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snippet: "Bad-Luck Stars"
Less Than Three runs little prompt challenges through their Goodreads group, and y'all know what a sucker I am for both prompts and challenges. The current theme is "just get in the car!" and I figured, hey, why not write a bit of Drake/Gabriel mobster AU?
So that's what this is. :3
Established relationship, m/m makeouts, offscreen organized crime violence.
~650 words.
Somebody needs to be clear-headed enough to drive, and Gabriel’s the best torpedo man in the city, so there was no question of him waiting outside.
Bad Luck Stars
Drake hates getaway duty. He fidgets, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, wishing he’d been able to go in and help wreck the place—one of Morgan’s casinos, and the son of a bitch has it coming. But somebody needs to be clear-headed enough to drive, and Gabriel’s the best torpedo man in the city, so there was no question of him waiting outside.
A gat sings inside the building and Drake swears. “Finish it up and get out here,” he growls, as if Gabriel could hear him. The longer this takes, the more likely it is that somebody will call the cops, and some of those bastards won’t stay bought. Glass shatters, the sound bright and loud.
Drake revs the engine the second the joint’s back door opens. Gabriel comes tumbling out, giddy and laughing, skinny as a scarecrow with black curls falling in his eyes. “Come on!” Drake says. He’s got the car in gear, ready to go. Gabriel turns back toward the darkened doorway, ignoring him. “Gabriel! Get in the damn car!”
Gabriel fishes a lighter out of one coat pocket and a bottle-and-rag special out of the other. Jesus, he’s been carrying that shit around while he did the job? Drake still can’t believe him sometimes.
The lit firebomb soars into the casino and then, at last, Gabriel ducks into the car. “Drive,” he says, before he’s finished pulling the door shut. Drake peels out.
“You smell like rot gut,” he says as they take the first turn. The car rocks up on two wheels, the turn too sharp and too fast, but Drake keeps a handle on it and they recover.
“Mmm.” When Drake spares him a glance, Gabriel is smiling. “The whole back room was full of barrels. I broke a few.”
“Then—the fire,” Drake says.
An explosion roars behind them like it was just waiting for a cue. The shock jolts along Drake’s nerves, makes him put pedal to the metal, and then he’s laughing in stunned delight. “You can’t do anything halfway, can you?” he asks.
Gabriel sprawls in the front seat like a cat in a sunbeam. “If they wanted polite and quiet,” he says, “they really shouldn’t have sent us.” He reaches over to drape one hand across Drake’s thigh, casually possessive.
“Damn right,” Drake agrees. He takes another turn down a badly-lit street. He’d like to go back and see the fire, but right now they really need to put some distance between them and the scene of the crime. Since that creep Westfall made Chief, the cops have been riding all the families a lot harder than they used to.
Gabriel’s hand slides further up Drake’s leg, nails rasping on cloth. Drake’s skin prickles alert, the hair standing up on the back of his neck. “Gabriel, I’m driving.”
“So pull over,” Gabriel says, in the excessively patient tone he uses when he’s decided that his crazy idea is reasonable and Drake is the one who doesn’t make sense.
“Working on it,” Drake says. He heads for the waterfront, as fast as he dares in the dark on these narrow streets. Gabriel’s touch always drives him crazy, and neither of them has much patience after a job.
He pulls into the loading dock behind a warehouse, and as he kills the engine Gabriel is already climbing across the seat into his lap. Drake gets an arm around his waist to drag him closer and their mouths meet for a rough, biting kiss. Underneath the sharpness of bootleg whiskey Gabriel smells faintly of other people’s blood, coppery-sweet and familiar. His fingers knead Drake’s shoulders, digging in almost too hard.
“You’re a disaster,” Drake murmurs against his mouth affectionately.
“A catastrophe,” Gabriel answers as Drake reaches for his belt. He nips Drake under the jaw. “All of the words for bad-luck stars.”
Drake tips his head back; he’ll have new bruises when they report back after the job, but he doesn’t care. “The worst luck,” he says, smiling. “For everyone but me.”
So that's what this is. :3
Established relationship, m/m makeouts, offscreen organized crime violence.
~650 words.
Somebody needs to be clear-headed enough to drive, and Gabriel’s the best torpedo man in the city, so there was no question of him waiting outside.
Bad Luck Stars
Drake hates getaway duty. He fidgets, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, wishing he’d been able to go in and help wreck the place—one of Morgan’s casinos, and the son of a bitch has it coming. But somebody needs to be clear-headed enough to drive, and Gabriel’s the best torpedo man in the city, so there was no question of him waiting outside.
A gat sings inside the building and Drake swears. “Finish it up and get out here,” he growls, as if Gabriel could hear him. The longer this takes, the more likely it is that somebody will call the cops, and some of those bastards won’t stay bought. Glass shatters, the sound bright and loud.
Drake revs the engine the second the joint’s back door opens. Gabriel comes tumbling out, giddy and laughing, skinny as a scarecrow with black curls falling in his eyes. “Come on!” Drake says. He’s got the car in gear, ready to go. Gabriel turns back toward the darkened doorway, ignoring him. “Gabriel! Get in the damn car!”
Gabriel fishes a lighter out of one coat pocket and a bottle-and-rag special out of the other. Jesus, he’s been carrying that shit around while he did the job? Drake still can’t believe him sometimes.
The lit firebomb soars into the casino and then, at last, Gabriel ducks into the car. “Drive,” he says, before he’s finished pulling the door shut. Drake peels out.
“You smell like rot gut,” he says as they take the first turn. The car rocks up on two wheels, the turn too sharp and too fast, but Drake keeps a handle on it and they recover.
“Mmm.” When Drake spares him a glance, Gabriel is smiling. “The whole back room was full of barrels. I broke a few.”
“Then—the fire,” Drake says.
An explosion roars behind them like it was just waiting for a cue. The shock jolts along Drake’s nerves, makes him put pedal to the metal, and then he’s laughing in stunned delight. “You can’t do anything halfway, can you?” he asks.
Gabriel sprawls in the front seat like a cat in a sunbeam. “If they wanted polite and quiet,” he says, “they really shouldn’t have sent us.” He reaches over to drape one hand across Drake’s thigh, casually possessive.
“Damn right,” Drake agrees. He takes another turn down a badly-lit street. He’d like to go back and see the fire, but right now they really need to put some distance between them and the scene of the crime. Since that creep Westfall made Chief, the cops have been riding all the families a lot harder than they used to.
Gabriel’s hand slides further up Drake’s leg, nails rasping on cloth. Drake’s skin prickles alert, the hair standing up on the back of his neck. “Gabriel, I’m driving.”
“So pull over,” Gabriel says, in the excessively patient tone he uses when he’s decided that his crazy idea is reasonable and Drake is the one who doesn’t make sense.
“Working on it,” Drake says. He heads for the waterfront, as fast as he dares in the dark on these narrow streets. Gabriel’s touch always drives him crazy, and neither of them has much patience after a job.
He pulls into the loading dock behind a warehouse, and as he kills the engine Gabriel is already climbing across the seat into his lap. Drake gets an arm around his waist to drag him closer and their mouths meet for a rough, biting kiss. Underneath the sharpness of bootleg whiskey Gabriel smells faintly of other people’s blood, coppery-sweet and familiar. His fingers knead Drake’s shoulders, digging in almost too hard.
“You’re a disaster,” Drake murmurs against his mouth affectionately.
“A catastrophe,” Gabriel answers as Drake reaches for his belt. He nips Drake under the jaw. “All of the words for bad-luck stars.”
Drake tips his head back; he’ll have new bruises when they report back after the job, but he doesn’t care. “The worst luck,” he says, smiling. “For everyone but me.”
no subject
gettin' into so much trouble there, boys. Good job.
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no subject
I wish I could offer some coherent commentary but after the day at work I've had, all I can say is this has made my day a million times better.
no subject