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Badass Bookworm 1/2
R
Jensen/Cougar
Jensen's sick and tired of being the 'pussy'.


For the last motherfucking time: Jensen is not a fucking pussy!

He’s sick and tired of Roque’s barbs and Pooch’s looks and Cougar’s scowls and Clay’s fucking mutterings.

They are not cool, they are not fair, and most of all, they are not fucking deserved!

Yes, fine, Jensen’s a bit of a klutz sometimes. And he’s forgetful, so sue him.

He’s also the only one with the upper body strength to haul not only his own pack, but Roque’s – and fucking Roque - across the Sudanese desert with only one shoe, a block of sunscreen, and a battered can of Mountain Dew.

Can Pooch do that? Maybe…but has Pooch done that? No. Exactly.

Jensen is the one who has hauled every single one of them out of fires/explosions/crashed cars. He’s the one who has gone toe to toe with a member of the Mossad during that one huge communication fuck up. He’s the one who wrestled the alligator – and yes, it was a fucking alligator, Jensen can tell the difference – in Florida when it tried to eat Cougar. He’s the fucking one who always gets between someone else’s bullet and the rest of the team.

And that’s before you even look at all the cool cyber shit that they have no fucking clue about. Cougar doesn’t have email. Pooch made it as far as Amazon, then panicked. Roque…Roque can just about manage to surf for porn.

And that’s it.

So you know what?

Fuck you for thinking he’s a pussy.




He still hasn’t established if he is more Badass Bookworm, or Genius Bruiser.

Probably the former, really. Anything with ‘Badass’ in has that extra ‘pzaow’ factor.




Cougar’s the worst, really.

Just because he gets to tap Jensen’s ass, does not mean Jensen is A: A fairy fucking princess in need of protection, or B: Completely fucking helpless without a big, strong man.

Jensen is taller. He’s stronger, okay, he’s not older, but in the Giant Gay Cliché Book, he’s running two out of three when it comes to ‘Rules of Being the Top’.

So what if he likes to get fucked?

If it was romantic shit, like holding doors open and bringing him coffee and breakfast in bed, Jensen could probably live with it.

Only it’s not. It’s really fucking annoying stuff, like smirking when Jensen bends over – that possessive, stupid fucking jock look guys get when they fuck the head cheerleader and get the mother of all notches on the bedpost.

It would be flattering. Maybe. Only Jensen’s not a fucking cheerleader, and he sure as hell isn’t a trophy fuck.




In Prussia, Jensen gets his revenge for all the times Cougar has plied him full of tequila and mocked him the next morning.

Vodka, Cougar can handle.

Only this shit isn’t Vodka. Vodka doesn’t have the consistency of syrup. You can’t stand a motherfucking spoon up in Vodka.

Except apparently you can.

Cougar’s hangover was fucking epic.

Jensen’s was as well, but the fuck if he was going to actually admit to it.

He’d rather bounce around like the giant ball of ADHD Clay accuses him of being and keep the puking on the downlow.

It’s worth the absolute hatred in Cougar’s eyes.




It’s probably double standards, to be fair. Jensen’s sick and fucking tired of Cougar treating him like a girl he likes to fuck, but sure as hell doesn’t want to marry. He is.

Only that doesn’t mean he wants the hearts and flowers and Shakespearean sonnets.

He just wants… respect, maybe.

He wants Cougar to acknowledge that if Jensen really wanted to, he could put Cougar on his ass.




Cage Fighting, however, is totally not the way he planned on doing it.




Clay and Roque are hitting up their mark in a high stakes, shitty little underground fighting ring.

The plan is to wipe him out, make him desperate enough for cash that he turns to the CIA when they make him an offer he can't refuse.

Only maybe he got spooked, or maybe he is just smarter than they anticipated. He wants them to risk some collateral. To match an investment against his empire. He is confident his fighters can take on anyone, and wants to put his eggs in that one, well fortified basket.

Clay, to his credit, just nods and said he’ll send someone in for the next match.




Pooch is already placed in the venue, working behind the bar in a spot where he can keep tabs on everything that unfolds within.

Cougar is up in the roof, hiding in what had to be a majorly uncomfortable little spot, his rifle tracking the security in place around the building.

Which leaves Jensen.

“And put your fucking contacts in.” Roque adds to Clay’s gruff order to haul ass.

Jensen is so freaked out by the lack of complaints from all involved that he trips over his laptop.




No one, not even Cougar, airs a single complaint when Jensen shows up at the venue, black work pants and a basic white shirt instead of his usually colorful wardrobe. He’s left his glasses behind, as promised.

Jensen stands beside Clay, quiet and obedient as he rarely is in life. Their mark paws all over him, hands on Jensen’s biceps, abs and thighs like he is checking for a weakness only he knew hows to assess.

If that pisses the others off, they didn’t show it.




The venue packs quickly with rich, cruel patrons who like to pay to watch men tear each other apart.

Jensen wants to shoot the lot of them.




“There’s no rules. You know that, right?” Clay mutters quietly as Jensen is about to be led down to the entrance to the pit.

Jensen just nods. He knows.

For the part of him that is freaking the fuck out, there is a larger part that knows he is one of the best-trained soldiers in the fucking world.

Clay claps him on the shoulder. “Wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t think you could win.”

Jensen’s so surprised he nearly falls over the barrier when they start to usher him away.




Subconsciously, he knows they are watching. He’s only aware of that for precious seconds.

Then he’s too occupied with keeping his head on his shoulders.




The crowd want a kill. They scream and writhe like bodies packed into the Coliseum.

He half expects a thumbs down to come from their mark. Instead a giant video screen flashes the order to kill.

Jensen spits at it, leaves his opponent bloody in the dirt, and stalks back out of the pit.

No one stops him, and the crowd loves him.




It’s funny.

He’s just out of the shower, and Cougar’s waiting for him, sitting on the edge of the bed, his hat pulled low.

And after months of wanting to earn Cougar’s respect, Jensen suddenly doesn’t care.

He has blood under his fingernails still, and bruises deep down to the bone.

Jensen’s a Badass fucking Bookworm, alright, and fuck Cougar if he can’t see it.
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August 2010

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