#...they were agonizing about how he ruined his skin and beauty and how *they* didn't find him attractive anymore (how sad /s)

[uncanny-tranny]

I just have to say that it's so weird reading how transphobes think of trans bodies as mutilated and gross when they never would have thought my body pre-transition was worthy. The "argument" of mutilated beauty that transphobes have tossed around is just a fear mongering tactic, because they don't tend to actually love or appreciate and see value in bodies that don't "neatly" fit into male and female, with no overlap and no nuances.

[bkd-b3ans]

You try to repair a watch, Boothill is being annoying as usual, you end up discovering his neurolink perfectly mimics human emotions.

-> Ship: Boothill X Mechanic!Reader (or just tech savvy idk the term really)

-> Rating: Safe for All

-> TL;DR: Boothill visits you after closing hours, nearly ruins a 5 million watch repair commission, stares for a bit too long while you work and overheats for a bit, ends up learning you live above your own workshop and you learn he gets flustered easy.

-> Extra notes: No idea where I will go with these, I just love writing stuff. Next one is going to be more about touching / feeling, but until then, you too can experience casual chatter. I do not proof read, whatever is written is in accordance to Ellios script, go meow at him. Take this "2nd" part as pure world-building.

-> Word count: 2k~ ish

-> First part: here

Thank you for reading and bearing with my awful English. If you have any prompts I would be more than happy to hear them.

"Pardner? Yoohooo~" Boothill was waving his arm like a manic from the front of the counter, trying to catch your attention, but you were too engrossed in your work, tinkering away with some expensive watch you were paid to fix, the tiny gears and springs neatly organized in your table in tiny boxes with labels, while you were hunched over the table, looking through a magnifying glass and listening to music, tongue almost sticking out like some cartoon character while you were trying to place the gear in its place carefully using some precise tweezers.

For all you cared, your shop was closed for the day, so why would anyone in their right mind, or that knows how to read a sign, would even bother you? Of course you didn't take into account a Galaxy Ranger that had a passion for annoying you at random times.

"Psst, hey, over 'ere..." he sighed, "Fudge this". Impatient as ever, Boothill just helped himself with one of the expensive motor oil cans in the counter and stepped around it, taking off his hat and placing it on your head.

The whole motion made you jump out of your skin, dropping the tweezers together with the very important, one of a kind gear, that you could barely notice while it was on your table, let alone on your floor, rolling off into the void like all of the pens you've lost throughout the years.

"WHAT THE FUCK, MY FUCKING WORK OF MY AEONS-" you took off the hat annoyed, hand still shaking from the scare and heart running laps in your chest. Shoving the hat into Boothills chest, you couldn't help but be angry at the man, sighing.

"Damn sugar-cube, didn't know ye were this jumpy. Ye should be more aware of yer surroundings you know?"

"What the hell does that mean. MY SHOP IS CLOSED BOOTHILL, CAN'T YOU READ??"

"Well, not your language no, it's all a bunch of jumbles and lines"

You looked confused for a moment before realizing that neither of you were from the same planet. You rubbed the bridge of your nose, trying to get rid of your furrow.

"Just, shut up and help me look for that gear. AND PUT THE DAMN CAN DOWN"

He raised his arms in defeat, putting down the can of motor oil and looking around your workbench while you were painfully looking for the gear with your magnifying glasses.

"Lotta' shiny pieces you have on the table. Are these really more important than your good old buddy, Boothill?"

"Unless you're willing to give me 5 million, then yes"

Boothill choked

"5 million?? For some beautiful watch?"

"What can I say, some people have more than they know what to do with. Now stop yapping and get on your knees, I can't see shit."

"Is that an invitation, darling?"

"... BOOTHILL!"

"Aye aye, don't get your feathers ruffled like this darling, just sit there and be pretty"

----------------

You couldn't help but be annoyed still, slumped in your chair, fiddling with your pen, while Boothill was looking around. How long has it been already, maybe a few minutes? Hours? Days??? Your work couldn't wait that much, and each ticking second felt agonizing. You were so close too, getting interrupted was the last thing you needed right now. You always had plans, a schedule, deadlines, you couldn't afford the unpredictability that is Boothill sometimes.

You almost got too lost in your thoughts before you heard a sudden thud, metal against wood, and a proud exclamation.

"Here it is sugar-cube, your pretty little thing... Cogwheel whatever. Now can you stop looking like someone spat in your food or do I need to repair this watch myself to make you happy?"

You could swear sometimes he was like a dog, a big doberman. For as scary as he could look sometimes, you couldn't help but be unable to push him away. All you could do was just let out an amused scoff, taking the gear piece in the palm of your hand, and gently placing it in it's box.

"No, no, you've done enough damage already. Why are you here even?"

"Just wanted to pay my best buddy a visit? What, a man can't do that no more?"

"No fixing your body? No maintenance work? Really nothing? Just a visit? Odd, thought you were a busy man"

"Oh I sure am sugar-cube, but sometimes even I need to sit down and relax."

"... In my workshop"

"In yer workshop, yes."

You sighed

"Fine, fine, stay for as long as you need, but don't touch anything that is in this-" you motion around your workbench "general area"

He tipped his hat in acknowledgment

"Aye aye, I'll stay put, fudge me, you can be very serious sometimes."

"5 million"

"Right yes, that's understandable."

You went back to work, trying to finish placing the last pieces inside that damned watch, headphones back on your ears. Boothill was simply slumped on the couch you kept around the waiting area, that barely saw any use to begin with. He was just looking around, bored out of his mind, the silence really starting to get to him. On occasion he's throw you glances, looking like a kicked puppy only to be met by your back either way. Yet he couldn't help but notice the few tics you had, tapping your foot, humming to yourself from time to time, arranging your hair by shaking your head around, and just how damn beautiful you looked in that dim warm light.

By no means we're you prettied up and groomed, after all, working with machinery all day will just lead to one always being covered by oil or sutt, clothes messy, the tools around your belt loud and heavy, but to him, it was part of the charm. The passion you had for what you did, the care you treated everything with, even his own body when it needed repairs. Sure, you two may butt heads more often than goats, but you were the reason he kept making his trips back to your workshop for any needs. He trusted you, felt comfort in your presence.

He could feel his insides start to heat up, his mind trailing off. Sure, he couldn't blush for the love of him, after all blood stopped flowing through his body long, long ago, but his body still reacted from time to time to strong emotions, and now it was no different. It felt, uncomfortable almost, a strange emptiness in his metal gut. Maybe it was the bullets he snacked in like some chips, or maybe it was more than that. He just simply pulled his hat over his eyes to focus and calm down.

-------------------

Finally, after so many hours, you were finally done, the watch ticking gleefully, almost as if happy with it's new look. You sighed in relief, finally placing down your headphones and slumping in your chair, pulling your glasses up.

"Finally... I swear they are trying to drive me insane with all these new 'trinkets' that have way too many small pieces for their own good. How you holding up, Boots?"

"Fine as ever sugar, bored out of my mind, but rested"

"Yeah, I can see that, you've already made a dent in my couch"

"Hey, I helped ya find that gear for free, can't I get some more respect"

"And who's fault was it that I dropped it?" You said, raising your eyebrow.

"Aye aye, sorry 'bout that."

There was a moment of pause

"Say, partner, you've messed around inside my body for a while now. Do you know if there's any functions that might mimic proper human emotions?"

"Human emotions? Hmmm"

You thought for a moment, trying to remember if you've seen any kind of code that might do that.

"I don't think I've seen anything like that, but I've also never like, actually paid attention. There may be some functions that mimic that, after all, you might need them to think and work properly. Why?"

"Ah, nothing important, was just wondering."

"I can always check if you want. Of course, for a price"

He couldn't help but scoff, amused "You were never free eh?"

"Someone has to eat"

"Sure, sure. I mean why not, might as well get this mystery solved, since I'm here and have nothing better to do."

"Then come with me"

You both went inside your garage, Boothill already used to all the steps, laying down on the weird table chair as he put it while you connected the cables to the back of his neck, opening the hologram screens.

"Let's see..." you rubbed your chin, pacing around while moving around screens, trying to find anything remotely similar to what Boothill mentioned, but it was rather hard. Every line kept changing dictating different functions every moment.

"Hmm...."

"Anything the matter?"

"No, I just realized why I might have never seen that kind of function. Your neurolink is adapting to everything you do, so it's changing constantly. I think the only way to spot anything us to trigger whatever made you so curious about your 'emotions'"

"Trigger em? And how the fork do you plan on doing that?"

You thought for a moment, moving next to Boothill, dragging the screens along with you. You didn't really give a warning as you poked his chest with a screwdriver, noticing some changes.

"What in the beautiful sky are you doing?"

"There it is" you just pointed at the screen at the suddenly changing lines.

"Your body reacts to your mental state. Right now you are confused"

"I sure as warm lake I am, you're poking me around with a screwdriver."

"What else would have you wanted me to do? Touch you with my own hands?"

He was about to say something, but you grabbed one of the screens, squinting at it.

"Getting flustered, Boots?" You could almost feel your own smug smile forming on your face.

"Flustered? Please, you'd think I'd get 'flustered' from just a check-up?"

"Bashful... Interesting"

"Hey! Stop saying things and answer me, sweetheart"

"And annoyed. Yeah, you do seem to have those functions, and they're damn advanced to mimic human emotions. Guess you aren't just metal after all. You still have the ability to feel. It's interesting how this changes..."

You got too focused on the lines of code, not paying attention to how you started leaning against the table, your hand extremely close to Boothills, fingers almost touching. Sure, you were just staring at the lines changing, but Boothill was staring at your hand, annoyed almost that he couldn't just grab it, only to be confused over why he was annoyed. You just chuckled to yourself and pushed the screen away, unplugging the cables.

"Well, mystery solved, your neurolink functions exactly like a brain and it sends the proper signals, so your body will be affected by your emotions."

"Great-" he rolled his eyes, standing up and scratching the back of his head "You need a new table, this one is forking uncomfortable."

"I don't take feedback"

"Yeah yeah, whatever you say darling." he just hopped off the table, adjusting his hat.

"H-"

"1k credits"

"Damn, let me finish at least. Fine, you know the drill"

"Nah, I'll let it slide this time. Getting to check your internals can be fun sometimes" you patted his back

"I'll go home, unless you want to guard my shop, you should leave too."

"You don't just live in your workshop??"

"...what...?"

"You know, like, I've always only seen you here, where is your home even."

"Oh... Oh! I guess you can say that? My home is upstairs, I bought the whole building when I opened so everything on the ground floor is the shop, upstairs is my place."

"Ok that makes sense... Can I-"

"No"

"Fine fine, I'll go my merry way then. I'll see you next time partner, and thank you for the free check-up"

"Don't get too used to them"

He nodded, tipping his hat and leaving.

[werezmastarbucks]

2. ice cold matcha

pic credit

masterlist

author's note: the BAU unit doesn't work like what I described here, and the 'mixed training' is purely my invention. BAU stands for Behavioral Analysis Unit

warnings: none

word count: 4355

June was scratching the place in between her eyebrows, the one dry patch that always needed extra moisturizing. The sun was burning her elbow, and she moved away in one sharp movement. She had slight headache already, from the loud music, but it was better than listening to the mayhem of the station. The pictures lay in front of her like postcards, all faces equally unpretty, except for one or two. Big noses, swollen eyelids, skin corroded from years of drinking, drugs and the sun; faces hardened by the pain that added years of age. Take Scotsman, for example, and his stupid nickname. Guy was forty-five and looked about five years older. The scars of his cheeks distorted the whole composition of his face, but he was lucky. They healed well. The black eyes looked at her from the picture, full of hatred. The only one who didn't give in. The sage?

She put a little red dot against his name in her notebook. He's going to be her escape plan, if anything.

She considered taking a break. The phone showed her the time for lunch, and her mouth immediately called for any type of drink that would be too gay for this city. Matcha, lemonade, bubble tea, fruity and ice cold, yes. She threw herself back on the chair, moving her foot with the music, fantasizing about cold drinks. Just when she almost decided what she wanted to get from the nearby cafe, someone knocked politely on her desk.

She opened her eyes and saw a face that was in her files. Hair line receding, but big doe eyes, must have been a beautiful man when he was younger. Arms still wide, the muscles refusing to deflate from his stronger years, under the darkly tanned skin. But she couldn't place his name.

June took out one airpod, and the world was again filled with the loud noise of the police station. She immediately felt uncomfortable again. The strong frail old man stood in front of her desk so shyly, compromising her mind with the sight of polite feebleness.

"I am Wayne Unser", he said.

"Oh, yes, right, I was trying to place you".

She stood up and offered her hand, which he accepted.

"Please sit down. You are the retired chief of Charming".

"That's right. Dropped by to see FBI with my own two eyes", he grinned without too much confidence. She threw her hands up, gesturing towards the busy hall, melting, agonizing in the afternoon sunlight, bustling with the criminals and officers, trying to outscream each other.

"Prefer to think of myself as a BAU agent", she nodded. Had to be careful with him. She wanted to know how close he was with Boulder.

"This space is quite distressing. Couldn't the Captain find a little office for you at least?"

"I'm afraid everything's taken".

"Surely a room for an agent should be suitable".

She tilted her head on one side.

"Well, it's not like I'm - agent agent. I am only here half-officially".

Wayne painted susrpise for her.

"That so? What's the case you're working on?"

"Sons of Anarchy".

He was silent, listening. June couldn't hold back a smile.

"I guess you're one of the best people I haven't interrogated yet about them. Seeing as you're thick as thieves with Morrows, eh?"

She would even nudge him but they were on two different sides of the table.

"Oh, well, are you alone in Charming? Isn't this supposed to be a team project?"

He must think she was cute, with her info pads, and interrogations, and her nonexistent badge. June rubbed her chin. Oh how she wanted a thick, ice-cold, teeth clenching sweet matcha now.

"And what exactly is the case?"

"Oh, I don't know what to choose first", she said, "the drug smuggling, or the terroristic ties, or the debauchery that's ruining the Charming, or the gun trade, or perpetrating the prostitution... it's like they collected all of the most beautiful things in the world and monopolized them".

Wayne frowned.

"Oh, come on. The drug trade is phony".

She licked her lower lip, her eyes narrowing in a smile. She met many a good agent of the old school, who still used the word 'phony'. All of the best guys said this word on a regular basis.

"You know it's not, and I know that, too. But, chief Unser, my biggest beef with them is not even that. I just hate people on bikes", she confessed, "so loud and disruptive. Every time I hear the sound of that engine, it takes away years of my life".

Wayne winced, apparently trying to filter her words.

"Look, agent... I'm sorry, I haven't even noticed that you didn't give me your last name".

June pulled on the drawer in her desk, taking out the folder.

"Listen, here's a copy of my file. Give it to the boys if they're interested. Let them read. If they can't read, read it to them out loud".

Unser accepted it, unsure, and opened it immediately to check. Then looked back at her.

"Eight years in Quantico?"

She nodded.

"And you come here to this hole at the edge of California to nail a biker gang?"

"Yeah", she said simply.

Unser shifted in his seat.

"Lady, you have three killers in jail, what do you need in Charming?"

"I want SAMCRO to disappear from the face of the Earth. Sorry, Chief, can we continue this conversation outside? I'm honestly dying for a cold drink, I can't take this anymore".

Wayne was still looking at her, baffled with the ridiculousness of this. She's young, hot, sharp. Rotting at the window desk at the police station, moving papers on the boys?

"Sure, of course".

They weren't speaking as she gathered her stuff and locked the drawer, but as soon as they stepped outside, he began again.

"June, let's cut the bullshit".

June rubbed her face, trying to avoid smudging her mascara. She made sure Wayne is following her close behind, the file under his arm.

"Yes, let's do that Chief".

"For a cold drink you wanna go to the Shore cafe, not the coffeeshop you're heading to".

She stopped.

"Do they have matcha?"

"Don't know what it is, but I'm sure they do".

They turned around, guided by his hand, and started walking again.

"Obviously you know about my connection to the Sam Crow", Wayne continued, "but it's not as flat as that. This city is partially being held by the club. Clay Morrow does a lot of good for people around here".

June was listening to him silently, her eyes unreadable behind the glasses.

"I don't know who exactly sent you here..."

"I sent me here".

"But for what?"

"Well, if you don't accept my initial answer, then just believe that I really dislike cocky machos".

"I mean, you're a profiler..."

"Here's the thing, Wayne, I can't tell you the whole thing, right? Because you're friends with Morrow. I mean I don't judge, although I really feel a lot of disdain towards them, but I understand connections. You have been on the job for many years. I haven't even been born. So, I won't press on you. But you can't know me".

She nodded.

"Is that the place?"

"Yes", Wayne said, "and Clay helped open it".

She showed subtle approval.

"You wanna try matcha?"

The Chief didn't. He fucked off with the file, the heels of his feet glistening in the sun, hurrying to his master. June took her time at the cafe, taking in the relative silence, before heading back to the station.

Captain Boulder was lingering around her desk, expression of displeasure on his face. Or, rather, it was the lack of certainty. What June managed to gather in these two days was that, the whole body of this department seemed to be in two minds about the SAMCRO: the first half was intensely against her involvement with the club. Outsider and all that. The second half was somewhat happy that someone is trying to push them out, but didn't approve of her going for it on the first day and arresting four members at once.

They had no idea what else she had in mind.

She tilted her head, trying to see the paper in his hand.

"You have a formal complaint", he announced.

She frowned, confused.

"I was being perfectly polite with the Chief".

"Chief came round?" Boulder asked, "you mean Unser? What did he want?"

"Apparently to see how much I know about the club. Who's the complaint from, then?"

"Jackson Teller".

"You can throw it in the garbage".

"Apparently", he followed her with his gaze whil June circled her desk and sat down. The plastic transparent cup in her hand was leaking condensation onto her fingers. She shuffled the papers around to find an empty spot for it.

"But it's a sign. You've been here two days and get a complaint from a freaking biker. I didn't know you spent the whole day at the garage club with them".

She shrugged.

"You know you need a special approval for this, right? First, you send the application and share your plan of action. Then, we discuss the motivation. You don't just go there in shorts and collect intel".

June looked at his face. She had so many things in mind, she needed to make a list of the stuff she came up with on her way back, and the Captain was eating away the precious seconds.

"I mean I understand you come from a very different place", he said soflty. It was very sweet of him to give her all this benefit of the doubt, the respect by default. Didn't even bother to check her background properly when she arrived. But his patience would run out sooner rather than later.

"I needed to grab that momentum when I just came to town and was unknown", she explained. "The things I learnt are invaluable".

"What exactly did you learn though? All you brought me was the stuff you gathered through the basic work".

"The character", she shifted into a comfortable position in her chair and adjusted the shoulder of her shirt.

"The character?"

Captain was a wise man. But, too, unsure about the firm action against the bikers. The believer in the golden middle. The fragile peace. He was ready to accept the guns on the streets and the occasional shootouts in Charming in exchange for the quiet on national holidays and knowldge that no other gang is reigning in his city.

"Yes. Who's the brain, who's the liability. Who I can use to turn into a traitor, who's gonna be their ultimate weak link. Stuff like this. What I do. Character".

"Hmm", Captain laid back on his chair.

"This complaint here states that your frivolous sexual behavior was disruptive to the work of the Repair, spooked away even the customers. Daytime drinking and something that..." his eyes slid down onto the paper in his hand, "resembled prostitution too much".

"We are supposed to believe that they were bothered by sexual behavior?" a smile was curling her lips that were trying very hard to stay unaffected.

"June, maybe I am unaware of the undercover practices that are implemented in your unit, but..."

Captain was way too modest with her for now. Probably too affected, thinking that FBI, of all organs, decided to send her. Thinking it's some kind of blessing for them.

"No dick sucking transpired", she assured him, "I would rather shoot myself in the face than touch any of those ugly idiots".

Boulder exhaled, clearly relieved. He must have been picturing the scandal that arises with the news of the new agent whoring herself out to local 'business owners'.

"But yes, some tactics that I prefer, are normally below an average cultured individual. If I come to work with a black eye one day, don't get too surprised".

He nodded slowly.

"So, what's the plan exactly? You've requested absolutely everything we have, and I got a call from Stockton saying that you've been booking dates with inmates.

"Yes, I want the full picture. Your records have been very helpful, in the last week I've only covered half of it, and I already have about seventy thousand variants of how I can make their lives very difficult. It's easy, like plucking worms after the rain. I mean you guys let a lot of things slide which greatly facilitates my work now".

"Yeah, well, Charming has pretty much democratic relationship with the SAMCRO".

"I reckon. I'll start with the fact that none of their bikes have had yearly inspections in the last five years. You hear this?"

She was almost laughing.

"They own a motorcycle repair shop. And they haven't done any inspection on their motorbikes".

Boulder scratched his eyebrow, using this gesture to take a look around the station.

"Taking away their bikes, huh? Starting with your aces".

She smirked.

"Not even close. I hope it pisses them off though".

"I am worried you will provoke a reaction".

"I hope so", she finished her drink and dropped it into the bin next to her foot. Her brain was now cooled back to the working temperature, and she was ready to dive back into the documents.

"As they get angry, they get sloppy. A lot of heavy lifters like trade and money laundering are at everybody's lips but with no witnesses or base. I need someone to slip up".

"Just be careful. You have a strategy, right?"

"I do. I take them down or die trying", she smiled. Boulder wasn't convinced. He couldn't figure this out yet, but he would, soon. She doesn't have a lot of time.

Her lowering eyes were his cue to leave. He slapped his palms on his laps.

"Well, I promise to try to find you an office".

"Thank you", she said, not looking at him, her hand reaching for her airpods case again. "That would be very nice of you. This gives me major headaches".

"What exactly?" he asked standing up.

"People".

"What the shit is this", Clay mumbled, preferring to finish his glass to the file from Wayne.

"Look at this. She gave this to me herself".

Chibs raised his head and looked at them.

"Who?" asked Happy. Unser nodded at the simple dark blue file in his hand. No marking. Holding something. Tig raced towards him, dropping the pin he's been polishing, and asked permission with his eyes. Clay was silently sucking on his drink, eyes lazy monitoring them all in the mirror wall behind the bar.

"Well? Go on, read it".

Chibs decided to approach and see what Wayne brought.

Tig took the file and opened it like it held poisonous powder, on an outstretched hand.

"Shit. She is not FBI. It says "BAU". Mixed training, three years in forensic psychology, and... eight in criminal profiling? Like pushing papers?"

"Is she a secretary?" Happy asked, disappointed.

"What does it say?"

"Criminal profiling: eight years, Quantico".

Chibs rolled his eyes.

"Criminal profiler is not a secretary. And it's an FBI unit. You really don't know what they do?"

It was alarming. Something unpleasant stirred in his stomach. He looked at Clay into the mirror.

"What the fuck would she need from us?"

"How am I supposed to fucking know", finally said Clay, "let me see the picture".

He took the file and looked at it, his eyes running down the page.

Tig stepped closer to Chibs.

"She just gave it to you?"

Wayne shrugged and sat down next to Morrow.

"Guess it's not a secret. I tried googling, everything matches. Only thing is, she left now, a kind of a nomad agent. I don't really know what it means".

"What is a criminal profiler?" Tig whispered into his ear.

"They catch serial killers, Tig", Chibs replied, "not hunt bloody motorcycle clubs. They make psychological portraits of criminals to facilitate the police work".

"Oh, like in Silence of the Lambs," Happy was finally there.

"Yeah, like that".

Chibs was watching Morrow. He looked over his shoulder to see for himself. June Pallum, born 1984. That would make her only twenty-nine. A list of schools she finished, the graph 'mixed training' made him wonder. He didn't know a whole lot about American FBI, but had a general idea. Maybe this was some kind of replacement phrases for classified information. There was no place of birth, no family ties. Only the job: Tampa, then Quantico. Names of the colleagues. And at the end of the page: determined, apt learner, artistic, hot-headed. And in smaller letters: p a s s e d t h e d o g t e s t.

"A lot of stuff is ommited" he noticed.

"Yeah. Not a load of info", Clay agreed, closing the paper and passing it back to Wayne. This was his only judgement. The guys were waiting for an order, or a decision, or a comment, but nothing came.

"Know her?" finally asked Chibs, a little irritated.

"Nope. Call Jax, give it to him".

She finished work at five and raced for the gym. Charming had a couple of places; June elected one called Power Room because it was less crowded. She usually did an hour of the treadmill at 11 elevation, then ran for thirty minutes, until her ankles hurt. She was a small girl and had to exhaust herself. Punching the bag usually helped with rage, but lately she's been mostly empty, and moreover, it was hard to make a fist with long nails. So it became automatic. Finding a suitable shooting range was more important, because she had to expect anything from this rugged crowd, once she started. Having them in jail over night was fun, especially because she had a good sleep. She didn't expect to sleep much from now on, too many opportunities presented themselves, and June had to grab them all at once. A little octopus she was dreaming to be, June. Sometimes she liked to call herself Juno because it gave her a more ambiguious face; somewhere in between, like a creature and not a certain person.

At home, she took her vitamins, then a shower. Didn't feel like reading, her head in constant low hum. So, she went back into the city, pressurizing herself until she was water, flowing through the cracks, listening to everything, watching everybody.

By seven am the sun was already punishing everybody who found themselves outside. June looked at the blinding white disc and then nodded at the operators who were approaching the bikes with hooks like they were fanged sea monsters. She headed for the garage, already open, repairmen busy like ants in their grey overalls, with cigarettes in their teeth. She wished she smoked, because it always looked so comforting. Didn't have that problem with oral fixation.

Someone ran past her towards the towing operators, screaming obscenities, and as a reaction to the yelling, a couple of people turned up from the mouth of the garage. It smelt fresh still, because it rained at night. Oily and metal smell, like blood, was coming from the inside of the building, with a whiff of coffee. She had to narrow her eyes and really focus because her eyesight wasn't that good. Still postponed buyng the lenses or glasses, imitating the perfect vision for the tests. She felt like it would cripple her. In reality, it could greatly spoil the aim. So, point was, she couldn't see the two figures who emerged to see her, until one of them produced a coarse and distinctive 'there we fucking go'. The Scottish guy, Filip Telford. A woman next to him, all strokes of sharp hue, Gemma Morrow, the wife of Clay Morrow. Nothing was more powerful than her high heels and black eyeliner at seven in the morning. June barely moved her feet, and that, in her favorite black Vans shoes.

Telford looked like he was going to rudely ask what the fuck she was doing with their bikes, but changed his mind. He had a cigarette behind his ear, face pointed and like a mink, sharp eyes following her every move. Quite the difference from the other day, when they exchanged nasty comments at the bar.

They both looked at her like she was scum; hands on their hips, like they were twins. June shoved her hands into the pockets of her wide shorts.

"Good morning", she said.

"The bikes, really?" Telford asked.

She pointed her finger at him, pretending to having forgotten his name. It was the last little joy she had left, to piss people off, so she was savoring it.

"Chips. Right? That you?"

He moved his jaw. Gemma Morrow exhaled through her nose, looking at her from above.

"You got any papers that say you can take their motorcycles?"

"Yeah, I do. These machines are loud, and dangerous, and haven't been inspected in years. What happens if one of them breaks down in the middle of the road? Imagine the bedlam".

Telford moved his lips the way only the British people did, to tell her to fuck off without saying anything.

"You don't have anything important planned for today, do you?"

He slowly took out the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it up.

"Because you'd have to take the bus or a taxi", she suggested.

He approached her unhurriedly, throwing the orange ashes to her feet. Telford smelt woody, with something sweet, which was surprising. A crook who grooms himself.

"Oh, I get it", Gemma said, "a hoppy sleek bitch, munching around in tight shirts, thinking she's going to implement her high brow schemes to take down this evil organisation".

Chibs was standing very close to her, watching her silently, seeing how long it would take her to step away. He didn't move the cigarette away to spare her of the smoke. He figured, if mosquitoes don't like that, she might also get repelled by it. She only turned her head towards Gemma, but didn't budge.

"You're reading my like an open book, mama bear. Do tell me more, but later. Now I need to serve the notice".

She produced the paper from her pocket, raising her eyes to his face. The outline of his skull above the temples made her want to have studied osteology when she had a chance. That time back then she elected general anatomy because lacked the knowledge heavily. Instead of taking the notice, Chibs raised his hand and flicked the ash onto it.

She looked at the tiny black ashes, smoking on white paper.

"Not beating the high IQ allegations, I see", she shook the notice quickly not to let it burn through.

"You need this to get the bikes back".

She folded the paper and pushed it into his chest pocket. Telford took a deep smoke and had the decency to exhale it into the other direction.

Gemma crossed her arms on her chest, uncomfortable, and June was glad. She didn't have a chance to meet her back the day before yesterday, so she had to learn on the go. She did feel like a mama. All the boys were her boys. When someone touched her boys, she crossed her arms on her chest.

"You need somethin' else, sweet lips?" she asked.

"Gemma, go inside", Telford cut her off immediately, not granting her a glance. June raised her eyebrow. The woman really did retreat back into the garage, giving her the last look. Her heels clicked heavily on the stone floor.

"Tell me something".

"Yes, Chips".

"Hey, leave this act. Be fucking straight", he called harshly. She let out a grin and then dropped it.

"Fine. What do you want to know?"

She walked over to the table and sat down, inviting him after. But Telford stood upon her, again, like he was a guarding dog that would go for the throat should she dare to enter the garage.

"What do you want here?"

"Want you gone", she said simply, "all of you barbaric, low intelligence, gun waving caricature machos eating dirt".

He narrowed his eyes, processing.

"Where's your boss?"

She dropped her head for a second onto her hand, letting out a sad giggle.

"Sorry, master. In your little ape mind a girl like me should always have someone standing above her like you are now, right? So that they can order me around like you did with your mama?"

There was credit to be given, he did lose a lot of what she said. Managed to only catch the meaning.

"That your beef with the club?" he smiled sardonically, even relaxed a little, popping the hip, and demonstrating her the blade-sharp cheekbones, hollow below, no fat in the face at all. British people, fucking exquisite. They're either drop dead gorgeous, or unbearably ugly to look at. But this one was somewhere undecided.

"That we're sexist? In another life you'd like to ride a huge bike and push money?" he asked and sucked on his cigarette, so sweet like it was his lover.

They both gave a short look to the heavy, croaking truck that was leaving the parking lot with ten motorcycles. Several people were running after it, waving their hands.

"You couldn't be more right", she agreed, "I heard you guys call permanent girlfriends old ladies? The shit like this is really beautiful".

"A cunt like you wouldn't even make the cut", he said. "It takes a real woman".

"Then I am glad to be fictional", she stood up, ready to go. The cloud covered the sky for a moment, and a new surge of energy shot up her brain.

"Would hate to be around clowns like you. But alas, we would have to meet soon", she winked at him. Chibs leaned against the other table, his face expressionless. He had strokes of snow white in his hair which strangely made him look a little younger.

"And then again, and again, and again".

"Found something interesting while taking it up the ass?"

"You, sir, are very uncultured".

"Fuck off, snake".

Something made her smile really wide when she looked at him. She left him, holding himself on the table, his legs probably weak from being robbed of his only treasure. Smoking, muscles in his left arm bulging. Young old man with an iron fence around his brain. She couldn't get into it. So far.

[young-botanical-genius]

For Seymour, these past few days had been a whirlwind in the best way possible. Admiring the surface world from afar had been one thing, but actually being able to experience it? To be a part of it with a pair of legs that allowed him to walk and run just as humans did? So far, it had been everything he had imagined it could be, if not more.

And the present moment was certainly no exception. Seymour was gazing around in wonder at the beautiful scenery that surrounded their little rowboat, and he smiled when one of the tiny creatures drifting lazily through the air landed on one of his hands, casting a small flicker of golden light upon his skin before floating off into the night once more with a barely-audible buzzing of wings. ...These things could fly and glow. How amazing was that? He'd have to get Audrey to tell him what they were called, somehow.

...Right. Audrey. Seymour glanced up at the woman across from him, only to immediately look away again once their eyes happened to meet. He felt a bashful heat creep up into his cheeks at the sight of her, and there was a sudden pang of guilt in his chest as he considered their time together. She had been so kind to him, offering someone she only knew as a clumsy, mute, barely-clothed stranger shelter in her lavish home; taking him on outings to show him around her kingdom and teach him about nearly everything he displayed curiosity towards.

...And here he was, using her.

It wasn't like he had been given much of a choice in the terms of the deal he had made to get here, but he felt absolutely terrible about his ulterior motives all the same. He didn't want to try and force her into anything she didn't want to do, but the pact between him and that monster back under the sea had already been made, and the truth was undeniable: in order to stay with her-- to keep his legs (and quite possibly his life) in tact, he needed Audrey to kiss him.

The thought almost made him want to jump off the boat right then and there, but he was pulled away from his spiraling thoughts by the sound of Audrey's soft, lovely voice speaking to him. He supposed maybe his panicking could wait-- he still had a few days left to potentially get something sorted out, after all. And she was right; this was a peaceful moment, not one that needed to be ruined by silent agonizing over the future.

If he did get a kiss, he wouldn't have to worry about anything anymore. ...But if his time here was ultimately temporary, there was little more he could do than savor every second of it.

He nodded in agreement at Audrey's first statement, taking a deep breath and allowing his tensing muscles to relax once more. He put his full focus on her words as she talked on, giving her a look of warm sympathy at the mention of this place serving as her secret refuge. He knew the feeling well. Back home, his small cavern full of human artifacts had fulfilled a similar purpose for him-- a quiet little somewhere he could swim away to whenever the woes of his underwater life became too much to handle.

Of course, he couldn't tell her all that on account of his current lack of a voice. ...And even if he could, would she have even believed him if he told her that he had once had a tail in place of his legs?

Just then, another one of those fascinating glowing creatures sailed past his head, and he pointed at it with an excited look.

@young-botanical-genius

Audrey focused on the even back and forth of the paddles through the water as she steered her and her new friend toward the little spot in the lagoon she liked to escape to. She stole glances at the curly haired man across from her, trying not to blush. She knew she had no place taking a liking to this fellow who had seemingly washed up ashore a few nights ago…but his smile was so sweet and his eyes so deep and brown, she couldn’t help herself. But still, she kept it reserved, knowing in a few days time she’d be married off to some prince she had never met. She frowned, scolding herself for being so negative about it. Any prince would be better than the last one she was arranged to marry — but he had drowned in a mysterious shipwreck, one she had nearly met the same fate in, sending the kingdom into a scramble to find her a husband.

The pair turned around a corner into a little pool, surrounded by trees and vines. Moss grew over large boulders and fireflies twinkled in the air. The whole place put Audrey’s troubled mind at ease. “It’s so peaceful, isn’t it?” She smiled warmly, already knowing not to expect a verbal answer. He hadn’t said a word since he’d appeared on the beach, but Audrey didn’t mind. She found that there were other ways you could communicate with someone, and it was a nice change from the men who found every excuse to shut her up and talk over her. She stole another glance at the man across from her, hoping to find that he found her hideaway just as wondrous as she did. “I love comin’ here when I wanna get away for a bit…nobody else in the palace knows about it”.

[ruffsraven-writes]

Through the Odds | F.W. (The Hunger Games AU)

Based upon: The Harry Potter and The Hunger Games series

Pairing: Fred Weasley x OC (Autumn Rivers)

Era: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix

POV: 1st person

WC: 1.6k

CHAPTER 2

“Hey, hey!” I snapped my fingers between his eyes. That's the only thing that I could do to keep him from plunging into a thought of nothingness.

“Right. Yeah. I'm sorry. Where were we?” he says, a trace of his previous screaming wounded his normal voice.

“About skinning the rabbit,” I say. “You could starve in hunger in no time. This place could be desolate to the untrained.”

It took seconds before his hand enclosed the knife and grasped the rabbit between his hands. I saw the wince in his eyes. Wherever he came from, the people there are not starving enough to kill creatures as much as rabbits.

I set up the snares, half-doubting if I could leave that boy alone in the camp without being killed. I decided he could.

I didn't even know his name. Maybe I was too cruel a while ago that I didn't handle his shock properly. His agonized scream and the way he was still holding that stick of his like it could save his life. 

Wisps of smoke met me as I journeyed back to our camp. Perfectly-skinned rabbits are laid above the fire, their juices making the coals hiss.

I sprinted back to the camp and stomped my boots on the coal, digging it on my heels as it died down the soil. I placed the cooked—almost burned—food aside and turned to him.

“Best way to get killed. If you want to, don't count me in.”

He realized what I'm talking about and began to apologize. He might be ruminating now how it would be different if I'm not the one who found him. Not surly, harsh, or indifferent.

“This arena is lethal, I'm just reminding you.”

“I know.”

This icy conversation is turning way more awkward on a silent night. I should remember that he came out of nowhere. No knowledge of Panem or the Games. He's not to be blamed for unconsciously putting a snare against him—or us, if he could endure me as an ally.

Why am I keeping him alive anyway? He's now playing as a fellow tribute. An enemy. Something to weed out of my path.

“I'll get you water.”

I left and made a mental note to ask his name when I came back. 

“Fred, I'll keep watch first. Here, take the sleeping bag and climb.” I tell him.

The sky was a deep black that signifies an evening of uncertainties. What all I had in mind is getting through with this until morning.

Fred settled on the branch lower where I'll keep watch, considering that his stature won't allow him on those fragile branches.

I positioned myself on a tree branch, watchful as my vision struggled to the dim.

Silence engulfed me like everything around me was lifeless, not even the rustle of leaves. So I strike up a conversation.

“I'm still clueless how possibly you end up here.”

He gave a hollow chuckle. “Neither do I. It's like falling in a dangerous portal of some sort. I would've asked you to shake me awake but everything's real enough to make me doubt.”

He paused for a moment, “Will I survive this?”

Words escaped me. I couldn't just tell him that he won't and I might be planning to get rid of him.

I pretend to be sleepy and yawn. “Just stay alive.”

“Want me to keep watch?” he asks. “I mean, I don't particularly know who to watch for but I'll inform you if something's off.”

“No,” I say. “I want you to keep talking. Just be quieter.”

He did. And I discovered that Panem was nothing like where he came from. At first, I thought we're nothing alike, not until he mentioned his brother. We exchanged conversations in hushed tones.

“I already miss home. It's not much of a thrill pranking people around but I'd like to tell them I've been here and seen worse.”

He tried to laugh or add humor in his voice. If a good laugh can help him cope up, who am I to ruin it?

“Speaking of worse,” I say, forcing a facetious tone. A silver parachute descended from where I sat and I grabbed it, knowing it came from the sponsors. Inside is a small can filled with ointment for burns and a letter from Haymitch. “Worse time to deliver this don't you think?”

Fred smiles and says, “You can use this to apply that.” He tapped that useless eyeglasses perched on his nose.

Taking my silence as confusion, he adds, “It lets you see in darkness. I've seen this in joke shops before. 'M glad this isn't a sham.”

“Why didn't you tell me earlier?” I laughed before snatching it from him. He's right. I can see perfectly like it's daylight.

“Dunno. I guess I'm scared because you could've eaten me alive earlier.”

“Sorry,” I say. “For how I acted. It's awful.”

“Don't mind it. I'm used to being scolded.”

We took turns using the night glasses and he continued talking while I dab generous amount of ointment across my burns. I let the coolness of night help the ointment seep through my skin. The ointment worked effectively that I couldn't help but think what convincing Haymitch did to give me this.

“I could've helped you heal those in a minute if I knew the right spell.”

Yes, magic spells. To levitate, yes. To conjure stuff, yes. To attack, very befitting. But to get us out of the arena? No. He told me he tried to apparate but the arena seems to condemn his magic.

He's still fiddling the wand between his fingers when I say, “Do you know how to perform a killing spell?”

“W-What?” His voice apprise horror like I've said something that could harm him.

The wand faltered from his hand and I found myself grasping for it in thin air with him. Too desperate. That wand could mean more than anything. 

“I'll get it,” he says.

“No, let me do it. ”

He's still lacking stealth and strategy. The moment his feet touch the ground, every creature would stir.

I secure my foothold on the branch where he's sitting on, prepared for a jump until his huge hands locked around my ankles.

“Autumn, stop!” he hisses and put a finger over his lips. My instinct told me to twist away from him but the loud scream resonating below us thwarts my impulsive actions.

More screams. Fred pulled me to his level. Arms circled around me as if he knew I'd jump at any moment.

I first saw the dying ember near the bushes before the screaming figure right beside it. A tribute.

One of the Careers, Glimmer, shot her in the throat. Her screaming ceased and the canon fired.

As if from a trance, I jolt involuntarily. Fred's body tensed, his hands around me felt rigid and mechanic. With his eyes wide, tiny blinks interrupting, shock and fear overlapped. The dying tribute's bloody corpse mirrored in his eyes and having the night glasses allow me to see deeper in the silent agony he must be experiencing right now. Stable reasoning stalled my emotions before I could throw my hands around his neck and hold him there and never let go. He has my brother's eyes.

A beautiful shade of brown, the color of warm earth, and the pigment of woods. It reminds me of home. And I might've been underestimated how clear this stupid glasses can be.

“Pathetic. Her stupid voice's still ringing on my ears,” Glimmer says as the hovercraft lifted the corpse. The others start restoring the fire she left and make a camp below us. Fred's fingers gave a slight tremble against my shoulder.

“Fred, come on, we have to go,” I say, squeezing his cold hands to life. “Fred!”

He didn't protest and listen to the plan I fabricated when the tribute got killed in front of our eyes.

Wait till they're asleep. Retreat noiselessly. The other has to distract, the other to kill.

From the beginning, I know it's ridiculous. Fred doesn't know well enough to distract them nor he could kill them without being reluctant.

Forget the plan. Fred escapes, and I'll kill. If I'd be dead by morning, I want him to stay alive until some shred of hope materialized and he could go back to his brother.

He has to go. He doesn't belong here. Not in this murderous place.

“Your spear was right there.” He points down the slender thing leaning by the tree and adds, “Do you want me to get their weapons?”

“No,” I say. “Wouldn't let you risk it. Just descend quietly. Don't let them notice you. Go to the woods and conceal yourself. Whatever happens, don't let them see you. Whatever happens. Alright?”

“Yes.” He wraps the jacket around himself and says, “You'll follow suit, won't you? I'll wait for you, Autumn.”

“Of course.”

Faint sunlight edges around the arena and sleep is almost impossible. The Careers hadn't seen us and now's the chance to perform the plan. Fred braces himself in each tree trunk, gripping hard and avoiding any sort of noise. In no time, he's on the ground, finally found his wand, and scurrying away with a last glimpse of me as if to say goodbye.

I ascend higher till a whistling perked my ears. My gazed roam around, did I rouse the Careers? No, they're still dead asleep. 

Then I saw her between the branches, body resting there with stealth as if the trees are her home and will always catch her whenever she hops. 

Rue.

She points above my head, and the buzzing starts, one of the tracker jackers flies around the nest, crawls on the entrance and disappears. I signal Rue through a sawing motion. She nods and hops from tree to tree, fleeing.

Fred and Rue are safe.

I grabbed the knife Clove used in an attempt to attack me and began sawing. 

***

Masterlist

[comingoutofthecauldron]

If Sam Didn’t Die That Night

suggested by @_fadingsunlight (insta)

Sam Cortland had one more job before he could taste freedom, with the girl he loved at his side. Or so he thought.

Because that job hadn’t gone well for Sam. He had played with a psychopath, and now the psychopath wanted to play with him.

For hours, he had lain on a table, trapped in the dark basement of the owners of The Pits, because he was a fool. A stupid, lovesick fool, blinded by hope and preoccupied by bliss. For hours, he had been cut and brutalised and tortured, enduring pain so agonizing he forgot his own name. But never hers. It was his constant, his last tether to reality.

Celaena.

A knife cut across his collarbone, blood seeping out in its wake, following like acolyte follows their master. His screams echoed, calling out for a girl who wasn’t there.

Celaena.

He held on, wouldn’t let himself black out. He didn't dare stare at the face above his, bloodstained and grinning like a child with a new plaything. 

Celaena.

But then the pain stopped. It left, the sound of receding footsteps reverberating around the empty basement. He heard stairs creak, and then nothing.

He knew, then and there, who it was.

Celaena.

She was here. No, no, no.

Everything hurt. Everything bled. But he forced himself to move, forced his muscles to comply. Slowly, ever so slowly, he shifted himself to the right, closer to the edge of the table. A groan, more pain, and again he moved.

It was progress, but it was slow. Too slow. He had to save her, had to get to her. Finally, he reached the edge. He used every muscle, every part of his protesting body to push himself up. He managed to lean on his elbows, a start, when something began to fill the air. A strange smell. Sam realised too late what it was.

Gloriella.

He collapsed, the poison taking over, as he fell off the table onto the floor. He didn't register the pain, even as he felt someone throw him over a shoulder. Their face must've been masked, protecting them against the gloriella. 

He wanted to fight, to struggle, but his body was no longer his. The poison was in full effect. They carried him into some sort of meeting room, where in the corner of his eye he spotted the dead body of Ioan Jayne. 

What was going on? What was happening? Where was she?

The masked figure dropped him, rather ungracefully, on the floor, his head at eye level with someone’s feet. No, not someone’s feet. Her feet.

Celaena. 

Oh, Gods, tell me she isn’t dead.

Unfortunately, the gods answered his prayer. Sam was helpless as he watched Rourke Farran crouch beside Celaena, running a finger over her face as he said something Sam couldn’t hear. Celaena lay unmoving, a victim to the gloriella, but Sam knew, in his heart, she wasn’t dead.

He wanted to scream, to roar. But most of all, he wanted to save her. He wanted not only to save Adarlan’s Assassin, but the girl he loved. Beautiful, confident, passionate Celaena. What he wouldn’t give to hear her laugh again, to see her smile.  

He lay on the floor as they carried her to gods knew where, watching her expressionless face as her head rested at an uncomfortable angle, lying over whoever’s arm it was carrying her. A single tear slipped from one of her eyes as she saw him, and Sam had a horrible realisation.

She couldn’t see his face.

She didn’t know he was alive.

*****

Sam Cortland escaped that building. The gloriella began to lose its effect, and it seemed as though they’d forgotten about him. He clawed his way out, tumbling onto the street, only to have someone catch him, swearing colourfully.

They carried him down the street, but he passed out before he could see where they were going. 

For days, he drifted in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of the two people nursing him back to some sort of health.

It was a week after Sam had seen Celaena’s limp body carried out of the house when he finally regained full consciousness. Every part of him screamed in agony, but he bit down on his pain. He opened his eyes to see a figure with dark hair, pale skin and a brutal scar running down his face.

The figure grinned.

“Well, stranger, glad to see you’re awake. And healing. Although you’ll probably have some wicked scars, not that I’m one to judge.”

“W-Who are you?” Sam croaked.

“Really, that’s the thanks I get? Honestly, if I hadn’t seen how much shit you must've been put through already, I’d punch you for that.”

Sam just stared at the scarred man as he sighed. Neither of them spoke, just stared at each other.

“Do you know anything about Celaena Sardothien?” Sam finally asked, his voice hoarse. 

“The assassin? Of course. She’s got a nasty future ahead of her now, that’s for sure.”

“What? What happened? She’s alive?”

The man just stared at Sam for a few moments, frowning. Slowly, he began to speak, “Everyone’s been talking about it, actually. She’s been sentenced to Endovier. If you’re waiting for a job or something, you’re gonna be waiting for a while.”

Sam’s world stopped. Endovier. Endovier. The most brutal slave camp there was. Celaena, his Celaena, in Endovier. 

“Why do you want to know?” the man asked.

A beat of silence, then, “Because I love her.” 

The man’s eyes widened. He seemed to be thinking, concentrating, when eventually he just shook his head and said, “Well I’ll be. You’re an assassin, aren’t you?”

Sam nodded, only just taking in his words.

“Well then, little assassin, do you want revenge?”

Sam just looked at him. Grief was pouring over him, overwhelming him.

“I want her.”

“Same thing. Tell me, how much are you willing to do to get her? Would you, perhaps, join a rebellion?”

“Anything. I’ll join whatever you want me to if you can free her from that place.”

“Wonderful. Our interests align, you see. To achieve my goal, I must destroy an empire. Your assassin is an added bonus,” the man grinned.

Sam could only stare, and then nod. He didn't care if empires fell, or if kingdoms burned. He just needed Celaena.

“Let’s get acquainted. I’m Ren. Ren Allsbrook.”

*****

Sam joined that rebellion. He fought tooth and nail for it. He devoted his life, his everything, to the cause. He heard about Celaena Sardothien’s participation in the king’s contest. He organised meetings with Princess Nehemia Ytger. He heard about her becoming the King’s champion, but no one ever let him near her. It would ruin their plans, they told him. Wait, they said.

And wait he did. Even when Celaena started to communicate with Archer Finn, he waited. And then, in a scuffle on a street near the Assassin’s Keep with some city guards, one of them—a young woman seemingly from the Southern Continent—trying to keep the peace, Sam Cortland was stabbed.

His fellow rebels fled the street, leaving him to bleed out alone, thinking only of his assassin, his Celaena, whom he would never lay eyes on again.