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writersdrug · 10 days

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OOOH bartender Simon when one of the regulars starts making comments about reader at the bar

Yes

Slight nsfw, someone makes derogatory marks about reader

Simon didn't understand why the man chose to be a regular at his bar. He never spoke much to the lad, Mitch, other than the occasional grunt and "'nother round?" Still, the bloke had been coming to his pub every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday night like it was his religion - it very well might've been - spilling his guts over neat whiskey about his failing marriage, his estranged children, and his shitty job. Simon was surprised he managed to keep one, with how much he was drinking on a Sunday night.

"Don't ever get a wife, Simon." Mitch says, fidgeting his empty whiskey glass in his fingers. He'd already come in with a sour expression and droopy eyes - Simon wondered what the topic would be for tonight, but as usual, it steered towards his divorce waiting to happen.

"Already got one." He says, jerking his head to the liquor shelf. "Woodford."

Mitch laughs, letting Ghost take his empty glass and dunk it in the wash basin. "You got anyone waitin' for you after work?"

Ghost clicks his tongue, wiping the condensation off the bar top. "Rather not talk about my personal life 'ere."

"Bah - you need something young n' fresh." Mitch sighs, tapping his fingers against the wood. "Guy like you can't have something too committed, or else your work ethic will suffer."

Ghost grunts as his response. He reminds himself that Mitch was a patent, like everyone else, and he only has to tolerate his yapping for tonight - until next Friday.

Mitch turns his head to look at you, and Simon follows with his eyes: you're standing at a table, bantering with the couple seated there as you take their orders. Hair pulled back into that weird claw clip thingy Simon likes so much, posture relaxed as you leaned on one hip, a soft smile on your face as the couple takes their time placing their orders. He remembers how unfamiliar you were with it all in the beginning, and now it looks like you've been working here for the past ten years. Like you belong in his pub.

"How's she handling the job?" Mitch asks.

Simon shrugs. "Seems t' be managing just fine. Gets away with more shit than I should be allowin' 'er."

Mitch chuckles, looking back at you. "They always do when they look that good." He comments, making Ghost pause. "Price knew what he was doin' hiring her."

He feels his muscles tense subconsciously. "I hired 'er."

Mitch looks back at him, a wicked smile spreading across his face. "Simon, you ol' dog..." he begins, leaning his forearms onto the bartop. "Gotta keep the customers comin' somehow, eh?"

Ghost blinks. "I don't follow." He does; but he's giving Mitch a chance to redeem himself after his insinuation.

"C'mon, was it her face? What she wore to the interview? Did Johhny-boy see her and beg you to hire her?" He leans in towards Simon, who obliges and meets him halfway, just to hear what else the price will say, so he knows how much damage he can justify.

"I'm telling you - the only reason she probably took the job was, well.." he raises and eyebrow.

Simon waits. "Hmm?"

"You know - three big guys like you lot - not to mention that old brewmaster assistant, Garrick, I know he frequents here... well, any desperate thing like her would be throwing themselves at the opportunity."

He's livid. "Wha' opportunity?"

"Gettin hit from all sides, if you catch my drift."

Ghost nods slowly, biting the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. He wants to punch a hole through Mitch's chest, but two patrons roughhoused in one week would make Price get on his case. He turns to the bar and grabs a whiskey glass.

"Aww, don't be like that..." Mitch says when he senses Ghost's anger. "I'm sorry. Listen - if you don't want to show her a good time, me and my buddy will. I'll leave my number and you'll give it to her for me?"

"Drink this, sober up, and go home Mitch." Ghost says, slapping the glass of clear liquid in front of the man. Mitch eyes him with a huff as he returns to washing the glasses in the bar sink.

"Fuckin' loser..." he mumbles, grabbing the glass and downing a large gulp - he immediately sputters, the drink spilling all over his front as he coughs and hacks violently. The entire floor looks over at the commotion, you included, standing by the POS and watching with a furrowed brow.

"Fuck- was that goddamn Everclear?!" He rasps.

"I think it's time y' head out, Mitch." Ghost says, leaning both of his hands against the bar. "Call your wife and kids. Stop comin' 'ere every week." He then leans in close, right in front of Mitch's face. "Cuz if I see you back at my bar again, I'm draggin' you out the back myself."

His eyes crinkle with a smile as he claps Mitch on the arm, making him jump from the impact. He quickly gets up off his seat and stumbles towards the front door, sparing one last bittwr glance between you and Ghost, before he angrily shoves his way out.

Ghost sighs, putting the Everclear back on the shelf; you walk over right on cue. "What was that about? He ok?"

Simon shrugs, closing Mitch's tab on his POS and assigning an auto-gratuity. "Dunno. Maybe my advice finally got t' the bastard."

#ghost #bartender ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riely #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x you #cod #call of duty #ghost cod #cod x reader

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itsrnvalves · 2 years

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The center hole basin mixer has a touch of modern design. The tap is highly durable as it is made from the best quality brass ingot material. The knob of the faucet is authentic and allows you a perfect grip. Boost center hole basin mixer is what you need.

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infamous-light · 4 months

Text

You Belong to Me Ch. 1

Alcina Dimitrescu x F! Reader

AO3: You Belong to Me

Summary: Lady Dimitrescu's obsession knows no bounds as she becomes increasingly possessive over you. Will you succumb to her dark embrace, or find a way to break free before it's too late?

Word Count: 3.4K

Warnings: Yandere, possessive/obsessive behavior, blood, aftermath depiction of violence

You woke up every morning to the faint glow of dawn filtering in through the small, frost-covered window of your cramped living space. The air was cool and still, carrying with it the subtle scent of weathered stone and aged wood. It was a far cry from the comfort of your former life, but you have long since resigned yourself to the harsh realities of servitude since you began living in Castle Dimitrescu three months ago.

With a weary sigh, you pushed yourself upright. The blanket slid away to reveal the simple cot that served as your bed. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you swung your legs over the edge of the bed and planted both feet onto the cold, unforgiving surface of the wooden floor. It made goosebumps travel across your arms.

Ignoring the slight chill in your bedroom for now, you walked over to a small dresser, and with a gentle tug, you pulled open the drawer, revealing an array of neatly folded uniforms within. You sift through the selection, your fingers grazing over soft cotton blouses, tailored trousers, and dresses. After thoughtful consideration, you settled on a plain white blouse paired with sleek black trousers.

Once dressed, you made your way over to where a small basin sat atop a stand, tucked away into the corner of your bedroom. Cupping your hands, you scooped up the frigid liquid and splashed it onto your face. As the droplets cascaded down your cheeks, you reached for a hand towel hanging nearby and patted your face dry. You turned your attention to your hair next and picked up an old hairbrush resting on the stand. As you ran it through your strands, you felt the satisfying tug of knots being smoothed out.

After combing your hair, you placed the hairbrush back down with a soft clink and grabbed your toothbrush and toothpaste tucked next to the basin. You applied a pea-sized amount of toothpaste onto the bristles and began to brush your teeth. Once two minutes have passed, you rinsed your mouth and toothbrush and placed it back on the stand. With a sense of cleanliness and readiness, you leave your bedroom, prepared to face the day ahead.

You walked down the hallway, the quiet tap of your shoes thumping lightly against the carpeted floors. The walls, painted a pristine white, were lined with gold accents that shimmered under the candles’ soft lighting. Alongside the decor, various paintings adorned the walls, depicting scenes of women dancing in sunlit fields or portraits of people.

The interior of the castle was beautiful, you could admit that, but beneath it all lurked the unsettling reality of torture and death. Behind closed doors, unseen horrors unfolded. All the maids lived in constant fear, their every move scrutinized, and their slightest mistake met with brutal punishment. The halls were haunted with their pained screams and whispered pleas for mercy.

The price of disobedience and the consequences of crossing the line drawn by Lady Dimitrescu and her daughters was one you wanted to avoid at all costs.

Eventually, you reached the supply room door and turned the handle. The hinges protested with a soft, familiar creak as you swung the door open. Inside, shelves were neatly stacked with cleaning supplies. Just as your hand reached out to grab the items you needed, you heard a familiar voice behind you say your name.

You turned around and a rush of warmth flooded through you as you realized it was Catalina. Since your arrival three months ago, Catalina had become your closest friend, an anchor, guiding your life through the horrors of this castle.

“Good morning.” Catalina greeted you with a warm smile, her chestnut brown hair cascading in gentle waves around her shoulders.

“Hey, good morning.” You replied, returning her smile.

“Are you ready for another grueling day?” She joked lightly, though her voice was tinged with exhaustion.

“Yeah,” you forced to maintain your smile despite the unease that gnawed at your insides. “But we’ll get through it like we always do.” You added, summoning a bit of reassurance for both you and Catalina.

The corners of her mouth downturned, forming a subtle frown as she spoke. “I wish I had your optimism right now. I have to help Maria clean up Miss Daniela’s bedroom,” she continued, her tone heavy with a sense of foreboding. “I dread what I’ll find in there.”

You grimaced in response.

Daniela was the youngest of Lady Dimitrescu’s daughters. She was known for her volatile and unpredictable nature. Her actions often left everyone on edge. At any given moment, Daniela's demeanor could shift like the wind, turning from saccharine to savage in the blink of an eye. It was best to avoid her completely when it came to the Lady’s three daughters.

“Well, I hope it’s nothing too bad.” You murmured.

“Me too,” Catalina said with a soft smile. “But I’ll see you later at lunch, okay?”

“Definitely. See you then.”

As Catalina left the supply room, you grabbed a bucket already filled with soapy water, a mop, and a couple of washcloths. With your supplies in hand, you made your way over to one of the hallways assigned to you. Upon reaching your destination, you carefully set your supplies down. The mop leaned against the wall while the bucket of cleaning solution sat nearby.

Taking a moment to survey the large window, you noted the thin layer of dust and grime obscuring the view beyond. Determined to restore its clarity, you dipped one of the washcloths into the water and wrung out the excess liquid soaking the fabric.

Positioning yourself at the first window, you finally got to work.

***

As you finished wiping down the last window, the midday sun shone high above the mountains, letting you know that it was nearing noon. Satisfied with your work, you gathered your cleaning supplies and began to make your way back to the supply room.

However, as you walked along, the silence of the castle was shattered by the sudden, blood-curdling scream of a woman. The chilling sound was quickly followed by a sickening gurgle. Dread washed over you like a wave as the implications of what you had just heard sank in. Without hesitation, you quickened your pace, clutching your supplies in a death grip as you hurried away from the source of the horrifying noise.

“You there, stop!”

A menacing voice cut through the air, and you halted in place. Every muscle in your body tensed as you recognized the commanding tone of Cassandra, the middle child of Lady Dimitrescu. Encountering Cassandra was an ordeal in and of itself. Though not as overtly unhinged as her youngest sibling Daniela, Cassandra's brand of cruelty was more insidious. Her actions were calculated, designed to inflict maximum suffering upon those unfortunate enough to cross her path. She was known to be the most sadistic among her sisters.

With a knot of apprehension tightening in your stomach, you slowly turned to face her, meeting her piercing gaze with trepidation. However, your attention was soon drawn elsewhere as you noticed something deeply disturbing: blood dripped from the edge of her sickle, staining the floor in dark, ominous droplets.

“Come here.” Cassandra drawled out, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. Her lips curved into a sly grin as she extended her index finger, beckoning you over.

Swallowing hard, you forced yourself to comply, your footsteps hesitant as you approached her. Her grin widened, a glint of amusement dancing in her eyes as you stepped closer, feeling the weight of her gaze upon you.

“Clean this mess up.” She said lowly as she inclined her head toward Lady Dimitrescu’s study room.

“Yes, Miss Cassandra.” You whispered obediently.

As you cautiously stepped past the door frame, a scene of horror greeted you. There, sprawled in the center of the room, lay the lifeless body of a maid. Her throat was gruesomely slashed, the wound jagged and brutal. A pool of blood spread like a sinister halo around her head, seeping into the cracks of the floorboards.

For a moment, you stood frozen in shock.

Time seemed to stand still as you struggled to comprehend the brutality of what lay before you. Your eyes were fixated on the lifeless form, unable to tear your gaze away. You had never encountered a dead body before. The sight was jarring, shocking you to your core.

You had seen the aftermath of violence before, heard the distant screams, and seen leftover blood etched into the fibers of the carpets, but never have you come face to face with death itself. This was different.

This was raw and real.

Your eyes briefly caught sight of a large key adorned with the Dimitrescu family crest, resting delicately next to her hand. Before you could ponder its significance, Cassandra's voice, smooth as silk but laced with an unsettling edge, whispered close to your left ear.

“Don't mind her,” she purred, her breath brushing against your earlobe like a cold breeze. “She had it coming.”

Startled, you gasped and instinctively stepped forward, desperate to get away from her.

Cassandra chuckled and stepped around you without a single care in the world. She bent over and retrieved the key, slipping it into the pocket of her dress. Then, in a chilling display of strength, she seized the young woman by the collar of her blouse, her grip unyielding as she dragged the limp body along with ease. And then, as if forgetting something, she paused, turning slowly to fix you with an unnerving gaze.

“Consider this a lesson. This is what happens to those who attempt to escape.” She remarked, her tone almost causal, as if discussing the weather. Her eyes then drifted toward the trail of blood that stained the floor. For a moment, her eyes lingered on the crimson mess before meeting your own again, a smirk playing on her lips. “You may want to hurry and clean this up before Mother makes an appearance.”

The implication of her statement hung heavy in the air.

“Yes, Miss Cassandra.”

As Cassandra finally departed the room, a surge of anguish threatened to engulf you, but you suppressed it. With trembling hands and a heart heavy with dread, you forced yourself to maintain composure, though every instinct screamed at you to turn and run.

There was no time to waste as you got started on cleaning the blood up.

Time seemed to warp and twist, stretching into an eternity as you meticulously cleaned every speck of blood off the floor. With each swipe of the mop, your hands shook uncontrollably, the memory of what had transpired haunting your every move. Every corner you scrubbed, every stain you erased, felt like an attempt to cleanse not just the physical space, but the sorrow that threatened to consume you from within.

Just as you thought you couldn't bear another moment of the suffocating silence, you heard it. The unmistakable sound of heavy high heels clicking through the hallway. Your heart almost leaped into your throat, but instead, pounded against your ribs like a caged animal desperate for escape.

The click-clack of her high heels came to a sudden stop.

A tense stillness settled in the air, thick and palpable, as you sensed her presence looming by the doorway. The hairs on the back of your neck prickled and stood on end, a primal instinct warning you of the danger that stood before you. But your eyes remained fixed on the floor, as if it held the key to your salvation.

And then, finally, she spoke, her voice like velvet. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

You found yourself momentarily stunned. You didn't know how to respond. Your mind raced, searching for the right words, but they never came. You had never spoken to her before, until today. So, you settled for her title instead.

“My Lady.” You managed to utter softly.

But there was only silence in response.

You shifted uneasily, unsure of what to do next. Was she waiting for something? Did you do something wrong?

With a hesitant glance upward, you found yourself locking eyes with Lady Dimitrescu.

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as you held her gaze, a sense of unease creeping over you like ivy winding its way around your limbs. There was something in the way she looked at you – a hunger, a thirst for something you couldn't quite name – that made your insides curl.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the moment passed, and she offered you a knowing smirk – a flash of pearly white teeth that sent a chill down your spine.

Your pulse quickened as you watched Lady Dimitrescu walk past you, her tall figure casting a long shadow across the floor. But then she stopped, the sudden cessation of movement sending a jolt of fear through you. You could feel her presence hovering somewhere behind you, a suffocating weight that seemed to press down on your very soul.

“You missed a spot.” Lady Dimitrescu said but it sounded almost playful.

“I-I’m sorry, my Lady,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll get that cleaned up right away.”

Your heart hammered in your chest like a relentless drumbeat as you scrambled over to her. Kneeling beside her, your eyes caught a small spot of blood that you had missed, a tiny droplet that clung stubbornly to the floor. How was she even able to see that?

You pulled a handkerchief from your pocket, fingers fumbling slightly in their haste. With gentle precision, you began to clean the area, your movements slow and deliberate.

Finally, when the task was done, you gazed up at her, seeking some sign of reassurance. But what met your gaze was unnerving – a smile that sent shivers down your spine. It wasn't the smile of satisfaction you had expected. No, it was something far more sinister. Her lips curled upward, revealing a glimpse of something altogether different – a flash of fangs.

“You may go.” Lady Dimitrescu said, her voice carrying an eerie calmness.

“Thank you, my Lady.”

With a deep, respectful curtsy, you dared not linger any longer than necessary. As you hastily gathered your belongings, you could feel her eyes boring into the back of your head as you left her study.

You navigated the many hallways once more, each twist and turn blurring together seamlessly. Desperation clawed at you, urging you to put as much distance as possible between yourself and Lady Dimitrescu.

As you rounded another corner, a wave of exhaustion washed over you, both physically and mentally. Taking a moment to collect yourself, you breathed deeply, letting the tension melt away. But even as you tried to calm your racing heart, your mind couldn't shake the image of the way Lady Dimitrescu stared at you.

There was something off about it, something you couldn't quite put into words.

You hope you never find out.

***

The morning sun casts a soft golden glow through your window, signaling the start of a new day.

With a languid motion, you stretched your limbs and pushed the covers aside, swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. Rubbing your eyes, you let out a soft yawn and glance around the room, the familiar surroundings gradually coming into focus. Yet, something seemed out of place.

Your gaze drifted to the door of your bedroom. You frowned as you saw a small, folded piece of paper lying on the floor, just beneath the edge of the door.

Intrigued, you rose off the bed and padded your way across the room toward the note. You bent down and picked it up. Unfolding the paper, you found yourself staring at what appeared to be elegant handwriting scrawled across the page.

My dearest pet,

It has come to my attention that your talents are wasted on menial tasks. Therefore, it is with great pleasure, and without room for negotiation, that I hereby command you to assume the role of my personal servant from this day forth.

You shall attend to my every whim and desire with the utmost devotion. You will be at my beck and call, ready to serve me without question or hesitation.

You are expected to begin your shift at 9 A.M. in my bedchambers. Do not be late.

Yours faithfully,

Lady Alcina Dimitrescu

Blood froze in your veins.

As you read those words, an icy grip tightened around your heart.

Pet.

Being labeled as Lady Dimitrescu's “pet” made your stomach churn. At that moment, the room seemed to close in around you, suffocating you with its hold. You released the note from your trembling fingers, watching it flutter back to the floor.

None of this made any sense.

Lady Dimitrescu wasn’t known for keeping pets. The very idea seemed absurd, yet she called you one.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, she also wanted you to be her personal servant. That fact alone was terrifying. You were already forced to work in this castle but the prospect of serving directly under her? That was a whole other matter.

You stole a glance at an old clock perched on your dresser. It was 8 A.M. You knew you had little time left before you were expected to be in her bedchambers, ready to fulfill whatever tasks she demanded of you.

Many thoughts flittered around in your mind, swirling like leaves. Among them, one stuck out the most. The desire to escape burned within you like a flame refusing to be extinguished.

No.

The idea was foolish. It would surely get you killed. You have already seen what Cassandra did to that maid yesterday.

But what if you took your time to plot your escape?

Escaping the castle would not be easy. It would require cunning, stealth, and a plan so foolproof that even the Dimitrescu family would be caught off guard.

Despite the overwhelming odds stacked against you, you have to try. You refuse to live the rest of your life as some noblewoman’s pet.

Turning on your heel, you got dressed and left your bedroom. With each step, you couldn't shake the feeling of being watched, as though a pair of unseen eyes followed your every move. You glanced over your shoulder, half-expecting to catch a glimpse of someone lurking in the shadows, but the hallway remained empty. You quickened your pace until the sound of your name pierced through the stillness of the hallway.

Startled, you pivoted to find Catalina standing there. Her smile, usually bright and welcoming, faltered as she took in your demeanor. Concern etched across her features as she walked over to you, her hands settling gently on your shoulders. Her touch offered both comfort and support.

“Hey, is everything okay?” Her voice carried genuine worry. “I didn’t see you at lunch or dinner yesterday.”

You swallowed hard, your throat feeling dry and constricted.

“No, everything is not okay.” You managed to rasp out.

“What’s wrong?” Catalina's expression softened with empathy.

You hesitated, feeling the weight of Lady Dimitrescu’s words pressing down on you. But you needed to confide in someone, and she was the only person you trusted enough to share that information with.

“I received a note this morning from Lady Dimitrescu. She said that I’m to be her personal servant starting today.”

Catalina's reaction was immediate. A light gasp left her lips, and her hands, which had been resting reassuringly on your shoulders, fell away. The color drained from her face, leaving her complexion pallid as her lips pressed together in a thin line.

“I don’t know what to do.” Your voice quivered, tears beginning to well up in your eyes. “I’m scared.”

Catalina's brow furrowed as she sought to understand the situation.

“Why did she ask you to be her personal servant?” she asked, her tone gentle yet probing. “The grand chambermaid usually attends to the Lady’s needs.”

You reached up, delicately brushing away the tears that gathered in the corner of your eyes. “I’m not sure. She just said that my talents were wasted on menial tasks.”

There was a long pause as she absorbed your words.

“This is very unusual.” Catalina murmured; her voice laced with unease.

A queasy sensation crept up from the pit of your stomach, coiling like a serpent as you hesitated to tell Catalina how Lady Dimitrescu addressed you in her note as well. You were reluctant to say it out loud.

Pet.

You were no longer a person, but a possession.

#lady dimitrescu x reader #alcina dimitrescu x reader #lady dimitrescu #alcina dimitrescu #resident evil village #resident evil fanfic #bela dimitrescu #cassandra dimitrescu #daniela dimitrescu #resident evil #resident evil 8

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exitwound · 1 year

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pricegouge · 4 months

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Fatted Rabbit, Part Twelve on AO3

Content

You tell yourself the best plan is no plan.

Bearshifter!Price x reader | explicit

You tell yourself the best plan is no plan. You don't know how he does it, but Phil's always been able to predict your thought process. In retrospect, you're not sure why you ever thought some idyllic northern getaway could have possibly saved you. Of course he found you there; he knew how much you missed home, knew you weren't quite dumb enough to return.

So, no plan. Except you can't go much more north without a passport, so that's out. You briefly wonder about Canada's asylum policy and then marvel at your ability to laugh at a time like this. Beats crying, you think, as you cry hard enough that signs blur and you miss the last good turnoff toward a western route for hours. On your left, the Flatheads loom high overhead, barren and undeveloped, casting their runoff into the valley through which you drive. You carry on, game driven into the basin.

After nearly nine hours of driving, you make it out of Montana. You don't stop. The road ahead of you seems to trip over itself, fall flat. Your headlights illuminate more than twenty yards ahead of you now as the terrain levels out. You check your rearview every thirty seconds, manage to convince yourself you see a low gleam working its way down the range behind you. You keep an eye out for a road side parking area, eventually make due with an abandoned leveled lot, and sit with a steak knife in hand as you wait for the car far miles behind you to catch up, sobbing in relief when it passes without so much as tapping its brakes.

You feel maybe a little ridiculous sitting there with your knife, and then realize even the threat of Phil nearby has your thoughts spiraling into old patterns again. The only thing ridiculous about your little steak knife is the fact that you don't know how to use it, and it won't do shit against a man who once stood you against a wall and broke in his new nine iron by driving golf balls at you after your late return from work had 'worried him' so much he'd missed tee time.

You'd left him a few times in the past - quick excursions he would basically allow before pulling some string you never did find the source of and having you fired. He'd wait you out, come calling with pretty flowers and prettier promises when he knew you were facing eviction just to show his true colors once he had you solidly dependent on him again. Somehow, you didn't think it would go down like that this time. Phil didn't love you, he barely ever even liked you, and now you'd made him miss tee time by months.

You only realize now, trying to sleep upright in the driver's seat, parked on the side of a road so barren you'd had to DIY a pull off, that you'd basically done half his job for him. For all intents and purposes, you're already dead. No societal standing to be upended once he finally tracked you down. There were no coworkers who would note your absence as uncharacteristic, no PO box that would overflow to the point the clerk would call for a wellness check. Phil had separated you from your loved ones, sure, but you'd kept them away out of fear.

The only one who would note your absence was John, but you'd made it perfectly clear that was by your own choice after yelling at him like you had.

John. You want to cry again, don't have the energy. You'd known he'd been keeping tabs on you, somehow, and you'd managed to convince yourself you were being paranoid. Stupid , same as always. You'd been so proud of how far you'd come since leaving Phil but you'd again made the same dumbass mistakes that had landed you with that bastard in the first place; ignoring instincts in favor of a handsome smile.

Still, he didn't deserve to be left like that, and you'd be lying if you didn't need someone to talk to right now. Your phone sits in the center console, unpowered and unthreatening.

You decide you're still mad, that you'll call him tomorrow.

Between the self-doubt, your inclined position, and the one eye you keep trained on the wide horizon at all times, it takes you over an hour to fall asleep despite your genuine exhaustion. It's fitful and restless; you get maybe three hours sleep before the sun begins creeping above the flat plains ahead of you to the east. You'd forgone your blinds as a safety measure so there's no escaping the blinding brightness of the horizon and you grumble about how you should have turned your car around so you could have slept in just a bit. Still, getting flash banged by the flatland sunrise is preferable to at least one other wake up call you know you could have gotten. You give yourself another ten minutes or so to wiggle some feeling into your stiff joints and enjoy the sun's warmth on your face. But when the air quality begins to shift from golden warm to still and humid, you climb out of the Jeep to rush through your morning routine.

It's strange how used you've gotten to baring your ass in public. Back out by Glacier, you'd gotten to the point that it hardly made you squint more than was necessary to check the coast was clear. Here though, in the open fields of Wyoming, with barely any vegetation to hide you and a known predator that scares you far worse than a friendly bear on your tail, you find yourself a little gun shy. Strange, missing being homeless in the woods.

A nagging voice tells you you're missing more about Glacier than just the vegetation, doesn't shut up when you try to slam your door on it.

***

Another four hours of driving brings you down close to real civilization. You skirt past one city and come upon her sister an hour later. Desperation and exhaustion weigh heavy on you, and you know if you sleep in your car another night you'll be too beat come tomorrow to drive safely. You drum your fingers off the steering wheel as you sit at a red light, weighing your options. It's possible Phil can track your spending. You'd switched your bank when you'd left, of course, but he's mean and scary, and tends to get what he wants. Banks and payroll offices are manned by individual people, after all. It's unlikely, but offers a neat, tidy explanation as to how he found you to begin with. It would be best to empty your account and start a new one, but that can be difficult without an address. Start small. An ATM could at least give you a few day's head start.

You find one in the lobby of a small pharmacy, stare at it suspiciously through the vestibule glass for a good twenty minutes before deciding on a plan. Withdrawing as much as the ATM allows, you wince at what you see of your remaining balance on the receipt. Yesterday morning the amount had been a comfort, but now that you know Phil is no closer to giving you up than he'd been months ago, you can't help but feel a little helpless about your pitiful savings.

It's a problem for another day, though. In the meantime, you need a safe place to hang your hat for the night. If Phil is monitoring your account, he'll have seen you stop off in Gillette so you head back the way you came and find a room at the sleaziest motel Buffalo has to offer. The carpets don't even extend under the bed, and you're fairly certain a sex worker is posted up next door, but that's her business; yours is keeping your head down.

After checking thoroughly for bed bugs, you deem it safe enough to bring in a change of clothes and some essentials. You make yourself the world's plainest quesadilla on your skillet for dinner, and tuck into bed with a happy sigh while the sun's still up.

Still, exhaustion isn't quite enough to keep your brain from running in circles; and after spending the whole weekend tucked tight to John's side, you can't help but choke up a bit, thinking of what you left behind. You know you'd panicked when he first admitted to knowing about Phil. It probably hadn't warranted running the fuck away like you did, but it was too late now. What could you do, go crawling back explaining how you'd assumed him to be a monster based off the smallest of transgressions and would he please take you back? Besides, you had warned him you'd leave if Phil ever showed up again.

You sigh, eye your phone where it sits on the bedside table, still powered off. You've been avoiding it like the plague, knowing full well that every minute that ticks by unanswered only makes it worse. If John's reached out, he'll have assumed something bad has happened based on your silence. You should reassure him, at least tell him you're alive. But you're not sure you'll be able to stand the rejection you'll feel if you power it on and find no missed messages.

"Christ," you huff, unsure how you're even able to worry about such petty things at a time like this. You turn your phone on out of spite and frown when the amount of missed notifications which pop up nearly brick your phone. You scroll through them quickly, noting your voicemail box is full - mostly John, though a couple from an unknown number catch your eye. You listen to one and get a little teary eyed when you hear Soap's brogue telling you to 'Come back Bonnie, we'll help you.'

Filling up your mailbox hadn't stopped John from calling, it seems, another forty or so missed calls are enough to give you pause. There is such a thing as too concerned, though if you'd known that he'd had an abusive ex who was actively hunting him down and then suddenly he'd disappeared from your life, you suppose you'd be pretty worried too. You briefly scroll through the text messages, only a few words here or there registering. 'Can't smell. Fucking pepper spray,' draws your attention and you frown in confusion.

"Pepper spray?" you ask yourself, and then jump so bad you nearly throw your phone across the room when it starts ringing.

"John?"

" Bunny, " he sighs in relief. Or at least you think he does. Hard to tell, with how croaky his voice sounds. "Where are you?"

"Wyoming. Are you okay? You sound like you got throatfucked."

"Am I bloody o -." He huffs, takes a deep breath. "Who cares? Are you okay? Send me your location, I'll come meet you."

"John, that's -."

"Sweetheart, please ," when he begs, his voice goes thin and ragged. He coughs to clear it - wet, hacking, and then groans in pain.

"John, seriously, are you okay? Are you sick?"

"Did you get my messages?"

"You sent a lot of messages, man. I haven't had a chance to go through them all."

"Oh." He pauses, sniffles, hacks a bit more. "Ran into your ex."

"Phil?" you breathe, eyes darting to the window instinctively, as if even just mentioning his name could summon him. "When did you see Phil?"

"Right as you were pulling out of that cafe."

"You're sure it was him?" Your voice sounds far away, but you can't even concentrate on that when your brain's running in circles trying to figure out why Phil would get so close without accosting you.

"Can't imagine anyone else would want to unload two cans of mace on me."

You blink stupidly at your phone for a minute. On the other end, John just keeps grumbling about his sense of smell. "Seriously, bunny, come ho -."

"He did what!? " you shriek, belatedly.

"It's no matter, sweetheart, but I can't find you now unless you tell me where you are, okay? Please tell me where you are." Something about the way that's phrased should strike you as odd, but you're too busy hyperventilating about the fact that your dogshit life choices have gone and gotten poor John involved. Two cans of mace, what the fuck?

"John, I'm so sorry. I never should have even been there, shit , are you okay? Did you go to the hospital?" There had been witnesses hanging around; you remember how they'd watched you and John warily. Surely they'd have called for help when Phil attacked him and -. "Wait, is Phil still there?"

"No," John growls. There's no other word for it. John's got a deep, scratchy voice as is, but in this state it's down right animalistic. "Bit his ear off and the coward scarpered before authorities arrived."

You blink again. "Huh?"

"Cops were slow getting there. Laswell says they had a busy day with -."

"No, before that. Did you say you bit Phil's ear off? "

"Oh. Yeah. Couldn't exactly fight, blinded and all. Just kinda instinct."

"Okay there, Iron Mike…" there are important follow up questions you should be asking. About PEP and therapy, probably, but all you can think about is John covered in Phil's blood and while it should disturb you, it very much doesn't.

"Bunny. Focus, sweetheart, please. Where are you?"

"Uh. Buffalo, Wyoming. I'd give you the address of the motel, but I don't think they legally exist anywhere."

John barely hums, unamused. "Can you send me your location, honey?"

You chew your lip, debating. It's one thing to feel like right shit about what happened, another thing to overlook the entire reason you'd been mad at him. "You never explained how you knew about Phil."

John sighs, shuffles around a bit. You think you can hear Simon in the background, but then a door shuts and it's quiet on his end. "Wasn't lying, sweetheart. Graves came into the bar looking for you. Soap ID'd him, didn't think anything of it when he said you'd probably come around later. Well, you didn't, obviously - thankfully -, so Graves apparently hung out for a good few hours, just asking about you and saying some vaguely threatening things to Soap. Simon threw him out, then took his name from Soap and called up Gaz - my old bartender; you haven't met him yet. Together they did some digging and found out all about Phil, and when they brought this all to my attention, I kind of panicked. Tracked you down, scared you. Sorry about -."

"How did you track me down?"

He hesitates. "Only yellow Wrangler in the area."

You huff, frustrated that it's a good answer, and then glance back to the window warily when you realize your car hasn't stopped being conspicuous.

"Bunny, you should be here. We can help you."

You try not to think about how sad he sounds. "You said you did some digging on him?"

"Basic stuff. Residence, employment -."

"He knows someone high up. I think military, but like… way up there. He's slippery. Nothing sticks to him." You're not sure if you're warning John, or yourself. 'Don't get your hopes up,' you want to say. 'There is no "stand your ground" on this.'

"All the more reason you should be here." His voice borders on anger, but for once, you don't even flinch. John is not mad at you.

"What are you gonna do if he turns up again? Bite his other ear off?"

"I'll eat him alive if I ever see him again," John growls, and you gulp, try to remember now is not the time to start wondering if you're maybe into… well, not cannibalism; that brings to mind Anthony Hopkins, fancy wine, and bone china. But you would have paid good money to see John bite Phil's ear off, and you don't know what that says about you. Not trusting your voice, you just share your location with him and smile to yourself when he checks the notification and sighs in relief. "Thank you, bunny."

You hum, settle further into your bed. "I'll start heading back in the morning." You don't mean to sound so sheepish, but it's hard not to be embarrassed by your blind panic when John made it all sound so easy. Sometimes you forget how little experience you have with healthy relationships until you do something as childish as running away to the next state instead of asking a clarifying question.

Blessedly, John doesn't seem to mind too much. "Simon and I'll start heading your way tonight. Keep your phone on for me, okay love?"

The pet name takes you by surprise, makes your voice catch in your throat. "Okay."

He pauses, clearly having noticed. "You alright?"

"Yeah," you croak, very clearly not. "Could you stay on the phone with me while I fall asleep?"

"Oh, sweetheart," he breathes, "of course."

"I'm sorry I thought you were spying on me," you blubber.

You're not sure if he knows what exactly you're referring to, but he takes it in stride anyway. "Can't blame you for being paranoid considering everything, bunny."

"And I'm sorry you got maced 'cause of me."

"That's not on y -."

"And I'm sorry I didn't even know about it 'cause I was too busy running away like a coward."

John huffs, coughs. "Not cowardice, bunny. I think if I -."

"You make me feel safe, John. I don't know why I didn't stay." You'd be surprised if he understood that one, what with all the broken sobs. Absently, you worry about the income of the girl next door. Loud weeping can't be good for the mood, you'd assume.

"Oh, bunny, you're still safe. You've got yourself a nice den tonight, yeah? With a door and a proper bolt?"

"Yeah," you sniffle, and John hums in approval.

"And I'll stay on the line with you. All night if you want. And tomorrow we should meet up around Billings, it looks like. I'll drive back with you, keep you safe."

You sigh, rational thought creeping in. "You guys don't have to meet me halfway, you know? I can just -."

"We're driving down and that's final. I won't be able to sleep anyway."

"Okay," you mumble, not at all mad about the outcome. The conversation peters a bit and you assume he's trying to let you sleep but your mind is still too busy so you pull up maps to check the route you'll take tomorrow. Billings is much closer to you than half way, but you suppose that makes sense if they start driving tonight.

He's so fucking sweet.

"I miss you," you blurt, close your eyes when you hear how vulnerable it makes you sound.

"Miss you too, sweetheart. I hope you know I'm not letting you sleep outside my bed for at least a month after this." Part of you wants to find fault in his words, fret over the way he presumes to control you.

Mostly, you're too tired.

"And I miss my fucking bear," you pout.

John coughs - or maybe laughs -, clears his throat. "I'm sure your bear misses you too."

You sniffle, listen to John do the same and think about his poor sinuses. You're gonna make him so much fucking tea with honey after all this he's gonna think you're trying to drown him.

"Try to fall asleep for me, love, okay? I'm gonna start getting ready."

"Are you -?"

"I'll stay on the line. Got an earbud in so Simon can mind his own business."

You smirk, sure that if Simon's paying attention at all, it's out of concern more so than jugement. You're not sure how you know this, considering you've only spoken to the silent man a handful of times, but you remember how he calls you 'pet,' how he seemed genuinely happy that his boss was getting laid. "Tell him I said thanks. Oh, who's watching the bar?"

"Senior staff, bunny," John chuckles, "don't worry about it."

"Is Simon mad to be leaving his boyfriend?" you whisper, conspiratorially.

"Stoic as always, but Soap's right pissed about being left behind," he murmurs back. You hear Simon shout something and John covers his mouth piece to return fire. "Ears like a fucking elephant, that one," he grumbles when he returns. "Alright, bunny, I'm gonna mute myself so you can work on sleeping but I'm still here, okay? Sleep tight, see you soon."

"Okay, John. Drive safe."

"Will do, love," he whispers, and then the line goes quiet.

Checking the time code, just to be sure, you sigh happily when you see it's still counting. You remember to plug your phone in for once, and snuggle deeper into the scratchy bedding. "I miss your bed," you confide within the silent room, and watch the timer tick on. He's heard you, presumably, but he's got the right idea about you getting some sleep so you content yourself with silence. It would surprise you, how quickly you fall asleep, if you were awake enough to take note of it.

***

You're back in the Jeep, frigid in the drafty cab. You feel around for your blankets, but find yourself tangled in them, difficult to move. 'Must be snowing out, then,' you muse, and open your eyes to find the sky clear and cloudless, crescent moon casting wan light - just enough to see the tops of the pines dipping in and out of view as the wind pushes at them.

"Fuck," you grumble, jaw heavy with sleep. You feel around for your phone to check the forecast, convinced something isn't right. It eludes your grasp but calls to you with John's voice.

'-here, bunny,' it says, voice urgent like it has a winter storm warning to issue you.

"'S'a bit late, eh?" you try to quip, but you're still very sleepy and it's very cold, and your lips don't quite move the way they're supposed to.

You find a warm patch amongst your blankets and drift a bit, time distorting around the edges as it does when you're not fully awake. It feels like hours have passed, but the moon never moves, and your phone is still desperately trying to get your attention. You blink and the bear's outside the window, banging on it with human hands.

"Hey there, big guy," you mumble. It's a fox when it turns to you, eyes too blue, hair too light, and you squint at it suspiciously as the moonlight shifts into a warmer, incandescent shade.

"'Lo, darling."

"Shit!" You hiss, leaping to your feet. The movement sends your phone flying and you watch in horror as it lands with a small crunch at Phil's feet. The call doesn't end. You hear John's muffled voice from across the room, yelling something that doesn't sound aimed at you. Phil, seated on the only chair around, leans forward just enough to stare apathetically back down at it. He stands, takes a step closer to you, crushes your phone under his boot in the process.

Heart jackrabbiting in your chest, your gaze darts from Phil to the door. You make a run for it without even thinking it through, get clotheslined for your troubles. Phil plants a heavy boot on either side of you and leans down close, puts his mean face right up next to yours. You look at him - really look at him - for the first time in months; maybe years, considering how long you'd been avoiding him. He looks a little gaunt, chiseled down to sharp angles. The top of his ear looks like it was sawed off: gnarled and folded, stringy. It stinks like rot and looks like he may have tried to cauterize it, judging by the waxy quality of the skin that remains.

You used to think he was handsome.

"Phil," you hedge, but he smiles down at you with no warmth and you shut your mouth just as quickly.

"You know, I've had months to think about it, and I'm still not sure what I want to say to you. Not so sure I want to say anything at all," he drawls. You gulp, afraid to incite him even more. This is new. A quiet Phil was a plotting Phil. You'd expected screaming, physicality, but he's barely even touching you.

"Phil, please," you whisper. He shoots you a warning glance but you ignore it, croaking past the lump in your throat, "we don't have to do this. We can each just leave. You won, right? You found me, you've made it clear I'm not safe." He leans closer and you flinch, sobbing, "We can just be done."

"Now, see, if you'd just said that instead of running away and making me look stupid, maybe I'd agree." He's lying - you've tried that -, but mentioning that won't help. "But you didn't do that, did you? You know how it looks to have a fat little bitch like you walk out on a man like me?"

"You could've told people you'd sent me packing," you counter, and he backhands you for it. You gasp and palm the side of your face, ear ringing.

"Don't think we're even yet," he grins, angling his bad ear toward you.

You're not sure where the instinct comes from - or where it was all those years you'd been with Phil either; perhaps lying in wait for when you needed it most -, but the second he exposes his wound to you, you're calculating, grabbing for the shattered remains of your phone and shoving it up against the tender flesh. It stings, cutting into your palm, but that just means there are indeed sharp bits caught between your flesh and his so you press harder, following him when he reels backward and letting the momentum bring you to your feet. You dart over to the dresser, presence of mind enough at least to grab your keys before dashing madly out the door and towards your car. 'Billings,' you think wildly, spamming the unlock button on your fob, 'just have to make it to Billings.'

You can't believe your luck when you reach the Jeep first. You grab for the handle, get the door halfway open, but then your face is thrown into it and you collapse, dazed, half in your car and half out.

Behind you, Phil pants, probably more in pain than exhaustion considering he's always been a quick shit. When you glance over your shoulder, you're pleased to see him bloodied again, but the pleasure's short-lived as the motion makes it feel like your brain is no longer connected to your optic nerves. You slide to your knees on the pavement, head briefly propped in the footwell of your car. There's a voice in your head that's seen one too many movies urging you to move before Phil closes the door on your head, so you keep falling until you're laying flat out on the pavement, stomach churning violently at the sudden movement.

"Headache, darlin'?" You fight to focus, find Phil glowering despite his chipper voice. You don't answer, kick at him weakly instead. He catches your foot easily, keeps it pinned against the runner of your Wrangler. He laughs darkly. "My, look at you, doll. Got more fight in ya than you did before, I'll give you that. Cleverer, too. Doubling back after Gillette - that your idea, or your man's?"

You're so confused, head filled with cotton balls. Your man? Isn't he your man?

"Might've worked, had you not driven right past me in this fuckin' Jeep," he chuckles. "Bad luck there. What's your man call you? Bunny?"

Right, that's your man. You peer around, looking for him. "John?"

"Think your luck might've run out, rabbit. Back left, yeah?"

You blink, uncomprehending, and then scream in pain when he stomps on your raised ankle hard enough to break it.

Okay I'm not happy about it either, but while hemming and hawing about whether or not I wanted to be a cheesy horror writer and hobble my character, I remembered I literally have a bad luck rabbit tattoo (on the same sleeve as my bear tattoo, no less) and I am nothing if not a cheesy horror trope fan first and foremost.

Next>>

#bearshifter!price #captain john price x you #captain john price x reader #john price x you #john price x reader #bear!price #fatted rabbit #💷🔪

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roselightfairy · 2 years

Text

I know it’s been a million and a half years since there was any modverse collab content, but in honor of the WIP prompt reminding me that this existed - and our own sweet friends at home - have some modverse kitty content from me and @deheerkonijn to you!

(elf cats live a long time shhh)

...

The furniture in the parlor was . . . stiff.

Not hard, exactly – the sofa where Gimli sat was cushioned enough that no one could have complained, and even if that had been the problem, there were enough throw pillows (lying scattered across the floor where Legolas had tossed them) to remedy them. It was just that it was almost . . . a little too upright to be quite comfortable, as though made for someone with better posture than he had – even if Legolas, lounging horizontally with his legs across Gimli’s lap, seemed to belie that thought. It was like everything in this manor so far: ornately-carved taps and deep-basined sinks; vast archways and tall, narrow windows with fastenings too high to comfortably open. Beautiful architecture: a building made to be looked at, not lived in.

And yet live in it they did – Legolas, who had navigated this place as easily as he did his apartment at home, knowing exactly which staircase to tug Gimli up to dump their luggage unceremoniously on the bed, rummaging unself-consciously through a tall liquor cabinet to help himself (and Gimli, too) to wine that would have come with an absolutely forbidding price tag in Minas Tirith. Thranduil, who had walked in on Legolas doing this in the kitchen and made no comment but a droll, “More excited to see the wine than your own father, then?”

He sat perfectly upright across the room in his own armchair now, nodding along as Legolas spun an epic narrative of their train journey here. Gimli sat quietly and watched him – watched them, father and son, the ways they took up space in this sitting room. Thranduil’s posture made the space into a council table, the armchair into its head; he sat as though holding court – but Legolas was the one who ran it, whose conversation held the room in rapture, both of them rotating into the captivating orbit of his presence. Gimli wasn’t sure how he felt yet about the Prime Minister of Eryn Lasgalen, but this at least he could admire – that he had made this place, stiff and upright as it was, a home for Legolas.

“– and then he was like, ‘Who do you think you’re visiting, the PM?’ and Gimli just said, ‘Yes,’” Legolas was giggling now, nudging Gimli’s thigh with a heel. “Completely straight-faced! I couldn’t stop laughing. Tell him the rest, meleth.”

Gimli laughed, despite himself – and was this a skill that Legolas had inherited from his father, then? He could feel the effort to put him at ease, to spread Legolas’s own comfort into Gimli – and it was working, softening the room around him like the furniture at his back.

He closed a hand fondly around Legolas’s ankle, trying not to track Thranduil’s eyes tracking the motion. “There’s not much more to say,” he said. “Or, at least, he didn’t seem to think so. Shut up for the rest of the train ride. Not a peep.”

“It was great,” Legolas interjected. “You would have loved it, Dad.”

“I’m sure I would.” Was that smile indulgent or tolerant? Either one was more than Gimli had dared to expect. “Well, I am glad you made it here, at any rate.”

“Me too.” Legolas twisted to aim his most endearing hopeful smile right into Gimli’s face. “I’m glad to show Gimli this place finally.”

“I had hoped you would manage it before your wedding,” said Thranduil. “Some other fathers might have hard words to say about that.” This with an arched eyebrow to match the wryness of his voice. “But, ah well, at least you came eventually. Oh – hello, Smudge.”

Gimli blinked, the non sequitur soaring directly over his head. Had he missed something? – but then, even as he opened his mouth to speak, a patter-clacking interjected in the silence and he turned towards the sound to see a slender tortoiseshell cat slinking its way through the gap in the half-ajar door. It moved very slowly, one dainty paw in front of the other, pale eyes narrowed as it took them all in.

“Smudge?” Gimli said.

“Smudge!” Legolas exclaimed with delight at the same time. “My best friend! Oh, Gimli, she’s been around forever. How is she doing, Dad?”

“See for yourself.” The cat – Smudge – made her way slowly across the room, pausing in front of the couch where they sat even as Legolas dropped a hand to the floor. She sniffed delicately at his fingers, nosing up and down his hand before stretching her head forward until his fingers parted around her ears – but just as his hand contracted to scratch her head, she turned deliberately away, letting his fingers drag along the full length of her body before leaving him to hop up onto the arm of Thranduil’s chair.

“Oh,” Legolas laughed. “Is someone mad at me for being away?” His voice turned into a croon at those last words, the tone he used when mock-scolding Athelas and Simbelmyne. “Were you so, so lonely without me?”

“You might have come back to visit earlier for her sake, if not for your father’s.” Thranduil’s long-suffering tone was spoiled by the twitch of a smile at the corners of his lips – and, to Gimli’s amazement, by the way the cat shoved her head into his hand, his fingers curling around the top of her head to scratch vigorously behind her ears. It might have looked regal, a monarch with his cat, except for the loud purring of the cat and the speed of his scratching fingers – not halfhearted at all, whatever he might claim.

“How are the kittens?” Legolas said. “I haven’t seen a picture in weeks – they must be so big!”

“Big enough to cause trouble.” Thranduil waved his unoccupied hand dismissively. “They’re around somewhere – they always turn up just when you don’t want them. Just like her.”

Did his voice – was that a shade of Legolas’s own croon in his voice?

“Smudge,” Gimli repeated, looking at the cat with a new respect. His first day in the home of Lasgalen’s Prime Minister and he had somehow already seen him soften!

“Smudge,” said Legolas, so fondly Gimli could practically see the hearts in his eyes. “She’s been around since I was a little kid; she’s like the mascot of this place. Cats live a long time here,” he added, at Gimli’s questioning look. “Must be the air.”

The air, or maybe the elves themselves – something about them that kept everything around them just a little younger than it should have been, just a little more sturdy. “How old is she then?”

“Late twenties now?” Thranduil mused. “She was only a kitten when she moved in” – moved in, Gimli noted, as if it had been a business negotiation – “but we didn’t know how old exactly.”

“But I was only a few years old,” said Legolas. “So yeah, must be late twenties. She was my best friend when I was little, Gimli. But she’s got a good few years left in her. Don’t you, Smudge? Come here!” He clicked his tongue.

Apparently, the cat’s ire was no more serious than Thranduil’s, for she hopped down from his chair and pattered her way across the floor back to Legolas’s beckoning fingers. When she reached them, though, he swept a hand under her and scooped her tiny body into the air as she squawked in displeasure. But Legolas only laughed, holding her up above his head as her paws flailed in the air.

“Ohh, you’re such a sweet girl, aren’t you,” he cooed, and lowered her onto his chest. “Come here, yes, that’s it.” In the same motion she had applied to Thranduil, Smudge drove her head into Legolas’s face, their noses colliding as Legolas giggled again. “Do you forgive me for leaving? Yes, I missed you, too. Oh, yes” – He laughed helplessly as the cat nuzzled his face, his neck, her paws now kneading at his chest. “Come here, I have someone for you to meet.” And without further ado he scooped her up again, sliding his whole body upright in the same motion, to present her to Gimli.

“Be careful,” Thranduil warned. “She doesn’t always take to strangers.”

“It’ll be okay,” said Legolas. “Just give her your hand to sniff.”

Gimli extended it cautiously. He’d never been much of a cat person – had never really understood how they ticked. But if this cat loved Legolas, surely they had at least that in common, right?

Her whiskers tickled his fingers, her nose cold and wet and velvety as it brushed just against his fingertips: once, twice. She withdrew, as if thinking – and then, cautiously, she nuzzled up against him just as she had with Legolas and Thranduil.

Gimli glanced to Legolas, and at his encouraging nod, he dared to scratch her behind the ears, too.

“She likes you,” said Legolas, grinning. “See, I told you she would!” He rested a hand on Gimli’s shoulder, warm and reassuring and meaningful. “Everybody does.”

In that moment, Gimli wasn’t sure Legolas was talking about the cat.

He flicked his eyes across the room to where Thranduil still sat, watching them – still with that tiny, almost soft smile, as though at the sight of his son, all of his dryness couldn’t help but fall away.

At least they had that in common. And Gimli felt, all of a sudden, a rush of fondness for Thranduil – for his father-in-law – for the home he had made for Legolas here, for the love he felt for his son and his cat. For sharing his fancy furniture and his expensive wine with Gimli, for welcoming him here, for the sake of the person they both loved.

And as an irrepressible smile began to bloom on his face in turn, as he relaxed back into his seat, Gimli thought that the sofa might have become just a touch more comfortable than it was.

#modverse #my fic #adventures in cowriting #cats #legolas x gimli #thranduil #smudge the cat #don't reblog this yet there's going to be a picture

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