Call me Les. Aspiring Leslie Knope. 30. She/Her. Fanfic fiend. 18+ ONLY, put your age in your bio or I will block you. Masterlist. II Fic Library. II AO3.
Fics with smut marked with a **, though this whole blog is 18+, so minors should not interact with anything here as a general rule.
I do not use a taglist anymore. Instead, you can follow my writing blog @leslie-lyman-writes. All of my writing (and only my writing) will be reblogged there, so turn on notifications if you’d like to know when I post something new!
I only do happy endings. If that is ever not the case, I will make that very clear from the jump!
I don’t do requests at the moment, but my asks are always open - come chat with me!
If you would like to read my work on AO3 instead, you can do so here (though you must be logged into AO3 to see my stuff).
Pero x Frankie x Jack x f!reader
Euclidean Geometry Masterlist** [ongoing]
They make no attempt to define what this is, who they are to each other. All they know is that now they are together.
Agent Whiskey:
A Bit of a Fright (Whiskey x f!reader) (Writer Wednesday one-shot)
Despite your hatred of horror movies, you tag along with your fellow Statesman agents to Halloween Horror Nights. Fortunately, one particular agent takes it upon himself to help you out when things get too intense.
Rights and Wrongs** (Whiskey x f!reader)
Whiskey helps you get an abortion.
Part 1. // Part 2.**
Pero Tovar:
Stranger At My Gate** (Pero Tovar x modern!OFC) [COMPLETE]
A time-traveling Pero. A modern woman trying her best. A kitchen full of possibility. A helping of Midwestern kindness. A dash of magic. And a whole lot of Christmas spirit.
Dieter Bravo:
Waterproof** (Dieter Bravo x f!reader)
Watched The Bubble. Had a thought. That thought was: I wanna edge Dieter Bravo until he cries and ruins that silly eyeliner.
Marcus Pike:
Congressman Marcus Pike** (Marcus Pike x f!reader) [Ongoing]
Marcus Pike is young, progressive, unbelievably handsome, and the newly elected representative for Texas’s 27th congressional district. He gave up his FBI badge and successfully ran for Congress to make change and help people, but he never expected that in between meetings and votes and fundraisers that he would also fall for someone again…
Max Phillips:
i cannot get you close enough** (alpha!Max Phillips x omega!fem!reader)
“You have to invite me in, sweetheart.”
Oh. Right. Vampire.
“Come in, please,” you say demurely, and Max’s smile widens as he steps over the threshold into your apartment. He reaches for you again immediately, kicking your door closed and pulling you close.
“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Such a polite little Omega.”
I wanted to make a post about the movie because I keep seeing comments about how "empty" of content it is or how simplistic it is, and I read a very good reflection:
I can't say It better! The post isn't mine and it's on Threads, but I needed to share it here! All credit goes to the original user.
It's a light and fun movie, yes, but that doesn't mean it's devoid of meaning. Especially when it deals with the literal remnants of fascism, criminal syndicates, human/creature trafficking... not to mention the references to gladiatorial combat, which were very interesting. We forget that what the film tells us, both about the "villains" and the shortcomings and virtues of the New Republic, are the seeds of what we see in the subsequent films. But no, Mando don't contribute anything to the "Star Wars lore".
I NEED TO KNOW IF DINJAMIN SURVIVES IM QUITE STONED AND I HADN'T ACTUALLY CONTEMPLATED THAT HE MIGHT NOT COME OUT OF THIS ONE ALIVE
I'VE BEEN RUINED BY MARVEL
I TOTALLY FEEL YOU RE: MARVEL
Answer under the cut:
Fear not, Din lives!! I had been very nervous leading up to the movie that he wouldn’t and we’d have to go thru yet another Pedro Pascal character death, but nope, Din’s fine!
I have a lot of thoughts and feelings about it but my spoiler-free overall feeling is I loved it, there was so much I loved about it, there was also so much more I wanted from it.
If anyone has questions about it/wants to be spoiled about whether or not certain characters make it out alive before you see it, etc., feel free to DM!
There’s something immeasurably beautiful about humans, in that they can be the furthest from Earth that anyone has ever traveled, and the first thing they want to do is express love.
The crew of Artemis II officially broke the record previously set by Apollo 13 in 1970, and the first thing they did was name a crater, Carroll, after the late wife of Commander Reid Wiseman.
It doesn’t matter how far from home I am, I will always be thinking of you. When I look up at the night sky, I think of you. When I ponder human existence and the importance of this mission, I think of you. I want a place for you, forever. I want the whole world to know about you and how much I love you. People say they’d give the one they love the moon, if they could.
So I chose a beautiful bright spot on the moon, and it’s yours, in perpetuity.
Tags/Warnings: Older!Marcus Pike, Apocalypse AU, reader almost dies at the very beginning but she's fine, lots of mentions of food and being hungry because food is scarce, reader has lots of trust issues
Summary: You are lost, starving, and stuck in a snowstorm after fleeing a bad situation, when you see it: a cozy little farmhouse with smoke coming out of the chimney, and a large barn with the letters 'ART MUSEUM' painted on the front. The man who lives there and tends to the museum is unlike anyone you've ever met in this hellscape of a world...
A/N: WELL HELLO FRIENDS. It's been a little while since you've heard from me, but I promise I never left ;) I've just been low in the motivation and ideas departments when it comes to writing. But then my one true love Marcus Pike (aka clean-shaven Pedro) returned from the war and I started rotating him around and around in my mind again, and I simply MUST put this man in situations. I "told" myself this bedtime story the other night instead of sleeping and I hope you like it!
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Chapter One
You find him in a farmhouse north of Philadelphia.
You aren’t sure exactly where; you’ve considered yourself “lost” for at least a day and a half now. You can’t remember how many days it’s been since you left the Colony. A week? Two weeks?
The only thing you know is that you ran out of food three days ago, and it’s not like you’ll find anything to scavenge in this weather. You wish you hadn’t had to leave so quickly, leaving your cherished hunting rifle propped against the wall of the detached garage you had called home for the past year. If you had just taken the extra few minutes to run back and grab it, you would at least be able to bag a squirrel or two now.
Stupid.
Snow whips around you as you trudge through the deepening snowdrifts. Occasionally, you grab handfuls to stuff in your mouth, but it does little to help the intense headache that’s set in from the exertion of walking through a blizzard. You thought your heaviest parka would be enough–and maybe it would be, if you weren’t so close to starvation–but the cold is beginning to overwhelm your body, and as the sky begins to darken, your footsteps have slowed considerably.
When you see the little white farmhouse, it’s almost completely dark, but not so much that you can’t see the gentle plume of smoke rising out of the brick chimney. It’s not safe to approach a random settlement, you remind yourself. That’s like, Apocalypse 101. It’s the stupidest, most reckless thing you can do. You have no idea who’s inside. You have no idea what they will do to you.
You should turn around and leave. You should go knock on the door. No, leave. With your mind so foggy with hunger and cold and unable to process your conflicting urges, you just… stand there.
So… tired.
It isn’t until the cold snow begins to trickle into the neck of your parka that you realize you’ve fallen to the ground. You stare blankly at the large barn that sits a few yards away from the farmhouse. Someone has painted the words ‘ART MUSEUM’ in big, black letters on the front of it.
Weird.
When you wake up, you’re warm and dry.
Or maybe you’re dead.
No–if you were dead, you wouldn’t be able to smell woodsmoke, or hear the crackle of a nearby fireplace.
With a panicked inhale, you shoot upward, frantically trying to get your bearings and determining your best route of escape.
“Easy, easy.”
Your head whips in the direction of the voice. A man stands across from you, as far as he can physically get from you and still be in the same room. He holds both hands up, spreading his fingers in a show of peace. His eyes are cautious, but gentle, and his brow is creased as though he were anxious.
“Easy,” he repeats. “I found you out in the snow and brought you inside. I won’t hurt you.”
“Why?” you rasp.
The man seems confused by the question. “You were going to die,” he says with a shrug. “You don’t have any food in your pack. When was the last time you ate anything?”
Suspicion flares in your gut. “You looked through my stuff?”
He grimaces a little. “I can’t just bring someone into my house without knowing anything about them.”
“What were you looking for?”
He shrugs again. “Weapons. Drugs. I don’t know.”
“I don’t have any.”
“I know that, now.”
The two of you regard each other warily for a few moments, not speaking. Something about him makes you want to trust him, but trust is a hot commodity these days, for how scarce it seems to be.
“You must be hungry,” he says, breaking the silence. “At this point in the season, I’ve got venison jerky and… more venison jerky, but in your condition I’m more worried about it making you sick.”
“I don’t care,” you say quickly, the prospect of anything edible making your hands shake with anticipation.
“I’ll give you a little,” he decides, “and I think I have some cornmeal. I can make some poor man’s polenta.”
“Some… what?”
The man grins lopsidedly. “I mean, it’s just cornmeal and water. But it feels better to call it ‘polenta’ rather than ‘gruel.’”
You don’t respond, still watching him and trying to calculate whether this man is a threat. When he reaches into his coat pocket, you flinch, and he stops.
“I’ve got… I’m taking out some food for you. Okay?” He moves again, slower this time, and retrieves a small bundle of a handkerchief. “Venison, like I said.” He pauses, seemingly unsure of what to do next. “I could uh… throw it at you? If you don’t want me to come over there.”
“It’s fine,” you shake your head. “I mean, you… can. Come here, or… throw it, I don’t care,” you stammer out quickly.
Keeping his eyes fixed on you, the man slowly approaches, one hand holding out the bundle, the other still held outstretched in front of his chest in a show of supplication. You swallow awkwardly as saliva pools in anticipation. He’s moving too slow. When he’s just a few feet away, you lunge forward and snatch it from his hands, making him back away slightly with wide eyes.
You don’t care, not anymore. You rifle through the handkerchief and find a few precious morsels of jerky, stuffing them in your mouth all at once and swallowing almost without tasting.
The man huffs softly through his nose. “I’ve got more in the kitchen. And I’ll heat up some water for the uh, cornmeal.”
You nod, and he holds up both his hands again. “I’ll be right back. Just… stay there and get warm. I promise, you’re safe. I promise.”
The man vanishes, and in a couple of minutes, you can hear the metal clink of a pan being set down. You sit, staring at the place he vacated, willing yourself to stay alert and vigilant just in case, but the fire is so warm and your eyes are heavy and you really do feel safe for the first time in… well, you really don’t remember.
The next time you wake, daylight is creeping in through the windows and the man is gone. Next to you, though, is a bowl of whatever it is he made with the cornmeal, and more jerky, both of which you eat with gusto. Just as you’re scooping out the last little bit of the bowl with one finger, a floorboard creaks behind you, and you whirl around to face the man again, with one cornmeal-covered finger halfway in your mouth.
“You like it?” the man asks with a small, cautious smile.
“Mmhmm.” You awkwardly lick your finger clean and wipe it on the front of your coat. “It’s… sweet.”
“I still have a little bit of wildflower honey, I had forgotten.”
Honey? That he had forgotten about? Who IS this man?
“Honey.”
He shrugs. “Otherwise it really is more like gruel than polenta.”
“How…” you shake your head in confusion. “Where did you get honey?”
“I trade for it.”
“You trade.”
“Yes.”
The silence hangs awkwardly between you, and the man shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another. “I’m glad you’re up. I usually open the museum at dawn, and I’m running a little behind.”
“The… what?”
“The museum,” he repeats, as though that clarifies anything. “I need to feed the horses first, though. Do you drink coffee?”
You nod dumbly, unable to process the rapid-fire change in topics.
He springs into motion, heading toward the doorway to what must be the kitchen. This time, you follow him. Cautiously, of course–always staying at least six feet away as you watch him pour water from a large cistern into a cast-iron kettle and place it onto a wood stove. Then, he rifles in a cabinet and withdraws a faded, stained tupperware full of dried meat.
“More jerky?”
“You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t be sharing this much of your food with a stranger,” you say, frowning, but your hand still reaches toward the food.
“Good point. I’m Marcus. What’s your name?” He extends his free hand with an expectant look.
Your frown deepens. You don’t just… give out your name like that. Doesn’t this man know anything?
After another uncomfortable silence, the man… Marcus… withdraws his hand with a nod, and suddenly, you realize you feel incredibly guilty.
“S-Sorry–” you try, but he interrupts.
“No, it’s fine. I get it. Trust me.”
You take a small piece of jerky and chew on it, mostly as an excuse not to have to continue speaking. When the kettle sings, you let out a quiet sigh of relief. Marcus pours the boiling water into a worn-looking french press, and you watch his hands as he presses the lid down, then pours the steaming liquid into two mismatched mugs.
“I’d offer you cream and sugar, but I’m trying to cut back.” He looks at you, and when you don’t laugh, he huffs softly to himself anyway. “Kidding. But it sure was a struggle switching to black coffee when… well, you know.”
You know.
That’s how most people your age talked about life now–two distinct periods of time: Before, and whatever this is. Now. You know.
Marcus is still looking at you. You drop your gaze, and sip the coffee. It’s strong. Something about how the taste of coffee has been one of the few things that has always been the same calms you, and you feel just some of the tension leave your shoulders.
“I’ve gotta feed the horses before they revolt,” he suddenly announces, setting his mug down. “The weather is shit, and you’re still recovering your strength, so you should stay here, but…” He trails off, bashfully. “When you’re feeling up to it, you can come see the museum.”
Still not understanding what he means, you shrug and nod. “Yeah. Sure.”
Marcus beams, and that’s when you realize he’s really quite beautiful.
You nap a while longer while Marcus is outside feeding the horses, and whatever else he’s doing out there. He comes back covered in snow, brushing it off his shoulders by the front door and hanging his coat.
He rubs his hands together and breathes into them as he walks into the living room, making an exaggerated ‘brrrr’ sound. “Once this clears up I can go trade for some bread and butter, but for now, I’m afraid it’s venison jerky for lunch again,” he jokes. He grabs a handful for himself and extends another little bundle out for you.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. “Up to a little walking around?”
“To see the… museum,” you deadpan.
“Yes!”
It’s only when you leave the little farmhouse again that you remember the large barn you saw just before losing consciousness. On the front, large black letters read ‘ART MUSEUM’ just as they did in your fleeting memory. In the light of day–and without the delirium of hunger–you realize it used to be an airplane hangar.
As you approach, you notice the smaller sign near the door. It reads:
ADMISSION: Trade*
RULES: Be respectful of all visitors and occupants of the property
Must ask before accessing Archives and Rare Books
*Can be physical item, trinket, information, story, etc.
Thank you for your support of the arts
“It’s great, right?” Marcus is saying as he trudges toward the front door. “I stumbled upon this place through sheer providence, and I couldn’t believe my luck.” He unlocks a heavy padlock and opens the door with a flourish, gesturing for you to come inside. You stare at his hand, still not trusting him enough to enter an unfamiliar building before him.
Marcus seems to get the hint, and steps through the door himself, leaving it open for you to inspect. You peek your head inside, and…
Well, you aren’t sure what you expected, but for some reason, you hadn’t taken ‘Museum’ literally–and yet, here you are, standing in an old airplane hangar whose walls are completely covered with artworks of every style and time period you can imagine. The large open space is filled with sculptures, vases, and other artifacts, and on the left side of the hangar is a large, overflowing bookshelf.
For the moment, you’re too stunned to speak, but as usual, Marcus does it for you.
“It’s not exactly climate-controlled, of course, but this is better than any of the situations they came from.”
“You… you did all of this?” you whisper, taking in the museum with a look of sheer bewilderment.
“It’s been my life’s work–well, this life’s work, at least,” Marcus corrects himself. “Most of the major cities, I mean… you know how they are.”
You do. You have firsthand knowledge, although you don’t feel like sharing that information with the man.
“Sure, some museums were completely destroyed by the blasts, but some are still intact, just… inaccessible.”
You snort. That’s one way to describe it. Any portion of the cities that remain unburnt are treacherous, full of desperate people who can’t leave, and large syndicates of raiders and thieves who hoard what resources are left.
Marcus gestures at the walls. “When I started, I tried to keep them all organized, I really did. A wing for the Expressionists, a wing for Postmodernism, and so on, but things have gotten a little jumbled over the years.”
“You. You go to the cities. And you. Take the art.” you sputter, still focused on the insanity of it all. “And you bring it. Here.”
“It’s not stealing,” Marcus protests, his voice rising in pitch as he shuffles nervously on his feet.
“That’s not what–” You laugh in disbelief. “How the fuck do you get safely through any of these cities?”
“...Carefully.”
“Why?!”
Marcus shrugs. “I guess… when I started, it was because I wanted to preserve our history, but it’s grown to be so much more than that, it’s–” he sighs. “I want the world to have something beautiful. To know that it’s still possible.”
You stare at him. “How… how have you survived this long?”
“How do you mean?”
“You give food away. Way too much of it. You spend your time sneaking into the most dangerous areas of the country and for what? To sit here by yourself in this… graveyard of humanity?”
Marcus looks affronted, and you try to force yourself not to feel bad for clearly hurting his feelings. “It’s not just for me,” he says indignantly.
As if the universe was waiting for this cue, the doorknob behind you turns, and you jump backwards as the hangar door slowly swings open.
EVERYBODY STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING PENNY WROTE NEW MARCUS PIKE!!!
Omg I am SO HERE FOR THIS. Of fucking COURSE this man would set up an art museum in the apocalypse and be way too kind to strangers and yet competent enough to sneak around and acquire art and not get caught. OF FUCKING COURSE HE WOULD!!!
There it is again, that feeling in his chest, and it's getting on his last nerve; the last thing a sell-sword needs is a weak heart
Dozens of battles, thousands of miles--the fucking Tao Tei for fuck's sake--and nothing on earth has caused Pero's heart to falter or stutter or whatever this fucking is.
The first time was when he ducked his head to enter the fletcher's stall then brought it up to find you there, your hands working swiftly over hemp threads, fingers twisting and cording, working with amazing competency, humming a pretty tune, making the finest bowstrings he had ever seen.
The second time was when he returned to fetch his newly-strung bow, only to walk in at the minute you were testing it, your arms and shoulders curving gracefully as you pulled the string back--like Diana herself at the hunt--a small smile upon your favorable lips, satisfaction in your work.
The third time he didn't know what the fuck he was doing, just passing by and his feet took him through your stall to find you out in the yard in the back, just as you let fly an arrow which not only hit its mark, but split the previous arrow there in two, and the breeze kicked up and moved your hair, blew your skirts, and kissed your heaving breast...
This time, this fourth time, he won't run before you notice he is there, standing stupidly with lilies of the valley clutched in one hand, wondering why he finds it easier to stare down a thousand men across a ragged field than one bright-eyed woman who sure as hell knows how to pull at his strings.
Doesn’t know what to do with feelings, doesn’t know what to do about his competency kink, is gonna fumble his way through it anyway cause for the right woman this man will end up on his knees full of adoration, even if he has no fucking clue how he ended up there.
Also I literally let out a gasp of delight when I saw new Pero writing from you come across my dash AHHHH!!!!!!!
