@harielth - Tumblr Blog

Your Deliverance In The Sun

CHAPTERS: I II III IV V VI VII VIII IX X XI XII

Summary: Heartbreak is a natural occurrence for all beings, but that doesn't make it easier to deal with. For you, this means having to deal with walking in on your soon-to-be husband sleeping with another woman in your bed. You mourn what could have been, and curse what is. You pray and pray to the gods with the hope that you can garner some sympathy, only to realize that two gods in particular are more than eager to give you their affections.

Chapter Tags/CWs: god!au, mentions of cheating, vaguely based on the eros and psyche myth, reader is Aglaea's disciple, Mydei and Phainon are together and looking for a third in reader, mentioned Aglanaxa

sinnykitt

vampire

unicouniuni

Uni.

bananapurincore

(You tend to ask Phainon a lot of questions because he always has the answer to everything)

╰┈➤ gn, a little suggestive, MC's too silly for their own good, they're very in love 🙂‍↕️, not edited

You're hungry. You're tired. You're worried about tomorrow. But mostly hungry. You gravitate to the only person capable of curing all 3 of your symptoms of a long and exhausting day, finding his figure cozily wrapped around the blanket that's all too small for him, more so suited for some of Tribios's stature (there's a small chance, but not zero, that he stole the blanket from them in the first place).

“Sunshine,” You mumble, brushing your hand against his cheek, sweeping the hair away from the soft skin. “What're you making for dinner?”

You're met with a polite snore. His breathing deepens, then softens once more. You can tell he can hear you, somewhere in the elaborate scape of his dream. You hope it's about you; you've begun to grow delusional about it a bit after that time he had told you “When do I not?” when you asked if he dreamed about you one particular night. One where he mumbled your name repeatedly, one where he was somehow cognizant enough to attempt to kiss you, lips sloppily pressing onto any part of your body they could.

“Phainonnnn,” You whisper, closer against his ear when you don't see him stir. “Are you sleeping?”

Zzzzzz, your other half responds, still as asleep as before, if it wasn't already evident.

How to get him up…… You don't like shaking him from his sleep, it usually ends up with him waking up alerted and on edge, no matter how softly you rock him before he gets up. It's rarely ever been worth it. It's best to try it the only other way you know how to when this happens, even if the aftermath is… not always so quickly resolved, to put simply.

You lean down to his lips, planting a gentle kiss against them. “Wake up,” you place another. “I need to know if I'll starve tonight or not.”

You leave several more like this, until a certain point is reached where his breathing quickens, and his hands begin to move. Slowly, just enough to prove you're doing something right.

“… Mm.” One of them holds the back of your head, beckoning you closer. “‘M…. Not awake yet, still sleeping…..”

“Doesn't sound like it,” You slow, not drawn away from him entirely. “What're we eating later?”

“No… no….. You have to believe me.” The Heir’s voice, still tired, drags along his throat. He feebly tries his best to latch on to your lips for more than a few seconds, which ends up with you situated on the bed with him, somehow. The man has little qualms about dragging you along with the little strength he has until you're tucked closely next to him.

“For dinner….. I was thinking soup… with a lot of meat…” Phainon mumbles against your mouth, still drowsy, still trying to kiss you. “But I don't care too much. Just… tell me what you want, I’ll make it happen.”

“Do I look stupid?” You eye yourself in the mirror, feeling like a child with a coat that's 3x their size. Which, this coat was. The sleeves are much too long and the faux fur material makes it appear much puffier than it should. It does, however, do its job of keeping you insulated, especially with how cold Okhema can get during these later months.

“Not at all, you look wonderful as always,” He presses a kiss to your cheek, hugging you from behind. His hands move along the sides, feeling for the material himself. “I will say, you look like a little sheep with all this on. Y’know, I used to shear the wool off the ones at home?”

“Then you can help me take this off.” You grumble, cursing yourself for zipping it up all the way when you could hardly move in it in the first place. “Were you in charge of rounding them up or something?”

“My dog would, not me. You think I went around barking at animals?”

“…. Maybe. I thought you'd tackle them and stuff. You've told me crazier stories, like that time you chased your chickens and caught them by the legs because they kept trying to fly on everyone's roof.”

Phainon laughs, the one that's quiet and saved for moments that involve just you two.

“I love you so much,” He murmurs, dragging the zipper down. “I guess I do find myself running after things that are mine.”

“Who's the duke again?” Your fingers trace along your beloved's bare back while (trying to) intently reading something he had recommended. Your goldfish memory proves to be at its worst when you're enjoying a book, and you swear they just introduced 5 different characters in the span of 3 pages.

Phainon just finished his bath, skin still slightly damp under your touch. His head was settled contently on your stomach, but by the time you asked, he had different plans that involve lifting your loose shirt up to have easier access to it, treading his mouth along the tenderness there.

“….. The uncle.” He answers, deciding he's done with your tummy and moving to your neck. “You met him 10 pages ago.”

“Oh, right.” Right, the evil uncle whose also the duke, unrelated to the other one that’s 15 years younger and not evil. “Is he important later? I feel like he dies soon.”

“Mhm, good question.” He mumbles, white hair tickling your ear from where he's nestled in your neck. “Can't say. But here, why don't you ask me, ‘How long do you think you'll last this time?’”

“How long do you think you'll last this time?” You absently parrot.

“Hm…” He takes the book out of your hand in one fluid motion, setting it to the side. “Depends on you. I’ll stop when you think you're done.”

“Oh, okay.” You resign to your fate of being bookless. His hands, large and rough, snake around your leg, tugging lightly on your shorts. The kisses around your neck start to involve more teeth, comfortably nibbling away at whatever he can. “… Oh!”

Calculating for tip has never been an issue.

“What's 20% of this?” You present the bill over to him first, on one of the rare occasions he doesn't snatch it up before you even have a chance to look at the total. You can't be bothered to pull out your teleslate to figure it out—not when you have him sitting across from you.

“3,459.” Phainon answers, not missing a beat. He's done it multiple times, yet it gets you every time he does.

“What.” In the midst of your incredulousness, he takes hold of your hands with his, one prying the receipt away, the other running a thumb over your knuckles. “How do you always do the math so quickly?”

“I paid attention in school, unlike someone I know and love dearly with all my heart.”

“Haha,” Your laugh comes out deliberately dry, unamused by his attempt to soften his jab. “Since you're smart, what’s…” Your mind lands on a random number. “10,525×12?”

“If you must know,” He brings your hand toward him, kissing each finger gently. “It's 126,300.”

“… That's a lot. Imagine having ten thousand of something…. Like… rocks. I'd paint them and name them all.”

“You’d be a hoarder. What would you even be doing with all those in the first place? Or putting them, for that matter.” He huffs at your nonsense, cerulean eyes softening. “I’ll choose to think of it as how many lifetimes I’ve spent adoring everything you do.”

Your ears and cheeks rush with warmth.

“Just 126,300?” You quip, hoping he'll stumble over his words, and you’ll finally have the one up over him. He, unfortunately, does not get as flustered as you so easily, and answers just as swiftly as he does math.

“Here's to many more.” Phainon kisses the center of your palm, the coveted action traveling right into your heart (which he owns completely, in this lifetime, and the next, no questions asked).

its-emimi

helloeverything123

oh-wiw

✦ Masterpost ✦ Part 3 ✦ Part 5 ✦

A lost Composer

Somewhere within the quiet sanctum of the Sanctuary of Surasthana, a tiny god wandered the marbled halls in thought, her bare feet making no sound against the cool stone. Outside, the flora of Sumeru danced with life lush, vibrant, and unusually exuberant, as if the land itself were humming a joyful tune.

The trees swayed not just with the breeze, but with purpose. The flowers bloomed early, wide and radiant. Even the ever-elusive Aranara flitted about more openly, giggling in their strange tongue and whispering secrets to the wind.

The Dendro Archon, watched it all unfold from the many windows of her sanctuary. She had spoken with the Aranara, listened to their riddles and gentle stories, and heard the way they spoke of a return. Of music and grace. Of something once lost now finding its way home.

It wasn’t uncommon for the Aranara to be cryptic, but this time… their joy was real. Unmistakable.

And it wasn’t because of her.

No, they had said it clearly, reverently: “Their Grace is back.”

Nahida rested a delicate hand against the frame of an open window as the wind drifted past, unusually fragrant and melodic, as if carrying the faintest trace of a tune.

Something or someone was stirring the very soul of Sumeru.

✧✧✧✧✧

hoshiboshimax

wanted to doodle them

kandlewick

a yuu who never became a true student, whose job never changed. a magicless janitor with their annoying little sidekick.

its crazy to think about how the trajectory of your life could completely change just because someone chose not to take the time to bully you for being uneducated. no charred statute or shattered chandeliers, all one hundred windows squeaky clean and streakless. no monsters, no bonding, no cauldron, no nothing.

but you had no knowledge of this possible outcome, especially when it was something directly out of your control.

you would have quickly befriended the ghosts however. that wouldn't have changed. they were your roommates and one of the few people willing to give you the time of day. you spent your days cleaning after hundreds of students and faculty, ignoring the stares and whispers as you picked up every single piece of discarded trash they left for you. you kept your head down. were you lonely? no, because you had no idea how alone you actually could be.

there was no duo yelling in your ear. hell, if you were even aware, you'd see that they didn't even sit at the same lunch table.

at night, you would study. a few of the teachers, trein in particular, took something akin to pity on you and offered you left over work packets to help with what you were reading. a glossary of information that he claimed were entry level but you both knew he had made it for you. what student would need entry level information in a prestigious magic academy?

another teacher offered you a place in their classroom to put what you learned to practical use while they graded papers. despite how he waved off your thanks, you could tell that he felt bad for you at least a little.

the only thing that remained a constant in your life, regardless of how the story played out, was the familiar visitor that would grace your rundown ramshackle home a few times a month. he appeared skittish at first, almost embarrassed that he had been caught by a stranger skulking around at night but you were quick to stop him from disappearing the first night. you were desperate for any sort of contact with the outside world that you had grasped the back of his sleeve before he could turn away unaware of faux pas.

"please don't go!" your voice was hoarse from lack of use, the words scratchy against the back of your throat but malleus could see the desperation in your eyes, pupils blown wide, "would you... um, maybe like a cup of tea?"

there are a few constants regardless of what fate the universes could give.

kandlewick

I could twist the knife even further because let's think about it.

ace, without you and ramshackle to bunk with, would be collared with nowhere else to go. he'd be stuck in his room, no longer a room but a prison, with other inmates stuck on their poor luck of being put in the same house as the tyrannical queen of hearts. I wouldn't be surprised if he did end up switching dorms or even suspended. riddle would still overblot, regardless if you were there or not for him to ridicule. the dorm would still eventually rise up against their leader, chucking eggs and words at their queen without you. who knows if the uprising would even be successful... would it matter?

deuce would still be a straight laced kid even without you. he had made an effort to change his ways before meeting you and he would stick to his word. however, being a studious and hard working student would for sure not do too well in a school full of cut throat teenagers. he wouldn't have many friends other then the track team and even them, who knows how close they would be? he would most likely sit alone, focused on his studies until he eventually burns himself out. he would never willingly go back on his promise to himself but it's so, so hard to honor your word when the world seems to punish you for it.

and when half the student body gets anemone'd by azul and his contracts, why should you care enough to put your dorm on the line? these were students who would purposefully miss the trash cans when they dunked their half full sodas after lunch. these were the students whose toilets you had to clean up. why should you care if they were suffering for their short sightedness. you and grim weren't students, you had no tests to take. you wouldn't have even thought about putting your home on the line for a bunch of ungrateful boys. it was none of your business and no matter what azul promised he could do for you, you knew he could never offer what you truly wanted.

"a way to go back to where you came from?" his voice was light and airy, but you could tell your part of the deal irked him.

"yes, that's all I want." your voice was flat as a anemone'd student brought you a glass of water, one of the few things you could afford in the monstro lounge. because it was free.

you could tell your words irked him by the subtle twitch of his smile. his lips were drawn to wide, his pearly white teeth even further on display. the subtle threat wasn't enough for you to flinch however and you only met his gaze with a dead stare. if he couldn't offer you what you desired, what good was he to you? you should escort yourself out before he could sic Floyd or Jade on you.

"as much as I pride myself in fulfilling every little whim of a poor, unfortunate soul, I don't make deals when the possibilities are so low. there must be something else you'd desire, janitor?"

"no," you shook your head, giving your cold glass of water one final sip before pulling yourself up and out of your chair, "if you also don't have any answers for me, I'd rather not waste my time."

with one option gone, you were starting to worry that getting home would be even more of an impossibility then you hoped.

kangen-wanshi

Quick Break ft. IPC Grunt

He missed you--lots. There's just so little ways to get your attention when he's on duty, but he's willing to sacrifice a few Points for it.

Tags: lots of touching, pet names, no gendered term used, reader is a Nameless, suggestive ending, no character in specific for this so use your imagination

A/N: how the hell do I tag this

Going through the challenges that are Aetherium Wars is a little more taxing than what you had expected. The ‘game’ itself is not difficult, at least, to your standard. Having traversed through worlds as a Trailblazer, you’ve encountered games much more difficult and challenging than the monster-turned based game. Even so, it doesn’t really deflect the fact that the game itself is a pleasure to play through.

As you tread the empty path on Belobog’s Victory Road, a hand clasped over your wrist before pulling you into a nearby alleyway of the hall. Right before you can protest–yelp, or even punch the stranger in retaliation, he puts his gloved hand over your mouth and shushes you.

moyazaika

blood in the water.

m! yandere prince x gn! knight reader ♡ mdni 18+

cw — blood, betrayal, obsessive themes, lack of autonomy and unbalanced power dynamics. 2.4k wc.

a/n — well well well

you can barely make him out through the mist.

a heavy and decadent cloud of perfume rolls over the warm waters of the royal banya; makes it difficult to chart your course to where your prince is. you narrow your eyes, glimpse the outline of his frame, solid and familiar, beyond the swirling haze that's descended over the pool's surface.

"moy knyaz," you clear your throat. my prince; the title rolling off your tongue like honey. "i've arrived with the supplies you asked for."

he spares you a glance over his shoulder, the movement causing gentle ripples in the water around him. you think briefly, like a fool, that he will wade to the edge of the pool to meet you where you stand. you lower your head, gaze drawn respectfully low.

"ah, sweet knight." you can hear the smile in his gentle words; that familiar lilt of felicity, all soft at the edges. "there you are; i was almost beginning to worry," he hums. "whatever took you so long?"

smokesandsonatas

Twisted Wonderland but make it grounded in dark reality. I drafted this around late 2023 and I just finished this now, haha. As always read at your own discretion and enjoy!

Warnings: Implied cannibalism. Dread.

Characters: Floyd and Jade, Leona, Ruggie, Rook, Idia, Lillia, Malleus, Others.

Not beta read.

Food.

- Any substance consumed by an organism for nutritional support. A means for survival.

You’ve always known most of them are peculiar creatures. Sharp teeth, mismatched eyes, monstrous forms, fins that glint with predatory sharpness, and horns that pierce the sky with arrogant pride. They embody the villains from the old fairy tales back in your world, grotesque and terrifying in equal measure. You suppose they function like civilized beings—they’ve learned to blend into human society, after all—but you can’t help but notice just how different, how unnervingly similar, they are to one thing: food.

ceruleancattail

Ooooough this was hot!!!!

Loved, loved, loved the start where it’s that horrible horrible feeling of something’s off. Not wrong, but off. The unease of whether you’ve left the stove on back at home, and if you’ll come home to see the house in flames…

I love the feeling of dread that follows the entire story, from mc slowly realising that hey…. These guys are relishing this… this interesting meal. Hm. It’s kinda bloody…

AND THE WAY THE PACE PICKS UP AS MC REALISES??? My blood went cold holy that was good shit amen🙏 Crowley bribing them too- wild-

But the vivid descriptions of their beast like devouring and the “food” were so delicious YUM YUM I loved every single second of it.

Thank you for the Food, quite literally!!!!

sandersstudies

I feel like in the rush of “throw out etiquette who cares what fork you use or who gets introduced first” we actually lost a lot of social scripts that the younger generations are floundering without.

sandersstudies

A lot of tough situations where we now feel like we “don’t know what to do or say” had social scripts just a couple of generations ago and they might have been canned phrases or robotic actions but they could still be meant sincerely and unfortunately we haven’t replaced them with any more sincere or easier new script.

beemovieerotica

a lot of people are giving examples in the notes of things they just find annoying like not using headphones in public, but OP is talking about actual literal scripts of things to say in awkward situations

if you have a date or two with someone and you don't see a relationship developing? most millennials / gen Zers just end up ghosting. but a social script that might have been taught and rehearsed in the past could be:

"I really appreciated getting dinner with you the other night and I enjoyed your company, but I'm afraid I didn't feel a spark. I wish you the best, and hope you find that special someone!"

like it sounds kind of trite but it was at least something to say and it can still be meant with kind sincerity. it also communicates in 2 sentences that you don't want to see them romantically again, but there aren't any hard feelings about that. that's it!!! that's all it takes!!!

misfit-toy-haven

Another example is that at parties a lot of people talk about how awkward it is to mingle or talk to people they dont know. But at old timey parties that was traditionally the HOST'S job, and there was a specific scripted way of doing it that eased the process! The host would bring you in, introduce you and maybe even a little bit about you like what you did for a living, and then guide you to a group you could talk to. They didn't just let you in the door and then ditch you to fend for yourself in a sea of strangers. That would be unthinkable and no one would be surprised if a get-together like that wound up being awkward.

demonprincex

I still do the party-host thing and yall can, too! (Thanks Mad Men for teaching me a lot of outmoded social scripts... no really tho)

Remember things about your friends! Ask people about their weekends, hobbies, holidays, studies, and jobs! Listen for the concerns people have and what they are working on! Draw connections between one person and another to get the ball rolling. "Oh, Maura, you just got your first cat! You should talk to Felix, he used to work at a rescue. Felix, please tell Maura all the new-cat-guardian pointers."

"Bill, Sheila, Xan, this is my friend Kale. Kale is really into Star Trek, Bill you and them should talk about it!"

Orrr whatever! After you make the introduction and draw the connection you just float on into the next interaction with someone else at the function. Just listen, care about your friends, get our of your own head, and think of how you can bring other people together and you will feel 100% less awkward.

3liza

hi i am so excited about this post because i have posted this exact thing MANY times on here, often in the specific context of how formal etiquette is so useful for autistic people especially, but also for everyone. even if you come off a little bit formal, which you will sometimes, having Old School Manners (or just knowing what they are) for various common scenarios is like having a magic ticket that will just sail you through all kinds of social iinteractions, gatekeeping, social weirdness, and as is pointed out in the above posts about introducing people to each other, can make you into a really valuable and helpful person for an entire gathering or group of people.

i also want to point out that knowing what the polite thing to do in all situations makes you a lot more effective at being rude and obnoxious when the situation calls for it, which is also a valuable and necessary adult skill

leslekieuart

do y'all remember when they found all that tf art in Osamu Tezuka's drawer post-mortem because I think about it often

anyway keep chasing your bliss and draw weird shit, god knows we need that right now

girl-lostconnection

This one is for my manicure-loving people, I’m with you✊

Warnings: König x gn!Reader, fluff

König with partner that loves painting their nails — shiny and colourful, everchanging and absolutely mesmerising. Your nails looking like little gemstones whenever he sees them.

The array of charms and glitters and stickers on your desk because “it feels therapeutical”, you explain to him.

“Makes me feel pretty”, you say to him once and he hums, silently watching how you paint another nail. From thumb to your pinky, coat by coat, blowing air on polish or sticking fingers under the lamp until it’s solid and won’t smudge.

König that watches which polishes you use and buys some when he wants to see you all giddy and excited.

König, who sits like a huge very pleased cat as you show him off your pretty nails with the polish he bought you.

Polish, you liked.

“Made you feel pretty, ja?”, he hums, corners of his lips turning upwards as he tilts his head to his right shoulder. He’s sitting on the floor, leaning his side on the couch while you admire the way light catches in your fresh manicure.

He likes seeing you happy, Edelstein. He likes being the reason you are happy. That’s all he wants really.

König who at some point makes a parallel to the way he takes care of his sniper rifle and the way you take care of your hands.

All your lotions and cuticle oil and careful filing and shaping.

All this gentle care and meticulous maintenance.

All these routines and calming effect it has.

Not so different, ja?

You smile when he mentions it once and offer him to sit in with you and clean his rifle while you paint your nails. Little bonding time for you two.

Just something you can do in comfortable silence.

König is hesitant at first but decides to try.

König loves it.

There is something comforting in doing his favourite task with his favourite person and no pressure of conversation.

No one expects him to make small talk, you both are doing something and yet, you are together.

It’s really nice. It becomes part of his unwinding routine when he comes home from deployments.

König with partner that takes a really good care of their hands. Massages them and uses creams and lotions and is very thorough with it. Very methodical.

He loves sitting in on your routines. Loves watching them. Loves the sweet smell your lotions have, loves how soft your hands are — pads of your fingers feeling heavenly on his face.

König who melts when you offer massage to his hands. He’s a little nervous but he’s so curious to see how it feels for himself because you always seem to enjoy it so much.

And then you are working on him: massaging his wrists, palms, hands — finger by finger — knuckle by knuckle.

It’s new and it’s so good, he actually spaces out for a minute or two, humming under his breath, eyes half-lidded and distant.

This is nice. He could get used to this.

König that nuzzles in your palms and just rubs his nose on your wrist, whispers “Vielen Dank, meine Sonne“.

He is quiet but in a good way.

Comfortable and relaxed in the quiet of your home. You still smell of your lotions and at this point that’s how you smell to him.

That’s how home smells to him.

girl-lostconnection

Phillip Graves x Reader who comes out only at night, smiling a little too wide for him to relax, never coming into the house, disappearing when he’s not looking.

Phillip Graves who starts living in Appalachians, a job forcing him and Shadows to go off the grid, forcing them into places with signs “tonight these mountains will be just as cold as they were 2,000 years ago”, his boys not in awe from the impromptu trip.

Old superstitions dying hard even in men like them.

Phillip who goes out for a smoke in the middle of the night and notices a pretty thing watching him.

Eyes too sharp, smile too wide, face a little too perfect. It makes his spine itch, it makes him want to curl in on himself, it makes him want to cry.

Reader that stalks just on the edge of their property, watching him and Shadows, making small talk with some of them. Asking their names.

Asking where they come from. Asking if they are alone.

Asking if anyone knows they are out here.

Reader who never actually comes close enough to properly look at them, always in the corner of their vision, slipping away when they try to look closer.

Careful and friendly, chirping “hey Phillip”, chirping “how’s it going, boys?”, chirping “you look good enough to eat”.

It puts Shadows at ease and grates on Graves’s nerves.

He doesn’t like not knowing things, not being able to look in your face too long, not being able to get answers.

But to actually look at them Phillip or his team would need to leave the premises of the house, the safety it for some reason grants.

It’s few weeks later when they get a little accustomed to the strange thing lurking outside, some of them going as far as to have a little flirty banter or share few jokes when out smoking.

After all, they never come close to the Reader and the Reader themselves are never outright hostile. Just unnerving. Smiling like they know how it ends.

Smiling like they are waiting for something.

Phillip doesn’t like it. Phillip doesn’t like it at all, he doesn’t like watching some of his men return half delirious after going out to “smoke” — eyes a little too wild, chests heaving, lips wet.

But there’s little they can actually do and as it was said, whoever pretty thing that took liking to his team and him is…they aren’t attacking.

But the tension is palpable in the air, cracking between all of them, like the storm is coming and the primal instinct deep inside of them makes them restless. That’s the only reason why Phillip gives a green light to drink a little.

Just enough to take the edge off. After all, they need to be alert and ready if anything was to go down.

But some of them have a little too much and it makes air a little too light, tension draining from shoulders, legs getting stretched out as they are trading salacious stories and good-natured jokes.

And in the heat of the moment, on the peak of fun — one of them whistles.

Sound cuts through the air like hot knife through the butter, sharp and high. A signal.

Multiple hands fly up quickly, old superstition to never whistle in the house especially not after sun goes down, rises their hackles.

And for a moment they don’t even notice another sound. A softer one.

Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. Tap. Taptap. Tap-

It’s soft and rhythmic, vaguely familiar — pattern recognition kicking in when it repeats.

Pattern recognition kicks in before his sense does and Phillip feels a chill run down his spine, sharp intake of breath near him just a very unfortunate confirmation.

His men stare behind his back and god, he hates things like that, that’s why he doesn’t fucking watch horror movies, that’s why he lived as long as he did in his line of work.

But the tapping repeats when he doesn’t turn around, cold sliding to his fingers, cooling him off, blood pumping in his ears and he fucking hates the way his brain made connection before he consciously did. Because the tapping repeats and he knows what it means.

Tap. Tap. Taptap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-

Because the first thing they teach you is fucking Morse Code.

Phillip slowly turns around, finally able to see your face but it doesn’t feel like a victory.

It feels like defeat.

Because you are smiling too wide, eyes squinting from light — shadows on your face sharp and wrong and too fucking dark.

You tap a finger against the glass of their window again and Phillip forces himself not to look away, not to curl in on himself, not to wail because your smile splits your face and humans surely don’t have this many teeth.

Phillip finally knows what you were waiting for. Not for them to come out to you, not for them to slip and let you snatch them like naive lambs into the forest and stuff your belly.

You were waiting for an entirely different thing.

You tilt your head to the side, flashing him sharp points of your canines, leaning in, watching him through the glass.

Smile too wide and eyes too sharp, none of them moving a fucking inch of their bodies, blood flowing back to the head, leaving limbs cold and them shivering.

But you tap on the glass again. Soft, rhythmic sound that makes their hearts pound harder.

“Open up”

girl-lostconnection

So..forgive me you're the first person I'm ever asking anything on Tumblr (Kinda new and I usually like to describe it like hiding in the corner and just watching everything quietly and leaving likes and I love your work) but I was thinking about your concept with 141 and reader dying and the notebook. Would there ever be a case where the others stumble upon it? Whether Price forgets (somehow) to put it away or someone's in the midst of searching for something and stumbles upon it?

Again, love your work, feel free to ignore this tho

Yeah, I think this type of readers people call “lurkers” which is cool🙂‍↕️you guys are usually the backbone of the audience, I enjoy you tremendously.

And that’s a really good question, anon!

You know what? Why not turn the heat up a little more for this pot with the frogs.

I can imagine Price not exactly forgetting it somewhere but harbouring it so close to himself that people start to notice. This specific notebook is always with him — under his armoured vest and in the front pocket of his shirts, on top of the stack of documents, edge of it peeking out of his pants pocket.

It’s always there when before he didn’t carry it with him. It’s small and simple, technically it shouldn’t rise any questions but Kyle is the first who notices it. Maybe because after your death he’s so sharply attuned to everyone else on the team, it’s practically unhealthy.

Kyle who watches John fumble with the leather bound corners of the little thing and wonders…what’s inside of it? They have been all grieving but your things have been taken by them all and shared fairly.

Simon doesn’t withhold your pictures or books with your annotations. Soap doesn’t say no when Gaz asks for one of the keychains. Kyle himself lets Simon and Johnny take one of your things each. Simon takes the big oversized T-shirt and Soap whisks away one of your hoodies, clutching it hard to himself, knuckles white with tension.

(Kyle will never admit but when he walked in on Johnny in hoodie with your name and rank on the back of it his knees buckled. For a moment a traitorous part of him thought you were there. For a moment he could breathe again)

So Price keeping something of you to himself almost felt unfair. It wasn’t, of course, no, Captain had every right to grieve and mourn in a way that made it easier for him.

But-

But Kyle missed you. Everyday and every morning he’d wake up, realisations hitting him again that you aren’t coming back. You are never coming back.

You disappeared so suddenly you were now everywhere.

The unwashed cup they couldn’t bring themselves to wash, the clothes and trinkets, the books and pictures. The notebooks.

Kyle remembers how you two played games in it, drawing X’s and O’s when debrief would get too long and your brains too sluggish to keep awake without external stimulation.

Kyle remembers you writing in them, so focused you oftentimes wouldn’t notice him getting closer until he’d plop himself down in front of you, pretending to pose. Your favourite model, wasn’t he?

Kyle remembers you smiling at him, eyes flickering to his face for a moment, your gaze so impossibly soft he feels like choking and burying himself next to you.

There is a whole life ahead. Kyle isn’t sure how to live it with a hole in this chest the size of your love.

It’s a selfish thought, maybe. Maybe he is selfish.

Maybe he should have been content with what he has been given. But he wasn’t.

So now he slips the notebook off Price’s desk when the man himself is so wrecked he can’t see straight. John’s drinking got worse after your death. Not yet enough to cause disciplinary action but enough to make them all worried.

Gaz has never seen him like that.

Why were they all lucky enough to meet you but not lucky enough to save you? Would the outcome be different if one of them went with you on that deployment? Could they save you if they knew how it ends?

Could they try?

Kyle’s fingers skim over the pages, your hoodie on him and if he pretends hard enough it almost feels like a hug. It almost feels like his body heat seeping through fabric is yours. Like you were just wearing it.

Like you didn’t leave at all.

Like you are coming back.

Kyle flips through the pages, gurgling wet laughter in his throat when he notices that you have been writing Simon’s jokes down and coming up with your own. (The “just got hospitalised due to peekaboo incident. They put me in ICU” joke almost makes Kyle choke).

Some part of him gets why Price has been guarding this specific journal so hard. Why he wasn’t letting anyone else close to it, because this right here is you.

Everything that’s left of your thoughts and feelings, of your humour and love, of your plans and scribbles.

It’s tangible proof that you were here. You lived, you loved, you thought. You were there and you were a person. Their favourite person. Their beloved one.

Maybe that’s why your small note hits him harder than he could have ever expected. A small resigned “I’m not sure I fit in. I’m not sure I’m not second…or fifth best in this case. Don’t even know if I wanna talk about it. Just plain stupid” splits Kyle’s scull open and leaves him bleeding and aching and shaking.

What…what did you mean “fifth best”? Why would you say that? What- no. Nonononono. No, it’s not fair. It’s not true, it has never been true.

Kyle feels like driving back to the cemetery and wrapping his car around the poll.

Kyle feels like clawing at the ground and sobbing-sobbing-sobbing.

Kyle feels like begging.

Please, no. Please, come back. Please, let him fix it, let him tell you the truth, let him tell you.

Kyle understands why Price was guarding the journal this fiercely. Kyle is so mad he feels like demolishing John’s office and yelling until his voice is raspy useless thing, vocal cords damaged, headache pounding inside his head and he’s burning from inside out.

Kyle looks at the page, his whole core so hollowed out you could feel an echo if you’d knocked.

Kyle doesn’t know what to do because you are gone.

Because he wants to say “I’m sorry, love, I’m so sorry, I’d be better if I knew”, he wants to say “come back and scream at me, come back demand attention, come back and hurt me in return just please please come back”.

He wants to say “I love you” in a hundred different ways, he wants to kiss it better, he wants to hold you again, he wants you back, why can’t you come back, why can’t he get you back? He will change, he will do better, he will pay attention, he’s sorry, love, he’s so sorry.

Soap finds him just blankly staring at the page and he doesn’t understand at first, concern sharpening his features like one of the razors he uses for his drawing pencils.

Johnny sinks down next to him, lips pressing to Kyle’s temple, breath panting when Gaz doesn’t respond because he can’t.

He doesn’t know what to say.

How do you live knowing you may never change what already happened? How do you keep going knowing your tenderness is decaying six feet underground, that your love is springing with flowers when they should have stayed above the ground and picked them? How do you get over it? How?

Johnny’s eyes skim over the page and Gaz can feel when the realisation sinks in, when the body next to him is getting poured full with raw ache and ice sharp panic.

Johnny asks “Gaz whose journal is that”, Johnny pleads “Mate, talk to me, where did you get it?”, Johnny whimpers “Kyle tell me it’s not theirs, Kyle please, Kyle say something”.

Kyle doesn’t know what to do other than wrap himself around Soap and hold him despite the thrashing, despite the disbelieving laughter that descends into gasping for air and clawing at his back and shoulders.

Kyle doesn’t let him get out and do something stupid, like drive to the cemetery and wrap a car around the poll and curl near your gravestone.

There is an awfully loud gulp and the journal is getting carefully taken off Kyle’s lap, Simon’s fingers long and scarred — things broken too many times to grown back straight and narrow, calloused pads of his fingers catching on the paper of the notebook.

Kyle has to drag him down to them, he has to practically kick the ground from under Ghost’s feet because the man looks like he will get the shovel and get you out of the coffin.

(Kyle doesn’t want to think how Simon refused to let them bury you, how he sat with you for days, until the decomposition became evident. Kyle doesn’t want to think how Simon placed a phone in your coffin despite knowing that you are not coming back. Kyle doesn’t want to think that Simon was terrified the 4 of them might bury you alive).

Ghost looks like the sky just fell on his head, crashing his spine and grinding down his nerves. Ghost looks like he wants to cry but doesn’t know how.

Ghost looks like how they all feel.

Kyle forces the man into their cuddle pile and forces his hand to wrap around Johnny, because Soap digs his fingers into them like he’s falling-falling-falling. System crashing, bomb ticking, Rome burning down.

Funny how Ghost never understood the phrase “going mad with grief”, always felt like it was a bit of dramatisation. People die every day after all, don’t they? It’s statistically impossible to never lose a single person.

Funny how Soap gets it now perfectly. The shift of tectonic plates in his brain, the rewiring of the whole system, pain so intense he might have ash for heart now.

Funny how it’s not funny at all but Gaz still laughs, face wet when Simon tightens his grip and pulls Kyle in, letting him hide his face.

Taglist: @synthe4u

Trending Blogs

Recently Viewed Blogs