#4091

[warehouse-staff-blog]

こんにちは 名古屋店 コジャです。

初期のスキブ、 【U.S.NAVY】仕様のオリジナルボディを忠実に再現した、 Lot 4091《SKIVVY SHIRTS》の新作プリントが届きました。

WAREHOUSE & CO. Lot 4091 USN SKIVVY SHIRTS CASU ＼6.930-(+ tax)

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【Vinatge】

CASU-35 は(Carrier Aircraft Service Unit);アメリカ海軍の空母航空サービス部隊のこと。

第二次世界大戦中の太平洋戦争中に海軍航空��の作戦を支援するために編成された部隊です。 1942 年から 1946 年にかけて航空機の修理と保守のために69の空母航空サービス部隊が編成されました。 最初の部隊は真珠湾海軍基地に配備されました。 CASU-35,は1944年にマーシャル諸島のエニウェトク環礁に配備されました。 そのクルーの間で結束を高めるために作られたTシャツであることがわかる「ALL STAR」という文字が印象的です。

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. . .

WAREHOUSE & CO. Lot 4091 USN SKIVVY SHIRTS KISKA ＼7.260-(+ tax)

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【Vinatge】

KISKA ATTU LEYTE HAWAII KWAJALEIN OKINAWAと太平洋戦争時に日本と熾烈な戦いを経験した島に赴いた第7歩兵師団の米兵が着用し自ら描いたTシャツです。 このように長く辛い兵役の思い出にTシャツに手書きをする兵士も多かったようです。 真ん中に描かれているのが第7歩兵師団のインシグニア（部隊章）です。 裾に紐通しがついた海軍のスキブに陸軍の柄が描かれているところも戦時中ならではです。

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. . .

ランドリーホールが施されていたり、 独特のムラ感で肌触りが癖になるやや薄手の生地感など。

[Vintage]

[Lot 4091]

気になる詳細を過去のBlogにて載せていますのでこちらも御覧下さい。 【WAREHOUSE&CO. / Lot 4091 USN SKIVVY SHIRTS】 https://warehouse-staff-blog.tumblr.com/post/660294245012373504/warehouseco-lot-4091-usn-skivvy-shirts

是非店頭でLot 4091の魅力を感じて下さいね。では失礼致します。

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☞ [営業時間のお知らせ]

平素よりウエアハウス直営店をご利用頂き有難う御座います。 ウエアハウス直営店では営業を下記の通り変更しております。

《2024.7.7.現在の営業時間》

◎東京店　【営業時間：平日 12時～19時　土日祝 12時～19時】無休 ◎阪急メンズ東京店 【営業時間：平日 12時～20時　土日祝 11時～20時】無休 ◎名古屋店【営業時間： 平日 12時～19時　土日祝 12時～19時】水曜定休 ◎大阪店　【営業時間： 平日 12時～19時　土日祝 12時～19時】 無休 ◎福岡店　【営業時間： 平日 12時～19時　土日祝 12時～19時】 無休 ◎札幌店　【営業時間： 11時～20時】  木曜定休

今後の営業時間等の変更につきましては改めて当ブログにてお知らせ致します。 お客様におかれましてはご不便をお掛けいたしますが御ご理解の程、宜しくお願い申し上げます。

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☞ 『WAREHOUSE直営店の LINE公式アカウント開設』

WAREHOUSE&CO.直営店からのお得な情報や、エリア限定のクーポンなどを配布しています。

LINE公式アカウント開設にあたり、 2019年3月26日（火）以降、提供しておりましたスマートフォンアプリはご利用できなくなっております。 お手数をおかけしますが、今後はLINEアカウントのご利用をお願いします。

ご利用されるエリアのアカウントを「友だち登録」して下さい。 ※WAREHOUSE名古屋店をご利用頂いているお客様��【WAREHOUSE　EAST】をご登録下さい。

※直営店のご利用がなければ【WESTエリア】をご登録下さい。

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☞[リペアに関して]

弊社直営店で行っておりますジーンズ等のリペアの受付を休止させて頂いております。 ※ご郵送に関しても同様に休止させて頂いております。再開の日程は未定です。

ご迷惑お掛け致しますが、ご理解下さいます様お願い致します。 ※弊社製品であればボトムスの裾上げは無料にてお受けしております。お預かり期間は各店舗により異なりますのでお問合せ下さい。

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☞WAREHOUSE公式インスタグラム

☞WAREHOUSE経年変化研究室

☞“Warehousestaff”でTwitterもしております。

ーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーー

WAREHOUSE名古屋店

〒460-0011 愛知県名古屋市中区大須3-13-18

TEL：052-261-7889

《2024.7.7.現在の営業時間》

【営業時間：平日 12時～19時、土日祝 12時～19時】

[damnfandomproblems]

Fandom Problem #4091

So let me get this straight, in a book series where the story will go into graphic detail about how the cats rip each other apart and describes things like rivers of blood, but somehow it's the age gap relationships that cause the massive controversies?? Bruh what the fuck

And don't give me that "the cats are basically people" bullshit because last time I checked, people don't live in the woods running on all fours and eating mice.

[bobbie-robron]

Classic ED schedule, week 22 (2024)

Terry is devastated when Louise breaks up with him and later even more so seeing it’s because of Matthew. Cain refuses to put pressure on the Sugdens for Jimmy (as a courtesy to Debbie). Terry gives Matthew a well-deserved punch while Louise is hurt by the villagers reactions. When the bank refuses to give a loan to Pollard, Val seeks help from Diane. A woken Scott ensures Zoe is arrested… for attempted murder but she still gets bail. Laurel as well as Sadie return. Jasmine is disapproving of Ashley and Laurel. Emily allows Paddy to moved back due to his financial situation but with rules. Sadie hatches a plan against Jack using a corrupt councillor. Cain leaves Sadie panting… under she learns he killed her dog. Delilah Dingle arrives in a wedding dress.

UK START TIME FOR THE WEEK: 1:30PM

27-May: 07-Jul-2005 (4091), 06-Jul-2005** (4092)

28-May: 07-Jul-2005 (4093), 08-Jul-2005 (4094)

29-May: 10-Jul-2005 (4095), 11-Jul-2005 (4096)

30-May: 12-Jul-2005** (4097), 13-Jul-2005 (4098)

31-May: 14-Jul-2005** (4099), 15-Jul-2005** Welcome Delilah Dingle! (4100)

**Robert appears in the episode (33 episodes remaining after this week with Karl!Robert)

COMING NEXT WEEK (barring preemptions): Matthew ends things with Louise. Debbie wants Emily to move into Wishing Well. Sam returns yet again. Zoe pleads her innocence in court. An expecting Alice turns back up in the village. Robert and Jimmy plot against Jack and Andy.

[azeternasims]

frankenhairs!

these aren't my usual style and it's a bit of a random selection but i have these sitting around and i want them to be free!

all hairs come in EA colours and @simandy's puppy crow unnaturals, and work on all frames!

plasmahawk and scrunglytree hairs

just a couple of frankenmeshed hairs i made for @plasma-tree! not much else to say about them

~ plasmahawk: 6914/3501/1290/515 polys ~ scrunglytree loose: 4302/1973/788/493 polys ~ scrunglytree tucked: 3769/1682/671/419 polys

delamoira addons

some addons for @marsosims's dela and moira hairs! including: ~ puppy crow unnatural recolours (these require the original hairs) ~ bangs and ombre overlays (in occult cheek slots to match my other overlays, requires CASUnlocks) ~ a bun, frankenmeshed with @joliebean's clementine hair ~ a swept forward version for big hoodies and jackets ~ a version for hoods (warning, it looks ridiculous without them)

~ delamoira bun: 11090/6156/3838/1462 polys ~ delamoira split: 5082/4065/1963/1530 polys ~ delamoira hoodie: 5082/4091/1859/874 polys

download: sfs ~ drive ~ tou

i wanna make more of my normal style of hairs too but with how slow i make them they should be ready by the end of october 👀🦇

<3

[margowritesthings]

BITE ME

pairing: Vampire!Arthur Morgan x Human!f!reader word count: 4091 words warnings: 18+ minors DNI, explicit sexual content, explicit language, piv intercourse, fingering (r receiving), biting and blood play, vampire feeding authors note: happy halloween my loves! this is a day late, but time isn't real anyway so we can all just pretend it is yesterday... right?? anyway, this au is now living rent free in my mind. i'm obsessed.

taglist:@cowboydisaster @inkandbloodbound @counteveryfreckle @elifsukirdaghehe @reaveries@delilah-grimes@mrsarthurmorgan7 @twola@the-marsh-harrier @wildfloweroutlaw @photo1030 @luvliewriting@pine4pple-b0i @sickvictorianangel

beta read by @cowboydisaster, divider by @saradika

The wooden panels nailed to the broken windows of the manor allow for tiny slats of moonlight to invade onto your skin, bathing you in a white glow. Peering through the gaps, you can see the distant campfire those bastard Pinkertons set up down by the swamp, but you know they’re surrounding you, boxing you into Shady Belle like fish in a barrel. 

It’s been three days of a stalemate, the Pinkertons keeping their distance, brave enough to come with guns and firepower but just cowardly enough to not advance towards the monster they’ve heard only legend of, lest he rip their throats out and drain their life away. No, they’d rather wait around until they can drag his starved body out and be hailed heroes.

That “monster” sits mere feet away from you leaning against the wall, pale skin paler still, his chin tilted upwards as he fights the weight of his own skull. It’s killing you, watching your Arthur grow weaker by the hour. Three days of hiding out in Shady Belle, unable to leave for fear of being hunted for sport, but it’s been much longer since he last fed. They have you trapped, completely and truly. If Arthur held even half his usual strength, it would have been so easy to escape. He’d have overpowered them in seconds, no matter their numbers or firepower. But for that, he’d need to feed on the blood of another, which has made things much harder.

You try to relax your worried features when you see him start to wake, rubbing the crease out from between your eyebrows formed by the frown you hold whenever you watch him sleep, too scared to look away in case he stops stirring. 

“Arthur…” You whisper on an exhale, quickly moving to sit beside him on the little bed. As always, his skin feels like marble, cold enough to seep through his shirt and scatter goose pimples over your arms. You’re used to the cold, what you don’t like is the thin layer of sweat coating him. Vampires shouldn’t sweat, but they also shouldn’t go so long without feeding, and the thought of this being a symptom of time running out terrifies you more than any number of monsters out camping in those woods.

“Hey, sweetheart…” Arthur shuffles to make room for you, guiding you to rest your head on his hard chest. There’s normally more muscle here cushioning you from his ribcage, but with Arthur so sick you can feel every bone beneath you.

“You get any sleep?”

There’s always the option to lie so he worries less, but Arthur knows you too well for that, so only the truth will have to do.

You shake your head, “Was keeping watch. They haven’t moved, think they’re still shit-scared of you, actually.” 

Absent-mindedly, Arthur’s hand gravitates to the top of your head, stroking your hair in such a way that sends tingles down your spine. Even now, in the midst of perhaps the most danger you’ve ever been in together, his very touch has the power to calm you instantaneously. 

He huffs a laugh, though you notice the slight wheeze to his breath when he does and another pang of worry hits you, “Course they are. Call themselves goddamn hunters, couldn’t catch a cold in Colter…” A pause, where you fill the silence with that tiny little laugh you’ve barely been mustering lately, then, “You should get some sleep, darlin’.” 

“Not tired.” You protest, almost childishly, burying yourself further into Arthur’s chest. In truth, you’re exhausted, and even though he already knows it, you won’t admit it. You can’t tell him that you’re too scared to fall asleep in case you wake up alone, that there’s no point anyway because nightmares of him withering away to nothing here beside you will drag you back awake soon enough. 

You both know this can’t go on for much longer. Something has to be done, and you know you have to be the one to do it. It’s just the convincing… 

“C’mon, baby…” He starts, but you won’t hear it. You’re not going to sleep. You’re going to fix this.

“You have to feed on me.” You blurt out, glad to be nuzzled into your beloved’s shirt so you don’t have to see whatever expression your statement has pulled from him. 

It’s not spontaneous, no sudden solution that has sprung into your mind this very moment. You’ve suggested it before, albeit never so forcefully, Arthur brushing you off like the idea is unfathomable. Explaining that he would never feed from you, terrified he’d lose control and hurt you. He could never hurt you. If there are such things as absolutes, that is one of them, you know it.

“No.” He’s blunt, clearly hoping his tone had enough force to end it there. But you’re strong, your will to keep fighting for him an everlasting force enough to match his. 

“Arthur-” You unravel from him to sit up and meet his eye, yours pleading, his hardened. 

“Darlin’, I said no. I mean it. I promised you I would never hurt ya’, and shit have I broke a lot of promises in my life… but not that one. N-Never that one. No.” 

“You’re going to die, Arthur. If you don’t do this you’re going to die and you’re gonna leave me all on my own to face those bastards a-and,” Dammit, when did you start crying? “And I can’t do it without ya, Arthur you know I can’t-”

“Yes you can-”

“Well I don’t want to!”  You shout, bursting the bubble of quiet around the Manor, your echo riding the wave of birds flocking out of the trees. Sobs threaten to break your strength, but you have to say this. It’s the very last card you have to play. After a few moments, tension between you growing palpable enough to cut with a knife, Arthur closes his mouth, letting you continue. 

“Arthur, you’re all I have left… You think I’m a sharp enough shooter to get by them? Fine. But say I kill ‘em all, then what? Find somewhere to live and carry on? I ain’t… I can’t lose you, Arthur. But I can save you, if you let me. Please.” 

Time feels as though it stops entirely when you see Arthur actually considering your words. Tears streak your cheeks, but your boots could ignite right on your feet and you might not notice in this moment. He looks so tortured in thought, no doubt imagining the life you would lead if you left him behind. He’s sure you’re strong enough, he knows you can do anything, but his heart breaks thinking of you all alone. 

You reach for Arthur’s hands, feeling his cold skin tremble. 

“I… What if I lose control? What if I hurt you? Sweetheart, you know what I get like when I-”

“But you won’t. You know how much blood I can afford to give you, and I know you, Arthur. You’d never hurt me.” 

You elect not to tell him that any blood that runs through your body belongs to him already, your heart pumping it through your veins only for him. 

You don’t tell him you’d die for him, because you know he’d never let you. 

He’s silent, contemplating. 

Please.

Please.

“...You start feeling faint or anything, you fuckin’ tell me, alright?” His tone holds an attempt at sternness, but it bothers you none. You can hardly hear him for the rush of relief flowing over you. 

“I-I will. I promise.” And you mean it. The two of you are two entwined souls, neither trusting the other to have enough will to keep fighting if anything happened to them. 

Arthur takes a deep breath in, almost like he’s giving himself an extra few seconds to back out of this, before sighing it out. 

“Alright.”

The breath that hitched in your throat an age ago releases and you wipe your tears away hurriedly with the back of your hand. 

“Oh, thank you, Arthur…” You’re so ecstatic, so grateful that he’s letting you save him that all you can do is launch yourself over to him, kissing him with all the passion the universe has offered you to gift him. Your hands fall to either side of his face, caressing his marble skin in a way that emits a tiny groan from him. Over the last few days, you’ve cuddled up to him a lot, but there hasn’t been much contact like this. Needy and wanting, loving and layered with everything from I Love You to Let Me Save You. Arthur is a starved man, but not just for blood. For you, body, blood and soul. 

Arthur snakes one arm around your waist, even with his reduced strength still able to pull you over to straddle his lap. You’d have protested, citing that he’s too sick to be holding your weight like this, but now that this is really happening you’re getting kind of nervous, and the thought of being so close to him, arms wrapped around your frame while he feeds on your blood, comforts you hugely. And there’s no backing out, not from this, so straddle him you will. 

Despite everything, Arthur’s cool touch sets you aflame. He trails his fingertips up and down your spine, his other hand firmly gripping your ass. His tongue teases your bottom lip until you open up to him, tasting him as he does you. He tastes…like Arthur. He might argue that he’s some monster, committing evil acts in the name of survival, but you know better. He’s your Arthur, he always has been. 

The world melts around you, leaving just you and Arthur, loving each other, saving each other. That one long kiss breaks into smaller ones, until Arthur is peppering your lips, cheeks and nose with tiny kisses, glistening red eyes welling with emotion.

“It was always gonna be you, wasn’t it? You were always gonna save me…” He whispers, almost like he doesn’t quite believe it’s real.

“Always. And you’re gonna save me right back, cowboy. But first…” You look down between your two bodies, to the arm you’re holding out to Arthur. 

“Are you ready?” 

“Does it hurt?” You surprise yourself with your answer to his question, though you stand by it. You’re not scared, you could never be scared with Arthur. But nervous?

“A little. But I’m right here with you. And if you need to stop or take a break or you start feeling off, tell me or tap my arm.” You nod slowly, placing your hand into Arthur’s, “I need a yes, sweetheart… I can’t do this to you unless you’re sure.”

“Yes, Arthur. I’m sure. Please.”

There is one final, apprehensive glance in your direction, which you reply to with another tiny nod. He raises your flesh to his mouth, flashes of his white fangs visible now in the moonlight as he parts his lips. 

It’s… strange. A small scratching feeling when his teeth puncture the skin of your wrist that pinches your brows together. There’s a second of nothing, before Arthur starts to feed and steals the breath right out of your lungs. 

It’s like you can feel every vein in your body, all connecting and tugging your lifeforce through to your wrist for Arthur to feast on. You can tell the second the first drop hits his tongue, the shudder that wracks through his shoulders and down his spine. His eyes roll back in… pleasure? You’ve seen him feed before, usually such a violent affair, but this is different. You feel vulnerable to him, and as though you hold every ounce of control all at once. 

When he groans, deep carmine eyes locking onto yours, you feel it all over, your thighs clenching around your suddenly wanting pussy. 

… An unexpected side effect. 

Maybe it’s the adrenaline, or the blood rushing around your body, or even the downright ravenous way Arthur is looking at you while he feeds on your blood, but you seem to be physically squirming on the bed, desperate for any kind of friction you can get. Fuck, you’ve never seen anybody react to being fed on like this… Then again, you’ve never seen feeding look or feel like this.

From even the smallest drop of you, what little colour that remains after his change has returned to Arthur’s skin and he looks much closer to alive than just minutes before. He looks himself again, right down to the cocky smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It does maddening things to you, not at all helping your growing state of arousal. 

When his teeth sink out of your wrist, you watch crimson beads pool at two tiny punctures. Without breaking eye contact with you, Arthur lifts your hand back up to him, running the very tip of his tongue agonisingly slowly over the skin, pulling an honest to god whimper from your parted lips.

“You did so good, my good girl…” Arthur coos, an undeniably pleased look upon his face. He’s told you before, that with his heightened senses, Arthur knows when you want him. You also know how energised he gets after feeding, and how all of these factors are leading to a tension so intense between you you’re almost scared of the outcome.

There’s a smudge of blood on Arthur’s lip, one that you reach out to rub away with your thumb. Quick as the predator he is, he grabs your wrist before you can pull away, slipping your thumb into his mouth and sucking the blood gently off. Upon release, he drags one sharpened fang across the pad of your thumb and you shudder, craving that feeling of the bite more than you truly understand.

“A-Arthur…” You whimper, shuddering in pure anticipation and need. 

“I know, sweetheart… Christ, I knew you’d taste good, but this? Fuck, you’ve ruined me, baby…”

You can’t wait a second longer, certain you’ll perish unless he is kissing you in the next moment. Entangling your grip into his collar, you find Arthur only too malleable to your touch, all but pouncing on you, locking your lips together. His tongue demands entrance as he easily positions you to be laying under him, Arthur covering the entire length of you and thensome. 

“How do you feel, angel?” He asks between kisses, large hands roaming your body, tugging your clothes out of being tucked into each other to make it easier to take them off, “Y’alright? Don’t feel faint?”

“I’m okay. I just- I-I need you, please.” You’re pleading again, this time for very different reasons, “Did you get enough?” 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you, sweetheart…” He growls, pulling the buttons of your shirt open feverishly. And then his lips are back on your skin, kissing your neck, licking at the skin whilst his hands work your zipper. You moan again, some wanton part of you wishing he would bite down again, marking you all over. 

Arthur is losing control in the best way, growling and grinding his erection against your leg as he tries to pull your jeans down. With a little help, he manages, tugging your undergarments with them so you’re completely bare for him. 

“So fuckin’ beautiful… my perfect little feast. Fuck, I’m tortured by every second I’m not buried deep inside that weeping cunt of yours,” At that, he runs a finger over your slit, drenching the tip of his finger in your slick, “but I think you deserve a treat for being such a good girl for me…” 

There’s no time to consider his offer as he plunges two thick fingers deep inside you, curling them, curling them to hit that sweet spot he knows so well. You scream, absolutely loud enough for any Pinkerton vampire hunters to hear.

“That’s it, huh? That what you needed? That pretty little cunt filling?” He taunts, thumb swirling over your already soaking clit. You can’t speak for crying out, but you manage a nod, feeling yourself stretch around a third finger in a way that has your heart racing even faster.

With your pulse pounding, you can really feel the wounds on your wrist starting to ache and burn. It's a strange sensation, but one that seems to blend into everything else in some twisted bout of pleasure.

Arthur must notice your eyes flickering to it, as he guides your hand back up to his lips with the hand not inside you, pressing the softest kisses over the holes in your skin. 

“Look what you did for me… My saviour, my perfect girl…”

“I’d die for you, Arthur.” you confess, the sweetness of his kisses and the languid circles of his fingers pulling you so close to the edge you can feel tears forming behind your eyes.

“It’d never come to that, beautiful. I’d burn the world down before I let your life ever hang in the balance.”

You believe him, too, and the emotion is suddenly too much. You’re hurtling towards an orgasm and you need him closer and all you can seem to think to do is untangle your wrist from his grasp and slip your thumb into his mouth.

He knows what you’re asking for instantly, and you swear you see his inky pupils blow until his eyes are nothing but a reddened void. 

“Oh, my pretty little feast…” He groans, pricking your thumb with a fang and sucking gently at the blood. It isn’t nearly as intense as your wrist, but you still feel that tugging everywhere and you can’t stop the lewd moans that fall from your lips as you come undone. 

Writing, screaming his name, you feel Arthur suck harder on your thumb, moaning himself at the taste of you. It’s not nearly as much as he was taking before, but enough that your blood blooms over his tongue and fills every one of his senses. He is a man obsessed, and it’s the most beautiful sight as you cum for him. 

The waves of euphoria crash over you, each more intense and wonderful than the last. Arthur orchestrates your orgasm through his own pleasure, drawing perfect patterns on your clit in time to his thrusts. 

When you come down, he’s there, releasing you from his fangs again to free his lips for yours. Your lips lock together, his body crushing yours into the mattress. You love the feel of all his weight on you, especially when you can feel every pulse of his throbbing cock through the denim of his jeans. Jeans that must go, so you snake a hand into what little space you can between your bodies to reach for his buttons. Arthur helps you, and he’s soon naked on top of you. Wrapping nimble fingers around his shaft, you run your thumb over the rosy head of his cock, swiping at the bead of precum already leaking. He’s desperate for you, and it drives you wild. 

You’re already guiding him to your soaked entrance, grinding your hips pathetically, needily. Arthur chuckles softly, taunting you with the smallest of hip movements to slide his tip into you, but stopping there. 

“Arthur.” You whine, eyes pleading, cunt dripping for him. Your hands roam the expanse of his back, feeling each muscle twitch under your touch, scratching at the cool skin like a cat in heat. 

“I know, baby, I know… I’ll make it better.” He purrs, finally sliding the entire length of his cock into your heat. It stretches you in that beautiful way only he can and you moan, deep and visceral. Your nails leave white scratches across Arthur’s back as your hands float up to cup his cheeks, pulling him into a deep kiss as his groin presses hard into yours.

“Oh, my beautiful girl… I’m gonna fuck you so hard they’re gonna hear you up in Saint Denis… them Pinkertons out there are gonna think I’m draining every last drop of that sweet blood out of your precious little body.”

Such a violent image, but somehow… you enjoy the thought. You’d bleed for him till the end of time, gladly… you’d lay down your life on a slab and be Arthur’s for the taking. 

You can’t think of the words to tell him how much you want what he’s telling you, letting the passion guide you to bite down on Arthur’s lower lip. A taste of his own medicine. He has no blood of his own to give, but you’re biting down hard enough to have drawn some if he did, dragging another feral grown from the depths of his throat. 

True to his word, with just a few perfectly timed thrusts, you’re screaming his name, cunt fluttering around his thick cock and squeezing every inch of it. That full feeling is so wonderful, so bone-deep and euphoric you’re on the precipice of another orgasm in seconds. He can tell, slowing down and hanging you right over the edge with a wicked grin on his face. You whine and whimper, clawing at the back of his neck to pull him even closer.

“What do you want, little feast? Use your words.” He pushes, still dragging his cock up against your walls in the most torturous of ways. 

“I want… I-I need… I-I… urgh!” You cry out in frustration, each syllable leaving your lips earning another thrust that dizzies you to the point of cock-drunk stuttering. Fuck words. You’ll show him. 

With a strength you didn’t even know you possessed, you pull Arthur closer, guiding him to the crook of your neck. 

“Angel, I don’t know if I can control myself if I taste you agai-”

“Please…” you whimper, rocking your hips up to meet Arthur’s movements, clit grinding deliciously against his pubic bone. 

Arthur’s eyes meet yours and you’re lost in them, convinced you’ve never been held so close to climax for so long before, but your body knows what it wants, what it needs to get there with Arthur. 

“Fuck, if I could die, you’d be the death of me…” Are the last words he speaks before sinking his teeth into your neck, in perfect time with a deep thrust of his cock. You scream, in pain, in pleasure, all of it, finally falling over that cliff and crashing into the waves below. You drown in your orgasm, dragging Arthur down with you as he sucks the sweet ichor out of your veins. With your blood on his tongue and his name on your lips, you cum together. The vibrations of his carnal moans tickle your neck, layering yet another juxtaposing sensation onto you. 

He releases, only to whisper sweet words of praise into your bleeding skin, “Look at you, giving me this… you’re doing so good for me, ain’t ya? My little angel, my good girl…”

And he’s biting down again, and you’re chanting his name, legs wrapped tight around his hips, tears you don’t remember shedding streaking down your cheeks. It feels like you stay there for an eternity, connected mind, body and soul. You would stay there for an eternity with him, if he’d only let you. But that’s another story…

It stings a little when Arthur unleashes his teeth from you, and you wince. His hand is there instantly, caressing the surely reddened skin as his brows pull together, “You okay? I didn’t go too far, did I? Y’feelin’ alright?” 

You shake your head softly, a blissful smile gracing your lips, “I’m perfect.” 

“Damn straight you are.” He remarks, slowly sliding out of you and lowering his weight onto the bed beside you. 

“What about you? How are you feeling?” You ask, entwining your fingers together and holding them up into the moonlight. There's a streak of your blood crossing over a few of Arthur’s knuckles. It suits him. 

“Never better.” He says honestly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thank you, darlin’. I’ll never be able to thank ya’ enough for what you did, but I promise you I’ll get us out of here alive. Well… y’know what I mean.” 

You giggle, sure you may never get used to the fact that the love of your life is dead. 

“You don’t need to thank me, Arthur. You’ve given me your life a million times, it’s only fair I get to do the same.”

And you mean it. You would do it a thousand times over, giving your life to Arthur while he gives his afterlife to you, saving each other until the end of time. 

[agoldengalaxy]

The Many, Many, Birthdays of Stan Pines

read on Ao3

words: 4091

Stan Pines has a complicated relationship with his birthday.

--

Stan Pines is six. It's a beautiful day to be six.

“Ford! Ford, wake up!” He stands up on his bed, holding himself up with his hands to peek over the wooden edge of the top bunk. “It’s finally here!”

Ford’s eyes open slowly, and once they meet Stan’s, his face lights up. “Our birthday!”

Hopping down, Stan stands triumphantly, his hands on his hips as Ford climbs down the ladder a little more gracefully. “We’re finally six! The amount of fingers you got finally adds up!” He punches Ford’s arm, giggling, then holds up his hand. “High six for the coolest six year olds in the universe!”

Also giggling, Ford fumbles to put his glasses on and return the gesture. “High six!”

After a breakfast with the best cereal their mom could afford, they raced each other down to the beach, intent on spending their day outside together. They didn’t have friends, but that wouldn’t deter the Pines.

“Whoa, wait!” Ford grabbed Stan’s shoulder, who groaned in discontent, dramatically melting to the ground.

“Fooord! You’re not even it!”

“No, look, Stan!” His eyes shone in the mid-morning light, a huge grin on his face. Stan hopped to his feet to follow his gaze, finding a huge wooden swing set on the hill by Glass Shard Beach. It was new, and it was unoccupied. Two swings, as if it were made for them both.

They meet each other’s gaze, grinning giddily, tripping over each other and shoving each other to get there first. Ford takes the left swing, and Stan takes the right. They have competitions to see who could swing the highest, who could spin the chains around the most, and imagine what it would be like if they had the money to buy whatever birthday cake they wanted.

Suddenly, Ford’s standing right in front of him, shaking him. “Stan! We have to go home for dinner.” He’d been leaning against the swing’s chain, falling asleep.

He rubs his eyes roughly, and when his vision clears of black spots, his brother is there with his hand outstretched, smiling. Ford pulls him to his feet, then shoves him to the side, sprinting away. “Last one home has to take the trash out!”

“H-Hey! No fair, Sixer!” he laughs, chasing after him.

***

Stan Pines is thirteen. He’s grateful it’s the summer, but he wishes he weren’t here right now.

He sits at the kitchen table, his hands curled into fists in his lap. Whenever he’s in this situation, he likes to stare down at a mark on the old table, left from when his mother had put out a cigarette there. He thinks it looks a little bit like a boat.

“Are you listening to me, boy?” Large hands slam down on the table in front of him. Stan flinches, then drags his gaze up to look at his father. “Look at you. Making that face like some scared little girl. I thought signin’ you up for boxing would fix all that.”

This exact scene has happened many times before. No matter what he does, he’s not good enough. The boxing helped him stand up to bullies, but not to his father. 

His mother grabs his arm. “Filbrick, please! Stanley’s doing his best, a-and it’s his birthday…!”

“That’s exactly the point, Caryn. He’s thirteen now. Why can’t you be more like your brother? He’s never caused trouble!” he exclaims, glancing toward the shelf in the living room, nearly overflowing with the awards he’s been winning. “Or, better yet, stop draggin’ your brother down with your stupidity! Get your damn head out of the clouds and focus for once!”

Stan’s eyes burn, but he knows if he cries now, it’ll make this way worse. He glances down at the burn mark again, mumbling through an apology, when a squeaky voice interrupts them all. 

“Can Stanley help me get the work I left at school?”

Ford is standing in the doorway of the kitchen now, and Stan isn’t sure where he came from or how long he’s been standing there. Filbrick glances between the two boys, then lets out a quiet sigh, lifting a hand to dismiss them. Stan scrambles off of the chair and the twins rush out the door.

Once they’re far enough away from the house, Ford stops walking, turning to face Stan, whose shoulders are hunched. “Are you…okay?”

The words make the dam break. Tears pool in his eyes as he fruitlessly rubs them, though he knows his brother is the only one who’d never tease him for this. “Pop thinks I’m useless.”

“That’s not true,” Ford replies, placing a hand on Stan’s shoulder. “He’s just…he’s in one of his moods again. We’ll spend our birthday out of the house. Again.”

“So…you didn’t need me to get your work for you?”

“No, Stan. It’s just the only excuse I could think of to get you out of there.” He sighs, reaching into his pocket to pull out the handkerchief their mother gave him, wiping at Stan’s wet cheeks. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Sniffling, Stan doesn’t even ask where, letting his brother take him down the pathway, past the swingset that rustles with the breeze, and down to the beach where their slow progress of Stan o’ War was left. Together, they sit on the slightly-sturdy deck, cans of soda in hand. They drink in silence until Stan pipes up.

“Do you think I’m draggin’ you down, Poindexter?”

Ford blinks in surprise, then his brows furrow. “Never. You’re my best friend.”

Stan smiles slightly, running his finger along the open mouth of the can. “Eh, I guess you’re alright, too.”

Giggling, Ford punches his arm. “Hey!”

***

Stan Pines is eighteen. He’s bored.

They’ll be starting their senior year soon, which means they’re closer to finally finishing school and getting to go adventuring. But as he lay on the mostly-finished deck of the Stan o’ War , he’s left completely bored by his brother’s mumbling and writing.

“Do you have to do that today, you nerd?” Stan finally huffs, reaching for a toffee peanut. “It’s our birthday. We should be out getting ladies and partying or something.”

“Unlike you, Stan, I have a lot of classes I need to take next year. It’s really tough to organize it.”

“It’s the summer!” he groans, standing up to snatch the book out of Ford’s hands, who cries out in surprise. “This boring school-y stuff can wait. Can’t you spend some time with your best friend today?”

Ford seems unsure, but he relents and gets to his feet, brushing himself off. “No, you’re right. We only turn eighteen once, right? What should we do?”

A mischievous grin appears on Stan’s face as he walks over to the side of the boat, placing the journal down carefully. “Oh, I dunno, I thought - ” Suddenly, he screams in fake fear, which makes Ford come running. Stan’s mischievous smile grows as he pushes his brother into the water below, leaving him sputtering and gasping for breath.

“Stanley!” he shouts, his body and voice trembling with the cold ocean water. Frustratedly, he takes his glasses off, tossing them onto the ship deck. “That was unfair.”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry, it was just too good to pass up. You shoulda seen the look on your face. Here.” He holds his hand out, intent on pulling him back up. Ford grumbles, taking his hand, but instead of letting Stan pull him up, he yanks Stan downward. They both tumble underwater, and when they surface, they stare at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter.

“And you should’ve seen the look on your face!”

“I guess I deserved that, huh.”

They splash each other back and forth, and Stan puts an arm around the other while they look up at the setting sun. “Happy birthday, bro.”

“Happy birthday to you too, Stan,” Ford replies with a smile, pulling away after a moment to push Stan’s head underwater.

***

Stan Pines is nineteen. He’s living out of his car.

Glancing down at his notepad, he sighs softly and crosses Illinois off the list. Onto the next, he supposes, with his next bright idea. 

For dinner, he uses his last quarter to get a gumball from the corner store, and while he stands there, he glances at the payphone nearby, watching a woman using it squeal in delight as she congratulates the caller on their engagement. Stan sighs, turning his pockets inside out. 

This is the first birthday they haven’t spent together. He wonders what would happen if he called. Would Ford finally believe him? Would Ford also wish him a happy birthday?

Even if he could afford the payphone, he doesn’t think he’s strong enough to use it. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he blows a large bubble with his gum and walks back to his car, turning the engine on.

“Iowa, here I come,” he mumbles, pulling out of the parking lot.

***

Stan Pines is twenty-six. They’re pounding on his door.

“Pines! Open the door, now! Don’t make me break it down!”

Stan steels himself and stands up, placing a baseball bat beside the door as he opens it. “Rico! To what do I owe this pleasure, old friend?”

The stout man scoffs, stepping inside to grab his collar and hold him close enough that he can smell the cigar smoke on his breath. “You are not my friend, amigo. Your payment. It is due today.”

“Oh, is it?” Stan feigns surprise. “Coulda sworn the last time we talked you told me it was next week.”

“Do not play games with me, Pines. You are aware of what landed me in jail next to you before, yes?” He tightened his grip. “I would do it again to you in a second.”

“Y’know, I actually don’t think we ever talked about what landed you in jail, Rico. You only ever talked to Jorge in Spanish and ignored me. By any chance, were you arrested because of the smell of cigars and bad decisions stuck to your clothes?”

Suddenly, his face explodes with pain, and Stan blinks away stars, looking at the other man with his fist raised, inches from his nose. “Now, where is my money?”

Stan coughs, shaking his head, feeling the panic travel up his chest, knowing he wouldn’t be able to reach the bat if he wanted to. “L-Look, I don’t have it, I really did think you meant next week! Today’s my birthday, just…just give me a few more days! You just got to punch me in the face. That should be enough to hold you over ‘till I can pay you back, right?”

For a few tense moments, they just stares at each other, until Rico huffs and puts him down. “I give you four days. I will not wait longer.”

Nervously, Stan brushes himself off, smiling as bright as he can as he begins nudging him out the door. “Thank you! Not to worry, you can count on me! Off you go, off you go, I’m gonna enjoy my birthday by scrounging up that money for you. Bye now!”

He slams the door shut and locks it, listening to the sound of footsteps and grumbling get further and further away. Slowly, he sinks to the floor, leaning against the door and putting his face in his hands.

There was no way he was going to call his parents. He’s tried to call Ford before and chickened out. It was time to scan as hard as he’d ever scammed before.

A normal day for Stan Pines.

***

Stan Pines is twenty-eight. He doesn’t realize it’s his birthday.

He’s been awake for who-knows-how-many-days straight. It’s been six months since Ford disappeared, and six months of trying desperately to learn how to reopen the portal that was way too complicated for him. He even manages to fake his own death completely on his own, taking his brother’s identity in the process. He wishes, more than anything, that he could have his brain, too, rather than his face.

Slowly, he shuffles toward the lever, pulling it to the side. “Surprise, surprise,” he mumbles, throwing the journal at the portal’s support beam in what he thought would be a much more impactful move. It just falls to the ground listlessly due to Stan’s complete lack of energy. “Give him back. Please.”

His knees shake as he walks to retrieve the journal. When he bends down to grab it, his vision blurs, and he falls forward, his cheek squished up against one of the yellowed pages. He tells his body to move but it doesn’t listen.

“It’s really not safe to sleep here, Stanley. Leave the portal alone.”

“Can it, Poindexter,” he mumbles, only half-aware that he’s probably hallucinating. His eyes slip shut and he doesn’t move for a long time.

***

Stan Pines is thirty-seven. The Mystery Shack is booming, and despite complaints of fraud or rip-offs, tourists still come, tourists still give him money.

He leans on the counter, telling the last customers that they should come back soon as one of the bobbleheads completely pops off. “Remember, we put the fun in no refunds!” he says after them, slamming the door shut before they can complain.

Slowly, his gaze drifts toward the vending machine. A year ago, just the buttons had been blurry, but now the whole thing was. Huffing a sigh, he rubs the back of his neck and heads upstairs to change. Once in his undershirt and boxers, he moves to the living room to watch something.

But as the movie plays, he realizes that from the armchair, he can’t see a thing. The characters and colors are all blobs, moving back and forth with their canny voices. Frustrated, Stan moves closer to sit on the floor, but after a few minutes his back aches, his eyes burn, and he can’t stand it.

Storming back to his room, he angrily pulls open the drawer and takes out a black case, holding it in his hands for a moment. He’d known his vision was going for a while and got himself checked out months ago, but even when he got the glasses, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to wear them.

Today, at thirty-seven, he can’t ignore it any longer.

He sits on the edge of his bed, opening the case. He picks up the glasses, glancing at the pair that had sat on the dresser for the last nine years. They were different enough. He’d be fine.

Pull it together, Stan, he thinks, reminded of his father insulting him for being too much of a baby. Snapping the case shut, he shoves the glasses onto his face and stands up. He draws himself up, marching himself toward the door. He intends not to look, but he can’t help it - his gaze finds his own in the mirror, and for a terribly long moment, it’s not his face in the mirror. 

It’s Ford’s.

The tears start before he can even think about it. He forgets watching the movie, and sits on the edge of his bed, staring at his face in the mirror, wishing it actually was his brother staring back.

***

Stan Pines is fifty. He’s still getting used to his handyman, but he thinks he’d kill for this kid.

“Mr. Pines! Mr. Pines! I chased that woman down and got her to buy this snowglobe, dude!” Soos’ eyes are sparkling with excitement as he runs back up to the porch of the shack where Stan is standing. “And I told her no refunds!”

Chuckling heartily, Stan reaches down to ruffle the kid’s hair.  “Nice work, gumdrop. You’ve come a long way.”

Soos smiles giddily. “Th-Thank you!”

“Hey, it’s almost been a year since I hired you, huh?” Stan muses, remembering it was sometime around his birthday, and that the kid was also wearing a party hat when he came by. “Isn’t it gonna be your birthday soon? What’ll you be, seven? Eight?”

Much to his surprise, Soos deflates a little at the questions. “U-Uh, no. Thirteen,” he murmurs, the quietest Stan has ever seen him.

“Whoa, why the long face there, kiddo?”

Soos plays with the hem of his shirt, sitting on one of the stairs. “I don’t like my birthday, Mr. Pines.” Stan blinks a few times, then slowly moves to sit beside him, waiting for the elaboration. “Every year, my dad promises he’ll come visit. And every year, he doesn’t.”

There’s an awkward silence for a few moments, before Stan says the only thought he has that’s child-friendly. “Whatta jerk.”

Soos lets out a non-committal huff of a laugh. “That’s what my grandma says when she thinks I’m not listening.”

“It’s true! Soos, if that guy can’t be bothered to make time for you, then he doesn’t deserve to be in your life.” Unwittingly, a shiver runs down his back. He supposes hypocrisy can be added to the long list of things he does wrong. “You can spend your birthday here, with me and your grandma. Okay?”

The kid’s big, innocent eyes shine as he looks up at him. “R-Really? You mean it, Mr. Pines?”

“I mean it.” He hesitates for a moment before putting his arm around Soos’ shoulders. “And for the record, kid, I don’t like my birthday, either. But you’re gonna be alright. You got people who love you.”

Soos leans into the hug immediately and Stan pretends not to see the tears that roll down his cheeks. “Y-You got people who love you too, dude!”

They sit in silence after that while Stan ponders if that’s actually the case for him. It sure doesn’t feel like it, but he’s glad to help this kid, even if just a little.

***

Stan Pines is fifty-nine. He’s sitting at the register, reading a newspaper, when the bell above the door rings. He looks up, and much to his surprise, a teenager is standing there, looking slightly nervous but clearly trying to hide it.

“I thought teenagers hated me,” he says, as a way to cut the tension. She looks vaguely familiar. He realizes she’s been here a couple of times with her father before. “What’s up, kid? Why the long face?”

“...My dad says I either have to go to some camp on the other side of the state or get a job. I really, really don’t want to leave my friends behind, and I’ve already been fired from, like, most of the places in town. You’re weird enough that it just might work. Are you hiring?”

Stan blinks, knowing how it feels to be sent away by your father. “...Can you scam people out of their money and/or handle a register?”

The girl smirks. “Bold interview questions, but yes, and yes. I won’t let you down.”

“Alright, you’re hired. Let’s see what you can do during today’s rush.” Stan grins, standing up and offering the stool to her. She grins and takes a seat. “What’s your name, kid?

“Wendy Corduroy,” she says, adjusting her hat, “and I’m gonna blow you away.”

Much to his surprise, she does, in fact, blow him away. By the time the tour bus leaves, she’s made more money than he expected with her smooth talking, definitely better at the conning thing than Soos ever was. She holds up her fist, and he bumps it with his own.

“You’re not so bad, Mr. Pines,” she muses as he walks her out the door at the end of the day. “Everyone thinks you’re weird, which you are, but you’re actually pretty cool, too. Thanks for the job, man. See you tomorrow!”

She smiles and heads down the path, while Stan feels a quiet warmth bubble in his chest. Maybe not all teenagers are terrible.

***

Stan Pines is sixty. Last month, he got a letter from his nephew, asking if he could take their children for the summer. He didn’t get into specifics, but it seemed like he and the wife weren’t doing very well and he didn’t want the kids to see it.

He knows he should have said no. If anyone saw what was happening in his basement, they’d kill him. But he says yes, because they’re family, and family has been what he’s been aching for.

They arrived yesterday, and thankfully it seemed that either his nephew didn’t know it was his birthday or didn’t tell the kids. They’re pleasant, of course they are, since they’re Shermie’s grandkids, but he can tell they don’t want to be here. All he can do is put them to work, keep them busy, hope they get acclimated, maybe even make them laugh. He shows them the attic and the gift shop.

They take to Soos right away. Wendy seems more or less indifferent about the kids. The day itself is a little awkward, and Stan is just relieved that they don’t know it’s his birthday to add any more awkwardness.

Adjusting his glasses, he walks past the attic door, but stops when he hears voices. He’d sent the kids to bed an hour ago, so of course he’s gonna eavesdrop.

“ - not how I wanna be spending my summer. Things are weird here. I miss Mom and Dad. And I think Great Uncle Stan is a criminal.”

“I don’t know…”

“He is! Do you see how he lies to all his customers? He’s, like, a professional conman! What if he hurts us too? I say we should escape through the window and report him to the FBI!”

There’s a quiet silence as the words hang in the air. Stan feels his heart break into a thousand pieces, mostly because he can’t even blame the kid.

A quiet rustling sound pierces the silence. “I know. We can ask the magic eight ball what to do!”

“Mabel, the magic eight ball? Seriously?”

“Has it ever wronged us before?”

A sigh. “Fine. Let’s ask it.”

“Oh, great magic eight ball, should we leave and report our great uncle to the FBI?”

Silence. Stan doesn’t breathe.

“Well, guess we’re staying!”

“Guess so. Hope we made the right choice.”

With each passing second of silence, it feels like his heart is stabbed over and over again. Finally, he forces air through his lungs, forcing himself to walk away from the door, forcing himself to make it to his room, close the door, and sit on the edge of his bed.

For most of his life, he’d felt like he had no family left. He thinks, maybe, it’s for the best. His own family didn’t want him, and now his extended family doesn’t want him.

He’s gonna have to try extra hard, but he knows how that always turns out.

He doesn’t sleep that night.

***

Stan Pines is sixty-one. It’s a beautiful day to be sixty-one.

The ocean breeze feels amazing on his skin, rustling his hair beneath his beanie. The sky is a golden orange, bringing about the new day with warmth. He’s standing on the deck of the Stan o’ War II , leaning on the railing. His memories are still jumbled, even all these months later, but he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so at peace.

Suddenly, the smell of coffee replaces the scent of salt, and he glances over to find Ford beside him with a fond grin, holding out a mug to him. “Good morning, Stanley.”

“Mornin’. Thanks for the joe.” He takes the mug, and they clink them together. They each take a slow sip, letting the coffee warm them. It’s quiet for a few moments, as if Ford is wondering if he should say something. Stan smiles to himself. “Happy birthday, you big nerd.”

Ford���s eyes widen, and he lets out a sort of incredulous huff of a laugh. “Y-You…you remember.”

Stan nods, putting an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “Yeah, I do.”

Wasting no time, Ford leans into the side-hug, letting out a content sigh. A few more moments pass before Ford speaks again. “Happy birthday to you too, Stan.”

It had been forty-three years since he’d heard Ford say those words to him. He blinks the salt and tears out of his eyes and smiles.

Suddenly, a loud ring echoes inside the boat. Ford straightens up, adjusting his glasses with a grin. “That’s the twins. Come along.”

They walk inside their room, sitting on Stan’s bunk to answer the video call. Confetti falls in front of the camera while Dipper and Mabel scream happy birthday to their grunkles.

It’s the best birthday Stan has ever had.

[oneterabyteofkilobyteage]

original url http://www.geocities.com/Heartland/Valley/4091/ last modified 2008-04-12 09:50:07

[moonbrooke]

Moonbrooke’s final form is here on a sunny fall day 🍂🌙🍄‍🟫

DA-8923-7894-4091

[freakbabyy]

Deception Chapter One

taglist: @tulipbite @rcarbo1

A/N: it's finally here teehee (as if i dont have ten chapters written out rn)

Word Count: 4091

Mood board | Prologue

“Alright ladies, form a single file line! When you get to the front of the line, you will present your letter of conscription. After you do that, you’ll be told what dorm room you’re staying in for the next six months,” The soldier up front’s grin widened even more at the next sentiment. “That is, if you survive them.”

The front of the line had about five different soldiers already in full uniform, each with a new recruit going over their paperwork. The line went surprisingly fast, until I was next. Taking a deep breath in and out, I tried my best to adjust the cloth around my breasts. I had tightened too much this morning, apparently.

“Next.” I stepped forward, handing Finn’s - my letter to the mustachioed guard, and he ran his eyes over for a few seconds before placing it in the pile on the table, and instead handing me a key. “All set, Ambrose. Dorm five, bed three.”

I nodded, hiking my backpack up higher on my shoulders before stalking towards the dorms, which were actually just shacks. Each had clearly seen better days, most were ragged from the weather. Most likely from the brutal winters we would get.

Walking up the steps to the fifth cabin, I opened the door that was already cracked and closed it behind me. A few others had already been in the cabin, and it looks as if there were three sets of bunk beds. Each had a trunk beside and in front of it. I opted to take the top bunk since there was already someone's stuff on the bottom one, and put my bag down on top of the trunk beside it.

“Looks like we’ll be sharing a bunk,” I twisted my head to look at the guy on the other side of the bed, apparently already putting stuff into his trunk. He stuck his hand out, and I really took in his features. “Alaric Godfrey.” 

Short black hair, cut down to nearly his scalp, with striking green eyes the color of grass in the summertime. He had round glasses on as well. He reminded me of a hawk with the way he was staring at me.

“Finnigan Ambrose,” I shook his hand, nodding once firmly. “And it looks like you’d be correct.”

“You’re alright with the top bunk, right? If not, we can switch.” 

“Yeah, top bunk’s fine. Thanks.” I turned around, starting to unpack my bag as well, folding my clothes into the trunk. “Where’re you from?”

“Riodum. It’s by Spring.” I had heard of it, it was a big trade village. “What about you?”

“Mifflin. It’s by Winter.”

“I know it, the main road goes through it, right?” I nodded, “Clearly we’re both a long way from home.”

Before I could come up with an answer, the front door had opened and a soldier walked in. Or rather, maybe another recruit based on the plain clothes. “General wants everyone in the training grounds by nine.” 

“Are we training already? We just got here,” Another guy in our cabin asked once the guy had left, probably off to tell the next shack.

“Doubt it. Probably just a ground tour, and to go over our schedule for the week.” Alaric spoke up, and the others agreed, before we all started making our ways outside. Better early than being late.

The training grounds were right beside the cabins, just a few meters away. Most everyone was already here it seemed, probably having the same sentiment I had earlier about being early. A whistle sounded up front, which halted everyones conversations. A few men were up front, all wore signature red hair and spotless fine clothes. Vanserra’s.

“You all already probably know us, or at least have heard of us. If not, then you’re already at a disadvantage. This is my brother Leo, he’ll be teaching you strategy every other day in the afternoons starting tomorrow.” He gestured to the shorter brother, slightly wavy hair pulled back with a single hair tie. “My other brother, Eris, is the general of the armies, you’ll rarely train with him. However if you make it past week ten, you’ll see a lot more of him.”

“I’m Magnus, I’m in charge of training you lot; so don’t make me look bad. You train with me everyday learning the basics starting at six in the morning sharp. I find out you are late, you run laps until your miserable legs give out. On days you do not train with Leo after lunch, you will be with me once more, learning weaponry. You all will be split into two, cabins one through fifteen you’re group one, cabins sixteen through thirty you’re group two. Schedules are posted weekly at the mess hall”

“The training grounds you’ve already found, congratulations.” Leo took up the rest of the speech they’ve no doubt practiced, “Mess hall is where you get your meals, breakfast starts at five, lunch at noon, and dinner at eight. That is when you’re dismissed from the night.”

He had pointed across from the cabins, to where a larger building was, with some tables and chairs outside, for if anyone chose to eat outside. Then he pointed to the furthest cabin, and on the other side of it was another, slightly larger cabin.

“That is the infirmary, I trust you’ll all find it at one point or another. If you don't, that means you aren’t training hard enough.” Turning back to us, he pointed at a large wooden sign on the side of the mess hall. “Speaking of training hard enough, everyday we put up new ranks during dinner. If you fall below the red line, you’re done. You get sent home, you can’t be called upon again to serve the high lord, and you will not be reimbursed for your time here. Ten people will be cut every week on the last day of the week.”

Murmurs took over the crowd, until another whistle made everyone stop their chattering. This time the general stepped up and spoke, when up until now he seemed bored; as if he had better things to do.

“If you have a problem with it, you can leave now. You aren’t at a ball, you’re training to be warriors. Highly skilled, trained warriors. Only 42 people will graduate, that is a promise. As you all know, those 42 will be split into groups, and each group gets an assignment for life.” He looked around, daring anyone to speak up, or even move. “Top squad gets to be assigned to the high lord. You work as sentries for his residence. Next squad gets to be captains for the warriors on the battlefield. Then it’s patrol duty, one to the north, south, west, and east. The most sought after position is traveling duty. You travel throughout Prythian on business for the king.”

You could hear a pin drop after that speech. Sure, it was common knowledge that not everyone who got conscripted finished training to be a part of the guard, but was it needed to be so harsh? You’d think the more guards the better, so why would they cut down on soldiers? It didn’t make sense. Men were stupid.

“Dismissed,” Magnus called out, as the crowd dispersed. “Don’t forget about training tomorrow.” 

This was going to be a long next few months.

—

“Rise and shine, newbies!” A voice broke the peaceful morning air, along with a harsh knock on the door. Magnus. “Breakfast in ten!”

Groaning, I rolled out of bed, stretching my back from the hard mattress, and grabbing a few things from my trunk before rushing to the bathroom, which was the only other room in the cabin. I pulled off my night clothes before putting on the cloth wrap, making sure it was a bit looser than before, and putting on the rest of my clothes for today.

Exiting the bathroom, it was immediately taken by the guy who sleeps in the bunk beside me, I think his name was Bard? Either way, everyone else was already getting dressed, and I had to avert my gaze as I tried to cool my face down. Clearly I would have seen a few cocks, bunking with five males, but everytime they got dressed, did they have to practically wave them around?

I wasn’t a virgin by any means, being three hundred years old, but that didn’t mean my face didn’t still heat up from the sight. Tossing my sleep clothes into my trunk along with my toothbrush, I brushed through my hair with my comb before tying it up with a band Alaric had offered me.

“I’m not used to shorter hair.” I gestured to the tied up hair, which was already falling from its restraints. “I cut it before training.”

“Same here. I think most of us did, except for Bard over there.” Alaric nodded towards the male who was now braiding his hair back, quite well in fact. I could never do it that well, wasn’t sure my youngest sister could either, and she loved braids.

“What about me?” The ginger with a partially done french braid turned, raising a pointed brow. “Hopefully nothing bad.”

“Not at all,” I waved off, offering a band from the bag Alaric had, to which he said thanks. “We were just saying how it seems everyone cut their hair before coming here; aside from you.”

“Ah, this?” Bard laughed, as if it was the funniest joke he’s ever heard. “I did cut my hair as well, it was a lot longer. Turns out training has rules, no hair below the waist. Something about the professionalism of guards and recruits.” 

“How long was your hair, then?” Alaric questioned, all three of us making our way to the mess hall, shivering a bit at the cold frost from the crisp spring morning.

“Oh, about down to my knees if it was down. My mother never had a daughter, she always loved braiding my hair, so I let her. Therefore, I never cut it. Not in my four hundred years.” Bard shrugged, grabbing a plate and looking for a seat. “Mind if I stick with you two?”

“I don’t mind.” I replied, grabbing a plate as well, questioning what exactly was in the bowl in front of me.

“I’ll never deny a potential friend. I’m Alaric Godfrey, that’s Finnigan Ambrose.” Alaric shook his hand, as I did the same.

“Bard Tomas,” We all sat down at a table, as another voice spoke from beside us,

“Did I hear your last name is Ambrose?” The male a few seats down questioned, scooting to sit across from Alaric and I. “Which one of you’s Ambrose?”

Bard sipped his tea, raising his eyebrows in question at the new presence; A brown haired male, with curls so tight they seemed to bounce everytime he moved. His eyes however, were the color of robin's eggs. 

“I’m Finnigan Ambrose, yes. Do I know you?” I prayed to the cauldron this wasn’t one of Finn’s friends, or else I’ve already outed myself day one.

“No, not at all. Though I knew your father, well, knew of him. My father was in his squad actually, they used to be friends from what he spoke of. Is it true your father used to knock people out with a single touch?”  He seemed to be rambling, so fast in fact I barely got what he was saying.

“Yeah, he um - he studied pressure points in the Day court when he was a child. He grew up there, afterall. But certain spots on the body, if pressure is applied there, you’re knocked out like a light.” I explained, shoveling a bit of the gruel into my mouth, before speaking around it. “I didn’t quite catch your name, or your dads name; maybe I’ve heard of him?”

“Jasper Jesper, and my fathers name is Niander Jesper.” He took a bite of his own gruel, nearly gagging at the taste, “Sorry, does your gruel also taste like the underside of a rock?”

“Unfortunately,” Bard spoke up, introducing himself. “I’m sorry, your parents named you Jasper Jesper?”

“Unfortunately,” Jasper copied his earlier reply, “You should hear my full name, it’s much worse.”

“I doubt that.” Alaric spoke up, raising a brow.

“Jasper Jaxson-Julian Jesper.” Alaric’s tea spewed from his nose, as he began coughing.

“There’s no fucking way,” Bard cackled, “Why would your parents curse you with such a tongue-twister name?” 

“Honestly? I ask them that everyday.” Jasper laughed, “They say they liked the rhyme scheme. All of my siblings have the same curse. My sister’s name is Josephine Juliet-Jane Jesper.” 

“As silly as it is, my parents also liked the rhyming thing,” I offered, finding it a bit endearing. “I have a pair of siblings, twins, Dorian and Florian. Then I have a twin sister named Winifred, they call us Winn and Finn.” 

“My parents call me JJ, but my sister's nickname is just Jo.” Jasper added, just as chairs started scraping against the floor, signaling time to go to training.

“You guys wanna stick together? We can all practice together, that way when we have to spar we won’t get random people.” Alaric questioned, all of us agreeing. 

“I was just about to suggest the same thing,” Bard smirked, “No one likes being the loner at school.”

The training grounds were empty, aside from the recruits and Magnus. The sun was barely breaking the horizon, frost still coated the ground. I had wished I wore long sleeves, as did everyone else most likely.

“Good morning, recruits. Wish I could say it’s a pleasure seeing you all this early, but I haven’t had my morning cup of tea yet.” Magnus walked back and forth, taking in everyone one by one. “Today we’re testing. Everyone will do different tests, and I’ll be recording your times. We’ll check in the first of each month, to see strength improvements. First up, is running.”

At a snap of his fingers, a flag appeared in the dewy grass, flowing slightly in the breeze.

“You’ll all begin at this flag, I’ll record everyone's times as they pass. My second in command, Aslan, has some of his guards stationed around the path, so we’ll know if you use magic in any way. Which will result in immediate termination, by the way.” Magnus stood to the side of the flag, a servant holding a tray of tea beside him. “Follow the flags, they’ll lead you through the forest path you’ll be jogging down.”

He graciously took the cup of tea offered by the servant, and took a long sip. He sighed in content, before looking at all of us once more.

“What are you waiting for?” He took another sip of his tea before pointing to the air, and firing a ball of, well, fire. “Go.”

My legs went into action before my mind did, and I was yanked back by Alaric, who also grabbed Bard, who grabbed JJ.

“Jog, don’t sprint. You’ll run out of energy faster sprinting. Jogging you’ll conserve it for the entire run. Plus, the more we build stamina, the more endurance we build, the faster we can jog later on.” Alaric nodded towards those who were sprinting, already through the forest bend. “If you sprint, you’re gonna end up in the back by the end of it.”

“That makes sense,” JJ panted, out of breath already; although I couldn’t judge - I was too. “Take it slower, outlast the others. I like it.” 

“Good thing we have a strategist in our little group.” Bard gasped, clutching his side. “I shouldn’t have skipped physical activity in school. Or outside of school.” 

“Same,” I agreed, feeling the same pang in my ribcage. “Who does this for fun?”

“Psychopaths.” Alaric scanned the area, sweating through his shirt already.

About a half hour later, they were still steady in their jog. All of them were covered in sweat, gasping for the cold morning air. They’ve passed nearly half of the people who started the run off sprinting; proving Alaric’s point.

“Halfway, recruits! Hustle, people, Hustle!” An important looking guy with a clipboard shouted encouragement, he must have been the second in command, Aslan. His hair was blonde, speckled with grey hair. “Come on Ambrose, Jesper, I expected more from you! Let's go!” 

“Cauldron, that was unnerving.” JJ puffed out, as I nodded, agreeing. Why did he look familiar?

“I might just drop out,” Bard groaned, stopping off to the side, as we did the same, to wait for him. “You guys don’t have to wait for me.”

“We’re friends, we established this earlier, we stick together.” Alaric panted, his hands on his knees. “Just - take a deep breath or something.” 

“Gee, thanks, Mr. Muscles, I didn’t think of that!” Bard glared at Alaric, as he held his hands up. “Okay - Okay I’m good. If I don’t go now I won’t get back up.”

Once more we took off jogging, this time a tad slower. My feet ached, my legs burned, and I swear I could feel the cloth binding my breasts chafing. Not to mention the angle of the sun now burned my eyes.

“Why did you guys get conscripted,” JJ asked, nearly wheezing.

“What do you mean?” Pushing my hair out of my face again, I looked at JJ for a second, before turning my head back forward, not wanting to trip on a branch on the ground. “It’s randomly selected, to be conscripted.”

“Yeah, but this isn’t regular conscription.” Alaric answered, “This is the conscription for the royal guard, we’d protect the high lord and his family, the ‘traveling’ position even more.” 

“Why’d you put air quotes around traveling?” Bard spoke up, brows furrowed.

“Because the traveling position isn’t a traveling guard, it’s strategy - spycraft. It’s why we all get background checks and intense training.” He motioned to all of us, “No one gets to train here without being picked for a reason.”

“Ambrose and I were chosen from our parents, I’d bet. I applied a few times as well.” JJ answered, wiping his face with his tunic.

“I didn’t apply. I didn’t even want to be conscripted.” I nearly growled out, “I was supposed to be taking care of my sick mother, when those guys showed up. Told my sisters if I didn’t show up I’d have my family executed.” 

“That’s…” Bard started, “Dark. Unusual as well, usually they’d take no for an answer and move onto the next person who made the list. That’s how I’m here; someone changed their mind. I wasn’t accepted until a few days ago.”

“I always wanted to be a spy, my mother was a spy before she died.” Alaric admitted, “I’m only here for that.”

“Then I guess we’re going to be spies,” Bard joked, “Friends stick together, right?”

“I’m in,” I went along, smiling wide, wetting my lips before wrinkling my nose at the taste of the sweat beaded there. “I always enjoyed sneaking around, playing hide and seek with my siblings.” 

“Then I suppose I’m in, too.” JJ shrugged, “I don’t see myself as a captain in the army anyway.”

The last flag was just in sight, it was where we started. We must have gone in a large circle around the entire property. About twenty people were sitting in the grass at the finish already, and Magnus shouted our times as we crossed the threshold.

“Ambrose, 96 minutes!”

“Shit,” I cursed as my legs gave out in the grass off to the side. “I’m so glad that’s over.”

Thankfully they had about fifteen minutes to recuperate before the last person finished and Magnus spoke again.

“Alright ladies, now that the warm ups are done,” A series of groans overtook the courtyard. “Onto strength tests. Get into a block, fifteen lines, and when they get full go behind the person in front of you. You’ll be in charge of writing down your scores. Get ready.”

Moving to follow instructions, I was in the middle, my new found friends beside me. The other soldiers present passed out a parchment paper, each soldier then was poised at the end of a line; presumably to stop any cheating.

“We’ll be doing sit ups. I will say when you all sit up and then lay back down. Do not go any slower or faster. If you cannot sit up anymore, you record the amount you completed, Any questions?” Bored eyes scanned the rows of recruits, daring anyone to even question him. “Positions. 3…2… Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down.”

I had gotten to sit up number 43 before I felt a stomach cramp, and swore softly - writing down the number on the paper before sitting up and looking around. Nearly everyone was still in. I had to push myself in the upcoming tests if I wanted to stay and earn money for my family.

“89 sit ups - Jeremiah Bayard. Next up planks. Everyone must stay in position, no bending the knees, and you must stay level. Each guard on the row will shout the exact second he sees one of you fall or give up, you’ll write down the exact time he says,” Sipping on more of his tea, or perhaps coffee now, he pulled out a stopwatch, as did the guards around us. “3…2… Begin.”

The first few seconds weren”t so bad. After second thirty my limbs began to burn. Was I really this out of shape? It didn’t matter, I had to fight it, I had to keep going. Not for me - but for them. I had to do my part to help my mother; I had no other choice. If I failed at this, how could I even begin to try and help her? What would it say of my character - of who I am?

I had to block it out. I had to block all of my thoughts, even those of my family - I wouldn’t survive if I didn’t. Just think of nothing, of the grass below my fingers. The sun beating down on my back. The slight breeze that blew my tunic hanging off of me.  

“Finnigan Ambrose, three minutes twenty two seconds,” I cursed, falling flat on the grass for the second time this morning. However, when I looked around I saw that everyone else was done.  “Next up are push ups. You know the drill. Positions - 3…2…Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up.”

Falling flat for the third time, and this time spitting out grass - I got to twelve push ups. Twelve. I was not out first this time, though. Bard was. He caught my eye and shrugged then held up two fingers. He had done two push ups.

“Alright, this time, each line is going to follow the leader to one of the fifteen soldiers in front of me, they will use a stopwatch to count how long you can do the dead-hand. You will hang onto these bars, dangling until your arms give out.”

Thankfully I had loved climbing trees as a child, so hopefully I wouldn’t be the worst at these. Though my arm strength with push ups wasn’t good - hopefully it was a fluke. Nope, not a fluke. I didn’t last a minute, I immediately fell off of the pole, and looked in shock. I was going to be sent home.

“Dinner time. That means you sorry lot are done for the day. We’ll tally up your scores and post them by the time dinner’s over. Good luck.” 

“Shit-” JJ was the first to speak, finding the group of us already sitting at the same table as this morning. “Did we get lunch? I can’t remember.”

“Nope, we got done with the run after lunchtime, those who finished after lunch time didn’t get lunch.” Alaric explained, nearly inhaling his stew.

“Not fair, how were we to perform to the best of our ability if we didn’t get lunch?” Bard complained, rubbing his arms.

“I don’t know, luck?” Everyone started getting up now, rushing towards the door. “Where’re they going?” 

“Scores are up.” A passerby filled us in, and we stood too, putting our trays away first. It took awhile until we were able to read the board, and I went down the list starting at the top. Then the middle. Then the bottom.

“Shit.” I swore, my name was fifth last Rank 197. The only consolation was Bard was dead last. “I’m going to get sent home. The first week. This is embarrassing.”

“You said it, brother.” Bard groaned.

[wallwriterstuff]

A Little Blood Never Scared Me ||Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x Female!Reader||

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol consumption/drunkenness. Descriptions of injury, blood and violence. Descriptions of the disconnect between being home and being out in the field. A few swear words and so much fluff near the end your teeth will rot.

Tags: Written (very late, sorry!) for @glitterypirateduck 's October 141 writing challenge because I currently have an unhealthy obsession with Modern Warfare. Prompts used include 2 characters (Gaz and Price), Damsel in Distress, and Taking Care of Each other.

Words: 4091

Summary: It can be difficult to readjust to civilian life without appropriate distractions. Or - the story of how Gaz can't help but play the role of knight in shining armor despite being on leave and meets the best distraction yet.

It’s never easy to come home and rejoin the real world.

Out in the middle of some war-torn territory it’s easy to forget how…mundane, it all is. When he exchanges the hard smoothness of his rifle for the hard smoothness of a whisky tumbler at the local pub it all feels very surreal. There’s nothing more foreign than the flimsy weight of a kitchen knife when your used to a combat blade. Hell, even his nose keeps twitching because the shower gel he uses at home isn’t the same as the standard issue soaps he’s used to at the barracks. He’s gone from scentless to being a human Yankee candle and it’s making his skin crawl almost as much as the clattering of pool balls, pinging in his ears like the deafening roar of a mortar strike. That being said, the burn in his throat is a welcome distraction, as is the company. Price has a way of putting it all into perspective he’s just yet to master and if Kyle has chosen him as his own personal Obi-wan, well, Price doesn’t need to know.

“You called your mum yet?” He asks him, eyes crinkling at the edges as he smirks a bit at Kyle’s obvious wince. Shaking his head, the younger man taps his fingers against the side of his tumbler before lifting it to his lips. He pauses, briefly, eyes lifting to meet piercing, amused blue.

“Will when I’m ready, you know what she’s like.” He sips, savouring the grounding burn in the back of his throat. With his glass safely back on the table he lifts his cap, running a hand over his hair. It’s grown uncomfortable long, definitely not as short as he usually has it, but maybe that’s just him being overly aware of the regulations he doesn’t need to adhere to as much on leave. Price grunts a bit in acknowledgement, watching his sergeant carefully, and Kyle hates the feeling that somehow, he’s being looked through instead of at. Price has always been good at that to, the man’s instincts borderline supernatural, at least in Kyle’s opinion.

“Worrying about her son? How dare she.” There’s not a hint of mockery in Price’s voice but the underlying message is clear to Kyle. Get your head right and call your mother, you prick.

“Think she’s more worried about my sister at this point, what with her due and all.” Kyle deflects him from the crux of the matter with practiced ease, but he knows he only gets away with it because Price lets him. He’s not really sure he wants to delve too deeply into the idea that home feels like coarse sand in his boots and the smell of gunpowder instead of the plush carpets and excessive luxury of a 60-inch TV screen in his apartment.

“Due already? Thought she’d only just got knocked up?” Price’s eyes flicker about, tracking something over his shoulder. Kyle immediately feels his hackles raise but the subtle stiffening of his muscles is something he just about manages to push away with another admittedly large sip of his drink. It’s only someone exiting the bathroom.

“Watch it, might be my Captain but that’s my sister you’re talking about.” He warns lightly. Price grins a bit. Kyle let’s his eyes slide over the pub. They’ve chosen a table off to the side, tucked out of the way of prying eyes in such a position that let’s them see the entire room – not even Price can kick that instinct. There’s a middle-aged couple that appear to be on a date in the corner booth, smiling and ignorant of the world around them. A few rowdy regulars that the bartender dotes on at the dartboard let out another cheer as someone hits something remarkably close to a bullseye. It’s a bog-standard pub all in all, from the exposed wooden beams to the threadbare carpet that reeks of long-spilled booze and something that attempted to clean the spill. Nothing here to fear.

“She ready for the little one to arrive?” Price asks the question as if he has any way of knowing the answer. The disconnect between him and his family after months away is just as surreal to him as the prospect of cooking his own meals again rather than ripping open an MRE and praying it was somewhat edible this time. Price leads the conversation with the mastery of knowing the steps to the dance. It’s an easy routine, a simple one, and it brings him more comfort than he dares say. There’s aimless chatter and there’s noise but not too much noise, a good drink, and a warm atmosphere that almost, almost, mimics the heat of whatever godforsaken dessert he’s traipsed through this time. It’s grounding and mundane and a slow ease back into the reality of what everyday life tends to be when you aren’t being shot at or hanging from helicopters. By the time their three drinks in, Kyle feels less like a rattle snake coiled to strike and a little more human again.

The group at the dartboard have only gotten rowdier, and they’ve stumbled their way back over to the bar for another round. A shared glance is all it takes for Kyle to know this will be their last drink tonight, better to leave before anything kicks off amongst the herd of drunken fools and sets them back into fight or flight mode.

“I’ll call my Mum tomorrow.” Kyle relents finally, meeting Price’s eyes for a tad longer than necessary just to show he means it.

Price gives an approving nod, “Good lad.”

He glances over at the group at the bar, the boisterous laughter turning his head as he watches a woman gingerly skirt her way around them to head for the bathrooms. His eyes narrow in distaste as a particularly loud wolf-whistle makes your head duck and your pace increase. He understands their attraction, you’re easy on the eyes, but you clearly don’t want to be bothered either and he can see the flush on your cheeks is just as much down to embarrassment as it is alcohol consumption.

“Alright, who’s paying then?” He asks, tearing his eyes from your figure once he knows your safely tucked in the ladies out of their eyesight. Price tips his head, reaching for his wallet and producing a coin.

“Call it.”

“Tails.” Kyle’s response is immediate, eyes keenly tracking the coin as Price flips it. Judging by the disapproving grunt and the mild annoyance in his eyes, Price has lost this round, and he can’t stop the smug grin twitching his lips upwards. It falls quickly as he hears the hollering from the crowd at the bar.

“Go on son!”

“Get some!”

“Don’t fumble it mate!”

From the corner of his eye he sees a tall brunette man stumbling his way from the bar, and something about the look in his eyes sets him on edge. It’s almost predatory in nature, the kind of look that you see in nature documents as predators stalk their prey, and he twists his body instinctually to face the oncoming threat before he even fully comprehends what the threat is. He’s not sure what about this drunk buffoon sets him so on edge but he learned early on in his career that trusting your gut was usually the safest option. That and the idiot does look like a bit of a dick.

“Might come up with you to the bar anyway.” He says.

“Suit yourself.” Price’s voice is calm, unbothered, but it’s as natural and easy as breathing to Kyle to put himself as one more barrier between a potential threat and a friend. Neither of them even has a chance to get up from their seats before three things seem to happen at once.

1, you emerge from the bathroom.

2, the brunette man from the bar trips over his own feet.

3, the pair of you collide and create some cosmic chain of knock-on collisions that Kyle has only half a second to decide whether or not he can stop or if he just has to embrace it.

If he doesn’t want a broken wrist, embracing it seems to be his best option.

Fate deposits you in his lap not a second later, ribs cracking painfully against the tabletop and your hand slapping into his glass, even as he tries his best to steady you. You’re both covered in beer from the brunette guy’s drink as it sloshes from the pint glass and onto your clothes, and Kyle wrinkles his nose a bit against the sudden yeasty smell. There’s a sharp cry from both fallen parties and a soft grunt from him as your arse lands not so gently on more delicate areas of his body, but despite the jolt of pain in his thigh and wrists he’s otherwise doing far better than you, though he thinks you’re a bit too shell-shocked from the fall to recognise there’s blood dripping from your hand.

“Way to go Mark!”

“Fumbled it mate!”

The rowdy bar crew irk him more than he lets on as Price hauls up the idiot, Mark. His face is red from a mixture of alcohol, embarrassment, and anger, anger he swiftly lets loose on the three people in front of him. Price holds his hands up in surrender as Mark shirks him off rather violently, almost falling again when he twists too hard and quick in his uncoordinated state.

“Ge’off! You! You made me spill my beer!” The accusing finger pointed your way seems to snap you from your stupor and you wriggle out of Kyle’s gentle grip with wide eyes.

“I didn’t – what?” Your voice is a pitched squeak of disbelief and shock. Kyle stands, grabbing a wad of napkins to press it against your wound. “Ow! Hey! What the – oh my god…” You stare wide-eyed at the rivulet of blood rolling down your arm. It’s soaking through the napkins quicker than Kyle would like.

“Keep your arm up, above your heart. You won’t have hit anything major, it’s just the alcohol thinning your blood.” He reassures you, keeping his touch light and unintrusive. You could easily push his hand away but you don’t, surprised Y/E/C eyes flickering up meet his own.

“You even listenin’ to me you little bitch? I said you owe me another drink!” Mark’s words are so slurred that another drink is clearly a terrible decision for him.

“Oi, leave the lady in peace.” Price suggests. Knowing his Captain has him handled Kyle focuses his attention on you, gently moving the bloodied napkin from your palm. It sticks a bit, and you wince as the coarse material comes free of your broken skin.

“Sorry, sorry…you’re going to need stitches.” He informs you. There’s a jagged line that won’t stop pumping red, the flesh torn open with a glint of glass inside.

“Stitches? Oh no, not needles. I – shit I feel dizzy.” You turn whiter than a sheet at the thought and Kyle’s quick to adjust his grip on you to help you sit, keeping your arm elevated while you put your head between your knees.

“Easy, deep breaths, you’re going to be alright,” he crouches beside you, hearing Price and Mark squaring off behind him, “I’m Kyle. Can you tell me your name?”

“I’m Y/N.” your voice is a little weak. “Sorry for, you know, sitting on you.” Kyle chuckles a little at that, glancing up as Price hands him a towel. Price has angled himself between you two and the drunken fool as his friends come to collect him.

“Don’t worry about it, glad you landed on me and not the table.” He focuses on wrapping the towel around your hand, apologising quietly when the pressure makes you wince.

“Oh no, I landed on that to. I landed on all the things.” You groan a bit, good hand massaging your ribs. Kyle grimaces slightly.

“Can I check nothings broken?” he offers. You look up at him, search his gaze for any ill-intent, and then you nod. He makes sure to give you a reassuring smile as his hand finds your side, fingers gently applying pressure and watching your face for any signs of discomfort. It feels more intimate than is appropriate for a first meeting but your nerves bottle before his does and you look away with pink cheeks, which is a feat in itself because Kyle had been sure you’d lost a bit too much blood to blush like that.

“But she owes me a beer!” Mark is still insistent, even as his friends try to drag him away. Kyle huffs, annoyed now as he glances back at him over his shoulder.

“She owes you about as much as any other woman on the planet. Nothing. Now piss off and sober up mate.” There’s enough warning in his voice that Mark’s more sober friends hurry to comply with the thinly veiled threat.

“You got anyone who can get you to hospital love?” Price asks, standing as still as stone until he’s sure there’s no chance of Mark making his way back to you. Kyle keeps the pressure on your hand, seeing a bit more alertness to your eyes now.

“No, no we’ve both had something to drink.” You grimace, looking at Kyle with big doe eyes he finds more endearing than he’d care to admit. “Do I really need stitches?”

“Yeah, you do, and for someone to pick the glass out the wound,” Kyle’s smile is a tad sympathetic now, “But the good news is your ribs aren’t broken. You may have landed on all the things but you’re not too bad off for it.” His light teasing brings a twitch of a smile to your lips, a smile that quickly falls as Price questions if you have friends or a partner here to go with you. Though your eyes search the pub thoroughly, they fill with frustration and regret when you see no familiar face in sight.

“No…I was on a date,” you look a bit embarrassed to admit it, “Guess he snuck out while I was in the bathroom.” Kyle tilts his head slightly, carefully helping you to stand when you attempt it.

“More fool him, look at all the fun he could be having.” He says it just to see you smile, enjoying the tinkling of your laughter in his ears.

“Oh, bucket loads right? Christ…that stings.” Your smile falls away into a wince again, and though he knows he’ll get shit for it later from Soap when Price inevitably tells him, he can’t stop the offer from tumbling out of his mouth.

“I’ll go with you then.”

You sigh, “It’s okay, really, no need to ruin your night any more than I have.”

“Who said you’d ruined my night? Come on, let’s get you seen to.” He’s already gently guiding you out of the pub with Price on your other side, knowing you’re likely to protest anyway from the look on your face. You pause only to grab a jacket from your table before the cold night air envelopes you, Kyle keeping your arm up and sticking close to ensure your warm enough – the last thing he wants is you going into shock on him.

“Are you sure?” you ask for the hundredth time. Kyle silences you with a single look that has a shudder crawling up your spine, one he can feel ripple into him since you’re standing so close, and he feels a little smug at the reaction he gets from you. He’s seen your eyes lingering once or twice to, and he’s starting to thank whatever’s watching over him the evening took this turn.

“Gaz!” Price calls his name and Kyle turns to see him standing, holding open the door of a cab not 50 yards down the road. Bundled in the back of a cab that’s probably breaking a few speeding laws to get you both to a nearby hospital, he feels those instincts tugging at the back of his mind, trying to claw him back into work mode. There’s blood, there was the threat of violence, and it’s got all of his hackles raised a bit, even though he’s trying to be soft with you. You’re clearly in pain and still a little shocked by the nights events and he doesn’t want to be too stoic or too harsh and make it worse, so he focuses on the gentle smell of your perfume and the softness of your hair tickling the side of his face. It crosses his mind then you might be uncomfortable with his proximity, and he subtly tries to shift away only to find you follow him, naturally wanting more of his warmth as the blood loss and shock make you feel cold.

“Just to be clear, I don’t usually do this.” You say softly. Kyle glances at you with a raised eyebrow, your voice and the rumbling purr of the engine is all quiet and helps soothe some of his louder thoughts right now.

“You don’t usually bleed all over strangers at the pub? A shame, I was looking for someone who shared my hobby.” He tries to joke, feeling a bit rusty and out of practice, and realises too late how goddamn creepy that probably sounded. He’s thankful to hear your quiet laughter.

“No, well, yes, I don’t do that either, but I meant hopping into cabs with strangers.” You nudge his side lightly with your elbow and he relaxes a little more.

“We exchanged names and I’m covered in your blood, not sure we can call ourselves strangers anymore, more like…strange acquaintances.” He suggests. You hum in agreement at that, and you lapse back into silence with him once more. It’s a strangely comfortable one, but then again Kyle’s never really been a man of many words. He keeps half an eye on the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the pallor of your skin. Your bathed intermittently in warm orange light from the street-lights outside, and his breath hitches a little in his chest. Maybe it’s been a little too long since he was allowed to think of anything other than what the next target is, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take the opportunity to admire the way your long lashes brush your cheeks, or the perfectly shaped outline of full, painted lips.

“Thank you, for coming with me.” You look up at him, your smile so sweet it makes his stomach flip. It really isn’t the best of circumstances, he knows so, but he rarely gets the chance to charm a pretty woman and, well, your night’s been a bit shit, so he feels obligated to cheer you up some.

“When a pretty woman falls into your lap, you’d be amiss to pass up the opportunity to play knight in beer-stained armour.” He chuckles. He’s taking most of the weight of your arm but he ignores the discomfort in his own. Your eyes are pinched with pain, and he can only imagine how badly your sliced palm must be throbbing, knowing from his own encounters with combat knives how deeply the sting of a cut can run.

“Bold of you to assume I’m a damsel in distress. I sliced open my hand perfectly well without your help.” You quip back. Kyle grins. You’ve got a wicked tongue and the wit of the devil. As the cab pulls up, he tips the driver an extra £20 before helping you into the accident and emergency ward. It’s crammed wall to wall, every chair full and an excess of patients standing around, and the strong burn of disinfectant in his nose has him taking slightly shallower breaths to avoid the smell as best he can. You look even paler under the fluorescent lighting and he’s determined to get you seen to quickly, the bright red of the blood-soaked towel on your hand standing out starkly in this pristine white place.

You give your name and details, checking in with the receptionist who looks at your hand like she wishes it would disappear from her line of sight, and then your led to an over-flow waiting room where there’s a chair hurriedly snapped open for you and the promise of a nurse seeing you quickly. Kyle crouches beside you again, looking over the mess of blood and beer on the pretty dress you’d been wearing that night, and quietly wonders how your date found enough faults in you to run out. For the five minutes he’s known you Kyle’s found you to be attractive and quick-witted, a good sense of humour, so he can’t imagine the conversation was that bad.

“Do you want some water?” he offers, thumb jerking to the water cooler not too far away. You nod a bit and leaves you with your hand raised to go fetch you both a cup. He watches you sip it slowly and he does the same, eyes flickering to find all the nearest exits out of habit. You’re like a magnet though, a beacon burning brightly in the night, and he finds his gaze quickly drawn back to you. The bubble you two have created is one of quiet comfort, the kind that warm blankets on cold days provides and is found in the deep hearts of forests or the embers of dying fires.

“This really doesn’t bother you, does it?” you question, pulling him from his thoughts. He glances up at you from his spot crouched beside you, head cocking. “This. Blood, hospital trips, confrontation. You’ve been completely unphased by this from the start.” You elaborate on your thoughts and Kyle finds himself blinking in surprise, adding the word observant into the file with your name on that he’s starting to compile in his mind. He’s almost reluctant to say what he knows is the answer to your unspoken question, knowing it’s often a crossroads for all relationships waiting to form in his life. He doesn’t want to give up the soothing balm that is you just yet. There’s just enough intrigue to make him want to know more, and yet he braces himself for the rejection he’s sure is inevitable from such a sweet thing as you.

“I’m a soldier.” He almost holds his breath once the truths out. The rest of the sentence can remain unspoken, you don’t need him to tell you of the horrors and misery he’s seen, everyone knows what soldiers see even if they don’t talk about it. You surprise him once more.

“Ah, I see.” The quiet acknowledgement is just that, a statement of fact that promises he’s been heard without delivering judgement, and he feels there’s hope he might still have a chance at knowing you.

“That bother you?” he just has to be sure.

You smile a bit, “Depends, are you here because you’re duty bound to protect innocent civilians?”

His head tilts a bit; he sees that inquisitive little gleam in your eyes, a spark of interest, and he catches it quick with the intent of nurturing that spark into roaring flame. His head’s completely quiet now. He feels like he can go back to the silence at home and survive it if only your voice fills the empty space instead.

“No…here because I think that what tonight’s shown me, is your hand fits nicely in mine.” The line is absolutely terrible and he knows it, but the way you fluster and smile at the ground has his own grin widening. When the nurse calls your name, you look up to her, then back at him, biting your lip. For the first time that night, you don’t try to be brave, you let him see your apprehension and offer him your good hand, wanting him to come with you.

“Prove it.” You say.

Kyle does, and when he returns to his apartment in the early hours of the morning, he can still feel the warm imprint of your lips on his cheek. Your perfume has stale beer has cloyed in his nose and the imprint of you is behind his eyelids when he closes them to try and sleep. The echo of your laughter rings in his ears and the reminder of your smile as he’d suggested late night waffles at a dessert place nearby your apartment. The phone on his nightstand seemed to hum with anticipation of using your now saved number tomorrow.

It's never easy coming back to the real world, but the real world certainly has it's perks.

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

Unearthed Fears

by Beth4LC After a few sleepless nights, Jason's ready for a change of pace. Meanwhile, Dick works to find a balance in his relationship with this little-kid version of his brother. Words: 4091, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Series: Part 7 of Soft Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: Gen Characters: Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne Relationships: Dick Grayson & Jason Todd Additional Tags: Nightmares, Late Night Conversations, Batfamily (DCU), Domestic Batfamily (DCU), Age Regression/De-Aging, Kid Jason Todd via https://ift.tt/fcBN61J

[warehouse-staff-blog]

Lot 4091 USN SKIVVY SHIRTS 【2023 S/S & MID SUMMER】

こんにちは 名古屋店 コジャです。

春夏・盛夏のSKIVVY T-SHIRTSが入荷しました。

. . .

WAREHOUSE & CO. Lot 4091 USN SKIVVY SHIRTS USN ＼6.930-(with tax)

プリント、見えてますか？笑

ネイビー以外は今までにないくらいの薄っすらステンシルプリント。

炙ったら出てきた感。

よく見るとプリント物という。 無地でもなく無地っぽくもあり。

"USN"自体は聞き馴染みがありますが、 掠れた上に薄いのが最大のポイント。

NVYボディーのプリントもこのボディならではで良い雰囲気です。

. . .

WAREHOUSE & CO. Lot 4091 USN SKIVVY SHIRTS SAM BURKS ＼7.260-(with tax)

バックプリントのステンシルスター（←勝手に呼んでいるだけですので(^_^;)）。

バックネック付近にちょこんと入るお星様。 小さくとも星を見かけるとグッと惹かれます。

さり気ない最高の味付けがセンス爆発してますねぇ。

フロント胸元の小振りなステンシルも◎

. . .

WAREHOUSE & CO. Lot 4091 USN SKIVVY SHIRTS S.H.S. ＼6.930-(with tax)

「S.H.S.」は過去にも異なるプリントでリリースしたことがありますが、 その時も【NAVY】関連だったのでこちらもそれにあたるかと思います。

このボディーへのステンシルプリント、 更に【海軍】関連となると相乗効果で雰囲気マシマシですねぇ。

. . .

WAREHOUSE & CO. Lot 4091 USN SKIVVY SHIRTS U.S.N.88 ＼6.930-(with tax)

こちらも【U.S.NAVY】のプリント。

両面ステンシルで、 フロント左胸にワンポイントで[U.S.N.]。

バックプリントは潜水艦から放たれる魚雷のように感じますが、 皆様はどのように捉えましたか？

. . .

全てステンシルプリント。

スキブTEE（SKIVVY）、 所謂、海軍の肌着のこのボディに落とし込むステンシルプリントは相性抜群。

サイズ感は身幅にゆとりのあるパターンですが、名古屋店スタッフはいつものサイズ選びをオススメしております。

☆のプリントに目の無い私はやはり「SAM BARKS」推し。

179cm,69kg SIZE:42(NON WASH)

髙木はSKIVVYが気になるようで、 どのプリントにするか迷っています。

173cm,60kg SIZE:40(NON WASH)

髙木が何を選んだか答えを知りたい方は是非名古屋店へ～。

皆様はどれに反応しましたか？ 是非店頭でも御覧になって下さい。

では失礼致します。

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

☞[LINE FAIR]

期間：2023年8月11(祝・金)～2023年9月10日(���)

条件：WAREHOUSEのLINE公式アカウントをお友達登録していただいているお客様が対象、且つ、御精算前にWAREHOUSEの公式LINEアカウント画面の提示

特典：恒例の特典

※WAREHOUSEの公式LINEアカウントをお友達登録して頂いているお客様が対象となります。 WAREHOUSEの公式LINEアカウント未登録のお客様はお会計の際に御登録頂ければ特典付きで対応させて頂きます。

※オンラインショップや通信販売、ビンテージ商品、及びセール商品は対象外となります。予めご了承下さい。

☞ [営業時間のお知らせ]

平素よりウエアハウス直営店をご利用頂き有難う御座います。 ウエアハウス直営店では営業を下記の通り変更しております。

《2023.8.13.現在の営業時間》

◎東京店　【営業時間：平日 12時～19時　土日祝 12時～19時】無休 ◎阪急メンズ東京店 【営業時間：平日 12時～20時　土日祝 11時～20時】無休 ◎名古屋店【営業時間： 平日 12時～19時　土日祝 12時～19時】水曜定休 ◎大阪店　【営業時間： 平日 12時～19時　土日祝 12時～19時】 無休

■ ウエアハウス大阪店は準備の為、営業時間を変更します ◎ 2023年8月11日（金、祝日）～13日（日）／12時～18時 ◎ 2023年8月14日（���）～8月19日（土）／12時～19時 ◎ 2023年8月20日（日）／12時～18時 ◎ 20238月21日（月）／15時～19時

◎福岡店　【営業時間： 平日 12時～19時　土日祝 12時～19時】 無休（※【2023/8/16(水)】は臨時店休日） ◎札幌店　【営業時間： 11時～20時】  木曜定休

今後の営業時間等の変更につきましては、 改めて当ブログにてお知らせ致します。 お客様におかれましてはご不便をお掛けいたしますが、 ご理解の程、宜しくお願い申し上げます。

.

☞ 『WAREHOUSE直営店の LINE公式アカウント開設』

WAREHOUSE&CO.直営店からのお得な情報や、エリア限定のクーポンなどを配布しています。

LINE公式アカウント開設にあたり、 2019年3月26日（火）以降、提供しておりましたスマートフォンアプリはご利用できなくなっております。 お手数をおかけしますが、今後はLINEアカウントのご利用をお願いします。

ご利用されるエリアのアカウントを「友だち登録」して下さい。 ※WAREHOUSE名古屋店をご利用頂いているお客様は【WAREHOUSE　EAST】をご登録下さい。

※直営店のご利用がなければ【WESTエリア】をご登録下さい。

.

☞[リペアに関して]

弊社直営店で行っておりますジーンズ等のリペアの受付を休止させて頂いております。 ※ご郵送に関しても同様に休止させて頂いております。再開の日程は未定です。

ご迷惑お掛け致しますが、ご理解下さいます様お願い致します。 ※弊社製品であればボトムスの裾上げは無料にてお受けしております。お預かり期間は各店舗により異なりますのでお問合せ下さい。

.

☞WAREHOUSE公式インスタグラム

☞WAREHOUSE経年変化研究室

☞“Warehousestaff”でTwitterもしております。

ーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーーー

WAREHOUSE名古屋店

〒460-0011 愛知県名古屋市中区大須3-13-18

TEL：052-261-7889

《2023.8.13.現在の営業時間》

【営業時間：平日 12時～19時、土日祝 12時～19時】水曜定休 ※2023/8/16（水）は12時～19時で営業します。

[sexylonestar]

Sock # 4091

[ao3feed-tf2ships]

Baguettes n Bacon

read it on the AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/58017640

by Her_AngelEyes

Engie and Spy's daily life 4 months in.

Words: 4091, Chapters: 1/2, Language: English

Series: Part 4 of Mpreg Spy series

Fandoms: Team Fortress 2

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: M/M

Characters: Engineer (Team Fortress 2), RED Engineer (Team Fortress 2), Spy (Team Fortress 2), BLU Spy (Team Fortress 2), BLU Team (Team Fortress 2)

Relationships: Engineer/Spy (Team Fortress 2), BLU Spy/RED Engineer (Team Fortress 2)

Additional Tags: Fluff, Domestic, Cooking, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mpreg, Pregnancy, Comedy, Two Shot, Cuddling & Snuggling, Spooning, Spy head briefly implied, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, I could not care less about comic and in game lore lol, Dialogue Heavy, Bickering, Love Confessions, Uhhh I think that's it for now, Other Additional Tags to Be Added

read it on the AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/58017640

[0xa770c804]

NS ICM ("Koploper") 4091 at Rotterdam central train station