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lovehurtsandilikeitthatway · 3 months ago

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Nightmares

Male Yandere x Reader

Hi everyone!! This my first ever time posting my writing on here, so I'm a little nervous- English isn't my first language so sorry if there are some grammar/spelling mistakes or anything like that 😭 Please know that I don't support any kind of "yandere" behaviour irl and if you have any person like that in your life, make sure to distance yourself from them and stay safe 🙏 I tried not to romanticise the yandere-ish in this either so I hope it doesn't come off that way.

WARNINGS‼️: Yandere behaviour, cursing, abuse, needles, mentions of panic attacks, drugs, kidnapping, manipulation, noncon touching/kissing (nothing nsfw), blood, biting, knives, death

Four years. It had been exactly four years ever since you managed to escape the hellhole that was your abusive boyfriend's apartment. Four years since you left Japan too; as you wanted to make sure he'd never find you again. Now you lived in London as a librarian, in a small run-of-the-mill apartment all by yourself. It was a quiet life; but you liked it that way. You had to change your name to make sure he couldn't get to you, and thus you couldn't have much contact with your family and friends still in Japan. It hurt you, knowing that you were so far apart from them, but it was much better than being stuck in that place with no way out.

Of course; it had started out like any other relationship. You were both in university; he was a business major and quite popular, as his parents owned a well known company which he was bound to inherit. But his riches weren't the only thing that made him popular. He was also known for being very charismatic with a large social circle, having near flawless grades and (amongst the female school body, mainly) being fairly handsome on top of all that too. You'd be a liar to say you didn't have a bit of a crush on him at first too; but it was very similar to a celebrity crush. He was unobtainable and you had created an ideal version of him in your head; so you could fantasize yourself going on a date with him or some other crush of yours from time to time for the funsies. You thought that would be all he'd ever be to you; but boy were you wrong.

Surprisingly, you met at a house party. The host was a friend of a friend; and you were basically convinced to go by your friend group despite being hesitant. It turned out that, just as you suspected, the party wasn't really your vibe; but your friends were having fun. So you decided to go hangout in the backyard by yourself until another friend of yours had to go, so you didn't feel awkward being the first in the friend group to leave. Surprise surprise, he was there too. You two ended up striking conversation; and he sheepishly confessed that he didn't really like the party either, but had to stay because the "friend of a friend" was actually a close friend of his. So you pretty much spent the entire party talking with eachother; and the ideal version you had made up of him in your mind was gone by the time it was over. Not in a bad way. You guys had a lot of things in common after all; and he also had his flaws, just like you. He was no longer the popular mr.perfect guy you thought he was; and it was rather attractive.

You became friends; and your friendship soon blossomed into much more. He was a good boyfriend at the start. Dates, flowers, heartfelt conversations, mutual love and respect. You know, all the very basic factors of any healthy, loving relationship. Within a year into the relationship, though, things began to...change for the worst. He'd grow paranoid whenever you went out with friends without him; he kept pestering you about moving in with him even though you weren't ready for something like that yet.... You had mentioned multiple times in the past that you were skeptical about marriage, kids, all that mambo jambo. Still, he'd often bring up how he wanted to get married and have a family with you. It was kinda sweet, at first. You understood that it came from a place of love; but the affection smothering and how controlling he was slowly becoming grew far too much.

The straw that broke the camel's back? He proposed. On your "a year and a half anniversary" date, he got down on one knee and proposed. You were very taken aback; and the fact he wanted to marry you and start a whole life with you was again very touching in theory, but not so much when all the times you two had this very conversation came in mind. All the times you expressed how you weren't sure and needed more time; and he seemingly understood and accepted that just to pull something like this on your anniversary. You explained your side, yet again, and he wasn't pleased. An argument broke out; and it got bad. By the end, you told him that if what you both wanted didn't match up; this wouldn't work. You tried walking out. Again, he wasn't pleased.

And what did he do? Oh, just smashed a bottle of wine on the back of your head.

It was a miracle you didn't die; but you did pass out. And what followed after was the most hellish year of your life. Your dear boyfriend turned kidnapper basically lied to every single person in your life; saying you had decided to drop out of uni to move in with him and start a family. And because his family was very influential, with many connections, and also because he had such a prestige reputation, no one batted an eye. Your family did, of course; they knew you best. But why would such a kindhearted, hardworking honour student from a good family ever lie?

He spent a year trying to brainwash you into giving in; brainwashing you into giving him the perfect life he wanted, with a stay-at-home partner and children and everything, not allowing you to get out of the apartment or as much as breathe without him supervising. Nevermind that you were screaming your lungs out, begging him to let you go home and reminding him how much of a monster he was despite the gentleman-like façade he'd put not only in front of others, but also in front of you.

Eventually, after many failed attempts, you managed to bust the cameras in his apartment and pick the lock while he was out. You stole just enough money to get you an one way ticket to whatever place was available and also got back your phone; only being able to part with your friends and family via text messages and calls. Going to the police was out of the question. Why? Cause you had tried that in the past; and it didn't end well for you. The police weren't going to help; the only one who could protect you was yourself.

You didn't like thinking about it; the year you had spent in his apartment. Your therapist had advised you to stop living in the past and focus on the present; but it was so hard to try and put all that trauma behind you. Everytime you had to go outside you'd always look over your back; afraid you'd see him again. Afraid he'd somehow find you and make you pay for leaving him before dragging you right back. Sometimes you'd even think you caught glimpse of him across the street; causing you to have a mini panic attack. It was never fun. You hated it. You hated the fact that even though you managed to escape him; it felt like he came along with you.

Nevertheless, you tried to continue living. You met new people at the library, became friends with a sweet old lady from your apartment building, even started writing your very own book as a hobby, which you always wanted! You were doing well for yourself. You were slowly able to pick the pieces that had broken off of you; and you were proud of it. You were proud of managing to wake up everyday, making sure to eat, get to work, go through the work day- and reach the end of said workday. Just like you did today.

Work had ended for today. You said goodbye to your co-workers and began working home; fantasising about crashing onto your couch and staying there for the rest of the evening. It had been quite the tiring day and all you wanted to do was just get home, put on a random TV channel and maybe take a nap. Eventually, you reached your apartment complex. You lived on the first floor; so thankfully you didn't have to climb any stairs. Soon, you were standing right outside your front door. Your hands reached into your shoulder bag and pulled out your house key, inserting it into the keyhole in order to unlock the door.

However, the door was already unlocked.

Your blood immediately went cold; hand still on the key as you stared at the door with wide eyes. There was no way it could be him, right? If he hadn't found you in four years now, what could possibly lead him to you? Your heart began racing; breathing already getting heavy. You were panting, you just realised. You could hear your own heartbeat echo in your ears. Were you on the verge of another panic attack? Closing your eyes tight, you tried to take a deep breath and compose yourself; focusing on your environment instead of your ever growing panic, as your therapist had instructed you to do at moments like this one. The way the handle's metal felt cold against your grip, bird chirping from a nearby window, the sound of the elevator going down; most likely for the old lady you had befriended, as this was the time she'd usually get home from feeding the stray dogs in the neighborhood. She was so sweet.

Let's think rationally: you were far away from Japan, you had changed your name as well as your appearance (as much as you could force yourself to) and you had managed to maintain this quiet life of yours for four whole years. In those four years; you had received no calls or messages from him either, because you of course also had to change your number, email and delete any social media you had just to be sure. All that being said; the door was open when it was not supposed to- and then it hit you; did you actually lock the door this morning? Even though you were extremely paranoid; there had been an instance or two of you forgetting to lock the door before leaving for work, usually when you were feeling extra tired or stressed. Even four years later; sleeping didn't come easy to you. You started having sleep paralysis quite often, but instead of feeling like someone was pushing onto your chest hard, there was the suffocating sensation of his hands wrapped around your waist so tight that you'd think your organs would pop out any second.

Admitting that you're a complete idiot isn't easy; but you'd take it any day over the possibly of him somehow having gotten into your apartment. So, with the mentality of a broke middle aged man taking the risk of one last gamble in order to hit the jackpot, you decided to put your fears aside and push the door forward so you could get home.

Because, guess what? You were so sick of this.

Sick of living in fear, of having panic attacks every other day and jumping like a terrified kitten whenever you see a man who slightly resembles him pass by you. Sick of not being able to close your eyes every night because instead of the back of your eyelids, all you see is each and every time he'd touch you like he owned you.

And now that he didn't 'own you' any longer, your trauma did. And he was technically the personification of your trauma. He still owned you.

Fuck him. Fuck this. All of this. You just wanted to lay down and sleep like a normal person. Talk to your friends like a normal person. Sometimes you'd forget that you were actually that: normal and a person, since he had spent an entire year making you think otherwise. So no; you weren't going to let your fear control you and remain standing outside your apartment after an exhausting work day. You weren't going to deprive yourself of the basic right and necessities everyone else had.

You were now inside the apartment. Your small, cluttered apartment that had only one bedroom; a bathroom that could only fit a shower rather than a bathtub and a living room that was connected to the kitchen, all in the very same space. You immediately took off your shoes, locked the door behind you and hung your shoulder bag on one of the two chairs you had at the kitchen table before basically collapsing onto the couch, not caring to change into something more comfortable just yet. Your clothes weren't all that uncomfortable, actually. You didn't have much energy this morning; so you had worn a more casual, comfy outfit, not putting much thought into it. It was an outfit that you could easily sleep in no problem; which you started to realise when you began feeling yourself already drifting to sleep. Deep inside, you knew that there were other things that probably had priority; like taking a shower or making dinner but....did they really? You could do all that after taking a nap. You hadn't been able to sleep a full eight hours without waking up every hour or so for awhile now anyway. The moment you wake up, you'd get to all those important tasks that were needed for you to continue functioning- but it had been the first time that sleep sought you out rather than you taking sleep medication in weeks, and you weren't going to waste such a rare act of mercy by your system. Within a few minutes, you were out like a light.

“Look at you, all curled up in the couch....Is it that much better than the king sized bed we'd share?”

A voice called out to you. You couldn't make whose voice, however. You were still pretty much out of it; half asleep. You didn't even know what day it was, much less where or who that voice came from.

“Oh, you must be sleepy. These eyebags on your pretty face tell me enough; you haven't slept properly in awhile, hm?” the voice questioned, and you swore you could feel something hot blow against your ear before it spoke again, this time closer. But also ice cold in terms of tone. “Guess what? Neither have I, not without you in my arms.”

Oh. Oh. You knew who this voice belonged to. You might've been still asleep practically; but it was like an alarm had gone off in your head, like some natural instinct telling you a predator was nearby and you shouldn't be sleeping right now. It wasn't the first time you had felt like this, though. You'd have this feeling whenever you'd randomly feel like you're being watched, whenever you'd see an unknown number call you, whenever you were all by yourself. You had grown too used to this feeling. You'd respond to it everytime, jumping up and looking around frantically with yet another panic attack waiting for you just around the corner. This feeling had been ruining every waking moment from your life ever since you managed to free yourself; and this feeling was about to absolutely demolish the amazing nap you've been having so far. The nap that you've been needing for months, week, years now.

Not this time. You knew what was going on. You were most likely about to star in the psychological thriller of a dream every single one of your night terrors were. But you wouldn't play along, again, this time. You didn't budge, even with someone's breath right next to your ear. The only thing you did was turn in your sleep, now facing the back of the couch.

“Poor thing..... I told you all about this, did I not? The outside world is full of stress. It sucks the life out of you, it makes you miserable. Just look at what you got yourself into without me; all alone in some foreign country, working yourself to the bone and living in this cockroach infested, century old apartment.” it continued to whisper condescendingly; dripping with fake sympathy. It was truly a wonder how your brain could remember every single one of his patterns in the way he spoke and put you down. His words, despite being absolutely just part of your nightmare, didn't fail to make your heart swell up with the feeling of inferiority and uselessness.

But a second later you couldn't feel his breath on your skin any longer; and you assumed this nightmare was going to progress further differently or you'd just wake up.

“You see, when I came home that day and couldn't find you anywhere I went through such a rollercoaster of emotions,” Ah. Seems like the fact nightmare him had pulled away didn't stop his voice from going on and on. Wonderful. “I was devastated and panicked and frantic- I looked everywhere for you. But I think that the main emotion that has been stirring me for the past four years is anger.” It breathed out, “At first it was all directed at you. The fact that you just left me like that after everything I did for you, all the love I showed you... Did you think that whenever I'd tell you how I couldn't breathe without you near me, I was just trying to be romantic?” scoffed his voice. “I haven't been breathing, actually. It doesn't feel like breathing anymore. It feels like something hallow and bitter comes out of me; like pitch black smoke. You poisoned me the day you left.”

Of course the blame's on you. It always was, no matter what would happen between you two. When he'd cuff you to the bed to the point that you'd almost lose circulation in both wrists, it was your fault for staring at the front door for too long. When he'd shove food down your throat, since declining food was the only form of protest you could pull off sometimes, it was your fault for not wanting to be fed by your kidnapper.

“But I forgive you,”

How generous of him.

“I forgive you because you're the only person who's ever loved me. And the only person I've ever managed to love. You might've poisoned me, my love, but you're also the only antidote.”

You couldn't deny, that even if it was just another stupid nightmare, it brought shivers down your spine. This wasn't the first time you had seen him in your sleep, but this was the first time your mind had crafted such an accurate depiction of him and that was much scarier than the more violent nightmares you've been having. You wanted to rest so bad; but it wasn't worth going through this. And you were feeling a little hungry anyway. Sure, you wouldn't be able to nap again for like a week, but it was a necessary sacrifice if it meant not having to listen to his voice playing over and over again in your head like a broken record.

Instinctively, you turned around to sit up, but before you could get to the sitting up part you felt a hand cup your cheek and your body went frozen on impact, not daring to move a muscle. A very familiar cologne then reached your nostrils; and you were one hundred percent sure of whose cologne it was. Just like how you were one hundred percent sure about who the voice that had been tormenting you for these past few minutes belonged to. You knew it was him; but you tricked yourself into believing that it was just a nightmare. But it had to be a nightmare, right? How could he possibly find you after four years- how could he possibly know you fled to London? You had envisioned this very scenario in your head countless times on restless nights, thinking of every possibility and every single detail so you'd be ready if it ever were to happen; but now you remained stuck in the face of danger.

You didn't want to open your eyes; but you were trembling. He could tell you were awake. And you could tell that he could tell; as you could've sworn you heard his lips forming into a twisted smirk. With his right left hand still cupping your cheek; he leaned closer again and wiped away the tears you hadn't realised were forming in your eyes before starting to rub supposedly soothing circles into your back. “Aw....there's no need to cry, everything will be fine now that we'll be together again. I might've been angry at you for leaving; but now I'm more angry at myself. Angry that I couldn't keep you with me. This time, things will be different.”

His hand finally left your back, and even though your eyes were still shut; you heard his footsteps. He had went to get something, and without a second thought, you stood up; only for him to quickly push you back to the couch. That's when your eyes opened and finally met his own, four years later. But your eyes didn't focus on his facial features. They didn't care to observe whether he had changed or not, the way he looked at you; or if he too had the very same sagging eyebags as you did. All your eyes saw was a monster. A terrifying creature made of all your fear, anxiety- a sight that brought you terror and a nausea inducing sensation in your stomach. What you were looking at didn't feel human, this situation didn't feel real, the line between nightmare and reality had been blurred. There had been instances in the past where you'd pity him somewhat; reminding yourself that he was too a person and the reason he was this way was because he had been damaged from a very young age, gone through terrible things that molded him into what he is today. He had told you all about it himself.

But right now; all you saw before you was a boogieman. And like the scared child you always had been deep inside; you could do nothing but let out a blood curling scream.

“Sssh! Quiet-” He hushed you, forcibly putting his hand over your mouth, “...Still a screamer. Some things never change. Adorable.” he chuckled, in such a disgustingly lovey-dovey way. It felt like he was being genuine; like he truly does find it cute. As if there truly was some absurd form of love behind his words. And honestly? It made them all the more repulsive. It made you want to gag; but gagging wouldn't help, so you did the next best thing. You bit down on his hand as hard as your teeth allowed you and he hissed in pain; but didn't pull away. In fact, he backed you even further into the couch, seemingly searching for something in his pocket with the hand you weren't currently sinking your teeth into. When he found it; he plunged it into your neck with zero hesitation.

For a second, you thought it was a knife. His own way of making sure you'd never leave him, you reckoned, because how could you ever attempt to run from him if you were dead? He had always been a narcissist after all, something you realised a little too late into your relationship back when you guys were still in one. You wouldn't put the possibility of him wanting to be the very last thing you see before you die above him. The satisfaction of knowing you died in his arms; and that you'd never speak to anyone else ever again (including him, but you doubted he cared anymore), as your vocal cords wouldn't be able to work as a decaying corpse; with no beating heart to pump blood into you.

Until he took the unknown object out of your neck; bringing it into your viewpoint. It wasn't a pocket knife or scissors or anything like that. It was a syringe. A syringe that was definitely filled with something which is currently entering your bloodstream. And you knew what that something was; because you remembered him doing the very same thing multiple times before in your sole year of captivity, whenever you'd fight him for far too long and his patience would run thin.

A syringe pumped with drugs to put you to sleep; as well as keep you all docile and rag-doll-ish for a couple of hours.

“It's okay. Go back to sleep, sweetheart. It's just a nightmare, shh.....” He murmured; removing his wounded hand from your mouth and pressing a light kiss on your half-open lips. You didn't know whether his words were mockery or a genuine attempt at comforting you; but neither would make you hate him any more or less.

Still, in that moment, you chose to believe him. You chose to believe that this was truly all a nightmare; you'd wake up at your couch, go make some food, watch some TV and continue your quiet life. It was definitely better than accepting it was about to become a living nightmare all over again.

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Thank you for reading!! Feel free to ask me whatever you want or give me feedback on my writing, I'm open to all feedback cause I do genuinely wanna get better <3 Have a great day/night 🩷🩷

Word Count: 4,219 (I think!!)

#yandere x reader #yandere #yandere x you #yandere x darling #yandere x y/n #yandere x female reader #yandere x male reader #yandere x gn reader #writing #first post #horror #horror writing #yandere writing

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the-summ0ning · 1 month ago

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𓉸ྀི Linger 𓉸ྀི PART ONE

Roomie!Nick Folio x Fem!introvert!Bookworm!Reader

Word count: 5.1k

Awkwardly avoiding your hot roommate after him walking in on you listening to your guilty pleasure was easy enough, you thought, until it wasn't. Not when you had all the same friends, and you were all in a cabin in the woods for Noah's birthday, and Nick shows up looking like said guilty pleasure.

!!!THIS PIECE IS PURE FICTION ABOUT REAL PEOPLE, NOT YOUR THING TURN AWAY. BUT AGAIN IT'S JUST FICTION AND NOT HOW THESE PPL ARE IRL!!!

CONTENT WARNINGS: swearing, recreational drug and alcohol use, awkward romcom moments, fluff, yearning.

A/n: hahah spooky season is upon us and I wrote this after I had insomnia for over 24 hours after the wildest week of having the flu a few weeks ago, and have been sitting on it debating if I wanted to post this. This could be a totally considered self-indulgent, maybe cringe, but oh well it's my digital footprint & I have to live with. But welcome to my first fic on this blog, and my first piece posted at least for the BO guys in general, had to show the cinnamon roll Folio love first. thank yewwww and enjoy

⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧⛧°。 °⛧⛧°。 °⛧⛧°。 °⛧⛧°。°⛧⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。

The universe had a painfully ironic sense of humor. Noah Sebastian and his friends, with their twisted embrace of clichés, unknowingly played right into its hands.

After years of running in the same circles, Noah had grown to resent sharing his birthday with Halloween—except for the rare occasions when he leaned into the theme completely. This year was one of those times. A slasher-themed party in a huge cabin in the woods for the weekend. Cute. Real fuckin’ cute.

If it weren’t for the fact that you’d promised months ago to make all the baked goods—long before you knew the party theme—and that his closest friend and bandmate happened to be your roommate, you would’ve bailed. But you were a good friend, one who loved your friends and kept your word. Even if it meant enduring the mortification of being around Folio, said roommate, fighting the urge to disappear into the woods every time he glanced or came in your direction.

Because Folio knew your dirty little secret.

One you hadn’t even shared with your closest girlfriends. A secret you’d intended to bury in the deepest corners of your feral little brain—until Folio, of all people, unearthed it. He’d come home early from a fishing trip because of a storm and found you in your natural state of debauchery: high, sprawled on the couch, blasting a dark romance smut audiobook through the living room’s soundbar to a concerning decibel. To make matters worse, it was during the most graphic part, and not just any audiobook—this one had sound effects. And masks. And filthy, filthy things.

You’d nearly combusted when you saw him standing in the doorway for who knows how long, looking bemused, at you giggling and quietly squealling into a throw pillow. You scrambled to pause the audio, but of course, the universe wasn’t on your side, and your phone took its sweet time. Long enough for him to hear everything.

It’s not like you were about to do anything. You weren’t physically aroused, just mortified that he now knew what you listened to when he wasn’t around. Mortified as if his living room had been christened by your smut. Mortified he probably assumed you touched yourself to it when he wasn’t there—or worse, that it was some deep, dark fantasy of yours. No that totally wasn’t your guilty conscience projecting or anything.

You’d only lived with Nick for four months. Four months of being around him more than you ever had since meeting him through mutual friends years ago. Before this, you could count on both hands the number of times you’d been alone together. Not that there wasn’t any issues with him, you just considered the two of you as polar opposites to think he’d actually want to be around you or you’d have enough in common to pass the basis of ‘acquaintance’ or ‘mutual friend’.

He was funny, the kind of guy who made your cheeks hurt from laughing at his corny jokes. He was charming, with that Southern hospitality that always seemed to melt your insides, and his country twang made you melt just that much more. You hated how easily he could make your social anxiety melt away at parties, offering you a hit of his joint or a cigarette and small conversation when he noticed you hadn’t your usual friends you clung to. Confident, magnetic, always ready to be rowdy, a through and through extrovert, everything you were not.

You were an extroverted introvert–at best. A pessimistic optimist. An awkward rain shower on a sunny day. The house cat who only craved attention when it suited you, having zoomies when no one was watching.

That’s exactly what the embarrassing night felt like—your version of a cat caught in a burst of energy when it thought no one was looking. Except Folio was looking. And all he did was give you that dopey smile, the one with the gleam in his dark chocolate eyes, and made some smart-ass remark before disappearing into his room.

“So, this is what you do when I’m not around. Cute.”

As if he were the amused owner, catching his pet in the act.

He never brought it up again, but you both knew. And it gnawed at you. Maybe you were again projecting and he hadn’t thought much of it, but still!

And now, of all the costumes in the world, famous slashers, any other character from a horror movie, or crashed out and went with a basic t-shirt in the same vein of the theme of the party. No. He had chosen to wear a Ghostface mask. You, meanwhile, were dressed as a cheesy, slutty Casey Becker from Scream. It wasn’t planned. You’d done your best to avoid him the last two weeks, conveniently ever since the theme had been known to you. Quick hellos and goodbyes, or hasty exchanges with those days.

But tonight, at the party, there was no escaping him. Between leaving early before he even woke, helping with decorations, and playing the mom friend throughout the night for your own friends, you made yourself scarce. Dodging him became an art form. Until, of course, he cornered you.

You were about to refill Matt’s drink when Nick approached, his Ghostface mask pulled up. He tossed Matt’s empty cup, and handed you a cup of red jungle juice (with gummies shaped like body parts floating the mix of fruit of course), his hand casually settling on the small of your back, guiding you wordlessly toward the quieter part of the yard by the small shed by the brush of woods. The touch sent an unexpected chill through you, even though you tried to ignore it. You turned to protest, but he tapped his ear, signaling the blunt tucked behind it.

You rolled your eyes, laughing under your breath, and let him lead you to the shed. As much as you weren’t ready to talk to him, you hadn’t taken a break all night, and the excuse to get away from the crowd and babysit your friends was tempting. Your social battery ticking away faster than anticipated.

“Didn’t realize you were such a great party planner,” he said, leaning against the shed as he lit the blunt, his eyes catching under the faint glow of the solar lights.

You shrugged, struggling to keep your voice casual as your heart raced and cheeks warmed. His presence was overwhelming, making you hyper-aware of everything—the slight brush of his fingers when he passed you the blunt, the way his lips curled when he smiled. Even the music felt like it was conspiring against you, with Deftones' haunting melodies filling the background, stirring things inside you that you wished would stay buried.

“It was a group effort,” you mumbled, staring at your shoes to avoid his gaze. The warmth of his hand on your back lingered, leaving you unsettled in ways you weren’t prepared for. But when you glanced at him, his eyes were fixed on you, his brow furrowed like he was trying to figure something out.

“Nah, I didn’t do anything. I’m just here to boost morale and be the life of the party,” he chuckled, though the sound felt a little forced. As if he was trying just as hard as you to keep things light, keep things normal.

He passed the blunt back, and you took a hit, trying to calm your racing thoughts. You couldn’t help but wonder if he thought about that night too. It had been weeks, but it still felt raw in the fiber of your being, especially now with the tension hanging between you.

“And I know half of these ideas were your asshole suggestions, after searching kid halloween party on Pinterest.” He added, smirking. “But they love it. Noah loves it.”

You smiled despite yourself, taking another hit quickly to hide it, the warmth of his compliment stirring something soft in your chest. “Glad to hear it. Sometimes I worry my trolling gets taken a little too seriously.”

“They thrive off it,” he said, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful. He gestured for you to keep the blunt, taking a swig of his drink instead. “All for you, bub. Roomie blunt.”

The nickname hit you harder than you wanted to admit, a surge of affection mixing with the ever-present tension. His voice, low and soft, carried a weight that made it feel more intimate than it should have. You swallowed, trying to push the feeling down. Deflect, deflect, deflect.

“Matching costumes and now roomie blunts?” You teased, though your voice sounded breathier than you intended. “Are we hitting new roommate milestones?”

He laughed, but it was quieter this time, almost shy. “Didn’t mean to steal your thunder.” He said almost apologetically, there was still an edge of smugness maybe arrogance. “I tried to wear a t-shirt with just Michael and Freddy on it, but Jolly told me to ‘piss off and I wasn’t wearing that to our best friend’s birthday party.’ Drove me to a Spirit before we picked Noah up, it was like the only thing left close to the theme.” He explained. “I didn’t even have a plain black shirt. Had to flip this inside out.”

“Oh Jolly said ‘fuck you thought’ for real.” You giggled, the effect of the cannabis hitting you as you rubbed the rough inseam on his shoulder that you failed to notice when he walked in tonight. It was comical and relieving to know this wasn't a jab at you now, and just a half-ass last minute idea--typical Folio fashion.

“Wait for it, wait for it,” he pointed a finger up. Balancing the cup rim between his teeth, his drink splashing on himself as he pulled his t-shirt up exposing his torso as he clumsily tugged his shirt toward you to see a print of Michael Myers and Freddy Krueger holding hands in a meadow.

Through puffs of smoke, you full out cackled, now holding his shoulder for support. “What? Did you think you were too tough to dress up for Nowah’s birthday party?” Mustering your best baby voice in between your wheezing, the tension breaking for a moment. But even as you laughed, your eyes lingered on him a second too long. On the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the way his dark ochre eyes seemed to trace your every movement, as if he were studying you, waiting for something. But then he pulled the mask down, breaking the easiness of the moment.

He smoothed his shirt down, mocking your laugh. “The fuck am I gonna do with this after?”

Well…

Even with his shirt inside out, with alcohol spills staining it, and ash from your blunt speckling his clothes, the look did things to you--he looked good. The mask, the way he carried himself, all of it stirred something deeper. Your mind flashed back to that audiobook, to the night he caught you—and suddenly, the faceless man from the story wasn’t faceless anymore. It was Nick. It had always been Nick, lurking in the corners of your thoughts, even when you tried to deny it for several months before. You had buried the attraction you felt towards him well enough, denying that maybe your harmless crush was something more. Letting the term roommates be your boundary for him, not wanting to make an arrangement of living with an attractive acquaintance that you had festering feelings for even more awkward.

Despite your best efforts, you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. And even though your mind screamed at you to say something, to make a joke, you were too caught up in the moment—the way his presence pressed into yours, the unspoken tension crackling between you like static.

You handed the blunt back, your fingers brushing a second too long with his, the touch jolting something within you. “I’m sure you can find other uses for it, Bub,” you said, but the words came out softer than you intended, almost like a promise.

For a moment, neither of you moved. His hand lingered near yours, his dark eyes searching your face, as if he was waiting for something—waiting for you to break the silence. The air between you felt heavy, charged, like the moment could tip in any direction. Your heart hammered in your chest, your breath coming a little too fast. You were standing so close now, the night’s sounds fading into the background.

Your lips parted, wanting to say something, anything—but the words caught in your throat. Maybe this was your chance. Maybe you could make sure things weren’t as weird as you imagined it to be. Or maybe you could take that small step forward, close the gap between you, and see where it led.

But instead, you took a step back.

“Thanks for the morale boost! Gonna go beg Ruffilo to play something less whiny and horny now!”

The moment stretched, taut and unspoken, as you turned away, nerves rattling inside you. You felt him watching you as you sauntered off, the weight of his gaze burning into your back, the unspoken tension still thick in the air.

Deflect! Deflect! Deflect!

But as you walked away, your heart still pounding, you knew the moment between you wasn’t over. Not really. It lingered, hanging in the air like a storm cloud waiting to break. And you couldn’t help but wonder if next time, you’d have the courage to step into it.

。⋆༺♱༻⋆。

Nick let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding as he watched your denim skirt ride up slightly with each step you took away. He swallowed hard, the familiar pang of frustration settling in his chest. Admiring you from afar had become second nature to him, an unspoken routine he’d never quite managed to shake.

You perplexed him, right down to his core.

Every time he felt he was getting closer to understanding you, to unraveling the mystery of what made you so magnetic—you were gone. Slipping through his fingers just as quickly as you’d come into focus.

It had been that way since Matt and your friend first introduced you all those years ago. At first, he found your quietness cute—a stark contrast to the loud energy of your other friends. But as you started coming around more, he saw there was so much more beneath the surface. The dry wit, the easy charm you showed only to those closest to you, the way you seemed to light up in the right company. And then there was the obvious—he had been attracted to you from the moment he laid eyes on you.

But the more you intrigued him, the further away you seemed to drift, casting him aside without even realizing it. It gnawed at him, deeper than he liked to admit. Nick Folio wasn’t used to this—he could get anyone to open up, to be themselves around him with little effort. But you? You were a challenge he couldn’t crack, and it was driving him crazy.

It baffled him how Matt had convinced you to be roommates in the first place. Living together hadn’t helped his case at all—if anything, it made things worse. Since the moment he’d walked in on you listening to your smut audiobook, he could feel the shift, how you’d started shutting him out. He wasn’t oblivious to the way you avoided him now, keeping your distance, as though that moment had broken some invisible line between you.

But it hadn’t, not for him. If anything, he loved that glimpse of who you were outside the parties and hangouts. Seeing you comfortable, in your own space, high out of your mind, letting your guard down enough to geek out over something you clearly enjoyed.

Did you think it made him see you differently? Did you think that knowing your private little quirks would change how he felt?

If anything, it made perfect sense. A girl like you, attractive, smart, with a mind that clearly wandered far beyond the surface—you were bound to have something like that. Hell, now he understood why your nose was always buried in your Kindle. He’d probably be the same way if he had something that compelling.

He had hoped the blunt he’d offered earlier would serve as an olive branch, something to ease the tension between you. But now, watching you skitter away, retreating from him again, he wasn’t so sure.

“There’s the kingpin,” Noah grinned lazily, coming up beside him clapping him on the shoulder as Matt trailed behind.

Nick tried to muster a smile, but it was clear something was weighing on him, his usual carefree demeanor dulled by the conflict that tugged at him deep inside.

“What’s wrong Folio?” Matt was the first to ask.

“Nothing, just clearing my mind a bit.” He lied.

“Yeah, okay.” Noah snorted, trying to tug the mask on top of his head down. He was clearly tipsy, enjoying himself. “If you don’t want to talk about it, whatever—but I know what will really help clear your mind.” The lazy grin turned sinister.

The drummer merely raised his eyebrow waiting for an answer.

“Manhunt—slasher style.”

。⋆༺♱༻⋆。

Would it really be a slasher-themed birthday party if Noah hadn’t forced the remaining guests into a game of manhunt, despite how dark it was and how most people were borderline drunk? No, only Noah would think this was still a good idea. You didn’t mind, though. It distracted you from your exchange with Nick—finding hiding spots, giggling quietly, getting chased, and chasing your friends around. It felt cathartic, especially in your tipsy, cross-faded state.

Noah was too far gone to establish real ground rules anyway. The only rule was that nobody hid past the brush of the woods, and he was always the seeker. Brush, cabin, shed, backyard��fair game for your large group of friends. It was the third and final round now, and most of you were out of breath, legs aching, too close to rolling an ankle in the dark. The adrenaline was wearing thin, and the nostalgia for childhood games had run its course. You were all gonna feel the aftermath of this in the morning.

“Once you're found, head to the fire pit, pop a squat, and call it quits for the LOVE of god,” Matt groaned, hands on his hips, out of breath.

With all the cabin’s lights off, the vast space was hard to navigate. Maybe calling it a cabin was underselling it. This was a huge luxury lodge, a weekend splurge to comfortably fit the group with several bedrooms and rooms to hide in. You’d found a bedroom on the second floor at the end of the hall, away from everyone else, deciding to hide alone instead of pairing up like some of the others. You didn’t want to change your spot like you had the other two rounds you played outside. This was it, and you’d let whoever come to you to find you.

You weren’t sure who’d claimed the room earlier in the night when everyone arrived, but it didn’t matter now. The large bed in the center had ample space underneath for you to squeeze under. The bed skirt fell perfectly, hiding you completely as you curled up, knees pressed against your chest, mouth against the sleeve of your knitted sweater to stifle any sound.

Your heart pounded as you heard the seekers stomping clumsily through the halls, doors creaking open, followed by screeches of defeat from your friends as they were found. Finally, Noah and Davis's triumphant laughter echoed through the house, growing distant as they led the captured outside.

For a moment, you thought you were safe. You let out the breath you'd been holding, relaxing slightly. The steady thrum of your heartbeat began to slow, and you debated slipping out the back door to claim victory, imagining the disappointed faces of Noah, Davis, and the rest when you emerged triumphant telling them to suck it.

But then you heard it—a single set of footsteps at the end of the hall. You froze. Your pulse roared in your ears as a familiar laugh echoed down the corridor.

“You guys suck at this game!” Nick’s voice rang out, smug and teasing. Faint bickering followed from outside, Noah and Davis shouting back that they were done, ready to drink by the fire.

Nick scoffed. “Fuckin’ amateurs didn’t even check my room. There’s still people hiding!”

You tensed, silently praying, Please, don’t be in his room. Please, don’t let this be his room.

But your luck had run out. You heard the door handle turn with an agonizing slowness, the door creaking open.

“Bryan, I swear, if you’re making out with your girlfriend in my room instead of hiding—” Nick’s voice trailed off as he stepped inside. You could hear his confusion as he scanned the seemingly empty room. It was his room, of course. The one place you’d somehow ended up hiding.

You bit your lip, heart pounding in your chest as he walked around. His footsteps were soft, deliberate. The room was dark, but you could see the faint glow of his phone’s flashlight as he swept it around, peeking under the desk, inside drawers—absurd places no one could possibly fit.

You started to hope he might give up. His footsteps retreated toward the door, and you exhaled softly, relaxing ever so slightly, your body tense from being curled up so tightly.

But then you heard the closet door swing open with a creak. “Got you!” he shouted abruptly, his voice playful. You jumped, your head hitting the wall behind you with a soft thud. You bit down harder on your sleeve to stifle any sound, praying he hadn’t noticed.

The door closed again, and there was a long silence. Then his voice dropped lower, a teasing edge creeping into it.

“I knew there was a little mouse in here.”

Your eyes flew open in shock, blood rushing to your face. No way. Was it just coincidence? Or had he somehow found out—about the pet names in your books, about your... tastes? Did he find your Goodreads somehow?! You screwed your eyes shut tighter, wishing you could disappear.

Suddenly, a warm hand grabbed your ankle and yanked you out from under the bed. You shrieked as you tumbled out, blinking into the blinding light of Nick’s phone. He was doubled over, laughing, thankfully with no Ghostface mask on.

“Where the hell did you get that from?!” you demanded, fed up, voice hushed but furious.

He was still chuckling, genuinely confused. “Get what from?”

“‘Little mouse?’” you hissed, jabbing a finger into his bare chest since he discarded his shirt after the first round. “What the hell is that?”

He raised his hands in surrender, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I don’t know! It just seemed fitting.��

“You didn’t snoop through my bookshelf?” you accused, heart racing for entirely different reasons now.

His brow furrowed. “Why would I go through your bookshelf? Where’s this coming from?”

“You know where!”

“I don’t, though!” His voice softened, growing more serious. “You really think I would go through your stuff?”

You hesitated, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “I don’t know... you caught me listening to my smut—”

Nick had the audacity to huff a laugh, and it sent your blood boiling all over again.

“It’s not funny, Nick!” You glared at him, horrified by how quickly this night was spiraling out of control. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go tonight.

“It’s not,” he agreed, but his grin remained. “But it kind of is. Because that just confirmed everything I thought.”

You crossed your arms, defensive. “What did you think?”

“That you got weird about me seeing you... be yourself.”

You scoffed. “I did not.” You did.

He said your name quietly, and it made you look at him, caught by the softness in his voice. “I don’t care that you were geeking out over some dirty audiobook. I thought it was cute.”

“I was not.” Your face burned. “And it’s not cute.”

“What would you call it then? Fangirling?”

You grimaced, crossing your arms tighter. “No.”

Nick exhaled, leaning against the desk. “Look, I’m not trying to make this a thing. Relax, okay?”

But relaxing was impossible with him standing there, shirtless, casual like he hadn’t just crawled into your head. He was so nonchalant, while you felt like you were teetering on the edge of something far more dangerous.

Finally, he turned on the lamp in the corner, casting a warm glow over the room. His eyes softened as they met yours, and he gestured to the bed. “Can we sit? I’m not trying to argue, and my legs are tired.”

You stared at him, defiant for a moment longer, before finally sitting on the edge of the bed. He rolled the desk chair up to you, knees nearly brushing, close enough that the warmth of his skin made the air between you thrum.

“You’re a brat, you know that?” he teased, his voice low.

“I’m not a brat,” you muttered, looking down at your lap, “I’m just... embarrassed.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy, until Nick broke it with a sigh. “I said the wrong thing. But I called it cute because... let’s face it, I know you, but I don’t *know* you.”

You glanced up at him through your lashes, his face softer now. The tension in his shoulders had eased, and his eyes held something you couldn’t quite name.

“I could say the same,” you admitted quietly.

“Yeah, but I’m a simple guy.” Chortling to himself. “Half my body shows almost all my special interests.” He gestured to his tattoos, the ones you’d seen countless times but never really looked at until now, trying to avoid finding yet another reason to be drawn to him. “You? You’re a mystery to me. I’ve known you for years, and lived with you for months, but I’ve never seen you just... let your guard down. Sure, in rare passing moments that I wished I could see more of, because I love seeing you light up when you talk.”

Your heart twisted at his words, warmth creeping up your chest, but before you could respond, he added, teasing, “Now I know you’re the quiet girl who secretly geeks out over porn—”

“Nick!” You groaned, immediately burying your face in your hands, the heat on your cheeks unbearable.

Nick laughed softly, tugging your hands away from your face, his grip warm and grounding as his thumbs traced gentle patterns over your knuckles. "Relax, relax, it's our secret," he murmured, his voice softening into something almost tender.

Your heart raced, pulse quickening as the air between you thickened with unspoken tension. His laughter faded into a quiet intensity, and for a moment, the space between you felt charged, like you were both standing at the edge of something neither of you had fully acknowledged yet.

"I like it... that we have a secret just between us," he confessed, his voice quiet and uncertain, as if he wasn't sure how you'd react.

His words hung in the air, and you froze for a beat, the weight of them sinking in and nearly taking your breath away. When you looked up at him, his brown eyes-usually playful-were filled with something deeper.

There was a warmth there, an affection that made your stomach flip as you watched him nervously lick his lips.

Your face felt hot, and you weren't used to being in such an intimate moment with him, your hands still held in his. But despite the closeness, you weren't uncomfortable. If anything, you realized how close the two of you actually were when his eyes dropped to your lips, and your pulse fluttered even faster.

When he started to lean in, your body moved instinctively, meeting him halfway. His lips brushed against yours-soft, tentative, and a little chapped from the night's activities, but sweeter than you could have imagined. The faint taste of jungle juice lingered on both your mouths, and his hands stayed gently on yours, as if he was afraid to push further.

Hesitant, like he thought you'd pull away any second.

But you didn't want to run this time.

The kiss, as surprising as it was, had a way of grounding you-settling the storm of thoughts and emotions swirling in your mind.

You found yourself pulling your hands free from his and sliding one up to the nape of his neck, your fingers grazing the buzzed part of his hair, while the other rested on his shoulder, gently tugging him closer. Your touch seemed to ease his hesitation, and he responded with a firmer grip on your waist, his hands warm against your skin as he deepened the kiss.

The tension of the past weeks, all the uncertainty and confusion, melted away in his touch. His lips fit perfectly against yours, and as he grew more confident, the kiss became less restrained, his hand gripping your waist tighter as he gently guided you back onto the mattress. You both smiled into the kiss, the weight of his body pressing down on you, though he propped an arm by your head to keep from crushing you entirely.

In that moment, with the world outside fading away, you were in a kind of bliss you hadn't felt in so long. The feel of his lips, his warmth, the way his tongue softly brushed against yours-it was all-consuming, and you could have stayed there all night, wrapped up in him.

"Did Y/N kill you, Nick?!" Noah's drunken laughter rang through the wooden door, followed by the sound of Davis and one of your friends giggling along with him. The sudden intrusion startled you both, and you froze, your breath catching as the door handle rattled.

Nick groaned quietly, reluctantly pulling away from you, the absence of his touch making you ache in a way you hadn't expected. You quickly sat up, trying to smooth your hair and fix your sweater, your cheeks still flushed as you glanced over at him. He, on the other hand, seemed unbothered, walking casually to the desk to grab the half-smoked blunt from earlier before making his way to the door.

"We were just deciding if we wanted to finish this," Nick said coolly, holding up the blunt as he opened the door, playing it off like the two of you hadn't been making out just moments ago. His calm demeanor caught you off guard, while you were sure guilt was written all over your face-your hair messy, your cheeks still warm, and your sweater slightly askew as much as you made yourself presentable.

Your friend peered over Nick's shoulder with a playful smirk, narrowing her eyes at you.

"Without us? How rude. You're now officially obligated to share-let's go."

Nick shot you a sheepish smile before offering his hand, extending it toward you as the others started to head back down the hall, unaware of what had just transpired between the two of you.

You hesitated for a second, your heart still racing, before taking his hand and letting him pull you to your feet. The moment might have been interrupted, but the charged energy between you was far from gone.

The universe did have a painfully sick sense of humor after all.

。⋆༺♱༻⋆。

A/n: pls lmk your thoughts as writing this I had so many ideas of how I wanted this to go, and the ending was weaker than intended but this is what I got after being up for over 24 hours 🤷🏼‍♀️ but I will be writing a part two 👹

#nick folio x reader #nick folio fic #nick folio 🍯#bad omens x reader #bad omens fic #nick folio #k8e writes #nick folio fanfiction #bad omens fanfiction #bad omens imagine #nick folio imagine #nick folio blurb

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rassicas · 8 months ago

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hi guys! im back. i went tokyo for a few days. got back at 7 this morning after taking an overnight 7 hour bus ride.... that i did not sleep on bc i cant sleep in moving vehicles. this will be something closer to a proper blog post i guess. splatoon related convention? experience below

i've kept my mouth shut about my plans to go because its not as well known on the english side of the fanbase and i didnt wanna make people too jealous sorry LOL , but i went to splaket 22! it's an unofficial, splatoon-only doujinshi market/artists alley. this was my first convention-sort-of event ive been to since i was... in high school. i also dont really get to meet many other hardcore splatoon fans irl. i was nervous about it because i don't know a whole lot of people on the JP side nor do i have a lot of confidence in my japanese speaking/listening, but in the end it was SUPER fun. i wish i couldve talked a bit more to the artists i did encounter to comment on what i liked about their works but. Skill Issue very few non-japanese people at this event of course but one of the only english speakers i saw i called out to bc they were wearing a shirt with this exact image printed on it no video and no photos outside of designated areas were allowed so i got like. zero pics of my own. but there was a lot of cosplayers i saw! oh and here's the Loot Haul. a few doujin, a clear file, stickers, microfiber cloth and a keychain. im surprised at how little i got, i think i shouldve gone a bit crazier with it

the one with Tao Blu and oonie in the top left (by sachikazerick) I came across by chance and bought because it was cute, featured splatband characters, and also because it all in some familiar inkling language (the last point of which i told the artist as i was buying) when i finally got home and saw the back credits...

SMALL FUCKIN WORLD LOL (i tweeted at the artist afterwards to let him know i came by the table and to thank him for using me and my friend's inkling language fonts!) though truly, i think ardnin deserved the credit more rather than me since he made most of those fonts! ah well, still cool to see more and more fan works using deciphered inkling language. top middle book is a story with some salmonid characters that i havent read yet but im looking forward to it, the art is lovely. top right one was the first thing i bought. the artist is rk_splaworks, whose art i love, and we've been mutuals for a few years and have talked a bit here and there! i was so fucking nervous to meet them in person since my japanese sucks LMAO but they were happy to meet me too and we got a selfie together yippy <3 also havent read their doujin Yet since ill have to rub all my brain cells together and huddle over the dictionary, but i want their oc lore

ok that's all i'll say, next splaket is...june 22. very soon....im already thinking ill. go again. yknow. while im still in japan and all that. i guess ill have to study harder on my jp in the meantime teehee ...i doubt it, but in the off chance anyone following me is going to the next splaket in june lemme know!

#much of this is me cross posting my tweets from the past few days and then some #rassicas speaks #ive forgotten to make a tag for my non-ask original posts so i guess thatll be it #anyway ill get to work on translating that famitsu interview teehee

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ariadne-mouse · 6 months ago

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This post discusses addiction & mentions related heavy topics.

The addiction comparison for what Laudna has going on with Delilah is certainly not 1:1. Most obviously, addictive substances & activities IRL are not sentient evil wizards who have found a way to cheat death (that we know of). Put more seriously: in-universe, warlocks exist all over and the relationships they have with their patrons don't necessarily evoke addiction; someone saying they are a warlock does not mean are an addict. But I've seen a couple takes thrown around for why Laudna's connection with Delilah isn't or can't be compared to addiction, and I'd like to examine those briefly.

Let's start with the origin of their entanglement - it's notable, for instance, that Laudna's fusion with Delilah's spirit was not something she chose or was necessarily even conscious of at first; however, equally notable is that not all IRL addiction begins with a person making bad choices to do the addictive thing, such as in the cases of forced drug use in trafficking, painkillers post-surgery, etc.

There is also the point that Laudna would die if Delilah were to be removed, whereas addicts can put aside the object of their addiction. But here there is also grey area: in some cases, unassisted withdrawal from serious substances can in fact kill you. And for another angle, even when it is quit the object of addiction will still exist in the world somewhere; it cannot be completely removed either, and it is the recovering addict's challenge not to engage.

Next is the way feeding Delilah gives Laudna new powers she can use to help the group - and certainly, IRL addiction doesn't give you magical combat abilities! But a substance being abused may indeed provide an effect that the user can leverage to their advantage (stimulants for work productivity, alcohol for relaxation or confidence, etc). Addiction happens because the mind and/or body are getting something in return that feels good, at least in the short term.

I mention these counterpoints not to say it's all a slam dunk, but rather to point out that addiction is a hugely complex issue, both mental and physical, taking many forms. If you want an addiction comparison to apply to Laudna, or not, you can probably find a manifestation of addiction out there that aligns with your argument. Marisha and others of the cast using addiction to describe Laudna's behavior just gives us one (1) possible lens to orient her experience and motivations, and, critically, to envision a way out for her: to fight Delilah with every ounce of willpower she has, to ask for the support of her friends in that effort, and to shove Delilah back into the sub-basement of her brain and keep her there for good. A common adage around addiction is that there is no "curing" it, just the lifelong work of recovery; and similarly, if Delilah can't be fully removed from Laudna, she has been successfully suppressed before and could be again. I think it would be incredibly powerful to see Laudna take that journey! She has agency in her circumstances and she can seize it. Also, she still has responsibility for her actions when they harm those around her; addiction, like trauma, explains but doesn't excuse.

The addiction comparison for Laudna and Delilah seems to have mixed reactions from fandom, and that's fine! If it truly just doesn't resonate with you, fair enough - there are plenty of other valid ways to describe Laudna's behavior and circumstances, and not mutually exclusive with the addiction angle either. We don't have to pick only one way of interpreting what characters do (in fact I advise against it), and as the story evolves our frameworks of interpretation may change too. A lens is just a tool for understanding. But for the handful of folks on the two sides of the polarized reaction coin at the moment - those either overly defensive about the comparison or conversely leaning into it in an ugly, mean way - if you think the word "addict" by itself irrevocably condemns Laudna or deprives her of compassion for her circumstances, perhaps consider mulling over how you view addicts IRL.

#cr spoilers #cr discourse #not maintagging this #laudna #c3e95 #op #cw: addiction #addiction

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stackslip · 11 months ago

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the thing that kills me most about the recent chapters is how in the end, violence had always been there, lurking under the surface. denji's attempt to mimic a normal capitalist existence always felt empty because in the end said existence was in itself built on violence that was simply hidden from the world. denji's own upbringing and exploitation and starvation as a child, his debt bondage and the violence he lived through were completely normal. the yakuza are and always have been inextricably linked to the japanese government and they say so themselves to makima in part 1--even irl (check out especially the role the yakuza played during the japanese occupation of manchuria, under the leadership of shinzo abe's own grandfather)! and then the violence and exploitation he went through as makima's dog. so really, that normal everyday he reached for--no wonder it felt so empty. it's always been a lie! the violence has always been there, boiling under the surface. in his life, in asa's life, in everyone's lives. violence by humans, violence by devils, violence through capitalism.

and who knows that kind of violence better than denji. any attempt at building even a semblance of kindness and love and stability ends up being swept away, and it's never even about him--it's always about another goal. he's an obstacle in the way, he's a tool to be used, he's an easy sacrifice. i think in the end the relief isn't just in the end of the ennui and pretending, it's also in the fact that denji's known violence and pain his entire life. it's familiar! it makes sense! what did gillian flynn say again? a child weaned on poison considers harm a comfort. denji again and again has been reduced to his most basic bodily functions--hunger and pain are familiar things to him. they're old companions, they're the sole truth in this world, they're what makes sense to him both as a human and as a devil. tearing yourself and others apart--it's the only thing he's ever been able to have control over without someone tearing it out from under him. it's the one thing that gives him agency! it's the one thing that can't be taken away from him! it's what makes denji denji! if violence is your baseline then it's a relief to return to what you know once everything you tried to build has been taken away. becuse really, you always knew it couldn't stay. it was always going to exist.

and i think what kills me most in this is his reaction to nayuta. nayuta, who chapters ago tried to tell him that violence is normal and in both their natures. but when nayuta sees denji both suffering and inflicting that violence--she flinches, because in the end nayuta is a child! and because no matter what she says, denji has tried to raise her in the absence of violence! so when he says "you should stay away from me" he isn't punishing her. he's saying that he's doomed. he tried with her because he wanted to break the cycle of abuse and for the child born of his and makima's mutual understanding of pain to not have to know this suffering. it's what pochita wanted to! he did his best. he succeeded, in many ways. for all nayuta's lack of empathy and talk of inherent devil instincts, she is, in the end, a child. and that's why denji wants her to leave and stay away from him. he can't be that for her anymore, he can no longer pretend, and he still wants the best for her. denji believes he is nothing but a vessel to receive and inflict suffering anymore, and so nayuta must stay away from him lest she be caught up in the fire.

i don't think fujimoto is saying that all victims are inherently evil and going to revert to this kind of state! it's more complicated than that. i think he is trying to explore the nuances there--how difficult is it for a victim of abuse to escape when the violence they've been through is normalized, and even considered a necessary part of how society functions? how does it "get better" when every time you try to build something, it gets torn down gleefully again and again? how do you rebuild yourself when you have been systematically shaped and remolded to receive and inflict pain, and any attempt at leaving that role sees you punished? is it not better then, to just embrace that role? to let yourself slip back in that mold? at least it's what you know. at least the lie is over, and everyone is forced to reckon with what they have created in you. at least the violence is uncovered and laid bare for the world to witness and receive themselves!

#eli talks #csm #chainsaw man

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gloomwitchwrites · 10 months ago

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Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), mutual masturbation, cowgirl position, PTSD episode, suggestive themes, canon-typical swearing, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: Part Eight of Ink & Needle

Simon's pleasure turns to worry. Amelia wants to know Simon's intentions with you. Soap makes an unexpected call.

Chapter Seven // Chapter Nine

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Happiness is subjective.

What makes someone happy? Is it the amount of money they have? Is it the first sip of freshly made tea? Is it the sound of summer rain or the smooth pages of a freshly bought book?

It could be all of those things. And it could be none of them.

Simon knows what makes him happy.

Cracking open a fresh bottle of ink for the first time. The sharpening of the end of a charcoal stick to use in his sketchbook. Johnny’s terrible fucking jokes that Simon pretends to hate but silently loves. And…you.

Simon has you. You are his, and no one can take that away from him. It’s warm under the sheets. Perfect. And that’s because you’re here, with him, just as you’re supposed to be.

Which is strange since Simon hasn’t seen you in three days. And somehow, you’re snuggled up next to him, snoozing beneath the covers. He doesn’t recall you coming over last night, but maybe he had one too many drinks. Maybe it slipped his mind and he was half-awake when you finally arrived back into his arms.

Simon shifts, the bedding moving around him as he turns his face to the left, inhaling deeply. The familiar scent of you seeps into his nostrils, flooding his lungs and senses with peaceful contentment.

This is home. This is where he should be, and where you ought to stay.

Simon sighs heavily, a smile forming on his lips as you respond to him, snuggling into his side. To make room, Simon lifts the arm nearest you, stretching the ache out before slipping it between you and the bed. He drapes it over your shoulders, pulling you even closer to him. Your answer is to rest your leg over his, and for your hand to fall softly against his bare chest. Simon immediately grabs it, bringing your knuckles up to his lips.

He kisses each bone gently before returning your palm to its previous position. You hum softly, the sound pleasing, blood rushing to his groin with his need for you.

This is all Simon wants. This is all he needs. You are in his bed. You are his woman.

Finally. Fucking finally.

Happiness. Simon requires nothing else.

Your fingers draw slow circles over his chest. They trace his tattoos there, following the lines and dips in a lazy, unhurried fashion that lull Simon back into the state between wakefulness and sleep. Simon’s eyelids flutter, then close, reveling in your touch.

Soothed and pliant, your hand travels lower to his stomach. There it pauses to draw little circles, moving back up to his chest and then down again, moving lower to his pelvis, to his—

Simon groans as your hand wraps around the base of his cock. “What are you up to, love?”

Your reply is a muffled giggle, and to stroke him once, twice, three times. Simon’s fingers dig into your skin, pushing for an answer with a possessive grip to your waist. You turn your face into him, lips finding his flesh, brushing against skin as you continue to work him with your hand.

Simon’s eyelids open slightly, and he watches you through his pale lashes. There is a soft, mischievous smile on your lips and your hair is a tousled mess that he wants to run his fingers through. You’re so beautiful like this. And all fucking his.

“I’m pleasing my man,” you murmur, thumb brushing over the head.

There might be sheets covering up the sight of you palming him, but Simon doesn’t need to see to understand your touch. While you’re not working quickly, there is purpose to each stroke, and it’s becoming harder and harder for Simon to ignore the growing pleasure in the base of his spine.

My man is what you said. Simon belongs to you as much as you belong to him. A deep, primal part of Simon flares with pride. He needs to claim you, to fucking ruin you until all you know is his name.

Simon shifts his arm from across your shoulders to over your hips. His hand slides across the curve of your ass, dips between your slightly spread legs to tease the entrance of your pussy with the tip of his fingers. Your little inhale is sweet. Sugar-laced. And Simon lets it rot his teeth.

He fingers slide upward, circle your clit in little circles until your strokes faulter and your hips buck against him. Simon adjusts his hand position so he can fuck you with his fingers as he toys with your clit.

Together. The two of you are together. Your hand continues to palm him, pulling blooms of cum from the slit. While you’re pleasing him, Simon is more attuned to your body surrendering to him, allowing his fingers inside, stretching and prepping that pussy for his cock.

Simon is going to take you. And he is going to fucking enjoy it.

Your body shivers, and you bite down on your bottom lip, stifling the little moan that threatens to leave your mouth. That small sound is delicious even though he’d rather hear you scream for him.

The muscles in Simon’s arms and legs are coiled tight, ready to push you onto your back and spread you wide. He’s going to make a goddamn mess of you.

But it is not Simon that makes the first move. It is not Simon that takes the initiative.

You sit up completely, swinging one leg over his waist to straddle him. You settle yourself in his lap, his cock resting against the inside of your thigh with silent impatience. Instinct has Simon reaching for your hips and thighs, intent on gripping and massaging the skin there.

Yet he does not have the chance.

You are lifting your legs up, bending the knees, resting your feet flat on the bed. Confused at first, Simon’s hands fall away, hovering near your shins. But that confusion quickly disappears when you open for him fully, revealing yourself entirely to his gaze.

Simon licks his lips wanting to taste every bit of your pussy. That stickiness needs to be on his lips and chin. His mouth deserves to worship you, and for you to receive such prayer. You open like a blooming flower, your head tilted slightly to the side as you watch him.

Your gaze is all primal need and wanton lust. It fuels his own desire, charges it to a blistering height. With one hand on your knee, Simon reaches between your spread thighs. You whimper as his fingers run over your slickness. It collects and drips off the tips of Simon’s fingers. Greedily, Simon brings his drenched fingers to his lips, sucking them clean one by one.

“Gonna give me what I want?” murmurs Simon, resting his freshly cleaned fingers on his chest.

“Asking me to sit on your face?” you tease, flexing your hips slightly.

Simon grins. “Breakfast in bed? You’re too sweet to me.” His hand on your knee slides up, grips the thigh, pulls.

You tumble into his arms and Simon snakes his arms around your waist to keep you from escaping. Laughing, you lightly beat on his chest. But you are caught, unable to break free from Simon’s ironclad strength. You submit to him, and Simon flares with pride. Everything he needs is right here.

With your forearms on his chest, you lean forward and present your mouth. Simon eagerly takes your lips, not caring that both of you need to brush your teeth. You smile against his mouth and then draw back a bit. You look just as you did before while curled up next to him, all gentle mischievousness.

With palms flat against his chest, you push back into a seated position. You reach down between your bodies and wrap your fingers around his cock, flexing your hips upward. With just the slightest shift of your hips, the head of Simon’s cock presses to your entrance.

Simon’s hands immediately dart out to grab hold of those hips. In moments, you’re sinking down on him, parting, opening up and welcoming him inside. You’re tight and wet and goddamn perfect as more of him disappears.

The muscles in Simon’s jaw clench, and his left hand leaves your hip to run through his hair. To—

Run through his hair? His…hair.

No mask. No balaclava. You’ve never seen him without it. You haven’t—

“Fuck,” Simons groans loudly as you push down on his chest to flex your hips up and back down on him. You lift, roll, go back down. Again. Again. And again, until you’ve taken every fucking inch of him.

Forget the fucking mask. He’ll deal with it later. Right now, you’re his priority.

Your hands on his chest slide upward and stop at the base of Simon’s throat. You’re not choking him, just pressing on his collarbone, using Simon as an anchor while you fuck yourself on his cock.

Even if you were choking him, Simon could give a shit. Break his goddamn collarbone. Choke him out. He’d love to see you try. You wouldn’t have the strength to do it, but watching you like this above him, riding him and using him for your pleasure is its own sick fantasy.

Simon could get used to this. If this is how you want to start the day, he’ll take it.

“Say my name,” growls Simon, his fingers digging into your flesh. “Say it.”

His dick is glossy, disappearing and reappearing with every bounce and roll of your hips. There is no condom, and that too his strange, like the missing balaclava and the fact that you are in his bed this morning.

Your head falls back, exposing your neck. “Ghost,” you moan, and Simon freezes.

Ghost. Ghost.

You called him Ghost at Riot Room. You called him Ghost when his cock was buried deep inside you. You called him Ghost when your orgasm sent you shaking in his lap, squeezing him until his own end came.

But you don’t call him Ghost now. You call him Simon. He told you to call him that now, and you have ever since.

Your nails dig into his skin. Cutting. Stinging.

“Ghost,” you whimper. This time, there is pain in the way you say his name.

Something is wrong.

Your nails drag away from his throat and to his chest, leaving behind jagged lines of red. Heat flares, but he’s not focused on it. Simon keeps one hand on your hip and pushes himself up to a more seated position. He longer cares or is interested in you fucking yourself on him.

He says your name, one hand reaching for you. There is no pleasure on your face. No joy. There are tears and your eyes are wide open, bloodshot.

The one hand he has touching you sinks into your skin, the flesh melting underneath it like sludge. Simon blinks, not understanding. Why are you melting? Why are you fucking melting?

Simon says your name again, sitting up completely, his arm going to your back to support your rapidly dissolving weight. Because that is what happens. Like ice cream in the sun, your skin disintegrates, and Simon cannot hold on to you.

You slip through his fingers.

“No,” whispers Simon. Then, louder, “No!”

Simon continues to call out to you, almost screaming, his voice laced with agony. It drips from him, but you are unresponsive. Sinking, sinking into murk.

It is growing dark and Simon shoves himself forward in an attempt to salvage the last remaining vestiges of you.

But you are not there. He does not cradle you in his arms. Simon cradles a sniper rifle. All black and shiny. Polished.

There is no bedroom and no warm bed. It is cold, and his breath becomes steam in the air. Simon knows this place. It’s Chicago. And in Chicago, Simon kneeled on the top of a building with this very weapon in hand. At the end of the barrel, in Simon’s sight, is where Hassan and Johnny should be.

But the building is blocked, obscured by a massive figure crouching on the ledge like a stone gargoyle. Simon stares at a skull face. A reaper. Grinning.

It’s teeth and bone face are white and shiny, but between those pearly incisors are flecks of red. Dried blood.

Death grins at Simon.

Mocks him.

The reaper reaches out with one boney hand, gripping the end of the barrel. It opens its mouth, flashing its teeth, then bites down on the firing end. It gnaws on the metal. Chewing, chewing like its teeth are steel.

Johnny is across the street being tossed around by Hassan.

This reaper needs to fucking move. Simon needs to take the shot.

You can’t save Johnny.

But Simon did. He knows he did. This is the past. It’s already happened.

You can’t save him. You can’t save Gaz. You can’t save Price.

Bloody salvia drips around the reaper’s teeth, running down the length of the barrel.

You can’t save them. Just like you couldn’t save your brother. Just like you couldn’t save your mother.

Simon’s finger tightens on the trigger.

“Lt. The window,” crackles Johnny’s voice over the comm channel.

The reaper chomp chomp chomps. Grins.

“The window!”

Dead brother. Dead mother. Dead friends.

Simon pulls back on the trigger.

The shot is an explosion. The back of the reaper’s head blows outward only to become a raging inferno. Flames lick upward, so high it seems impossible. Everything around Simon burns. His back and arms ache, throb, the old wounds opening up to remember just how he got them.

Before the towering inferno is a dark figure. It’s just a man’s back at first. An outline. A silhouette. But he turns, keeps turning, and Simon sees the figure for who it is.

It’s him. It’s fucking him.

The handle of Simon’s favorite knife sticks out of the man’s chest. The man grins, and blood stains his teeth. He wobbles, stumbles, moving closer to the precipice.

This man does not deserve a name. Simon will not speak it, not even silently.

Time pauses in suspense as the man falls backward into the flames. Simon’s back and arms are screaming their own song of sorrow as the nerves in his skin singe. This is the moment. This is the hour. This memory is a brand. A tattoo.

A fucking swamp.

Simon smells charred skin, but he’s not sure if it’s his own or his fallen enemy. The flames rage, widen. Over the crackling of the fire, he hears a gunshot. Then another. Then, another. The sound warps, lengthens, and the flames become smooth like Simon is seeing them through a fogged mirror.

The shot comes again but it’s—it’s not that.

The sound repeats and Simon frowns.

It’s…a dog?

Simon blinks. The flames recede as if suctioned through a small hole. Simon blinks again.

He is staring at a wall. A familiar wall. It’s Simon’s bedroom. He’s in his flat above the tattoo parlor. He is in his bedroom. He is in his bed.

Simon tells himself this. Repeats it.

His cheeks sting and his eyes ache.

A sweeping wave of anxiety rushes up Simon’s back and into his chest, tightening his throat. The sound that escapes Simon is cracked, a choked sob. He leans his elbows on his knees and places his hands over his face.

Breathing. Hyperventilating. Wanting to scream. Needing to rage.

Bravo’s wet nose presses against the underside of Simon’s bicep. Simon does not respond. He does not react. Bravo whines, and forces his way in, sliding his large head under Simon’s arm to rest against his chest.

These episodes are always the worst, the ones that creep up when Simon least expects it. But that isn’t the only thing bothering him. Simon hasn’t relived the moment his entire career ended for almost a year. That memory doesn’t—shouldn’t—bother him anymore. Yet, something triggered it.

He doesn’t want to admit it to himself. He doesn’t want to entertain the idea of why. It’s no coincidence that it started with you and ended with him. That man is dead. Fucking gone. And yet Simon thought he saw him on Monday morning. Just loitering across the street from where you and Simon were enjoying breakfast.

At the time, Simon dismissed it, believing his mind was playing some cruel joke.

Simon’s fingers drag over his scalp and then down his face. Sighing, he finally gives in, falls back against the bed.

Bravo snuggles in close and Simon drapes his arm over the dog’s back. “I’m ace, Bravo. Give me a minute.”

Simon blocks out everything, focusing on steadying his breathing. He doesn’t move again until his hands stop shaking.

Groaning, Simon sits up again, and Bravo leaps off the bed, heading for the open bedroom door. While he aches as he always does, some of the usual pain is numb, like his body is more concerned about his psyche than his physical ailments.

Pushing through the soreness, Simon starts his morning as he always does, moving through his routine as a way to steady his mind. It works…enough. Some of that lingering anxiousness burrows down into his bones. He’ll likely be on edge all fucking day.

It’s Thursday, and Simon hasn’t seen you since Monday morning.

He’s been busy, but he also doesn’t have your damn phone number. If he were still SAS, he’d have your number before you’ve even given it to him. Simon is trying to be better than that. Some things are just habit like when he broke into Riot Room the next morning after you ran from him. Simon was ready to hunt you down and drag you to his bed.

While a piece of him would fucking bark at the opportunity to chase you down, Simon knows better. He needs to do all of this differently. He needs to be careful. To not scare you away or be too overbearing.

In the kitchen, Simon frowns down at his dining table. It’s covered in torn out pages from his sketchbook. After work, he stays up late creating design after design, not particularly liking any of them. He wants them to be perfect for you, but none of them stand out to him, and your approval is the only thing he’s after.

Turning his back on them, Simon glances at his phone, checking the time. It’s still plenty early before he needs to officially open the shop. There is still time for him to go see you.

Simon taps his knuckles against the wood before making a decision.

Fuck it. He’s going.

“Bravo! Get your leash!” calls Simon over his shoulder. Bravo’s nails clack gently against the floor as he retrieves his leash, bringing it to Simon moments later.

The autumn air is cool but not overly so, and the walk to Amelia’s is brief. Amelia is a nice woman, and since going to the pub every Sunday for almost two years, he’s grown to trust her. He’s fixed a few things for her around her house in exchange for vegetables from her garden.

When Simon strides up to Amelia’s front door, he intends to knock, but pauses just before doing so.

It’s early. What the fuck is he doing? Why would you want to see him at this hour?

Bravo whines softly and places a paw against Simon’s thigh. The German Shepard tips his head to the side in question.

“Fucking hell. Fine.” Simon pounds on the door, dropping his hand into his pocket as he waits for an answer.

There is silence, and it only stretches, the seconds ticking by.

Frowning, Simon knocks again. After waiting a full minute, worry slithers into the pit of his stomach.

Why is no one answering the damn door?

Not questioning his next actions, Simon tries the handle. It turns easily, giving way to him.

The door is unlocked.

The door is unlocked and no one is answering.

Simon stares into the silent house. His body and mind slide into that military training, transitioning into Ghost fluidly. He sinks down to one knee and unlatches the leash from Bravo’s collar. Bravo senses this change, his own training kicking in.

In a near silent whisper, Simon gives Bravo your name, tells him to find you, and Bravo does just that. His nose goes to the ground immediately, sniffing everything, moving in erratic patterns until finally backtracking to the stairs.

Simon nods, and Bravo ascends with Simon on his heels.

At a shut bedroom door, Bravo sits, staring at Simon. There is a tingling in the tips of Simon’s fingers and a thudding beat in his chest. Slowly, Simon rests his gloved hand on the doorknob. Turning it silently, he opens the door, anticipation coiling like a snake ready to strike.

The first thing Simon notices is how much this space smells like you. The scent of you rushes into his lungs, and the memory of the dream flares, threatening to pull at his resolve. The next thing he notices is the made bed and how there is no one in the room.

On quiet feet, Simon enters, his boots leaving impressions in the carpet.

No signs of a struggle. Nothing tipped over or seemingly out of place. There is not a thing in this room that should have him worrying like he is. This is ridiculous. Absurd.

It was just a dream. Just an episode. She is fine.

Simon walks around the side of the bed. Draped over the back of a chair is the sweater you wore on Monday. Delicately, Simon slips his hand underneath the fabric and lifts it off the chair, bringing the sweater closer to him.

He gives in to indulgence, pressing the soft fabric against the bottom half of his balaclava. He inhales deeply, shudders, everything in him roaring to life, wanting to seek you out yet equally angry that it’s a garment and not the real thing.

This has your scent on it, unlike the torn piece of clothing he still keeps in his dresser drawer. But Simon isn’t going to take your sweater. He doesn’t need to because you’re already here, back in his life, and wanting him. Knowing that is enough, but it doesn’t explain why the front door is unlocked and that no one answered when he knocked.

Simon returns the sweater to its original spot and starts to turn back toward the door. A muffled pounding sound draws his attention to the nearby window. Frowning, Simon walks up to it, looking out into the backyard.

There, kneeling next to a raised flowerbed, is Amelia.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Simon.

He storms out of the room, taking the narrow stairs two at a time, Bravo racing after him. Simon passes through the sitting room and kitchen toward the backdoor. He’s not quiet about his arrival.

The door nearly flies off its hinges as Simon bursts through it. He stands on the top step of the stairs, hands on his hips as Amelia glances up from her work.

“Simon,” she says, a little surprised yet with a pleasantness to her tone that says she’s happy to see him.

“Your front door is unlocked,” he growls.

Amelia waves him off like it’s not a big deal. “Forgot to lock up after the girls left. It’s only been a few minutes.”

A few minutes. Simon missed you by a few bloody minutes?

Simon bites back all the questions he wants to ask. He wants to know where you are and for how long. He needs specifics.

“An unlocked door invites danger,” says Simon through clenched teeth.

“Oh, I’m sure it does,” replies Amelia, placing one hand on the edge of the raised garden bed. She pushes herself up to her feet before Simon can get to her and assist. “You know all about danger. Don’t you?”

Amelia knows about Simon’s time in the military but she doesn’t know specifics. Simon knows plenty about her though. Not because he looked up information but because of all the times at Dancing Faun when she’d talk his ear off. Amelia married rich, popped out a bunch of kids, and then divorced rich.

Simon crosses his arms over his chest. “I came to see—”

“I know who you came to see,” interrupts Amelia. “She’s not here at the moment. Left just this morning with Evie. Off to Cambridge for a few days.” Amelia brushes past Simon as she removes her garden gloves. “Come inside and have some tea while you’re here.”

Bravo sits patiently at the top of the stairs, tail wagging. Amelia pats the German Shepard’s head politely before heading inside. Bravo doesn’t even wait for Simon. He follows Amelia into the house.

Grumbling, Simon heads up the stairs and into the kitchen, shutting the door behind him. He locks it in case Amelia forgets.

Amelia fills the kettle with water and places it on the stove, turning on the heat. Simon doesn’t sit down. He stands awkwardly next to the table.

She notices and nods at a chair. “Sit.” Simon doesn’t. She arches a single eyebrow, and something in Simon obeys without question. Maybe it’s the motherly stare of disapproval, but he complies.

The chair is far too small for his large frame. Simon has to adjust, spreading his legs enough to not feel cramped.

“Why are they in Cambridge?” The question slips out by accident.

Amelia grabs two mugs from a cabinet and shrugs. “If you don’t know, then it isn’t my place to tell you.”

“Amelia—”

“What are your intentions?” Amelia turns around and faces Simon fully.

Simon blinks, completely surprised by her question. “What?” he asks softly.

“I care about Evelyn. And I care about everyone that she cares about. Including the young woman who you’re…entangled with.” Simon understands Amelia’s meaning without her having to spell it out. “I want to know what your intentions are with her.”

Under the table, one of his hands forms a fist.

His intention is to make you his. For you to be his woman. But Simon can’t say that. Amelia is talking about dating. She is talking about marriage and kids and what the future looks like with you.

And in that moment, Simon realizes that he hasn’t thought about any of those things, at least, not in specifics. He’s imagined waking up to you in his bed every morning. He’s thought about what it would be like to have you to come home to at the end of the day.

But for three long years, the only thing Simon has truly thought about, is how to get you back. Now you’re within reach and Simon hasn’t taken a fucking second to even comprehend where or how this will play out.

Has he completely fucked this up? Has he gone about this wrong?

“Your silence is worrying me, Simon.”

Fuck. Was he silent this whole time?

Simon clears his throat. “We’ve only seen each other twice.” It’s a throwaway answer, and Amelia knows it.

She frowns with disappointment. “It’s not my place to tell you why she’s here. That’s for her to tell you when she’s ready.” Amelia sighs. “And I won’t have you mucking her around only to leave her in the mud after you’re done. I won’t have it.”

Tossing you to the side is not an option. Not having you beside him is not an option. Simon will have you. There is no compromise.

The kettle shrieks and, without looking, Amelia grabs the handle and moves it off the stove. “Are we in an understanding, Simon Riley?”

Amelia uses his full name. She only ever calls him Simon.

“We’re clear,” he replies.

Amelia nods. “How do you like your tea?”

“All done.” Simon turns off the gun and sets it down on the metal rolling tray. He takes a wipe to the freshly done tattoo. “Want a photo before I seal it up?” Simon tosses the wipe into the trash can and glances at the man sitting in the chair.

He shakes his head. “I’m good.”

Simon nods and applies the adhesive bandage over the new ink. It’s perfect work, full of color and intricate lines. He rolls back in his chair, removing his gloves and tossing those in the trash as well. The man in the chair, Leo, adjusts in the seat, sitting up.

At the sink, Simon scrubs his hands. Once done, he grabs a few papers about tattoo aftercare while Leo fishes around in his pockets. When Simon presents the packet, Leo hands Simon his credit card.

With the transaction done, Leo exits, and Simon quickly closes up shop, turning the deadbolts and activating the security system. Bravo still snoozes on the couch, completely oblivious to everything happening around him.

Simon grabs the bottle of sanitizer and sprays down the tattoo chair. In his pocket, his phone buzzes. Simon ignores it, continuing to wipe down the chair. The phone cuts off and starts up a few seconds after it ceases.

Again, Simon ignores it.

Again, the phone rings.

“Fucking hell,” mutters Simon, tossing the paper towel into the trash and fishing out his phone.

MacTavish the screen reads. A brief flare of panic rises in Simon’s chest.

He answers the call, bringing the phone up to his ear. “Johnny?”

“LT!” Simon pulls the phone away from his head, grimacing from Soap’s piercingly happy tone.

“Stop fucking shouting,” snaps Simon. He swallows and cracks his neck. “And I’m not a lieutenant anymore.”

On the other end of the line, Soap makes a dismissive noise like he doesn’t quite care. “You get my package?”

“I did.”

“And?”

Simon smirks behind the balaclava. “I use the mug every morning.”

Johnny barks a laugh. “Oh aye, Lt. Bet you do.” There’s a rustling on the other end. “You up for a visit?”

“A visit?” asks Simon hesitantly.

“Yeah. Need your advice on something. Captain and Gaz are coming too.”

Simon returns the spray bottle to its designated spot. “Why are you calling me instead of Price?”

“Because if Price called, you’d say no.”

Simon pauses near his desk, and glances at the screen of his laptop. “Can I ask what kind of visit?”

There’s a pause on the other end. “Best not to say over the phone. And we haven’t seen you in months. Plus, Ma keeps asking if you’re coming for Christmas.”

Simon grins. “Is she coming, too? Bringing the whole family with you, Johnny?”

“Oi. Fuck off,” he laughs. “Expect us on Saturday.”

The three of them visiting him sits heavy in his stomach. They’ve all come individually, and a few times in a pair, but never all three. It’s only happened twice before. The first time was directly after Simon’s forced retirement. The second time was when the tattoo parlor first opened and they came to support him. Since then, Price, Gaz, and Soap have all come by on their own for one reason or another.

But not together.

That same anxiety from earlier in the day rears up yet again. Whatever needs to be talked about, whatever the three of them need to say to him in person and not over the phone, worries Simon. It digs its claws in.

Another thought nags at him as well, and Simon cannot let it go. He’s not with SAS anymore, and if he was, he’d do this himself. Johnny would help him, would do this for him if Simon only asks.

Simon exhales slowly. “Johnny, I need a favor.”

Soap’s response is immediate. “Anything, Lt.”

“You remember that woman I chased after? The one at Riot Room.”

Soap is quiet a long moment before he answers. “Aye. I remember.”

He’s not proud of what he’s about to do, but fuck it. “Can you find out what you can about her?” Simon rattles off all the information he has and Soap remains silent the entire time.

“I’ll find out what I can and get back to you,” he says after Simon stops talking.

No. Simon is not proud of asking this of him, but Simon is desperate. He needs to know everything about you. It’s habit, and while a small part of him tells him it’s wrong, Simon pushes it down, smothering the objection.

“Saturday then.”

“Saturday.”

Chapter Seven

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