#stretch wrapping machine price

[octagonsolution]

Reel Stretch Wrapping is specially designed for packing paper, film, foil, and similar materials manufactured in reels through a Paper wrapping Machine, Paper Packaging Machine, or Paper Roll Packing Machine.

[wwwquickpakinccom]

Why Use High Performance Stretch Film

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One of the primary advantages of reducing thickness in stretch wrap is the potential for significant cost savings.  Thinner films, when applied to pallets in the right way, can reduce the overall amount of material required to wrap a pallet. In turn, this helps cut the amount of money you spend on purchasing stretch films.

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[circe69]

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞'𝐬 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥! - 𝐒𝐄𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄

❤︎ simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader ❤︎ wc: 2.4k ❤︎tw: mentions of gore, suggestive ❤︎ tags - snowy valentines, heavy making out, pining, drunk confessions, aggressive!simon, but sweet as well :)

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

"You know today's Valentine's Day, right L.T?" Your words slurred together like pudding, and Ghost could smell the faint scent of whiskey, along with the remnants of some strawberry dessert, on your breath as he leaned down to hear you better.

He'd brought you up to the rooftop from the raging party downstairs, figuring it be easier to avoid any questions from Soap or Price about just why the two of you were standing so close. He looked up, stretching and rolling his neck from side to side, and was taken back by just how clear the sky was. It'd been months since he'd been able to make out any sort of constellation, and just about everyone had gotten used to the gunpowder-filled clouds and polluted air, but Ghost hadn't.

"What about it?" He said firmly, looking down at you and watching how you ever so slightly fisted the hem of his t-shirt in your hands, and every so often, your knuckles would graze the skin of his stomach, making his whole-body tense.

You smiled, your doe eyes and dilated pupils staring up at him with the most drunken affection that he'd seen in a while, "Do you have anyone?" You bit down on your chapstick-doused lips, enjoying the slight cherry flavor. Ghost watched you work; he could almost feel your tongue moving around on his just by watching your lick your lips.

He sighed, not annoyed, but a little anxious. He just didn't know how to act around you, he didn't know why you made him feel so different from everyone else. It'd been years since he had a friend, let alone a woman, an attractive one no doubt, clawing at him for more, practically begging for him to just pick her up and take her to a random closet to show her just how much he was willing to give. At this point, Ghost couldn't care less about the fact that you'd forget most of this in the morning. He loved the way you made him feel, even if there was a chance you didn't mean it.

"You're drunk, soldier." He gently pried your wandering hands off his body as you grimaced at the fact that he just called you soldier. You whined in response, hands instinctively shooting up to hug him around his neck, and Ghost allowed it, because he wanted it so badly. He wanted you so badly.

"Come on, just tell me already! You're no fun when you keep secrets." You were practically hanging off of him, your toes barely touching the ground, and even though he could've wrapped himself around you and lifted you up even higher, his hands stayed in fists planted at his sides. You leaned even closer to whisper,

"Do you have a valentine or not?"

A small smile stretched across Ghost's face, and for once, he was actually thankful for that thin piece of fabric covering it. Precious, he thought. You were the one thing that could unlock Simon's buried affection, and whether you knew it or not, you were the ticket to making his entire being feel better. He was bloodthirsty on the field, a man-killing machine known for his deceitful tactics and disgusting tricks for cracking a neck just right, but it disappeared in your presence. Not because he had to hide it, but because he would just much rather focus on you, the most perfect thing, right in front of him.

Ghost's hands hesitantly moved to the small of your back, but then slowly dropped them again before raising one to pinch the bridge of his nose as you let go of his neck, crossing your arms in annoyance at the fact that he just won't grab you.

"I know you're pouting because I'm not paying much attention to you, but I have to be gentle with you for now. You've had drinks, yeah? Maybe a few too many. Even if I wanted to, I can't touch you."

You looked up at him, the grimace resting on your face was a little more relaxed, "But" you started, "Do you want to?"

Ghost looked back at you, and his lungs felt like they'd burst into flames if you spoke one more sentence in that voice, the voice that's dripping with desire and demand, for him and only him. He whispered, "Of course I do. Of course, I want to touch you, I want to touch every part of you." His voice grew louder at the end of his words, making your eyes widen at the volume.

"Just because I'm being gentle right now, doesn't mean I always will. The things I want to have happen, the things I want to do to you, aren't sweet things. They aren't nice, they wouldn't be beautiful or sentimental. I wouldn't be careful. Do you understand?"

You craned your neck up at him, in a certain way that made your cheek bones shine perfectly from the dim light of the moon.

"I understand, Lieutenant," your voice was nothing more than a quiet sigh.

"Get some sleep. Tomorrow's role call is an hour earlier," Ghost said as he started to walk back to the door to the stairs, "Be there."

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

You groaned in pain as an alarm rang through your room, off the walls and into your ears. Every part of you hurt, from your toes to your shoulders. I couldn't have done that much, right? You thought, slowly slipping out of your covers and top quilt before walking to the bathroom.

6 AM, and for what? Breakfast and a flag? Couldn't they wait an hour? I sure could. Your hair wasn't as dirty as you'd thought it be, thankfully, and it was easy to manage into a tight bun before tugging on boots and a warm winter coat and heading to the main hall. As you walked, crunching on a small layer of snow with every step, you tried to think back to last night. What even happened? You were kicking yourself, because you knew this would be the case. It happens every time. You're just more of a lightweight than you'd like to admit, and you remember it every morning after you drink.

You could remember the rooftop, being escorted up there by none other than Ghost, which wasn't out of the ordinary, but there were some parts of your conversation that just didn't make sense. It was all a blur but, there was something about being gentle? And Ghost mentioning that, sure he's being gentle now, but if you let him, he'd be the farthest thing from gentle with you.

But there was no way that happened. Fever dreams, drunk dreams, they're all the same. They're all vivid, and scarily accurate, but fake, nonetheless.

Once you arrived at the hall, a wooden door creaked open upon your entrance, along with the sound of your boots hitting the floor in attempt to shake the ice off. The room was packed to the brim with people, rescue dogs that didn't behave, and squeaking chairs moving round for roll call. Hot coffee was being poured and whistling kettles being turned off for tea were some of your favorite smells in the world. The dim fluorescent lighting woke you up fully, and if it were any brighter, it may have set you over the edge. No matter how hungover you were, snowy mornings were like a restart.

You made your way down the precise middle aisle, eyeing an open chair by Ghost and speedwalking to grab it before anyone else.

Once you sat down, you started shedding your large coat and draped it behind you. Ghost finally noticed and took a double take once he saw just who was sitting next to him.

Somehow, by some crazy unearthly miracle, even after a terrible hangover, you were still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. He was almost frustrated at this point; you looked like you'd never drank a day in your life. Your hair was perfectly pinned, clothes beautifully ironed, which allowed for every curve to be hugged like a glove and shown off to every man in the room.

Ghost was borderline salivating. You smelled like you always did, lavender; and your morning voice as you said hello to him was just raspy enough to make him crazy, almost like crackling firewood. Even in the snowy, freezing weather, just by you being there, he felt perfectly warm.

"Morning," he said back, adjusting his pants that had somehow shrunk a few inches since you took your place by him.

The cup of coffee in his hand looked minuscule compared to the one in yours, which let your mind wander to other places, thinking about things that you shouldn't be. Like how small your body would feel enclosed in arms, and how those very same hands that were inches away from yours could destroy you within seconds.

Before you knew it, one of Ghost's arms raised and placed itself on the back of your chair, making you dizzy just at the contact. His skin wasn't even on yours, but you could feel the weight of his heavy forearm on the chair, and the way it gently ruffled the sleeves on your shirt. His breath was closer, practically pouring down the side of your neck, which made you automatically lean in closer to him. You could feel your heartbeat and was sure he could see it popping out of your chest every second.

"Hey," he whispered in your ear, making your eyes flutter at the deep tone speaking from a mouth inches away from you.

"If I left, would you follow me out?"

You looked at him, eyes wandering all over his face until resting in deep eye contact. You could tell all he needed was one word, one nod, and he'd stand up.

"Yes," you whispered. Breathed, more like.

Ghost stood, his height growing like a giant tree, from his seat and stomped out of the large dining room, and into a small hallway towards the back. You discreetly watched every move, every step he took, every nod he gave to the unsuspecting soldiers, and the exact turn he took to start his descent in the hallway.

You sat for a minute before moving. I could just stay, avoid any unnecessary confrontation, and tell him he misheard me, you thought. Your legs fidgeted for a few more seconds, trying to decide, but in reality, your answer from the start was genuine.

You shot up, faster than you intended, and started walking in the same path that Ghost did. Nodding to the soldiers, shooting smiles and quietly opening a door that led you into the same dark hallway that he entered.

There were a few small windows lining the hall, and the snow falling made it seem brighter than it was. You walked a few paces slowly down the walkway, looking in empty rooms and peeping your head in open doors, wondering where he could've gone.

All the sudden, when you were looking towards the opposite direction, a strong pair of gloved hands grabbed you by the hips and pulled your body into a room before slamming the door with his foot and pinning you to the back of it.

Ghost's face was inches away from yours, "Mm, finally," he groaned, his hands desperately running over and under pieces of your clothing. He tugged at hemlines, the belt loops of your pants, anything he could grab to signal he wanted more, and he hadn't even started yet.

"Finally?" You teased, trying not to whimper at the feeling of his hands squeezing the meat of your thigh, "You act like you've been waiting for this or something." Your words got breathier with every second, and so did his. All he did was hum in agreement, words weren't ever truly necessary for him, especially when he'd rather communicate in touch.

He quickly lifted up his mask just enough so his lips were available to you, and you took the opportunity to utilize them as fast as you could. Once you saw them, plump and slightly wet lips, your eyes drowned in the sight of them. Your arms shot up to his neck, and you pulled him down to your level so you could kiss him properly.

It wasn't sweet like a first kiss, or something that you'd want to take a picture of and frame it, it was like a secret. His mouth opening against yours, the air between you mixing like it was never meant to separate, the two of you were hungry, hungry for each other and only each other. The pads of his fingers rubbed your collarbone, making you shiver underneath his calloused touch, and he loved it. His tongue gently massaged yours, sliding his lips back and forth and your teeth gently bit down on his lip slowly before the two of you broke the kiss and slowly opened your eyes again.

Ghost moaned against his closed mouth, shutting his eyes before resting his head in the crook of your neck. His long arms wrapped around you as if you were a present from Christmas, something that he'd always wanted but never believed he'd get. He almost needed a breather from the aftermath of it all. He couldn't stop, and he knew he'd never stop for as long as you were in arms reach.

"Do you remember last night?" He said from his spot in your neck, to which you started to nod. "Too much to not be slightly embarrassed forever."

You could feel his chest vibrate against yours from the huff of air he let out, and after he lifted his head to meet yours again, straightening his posture to tower over you, "Ask it again." He demanded as his hand planted itself behind your head on the door.

The smile on your lips was enough to make his knees buckle, all it did was remind him that every part about you was made beautifully, was made to its most perfect potential.

You sighed before rolling your eyes slightly and dropping your head in your hands for a minute out of embarrassment, "Do you have a valentine, Lieutenant?"

Ghost allowed himself to just bask in the silence, to soak in what you just said like a warm bath. How wonderful, that he was able to hear you say that same question twice?

"Yes, I do," he started, before taking your hand in his and carefully kissing the center of your palms, "And I think I'm set for life."

[mistydeyes]

Mission gone wrong ?

Where reader and ghost are stuck in Oymyakon during winter,freezing in the snow waiting for backup?

ahhhh anon! thank you so much for this request!! i love the idea so much (like cmon who wouldn’t want to be stuck w simon in a cabin)

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summary: After the mission goes completely south, you and Ghost are left trudging through the wintery landscape of Oymyakon. When you finally arrive in the comfort of a secluded cabin, you two try to make light of the situation.

pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x gn!reader

warnings: swearing, violence

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"Just a little bit further," Ghost encouraged as you trudged through the meter-high snow. His voice echoed across the frozen landscape. As far as the eye could see, there were sparse trees coated in a heavy blanket of snow and ice. Getting away from the guns and snowmobiles was half the battle but now you were making the expedition to this fabled safe house. Out of all the missions you had with him, of course, this one had to go to absolute shit. "That's what you said 30 minutes ago," you mumbled, following in his large footprints. You had lost feeling in your lower extremities and you wondered how he could continue. With every step, you could feel pins and needles shoot through your sore body. Your breath felt harsh on your knitted balaclava and you secretly envied the many layers of fabric and silicone of Ghost's infamous mask. "If you quit complaining, it'll make the journey quicker," he said and you could tell the bastard had a smirk on his face. "God I hate Oymyakon."

Eventually, you could see a small cabin on the edge of your vision. "A mirage in the cold desert," you could hear Ghost joke and you picked up the pace. "Price did say this was isolated," you said through your chattering teeth, finally seeing the full picture of the home in arm's reach. You gripped the cold padlock in your gloved fingers and inputted the memorized set of coded numbers. Ghost shoved the iced-over door and gave way into the darkened, freezing cabin. "Home sweet home," you joked half-heartedly as you checked the bare-bones setup. Safe houses were all the same, only having the most simple of necessities and furnishings. As Ghost rummaged for a life-saving space heater, you looked through the cabinets to see if there were any food or hand warmers. The metal handle felt frigid on your fingertips and you saw two sizable mugs at home on the empty shelf.

"How romantic," Ghost said behind you and you jumped at the sudden baritone of his voice, "You gonna make us some tea?" You rolled your eyes at his typical British humor. "Maybe, if you got that space heater working," you replied and he gestured exaggeratedly to the small glowing machine that lit up the living room. "Speaks for itself," he smirked and you rolled your eyes before brushing past him to warm yourself. You took off your frozen boots and shook out your socks and jacket before you were left in your thermals under your gear. You could hear Ghost rummaging around in the adjacent bedroom before returning with two blankets. "No clothes but I do have these," he said and held up the flannel blankets. You nodded and he added his outerwear and gear next to yours.

As you sat wrapped in your blankets, you watched the snowfall and wind whip through the air. "If we weren't stuck here, this would actually be nice," you smiled as you stretched out your fingers in front of the space heater. "I got a cabin up in the Isle of Sky," he mentioned, "if we make it out of here, remind me to take you there." You beamed up at him and nodded eagerly at the offer. "That's in Scotland, right?" you asked and he let out a small grunt in confirmation. "This isn't some boy's cabin you and Soap share, right?" you questioned and he chuckled at the absurdity of the thought. "Fuckin' hell, I'd never," he swore, "just something I bought with a Lieutenant's salary." You thought for a moment before responding to his initial offer. "Well then, is that an offer for a romantic getaway, Lt?" you questioned and he quickly looked away from you. Despite the dim lighting of the room, you could see the subtle hint of pink on his ears. "Depends, hopefully evac gets here before we freeze to death." You shared a dry laugh as you continued to look out the window.

Before you knew it, the sun had set over the horizon and your body began to shut down from the day's events. You tried to suppress your yawn in your blanketed arm but Ghost noticed your small action. "You should sleep, there's one bed in the room over there," he gestured as you laughed softly. "Only one bed?" you smirked and you could almost hear his eye roll. "Not the time," he mumbled before he moved his hand in dismissal, "I'll keep the first watch." You got up slowly and dragged the blanket behind you. You reached the doorway and turned to him, wishing him a quiet goodnight. As you settled into the warm sheets, you turned to face the doorway and smiled as you saw Ghost perched over the small heater. If there was anything that was motivating you to survive, it was the potential to spend a weekend in a snowy cabin with Simon and no threat of danger.

[polymorphiczooid]

Marcille's frog suit is complete! This was my third-ever project using a sewing machine, so I've put a bit on my process for suit and staff-making below.

The Body: I drafted a pattern from a loose sweatshirt and sweatpants (somewhat following these tutorials: 1 2). From this I made a truly terrible mock-up from a fitted sheet -managing to sew the arms on inside out (twice, in two different ways). I also learned that the back panels need to be larger than the front panel, to accommodate the butt.

Originally, I wanted to make this out of raincoat material or pvc fabric to get that slimy frogskin look. I couldn't find any in the right color (or price), so I went with a cheap polyester satin. I think latex might have been also been a good alternative, but I've never worked with it before.

To get the white patterns on the frog, I just eyeballed where I thought the stripes should go on the paper pattern and cut it into smaller pieces (which I had to tape back together when I made the lining - this time out of blue bed sheet).

In the manga, there are large visible stitches in front. To mimic this, I decided to have the front lace with a thick cord. This meant I needed to install gromets on the front opening - but I was worried the hardware would tear right through the fragile satin. To prevent this, I reinforced the opening with a strip of denim encased in red cotton.

The smart thing to do would make the front zip up, and add a panel of fake lacing over the top. Since I didn't, 1) it takes a while to put on, and 2) the suit gapes open in places.

Frog Head: I spent a lot of time trying to figure this out - but in the end, I went with a very simple construction.

The hood consists of four main panels: the frog-shaped front and back panels of the outer hood, and two red panels for the inner hood. I 1) attached the white and orange parts of the outer panels 2) sewed the outerpanels together, and the inner hood panels together 3) cut a hole for my face out of the front outer panel, 4) sewed the edge of the inner hood panels to the face hole, 6) stuffed with batting from an old pillow, 6) added some extra fabric to close the hood under the chin.

I didn't quite get the shape right - the eyes should be rounder/ protrude less, and the cheeks/marcille's ears should sit lower down on the head. I think adding an extra panel to the back of the head would help it sit better. It's pretty 2D in profile, so my face sticks out of it too much.

Finally, using a stretch fabric for the inner hood (or a drawstring, that could tighten the hood itself) could make the hood fit snugly around the face. My hood was too loose, and I constantly had to adjust its position.

The frog eyes were also a bit tricky. The satin frayed to much to add large decorative stitching, so I had to sew little pieces of cord individually to the eyes. I probably should have made these smaller and more numerous...but my fingers were pretty sore form hand sewing.

The Shoes: I decided to make some boot covers for my docs, because making shoes from scratch is beyond my skill level.

I made a pattern by wrapping one shoe in a plastic back, then masking tape, and tracing out what looked like some important seam lines. I sewed all the pieces together except for top of the shoe, which I left open so 1) bagline the show cover, and 2) sew in the frog toes.

The toes themselves were sewn out of cotton and, stuffed with batting and old crochet squares. Then everything except the toe-tip was covered in orange satin. I did this since I was worried that the satin would not play nice with paint (foreshadowing). The toe-tips were then painted with a mix of black acryllic and liquid latex (for flexibility).

To keep the shoe covers on the shoes, I added some elastic around the bottom (salvaged from a fitted sheet). They also needed to close in the back - but I didn't have and velcro or zippers and I was running low on gromets. Instead, I made some loops out of scrap leather to run the lacing through. This looked cool but it was really hard to lace up myself!

Gloves: These were made the day before the convention, and are terribly slapdash.

Normally when you make gloves out of non-stretch fabric you need to add gussets to allow your hands bend, without the gloves being too loose. I did not do that. I just traced my hand on the fabric, and gave myself big finger pads and plenty of ease. They turned out pretty meh!

One issue was the finger pads themselves: it's hard to sew in a circle, so they were lumpy in shape. This lumpiness was enhanced by the way I stuffed them: just shoving stuffing into the finger tips. which is also where my fingers have to go. So every time I took the gloves on and off, the fingertips would get out of shape. I think hollowed foam balls would have been a better choice for the finger tips.

In addition, I painted the fingertips with the same latex/acrylic mixture I used on the toes. While it dried just fine on the cotton, the paint remained really sticky - so they picked up dust and peeled rather badly.

The gloves only had four fingers in the manga, so that's what I went with. But it was pretty uncomfortable with the pinky+ring finger sharing a home, and it didn't even look good.

Ambrosia (the staff): This was a real last-minute addition to the costume, done the night before the convention.

The base is a wooden dowel, and the hoop in a long tube of cotton fabric that I stuffed very firmly. I anted to make sure the hoop wouldn't fall off, so I "drilled" a hold near the tip of the staff (I.e. I shoved a screwdriver through the soft wood like an animal), and added grommets to each end of the stuffed cotton tube. I then created a tight mechanical join by running leftover cord though one grommet, then the dowel, and then the other grommet before tying it off.

Next, I wrapped a ton of different materials around the hoop and body of the staff: coord, twine, paper florist "rope", and paper-covered florist wire, etc. This was secured with an ungodly amount of hot glue. When possible, I tried to new strands under pre-existing ones for some extra security. I really like how wrapping the cord around the soft-hoop created the impression of vines growing around a living branch.

I painted the staff in three layers: base coat of red-brown, then a "wash" of watery black acrylic , and a dry brush of a lighter brown. I did not do a good job getting the paint evenly over the surface! From some angles the white cotton is still very visible, and I probably should have painted it before wrapping anything around it.

The sprout was made by sewing two leaf-shapes out of cotton, hot gluing it to a small snip of florist paper, and then hot gluing the stem to the hoop. Not bad for a rush job!

Overall: I think the feet and staff came out the best! People recognized me at the convention too, which is always the real test.

[hyperfixiation-station]

Lighter Pt.2

Ask and ye shall receive :))

TW: Blood, death, angst

Part 1

Part 3

You feel a sense of disconnect, being able to see your own body. It had been that way since you slipped into a coma on the evac. Just you, your body, and the voices.

There are voices, almost uninterpretable, that call to you from beyond the veil. You do not hear the words they say, but you recognize them. They belong to your mother, to your best friend, to a fellow soldier, to all people who have died under your care. They want you to join them, but the voices are faint and do not sway you. Instead, you tether yourself to the man sitting by your bedside. For 12 short hours, he kept you tethered to the mortal plane. And then there was a tightness in your chest and the tether snapped. 

It had been an interesting experience. In surgery, you had flatlined 3 times, but each time it felt like there was a tether holding you to your body, keeping you from following the voices.  But later, in the ICU with Ghost by your side, you felt the tether disappear. There was a sudden tightness, the first sensation you’d felt since slipping into the coma, and then the tether just snapped. You felt yourself fading, the voices growing louder and louder and louder. Your body tingled and you stretched out a hand, reaching for the voices, wanting to end the discomfort and just go. 

But then there was a spark, and you felt as though someone dumped a bucket of cold water over your skin. The voices faded, and you came back to yourself, tethered once more.

“Their heart gave out.” The doctors said, “The combined stress from blood loss and shock sent them into organ failure.”  You had watched in sick fascination as you were placed on life support, a machine keeping your heart beating and lungs breathing. For the past 3 days you had sat with Ghost, watching your chest rise and fall and rise and fall in a rhythmic motion.

“Listen, Y/N. I’m not- I’m not big on…on words.” He shifted slightly, “but the doctor said talking is supposed to help you. I don’t bloody know how, but I said I would give it a try. I-” He paused, fidgeting with his gloves, “-I don’t-” He paused again, thinking, “-I’m sorry.” He finally managed to get out. 

“About everything. You should never have been on the bloody mission, but when Price said we were working with another team, I jumped at the chance to work with you.” He paused, taking a steadying breath, “Which is stupid, considering I haven’t been able to say ‘I love you’ to your face.” 

“And I’m sorry for that too. I’m sorry that I never say ‘I love you’, that I’m never affectionate in public, that I don’t compliment you like I should. I'm sorry that I’m such a fucking bastard all the time.” Now that he’s started  talking, it's almost like he can’t stop. It feels like you are watching a train that you know is going to crash, and you can’t stop it, but you can’t look away either. 

“I’m sor-” His breath catches, “I’m sorry that I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry that you got shot. I’m sorry, I…I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry. I swear, I swear, if you wake up, I will spend every waking moment making it up to you. I will do whatever you want just-” He pauses, hands trembling, “-just please wake up.” 

“Please don’t.” You whisper, “Please don’t do this to yourself.” You wrap your spectral arms around him, nestling your chin on his head, trying to provide comfort that neither of you can feel.

He hasn’t left your bedside in 5 days, despite urging from Soap, Price, and even Gaz.

“I’m not leaving them alone. What if their heart gives out for good and I’m not there?” Had been his response every time someone tried to get him to leave. The doctors had only made his stubbornness worse. 

“If they can’t breathe on their own, then there is no hope of recovery. We are going to take them off the ventilator tomorrow and put them on a cannula, but if their lungs can inflate on their own, we may have to pull the plug.” The doctor had told Ghost yesterday, face full of sympathy. So now you stood by your bedside, hand on Ghost's back, watching the nurses take you off the ventilator.

It is equal parts disgusting and fascinating, watching them pull the tube from your throat. Disgusting, because they were pulling a tube from your throat, and fascinating, because, well, there was a tube being pulled from your throat. 

Almost immediately the tightness is back, squeezing like a vice. It is different this time. The world around you fades, and the voices come back, soft and inviting.  

“Come home.” The whisper to you.

Breathe, c’mon you can do this

“We miss you.” 

Please Y/N

The air is warm and comfortable, the scent of your childhood home filing the room.

Breathe please, I’m begging you dove

“Come ooooon Y/N!” The voice of your best friend echoes in your ears, drowning out the rest of the world. You reach for him, wanting to join, but something stops you. 

BREATHE Y/N

“It's not your time.” Your teammate whispers to you, her hand pushing you back to safety, just like she did the night she died. There is one high-pitched, steady beep in the back of your mind. 

Please, Y/N Please!

“Go back.” She says. She shoves you harder and suddenly you are back in the hospital. Ghost is crying, actually crying, and the nurses and doctors are frantically trying to get you to breathe. Your heart monitor is one long, steady line. 

“Go back.” She says again to you. She shoves you one more time and everything goes dark. 

[bluehoodiewoozi]

DRABBLE MARATHON #9:

JOSHUA HONG + morning coffee

0.5k words /// genre: fluff /// warnings: food mentions.

You loved Thursdays. Not because you liked what you had planned for the day nor because of some general sentiment. There was one very specific reason for your liking of Thursdays: those were the days your boyfriend worked the morning shift at your favourite coffee shop.

“Hi,” you smiled brightly when it was finally your turn to order, “it’s me.”

Joshua couldn’t help but return the gesture, his eyes crinkling as his smile stretched wide. “Hi, baby. What can I get for you today?”

“Surprise me?” 

He rolled his eyes at that. “So that you can tell me how bad my taste in coffee is again?”

“Why else?” you teased, leaning forward against the counter to briefly press your lips to his. “I trust you completely.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I still can’t believe they even let you near the coffee machine.”

“And here I thought I could have one morning of not being bullied by my own lover,” he sighed dramatically before tapping away on the computer. “A cinnamon latte coming right up. That’ll be–”

“How much for a boyfriend discount?” you interrupted him, eyes glinting with mischief that he knew all too well. 

He chuckled. “Let me see. How big of a discount do you need today, my love?”

“Can I get it free?” you wondered, not really meaning it – it was just fun to get on his nerves every once in a while and test his saint-like patience. You were, of course, fully ready to pay the full price.

But Joshua was full of surprises and that only made you love him more. “Give me a hug and I’ll consider it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Wait, you’re serious? Like… serious?”

“Would I ever lie to you, baby?” he laughed, more than amused by your reaction. “So, do we have a deal?”

“You’re paying for my drink?” you asked to clarify.

He nodded. “If you give me a hug.” 

Without another word, he lifted his arms, gesturing for you to meet him at the edge of the counter. Still dumbfounded, you just did as told. Your arms wrapped around his waist just as his did around your shoulders, his face coming to rest against your head. 

He sighed happily. “This is nice. I should do this more often.”

“Ask me for hugs in public spaces?” you joked and unwrapped yourself from his embrace, rushing back to your original spot. “Do I get my coffee now?”

He watched your actions with a pout. “One more hug and I’ll buy you a muffin too?”

You were unimpressed this time. “One hug is all you get, mister. I want my coffee.”

With a theatrical sigh, he turned to the coffee machine. Through the noise of grinding coffee beans, you heard him mumble, “I can’t believe I love you.”

[heartrender6]

My rendition of the 5 golden ticket kids from Willy Wonka

(nerdy explanation of details and process below the cut)

Augustus Gloop: my poor child gets ragged on so much by those stupid fucking oompa loompas when he really didn't do anything that bad. You'll notice that he's holding a caramel apple in one hand and a lollipop that looks kinda like a snake in the other. This is, of course, a biblical reference. Augustus committed the first "sin" by drinking out of the river, therefore he is Eve From The Bible. I didn't wanna incorporate being sucked into an industrial tube into a character design. Also I made him cute and silly because fat =/= evil.

Violet Beauregard: This was kind of tough because all the other kids have a very clear fundamental flaw whereas violet just... chews a lot of gum. Her hair is supposed to look like a blueberry, a clear reference to her turning into one after chewing the forbidden gum. The dress is a cute bubblegum pink (self explanatory). I'm convinced Violet had an iron deficiency because no other kind of person is just obsessed with chewing. Thus her outfit is a little overstimulating and has maybe too many patterns, like the void in her nutrition that she tries to fill with gum. (she's also dressed like that because she's, you know, a child.)

Veruca Salt: In the book, Veruca presumably gets mauled to death by squirrels (god forbid a woman be assertive in the workplace), so I gave her design a squirrel-y appearance. the swoop of hair is like a little squirrel tail and she has a bit of a chipmonk-y face. Is the velvet-cardigan-brown fur boot-lace combo kind of hideous? of course. It represents overindulgence. wearing velvet with a sweater on top, fur boots, and a gigantic velvet bow is a very heavy and sweaty outfit choice. this shows how Veruca' father enabling her consumerism piles on top of her and weighs her down.

Mike TV: a neglected child immerses himself in the hollywood dream as an escape from his broken home and pays the ultimate price: being shrunken, reduced to the size of a TV box, and then stretched impossibly thin. That's why he has the little tassels, to symbolize the taffy from the pulling machine that turns substance into bite-sized entertainment. I went back and forth between making him obsessed with space, cowboys, or the military, but in the end I landed on cowboys to fully complete that national anthem lana del rey american dream aesthetic. also there's little tvs and stars on his bandana.

Charlie Bucket: His sweater is too big and his pants and shoes are too small, a representation of his family's poverty. He's tiny and he's cold because he's malnourished. the sweater-scarf combo is meant to be the shape of a bottle, representing the fizzy lifting drinks Charlie steals. The scarf is wrapped around charlie's mouth, suffocating him a little, representing the virtuous charlie's struggle with temptation. he's also just a little chilly.

[inkformyblood]

needed: a better hiding spot (CWFKB #18)

Butterfly kiss, Canon Era, pining~ @codywanfirstkissbingo

“Here.”

Cody barely has a moment to register the pressure of Obi-Wan’s hand around his wrist before he’s pulled sideways. The door slides shut behind them with a click that echoes in the recesses of Cody’s brain, the final notch in a tally he’s been keeping since he first walked onto the bridge and saw Obi-Wan. He is completely and utterly fucked.

The cupboard — because calling it anything else would be an insult — is lined on both walls with shelving. Cody blinks in the sudden and complete darkness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. His helmet lies discarded somewhere on a higher level, a lucky shot cracking the visor and rendering it unusable, but the small beacon wired into it would still be active and they would be found. Eventually. Cody may be dead by then, his heart which carries by itself a price tag of seven hundred credits giving out due to the strain of how close Obi-Wan is to him. He can make out the flutter of Obi-Wan’s lashes, the faint floral scent that clings to his breath as he sighs, his mouth pursing into a faint whistle. 

It is how they trained them in Kamino, whistles and hand gestures, twisting them one way and then the other like a pack of hunting shrills, and Cody looks where Obi-Wan indicates. He can just make out the impression of his hand, one still wrapped around Cody’s wrist, the blunt reflective sheen of a callus that swallows up the side of his thumb, before Obi-Wan releases him. His hand falls to his side and Cody misses the moment of contact. It would be for the best. He is used to surviving on rations stretched as far as they could go and Obi-Wan’s touch could be divided up similarly. 

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan murmurs. His face is tipped towards Cody’s ear, his hair falling free from the rough bun he had hurriedly tidied himself into before they stepped onto the ship and the strands fall across Cody’s shoulder like a tidal wave. There’s an absence of scent to it, the neutral nothingness that comes with the products supplied to the clones, and Cody’s thoughts slowly tip into Obi-Wan in the showers before he tears himself back into rote procedure. 

He’s dead. He is never going to leave this cupboard.

Cody swallows and the sound echoes in the cavern of his skull, too loud to be anything other than a point blank blaster cocked against his temple. “Sorry for what, sir?”

Obi-Wan catches himself on the edge of a laugh, biting it back as his shoulders shake. He lowers his head, pressing his forehead to Cody’s shoulder before he breathes in and straightens up once more. Grief breaks into fragments across his brow blending with the lingering joy, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He clears his throat softly and Cody’s attention snapping back to him. “I should have tried to pick a better hiding spot,” Obi-Wan says, an apology layered beneath his words. He presses his regrets into Cody’s hip, the motion hidden from the door by the bulk of their bodies and the fall of Obi-Wan’s robes, close but still apart. 

“Next time, I’d like one that has a caf machine installed.” Cody leans into Obi-Wan’s touch still. It is like he is starving, trying to tear himself away from a banquet. He can carve half-moons into his flesh from the jagged edges of his nails and sear the brush of Obi-Wan’s fingertips into his bones and it will never be enough. He wants to kiss him, but he can’t. Cody is a good soldier, he follows his orders, and Obi-Wan is his General. There isn’t a space for them yet, not here, not like this. 

“I will try my best in the future.” 

They are silent for a long moment. Distantly, the wail of an alarm begins to sound and the light bleeding through the narrow gap of the doors flickers a deep red. In the fresh hue, Cody looks up at Obi-Wan, meeting his gaze. “What are you thinking, sir?”

“Lots of things,” Obi-Wan answers automatically. His mouth curves into a small smile that doesn’t go anywhere near his eyes, the same expression he wears when a politician breaks into his orbit, manufactured politeness brandished like a saber to get them away from him. Cody doesn’t know what the Force feels like, how an entire universe's worth of input could cram itself into a single person’s mind, but he squeezes Obi-Wan’s hand. A tremor runs through the other man, a realigning of planets because of Cody’s touch and he wonders if the Force feels better than this, if shifting the flow of the universe could compare to holding Obi-Wan’s hand. 

Obi-Wan continues, his voice perfectly level in stark opposition to the shiver rattling his teeth. “I am thinking that I really would like to kiss you.”

Cody starts, his breath tearing through his chest before he rights himself in the same moment, perfected Kaminoan engineering at work. “I’d like you to kiss me.”

“Not like this, but—” Obi-Wan cups Cody’s jaw in his free hand, smoothing his thumb over Cody’s cheek, “—hold still, love.”

Cody obeys. The ship could fall out of the sky and every single one of his brothers could tear open the door to this cupboard and Cody wouldn’t move. Obi-Wan leans closer, pressing his cheek to Cody’s before he turns his face closer. He blinks deliberately, his lashes dragging against Cody’s skin, his breath warm as he exhales, and Cody closes his eyes. He wants to remember this. It is an unconventional kiss, but they have never done things in the typical way. 

Obi-Wan straightens slowly. “I will be able to kiss you properly after the war.”

“I liked that kiss,” Cody murmurs, his voice cracking, his cheeks suddenly burning. Obi-Wan chuckles, squeezing Cody’s hand once more. 

“I’m glad.”

[how-serene]

Dating Headcanons - Eric Binford

Warnings - fluff, tiny bit of angst, nsfw, gn!reader

A/N - rewatched the film recently, had to get this off my chest. First time writing headcanons.

How You Meet (setting the scene) -

You worked behind the snack counter, stuck in a reputative motion of serving popcorn, and cold soft drinks to the never-ending line of patrons. All while wearing the too wide, stretched grin that every staff member adorned throughout the day.

You first meet Eric on a particular slow afternoon, when the floor was mostly deserted of customers. It was Monsters week, in the middle of July. You tried to pass the time, flipping through a magazine while smacking on a cheap piece of pink bubble gum.

Eric was probably already a familiar face to you, and everyone else who worked at the theater. He would come in all hours of the day, usually late afternoons and nights. Although you never had the chance to talk to him.

So when he strolled up to the counter, shifting his gaze to the glass case of over-priced candy, you thought "fuck it." With the agonizingly slow clock counting down your shift, a little conversation wouldn't hurt to help pass the time.

"What can I get you?" you asked, leaning against the glass counter top.

"Just popcorn, please." He replied, fumbling for his wallet.

While you were busy readying the popcorn, you peered over at him.

"So, you here to watch Dracula again?"

He blinked, slowly as if trying to process your question. Then, suddenly you noticed his eyes come to life, like you had slot a coin in a game machine.

"Oh, ah no. I'm actually here to see a showing for Frankenstein."

"With Boris Karloff, right?"

"Yeah, did you know he-

Before you knew it he had talked your ear off for over 30 minutes, missing a majority of the film. In the end, he had timidly asked you out.

You looked over his lanky frame, and poor posture. His brown eyes were dark and bruised, as if he hardly slept.

He was cute, and you couldn't remember the last time you went out on a date with someone.

So, against your better judgment, you slipped him your number.

And the rest was history.

Relationship Headcanons -

okay let's get into it.

♥︎ Eric, undoubtedly, loves movie dates. Whether at home, the cinema or at those dingy drive-in's with shitty speakers. He loves having your warm body curled up into his side, while watching whatever is on screen.

♥︎ This also gives him a chance to ramble, from obscure facts about the film to the passing faces of background actors he happens to know the name of.

♥︎ He was worried at first, that you would find it annoying. People tend to think he talks too much, and often tell him to "shut the fuck up." Over time though, as the relationship progresses, that initial worry subsides.

♥︎ Will take you to new screenings every chance he gets. He has a pre-made list of every movie coming out during a certain month, and dammit he's not missing a single one-

♥︎ Will drive you around town, on the company vespa that he's definitely not borrowing on company time eric please, you're going to get fired-

♥︎ Loves it when you run your fingers through his dirty blonde hair. If you two are in his room, he'll gently place his head in your lap, quietly signaling to you. It helps soothe him to sleep, especially on nights when his insomnia is getting the best of him.

♥︎ Will stay over at your place most nights, to get away from his aunt Stella. Sometimes, after a particularly bad argument with her, he'll show up at your doorstep. Eyes red, and irritated from crying.

♥︎ He confessed to you one night, that he blamed himself for his mother's death (since she died during childbirth.) He was practically curled up in your lap, shoulders shaking from crying so hard.

♥︎ I can see Eric being a cuddly person. Loves it when your arms are wrapped around him, while he rests his head in the crook of your neck. Something about being held, reassures that nagging part of his brain that thinks he's not good enough.

♥︎ He definitely quotes romantic lines from some of his favorite films to you. Some examples -

"Never be jealous again. Never doubt that I love you more than the world. More than myself." Camille, 1936.

"I haven't been afraid since I've known you." Gaslight, 1944.

"You're wonderful. There's a magnificence in you, Tracy." The Philadelphia Story, 1940.

♥︎ Is not typically jealous, but due to being told he's worthless most of the time (from his aunt) I assume he battles with a lot of insecurity. He's not the most striking looking guy, and happens to be a lot smaller and thinner.

♥︎ So there are times when he'll need reassurance that you're there and want to be with him.

NSFW Headcanons -

♥︎ Listen, Eric doesn't have much dating experience meaning there's a good chance he's a virgin when you two get together.

♥︎ He's definitely more of a sub, whining and whimpering constantly when he's beneath you.

♥︎ I imagine him being quiet handsy, grasping at your hips, thighs, waist just trying to feel more of you. His hands tend to shake, more from excitement than overall nerves.

♥︎ He's a little shy to admit it at first, but he would be into roleplaying. Due to his extensive knowledge on films, he has an entire list of scenes from favorite movies of his he wants to 'act out' with you (with his own spin).

♥︎ I can see him taking it seriously, wanting to dress the part and set the mood. Acts as if it's a proper stage production. Will only break character when you're rocking your hips against him, causing him to mewl and buck against you.

♥︎ He can be needy in the bedroom, pleading just to be inside of you or taste you. From his tear stricken face and parted swollen lips, you have a hard time denying him.

♥︎ You dressed up once, as his favorite actor/actress (as a birthday present).

♥︎ Practically fell to your feet, words of praise and adoration falling from his lips.

♥︎ He's a bit of a sloppy kisser at first, as he gets caught in frenzy at the warm feeling of your tongue against his.

♥︎ Is a bit of pervert/creep, if I'm being honest.

♥︎ Has stolen your underwear before when he thought you weren't looking (you were aware, and may or may not have left them out for him to find.)

♥︎ When you're not around, and he's home alone he'll jerk off with your underwear in his hand. The scratchy fabric causing him to shudder and recall past nights with you.

♥︎ Despite this, nothing will ever beat physically having you around (for him to squeeze and hold.)

[wwwquickpakinccom]

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[chuu-huahua]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO CHUUYA

chuuya is so babygirl that he gets his own birthday post (dw dazai gets one too in june lol). slay ig

tw: fire? from a candle?? / dark era spoilers / mentions of alcohol because chuuya likes wine

he didn’t celebrate his birthday a lot, both in the sheep and in the mafia. prices weren’t low when he was younger, and he didn’t nearly have enough time to take a day off to relax from the bloodshed and fighting around him

so when he found a small cake sitting in his fridge that evening, with a small yellow sticky note with a handwriting he was way too familiar with, all he could do was smile. the stupid mackerel had gotten him a cake. it even contained alcohol. stupid bandage wasting machine…

and surprisingly, mori waved him off when he came over to submit his mission report that morning, telling him to take the day off and “enjoy his youth” (his words, not chuuya’s), slipping a paper containing red crayon marks wording something along the lines of “i’ll kill you”, whatever that meant, under his own piles of endless paperwork

so, he spent the rest of his day lounging around in his penthouse, savouring the rum flavoured slice of cake his ex-partner had gotten him (of course he checked for poison; it wouldn’t do him any good to drop dead on the floor of his house before he could even submit his mission report to mori), and nursing the glass of wine from a bottle he had stored away for some time now. the sun was starting to set, bathing the land with its warm oranges and reds and yellows, and the buildings around him were coated in golden light

his shoulders had finally loosened up from writing endless reports and tending to mountains of paperwork after a while, so when he received a phone call from kouyou telling him to come over for some business, his sigh cut through the comfortable silence that had mixed into the atmosphere of his living room

but when he arrived at the oh so familiar traditional japanese style house his ane-san resided at, the surprise was clear on his face when he slid open the door to come face to face with the ginger from the black lizard. kouyou was not too far behind him, going through the entire tea ceremony with grace akin to swans, the aroma of the fresh warm beverage now wafting through the entire estate. now that he looked behind tachihara, he could see higuchi and hirotsu, as well as the akutagawa siblings

his ane-san called him over, instructing him to sit down with her on the tatami mats that still bathed in the gold of the setting sun. a cup of tea was placed in front of him, as well as a small black box. blowing softly over the top of the cup before placing it to his lips, chuuya almost choked when he opened the box to reveal a brand new pair of black gloves. his current ones were worn and creased over the years of use, as well as the countless washings it went through to clean off the blood of his enemies. the people around him could only smile at the shock on his face, some giggling at his wide eyed look

so when he stretches the new leather over his hands and wiggles his fingers, the familiar warmth of his old glove is replaced with a new comfort that wraps his hand, and the warmth in his chest burns like an inferno

although he lost the sheep when he was younger, seeing the smiles on the faces of the people surrounding him as they bring out a cake from kouyou’s fridge makes the emotions in his chest swirl like the storms and tornadoes; if he had never met dazai, he would probably have never met the people who were singing him a birthday song (his very first one) and using the lighter from his pocket (when had they even got hold of it?) to light the tiny wax candle that stood proudly on the cream 

as he made his wish and blew out the candles, he could almost feel the hairs at the back of his neck standing, as if they too could tell that there was a certain brown haired detective toasting a glass of cheap sake to him from his own apartment

some PROFESSIONAL SQUASH PLAYER DAZAI content too <3

a kiss on the lips. 

that was what japan’s number one national squash player had gifted him for his birthday, right after he stepped out of the court, all sweaty from the movement and with his racket still gripped tightly in his hand. 

sure, the frame of the eyewear had pressed against his forehead rather harshly; sure, the mackerel had sweat dripping all over him from the exhaustive game he just had; sure, their teeth had knocked together when their lips connected. but chuuya could not deny that his skin shone as bright as his hair, the back of his hand pressed to his pursed lips, sharp blue eyes following the taller figure as he skipped off to find his manager. 

he continued to stare at the back of the exercise shirt that had gotten slightly see-through with the sweat running down the man’s back, but his shoulders visibly flinched when dazai turned to look back at him, eyes shining with mirth. happy birthday, he mouthed, before giggling cheekily and trailing after the man with sleek black hair that led him away, leaving chuuya to continue feeling the intense burn of his cheeks.

[magnetictapedatastorage]

“Ask me to kill for you.” “No(t at that price)”

i have fem sniperspy thoughts. okay. the first time that spy hired sniper was the most satisfying mission of sniper's career. and now shes got an itch she can't scratch because for some reason, little miss ive-got-enemies doesn't want any more of them shot in the head! or, at least, she doesn't want them shot at the price sniper is charging. it would be idiotic to lower the price. unprofessional. needy. really, it's not that much lower. honestly. same number of digits.

it's hot in the Maldives, even in the shade. she barely remembers the way the way the target's greasy, balding, sunburnt head split like rotting fruit. instead she remembers the hotel phone, heavy in her hand, sweat dripping down her back in the freezing air conditioned room. it was barely 36 hours since she'd received a single black and white photo, and the entire time, she'd worked like a woman possessed, until he was dead. shot in the middle of one of his company's fields, while the farmhands were busy elsewhere.

"ma tireuse, perhaps I can find more work for you, if you are always to be so..."

when the silence stretches on in lieu of a compliment, sniper tries to complete the sentence, by offering "efficient." her voice is strained. she feels halfway suffocated by some kind of emotion, but she doesn't want the feeling to stop.

there is a sound not quite like agreement on the other end of the line, but the words give her enough of a rush to live off of. "Yes, efficient, you were certainly faster than I had expected." Sniper breathes a near-silent sigh of relief. The bed she's sitting on is still made, from when she checked in yesterday morning, before spending all day and night on the stakeout. "Nonetheless, there are, shall we say, economic concerns. I'm not asking for a bulk discount, nothing of the sort, but if you're to become my on-call, I cannot be forced to keep such a conspicuously liquid account in order to access you."

It takes sniper nearly a full minute to try and parse all of that, especially with the way her client's voice seemed to drip like honey over every word. and how tired she was from the heat. but sure, she can go a little cheaper. nothing crazy. "What kind of budget limitation are we talking about?" she steels herself for a crushingly low number. somewhere in the back of her mind, she knows she'd accept almost anything.

"ma tireuse you misunderstand me. I am giving you full access to my account. I trust that you will be able to control yourself."

the change is so fast, she feels lightheaded for months. no matter where she goes, what hotel she books, she is simply never billed. and far from needing to buy ammo in cash out of the back of a pickup truck in the middle of nowhere, she's shaking hands with the 5th-in-command of the Sicilian mob, and taking home a rifle in a bassoon case.

spy made the calculation that she was worth more as a loyal, long term investment than as an exploitable source of cheap kills.

sniper is living in an apartment for a month or whatever, there's down time while spy is under the radar for a very delicate plan. sniper goes to bed alone. she wakes up alone. but in the middle of the night She Was Not Alone. 

and it's not like spy had to break in or anything. technically it's her apartment. she's the one paying for it. she'd been a bit surprised to find herself so thoroughly wrapped in long limbs, and it had been a challenge to extract herself, but she slipped away eventually, and long before the woman awoke. it was an acceptable way to spend the night, and to lose the tail that had been following her the past few days. 

sniper awoke fully wrapped around her pillow, as if she'd been afraid of it trying to escape. and the coffee machine was on.

she'd never take a trophy while out on a job, but she does take the bullet casings home (more out of hiding her tracks than anything). and if those casings make their way on to spy's desk on a regular basis than who's to say what that's all about.

[mirthlxss]

Off to the races

Chapter 3: The way he holds my hand

Inescapable, both the situation and his presence

“Sore?” 

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, ..., Chapter 4

price x oc, series.

taglist: my lovely @deadbranch , @jxvipike

a03: pricescigar, Off to the races is posted in full.

warnings: confinement, angst, panic, drugs.

It sounded like birds chirping, the pitched call came from above, perhaps a thrush had taken to a branch overhead, calling intermittently. Its small brown eyes flitting around, she indulged herself and began to imagine it was watching her. The sound remained constant, the more she focused on its song, the louder it became, goosebumps prickled down her arms at the monotonous melody. What a sad, little bird. 

Feeling scratchy, foreign texture beneath her, fingers splayed slowly as they explored, gentle caress outwards as she slowly stretched, reaching and reaching until clink. Cold and restrictive around her wrists, it halted her movements. Eyes, reluctant to open, she swam in the darkness towards the bird, following its sound. 

The ache came next, wrapped around her head like a helmet three sizes too small, squeezing with unforgiving might. Pain, it lingered throughout her body, sharp stings bit her feet as she sought to wiggle her toes, mouth parting with a sticky sense of dehydration, an attempt at voicing her discomfort amounted to dry rasps, choked coughs. 

Dreary roll of her orbs, a rushed flutter that caused the girl to grimace at the intrusion of light. The bird began to morph, her own croaking and groaning amplifying its tune, a rushed bleat that rang louder and louder.   

With great effort and a stubborn will to be conscious, she peeled her eyes open, blinking away the blue-white haze that misted her vision. The bird took flight, escaping. Its song remained, hospital machine droning on beside her, body strewn across sheets, limbs cold as no one had cared to tuck her in, hands restrained on either side with handcuffs linked to the bed. Delayed reaction, reality floating just out of reach as she let her confused glimpses carry across the room, wandering from the cuffs to the IV within her forearm, travelling up the drip to glaze over words she could not quite make out. 

Mouth opened once more, lips smacking together in displeasure, brows furrowed- unsettled. Unsettled yet unable to fully understand, still slow from the drugs. 

“Good morning” The sound startled her, rich in timbre it was indistinguishable from dream or reality. Sickly, slow moments ensued as she searched for its origin, lazily looking upon a figure looming by the window. Blinking it away, the image of a man remained, haze lifting with his presence. 

‘Fuck.” She wanted to say, wanted to spit it out. The only sound managed was a slow, rasping ‘f’ that barely pushed past her chapped lips. 

He turned fully, watching as she came to, started to stir, started to struggle. One pace closer, he stood at the foot of the bed, his frame so broad it almost blocked out the light coming in through the window, a shadow fell over her wriggling limbs, desperately trying to push herself up and away from the other. 

“Sore?” 

She could see him fully now, he almost looked smug situated before her, a front-row seat. Short, brown hair that trickled into a neatly kept beard, thick eyebrows dawned over intense eyes. Inescapable, both the situation and his presence, Lilith could only sit and stare back. His image tickled a vague memory that teased her as she watched him, curious and cautious, she stared as he approached slowly. She stared as he reached the side of her confinement, carefully pouring out water from the jug placed waiting on the bedside table. 

The man was unreadable as he brought the paper cup to her mouth. At first, she refused, lips remaining sealed with a twisted scowl, pulling her head away like a child offered medicine. Patient, he offered once more, as if he himself could feel the dry longing at the back of her throat. Lilith continued to glare, angry expression flaring on her features as she searched the other for any sort of clue. An inkling of understanding. 

“Fine.” A calloused hand gripped her chin, forcing her lips to pucker before he poured the water haphazardly into the small opening created, droplets streaming down the side of her face in the process. Lilith swallowed down a gasp along with the liquid, a furious noise leaving the woman as she attempted to tare her head away from his grasp. 

“What the fuck!” Exasperated, it came out broken, muffled string of rasps. Barely audible as his grip stayed strong, already pouring another cup before he soon did the same again, more mess dampening her hospital gown, the blue material soaking up the stray water. 

“She talks-“ An offhand mumble, gravelly as it left him. Lilith could barely contain herself, left gaping as he released her. 

“What the fuck!” 

“I heard you the first time love” 

“What the actual fuck!” 

“Enough.” His tone demanding, authoritative. Again, another pang of familiarity quietens her for a moment, eyes squeezing shut- as if she could just pluck it from the top of her head, it was there, waiting. 

The radio. 

Sharply inhaling, eyes find his in terror, half expecting to find a body and a knife as she had done before. The way her face falls tells him enough, he knows it's come back to her and part of him is thankful, makes the investigation that much easier. 

Watching as he steps back, situating himself back down in the seat he’s been occupying these past couple days, only now had she taken in the room fully. Brown and red paper folders were messily stacked up beside him, a low-lying table clearly made for flowers and fruit now covered in paperwork and old coffee cups. 

He wastes no time. “Can you recall the man you found in the supply closet last Monday?” His hands graze over a folder, thumbing through its pages until a pen fell loose from the sheets, already uncapped. 

Lilith reeled, lip curling in disbelief, she wished he’d come over and force some more water in her mouth, maybe this time she’d spit it out at him. 

“He’s dead, isn’t he? You killed that other guy too-“ 

“So you do remember him, good. I need you to describe the events leading up to you stabbing, unmasking and fleeing from the man in the supply closet.” The flat tone in which he delivered such demands nearly punched the air from her, she sat dumbfounded, fists clenching and unclenching slowly. 

“That’s not true- I tried to help him but he was bleeding out!” 

“Is that why you cut off his comms?” 

“Comms?” 

“The radio Lilith. The radio you disconnected.” 

The sound of her name left her feeling scolded, confusion clear, bobbing her mouth as it opened and closed, a drowning fish. She latched onto the only known thing, her name. Her eyes began to well, sniffling to try to dismiss the tears. “It’s Lilly. Who are you? Why am I handcuffed? How do you even know my name?” 

He sat unmoving, not even bothering to acknowledge the questions that began to fly in rapid succession. “Is that guy dead? Where’s my phone? Let me speak to someone! I want to talk to a doctor!” They tumbled into demands, she began to thrash at the metal confines. 

“You disconnected his radio before stabbing him in the throat and uncovering his identity, who are you working for?” 

“I want to fucking talk to someone sane! Where the hell is the doctor?!” 

“Who did you contact when you uncovered his identity? What media did you send out?” He remained stagnant, a lighthouse amongst her crashing waves of anger, stoic and stable as she raged at his shore.   

“Oh my god! help!” The woman hurled out the cry, the percussion of the handcuffs rattling against the bed frame only magnifying the noise she was creating “somebody help me!” 

The screaming seemed to rattle a reaction, though not from the man sitting across from her. Steadily the curtain separating the rest of the room trundled aside to reveal three, slightly agitated-looking men. “I think she’s due for another sedative” The suggestion comes out deep and muffled, and again Lilith is rendered speechless. Eyes locked with his, mask and balaclava much the same as before, just not covered in blood. 

“You!” It almost sounded excited, her body angled towards him, astonishment clear. “You’re alive!” 

“Did the last dose really knock her out that bad?” Another spoke, head tilting to the side as he observed the scene playing out. 

“We’ve done this routine before lass’.” The third comes forward, almost apologetic as he drops down her bloodied phone, the device resting at her feet, out of reach. 

“Before?” She could feel it now, the deep stir of dread that churned within her, how long had she been here? The bearded one said something about last Monday. . . A week? More? The weather rolled in, rainclouds stormed within her eyes as she choked out thunder, streams pouring down the mountains of her cheeks. 

“Not again-“ The dark-haired male ran a hand down his face and turned away, all too used to witnessing the crazed girl sob and heave by now. 

“Lilly, cm’on you gotta work with us here lass. Lets just go through what happened, you were out looking for something to help clean up yer’ friend, is that it?” The Scotsman tried to calm her, thick accent and kinder approach much more endearing. She shook her head, blubbed a little longer before she drew a shaky breath. 

“Looking for scissors, to cut the muddy parts of her dress off- it was scissors.” 

Price followed along once more, eyes scanning the various pages of notes he had taken during this stretch of waiting and questioning. She’d been up and out three times now, inconsolable to the point in which it was easier to just- start again. It was Ghost’s idea first, to sedate her, the rest seemed unsure. 

The captain struggled, carefully balancing on the knife's edge of morality, the high ground of war. Was this a civilian? A well-trained informant? Was someone successful in uncovering Simon? It all hung in the balance, in weighing the options, it was his team in the line of fire. Though, with each waking and wailing, the story never changed. Just over a week and it's never changed. He watched her throughout the time, the slow rise and fall of her chest, occasional kick of her foot, a frown on her features as she fell deeper into sedated sleep. Something heavy had begun to form within his chest, ribcage housing what felt more like the beat of his growing guilt than his own heart. 

Decisions plagued him every second of every day. 

Garrick could sense it, the way Soap stood back from her bed, the slow close of Price’s file. They’d decided for themselves already, agreed with what he had figured out days before them. Ghost remained uncertain, hand still enclosed around the injection of tranquilliser. Eyes bore into the captain, willing some kind of resolution, wanting to just end things here. 

The quiet between the four soaked into Lilith like a cold chill, still air thick and undistinguishable. Distinctly alone, unable to communicate like they had been, flitting looks and small nods, silent negotiations in which she could all but gawk at. Watching him close the file felt like a finality, a judge's hammer crashing down onto the podium, the jury had spoken and she was all but deaf to their decision. He rose and she began to thrash again, the scrape of the handcuffs rubbing her wrists raw but it felt like something, an attempt at resistance. Never one to go quietly. 

“Is it his face?” The panicked question jumped from her core, not fully understanding the gravity of the situation, Ghost stepped forward, needle poised. “Your face? Is that it- look, I don’t even remember-“ 

“Liar.” Deadpan, he offered her the sharp tip, injection soared towards the exposed flesh of her arm. 

Chaos ensued, a flurry of shouts, Soap colliding with the masked man with a loud grunt of disapproval, Garrick pulling the sedative from Ghost’s gloved hand and chucking it down onto the floor. Price moved with purpose, suddenly thick within the disorder and curtly yelling above the rest, disgruntled by the disarray. 

“No, Ghost.” Barked out, the same heated tone that held the experience of thousands of commands, years of authority. “Not what we agreed.” It’s short and simple, the fray over before it even really started. His arm held out over her body, protection cast like a god amongst men, an invisible shield moulding to her being by his order.

“Surveillance, fucking keep her here.” Its spat as a warning as Ghost turns to leave, two soldiers trailing after him, a warning that lingered as she heaved another cry. She could feel it, the weight of his words, worse than the closing of the file, perhaps her end was in his hands- she refused to believe so. Lilith writhed still, hiccuping and deathly afraid. 

“I need to go” The words held no importance, meshed between snotty breaths, tears and erratic movements. 

“You won’t be leaving anytime soon.”

Emotion toiled and tinkered beneath the surface of sound logic, purposefully twisting and tugging at notions that seemed beyond the realm of possibility, pushing oneself deeper and deeper down the rabbit hole as the light of rationality raced away. It was dark in the throws of emotion, depths too treacherous to tame. Laid bare to the visceral feeling of raw senses, smell, taste, touch- the iron clasp of stern hands, smothering shoulders, weighing her down, down further and she couldn't breathe because-

‘You won’t be leaving anytime soon.’ The statement was so sure of itself that it shook leaving the cave of his mouth, sombre tones vibrating within the open air, coaxing a curl of her lips. Something small, even humorous, she wanted to laugh. Let her head hang back and grasp her stomach as it convulsed with the sound. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, she wanted to scream and shout and collapse and be everything at once. She would be everything at once, in order to navigate this unscathed. The chaos contrasted with Price, his grip firm and fair whilst she flailed. Reaching and rioting, hands wanting to illicit their fair share. 

     You won’t be leaving anytime soon.

“This can’t be legal, I want a lawyer- or a call, a phone call, that's the law!” Pent-up stress came hissing out with her words, lashing at the other in her volatile nature and still, she harboured all the menace of a small, yapping dog at Price’s feet. Loud and brash in nature yet desperate in its jumping and barking, demanding attention. "You can’t just keep me here." She bit, tone faltering slightly in exhaustion, already encumbered by the shock of the situation.

[heirbane]

the praetorium took more from than his soldiers and his pride - and he continues to pay the price.

his wounds were many and more, but few are as obvious as the burns to his face and the state of his left arm. the defeat against the Warrior of Light had dented and scarred the legati's armor, but he had yet to be truly wounded. it was atop Ultima and the fall that followed that nearly killed him.

his armor buckled under the force of each Primal's removal from the weapon. the command center at the head of the machina began to fail even before the first Primal was ripped from it's existence, the electricity sparking and magitek starting to stutter under the stress. a means of escape had been built into the unit: the place where he stood could, in theory, be released, the platform designed to take the brunt of the fall's force.

but it required a manual override, and gaius was not a man to give up simply because. it never was going to be used by the legatus. he would die in the machine before turned tail and ran.

or so he believed. the Ultima had other intentions, the broken corpse of the XIV legion shattering and dumping the man out from where he hid some forty fulms from the ground. the fall bent and distended his armor, and his bones followed, forced out of place by the metal plating. his ribs cracked and shattered on impact; he suffered a compound fracture in his lower leg, contained by his armor, that insisted he would not escape the place on his own two feet.

and so he laid, flames licking at the legati's broken body, heating the metal he wore to the point of burns. the mask seared flesh from his face, resulting in dark stretches of scarring that remain even years afterward.

but it was his arm that he laid upon that suffered the worse. his shoulder forced out of socket, pressing against the armor in a way he couldn't hope to adjust, and as the ground neath his broken body began to warm from the sheer extent of the blaze, his arm was the first part of him to begin to cook. the leather that Garleans so oft wore was, in fact, not genuine leather: most are synthetic, composed of ceruleum and other man-made materials, intended to reduce the likelihood of electric or magitek shock and allow for the use of touch-screens.

real leather does not melt. real leather does not melt into the skin and settle, creating rivers of molten ceruleum through the layers of skin. but ceruleum-aided leather does, and the oil-based polymer cloth melted flesh from bone. his fingers suffered the worst, but his left arm is still scarred and uneven.

in the aftermath immediately after, Valdeaulin is the one to set and wrap his broken pieces. while not a conjurer by any means, basic healing capabilities and potion making is strongly encouraged among native Gridanians - especially among Duskwights, who are so often spurned by Gridanian culture and society at large. he healed over time, but not without suffering, nor issues. his ribs are crooked; the compound fracture takes the longest route to healing, and ensures he is thoroughly and entirely in the debt of Valdeaulin and Severa.

Gaius continues to wear his own attempt at a homemade compression garment around his hand and arm: the bandages he so oft wears. they aid in the scarring process and give him a range of motion that, had he not wrapped his limb, would have been wholly lost by tight scar tissue. his shoulder aches no matter the weather, and he has lost all sensation under the scar tissue. his fingers lack prints; his arm lacks hair. he only scarcely is able to feel the limb to move it, like one may struggle to feel an arm they fell asleep on.

(He would probably benefit from the use of a cane, and takes one up once he stays long-term at Tercliff. the compound fracture causes him to limp, as his legs are no longer as close in length as they naturally tend to be. he was extremely, extremely lucky that infection didn't settle in: his armor hid the exposed bone from most elements until Valdeaulin sets it, and they took pains to keep the wound clean and sanitized. however, the both of them could only do so much without expert medical attention, which was what lead to the man's limp.)

[bemystargirl]

𝐒𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐎 — PROLOGUE

𝗜𝗡 𝗪𝗛𝗜𝗖𝗛 an FBI Agent, Isabella Kingsley, is enlisted into task force 141 to bring down a powerful drug cartel involved in a large terrorism scandal

𝗕𝗔𝗦𝗘 , 𝗪𝗔𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗧𝗢𝗡 𝗗𝗖 | 𝟮𝟰 𝗛𝗢𝗨𝗥𝗦 𝗔𝗙𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗘𝗫𝗣𝗟𝗢𝗦𝗜𝗢𝗡

"Forget the boy, he's useless." Price's gruff voice spoke to Laswell, she nodded listening to his speaking. "Who's the girl?" He asked, Laswell flipped through the two files she had, Greyson and Kingsley.

"FBI Special Agent, Isabella Kingsley." Kate slid the file over, he examined the file quickly, glazing over the young picture of her and a little of in information before sliding it back. "Bring her in."

Isabella continuously looked back at the room they were in, where as Jude try to figure out the coffee machine, a hand on his covered abdomen.

"Right.. So then where's the fuckin' milk?" He lifted his hands up, checking the coffee. "I've payed extra for fuckin' milk and they didn't give it to me the machines broken, innit?" He looked over his shoulder to the girl, mentally freaking out, he handed her the milk-less coffee. "Here."

Isabella looked down at the coffee and up. "I drink my coffee with milk." She bit at the skin around her nails, looking back at the room, ignoring Jude's scoff, eyeroll and huff before sitting down in the seat next to her.

"Give it a rest, yeah? Stop stressing." He patted her hand, making her turn back to him.

"Harder then it looks." She shrugged, hesitating to look back at the room before she took the coffee he got her. "I just don't understand..."

"Yeahhh... Well we aren't supposed to, we just do what were are told, like little dogs." Jude slouched in the old blue chair, stretching his legs out, lifting his shirt to check the bandage wrapped around his waist

"Dickhead." Isabella mumbled against the rim of the cup a smile hidden behind it, taking a sip of the black coffee, making him smirk before a snarky comment could leave his mouth, the door opened, Kate's leaned against the door.

"Kingsley." She nodded inside, keeping the door open for both of them, Isabella's eyes met Jude's as he straightened himself up, taking the coffee back from Isabella.

Laswell took the seat she was sat in before, Isabella stood still, her eyes flickering between, Captain Price, General Shepherd and Laswell.

Before she could do anything, Kate started talking again forcing Isabella's eyes to switch back to her.

"Captain Price wants advisers that specialize in, or focus on cartels involving in pursuing Mr Marquez, He will be leading the team."

At the mention of his name, he waves slightly, a grin pulling at his lips.

Isabella's brows furrow, it takes her a moment before speaking, her throat dry with nerves.

"Isn't this with SAS , CIA now?" Isabella finally spoke up, her thumb swiping off the sweat on her palms.

"Yeah, It is we're just.. expanding the scope of the situation at hand."

Isabella looks briefly at the floor and Laswell before speaking

"What does that mean?" She asked, this time General Shepard spoke.

"They need an agent with.. tactical experience, like you." Isabella frowned, her sight going to her boots for a second. "His task force is pulling an agent from the field that specializes in escalated Cartel activity... You'd be part of the team"

Isabella nodded, thinking.

"You'd meet up with them at base, tomorrow." Laswell begun for Price to continue.

"Daft, early."

Isabella looked over to Price.

"Then what?" Isabella's brows furrowed as he thought for a second.

"We pay him a visit." He shrugged in his seat, Isabella looked at the glass she could almost see Jude in her peripheral view.

"Find, Mr Marquez." Isabella asked, finishing his statement, he nodded, Laswell spoke up once more.

"You must volunteer to do this, think hard before you respond, do you want to do this?"

Isabella looked down at the floor and briefly over at Jude who was obviously staring at her, brows furrowed and a frown on his face. She turned back around.

"I volunteer."