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causeimhappinesss · 1 month ago

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Confidentiality (part 2)

Warnings: one night stand (no smut), manipulation, angst, drama, unplanned pregnancy

Pairing: Joseph Quinn x reader (Joseph Quinn x Doja Cat but you won't see her)

Words: 3,3k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m French), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

MASTERLIST

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly, casting a sterile glow over the nearly empty pharmacy. Shelves stretch out in long, uninviting rows, stocked with cold remedies, beauty products, and vitamins I don’t need. My fingers curl around the small box in my hand, my grip too tight, my palm slightly damp. I force myself toward the register, my legs stiff, my throat dry. Every step feels measured, deliberate, like I’m walking toward something irreversible. The cashier, a young guy with dark circles under his eyes, barely looks at me. He scans the test with a quick, indifferent motion. The sound slices through the quiet. I flinch. He doesn’t notice.

His fingers drum against the counter as he waits for me to pay. I fumble with my wallet, nearly dropping it. A crumpled bill. A rushed exchange. His face remains unreadable as he shoves the test into a plastic bag, crinkling and loud.

“Have a good night!” He comments, voice flat, already looking past me.

I nod. My mouth is too dry to speak. Outside, the air bites at my cheeks, sharp and unforgiving. The city is half-asleep, streetlights flickering over empty sidewalks. Somewhere, a car hums softly in the distance. I pull my coat tighter around me, but the cold isn’t what’s making me shiver. My fingers clutch the plastic bag against my chest like it might disappear. I walk fast. I don’t look back.

3:14 AM

I wake with a jolt.

The room is dark, but my chest is tight, breath shallow, skin damp with the remnants of restless sleep. The air feels thick, pressing down on me, the silence stretching, unnatural. Somewhere in the apartment, the fridge hums. The pipes creak softly, an old, familiar sound. I glance at the clock. The numbers glow red, too bright in the darkness. I stare at them, willing my heartbeat to slow. It doesn’t.

I shift beneath the covers, but there’s no getting comfortable, no going back to sleep. My stomach is a knot of nerves. The weight of the plastic bag on my nightstand is unbearable. It sits there, unopened, but it might as well be screaming at me.

I could wait until morning. Wait until my thoughts are clearer, until the world feels less suffocating, but I already know I won’t. I throw the blankets off and sit up. The cold air rushes against my skin, but I don’t hesitate. My feet find the floor, bare against the wooden boards. Each step toward the bathroom feels heavy. The small space is barely illuminated by the weak light above the mirror. It flickers once before steadying, casting everything in a dull, yellow haze. I close the door behind me. The lock clicks.

Why does the box feel heavier than it should?

My hands shake as I tear at the packaging, my breath shallow, uneven. The test is white, simple, nothing remarkable. Yet, it holds the power to shift my entire reality. I set it on the edge of the sink. I hesitate and for a long moment, I just stare at it, my reflection paler than the usual and unsteady in the mirror. My fingers brush against the cold porcelain, seeking something solid, something real.

I need to do this. I have to do this. I take a breath, close my eyes, and begin to follow all the instructions. Within two minutes, the test rests on the sink’s edge, silent, indifferent. A cheap plastic thing. Meaningless. Except it isn’t. My small bathroom feels even smaller, the air dense, suffocating. I run a hand through my hair, fingers catching in the knots. My scalp tingles. A nervous habit. The same thing I did before exams, before job interviews, before making choices I couldn’t take back.

I pace. One step, two. A slow, unsteady rhythm. My arms wrap around my body, as if that could hold me together. My heartbeat is erratic, hammering against my ribs, pulsing in my throat.

I shouldn’t look yet.

The instructions said three minutes. Maybe four, just to be sure.

I could leave. Step out of this bathroom, distract myself, give myself a moment before my world shifts. But I can’t.

I can’t help myself, but I glance at the test. Too soon.

My fingers dig into my arms. My stomach twists. I squeeze my eyes shut. My breathing is shallow. Unsteady. The scent of antiseptic soap lingers in the air, sharp and sterile. I should never have bought the damn thing.

Two lines.

Two clear, bold, unforgiving lines.

The air rushes from my lungs in a jagged exhalation.

No, no, no!

My vision blurs. My fingers fumble for the box, tearing at the cardboard. The instruction leaflet unfolds in my shaking hands, the tiny print swimming before my eyes: “One line: Not Pregnant. Two lines: Pregnant.” I blink. Hard. I press my fist against my mouth, swallowing down something sharp, something broken.

This can’t be real.

I count the days. Whispers leave my lips, frantic, desperate. I go over the numbers again and again, hoping for a mistake. Unfortunately, the math adds up. My knees give out. I sink onto the closed toilet lid, the test still clutched in my hand. I press my palm, my trembling fingers, against my stomach. Of course, for now, nothing feels different. It doesn’t change what’s happening.

A tiny, invisible thing. Alive. Inside me.

A shudder rolls through me.

The room is too still. The world outside doesn’t know. The wind rattles the windowpane, the faucet drips in its lazy, indifferent rhythm. I swallow hard, but my throat is raw. My tongue is dry. I try to form words, but there’s no one to hear them.

I stare at the test. It stares back.

Something inside me cracks.

A small, strangled laugh escapes; a hollow, broken sound. My fingers tighten around the plastic, as if crushing it could erase what it means.

Tears burn behind my eyes, but they don’t fall.

Because I’m too stunned. Too shocked.

I was so stupid to have sex with that bastard!

I want to scream, to throw things, to punch my pillow. Yet, I stay still, my eyes on the floor.

The phone rests in my palm, heavier than it should be. The screen glows, casting a faint blue hue over my fingers. My thumb hovers over the keyboard. One word. One message. That’s all it would take.

I type.

“We need to talk.”

My chest tightens. The words stare back at me, cold, detached. I erase them.

I try again.

“I don’t know if you care, but…”

No.

Delete.

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly. My apartment is too quiet. The hum of the fridge in the kitchen, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, small sounds, swallowed by the weight in my chest.

What do I even want from him? An apology? An admission that what happened wasn’t just a mistake he needed to cover up? That I wasn’t just another woman in a long list of forgettable nights? Or do I want him to take responsibility?

The thought makes my stomach twist. I picture his face, unreadable, that same carefully crafted mask he wears in some interviews, in some meetings, especially these last months. I see his hand sliding the contract across the table, his voice smooth, impersonal. The memory burns.

I grip the phone tighter. He didn’t even text me after that night. Not a single word.

I scroll through our messages, barely anything. A few logistical exchanges before the gala, nothing since. As if I never existed.

My throat tightens.

I could force him to see me. To acknowledge this. I could tell him. I could change everything with a single message, which is the reason why the thought lingers, tempting. But then what? Would he step up? Would he care? Or would he find a way to make this go away? He might not give a fuck. I imagine his reaction. The disbelief. The frustration. The inevitable damage control. Another contract, this time thicker, full of legal jargon and quiet threats. A team of lawyers making sure I stay silent. A deep chill spreads through me.

I look at the phone again. And then, slowly, I put it down. The screen dims, leaving me in the half-darkness of my apartment. I won’t tell him. Not now. The decision settles over me, heavy but certain. I’m on my own.

Days later

The glow of my phone cuts through the dimness of my bedroom. I scroll aimlessly, thumb moving in slow, lazy swipes. Another news article, another pointless headline, until it isn’t. I freeze. The image takes up the whole screen.

Joseph.

Hugging with Doja Cat or Amala.

The flash of the camera catches the gleam of his tired features, the way he tried to stay close to her. A moment stolen in the blur of an airport.

"Joseph Quinn and Doja Cat: Together After a Romantic Valentin Day in Mexico!"

The words punch the air from my lungs. I blink, forcing myself to read the article, that piece of shite, while a fresh wave of nausea grips me. I sit up, the room spinning. The phone trembles in my hand, screen too bright, too sharp. I shouldn’t keep reading. My breath is shallow, uneven. I press a hand to my stomach, where a dull ache unfurls.

He was with her.

While I was curled up on my bathroom floor, staring at two pink lines. While I was drowning in uncertainty, counting the weeks, replaying every second of that night, he was boarding a plane, hands on someone else’s skin, his lips on her.

A memory crashes into me, unbidden.

His fingers tracing my jaw. The slow, deliberate way he had leaned in before kissing me, as if testing the air between us. The way his hands had lingered. His mouth, his touch, the quiet weight of him against me in the dark.

I shut my eyes, but the image of the article burns behind my lids. My throat tightens.

I shouldn’t care and I know I should have expected this. Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop the sharp twist in my chest, the betrayal that shouldn’t even feel like betrayal. Because what were we, really? Nothing. A hook up.

I stare at the screen. At his face. At the man I thought, for just one night, might have been something else. My stomach clenches. I turn off the phone and let the darkness swallow me whole.

Somehow, I need to tell him.

TWO MONTHS LATER

The Warfare premiere is in town. Everyone’s talking about it, and of course, Joseph is the center of attention. The air is thick with excitement. The red carpet is a river of glittering gowns and sharp suits, the flash of cameras relentless. Celebrities glide past, their smiles practiced, their movements choreographed for the spectacle. The buzz in the air is palpable, every word dissected by eager ears.

I know there’s a place for me in this world of glitter and fake smiles. I could slip in unnoticed, a shadow among the invited. I got in through my professional contacts, I used the connections I’ve built in communications. I’ve never done something like that, using that privilege, but it’s not like I had another solution. A man like him would just ghost him if I texted him.

The room opens before me, vast, grand, lit by a thousand tiny lights reflecting off the polished surfaces. Dark hues dominate, but gold accents remind me that this is no ordinary night. Conversations swirl, laughter, snippets of excited chatter. People are everywhere. Journalists chase after celebrities, cameras flash, their questions about Joseph’s latest film hanging in the air. I’m a stranger in this crowd, but I don’t care. One thought keeps circling in my mind: I need to find him.

My heels click against the floor, the sound cutting through the noise surrounding me. I move through the crowd, scanning faces, bodies, the occasional glint of a smile. And then, near the bar, I see him. Joseph. Always so composed. His black suit hugs his frame perfectly with his shaved hair aging him a little. He’s surrounded by a group of producers, but his attention is elsewhere. He’s there but not really there, a hollow space around him despite all the eyes on him. I recognize it. It’s the same emptiness I saw the night we met.

I step closer, my pulse quickening. He doesn’t notice me yet. His eyes are sharp, but there’s a weariness beneath them, like he’s carrying the weight of the night. His face is tired, but his smile still manages to warm the room. When he spots me, his expression shifts. A flicker of hesitation, a crease in his brow, like he’s trying to place me. Then, that familiar, tired smile. It’s a little less certain than usual, but it’s still there. He lowers his head and says something to his group before slipping away toward me.

I breathe out, trying to steady myself, but my heart won’t slow. This is it. The moment I’ve been waiting for.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.” He comments, his voice low, raspy.

I shrug, trying to act casual.

“Let’s say I have my reasons.” I reply, with a small and fake smile.

I probably looked constipated at this point, something that my barely noticeable baby bump could fake too. Joseph watches me, his gaze lingering for a second longer than necessary, like he’s trying to read something on my face.

“Are you okay? You… want to talk?”

I nod, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

“I think we need to talk. Right now. I can’t keep pretending.”

His expression shifts, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. He glances around the room, as if checking to see if anyone is listening.

“Can we step away somewhere?”

He nods toward a door tucked in the corner.

“We can talk there.”

I follow him through the crowd, the noise of the party muffled as we move farther away. My heels seem louder now, each step heavier than the last. The tension in the air wraps itself tighter around my chest as we reach a small, quieter space, isolated from the chaos of the event. Joseph sits down on a couch in a corner, the city lights shimmering just outside. I sit beside him, not too close, but close enough to feel the tension radiating between us.

“I left confused the last time we spoke. I didn’t expect that… contract. That you’d think I would share what happened between us.” I reveal, my voice barely steady, though the heat of the moment rises within me.

He turns to face me, a guarded look settling over his features.

“It was necessary. I didn’t want any misunderstandings, especially with everything going on with my career.”

I can feel the anger bubbling up, but I bite down on it.

“You think I would run around telling people what happened? Do you really think so little of me?”

His expression hardens.

“You’re misunderstanding me, Y/N. It was just a precaution. Everybody does it in Hollywood.”

Hollywood.

Fucking Hollywood.

His biggest dream.

He wants to be someone important as an actor.

My breath catches, a mix of frustration and disbelief.

“A precaution. Right.” I scoff.

I stand up, anger and disappointment surging through me.

“Well, that’s great for you. But I don’t need a contract to know what I’m doing with my life.”

He looks at me, a silent challenge in his eyes.

“If you want to leave, you can.”

Asshole!

I open my mouth, but it’s hard to find the words. They catch in my throat, as if my body knows this is a moment that could break everything. I force them out anyway, voice low but steady.

“I’m pregnant. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

He looks at me as if I’ve just told him the world is flat, his lips parting in disbelief. His eyes search mine, waiting for me to laugh, waiting for me to tell him this is some sick joke. However, I don’t laugh or smile. I just stand there, waiting for him to see the truth in my eyes. A beat of silence stretches between us, and then he snorts.

“You’re joking, right?” The words slip out of him so quickly, I almost think he’s not even trying to process what I’ve said.

“No, Joseph.” I say again, slower this time, my voice firm. “I’m not joking. I’m pregnant and it’s yours.”

His expression falters, the smirk falling from his face. For a second, it looks like he’s going to say something, but instead, he just stares at me, mouth slightly open. His gaze flickers around the room, as if he’s searching for someone to tell him this isn’t happening. That it’s some kind of dream. I don’t give him the luxury of that. I hold his gaze, unflinching, waiting for him to say something. When he finally opens his mouth, it’s with a nervous laugh.

“Wait…”

His voice is unsure now, like a crack forming in the walls he’s built around himself. He swallowed, his Adam'’ apple bobbing in his throat.

“This… This is impossible.”

I swallow down the surge of frustration, the heat rising in my chest. My fingers dig into the edge of the bar, grounding myself.

“Turns out your pull-out game is weak.”

The words are sharper than I mean them to be, but the anger spills out of me before I can stop it. His face pales for a moment, a flicker of panic crossing his features. I can see his brain working, trying to make sense of this, trying to find a way out. But there’s no escape. Not this time. His voice is tight when he speaks again.

“It’s not mine. I mean, it can’t be mine.”

I stare at him, and for a brief second, I almost feel sorry for him. Almost. Then, the exhaustion, the bitterness, the anger catches up with me, and I can’t stop myself. The words slip out before I can control them.

“You know, I’m not a whore like you are. I don’t fuck around like some people do. I’m not your crazy and problematic girlfriend, who thinks it’s okay to show her body to anyone and everyone, who thinks she can make fun of everyone, who thinks she can say the most terrible things. I don’t need that. I don’t need you.”

His jaw clenches, and I see his eyes narrow, as if he’s trying to put up some kind of defense. It’s too late. The words are already out, and I don’t regret a single one of them.

“You…” He starts, but then he stops, his voice hitching, unsure of how to respond.

There’s something in his eyes now that I can’t quite read, something raw. But I’m too tired to care.

“Please!” I mutter darkly, rolling my eyes. “I don’t have time for this. I’m not going to sit around begging for your approval, Quinn.”

I reach into my bag, pulling out the document I’ve been holding onto, signed, printed, ready, with a small copy of my first ultrasound. I thrust it into his hand, not caring how hard it hits his chest or if someone will catch what’s happening.

“You can contact me when your brain starts functioning again. Until then, good luck with whatever mess you’re trying to clean up.”

I turn away from him before he has a chance to speak, the air in my lungs tight, my pulse racing. The room feels suffocating now, the music almost too loud in my ears, the lights too bright, the voices too much. But all I can hear is the steady click of my heels on the polished floor as I walk away.

His cologne still lingers in the air, a memory I don’t want to hold on to. The scent is sharp, familiar, but I can’t bear it anymore.

I don’t turn back.

Fuck Joseph Quinn.

Hey! Here is the second chapter! I'm not sure if I like it or not. But I wanted to publish it before the Oscars (Will there be even more dramas? Just wait and see…). Feel free to give your opinion on m work, it helps :)

Taglist : @ali-r3n @littlemissholy @yeoldebytche

#joseph quinn #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn fanfic #joe quinn #joseph quinn x you #joseph quinn imagine

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saturnville · 1 month ago

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Patron de la Scène | The Untimely Arrival

Pairing: Joseph de la Scène (Kelvin Harrison Jr.) x Black Fem Oc (Adama Ndiyae) Warnings: Mentions of slavery/enslavement, sexual situations, angst (I will add more if they come up). Reference: Chevalier (2023) AN: So, as a Black woman who loves Black Excellence (and also has a history degree), this movie was right up my alley and provided a perfect opportunity to tap into the historical fiction genre. Hope you enjoy!

Wandering hands woke him up that Tuesday morning. Wandering hands, two (or three) pairs of dry lips against his neck, and sweet nothings whispered in his ear pulled him from a quiet, short-lived slumber that ended much sooner than he preferred. Straight teeth grazed his skin, pulling a child-like wince from him. Sagging eyelids opened one at a time, struggling to adjust to the light that poured between the heavy artisan-crafted curtains. To his left, a woman. To his right, yet another. Both were as bare as the day they were born. Both gazed at him with hunger in their blue eyes--he was a gazelle, and they were seductive lionesses, waiting for an opportunity for their prey to stand still and allow them to pounce.

One hand, tucked beneath a featherlight body, twisted and turned for release. The other rested against a pale breast, grazed one, two, three times, his ears perking at the soft, wanton sigh before retreating. A low voice passed through a constricted and dry throat: "It's been fun, ladies. The maîtresse de maison will escort you out."

Quiet moans of distaste and sounds of discontent poured out of their mouths, to which he cooed half-sympathies and false promises in response, insisting they'd come together again one day. It took fifteen minutes to pry their hands off his body so he could wash the desperation and remnants of the evening's events off his body. They gathered their belongings with slow, deliberate movements as though delaying the inevitable. He didn’t watch them leave; he didn’t need to.

Once the door clicked shut, he exhaled heavily, the weight of the room settling over him. For all their softness and warmth, they left no mark, no impression, nothing lasting. He couldn’t quite explain the following ache, but he knew it had little to do with them.

His nose turned up as if he was in the presence of animals and was the sole competent being in the room. "Can we get a candle lit in here?" His voice fleshed out in the atmosphere, speaking to no one in particular but expecting it to land on listening ears. Soon, he heard a muffled pitter-patter coming down the hallway. A quiet, shaking hand slid through the space the door and its hinges created, gently placing a brightly lit candle on the table beside the entryway. A muffled, Good morning, Patron, came from the subject, which he acknowledged with a gruff “Bonjour."

Long fingers curled around a meticulously crafted dressing gown and yanked it off the chair to his in-room desk. One arm through each opening, he slid the heavy fabric on carefully, adjusting it to stay seated on his broad shoulders and comfortably around his slim waist. Blunt fingernails scratched at the braids that were usually covered. Matted and in desperate need of a wash, they were. He'd have to send for someone who knew what they were doing; he'd end up bald if he allowed yet another uneducated woman to get her fingers caught in his thick tresses. He couldn't take any more pulls and tugs, at least not in that manner.

He prepared for the day; the Lord knew he needed it. He soaked sore arms and tired legs in a gold basin filled with hot water, oils, and various soaps from neighboring countries. His ears caught birds chirping, the bees buzzing, and the soft knock against the door. The urge to outwardly grow sat on his lips like a pigeon on a branch. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. "Come in." Throwing his arms over the basin, he craned his head to the right, acknowledging whoever had entered. He recognized her--Eloise. A young woman hired by his father to tend to his needs. He had no interest in the young woman, and whether she had an interest in him was a care he'd kicked like a ball into the sunset.

She was professional. She kept her head down and did as requested. A primary reason why she found favor in his sight. His eyes softened a bit. "Yes, Eloise?"

"The carriage will arrive shortly. The guest quarters are prepared for her arrival, Monsieur." At her words, his eyes shifted forward. The day had arrived. His lips parted and then closed. Time seemed to move faster than he knew it to. He nodded twice. "Your attire is in your quarters. May I be of any additional assistance?"

"No." His reply was quick. No room to interject. Eloise toyed with her fingers, waiting for her dismissal. There were only so many places her eyes could roam to keep them from landing on his broad chest, damp with condensation and kissed by heated droplets of water. The clock in the corner was lovely, she noted. So was the painting near the window. She swallowed stiffly. Finally, he said, "Merci," and sent her on her way.

The sighs they released seemed in sync as she scurried out of the bathing room and he dunked his body further into the water.

Self-consciousness was not something he felt often. It was quite the opposite. However, when he received word that she'd arrive within a few moments, he found himself patting what he assumed to be stray hairs back into place, pulling his jacket down as if it had the ability to touch his knees and rolling the letter she'd sent in his hands like a toy. He was nervous. He couldn't remember the last time he was nervous. It was a foreign feeling. He hated it.

Whatever the next step after nervousness was, he felt it. It crashed into him like the waves that almost rocked his boat overboard when he traveled from France to Portugal. Horseshoes kissed the pavement with loud smacks, warning him of her impending arrival. Muffled voices of horse tamers ricocheted off the columns. He swallowed thickly.

His brown stayed trained on the carriage. It rocked side to side like an unsteady man after a night of indulging in spirits and white powders. A well-dressed man pulled the door open. A petite body was assisted down, and tiny feet covered in old shoes hit the floor. His heart was a drum in his chest. It couldn't be.

One suitcase was placed by her feet. He saw her side profile as she thanked the attendant with a smile. Her smile was small, almost forced. Much of her features were unseen from his angle. He strained to keep his throat from closing. It couldn't be. She didn't move for many moments, instead opting to stare at the French sunlight. He was like her, unable to move until another body joined her. "Who..." They knew each other; he could tell by how they smiled at each other.

Suddenly, the glue had been removed, and his feet carried him out of his home and to the front, where the women stood side by side, chattering lowly. His heart drummed louder with each step closer, the world quieting around him. She was a shadow of the woman he once knew, yet so damn familiar. Time had not been kind, but her presence alone shook the foundations of his composed façade.

At the sound of his footsteps, they turned. One over her left shoulder, the older over her right. His lips parted to make room for a shuddered breath. It was so. His shoulders dropped, and his grip loosened on the letters in his grasp, falling to the concrete with a soft scrape. His eyes dropped to her lips, full like his but dark from dehydration, lack of moisture, and faded bruises from countless times he'd seen her head get whipped left and right. His heart ached. It was her.

He couldn't find the words. He'd imagined this moment many a time. Over and over, it played like his favorite Shakespearean play. He'd lay in her arms like he did as a boy before she was pulled out of his arms, forced into exile. A twenty-year exile that haunted his spirit and traumatized his soul. The anger that had developed over the years seemed to dissipate the longer his brown eyes shared her gaze. He could hardly make out her face behind the tears.

His eyes traced the curve of her shoulder, her collarbone that once held a necklace but now housed a long scar, jagged and never able to fully heal—an ever-present reminder of a despicable history they shared. The skin was not as taut as he remembered, now looser with age and trauma. Her skin was still as rich and beautiful as it was when he was a boy. Time had carved lines into her face, and her experiences should have forced her shoulders to cave in, but still, he saw the regal woman who held herself high despite being humbled to that of a servant, the woman that men would fawn after. The beautiful Fatou. His mother. His dear mother.

He had almost forgotten the sound of her voice. Almost. He was born when she was young, nothing but a girl herself. Her voice was soft and airy, like an early morning in June. Back then, she had only been with his father briefly, and her accent hovered over her words like dew over the sea. When she taught him his name, it was in quiet moments by the window of their small room, her lips curling around the syllables as though tasting each one for the first time.

“Jo…seph,” she’d say, her brow furrowing as she pressed a warm hand against his chest. “This you, my son. Joseph.”

As a boy, he giggled at her careful pronunciation, his tiny hands clapping together in delight. “Jo-seph!” He’d echo, his tone triumphant and proud.

Now, hearing her say “my son” after all these years, his chest tightened. Her hand, warm and hard from years of work, touched his cheek. His eyes closed softly as he winced from her touch. Not that he didn’t want it; it was unfamiliar. A mother’s touch was foreign, like the land she came from.

“I…” she became choked. Her handle trembled against his face, and her tears gathered quicker than ants at a dirt hill the longer she looked at him. “I’m sorry.” Sorry. Sorry. Sorry for the years she spent running through the woods to find a way to get to him. Sorry for the beatings she endured to keep him unscathed. Sorry that she had no choice but to leave him in the hands of a man who’d brainwashed him into believing he was God’s gift to humanity for giving her son the life he deserved. Sorry that he was robbed of the opportunity to have a mother.

He tried to smile, but it came out wobbly like a pirate’s parade on land. “Let us not dwell on the past, yeah?” He couldn’t take any more of it. It was too much for his heart to handle and too small to expand—he wouldn’t allow it.

The shifting of a neighboring body was the perfect scapegoat for the emotionally charged interaction with his mother. Fatou’s hand fell from his face to grab his hand. Her grip was so tight he thought he’d lose it—she was afraid to let him go as if he’d flee from her or he’d be snatched from her arms again.

As the air shifted, as the atmosphere seemed to thicken, Joseph felt the subtle presence of another. He tensed, his gaze turning toward the movement. There, standing a mere three feet from him, was Adama. Adama Ndiaye…Indy.

Adama stood there, holding herself with a quiet, reserved confidence that Joseph couldn’t quite place. This woman in front of him, this unknown version of someone he knew what seemed to be eons ago, was foreign. Despite her place in society, her presence commanded the room the way of a queen. Europe’s monarchs would tremble in her presence.

She was no longer the scruffy child he played with behind the quarters until the sun dropped and they blended with the night. She had shed that form, leaving only a striking image before him—a woman. A woman who, unlike what he’s seen in France. Skin rich like the mahogany beams that supported his home, eyes deep like the wine he’d guzzled last night before bedding two women while he awaited his mother’s untimely arrival. Her breasts, round and succulent, peaked from the breast line of the dress that he’d only guessed her mother sewed for her by hand.

Her hair, once braided with escape routes threaded between the strands—routes to freedom and rice, evidence of a life lived in stealth—was now hidden beneath a headscarf. Though absent from view, the braids still carried the weight of history. A history embedded in every fold of the fabric, the weight of survival, resilience, and a shared past that Joseph had long since tried to forget.

He could see this transformation now, though. He was no longer a child, no longer the girl he had once shared fleeting moments of joy with. This was a woman. And for the first time, he saw her beauty with the clarity of someone who had only known blindness until now. He swallowed, feeling something stir deep within him—desire, fear, shame, and something more he couldn’t name.

"Petit Jo?" she said, the name slipping from her lips like an unexpected breeze.

Joseph froze. His hand clenched his mother’s, who peered at him. His jaw clenched, and his throat bobbed. That nickname was the one he hadn’t heard in years. The one that brought him back to the fields, to the moments before he became Joseph Fontaine, Patron de la Scène—before he had built his life from the pieces of his past.

His mind scrambled, stirred like wet and dry ingredients. It took everything he had not to let his composure slip entirely. "What did you call me?" Joseph asked, his voice coming out sharper than he intended. Adama’s lips twitched, but there was no smile—not yet. She studied him for a long moment, almost as if savoring her words' effect on him.

The corner of her lips lifted. She cleared her throat. His fell on her chest as she inhaled deeply and exhaled sharply like she’d exasperated herself on an exhaustive run. She stood before him, relaxed as though she was his equal.

“Pardonnez-moi,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm now, the distance between them suddenly charged with something more. "I didn’t realize I had the honor of addressing Joseph Fontaine, Patron de la Scène." She leaned slightly to one side, her eyes never leaving his. "I suppose you prefer that now, don’t you?"

Joseph’s stomach twisted at how she said it—like it was something to be discarded, a name too far removed from the boy she had once known. She wasn’t finished. Her jaw ticked like the hands on a clock, and whatever emotion had taken over had wound her up. “It seems Petit Jo has grown up.” Her words landed like a slap, and Joseph felt the burn of them deep inside him. She had always known how to wound him, to remind him of the boy he had tried so hard to forget.

Joseph’s nose jumped as he cleared his throat once more. His eyelids lowered, and her figure suddenly seemed small behind his lowered eyes. With a renounced sense of control from counting the leaves on the trees behind her head, he mustered the strength to ask, ”Why are you here?" his voice low, though there was no genuine warmth.

Adama didn’t answer right away. Instead, she stepped forward, her gaze unwavering. She held his eyes for a moment, then flicked her eyes toward Fatou almost imperceptibly.

Joseph followed her glance, and the unspoken words hung between them like thick smoke. Fatou failed to meet his eyes, looking like a child who’d been told to grab a thin branch from a tree to prepare for their punishment. She squeezed his hand once more, the hand that seemed to loosen its grip on hers the more realization suffocated him.

Adama’s voice softened just enough to be heard but still sharp with meaning. "Perhaps the better question," she said, her gaze still lingering on his mother, "is why you’ve become someone who has to ask it."

Tags: @kirayuki22 @greedyjudge2 @notapradagurl7 @irishmanwhore @honeytoffee @theogbadbitch @jazziejax @kumkaniudaku @becauseimswagman1

#saturnville #black!reader #black reader #kelvin harrison jr.#kelvin harrison jr. x black reader #kelvin harrison jr. smut #kelvin harrison jr. x black oc #kelvin harrison jr. x oc #chevalier movie #chevalier #chevalier 2022

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two-white-butterflies · 11 months ago

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parallel lines | d. targaryen | part six

Description: An ordinary middle school teacher moves to a desolate town with her fiancee. After suffering episodes of vivid nightmares, she realizes that his uncle looks exactly like the man in her dreams.

Pairings: daemon targaryen/reader, aemond targaryen/reader

Trope: Reincarnation

series masterlist |

<<previous chapter

"To hold on, to the days when you were mine." - Peter, Taylor Swift.

These past few days, something has deeply changed in Daemon's psyche. He was always a neat freak, preferring to remain polished and clean on the outside while his mind was an overgrowth of plants that clouded his thoughts. He couldn't think straight then - but he kept a facade, pretending that he was sane. He wasn't.

Since seeing you in St. Joseph, he's lost all remnants of himself - the facade broke down and he was thrown into disarray. "Why is your shirt always untucked?" you chuckled, taking a step forward, as if it was second nature to fix his polo and tuck it into his pants.

"I was rushing," he found himself mumbling, confused at your sudden proximity to him. How long has it been since he's felt you? Had his fingers dance against your skin and body? You were always warm, and that was all he remembered about you.

Everything seemed to zone out in the background. He almost forgot that he was in a parking lot, and the sound of cars zoomed past him. All he could see was you, all that he could hear was you. He takes a deep breath, quickly composing himself.

"I'm sorry about what happened yesterday, Rhaenyra herself even admitted that it was wrong. We shouldn't have fought in front of a guest." he apologized, forcing a tight-lipped smile. "If I'm lucky, I won't be a guest for long." you teased, fixing the strap of the handbag on your shoulder. "Mhm." was all he could muster.

The thought of you being married to his nephew made him want to puke. It made him want to kill himself.

He senses the awkwardness, he decides to clear his throat and look at his watch. "I guess this is goodbye. I'm running late for a meeting." he lied, staring at the side. "Of course, nice talking to you." you answered, equally as awkward as his intonation.

"See you tomorrow?" he smiled, walking past you.

"See you tomorrow." you replied, but he was too far to hear.

(ISLAND NEAR THE GHISCARIS)

Your mother descended from a long line of voyagers. Her family remained in Lyss, and life led her to Westeros. The skill of voyaging was long lost. You couldn't command a ship, even if your life depended on it - luckily, you were able to meet a group of female pirates on their way to the liberated islands near the Ghiscari Empire.

It was untouched due the large wall-like fortress that surrounded the shores. "I am surprised by your aptitude, not a lot of people appreciate the oceans well." Serenei, the woman that promised to keep you safe, handed you a cup of tea, the liquid inside of the cup was moving back and forth due to the waves.

"It's much like riding a dragon, though you shouldn't compliment me that much - I emptied my stomach a few hours ago." you giggled, remembering the reddish hue that your face turned into. Oh, your ancestors were turning in their graves. "Don't worry, it'll only be a few more hours until we reach the shores of Pharmaka." she placed a hand on your shoulder.

There was silence between the both of you, in fear of the unknown. You stared at the small round window beside you.

Would Daemon love the ocean too? You remember the War of the Stepstones. A sigh escapes your mouth, the wars have marred him and he wouldn't have loved the smell of salt air as much as you. "It's an island filled with women, not a single man is allowed." Serenei continued with a smile, and for a moment you pondered if she went though the same things that you did.

You shake your head. You wish that she didn't.

"It must be heaven, then?" Alyssandra leaned on the doorframe, trying to keep herself steady due to the treacherous waves that pumped against the ship's bodice.

"It is - utopia is what they call themselves." Serenei continued telling the story, a smile ghosts your face. Your life had turned into a story indeed, finding true love with a Dragon Prince - losing him and being forced to live through the tragedy in Harrenhal, and now you were halfway across the world, riding a ship that is going to a place that calls themself utopia.

(ST. JOSEPH SCHOOL OF DRAGONSTONE)

The steam of your coffee littered your face with kisses, and a groan escapes your mouth. You couldn't believe that you feel asleep through your entire free period. Those dreams weren't stopping, but the scenarios were drastically changing.

At first, they were filled with love - of scenes with you and the 'Dragon Prince' then they changed into nightmares - of ones that you couldn't remember, only waking up in tears - but now, you were in a ship to some unknown island that made you feel hopeful.

Once the story ends, would you be free of those dreams? Would you be free to live your life without those headaches that forced your head open, telling you that there was something that you forgot?

AEMOND NEW SIM How are you? You haven't messaged me in a while :(

YOU sorry i fell asleep hehehahaha 😭

AEMOND NEW SIM Sleeping on duty? tskk

Daemon interrupts you from replying by sitting next to you. There was a pang in your heart, something deep inside your mind telling you to run towards him and offer him a warm embrace. Flashes from your dreams come to you. The small round window, the small of salt breeze and his lavender eyes that felt like a thousand sleepless nights cuddled by the fire.

"Congratulations." Daemon opened his mouth to speak. He stared deep into your eyes, almost peering inside your soul. There wasn't an expression in your face that he hasn't seen a million times. "For what?" you inquired with a slight smile.

"The students proficiency in math has improved since you started teaching them." he informed, and you quickly remember that he attended a meeting earlier today.

A nervous chuckle escapes your mouth.

"They're struggling with the basic stuff, things that they're supposed to know in the first and second grade. I try to go back to those topics before getting back into the complex stuff." you explained, and the smile returns to your face, happy to speak about your passion.

"Whatever you're doing, it seems to be working." he continued to compliment, liking that look in your eyes - the fire. Your body shifts unconsciously, your elbows much closer to his. Your coffee has long gotten rid of its heat, but there was still a million things you had to talk about with him.

"By the way, I thought that you were familiar even before I got to know you - then Harwin and the family talked about that trip to Italy that we both had at the same day. I know it sound a little weird, but I'm pretty sure that the picture you posted on your instagram was taken by me." you opened up the conversation, and he freezes like a deer caught in headlights.

August 23. He remembered vividly, right after you took that picture of him, he promptly collapsed on the curb and was brought to a hospital. That was also the day that he finished remembering his past life. His memories were revived by you?

"A funny coincidence," he managed to choke out.

The Gods were playing a cruel joke.

He stares at your face, seeing your squinting eyes - waiting for his reply. He decides that this might be the right time to talk about Tirano. "When you left, I actually collapsed." he chuckled, playing with the ring on his finger.

"What? Why?" your eyebrows merged into each other.

"I don't know if I'm the only one but - when I was younger I used to dream about weird things, dragons, kings, wars. At first, my parents thought that it was just the result of an overactive mind but the dreams persisted until I turned into an adult - actually I think I was in my late thirties or early fourties when they stopped. It stopped after that trip to Tirano." he monologued, now evading your gaze.

If you weren't able to make the connection, then he would've revealed himself for nothing. "I dream about those things too. Strange." you whispered, your voice suddenly decreasing in volume. "I'm not the only one then," he looked to the side.

"But you said that they stopped? How did they stop?" you asked, wanting to rid yourself of those nightmares. He smiled, remembering seeing your face before everything faded to black.

"I dreamed about myself dying, and after waking up in a hospital bed feeling like I slept a million years, I never dreamt about it again." he confirmed and your heart sinks to your chest. "Holy shit, this sounds so fanatically cultish." you cursed. "- you're telling me that I need to die in the dream to stop dreaming about it again?" you repeated.

He replies with a shrug.

"Well that's going to take a long time. I'm in like, Act Three of the whole novel." you decided to keep the conversation light, although the topic was serious and you weren't sure if you were there to believe him. "How many acts are there?" he raised an eyebrow. "How many acts are in Madame Butterfly?" you quizzed.

"Three...so you're near the end." he smiled. "I'm not sure, for all we know it might just be the end of the beginning." you answered.

He stands up, hearing the bells ring.

"Whatever it is, I'm sure that you'll find a cure of your own." he bid his goodbyes and disappeared from the teacher's lounge.

AEMOND NEW SIM Can you pls catch a ride with someone u work with? I'm a little busy here in mom's house She's moving a few things Yknow her trip to Turkey

YOU Okay, what time will u be home?

AEMOND NEW SIM Probably before dinner If I'm out past six have dinner before me

YOU Alright, take care

next part >>

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knightjpg · 6 months ago

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landslide | chapter 2

tags: ghost/reader, finding each other again after years have gone by, reader has a toxic boyfriend

prev | next

Ghost's hands are stained black with soil. Dirt caked under his nails. He breathes in the debris until it's part of him, burrowed into the pit of his lungs, his eyes, his stomach. He's not alone—

(the corpse clings onto him on bad days)

—a terrible comfort.

His fingertips scrabble against wood. Darkness presses against him from all sides. The promise of lithification looms—unstoppable force, immovable object. Rock forever chained to its place in the natural order of things. It'd be so easy to give up, to accept he's always been nothing but a stain against the dirt—

“You set me straight, yeah?”

Simon grits his teeth. The jawbone comes loose in violent, painful tugs—forearm skin burns against the rough grain cage trapping him underground. Decaying flesh squelches between his fingers, muscle and sinew snapping, bending, come on—

A way out. Teeth dig into his flesh when he grips it hard and fights—

(c'mon, his dad's voice goads. show me you're a man, boy)

—the desire to give in. He'll make his own way through. Dogteeth biting so deep he can't be dislodged, holding on even when he's the one bleeding. Never knew when to let go and he refuses to learn, because Ghost—

Simon—

Ghost—

still has something to do. To get back to.

When he bursts through the surface the low evening light is blinding. The sun sets over deserted sloping plains, catching a dark figure in its glare—

A photo camera clicks and flashes.

“You two look sweet together,” Beth says, smiling. She lowers her Nikon. No, not hers—borrowed.

Simon looks. He and—

The clock on his nightstand reads three in the A.M. Ghost is exhausted.

Enough.

He gets up, throws on a shirt, and opens his closet. Shoved deep in the back is a box—

(a coffin)

—with the remnants of another life. Tommy's lighter. Simon's first knife. Collectible football cards, scuffed at the edges. And—

Sun-faded photographs with dates scribbled on the backs in slanted cursive.

Ghost rarely looks at them. Makes his head hurt, his chest constrict so tight he can't breathe. He won't ever toss them; can bear the pain just enough to know that they exist, here, safe under lock and key.

He takes the stack of photos and lets it rip him open.

Tommy and Beth's wedding. Tommy dressed in handsome black, perpetual stupid grin on his face. Beth, beautiful and smiling, stomach showing the first signs of swelling if you know to look for it.

Joseph, newborn, swaddled in blankets. A young Simon without tattoos holds him, looking stiff and unsure and utterly reverent.

Ghost swallows. Skips ahead—birthdays, mum's funeral, Christmas—

There.

Tommy is smiling at the camera. He's wearing a chunky knit pullover, holding up a glass (“A toast!”). Beth is half-turned away, just reaching out to a little Joseph covered in sauce. Simon is there, too, just cut off on the right—so who took the photo?

You two look sweet together.

Ghost flips through the next few photographs slowly, and then his heart stops. Breath slows. Pupils dilate, fixated;

“He's so little, isn't he?”

You sit down next to Simon on the sofa, smiling at Joseph.

“Yeah,” Simon says, shifting to make room for you. Joseph looks up at you with his big round eyes—then swats Simon on his chin again.

You smother your laugh behind your hand. “Oh, sweetie, no. Your mumma said no hitting. Here—do you want your stuffie?”

Joseph garbles when you hold it up to him and latches onto his little plush rabbit immediately.

Click—flash.

“You two look sweet together,” Beth says, smiling. She lowers the Nikon.

Fuzzy edges sharpen, filling in the corroded pathways. Bokeh, reversed—the photo in Ghost's hands is grainy and dim, but the memory breaking through the surface is clear.

Ghost quickly—greedily—flips through more photos, finds a pattern; a red thread. With a reference you're suddenly everywhere. Maid of honour, flowers in your hair. A party, can't remember what for, but you're dancing, smiling, wearing a short dress. Ghost's eyes linger on your legs a moment longer before shuffling to the next print.

Joseph's first birthday—you baked the cake yourself, Ghost suddenly thinks. A missing memory clicking in place, tethered by context clues.

...He would've turned twelve in a few months. Just started secondary school, life full of possibility. Pathways that were never traversed. These snapshots of happiness are just that; are a blip on the radar, there and gone again.

Ghost grits through the pain and continues until he reaches the last snapshot in the stack.

It's another wedding photo; of him, this time. Or rather, of the back of his head. Best man. He's holding a glass, and so are you. Your face is tilted up to him, open and sweet. Smiling.

“Okay, I know what people say about the maid of honour and the best man, and I just wanted to tell you that you have my blessing.”

Simon's brows rise on his forehead. The reception is in full swing; there's drinks and cake and finger food. People are dancing to a playlist blasting from speakers in the corners—Simon burned the CD himself per Tommy's request.

Beth has joined him on the sides to watch their guests get shitfaced on cheap liqueur. Tommy is getting her a more comfortable pair of shoes because “these heels are killing me, Simon.”

“Where's this comin’ from?”

“From me,” Beth answers pointedly. “I'm tired of the shitty boyfriends.” She looks up at Simon and tilts her head, mouth curling up into a coy smile. “Also, I think you're a bit taken by her.”

Simon chokes on his champagne. He looks away while he coughs and pounds his chest, hoping the heat crawling up his neck doesn't show on his face.

“Baseless accusations,” he manages through a wheeze. Beth laughs.

“Sure, honey. Whatever you say. Just make sure to dance with her at least, alright?”

Ghost doesn't remember ever asking you for that dance. He remembers talking to you, making you laugh, and feeling like that should be enough.

He regretted it all the way home.

A heavy weight trickles down on him, from the crown of his head to the pit of his stomach. Wishes. Regrets. Could-have-beens in another lifetime. With a sudden snarl he shoves the photos back in the box, locks it, and throws it back into his closet.

The closet door closes with a smack.

This is why he never looks in here. There's nothing waiting for him but pain and disappointment, distractions from the here and now. What use is there in thinking about Beth's pretty friend? You don't even know he's alive. Have forgotten about him entirely by now, are probably married with kids—

Another wave of nausea.

Ghost just barely makes it to the bathroom to retch into the sink.

----------

“How was work?”

You transfer pasta onto dinner plates and garnish with a sprinkle of chives. You serve Dave first, then turn back to the kitchen to get water and candles.

“Great,” Dave says around a mouthful of pasta. He's dug in immediately. You try to feel like it's a compliment to your cooking. He works hard. He's hungry. You like cooking for people, so that sinking little feeling in your chest must be from something else.

“Our department's been doing really well. Making top sales for half a year now, so they did this raffle thing,” Dave continues, pausing to take a glass from your hands and down a few big gulps of water, “and guess what?”

You open your mouth to ask “What?”, but Dave answers before you can.

“I won!”

You sit down, trying to muster enthusiasm. “That's great, baby. What was the raffle?”

Dave leans forward. “One round trip to Bora-Bora, paid in full.”

“Oh my gosh,” you say, and your smile doesn't feel so forced anymore. “That's amazing, congrats! That's such good timing.”

Dave's vacation is coming up, and these things are usually plus-one. Right? Maybe that's what you've been needing. Some time away from it all, just the two of you spending time in sun and saltwater someplace beautiful and warm.

“Sure is,” Dave says with a self-satisfied smile. His plate is half-empty; you're just taking your first bite.

When he doesn't elaborate any further you hedge carefully, “So... Is it a solo trip? Or...”

Dave furrows his brow apologetically. “Oh, babe. Yeah, it's a plus one, but it's for people from the company only. I'm sorry.”

“Oh.” You bite the inside of your cheek and try not to look too disappointed. Guess that's on you for getting excited without knowing all the details. “So then who are you going with?”

“Allison from Marketing.”

Allison from who—?

You pause mid-chew, looking at Dave with wide startled eyes. When he quirks an eyebrow you quickly swallow. “Do I—do I know this person?”

“’Course you do, babe, c'mon. I've told you about her—she's like a work wife. Sales and Marketing are pretty much joint at the hip. When we go out for drinks it's always both teams together.”

Your stomach curdles at work wife. “I don't remember ever hearing her name.”

“Yeah you do, don't be silly. I talk about work friends all the time.”

When he was out for drinks on your anniversary is that who he was with? Work friends? Allison from freaking Marketing?

“Were you going to ask me if I was okay with that?”

“What? Allison going on the trip?” Dave sounds incredulous. You're being crazy. You're being unreasonable. “Why, don't you trust me?” You're being demanding. Trust issues. Crazy bitch.

“I do,” you say out of habit. “I do, but that's still—I would want you to ask me.”

Dave sighs. Your stomach tenses. The pasta feels tacky in your mouth.

“If it makes you happy, sure. You okay with me going on a trip with Allison?”

Would you cancel if I said no?

You can't bring yourself to say the words, but you also can't bring yourself to say of course, baby, you two have fun.

“...Are you sure there's really no way I could go with you instead of—”

Dave makes an impatient sound in the back of his throat, pushing his empty plate away from him. “Come on, don't be difficult. I already told you, it's work only.”

“Right. Okay.”

“So that's a yes, yeah? I don't want you to call me crying about this later.”

“Yeah,” you say, looking down at your hands. “Yeah.”

When Dave makes attempts to draw you into the bedroom after dinner you claim a headache. Tired. Long day. Looking forward to turning in early.

Dave shrugs. “Sure, okay. Actually—mind if I just go home early then? There's a match I was wanting to see, could still make it in time...”

You should feel disappointed. Offended, maybe, that if sex isn't on the table Dave's no longer interested in your company.

But all you feel is relief. You don't want to be around Dave right now; you feel your skin crawl and your stomach turn when you think about him sitting under palm trees next to some stranger. Your body feels like one big strain, trying to walk and talk and smile like normal.

Dave gives you a wet cheek kiss before heading out the door and leaves you with a sink full of dirty dishes and a pensive mood.

Kettlebell breaks you out of it with a chirp. He's come out of his hiding spot, winding through your legs with a purr. Mim hides no matter who is visiting, but after Dave tried to pick Kettlebell up like a sack of flour on his first time here neither of your cats show themselves when you have him over.

“Cats,” Dave sniffed derisively. “Guess it's true. They're all little assholes, eh?” He'd laughed and given you a playful nudge you did not return.

You bend down and scritch Kettlebell behind the ears. “Hi little angel baby. You're such a good boy, aren't you? Hmm? Does this little kitty want a treat?”

Kettlebell's meows skyrocket to opera volume at the word treat. Mim materialises next to him, making high-pitched little cries that make you fuss and coo and plant kisses on his little forehead before giving them both their promised snack.

You find that now that Dave's gone you weren't even lying; you are tired. The last thing you're in the mood for now is sex you pretend is better than it really feels.

You rub your temple and eye the dishes.

Tomorrow. You'll do it tomorrow—tonight you're allowed to be upset and re-watch Pride & Prejudice for the nth time to drown out Dave's mouth shaping the words “work wife.”

“I hate men. I hate them all,” you cry. Your nose burns from blowing it so much; the skin chafed raw to match your heart.

Beth rubs your back, nodding. “They're bastards, the lot of them.”

“You're not allowed to say that,” you sniffle. “Tommy is so—he's so sweet.” Your eyes well with new tears, and you bury your face in your hands again. “Why can't I meet a Tommy? Why am I so dumb and so bloody naïve—”

“Okay, hold on—if I'm not allowed to say all men are shite you're not allowed to say mean things about yourself.” Beth hands you a new tissue, brows furrowed. “You know this isn't your fault, right?

“I just feel so stupid.” You dab the tissue against your eyes. Every time it feels like you can't cry any more a new wave comes on, and you wish it'd stop. Your eyes feel swollen and puffy already, and you know you're going to look terrible in the morning. “Like I should have seen it coming. Should I have seen this coming?”

You look up at Beth anxiously, lip trembling. When she opens her mouth you interrupt her. “Don't answer that. I don't want the answer to be yes.”

“Aw, honey.” Beth pulls in for a side-hug, and you rest your head on her shoulder. She smells like the oatmeal cookies she made this morning. “Don't be so hard on yourself. I mean, he was a real cunt and he called you names, but no one would fault you for not immediately jumping to “he's going to cheat on me with your co-worker”.”

You sigh. A stray tear trickles down your nose. “I just feel like it's my fault. There's always something, and I'm never satisfied, and you remember Cameron?” Beth nods yes. You continue, “When we broke up he said I wanted a fairytale, and t-that—” A sob breaks through, and you hiccup. “That I should—I should start living in reality.”

Beth purses her lips like she's just bitten into a lemon. “Cameron also cheated on you with his cousin, so I think we're going to have to disregard his general judgment.”

You give a begrudging shrug. Maybe, but what he said cut deep. It fed into the worry that the flaw was not in the eye of the beholder but the beholder herself, and that you're still just a silly little girl dreaming of starlight romance.

It's quiet for a while. Rain ticks against the window panes outside.

“I guess...” you start. Falter. Begin again. “I guess I wish I didn't want it so much. I want to be—to be the cool single girl who doesn't need anyone's approval, or love, or... I don't know.”

“You are a cool single girl who doesn't need anyone's approval.”

A sad little smile ghosts over your lips. “No I'm not. Because I always—I always want it. I want to find love. You know? And that makes me feel stupid.”

Beth says gently, “Honey. You're not a bad person for wanting to be loved.”

Your eyes peel open slowly. Netflix asks you are you still watching? on the screen. You blink, noting a warm weight on your feet; Kettlebell has made a little nest in the blankets. When you crane your neck you see the faint silhouette of Mim perched on the back of the sofa, dozing.

What time is it...?

You pat the cushions for your phone and groan. Six in the morning. Oh, your back is going to hurt. You really should know better than to fall asleep on the sofa by now...

When you sink back into the cushions Kettlebell yawns and stretches, then hops onto your chest to press a wet insistent nose against your cheek. Breakfast time.

“Okay, okay...”

Might as well get up and shower.

As you disentangle yourself from Kettlebell and fuzzy blankets bits and pieces of your dream come back to you. A memory distorted in sleep, but derived from lived reality nonetheless.

The edges of it are hazy, but you know it was Beth. What'd she say...? It was something nice, to cheer you up after things ended badly with an ex-boyfriend.

Again.

Your shoulders sag. Maybe you don't want to be loved. If you did, you'd be happy now—because Dave loves you, and isn't that what you were always looking for?

Someone you can be comfortable with, who knows you, who says I love you without you having to ask for it every time?

You pull back the shower curtain and set the water to scorching.

#cod mw2 #cod x reader #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #simon ghost riley x reader #x reader

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ed-recoverry · 9 months ago

Text

List of free audiobooks on YouTube for anyone interested

The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins

Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austen

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Diary of a Wimpy Kid by Jeff Kinney

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain

Alice in Wonderland

Animal Farm by George Orwell

The Shadow Over Innsmouth by H P Lovecraft

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Hatchet by Gary Paulsen

Twelve Years a Slave by Solomon Northup

Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck

The Village by Caroline Mitchell

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (fuck JKR)

Sense & Sensibility by Jane Austen

The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood

Twilight by Stephanie Meyer

Upside Down by Danielle Steel

The Fiancée by Kate White

The Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris

Percy Jackson & the Olympians: The Lightning Theif

Accidentally Married by Victoria E. Lieske

I’m Glad My Mom Died by Jennette McCurdy

The Collector (book one) by Nora Roberts

The Lies I Told by Mary Burton

Dead Man’s Mirror by Agatha Christie

The Hobbit

The Taken Ones by Jess Lourey

The Good Neighbour by R J Parker

The Island House by Elana Johnson

Desperation by Stephan King

The Healing Summer by Heather B. Moore

The Last Affair by Margot Hunt

To Be Claimed by Willow Winter

Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

The Inn by James Patterson

Wonder by R J Palacio

Faking It With The Billionaire by Willow Fox

The Lost Years by Mary Higgins Clark

Forrest Gump by Winston Groom

The Janson Directive by Robert Ludlum

The Catcher in the Rye

The Lottery Winner by Mary Higgins Clark

Where Eagles Dare by Alistair MacLean

Death of a Nurse by M C Beaton

Yours Truly by Abby Jimenez

Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson

The Sonnets by William Shakespeare

Frozen Betrayal by Clive Cussler

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

Line of Fire by R J Patterson

Don’t Believe Everything You Think by Joseph Nguyen

The Remnant by Tim LaHaye

The Magic of Reality by Richard Dawkins

The Secret of Chimneys by Agatha Christie

Payment in Kind by J A Jance

The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

The Way of the Superior Man by David Deida

The Game of Life and How to Play It by Florence Scovel Shinn

The Richest Man in Babylon by George S. Clason

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

A Marriage of Anything but Convenience by Victorine E. Lieske

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

The Inheritance Game by Jennifer Lynn Barnes

Ikigai: The Japanese Secret to a Long and Happy Life

Thinking Fast and Slow by Daniel Kahneman

How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie

The Kama Sutra by Mallanaga Vatsyayana

The Wisdom of Father Brown by G K Chesterton

Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe

Robin Hood by J Walker McSpadden

The Poor Traveller by Charles Dickens

Days on the Road: Crossing the Plains in 1865 by Sarah Raymond Herndon

Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens

Atomic Habits by James Clear

I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream

Trading in the Zone by Mark Douglas

The Art of War by Sun Tzu

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson

The Return of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle

The Epic of Gilgamesh

Lord of the Flies by William Golding

A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

Man After Man

Five on a Treasure Island by Enid Blyton

The Red Badge of Courage by Stephen Crane

Charlotte’s Web

Midsummer Mysteries by Agatha Christie

Out of Silent Planet by C S Lewis

The Valley of Fear by Arthur Conan Doyle

Eaters of the Dead by Michael Crichton

The Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie

The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole

21 Lessons for the 21st Century by Yuval Noah Harai

Hamlet by Shakespeare

110 notes · View notes