#and when I do it's not a place I ought to vest up for

[gildedkrone]

As long as you're next to me, just the two of us

request from somebody asking for military reader with internalised homophobia. john price x male reader

"You really ought to not blow your cigar smoke onto me, you know?"

The warm embers of spent tobacco, an all too familiar sight in the dark, starry night, and he's smiling, albeit faintly. He takes an audible suck of air, and the embers glow brighter and fade into a dull orange.

"Thought yer used to it by now," Price blows the hints of something scorched gently across your nose and you fan the smoke away with a flick of your hand.

"I don't smoke, John." He blinks and nods to take another chuff of the cigar as you look away then back at him.

He says he knows. Infernally glorious bastard of a captain and he's content with the warm tranquility settled into the space and the cigar is the last thing the mind's got time for. On the rooftop, the stars are ever distant in the cosmos’s grasp and he moves to lay with his back to the railing, almost close enough to touch. But he doesn't come any closer than that and a healthy distance remains between you and him.

"How many years has it been?"

Five. Five years since he appeared in his lieutenant uniform with SAS patches sewn neatly onto the vest and now? Now, he's a captain of a famed task force and chasing a terrorist halfway across the world with a short break in between his ever-growing catalogue of missions. The rank suits him well, suits him and his beard nicely as he grew into the man standing before you.

All's well. If all's well, then why does it feel as if there's a divide between you and him?

"You know," his head angles towards you when the silence fills with murmurs, "I never did congratulate you on your promotion, John."

"Never too late to do so, sweetheart."

"You call everyone that? Bet your lieutenant wouldn't take it well. That mask—"

"Not him." The words are scented with woodsy, "Nobody else gets to be a sweetheart." And he's saying it so sincerely, it’s impossible to doubt the truth and intensity in his words.

"Exceptions? You're not being fair, captain."

He scoffs and you take the time to admire his visage with a subtle lean towards him. The left eyebrow hitches a little, then it falls back to its place and he's smiling warmly as the cigar burns away in crumbling ashes falling to the wind under the pale moonlight.

"How's your love life? Still seeing Sandy?" The sudden change of topic and you cock your head slightly and he grimaces slightly to have felt some sense of chagrin at poking the sore wound in your heart.

"We broke up a month ago." He lowers the cigar, "She just, didn't want to be in a relationship with a military man, you know? All the absences made her mad and she just ... left."

"On a Thursday afternoon."

He listens so attentively; he's reminiscent of the cadets under your care when they first arrive at sergeant bootcamp. A little awestruck and very much eager to learn and get going and you lean in closer for a look at the new-ish scar marring the area above his eyebrows.

"You've gone and hurt yourself again, eh?"

Fingers brush across the region of his face gently as his face is pliant in your hands and tilts with each nudge to facilitate your examination of his new battle scar. Eventually, you release his face and he runs a hand through his scar absentmindedly.

"You datin' again?"

"No such luck. Tinder's trash these days. All you'll ever find are people down to fuck and run. 's not much better on the other dating platforms too."

"Just women?" The parting of your lips and nothing comes out; the words don't come as they should.

"Just women. I-I ... I’ve never considered other men, John."

"Why not?"

It's a moment of confusion—you entertain his queries about manhood and love. What do you say to that? It's a minefield of emotions and memories tangled with barbs and spikes laden with the flags of youth and curiosity shaped into a spitball refusing to be verbalized.

"I don't think another man could ever love me. And ..." The forgotten cigar in his hands dull and the soft cerulean eyes are gently imploring you to continue, "I ... well, it's wrong and I ... don't know if I can do it."

He nods empathetically and you lean back into the railing to find fleeting interest in the moon. How did the conversation morph into this weird mess of clunky and awkward conversations?

"Well, I have a problem when it comes to dating." Oh? Go on, and he does go on.

"I met a man, and I don't know if he fancies me the way I fancy him."

"Really? I'm glad for you, John. What is he like?"

It's cute how his brows furrow slightly when he's in deep concentration and he says—valiant and resplendent. The vigor of the sun, the ferocity of the lion, and the tenacity of the stars.

"Valiant? Resplendent? You must really like him to hold him at such a regard."

"It's not an exaggeration, lieutenant."

Who had managed to capture John's heart to such a degree? You lose interest in the moon to lay the brunt of your attention on him. His eyes dart away into inkiness night then back at you and its kept steady as a sniper's hands in a high-tension scenario.

"Have you tried telling him? About how you feel?"

"You have tips? ‘M not sure quite how to break it to him."

He seems mildly amused by the chuckle and you regale him with strategies and tactics to win over the mystery man Price loves so much. Everything you’ve learnt from the trashy romance novels stashed in your drawers never to be seen any other service personnel. Even if they would never find their place with another man.

"So, a hand grasp and a head tilt, lots of eye contact, and a heartfelt confession? It’s certainly shorter than the list on the web.”

“Mmhm, it’s that simple.”

He asks if you would entertain his request to rehearse it. You humor him and step away from the railing to face him head on. He clears his throat and warmth envelops your hand in a hand shaped like John’s. His body posture is open and inviting, and he’s putting in the effort to treat it seriously.

His hands clasped with yours is so damn warm and fiercely domestic, and his fingers are gentle when they tilt your head upwards slightly. Something in your heart twists slightly at the endearment in his eyes; you’ve been privy to aggression, bloodlust, and anger in them. But not this. Blood hammers in your ears and you keep your face schooled in blasé calm even if his grasp is uncharacteristically soft and yet, harbored the love he had in his being.

“I love you, sweetheart.” The words are painful to hear on ears not meant for them and instincts are warring in your head in tumult.

You cough gently to realign his focus with the moment.

“Yeah, so, that is how you do it, John.”

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“That’s what you would say that to the man you love so much.”

His throat swallows harshly and his hand remains on your chin. He eyes search for something, and he says it again.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

What is he doing? He cuts you off before you can start.

“I’m saying it to the man I love.”

Whiplash. Whiplash at the revelation as your lips part to reveal hollow words and empty reconciliation of the revelation and your thoughts. No. This—

“I mean it. Whole heartedly. Fully.”

“John … I—I can’t love you, not—”

“I’ll wait. As long as it takes.”

“Why? Why the fuck would you choose me? Of all the men and women in the world and you’ve gone and loved the one person who can’t give you anything! John, why?”

His hands are still clasped around yours and laced around your runaway heart. Don’t leave.

“Because it’s what the heart wants, love.” He tugs you in closer and in a moment of stupor, you feel the warmth emanating from him against the chilly night.

“It’s wrong—” And by god, it’s so fucking hard to tell him why it’s wrong when he’s looking at you like that. All worried and desperate to alleviate whatever you were feeling.

“I don’t want to be the fool who dies with a million regrets. And this is fixing it.”

He’s so close but he’s waiting for permission to breach the last barrier of that defensive wall built around the wastelands of the heart. He wipes away the tears which had formed, and soft lips are all you can feel when he closes the gap. Plush, soft lips press against yours and his embrace is all encompassing even as your eyes are shut to close out the world. He comes into view when warmth of his lips disappears and shakes rattle your body in his arms.

“I’ll be here for as long as you want me, sweetheart.”

He means it.

“’m not leaving, unless you tell me to.”

“John, I … I don’t know what to do.”

“We’ll figure it out together. Me and you, we will find our way as a unit. Together, we’ll do it together.”

He is deadly serious again. “If you tell me to leave, I’ll leave.”

“No … I—I don’t want you to leave. I’m so fucking scared, John.”

“I’m here.” He is here. His hands on your back are proof of his existence in a world bending into a pinpoint of focus that is only John and his features and his exhales on your cheeks. What were you supposed to say? Or do?

There’s no need to do anything.

And maybe, just maybe, that is enough of a promise for you that everything is going to be ok—if it's John, and this was fine, more than fine. Your nod is what John needed to bring your foreheads together.

“Thanks fer trusting me, love.”

The hints of tobacco smoke don’t smell as acrid as they did a while ago and the night isn’t so cold anymore. Not when he wears his heart on his sleeves and draped over you in the moonlight.

Do not edit, reupload or translate my works without prior consent || masterlist

[syoddeye]

the warren, part two

price x f!reader | 2.9k words

part one (prologue)

CW: blood (mentioned), dead animals, stalking

One bedroom. One bath. A screened-in porch. A carport. A woodshed. Fully furnished.

The old cabin in the woods is perfect.

No one answers the first call to the number on the ad, and the voicemail doesn't offer a clue as to who ought to answer. You leave a message anyway. After calling upwards of fifty places in the last week, you're desperate. The end of the month's coming up. Since you turned the motel manager down, he's wanted you out.

You fill out the rental application before hearing back, thank the gods there's no fee, and send it off with a sugary-sweet note and signature.

A woman calls back when you're in the middle of the supermarket. Congratulations, you want the place? You got it. It feels quick and surprising, but who are you to look a gift horse in the mouth? For the next four months, the cabin's yours. The landlady launches into details, forcing you to jot down directions on the back of your list. No GPS up here, she explained. The forest is too thick. Too many trees? Not a bad thing, in your opinion.

"Sure you're alright with sight unseen?"

"Yeah, I trust the pictures in the ad," You don't. "I'm itching to spend the summer in nature."

"Grouse Bay is a good spot for a getaway. You might not want to leave when the lease is up."

The sentiment makes you smile. "Sounds perfect."

~~

There is no welcome sign for Grouse Bay. No indication you're close until you're right up on it, or rather, over it.

A thick quilt of pine, fir, and cedar hugs the gravel roadway. Asphalt disappeared some ten miles back, and you pray your car and its ancient tires stick out the descent into town. You're careful not to lean your full weight against the overlook's worn wooden fence. Below you, the road carves a series of switchbacks until it sweeps through a dozen or so lakeside structures. Thin tendrils of smoke curl up from more properties hidden by trees. With the blues of the lake and mountains on the horizon, it's a regular postcard.

Your teeth clatter, and the car shakes the whole way down. You pass a few gated forestry roads and private drives with quirky names before the road curves a final time and spits you out onto the main street. The only street.

We are not in Kansas anymore.

You don't miss a single building, crawling along at the posted speed of 15 MPH. There's a motel, a veterinary office, a grocer, and a water and sewer utility building, and where the road splits to continue along the lake or further up a hill into the woods is the Foxhole.

A rough-looking pub, your lip curls at the horrifically taxidermied fox in the window beside the door. You pull into a makeshift parking spot next to an old Ranger, collect yourself, and head inside. 

Three heads swivel in your direction, two patrons and the barkeep. The men's expressions are unreadable, but the woman behind the counter offers a thin smile. 

"Sit where you'd like."

The stale air smells like heat and cigarette smoke, and the ceiling fans do little to dissipate either. "I'm actually popping in to pick up a key? To a rental?" Your eyes flick to the men at the bar, not wanting to state precisely where you're staying in front of them.

The woman's smile turns knowing. "Right. We spoke on the phone. I'm Kate Laswell. I own the cabin."

"Owns half the town," One of the men snorts, pinching the neck of his bottle for a swig.

"Ignore him," Her hand disappears into her vest pocket and produces a carabiner with one key. "You got the check?"

"Yes," You pull out your billfold, carefully slide the folded paper slip out from between cards, and exchange it for the key.

Kate inspects it briefly, then dips her head. "Need me to wait to cash it?"

Your face heats at the implication. You hadn't listed employment on the application but assumed the bank's letter spoke for you. After all, she accepted you. "No. Cash it whenever you'd like."

"Alright then. Know where you're going?"

"Yes ma'am, I do."

"So polite," she chuckles, glancing at the men who grin at you. "Well then, enjoy. Call me if you need anything or have questions."

You hightail it out of the bar, and try to ignore the weight of three sets of eyes on your back. 

~~

The engine clicks as it cools, the only sound louder than the birdsong. Wedged between the open driver's door, you stand, feet firmly planted, yet feel like you could float. You made it.

The cabin is a deep red oxblood, faded by weather and time. The carport sags more than in the pictures, and the woodshed is nearly cleaned out, but it looks like a dream. Sunlight drapes over the front half of the structure, and a breeze catches a wooden wind chime over the exterior door of the porch.

Hauling your bags out of the backseat, you trek up the gravel drive. The key slots in easily, like the hardware's brand new. The door inches open, and the smell of musty, trapped air leaks out. Here we go.

You exhale a shaky breath. So far, so good. The pictures continue to match reality. The door opens to the dining and kitchen area with a honey oak table draped in a checkered runner, coordinating cabinetry, a towering glass-doored cabinet on the wall, and the back entrance dead ahead. To the left are a couch and armchair, with a low table and a padded woolen rug beneath. The door to the screened porch also sits to the left, with the entrances you presume leading to the bedroom and bathroom ahead.

Wood paneling lines every room. Others might think it tacky, but you find it charming and warm. It makes it a bonafide cabin, one you've pictured a thousand times. The bedroom is sparse, with a simple furniture set including a dresser, a nightstand, a lamp, and a vintage brass bed frame.

You make quick work of settling in. The space is tidy enough, though it's clear that Kate probably hasn't stopped in since you signed the lease. You open the windows for fresh air and do a little dusting. The dining table swiftly becomes the catch-all, with the miscellaneous other belongings you brought scattered over its surface, including the prehistoric laptop you handed a middle-aged woman a wad of cash for in the parking lot of a Walmart. You'd left in a hurry but planned meticulously. Aside from a few necessities and groceries, you have everything you need.

In the screened porch, you discover a glider and ottoman needing new upholstery and a lacquered wooden sign with lettering spelling out The Warrens. It rests on a windowsill, covered in a thin layer of grime. You think it must be from the former owners and leave it out of an odd sense of respect.

An hour later, the place aired out, you shut the windows, clip the car and cabin key together, and hesitate at the door. What's the protocol out here? You've never lived anywhere that didn't require multiple deadbolts. The town's simplicity and the woods' peacefulness - you can't even see the end of the property's driveway from the step - make you think it's probably okay…But then you think of the men in the bar. They didn't look bad, but the bad ones rarely did.

Mind made up, you lock the door.

~~

The walk from the main thoroughfare to the cabin is ten, maybe fifteen minutes uphill. Sandals weren't the move, a reminder you tuck away for the next trip. Your focus stretches back to Grouse Grocery and its shopkeep, and you swallow hard at your naivete. 

"Aw, I didn't know you could feed the deer like this."

"It's bait, sweetheart."

Lingering humiliation propels you up the slope to your newfound sanctuary. It doesn't help the grocer's handsome. His eyes are the same color as the lake, his face framed by a beard and mustache, punctuating the mountain man look. Tall with a broad chest and shoulders that taper into a trim waist. Burly arms dusted with hair, chest too, far as you could tell through the open uppermost buttons of his shirt. Your mind fills in the blanks of what his bootcut jeans and flannel covered. Something peculiar to him, though, and you can't put your finger on it.

I'm overthinking this. It's a small town. I'm not used to it, yet. 

Not weird, just different.

The four words become your mantra when odd things start within days of your arrival.

~~ 

As you told the good-looking grocer, you are an animal lover through and through. The child who toted frogs home from the playground pushed their nose to the glass outside pet stores and braked for ducklings. You dabbled with a vegetarian diet, failed, and overspent at farmers' markets in weak absolution. But you had never been a pet person. Life never allowed for it. 

Which is why the cats are bewildering. Within the first week, three feral cats traipse about the property. By the end of week two, you count nine. Lounging in the woodpile, hiding beneath your car, or sitting on the step like they own the place. They skitter and hiss when you approach and don't touch the scraps of food you leave out to curry favor.

Then there are the 'gifts' they leave you. Headless birds, mice, and other small mammals. Entrails and viscera steaming on the cement step in the high noon sunlight. The Internet says it's normal, you say it's disgusting.

You read cats leave dead animals when they believe their human is helpless. That they see humans as big, furless, and inept hunters whose survival is in peril because they lack the innate ability to track, pursue, and kill.

Scraping the latest offering off their altar, you shrug off such notions. They're probably upset that their favorite place to squat is now occupied.

Then, the carcasses quadruple in size. One early morning, you decide to walk down to the lake to read with a cup of coffee, only to drop the mug and book into the dirt. A gutted doe is not fifteen feet from the front door beside your car. Black eyes lolled skyward, pinna flopped over its skull, and legs akimbo. After sprinting and vomiting into the kitchen sink, you call Kate.

"Sorry that's happened, I can send someone up to remove it in the next half hour. You ought to know that you might see more stuff like that, kid. Area's rich in wildlife - bears, cougars, bobcats, wolves, hell, even eagles drop half-eaten marmots from time to time."

You remain on the kitchen floor, repeating your new mantra, and not fifteen minutes later, tires on gravel announce someone's arrival. Mercifully, no one comes to the door. Whoever it is doesn't even kill the engine. You hear footsteps crunching on rock, the doe's body hitting the bed of a truck, the slam of a door, and the person pulling away.

Mustering the courage to stand, you stare from the front door, eyes transfixed on the blood left behind. You pray for rain.

It doesn't come.

~~

The front light won't turn on. You swap the lightbulb with a spare from the cupboard and zip. Nothing. You call Kate, whose patience seems a deep well. She promises to send the local handyman and gets off the phone in a hurry. Annoyingly, you don't get a name or a time.

It's noon when a red pick-up arrives the next day. You're on your feet, off the glider and its ottoman on the porch, and barefoot when the door to the truck swings open. The practiced smile you wear falters a little when a familiar cut of a man steps out, sizes up the cabin in a glance, and then turns to grab a toolbox from the bed.

You meet him at the door.

"You're the handyman, too?"

The crow's feet by his eyes tighten with a smirk. "And the locksmith." His chin lifts to the sconce. "This it?"

"The one."

"Right, I'll get a stepladder and it'll be in working order within the hour. Mind shutting off the power in the meantime?" 

"Of course. Need anything else from me?" 

His smile's a waxing crescent, mouth twitching like he's got something clever to say. You've seen it before on the mugs of men trying to get fresh with you, but he keeps whatever it is locked behind his teeth.

"No. I'll let you know when you can turn the power on."

The hum of the refrigerator dies with the electricity, leaving the cabin completely quiet. You return to the glider and book, thumbing through to find your place. Convenient, the screened porch catches the fleeting hours of direct sunlight that hits the cabin. It also allows you a chance to watch and listen to him work.

"Name's John, by the way," He says after a while, voice clipped, meeting your eye through the screen when you look up. "You didn't ask."

It's off-putting, the way he speaks. It wasn't as if he conducted himself with overt kindness at his store, but you hadn't expected him - John - to take a tone with you, a stranger. A newcomer. Your smile is eager to smooth things over, a beat faster than any instinct to fight, always has been. "You're right, how rude of me."

His focus returns to the light, giving a slight roll of his shoulders as if your apology lifted a weight off his back. "S'alright, reckon you're learning how things work 'round here."

You want to return to Winterson in your lap, but the poorly disguised condescension fans a spark of annoyance. "You haven't asked for mine."

"I know yours," He responds, pulling a rag from a loop on his pants to wipe at something. "Kate talks."

The paperback spine creaks in your grip. "I suppose that comes with owning the watering hole."

He chuckles, exchanging the rag for a pair of pliers. "Something like that."

You don't ask. Handsome John may be, but he is definitely weird. Best to avoid the bad side of the nearest grocer, handyman, and locksmith. You return to reading, and another half hour slips past. You don't notice until the hum of the refrigerator restarts, practically jolting you out of the chair.

John stands washing his hands in your kitchen sink. You did not invite him in. His head turns, seemingly hearing how your breath stutters, and he nods at the switch beside the door.

"Give 'er a try," He says, wiping his hands on a dish towel.

The light works, and you flick it a few times to be sure. You stare up at the light, listening to its muted hum.

"Y'know," John murmurs, suddenly behind you in the doorway, leaning, supported by an arm, on the frame well above your head. "This is an old place. Doesn't get let often. Probably more repairs hiding around here. Already saw a few holes in the screen. I can take a walkthrough and fix what I can while I'm here."

Your head dips back, neck craning to meet his eye at this angle. It doesn't occur to you to move despite the whole of the front yard before you. You swallow. He's only trying to drum up business. A small-town entrepreneur. Trying to survive just like you. "Maybe another time."

John raps two knuckles on the frame and pushes off. "Alright, I'll gather my things." He brushes against you as he passes and collects his tools and stepladder.

You watch him from the entry and offer a weak smile when he returns, holding a notepad. He fishes a pencil out from a pocket, scribbling a moment, before he tears off a page and holds it out – an old-fashioned carbon invoice.

Not weird, just different.

"Pay when you can. You know where to find me."

You take the invoice. "Not afraid I'll skip town?" You joke, trying to gauge his sense of humor.

He grins and huffs a laugh. It sounds only a little forced. "Not at all. I know all the best spots from the bay to the mountains, for hiding or otherwise." He rubs the back of his neck.

Your brows creep up. "Or otherwise?"

John's eyes widen a fraction, and his hand slips from his neck in a gesture of surrender. "Don't mean anything by that. More like…for food. Dinner, maybe? A hike?"

The sheepishness of his tone does him credit. So what if he's a little awkward or indelicate? Probably as nervous as you are, though clearly for different reasons. In town for all of two weeks and already a local's taken interest. Inwardly, you preen.

"That sounds like a date."

"It does." He concedes.

You start to shut the door on him, stopping when his expression falls into absolute confusion. A laugh bubbles up, and you open the door again. "Well? You didn't ask," You playfully turn his words back on him.

"Smart one, aren't you. Alright then," He muses aloud, smiling. "Would you like to grab dinner later this week? Know a good spot within a half hour of here."

The way he looks at you, eyes crinkling with interest, you don't suppose it's a bad idea to get out, make friends, and immerse yourself in the community. "I'd like that, John."

There's a triumphant glint in his eyes. "I'll be in touch, sweetheart." He dips his head, returns to his truck, and flashes a wave when he pulls a u-turn and drives out.

That night, when you return from a walk to watch the sunset, you flip on the porch light, grinning, thinking about your date.

You do not notice the little red dot within the bulb.

[coolstoriesbro]

FOR THE ONES WE LOVE | CH. 1

FANDOM: The Walking Dead

SERIES: For the Ones We Love

STATUS: Ongoing

ERA: Prison

PAIRING: Eventual Daryl Dixon x Female Reader (No Use of “Y/N”)

CHAPTER ONE: Backseat Driver

WORD COUNT: 2k

SUMMARY: Daryl Dixon gets much more than he bargained for when his motorcycle breaks down while out on a run. Miles from the prison, he has no other choice but to hot-wire a car he comes across on the side of the road, only to discover that he wasn’t the first person to get there.

RATING: Mature

WARNINGS: Language, Mention of Attempted Sexual Assault, Symptoms of PTSD

A/N: While I’m not new to writing fanfic, this is my first attempt at Tumblr fanfic, which is somewhat different than what I’m used to. I have a whole backstory dreamed up for this character (she’s a nursing student who escaped from Grady Memorial after it was overtaken by Dawn and Gorman), but I know from what I’ve read of Tumblr fanfic, self-insert fics are preferred. This is my first attempt at that, so any constructive criticism is welcome. Please let me know your thoughts on the story as well. I have several chapters already written, just trying to decide what format to proceed with/if there’s an audience for it.

“Wow, thanks for that.”

At the sound of an unfamiliar voice coming from behind him, Daryl Dixon’s eyes flew to the rearview mirror as you sat up from where you’d been lying in the backseat of the car he’d just hot-wired. The all too familiar noise of a hammer clicking into place sounded as you lifted your arms, aiming a revolver directly at the back of his head.

With the way you trained the gun on him, combined with the intense gaze in your eyes, he knew that you’d shot it before.

Of course you had.

A woman, alone in this world?

There was no way in hell you could’ve survived as long as you had not knowing how to use a gun.

Daryl cut the engine and raised his hands. “This your car?”

You shrugged. “No, but I was here first.”

“I got it runnin’; makes it more mine than yours.”

“I was getting to that.” You said defensively.

“Bullshit.” Daryl scoffed. “Ya don’t know how to hot-wire a car.”

“How do you know?”

“‘Cause ya ain’t that kinda girl.”

The stranger’s assumption pissed you off, but what pissed you off even more was the fact that he was right. Before he came along, you’d been close to having a full-on meltdown when finding the car just a few minutes earlier, only to discover that the keys were missing from the ignition. There’d been a hell of a lot of abandoned cars that you’d passed during your travels over the past couple of weeks, because apparently even after a goddamn apocalypse, nobody left their keys behind.

And who was he to pass judgement on you? With his Harley Davidson vest, greasy hair and the ability to steal a car in the first place — this guy was lucky you’d given him any warning at all. Although you hadn’t spoken to another human being since escaping the hospital, and were beginning to think you were missing even the most trivial of conversations, you had quickly come to the conclusion that human interaction was entirely overrated.

Especially with this particular human.

“How the hell do you know what kind of girl I am?” You practically growled.

Daryl hesitated, knowing that he ought to tread lightly, yet somehow his mouth decided to run off anyway. “Just do.”

Your eyes widened as you lunged forward to press the barrel of the gun to the back of his skull. “You don’t fucking know me.”

Dumbass, Daryl scolded himself.

What was he thinking, arguing with someone who was pressing a loaded gun to his head? After all this time spent fighting to survive, did he have a death wish all of a sudden?

With his hands still raised, Daryl nodded, his senses finally returning to him. “We can change that. I’m Daryl.”

Suddenly, a memory of your mother warning you not to talk to strangers appeared as the man introduced himself, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. After a few seconds, you lowered your gun and laughed out loud, no longer able to keep it inside.

The entire situation was absurd. You were running on zero sleep, hadn’t eaten anything in days, and hadn’t spoken to another soul since you’d left Atlanta. It was the most inappropriate thing in the world to be laughing in your current situation, and yet you couldn’t stop.

Daryl hesitated. He thought he might be okay at handling a pissed off woman — but a crazy, pissed off woman?

Might as well shoot myself now.

“Ya crazy or somethin’?” Daryl found himself asking.

You laughed harder at his question, leaning against the backseat as your sides started to ache. “Or something.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Ya gotta name or not?”

Once regaining your composure, you peered over the passenger seat and noticed the large crossbow that he’d laid down while working on getting the car started. You also noted the backpack slung over his shoulder with several arrows sticking out through the flap. “Give me your arrows and any other weapons you have. Maybe I’ll tell you then.”

“Don’t wanna know that bad.”

“Hah.” You rolled your eyes, aiming the revolver at his head once more. “Wasn’t asking.”

With an irritated grumble, Daryl shrugged off his bag and handed it over. There was a brief pause while he rummaged around in his pants and pulled out a pistol, extending it to you handle first.

“No knife?” You asked suspiciously. 

He cursed under his breath, but a few seconds later you had a hunting knife to add to your collection as well. Finally satisfied, you met his eyes in the rearview mirror and told him your name.

“You alone?”

“Looks like it.”

The silence between the two of you clung in the air like smoke. Daryl kept his eyes glued to you now that you had all of his weapons, minus his crossbow, which was useless without the bolts. 

He didn’t pride himself on much, but one of the few things that he’d always felt he excelled at was being a good judge of character. The woman in front of him was young, probably mid-twenties, and pretty. In Daryl’s experience, pretty women were absolute bitches, but not necessarily dangerous. Even so, he couldn’t brand you with that particular title just for pulling a gun on him. You were only protecting yourself.

“Mind lowerin’ that thing? I did give ya all my weapons.” Daryl reasoned.

You paused, but reluctantly lowered your gun, your eyes locked on his as you sat it down on your lap.

“How’s that?” You asked.

“Depends, can I turn around without havin’ to worry ‘bout ya blowin’ my head off?”

You stilled at his words but found yourself slowly nodding your head in agreement.

When Daryl turned all the way around to face you, you held your breath. The last time you’d been this close to a man, it was Gorman, and he had tried to assault you.

The world had been a dangerous place for women far longer than it had been for men. Men may have recently had to learn what it was like to fear strangers now that the world had ended, but it had aways been something to fear for women, which made it twice as frightening these days.

As you studied Daryl, you noticed that he had lighter facial hair than that on his head, and pale blue eyes. With his intense gaze and bare biceps, he had a rugged air about him that you had a feeling he’d always possessed. He seemed like the kind of man who didn’t need an apocalypse to know how to fight for his life.

The two of you remained as you were, staring at each other for a tense moment, sizing each other up and down as you both tried to decide whether or not the other was a threat.

“Lay down.” Daryl grunted.

“What?” You blanched, your hand moving towards the revolver once more.

“Down!” He hissed.

Jumping over the partition dividing the front and back sections of the car, Daryl slid to his knees, tucking himself in the floor space behind the passenger seat, his hands clutching you by the elbows as he pulled you down, tugging your body flush against the backseat cushions.

When Daryl grabbed you, your first thought was a vile one, but your grip around the gun relaxed ever so slightly when he landed beneath you rather than on top of you.

“What the fu—” You cried as you both lurched forward, a series of bangs sounding at the rear of the car. Rather than finish your crude sentence, you cut yourself off when Daryl’s hand covered your mouth. Feeling your jaw tense against his palm, he raised a finger to his lips when his eyes met yours, slowly easing his hand away as a horde of walkers appeared from a clearing in the woods by the side of the road.

You both remained that way for what truly could have been hours, the only sound being your heavy breathing and the groans of the horde as they trudged along either side of the car like cattle. When the noise finally died down some time later, Daryl held a hand out to signal for you to wait, then eased up on his haunches ever so slightly, peering out the front windshield to find that the horde had wandered off up the road.

Once given the all clear, you slowly lifted your body from the backseat, your hand instantly going to the side of your neck as you attempted to work out the kink that had formed there from laying in such an awkward position. 

“Jesus.” You muttered.

Remaining where he was for fear that you’d think he might try something now that he was in close proximity of his weapons, Daryl kept his eyes on you for a few silent seconds.

“Look, I know all about wantin’ to be alone, but no one can make it alone now. You can keep my weapons, even hold your damn gun on me while I drive, but I have a camp a few miles back. My bike broke down, s’why I was lookin’ for a ride, but I can take ya someplace secure. I’m with a group of people back at a prison.”

“A prison? Really?” You asked curiously.

Christ. Was that actual hope in your voice? Had the last year not completely crushed you of that?

“Yeah.” Daryl nodded. “There’s eight of us. Men, women, a boy, and a baby.” Nodding towards his backpack, he continued. “Open it.”

Cautiously moving your hand to his backpack, you unsnapped the top and drew back the flap to reveal several tins of powdered baby formula. Running your fingers over the lids, you hesitated, your eyes slowly returning to Daryl. If this was some kind of trick to get you to come along, it was pretty elaborate.

“I just gotta ask ya three questions first.” He said.

With your curiosity getting the better of you, you shrugged your shoulders. “Go for it.”

“How many walkers ya killed?”

“Walkers? You mean, the living dead freaks that have taken over the world?”

Daryl nodded.

“I don’t know. Who keeps track of that shit?”

Daryl had to admit, at least to himself, you had a point. But it was one of the questions that Rick insisted on asking newcomers, and he wasn’t about to start breaking his rules for anyone.

Seeing that Daryl wasn’t willing to budge on the question, you sighed as you thought about it. “A dozen, at least.”

“How many people ya killed?”

Your mind instantly went to the lifeless eyes of Gorman and Dawn. 

“Two.” You answered, without a hint of remorse.

“Why?” He asked.

You stared at him, expressionless. “I’m a woman and I’ve pretty much been on my own since the world ended. Why do you think?”

Daryl stared right back at you, and in his fierce blue gaze, you knew that he understood you completely. 

“All right, let’s go.”

“That’s it? I passed?” You asked, surprised.

“Looks like it.” He grunted, using your choice of words from earlier and earning a small smile from you because of it.

“Okay.” You agreed. “I’ll ride back here, and I won’t hold my gun on you . . . unless you drive too slow.”

“Pfft.” Daryl scoffed as he climbed back over to the driver’s side and began to work on restarting the car. “Don’t gotta worry ‘bout that.”

[drdemonprince]

I never intend to police the emotions or thoughts of high-risk individuals when I argue against the idea that most people don't take the virus seriously anymore. I think there's a genuine place for frustration and hopelessness and hurt among those groups.

My primary point is this: people who take risks regarding COVID exposure and people who mitigate as many risks as they humanly can are not enemies. We are natural allies and comrades who ought to join up together to collectively demand more from our public institutions.

Unfortunately our employers and governments have a vested interest in us viewing COVID solely as a matter of personal choice rather than one of collective responsibility.

And collective responsibility does not mean "everybody all independently decides to do the right thing all at the same time". It means organizing and providing resources to make socially desired behaviors possible on a mass scale.

[seasidesandstarscapes]

Threads

Summary: Don loves Bobby’s outfits

Rating: G

Genre: Canon Era, Established Relationship, Fluff, Slice of Life

Words: 831

-

AO3

or

Don shouldn’t be riled up over a simple piece of fabric.

He’s seen Bobby without his shirt on. Hell, they’ve all walked around the locker room with little shame. A sweater vest making him so…flustered doesn’t make sense.

Bobby is cleaning up the sun room and Don had offered to keep him company. He tried to help but Bobby insisted Don stay put. So here he is, sitting at one of the tables and watching Bobby bounce around the room.

The vest he wears is red and blue patterned argyle, making Bobby stand out in a room of muted beige tones. The fabric is just tight enough to accentuate his waist, showing off the way he twists and bends. It’s a perfect fit for Don’s hands and he rubs the tips of his fingers together. God, he’s so gone for Bobby.

Don tears his eyes away when he catches himself staring at Bobby for much too long, but today it seems like Bobby is intent to stay in his field of view. He plops down across from Don, already smiling with conversation spilling out of him.

Don tries to focus, he really does. It’s just that Bobby’s sleeves are shoved up to his elbow. His hands gesticulate with his story, eyes glistening with excitement and Don is lost.

“So what do you think?”

Don blinks at the sudden question and he can only frown as Bobby stares at him expectantly. Bobby’s eyebrows quirk, his smile grows just a little.

“Whatcha looking at, Donny?”

Heat rushes to Don’s face and he snaps his gaze down to his lap. His hands twist together as he wishes for the ground to swallow him whole. He had hoped he’d be used to Bobby’s teasing by now, but every time, it strikes him right in the heart. A way that makes him giddy, because it means Bobby is paying special attention to him.

“I’m beginning to think I’m the problem,” Bobby grins, unfazed. “Maybe I ought to cover myself with a sheet if I’m distracting you so much.”

Don’s head shoots up at this and he realizes he’s fallen right into Bobby’s trap. Bobby has his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he gets to his feet to give Don a very good view of his entire outfit.

Struggling for words, air, Don’s mouth opens and closes helplessly as his gaze sticks to Bobby. Bobby inches around the table, perches on the corner while Don is left to watch. He just wants to reach out, pull Bobby into his lap. Instead, Don is frozen in the spot, scared if he moves, he won’t be able to help himself.

It’s then Bobby slides along the table, settles himself in front of Don. He spreads his legs, placing his feet on either sides of Don’s lap. Don is the luckiest man alive. Or maybe the most cursed. He’s not sure yet as Bobby leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

“Your move, Hume.”

With that, Don grabs at Bobby’s waist and digs his hands into the fabric of that damn vest. Bobby laughs, shuffles forward until he falls onto Don’s lap. He braces his hands on Don’s shoulders and Don shoots forward to give Bobby a heavy, heated kiss.

Bobby shivers in Don’s grip, grinds down to pull a whine out of Don. They really shouldn’t be doing this here, out in the open, but it makes it all the more thrilling. Don bites Bobby’s lip in retaliation, pleased with the small gasp he earns.

Nails dig into his shoulders and Don nearly crumbles from the harsh passion, moving his hands underneath the vest and up Bobby’s back.

“Guys, come on. Not in the sun room.”

Don and Bobby break apart, heads whipping towards the intruder. It’s Jim and he looks haggard. Books are tucked under his arm, his bag dropping to the floor as he stares at the two.

“Sorry,” Bobby gingerly climbs off Don’s lap, readjusts his sweater vest with the clearing of his throat.

Don mumbles his apology as well, stands to make his way to the door.

Jim waves them off with a gentle smile as he settles on the couch, opening one of his many textbooks. Bobby leads the way out and Don obediently follows behind.

“But, uh, Chuck told me he won’t be back to the dorms until after dark,” Jim offers.

Don blushes while Bobby raises a brow before a devious grin spreads on his face. With his hand caught in Bobby’s tight grip, Don races along with Bobby to his room, a small laugh bubbling out of him.

When they reach the room, when Bobby slams Don against the door and drags him into a kiss, Don is back to gripping his vest.

A small thought enters his mind and it’s then Don decides maybe this time, he wants Bobby to keep his clothes on.

Even if it’s just his shirt and the vest that complements it.

[xreaderbooks]

The Shadows of Our Love |11|

Chapter 11 | In the Shadow of Duels

Pair: Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Summary: Y/n and Sebastian are on speaking terms, finally, but at what cost?

Warnings: language, violence

Word Count: 3k

Links: Wattpad - AO3 - Playlist

Chapter 10 - Series Masterlist - Navigation - Chapter 12

“You seriously believe your parents are behind this?” Ominis nods his head slowly in response to you.

“Behind what, exactly, in case you both forgot I was late to whatever this is.” Sebastian inquires with a bitter tone. You share the details you told Ominis and not a shred more in front of the boy who sits in the middle of the both of you in clear distress. You didn't linger on the fact that you once would have trusted Sebastian with the full story.

Sebastian lets out a rather hearty laugh, you beheld a bewildered expression on your face. This wasn't a joke. “Would the Gaunts really go that far?”

“You haven’t met them, Sebastian, from your knowledge of my family that ought to give you a well-versed idea of their ethics.” Responded Ominis gravely. You then asked what he proposed you all do. “We alert the authorities.”

“Already done, I’ve sent a letter to Officer Singer anonymously- she can’t know I’ve been out of Hogwarts grounds.”

“Then we wait and see how she responds.”

Sebastian raises his hand like he’s in a class, “May I just say, that this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. I’m sure this is just a phase those purebloods are going through and once they’ve had their fill, all will be as it once was.”

“I’m not going to just sit around to find out whether or not the Aurors are going to do something about this,” You exasperated. Sebastian wasn’t affected by this, it wasn’t his problem therefore he doesn’t care but you made a promise. “I’m going to do what I can to help the Hamlets.”

Ominis suspired with a hand to his forehead, “I sometimes wonder if you’ve been placed in the right house with your lack of self-preservation.”

“I’m clever enough to be where I am and obviously ambitious, no need for self-preservation when I’m confident.” Fake it 'til you make it and all that, it was a new philosophy you adopted in order to overcome the serious imposter syndrome you feel.

Sebastian snorted.

"Amused?" Not like there weren't people's lives at stake.

"Very."

~~~

You are up the steps of the DADA tower steps and in the hallway with portraits, two knight armor statues placed on both sides of the small alcove where a cat lay behind a plant, gazing at the stained glass window when you heard an obvious cough meant to grasp your attention.

Your look over your shoulder and to your surprise it was Sebastian. You fully turn to face him, waiting for whatever abusive comment he was surely about to make. When in the next second he didn’t speak you opened your mouth, “Talking to me now, are we?”

He scowls, “Were we not earlier?”

“I assumed that was for Ominis’ sake not to vex him any further.”

“Seeing as you are persistent in engaging in conversation with me, I see no point in keeping my mouth shut when you are around.”

You attempt to bite back your bitter laugh and fail, “You truly are arrogant. It is you who intrudes on my every venture, Sallow, you followed me out of the Undercroft.”

“Do not fret, this will not last long,” He flattens his green vest and corrects his posture. “Lucan has given me the task of informing you about the Crossed Wands meeting.”

You gaze up at him with a fiery attitude, “When exactly is it being held?”

“Wednesday at 6.” Tomorrow. Brilliant.

“You can tell him I’ll be there.”

He gives you a curt nod, “You can tell him at the meeting how he can inform you about future meetings himself after tomorrow, good day, Ms. L/n.”

Lucan had owled you before, you weren’t sure why he didn’t just do that now, and what did he just call you?

“Ms. L/n?” Your face scrunched at how he addressed you, and you had to admit that it stung.

“That is the proper way to address each other,” He replied with indifference.

“With formalities?” You said still in disbelief and wondered if he can hear the hurt in your voice. “Sebastian, please.”

You note how he winces lightly at the sound of his name, “Witches and Wizards, especially at our age are not confined to those rules and after all we’ve been through?”

“Need I remind you that last year meant nothing, that we are nothing.”

A complete and absolute tosser, you thought “You’ve made that quite clear, however, if you are to speak to me from now on, I do not wish to be called by my last name.”

“Good day, Ms. L/n.” He said with finality and walked away to leave you with your thoughts in the middle of the hall.

“Awkward,” You heard the Knight statue sing behind your back. The other knight left its post and swung its sword, beheading the one who spoke. It bowed before returning to its stand.

You were unsure if it could see you but gave the Knight who defended you a half-hearted smile, “Thanks.”

~~~

It was Wednesday half past 5 when you began walking to the clock tower courtyard. It was a fairly peaceful day, transfiguration was interesting, Beasts class always made you feel better when interacting with the creatures, and in potions, you learned the wound-cleaning potion that would certainly come in handy.

Despite the new status of now talking to Sebastian, there was no conversation. You had nothing to say to him, and if you did it was kept short, you didn’t want or need his rancorous attitude. Especially since you were going to see him at Crossed Wands.

You met Natty outside of the faculty tower where the bridge leads to the Clock Tower courtyard. She greets you with a grin as you walk down the steps, the doors open to an abundance of Samhain decorations.

Pumpkins with faces carved in them were placed in the corner of the interior of the courtyard, torches and floating candles lit as the evening grew darker. Most of the castle has been decorated to fit the season, especially as Samhain was this Saturday.

The group organizer, Lucan, who was newly a fourth year still hasn’t shredded his boyish face but grew to be your height- an inch taller, you realize as you come closer.

A couple of members in the club are spread out in their preferred groups, only a few new students have joined but there were mostly familiar faces. No sign of Sebastian yet.

Spectators sat close to the gate that was still open to students.

“Excited?” Natty asked, observing the crowd. “First match of the year for you.”

“For me?” You peered at her quizzically, as far as you were concerned this was the first match of the year.

Natty appeared puzzled by your question, “The first meeting was last week. The Brattleby boy said he sent someone to tell you, I thought you wanted a break from fighting so I thought nothing of it when you weren’t here.”

You ground your teeth together as you pieced what could have happened together. Sebastian must have conveniently forgotten to tell you, so why did he tell you now? “I never received the message.”

“How odd, you are here now which is what matters,” She bumped her shoulder against yours. You gave her a side smile as you stretched your arms and neck, beside you she did the same.

“We could be a team if you’d like?” Natty offered, you considered for a second but told her that you wanted to go solo. Internally you had something to prove to someone in specific. You didn’t care to win this time, you had your victory being the Dueling Champion. Unfortunately, that was one you had shared with Sebastian as your partner.

This time you only cared to beat him.

As soon as you saw Lucan had ended his last conversation with Leander, you went in to tell him how you’d duel this round.

“Hello, Y/n!” He immediately brightened as he saw you approach.

You gave him a warm smile, “Lucan. Quite a lineup you have this year.”

“Oh, yes, it’s amazing isn’t it.” He nodded eagerly, “Tons of bets have been put in, loads have been on you. Shame you weren’t here for the first of the season.”

“I’m afraid your message got lost somehow, but I’m ready now.”

He hissed, “Merlin, I- You see since you weren’t here for the first, you don’t qualify for the competition.”

Fuck.

“But,” You held onto your hope as he spoke. “You are allowed to duel against other competitors, your win is yours, it just won’t count for the title.”

You breathed a sigh of relief and hugged the boy, “Thank you.”

“Will you be dueling with Sebastian?” He patted your back in the hug, his cheeks flushed.

You released him and stepped back firmly on your feet, “No. I’d actually like to compete against him.”

He blinked in surprise, “Oh. Well, alright then.”

“Does that interfere with the way you have it set up?” You didn’t want to inconvenience him. “I can back out if anything, we just haven’t been… in sync as of late.”

You knew that your dueling against Sebastian would fuel the rumors of drama between you and him but frankly, you didn’t care.

“No, it’s not a problem, singles duel last so you have time to prepare.” He gave you a look you couldn’t decipher, “Good luck. Not that you need it, you’re bloody amazing, Sebastian’s a formidable opponent. Ruthless if I’m being honest, you’ve only fought with him, being on the other side of his wand.”

He took a second to think and shivered, “Good luck, Y/n. I’m rooting for you.”

So much for that, you caught a glimpse of red and short brown hair, both in their casual clothing. You turned your head to spot where Natty was and saw she was prepping with Nellie. You went over to the pair that was cornered to the right door that leads up to the clock tower, this was a safe zone, for now.

“Come to see the show?” You placed your hands on your hips as you stood behind Garreth who whirled around at the sound of your voice.

He picked you up and wrapped you in a tight hug, “Y/n/n!”

You giggled, hugging him back, he set you down next to Poppy who asked you if you were dueling.

“I go on later.”

“Solo,” Poppy stated more than asked. “Against…”

“Take a wild guess,” You told her.

“Sallow?” Garreth chimed, suddenly gone pale. “Sebastian Sallow?”

“Well him and a few others of course but yes, he’s one of them.”

Poppy gave you a concerned stare but said nothing of it, “Best of luck then.”

Garreth gulped, “Prayers. Lots and lots of prayers.”

Poppy gave him a stab in the ribs to which he winced and switched spots with you, now standing next to her as you backed away from them.

“Never been the religious sort but since you insist on getting killed,” He muttered. That earned him a smack in the back of his head from your Hufflepuff friend.

You rolled your eyes at his dramatics but kissed his cheek affectionately as a way to cheer him up and gave his cheek a slap, “Chin up lad, I’m the bloody Hero of Hogwarts.” The title you didn’t care for slipped from your tongue and though it didn’t give you extra powers for being named that, it did give people hope.

Sallow wasn’t that good.

Okay, maybe he was. However that didn’t mean shite, you could also be ruthless when you fought. Granted, this had not been your lucky year so far, but when you won this it would surely give you that boost of confidence you so desperately needed.

“Alright, everyone!” Lucan's voice paused everyone's conversations. Once he got everyone’s attention he explained that groups will go first, those who lose are out and the remaining with duel in pairs, pairs will end in singles. Winners of the second round will go on to the final where they will be crowned champion.

And so it went, until there were 4 left, not including yourself and Sebastian who had shown up just as Charlotte Morrison had finished Natty off with a swift speed of spells. Oh, how she agitated you. Charlotte had a sickly sweet tone in her voice every time she bested people, and had the audacity to pretend to be humble when it was obvious that she was not.

You disliked her the way Ominis dislikes Duncan Hobhouse. Natty took her loss amiably, she strode over to you after they had shook hands, slightly out of breath.

“Natty,” You drawled out her name sympathetically.

She shook her head, “No, no. It is alright, it was a fair game.”

You grumbled for her with arms crossed, the entrance of Sebastian had whispers and bets going around. It started as soon as they had heard that you would be dueling against him. You wondered how many people betted for you and how many shared Garreth and Lucan's sentiments.

Lucan announced your name, then Sebastian, informing you both to step in the middle. He counted down, telling you both to get into position and begin.

Sebastian had a twinkle in his eye and a smirk that pulled his dimple out of hiding. You swiped your wand left then right, and finally pulled back your arm as if you were holding a bow.

Quiet conversation and deep stares were heard and felt as you and Sebastian circled each other. Neither of you struck first.

“Scared, Sallow?” You taunted him.

He didn’t budge, “L/n, we both know that you haven’t been a threat since the beginning of the year. You even need your boyfriend here for moral support.”

You sent three casts his way, all of which he blocked with ease. “I seem to be doing just fine.” Though you missed, you knew that he had to use some strength to block the spells you used. You have been practicing after all.

“A bit defensive don’t you think?” Confringo was shot at you, blast after blast, you didn’t have time to retaliate.

You blocked and blocked and blocked until you were almost backed into the metal gate that held stored items. You took your chance and cast Depulso, rolling away and bouncing back up to your feet. While he was down you hit him with one of his favorite, Incendio.

He got back up with a singed shirt and attacked, it was never-ending, the duel had to have been longer than 30 minutes. Neither of you had given up, it was an intense dance that both of you were used to doing side-by-side. This was the first time your wands were pointed at each other.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

You couldn’t remember the moment when you’d heard him say that before, but you knew it infuriated you. You wouldn’t admit it but Sebastian was tiring you out a little- only a little.

You pushed and struck, swiped, and jabbed. He mirrored as if he was only playing along like he wasn’t even trying. Was he?

“Sallow,” You growled. “What are you doing?”

“Whatever do you mean?” He parried and slashed Diffindo. He was caught, he was putting on a show and he was going easy on you. Sebastian knew you were catching onto his game and upped his ante. “You can do better than that, actually, can you?"

You performed a spell combo that you had been practicing on but he just laughed it off even as it hit him.

“It’s like you’re not even trying,” He then spoke to the crowd. “Is this your hero?”

“You’re getting weaker, L/n, you realize you come to school to actually learn.”

Your nostrils flared, his comments awoke something animalistic inside you that only wanted violence. “I’ve had enough!”

He sent a barrel, after barrel your way, you used the vanishing spell to wave them away with your wand.

You were fed up, you abandon your wand letting it fall to the ground as you pounce. You charge forward, tackling Sebastian to the ground, letting your hands punch and slap wherever they land. Not once did he stop you.

“Fight back!” You yell, “Fight back, you bastard, fight back, fight back, fight back!”

He didn’t block a single blow, it pissed you off even more. Your fist went in on his face and you heard a crack. You knew you felt pain in your knuckles where they landed but you were almost positive that it was just your hand that crunched from the impact.

This was absolutely not allowed in the dueling club, muggle fighting was seemingly more violent and frowned upon but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. This was much more satisfying.

You saw red, not feeling the arms that attempted to pry you off of the boy who lay under you. It wasn’t until strong arms had listed you off, along with the others who had struggled to get you off themselves.

Nellie and Natty were on either side of you with arms hooked around your elbows, the only other person you can think of that would lift you like this had to be Garreth. He lets you go once you were done kicking and screaming.

Sebastian got up and touched his fingertips to his nose where blood had dripped onto his lip.

“You're the foulest loathsome being that I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting” You shout. You pick up your wand from the ground and in your fury, you conjure 12 birds with the spell Avis and send them spiraling his way, “Oppugno!”

“Ms. L/n!” The tone of a strong male authoritative figure came up from the left door that goes up to the clock tower. The crowd, you now noticed, was scattered. Someone must have alerted him, Professor Sharp. Lucan ran the moment he saw Sharp, as did the other members of the club. “What is the meaning of this?”

No one spoke, Nellie, Natty, Garreth, Poppy who was just around the corner and as quiet as a mouse. You and Sebastian stood staring each other down with silent words you only knew that in your mind you were shouting how much you despised him.

“Saturday, Detention.” His words broke you and Sallow out of your hate-induced trance. “All of you, including you Ms. Sweeting.”

~~~

If anybody would like to be tagged comment or send me a message

Chapter 12

Taglist:

@vanivivs - @aqueennia - @wt-fxck - @therealppboy - @boysmedia - @stuffyownswrld - @maddsinthemoon - @dreamshot - @lostgirl-28 - @scrambled-eggs-y

[otterandterrierwrites]

💫 for the song meme. han/leia because I'm in love with how you write them ALLL the time!

I wanna read your mind to know just what I've got in this new thing I've found

Brilliant disguise - Bruce Springsteen

A/N: thank you! 🥺 sorry it took me so long 😅 based on this prompt

***********

For a split second after the words, she feels out of space and time. Like she has stepped out of the life she's in, and into the life of someone whose biggest problem at the moment is the subtle rejection of the guy she's been hooking up with.

Of course, that's not who she is, and that's so far down her list of problems, it's barely one at all.

'Okay,' she says, a little too brightly because, really, it's fine. 'I understand. I'll see you around?'

She pivots on her heel without waiting for an answer and straightens her vest, doing her best not to look like she's running away but rather aiming for a dignified retreat.

'Hey no, I didn't—wait!' she hears, and his hand wraps over her shoulder before she gets one foot out of the cabin.

'Leia,' he says when she stops and turns back to look at him. There's something about her name coming out of his lips like that, not tumbling out in the so-called throes of passion but said with intent, with his eyes on hers and a look she can't quite decipher, that shakes something loose inside of her.

'I wasn't kickin' you out,' Han says, the corners of his eyes crinkling as if he's trying to puzzle her out.

'You said we didn't have to have sex,' she tells him, in her least annoyed voice—and she is annoyed, because he could at least have told her before she did the trek through the glacial Echo Base corridors. 'What did you want me to hang back for, a friendly game of Dejarik?'

Han blinks. 'Well, if you want...'

She rolls her eyes and begins to turn away again because her patience isn't limitless, but he stops her once more.

'Hang on! I meant it's okay if you just wanted a warm place to sleep tonight,' he says. That was what she told him when she showed up, that she came because her room was freezing. Even for Hoth standards. Then he made a joke about how she was just using him for his body heat. Then she started kissing him and sticking her hands under his shirt. And then he stopped her.

'It ain't a... an expectation, y'know?' he adds now. 'The sex. 'S fine with me if we just, uh, hang out sometimes. If you want.'

Leia stares at him, uncomprehending. No, that's not true. She knows what he's proposing. They are, crudely put, fuck buddies, and they're also friends, and she hangs out plenty more with him than she does with any other rebel even when they're not having sex, but... But. That’s not what he means. There are lines they haven’t crossed, that she said she wouldn’t cross, because this can’t become that kind of relationship. She ought to say no. No thank you, I’m fine with the way things are, it is what it is.

What she says is, ‘Okay, hotshot.’

The smile Han gives her isn’t like the glare of a dozen suns or anything as poetic as that. It’s small and his teeth aren’t even showing. It’s barely more than a diagonal, dimpling the corner of his mouth.

And it’s everything.

'For the record,' Leia says, tamping down an emotion that is even more damning of a self-betrayal than her agreement to something she doesn’t even know yet, 'I didn’t think you expected to have sex with me. I like having sex with you. As in, I wanted to have sex tonight. Want to.'

He laughs, even as he’s puffing up his chest, and Leia lets him pull her into his arms. ‘Well, that’s a kriffin’ relief, sweetheart.’

‘Do you need that in writing?’ she teases, levelling a serious look at him, her hands pressed flat against his chest. ‘Shall I give my explicit and enthusiastic consent before you take off my clothes? Do I have to—’

Han kisses her before she can come up with anything else and, afterwards, she stays.

[newtonsheffield]

Could we please see Anthony taking Kate for a spin in his new car???

Okay but imagine how cute he would be standing outside the hospital, tooting the little horn.

It was ridiculous, really, how in just a few weeks, Kate had grown so used to Anthony. How she'd come to expect to see him, even if her heart fluttered in her chest still when she stared down at her hands and saw the ring sitting on her finger, staring back at her.

The ring had been her first sign that there was a little more to Anthony than she'd thought. When Mary and Edwina had stared down at it in amazement and Edwina had gasped,

"This must have cost him a fortune."

"Edwina that's not a polite thing to-"

"Mum, it must have?"

And Kate's cheeks had burned when she'd sat beside him the next morning, out with both their mothers sitting nearly thirty feet away from them pretending not to pay attention , their engagement still new and ridiculous making them both blush.

"Are you...? Anthony, are you rich?"

Anthony blanched for a second, "Why would you ask that?"

"Well, you're planning to uproot your entire life here for me, you're buying a shop, and a house, and this ring is-"

"Do you not like it?!" He cut in anxiously, his eyes wide.

"I love it, Anthony." She sighed, reaching up to push his hair back from his eyes, "I'm only- I'm curious, And it seems the sort of thing a wife should know do you not think?"

"I like when you call yourself my wife. Mrs Kate Bridgerton, that sounds very nice." Anthony let out a content noise in the back of his throat and his cane tapped on the ground for a moment before he sighed, "I'm... comfortable. My Family has some money and-"

"Well, that's exactly what a rich person would say." Kate had said, waving him off.

He'd bought them a house, a cottage, that he was eager for her to love, getting her opinion on everything from curtains to crockery, to the type of mug he ought to have. He visited her every afternoon, keeping a. respectful distance that she wished he wouldn't, his hat in his hands when he winked at her-

"Miss Sharma, I couldn't help but notice there was going to be dancing at this little fete this evening and once upon a time, you promised me a dance."

"You can have all my dances, honey."

He wanted to spend every spare moment with her, every second, nodding seriously at Mary, Mrs Sharma I'll have Kate home from work, safe, I promise. You can trust me, Ma'am.

And now here she was, counting down the minutes until her shift ended and she and Anthony would wander home through the village, with their hands intertwined and they would while away time together, hiding behind the old oak tree as they traded lazy kisses, and her heart pounded in her chest, the rest of their lives laid out in front of them.

The loud beeping noise of a car horn cut through the air and Kate sighed as she looked at the clock. Of course they would get a new arrival when she had 47 seconds left of her shift.

"You're being signalled, I believe." Sister Danbury sighed glancing out the window and Kate's brow furrowed in confusion.

"I'm being what?"

She rolled her eyes, "You're being signalled. I'll see you tomorrow, Nurse Bridgerton."

"That isn't my name yet." Kate said, her cheeks flushing, "Three more weeks."

"And yet, you knew to whom I was referring." She sighed as the horn sounded again, "Please go before he shatters a window."

Kate snatched up her things, more than a little confused as she slid off her cap and tucked it in her satchel making her way outside, anticipation curling in her stomach and-

There he was. And she almost sighed, no, she did sigh.

Anthony was leaning against the side of a green car, the roof down, his hair falling in his eyes as he stood there, his shirtsleeves rolled up over his forearms and that stupid orange vest she'd made him on.

"Surprise!"

Her heart skipped a beat as she stepped towards him, "What's all this?"

Anthony grinned, stepping forward to take her bag off her, and placing it on the seat before he leaned forward to brush their lips together. "This is a car, Darling. What do they teach young ladies in nurse's training."

Kate rolled her eyes, swatting his chest, "I realise that. What are you doing with it?"

"I bought it," He grinned,

"Why?" She gasped, though he looked so happy she couldn't help but be a little excited.

"Oh imagine how romantic it'll be for us to drive through the countryside, blackberry picking and the likes." He nudged her towards the front seat, his hands on her hips.

"You want to go blackberry picking?"

Anthony sighed, "Yes, Kate, I want us to go blackberry picking, and look like love's young dream. Because we are desperately in love, I've heard."

"I've heard that too," Kate hummed, sitting in the passenger seat. Chuckling to herself as Anthony did an excited little dance, hopping around to the driver's side. "Are you going to have any thought towards economies when we're married, honey?"

"I'm stimulating the economy," Anthony clicked his tongue, tooting the horn once more for good measure as he started the engine. "It' a responsible thing to do actually, Kate."

"I see."

"Now. let's go for a little spin."

"Are you going to be a hooligan?"

His eyes sparkled, "Oh, only a very little, Darling."

And the wheels spun on the gravel drive as they sped off.

[the-bar-sinister]

It's Called Flirtation (979 words) by thesavagesabretooth Relationships: Apollo Justice/Simon Blackquill Additional Tags: Fluff, Flirting, Workplace Relationship, Prosecutor Apollo Justice, POV Apollo Justice

Summary: Simon catches Apollo looking him over, and he takes it as an cue to extend a shameless invitation.

-

"Fancy a shag, would you, Justice-dono?"

Apollo froze in place, staring at Simon and feeling himself go scarlet. "E-excuse me?"

Simon Blackquill leaned toward him with a nasty grin on his face. "My apologies, allow me to be clearer. I'm asking if you'd like to have sex."

This time Apollo could only make a choked noise, and Simon laughed, slapping the table of the prosecutorial break room where they were both standing.

"Justice-dono, if you want to avoid unwanted solicitations, you ought to avoid looking gentlemen over like they are pieces of meat as well. You've got a bit of a reputation for it, and I concur. Not very subtle."

Apollo pressed his hands to his face, and looked away. "I can't– that's not–"

It's not like he'd been exactly trying to check Simon out. It was just the strange, birdlike and aggressive way that Simon moved. His lanky, storklike figure, and the stormy expressions that passed over his face at every thought. How could Apollo not look at him?

Simon clapped him on the back, pulling him up to his shoulder. "Not that I'm not flattered, Justice-dono, but I've gathered that most of the gentlemen here like to keep their predilection for other men close to the vest, due to concerns of social standing."

Apollo made another dumb noise as Simon's arm draped over him and he gaped up at him in astonishment, feeling like he had to look quite high up indeed to meet Simon's gaze.

"Well, then how can you be so open about it!" he demanded. "This is practically workplace harassment, you know."

"It's called flirting, Justice-dono. Hardly the worst crime I've ever been accused of," he sneered. "And to answer your question, it's simply that I am a humble man, and I have no shame."

"I'll say!" Apollo felt his heart hammering in his chest.

Simon chuckled and glanced down at him with a smirk like the curve of a knife written on his lips. "So, were you going to answer my question? Or should I take your consternation for a 'no'?"

He once again found himself at a loss for words, and ended up muttering toward the ground. "I usually like to take it a little slower than that."

"What was that, Justice-dono, I'm afraid I couldn't hear you." 

Simon's snickering tone pinged something in Apollo's brain, and he balled his fists, staring directly up at him. With chords of steel, he repeated. "I said I usually like to take it a little slower than that!!"

He flushed even hotter when it was out of his mouth, and while Simon was laughing, he looked around to see if there was any commotion he might have caused or anyone who might have heard. Thankfully at least they seemed to be well and truly alone.

"My my, a trifle shy are we?" Simon purred. "Not a luxury one has in the clink, but now that I'm a free man I might see my way to indulging your hesitation."

Apollo shivered and every hair on his body stood on end at the touch of Simon's fingers as they crawled up the back of his neck, and the way he leaned in toward him as he spoke.

Apollo had no idea what he was doing. He hadn't expected Simon to start doing this just because he'd looked at him. He didn't know how he was supposed to respond.

He didn't exactly want to say no.

"That's… polite of you," he forced out.

"Even a ruffian former convict like myself can manage a few niceties– if it's for the sake of a good time."

A good time. Blackquill had accused him of looking at him like a piece of meat, but that's exactly how Apollo felt now as Simon pinned him with his dark gaze, and his arm around his shoulders.

"... Good."

"Do you prefer polite, Justice-dono?"

What a question!!

"It… depends on the context," he said, puffing his chest out a little.

This seemed to amuse Simon, and he laughed again.

"Well! Let's try impolite then, shall we?"

Before Apollo could respond, Simon pulled him so that they were chest to chest– or more like chest to midsection with Simon's height. He reached down with a hand like a snake striking and pulled Apollo's chin up as he leaned down. He gasped as Simon kissed him, and it was almost as if the breath had been drawn out of him suddenly.

He swooned against Simon's chest as the fierce prosecutor kissed him soundly with greedy lips and a driving tongue. Apollo was sure he made a noise as Simon's tongue invaded his mouth, and he he dizzily returned the kiss, pressing his own tongue into Simon's mouth in return.

Flushed and breathless as Simon's lips left his, Apollo immediately looked around to make sure that no one had seen him making out in the breakroom.

"Don't fret, Justice-dono, no one's seen your little indiscretion," Simon tutted. He stroked his fingers over Apollo's jaw and up over the traces of his sideburns and his hairline.

Apollo looked back at him, embarrassed doubly. "You really do have no shame."

"It's one of my charms, I'm told. Well, impolite seems to have suited you, so I'll keep that in mind. Slowly of course."

"If you call that slow," Apollo grumbled. Still, he found himself leaning into Simon's touch.

"Slow for me. How about you come over to my place for dinner tomorrow night, Justice-dono?"

That did not sound slow at all. 

That sounded almost exactly like 'fancy a shag'.

But… Apollo couldn't deny he'd been looking at Simon. And it was a good kiss.

"Yeah, alright," Apollo said, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. He jabbed a finger into Simon's chest. "But I do expect to actually have dinner at some point, got it?"

"Of course. At some point."

[shinobinvku]

They’re in the inventory closet to gather supplies but wind up stealing kisses from one another instead. There’s little recollection as to who started it, only when the moment their lips pressed hotly against the other’s mouth, it was impossible for them to stop. Yamato cradles Miki’s face in his hands to catch his breath, his face flush and stained with her lipstick.

❝It’d be bad if we got caught,❞ he chuckles, the pad of his thumb brushing strands of yellow hair behind the shell of her ear. The problem with that sentiment is he didn’t much care.

For @kahenn || Miki

"Probably-" Miki breathes, the fact that they were even in the supply room completely lost on her once they had started. The fact that he mentions it means they ought to stop, Miki somewhat annoyed, because she doesn't want to. But it's not the place. "Um, you've got-" she lifts a hand to his face, thumb swiping back and forth over his lips, wiping off the stain of pink lipstick as best she could. "Didn't think you'd want people to think you were trying out some new fashion," she laughs. No one would guess that mild mannered Yamato has got colour smeared on his lips from something like a kiss, surely not. She relents with a sigh, releasing her hold on Yamato and filling her arms with the supplies they had come in for. "Come over tonight? I'll cook." Her mind is not focused much on cooking.

Unfortunately, it’s the responsible thing to do, much to both of their frustrations. Yamato breathes a soft chuckle, letting Miki wipe away her lipstick stains off his face. He captures her hand in his, planting a gentle kiss against her knuckles and then two of her fingertips before releasing her. Such bliss; he can’t get enough of her. 

❝I should get going,❞ he tells her, before he becomes too much of a distraction. He steps out of the inventory closet with supplies in his hand when Miki proposes he come over tonight for dinner, to which Yamato smiles with a nod. 

❝Dinner would be great. ❞ 

Yamato is not so naive as to misunderstand what dinner and a night-in might imply but doesn’t want to make too many assumptions. It would be the first time he’d be stepping inside her home, a milestone worth celebrating no matter how the night goes. He wants to make the evening special. 

Dressed in his jounin fatigues, he’ll stop by a convenience store to pick up a bottle of wine for their meal and then the Yamanaka flower shop, where he swears to high heaven that the flowers and wine are not what Ino thinks they’re for, the notorious gossip of a girl that she is. This time, he buys Miki a potted plant of white orchids for her apartment. 

Standing outside Miki’s door, Yamato takes a moment to check his appearance, adjusting his vest, and rubs the back of his head for any embarrassing saplings before knocking on the door. When she answers, the jounin is absolutely beaming.

❝I hope you like orchids.❞

[batsyforyou]

Waking Up

Mission Briefing: A member of the Atlantis Expedition and a previous member of SG-1 somehow finds themselves in another world, per usual, but this time it's the familiar world Tolkien. With a few superficial wounds and an aching head, military officer Captain Y/n L/n of the United States Air Force discovers that some stories have some truth to them. 

Mission Report: 

Ugh. You turn your head and groan, taking in slow deep breaths as you do. My head. 

You open your eyes and attentively put a hand to your head and flinch sucking air through your teeth. Man, that hurts. You look up and scrunch up your face at the light and after a moment your eyes adjust and to your surprise you see . . . leaves. Vibrant green leaves and strong branches shifting in the wind. And slowly, after a long moment, you began to hear the leaves rattle and the birds chirp and you could feel the coolness of the air when the wind brushed by bringing attention to how warm you were. Your body felt heavy and you were very tired but you felt as though you had been asleep for days. 

“Ah, I see you are finally awake.” A voice rumbled. It was old and sounded like a voice you should know but you’d never heard it before. 

You shift to look in the direction of the voice, wincing all the while and sitting beneath a tall shady tree sat an old man. He was a very strange old man. He wore a blue pointed hat and gray dirty robes and he held a walking stick that looked more like a staff than anything. He had one bare foot and the missing shoe in hand; the other foot had been placed high atop a rock. Or at least, you thought it was a rock you couldn’t quite tell from this angle. 

When you didn’t reply the old man grunted and looked back into his shoe shaking it. “Damn thing is always getting rocks and dirt and other things stuck up in it. I ought to get it replaced. Perhaps I will when I next journey into the market.” 

You turned your head away from the old man, feeling a pressure in your head and you thought that if you were to sit up you’d certainly vomit. You took some time to take in more of your surroundings, wiggling your fingers and scrunching up your toes. You could feel the thick soft grass beneath and you grabbed a fist full. The grass was a bit damp but otherwise dry. You were in uniform dressed as if you had prepared to go off world. Dark gray cargo pants, dark gray jacket, black vest, black belt, black boots, your knife strapped to your side, your 9mm strapped to your hip and your P90 laid atop your chest still clipped in.  

You were confused. You couldn’t remember anything, most importantly, you couldn’t remember how you got here and where you were or what had happened. You turned back to the old man and watched for a moment as he blew air into his shoe. 

“Excuse me, but where am I?” 

The man stopped and stared at you, “Dear friend, you are deep in the forest just east of Rivendell, Lord Elrond’s domain, to be precise.” 

You frowned, even more confused. Both the name and what you assumed to be a city rang a bell but again you couldn’t place it. 

“I-what? What does that mean? What planet am I on? And how did I get here?” 

The old man cocked his head, “Planet? Hm, how peculiar. I do not know this word.” 

You sighed, “What world am I in?” 

“Ah, this world is called Arda and you are in Middle Earth. As for how you got here I’m afraid I do not have an answer for you.” 

“Then, how did you find me?” 

The old man bought a hand to caress his beard, obviously thinking deeply about something. But this was the first time you noticed his beard. It was a rather long beard longer than it probably should have been. In fact you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man with a beard that long. It was full and bushy around his face and kinda thin at the bottom like it needed a trim and was equally as gray as the rest of him. 

 “I had a dream of you. Of you laying here on the ground unconscious and in need of help. Once I woke up I knew I had to come and find you. My companions and I spent days searching and I had begun to worry that we’d never find you. But here I found you at last! Exactly how you were in my dream. Motionless and bleeding from a wound upon your head.” 

You raised your hand to your head again and looked around. You didn’t see anyone else here . . . The old man spoke up again. “Do not worry, one of my companions cleaned and bandaged the wound.” The old man shook his shoe one final time before slipping it back on and leaned closer to you. “Now, why don’t you tell me what you do remember and I’ll do my best to fill in the gaps.”  You dropped your hand letting the weird explanation and his lack of companions slide.  

“I-” You squinted thinking hard, “I-I don’t know” 

The old man quirked an inquisitive brow. “You don’t know?” 

“I-I can’t remember. I think I was back on Atlantis in my quarters. I just got off duty and was getting ready for bed. But I can’t remember anything else.” 

“Atalantë?” He asked. 

You frowned, “Um, no, just Atlantis, at-lan-tis, though I think Dr. Mckay might pronounce it a-lan-tis.” 

 “And what else do you remember?” 

“Nothing, sir.” 

The old man frowned. “Ah, it's just as well then.” You closed your eyes, your head aching. If you hadn’t been in so much pain you were sure you’d be more panicked than you actually felt but you’d been through so many off world missions. And waking up in the middle of God knew where seemed pretty typical. Besides, you didn’t seem to be in immediate danger and the person who did find you helped bandage your injury and seemed to be answering your questions when asked. And considering all other possibilities of what could have found you instead. You considered yourself pretty damn lucky. 

It was a long while before the old man spoke again. 

“Do you remember your name?” 

You looked at him again. The old man had an air about him and you couldn’t get much of a read on him, still you didn’t think a name could hurt. “I’m Captain Y/n L/n of the United States Air Force. But you can just refer to me as Captain L/n. I’m a member of the Atlantis Expedition and I serve under Lt. Colonel John Sheppard.” 

He leaned back against the tree and hummed. “I cannot say I’ve heard of this place you speak of nor have I heard of the man you serve.”  

You smiled, “I wouldn’t expect you to from the looks of things I’m a whole world away from home.” 

With a grunt you try to push yourself up, though with little success. Seeing you struggle the old man reached over and helped pull you forward with more strength then you’d expect from him. Once up, your head swam and you would have collapsed again if not for the old man's steady grasp. Sluggishly you moved to lean against the tree next to him and sighed, exhausted from the small effort. Satisfied that you weren’t going to fall over, the old man released your arm and leaned back into the tree. Taking out a long pipe from goodness knew where and lighting it. 

You’d only ever seen such a pipe like his from older movies and around your grandpa. Curious, you quietly watched as the man blew out smoke, amazed as the smoke shaped itself into rings and floated away into the clear sky. 

Despite your amazement you turn away to survey the rest of the forest, unsurprised with what you find. Green grass, tall trees, dirt, foliage, a couple of chatty squirrels and birds. Yup, a typical forest. To its credit, it was one of the healthiest forests you’d ever seen.

 Scanning the rest of the terrain, you almost startled at the sight of a large group of armored soldiers down a slight slope. Most were sitting atop horses, while others chose to sit on the top of flat rocks. They had swords strapped to their waists and wore armor that lacked helmets. All of them were occupied with something, a few were snacking, others talking amongst themselves. One of the taller men—graced with golden hair—was searching through his saddlebag; as if he sensed your gaze on him, he looked up from his work. Meeting your eyes and giving you a good look at his beautiful features; as strands of shiny hair filtered into his face. His face seemed so young but his eyes were ancient. You were shocked. You’ve never seen so many beautiful people in one place before. You knew one thing for sure though, those people down there were not human.

The man's companions. You furrowed your brows, you must be really out of it. Shaking yourself out of your stupor, you turned back to the elder. He was still smoking his pipe and what you had thought to be a rock earlier was actually a backpack. If you thought your observation skills were bad before, you were sure you had just set a new record. 

Unwilling to start a conversation, you sat for a moment, thinking. Your boots had dry mud on them and your uniform had grass stains and small tears here and there. You had most differently been off world or at least in a physical altercation with someone. Unfortunately for you, Atlantis wasn’t exactly short on enemies. 

“Excuse me?” You asked. The old man paused momentarily to look at you, raising a bushy brow. “What’s your name?” 

He smiled, “I am called Gandalf, friend.” 

You nodded, still not sure what was happening. “Gandalf, what do you plan to do now that you’ve found me?” 

“I’ll take you to the city of Rivendell to meet with Lord Elrond.” 

Masterlist

[kradogsrats]

I'm gonna have to rewrite several chunks of this fic, including this particular one, because I've apparently made Kpp'Ar about 80% too autistic... but the fact that I wrote it like 2 weeks ago made me have a wheezing fit at the line about Viren's "finery" in that one episode:

“Is that what you're wearing?” Viren, a spoonful of honeyed oatmeal halfway between the bowl and his mouth, looked down at his clothing, then back up. "What?" Kpp'Ar looked at him impatiently. “You heard me. Is that," he made a small gesture that nonetheless encompassed Viren's entire body, "really what you're wearing today?” Not long after he’d gotten settled in Kpp’Ar’s house, the irritable mage had marched him through the city to a tailor’s shop, where he’d simply tossed the tailor a small purse of coins and indicated Viren, saying only, “Make him presentable.” The next several hours had been a whirl of measuring and fitting and adjusting of more clothing than Viren had ever imagined wearing—shirts and trousers and vests, all in soft wool and fine linen. A few of the shirts and vests were even trimmed with gold thread at the cuffs or hem, which he'd been certain was far too much, but Kpp'Ar had only nodded.

It had been overwhelming, even if most of the new wardrobe—and what a thing, to have a wardrobe—was practical, sturdy trousers and undecorated shirts easily cuffed out of the way. He'd taken weeks to feel even slightly comfortable wearing them, and almost cried when he discovered he'd stained a sleeve carelessly leaning his forearms on the table. Kpp'Ar had received his stammered, increasingly frantic apologies with ominous silence, then simply showed him where the various solvents brewed for removing stains were kept and waved him away, untroubled.

About to affirm that yes, obviously the plain work clothing currently on his body was what he was wearing that day, Viren paused. It was far from the strangest abrupt questioning he'd received from Kpp'Ar, but still strange enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck with suspicion. "Why?" he asked, carefully. “What’s today?”

“We’re going to the castle,” Kpp'Ar said, as if that were something Viren had already been told and ought to remember.

“The castle,” Viren repeated. “As in, the royal castle?”

“Do you know of another one? Don't ask pointless questions, boy.”

Viren bit back a sarcastic reply regarding the pointlessness of Kpp'Ar's own rhetorical question. Such remarks were usually lost on him, anyway—Viren had yet to determine whether he truly failed to comprehend them or only pretended such, given the rare glimmer of his own, extraordinarily dry, wit. It was also possible that he was mistaking the occasional ironic coincidence around what was otherwise total sincerity for a sense of humor.

“Why are we suddenly going to the castle?” he asked, instead.

“Unfortunately, a royal summons cannot be refused.”

"A royal summons?" Viren finally put his spoon down. It wasn't going to make it to his mouth any time soon, and at the morning's current rate of stunning revelations, he'd probably wind up dropping it and splattering oatmeal everywhere. "What could the king possibly—"

Kpp'Ar silenced him with a look. "That is a matter between him and me, and thus no concern of yours. While I am occupied, you will avail yourself of the royal library."

Viren immediately perked up, any misgivings forgotten. The clerics of Katolis had collected and preserved texts on all manner of topics for centuries. Kpp'Ar owned more books than he had ever imagined in once place, but had mentioned several times—possibly with a touch of envy—that the royal library held even more. Given Kpp'Ar's general disdain for the city and even more so for the castle, he hadn't really expected to ever see it.

"If you’re going to get ready, go do it." Kpp'Ar's scolding voice interrupted his brief, book-filled reverie. "The carriage will be here for us in half an hour. If you're not on it, you'll be walking."

Viren shoveled the rest of of his oatmeal into his mouth as fast as he could eat, then scampered to his room.

Twenty-five minutes later, he joined Kpp’Ar on the front steps. There hadn't been time to bathe, but he'd scrubbed his face and managed to tame his hair by carding wet fingers through it, and he'd brushed his teeth. He'd also, of course, put on his best trousers and shirt, and the open, long-tailed vest that by its cut showed he labored with his mind, rather than his hands.

He’d been keen to see what his mentor considered to be proper dress for an audience with the king, and so was deeply let down when he clattered down the front stairs and found Kpp’Ar wearing exactly what he wore every time they left the house. Viren couldn’t tell if he had even shaved, though it looked like might have at least made an effort to scrub the more persistent ink stains from his hands.

Sensing his disappointment—or at least his scrutiny—Kpp’Ar gave him a brief glance up and down. “You didn’t have to change clothes,” he commented.

Viren's jaw dropped. “You told me to!”

“I am certain I did not.”

“You asked whether I was wearing my ordinary clothes to the castle, where you apparently have an audience with the king, himself—was that somehow not an implicit order to change?”

Kpp’Ar blinked several times, as if trying to wrap his mind around a completely alien concept. “I thought it was an odd choice for you, since you otherwise take such care with your appearance in public.”

Viren bristled, but fell silent rather than argue further. It had seemed so obvious, but now doubt needled at the edges of his mind. He wasn't ashamed of where he came from, but he didn't like to stand out and be marked as someone ignorant of the social context—that was when people began to treat him dismissively, or worse, with pity. Kpp'Ar obviously didn't care about such things, but he had also never needed to care. Still, the fact that he hadn't cleaned up more suggested that Viren might have overcompensated, and would be ostentatious—

“You look very fine,” Kpp’Ar added, awkward as always in his reassurance. “You needn’t worry that you’ll be out of place.”

“Thanks,” Viren mumbled, not feeling particularly better.

[detachedfacade]

You are Eddie Munson. You wake up late every morning and groan at your alarm signalling another goddamn day at the school you've outgrown. You pull on whatever clothes you can find that smell good enough before you remember it's hellfire tonight and search through your closet to find one of the five you own. It should be easier, shouldn't it? Given that they're the only shirts you own that aren't almost completely black but damn are they evasive. You storm out your room to the living room and before you can open your mouth your uncle is throwing the shirt across the room to you.

"You left it on the couch, I gave it a wash." He says. He's still wearing his work clothes, he just got in. "You ought to let me do some more of your laundry boy."

"Not a chance Wayne, you don't want to go rifling through my stuff you'd have a heart attack." You say.

"I can avert my eyes from any girly mags you have, I used to share a room with my brother I've seen it all."

"Ew." You say. "May I remind you that brother is my father." And you don't correct him about the girly mags because, well maybe he's not completely wrong. Those fantasy erotic graphic novels do focus heavily on the female characters. But it's the male characters you look at, when you are looking at all. And you know your uncle wouldn't judge, heck you've even heard him say as much about the young guy he works with, "Queer as a $3 bill" he said "But a hard worker and a nice kid. So I make sure the guys don't give him any stick, god knows he gets it back home." But you lost enough parents as it is, so you hedge your bets and stay closeted. For now at least. Besides you have school and you're late and you're finishing the curse of fucking vecna campaign tonight so you have a few other things on your mind.

School is soul crushing, of course. But you're grateful for at least one thing, Steve Harrington doesn't go there any more, and your planet sized crush had left with him. So it's just Jason (the prick) and a couple teachers with a vendetta (okay maybe you didn't do the homework) to deal with.

You deal drugs, you always have. You think you'll never be able to touch that tin lunch box again. You don't even wonder how you'll pay off the supplier. Because a nice girl who needed help just fucking died on your ceiling and you didn't know what to do so you ran.

You hold a glass up to the neck of the guy you used to crush on. It's hard to remember liking someone when you're being hunted down by jocks and you're pretty sure a poltergeist snapped someone's neck in front of you.

Things get crazier but you manage to calm down. Like maybe this is all just an elaborate dnd campaign. And you can convince yourself of that for a while.

And the man you had a crush on rips a bat in two while shirtless and its your erotic fantasy novel come to life, and what you wouldn't give to be the busty underdressed lady in this fantasy. Except its not a fantasy, it's real, and people are dying and you see this man is sad behind those eyes. You see he is lonely but you know he would never look at you the way he looks at her. So you tell him, go get the girl Harrington. Because he deserves to be happy, even in and amongst this shit show. But you can't stop looking at him, and you can't stop yourself from flirting with him because Jesus fuck does he look hot in your vest. And you wonder if he noticed the pink triangle pin on the inside of the lapel, you wonder if he knows what it means. But he doesn't say anything.

Not until a week later, when you survive somehow, and are covered in scars, and the pretty boy comes to visit you in hospital.

"We match." He says, lifting up his shirt.

"Fingers crossed we don't get rabies." You reply.

"You sure you don't already have it?" He says, his hand furling your hair. "You look pretty rabid to me."

You almost lose it, almost forget how to talk, but then he's placing your vest, cleaned and ironed, gently on your lap. And he taps his finger over the front pocket. "You don't have to hide this from me." He says, when he moves his hand you see its the pink triangle pin. "Hide from anyone you want but...just know you dont have to hide from me."

You convince yourself it doesn't mean what you think it means. You tell yourself you are just being delusional. He's just an ally, that's probably what it is. He knows what it means and he's an ally. But you don't really believe that, and maybe it's hope talking but you don't. So you grab an old jacket from the very back of your wardrobe and you make sure it smells okay, maybe add some of your cologne to the collar, and you head over to Harringtons. You hold it in front of you. "A gift." You say. "You can cut off the sleeves too, if you want. Mod it anyway you want. I have some patches if you wanted any, for the inside or outside."

Steve seems delighted. "I've heard acid wash is really in." He say. "I don't know if I'd cut the sleeves but maybe I'll add some patches. What do you have?" and you hold out the patches in your hand. It's an obvious ploy, and Steve knows, his eyebrow quirking and a smirk forming he gives you a look. He picks up the bisexual flag one. "Maybe you can help me sew it on?" He says. And you're in his house, and soon you will be on his couch and then his bed, and while you're there you'll decide to throw out those old mags in your room. You'll have the real thing.

[rosieblogstuff]

Two hours earlier...

Mac drops a few more do-dads onto the cleared-off cement paver and kneels down, swiftly sorting his finds into piles. “How many spare earpieces do you have, Riles?”

“Uh, there should be four,” she says, digging them out. The in-ear short-range comms they use for missions like this one are tiny, but also somewhat fragile, so she always carries a few extras in the pocket of her laptop case. “Seven if you’re counting the ones we’re using.”

Mac considers it, then shakes his head. “Four is plenty. Thanks.”

Jack’s already sitting on another cleared-off paver, one arm resting casually on his knee while he watches Mac disassemble a solar path light and pry out a cone-shaped light reflector. “So what’re we making?”

“Since getting into the building to place bugs is too risky, we’re going to use the glass dome as our ears,” Mac says.

Riley exchanges a look with Jack, who shrugs and takes the bait. “You want to explain that more or are we supposed to guess?”

Mac holds up a partly-constructed-looking-thing that involves one of the in-ear comms pieces, some wires, and the cone-shaped light reflector. “When sound waves hit the glass, they cause small vibrations. The vibrations travel through the glass. The conical shape of these reflectors will amplify the sounds to a single point, making them loud enough for pick-up by our comms pieces from the other side of the glass—like if you’re eavesdropping by pressing a cup against a door. With a few tweaks to the audio processing, we ought to be able to make out most of what’s said inside without needing to ever be there ourselves.”

Riley’s mind immediately goes to the code she’ll need to alter in the software that connects their comms. She’ll need to split the seven devices into two channels, add some extra processing to the four that Mac’s turning into bugs, then feed the reprocessed pick-ups back into their channel so they can hear what’s going on inside the building.

It’s a solid plan. It won’t take her long to do her part, and then they’ll be able to listen in on a planning meeting between representatives of four different terrorist organizations from afar.

The intel is going to be amazing.

“So we have to put those where?” Jack asks, while Riley logs in to her laptop and starts to work. “The ceiling?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Mac confirms. “The glass dome is perfect for collecting sounds from a distance. We’ll place four of these equally spaced near the center of the dome. It’s octagonal, so they should look like part of the pattern and blend in.”

“I think I’ve got the code you need.” Riley turns the screen of her laptop to face Mac while she gives him a run-down. By the time they’re in agreement about the code, he’s finished all four eavesdropping devices.

“We ready?” Jack gets to his feet, stretching his arms and rolling his neck. None of them are wearing vests because they’re not expecting trouble, but he’s got his favorite gun stuffed in a thigh holster. She’s carrying, too, but in a nice little holster on her belt that’s hidden by her jacket. “We’ve got about an hour, maybe two if we’re lucky.”

“We’re ready,” Mac confirms.

Jack eyeballs the glass dome on the building they’re trying to infiltrate. “I don’t want to be a party pooper, but that dome’s like a hundred feet tall and made of nothing but old glass, so what’s your brilliant plan for getting your gizmos placed without falling off of it?”

Mac’s had his back to the dome this whole time and he doesn’t look at it before he answers. “I'm going to climb it and stick them on. There should be hooks up at the top for a safety line, even though it’s an older building.”

“And you’re just going to… not look down at all while you get those things stuck on the glass below you?” Jack shakes his head. “So I guess I’m going up, then.”

Mac shakes his head in return. “No, like you said, the glass is old, and you outweigh me by what, forty pounds? I need you to help haul me up.”

Riley leans down and picks up all four of Mac’s devices. “How about you both help haul me up? I’m the lightest one of us, and I’m not scared of heights.”

Mac frowns. “You’re going to need to test the network from the ground.”

Riley stuffs the roll of duct tape over her wrist like a bracelet and holds her laptop out to Mac. “As long as you can establish the connection with each comm after it’s placed, I can make any other adjustments we need when I’m done.”

“That’s my girl,” Jack says, giving her a solid pat on the shoulder and a smile that makes her feel like he’s one step away from slapping a My Daughter is an Honor Student bumper sticker on the GTO. “Let’s get moving.”

(More on AO3)

[fabricated-misslieness]

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Sett x male reader

ᴀɴᴏɴ: reader works at the pit as a nurse or something like that and he was never noticed by the boss or so he thought. When reader aids Sett for the first time he was so nervous while the boss just finds it cute secretly and when reader aids someone who seems to be a love interest Sett gets jealous and the whole pit notices and nervous about it?

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 3,788

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: injury, description of injury, blood, descriptions of treating injury, swearing, threats, suggested murder attempts

☾⋆☆⋆☽

Being the nurse of a fighting pit wasn’t an easy feat, but you supposed it was easier than having the same job at a Noxian fighting ring. Sett’s pit ran on a schedule, with one or two stages used at a time; Noxus’s sometimes had full on wars or opponents coming in one after the other. The aftermath of those was much worse than treating a single champion running on adrenaline (as for the loser? It depends).

People came in bloodied and bruised either way, though, and it was not a fun job. Being a nurse, you only cared for superficial injuries, although you’d have to keep other more serious ones in check before the closest doctor arrived.

The pay was good, good enough to tolerate the gruesome injuries; and the fights were good too. So were the champions, even if they were egotistical, chances were they’d be too tired or delirious after the match, so all you had to do was offer some barely praising chatter.

Besides, folk like those who take care of them. You had respect and hierarchy in the pit’s ladder. Regardless, you weren’t much of a deal. You weren’t even high enough to receive your pay from the boss himself.

Speaking of…

The door to your humble office (with a view over the arena) bursts open. It startles you, rightfully so. The fight was still ongoing.

Then you catch his eyes.

Sett bends a little to fit through the door frame, a snarl on his lips. “We ought to get a bigger door for this place.”

Flanking him are two assistants, you assume. “Yes, sir.”

The boss towers over you, and while he wasn’t the biggest you’d ever seen or treated, he certainly had an imposing figure and an even more notorious reputation. What was he doing here? You were plenty sure he wasn’t even aware of you, having been hired by someone else.

Shit. Was this about Drozzok? The champion who’d gone missing? Champions, with high winning streaks, made good enough earnings as well as good enough revenge reasons. Chances for him being murdered were higher than him going missing.

You treated him last week, the day prior, and the previous week. It was no secret he was fond of you. You musta been a suspect. Oh, Gods.

“Boss! What’re you doing here?”

Sett settles down on the leather chair in front of your desk. Clearly, he does not fit in it all too well. The both of you are shuffling in your seats, for different reasons. He’s trying to find the most comfortable position in this cramptness; you are, evidently, nervous. He can tell with the fiddling of your fingers atop the desk.

“Murder attempt.” He says nonchalantly. You don’t doubt it, you hear of murder attempts on the boss every other week. 

“Right..” You clear your throat awkwardly.

He shrugs off his vest, revealing a bleeding bandage. It’s barely done the job. “I can’t manage pliers –the tiny things– and this one nearly vomited.” He points offhandedly behind himself with his good shoulder. “So help me, good nurse.”

“Need painkillers?” The boss merely shakes his head. He didn’t seem to be in much pain.

You gather your instruments, nearly tripping over your own feet on the way, or picking up the scalpel instead of the pliers; and noticing Sett’s chuckles along the way. Considering the ‘every other week’ murder attempts and his absense from your office, you don’t think he’s in all that much danger. ‘Side from the reputation of ownin’ the pit, he’s a good fighter himself. You reckon this assassin was a good one too.

“Musta been a hell of a guy to land something on ya.” You remark as you bring your chair next to his.

He shakes his head side to side in a ‘sorta’ motion, “Just caught me off guard, ‘s all.”

Right. The only thing to land a hit on him would be the element of surprise, of course. How could you doubt him? He was the man that paid your salary!

You begin your work on the wound quickly, albeit nervously. One fuck up and you’d lose your job, and perhaps something else along with it. With the area disinfected, you began your job. “I’m pulling it out. Be ready.”

You can see his muscles flex when the cool metal of your pliers meets his skin, though he nods anyway. “Mhm.”

The bullet’s in there, alright. Sett’s just about everything tenses when you dig and prod for it. The whole ordeal lasts about ten seconds, and you know he handled it well with his silent grimace, but you can’t help but to feel off put.

You offer a small mutter of praise, “Well done.”

“Mmh,” He groans then affirms, “mhm.”

Blood wiping, more cleaning, and a bandage later and he’s good to go. For the first time in the doctor’s visit, Sett offers you a smile. A fighting ring boss’s smile is often threatening, but you find that on Sett it is quite nice and warm, odd for a man like himself.

“Thank you.”

He laughs to himself when you tense up and respond, “No problem.”

He turns to leave, towering frame growing smaller in the distance, until you stop him. There was a growing doubt in your stomach. Why would he come to you? 

Surely he had the doctors to attend to him. 

He’d never met you in person. Was this a test?

Or, again you think, was this about Drozzok?

“Boss.”

“Yes?”

“Is this about Drozzok?”

He turns just enough for you to see him raise a brow, “No. Why would it be?”

You gulp back your fear, after all, now you were sure he wasn’t just going to turn around and accuse you of murder. “...it’s nothing, boss.”

The week after that, you find Sett with another injury; or rather, he finds you. His state of calm is the same as the last, so clearly, he’s used to this pain. As for the injury, it’s a long gash along his forearm. Gunshots hurt more than cuts, you think, but with the difference in size, this one’s going to be harder for him to bear through.

“Boss.”

“Nurse, no painkillers.”

He sits down. Without a word, you begin to take care of him. Cleaning salves leave a sting, and Sett grimaces. He swallows down a groan and you can see him do it.

“You need stitches,” You remark after finishing the cleaning. Sett exhales in a way that shows disappointment, to a degree. “and you’re gonna need painkillers.”

“Nuh-uh.” He disagrees. 

He gives you a stare. You stare back, knowing he’s strong enough to handle it, but also knowing that pain is non-negotiable. He’s determined, though; and with him being your boss and all, you’ve not got the courage to disagree with him.

Fuck. You grit your teeth, pull back your screaming conscience, and nod. “If that’s what you want…”

Sett doesn’t miss the emotion you have behind your words. He knows you think he’s an idiot. You know that too. But what is he, if not an idiot? 

Needle and thread, you stitch him up. First, he clamps his teeth down on his bottom lip to keep himself silent. When that fails, and sharp fangs tear bloody holes through supple skin, he grits his teeth. Silence he wants, and silent he stays. What is this, if not an idiot thing? A show of power, of course, and a foolish one at that.

He was a fool, and quickly, he was becoming a fool for you.

Sett watches your red-smeared fingers as you finish up, and he watches as you clean up your supplies. He watches as he rests against the leather chair as best he can, until he can’t anymore. The cheers within the arena grow louder, and with them, his anxiety grows. Today’s champion’ll be here soon. He can’t be seen like this.

“What’s your name, nurse?”

You turn to him only slightly, curiously, before turning back to your tools. “(y/n), boss.”

“(y/n), it’s Sett. Call me that.”

You repeat, for a second time, “If that’s what you want.” But he feels a second emotion through your words, this time; and the second time 'round, he doesn’t recognize the emotion.

“Good.”

Sett visits the week after the second time, and another time after that. Without a lull, his visits become a weekly occurrence, as do attempts on his life. Many of them are kept under the wraps, the same way the assassins’ bodies are after underestimating the boss himself; which explains the rumors being a twice a month occurrence. 

He often comes in for shallowish cuts, deep slashes into his arms other times, or bone-weakening punches. Both cuts and punches are things you’re sure he’s capable of taking care of himself, if not then his assistants. They require rest, mostly, energy or strength boosting remedies some other times. If his assistants are good, they’ll carry some around. Still, he comes in for these injuries.

Visits are not the only thing that raises. Your pay does, too, with no explanation so much as offered by your supervisor, the person who delivers your pay. 

And then Drozzok shows up.

“Doc, hey!” 

You’d seen him down at the fighting pit, and you were shocked then, but you were shocked now, still.

“Drozzok, hey! It’s good to see you again. Thought you mighta died.” You offer him a hand. He doesn’t just take it, instead, he uses it as leverage to pull you into him for a hug. If he wasn’t a good friend, you would’ve pushed him away. The man was sweating hard from the fight, and he was also rather bloody. Whose blood was whose, you didn’t quite know. 

“It takes a lot more to kill me than an assassin. Same guy from the pit the week before that I beat, except he had a knife with him. Dirty o’ him, for sure, and even messier was his death.” He sighs, “If I had the choice I woulda stayed with you, but I had to take the nearest doctor.” 

“That’s good for me, actually, Drozzok.” You speak as you watch him for injuries, “I’m no doctor…Anything serious like internal bleeding and you would’ve died in my hands.”

“Oh, you’re a doctor in my eyes! (y/n), you’re the only proactive healer here. Are ya kiddin’ me?” He exclaims with a grand gesture of his arms, which hurts him, you’re sure with his grimace, but he continues, “You’ve got twice as much vigor as other doctors!”

“Ah, well, I’m flattered.” You offer him a final smile as you finish scanning him for superficial injuries. “Please, sit down.”

Despite feeling restless, he obliges. His legs bounce up and down periodically, and you’re not sure if it’s the adrenaline from his fight or his ecstasy at seeing you again.

Drozzok likes to barrage his opponent with punches. It usually means that the fight is over quick because he stuns them far too much, far too quick. You could call it “No personal bubbles”. All he seems to need is a stamina drink and a little something to keep wider cuts closed.

He keeps bouncing in place, and you chuckle, “Settle down, Drozzok.”

He tries his best each time you touch his skin, then resumes when you stop to grab more equipment. It’s cute, really; if not, then only least bit disturbing to your work.

“Doc.”

“Hm?”

“So, I was wondering… now that I’m back and all, and I don’t feel the impending anxiety of perhaps not ever being able to see you again…” He trails off. You expect it to only be a pause, but it turns out quite the opposite.

“Yes?”

He clears his throat. You can see sweat drops on his forehead. “Like I said, I was wondering-”

The door opens, and Sett and his familiar assistants come into view. 

“Hello!” They’ve gotten quite friendly with you, especially the queasy one. They give you a thumbs up from behind Sett’s back, and you know why they can barely spare a glance at their boss. While they’re visibly unscathed, in comparison to their boss…

“Gods, Sett!”

He acts as he always does, calm, yet you can see he’s perturbed. His lips form a deep scowl. There’s a deep gash on the side of his body, and another along his pecs. His knuckles are red and bleeding.

He only grunts in response, but he seems to actually find words when his eyes land on Drozzok. His scowl somehow deepens even more. “Who’s this?”

“I’m Drozzok, boss.”

“The returned champion? Alright.” He stops and watches. You know what he means when he stares the champion down, though it seems like he does not. “Just because you’re a champion, Drozzok, doesn’t mean you can take my seat. You understand?”

The champion moves swiftly, muttering his apologies. You wonder if that’s what you behaved like when Sett began his visits, though not for long.

You begin your work just as quick, offering Sett the drink that was meant for Drozzok. He takes it with a quick and faint “thank you”. To walk all the way over here from wherever this was… you’re not sure how he hasn’t fainted yet. However, due to his muttering, you’re fairly sure he’s close to slipping from consciousness.

Drozzok watches. He watches as you clean the blood from his gashes, and the wound from his knuckles, and he feels different. He feels that you are different.

He watches and notes your tenderness.

“Drozzok.” You snap your fingers and it snaps him out of his rude stare. “Get gauze, needle and thread… and paink-”

“No.” Sett disagrees.

“Sett-”

He persists. He sits up to show his authority, and persists, still, through the hiss of pain. “I said, no.”

“And I, as the nurse, know what it is that you need.” Accidentally, you wrap the bandages around his knuckles tighter than needed. He winces, and you feel sorry for only a second, because this is getting your point across in a way he can’t ignore. “So, big guy, I say yes.” 

Sett rolls his eyes, shifts in place, grunts even; but protest as he might through gesture, you don’t hear anything verbal. You take it as a gesture to go on.

You would scold him like the manchild he is if you had the guts.

Once the little commotion is over, Drozzok arrives with all that you’ve asked of him, including the painkillers. Sett gives you a look as you hand them over, and you give him one too. He has no doubt in your authority in this, even as he protests so. He takes them with no further objection.

They only take a few minutes to take effect, and when they do, he visibly eases up and rests back against the chair. 

“That’s better, isn’t it?”

He rolls his eyes in response.

Drozzok purses his lips and continues to watch. You’ve got chemistry, he can tell. Was he too late? Taking advantage of the fact the procedure is going smoothly, he speaks with you, unbothered by the pit’s boss you treat.

“So, as I was saying… Do you want to go out with me anytime soon?”

Sett visibly raises a brow, and Drozzok ignores him. Whether on purpose or tunnel vision, you don’t quite know. 

You pause in your movements. You knew this day would come, and you’ve been thinking about it for the longest time. Despite this, you’d never been able to come up with what to say; and on the spot, you wouldn’t be able to either.

“Fuck.” Sett breathes out.

You stare down at your needle and thread looking for any mistake you’d made, only to realize you hadn’t made one. Sett saved you from the situation.

“Drozzok.” He says, eyebrows furrowed and fangs damn near breaking the skin of his lip, “I see you, and I think, what a strong young man. A champion, for sure. Now, I’m sure my hunch is right, is it not?”

The champion nods slowly, as if trying to decipher what the boss truly means. It’s quite clear, you think, but perhaps not to him. 

“That’s good! So, with that strength of yours, you should be able to handle these injuries.”

He nods again, even slower, and moves to leave. Then, as he finally reaches the doorway, he turns only slightly to say, “How about that offer, (y/n)?”

Sett interrupts, “Alone, Drozzok.”

With that ending statement, Drozzok takes the hint. He gulps visibly, “Yes, Sett.”

���That’s boss for you.”

Only when Drozzok leaves, shame and embarrassment spread throughout his body that even you can see, do you speak again. “What was that for, Sett?”

“What was what for?” He plays it cool, though he knows you see through him.

“Making ‘the champion’ leave.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You laugh at that, and Sett raises a brow. “Well, if you have no idea, then I have nothing to thank you for. Except, I do thank you, for doing that. Even if it was ‘nothing’.” 

“Your stitching job was just messy, which I thought was odd. So I thought you were getting distracted. That’s all.” He ends with a smirk that you can just barely notice, but it’s there, and you’re sure of it.

“If you say so…”

Sett’s jealousy of Drozzok and your relationship continues to grow, and the pit’s workers take notice. While he knew you didn’t reciprocate Drozzok's feelings, he was quite jealous of the champion's ability to be so straightforward. Sett was a frank man, too, but when it came to you, the courage in his chest dissipated within a matter of seconds. Besides, you and the champion have known each other for longer, as well.

Sometimes he thought Drozzok had higher chances, sometimes he disagreed with that statement completely.

He’d come up with various reasons to keep Drozzok away from you. And, when he didn’t have any, he still had the authority to keep him away. 

For one, the champion was not scheduled for fights at all, so he had no reason to visit your office.

Nor was he allowed to visit you without a reason. The boss had made it so that only people in need could visit your office (apparently Sett himself could avoid this rule). Such ‘people in need’ weren’t an abundant bunch, so the office was slightly empty, not that it wasn’t before.

These new rules, that all seemed clearly related to you, confused many people in the pit. The boss’s crush on you was now well known around the pit, not that Sett seemed to show much care.

"So, what was it this time?"

"Hmf," Sett grumbles, "crazy gal wielding chains as a weapon, except she's got thorns protruding out of each link."

"Say, how big were these thorns?"

"Tiny, but sharp."

"Ah," Your theory lines up with reality, it seems. "thought so."

His wounds are cuts, several of them littered around his arms. A lot of them seem like tiny paper cuts. Your only concern is the bigger ones, the rest can only offer slight burns every time they rub up against something, so it's a good thing Sett doesn't wear a shirt.

"Oh, how so?" He chuckles at a wild idea in his mind, "I thought maybe it'd look like I got attacked by a wild swarm of enraged Bahrl Jays."

You laugh, "Aha, well, the mighty underground fighting pit boss, Sett, would not allow himself to be harmed by such feeble avians."

"Oh?" He inquires at the praise.

"What is it, boss? Am I wrong?"

"No, I think, perhaps you are right. But I'll have you know, Bahru Jay's are a fierce bunch." He laughs, "I wouldn't put it past them to do such a thing; well, except to me, of course."

"Right, yes, because the weaker fauna can still sense you are a powerful man!"

"Now yer thinking." 

"Hm." You hum to yourself, padding at the cut along his eyebrow with a cloth. "I'm afraid we need an intermission."

"You and fancy words… What? Are you afraid of–" Sett hisses, and his eyes instinctively shut, when the cleaning salve soaked towel meets a cut.

"That's why we needed it."

Yeah, he agrees now.

The door bursts open when you finish applying a healing salve, and in comes the fated man, Drozzok. You could only avoid him for so long, and Sett couldn't keep him away forever.

"Drozzok." You greet with as much cheer as you can muster, pretending to keep your focus entirely on the final cut on Sett's face.

"(y/n), hey." He greets, breathlessly. He doesn't expect the boss's presence, nor does he fail to notice it completely, but he ignores him instead. "So, that offer? It still stands."

"Not right now, Drozzok." The sting is much longer because you prolong the cleaning of the cut, waiting for the fighter to leave, but Sett tolerates it for your sake. "I'm busy."

"Yes, yes, of course." Drozzok gulps, his gaze finally landing on the boss's glaring eyes for more than a second. "I can see that, it's just that I've been waiting for an answer, and-"

"Drozzok?" Sett interrupts.

"..yes, boss?"

"He's busy. I'm on a tight schedule, and so is he. Even on a chair being treated to, one eye closed, I can see you're not in 'need' of medical assistance." He clears his throat, "And I'm afraid he is not responsible for emotional help. If you, dear champion, disregard my rules once more… just know I brought you to this pit, and I have the power to undo that decision."

The boss fixes the champion with an even more indignant glare and says, "Understand?"

"Yes, boss."

When he leaves, you speak up. "You'll admit to it now, won't you?"

Sett grumbles something negative under his breath, but he agrees. "Yeah."

"Thanks."

He doesn't find much assurance in the small phrase. "You don't like that guy, do you?"

You chuckle, not noticing his serious expression, "I wouldn't have thanked you if I did."

"(y/n), I'm serious."

You catch on, now. "Yes, yeah, I don't like him, not that way."

Sett audibly breathes a sigh of relief, somewhat forgetting that you're there to hear it. He'll be remembering soon, though.

"Not the way I do you."

"Oh." The boss brings a fist to his mouth, and clears his throat. Red frames the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and it coats him in a warmth he thinks he'll never forget. "That… is a revelation for sure."

"The indignant boss, survivor of multiple attempts on his life a month, the man himself, flustered?" 

"Oh, shut it."

☾⋆☆⋆☽

ᴍᴀʏʙ'ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: perhaps got a little carried away. anyway, format for when i have no pictures?

[neonthewrite]

Grey Landing (part 4)

The prompt today is "Pocket". It will continue right after the end of the previous part (link). Isaac is getting a little more exasperated on top of his Concern about everything going on here.

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3)

(Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10)

~~~

The pair of giants argued back and forth for several minutes, the older giant gesturing at Isaac a lot and then at the island receding behind the boat. When he made a grand gesture at the ocean around them, he paused, giving the younger giant an expectant look. Isaac, caught around the middle by two giant hands, couldn’t help but turn to see what his captor would say in response.

He couldn’t even understand their words, but the emphatic drama in their voices conveyed plenty. 

The giant holding him glanced down at him, then back up at the other giant. He muttered something in reply, something sheepish and unsure. Then, to a choked gasp from Isaac, he shifted his grip so he only held him in one giant hand, which he then gestured at with his newly freed hand. Isaac grimaced as he tilted slightly off kilter in that iron grip while his apparent keeper said something else.

The older giant scoffed, then said something else dismissive. He waved a hand at the fishing poles the pair of them had laid lengthwise across their seats, and Isaac practically heard the Get to work in his next demand.

Since fishing poles took two hands, Isaac was quite invested in what that meant for him. His chest ached from being held so tightly in a hand.

His giant glanced down at himself, and Isaac followed his gaze. His vest was made of sturdy canvas, with two pockets on the front. They weren’t especially deep pockets, at least for a giant vest. Isaac frowned dubiously while the giant contemplated.

“Don’t you go gettin’ ideas, pal,” he warned, despite it being less than no good. “Just how much trouble d’you think I need ta be kept out of?”

The giant looked at him again, bemused. Of course he hadn’t made a lick of sense to the man, but he hoped his tone came across as well as theirs did. At the very least, his protest had come right after the giant considered his damn pockets as a place to keep Isaac out of the way of their fishing.

After a pause, the other giant scoffed again and grabbed one of the fishing poles. It was a call to action, really, and Isaac felt the flinch as his keeper jolted to attention. Then, he gasped as the world bottomed out; the giant lowered him to the sole of the boat, releasing him a couple feet above the wood.

Isaac fell to a seat with a huff of air, and then scrambled back as he realized he’d been dropped right next to a giant boot. The perspective of sitting on the floor next to a giant’s seat hit him all over again, and the rocking of the boat only aided the strange vertigo. The giant had already grabbed his own fishing pole, but as he prepared the line Isaac caught several glances coming his way.

“Alright, a did ask fer this,” he muttered to himself. He scooted backwards until his back pressed against the hull, beyond which he heard massive waves sloshing benignly against the sturdy sailboat.

Fishing trips could take some time. It would be a while before he made it back to shore and figured out what he ought to do next.