#col sebastian

continued from previous, with @col-sebastian [text] oh no. no, no, no. oh bless you. [text] i didn't buy him, seb. [text] i didn't give them a single thing. [text] the men at the market. boom. gone. no transaction needed. [text] but they're not the masterminds, they're not the bosses. [text] ding ding ding [text] i'm the boss!!!!! [text] and i'm going after their bosses now [text] but i will be careful. [text] and [text] dun dun durr [text] we're keeping him [text] we are keeping him. [text] soz

        “I don’t think you should be carrying that about, mate.         I’ve seen what they do in war.”

@col-sebastian

Alexandra's flat was usually a safe haven for silence, the television, seldom used except to screen the news, was kept on mute with the subtitles running along at the bottom; music, when it was played, was played through headphones; voices were kept low, always, always low. She hated noise. And yet for hours now the place had been filled with sobbing, shouting, screaming, with the sounds of splintering glass. The mirror that had hung above the mantelpiece lay smashed on the rug, and Xan's hands were scarlet, sticky with blood. Sobbing, shouting, screaming, and then, out of nowhere, a moment of calm, a moment of quiet. Two hearts racing, pulses beating at twice their normal rate, throbbing in ears, necks, and wrists; two pairs of lungs working over time, breaths were coming in pants, short, sharp, and ragged; two pairs of eyes, identical, each so brown that they were almost black, each cold and unforgiving, stared at each other, not blinking. Neither of them seemed willing to break this strange accord, this strange stalemate, neither of them made the decision to certainly, but it was broken all the same. One look at the mess around them had Xandra shaking from more than just anger (and she was angry, oh, was she angry) and hyperventilating too. Jim took one look at her and his upper lip curled with derision. "Oh no, my girl," he said to her, softly softly, still somehow managing to sound sharp. Cutting. "No, no, no. You don't get to play the victim here, no, no, you don't. Not when you've been here, cosying up to Sebastian, fucking the man who is supposed to be mine! You are not the vic- "-I AM!" The screaming recommenced without warning, louder and even more vehement than before. "I AM THE VICTIM! WE - SEBASTIAN AND I - WE ARE THE VICTIMS HERE! YOU WERE THE ONE WHO LEFT, YOU WERE THE ONE THAT LEFT US SHATTERED INTO MORE PIECES THAN THIS FUCKING MIRROR! YOU WERE THE ONE THAT DID THAT TO US, SO, YES, PAPA, YES, WE ARE THE VICTIMS, WHETHER YOY LIKE THAT OR NOT!" @col-sebastian

@col-sebastian sent me a 💔for our muses to share an interrupted kiss * Sebastian tasted of whiskey and cigarettes, of fire and ash, and the smell of gunpowder lingered on his clothes. She hadn't given him any time to change, any time to speak even; the moment that she'd heard the door open, heard the heavy tread of his boots in the entranceway, she'd been upon him, arms around his neck, mouth upon his mouth. His lips were rough, chapped from the cold. His cheeks were rough too, beginning to get scruffy. Ordinarily, she'd have pushed him away, snapped at him to shower and shave, but tonight she was so glad to have him home, to have him safe, that she pulled him closer instead. Kissed him more fiercely. Her fingers were knotted in the hair at the base of his neck, nails digging into his flesh. Her heart was thumping wildly in her chest, her breathing was heavy. Her feet, perpetually bare it seemed, were stretched, straining; she was on her tiptoes trying to close the gap between his face and hers, and she was wobbling. Her arches were sore, her calves were protesting, but she barely even noticed. Whiskey. Tobacco. Gunpowder. It was a heady mixture. Her brain was flooded with endorphins. Chemical signal after chemical signal firing off in her brain until she could no longer where her body ended and his began. It was unusual for her to feel so out of things, to give into her senses and to feel rather than to think. It was unusual, but then Sebastian had always been the exception to her rules. Always, always, always. Yes, it was unusual. And it was also very short-lived. The minutes seemed to stretch on and on, blurring hours and days together - or, at least, they had done, until they were cut short. Now what had seemed like days seemed like mere seconds. Empty, easily forgotten. Her phone was vibrating in her pocket, the classic telephone ringtone trilling over and over again, too loud to be ignored. Lip became detached from lip, her hand loosed its grip on his scalp. She unhooked her arm from around its neck and it slithered downwards, automatically reaching to answer the call. She did not look at Sebastian, in fact, she purposefully turned her back, a horrible hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. "This had better be good," she snapped into the receiver, wiping her mouth on the back of her free hand once that too had withdrawn from Sebastian's hair. "Actually, I don't care if it's the best bloody news I'm going to hear all week. Fuck off and put it in writing. Do you hear me? Fuck the fuck off!" And with a rather vicious jab at the red button, the call was quickly disconnected. It was not as restorative as she had hoped it would be; her rush of anger flared only momentarily and burnt out just as quickly as it had been kindled, leaving her feeling just as deflated as before. She did not look at him. She did not, would not, could not look at him.

     ( sm ) –– Did you fuck with my guns again?      ( sm ) –– I swear to god.

For the most part, it’s those who have the inability to have manners who irk her. Aside from that, she’s an easy person to get along with.

@col-sebastian