#midswriting

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: SAS: Rogue Heroes (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Jim Almonds/Pat Riley Characters: Pat Riley (SAS: Rogue Heroes), Jim Almonds Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Oral Sex, Rimming, Internalized Homophobia, Period Typical Attitudes, Non-Linear Narrative, set during S01 Ep04, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD Summary:

“How can you do what we do and still read the Good Book, hm?” Jim startles at the question, his sunglasses clattering onto the cream tiled floor. It takes no time for Pat to bend and pick them up, smiling with a self-assuredness he is only beginning to learn is acceptable while bare in the company of another man. “I picked it up from where he fell,” Jim explains once his glasses are safe atop the table and his eyes have briefly lost interest in the warm body by his side. “Anything else would have been too evident, but his Bible—I just couldn’t…” “Sergeant Almonds, committing an act of insubordination!” Pat feigns a gasp, allowing himself to plop on top of Jim’s crossed legs, his naked butt brushing against Jim’s strong thighs as the chair protests their combined weight in vain. “My, oh, my! Can’t even begin to imagine what Stirling would say.”

He looks more like a beast than a man the first time Tommy sees him out of the arena, standing on the other side of the cage, prowling towards them like a lion.

"You did well today, fighter. Master Hodgson would like to invite you to his abode to celebrate your triumph," Billy intones the words by rote, barely any inflection to them, unlike the melodic voice of their master when he had said them, a bright smile plastered across his innocent face. Tommy knows that Billy doesn't think highly of gladiators, sneers at the grime and status of fighting men, craves the comfort that comes with expensive living.

"Did you bring the wine?" The man asks, paying him no heed, breath laboured with exertion thick and heavy in the dust filled air, his gold rimmed eyes slowly taking them both in.

"Tommy!"

With a few tottering steps, Tommy is standing by the gate, the cool amphora he carries sloshing a little as he fits it through the bars before it gets steadied by strong hands, picked up as if it weighed little more than a feather.

Offering the Tumblr folk some excerpts from the Werewolf!Tozer AU I'll be posting for Terrifying Terror Week that were posted on Twitter months ago :3

The flickering flame of his lighter sets the entire alley alight, bathing in amber hues the broken windows and grimy brick walls that will never be stripped of the stains of shoot and dirt that cover them.

“Nice show,” Solomon says, his tongue too thick, words slow, stilling his pulse for Tommy’s slender cigarette to ignite before he pulls the lighter shut. For a moment, the light catches in the white sequins of his dress, and the entire street gets filled with iridescent stars, before it flashes back to darkness.

“Thanks.” Tommy’s voice is hushed out here, far from the crooning wail that had swallowed the club whole minutes earlier, reduced to a barely audible chirp over the night traffic. “Don’t you think that asking George to bring a drummer was a bit much?” he asks, hesitant, blue eyes gazing straight into Solomon’s own through the thin sliver of smoke in between.

Manson/Hartnell, post-rescue au

The house is bigger than Magnus has ever walked into, feels like a castle the first time he steps through the door—a door which, to begin with, he doesn’t have to duck down to pass through! Every room feels like summer, warm and full of a clear light, the green hills on the other side of the windows making him think of the cows and sheep they had seen from the cart travelling here, so far away from London. It is the furthest away Magnus has ever been from the city. The furthest he has been from the sea.

“It needs a bit of work,” Tom says, close to the door, his voice just as bright as the light inside, his hair just as pretty. “But Captain Crozier says that as long as we can keep it well and tidy, we may as well stay until he needs it.”

“Captain Crozier is very kind,” Magnus replies, making Tom smile. That smile that makes speaking worth it, that makes Magnus feel less big, more like home. “It is a very pretty house.”

“Yes, Mags, it is a magnificent place.” Tom’s footsteps sound light against the wooden floors, unlike his, his words bigger than Tom, but just as pretty. “You think we can make it look prettier?” Tom asks with an even broader smile, one that shows his teeth, like little pearls they are, the closest thing to them Magnus will ever see.

rules: share the last line you've written, then tag some people, and have fun.

BJ only needs to break eye contact to know that the man that’s been eyeing him will follow, to pinch Graham’s lighter out of his pocket with a sweet smile to know that he won’t when BJ struts to the bogs and waits leaning on the sink with nothing in his mouth but the beating of his own heart wild with anticipation.

Francis has never had a high tolerance for rich boys, those who come strutting into his office as if the world had been served to them in a silver platter, anything that they desire ready to be offered to them by the mere wishing of it. It is easy then to see why the moment the man walks into the darkened room, his polished shoes and tie pin shining against the worn amber lightbulb outside, that Francis knows that he is going to be more trouble than his money’s worth.

“Who let you in through that door?”

“I rang earlier today.” Possible, yet improbable. “Your secretary assured me that you’d be available come evening.” A liar then, and one bent upon hiding it at that. Jopson would have never allowed him to walk through that door, much less allow a stranger to know when Francis was going to be here.

He can repay him with the same coin then, he knows his kind. “If you don’t give me a name, I am not making a case file for you,” Francis says, slowly leaning over his desk, eyes fixed on how the stranger extracts a thin cigarette from a golden case in his pocket and brings it to his lips, barely waiting for a nod from him before lighting it.

“James,” he responds with nonchalance, smoke curling past his lips and out through the window. That’s fine, Francis’ worked with less before.

“Alright, James.” Standing up is an effort, especially after the second glass of scotch that doesn’t seem to have passed the newcomers’ eyes, propping himself against the front of his desk to properly look at him from a vantage point, taking in the determination in his stance with tired eyes. “What type of enquiry brings you here? The robbery of a car? Or the intrigue behind the disappearance of a long-lost beau?” Francis smiles a little, doesn’t seem to face James.

“You knew Sir John Franklin, didn’t you?” he asks, some of the prior artifice clearly flying out of the window too, the sharpness in his gaze pinning Francis into place. “You were old acquaintances, from the war, I’ve heard.”

“His passing touched us all in different ways,” Francis responds, unwilling to give him more ground. For what? He doesn’t know. Probably to see too much, to realise how truly unworthy he is of his time, perhaps.

It doesn’t s deter James, in fact he sits straight, cigarette balanced carefully between his fingers, seemingly emboldened by his words. “I want you to find out who killed him,” he says, slow and deliberate, “I need to know who put a bullet through his heart.”