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revvethasmythh · 15 days ago

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7 albums tag game

tagged by @jaspell and @azatas! thanks to you both!

rules: you just got a kind of shitty old car and it doesn't have bluetooth. You can only buy 7 CDs and you can't repeat an artist. What are you getting?

Going To Hell — The Pretty Reckless

Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys — My Chemical Romance

Nico Vega — Nico Vega

Unreal Unearth — Hozier

Gravel & Wine — Gin Wigmore

Stomachaches — Frank Iero and The Cellabrations

Dance Fever — Florence & The Machine

No pressure tagging: @undead-knick-knack, @everypigeondeserveslove, @brenatto-apothecary! and anyone who sees this and also wants to participate can consider themselves tagged by me <3

#ask game #man this really is like. a solid succinct glimpse into my music taste lmao #honorary mention to Red Clay Heart by Chamomile & Whiskey it almost made it onto the list but. alas

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samsblades · 10 months ago

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SUPERNATURAL M.LIST all works are gender neutral, reblogs + feedback are greatly appreciated !! MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI WITH MY NSFW CONTENT. YOU WILL IMMEDIATELY BE BLOCKED !!! all nsfw fics are clearly labeled MDNI, this applies to ageless blogs. p for platonic! f for fluff, a for angst, h/c for hurt/comfort, s for smut, su for suggestive!

SAM WINCHESTER

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DEAN WINCHESTER DRABBLES / ONESHOTS ⟢ the language of love isn’t dead | 2.4K, f, a ⟢ flower shop, 11:00 a.m. | 644, f ⟢ gas station, 3:04 a.m. | 615, h/c, p

HEADCANONS ⟢ best friend!dean | 1K , f, p

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BOTH DRABBLES / ONESHOTS (all platonic) ⟢ sorry won’t cut it (rewrite) | 4.1K, a, h/c ⟢ broken, fine for tonight | 1.3K, h/c ⟢ easy, maybe | 3K, h/c ⟢ safe now | 1.4K, h/c

HEADCANONS (all separate) … nothing yet !

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HEADCANONS ⟢ girlfriend hcs | 1.3K, f

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CHARLIE BRADBURY DRABBLES / ONESHOTS ⟢ make you feel so good | 1.K, s, MDNI

HEADCANONS … nothing yet !

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JO HARVELLE DRABBLES / ONESHOTS ⟢ so pretty | 1.7K, s, MDNI ⟢ hooked | 1.6K, s, MDNI

HEADCANONS ⟢ girlfriend hcs | 1.6K, f

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JESSICA MOORE DRABBLES / ONESHOTS ⟢ our girl | 1.2K, s, MDNI, w/sam

HEADCANONS … nothing yet !

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ROWENA MCLEOD DRABBLES / ONESHOTS ⟢ whiskey wanting | 1K, su, MDNI

HEADCANONS … nothing yet !

౨ৎ

1K notes · View notes

fireya-x · 5 months ago

Note

I’m obsessed with the idea of divorced Price who gets you to fall in love with him again. Like, I have forty chapters planned out in my head. Is this just me?? Am I crazy?

Cali!! bestie!! ❤️ Omg. Not sure this is like the forty chapters you have in mind, but I hope you'll like this!

chamomile

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x Reader ✦ After a painful divorce and unexpected reunion, you and John rediscover a love that never truly faded. ✦ 8.4k words ✦ tags/cw: angst, divorce, feelings, hurt/comfort, reunion, eventual smut, reunion sex, piv sex, oral sex

The silence in your flat was a heavy, suffocating presence. Some days, it pressed in you from all sides, amplifying the absence, the emptiness, where he used to be. It wasn’t merely the absence of another person, but the absence of him in particular.

John.

His rumbling laughter, often accompanied by the clinking of ice in his whiskey glass. The quiet humming when he lost himself in a well-worn novel by the fire. The concentrated sighs that escaped his lips when he was hunched over his office desk, wrestling with mission reports, the scent of tobacco clinging to the air. The comforting rhythm of his breathing next to yours in the night, now replaced by the oppressive weight of solitude and the cold emptiness of the other side of the bed.

Some days, the silence turned into a constant, dull ache in your chest, a wound that refused to heal. It was a constant reminder of what once was.

You often caught yourself staring at the shelf on the wall, the one you’d desperately tried to fill with an assortment of meaningless decorations, a futile attempt to fill the empty spaces where his belongings had once resided. Each object, carefully chosen and meticulously placed, felt like a small betrayal, a silent admission of defeat. Vases with dried flowers, their faded colors a pale imitation of the vibrant blooms he used to bring you; cheap trinkets that held no emotional value, their manufactured perfection a stark contrast to the unique, imperfect treasures he'd collected on his travels; some mass-produced artworks in frames that replaced the vibrant, personal photographs. Pictures of your sun-drenched vacations on the beach that now felt like a distant dream, a photograph of your faces on your wedding day, smeared with cake, eyes sparkling with laughter. A small porcelain figurine, a handmade and heartfelt gift from his grandmother, a woman who had welcomed you into her family with open arms – it was all tucked away in a box somewhere, hidden from view, wrapped in tissue paper, memories cherished but not yet ready to be confronted, like shards of glass that could cut you if you handled them too carelessly.

But nothing, none of the forced replacements, could truly ever fill the space, this gaping void that he left behind when your lives went separate ways.

This had been your shared flat once, a sanctuary nestled in the heart of Manchester, a carefully chosen haven, not far from either of your workplaces – a two-bedroom flat with large windows that overlooked a bustling street below, the sounds of the city a constant hum; a small balcony where you would share a bottle of wine on warm summer evenings and a cozy fireplace where you would curl up together on cold winter nights.

The location had seemed perfect then, a place where you had envisioned building a life together, a life filled with the comfort of shared routines, stolen kisses, the warmth of shared laughter that echoed through the rooms, filling every corner with the vibrancy of your love.

He had insisted you keep the flat after the divorce; “It’s yours,” he’d said, his gaze avoiding yours, his words clipped, his tone betraying nothing of the turmoil that raged within him. “I won't be here much anyway.”

The words, meant to be a gesture of generosity, a final act of kindness, a parting gift offered with a heavy heart, had instead become a constant, agonizing reminder of his absence, leaving behind the bitter taste of regret and the faint, lingering taste of what might have been.

You missed him.

Not the shadow he had become in the final years of your marriage, the distant, preoccupied figure who appeared infrequently, a ghost in his own home, his mind miles away. You missed the man he had been, the man you had fallen in love with – the man whose laughter could fill a room, whose touch could chase away the darkest shadows, whose love had once been your sanctuary, your safe haven in a world that often felt chaotic and uncertain. You missed the easy, effortless shared laughter over inside jokes that no one else understood, the comforting weight of his arm around your shoulders. The way he could make you feel safe, cherished, loved, with a single glance.

It wasn’t a sudden break, a dramatic fight, an explosion of anger and resentment, but a gradual erosion; a slow and agonizing fading, like a rot that set in, consuming your love, choking the joy, and suffocating the life you had once believed would last forever.

It started with small things, seemingly insignificant, but it was those small cracks in the foundation that triggered the fall. Cracks turning into widening fissures with each passing day. Unanswered texts, missed calls, forgotten birthdays, forgotten anniversaries, the growing distance between you in the same bed, the warmth of his touch replaced by the cold emptiness of the sheets, the silence stretching between you like a vast, empty expanse.

You had known, from the very beginning, from that first stolen glance across a crowded pub where you’d met, that his life would never be ordinary, that the long, dark shadows of his profession would always be a part of your shared existence, an uninvited guest at the table. And you had embraced that, welcomed it, believing, with some naivety that now made you wince, that your love and the connection you shared was strong enough to withstand the sacrifices his job asked of him, the toll it would inevitably take on your shared life. Sometimes, you wondered if there was even a place left for you at his side in this demanding, all-consuming world he inhabited. A world of coded conversations, hushed phone calls in the middle of the night, and the ever-present fear that gnawed at your insides, the fear that one day, he wouldn't come home.

You had always admired his devotion and his commitment to his work. You had seen him transform from a raw recruit into a seasoned soldier, a respected leader, a man who carried the weight of responsibility on his broad shoulders with a grace that both awed and inspired you. The way he could lose himself in the intricacies of strategy and tactics, the intensity with which he approached every challenge, every mission. You had been proud of his dedication and his commitment to a cause greater than himself.

He came home one evening, his eyes shining with pride and exhaustion, bringing with him the news of his promotion to Captain. You celebrated, of course. You opened a bottle of champagne, hugged and kissed, and told him how proud you were. You toasted his success, your words genuine, heartfelt, your joy for him masking the growing sense of dread that gnawed at the edges of your happiness. You knew how much this meant to him, this hard-won victory in the ongoing battle of his career, how many sleepless nights, how many missed birthdays, how many silent goodbyes whispered in the early mornings, had led to this moment, this achievement.

You wanted, more than anything, to be happy for him, to share the joy of his accomplishment.

And for a brief, fleeting moment, you did.

But later that night, the realization of what this promotion truly meant hit you, like a punch to the gut.

More responsibility.

More missions.

More deployments to the other end of the globe.

More sleepless nights spent waiting for his return.

More secrets whispered on the phone.

More clipped words you didn’t understand.

More distance between you.

More fuel for the slow, insidious rot that had already begun to consume your shared life.

Your joy at his success curdled into bitter disappointment, a mixture of pride and profound loneliness, a premonition of the long, empty nights and goodbyes that would soon become your reality. You lay beside him, yet you felt more alone, than you ever had before.

The Christmas you had planned so meticulously, the one where he had promised, sworn on his life, that he would be home – the Christmas tree shimmering with twinkling lights, the table set for a feast he never attended, the silence of his absence deafening amid the cheery Christmas carols on the radio. He hadn't even called, hadn't offered an explanation, hadn't bothered to invent an excuse — just a hasty, impersonal message left from a number you didn’t recognize, a clipped, emotionless voice relaying his apologies, the only sign of life you’d receive.

The pattern continued. The weight of his absences, the suffocating silence of his secrets, became an unbearable burden, a constant, oppressive presence that threatened to crush you beneath its weight.

The secrets grew deeper, the missions more frequent, more dangerous, his disappearances announced with nothing more than a hastily scribbled note left on the kitchen counter.

“Gone. Back soon.” “Don't wait up. Got called in.” “Love you.”

His words, once so full of affection, now felt hollow, crushed by the ever-present shadow of his profession, the weight of unspoken anxieties, the gnawing fear that each goodbye might be the last.

The rot spread and spread, its tendrils reaching into every corner of your life, tainting the once vibrant colors of your memories with a dull, grayish hue until only the empty shell remained, a hollow, brittle husk of a love lost and its future uncertain.

You tried to talk to him, to express your fears, your anxieties, your growing resentment. You remembered the way your voice trembled as you spoke, the words catching in your throat, threatening to choke you. And he listened. He truly listened, his eyes holding yours, his gaze filled with a mixture of weariness and regret. You saw the fatigue etched into the lines around his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders slumped with the weight of unspoken burdens. He understood. He understood the pain he was causing, the toll his profession was taking on your relationship, the slow, agonizing erosion of the love you had once shared.

He asked you to understand, to accept the life he had chosen, a life that demanded his complete and utter devotion, a life that left little room for the ordinary joys of love and companionship. He spoke of the importance of his work, the lives that depended on him, the sacrifices he was willing to make for the greater good. He spoke of the secrets he couldn't share, the dangers he couldn’t reveal, the constant threat that hung over him, you, and your shared life.

There was a raw honesty in his words, a vulnerability that you hadn't seen in a long time, a glimpse of the man you had fallen in love with, the man who was now trapped in the shadowy world he inhabited, a world where emotions were a liability, where vulnerability was a weakness, where love was a luxury he could no longer afford.

And so, when you finally uttered the words, “I can’t do this anymore, John,” the words a painful admission of defeat, a surrender to the inevitable – he didn’t argue, didn’t protest, didn't try to change your mind. He simply nodded, his eyes filled with a deep sadness, a silent acknowledgement of the truth you had both been avoiding for so long, the truth that your marriage was dying a slow, agonizing death.

“If I can’t have my husband back, I at least need my life back,” you had said, your voice trembling. “Not this… this constant waiting, this constant fear.”

“I can’t live like this anymore, John. I can’t keep waiting for you to come home, wondering if this time will be the last. I can’t keep wondering what you’re doing, who you’re with, what secrets you’re keeping from me.” Your voice cracked, the tears threatening to spill over, but you blinked them back, determined to maintain your composure.

You watched as his face crumpled, his carefully constructed mask of control momentarily shattering, revealing the raw pain, the regret, the love he still held for you, a love that was now slipping through his fingers like fine grains of sand.

He reached for you, his hand outstretched, his fingers brushing against yours, a fleeting touch, a desperate attempt to hold onto you, to grasp for something, anything, to prevent the inevitable. But his grip wasn’t strong enough against the cold, hard reality of your decision and your words’ finality.

You pulled away, your heart aching, knowing that this was the only way, the only path towards healing, towards reclaiming your life, your own narrative, your own future, a future that no longer included him. The pain of this separation, though sharp, like a knife twisting in your gut, was a clean break, a necessary amputation, infinitely preferable to the slow, agonizing decay of a love unfulfilled.

You threw yourself into your career, seeking solace in the familiar world of analysis, a world of logic and order, a world far removed from the unpredictable chaos and ever-present danger of John's life. You found a new rhythm, a new sense of purpose, building an existence outside of the shadows, a future you had once envisioned intertwined with his, now carefully, meticulously, constructed on your own. You excelled in your field, your passion and dedication earning you accolades and recognition.

Then one day, there was a call. From a woman called Kate Laswell, a name you’d heard several times in passing conversations with John. You’d met her once, briefly, during a social function at the base, a fleeting exchange of hellos, a polite, impersonal conversation amidst the clinking glasses and forced smiles. But you remembered her – a strong, intelligent woman, her eyes sharp, her gaze assessing, a woman who carved her way out in that male-dominated world of work that still felt so alien and impenetrable to you.

She had witnessed the change in John, the gradual withdrawal, the growing distance, the slow change of the man he had once been. She had seen him throw himself into his work, mission after mission, his dedication bordering on obsession, a desperate attempt to fill the void you had left behind. She had seen the emptiness in his eyes, the silent suffering that had settled over him.

And now, years later, she had reached out, her voice warm and professional on the other end of the line, offering you a position at her side, a chance to use your skills and expertise in a new capacity, a chance to step back into the world you had once abandoned, a world you had once vowed to never return to. “I’ve been following your work,” she said, her voice betraying a hint of admiration, “and I’m impressed. I think you have a lot to offer our team. I’d like to offer you a position as a forensic analyst. It's a unique opportunity, and I think you'd be a valuable asset.”

You were overwhelmed, flattered by the offer, intrigued by the opportunity. It was a chance to take your career to the next level, to work alongside one of the most respected figures in the field, a chance to challenge yourself. You accepted, of course, your heart pounding with excitement, blind to the fact that this wasn’t just a lucky encounter but a carefully orchestrated reunion, a second chance engineered by the woman who had witnessed the slow, agonizing demise of your love. A woman who believed, perhaps more than you did yourself, that it wasn't too late to rebuild the bridge that had been broken.

She took you under her wing, showed you the ropes, and introduced you to the team. She shared her knowledge, expertise, and insights, empowering you to navigate the complexities of your new role with confidence. You quickly found a liking to her, her strength and intelligence inspiring you, her confidence reassuring you. And it didn’t take long before she offered to take you along to your first real job, your first opportunity to put your newly acquired skills to the test in the field.

This wasn’t the first time you had been on a base. You had accompanied John several times during your marriage, social functions and official events, but never more than a few fleeting glimpses. But this was different. You weren't here as a spouse, a plus-one, a silent observer. You were here to work and to contribute.

The operations room buzzed with energy, murmured conversations, papers crinkling, keyboards clicking, screens buzzing. You were nervous. You’d done this work in a lab, in the sterile, controlled environment of a crime scene, but never within a military setting, never in the heart of the operation, never with the weight of lives hanging in the balance.

You clutched the folders you held tightly, your knuckles white, your heart pounding. Kate, her expression casually neutral, as if this was just another day at the office, cleared her throat. “Follow me,” she said, her voice low, just loud enough for you to hear above the noise. You straightened your shoulders, lifted your chin, and stepped behind her, your heels clicking against the polished floor, the sound sharp against the background noise.

“This is Captain John Price,” Kate said, stopping at the front of the room, her voice cutting through the noise, commanding attention. She gestured towards a figure standing with his back to you, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the flickering screens, his posture radiating strength and authority. “He’ll be leading the operation. I expect full cooperation from everyone.”

John.

Even before he turned, the name, spoken aloud in this sterile, impersonal environment, sent a jolt of electricity through you. It was a name that held a thousand memories, a lifetime of whispered secrets and stolen kisses, of shared laughter and unspoken fears, of a love that had once burned so brightly, so fiercely, that it had illuminated every corner of your existence. As he turned, his gaze sweeping across the room, taking in the assembled team with a practiced eye, assessing, calculating, your breath hitched in your throat, a sudden intake of air that caught somewhere between your lungs and your heart. Time seemed to stop, the noise of the operations room fading into a dull roar, the faces around you blurring, dissolving into an indistinct mass, replaced by the single, overwhelming image of him . You hadn't seen him in over two years. Had it been that long?

You held your breath, taking in his features; he was older, harder around the edges, the lines etched deeper into the corners of his eyes, the telltale marks of time and experience, of a life lived on the edge, in the shadows. His beard was longer, scruffier, his hair slightly unkempt, as if he hadn't bothered to style it, a small detail that spoke volumes about the changes in his life, the shift in priorities. But his eyes, those stormy sea-blue eyes that had once drawn you in with their intensity, warmth, and unspoken promises, were still the same, unchanged by time, the color as vivid and captivating as the first time you had met.

His gaze met yours and locked, and for a heart-stopping moment, the world seemed to fall away, the room, the people, the very mission itself, dissolving into nothingness, leaving just the two of you suspended in a bubble of shared history, of unspoken regrets, of what-ifs and might-have-beens. He didn’t smile. His expression softened for a fraction of a second before it returned to be carefully neutral, a mask of professional detachment. But neither did he look away.

“We’ve met,” you said, injecting just the right amount of professional distance in your voice, your pulse hammering in your veins as if wanting to breach your throat. “Captain.” You added, the word, a formal acknowledgment of his rank, his authority, feeling strange, foreign, on your tongue – as it was the uncomfortable, almost painful reminder of the distance that had grown between you.

But a slight, almost imperceptible tremor in your voice, the fleeting catch in your breath, betrayed the carefully constructed facade of indifference, a subtle, unconscious signal of the powerful emotional undercurrent that flowed beneath the surface.

The slight shift in the atmosphere wasn't lost on Kate. Her lips curved into a knowing smile, acknowledging the unspoken tension, the rekindled connection she had anticipated. Her gaze flickered between you and John, a silent assessment of the situation, a calculation of the potential risks and rewards of this unexpected reunion, before she smoothly turned back to the task at hand, addressing the rest of the team, her voice regaining its crisp, professional tone, her words bringing the focus back to the mission.

The days that followed were a blur of intense preparation, long hours spent poring over intelligence reports, analyzing data, strategizing, and coordinating with various teams across the globe. The familiar rhythm of the work, the adrenaline-fueled pressure of the impending mission, both soothed and unsettled you. It was a reminder of the life you had once shared with John, the life you had walked away from, the life that was now, in a strange twist of fate, within your reach once more.

You found yourself working alongside John, your professional collaboration a carefully choreographed dance around the unspoken emotions that simmered beneath the surface. You were both meticulous in maintaining a professional demeanor, your interactions crisp, efficient, devoid of any hint of the shared past. The lingering connection still pulsed between you like a live wire, a current that threatened to short-circuit the carefully constructed walls of your composure. You avoided his gaze, focusing intently on the task at hand, your mind racing with calculations, your fingers flying across the keyboard, your every action a carefully constructed shield against the emotional onslaught of his presence.

He watched you, silently, intently, observing the way you spoke, your voice clear and confident, your insights incisive and insightful, the way you dissected complex data with an almost surgical precision, the way you held your own with the hardened soldiers and seasoned intelligence officers – a world you had once shunned, now embraced with a newfound sense of purpose.

He saw the woman you had become, the strong, independent woman who had emerged from the shadows of their failed marriage, a woman he both admired and desired, a woman he had almost lost to the relentless demands of his profession, a woman he was now determined to win back, piece by carefully chosen piece.

He hadn’t tried to speak to you about your shared past, not once. And though it broke your heart, a dull, persistent ache in the hollow spaces where his love had once resided, it was precisely this respect, this professionalism, this acknowledgment of your independence, that made you see him in a new light. He didn't cross any lines, didn't attempt to rekindle the intimacy you had once shared, didn't presume upon your shared history. The mission, the success of the operation, was his primary focus, and in his unwavering dedication to his duty, you saw a glimpse of the man you had fallen in love with, the man of integrity and unwavering principle.

It was as if the rot that had consumed your shared life had, in its destructive path, cleared the way for new growth, a new beginning, a second chance you hadn't dared to hope for.

And yet, amidst the professional work, he began, slowly, subtly, to chip away at the walls you had built around your heart.

The steaming cup of tea on your desk in the morning.

Chamomile.

No coffee, no black tea, just plain simple chamomile tea. He’d teased you about it once, only sick people drink that , he’d said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. But he'd remembered. He'd remembered a small, insignificant detail, a personal preference you hadn't indulged in since your separation. Did they even have chamomile tea on base? Had he gone out of his way to procure it, just for you?

You hadn't touched chamomile tea since the divorce. The taste, once so comforting, so intimately associated with shared mornings and whispered love confessions, had turned sour, a bitter reminder of broken promises and a love gone cold. You had banished it from your cupboards, your life, a symbolic purging of the past, a desperate attempt to erase the memories.

You stared at the mug, the steam swirling before your eyes, a hazy veil that separated you from the present, transporting you back to a time when the world had felt brighter, simpler, when the scent of chamomile had been a comforting constant in your life. You remembered lazy mornings, waking to the sound of him humming in the kitchen, the aroma of chamomile tea mingling with the scent of freshly brewed coffee, a shared breakfast, a stolen kiss, a whispered “I love you” before he disappeared into the shadows of his work.

You lifted the mug to your lips, the ceramic warm against your skin, the steam caressing your face, the scent of chamomile filling your senses, a sudden, unexpected rush of emotion catching you off guard. You took a sip, the warm liquid flowing down your throat, and the familiar taste shocked your system.

It wasn’t the bitter, tainted taste you had remembered, but the sweet, slightly floral flavor you had once loved, a taste that evoked memories of shared laughter and the quiet comfort of a love that had once felt invincible.

And at that moment, as the warmth of the tea spread through you, chasing away the lingering chill of loneliness and regret, you knew that you hadn't forgotten either. It was as if the years of separation had all dissolved in that single sip, leaving you exposed, vulnerable, raw. The feelings, the memories, and the love you had once shared were still there, buried beneath the surface, waiting to be reawakened.

He left a carefully chosen book on your desk, a first edition of your favorite author, he accidentally brushed your hand during a briefing, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. Your gun permit, which had been inexplicably delayed for weeks, suddenly appeared on your desk the next morning, stamped and approved. He offered you a ride home one evening, the silence in the car filled with unspoken words, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife. He began to share small details about his life, his work, and his team, offering you glimpses into the world he had once kept so carefully hidden, a silent invitation to bridge the chasm that had separated you for so long. One afternoon, you found your schedule cleared and a scribbled note on your desk: “Take a break. You deserve it.”

You began to question your initial assumptions about John's priorities, the narrative you had constructed to explain the demise of your marriage. You had blamed his work, absences, secrets, and dedication to a world you couldn't comprehend, a world that demanded his complete and utter devotion, leaving no room for you, for the life you had envisioned together.

But now, as you observed him in the operations room, his authority commanding the respect of everyone in the room, his strategic mind dissecting complex problems with ease, his commitment to his team evident in every carefully chosen word, every decisive action – you realized that his work wasn’t just a job, a career, a means to an end, but a part of who he was, a calling that demanded his complete and utter devotion.

Perhaps he hadn't made a conscious decision to prioritize his career over your love, but had felt incapable, unworthy, of juggling the demands of both, of being the husband he wanted to be, the husband he believed you deserved.

Perhaps he hadn't chosen his work over you, as you had once so bitterly believed.

Perhaps he was his work, just as he was the man who left chamomile tea and thoughtful notes on your desk, the man whose love, despite the years of separation, had somehow managed to endure, a stubborn ember glowing beneath the ashes of your shared past, waiting for the breath of forgiveness to fan it back into a flame.

And in that realization, something within you shifted. The resentment, the bitterness, began to dissolve, replaced by a newfound understanding and respect, and a flicker of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, it wasn't too late.

The evening before the mission, as he handed you another steaming mug of chamomile tea, a small routine that had formed, he confessed his regret, his voice low, husky, his words a carefully measured confession. “Listen,” he said, his gaze holding yours, “when we leave for this mission tomorrow, I at least wanted to have said this... I was an idiot letting you go.” The words hung between you, heavy with unspoken regret, the weight of years gone by.

You simply nodded, your voice failing you, the sudden rush of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. “Thank you, John,” you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible above the hum of the computers. You turned away, retreating to the safety of your work, your heart pounding, your mind racing.

You couldn't rest. His confession, his admission of regret, acted as a catalyst, a spark that ignited the embers of your own emotions. A sudden, unexpected revelation that shook you to your core. You realized that your feelings for him were still there, stronger, perhaps, than ever before, buried beneath the surface, waiting, patiently, persistently, for this moment.

The next morning, he was gone. The days that followed were a blur of anxiety and anticipation. You found yourself constantly checking for updates, scanning the news feeds for any hint of what was happening on the ground, your heart pounding with each notification, each report. Then, finally, the news arrived. The mission was a success. Kate informed you that John’s team had returned, that he was back, safe and sound.

You had to see him. You needed to see him.

You drove to his flat, your heart pounding, a chaotic mix of hope and fear, anticipation and dread, warring within you. As you stood before his door, your hand hovering over the buzzer, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the encounter, for the potential rejection. You pressed the buzzer, the sound echoing in the quiet hallway, each second stretching into an eternity as you waited for his response. He opened the door, his expression a mixture of surprise and concern.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough with sleep, his hair tousled, his clothes rumpled. “What’s wrong? Did some – ”

He didn't get to finish his question. You threw yourself into his arms, your body colliding with his, your arms wrapping around him, holding him tight, as if you could physically merge with him and erase the years of separation. He stiffened momentarily, surprised by the suddenness of your embrace. Then his arms closed around you, his touch tentative at first, then tightening.

He held you tight, his hands stroking your hair, his touch gentle, reassuring, a silent apology for the pain caused, the distance created, the years he had been absent from your life. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask for explanations, didn’t question the sudden outpouring of emotions.

You stood there for a long moment, locked in a silent embrace, the world outside fading away, replaced by the comforting warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his heart against yours, the familiar, comforting scent of his skin. It was a sensory symphony that evoked a flood of memories, both sweet and bittersweet.

Finally, you pulled back slightly, your eyes searching his. “I…” you began, your voice trembling slightly, the words catching in your throat.

He looked at you, his eyes filled with concern. “Tell me,” he said, his voice soft and gentle, an invitation to share what was on your mind.

You took a deep breath. “When you said… when you said you were an idiot for letting me go…” you began, your voice trembling, your gaze locking with his, searching for any flicker of judgment, of rejection, “It… it made me realize something. Something I should have realized a long time ago.”

He waited patiently for you to continue, his silence a comforting presence, an unspoken promise that he would listen.

“It made me realize that… that maybe I was the idiot, too,” you confessed. “For… for giving up on us. For asking you to choose when I knew, deep down, that this life, this work… it’s a part of you. It’s who you are.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but you stopped him, your hand gently covering his, a silent plea for him to let you finish. “Seeing you back there, in the operations room, commanding, leading… I realized how much of this life is a part of you, how much you thrive in this world. Asking you to leave it… it would have been like asking you to give up a part of yourself. And that’s not what love is, John. Love isn’t about changing someone, it’s about accepting them, flaws and all.” Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision, but you blinked them back, determined to meet his gaze.

He didn’t answer, just pulled you closer, closing the door behind you, shutting out the world. He led you inside, took your jacket, carefully hung it up, and then offered you a drink. “Whiskey?” he asked, his voice a low rumble that sent a familiar shiver down your spine. You nodded.

The familiar sound of ice clinking against glass filled the quiet of his flat, a comforting counterpoint to the frantic beating of your heart. Your throat suddenly felt dry, the anticipation coating your tongue like the first sip of cheap booze. As he poured the drinks, your gaze traced the familiar lines of his body, the subtle play of muscle beneath the worn fabric of his t-shirt, the scars that mapped the hidden landscape of his past. He handed you your glass, his fingers brushing yours, the contact sparking a flicker of warmth that spread quickly through your veins. You took a sip, the heat of the whiskey a welcome counterpoint to the nervous chill in your stomach. He raised his glass in a silent toast, his eyes locking with yours, the intensity of his gaze a palpable force that stole your breath away.

He set his glass down, the sound sharp in the sudden quiet. He reached for you, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb gently stroking the skin beneath your eye. The rough texture of his calloused fingers against your skin was a stark reminder of the life he led and the dangers he faced, but you found it strangely reassuring at that moment of rekindled intimacy.

“I missed you,” he murmured, holding your gaze.

“I missed you too,” you whispered back, the words a release, a surrender to the yearning that had been a constant ache in your chest for far too long. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision, hot against your skin. You hadn't realized how much you had needed to hear those words, how much you had needed to say them, until they hung in the air between you, fragile and precious.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours, a feather-light touch that sent tremors through your body, awakening nerve endings that had lain dormant for far too long. You closed your eyes, savoring the sensation. Then, his lips pressed against yours with increased force, the kiss deepening, growing more urgent, more demanding.

His hands moved to your waist, pulling you closer, molding your body against his. The sensation of his familiar touch, the way he held you, sent a wave of heat through you, mingled with a deep sense of belonging, of coming home.

He lifted you into his arms, carrying you towards the bedroom. The world outside faded away, replaced by the feel of his arms around you, the steady beat of his heart against yours, the warmth of his breath on your skin. He laid you gently on the bed, the soft sheets cool against your heated skin. His body hovered over yours, his gaze holding yours, his eyes, once clouded with guilt and regret, now filled with a love so deep, so intense, that it stole your breath away. He kissed you again, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that mirrored your own.

He undressed you slowly, deliberately, reverently, his hands mapping the familiar landscape of your body with a newfound appreciation, a rediscovered sense of wonder, as though he were tracing the contours of a cherished map, each curve and hollow a familiar landmark on a journey he had almost forgotten.

He reached for the clasp of your bra, his fingers fumbling slightly with the fastening, the momentary clumsiness a endearing reminder of his nervousness. The cool air against your newly exposed skin sent a shiver down your spine, a frisson of anticipation that mingled with the warmth of his gaze. He looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, his gaze lingering on the swell of your breasts, the rosy peaks of your nipples hardening under his scrutiny. He lowered his head, his lips brushing against your skin, his tongue tracing a slow, wet path from the base of your throat to the valley between your breasts, sending shivers of pleasure radiating outwards, a symphony of sensation that had you arching towards him, your body humming with anticipation. He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, then harder, drawing a soft moan from deep within your throat. His hand cupped your other breast, his thumb circling your nipple, mimicking the motion of his mouth, the dual stimulation sending waves of pleasure crashing through you.

You reached for him, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, your nails lightly scratching his scalp, eliciting a low groan of pleasure from deep within his chest. You wanted him closer, needed him closer, the years of separation, the ache of loneliness, melting away in the heat of his touch, the warmth of his body against yours.

He moved lower, his lips trailing a path of fire down your stomach, his tongue dipping into your navel, sending a shiver of anticipation through you. He kissed the soft skin of your inner thighs, his breath warm against your most sensitive flesh, his touch igniting a fire in your core. He reached for the waistband of your panties, his fingers hooking beneath the fabric, his gaze meeting yours, seeking permission. You nodded, your breath catching in your throat, the anticipation almost unbearable.

He pulled your panties down, his touch slow, deliberate, his gaze lingering on the delicate folds of your flesh, now exposed to his hungry gaze. He moved lower still, his tongue parting your folds and brushing against your clit, sending a jolt of electricity through you, your body arching involuntarily towards his touch. He kissed you there, gently at first, then with growing intensity, his tongue flicking across your swollen nub, drawing out a sharp gasp of pleasure from deep within your throat. You reached down, your fingers tangling in his hair again, anchoring you to the present moment, the exquisite reality of his touch, his warmth, the intoxicating scent of his skin mingling with yours.

“John,” you moaned, his name a plea, a prayer, escaping your lips on a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

He continued to lavish attention on your clit, his tongue circling, teasing, stroking, building the pressure, the pleasure, until you were writhing beneath him, your body arching towards his, your moans growing louder, more insistent. He hummed against you, the vibration a low, guttural sound that resonated deep within your core, amplifying the pleasure that coursed through you. He inserted a finger into you, slowly, deliberately, stretching you, filling you, the sensation both exquisite and familiar, a reminder of the intimacy you had once shared, an intimacy you had almost forgotten, an intimacy you now craved with a desperate hunger. You cried out, a mixture of pleasure and a sharp pang of need. He added another finger, then another, scissoring them inside you, mimicking the rhythm of his tongue on your clit, building the pressure, the pleasure, until you were on the verge of shattering, your body humming with anticipation, your senses overwhelmed by the exquisite torture of his touch.

“Please,” you begged, your voice thick with longing, your body aching for release. “John, please…”

He looked up at you then, his eyes filled with a raw hunger that mirrored your own, a flame that had been rekindled, now burning brighter, hotter, than ever before. He withdrew his fingers, his touch lingering on your swollen clit, sending a final jolt of pleasure through you that had you gasping. He rose then and began to shed his clothes. You watched him, mesmerized, as he shrugged off his shirt, revealing the broad expanse of his chest, the muscles rippling beneath his skin, the familiar scattering of dark hair across his chest and stomach. The familiar crisscross pattern of scars, some new, some old, resembling a map of his battles fought. Your gaze lingered on the planes of his stomach, the defined line of his V, the way his muscles flexed with each movement. He unbuckled his belt, the sound loud in the quiet room, then unzipped his trousers, pushing them down his legs, revealing his cock, hard and throbbing, already glistening. He stepped out of his pants, then reached down to pull off his boxers, revealing him fully to you. You admired him, the raw power and vulnerability he embodied in that moment, the man you had loved, lost, and now found again.

He positioned himself between your legs, the heat of his cock pressing against your entrance, a familiar pressure that sent a wave of longing through you. You reached down, your fingers wrapping around his shaft, stroking him gently, feeling the familiar texture of his skin against yours, the heat radiating from him. He groaned low in his throat, his hips bucking involuntarily against your touch. You arched your back, pressing yourself against him, wanting him closer, needing him inside you.

He pushed forward slowly, deliberately, the head of his cock stretching you, filling you, the sensation both exquisite and familiar, a reminder of the past and a promise of the future. You cried out, a mixture of pleasure and a sharp pang of need, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, anchoring you to the present, to the reality of his touch, his warmth, the solid weight of him inside you. A wave of heat flooded through you, centered low in your belly, spreading outward in ripples of pure sensation. It was more than just physical; it was a feeling of rightness, of completion. It was as if his cock was made to be inside you; the way it filled you so completely, so perfectly, the way it stretched you, possessed you. Each thrust reawakened a memory, a sensation, a feeling you thought you'd lost forever. You clung to him, your body molding against his, desperate to erase the distance, to bridge the gap, to become one with him again.

He paused, holding himself still inside you, allowing you to adjust to his size, his fullness. “Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his voice thick with need.

“Fuck me, John,” you moaned, your voice thick with longing, your body aching for the friction, the release, the complete and utter surrender to the moment, to him.

He obliged, moving within you, slowly at first, savoring the feeling of reconnection. He knew exactly how to touch you, where to press, how to angle his thrusts to elicit the most intense pleasure, as if he had the very skin between your thighs memorized, as if your body was a map he had charted again and again in his mind during the long years of your separation. His rhythm was slow, deliberate, each thrust a measured exploration, a rediscovery of the intimate language your bodies once spoke so fluently. Your hands found his back, your fingers digging into his skin, anchoring you to the present, to the exquisite reality of him inside you. Your faces were inches apart, your gazes locked, his eyes reflecting the same raw hunger and desperate longing that burned within you.

Lost souls, wandering in the wilderness, finally brought home to each other.

The slow burn intensified with each thrust, building a pressure that coiled tight in your belly. He groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your skin, resonating deep within your core.

“God, you feel so good,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin. He shifted his angle slightly, his cock brushing against a particularly sensitive spot within you, sending a jolt of pure pleasure through your body. You arched against him, your hips meeting his thrusts, your moans growing louder, more insistent.

He withdrew almost completely, then plunged back inside you, the friction building with each thrust, the pleasure intensifying until it became an exquisite torment. You tangled your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, closer, wanting to merge with him completely, to erase the years of being apart, the ache of loneliness, the bitter taste of regret. Your nails dug into his back, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his skin.

“John,” you cried out, his name a desperate plea, a prayer, escaping your lips on a wave of pure pleasure. "John, yes ..."

The world narrowed, focused down to the single, overwhelming sensation of him inside you, filling you, possessing you, completing you – the pressure built, coiling tighter and tighter, until it became unbearable.

Then, with a final, powerful thrust, it broke, a wave of pure bliss washing over you, consuming you, shattering you into a million pieces. It was as if the very essence of your being dissolved, merging with his in a blinding flash of white-hot ecstasy. Your body convulsed around him, your muscles contracting, your breath coming in short, gasping sobs. You cried out his name, a wordless expression of the joy, the release, the complete and utter surrender to him.

He followed close behind, his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm, his cock throbbing inside you, spilling his seed deep within you, a tangible expression of his love, his possession, his complete and utter surrender to the overwhelming power you held over him.

It was a shared climax, a melting point where the years of separation dissolved, and the barriers between you crumbled, leaving only the raw, visceral connection of two souls intertwined, two bodies forged together in pure euphoria.

At that moment, there was nothing but you and him, your bodies intertwined, skin on skin, two halves of a whole, finally reunited.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight comforting, his breath warm against your skin. He rolled onto his side, pulling you close, his arm draped protectively over your waist, his hand resting on your hip, his fingers gently tracing the curve of your bone. You snuggled against him, your head resting on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, a comforting sound that lulled you into a state of blissful contentment. The silence stretched between you, now filled with a comfortable intimacy. The years before suddenly seemed like a distant nightmare.

“Come home,” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the steady rhythm of his breathing, the words escaping your lips before you could fully process their meaning, a sudden, unexpected outpouring of a need you hadn’t realized was so profound, so deeply rooted in the very core of your being. You wanted him with you, in your life. You wanted to wake up next to him in the morning, the scent of his skin mingling with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, to share a cup of chamomile tea. You wanted him home, not as a fleeting visitor, a ghost from the past, but as a constant presence.

He shifted slightly, his gaze searching yours, a question forming in his eyes. You’d spoken without thinking, your words driven by the raw intensity of the moment, the overwhelming sense of connection and belonging that had washed over you. As the initial euphoria faded, replaced by a sudden wave of self-consciousness, you realized how forward you’d been, how presumptuous, how soon . You froze, your heart pounding in your chest, a sudden fear gripping you, the fear of rejection, of having overstepped, of having shattered the fragile, nascent hope of a future you had only just begun to envision.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low and hesitant, his words gentle and probing.

“My life is so empty without you, John,” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper, the words a simple, heartfelt truth, an admission of the loneliness that had been your constant companion for so long, the gnawing emptiness that had threatened to consume you, to erode the very core of your being. “I… I miss you. I miss us .”

You looked at him then, your eyes pleading, your gaze searching his, seeking reassurance, understanding. You reached out to touch his face, your fingers grazing the stubble on his jaw. “You should have never left in the first place.”

He smiled then, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes, chasing away the lingering shadows of doubt and regret, illuminating his face with a warmth that melted your heart. “I know.”

You took a deep breath. “I… I was so inconsiderate,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “To dismiss the intensity of your job. To ask you to choose. I should have understood, should have realized…”

He reached out, his hand gently covering your mouth, silencing your self-recriminations, his touch a comforting reassurance, a silent promise of forgiveness. “We both had our reasons. We both made mistakes. We both… we both went through a difficult time. I wish things could have been different. I hated being gone so much, hated knowing I was causing you pain” He paused, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. “It’s okay. We’re here now.”

“But, for better or for worse, right?” you whispered, echoing the vows you had exchanged so many years ago, vows that had been broken but not forgotten, vows that now held a newfound significance. “I… I broke that promise, John. I walked away.”

He leaned in then, his lips brushing against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “And I let you,” he whispered, “but not again. Never again.”

He kissed you then, a deep, lingering kiss that sealed the unspoken promise between you, a promise of forgiveness, of understanding, of a love reborn from the ashes of your shared past. You lay there, wrapped in each other's arms, content in the intimacy of a love that had, against all odds, refused to die.

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mistyshane30 · 3 months ago

Text

You Were Never Mine to Lose (Chapter 20)

Synopsis: You wait. You hope. And when nothing comes, you try again. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts.

Word count: 4K

Warnings: Angst, Mild language, Unresolved emotions

You land in Washington. It’s colder here.

The sky is grey, the city moves quickly around you, but your mind is slow. Numb, but determined. You watch the blur of cars, of coats and briefcases and umbrellas, from the back of your car, forehead leaning lightly against the cold window.

You don’t go to her. Not yet.

Instead, you check into a quiet hotel—expensive, discreet, the kind of place where no one asks questions unless you want them to. The receptionist recognizes your name when you give it, eyes flickering with something like recognition, but she doesn’t say anything. You’re just another guest. Another important person passing through.

The suite is spacious, sterile, elegant. You close the door behind you and it’s like entering a vacuum. Silence wraps around you. A kind of stillness that only makes your pulse feel louder.

You unpack slowly. Deliberately. There’s not much—just the essentials. Clothes you didn’t think too hard about. A few files. Your tablet. Lip balm. The watch you haven’t worn in months.

You fold your blazer over the back of the chair. Lay your phone face-down on the bedside table. It buzzes once—an email, maybe—but you don’t look.

Then you stand by the window. For too long.

The city stretches beneath you in lights and motion. From this height, people look like moving shadows. Distant. Unreachable. You rest your fingertips on the glass, tracing nothing. Your reflection stares back at you—tired eyes, tight jaw, a woman trying to look like she’s got it together.

You rehearse what you might say. Over and over.

You mouth it to the window: “I was wrong.”

Or maybe: “I know you don’t owe me anything.”

Or maybe just: “Agatha.”

But none of it sounds right. It all falls flat against the glass.

You drink tea instead of whiskey. For once. It’s chamomile. You don’t even like chamomile. But it’s supposed to calm your nerves, and you’re desperate for something to help. You sit on the edge of the bed, mug cupped in your hands, eyes fixed on nothing.

The clock ticks.

You go to bed early—but you don’t sleep.

You lie there, eyes open in the dark, sheets cool and unfamiliar. You count the hours. You replay the last time you saw her, the last time you touched her, the look on her face when she said your name. It’s a loop you can’t break out of.

At some point, you turn your phone over, just to check. Just to see. No messages. You wonder if she’d care you’re here.

Eventually, you drift into something close to sleep—thin and restless, more like hovering on the edge of consciousness than resting. Every creak in the hallway outside startles you. Every dream that threatens to start drags you straight back to waking.

You wake up early.

It’s still dark when you open your eyes. You lie there for a moment, listening to the hum of the city outside the window. Your body is heavy, but your mind is already racing. You breathe in deeply—slow, deliberate—and then you push yourself up.

You go through your usual morning routine, even though nothing about today feels ordinary.

You shower longer than you need to. Brush your teeth with shaking hands. Your reflection in the mirror looks steadier than you feel. You pick out your clothes with intention. It’s something clean, composed, neutral.

A dark coat. Simple heels. Your watch.

You tie your hair back with care. Spritz your perfume lightly. You stare at yourself one last time before leaving the room. One deep breath. Then another.

You call your driver to get the car ready, like always. But you already know—you won’t be needing him today.

When you reach the main entrance of the hotel, your driver is there, waiting. He sees you coming and holds out your keys without a word. You take them with a small nod of thanks, curling your fingers around the familiar metal.

The steering wheel feels foreign beneath your hands. You rarely drive yourself anymore. But this—this is something you need to do on your own.

The streets blur past as you drive. You barely notice the traffic, the lights, the horns. All you can hear is your own heart, stammering hard in your chest like it’s trying to break free. You clench the wheel tighter.

The closer you get, the more your breath shortens.

When you finally reach the building—her building—it looms before you, glass and steel, cold and sharp. You sit in the car for a second, just breathing. Then you force yourself out and walk toward the entrance.

Inside, it’s bright and sterile. You cross the lobby, head high despite the heaviness pressing into your chest. At the front desk, the receptionist looks up as you approach.

“I’m here to see Governor Harkness,” you say.

You don’t offer your name. You don’t have to.

Her eyes flick to your face, and that’s all it takes.

She straightens slightly. You see the moment it clicks—recognition settling into something cooler, something laced with unspoken awareness. Your name doesn’t need to pass your lips. She already knows who you are. Everyone here probably does.

Still, she keeps her voice neutral. “Do you have an appointment?”

You shake your head. “No.”

There’s the briefest pause. Then she picks up the phone, her tone low, professional, careful. She says a few things you can’t quite catch, glancing at you just once more.

She hangs up. “Please have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”

You nod once, quietly, and take a seat in one of the sleek chairs nearby.

The room moves around you—people coming and going, shoes tapping against the floor, elevators chiming open and closed. But your world narrows.

Minutes pass. Then—

“Miss Y/L/N?”

You look up.

Billy.

You recognize him instantly, even though it’s been years. A little older now. A little more refined. Still carries himself with the same calm professionalism he always had. He’s been Agatha’s assistant for nearly a decade now.

You stand as he approaches.

“Hey,” you say, offering a small, tentative smile. “Billy, right? Is Agatha here? Is she at a m—”

He cuts you off gently. “Yes, Miss Y/L/N. Governor Harkness is in a meeting right now.”

Your smile falters. You nod, trying to hide the sting of it. “Right… of course.”

You take a breath, then glance around. “I’ll just wait here. In the lobby. It’s fine.”

He hesitates—just for a second. But he nods. “Alright. I’ll let her know.”

“Thanks, Billy,” you say softly.

“Do you need anything?” he asks, eyes kind.

You shake your head. “No. I’m good.”

He gives you a small smile—sympathetic, maybe. Then excuses himself, disappearing behind the double doors you’re not allowed through.

And just like that, you’re left alone again.

Waiting.

The lobby buzzes on around you, a constant rhythm of shoes and soft murmurs, elevator dings and keycard swipes. Hours pass like clouds drifting over a sealed sky. People come and go. Her name is never mentioned.

You check the time. It’s past noon.

Still nothing.

Maybe she’s still in the meeting. You know how politics works—tight schedules, long discussions, unexpected delays. You tell yourself that.

You stay.

Eventually, you order food online—nothing fancy. A sandwich. A bottle of sparkling water. The delivery arrives, and you eat it quietly, still seated in the same spot. You watch the door. You keep glancing toward the elevator.

It’s afternoon now.

Still no Agatha.

Your fingers drum softly on the armrest. You tell yourself it’s okay. She’s busy. She’s always been busy. This is nothing new. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean she’s avoiding you.

Right?

The sun lowers in the sky, casting long shadows across the polished floor. The light outside turns golden, then amber, then blue.

You’re still here.

Still waiting.

A few staff members begin packing up. Some glance your way as they leave, their expressions flickering with recognition, with curiosity. But no one approaches. No one says anything.

You don’t leave.

You won’t.

You’re not giving up on her.

Not again.

But exhaustion creeps in slowly—beneath your skin, behind your eyes, into your bones. Eventually, it wins.

Your body slouches a little. Your chin dips to your chest.

You fall asleep.

A light shake wakes you.

“Miss?” a voice says, firm but gentle.

You blink, your neck stiff, your heartbeat slow and heavy as you open your eyes to a security guard standing beside you.

“I’m sorry, miss. We’re closing up for the night.”

You sit up straight quickly, rubbing your eyes. “Right… right, I—sorry.”

You gather yourself, stand.

Then you ask, almost without thinking, “Did… did Governor Harkness already leave?”

The guard gives you a strange look. “Yeah, she left hours ago. This afternoon, I think.”

You stare at him for a moment. Then nod.

“Okay,” you say softly.

You don’t ask for more. You don’t say another word.

You just walk out.

She probably didn’t know you were here. Maybe Billy didn’t tell her. Or maybe she got caught up in back-to-back meetings. Or… maybe she just didn’t want to see you.

You swallow that thought like a pill that sticks to the back of your throat.

You get in your car.

The driver’s seat is cold.

You drive back to the hotel in silence. No music. Just the hum of the engine, and your own breath, and the ache crawling up the back of your chest.

Today is fine, you tell yourself.

Maybe she was just busy.

Maybe tomorrow… maybe tomorrow will be different.

You'll try again.

Ever since that day, you return to her office every morning.

It becomes a rhythm, a routine you can’t break. The walk through the lobby, the familiar glance from the receptionist, the quiet nod you give her when she asks if you have an appointment. You don’t—never do.

“I’m here to see Governor Harkness,” you tell her, the words sounding hollow and repetitive after so many days.

She asks you to wait, as usual. And so you do.

You wait. Patiently. Quietly. In the same spot. No demands, no protests. Just waiting. There’s a weight to it now—heavier than before. But somehow, it feels necessary.

Each day, you bring something for Agatha.

Azaleas. Her favorite flowers. A bouquet, fresh and vibrant, with a little handwritten note tucked inside. Coffee, always a perfect brew, just the way she liked it. Sometimes, lunch—something simple, but enough to show you’re thinking of her.

The note is always short—just a few words, something sincere, but carefully crafted to leave her space, not overwhelm her.

“Take care of yourself today.”

“I hope you ate lunch.”

“Still thinking of you."

“Still here.”

And every time, you hand it off to Billy.

You don’t need to say much—he doesn’t ask anymore. He just takes the flowers, the coffee, the lunch. He stops offering excuses. Doesn’t tell you she’s in a meeting. He just nods, quietly, like it’s a routine now. A ritual you both know too well.

Billy’s pitying looks become harder to ignore.

The staff at the building grows accustomed to your presence. It starts with the receptionist, who offers a small, polite smile each time. Then, the janitors—brief exchanges, little pleasantries as they go about their work. Sometimes you talk with the security guards on your way in or out, their voices casual, friendly, as if this is all normal.

They don’t ask too many questions. You tell them that you and Agatha were once very close—good friends, and that you’d made a terrible mistake. You’re here now, trying to restore what you once had. They nod in understanding, of course. They buy it.

They don't know the truth.

But you suspect they’ve started whispering when you're not around.

“Governor Harkness’s old friend is back,” you overhear, once, when you pass the break room.

“She’s been waiting again today. Since 8 am,” another voice adds quietly.

You don’t say anything. You just keep walking.

They don’t know. Or maybe they do.

But no one dares say it out loud. Not to you. Not to anyone.

You return, day after day, hour after hour.

You come in. Sit. Wait. Leave.

She’s always “in a meeting,” “off-site,” “unavailable.”

You’ve stopped asking why.

You don’t even care how long this will take. You endured seventeen years loving her in silence—what’s a few more days? Weeks? Months? You’ve already survived the ache of wanting her without ever having her. This is just another shape of the same pain. One you’ve learned how to carry.

But still—one morning, you try again. This time, official.

You request a formal meeting through her secretary.

She glances at her screen. “You’re penciled in,” she says, with a faint, polite smile.

You know what that means.

Still, you nod.

A day passes. Then another. The meeting is “bumped,” then “rescheduled,” then dropped altogether.

It’s humiliating—but you don’t stop.

Eventually, you buy a small apartment near the Capitol—quiet, simple. Unassuming. A place to wait, and cook, and sleep poorly in. You walk the streets, even when it’s freezing. You eat alone. You read, but your mind wanders.

And every night, before sleep, you sit at the desk in your apartment and write.

A new letter. A new page. A new version of everything you never got to say.

You fold each one, date it, and slide it into a box you keep on your nightstand.

You don’t know if you’ll ever give them to her. Maybe one day. Maybe never.

But it helps, somehow.

Because even if she never reads a word—you’re still trying.

Even when it hurts. Even when hope feels like a slow poison.

One day, you wake up and lie still in bed, staring at the ceiling, but not really seeing it. The weight of the morning presses on you, heavier than it should. Your limbs feel like lead, and you can’t remember the last time you woke up feeling rested. It’s like your body is refusing to move, refusing to let go of the exhaustion from everything—waiting, hoping, trying.

Minutes stretch, long enough to feel like hours. Your mind buzzes, but it’s distant. Your heart, too, distant but still beating with the same persistent ache.

You don’t move. You just lie there.

Something inside you feels different. Maybe it’s just the tiredness catching up to you. Maybe it’s the hollow ache in your chest, the kind you can’t shake, the kind that makes everything else seem… irrelevant. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep hoping like this, like she’s going to turn around one day and say yes.

So, you sit up. Slowly, unwillingly. Because hope has embedded itself so deep in your bones that even exhaustion can’t pry it out.

You move through your morning routine like you’re underwater.

You shower, standing still as the water hits your back. You don’t bother rushing. You just stay there, letting the warmth press into your skin, trying to soften the weight you’ve been carrying.

You wash your hair. Moisturize. Brush your teeth. You still do everything—methodical, careful. You dress in clean clothes, something quiet and soft in color, like you're trying not to offend the world by being present.

You make coffee, though you hardly taste it anymore.

Egg and Toast. No appetite. But you eat.

You brush your hair neatly, fix your collar, glance in the mirror—not to admire yourself, but to make sure you look okay. Like someone she might be able to stand looking at, if today is the day she finally does.

And then you sit by the window again. Like always.

Your fingers curl around the mug. Your eyes follow the people on the street below.

There’s something strange in your chest. Not heavy. Not light either.

Just… still.

You think about how long it’s been.

Weeks.

Every day, you went to her office. Every day, you waited.

And every day, you were turned away—politely, professionally.

But always turned away.

Still, you showed up. With flowers. Coffee. Notes you scribbled on thick paper, each one carefully worded and folded like something sacred.

You were trying. Genuinely trying.

And now?

Now you know this isn't working.

She’s not ready to see you. Or maybe she’s decided she never will be.

You let that truth settle inside you like a stone.

You stare into your mug. The coffee’s gone cold.

You leave it on the table.

You don’t grab the usual bouquet on your way out.

No coffee run. No box of pastries. No notes tucked.

You don’t bring anything with you this time.

Just you.

You drive without music. No GPS. You don’t need it.

You’ve only been to her house once—years ago, for the baptism of her first child. A soft, chaotic day with too many guests and not enough chairs. You weren’t even close to her then. You were just part of the circle.

But you remember.

You remember how the gate looked in the golden afternoon light. How the front porch was framed with potted herbs. How the breeze carried lavender and rosemary through the air.

You park a little ways down the street, near the old tree that still has those brittle wind chimes on it.

You don’t rush toward the gate. You walk slowly, your coat drawn close to your body, your fingers trembling slightly inside your pockets. The sky is pale. Cold. And your breath fogs in front of you.

You stand there, alone in front of her gate, and you stare at the small silver button on the intercom.

Then—you press it.

The chime rings out, soft and clear. And after a long moment, her voice comes through:

“This is the Harkness residence. How may I—”

“Agatha.”

You cut her off before you even realize you’re doing it.

Just her name, spoken like a prayer. Quiet. Shaky. Needing.

Silence.

No static. No reply. Just stillness on her end.

You glance up toward the small camera nestled near the gate. Maybe she can see you.

So you let her.

You lift your chin and look into it, into her.

“I’ll never stop,” you say, soft but steady. “I’ll do anything, just for you to forgive me.”

Still, nothing from her.

So you keep talking, like the words themselves might build a bridge through the silence.

“I read them,” you say. “All those messages. All those things you tried to say to me when I shut down. When I ran.”

You pause. Swallow the weight in your throat.

“I should’ve answered. I should’ve listened. I didn’t. That’s on me.”

Your voice shakes. You let it. You don’t hide from her anymore.

“I love you, Agatha.”

You say it clearly, simply. Not desperate. Not begging. Just… true.

“I always have. I just—I didn’t know how to let you see it without ruining everything. And then I ruined it anyway.”

A shaky breath.

“I’m not even asking for now. I’m just asking… give me a chance. A real one. To make it right. To show you I’m not the person I was when I hurt you. I’m still learning. I’m trying. I never stopped trying.”

You wait.

The air is quiet. Heavy.

A bird chirps somewhere far away. A dog barks down the street.

But from Agatha—there’s still only silence.

No click of the gate. No rustle of her voice.

You don’t cry. Not this time. You’re past that now. This ache is deeper than tears. This ache has lived in you too long.

So you just stay there.

Still. Open. Waiting.

Because if there’s one thing you know how to do—it’s wait for her.

Even if she never opens the gate.

Even if she never says a word.

You’ll still be standing there.

Because you meant it.

You’re not done trying.

You don’t know how long you’ve been standing there.

Your legs ache. The wind has turned colder.

And just when you start to think she really won’t come out—not today, not ever—

The front door opens.

Your breath catches like a thread pulled tight.

And there she is.

Agatha.

She steps out onto the porch like she’s unsure, like she didn’t plan to. Her hair’s pulled back, her coat wrapped tightly around her body. From this distance, you can’t see her expression.

But you don’t need to.

You feel it.

Every step she takes toward you feels like the world shrinking down to this one, fragile moment.

Your hands are trembling. Your heart slams hard against your ribs.

Your eyes burn, but you don’t let the tears fall—not yet.

Not when she’s this close.

And then… she’s there.

She opens the side gate slowly. It creaks like it hasn’t been used in a long time.

And now she’s standing in front of you, closer than she’s been in weeks.

Close enough to touch, but still a universe away.

She doesn’t meet your eyes.

God, that hurts more than anything.

She clears her throat, like she’s trying to steady herself. And then—

“Did you…”

A pause. Her voice is brittle. Fragile.

“Did you really mean all of that?”

You nod once. Your voice is soft, but it doesn’t shake.

“Yes.”

She finally looks at you—just briefly—and then away again. Her arms are crossed, defensive. Still guarded.

“What about Rio?”

You exhale, the truth already aching in your chest.

“I broke up with her,” you say. “I should’ve done it earlier. I was—”

You pause, shaking your head.

“She was good to me. She really was. Better than I deserved. And I was selfish. I was so fucking selfish. I kept thinking maybe I could… be better, for her. But the truth is—”

You look at Agatha. You want her to hear this.

“The one I’ve always loved… is standing in front of me right now.”

That silence returns again. Thick. Dense.

“I used Rio,” you continue, the words tasting bitter. “And that makes me a dick. A coward. I didn’t want to be alone, and she made things feel easier. I didn’t mean to hurt her, but I did anyway. And I hate myself for it.”

Agatha’s eyes finally lift to yours. Her mouth pulls into a tight line.

“You are a dick,” she says. “For that. And for… all of this.”

There’s no humor in her tone. No sharp sarcasm.

Just truth.

You nod. You deserve that.

And then she looks away again. Her gaze goes distant, unreadable.

“Are you really ready to prove yourself?”

Her voice is low. Tired. Worn down by hope and hurt.

You answer without hesitation.

“Yes. Whatever it takes. I mean it.”

There’s a shift in her expression. Barely noticeable—but it’s there. Her walls don’t drop, but… something flickers behind her eyes.

And then she really looks at you. Not a glance. Not a scan.

She sees you. Takes you in.

Like she’s trying to decide if she can believe you.

Like part of her already does.

She just nods.

“Okay.”

Just that. One word.

And then she turns and walks back through the gate.

She doesn’t slam it. She doesn’t say anything else.

She just closes it behind her. Locks it.

And walks back inside.

Leaving you there.

Alone.

But not the same kind of alone you were yesterday.

You stare at the closed gate, the word echoing in your mind.

Okay.

It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

It’s a beginning.

You turn and head back to your car. Your chest feels too full.

Your fingers curl tightly around the steering wheel as you sit in the driver’s seat, frozen.

And then it hits you.

The tears spill out before you even realize they’ve formed.

You cry—not just because you’re hurt, not just because you’ve missed her.

You cry because after weeks of silence, she spoke to you.

Because after everything, she didn’t turn you away.

Because okay…

God, okay means there’s still a chance.

You wipe your face with your sleeve, breathing in sharp, shaky gasps.

And somewhere inside you, buried beneath the guilt and grief and longing…

Hope sparks again.

You’re going to get her back.

You have to.

No matter what it takes.

Taglist: @6stolenangel9 @charlottelinlin1 @milflovers4 @claramelooo @loveshineslikethesky @kaymariesworld @marcelinaceciliarose @misskassycollins @greyella @theothersideofthescreen @whitelotus00 @agathaallalongg @psychickryptonitebouquet @sweetmidnights @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @filmedbyharkness @brekker157 @rizzlesregal13 @starbucks-06 @aboutcustardcreams @crescendoofstars @neverfindmegone @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi @theonefairygodmother @isixxxx @hannah-0730 @starryjeongyeon @atlasimagines @whoreforolderfictionalwomen @darlingaura

#agatha harkness x reader #agatha harkness x fem!reader #agatha harkness x you #agatha x you #agatha x reader #kathryn hahn x reader #agatha all along #agatha harkness #YouWereNeverMinetoLose #agatha harkness smut

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scealaiscoite · 8 months ago

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‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐 food prompts 𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅

¹⁾ tart, fresh cherries

²⁾ milky tea

³⁾ a can of redbull

⁴⁾ cold pepperoni pizza

⁵⁾ orange segments

⁶⁾ chamomile tea

⁷⁾ burnt toast

⁸⁾ steaming masala chai

⁹⁾ bitter dark chocolate

¹⁰⁾ water-heavy pears

¹¹⁾ salty cinema popcorn

¹²⁾ smooth whiskey

¹³⁾ fluffy cinnamon rolls

¹⁴⁾ rich cuban coffee

¹⁵⁾ streetside pani puri

¹⁶⁾ fresh-baked cookies

¹⁷⁾ pomegranate seeds

¹⁸⁾ sour jellies

¹⁹⁾ homemade soup dumplings

²⁰⁾ hotel room service french fries

²¹⁾ sugared donuts

²²⁾ mexican coca-cola

²³⁾ strawberry milkshake

²⁴⁾ fudgey brownies

²⁵⁾ spearmint gum

²⁶⁾ happy hour cocktails

²⁷⁾ fairground candyfloss

²⁸⁾ salmon sashimi

²⁹⁾ airplane peanuts

³⁰⁾ takeout fried rice

³¹⁾ pistachio gelato

³²⁾ a packed lunch

³³⁾ bruised bananas

³⁴⁾ cheap instant ramen

³⁶⁾ agua de jamaica

³⁷⁾ petrol station chocolate bars

³⁸⁾ soft mangos

³⁹⁾ chicken noodle soup

⁴⁰⁾ convenience store onigiri

⁴¹⁾ lemonade from a neighbourhood kids’ stand

⁴²⁾ chilaquiles

⁴³⁾ a steaming bowl of breakfast congee

⁴⁴⁾ too-sweet instant coffee

⁴⁵⁾ a sunday roast with all the trimmings

⁴⁶⁾ high-end restaurant steak frites

⁴⁷⁾ mango sticky rice

⁴⁸⁾ salsa verde and tortilla chips

⁴⁹⁾ stale bottled water

⁵⁰⁾ rotten strawberries

⁵¹⁾ old-fashioned caramels

⁵²⁾ honey and lemon lozenges

⁵³⁾ garlic bread

⁵⁴⁾ mango loco monster

⁵⁵⁾ clumsily-made spaghetti

⁵⁶⁾ rotisserie chicken

⁵⁷⁾ madras curry

⁵⁸⁾ abuela’s caldo de res

⁵⁹⁾ dirty martini

⁶⁰⁾ tinned sardines

⁶¹⁾ arayes

⁶²⁾ the last slice of birthday cake

⁶³⁾ ripe nectarines

⁶⁴⁾ caviar bump

⁶⁵⁾ iced latte

⁶⁶⁾ sugar cookies

⁶⁷⁾ mulled wine

⁶⁸⁾ baklava

⁶⁹⁾ chocolate poptarts

⁷⁰⁾ warm champangne

⁷¹⁾ sticky toffee pudding

⁷²⁾ blueberry pancakes

⁷³⁾ birria tacos

⁷⁴⁾ hospital pudding cups

⁷⁵⁾ lobster rolls

⁷⁶⁾ fresh honeycomb

⁷⁷⁾ campfire coffee

⁷⁸⁾ sweet tea

⁷⁹⁾ hot honey

⁸⁰⁾ vanilla protein powder

⁸¹⁾ bulgogi beef

⁸²⁾ warm focaccia

⁸³⁾ chilli con carne

⁸⁴⁾ peach cobbler

⁸⁵⁾ cold watermelon slices

⁸⁶⁾ sweet stewed apple

⁸⁷⁾ coloured marshmallows

⁸⁸⁾ vendor stand hotdogs

⁸⁹⁾ dragonfruit redbull

⁹⁰⁾ blood oranges

⁹¹⁾ vanilla coke

⁹²⁾ blue raspberry slushie

⁹³⁾ nicotine gum

⁹⁴⁾ raspberry jam

⁹⁵⁾ pear cider

⁹⁶⁾ pineapple rings

⁹⁷⁾ chicken wings

⁹⁸⁾ salted butter

⁹⁹⁾ coconut meat

¹⁰⁰⁾ wild blackberries

#fun fact i’m currently on a work experience placement in a decently starred hotel restaurant for my catering and hospitality course <3 #i now a) twitch when doors open quickly b) have only the use of 7 of my fingers and c) can always smell ginger and disenfectant everywhere #prompts #prompt list #writing prompts #food prompts #food rp meme #writing exercise #rp meme #otp prompts #fluff prompts #soft prompts #imagine your otp #aesthetic prompts

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byjove · 1 month ago

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Is that insane asylum turned condo on the same property as the insane asylum turned fancy hotel that is also very careful about mentioning its history? I know they had a big campus and were looking into using the other buildings.

Yes. There are 22 buildings on the Western State Hospital Complex. I don’t think it would be so offputting if they made more of an effort to be transparent about the history of the site but like you said, they’re burying it sooooo hard. And there is absolutely no mention of what the site is/was in real estate listings. It’s like “Trendy hotel and luxury boutique condos in a historic building! What was this before? dw about it bbg. 😌”

2,000+ people are buried in the adjacent hospital cemetery and many more died there. Many of the early residents were starved to death and fed only chamomile and whiskey as a sedative, their death certificates read ‘marasmus’, not because they went on hunger strikes but because they were STARVED. This was a literal torture factory.

#ask

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vomittedsoap · 9 months ago

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How characters in AMC The Terror would drink their coffee (/morning drink)

John Franklin: Black, your grandpa's instant Kirkland brand coffee. Either that or 7/11 big gulp that smells like motor oil and piss. Owns a "world's best boss" mug but uses it as a pen cup.

Francis Crozier: black (with whiskey). Jopson makes it for him in one of those plaid Thermos or green old-fashioned Stanley.

James Fitzjames: he takes Starbucks and Dutch Bros very seriously. Big fan of a chai latte as well. Anything with cinnamon sprinkled on it. (insert Larry David Latte joke from Crozier)

Blanky: Same as Crozier but with some sugar and cream

Jopson: owns a French Press that he uses to make Crozier's coffee, drinks his with just a LITTLE sugar but a lot of milk. Also likes espresso sometimes. Drank from a simple white cup or whatever's available.

Hodgson: uses Jopson's French Press (and lost the lid one time). Adds CoffeeMate flavored creamer, pumpkin spice is his fave but hazelenut is fine. Really enjoys stupid mugs so most of the mugs on the Terror belong to him. His favorite is the Rainforest Cafe frog one.

Little: a double-quad-shot of espresso in a Solo Cup means nothing to him. But alas he drinks it anyways. Such is life. Sometimes will have a coffee in Hodgson's mug with a picture of a kitten and puppy playing on it.

Irving: insane amounts of sugar and milk, but will never admit it. One time a shipmate accidentally mistook it for his and instantly spat it out. Irving claimed he didn't know whose it was. The mug changes but says his favorite is the one with John3:16 on it (but actually he covets the Rainforest Cafe frog mug).

Goodsir: actually he's an herbal tea guy. Likes chamomile or things with rose/lavender. Brews them in a mug Hodgson gave him that had some dumb science pun on it, a gift for which he's unnecessarily thankful.

Stanley: black. No fun allowed.

Tozer: regular coffee with french vanilla creamer. Normal.

Hickey: Panera lemonade that kills you. Also takes sips from Crozier, Tozer, or Irving's drinks when they're not looking. ("if you have a milkshake... and I have a milkshake... and I have a straw; see? Watch it. My straw reaches across the room... and starts to drink your milkshake: I... drink... your... milkshake!")

Gibson: doesn't like coffee, but is a big fan of coffee-flavored things.

Collins: espresso with lead and an extra side of lead (with whipped cream)

Silna: Haznelnut latte with which to take her ibuprofin. Lord knows she needs it. Drinks from a baby-blue Stanley Goodsir gave her.

#feel free to debate #i have the flavor of autism where everything i do im like 'how would every individual character of The Terror do this...??'#the terror #amc the terror #text post #billy gibson #henry collins #Solomon Tozer #Sir John Franklin #James Fitzjames #Francis Crozier #john irving #george hodgeson #george hodgson #idk how to spell hodgson......#edward little #silna #thomas blanky #assigning characters things

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deardarlingdevil · 1 month ago

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How the Agents enjoy their beverages

Brimstone - loves a good cup of joe from a regular coffee maker or using a coffee pod machine. Taken black or with a spoonful of sugar. Not very picky with his coffee grounds. Drinks his whiskey neat, also drinks beer while watching sports events and hosting BBQs

Viper - canonically uses a siphon coffee maker as show on her player card and from SNAKEBITE: A VIPER'S TALE. Enjoys it black. Grinds her own coffee too. Definitely a coffee snob and I love her for it. Only drinks red wine once in a blue moon because she doesn't like the way alcohol lowers her inhibitions.

Omen - can he even drink or eat? I think he'd drink tea to calm himself down. He'd have a cup of chamomile tea while knitting. Doesn't drink alcohol.

Killjoy - canonically has a coffee mug collection and is seen drinking coffee in cinematics. Enjoys a dark roast with steamed milk. Will enjoy sipping on sweet cocktails while in a rave.

Cypher - canonically enjoys tea and is into Moroccan tea culture. Has a sweet tooth; he enjoys his Maghrebi mint tea extra sweet. He doesn't drink alcohol- he's not religious, but doesn't have interest in haram food and drink.

Sova - prefers tea, but won't turn down coffee. Drinks loose leaf tea and will reuse the leaves until it loses flavor, his babushka taught him not to waste anything. Partial to black tea with a little milk and honey. He's not beating the Russian stereotype, he drinks vodka 🤣 he also drinks honey flavored or fruity kvass!

Sage - definitely a tea drinker! Will have medicinal teas for every ailment. Need a pick me up? She'll make some oolong tea. In fact, she's the one who introduced Omen to chamomile tea. Abstains from alcohol, will only use it for cooking, e.g. Shaoxing wine

Phoenix - he's British, of course he drinks tea. Black tea with lemon and honey in the morning. Drinks in moderation. He'll have a Guinness with pub food. Loves spice in his drinks too. He once tried a Lagos Island 41 on vacation with his family before and enjoyed it.

Jett - bubble tea with lots of pearls! Brown sugar boba is her favorite, but as a foodie, she's open to try different flavors. Moderate soju drinker and knows different tricks on how to drink it. Mastered the poktanju/soju bomb. She'll likely drink more while having Korean BBQ.

Reyna - loves a strong cup of Café de Olla with lots of cinnamon. Also loves to share champurrado with Lucia, it's her comfort drink 🥺 Drinks alcohol in moderation, and she loves a nice well-aged brandy.

Raze - loves a tall glass of Brazilian lemonade with condensed milk on a hot day! Very adventurous when having alcohol. This girl knows how to party and she loves different types of cocktails, but is partial to lime-based ones.

Breach - drinks a lot of alcohol but also has a strong tolerance for it. Drinks beer like it's water, and he prefer having his hard drinks as shots. Makes delicious glogg (spiced mulled wine) during the winter. He will not drink on the job though, he still has standards.

Skye - loves a strong brewed coffee with a dash of oat milk. Skye is also a little health-conscious and loves health drinks like kombucha and fresh fruit juices! She's just a social drinker who has a pint of beer from time to time when she's with others.

Yoru - will sometimes have tea with his meals, especially during breakfast. Prefers green tea. Enjoys super dry craft beer and chilled sake regardless of the time of the year.

Astra - loves hibiscus-based beverages, with sobolo being her favorite! Prefers her tea iced and sweetened. Doesn't drink alcohol- she doesn't care for its taste or effects. Who needs it when you're an Astral guardian?

KAY/O - motor oil

Chamber - a fellow coffee snob like Viper. Canonically enjoys espresso, as seen in his Home Again player card. He owns a very expensive espresso machine that he maintains regularly like he would his guns. He has very expensive tastes, drinking champagne and other sparkling wines like prosecco with a fancy meal.

Neon - 3-IN-1 INSTANT COFFEE ON A HOT DAY LIKE THE PINAY THAT SHE IS, MUCH TO VIPER AND CHAMBER'S HORROR She once tried kapeng barako/barako coffee but never drank it again because it gave her bad palpitations and made her powers unsteady. Loves boba tea with pearls and is partial to wintermelon! Will also enjoy melon samalamig. Doesn't drink alcohol, and she's a lightweight.

Fade - this woman will consume coffee in EVERY form and she is not above drinking it directly from the pot out of desperation. Coffee pods, espresso machine, moka pot, Neon's 3-in-1 coffee sachets that she forgot in her balikbayan box, you name it. When given the opportunity however, she loves Turkish coffee and is big on Turkish coffee culture.

Harbor - chai enjoyer and will make fun of you in good nature if you call it chai tea 🤣 if he has the time, he will prepare it with fresh spices on the stovetop. He doesn't drink alcohol much and is a bit health conscious, but not as much as Skye.

Gekko - he loves his mama's champurrado, but he's been influenced by boba tea too! Loves chocolate-based drinks, both hot and cold. Will sometimes drink chocolate milk straight from the carton. Like Neon, he's a lightweight, and he prefers not to drink so he can keep an eye on his little buddies.

Deadlock - caffeine makes her more highly strung and anxious, so she tries to avoid coffee and caffeinated tea altogether, preferring fruit infusions. Skye introduced her to kombucha and she likes it. Doesn't drink much, but will enjoy the occasional mead. When Breach let her have some of his glogg, she enjoyed it a little too much and she finally let loose

Iso - this guy can go through several boba teas in one day and he will have them at full sweetness. Seriously, his sugar consumption is so high it probably would've caused problems for a regular person (I HC that his radiant powers use a lot of energy, so he needs that glucose). Will try different flavors from time to time but his favorite is boba with a good old Ceylon black tea base. Doesn't drink much, but will enjoy a beer or two.

Clove - sugary iced coffees all the way. They will have them with so much syrup, whipped cream and toppings that it makes Fade afraid. Also loves a good milkshake with lots of sprinkles. Doesn't drink alcohol much either.

Vyse - much like Omen, can she even consume food and beverages? I think she'd be a black coffee drinker too, if she can. Might use a French press for efficiency, or make her own cold brew.

Tejo - coffee is a part of his morning routine. He enjoys a nice, medium-bodied cup of sweetened drip coffee in the morning. He's a moderate drinker who enjoys nicely aged rum on the rocks.

Waylay - loves iced tea and fresh fruit smoothies! She's partial to blue butterfly pea tea. She also drinks coconut juice a lot. Doesn't drink much, but she sometimes indulges in a can of lager beer from time to time.

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mythals-whore · 15 days ago

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Ship Sleep Dynamics

thanks for the tag @basedonconjecture I feel like it's been a sec since I yapped about them. I will be passing the tag along to @gingervitus @sugar-peanut-cat @jouskaroo @pinayelf & @cute-ellyna if you would like (:

How often do they sleep together?

In the beginning? Almost never. But post-game they basically never spend a night apart. Taking "Wherever you are, there I am" very literal I'm afraid. Assan is also included in their sleep arrangements until he gets so big that he breaks the bed frame and from then on sleeps right next to the bed.

Where do they sleep?

At the Lighthouse they definitely sleep in the Guesthouse (duh) After, they get a Minrathous equivalent of a one-bedroom apartment where occasionally Cyri falls asleep on the sofa before being air-lifted to bed.

How do they prepare to sleep?

I think I'm legally required to include the drinking of whiskey into their bedtime ritual. I do think that at some point they trade this practice for like a chamomile or peppermint tea instead. When they really get into a routine, it includes making tea and then sitting in bed together while Davrin works on his monster manual and Cyri reads (sometimes she proofreads for him, most times she reads Tevinter serials, and when something especially ridiculous happens she'll gasp aloud and then immediately relay it to Davrin which results in a discussion about just how ridiculous it is). And when they've finished tea and are properly tired they have what I in my real life call "worm hours" which is, of course, where you are allowed to ask questions like "would you love still love me if I was a worm" but I think with Cyri it's "but if I had an endurance potion and flaming swords, don't you think that would be enough for me to defeat a hydra by myself?" and Davrin always sighs heavily and is like "I really wish you wouldn't." These discussions always conclude with ridiculous stakes that allow Cyri to take on whatever monster it is on her own but a promise that she'd never try it without him.

What do they wear to sleep?

Cyri is a "strip to my smallclothes and fall into bed" type girl. Davrin is basically the same. However, I think post canon Cyri gets ridiculously frilly silk nightgowns that she wears to bed (and rarely to sleep).

Do they cuddle?

I know in my heart that Davrin is a cuddler. For Cyri I think it depends how tired she is. If she's really tired, she can fall asleep in any position. But on a regular basis I think she's a cuddle before we sleep and then kick you to your side. Because Davrin is such a cuddler I think there are occasional middle-of-the-night snuggles but also in my heart I think Davrin runs very warm so Cyri is always kicking/elbowing him away.

How easy do they fall asleep?

In general, both fall asleep pretty easy. As much as I think they're both hyper-vigilant from being on their own, they've also both been part of a larger force (Wardens and Legion specifically) and are used to taking sleep when they need it. (As much as Cyri chooses not to sleep during the events og Veilguard, it's not because she can't, it's more because she doesn't want to/there are other things she feels she needs to do before she can)

Do they toss and turn a lot?

No, but Davrin's warden nightmares can sometimes cause him to move a lot in his sleep. But they sort of establish a rule of, if his tossing and turning wakes Cyri, she'll gently wake him so they fall back asleep together. Cyri only tosses and turns when she can't sleep, which usually means something is bothering her and she won't actually be able to sleep until she takes care of it.

Do they snore?

I have to be honest, Davrin looks like he snores. Not super loud or obnoxious but I think he's a soft rumbly snorer. And I really believe that. He knows it's true but if Cyri complains about it he claims to not know what she's talking about.

Who hogs the blanket?

Davrin. Because he'll try to cuddle Cyri and then wind up either stealing blankets or cuddling with Assan instead.

What do they dream about?

Davrin mostly has the standard Grey Warden dreams which range from 'vaguely unsettling' to 'cosmically horrifying'. On the occasion he has a nice dream, I think he dreams about being in Arlathan with Assan most of the time. Sometimes he has dreams about herding halla or about his mom singing to him. :')

Post-canon, I think Cyri has lots of unsettling regret-prison dreams. they're less nightmares that have her startling awake and more those kind of weird dreams that have her waking feeling like she hasn't slept. I think Cyri's dreams are the kind of dreams where she wakes up like "I dreamt that I was following a talking cat around docktown and he made me catch fish and then fry it for him even though I told him I could just take him to Hal's instead." They're odd but always charming.

How easily do they wake up?

I don't think Davrin is a particularly deep sleeper, which comes from all that time on his own + Warden nightmares. He can go back to sleep pretty easily.

Cyri was very similar to the above pre-Davrin, but is so much more of a deep sleeper now that she wakes for almost nothing except a particularly bad nightmare (from either of them)

How awake they are afterwards?

Davrin is a routine guy + he's the one who wakes to feed Assan. So he wakes at basically the same time every day, and when he opens his eyes he's awake-awake.

If Cyri is woken in emergency-mode, the adrenaline obviously curbs the sleepiness pretty quick. But on a regular basis, she's awake but moving slow until she's had (half of) a coffee. She rarely finishes a cup of coffee, but claims to really love it.

#ship sleep dynamics #tag game #davrilla #oc: Cyrilla Mercar #davrin #jess yaps

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akhret · 7 months ago

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Djehuty

Offerings

Water, (red) wine, whiskey, bourbon, milk, beer, coffee, orange juice.

Meat, bread, honey, fruits, vegetables, nuts, cinnamon, chocolate, caramel, butterscotch, cakes and other sweets. Herbs, as well, whether you’re cooking with them or for others reasons.

Frankincense and myrrh, lavender, eucalyptus, chamomile, and citrus smells are great for incense, candles, essential oils, or perfume.

Writing utensils (pens and quills), paper, journals, a calendar. He’ll even take wax seals, too. Notes from school or work.

Any medication you’re on. Science or medical equipment.

Imagery of him- including statues, drawings, printed pictures. Ibis, baboon or moon imagery.

As well as maat and the ankh

Devotional Acts

Meditation and yoga to practice mindfulness and to help yourself feel more balanced. Shadow work can also be a great devotional act or going to therapy. Positive affirmations can even be a good devotional act to help you feel more confident.

Learn and study. As a god of knowledge, he loves to see people thrive. He wants you to be eager to learn about anything. Write about it afterwards, take notes. You can even read- even if it’s “brain junk,” there’s still wisdom to be found within the pages. Start learning a new language if you wish or even make one up! Learn pieces of wisdom or look at sebayts.

Experiment! He’s a god of science, so SAFELY practice some science experiments (cooking is a science, too.) Experiment with different learning styles to find what best suits you! Experiment with magic- even if it’s like learning a new spell or manifestation.

Creative acts like cooking, writing, drawing, or even find a new hobby!. Just bring something to life.

Signs

Ibises or ibis imagery- this can include imagery appearing on your Etsy randomly, or on your Pinterest, or other forms of social media; along with baboon imagery. You could also see this with the shed tree, as it was a scared symbol to Djehuty.

Being drawn to the moon. You may see an increase in moon imagery as well. You may have feelings of wanting to sit outside and look at the moon.

You may feel a call to want to learn or craft. You could feel the urge to randomly pick up a new language one day or to start writing.

You may see that justice is coming to you. He crafted and reinforced the laws of maat, so you could even feel a sense of justice.

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silverlullabies · 5 days ago

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Coalition of Chaos (pt3)

Or, in which, Ghost.exe crashes, Price feels a disturbance in the universe, and Laswell is once again, perfect.

John Price wakes up like a man being summoned back to the frontlines.

It’s not slow or gently, or in that soft, pastel filtered way toddlers are supposed to wake with their eyes fluttering open to sunshine and lullabies and some maternal figure singing about stars and dreams.

No.

He shoots upright like he’s just been launched from a trebuchet, drenched in toddler sweat, limbs flailing beneath a blanket covered in smiling hippogriffs and moon phases. He grips the edge of the bed knuckles white, eyes wide, heart hammering. His breath is heaving like someone just screamed “SOAP HAS AN IDEA” into the cosmic void.

He doesn’t know what time it is and frankly doesn’t care. Time has lost all meaning ever since he was reborn into this frilly prison of coordinated color palettes and gentle enchanted lullabies. He can’t read the enchanted star clock on the wall because it’s in fucking Elvish or some shit and no one will teach him because he’s “just a toddler” and “should focus on english first.”

But he knows.

He knows.

Something is wrong.

No, not just wrong. Something… something stupid is happening.

Deep in the pit of his soul, in the ancient, war hardened corner of his brain reserved for instinctively bracing when Ghost goes quiet for too long, or when Soap starts a sentence with “So I was thinking-”, he feels it. That creeping, horrifying itch at the base of his neck.

The sixth sense of a seasoned CO who knows his team well enough to feel the fuckery before it’s even begun.

Somewhere out there, in this sparkly, wand-waving, magic-infested fever dream of a world, his men are about to do something deeply, irreversibly stupid.

He doesn’t know how and he doesn’t know why, but he feels it in his bones. The same bones that, in a previous life, had been shattered by IEDs and melded back together with vast amounts of whiskey and a shoddy splint. The same bones that once helped him scale a cliff during a monsoon just to drag Gaz out of a tree.

Now those bones are crammed into a three year old body that smells faintly of chamomile lotion, wrapped in a onesie with dancing dragons embroidered on the ass.

He sits there, gripping the railing of his bed with tiny furious hands, sweat beading on his forehead like he’s about to deliver a keynote speech to the UN, and glares into the darkness. He doesn’t need proof. He doesn’t need reports. He doesn’t need debriefs or Laswell dryly announcing something catastrophic in the background. His soul simply knows.

One of them is here and they’re awake.

And not just awake, but conscious, operational, and plotting. Possibly interacting with another one of his men, which statistically increases the chances of apocalyptic property damage by at least 300%.

Price groans loudly with the world-weary sigh of a man who already knows he’s going to be the one cleaning up whatever diplomatic, magical, or structural catastrophe they cause.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters in his tiny gravelly voice, pressing his forehead against the bed railing, and wishing he had a cigar to smoke because even in death and rebirth he, apparently, doesn’t get the luxury of escaping the little shits that are his subordinates.

Despite the fact that he’s no longer John Price, Commander of Task Force 141. He’s just Johnny, age three, child of a well-meaning magical mom and muggle dad, both of which keep trying to feed him mashed peas and tell him “how special he is.” They think his scowling is adorable. They think his accidental levitation is a sign of magical prodigy.

It’s not prodigy, it’s PTSD, and now his instincts are screaming at him, blaring like an air raid siren no one else can hear.

It’s coming.

The chaos. The dumbassery. The inevitable chain of events that begins with a cupcake being destroyed in public and ends with someone getting yeeted across the Ministry of Magic. He doesn’t know what, he doesn’t know when, he doesn’t know who. But John fucking Price knows that no matter how many lives he lives, no matter how many times the universe decides to hit Ctrl+Alt+Rebirth, he will always be the poor bastard responsible for containing them.

He collapses back into his bed with the dramatic resignation of a man who has just accepted that fate is, in fact, making him it’s little bitch. He burrows under his hippogriff blanket and glares at the ceiling like it personally orchestrated this rebirth just to spite him.

“Why can’t Laswell be the one babysitting them?” he mutters to no one except the dancing dragon embroidered on his ass.

He closes his eyes, but he knows sleep won’t come, not now, not when there’s a Chaos Alliance that has likely been reestablished and world peace is now on a ticking clock.

Merlin help them all.

Continue on AO3

#call of duty #cod #ghost #simon ghost riley #Simon Riley #kate laswell #john price #video games #Harry Potter #OC insert #soap #soap isn’t even included and yet everyone is roasting him #john mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #fanfiction #archive of our own #ao3 #time travel fix it #price is so tired

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onesiesdaydream · 3 months ago

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⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ 𝑴𝑨𝑺𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻 ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Started: 4/22/25

Last Updated: 6/3/25

🧸 = Fluff

💔 = Angst

🧩 = Series

The Sandman

Dream of the Endless

🧩Love Me Like the End is Coming: Ch. 1 I Ch. 2 I Ch. 3 I Ch. 4- After you help Dream escape from his glass prison in the Burgess mansion, you become a close friend of the King of Dreams, unveiling mysteries about your past along the way. Slowly, your bond deepens and becomes something more.

Bungo Stray Dogs

Atsushi Nakajima

🧩Of Dandelions and Promises: Part 1 I Part 2 (completed) - Torn apart after spending years at the orphanage together, you come to realize that fate has a funny way of making things right again.

Dazai Osamu

💔🧸The Handler (platonic! headcanons) - you're the mediator friend in a trio of idiots.

💔🧸Like Old Times (platonic! headcanons *technically a pt. 2 to The Handler*) - you're the mediator friend, and one of those idiots just abandoned you.

🧸Welcome Back, Idiots (poly! oneshot) - Your dumbass boyfriends come back from Europe—with broken bones, emotional baggage, and a baguette. Domestic chaos ensues.

💔🧸Parasite (oneshot) - Chuuya and Dazai charge in to pull you back from the brink, turning a near-disaster into a reminder that you’re stuck with each other.

💔🧸I Know It's Over (plantonic! songfic oneshot) - Sometimes, all it takes is a record, a cup of tea, and two chaotic constants to remind you you’re not as alone as you feel. I KNOW IT'S OVER (THE SMITHS)

Yukichi Fukuzawa

💔🧸Always in the Middle (platonic! oneshot) - after years of rivalry, a shared threat forces both Fukuzawa, Mori, and their respective agencies to join forces, much to the relief of their long-time friend and partner.

Chuuya Nakahara

🧩Whiskey Eyes: Part 1 I Part 2 (completed) - Chuuya stumbles home piss-drunk in the dead of night. Safe to say, you were both in for a really long night.

🧸Grow Light (headcanons/oneshot) - Chuuya comforts you when you're gloomy on rainy days.

🧸Cheating Gravity (headcanons/oneshot) - Chuuya indulges your rain-loving whims.

💔🧸The Handler (headcanons) - you're the mediator friend in a trio of idiots.

💔🧸Like Old Times (headcanons *technically a pt. 2 to The Handler*) - you're the mediator friend in a trio of idiots, and one of those idiots just abandoned you.

🧸Welcome Back, Idiots (poly! oneshot) - Your dumbass boyfriends come back from Europe—with broken bones, emotional baggage, and a baguette. Domestic chaos ensues.

💔🧸Parasite (oneshot) - Chuuya and Dazai charge in to pull you back from the brink, turning a near-disaster into a reminder that you’re stuck with each other.

Ougai Mori

🧸Missed a Spot (oneshot) - You help your husband shave after a long day.

💔🧸Camellia Kisses (oneshot Hanahaki AU!) - You’ve been at Ougai Mori’s side since you were nineteen, first as his assistant and now as a trusted executive. But for years, you’ve harbored a dangerous secret — an unspoken love for him that’s begun to manifest in a deadly condition: Hanahaki Disease.

💔🧸Whispered Names (oneshot) - A quiet café, a tired doctor, and a coffee shop owner with an ability. When you enter Mori’s dreams to offer comfort, you uncover the truth behind his nightmares—and who he really is.

Edgar Allan Poe

🧸Chamomile and Conditioner (oneshot) - Poe is deep in one of his dramatic writing spirals, and you gently bully him back into reality.

#the sandman #bungo stray dogs #masterlist #master list #request #xreader #x reader

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unspeakable-imagination · 11 months ago

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Cigar smoke and Sleepless nights |Part four

Switched gifs cause this one is wider and prettier

Logan Howlett/Wolverine x reader

Reposts and likes are appreciated

Cw: Cigars and smoke, drinking, reader has ptsd. Logan has ptsd, canon-typical violence, references to abuse

Part one two three

For once, you were up 'late,' and by late, it meant daytime. You couldn't sleep, to anxious since your zippo ran out of lighter fluid and you couldn't by more. You sat in the window sill, staring at the fresh snow that blanketed the grass and trees.

Dispite the fox, you felt cold. Maybe it was the lack of your nic fix, maybe it was the absence of talking to any real people. The sun had long risen, and people had been awake for an hour, maybe two. Realistically, you could go out there- talk to someone. Go buy lighter fluid. You had the money from Charles. It was to cold to go outside, you decided. Slipping from the sill, you glanced at yourself in the mirror. Just the same old you.

A lump rose up your throat the closer you got to the door, and it felt like it was burning. To anxious to try to leave your room. What if- What if, so many what's began to fly through your head, but then, they all went silent.

'[Name], it's okay.' A voice. It wasn't Charles? You heard a knock and then opened the door. A lean redhead with bright eyes was looking right at you. "[Name]," she said. "I'm Jean. Charles told me to check on you, and it seemed like perfect timing. He could hear your thoughts from down stairs." You were still confused. It was ger voice you heard in tour head.

"Are you like Charles?" It was the first words that slipped passed your lips. She shook her head,

"No, but I am similar. He can hear just about every one constantly. I'm not like that." She placed her hand on your shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"I will be, I think I just need some tea to ground me." You wished it was bourbon, or whiskey, or maybe any other liquor. Jean snorted and backed away, having heard what you thought. Of course you were unaware. For a moment, you worried she was laughing at you, but she was able to quell thag worry in just a moment.

"I'd best be on my way. Be safe, [Name]. You'll be okay. Just keep that head up." You nodded and watched as she walked away before you stepped out your own door. Stepping down the stairs, minding the flood of people of all mutant sorts, trying your hardest to ignore the beating of your heart from your chest.

You made it to the kitchen, and with no students there, you were finally able to breath, really breath. Grabbing a mug off the rack, you quickly filled it to the brim with water and put it in the microwave to heat. Whole that happened you shoveled through the cabinets till tou found a perfect tea packet. Chamomile and sweet berry.

After tossing the packet on the counter, you spent your time looking for the honey. That was fairly easy. It was in a large squeeze bottle, shaped like a bear. When the microwave beeped, you were quick to pull the steaming ceramic mug out, taking as little time possible do tou wouldn't burn your hand.

Putting the packet in and rigually tying the string to the handle, you squeezed the honey on top thag way it would dissolve and mix with the pinkish tea flowing from the bag.

Sitting there, you patiently waited. And by patiently, you were actually darting around the kitchen, desperate to find something to do. You looked in the sink, in the fridge, freezer, cabinets and pantry, in the fridge again. Anything to keep your mind off of the driping anxiety.

Like a timer went off, you squeezed the rest of the bag around you fingers getting any of the concentrated tea out of the cup and threw the garbage in the trash. Using your finger to briefly stir it, then licked it off you finger.

You took a deep gulp, one that took almost a third of the glass, trying to use it to calm your nerves. What you didn't realize was that the reason you were growing calmer was the scent of tabacco flowing from behind you. It was hard to smell metal with all of the worry, confusing it for the smell of your own blood. That was until someone cleared their throat.

"That's my coffee mug," Logan said behind you. Jumping from you skin, you nearly spilled the tea over your sweatshirt. "Oh my gods," you sighed. "You scared the fuck out of me. I'm sorry, I didn't know it was your mug, I'll wash it right now." You didn't even give him a moment to speak. You grabbed another mug from the rack and poured your tea into it,

"Oh," he said, to slow to stop you. His brows knitted together as he watched you quickly wash then scrub his mug, rather diligently. You flipped it upside down into the drying rack. "Hey," he said. He wasn't loud enough to break through your trance as he watcher you dip around, grabbing the coffee pot.

"Seriously I am-"

"Hey," he shouted. You stilled, the coffee pot dropping from your hand, the hot drink spilling over the linoleum tiles.

"Oh my god," you said, beginning to panic. Logan was quicker than you this time putting some hand on your shoulder and the other on your wrist, stopping you from nearling pulling you your hair.

"Jean," he yelled for the redhead, his jaw twisting over his shoulder. "Jean!" Then, you relaxed, your vision going spotty.

When you woke up, your steaming cup of tea was on your bedside table. Charles sat next to you, his hands folded neatly on his lap. His expression was cross, funn of concern and worry.

"I always try nor to pry into my students head without permission, however you had such a poor reaction to an accident I had to try to help," he said gently. A sour taste filled your mouth, as if bile was rise up your throat.

"What did you see?" He looked at you and you couldn't already tell it was everything. You sat up, glancing to the mug and taking a sip.

"I can take all thoes memories away, [Name]. Usually, I wouldn't offer it, but I feel like it could help you. Wothout living in fear." You raised your hand.

"No, I can't. They make me who I am. They're so important- they show me what not to do." Charles only nodded.

"I know. Don't be afraid to seek help."

#hugh jackman x reader #logan xmen #wolverine fic #james logan howlett x reader #logan howlett xmen #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett fluff #logan howlett oneshot #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett imagine #logan howlett #logan howlett x you #wolverine x you #wolverine imagine #wolverine x reader #wolverine

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ghostodyssey · 2 months ago

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Edens Lost | Teaser

Simon Riley x Female Reader

warnings: see each chapter for specific warnings, domestic abuse, dub-con and non-con elements , references to sex work, historical references to misogyny and sexism, western!au, cowboy!simon, outlaw!simon.

Is this a thing, i feel like it might be?!?! There's no simon yet I just wanted to see if anyone was fucking with the vibe of reader without giving anything away. very heavy on the female rage, heavy on the southern gothic vibes.

Midnight in this God-forsaken backwater passes like a scene from Gethsemane: the cruel touch of drunken men, the heady scent of bourbon and cheap rose-water perfume, the acrid taste of wood-smoke, the brutal smashing of glass, the brush of whispering pines and flowering dogwood, laboured breaths and the sound of weeping, thirty pieces of silver changing hands.

When the hour is too late for even the most debauched patron to venture out into the feverish southern heat in search of sin, you lie there; blooming, seething, in the oppressive darkness of your bedroom, suffocated by the weight of the body next to you and a violent rage, which blooms in the pit of your stomach.

Though you suppose that it was your mothers rage before it was yours. You think that you and she must exist as some wretched mirror of one another. And when she died all her blood, all her grief, and her wrath, fell to you. Pain is an inherited creature. And come morning, all your wrath withers and dies like the flowers you planted when your daddy died.

Rosemary, for remembrance, and violets too. Herb o’ grace of Sundays and--

“Phillip.” A hand curls around the back of your neck with the tenderness of a bruise. You observe how, in these quiet hours, sunlight bleaches the small bedroom of a pale ochre hue, casting its long carnelian shadows upon the floorboards; you do not look at your new husband. His fingertips trace the brutal line along the column of your throat. Any protest you have is swallowed down with the aftertaste of last night's wine. Pomegranate and honeyed pear festers on your tongue when paired with the scent of his cedar and whiskey cologne.

You pray. For what you’re not entirely certain. For him to stop. For someone to save you. For you to save yourself. Only your prayers fall on deaf ears. His breath is oppressive and claiming on your neck as he maws at the pallid skin of your throat. His hand tangles in the tresses of your unbound hair, pulling harshly at the base of your skull until your throat is laid bare to him.

“Just let it happen, baby,” He coos wickedly, his voice laden with taunt, “it’ll go easier for ya if y’ do.” Dirty fingers coil around the hem of your nightdress, sullying the white linen as he works to push it over your hips. The pain is blinding as he pushes the thickness of his cock into you. He sets a brutal pace as he thursts into your aching cunt again and again, until the agony has tempered to a dull ache.

“That’s it, pretty baby.” He pants, teeth sucking dark, flowering welts into the skin of your breasts and shoulders. The broad hand splayed over the hollow of your throat flexes until your lungs burn and his name breaks apart in your mouth like a curse.

All the while he bestows curses upon you; he tells you that this is your penance, that this is how you absolve yourself, that the sins of the mother become the sins of the daughter. He goads you, voice thick with malice and contempt. Water beads along your lash line like pale dogwood blooms in the morning light. And yet, you do not cry. For your sorrow is too violent for tears.

You filter it out, focusing instead on the world as it moves around you; the softness of the bed beneath you, the sound of Mr Marston’s hounds barking at every passing shadow, the smell of chamomile and lavender soap from Bessie’s laundry, how the morning sun washes him in the leonine hues of high summer and his flaxen hair is damp with perspiration which beads along his broad, freckled shoulders, the flash of virulence in the blue-green eyes that had once seemed to you to be something akin to reverence, the wretched pulse of him inside you.

He grips your thigh as he finishes and for a moment you are forced to bear the weight of him against your body, which is beaten and bruised by the ardour of his fucking. He raises himself up and steps back from the bed. You pull your legs up towards yourself and finally allow the tears to fall. For a moment he stares at you, and you cannot tell if the look of disgust on his face is for you or for himself.

He leaves without saying another word.

You swear it; to any God willing to listen. You're going to kill him one day.

#simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x reader #ghost x you

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mwolf0epsilon · 4 months ago

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Seeing your little doodle of Henry and his cake had me thinking: can a mimic eat the same foods we humans eat? Or do they have dietary restrictions much like how animals can't eat specific foods e.g. chocolate, coffee, etc? Are they capable of consuming things like coal and oil like the engine they impersonate?

Yes, mimics can indeed eat the same foods as humans.

But they are also constrained by some dietary restrictions due to their organs taking on the specifications of the vehicle or heavy machine they've taken on as their final form. So, essentially, depending on what they become, a mimic's diet will change to accommodate the fuel type and the crews are responsible for preparing their food to specification.

Steam engine mimics consume coal, so they become more carnivorous in nature because they quite literally burn through calories very quickly (they run hotter than other mimics and, while their stomach acid is strong enough to burn through organic matter and metal, they are more likely to get sick if they eat synthetic chemicals).

Diesel engine mimics consume diesel fuel, so they are more herbivorous in nature so as to not overload their system with more carbon (they can on occasion consume protein to balance out their natural requirements, and they're considerably more resistant to poisoning than steam engine mimics, but they still have their limits).

Road vehicle mimics are more omnivorous because their fuels vary, and you even have crane mimics who are more often than not piscivorous or insectivorous.

That of course doesn't mean they can't have a few special treats of their preference. Human foods are especially delectable to mimics who view them as the most luxurious things that their handlers can offer them in return for work (being minor fae, mimics have a concept of value that they assign certain goods and services, and human food is at the very top of the list on the scale of offerings).

The only common denominator is that mimics are not allowed to have carbonated drinks because it seems to nullify the effects of Golden Dust Inc. Feed™ which is what railways use to shrink them when they're not in service (no one is sure why this is, but as a general rule of thumb you shouldn't give critters soda anyway...).

Here's a known list of what foods/snacks/desserts and drinks one can use to reward/bribe specific mimics (this is an excerpt from the Fat Controller's notebook, so it's not a complete list), some of which raise some eyebrows:

Glynn - English Breakfast / Earl grey tea

Thomas - Savoury pastries / Store-bought orange juice

Edward - Fish and Chips / Chamomile tea

Henry - Fish jerky or pickled veggies / Fresh fruit juice

Gordon - Chocolate pastries / Mint tea

James - Pancakes topped with fruit / Strawberry milkshake

Percy - Grilled cheese sandwich / Chocolate milk

Toby - English muffins / Black coffee

Duck - Cadbury creme eggs / Oat milk

Donald & Douglas - Cullen skink and shepherd's pie / Honey lemon milk

Oliver - Werther's Originals / Latte

Toad - Banana chips / Banana milkshake

Emily - Blueberry muffins / Black tea

Rosie - Banana bread / Cranberry Juice

Ryan - Pasty barm / Beetroot juice

Bill & Ben - Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches / Hot cocoa

Diesel - Steamed Brussels sprouts with melted cheese / Blackberry juice

BoCo - Chocolate pudding / Cappuccino

Daisy - Ambrosia fruit salad / Honeydew juice

Mavis - Fruit tarts / Tutti frutti smoothie

Paxton - Spicy sweet potato fries / Orange carrot mango smoothie

Diesel 10 - Bone Marrow Soup / Pineapple juice

Victor - Ropa Vieja / Rum

Kevin - Tuna salad sandwich / Dr. Pepper

Hiro - Fried chicken wings / Lemon tea (Substitutes for his favourite snacks from home)

Salty - Salted pretzels / Lemonade

Porter - Stuffed squid / Lemonade

Cranky - Crabsticks / Whiskey

Naturally no one is encouraged to give a mimic alcohol, especially not during work hours. It's not bad for them per say (I mean, alcohol isn't good for anyone really, you know what I mean) but it certainly isn't making any of them overly productive...

#Thomas and Friends #TTTE #Railway Mimics AU #Before anyone asks: Diesel 10 is a herbivore... But Pinchy is not #It's a very complicated matter for them #Also Kevin spends more time at service size than not so he is allowed a carbonated drink as his special reward #naturally every other mimic is jealous that he gets to have the forbidden bubbly stuff...#as to how Victor and Cranky discovered a love for alcohol... blame their previous handlers...#oh and can someone get Hiro some japanese snacks? Poor thing misses his actual favourite treats...#thenecropolix

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serene-faerie · 10 months ago

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Gotei 13 Lieutenants/Squad Members as Aesthetics

Sasakibe— earl gray tea, thunderstorms, organized files, a tidy desk, sharp eyes, smiles that are rarely seen, undying loyalty, quiet evenings in the office, classical music, neat handwriting, edelweiss, tailcoat suits, puzzles, a wooden chess board, butter biscuits and scones, earned respect, lightning, a stern voice, an antique desk lamp, fountain pens, reading the newspaper, black-and-white movies, the smell of ink and papers.

Omaeda— rice crackers, being a big brother, protecting family with one's life, deceiving appearances, stacks of cash, a spiked iron ball attached to a chain, buying gifts for loved ones, ivy leaves, gold rings, stacks of gold ingots, giving piggyback rides, a grand mansion, lavish banquets, expensive cars, being smarter than how one looks, the smell of strong cologne, undying loyalty to one's superior and family, candies, men's magazines, lazy afternoons.

Kira— yellow carnations, rainy and cloudy days, writing haiku poetry, soft candlelight, a heart burdened with grief and regret, thick blankets, hesitant smiles, love for one’s friends, the smell of earth after rain, hot showers, a bowl of hot soup, leather-bound journals, cold hands, quiet laughter, working late at night, trusting reluctantly, loyalty to a fault, a cold and calculating fighter, a mug of warm green tea, grieving alone, drunk karaoke with friends, an organized workspace, appreciating the arts, painting with watercolours, listening to white noise, bearing burdens alone, the weight of guilt, sleeping peacefully after a long time.

Isane— shy smiles, neatly folding sheets and laundry, the smell of antiseptic, the hands of a healer, crying happy tears, gardenia flowers, collecting medicinal herbs, a strong knowledge of medicine, always carrying bandages, chamomile tea, gardening for fun, blue butterflies, open windows on a summer afternoon, a slow-moving ceiling fan, a soft-spoken voice, a graceful height, playing with one's own hair, always finishing work on time, short afternoon naps, a glass of fruit juice, secretly reading romance novels.

Momo— peach blossoms, a calm spring breeze, crackling fires, chamomile tea, the smell of freshly-baked cookies, baking desserts, always being organized, smiling to hide the pain, humming quietly to oneself, bread and peach jam, a shelf full of well-loved books, pure adoration, hands that tremble ever so slightly, reminiscing over the past, a quiet strength, thick wool mittens, fiery rage, april showers bring may flowers, always working hard, healing from the past, carefree laughter.

Renji— long hair as red as blood, stray dogs, fiery red sunsets, wolfish smiles, eyes that are both warm and fierce, hearty laughter, sun-kissed skin, sleeveless shirts, howling wolves, lifting weights at the gym, tribal tattoos, sleek sunglasses, heliotropes, tea with spices, heavy metal music, spiked collars, fingertips stained with ink, hot summer nights, strong and warm hugs, a strong sense of justice, wanting to do what’s right, giving a middle finger to the rules, late night talks, sword-callused hands that touch gently, a spirited warrior, loving with one’s whole heart, snake skulls, a strong and sultry voice, red lanterns, taiyaki, the smell of sandalwood.

Iba— intricate back tattoos, vintage sunglasses, bruised knuckles, oak trees, bottles of sake, a loud izakaya, the smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke, matsuri parades, the sound of taiko drums, playing cards, relentless ambition, a pack of wolves, burning the midnight oil, thyme leaves, a bowl of fresh ramen, drinking coffee at the work desk, men's magazines, a low drawling laugh, unwavering loyalty, whiskey on the rocks, an old ceiling fan, the sound of crickets at sunset, skipping stones across the lake, wood carving, polishing glasses, a pragmatic fighter, no-nonsense words, looking out for friends.

Nanao— thin glasses, floral furisode kimonos, a neat updo, tidy stacks of paperwork, elegant handwriting, early to bed and early to rise, a morning bird, the smell of lavender and rosemary, blue hyacinths, speaking in even tones, upholding the rules, firm glares, working in silence, a cup of green tea, romance novels as a guilty pleasure, meticulously keeping a journal, a small vase of flowers, a strict work schedule, simple dresses, a touch of makeup, floral-scented hand cream, a vast collection of classic novels, reading by candlelight, a hall of mirrors, hidden strength, smiles that are rarely seen, humming softly at night, graceful postures.

Shuuhei— motorcycle rides, leather jackets, late nights in the office, old newspapers, sharp scythes, playing rock music through headphones, leather wrist cuffs, messy hair, an old acoustic guitar, black coffee, the smell of mint and sage, friendly smiles, a lone desk lamp, never forgetting acts of kindness, trying to do what's right, drinking with friends, facial scars, strong arms, chin-ups in a door frame, a decadent voice, black chains, basil leaves, pinwheel fireworks, glasses of sake, forgiveness, grieving with friends, hands that are both strong and gentle, moving forward, unwavering resolve, early summer evenings.

Rangiku— long and wavy hair, infectious smiles and laughter, the golden hour shining past the curtains, carrying many shopping bags, red-bottomed high heels, an impeccable sense of fashion, cats, caring hugs, glasses of red wine, eyes that hold a touch of grief, lonely nights curled up in bed, getting lost in memories, purple hyacinths, cherishing mementos, the smell of designer perfume, citrus-scented hand cream, pink nail polish, glittering pink eyeshadow, rosy lip gloss, cocktail dresses adorned with sequins, fruity cocktails, warm bubble baths, silver jewelry, sparklers, dried persimmons, bottles of sake, handmade friendship bracelets, always being the life of the party.

Yachiru— a bowl of sweets, wandering through forests, a pink scooter, the smell of caramel, colouring books, finger painting, playing with sidewalk chalk, getting piggyback rides, catlike smiles, sneaking into hidden places, climbing trees, playful kittens, un-childlike anger, melon soda, konpeito, reading bedtime stories, having a fiercely protective father, eyes that are both innocent yet all-knowing, a plush teddy bear, glow-in-the-dark stars, white carnations, the smell of crayons, childish laughter, playful nicknames, strawberry milk, father-daughter relationships, unwavering faith in loved ones.

Ikkaku— bloodied knuckles, old bandages that need changing, a fiery glint of determination, arm wrestling, red eyeshadow, rough and strong hands, light-footedness, loud laughter, street fighting, bench pressing, an appreciation for beauty, messy handwriting, the smell of sweat and musk, spider lilies, wooden swords, a mug of strong beer, dusty streets, a fighting spirit, sleeping beneath a shaded deck on a blistering summer afternoon, buzzing cicadas, summer thunderstorms, windy days, wiping off blood from one's face, adrenaline rushes, the sound of classic rock music.

Yumichika— peacock feathers, neatly braided hair, glittery nail polish, sleek eyeliner, shimmering blue eyeshadow, a killer fashion sense, jewel-toned suits, rich brocade, the smell of lemon and bergamot, bloodstains on one's hands, silk kimonos, brilliant blue butterflies, elaborate cocktail drinks, soft skin, carefully applying makeup on another's face, manicured nails, eyes that gleam with purpose, purple wisteria flowers, keeping secrets, feathered earrings, orange scarves, secretive smiles, a teasingly lilting voice, airy laughter, soft hair, undying loyalty and friendship.

Nemu— smiles that are rarely seen, a soft-spoken demeanour, lithe and graceful movements, a cup of milk tea, braided hair, daisies, glass beakers, white lab coats, meticulously writing reports, always carrying a first-aid kit, a camera around one's neck, the smell of lilies, yellow sundresses, small high-heels, short skirts, quiet piano music, charm bracelets, a heart-shaped pendant, neat handwriting, surprising strength, always protecting loved ones.

Rukia— crisp winter mornings, dark hair, snowflakes caught in one’s hair, a fresh blanket of snow, white rabbits, a cup of hot ginger tea, the smell of peppermint and vanilla, eagerly watching soap operas on TV, playful smiles, rosy cheeks, yellow jasmines, thick wool scarves, elegant kimonos, a subtle touch of makeup, ice skating, a gracefully melodic voice, holding hands, a fierce and protective love, eyes as violet as the skies at dusk, the light of the full moon, doodling in notebooks, reading shoujo manga, friendship bracelets.

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