#'also have a [redacted] gnawing on my head as one does'

[asleepinawell]

i would love to know if there is any data on how many times the poor circumspect envoy is robbed a week. like i just feel bad at this point. has anyone checked on her? is she okay?

[ask-a-colonel-of-the-guard]

Colonel. Despite your laudable service record, I have read troubling reports that indicate your Company suffers from excessive casualties and low morale, yet you have requested no leave time. Are you not concerned with battle fatigue? These are mortal men and women, not astartes. -Alexander Titus Maximus, Captain, Ultramarines

*Her jaws dropped and she spilled her morning Victory coffee in her lap. She immediately got up to nervously pace her room at campaign HQ back and forth. It was her first interaction with any Astartes after all, even if it was but throught the Imperial Forces’ messaging service. After collecting herself and her thoughts, she sat back down at her console and redacted :

“My Lord Maximus! First and foremost, allow me to convey how honoured I feel to read your words.”

Getting that first line down took 10 minutes. She was not satisfied with it either, but what else could she do? How does a mere mortal address an Astartes in the right way? Should she point out that she isn’t in charge of a company but a regiment? Probably not. She decided to go straight to the answer, without correcting the Astartes Captain on the matter of her function within the Guard… just to be on the safe side.

“Concerning the matter your Lordship brings up to my attention : it is true that the official orders given to my troops in the reports I’ve sent thus far mention dire conditions and “non-stop duty”. In reality, we are considering our campaign as a peace-keeping action in (extremely) hostile-territory. While our numbers  spread thin, we have to remain on high alert at all times, but that doesn’t mean that some down-time isn’t taken by my men. The organisation of such short but necessary respite is left to each company, platoon or even, squad leader depending on the situation they find themselves in.

Because of the challenging circumstances of this insurrection such downtime may also only be taken when the opportunity arises, which may prove difficult for some of my less fortunate troopers.

Rest assured however, my Lord, that each and every last one of us is committed to his or her duty to the Guard and our Holy Emperor. The guard does not break. We will fight with the resolve of Astartes.Yours sincerely, Col. Krina Varstark Regimental Leader — 66th SoC”She pondered what she had written for a while, before confirming the sending procedure. The colonel stood up and began putting the pressure of such a missive at the back of her head, as hunger began gnawing at her stomach

[poetic-sinema]

Unrattle

I was coming back from what seemed like a ruin

A/N: Inspired by The National’s Pink Rabbits (which has been on repeat since I had my heart broken).

Warnings: None

Words:  925

Her index, once curved against the top of her cheeks, now glide anxiously across her lips. It plays with a patch of dry skin that has formed from the distasteful habit of gnawing at her bottom lip. She removes her hands, suddenly aware of her motions. Her pout is made more pronounced as the habit repeats. 

“What are you saying?”

He’s known her a while. Not a long time, but a good while. He knows enough that her voice doesn’t shiver like it’s doing now. She doesn’t croak. She’s bold. She’s vocal. She’s loud, and funny, and one of the boys. 

“I love you…?” What was supposed to be said in confidence quickly lingers into a question. 

People give him more credit than due when it comes to thinking things through. Did he think this through? Perhaps not enough. 

“What do you mean you love me?”

Having it said back to him, not in the context he desired, gave him a mental block. He begins to stutter, sputtering out words that won’t string into sentences, “Uh - well, Um. I - I thi-“

“What do you mean?”

There it is. There’s the essence he was familiar with - that vigour. 

“I mean I want to be with you.”

She does a mental scoff. Outwardly, there is a flush of air that escapes past her lips - it is more audible than she’d intended it to be.

Where was this when I needed you. 

She redacts the hypothetical, giving way to a kinder, “What are you gonna do now?”

Relatively kinder. 

His sigh is pronounced - long, and hard, and exhausted, “I know it’s difficult to accept me as I am - I know my place. But give me a chance.”

She blinks. Her brows furrow, she couldn’t tell apart whether in anger or confusion, or both, “All I ever gave you were chances.”

He registers how her face falls into resignation. As if she’d gone through this one too many times.

“Will you still love me after a while?” She asks before giving him a chance to speak, “Will you still love me when the particles settle and I’m just another goal achieved?”

Of course he will, she should know him by now. Of course he will.

But she echoes all the times he’d come to her in deliberation of falling out of love. And falling into motion of just existing with someone for the sake of filling a void, and he feels her words, like chalk, screech against his bones.

“You’ll get tired of me eventually.” She speaks softly. Her eyes are downcast,  tracing the shape of her palm, “Then you’ll pack up, and you’ll move halfway across the globe again,” She spits, “Just like what you’re doing now.”

“You’re not even allowing me to love you for now?”

He sees her quiver, a tint of doubt glossing over her eyes that he almost mistakes for tears. She can’t cry in front of him now, she can’t do this to him.

“I’ve allowed you to love me for a long time,” It is like a confession, “I’ve allowed myself to love you for a long time. And as a result, I’ve hurt for a long time too.”

He knows this. He’d come to find out through consultation and conversations. It seemed that everyone else was aware of how she felt for him long before he ever caught wind. If they’d had to pick a side, he knows they’d choose her. They were aware how much he’d ruined her.

 But this wasn’t fair, was it. 

“Give me a chance.” He repeats, as if his lungs craved for the breath, desperate, and stern, and raw. And he hopes with every fibre that she’d relent. 

He also knows her to be stronger than this.

“I don’t think I’m ready,” Her voice breaks, and tears spill onto her cheeks involuntarily. She brushes them away with violence, in that moment understanding the disdain she probably had for herself. They were, after all, one in the same. 

He wants to reach for her across the table, soothe his thumb over her fingers, tell her that it shouldn’t drive her into a kind of loathing. But he retracts. All he does is he quivers inside himself, like all of the times he’d done before, dealt with it all internally with a selfish indifference for the people around him. He convinces himself that he’s protecting them.

“You know,” She speaks, “It’s tiresome to unravel you, sometimes. When all I ever do is understand all of your demons, but you never seem to care enough for mine.”

“But I do.”

She shakes her head, and closes her eyes for a brief moment, swallowing deeply, “You never show it.”

His mind protests against the words that threaten to escape past his lips, but his vocal chords win. 

“I’ve told you every single time,” He breathes, “Every single time that you mean the earth and all of its fires to me. And you accept this. Every single time.”

“And every single time I wanted you to be there,” She snaps, “I wanted you to stay, even I though I don’t say it, and maybe that is our downfall, but my voice pleads that you do. But you don’t.”

They sit in silence. The bitterness is as thick in the air as it is in her voice. 

After a while, she speaks, “Why did you have to do this?” She asks, the lilt in her voice desperate.

He stares at her and swallows.

“Why did you have to love me back?”