#free me from this mind prison :(

[fauvester]

chains of love got a hold on me..

[maxybabyy]

soooo ... about that frat bros maxiel post @arturleclerc got

Someone joins him by the staircase, but Daniel doesn’t move, keep his eyes on the beer pong match in front of him. There’s a huff, a scruff of their shoe against the sticky floor before they say, “Are you Daniel?”

Daniel hums, sips his beer. Scotty makes another great shot, sinks the ball into the same cup as the previous shot, so Daniel lets out a cheer, quickly echoed by the rest of the room. “To some, maybe,” he says to the guy, takes another sip before he turns to look at him.

The guy in front of him is young, obviously a freshman. There’s a plastic band around his wrist, bright red like one of the fucking, ‘I’m under 21, don’t serve me alcohol’ bracelets the faculty has been trying to introduce. He reckons they don’t really work, watches as the guy sucks down a third of his cup, the stench of tub juice obvious even from a few feet away.

“This is of course not an answer,” the guy says, thick lips soured into a hard line. “So stupid this, will you just tell me?”

“Yeah, alright, pretty boy,” Daniel says. He watches the flush spread over the kid’s cheeks, the wrinkle of his nose before he leans into it too, lips spread wide in a grin “’s a pleasure to meet you, what can I do for you?”

The smile transforms his entire look, softens the sharp angles of his face. He had been handsome before, awkward hot, but now he looks downright pretty. The white tee he wears sits tight on his chest, the peaks of his nipples obvious through the thin fabric. He smells like axe body spray and generic cologne, but Daniel’s fucked enough frat dudes to find it arousing.

His name is Max, and he is a freshman, pre-med like he too is going to save the world.

Daniel brushes his hand against the dip of his waist, lingers when Max doesn’t pull away. Max is taller than him, just a tad, but he fits himself under Daniel’s arm easily, shoulders loose as he talks about the lacrosse team he wants to join, the scholarship he’s expected to get.

“You want another drink, babe?” Daniel asks, watches spellbound as Max mimics the hold of his lacrosse stick, how he has to adjust his hands to make sure his grip is tight, firm against the racket. “Think Scotty has some gin in his room if you want a drink or like –“

Max nods, bites into his bottom lip with flat teeth. “Yes, this would of course be very lovely, Daniel,” he says, chokes on his breath when Daniel slips a hand into the pocket of his shorts to lead him upstairs.

Blake doesn’t have any gin, so he offers Max a shot of the whisky he saves for special occasions. Max doesn’t care, downs the shot and lets Daniel suck the alcohol off his tongue. Daniel holds him by the waist, sweaty palms on sweaty skin, and feels him tremble in his arms, wants desperately to make him lose it.

“You like that, yeah?” Daniel says, taunts, pushes the tip of his thumb in between his lips. Max moans, sucks the finger in between sharp teeth, mouth begging for more as Daniel stuffs another two into it. “You want it?”

Max nods, and his mouth feels silky around Daniel’s fingers, hot and wet. He goes down easy when Daniel nudges him to his knees, fingers falling from his mouth to cradle the curve of his head. His hat lies abandoned on the floor, exposing strands of dirty blonde hair, and Daniel cannot help but tug at it.

Max looks obscene on the floor, strong thighs spread wide forcing his shorts into the crease of his groin. His dick strains against the fabric, hard and untouched.

“Can I, please?” Max begs, nudges his face against Daniel’s dick, hard inside his jeans, and how could anyone say no to that?

Max swallows him down quick, jaw loose and open as he fucks into him slowly, carefully, until he reaches the back of his throat. Daniel feels it more than he hears it when Max groans, clammy hands gripping the insides of his thighs to keep himself steady.

“You’re doing so good for me, babe, taking me so well,” Daniel hums as he thrusts into his mouth, feels how his throat spasms around him. He’s close, almost there, a quick snap of his hips makes Max choke, and that’s it. He pulls out, nudges Max’s head to the side to finish into his own hand, curses himself for not letting him know sooner.

“Fuck,” he groans as his head knocks back against the door, eyes screwed shut as he tries to regain his breath.

“You could of course come in my mouth, Daniel.” Max says. He’s still on the floor, hands resting politely on his thighs like his dick isn’t throbbing in his shorts. “It would be very lovely, I think.”

Daniel curses, coaxes him to his feet and against the door instead. Max doesn’t need much to come. Daniel spits in his hand, uses the leftover come to ease the glide of his hand as he jerks him off, makes him add to their mess.

Daniel sits through a two-hour lecture of the implications of data privacy concerns before he drags himself back to the house. He’s splurged on a latte from the campus shop, but he reckons he’s earned it, scrolls through the notes he had scarcely taken.

Blake joins him on the porch, pushes the plate of leftover pizza into the middle seat. “Hey, did that pledge ever get hold of you last night?”

Daniel grunts, swallows down an entire slice in one go. “Pledge?”

The semester has barely started, the pledges won’t be chosen for at least another few weeks. He still has time before he has to pretend to be a functioning adult who doesn’t have hangovers on Wednesdays.

“Yeah, kid’s trying out for the football team or something,” Blake says, watches him with a frown. “He wanted to know when pledge week would be, make sure it didn’t collide with try-outs.”

Daniel drains the rest of his coffee, wishes he had put another pot on before he went out here. He sucks his teeth, thinks back to the party, to Max and his pale thighs, fat lips spread around the head of his dick, the sounds he made when Daniel made him come bent over the bathroom sink. Maybe it had been obvious that the was on the pull, because no pledge had been dumb enough to approach him.

“He’s a Beta Nu legacy, but he wanted to try something new it seemed,” Blake says, shrugs. “Reckon he’s a good kid, Horner put in a good word for him too, so he’ll probably at least pledge.”

Daniel clicks his tongue, turns his hat to shield his eyes from the sun. He had already been in the lecture hall when he saw it, the pair of embroidered boobs against the white fabric, but he had kept it on. “Did he leave a name at least? Maybe I know someone who can find him.”

There are loads of reasons Daniel had declined the presidency when Seb graduated, kicked it to Blake and settled himself with social chair. He just didn’t know fucking a will-be pledge would become one of them.

“Max, I think is name was.”

[certifiedbandicootplaya]

Me the second I’ve seen any piece of media

x reader fanfics <3

[dysthoepiadaily]

I forget Dan's true emo roots, sometimes, but sometimes he very sincerely flirts with Phil is a way that makes him sound like the most needy and insane emo kid, and I'm like... oh. oh yeah

[theholeyness]

[infplilshit]

No thoughts, only Zoro making you apologize for being a brat by fucking you raw until you're drooling

[sotc]

I've been a jayvik fan since the beginning and when it came to the finale, I don't know what I was fucking expecting but it was not that. Never felt so vindicated by a ship in my life LMFAO. the grip that ending has on me... truly shooketh

[needlesscontrarian]

Because Disco Elysium has an unshakable grasp on my soul, playing a shit ton of Baldur's Gate 3 has led to me also thinking a lot about Disco Elysium again, specifically about character creation.

So, in BG3, your character is fully customizable. You get to decide everything from where they're from to what they do and believe. And that's great, because it's D&D and freedom of choice is a huge part of D&D. But it also feels kind of weird because the story is full of characters and references to things that happened hundreds of years ago. No matter what your internal backstory for your character is, as far as the game is concerned, you just got to the party and you're extremely late. This isn't a criticism; that feeling of being a more or less average person who must grow to fit the heroism that has been thrust upon them works for the story that is being told (and is the inevitable result of being a sequel that also functions as a standalone game, but I digress).

Now, DE also has you playing as someone who is late to the party (the party being everything in the world up to now), but that is a direct function of the plot and the fact that you can't decide who you are. No matter what skills you decide to prioritize at the beginning, you will always be Harry DuBois, alcoholic disaster cop. The Revacholian Revolution will always have failed. The things that led to you losing all of your memory will always have happened and they will always be a part of you. The person who used to wear your body and speak for you chose to occupy a certain place in a system, and just because the person you are now doesn't agree with that system doesn't mean that you get to take it all back. You only get to decide what you do next and try to understand what it is that brought you here in the first place.

And while you have a huge number of options for how to conduct yourself, your ability to have a meaningful impact on that system is nonexistent. There is no ending where you become king of Revachol or transform it into some sort of communist utopia. You get to decide whether to send an insane old man to prison and whether to stay a cop. That's your lot. Maybe you can help a few people work through their personal problems or shift the balance of power to whatever you think is the lesser of two evils, but you do not get to save the world. Because you are Harry Du Bois, alcoholic disaster cop, and that's all you ever get to be.

[good-beanswrites]

Woo hello 🎬!! I kept all of your ask here -- I put it like this for my own easy scrolling, but no way am I cutting any of this, it's so perfect AH

Oughhhhgh Haruka getting more confident from hanging out with everyone and getting such positive feedback… I’d imagine the back to back innocent verdict and night of compliments would do wonders for his psyche ;-; And same for Muu and Amane! Minus the inno verdict, but the sudden influx of explicit compliments and acknowledgement of “hey, that was fucked up what they did to you, okay?” I wonder if there’s any awkwardness since After Pain directly follows Bring it On, but I like to imagine Fuuta and Muu have a deeper talk about things in private (and maybe Muu hesitantly mentions her involvement with Rei in preparation for INMF…)

Damn, who’s going to give the sex talk to the kids after Yuno’s vide-- Shidou. Sidou does. Without hesitation. They have to stop him because no one wants to hear it and everyone there already understands the basics.I love the idea of she, Mahiru, Muu, and designer Mikoto chatting about everyone’s fashion sense (I can imagine them poking fun at Fuuta’s tracksuit and Shidou’s patterned shirts.) And planning shopping trips that include everyone!!! Amane and Kotoko are given no choice in the matter, and a lot of the guys are genuinely interested in coming along.

Awww, I love the thought of Haruka getting into a “boy” interest with Fuuta and Mikoto -- he never knew what it was like to have brothers but he’s really enjoying it <3 (Also I’m cracking up over Fuuta trying desperately to convince them “it’s not cringe!!!”)

ASDFSDF Mappi just straight up sobbing and Mikoto handing her tissues 😂 But yes, she also gets choked up during Magic and Amane can’t figure out why. This begins the adults’ efforts to get her out of whatever situation she’s currently in (which Jackalope was already half-working on, but is definitely spurred on by several angry almost-murderers demanding he get it done now.)

I do like that idea of Red more comfortable with showing skin than Blue. (I know people are very emotional about the stalker theory, but I personally never took it in a harmful way. I always enjoyed how it was a symbol of stripping away everything else until you’re left with your true, whole self.) So I like to think that Blue feels too exposed, but Red/Green are the ones who pitched it in a symbolic sense! 

I’m losing my mind at Kotoko/Kazui/Red talking about sparring. Everyone else is like “hell yeah, let’s see it!” and Shidou just sitting there like “you all are going to be the death of me. You are NOT fighting.” Because I really want to think about it happening, I’ll say they manage to sneak away at least once and nearly break a prop in the process, to which even Jackalope shuts them down.

I think they all manage to get pretty serious again by the time T2 rolls around, but the hiatus is filled with a lot of sweet moments and healing conversations between everyone. Also, making so many plans for the future helps keep them sane when some of the project immersion gets a bit too real. Whenever they start realizing they might be condemned for their actions and worried that they’re too broken/they’re life is ruined, they come back to those plans and relax a bit.

Absolutely no pressure, but I would love to hear your T2 thoughts! 👀👀👀 I’m so incredibly grateful you’ve taken the time to share your ideas -- from the very beginning this au has been a big collaboration, so it’s super fun bouncing ideas around :D

[selfdiagnosedeyemotif]

i seem to have entered some kind of hellish twilight state where if im not too stressed to work, im not stressed enough to work. closes eyes forever

[miserymisume]

Can we pretend that red bricks in the night sky are like meteors

i could really use a blunt force trauma, blunt force trauma, blunt force trauma

[hangingoffence]

stories about extreme human survival (be it real or fiction) always touch my heart in such an interesting way. humans ultimately are animals and one's survivor is written to our genes.

[fearless-eagle]

Works of John Bunyan: THE DOCTRINE OF THE LAW AND GRACE UNFOLDED. 531

by Thomas Sadler, oil on canvas, 1684 Fourth. If the surety stands bound, the debtor is at liberty, and if the law does issue out any process to take any, it will be the surety. [Though the debtor and the surety are liable to pay the debt by the law of man, Christ our Surety only by the Covenant of Grace]. And, O! how wonderfully accurate was this accomplished in that, when Christ our Surety…

[homunculus-argument]

If I had more money than I'd ever spend in a lifetime, I'd spend my life operating a pizzeria at a loss. Something with the slogan of "it ain't italian but you're hungry" - and a statement of how this is not authentic italian pizza because the owner's estranged aunt's italian ex-husband would not serve pizza in his italian restaurant because as far as he was concerned, a pizza is the "just throw that shit together" dish that you make out of leftovers, and he would not serve that to paying customers even if they wanted it. True story btw.

But I'd just like to run a place where the staff is allowed to tell rude customers to fuck off. And if they're scared to do that, they can summon me downstairs to do it myself (this fantasy involves having my own apartment upstairs of the restaurant), because you don't fucking disrespect my staff like that. Develop a reputation as a place where You'd Better Act Yourself or you get nothing, which elevates the quality of the food in peoples' minds because it's human to assume that more work=more worth, and if a pizza place can afford to simply throw rude customers out, that clearly must mean that the food is just that good that going back is worth it anyway.

Hiring enough people to get the work done in a leisurely pace and occasionally have the time to chat with each other or customers. You just do the job I gave you in the time I gave you, don't steal anything and don't watch porn off your phone anywhere where the customers can see you, you're good. Don't care if you quit school at 16 if you can still mop floor. Don't care if you've been to prison because you killed some guy, as long as you're not doing that here. Don't care if you deal drugs on your free time as long as you don't bring your business to your day job. This place is exclusively for pizza business.

Have an item on the menu called "random pizza" - and if you order that one, they'll just throw in a mix of whatever ingredients we've got too much of, like if the bell peppers gotta be used before they go bad, every single random pizza is going to have them until they're either gone or need to get tossed. If you've got dietary restrictions or allergies, you gotta specify that while ordering, because other than that, random pizza is just whatever ingredients we need to get rid of. Surplus ingredients du jour.

Building a reputation as a place that's somehow simultaneously sketchy as hell but also remarkably high quality, getting five star restaurant customer service from a waiter with blue hair and stick-n-poke tattoos, there's a homeless guy at the back of the kitchen eating an order that nobody picked up, every surface is spotless and no matter how important of a suit-and-tie you are, if you won't behave yourself the owner will personally physically fight you.

[scourgefrontiers]

its a lil funny how me worrying about whether or not me wanting to work on a certain project is unhealthy has somehow turned unhealthy in itself bc now i dont feel good working on anything. great

[7s3ven]

FILE LOADING. TF 141 x hacker! Reader, pt 1

( full master list) (intro to this series)

IN WHICH… you needed a way to lessen your prison sentence and TF 141 needed an efficient hacker… as well as someone to spoil.

Notes: hacker! Reader, reader has a criminal background, reader has piercings, tattoos + tooth gems

A/N: first cod series finally lol… please like this post guys, I finished it right after I slipped while practising a taekwondo kick and body slammed into the tiled floor 😭.

—

The air inside your prison cell was muggy and overall unpleasant, causing beads of sweat to form on your forehead as you fanned your face.

The pathetic excuse for a window was not helping, letting only a small amount of oxygen enter the tiny room.

In all honesty, you weren’t treated as badly as other prisoners. A coworker of yours had pulled some strings the moment you were arrested, which meant you got better food and some perks.

But as always, life in jail still sucked.

You were too busy staring at the blank wall in front of you to notice the metal door keeping you locked up was now creaking open.

“Get up.” The warden harshly nudged your shoulder, barely giving you a moment to compose yourself. Your hands were yanked behind your back, the cool metal handcuffs digging painfully into your soft skin.

Your jaw clenched as you were dragged down the dimly lit hallway. You knew better than to ask questions as they would not be answered. All you could do was walk in the direction the warden shoved you in.

The breeze from the well-ventilated interrogation room was the first thing to hit you as you entered. You arched an eyebrow at the woman sitting at the table, her hands gracefully clasped together.

“And you are?” You didn’t recognise her as you slumped into the seat across from her, purposely sending the warden a biting glare.

“I’m Kate Laswell, a CIA operative.” She didn’t waste time before she spoke, leaning forward to catch your attention.

Your lip peeled back into a sneer, “The worst kind of people.”

She ignored your jab. “I’ve come here to give you an offer. You see, SAS is in need of a hacker and I’m told you’re the best fit for the job.” You watch as she opens a slim folder, spreading out the images for your careful gaze to study. They’re printouts of your exploits, files nobody was supposed to obtain. You had deleted your digital footprint after hacking databases, you were sure of it.

“You’re good. Too good to waste in a cell." You hear her softly sigh.

“I did what I did. The justice system isn’t so flattered by my ability to retrieve their sensitive information. Plus, I did murder someone… a few people, actually. So in all honesty, this isn’t an unfair punishment.” You leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, crossing one leg over the other.

“We are well aware of your long record.” Laswell sends you a pointed look. You merely grin, your canine teeth glinting in the light.

“Did you see my arson report?” Your lips spread into a grin, “Because that’s the best one. Set an ex-boyfriend’s car on fire and it just lit up. It was great. You should read it sometime.”

Laswell cleared her throat, reminding you of the situation at hand. “As I was saying, I can lift your jail sentence with a click of my fingers but only if you agree to work for me.”

“Thought I was working for SAS.” You interrupted.

“You’ll work for an elite team called Task Force 141… but you’ll answer to me. I give you the orders.”

“And the catch of this job?”

Laswell’s lips curve into a faint smile. “This is not a job offer, Miss L/N, it is a uniquely presented opportunity. You will get no pay for your services. The reward it reaps, however, is greater.”

You paused for a second. What could possibly be better than money?

“Freedom.” As if reading your mind, Laswell spoke again. “If you do this, you’ll be free before next year. This is possibly your only shot at freedom, do not throw it away. If you stay locked up here, you’ll only rot while the world keeps spinning.”

Now she had your attention. “You must be desperate if you wanna hire me.” A chuckle slipped past your lips but it was mainly to ease the awkward tension that had settled. “What would the job include?” You tilted your head, subtly shifting forward to hint your interest.

“You’ll be working alongside Task Force 141, giving them intel on possible threats and making their jobs easier by gaining access to classified information. I hear you don’t work well with other people but really, what choice do you have?”

Her words prodded at you and the teasing smile on her face aggravated you but she was right. You had no other choice.

The room was silent as you weighed out your choices. The walls seemed to close in on you, a stark difference to the freedom you were promised mere moments ago.

“So I risk my life for this so-called elite team… and in return I get some vague promises of freedom? Smells like bullshit. You lot will probably stab me in the back.” You scoffed.

“You’ve already painted a bright red target on your back. It’s only a matter of time before people realise you’re worth more dead than alive. With us, you’ll have protection. And a purpose.”

Laswell stood up, pushing her chair back with deliberate calmness. The legs scraped against the concrete floor as she did so. “Make no mistake, L/N, people like you don’t simply disappear. Someone will come for you… someone who wants your head on a stick.” Her words hung heavily in the air.

There was a flicker of fear in your eyes and like a feral predator, she ate it up.

“Okay.” You slowly murmured. She had convinced her with her carefully concealed threats. “I’ll do it.”

Laswell smirks. "Good. Pack your things. Your new team will be picking you up in an hour.”

—

The loud roar of the helicopter blades filled the air as you stepped onto the tarmac, shielding your eyes against the bright sun. You rubbed your aching wrists, clicking your tongue at the bruises the tight handcuffs had left.

A few soldiers are waiting for you into the chopper, their silhouettes barely visible through the dark tinted windows.

“Couldn’t just send a car?” You grumbled as you climbed into the helicopter. Laswell followed close behind, unbothered and seemingly used to such a commotion.

“Always for the theatrics, John.” She jokes with the man sitting across from her, eyes crinkling as she grins.

You glance at the man’s name tag, reading Captain John Price. He’s handsome… for a man his age. In a ruggish and rough sort of way. A cloud of smoke slips past his lips as he calmly puffs on a cigar, not at all caring how the chopper unsteadily tilts to the side.

“This the hacker? That pretty ‘lil lass over there?” A voice, thick with a Scottish accent, cuts through the silence. Your eyes dart to stare at the burly man with a Mohawk as he looks you up and down. “Thought the hacker was a bloke. Ain’t complainin’ though.”

You stiffen at the comment, running your tongue over your top row of teeth. It unintentionally gives him a view of your shiny tooth gems. “Thought you lot were an elite crew. Y’all don’t fact check?” You lean back into the cushioned seat. It’s surprisingly comfortable, much better than the stone-hard mattress back in your cell.

The Scot laughs, unbothered. “She’s got bite. I like ‘er. Name’s John McTavish but most call me Jonny. You can call me Soap if ya want.”

You sarcastically laugh. “Soap? What kind of muppet name is that? You had a reputation for eating soap as a kid?”

Soap’s eyes light up, not what you were expecting with your insult. “Ay! The cap’n said the same thing! Called me a muppet too!”

“You still are.” Someone chimes in from the front. You didn’t even realize there were two more people squeezed in to the seats in front of the controls.

The one in the passenger seat turns around, smiling. With his soft brown eyes and gentle features, you can’t help but find him pretty.

“Y/N L/N, right? Nice to meet you. I’m Kyle Garrick.” His voice has a slight British accent to it. “This is Ghost next to me.” He jabs a thumb at the man wearing a skull mask who’s doing a poor job at steering the helicopter.

“Ghost?” You question, “What sort of name is that?”

“Simon Riley.” Ghost grunts out. His British accent is somewhat aggressive, evident in every syllable he barks out.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. For some reason, he annoys you. It’s more like the way he’s looking at you through the eye-level mirror.

The chopper shakes again. You watch as Kyle grasps his seat, his grip so tight it almost cracks the delicate leather. “Sorry.” Simon gruffly replies.

You raise an eyebrow, leaning forward. “What’s up with him?” You nod your head in Kyle’s direction.

“Fell out the bloody helicopter when Ghost was last flying.” Kyle replies. You almost laugh. It’s not something that should be amusing but your lips quirk into a small grin.

“So… does this whole arrangement cover my food and accommodation?” You question, suddenly aware of how hungry you are. Laswell slips out a small folder, handing it to you.

“Your accomodation will be one of our safe houses twenty minutes away from base. We considered having you live on the base itself but socialising isn’t part of your job. You’ll be living with the Task Force to ensure you don’t run. And all your costs will be covered. You will be given an allowance for your own expenses such as impulsive purchases.”

“Thought you said I got no money.”

“Once you have completed what is necessary, you will no longer have access to the allowance.” Laswell clarifies.

“And I walk free.”

Laswell nods, “Then you are free to go. If needed, CIA will pay to transfer you to another country so you can start anew. Most do not get second chances, L/N, so be careful.”

You lick your cracked lips, aimlessly playing with the hem of your oversized shirt. Maybe you could go to Europe; it had been a little dream of yours as a kid.

“Should go to Scotland, lass.” Jonny pipes up above the loud helicopter blades.

“London’s better.” Simon retorts, “Can actually understand what they’re saying.”

“What about Korea?” Kyle butts in.

“You aren’t even Korean.” Jonny argues back, lightly scoffing.

“Yeah, but I wanna go. Is that a crime, Soap?”

Their pointless bickering was comforting in a way. You had spent the last few years of your life locked away, isolated most of the time and alone. It was nice listening to people talk again.

Simon landed the helicopter with surprising grace, being the first to unbuckle his seatbelt and jump out. Kyle was next. Laswell unlocked the sliding door, stepping aside to allow you to slip past first.

You merely stared at her before muttering a tense thanks.

“Watch your step.” Kyle warned you as he held out a hand to steady you.

“It’s literally three feet. I can manage.” You snap back, effortlessly stepping out of the chopper. Jonny lightly chuckled while Kyle slowly withdrew.

“Feisty.” Kyle muttered.

You stared up at the safe house, tilting your head. “It’s… cute.” You hummed. It was a cottage, not the first thing you expected as a safe house.

“Were the pink roses your idea, Riley?” You joked, pointing at the pretty flowers.

He grunts, a sound you’ve suddenly become familiar with. “I prefer Ghost.” He corrects you.

You shrug. “Used to call inmates by their last name. Helped me ignore them when they tried hitting on me in the early years of prison.” You stepped forward onto the stone cobble path, admiring it.

“A small cottage… bet this is a military dream, huh?” You kicked a pebble.

“It is, actually.” Jonny pipes up, “It’s every man’s dream to retire in a cute little house with a pretty lass.”

You lightly scoffed, “I ain’t here to play work wife, McTavish. Can’t even cook.”

“Thank goodness we have Gaz then.” Jonny retorts, “Bloke should be a chef if this career doesn’t work out.”

You take a moment to study the house and its surroundings while the others file through the door. There’s a small white Pickett fence wrapped around the land, bright green blades of grass wrapping around the neatly painted wood.

The cottage is clearly old but well renovated. Rows of vines adorn the side, a surprisingly aesthetic sight. There’s a garden filled with sweetly smelling flowers and the same pink roses sitting at your feet are also perched on top of the porch.

The windows are the favourite aspect of yours. They decorate the stone walls, a sharp gothic detail to them.

It’s almost too pretty for a criminal like you.

“You comin’ in?” It’s Kyle who notices your absence, peeking his head past the doorway. For a moment, he thought you had made a run for it but he was relieved to find you standing among the garden.

You clear your throat, pulling at the bottom of your shirt. “Yeah.” You step onto the rickety porch, the wood creaking under your weight.

The interior of the house is so different from your tiny cell. Walking past the door almost feels like walking into an entirely new life.

Jonny is scavenging through the fridge, pulling out a tall bottle of beer. “Want some?” He offers it to you.

“I can’t drink, warden’s orders.” The words slip past your lips before you can stop them.

“It’s just a beer, can’t hurt ya. ‘Sides, you ain’t in jail no more.” Jonny insists, shaking the bottle. It’s tempting but on instinct, you glance at Laswell.

She’s sitting beside Price, talking to him in a hushed tone and going over a file, presumably one containing details about you.

“I ain’t stopping you from drinking, kid.” Laswell says, feeling your stare on her face.

Hesitantly, you snatch the bottle from Jonny, popping the lid open with practised precision. You haven’t tasted beer, or any other alcohol for that matter, in a long time. You’ve never liked beer… but the first burning sip feels heavenly.

“You got any vodka?” You ask, glancing into the top cupboards.

“Do we look Russian? Nah, can barely drink that shit straight.” Jonny’s face scrunches up at the thought.

“Bourbon then.” Your words catch Simon’s attention.

Jonny grins as he reaches up, grasping a fancy-looking bottle. “Only other person here who likes bourbon is the LT. Guess he isn’t alone anymore.” He pours you a glass, handing it to you in exchange for your bottle of beer.

“Don’t understand how you lot can stand beer. Too bitter for my liking.” You mutter, pacing around the room.

You hear Simon quietly hum in agreement. “Finally someone smart.”

COD TAGLIST (comment to be added/removed): @jenepleurepasbaby @rm25711 @talia-the-gemini @margaaaa30 @mixplara @alex—awesome—22

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