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[falcongeo]

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[harpsinfinity]

Falling asleep with könig, price and Simon

Warnings: a very small hint to sex (very small), fluff, badly translated German

Simon Riley

The lightest sleeper known to man, only when he's deployed though, your the only one that can pull him into the deepest sleep he's ever known. Most of the time he'll sleep with his head on your chest, finding your heartbeat one of the only things that's able to soothe him. It reminds him than your alive, he's alive. He'll hold onto you like your about to slip out of his hands like sand, he can't risk losing the love of his life. It's now a nightly routine of Simon falling asleep on your chest with his arms tightly wrapped around your waist, the almost permanent Stern and tense look on his face melting away to reveal a soft and relaxed look as he feels your hands play with the short blonde tuffs of his hair, nails gently scraping his scalp.

Captain Price

This man will trap you in an everlong bear hug. His massive thick arms just wrapped around your waist with his head in the crook of your neck or on your shoulder. His beard is kinda scratchy but you endure it for him. He snores. Loud. Too loud. He has so many bruises on his ass from you kicking him to shut up. Sounds like a storm is coming from your shared room. Even so, you still love being in the same bed as him, whether he's fucking your brains out or giving you cuddles and tender kisses to your head. He always loves to see you sleeping in one of his old baggy shirts, the neck of it being too big and hanging off one shoulder. He'll always make sure either you or his shirt smells like him for when he's out on deployment for months, something of him to make you feel like he's with you.

König

He'll have you on his chest, if not he'll he laying on his side with you close to him, his arm slung around you. König will always insist on sleeping closest to the door to keep his love safe. He's the heaviest sleeper known to man, not even a hit to the head with a frying pan would wake him. Even so, he's like a human furnace, a natural heater. Sometimes it's too hot and you have to try and get out of his grip to cool down. You've always felt so safe sleeping with him, how can't you when this big brute of a person is keeping you safe? König loves it when you fall asleep holding hands, bodies intertwined and not to be moved until the sunlight starts pouring in through the gaps in the curtains.

[lustlovehart]

Prologue Chapter, Beginnings

A/n: Non of the main cast are in this piece, this is just the prologue before the real writing starts buuut they are mentioned if that counts?

Pairing: Monster!Twst x Reader, Ft. Rollo Flamme & Crowley (Voice only).

Summary: Getting rid of things that go bump in the night has always been your job, yet, when the time comes to finally kill them, you can’t bring yourself to do it. Such mistakes, will return their grievances in full, and you’re now made to pay the price of letting monsters continue to live their wretched lives.

Warnings: Bruising, and like maybeeee hints of posseviness?? That’s it though.

Hands, dozens, are maybe more? So many words are being whispered into your ear as each finger practically possesses your body with a desperation akin to hunger.

A snake wraps around your arm, a gargoyle looks down at you, and heat encased your body until it practically swallows you, yet it feels like you're drowning at the same time when sand pours on you. You don’t know what any of it is signaling to you, you’re not even sure if you wish to understand.

“Off with their head!” “Let the tall grass swallow you.” “The deep isn’t so scary when you know what’s in it.” “Wishes are deceiving.” “Reach your full potential here” “… These joints, I can’t stop.” “Is it so bad to sleep in this castle with us?”

These voices sound scarily familiar. Yet, you don’t recall any of their voices despite feeling like you know them on some basis. You don’t move, even when one hand intertwines with your own as if you were a prize to be won, a want or need they must have.

A feint mantra of your name reaches out to you in your dream, a savior from this purgatory. But… there’s something wrong, their attempt to save you, is shrouded in danger. Even when their hand reaches to break you out, the under lying feeling of dread spreads through your body.

Whoever is saving you, is hiding something from you—

“[Name].” Your figure is quick to jump awake, your eyes immediately going blind from the morning sun shining through your windows. When you turn, you’re immediately met with Rollo at your bedside, a cup of tea and warm food in his palm. “Did you plan to sleep in?” It’s typical for him to invite himself into your home, it’s not like you’re opposed anyhow, he feeds you for free, and even cleans your house. When you told him why you don’t feel worry when he enters your abode, he compared you to a wild raccoon. “With your job, you should be more… precise…” his eyes had trailed down from your face to your arm.

His hand slowly gravitates towards you, ringed finger slowly tracing above your skin before grabbing onto you. If you were fully awake, you would’ve questioned why such a small action… was so sensual.

Alas, you’re still tired.

“Pray tell,” lifting the appendage into view, he reveals what it was that caught his attention, “How did you get… These?” Dark bruises have flourished into your skin. “I hope you didn’t lie about going to sleep early.”

“Wha…? I didn’t, I swear. I don’t know what these are…” he eyes you with suspicion before deciding against interrogation. Though that’s always the case, he has a habit of letting go of whatever you say or do with only a slap on the wrist.

“Well, I hope, it doesn’t matter. You’re going to have a very eventful couple of months, Crowley is sending us off for work again,” he takes a seat next to your bedside, patting your lap down to flatten your blanket before setting a tray down with your breakfast. “He says you’re going to those places. ” Before you even have the chance to drink, you’re already putting down the tea, looking back at him in utter confusion.

“… Hah?”

If he’s being truthful, which, he always is, unfortunately, those areas are notorious amongst people of your occupation, said to have the most violent of fiends.

And… Crowley is sending… you??

“I argued with him not to let you go. Jack was very adamant about not letting that happen either. In fact… He seemed more determined than me. Which is a cause for concern.”

“That is concerning… I only have room for one overbearing partner.” His face goes sour at your poorly placed joke, like some miscreant he’s met on the street, rather than one of the few people he doesn’t mind talking to. His expression quickly softens once more when he remembers who it is that said the joke, you “Sorry…”

“The point is, You’re going there, alone.” He emphasizes the word heavily, as if he really needed to remind you just how dire your situation is.

Alone. The words echo through your room like an unspoken curse, condemned to feed your suffrage. If you’re going to be alone, there’s no doubt you’ll go mad from solitude, void of communication for months.

In your state of conflict, a sharp pang is felt in your neck, as if a blade had gone through your skin and cut off all feeling from your body. A sense of foreboding makes your worry only increase.

“Eat now before you leave.” The feeling is gone as quickly as it came. You look back to Rollo, you wonder why Rollo goes out of his way to do what he does for you. He’s a nice distraction from the dreams that cling to your consciousness.

So is Jack… he's kind to you too.

He was stationed in Sunset Savana if you’re correct. Maybe you’ll see him again when you travel to the second location…

You’re pulled out of your trance when the warm feeling of tea dripping down the corner of your mouth is felt, Rollo, being the culprit as he forces you to drink the beverage. “I said eat now.”

You would’ve pinched him if it weren’t for how tired you were, all is forgiven when he wipes the drink from your jaw with that prized handkerchief of his.

The rocky terrain of the floor annoys you to no end, with each step you take a small pebble flies off somewhere to the side. Considering Crowley instructed you to be stealthy, you probably shouldn’t be flinging things around. You don’t care though, you keep doing it the thought of Crowley might’ve increased how much force you put into your kicks.

“Rules must be followed, I don’t appreciate those who don’t obey.”

A chill goes down your spine. Those words are so familiar, but you can’t place where you’ve heard them before…

Before you can keep dwelling on the disembodied memory, you’re suddenly struck by the unfortunate reminder of Crowley, and 7 high-class missions.

7 missions he’s barely compensating you for.

“Greedy bird…” Honestly, you only accept the transfer under Crowley because of Crewel. Your former boss may have been strict, but at least he paid you well and made you somewhat okay with your job. The thought makes you reminisce of simpler times before the sound of a crow echoes through the sky, and a scroll drops on the path in front of you.

You recognize it, it’s a special communicator used among hunters, it’s a bit outdated, but Crowley is insistent on using it. You kneel bunching the paper in your hand, unraveling the parchment.

It’s Crowley. You toss it away. The paper comes back to your feet, freakishly bouncing on the dirt. He’s calling again, and you throw the paper away again. He won’t stop coming back.

“Leave me alone” He’s your boss, you don’t exactly treat him like one though. Knowing the lack of people in the job field, you not dying on the first week of work is rare, making you an asset he can’t just throw away, so in revenge for every act of greed he commits, you return him the attitude of a snarky employee.

Along with that, you’re still spiteful that he made you do this alone rather than with someone like Rollo or Jack.

“Wait! Wait! Don’t hang up! After all my generosity you continue to disregard me, your own boss no less–!”

The sound of paper beginning to tear immediately sets the sheet to panic mode, aggressively shaking to avoid being ripped to shreds.

“Stop, Stop! I have something to tell you about your job, so don’t you dare, little one!” Chances are, he can sense your disappointment on the other side of the line, the both of you simultaneously sighing before he continues the rest of his talk. “Those seven locations, you don’t have to kill them, running them out of the area is all you’re required to do” You pause for a moment, moving off your intended path into a forest. Your connection gets a little choppy, but if it means you don’t have to listen to him anymore, it might be worth it.

“Run them out only? Are you sure that’s all I have to do, don’t we usually kill them?”

“Yes typically but, it seems our dear commissioners only asked to be rid of them, now why would we hunt them when we’re not being paid? That would just be a waste of time.” Your side is completely silent after his statement, concerned hellos beginning to leave Crowley's side of the paper.

“… So you’re stingy.”

“Not stingy! But, we are a business.” You leave him at that, not wanting to draw out an already lengthy conversation. “So, are you ready for your next assignment, little birdie?”

“Unlike you, I’m not cheap so,” snickers are heard from your boss, instead of a retort to such a blow, all he says is a smug “oh?” before the rest of your words spill. “I’ll really get rid of them. For the people.”

You had intended to waste time before heading to your first job, but luck isn’t on your side, as it turns out your off-course path was an accidental shortcut.

Crowley isn’t talking anymore, you must’ve lost connection. You quickly tear the paper in sweet relief… that’s short-lived. Your eyes are magnetized to the sign in front of the eroded building.

“Heartslaybul Hospital” a tinier sign in the corner with sloppy handwriting, which you can only assume to be from a child reads, “For wonderful and rule-abiding patients only!”

You take one glance back at where you came from, your last chance to truly walk away, before heading inside.

When you look back at it after finishing all 7 locations, you truly should’ve just run them out. For once, you wish you had listened to Crowley, maybe doing that, or maybe even sacrificing your pride would’ve worked, turning around and leaving the hospital might’ve been the optimal solution.

It would’ve saved you from your current predicament.

Trapped in a room filled with monstrosities that can no longer bear to let you go.

A/n: Heartslaybul chapter (hopefully) coming very soon *Insert emoji deviously rubbing hands together*. Originally, this Au was meant to be specifically Yandere, but the more I wrote, the more I realized, These monster counterparts, are well, monsters, so I decided, it’s entirely up to you whether or not you want to view it as Yandere or not. With that said, they will still be possessive in some right, so let that help you determine your choice.

[python333]

glass half-full, or half-empty? — python333

— — — —

synopsis you're trapped in a coffin, then you're not, then you're questioning your whole life- basically, buried alive trope meets found family and meets age regression and they all have a super messed up baby that has the occasional good quality.

relationships caretaker! price, caretaker! gaz & little! reader (gender-neutral).

characters cap. price, gaz, others briefly mentioned.

word count 8.0k

warnings reader was buried alive, implied drugging, implied panic attack, sooo much disorientation in the first section it's crazy, british slang that only kind of makes sense, second person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of both c/n [code name/call sign] and y/n [your name], wayyyy too long.

note hey!! sorry for disappearing!!! please accept this offering as an apology!!! I've finally gotten back the motivation for writing what i actually wanna write, so now i'm back to writing fics!! enjoy this new and improved interpretation of age regression!

Someone’s ribs are encasing your own. 

Well, not really, but it feels that way. Though your torso is clothed, as is the rest of your body, the defined bones of the skeleton beneath you poke and dig into your skin the same way it would if you were naked. The rotted wood around you creaks and sand falls onto your frontside from above, where the lid of your coffin is kept together solely by hopes and dreams. 

Only an hour ago, you blacked out. Fighting enemy soldiers whose fighting techniques you aren’t familiar with is hard enough, especially when they happen to keep bleach and rubbing alcohol in the same place they’re fighting you in. The two mixed together, poured and soaked into a rag that was later pressed to your face, created a substance that knocked you out. You know the name of it. You know it. But you can’t think of it, because remembering is too hard, and the wood surrounding you is too suffocating. 

Your limited air is becoming more and more apparent. There’s no light, no noise—well, unless you count the subtle static playing in your broken earpiece—basically, it’s sensory deprivation hell and you’ve committed one too many sins according to those enemy soldiers. 

Your whole body is sore. You don’t know if those soldiers messed with you after you passed out, or if this is just the result of fighting them for a few consecutive minutes, but whatever happened caused a strange weakness to invade and overtake your body. The oligarchy in your body created by this soreness left you unable to move properly, save for the occasional twitch of your skin or the ability to move your fingers freely. 

But fingers are useless when your wrists are bound. Maybe they aren’t physically bound to the floor of the coffin, but the invisible ropes made of the misuse of cleaning materials seemed to be enough to keep them down. It was irritating, and the mental ropeburn created pins and needles from your wrist to your elbow that only made you even more uncomfortable. 

The static continues. It’s cold. Cold, quiet, and God, how did I even get here? What time is it? What day is it? Your uniform isn’t enough to keep you warm. The tactical gear only makes your body heavier, not in the comfortable way that it feels when you’re heavy with sleep and ready to rest, but in the out-of-body way that makes you feel both like you’re floating and being pulled down like an anchor at the same time. You recall vaguely algor mortis, the stage of death where your body begins a gradual decline into an inhumanly cold state. 

Why you’re recalling it, you don’t— actually, no, you do know. The cold. That’s why. You’re cold. You’re cold. Don’t forget it. It seems hard to forget feelings, to forget the present, but you’ll find that it’s like breathing; inhale, you know that you’re cold, exhale, wait… you’re cold? How do you know? How can you feel? Inhale, you can feel things because you’re human, because you’re alive, exhale, you’re alive? 

Are you alive? Have you made it this far? What have you done? Not much, honestly. Or, not much that you can remember. Though there’s an overwhelming amount of hopelessness clouding your mind, you can still make out a few moments that play like a shitty wedding slideshow at your distant relative’s wedding who you didn’t know existed until a few hours before the event. The time that you told Ghost a joke that made him laugh. That other time that you told Ghost a joke that made him laugh. Or, no, wait, was that Price? 

That time that you chased after Soap while he had your unlocked phone, which, by the way, was a very normal response to that and was very valid. Yes, it was necessary for you to tackle him, even Gaz agreed with you on that. Ghost just enjoyed seeing Soap get tackled, for some very dark very strange reason that you would rather not think about too hard—assuming that you can even think any harder than a brick right now. Price, of course, disapprovingly shook his head and seemed to mentally weigh what the effect of a leash on the three of you would grant. 

Static-static-static-stat— “H—o?” 

You almost sit up, but your head bumps on the top of the coffin, and you groan. Oops. Thought a little bit too much there. 

You’re immediately dizzy and it feels like all the blood has rushed out of your head, but you still manage to stay conscious and try to figure out how to respond to whoever’s talking. 

“H—lo?” They ask again. You tilt your head ever-so-slightly so that the button on your earpiece can get pressed, and you almost start crying when you hear the small click and beep emit from the earpiece, signaling that it’s now on. 

“Hello?” Your voice is hoarse and it hurts to talk but you couldn’t care less. You have an opportunity to get out. You’re desperate to get out—or, at least, you should be. 

For the strangest reason, despite the claustrophobic environment you’ve been forced into, despite the sores that you know are forming along your stiffened spine from the rough wood you’re lying on, you feel comfortable in the most uncomfortable way. The fact that your memory is fuzzy and your movements are limited to twitching and stretching makes you uneasy, but at the same time, the absence of your typical nonstop stream of incomprehensible thoughts and feelings strangely lets you… relax. The lack of thinking, only lying down and staring up, puts you in a mindset that you don’t think is so bad. 

The situation is awful, but for whatever reason, the results of it are— are… oh God, what’s the word? It’s on the tip of your tongue, you swear, and now you’re thinking, well, shit, maybe this isn’t the best mindset. The void that grows in your head was nice maybe a minute ago, but now you’re forgetting words and yeah, no, I don’t like this, but at least you aren’t constantly second-guessing yourself. You aren’t contradicting every other thought you have, there aren’t mental wars waging in your mind that keep you unfocused and almost lightheaded, you aren’t arguing with yourself on how you truly feel. You just feel. And hell, you fuckin’ forget what you were even feeling just a few seconds ago. Thoughts come and go, nothing more than fleeting, and a part of you wishes that there was something for them to latch onto because being absent-minded feels a little too empty but your usual mind feels too full. 

You wish your mind was like that— that problem, with the glass, the… the glass… the one where everyone argues on something about it. Something about it. What do they argue about? What glass? There’s a glass, a drinking glass, that everyone argues about, and whatever side you’re on dictates how you think— what the fuck? What is that problem? God, if only you had a working phone right now to look it up. 

Oh, shit, yeah, the earpiece. There’s someone talking. Only just now have you actually acknowledged their words. They sound muffled and far-away, not at all like there’s a small microphone shoved into your ear that plays directly into it. 

“Private?” It’s crackly and still full of static, the sound is drowning in it, “Pr— a— —u there?” 

“... Huh?” You question dumbly, sounding more confused than you ever have before. There’s a ringing building up in your ears, and the person on the other end—who is talking?―is talking again. 

“Ar— —ou ther—?” They ask again, sounding… worried? Concerned? Wait, shit, those are the same thing. Damn you and your lack of a mental thesaurus. Wait, no, if you… if you use the same meaning in two different words… would that not— whatever. You don’t even care anymore. This ‘mindset’ doesn’t feel very nice anymore. You’ve been conscious for too long, you’ve started questioning yourself again, but in the worst way possible; usually, you can actually think properly when you question yourself. Now, you’re questioning your own knowledge without actually thinking about your questions first, so instead of the usual hellish loop of what does this mean? Why did I say this? What else could I have said?, you’re now stuck in the purgatory of, what was that word? What can I say? What did I just think? What? Huh? 

“Yeah… genius…” You manage to scoff, despite the heaviness of your tongue and the cotton in your mouth and mind, “Where else… would I be?” 

“Oh m— God,” The person on the other end breathes out, “Do y— kno— who you’re t—king to?” 

You shrug—well, you move your shoulders the tiniest bit up and back down—even though they can’t see you.

“Priva—?” They ask again, like a broken record, making you groan without you even realizing it, “G—z. Sergea—t Ga—ck? Y’remember?” 

“G’z,” You mutter, trying to sound out the syllables, “Giz… G— oh, shoot… Gaz? Sarge?”

“Yeah,” Gaz laughs, a little clearer now,  “Sarge, sure. Y— doin— —kay?” 

“Uh-huh,” You exhale, a little relieved that it’s just Gaz, “Hi.” 

“Hi,” Gaz sounds like he’s smiling, it’s audible in his voice, “Y’wanna t—l me where y—u ar—?”

“Uhh…” You look around the coffin with limited head movements, “I dunno, probably… probably a, uh… one a’ those grave things. Coff— coffin. In one of those. In a grave thing. Maybe. Wha’ are those called? The things?”

You sound dazed even to yourself, and mentally chastise yourself for the usage of grave things, even though you had no better words to describe it. You swear, you know the word. It starts with an “s”, you think, there’s a whole movie with it in the title by some guy named Steve-something. It has graves, coffins, the other thing that’s a coffin but not, graves, dead stuff, all that… hm. All that swing? All that… all that jazz, right, all that jazz. Wow, go ahead and clap yourself on the back for that one— oh, that’s right, you can’t, because you’re stuck in a fucking coffin. 

What a day.

“You’re in a cof—n?” Gaz asks, shocked. 

“Uh-huh.”

“Underg—nd?”

“Where else?” You deadpan, even though, for whatever reason, your instincts scream at you to be a little bit nicer. For that reason only, you tack on, “Respec— …respectfully.” 

“Jesus,” Gaz lets out a shaky breath, his voice growing a little more faint, as are you, “Wh—e do y— rem—ber being last?” 

“I don’t…” You mumble, eyelids growing heavy, threatening to droop down and meet the waterline of your eyes. 

“Don’t… what?” Gaz asks, sounding almost… scared? 

“Rember— rem’m… remember,” You reply, “Woof. That was… a toughie.” 

“Oh my God, th—’re lo—ng it,” Gaz whispers to himself, or maybe to someone else, “Private. Do y— know at all w— you m—ght be?” 

“Uhh…” 

“D—” This time, you know this is Gaz cutting himself off, because he gasps right after he begins talking and starts a whole new statement, “Is your tr—ker on?” 

“My wha’?” 

“Tracker, the— the th—ng, it’s a—ched to y—r earp—ce,” Jesus, how much can this thing cut out? 

“I don’t… what the— what are you tryna say to me?” You ask, for some reason… censoring yourself? What? Why… huh? You don’t censor yourself, you’re not five. Well, at least, you don’t think you are, not right now. Wait, when are you five? What are you saying? Or, thinking— what are you thinking? 

“The— Captain,” Gaz calls out to someone else, “The t—!” 

“Tra’ker,” You mumble to yourself, “Huh. I have one a’those?” 

“[c/n],” Gaz says into his earpiece, the sound suddenly louder than before, making you jump and almost hit your head on the ceiling of the coffin, “Are you h—rt?”

“I don’ think so,” You respond, looking down at the shadows casted over your body, “Can’t tell.” 

Gaz lets out some kind of pained noise and you feel your eyelids growing heavier. Your lungs hurt. Your lungs hurt? Oh, shoot, your lungs hurt. Gaz should probably know that. 

“Actu’ly,” You take back, sounding almost intoxicated, feeling like you’re breathing through a straw, “My chest hurts.” 

Close enough. 

“Your chest?” Gaz questions, the static slowly but surely clearing up, “Your lu—gs?” 

“Uh-huh,” You confirm. Your breathing was already a little shallow, but now its turning labored, and it feels like there’s rocks in your lungs, more and more appearing from God knows where, weighing down and taking up so much space in your lungs that the oxygen you breathe in must search for refuge within the cracks and crevices in between the stones. 

Exhale, and the carbon dioxide that leaves you seems to find a way to invite more rocks into your lungs. Inhale, and there’s less and less room, exhale, there should be more room, but instead the room— inhale, there’s no room, try to inhale again, you can’t— inhale, breathe, breathe, gasp, hold your breath, don’t exhale-don’t exhaledon’texhale— 

“[c/n]!” Gaz shouting your name startles you and forces you to exhale, a low whine coming out with it, making Gaz shut up. There’s a warm liquid dripping in trails down your cheeks, reaching your jaw and chin, the feeling of it sending waves of discomfort through your body and straight to your brain. 

You desperately try to breathe in, try to inhale anything, even if it’s the sand falling from the ceiling or the carbon dioxide that you’ve tried so hard to keep inside. 

“[c/n],” Gaz repeats your name, in a different tone this time, something more soft, something that resonates and echoes in your empty yet full mind, “We’re close, we— almo—t there, you s—l with me?” 

You continue to struggle with your breathing. Exhale, exhale, inh— exhale, inhale, ex— ex— exhale, in— in— Jesus fucking Christ, just inha— in— in— 

“I can hear you,” Gaz says, uncannily clear, he must be at least… at least something klicks within the radius of… of me… of me? Where am I? “You’re gonna be okay, okay? You’re gonna be fine. I need you to stop panicking, okay? I know that— th—t sounds easy to me, because I’m not in a coffin, but if you keep breathing like that, you’re gonna make it worse for yourself.” 

You finally inhale, but it feels so wrong, like hearing crunches while chewing what should be soft food. You gasp. You’re choking? What’s that other word for choking? Starts with a “c”, right? Wait, no, that’s choking. Dang it. 

Gaz is yelling in your ears, and it almost sounds like he’s actually there, but the wooden walls encasing you and this stupid, very smelly skeleton underneath you tell a different story. You cough. You cough again. And again. And now you’re just forcing the bad air out of your lungs, which is great and all, but now there’s no air in your lungs, which you would like to argue is far worse but you can’t argue because you can’t think and you can’t think because you’re in some coffin with a stupid— what did you even want to argue, again? 

There’s yelling. There’s commanding. There’s footsteps, heavy ones, ones that come from combat boots and men in tactical gear, the same gear that weighs you down like an anchor, that keeps you glued to this skeleton, who’s ribs encase your own. 

Or, at least, it feels like they are. Even though you’re wearing tactical gear, it still feels the same way it would if you were naked. The annoyingly present bones of the skeleton dig and poke into your skin, and there’s sand falling from between the planks of rotten wood above you, where the ceiling of the coffin is held together solely by hopes and dreams. 

An hour or two or three ago, you blacked out. You think you did, at least. You think you might black out again. Fighting enemy soldiers who fight with techniques you aren’t familiar with is hard enough, but fighting the invisible forces that prevent you from breathing in good air is even harder, because they don’t fight with guns or knives or fists; they fight with rocks that they shove into your lungs and vines that they tie around your already-tight throat. 

There’s no light, but there’s sound. Sounds that would be useful if you could think. You don’t remember thinking. You don’t remember remembering. 

But you’ll always remember this skeleton beneath you, who’s ribs encase your own. 

Or, at least, it feels like they are. The tactical gear you’re wearing does you no good, serving as the only barrier—the most useless barrier ever—between you and this skeleton and this coffin and the sand that's begun pooling around you. The skeleton, who’s ribs are— why are you repeating yourself? 

Gaz is yelling in your ear. Someone else is— someone else is there? Someone else is there. Talking, yelling, screaming, commanding, running, searching, above you— above you? Above you. While you exhale, gasp, exhale, choke, gasp, gasp, try to breath, fail, exhale, exhale, there’s men above you digging, digging and lifting weight off of you, you think. There’s more sand coming through. The loss of pressure must be making it looser.

Are you thinking? Are you feeling? Can you remember? What is there to remember? There’s an incomprehensible jumble of thoughts in your mind, and you think, trying to control your thoughts, I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know. 

It’s getting easier and harder to breathe. You can’t. You can… wait, no, you can’t. 

You can keep your eyes open— you can keep them open, you can k— 

“—eep your eyes open, Private,” Gaz begs you, pleads for you, his voice far but close, loud yet quiet, “C’mon, keep ‘em open, stay awak—” 

—e, stay awake, stay awake, no, no, no, no��� 

— 

You wake up to a stark white ceiling and some kind of electric beeping. Your head is clearer, fortunately, but still not clear enough to immediately remember what exactly happened. You remember a coffin, a skeleton, suffocating, talking to Gaz, and that’s about it. You shiver. A skeleton. You can still feel the phantom feeling of its ribs hugging your body, something you think your captors might’ve done to make you feel even more uncomfortable. 

While you’re thinking about the skeleton, you don’t notice the sliding of a curtain and the footsteps that grow exponentially louder and closer to you. 

“G’morning,” Gaz says, making you jump up and sit up instinctively, before you promptly lie right back down. Gaz snickers at you, and you turn your surprisingly sore neck to glare at him. 

“Y—” You cough, furrowing your eyebrows as you bring an unstable and floppy hand to slap around your face, finding an oxygen mask nestled right on your nose and mouth. You take a few breaths, the task uncannily easy now, “You can knock that off. No laughing at the injured.” 

“Oh, I’m not laughing at the injured,” Gaz clarifies, sitting down at a plastic chair he’s pulled up beside your bed, “I’m getting ready to yell at the injured soldier who gave me a heart attack about five hours ago after suffocating in a coffin buried six feet under in some cemetery in Derbyshire.” 

“Derbyshire…” You muse, “What’s that? Or, where’s that?”

“‘bout forty klicks from Sheffield,” Gaz hums, before seeing your blank stare, and sighing tiredly, “The one with the cute houses and the pudding.” 

“Ohhh,” You nod, now understanding, before joking, “At least I got buried there instead of, like, the bluejay one.” 

“The bluejay one?” Gaz asks, confused, before pausing and asking you incredulously, “Jaywick?” 

“Yeah, that one,” You hum. Gaz blinks at you, before groaning.

“Is this how you felt when I thought Las Vegas was in California?”

“Probably,” You grin at him, “It might be closer to when you thought NYC was the capital of New York.” 

“If it’s not the capital, then why is it named after the city?” Gaz asks, exasperated. You shrug.

“Doesn’t change the fact that the capital’s Albany.” The room is silent for a little bit. The beeping, which you’ve now identified as a heart monitor, is loud. Your heart’s beating is fast and feels like it’s going to beat out of your chest. Gaz looks down at his chest, fidgeting with his hands, wringing them.

“I, uh,” You start, making Gaz look at you again, “When I was in the coffin…” The mere mention of it makes Gaz’s gaze sharpen and his hands still.

“It was hard to breathe, and also really hard to think,” Gaz nods along, “But I was still thinking, I guess, and I wasn’t thinking too hard. Like, jellyfish type shit, y’know? Like no thoughts, but also thoughts, but like…” 

Gaz raises an eyebrow at you, and you try to explain it better, “Do you remember back in like, ele— when you were five or six and you like, just got a conscious and you’re thinking but also not?” 

Gaz’s face relaxes and he nods wordlessly. You continue, “That’s how I felt.” 

“I’m sorry,” Gaz frowns, putting a gentle hand on the metal bar on the bed you lie on, “That must’ve been… weird.”

“No, no, I liked it,” Gaz’s face goes right back to confusion, “It was nice. Which is weird. But I didn’t feel weird. I felt, like, really calm in that sense, for the few minutes that I wasn’t panicking.” 

“You… liked it?” Gaz asks skeptically. You nod. 

“Yeah.” 

“How?”

“It was just…” You try to find the words to describe it, “I don’t know. I didn’t have control over it, which really bothered me. I felt, like, small, for some reason— like my mind is shrinking but my body is still the same, y’know? So it was really…” 

After a few moments of you trying to find the word you needed, Gaz offers, “Disproportionate?” 

“Yeah, that,” You nod quickly, “It was disproportionate and sucked, and it was obviously really scary, but I wasn’t processing stuff like I usually do. Which was great.” 

“That sounds…” Gaz wrinkles up his nose, “... awful, but okay.”

“I think a lot,” When Gaz raises an eyebrow at you, you weakly slap at his knee and continue, “And earlier, when I was in that coffin, I wasn’t thinking. Everything was just going in and out just like that. It would’ve been nice to keep some of those thoughts, yeah, but when I can properly think like I am now, I keep too many thoughts and it’s like— it clutters up, and it just lingers for way too long.” 

A small flash of understanding crosses Gaz’s expression. “So, you liked not thinking too much, because you already overthink too much, and being in the coffin and high on something happened to both help and not help with that?” 

“Yeah, basically,” You hum, before realizing, “That’s way simpler than what I said. Huh.” 

“That’s that overthinking,” Gaz muses, to which you respond with a frown. 

“I’m not saying I wanna be all claustrophobic like that again,” You clarify, because you still see doubt on Gaz’s face, “But I liked thinking like that. The non-thinking-thinking. I think it would help with my stress and stuff.” 

Another flash of understanding crosses Gaz’s expression, except this time, there’s a hint of something else in there. Realization? Curiosity? You’re none the wiser to it, getting a little more confused yourself. 

“Oh.” Gaz’s slight frown disappears, the upturning of the corners of his lips now visible, “Okay. I get that. I actually think I know what’s happening.” 

“You do?” You ask, confused. 

“I gotta confirm it with the captain, though,” You’re more confused. It’s visible, you guess, because Gaz laughs at your expression.

“Don’t worry, it’s not bad,” He clarifies, still grinning, “I just have some suspicions. Y’mind if I let Price know what y’said?” 

“... Sure?” You hesitantly say, to which Gaz responds by standing up and starting to speed-walk away from your bed, making you snort. 

“I’ll be back in a bit!” Gaz calls out over his shoulder. You sigh and turn so that your whole back is on the mattress of the bed. 

You were being honest, but at the cost of Gaz apparently “knowing what’s happening”, which is… disturbing, coming from Gaz, who you’ve affectionately titled a “D1 bird-brain”.

But whatever. It’s true, anyway, how you felt. It was uncomfortable, but it was somehow so much better than how you usually are. Or, well, not so much better, but at times when you’re overthinking or overwhelmed, you wish you could just turn off your brain, or something. Okay, maybe not turn it off, but turn off certain parts. You like thinking, and you do it all the time, but doing it all the time for you is like a full-time job on top of your already full-time job of being a part of the 141. 

You don’t even make sense to yourself, but that’s okay. You make sense to Gaz, apparently, and possibly Price as well. 

Speaking of— 

“Hey,” Price greets you, his usual quokka-smile gracing his lips, Gaz following in right after him with the most smug look you’ve ever seen. What a bastard. 

“What did you do?” You immediately ask Gaz, who only shakes his head and looks away, amused, making you a little annoyed. Price seems to know what you’re talking about as well, judging by the way his smile grows a tiny bit. I hate inside jokes. Only I’m allowed to have those with people.

“He told me what you told him,” Price hums, before sitting down into the chair previously occupied by Gaz, “And I have an idea you might like.” 

“... Okay,” You look at him suspiciously. 

“When I was still in the SAS—”

“Oh, so around the same time as the Trojan War?”

“Shut it, you.”

“Sure, Captain.”

Price sighs, exasperated, while Gaz snickers at his unamused look. Price, ever-so determined to explain this to you, proceeds, “Back when I was in the SAS, there was this other lieutenant who happened to be a good few years younger than me. Too young, in my opinion—” 

“Look at yourself,” Gaz interrupts him. 

“Bugger off,” Price sneers, “I’m tellin’ a story.”

Gaz puts his hands up in a surrendering gesture, “Keep your hair on, Captain, jus’ pointin’ out that you were younger than them when you first joined the army.” 

You blink at the two. “I think that’s the first time that I’ve heard British slang that I can actually understand.”

Price takes a deep breath, “However, it wasn’t up to me to decide if or when they joined. So, I got to know them a little better, and found out that the stress they got after assignments was so bad that they had this coping mechanism that they had thought to be fairly strange. I asked them what it was, and because we’d known each other for ‘round a year now, and I was to be moved to a different unit, they told me that they didn’t really know the name of it exactly but what they did was they would sit down in their jammies, ones that reminded them of their childhood, watch some cartoons, all that and some more. And I asked them how that helped them, because back then, I was a dense little shit who couldn’t think for more than two seconds, and they said that it let them think the same way that they did when they were a kid.”

You blink at him. “So the idea is… ?” 

“Maybe you two are related,” Gaz muses, “And the denseness is hereditary.” 

Price groans, “Put a fuckin’ sock in it, Kyle.” 

You gasp scandalously, before comically whispering, “First name after telling him to shut up? You’re just gonna let that slide, Gaz?” 

“I’ll shove a sock up your—” 

“My idea,” Price interrupts the two of you, preventing what could’ve been a fifteen-minute long spat, “is that you do that. You throw on your jammies—” 

“Jammies,” You repeat incredulously.

“―you watch some cartoons, play with stuffies—”

“We have stuffies?” You interrupt Price again, who pauses this time.

“We should, yeah,” He nods, “There’s a bin of ‘em around here somewhere, for emergencies.”

You furrow your eyebrows, “Emergencies?”

He looks at you pointedly, “Emergencies.” 

You blink at him. Blink, bl— “Oh, fuck off, I don’t need stuffies. I don’t think any of this would help me. I’m not five.” 

“Yeah, but you wanna be, don’t you?” Gaz questions you, voice a little less joking, though it still has a little humor in it— a safety blanket, basically, in case you take his words the wrong way. 

You stay silent. Price speaks up, “Tell you what; we’ll come back tomorrow, just me ‘nd Gaz, and you can let us know what you think of the idea. If y’like it, I’ll get you whatever you need to help you out. If you still don’t like it, you don’t like it, and we’ll figure somethin’ else out, alright?”

You sigh, “Alright.” 

Price smiles at you and gets up to clap you on the shoulder, “Get some rest, soldier, up the wooden hill and off to Bedfordshire with you.” 

“What the hell?” You immediately question, looking at Price like he’s gone mad, “Up the—”

“Don’t listen to him, he’s bad British representation,” Gaz hurriedly says, getting up and pushing Price lightly out of the room, talking to him in a theatrical whisper-yell, “You’re introducing them to sayings they’re not yet prepared for! Nobody says that to anyone above the age of twelve, Captain!” 

Price simply laughs and lets Gaz push him away from your bed, not bothering to push aside the curtains obscuring the view of you as he pushes him out of the medbay entirely. 

You blink at the swaying curtains.

“English people,” You mumble to yourself, turning over onto your side, “God damn English people. I’m never grouping Soap in with them ever again.”

— 

True to his word, Price walks in with Gaz the next morning.

Price sits down next to you.

“G’morning,” He greets you softly, chuckling at the disgruntled look on your face, “Woke up on the wrong side of the bed?”

“Woke up and thought I was six feet under for a second,” You mutter, making the smile on Price’s face falter. 

“Sorry,” Price apologizes, reaching out a slow hand—so that you can move at any second—to grasp your own hand and squeeze it gently, “Y’good now?” 

“Mhm,” You hum, nodding, your gaze shifting to Gaz, who looks as disgruntled as yourself. You snort and ask him, “Are you good?” 

“Someone,” Gaz snarks, glaring daggers at Price, “Woke me up two hours before my alarm so that he could force me to search for supplies with him.” 

“I wonder who that could’ve been,” Price hums, ignoring the way Gaz shakes his head disapprovingly, “Anywho, have you given any thought to the idea?” 

“The idea?” You question, before quickly realizing, “Oh, right, yeah, the idea.” 

Price looks at you both expectantly and patiently, while Gaz forces himself to pull his glare away from Price and put his gaze on you, observing your expressions and response. 

“Uhh…” You look at Price with hesitation, and he looks back at you without a trace of pressure in his eyes, making you sigh, “I’ll try it, but no guarantees that it’s gonna work.”

“Thank fuck,” Gaz groans, “My hard work hasn’t gone to was— ow!”

Gaz takes hurried steps back after Price stomped down hard on his foot, and the latter simply smiles at you at your response. 

“Great,” He gets up, dusting off his army-green shirt and pushing his chair back, “D’you reckon you’re good to get out of bed now?” 

“Probably,” You shrug, testing the waters by pushing yourself up into a sitting position. You wince at your still-sore back and your stiff legs, but otherwise feel okay, okay enough to feel confident in your ability to actually stand—though, you suspect you may need to grab onto something for extra support. 

Oh well. You’re sick of this bed already, and if you can stand, you’re gonna stand. 

Price sees this, however, and is quick to hold his arm out for you to grab onto as you swing your legs over the bed railing and hop off the mattress way too fast, making yourself dizzy in the process. You feel his concerned eyes burning holes into the top of your head as you try and succeed in regaining your footing, keeping a firm grip on his forearm in the process. Thank God for Captain Price and his too-muscly arms. 

“You alright?” Price asks, to which you respond with an affirmative nod. 

“Fine,” You hum, taking a deep breath before tentatively letting go of Price’s arm. He frowns, but doesn’t protest. Gaz looks at him questioningly, and Price shakes his head, nonverbally communicating to the sergeant that it’s nothing to get worried over.

Gaz decides to lead all of you out of the medbay, with you following after him and Price right behind you. You occasionally lose your footing, slipping on nothing, but you never fall, and even if you were about you, Price would catch you. You know he would. He’s been watching you like a hawk, hands twitching every time your footing is lost. But instead of begging for you to just take his arm, for fuck’s sake, he walks up so that he’s right next to you and starts talking. 

“So…” He starts, making you look over at him, “Y’want me to go over the plan?”

“The plan?” You ask, raising an eyebrow, “Sure.” 

“You get changed into your pajamas, we get on the bed, cuddle a lil’, you get a stuffie, we see what happens and then see what to do from there,” Price explains simply, “Any problems with that?”

“No, sounds good,” You hum. It sounds fucking fantastic, you think, but he doesn’t need to know that. 

“Good,” Price smiles down at you, before saying, “You remind me of them.” You tilt your head to the side a bit, “The lieutenant?”

Price nods, “Yeah. Really sweet person. Had a whole collection of stuffies and blankets.”

You smile, “Sounds nice. They just keep all those in their quarters?”

“Yeah.” You both fall into silence again, comfortable silence, and soon enough, the three of you reach your sleeping quarters.

You all walk in. Well, except for Gaz, who is stopped by Price at the door. You turn around to question them, but Price stops you before you can even open your mouth.

“You just go get dressed,” He says, nodding over to the drawers in the corner of your room, “We’ll be outside. Just knock when you’re done.” 

Skeptically, you look between the two, before you nod and close the door, leaving you inside your room alone. You try not to give too much thought to it, trying yet failing to ignore every thought that crosses your mind, busying yourself by choosing pajamas. 

Soon enough, you’re dressed in your favorite pajamas—fluffy pants and a loose t-shirt, as well as just-as-fluffy slippers to replace your boots—and knocking at the door to signal to Price that you’re done. He opens the door, and Gaz is nowhere in sight, but you choose not to ask about it. Instead, you step to the side so that Price can walk in and sit on your bed, closing the door behind him.

On the bed already is a fluffy blanket—it must’ve been set up earlier, considering that Gaz was apparently woken up at around four in the morning to get everything ready. 

You sit down on the bed next to your Captain, your fluffy pajama pants and loose t-shirt already making you feel relaxed, as well as your fuzzy slippers. You don’t really wear this outside of going to sleep, but after wearing a medical gown for the past twenty-four hours, you’re more than happy to make one small change in your routine. Price smiles down at you, one arm hovering around your back questioningly, before you nod and let him fully wrap it around you and pull you into his side. You’re already pretty tired, despite the fact that you got a full night’s worth of sleep, so the pajamas are honestly pretty fitting.

You sigh, turning your head slightly so that your cheek is pressed to his chest. Gaz walks in just seconds later, your gaze immediately moving to him as he sits down on the bed right next to you, sandwiching you in between him and Price. In any other situation, this would make you feel claustrophobic, but it feels oddly… comfortable right now. You notice the stuffed animal in Gaz’s hands—a small, round, fluffy cow with a black and white coloring pattern—and look at him questioningly. 

“That s’posed t’be for me?” You ask, strangely drawn to the small stuffie. Gaz seems to see your fascination with the stuffed animal and smiles softly at you, a weird sight, considering that the two of you are having kerfuffles every three seconds at the very least. 

“Uh-huh,” Gaz nods, offering it to you, smiling even wider when you gingerly grab it, “Y’like it?”

“It’s cute,” You mumble, looking it over in your hands, rubbing your thumb against its soft fur and black beady eyes. You know what you want to do with it. You want to hug it close to your chest, like you used to oh-so many years ago, back before you had to force yourself to stop sleeping with stuffed animals out of fear that you would need them in order to sleep forever. It only partially worked; you never slept with another stuffie again, but instead found yourself waking up with a bunched up part of your blanket or your pillow in your arms, pulling tight to your chest. 

You really wanna hug it. You missed stuffed animals. You miss stuffed animals, present tense. You miss their soft fur and the baby pink of their ears, the polyester trapped safely inside the confines of the felt and fluff, the sweetness and child-like wonder that you lost with them. 

Both Price and Gaz sense the conflict in your mind. 

“Hey,” Price softly rubs your arm with his thumb, with gentle circles and too many yet just enough callouses, “You’re thinking a lil’ bit too much there. You wanna hug the stuffie, go ahead and hug it.” 

It’s easy, you think, so easy to just… think, but let go of my thoughts when I have him to ground me.

You hug the stuffed animal, pulling it close to your chest and wrapping your arms around it, your limbs too long for what you’re trying to do but doubt and stress in your mind slowly growing small enough to compensate for the lack of a smaller body. It’s frustrating, yes, but Price’s arm around your body and Gaz’s hand that cautiously rests on your shoulder makes your body feel the tiniest bit smaller, and it makes your mind the tiniest bit cloudier. 

“There y’go,” Gaz coos, his voice a type of soft you didn’t even know was possible from him. Price only chuckles, and you should feel annoyed because they sound like they’re teasing you, like they’re a part of an inside joke that you’re not, but they’re not. They’re here right now, Price’s arm is around you and Gaz’s hand is on your shoulder and they’re speaking so softly and— and you’re letting your thoughts go. 

They’re coming and going, some staying longer than others, but they never pile up, never clutter up like a messy desk or a disorganized folder. They’re neat and held up by mental thumbtacks, pinned to the corkboard of your cerebral cortex, sometimes melting into the beige board and other times staying, but never getting to the point where the thoughts are stacking on top of each other or where there’s no more room for anymore thumbtacks. 

It’s something you never thought you’d be able to experience, but here you are, experiencing it, breathing it in like oxygen. Like an open field, bright and clear, with your Captain’s or your Sergeant’s arms—wrapped in blood and flesh, not stripped down to the bone, not poking and prodding at you—around you and keeping you grounded. Your very own anchorage; the perfectly crafted bumps and dips in their arms that fit around you like puzzle pieces when they pull you towards either one of them, as if your Creator knew that you would find refuge in them, as if They knew that you would know how perfect it is.

Because it is. It’s perfect, in the way that a salmon knowing its birthplace despite swimming so many miles away is. In the way that homeostasis works; your body finding equilibrium, that perfect balance between your internal systems and outside forces. In the way that the stuffed cow in your arms seems to seep through your chest and go straight to your heart and soul. 

You don’t realize that you’ve zoned out until Price lightly shakes you. 

“Y’alright, darling?” He asks, concerned, his gruff voice more gravelly than usual. You blink and look over at him, and you’re sweet again. Sweet and loved, and loving to love. Or, at least, you think you’re loved. You might be a tad bit delusional, but there’s something in Price’s eyes, some kind of light that reflects pink and green hues, some kind of nurturing-feeling that doesn’t go away when he blinks. 

“Uh-huh,” You nod, the way your head moves up and down almost like a bobblehead figure, “All… sunshine ‘nd rainbows over here.” 

Price breathes out a small laugh and Gaz raises an eyebrow at you. 

“Yeah? All sunshine and rainbows?” Gaz teases you, “Are you sure there’s anythin’ happenin’ up in your noggin?” 

You pout and lightly swing your leg at him to kick his calf, and although you’re only wearing slippers and are kicking about as hard as a pillow, Gaz makes a show of pretending to get seriously injured by it. He gasps dramatically and brings his knee up to his chest, hugging his calf to his torso and rubbing at the spot you kicked. He pouts right back at you, immature and theatrical, and you giggle—fucking giggle—at his antics. Gaz can’t help but let up the act, grinning as soon as your laugh sounds out, the noise music to his ears. 

“You havin’ a laugh while I’ve gotten hurt?” He antagonizes you, voice light and fluffy, “Brat.” 

“Noo,” You deny, voice growing just slightly higher-pitched, your movements a little less controlled by yourself, “I’m never a brat.” 

“You sure?” Gaz raises an eyebrow at you, letting his leg down, “I think you’re lying, duckie.” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“Yuh-huh.” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“I cannot believe you’re both still annoying, even when they’re bein’ little,” Price sighs exasperatedly, making both you and Gaz laugh, your laughter more bubbly and light while his is knowing and proud. 

“Lil’ kids aren’t an exception to my teasing, Captain,” Gaz snickers, reaching over to ruffle your hair while you squeal quietly and lean back into Price to hide away from your attacker’s hand. Price snorts and pulls you a little closer to him.

“All little ones, or just this one?” Price nods down at you. Gaz hums, thinking.

“Ah, just this one,” Gaz grins, making Price sigh. The latter brings his other arm around and turns so that he can pull you to him with both arms, while Gaz suddenly frowns. 

“You’re hoarding them,” Gaz whines, while Price only raises an eyebrow at him. You feel oddly joyful at the thought of Gaz also wanting a share of your attention, or at least some of your physical affection.

“Shoulda gotten here faster than me, mate,” Price simply hums. He sounds so smug, voice full of smarm and expression knowing, because he’s more than aware of the fact that Gaz quite literally could not possibly get here faster than Price had.

“You made me get the supplies!” Gaz argues, though softer than he usually does, being more mindful of your newfound mindset, you assume. 

“Ehh, you could’ve refused it.” Price says, blatantly lying as he does, watching in amusement as Gaz gapes at him.

“What?”

You like the attention, but what you like even more is the conversation Price and Gaz start up afterwards. They don’t take their attention off of you, no, not one bit, but they aren’t talking directly towards you, you’re just existing and it’s amazing. 

Price begins asking Gaz about something, probably his reports, and Gaz responds positively, you presume. Price is talking calmly and slowly and Gaz is nodding along, his hand making its way to your own, his fingers interlocking with yours and squeezing your hand every now and then. Your pajamas feel awfully comfortable now. What did Price call them yesterday? Jammies? Usually, you’re an avid hater of English slang, but you can’t help but feel a little warmer just thinking about the word jammies. 

You can feel your eyes going half-lidded, and you can hear someone chuckling. Probably Gaz. He likes laughing at you, but it’s never in a mean way. Maybe that’s why you feel so comfortable with the laughter. It reminds you of an older sibling, someone who’s basically programmed to tease and make fun of you, but still likes you. Or, at least, is expected to still like you. You enjoy the idea of a chosen older sibling more than a biological one, funnily enough, because the expectation of liking someone is so different from actually developing a liking to someone. With the expectation, there’s almost no choice; there’s still a chance of them not liking you, but it’s expected of them to like you, so they’re gonna try anyway, and it makes it feel less authentic, less real—but with choosing, they choose you to have that bond with them, they choose to treat you the way they do, not because it’s expected of them from birth, but because they see something in you that draws them to you. 

Gaz is that person. That older brother that chose you to tease, to play fight with, to argue with, to laugh with, to hold hands with—he chose you. And because of that, his laughter is acceptable, and his teasing is never taken to heart. 

Your eyelids get a little heavier, and someone’s gently tilting your head so that it’s resting more comfortably against their chest. Probably Price. He likes physical touch, unsurprisingly, and shows it as much as you allow him to. He particularly likes to loosely wrap a hand around one of your wrists with his thumb resting over your veins, gently pressing inward to feel the beating of your heart. Why he does it, you don’t know. Maybe he likes the reassurance of your living. Maybe he likes how it grounds him, how it reminds him that you’re a tangible being with a beating heart and a working mind. how it might let him know that you’re real and here with him. 

Or maybe it’s something deeper, maybe it goes back to that other lieutenant, maybe it goes back even further to when he was sixteen and had just joined the British military. Whatever it is, you accept it wholeheartedly, because when he does it, it reminds you as well that he’s alive and searching for proof of you being alive as well. Because you believe that living people will always search for other living beings, or at least you know that you always will, because the feeling of brittle bones and the sight of dead bodies haunts you in ways that you never thought possible. 

Your eyelids droop down completely. 

“I feel like I should say good night, but it’s barely no—” You think that’s Gaz.

“Shut it and let them sleep, for Christ’s sake.” That’s probably Price.

“I’m just saying—” Definitely Gaz.

“I’ll staple your mouth shut so y’stop sayin’ anything, how about that, y’muppet?” Definitely Price.

[uknowmesblog]

Just a blabbering from someone who isn't even speaking English as first language...

But

Imagine reader just one night, drunk out of their mind with a few friends looking at job applications and 'accidentally' enrolling in task141? (I do not know the lore that good, just roll with it..)

Poor you, eyes glistening from the fourth drink you downed, your body limp on the couch in one of your friends house.

"You know what will be funny?' One of the girls asked as you pulled your phone out of your pocked, looking at her with a brow rised.

"Hmm?'

"If we applied for random jobs, you know? Just as old time.' You sighed remembering your younger days when all of your friends will try to get the same job, sometimes it worked but everyone was fired in a spawn of a week or two due to well... working with your friends and creating chaos.

So you said yes, why not to indulge in more alcohol and some stupid decision just for the fun it? Oh how wrong you were last night, waking up the next day with a dry as sand tongue and a throbbing constant pain ping pong-in against your skull. You don't remember even ubering to your house, let alone whatever got down last night.

And the days pass, melting one after another while you kept your normal routine and didn't even bothered to ask your girlies about that night.

Not until a lady stepped in the coffee shop you are currently working, short, blonde hair and sharp eyes zeroing in you. Power and control pouring from her like a waterfall, making you gulp.

"Hi, welcome to Sunday Bite, how can I help you?" You managed to say, making her rise her eyebrows out of curiosity.

She asked your name, her voice calm and collected. You recognised the military status somehow, the proud steady tone and the way she address you. After all your father was a known some high rank and your childhood was around bases until you decided it's not your future. I think there isn't more to say than this, there is where your relationship with your father plain ended.

'Yeah, that's me' Your voice is shaking, maybe your father had some kind o accident and now guilt is gnawing at your mind. Maybe you should have tried to find some common ground or something?

"I am Kate Laswell, the supervisor for the CIA's Special Activities Division." You blinked.

"Okay? Congrats?" You said not knowing what to say further from that. She looked even more confused, not understanding why are you staring like someone just spawned there.

"I am here because Captain Price didn't had the time to come and ask why didn't you respond back to your acceptance email of enrolment?' And then it dawned on you, your eyes as big as a plate. After a few vodka infused decision, you thought it will be so funny to enroll in military just to spite your father.

Not your finest moment,hmm?

"Oh fuck me.' You whispered and looked at your manager for help, but he decided that a few glasses needed inspection. "Look, It's a misunderstanding' you rushed to say, explaining the whole situation in a whispered, yet rushed voice. You ended with a "silly drunk girl behavior" hopping she will just turn around and leave.

Kate tho, strong woman didn't even pretended to find the situation comical. She gave you a blank stare and nodded.

"Unfortunately we need a person and your father put his word for you in, you are accepted and you will do your new duty. "

"Oh he did, didn't he?' You mumbled sarcastically, but she sighed looking a little bit exasperated with you.

"How I said, since you didn't answered and we didn't find you home, you don't give us any choice just to give you a short notice." She said, taking a folder out of her bag and putting on the counter in front or you. "Tomorrow at 6 a.m. a!

"6 AM?" You shouted incredulous, your face flaming hot with embarrassment as a few clients looked at you.

Kate just cleared her throat and continued "6 a.m. a car will come to pick you up, be sure to have your things packed. Since your father was a high rank and approved and pushed this, you will go directly to sign your final contract. "

"And if I refuse?'

'Maybe you'll be arrested or get a substantial fine for affecting the recruiting program. Again I am just doing a favor for a friend, since I had some business around the town' she ended, turning around and letting you with your churning mind.

You are too damn adorable for jail and a "substantial fine" will put a dent in your future and your kids future and your grandkids future and so on.

Now you need to pack, decide how many plushies you can smug in, convince Price you are the worst human in existence, come back and unpack.

Sounds easy, right?

Erm idk what was dis, idk if I will continue?

I just had an idea and word vomit around here in my last 30 free minutes i had left.

Also please; It's written on spot, I do not have the energy to look over it again. Idk how military enrollment works and sure as hell I am new on tumblr as writting stuff. Be kind, i like constructive criticism as long as it's nice and not brutal

Kiss and loveew

[thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels]

Place your gilded crown upon my head (and carve your home into my chest)

Day 6 of Thank You, Haikyuu - event masterlist here

pairing: iwaizumi hajime x reader (gn) x oikawa tooru

length: 8.3k

genre: medieval royalty au !! fluff, hurt/comfort

warnings: arranged marriage but they fall in looove, some vague talk of war, also some very vague talk of prostitution, guys this is as close as I'll get to writing smut ever so soak it up

a/n: tell me you can't tell how in love I am with hanamaki and how badly I wanted to make this abt him

tags: @love-and-lore

Tooru thinks, at first, that he must have misunderstood the words directed at him, that there's no crisis he could come across that would cause Hajime to cast him aside like this. But when he blinks and stares, his eyes boring into the knight until he repeats himself, Tooru knows it to be true.

The betrayal that coils in his gut when he realizes that is painful in a way that Hajime had always protected him from. He'd forgotten what he was capable of, really, having seldom been on the receiving end of Hajime's sharp tongue. But it is there, nonetheless.

He supposes, though, that Hajime was always capable of it, and he can see it when he really considers the man in front of him. The two of them had grown up together, afternoons as children spent with wooden toy swords and sand castles morphing into long nights pouring over treaties and battle strategies, a shining sword strapped to Hajime's hip and a gilded crown perched atop Tooru's head.

There is a reason he chose to keep Hajime by his side, a reason he relies on his sharp wit and firm resolve. He just hadn't thought that he would ever have to pay the price… not like this, at least.

"We both knew this day would come, Your Highness," Hajime's voice rings through Tooru as he watches the prince lean, keeling over a bit to brace himself on the table between them, staring at the map of his nation. "Arranged marriages like this are… unavoidable."

"But not yet," Tooru snaps, his hands gripping the stone edge of the table. "We have… we had time. We still have time. This doesn't have to happen yet."

"You Highness," Hajime says it kindly, with a love that feels like a knife twisting in Tooru's ribs. "This is the best decision. A civil war in a neighbouring nation is dangerous. An allegiance like this will bring us the promise of peace no matter the outcome of the war on our borders."

"There's another way," Tooru says stubbornly, but his eyes flit over the maps in front of him desperately. "We don't need to do this. You - you don't need to ask this of me. We'll find another way." Hajime's sigh is almost imperceivable as he steps towards the Prince. 

"Tooru," he says gently. "This is the decision that must be made. Go to your father. Tell him what's been decided."

"My father is ill and bedridden," Tooru snaps. "And he doesn't - he doesn't know what's best for me or this country anymore. He will say yes no matter what I ask of him."

"I know, Your Highness," Hajime says firmly. "Which is why I will only ever present him with what is necessary… and right." Tooru's eyes, when he finally looks up at Hajime, are big and glassy, plush bottom lip quivering.

"This is not right," he chokes out. One of the knights by the entryway shifts on his feet, restless as he pretends not to look on.

"It is," Hajime insists,

"There is another way."

"Your Highness, this is-"

"You will find another way." There's a desperate tilt to Tooru's voice, a hysteria that threatens to break through that has Hajime turning his gaze sharply to the men on either side of the door.

"Matsukawa," he barks. The knight turns and stares. "Watch outside. No one is to enter." Matsukawa salutes to his captain as he leaves, slipping out and leaving just one other to look on as the scene unfolds, as Tooru crosses his arms and glares.

"Do you understand how much I love you?" Hajime says simply. Tooru straightens. 

"You have told me."

"Then please, my love, remember that it is true. Everything that I do here… I do for you. I must ask this of you… I would be a coward not to." Tooru scoffs at his words and looks away, blinking the tears back from his eyes.

"You could never be a coward," he says weakly. 

"I would be if I didn't guide you towards this decision. If I let my love for you cloud my devotion to you… there is no greater sin to me. I will not abandon my prince in his moment of need." Hajime's words are final, and when Tooru stares at him, he can't help but feel a bit of guilt swirling in his gut. How could he think that Hajime was ever doing this to cast him aside, to forsake this forbidden love that they share? Iwaizumi Hajime loves through loyalty, and it is not so often that Tooru forgets this. In this moment, Hajime bending to kneel before him, his head bowed, Tooru wonders how he ever thought his lover would abandon him.

"Please," says the knight, like a blade bowing before its master. "Let me love you in the only way that I know how. Let me keep you safe." And Tooru… well, he is often powerless in the face of his love, he finds. And this is no different.

"It will be done, then," he says simply. And in that moment, his fate is sealed.

"What if I am unwanted?" Tooru muses, a servant brushing through his hair as another smooths the silks that he wears. He watches Hajime through the reflection in his vanity mirror, the knight standing dutifully by the door of his chambers.

"Have the people not told you enough, Your Highness? You are beloved by all - there is no one who could not want you," he says honestly, but a glance towards the servants has Hajime clearing his throat and breaking eye contact with the prince, choosing to stare straight ahead, instead.

"What do you think?" Tooru asks the servant in front of him, the one who's just stepped back to admire their work. He blinks when he's spoken to, a nervousness hazing the air around him.

"Me, Your Highness? Well… it is true, of course. Your strength and beauty are known by all," the servant says politely. Tooru hums thoughtfully.

"And my fiance?" He asks bitterly, a sour look passing over his face. Hajime doesn't look at him this time, though, too aware of the watchful eyes of those attending to his beloved.

"It is as discussed, Your Highness. Your betrothed will be here shortly - a portion of your guard has been sent to… retrieve them and ensure safe travels. You will meet your fiance soon."

"Well," Tooru sighs with all the weight of a boy being adorned in a golden crown. "I suppose we'd better get on with this, then."

But as he stands and straightens his shoulders and walks past Hajime out into the long corridors of a place he once called home, Tooru can't help but feel the shackles of this life tightening around his wrists and ankles every step of the way. Hajime is dutiful as always, three paces behind him and never straying further, but with every moment Tooru feels the gap between them growing. He bears the weight of the crown on his head and wonders, in a sharp, stabbing sort of way, if Hajime feels the weight of the shield on his back and the sword on his hip, as well.

More likely, Tooru thinks bitterly as they approach the castle entrance, Hajime bears this weight better than Tooru ever could. As the commotion of a series of carriages pulling up outside clouds his thoughts, he thinks that perhaps Hajime has just always been a bit better at all of this than him.

But Hajime wonders, just for a moment, if this really was the right decision when you step out of the carriage in front of them and come face-to-face with your future husband. Your bow is… minimal, the action of someone who's grown up close enough to the throne to think it to be theirs. And as you're introduced by one of the attendees you've brought with you, Hajime takes note of you - of the way you speak, sharp and quick and clever.

Your eyes, most of all, are what startles him as they sweep across the people in front of you, settling on him for just a moment before returning to the Prince. There's a sort of hunger in them, a lust for power that he's often seen in royals. As Tooru glances towards him, Hajime knows that they're both wondering the same thing. Why would you willingly give up the war for the throne in your home nation, stepping down and allowing your siblings to continue the struggle without you, when you are so clearly hungry for that power?

"This is Iwaizumi," Tooru's voice pulls Hajime out of whatever trance he was in as he turns and bows to you while he's introduced. "He's the captain of my royal guard. He will… be yours now, as well. Your safety is in his hands. " Tooru stumbles a bit as he speaks, the reality of it all slamming into him a bit too harshly. Hajime is… no longer his alone. You are to be his spouse, his partner. His guard will be shared, his secrets will be… well, he tries not to think about it. Not yet, at least.

But his worries follow him into the evening, trailing after him as they curl into the long shadows cast by the torches on the stone walls. When he speaks to Hajime in hushed tones in his chambers after everyone's settled, you secluded to your pre-marital suite in a separate part of the castle, these worries of his seem to only grow.

"This was a bad idea," Tooru hisses. "We're going to get caught. It's - they don't seem like someone you can get a secret past, do they?"

"This is good," Hajime argues back patiently, settling Tooru with a calmness that the prince wishes he could share. "You chose well. Remember, we needed this to secure an alliance with whoever siezes the throne in their nation. They're quick and sharp, yes - but that's good. That's helpful to us, my love." 

"But what if we're discovered?" Tooru says desperately, a cracking pain heard in his voice that has Hajime moving towards him where he sits on his bed. He kneels before the prince, reaching to gently unfurl Tooru's clenched fists and release the silk bedding from his grip so that he can hold onto his hands instead, pressing kisses across his knuckles. 

"We will not be," Hajime says firmly. "I promise, my love. I will not let anything happen to you."

Promises such as that, however, are often difficult to keep - secrets becoming harder to bury under the weight of watchful eyes. As the days pass, you remain much the same as you were when you first arrived, quick and observant and upright, but… silent. Proper and polite with that razor-sharp edge of yours. It's when you and Tooru are in one of his many sitting rooms, a myriad of people having come and gone throughout the morning to speak to you about wedding preparations, that it begins to wear on the prince a bit too much. 

You're… quiet, throughout the whole thing, always looking to your fiance to answer, always letting his preferences take precedence. Tooru, for what it's worth, is trying desperately to figure out why - to try to decipher the intent behind your sharp gaze and politely folded hands. It unsettles him, eventually prompting him to huff and slouch in his chair and wave everyone away until it's just the two of you, Hajime standing where he always does by the door, always watchful, always present.

"Is something troubling you, Your Highness?" You ask as the last servant scurries out of the room and the door is shut once more. Tooru doesn't really try to hide his scowl at your words, but a sharp look from Hajime over your shoulder has him catching himself as he remembers the knight's words - as he remembers his lover begging on his knees to find some way to make this work.

"You have to at least try," he'd said. "This is your future spouse. Perhaps they are not so awful as they seem." Tooru sighs at the memory, at the way Hajime had kissed him and held him and coaxed him into agreeing. So, the prince tries.

"We'll have everything moved during the ceremony and wedding festivities," he says instead of answering your question. "So that the process doesn't disturb you."

"Moved, Your Highness?"

"Into my chambers," Tooru explains, his brows furrowing as he wonders how you're confused. "Your things will be moved into my suite when we're married because… you'll be moved in then." You look at him for a long moment then before you roll your shoulders back just a fraction, a split second of your perfect facade cracking. It's a moment of understanding, almost, as he sees the instant you show how heavily this weighs on your shoulders, as well. But it's gone as soon as it happens and Tooru's left with his lips downturned as he watches you again.

"May I speak candidly?" You ask. Tooru's frown deepens.

"We are to be married. I'm not sure why you wouldn't."

"Well," you begin carefully. "I'm not sure why we would alter our current arrangement. This is a diplomatic marriage - nothing more. There's no need for us to pretend that it's anything other than that." Tooru gapes at you as you speak, shock crossing over his face before anger burns through him. Hajime, where he stands behind you, turns and lets his gaze fall on you. You, who's come into his nation, inserted yourself into his life and his love, you cannot stand him enough to even live with him.

"We will be married," he repeats, his words a bit more venomous than perhaps is warranted, something he's reminded of when Hajime frowns pointedly at him over your head. "We could at least pretend to be able to stand one another."  You straighten back up at that, any moment of softness that had seeped into you slipping away at Tooru's outburst. 

"Your Highness," you say firmly. "I have no plans to chain you to me in any way that you do not wish. I am saying this for your benefit. I see no reason for you to cease living the way you please just because I'm here." Tooru sort of freezes at that, his gaze flitting to Hajime as the knight stands still, holding his breath at your words.

"What… do you mean?" Tooru curses himself for the way his voice wavers. But, in response, you almost smile, a quick upturn of your lips.

"The working girls employed by the royal families are famed across our nations' lines. I am not so ignorant as to be unaware of them," you say simply. Tooru almost chokes at that.

"I - I beg your pardon?" He splutters.

"What I'm saying, Your Highness," you sigh, apparently tired of him feigning ignorance. "Is that I understand how difficult it would become to continue having these visitors to your chambers, as I'm sure you do now, if I were to be here with you. I'd rather not be sent away in the evenings to bide my time elsewhere. I'd rather… well, my moving into your chambers is not a necessary part of this agreement."

You're quiet after you speak, turning your gaze to the window, to the summer sun that shines in and the sheer white curtains that blow in the breeze. You look… trapped, helpless and longing in a way that you hadn't before. Or perhaps, Tooru thinks rather painfully, he'd just never noticed.

You, with your endless pride and self-respect, who holds your head so high and your spine so straight - Tooru can't understand how you think so lowly of yourself that you expected him to keep you away from him, in a separate part of the castle alone, so that he could have affairs and live a life of his choosing so far from you.

When he reaches for your hand, tangling his fingers with yours despite your shock, Tooru feels like he's looking at you for the first time. Your hands, soft and gentle and trembling ever so slightly. Your eyes, soft and hurt in a way that only comes from fleeing a civil war. Tooru finds himself wishing he could apologize, wishing he could take back his cold, sullen gaze as you look at him. 

"I would not do that to you," is what he says instead. "I hold too much respect for you to treat you in such a way."

"You needn't have any respect for me, Your Highness," you say simply. "That was not part of this agreement." Tooru squeezes your hand gently.

"I am to be your husband. That is reason enough for me." Tooru says it like it's simple, like it's a fact written in the stars that you should already know. You stare at him unwaveringly, though, when he speaks, an uncertainty twisting in you.

"I'm not sure," he goes on. "Why you would think anything other than that. You hold onto your righteousness so tightly, I wouldn't think you'd be so willing to sacrifice your marriage like this." Tooru looks down at your hands as he speaks, at the way he twists his fingers with yours and the way that you so easily let him.

"It is all I have," you say quietly.

"Hm?"

"My righteousness. It is all I have. I have lost my nation to the war of my brothers. I have lost my home and been sent somewhere with customs different from mine, with food and weather and clothes that I barely know… all to marry a man who will barely speak to me. I have nothing left, Your Highness."

If Tooru hadn't been so shocked by your words, if a guilt and a selfishness had not burned through him, perhaps you wouldn't have been able to slip your hands from his grip so easily and stand before him. He looks up at you, all the same, his face twisted with regret. You take no notice.

"If you'll excuse me now, Your Highness, I'd like to retire to my chambers." You bow then, a proper and humble thing that has Tooru standing and putting his hands on your shoulders as you rise. You, royalty in your own right, stand before him and wait for his permission to leave.

"Why are you treating me as if I am crowned and you are not?" Tooru asks and his hands tighten on your shoulders. He wants to shake you, just a bit, just enough to rattle his panic out of himself.

"I am not anymore," you say, and you're not sure who flinches more at the waver in your voice, the flutter of your eyelids over glossy, tear-filled eyes. "I am marrying you. Your titles, your throne, your life will be mine." Tooru takes his hands off of you at that, stepping back to bow to you, ignoring the sharp, little inhale of your breath at the action.

When he rises, he glances at Hajime, and the knight straightens at the attention.  

"Iwaizumi will accompany you," he explains firmly.

"It's simply a walk to the other side of the castle."

"And your safety is my utmost priority. I've put my life in his hands many times. There is no one better to watch over you."

"He is your guard. You already gave me Hanamaki," you point out stubbornly, but Tooru just shakes his head.

"He is as much yours now as he is mine… all of this is," he says earnestly. You wonder, as you sweep out of the room with Hajime following dutifully behind, how truthful Tooru was being - how willing he will be to follow through with his promises.

Hajime, for what it's worth, is also reeling from the interaction, following swiftly behind you as you walk through the corridors as if they're your own. Although, if Tooru is to be believed, they really will be your own soon enough. He assumes, then, that you know your way around well enough to know that you are not, in fact, heading back to your rooms at all. Instead, you veer left, away from the stone walls and arched ceilings and out towards the castle gardens. 

"Your Highness," Hajime says gently. You stop slowly, a resigned sort of look passing over your face as you turn to him, like you knew this moment was coming.

"Am I to go back to my rooms?" You ask. Hajime blanches at the insinuation that he could order you to go anywhere at all. Hanamaki, where he's been trailing after the two of you, snorts at the look on his captain's face.

"No, Your Highness," Hajime says patiently, reeling himself in from the shock. "You are to go wherever you please. I merely wish to make sure you are confident in your direction." You tilt your head at that, eyeing him up and down for a moment before turning on your heel and continuing on your way.

"I am often confident, Iwaizumi," you call over your shoulder. "It is a small comfort amidst all of this." Needless to say, neither Hajime nor Hanamaki questions you beyond that as they follow you out to the gardens, dutifully walking three paces behind you as you wander endlessly through paths of flowers and around fountains and under great statues, the sun pouring and endless, golden glow onto the three of you. 

Hajime is impressed, he finds, at how long you walk and wonder and move before you finally give in to rest. The bench that you've found is shrouded by the shade of a weeping willow, a dozen or so of them scattered across this section of the garden and holding the sky's great light at bay. Hajime takes the time to look around while you sit - and pretends not to notice the way you slip your feet out of your shoes for just a moment to ease the ache that he's sure has set in. You're deep enough into the gardens that he has difficulty even remembering this place.

Hanamaki, to Hajime's firm approval, takes up residence a few feet from your bench, standing at attention solidly despite the heat and the sun shining down on his armour. As you sit, you tip your head back to look up at the tree, at the way the breeze slowly sways the branches and bathes you in shadow. The endlessness of the sprawling, open gardens and the distant horizon beyond, you learn, cannot find you here, and there is a peace to be found in this small solitude.

"I didn't know there were trees like this here," you say softly, keeping your head tipped back.

"They are not native to this area. The climate makes it difficult for them to grow here - it's only thanks to the dedication and skill of the groundskeepers that they are able to survive. But this is not their home." Hajime regrets adding that as soon as the words have left his mouth, pointedly looking away as Hanamaki tilts his head to scowl at him when he sees you clench your fists in your lap and bite your bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

"They grow everywhere back home," you say quietly, in a voice that's so soft it's almost missed by the two of them. But then, you begin to weep, shuttering sobs leaving you as you sit quietly, trying desperately to keep the outburst at bay. "I would like to be alone for a while," you say, keeping your eyes trained down to the ground.

"I am sorry, Your Highness." And Hajime does mean it. "You have been left in my care and I cannot leave you unattended here. However… privacy is something I can always offer you." With that, Hajime turns sharply to Hanamkai, who's already watching him, waiting for a command that he knows will come.

"The bridge we passed under that marks the entryway to this section - remain there. No one is to enter until you hear from me. Understood?" Hanamaki's response to his captain's command is firm, his departure from the two of you swift. Hajime, in turn, moves to stand just in front of the bench that you're seated on, off to the side so as to not obstruct your view of the surrounding gardens. He keeps his gaze trained forward, away from you and unable to look on without you noticing. 

When you weep then, there is a part of you that cries for the kindness of it all, for the steady, reliable solidness that is Hajime as he stands dutifully. The loyalty that he shows - it feels a bit too much like love, and that's something that you've found yourself desperate for since coming here.

Hajime stands for hours as you sob and sniffle and then breathe deeply to calm yourself. Through it all, he does not move, does not waver, does not look. When you clear your throat and stand, smoothing down your hair and patting your face, he does not move. 

It's not until you stand in front of him and speak that he looks at you.

"I would like to go back now… to my chambers, please," you say quietly, the solidness that he's learned to be so familiar with finding its way back into your voice.

"As you wish, Your Highness," is his response as he dips his head to bow. He does not mention the flush of your face, the redness of your eyes and nose and the way you quietly sniffle during the walk back. He offers his arm silently when you sigh, your feet aching as you begin the long trek. He does not complain when you lean a bit too much weight on him. Hajime loves through loyalty, through a constraint steadiness, and you find yourself understanding quickly why Tooru values him so much. 

That value, you learn over time, is something more than the loyalty of a knight to a prince. The pre-marital chambers that you'd been given are lavish, tall ceilings and velvet couches, the bed piled with silk sheets and cushions and woven blankets. Despite that, however, sleep evades you on the night before your wedding. 

As you roll over again, having tossed and turned the whole night, you wonder if you could make it to the ground floor from your window, if you could tie your sheets together and fling them out as some sort of line to climb down, a way out of this life and this love.

But there is nothing out there for you, just as there is nothing here. And Hanamaki stands guard just outside your door, tall and sturdy and… caring, if you're honest, trailing after you throughout your days and looking on. You can only begin to imagine his captain's punishment for him if he learned that the Crown Prince's betrothed flung themself out a window in the night.

So, instead, you rise, the sun just barely brushing over the vast horizon and giving you enough light to slip on layers of robes, the fabric laying heavily on your shoulders as you leave your chambers.

"Your Highness?" Comes Hanamaki's questioning voice as he dutifully falls into step behind you. You pause long enough to turn and look at him, at his wide, concerned eyes.

"Does sleep ever come on nights like these, do you think?" You ask. Something in him softens.

"I'm sure I wouldn't know, Your Highness, but there's not much the willow trees can't fix," he says kindly. You smile a bit, then, something that feels far off and foreign to you these days, and begin to make your way out towards the castle gardens.

As you pass the prince's chambers, however, your footsteps come to a stuttering halt. Matsukawa stands on guard outside the doors, stoically staring ahead so as not to intervene in the scene unfolding before him. Hajime stands in the doorway, having just slipped out from Tooru's rooms. He's dishevelled, his shirt untucked and his hair tousled. He looks like he's been caught, and there's a static in the air as you straighten, confirmation of the lingering theory that had been taking root in your heart making itself known.

"Iwaizumi," you say sternly. He straightens and bows.

"Your Highness," he says it quickly, but he does not move, does not rise. 

"Take a walk with me… clean yourself up first. I trust you'll be able to catch up." With that, you sweep past him, robes billowing as he remains still, waiting until you're out of sight to chastise Matsukawa for not warning him while the knight helps Hajime sort himself back into his armour.

Sure enough, you're merely entering the gardens when Hajime falls into step beside you, his shoulders heaving as he tries to catch his breath. You say nothing, merely continuing your stroll until the summer sun rises, the light peaking over the trees and illuminating the two of you, shining into the endless, open sky above.

"Tooru is kinder than he lets on when I'm near," you say honestly, continuing to stare ahead as you walk. Hajime, dutiful as always, follows your lead, walking and looking forward, beyond the flowerbeds and towards the endless, golden horizon. "And he is good - as a ruler, that is. I'm not sure our feelings for one another matter much beyond that."

Hajime bites his tongue at your words, at his urge to tell you that you're wrong, that Tooru spends his evenings speaking of you, of the wild lavender in your perfume and the sharp fire in your eyes. But Hajime knows that sometimes love is silent, and he lets this moment be whatever it is that you need. If you need to punish him for this, then so be it.

"It is a lonely life that he and I lead," you continue. "If someone were to find some kind of… companionship, something genuine and private, I…" You trail off then, just for a moment, staring out at the way the sun bathes the gardens, the way the light shines through the branches of the willow trees. "I would not take that from him - from anyone. Tooru deserves a love that is honest and real. I will not be what stands in the way of that. You have nothing to worry about."

Hajime, in a rare moment of emotion, turns to stare at you, struck by your words as he looks on at the way you blink to fight back the dampness pooling in your eyes. Something painful lurches in his heart at the sight.

"Your Highness -" he begins. 

"That is all," you say firmly, your voice wavering. "You may go back to him now. You are his… more than either of you could ever be mine." All that Hajime can do in that moment, then, is bow deeply before making a hasty exit, away from the shining light that floats around you like a halo and back through the tangled maze of castle corridors, the stone dark and cool and arching overhead.

Matsukawa is still standing guard outside of Tooru's chambers, and he stares at Hajime as he approaches, eyes searching his captain's face for any sign of pain, of the suffering that he's sure would follow a confrontation from you.

But Hajime is quiet, sullen in a way that isn't like him as he nods in acknowledgement and slips back in through the doors. Tooru, when he enters, sits up with a frown. It's not often that Hajime will come back like this after a night in his bed and Tooru knows that something must be wrong.

"Your fiance is kinder than we could've known," Hajime says softly, sitting on the edge of Tooru's great bed to stroke a hand through his hair slowly.

"What are you talking about?" Tooru's voice is breathy, his words rushed in his anxiety. Hajime just smiles, a sad, remorseful sort of thing.

"We've been caught," he says simply. When Tooru tenses, preparing to rip himself from bed in his panic, Hajime latches his arms around him to pull the prince against his chest and shush him softly. "It's alright, my love. Let me explain. And then… and then let me have their belongings moved in here with yours. Let your future have this."

"My future?" Tooru says quietly, slowly letting himself relax against Hajime's chest as the knight relays his conversation with you to him.

"Your future," he finishes with. "Perhaps it is time we stop fighting fate and let this life of ours take its course." Tooru tilts his head up at Hajime's words to look at him softly, reaching up to card a hand through his unruly hair. 

"As long as it is our life, still," he says quietly. Hajime presses a kiss to his forehead.

"It always will be, my Prince."

The wedding ceremony is, naturally, the biggest event in the nation, the spectacle of it all overwhelming even to the two of you, something that you realize as you stand at the alter looking up into Tooru's eyes, his hands gripping yours firmly as they tremble slightly. You're not sure if it's your nerves or his that are ricocheting around, but either way, the moment that your vows are spoken, it all seems to… calm, just a bit. 

When the two of you lean forward to press your lips together gently, you wonder if this was ever really so bad. The way that Tooru tangles a hand in your hair confirms that he's thinking the same thing. The polite ahem of the bishop and the joyous cheering of the crowd, however, has the two of you breaking apart, and as you stare up at him, you wonder if the nation has ever seen their future king flushed to his ears like this. You wonder if you'll ever have the privilege of seeing it again.

That, of course, brings you back down to earth - the thought of your cold, quiet chambers secluded away from him and the endless nights that you'll spend there begin to loom in front of you. As the two of you walk through the crowds of people, accepting well wishes and blessings and having flowers thrown at your feet, Tooru squeezes your hand in concern as your arm is slotted through his. He looks down at you with furrowed brows, but you smile in return, a painted-on sort of thing crafted for the masses of people in front of you.

"Smile, Your Highness," you say lowly to him, the display of him bending so that you can whisper something private in his ear an endearing one to the spectators. "Make them believe it, or this will all be for nothing." Tooru wishes desperately to tell you how wrong you are, but the facade continues through the exiting of the ceremony and all the way through to the feast that night, the hall of the castle filled with noise and cheer and festivities. 

There are fireworks somewhere outside, and you turn in your chair at the head table, as if somehow you'll be able to catch them through the window, but you catch Hajime's eye, instead, and turn back abruptly.

"We can have more," Tooru says easily.

"Your Highness?" You prompt questioningly.

"My name is still Tooru. We can have more fireworks if you wish to see them. Every evening for a fortnight in celebration." You click your tongue disapprovingly at his words.

"The people will think us too lavish," you say as you look out towards the crowds of people.

"The people will thank us for any reason to celebrate," Tooru says easily as he shrugs. But then he looks at you and it has you straightening, the way his eyes bore into you, big and honest and empathetic.

"There is no war here, my love," he says gently. "There is no reason not to live the way we do." You clear your throat and turn to sip your wine, anything to break his stare, to rid your mind of the words that roll off his tongue. My love.

"Perhaps," is all you say in response.

"Speaking of," he continues, reaching for your hand to tangle his fingers with yours. "Everything should be moved into my chambers by the time we're ready to retire tonight."

"Your Highness?" You question again.

"Tooru," he corrects gently. "Your belongings. They're being moved into my chambers."

"I thought we agreed that we wouldn't be doing that, Your Highness," you say pointedly, your voice a hushed whisper.

"It's Tooru," he repeats. "You suggested that, yes, but I disagreed." When Tooru looks at you then, you find yourself unable to look away. His eyes, boring into yours, are filled with something akin to passion, something gentle and loving and hungry swirling in them as he looks to you. "I would be a fool," he continues softly. "To keep someone like you away from me."

"Your Highness," you say desperately, shaking your head slightly as if to rid the heat from your cheeks. Tooru takes your intertwined hands to his mouth so that he can press kisses across your knuckles. Somewhere in the distance, onlookers cheer at the display, but you can't hear them past the blood pumping in your veins.

"It's Tooru," he says patiently. "And there is no part of me that wants you cast aside… tonight or any other night. If you are to be mine, then you shall be mine. And I shall be yours, in return."

"Tooru," you say firmly, your eyes wide at his sudden display. But he merely grins at his name finally passing your lips and pulls you to him gently, a hand on the back of your head as he kisses you.

This time, there is no bishop commanding it, no nation relying on it, no war held at bay by it. This time, Tooru kisses you just to kiss you, and you cannot help but let him. You cannot help but feel loved through it. 

But it is when the two of you break away that you fianlly look at him with concern. He pouts in response, a "what's wrong, my love," leaving his lips softly as you turn from him to look behind you. Hajime, standing dutifully in his place just out of reach of the two of you, looks on subtly. You expect, of course, to see some kind of sorrow in him, some sort of jealousy or loneliness painting his face. 

When he looks at you, though, his pupils blown and shoulders tense, the concealed lust in his eyes has you turning back in shock, leaning towards Tooru as he laughs and presses a kiss to your temple.

"Forgive me, my love, but you've been discussed," he says honestly.

"Clearly," you respond weakly, but you can't help but look back one more time, catching Hajime's gaze for just a moment.

"Well," you say quietly, Tooru tilting his head so that you can whisper in his ear once more. "It's a good thing the Crown Prince has such a large bed." At that, Tooru really laughs, a loud, honest sort of sound ringing through the hall as you smile at him, swirling the wine in your cup and hoping that everyone blames that for the flush of your cheeks and your husband's giddy smile.

When that laughter continues on throughout the night, into the privacy of Tooru's chambers and then his bed, you're sure that it's not the wine that's done it. You're sure that it has something more to do with the way you tug Hajime into the room after the two of you, his palm warm and calloused against yours. 

"What about Matsukawa?" You whisper as Tooru huffs somewhere behind you, the layers of your wedding robes thick and intricate against his wandering hands. Hajime stands before you, pressing kisses first to your intertwined hands and then up your arm, pausing after he places a final kiss on your shoulder, now bare thanks to Tooru's quick fingers.

"Matsukawa's loyal as a dog. He has protected Tooru and I from being found out for many years. He will protect you, as well," Hajime says softly, lips brushing against the skin of your shoulder and up your neck.

"And Hanamaki?" You ask, the breathiness of your voice peaking Tooru's attention as he smiles against your neck where he skims his lips across your skin.

"He is your private guard now, my love," Tooru reminds you gently. "Your fate is his own - your successes, your downfalls… he will not turn his back on you. Not for something like this."

"He and Matsukawa will entertain themselves in the hall. I wouldn't worry about it," Hajime says dryly. You laugh at that, an honest, real sound ringing through the room, and the two men on either side of you soften, arms reaching out to tug you closer and into bed. 

You wonder, somewhere distant in the back of your mind, how you ever sat in the darkness of your chambers, separate from the light and love that shines through Tooru's rooms. You wonder, throughout the night, why you'd spent those evenings like that, why you'd wept and longed for home when home is right here with you, in bed next to you. 

But loneliness is a stubborn, fickle thing, and it has you rolling over some hours later, poking Hajime's side gently and being met with a responding grunt.

"Is this really alright with you?" You ask him suddenly. On the other side of you, Tooru laughs, pulling the blankets further up your naked shoulder and pressing a kiss to your arm while Hajime grabs your other hand - the one that's smoothed itself over his abs and exposed stomach. He kisses across your knuckles as he watches you, your kiss-bruised lips and hair splayed across your pillow.

"I have no envy for this life of yours," he says honestly. Tooru's hand trails up and down your side under the blanket and you shudder at the touch, at the way his fingers brush over your exposed skin. "This tightrope that the two of you walk, filled with politics and customs and endless ceremony. I am content to stand right here by your side, keeping the two of you safe while you navigate this life."

Your eyes, wide and solemn at Hajime's words, grow damp as you blink up at him.

"Hajime…" you say softly as you reach for him. He lets you, of course, lets you wrap your arms around him and press your lips desperately to his for a moment before you bury your face in his neck. Tooru laughs from somewhere behind you, leaning over you to lay a series of kisses across Hajime's face.

"I know," he coos. "Hajime's always like that. I'm afraid there's no getting used to it." Hajime, for what it's worth, looks thoroughly embarrassed by the whole ordeal, a dusting of pink covering his cheeks up to his ears as he murmurs something about how it's just the truth. When you laugh and poke his cheek gently in mocking sympathy, he snaps at it playfully with his teeth before rolling you onto your back and making both you and Tooru forget whatever it was that you were laughing at in the first place.

It's early morning, then, when you're woken up, the faintest bit of sun peeking over the hills and through the windows, bathing Tooru in a halo of gold as he sleeps next to you. The source of your waking moves on the other side of you, Hajime leaning to press twin kisses to your foreheads - one to yours and one to Tooru's.

You watch as he clambers out of bed and begins picking up his clothes, donning layers of fabric and then armour, building himself back into the knight that he's known to be - building himself into a shield blocking the door to the outside world. You fold your arms over Tooru's chest and lean on your hands, eyeing the way Hajime moves as Tooru wakes slowly, bringing a hand up to clumsily brush through your hair.

Hajime spares just one glance back as he slips out of the room, one shining look of love and contentment shown to the two of you before he disappears.

"Go back to sleep, my love," Tooru says gently, his eyes already closed again as he settles. "It is still early. We have time." But try as you might, the world of sleep evades you and leaves you rolling over yet again, staring at the gilded patterns of the ceiling above you.

"What's bothering you?" Tooru's voice is gentle, thick with remnants of sleep as he brings a hand up to cup your cheek, turning your head gently to face him. "What are you thinking of?"

"Home," you respond easily. Sorrow flashes across his face, a touch of guilt clouding it. 

"I am so sorry, my love, for the way things turned out," he says softly.

"Are you?"

"I am sorry you had to stray so far from your home."

"But that's just my point," you say quietly, turning further to tuck yourself into Tooru's embrace. He welcomes it, of course, letting your legs tangle together under the sheets and you press your face to his chest, listening to the steady thumps of his heart. "There is a home for me here. I have strayed just far enough to build myself something new."

"Ah," Tooru says in acknowledgement, his arms tightening around you as he buries his face in your hair. "Well, don't let Hajime hear you say that. He doesn't like crying in front of his knights." You laugh at that, at the thickness in Tooru's voice and the way his words warble.

"I'm sure he'd make an exception for me," you say easily. When Tooru smiles down at you, the sunlight finally breaks properly over the horizon, shining beams of gold into the room and across your skin.

"We both would, my love," he says softly. "Time and time again."

It's over breakfast many months later that word finally comes from your family. Peace has come at last - although it is a delicate, precarious thing, you tell Tooru as you pour over the letter. One of your brothers has seized the throne and is attempting to restore the kingdom, reaching an olive branch towards you and your husband, willing to rebuild the alliance that once stood between nations.

"I'm glad it was him," you say as you fold the letter, handing it across the table for Tooru to read through - much to his pleasure. The letter had not been addressed to him. It was marked very clearly as a private letter for you alone and feels, through the weight of the paper, the heaviness of this trust that you've begun to build. "If it couldn't… since it wasn't me. I'm glad it was him. He'll do right by our people," you continue. Tooru eyes you over the letter.

"May I ask…?" he begins. You look at him pointedly. "Why didn't you stay to fight? You had other siblings who would've fit into an arranged marriage easily, so why offer yourself so willingly when it went so far against what you wished for yourself and your future?"

"Are you saying you wish for a different option, Your Highness?" You quip back. Hanamaki, standing at attention near the door, doesn't quite catch his laugh in time and is pinned by Hajime's chastising look at his obvious entertainment. Matsukawa smiles in that lazy way of his on the other side of the door at the spectacle, but Tooru just blinks, looking at you fondly.

"I would choose you in an endless crowd, my love," he says easily. "But I spend my days chasing after any glimpse I am worthy of getting into that head of yours."

"Flirt," you shoot back, but your cheeks flush all the same. You glance at Hajime, though, at the way he stands in his usual position by the two of you, his gaze fixed on you as you grow sombre. "Not all of us would've been good for the throne. Those who seek power, in fact, often abuse it. The surest way to promise safety to my people was to either take the throne for myself… or make sure that the right person took it in my place." Tooru pauses at your words, looking at you intently.

"You had a hand in your brother seizing the throne?" He asks.

"Of course," you respond easily. "It was the best decision. I also knew that a union with your nation would do a great deal of good for us. Everything I have done both here and in my life before you has been for the sake of my nation - my people. That is all." You say it like it's simple, like throwing yourself onto your sword in an act of love and loyalty is as easy as breathing.

Tooru stares - falls a bit more in love with you moment by moment until it feels as if the ground is disappearing from beneath his feet. Hajime, where is stands at his post by your side, softens so visibly that Matsukawa laughs.

Neither you nor Tooru can hold in your own laughter at Hajime's flustered chastising and Matsukawa's unbothered smile. Nobody really seems to mind. As the sun shines through the stained glass windows, bathing the three of you in colours akin to the fireworks of your wedding night, the patterns dancing in the safety of this sturdy love, you find that you really can't bring yourself to be bothered by it at all.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Kanye West, legally known as Ye, is selling the Malibu, California home he ruined, for $53M (He bought it for $57M). The house was designed by one of the world’s most eminent architects, Tadao Ando, and Ye stripped it clean of windows, doors, electrical, and many of the architect’s signature interior finishes.

Sitting since 2021, the mansion is now rotting. Wait. This is $53M for a cement shell, basically. The brutalist style home has 1,200 tons of poured concrete and 200 tons of steel reinforcement to hold it all together with 12- 60 ft. pylons sunk into the sand.

The beachside house was once the epitome of artistic ingenuity.

The floor-to-ceiling windows facing the water have long been removed, leaving the rear of the building entirely open to the elements.

All of the interior photos are before it was gutted. The alleged plan was to try to turn the mansion into a “Bat Cave” so he could “hide from the Clintons and Kardashians.”  

Ye’s new celebrity realtor believes the renovations are a selling point b/c he left a blank canvas, making it easier for the new owners to design the home exactly to their liking.  

The house needs windows and doors, along with plumbing, electrical, HVAC and interior finishes, b/c they've all been removed.

Although Ye removed the interior finishes, “this creates an unbelievably rare opportunity to buy a Picasso on the water," said the agent.

“This architect is known for his concrete work, which is what remains,” he says, "It was a very minimalist interior previously and will likely continue to be that in order to allow the architecture to speak louder than the finishes.”

The plan was to go off grid. The contractor said, “Ye wanted no electricity. He only wanted plants, candles, battery lights; and to have everything open and dark. You can’t keep food in that house, because you had no refrigerator left. You had no windows. I had seagulls flying in.” 

The former architectural tour de force was only one of the few private homes in the United States designed by the renowned Pritzker Prize-winning Japanese architect. Best known for his minimalist structures and “smooth-as-silk” concrete.

The upper-level terrace pictured here comes out from a main bedroom suite that takes up the entire top floor.

I don't know what to think. Everything is gone- no utilities, none of the original elements the architect is known for, not even any windows. And, he's only knocked off $4M from what he paid for it, complete.

It's rotting from the inside out. Here's a collapsed concrete wall and rusted railings. On top of all of this, it's unsafe b/c concrete is falling. It's like a total knockdown.

[ptn-imagines]

I bloody hope you aren't overwhelmed with numerous requests yet (please take care of yourself and rest well!) but may I please request a one shot telling how Adela wants to help her beloved (female sinner as well) get rid of her unpleasant remembrances via a haircut but the sinner refuses to cut her hair as it now holds the most precious and charming memories as well – the ones about Adela? Thank you very much in advance.

Here you go, anon! This is my very first imagine for this blog, so I hope it was worth the wait! I feel like I fell off towards the end, but eh... You know what they say about being your own worst critic.

THE PRICE OF FORSAKEN MEMORIES [ sinner reader x adela ]

rating. teen and up audiences cws. depictions of ptsd and disassociation, implicit hallucinations (visual and audible) word count. 1,683 words.

Mania, among those afflicted, was primarily characterized by the suffering it wrought. Blood, sweat and tears; these were the things that the illness seemed to feed on, the things it was most skilled at drawing out. Mania would bleed a person's heart dry, and then, and only then, would it allow the withered husk left behind to depart from the world. It was a brutal and sadistic inevitability, and even Sinners knew they simply had more time than the rest. Still, amid all the misery and pain, there were good days; days where the Mania was quiet, and the afflicted could play at being “normal.” Healthy. Uninfected. Something other than the refuse of society.

Today, for you, was not one of those days.

You'd buried yourself underneath every duvet you owned to stave off the frigid chill that seeped into your bones. Now, your skin sweltered, drops of sweat pouring down your forehead; and yet, your teeth continued to chatter as shivers wracked your body, fragile in a way known only to the Mania-ridden.

You could feel your blood sprinting through your veins like it had places to be, your treacherous heart spurred into an overtime frenzy. Reason and past experience told you you weren't going to die here – but oh, it certainly felt as though the last grain of sand in the hourglass had fallen for you.

At least I'm not coughing blood this time. A macabre musing that claws its way to the surface of the muck. It carves a smile onto your lips, half-delirious with pain as you are.

You keep your eyes shut. Nothing can muffle the whispers, then the shouts and the screams – but you can blind yourself to the hazy shadows that lurk in the corners, turn your back to the memories that vie for you to bring them to life. No. Not today.

Your body shudders. A cough spills from your throat. If you spoke, would you know your own voice? Nightmares thread with reality as you lay there, a prisoner with no chains, shackled to that day, both your origin and your ending.

A bell rings through the apartment, sharp enough to cut through the empty haze. A bell, a bell, what did it mean again? Your mind struggles under the weight of your half-buried past as Mania tries to claw you back into its wretched grasp. A bell…

Adela. The thought is a lantern shining through the oppressive gloom. Your eyes snap open, the specters fleeing from the light she has brought to the tiny apartment. Your heart still beats to an uneven tempo, but it's no longer the sickness making you dizzy.

“Dearest, are you in here?” Her voice, sweet and silvery like birdsong, is muffled, but you can hear her footsteps approach. You're still too weak to get up, so you wait, a little smile on your lips. It's been a long day. You can't wait to see her.

The door creaks open – you were supposed to call someone about that, weren't you? – and Adela's beautiful face peers into the bedroom. You offer her a little wave, and she breaks out into a radiant smile.

At least, until she notices your ashen-faced features; her smile melts into a worried frown, and she's at your side in a moment. She feels your forehead for a temperature, fretting like a mother hen. She always does this. It never gets any less adorable.

“Are you alright, dear?” she worries, scanning you for obvious signs of malady. “You have a fever… Are you sick?”

You giggle a bit despite how it scrapes at your raw throat, leaning into her tender touch. You are sick, but not in the way she means. “Just a bad day,” you whisper, reaching to intertwine your fingers, and you see the moment realization dawns on her. Of course, she knows; she's a Sinner too, after all. She cannot remember what trauma triggered her change like you can, but Mania finds its ways to torment her even so.

“Oh, my beloved…” Adela's free hand goes to your cheek, gently caressing your face. “I'm sorry. I should have been here.” She's always like this; always blaming herself for things she couldn't possibly control. You don't think you'll ever change this about her, not for lack of trying.

Still, you don't want to let her dwell on it, so you shake your head, rasping a reply: “You're here now, ‘dela. That's… what matters most to me.” You give her the best smile you can, comforting her in the only way you currently know how.

Adela blinks a few times, as though she's surprised you're not blaming her. She probably is; the silly woman takes so much of others’ burdens onto her own shoulders that she's forgotten what it's like not to be responsible for somebody else's woes. “...Thank you, dearest,” she finally manages to say, giving your hand a little squeeze. “Still, forgive my saying this, but you look truly awful. How can I help?”

Your eyes flutter close as you let out a considering hum. “Tea. Then cuddles.”

A few minutes later, you're sipping at a cup of Adela's special tea blend while sitting in your girlfriend's lap. Her hands stroke through your hair, so gentle and kind, and her warmth combined with the sweet and delicate aroma of the drink banishes the darkness that yet lingers. A contented silence settles over the pair of you, basking in the safety and adoration of one another.

…No, not quite contented. Something's on Adela's mind; you can tell by the way her hands occasionally pause before resuming their stroking. You think about asking her about it, but she beats you to it; a gentle sigh passes her lips, and she speaks.

“It was a very bad day for you, wasn't it?” she asks quietly. You glance at the mirror on the wall and see that Adela is fixated on a particular spot on your back. You can imagine what she's seeing, even if it's only in her mind; tresses of twisted, mangy hair spilling over your shoulders, the embodiment of your stress and your anxiety. You wonder how long it is after today.

You can't deny it, so you give an affirmative hum. Adela leans forward to slowly rest against your back, eyes meeting yours in the mirror as she rubs gentle circles into your shoulders. It's a blissful sensation, and only the prospect of the upcoming conversation keeps you present in the moment.

“I don't know why you don't let me cut it away, my love,” she whispers, her breath tickling your ear. You don't remember quite exactly how you found out about Mad Shears; you suspect Adela tampered with those memories. Nevertheless, you'd remembered enough to find your way back to the hairdresser, even after she fled to another neighborhood. She'd been shocked, but… that was years ago now, and you didn't like to think of it much. It had led to a beautiful love blossoming between the two of you, and that's all you cared to dwell on. 

“You're in so much pain,” Adela continues, and you remain silent, trying to gather together the words to say. Adela takes that as a cue to keep talking. “I could fix it all for you. Dearest, why won't you let me help you?”

You sit up properly, and do your best to ignore the twinge of your heart at Adela's little disappointed sigh. “My pain… It's not just tied to the day I became a Sinner, is it?” you answer, your eyes never leaving those of your most beloved in the mirror. “It's entrenched in my Mania. You'd have to wipe my memory completely to erase it, and even then, there's a chance traces of it could linger, right?”

Adela was silent for a moment, hesitant in the face of the flaws in her ability. Her eyes lowered, gaze once again falling your hallucinatory locks of hair; by the way her fingers twisted around nothing, she was fruitlessly attempting to comb out the mess of worries. “But you'd still feel much better than you do now,” she murmured. “Isn't it worth a try?”

“It's a short-term solution to a long-term problem, Adela.” You finally turned around to face your girlfriend properly; her shocked gaze lifted up to your face, and you reached out to stroke her cheeks, smiling. “Besides, even if I was happier for a little bit… I'd eventually just end up even more miserable. Do you know why?”

Adela is silent for a long while, her gaze on you feeling like flames licking your skin. Eventually, ever so slowly, she shakes her head, looking lost. “I don't know. Please tell me.”

“Because… I'd be losing you, the person I love more than anyone or anything.” Adela's eyes widen with shock; even though you feel this should be plain to see, it's clear that such an answer hadn't ever crossed her mind. “Adela, my love, you're the reason I ultimately get up each morning; you're why I haven't curled up and died yet. Without you… I'd be swallowed by my Mania sooner or later, memories or no.”

The other Sinner stared at you as though she was seeing you in a whole new light. Wonder was the one word to describe her expression. Eventually, she shook herself out of it, features curling into the heartfelt smile you adored so much. “I can't say I understand, but… I do trust you. When you say these things… I can't help but feel they must be true.”

“That's good enough for me.” You hold out your arms, and Adela melts into them. She's deceptively strong, but right now, with her body curled against yours, she reminds you of a weak and fragile baby animal. You hold her closer. “You don't have to understand, love. As long as you don't go all Mad Shears on me in my sleep.”

It's a joke, and Adela must know it, judging by the light giggle she lets out. Still, her reply, almost inaudible, is in earnest.

“I promise, my dearest.”

[thesharktanksdriver]

Call Sign: Sharky (Platonic)

Part 1, part 2 part 4 part 5

Sorry if parts repeat like some people noticed. There’s not much I can do about it and it seems to be a glitch with the keep reading line. My posts are long and I don’t wanna clog people’s pages so y’all will have to deal with it

Also thank you all for your support!.

The topic of your Call sign is often ones that’s discussed with confusion with 141

Each time you were asked you’d come up with a new story something like “dad was a marine biologist”, “I was raised by sharks sharkboy style and was taken in by the military” or “I just wouldn’t shut up about them”

It leaves all them confused and silently curious

Call signs most of the time have meaning to them

Now some can certainly be stupid or embarrassing but they get them for a reason and Sharky is a specific one

One that came with you when you had found yourself transferred over to 141

One that came with you when you had found yourself transferred over to 141

One that came with you when you had found yourself transferred over to 141

One that came with you when you had found yourself transferred over to 141

One that came with you when you had found yourself transferred over to 141

Which had meant that only you and your past squadron knew that meaning

And meant ghost, Soap and Gaz we’re clueless as to getting it except from you

Price is not it the same situation as them, partially because he knew your past captain

In fact he’s good mates with him, they had used to serve together before climbing both their ways up the ranks

Even got your recommendation from him

But when he decided to ask the question of your Codename he didn’t really expect that it had more than what meets the eye

“Your wondering about their Codename?.” He questions looking over to Price whom sits beside him at the bar. Price nods, making his old friend laugh a bit and add “I’ll have to give some context first before we get to that point”.

“Context of what?”

“Oh, of when they first joined”

When you had first joined you were much different to how you were now

You were a shy little thing, less confident to how you were now. Downright afraid of the others on your team

There was a very clear and tall wall you put between yourself and everyone else no matter how they tried to reach through to you

It took a long while but after some time one of them had gotten through to you

Salamander, but everyone at the time called him Sal for short

He was an a older soldier, mid-50’s with a wife and kid

It’s that reason why he was able to connect to you, having experience with a child of his own

He showed you the ropes, helping bridge that gap between you and the others

You began to open up more, talking in hushed mumbled before they evolved to full on discussions

You knew a lot of weird and obscure facts, stuff most of them hadn’t known about

You specifically talked quite a bit about marine life since a few of them were ex-navy and you thought that would be funny

It admittedly was especially when you joke that “you’d think they’d teach you about this stuff when your at sea” and “maybe I’m more navy than you guys”

It was nice, you were opening up and some had even began trying to debate each other over call signs for you

They weren’t really sure what to give you yet but it was the mission that finalized it

“The mission?”

“Yeah…the mission. What gave me their name”

The mission was ok at first, that’s the main thing you remember about it

No initial panic just clear waters both figuratively and literally as your footsteps crunch down on golden yellow sand

But then like a nuke dropping everything went to shit

It’s blurry to your mind what had initially happened but you ended up hiding behind some washed up driftwood

Sal was beside you clutching his neck as you did your best to keep him from bleeding out

The shrapnel lodged in his neck was too deep, blood pouring through your fingers as you pleaded with him to hang on

Your vision was blurred by tears as you watched the life drain from him

He often talked about his wife, his kid, and yet he now laid here beside you. Forgotten in the sand as your hands shook

Something came over you, that primal urge that every living creature had in times of peril

The urge to survive no matter what

Your adrenaline was running high, the pops of gunshots making it worse along with the red that began dying the once yellow sand

Your breath is getting quicker as you begin to see red

And then you can’t remember what happened other than the overwhelming feeling of panic and the urge to protect

When the haze over your mind cleared the pungent taste of iron filled your mouth and clogged your nose

You feel shaky, almost as if your entire body was hollow

taking a step back you almost trip over something, making you stumble a bit as you look down to see the dead face of the enemy staring back

Pure terror is twisted on his once moving face that bows stuck in the perpetual horror he died while feeling

Your attention is drawn away when you hear your captains voice, it cuts through the static that muffled the crashing waves and squawking pelicans that sounded so distant

His hand is on your shoulder, his eyes staring down at you with worry as blood dribbled down from your lips

Your dazed and confused. Eyes wide and pupils blown out

“Captain what happened. Why do I taste blood?” It’s such a simple question but it shakes him to his core, you sound so afraid. Like a kid

You are a kid compared to them but this just makes it more obvious

The remaining part of the squadron both injured and tired watch on as their captain talks to you gently

Your shaking like a leaf, blood drenching you as he draped an arm over your shoulder and walked you towards them

You don’t stare at your teammates though, you instead stare at the once blue water that was turned scarlet red

Off in the distance you see the distinct shape of a fin or two poke out from the water

The crashing of the waves felt louder despite the fact you walked farther and farther away

Rolling in and retracting back out in a cycle

You notice near a body in the sand two fingers, discarded and bloodied and a memory flashes in your mind

The enemy, captain, scuffle, bite, spit out, kill, safe, move on

It now explains the blood that isn’t your own that you spit out

You fill in the blanks about what happened by asking your teammates afterwards who are nervous to answer

Seemingly afraid to send you into a panic attack after learning what had happened

Apparently you went apeshit on the enemy, to the point the team did barely anything as you did the brunt of the work

You used your pistol, when you ran out of ammo you used the empty gun and your knife

At some point one had grabbed the captain, was about to put a bullet through his head before you intervened

The human jaw despite how weak it is compared to the bite of something like a dog or a big cat, it’s much more powerful than we give it credit for

Exerting up to Around 125 kg of force or 162 lbs per square inch

Usually something like this doesn’t happen much considering you’d have to get through skin, tissue and tendon but you had done it via your adrenaline

You bitt off the guy’s fingers, not one but two and then spat them out

You then killed him, his body dropping down to the sand just like his fingers did

It’s what earned you your nickname Sharky

You see

Shark attacks are much less common as one would think compared to how their portrayed in the media. Sure, they do happen but it’s less likely for one to be lethal

Your more likely to be killed by a deer or mosquito than a shark

They usually attack when provoked or when confused after mistaking a human for a seal

They dislike our flavour, so after an attack they usually discard us after the initial bite

Much like how rare a lethal shark attack actually is in comparison to other animal related deaths it’s rare that someone can bite off someone’s finger

And like a shark you spat it out

Thus your clever nickname given to you by your teammate Kansas after remembering your ramblings of the aquatic sea creature

“It just kinda stuck after that” he says taking a sip of his beer before placing it down onto the countertop, his thumb circles it’s rim as he looks down into the gold liquid. “Their a good kid. Their happy right?” It comes out as somewhat hoarse, he’s more choked up than he’d like to admit.

“Yeah, their happy. Hasn’t been a day I hadn’t woken up to find them with a shit eatin grin”

“Good. Funny how they’ve brightened up from such a shy kid.”

He pulls back from his chair, placing down his cash plus a small tip for the bartender who accepts it eagerly

“Good to see you again Price. I’ll keep in contact” just as he’s about to leave he adds one more thing “ps, they write about you a lot”

“Write?”

[orangelemonsstuff]

Lets Play Again

Child!Malleus & Child!Reader

Tags: Fluff, Child Malleus & Reader, No bad tags tbh just two children having fun in a playground

Summary: You were playing alone in a playground after a day at your elementary school, waiting for your guardian to arrive a mysterious boy came over to you

•••

another regular day at your elementary school had ended and your parent or guardian has been running late to get you, feeling bored, you took your toy bucket out of your backpack and ran straight ahead on the playground near your school

You crouch on the sandbox with your figurine toys and shovel in your sand bucket, pouring them over and letting them sink into the brownish color of the sand. you scoop up the brittled and clumped sand to put into the castle bucket of yours and turn it down to shape it as a castle for your little toys

too distracted playing alone, you didn't notice a small boy about staring at you from just a distance being giddy with your toys. feeling brave, he came closer. a rustling of expensive shoes on the jagged ground of the playground caught your attention to turn your head on the direction of it.

a boy older than your age, small but tad bit taller than you watched the building process with curious eyes, you ignore his presence at first, not minding his observing gaze you continue to dig a pit in the sand, you don't mind any bystanders but you don't like the fact that he is just there to watch.

he looks like he's lonely

is he waiting for someone to take him home too?

it's pretty boring playing on your own and he is just boringly observing you so you picked up one of your small dragon figurines and hand it to him without saying anything.

which he gladly accepts, eyes brightly sparkling as if he just received a Christmas gift.

"play with me" you say as his green irises shift and the rest of his eyes widened, was that too forceful? your playmates probably all got home by now so if he rejects your request this would be a embarrassing story to tell your guardian later

"o-okay" was he just shy? his voice is really quite you almost didn't heard his response

he steps into the sandbox with you, dirtying his polished shiny shoes. you finally got a closer look at him, he looks like one of those kids you've seen in the cartoon movies. clean, pristine, and proper. something on a movie you would only see.

Your gaze must've made uncomfortable because of how he was fidgeting with your dragon toy "sorry" you say as you focus on trying to finish up your castle again, he just observed silently and the only noise anyone would hear is the tapping of your plastic shovel on the bucket.

"this guy would be the prince" you say picking up a cake design figure you got from one of your friend's birthday party

"would this be the evil dragon then?" he holds out the dragon toy you gave him earlier.

"yep"

"Then, would there be someone for the prince to save?"

"uh...nope!! but if he kills the dragon he gets..." you rummage through the buried toys you plunged down the sand below

"..this dice!" you hold out your reward and give it to him. like earlier he accepts it with no objection and now holds both the dragon and the price

you two had fun playing with your symmetrically weird figure toys, and chose and ending where the dragon is actually the prince's dad and the dice was the real enemy who took over your sand castle, soon enough two of you got bored and scooped up the toys back to your bucket. feeling satisfied with the ending of the story you two made up. you grabbed his hand and ran to the seesaw

"i sit on this side, you on the other, got it?" you point your finger at the other side of the seesaw, he follows your instruction and sat then by there, your side was lifted a bit so you had to raise your small arms to reach it. he took your notice and held back his sitting position, squatting so you would be able to reach it to sit down.

the wind hits him every time he goes up when you go down, and down as you jump up. he can't help but smile, it is quite fun but the more he squats down and jumps up he eventually felt his legs soar and wobble

he was breathing kind of hard for you to easily notice it and comes down off your seat making him come down all of the sudden and jump off the tire supporting him off the ground

"are you alright?"

"yes just...a bit tired is all, but I'll be fine don't worry."

was it that overwhelming to get him huffing and sweating like that? you didn't mean to make him worn out already, you just want to have fun together. feeling kind of guilty you again once hold his hand, gentler this time and pull him towards the swing

"sit, I'll push you" you smile at him, leading him to the swing and setting him down

"you... don't want to go first?"

"nope! you first, and there's another swing i can occupy"

"but who'll push you?"

"myself! duh, you dummy" you giggle at him and started to push back his seat for momentum, since he does look a tad bit older than you he is pretty hard to push because of his weight but with your little strength, you managed.

"how?" his seat swung back at your hands and you push him harder so he could go further into the air

"it's easy! you just swing okay?" you shout as you move away before getting hit by his side of swing and ran over to the other one. you climbed up the swing with both of your feet and started swinging it with your body, just like that you started swinging as well, you carefully grip the swing handles between you and looked over to your new friend. his face was bright, a grinning smile was on his pale lips and his green eyes looked more alive than before as the wind hits his cool black hair revealing his pale cute face.

by more minutes come by the force of the swing died down and the two of you end up grinning to yourselves.

it was the first time he felt like that. his house was mostly dark and gloomy, he was pretty much isolated to this point. this was his first time being this dirty, having this so much fun and having somebody play with him naturally without getting scared or forced to do so

"hey, i know we should go to the slide next--"

"Malleus!!" you were interrupted suddenly a woman (?) wearing a business suit ran over to you two seemingly out of breath

"Hah...haah...oh Young Master you do know how to work up an old man..." oh it is a man, you couldn't tell with his girlish like appearance.

"Hm? what's this? have you found a friend?" his attention turned to you, still sat on the swing while he is still out of breath.

your "new friend" or Malleus as you should call him stood up and walked over to you, he grabs you by the hand, forcing you to stand up to get closer to the man that just ran to you guys

"Lilia, can i keep them?" he innocently asked, your hand still intertwined with his

"Wha-" Lilia looked distraught all of the sudden with a baffled face

"Sorry, young master but taking a random child in is illegal even if they are your friend"

"But why do you get to keep Silver? you also just randomly found him" It is a good thing you are the only one near him and is still a child, what Malleus had just said would probably just run over through your head, because if not, you would've reported him to the police and he has to explain again that he did not kidnap an infant to the authorities

"Malleus, it's different. there is someone you are waiting for here, right little one?" Lilia glanced over at you as you nodded

"see? let's say roles are reversed, your little friend get to ask their parent or guardian to keep you and agreed to do so, your grandmother and i would be very worried and miss you, you know? Silver would too!!" Lilia falsely whimpered to enchance Malleus's pity for your parent or guardian.

"So how about this, you get to play with them again tomorrow and we go to your grandmother for now? you two played a lot so their person is going to arrive soon too, so you don't need to worry Malleus." Lilia smiled at Malleus's worries glance at his new friend, you assured him by holding your hand but then an idea pops out on your head so you break out of Malleus's grasp to run over your toy bucket and rummages once again to find the dragon from earlier

Malleus on the other hand, thought you finally hated him and his mood began to spiral down but then you run over to him happily and hand him both the dice and the dragon once again

"You still get to be the dragon tomorrow okay?"

Malleus's mood lightened up, this means you are inviting him play again right? of course he'd accept it! he's grateful to have your invitation more than anything

he waves you goodbye as Lilia took his hand and walk off to the road until you couldn't see them anymore.

you two would have lots of fun tomorrow again.

•••

oh how could he have the heart to tell him?

Lilia, still holding Malleus's hand as his other hold the toys with, was dying in guilt, how can he tell Malleus that they are leaving tomorrow morning when had just found a friend. a real one

Malleus had finally experienced a moment where he can be a normal child, he didn't want to ruin it for him (plus Malleus would definitely throw a tantrum infront of the other child it would most likely drive them more away)

other than that, he... feels more bad about that kid, they are going to wait for Malleus after all, so they could play again

he hopes they wouldn't be too lonely though

because Malleus isn't coming.

a/n: HELLO HELLO WORLD :DD I AM BACK WITH A FIC THAT JUST GOT UHH RANDOMLY SHOVED INTO MY MOND AND INSTEAD OF SLEEPING, BAAM I WAS WRITING THIS!! >:D sorry if i added a lil angst in the end, it's just a similar experience i thought some ppl would relate. like how you would meet a random kid in a random playground and you two become friends at that random playground and you never get to see them ever again? ouchie but same. i hope someday everyone relating to that would meet that random kid again and still become friends.

[gortash-did-nothing-wrong]

Enver Gortash Musings 11

Warnings: Mentions of virginity, mentions of wedding night sex, sexist ideas about virginity (not from Enver though he couldn't care less)

Minors do not read!!!

The second outing Enver took you to was at his own estate. Smaller than your parent's, but big enough to suit a minor Lord. Then again, if rumors were to be believed Enver would be much more than a lord soon. Typically, having an outing at the man's estate was improper, but the rules were changed due to it being arranged. Enver had already paid a bride price for your hand. The property outside of Baldur's Gate that was your dowry was already being sighed over to him soon. The farm, the mill, and the country estate your family used for vacations during the summer. All of them would soon belong to Enver, to one day pass down to your children. Ugh. You could barely wrap your head around it.

Enver gave you a tour around his estate as your parents stayed in the parlour. "I'm surprised you got the to agree to let us be so... Alone." You admit.

Enver chuckled, repositioning his cane a bit as you walked through the back door of his home out into his outdoor entertaining space. Or, at least it was intended to be an entertaining space. Stone flooring that was once solid and polished, intended to be a dining area beneath the woven overhang, had been ripped into with pickaxes so a forge could be installed. Three different anvils littered the area around it, along with racks upon racks of blacksmithing equipment.

"Noble parents safeguard their daughters chastity like hawks so that they can marry her off. Noblemen are quite odd about insisting their wife be a virgin. I never saw the appeal." Enver dismissed. "I've already agreed to marry you, the paperwork is complete, and I don't care if you've ever laid with another man or woman. It doesn't matter to me."

You felt your face grow hot, both due to his blunt words and the heat from the forge. "Regardless of your preference, I have my maidenhead, and I plan on having it at my wedding."

Enver chuckles, leading you to the forge and putting on a pair of thick leather gloves. "Whatever you prefer."

He grabs a pair of metal tongs, thrusting them into the fires of the forge and pulling out a cup of molten metal. "Grab that mold, and put it on top of the flat part of the largest anvil."

You panic, having never done any blacksmithing work in your life. You don't know what the mold is, but you grab what he was pointing to and put it on the biggest anvil you see.

You step back, watching him pour the molten metal into the opening of the mold, his hands steady as the metal comes out in a bright red and white stream. Soon the mold is filled, and he drops the stone cup into a bucket of sand, tossing the tongs back onto the rack. He grabs the mold, tearing it in half and brushing the sand inside of it away to reveal a smoking ingot of gold.

"What are you making?" You ask, curious. You knew Enver was an artificer, but hadn't seen any of his creations yet.

"Your wedding ring." He answers, taking the ingot and setting it on the anvil. He grabs a hammer, taking it and tapping the ingot a few times. The metal is still soft with heat, easy to vend to his will.

Of all the things you had expected, that wasn't one. "You- oh. I-I didn't know you made jewelry."

"I make plenty of things." He said dismissively, cutting into the ingot to get a piece of appropriate size. "Every artificer in the world has made rings before, so as to enchant them."

You smiled sheepishly, watching as he put the piece of gold onto a cone like tool and began shaping it into a ring. "I thought they just bought rings and carved runes on them."

Enver laughs, "If they want a broken ring, sure. You can never be sure of quality unless you make it yourself."

"You smelt all the metal for your creations?" He's got a complete ring now. It's rough, needing to be shaped and smooth, but it's a ring. He takes it away from the anvil, setting it on the table and grabbing a few smaller tools.

"No, not all the time. I have employees who do the bulk of such things. But I've always got something I'm working on around my personal forge. I make all my own prototypes, then pass the blueprints and instructions along to them."

You watch over the next hour as Enver turns the chunk of gold into a beautiful golden ring. He asks basic questions, the type of ring you'd prefer, the size of your finger, embellishments you enjoy. And you talk about many other things as well. His other hobbies, yours too.

"Do you want children?" You ask when you feel brave enough.

"Yes." He says, "At least two."

"An heir and a spare?" You guessed, a sullen tone to your voice. You had hoped he would care about the concept of children just for the sake of children. Apparently not.

"Partly." He admits, no shame in his voice. "Also because I think a child needs friends. A sibling would help."

You chuckled, "You were an only child, weren't you?"

Enver looks up at you, a lopsided grin on his face. "Is it that obvious?"

"I have a lot of siblings." You said.

"I'm aware, your mother went through my list of options." He joked.

You bristled, "Your list?"

He smiles at you in a way you think is meant to calm you. It doesn't. "I knew I wanted to marry one of your mother's brood. Her terms were too good to pass up. A fellow Banite, a strong family name, deep coffers, everything I could have hoped for. She showed me each of her children's portraits, and said I was of course allowed to choose whoever I preferred, but she was quite insistent that you were the best pick."

You hesitated, "And... How soon did you make your choice?"

"About five minutes later." He says, reaching a hand over to take your chin in his hand, lifting your gaze up to meet his. "She was quite convincing."

He lingers on your face for a few moments, letting you blush under his gaze before releasing your chin. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small leather bag, and opening it to dump its contents on the table. "Pick your favorite."

It's gemstones, over a dozen of them, and scattered over the table. Different colors of each precious stone you can name. Your eyes sweep over all of them, but you ultimately land on one of the largest stones, a deep green emerald.

You pluck it up with your fingers, offering it to Enver shyly. "... This one reminds me of you."

Enver's mouth twitches slightly, a grin slipping onto his lips. "Green, hm?"

You shrug. "It just does."

He takes the emerald, adjusts the setting on the ring, and drops it into its place. A pair of pliers tightens the setting, securing the beautiful stone into the ring forever.

He polishes it with a few brushes, cleans it with a bit of cheesecloth, and then turns to you. "It will suit you, I think."

"I can't try it on?" You tease.

He smirks, "For someone so traditional about her virginity, I'd think you'd want to wait until the ceremony to put on your ring."

You huff, "Fine. I can be patient."

His hands are suddenly on your waist, his body pressed against yours as he leans down and whispers into your ear. "Mind your tone, sweet thing."

You can't help but shudder at his voice. "I- sorry!"

He chuckles, his grip on your waist squeezing slightly. "I'm only teasing. Mostly."

"Mostly?"

Enver sighed, "There are... Traditions with Banite marriage."

You go serious quickly. "... That's what this is going to be, isn't it? It's not going to be normal."

Enver shakes his head. "I had hoped your mother would warn you."

"She doesn't talk about that with me." You admitted. "She never even told me what being a Banite is like."

Enver sighs. "Lovely. It's getting late. We can discuss it another time."

You frown, "Why not now?"

"It will be a long conversation." He explains, his voice taking that gentle and persuasive tone again. Was this how he sweet talked politicians? It was no wonder all the women at court were backing him. "It's best saved for a day with many more hours left in it. Come back this weekend, I'll have afternoon tea served, and we'll speak on it more."

You smiled softly up at him. "I prefer Earl Grey."

[hiemaldesirae]

picked up this book called 'murder your employee: the mcmasters guide to homicide vol 1' from my local bookstore and . Hmmm. am i hearing murder academy radiostatic au... (<- delusional)

quick rundown of the books setting (time period vaguely 1950s, before 1962 at the latest) is that there's this murder academy (i say that but its closer to a uni than a boarding school which is typically what i think of when i read academy) open to applicants of all ages to train their students to murder. the admissions fee is an extremely high price, but regular people can enter in via sponsorships (like scholarships, sort of, but its more like a specific rich person sponsoring the candidate). the students don't operate on a regular year by year schedule because 1) no one knows where the school is and thus cannot always tell even what season it is much less the month 2) students are informed of their graduation basically the day of, when the faculty decides theyre ready to leave and complete their thesis project (AKA the murder). anyway its a very fun book and so of course i had to be insane about its premise

For what it was worth, Alastor hadn't meant at all to end up studying at the Hazbin Institution for Homicide Practitioners.

Which, in fairness, was just a fancier way of saying that he hadn't meant to get caught.

It had been a situation entirely out of his control. For whatever reason, that night, the swamp had been especially difficult to navigate- even alone, much less with a bloodied and battered body slung over his shoulder, he's quite certain it would have been a struggle to work his way around the place. And while that had never been a problem the few dozen or so times he'd made the trek before (granted, they were without the actual body in his hands, but it didn't make much of a difference when he'd been carrying heavy sacks of sand to offset the weight), there was an unfortunate caveat in his plan.

He hadn't banked on being seen and followed by a truly infuriating pair of 'detectives' (though surely whatever idea they'd held of a detective was truly and fully siphoned from one of those insipid moving pictures his dear Mimzy was ever so obsessed with), and he hadn't expected to be offered a spot as a student at this... interesting facility.

The smiley man sitting in front of him nods emphatically as Alastor finishes his little cajoling speech. The nametag on his black and red suitjacket reads Dean Morningstar, and a half-poured cup of brandy sits on the side of his table. Alastor eyes the alcohol with interest, if only because looking anywhere else in the room might make him lose composure and attack the bothersome man sitting across from him.

"So, then... Mr. Hartfelt, is it true that your next target was to be your father?"

Alastor narrows his eyes at the dean. The room's atmosphere seems to drop as he holds his gaze, both of them wearing smiles that convey vastly different emotions. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're referring to."

Of course, such a lousy comeback isn't tantamount to a proper argument (unless you're the type who enjoys messing with people, which Alastor is in all moments except this one) and the dean smiles when he realizes Alastor's slip up.

"See, you have an extremely generous patron backing you on your goal... not only to take down your father, who, by the way, seems to owe you quite a lot, considering your less than stellar upbringing and childhood, so good luck with that one, but also in relation to the other bodies that have been found half-submerged in the swamp." The little devil smiles merrily. "Sorry about that one, by the way. But we had to be sure you were a good candidate for our very highly revered course list. I mean... your sponsor is paying a lot of money to see you succeed, so... we had to be pretty thorough. Again, sorry, but it's just standard protocol."

Alastor clenches his jaw, feeling his eye twitch. He'd more or less tuned out whatever else Dean Morningstar had said after he admitted to resurfacing the already weeks old bodies in the swamp- Alastor's very first targets- as a means of... assessing him, apparently. "So you're the reason the bodies have started turning up in the bayou...?"

"Not entirely," Dean Morningstar shrugs, providing no further context. "In any case, this is sort-of a caught with pants down situation, I think. You don't have many options, Mr. Hartfelt. Either you stay as a student, or we let the truth out- and let your mother know first, before getting rid of you."

He grins sunnily at Alastor. "What will it be, young man?"

So, that was that.

Following that conversation (blackmailing session) Alastor finds himself being the unwitting recipient of a campus guide by the dean himself, who, despite his short stature and seemingly accomodating personality, had already managed to make himself an enemy in the form of one (1) incredibly vexed young radio host slash serial killer in the making.

"...And that's the Music Hall, where my vice-dean and most beloved wife holds her concerts and lectures on Murder, as a Fine Arts- you may notice the ingenious references there to one Mr. Thomas De Quincey, the famed opium eater of the 1800s London..." Alastor turns a blind eye to the dean as the man just kept on talking, choosing instead to focus on the surroundings instead of the urge to strangle the annoyance beside him.

The trip to the Hazbin Institution for Homicide Practitioners- a mouthful and an incredibly unnecessary one at that- had been less a trip to a school and more like a kidnapping, in which Alastor had been more or less blackmailed into going with the two detectives who'd found him in the bayou that day and then drugged to high hell from some sort of tampered liquor, then promptly deposited in front of the school gates and almost fed broken glass twice before nearly being poisoned and then having to sit through another blackmailing session with the Dean (the guy who'd tried to poison him in the first place). So... all in all, a rather unpleasant experience on his end.

Still, the scenery almost made up for it.

The campus was almost the size of his town back home, and towering gothic buildings from before his time populated the grounds. Signs in different languages were littered around the campus grounds, and exotic foliage grew in just the right places to make the patchwork of cobbled streets and oddly vintage buildings look uniform.

"Oh, Vox! How are you this afternoon?"

Alastor's attention is drawn back to the dean as the man greets a young man dressed in formal evening attire, complete with a pocket square boutonniere and sleek black gloves. The man in question has short-ish black hair, tied back into a small ponytail with a deep blue ribbon, and two striking eyes: one a glassy larimar blue and the other the deep brown of axinite gems. Alastor finds himself regarding the other while he and the dean make simple conversation. Something about him strikes him as familiar, though he can't quite put a finger on it exactly. "Going to the Music Hall, I presume?"

"That would be correct, Sir," Vox inclines his head respectfully. "Professor Leviathan asked us to dress for the occasion, since we would be doing another ballroom class."

"Ballroom class?" Alastor raises an eyebrow, and the man startles, seemingly not having noticed he was there. Rather inept for an assassin-to-be, Alastor frowns. Were these really the sorts of students they were training? Pretty-faced civilians knowing nothing of killing, who dressed up in evening gather for afternoon classes?

"A-ah, yes..." Vox looks off to the side, seemingly nervous. His cheeks redden slightly, like a child caught in the act of stealing candy. "Uh. You're new here, right? I haven't seen you around before..."

"He is," Dean Morningstar confirms, beaming. "Just arrived this morning, with a very generous sponsor backing him. In fact, he's going to be rooming at Pride House because of the sponsor!"

"Oh, is that so?"

Vox's easy confidence seems to come back to him as he turns to Alastor, seemingly mollified by the Dean's interference. Something inside of Alastor wants to see the man nervous again, if only because the uneasy approach of the man with the gemstone eyes reminded him of the shaky-footed does he would fake out during hunts. "Well, in that case, we might be roommates. It's nice to meet you, Mister...?"

"Hartfelt. Alastor Hartfelt," Dean Morningstar says before Alastor can introduce himself, smiling even when Alastor directs a glare at the man. "He's quite the upstart, I'll have you know- Hell, I think he may have set more fires on his first day here than you did!"

Vox chuckles awkwardly, a reaction that has Alastor's eyebrows raising with curiosity. "Well, I'd sure hope not. I really wouldn't want to cause Professor Leviathan any more trouble than we already have. He deserves a bit of a break from troublemakers like us, I'd say."

While Alastor is... okay, not really all that sure what exactly Dean Morningstar was referring to with 'fires started'- in his case, they were all non literal, considering his first arrival here had ended with him on the wrong end of a shotgun (its irony was not lost to him now, three hours later and standing in the middle of what looked to be a town square plucked straight out of Vienna's bustling populace despite the fact that they were in a location completely unknown to the rest of the world)... but whatever this man had done... it intrigued him, especially given Vox's reaction to it.

"Anyway..." Vox smiles once more, inclining his head in a bow. "I really do have to get going now. If I don't, I'm afraid I may be late, and Professor Asmodeus always picks on the latecomers to answer questions first."

"Ah, we won't keep you any longer, then," Dean Morningstar agrees genially. "Have a good afternoon, Mister Vanhal!"

"You too, Dean Morningstar, Mister Hartfelt," Vox bows once more, before turning off and heading in the direction of the Music Hall. Alastor regards the other man's retreating silhouette carefully.

"Is there something you want to say, young man?" Dean Morningstar snaps him out of his reverie, covering the faint smirk on his face with a gloved hand.

While Alastor wishes he could simply meet the other with simple derision, there is a question he had been meaning to ask. "What was the evening get up for?"

Dean Morningstar shrugs, but there's a glint of something Alastor doesn't quite like in his eyes. "Why don't you go and ask Vox yourself, if you're so interested?"

"...I'm surprised your staff haven't tried to murder you yet," Alastor responds shortly. He's much too tired and frustrated to entertain the man, and- well, frankly put, his mind is a little distracted at the moment at the thought of the man with the mismatched eyes.

Dean Morningstar laughs. "They're certainly welcome to try, as are you. After all, you're now a student of the Hazbin Instution for Homicide Practitioners- and we pride ourselves on our hands-on, engaging curriculum. Hopefully, your sponsor finds what they're looking for by sending you here."

"Hopefully," Alastor agrees. After all, there's nothing else to say: from here on out, it seems to be do or die.

Student Report written with input and conference from Dean Lucifer Morningstar

Student: Alastor Hartfelt, 29 years old, Sponsor

Sponsor: [REDACTED]

To the esteemed and generous sponsor of one Mister Alastor Hartfelt,

Enclosed is a report of your charge's first day at our esteemed institution. Please dispose of this report as soon as you are finished reading it for privacy insurances. We at the Hazbin Institution for Homicide Practitioners thank you for your interest and your patronage.

Sincerely, Dean Lucifer Morningstar.

[hyena-honeybadger]

(CW: angst, child neglect, mean price, suicide, child abuse, mental trauma, flash back, depression, death, kidnapping, stalkholm syndrome, scars, schizophrenia, hallucinations.)

This part is mostly angst and flash back, I’ll link the episodes with smut (bc I know that’s what some of y’all hoes are here for) below ;)

Part 2

Mint chocolate chip, that was your favourite flavour, the way the fat from it stuck to the top of your mouth, that’s how you know it’s good, at least that’s what mom says. Finally, dad says he’d take you too get ice cream out of the blue, ‘Greg’s dairy farm’ was the best place to get it, the milk was fresh and put right into the ice cream. They were yelling but the car was quiet, it was dystopian. Moms eyes had a particular shine to them which they usually didn’t, not a shine in a sense of a metaphorical way, but it a literal sense, like they were more glossy and shiny, but you were to busy talking about your school projects, finally you could, it was finally quiet. But they didn’t make any comments, didn’t ask anymore questions, your mom starred forward, and never looked back. Your father’s hand resting on something in the cup holder that you were to short to see what. But it didn’t matter, why would it, you get to talk, you get to have ice cream.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It was all desert, your local flora was confined to cactus’s, and the ground being just sand or cakey orangey dirt, sometimes decorated with the tire tracks of a local military base’s big armoured cars. your father said this was the perfect place for things to be purposely forgotten, to which your mother snapped at him not to say things like that around you. You never knew why, why your parents sign of affection towards you was stopping each other from acting a certain way or speaking a certain way, it was like you were a weapon of their design. ‘Skirttt’ the car stopped. Pulled over on the side of the road. Your mother’s head turned over to look at your father and the glossiness from her eyes began pouring down her cheek and fleeting, falling onto the car seat. She sat still like the bushes that never receive wind. Still… you knew to be silent, you didn’t even think you could say anything if you tried. Your father started erratically seeking for something in the compartment between the two front seats and once he found it he quickly slammed it shut and pushed open the door. Your mother instinctively got out too.Yelling. You knew your perfect day would end, you didn’t care to see what they were doing, you just curled your knees up to your chest and covered your ears, squinting your eyes tightly as if you could block out the moment from existence, but a noise was loud enough for you to hear under the covers of your hands, your mother not yelling but screaming. You open your eyes to see your mother out of sight from the window, they didn’t make sense… it was just miles of desert, she couldn’t of ran, you were to busy frantically looking out all windows; front to side to back to front, that was when you looked back out the window on your side, the door was being opened. You couldn’t think, there was no instincts, just feeling, feeling the pain of your fathers hand holding up your chin harshly, of squinting your eyes shut so hard it hurt, of fingernails making crescents in your skin, and of the pain of something poking your neck, sliding across it then warmth. Any warmth you had in your body started fleeting your neck and instead warming the orange dirt below, you were now on the ground. Squinting your eyes open you could see two large head lights, not of your own car, them a figure, your father, obstructing the view, holding up whatever thing he had in his hand up to his neck, and in a few seconds slumping. The last thing you could hear was the quick open and shut of multiple car doors and foot steps, seeing men in uniform and then it was dark.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

everything felt so tight, but calm. Your breathing restricted but peaceful, you felt heavy against something, your mind felt heavy and every fleeting half thought made it felt like it’d fall off. You were still stuck in sleep, your first ever so slightly conscious thought was to move, your mind commanded your arm to move, yet it did in fact not. Again, you urged your self to move, nothing… Again… Again. Again! Light..! You were awake. Your eyes squinted, you tilted your heavy head to the side and it was moved back forward by a hand cupping your chin. Quickly your eyes fought against the light to open, something dimmed it a persons face, hooded, covered. “Did you hurt your little nose maus?” He said in a thick German accent, heavy with a sickening sweet false sympathy. while cleaning your nose with a cloth. Again you tried to move, nothing! “Why can’t I move?” You just breath out, half to your self, half to him. His eyes, darkened by the mask on his face but still a bright blue, look at you, then back down at your nose. “You are tied down.” He said in a blunt tone, your torso is pushed forward with your quick, large, erratic breaths. Your fingers tips meet the wood and your nails attempt to carve into the chair. You were sensitive, you couldn’t help it, but crying didn’t matter at this point, so you let your tears collect in your eye corners. “Why…?” Was the only thing you can practically whine out, your breathing now turning into a panting. “I found you, besides, you’re so upset now, imagine how hysterical you’d be if I would let you run around.” You can hear his disgusting grin his voice. Your tears run down your face and drip into the wood chair, he tilted to the side and dropped the rag in some bucket with red tinted water to the side of him, sitting on his knees, his eyes rarely making contact with yours, only to your body as if you were a possession. His hand comes up to your throat and you instinctively twitch back, corners of your vision blurring and distorting.

“Did your daddy do this to you maus…?”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

- Hyena

Edited by HoneyBadger

First part: https://www.tumblr.com/hyena-honeybadger/758581056193560576/cw-smut-angst-meanabusive-price-child-abuse.

[literatecowboy]

The Rattlesnake County War

Following a botched cattle rustling job, a lone surviving outlaw finds herself thrust into a conflict between ranchers bigger than any she'd been embroiled in before. A Sheriff!Price x Outlaw!Reader fic; MDNI please; reader is AFAB and she/her pronouns are used but should otherwise be ambiguous (if I can be more inclusive/there is somewhere where I can improve on making her more "friendly" to readers let me know pls!) Warnings: hanging, angst, death, stabbings, references to guns and shootings, execution, etc. Eventual smut. I intend to write 2 versions of this fic - more information can be found in the masterlist.

2. No Angel

Sheriff John Price lived in a house attached to the jail. It was a big wooden thing that stood at two stories and backed up to the Colorado river, which bent awkwardly around the town. 

You discovered this after the skirmish. Mr. Marshall had very quickly left to ride home after repeatedly assuring Price that he would make it there safely, leaving you alone with a man who abhorred your existence. You had mounted your horses and set off back for his home, as he still did not trust you to flee if you were not tethered to his side. 

As he busied himself with chores in the home you slipped out the back door and wandered down to the river. It was secluded enough - surrounded by trees and out of eyeshot of other people - so you elected to take a bath. 

You stripped as the sun went down, kneeling by the water and giving your clothes a thorough washing before hanging them to dry on the outstretched limbs of a nearby tree. As you returned to the water’s edge and waded in, the cool water rushing around your ankles, your throat constricted and your chest tightened. 

You were unable to stop the sob that ripped from your throat as you fell to your knees in the cool, waterlogged sand, clutching your throat as tears poured from your eyes. The noose you’d narrowly dodged cinched around your neck and pulled tight. You squeezed your eyes shut, gasping for breath as you tried to will away your panic, but the tears would not stop. 

The sound of your sobs was faint up at the house. John noticed them first, some time after you’d broken down, and stepped to the window, rifle in hand. Gaz joined him and they studied you as you knelt, naked and crying in the river, your back turned to them as it heaved with the force of your sobs. 

“Put the gun away, sir. She’s not doing anything wrong,” Gaz said, guilt tinging the corners of his voice as he pushed John’s rifle away from the window. 

“Don’t trust it. Could be an act to lure us down there,” John said stiffly. Gaz shook his head. 

“Well, it’s a damn good one if it is. I’m going to get her a towel,” he said, pushing past John and heading deeper into the house. He grabbed a spare towel from the shelf in his room and headed out the back door, marching with purpose down to the river.

You didn’t hear him approach, and when he called out to you, you were startled. At least you had finished bathing, you thought - you were about to be pulled away from your solace.

“Miss? Are you alright?” he asked. You whirled around, thankful that the water of the river was dark. He approached with a hand loosely covering his eyes, head turned toward the ground. The towel in his outstretched hand surprised you. 

“I’m okay,” you sniffled, eyeing him warily as you wiped your tears away. 

“You should get dried off, it’s going to get cold tonight. You can have this,” he said, setting the towel he’d retrieved on top a large rock on the beach. It was close enough for you to take a few steps forward and grab. Once he placed it, he backed off and gave you space. 

“Thank you,” you said. Your voice was as raw as the skin around your eyes and as rose from the river, taking the towel and wrapping it around your body. 

“You can uncover your eyes - and thank you, for not staring,” you said softly, stepping onto the sandy shore with weak legs. He did so hesitantly, but gave you a smile once he met your eyes. 

“There’s dinner, up at the house. I live with John here, being his deputy and all. We still need to fix you up a place to sleep, but you’re more than welcome to come in and eat while you wait,” he said, turning to walk back up the hill. 

“I think I will,” you said softly. 

—

John watched as Gaz headed back up the hill. As soon as his deputy made it inside and you were alone again, you dressed yourself, pulled on your boots, and set your hat on your wet hair. You went to pat your gun belt, and looked disheartened when you remembered it wasn’t there. 

“She didn’t kill me,” Gaz called as he headed for the kitchen to fix himself a bowl of stew. 

“I saw. I’m surprised,” John said, turning away from the window as you started to head up the hill. 

“Find somewhere for her to sleep yet?” Gaz asked, as he pulled out a chair and sat down heavily, sticking his spoon into the bowl. 

“The cell. Until she earns my trust,” Price grunted, fetching his own bowl and fixing himself a healthy portion of the stew. 

“That’s a little harsh, sir.” Gaz said. 

The door swung open and you stepped in, peering around with a wary gaze. Price jerked his thumb back at the stove. 

“Eat up. Won’t be more until breakfast and we’ve got things to discuss tonight.” he said.

—

You’d watch the sun set as you ate, pushing the carrots and chunks of meat around in your bowl until Sheriff Price left the table. Gaz had done his best to make conversation and you had engaged him, finding yourself warming to his kindness. 

As the night grew deeper and the fire in the hearth died, Price summoned you to the jail at the front of the house. He sat at his desk, which faced the cells, and you pulled up a chair beside the door to the kitchen where Gaz leaned in the doorway. 

Mr. Riley was the first to arrive and Mr. MacTavish came in not long after him. You listened as the four spoke between themselves, discussing the fight outside the saloon earlier in the day. 

“Not surprised they’re callin ye Wildcat, lass. You fight like a cornered tiger, I’m glad you’re on ma side!” Mr. MacTavish exclaimed, clapping his hands together and grinning at you. Mr. Riley rolled his eyes. Despite the fact that he was among friends, he still wore his black bandanna above his nose and his hat was pulled low over his eyes. 

“Stop flirting, Johnny. Don’t think she appreciates it,” he said, clapping a hand on Johnny’s shoulder and giving him a shake. Gaz snorted and you leaned forward in your seat. 

“Who were those men?” you asked. “What did they want with Mr. Marshall?”

John sucked in a breath and you turned your attention to him. 

“It’s a long story. This here’s a livestock town - cattle, to be specific. Mr. Marshall is a new player in this territory and some dislike competition.” he said, rising from his desk and drawing the shades of the window behind him. 

“Those thugs told him he should’ve sold when they came at him. I take it a larger rancher wanted to buy him out and force him out of town?” you asked, a frown splitting your features. 

“It’s a wee more complex than that,” Mr. MacTavish said. “See, James Marshall is an Irishman. Comes from poor stock in tae countryside, he does. Left home and caught tae boat over here as a teen, same as I did. Took up ranching and decided tae make somethin’ of himself. 

“There’s old English money in this county, ranchers the same as Marshall. Some folk don’t leave old world politics behind, and these folks don’t like the idea of a successful Irishman. Nor a Scot, for that matter!” Mr. MacTavish said, laughing and leaning back in his chair. 

“It’s more complex than that. I wager it’s about money. Money and control. They own everything in these parts and keep the townsfolk under their thumb, and they want it to stay that way,” Gaz said. 

“Truth is, it’s nuanced. But there’s two men who run two very large ranches in this county, and when others do business here, they’ve come to expect a piece of the pie.\,” Price said. 

“So they think they own the place,” you said, mulling everything over in your head. 

“Rattlesnake Point is theirs. The Old Kingdom has a hand in most everything around here from agriculture to politics,” Mr. Riley said. “That needs to be changed.”

—

Mr. Marshall came in not long after the conversation had switched to lighter topics. When he saw the gathered group, his face lit up. 

“Gentlemen, good to see you!” he said, shaking each man’s hand as he breezed through the room. He paused when he reached you, the smile widening on his lips. 

“My lady, you look lovely,” he said, taking your hand and raising it to his lips to press a gentle kiss to the back. You pulled away quickly and offered him an awkward smile. 

“I’m afraid your affections are wasted on me, Mr. Marshall. I am no fine lady,” you said. 

“Exactly. No lady would do as she does. Now, we must get to business. You are in grave danger, Mr. Marshall.” John said. You shot him a glare but he ignored you. 

“The deaths of the men who attacked you earlier will be seen as direct provocation, regardless of the fact that we were defending ourselves. We need to find a way to stop the Old Kingdom from retaliating,” John said. 

“We shouldn’t be on the defense - we need to hit them before they can hit us,” James urged, sitting down across from John at the desk and holding his hat in his lap.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. These men are corrupt and they play dirty - provoke them more and they’ll do more than just run you out of town. They’ve already made an attempt on your life!” John exclaimed. 

“Mr. Marshall, we’d like to keep a rotation of trusted men on your farm. One of us will be there each day and night to protect you in the event of an attack on your ranch,” Gaz said, stepping forward. James shook his head almost violently. 

“No, I already have men in my employ who can protect me. We need to go for the head of this organization - we need to kill Mr. Cavendish and Mr. Sutherland!” James exclaimed. 

“That wouldn’t stop the loyalists from killing ye in retaliation. They’ve got men who’ll be loyal, even in death. Others will take over. I’ve heard talk, bold as all, in my saloon. The suffering will continue no matter what,” Mr. MacTavish said, rising from his chair and joining the other men in the heated conflict. You leaned back in your chair as the room erupted into arguing. 

Gaz had given you back your satchel after dinner, and you fished out your last, half-smoked pack of cigarettes. Producing one, you held it between your lips and struck a match on the heel of your boot, lighting it and taking a long drag. 

You stood, ground the match into an ashtray, and pulled the cigarette from your lips, exhaling with a long sigh. At the peak of the shouting, you slammed your fist down onto the desk, startling the men into silence. They watched you as you pondered for a moment, taking another drag on your cigarette. 

“You’re too quick to rush to the extreme option. Cutting the heads off the monster won’t accomplish anything,” you said, nodding your head at James Marshall. John looked pleased, and was about to speak, but you rounded on him. 

“You’re far too worried about doing anything dishonorable or illegal. Sticking to the letter of the law and doing nothing other than sending out a few men with guns won’t help anyone,” you said. The room was quiet now - all eyes on you. 

“We need to cripple the outfit. Burning, stealing, destroying - killing - is what we need to do. Then we kill it for good. And we need legal and illegal means of doing it.” you said. 

“It’s not just about James. It’s about all the people in this county that those big bastards have fucked over with their dealings. We need to end the reign of the Old Kingdom for good.”

—

A firm agreement was reached in the early hours of the morning. Long after the others had departed and Gaz had retired to his bunk, you found John in the kitchen nursing a whiskey. When you came in, he poured a healthy amount into a second glass handed it to you. 

“It pains me to admit that you were correct in what you said back there,” Price said after a long minute of drinking in silence. 

“Why does it have to pain you?” you asked, studying the sheriff. 

“Because I nearly killed you,” he said quietly, gazing into your eyes. There was a shine to his - the drink had revealed his softer side. 

“You were following the law. I am no angel, I–”

John laid his hand over yours and squeezed it, silencing you. 

“None of that, now. Go get some rest, Wildcat.”

You set your empty glass down and slunk off to your bunk.

---

[dragonnarrative-writes]

GhostGaz Week - over consumption // sun burn

CW: Brits trying Mexican cuisine without knowing what it is (not fraught), accidental alcohol consumption, sun burn,

@ghostgazweek

Simon had to admit, this whole private beach situation was a lot more enjoyable than he’d expected. When Alejandro and Rudy had suggested a quick flight from Monterrey to Puerto Vallarta before heading back across the pond, he’d been… skeptical. A beach is a beach, sand is sand, and the UK has both. Why fly the opposite direction of from home to sweat in the sand surrounded by civilians? He’d already spent three weeks in joint training sweating in the sand with people he generally liked, and now he just wants to rest.

Well, hell, he’s resting now. He’s reclined on some kind of couch bed on the roof of the villa, hiding from the sun under an awning and letting the heat leach every bit of tension from his body. From here, he can barely hear Soap whooping down by the water. Price is somewhere in town, chasing a Canadian skirt he met at a bar yesterday. And Kyle is… somewhere.

As though summoned, the man appears at the top of the stairs with two of the largest, most vibrantly yellow beverages Simon’s ever seen and a plastic bag hanging from his arm.

“The fuck is tha’?” Simon asks around a yawn. He only sort of sits up to squint as Kyle offers him one of the fishbowls. He sips without waiting for an answer. Citrus and something else, ice cold and refreshing.

“Mechanica something,” Kyle answers, taking a gulp of his own and placing the plastic bag on the table. “Lady at the market was selling jugs of it. Another lady was selling some fermented drink, said they’re good together. These,” he gestures to the bag, which Simon realizes is full to bursting with something fried and delicious smelling, “are molotes, and I got three of every kind they had.”

“Soap’s down at the beach,” Simon reports.

“He’ll come have some or he’ll have to find his own,” Kyle says, taking another gulp of mechanica something. He grabs a pocket of fried dough and chomps into it with a groan. “This one’s cheese. The locals recommended the... see-sos? I don’t know what that is. But there’s chicken, pork, shrimp and mushroom ones, too.”

Simon swipes one, inspects it for a moment, and takes a bite. Spice bursts across his tongue, tasty and just the littlest bit painful. It’s perfect.

Six molotes and a quarter gallon of drink later, Simon realizes that he probably should have slowed down. His belly is pleasantly overfull, but his head is swimming. Kyle, somehow still eating, is swaying in his seat, just a bit. Or maybe that’s Simon.

“’Ey,” he calls, “C’mere.”

Kyle grins, finishes the last swig of his drink, and comes over to flop next to Simon on the couch bed. He drops a kiss on the point of Simon’s shoulder. “Fuck. That was good.”

The burst of pleasure that’s always there when Kyle is casually affectionate feels especially nice this afternoon. Simon kisses his temple with a hum, then meets Kyle's lips when he turns into the contact.

Kyle's lips are warm and the slightest bit greasy from the fried dough. He tastes like citrus, mostly. He doesn't resist as Simon tows him down to the cushions, lets himself be drawn on top to settle in to make out like teenagers.

Except then Simon has to break away and turn his head for a jaw-cracking yawn. He flicks the sleeve of Kyle’s shirt at his snicker. Something about the sun keeps knocking him out, which the team finds endlessly amusing. Simon himself would find it mildly annoying, but he keeps waking up from the best nap of his life every six hours. He snuggles down into his little shaded spot and lets sleep take him again.

He’s a bit stiff, fuzzy headed, and cotton mouthed when he wakes up next. Kyle’s face down next to him, shirtless and snoring. Simon admires the slope of his back in the light of the setting sun for a moment before looking for what woke him up. Price and Soap have apparently joined them, and are pouring shots.

“G’mornin’, bella durmiente,” Soap says with a grin.

Simon grunts something and sits up. Or… he tries, but his head starts spinning so he flops back into the pillows.

“I put a bottle of water by your head,” Price says, arching a judgmental eyebrow. “Not sure what possessed you two to drink that much mezcal at once.”

“Tha’ the fermen’ed thing Kyle brough’?” Simon fishes the ice cold bottle from in the pillows and makes himself sit up to swallow half of it down.

“The pulque? That’s not what you two drank. You drank a quarter bottle of straight mezcal.”

“Wha’s tha’?”

“Tequila.”

“Oh.” That explains a lot. Simon pushes himself up to one elbow, blinks until his eyes refocus. He places a hand on Kyle’s back and has a moment to wonder at how hot his skin is before the man twitches, yelps, arches away, and yelps again.

“Fuck, ow, fuck!”

Soap snickers for the next half hour while Simon smooths frosty aloe vera over Kyle’s neck, shoulders and back. The sunburn isn’t anywhere as bad as if any of the rest of them had laid in the sun for three hours, but Kyle whines like a baby the whole time. He also shares his coconut water with Simon, though, so that’s alright.

[womanexile]

My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys

Oh, here we go again

The voices in his head

Hunger (Harry unreleased)-“I guess I’m prone to overthinking”

Called the rain to end our days of wild

Clean-“the rain came pouring down when I was drowning, that’s when I could finally breathe”

The sickest army doll

Purchased at the mall

Rivulets descend my plastic smile

Pleasing announced their new line of perfumes on November 1st, 2023 (Rivulets, Bright, Hot & Closeness) Now this could be just another Haylor cosmic coincidence.

But you should've seen him when he first got me

A close friend, authorized by Taylor told Vanity Fair in 2013 about Taylor and Harry’s April 2012 fling- “a weekend where they got really close and he was all, like, ‘You’re amazing - I want to be with you. I want to do this."

My boy only breaks his favorite toys, toys, oh

I'm queen of sand castles he destroys, oh, oh

'Cause it fit too right, puzzle pieces in the dead of night

AYHTDWS-“I’ve been picking up the pieces of the mess you made”

So It Goes…-“cut me into pieces, gold cage, hostage to my feelings”

So It Goes…-“and all the pieces fall right into place”

Imgonnagetyouback-“we broke all the pieces, but still want to play the game”

I should've known it was a matter of time, oh, oh

My boy only breaks his favorite toys, oh, oh

Cruel Summer-“bad, bad boy, shiny toy with a price, You know that I bought it”

Cardigan-“you put me on and said I was your favorite”

There was a litany of reasons why

We could've played for keeps this time

This indicates this is an off and on relationship or a person Taylor has previously dated.

I know I'm just repeating myself

Put me back on my shelf

But first, pull the string

And I'll tell you that he runs

Because he loves me (He loves me)

Harry being such an Aquarius.

'Cause you should've seen him when he first saw me

Perfect-“when I first saw you, from across the room, I could tell that you were curious”

One Direction’s Liam Payne joked about Harry meeting Taylor: “I thought Harry might have went to the bathroom just a little bit when we met her.”

My boy (My boy), only breaks his favorite toys, toys, oh

I'm queen (I'm queen), of sand castles he destroys, oh, oh

'Cause I knew too much, there was danger in the heat of my touch

OOTW-“remember when we couldn’t take the heat, I walked out said I’m setting you free”

He saw forever, so he smashed it up, oh, oh

My boy (My boy), only breaks his favorite toys, oh, oh

Once I fix me

He's gonna miss me

Once I fix me

He's gonna miss me

Just say when, I'd play again

Hear Taylor is saying she would give this person another chance. She would give this relationship another go. In The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived Taylor clearly indicates that she does not want to get back with that person (MH) “I don’t even want you back, I just want to know”

He was my best friend down at the sandlot

You Are in Love-“You’re my best friend”

Maroon-“like you were my closets friend”

I felt more when we played pretend

Than with all the Kens

Hits Different-“I used to switch out these Kens, I’d just ghost”

'Cause he took me out of my box

Stole my tortured heart

Left all these broken parts

Told me I'm better off

But I'm not

I'm not, I'm not