Notes: Okay, so some of you might have already read this first chapter on Tumblr. I wrote it as a kind of AU/very dark oneshot and then decided to turn it into a fully-fledged, full-length story. General premise is Stendan in America unapologetically committing crime, having lots of crazy sex and being hunted by the law. It's Ste and Brendan as we know them from the show embracing the darkest parts of themselves and blazing a burning, bloody trail across an entire continent. Their backstories/families/personalities are the same/very similar to canon, they're just a lot more insane and they got bored of being insane in good-ole-Blighty.

Fic title and lyrics from Fire In The Blood/Snake Song by The Bootleggers ft. Emmylou Harris. This song is amazing and epic - I implore you to give it a listen.

Edit - Brand new fic cover is art by the amazing teiubesc8 over on Tumblr (can't post urls). I will never stop going on about how incredible she is! You should definitely go and take a look at her stuff.

Warnings (might spoil but worth reading, list will be updated as necessary): Indiscriminate murder and violence. Blood and intense gore. General psychopathic behaviour. Allusions to past child abuse both physical and sexual. Extensive weapons usage. Homophobia/homophobic language.

I won't be posting chapter by chapter warnings - it would take too long. Just assume that every chapter contains one of/all of the above things. Feel free to let me know if you think I've missed anything.

Word Count ~ 1000

come stand with me, my darling one,
among the trembling pines.
we feel his presence all around
fire in the sky.

SOUTH DAKOTA

The sun beats across the back of his neck like a shaken out blanket. The road stretches out ahead. Behind. Miles and miles of hot, melting tarmac to eat up with their stolen wheels. Brendan picks them, has a thing about black and leather and classic, American muscle, and Steven takes care of them, quick, nimble hands working at locks and wires until they purr.

He stands against this one, a black '67 Chevy Impala this time, 1965 Pontiac GTO before that but he thinks this new one's his favourite, and smokes the dwindling tab between his fingers. He's outwardly calm but he's waiting and he's a patient man but not when it comes to things that belong to him. Steven's been more than five minutes and his hands are getting itchy, warm steel pressing against his hip urgently with a life of its own.

He makes a move to straighten himself out but the clear doors of the garage, gas station, whatever, slide open and he relaxes again. Steven, casual as you like, strolling the good fifty yards back towards him with a lollipop stick poking out from between plush lips, walking beside the line of shimmering oil that swirls and winds its way to where Brendan stands watching. When he gets close he flicks his eyes down, mouth twitching at the corner.

"You done?" Brendan asks.

Steven smiles at him slowly, reaches back and pulls something out of his back pocket. A flat, flask-shaped bottle filled with amber liquid. Kilbeggan. Eighteen years on her. "Got you something."

"Mmmhh," he hums, low in his throat, takes the bottle and there's blood on Steven's thumb and wrist. "What did you do?"

Steven shrugs with one shoulder, crunches the candy in his teeth and tosses the stick aside. "He's only unconscious and he had a gun - I didn't start it. You've got it covered, anyway." He's talking about the slick, rainbow trail that ends a couple of feet behind them.

"That was precaution," Brendan drawls but there's no accusation behind his words. He knows his Steven and Steven knows him. Brendan loves destruction as much as Steven loves blood and freedom and things that aren't his.

Besides, someone pulled a gun on his boy and Brendan won't let that slide.

"You always think of everything," Steven says sweetly but it's coy, teasing, and Brendan curls his fingers lazily into the front of his t-shirt and drags him close.

Steven comes, loose and instantly yielding, melting against Brendan like heated glass, just like every time. He slides his hands underneath Brendan's shirt and presses his palms flat against the sweat-damp skin of his lower back, turns his face into Brendan's throat and drags his sticky-sweet lips back and forth.

Brendan feels a shiver go through Steven's body and pass into his own and he waits, knows it's coming and lets anticipation sizzle along his veins, savours the thrill under his skin. Steven's breath quickens against his fluttering pulse and Brendan feels him inhale deeply, feels the words against his skin as much as he hears them, burn it.

He brings the cigarette to his lips one last time, drags the smoke deep and holds it in his lungs. His head goes light and the sun blooms over the dingy, washed-out building in front of his eyes like lens flare. He blows upwards, stream of white through his pursed lips, flicks his finger and thumb like he's flipping a coin and Steven ducks and presses a single kiss to the cross hanging against Brendan's chest before he turns his head back over his shoulder to see, hair tickling against Brendan's chin.

The white tab spins, slow motion fall, trail of orange burning a tail like a comet, and it lands, bounces once and lands again. There's a noise like a ragged exhale and Brendan's lost in licking flames, erupting upwards and then moving, quick and smooth like running water, along the path he's lovingly laid for it to follow.

They watch, pressed together, and when the tanks catch and the metal twists and cracks with pressure, loud enough to hear from the spot Brendan's chosen to admire the view from, far enough to avoid injury but close enough to feel the initial, cleansing blast of heat, Brendan digs his fingernails into Steven's warm and pliant flesh.

A sound like eruption, like a natural disaster, low and rumbling and bone-deep. A stunning vista of climbing yellow and orange and rolling, pluming, grey smoke. Steven's gaze is rapt and he's rooted, still and in awe like this is the first time, like he is every time, and Brendan tears his eyes from the view because there's only one thing he loves doing more than watching something burn and it's watching the flames dance in Steven's wide, blue eyes.

*/*/*

" - one victim, thirty-three year old father of two, George Jones - trail of similar fires spanning the I-90 across several states - examining nearby CCTV footage - two potential witnesses - "

"Witnesses," Steven scoffs, leaning against the bathroom doorframe, naked and dripping wet from the shower.

Brandon, South Dakota. Cuddled up against the state line. Brendan can have them over it and in Minnesota in an hour, tops.

" - took local fire-fighters six hours to put out the flames - "

"Might be your best yet, that." Steven's smiling, eyes flicking between the bed and the TV, between Brendan sprawled back on his elbows against the covers and the news footage of their scorching path of destruction.

"You know me, Steven. Relentless pursuit of the best," he drawls, drags his gaze over the inches of bare, damp skin. "Want me to make the next one bigger for you?"

Steven's eyes flutter and go dark and he moves off the frame, comes close and climbs into a slow crawl across the bed. He nuzzles his nose against Brendan's jaw, presses soft lips to Brendan's throat, slides one leg over Brendan's body and soaks him through.

"Mmmhh. Yes, please."