#THIS year i'll DRINK all my SORROWS AWAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

whoreforsexymen · 1 month ago

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Strong Drinks & Broken Links 🍺⛓️‍💥 CH. 1

Gray Hair & The Absence of Care

(Gif creds: me <3)

Pairing(s): Vander x Reader

Pronouns: GN!Reader (for now— please see this post for details)

Rating: SFW, except for strong language and consumption of alcohol (drink responsibly, people). Reader is old enough to drink, despite what Vander thinks.

Word count: 4.7k (the rest are going to be far longer, so be prepared)

Tags: Slowburn, Reader is implied to be 21+ years old, Age Gap, Heavy Use Of Language/Alcohol, Reader might be a little too angsty (I’m sorry), Tense Situations, Vander being the caring mentor type he is but in a poorly thought out way.

Notes: I don't think I've ever posted a fic on this account. So, welcome to my only outlet for the brain rotting obsession I have for this man. ALSO I SWEAR TO GOD NO ONE MENTION ANYTHING ABOUT SEASON 2, OR I'LL FIGHT YOU.

((If any of you want to be added to a tag list for this fic, please lmk!! Ask box is also open for requests/suggestions/comments 🤍 feedback is always appreciated 🤍🤍))

It had been a terrible night so far.

Not only had you been shortchanged more than two-thirds of the agreed-upon pay for a job you’d completed—but that paltry sum had quickly slipped from your grasp entirely, taken by a gang of thugs.

You had to give the undercity credit—it had an uncanny ability to remain a perpetual cesspool. You’d managed to take down two of the muggers, but the third—the one who’d made off with your coin—had slipped away while you were dealing with the others. Just your luck. The payout had been pathetic to begin with, and now you were left with nothing but the bitter taste of failure. It looked like you’d be scraping the dregs of the city to find enough for your next meal, yet again.

That is, unless you decide to drink your dinner. As well as your sorrows, in the process. The idea struck you as you neared the central bar of the undercity, still sulking as you were making your way back to the shack you called home. The Last Drop. A name that said it all. If there was any place where the undercitizens of Zaun gathered, it was here. No doubt the owner had to be the wealthiest man in the area, though that wasn’t exactly saying much in a place like this.

You made your decision. A warm meal might be out of reach, but liquor could suffice—if you drank heavily enough, that is. Or at the very least, it might dull the sting of the night’s failures.

The bar was an eyesore, a hulking building among the rundown structures of The Lanes. A garish neon sign blinked above the entrance, buzzing like an angry fly, casting sickly light on the grime-streaked pavement. Inside, the din of loud music and the clatter of drunken chatter spilled into the street. It was a haven for folks with any background, no matter if they sought business or pleasure within its walls.

You pushed through the door, noting how no one even bothered to glance your way. That was how you liked it—under the radar, always out of sight, always out of the mind of untrustworthy beings.

Then again, you didn’t trust anyone anyway.

You duck and weave through the crowd of rowdy patrons, eyes scanning the bar for a table or booth at which you could hunker down and nurse your drink in peace. Your frown deepens beneath the hood of your jacket when you come up empty-handed. Typical. No matter, though. You’d have to order at the bar anyway, regardless of where you sat.

It’s when your eyes settle in the direction of the bar that luck seems to briefly shine upon you—there’s an empty stool. Without hesitation, you make a beeline for it, not wanting some drunken fool to snag it before you could. You practically dive-bomb onto the seat, landing with a small grunt, air knocked from your lungs. After the night you’ve had, this stool feels like an oasis, despite the new absence of oxygen beneath your chest. You settle into it like it’s the only thing left in the world, clutching the seat as if someone might try to commandeer it if you let your guard down low enough.

The realization dawns on you that, in order to get a drink, you’d have to interact with the bartender. You hold that fact in high regard with contempt.

Chit-chat? Not tonight– or truthfully any night. You’ve never been crazy about casual conversation. The events of the evening have only soured your mood further, and the last thing you need is some eager bartender trying to make nice. Normally, you’d avoid sitting at the bar for that reason alone, yet here you are.

Thankfully, the bartender pays you no mind, his attention fully set on the patron he’s currently tending to. That is, until said patron leaves and the barman finally turns to you, his new source of focus.

The sheer momentum with which you rolled your eyes almost knocked you out of your seat.

“Welcome to The Last Drop. What’ll it be?” His voice is deep, and heavy, garnering a thick accent that clung to every word.

He’s an older man, though exactly how old is hard for you to pin down. His hair’s gray, his eyes tired, the lines of age having etched themselves into his face long ago. However, there’s something youthful about him—something that makes it hard to tell whether he’s an old-looking thirty or a young-ish fifty. Frankly, you don’t care enough to continue your mental evaluation of him. Age shouldn’t matter when it comes to bartenders. They either know how to pour a decent drink, or they don’t.

You don’t waste time with pleasantries.

“Something strong.” You mutter, your voice mostly flat, but with a hint of irritation that danced along the edge.

The bartender scratches at his graying beard, his gaze thoughtful as he considers your request. You grit your teeth, hoping he won’t try to scam you by giving you something weak and overpriced, just to line his pockets with your hard-earned coin. You’d seen it happen to others, and you’d be a damned fool if you let it happen to you.

The bartender studies your face, or at least what he can see of it beneath your hood, before his gaze shifts to the shelves beneath the counter. After a moment of deliberation, he selects a bottle with thoughtful ease, pulling the cork out with his teeth. With his free hand, he grabs a tin cup and pours in a copious amount, sliding it toward you with a swift flick of his wrist. You’d almost call it a generous decision on his part, considering the fact that you hadn’t even paid your dues first. His choice to serve you first goes a long way in easing your suspicion, at least for the moment.

You dig into your pocket, retrieving the few gold coins you’d managed to hold onto when dealing with the aforementioned thugs. They weren’t enough for one measly meal, but they were enough for a drink or two– or three, but who’s going to keep track? Certainly anyone but you. You’d only stop once your pitiful wealth ran out. Without a second thought, you toss them onto the bar top, making it unspokenly clear to the bartender that you were hoping for much more than just this one drink. You grab the cup, lifting it to your lips and downing the lot of it in one quick, greedy gulp. The warmth spreads through you almost immediately, and it feels like a small victory over the obnoxious turn your night has taken.

The bartender watches this with a faint chuckle before you slam the empty cup back down onto the counter. He takes it without a word, refills the tiny tin chalice, and begins passing it back. Without missing a beat, you grab the cup from him, draining the contents in a second gulp before he even has time to set the bottle back down.

“You look like you’ve seen better days,” he remarks casually, his voice low and steady as he finally reunites the bottom of the bottle with the countertop.

“I’ve seen a lot of things.” you mutter, your eyes fixed on anything but him. The words come out flat, though there’s a weight to them. It’s more than just a refusal to talk—it’s a refusal to let anyone look too closely. You avoid eye contact like the plague. Eyes, after all, are the windows to the soul. And letting someone peer through them is a risky gamble you’ve never been apt to take.

You were clearly beyond uninterested in the beginnings of this conversation. The lack of willingness to be friendly reigning clear as you shove the tin cup towards him yet again. He grabs the empty cup and refills it once more—your third drink in under five minutes. He seems reluctant to hand it back. He maintains a grip on it as he eyes you again, this time much more thoughtful.

“Care to chat about it? Might be healthier than drownin’ yourself at the bottom of a bottle,” he offers plainly.

You give him a sidelong glance, not even trying to mask the edge in your voice.

“Doesn’t sound like a good business strategy, encouraging your paying customers to cut back.” You fire back quickly, the sharpness of your words outpacing even your annoyance at the unwanted conversation.

The bartender chuckles again, a spark of amusement flickering in his tired eyes. There’s a glimmer of understanding in his smile—maybe he’s seen more than a few like you in this dive. Or maybe, he knows in the same fashion as you, that sometimes it’s more palatable to fill the silence with alcohol than with words.

“Fair point, but I’d prefer to keep my patrons alive. Helps me sleep at night, y’know?” The bartender shoots back, his eyes fixed on you, all too curious about what’s hidden beneath your hood. The conversation quickly turns uncomfortable, a painful reminder of why you’ve never liked bartenders—they always talk too much and ask too many personal questions. As far as you’re concerned, they should stick to the charade for the sake of their regulars, and leave all unsuspecting customers alone.

The momentum of yet another roll of your eyes causes your head to bob ever so slightly— your hood creeping back towards the line of your hair. The new, incredibly subtle, view of your face made the barman clench the cup in his hands with rigor.

His eyes narrow slightly, the amusement fading from his voice.

“Where’re your parents, kid?” He asks, his voice low and in demand of an answer.

The question hits you like a slap, and for a brief second, you find yourself caught off guard. You’re not someone who’s usually thrown by imbecilic remarks from the residents of The Lanes, but this one? It’s different. Not just the audacity of asking such a personal question, but the clear assumption of your age being made so boldly.

Your head snaps up, and before you can stop yourself, you push your hood back, breaking your own rule about eye contact. Why? Who knows. Today has already gone off the rails, and you’re too far gone to care. The liquor’s sudden grip on your senses began to cloud your judgment, and honestly, it was far from shocking. To be fair, you had asked for something strong… Not to mention having no substantial food in your belly to dilute the potency you sought after. All in all, there was no ignoring how the liquor was starting to pummel you like a brick to the face would.

You meet his gaze, eyes scanning his face for any sign of what he’s gunning after by asking such a question. But there’s nothing obvious behind those gloomy eyes of his. No clear motive. You can’t tell if he’s purposefully trying to get under your skin or if he’s just another fool with a quick tongue.

“Rotting in their graves,” you mutter, voice sharp and, in addition, spiteful.

“Which I’m sure you’ve got one foot in, yourself, Gramps.” You make a mockery of the decades that are clearly stacked against you, hoping to push him back into his corner.

He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he practically snorts, running a hand over his silvery beard as he crosses his arms; resting them across his stomach with the casual authority of someone who’s seen it all. He’s not rattled by your quips—no, not in the slightest.

“How old are you, kid?” His voice is flat now, a hint of something more serious creeping in, though you can’t figure out why. You’re even more unsure now about his intentions. Constantly expecting the worst from people was your lot in life.

“Too young for you.” You snap back, pushing forward with your usual sharpness, trying to regain some control over this ridiculous conversation. You reach for the cup he had refilled for you, but before you can even graze it, he snatches it away, clicking his tongue like a disappointed parent.

“Tsk, tsk,” he tuts at you, as if you’ve done something wrong.

“I asked how old you were.” he repeats, his voice now devoid of any amusement.

He watches you carefully, his gaze inspecting your face as if he’s trying to peel back layers you didn’t even know were there.

You roll your eyes, irritation growing, and narrow them at him, unwilling to back down. You can’t tell if he’s probing for something deeper, or if he’s just getting off on making you uncomfortable. Either way, you’re done playing his game.

“Why are you so curious, huh?” you scoff, leaning in and making a bold decision to double down on your irritation. “I’m just another patron here to drown in my sorrows and drink them away. Not to mention, I’m paying for the privilege.” Your words are bold, and with that same boldness, you reach across the bar and rip the cup from his grasp.

You try to bring the drink to your lips, intent on finishing it off. But just as the cup nears your mouth, the bartender’s large, rough hand slips over the opening of the cup like a solar eclipse.

He glares down at you, his eyes narrowing as he sizes you up with a look that could strip paint. In that moment, something clicks in his mind. The defiance in your voice, the way you’re carrying yourself—it all reinforces his suspicion. You’re not old enough to be here. When you walked in, your hood had obscured most of your face. But now that it’s gone, he can see it clearly: you’re just a kid, trying to score some alcohol. The only thing that kept him from throwing you out on your ass, was your cadence. You looked young, and spoke carelessly, but you sounded grown. If you were in fact grown, he’d ease up.

However, with the way you look—bloodied and bruised, no less—he’s convinced you’re in some kind of trouble. The kind of trouble he doesn’t want being drug through his bar. He doesn’t know where you’ve been, who you’ve pissed off, or what kind of people you run with. But this? This is his bar, and he’s fought too hard to maintain the fragile peace that reigns here. He won’t let you ruin that for him and his loyal patrons by dragging your poor choices in with you.

“Seems I’ve struck a nerve,” he says, his voice no longer playful but flat and serious. “Either tell me your age, or you’re cut off.”

The room seems to hush around you. The muffled chatter of patrons behind you fades as the bartender’s tone sharpens, leaving no room for argument. It’s a quiet threat now, the kind that lets you know exactly how much leverage you have—and how little he’s willing to tolerate.

“You didn’t strike shit,” You hiss. “and I don’t need to answer to shit.” You add.

The bartender bends over the counter, his face inches from yours. The bitter scent of smoke hangs thick on his breath, hot and rancid, and it presses against your skin like a physical weight. The damp air in the bar swirls around you, brushing your cheeks with an uncomfortable warmth that feels suffocating, as if the room itself is closing in.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll have no problem lettin’ my loyal patrons cut your tongue out for us to hang above the bar.” He says fiercely.

You glance over your shoulder, catching the eyes of the dozens of patrons who have fallen silent, their conversations and business abruptly halted. It’s clear—they’re waiting for a signal, ready to back up their beloved bartender if things escalate.

“You can call off the cavalry, Gramps. I was just leaving,” you retorted, swiping one of your coins from the counter, as if to refund yourself for the drink you’ve yet to have. You release your grip on the cup, almost slingshotting it backwards from the sheer force you two had each been bestowing upon it.

“Sit down.” the bartender commands, his voice low and final, as you attempt to abscond.

You don’t reply, instead moving to shoulder through the row of patrons who are standing like silent sentinels, waiting for the slightest nod from their bar’s gatekeeper. It’s not like you expected them to part, but the way not a single person dares budge makes your blood boil. The crowd might as well be a wall of stone.

“Sit. Down.” the bartender demands again, his tone sharper this time, a razor edge cutting through the haze of the bar.

You grind your teeth, your patience wearing thin.

“I’ll take my patronage elsewhere—”

You don’t even finish your sentence before a hand, seemingly out of nowhere, pushes you roughly back. You stumble, barely managing to stop yourself from falling flat on your ass. The sudden movement sends a rush of heat to your head, the anger spiking through your veins like fire.

You seethed at the touch, the anger burning hot in your chest, every muscle in your body coiled with frustration. But you knew better than to keep pushing your luck. Not today. Not in a situation like this, with dozens of hungry eyes watching, their hands twitching near their weapons of choice, waiting for the slightest excuse to make a move.

Biting back a torrent of curses, you forced yourself to swallow your pride, choosing to stay quiet—at least for now. It wasn’t worth the fight. You could practically feel the heat of their glares digging into your back as you turned on your heel, eyes locking once more with the bartender’s. You reclaimed your seat at the bar with deliberate flair, each movement oozing a sense of defiance and attitude. It was a performance, one you were used to. To you, it felt like you were playing the part of someone tough. But you knew, deep down, that to anyone else—especially the bartender—you probably looked like nothing more than a naive, immature idiot who didn’t know when to shut up. It wasn’t a great look, but at least it kept people from getting too close.

“I’m sat,” you muttered, voice brimming with the remnants of your irritation.

The bartender shook his head slightly, a hint of amusement creeping back into his expression. You could feel the tension in the room dissipate, the energy shifting as the crowd behind you resumed their rowdy conversations. The noise began to swell again, and for a moment, it almost felt like the bar was returning to some semblance of normalcy.

He grabbed a dirty glass from the counter, handling it with practiced ease, and pulled a rag from beneath the bar. As he began polishing the glass, he didn’t so much as glance your way. His focus was on the glass, and for a few moments, it felt like you were nothing more than a background detail to him. You could feel your impatience growing with each passing second. If he had something to say, you wished he’d just say it already. At least that way, you could get out of here—and maybe keep some of your pride intact.

The bartender continued his slow, methodical motions, running the rag around the rim of the glass with an almost exaggerated calmness. He didn’t bother to look up, yet you could feel the weight of his gaze on you through the silence.

“I’m gonna ask you again,” he said, his tone neutral, almost too much. “How old are you?”

You weighed your options. If you didn’t answer, you had no idea what would happen next. If you did answer, you still had no clue. It was a gamble either way.

“(Insert age here),” you muttered, the words slipping out begrudgingly, each one like a weight lifting off your chest.

The bartender scoffed lightly, a soft laugh escaping him that made your skin crawl. Your fingers began tapping impatiently on the bar’s edge, the rhythm a soft counterpoint to the growing tension between you.

“____ years old and still so naive… You really are just a kid, eh?” His words hung in the air, his eyes still locked on the glass in front of him, but you could see the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“There are worse things I could be,” you shot back, your voice laced with a mix of defensiveness and defiance.

“S’pose that’s true,” he replied, finishing up his polishing with the air of someone who had all the time in the world. He set the glass down next to the others—clean, polished, and waiting to be used. With a fluid motion, he slung the rag over his shoulder, then placed one hand on his hip and the other on the edge of the counter. He shifted his weight, leaning just slightly into the bar, his posture relaxed yet somehow still imposing.

“But on the other hand,” he said, his voice dropping to a more serious tone, “what you already are ain’t too good either.”

It wasn’t a threat—more of an observation, one that hung heavily in the air, like the smoke in the room. You felt the weight of it, but you couldn’t quite tell if it was a warning or just another way to mess with you. Either way, you could tell this conversation wasn’t over.

You could feel the first few bubbles of anger rising in your chest, the heat creeping up your neck as your blood threatened to boil. You’d always been quick to anger—an unfortunate side effect of your temper and stubborn streak. They were the crosses you’d carried for as long as you could remember.

You scoffed again, the sound sharp and biting, as if it were the only defense you had left. You had already rolled your eyes a dozen times tonight, but it felt like you were on the verge of an explosion.

“What’s your goal here, Gramps?” you spat, your voice dripping with sass, every word a little jab. You didn’t care to hide your bitterness. You liked to fight with words just as much as you did with your fists, and the bartender was starting to see that loud and clear.

“You got the answer you were looking for. Whether you believe me or not, you’ve already served me twice. If my age was such a concern to you, you would’ve kicked me out long before I even sat down.” Your words hung in the air once more, and you could see the gears turning behind his eyes, but he didn’t speak.

He just let out a quiet laugh, as if your logic amused him. And he didn’t bother to answer, not even in the slightest.

The silence stretched, thick and tense, and it was clear he wasn’t going to explain himself. He wasn’t about to give you the satisfaction of an explanation. He simply leaned back, eyes flicking over to the rowdy crowd behind you.

It was infuriating.

You stayed silent for a beat, but only because you knew you’d have more to say. And damn right, you did.

“Do you do this with every new customer?” You snapped, your voice rising now, the frustration boiling over. “’Cause if you ask me, I’m not sure how this shithole’s still in business. You discourage your customers from drinking, even though this is a fucking bar, and that’s all people come here to do. You make it impossible to drink peacefully, just like you make it impossible to drink at all!”

The words spilled out like fire, each one more forceful than the last. Your temper was no longer something you were trying to hold back—it was running rampant, and it felt good to let it out, even if it was in the form of a scream. You weren’t about to let this bartender—this stubborn old man—have the upper hand. Not when it felt like he was deliberately pushing your buttons.

“So if it’s alright with you, Gramps, you got your answer, and I don’t owe you shit. I’m leaving.” You actually raise your voice purposefully this time, slamming your hands down onto the counter as you push yourself off of the stool once more.

The bartender wasn’t fazed by your outburst. In fact, he’d dealt with feistier, louder, and much more difficult people than you—people who could out-shout you or out-punch you if they had to. He wasn’t bothered by your temper. He had raised four kids on his own, after all. He’d learned a thing or two about handling stubborn personalities, whether they were kids or grown adults who carried themselves like children. And you, in his eyes, were just another brat testing his patience.

“You’re not going anywhere.” His voice was steady, calm, and authoritative, with an edge of finality that cut through the noise of the bar.

Before you could react, his hand shot out faster than you expected, grabbing your shoulder with an unexpected gentleness. He tugged you back into the seat with a kind of effortless force that made your breath catch in your throat.

You shot up from the bar stool in a flash, but his hold was stronger than you anticipated.

Instinct kicked in, and your own hand shot out like a snake, grabbing his wrist with a quick, almost violent motion. You shoved it off your shoulder, irritation flaring up like wildfire.

“Don’t touch me,” you hissed, your chest heaving as you glared up at him, the heat of the moment burning in your eyes.

You huffed, your fists clenching at your sides, teeth grinding. The room seemed to close in around you, but you weren’t backing down—not now, not after all of this. The tension between you and the bartender was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife. You could feel the weight of the crowd’s silent attention being drawn to you once more as they waited for your next move, but you weren’t afraid. You didn’t have time to be.

The man let out a heavy sigh, the sound thick with disappointment.

“Look, kid—”

“By the fucking god’s, I’m not a kid!” you snapped, your eyes flashing a level of ferocity that sliced straight through him.

He pressed his lips into a thin, hard line, his gaze cemented on you still as he took a long, steadying breath. Patience was his virtue, and he was willing to endure this sparring match for as long as it took.

“It’s clear you’re in some kind of trouble,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Maybe, just maybe, instead of lashing out, you could let someone help—”

You cut him off mid-sentence, your words an unpleasant interruption.

“Help? You want to help? Surely that’s the wrong word. Surely, I heard you wrong, cause, from the way I see it, you’ve done nothing except cage me in here, threaten me, and withhold what I paid for. So if it’s with any consolation, take your ‘help’ and fuck off.”

Enough was enough. Without another word, you climbed atop the stool, bracing yourself for what came next. You steadied your balance, then launched yourself toward the crowd with calculated precision. The dismount was quick—intentional, forceful. You tucked your legs in, soaring over their heads in a perfect flip, and extended them just before hitting the ground behind them. Without pausing, you bolted for the door, heart pounding in your chest.

To your surprise, you made it—flying through the door and slamming it shut behind you with a satisfying crash. Finally, you were free, never to be seen within a hundred yards of this bar ever again.

The patrons had made a half-hearted attempt to grab at you as you rushed past, but a sharp, deafening whistle from the bartender stopped them in their strides. He shook his head softly, a silent message that it wasn’t worth the chase. That it was better to let you go. If you were in trouble, it would catch up with you soon enough.

Deep down, the bartender hated seeing someone so young seal their own fate in such a way. But, in the end, there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t save them all—no matter how badly he wished he could.

He couldn’t help but wonder— if maybe, just maybe, he’d been a little too assertive, or downright impetuous with you after all.

But it didn’t matter now. You were gone. All he could do was hope you’d survive out on those streets.

taglist: @blogforhoes @committingcrimes-2047 @dirtandcrime @eternalgoddessofart @woozulo @lutaaaslostacc-d8 @heidiland05 @sugaaawaraaa

#arcane #arcane x reader fic #arcane x reader #vander arcane #vander x reader #vander x reader fic #vander x reader smut #vander x gn!reader #vander x reader arcane #vander x female reader #arcane imagine #vander x reader imagine

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lilywastaken · 2 years ago

Text

⇝ midnight .

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!AFAB!Reader.

PART ONE OF MÉNAGE.

SUMMARY: Simon makes the mistake of spending the night before one of the longest missions of his career in the arms of a woman he met at a pub, unaware of the consequences it would have on his life moving forward.

WARNINGS: AFAB!Fem!Reader (no use of Y/N!) NSFW [ Oral (F receiving), Degradation, Praising, size difference/kink, dacryphilia, dumbification, slight bondage, frottage, unprotected P in V, overstimulation, various orgasms, creampie.], Angst, Pregnancy, mentions of abortion, kind of OOC Simon? He’s just soft when he’s not Ghost, Canon typical violence.

A/N: My first COD fic! It also happens to be the longest piece of writing I've ever done 😵! This is the first part of a series I've been planning on writing for a while, so I'll hopefully get the second part out soon! Please don't forget to reblog/comment if you enjoy the fic, it helps a lot!!! Thanks for all the support!! <3

WORD COUNT: 10.1k.

MASTERLIST.

Also on Ao3!

Going out wasn't one of Ghost's favourite things to do.

Even after getting back to his tiny flat in Manchester following a horribly long mission and shedding his mask, going back to the burly man his neighbours knew as Simon, some random guy who had moved in a few years ago and seldom stepped outside except for the random smoking session some of them would see him having on his balcony; he didn't enjoy going out.

So when he finally was able to relax onto his shitty leather sofa and catch up with some of the footy games he had missed while away, all he wanted more than anything was a good whiskey in his favourite (cleanest) glass.

And almost like a cartoon character staring at their empty wallet, Simon stared ahead at his liquor cabinet, jaw clenched as he spied at the remaining drops of alcohol that were left in the bottle, remembering the mental note he had made before leaving his flat the last time to get himself the alcohol he had chugged down during one of his depressive episodes.

So, in a fit of anger, he shoved on whatever clean clothes he could find in his duffle bag, skull balaclava pulled over his messy hair, and stomped down the stairs to the nearest Tesco…

…only to find it closed.

And fuck him if he was going to walk the extra hour to the nearest Morrison's just to get some shitty whiskey bottle to drown his sorrows in. At this point, he'd just go and sit in a corner of a pub, nursing what he would hope would be an acceptable liquor.

He was absolutely pissed by the time he made it into the homey bar, the universe having decided to make it it's personal mission to fuck him up today and making the worst storm possible start to rain upon Manchester.

Oh, and of course, the pub's tables were all full of teenagers (who definitely had fake IDs, no way they were all 18), and some old geezers who were shouting at the football game on TV (great, Manchester was loosing, another thing to worsen his night), leaving the only available seat one in the middle of the bar next to some woman chatting amicably to the waiter, who seemed a bit more interested in her cleavage than in what she had to say.

He slipped into the seat silently, his clear eyes death-staring into the bartender's, immediately scaring him shitless ("Yer about ta kill me with that look, Lt." Johnny had once joked about his murderous gaze, and to be fair, Simon was slightly hoping the scot would combust and die right there.), no doubt believing that he was with the woman and was about to punch his teeth in for staring longer than he should have.

As he scurried off into the back, you turned to him, taken aback at first as you made eye contact with the towering, wet, balaclava-clad man who was staring back at you, but you were brave enough to smile kindly at him, going back to running your finger over the rim of your drink, which Simon noticed was still and hardly drank out of, despite the lipstick smudges around the top. You'd been here a while, and by the way your leg was nervously jumping up and down as time passed by, he could only assume you'd been stood up.

Now, Simon wasn't dumb, far from it; and Simon was smart enough to recognize when someone was attractive, and he was pretty sure that the woman in front of him was drop-dead gorgeous despite the sad look that adorned your features. So, if he was correct, he couldn't even begin to fathom how someone could even start to think of standing up a woman like you, especially after inviting her to this shitty pub, where the food had definitely given him food poisoning before.

He hadn't realised how deep in thought he must have been while staring at your glass until a soft hand rested against his bicep, eyes instantly flashing back towards yours, instincts haywire from having been pulled out from his thoughts so suddenly.

"Sorry!" You immediately retracted your hand from his arm, smiling apologetically up at him before turning your gaze back to the golden liquid. "I asked if you were okay. I can't imagine walking around in a storm with just that on." You gestured towards his shirt, allowing Simon to look down and stare at the tight T-shirt he had chosen to wear, a few dirt stains decorating it in the worst way possible, having dressed for the occasion that was a 10pm trip to Tesco and not meeting up with a pretty woman at a pub.

"Wasn't planning on walking 'round." He grumbled out, his voice deeper than what you had expected, the thick accent and scratchy sound of it making shivers run down your spine and heat pool into your stomach, becoming horrified with yourself that you allowed such a minimal thing like a masked man's voice get you all hot and flustered like this.

"'Nd you? Doesn't seem like you're dressed for a night out at the Crown's." His eyes moved towards your dress, surprised with himself that he had actively been the one to continue the conversation; his thick hand reaching over to grab his drink from the bartender's hand (which he must have ordered during the haze he had been in before.) as he awaited your answer.

"Oh." He watched you smooth down your hair out from the corner of his eye, your hands shaky as they found comfort around the fancy glass of your whiskey. Or was it bourbon? Maybe rum? You seemed like the type of woman to appreciate a good glass of liquor. "Yeah, 'm waiting for someone."

He watched your eyes dart over to the clock hanging on the wall opposite you both, the little hand nearing the number 11.

"Could've taken you somewhere nicer." He commented, taking a jab at both the pub and your missing date, the small breathless chuckle that left your lips catching his attention.

"Yeah. Not like I expected a reservation at the Ritz, but somewhere that doesn't look like my grandad's favourite pub would be nice." You joked over the sound of some of the old men cheering in the background over some team scoring a goal, and while Simon would've normally turned around to make sure it had been Manchester, he was too focused on the mesmerising way your eyes looked in the dim light, your eyelashes fluttering innocently as you continued what had started as small talk, that evolved into friendly conversation and him buying you another drink, and that ended with him waiting for you outside the bathrooms, holding onto your tiny umbrella.

Simon wasn't one to frequent in hook-ups, but how enticing you had been when talking to him, the way your body looked in that dress and how you'd brushed your soft hand against his bicep (this time with another intent other than to snap him out of his stupor), had left him wanting, nay, craving more from you.

So when you looked out the window behind him before gesturing to the small umbrella hanging from your bag and asked if he wanted to take you home, he would have been demented to deny you.

His screen's brightness lit up his face as he scrolled over the scarce messages he had received across the almost 10 years he had had this crappy phone, about to delete Soap's number before you came out, a smile on your face and makeup freshly applied.

"Some girls helped me with my makeup in there." You commented happily, fingertips brushing over the blush that had been applied to the apples of your cheeks, which made you somehow look even more enticing than before. "I didn't have time to look in the mirror, but I hope it looks okay."

"Looks nice on you." He let out after processing your new look, his chest tightening as your smile somehow widened and your eyes brightened, having learned across the few hours you had spent together that Simon wasn't really one to show his emotions towards anyone, so a short compliment like that was a big step.

"You think?" You didn't wait for an answer, your hand finding his and starting to lead him out of the shadowy corner he had taken refuge in while your time in the bathroom, letting him push open the exit door so he could open up the umbrella, not caring about the raindrops falling onto him and darkening his clothes, the rain getting caught onto his eyelashes like morning dew on a spiders web, the beautiful orbs drawing you in like a butterfly happily flying into a spider's nest.

The umbrella was open and poised on top of you before you could even step out of the pub, Simon doing his best so you wouldn't be touched by the rain, aware of how uncomfortable some people got when it came to water running down your back or touching your face (especially when you looked so so pretty with your make-up.). Along with his massive frame walking next to you, you were pretty sure there was no way a single drop of water would touch your skin the whole way back home.

Which ended up being almost silent, you leading the way and commenting on random stores or things you passed, brightening up every time you got a chuckle out of him and melting whenever his hand would wrap around your waist as you passed some creepy man or a suspicious-looking group of teens, pulling you into his side so no one would even think of messing with you.

You were highly aware of how dangerous it was in hindsight to take some random man home (whose face you hadn't even seen yet!), but Simon made you feel safe, special, in some weird way… like as long as you were in his vicinity, nothing could happen to you, nothing could harm you. And you wanted to cling onto that feeling, onto the feeling of protection and warmth that Simon extruded.

So you didn't think twice about it, even as you slipped the key into the front door to your apartment complex and stood next to him the whole elevator ride up to your floor, his hand curled around yours with his thumb rubbing over your knuckles, the soft action enough to make heat pool into your tummy and your panties, getting worked up over casual affection from the breathtaking man.

"Y'sure about this, lovie?" His raspy voice made you fumble with your keys as he came up behind you, watching you struggle to unlock your flat as his breath hit your ear. "Tell me to leave and I will. Last chance."

Your breathing grew shaky as his own warmed your cheek, the way he worded it making it seem like the act you were both about to perform was something akin to letting a beast free, and even if it was, as long as Simon was the one to do it, you would have let him do anything.

"Yes." You managed to get out as your door finally opened, not even getting the time to take a step in before his hands were all over you, pushing you into the apartment and slamming the door closed behind him with his foot, his balaclava somehow being pulled up to his nose, high enough so you could gaze upon his soft pink lips and the blond stubble that adorned his chin and slightly crooked nose, aware that you would have spent hours tracing his features with your eyes, engraving them to memory, but he took away any thoughts away from you as he slotted his lips with yours.

You learned immediately that Simon's kisses were desperate, sloppy, needy. The way his hands gripped at your hips and his teeth nibbled onto your bottom lip, tongue running over yours as he trailed his palms down your thighs onto your feet, wrenching off your heels and ripping apart your tights, ignoring the angered whine that left your lips.

"Easier access, lovie." He murmured against your lips, finally pulling back with a sleazy grin on his lips, a string of spit connecting you both before breaking, allowing you a bit of time to catch your breath while he took in your living room, staring at the doors. "Bedroom?"

"Th- That one-" You hazardly pointed towards one of the doors behind you, squealing out loud as he grabbed you effortlessly and started to carry you towards your room, thighs pressed to his sides and ankles crossed behind his back, making sure to cling onto him so he wouldn't randomly drop you (Although by the way his muscles barely tensed when he had picked you up, and how easily he seemed to navigate around while carrying you made you think that there was no way he'd let you fall.)

Your back finally hit your familiar soft mattress, hands clenching onto your silk sheets as he watched you like a hawk, hands resting on the space of your thighs near your now-dripping cunt, thumbs rubbing into the soft pudge.

"Fuck… Just look t'you." He rumbled out, your cheeks growing warm as he continued to stare without moving, enjoying the way you started to squirm beneath his touch. "Calm, lovie, jus' taking my time wiv' you."

You mewled out at the deep tone his voice took, thighs threatening to close as one of his hands made his way towards your clothed cunt, which had been made accessible thanks to your now-ripped tights that had been left behind in the living room.

Simon forced your thighs back open with a grunt, glassy eyes darkening as he watched your own hands come up to cover your face out of embarrassment, letting himself soak in it for a moment before finally starting to act.

"Lean up f'me." You obeyed immediately, trembling under his touch as he slowly pulled your dress off, letting it pool onto the floor along with his shirt, which he had quickly gotten rid of as soon as you were in your lingerie. His eyes roamed the lace for a moment before letting out a dry chuckle, looking up at you to find you ogling at his scarred chest, almost drooling at the sight of his well built pecs and stomach. "Tryin' to get lucky tonight?" He spoke, fingers snapping your bra strap, thinking back to why you were originally at that pub in the first place.

"Shut up." You grumbled, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him up the bed so you could continue kissing him, having been left craving more ever since that breathtaking one in the foyer.

He didn't complain, quickly indulging you as he slotted his lips with yours once again, his kiss as sloppy as needy as before, openly moaning against them as your hands run under his balaclava to pull at the short strands of his coarse hair, his own hands wrapping your thighs around his waist so your clothed pussy could grind against the hard material of his trousers over his hardened cock, rejoicing in the way your moans and whines sounded as he drank them up.

"S'needy." He chastised softly as he pulled away, moving you both towards the top of the bed so you could rest your head on your pillows, catching your breath while he started slipping off his belt and trousers (the belt being placed on the bed, just in case), and letting you gaze upon the tent in his boxers, shivering at the monstrous sight of his cock, trying to imagine how in the living fuck would he fit inside you if he couldn't even fit properly in his boxers, pulling out a moan from your lipstick smudged lips at the simple thought of being fucked by such a tool.

"Like it?" He chuckled, slowly starting to lean down with his hands on your thighs, pulling one of them over his shoulder so he was face to face with your covered cunt, his breath warm as it hit your clit, making you whine. "Gunna let me have a taste?"

"Y-Yes, god, yes, Simon, please-" You breathed out all at once, desperate for his touch after the slow teasing, watching what was visible of his face scrunch up in mock laughter as he revelled in your whines.

"As you wish, lovie."

He didn't even bother pushing your panties aside before taking a lick of your cunt from bottom to top, pressing soft kisses to your clit to hear your desperate whines and feel your thighs shake beneath his touch, continuing to slowly make out with your clothed pussy, purposefully driving you insane with his limited touches.

"Off, off, pl-please, Si, please -" You whined, pushing his head away in an attempt to start to pull your panties down, crying out in frustration as he didn't budge, a growl leaving his lips and sending vibrations up your cunt.

"Don't touch. I'm taking my fucking time, pretty. Or would you rather me stick my cock into you without any prep?" You moaned out loudly at the thought, back threatening to arch as he slowly grasped at your panties, a humourless chuckle leaving his pretty lips. "Yeah, I bet your slutty pussy'd love that, wouldn't it, lovie?" He purred before finally sliding down your pants, taking a moment to stare at your cunt and let you squirm before slowly spreading your thighs again, immediately shoving his face into his prize and repeating his movements from before, but faster and rougher, letting you feel every inch of his tongue as it ran over your lips and slowly inched inside of your hole, your moans and silent screams only edging him further on until he took your engorged clit into his mouth and started sucking, placing a hand on your stomach and pushing your arching back down onto the mattress.

He was surprised, to say the least. Yes, he'd realised you were sensitive as soon as he had kissed you for the first time, but he hadn't expected you to almost burst into tears from being eaten out (He wasn't even /trying/ to make you cry, he wondered what would happen if he did.), so he wondered if all the men you'd been with before had gone down on you, but by the way you were reacting to such simple touches, he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

"So fuckin' sweet, baby." He murmured into your pussy as he let go of your swollen clit, giving your hole some attention as the hand that was on your tummy ran down to circle your clit, overstimulating you in the best way possible. "Taste like fuckin' heaven."

"Si- Simon-" you whined his name out so so sweetly, music to the normally cold lieutenant's ears. "Gonn- Fuuuck! 'Na cum! Please, please, Si, need to-"

"S'okay, let go for me, lovie." He basically purred into you as he continued licking contently at your gushing hole, fingers tactically rubbing on your clit, before changing spots, taking your clit back into his mouth and letting his fingers slip in to you, preening at the sweet gasp that left your lips at the sudden intrusion, his coarse fingers moving in and out and immediately finding that one spot that made your back arch and toes curl, and just as he was taught in the military, he took advantage of the weak spot (in this case, your sweet spot.) and didn't stop brushing his fingers against it, the increasing sound of his name alerting him of your upcoming orgasm.

And once the coil within your stomach snapped and Simon finally let your back arch of the bed, your release gushing out of you and coating his hand and wrist, you let out the loudest moan of his name, the sound immediately going to his painfully hard cock, but he didn't stop, tongue not ceasing its assault on your clit and fingers continuing to rub against your g-spot until you finally came down from your high, brain mushy and eyes glassy as you stared up at the cream ceiling.

"Such a good girl." He purred out as he finally stopped, retracting his wet fingers and taking them into his mouth, swirling his tongue around and cleaning off all of the slick you had left from your orgasm, savouring it like he would with a lollipop. "Fuckin' taste amazing."

You whined in response, the embarrassment from having cummed so fast and having to watch him lick up all your release finally catching up to you, shaky hands moving to cover your sweaty face.

He clicked his tongue, grabbing them before they could cover your pretty features and holding them together in one hand.

"No, baby. Don't want you fuckin' hiding f'me." He snapped, slowly pulling them upwards so that they were pinned against the headboard, his other hand moving to gather the belt he had discarded not so long ago, quickly taking advantage of your cum-lax state to wrap it around your wrists, making sure it was tight enough to constrict you, but not tight enough to hurt, and letting you lie there while he started on getting rid of his boxers. "Wanna see that pretty face while you come undone on my cock. Isn't that what y'want too?"

You tried moving your head to nod, but it felt so so heavy that even the slightest movement felt like a chore, feeling grateful that Simon was a man able to move you around and dominate you without even breaking sweat, that all you needed to do was lie back and enjoy everything he gave you.

"Fuckin' hell. Not even fucked ya yet and you're 'lready gone?" He sneered, coming to hover over you so he could press wet kisses to your cheeks and neck, purposefully avoiding your lips. "Pretty girl gets her pussy played wiv and turns into a right proper slut, don' she?" He purred against your neck, his words making you shiver and squirm as your body instinctively tried to move away from the stimulus, only for him to pull you back towards him with grubby hands, a loud gasp leaving your lips as he pressed your crotches together, having expected the soft cotton of his boxers and not the hard, hot feeling of his cock flush against your dripping pussy.

"Oh- Oh my god, Simon, th-"

"Mm." He cut you off with a soft purr and a nip to your jugular, no doubt making sure that you'd wake up in purple marks the next morning as he did the same all over your neck. "'S me. All me, lovie. F'you."

You moaned at the implication, slowly starting to grind yourself against him as he made it his personal mission to cover your upper body in kisses, stopping at your clavicle and staring down at your bra, that was still to be taken off.

"Fuck, forgot all 'bout these." His hand came up to squeeze one of them softly, a small sound of pleasure leaving your lips at the added stimulation as you continued to rub your cunt against his hardened cock. "Pretty little things."

He started grinding his own hips against yours, watching with amazement at how quickly you reacted to his touch, your back arching enough for him to slip his hands behind and unclasping your bra suspiciously easy, pulling it off and throwing it behind him and landing god knows where, and leaving you finally completely bare beneath him.

"Look t'you." His warm hands immediately cupped your tits, thumb and pointer rubbing your nipples between them, pinching and pulling until they were hard, an amazed chuckle leaving his lips as he listened to your moans increase in sound, his grinding against you not ceasing either.

"Oh fuck- fuck fuck!" It was embarrassing, how quickly he had you whining and mewling beneath him, when you had found yourself struggling before to even feel something with men before him doing the same. It was just something about him, something about the way he sounded and touched, the precise movements against you, almost like he had been trained for your pleasure, to get you over the edge as many times as he could muster before even getting his dick wet.

Because the instant you felt his warm breath hit one of your perky breasts, you knew you were fucked, headed towards your second orgasm of the night. His warm mouth enveloped your hard nipple, pulling and tugging with his teeth and soothing the slight pain he left with his talented tongue, his grinding becoming quicker and rougher as he felt your thighs tremble around his waist, your eyes watering as you neared the release you oh so craved, gasping out loud as one of his hands came up to cup your cheek, thumb rubbing over your flushed skin.

"You gunna cry, baby? S'okay, let it out. Let it out f'me." He growled as he let go of your now throbbing nipple, moving to give your other neglected breast the same attention, hand leaving your face to run down to your core and slowly run over your clit, a huge contrast to the rough movements of his cock against you and his warm mouth on your nipple, all the different stimulations and feelings enough to push you over the edge and let the tears that had been collecting in your waterline finally fall, gasping moans and screams leaving your lips as you soaked his cock, body trembling beneath his ministrations as he chuckled against your nipple, enjoying the way you were slowly falling apart and he hadn't even pushed into you yet.

He didn't stop for a few moments, waiting until the moment where you would inevitably start whining and pushing him off with weak arms to cease, leaning back up with a shit eating grin as he waited for you to come down from your high.

"Oi, look at me." He taps one of his fingers on your face, moving your gaze towards his, a small, patronising pout tugging at his lips as he watches the tears roll down your cheeks. "Poor thing. You all fucked out yet? D'you think y'could still take my cock? Or are you too dumb f'that right now?"

"Y-yes, yes, please, please, need it so bad, Si! So so bad!" You stuttered out between laboured breaths, hands struggling against their binding, itching to be let free and feel his cock in your hands, which you could see between you, almost as girthy as a coke can and with a few prominent veins leading up to his flushed red tip, that was leaking pre spend you would gladly pay money to clean up with your tongue. "O-oh fuck, Simon, please -"

"Sh, shh. Calm down, y'little crybaby." He chastised, leaning down to softly press kisses over the tears that had gathered on your flushed cheeks, chuckling at how desperate you looked under him. "I'll give you what you want. Gon' fuck you so well, yeah? You'll feel me f'weeks, lovie."

"Fuck, yes, please! Want your cock so badly, please!" You cried, legs immediately spreading for him as soon as his calloused hands landed on the pudge of your thighs, slightly digging his fingers into them as he took in the beautiful sight of your soaking wet pussy, having half the mind to shove his cock in you without a second thought. But no.

"Calm." He snapped, one of his hands dropping your thighs and slapping your face softly to get your attention. "Protection, baby. You got a condom?"

He frowned as you shook your head, gasping for breath as you pointed over to your nightstand, where he could faintly see the glint of a packet of tablets in the dark. "Pill. 'M on the pill, Si. Clean. I'm clean."

He couldn't help the smile that crept onto his lips at the thought of being able to cum inside, and how eager you were acting to get him to finally stick his cock inside, whines and whimpers pulling him from his thoughts as he stared down at you.

"You going to let me cum inside then, lovie?" He teased, pulling your other thigh back up so the underside of both of them were resting flush against his bare chest, twitching cock resting on your overstimulated core. "Don' think I'm gonna be able to pull out."

"Don't want you to, fuck! Please, Simon, please!! Inside, want you to cum inside!"

A shiver racked through his body at your words, carefully letting one of your legs go and making sure it would stay there, wrapping around it to grab his cock, slowly sliding the head around your puffy lips to collect the slick, wanting the intrusion to be as painless as possible.

"Fuck… Alright, baby, alright. Breathe f'me." He whispered, letting the head of his cock press against your hole, telling himself to go slow and calm down, but by the way you were pulsing and clenching around the head, almost like you were pulling him in, made it hard to stay sane. "God, slutty lil' cunt's just swallowing me in, huh? Want this cock that bad?"

Your hands shook against their restraint as he started to push himself into your sopping hole, wanting nothing more than to grab onto something for stability, but you didn't want to risk him getting annoyed at you for trying to.

"S'okay, almost there." He mumbled, lying straight through his teeth because with one look down to where he was connected to it would prove that he wasn't even halfway in, and it was already proving difficult for your hole to accommodate to his massive size.

"S'big, Si, you're so biiig." You whined, spreading your legs slightly and pushing your body onto him to help, shivering as you could feel him start throbbing inside of you, no doubt needing his own climax after having spent so much time focusing on you.

You could feel your eyes start to flutter close, mouth dropping open as he finally bottomed out, his heavy balls flush against your ass and cock throbbing inside of you, taking a breather and letting you adjust to his size before he would start on his ruthless pace.

"Fuck, lovie, you droolin'?" He panted, a hand coming up to rest against your face and pull you out of your sex-drunk haze (Despite only getting his cock inside you now.), your eyes drowning in his crystal ones, hypnotised by his gaze as he used his thumb to rub away some of the drool that had dribbled down your chin. "Pretty girl finally gets some cock and turns into a drooling slut, huh?"

You let out a noise of complaint as your hands continued to struggle, the few coarse hairs that were peeking out from under his mask enough to make you want to bury your fingers in them, pull at his strands and dig your nails into his scalp as he rocked your world.

He seemed to to understand what you wanted, a chuckle leaving his swollen lips as he leaned over you, legs folding along with him and allowing him to reach a deeper point in your cunt you didn't know that existed, a loud moan escaping you as his calloused hands start undoing the belt, finally letting your wrists free and throwing the piece of leather away, his hands going back to holding onto one of your thighs and another gripping your waist.

"All yours, baby. All fuckin' yours."

He gave you a moment to react as he bottomed out, leaving you empty for a split moment before he slammed back in, cock head almost instantly hitting that sweet spot deep inside you, your hands immediately finding refuge on his shoulders, nails digging into the scarred skin as he repeated his ruthless thrusts, your body shaking beneath his as he pushed down onto your body, forcing you both into a mating press, your cunt tightening around his cock at the sight of his eyes rolling into the back of his head, tummy fluttering at the thought that he was enjoying this as much as you were.

"Fuck, so good, Simon! So fucking good!" Your hands trailed up to the nape of his neck and pulled at the few short hairs there, urging a growl out of him and causing him to slightly speed up, the head of his cock at this point abusing your g-spot, urging you to near your third orgasm. "Wan- Wanna cum, fuck, gonna cum, Simon!"

"Already, baby?" He spoke through bated breath, his stamina allowing him to keep a good and consistent pace, enough to please both of you and almost bring you to tears again. "That's okay, cum for me, lovie. Cum on my fucking cock, show me how much of a fucking whore you are f'me."

Your back arched, pressing your breasts to his sweaty chest, the extra stimulation from your nipples rubbing against his coarse skin finally pushing you over the edge, your cunt clamping down on his cock and making it near impossible for him to continue thrusting, but as the good soldier Simon was, he persisted, rutting into you with bared teeth and a clenched jaw, fucking you through your orgasm until your slick covered his balls and upper thighs.

"Good girl, good fucking girl." He rasped, hand moving from your waist up to your neck, giving an experimental squeeze and moaning as you clenched around him, a breathless chuckle leaving him. "Fuck, you're still clenchin' around me so nicely, love. Feel so fuckin' good, perfect lil' pussy all f'me..."

Simon was saying nonsense at this point, becoming near pussy drunk as his cock hammered into your puffy cunt, nearing his own peak after all the foreplay.

"Si- Simon-!" You keened, hands running under his mask to grasp at his hair properly, pulling at it to coax another guttural moan from him and leading him back down to engage in a messy kiss, teeth clanking together and spit being shared, feeling the desperation he was in as he continued to batter your pussy searching for his own orgasm. "Cum, please, please, cum inside!"

Simon's eyes rolled into the back of his head at your begging, eyelashes fluttering as his pace stuttered inside of you, cockhead pressing against the entrance to your cervix and finally going over the edge, his spend gushing into you and almost immediately filling you, his cock acting like a plug inside you.

"O-oh, fuuck…" He moaned out, voice going slightly high pitched as he relished in the euphoria of finishing inside of you, his nails leaving ten moon shaped indents on your hips, the pain nothing compared to the feeling of him finally fucking his spend into you, you'd have to worry about the inevitable bruises and marks in the morning before work. "Fuck, you're… fuck."

Simon lowered himself down, resting his sweaty balaclava-clad face on your shoulder as you both caught your breaths, his cock twitching inside of you as he rode the waves of his orgasm.

Your eyes were blown out, staring up at the ceiling as you were hit with a sudden wave of realisation, your brain finally catching up with your body and taking in everything that had just happened, especially the fact that you had allowed some masked man you'd met at a pub on a tinder date to ravage you like a starved animal.

"Oh my god." You said, voice wavering as you shivered beneath the mountain of a man, who's sweaty body was pressed flush to yours, his cock softening inside of you as you both started to sober up. "O-Oh my god, Simon."

He let out a moan against your skin, languidly thrusting one final time into you before slowly pulling out, peeling himself off of you and letting the cold air envelop your now-shivering body, the feeling of his warm cum dripping down your puffy cunt pulling out another broken whine from your lips.

"Look at that…" You tried moving away as Simon ran a finger down your spent hole, gathering his cum best he could before slowly shoving it back into you, clicking his tongue at your reaction before leaning down and pressing a final kiss to your clit, the loud cry that left you making him smile almost predatorily. "So, so pretty, baby."

Your eyelids fluttered closed as you felt the bed shift beneath Simon's moving weight, allowing you time to set your head on straight and think about the next words that were going to come out of your mouth (That weren't strangled moans of the blond's name and jumbled cries about how good he felt.) while he moved around, no doubt getting his discarded clothes so he could slip away into the night.

"...leavin'?" You finally mustered out, letting your head fall to a side so you could watch him pick up his boxers and slip them on, his balaclava fixed into place like it had been when you met him, leaving you to stare into his mysterious blue eyes, the only gateway into the man who had just finished ravishing you.

"..." He turned to look at you over his shoulder, eyes trailing over your shivering frame as he fought internally over your words.

Ghost knew that it would be dangerous to stay, to indulge in your touch and show himself to you in one of his most vulnerable states. He didn't know you outside of the few hours he had spent with you, and even with that, it wasn't enough for Ghost to let his guard down around you.

Simon wanted to stay, he wanted to climb back into bed and let you curl into his side, let his warm hands run up and down your warm skin like he had done while pleasuring you, listen to your snores and even breathing. And despite probably not being able to fall asleep himself, Simon knew that it would be one of the few tranquil nights of his life.

So despite Ghost's alarming protests ringing in his head, Simon slowly made his way into the empty spot of your bed next to you, the covers soft and cool against his heated skin, soothing the raging fire that seemed to boil inside of him at the mere sight of you, his large arms wrapping around you and pulling you towards his side of the bed.

As soon as your bare body made contact with his, you melted like ice cream on a hot day, curling into his side and allowing him to wrap his tattooed arm around you, calloused hands running up and down your sides, taking his sweet time memorising every curve and dip of your body as you rested your head onto his chest, ear pressed right above his rapidly beating heart.

Not one word was exchanged between you both the whole time you lied together, his fingers tracing every little nook and cranny of your skin he could find, stopping every once in a while to rub on a tense muscle or over a scar, the soft ministrations swiftly lulling you to sleep.

The hand that you had splayed on his chest was mimicking his movements, fingers running over the blond hair that adorned his chest, playing with the small cross that dangled from the small chain necklace around his neck. Every time his hand would come up to rub at your shoulders, you caught a peak at the many tattoos that sleeved his arm, and as much as you wanted to turn around and commit all of them to memory, every time you tried to move, he'd press you closer, as if he knew that if he did allow you to, you'd only put off sleeping for longer.

As your eyelids started drooping, you felt his other hand come up to rest over your smaller one, toughened fingers intertwining with your own softer ones, a tired smile forming at your lips before finally clocking out, his heartbeat a firm rhythm that pulled you further and further into the soft grasp of Hypnos.

As expected, Simon didn't sleep a wink.

He had tried to close his eyes and enjoy the warmth you radiated, trying his best to let your soft snores and murmurs lull him to sleep, but it was impossible.

Despite not having slept for more than two days, he was unable to fall asleep, on edge after the catastrophe that was his last mission.

That was one of the reasons he had decided to step out of his comfort zone and allow himself a night of indulgence with you, a night of letting himself go and take out all his anger on you, but he had been impuissant to hurt you or even come close to actually wound you, instead taking it as slow as he knew how to and muttering soft praises and sweet nicknames into your ear along with the degradation that he'd mixed in.

And even after tiring himself out, he still couldn't let himself fully relax.

But as he turned his head to look down at your sleeping face, he thought that maybe this wasn't so bad. He felt… at ease, for the first time in a while. No strident alarms to wake him up at the crack of dawn, no ringing in his ears as a grenade went off near him, no desperately patching up a wound and drenching his hands in blood, no screams and pleas of mercy reverberating around his head as he disposed of the enemy.

None of that. It was just you. With your body curled into his side and your soft skin beneath a killer's hands.

Which is why he wished he could stay there forever. Lock the door and have you in his arms for the rest of his life, without the paranoia and the horrors that followed him everywhere he went, only focus on you and how mushy you made him feel with only a few hours of knowing him.

Which is why he wished he could have just fallen asleep and ignored the vibrations that came from beneath his discarded clothes, that he didn't leave your side and pick up the phone, that he hadn't followed orders like he always did and hadn't left you alone.

He carefully tucked you in, making his side of the bed before hesitantly brushing his scarred knuckles against your flushed cheeks, an alternative to the kiss he oh-so wanted to press down onto you until you woke up, until you asked him to stay, until he caved in and left the 141 to fend for themselves.

But he didn't.

He closed the door to your bedroom, slipped his phone and keys back into his pockets and headed towards the front door, ready to leave you behind and go back to being Ghost.

But as his hand reached for the doorknob, his eyes caught onto a stack of fluorescent yellow sticky notes on the kitchen counter, and in a stroke of not so genius, he grabbed the nearest pen and scribbled down his number onto the piece of paper, signing it with a simple "S .", hoping that you'd deduce it was from him, and not from some random person whose name started with the letter S that had broken into your apartment just to give you their number.

He stuck it a bit too aggressively to the almost bare fridge, making sure it was in a visible spot that you wouldn't be able to miss before finally stepping out of your flat, adjusting his mask in the elevator's mirror and going back to the cold hearted killer his fellow soldiers knew as Ghost.

He'd expected it to be a short mission.

One that they'd be able to finish within two weeks at best so he could go back to his cramped flat in Manchester and hopefully get back to you.

He'd spent almost every day of the first week of his departure wondering if you'd found the note, if when he'd retrieve his phone back from his locker back at base, he'd find a few messages from an unknown number he hoped was yours, asking him how he was, asking him to meet up again, wondering if he was okay…

That's what mostly kept him going for the first few days.

Until it all went haywire.

The mission escalated quickly into a mess of soldiers and betrayals, flying from place to place and taking more lives with his bare hands than he had ever before.

Blood soaked his hands in a way it never had, the toll of deaths on his name increasing with every passing day, week, month, year.

When the mission that had started off as something simple, something Ghost couldn't even remember, ended after a year, the 141 couldn't be more relieved. And exhausted.

They'd fought for many months straight, barely finding places to get a wink of sleep, and sometimes even running out of food while they camped out in one of the dingy safe houses of whatever city they were currently stranded in.

But it was finally over. Their target had been disposed of and any enemy that remained had either been eliminated or had scurried off.

As the chopper brought them back to base, none of them said a word, even Johnny refrained from making any jokes, knowing that it would only piss off both of his superiors and maybe get a tired chuckle out of Gaz.

Price uttered a "Good job." to all of them before patting them on the shoulder and going to his office, no doubt ready to go back home and have the sleep of his life.

The two sergeants withheld from talking too much to their lieutenant, murmuring a goodbye to him before going their own way, Ghost not even bothering to answer, too mentally and physically exhausted to even open his mouth to speak.

The first thing he did once he reached his locker was throw the goddamn mask off, letting the plastic skull clatter against the tiles as he rummaged through his belongings, wanting nothing more than to get into some clean clothes and go back home, where he would drink away the horrors that would no doubt follow him and probably pass out watching reruns of football games he had missed.

The clothes he had worn the day before the mission were tighter, accentuating the change in his physique after putting his muscles to work for a whole year, the seams of his trousers digging uncomfortably into his legs, his pockets full of random junk he had left in there.

He fished for whatever was currently pressing against his backside, pulling out his small phone from the pocket, frowning down at the gadget, which was no doubt out of battery after being left for so long.

Simon was pleasantly surprised when the screen brightened, showing his black lock screen and the time, the battery hanging onto dear life with a 1%. He moved to grab his charger, his eyes still trained on the incoming notifications that would soon flood his home screen, not really expecting much aside from the emails entailing rubbish deals or the occasional spam from a porn site he'd signed up to as a teen and hadn't been able to delete.

Instead, he was bombarded with over a thousand notifications at once, all from the same unknown number, the messages going too quickly for his tired eyes, focusing on the random words he was able to take from the rapidly passing texts.

‍

Answer.

Ignoring.

Asshole.

Appointment.

Doctor.

Pub.

Baby.

Pregnancy.

‍‍

His mind blocked itself off as he processed the last word, trying to make sense of all the confusing messages that had been sent to his phone.

Had it been by accident? Was he the recipient of some prank? Had he unknowingly given out his number to someo-

You.

Simon's throat went dry as the realisation dawned on him. Without sparing another second, he unlocked his phone, clicking onto the notifications and scrolling down as fast he could while still intaking information, afraid that his phone would die out at any point in time and render him utterly confused and terrified.

His body went on autopilot the more he read, brain fuzzy as if he had just drank a whole bottle of hard-hitting liquor, his eyes fixed on the bright screen of his phone in terror.

He was in shock. His mind wasn't in the right state to process any of this, he wasn't able to properly begin to fathom the meaning behind your words, as simple as they were.

‍

— I'm pregnant.

— I'm fucking pregnant, Simon.

— I don't know how it happened, the chances of the pill failing are so fucking low, and of course it happened to us.

‍

— Please pick up.

— I know you're getting the messages.

‍

— The doctor told me it's too dangerous to perform the abortion.

— I have to keep it or risk my life.

‍

— I need you to answer, Simon. Please, I just need to know that you're there.

— I'm scared.

‍

— You're such an asshole, you know that, right?! Fucking gave me your number only to disappear? Left me pregnant with your bloody kid!? And you can't even bother to pick up the goddamn phone.

‍

— Fuck you.

‍

— …

— It's a boy. Thought you'd want to know.

‍

— My due date is in a month. Please… call me, if you're even reading these. I don't want to be alone.

‍

The phone flashed the low power message in hopes that Simon would take mercy on it and finally plug it in, but Simon paid it no mind, clear eyes staring down at the picture you'd attached during one of the first months of your pregnancy.

The blurry picture of an ecography staring back at him disproved any doubts that might have formed in his mind, your full name displayed at the bottom along with the date it was taken, solidifying the fact even more.

It was real. This was real. You'd been carrying his son for 9 months, sending him frantic and terrified messages all throughout the three trimesters in hopes that he'd answer, all the while he had forgotten all about you in the midst of his mission, while you probably didn't spend a single day of that year not thinking about him.

His phone went dark once it finally had enough, leaving him standing there with a dry throat and shaky hands.

It was rare for Ghost to feel fear, but not for Simon. His throat would contract with every breath, his nose would sting as tears threatened to form on his waterline, his hands would get shaky until he balled them up and threw a punch into whatever item was closest.

This time wasn't any different. He punched his locker door, denting the metal effortlessly as he tried to wash away the fear and guilt creeping up to him with the pain that bloomed at his knuckles, that ran up his arms like electric shocks until they went numb.

He was an asshole.

Simon knew that it wasn't his fault that the mission had been extended for way too long, but he kept thinking back to the moment he'd placed his number on your fridge, wondering what would have happened if he'd done the smart thing and added that he'd be unavailable for a while, but that he'd get back to you. Maybe you would have been less scared while going through the pregnancy, comforted by the thought that he hadn't been ignoring you, but he knew that even then, you would have gone through it alone and terrified.

"I'm an asshole."

He rested his head against the dented locker, the cool metal soothing the headache that had quickly formed after all the conflicting feelings that had rushed through him in the matter of a minute.

All he had wanted was to go back home and rest, but fuck him if he was going to be able to even close his eyes after learning he was a father.

He packed everything up as quickly as he could, not bothering to say goodbye or join the other three for a drink at a pub, heading to his car so he could get the fuck out of London and back to Manchester, where he prayed you still lived, in that tiny flat near that dingy pub where he had first laid eyes on you in.

As his gloved hands gripped the steering wheel hard enough to turn his knuckles white, a terrifying thought struck him.

Who's to say you had even kept the baby?

Who's to say you couldn't bear to look at the baby, that you'd given him away to a way more functional family?

The thought inflicted fear in him, a type of fear he didn't know if he should be feeling or not, confused with all the unpleasant emotions swirling inside of him.

"God, fuck!" He slammed his hands onto the steering wheel, the roar he had let out no doubt scaring any civilian that had been walking near his car at the time, but he couldn't care less.

All that was important now was getting back to you, to what he hoped was still the mother of his son.

Happy giggles and gurgles filled the living room, your tiny baby outstretching his arms out as you cycled his legs slowly, making silly faces down at him to keep him distracted.

Your doctor had recommended small exercises like these, some that would help develop his future motor skills, but you'd found that Tommy was a curious baby, one that couldn't stay still for longer than five minutes before he was whining and huffing in a futile attempt to get your attention and hopefully release him from his tiny prison; and so, in order to keep him focused, you resorted to having leisured conversations with him, your small son hanging onto your every word with wide blue eyes and a gaping mouth, as if he could understand your frustrations with the man who had blocked your car off and the girl from the bakery that had gotten your order wrong, or making silly faces at him to hear him giggle with glee.

You placed his small feet down and went back to your resting face, his eyes instantly going from your face to the closest toy, small chubby arm reaching out to grab it, your fingers running over his tummy and getting out a few giggles out of him before he finally grasped the toy, pressing it into his side.

As he distracted himself, you let yourself sit down properly, back hitting the edge of the sofa as you watched your son roll around on the blanket you'd laid down, letting yourself look up at the TV for a moment to have a small break, the news reporter standing in front of Big Ben ranting about some resolved political dispute or something.

Your eyes trailed back down to your son, who was wriggling around with a new toy in his grasp, cooing and drooling as he stared up at the ceiling, blue eyes fixed on one of the many cracks in the ceiling.

You winced at the not so friendly reminder of the state your flat was in. Going through a pregnancy on your own without any help and barely any money to take care of yourself left your home in a condition you were not proud of. You'd tried your best to clean and make the nursery as cosy as possible, but at the end of your third trimester you could barely lean down to pick up the hoover. Once you had been allowed back home, you'd cleaned up, but you couldn't really do much to fix the poor way your building had been constructed.

A sigh left your lips, leaning down to rest your head against your knees with closed eyes, giving yourself a few moments of sacred rest, something you seldom got anymore those days.

Sometimes, you thought as you wrapped your arms around your legs, you wished you weren't alone. As much hate you had harboured for your son's father across the year, you couldn't help the longing that still filled you every time you thought about him, wondering if you'd ever see him again, if he'd ever hold his son in his arms.

Frustrated tears filled the corners of your eyes, wiping them away with your sleeves before turning your attention back to your son, who was now squirming in his spot making grabby hands at you.

"I've got you, duck, don't worry." You cooed, picking him up and pressing a few kisses to his chubby cheeks, cradling him to your chest as you got up from the floor, careful to not drop him or bump him into anything.

As you took him back to his room, routinely changing his diaper and clothes, you thought back to the small breakdown you almost had had a few minutes ago, letting out an exhausted sigh. There was no use in imagining a future where Simon fit in, you'd given him enough time to answer, to show any signs of life at all. You were alone.

You were on the verge of tears as you placed Tommy in his tiny crib, handing him the small duck plushie your grandma had knitted a few months back when she had come to visit, watching him cling onto it in his sleep for a few moments, his soft breaths and coos tranquillising the waves of anxiety threatening to drown you.

"Good night, Tom." You whispered, pressing a kiss to his chubby cheek before flicking on the night light, carefully closing the door and resting your body against it, a shaky sigh leaving your chapped lips.

God, you were pathetic. Hung up over a man who you'd only known for a few hours, who'd left you with a baby (unknowingly or not, didn't matter), who still haunted your dreams every time you tried to get some rest. Why couldn't he have just picked up the phone? Why had he just given you his fucking number if he wasn't bothering on answering? Why had he gotten into your head so easily, with his sweet nicknames and soft kisses? Why couldn't you just fucking mov-

Your whole body jumped as the shrill doorbell rang, the sound reverberating around the flat and no doubt reaching Tommy's sensitive ears.

"God, yeah, I hear it!" You cried out as the sound didn't stop, starting to get worried that it would wake your baby up and then you'd have to deal with putting him to sleep all over again. "Fuck! I know, I'm coming!"

You looked through the peephole, eyebrows furrowing as you gazed upon a man's tacky army jacket instead of the normal face, so either this guy was incredibly fucking tall or he was standing on a stool.

Knowing that the area you lived in wasn't the safest, you unlocked the door but kept the chain latch on, a gap big enough so you could see the guy outside but not big enough for him to attack you.

"What?" You snapped, a bit harsher than how you'd normally answer the door, but this guy didn't really deserve any respect after how he'd basically abused your doorbell to the point of the sound still ringing in your ears. "What do you-"

Your gaze had been fixed onto his chest, scanning the army jacket you had spied through the peephole, cringing internally at the Union Jack plastered on his left bicep, hoping to God that he wasn't some type of Tory propagandist going door to door. But as your eyes trailed up to meet his, your mouth went dry.

Crystal blue eyes framed by pretty blonde eyelashes (identical to the blue eyes your son had been staring up at you with for the past three months), contrasting with the black face paint that was smeared around his eyes, the rest of his face obscured by that damn skull balaclava that haunted you.

It was him. It was fucking him.

"Simon." You said his name breathlessly, not missing the way his body stiffened at your shaky tone.

"Yeah. It's me."

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x fem reader #ghost x female reader #cod mwii #call of duty #ghost x you #ghost fanfiction #ghost x fem!reader #ghost fic #cod mwii x reader #ghost smut #simon riley smut #simon ghost riley smut #cw pregnancy #— ménage

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rispwr · 2 months ago

Text

Hate you - chapter 1 - J.JK

Pairings : ex! Jungkook x ex! Reader

Notes : finally here!! lowkey didn't get to my word goal:((

Genre : Ex2L, angst, slow burn, fake dating, slice of life, fluff, e2l, corporate rivals, smau, smut

Sypnosis : ‘You were always told that hating someone is the only way it doesn’t hurt but what if you can’t hate him? No matter how hard you try your heart will always find it’s way to his’

2 years after breaking up with your boyfriend of 2 years you were finally on your way to become the ceo of your family’s company your rival turns out to be your ex.

Contents/warnings :

Misunderstood break up, insecurities, mentions of self harms or mental health issues, jk is mean at the start, yelling, sensitive language or words, mentions of family trauma, corporate au, smart (both), mentions of yoongi x oc, mentions of cheating, soon to be ceo! Jk, soon to be ceo! Oc, oc is still named Y/n or {__}, corporate rivals?, fake dating, lack of communication, death of a character, mentions of suicide attempt, platonic relationships with other members

NSFW contents : specified in chapter

series masterlist

The question that lingers in my mind

Namjoon quickly made his way to your house, arms loaded with a tub of your favorite ice cream and a bag filled with your favorite go to alcohol or probably beer. He was your closest friend, practically a brother, and he always seemed to know how to comfort you when you needed it most. The familiar sound of his knuckles tapping against the door echoed through your silent apartment.

"Y/N! I'm hereee!" he called, his voice bright and cheerful, trying to cut through the heaviness of the moment.

"It's open! Just come in," you managed to reply, though your voice cracked, betraying the tears you had been trying to stifle. As soon as the door swung open, you felt a fresh wave of sobs building in your chest.

Namjoon rushed in, his expression shifting from playful to concerned in an instant. "What happened??" he asked, worry etched across his features as he approached your room.

You couldn't find the words, the emotions overwhelming you as you sat on the edge of your bed, crumpled tissues littering the floor around you. Instead, you just continued to cry, your heart breaking all over again.

"Do you want me to call Jungkook??" he offered, but at the mention of his name, your sobs intensified. The thought of hearing his voice was too painful, too fresh.

Namjoon paused, taking a moment to assess the situation. He knelt beside you, turning your head gently to meet his gaze. "Did you guys fight?" he asked softly, as if trying to piece together the fragments of your distress.

You shook your head, tears spilling down your cheeks. "Worse," you finally managed to reply, voice trembling. "Joon... he fucking broke up with me. He fucking—fuck. He dumped me."

The air felt heavy with the weight of your confession, and Namjoon's eyes widened in shock. "Why?? What happened??" he pressed, his tone a mix of disbelief and concern.

"Exactly... I don't know what I did wrong," you sobbed harder, the floodgates opening. "How can he just throw away our memories like that? And he has the fucking audacity to tell me to wait for him" Your words trailed off, and you buried your face in your hands, unable to contain the wave of sorrow crashing over you.

Namjoon instinctively pulled you into his arms, wrapping you in a comforting embrace. "Hey, it's okay. Just let it out," he murmured, gently rubbing your back as you tried to cool down.

After a few moments, you pulled away slightly, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. "Let's go to a club later, Joon. Maybe I'll find someone better there," you suggested, the anger in your voice barely masking the hurt.

"No, Y/N. You are not getting knocked up or catching dirty diseases from filthy men in clubs," he replied firmly, though there was a hint of a smile at your reckless idea. "Let's just drink or hang out today, yeah?"

You considered it for a moment. "We can bring friends too if you want," he suggested, gauging your reaction.

Flashback

The moment you received Jungkook's breakup text, your heart sank. The message was blunt, cold, and devoid of any emotion—just like the man you once thought would love you forever. With shaking hands, you stared at your phone, disbelief coursing through you. After two years of shared dreams and plans, he had chosen to end things with a simple text. It felt unreal, like a cruel joke played by the universe.

You had to see him, to confront him. You couldn't let this end without hearing his voice, without understanding why. So you drove to his penthouse, each turn of the road amplifying the dread that clutched at your heart.

When you arrived, you barely registered the grandeur of his place—the sleek furniture, the breathtaking view of the city that had once felt like a backdrop to your love story. Instead, all you could think about was the weight of Jungkook's decision and the emptiness that came with it.

You stepped inside, the familiar scent of his cologne wrapping around you like a memory. Your footsteps echoed in the spacious hallway as you made your way to his room. You could feel your heart racing, a mixture of anger, confusion, and sorrow bubbling up inside you.

"Y/N... I told you we're done," Jungkook's voice was strained as he stood with his back to you, facing the window. His shoulders were tense, and he seemed unwilling to meet your gaze.

"Is that really how you're going to do this? You sent me a text. A fucking text, Jungkook! You didn't tell me anything." Your voice rose, a sharp edge of frustration cutting through the pain.

He turned slightly, just enough for you to see the profile of his face, marred by uncertainty and conflict. "Y/N... I need space, alright?!" The sudden snap in his tone took you aback, his frustration spilling over.

"Space? Why?" Your voice cracked, the gravity of his words sinking in. "What did I do wrong? Was I not enough?" Each question felt like a dagger, piercing through the thin veil of composure you had left.

"Was there someone el—" Before you could finish, Jungkook stepped forward, closing the gap between you in an instant. He grabbed your face with both hands and crashed his lips onto yours. The kiss was desperate, consuming, as if he were trying to devour you, to erase the reality of what was happening.

You melted into him, instinctively wrapping your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer. Your heart raced, conflicting emotions swirling inside you. But just as quickly as it began, he pulled away, breathless and tearful.

"Jungkook... baby, please, no..." you begged, your voice trembling as the tears you had been holding back began to spill over. "Don't do this to us."

"I think it's time we take a break, Y/N." His voice was softer now, but it carried an unyielding finality. "I'll come back to you once I'm all better and perfect for you. Hm?" He brought your face up gently, forcing you to look into his eyes, those familiar brown depths that had always felt like home.

You nodded silently, your heart breaking at the thought of being apart. The weight of his words crushed you, leaving you feeling small and defeated.

Minutes passed in silence, a heavy tension settling between you. It felt as if the air had thickened, each breath becoming a struggle as you both tried to navigate the emotional turmoil that had engulfed you.

"I just... I don't understand," you finally whispered, trying to process the whirlwind of feelings. "We were happy, weren't we? What changed?"

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. "It's not that simple, Y/N. I don't want to drag you down with me. I need to figure things out... for both of us."

"But I want to help you! I want to be there for you!" you protested, tears streaming down your cheeks, mascara running down in dark streaks. "Why can't you see that?"

"Because sometimes love isn't enough," he replied, his voice strained with emotion. He stepped back, distancing himself as if he were afraid of the intensity of what was happening between you.

The moment stretched painfully, the silence growing heavier. You felt as if you were teetering on the edge of a precipice, unsure of how to step back from this chasm. You wanted to scream, to shake him and make him see reason, but all you could do was stand there, vulnerable and exposed.

"can you do something for me baby?" Jungkook said, his expression softening for a moment. "just- just wait for me. i'll be back once i'm all ready, better and fit for you. can you be okay with that baby?"

The thought of moving on without him felt unbearable. "How can you ask me that? How can you just walk away and expect me to be okay?" Your voice was barely a whisper, each word laced with sorrow.

"Because I love you," he said, and it felt like a knife to your heart. "And I don't deserve you. his is the hardest thing I've ever had to do, i'll be back once i finally deserve you."

The finality of his words hung in the air, suffocating you. It felt like the walls were closing in, and you struggled to breathe.

"I can't believe you're doing this," you murmured, feeling your heart splintering into a million pieces. "I thought we were in this together."

"Y/N... please," he said, his voice breaking slightly. He stepped closer again, his hands cupping your face. "I need you to trust me. This is what's best for both of us."

You searched his eyes, looking for any sign of doubt, any flicker of hesitation. But all you saw was resolve, and it shattered you. You couldn't fight against him anymore; it felt like trying to hold back the tide.

"Just... go," you finally said, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. "If this is what you want, then go. But don't expect me to be here when you come back."

With that, you turned away, feeling like a ghost in the place that had once felt like home. The silence followed you as you walked out of his room, your heart heavy with the weight of your shattered dreams.

The drive back to your penthouse was a blur. You could barely see through the tears streaming down your face, mascara staining your cheeks. Each turn felt like a reminder of what you had lost. You replayed the moments you had shared, the laughter, the plans, the way he had looked at you with such warmth. Now, it was all gone—an illusion shattered by a single text.

When you arrived at your penthouse, the familiar surroundings offered little comfort. The walls felt like they were closing in on you, suffocating you with memories that now felt tainted. You dropped your keys on the table, the sound echoing through the silence.

You collapsed onto the bed, wrapping your arms around yourself as if trying to hold together the pieces of your broken heart. The emptiness inside you ached, a deep, gnawing pain that refused to let go. You could feel the tears coming again, an uncontrollable wave of sorrow crashing over you.

Why couldn't he see that you were enough? That you wanted to fight for him, for the love you had built together?

2 weeks

It had been two weeks since Jungkook broke up with you—two weeks of silence that felt louder than any argument you'd ever had. Two weeks without his messages lighting up your phone, his reassuring voice calling you just to check in, or his sweet words that somehow always knew how to soothe the deepest parts of you. The absence was a void, consuming and hollow, yet sharp at the edges, cutting into you with every reminder.

You missed the little things. How he would text you "good morning" without fail, his sleepy voice leaving voicemails if he couldn't reach you. The silly pictures he'd send to make you laugh on your roughest days, and his small, unexpected gifts. They'd come in glossy packages, ribbons you'd undo with eager hands only to reveal something so extravagantly expensive you'd feel your heart swell and your voice catch, telling him he didn't have to spend so much. But he would just smile, his hand resting gently against your cheek, saying, "You deserve to be treated for what you're worth. And you're worth millions... billions. So much more than that."

No amount of words had convinced him that you didn't need all those grand gestures. It was his presence, his love, that was priceless to you. He was what you wanted, all you needed. But now, without him, even those little things he left behind seemed like they were mocking you, a painful reminder of promises unkept.

Two weeks should have been long enough to let go, to start piecing together the shattered remains of your heart. You told yourself every day that it was time to move on, to forget. But your heart betrayed you every night as you lay in bed, reaching instinctively to the other side where he used to lie. The sheets were cold now, his scent slowly fading. And with each reminder, a thousand questions echoed in your mind.

Why was it so easy for him to leave? Why did he walk away so quickly while you were still drowning in the memories he left behind?

You took a deep breath, swallowing down the ache that rose in your throat. This wasn't healthy. You couldn't go on like this, holding onto fragments of a love that no longer existed. Standing up, you made your way to your closet, determination stiffening your resolve. If he could move on so easily, then so could you.

Opening the doors, you took in the rows of clothes neatly hung, interspersed with items that weren't yours—hoodies, shirts, and jackets that he'd left behind after countless nights spent together. You reached out, fingers brushing over a worn T-shirt of his, the fabric soft and familiar beneath your touch. You could still remember the last time he'd worn it, his arms wrapped around you as you lay in his embrace, your head resting against his chest, his heartbeat lulling you to sleep.

But that was then. And now... now it was time to let go.

You started pulling his clothes out one by one, each article feeling heavier than the last. It was almost a ritual, each item you took out a small act of defiance, a reclaiming of the space he'd left behind. As the pile grew, so did the anger simmering within you. It bubbled up, breaking through the sadness, sharpening into something fierce and raw.

"Fuck you, Jungkook," you muttered under your breath, barely realizing that you'd spoken aloud. "For making me love you and then leaving me like this." The words tumbled out, each one laced with the bitterness that had been building up inside you.

With each piece you tossed into the box, the weight on your chest seemed to lessen just a bit. You threw in the hoodies he'd lent you on cold nights, the shirts you'd worn as pajamas, each one carrying the ghost of his touch. You wanted them out of your sight, out of your life.

Once his clothes were gone, you moved on to the other things—the little keepsakes he'd left behind. His toothbrush next to yours, his cologne bottle half-empty on the dresser, the small stack of books he'd borrowed and never returned. You swept it all into the box, each item feeling like a wound you were finally closing.

But as you finished packing everything, your hand brushed against something cold, and you froze. It was the necklace—the one he'd given you on that perfect night when he'd promised you forever. Your fingers trembled as you held it up, the delicate chain glinting in the light. You remembered how he'd clasped it around your neck, his fingers grazing your skin as he whispered, "This is my promise to you. I'm never leaving, no matter what."

The weight of his broken promise pressed down on you, and before you could stop it, the tears spilled over. You clutched the necklace tightly, the cool metal digging into your palm as you struggled to hold yourself together.

Why had he left? Why hadn't he fought for you, for the life you'd planned together? You'd given him everything, yet he'd walked away as if it meant nothing.

Your knees buckled, and you sank down onto the floor, sobs wracking your body as the pain you'd tried so hard to contain came rushing to the surface. You felt like you were drowning, lost in a sea of grief and anger and confusion. It was as if every part of you that had once been whole was now fractured, broken beyond repair.

In the midst of your tears, you fumbled for your phone, your fingers shaking as you scrolled through your contacts. Without thinking, you dialed Namjoon's number, needing the comfort of someone who understood, who could help anchor you in the storm of emotions.

The phone rang, and after a few moments, his familiar voice answered. "Yes, Y/N? Is everything okay?" His tone was warm, tinged with concern, and it only made the tears flow harder.

"Joon..." you choked out, trying to steady your breathing. "Why—why is this so hard? I just... I just wish there was something more I could hate him for. Something to make this easier, to stop myself from loving him..." Your voice broke, a fresh wave of sobs escaping as the words you'd been holding in finally spilled out.

"Oh, Y/N..." Namjoon's voice softened, filled with empathy. "He's an asshole for doing this to you, babe. You didn't deserve any of it. I'm so sorry." There was a pause, and then he added gently, "Want me to come over? I can bring some ice cream, or we can just sit and talk if you need."

For a brief moment, the thought of having him there was comforting. But you shook your head, even though he couldn't see it. "No... I'm alright. I just... I just needed to hear your voice," you murmured, the exhaustion in your voice evident.

"Okay," he said quietly, and you could hear the sadness in his tone, the frustration that he couldn't do more to help. "But if you change your mind, I'm just a call away. Promise me you'll take care of yourself?"

"Yeah..." you replied softly, the words barely more than a whisper.

Before he could say more, you ended the call, feeling a pang of guilt. Namjoon had always been there for you, a steady presence in your life, yet right now, not even his reassurance could ease the ache inside you.

You looked down at the necklace still clutched in your hand, your fingers loosening around it. It felt heavy, a tangible reminder of the promises he'd broken, the love that had once felt so real. Slowly, you unclasped it from around your neck, feeling a strange sense of finality as you placed it gently in the box, on top of everything else.

The last piece of him, gone.

flashback

Paris was like a living dream. The city's air felt soft, carrying the scent of fresh bread, blooming flowers, and that slight trace of romance found only here. Jungkook's hand held yours as you both strolled down cobblestone streets, the lights of the city casting a warm, golden glow on the world around you. It was your first anniversary, and Jungkook had insisted on making it memorable.

"The city suits you," he murmured, his eyes soft as they roamed over your face. You squeezed his hand in response, feeling so grateful to be here with him.

"It's... perfect," you breathed, taking in the architecture, the people, and, most of all, him.

That day, as you both wandered through Paris, something caught your eye in a small shop window—a necklace, delicate yet striking, in the shape of a butterfly. You stopped in front of it, drawn in by the design's subtle elegance. But you were careful not to linger too long, as you weren't one to ask for material things. Growing up, you were used to having everything handed to you without a word, and you always felt a tinge of guilt about it. It made you appreciate thoughtfulness over wealth.

Jungkook noticed the way your eyes lingered, though you quickly looked away. He smiled to himself, filing the moment away in his mind. You had no idea that he'd already decided on a plan.

That night, back in the hotel room, you were peacefully asleep after a long day. With your steady breathing as his only company, Jungkook slowly and carefully slipped out of bed, glancing at you one last time to make sure you were truly asleep. He moved quietly, slipping out the door and into the Parisian night, with a mission in mind.

Jungkook made his way back to the boutique. The shopkeeper, who was just about to close up, welcomed him with a knowing smile as he walked in.

"Changed your mind about the necklace, sir?" she asked, recognizing him.

"Yes," Jungkook replied, a hint of excitement in his voice. "I'd like it custom-made."

He explained his idea: the initials "K.Y." and "J.JK" engraved on the back, where only the two of you would know. The butterfly itself meant more to him than he could easily say; it was a symbol of transformation and new beginnings. Y/N had helped him see that change didn't have to be terrifying, that it could be a journey to something better. She was the one who had encouraged him to open his heart and embrace the unknown. In a way, she had transformed him. The necklace was not just a gift; it was his heart, crafted in gold, for her to wear close to hers.

after paying. he held the necklace in his hand, feeling a wave of excitement wash over him as he admired the initials engraved so delicately. He could already imagine your face when you'd see it, and he smiled to himself as he headed back to the hotel, hiding the box carefully before slipping back into bed beside you.

On the last night of the trip, Jungkook took your hand, guiding you to a spot near the Eiffel Tower. The sky was a rich, deep blue, and the lights of the tower illuminated everything around you, casting a golden glow that felt almost magical. You were mesmerized, feeling a sense of peace and happiness that only deepened with him beside you.

Jungkook stopped in front of you, letting go of your hand to reach into his pocket. "Close your eyes," he whispered, his voice warm.

You laughed, your heart fluttering. "What? You're not proposing or something, are you?" you joked, cheeks warming as you looked up at him.

"Not yet," he replied softly, his eyes holding a promise, "but close. I'll definitely do that one day, baby." His words sent a shiver through you, and you obeyed, closing your eyes as your heart raced.

"Okay, open your eyes," he said, a note of excitement in his voice.

You opened them, and there it was—the butterfly necklace you'd seen on the first day, resting in his open palm. "Oh my god...!" You squealed, your hands flying to your mouth. The necklace was even more beautiful up close, the delicate wings catching the light perfectly. You launched yourself at Jungkook, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug. "I love you! I can't believe you did this!"

Jungkook laughed, holding you close and watching the pure joy on your face. "Look at the back," he said gently, guiding the necklace to face you.

You turned it over and gasped as you read the initials, your own and his, engraved into the back. The sight of it brought tears to your eyes, the meaning behind the gesture sinking in deeply. "Oh my god, baby..." You could barely speak, your heart full.

He brushed his thumb over your cheek, smiling softly. "It's a butterfly, like you, because you helped me through my fear of change. You showed me that change can be beautiful, that letting go and starting new... can lead to amazing things. You opened my heart to new beginnings, and the best beginning you gave me... was with you."

"Jungkook..." Tears brimmed in your eyes, and for a moment, all you could do was look at him, taking in every detail of the person who had become your whole world. You reached up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, then to his nose, and both his cheeks, making him giggle.

"I love you," you whispered against his cheek, "so, so much. Thank you for this—for everything."

back to present

As you closed the lid, you felt a strange sense of emptiness. The box sat there, filled with fragments of a love that had once been everything to you, and yet now, it was nothing more than a collection of memories you were desperate to forget.

For the rest of the night, you sat in silence, the weight of the loss settling over you like a heavy blanket. You wanted to hate him, to erase every trace of him from your mind. But no matter how hard you tried, his presence lingered, a haunting reminder of what you'd once had and what you'd lost.

I'll get over him, you told yourself, though the words felt hollow, as if you were trying to convince yourself of something that wasn't true. But maybe, just maybe, if you repeated it enough, one day it would be real.

3 months

The days blurred together after the breakup. Three months. For three whole months, you'd convinced yourself that this hatred for Jungkook was all you needed to numb the pain. At first, it worked, almost like a coping mechanism—every time you felt that ache in your chest, you would remind yourself of the reasons to be angry, to stay distant. But no matter how many times you reminded yourself of the anger, it was never enough to cover the emptiness, the loneliness that slowly crept in, hollowing out pieces of you.

You were isolating yourself from everyone who tried to reach you, pushing them away as if they were intruders. Namjoon had called and texted every day, and Jennie had stopped by repeatedly, but you never opened the door. Even Seokjin had come over with Sana to try and pull you out of this haze. Yet you felt too far gone. You loved Jungkook. Too much. And every time you thought of him, it felt like a fresh wound tearing open.

Then came that Thursday morning, the first rays of light slipping through your curtains, though you could barely feel them. You'd spent another night tossing and turning, haunted by memories of him. And something within you just... broke. You reached for the bottle of sleeping pills by your bedside, not thinking, just wanting the pain to fade. One pill, then two, then three, then more. You felt yourself drifting, the world becoming softer, quieter.

But the next thing you knew, you were waking up, blinking against the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room. It felt like a dream, surreal and hazy, until you began to focus on the faces surrounding you—your family, looking terrified and heartbroken, Namjoon with his head in his hands, Jennie crying softly beside him, and Seokjin gripping Sana's hand tightly. And then, your gaze landed on him. Jungkook was there, his eyes red and swollen, a look of devastation etched across his face. They were all worried sick.

The night before, Namjoon had wanted to surprise you with Sana. They'd brought over your favorite snacks and movies, hoping to lift your spirits. But when they arrived, your place was silent. Namjoon had called your name, but there was no answer. That's when they found you, lying on your bed, your hand loosely clutching the bottle of pills. Sana had screamed for him, her voice trembling and desperate. "Namjoon! Call 911! Please, I beg you!" She was sobbing as she held you in her arms, trying to shake you awake, her own heart breaking with each unresponsive second. "Y/N, please... please wake up!"

Namjoon's hands had shaken as he called for help, explaining the situation to the paramedics, his own voice cracking as he fought to stay composed. They both were crying, praying as they waited for the ambulance, the moments dragging on as they feared the worst.

Now, seeing you awake, a mixture of relief and heartbreak filled the room. But the silence was thick, tension brewing as everyone grappled with what had almost happened. It was Jungkook who broke it, his voice raw, trembling with both anger and hurt.

"Y/N, are you... are you insane?" he snapped, his fists clenched, his face a mixture of anger and fear. "Do you have any idea what you almost did?"

You felt your heart clench, the pain resurfacing, sharper now in his presence. "So what, Jungkook?" you replied bitterly, your voice shaking. "Why do you even care? You didn't care about my feelings when you decided to just leave me. You left, Jungkook. You left, and now you're acting like you care?"

The words spilled out before you could stop them, each one filled with months of pain and anger that had been bottled up. Jungkook opened his mouth, about to say something, but you cut him off.

"Leave, Jungkook. Just leave."

The finality in your words hit him like a punch. He froze, staring at you, his face contorted with hurt. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out of the room. The door shut behind him with a loud thud that seemed to echo through the silence, leaving everyone else frozen in place, tears streaming down their faces. Jennie clung to Seokjin, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs, while Namjoon looked at you, his own face wet with tears as he fought to hold himself together.

It was only then that the weight of everything you'd put them through hit you, the reality of how close they'd come to losing you. They sat in silence, each one lost in their own thoughts, grieving for the person they'd almost lost, the pain written across their faces as they struggled to find the right words.

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two-white-butterflies · 7 months ago

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coaxed you into paradise - c. 32

Description: The life of Saera Targaryen told in four acts. She was her father's forgotten daughter, cast aside as she looked nothing like her mother. Her younger days were spent beside her uncle. Years following her marriage with Ser Harwin Strong, she catches him in an affair with her older sister. She returns to seek solace in the arms of Daemon, whose loved her all her life.

masterlist for this series

Chapter Thirty-Two: Exile

Saera takes a deep breath; moving the curtains back, allowing the morning rays to enter their shared chambers. She feels his hands settle around her waist. "Daemon," she whispered. "You should come with Daegon to Harrenhal. Spread out before Aegon makes a move." he commands, staring deep into her purple eyes.

She knows what the command means.

He wants her away from the battle.

"- bring our children too, they'll be safer there." he added.

Elinda Massey pours him a goblet of wine. He reaches for it - silently dismissing the handmaiden.

"My father was a slave to his omens and portents," she started, sitting on the foot of the bed.

"He dreamt of you wearing a crown before you were born." Daemon took a sip of his wine. "He dreamt that I'd be his son. He was wrong - could he have been wrong about Daegon?" her teeth burrowed into her lower lip.

Daemon shifts.

"What about him?" he inquired.

She reaches for her ear, playing with her earrings. She stares off to the horizon, evidently contemplating. "Saera." he repeats her name, more firmly this time. "He said that Daegon should be King." she informs, reasoning with herself.

"You should've told me." he scolded.

He felt betrayed.

"I wasn't certain, kepus. I didn't want to ruin our quiet life." she reasoned, eyes watery with tears threatening to spill. "- I didn't want to risk any of our children's life for something I did not have proof of." she added, fearing that the rift between them would grow.

Love and hate were the same thing, and if allowed to fester - may never return to adoration.

"Daemon, please say something." her voice comes out as a whisper. Daemon snaps out of his trance. He looks at her face - tearful eyes, teeth burrowing into her lower lips.

He vowed to never cause her sorrow, vowed to always protect her.

He kneels in front of her, cupping her cheeks and placing a kiss on her lips. "It was the wisest choice, all the more reason to keep our family in Harrenhal." he placed another kiss on her lips.

He didn't want to be a pessimist, but this could be their last meeting. The Hightowers will not chafe their knees.

"Pack your bags, and the children's too. I'll have the gold cloaks escort you after luncheon." he stood up, forcing a smile on his lips. "You'll come with us?" she asked in a pleading tone.

"You know better than that." he teased.

"When will we see each other again?" she inquired.

They've never apart in all the twelve years they've been together; their apartness only brought turmoil, like the War in Stepstones. She fears of what their distance may bring, what it would do to him.

"Nothing has ever kept me from you, wife." he stated.

"- and nothing ever will." he promised.

Ser Otto Hightower placed a finger to his lips. He stares at his grandson, sprawled on the floors of the throne room. "Aemond," he gritted his teeth, anger pulsing through his veins.

'Not a shred of decency for his wife.' he thought.

It was a surprise to him when one of his informants came late at night, whispers of seeing Aemond with a whore down in Fleabottom.

"This behavior is unbecoming of a prince. Your wife is in her chambers, unable to eat or drink or even sleep. In a few hours the entire realm will know about your son's death, we cannot have rumors of you whoring and drinking." he scolded.

There was a drastic change in Aemond - when he married Alyssa, but you can never change a man's nature.

"We've lost, Otto." Aemond manages to choke out, fighting the pulsating pain in his skull. "Rhaenyra has murdered my poor boy. And Alicent holds love for the enemy, that makes both of them fools." he cursed, still feeling the ale in his throat.

"Daemon will side with us - provided that Alyssa is restored to sanity." Otto states, in no mood for another fight.

"You must restore your wife to sanity, or she will jump off the windows of her chambers." he threatened, wanting to see if his grandson still held love for the woman.

"Shut up," Aemond mumbled - burying his face in his coat.

She could smell the salt breeze. She could hear the waves that were crashing behind her. "I was young when I asked you, what makes us different from our subjects? Why do we live in castles while they live in squalors. You told me that our dragons set us apart from them." she continued, trying her best to recall the story.

She adjusts Daelon on her arms, tying him firmly to her body.

"I said: but we are all mortals, we live and die like them. You told me that I was right, and we are the same - in the same way that a dragon was akin to a lizard, we had the same scales and figure, but we were greater than them, because we can command dragons." she told.

"Husband, there are whispers in the north - dragonseeds that can claim dragons without having the proper blood. Find the right one and our victory will be guaranteed, we'll see Alyssa and Aelor again." she informed, relaying a story that she's heard long ago.

"I will," he promised - pressing a kiss to Daelon and Viserra's foreheads. "- as long as you promise me that you'll stay safe." he required and she nodded with a smile.

"Of course." she promised.

He turns to look at his oldest child.

Their eyes having a conversation of their own.

A few minutes after, they all boarded their dragons - fleeing to Harrenhal.

Daemon stares at Rhaenys.

"A raven has told Rhaenyra that her son is dead. She's acted composed these past few days, but she was bound to explode." she whispered, watching a few of the gold cloaks leave in boats to Harrenhal.

"She was a fool to go there alone. What if Aemond were to happen upon her?" he snaps. Annoyed at the cowardice she showed. "- then I would fear for Aemond." Rhaenys interrupts him.

"The queen was wise to recluse herself. She has not acted for revenge on impulse," Rhaenys compliments.

"- or have we not caught her acting for revenge?" he whispered, and their attention is piqued by a ship arriving with a Hightower sigil.

Daemon narrowed his eyes as he walked down the flight of stairs. There were a million different possibilities. "Ser Otto," he greeted, keeping the conversation vague and distant. "Prince Daemon," the man greeted in return, adjusting his collar.

Only then did he realize that the older man was wearing black.

"Have you come to surrender?" Daemon teased.

"Where is Princess Rhaenyra?" Otto tried to look for a figure behind the Rogue Prince. "The Queen is predisposed." he corrected.

A wave of satisfaction washed over Ser Otto.

"I did not come here for an argument, nor did I come here as the King's Hand." the man tried to keep his composure.

He had the winning hand, after all.

"- I came here as Prince Aelor's great-grandsire." he added.

Daemon scoffed.

His grandchild was their leverage.

"Aelor has been in this world for one winter, I assumed that we were better than using his name for a feckless campaign." Daemon breathed, containing his anger - just as his wife taught him.

"He is dead, according to informants: Rhaenyra hired mercenaries to murder the boy whilst Alyssa slept." he informed.

next chapter >>

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tomhockstetter7-111 · 21 days ago

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Highest Form of Empathy - Chapter 2

2k+ words

Logan X Empath!Reader

It's a blessing and a curse, feeling other's pain. More so when you can take it away, albeit at the expense of your own peace. One-night stands were a usual for you. That's all this was supposed to be. But, seeing someone in so much pain, you couldn't leave him like that. You just couldn't. Besides, it's not like you'd ever see him again.....

CW: N/A

Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Late December, 2005

Calgary, Alberta

Waking to the sound of your alarm, you shut it down and stare at the ceiling. Your brain feels…empty. No noise, no anxieties, no urgencies? Just an ominous, heavy quiet.

'Deal with it later,' you told yourself. Well, now is later, and you don’t even know where to start.

You lay in bed, arm slung over your eyes when your second alarm breaks the deafening silence.

It’s not until you drag yourself out from under the covers and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, placing your feet on the icy floor, that you realize the weight of your body. You want to cry. But, why? Screwing your eyes shut, you spend the better part of ten minutes staring at the wood floor as you try to pull yourself together. You still see his eyes, no longer pools to get lost in, but two voids threatening to swallow you whole. All that pain wrapped in one person…you thought you could handle it.

Walking into work, you’re approached by blonde hair pulled into a stylized ponytail waving cheerfully at you. Amber. You met during lunch break on her first day of work two years ago. She seemed so excited to be here, introducing herself despite the prickly exterior you surrounded yourself in. Try as you did to push her away, her clinginess paired with her cheerful disposition making you recoil, you couldn’t find it in yourself to push her away. Soon enough, the two of you settled into a weekly routine of Friday night drinks. She often jokes that she adopted you that first day, but she was more a lost puppy following you home in the rain. And, what monster kicks the puppy? You never let her too close, though. You learned long ago about the safety of arm’s length.

She wraps you in a friendly side hug and you try not to tense under her touch. “You look like hell.”

"Thanks?" You give an awkward smile.

"Just calling it like it is."

You shrug her off as you approach the break room.

"So, what was his name?" She asks the question in a high sing-song tone.

"Pardon?"

She throws a smirk your way. "I'm not dumb. I know that look."

You knit your eyebrows together. What look? Your "look" was a practiced, neutral meant to keep nosy people at bay. Still, you decide to entertain her. "Actually, I don't know." You watch in amusement as her expression turns into one of frustration.

"You need to stop doing that. It's not healthy, you know."

"Why?" You grab your water from the fridge and shut the door a little too firmly. “I’m still young. Let me have fun.”

"You know that's not what I meant. Drinking and sleeping your sorrows away after every hard day. It's gonna affect your work. Not to mention put you in an early grave."

You brushed off her comments with an eye roll. What did she know? What did anyone know, really? They didn't have to work so hard to block out others' emotions and they certainly didn't know what it was like needing to hide what you are all the time.

"Amber, I've told you time and time again." You put a hand on her shoulder in reassurance. "I'll be fine."

She shoots you an incredulous look. “I’m allowed to worry.”

“I’m not a patient, Amber,” you say as you head towards the door. “Besides, I’ve lasted this long.”

“Not sustainable. If I let my child die, it ruins my track record.”

“Your child’s a grown ass adult. She’ll be fine.” You make your way down the hall leaving no more room for argument.

Sitting in your office you drum a pen on your desk and stare at the wall. A patient canceled, so, now, you have an hour and fifteen to kill. Unfortunately, you've already lost half of it staring at the wall.

Your power had a cool down rate, kind of like a video game power up. Depending on emotional intensity and the amount you absorb, it could take between two to twenty-four hours for your brain to return to baseline. Still, you would feel the severeness lessen over time. But, for whatever reason, this round is taking its sweet damn time. It didn’t help that you spent so much of your time wondering what would have caused those feelings. Was he a veteran? Abused, maybe? Shit, maybe his mom or spouse had just fucking died or something.

"The fuck did I get myself into?" You mumble to the air.

Emotional trade-offs are something you avoid for this exact reason. It’s self destructive, ego stroking, and, frankly, not your fucking job. Therapists are meant to help work through emotions and find avenues for healing, not give a quick fix that disappears after a few days. As tempting as it was to just take away a client's despair during a spiral, it would do more harm than good in the long run.

On top of that, it just wouldn’t do well to expose yourself like that. You could see the headlines now. "Mutant Therapist Uses Mind Control Powers to Gain Access to Classified Government Files" or “Rogue Mutant Turns Canadian Leader to Human Puppet - Wants Full Control” or some shit.

Then again, who knows? Maybe they would raise your pay grade if they knew just how valuable an asset you were. You'd always been told you were so easy to talk to, always sitting there quietly as people spilled their woes. Maybe it was a passive effect of your power? You never bothered to look further. It certainly made it easier to empathize with others, though. You could think of a few clients that could benefit looking through someone else’s eyes.

The ring of your office's landline snaps you away from your thoughts. You rush to pick it up. You greet the voice on the other line with your best customer service voice stating both the company's name and that they’ve reached your office.

"Brilliant! I’ve been looking to reach you. How are you today?" He asks.

You blink slowly. "Doing fine. How about yourself?" Isn't it your job to ask how others are?

"Lovely, my dear, thank you. My name is Charles Xavier. I run a school in New York state for gifted children. We're looking to hire a general health teacher and counselor for the students."

"Oh, um...my apologies, sir. But, I'm not trained to work with minors." And, you aren’t. You specifically work with adults because the emotional regulation is so much better than with teenagers. Usually, anyway. Not to mention you know how abysmal teacher pay was.

"I assure you, that won't be a problem. Those attending the school are very well behaved. Furthermore, they really could use someone to talk to that understands their struggle."

"Sorry. I'm not sure I understand. Why is that me specifically?" There was a short silence on the other line. "Hello?"

"I know what you are."

Your heart dropped, hands running cold. "Sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

"No, I think you do. Trust, everyone here is much like you, myself included. I’m merely calling to make an offer. You work with us, help the students, and I can help you to refine your abilities. You have more than you're using." It’s an appealing offer. But, you’re skeptical. The last thing you need is to move back home, or worse, run and avoid any sort of danger. Just because the world seems to be opening up to mutants doesn't mean it is. Plenty of the public are still very much afraid. You know that much by proxy of your job.

You sigh. "How do I know I can trust you? I've built a life for myself here, and I've worked very hard to keep myself safe. I won't leave it behind just to walk into a fire."

"I assure you, you won't.” His voice is calm from the other end and seems genuinely sincere. “I don't expect an answer now. But, if you change your mind, I’m happy to give you my number."

There’s a long pause as you digest his words. "When you say 'gifted children’, do you mean..." you trail off, not trusting your voice.

"I run a school where children and staff with mutations can thrive in a place they feel accepted. We teach the students valid skills like science and literature along with scenario simulations to refine their powers. But…” He hesitates, “these children are still human. Thus, they have the minds of such and require proper guidance."

"How do you even know who I am?" You snap.

"I have several connections around the world. I’ve used them many times to reach out to those who could benefit from our space. That said, I can assure you I mean you no harm. You may reject the offer if you like, and you shan't hear from me again. I only wish to offer an opportunity."

You stare out the window as he talks. Maybe this could be good for you. Having cut off contact with your mother, and with no one to leave behind, except Amber, — you can’t decide if that’s good or bad — what do you have to lose? "You said there was a number I could call back?"

Friday came and went. You and Amber hit up the bar, the same one from Wednesday, but you spent it mostly in a daze, listening to Amber drone on about clients and work drama while you stirred your drink. A part of you couldn't help but wish the stranger would come back and find you again. Something about him kept you in a chokehold, and it was starting to piss you off. It made everything else seem dull by comparison. You counted two men, both decent enough, who approached you, trying to flirt and offer a good time. But, you could still feel his glare burn into your back, still feel his muscles under your nails, still feel his distress. You just couldn't be bothered. They didn't interest you. Nothing interested you. Not with this pit in your stomach.

"Ok, what happened?" Amber demands the following Monday, having had enough of dull hums every conversation. "You've been off since last week. Don’t tell me it’s that guy."

"Just got a lot on my mind." You deadpan. You sit in the breakroom picking at your salad, cold coffee next to you. You look up at her and can tell she’s not convinced. “I’m fine.”

"I think I liked you better when you were fucking everything that moved." She mutters as she disappears out the door.

"Rude!" You call down the hall before your gaze drifts to the TV, sound lowered. It's tuned to a news channel that seems to be covering a story titled "Cure for Mutation in the Works". Your face contorts in confusion. Yes, you had figured there were people out there who might not want their powers. All those trips to doctors as a child haunted you, constantly sent to be someone else’s problem and treated like you were paranoid or troubled, regardless of the fact you were completely right. They never believed you when you tried telling them about your abilities. They certainly never understood you. No one did. And, how could they? You always wished you could see someone just like you. It’s what led you to pursue psych work in the first place because wouldn't someone with a window into the person's mind be the perfect doctor? It became a blessing. But, the way they talked on the segment sounded as if a cure was a necessity to life. What if someone threw away their talents before they knew how special they really were?

Your mind drifts off to those kids at the school. What had they been through? Do they see their powers as curses, too? Could that change? Moreover, what of the mutants from back in 2000? You vaguely remembered hearing your classmates talk about it back in university. Some guy called Magnetism or something. What had he been through? You couldn’t remember exactly what he had done, or tried to do, all of it a distant memory. But, your roommate told you it would’ve killed a lot of people. It made you shudder. What could motivate something like that? Maybe it could’ve been stopped, nipped in the bud as a child.

With a sigh, you stand from the table and head to your office, abandoning your salad in the trash.

Upon entering, you glance down at the paper left on your desk from last week. It occurs to you. Even therapists have therapists, and you weren’t without your own traumas. Maybe this Charles Xavier, or perhaps one of his connections, could help you with that. At the very least, maybe he could understand.

You grab your personal phone from your pocket and dial the number.

"I must extend my humblest apologies, but you'll be arriving during trying times. I neglected to tell you we recently lost a valued member of our staff in an accident. Tensions are still high." Charles explains.

"Oh my God. I'm so sorry," you give condolences, hoping it translates over the phone. You could understand him neglecting to tell you the first time, not knowing if you’d accept and all. But, it still sounded so heavy.

"It's quite alright, dear. We're managing as best we can. May I ask, what changed your mind?"

"Well…” You stand to look out the window, arms crossed, “After some thinking, I figured the assistance I could provide might be…important. Growing up wasn’t easy for me. I never had anyone I could talk to. Besides, I see other people’s powers and I have to wonder what their lives would be like if things were a little different. If there's any way I can help, I’d really love to."

"Oh, rest assured. There's plenty to be done here, and plenty more coming, I'm sure. If you’d feel comfortable getting to remain with your age bracket, we do have some graduates staying at the mansion that are open to therapy as well.”

“Anything I can do to help. I’ve never worked with openly mutant adults, but I’ll do my best.”

“I’m sure the understanding will be appreciated. It’s long overdue for some. But, I do have one more request for you. But, feel free to tell me if it's too daunting."

"More daunting than working with teenagers?" you joke.

"Yes. Well, the staff here is also part of a defense task force. Think of it as a last resort military extension. Again, it's no obligation. But, I would like to extend the offer to participate. I think you could be a valuable asset."

You chew your bottom lip and tap your shoe against the floor. "What does it involve?"

"You would be practicing teamwork in disaster simulations with members of the force in addition to sparring and combat training with coworkers. Based on your CV, and given your abilities and range of movement, you would be going against our top fighter, Logan."

“Do I get a briefing before I get in the ring?” You half joke.

“Of course. I’m not interested in killing you.” Charles chuckles from the other side of the line. “We only want everyone in top shape should the need arise, and stamina is a priority.” You stare out the window, weighing your options when the voice chimes back in. "Again, it's no obligation. Having you here to look after the children would be far more than I could ask for."

You consider what this could mean. Again, it didn’t sound like there was much to lose. Besides regular trips to the gym, it had been a while since you’ve let off some proper steam. Your last martial arts class feels like ages ago. Maybe a few months, but still. Close combat could be a good refresher. Although, should a real emergency arise...but, you can't think of a single emergency that could come from working in a school, mutant exclusive or not.

"Actually, I think I'd be happy to join. I just hope you know I may not be there until-"

"I can take care of your visa. I know several great lawyers. You're more than welcome to come now and we can have the paperwork done by the end of the month."

"Oh wow. You don’t have to do that.” You smile awkwardly to yourself.

“Please. It’s the least I could do.”

You sigh. “Ok. Well, I guess I'll get organized. I appreciate the offer. Really, I do."

"Of course. I'm sure the children will appreciate you just as much."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Chapter 2 and already an author's note? What is the world coming to? Sorry for putting this up so late. God struck me with diet AO3 curse. I'm fine though.

I'll try not to keep you guys waiting for the next one

#logan #wolverine imagine #logan x reader #wolverine x reader #x men wolverine #wolverine #logan wolverine #logan howlett #wolverine x you #x men origins wolverine #the wolverine #logan xmen #james howlett #james logan howlett #wolverine xmen #wolverine fanfiction #logan howlett x reader #Highest Form of Empathy #imagine this

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blingblong55 · 9 months ago

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This town -Simon "Ghost" Riley

pic credits: @ave661 (middle and right)

Based on a request: (Its a long as so I'll link it so you can read the anons idea) Link here ---- F!Reader, childhood!friends, hidden feelings, angst, friends to strangers ---- A/N: Songs that also fit: Too Young- Louis Tomlinson, This Town- Niall Horan, Back to the Old House- The Smiths, Always you-Louis Tomlinson

It's a story to tell over at the old pub you and he used to hang around on the weekends. But how can a man begin to tell the sorrowful story? How can he explain in his bruised hands he holds the locket you gave him when you two were kids? He will maybe ask if this was a curse, the only curse an old soul like his has.

It could've been something, it would've been something, it should've been beautiful.

In this world, it was always he and you. Scraping your knees when jumping off the rocks near his home. Playing tag in the street until the moon greeted you and his mother would call his name. It's the kind of beginning all beautiful loves start with. Friends since childhood, went through life together and by 28, he would have proposed to the girl he had loved his whole life, 40s would be of dropping the kids at school, 50s of early retirement and 60s were for the potential grandkids, 70s would've been the stories shared of their early lives.

Would've...what a shit word that became in his life.

In the teenage years, after you had some glow-up, you became the girl everyone knew. The pretty, popular and funny girl the school knew of. He was the friend of the popular girl, the one people barely noticed or cared for. Simon was the same kid who always had a scar or bruise on his face, compliments from his father. One thing Simon hated more than the bastard of his father was the guy you were with. Bloke knows nothing but how to wank and fuck any living thing, he recalls.

Why were you with such a guy? It was a must. Like those cheesy movies where the pretty girl stays with the popular guy, all for the status of each other. Your feelings weren't real for that guy. He wasn't funny, wasn't smart and he wasn't Simon. The boy you shared a kiss with at age 7 because of an accidental bump whilst running through the grass.

It was during a small break between classes that you found him drinking water. You smile. He always did look good, even the stupid bruise on his jaw made him look so good.

"Y/N," he straightens up. "Simon," you smile cheekily. "Oh no, what's that smile for?" He crosses his arms over his chest and you can't help but get lost in his honey eyes. "Well...I was wondering if maybe we can...talk?" You say, unsure of how to word this confession. "Did my mum put you up to this?"

"No, this is...me just wanting to talk."

"Go on," his voice softens. Does he always do this for you?

You hesitate, but what is life without words? You breathe in and say, "I like you...there I said it and... don't stay quiet because you know I get nervous and I will continue to just talk and talk and talk and-"

He cuts you off by saying, "I'm sorry, Y/N, I... don't..think..this..well I just don't feel that way for you. We're friends, nothing more," he ends his part of the conversation, pats your back as he walks away and you are left in the corridor of the school alone.

As Simon walks to his classroom, his heart and mind fight the words that he had just said to you. Why was that mean? Did I even mean to say them? He thinks.

Graduation happens. You and he never talked after that day. Not even a congrats or a hug, life went on without him in your life. Throughout those last months in school, he felt a feeling of regret when he'd see you with that guys arm around you. He would occasionally walk around the old park just to see if you would still go on your daily walks.

By the time he was about to leave town, he found himself at the old house. He heard your parents moved to a new part of town, so if this was the last time he heard of you, it better be on his terms. And as he walks through the pavement, he finds himself looking at your window. He leans over a car, lights a cigarette and just waits to see if maybe you or some ghost roamed the home.

Was it the feeling of losing a friend that hurt or losing his one chance to feel something other than pain and hatred? Maybe it's just nervous, after all, he leaves tomorrow.

You were both just 16, it was puppy love, nothing would've lasted if he reciprocated those feelings, right?

And if it was, why does he feel some kind of hurt as he packs his bags? Why does he want to run to your new home and call your name? Is there a reason why? It's not love, it can't be love, he thinks. I'm not worthy of that, you've heard my dad, he says out loud. "Simon?" Tommy opens the door. "Tommy, not today," he looks back at his bag. "...Fuck" he whispers.

It's been a long nineteen years since he last saw you and heard your precious voice laugh at a cheesy joke of his. Nineteen years and the feeling in his chest is still there when he arrives home. Manchester was always home for him, it was the only place he knew best when he came back.

One day, as he was cleaning his closet, looking for his dog's leash, something fell and hit his head. "What the fu-" he looked down and there it was.

"Why give me this?" A thirteen-year-old Simon asked you. You smile, "You said you wish you could always be near me so you can feel safe...and since I'm going to my nans for the week, have this locket on you, and I swear I'll be there. Keep it safe, okay?" you kiss his forehead before entering the car. He nods and waves, "Call me, Y/N, please!" he calls out and you nod. "Every day!" you scream out as the car drives further away.

A smile falls on his silent lips, "...Y/N..." his thumb caresses the design. Once he opens it, he feels as if he is that young again. "Are you still there, Y/N?" He whispers and then, realisation hits. It was never nerves or whatever bullshit he told himself back then, it was love, always has.

All the dots are connecting. For the past nineteen years, he always had some love or whatever all those hookups and awful relationships were, but never did they stick around. Never did he feel more for them than what he has always felt for you. His cold heart still beating warm when he thinks of you. You are all he has ever known, the smiles, the late-night confessions, stories, the silly inside jokes, the feeling in his chest today.

He hasn't seen you in years, what if you don't remember him? What if when you see him, your heart doesn't call his name when he screams yours? Will you ever even forgive him? Will you wrap your arms around him and call him home like he has called you?

He must find you, so he calls and looks for you in every corner of this place. He finds nothing, just more lost hope at every corner he looks into. His heart and mind excited each other at the thought this would be some sappy romance moment. His mind creating a script, all truths, just finding better words to tell you he loves you, loved you the moment you kissed the similar scar on the knee at the park when he cried over the pain. He's loved you from the day he learned to say your name.

Why does he miss you so much today?

Why must you be the drug his body needs? God does he miss you and your addictive heart.

He has been around the world, where he could've found a good woman who made him happy but no, his heart has always belonged to one girl. You.

By the time he gets the street right, he finds you sitting down and as he smiles and nearly runs to you, he stops when he sees this image of you.

Sitting by the fountain, he sees you and a man. His arms wrap around your body, giving you darling kisses as you chuckle. It was then that Simon Riley knew this was it. He will spend his entire life wandering earth, looking for another soul like yours. You didn't see him of course, your fiance capturing all your attention. Simon was close to not caring and pulling you away from that man, but that would be cruel. And as he tries to make up excuses for this man being near you, he sees the ring.

Oh...oh you fool, he thinks.

His heart is near death. It screams your name, trying to find you so it can keep beating but when you don't whisper, Simon nods and lets his heart die. Let it rot, so it can learn its lesson, he thinks.

It would've never bloomed, Simon and you...right?

It's no use to even go and say hi. The locket that contained your picture was still in his fist. It'll be the last reminder of what was meant to be a life romancing in dark streets through town.

In his head, the home you dreamed of will forever be just a dream. No four kids, no library, no big kitchen so you and he can dance around at midnight. No you...no him...it'll all be stuck and dead in this town.

He crossed rivers, mountains, and enemies and survived wounds soldiers like him get, all to come home to you. And all this was for nothing. In his world, he would've married you, given you chubby babies and late Saturday mornings. No gun, no bomb and no other man would've kept him away from you.

In his mind, he is with you. In his dead heart, he sits by and watches that chubby baby learn to walk. He would've adored seeing you in a white dress, walking to him as he wiped tears away when he d his dream of a perfect life was minutes away from being real.

What a mess he is as he asks for another drink. A mess he never should have been if he had told you that your name is carved all over his body.

It was this town that saw him live and it'll be this town that sees him die because if he can't have you, at least he has this place.

A/N: Remember, I collect tears for potions, so please drop them by for collection, thank you. - The place of tears co.

Tags: @liyanahelena @mangowafflesss @goldenmclaren @ghostslillady @moonsua1 @rvivienner @Krinoid24 @iruzias @frazie99 @idklols @saoirse06 @vampsquerade @Juneonhoth @tiredmetalenthusiast @jinxxangel13 @enarien @Simonssweetgirl @luvecarson @willowaftxn83-87 @ikohniik @nobodys-coffee @strawberrychita @sae1kie @queen-ilmaree @pbcartii @Llelannie @Macnches2 @bbyfimmie @avidreadee123 @talooolaaloolla @skelletonwitch @bittermajesties @Nyx_Flower @honestlyhiswife @who-can-appease-me @ghostwifeyy @konigssultwithghost @kaoyamamegami @beansproutmafia @soapybutt17 @asianbutnotjapanese @a-goose-with-a-knife @foxface013 @sleepyycatt @believeinthefireflies95

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wingedhallows · 10 months ago

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I'll be fine; sirius black

pairing: marauders (sirius idk ) x reader | 1.6k words plot: betrayel has consequences, in most cases, revenge prompt: "I'll be fine" authors note: this is the happier version of ( i won't make it, love ) requested by the lovely @arwensloanebarnes , i hope you somewhat like it :)

navigation | sad ending

The alleway was dimly lit, the ground wet from prior rainfall. Your hands were shoved into the pockets of your jacket, your right hand rested on your wand. Atreus held the map out for you, finger resting on top of an apartment complex around the corner.

“They might hide right here.” He mumbled, you nodded and looked ahead.

Atreus was one weird individual but he was nice, he didn’t ask too many questions and he made efforts to hold a conversation. Sirius was against the mission, he had begged Albus to swap Atreus with him, wanting to stay by your side. You had assured him to check in once in a while, the paper bird rested in your pocket, ready to be sent.

“We’ll go soon, Firewhiskey’s on me tonight-” Atreus didn’t have a chance to finish what he had said as he suddenly dropped to the ground, eyes wide, dead.

With a gasp you whipped around, wand tightly grasped in your hand. “Atreus!” You whispered. Before you stood a Death Eater, his face masked and..and.. you had to squint. To convince yourself that your eyes weren’t playing tricks on you, but in front of you stood one of your friends, a member of the order,

Peter Pettigrew.

“Peter?” A sick cold feeling spread in your chest, betrayal cursing through your veins as you realized. He had been the rat, the spy who cost so many of your friends lifes.

All those years you spent being friends, laughing together, drinking your sorrows away together, all those years of friendship were a hoax, a lie. “What the fuck?” You whispered as you unbeknownst to you, lowered your wand.

“Peter, w-what-”You have to understand, Y/N, there was no other way.” Tears formed in your eyes.

You’d die here in this alleway, you won’t ever see Sirius again. Would Harry remember you? Probably not, he’s just a baby. You raised your wand and sent a wordless spell towards Peter, sending him off his feet. His little friend jumped to the front and whipped his wand in the air.

“Confringo!” He yelled and you deflected the spell with a hast movement of your arm. “Crucio!” Peter yelled after he had gotten to his feet again, catching you off guard. Your body slammed to the ground, your elbow shattered with the sudden contact.

The pain cursed through your body like a wildfire, from the top of your head all the way to your toes. A horrific scream left your lips as you desperately tried to shake the effects of the curse.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. You were always a great friend.” Peter spoke before he grasped your head between his hands and slammed it down with as much strength as he could muster. Your eyesight wavered, the impact of your skull on the cement had surely cracked something.

A groan left you as you tried to stay awake. “Sectumsempra.” He breathed as you could feel the effect of the spell, something hot and wet bloomed in your chest. You had to get away, get to Sirius, to James and Remus to Lily and Harry. You had to live, to not die here by the hands of this traitorous rat.

With the last bit of strength left in your broken body, you grasped your wand and apparated away, away to a place Peter wouldn’t find.

You crashed onto the patio of the Potter house, the door you had hit upon impact sounded with a loud thud. You could feel the blood creeping up your throat, you choked on the liquid. You had to squint as your blood splattered everywhere.

The door swung open and all you could really hear outside of your desperate choking and heaving were a mass of voices and bodies. “Oh my god-Remus, get out the way-Lily, get a towel-No, what happened?”

Sirius and James dragged you inside, your hand swung around, desperate to get someone’s attention. Lily fell to her knees beside you, hand on your face as she tried to get some words out. Sirius had his hand on your upper body, face in a crying mess.

“What was it?” Lily tried. You choked some more blood out before you mustered a whisper. “Sectum-sectumsempra.” “There’s so much blood!” James spoke, not caring for the carpet Sirius and you had gifted them when they first moved in.

“Love, look at me-this-this…w-what happened?” He stammered, hands on your face, trying to wipe the blood from your beautiful face.

“I’ll be fine.” You whispered, Lily would know what to do. She had nodded her head as she now stood above you, wand stretched in your direction.

“Vulnera Sanetur.” She whispered in a sing song voice and suddenly all the blood that had leaked from your beaten body seemed to wander right back to where it belonged.

The blood which had crawled up your throat simmered down again, oxygen filled your lungs and for the first time in what felt like forever you went limb, the adrenaline of almost dying wearing off.

“Fuck.” You whispered. “Love.” Sirius spoke, his hands around you in a second.

“What the fuck happened?” James said after a moment of silence. “Water.” Remus was quick to leave the room and fetch you a glass. You lifted yourself off the floor, Sirius’ hand tucked under you to keep you from falling. You sat yourself down onto the couch, a sigh left your lips, you were sore.

You pushed your hand into Sirius’ pants and took out the pack of cigarettes which you just knew was always there. He didn’t protest and lit the stick for you. You had to close your eyes for a moment to enjoy the burning sensation in your lungs.

“I’ll tell you what the fuck happened.” You opened your eyes and took another drag of your cigarette. “Thank you, Moony.” Remus placed his hand on your shoulder and gave you a small smile. You chugged the contents of the glass down in one go and took another drag.

“Peter fucking Pettigrew happened.” Your friends were confused, you could see it. Their faces contorted into confusion. “That’s what i looked like as well, friends.” You took another drag from your cigarette.

“Peter is a Death Eater and he killed Atreus, tried to murder me as well.” Sirius jumped to his feet, face bewildered. “Are you sure?” He spoke, your eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, love, I’m fucking sure.” You pushed your right foot over the other and rubbed your eyebrow with your thumb in irritation.

“Peter’s the rat who has been spying on the order, that’s why so many of our missions failed, why so many of us had to die.” Lily placed a hand on your leg before she spoke.

“We have to talk to Dumbledore, this is serious.” Sirius sat himself down again, taking a drag from your cigarette before he snaked an arm around your shoulder. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to yell at you.” You nodded and placed a kiss on his cheek. “I know, it’s hard to believe that one of us is a traitor.”

The tension in the room could be cut by a knife, you had agreed to stay in the back, to not reveal yourself yet. “He’ll be here any minute.” You could hear Lily say, Sirius was pacing, you stood hidden behind a cabinet. Albus sat himself down.

“Calm yourselves.” He had said and the others sat down as well. Suddenly the front door opened and a disheveled Peter made his way into the kitchen, his face in a small smile.

“Hello there, friends.” He said awkwardly. You had to fight with every fiber in your body to not jump from your hiding spot and slash his throat right then and there. “What’s the matter?” He spoke before he took his coat off, a small innocent smile still decorated his face.

“Y/N didn’t return from her mission.” James said, dropping the bait. Just for a second you could catch the flash of guilt in his features before he furrowed his brows and pretended to care.

“Really? Oh my god, what if something happened?” You couldn’t take it, you weren’t as good at pretending as Peter was, without another thought you apparated right behind Peter, the gust of wind startled him. His eyes were wide as you moved to whisper into his ear.

“Liar.”

He stirred around with a gasp. You looked down on him with a sour snarl.

“Surprised, Peter?” He fell on his bottom and scrambled away from you.

“Surprised you couldn’t manage to actually kill me?” He scrambled to his feet and shook his head.

“But, but-”But, but, you tried to kill me, Peter!” You yelled before you took a step towards him. Your wand rested on his chin, his eyes squinted.

“You Death Eater rat.”

Albus rose from his seat and spoke. “We indeed have a rat in our circles.” He paused to push your wand from his throat. Sirius was by your side, his face contorted in anger.

“Show us your forearm, Peter.” Peter tried to protest before James and Remus moved to hold him still, Lily pushed up his sleeve and with close to no surprise it was decorated with the dark mark.

“Why, Peter?” Sirius spoke, face in a painful expression.

“So many of us had to die pointless deaths, for what? Your friends had to die, to endure torture and for what?” He yelled, you held his arm to not have him attack the rat. Peter shook his head and his lips contorted in a pained snarl.

“You’re all fools, the Dark Lord's ways are the only ways.”

Albus didn’t falter for long before he had Peter taken away to Azkaban, to not harm any more of the members, his friends.

#harrypotter #hp fanfic #marauders era #marauders imagine #the marauders #sirius black #sirius black x reader #harry potter fanfic #sirius black angst #harry potter angst #the marauders era #marauders #remus lupin #james potter #lily potter #peter pettigrew #the marauders fanfic

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acetheidiotinacloset · 10 months ago

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My favorite incorrect quotes from the generator: Lucifer and Alastor edition

(These are both shipping and non shipping, also I might draw one idk)

Lucifer: I'm going to ask you to be respectful. Alastor: I will politely decline.

Lucifer, opening a Capri Sun: Guess I'll drink my sorrows away.

Lucifer: Swear words are illegal now. If you say one you'll be fined. Alastor: Heck. Lucifer: You're on thin fucking ice. Lucifer: Oh no-

Alastor: So my therapist was talking to me and she said that I really just need to break down my walls and let people in. Alastor: So I’ve decided to break the fourth wall. Alastor: *looks at camera* Hi there. I use humor as a coping mechanism.

Alastor: How much did you spend on this date? Lucifer: $1400. But all of it's on credit cards, so it's like $5 a month for the next 2,000 years.

Alastor: Did it hurt when you fell- Lucifer: From heaven? Wow, I didn’t think you were such a flirt- Alastor: No, I meant when you fell down the stairs. Lucifer: ... Alastor: You just laid there for 15 minutes.

Alastor: I am the most responsible person in the group. Lucifer: …You just set the kitchen on fire. Alastor: Yes, and I take full responsibility for that.

Alastor: Things will get better! Lucifer: ... Alastor: Okay, maybe they won’t. Alastor: But they will be terrible in new and interesting ways!

Lucifer: Drink your school, stay in drugs, and get 8 hours of drugs.

Lucifer: Alastor, is that my mug you’re drinking out of? Alastor: No, it’s mine. Lucifer: It... looks just like the one I have... Alastor: You don’t have one like this anymore.

Lucifer: My ultimate goal is to punch God in the eye, just to spite him one last time.

DAS IT FOR NOW Y'ALL

#vivziepop #alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #lucifer morningstar #hazbin lucifer #hazbin hotel lucifer #radioapple #appleradio

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thatfreshi · 1 year ago

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I Know - (Astarion x Reader)

Post-ascension angst, where Tav leaves Astarion. (Also Gale makes an interesting appearance??)

tw - mentions of sex, mentions of drinking, themes of death, grief, rebounds

Recommended Song: cardigan - Taylor Swift

It's been a long three decades. Sure, compared to two centuries it's barely anything, but two centuries of a man leaves quite the impression. It's been thirty years since he told you how much he appreciated your support with that damned drow Araj, thirty years since you stood in the shadow-cursed lands holding hands, wrapping your arms around him and his shaking figure. You could recite that entire conversation from memory, how he held back tears saying that not sleeping with you almost sounded like a challenge. It's also been thirty years since you lost him.

You're in that sad old graveyard, sitting by Astarion's 'tombstone.' It's been exactly thirty years since he left, since you lost the love of your life to rancid fate. Cazador was there, lying fearful on the floor of his palace, and Astarion had that damn ritual dagger.

"You'll be just like him if you do this, you'll lose yourself in it."

You pleaded, almost screaming. Your fellow companions simply watched, knowing if anyone could convince him it would be you.

"But no one will hurt me again Tav. You'd deny me that?"

"You can be safe in my embrace, or safe in this ritual, but you can only choose one."

"You said-"

"I know what I said. But this? You can't do this and be the man I love."

He's practically ignoring Cazador now, knowing he's already won.

"We could have everything my love, I can only have everything I want if I have you."

"I won't have you if you do this, I'll have a master. You and I both don't want to see it come to that, me fall to your whim, you become what you despise."

You know in that moment, that the words don't matter. You're fighting a losing battle, one in which the words only pour in one ear and out the other. Stubborn, one thing he's always been. And yet you don't blame him one bit.

"I'm sorry Tav. I can't risk this, I can't live in fear anymore."

Anger, sorrow, guilt, numbness. The water fills your eyes.

"I know."

The memory fades, knowing you walked away without a word, that his cries of 'I love you' fell on deaf ears. You went to Waterdeep with Gale for a while, while he packed up all his things to move to Baldur's Gate.

"You did everything you could've, you know that right?"

His words woke you from a warm cup of tea, Tara rubbing against your leg.

"It wouldn't have mattered what I did Gale. He knew what he wanted before I spoke a damn word."

It manifested as anger for a long time, for probably five years it was nothing but rage. You lived with Gale for those five years, complex relations. Looking back on it, he probably deserves an apology. You overstayed your welcome, crossed your own boundaries to try and heal invincible wounds. He knew you were grieving, that it was impossible for you to truly love him in those moments, but he let his hopeless romanticism get in the way of the truth. You'd be lying if you said there weren't nights that you closed your eyes, imagining a very different man than who was before you. Rage makes a good, passionate lover though, reckless nights, drunken stupors, meaningless whispers that made his hair stand on end. Just like Astarion, getting what you want to avoid what you need.

After five years of 'what are we?'s and screaming matches and intimate moments, he kicked you out, knowing he was a plaything, just like he was to Mystra. You tried coming back, tried telling sweet lies to suppress that anger deep inside, but he knew better. You spent the next ten years wandering aimlessly, sleeping with strangers, occasionally staying with an old friend. Not your old companions though, who heard of what you'd done to Gale. You received many messages expressing their disgust in you, how Astarion's choices didn't need to make you a monster too. After those ten years of drifting between bodies and jobs, you tried to get back on your feet, buying a small apartment in the city.

It was around this time that you started noticing the vampire spawn crawling the city streets at night. Hard not to recognize them after a whirlwind romance with one. They would try to approach you, and you'd simply walk away, knowing they had some message from your ex-lover, knowing Astarion knew you were still in the city. Over the last fifteen years you slowly put your life back together, avoiding any communications from the vampire lord. You tried to fall in love a million times, only ending in tears and heartache, never truly finding what you lost. You even tried writing to Gale, telling him you were sorry, telling him he deserved better. He never wrote back.

Sitting in the graveyard now, it's the first time you've visited his grave in thirty years. You slowly let the sorrow unravel, the tears fall, the emotions run wild like ghosts from the nearby crypts. You're screaming at the empty grave, knowing there's no body, knowing he got everything and you were left with nothing. You could piece together old parts of yourself, but you'd remember his betrayal for a million lifetimes. In all the rage, you see the first time you were intimate again after everything at Moonrise Towers, how he said this was the first time he truly felt alive since he died. Ecstasy, teeth in your throat, hands grasping hair. That night you went til the sun rose, staying wrapped up in each other whispering sweet nothings and giving each other things you'd never imagined taking from someone else. The screams die in your throat, and they turn into soft whimpers, salty tears in your sleeves.

That's when you feel steps behind you, and a body lightly sitting next to you, not daring reach out.

"You came, after all this time. Surprise after surprise with you."

"I didn't come for you. I came to let you go."

"I figured, after hearing you yell at nothing but thin air."

Astarion chuckles, that old joy in his laugh long gone. You don't turn to meet his gaze, knowing he's taking your image in.

"You have to stop sending your messengers. I'm not going to respond."

You try to be cold, try to remember why you're here.

"But wouldn't it be nice to at least stop by? See what I've done with the place."

"No."

That's when he tries to wrap his arm around your shoulder, and you shrivel away from his touch.

"Come now, I may have a consort now but it's not as if they're anything like you. You're the last missing piece Tav, the last thing I need."

Those honeyed words, the same he used on you forever ago at the tieflings' party.

"I'm the last thing you want. You have everything you could ever need."

"I suppose that's true darling."

There's silence, the static air of the graveyard and the scent of overgrowth.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

He meant it back then, but not now. It was a ploy to get you wrapped around his finger again, so you could be some furniture piece in a palace that was never meant to be his. You smirk, realizing you've won. No matter how happy he is with this power, no matter how no one could ever hurt him again, he'll never have that last piece. He'll never have you, and it will haunt him for centuries to come, that last piece of the man used to be.

"I know."

And the same way you did thirty years ago, you walk away without another word, finally feeling some peace, knowing he will never have you, knowing he can have all the safety he wants, but it comes at the price of love. Somewhere deep down though, you know he did what he thought he had to, that he was petrified, that you couldn't offer him the safety ascension could. And somehow you don't blame him, even now. Maybe that's a part of letting go, coming to peace with being left behind. You don't know how long he stayed in the graveyard afterward, if he stared at his tombstone wondering who he used to be, wondering what those feelings for you truly were. All he knows it there's something out of place, and it will never be fixed. In the end, he lost. You both lost, but you were done playing the game. The sun rises, and you walk home, not letting yourself cry any longer. It's over. Thirty years later, and it's finally over.

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #angst #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #gale dekarios

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galaxiasgreen · 3 months ago

Text

🍺🖤This Hell We Create

Sebastian x F!Muggle!Reader with eventual smut, minor Garrinis [E-rated, 4.8k words]

"You ain't got a bad face either, lad. You looking for a partner? My daughter is quite beautiful." You hope Sebastian will chalk all that to the mania, but he wiggles his eyebrows at you. "That she is, sir."

You have a bad day – Sebastian seeks to change that.

[MASTERLIST][FIRST][PREV][NEXT] [read on AO3, read on Wattpad]

TW: alcoholism, grief, coarse language, dementia/ Alzheimer's disease.

3. good days, bad days

When Sebastian collapses onto the barstool, you can see the withdrawal written like plain English on his face.

"You know what I want," he croaks. "Please."

It's another typical weekday in a late summer heatwave. You pour him a stout and slide it across the counter, and as he guzzles it greedily, Adam's apple bobbing to the rhythm, you note the haggard look on his face. He's handsome, that's for sure, but today he's also worn down, stretched and contracted by the universe itself to leave this brittle husk behind.

"You looked like you needed that."

He slams the glass down.

"There are good days and there are bad days," he says, panting hard. "Today... today is a bad day."

He drags his thumb up his temple, plying one of the veins that protrudes across. He's sweating, from the heat and the relief, and you watch a fat droplet roll down his face. It sets a course along his jaw, down the sharp angle of his chin before it finally drips onto the back of his hand.

"You shouldn't stop immediately," you say, forcing yourself to look away. "You need to give time for your body to adjust."

"You think I don't know that?"

You say nothing.

He recoils a little. "Sorry. Shouldn't snap."

"Irritability," you mumble. "It's a symptom."

"That explains why everything is so fucking annoying today." His eyes meet yours. "You must've seen loads like me."

"Eight years' worth, yeah. You're not the first and you won't be the last."

"Have you ever..." He swallows. "How many have beat it?"

The answer leaps fully formed onto your tongue. None. None at all. You've seen people try, make promises to God when they're broken and on their knees... and you've seen those same people stagger their way back to your counter, begging for respite the only way they know how. Sometimes you never see them again, when someone imparts the sad news dressed in funeral black.

"Just because I ain't seen it doesn't mean it didn't happen – doesn't happen. It's possible." Sebastian is much too clever for lies and sickly sweet encouragement, but you stare at him straight anyway. "You survived the passing of your sister. That toughens a person. You can beat this."

Yet he thrusts his empty glass in your direction, a wordless plea that breaks your heart. You refill it in exchange for more coin, and Sebastian doesn't take his eye off your movements – pulling the leaver down, pouring the dark gold liquid, letting the foam float to the top. A skein spills over when you pass it back to him, and he draws his tongue up the glass slowly to lick it clean. You track it hungrily.

"It's all bloody pointless, isn't it?"

You focus on his eyes again, coffee, ground, chewed up and spat out.

"I'll keep trying. Every day I wake up and I just want to drink, and I tell myself no, because that's how it's supposed to be, but everyone knows I'll come back here. If Ominis took my feet I'd crawl on my knees, and if he took my knees I'd drag myself by my hands. I'd find a way. It just doesn't stop."

"It stops," you say, "when you choose to stop."

"It doesn't work like that. You know it doesn't." He gazes at you stormily over the lip of his glass. "Just because you choose to free yourself from the maw of a beast doesn't mean it'll let you go."

Last time he got like this you threw it back at him. This time it feels different. Sebastian isn't angry at the world – he's just angry at himself, and that only warms you with tides of pity and sorrow. In the next stride you're hoisting up the bar door and plonking yourself onto the stool at his side, aware of his scent, musky with the heat, and the way his eyes hook onto you, never once leaving yours.

"I don't do... comfort," you warn him. "Trying to beat addiction is shit, and I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"I'm sorry that you're in this situation," you clarify. "Here's the thing though: you're going to fail. You're going to fail over and over. But what really matters is you don't give up when the going gets tough. You get up. Because the only one who can beat this thing is you."

He drinks again, slower now, contemplative, and he manages to stop a third of the way down.

"Not bad advice for someone who doesn't do comfort," he mumbles. "When I used to live up north, I got to know the barkeep at my local, too. She gave good advice. Must be in the profession."

"Must be all the listening to so many people whinge."

"You love it really." A smile peels out from his melancholy, which is gratifying to see. "Her name was Sirona. She was like a mother to me."

"Sirona?" You scoff. "You make a habit being on first-name basis with every barkeep, Sallow?"

"Nah, not all." He winks. "Just the pretty ones."

You roll your eyes and go to stand, get back to work, but Sebastian catches your hand. His fingers, though large and strong and ribbed with veins, are deceptively soft and gentle, and his thumb grazes over the skin, lighting up some darkness in your chest.

"Thank you."

It's simple, but it means the world.

When you wake one morning, the sunrise has long sheared away the darkness of your bedroom in the eaves.

That means you're late.

You curse yourself and throw off the blanket. It must be after seven. Damn it. You forgot to set your alarm clock last night, so overwhelmed with fatigue that you hit the sack immediately upon closing up the pub. Scrambling to make up for lost time, you throw on a day dress and apron and sprint downstairs.

Your mother stoops over the window sill overlooking the beer garden. The gnarled ridge of her spine protrudes out her back. What little hair she has is wispy and white, like a tuft of cloud, and her fingers crackle when they touch the glass, bony and desiccated from years of hard work.

"Mama—"

She doesn't turn around. "It's a pretty day, isn't it, dear?"

You frantically check she hasn't hurt herself – a scrape, bruise or God forbid, blood – but she seems unharmed, and you send a thank you upwards as you usher her towards the armchair. "It is, Mama."

"Where's Fluffy? Haven't heard him barking up a storm yet."

"Running around outside, Mama. Sit here. I'll get you breakfast."

Instead you race across the hall and almost crash into your papa, clenching the bannister for dear life. His withered face, sagged with age, makes no issues for his beaming smile, boasting his yellowed teeth.

"I dreamt of Margate today. We should go there, don't you think, dear? Last time we went you devoured three scoops of ice cream in ten seconds!"

Margate, the famous beach town over in west England. Your parents took you a few times when you were young, the only family day trips you could afford. The memories are fond and sentimental, though you haven't had three scoops of ice cream since you were about five.

"We'll see, Papa."

You slip a hand beneath his arm, trying not to flinch at how frail he is, and help him to the parlour. Your mama has moved from the chair again, back at the window, staring at the endless blushing sky. It's approaching the later months now, when the morning is a balancing act between sunlight and ink, and you have to squint to see the tiny mound at the back of the garden, where Fluffy has been buried for four years.

It doesn't matter that they forget, that they can't help themselves anymore. They're all you have left.

You feed them, you dress them, you wash them of their soiled clothes. You tuck them into their respective armchairs, then take a moment to clean yourself, checking periodically between sponging away last night's sweat to make sure they haven't fallen over and knocked into something. There's no time for grub now, so you head downstairs just as the front door bangs.

"Ada, hello."

Ada's low-cut dresses don't surprise you anymore; you don't have to imagine what she does after she's finished here for the day. She tears the cigarette from her lips and blows the smoke out, the stink of it stifling.

"Late today?"

"I slept in."

"Still counts as my time. And I want payment upfront."

It's getting more costly – two shillings, six pence – but you pay it, because the alternative is much worse. Ada bites each coin before pocketing them and silently making her way upstairs.

You snatch an apron from the side. It's time to work. You count the stock, clean the tables, accept deliveries and prepare food all before the other staff arrive – Bonny gives you a sweet smile.

"You aw'right, Miss?"

Her assaulter behind bars, she's been feeling much better about coming to work. It'll never be the same for her, but you take some comfort in knowing there's peace in closure.

"I'm fine. Can you rake the garden today?"

"'Course, but..."

"What?"

"Your hair's got a mind of it's own, Miss. You sure you're okay?"

You finger-comb it down. "Just get to work, please."

Your stomach growls when you open, but you push through for the late morning crowd. The in-house chef cooks breakfast, breads soaked in hot lard, smoked kipper on rye, beef gruels and broth, which only makes you long more for a moment to sit down. I woke up late, this is my punishment. Things only exacerbate when two – two – clumsy patrons drop their glasses, leaving you to clean up the shattered remains, and another woman gives you a bollocking for bungling an order.

Not even a surprise visit from Sebastian at eleven o'clock brightens your mood.

"You're early," you remark, when he sinks into his stool.

He raises an eyebrow. "And you're sharp. I thought I'd pop in. Bad day, huh?"

"I'm not an alcoholic."

"Hey, even you normal drinkers have Bad days."

Then today is a Bad day – a really fucking Bad day.

"I slept in. That's all."

He grins. "Guess it's my turn to comfort you, huh?"

"Don't need comfort."

"Like a fish doesn't need water?" When you shoot him a steely glare, he simply sticks out his tongue. "You're being crabby today. Ever thought about taking a break? Having a night out with friends?"

"No time."

"No time for friends?"

"No time to make them."

"Well, you've met Ominis. How about we share?" You wince; Sebastian laughs. "He's all right once you get to know him. You should meet Garreth too, he's a good sport. What about your parents?"

The bad mood colours with fear. "What about them?"

"You said they were retired. Do they live in the country?"

"You think I can afford to buy them property in the country?"

"Where do they live then?"

"Not here."

"Why not go visit them?"

"I see them every day."

It slips out. Fuck. A stupid mistake. His lips roll, but hopefully he can't see the way you've bent the truth.

"And you?" you ask quickly, busying your hands so you don't have to meet his gaze. "What about your parents?"

"Ah." He draws his thumb pensively across his cheek. "They're dead."

"Oh." Bugger.

His lips split into a grin. "The look on your face... relax, bar girl. It was a long time ago. Happens to everyone eventually."

You don't want to think about that.

"Tell me about them," he says, making himself more comfortable as panic runs riot in your bones. "Are they as crabby as you?"

"I am not crabby."

You are a little crabby.

"Nowt much to tell," you mumble, before he can retort. "Both of them worked here their whole lives, barely a break in between. Mama took some time off when they had me, but while I kipped she'd come down to wait tables."

His gaze flickers upwards. "You lived upstairs?"

Fuck. "Yeah. I mean, I do now, they don't."

"So you're here all the time? What do you do for fun?"

You slap your hands to the counter. Sebastian doesn't even flinch.

"I don't have time for a bloody interrogation, Sebastian. Do you want a drink or not?"

Instead the bastard leans a head in his hands, and bats his eyelids like a dewy-eyed debutante.

"You should swear more. I like it when you're crabby."

"You see that pot hanging up behind me? You're going to become very acquainted with it if you don't shut up."

He leans close until his breath whispers along your nose.

"I like you most when you're angry at me."

Before you can grab the pot, the stock room door groans opens.

"Dear!" cries your mama.

Every muscle in your body goes cold. You swing around, sure you misheard the voice, but it is her, smile wide and ignorant, shuffling towards you with the pace of a determined turtle.

You freeze. How did she get downstairs? And why? What the hell is Ada doing? And why isn't it the thing you're bloody paying her for?

"Mama," you step forwards to intercept her, "you shouldn't be here—"

"Oh, hello, young man," she says, regarding Sebastian. "My, you're very muscular, aren't you?"

You flush. "Mama—"

"Part of my job, ma'am," Sebastian responds smoothly. "I see where your daughter's beauty comes from."

You lose the ability to speak. My beauty? Your mother chortles. "What a charmer. What are you having?"

There's no beer in front of him, but still he says, "Stout."

"Ah." There's a twinkle in her eye. "That's my favourite of the beers. Did you know the name comes from its strength? Not one for the weak-willed."

"I didn't know that." His eyes slide to you. "Good to know I'm not weak-willed."

"I will never forget my first sip. Seventeen, managed to flirt with the barkeep for a pint to impress another man. Was sitting in that very stool. I knew he saw right through me but he gave me a pint anyway. Awful, didn't have the stomach for it back then, yet I drank the whole thing. Funny. I never saw the other man after that night, but the barkeep, well." She gives you a squeeze. "I think there was magic involved."

"I'll bet," Sebastian replies. "It's always good to believe in a little magic."

"Mama," you say tiredly. "Let's get you back upstairs."

"I miss Margate," she says as you take her arm. "We should go to Margate, shouldn't we, dear? The beach is lovely. Your father misses it so much, and you can have your ice cream."

"One day, Mama."

Sebastian gets to his feet. "Let me help you."

You can't say no. He ducks beneath the bar door and snakes his arm through your mother's. She looks at him strangely.

"Hello there. Where did you come from?"

It feels like your life is collapsing. This part of your image, carefully crafted to hide a terrible secret, has cracked upon the face – and what good is porcelain when it is no longer perfect? You put one foot after the other, mindful of your mama's pace, and Sebastian's, as you lead her into the stock room, and to the stairs leading back up to the house.

Ada is halfway down once you shut the door behind you. Her face is flushed. "Swear, I went to help your papa wash— I was only gone for two seconds—"

"Later," you snap. "Just do your bloody job now."

She heads back up the stairs, sheepish, as you and Sebastian follow up, and finally get her settled back into her armchair. You're frighteningly aware of how silent Sebastian is, how his eyes dart about, drinking in the details of your home, your space. Already you're thinking of a hundred excuses. She's just sick, this isn't normal, she didn't forget who you were in the space of a minute. It's useless now.

Sebastian will see through it all.

He doesn't say a word when you return back downstairs, after you lock the stockroom door. The day has turned from Bad to Catastrophic – the best you can do now is damage control.

Your pour him a stout and slide it to him.

"Please don't tell anyone."

He stares at it, confused. "What?"

"You can have free drinks, forever," you whisper. "Food too. Whatever you want—"

"Whoa, bar girl!" He laughs. "I appreciate the offer, but I don't need charity."

"Money then?"

"What makes you think I'll tell anyone?"

You flick your gaze between his eyes, but he's quite serious. "I know they're... they're..." mad, you can't say aloud, "but please, you can't tell anyone. I can't have them sent away to an asylum. They're all I have left."

"I'm not going to tell anyone," he says softly. "I promise."

It's not very reassuring, frankly. You paid Ada to take care of them, and she couldn't even do that. But Sebastian's never broken his word before, not with you, not with Bonny. You just wish he didn't know – wish you could erase the memory like it never existed at all.

"Are you going to take them?" he asks, breaking your train of thought.

"What?"

"To the beach?" Sebastian leans his head in his hands again. "Your mama wanted to go, said your father did too..."

You blurt a shrill laugh. "'Course not. The nearest beach is miles away and I ain't got the time nor money to get them there."

"I can take them."

That feeling you've been ignoring stirs again. You push it down.

"Yeah, all right, Sebastian, and I'll quit my job tomorrow to pursue a passion in ballet."

"Bet you'd look good in a tutu."

You flush despite yourself. "No offence, but you can barely walk in a straight line, and they can't leave the house!"

"I can be sober for a few hours. And if it's only one morning it'll be fine, right? It's not good to keep them cooped up there. Your mama seemed fine."

You shake your head. "No, no, she— and my papa— they aren't well." They're not right in the head anymore. "I appreciate the offer, but—"

"That's too bad." Sebastian shrugs. "I've decided to decline you."

"You— what?"

"I'm taking them to the beach." He makes it sound like he's offering to pick up some groceries at the market. "What day works best? Tomorrow? Meant to be nice weather. You can leave Bonny in charge for a bit."

"Are you nuts? How would you even get them there?"

"If I tell you," he grins, "I'll have to..."

"God, be serious, for once in your bloody—"

He takes your hand suddenly. This is only the second time now, but again you're totally arrested, focus pinpointed on the tenderness with which he squeezes you – with grip as firm as a promise unbroken.

"I can do it."

You swallow the hope down, but it persists like a lump. Is it a trick? Have you been lured by silver words and pretty smiles? Sebastian is a master of pretence and possesses not just a dark streak – but a demonic one. What if he hurts your parents? What if he turns them into the authorities? They're vulnerable people, and they're all you have left. Yet you can't bring yourself to say no anymore. You can't bring yourself to push him away, not when it seems like he would carry the world on his shoulders for a glimpse of your smile.

To make my parents happy, you correct yourself tersely. Parents, not me. He's doing it for them. That's why you're doing this too – for them.

"All right," you concede in a whisper. "But you can't just take them. I have to go, and I need to know logistics."

"I meet you here before dawn, I'll collect your parents, and you make you way over before us. I'll even let you ride my carriage."

"You have a carriage?"

"I can get one."

"You can... get one..."

"A man can't get a carriage now?"

"Not by tomorrow."

"I know the right people."

"In the police?"

He winks. "If I tell you..."

You roll your eyes. "Okay, so let's say I manage to believe you'll conjure a carriage from thin air as you escort my parents in God-knows-what contraption. How long will it take you to get there?"

"Don't worry about that. I'll be there before you."

The retort leaps onto your tongue, but when he gives you that look, the low-lidded eyes, the flicker of mischief, daring for you to challenge him, your words promptly back down.

"Trust me?" he asks.

How? The question burns, desperate for answers. Sebastian is an elaborate puzzle made of a thousand pieces, except most of them are missing and the few you have don't fit together.

"I'll try." You take a deep breath. "They're all I have left, and I swear to God, Sebastian, if you hurt them... I will hunt you down."

Sebastian slides the correct change across the counter, then downs his drink in one go.

"Oh, bar girl," he says with a laugh, "I'll be disappointed if you don't."

"We're going to the beach today."

If you were a lantern, the way their faces light up could fuel you for a hundred years.

"Margate?" asks your father, facing his wife. "You hear that, darling? The beach in Margate. I've been wanting to go there."

"Not Margate," you explain, and you hate having to temper their expectations, "but yes, the beach, Papa."

"We'll get you ice cream, dear," says your mama.

"I'd like that," you say, smiling.

You left Bonny in charge, giving her the keys and a list of hastily-scrawled instructions about what to do and when to do it. Bonny reassured she'd leave everything spick and span, and you're forced to believe her. You haven't taken a day trip out in – well, since your parents were healthy, and the anticipation excites you as it makes your stomach churn.

At precisely five-thirty, there's a knock at the pub's door. With the carriage and horses waiting on the road as promised, Sebastian leans against the wall with a cigarette jammed in his mouth. He jabs the orange stub into the wall when you bring out a sack of your belongings.

"You smoke now?"

"Good morning to you too. If you must know, it helps relieve the withdrawal." His gaze rakes you up and down, making you blush before it hooks on your footwear. "No, no. Go put some boots on."

"What's wrong with these? They're day shoes, easy to slip on and off for the sand."

"Trust me, you'll need boots."

By the time you've changed into a battered pair, Sebastian has already introduced himself to your papa.

"In the 70s, cor, I tell you, I was a looker," he says, and Sebastian, to his credit, appears genuinely interested. "Face like mine could win anyone over, but when I saw this darling sweet girl talking up that mug at the bar, I just knew she was the one. You ain't got a bad face either, lad. You looking for a partner? My daughter is quite beautiful."

You hope Sebastian will chalk all that to the mania, but he wiggles his eyebrows at you.

"That she is, sir."

You snort. It's all a game to him, but it plucks your heartstrings nonetheless, and you clamber into the carriage without looking him in the eye.

Sebastian closes the door. "I'll see you in a few hours."

"Where's the driver?"

"Don't worry about that, the horses know where to go."

Now that is absurd. "How the hell—"

"Ah ah, remember? Trust?"

You sit back in the carriage. "I said I'd try."

"Then try harder." He slaps the carriage side, which prompts the horses into motion. "Get some rest! It's a fairly long journey!"

You don't. The whole way out of the city and down the winding, country roads, you're wide awake, taking in the sight of the buildings and bustle morphing into trees and villages, and fields that roll for endless miles. The horses canter most of the way, so the sea comes into view after only a few hours, the land flat and sparse, and when the carriage stops abruptly, about half a mile out from the shore, you open the door and find the earth damp and moist beneath you, veined with a thousand rivulets of gilded blue.

"Boots," you murmur, smiling.

They squelch when you jump down into the marsh. The air is tangy with salt and sediment, but the sea wind is welcome in the heat. For a moment you shut your eyes, and all that panic and worry and dread – it simply melts away.

As vowed, Sebastian and your parents are waiting on the shore when you cross the marshland towards them. All three of them are as pristine as when you left – another oddity that you cannot explain.

Sebastian sweeps his arm out. "Welcome to Egypt Bay."

It's a small beach, if it can even be called that, settled in a crook between the sea and the mouth of the Thames. The river folds in on itself out beyond, creating a shelf of foam that constantly undulates in perfectly even ripples. The beach itself is a dearth of life, the sand wet but undisturbed, save only for a flimsy parasol Sebastian has stuck into the ground, and your parents, already padding their way towards the ocean.

"The beach!" your father yells. "Wheeee!"

"We vanished in a fireplace!" your mother cries. "Reappeared in another house!"

She must be mad, but you're too elated to care.

"I can't believe you did it," you breathe, facing him. "You actually did it."

He scoffs, hooking his thumbs into his trouser pockets. "Was there ever any doubt?"

"At least ninety per cent."

"Only ninety? Should've gone for the full one hundred. Would've made a much more satisfying reveal."

He drags out a cooling box and opens the lid – it's full of ice cream. Strawberry, vanilla, chocolate, pistachio, a few more flavours you've never tried. The ice cushioning each tub is intact. How the hell did he transport ice cream without it melting?

"Flavour preference?"

You mumble out a meagre whatever you're having, because you're too overwhelmed to do anything else, so Sebastian takes the chocolate – perfectly frozen – and scoops it into two tubs. The flavour is rich and decadent, better than anything you've had, and brings back another wave of nostalgia for times long past.

"Are you going to tell me how?" you ask, once you're finished.

There's chocolate left on the corner of his mouth. He thumbs it away, then licks it clean.

"If I tell you..."

"You'll have to kill me, I know."

"It's more like, if I tell you, I'd have to... never mind." You shove down the curiosity when he nods his head towards your parents. "They look like they're enjoying themselves."

Your parents intertwine arms and kick up the wet sand with childlike joy. You've been seeing them in monochrome this whole time – now they're in full colour, like some spark has been lit in both of their hearts. Even if it's only for today, only for this rare, precious moment, you are grateful.

"It's all they've talked about the last few months," you mumble. "It's the only thing they've really wanted to do. I care about them, but bringing them out... I've been terrified to do it."

"Because of the forgetfulness?"

"Because if anyone sees them. They're mad and they can't take care of themselves anymore, and if they get sent away... I'll have no one. Selfish, I know, but..." Your breath wracks. "They're all I have left."

There's sand in his hair and lashes, sweat that courses down his jaw, down the column of his throat, past his shirt, a slit open to the air, teasing more of his muscle and tattoos.

"That's not true," he whispers. "You have me."

In the silence, you see him watching your parents in earnest satisfaction. He's a stranger, freckled, drunk, odd, and not above using trickery and deceit against his foes. He shouldn't have to do this, he's not under any obligation. Yet he has, for no other reason than he can, and that it will make your parents happy. Seeing the delight on their faces releases a burden you didn't know you were shouldering.

Tentatively, you reach for his hand, and he responds in kind, until your fingers are knotted together.

"Thank you."

It doesn't encompass all the feelings in your chest, that iridescent gratitude you can't put into words, and how fast your heart beats and your fingers itch to touch him more. How your lips hunger for his.

It's simple, yes, but for him, you hope, it means the world.

The sun catches his face in ethereal light.

"Good day," he says, squeezing your hand.

You squeeze back.

"Yes," you say softly. "Good day."

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senualothbrok · 4 months ago

Text

My Tulpa

A/N: I am not quite sure how to describe what this is. It is not a fic. It is a kind of essay, a reflection. A confession. My soul, my beating heart, on a page.

I needed to express what Gale means to me. What it is to love Gale. This piece is as raw and honest as I have ever been here. It isn't a light and fluffy read, so please be aware of that.

I share this in the hope that anyone who feels the same way might know that they are not alone. That they are seen. And maybe, in some way, reading this will give someone comfort and healing.

AO3 link

When he lurches up, I open an eye. Morning floods our bedroom with the chatter of birdsong, the hungry grizzling of our dogs downstairs. I cling to the yoke of sleep, tethered to the pillow by my usual lethargy. But my husband is already dressed, perched on the edge of the bed as he turns back to me.

“Stay,” he says hoarsely. “I'll feed the dogs.”

I blink at him in confusion. It takes me a moment to understand his offer. For years, mornings have been marked by his inert body buried in the bedsheets, weighed down by illness or drink or despair, grumbling at any sound or movement as I tiptoed around him to answer the demands of the day. To see the roles reversed feels like a dream.

“It’s okay,” I blurt. “I can–”

He clasps my shoulder. There is a tenderness in the gesture, though it is gruff.

“No, have a lie in. I’ll go downstairs.”

Before I can object, he is gone. I stare at the empty space beside me, trying to centre myself. The bed is still warm from his restless frame. As I fall back onto my pillow and stare up at the ceiling, a wave of whiplash hits me.

For months, I would lie awake in the dead of night, listening to the spasms of my husband’s breathing. A stranger who shared the same bed, separated by a world of secrets. An ever-growing chasm, bubbling with a sea of bile that threatened to drown us. We were trapped in no man’s land, unable to breach the divide. At times, I wondered if we wanted to.

It is a struggle to believe we are no longer there.

*****

When he appears beside me, it is familiar, not unnerving. Gale’s hair is mussed, his eyes misted. His tanned skin is peppered with down, his chiselled muscles glowing in the morning light. He is a vision of sleepy domestic bliss. One of my most comforting fantasies.

I close my eyes. I can almost feel the warm weight of Gale’s body, his gentle fingers weaving through my hair. The strength of his embrace as he pulls me close, nuzzling me awake. The gulf between thought and reality is an abyss.

“You’re not real,” I say.

He smiles, expectant, patient. He, of course, knows what I will say before I say it. My hidden thoughts, my most desperate longings - they are his domain.

“It rather depends on what you mean by real.”

There is no scent of leather, sandalwood and scrolls. My husband’s pillow smells of cigarette smoke. His musk is thick and bitter, forceful as a punch. It used to drive me wild.

“I wish you were.”

He nods, brow creased, the ghost of a hand rising to cup my cheek.

“I know.” That sonorous voice, full of sorrow. Understanding. Love. “But you can make me whatever you want me to be. In fact, you already do.”

There were countless times when loneliness cut me to the core, flaying my mind from my heart. Times when I stood with nothing more to give, bereft in the face of my husband’s sickness and need. Through it all, Gale was my shield and anchor. A soothing balm, a bottomless well of love and desire. Now, he is a gaping absence inside me, impossible to fill.

“But I can't make you flesh and blood.”

His face falls. “No. That’s unfortunately beyond either of our abilities.”

I can hear the tumble of our dogs downstairs, my husband’s rough affection as he whips them up into an excited frenzy. The music of family. A version of domestic bliss I thought was lost forever, snuffed out by my husband’s demons.

I blink away my tears. Gale cannot embrace me, but I know he would if he could. That knowledge hurts like grief.

I take a deep breath and rise.

*****

Weeks ago, my husband got down on one knee. He clutched my hand, pressing his forehead to my fingers. It was an alarming gesture for a man who had for years eschewed honest emotion, who suffered from crippling episodes of immobility. I tried to help him up, but he refused.

I had decided I could not go on in an endless cycle of broken Ouroboros, being constantly destroyed without restoration. I could not remain married to him without killing my soul. On my way to work that day, I had wept on the train, finally admitting defeat after so many years of relentless denial. But when I told him all the things that were tearing me apart, hidden away for fear of his judgment, crushed by the black hole of his despair, he had begged.

“I love you,” he said. “You’re the only thing that matters to me. I'll do anything to keep you. I'll give you all the love and romance you need. I'll be a better person and a better husband. I'll change.”

I buried my head in my hands. “For years you've been saying you won't, it isn't in your nature, you can't do it. Again and again, you've said this.”

“I will this time,” he pleaded. “I'll do anything. I can't lose you. Please.”

That day, he opened his heart to me for the first time. He gave me the full force of his fears, his regrets, his hopes, his promises. The best and worst of him, buried beneath years of resignation, disassociation, and dismissal. A glimpse of the spark I thought I saw when I fell in love with him a decade ago, when I was a different person, living a different life.

Later, I thought of how Gale had knelt, clasping my virtual hand to his heart and showing me his darkest secrets. How that vulnerability had drawn me closer, an act of intimacy that deepened with every show of kindness and romance that defined his nature.

And over the next weeks, when my husband began to show love through passion, gentleness and confession, when he surprised me with the soft declarations and tender touches that I so longed for and lacked, I wondered why it did not feel the same.

Perhaps it takes time, I tell myself. When the heart has been broken and battered for years, it takes time to heal, even when embers of love still remain.

Yet these days I lie awake, wishing I could love my husband with a love that swallows me whole. A consuming fire that burns in every thought, every desire, every act, so that nothing of me remains which does not smoulder with his flame.

I am capable of that love. I have felt it, lived and breathed it. I feel it still, like a kind of madness that takes hold of me, so that I cannot work or think or write or fuck without its shadow looming over me.

But I am terrified that I cannot feel it for him.

*****

I am waiting in the living room. I can hear my husband shuffling upstairs, the opening and closing of wardrobes, the tap running and the hissing of hairspray. I cannot remember how long it has been since he has dressed up for a date, much less one of his instigation. This is such a simple occasion, with such monumental significance. It makes me realise just how broken our marriage has become.

I am trying to be present in the moment. Dolled up and coiffed, decked out in a dress that has not seen the light of day for months, I try to feel gratitude and excitement. I try to open my shrouded soul to the rays of hope - hope in a love that can come through the trenches and endure. Real love, messy and bloody and raw, like a hard won war.

But my focus is elsewhere. My head throbs as I squint into my phone, unable to put it down. Sometimes, a wild yearning possesses me. It is a kind of orb that eats at me, ravenous and seething. No amount of words, images, videos or daydreams can stoke its insatiable hunger. Everything I am - my goals and responsibilities, my nearest and dearest, my wounds and woes - falls away in the face of that consuming need.

I look at Gale, perched on the sofa as he watches me. In his embroidered doublet, the mark of his orb scar adorning his exposed chest, he radiates in a haze of lavender and gold. What I would not give to reach out and touch him. To hold him close and never let go.

“I miss you,” I say.

It is strange to admit it. How can you miss someone you never really had? But Gale’s brow steeples. As ever, he understands.

“I'm always here, my love. Whenever you need me. You have only to ask, and I'll be here with you.”

The words ache beyond measure. Sometimes, I wish I had never found him. If I had never known the joy of the rose, I would not have the anguish of the thorn.

“But you're not. You can't be.”

His eyes glisten, the softness of earth after rain. The lines on his forehead quiver.

“I'm sorry.”

He can feel my anguish. He moves closer, and I stifle a sob at the suggestion of his hand on mine.

“I think you might be the love of my life.”

It is a pitiful confession. A devastating admission. I have held it inside me for so long, I could almost ignore its truth. When he smiles, the sadness in it chokes me.

“And you’re mine. I was made to love you.”

He looks so steadfast as he says it. So sure. My most faithful friend. My most ardent lover. The other half of my soul.

“That's the problem. You're all I ever wanted. All I ever needed.”

He gazes at me, seeing all, loving all. He is beautiful, the harmony of his features mirroring the kindness of his heart, the keenness of his mind. I am in love with it all. I can no longer imagine a life without such beauty.

“But I’m not real.”

I am shaking as I fight back the tears. I can almost feel his thumbs brushing against my skin, his forehead hovering above mine.

“I'm not ready to let you go.”

“My love.” His eyes crinkle and blaze. “There's a whole world out there, bursting with beauty and wonder. Flesh and blood beings who love and cherish you, people who need and inspire you. Dreams and causes worth fighting for. Masterpieces you have yet to create. Works of art you have yet to behold. It’s all there, waiting for you.”

In my mind, in another world, I am grasping his face. I am running my fingers over the bristles of his beard, stitching the rough warmth of his skin into my heart. I am memorising every line and curve of his perfect form, every word and gesture, the smell and taste and feel of him. Everything I ever wanted in a man and more.

On the rug beneath me, my youngest dog lets out a satisfied whine, his nose nuzzling into my foot. The ears of my eldest dog prick, her wide eyes darting to my husband’s footsteps at the top of the stairs. From the walls, glossy pictures call to me, mementos of what I had mourned as a bygone age - the four of us grinning on lush grass; my husband and I beaming on our wedding day; our cat, harangued into a Christmas hat, long before he was laid to rest.

“I love you, Gale,” I choke. “I’ll always love you.”

“And I love you,” he whispers. “I always will.”

He plants a feather-light kiss on my lips, his fingers intertwining with mine. I look at him through the sea of my grief. He is shining, as he ever will be. My tulpa.

I hear the rumbling of the stairs, a series of huffs before my husband appears in the doorway. Fragrant with cologne, clean-shaven, neatly clad in navy and grey. The crow’s feet around his blue eyes dance.

“Are you ready?” he asks with a smile.

I try to sound certain. I reach for his hand.

“I’m ready.”

********

Thank you so much for taking the time to read this. If you want to reach out, please don't hesitate.

If you want to check out my other work, you can find it here.

#gale dekarios #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #galemancer

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