or - get this - Pan “thins them out” when they get too old. Umm . . . say WHAT? So here’s where my story gets dark with a super sadistic Pan . . . and I’m not sorry. At all. (mwhaha)

If you haven’t noticed, all chapter titles come from Peter Pan. They are either chapter titles in that book or phrases from the book. This one, mocking kisses, actually refers in the novel to Mrs. Darling who has a “mocking kiss conspicuously in the right hand corner of her mouth” which it says not even Mr. Darling or her children can get from her. There’s tons of interpretations for that, none of which have anything to do with how I’m using it here. Here, it has to do with growing up and awakening sexuality, and of course - you know - actual lip locks. So it’s not all dark in this chapter . . .

I’ll stop being an English Lit teacher and shut up now. Except to thank, once again, the incredible mods for the @captainswanbigbang and to my betas - @shippingtheswann , @optomisticgirl , and @distant-rose . This chapter especially deserves massive thanks to Ro for her pirate expertise! And be sure to follow the Captain Swan Rewrite-a-thon because ALL of the fics are incredible!

Summary: She saw eyes that were the blue of the forget me not peering at her through the cracked door of the wardrobe. He saw hair as gold as the buttercups. Why does the wardrobe keep bringing them back to one another, if fate keeps tearing them apart? Or maybe fate has her reasons …

Rating: M for eventual sexy times, violence, canonical character death, and attempted rape

Trigger warnings: vague references to child abuse (physical and sexual), violence, and eventual positive Millian

Words: A little over 7k in this chapter (all chapters will be rather lengthy from here on out)

** Complete and updated every Monday** Also on Ao3

Emma: Age 16

Emma lies in bed, wide awake, staring at the wardrobe across the room. It looks eerily familiar, though she tries to tell herself that’s crazy.

Her new foster family seems incredibly nice. Even the two boys who are the couple’s real children seem excited to have her here instead of jealous. The mother even seemed embarrassed when she showed Emma her room, explaining that it used to be an office, so it didn’t have a closet. She hoped Emma liked the wardrobe she had found at an antique store.

Emma stares at the wardrobe now and thinks of Martha. Another kind foster mother and another wardrobe, almost identical to the other? Happy coincidences like that don’t happen. At least not to Emma Swan.

She huffs and rolls over on her side, and tries not to think about the little boy with the soulful blue eyes. He was just an imaginary friend. A figment of her hurt soul and bruised heart. Her hand hovers over her cheek, and she inwardly berates herself. It was just a peck on the cheek, and she was ten for heaven’s sake! Correction, there was no peck on the cheek because it wasn’t real.

Because now that she’s 16, she knows better. Friends don’t just fall out of the sky – or wardrobes. And real kisses are an enormous disappointment. Like Tom Pierce when she was 13, her first kiss playing spin the bottle at a Halloween party. All she can say about that is that it was wet and sloppy, and he had bad breath. Then there was Robby Eddleston at the school dance last year. She thought he actually liked her when he asked to talk privately behind the bleachers. Then she was pinned against the wall while Robby shoved his tongue unceremoniously down her throat. But a quick knee to the groin had quickly taught Robby that she wasn’t an easy score.

Emma punches her pillow now in irritation. It’s ridiculous that an imaginary kiss to the cheek has been her best yet. Pathetic, Emma. She decides to push thoughts of the wardrobe and that pair of blue eyes from her head.

She’s just drifting off when a familiar creak reaches her ears. She ignores it, assuming she’s already dreaming. But then she hears footsteps padding softly across the hardwood floor. Emma squeezes her eyes shut tighter. Is someone standing over her, or is that her imagination? Then a hand softly touches her hair, and her eyes fly open as she sits up quickly. Her green orbs meet blue, and she gasps in shock. It startles her so much, her hand seems to act on its own and she slaps him across the cheek - hard.

“Bloody hell, Emma what was that for?”

“Killian?” She swallows hard. “I thought . . . I wasn’t sure . . . I mean, you’re real?”

He smiles, even as he rubs his red cheek, and it lights her up inside. “Liam didn’t think you were real either when I finally told him about you. But when I saw that wardrobe in the captain’s quarters, it looked so much like the one from when we were kids, I had to try.”

Emma winces. “Sorry I slapped you.”

Killian shrugs. “I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that.”

Emma stares at him unabashedly by the light of her bedside lamp, taking in how much he has changed. Gone is the scrawny little boy, though he is still of slender build. Just like last time, he’s wearing a nightshirt that hangs to his knees, but she can still see defined muscles in his arms and legs. His chest is broader, and his shoulders are squared back, stronger and more confident than when he was ten. His hair has gotten darker, and it’s longer, hanging down in his eyes so badly, Emma itches to push it back. It also hangs down so close to his shoulders, that he could pull it back in a low ponytail if he wanted to. His freckles are less noticeable, and his complexion is more tanned, making his azure eyes spark even more than she remembered.

“I hope the Captain doesn’t catch me. I could be whipped for being in his quarters. Though it will be worth it, now that I’ve seen you again.”

He ducks his head as he realizes that he’s been chattering on and on, and Emma feels bad for him because she knows she ought to quit staring and say something already. He pushes his hair back from his face, and when he does, Emma notices his ears. They are slightly pointed, almost elf-like. They’re adorable.

He’s adorable.

He’s also cold, she realizes as he rubs his arms and curls his toes into the hardwood floor. Emma lifts the edge of her blankets. “Come here, you’re freezing.”

Those adorable ears of his turn red at her offer and he gapes for a minute like a fish. “That would be bad form, lass. Liam says I should always be a gentleman.”

Emma rolls her eyes. “First off, if you’re that worried, you’ll definitely be nothing but a gentleman. Second, I can take care of myself. If you get handsy, I’ll just put you in your place like I did with Robby Eddleston.”

“Who’s he?” Killian asks as he slides under the blankets next to her.

“Just a jerk who shoved his tongue halfway down my throat without permission.”

Killian’s eyes darken to a stormy, steel tinted cobalt. “He did what?”

Emma shoves him in the shoulder, “Calm down, jeez. I told you, I can take care of myself.”

“What did you do?”

“Kneed him in the jewels,” she says with a shrug, trying to come off as nonchalant.

He grins at her with obvious pride, “That’s a tough lass.”

They fall silent for a moment, and then Emma finally whispers into the dark, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you came back.”

“No need, love,” he quickly assures her, “though I was worried what had happened to you.”

Emma picks at the comforter spread across their laps, “Martha died of a stroke, and I had to go someplace else.”

Killian reaches for her hand, and her movements still. “I’m sorry. I know you said she was a good woman.”

Emma nods, swallowing down the pain. She turns to him with a quirked eyebrow. “Did you get my bunny?”

“I did, thank you,” he nods, “though I regret to say that he ended up in Davy Jones’ locker. My master at the time called me a baby for having it and tossed it out to sea.”

Emma cringes at the word “master,” but Killian doesn’t miss a beat in the telling of his story. “Davy Jones locker?” she asks. “People really say that where you’re from?”

Killian looks confused. “Seamen do.”

“Oh . . . “ she trails off, her brow furrowed as she tries to make sense of the difference between his world and hers.

“Nevertheless,” he continues, “I can’t tell you how much that small gesture meant to me. It had been so long since I had a plaything. Anyway, how has this new home been?”

Emma looks around her at the still unfamiliar surroundings. “Well, I haven’t been here long, actually. I’ve been bounced around a lot of places since Martha, and most haven’t loved me as well as she did. Except Sarah, until I found out she was crazy.”

“Crazy? How so?”

Emma groans at the memory. “She thought I had magic!”

Killian narrows his eyes. “Why is that crazy?”

“You can’t be serious! I mean, she almost got me killed.”

Killian shrugs, then gestures with his hand at the wardrobe. “I travel to you through an enchanted wardrobe, Emma. And you think magic sounds crazy?”

She huffs out a breath. “Well, okay, yes, you and I . . . that’s hard to explain. But me being like Hermione Granger or something? No way.”

“Hermione who?”

Emma laughs as she cocks an eyebrow at him. “You know, Harry Potter.” He just blinks in confusion. “Books. About wizards and witches.”

“Oh,” he says with a nod, but she can tell he’s still a bit confused, and no wonder. When they were ten, he didn’t even know what a movie was. Emma finds his confusion surprisingly endearing.

Emma leans against Killian’s shoulder with a sigh. “Can we not talk about me and my pathetic life? What’s been going on with you?”

Killian secedes to her wishes and begins to speak. He tells her about discovering rum for the first time at thirteen, and then gambling with dice and cards at fourteen. “I’m pretty good,” he brags.

Emma tilts her head up and grins at him saucily, “I’m sure you are.”

He swipes his tongue along his lower lip in a way that is simply unfair, then continues telling her about letting Liam down at every turn. He weaves a story of a storm at sea where all hands are lost but he and Liam; a story that has her hanging on his every word. This leads to him and his brother joining the Navy at 15 and 17, respectively. Emma turns her head again, her eyes wide.

“Isn’t fifteen awfully young for that?”

Killian shrugs, “Some join as powder monkeys at 11 or 12,” he tells her, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. His words remind her once again that their wardrobe connects two very different worlds. She also still wonders if Killian travels through both space AND time. His world seems so old-fashioned compared to hers. “I’ve caught on fast, though. So has Liam. He’s a lieutenant already, and many of the sailors think he will be the youngest yet to make Captain. I’m still just a cabin boy, but my Captain says it’s only because he likes the fine job I do. He’s talking of promoting me soon. This time, I won’t let my brother down.”

They both fall silent for a moment. Emma’s not sure what to make of their bizarre situation. Emma doesn’t want to contemplate what it means if he’s actually 300 years old or something and no longer living in the 20th century, so she decides to change the subject. She turns her hand so their palms are touching and laces her fingers with his.

“What kinds of things have you had to learn? Like sailor’s knots and star charts and stuff?”

“Aye, and other things, too. I’ve had to learn cartography and geography. And languages, too. Greek was the hardest.”

“You know Greek? Like Zeus and Poseidon and all of that?”

The smile he gives her almost seems teasing, “Of course.”

Emma pokes him in the side and grins when a laugh spills from his lips. “Say something in Greek for me.”

His face turns suddenly earnest as he gazes into her eyes and says, “Omorfi kopella.”

“What does that mean?”

He blushes and ducks his head. His unfairly long lashes brush the top of his cheeks as he answers. “I said you were beautiful.”

Killian brushes her cheek lightly with his thumb and then leans towards her. Emma meets him halfway. His lips are soft and warm against hers, and their touch makes her heart soar in her chest. This is what she had always imagined a kiss should be. It’s nothing like kissing Tom Pierce or Robby Eddleston. Killian tilts his head to deepen the kiss as his fingers thread through her hair, and Emma sighs into it. When he pulls back, his eyes are a midnight blue as he rests his forehead against hers.

“The thoughts I’m having right now aren’t very gentlemanly,” he confesses huskily.

Emma chuckles. “Good,” she tells him, thumbing his lower lip, still moist from their kiss.

A bright shaft of light falls across her bed and Emma groans. Killian cups her face in both his hands. “I wish I could stay, but –“

“Your brother,” she finishes for him. She looks long into his eyes. “I get it. You’re all each other has.”

Killian nods and brushes one more brief kiss across her lips as he rises from the bed. He bows to her, taking her hand and brushing his lips across her knuckles. She giggles, and he gives her a slightly roguish smile.

The last thing she sees before he disappears inside the wardrobe is the look of longing in his blue eyes.

“They remind me of Martha’s forget-me-nots,” she thinks to herself, “but sad, too.”

Killian: Age 16

“Get up here, little brother!”

Killian grabs his naval jacket and dashes up the ladder to the deck, grumbling under his breath about it being “younger” brother not “little.” It especially bothers him when Liam is speaking as Lieutenant Jones and not just family. Yet it seems Liam isn’t the only one loose with naval order at the moment. When Killian climbs out of the hold, he finds the rest of the crew chattering excitedly, gazes tilted upward.

“Killian!” Liam calls, racing to his side. “You almost missed the excitement!”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure, but the captain gave me a new sextant to plot our course, and it uses star charts I’ve never seen before.”

Killian’s eyes scan the ship’s deck, his eyes landing on the men wrestling to hoist an unusual sail. He blinks, thinking surely he must be seeing things, but as the sail rises, he finds it is, in fact, made of feathers. In the center of it is the symbol of a horse with wings.

“This sail,” Captain Roberts announces from his place on the quarter deck, “is made of feathers from the wings of the famous mythical horse Pegasus.”

“Captain!” the gunman shouts breathlessly. “Enemy ships off the port bow!”

The Captain ignores the announcement and turns to Liam Jones. “Lieutenant, plot our course!”

“Should we prep the canons, sir?” the gunman asks, confusion clear on his face.

“There will be no need,” Captain Roberts dismisses with a mysterious smile, “where we are headed, they can not follow.”

Killian glances at his brother, who heads for the ship’s wheel, but Liam looks just as confused as he. Killian rushes to the railing along with several other men of lower rank. They lean forward to watch the cannonballs from the enemy splash with a mighty roar into the water a safe distance away: warning shots.

Killian almost loses his balance as the Jewel of the Realm creaks and sways, his stomach dropping. His eyes widen as he sees the ocean fall away below. He and the rest of the men gasp as the reality sets in - the Jewel is airborne.

“Quit gaping and man your stations!” Captain Roberts shouts. “We’re heading to Neverland!”

There’s a quiet murmur after the announcement, even as the men scatter to their duties. Most have never heard of such a realm, while others whisper excitedly of a place they once visited in their dreams as children. The whispered tales seem far-fetched to Killian: a place where your dreams come true, where you can eat chocolate cake all day long, swim with mermaids, and even fly? Even at ten, he would never have believed it.

Of course, a magic wardrobe that takes you to the girl of your dreams seems far-fetched, he supposes. He grins as he remembers Emma’s lips on his, her soft cheeks beneath his calloused fingers, her silken hair tickling his jaw. He has to find a way to get back to her - hopefully tonight. He isn’t sure what this mysterious mission is all about, but surely the captain’s personal cabin boy won’t be needed for whatever it is. He only has to figure out a way to sneak into Captain Roberts’ quarters when the man isn’t there -

“Killian!”

He startles at the sound of his name, and Liam chuckles, clapping a hand to Killian’s shoulder. “Everyone else is mesmerized by our journey to the skies, yet here you are daydreaming.” Liam cocks his head as he regards his younger brother. “Oh no, it’s a lass, isn’t it?”

Killian blushes as he shrugs and returns to his work. “I’m just thinking.”

“If you say so,” Liam laughs as he tugs on Killian’s arm, “but don’t let your brooding cause you to miss this.”

Killian lets his brother drag him over to the railing. The ship cuts cleanly through the white, billowy clouds, with none of the swaying he’s become used to at sea. The air is crisp and a bit cold this high, and a particularly thick cloud suddenly envelopes them.

“Incredible,” Killian whispers.

“Brother, look,” Liam whispers back.

The clouds part, and the Jones brothers gasp as the world of blue and white becomes dark and gray. An island shimmers in the distance, surrounded by a blue-tinged glow. They lean further over the railing as the ship dips and begins its descent.

The Jewel of the Realm has arrived in Neverland.

******************************************

In front of Killian, over his brother’s shoulder, is an inviting beach with palm trees that sway in the warm breeze. Behind him, the Jewel of the Realm is shrouded in an unnatural fog.

“Don’t worry, little brother, it’s a simple mission.”

Killian doesn’t even bother correcting him on the “little” part. “Aren’t you the least bit suspicious? A ship full of navy men, yet only two boys can fulfill this task?”

Liam narrows his eyes. “At eighteen I am hardly a boy.”

Killian chuckles. “You better hope you’re wrong if the superstitions of the rest of the crew are to be believed.”

Liam scoffs. “I think it has more to do with the simplicity of the task. We get the plant, row back to the ship, and we’re heroes.”

Killian hopes his brother is right. Captain Roberts had Killian in mind all along to retrieve the plant, but it was supposed to be twelve year old Jim Hawkins in the row boat, not Liam. Unfortunately, the lad had broken his leg and had to be left behind at the last port. Killian tries to tell himself that the captain is just being cautious, like Liam said, tries to agree with his older brother that the tales about this place are just stories nursemaids tell to their charges at bedtime. Shadows that take you away to the island in your dreams, pixies who blow their dust on children to make them fly, mermaids that drag lazy children to their deaths - it’s all surely nonsense.

They beach the row boat, and Liam slings his satchel over his shoulder. Inside is a sketch of the plant they are looking for. Killian narrows his eyes at the shadowy jungle before them. How are they ever to find one single plant in all this vegetation?

He and Liam hear the movement at the same exact moment and spin as they draw their swords. Standing before them on the beach is a lad about Killian’s age, dressed in a tunic made of green leaves and breeches crudely made of animal skins. The smile he gives them is full of mischief and something a bit more sinister. Killian’s spine crackles with suspicion. He glances at Liam, and it’s clear his brother doesn’t see the boy as a threat at all as the elder Jones casually lowers his sword.

“Is there a king on this island, boy?”

The lad smirks. “Just me.”

Killian narrows his eyes, and the boy glances his way with a knowing grin. Liam pulls the sketch out of his satchel.

“We’re looking for this plant, do you know it?”

The boy’s eyes widen. “Dreamshade? Of course I know it. Believe me, you don’t want to mess with it. It’s the deadliest poison.”

Liam scoffs. “It isn’t poison, it’s medicine.”

The boy crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his head. “Who told you that?”

“My captain.”

“He lied. This captain must be quite the ruthless killer. Nothing causes suffering like dreamshade.”

“What’s your name?” Killian asks.

“Killian, don’t waste your time, he’s just a child.”

Killian’s jaw clenches. “I’m about his age. Am I just a child?”

“My name is Peter,” the boy tells them, a gleeful laugh spilling out of him, “and if you’re tired of them trying to turn you into men, you can come and play with me and my lost boys.”

“We don’t have time for games,” Liam mutters.

“Suit yourself,” Peter tells them with a shrug, “if it’s dreamshade you seek, then you’ll have no trouble finding it.”

Then, with a crowing laugh, and to the utter amazement of both Jones boys, Peter launches himself into the sky and speeds away upon the clouds back into the recesses of the forest.

“Okay,” Killian says slowly, “clearly that particular rumor was true.”

“Let’s just get this plant and get the bloody hell out of here.”

“I agree to the getting out of here part, but maybe we should proceed with caution about the plant.”

Liam’s eyes widen and he shakes his head. “Surely you don’t believe that boy over our own captain.”

Killian’s eyes narrow. “I’ve never trusted Captain Roberts completely, and besides, Peter is a native of this island. Perhaps we should -”

“Killian,” Liam cuts him off, “you don’t trust anyone.”

The smile his brother gives him softens the words, and Killian smiles back. “I trust you.”

“Then trust me in this,” Liam says with a slap to Killian’s shoulder. “Without order, without discipline to your superiors, this navy life won’t work.”

Killian wonders, not for the first time, if that’s the very reason this navy idea is a better fit for Liam than it is for him. Nevertheless, he sighs in resignation. “I’d follow you anywhere, brother, you know that.”

And with a nod of understanding and trust, the two of them plunge into the deep woods. The jungle is dark and damp, and Killian only has the trust in his brother’s navigational skills and his compass to find the way. Killian grips said compass in his sweaty hand, pushing aside the tendrils of fear that seek to grip his heart. There’s something ominous in this jungle, and he has the feeling they’re being watched.

Liam squints down at the sketch in his hand. “I thought the boy said this plant was abundant here.”

“Perhaps we’ve -”

Before Killian can finish his sentence, a crowing shout fills the air, and filthy boys drop from the branches above them and burst from the thick foliage on all sides. Some have arrows notched to the bows they carry, others have spears resting upon their shoulders, while still others grip daggers in their fists. All of them have smeared their faces with mud and are garbed in either bits and pieces of the nature around them or tattered remains of clothing. They snarl and gnash their teeth more like animals than humans. He and Liam pull out their swords, but they are completely surrounded. Some of the boys only reach as high as Killian’s hip, clearly only eight or nine at the most. The last thing he wants to do is kill children, even if they do appear savage. The circle of boys part to allow their leader through.

“May I introduce you to my lost boys,” Peter grins. “This island is ours with no grown ups to tell us what to do.”

Liam shakes his head. “All we want is the plant. We told you.”

Peter tilts his head as he steps closer. “You’ve already grown up.” He turns to Killian. “But you - you could join my crew. I can tell you like to play.”

For one, dreamlike moment, Killian wants to tell Peter yes. No expectations, no responsibilities - it sounds wonderful. Playing sounds nice, too. He hasn’t played since his mother passed, and when was that? How old was he? He can’t remember anymore. The parents who were supposed to be there for you and protect your innocence left, leaving you at the mercy of rough hands and sinister eyes. Grown ups were the people who stole your childhood, who tossed your plaything into the deep, dark sea. He thinks of the stuffed rabbit Emma gave him, pure white and soft, bobbing farther and farther away from him. His mind can almost see it, with that bright pink ribbon. His heart beats wildly, he sways where he stands, and -

Liam steps closer, his shoulder brushing up against Killian, and it’s that contact that snaps the sixteen year old out of it. Yes, his brother. He can’t let Liam down.

“Never.”

He expects Peter to scoff, get angry, or turn on him. Instead, his gaze takes him in and a slow, sinister smile plays across his face.

“We’ll see.”

Casually, Peter turns to one of his crew and takes the spear the lad holds. With a subtle gesture, he gives the boys a command, and they all relax their postures, holding their weapons loosely. Pan spins the spear playfully as he turns back to Lieutenant Jones.

“You still trust your captain, lieutenant?”

“Always,” Liam insists.

Peter lifts the spear and taps it gently against Liam’s chest. “Let’s test that, shall we? That plant you seek? The tip of this spear has been coated with its sap. Your captain says it is medicine, I say it’s poison. Who should you trust?”

“Liam,” Killian pleads.

Liam lifts his hand to still his brother. “I have no reason to trust you, boy.”

Peter’s eyes flash with a mixture of bloodlust and glee as he slashes the spear brutally across Liam’s chest. Liam cries out and stumbles to his knees, hand to his chest as blood stains his shirt. Killian shouts and falls to the ground beside his brother.

“Just a scratch,” Pan laughs, practically bouncing around them. The lost boys join in his revelry, spinning and giggling maniacally.

Liam groans and falls back, his body shaking. Killian catches him in his lap. Through the gash in his shirt, the wound on Liam’s chest is turning black around the edges and vines of black extend outward, spreading across his torso.

“What’s happening to him?” Killian shouts at Peter.

“Dreamshade poison. I told you. He’ll be dead in minutes.”

Killian goes pale as he looks at the boy in shock. It isn’t so much the casual way he spoke the words, but the spots of red in his eyes and the pleasure curling his lips.

“K-Killian,” Liam gasps, reaching towards his little brother with a trembling hand. Killian takes it and clasps it as tears stream down his face.

“Stay with me, brother,” Killian weeps, then he looks frantically at Peter. “Save him! Please!”

The boy shakes his head. “No one can be saved from dreamshade.”

“Killian,” Liam says again, wincing against the pain, “I’m sorry, little brother. I’m so sor-”

His voice cuts off and he goes limp in Killian’s arms, his hand slipping out of its hold and falling to the ground.

“No!” Killian screams. “No, no, no!”

He cradles Liam’s still form to his chest, rocking back and forth. Sobs wrack his body. He doesn’t know if the lost boys are still there or what they are doing. The whole world could fall apart and he wouldn’t notice.

“It’s a shame, really. I tried to warn him.”

Killian’s head snaps up at the sound of Pan’s voice. Anger fills his veins, but when he speaks, only despair colors his words. “He was all that I had.”

“I know,” Pan replies in a voice that almost sounds sympathetic. He crouches down next to where Killian still clutches his brother’s form. “And now that he’s gone, you finally have the look that all my lost boys share. The look of someone who is completely and utterly alone. An orphan.”

********************************************

Killian watches Pan through the flickering flames of the campfire. The branch of a sapling rests in Killian’s lap, and his fingers twist a vine around each end to make a bow. Pan plays a song on his pipes, and several of the lost boys dance about to its melody. The song calls Killian, urging him to cast aside his pain and join the dance.

But he won’t let himself.

He squints up at the sun. He guesses it’s been about thirty three hours and . . . around twenty minutes since the lost boys tossed Liam’s body into the sea. Thirty three hours and twenty minutes without Liam. His entire life, Liam has been there, and now he’s gone.

Yesterday at dawn, he snuck down to the beach. The rowboat was still there, but the Jewel of the Realm was no longer a hulking form shrouded in the fog. He had taken the rowboat out - not for long and not far - and the ship was nowhere near shore. Surely they hadn’t flown away on the Pegasus sail. Surely they would wait longer than that before giving up on the Jones brothers. He guessed they had simply sailed out of sight or found a cove to hide in. Yet despite his hopes, it’s obvious that his captain cares little for mere boys. No search party has been sent, and Killian doubts it ever will.

Peter reminds him often that Liam’s death is the captain’s fault. The fault of every grown up on that ship, actually. They never cared about you. They never believed in you. Did you really think they would let you be a hero? There’s truth to Pan’s words, Killian knows this, and he’d be lying if he said hatred for his captain didn’t burn within his breast. But he’ll also never forget that it was Pan who sliced the spear laced with dreamshade across his brother’s chest. He’ll never forget Pan’s gleeful smile of satisfaction or the spots of red in his eyes as Liam’s blood seeped his naval shirt.

Killian eyes Pan across the fire now. The dance has reached a feverish pitch, and Killian already knows, in just thirty three hours as a lost boy, that the dance will soon fall apart into a wrestling match. Killian also knows that his only hope for survival is to play the part of a lost boy. Yet despite the naval blue ripped at the knees, despite the way he crowed when they set his naval jacket on fire, despite the mud smeared across his cheeks, Killian will never stop hating Peter Pan.

“Has Peter showed you how to lace that with dreamshade?”

Killian turns to the boy who has plopped down next to him. They all have names, but he can’t remember this one. His black hair is curled tightly against his head, his teeth seem white despite their filthiness against his dark skin. Freckles are barely visible across the bridge of his nose, and his brown eyes seem different somehow from the other boys.

“You forgot my name already didn’t, you?” he chuckles. “It’s Starkey.”

“Right,” Killian mutters, biting off the end of the vine that holds the arrowhead in place.

“There’s a trick to the dreamshade so you don’t nick yourself,” Starkey continues despite Killian’s unfriendliness. “Pan doesn’t always warn the boys. Thinks it’s funny.”

Killian casts a curious glance Starkey’s way. There’s definitely something in those mahogany eyes . . .

“He’s a bit sadistic, isn’t he?” Starkey asks, and Killian gets the impression he’s testing the waters somehow. The lad swallows, glancing nervously to where Peter is crowing over the inevitable wrestling match. “All boys but one grow up,” Starkey almost whispers.

Killian’s heart beats faster as he stares into the flames. “You mean,” he whispers back, not looking at his companion, “the others do?”

“I’m near thinning time,” Starkey replies, “so are Nibs and . Some are oblivious though. Ruffio, for example, he’ll no doubt stay faithful to the bitter end. I hate the look in their eyes when we turn on them.”

Killian turns his head in shock, but Starkey is slipping away into the jungle already. Starkey has obviously told him these things for a reason. But why?

As the next few weeks go by, he and Starkey have more whispered conversations, and Killian is surprised how quickly they become friends. Starkey’s tale is similar to his own, having spent time as a slave on a schooner. The only difference is that his parents were murdered and he was kidnapped, a trauma that Killian is sadly able to imagine now that Liam bled out in his arms.

Slowly, as the days go by, Starkey brings more boys into his confidence: Nibs, first, then Jooks, Noodler, Cecco, and Curly.

A hunting crew returns with a boar to roast, and that night there is a feast and a wild rumpus to follow. Though there is no alcohol, the whole thing reminds Killian of how he used to act when he’d drink too much rum. Killian feasts, he dances, even plasters a smile upon his face, but it’s all a show for Peter Pan. He can’t stop thinking of his brother for one, but there’s also Starkey’s cryptic words : thinning time.

Killian plops down, exhausted, and grabs a coconut to guzzle some of its milk. As he swipes the back of his hand over his mouth, he sees Pan at his side, leaning forward and scrutinizing his face. It takes all of Killian’s willpower not to startle back. For a long moment Peter studies him, and it causes a chill to run down Killian’s spine. When Pan finally speaks, his voice holds barely contained anger and a trace of shock.

“You have a mocking kiss in the corner of your mouth.”

Killian blinks. “Wh-what are you talking about?” His mind goes to Emma, of course, not that she is ever far from his thoughts. Especially now with Liam gone, he longs for the wardrobe in Captain Roberts’ cabin and fears he may never see it again.

“There,” Pan accuses, pointing with a dirty finger, “perfectly conspicuous in the right-hand corner. How did I not see it before?”

Killian glances around nervously as the party noises have gone silent. Several lost boys have drawn closer, concern furrowing their brows.

“He has a kiss, Peter?” one of the boys asks.

“Kisses are dangerous!” another one gasps.

“Yes,” Peter answers, his eyes narrowing with a faint glimmer of red, “a mocking kiss, and one he’s very fond of too.”

Killian swallows hard as he rises to his feet. The lost boys seem to be closing the noose around him, and he looks around frantically. There seems to be no choice but to fess up, hope for mercy, though Peter doesn’t seem the merciful type.

“So I’ve kissed lasses. So what? I’m 16!”

“No,” Pan hisses, “not lasses. One lass. A special lass.”

Killian clenches both fists, his face flushing at the way Pan spits out the words. Emma is special, and he won’t deny it. Ever.

“We don’t like girls,” Peter snarls, “they fancy themselves your mother, making you wash before meals and putting you to bed at a proper time.”

Killian narrows his eyes. “Um . . . I think you’re a bit confused.”

It was the wrong thing to say. He couldn’t help his sass, has rarely been able to help it.

“Your brother was obvious. He’d already chosen to grow up. But you, you tricked me. You can’t be a lost boy with that kiss always mocking me.”

Killian knows a heartbeat before it happens that the lost boys will fall upon him. What he doesn’t expect is to find his old naval sword in his hand or for Starkey, Nibs, and several others to fall in line just behind him. He glances at Starkey right before the two sides clash, and the other boy winks at him knowingly.

Those on Killian’s side are all older, but they are fewer in number. And Starkey was right, not all the other boys close to thinning time are willing to turn on their leader. Rufio is the oldest and fiercest fighter, his loyalty to Pan clear in his gaze and his willingness to die. Killian guesses he is seventeen, and he’s broader and taller than Killian. Nevertheless, Killian has naval training with a sword. He holds back, however, unwilling to slaughter little boys, no matter the situation. Yet when he finds himself face to face, blade to blade, with Rufio, something shifts. Pan may not want his boys to grow up, but Rufio fights like a man. Unrefined and a bit desperate, but with strength and muscle behind it.

All skirmishes cease as the sound of the blades clashing draws everyone’s attention. Ruffio fights dirty while Killian has been taught to fight like a gentleman. At first, Rufio’s style seems to be winning when he trips Killian then flings sand in his face. Yet Killian’s training has given him muscle memory, and even with his eyes burning, he acts instinctively.

Killian’s blade pierces Rufio’s heart. The boy’s eyes widen in shock before he hits the ground, blood spreading quickly across his chest. The lost boys are silent. Chest heaving, Killian turns towards Pan, lifting his blood-stained sword.

“I have a crew of my own now,” he tells the demon child, “and we’re leaving.”

Pan narrows his eyes, and before Killian can register what’s happening, he’s taken flight and making circles around him. Pan lands just behind Killian and startles him when he speaks.

“I’m afraid I can’t allow mutiny in my ranks.”

Killian turns to face Pan, ready for a fight, but is unprepared when Peter plunges his hand into his chest. Killian gasps and chokes as Pan squeezes. Then he tugs and with a sharp pain, yanks Killian’s heart out. Killian’s mouth hangs open in shock as he presses his hand to his chest. There’s no blood. How is there no blood?

Pan lifts a glowing red object and holds it in Killian’s face - his heart. It pulses, bright red, with tiny swirls of dark flitting through it.

“Look at this, Killian Jones, you have a touch of darkness in your heart.”

Killian doesn’t know what to do, he can scarcely comprehend what is happening. He’s heard rumors of witches and warlocks who could steal a man’s heart. He never expected it of this boy, however. Killian drops to his knees as Pan squeezes his heart.

“I could crush it right now and end you,” Pan mocks gleefully, “but since you attempted to steal my crew, I’m thinking of a more fitting punishment.”

Pan leans forward and slams Killian’s heart back into his chest. In the same moment, Peter’s other hand snatches Killian’s abandoned sword and he brings it down upon Killian’s wrist, slicing off his left hand. Killian screams in pain, holding his severed appendage to his chest as he falls backwards. Starkey catches him and helps him to his feet, Nibs supports him on the other side.

Pan kicks at the lifeless hand where it lies upon the ground. “They say a vein runs from the heart right down to the tip of your left hand. Fitting don’t you think?”

Pan and his loyal followers melt into the jungle, and Killian doubles over in pain. “Leave me,” he grits out to Starkey and Nibs.

But the two former lost boys in addition to the few others who had stood at Killian’s back refuse to leave him. They drag him through the jungle in the opposite direction of the rest of Pan’s crew.

***************************************

Killian Jones stands at the top of the highest peak in Neverland. The last month has been a time of healing for him. Healing from losing his hand. Healing from the loss of his brother.

But the thirst for revenge? That hasn’t waned.

Killian looks down at the curve of metal at the end of his left arm. His jaw clenches as he gazes upon it, then back out to sea. His new crew had taken him to a couple of fairies - Tinker Bell and Tiger Lily. They had enough pixie dust between them to help him heal, though it was still a long, slow process. No amount of light magic, however, could give him back his hand.

“Hook?”

Killian turns to where Starkey stands further down the hill. That’s what his crew calls him now: Hook. His blue eyes gaze back out to sea at a familiar speck of white on the horizon.

“Get the crew together,” he tells his faithful friend. “We have ourselves a ship.”

**********************************************

For only the second time in his life, Killian Jones has bloodied his sword. Killing Rufio had been largely in self defense, and he had felt sick as he watched the boy’s life blood stain the ground. He doesn’t feel sick now as he strides amongst the naval crew he used to be a part of. He and his new crew had fought ruthlessly, and now their remaining enemies have been tied and gagged.

“If you don’t want to die today,” Killian announces, “you can pledge allegiance to me, Captain Hook.”

A choking laugh escapes the gagged mouth of the Jewel of the Realm’s captain. Killian’s eyes flash when he hears it, and he strides to Captain Roberts. He leans down and yanks the gag from the man’s mouth with his hook.

“Is something funny?” he snaps.

“You are still nothing but a boy.”

Killian leans close to the man’s ear and speaks to him in a whisper. “Really? Is that why you sent my brother and I like lambs to the slaughter? You sent mere boys to retrieve your poison?”

“You knew what you were signing up for when you joined the navy.” Roberts turns and spits in Killian’s face.

Behind Hook, his new crew of former lost boys gasp in shock. Their new leader stands erect, calmly wiping the spittle away with his handkerchief.

“What about loyalty, Roberts? When my brother and I didn’t promptly return, you sailed away and left us.” Killian clenches his jaw. “I see Hawkins is back on board. Were you returning to send him to this accursed island? Still a coward?”

Killian doesn’t need the man to answer; he knows it to be true. Hawkins stands behind him, shoulder to shoulder with Starkey, his arms crossed as he coldly assesses his captain. Killian catches the boy’s eye and Jim nods his approval before Killian hefts his sword and plunges it into Captain Robert’s shoulder. The man flings his head back and screams. Seeing the blood spill upon the deck as he pulls the sword back reminds Killian of Liam, and filled with rage, he stabs the man in the other shoulder. Whimpers color the man’s grunts of pain.

“What do you want?” he manages to choke out.

Killian raises his hook and plunges it into the man’s chest. “I want my brother back, you son of a bitch.” He twists his hook viciously before yanking it out, and the man’s lifeless body crumples to the deck.

Silence reigns on the deck as Captain Hook calmly straightens, wiping his bloody hook clean on his handkerchief. “Raise the black flag!” he shouts to Starkey. “This ship is now the Jolly Roger!”

Tagging:  @snowbellewells​  @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @teamhook @bethacaciakay @let-it-raines @welllpthisishappening @wellhellotragic @winterbaby89 @xhookswenchx @courtorderedcake @branlovestowrite @hollyethecurious @vvbooklady1256 @profdanglaisstuff @carpedzem @ekr032-blog-blog @jennjenn615 @tiganasummertree @lfh1226-linda @ultraluckycatnd @spartanguard @shireness-says @scientificapricot @stahlop @resident-of-storybrooke @superchocovian @sherlockianwhovian @snidgetsafan @ohmakemeahercules @thislassishooked @ilovemesomekillianjones @nikkiemms@delirious-latenight-laughs

[thisweekingundamwing]

This Week in Gundam Wing (June 21-27, 2020)

We have A LOT of fantastic stuff this week in the fandom!  Be sure to send folks your love!

--Mod LAM

Gundam Wing Pride Event hosted at @wingqueero​

Fanfiction

Like Water by @gundayum

Characters: Duo, Hilde

Pairings: 2xH

Rating: General

Tags / Warnings:  bi duo, genderfluid hilde, coming out, slice of life

Summary:  A short, cute coming out story wherein Hilde reveals her gender fluid identity to Duo

Hugs Can’t Fix Things But They Do Help by @from-zero-to-my-own-heero​

Characters: Heero, Duo

Pairings: 1x2

Rating: General

Tags / Warnings: pride, duo and heero have a kid, slice of life

Summary:  Heero and Duo decide to be the dads who give out free hugs to the LGBT+ youth at Pride who want and need the kind of hug only an accepting parent can give. For Duo, it’s just a nice thing to do. For Heero, it’s a lot more personal.

Is it Enough? by @2pcb 

Characters: Trowa, Wufei, Relena

Pairings: 3xR, 3x5, 1+R mentions

Rating: EXPLICIT

Tags / Warnings:  post-canon, post-series, mature situations, NSFW, sexual self-discovery, sexual situations, uncomfortable sexual situations, second person POV

Summary:  Trowa helps Relena understand her asexuality, and learns to come to terms with himself in the process.

Pteromyini by @tumbledrylemur​

Characters: Duo, Wufei

Pairings: 2x5

Rating: General

Tags / Warnings: domestic fluff

Summary:  Wufei spars with his backyard nemesis and Duo gets the answer to a question

Respite by @lifeaftermeteor​

Characters: Sally, Noin, Une

Pairings: Sx9x11

Rating: General

Tags / Warnings:  polyamory, non-binary Noin, fluff, domestic fluff, romance, post-canon, post-series

Summary:  Noin, Po, and Une take some time away from their responsibilities and daily lives to take a much-deserved romantic retreat out into the woods.

In Perspective by @beemotionpicture​

Characters: Heero, Wufei

Pairings: Heero x Wufei

Rating: General

Tags / Warnings: fluff, romance, post-canon, post-series, slice of life

Summary: Five times Heero kissed Wufei, and one time Wufei kissed back.

Beneath: Pride by @duointherain​

Characters: Heero, Duo, Relena

Pairings: 1x2, RxOC, m/m, f/f

Rating: General

Tags / Warnings: BLM, Pride, handicapped Duo

Summary:  Mostly just a sweet story. The kids survive a night of terror and Duo thinks he’s done with Earth holidays forever, but Relena’s girlfriend convinces him to try Pride.

Fun Curses with Catboys by @2pcb 

Characters: Duo, Wufei

Pairings: 2x5

Rating: EXPLICIT

Tags / Warnings:  post-canon, post-series, magical transformations, NSFW, explicit sexual situations, size difference, minor cum inflation

Summary:  When Wufei leaves the Preventers, Duo goes snooping and finds out some things about his favorite -crush- loner. Like his hobbies in gardening, rare book collecting, and… magic? Probably shouldn’t have touched that, Duo. Good thing it’s a fun curse, and there’s a sexy wizard around to help out.

Fanart

The Courtyard (6x13) by @alexecinz

Under the Moonlight (1x2) by Stephanie (no Tumblr)

Take Out (2x5) by @drawingplastered

Red Riding Hood (Rashid) by @2pcb 

Happy Pride! (1x2) by Solice (no Tumblr)

Trans Pride (3x4) by @theboringbluecrayon

Night Out Preparations (1x2) by Kari (no Tumblr)

In the morning light (pilot pile) by @grey-sentry​

Give You the Moon (1x2) by @bettertasting​

Flower Crown (1x2) by Kari (no Tumblr)

From Sally to Noin and Noin’s Reply (Sx9) by @lemontrash​

Intimate Duet (3x4) by Stephanie (no Tumblr)

Other Fandom Works

Duo Pride Cosplay by @distracteddream​

Livestream Panel (June 27) by @sandrockskaterpaladin​

Non-Event Stuff

Fanfiction

Violet in Tooth and Claw (Ch.4/?) by @duointherain​

Characters: 5 pilots

Pairings: 1x2

Rating: General

Tags / Warnings: werepossum, unpleasant surprises, Heero reads poetry

Summary: Duo had hangovers. He wasn’t familiar with the word alcoholic at this point in his life, but if he had he might have made a stupid joke about how Earth made a joke word just for him.

Beneath: Leprechauns and Clovers (Ch.5/?) by @duointherain​

Characters: Heero, Duo, Relena

Pairings: 1x2, RxOC

Rating: General

Tags / Warnings: handicapped Duo, combat, cliffhanger, crossover

Summary: Heero regretted his words as soon as he looked at Duo’s tracking work.

Your Body’s Poetry (Ch.19/?) by @doctormegalomania​

Characters: 5 pilots, Relena, Hilde, Sally, Noin, Zechs

Pairings: 1x2, 3x4, 5xOC

Rating: MATURE

Tags / Warnings: past relationship(s), slice of life, post-break up, slow burn, developing relationship, implied/referenced domestic violence

Summary: Long after the wars, long after peace is established the Gundam Pilots discover one immovable fact: Relationships are hard work.

Party Night by @bobo-is-tha-bomb​

Characters: Heero, Duo, Hilde, Dorothy, Sylvia, reader

Pairings: 1xReader, 2xH

Rating: EXPLICIT

Tags / Warnings: reader-insert, romance, lemon, sexual content, language, alternative universe

Summary: A shiver went down your spine at the thought of being in bed with him again. There was no denying the physical attraction and the chemistry.

Fake by @helmistress

Characters: Duo, Wufei

Pairings: 2x5

Rating: Teen and Up

Tags / Warnings: domestic, fluff, conspiracy theorist Duo, funny, trolling, baiting talk

Summary: Wufei loves him, but sometimes he doesn’t know why.

Fanart

Heero and Relena by @artthingymabob

Dorothy and Quatre by @yawniverse for @pineappleglazedham 

Duo and Quatre by @tatakaumono

Quatre comforting Duo by @arubees

Other Fandom Works

Gunpla and Cosplay

Duo Maxwell EW Cosplay by @bettertasting​

Wing Zero progress shot by @bobo-is-tha-bomb​

Livestream Gundam build by @otakublerd

Headcanons and Discussion

@lifeaftermeteor​ is looking for feedback on the kinds of posts you’d like her to do as part of her worldbuilding / character-study “Fanon Friday” series. Check out her survey post over here.

Alex and Mueller know what’s up by @cloakandfire​

Nostalgia, Nostalgia... by @cuteciboulette​

Scans, Edits, and Fun Stuff

@incorrectgundamwingquotes​ continues to make us laugh (Example 1, Example 2, Example 3, and Example 4)

Scan selection of the DJ cover for “Toki no suna” (The hourglass of time”) by Sango Show by @cuteciboulette​

Glory of the Losers scans by @disturbed02girl

Heero and Wing

Buster Rifle Sleeve Notes

Quatre Winner and Trowa Barton (in color!)

Epyon and Heero in Epyon

Wufei and Meilan

Howard and Zechs

Pictures of Swag by @bobo-is-tha-bomb​

Gundam Design Pages by @bobo-is-tha-bomb​

Wing Zero

Tallgeese

Maganac, Leo, Aries, Tragos

Pisces, Cancer, Taurus, Vayeate, Mercurius

Calendar Events

The Gundam Wing Pride event is entering its grand finale

Catch the last days over at @wingqueero​ June 28-30, 2020!

Posts will go up HOURLY between 4PM and 8PM EDT

@seasons-of-gundamwing​ is taking a poll for the summer event!

Poll is available over here.

Prompts will be posted at regular intervals later this summer around the chosen theme, topic, and/or character(s)

Gundam Wing Cocktail Friday prompts with @gwcocktailfriday​

Post your response on Friday between 3-5PM EDT

This week’s prompt is over here.

[magpie-scribbles]

Gasoline (Rappa x OC Hoshi)

Chapter 1: Little Trouble

Rating: M (Whole story rated E)

Warnings: Drinking, stripping, violence, unsolicited attention

Word Count: 2.7k

Wowwie! It’s the first chapter of Rappa and Hoshi’s Origin!

Once again his scheduled fights had been a let down; squirming little pricks begging for their lives, for him to not beat them into a pulp. If they couldn’t dish it out or take it they should fuck off. The past few weeks had been like this…maybe the past few months, uppity little shits trying to show off their quirks and their power. Doesn’t do you much good when you’re gargling on your own blood and begging your opponent for mercy. His knuckles didn’t even hurt after that last fight, and they had dragged the guy outta the ring, cause he couldn’t even stand up after the beating he took. 

It wasn’t much of a rush when your opponents sucked…So after a lousy couple of fights and a less than ideal payout, he sticks to his usual routine.

He’s pretty certain the door’s on it last legs as he shoves it open; maybe because of him, but it wasn’t like he was the only restless and riled up person that came to this seedy little club. Hell he probably wasn’t the shadiest or the rudest either; though he had started a few fights here, some had been better than his matches. 

The bouncer that does jack shit, nods at him in greeting; guy probably didn’t get paid enough to take care of half the riffraff that dragged their troubles here. Most the time Rappa just watched as he hauled piss drunk sobs out, or waited until a fight ended with someone unconscious; the loser getting kicked to the curb. The only time he had ever really seen the man do anything was when someone got too handsy with the dancers or threatened one of the bartenders. 

It wasn’t like Rappa was complaining, this place was a little slice of heaven in it’s own rough way. Besides the beer was cheap and wasn’t too watered down; and it was nice to see some ass and tits after a night of beating the snot out of people. 

A drink girl passes him on his way to a seat and he orders a pitcher, she looked  him up and down for a moment as if trying to decide if she should give him one to himself before walking off agreeably. There was no way one pitcher was going to put him on his ass, especially since he downed a few burgers and nearly a whole bag of fries before he got here.

He doesn’t have a usual spot, he’s not the kind of guy that would waste time marking his territory in a place like this, where ever has a decent view is good enough for him. 

He should be grossed out by the tackiness of the chair or the grittiness of the floor as the legs scrape as he pulls it back, but hell if he was; slumping into the seat and propping up his feet on the table, completely relaxed and content.

One girl is working the stage, circling the pole with practiced ease, almost looking bored, another was giving another very overzealous patron a lap-dance. A light tap on his shoulder and he turns his head; drink tray, with a very full pitcher angled towards him. The pitcher almost looks like a normal sized mug of beer in his hand, the drink girl doesn’t even wait for him to respond, just walks off; at least she didn’t tell him to get his feet off the table.

Taking a swig he watched the show on the small poorly lit stage; he wonders if others could see it, the raw energy below the barely there clothing as the woman worked the pole. True he was a man and thought with his dick but he could also appreciate the power behind it, if anything the power was just as sexy. 

As he nurses his drink bickering piqued his interest and another patron was trying haggling the price of a lap-dance from one of the other dancers and he snorted when she pressed her foot too harshly against his nuts; daring him to try further bargaining.The man quickly paid up; too bad he was hoping for a scrap; Rappa doubted the squirrelly little businessman could have taken her.

He drains the rest of his drink, not even a buzz running through his system yet, he stared down at the foam at the bottom of the pitcher wondering if they watered it down, usually he at least felt a little relaxed. He looked around for the drink girl; the place had gotten busier, he gazes at the flickering clock on the wall they still hadn’t fixed the stupid thing. 9:12pm…at least he thought it was a 2 on the end. The business men were crawling out of their holes or away from their boring family lives, general riff raff and scum, looking for a place to get smashed. And Rappa could only hope this meant some action, this place usually saw some good tumbles after 9 and fuck where was the drink girl?

Growling he knew his seat was going to be taken if he got up to go to the bar, but maybe that meant someone would fight him for it and if that didn’t get his blood pumping. Hauling himself up and rolling his shoulders, he didn’t bother pushing his seat in. 

The place is already crowded enough that he needs to physically push his way to the bar, not that it’s hard, but he just wants a fucking drink. One guy is loudly boasting, standing right in his path and paying no attention to the behemoth seeking to get passed him. So Rappa does what he always does and lays a large hand on the mans back and shoves. There’s a scramble and some concerned gasps as the man is catapulted over a nearby table, but no one dares reprimand the beast that shoved him, especially not after they saw his sheer size.

Finally he wades through the sea of other patrons to the bar, the music is getting louder and he’s glad to at least find a seat at the bar, even if the backless chair looks comically small under him. He slams the pitcher on the counter, loud enough that it could be heard over the sound of the environment. 

“What’s a guy have to do to get a fuckin’ drink around here?” he rumbles. 

It’s almost too quick for his eyes to catch but then there’s a small head of pink hair popping up from behind the bar. Bright eyes staring him down. He had never seen her here before.

“It’s called waiting your turn!”  she quips, grabbing one of the drafts and pulling into a regular sized pint.

For a moment he wonders why she’s still kneeling and then he realizes she’s just a tiny little thing…and she’s telling him off. He’s caught off guard for a moment, most people are intimidated by him immediately but she’s…oh, well now she’s ignoring him. 

Slinging the drink down the bar towards another patron, another calls out their order and she rolls her eyes. She turns to face him, still nonplussed by his size.

“Ok, what’cha want big guy?”

He grins and goes to say something when he hears a wolf whistle.

“Look at you, you little thing!” 

She’s already bristling as she looks over her shoulder for the offender.

“Surprised they don’t have workin’ the pole up there; well why don’t you come over and sit on daddy’s lap and work somethin’ else.”

Rappa looks over, a skeevy man with slick back hair is eyeing her up and patting his thigh.

The little pink haired bartender looks back over to him, and fuck if she was directing that feral smile at him he might be a bit cautious about bite behind those teeth.

“Excuse me for a moment.” she says sweetly and bats her eyes.

She moves achingly slow towards the cat-caller, swaying her hips side to side, and, well he’d be lying to say he wasn’t watching the curve of her pretty little ass as she sauntered. 

Casually she leans on the counter, back curved enticingly and chest out as she gazes at the sleazebag that had been talking to her. Slowly she reaches out and grabs his tie, fingers gently pulling on the material. He lets himself be pulled.

“Well look at you, what a good little girl.” he growls at her, or tries to.

Rappa is very curious at this point, wondering if she’d just go with the flow and get some extra cash from the guy by taking him out back but then…

“You don’t look like a daddy.” she tilts her head, and if Rappa had a drink at the moment he’d be doing a spit take because she’s full on sucker punching the guy square in the face. The only thing keeping the man from falling backwards out of his seat her iron grip on his tie. And then she tugs him back, slamming his head into the counter before finally releasing him.

The man whines pitifully hands coming up, getting ready to catch any blood, when he finally decides to sit up.

“And ya sure don’t sound like a daddy.” she huffs, rubbing her knuckles on the back of a drink cloth. The guy is still refusing to look up at her, but he whimpers when she leans down, hand going under the bar, reaching for something Rappa can’t see. “And I ain’t a good girl.” the hand below the bar, pops up and she’s placing one of those little overly sweet, dyed cherries on his head.

She stands back up and smiles.

“That one’s on the house!” she says in a sing song voice. 

She practically skips back over to him, mood seemingly unsoured.

“Now, let’s try this again.” she leaned her elbows on the counter in front of him and rests her chin on steepled fingers. “What can I get for ya big guy.”

The smile she gives him is genuine and he can’t help but smile back and release a bellowing laugh, nudging the empty pitcher towards her.

“A refill.” he settles on his forearms, now that the commotion has settled, or at least it appeared so for now. The little bartender picks up the pitcher; where it looked comically small in his hands, it looks comically big in hers.

“You drink all this yourself?” she looks into the bottom like it might hold a clue. “Wowwza! You can pack it!” 

She seems almost excited about that, and he can’t help but find her more and more amusing. He eyes down the bar, the man she had punched is still nursing his wound, bloodied napkin pressed to his nose. Rappa sneers when the man caught his eye. 

“Whatcha havin’?” she grabs his attention as she moves over to the drafts.

“Triple IPA.” 

Immediately she recoils, wrinkling her nose and sticking out her tongue.

“That stuff’s so bitter!” still she turning to pull more of the deep amber liquid into the pitcher.

“It’s gotta good alcohol content.” he replies smartly.

“So do Martini’s and Pimm’s!” she shoots back.

“I ain’t drinkin’ pussy drinks.” he drums his figures against the bar, maybe that would get a rise out of her, he was interested to see more of her reactions.

“I Ani’T DrinKIn’ PuSsy DrINks.” she mocks, slamming the pitcher back down on the counter dangerously close to one of his hands, some of the beer sloshing over the side and onto his fingers. “At least they don’t taste like piss.”

He grabs the refill and takes a long swig, watching as she pops and few cherries into her mouth…and a few green olives…

“And how would you know what piss tastes like?” he arches his eyebrows after as satisfying swallow and foul smirk pulls at his lips. He wonders if she’ll punch him.

She observes the lemon wedge in her hand for a moment before biting into it.

“And why would I tell you? Maybe it’s a dirty secret.” she says around the wedge as she continues to suck on the sour fruit.

He nearly spits out his next gulp of beer. 

“Sakuretsu!” someone calls from behind him, and he watches as the drink girl pushes her way through the crowd, looking rather annoyed. “Stop. eating. all. the. GARNISH!”

The small bartender, no, Sakuretsu sags dramatically and throws the lemon away. That’s a mouth full of a name for something so small. She starts removing empty glasses from the other woman’s tray and putting new ones on. 

“So, Sakuretsu-” he begins when the drink girl walks off with her orders.

“Ugh, no.” she whines and he cocks his head. “Hoshi, my name is Hoshi.” she says something else under her breath but he can’t make it out. 

“Well, Hoshi, you won’t tell me why ya know what piss tastes like, will ya tell me why I haven’t see ya here before?” he’s already halfway done with his pitcher and he’s finally starting to feel the buzzing through his body.

“I got some friends, pulled some strings.” she’s not shy in her answer and he has a feeling her friends probably aren’t good people. “Guess you can’t exactly go around nicking people’s wallets for all your chump change. So a real bonafide job is the way ta’ go, it’s a lot less fun though.” so she was a little pickpocket.

“Awfully honest.” he rumbles leaning closer. She works fast, seemingly already good at the job she had just gotten.

“No point in lyin’, it’s beatin’ around the bush! ‘Sides you don’t seem like the type to be an undercover boy.” she waves him off almost boredly, and then suddenly she’s in front of him smiling. “I bet’cha you’re one of them underground fighters!” 

He can smell the citrus from the lemon she had been eating, and fuck she’s a cute little thing; with the alcohol thrumming through him he can definitely feel his dick twitch.

“And you’d be right.” he rumbles, leaning a little closer wondering if he’d scare her off.  

“You probably knock the snot outta them!” she says excitedly, fuck the fact that she seems into it definitely has him even more interested.

He has to pull away to to clear his head, which he completely ruins by finishing off the rest of his beer; dammnit and he needs another, especially if this little bartender was going to keep toying with him, he wonders if she even knows what she’s doing. Pushing the pitcher back he taps plastic with a blunt nail, his eyes hooded, the lopsided smirk pulling at his lips dangerously close to something he might wear in the bedroom. She doesn’t seem to notice his primal look.

“Wow, you’re a fuckin’ BEAST!” she grabs the pitcher in awe. He’d definitely like to hear those words again.

She turns to fill it up again and he takes the chance to dig the heel of his hand roughly against his dick. Fuck… true he’s gotten hard from the girls here before but that was the strippers; maybe getting another drink wasn’t a smart idea, but Rappa wasn’t a smart man.

She gives him the refill but it’s hard to pay attention to beer because she’s crooking her pretty painted finger at him and he leans in. She glances around quickly before pulling a card out of her top. 

“Took that sleazebag’s card.” she looks very happy with herself. “And!” she flicks it. “I’ll pay off your tab with it if ya get me into watch one of the fights for free.”  

He still had enough brain power to consider her deal. True the entry fees went to pay the fighters, but his prize money was going directly into the pitcher in front of him. It honestly wasn’t much of a decision at this point with a good portion of his blood running straight to his dick rather than his brain and the rest singing with alcohol.

“Deal.” 

“Yes! bloodbath! “ she pumps her fist and grins at him. “This is gonna be fun!”