Not My Time || End Of Cancer M!A || Hamish & James

Hamish blinked his eyes open and paused. When had they fallen asleep? What time was it? He grabs his phone, checks the time, and sits up rather quickly. “James.” He shoves the sleeping figure’s shoulder rather roughly. “James, get up! My parents are coming!” Stupid lazy bastard wouldn’t wake up, and his parents were going to be there any minute. They’d kill him for this, cancer or not. With a small whine, he smacks at James’ arm. “Get up, you lazy arse!”

Cancer m!a Finale Threads

This is the list of people I’m making a starter for with this being the day Hamish dies. If you want on the list and you aren’t there, just like this post and I’ll add you and write it up.

All starters will be linked here as I make them.

meredith-annabelle-hooper

cocaine-cigarettes

loyalbloggerwhowaits

simpletwin

hyperionholmeswatson

thebadmix

kathystarkpeople

dontfearsherlock

(Source: vickki)

Tabula rasa.: Playing soldier.

The force behind that one simple word causes a small shift in Hamish. Hardly noticeable unless you knew what to look for, his eyes grow bolder and darker, he stands a bit taller, and there’s more of an air of dominance and confidence around him. He rolls his head from left to right, then right…

Hamish catches the movement and reaches over to slap James hand away. “Ah ah, you’re being punished, remember?” There’s a note to his voice that, unlike the physical changes, is more obvious. It swings like he’s singing, but with an undertone of something less pleasant. “You are not to order me around, Private. It seems someone needs to learn his place.”

Playing soldier.

cocaine-cigarettes:

“No, of course not. Disobedience deserves punishment.” A cheshire grin, one not often seen on this face, and a small glint in the eyes. Hamish steps back, looking him over once more. “Though, I suppose as a first offence, it can be over looked. What do you think? Should I be nice?”

No. No, don’t be nice. Don’t…and Hamish has stepped away, and James suppresses a shudder. He shakes his head slowly - not tentative, never that, but testing the waters all the same. “No, sir,” he answers then, and for the briefest of moments the old flash of mischief enters his eyes before disappearing. “Hurt me. Use me.” A pause, then he remembers himself. “Please, sir.”

The force behind that one simple word causes a small shift in Hamish. Hardly noticeable unless you knew what to look for, his eyes grow bolder and darker, he stands a bit taller, and there’s more of an air of dominance and confidence around him. He rolls his head from left to right, then right to left, slowly stopped to stare James in the eye. Would he notice? Would he notice his little toy was gone to the land of make believe while the big boys had their fun?

Playing soldier.

cocaine-cigarettes:

Hamish hums, stepping up to him completely now. “Mmm, and you think you deserve that, do you? After you deliberately took your time with the door? Disobeying a direct order does not beget rewards, now does it?” 

“N-no, sir,” he half-stammers, falling to, private to commanding officer, and he…oh, he likes it. Too much. He’s not seen this side of Hamish before, and…well, he thinks he’d like it to come around again. Often. So, even as his palms itch with the urge to reach out and touch Hamish - he’s so close, it’d be so easy - he stands still, back ramrod straight, and he waits for further instruction.

"No, of course not. Disobedience deserves punishment." A cheshire grin, one not often seen on this face, and a small glint in the eyes. Hamish steps back, looking him over once more. "Though, I suppose as a first offence, it can be over looked. What do you think? Should I be nice?"

Playing soldier.

cocaine-cigarettes:

“Please what? You’ll have to be specific.” The grin widens and he steps forward - just once, one step at a time. That’s how they would do this tonight.”Tell me what you want, and we’ll see if you deserve it.”

That, there. That as good as undoes him, and it was too easy, but…oh, Christ, but he wants, and it’s all he can do to keep his eyelids from fluttering closed. “Please,” he repeats, his voice slightly hoarser now with his hunger. “Please, sir,” he adds, an afterthought. “Please t-take me.”

Hamish hums, stepping up to him completely now. “Mmm, and you think you deserve that, do you? After you deliberately took your time with the door? Disobeying a direct order does not beget rewards, now does it?” 

Playing soldier.

cocaine-cigarettes:

imnotmyfather:

cocaine-cigarettes:

The words send a small shiver down his spine, only fueling this fire. Oh, but dropping eye contact isn’t allowed, not for any reason. Leaning closer, he snarls again. “Eyes on me. They don’t move, understand?” There’s no immediate response, so Hamish grabs James’ chin, pulling his face closer, his voice shifting into a growl. “Eyes on me, do you understand?” 

Oh, yes. Oh, he understands. Understands so perfectly that he wants it more, wants it harder, wants to feel the press and scrape and bite of nails hard against his throat, digging into the soft flesh there, oh, please. And so his breath comes ragged and hungry between flared nostrils, and usually bitter dark chocolate eyes are fixed on forceful ice blue ones, and he nods as best he can with the hard grip around his chin. “Y-yes, sir.”

Mm, much better. Hamish drops his hand, whirling around to push the door shut. Scowl fading into a sly grin, he leans against the door, arms crossed, eyes looking James over. Now was not the time to be impatient. No, patience was a must when dealing with James. Patience isn’t his strong suit, and that needs to be fixed.

So he says nothing, does nothing, just stares. Watches and waits to see what James will do.

Touch is broken, contact cut short, and James has to stifle a whimper - it’s too early for that, but Christ, Hamish knows exactly what he’s doing, and…and he sighs heavily, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Please.”

"Please what? You’ll have to be specific." The grin widens and he steps forward - just once, one step at a time. That’s how they would do this tonight."Tell me what you want, and we’ll see if you deserve it."

Playing soldier.

cocaine-cigarettes:

The words send a small shiver down his spine, only fueling this fire. Oh, but dropping eye contact isn’t allowed, not for any reason. Leaning closer, he snarls again. “Eyes on me. They don’t move, understand?” There’s no immediate response, so Hamish grabs James’ chin, pulling his face closer, his voice shifting into a growl. “Eyes on me, do you understand?” 

Oh, yes. Oh, he understands. Understands so perfectly that he wants it more, wants it harder, wants to feel the press and scrape and bite of nails hard against his throat, digging into the soft flesh there, oh, please. And so his breath comes ragged and hungry between flared nostrils, and usually bitter dark chocolate eyes are fixed on forceful ice blue ones, and he nods as best he can with the hard grip around his chin. “Y-yes, sir.”

Mm, much better. Hamish drops his hand, whirling around to push the door shut. Scowl fading into a sly grin, he leans against the door, arms crossed, eyes looking James over. Now was not the time to be impatient. No, patience was a must when dealing with James. Patience isn’t his strong suit, and that needs to be fixed.

So he says nothing, does nothing, just stares. Watches and waits to see what James will do.

Amnesia. | James & Hamish

cocaine-cigarettes:

The shower helps wake him up and it calms him down a bit. Towel around his waist, hair dripping, he wanders back to his room. Before dressing himself, he catches the blinking light on the phone and grabs it, reading the messages. Immediately, he tosses the phone on the bed with a growl. If James woke up in some random flat that wasn’t his, then Hamish wanted nothing to do with it. 

Hamish takes his time picking out his clothes and pulling them on, contemplating what he was going to do about this. Had James done something stupid and gone home with someone? No, no, he wouldn’t do that. James wasn’t stupid. So then…where was he and why?

[text] You do understand what this looks like that that I have very little interesting helping you if that’s the case? -H

He stares at it for a few moments, not sending it. No. No, he deletes it. He’s not a whiny girlfriend. James already dislikes how paranoid he gets. With a groan, he drops back on his bed.

[text] I’m not much use if I don’t know where you are. Nothing looks familiar? Do you remember leaving your flat last night? -H

Slow, shuddering breaths that make his already bruised ribs ache more, and he tries. Fingers twisting in the sheets, throat tight with mild panic, he tries to cling to something, tries to understand, tries to know, but he can’t, and so it is that with nervous eyes and unsteady hands that he reads the response, knowing….feeling, not knowing, that there’s something missing. Something this H person wants to say to him and is keeping quiet. Maybe…maybe something to examine, later. Note to self.

He pulls himself grudgingly to a seated position, and looks around, trying to identify something, anything familiar, and fails. Okay, material surroundings are a no go. There’s a mirror, in the corner, and for some reason he feels compelled to look at himself, as though staring himself in the eye will give some kind of an answer.

But when he does, what he sees is…wrong. Contusions littered across the left side of his face, torso bruised and bleeding and covered in the white of bandages, and his head is pounding with the rush of blood from standing up. More importantly, maybe - he’s been injured before, maybe one of his Johns just got a little too rough again, he’ll get over it soon enough - is the fact that his body doesn’t fit. It’s too long of arm and leg, too much stubble clouding jawline and neck…Christ, when was the last time he shaved? He never had this much facial hair.

[text] …I - I t’ink this must be me flat, then. I…thar was a - a plane? An’ then a car, an’ then I slept. -JM.

Despite how upset he was at the entirety of this situation, after sending the last text, Hamish slides off the bed and pads down stairs. He doesn’t bother grabbing something to eat, simply slipping his shoes on and sliding out the door. Something was wrong with James and he needed to figure it out. He’s not quite halfway there when he gets the next text from James.

So, he was in his own flat, and didn’t recognize it? Didn’t remember getting back from where ever he’d been? As the worry hits him, he picks up his speed. 

[text] I’m on my way. -H