#terminally long post tw

[brooklynislandgirl]

Beth x Gareth for the ship meme (if it's okay, if not, just ignore this!)

Come Together || Accepting

RATE: NOTP | Ew | Nah | Alright | Cute | I LOVE them | They are perfect | OTP | THEY ARE MY BEAUTIFUL, SWEET CHILDREN AND I SHALL PROTECT THEM AS THEIR MOTHER

I. Who's the big spoon and who's the little spoon? Beth's hand splays across his belly, slightly crumpling his worn and comfortable 'I Hate Sand' shirt beneath her fingers. She'd laughed the first time she'd seen it when he'd come into the bedroom, and feigned hurt on behalf of sand everywhere. She cheekily pointed out that sand comprised a good deal of her life. She isn't laughing now. To say she is a light sleeper is to say the sun is bright, that it is hot. For their own carefully guarded reasons they share the curse of insomnia in common, and she's more likely to toss and turn than she is to rest. Over coffee, tea, and one each copy of the Times and the Daily Telegraph he ventures forth the idea of separate beds, his only response being a crisply turned page and a scrunch of her nose. Perhaps they would revisit the topic at some point. But for now she presses her face into his spine and holds him close. The sound he'd made that woke her was one she'd heard before. They have a gentleman's agreement about asking questions, but she knows terror when she hears it.

"S'just a dream, Gar." The rest of his name is more a drowsy sigh than actual syllable. "You're home and in bed, but I could go get you a book an' a cuppa if you like."

"No." Shaky, so he repeats himself, firmer now in conviction. "No."

He takes hold of her hand and lifts it to his lips, brushing a kiss across her knuckles. After a moment she slips a hand free and turns over. He follows suit and she rests her arm over his as he curls it around her.

She watches the sky start to lighten through the seam between the curtains. His breath is even and deep as he holds her close. She smiles and finally closes her eyes.

{If they can be said to sleep, they often end up swapping between the two options depending on which one is experiencing distress} II. Adult!Verse Heights: He looks no more comfortable in her flat than he does his own house. But maybe it's because she's wearing denim shorts that mould across her backside. Or because he's caught her precariously balanced on the minor slice of solid wood that pretends to be a counter top. Or just maybe it's because unfortunately, her scar is on full display. From just below her knee to just above her ankle the almost oval shape ~still deep purple even after so many years~ dominates the lower portion of her leg. The space inside that outline has all the distinct hallmarks of missing tissue. What is left is unsightly. Is atrophied. The fact that she can still use it and still has sensation is a testament to the Admiral's skill in the field of neurosurgery. No one but Beth sees the inherent cruelty in how she'd been healed.

Before he can say anything, she holds up a hand, index finger raised. "I have a perfectly good explanation. The housekeeper my auntie hired is a lovely Swedish man named Johan Anders. He is, however, ridiculously tall and thought to use the dead space here to hang my elephant-ear pathos." She indicates the thriving vine plant. "Unfortunately, he had to call out sick today, and I can't reach Freddie to give him a drink. So, what do you say? Spare a house-plant dehydration and get him down for me, or decide right now that I am entirely too short to live and watch me try to circus-clown my way up here."

The giggle implies she is not bothered by whatever choice he makes.

{Gareth is just a shade over six feet, while Beth is much smaller at five foot even.} III. Who Suggests Watching Romcoms?

Gareth had to explain to her what exactly a television licence is, and why they had one, even if you tended to stream rather than watch broadcast. At first she thought the idea was bizarre, until she realised the average American spent more than the yearly fee each month for cable in their own homes, though they often had that bundled with with internet and phone service as well. Not that it truly haunted her conscience, she's never actually had to pay a bill in her entire life; her trust was in capable and respected accounting hands. Most of the time though, they don't actually actually bother with television. Gareth reads, as does Beth. Or she might unwind with knitting. It is a companionable silence. They might play chess or practice yoga.

Tonight, he's elbows deep into a book and she's laying across the couch with her frozen little toes tucked under his lap. Her laptop is open on the coffee table and she's pulled up her Netflix account. She starts a movie and seems excited about it. Her volume is off so as not to disturb him, and she prefers subtitles anyway, especially an old favourite. And it is old. Dates back to 1961, long before she was born. But she has loved Gregory Peck, Anthony Quinn and--

"David Niven." There's a certain shape to his tone.

She smiles. "Guns of Navarone is one of my favourites."

"Mine, too." IV. Who falls asleep while watching romcoms? Gareth indulges her with a smile and puts his book down. At the pressure of his gentle hand on her knee, she reaches out and fiddles with a couple settings on her laptop, and then the remote. The video comes up on the television. And when the movie starts to play, captions and all, she shifts. Not so abruptly as to shake him from the pleasant quietude of their former lounging, but she moves until she's pressed against his chest, half tucked under his arm. Presumably for a better view. In truth, she simply enjoys being close to him. He radiates a comforting warmth, a solidity that belies his leanness that draws her to him. Fifteen minutes in and she experiences ever increasing long blinks. By twenty-five minutes, her head is dipped low, her lashes graze her cheeks, and her breath is slow, steady. One arm is wrapped around him the way it coils normally around her pillows. V. Who makes all of the decisions?

"Are you free for dinner Saturday evening?" He suggests.

She winces. "Yeah, no. Working. Late lunch Friday?"

"Oh, sorry. Meetings all day, don't know when I'll be able to get away."

A momentary pause, then they flash smiles at each other, arriving at the solution at the same time. "Brunch, Sunday."

Gareth and Beth have gruelling schedules and neither of them have jobs that easily allow sudden changes in plans or lack of coordination. Occasionally weeks go by before they finally have a chance to meet up, and when they can make it work they both try very hard to be amenable to one another. They are still learning how to navigate things as a couple. Gareth has more experience in that arena but Beth's irreverence toward authority sometimes drags him out of his carefully constructed shell. VI. Who carries the other one to bed when they fall asleep on the couch?

Beth could try and move Gareth if he dozes off, but to do so would be an exercise in ridiculousness. She'd have to consider him a single-person transport, without any assistive equipment. She'd have to lift him high enough to rest against her chest, while she wraps her arms around his chest, then she has to drag him off the couch, across the room, up the stairs. Maybe a hundred times of distance than she might have to move a patient. And in doing so, she'd end up waking him and thus defeating the purpose. More harm than good. So instead, if he falls asleep in his chair or his sofa, she will drape a throw blanket over him and let him be.

She knows the reverse is true; if she is the one who falls asleep, it takes very little for him to slip an arm under her shoulders, one under her knees. She might stir at the motion ~not dissimilar of being rocked in a hammock, or the motion of a boat, surfboard, other water craft. He might only run into trouble when she curls her arms around his neck and nuzzles into his chest.

"I've nevah slept a day in my life," she giggles. VII. Who proposes?

The small cathedral at the end of the street rings their bells; in the door way are a bride and groom fending off rice ~Beth doesn't mention that birdseed for the local population is a far better choice~ from onlookers. It draws both his attention and hers, and while she looks on with a smile, Gareth looks down at her. Observes her face. Her expression is open and unguarded as she mumbles a blessing for the couple. She doesn't let go of his arm to make the Sign of the Cross. So much fondness clouds her eyes that it makes him ask if that's the kind of wedding she envisions.

If anything, she shrinks away from the mere mention. "Oh, no I…I don't think…" She shrugs. "I don' know about gettin' married. No one's beatin' down my door to ask, an' I could not imagine asking, either."

She has nothing to offer; she can't cook. She can clean but works to much to really contribute. It's a reason she has a house-keeper. She can't provide children to secure a future. At best, she is a respite from a stifling organised world. She is cooling rain in the middle of summer. A fleeting thing, and she knows it. Gareth will surely see it too. "Is that something you're looking for?"

VIII. Will they have a big wedding?

Gareth lets her answer lie between them for a few weeks, but over dinner and a glass or two of wine, he asks her what she would imagine her wedding to be like. Her lips purse as she swallows a sip of Shiraz. "If I ever finally managed it, the announcement alone would run internationally. The Admiral would use it as an excuse to boost his poll numbers, and my auntie would throw her full support behind it. They would have at least three hundred guests and it would rival some of the royal weddings. Swords, carriages, antique jewels, jus' a whole logistical nightmare, really." She imagines he regrets asking. "If I had my preference, it would be a small handful of people if that many, on a beach in the North Shore of O'ahu. Do things the way my ancestors have done for ages. But honestly, I think it should be something for both partners t' agree on, something that would make them both happen. Might be civil ceremony in front of a Judge, or…whatever. What do you think? If you were to have a service, you'd likely want your bride to be Anglican, yeah?"

IX. Who accidentally eats all the popcorn while sharing a box?

The black and white film festival was the perfect sort of charity endeavour for them. It's far quieter compared to the party they'd met at, there's something to take up the lapses into silence they might have. It is absolutely companionable, being drawn into beloved films ~the Maltese Falcon being one of her favourites~ is not unexpected. Best of all, it's outdoors so they can lounge on the spread blanket beneath them. Casual, comfortable. And maybe conducive to a few kisses under the stars. The whole reason she decided not to bring her own spicy garlic pepper saki ika. No one wants fishy-breath. On the other hand, she isn't aware until her knuckles brush his at the bottom of the bucket that she's eaten a majority of the popcorn. She looks up and at him, but only sees the smile on his face before he leans in and finds the salt and butter on her lips in a gentle kiss. X. Who pays for dates?

There's always a moment in which Beth feels her belly tighten and not in the good way. Anxiety has a mighty fist. Traditionally, society rules dictates that the gentleman should pay for the date. But things have changed since that was the rule of the day. Even if she had to budget an monthly indulgence, Beth knows she can't run through her funds even if she splurged like crazy. She doesn't want to trample his pride. She doesn't want him to feel as if she doubts his ability to orchestrate, see through, and pay for an outing.

"Compromise, then," she murmurs. "If I ask you out, then it's on me to handle everything. If you ask me, then I will defer to you. Deal?"

She holds out a small hand to shake. XI. Who's the most romantic? A year. Twelve months. Fifty two weeks. Three hundred sixy five days. One revolution of the earth around the sun. This is a milestone, every book and magazine article ever written about relationships say so. They have a quiet dinner in. An exchange of gifts. Hers is a little potted plant, that mostly looks like a stick shoved in deep loam. But the corners of her mouth quirk, her eyes water with tears unshed before she throws her arms around his neck. She knows what it is on first sight, this little ugly duckling that will soon bloom into a swan. A piece of home, the one she talks about with love and reverence. The florist called it frangipanni, but they both know it as lei flower.

"For…for the garden," he says, returning the hug. He means the one outside of his little house, the one she's meticulously brought back to life with hard work and gentle care. Maybe it's a metaphor for what they share.

Hers? She presents it gingerly. Holds the box with oven mitts which come away once he's taken hold of it, and bare fingers rise to her lips, guarding her mouth, her breath, her worry that he won't like it. The tissue paper surrounding it is a shade of blue similar to his eyes, a contrast to the rich, cream colour of the Aran sweater within, merino wool. From sheering to carding, to making the skeins she needed, and the knitting itself. She has had a hand in all of it. A secret affair that began with draping herself across his back when he worked from home or other little hugs here and there, to measure him without being obvious. A belated explanation when she's turned down plans to meet with him so he doesn't see the near blistered skin and swollen knuckles from her work ~she's allergic to wool, after all~ but this is a symbol just as much as her plant is. A promise of warmth, of sacrifice, of beauty, of the deep care she will always take of him, as long as he lets her.

Neither find it easy to express the deeper things, there's always the catch of fears their past has turned into nets, but sometimes… even the quietest things sing the loudest. XII. Random headcanon

Beth noticed them the first time Gareth fully smiled at her. His canines are long as hers, and just a little crooked as well. His teeth are beautiful and make his smile even more appealing to her. She's not used to meeting people with similar teeth, and it makes her less self-conscious of her own, to the point that she is quick to not hide her smile behind her hand or beneath closed lips. And when his kisses eventually make their way toward the column of her throat, she always finds herself pressing her skin to them. An invitation to graze them across her neck. To bite down and leave their impressions behind. And to make no mistake, sometimes she runs the tips of her fangs along his lower lip or in sharp kisses against his collar bones and shoulders.

[brooklynislandgirl]

His laughter is a pure sound. It reminds her of muted sunlight trickling in from behind the curtains on a lazy spring morning. Not yet too much from summer's harsh kiss, not tinged with cold from winter's bitter and lingering bite. Of course, he'd probably die of embarrassment were she to tell him so. It's not that he doesn't take compliments well but rather that Ben is a sensitive soul and sometimes being noticed or admired, regardless of reason, doesn't sit well on him. She can absolutely understand that. "Oh, that's a good one," she says and giggles softly in her own right. "And good for you that I'm really…bendy." His comment about animals serves to endear him to her even more but she arches a brow, unable to stop herself from having to ask- "Uh…do I wanna know about pisceside? Is it a personal bias or just habitual neglect? Not that I'm judging here." Okay, maybe she is just the tiniest of bits but he doesn't have to know and she keeps it hidden. "Short list… Princess Bride by William Goldman. Night Watch by Terry Pratchett. Trilogy of the Rings, Tolkien. Dumas' Count of Monte Cristo, Gaiman's American Gods, the Sackett series by Louis L'amour. I mean I could go on forever, and might do better with the boundaries of genre, or at least an idea of the kind of story you want to read. But now, it's your turn to share some titles with me. And maybe we agree to a custody exchange of our favourites. It's not really steppin' out on your library, I promise. All that being said, maybe I am a tease." The faint flush of her cheeks suggests she's no such thing and even just saying it feels odd. She doesn't seem to mind these all too brief and somewhat prim touches they trade between one another. Her gaze lingers on his lips in a sultry fashion as she narrows her eyes on his face. A moment later though she flashes him a glimpse of the sharp points of her teeth in a fully blossomed smile when he feigns shock. "Oh yeah, no," she's quick to interrupt, waving a hand in front of her face in small circles. "All this? Carefully matriculated glamour to pass unnoticed amongst mortals." She lowers her voice to conspiratorial whisper. "Just like under those button ups, sweaters, and oxfords? Abs hidden by golden armour, wide opalescent wings, and somewhere secret? Flaming sword. Tell me I'm wrong. I dare you."

That pronouncement that he's some sort of arch angel is further cemented in her thoughts when he talks about the disaster of his own prom, and she can hear the upper middle class at the very least dripping from his tone. Feels empathy flood her chest with a desire to comfort him. If she thought he wouldn't shy way from her, she'd offer him a hug because things like that leave behind residual trauma. Parents never seem to understand how much damage they do to their children, and how they make it impossible to ever try and fix it. "What happened with the girl you actually liked? Tell me there was some kind of fairy tale moment where you connected at least before you went away for University? Or that at least your cousin bought you new shoes." Beth chokes on a laugh or her words when he offers the word thesaurus. He's not wrong. She doesn't really have language for what she is. There are a lot of terms and flags that are thrown around like beads during a Mardi Gras parade on Bourbon, all of which seem to fluctuate depending on who chooses to use them, and what aspects they seem to incorporate with best. Beth has never thought of herself as anything other than a girl. Woman now. She's never really had any celebrity crushes beyond Eddie Vedder and even that's more an admiration of his charitable nature and his activist choices as well as his music. She has noted that the two times she'd ever felt a more-than-platonic feeling for someone, it had been a man. She's not been attracted to another woman before, but she can't say she never would be, nor any combination in between. Ben swoops in though and tries to keep the moment grounded in the here and now, and not some internalised hellscape that they are both easily inclined toward through experience, and she can't begin to express her gratitude that he does. So she simply reaches out and takes one of his hands and cradles it between both of hers, tangling the ends of their fingertips loosely. "See? I couldn't tell. I always thought bringing physical intimacy up in a coffee shop was totally apropos, and you shouldn't feel awkward at all." A shake of her head denoting she wasn't serious, and for a second, the air catches the very subtle scent of her perfume. "You're not wrong though. After my brother's…I ended up slipping out of the house and heading down to his favourite bar. Fortunately, my best friend was able to stop me from making a huge, huge mistake. I don't know that I wanted to be fruitful, I just didn't want to be…lonely." And again, everything turns on its head. Her elbows on her knees, his hand held in hers, she leans forward, closer to him. She meets his gaze without shyness or emotional distance. "I'm going to assume you've ah… been with someone before…in that way. What was it about them? What did it make you feel?"

Kink shame?

Ben laughed at that, his eyebrows drawing high on his head. "All right, so my humor's a little one-note these days," he agreed. "If you'd prefer I shake things up, I could always pretend to be something more exotic, like an art collector who plans on stuffing you into my comically under-sized suitcase." He held up a hand by way of making a solemn vow. "And I would never orphan your cat. Animals are arguably more deserving of my respect than people...if you ignore that I've gone through an embarrassing amount of goldfish as of late."

Ellie's nose crinkled and she grinned, the warmth in her gaze much like a dazzling, summery blossom that made Ben fight off a smile of his own. The playful skim of her fingertips over his knee caught him off guard, and flustered, he ignored the pink in his cheeks while reassuring, "Oh no, I was dead serious. I do spend an ungodly amount of time at the library, and I am a proud carrier of a library card. The joke in question was myself." Here, his lips lifted into his trademark grin of self-deprecation. "And please do tell me your favorite books. If you don't, I'll be forced to deem you a tease."

Gently, he knocked his foot against hers underneath the table, if only to convey his jest.

"…And if we're going to get personal? It's because under this alluring and mysterious facade, I'm actually a hideous troll and live under the Triborough Bridge."

Ben gave a faux gasp. "I knew it. All the pretty ones have real estate underneath local bridges." He nudged her again. "C'mon, you don't actually expect me to believe that, do you? A troll, maybe, but hideous? Never."

While Beth regaled him with bread crumbs from her childhood, he fell silent, his smile far more subdued as he tried to picture her -- smaller, bright-eyed, quiet, but with a brother who loved her and made the pain of adolescence worthwhile. Unbidden, a twinge formed inside his chest and he resisted the urge to reach for her -- surely, she wouldn't wish for that? -- and instead, he offered, "Sounds better than my senior prom. I had to go with my cousin. No..." He straightened with mock pomposity. "Correction, it was a 'privilege,' according to my uncle, to take her instead of the girl I was actually attracted to. And for all the thanks I deserved, she ended up sneaking in some liquor and hurling all over my shoes."

Despite his attempts at levity, Ellie's features darkened. "And maybe most importantly, I'm…ah. I'm…"

"In need of a thesaurus?" he teased.

"Let's just say…it takes me a long time to realise that I might be interested in someone in a romantic way, and people don't like waiting."

Oh.

"Their loss," Ben decided. "In my mind, the best companions are always the ones worth waiting for. Unfortunately for me, I'm rather woeful at social interaction -- in fact, this is the first time in a long, long while that I've felt comfortable talking in this way...so my sincerest apologies." Here he chuckled, lifting his shoulders. "Still, you'd think I'd be able to get at least one date, seeing how funerals allegedly fill people with the ancient, primordial urge to 'be fruitful and multiply.' According to what I've read, a self-preservation instinct kicks in when people die, and some mourners seek coitus to alleviate that so-called danger of dying out. But fear not! Thus far, I haven't felt the need to jump anyone's bones, so you're safe...however, if you keep referring to yourself as a 'sexy troll,' I just might not be able to help myself."

[prince-honeypaw]

WARNING: This post contains mentions of terminal illness and parental death! Proceed with caution.

♡ There are no secrets kept between Tamaki and Mirio. They've grown up together since they were just developing their quirks and have been attached at the hip for just as long. Where Tamaki went, Mirio was never far behind! They're in perfect tandem.

♡ Up until their first year at UA that is.

♡ Going to a prestigious hero school was already very stressful for Tamaki, but that wasn't all that bore down on his frazzled mind. Not long before he was accepted into UA, his grandmother had passed away. She was his only living family member after his mother passed from a terminal illness when he was rather young, which meant that he was hopping from foster home to foster home his entire first year. It was terrifying for him!

♡ He was so afraid of being alone again.

♡ Mirio was at a loss on how to help his closest friend. He knew that Tamaki was struggling with moving every month or so, but nothing he tried seemed to alleviate that stress. From putting time aside to help him try to regress or taking him out to do something fun, it only ever ended in Tamaki going home in tears.

♡ It wasn’t until he started his work study with Fatgum that someone finally found the solution to—at least one of—Tamaki’s anxieties. He was adopted by the BMI Hero and finally had that stable living situation that he desperately needed in order to thrive! And, with that settled, Tamaki’s little slowly started to come back out one step at a time. He was hesitant to let Taishiro know about his regression, but Taishiro is one of the most understanding and open minded heroes out there. Different strokes for different folks!

♡ And, while happy that Tamaki was starting to feel better enough to regress again, Mirio couldn’t help but feel this little twinge of disappointment. Disappointment in himself for not being able to help his best friend when he needed it most. He tried his best to not let it get to him, but oh did his smile not quite reach his eyes for a time afterwards. He was afraid of not being needed anymore.

♡ Soon after, things went back to how they used to be! For the most part. New routines filled the cracks and became the new norm... Up until another wrench was thrown in the cogs a year and a half later.

♡ UA's dorm system was implemented for the safety of the students, but Tamaki feels like it was an attack on him personally. He had gone through so much to settle in with Taishiro! He paced and fretted over the new stressor for days upon days before it was time to move in. Taishiro promised that everything would be peachy keen, and that he'd always have his home in Esuha when all was said and done! It wasn't like he was being exiled.

♡ His words went in one ear and right out the other the moment he had to pack away his regression gear, squawking and fretting that someone would find out! He couldn't- He shouldn't- He WOULDN'T! And, regretfully, he didn't. Taishiro said that if he changed his mind, he'd have it all packed and ready to go when he saw him next, but Tamaki was stubborn in his decision.

♡ Moving into the dorms was suspiciously simple to Tamaki. He didn't drop anything, didn't trip up the stairs, didn't spill water on the new carpet in his dorm- And having dinner with the rest of his class wasn't a disaster either. It was actually... Very fun! Nejire was in the dorm across from his own and Mirio was just a floor away, so he didn't feel as alone as he thought he would be.

♡ It was nice. Something he would have to tell Taishiro about later.

♡ However, he hadn't noticed just how much later it had gotten! The sky had grown darker and most of the class had already disappeared into their dorms, leaving a chilling quiet to bear down on his mind. He'd been so content with the company of so many familiar faces that it never occured to him that his schedule had been thrown off entirely.

♡ First was brushing his teeth. Then was taking his medication with a bottle- A bottle he didn't have. That was fine, it was fine! There was no need to freak out, okay... He could just skip that part and take his medicine with a glass of water. Then he could get dressed and get Lilliput r- Lilliput was still at home. Okay... Okay, that would be harder to do without, but he didn't need to freak out! He... Papa could fix it-

♡ Like the shatter of glass, Tamaki's already slipping headspace crashed to the floor with that realization. Papa wasn't there. He was all alone now, all alone without the comforts he'd grown to rely on when the world felt so much bigger and he felt so... so small. Tears fell hot and thick, hiccups burning his throat. He was alone, he was alone, he was alone, he—

"Tamaki?"

♡ His breath caught and he snapped to attention. Mirio, suddenly understanding the situation with only a look, wore an expression that was as warm as sunlight, reaching out and taking Tamaki's hands.

"Hi there, sunshine! What's going on up here?" He asked with a gentle tap of his fingertip to the baby's forehead. Tamaki blinked through the tears and immediately jammed himself into Mirio's comforting presence and fit against him like a puzzle piece, hiccuping when he managed to speak. His words were jammed together between panic and his headspace, but Mirio nodded along as though it was just another conversation.

♡ Because, to him, it was! He knew baby Tamaki just as well as he knew big Tamaki, through timid mumbles and teary babbling, Mirio understood him. Rough thumb pads gingerly wiped the still falling tears off his ruddy cheeks, and Mirio spoke in a soft voice he knew was just for him.

"Okay, I gotcha, I gotcha! I still have some of your stuff on hand, remember?"

At the slow nodding, Mirio smiled, "That's right, so we can text your papa that you need your stuff and go get it after class tomorrow, 'kay? It's no big deal."

♡ Tamaki, still sniffling, echoed the words, "No big deal...", before letting Mirio guide him through his nighttime routine with what they had. A sippy full of water and a puppy plush suited him just fine, but following Mirio to his room was just inevitable. He felt so much less lonesome with him there and Mirio couldn't find it in himself to take Tamaki up to his own room.

♡ So, they settled in for the night in Mirio's dorm. Tamaki picked out a story on his tablet while Mirio washed the spare pacifier he kept around for Tamaki when he would stay over. With the pacifier clean and the sippy refilled with fresh water, Mirio returned to tuck in under the covers and pop the soother in Tamaki's mouth. They were in for a night of reading fairy tales and just being together.

♡ Tamaki barely lasted more than five minutes before he dozed off, his head resting against Mirio's chest. The thrum of his heartheat against his ear was like a lullaby soothed him into letting out a murmured, "N'ni, Mewi..."

♡ While holding Tamaki in his strong, scarred arms and stroking calloused fingers through indigo blue locks, feeling Tamaki's breathing slow into a gentle purr of sleep... Mirio wonders what he ever had to worry about in the first place.

[zairas-realm-gateway]

OFF ramblings: Batter's Purpose

Content warnings for discussion of canon and speculated canon content: violence, medical trauma, abuse, child neglect, terminal illness, child death.

This post is a basic layout of the general conversations I had with my sister when I showed her the game OFF recently. These are just our speculations, observations, and headcanons.

This post will discuss our deductions behind Batter's in game creation and his opposition to the other characters.

As we all know, Batter (in universe) is created at the start of the game. He has never before existed in the lonely, tormented world of the Zones before. My sister and I discussed why he never existed in the world before that point. We think we have deduced why from the information given in The Room level.

First, we have to note the importance of Batter, Hugo, and Queen. Hugo has manifested representations of his parents in his fucked up world. His father is Batter and his mother is Queen.

Now, my mother is chronically ill, so I've spent a lot of time in hospitals. So, when Batter enters a new location at the end of the hallway when you enter the Room level, my sister and i immediately recognized it as a hospital. It reminded us of many we've been in before and left us uneasy.

In the Room, Batter goes to the small room on the left. This room is returned to many times. It paints a painfully vivid picture:

There is a sick child (Hugo) in the hospital. Probably between the age of 10-17 because they can talk in complete sentences but are still referred to as "the boy". This child is terminally ill and immuno-compromised. You can tell when the note says that his father (Batter's human counterpart) says they can go outside tomorrow but that trip outside never comes. The notes say that his father comes regularly to play with him but he doesn't like his father and wants his mother instead but she never comes to pick him up or visit.

This tells me a lot. It says that Hugo's father (we'll keep calling him Batter) is cold but holds deep affection for Hugo. Based on Spectral Batter's personality, Human Batter probably has difficulty with emoting. Meaning he has trouble displaying and expressing emotion both physically and vocally. To a sick and distressed child, this would appear as if his father doesn't love him despite Batter visiting constantly and playing with Hugo.

This could explain why he wants his mother over his father. Affection and emotional support are needed for comfort when sick. It seems like Queen can probably express emotions in a way that would be comforting.

Or, she would, if she ever showed up.

It's speculated that Human Queen has a job that makes her a lot of money but forces her to work/travel a lot. Spectral Queen's later argument with Batter makes it clear that's she's pretty much phoning it in as a mom. The cadence of Queen and Batter's conversation is that of a divorced couple. If this is true, it sounds like Queen has primary custody but just is never around.

Batter is his most emotional during his argument with Queen right before their battle. He is still flat in dialogue tone but it is clear he is passionate about the subject. He accuses her of taking all the steps of being a mother with none of the emotion, care, or memory for who her actions are for (Hugo). Rather than defend herself, Queen just deflects until Batter gets angry.

To argue the point of Queen doing the right moves with none of the personal touch, I want to talk about the three guardians. It is said the Queen appointed them and I think this really happened.

My sister and I speculate that the three guardians represent the specialists that Queen hired for Hugo while she was away on business. Dedan is speculated to be a surgeon based on his temper and excessive need for total order and demand everyone be efficient at their job. Japhet being a bird, dove, and loving books is probably a priest. Enoch would be a private chef. These three were left with explicit orders to keep an eye on Hugo, which is why they're called his friends in the notes. This would also make them opposing forces to Hugo's father and the hard decisions he has to make. One of those decisions is massive and we believe it is what manifests Batter for the first time.

It's the decision to unplug his terminally ill child from life support.

Now, I see a lot of speculation that Hugo bases Batter on Ballman. But I think that Batter is a dual manifestation of Ballman and Boxxer. This would make Batter both the hero and the villain, hence the choice at the end of the game.

This is what brings Judge into the mix. We speculate that Judge is Human Hugo's high consciousness, the one aware of the pain and suffering of the world. Judge thought Batter was a savior but after Hugo's death, he calls Batter a monster. If Batter is both hero and villain, it makes sense that Judge trusted him to help but was unaware this is the action that would taken. He had no clue that this was the only solution that Batter could see.

If Judge is Hugo and Batter is Hugo's father, then the truth that his father is taking him off life support would paint his father as a monster. A villain that is murdering him.

Meanwhile, Hugo's father had to live with that truth and the reality that it is his duty to keep his child from suffering. And the end stages of terminal illnesses are only suffering.

I feel this is why Hugo takes the form of an infant. Because a child, no matter how old, is always their parent's baby...

[angededesespoir]

On another note, though, very proud of myself.

Last month, for the first time in my life, I managed to get head lice from a friend, and all the scratching I did wound up causing me to develop multiple abscesses. 😔 Wound up having to go to the er for one and it was lanced and drained twice. (I will say, if you have to have them drained, opt to get numbed first. The shots hurt, but after that, all I felt was pressure when they were squeezing. [They did warn though that sometimes when they try to numb the area, you could wind up feeling pain due to the area sometimes not absorbing the medication well enough. Or something like that.]

In comparison, I had my partner drain one of my abscesses at home (which is not advised) and it was some of the worst pain I’ve experienced in my life and I nearly passed out after. 🥹)

Also wound up having MRSA in that wound. 😔 Fortunately the antibiotics worked, but they gave me pills, so I had to endure 10 days of crushing them up and struggling to take them. 🥹

And I also have had to do multiple check-ups. Still need to go for more and also schedule other appointments, but oh God, all of this is absolute hell for me. Hospitals make me so anxious and I have severe agoraphobia. This is the first time in like 7 years I’ve been to the doctor. So I’m proud of myself for going, but each time I go, I’m fighting off an anxiety attack and I have to endure a 20 minute ride each way (and we don’t have a car rn, so we have to Uber, which makes me more anxious) and then however long I have to wait in the waiting area.

I really need to set up more appointments, but I’m so full of dread. And I can’t predict how my body is going to feel any given day, so it makes it so hard to schedule things. I’m so stressed about it ahhh (I tried scheduling a cervical cancer screening that I’ve been holding off on and I wound up canceling both due to the anxiety and the lack of money to get down there. 🥹 I don’t know if I’m gonna be able to get myself to go down to my eye exam.)

But, yeah….. I don’t know how I’m gonna be able to do what needs to get done. Yay for me for taking care of some of it, but God, I wish I didn’t have to fight myself so hard to. 😔

[im-tempted]

As an aromantic person who used to have a terminal illness

Oh my god I have so many hanahaki thoughts and none of them make sense

[hellsitegenetics]

WARNINGS / FAQ / REQUESTS

asks are open! check here before sending :) (updated 11/26/24) consider helping me pay to finish my education!

banned from BLAST for being too sexy

check out the archive of every creature that has appeared!

CREATURE WARNING:

this blog posts BEASTIES and ORGANISMS. if you are uncomfortable with seeing any manner of organism (spiders, rodents, fish, etc) please block the tags for that organism before following/browsing. for broad categories: i tag in plurals (insects, bugs, spiders, fish, rodents, parasites, pathogens, plants, trees, etc.) for specific organisms: i tag in singulars (dobsonfly, eurasian harvest mouse, etc.) for disease causing bacteria: i tag the illness it causes (malaria, botulism, etc.) for additional phobias: i tag with the specific phobia ("tw trypophobia", etc.) ADDITIONAL BUG WARNING: this blog posts a LOT of insects, especially moths. FOR SCREENREADER USERS: by the nature of this blog, 99% of my posts will have large sections of unformatted letters, and therefore aren't very screenreader friendly. i apologize. If I ever miss a tag or you'd like to request that I tag something, please send me a message.

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS:

Are you a bot?: no, just neurodivergent

How do you do this?: i delete everything in a message except for the letters A, T, C, and G. then, i BLAST it with my wizard beams.

Are you Italian?: according to democracy, yes

How do I request things?: read the REQUESTS section of this post :)

Why are there so many bugs???: 1. insects make up almost 80% of all animal life on earth 2. they are relatively easy to study, so there's more bug DNA in the BLAST database.

Okay but why so many MOTHS???: because scientists are not immune to bias. moths are pretty looking and easy to study, so there is more moth DNA in the BLAST database.

Do the punctuation marks/emojis mean anything to BLAST?: no, i just keep them there after my first pass of a text so you can easily recognize i'm using that same text to find an organism.

Can I send in general questions?: yes! but they may get BLASTed.

REQUESTS:

to request something, please read this section and then send an ask. asks that don't follow these guidelines will be deleted, and may get you blocked.

For questions: make sure it hasn't been already answered in the FAQ, then send.

For songs, poetry, bible verses, or otherwise long text (over 1500 characters, or text with a lot of spacing): send a link to the text or a pastebin with the text in it.

For Tumblr posts: send a link.

For other languages: make sure it's romanized (in latin script), then send.

REQUESTS I WILL NOT ANSWER:

things i have already answered. search the blog for whatever you're about to submit, and check the Frequently Requested section before sending.

private information (name, address, etc. YES people have tried this.)

AAAAAAAAAAA, GATCAGTCAGATTCCGACGGT, CATCATCATCAT, etc. get creative with it.

spam. (if i don't answer a request after a long time, feel free to send it again-- just not 5 times, please)

homestuck

FREQUENTLY REQUESTED:

The Bee Movie Script, navy seals copypasta, AM hate monologue, All Star, Yoshikage Kira, Never Gonna Give You Up, man door hand hook car door, Big Bill Hells, FNAF Connection Terminated, JURGEN LEITNER, Eggman's Announcement, Free Bird, Spiders Georg, Weed Smoking Girlfriends, Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way, Minos Prime, Steamed Hams, battery acid spaghetti, everyone get unemployed, squidward is nonbinary, What is a man?, fucking military wives, (this list will be updated as we go!)

thank you for reading! as a treat, enjoy this Trichosanthes cucumerina, or Snake Gourd flower.

[moralpuppet]

The  shouting  from  outside  could  be  heard  from  within  the  house  ,  Orel  had  already  alerted  his  mother  though  Bloberta  had  merey  been  a  witness  these  last  few  weeks  ,  not  really  obting  to  help  only  complain  here  and  there  about  having  someone  else  in  the  household  to  make  a  mess  and  clean  after  .  Even  though  Grandpa  really  couldn't  get  much  further  than  the  bathroom  in  his  condition  and  even  then  Orel  had  to  help  him  . 

Neither  of  his  parents  had  done  anything  to  help  this  whole  time  and  it  only  constricted  even  more  reason  to  resent  them  around  the  boy's  once  innocent  and  loving  heart  .  And  in  spite  of  that  he  doesn't  resent  either  of  them  .  Not  to  a  hateful  degree  .  He  could  never  .  They  are  his  parents  . 

Right  now  he  could  careless  about  that  ,  at  the  very  least  his  Mom  has  moved  Shapey  and  Block  out  of  the  way  ,  not  that  they  were  a  nuisance  just  that  Orel  was  relieved  they  could  at  least  be  spared  from  this  .  He's  already  got  Grandpa  slumped  over  ,  arm  pulled  over  one  of  his  shoulder's  .  Orel's  own  gait  not  making  it  easy  ,  practically  having  to  drag  him  down  the  stairs  as  the  old  man  protests  against  the  help  and  winces  in  agony  and  Orel  is  mumbling  soft  ,  tearful  apologies  and  asking  him  to  hang  in  there  .

Hearing  what  Flint  said  as  they  reached  the  bottom  of  the  case  of  stairs  he  glowers  at  the  information  . 

❝   I  don't  care  where  he  is  !  It's  too  late  !  We  need  to  go  now  !   ❞  His  voice  cracks  ,  words  insisting  he's  beyond  through  with  his  father  ,  eyes  betray  and  the  breaking  of  his  voice  proves  otherwise  . 

' Dang it , boy , listen to me ! it's too late for the damn hospital ! ' , ❝  Sorry , Grandpa . ❞

Contrary  to  what  anyone  would  think  it  was  the  mayor's  son  that  wanted  Clay  to  be  here  most  of  all  for  this  before  now  .  He  knew  how  much  it  mattered  to  Arthur  .  And  once  again  his  father  had  let him down .  So  ultimately  Orel's  given  up  on  that  .  Praying  was  consolation  ,  unless  his  father  was  concerned  .  It  was  too  late  to  fix  this  now. 

❝   Flint  ,  I-I-I  can't  carry  him  any  longer  ,  please  !  ❞ Words  coming  out  in  exhausted  ,  stuttering  and  tearful  breaths  .

ʜᴇ'ꜱ ᴅɪᴀʟɪɴɢ ᴄʟᴀʏ'ꜱ ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴏʀᴇʟ ɪꜱ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ɪɴꜱɪᴅᴇ- ɴᴏ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ.

ᴄʟᴀʏ'ꜱ ᴘʜᴏɴᴇ ꜱɪᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʀɪɴɢɪɴɢ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴅᴇꜱᴋ.

ɢʀᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ʜɪꜱ ʜᴇᴀᴅ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴇᴇʀɪɴɢ ᴡʜᴇᴇʟ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ;

" ɪ'ᴍ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴋɪʟʟ ʜɪᴍ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴇ ɢᴇᴛꜱ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ꜱᴛᴜᴘɪᴅ ɢᴏᴅᴅᴀᴍɴ ʜᴜɴᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʀɪᴘ-! " ʜᴇ ʜɪꜱꜱᴇᴅ ʙɪᴛᴛᴇʀʟʏ, ᴡᴀɪᴛɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀʀ; ꜱᴜʀᴘʀɪꜱᴇᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴘʜᴏɴᴇ ʀᴀɴɢ ᴀ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴍɪɴᴜᴛᴇꜱ ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ- ᴊᴜꜱᴛ ᴀꜱ ᴏʀᴇʟ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀᴡᴀʏ

ᴘᴜᴛᴛɪɴɢ ɪᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ᴇᴀʀ, ʜᴇ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇ ɢᴏᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴄᴀʀ; ꜰʀᴇᴇᴢɪɴɢ- ɪᴍᴍᴇᴅɪᴀᴛᴇʟʏ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ɪɴ ᴀɴᴅ ɢʀᴀʙʙɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʜᴏɴᴇ tighter in ʜɪꜱ ʜᴀɴᴅ.

ᴏʀᴇʟ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴡɪᴛɴᴇꜱꜱ ꜰʟɪɴᴛ ꜱᴄʀᴇᴀᴍɪɴɢ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋɪɴɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʜᴏɴᴇ ; ᴜɴɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢɪʙʟᴇ ᴍᴜꜰꜰʟᴇᴅ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴇʀꜱᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ꜱʟɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ ᴛʜʀᴏ��ɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀʀꜱ ꜱᴏᴜɴᴅᴘʀᴏᴏꜰɪɴɢ

ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ᴄʟᴇᴀʀʟʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ ᴡᴀꜱ "ᴜɴʙᴇʟɪᴇᴠᴀʙʟᴇ, ᴄʟᴀʏᴛᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴀᴛʜᴇʀ" ᴀ ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ᴇᴍᴘʜᴀꜱɪꜱ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʏᴏᴜʀ. ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ʜɪꜱ ɢʀᴀɴᴅꜱᴏɴ.

ʜᴀɴɢɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ, ꜰʟɪɴᴛ ꜱᴛᴏʀᴍᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴏʀ; ꜱᴄᴏᴡʟɪɴɢ

" ʜᴇ'ꜱ ʙᴀᴄᴋ- ᴀᴛ ʜɪꜱ ᴏꜰꜰɪᴄᴇ... "

ʜᴇ ᴍᴜᴛᴛᴇʀᴇᴅ ᴀɴɢʀɪʟʏ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ɢʀɪᴛ ᴛᴇᴇᴛʜ

[brooklynislandgirl]

@tangleweave {{because tumblr.}}

When Beth first found him confused, alone, and hunted the only real thought in her head was to offer him sanctuary so that he might collect himself. Take a metaphorical breath and have the space and safety to process his circumstances. To figure out what it was he wanted to do with himself. She'd had no ulterior motives beyond the desire to help a friend. Beth knows all too well what it's like being out of touch with the world around you. She knows what it feels like to be alone and uncertain, and she knows what it is to need something that cannot be easily explained if it can even be acknowledged. At first even the smallest offers met with a hesitant sort of resistance. She took no offense to that ambivalence because it's only natural. She continued to be supportive. It is in her nature to nurture others. To offer the little kindnesses that are often overlooked or taken for granted by those who have them in excess and yet mean the world to those who are deprived. Slowly but surely he began to regain his new interpretation of himself, both in terms of his humanity and his willingness to interact with her. That was the start of their deepening friendship and trust in one another. They talk until they are hoarse, something that might be presumed to be an affectation on his part though if she were to be honest, she doesn't at all understand the way his body works, including the modulations of his voice. And sometimes, she feels almost giddy about that. The white noise of the organic form doesn't distract her and for once, it feels like everything is normal in so far as other people are with one another.

He does not wince at the chill of her hands and feet. If anything he does his level best to provide her with the warm her extremities lack and sometimes makes a quip about her having more in common with her poikilotherm relatives. She could tease back and mention she has blood in her veins, but in his own way, he does too. She ensures that her fingertips and palms carry enough of her vitality that he need not worry about compensating. The task is aided by just how fast her heart is starting to beat. She's never hidden the fact that she lacks experience with certain kinds of physical intimacy. Silly as it might seem, she'd often look away when a programme or film they might be watching when such acts would occur, and if discussion was had, she'd speak of it in clinical terms as often as possible. She doesn't believe he missed the physiological signs of embarrassment she experienced then, before she became more comfortable with him. When they spoke of her own sense of attraction or lack thereof, her often blatant disinterest in the act itself more often than not, and what it might mean for him. She'd been careful not to pry at the brittle edges of memory, not willing to push him to any sort of conclusion. If wasn't that she was so stupidly jealous of the life he had before but that she wasn't so sure that he was that sentient being, that man that he'd been before and therefore she had no right to push him toward something similar if anything had changed. Existential debate that far outreaches her ability to really participate, at least in her estimation. But things change, as they must. That is the nature of the world, of life itself. People, and she always was quick to reassure him that he was, in fact, a person regardless of his material components, grow. And so too do their thoughts and feelings, and she finds herself stricken with a humble heart that they've grown toward each other. She's determined now to cherish every moment they share without an eye on a shadowy future when he must, inevitably, grow beyond her. Beth allows herself to love him, to fall in love with him, without her typical temerity. Without the questions she never has answers for, nor the ones she can't word properly. These are the steps that lead them here. His hand light against the small of her back, synthetic skin warm to the touch and she can almost feel his pulse within that tender press. He watches her eyes and she does the same perhaps out of habit ~he has none of the micro-expressions that most people do, sometimes making it more difficult for her to find context in their conversations, though though these few simple questions exchanged between them are relatively easy to follow. They glow a gentle blue, but their pattern is breath-taking, like lightning across stormy firmament. She swears she can hear the way his skin brushes against her own even if it doesn't make a sound. Neither do his lips when they impart the softest of kisses. She's both pleased and reassured by those two words, and some of the tension drains from her narrow frame. "Good."

She offers him that self-same kiss when he touches her face in return. The fullness of her mouth, always generous in proportion, slides its way from fingertip to palm before she returns her cheek to it. Remarkably, he's given thoughts to the lines and seems that criss-cross the surface, the texture is perfection.

"And you, you're the song of the tides in me." She thinks of pulling his hand to settle it against her sternum so he can feel the truth of it, but it is a matter of faith. The sea is sacred to her and he knows that to be true. She doesn't make such comparisons lightly. Though her breath might be shallow in draft, its sweet as she exhales and that too seems intent on caressing his face though now in their proximity to one another, her gaze diffuses. Becomes that half-lidded closing he has become familiar with. But for all the closeness between them they might still be thousands of miles apart. She is intent on savouring this. There is no need to rush and perhaps regret missing a single moment. Her chest presses against his, and below his shoulders her collarbones find space to nestle, causing her chin to tilt upwards as he traces her face. Her fingers curl so that her knuckles can skim his jaw before lowering and wrapping themselves around the back of his neck. Her other hand is far more rational and seeks to anchor itself at his hip. Her thumb makes lazy designs there without any purpose other than to enjoy the sensation. So close. He can likely feel her mouth move to form an answer. "Mmh?" A need for focus that isn't easy to achieve. "..ʻAe…yes. I t'ink it's…well, is really good." Of her own accord, she leans in that negligible distance. At first the press of her lips to his is achingly slow, little more than the idea of a kiss, and off-kilter so that it's mostly at the corner of his mouth. It is purposeful, neither miscalculation nor mistake. What a tender test-bite might be in equation. Chaste in acclimation. Those fingers at his hip tell a wildly different story though, telegraphing as the tighten and pull him closer still, a torrid sort of tale regarding her desire. She pulls back by millimetres and then returns to him after she's tilted her head slightly. This time she captures his lower lip between hers and exhales with a soft sort of sound. It becomes discernible then that she's trying to coax him into responding. That she wants him as delirious to taste her as she is in chasing a deeper sort of kiss, all the while making certain that he knows he has agency in it, and if this is enough for him, she'll stop if he wants her to, but not a second before.

[forwhump]

a/n; sorry !!!!!!!!!!!!! (either for the delay or the fact that I’m posting again depending on how you feel about me)(I’m from mountains, canada and I drove to prairies, canada & at one point completely out of nowhere my friend was like “you could hide a military base out here so easy” I was like 👀)(silas could literally be in flatlands, manitoba we don’t even know)

anyway LOL this is for the anon that asked for more outside pov !! I was actually looking for smth hal ‘cause I have a lot more lighthearted stuff & sort of caretaking healing things from hal’s pov BUT !!! I felt partway through june needed more screen time & I went back and wrote a lot of early stuff from her pov & this is some of that & it is TOO GOOD not to post !! more wren backstory 😏 but nothing good has happened to wren in his life so y’know

tw/cw: sexual violence, rape, noncon, transphobia, misgendering, graphic depictions of violence, serious bodily harm, forced imprisonment, captivity, mentions of kidnapping, sexual slavery, medical torture

outside pov, military whump, mentions of super soldiers

June has been in the unit for about two years — she thinks — when Point comes to escort her from the common room, and it isn’t unusual. Not at first.

She safely assumes it’s for combat or field training, which are two of the only three things she ever gets escorted from the unit for. The third is medical. She’s never seen anything else, she’s never been taken to any other part of the district, and the hair on the back of her neck starts to rise as Point leads her deeper and deeper into the labyrinth, farther and farther from familiarity.

“Sir?” She tries, and he doesn’t even look at her.

He leads her to a door at the end of a long, empty hallway. He stands with his back to it, finally looking at June. Something in his jaw twitches. “Against my better judgment,” he says, and has to stop, to calm himself, closing his eyes, breathing in slowly through his nose. When he opens his eyes again, he looks at her and says, “if I had another choice, you would not be here. You are about to become privy to information only my most trusted men have been entitled to. It is contraband. If, for any reason, my superiors find out, and she is taken from me, I will not be happy. And if I’m not happy, your employment with me will be terminated by means of your life. Do I make myself clear?”

June had never seen any farther into the district than the arenas, even further underground. This is a single, armoured door, at the end of a long, empty hallway, at the junction of more long, empty hallways. “She?” June asks.

“Do I make myself clear?” Point repeats, and June’s body nods with no help from her brain.

“Sir,” she says.

Point clicks his tongue, irritated, before he unlocks and unarms the door.

It opens to the worst thing June has ever seen in her life.

“Fuck!” She says, and she doesn’t mean to, taking a quick step back. She can see Point watching her, blank, from the corner of her eye, but she can’t look at him. She doesn’t want to look anymore but she can’t pull her eyes off the body laid flat on its back on the concrete.

The costume dress is ripped and stained, tulle and gingham soaked through with blood. The body is so emaciated that June can clearly make out every bone in its leg beneath its waxy, bruised skin.

She fixates on the long, white hair. Robin has the same hair.

“Oh my fucking god,” she says.

Robin speaks of him, still, but he hasn’t been the same since this place got to him. None of them are. He isn’t frantic in the same way, but he still talks about him. When Robin talks, it’s most of what he talks about.

When he’d been taken, escorted here, his brother had been with him. The artist. They’d taken him, too. The soldiers all staunchly denied him ever even having a brother with him, so June had always assumed he’d been killed at the scene. Robin had insisted as long as he’d been there — they’d taken his brother, too. He was here somewhere.

He was right.

June feels cold all over.

“I think her pelvis is broken,” Point explains, and she has never experienced the rush of emotion she feels now, wet and hot, like a tide that breaks in her chest.

“You think her —“ she starts, and it almost makes her gag. She has to take a long breath in through her nose. She still can’t look away. “You think his pelvis is broken?”

“No,” Point admits. “Her pelvis is definitely broken.”

“Oh my fucking god,” June says again, and her voice sounds really far away. Robin’s brother has been real this whole time and Point’s been keeping him as a pet. “Oh my fucking god. You raped him to death.”

“She’s still alive,” Point says, and he says it like she’s dumb. He steps closer to nudge him in the side with the toe of his boot and Robin’s brother makes a quiet, wet sound June has only ever heard from dying men.

She reacts without thinking, shoving Point away from him. He moves, but he sneers as he looks down at her. “Stand down, January.”

“Get the fuck away from him!”

One of his eyebrows lifts, menacing. She doesn’t like Point, and she’s never liked Point, but one of the things she’s growing to loathe is his almost cartoonish villany. His mood swings are goofy and violent and it sets her teeth on edge. “I own her,” he says, low and dangerous. He leans in close. June is a big girl — Point is a massive fucking man. She doesn’t want to be intimidated by him but he speaks like a threat and his breath is hot against her face. “I can do whatever I want to her. That’s not why I brought you here.”

June would be shivering if she let herself, which is interesting because she’s actually as hot as if she’s running a fever. The sweat is cold as it trickles down her spine. “Why did you bring me here?”

Point looks down at the blood dried on the concrete, at Robin’s bleeding, broken brother, and says, “I don’t know what to do.” He looks at June slowly and his face is completely void of any emotion that June knows or recognizes.

“What?” She says.

He looks down again, back up, and she still can’t read his face at all. “I don’t want her to die,” he finally admits.

“Oh my fucking god,” June says, and she doesn’t mean to. She doesn’t know what else to say. She knew Point was a mean bastard but she never would’ve thought he would’ve been capable of this. “You should’ve thought about that before you raped him to death.”

“She doesn’t have to die,” he says.

“What do you want me to do?” June cries.

He looks at her like she’s a little stupid, which is just mind blowing, and motions to Robin’s brother with one arm. The other is held at his back, at ease.

Wren.

The name comes to her out of nowhere.

Robin’s brother is Wren.

“You’re also female,” Point explains, and kind of tilts his head, “I think.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” June says. “So?”

He motions at Wren again.

June looks at him, too, and it’s so much more horrible now that he has a name. He’d had family before, loved ones, somebody who was worried about him, and that was bad enough, but now this small, bleeding thing, broken down the middle, has a name.

Wren.

What was their last name? Some other kind of bird, wasn’t it? Was it Heron?

“I don’t know why you think I can help him,” June says.

Point’s eyebrows lift. “I figured you would’ve dealt with your share of female hysteria.”

“Female hysteria?” June repeats. “He was raped to death!”

“She isn’t fuckin’ dead!” Point snaps.

“He’s dying right now!” June cries. “You know that or you wouldn’t have come for help. What the fuck do you expect me to do? Really?”

Rage simmers in Point’s face for only a second. It’s gone just as quickly, replaced by something shier, almost more bashful. “Word is,” he says tightly, “you were a big…female advocate during your time. I thought you might’ve —“ and he cuts himself, exhaling sharply. “I thought you might’ve known somebody who’d been…hurt like her before. I thought you might know what to do.”

“They died,” June says.

“No,” Point says.

“Yes,” June corrects. “I worked around a lot of men like you. They were always civilians, always young, and they always died. Always.”

“You just let them die?” Point says, like he’s horrified by that.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” June says. “He needs a doctor. Have Medic —“

“No.” When he’s not speaking with too much emotion, Point doesn’t speak with a lot. Still, this is the flattest June’s ever heard his voice.

“Oh my god,” she says. “I know what to do and that’s what I know. If those girls in the field had been allowed access to a doctor they might not have died. They would’ve had a fucking chance, at least. What do you think is —“

“No,” he says.

“You’re really just gonna let him die here?” She protests.

“She’s contraband,” Point says, flat. “I thought I made myself clear.”

“So?”

Point looks her up and down once, lip curling disdainfully. “On paper,” he says, “she was terminated on site.”

Something shivers in June’s chest and makes her breath rattle. “Oh my god.”

“She is an unsanctioned pet,” Point says, “and —“

“Oh my fucking god,” she says. She takes a step away from him and she isn’t sure when she had gotten so deep into this room. She doesn’t like it, but she’s standing between Point and Wren and she can’t bring herself to stand anywhere else.

He kind of rolls his eyes at her. “And —“

“So he was always going to die here!” June cries, and the spike of hysteria in her voice surprises even her but this is fucking unbelievable. This is unreal. This place was a hellscape when these men were just working guard detail at a fucked up mad science program making super soldiers.

She should’ve known better. She was in the military, and she knew what those men were like. Point was right, kind of; she didn’t really work as an advocate, she just got a nickname. She used to fight, physically fight stationed doctors to try and get them to help the girls the soldiers always left behind. But they were always locals, civilians; the military’s doctors weren’t authorized to help them.

She should’ve known they’d never just be working guard detail.

She just never would’ve thought they’d be keeping a fucking sex slave in the basement.

What the fuck?

“What the fuck!”

Point exhales through his nose. “Yes,” he agrees.

June puts a hand to her chest and her heartbeat is like gunfire. Robin had been so hysterical about his brother when he’d gotten here, but he’d been going through withdrawals. June had never doubted that he was real, like Hal had, but she really thought they’d killed him, and that Robin had probably just blocked it out. That he’d completely forgotten it after the lobotomy, or whatever the hell they did to him.

He’d been real this whole time and Point had been keeping him as a pet.

“Oh my fucking god.”

“I don’t want her to die,” Point admits again, and June can feel it under her hand, the way that makes her chest constrict.

“At this point it’s probably the least you can do,” she spits, and her head is spinning.

“No,” Point says, and she hates that she agrees with him, but he’s right.

She can’t let him die down here. Not like this. “He needs a doctor,” she says.

“No.”

“That’s all you can do!” she protests. “There’s no other way to help him! You broke his fucking pelvis. He probably needed a doctor six months ago but if he doesn’t get one now he’s going to die. If you don’t want him to, tell Medic.”

“They’ll take her from me,” Point says.

June throws her arms up. “Then he’ll just be dead!”

Point looks down at her for a long time and she looks right back. She thinks he’s probably trying to intimidate some hidden medical prowess out of her, but she’s serious, and at some point he sees it in her face. His lip curls back from his teeth and he leaves. Without a word, he leaves, and he locks the armoured door behind him.

“Fuck,” June says out loud, and she doesn’t mean to. Her voice breaks.

But they’re alone. At least they’re alone.

Slowly, she turns to Wren, and slowly, she sits beside him. “Hi, Wren,” she whispers. He doesn’t respond and she doesn’t really expect him to. Slowly, she reaches out to him, brushing bits of crusted hair out of his face. He looks like he’s probably really beautiful, and he looks young. He looks so young that it makes June nauseous and she has to do everything in her power to keep her voice soft and calm and sweet. She wants to scream for him. She wants to cry.

She starts to push his hair out of his face and his eyes don’t open but he flinches with his whole body. “It’s okay,” June whispers. “It’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you. My name’s June. I’m a friend of your brother.”

It stirs something in him. His head turns slowly against the concrete and his hair is so white the parts dried with blood look like they’re rusting. Blinking open his eyes, he looks up at her, and he has eyes so much darker than June was expecting. He has really, really dark, really wide eyes, bloodshot and bruised underneath, and he looks up at June from beneath wet eyelashes and it makes him look even younger and she cries with him, then. She can’t help herself.

“Robin?” He asks, but just barely. His voice is really small, but when June strains to hear it, she can hear Robin’s accent, softer and sweeter. “He’s alive?”

“Yeah,” June agrees, smiling wetly, “and he’s clean. He’s all big now, looks like a real cowboy. They fixed his teeth, too. He’s got a great smile.”

He chokes out a wet sound that June only realizes is a sob when a tear clears a track in the grime on his face.

“I know,” she agrees softly. “Really seems like you got the shitty end of the deal here.”

He makes another choked sound and June likes to imagine that in another life, he got to laugh towards the end. “I’m gonna die,” he says, and June can hear it in how thin, how wet his voice is, that yeah, he probably is, “aren’t I?”

“I think so,” June whispers. “I hope not.”

He chokes out another sound, another sob. “I think I want to,” he whispers, and his brittle voice breaks. “I don’t wanna do this anymore.”

“I know,” she agrees. “I think I would, too.” He moves his head, tips his face up towards the ceiling, and strips of flesh have been peeled from the side of his throat. She takes his hand so carefully, and she doesn’t look at the bruising around his wrist or every one of his broken fingernails. “I don’t think I’d want to be alone,” she explains.

He makes a choked sort of sound. “I’m never alone.”

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “Do you want to be alone now?” His fingers tighten around June’s, almost frantic, and she says, “it’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.” She squeezes his fingers as much as she’s comfortable, which is just barely. “Couldn’t get very far if I wanted to.”

She’s crying, but that feels rude. What does she have to cry about? She tries to wipe her eyes with the back of her other hand and says, “I’m really sorry this happened to you.”

He doesn’t say anything but his fingers are still shaking so June knows he’s still alive. He’s so cold she thinks it would be hard to tell, otherwise. She doesn’t think she’d let go of his hand either way.

They sit there for such a long time that June thinks that Point’s left them both to die. She holds Wren’s hand and cries for him when he isn’t conscious to hear it. When the door is finally opened again, she jumps so hard it feels like it throws something out in her back.

Jumping to her feet, she keeps Wren safely behind her as Point filters back in, face blank. Close at his back is Medic and June sobs out loud.

She would go as far as to say she likes Medic. A trauma surgeon, Medic is a good doctor and he’s kind to them. He’s a prisoner, too. He doesn’t want to be there, either. Him and the entire rest of his team are fitted with collars, flickering at all times with dangerous red light. Insubordination will lead to electrocution which will lead to death.

Medic is a prisoner and he’s one of if not the only person down here with any sort of humanity left. He reacts to Wren like any normal person would — with horror.

He recoils so hard it makes him take a step back, and he bumps into June. Neither of them acknowledge it. “What the fuck?”

Point opens his arms, dismissive. “Fix her.”

“Who is this?”

“Who cares?” Point says. “Can you fix her?”

“What the fuck?” Medic repeats, ragged. “What did you do to her? Who is this?”

“Robin’s brother,” June says, and Medic looks at her with eyes blown wide with horror.

They blow even wider with realization. He looks at Point slowly. “What the fuck?”

“You’re wasting time,” Point says. “She’s dying.”

“His pelvis is broken,” June tells him quietly, and Medic sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“Fuck me,” he says. He rubs his face slowly, but if there’s one thing June likes best about Medic, it’s that she respects him. When he lowers his hands, he looks at Point. He says, “get the fuck out. Take June back to the unit, and stay the fuck away. If you try to see him at any point while he’s in my care, I will fucking kill you. You understand?”

Point’s lip curls back from his teeth. “You’re in no position to tell me what to do, doc.”

“Then maybe we’ll have Weaver come down here and take a look at him instead,” Medic says.

Point snarls, actually snarls, like some kind of fucked up beast, and the way the sound reverberates through the room is deeply unsettling. But he takes June by the arm, and he turns.

June turns to look over her shoulder, but Medic closes the door between them. As she turns back around, she sees it’s because Point tried to look back, too.

She doesn’t say anything to Robin. Maybe that’s the wrong choice, she isn’t sure. What would the right choice be? Would she wanna know, if it was her? What if she’d been lobotomized?

She doesn’t say anything and she doesn’t see Medic for months. When she does she’s sitting in a bed in the medical bay, trying to peer around for any sign of him. The medical bay, unfortunately, was designed for privacy; the size of a large airplane hanger, there are enough beds for a small army but spaced out far enough that June can’t peer end to end.

When the door is pushed open and Medic lifts the corner of his mouth at her, she has a bullet in her arm but she forgets that it hurts and blurts, “is he okay?”

Medic smiles a little more properly and the relief that crests in June’s chest almost makes her start crying out of nowhere. “No,” he says, “but he’s getting there. He’s alive.”

“Oh my fucking god,” she says, and he laughs. “Can I see him?”

“Let’s get this bullet out of you,” he says, “and we’ll see.”

A few months after that, somebody new is introduced to their unit. Like every other time, they don’t know until the guards show up with them. The new guy, this time, has long white hair, the same colour as Robin’s.

June cries pretty uncontrollably.

Robin doesn’t cry — can’t, maybe? — but June cries enough for him, too.

[wordstome]

Shrike pt. 3 - who we are

König x high school sweetheart reader

2nd person, she/her pronouns, reader is Austrian/has lived in Austria and speaks German for most of the story, romance, pining, friends to lovers, reader's nickname is Thorn, König's first name is Alexander, absolute tooth rotting fluff, corny as hell towards the end

2.8k words

tw: physical and emotional abuse, violence (chokehold, stabbing, throat slitting)

Hello to everyone reading this from my main blog! In case you haven't seen the pinned post on bucca2, this is my new writing blog. Everything I publish will be here on wordstome now. Please feel free to unfollow bucca2 and follow me here!

also PARIS PALOMA TEASED HER NEW SONG "DRYWALL" JUST FOR SHRIKE CHAPTER 3 SPREAD THE WORD

[PART 1] [PART 2 (PREV)] [MASTERLIST]

What I had left here I just held it tight So someone with your eyes Might come in time To hold me like water Or Christ, hold me like a knife

When you’re in total darkness, your eyes adjust. You can see everything around you, but it’s all devoid of color. Then when the light turns on, it blinds you, but it’s better to be blinded momentarily than to live in the dark forever.

That’s how it feels as you prepare to travel home. To escape. You’re antsy, excited and petrified at the same time. Before, it felt like the days flew past in a murky haze. Now, even the seconds crawl.

It feels like moving in a dream, like you’ll wake up any day now and it will all be taken away from you. Your hope, your new dreams for the future, your König.

A shiver runs through you. Where did “your König” come from?

When you’re not occupied with the anxiety of keeping such a huge secret from your husband, all you think about is König. You’ve spent the past few weeks in a haze, like he’s put some sort of spell on you. You do get a kick out of imagining him as a witch with a hat and cauldron.

But you know it’s something simpler than that. All the feelings you used to have for him have returned.  It’s different than the heady rush you used to get with your husband. It feels sweeter, like you really are a teenage girl with a crush all over again.

It feels naïve, but you also don’t care. You feel safe despite the situation you’re still in, for the first time in a long time. You never would have expected to see König again—even less so for him to become your saving grace.

It seems silly in hindsight that you had been so frightened of him. Sure, the mask was a lot. But it had been something about his energy. It was different than you had ever felt from him, before or after your reunion. If he was that way on the battlefield, then no wonder he had earned the nickname König. You’re not sure if it scares or awes you.

You’re about to find out.

An anxiety attack is the worst feeling in the world.

You dry heave. Your chest feels like a roiling ball of angry carrion birds hollowing you out. You shake like a leaf in the wind. You fall down a long, dark pit of despair as your stomach seizes with nausea.

The train’s delayed. There’s been an issue with the tracks leading out of the city. No trains will be leaving for 12 hours.

You should have just sat in the terminal and waited, or tried to contact König, but you’re not thinking straight. All of your thoughts are focused on your husband, and what he’ll do if he comes home and finds you gone. You decide, somehow, that it would be wiser to throw yourself back into the lion’s den and pretend everything’s alright instead of waiting for him to come raging into the train station and pull you out by the hair. The thought of that is the only thing that gets you up off the wall you were hyperventilating against and back towards home.

The plan is to get home before he does and hide your suitcases. He’s usually not home by this time, anyway. You chalk the rising sense of dread in the pit of your stomach up to your anxiety and turn the handle to go in.

Fuck.

He’s standing in the kitchen.

The years have not been kind to him. He’s far from the charming young man you married. He’s wretched, unkempt, angry. It’s clear he’s been drinking, maybe even before he left work. The shadows etch themselves into the lines of his face as his expression twists into something awful, inhuman. You stand, frozen, as he approaches you.

“Planning a trip without me?” he asks with an awful grin.

You can still salvage this. “Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, but I just received word. My mother’s not doing well. I have to go see her.”

“You lie like a whore,” he snarls. “Don’t think I haven’t been paying attention. You’re different nowadays. Not the nice obedient woman I married.”

Your fear turns to anger in an instant. Years and years of this horseshit, waiting on him hand and foot, placing his smallest whims before your own needs and wants—it rushes up through you like hot steam. His nice obedient woman. And the worst thing is, you hate that he’s not wrong. That is what you’ve become.

“Yesterday I came home and you hadn’t even started dinner. Where were you, huh? Running around on me behind my back?” It’s difficult to describe, but his smile is oily: sleazy, untrustworthy, dangerous. “With that big fuck in a hood that came here with the mercenaries, perhaps?”

Your blood runs cold at that. Has he seen you with König? When? Why hasn’t he said anything? It feels like you’re stepping into a trap, but you must move forward if you want to get out.

“He’s going to get what’s coming to him, alright. My manager has a direct line to his boss. One word from him will get that fucker deployed to the middle of nowhere on a suicide mission.”

It’s an absurd threat, and you know it. This drunken idiot has no idea what he’s talking about—as if some middle-management bureaucrat could persuade a PMC to dispose of a soldier like König. But it’s the audacity that irks you. You’ve lived your life serving this man for too long, and now he thinks the world will bend to his whims. There’s absolutely no way he can touch König, but an old and familiar anger rises in you.

A long overdue revelation dawns on you now. He’s a bully. The same as Andreas: little boys with petty insults and empty threats. Pushing people around because their own lives are empty and unsatisfying.

An eerie calm breaks through you like the sky cutting through a storm. The man before you is just a feral animal, snarling and snapping in desperation. You’re not afraid of him anymore.

You reach behind you and slowly roll open the knife drawer, grabbing the first one your fingers land on.

“I’m leaving. I’m leaving this house, this country, and this marriage,” you say, gripping the knife in a defensive position. Your father taught you how to hold a knife like this: backwards, with the blade along your arm, sharp edge facing outwards.

“This way, it’s much more difficult for someone to turn the blade against you,” he had told you, demonstrating the motion by moving your arm towards your chest. The memory makes you smile. At the time, you’d been indulging your old man—he had always said that violence was a last resort, but that the world was unkind and one day you may have to defend yourself. He was right, just as he was when he told you he had reservations about your marriage.

You’re going home. You’re going to see your father again. And you’ll never have to tolerate the loathsome toad before you again.

The beast laughs. “What do you think you’re going to do with that? Stab me?” He’s up against you before you can react, the breath leaving your lungs in a gasp as he pins you against a wall by the throat.

“You. Are. Mine. You will never raise a hand against me because I own you,” he hisses, his alcohol-laced breath foul against your face. “And it’s high time you remembered that.” His grip tightens like an iron vice around your throat, but you’re not afraid. Even as your vision begins to blur and blacken, you stare directly into his eyes. They’re like red-hot coals of fury, but you see what’s behind them now. The fear. The cowardice of a desperate man who has no recourse but to lay his hands on someone who can’t fight back.

“You’re pathetic,” you rasp, lips tugging into a smile. The coals burn brighter. The hand squeezes tighter. The adrenaline surges through you like a tide—and your body acts to protect itself, in a way that you haven’t allowed it to in a long time. A feeling as sweet and familiar as an old friend.

The knife makes its home right between his ribs.

He staggers away from you, as if you had slightly winded him instead of stabbed him in the heart. Your hands instantly go to your throat as you cough and sputter, lightheaded and dizzy but alive, so alive. You’ve never felt so alive as you do right now, watching the demon of your own personal hell look down at the blade sticking out of him.

“You stupid little bitch—” He makes as if to lunge at you, but time slows. Your eyes widen as the shadows behind him melt and solidify into a figure. Tall and hooded. No knight in shining armor, but an assassin of deepest night.

König slashes through your husband’s throat in one deadly, beautiful motion.

Your husband falls to the ground like dead weight, gasping and choking on his own blood. Your eyes are fixed on him, a strange sensation bubbling through you. You’re making some kind of noise, loud and cacophonous, as König steps over the dying animal who has controlled you your whole adult life.

His arms find their way around you as you slowly sink to the ground, howling and wailing. He’s so patient, you think numbly with some corner of your mind that remains untouched by the mania seizing the rest of you. The two of you sit there, his body warm and solid against yours, as your body slowly exits fight or flight mode.

“Alex?” you say hoarsely once you’re in your right mind again.

“I’m here,” he rumbles.

You turn to look at him as he pulls the hood off his head. There he is, your Alexander, all grown up. He’s rugged, with nasty-looking white scars streaked across his face, but so, so handsome. His eyes are still the same as he looks at you with something akin to rapturous adoration. Your green-eyed boy.

“You’re back, rosethorn,” he says with a wide grin. There’s a touch of madness to it, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Was I…” Exhaustion sets in, seeping through your whole body. “Was I crying or laughing just now?”

He shifts you onto his lap, cradling you like a baby as you look up at him.

“I think you were laughing.”

The police release you after just over half an hour of questioning.

You aren’t going anywhere, of course. They’re leaving you, exiting your hospital room with murmurs of well-wishes for your health. They’ve hardly left the room when König comes striding in, instantly moving to your bedside and holding your hand in his.

He looks tired too, his eyes soft as he takes in your small smile. You’re sure he was being interrogated for much longer than you, but it looks like he passed muster as well. Not as if you had anything to worry about—what could the local police have done to the commander of the mercenaries taking down their local terrorist cell anyway?

“Are you alright? Did they clear you?” His expression hardens as he glances at your neck. You nod weakly. Your throat is going to be bruised for a while, but your attacker hadn’t done any lasting damage.

Attacker. Husband. Corpse. All of these words describe the same thing now.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner,” he says mournfully. “He shouldn’t have had the chance to attack you like that.”

You shake your head at him. He didn’t know that you weren’t on the train heading home, after all. The room is quiet for a few moments, save for the distant beeping of a heart monitor.

“Why…” you manage to ask. He knows what you’re trying to say.

“Why was I there?” He glances around to make sure nobody’s listening, and leans in to whisper in your ear.

“I was there to kill him, of course.”

You shudder a little. He admits it so casually, that he was in your house because he was there to commit a murder. You should be afraid of him, but you feel around in your brain and come up empty-handed.

Instead, you find yourself worried. For him. “What if you had gotten in trouble?”

He snorts. “You underestimate me, rosethorn. I would have just framed it as a robbery.”

You nod. Oh God…does that mean he had planned this? Why doesn’t that horrify or disgust you? You’re just going to have to dissect that later. Right now, you only feel a warm affection towards the man stroking his thumb along your hand in a soothing motion.

“So…what comes next?”

“You’re asking me? We can do whatever you like. I can take you home.”

Home. Where is that, now? It’s certainly not in the house you’ve left behind, where the ghost of the man you were married to settles in every nook and cranny. It doesn’t feel like your childhood home where your parents are, either.

It’s such a corny saying, “home is where the heart is”. But home feels like it’s already here, sitting next to your hospital bed with the fondest look in his eyes.

“I’d like to travel,” you whisper. The with you goes unspoken.

“I have plenty of leave time saved up.”

You flip your hand so you can hold his. It’s huge next to yours. This is the hand that slit your husband’s throat, a hand that has killed countless people.

You’re not sentimental enough to pretend that’s not an issue. You’re not entirely sure this is happily ever after: that all of your problems are solved because you’ve replaced one violent man with another. But another part of you yearns to be the one who gets protected. You’ll take care of König, and you know he’ll take care of you. In his own way.

You can ask the questions later. Right now, you have lost time to make up for.

“Are you sure you should be wearing that scarf?”

The air is cold, but the wind is soft instead of feeling like tiny blades against your face. You tug said scarf down from your face and take in a lungful of crisp, icy air.

“I’ll be fine,” you reassure König as he hauls himself up the last ridge to where you’re standing. “It’s loose enough. And it’s chilly.”

“If you say so.” He tugs his neck gaiter further up his nose. “What a view, hm?”

You’re standing on Mont Blanc, blanketed by serene white snow just as the name promised. Further below you, the skiing slopes are crawling with tourists, but here in this little outcropping, the only sound is the occasional rush of wind and your voices.

“I think I can see Salzburg from here,” you say, pointing off into gorgeous landscape spread out before you.

“That is most certainly still Switzerland,” König says, amused. You turn to look at him instead and are rewarded with his shining green eyes looking right back at you.

“Whatever!” You let out a dissatisfied hmph, which draws a hearty laugh from him.

“You came all the way to Chamonix just so you could look at Austria again?”

“It’s a very tall mountain,” you argue.

“It’s one of many very tall mountains. We could have just gone to Großglockner.”

“That’s boring. I’ve always wanted to visit France.”

“You wanted to visit a very expensive ski chalet.”

“Bite me.”

“I just might!” You giggle and squeal as he grabs you, chasing your face with his as you squirm around.

“It is beautiful,” he concedes as he holds a hand above his eyes to keep off the sun. “Almost as beautiful as you.”

“I should push you off this peak right now.”

“You couldn’t move me an inch.” He grabs you by the waist and holds you tight to emphasize his point. You can’t even shift his arms off you, no matter how hard you push.

“Ok, fine, you win.” You pout at him, but he doesn’t let you go.

The dynamic the two of you share is so easygoing and relaxed, it’s like you had a rhythm all along that both of you just fell back into. But of course, there are some things you’ve never done together. Like travel together.

Or kiss.

“Are you going to do it this time?” you ask him, smiling.

His nose wrinkles up, uncharacteristically cute for someone like him. “Well, I was going to, but then you had to open your mouth.”

You cackle. “Go on then.”

“Can I?”

“I just said yes!”

“I forgot how much you like to talk,” he complains. Before you can say another word, he captures your lips in his.

The sky is vivid and blue as the whole world stretches out before you.

#RIPBOZO

Here we are! We're at the end of this little story I started writing on a whim. Honestly, this means a lot to me personally: I wrote a lot when I was younger, but high school and university were very difficult times for me, and I stopped writing fanfiction. I tried to get back into it during the pandemic, but I was never able to finish anything beyond a long-ish drabble. I'm quite proud of this.

Even still, I feel like there are a lot of stories that I still want to tell about this couple. There's quite a lot that I decided to cut from these main 3 chapters for the sake of pacing and time. There's a little bit of dissatisfaction at not having crammed in every little detail that I wanted, but if there's one thing that writing university papers has taught me, it's that perfectionism will keep you from getting anything done. So you will be getting more from Alex and Thorn in the future!

I know a lot of you were anticipating what delicious revenge König was going to exact on Thorn's husband, so I hope you weren't too disappointed ;; While I personally would have loved to have König strap him to a chair in the basement and do some morbid things with a knife, I think it was important for Thorn's character that she's involved in it. While of course the main focus of this story is König, Shrike is also about his beloved Thorn. I hope to explore König and the darker (and pervier) aspects of his character more in subsequent stories. But for now, they're getting a well-deserved happy ending.

One last thing before I go: Chamonix is a resort town in central/southeast France, not far from Lyon. (Sorry, I don't know whether Lyon is south enough to be considered southern France lol). Mont Blanc is Chamonix's main peak of the Alps, and is known for how pretty it is and being at the border of France, Switzerland, and Italy. As König said, if you wanted to visit a mountain as an Austrian, there are several of them at home you could visit, but since I visited it a few years ago, Chamonix has a special place in my heart. I just had to cram it in!

As usual, I'm excited to see your comments and feedback. I've read every single thing everybody has commented about this fic, even if I couldn't respond to you all, and I appreciate it so deeply. Whenever I get feedback I literally feel like kicking my feet and giggling. And if you want to ask questions or request specific scenarios with Thorn and Alex, please do send me an ask!

@crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @kneelingshadowsalome @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian @ghostslittlegf @euuuuuuun @e1x03 @kokonoiwife @deaddainish @dragonfang @teehee-47 @catluvwr @fireballoveraltanta

psst. to my tag list people while I have you here: naturally I will continue tagging you in other Shrike stories, but I'll also be using this same tag list for every other König fic I write. If you'd like to opt out of that, let me know. (No hard feelings, of course :3)

[snikttbub]

Really interesting read!

Tuberculosis and the Wild West

Spoilers for RDR2 , but it’s been since 2018, y’all. Trigger warnings for talk of terminal illness and stigma. Ok, first, some background: I’ve been studying TB since 2018; my father had a form of TB twice. I’m a historian, and one of my specialties is the history of medicine. Of course, you don’t need to be a historian to write something like this. Also,  please “like” and reblog, this sort of content takes time. Tons of pics of buildings, and info below of the “lore” and IRL people.

Background info about TB that y’all need to know: TB is still horrifically deadly and still a leading cause of death. To give you all an idea about how recent help is antibiotics to treat specifically TB were discovered in the late 40s, but sanatoriums (TB hospitals) and similar TB-related places didn't all close until 1970. My sister was born in 1977. That shows how long the disease has been around and just how recently there has been genuine scientific help for it. 

To give you all an idea of how scared people were of this disease, think of the AIDS/HIV crisis in the 1980s and that stigma or how terrified people were of the COVID pandemic.

 It is one of the three oldest diseases dating back to Ancient Egypt. Initially, people believed TB was a disease of the elite granting someone ethereal beauty, writing prowess, and artistic talents. It was known as a “romantic disease” and a “beautiful death” - both of which we know isn’t true. Some Western beauty standards are influenced by TB, such as rouged lips, blush, and very pale skin and corsets in the past. This is due to the patient wasting away. That’s why TB was called consumption. However, people eventually woke up and realized, “Oh wait, this isn’t so sexy ."The disease was terrifying and spread like wildfire. Soon, they blamed anyone who wasn’t a white upperclass person AND those who were "immoral ."It was "Their fault” they had the disease. People held a very e*gen*c view of the disease believing their activities or who their families were caused this. 

So, immoral here means thieves, sex workers, bar workers, drunkards, violent people, women who had children out of wedlock, said child born out of wedlock, and homeless people. Obviously, this isn’t true. It was overcrowded spaces, poor hygienic practices, but also animals, especially cows and deer. Ironically, the  deer/stag plays a huge role.

So the events of RDR 2 take some inspiration from Doc Holiday, one of the greatest gunslingers in American history. His talents with the gun were almost otherworldly. He also loved being an outlaw and was a huge gambler. He and Wyatt Earp are most famous for the shoot-out at the OK Corral. Doc was dying of TB and went west in order to potentially get some medical help but found out that being an outlaw was great fun. A version of him is in the movie Tombstone. He had a very colorful life, but died of TB in Glenwood Springs, Colorado, at the age of 36. The same age as you know who . That’s Doc’s picture below:

This leads us to RDR 2 itself. The short answer about the survival is potentially with some major stipulations. I have traveled across the country studying TB and visiting TB sites and have seen these locations firsthand. Read more to see how and see all the pics of the buildings. Full spoilers below.

Keep reading

[starzct]

☆ . 𝗮𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗹𝗲 [𝗡𝗘𝗪!]

( 💎 )  ⸻ #𝗤𝗨𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗭 𝗡𝗘𝗪 𝗣𝗢𝗦𝗧. ( TW ... misogyny & mistreatment ) BY 99KITSCH, on NOVEMBER 4, 2024.

OLIVE,  AIQING,  EMI  and  RAON  took  to  social  media  in  a  joint  statement  this  morning  to  announce  their  departure  from  their  group,  SEVENTEEN.  the four female members making up the group's subunit, QUARTZ, have  spent  the  last  SIX (6) MONTHS  on  hiatus due to arising conflict  between  their  companies.  their  last  schedule  as  SEVENTEEN  members  was  the  final  day  of  the  FOLLOW  TOUR  on  MAY  26,  2024,  in  YOKOHAMA,  JAPAN.  their  fanbase,  CARATS,  started to get concerned with the lack of transparency when QUARTZ missed SEVENTEEN'S performance at LOLLAPALOOZA BERLIN.

❛❛  Hello.  This  is  OLIVE,  AIQING,  EMI  and  RAON.  After  long  discussions  with  our  teams  currently  at  both  our  companies,  we  have  mutually  made  the  decision  to  terminate  our  exclusive  artist  contract.  We  would  like  to  express  our  gratitude  to  CARATS  who  have  loved  and  supported  QUARTZ  and  SEVENTEEN  over  the  years.  We  also  hope  you  continue  to  cheer  on  us  as  we  prepare  a  COOL,  NEW  IMAGE  through  a  collaboration  with  Netflix  on  November  17.  Until  now  this  has  been  QUARTZ. ❜❜

QUARTZ  first  made  their  way  onto  the  stage  in  various  pre-debut  videos  KNOWN  AS  THE  GREEN  ROOM  from  early  2013 - 2015.  it  was  not  long  before  the  group  stole everyone's  hearts  with  their  unique  talents upon debuting as individual members of SEVENTEEN.  while  everything  was  total  bliss  at  the  beginning,  it  did  not  take  long  for  the  fans  to  ark  up  about  unfair  treatment  between  the  female  and  male  members  of  SEVENTEEN.  QUARTZ  UNIT was made  to debut  to  appease  the  fans  with  the  repetitive  discussion  of  MISMANAGEMENT  compounded by their ongoing demand by the general public. every  so  often when SEVENTEEN or THEIR COMPANY would be in HOT WATERS, QUARTZ  coincidentally  would  be  given  another  comeback.  well  that  is  atleast  what  user @/17211182026 on twitter has theorised relentlessly.

a  REPRESENTATIVE  from  QUARTZ'S COMPANY, STARGIRL  announced,  " QUARTZ  is  currently  going  through  a  re-brand  as  they  enter  a  new  era  at  JUPITER  RECORDS. "  this  was  followed  up  with JUPITER  RECORDS  releasing  new  official  company  profiles  for  the  group,  with  Y2K-stylised  pictures  heavily  inspired  by  the  trend's  unexpected  return.  QUARTZ  were  previously  known  for  their  REFRESHING  BLEND  of  GENRES  and  CONCEPT  but  this  new  move  signifies  an  ever  fresher  start  for  the  girls as they chose to sign with JUPITER RECORD'S subsidiary, STARGIRL once again.  JUPITER  RECORDS  are  yet  to  comment  on  whether  the  members  will  be  adopting  the  QUARTZ  name. however,  KNETS  sleuths  noticed  the  company  applied  for  several  trademarks,  suggesting  this  move  has  been  on  JUPITER'S  mind  all  year  long.

but  that  wasn't  the  only  surprising  thing  this  morning.  OLIVE  reposted  a  very  iconic  meme  to  her  INSTAGRAM  story  with  the  caption,  'Monday  Mood'.  this  image  of  NICOLE  KIDMAN  after  finalising  her  divorce  has  done  its  rounds,  and  NETIZENS  are  lapping  it  up,  but  it  appears  CARATS  are  speculating  the  reasoning  behind  this  post.  this  comes  after  a  parents  of  one  of  the  members  revealed,  "There  has  been  tension  going  on  between  companies  for  quite  a  while  and  I  think  in  the  end  it  really  impacted  the  relationships  the  girls  built  with  the  other  members.  Just  from  talking  to  my  daughter  this past  week,  I  know  she  will  be  much  happier  away  from  that  awful  company.  Good  riddance!". we are looking forward to what OLIVE, AIQING, EMI and RAON reveal in their very first documentary as a group, "DIAMONDS ARE FOREVER!".

☆ . 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘀 !

( +342, -56 ) this is like when zayn left one direction all over again. ( +294, -187 ) OLIVE will always be THAT GIRL !! ( +256, -101 ) OH I know that company is up in flames rn. aww so sad !! ( +243, -112 ) i hope the girls are healing & happy !! ( +215, -76 ) makes me so so sad to think abt how my babygirls will only been known for their male counterparts </3

JOIN THE CONVERSATION && SEND UR THOUGHTS IN

[prismaticfaery]

Little Bunny

John Price x Fem!Reader

Summary: Never in a million years would Captain Price think that he'd have a chance at a family, but with how dangerous his profession was and his chances of becoming a father becoming a reality, you and him have to learn the hard way that moving on is the best you both can do.

**TW: Pregnancy, vomiting, swearing, mentions of sex, alcohol, labor, childbirth, anxiety, panic, angst, unrequited love. (Forgive me if I miss any!)

Rating: Mature

This is not short, it's 10K words! Also, don't expect too much of a happy ending!

Part Two

A/N: I was debating posting this for so long out of fear it was trash, please be gentle with me! To add, termination is always going to be your choice and it’s okay to consider that option!

Fluorescent lights hung overhead, your eyes poorly adjusting to the harsh lights as you fumbled with a pen nervously between your fingers. You had filled out a small packet of papers on a clipboard, the receptionist telling you that your doctor would see you soon and to make sure every bit of information was filled in. When you had initially told the receptionist that it would only be you when she asked if you were accompanied by a partner for a confirmation of pregnancy ultrasound, she gave you a look, and you knew she was silently judging you for your situation. 

“Y/N?” You hear a nurse call out while propping a door open, breaking you out of your trance.

It was two weeks ago when you had realized your period was late, your work schedule and general hecticness in your life made you suspect that it was stress at first but when your period never showed even a week later, and with having a pretty normal cycle, you darted to the commissary on base and bought two boxes of pregnancy tests– two different brands to make sure. Yeah, you had been more tired lately, and you had lost your appetite more than a few times, but you knew that those could also be normal premenstrual symptoms. 

With your uniform pants and panties down to your ankles, you held two different pregnancy test in your hands, the trembling in your arms and hands from fear only became worse when the test slowly turned positive. With a harsh breath in, you hold it for a moment, fresh tears stinging your eyes when you finally release your breath. Your body felt frozen in place, unsure of what to do next. Do you tell him now? Do you wait? You were on birth control and never missed a dose, but of course, it’s not always foolproof. You weren’t even with the baby’s father on an exclusivity level, only really depending on each other for comfort and pleasure when you both needed it– not to mention he was your Captain, your superior. 

A hiccup leaves your throat, the metaphorical golf ball stuck in your throat nearly choking you as you place your head in your hands, those fresh tears gathering in the corners falling into your hands. You were active duty in the SAS and newly recruited into Task Force 141, though just a Sergeant, and you were living in the barracks, which was not the place to bring a baby up in, nor was it even allowed. You weren’t prepared for a baby to come along, and you knew that your Captain had no intention of having children while he always had a target on himself. You knew he wouldn’t take this news well. 

“It looks like you’re reaching nine weeks, strong heartbeat at 168 bpm– see it here?” the doctor pointed to the tiny fluttering heart on the ultrasound monitor. 

“I do,” you smile lightly, your eyes never leaving the small floating jelly bean that jerked and wiggled inside of your body. 

“Do you have support at home?” The doctor asked, her eyes meeting yours with a certain softness, knowing that you checked your marital status as “single”.

“Well I have my mother, but as for the other half of the child, he won’t be very happy,” you say, sitting up and adjusting the paper blanket draped across your nude bottom half. 

“Reach out to your mother, okay? Best of luck with everything,” the doctor takes her leave, giving you the privacy to clean up and put your uniform back on. 

You sat for a moment, the silence deafening save for the nurses speaking at their station outside the exam room door. You peek over at the ultrasound monitor, which had been paused on a picture of your tiny baby. Your heart ached, and you found yourself struggling to turn your head away, until a knock at the door sounded. 

“Here are your papers, there’s also a script for prenatal vitamins and some brochures,” the nurse smiles, handing you the small stack, “take care of yourself.”

The door closes behind the nurse and you decide that it’s time to finally get dressed. You wipe the ultrasound gel from your abdomen and lower region, and silently slip your clothing back on, your eyes never leaving the monitor until you notice a small black and white photo had been printed and attached to your after appointment papers. Your heart skipped, quickly tearing the photo from off of the stack to hold in your hands, your little baby’s side profile had been captured and you could see the tiny arms and legs scrunched up to its body. 

Checking the time on your watch, you pick up speed, remembering that you had a debriefing on a Task Force affair with your Captain soon and you were definitely going to be late arriving at it. You knew he wouldn’t be happy with your lack of punctuality, but you had proof that you were tied up in a last minute affair. 

Once arriving back at base, you could see the familiar form of Soap who was also a late arrival to the debriefing, but you knew it was because of his poor time management skills, or he was just waking up from one of his naps. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he spins around in a wild fashion. 

“Good grief, ya scared the shite out of me,” Soap held a hand to his chest. 

“Sorry, I was just curious if we could walk together to the debrief,” you question, your eyes pleading for him to agree as to save yourself from being individually called out by your Captain. 

Soap nods, his longer legs falling into step with yours, “you’re not usually late to these things, something must have had you tied up,” Soap scratches his head, yawning into his unoccupied hand.

“Oh you know, women’s issues,” you shrugged, Soap wincing at your words. 

“Ah, I don’t think you need to explain,” he chuckles, knowing damn well that he was treading into territory he was very familiar with, having to be around female soldiers– especially with being around you so much– taught him more than enough. 

Opening the door to the small debriefing room, you could see Ghost leaning back in his chair, one leg over the other while his arms crossed against his chest, his usual black balaclava covering his face. Gaz was in the seat adjacent to Ghost, his face blank– an almost bored expression showing. 

Price’s body language was showing very clear annoyance as he watched you and Soap enter, the awkwardness in the room causing you to fumble into your seat, the loud scraping of the chair leg against the tile floor made Price audibly sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“You two are late, don’t let this happen again or I’ll have you assigned cleaning duty for a week,” Price points his finger first at Soap, then at you, your eyes casting downwards in embarrassment. 

As the debriefing went on, you could feel the familiar crystalline blue eyes of your Captain steal glances of you. You make yourself small and scarce in the meeting, your arms folding across your upper body and your body slinking into your chair. You felt strange about having such a huge secret being hidden away from your Captain who was more than deserving to know about it, but you needed time to formulate a plan on how you were going to carry out telling him. It would be better to tell him sooner than later though because you could be deployed at any time and that would be a dangerous situation for you and the life that was growing inside of you. 

“Ghost, you and Gaz will be going to Russia for some recon, I need intel– any intel on where they’re moving next,” Price nods his head in Ghost’s direction, handing Gaz a debriefing packet on his and Ghost’s deployment that they’ll go over together at a later time. 

You feel your body tense as a very heavy wave of nausea washes over you, Soap noticing your eyes fluttering and your skin becoming ashen and shiny from sweat. Pushing his seat out with the back of his legs, Soap rushes over to the trash bin, knowing all too well you wouldn’t make it yourself. He shoves the bin into your lap where you attempt to shield yourself with your arms as you empty the contents of your stomach. Gaz winces, and Ghost is pretty much unbothered but keeping a watchful eye on you. 

“You alright?” Price askes as he makes his way over to your hunched over form. 

“No, I really need to go,” you heave a sigh, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

“Leave that, I’ll have someone clean it,” Price nods, motioning for you to leave. 

Long having discarded your uniform, you sat on your bed, staring at the white wall across the room. So many thoughts flooded your brain, and you felt like you were losing control of everything in your life all in the span of a few hours. You were young, and still inexperienced in life, halfway to reaching your thirties. The dried yet still sticky feeling of tears coated your cheeks and you felt like your heart would leap out of your chest every time you even thought of mentioning this pregnancy to Price. How the hell was he going to take it?

You knew that it would go two ways most likely– one: he’d walk away and break all contact, or two: he would tell you that he would support you and the baby, but would not be present.

A knock on your door broke you out of your thoughts, your voice cracking as you told the visitor to come inside. Price’s tall body stands in the doorway for a second before stepping inside and closing the door behind him softly. He knew it was risky coming into your room so early in the evening but he was willing to take that chance. 

“Everything alright? Soap said you were dealing with something– didn’t know the pain got so bad for you during that time of the month,” Price sits beside you on your bed, his taller form making yours tiny in comparison. 

“I’m alright, I just need to rest,�� your voice is small with a tinge of exhaustion, playing into Soap’s assumptions of you being on your period. 

“You been crying, love?” Price’s large hand caresses your neck, his thumb dancing across your cheek soothingly.

“A little, yeah,” you smile softly, leaning into his touch. 

“You want to tell me about it?”

“Not really, if that’s okay?” Your breath catches in your throat, you knew damn well you should tell him, but fear froze you in place. 

“I understand, hormones and all that lot can be difficult,” Price sighs, the hand that rested on your neck falling back into his lap. 

You suck in a breath as his words repeat in your head. Did he already know? Or did he have an inkling of an idea? No, that wasn’t possible. 

You feel the familiar burn of bile rising into your throat, your legs making a mad dash for the bathroom across your small barracks room. Heaving what little was left in your stomach, you could feel your Captain’s cool hands gather your loose hair from your sweat covered neck and forehead. As you breath in and out heavily, a soft cry escaping your lips from the horrifying nausea pounding through your body, you feel Price’s free hand rub soothing circles along your back. 

“You’re alright, sweet girl, let it out,” the deep gravel in his voice was soothing. 

You gag and heave one last time before you begin to feel like the nausea is subsiding, Price’s arm reaching over to flush the toilet and then bring your body back to lay against him as he leaned back against the tub. Your shorter legs are pulled up to your chest as his thick arms engulf you. 

“I’m pregnant,” a sob escapes your throat, a trembling hand brought up to your now teary eyes, wiping away any stray tears that escape. 

Everything goes silent around the two of you, and you could tell John was formulating his response and keeping himself from reacting in a way he would regret. His arms go slack around you and you begin sobbing even harder at his action. 

“Did you not take your pills?” Was all he could muster asking. 

“I did, I did-!” you cry, turning your body to face him now. 

“Y/N, you know what this could do to us– to me, right?” Price’s voice was dangerously low now, a look of pure anger painted on his face. 

You knew all too well what this situation could do to you both. Demotion, dishonorable discharge, enemies who had a target on both of you– but more specifically him, would know that there is something precious and innocent that could be easily taken away. 

Price goes quiet, his eyes downcast as he thinks to himself for a moment, “I think you should consider your options.”

“So that’s it? You’re putting all of this on me?” your heart begins to sink into your stomach, knowing damn well that this was his way of telling you that he wanted to cut all contact and act like this situation never happened. 

“What will you have me do, Y/N, hm?” He points a finger at himself, the tip poking into his hardened chest. 

“At least consider options with me– it takes two-!”

“No, Y/N. No,” Price rises to his feet, leaving you in a puddle of anxiousness on the bathroom floor, your eyes frantically watching his hand swing the bathroom door open. 

“Please don’t–,” you reach an arm out to him, but he’s gone so quickly from your sight. 

You find out the next day that you were pardoned from work, formation, and PT for a full month, knowing that Price did this to allow you time to think about what to do with the pregnancy. You hardly left your room, and when you did, it was usually just to eat and do laundry. Soap tried to stop you a few times to catch up and ask how you were doing, but you instead offered a smile and a quick, “I’ve gotta go,”. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t worried out of his mind for you, sad eyes watching you disappear down the hallways. He was often your partner in missions and would offer a helping hand if and when you needed it. Maybe he just needed to wait for you to come to him? He would always wait for you. 

You stared at your discharge papers for days, the blanks filled out neatly, and the pen you used sat atop the thin packet. You were sure that this is what you wanted, and this would save John from the possibility of having everything he worked so hard for to be snatched away. No one would know he was the father of the baby, and you weren’t going to make him be something he didn’t want to be. You wouldn’t inform him of the gender, due date, name– anything, if he didn’t want to know, in which you knew he wouldn’t. 

You wanted to make this as easy as possible– slowly cutting off your military life, and going back home to make a new life for yourself and for your baby. Your mother was in agreement, telling you to come home and to get yourself back on your feet, that she’d be happy to watch over the baby while you worked. You would have your childhood room back and your mother’s cooking, and that was enough to put a smile on your face even for just a moment through the rough patch. She knew that having support was the most important thing for you. 

You gather the papers in your hands, tapping them on the counter to even them out. Taking a moment to think one last time if this was truly what you wanted, you let out a shaky breath, leaving your room and making your way to John’s office, your fingers grasping the papers tight enough to wrinkle them. 

You knock three times on Price’s door, waiting for him to call out an answer for you to enter, “come in,” you finally hear him say. 

He straightens in his desk chair, the air in the room becoming thick and tense. He looks to be stressed out, his hand soon covering his forehead as he attempts to relax. You sit in one of the two chairs across from his desk, sliding your filled out discharge paperwork over to him. Price’s vascular arm reaches over to grab the papers, keeping his eyes on you the whole time. At first, he thinks that these are adoption papers for the baby, in which he would sign the parts that said “father’s information”, but he soon realizes that’s not what he was given. 

“You’re leaving the military?” his eyes darted up to look at you. 

“I won’t make this difficult. You don’t need to know a thing if you don’t want to, you won’t need to be present, just sign those papers and we’re gone.” 

“The Task Force needs you,” Price’s voice falters, his usual soft tone you were so used to is back. 

“I want to raise this baby, John– our baby,” you feel yourself spiraling, your hormones making it difficult to keep your composure. 

You could see his eyes flutter closed, his body shaking as he releases a large huff from his lungs, “you’ll be discharged immediately. I don’t want to see a trace of you left in that room.”

“Yes, sir.”

You had very little to pack up in your room, your mother having come from London to help you carry anything heavy. Soap had stopped by your room after hearing the news that you were being discharged. His thoughts soared wildly as he watched your mother pack away your things as you carried out items to her car, thinking of how sick you must have been to have to leave the military immediately. You must have been in need of serious medical treatment to just drop everything and leave. His form standing outside your door caught your mother’s attention, making his entire body tense. Turning on his heel, he prayed to whatever or whomever that your mother hadn’t seen the stray tear fall down his cheek. 

Your civilian clothing felt a little tight around your lower abdominal area, your belly poking out slightly, bloating from the pregnancy hormones and constipation since the baby was still very tiny to make an appearance quite yet. You were half tempted to keep your jeans unbuttoned but with it being so hot out, your shirt was cropped right above your belly button. You had to keep cool somehow and you weren’t sacrificing your style for your growing belly. You and your belly bump can be stylish together. 

“Is this the last of it, darling?” Your mother questions, placing the last box in the trunk of her sedan. 

“Yes,” you answer, looking around one last time before opening the passenger door of the car and slipping inside. 

Your eyes caught a glance of Price, who was outside on the training field with a group of soldiers. He was looking right at you, and it sent a flood of different emotions to wash over you. Tears stung your eyes, your throat swelling as you tried your best to keep yourself from falling apart. You were prepared to do this whole parenthood thing alone, but you were hoping that you would at least have him present for the sake of the child– not even for the sake of you because you weren’t what mattered in this situation. 

You had fallen madly for him but your job had made it very apparent that feelings for your superior could be a whirlwind of repercussions to pay. You had to play it safe in the shadows. John would have been a liar if he said he hadn’t also felt the same feelings as you, but kept it no more than a hook-up every once in a while. This was the most difficult decision you could ever make– deciding to walk away. 

It had taken you weeks to acclimate to civilian life after being in the military for so long. You were freshly 18 and had just graduated secondary school when you joined the Royal Army, just entering your mid 20’s when you passed selection for the SAS, Price was the first to congratulate you, shaking your hand and offering you a warm smile, the creases in the corners of his eyes sending you into a tizzy– goodness he was so handsome. His face was shaved then however. You loved his chops when he started growing them out, your eyes catching his own as he carefully combed through the thick auburn beard hairs with a sandalwood comb in the middle of his debriefings. 

You sat at the dining room table of your childhood home, scanning over the words on your laptop screen. You had gotten a new job and you were going to start working remotely from the house, which was perfect because of the baby coming around February. You had since gotten into a new doctor’s office, your mother accompanying you for support. Her face lit up when she saw the baby floating around on the screen, their little arms covering the front of their face. You had cried more than you liked and your nausea had increased dramatically once leaving the base. You thought it may have been from the stress of leaving your old life behind intermingling with the pregnancy hormones. 

Your mother was a huge support, telling you that you could take time to yourself before you found a civilian job. You waved her off however, saying that she had no business having to pick up the slack for her adult child. She had already taken to knitting small items for the baby, and your favorite was the small floppy bunny beanie that was a light cream color, the inside of the ears a dusty pink. 

“Have any of your military friends contacted you since leaving?” Your mother asks, peeking up from the cream colored blanket she had started days previous. 

“Soap has, but he ended up being deployed before I could answer. He probably thinks I’m dying with having left so suddenly when I was experiencing morning sickness during debrief,” the sigh that left your lips was a sad one, as Soap was someone you had grown quite close to over the years of being in the same barracks and then being on the Task Force together for a short period of time. 

“Well hopefully you can remain friends,” the nimble fingers of your mother placed a stitch marker into the blanket. 

“One can hope,” you lie. 

You were entering your 20th week of pregnancy– halfway to the finish line is what your mother said to you that morning. Her excitement was easy to spot as today was the day you would find the gender of the baby out. Your belly had grown some, but not enough for it to be immediately recognized as a baby bump. Maybe you just ate an entire pizza? 

Drinking the last bit of orange juice, to which your mother swore would make the baby more lively in your belly during the ultrasound, you look over the texts in your phone, Soap’s name popping up suddenly. It catches you off guard when you open the text, seeing a picture of Ghost and Price out on the firing range, Price’s hat sitting on top of Ghost’s head as he lay prone on the ground with a sniper rifle. Price had his arms crossed and was seeming to refuse being in the photo, his hand covering his face. Soap hadn’t sent so much as a “hi” in weeks, and you had hoped that he just moved on from the thought of you staying in touch with your old roots. Closing out of the text app, you place your phone face down on the kitchen counter, your heart dropping. You just won’t reply, just like you had been doing before. 

Patiently waiting in the exam room at the midwife’s office, you placed a hand on your belly, hoping that soon you would finally be able to feel movement. Your midwife said it’s normal to not have movements until now or even a little later but you were so impatient. Once entering the room, the midwife went over her routine questions, and took your blood pressure. 

“Your blood pressure is a bit elevated, are you getting enough water and rest?” The midwife asks, placing herself on the stool next to the ultrasound machine. 

“Mum wouldn’t let me live it down if I weren’t,” you answer. 

“I believe it,” the midwife chuckles, looking over at your mother who had taken a seat next to you on the exam table, “I would like for you to continue what you’re doing, and if you’re feeling any strange symptoms like dizziness, faintness, seeing stars in your vision, or pains in your chest or ribs, go to the hospital immediately.”

You nod your head, and the midwife starts setting your ultrasound up, helping you lie back on the bed as soon as she’s done. Unbuttoning your jeans, she places a flannel over the top of your jeans to keep the gel from staining them. The lights are then turned off and you begin to relax and clear your mind, ready to see your baby after weeks of waiting. Squeezing a large amount of gel onto your abdomen, the midwife places the transducer of the ultrasound machine onto the mound of gel, rubbing it around to find where the baby is positioned. 

“Look at those little puckered lips,” the midwife smiles down at you.

“Oh darling, look at that sweet baby,” your mom was in tears, her emotions always outmatched yours. 

As the midwife continues looking at the baby through the monitor, she takes her time going through all of the anatomy of the baby, noting it on the keys of the machine. Your hand was being squeezed so hard by your mother, you thought that your circulation might be cut off after so long. The tiny fingers of the baby were by their mouth, their legs stretching out and scrunching back up. 

“What were your bets on the gender, mum?” the midwife asks your mother, the two smiling at each other. 

“That’s a little girl in there.”

“Mum is correct,” the midwife points her finger to the wiggling baby, a clear picture of the baby’s gender boldly displayed. 

You’re going to have a little girl, Captain. 

Squealing with delight with fresh tears coating her cheeks, your mother squeezed your arm and kissed your cheek, “I’m so proud of you. I’m a grandma to a baby girl.”

While there was downtime, Price often grabbed drinks with the Task Force, his usual military uniform shed and his dog tags resting on his bedside table. The black jumper he wore had gotten a little loose, his appetite scarcely there since you told him about your pregnancy. His anxiety made his mind wander more than he liked. How were you doing? Was your belly finally popping out? Did you start purchasing baby items? He would always ground himself after some time, his internal voice telling him that this was for the safety of himself, and the safety of you and the baby. His baby. But not his baby at the same time, he made that clear with you all those weeks ago. 

Clutching a rocks glass in his hands at the bar, Price took a quick swig of the amber liquid as Soap sat to his right, scrolling through his social media timeline. Ghost was at the pool table across the bar, talking with Gaz, who had just taken a shot at a cue ball. It had been raining for days straight, the cool air flowing into the bar with each time the door opened. Were you also experiencing this weather? Or had you gone countries away to escape staying in the same country as your former friend with benefits with whom you now had forever ties with? 

“You know, Y/N’s social media was deactivated and she never answers my texts. I wonder if she’s okay?” Soap mumbled, unable to put his mind at ease as to where you went or what happened to you. 

“She was honorably discharged from the special forces, she’s probably cutting ties with her old life as much as possible,” Price’s voice was grim, however Soap didn’t quite catch on. 

“That’s not like her though– she used to post everyday–!” Soap gestured his hand to his phone, his social media app still open. 

“I think it’s best to allow her to move on,” Price slammed the rest of his whiskey, placing the glass back down on the bar with a loud clunk, “she’s been shot, wounded, seen death, caused death, stayed in hospital for weeks altogether in her career– she deserves peace.”

“She was ill, Captain,” those baby blue eyes of Soap’s were now filled with worry. 

“You said it yourself: she was experiencing her time of the month.”

“You’ve turned cold recently Captain–.”

“Move on, Soap. That’s the best you can do, for her sake and yours.”

Soap’s emotions were crushed, his heart sinking to the very bottom of his belly. Price knew Soap always cared too much, and that’s what set him apart from many people who had grown a bit cold and cynical while in the SAS– like Ghost for example. It was time for everyone to move on, it had been many weeks since your departure, and the only one who seemed to hold on the most was Soap… at times. Price struggled too but he was a Captain, he needed to be a leader and offer guidance to his soldiers, even if it wasn’t what they wanted to hear, but needed to hear. 

Holding his glass up to signal the barkeep for another pour, Price sighs, watching Soap scroll some more on his social media timeline, hitting the search bar and typing in anything and everything he could think of just to find you. He then sees him type in your mother’s name, his body language picking up in relief when a profile popped up, he just hoped your mother’s timeline wasn’t completely private. 

“Shite,” Soap mutters, disbelief flooding his tone, “she’s fuckin’ pregnant?” 

The Captain’s heart might as well have stopped beating right then and there when he heard Soap. Looking over at Soap’s phone, Soap adjusted the phone to show Price the screen, a post from two weeks ago exclaiming that you had just found out about the gender, a picture of you attached with a pink cupcake in your hand. 

“It’s a girl,” Price stared at the photo of you for way too long, his eyes softening when he saw that pregnancy glow, your cheeks becoming more filled out, and the swell in your lower belly being caressed by your hand. 

“Lucky lad, the father is,” Soap locked his phone, placing it face down on the bar, soon cradling his head in his hands. Soap is now trembling, a relieved yet saddened sigh leaving his mouth. 

Yeah, a lucky lad he would have been in a different world. 

Lying in the bath, the bubbles that had been added to the water thick and covering most of your body, your hands rested on your belly, rubbing the soft and stretched skin gently. Twenty two weeks along and you still hadn’t felt movements, and it was starting to worry you. Most people felt movement already. Sinking lower into the warm bath water, you feel the tension in your shoulders release after having worked all day. Come to think of it, your desk was still in a disarray with papers and pens and you had no energy to clean it up at the moment. 

Stilling yourself in the water and staring ahead at the faucet, you notice your stomach twitch, thinking that at first it was just a reflex, until it happened a few more times. You place the tips of your fingers where the twitches were happening, flinching when you could feel little taps. 

“Is that you in there, trying for your mummy’s attention?” You whisper, and another tap could be felt. 

Tears escape your eyes, quickly rolling down your cheeks when you think about how John is missing out on these moments. He would never be able to feel his little girl’s first movements. You wanted to imagine him being right there after you called out his name, his large hand reaching down into the tub, brushing softly against your swollen belly. He would wait patiently, at first discouraged that he missed those little kicks. Until finally, those little taps started up again, his baby blue eyes lighting up as he felt the tiniest movements against his palm. 

Wiping your tears away with the butts of your palms, you let out a shaky breath, attempting to ground yourself as much as you can in this moment, knowing that tears and sadness were not going to help get yourself through this. But it did feel good to cleanse your soul with a few tears after they built up for so long. 

When John had gotten to his room back at the barracks after downing three glasses of whiskey, he could feel his body give out from under him as soon as he shut the door behind him. His back slides down the door, his bottom meeting the cold tile, hands cradling his face as he chewed his bottom lip raw, the dull sting of the open wound radiating on his mouth. Hot torrents of anxiety begin to course through his body, tears stinging his eyes as he feels like he might crawl out of his skin. Clawing at his jumper collar, he feels like he’s suffocating, his breaths uneven and raspy. 

He missed you– missed those nights where he crawled into bed with you, your limbs entwining in a warm and comforting embrace after a hard day of work. His hands would search for the feeling of your soft skin in the darkness, only to feel an empty coldness on the sheets where your body should have been. You weren’t even his and vice versa but his attachment to you was obviously present from the beginning. His eyes always sought you out in the room, always scanning the battlefields to make sure you were safe. He should have pulled out all those times, knowing damn well that no birth control was 100% effective, other than abstinence or sterilization. He had gotten too comfortable with you, too lost in the warmth, the comfort you brought him. The smiles and the joking, the playful smacks you would give him, the wrestling and tickling matches that very often turned into that hot and heavy sex that left you both breathless and in a heavy daze. 

John knew he needed to move on, and to allow you the opportunity to live a happy and safe life with the baby, away from the military, the SAS, and the Task Force, but he was stuck on the idea that things could have been so different. If his duties weren’t so important– ridding the world of everything ugly and scary, meaning that his daughter wouldn’t have to one day live in fear, he would do it a million times over. No matter how much it hurt– no, how much it killed him, or how difficult it was to go day after day not knowing who or what she might be when she finally came into the world. How he’d never be able to see you become the mother you talked about being one day, holding a brand new baby while coming down off of the adrenaline, sweat still clinging to your forehead and cheeks. How he wanted so badly to witness that ecstatic yet exhausted “I did it,” come from your mouth, your tired eyes peering up at him. Being your support system while you struggled to nurse, changing the baby’s first nappy, letting you rest while he gently rocked and soothed the fragile bundle, whispering how much he loved her already. 

“Fuck–!” Price shouted, throwing his car keys across the room. 

At 32 weeks, your baby shower took place, friends that had kept in contact with you over the years came, as well as family members that you hadn’t seen in some time. You were in a comfortable maxi dress as your belly had gotten too big and it felt like the skin on your belly was always itchy so the soft fabric of the dress played a part in keeping that feeling away. There was a mountain of gifts that sat around the recliner in the den and you were overwhelmed with how much people cared to spoil the baby this much. 

As you sit in the recliner unwrapping the gifts, you smile for the pictures your mom begged to take so she could show you off, holding up each and every item you received. Blankets, nappies, outfits, baby gear, necessities, and even postpartum kits sat in a corner neatly. You were crying, feeling so undeserving of the kindness, but as your family and friends saw you, they all offered their comfort in the form of words of affirmation and bone crushing hugs. That you were loved and supported in this particularly difficult and confusing time. Your friends and family would have loved John. 

Your mother brings in another gift out of nowhere, her arms barely able to wrap around it, let alone carrying it over to you. Confused, you make her drop it, your body lifting from the recliner to help her set it down, her hand waving you off to not help her with something so heavy in your condition. She gives you a look and shrugs, saying there was no name on the gift. Tearing the wrapping paper off, you see a beautiful bassinet pictured on the large box. No one had fessed up to getting the gift for you, so you sat confused for longer than you would have liked as everyone else mingled. 

It had taken days for Price to figure out what he wanted to do for your upcoming baby shower. Your mother had posted an event, not realizing it was a public post, and fortunately for John, he knew your address from your paperwork and files. He found the sweetest bassinet, a cream color with a lacey pink border. It had a little storage area at the bottom so that you could keep any baby items at arm’s reach. Once he had put his payment and your address in, he hit the confirm button. He just hoped it would arrive on time. 

Sitting back in his desk chair, he listened to the busy hallways in which soldiers congregated and conversed while on their down time. His mind wandered to the most recent pictures your mother had posted, and your belly had grown bigger and you smiled so large. He imagined lying in bed, shirt removed, sweatpants on, your warm body next to his in a night dress that had become too short on you with your bump, his hand caressing the bottom of your abdomen, whispering sweet words. You were pressing your lips to his own, lingering for a moment and breathing in each other’s breath. 

“God, I hope you’re doing alright,” Price’s voice came out in a near whisper. 

Work has become a distraction of sorts, the meeting on your screen with several of your coworkers becoming something like a white noise as your mind wanders, your pen hanging loosely between your fingers as you stare into the void. A plate of biscuits and a cup of tea had been placed on your desk almost an hour ago by your mother, but they hadn’t been so much as even touched. You had a pretty significant headache that had gnawed away at the back of your head for the past few days that not even a paracetamol here and there helped. Thinking that the hormones had everything to do with it, you brushed it off without a second thought. 

“Y/N, what do you think about this?” Your coworker asks, pulling you from your thoughts. 

“I think it’s a great idea,” you answer, nodding and smiling into your webcam. 

Catching the fully set up bassinet that had been put in the other corner of the room in your video feed, you smile, placing your hands on your now nearly full term belly– 36 weeks to be exact. Your coworkers dismissed the meeting after agreeing to start the new project that had been outlined for a few weeks now, the small details and start date finally figured out. 

You stand from your desk chair, a hand placed on the underside of your belly to keep your center of gravity balanced and to keep your pelvis from hurting from the weight of your belly. The dress you wore swayed as you waddled over to the corner of the room where all of the baby’s things had been set up. Grunting as your knees bend to the floor, you drag the hospital bag you had been slowly putting together over the past few days. There were folded onesies, and knitted cardigans that you still had yet to pack away, as well as a small bag of toiletries. John would have chewed you out for being so carefree on such important things such as the hospital bags. He would have had his bag packed for weeks and sitting at the front door. 

Wincing from a twinge of pain in your chest, you stop what you’re doing for a moment to wait for it to subside. It could have been a trapped gas bubble– pregnancy and all of its little quirks. When the pain doesn't subside, you attempt to get onto your feet, but cry out when the pain worsens. 

“Mum–!” You cry out, bracing your hand on the bassinet and clutching your chest. 

Hearing your mother stomp up the stairs quickly, she barges into the room, rushing to your side and helping you up, “what happened, sweetheart?” she questions, eyes wide. 

“I’m having really bad pains in my chest,” you begin to cry, hot tears pooling in your eyes, scared out of your mind for the baby. 

After little to no convincing, your mother packed you and the bags into the car. It felt like the longest drive to the hospital ever, the diaper bag sitting in your lap and your own hospital bag at your feet, the baby kicking the wind out of your lungs, so you thought that she was hopefully doing just fine with all of her movements. There was a fresh sheet of snow on the ground and icicles formed on the trees, the freezing January air nipping at your skin. 

A nurse brought your mother and yourself over to triage, hooking you up to a non-stress test, the nodes placed cozily around your stomach, and wrapping a blood pressure cuff around your upper arm that was inflating and squeezing the life out of you. You knew that 140/90 was not where a pregnant person’s blood pressure should be, and you were certain the nurse was going to have you pee in a cup to check for proteins. 

Sure enough, you had to pee in a cup, handing it over to the nurse when you were finished and it was a hard enough feat to reach under your belly. Thankfully though, the non-stress test wasn’t alarming, the baby’s heart rate staying in a normal range even with the issues you were facing. 

“I think it’s safe to induce you right now, I’m not liking the looks of your blood pressure and labs,” the midwife sits in a stool across from your bed. 

Everything started off manageable– the pains, you were able to breathe through. Your mother stood by your side the whole time, clutching your hand when you needed it. You sat cross-legged in a hospital gown, the bed placed at the highest position, and an IV placed in the crease of your elbow. It was five hours later when the pitocin had started causing the most excruciating pains you had ever felt, and you had been shot many times in the SAS. 

Crying out and grasping the handles of the bed, your breathing became ragged and your mouth dried out and you were so happy when your mother applied lip balm to your mouth to keep them from cracking. Each time your progress was checked, the pain worsened, the labor pains feeling like a searing hot knife was dragging across your lower abdomen. You wanted so badly for John to be here, sitting across from you on the bed, letting your arms wrap around his shoulders while you groaned through your pains, but it was your mother who stood in his place, her tender touches breaking you out of your swimming mind. 

Hours later, your water had broken on its own, and now you were in the home stretch and the anxiousness began to flow throughout your body, knowing that your little girl was to make an appearance by the beginning of the next day. 

John’s body was wired, sleep not taking him this evening, his hand resting on his bare stomach as he splayed out on his bed, the blanket barely covering his waist. He scrolled mindlessly for hours on his phone when he finally decided to browse your mother’s social media, hoping that she had updated with anything that had to do with you. He shot up from his pillow when he saw a photo of you sitting up in a hospital bed, and IV and wires hooked up all over your body. 

“Posted three hours ago,” he mutters to himself, tapping your photo and zooming in on your face– you looked so angelic. 

His baby would be here so soon and it made his heart skip beats, anxiety flowing through his veins. He could be there right now in place of your mother, whispering sweet words of encouragement in your ear, rocking with you and helping you breathe through the pain. Even when on the battlefield while injured, he knew you were terrible at controlling your breathing, often passing out and waking back up with him chewing your head off. 

“Make sure to breathe, sweet girl, you’ve got this,” he spoke almost silently– a whisper off his lips. 

Lying back down, he knew immediately that he was not going to sleep until he knew you had delivered safely and that the baby was okay. Knowing how much your mother posted updates about you, it was surefire that she’d post a picture of that sweet baby as soon as she arrived. What were you going to name her? Would you give her your surname? Of course you would, he doesn’t have that badge of honor– of his kid taking his name, when he wasn’t present. What would his daughter look like? Hopefully like you because you were the most beautiful creature on God’s green Earth. 

The smallest hand was wrapped around your finger, swaddled in the cream colored blanket your mother knitted just for her. The baby came out kicking and screaming after almost two hours of pushing. You cried out for John, wanting him by your side more than anything. To hold your hand, to kiss you so deeply when the baby came and was placed on your chest. Your mother knew how much you missed John, your forlorn looks never fooling her, and so she felt great sympathy hearing you scream out for your past lover. 

“Look at you, Bunny,” you whisper, stroking the soft cheek of your little girl ever-so-softly. 

“Oh, you did such a good job, my love,” a kiss was placed on your cheek by your mother, her hand resting on the back of the baby’s bunny hat covered head. 

You would go through the pain of carrying her and bringing her forth a million times over, your heart swelling so much it might have exploded when your eyes caught the looks of her face. She was so perfect, so tiny. The moment she was placed on your chest, her eyes peered right into yours– those same crystal blue eyes she shared with her father. 

It was late morning the next day. John hadn’t slept a wink, his eyes heavy and Soap was late to debriefing– like that was a new thing though. He decided to sit at the table instead of the podium at the front of the room where the projector screen hung behind it, too exhausted to stand for more than needed. Gaz was away on deployment, leaving Ghost and Soap to sit in the seats to the right and left of him. Ghost’s eyes peered at his newest deployment papers, flipping through the pages pretty quickly as he was a fast reader. Soap had his head down, phone hidden under the table while there was a moment of silence– a break of sorts, in John’s meeting. 

“She had the baby, bonnie lass she is,” Soap says out loud, Ghost looking up from his papers with a quiet hum.

John frantically dug his phone out of his pocket, searching your mother’s name on social media. There you were, holding the tiniest bundle in your arms, swaddled inside a knitted blanket with her hands tucked under her chin. He had to leave, he needed a moment. The chair screeches when he stands, Soap’s attention snapping to his Captain, who started rushing out the door. 

Sharing a confused look with Ghost, Soap stood from his seat and left the room. Why did he leave in such a hurry? Why did he react like that in general? Soap was searching his brain for the possible answer. Come to think of it, Soap never noticed a gentleman by your side during your pregnancy and your mother had mentioned in posts how you were so strong and she was lucky to be by your side during this new adventure. Was John that baby’s father? Why was he not there with you? But then it all began to make sense the longer Soap thought– the SAS and Task Force were always keeping themselves hot on the tails of dangerous people, and those dangerous people would stop at nothing to take everything away from them. Maybe this was a mutual decision– and exactly why you left the military. 

John’s breathing was heavy as he shut the door to his room behind him. He felt unstable on his feet, nearly tripping on his way to sit on his bed. Your photo was zoomed in on his phone, your hair was disheveled, your hospital gown hanging from your shoulders– he was guessing you’d already attempted to feed the baby with how lazily it had been tied back up. John’s eyes focus on the baby, his heart skipping a beat when he looks at her sweet button nose and wispy little hairs poking out from her knitted bunny hat. Oh how beautiful his girls looked after all of their hard work. Pride swells in his chest, he knew this must have been so difficult, but you did it and looked even more beautiful than before as a new mother. 

The nights were long, the days melted together, and you found yourself lost. Though your mother lent a hand when she was available, you had taken on so much so quickly and had no adjustment time, as having a baby would do. Between nursing the baby and running on less sleep than you had gotten on some of your deployments, you were ingesting more caffeine than you liked, and you often found yourself nodding off at random times. But that little girl had been the easiest to please so far. As long as she got milk, had a clean nappy, warm clothes, and cuddles, she was content. 

John would have been the one to wake up at the first signs of movement in the bassinet– he was an incredibly light sleeper and would often rise earlier than most of his team. He’d say how much of a waste it was to sleep the morning away when you could be productive and get more important things done before the day actually needed to start. You weren’t much of a morning person and would often tell John to let you sleep in until the last possible minute if you stayed in his room for the night, but you always managed to slip out of his room before anyone came into the halls. 

Your mind wandered more during your maternity leave, often you questioned what John was doing, if he knew his daughter had arrived safely and if he knew how beautiful she was. Did he have any deployments in the time you were discharged to now? You were sure he was busy, as he always had been. 

A few weeks passed and John was on leave for three weeks, visiting home and executing plans he made with Soap for the day, who was taking a leave around the same time as John for a wedding. While walking the streets of London, hands stuffed in his pockets, and Soap to his side, the two talked about quick bite options nearby. John had a cafe in mind, mentioning that they had great coffee and sandwiches.

The late winter air nipped John’s nose, the tip dusted a light pink. He had a black beanie placed atop his head and a black peacoat over his jumper. Soap’s outfit resembled the outfit John wore, save the beanie, but add a scarf. Soap had attempted to reach out to you on multiple occasions since having the baby, but of course, you didn’t answer. Soap knew that he shouldn’t keep trying to pry and answer out of you, but he also knew that you needed the support of a friend, even though he wanted to be more than a friend. 

Price felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket, telling Soap to go on ahead and order for them both– Price wasn’t picky. Opening the door to the cafe, Soap felt an immediate warmth wash over him and the heavy smell of coffee filling his nose. Taking a spot in the short line, he stared at the menu above, until he became distracted by the woman in front of him, kissing a very small baby on the head, cooing and rocking her body as her hands caressed the sling that held the baby to her chest. He knew your voice anywhere. 

“Y/N?” He places his large hand on your shoulder, spinning you to face him. 

Your eyes were wide, a scared look on your face until you noticed Soap’s familiar face. Barely able to string words together, Soap took you by the arm and dragged you to the side, his arms engulfing you in an embrace, careful as to not smoosh the baby’s head between your two chests. 

“Why didn’t you answer my messages?” Soap’s low voice vibrates the side of your face as your arms wrap around him. 

“I didn’t want my old life to follow me because of her,” your voice trembles.

“But you didn’t have to face this alone.”

“I do though,” you pull away, looking at Soap with watery eyes. 

Feeling his heart sink, knowing that what you said was true, he didn’t want it to be. He wanted to be the one to hold you– support you, and keep you safe. Even though what Price was doing was carrying out the same purpose. 

“She’s a beauty,” Soap nods to the sleeping baby covered almost entirely inside your sling, her little face settled against your chest, lips puckering as she stirs to get more comfortable. 

“Thank you Johnny,” you smile, stroking her cheek softly, then adjusting the knitted bunny hat to sit closer to her eyebrows. 

Johnny– he hadn’t heard you say his real name in so long, it was like a treat hearing it leave your soft lips. 

“Reach out to me from time to time, just so I know you’re doing okay?” Soap pleads, his hands resting on your shoulders, squeezing them lightly to get his words through to you. 

Nodding with a soft smile, you could hear your name being called by the barista. Grabbing your coffee, you turn to exit the cafe, offering Soap a soft “bye,” as you pass him. You wrap your thick shawl around the baby tight, holding onto her with one hand while you balance your coffee in the other. You were only minutes from your mother’s house, and the fresh air was something you needed after being cooped up in the house for so long. 

Then you see him– John. He was ending a call on his phone, placing it back in his coat pocket before setting off on his walk to the cafe to meet back up with Soap. Your heart was pounding, and almost as if the baby senses your unease, she begins to stir and whimper. You walk closer and closer to where John’s position is by a lamp post. His eyes spot you and his body freezes in place. You keep walking, shushing the baby softly, your hand placed on her back to let her know her mother was right here. 

“You’re alright, Little Bunny,” you say into her hat, softly kissing the crown of her head as you pass John. 

His daughter was right there, cozily pressed against your body in the chilly climate. The baby wore a cream knitted bunny ear hat, one ear flopping over the side of the sling. She looked so much like the both of you, it almost scared him. He wanted to hold her— hold you. It ate away at his insides, turning his guts to liquid as he watched your eyelashes flutter down to the ground, watching your feet. 

Tears were falling like mad down your face as you passed him without a word, John watching you in disbelief– he didn’t think he would be able to rest his eyes upon you again, not after going this long without contact. But it was for the best, you both knew this. 

His eyes followed you until you were no longer in sight, making sure you were absolutely safe with the baby. Life could be different, he could run after you and grovel on his knees for forgiveness. To beg you to forget he was ever cold to you and to start fresh. But he couldn’t, especially not after how things ended and with knowing he’d jeopardize yours and the baby’s safety.

It was days later that you had run into Soap and John while out in London. You hadn’t slept right in days and it was a mixture of having a newborn who needed your attention and the anxiousness of seeing your old lover and not being able to think about a thing other than him. 

Your mother’s footsteps can be heard ascending the stairs and she soon appears in the doorway with a small parcel. Handing it to you and planting herself on your bed next to you, she waits for you to open it. As you tear into the parcel, peeling the tape and opening the box, you look inside and see a knitted bunny, the yarn pink and soft. Pulling the bunny out, you notice a note attached to it, neatly folded and taped shut. As you carefully open the note, your eyes scan over the words written on it. You knew that handwriting— John’s handwriting. 

“For Little Bunny.”

[i98pm]

oneshot #1 — i will make a masterlist soon ^ ^ summertime sadness a seongjoong oneshot.

tw : mentions of death , pretty heavy angst , major character death , terminal illnesses mentioned , mentions of cystic fibrosis , sad ateez ensemble. summary : two years after the tragic death of his first love, kim hongjoong, park seonghwa returns to their small coastal hometown for a summer with friends. every corner of the town is haunted by memories of hongjoong – the laughter they shared, the dreams they built, and the love they lost. seonghwa spends his days revisiting the places they used to go, each one stirring a deep sense of melancholy and longing. a/n : i posted this on ao3 also , so if you've seen it before — you know where! ^ ^

the sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm, golden hue over the small coastal town as seonghwa stepped off the bus. the salty breeze greeted him like an old friend, bringing with it a rush of bittersweet memories. it had been two years since he last set foot in this town, two years since he lost his first love. he had left to escape the pain, but now, returning for the summer, he realised that the town was filled with memories he could never escape — not until he faced them. their old friends had been the ones to convince him to come home, promising him that the summer would be a good chance for him to heal. 

he was supposed to meet his friends at the bus stop, but as soon as he stepped off the bus he was making his way towards the lighthouse. he didn't know why, he just knew he was aching to be there. as he walked through the familiar streets, every corner seemed to whisper hongjoong’s name, the cafe they used to eat breakfast in was closed down. he wasn't surprised, it should've shut down decades ago. his feet carried him to the lighthouse almost on their own.

climbing the winding stairs, seonghwa felt a lump in his throat. he reached the top and looked out at the vast, endless sea, just as they used to. the sight of the waves crashing against the rocks below brought back a flood of emotions. 

hongjoong used to say the waves were like their love – powerful and unending.

seonghwa closed his eyes, letting the memories wash over him. he could almost hear hongjoong’s laughter, feel the warmth of his touch. the pain of his loss was as raw as ever, a constant ache in his chest. he had hoped that coming back would bring closure, but now he wasn’t so sure.

~~~

“come on, hwa, we don’t have all night!” hongjoong’s voice was full of excitement as he grabbed seonghwa’s hand, pulling him up the steps of the lighthouse. it was a warm summer evening, and the sky was painted in hues of orange and pink.

seonghwa laughed, trying to keep up with hongjoong’s energetic pace. “what’s the rush, joong? the sun isn’t going anywhere.”

“but the perfect moment might,” hongjoong replied with a grin, though a shadow of exhaustion flickered in his eyes. seonghwa noticed, but said nothing, not wanting to dampen the moment.

they reached the top, breathless and laughing, just as the last light of day kissed the horizon. hongjoong turned to seonghwa, his expression softening. “this is it,” he whispered. “our perfect moment.”

seonghwa felt a surge of affection, his heart swelling with the intensity of their love. “kiss me before you go,” he said softly, his voice carrying a hint of sadness. the phrase had become a part of their private language, a reminder of the bittersweet nature of their time together, with hongjoong being terminally ill, it was only a matter of time before a kiss they shared was their last. 

hongjoong’s smile was radiant as he leaned in, capturing seonghwa’s lips in a tender, lingering kiss. everybody around them knew. they knew too. it wasn't long before hongjoong would be admitted into the hospital, and then who knows how long they'd have left. 

pulling back slightly, hongjoong rested his forehead against seonghwa’s. “i just wanted you to know,” he murmured, “that you’re my everything, truly."

seonghwa’s throat tightened. “i think i’ll miss this forever,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “fuck, joong... i think i'll miss you forever.”

hongjoong’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and he took seonghwa’s hand, intertwining their fingers. he didn't say a word, not a single thing.

they spent the rest of the evening wrapped in each other’s arms, watching the stars appear one by one.

~~~

seonghwa could hear strained breathing behind him, pulling him from his daze.

"i'll meet you at the bus stop, huh?" 

he turned to look at the man who's voice he knew all too well, "wooyoung...i'm sorry, i started walking before i could even think about it," seonghwa murmured while he scratched the back of his neck, "how did you find me?"

"well, the cafe is closed...and the others went to your house, but i didn't think you'd be there." wooyoung said, a hint of worry in his eyes, "what are you doing here hwa?"

seonghwa sighed before leaning against the railing, looking out at the sunset, "thinking, woo, just thinking."

he heard some shuffling before a set of arms were draped over the railing next to his, and a head was weighing down his shoulder. 

wooyoungs presence was comforting...he hadn't felt comfort in so long.

"you know," wooyoung began softly, "hongjoong wouldn't want you to be alone like this...living so far away with none of your family..none of your friends..he wouldn't let us get away with it if he found out we let you go alone."

seonghwa swallowed hard, his throat tightening. "i know, woo. but it's hard not to be when everything here reminds me of him."

wooyoung lifted his head, looking at seonghwa with a small smile.

seonghwa turned to face wooyoung, the setting sun casting long shadows across his face. "it's just... being back here, it feels like he's everywhere. every street, every corner, every sunset... it's all him."

wooyoung nodded, his expression slightly amused. "maybe that's not such a bad thing. it's okay to remember him, good to remember him, even."

seonghwa sighed deeply, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him. "i just - i miss him so much, wooyoung... it's like there's this constant ache that never goes away."

"i know," wooyoung said quietly. "but hongjoong wouldn't want you to be stuck in this sadness. he would want you to find a way to live, to be happy again."

seonghwa nodded slowly, the truth in wooyoung's words sinking in. "you're right. it's just... hard to let go."

"you don't have to let go," wooyoung said with a small smile. "just learn to live with it, to carry him with you in a way that brings you peace."

they stood there for a while longer, watching the sun dip below the horizon in a comfortable silence. 

"come on," wooyoung said eventually, breaking the silence. "let's go back to the others. they're worried about you."

seonghwa simply nodded, pushing away from the railing and heading down the lighthouse steps with wooyoung.

~~~

the night was clear, the sky dotted with stars as seonghwa and the rest of the group sat around a crackling campfire on the beach. the warmth of the fire and the company of his closest friends brought a sense of comfort to seonghwa, a welcome contrast to the ache in his heart. the flames danced, casting flickering shadows on their faces, and the sound of the waves provided a soothing backdrop to their laughter and conversations. he was still a bit upset despite the atmosphere, the conversation from earlier weighing on him slightly.

wooyoung, sitting close to san with their hands intertwined, poked at the fire with a stick. "remember that time hongjoong tried to build that makeshift tent at the beach?"

san chuckled, leaning into wooyoung. "oh god, yes! he was so determined to make it perfect, but it kept collapsing on him."

yunho, sitting next to mingi with their arms around each other, nodded enthusiastically. "he spent hours trying to get it to stand, even using driftwood and seaweed as extra support."

mingi laughed, "and in the end, we all had to sleep at my place because the tent was a crumpled mess."

seonghwa smiled, the memory warming his heart. "he was so proud of his 'engineering skills,' though. he even called it 'rustic charm.'"

jongho, with his arm around yeosang, added, "or that time he decided to surprise seonghwa with breakfast in bed but set off the smoke alarm instead."

everyone burst into laughter at the memory, the sound echoing across the beach. seonghwa felt a pang of sadness mixed with joy, grateful for these moments they could share together. he could see tears falling down yeosangs cheeks, sans too. it wasn't long before he was crying too, though he still had a smile on his face.

"he tried to make pancakes," san said, wiping tears from his eyes. "but he ended up burning everything, including the 'backup toast'."

yeosang groaned, though a smile tugged at his lips. "and then he insisted on serving the burnt food with a big, proud smile, saying it was 'extra crispy.'"

jongho chuckled, looking across at seonghwa. "you were so kind, pretending to enjoy every bite just so he wouldn't feel bad, i couldn't do that."

yunho grinned, leaning forward. "what about the time he convinced mingi to join him in starting a garden on the rooftop? they ended up with more weeds than vegetables."

mingi rolled his eyes playfully. "hey, we were just trying to add some greenery to the place. who knew gardening could be so complicated?"

seonghwa listened, a bittersweet smile on his face. "he always knew how to make us laugh."

wooyoung nodded, his expression softening. "he had that special way of making even the silliest moments unforgettable." "seems we're sharing joong stories..."

~~~

the summer sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over the rooftop where seonghwa and hongjoong had retreated to escape the bustle of city life below. they sat side by side on a patchwork quilt, the skyline stretching out before them like a painting.

hongjoong leaned back on his elbows, a contented smile on his face as he gazed at the horizon. "isn't this perfect, hwa?" he said softly, breaking the comfortable silence between them.

seonghwa nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "it really is," he replied, his gaze following hongjoong's towards the setting sun. "i'm glad we decided to come up here."

they had stumbled upon the rooftop garden by chance, seeking a quiet place to unwind after a long day of rehearsals. surrounded by potted plants and fairy lights, with a gentle breeze ruffling their hair, it felt like their own secret sanctuary above the city.

hongjoong turned to seonghwa, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "remember that time we tried to stargaze up here, but ended up having sex and falling asleep?"

seonghwa chuckled, slapping hongjoongs arm. "yeah, we woke up to the sound of pigeons cooing in our ears."

hongjoong laughed, his laughter contagious. "and then we had to sneak past the security guard as quietly as possible!"

seonghwa shook his head fondly. "we were lucky he didn't catch us. i don't think we would've lived it down."

they sat in companionable silence for a while, watching the sky shift from blue to pink as the sun dipped lower. the city below them buzzed with life, but up here, they were cocooned in a tranquil bubble of their own making.

"you know," hongjoong said softly, breaking the silence once more, "i'm really glad you're my fiance, hwa."

seonghwa turned to him, a warmth spreading through his chest. "me too, joong," he replied sincerely. 

~~~

seonghwa stopped the story there, looking down at the ring on his finger. "fuck cystic fibrosis for taking him from me before we could even get married..." his voice cracked with emotion, his eyes welling up with tears. 

seonghwa took a deep breath, wiping away a tear with the back of his hand. "sorry," he murmured, his voice steadier now. "i just wish we had more time together."

the group fell into a solemn silence, each lost in their own thoughts and memories of hongjoong. the crackling of the campfire and the gentle lapping of the waves provided a comforting backdrop to their shared grief.

it was wooyoung who finally broke the silence, his voice soft but filled with determination. "we may not have more time with him physically, but he's still with us in every memory, every laugh, and every tear."

seonghwa looked around at his friends, their faces illuminated by the flickering firelight. "thank you," he whispered, his voice catching with emotion. "for being here, for remembering him with me...and for getting me to come back to town."

jongho squeezed yeosang's hand to keep his voice steady, his expression tender. "that's what family does," he said quietly. "we're here for each other, through everything."

his friends nodded solemnly, their agreement unspoken but understood. around the dying embers of the fire, they made a silent vow to keep hongjoong's memory alive, to cherish the moments they had shared, and to find happiness for him.

~~~

it was a warm summer afternoon, the sunlight filtering through the curtains of their small apartment. seonghwa sat by hongjoong's bedside, holding his hand gently. hongjoong's breathing was laboured, each breath a struggle against the illness that had slowly weakened him over the months. the hospital couldn't do anything, new lungs would be near pointless. 

"i love you, hwa," hongjoong whispered, his voice barely above a hoarse whisper.

tears welled up in seonghwa's eyes as he squeezed hongjoong's hand tighter. "i love you too, joong," he choked out, his voice thick with emotion.

they had known this day was coming, had prepared themselves as best they could. but nothing could truly prepare seonghwa for the moment when hongjoong would slip away from him.

hongjoong smiled weakly, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before opening again. "thank you for loving me," he murmured, his voice barely audible now.

seonghwa leaned closer, pressing a gentle kiss to hongjoong's forehead. "always," he whispered back, his heart breaking with each passing second.

they sat together in silence, the only sound in the room the soft hum of the ventilator and the distant murmur of the city outside. seonghwa held onto hongjoong's hand, unwilling to let go even as he knew he had to.

suddenly, hongjoong's breathing became more erratic, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps. seonghwa's heart clenched in his chest as he watched helplessly, tears streaming down his face.

"hongjoong," he whispered desperately, willing him to hold on just a little longer.

hongjoong's grip on seonghwa's hand slackened, his breathing slowing until it finally stilled altogether.

time seemed to stand still as seonghwa sat beside hongjoong's lifeless body, the reality of his loss crashing over him like a tidal wave. he pressed his forehead against hongjoong's, his body shaking with silent sobs.

"i'm sorry," seonghwa whispered brokenly, his voice barely audible. "i'm so sorry, joong."

the room was filled with a profound sense of emptiness, the absence of hongjoong's presence a gaping hole in seonghwa's being.

[blukiar]

"The Play Factory" AU [Part 1-General edition]

Edit: I now have a name for it! :)

welp now that I have more of a reason to draw Poppy Playtime content, I can finally share some of my cringy HCs I have for the characters so let's hop in. (Sorry for the long read)

ALSO- TW for mentioned cannibalism (again sorry)

First and foremost! In my AU, much like the game, the toys are experiments created by humans, HOWEVER, they were NOT created from kids/human bodies. Although they still need human elements to be made (like DNA/blood samples) they do not inherit the consciousness of the source of those samples. In other words, they are all sentient toys with their own personalities, traits and mindsets.

Their role is their job: Each toy is assigned a role to play for the kids' enjoyment and comfort by the workers of PT.co. This role is to be fulfilled everyday for 12hrs. Some toys have shifts like Catnap working at night while Dogday works only in the mornings. Those who have to work the full 12hrs do get breaks so they don't get overworked

The toys are basically paid actors: Despite their assigned roles, the toys aren't exactly what PT.co portray them as to the kids and outsiders after working hours. For example, Huggy isn't a jolly, want-to-hug-em-all type of guy outside of work, he's more of a tired uncle who's the voice of reasoning among the big toys. Regardless, the PT.co workers would leave them be as long as they stay out of trouble and do their job correctly

Toys cannot reproduce: Kind of self-explanatory, helps to keep the toy population in check and avoid numerous problems that would come with it. (howeverthisdoesn'tmeantheycan'thave"playtime"thothisrarelyhappens)

Dysfunctional toys are executed: Before the toys are brought to the kids, each are tested and tried to ensure they are kid friendly and safe to be around. If a toy fails to meet the requirements during this process, they are taken to the deeper parts of the facility to be terminated and have their remains recycled to create a better version of them. Worst case, they would be executed and their remains would be fed to the bigger toys whenever they misbehave.

Troublemakers will be punished: Despite meeting the safety requirements, toys still tend to misbehave from time to time, and thus they are sent to the containment room for timeouts. Mommy Long Legs and Boxy Boo, are the two big toys that misbehave the most due to their aggressive nature, both play their roles perfectly yet - Mommy isn't quite friendly to the adults (both Human and toys alike) and Boxy, although obedient, can be unpredictable at times (thankfully he hasn't hurt a child) In addition to the previous HC, both have had their fair share of "dysfunctional snacks" after 2 days of starvation (sometimes Boxy would eat them alive)

Toys are not allowed to roam and leave their work posts: Toys aren't allowed to roam the facility without staff supervision and like their roles, toys are assigned a working area that they cannot leave until working hours are over. This rule ONLY applies to the big toys (Huggy, Kissy, Mommy, Boxy, Daddy, The Delight sisters and smiling critters) the little toys can roam freely with only a few restrictions.

And that's all I can think of for the general stuff, I'm gonna do one for ships and characters separately, in the meantime, feel free to ask questions. and thanks for reading :3