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nsharks · 2 years

Note

can we have more of fighting n make up w ghost plsss :,)

I love me my angst teehee

your first christmas with simon is by far the worst

very brief death mention

In the beginning, when your relationship is still a hesitant little game, Simon's mood can be hard to follow.

There are days between your visits at this point. He'll call you sometimes at odd hours to ask you over. Sometimes because he likes sipping tea with you. Most of the time because he wants to bury himself inside you and make you whimper.

He likes your company.

So much so that he calls you one evening, this time requesting: "Come play Scrabble with me, pet."

You'd been expecting him to invite you over, but not for this. This enigma of a man left you dumbfounded. "What?" was all you could say.

"You said you like it, right? Played it as a kid?"

You shook your head to yourself, disbelieving of his attention to the many details you'd ranted about over the past six months of knowing him. "Um, yes, I did say that."

But that was just one piece of Simon: inviting you over to play board games, grumpily bantering with you when you'd beaten him three times in a row (You must be hiding letters from me. Bloody hell.), then grabbing you by your ankles and dragging you across the rug so he could get you on his lap. He'd given a reproaching spank to your butt and said you had to ride his cock as an apology for cheating. (M’not cheating, Simon, I swear!) But you had no problem apologizing to him, there on his living room rug.

That was one piece, and then the other piece of him would arrive just a week later. Creep up on you until he wasn't even the same person anymore.

One evening, after inviting yourself over (because he'd oddly dropped off the grid for a few days), you are greeted by someone who smells an awful lot like Sterlings. He lets you in, but he's stiff. Withdrawn. He doesn’t offer much of a greeting. Just lets you tell him about your day. His hands are restrained to the pockets of his hoodie and you feel cold in the absence of their attention.

"Are you going to get a tree?" you ask him, forcing a smile despite the weird tension.

"What?"

"For the holidays," you clarify. "You know... to decorate."

Latent eyes. "Don’t plan to.”

Tongue pressed to your cheek, you decide to excuse yourself shortly after that. You mewl over your confusion that night underneath a hot shower.

Your patience and kindness is what entangled you with him in the first place. It’s also what results in you inviting him over to your flat the next day with a little surprise, hoping to bring back the man who’d played Scrabble with you and showered you with kisses.

He presents himself at your door with black sweats hugging his hips and a long-sleeved shirt. The mask, ever-present.

“I’ve got something for you,” you tell him after he’s inside, not bothering to kick off his boots.

Simon only offers you a quizzical look before waiting there as you grab the plate of cookies you’d made. But when you show him your attempt at frosted snowmen and Christmas trees, you suddenly start to feel a bit silly.

“I’ve never made these kind before,” you mutter sheepishly when he says nothing. Just stares at the cookies with a hard look. “Look, I promise they taste good. I also got you a little something.”

And then you’re pointing to a gift under your tree—

—small, humbly wrapped.

“It’s nothing much,” you shrug, chewing your lip. “It’s just something I picked up today. I thought you might need help to get you in the holiday-“

But the shift in his mood is not what you’d hoped for.

It’s strange. Like he hates everything he’s hearing.

The tension in Simon’s shoulders only seems to have woven deeper into the very fibers of him, and he’s suddenly staring between you and the cookies and the Christmas tree.

“What made you think I would wan’ any of this?” Simon cuts you off, each word a slow punch.

You must’ve misheard him. “Sorry?”

“Fuckin’ hell. I shouldn’t have come.”

Your faces pales. “I don’t understand—“

“Don’t understand what? That I don’t give a shit about the holidays?” And his low voice seems to have the same effect as barbed wire. The sheer mass of him suddenly becomes starkly apparent, filling up the room. “Can I make it any clearer for you?”

It’s a little thing called hindsight that gnaws at you. Prickles your eyes. Don’t plan to. You realize, in his own way, he’d already told you how he felt about Christmas time.

But the humiliation draws out a soft snap from you, “Is it so hard to just say thank you?”

“I didn’t ask for this,” he huffs. He’s truly angry: you can’t begin to understand why. “I don’t want it.”

“A normal person would just accept it,” your fingers press into the plate. “Not be such a dick.”

“A dick, yeah?" A bitter taunt. "Can be a real dick if you want me to.”

“Jesus, Simon! No, I don’t want—“

“You sure, pet?” He gestures to the plate in your hands and the tree. “Maybe if you see just how much of a dick I can be, you’ll give this shit up.”

His eyes, typically dull and unreadable, shoot you a scrutinizing look that doesn’t even seem to resemble him. But those eyes open up to you, just for a moment. A vulnerable flame doused in what your own perception detects as guilt. Deeply buried guilt that he doesn’t know where to put right now except onto you.

“You know what—“ you’re turning from him with curled lips. Hurt. Embarrassed. There’s a splintering sound when the plate of cookies, ceramic and all, is shoved into the bin.

“However bad of a person you think you are, Simon… I promise, you are even worse than that.”

The words blister your mouth on the way out.

You don't look at him. Just listen, with your hands pressed to your temples, as you hear the thunder of his boots on his way out the door. A slam reverberates through the walls, through your trembling hands. The tears finally seep out once he’s gone. The choking kind. Leaves you a bit numb and empty by the time you’ve ghosted your way into bed.

And at this point in your relationship, there’s no Simon knocking at your door that night. No verbal apology— because Ghost never has to do that. Why would he? You're not even officially his girlfriend yet, just someone he can't seem to shake off. Someone who he thinks about a lot and someone who thinks about him. Someone who'd try, with gentle hands and patient ears, to show him that it's not so bad to be cared for.

You don’t hear from him for days. Empty days that ridicule you. A gift under the tree that snickers at you.

But did you really think he’d let you in?

There was a stony wall he’d put up long before you. Here and there, you’d manage to poke some of the bricks out, peek your gaze through. It was becoming apparent that you’d never truly find a way over it, though.

Until a little box shows up at your door—

—filled with cookies.

It’s a silent offering; you know it once you see the silhouettes of their Christmas shapes. You cry instantly. There’s no name, no message, but you know it’s from him.

That’s all there is, though. And although the box of cookies finds home on your kitchen table, you urge yourself not to give in no matter how strong the itch. You just find his name on your phone and blearily stare at it that night.

A few more days.

Finally, one evening, a dubious knock—

—you can’t stop the hope that carries you to the door.

Simon stands, looking at his feet, anger subdued, and his eyes carefully lifting up. Any scrutiny that’d once been there, storming in his pupils, has long settled. Baring its true skin of sadness.

He’s got something in his grip that you don’t notice until he’s walking in on his own accord.

His name leaves your breath but he must not hear it. Just sits down on your couch and looks at you expectantly. You join him, but leave a purposeful gap, because that scent, that warmth, would diffuse your efforts.

In his hands, a bear. Dwarfed by his palms.

“This was my nephew’s,” he tells you gruffly. Clearing his throat, he hands it to you and gives a little nod, as if to say have it. Within just days, Simon managed to give you the only two gifts he’d ever offered in your relationship. Perhaps, it’s how he thought apologies worked.

You take the bear with gentle hands and feel the aged softness, the worn love. Embedded in it: was, was, was.

Things start to click. You recall his guilt, his hate for the holidays: the distance and anger you’d witnessed in him had really been grief.

“Simon, I can’t take this from you.”

“It just sits in my closet,” he mumbles. Then, a low beg, “Take it… Please.”

You nod.

And then, Simon’s fingertips reach over the gap to touch your collarbone, a tentative request for permission that you give by saying: “It’s okay.”

It’s all he needs to hear before resting his head atop your shoulder. That skin between his brows pressed to the firm bone of you, and you feel it twist tightly to indicate that he closing his eyes, hard. Not crying, no. He didn’t have that in him. But you think, in this moment, that his offering of tender vulnerability is more than enough.

He has poked out one of the bricks in that wall for you.

“Was a proper dick,” he admits in a grumble. Mask lifted to allow a solemn kiss to you neck.

“You were,” you whisper. “But… I didn’t mean what I said.” About you being a bad person.

“Okay if you did.”

But you tell him again, shaking your head and touching his back: I didn’t mean it. And you repeat it a few more times for him until he truly hears you.

And maybe Simon won't spend Christmas day with you. No, he's not ready to let you see that much of his grief. But for tonight, he'll share those cookies with you and open that little gift you got him and tell you a few things about his nephew. Mumbling softly, "you would've liked him, I think."

#sad boy #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #cod #simon ghost riley #call of duty #fanfiction #ghost #fluff #angst #tw death #fem!reader

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bay-sil · 1 month

Text

Yandere Ex Husband

𝚈𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙴𝚡 𝚑𝚞𝚜𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚗. 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚊𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚟 𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚘 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜. 𝙷𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑.

"𝙸'𝚖 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞" 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚔𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛. 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚎.

"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝?" 𝚆𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 "𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚎?" 𝙷𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜. 𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢? 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚗'𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚞𝚕𝚝!

"𝚂𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙. 𝙸 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚔, 𝙸 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗, 𝙸 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚗'𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚙𝚒𝚍 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚘 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚋" 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍

"𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚜-" 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚘𝚏𝚏. 𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛. 𝙷𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚋𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎

"𝙼𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚡𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚙𝚑𝚎𝚠 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚗𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎" 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚡 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛.

"𝚆𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝙸'𝚖 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚠𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐!" 𝚈/𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛. 𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢. 𝙻𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚋 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍. 𝚂𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚞𝚝.

𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙷𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜, 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎. 𝙷𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜. 𝙾𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛.

𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚠𝚒𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛. 𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖. 𝙷𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚕 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚈/𝚗 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜. 𝚂𝚌𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏. 𝙿𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚙 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛.

"𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜"

𝚂𝚗𝚒𝚙

"𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝"

𝚂𝚗𝚒𝚙

"𝚈𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞"

𝚂𝚗𝚒𝚙

𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚗 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝, 𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛. 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚎.

𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎'𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗. 𝚆𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚜𝚒𝚝-𝚞𝚙𝚜.

𝙷𝚎 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚝. 𝙶𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚙 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊𝚍𝚖𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝙽𝚎𝚡𝚝, 𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎. 𝙳𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚕𝚊𝚠 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚢. 𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎, 𝚝𝚘𝚙 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚘𝚖. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚓𝚘𝚒𝚗�� 𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖.

𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚕𝚎. 𝙸𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚔 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜. 𝚈/𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚢𝚎𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞

"𝚈/𝚗!" 𝙷𝚎 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚗 "𝙸'𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎! 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚊 𝚓𝚘𝚋, 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗! 𝙿𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎" 𝚈/𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜

"𝙴𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚜.." 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚞𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚢, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚢𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍. 𝙰𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜.

𝙾𝚑! 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚊 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎! 𝙷𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚊𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚞𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛

"𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎"

#yandere #x reader #x you #yn #bay-sil #yandere x reader #yandere ex #yandere male #yandere ex husband #sad boy

277 notes · View notes