#'what if its a blood clot and my leg is going to fall off in my sleep? or what if the clot travels to my lungs and i die in my sleep?'

[dragons-and-yellow-roses]

Just flexed my leg wrong and got a cramp so bad I feel like I'm dying

[elliebyrrdwrites]

Officially, Drabble #27

This is more like it. Currently editing chapter 3 on ao3, but I'm keeping to my promise of continuing to pose all of the little bits and pieces on here first.

The new bed takes up more than half of her bedroom. It’s monstrous. It’s soft and firm. It’s perfect.

The thought is a grumble in her mind because he disappeared and now she’s mad at him. But mostly, she’s worried.

She falls asleep to the sound of her own breaths, sprawled across the oversized bed, waiting for him to arrive. And when he does, she feels it. The little wiggle inside of her chest wakes her up, warmth blooming in her chest at his nearness.

She opens her eyes to find him crawling over her but he’s sweaty and dirty and she thinks he might be hurt. The room is dark, she can barely make out the way his damp hair clings to his forehead. The dark line splitting his lower lip in two.

He nuzzles her chin as he works his way up her body, his breath tickles her neck. His arms haul her body against his, his knees settling between her legs.

“Malfoy.” she croaks into the dark space between them. There’s minimal light coming through the small, single window of her bedroom.

“Love,” He croons into her neck, his lips brushing against her. He smells like salt and sweat and something else. “You look like an angel when you sleep, you know that?”

“Where have you been?” She whispers, pulling at his shoulders, trying to lift him up so that she can look at his face properly. “You had me worried sick!”

“I needed to blow off some steam.” He looks up at her through the frayed blonde hair that glimmers with the moonlight seeping in. It’s like his hair is the only thing that attracts its light, sucking it in, illuminating him just enough for her to see that his lip is freshly scabbed over again, like it had reopened and bled and coagulated once more.

“You’re all sweaty.”

He smirked. “I’d like to get more sweaty.” He lowered his mouth to her chest and nipped at the plump flesh of her breast. She’s dressed in a tank top and a pair of sweatpants. She bites back a moan of pleasure and shoves at his shoulders.

“Draco. Where did you go?” Hermione flicked her wrist toward the light switch. Light filled the room, and she winced against the glare.

He sighed and pulled back, lifting himself to his knees, squinting down at her. There was blood on the collar of his shirt and on the shoulder.

Hermione sat up and got to her knees to examine him close up. “What happened to you?” She touched the tips of her fingers, gingerly, to his lip. The blood had clotted but not completely dried. “Are you hurt?” Her eyes began to scan his face, his body, her hands running over his chest.

He stared down at her and shook his head. His hands captured hers and pressed them against his heart. “No, love. I’m fine.” He tilted his head, and his eyes were full of something deep and dark and sad. “The other wizard will need some stitches, but I’m fine.”

“What do you mean, the other wizard!?” She pulled against his hold. He let her go so that she could slam her hands into his shoulders, shoving him back. He chuckled. “Where were you!”

“I told you, I went to blow off some steam.” He said it in a tone that was meant to be soothing, but all she saw was his bloody lip and his sweaty skin.

“You got in a fight.” He nodded and reached for her hand again. She leaned away from him. “On purpose.”

“Of course.” He scoffed. “Don’t worry, I won.” He shook his head. “I always win, even when I don’t.”

He caught her hand and she blinked at him, trying to figure out what he meant by that. But she couldn’t think. He was lifting her hand to his mouth and kissing it with his broken mouth and she spent all night worrying about him, angry and disgruntled because he wasn’t here when she got home and he should have been her. She needed him nearby and he went and risked his life instead.

Her other hand clawed at his, pulling it off of her. “How dare you!” She was seething and she felt like hitting him. Instead, she scrambled off of the massive bed to glare at him from afar. “You could have been hurt! I thought you were hurt!”

He’s staring at her still with that dark and sad look of his.

“You disappeared and someone wants you dead and I didn’t know how to find you!” Her chin was trembling, her eyes were burning. She was irrationally mad. She was rightfully mad.

Draco sighed and looked over at the window. It was so tiny, so dark outside, his reflection looked back at them. “I want to get you out of here.” He doesn’t acknowledge her complaints, her worries. “I want to get you out of this shithole place and I never want to be inside of another room where you have fucked him.”

She growls and goes to the little bathroom connected to her bedroom. He doesn't hesitate to follow her.

“Here.” She says, splaying her arms as wide as she can in the tiny space. A toilet, a shower and a sink. She barely fits. He doesn’t fit, but he steps in anyway, his shoulders hunched over as he tilts his head to eye her.

There’s dirt smeared all over his shirt. She can see it in the reflection of the mirror over the sink.

“He never fucked me in here. Happy?”

He scowls at her. “Delighted!”

“You can’t erase my past, Draco. I’m sorry that it makes you uncomfortable, but I cant change it and I wont.”

“You never belonged with him.” He says it quietly, his eyes hard as they meet hers.

She sighs and closes her eyes. “I’m not with him anymore.” She opens her eyes. “I’d like to be with you. I need to be with you.” She grips onto his shirt and pleads with her eyes. “I want you around. All the time.”

“Now you do.” His eyes sweep over her, his tongue mindlessly jabs at the cut on his lip. “But for years, you chose him.”

He's looking for a way out.

She lets go of his shirt. “Are you backing out?” She closes her eyes.

Eventually, she thinks, everyone breaks your heart. Keep someone around long enough, and they’ll destroy you. If not with their words, or their actions, then with death.

She had the thought once before, when she was a just a girl. When she was being called awful words and the boy she liked was making out with another girl in front of her. In front of everyone.

Draco’s hand splay over her cheeks and his back curves out as he lowers his face to hers. “No,” he sounds desperate. “No, no no.”

She opens her eyes to find his frantic and pleading. “No, gods, no. Don’t you get it? I would have died for you. There is no backing out for me. There is no changing my mind. I’m yours!” He was guiding her backwards. Her back hit the cool tiles of the shower wall. “You have me.”

And you have me, she thinks. But her eyes are blinking at him, disbelieving. Why was he so upset with her?

“There is no turning back for me.” His breath smells like bitter ale. The kind that looks like liquid chocolate. “I’m just,” He sighs and closes his eyes. He leans forward and presses his forehead to hers. She can feel his mind reeling. There’s thoughts fluttering in and out between them.

But they move too fast for her to navigate. Like an angry bee you swat. Each through buzzes back and forth, he’s all over the place.

“Draco,” She sighs his name into his mouth.

“Hermione,” He says her name. It’s so rare when he does that she knows he’s about to say something serious. “I want you to marry me.”

She almost laughs. She starts to laugh but it gets stuck in her throat and lodged there as her eyes open wide.

He pulls back enough to show her how serious he is.

“You’re not serious.” She says but he is. He’s dead serious. She can feel it in the air, the sharp edged energy. He’s so erratic. “Are you crazy?”

“Yes,” He licks his lips. “I was bred to be crazy but,” He shoves her messy curls behind her ears. “I’m only crazy for you, love.” He kisses her quick, she tastes his drying blood. It tases like iron.

It reminds her of when she was little. Before her parents had any success with their practice, they struggled and she was often hungry. When she would go outside and play, shed dig in the dirt until she found the cool damp bit. And she would eat it. She enjoyed the way it tasted. Like metal and earth and later, she found out that it was because she was lacking some sort of mineral. Her body was acting on instinct, survival.

Draco’s blood reminds her of that taste. That survival instinct. She chases his mouth, unable to stop her self.

He lets her kiss him but then hes whispering the words against her mouth. “Marry me. Let me take care of you.”

“You’re crazy.” She murmured, shaking her head. But she wasn’t saying no. She wasn’t saying yes, but more importantly, she wasn’t saying No. Draco seemed to realize that too, because he was starting to smile at her with triumph. He was starting to remove her clothing, and she was kissing him.

She was hungry, so hungry for the taste of him. Even with all the sweat and blood and grime. He tasted good. He tasted like hers.

“Move in with me, marry me.” He was saying, hungrily balling up her shirt and tossing it to the floor outside of the shower. His hands moved to her sweats. “I’ll make you happy.”

“You already make me happy.” She protested as he dropped to his knees, her sweats falling to her ankles. She let him lift one foot at a time, freeing her from the material.

“I’ll buy you everything you ever wanted.”

“I just want you.” She stared down at him as he kissed her belly. His eyes swept up her body. They paused on the puckered little patch of skin in the middle of her chest. It was where the curse hit her. When Dolohov had attacked her in 1996.

Nobody understood what the curse as. But it slowed her heart rate, It bruised her ribs and her sternum.

Now she was a horcrux for the man she had been slowly falling in love with for the past two years.

Draco kissed her bare belly again and she was pulled out of the memory of it all. Pulled out of her thoughts and her busy little mind. And his fingers were trailing up her thighs, headed for the heated space between them.

“Tell me yes, love.”

She didn’t. But still, she didn’t say no. She said nothing as his fingers dipped into her, running gently through the folds.

“How can something be this soft and warm? It’s like silk.” He murmured, his lips moving down her stomach, over the mound of her pelvic bone. “So soft.” He hissd her there, just on the hump that gave way to her clit and his fingers running through her.

He kisses her clit, next and her hips instinctively buck forward, eager and needy. His finger dips into her fully and he hisses through his teeth. “Liquid silk,” He says more to himself. “I want to live here forever.” He says to her cunt. He kisses it, softly. “Let me live here forever, in here.” His hand and his shoulder push her legs open. “I’ll quit my job and spend every day nestled here between your legs. If you let me.” He runs his tongue over her center and she sighs.

Her head hits the wall of the shower and her hands start to comb back his dirty hair. “You need a shower.” She whispers and moans as his mouth begins to suck and lick and pleasure her like only he can. He was right the first time. He eats cunt like a dream. He kisses like a dream. Everything he does, is a dream. Even all of his crazy antics have never left her feeling like she wasn’t drifting somewhat through a dream.

He grunts against her, his mouth dug into her and his tongue lapping and stabbing into her. He’s doing it again. He’s turning her brain into mush. He’s going to convince her to marry him with his tongue. His hands, his cock.

When she comes on his tongue, he’s all smiles and confidence before he’s scooping her up and carrying her lip, lifeless body into her room. He climbs over her when he sets her down on the bed. She wants to remind him that Ron fucked her in this room but she doesn't want him to stop. She wants to feel the weight of his body over hers, She wants to feel the way he fucks her like he has never needed anything more than her.

She loves him. She doesn’t tell him, but she loves him and one day, she thinks she will marry him.

But not now, not yet. There were things they needed to take care of first. Like find out who is trying to kill him.

She was going to find out who was trying to kill Draco and she was going to find a way to make them suffer.

When he finally came inside of her, they lay tangled together, limbs feet. Her hair was sprawled over his chest, his chest rising and falling with her ear against his heart.

He was quiet, no longer begging her to marry him. Though, she knew he wasn’t going to drop the subject completely. She was exhausted and her eyes began to flutter shut, accepting that she would face that challenge in the morning.

Her mind began to shut down, her body liquid and languid and heavy. She fell asleep to the sound of his kisses and his whispers.

“Yet if hope has flown away,” He whispered into her hair. “In a night, or in a day, in a vision, or in none,” He kissed her head. “Is it therefore the less gone?”

Hermione dreamed of nothing at all.

[josiebelladonna]

some things people who’ve lost a crap-ton of weight, and i don’t mean 20-30 pounds, we’re talking upwards of 50 pounds (in my case, it’s now fucking 80 pounds) don’t seem to talk about:

my god, do you learn about your body. i always thought i could naturally carry a lot of weight, like i felt good at 250, but i can apparently drop weight like it’s no one’s business and i don’t look “too big” for my frame.

and my god, do you learn about your mind. you think a lot more clearly, for starters. i used to get mood swings when i was approaching 270: i stopped having them almost immediately after i started losing. you also find a new particularly morbid love of body horror.

hooooooly shit, do you learn about your family. never mind the fact that my parents both have health issues now (my dad’s diabetes and past drug addiction, and my mom’s blood clots, weight issues, leg issues, and actually had a tumor in one of her breasts when i was like 2?), i have generational trauma that apparently has roots in the soviet union, ww2, the civil war era, the religious wars in ireland, and the liberal wars in portugal, and i feel it all in my bones. it’s going to sound weird but when you shed a lot of weight, you see that trauma come out to play in ways that you don’t want it to, like… family treating you differently. family not knowing how to treat you now. because of its vastness, you can’t help but look at yourself and feel as though you just broke a curse of some kind. you’ll never have kids because a.) you don’t want to pass that on more than it already has; and b.) you’re too selfish, in your 30s, practically broke, can’t land a date, eating disorder did *something* to you, and you’re watching the world fall apart around you so it’s out of the question anyway, but you broke through nearly three centuries worth of bullshit, champ.

fatphobia is real. and when you get fat to laugh in the face of anorexia, you start seeing fatphobia for what it is. and you get thin with that in mind. you know what it’s like to have this big belly on you and to have a double chin. you know all the caveats of being fat, too—in my case, you know the eroticism of being fat.

the “phantom limb” feeling. i started noticing this when i hit the 40 pound threshold: subconsciously, you still think you’re that heavy. i let my belly relax and notice that it’s not hanging out nearly as much. i just did 20 minutes on the rowing machine—when three months before, i could barely do 5 minutes. i’m not getting edema in my feet anymore, and in fact, my feet are slender now. i can feel my hipbones. i can feel my ribs. i can feel my collar bones… holy shit, my jeans are falling off.

you’re cold. i’ve found myself wearing a hat more on cold days. a hat with gloves and my sweater because i’m freezing most of the time. it’s a jarring difference from being fat where i was often too warm.

you don’t use the bathroom as much. i remember taking a shit multiple times during the day at my heaviest. i would have these weird pains in my stomach like i had to fart (and i did, often) but they would just happen. i do piss a lot, though��most of that is from the fact that i drink a ton of water but apparently a big way you break down body fat finds its way into your kidneys and your bladder. i don’t bleed as heavily anymore on my periods (could be because i’m getting older, too).

there’s this overhanging feeling that you can very easily go into “lost too much” territory. in fact, this is my biggest concern (carrie fisher suffered a heart attack after she had lost a bunch of weight, after all). and in fact, there’s evidence to back me up on this, in that it’s better to be a little chubby/on the side of “overweight” than the “normal” section, notwithstanding the fact that bmi is a bunch of eugenicist bullshit. now you know why i actually don’t want to lose my belly all the way because it could probably be the only thing separating me from something awful.

loose skin. i actually don’t have much (if you can believe it, 80 pounds down) but i got it on my belly for the most part. my stretch marks are still there, these pale ghosts around the bottom of my waist. this weird indentation on my hip where i had a pretty stout love handle going. my skin there is unreal levels of soft now.

and lastly, everything tastes better?? obesity will, among other things, nuke your tastebuds so when you start dropping a lot of weight, you start craving healthier food and also more flavorful food. for example: never in my wildest dreams did i think i would love things like onions especially shallots and green onions, bell peppers, mushrooms, and a dash of chili flakes, but here we freaking are. god almighty, i love anything and everything aromatic. i season everything. i got two words for all of you and that’s “flavor bomb”. and i enjoy all the baked goods, as i think everyone on a weight loss journey should.

[annunnaki7]

ARE DISSABLED PEOPLE LAZY? COULD REALLY DO BETTER IF THEY TRIED HARDER? This is an example of an average bad week, like 6/10 bad on mental health and 5/10 on the physical level. Oh yea it gets so much worst! Read this and tell me how I could have improved.  

MAY 2023 

Sat 29.04.23 

-Asthma bad all night. I coughed myself awake so often I didn't get any deep sleep. 

-Fibromyalgia not happy about this, and is flaring up on its way to STOPPING FLARING up instead! 🤬 Joy! So now going to pee has extra general pain added to it. 

- Allergies & Sinus bad. My nose runs non stop. Used 1/2 roll of toilet paper blowing my nose just today. And no, I don't like waisting things. Throwing meds at it. 

-Managed to work with my carer, sorting paperwork. I can't help with much else anymore. I don't have the hand strength to cut a carrot. That's annoying as taking away from my autonomy. 

Sun 30.04.23

- Allergies & Sinus still bad with non stop daily headaches, with migraine sometimes.

-Fibromyralgia flare. Pain feels like I feel down badement cement stairs or  when I had major surgery on day 3 with 5 days hospital stay. I'm in too much pain to eat. Exhaustion worst than Covid & Pneumonia! 

-Asthma bad. I have to rest for 1 minute every 10-15 meters I walk. Going to the loo takes 5 breaks.

- Urinary incontinence dissability related not happy about so many breaks to get TO the loo. I need buy more trousers! (I used 3 in one day twice this week)

- I'm in so much exhaustion & pain I can't even face watching TV. Strong painkillers increased. I'm not happy. I was hoping to decrease them this week! 

Mon 01.05.23 

-Migraine. 

-Sinus inflamed for past 4 weeks. Related to but not only cause of migraine. I'm a migraine sufferer.

-Fibromyalgia medium flare. Hands hurt as well as eveywere else. A plate is heavy to lift. I can't stab potatoes to zap them in microwave by myself. 

-Hayfever slightly improving.

-If I didn't have a carer coming to help me with a wash, I don't know how I would cope.She helped more today. She's so nice. People don't appreciate them enough.

-Concerned how I'll make hospital appointment of Thursday. And got builders in tomorrow. 

Tuesday 02.05.23

-Migraine at night. 

-All body pain bad. Been worst before though. 

-Builders poped in to say they'll be back tomorrow. And no neither owner nor estate agents told them about all the work needing doing. 

- This is in fact my comparativly, the "best day" to date. I can't sit in a chair re pain. And I have a high pain threshold. Had major surgery and got up by myself the next day when everyone else did on the 3rd day with help. Nurses said it was shocking to see me trot - carefully -  about.

- Hospital appointment of tomorrow changed for latter on. It's not a vital one. 

-District Nurse popped in to assess if I need to worry re swealing in legs. I'll have to go to the specialist clinic after all. 

-Blood Pressure still high & Pulse going nuts. Say hi to all types of allergies as a possible cause! I take the strongest anti histamin, plus 6 over the counter allergy tablets daily. Yep, the specialist doctors advised that. It stop skin for literally falling off and other horror stories! 

Wed 03.05.23 

-Vomited blood all night (5hrs of hurling on off) from ulcer, blood clots included! Yuck! 3rd time in 1 month.

-Day Migraine following as haven't been able to drink much 

-Im past normal exhausted as part of Fibromyalgia. It feels like I did a 14hr shift and haven't slep the next 2 nights. (Yes, I've done that in the past. Joy of nursing & midwifery whilst having dissabilities)

- Spoke to GP, meds increased. I don't want another endoscopy. Don't see what else it will tell us. It's costly to the NHS, I'm going to be in so much pain for at least 2 weeks after due to dissability, not the test. Urinary incontinence will be a pain. I'm not even for resuscitation (DNR) anyways. 

-Not hungry. Disordered eating means it will kick in if I can't eat at all today. Gods even cake don't sound appealing!

- Builders back. Same thing, back tomorrow instead. But now they got the list of job. 

-District Nurse decided I need compression stockings! My severe eczema might not like the extra heat in summer! & Scratchy material.

-Migraine afternoon - nightime.

-Did eat eventually. Yea me! 

Thursday 04.05.23

-Food helped with migraine & dissorted eating. 

- Pain and extreme exhaustion same. I can't hold a plate of food.

- Severe anxiety started in afternoon after flat owner demanding I get the garden clean that night. Message was passed to me by builder at around 4.40pm. to be done by tomorrow morning. Oh yea, I'm dissabled with poor balance, walks some 15-20 meter with 2 stick, uses wheelchair otherwise. And it would get dark even if I miraculously find someone for, ... work that's not urgent! And oh yes, there's no place to eat at the kitchen table due to building work. Like that's not a priority after builders leave rather than garden. Also. Thunder and rain so bad, I though thunder had struck nearby. 

-Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (C-PTSD) few times last night (originates from past child abuse) but attacks due to the way the flat owner and estates agent treats me.

Friday 05.05.23

-Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS) exacerbated since around 2am started with the stress.

- Headaches back

- Severe anxiety rising progressively

- C-PTSD flash back early morning. Good thing I know how to manage it.

- I ate with carer, yea! Well she made me eat. 

Saturday 06.05.23

-Anxiety still high

-C-PTSD same high during day, not typical of abuse. Definitely flat owner & Estates Agent related.

Sunday 07.05.23

- Actively managing the mental health side of things. 

- Bad Heaches day time 

- Friend brought me yummy KFC. Could only eat a tiny bit. Oh great, that's Dissordered Eating not happy with all the stress!

- Migrainy headach lasted 2-3 hrs. Resolved with management.

-Asthma attack in evening for over 2hrs. Was so rough couldn't do lung capacity measurement until finally calmed down. 

- I won't be able to finish my KFC now. I'm pissed off. I'm so tired of juggling several deseases. It wouldn't be so bad of people acted like human being. 

So. Do you still think I'm leisurely lying around having a relaxing time as a dissabled person?

Did you realise that it takes managing one thing after another everyday? 

So everyone can do better of they "really wanted"? I really wanted to not loose my mortgage and dog. It's my dog I missed the most, not even one of my things. From a Midwife I became homeless. From working 16hrs or work followed by Union Rep work (IE talking to staff, not official meetings before you quote the law) I'm now not able to eat independently at times, or wash alone now. I'm still acting?  Have a good, lazy life? You want to swap? 

[erinaceina]

Whumptober day 11: sloppy bandages

Post-canon a night hunt goes wrong for Lan Xichen.

Cw: blood, injury.

I wrote this in the notes app on my phone with minimal internet access so I’m sorry for any mistakes etc.

The cave was dank, what little light filtered in through chinks and cracks grey and cheerless, and the air so foetid with the stench of death that Lan Xichen was surprised to find that he was not actually dead himself.

A cautious stretch of aching muscles suggested that he still lay slumped against a pillar of stone slick with icy water. His temples sang with the impact of the yaoguai’s last blow, guan listing askew, hair snarled and tangled and forehead unpleasantly bare. His hands were no longer bound, which he registered distantly as something of a surprise, but lay limp and bruised in his lap.

The cloth beneath him was wet and sticky with more than the stagnant water of the cave and clung unpleasantly as he shifted slightly to relieve the pain building in his leg. Ebbing unconsciousness revealed the details of his catastrophic night hunt on the borders of Qinghe with discomforting clarity like flotsam washed up on the shore. The garbled message that reached him too late. The stale exhalation of the cave. The broken carnage of the yaoguai’s victims. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Shuoyue ripped from his hand, spinning away through the clammy darkness. The yaoguai’s claws rending the flesh of his thigh like paper tearing and its breath hot on his face and foul with gore as it bound his hands. The blow to his temple which sent him reeling into darkness with nothing but a hundred regrets to keep him company. Lan Zhan, didi. Da-ge. A-Yao. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Inhaling a breath jagged with pain, Lan Xichen felt his bruised fingers curl convulsively in his lap and frowned at the unfamiliar texture. Rather than torn flesh and cloth soaked and clotted with blood, his searching fingers found uneven strips of brocaded silk tied in untidy loops and knots around his wounded leg. He poked cautiously at the mess of bandages, trying to work out what was going on through the din in his aching brain and nearly cracked his head on the pillar in alarm when he heard the scuff of booted feet on the loose scree.

‘There’s no need to make a fuss about it. I know it’s not any good,’ a voice snapped.

For a moment, Lan Xichen’s gaze, jerked upwards, was caught and held only by the Jin gold robes embroidered with Sparks Amid Snow peonies and the vermillion mark set between black brows drawn into a low scowl. For a moment, all the memories that even seclusion could not soften were alive again in the waking world. For a moment, his heart crowded into his throat and he was half hope and half horror.

But Jin Guangyao’s voice had never held that sharp note of petulance and the ferocious scowl was instantly recognisable.

‘Leave it alone.’ Jin Ling scowled even more deeply and crossed his arms over his chest, Suihua held in a white-knuckled grip. ‘I don’t know what I was supposed to do with you bleeding everywhere and a yaoguai trying to eat you and I’m sure that the bandages aren’t up to Lan standards and I’m sorry, ok?’

‘Jin-zongzhu,’ Lan Xichen said quietly and Jin Ling’s mouth snapped shut with an audible clack of teeth. ‘Thank you.’ He tried to rise, but his wounded leg was a dead, dragging weight, something wrong, wrong, wrong settled deep in the flesh. He staggered, listing sideways, grasping for stone and finding only thin air, pain bitten back behind his lips.

Before he could brace himself for the fall, Jin Ling was right there, his shoulder braced under Lan Xichen’s own and Lan Xichen found himself eased back to the relative comfort of the cave floor, Jin Ling fussing with his bandages until they were even more hopelessly tangled. This close, Lan Xichen could see the ripped hem of his robe where he had torn off strips for bandages and the tight lines of worry bracketing the boy’s eyes and the sincere concern he was doing his best to hide behind a flow of invective and dire imprecations. With a pang, Lan Xichen remembered the child who had trotted round Carp Tower at Jin Guangyao’s heels and clung to Jiang Cheng’s hand at sect conferences, his face buried in the skirts of his uncle’s robes. Now the leader of his own sect too young. As Lan Xichen himself had been.

Finally, Jin Ling seemed to run out of things to fidget with and rocked back on his heels. ‘I sent a messenger butterfly,’ he said gruffly. ‘Lan Sizhui should be here soon. We were all worried.’

‘Jin-zongzhu…’ Lan Xichen started, and then stopped, thinking again of that child, of betrayal and loss. A guqin string held to the boy’s throat. A collapsed temple. ‘A-Ling. Thank you for finding me.’

[25centsoda]

Star Wars Fanfic - Wisdom Teeth

I just got my wisdom teeth out the other day...you know what that means! Luke too!

I just wrote this in one sitting and there is very minimal editing. If I ever feel like cleaning this up I’ll throw it on AO3 (and possibly make it longer, possibly leave it as-is).

.

.

.

The world filtered up slowly, rising from the smoke of dreams. The first thing Luke was aware of was that there was a blanket on his chest. It was warm, and soft. The room faded into view.

His tired mind dimly registered the fact that the blanket was blue, and the walls were off-white. The lights confused him. They shone blindingly, obscuring much of the space. Between the two of them, the only other thing he could make out were the empty chairs beside him.

Luke drifted.

The world was quiet, as if buried beneath sand. There might have been a memory of being supported on each side as he was led down a hallway, but that could have easily been a dream; the memory was shadowy and indistinct.

He moved his hand slightly. Yes, the blanket was soft.

Words filtered into his consciousness. Murmurs, far away and nonsensical. He couldn’t summon the will or strength to focus on them.

Through the Force, a spike of emotion.

It was quickly washed away by his exhaustion, and Luke’s eyes fluttered closed. His mouth hung open slightly. Something held it open. What was it? Why was it there? 

He forced his eyes open again and squinted at the room, trying to bring it into focus.

Medbay, his mind finally supplied. Now he could tell that he was seeing double. Closing one eye or the other turned the two chairs into one. He entertained himself with looking at each part of the curtained-off room in turn. The small table on his other side. The curtain rod. His own covered legs.

A commotion outside in the hall filtered into his awareness. Luke made a small questioning noise he wasn’t sure even left his throat and turned his head slightly towards the sound.

It sounded almost like...blaster shots?

Behind the curtain, a door hissed open. Cold followed like a shadow. Luke closed his eyes against the chill, grateful for the blanket. Loud, rhythmic breathing grated against his ears. He peered up through his eyelashes.

Vader.

Father.

Was this another dream? Luke’s eyes melted closed again.

He was on the verge of falling asleep once more when the sound of flimsy being shifted pulled him back towards consciousness again. He was almost tempted to wave the sound away, annoyed, but his limbs felt like lead. It wasn’t worth the effort. Amusement washed gently over him in the Force.

The flimsy was folded and shifted against something, then the noise stopped. Something carefully stroked his hand through the blanket.

“Come, young one. It is time to go home.”

Luke managed something between a hum and a groan. That amusement came again, along with an undercurrent of love. He peeled open his eyes and squinted up at his father’s insectoid mask.

Vader helped him sit up while Luke stared at him. His mind spun slowly. His father couldn’t really be here, right? The last thing he remembered...the last thing he remembered…

That shadowy image of being helped across a hallway resurfaced. He pushed it away. Before that, there was…

The surgery!

The Empire had been quiet for long enough that the Alliance decided to take the opportunity to get its soldiers and staff medical care while they could afford both the time and expense. Luke had been brought in to get several teeth removed that had grown in sideways. Leia was supposed to be with him when he woke up.

Where was she?

Luke was pulled to his feet and he stumbled, knees weak beneath him. His head rocked with vertigo. Without thinking, he clung to the arm supporting him.

Where was Leia? She was supposed to be here…

He barely noticed the hallways passing under his feet, focus taken up by the effort of staying upright and trying to figure out where Leia could be.

Maybe...maybe he was hallucinating, and what he thought was his father was actually just Leia.

Luke made a noise that was meant to be “Leia?” but all that came out was nonsense. He furrowed his brow when he realized he couldn’t feel his tongue. Or most of his mouth, really.

The person leading him didn’t respond.

Something was wrong.

“Nng,” he managed, tugging his arm away from their grip. They held on tighter as he stumbled, keeping him upright.

“Hush, young one. You’re safe.” A feeling of security washed through him with those words, overpowering the panic that had begun to rise through the fog of sedation. He leaned on their arm for support. “There. We’re nearly to my ship, then you can rest some more.”

Their boots clanged on a ramp. Luke’s socked feet didn’t make a sound.

The next thing he knew, he was being buckled into a seat. In front of him, a viewport showed the mountains of the planet the Rebels had made their latest base on.

The ship vibrated as it took off, and Luke fell back asleep.

-----------------

Vader marveled at the boy sleeping next to him. At long last; his son. He had been most fortunate in finding the boy and his rebellion in such a state. It had been laughably easy to invade the base and take Luke. The Rebels had grown complacent.

As he piloted the shuttle back to the Executor, he puzzled over the sheet of flimsy that had been tied to the end of his son’s medical bed. “Wisdom tooth extraction”, it had read, along with instructions for care once the boy was released from the medbay.

Vader had heard of such a thing - Obi-Wan had told Anakin Skywalker of his own experience with the procedure, but Skywalker never had a need for it. Evidently Vader’s son did. Incompetent as they were, the Rebellion did not waste money and soldiers on unnecessary medical procedures.

Glancing at Luke again, Vader wondered if perhaps he should have paid closer attention to the sheet before leaving with his son. The boy may need supplies the Executor did not have; the surgery was most often performed on humans younger than the majority of his officers, and Star Destroyers were not equipped for most non-injurious surgeries.

No matter. If anything needed to be acquired, he would get it.

First, he had to get his son to the rooms he had prepared.

Although they would evidently need slight modifications as the boy was recovering from surgery…

----------------

When Luke woke again, he was once more covered in a blanket. This time, however, he was also propped up by many pillows on all sides, and there were ice packs on both cheeks.

Where was he?

At his confused hum, his father reappeared beside him. Luke’s eyes widened.

Oh. So it hadn’t been a hallucination, then. His father actually...just kidnapped him out of the medbay.

Kriff.

“Father,” he tried, but he still couldn’t feel his mouth. He huffed in frustration, then winced when doing so pulled at his sore jaw. He mimed writing on his hand, looking at his father through narrowed eyes and hoping that conveyed his frustration.

Vader handed him a datapad and pen.

Luke held the pen above the datapad for a minute, trying to decide what to say. He eventually settled on, What did you do?

“You had a surgery, young one,” Vader said. Before he could finish, Luke started writing again. “I did nothing to you.”

I know I had surgery. Where did you take me? What about the base?

“You are on my flagship, the Executor. The Rebel base was taken by the Empire, although I believe the Princess and Wookie escaped, if you are worried about them.”

No dark side.

Vader inclined his head. “You are in no state to begin your training, I agree. However, there are other things you should be aware of in the meantime. For example, the sheet your medic left indicates that the gauze in your mouth should be changed every 30 minutes, the ice should remain as much as possible without causing damage, and you are not to have solid foods for the next several days.”

Luke looked up at the ceiling in lieu of throwing his head back. Kriff. He thought it would be bad to go through this back on base with his friends; to do it stuck with the Empire? With his father? The man had chopped off his hand during their last meeting; Luke had since come to terms with both the news and the prosthetic, but that didn’t mean he trusted his father with his health.

He cleared the screen and wrote again. I want to see a medic.

“They will not tell you anything different, Luke.”

He underlined the sentence and gave his father a pointed look with as much vitriol as he could muster.

Vader sighed, an odd, staticky sound. “Very well. I will call for him.”

Luke watched with interest as his father picked up a slim remote from a small table next to the bed Luke was propped up in, and pressed a button. A small buzz sounded. Moments later, the door hissed open and a man in a medic’s uniform stepped through, clipboard in hand. He bowed, and approached.

“Commander Skywalker, Medic Kix at your service,” the man said. “What can I do for you?”

Luke reset the screen and wrote, then held up the datapad.

What will my recovery look like? How long will it take?

Kix nodded and said, “This first day, there’s going to be a lot of blood. It should clot by the end of today and over the next few days there should be some swelling. The ice will help keep that down. You’ll need to change the gauze every thirty minutes to help the blood clot and keep you from swallowing too much of it. Take it easy for the next few days; no strenuous exercise. Liquid foods only for today, then tomorrow you can start moving on to soft foods like pudding. We’ll talk more about the day after when we get there. You should be fully healed in two to three weeks, assuming all goes well.”

Two to three weeks??

“Yes sir. As you were not treated by one of our medics, I’m unsure how well the surgery was performed, but rest assured we will do everything we can to ensure your healing is as fast and comfortable as possible. Any other questions?”

Kix waited patiently as Luke wrote.

Can I change my own gauze?

He did not want his father to try to interfere more than strictly necessary.

The medic hesitated. “...Yes, but I would advise that you have somebody help you. If you’d like, I can assign you a medic for the next few days.”

“I can--” Vader started, but Luke interrupted him by holding up the datapad.

Yes, I would like a medic. The writing was rushed - his father could speak faster than Luke could write - but it was legible enough. Thankfully Kix took Luke’s side.

“Very well sir. I will send somebody to assist you.” With that, the medic left.

His father turned back to him. “Would you like access to the holonet, young one? It will be restricted, of course - you wouldn’t be able to contact any Rebels - but you would be able to watch videos.”

Kriff, he really was stuck here with his father for at least the next two weeks, wasn’t he? Couldn’t even eat real food.

He was already exhausted of it all.

Yes, Luke wrote. He handed the datapad to Vader.

At least he’d have plenty of time to hack into the datapad and find a way to contact his friends.

----------

Luke’s mouth finally stopped bleeding by the end of the day. He was so grateful to be rid of the gauze in his mouth that he almost didn’t mind the fact that his father had stayed after the medic left.

He tipped his head back and carefully drank some water, reveling in the fact that he could close his mouth almost all the way now. It was still partially numb, but most of the feeling was back and there was nothing holding it open anymore. He set the cup back down next to the pill bottles on the bedside table, then looked between his father next to the bed and the datapad on the blankets.

He’d wasted the day dozing and watching as many pod, speeder, and spaceship races as he could find, but Vader had stayed away for most of it, only seeming to come in as Luke was falling asleep. What...was he supposed to do now that the man seemed determined to stay?

He stared at his father for a long moment. Vader stared back.

Slowly, as if his father was a watching krayt, he grabbed the datapad and turned the latest speeder race back on, sinking into the fresh ice packs and pillows.

They watched it together, side by side.

[merctrovert]

solivagant | xiaoven shorts

genre: fanfiction, short story, angst, hurt/comfort, xiaoven, this was even sad for me to write so enjoy reading...

— solivagant

     (adj) wandering alone 

The Lone Yaksha

A blood stained figure limped across the ruins of a battlefield, the scent of copper still lingering thick. It followed him wherever he went, like a ghost. His weapon dragged on behind him, like a chain he could not break.

Wounded but not hurt enough to stop, he continued down his aimless, wandering path, searching for something; he did not know what.

Silently. Even the crows that feasted on the fallen were not startled by him. He walked as if he were a ghost, he may as well have just been a corpse.

What was his name? Where was he going? He no longer knew. There was an idea of someplace a long time ago. Now, his mind was empty, only consumed by his demons.

His hands had become clotted and thick, coated with layers of crimson. Scars littered his body; not once did he tend to the wounds. Once, he considered it a waste since he would only gain some more the next day. But now, each speck on his skin was like a mark that counted how many he had slain. Another chain that tied him down.

And so his solemn journey continued. Never speaking, never stepping off his path. Through every storm and heatwave, as his skin was scorched, as his demons corrupted his mind when dusk came. He did not falter.

Until that one night.

The moon was red, as crimson as the blood he had spilt. And his demons were rising from the ground, lost souls, wandering ghouls. And they set their eyes on the one that had destroyed them. And they tormented.

Don't you want to be free? They cruelly whispered into his ears. Don't you want to stop? Give up, oh great Yaksha. Oh, conqueror of demons, yet you are the greatest demon of us all. There is no place to return to. No place no more.

And they cried and moaned into his ears, No one is waiting. No one is waiting for you. They are all gone.

They were all gone.

The great Yaksha, the Conqueror and Purger of Demons stumbled. His feet, sore and bleeding, bruised and calloused trembled. He fisted his hand and forced himself to continue, but the demons that tormented his mind were not wrong.

They were not wrong.

How tired he was. How free he wished to be. And how no one would be waiting for him, which was why he never looked back and how no one would be waiting for him as he continued on ahead.

This was his punishment and he accepted it. But oh how it hurt.

Lost in his thoughts, the figure stilled and his demons laughed and whispered, tempted his ear with promises of sweet things.

We have always been waiting for you. We are all you have. Come with us. You will never be alone. You will suffer no more.

It was lies. He grunted, gritting his teeth, his head throbbing with the memories of a thousand ghouls that surrounded him as they forced their own cruel deaths, projecting it into his mind. It was lies they spoke but he wanted to believe.

Come with us, O Vigilant Yaksha. There is a place. We are waiting.

And he closed his eyes. His heart, wavering, his mind throbbing and burning. He succumbed.

The dark consumed him and the souls of lifeless demons hungrily swarmed into his body, fighting with each other for possession, to take a bite out of the heart and soul of the one that had slain them.

And he who had forgotten his name, who had been wandering too far for too long, sat emptily, staring up at a starless sky as his demons corrupted him.

Freedom. He closed his eyes. Perhaps suffering the wrath of demons would show him, just a glimpse, of that mercy he could never have.

From afar, a gentle breeze washed over the torn land. And with the wind was carried the faint, broken fragments of the melody of a distant flute.

The distant melody the corrupting yaksha found himself opening his eyes to, his heart swaying with its sorrowful, lonely hums. The demons of his mind and soul were washed away with each note and suddenly, it was all that consumed him.

The haunting gentle melody he was so afraid to startle, as though it were a butterfly resting in his palm.

Rising slowly, the lone yaksha turned, off his path. And headed towards the direction of the melody, following the moon that had returned to its pearl like appearance. And with every step he took, the darkness that festered away at his heart dissipated upon hearing each note ring clearer, until finally, he stood behind a figure resting high up on a lonely rock, overlooking the vast and endless web of rivers.

He stood himself, on a similar jagged form, with the reflections of the moon on water separating him from the one that created the melody.

How long had he been walking, senseless, that he had forgotten what it was to feel?

The music he heard, breaking the silence of the night and the loudness of his mind like a water drop, made him fall to his knees, his weapon clattering onto the rocks.

For the first time, in the Yaksha's mind, it was quiet.

And the melody soothed over him, a gentle caress. It waited, it coaxed until he let go.

Something dropped into the water below, sending ripples stretching across the entire surface of the water and he saw his own contorted reflection.

A single tear.

That was what it was. It was all he could manage, all he could let go of. Centuries, decades, years of torment and suffering he had endured that escaped him in the form of a single tear.

"Xiao." A word breathed like wind, so light, he could have swore it did not happen at all had it not been for the figure that stood on air in front of him now.

Xiao. A word. No, not any word. His name.

He looked up, as broken and as lost, staring into the glowing eyes of the young figure in front of him.

His hand was outstretched, empty, waiting to be held.

But where would you take me, Xiao wanted to ask.

But at that moment none of it mattered. At that moment, he was not a demon or a Yaksha, not a being that was fighting an invisible war waging within with himself, at the corruption that tore at his heart with every life he slayed.

He was just Xiao. A wandering boy, who knew nothing of a home and what it meant, who had never tasted freedom or smiled upon such.

But as took the hand that was stretched in front of him, the angel that had saved him smiled for he would teach him all those things.

Barbatos, the Free yet Lonely God

There was freedom in being alone. But there was also loneliness that came with being free.

Barbatos knew that the most.

Once he had loved and cherished and once he was much more of a boy than he was. When arrows fell from the sky, like cruel shooting stars that pierced his closest friend's chest... that was Barbatos's first experience with loneliness.

Never before had he had to face such an empty, quiet feeling.

And so he picked up a flute and a lyre who's strings strummed only for him, to fill the strange void he still did not understand, within his heart.

And with a joyous smile, he would be as fleeting as the wind. Why? 

For the God was afraid. Afraid that if he lingered for a second too long, glanced around a moment too much, he would feel the same waves of sorrow that crushed his heart just as they did when he held the body of the boy he no longer had.

And so, Barbatos's second lesson was to grieve before they had even gone. That way, it would not hurt as much when they did.

Each night of the passing of his dear friend, for centuries, would the god rest himself on a small, lone island of stone that jutted from the rivers and he would play the melody that came from his heart, to speak the things he could not say.

A hauntingly sorrowful, yet delicate and light song that was carried away with the wind. Barbatos only hoped his friend, wherever he was now, would hear it.

The night the moon turned vermillion, Barbatos sat on the edge of the rock, legs dangling below. And with routine, lifted his flute worn with time to his lips, closed his eyes and began playing. This night, unlike others, was particularly sorrowful.

His body was never his, but a walking memory and a constant reminder that even though he was a god, the dead could not come back to life.

Each tremor his heart shook with, he played another note. The melody was tentative, hesitant, as if the creator was afraid to reveal too much in case it all came flooding out.

And even though he was the god of freedom, he felt constrained by his own heart.

There was an empty thud from behind him and his eyes opened gently, the stars beginning to appear in the sky, scattered across. So many, yet they were all so far away and alone.

Barbados turned, silent and cast his eyes upon the shadowed figure that had fallen to his knees, the water below him rippling.

Blood marred his arms and clothes, a body that had seen too much, been through more than it should have been.

Are you alone too?

He wanted to ask, but it would have been too cruel of a question.

Of course he was. Not a light stayed by his side and even the night sky above where he sat, was starless.

"Xiao." That was his name. The Rex Lapis had told him once; conqueror of demons, the last and final Yaksha. He looked so alone. Barbatos’s heart throbbed and in the bloodied figure in front of him, saw himself. 

Gently, Barbatos outstretched his hand, watching as the yaksha looked up, eyes widening.

His face was strewn with blood, his hair tinted with crimson.

He stared at the hand, lost and afraid.

Remember, Barbatos's own heart chimed, Grieve. Remember, it chimed, the loneliness.

But when the trembling, blood stained hand slipped into his smooth, pale ones, his heart fell quiet, like the waters and the stars that witnessed their meeting; their beginning.

Where are we going? The question was evident in the troubled eyes of the kneeling figure in front of him and the god smiled, holding the hand tighter, bringing him closer.

Home. He replied. Home together.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

authors notes: now cry >:) I hope you enjoyed reading just as much as I enjoyed writing it. my heart also hurts. 

art credits: u/Nyxogan on reddit, tysm 

thank you for reading <3

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Earth is a Death World, “Ice Climbing.”

ope you guys like another themed story :) 

Wind whipped at the outside of his containment unit. It came in great frosty gusts and billows which made it difficult to see four people trudging through the snow in front of them. 

As the wind continued to pick up, great swathes of snow were blown off the ridge in massive undulating sheets. The little specks of ice clattered against the glass of the container even as he watched.

The five humans struggled through the snow, which reached almost up to mid thigh in certain places, though their thick layers certainly didn’t help their movement all that much either. They were slow and shambling , like great beasts milling about through the arctic expanse.

It was sometimes hard to remember  that they were even on a habitable planet, and that the humans din’’t require space suits because all around him he saw only an alien landscape covered in ice and bathed in the disseminated gray light of a blizzard.

Out of the snow he could now see a straight cliff-face rising up into the white. He might not have seen it if he wasn’t looking, though the occasional jutting rock was more than helpful, black against the white of the snow.

The humans hurried forward the snow growing shallower the closer they got to the cliff face.

Eventually they reached their destination, ducking into a small crevice in the rock where the wind wasn’t so bad.

Krill was set to the side against one of the walls trying not to look up at the towering cliff face as the humans adjusted themselves.

Five faces peered out from fuzzy winder coats, the hoods lined in animal fur clung to by flakes of ice and snow. Their faces were covered as well, their eyes only visible behind clear orange goggles, and their faces swathed by fabric to cover the exposed nose and mouth.

To his side, Adam Pulled up his goggles and down on his face protection. His light skin was red with the cold, but he didn’t seem to notice or care, “You picked a great day to come up here sis.”

Across the circle, one of the figures pulled off their goggles and ask as well. 

Maya Vir, Adam’s older sister looked out from the depths of her hood, “If I had known ou were going to be this much of a chicken, maybe I would have picked another day.”

Adam’s brothers hooted from behind their mass and goggles.

Adam rolled his eyes, “hilarious guys, just hilarious.” Maya grinned, “Anyway, I know a place. Husband and I mapped it out a few weeks ago, and it's a very good climb up, relatively easy, no jumps or anything like that.”

Krill looked out at them baleful from inside his test tube, “I thought we were done.”

The humans turned to look at him, though the expressions on their faces were mostly concealed he received wicked grins from the other two.

“What makes you say that?” Adam wondered, as the group began adjusting themselves, “We did say we were going Ice climbing.”

Krill nodded and crossed his arms, “yes, and there was plenty of ice and plenty of climbing.”

It was only when the humans began uncoiling rope did Krill know something bad was about to happen.

Even worse when he saw the humans….. Strapping knives to their feet?

What was this nonsense.

Up ahead of them, Maya pulled two pick axes? Or miniature hooked versions of the from her gear.

Krill stared.

“What are you doing with those.” he wondered, watching as everyone else began pulling the same equipment from their bags.

Adam pulled his face protection back over his nose and mouth, “Well how else are we supposed to get up the cliff.”

Krill stared at him, “I’m sorry, you, What!.”

Adam dropped his axes to the side for a moment, pulling Krill back onto his back, “That’s what Ice climbing means, Krill. We are going to use the ice to make it to the top of the cliff. In the summer there is a little waterfall here, but in the winter it gives us some great ice climbing.”

“Define ice climbing for me again, because this surely can’t be as stupid as I think it is.”

“You’ll see in a minute.”

Krill glowered out from his container, “Which one of your insane family members picked THIS pass time, why couldn’t you guys play cards, or have a picnic. I like those things.”

Adam snorted as they trudged their way over to the bottom of the cliff face.

Krill looked up at the great snow covered ice expanse, though evidence of the blue tinted ice was underneath coming down like a rock formation might form in a cave over a million years.

“You only like playing cards because you can count them, and picnics because you're a plan, and besides it’s my sister’s birthday tomorrow, and for her birthday she wanted to take us ice climbing.”

“Why is no one in your family normal?”

“What about dad, you get along with him just fine.”

Krill huffed, “I did, and then I learned he rides giant four legged beasts for work.”

The human rolled his eyes again.

Maya turned, “Alright, split up into one group of two and one group of three.

“Jeremy will be the lead on one, and I will be the lead on the other, “Adam, you can come with me.”

Krill very much didn’t like where this was going, watching as the humans tied themselves together with rope.

“There are guide points placed on the stone and the ice, so the lead will attach the rope as we go up.” She was saying, and krill watched as she drove back her arm and slammed the head of the axe into the ice. He could hear it crunch and shatter under the head of the axe and then lodge there as she kicked into the ice with the blade on her foot. Eventually she was suspended by nothing but the blades .

Adam looked up, watching and waiting as she slowly made her way, ten feet up the ice face where she found one of the hidden markers and connected dtheir rope. Adam let her get up at least twenty feet before following behind hooking himself to her rope  and following up after.

The other three were doing the same some meters away.

The higher they went, the worse the wind grew, until snow ad ice was buffeting them lightly from one side to the other. 

Krill was right next to full panic as they dragged themselves further and further from the comfort of the ground below. Water droplets trickled and froze on the face of the cliff as they clambered upward, the sound of the axes just barely audible over the howling wind. 

At one point he made the mistake of looking down but saw nothing but a white wall of snow as it blew past. The ground no longer visible.

He covered his eyes hating every moment that they were hauled into the air.

Why why why could he not be with a normal human, one that liked to sit in front fo the TV and eat chips.

Why couldn’t he be with someone sedentary, and the only thing he had to worry about was them dying from blood clots.

The human drove his hand back, ramming the blade into the open ice face. Small chips of blue cascaded down onto his arm and then fell into the white expanse.

Krill couldn't watch.

But the humans continued to pull themselves up using incredible and unbelievable strength to haul their own mass up the face of the ice wall, using blades and axes to get there, for no other reason than the fact that they could do it.

Why why why were humans so stupid 

Why couldn’t they just be content to sit back and survive like every other species.

And why, even when they insisted on having hobbies did it have to be something that involved, extreme weather, heights, and --arguably-- deadly weapons.

His angry contemplation didn’t last long as a distant voice cut through the blizzard, “ADAM LOOK OUT!”

Krill’s head snapped up, as did Adam, just in time to see the blue chunk of ice pelting down right towards him.

He didn't have time to move and Krill felt the violent jolt as Adam was knocked hard in the right arm.

The ice fractured one piece slamming again’st Krill’s tube.

Adam’s grip was broken on his axe twisting him to the left. The loop of paracord around his wrist, connecting to his axe caused the pick to be yanked from the ice face and flung around as adam flailed nearly hitting him in the back of the right leg.

As his body contorted, the ice around the picks on his feet shattered and gave way and his legs were flung out to the side as well.

Krill squealed, watching as the world careened past them.

He expected to fall but was surprised when they didn’t.

Adam grunted with exertion, and Krill looked up to find the humans still gripping hold with one singular ice pick. He looked down again into the white void, feeling as the human gained enough power to swing himself back to face front driving one of his feet into the ice for more leverage, and then the other foot.

From there he managed to swing the second pick up into his hand climbing back upwards to follow his family members who were frozen not twenty feet up the face looking down and waiting for him.

They seemed relieved when he appeared and climbed the last ten feet to safety.

Krill and Adam were hauled up onto the ledge, where, pressed back against the rock, the wind had died down again.

“Adam are you ok!” Maya said looking him over for injury, “I’m so sorry, I saw it dislodge above me, but I couldn’t stop it.”

He waved a hand, “It's ok, just a little bruised is all.” He flexed his hand 

Krill had had enough.

“OK! Ok! We nearly died. Why do you humans insist on going out in adverse death world weather where the visibility is almost zero,just to climb up an unstable ice structure using fancy knives and some rope thinking that will be enough. Why, why, why do you always have to do stupid things that involve almost falling to your deaths.”

His rnt continued on for a few minutes 

So its not like anyone had time to tell him that, even if they had fallen, the rope woudl have caught them

Just let him think what he needed to think

[fucking-zawa-sensei]

A hurt/comfort blurb after the USJ incident? 😭

It has been 100 years, but I return with some good old hurt/comfort, my favorite kind of story. 

I hope you enjoy!

Unravel

It was such a simple motion, unfastening the little metal clasp that held the edge of the long bandage secure. That part was easy. 

Unwinding them all should have been just as straightforward, gone just as smoothly. 

Yet, his fingers tremble around the fabric, his hands shake as he repeats the motion, gathering the layers and layers of gauze in one hand as he circles Shouta’s arm with the other. He wishes he could go faster, can only think about the way Shouta’s sore shoulders must be getting tired from holding his hand out for Hizashi to change his bandages. 

Here, in the small space of their humble master bath, Shouta sitting on the toilet seat lid, Hizashi towering over him but feeling like he was shrinking with each and every rotation, he could feel the weight of every breath they exhaled. 

Here, in the same bathroom where Shouta had stitched up Hizashi’s shoulder blade when he’d taken a blade to his back...

Here, in the same bathroom where he’d cradled Shouta’s head again his chest in the tub, where he’d pushed those dark locks away from Shouta’s temple to press his lips against the soft skin there...

Here, in the same bathroom where he’d massaged his hands into Shouta’s lower back just a few days ago, as the other man complained about how it was time for a new mattress...

Here...where he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off the massive, ragged-edged dark bruise, matching the color of the creature that had given it to Shouta, traversing up and down the majority of his husband’s back...

Here...the bandages weren’t the only thing unraveling. 

Finally, Hizashi reaches the last layer, the strip of fabric fluttering away from Shouta’s skin with a soft, delicate noise that has no right to be made in this room, in this place, in this moment. 

This breathe is the hardest one he’s ever held. 

He’d known this day would come since Shouta was sent home with him from the hospital, had asked more questions than was necessary, had taken notes, had prepared himself. He knew it would smell bad, he knew it would look bad, he knew it would be discolored and clotting and yellow and bruised and weeping. He knew. He knew. 

He’d been prepared to vomit, to hide his gut reaction to grimace like he does when Shouta tries to convince him to eat rice porridge when Hizashi is feeling sick. 

He had been prepared for all of that. 

He hadn’t been prepared to look at his husband’s broken skin, at his bruising and scabs and stitches and all the little, tiny fibers of fabric left behind from the gauze still sticking to the wet edges of his wound and see none of it. 

He hadn’t been prepared to see only the limp, dying body draped across a young hero-in-training’s back, to see the slowly growing pool of blood on the ground, leading back to each drip, drip, drip, running down his husband’s fingers and the back of his hand. 

So when he exhales and the rush of wind is a little too powerful in the way it always is when he can’t quite keep his quirk at bay, when the tissue box on the small wall shelves above Shouta’s head rustles side to side with the force of it, he knows that Shouta is aware.

He has to be.

Hizashi has done such a terrible job of being strong. 

His hands shake as he crumbles up the soiled bandages, and when he turns abruptly to throw them in the trash, to look at anything but all the broken parts of the man he loves, of the arms that almost never got to hold him again, he stubs his toe against the bottom of the sink counter and can’t quite stop the shaking curse that trickles through his lips. 

Hizashi clamps a hand over his mouth, the other gripping the edge of the sink. He knows it must look like he’s about to be sick and that’s the last thing he wants. This isn’t Shouta’s fault. He’s not disturbed by the sight of his injuries, this is the exact thing he wanted to avoid, the exact situation he’d been trying to prevent.

He wanted Shouta to feel loved, to feel secure, to feel like any scars that form are just another layer of beauty. 

He needed to Shouta to know that the shake in his shoulders has nothing to do with that, has nothing to do with what he’s seeing, and everything to do with what he saw. 

“Hizashi.”

Whatever sob that had been forming in his throat turns into a gag instead, cutting off his breath. 

“Turn around.”

He does, slowly, dropping the hand away from his face. He feels the tears start the moment he turns, feels the first tracks dripping down his cheeks. 

Shouta stares up at him from his seat, having apparently pulled the bandages off of his own face once his hands were freed. They’re tired and bloodshot, the bags underneath them more prominent than ever, highlighted by dark, purple bruises that litter his entire face. There’s an extra patch of gauze beneath his right eye, still in place, but there are a few spots of dried blood on it and he knows this too will need replaced. 

He opens his mouth, about to apologize, but Shouta’s hand reaches out instead. It’s trembling just as much as Hizashi’s did and he doesn’t know if it’s from the pain or the stifling way the air seems to be growing heavier with each second that passes. 

It finds its way to his shirt, gives a weak tug, and Hizashi follows the silent command, crouching down onto his knees to be at Shouta’s level. The other man spreads his legs to make more room. 

Then, Shouta’s hand is on his face, still shaking, the movements rough as he caresses the short, fine hairs that have started growing along Hizashi’s cheek and jaw a week ago, after the first night he’d spent sleeping beside Shouta’s hospital bed. 

“Time for a shave,” Shouta says, a small smile pushing at one corner of his lips. 

Hizashi wants to say, no, this is about what you need, but Shouta juts his chin toward the corner of the sink where Hizashi’s razor and oils and lotions are all set neatly on a little bamboo wood tray. He doesn’t know what to do so he does what he’s told, grabbing the razor and shaving cream. 

Shouta nods back at the floor and Hizashi settles on his knees once more. 

His hair grows slowly, always had, it had taken him many months to perfect his current mustache, so while he’s sporting a nice little layer of something slightly more than peach fuzz, it’s not very much to shave. Still, Shouta uses whatever strength the painkillers he’d taken a half hour ago have provided him to clumsily lather Hizashi’s face with the shaving cream. 

He’s a little nervous when Shouta’s quivering fingers bring the blade to his face, so he finds himself instinctively helping, using his own hand to help support Shouta’s. Together, they give him the longest, most harrowing shave Hizashi’s probably ever had. 

They do it all in silence. 

When he turns to the sink to wipe off his face with some water and a towel, when he runs his hands over his somewhat smooth cheeks, a few patches uneven, he’s surprised to see himself smiling in the mirror. He’s shocked to see his hands are steady, his heart not racing anymore. 

Hizashi turns around and Shouta is leaning back on the toilet, his arms hanging loose in his lap, legs still spread lazily. His head is lilting to one side, and his eyes look like they’re struggling to stay open, but he’s smiling too. 

“We shouldn’t have done that,” Hizashi says. “I need to wash your wounds, we need to re-bandage them...we-”

“It’s okay,” Shouta cuts him off. “I needed that.”

Hizashi looks down at the tiles. 

“I needed that,” Hizashi admits quietly. 

“You did.”

“Shouta, I’m sorry...you’re the one who was hurt...I..”

Shouta’s hand appears in his vision, finds his own, and pulls weakly again. Hizashi redirects his gaze towards his husband’s face, allows his fingers to be intertwined. 

“I’m not the only one who was hurt.”

Hizashi bites his lip and Shouta shakes his head. 

“It’s okay, let it out,” Shouta encourages. 

Hizashi swallows hard, his grip tightening around Shouta’s hand. 

“I was scared to lose you too,” Shouta says, his voice tripping over the words, obviously difficult for him to say.

He wants to throw himself at Shouta, pull him into his arms, hold him tight, but he knows he can’t do these things, knows he has to be gentle. So he gets back on his knees and wraps his arms around Shouta’s waist and lets his head fall in his husband’s lap. The sobs rip through him like nothing he’s ever experienced before, quickly filling the small room with all the noise it was previously missing. Shouta’s hands card through his hair, rub up and down his arms. 

He doesn’t know how many times he says “I love you,” but Shouta matches each and every one. 

It takes hours to finally finish cleaning and re-wrapping Shouta’s injuries, but only minutes for them to fall asleep, Shouta’s arms wrapped around Hizashi’s middle, his face tucked into Hizashi’s chest. 

The past few nights had been difficult, he’d been unsure where to place his hands, what was safe to touch without hurting Shouta. 

Tonight, he lets his palms gently trace up and down his husband’s back, careful, soft, but confident. 

He’s here.

He’s safe.

Like a mantra, Hizashi repeats it until his eyelids falls shut, his lips pressed onto the top of Shouta’s head. 

He’s here.

He’s safe.

[harrysgloves]

Fine Line (Chapter 3)

>>>Catch up with the Fine Line Masterlist!<<<

word count: 2.2k

story summary: Since you were kids you and Harry had always walked that fine line of friends or something more. Now, pregnant by someone else, you find yourself staying with your long time best friend after things go sour with your boyfriend of 3 years. 

Singlemom!Reader x Harry Styles

chapter summary: You and Harry have a night reminiscing 

warnings: Language // .

a/n: I really need to make a story masterlist. Haven’t had the time to do that or edit (I’m lying I had time to edit. I REALLY hate it and decided not to.) Anyways, let me know what you think of the chapter! xx

>>><<<

"Maybe you should move in with Harry for a bit." Gemma said from the other side of the couch.

Your head instantly popping up from Abby's lap with a confused look written across your face.

"Nope." You said as you laid back down. Abby's hand rubbing your shoulder as you tried to go back to watching Clueless and eating your pickles in peace.

"Y/N, listen, I'm just saying maybe you shouldn't be alone. A lot of stuff can go wrong in pregnancy, you shouldn't be by yourself during it." She argued, pushing your feet off her as she leaned up.

"Gem, I'm not having Harry take care of me." You sighed, sitting up on the couch, your precious movie night abandoned by her constant worrying.

"Not take care of you. He'd just be here in case you have any pregnancy complications like a blood clot or fainting spells."

"I'm not going to have those." You said rolling your eyes and waving off those concerns with your hand.

"They're really common." Abby said from behind you as she paused the movie.

"Not you too." You groaned, your head against the soft cushion as you stared at the ceiling.

You knew they were saying it because they cared but you didn't want to impose on Harry's life more than you already were.

"Yeah, me too. I think it's a good idea." Abby said in a calm voice, like she was trying to not piss you off.

"In what world is me living with Harry a good idea?" You asked, sitting up straighter. Your eyebrows raised as you glanced at both their blank faces.

"He's got a whole slew of people following him. One sniff of a pregnant girl living with him and my life is all over the tabloids."

"Okay, minus that." Abby agreed with you as she laid back against the arm of the couch and you immediately felt bad for going off.

You could just look at her and tell she didn't want to leave you here. Alone and pregnant. Trying to figure everything out on your own.

"What if Jesse comes and gets really pissy with you again and starts throwing shit? What are you gonna do then?" Gemma shot back, determined to get you to stay here where she knew you'd be safe if anything happened.

"Call the police."

"The police? They'll take forever to show up and then who knows what'll happen in that amount of time." She said her voice growing louder the more irritated she got that you weren’t seeing her side of the argument.

"Gemma, this is crazy. I'm not moving in with him."

"Maybe you could stay until you have the baby?" Abby tried to reason with you as you shook your head.

"No, please, just drop it and watch Clueless." You mumbled, pregnancy hormones flaring in you, anger licking against your flushed skin as they dropped the subject.

You could take care of yourself and this baby just fine. You didn't need any help and Harry had too much shit in his life to deal with you.

>>>

"Y/N?" The sound of Harry's voice from behind you made you jump.

Your hand caught in the cookie jar, literally, in the middle of the night. The darkness around you quickly turned to bright white as he flipped the light switch. Your eyes squinting as they adjusted to the light.

"Sorry about them crashing here too. I didn't mean to mess up everything like this." You said as he passed you to get to the fridge.

"I told yeh 'S fine. Meant it when I said it." He said turning around to find you with a glass for him already in hand.

"Still." You shrugged as he took the glass from you and downed your fifth cookie in a row.

"Yeh hungry?" He asked, eyebrows raising at you over his glass of juice as you shoved yet another cookie down your throat.

Stupid rich people and their fancy junk food.

"Starving, oh my god." You cried out. Harry chuckling as he sat down his empty glass on the countertop.

"Wanna go get ice cream while the losers sleep?" He asked as he reached out to take your hand in his before you could down another cookie.

"Just like old times?" You asked with a smile.

His head lifted looking from your hands that were still connected to your eyes. A hint of a smile on his face with that soft look in his green eyes that you always adored.

"Yeah, jus' like old times."

>>>

It took over 10 minutes for you to decide on which type of ice cream you wanted. Your bottom lip under your teeth as you stared at the menu for so long Harry eventually ordered for you.

Luckily, he knew your indecisive ass well enough to know that chocolate with fudge and brownie bits was always your favorite even though you always said you liked strawberry ice cream better.

"You remember when you were 7 and you swore you could ride a bike even though you had never rode one before?" You asked him when he parked his car on top of a hill that overlooked the city. It wasn't the spot in your old town that you two used to do this at but it would work well enough for the night.

"Oh God, not this story." He groaned, his ears already tinting pink as you started to giggle at the memory of him that day.

"And you-" You said through laughter, having to stop and wait to calm down to continue. "You got on my bike and I kept telling you to get off it."

"Please stop." His cheeks a bright red as you started laughing harder. His hands over his whole face to hide his embarrassment.

"And- and you went flying down the hill and into Mr. Gibbs shed?"

"He was so pissed." Harry said once his hands came away from his face. You could tell he was still pretty embarrassed but he eventually joined in laughing with you softly as he ate the rest of his ice cream.

"You ran over all his tulips and I was freaking out running after you. Remember what you said?"

"Unfortunately." He mumbled as he finished off his treat, placing the empty container in the cup holder in his car.

"You said girls liked daredevils and that I'd like you cause you slammed face first into that shed." You said through laughter remembering sweet little Harry saying that to you with a straight face.

"If I remember correctly, you gave me a kiss that day." He said with that grin dancing along his lips as he looked at you, shrugging.

"It was on the cheek and I was 8!" You gasped.

"Worked out well for me." He said so content with himself, smiling out the window.

"Cheeky little thing."

"That's worked out well for me too."

"Piss off." You said, pushing his shoulder, his hand taking yours as he laughed.

The conversation died down between you as you finished off your ice cream one handed. Harry's still holding your other one. His thumb rubbing the back of your hand.

"You can stay with me awhile, y'know?" He said as you placed your now empty container beside his.

He was right, chocolate with fudge and brownie bits were definitely your favorite.

"Mhhh, no."

"Didn't think I was that bad of a flatmate." He huffed out all dramatically like you hurt his feelings.

"You know what I meant."

"I'm in London for a while then back to The States. You could stay at my place while I'm in California then you wouldn't have to live with someone if that's the problem." He reasoned with you and a part of you wanted to say yes but you knew you couldn't.

"Problem is the press, Haz. Don't want to deal with that on top of a break up on top of a baby." You only partially lied to him, his face falling slightly as you stared back out the window, your teeth chewing the inside of your cheek.

"Sure, Camille wouldn't want me to stay with you long anyways."

"She likes you." He said quickly. Your eyes instantly rolling as you turned to look at him, your eyebrows only raising slightly when he let out a huff.

"Okay, maybe she doesn't like y'that well. Its jus' 'cause we're so close, she feels left out when we hangout." He admitted and you knew there was a bit of truth in it but not the whole truth.

The truth that he never fully let go of that glimmer of hope things would find a way of working out between you two.

Camille may have been a model but she wasn't stupid, she knew from the second he introduced you to her that you were more than a friend but less than a relationship.

You two had always walked that fine line of friends or something more.

You admit, when you were younger you were absolutely in love with him but when he got discovered you knew your short time of him being your Hazza was over. He had bigger and better things to move on to.

Letting go of those feelings for him was the worst thing you had to go through. Watching on the sidelines as his life flourished into something so much more wonderful than anything you could have ever imagined for him.

You never regretted letting him go. Letting go of those selfish feelings of wanting him to stay and be with you instead.

You were happy you made the choice for the both of you even if it wasn't an easy choice. Even if there were moments when you'd look over to see him smile that toothy dimple smile that melted your heart and you could feel the edge of doubtfulness seep into your mind.

You knew deep down that you could never cage a bird as beautiful as him and expect it to be happy.

"Jesse always felt that way too. Said we had our own secret language."

"Probably why no one ever wants to play charades with us." He smiled as he pulled you across the seat to sit on his lap.

"Probably." You agreed, your head laying on his chest as your legs dangled over to the passenger seat.

"I'll always be here for you, know that right?" He asked, his hand rubbing up and down on your arm.

"I know." You sighed, somewhere between happy that you'd always have him as a friend and feeling guilty as shit for relying on him so much.

"Good. Can't have my little bunny be sad and lonely." He mockingly cooed as he ran his hand over your hair.

"Oh Jesus, not the nickname!" You groaned your hands slapping away his hands as he laughed, pulling you in closer to his chest to nuzzle his nose into your neck.

"Oh, so you get to call me Hazza? But I can't call you bunny?" He hummed into your hair that was covering your neck. Moving away from him when you felt your skin tingle.

"Exactly."

"Y'used to love it so much." He pouted at you, big green eyes with his lip out.

"Mhh. I lied." You smiled as you booped his nose with your pointer finger. His eyes rolling at you but his lips formed a smile as his cheeks tinted the slightest shade of pink.

"Besides, it's not even a creative nickname you called me that because you said I liked carrots too much." You shrugged your bottom lip between your teeth to hide your smile as he moved back to glare at you.

"Never said it was a creative nickname." His hands brushing your hair off your face. The cool metal of his rings touching your skin almost made you pull away but the radiating warmth of his callused finger kept you in place as he lifted your chin so your eyes met his.

"Jus' one that's strictly yours."

You smiled but couldn't help the involuntary deep breath you took in. Something danced behind his eyes as he looked at you. A look you had gotten from him so many times before. It always made your stomach leap and soar.

"Awe, Haz, you do care about me." You cooed, leaning into his chest. His arms wrapping around you.

"Mhm. My heart has a special little bunny shaped hole right where you fit." He smiled as he rested his head on top of yours, holding you tightly.

For a second, you imagined what it would be like if things would work out with him. If his life didn't carry him on a different path. A path away from you.

If this was his baby and not Jesse's.

You sighed pulling away from him. Your voice soft as you said "We should go."

His head nodded as you pulled away from him and back to your own seat. Chewing the inside of your cheek as you looked out the window. His own eyes glazed over as his mind ran wild with thoughts in his head. His car in reverse without either or you talking.

You quietly tried to remind yourself to not put ideas in his head. To not let your heart get the best of you. Reminding yourself why you closed that door all those years ago

[monstersandmaw]

Male Uruk-hai x reader (nsfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Here's another Orctober (!) prompt, of which my lovely, patient Elves over on Patreon had a brief preview a while ago, and my Pixies and Goblins have had access to for a little while. The prompt was 'injured', and this one got so long that it practically grew legs and ran away with me...

Hope you enjoy!

Content: gender-neutral reader, belligerent, tough-as-nails Uruk-hai warriors, one seriously injured mountain of muscle, some violence (not lasting) towards the reader, one loyal centaur bestie, and some sexy times Wordcount: 9769

___

At the clamour of two opposing orcish war-bands sweeping through the countryside to the north of your village, the sounds of the skirmish carried on the wind, people went scuttling for the shelter of their cellars. The orcs and Uruks in the area didn’t tend to bother your remote little community because they knew you had little to offer, but still, being caught in the crossfire was a frighteningly real possibility.

Although it was better to gather plants in the morning, when they were still hydrated and fresh, you had been out in the meadow in the late afternoon light, gathering chamomile both for tea and for (separate) use in medicinal poultices when the first orcs had climbed the ridge on the outskirts of town and your heart had stopped beating. Instantly, you dropped into the long grass, crouching low and holding your breath. As they spilled down the steep incline towards the curving, shallow river, you saw with plunging horror that their skin was not the green of the orcs who lived in relative peace at the nearby stronghold, but the dark, bruised looking, purplish-brown of Uruk-hai. This was a true war band then, and they roared down the hill like a tide of locusts, their hooked scythe-blades held high, their harsh, rough voices yelling in their own language.

You prayed in silent whispers to every deity you’d ever even remotely heard of and hunkered down as low as you could get like a leveret in long grass.

The first group that thundered past were few in number, bloodied and battered. They were the clear losers of the fight; driven to fleeing by the stronger horde following on behind. As you hunkered down in the sussurating grasses, heart in your mouth, praying that none of them would see you as they thundered on towards the trees to the north west of the village, you saw the second band clear the ridge, and almost passed out with fear.

Numbering easily twenty five in strength, they raged on, relentless, yelling and snarling. They caught up with a straggler who had been hobbling desperately on a nastily wounded leg, and simply cut him down, hamstringing him and moving on in an inexorable tide of muscle and leather, white and blue war paint, blood and steel.

You stayed still in the fallow pasture for a long time, letting the sounds of pursuit fade into the woods before you stood shakily and looked around. The meadow had been trampled in a wide swathe at their passing, their black blood staining it in places. The corpse of the one who had not made it just lay there like a felled tree, cooling in the late afternoon sun.

Your eyes drifted away from the sight of the corpse towards the woods, and your heart leapt into your mouth when you saw a figure at the very edge of the trees, leaning against the thick trunk of an ash tree. He was one of the largest Uruks that you’d ever seen, larger by far than any of the passing horde, but as you stared at him, you saw him sway and then stagger off into the shadows of the forest, clutching at his middle and limping badly.

He was wounded, and severely.

As the village’s healer, you felt the instinctive tug to help him, to ease his pain, but this wasn’t just another member of your community in need of aid - this was a violent, vicious Uruk-hai. They were best left well alone unless you wanted to risk being captured and taken as a human slave to one of their awful camps, or passed around for their pleasure. You shuddered at the thought and looked away from the gap in the trees where he had been.

Turning your back on the meadow, you picked up your basket in trembling fingers and walked back to your simple cottage on the outskirts of the collection of brick and wooden houses. People were beginning to emerge again now that the immediate danger had passed, and you looked up to see a familiar bay centaur trotting quickly towards you with a mix of worry and relief on his handsome face.

“Gil,” you smiled, pausing and waiting for him to catch up to you. “You alright?”

“Are you?” he asked, his dark eyes wide. “Fuck, I was so worried about you. I saw you going out into the meadow earlier, and then when I saw all those Uruks pouring down the hill and into the woods… I thought for sure you’d have been cut down or trampled, or… or…” his lip trembled and he surged forwards and threw his arms around you, picking you up and hugging you so tightly that your ribs creaked. “I thought they might have taken you…”

“I’m fine,” you wheezed with your face pressed against his softly-rumpled linen shirt. “Gil, put me down… I can’t breathe…”

Apologising, he set you back down and stepped back, his large hooves clopping on the cobbles of the village street, his one white sock dancing in the daylight.

“I’m fine,” you reassured him. “You want to come back for a cup of tea?”

“I can’t,” he said. “I’ve got to go and help Martha with the waterwheel. A big old branch has got jammed in the mechanism and she needs me to help haul it free. I’ll stop by later though?”

You nodded and he smiled once before trotting off to help the miller. Gil was a good soul, and you’d known him all your life. He’d asked you out back when the pair of you had been about sixteen, but it hadn’t lasted long, and you’d mutually fallen back into a deeply affectionate friendship after only a few months.

Alone in your cottage, preparing the chamomile flowers for drying, you focused on the task in hand, fingers delicately pinching the stems off, but the figure in the trees kept haunting you like some kind of malevolent spirit, its purpose unfulfilled. Over and over, you replayed that moment when he’d gone from staring directly at you to lurching out of sight between the trees. Would he be dead by now? Would he have bled out? Would some other Uruk have found him and gutted him? Would the rival band have captured him and dragged him away to do dreadful things to him?

You’d heard the jongleurs’ tales of Uruks who butchered their enemies and displayed them as grisly decoration on their spiked palisade walls while they died in agony, pinned like living specimens in a necromancer’s collection for their last few hours… Fighting off a wave of nausea, you gritted your teeth and snatched up your healer’s bag which contained bandages, dressings, salves, ointments for cleaning, and needle and silk for stitching. Taking a bottle of boiled water from the table on your way out, you slammed the door behind you and strode off into the early evening light.

It didn't take you long to cross the meadow and slip into the trees. Listening you fell still, straining your ears to pick up the sounds of… of what? Enemies between the trees? As if there would be any other Uruks here now.

The ash tree was smeared with a lot of black Uruk blood, and it didn’t take an expert tracker to follow the trail to a deep hollow where a massive tree had been ripped out of the ground by a storm, leaving its roots standing up in a disc as high as a single-storey house. At the bottom of the deep divot in the earth lay the Uruk.

One hand rested on his stomach which glistened with black blood, a deep gash in the material of his armour showing his bruised purple skin beneath and the extent of his grave injuries. ‘Grave’ might have been the operative word; you couldn't see his chest rising and falling, and his eyes were closed.

Terrified, heart in your mouth, you stepped down into the leaf-littered hollow and nudged him in the thigh with the toe of one boot.

Nothing.

Taking a deep breath, you knelt beside him and placed your fingertips on his thick, dirt-smeared neck. His eyelids flickered and you nearly recoiled in surprise when he grunted. His tusks weren’t as big as those of the Uruks’ green-skinned cousins, but they were thick and filed to a treacherously sharp point. Uruks fought like the wargs they rode, not afraid to latch their jaws onto their prey and tear them to pieces if deprived of a weapon. Some even favoured that method of ending their enemies’ lives, if the tales were to be believed. And here, beneath your tentative fingertips, was just one such creature.

“You’re hurt,” you said stupidly, and he just blinked at you. His eyelids were barely open more than a crack, and his breath came in minuscule, shallow gasps. With a deep inhale for courage, you reached for your bag and then began to unbuckle his thick, leather jerkin, lifting it away from the sticky black of his half-clotted wound. You knew that Uruks healed quicker than almost all other creatures, not counting those whose magic allowed for rapid regeneration, but even so, this was a terrible injury.

He snarled softly at you but didn’t even have the strength to swat you off him.

“Keep still,” you snapped in a hoarse whisper.

His face was bruised and swollen, with a cut on his chin and another on his forehead, but they were superficial and had already scabbed over. Behind the swelling, you could see strong bone-structure, thick brows framing a face that was monumental rather than handsome, as if carved by ancient masons with no care for subtle detail. His black hair was tied back in a ponytail which was full of bits of leaves and sticky black blood. He was filthy and he smelled revolting.

You treated the wound in his torso, cleaning it and ignoring his growled curses in the Uruk dialect of orcish. You knew enough orcish from trading with the clan to the south to recognise that you were the subject of his complaints, but you couldn’t decipher any more of his thick, guttural speech than that. Using what little orcish you knew, you snarled at him to stop making your job harder, and, to your surprise, he fell still.

He relaxed so suddenly that you thought for a horrible moment that he’d died, but when you looked into his face, you found a new expression sitting there behind the perpetual, heavy-browed scowl. Whatever it was, it was unreadable, but it was better than open hostility.

“That’s better,” you said, tying off the last stitch. “Now, how many other leaks have I got to plug before you bleed out here?”

He twitched his right leg and you looked down and saw a broken-off arrow sunk into his thigh.

“Really?” you exclaimed when you saw it. “You snapped it off? Do you know how stupid that is?���

The growl that rumbled from him was like that of a colossal wolf, but he quickly silenced himself when you grabbed a pair of small pliers that you had knocking around the bottom of the bag, wiped them with alcohol, and set about extracting the barbed arrowhead from his thigh. Field medicine didn’t exactly call for finesse, especially when dealing with an Uruk. They were tough bastards, as he had already proved.

He passed out shortly before it was free, and you stitched that up as well before sitting back on your heels, rinsing your hands in a little of the water that was left, and staring at him. “Now what?” you mused aloud. You hadn’t really thought this through at all; it was all very well patching him up, but this was hardly the clean, sterile environment conducive to healing. It was a filthy, bloodstained forest floor crawling with bugs and gods-knew-what else. There was an old forester’s cabin that had been derelict for years, but it was easily half a mile from where the Uruk had fallen and you couldn’t even drag someone his size and weight an inch, let alone that distance.

Just as you had thought about leaving him there and returning to the village to see if Gil would help you - a stupid idea if ever you’d had one - the undergrowth moved and out of the fading light stepped a colossal warg. Its eyes glowed red in the shadows, but instead of being the usual brown or black, this one’s pelt was a pale, smoky grey, all tangled and matted.

It was carrying one front paw up, clearly in pain, and its ears were folded back flat against its head. From its snarling maw, saliva dripped onto the brambles and old leaves, and you sat there with your joints seized in terror, more frightened than you had ever been in your entire life. You’d never seen a warg, though the same tales which told of the Uruks’ bloodlust and cruelty spoke of the voracious wolf-like beasts that they rode like chargers into battle. You’d not seen any wargs with the war-band earlier and had no idea if this one belonged to the Uruk on the ground or to someone else. Had the scent of his wounds drawn the hunter?

“Please don’t be a wild one,” you murmured aloud.

At the sound of your voice, it seemed to relax a little, limped a little closer, and snuffed at the Uruk in front of you. Then it looked back at you, snarling more gently now.

“Is he yours?” you asked. “You’re hurt too, aren’t you?” you added, seeing that talking to it had seemed to reassure it. It looked like a hyena crossed with a white wolf, with huge, muscular shoulders and a thick, heavy muzzle, but with the more agile body and thick, flowing pelt and tail of a wolf. “You want me to take a look at you?” you offered, holding out your palm. “Come here…”

The warg seemed to know that command, spoken in orcish, and it hobbled over. You pushed the fur back to see that it had clearly been licking it, and in so doing it had kept the gash free of gunk and debris from the forest. You poured some clean water onto the last of your scraps of clean cloth and held your hand out to the warg again.

The creature reluctantly let you take the heavy paw in your palm and you dabbed it clean. It growled, but let you continue, even when you flinched. The weight of the paw was frightening enough, but it was large as a dinner plate and each pad ended in a vicious looking black claw.

“What the hell am I doing?” you asked yourself at one point, halfway through tying the bandage around the warg’s lower leg, just above the paw itself.

From beside you, the Uruk stirred and turned his head to watch you. He asked something in his thick dialect and you frowned. “I don’t understand you,” you said gently.

He let out a soft grunt of frustration and the warg turned and started licking his face.

“Is he yours?” you asked, having checked and discovered that the warg was male. The Uruk groaned and tried to swat the warg off him, but he gasped as he raised his arm, and let it fall back almost immediately. “Easy,” you crooned, shuffling closer. “Hey, come on now,” you said to the warg. “Give him a chance, ok?”

The warg sat down heavily on his haunches and stared at you with what you could only assume was a sullen look in his red eyes. He was as big as a pony and about as strong and hairy as a bear, and as you made the comparison between him and a bear, you turned back to the Uruk and said in tentative orcish, “Hey, so… listen, would your warg be able to drag you, say… half a mile or so?”

For a moment you thought you’d said something wrong, but the Uruk blinked and nodded. He seemed so weak and you wondered briefly if the weapons had been poisoned somehow. They didn’t seem to be suppurating or anything though, and he had lost an awful lot of blood before you’d found him.

The injured Uruk spoke to the warg and the creature snuffed in a decidedly disgruntled manner, but he latched his jaws around the collar of the orc’s armour and looked at you expectantly.

Standing and grabbing the medical bag, you took a deep breath and said, “Come on.”

It took forever, with the warg yanking and dragging the Uruk along. It might have been an amusing sight were it not for the fatigue that was greying the edges of your vision and for the fact that the Uruk himself was so gravely wounded. Eventually the cabin drew into sight and you pulled open the door and stepped inside. It smelled a bit damp, but it didn’t seem as though anything had taken up residence - or worse, expired - in there; it was just a little leaf-strewn and musty. The modest stone hearth sat cold and empty, the chimney was probably blocked, and there was no bed for him to lie on - no furniture at all - but the warg dragged him in and dumped him in the centre of the room.

When he looked up at you, seeming very pleased with himself, the warg wagged softly and you approached him and petted his shoulder without realising quite what you were doing. “Well done,” you crooned.

The Uruk had unsurprisingly passed out again and you knelt by his side, inspecting the bandages carefully. No blood had seeped through, so - somehow - he’d not split his stitches on the rough journey over. Trying not to congratulate yourself too much, given that Uruks were exceptionally tough creatures and that most of the credit was probably his for being almost indestructible, rather than yours for your deft needlework, you straightened and reached hesitantly for the warg’s head again. As you scratched behind his ear this time, he wagged his fluffy tail and leaned into the touch. “Good boy,” you said. “Thank you for your help.”

It was now full dark, and an owl’s harsh shriek outside startled you, the sudden movement making the warg growl.

“I need to get home,” you said, suddenly remembering that you’d promised Gil that cup of tea earlier. If he came round to your house and hadn’t found you, would he have worried? Would he have looked for you? With Uruks in the area, would he assume you’d been taken after all?

You turned to look at the Uruk and found that he had come to and was staring at you. His eyes were a dark gold, ringed with a coppery tone, and they stared at you with an intensity that made your heartbeat falter. He looked so angry. Kneeling beside him and trying to conjure a bit of courage, you pressed your hand very gently against the most severe of his injuries which made him hiss but drove the point home well enough. “You stay still, alright? I’ll come back tomorrow with something for you to eat, and to check on you. I’ve left a waterskin here for you if you get thirsty,” you added as you pressed it against his knuckly fingers.

He snarled something at you and you frowned. You’d caught the orcish word for ‘die’, but nothing else.

“Hey, you’re not going to die, alright?” you said firmly. “You’re my patient now, and I don’t let my patients die. You’re not allowed to die, you hear me?” and you looked up at the warg to add, “Don’t you let him, alright?”

The creature didn’t understand the words, but he caught the intensity of your tone, and he curled up beside the orc, whining softly.

“You keep him warm til I can get a fire going in that grate,” you added and then left them alone to return to the village.

Outside your house, you found Gil pacing up and down, iron shoes ringing on the cobblestones. When he saw you, his eyes went wide and he stared at the black blood that you’d managed to smear on your linen shirt.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, gaze fixed on the stains. “What happened? Where were you? I came over after I left Martha’s, but you weren’t here, and… is that… Uruk blood?”

“Long story,” you said, unlocking your door and stepping inside. “Lemme clean up and put the kettle on and I’ll… I’ll tell you everything. But you must promise not to tell a soul, alright?”

Gil’s dark eyes narrowed but he nodded and stooped to follow you inside.

Finally, with a cup of tea cradled in your hands, you sat on the floor beside Gil who had lowered himself down onto the floorboards beside the fire, and told him everything that had happened.

“You’re insane,” he said. “You’d actually help one of those monsters?”

You shrugged. “I couldn’t just leave him there. I had to know if he was alive, and if he was, I couldn’t just let him die without trying to help him.” Anxiety flared as the silence stretched between you and you looked up at him. “Are you really angry with me?”

“No,” he said. “I’m not. I’m just… stunned, I guess.” He laughed and stretched. “You haven’t changed a bit since we were kids, you know that?” he said. When you scowled, puzzled, he chuckled, “Remember that adder you found under a rock?”

“The one with the crushed tail,” you smiled. “Yeah… that was a mean son of a bitch, but I nursed it back to health and somehow avoided getting bitten by it…”

“I just hope you don’t get hurt this time.”

“I’ll be careful,” you said.

He shook his shaggy dark head and said, “Bit late for that, what with bossing a feral warg around and sticking needles in an Uruk-hai…”

With a grin you said, “Well, things just get so dull around here, Gil…”

He rolled his eyes. “I should get going, but… please be careful won’t you? I’m going to worry myself sick about you going out there tomorrow…”

When you did return to the abandoned hut, you found the wounded Uruk sitting up, resting his back against the body of the warg whose growls filled the otherwise empty hut as you approached. “Hey, it’s just me,” you said, hanging back in the doorway. “Remember?”

The orc muttered something and waved a hand slightly as if swatting away a fly, and the warg fell silent.

“Alright to come in?” you asked in tentative orcish, and the Uruk nodded. His eyes were brighter and his focus seemed sharper now. “You’re looking better,” you commented as you stepped inside and closed the door again.

He nodded.

In an attempt to make conversation while you laid and lit the fire, you asked, “Do you have a name?”

“Killuc.” It even sounded like the right kind of name for an Uruk. A moment later, he licked his dry lips and tilted his head slightly. “You?”

When you breathed your name, voice surprisingly thin with anxiety, staring at him over your shoulder as you set the last of the small bundle of firewood onto the top, he repeated it almost reverently and you smiled. “And what’s your warg called?”

He looked askance at the warg, who had laid his muzzle back down on the chilly floorboards and was watching you work the flint striker in your fingers with his steady, red gaze. “Ghâsh. It means ‘fire’ in Uruk.”

“For his eyes?” you asked and Killuc nodded.

As the coils of dry kindling caught fire and the smaller sticks around them began to crackle and spit, Ghâsh raised his head and you caught the soft thump of his tail on the floor. He wasn’t a pretty animal, but behind the thuggish face and frankly enormous teeth, you could see a playful, intelligent, and curious creature.

When you looked back at Killuc, he was staring at you, eyes glowing too in the firelight, and yet again you were forced to admit to yourself that the rough-hewn beauty of his face wasn’t entirely unattractive. You’d been drawn to orcs before, when you’d visited the neighbouring clan for trade, and they’d seemed more than interested in you for some reason, but the scrutiny and obvious interest in his face left you more flustered than you’d ever been around his kind. Well, not that the green-skinned orcs were really quite the same as their more brutal, war-mongering cousins, but still.

Clearing your throat, you took a deep breath and then suggested that you take a look at the wounds and change the dressings. With a wry smile that made your heart’s rhythm falter for a second, he nodded. “Is that alright?” you asked and again, he nodded. “Man of few words, eh?” you snorted, more to yourself than to him. “Suppose if I’d been gutted like a fish I wouldn’t feel too chatty either.”

He surprised you by grabbing hold of your wrist as you passed to fetch your bag and staring up at you. Now genuinely frightened, you turned to look down at him and he released you the instant he saw your expression. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I…” his gaze fell to his lap. “I don’t know how to talk to a human.”

“It’s alright,” you said shakily and stepped away. His strength as he’d squeezed your comparatively fragile, breakable wrist in his fingers had been prodigious. The skin of his hand had been tough and leathery, with hard, smooth calluses from years of weapons training, but the way his grip had faltered when he saw your face had spoken of a kinder creature underneath the brutality.

Returning to him, you watched as he let his hands fall softly to his sides, palms up, showing that he meant you no harm. He even turned his face away slightly. The smell coming off him was… well, it was definitely enough to make you think less favourable thoughts about him, and when he saw your new expression, he growled, “What?”

“You need a bath,” you said, aiming for stern though it came out with a slight squeak.

“You going to wash me too then?” he grinned.

For that, you smacked him on the chest with the back of your hand and he laughed before you could panic about assaulting an orc. Not that you’d hit him very hard.

His blood-encrusted shirt was crispy beneath the slashed, studded leather jerkin which creaked as you opened it up. Removing the bandages, you saw that the wound was healing nicely, with no inflammation or heat to the site. He sucked in a sharp breath as your fingertips curiously brushed his thick, purplish-brown skin around the wound and you watched his muscles clench impressively in his torso. “Did that hurt?” you asked.

Killuc scoffed dismissively and rolled his eyes. “As if you could hurt me,” he laughed but very abruptly cut off with a grunt as you pressed your thumb into the bandages of the arrow wound on his thigh. When you cocked an eyebrow at him, he laughed heartily. Uruks didn’t make much sense, but his body relaxed after that and he let you do what you needed to without complaint in order to change the bandages. That done, and with the fire roaring and filling the hut with warmth, you rinsed your hands off and dried them.

“Here,” you said, just as his eyelids began to close and his head to nod with exhaustion.

When he discovered that you were kneeling beside him again, just below his eye level, he blinked and brought up one hand gently to cup your jaw in his vast palm. He ran his thumb over your cheekbone and smiled. His sharp tusks glinted in the firelight and his eyes had a brightness to them that hadn’t been there the day before. The sight of it warmed you more than the flames did, and he smiled slightly.

“Here,” you repeated, pushing a cloth-wrapped loaf of bread into his lap and unfolding the fabric. Beside it you placed a couple of cured sausages and a hunk of cheese. “You should eat something.”

Killuc’s stomach growled comically and the warg, who had been watching your exchange with his steady, red eyes pricked up his ears and snuffed surreptitiously at the edge of the napkin, as if he had any hope of stealing a sausage without Killuc noticing.

You reached across Killuc’s lap and patted the warg on the head before announcing, “I brought something for you too.” As you held up a cony that you’d nicked from one of Thomas’ traps in the forest for him, he whimpered and wiggled free from behind the Uruk. Killuc grunted as he braced himself on his right arm at the sudden loss of the support, and you tossed the rabbit on the floor before the warg could chomp your whole arm off in his enthusiasm for the meat. It was little more than a snack for the warg, but it was better than nothing. You also hoped that the village’s hunter, Thomas, wouldn’t notice that his trap had been reset without bait.

Killuc was staring at you with his eyes wide and a slightly slack-jawed expression on his face.

“What?”

He shook his head and returned his attention to the food in front of him. He ate as voraciously as the warg did, though without the bone-cracking abandon with which the warg crunched his rabbit down. Your stomach rolled unpleasantly and you headed for the door.

“Look,” you said, pausing there and resting one hand on the door frame. “I reckon you’ll be good to move around tomorrow. I’d suggest not coming to the village though. Head north, find your people, and… don’t come back here.”

His expression hardened from soft and gentle to something unreadable and he ground his heavy jaw. Finally he grunted, “Yes.”

Without another word, you gathered your bag from the floor and opened the door. Ghâsh looked from you to the Uruk and back again, and then let out a long, low, heartbreaking whine. “Sorry pup,” you grinned. “You can’t stay here.”

Just as you stepped outside, you heard a grunt and a rustle and found that Killuc had levered himself to his feet and was making his ill-advised and faltering way over to you.

It was the first time you’d seen him standing since your brief glimpse of him at the edge of the forest, and you felt the blood drain from your face as he loomed over you. Leaning on the wall beside the door for support, he reached for you again and tilted your chin upwards with the very tip of his index finger.

“Thank… you,” he said in broken, hesitant common speech.

You had been on the point of saying ‘you’re welcome’ when something else entirely just fell out of your mouth. “You still smell horrible,” you grinned at him, still speaking common.

“You didn’t wash me,” he said, switching to orcish.

“Dream on, big guy,” you said, turning away. “There are some springs just up the hill from here,” you added. “I’m sure you can manage. Tomorrow though… let them heal up a bit more first.” The thought of him without clothes on was making you hot all over and you knew you’d have to get away before you said something you genuinely regretted. A quiet little village was no place for an Uruk-hai and his war-fluffball.

You’d gone no further than the edge of the little clearing when the patter of paws on leaf-litter behind you made you turn around and you saw that Ghâsh had wriggled free of Killuc’s grasp and had bounded across to you. He now blocked your path, lowering his head and growling. You weren’t entirely sure that he wouldn’t attack, but, squaring your shoulders, you stared him straight in the eye. “Stop that,” you said. “You know I can’t stay, and neither can you.”

He growled louder and you heard Killuc snarl something at him from the hut which had absolutely no effect whatsoever on the slathering warg.

You jabbed your finger back at Killuc and spoke to the warg in a firm, quiet voice, “Get out of the way. Go back.”

The warg’s ears swivelled to lie flat against his head and he licked his chops once before his tail sank between his legs and he whined pathetically. Raising your eyebrows silently, you twitched your pointing arm again, and he slunk away, dejected and defeated.

Letting out a private breath of relief before turning to look at them, the waves of adrenaline started to wash out of you to leave you weak and shaky. When you mustered the courage to look back, you found Killuc scratching Ghâsh behind his ears in a gesture of commiseration, and you waved once. Killuc nodded and then backed into the shadows of the hut, closing the door behind him.

It was impossible to return to normal again once you got back to the village.

You tried, and for a week you stubbornly refused to dwell on the harsh, statuesque plains of Killuc’s body, on the rich, bruised-plum colour of his skin, the vivid gold of his eyes or the gentle power of his enormous, battle-scarred hands. You refused… No. You didn’t. You spent every night that week with only your hand to occupy your body and only the memory of him to occupy your mind. It was a miserable torment, but you knew you’d get over your little obsession soon enough. You had to. He was an Uruk-hai for goodness’ sake. If you came harder than you’d ever come before, with his name on your lips and the feeling of his touch in your mind, it was just a coincidence.

Six days after you’d left Killuc and Ghâsh in the woods, you woke to a commotion of screams and shouts in the village.

Dressing hurriedly into practical clothing, you slung your belt on last of all, and the long knife you used for gathering herbs and stripping willow bark from the trees down by the millpond slapped reassuringly against your thigh in its leather sheath. You flung open the door and immediately discovered the source of the panic.

The urge to shut the door instantly and bolt out of the back was overwhelming.

Six towering Uruk-hai were standing just up the road in the centre of the village, and one had a small faun, Hazel, dangling in limp terror from their grip. You didn’t recognise any of them as Killuc, and wondered vaguely if he knew them. They didn’t have the look of the losing side about them.

Sucking in a deep breath for courage, you marched down the road towards the square where the village well sat at the centre of the space used for selling goods once a week. You’d barely gone ten steps down the cobbles when you heard iron shoes clattering and Gil shot out and grabbed you, yanking you into the shadows between two houses. “What are you doing?” he hissed in a half-whinny.

“They’ve got Hazel,” you snarled back at him, twisting your hand free. “I can’t just let them kill her!”

“They’ll kill you if you go near them!” he insisted, looking like he might try to grab at you again to hold you back.

Before he could lunge at you again, you ran for it like a rabbit bolting from one hole to another while a fox waited in the grass. “Stop!” you yelled, thinking about pulling your belt knife on them, but at the sight of their cruel, curved weapons, you decided it would only amuse them. “Let her go!”

“Or what?” the female holding the faun sneered, dropping Hazel onto the flagstones at her feet. The baker’s apprentice scrabbled frantically to get away, but a second Uruk stepped forward and trod on her stomach, pinning her down with just enough force to keep her winded without breaking her ribcage.

“Let. Her. Go,” you said as fiercely as you could, fists balled at your sides.

The female just laughed again and shoved you hard in the chest with so little effort that it might have been funny under different circumstances. As it was, the gesture sent you sprawling and you landed heavily on your backside, winded. “Pathetic,” she chuckled.

Anger and hurt boiled up in you and you glanced over at Hazel, who lay there, paralysed with terror beneath the iron boot of the Uruk, staring wide-eyed at you. “I don’t know why I thought you’d be like Killuc,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, as you tried to stand up again.

“What did you say?” a third, slightly smaller Uruk demanded, grabbing you by the collar just as you righted yourself and ramming you back into the wooden strut of the well behind you with the force of a charging warhorse. The whole mechanism rocked, the bucket swinging wildly as you collided with the wooden frame and the breath was knocked from your lungs again.

Stunned and blinking stupidly, you just wheezed, “Killuc…” but you couldn’t get any more out. The orc’s grip had shifted to your throat and he was tightening it. He stank of rotting fish and his teeth were vile, breath unspeakable. He cracked you across the cheek with a fist and you tasted blood.

Without warning, a roar rent the air from a little way back and your eyes travelled vaguely towards the grassy meadow beyond the village. All the Uruks froze and a second later, through blurring vision, you saw a streak of grey dart across the field towards you. Following behind was a darker figure but you couldn’t make much out at that distance and with your airways choked off.

The Uruk holding you released you with a snarl and you crumpled, knees buckling beneath you. The white streak was Ghâsh, and he had launched himself at your aggressor, flying at his arm and pinning him to the ground, snarling and gnashing his jaws shut repeatedly in the Uruk’s face. The Uruk fell still instantly.

Walking slowly, deliberately, unhurriedly across the meadow was a dark, towering figure. His hair was pulled back in a rough ponytail, his leather jerkin was slashed and bloodied, but there was no trace of a limp or falter in his steps now. Killuc paced like a wolf himself towards the others and they all swallowed hesitantly, adjusting their weight slightly and shuffling.

One of the onlookers gathered at the edges of the square, a half-dryad, darted forwards and scooped Hazel up, helping her back and when Gil moved to do the same for you, you shook your head, holding up a hand.

“What?” he mouthed incredulously.

“Just wait,” you whispered and he looked at you as if you’d suffered a serious concussion and weren’t talking properly. Perhaps you had…

Just as Killuc joined the group, the female grunted something in the Uruk dialect and made a grab for you again, as if planning to hoist you up like a war trophy. In fact, he didn’t so much as join it as ram into it with another primal roar. He wrenched the female off you before she could get a good hold and snarled something at her in their language that you understood through tone rather than translation. He was livid, shouting at her until she backed off, smacking his hand off her with a belligerent and petulant swipe of her forearm and stepping away.

When he was satisfied, he turned to you and you tried not to shrink back from him. You did flinch, and he swallowed thickly, hesitating as he offered you his hand to help you to your feet again. Feeling braver than you probably looked, you accepted it and he tugged you gently upwards, steadying you when you swayed. His fingertips came to your cheekbone, where the smaller male had hit you, and a low, earthy growl rumbled from his throat. It was a sound you expected to hear more from Ghâsh than him, but you didn’t mind in the least.

The female stepped forward and spat one more sentence at you in Uruk and Killuc flipped. He turned and backfisted her, sending her reeling, and let out another string of thick, impenetrable orcish curses at her.

At the light pressure of your hands on his arm, Killuc stilled immediately, falling silent and turning back to you. “Enough,” you murmured. “I don’t care what she said, but take your warriors and get out of here. And don’t come back.”

His flattened nostrils flared at your words, expression faltering slightly, but he nodded grimly. “You will not see any Uruk-hai again,” he said gruffly. “This village is not to be touched.”

Your eyebrows rose. “You have the authority to do that?” you asked.

He nodded. “I am their warchief. My word is law. Anyone who sets foot in this village without my permission will lose that leg.”

“Right,” you said shakily. “Sure. Ok…” You took a slow inhale and then said, “Well… thank you. And Ghâsh too,” you added, glancing at the warg who still had the unfortunate Uruk pinned beneath his paws.

Killuc roared something at the other Uruks and they finally slouched away towards the meadow and away from the buildings of the village. Ghâsh stayed put and stared at you as if he expected you to be coming along, and when Killuc whistled at him, he yipped and snarled, dancing on the spot. Killuc did not ask him again, and instead kept walking.

You approached the warg and scratched him under the chin, even as he head-butted you gently, wagging pathetically. Pushing him away, you felt a lump forming in your throat, and he whined in complaint before realising how far the others had gone. With a final snap of his jaws that carried no threat, merely frustration, Ghâsh bounded away faster than a galloping centaur. He barrelled straight into Killuc from behind and knocked him flat, at which the Uruks all laughed. Killuc staggered to his feet, swiped playfully at the warg with a fist, shoved the small male into a broad patch of stinging nettles, and stumped off with his head down.

His was a world of belligerence and uncertainty, his subjects volatile and tough as old boots - that he’d healed almost completely in a week was astonishing - and he did not belong with you. Fantasies were one thing, but seeing him there in the midst of the clean and tidy cottages, with his blood-spattered fighting leathers and his colossal war beast, had reinforced that. You glanced at Gil who stood nearby, still staring at you with a strange look on his face, and you turned away from the sight of the dwindling figures.

“You alright?” he asked as you joined him. You glanced at Hazel who was still shivering in the arms of the half-dryad as she let herself be led away.

With a nod, you said, “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

“That was so dumb,” he blurted. “You could have been killed…”

You shrugged. “I wasn’t. Hazel’s fine, and they’re not coming back, so I’d chalk it up as a victory.”

His gentle brown eyes surveyed you for a moment longer and he said, “You want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” you said, managing a weak smile. “Thanks though.”

He nodded and let you go back to your cottage at the edge of the village to mull things over. You couldn’t shake Killuc’s roar from your mind. It had been like no beast you’d ever heard, thundering in your ribcage and ripping through you with the power of a mid-summer storm. And Ghâsh too had leapt to protect you. “Stop it,” you snarled, slamming your front door behind you. “He’s a bloody Uruk-hai for goodness’ sake.”

To take your mind off recent events, you threw yourself into village life. Another week later, as the harvest festival was approaching, you helped out at the inn when a delivery of casks came, helping Skalen heave them inside and down into his cellar, and you were rewarded for your efforts by the dwarf with a huge tankard of slightly lively ale. The next day, however, your joints and muscles were aching all over and regretting the physical work just a little bit.

“Go up to the hot spring,” Gil suggested. “You should have just asked me to help unload them, you know?”

“I know, I know,” you said, thumping his withers affectionately. “Mr. Big Muscles.”

“I’m not showing off,” he mumbled, embarrassed. “I’m just…”

“Bigger than me. I know,” you laughed. “Fine, I’ll go. You want to come too?”

He smiled. “Sure. You want a ride?”

Gil had let you sit on his back only a few times, and it was a mark of just how close you were to him that he had even suggested it in the first place. You nodded your grateful thanks and said, “Let me just grab a change of clothes.”

“I’ll meet you at your door in a minute then.”

At roughly sixteen hands high, Gil was not a small centaur, and he had to swing you up onto his back. You landed awkwardly and apologised, shuffling until you got settled. Riding a centaur without a saddle was hardly comfortable, but the only centaurs who ever allowed someone to ride them in harness or tack were the elite Kingsguards and the swift, light-boned centaurs of the messenger corps. They had one rider, one partner, and it was almost a sacred arrangement between them. This was something much more relaxed and friendly, and you let the syncopated rhythm of his four-beat walk lull you. Naturally they drifted to a mountain of dark skin and a pair of blazing gold eyes.

“Penny for your thoughts?” he asked as he crossed the meadow and began to climb the hill towards the ridge where the mineral springs bubbled up through the rock and created three steaming pools of blissfully hot water.

“You don’t want to hear them really,” you said after a moment.

Gil laughed, stepping over a fallen branch. “You’re thinking about your four hundred pound Uruk hai saviour?”

“How’d you guess?” you said flatly, resting your forehead on Gil’s broad back for a moment. “I can’t get him out of my head.”

“Your knight in filthy leathers?” he pressed and you thumped him gently with a closed fist. “Got to say, I’ve never heard of an Uruk getting involved with someone of another species like that. I know of orcs up at the stronghold who have taken humans as their partners, but it’s rare for Uruks to give a crap about anything other than running someone else through with their sword or sinking their tusks into someone’s throat, you know?”

You shuddered, recalling the power of his grasp, and the lethal point on his tusks.

“Sorry,” Gil muttered. “Hold on,” and he scrambled up the steepest point of the slope and emerged at the top, barely winded.

However, once he crested the rise, he froze.

“Gil?” you chirped, leaning forwards.

“Uhh…” he said and you felt his flank twitch nervously. He was clearly fighting his flight reflex hard.

“What is it?”

He shifted slightly and the view of the three steaming pools swung into view. You were not alone, and, to your immense surprise, the Uruk who had just stood up from the water was not only Killuc, but he was completely stark fucking naked.

Gil glanced back over his shoulder at you and hissed, “I thought you said he wasn’t welcome back here.”

Through gritted teeth, you replied, “I told him that he couldn't come to the village. I didn’t say he couldn’t bathe.”

“You want to go?”

“What do you think?”

“I think I want to go,” Gil grumbled.

With a shy laugh, you slid off his back and gave his withers a friendly, grateful pat. “I’m sorry. And I’ll be careful,” you said before he could say it for you.

Shaking his head, he backed off, grumbling about having been looking forward to a nice hot soak. “No way I’m going in there for at least three days now…”

“Oi!” you yelped indignantly at his retreating backside, but he gave no reaction.

Turning back around, you saw that Killuc was still standing there with the water sloshing around his knees. The rest of his body was every bit as beautiful as you’d imagined it would be; all brutal muscles and hard lines, slashed and criss-crossed here and there with scars and marks, and perhaps even a brand on his chest. You winced at that, even as you approached and ditched your bundle of spare clothes in the lea of a huge beech tree nearby.

He rumbled your name and smiled at you.

“You here alone?” you asked in common before remembering that he didn’t really speak it. Dammit, but your orcish really wasn’t that good.

Killuc nodded once.

“Why are you here?”

His grin grew until it was a cheeky, wonky, lopsided smirk. “You told me I needed to bathe.”

“Really?” you snorted. “You really came all the way back here to wash because I told you that you smelled like a midden heap in high summer?”

“That bad?”

“Mmhmm.”

“And now?” he asked. He still hadn’t moved a muscle, just standing there as if he were part of the rocks surrounding the pool. And as if he weren’t completely stark fucking naked.

The springs weren’t the sulfurous kind, but they did smell strongly of minerals, though that had to be better than whatever he’d smelled like before. “Probably much better,” you said, making no move to approach him.

A low-frequency rumble, half-snarl and half-challenge, spilled from him and he took half a step towards you in the water. Your eyes roved down his body, drinking in his muscles and his raw power until you saw that his cock was starting to show some interest too, thickening and occasionally twitching. When he saw you staring, he growled again. “Come here,” he rasped.

You’d just begun to take off your clothes when he lost his patience and splashed through the water to the edge of the pool, ripping the last of your clothes clean off you and letting his hands roam over you with an appreciative growl.

“Careful of those tusks, eh?” you chuckled nervously as they flashed dangerously close to your neck.

“Trust me,” he demanded, his eyes blazing and, despite what he was and what his people were like, you did. You knew he wasn’t going to hurt you.

“You really are the warchief, aren’t you?” you gasped as he gripped your hips with his strong fingers and dug them in hard enough to leave bruises.

Killuc didn’t answer. He picked you up at the waist and you instinctively wrapped your thighs around his hips, letting him carry you to the water. He stepped straight into the hot spring water and set you down on the edge of the rocky pool where thousands of years of deposits had built up around the rim, creating an enamel-smooth lip. He lost no time in putting his mouth on you, using his tongue, sucking, sometimes scraping his front teeth over your most sensitive areas, always careful of his lethal tusks. His hands pressed hard into the muscles of your thighs, pulling you apart to give him better access to you until you thought he was going to tear you in two.

The pleasure of the heat of his mouth, his tongue against you, over you, and sometimes in you, sent heat sparking all across your body and under your skin until your back arched and you yelled that you were close. He didn’t stop. You felt his thick fingers slide inside you and when he crooked them just so and they hit that spot inside you that lit you up, you came with a shout, vision darkening. He kept his mouth on you the whole time, relishing the taste of you as you shuddered and gasped, body convulsing with the force of the orgasm he’d practically ripped from you. His fingers were still inside you as you clenched around him in waves of pleasure.

“I want you,” he finally growled as he drew back and you lay limp and exhausted and sensitive all over. “I want you.”

The idea of him being inside you suddenly seemed like all you’d ever wanted, and you nodded. That seemed to surprise him a little, but once he’d spent a bit more time teasing you, working you, worshipping you, waking you up again and easing you back to him, he picked you up and sank down into the water with you so that he was sitting with his back against the smooth walls of the pool. He lowered you into his lap, facing him, and you felt his hard cock nudge against your entrance. He eased you gently down and you kept your heavy eyelids open just enough to watch his expression as he nudged his huge cock inside you, inch by inch.

As his tip sank into you, you groaned softly and his strong arms shook.

“Please,” you said. His fingers had not been nearly enough. “I’m not going to break, you can -”

Apparently that was all he needed, and he rolled his hips upwards, sinking himself into you right to the hilt. Killuc’s head bowed suddenly and he began to breathe rapidly. “So… So tight,” he grunted, frozen. “I’m…”

“Move,” you demanded, practically baring your teeth at him and grabbing a handful of his long, wet hair, tugging his head back to expose his neck to you.

At the command, he obeyed. The fierce, apparently indestructible warchief of the Uruk-hai bowed to your orders and began to thrust upwards into you. The shape and thickness of his cock was just perfect, and in no time you felt yourself coiling up again. His fingers would leave bruises on your hips for sure, but that only seemed to make it even better. Your hands wandered over his colossal, solid body, over his scars, that warband’s brand on his left pec, feeling the flex and strain of his arms and back and shoulders as he held himself back. Even seemingly lost in the depths of his own pleasure, he had not completely forgotten how dangerous he was. That thought alone was nearly enough to make you come again, and he felt you shuddering, body going limp as you sensed the rising crescendo in you once more.

“Wait,” he snarled. “Don’t… Not until…” and he picked up his pace. Water sloshed around you, and each thrust of his hips became more and more strained, his breath ghosting across your wet skin as he struggled not to lose all control. He began to snarl and grunt, the sounds deep in his throat, and then he hissed something in Uruk just as his rhythm faltered. He bellowed as he released inside you, hips sealed against your body, the warmth of the water caressing your waist as his muscles bunched and his back bowed forwards. He filled you so completely at that angle, and you followed him a second later. He was still breathing like a galloped horse when you had finished, and you stroked his hair as he shuddered violently, gasping, sweat beading on his brow and mingling with the rising steam from the water.

The thought suddenly struck you that it felt as though he’d never allowed himself this kind of closeness with anyone, and perhaps he hadn’t. That was a conversation for another time though. Right now, words were not what he wanted. As if the tenderness of your touch drained him of all his remaining strength and willpower, he slumped against your body, hugging his arms around you and resting his forehead at your collarbones. Killuc’s breathing was harsh and rapid, but the longer he stayed there, the calmer and quieter he got.

Eventually he pulled himself upright, leaning back a little, and looked almost sheepishly into your eyes. “Did I hurt you?” he asked and when you smiled and shook your head dazedly, he seemed to let out a breath of relief.

“We’re not that fragile,” you said. “Humans, I mean.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, stressing with his tone that there was a difference this time.

You took his anvil of a jaw in your palm and stroked his cheekbone as he had done with yours, and kissed him. It was a gentle, unexpectedly sweet kiss, and he growled softly like a distant thunderstorm or a fireside cat, his golden eyes rolling closed. Killuc’s thick, dark lashes were surprisingly long. You kissed his closed eyes too and another unsteady breath left him, his thick arms tightening around you until you nearly wheezed.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered again, so quietly that you almost missed it.

“You haven’t,” you said. “You never have,” you reassured him.

“You saved my life,” he said. “You nursed me, and then you drove me away…”

“I…” you faltered, leaning back a little too. His arms continued to support you, but he let you draw back. “I thought it was probably best… given that, you know… you’re an Uruk-hai…”

He glowered, dark brows furrowing. “I would not have hurt you. And I’m sorry that they disobeyed my orders. The village was not to be touched. Even before you…”

“I can see that now,” you said. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry I hurt you…”

Killuc grinned, the expression spreading slowly across his brutishly beautiful face. He rolled his hips once, his cock just beginning to soften but not enough that he couldn’t still make you moan.

“You smell better now,” you added, cracking a joke.

With a sound like a contented lion, he said, “I smell like you.”

“Exactly; much better.”

Laughing, he lifted you up and dropped you in the middle of the pool of gloriously warm water only for you to come up a moment later, coughing and laughing and cursing him all at the same time.

—

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[silverclawz]

Things to consider when writing for thin tall people:

- first up, the taller we are, the harder we fall. It is very true and very painful. And if we panic and flail, there is a greater chance of us bruising, straining, spraining, breaking, twisting, or dislocating something.

- as a tall thin person myself, let me tell you. The most dangerous thing to happen isnt gonna be a knife wound. Or even an abduction. Its gonna be waking up in the middle of the night, in a new place with small objects on the ground, and having to immediately sprint anywhere. See the blood rushes to our legs and feet and then we either pass out or just spasm cause the body don’t like having the red juice in the coconut.

- When we do bleed, its usually over pretty quickly, we clot very well. HOWEVER, because we have a lower body mass to size ratio, if we loose more than an 8th of our blood, we will pass out. (Based off mine and others like me’s experiences)

- we are the gentle giants. Will we help you reach the tall things? Yes, always. Will we help you fix the tall thing? Yes, always. Why? Cause every single tall person ive ever met has always had similarly happy memories of being smol child and being best hider and now that we’re all big, we can’t do that.

- as a thin person, there is nothing more annoying than the random bruises that we regularly discover on our legs and arms all the time, seemingly from no where. And i dont know if its just cause of how i was raised or what, but i somehow develop tons of bruises on my forearms and calves with no memory of anything ever hitting me there. Use it as you like.

- as a thin tall person, we get hungry a lot. Usually our metabolism doesn’t match our bone structure. So as such, we are always snacking. If we know we are going to be out and about, we bring the snacks and the water. So much water.

- speaking of water, we also get dehydrated a lot. So while one person may bring 1 or 2 bottles of water on a trip, we’ll be more than likely to bring 4 to even 6 or 7. We know, its always better to have too much than to not have enough. Dizzy spells and tallness do not mix well on any kind of forest path.

- did i mention how we are always flipping cold? Cause yeah we are. The blood has so far to go from the heart to the tips of our toes and fingers, that its really a miracle it gets their at the meager warmpth that it is. And since we’re also not carrying any extra insulation, we’re gonna wanna bundle up, Even in the warm days if we’re sitting in the shade for long.

- However, conversely, we also suffer from heat exertion and heat stroke a lot easier than those with a thicker build. Our bodies just dont have all the resources on hand or in storage to cope with the extra heat or cold. So dont be surprised that our packs always have a jacket and room to shed layers.

- please for the love of all that is holy and just, keep the smaller children away!! Anything below our belly button is in danger of being kicked or hip checked unkess we are paying extra careful attention to them. Which to be fair, we usually do, out of fear of hurting them, but still!

- and please, for our own sanity, dont let them pretend we’re a tree or something else to climb. We spook so easy and we don’t know what to do. Most times we just freeze and let them climb while internally freaking out and bordering on cardiac arrest levels of heart rates.

- speaking of heart rates, yeah, ours does naturally go that fast and hard. Please stop asking if we are okay, we are fine. This is normal. It just makes us suuuper tired. Its why we’re always down for naps and cuddles.

Basically, we are the giraffes you all know us to be, but we are so full of anxiety about everything, because we know that the only thing keeping our bodies from going nucleur and shutting down is us scrambling to maintain and keep up with all its many basic needs.

And lets face it. We’re humans. And we forget that stuff a lot. So if we seem kind of distant, don’t ask us if we’re okay, just hand us a water bottle or a snack bar and tell us to eat or drink. 99% of the time, we’ll do it just to be polite and make you feel better, which makes us feel better.

[h-e-l-l-b-r-o-k-e]

Touch [B.H. x you]

Request:

Inspiration: Hands Across The Sea by Modern English

Words: 1828 Warnings: none.

Written Date: 3/16-31/2020 Posted Date: 4/4/2020

[MASTERLIST]

Scratched up skateboard wheels rolling across the pavement fluttered through the three-inch crack of the front door as Billy sat at the kitchen table. He’ll be met with a stern lecture from a mustached lip if a fly managed to wander into the home like a tourist upon their first breath of the A.C. at a hotel lobby, but Billy had much more important business to intend to. Report cards were just around the corner and with his sweet talking skills, Billy’d convinced the math teacher into giving him a passing grade if he turned in 200 solved problems by the end of the week.

He had seven days. Seven whole days to answer some textbook questions that they’ve gone over in class. It should have been easy, except it wasn’t. Billy was failing the class for a reason. Day five only had two hours left of sunshine, yet Billy’s currently stuck on problem forty-six. With each tick of the clock mounted behind him, his frustration grew.

One of his temples rested in the cup of his left palm as he beat the eraser head on the other before tossing the pencil at the book pages. Words were merging into numbers and numbers were blurring into letters.

Fuck it, he thought, I’ll just ask for a tutor. Yet he knew if he kept this mindset he’d fail, receive a smack across the back of his head, and still wouldn’t seek out a tutor.

He could hear the skateboard’s wheels beat relentlessly against the cracked concrete while Max explained the footwork behind the technique to you, who was sitting on the grass with your white cane last he check. Jealousy picked at the nerves in his forehead as frustration clenched his eyebrows together.

His mind began running off of the book pages and onto the blue sports car in his driveway. Would he have enough for the wash and the wax. Would there be enough leftover for a tip? Billy was an asshole to a lot of things, but he knew what it was liked to be stiffed.

Page 267 was beginning to give him more trouble than it was worth, and those pointers the geek with the lisp in his class gave weren’t helping at all. The rim of one of Susan’s good glasses touched the plush of his bottom lip, the cool water streaming down the well of his parched throat―

A gasp bordering along a yelp burst through the door, clawing its way into his ear. He nearly choked on his drink; some loose water dribbled down his chin.

Pushing out of his chair and the table he was leaning on, not caring if the polished hardwood caught a couple scratches, he was out the front door in five seconds.

Under the shade of his palm, which he planted against his eyebrows to fend off the sun’s brightness, he scanned the situation for clues.

His step-sister’s skateboard lied planted on the other side of the street. Upside down. Wheels spinning lazily under the shade.

The little redheaded runt’s wide eyes met his. Laced with alarm. Her bottom lip wobbled in search for words. Her hands held out below her…toward you, who was slowly lifting yourself by the skin of your elbows.

Raw. Blood beginning to clot around the loose gravel that clung to the wounds.

Billy marched through the grass, nearly tripping over your forgotten cane. “Max, what’d you do?!”

Max took a deep breath, crouching down to you. Her small fingers brushed your palm before helping you to your feet. “I’m sorry.”

As soon as you were back on the safety pads of your feet, Max turned to face her fuming step-brother.”I didn’t mean―”

His hand landed on her slender shoulder, shaking her like an earthquake rattles a brick foundation. “No, of course you didn’t mean to, you little twerp.”

A couple specks of spit landed across her freckled cheeks and nose, prompting her to screw up her face in mild disgust. “She wanted―”

“How many times do I have to tell you? You need to be careful with her, she’s―”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here, Billy.” You dusted off the debris from your stinging cuts. “I’m blind, not fragile. How many times do I have to tell you?”

You would have walked off in the direction of his house if only you knew wherever the hell it was. Trying to land that kickflip Max had spent the last half hour explaining to you really messed with your sense of direction, but you weren’t about to tell them that. Your mother didn’t call you a stubborn mule for nothing plus you were getting really sick of Billy thinking you were weak, so you turned around and started stalking off without the aid device your parents payed for.

“Y/n, where are you going?” Billy called after you. “You can’t just leave.”

“Watch me!” You called over your shoulder, continuing your trek into the unknown.

Billy watched you walking down the street, and for once he appreciated living down such a long road miles away from the populated center of town. If it wasn’t one of his neighbors pulling into their cracked driveways after a long 9-to-5 shift or pulling away for a hearty meal at Benny’s Diner, cars rarely ever raced down this street.

Turning to Max, his grip loosened on her shoulder. “Grab your board and get inside.”

Max didn’t argue. Out of the two of them, Max had a more leveled head. She knew she could just check out the damage on your elbows and apologize again once Billy convinced you to come back into their comfy abode. Yanking away from her older step-brother, she ran for her precious skateboard.

“Babe, come on,” Billy tried to reason with you as his long legs neared you. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. You just―”

His warm hand gently latched onto your arm, turning you to face him. “I just what, Billy? You know people here either pity me or they stand feet apart from me like I’m made of glass,”the pressure in the center of your forehead begins to make itself known in the form of a headache, “I just thought things…here…were different.”

“They are, babe.” His chin bounced with quick little nods to reassure you. Sometimes he forgot that you couldn’t see these small actions. “Okay? They are. Max was teaching you one of her stupid tricks, and I just freaked, okay?”

Memories flicker through your mind, sounds and touch alike. When one of the mean girls at school had purposely stuck her foot out in front of you for taking “her man” away, you had bashed your head against a locker and were knocked out cold. You had woken up moments later in Billy’s arms as he carried you to the nurse’s office. You hadn’t bent over and died when the concussion symptoms came at you in full force; you had just taken the standard amount of sick days at home. Not any less and, definitely, not any more.

Other memories came at you, but none were as extreme as the concussion. Yet, with each scrape or nick that life threw at you, Billy reacted like blood was seeping through your clothing at an alarming rate or your lungs were restricting from lack of oxygen. Whatever it was, Billy acted like it was the end of the world for you.

“I didn’t cry when I fell off a tree branch and broke my arm in fourth grade, “ you began the recited verse you’ve told almost every member of your family, “so, I’m not gonna cry because of some stupid scuff marks on my elbows. I’m fine.”

“But, when I was sitting at the kitchen table, loss in thought, I heard it.” His thumbs were stroking the bones of your cheeks. “I heard you fall, Y/n. How was I supposed to know it wasn’t anything worse? When my dad first introduced me to Susan, Max walked around in crutches after a bad skateboard landing snapped her shin bone.”

You sighed, allowing his outlook on the situation widen the scope of your mind. Maybe you were being a little too harsh on him. After all, you couldn’t pour salt to the sizzle off the worry that ate you up inside whenever Billy decided to hang out with one of his pals. It would steal the sleep from you knowing he’d be driving around drunk. Him cradling you to the nurse’s office and you phoning him to make sure he made it to his bedroom safe were two sides of the same coin.

“I’m surprised Susan still lets her ride around on that thing.” His fingers carded through your hair. “I was just scared the same thing might of happened to you, or worse.”

“I understand, Billy.” You spoke so softly, Billy wasn’t entirely sure if it was just one of your breaths. A shuddering gasp forced its way out of your throat as you fought off the burning sensation of tears from the corner of your eyes. “I just get so frustrated sometimes.”

Your face met the soft cotton of his shirt as he brought you into the protection of his arms. “I know, baby,” He kissed the crown of your head. “I’m sorry I overreact sometimes.”

You sniffled a couple times before pulling away from him, “It’s okay.”

His lips brushed against the center of your forehead first then dipped his head to land another on your plump lips, but your fingers caught him. “You still have to apologize to Max first before you can kiss me.”

He took a deep breath. “Deal.”

Your fingers fumbled for his before before successfully latching on. You sighed as your palms melded together like ironworks as Billy led the way to his house.

As you both grew closer a loose thought struck you. “Wait. Don’t you still have homework to do?”

A/N: I hope I did alright in characterizing a blind reader.

[n3rdybird]

The Serpent Ch 1

Written for @tilltheendwilliwrite​‘s 7.7k Celebration/Covid Sucks Challenge.  My prompt was this image.

Not gonna lie, this got away from me a bit, and looks like it might flesh out into several chapters.  Hope you enjoy!

Vikings

OFCxIvar

Rating:Teen

Warnings: Blood/Battle/Curse words

The singing of swords echoed through the trees. Ivar and his men mowed down English soldiers with relish, screaming their victory. Ivar, atop his chariot, pounded his axe against the woodside, eager for more. The wood bridge was no-man’s land as both sides rushed each other, dying over the water. Ivar urged his horse forward, his blood pounding with every Englishman slain. Out of nowhere, a sword caught his arm, causing his grip on his horse's reins to falter. The horse panicked, causing the cart to careen sideways on the rickety bridge. The chariot slammed into the side of the bridge, sending Ivar over the edge. He had but a moment to see the clouded sky overhead, before falling into the churning river.

-------------------------------

The calm quiet of the glade was an illusion. The plush green moss underfoot, the soft rushing of the river, the clear blue sky. By all accounts, it was a peaceful day. But the muddied red river and corpses along the banks betrayed that notion.

 A lone figure picked through the woods, a piebald horse trailing after her a few paces behind. She laughed as the horse would pause to chomp at the occasional green leaf. The horse would toss his head, annoyed, when she would urge him forward with a click of her tongue. He would take his revenge by nibbling at her chestnut brown hair in defiance. Legs encased in sturdy leather leggings, her torso covered by a thick band topped with animal fur. Her boots were soft and pliant; she didn't make a sound as she scanned the grounds for various plants.

 She paused when coming upon the bloody scene. She hitched her herb basket higher up on her back before squatting to inspect the closest body. The chain mail and metalwork of his armor pointed to a soldier of Lord Aldrich. She curled her lip in distaste; she had run-ins with his men before. Her family was not welcome to the ‘civilized’ English. She scavenged his corpse, searching for anything of use. When she found nothing, she moved on to the next. The leather armor was similar to what her people wore but thicker and heavy with metal studs. These men were not her kin, nor Alrich’s. They were someone new.

 While towns did not appeal to her, they were a great source of news. She heard the whispers of the elders, as they discussed the possible allies or enemies. Northmen, they were called. The heathen monsters from across the sea; known for pillaging, killing, wearing their enemies blood like warpaint. Something most parents would tell children to frighten them to stay close to home. Much like the tales that surrounded her kin. But this scene proved they were human and bled, like all men.

 She made her way to each of the bodies, picking over each one. She found very little, refusing to take any of the adornments of the unknown warriors. If they were fighting with her clan’s enemies, they deserved the courtesy of not being picked over like carrion. She found a dagger tucked into a waterlogged belt. It was well made and would be easy for her to wield. She stood and brushed off her knees, not wanting to linger when a groan caught her attention. Brandishing the purloined knife, her eyes darted around to find the source.

 As the groan reverberated again, she pinpointed its source to a fallen log. The enormous oak was half-submerged under the river. The tree's limbs acted like a sieve to catch anything in the river’s current. Wedged in the branches was a body. Curiosity winning out against sense, the woman wadded into the water, following the sound. She tossed the debris aside, revealing a young man, pale but breathing. He had blood clotting at his temple and a nasty gash on his shoulder. He wasn’t one of Aldrich’s men that was certain. His braided hair was decorated with beadwork and his armor matching that of the Northmen. She kneeled, the cold water lapping at her thighs, and reached out to trace his brow. He was young, no wrinkles but a few silvery white scars spaced apart on his skin, most likely from battle. He was a handsome sort, and no doubt a person of importance, if his stylized armor was to go by. She was so focused on her appraisal that she didn’t see him move until it was too late.

 Pain shot up her arm, her wrist held in a bruising grip.

 “Hvem er du?” his voice growled out. 

 Although his language was unfamiliar, his gravel-toned voice made her shudder. His forceful tone and his grip were intimidating, but the bright blue eyes staring drew her in. Steeling herself, she wrenched her wrist away and reached for the dagger at her waist. The warrior was quicker and had her dagger against her throat in a flash.

 “Hvem er du!” he yelled, the blade demanding against her skin. He trembled and blinked, his eyes unfocusing. He was weak and close to falling unconscious again.

 She leaned into the blade, the metal cutting her flesh. He stared at the blood trickling down her next, before bringing his piercing blue eyes back to hers.

 “Elda,” she introduced, taking the knife from his weakening grip and putting his hand on her chest.

 “Ivar,” he mumbled before his head lolled forward. Elda stood up, tucking the knife back into her waistband. He was strong, that was certain. And if half of his men were as strong as he, perhaps her family’s future would not be so bleak. Decision made, she whistled, and her horse plodded closer, whinnying at his owner.

 “Come closer Paega, you coward. I’m not carrying this man back to the hut alone.” He tossed his mane and snorted.

 “Fine,” she huffed, hefting Ivar as well as she was able. He was heavier than she expected, his upper body strong under his leathers. She clicked her tongue at her horse, and he kneeled, allowing Elda to drape the man over his back. Paega straightened up, dancing a bit in place to get used to the weight on his back.

 “Come on now boy, let’s get back home.”

 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 The trek back to her camp took Elda longer than anticipated. While Paega had a smooth gait, picking through the woods caused the rouncey to stumble at times. She tried to take it slow so as to not aggravate the Northman’s injuries. She would be disappointed if he died after the trouble of getting him out of the river.

 Elda crested a hill and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of her camp. The wood and thatched roof were modest, but it was hers. The small hut was nestled in a glade surrounded by rocky outcroppings. It had some supplies and a lean-to barn for Paega. The hut itself was sparse, a single room with only one wall. But it was enough for her when she was away from home and needed a safe refuge.

 The young woman was able to get Ivar inside with some effort, with Paega all but dumping the Northman onto the wood. After his victorious delivery, the chestnut horse busied himself with a bucket of hay.

 The brunette stretched, her back sore from hauling the unconscious man across her threshold. For now, Ivar lay on a bedroll fashioned from furs. Elda collected supplies, herbs, and clean linen dressings and a bowl of water. She arranged them next to the bedroll. The next step would be to undress him. Elda knelt next to his prone form, her fingers attempting to undo all the buckles and straps. She eyed the strange metal skeleton encasing his legs but passed on trying to figure it out. His shoulder was the priority. Each layer she set aside until skin slick with blood revealed itself.

 Ivar wasn’t the first man or boy she’d seen shirtless. Her skills as a healer had her seeing many people at stages of undress. Ivar was no boy. His upper body was all sinewy muscles and scattered scars. Elda allowed herself a moment to gaze at the ink adorning his shoulders, wondering what deeds he had completed to earn them or if he had more. Shaking her head, she turned her attention to the gash on his arm. It spanned his bicep to his shoulder, deep, but not fatal. The blood loss combined with the cold water of the river led to his current state. She cleaned the wound, first with water to wash away any dirt, and then again with an herbal rinse. If it was painful, only the slightest twitch from her charge betrayed that. Needle and thread in hand, she closed the angry wound with even, small stitches. It would scar, but what was another in his already impressive collection. Ivar grunted in his delirium and opened his eyes.

 He panicked sluggishly, attempting to push Elda away.

 “Stop Ivar,” she chided, pushing his arm back down with a firm hand. Even in his state, he was almost strong enough to toss her aside. Elda braced his head and brought an earthenware bowl to his lips, water for his parched mouth. He slurped at the bowl, causing him to cough when he took too much. She pulled the bowl from his mouth, even though he groaned in disappointment.

 A poultice was next, fresh cloth steeped in warm water and herbs. Goldenrod to stop the bleeding. Garlic to prevent infection. Feverfew to keep him from falling to fever. With the remedy placed on his arm, and then wrapped tight, Elda turned her trained eyes on the rest of him. The gash on his temple was superficial but she cleaned and treated it nonetheless. Ivar watched her through half-lidded eyes, not trusting Elda. She didn’t see any more wounds aside from a few scrapes and bruises on his top half, so she reached for his legs.

 “No!” he half roared/half slurred, sitting up to push her hands away. Elda jerked at his outburst, knocking over her bowl. The bloody water splashed across the wood, soaking into the furs. She cursed and stood up.

 “Ungrateful ass!” Elda couldn’t help the irritation coloring her tone. She gathered her supplies as Ivar groaned, clutching his shoulder.

 “Lay still, else you will undo all of my hard work. And I refuse to stitch you up again,” she said, pushing the stubborn warrior back down. He grunted but allowed Elda to arrange the bedding.

 Within moments, Ivar seemed to either fall asleep or unconscious. To be fair, she normally wouldn’t care, he wasn't one of her people. But the elders had a vested interest in the Northmen. After all, the enemy of their enemy is their friend. Or at least their potential ally. She stood and walked to Paega who had finished his meal and nibbled at her pants looking for more.

 She laughed, feeling some of the tension leave her shoulders. Paega was a gift from her father when he realized he couldn't stop her wandering. A sure-footed horse to help her escape should she run into trouble. Over the years, Paega had become her constant companion, seeming to know what she was feeling.

 “Is this a foolish idea sweet boy?” she asked the horse, who nickered in response. Elda stroked his nose, the velvety skin of his nose soft against her hands.

 Now all she had to do was get her charge to Valkwind without running into Lord Alrich’s men. Or any Northmen who might take offense to her holding one of their own. She could only hope that he would be less combative once the fog of battle waned.

 ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Ivar awoke with a start and immediately reached for his weapon, which was not at his side. He was without a shirt and winced when his shoulder pulled. He touched the bandages wrapped around his arm, sniffing the herbal scent wafted from it. The wound was stiff, but not burning with infection. The hovel he was in was little more than a lean-to with a single wall and a raised wooden floor of rough-hewn wood. There were few supplies stashed in boxes or hanging from the roof.

 His legs seemed a bit sore, but that was common. However, his leg braces showed damage. He didn’t remember much after catching the blow to his arm, but he remembered falling into the water. The metal was bent in a few places, snapped in others. Ivar cursed under his breath. He wasn't sure if they would hold if he stood, or if they'd crumble under his weight.

 A movement to his left drew his attention, and he saw a brown and white horse nosing at some of the hanging herbs.

 “Paega!” a feminine voice scolded the horse. A young woman with a pheasant in one hand and a bow around her chest. The horse seemed immune to the chastisement and took a leaf in defiance. The woman grumbled something in a language Ivar didn’t understand but patted the horse's neck. Ivar followed her every move, watching for any sign of aggression. His hands flexed, wishing he had a weapon in his grasp.

 “This north man believes me to be an enemy. Surely he’s noticed I have bandaged his wounds,” she said to the horse, turning her gaze to Ivar. While she was speaking English, her accent betrayed the fact it wasn't her first language.

 “Who are you?” he asked. The woman tilted her head at his use of English and smiled.

 “I am sure that I answered that yesterday, Ivar,” she said, with mirth in her eyes. He frowned at her flippant attitude. Did she know who she was addressing?

 “To remind you, my name is Elda,” she introduced with a little bow. Ivar bristled.  Was she mocking him?

 “Where are my men? Where am I?”

 “The alive ones, I do not know. The dead ones, several leagues to the south. It is where I found you, after all. Half-dead. Gratitude would be appropriate,” Elda said with a nod to his shoulder. She took a seat at the edge of the hut and began plucking the feathers with efficient movements. Instead of thanking her, Ivar huffed and reached for his shirt. He twisted his body to reach it and did not see her eyes widen at the design inked on his back.

 “You will take me back to my camp,” he ordered, pulling the shirt over his head with a wince.

 “I will not,” she retorted, continuing her plucking. “I do not know where your camp is located, nor do I wish to run into Aldrich’s men.”

 At the mention of his enemy, Ivar studied the woman. She didn’t seem like the typical English woman. No long swishing skirts, her hair wasn't coiffed but pulled into a loose braid. He admired the way her leather leggings clung to her hips. Elda reminded him of a shield maiden of his people, but less refined. She wore no gold adornments, her few pieces of jewelry made of polished stones or carved bone.

 “Aldrich is lord of these lands, yet you speak his name with contempt,” he said, zeroing in on the knife at her hip. If he could get it away from her, he could make his way back to his men. He did not relish losing his command to his brothers.

 “Lord of these lands, pah,” she said with disgust. “My people have been here for generations, long before Lord Aldrich deemed it his.” She pulled the last stubborn feathers out with a vicious yank and set the bird down.

 “And who are your people?” he asked with veiled interest.

 She looked amused at the question.

 “My people? If you were to ask our enemies, we are the uncivilized heathens who spurn their ‘God’, commune with nature spirits, and snatch their children to drink their blood.”

 At this Ivar grinned. Such stories were familiar, after all his reputation was similar.

 “Is there truth to the stories?”

 Elda smiled and pulled her knife out of its sheath. She tapped the knife against the pheasant.

 “We don’t drink children’s blood. Why waste the whole child?”

 Ivar laughed at her jape.

 Elda methodically slid the knife through the bird's flesh, pulling the meat from the bones. Ivar had to admit, her knife skills were impressive. He could only imagine what she could do against her enemies, slicing through skin with deft precision.

 She finished butchering the bird and set the knife aside. She stood up and made her way to the small cookfire outside the hut. While Elda focused on skewering the meat to cook, Ivar palmed the knife, tucking it under his sleeve. He couldn’t believe the foolishness of the woman. She had no idea who she was dealing with and her ignorance would be her downfall.

 While she tended to the cookfire, Ivar formulated a plan. He would catch her off guard, and demand she take him back to the battlefield under threat of death. From there, he would be able to find his way back to his camp. He’d take her as a thrall. She had skills as a healer, and she was striking to look at. His brothers would be jealous of his captive.

 Elda’s voice cut into his thoughts.

 “Are you planning to use that knife before or after I finish cooking? I would ask that you wait until after I've eaten.”

 Ivar looked up to see Elda watching him with a knowing grin. He bristled, angry at himself for being caught and for the smug look on her face.

 “You could have killed me the moment my back was turned, yet you did not move from the bedroll. So you are waiting. For what I wonder?”

 She stood up, brushing dirt off her knees.

 “For me to come closer? You would not let me check your legs for injuries. Perhaps you are injured.” Elda watched Ivar for any reaction to her questions. His strange leg armor wasn’t anything she’d seen before.

 “Well, Northman? Are you going to kill me? Steal my horse? Somehow find your way back to your men? Without running into Aldrich’s?” she asked, before holding a skewer just out of Ivar’s reach.

 “Or you can eat, ride with me to my family, and have an ally in these lands?” She approached him and straddled his legs, kneeling on either side of his hips. Her thighs brushed his, as she kept her weight off him. She was so close, that he could drive the knife into her neck with ease. Fearless, he had to give it to her. This woman had more balls than most of his men.

 Ivar clamped down on the irritation that was bubbling up at the gall of the woman. While he did not take orders from anyone, she had a point. This land was unknown to him and he was without the support of his men. It riled him to be exposed like this, armed only with the pilfered knife. And that self-satisfied smile. She knew she was his best option. Even if he did kill her, he wasn’t sure if he could even get on her horse, let alone ride it to find his camp. For now, it would be in his best interest to at least follow the strange woman’s lead. He could always kill her later if he so chose.

 He spun the knife in his hand before tucking it into her belt. He ran his hand along her waist to her arm. His hand circled her wrist and he could feel her heartbeat through her pale skin. It was quick and that fact excited him. Yet as calm she seemed on the surface, she was still nervous. Ivar brought her hand up to his face and took a bite out of the skewered meat. The meat tore easily and juices ran down his chin.

 “How far is it to your family’s land?”

[kestrelmando]

Writer Wednesday - The Phone Booth

The great @autumnleaves1991-blog has put together a weekly “Writer Wednesday” where she provides an image prompt.

This one is Jack “Whiskey” Daniels/f!OC.

Set in my, as of yet, unpublished f!OC x Whiskey series “Whiskey Smash”. Basic relevant background info; Whiskey and Mezcal (my f!OC with previous mob ties) were partners in Statesmen, just barely dip their toe into catching feelings when a near death experience with Mezcal scares him away due to his past. They haven’t talked/seen each other in a couple years at this point.

Warnings: Swear words, descriptions of a fight, impalement with a high heel, descriptions of wounds

-- 

A mission hadn’t blown up in her face like this is a long time, a really long time – the last one was years ago on that dingy rooftop where he had finally finally yanked her in and kissed her only for the night to end with her shoving him out of the line of fire. Three bullets later, two doses of Ginger’s experimental clotting serum, 3.5 liters of blood loss and she had woken up alone.

Just a note next to a vase of purple hyacinth and white amaranth; ‘I can’t do it again. – J’.

Oh, and she’d protested heavily on taking a mission in fucking New York. He was running the NYC branch, he could find someone local but Champ had insisted. It was supposed to be a simple recon mission; blend, listen, collect evidence.

Mezcal had wined and dined all evening, batting her eyelashes and smiling with doe eyes. She was this close to sticking her hand into the right pocket when someone had recognized her. He locked eyes with her across the room and recognition rippled across his face instantly. One of her father’s high level enforcers – hard to forget the boss’s daughter especially when she all but disappeared.

He knew better than to cause a scene in a private residence with stupidly rich people floating around between them. What the hell was he doing here? She made her excuses, off to powder her nose, and slipped into the empty side hallway. There was a small window in the butler’s pantry three doors down or she could try just walking out through the foyer and the front door. He’d be expecting the foyer, the cleanest exit was usually the simplest, so she made for the pantry.

She slipped off her heels and carried them, the click being far too loud on the marble floor, and quietly slid the pocket door open. The window was small, almost too small, but she was confident she’d make it and more importantly – the enforcer wouldn’t. Mezcal slid the door mostly shut and quickly went the window, shoving the frame up and grimacing at the chilly fall air.

A hand closed around her ankle just as she was halfway out, one knee dangling and the other in an awkward bend, and yanked her back. Her shoulder and head crashed against the upper window pane and frame with a crunch. Dazed, she dropped one shoe to the ground and swayed. Still, her free hand locked around the window frame. She would not be pulled back into the house – the other shoe came up, stiletto first, and embedded into his cheek.

The enforcer howled with pain, ripping it from his face with an arc of blood, and wrapped his beefy hands around both legs before dragging her back inside. They both tumbled to the ground at the momentum and she rolled to her feet, hands raised and ready for a fight.

 --

 She didn’t know how long she walked. Her head was swimming, ears were ringing. The cold autumn night bit at her bare feet and tattered dress. It was just like some rich asshole to have his home nearly on the slopes and away from everyone and everything else.

Eventually she stumbled onto a tiny town – if you could call it that. The storefronts were all long closed and she considered breaking into one for a phone and some warmth when she saw the lone phone booth. It stood out like a sore thumb, a relic even, but more secure than using a phone inside one of the stores.

She dutifully trudged to the booth and slipped inside, grimacing and checking the coin return for any spare change. At least one thing went right; seventy five cents in quarters rolled into her hand. Mezcal paused, she had to pick the right person to call and seventy five cents wasn’t going to give her long. After a mental run through of possible contacts, she sighed and let her head slump against the booth.

It had to be him. Goddamit, it had to be Whiskey.

He was all but guaranteed to be at the office still and the New York City branch was only a hour and an half by car. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, willing herself to forget his forlorn face all those years ago when he said he didn't like going home to an empty bed. 

She slid the quarters into the phone and dialed the number she would never admit she knew by heart; Whiskey's direct line. 

It rang twice before he picked up, voice stretched and thin, "Whiskey."

The air left her lungs and her tongue cemented itself to the roof of her mouth. Absurdly, she felt tears prick at her eyes. Even tired and lacking its usual ridiculous bounciness, it was the most beautiful sound she'd heard in ages. He sighed into the receiver.

She finally found her voice, "It's me." 

He breathed her name like a prayer, "Mezcal," he paused and then pressed on more urgently, "What's wrong?"

"I'm in New York, Middletown. I need extraction. I...I was unable to get back to my planned exit."

"Darlin' are you hurt? Where in Middletown?"

She leaned out of the phone booth looking for a street sign, "Oak and Main, phone booth."

"Are you hurt?"

"Nothing a good night's sleep won't fix."

He muttered something she didn't quite catch before saying, "Sit tight,  extraction comin' in a hour."

Mezcal hung up the phone, and slid the phone booth door shut in a vain attempt to stem the flow of cold air. She sunk to the floor and drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her fingers around her numb toes.

--

Time was immaterial; all she knew was cold. The thin dress offered no insulation and both shoes had been lost on the grounds of the target's home.

Headlights cut through the night and she raised her head to see an unmistakable white bronco and a familiar stetson emerge from truck.

He didn't send a driver.

She tried to unfold her frozen limbs but everything was sluggishly moving. Instead, she reached over and slid open the phone booth door.

He caught he gaze over the hood of the bronco. Whiskey hurried over to her and immediately bent to help her up, hissing at the iciness of her bare arms.

She let herself be pulled up, mumbling, "You didn't have to come."

He knew her meaning; he could've sent someone. Instead he just replied, "Yeah I did."

They walked back to the truck, Whiskey's hand on the small of her back, and he opened the passenger door for her. The interior light of bronco illuminated her face and his face quickly morphed into alarm. He blurted out her name, her real name. "Kenna?" 

"You should see the other guy." She attempted with some bravado.

He gave her a once over in the light and all but lifted her into the truck, "Where the fuck are your shoes?"

"Just... let's go. Get the heat on, I'll tell you on the way back."

Whiskey nodded tightly but shut her door and got in on the other side. He turned on the truck, got the heater running, but didn't make a move to go anywhere. Instead he flicked on the overhead lights and reached into the back, broad shoulder brushing against her, and fished out a Statesmen first aid kit. 

He opened it with a snap and began pulling out various items, not glancing up from the kit, "Start talking."

"Recon, potential medical front for a bioweapons dealer. Wasn't supposed to see any action."

She sucked in a breath when she caught his eye. Those damn eyes. His brow had that knit in it and his gaze was the same soft one it had been that night all those years ago. She pointedly did not look at his mouth.

He reached up and tucked his fingers under her chin, turning her head to apply antiseptic to a small cut near her temple and on a few scrapes along her arms. Next was a prototype field ice pack, he gave it a few vigorous shakes and the small pouch froze. 

His fingers swept across her cheekbone, just below her black eye. "And who did this, sugar?"

Silence loomed between them and he frowned, anxiety swirling in his gut the longer she didn't say. His other hand crept up to cradle her neck.

"Kenna--"

"An enforcer. One of his enforcers, Jack."

The knit in his brow increased, his lips turning down into a frown. "Do we need to go take care of it?"

Mezcal smiled grimly then, "No. Dumb city kid was too enraptured by the fancy dumb waiter. The new, modern hydraulic dumb waiter."

Whiskey smirked at that and pressed the ice pack to her swollen eye. She told herself it was just her icicle limbs thawing in the warm truck, but a wave of heat rolled through her as his gaze openly drifted down her body. 

He picked at the tattered line of a slit in her dress, just above her knee, "Anywhere else we need to address?"

Her mouth was a desert, "Just the usual flesh wounds." 

Whiskey hummed and slid the slit over slightly to investigate, the fabric sliding across her legs and opening further up her thigh.

Like a goddamn curtain opening on a reminder of their last op together, the dress revealed the raised, white, puckered scar of a bullet wound. The same wound that nearly bled her dry in Jack's arms. 

Mezcal slowly raised her head to meet his eyes and she could see it happening in real time; his eyes became distant and his expression closed off. Her heart clenched -- goodbye Jack, hello Agent Whiskey. He moved his hands to wheel and they set off back to New York City.

Later, as she took a company car to drive back to Kentucky that night, she didn't bother saying goodbye. They were back to strangers.

[practicingmedicine]

Practicing Medicine: Chapter One

(+)1

It was eight o'clock in the morning, and Sheriff McBain had just been shot.

There weren’t no lights, no sirens. No outward signs of urgency anywhere, save for the frantic telephone call I’d received just seconds ago and my own bounding heart rate.

It didn’t take me long to pull on my pants or step into my boots. Even with my shaking body, I moved with a sense of purpose, each action a step in a subconscious routine.

Buckle up my pants, lace my boots, grab my glasses, disconnect my Pip-Boy from the outlet, clip that bad-mama on and get it running…

The black screen turned a vibrant green color as I clicked the power button, lighting up my dark room. These were the words on the screen:

PIP-OS(R) v1.0.3

COPYRIGHT 2075 ROBCO(R)

LOADER V1. 1

EXEC VERSION 41.10

32K RAM SYSTEM

16811 BYTES FREE

HOLLOWTAPE LOADED: “THE-SCIENCE-OF-UNCERTAINTY”

INITIALISING….

SUCCESS!

> STATUS

Battery Level: 100%

Wireless Signal: (?)

Operating Temperature: 90F

> HEALTH

BP: 150/120

SPO2: 100%

Temp: 98.5F

RR: 25

HR: 160

> TIME

Day: 25 September 2279

Time: 08:01

> CLIMATE

Current Temperature: 78F

Atmospheric Pressure: 753 mm

Background Radiation: 0.231 RAD

---

I couldn’t read much, so I wasn’t sure exactly what each of them meant, but I got the gist- I knew exactly what I needed to know. I threw open my door and strode into the hallway, grabbing my father’s white coat off of a hook along the way. I slipped it on over my shoulders as I strode up to the front door, where my faded orange doctor’s-bag lay on its side. Before I threw the strap over my shoulder, I made sure to quickly button my coat and pull my green tie tight around my shirt collar, because my father told me that a doctor should always look his best. I hefted my bag up with one hand and pushed the door open with the other.

The morning sun was bright in my eyes. It was hot outside, about 97 Fahrenheit if my pip-boy was telling me the truth. Not that it mattered- I was used to the heat, and my patient was inside the air-conditioned Bison Steve’s Hotel. I didn’t give it much space in my head.

I started to sprint, skirting the corner of my neighbor’s house and running out into the main square, heavy bag swinging wildly in my aching right hand. As much as I wanted to have time to process all this, to stride up all slow and confident like father had taught me, I didn’t have the time. It could be a matter of seconds deciding whether or not the Sheriff survived.

I was starting to feel kind of dizzy, like you do when you’re fixing to vomit. The Hotel was just up ahead now. The big “Bison Steve’s” sign flickered eerily as I walked up to the double wooden doors, which I pulled on at least three times before I remembered that they were push doors. A rush of cool air washed over my skin as I stepped into the building, and tried to regain my composure. I cleared my throat.

“Alright- Alright y’all, listen up: My name is Isaac Saller, and I am a medic! ” I shouted. There was silence. “‘I’m empty holstered, so please don’t shoot!”

That may have been a bad idea, in retrospect, but it was all that I had planned for an active-shooter type deal. I didn’t deal well with confrontation.

The front hall and the reception desk were abandoned, but the lights were on. I stepped through the next set of propped-open doors and into a dark hallway, where a pretty blonde woman was cowering, holding onto a wall-mounted telephone. Her red face glistened with sweat.

That would be Mrs. McBain.

“Oh my god, Isaac! Come here, quickly- I think my husband is dying!” I power-walked to catch up with her, then tried to keep up a comparable walking pace. Which was kind of hard, given my height; I was still, “between hay and grass ,” my father would have said.

“Could you tell me what happened?” I asked. The words felt so strange to say out loud. I’d practiced what I’d do in a real emergency, but now that it was actually happening, I couldn’t believe that I was actually falling into my routine, just like I did for everything else. Must not have seen any other option.

“Well, the boys- Beagle and my husband, right, they were doing firing drills! But then the shooting stopped and my husband started airing his lungs, just shouting something awful. And when I ran in to see what happened, I saw that Beagle had shot him in the leg!”

And, there was the story. I let out a sigh of relief; here I was worried that I might be dealing with some crazy psychopath! Though, the more I let myself think on it, an idiot like Beagle with a gun started to seem just as dangerous.

“Does he still got the gun?” I asked, approaching one of the four doors to what had to be the firing range. The familiar scent of gunpowder stung my nose as I cracked open the rightmost door, and peered into the massive, open room. I didn’t see nobody, but then again, my vision was so awful that my patient could’ve been right in front of me. Mrs. McBain brushed through the doors.

“No, I made him put it down!” I nodded and entered the room.

As I stepped through the doorway, another smell drifted in after the first- a sharp, metallic smell that hung in the air like some sort of leaking gas. Subtle, and not quite so intimately familiar, but I recognized it right away; the acrid smell of blood rubbed on skin.

“Hey Doc, come on in--the Sheriff is lying over here,” said Deputy Beagle, waving his iron about. I flinched.

“Holster that!” I shouted back, “I’m not going to do anything until-“

“Beagle! You put that thing down right now or I’ll shoot you myself!” Shouted Mrs. McBain. Beagle made a dramatic sigh.

“Fine. But, you know it was an accident, and it ain’t like I’m gonna do it again.” He tossed the gun aside. The cocked, loaded, cold-steel weapon hit the ground hammer-first.

The ensuing, “BANG!” was, no kidding, the second loudest thing I’d ever heard.

“Goddammit!” Beagle shouted, and Mrs. McBain screamed and dropped to a crouch. I just sat, stunned, staring at the gun and trying to think again. It was like my mind was a Television set, and someone had just thrown a brick through the screen; An all-encompassing static crept over my senses.

“Isaac? Isaac, are you alright sweetie ?” asked Mrs. McBain, over the loud ringing in my ears. I nodded.

“I’m okay ,” I lied. I kept nodding.  “I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay…”

“You sure don’t look okay,” said Beagle. He was too close to me, way too close. I took a deep breath and pushed him back a little bit.

“I’m good! Where’s the Sheriff?!” I looked around warily. My eardrums were still bubbling, but I was starting to be able to hear myself think again. I had apparently dropped my medical bag on the floor, but it hadn’t opened up or spilled.

“Jesus kid, can you not turn your head on your neck? Over there, sitting against the support beam!” snapped Beagle, motioning towards the wounded Sheriff with his whole upper body. I felt like yelling back but I didn’t. I just gave him a quick nod and stumbled over to the fallen Sheriff.  

The bright red pool beneath Sheriff McBain’s thigh had already begun to clot into ketchup-like clumps. As I got closer, I could hear him muttering to himself, though I couldn’t understand what about. I dropped to a crouch beside him, opened my bag and rooted through it til I found myself a pair of gloves. I had to work to get them on with how sweaty my hands were.

“Hello, Sheriff! Can you understand me?” I asked. He smiled up at me.

“Hey! You’re Isaac, the um, the Gambling-Place owner’s son. Uh, Casino! Yeah…” He trailed off. In my head, I started going over my ABCs, because apparently my mind was too overwhelmed to do anything but stick to its beaten-path routines.

He could speak, so his Airway was patent. I didn’t have time to properly test his Breathing, but it sounded fast and a little shallow. That was par for the course, which left me with the real problem, his Circulation- that’d be the bleeding.

“Alright, Sheriff, I’m going to take your pants off. Tell me if it hurts much,” I said, unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers. They got snagged up on his shoes, so I started pulling harder. He just laughed as I pulled them off.

“Actually, I don’t feel much of anything in this leg! Just like I got punched, and now it’s burnin’, sorta.”

That was good. It meant that the bone probably hadn’t been fractured, and I wouldn’t need any med-x. I always kept an emergency syringe of the stuff, but I was reluctant to actually use it on anyone.

Once I’d gotten his pants off, I touched his leg. It was cold and wet. I’d assumed shock, based on the bigass blood pool, but I could be dramatic like that; This was solid confirmation. I was going to have to work fast!

As I searched around in my bag for a tourniquet with one hand, I held up the Sheriff’s leg up with my other, so that I could see the wound in the dimly lit firing range. The hole wasn’t big. At least, not the entry- just a red, penny-sized oval near the base of his thigh, surrounded by bruised skin and seeping out blood. Like a bloody little volcano.

The exit wound, on the other hand, was massive . A jagged hole right under his ass with flaps of skin hanging loose around it, spitting out a torrential amount of bright red blood with each beat of his bounding heart. Based on the color of the blood and the way that it was coming out, I knew that the bullet had nicked or severed his femoral artery. I also knew that I probably couldn’t repair that with forceps and bandages alone. The best thing I could do would be to stem the bleeding, and get a stimpack as quick as possible.

Of course, that presented a little bit of a problem: See, stimpacks are awful expensive, so carrying them around wasn’t always an option for a man like myself. As of now, I didn’t actually have any of them-things in my jump-bag. Some places ‘round here had one in a box on the wall, but I didn’t see none in here, and I’d have noticed one in the hall if there’d been one. I cursed under my breath.

“Go and get me a stimpack!” I ordered. I had finally found where I kept my tourniquets without actually looking into the bag, though if I had any sort of presence of mind, I would have been embarrassed at how long it had taken me. I pulled his shoe off, and slipped the tourniquet on over his leg.

“I’ll fetch one from the kitchen!” replied Mrs. McBain, and I nodded to let her know I’d heard. Now that I had a stimpack on the way, all I had to do was keep the Sheriff from kickin it until I could apply the damn thing.

Easier said than done.

“Why are you squeezing me? You taking my blood numbers or something?” The Sheriff asked, as I pulled the premade tourniquet tight and started cranking on it. I tried to smile.

“I’m not taking your blood pressure, sir, I’m putting on a tourniquet. It’ll hurt, but you’ll bleed a lot less.” When I couldn’t tighten it anymore, I took out another tourniquet, and fastened it right above the first one, against the base of his thigh. It was a good thing that the Sheriff was thin, or I’d be having some issues about now.

“What are you doing? He could lose his leg that way!” shouted Beagle. When I kept on tightening the second tourniquet, he hit me in the back of the head- not so much to hurt me as to get a reaction out of me. I didn’t give him one. “Hey, are you blind and deaf? I’m talking to you!”

“Stop it Beagle! Isaac is a good… he’s a good kid,” insisted the Sheriff, his voice growing weak. I finished cranking the tourniquet, and touched the Sheriff’s ashen forehead. He looked like he’d stuck his head in a drinking fountain, with how much he was sweating...

“Could you try and talk with me, Sheriff? I’m gonna try some more stuff, try to keep you from going into decompensated shock.”

The Sheriff looked confused. He squinted up at me with teary eyes.

“Shock? You mean, the reason why it don’t hurt? I’m pretty sure I’m already in shock, but I ain’t- I ain’t shocked, you know. Like, I know what’s happened. I got my mind about me ,” he grumbled, tapping his head conspiratorially. I removed a few packets of gauze from my bag and tore them open.

“No, I mean when your organs stop working cause your blood-pressure drops and they ain’t getting enough blood!” Finally, I finished packing the exit wound tight with gauze. I started putting pressure on it.

“Oh. Huh. Well, you doctors ought to stop having so many words that mean- that mean all different things,” the Sheriff replied, his breath passing his lips so quietly that I was worried he might have fallen unconscious. I stopped moving.

“Sheriff?” I asked. When he didn’t respond, I reached into my coat with my free hand, and pulled out a small metal tinderbox full of a reddish powder. I waved it under his nose.

“Wake up, Sheriff!” I shouted. He started coughing and looking around wildly.

“Ah, Jesus Christ, what the hell is that smell?” I slipped the box back in my coat.

“N-H-Four, sir! It’s supposed to keep you awake!”

Of course, it wasn’t doing a very good job at it! Before I was even done speaking, the sheriff had puked all over himself and slumped forward. I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him vigorously.

“Keep them eyes open Sheriff! Stay with me here!” His eyes fluttered.

“You know, I like your voice! It’s like, you talk like a teacher, but then you got your daddy’s cowboy-thing going on, so it’s sort of funny…” he muttered. His head hung limp on his neck. I let him drop to his side, and focused on applying pressure to the wound again.

“Um, Isaac?” I looked over my shoulder. Deputy Beagle was standing above me again, clasping his hands together. I wasn’t so good at reading emotions, but I’d seen enough pre-vomit patients to know that he was feeling sick. He had spoken so quietly, which was strange considering how loud he’d been before. “Isaac, Is he gonna die? I thought that getting shot in the leg didn’t kill people. Why’s he acting like that?” I sighed.

“I sure hope not. But, there’s a big red-pipe in your leg, and if it gets hit, you bleed a lot. I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do if I don’t get a stimpack soon!”

As if on cue, Mrs. McBain came rushing into the room, her dress all bunched up and full of miscellaneous medical supplies. Among the heaps of things I didn’t need, I could see a stimpack poking up.

“Isaac! I brought a bunch of things, I don’t know what’ll help and what won’t, but-”

Suddenly, Mrs. McBain stumbled, and her makeshift pouch came unfurled as she threw out one hand to catch herself.

Aw shit! I dropped everything and ran towards Mrs. McBain, interposing myself between the unsecured, falling medical supplies and the floor. Packaged Band-Aids, bottles of pills and ointments, a pair of scissors- it all went tumbling over me and I didn’t care, until suddenly I saw the fragile old stimpack teetering on the edge. By now, Mrs. McBain was trying to recover, but she was only making matters worse. The supplies were spilling out both sides now, and she was getting dangerously close to just dumping it all on top of me.

The stimpack. That was the focus. I shot out my hand to try to grab it, but I only succeeded in tipping it off it’s balance point, causing it to tumble back into the pouch.

I sat up, and all the supplies that had landed on me spilled back onto the floor.

“Don’t-“ I started, but she had already slipped and let go of the other side of the pouch. I cried out as it all went spilling on the ground.

“The stimpack!” I looked down, and found that through some unchecked reflex, I had caught it on my outstretched thigh. I blinked.

“Huh,” I said, and snatched the needle off my leg. I rushed back over to the Sheriff, who was unconscious and drooling. Beagle was sitting beside him, pressing hard on the entrance with his bloodstained hands and muttering to himself.

“Kurt, you can’t die- I’m, I’m just a deputy, if you die I’ll have to handle this whole town myself, and you know I can’t do that! Please, please don’t you die, please-“ I took a knee beside Beagle and his brother, stimpack in hand. Beagle was crying.

“Am I- am I doing this right?” He asked. I nodded.

“You are doing just stupendously! Just keep doing that!” I replied. I lifted up the sheriff’s leg, tore out all the gauze and probed around with the needle for a minute, until I’d found the deflated husk of his split femoral artery among all of the slick yellow fat and ground-beef looking shit in his leg. I didn’t have much light to work with and it was pretty well buried beneath the gory chaos of the exit, but I knew it when I saw it- despite the tourniquet, the top end was still spritzing out bright red blood with each passing heartbeat. I took my forceps out of my bag, which already had some fishing-line and a hook wrapped around them, and got to suturing the split ends together. The artery kept on pulsing out blood around the edges as I passed my hook and line through it’s thick middle layer.

‘Moment of truth, Isaac,’ I thought, as I squared off my suture. I picked up the stimpack again, prepped the needle with my shaking hands. I took a deep breath.

In the dim light of the firing range, I stuck the pipe.

The freezing cold from the reaction chilled my gloved fingers halfway to the bone. Had it worked? Would it hold? I had no idea. It wasn’t squirting blood no more, so I snipped off the end of the suture and pulled all the fishing line out, then started suturing up his ragged exit-wound, so that the ends of the skin were facing upwards. I didn’t even bother squaring off the end before running a stimpack along the seam. Once his thigh had sewed up along an ugly white line, I pulled all the fishing string out, because otherwise I was just asking for it to get infected. I still had a little stimpack-juice left, so I moved Beagle aside and shot the rest of it into the tiny-little entry wound, to sort out any of the leftover internal damage.

More time passed in silence. I knew it wouldn’t matter, but I loosened and removed the tourniquets to feel like I was doing something. My ears were ringing, blood was soaking into my pants like syrup, but I barely noticed- all that mattered now was if he was going to live, or if he was going to die. I was just going to have to have faith now.

“Is it working?” asked Mrs. McBain. I checked the Sheriff’s pulses, noticed that some warmth had returned to his skin...

Pulse is already stronger , and I can actually get a femoral. I sighed with relief. “It’s working. Pressure’s up.” A few more seconds passed. “I doubt he stopped perfusing to his brain for long, so his head should be fine, if you’re worried about that. He’s gonna need a ton of fluid, though, and he might need some more help with that leg-“ I started, but then Mrs. McBain wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into a tight hug. Once I was over the initial shock, I hugged her back.

“Thanks,” I murmured. Mrs. McBain laughed.

“You saved my husband, Isaac! You saved his life!”

I nodded and tried to free myself from the asphyxiating hug. Unfortunately, Mrs. McBain was a teensy bit stronger than me. “I don’t even know how to thank you. Do you want caps? We- well, you know we aren’t rich, but we have a tin of caps hidden away under the floorboards!” Still struggling in vain to free myself, I shook my head.

“No- no, Mrs. McBain, I don’t want no caps! I just need you to work with me here for these next couple weeks to get your husband healthy again. I mean, he just caught a bullet, he’s gonna need some help getting back to normal...” I was lying about the caps. I would have loved caps, considering how much I was hurting for supplies. But I also wanted to establish that I didn’t charge for my services, and Mrs. McBain had a way of inadvertently spreading that sort of information.

“Oh, but I can’t just let you go back to work like that- look at you, you’re all filthy!” she said, finally releasing me from the hug. I stumbled back and fell onto my rear. “Why don’t you come over to our house- You can get those clothes washed, and I’ll get you some lunch. And a shower too, what would Penny say if she saw you like this?”

Well, I couldn’t disagree with her on that count. Just hugging Mrs. Mcbain, I’d gotten spots of blood all over her dress. Momma had already had to warn me about tracking blood in the house before...

“Alright,” I said. The ringing in my ears was tolerable now. I was starting to be able to think straight again, even if I was still shaking and sweating like hell. I noticed that Beagle had offered me his hand.

“Um- yes!” I said, pulling off my glove and allowing him to haul me up to my feet. He held on real tight to my hand and looked at me with an expression that I couldn’t parse.

“I owe you one, Isaac. I know that this is my fault, and that I’m not always nice to you, but I- I really do appreciate this. I don’t know what I’d have done without my brother.” I tried out a smile. Beagle smiled back at me, and it almost made me forget how much of a prick he’d been when I was a kid. Almost.

“Water under the bridge, Beagle,” I replied. I thought about winking, but I once made a girl run away from me when I tried to wink at her, so I held off.

“Isaac, sweetie-“ I turned around. Mrs. McBain was standing in the doorway. “The door’s unlocked, why don’t you come back to the house first? We can lay my husband down while you wash up.”

I considered. The sheriff seemed stable enough for that proposal, but no one else seemed to quite understand the extent of what he’d just suffered, or the long road that lay ahead for him. I mean, hell, he’d had his leg blown open, lost a third of his blood, and then had a stimpack injected right into a central artery! There were some things I wanted to take care of before I attended to myself.

“I like that idea, but can I borrow one of you to help me finish sorting out Beagle first?” I asked. Mrs. McBain looked at Beagle.

“Beagle, seeing as how you’re the one who shot him…” she started. Beagle put his hands above his head.

“I’ll handle it, ma’am. What should I do?” I raised my hand.

“We’re gonna try to get him on a mattress, if we can. Start him on some Saline and get him drinking water when he wakes up, the stimpack and his body will sorta work together to replace all that blood he lost. He’s going to be in a lot of pain, so we’ll have to give him morphine when he wakes up. I’ve got powder and IV’s with me,” I said, trying my best to cover all my bases without over-explaining. Mrs. McBain started to walk away.

“Alright! You two do what you have to, I'll be getting the house ready for him.” she said, and disappeared through the doorway. I looked at Beagle.

“He didn’t hurt his back none, right?” I asked. Beagle shook his head. “Good. I’m gonna grab his legs then, you grab his arms- let’s get him on one of them cots over there, then move him from there.”

He nodded. We grabbed a hold of the Sheriff’s limbs.

“Alright. Three, two, one-”

[+]