#loving yourself through suicidal ideation

[mylovewithyourlove]

You’re fine as you are, you know. You keep doing those things that you do, and the things that you don’t. That love is going to come back around. It always does. The more you let yourself be, the better you get at catching it when it flutters by.

You don’t need to change anything. You’re doing really, really good.

[civilization-illstayrighthere]

I hate writing summaries. why can’t i go “dude just trust me”

[rowarn]

PLEASE, LOVE ME. PT 1

simon riley / reader

FIND PART TWO || read the full thing on ao3

tags: childhood friends, friends2lovers, virgin!reader, soft!simon, protective!simon, afab!reader, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, MDNI

cw: reader is over 20, pining, masturbation (reader), loss of virginity, explicit workplace sexual harassment/assault, so much crying, one-sided love, not-really-unrequited love, vomiting, panic attacks, depression, crying, sex related shame, PTSD (reader), codependency but cute, self-deprecating thoughts, slut shaming, wet dream, dry humping, simon fucks up tho, reference to suicide & suicidal ideation, really nasty argument, reader hits simon sorry, apologizes tho!!!, reader struggles to orgasm, drinking, fooling around while drunk (no sex), breast play, fingering, orgasm denial, simon's a tease, p-in-v, cunnilingus, multiple orgasms, creampie, mating press, missionary, simon's dirty mouth, dirty talk, wet&messy, big cock, uncut simon bc i said so, reassurance & encouragement, some pain upon penetration, clit spanking, post-coital crying!!!!!!, aftercare, briefly edited so apologies for any lingering mistakes

note: any triggering acts such as harassment/sa are done by a third party, not simon!!! also the sa is not vague or implied, there is a written out scene so please be mindful when you read! thank u to @allsaiint for reading over this and helping!

you've loved him since you were children. after a confession when you were 14 went rejected, you vowed to never let your feelings be known again. but after an incident that left you hurt and fragile, you find it hard to keep that promise.

part 1: 17.8k total: 35.8k

Your muscles were stiff, thighs twitching and trembling as you laid in bed, staring at your water stained ceiling. Your chest rose and fell in time with rapid breathing. You had worn yourself out, caused a wet spot on your bed, yet you remained completely unsatisfied. Your fingers were cramped up and you let out a groan of frustration, rolling over to crawl out of bed. 

It had become a daily ritual at this point, you with your hand between your thighs, rubbing and touching, only to get into the shower completely unsatisfied and embarrassed at your own inability to get yourself off. 

People your age didn’t struggle like this, you convinced yourself.  Your cheeks burned as you stepped under the warm spray from your showerhead, the creaking pipes just background noise to you now. You were broken, that was the only explanation you could think of. 

By the time you got out of the shower and changed your sheets, throwing the dirty ones into the washer, it was evening and a familiar knocking rang through your apartment.

You didn’t even have to answer it before the lock was clicking and the large form of your best friend Simon ducked in. 

“Hey, Simon!” you called cheerfully, excitedly bounding into the room and wrapping your arms around him in greeting. 

He grunted, harshly patting your back in the familiar way he always does before kicking his boots off. When he straightened up, his eyes narrowed as he looked down at you. 

“What's with you?” he asked, a thick, dark brow raised suspiciously. 

“Um,” you stepped back, shrugging as you tried to look nonchalant, “What do you mean?”

“You look…” his eyes raked down your body, clearly assessing you, “You look tense.”

Immediately, your cheeks erupted into flames. Your face felt so hot that you had to bring your hands up to cool them before laughing nervously, “That’s no different than usual.”

He was silent for several, long, grueling seconds before grunting and breezing past you to the kitchen, clearly letting it drop. You took a moment to catch your breath before following him, finding him hunched over looking into your barren refrigerator. 

“Where’s all your fuckin’ food?” he snapped, straightening back up with a huff when he heard you come in behind him.

“Didn’t get a chance to shop this week, Si,” you replied stiffly, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Why?” he demanded, slamming the appliance closed before heading to your cabinets to do inventory there too.

“Paycheck was short again this week,” you answered, speaking quietly in hopes he wouldn’t look into it anymore than that. 

He angrily slammed a cabinet closed and leaned on his palms against the counter, head hung between his shoulders, “Your boss fuckin’ stiff you again?”

“I-It’s not a big deal, Simon–” you attempted to quell him.

“Not a big deal?” he snapped, slamming his hands down on the counter, making you flinch at the noise. You knew Simon would never, ever hurt you but his anger was something to behold nonetheless, “It is a big deal when you can’t even afford to fuckin’ eat!”

“Simon…” you whisper, anxiously picking at a string on your cotton shorts, “I wasn’t going hungry, I have like…ramen and stuff…”

He says your name through gritted teeth, letting out a frustrated sigh, “Why didn’t you tell me that you couldn’t afford proper groceries?”

“I didn’t want to bother you with it, Si,” you mutter, “I-It’s my problem, not yours.”

He gives you a long, unblinking stare. His usual soft, puppy dog brown eyes now felt intimidating. One thing about Simon was that he never hid it when he was clearly upset with you. And knowing he was right now made you hang your head pitifully.

He moves suddenly, tugging his wallet out of his back pocket, pulling out a small stack of clean bills, slapping them on your countertop.

“Simon, no–” you attempt to reach out for them, willing him to take the money back.

He grabs your hand immediately, shoving the appendage away from the money, “You’ll take this and you’ll go to the store tomorrow and get some damn food or I’m going to go to the bar and wrap my fuckin’ hands around your boss’s throat until he coughs up your money.”

“You don’t have to do this, Simon!” you argue, exasperated, “Y-You don’t have to take care of me like this.”

“Yes, I fuckin’ do!” he counters, “You’re my responsibility and I’m not going to let you exist on fuckin’ cup noodles until that shithead pays you properly, not when I can take care of you. Now stop arguing and put this in your wallet now.”

He used that damn Lieutenant voice, leaving no room for argument. You bit your lip and slowly picked up the bills from the counter.

“Thank you, Simon…” you whisper, clutching the money close to your chest as you offer him a wobbly smile.

“Shut up and go,” he huffs, though his voice is much softer and affectionate now. 

You turn on your heel and go to the table by the door, slowly taking the time to place the money safely inside. You felt tears pricking at your eyes. You were so, so lucky to have someone in your life that did everything in his power to take care of you, to look after you and make sure you had food on the table. No one had ever cared about your well-being the way Simon did, and your heart felt incredibly full because of it. 

You could hear him still stalking around the kitchen, grumbling to himself in annoyance. He comes out of the kitchen, phone in hand, before he’s taking a seat on your old, creaky couch. His knee is bouncing up and down in that way it always does. It’s like he’s always a live wire, ready and waiting for something to happen.

“Is something wrong?” you ask, still standing by the table.

He grunts, shaking his head, “Orderin' dinner.”

“Oh,” you mumble, “What’re you getting?”

“Gettin’ from that breakfast diner you like,” he responds quickly, not looking up from his phone. 

“You don’t even like that place,” you giggle, “In the mood for a breakfast sandwich?”

“Not for me,” was his clipped response.

“What?” you whine, “Simon, don’t order me food!”

“Did you eat today?” he asks quickly, placing his phone on the table, clearly done with the order.

“I had cup noodles!” you point an accusing finger at him, “So yes!”

“That’s not real food,” he leans against the back of the couch, closing his eyes with his arms crossed over his chest. End of conversation. 

You sigh, shaking your head. You debate continuing to pester him about it but you hear your washing machine begin to ring the jingle signaling the cycle is finished. You cast one last, unseen glare to the man on your couch before heading to the washer, methodically taking the now clean sheets out. 

You finish placing it in the dryer and turning the machine on, stepping back into the living room when there’s a knock on the door. Simon is on his feet in seconds and at the door before you can even react. When he slams the door shut, he holds the bag of food up for you to see, dropping it on the coffee table before taking a seat again. He resumes the same position, arms cross over his chest and eyes closed. 

“Are you tired?” you ask softly, taking the empty seat beside him. He hums in response, “You want to spend the night?”

“Guess so,” he responds after a few seconds, “You work tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow night,” you mumble, reaching for the bag of food, untying the knot so you can get inside, “I hate working Friday nights.”

“I can stop by tomorrow if you want,” he offers, finally opening his eyes.

You think it over for a minute. It wouldn’t be the first time he sat in the bar on a busy Friday night, nursing a half-drunk bourbon, as he waited for you to get off, “I think it’ll be okay. Last week was fine.”

He simply stares at you in silence before sighing through his nose. But he doesn’t argue and you’re thankful for that. 

Simon’s been looking after you like this since you turned 18 and moved out on your own. There have been many, many days and nights that you’ve taken up his time and energy and as you grew older, you tried to do it less. He had an incredibly busy job and life and the last thing you wanted was to add weight onto his already heavy shoulders. 

The evening turned to night and before you knew it you had a full belly and leftovers to store in the fridge for breakfast. You folded your dried sheet and placed it in the hallway closet, acutely aware of the sound of Simon showering in your bathroom. 

It wasn’t a very big shower and you sometimes wondered what it looked like for him in there. Surely he had to hunch down to properly wash his hair and shoulders. But those thoughts always turned into something less than innocent. 

You imagined what he looked like, all wet. How big he surely looked in there, no doubt he would dwarf you. He would be able to easily crowd you in the corner, make it so you couldn't escape as he blocked the exit – not that you would want to escape. 

You slapped a hand against your forehead, shaking your head violently to rid yourself of those thoughts. You tugged a spare blanket out of the closet and slammed it closed, rushing to your bedroom to place it on your bed. 

Your cheeks burned with shame over having such unsavory thoughts about your best friend. As much as you liked to pretend that the crush you had on him when you were children had faded like typical puppy love, you knew your feelings were alive and well deep inside where you had pushed them when he rejected you when you were 14. 

It was just because you were so pent up, you convinced yourself, you would have those thoughts about any man that was inside your shower!

You crawled onto your side of the bed, flopping back into your pillow as you waited for him to come in. You completely ignored the throbbing between your thighs, a feeling you were more than used to by now. But your fingers itched to reach down, slip beneath the band of your shorts and touch your clit, the little bud throbbed so desperately that when you clenched your thighs together, a shiver would go down your spine. 

Just as you started to reach down, just to try and relieve the ache that settled there, the bathroom door opened. You yanked your hand back up and tried to look casual as you heard his heavy footsteps move towards the bedroom door.

He pushed the door open wider so he could come in, having to duck his head down to avoid hitting his head. He placed his towel in the laundry basket and slowly crawled into bed beside you, placing his pillow flat so he could comfortably lay down.

Some people may find it strange sleeping with him like this, but your couch was much too small for him and he would rather cut his own fingers off than make you sleep on the damned thing. It was old and so uncomfortable that it caused you to be sore if you sat on it for too long. Plus, you never felt uncomfortable having him in the bed with you like this. He was warm and safe and he always smelled like your grapefruit body wash after he showered. 

It made your heart thump in your chest, knowing he walked around the next day smelling like you. 

“Goodnight, Simon,” you mumbled, reaching over to turn your bedside lamp off.

He grunted quietly, rolling over so his back was facing you. You smiled in the dark and snuggled down into your own blanket, closing your eyes as well. 

The next morning, you woke up and the bed was empty. As usual. 

Even when he was home, Simon functioned off of the strict military schedule he’d been accustomed to for his many years in the military. You sat up and stretched your arms above your head, tossing your blanket off of you. The floor was chilly against your bare feet, making you shiver. 

After going pee, you ventured out into the living room. Simon was lounging, quietly watching TV – the morning news, it seemed.

“Good morning,” you called. 

“Eat,” was all he replied, not even breaking his gaze off of the TV.

You purse your lips but do as you’re told – not because he said so, but because your stomach was painfully growling and the breakfast sandwich in the fridge sounded delicious. 

As you heated it up in the microwave, you hummed to yourself.

“I’m going to go to the store after I eat,” you called, “Do you want to come?”

“Nah,” he grunted, “Gotta go soon.”

“Oh,” you tried to hide your disappointment, “Will you be back tonight?”

“Probably not,” he responded, your disappointment only growing at that. 

The microwave beeped and you pulled your plate of food out, bringing it back to the living room to eat it beside him. He took up an absurd amount of space given how large he was and how small your couch was – but you didn’t mind being pressed up against him. You didn’t think he minded either because he never bothered to move away. 

You quietly ate your breakfast, finishing up just as the news segment ended. Simon stood, knees popping as he did, patting his pockets to make sure he had his keys and wallet before pausing, looking around. 

“You leaving?” you ask, placing your plate on the table as you followed his lead, standing.

“Got to,” he mumbled, still glancing around, “Where’s my phone?”

“You leave it in the bedroom?” you offer.

He sighs and disappears down the hall for a split minute before returning, tucking the device into his pocket. He grabs his coat off the table by the door, slipping it on and zipping it up. You approach him by the door, watching him slip his boots on and tie them. 

“See you later, Si,” you say, trying your best to hide your disappointment at him leaving. 

You never wanted him to leave, always feeling painfully lonely without his presence in your home. Since he was gone for long periods so often, you liked to enjoy his company as much as you can when he’s home. But you would never be the type to ask him to stay when he couldn’t because you knew he would run himself ragged to keep you company even when he was exhausted and had other things to do on top of it. You never wanted to be a burden to him.

He straightens up, stomping his feet a couple times to make sure his boots were on fine. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you against his chest. You wrap both arms around his middle and hug him tight.

“I’ll come by when I can,” he mutters, pulling back to press a kiss to your forehead.

Then he’s gone, the door slamming closed and leaving you by yourself in the doorway, already feeling an emptiness that would remain until he returned. 

Just as you promised, you went out and bought groceries, courtesy of the money Simon had so kindly given you. You made sure you had some meat, fruit, and veggies, along with some canned goods. You made sure you didn’t buy cup noodles because he certainly wouldn’t be thrilled to know you bought that since he was so vehemently against them being in your diet. 

When you got home, you put all the groceries away and quickly realized that you had some time to spare before you had to get ready for your shift at the bar. 

As you sit on the couch, mindlessly watching some random show you’ve seen a hundred times before, you suddenly realize you’re squeezing your thighs together. 

And your panties are feeling awfully sticky. 

Your body heats up as you find yourself cupping your breasts through your shirt and bra. But you quickly realize that’s doing nothing for you and you strip your shirt off, pulling the sports bra over your breasts to cup them without the fabric restriction. You sigh and relax into the couch as you pull and pinch your nipple, tugging them and rolling them beneath your fingers. Your thighs clench and rub together as you tease yourself. 

But you tire of that quickly, knowing you could do something that felt so much better. 

Your fingers tremble as you tug the button of your jeans open and kick them off, letting your panties go down with them. You take note of the fact the center is completely sticky and wet. God, how long had you been dripping into your panties like that?

You lean back on the couch, placing your feet on the cushions, letting your legs open nice and wide. Your folds flower open, embarrassingly wet and shiny. Your clit is hard and swollen between them and you can practically see the bud twitching. 

With two, shaky fingers, you reach down and swipe over the bud. Your entire body twitches at the contact and you sigh as you slowly circle it, using your own slick as lubrication. 

You bring a finger to your entrance, prodding at the stickiness there. It’s embarrassing how wet you are. Your pussy makes loud noises as you touch but it doesn’t really provide you much pleasure so you bring your finger back to your clit. 

You circle it, pinch it, and roll your fingers over it. You’re quietly moaning, lidded eyes hazy as you watch your fingers play between your thighs. It feels good, a warm feeling settling in your gut the more you touch yourself. 

But then the inevitable happens – it’s like you hit a wall. 

You whine in frustration, speeding up your movements to hopefully reach the edge that you know is right over the wall. But you don’t get any further, if anything you feel that warmth vanishing at an alarming rate. 

Tears sting your eyes, “No, no, no…” you beg no one.

You grit your teeth in frustration, yanking your hand away to watch your pussy clench and throb over nothing, drooling and dripping slick onto the couch. But you’re too frustrated to try anymore. 

You close your thighs and flop down onto the couch, letting a few tears escape.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” you quietly complain, slapping the couch out of frustration.

Your lamenting is interrupted by your phone going off. You look at it on the table and see it's the alarm you set to let you know to start getting ready. 

Great, you spent 45 minutes playing with yourself and still didn’t get any further than you had for the last 20-something years of your life. 

You were starting to think you should schedule an appointment with a doctor and find out if you were well and truly broken, but quickly decided against it. That would be fucking humiliating.

What would you say, “Hi, I can’t make myself orgasm and never have, please doctor, tell me if my vagina is broken?” Absolutely not. 

You collect your clothes from the living room floor and toss them in your laundry basket in your room before you take a very fast shower just to clean your own mess up. Then, you get dressed and ready for the shift you know is going to suck at the bar. 

At the door, you make sure you have your belongings. You turn out all your lights and lock the door behind you before setting off to the bar. 

It’s not a long walk, about 15 minutes away. But just the idea of stepping foot inside the bar fills you with dread. 

It was a little hole in the wall place, shady and seedy were the best ways to describe it. You got pretty good tips from the patrons most nights but your boss was the biggest piece of shit you’d ever had the misfortune of being in close proximity with. 

He had a very bad habit of putting his hands where they didn’t belong and cutting his employee’s pay for no reason – or reasons he completely made up. Your last paycheck was short because he claims that you ‘got enough in tips to make up the loss’ – you didn’t. And when you argued, he threatened to fire you. 

You were already living in the cheapest flat you could afford; it was run-down and poorly maintained. But it was better than not having a roof over your head. And it was a fight to even get hired at the shitty bar you worked at now, you weren’t willing to go back to looking for work. 

So you simply bit your tongue and took what money you could get. It wasn’t the first time he did it and you were sure it wouldn’t be the last. 

You got to work as soon as you clocked in, greeting your coworkers with a tense smile that they returned. Everyone was in the same boat as you, after all. No one would choose to work here unless they were down on their luck like you.

The night started slow, slower than usual for a Friday night. Despite the place looking like it was going to fall down around you and the occasional rat that scampered across the floor, the bar was actually kind of a hotspot. The alcohol was cheap and your boss never cut anyone off so patrons were free to get as sloshed as they wanted. 

That also meant the customers tended to get rather unruly. 

Which is exactly what happened when the night inevitably picked up. More people came in, more drinks were ordered, and you were running around the place like mad to get drinks where they needed to be. 

You cast a glance to the clock behind the bar, sighing in relief when you realized you had 10 minutes left of this hell. 

You were sure you were a sight, clearly run ragged and ready to get the hell out of there and go home. Your feet were sore from the old, worn shoes you wore. They looked fine on the outside, cute, but the soles were worn down and provided absolutely no cushion. It was hell. 

“This goes to the corner table,” the bartender called over the loud voices of the bar. He was a nice guy, couldn’t be older than 20, but you honestly couldn’t even recall his name. 

You took the tray of shitty beer from the counter and quickly made your way to the corner table in the back, careful not to spill a drop. You placed the tray down and gave the guys at the table a charming smile.

“Here’s your drinks,” you said, placing a glass in front of all 4 of them. 

“Thanks, beautiful,” one of them slurred, given a drunken wink.

“Um, is there anything else you need?” you asked, ignoring his flirting, as you picked up the tray. 

“Maybe,” another one chuckled, leaning back in his seat, raking his eyes down your body. You wished you could crawl into a hole at the feeling of his gaze on you. Despite being fully clothed, it made you feel incredibly naked – like he could see through your clothes. 

It certainly wasn’t the first time a customer or two flirted with you. It was sort of a rampant problem in this bar, if you were honest.

“What is it you need?” you asked, wishing so badly you could just be free from the conversation. 

One of them pulled out a stack of money, waving it in front of your face, “I’ll tip you this if you show us your tits.”

Your cheeks burned hot in humiliation as the other three laughed and jeered. You shifted on your feet, tapping your fingers anxiously against the metal tray in your hands, envisioning yourself slamming it over their heads. 

“N-No thank you…I-I don’t think that would be appropriate,” you hope that they can’t hear the way your voice trembles over all the noise in the bar.

“Come on, sexy,” the one with the money grinned, licking over his teeth as his eyes narrowed on your chest, “Bet they’re real nice. C’mon, you need the money right? Why else would you be working at a place like this? Go on, just lift your shirt up and let us see them tits!”

“M-My shift is over, I really need to go,” you shakily smile and take a step back, “I-I hope you enjoy your night, boys.”

Your attempt to diffuse the situation and get out of it proved futile because when you attempted to flee, one of them clapped a firm hand around your wrist and tugged you forward. You stumbled on your feet, dropping the metal tray with a gasp, finding yourself nose to nose with one of them. The smell of alcohol was potent on his breath and it made your lip curl in disgust. You tried to tug yourself free of his grasp but his grip was too strong. 

The guy sitting on the other side of the one who had a hold on you reached over his buddy to yank the neckline of your shirt down, the cheap, worn material stretching with ease until it tore at the weakest point. You let out a horrified cry when your bra became visible to the group, all of them cheering and shouting degrading things right in your face. 

The one across the table reached down, you felt his hand against your breast through your bra and a lightning bolt of pure terror ripped through you. It was like everything happened in slow motion.

You could feel his thumb hook under your bra and start to tug, tears flooded your eyes and dripped down your cheeks. You raised a hand and as hard as you could, slapped the one still holding you clean across the face. 

The entire table went still but his grasp loosened enough for you to turn on your heel and bolt as fast as you could into the staff room, covering your exposed bra with your arms as best you could. You passed one of your coworkers, her eyes wide in concern when she saw your state. 

She followed you into the staff room, closing the door quietly behind her. You stood in front of your locker, ripping it open as you attempted to collect your things but your mind was running too fast for you to actually make any meaningful movements.

Your coworker called your name and you paused.

“Hey, take a breath,” she whispered softly, placing a hand on your back. You realized you were hyperventilating. You attempted to level out your breathing, wiping the tears off of your cheeks only for more to replace them. 

“What happened?” she asked softly, “Do you want me to call someone? The police?”

You shake your head, opening your mouth to respond but only a little sob comes out. You couldn’t even find it in yourself to be embarrassed. She looks nothing but sympathetic, softly patting your back and encouraging you to breathe deeply. 

The staff room door suddenly slams open, making both of you jump. Your boss storms in, completely red in the face and furious. 

“Get out,” he snaps at your coworker. 

She casts an apologetic look to you, squeezing your hand before she ducks her head and leaves the staff room. He slams the door behind her, locking it for good measure – leaving both of you alone. 

He advances on you faster than you can react, he wraps a hand around your throat and slams you against the lockers. It hurts but you can’t get a noise past the grip around your neck. You blink back the tears that are still coming, trying to see him more clearly.

“Are you broke in the fuckin’ head?!” he screams, a volume that makes your ears ring. You wonder if the patrons can hear it outside, “You put your hands on a customer?!”

“Th-They put their hands on me first!” you defended yourself, hoarse and choked under his grip, “They touched me!”

He only looks more furious, eyes falling to your ripped shirt and exposed bra. He grabs one side of the already torn shirt and yanks, ripping it the rest of the way. Your eyes go wide and your first instinct is to kick him but you’re panicked and uncoordinated so it misses its mark.

“I don’t give a shit if they forced you over the table and fucked you!” he howls, spitting all over your face in his rage, “You better think fast and hard about how you’re going to rectify this. Do you understand me?”

His grip tightens a bit more around your throat and you hastily nod, blubbering mindless apologies to try and appease him. He doesn’t look any less angry but lets you go nonetheless. Your knees are too shaky to hold you up so you slide down the lockers until you’re sitting on the dirty floor.

“You go out there and you apologize to them,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “Or I’m going to fire you and you’re gonna be out on the fuckin’ streets, got it?”

You nod your head, holding back your sobs but can’t control the tears that fall down your cheeks. He sends you one last glare before turning back to the door, unlocking it and throwing it open. 

You’re left there, trembling on the floor and quietly crying to yourself. Your heart is racing and you’ve never felt more terrified and humiliated in your life.

The door opens again and you look up in horror at the idea of your boss coming back. But it’s your coworker again. 

She quietly crouches next to you and gives you a once over, “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“I-I have to apologize t-to them,” you manage to choke out. 

Her eyes widened, “No way! You didn’t do anything wrong!”

“I can’t lose this job,” you sob, pressing the heel of your hands to your eyes as you cry, “I need this job. He says he’ll fire me if I don’t apologize!”

“Okay,” she whispers, “I’ll go with you, okay? You can apologize and then you can go, that’s it.”

You nod your head and stand up, using the lockers as a crutch. Your coworker helps you steady yourself before she sees your shirt is ripped even more than when she left.

She whispers your name, “Are you sure he didn’t…”

“He only ripped it,” you assure her, sniffling softly, “But I can’t go out there like this.”

It dawns on you that you forgot a jacket. It was a little warmer today than it had been in days and you had simply neglected to bring one. 

“You can borrow my hoodie,” she assures, opening her locker to tug it out, handing it to you, “Go on, you can return it to me another day.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, clumsily sliding it over your head. You feel much better now that you’re covered up, you feel less vulnerable. You quickly collect all your belongings so you can leave as soon as you get this over with.

You let her lead you out of the staff room. The second you’re out, the blaring noise immediately proves to be too much. You wipe your eyes, using the sleeve of the hoodie. You make a note to wash it properly when you return it. 

You feel the eyes of strangers on you and it just makes you feel worse with every passing second. You want to go home. You want to shower. You want to crawl into bed. You want Simon. 

You let her lead you to the table, all the men are still there laughing and drinking their beers. They fall silent when you approach, four pairs of eyes falling on you, making you feel humiliated and small. They look expectant, the one who ripped your shirt tapping his fingers against the table. 

“There you are!” the one who had held your wrist grinned. It was a predatory smile that made your heart race anxiously, “Thought you were gonna run away without apologizing for bein’ a raging bitch.”

You flinch at the insult and your coworker squeezes your hand in support, “I-I’m sorry for slapping you.”

“That’s fuckin’ right!” another one jeered, “Practically ruined our night. How are you going to make it up to us?”

“I’ve got a few ideas!” a different once laughed. The other three joined in eagerly.

“How about you stay back late and really make it up to us, huh?” you squeezed your coworkers hand in yours, already feeling the tears returning with a vengeance.

“How about I bring you a round on me, huh?” she quickly intervenes, “I’ll buy.”

That seems to do it for the 4 men and they rambunctiously cheer and slam their hands on the table obnoxiously. You think you hear her promise to be back with their drinks as she pulls you away from the table. You both hide away in the staff room again and she holds both your hands in hers.

“Go on home,” she says softly.

“I-I’ll pay you back for the drinks–” she shushes you quickly when you start.

“Don’t even worry about it,” she coos, “Go home.”

With a gentle nudge to the back entrance, she casts you one last kind smile before slipping out of the staff door. 

You don’t even remember the walk home, your mind completely fuzzy. But you’re sobbing again by the time you stumble into the door. You collapse onto the floor in front of your couch, wailing into the cushions as the weight of the night fully and entirely collapses on you. You can barely breathe through your tears, hiccups and coughs breaking up the endless crying only to resume when you catch your breath. 

You have no idea how long you sit there, crying louder and harder than you have in a very, very long time. 

You hear your front door creak open before the living room light flips on. You go completely stiff, your crying finally going silent as you hear the familiar heavy footsteps step into the living room before they fall still when he sees you.

He calls your name, soft and gentle in a way that is completely unlike him. Simon isn’t soft, he talks to you in a cold, apathetic and teasing tone. He’s always clipped and blunt. Sure, he’s kind but never gentle.

Just the sweet tone makes your lips wobble and suddenly you’re sobbing again. His boots hit the floor fast, taking quick, big strides so he can reach you as fast as he possibly can. Two strong hands hook under your arms and turn you towards him. He takes a seat beside you on the floor and tugs you into lap.

You melt into his chest, secured by his embrace as he holds you. One hand cups the back of your head and the other wraps around your back. 

“You didn’t answer your phone when I called,” he explained his arrival, lips pressed to the crown of your head, “Got worried so I rushed over.”

You grip his hoodie in your hands, anchoring yourself to him as you cry and cry. He remains silent, content to hold you and let you cry out everything you’re feeling. 

Just having him there, holding you and comforting you, is enough to ease your tears until you’re just a hiccuping, sniffling mess. You’re taking those quick, stuttering gasping breaths that signify the end of your meltdown and Simon slowly eases his hold on you. 

He cups your cheek in one hand, raising your head up so he can really look at you. He rubs a thumb under your eye, wiping away your tears. He looks so concerned, brows furrowed and a frown on his lips. 

The sight of his face makes your lips wobble again, “Si…” you finally manage to choke out.

His gaze softens immediately, his other hand coming up to cup your face as well. He leans forward and presses a lingering kiss against your forehead.

“You want to tell me what happened?” he finally asks, letting go of your face to hold your waist, keeping you curled up in his lap. 

You think about it. You want to tell him all about it, to get it off of your chest and figure out how the hell you’re supposed to move past it. But you know that if you tell him, he’s going to march his ass to your job the second he gets a chance and put your boss’s head through the wall and find those assholes from the table. 

You really can’t afford to lose your job. Your bills are tight enough as it is, you’re scraping by by the skin of your teeth. If you’re jobless for even a week, it’s going to fuck everything up. You’ll never make rent and you can’t end up on the street. 

“Just a…bad shift…” you supply lamely.

Simon stares at you, jaw set and tense, “I don’t know what’s worse. The fact you’re lying in the first place or the fact you don’t think you can tell me what really happened.”

“Simon…” you whine, pushing yourself off of his lap, “Just let it go, please.”

He follows your lead when you stand up. He still hasn’t taken his boots off, still too concerned about you to care. Every step he takes is a loud sound of his weight in those boots. 

You pace back and forth, arms crossed over your chest.

“I’m not letting it go,” he responds, “I think you know me better than that.”

“Simon, please!” you feel the tears returning again and you suddenly realize how tired you are from crying. Your eyes are sore and you just want to sleep. 

“I want to know what happened,” he argues, clearly growing exasperated. 

You know he’s not going to let it go. He knows you too well to believe any lies. You press your hands to your face and let out a noise of frustration and despair. You can feel his eyes on you, unwavering and firm. You feel hot, like you’re overheating and suffocated. With trembling hands, you haphazardly tug at the hoodie – you need it off or you’re going to go mad. 

Simon reaches forward to help you, watching your rising panic but you slap his hands away. He looks stupefied at your reaction but retracts his hands. 

But you can’t get the damned thing off, you’re uncoordinated and clumsy, unable to pull your arms through the sleeves so you can get it off. Why won’t it come off? 

“G-Get it off,” you finally cry, completely unaware of the pure horror in your voice.

Simon’s hands are back, “I’ve got you. I’ll get it off ya.” 

True to his word, he tugs it up and it slips over your head with ease. You feel like you can take a deep breath finally, feeling the cool air of your living room against your skin again. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you attempt to calm yourself. 

He says your name softly but you can’t bring yourself to open your eyes. You jump when you feel the ghost of his fingers against your stomach – the skin is bare and it makes your eyes fly open. You look down and remember that your shirt was completely torn open, the hoodie had been hiding it, and now Simon is seeing. You can see the realization in his face.

He’s not an idiot. If anything, he’s more intelligent than anyone you’ve ever known. 

Suddenly your stomach turns and you place a hand over your mouth. You’re running down the hallway, dropping to your knees in front of the toilet as you heave. 

You don’t hear any movement from Simon. He doesn’t follow you to the bathroom. You’re briefly thankful for the escape as the nausea disappears before you suddenly crave to have him near you again.

“Simon!” you cry, his footfalls an immediate response. 

He crouches beside you, placing a hand on your back, “You finished?”

You nod, spitting one last time into the toilet, “I-I want to shower.”

He’s quiet for a moment before he stands, stepping past you to turn on the shower for you. He places a consoling hand on the top of your head in passing before he goes to leave you alone. You reach out and grab his hand before he can get too far.

He pauses and looks at you, easily understanding. He brushes his thumb over your hand, “Not goin’ anywhere, love.”

He takes a step outside of the bathroom and stands there, hands held in front of him as if he were on guard, like a security guard. You flush the toilet and shakily strip your clothes off before stepping into the shower, letting the warm spray ease your sore body and clear your sinuses. You’re terribly stuffy from crying so you can’t even smell your grapefruit body wash this time.

You finish your shower, making sure you scrub your body as best you can before you step out and wrap a towel around your body.

“Are you hungry?” Simon suddenly asks.

“No…” your tone is flatter than you had intended and you realize that you’re completely emotionally drained. 

“Alright,” is all he says in reply.

You approach the door, where he’s still standing. You place your hand against his back and he quickly steps aside to let you by. You hear his boots behind you as he follows you to your bedroom. 

You sit on the bed, completely exhausted. Simon makes himself busy with going through your dresser, pulling out some clothes for you to wear before he places them on the bed beside you. You don’t make any movements. 

He sighs, softly saying your name before crouching in front of you, taking your hands in his. 

“Was it your boss?” he asks softly. 

“Him and some assholes I was serving drinks to,” you tiredly answer. You don’t have it in you to fight in anymore. 

“Why didn’t you want to tell me?” he pries, squeezing your hands.

“Because I know you, Si,” you sniffle, “You’re going to go down there and put them all in the hospital when you find them.”

“And?” he scoffs, “They fuckin’ deserve it. No one gets to put their hands on you like that and get away with it.”

“Because I can’t lose my job, Si!” you finally cry, “I barely make ends meet as it is! I-If I lose my job, what am I supposed to do? I won’t be able to afford rent. I’ll be on the streets!”

“I would never let that happen,” he says firmly, “You will never be on the streets, love. I will always take care of you, you know that.”

“I can’t do that to you, Simon,” you mutter, sniffling again, “Y-You already have so much on your plate I don’t want to be another problem you have to deal with.”

“Is that what you think?” he scoffs, standing up, “That I deal with you? You’re important to me, I take care of you because I never want anything to happen to you. I’m not going to let you work at that shithole for a minute longer.”

You hang your head, unable to supply any arguments to him anymore.

“I’m going to make you something small to eat. You’re going to eat and drink some water and then you’re going to get some rest, understood?” he gives a satisfied hum when you nod your head in compliance. 

Once you’re alone, you go over his words again. You’re important to him, that’s what he said. It was the most clear he had ever been with his feelings towards you since you confessed your feelings when you were young. 

As you methodically got dressed in the clothes he picked out for you, you reminisced. Memories of him were always something that made you inexplicably happy – except for one memory.

You were 14 and he was 17 at the time. You’d known each other for your entire childhood after his mother had brought him over for a playdate despite the age difference and the fact you were closer in age to his brother. 

He had always looked after you and taken care of you, walking you home after school and simply looking after you when your parents were busy. It was inevitable that you would grow feelings for him. You remember the way your heart would race every time you looked at him. You remember telling your friends that he was your boyfriend, hoping he wouldn’t find out.

You had told him one evening when he was hanging out, having dinner with your family, that you liked him – like liked. 

You remember how you cried into your pillow night after night when he rejected you. Told you flat out that you were an idiot and to drop it and never, ever bring it up again. That he didn’t feel the same. And that was that. 

You never brought it up again. 

But the crush never once waned. You decided that his friendship was more important than your feelings for him so you would never let him know. And that’s how it had been ever since. 

Simon’s voice calling your name ripped you from your reminiscing. You tied the drawstrings of the sweats he had picked out and quickly made your way to the kitchen. 

Simon was washing a pan by the time you arrived but he nodded to a plate he set on the counter for you. It was just a small omelet he made, complete with a light drizzle of ketchup. 

He knew you well, you couldn’t deny. You picked up the fork he’d placed on the plate for you and slowly began to eat. 

After being sick, your stomach was painfully empty so you were happy to have something on it once again. Simon quietly finished washing the dishes he had dirtied before he placed them on the dish rack and dried his hands. 

“Um, Simon?” you called softly, receiving a grunt in reply, “Didn’t you have something going on tonight?”

“Was gonna be out the lads,” he responded, “Doesn’t matter, can hang out with those idiots anytime.”

“You shouldn’t talk about your friends like that,” you said, shaking your head as you took a final bite of your omelet.

“Aint my friends,” he reached down and took your plate from you, tossing it into the sink.

“Simon Riley doesn’t have friends?” you asked, eyes following him as he locked up your apartment and started to turn out the lights.

“Got you,” he said as you followed him down the hall, “All I need.”

A fond smile made its way across your face as he yanked his shirt above his head. You began to make yourself comfortable in bed, trying to keep your eyes off of him as he got dressed for bed. Despite the way you wanted to take the chance to look at him.

Friends. That’s what you were, you reminded yourself. 

Finally, he climbed into bed beside you, making himself comfortable before you turned out the light. 

Yet, despite your exhaustion from the night, you felt like you couldn’t close your eyes. You felt like you couldn’t relax. The tension in your body was so much that you were sore. Like you had gone to the gym instead of went to work. 

“Simon..?” you whispered into the dark. He was silent for a second before he hummed in response, “Can I…tell you what happened tonight?”

He was quiet again but you felt him move, a hand blindly reaching over to you to find your hands. You took it in both of yours, nervously fidgeting with his fingers. 

“This stupid group of guys were sloshed beyond belief,” you began to tell him, aware of his gaze on you through the dark, “They were just chattin’ shit, saying they’d tip me if I showed them my tits,” he scoffed beside you, clearly displeased, “I said no and tried to leave and they wouldn’t let me. One of them ripped my shirt and tried to pull my bra up so I slapped him.”

“Fuckin’ bastard deserved to get his teeth knocked down his throat,” Simon growled from beside you.

“I got away and went to the staff room but my boss came in and he was so fucking angry, Si,” your voice shook as you remembered the way his face had been so red and a look of pure hate had been in his eyes, “He grabbed my throat and pinned against the lockers. He was angry that I had struck a customer.”

“Of course that’s all that bastard would be angry about,” Simon spit, not bothering to hide his distaste.

“I tried to tell him that I was defending myself but he said–” your voice broke and you struggled to blink back the tears. Simon sat up a bit, pulling you into his chest, letting you curl against him, the rapid hum of his heart loud in your ear, easing you immediately, “He said that he didn’t care if they put me over the table and fucked me, he would fire me if I didn’t apologize to them.”

Simon’s arms tightened around you immediately, cursing under his breath, “He made you apologize to them?” 

You nod your head, “It was so humiliating, Si. B-But I just didn’t want to lose my job. They just laughed at me and made a joke of it.”

“Pieces of shit,” he hisses, pressing a kiss against your temple, “They better hope I don’t find them.”

You’d really love to see them blubbering on their knees, crying and terrified like you had been. They wouldn’t be so awful in the face of a guy bigger and stronger than them – someone like Simon. 

“I should have gone to the bar tonight,” he sighed, “Even though you told me not to, I wanted to.”

“It’s okay, Si,” you sniffle, “I’m just glad you’re here now.”

You wrap your leg around his waist and snuggle deeper into his chest, finally feeling content to sleep so long as you got to be in his arms. 

You wake up late, well into the afternoon. You’re groggy and struggle to pull yourself out of bed. Simon isn’t in bed, so you force yourself up in search of him. 

As you left, you noticed that the clothes you were wearing last night were gone and weren’t in the laundry basket. You knew for a fact that you left them on the floor. 

He’s relaxing on the couch as usual. His hair is wet and you can smell your body wash wafting off of him when you crawl onto the couch beside him. He reaches a hand out and pets your head gently as a greeting.

“Sleep well?” he asks. You nod your head, “Hungry?” You nod again.

He huffs through his nose and stands up, pressing a fleeting kiss to the top of your head to go prepare something for you to eat. The sound of Simon bustling about the kitchen filled the apartment and you found yourself relaxing into the couch. 

“Simon?” you called, getting to your feet to make your way to the kitchen. 

He had his back to you as he fried up something in the pan but he hummed in response nonetheless.

“Where did my clothes from last night go?” you ask softly.

He pauses his stirring of the food, “Threw them out. Figured you wouldn’t want to see them when you woke up.”

“Oh,” you respond. 

Your heart feels full at his show of care. It was quiet actions like that that just made you feel so…in love, you think before correcting yourself. Fluttery. Cared for. Loved. 

No, he doesn’t love you.

You shake your head and move to the fridge to pull out a bottle of water, going to sit on the couch to wait for Simon to finish cooking. 

The day was spent like that, just you and Simon in your flat. Him just keeping you company and keeping your mind off of things. 

You were curled up against him, listening to the beating of his heart and watching the movie he had decided to play. It was peaceful. He smelled nice, like you. And he was so comfortable beneath you, firm and big. 

His thighs were spread wide, one of your legs thrown over one of his, only serving to make you more aware of how big and firm he was. Solid. Well-built. 

Handsome.

You cast a glance at his face. His brown eyes were half-lidded as he mindlessly nibbled at his bottom lip. They looked soft and shiny. You wondered what he tasted like, how he kissed.

Was he rough? Soft? Did he like to use tongue. 

You’d never kissed anyone before. You wondered if he would be okay with that. You knew some guys liked experienced partners and some liked them inexperienced. You wonder what he preferred. 

Just the idea of kissing him had your heart hammering in your chest and your face burning. You quickly looked at the TV, snuggling closer to him. He squeezed you closer, hand mindlessly rubbing up and down your back. 

Kissing Simon…you pictured him over you, cupping your cheeks in the way he always does. You imagine him pressing his pretty lips against yours, moving them softly against yours. You imagine what it would feel like for him to pin you down, sliding his tongue into your mouth as you moaned and whimpered beneath him, unable to move anywhere because he’s so much bigger and stronger than you. In charge. 

Your pussy clenches around nothing, already starting to drip into your panties. Suddenly you sit up, eyes wide and cheeks flush. Simon looks perturbed, an eyebrow raised at your sudden movement.

“I’ve got to take a shower,” you shakily supply before fleeing to the safety of the bathroom.

You look at yourself in the mirror, hand over your mouth to quiet your heavy breathing. 

What the hell was wrong with you? How the hell could you be thinking about sex and getting turned on after yesterday? How could you be thinking about Simon like that when he was right there? What the fuck was your problem?

You hastily reached over and turned the shower on, the pipes clanking loudly as the water flowed through them. 

Shouldn’t you be the opposite of horny after what happened yesterday? Maybe you really were broken. 

You strip and quickly step into the shower, turning the water as hot as it would possibly go. You needed it to hurt so you would stop acting like such a freak. Like a slut. 

You fight back tears as you begin to wash up. 

By the time your shower is done, you’re exhausted again. You dry off and wrap the towel around yourself, opening the door to find Simon standing on the other side. You jump and gasp, placing a hand over your heart to calm the beating.

“You scared me!” you whine, slipping past him to the bedroom.

“Wanted to check on you,” he says, following slowly behind you, watching as you pick out clothes.

“I’m fine,” you assure him, “I just got really tired and I’d like to turn in early, that’s all.”

“Alright,” he replies, standing there for a second before making his way back to the door, “Just call if you need anything.”

“I will!” you offer him a smile, watching as he leaves, closing the door behind him. 

You quickly dress and climb into bed, turning the lights out before squeezing your eyes shut to will yourself to sleep. Surprisingly, it came quickly and easily – maybe you were more tired than you thought. 

Little did you know that Simon took the opportunity of you sleeping early to slip away and take a little 15 minute walk. 

When you start to dream, you’re acutely aware that it’s a dream. You’re not sure how but, you just know that you’re sleeping and none of this is real.

But god it feels real and you want it to be real so you go along with it. 

Simon is there, you’re both in your bed. He’s got his shirt off and he’s on top of you, kissing your neck softly. Sweetly. 

He doesn’t smell like your body wash anymore, he smells like his – a crisp, musky scent that you love so dearly. And he’s so warm against you. 

You realize that you’re only wearing a pair of panties when his lips suddenly attach to your breast, mouthing at your nipple. His tongue swirls over the bud and it feels so good you can’t help but moan. 

“Si…” you sigh, reaching down to run your fingers through his hair. He rewards you by surging up and pressing his lips against yours. He tastes vaguely like mint and it’s intoxicating. So simple, nothing special or poetic. Just mint. Simon. 

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and eagerly kiss him back. Kissing is easy, you hazily think. You just move your lips in time with his and it falls into place. 

Simon’s hips move against yours and you cry out when you feel the hard swell of his cock press against you through his sweatpants and your panties. He’s so hard and it's so hot even through the layers of clothes. 

“Si…” you whimper again.

“I’m here, love,” he coos, “I’ve got you.”

He rocks his hips against yours and fuck, it feels good. You eagerly spread your legs and find yourself wishing that the panties weren’t in the way. You’d love to hear the sticky sound of your pussy against his cock through his sweats. You’d love to see the stain of your slick against them, knowing that you marked him as yours like that. 

You feel hot, that tense warmth growing in your tummy. The promise of pleasure that you’ve never been able to experience. Maybe Simon could supply it. You’re sure he could, actually, you convince yourself.

If he just keeps going, keeps rutting his hips like that, you could cum all messy in your panties. Just for him. Only for him. 

Just as you swear it’s going to wash over you, your eyes fly open and you gasp. Your entire body feels hot and sweaty and you realize you’ve thrown your blanket off of your body. The sun is shining through the window and Simon is nowhere to be seen in bed. 

You swallow, your throat feeling painfully dry. 

Suddenly, the bedroom door creaks open and Simon comes in with a laundry basket. He casts a glance at you and seems to relax when he realizes you’re awake.

“Was doin’ some laundry,” he explains, turning to open your drawers to begin putting the clean clothes away.

“Oh,” you whisper, sounding hoarse, “Thank you, Si.”

As you watch him, you realize he seems tenser than usual. You sit up and bed and watch him put the clothes away until he’s finished. He stands there for a moment before looking over his shoulder at you.

“I uh,” he clears his throat, “I’ve gotta go tonight.”

“Go?” you ask, eyes going wide. You don’t want him to leave, “Go where?”

“I’ve got some work to take care of,” he replies, “Paperwork I’ve been puttin’ off. Gonna pull a late one to get it done.”

“I-I don’t want you to go,” you confess softly, trying to blink back the tears that sting your eyes. You feel so pathetic, crying because he needs to leave. But you haven’t been without him since it happened and you’re scared to be alone with just your thoughts.

“I know,” he hums, taking a seat at the foot of the bed, cupping your cheek, “I’ll just be a call away, you know. If you need me, I’ll be there.”

“Promise?” you ask. He nods, teasingly pinching your cheek before you smile and bat his hand away. When he pulls it back you notice his knuckles – bruised and split open. They weren’t like that last night you were sure of it, “Simon…”

He catches you looking and gives you a tense smile, “Don’t worry about it.”

He stands up and kisses your forehead before turning and leaving the room, leaving you to get ready for the day. 

Thankfully, Simon remains around for the day. You notice he’s on his phone a lot more, typing away. It’s unlike him, he’s more the type to do phone calls rather than text. When you ask him about it he just waves you off with an explanation about Soap being on his ass. 

You have a feeling he’s lying but you don’t pry. 

Before he leaves, he makes you dinner. You walk him to the door, unable to stop the pout on your face when he puts his boots on. You can’t help but wish that he’d change his mind at the last second and stay with you after all. 

But he doesn’t. He pulls his balaclava over his face and slips his hood up before turning back to you. 

“Don’t cry, love,” he coos, wiping a stray tear away, “I promise I’ll get all my work done and I’ll be all yours for a good long while.”

“Okay…” you sound so miserable but you can’t bring yourself to care, “I’ll miss you.”

He brings you in for a hug, making sure to squeeze you nice and tight before he pulls back. He can’t give you his normal kiss because of the mask and that only makes you sadder. 

You don’t want him to go. You don’t want him to go. You want him to stay. You want to keep him close. He makes you feel safe. He makes you feel complete. You love him so much. 

You hold onto his hoodie for as long as you can until he has to shake you off and close the door behind him. And you stand there for a long time. Like a puppy who's been left home alone for the first time, just waiting for its owners to come back because it’s scared it’s going to be alone forever. 

By the time you bring yourself to leave the door, the food Simon made you is cold. That only seems to make you feel worse. 

Then you sit on the couch and watch TV, feeling hopelessly alone. You wished you had Simon to curl into and snuggle with. The tiny couch has never felt bigger. 

You shower and brush your teeth, pouting at the sight of his toothbrush, another reminder that he isn’t there. 

Before that night at the bar, you never would have felt so isolated without him; lonely, sure. But now that you’re experiencing this gut-wrenching emptiness, you feel close to tears every time you think about him. He was truly your rock, the only thing that brought you comfort. You loved him.

You flop against the bed and let the tears fall down your temples. You love him. You do.

You’re so fucking in love with him that it hurts. Your heart aches in your chest. You want him there to hold you. 

You know he doesn’t feel the same, you know it will never become anything. But you’re willing to take whatever you can get. Just his company. You can be content so long as he’s with you, as long as he’s in your life. 

But you can think about him, imagine yourself telling him how you feel. Imagine that when he holds you close that he feels the same too. That he loves you. You want him to love you so desperately. 

You wish that he loved you. 

You curled into his pillow, sniffling pathetically as you closed your eyes. You cry yourself to sleep. 

Your eyes fly open and the gasp you let out changes to a sob. All you can hear is your heart pounding in your ears. All you see is flashes of their faces in your head. All you can feel are their hands on you. 

A nightmare, your brain supplies but it does nothing to quell your anxiety and fear.

You reach for Simon, instinctive and desperate. But you only touch the cold mattress and you’re reminded that he isn’t home tonight. 

You fumble through the sheets to find your phone.

I’ll just be a call away, you know. If you need me, I’ll be there. 

He promised.

You can barely see the screen as you look for his contact. You call him, hands trembling as you hold it to your ear. It rings and rings and rings. Then beeps and goes to voicemail.

You hang up and try again. And again. And again.

He doesn’t answer. Why won’t he answer? He promised.

You call him again but it goes straight to voicemail. You can practically feel your heart shatter in your chest. He was ignoring your calls. He ignored you. 

But he had promised he would come when you needed him. And you needed him. 

Your phone becomes completely blurry through your tears as you begin to cry in earnest. You feel hurt, betrayed, disappointed, and angry. You’re fucking angry. 

You suddenly need to let it out. So you take your phone in your hand and throw it, listening to it slam against the wall. It’s loud and the light on your screen goes out. But you don’t feel better. You’re still a mess of volatile emotions. It feels like it’s all bottled up inside you and it hurts. 

You take his pillow and grip it in your fists. You want to rip it to shreds, want to tear it open and release all your anger on it. Instead, you just slam your fists against it. 

Then you do it again. And again. And again. 

You punch the damned thing as you cry and cry. You’re sure you must be a sight. You must be making so much noise as you sob and shriek. 

You were angry at what happened to you, you were angry you had apologize to them for hurting you, you were angry because you couldn’t even sleep peacefully without being plagued by a nightmare the first night you were without Simon, and you were angry he broke his fucking promise. 

Before long, all you were doing was sobbing into his pillow – wailing and crying your broken heart out. You tire yourself out, completely exhausted of all emotions. You lay there, quietly hiccuping and sniffling, just staring into the inky darkness. 

You’re there for hours, unable to fall back asleep. The sun slowly creeps over the horizon and begins to cast an orange glow around the room. 

You can’t even find beauty in it. You’re so exhausted. Your heart aches. It’s agonizing. 

It’s early morning by the time you hear your front door open. You don’t feel excited to see him. You’re not happy he’s back. You don’t feel anything, actually. All you can do is slowly blink, gaze focused outside the window where you can faintly hear birds chirping. 

You wish you were a bird so you could fly away wherever you want. You would fly away from here right now if you could. You wanted to leave. 

You didn’t want to see Simon. You were so angry at him. You’ve never felt like this about him before. You don’t know what to do. All you can think right now is how much you hate him. 

God, you hate him. 

He’s surprisingly quiet as he walks through your apartment. You hear him push the door open, your back to him. But you can feel his eyes on you, can feel how he hovers in the doorway. 

He wanders further into the room before pausing. 

He rounds to your side of the bed and sees that you’re awake, simply staring out the window. He holds your phone up, screen clearly shattered before he places it on the table beside you. 

“You called,” he says softly, shifting anxiously on his feet. Simon’s never anxious. But he is right now, “I’m sorry I didn’t answer. I was just…busy. Had some unruly recruits, you know how it is.”

Your eyes finally move from the window, landing on him. He’s wearing the same thing he was last night. Just some jeans and white t-shirt. It’s a nice one, it fits him well and it looks comfy. 

Simon stands there under your gaze, growing increasingly uncomfortable. He’s not used to feeling scrutinized. And that’s exactly what your gaze feels like. 

Your eyes wander to a strange discoloration on his shirt. It’s tan, just a light stain. There’s a tiny smear of black as well. Then you spot the red on his collar, ruby red. 

He looks guilty. He would look like a kicked puppy if you didn’t know any better. This isn’t guilt because he missed your call. He’s guilty because he was too busy getting his dick wet to answer you. 

That’s why he ignored you? To fuck someone?

You’re no longer numb. You’re angry again. That overwhelming feeling that you have no idea how to let out. It’s like it just boils up inside you, like a pot boiling over. It has no place to go but out. 

You’re moving before you even have a chance to register it. You just need to show him how angry you are. Fucking furious. 

You grab the empty glass on your nightstand and wail it in his direction harder than you thought possible. Simon barely dodges, slamming himself against the wall as it shatters behind him. 

Now he looks angry. Good. Maybe he’ll feel a fraction of what you feel right now. 

“Are you out of your fucking head?” he snarls, animosity dripping off of every syllable. 

You don’t even answer, grabbing a book that you have stacked there before throwing that too. Then the second book. Then the third book. Then you throw your phone at him. Then you take the lamp, rip the plug right from the wall and throw that too. 

When you’re out of things to throw on the table you throw your pillow. It’s when you’re about to throw his pillow that he finally has enough. He rips it from your grasp and tosses it across the room. 

He’s standing there, fists balled at his sides and his shoulders heaving up and down as he tries to calm himself. 

“I hate you,” you finally spit, standing on your knees. You don’t have anything to throw so you slam your hands against his chest. You hit him, crying and sobbing as you wail over and over about how you hate him. You hate him so fucking much. 

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” you scream. You’re so loud you’re sure the neighbors can hear but you don’t care. It feels good to let your anger out on him, to punch and slap and claw at his shoulders, chest, and arms. He doesn’t do anything but stand there and let you. He’d never lay a hand on you, even when you’re doing it to him, “I needed you and you were too busy fucking some stupid whore?!”

He doesn’t say anything but he’s trembling now. You’re not sure if he’s just that angry or if he’s holding himself back from wringing your neck. 

You pause to look up at him. His jaw is set hard but he’s staring at you, his usual lazy, lidded look nowhere to be found. He looks enraged. 

“Aren’t you going to say something?” you spit, raising your hand as if you’re going to slap him across the face but you stop. You don’t want to do that. 

“Say what?” he finally responds, voice so cold you swear it drops the room’s temperature, “I have a life that doesn’t revolve around you. That’s the difference between us. You need me but I don’t need you.”

You sit back on your heels at that, the hurt clear on your face. Simon doesn’t seem to care in the slightest now, as tears trickle down your face. You must look a sight, pathetically gazing up at him as he glares down at you like you’re dog shit on the bottom of his shoe.

“You hate me?” he scoffs, “That’s just fine. We’ll see how long you last without me before you’re hanging from a bloody rope.”

He turns on his heel at that and storms out of your room, slamming your bedroom door behind him. It practically rattles the walls. Then you hear the same thing from the front door. 

And you’re all alone. And you can’t do anything but cry about it. 

You find it impossible to get out of bed after that. You lay there for the rest of the day. Then all night. You fitfully sleep when you can’t bear to be awake anymore and then wake when the nightmares hit. 

Then you watch the sun come up and decide that it’s a good day to spend in bed. So you do. You sleep on and off, only waking to cry when you’re plagued with nightmares. 

You occasionally think about Simon. More than occasionally, actually. He’s always on your mind.

You think everything over and come to the conclusion that this was all your fault. From the beginning, really. You’d been keen on staying in his life since you were children, attached yourself to his side and weaseled your way into his life. Really, you gave him no choice but to put up with you. 

He was everything to you. He was right, you needed him. You didn’t have anyone else. No friends, no family, not even a pet. Just him. Always just him. 

What choice did he have other than to put up with you day after day? He didn’t need you like you needed him, after all. He’d surely been spending his days in dread of you – of your texts, your calls. 

This was probably what he was waiting for; an escape. He probably wanted to leave a long, long time ago. You were in love with him and he wanted nothing to do with you. 

What were you thinking? Actually believing that he would want to spend his days with you, taking care of you. Who were you kidding, you were just an idiot for letting yourself believe otherwise. 

You wake up one day and realize you’re not angry anymore. Just sad. You almost prefer the anger and emptiness compared to the unending waves of sadness. 

You cry all the time. Day and night. 

You try to use your phone, you want to call him but it’s broken. The screen won’t even turn on. You’re completely alone, can’t even contact somebody – not that you have anyone but him. 

God, that was embarrassing now that you thought about it. There he was going out and getting laid and you’ve been holding out for him since you were a kid. 

You’re suddenly aware of the fact you haven’t showered in days. You’ve barely eaten, only getting up once or twice to find something to nibble on in the kitchen – a slice of bread is what you usually settle on. 

You pry yourself up from your mattress and stumble to the bathroom. The clanging of pipes is louder than it’s ever been but the hot water is completely welcome. 

When you stand there, under the burning heat that makes your skin raw, you slowly sink to the shower floor. You haven’t cleaned it in a while but you can’t bring yourself to care. 

You let yourself cry again, since it’s all you can do. By the time you’re done, the water is running cold and you stand up to quickly wash yourself with soap so you can at least be clean for the next few days until you can bring yourself to shower again. 

It’s when you’re crawling into bed that it suddenly dawns on you that you don’t have a job. You hadn’t shown up to your shift in days. And you don’t have Simon anymore. 

Panic takes shape and you realize you can’t relax. If you don’t find a job soon you’re going to be on your ass and homeless by next month. 

You haul yourself out of bed and begin rooting through your drawers for something to wear. 

Maybe you can go back to the bar and beg for your job back. You’ll do anything if you have to. 

You’re going to prove to yourself and to Simon that you’ll make it without him – and you won’t end up hanging from a fucking rope. 

The sunlight practically burns your skin from not feeling it in a while. Winter is coming in and it’s already damn cold out and you can see your breath. But you ignore it, wrapping your jacket tighter around yourself as you book it for the bar. 

You’re filled with utter dread as soon as you open the door. There’s a couple patrons already drinking and you wonder what day it is. 

You look around, searching for your old boss. He’s nowhere on the floor so you make your way to the staff room and ultimately his office in the very back. 

You only realize you’re trembling when you raise your hand to knock on the door. But you bite back your fear when you’re reminded that you need the job. You need it. 

“Enter,” you hear his chilling voice call. You take a breath and push the door open. He freezes the second he lays eyes on you, he sports a black eye and a busted lip, “You.” 

“M-Mr. Dawson,” you shakily whisper, “I-I know I haven’t showed up in a few days and I’m really sorry but–”

“You want your job back,” he finishes, tossing his head back to laugh, “You want your fucking job back? After you sent that fucking lunatic here?”

“Sent who…?” you ask softly, willing your knees to stop quaking. 

“That asshole in the skull mask. Beat the shit out of me and my blasted customers. You think I’m going to let you back in after that?” he laughs again, “You’re out of your fucking mind, you dumb bitch.”

You wince at the insult, “I-I didn’t send him. H-He was a friend of mine and he did it on his own but–”

“You can have your job back,” he says suddenly, making you freeze, “If you come over here and bend over my desk for me.”

“What..?” you ask softly, watching him sit back and lick his lips as his eyes raked down your body.

“You heard me,” he snickers, “Bend over my desk and let me fuck you and I’ll let you have your job back.”

Granted, for a second, you think about it. You really do. To just let him do it. But you can’t. You know you can't, you would never do that to yourself. 

“N-No,” you find yourself whispering, “I won’t do that…”

His smile fades quickly when you say that and his lip curls in disgust and anger, “Should have let those blokes take you out back and leave you bloody in the alleyway like you deserve.”

You leave with your head hanging low and find yourself standing on the street, fighting tears. You only feel worse than before you went in. 

When you get home, you stand there and cry. That’s all you’ve been doing lately, crying. At this rate, Simon’s prophecy is going to come true and you’re going to be hanging from a damn rope. It sounds nice right about now, actually. Anything to stop the horrific pain that you feel. 

You crawl back into bed and don’t get back up that night. Or the next day. 

The only thing that gets you up the day after that is a painful twang in your stomach. You stumble your way to the kitchen and pull out the loaf of bread you’ve been nibbling at but frown when you see some pieces have begun to mold. 

You take a look in the fridge, finding it painfully empty. The vegetables and fruits that were in there have gone bad now. The meat you had bought was all used up from when Simon cooked. You didn’t even have any cup ramens because you opted to not buy any last time. 

So you resort yourself to tearing the moldy parts off the bread and eating what's left. 

As you stand there, you realize you feel so tired. Like your legs can’t hold you up, so you allow yourself to sink to the floor, back leaning against the cabinet. 

You almost want to laugh at yourself over what you’ve become. Eating moldy bread on the kitchen floor and crying to yourself. 

You place the bread in the refrigerator in hopes that that will stop its rotting process but you don’t have much hope. 

Then, you’re back in bed. And you’re so exhausted. It’s impossible to keep your eyes open any longer. So you sleep. 

But then you have another nightmare. You can’t even remember what it was about, you’re too exhausted to even jolt awake like you usually do. 

Instead, your eyes open and they’re already filled with tears before you even get the chance to register the fact you’re awake. 

So you lay like that. For a long time. Just staring at nothing. The tears stop on their own and you’re left exhausted as usual. It’s become your default state and you begin to wonder if you’re going to feel this broken and hurt forever. 

You zone out, letting your mind go hazy and erase all thoughts from it. 

You don’t even hear your front door open. Don’t hear the boots on the floor. Don’t hear your bedroom door open. 

You hear a call of your name and that gets your attention. But you don’t hear anything else. 

Your imagination? You don’t have a lamp anymore to turn on. You’d thrown it at Simon and it broke.

Suddenly, light floods your bedroom and you bolt up in bed. A large, familiar figure blocks your doorway, a silhouette against the now illuminated hallway. 

He calls your name again and your heart skips a beat. 

“Si?” you whisper, choking on a sob when he steps further into the room. 

He’s got you gathered up in his arms faster than you can think. He’s so warm and it feels so good to have him in your arms again. You wrap your arms around his neck and cling to him – hold him so fiercely that you’re worried you may actually break him. 

“Shh,” he coos into your ear, “It’s alright, everything’s alright.”

“S-Simon…” you can’t help but wail, clawing at the back of his hoodie as if you can feel him any closer than he already was. 

“I’m here,” he sighs, kissing the top of your head, “I’m here. It’s okay. Shit, just let it out. I fucked up, sweetheart, I did. Just breathe and we’ll make everything better, alright?”

“I’m sorry,” you find yourself apologizing through tears, “I-I don’t hate you, Si. I don’t, I promise. I-I was just mad. I’m sorry I was mean.”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he consoles you, cupping the back of your head as you sob, “I’m the one who fucked everything up. It was a fuckin’ mistake.”

You can’t even formulate a response, too choked up with your cries that you let out into the soft cotton of his hoodie. You feel nothing but relief at having him in your arms again, you’re almost scared that he’s going to disappear if you let go. 

But he stays there, shushing you and occasionally kissing the top of your head as he rocks you back and forth on the bed. 

Before long, your cries finally quiet and you’re left curled up against him, quietly sniffling to yourself. His grip on you remains firm, unwilling to let you go. 

After several, long minutes, he finally speaks, “Why don’t you go wash up, hm? Nice, hot, shower. I’ll fix you up some food, sound good?”

You sniffle and blearily look up at him, your lashes sticking together from your dried tears, “I don’t have anything.”

“I’ll make you some ramen cups,” he responds. 

He doesn’t like them being part of your diet but it seems he was willing to overlook it just this once so could get something on your stomach. 

“Don’t have any,” you sound completely congested as you talk, sitting up a little to wipe your cheeks.

“None?” he asks, keeping his hands on your body even as you move off of his lap. 

You shake your head, “I didn’t buy any last time I went shopping.”

“What the hell have you been eating then?” he mumbles, slowly standing up from the bed. 

You wince when you hear his knees and back pop from the movement, “I haven’t had much of an appetite but I’ve got some bread…”

Simon is silent after that, nonsensically looking around the room, seemingly taking stock of what's around him. Then he sighs, running a hand through his cropped hair before patting you on the head.

“I’ll order then,” he assures you, “Go ahead and shower, yeah?”

You do as you’re told, eager to wash the drying tears off of your face and hopefully wash away the lingering sadness. You know that you and Simon have a lot to talk about, but you figure it can wait until you’re both mentally prepared for it. 

You feel more refreshed than you have in days when you step out of the shower. You feel a surge of anxiety in your chest when you think maybe he had left while you were showering but when you pause to really listen, you can hear him shuffling about the flat. 

When you slip into your bedroom, you’re shocked to see that your bed has been completely stripped. He also swept up the broken remnants of the glass and lamp you had thrown at him and picked up the books. He had picked up some scattered pieces of clothes and put them in the laundry basket where they belonged. 

You get yourself dressed and place your dirty clothes in the basket so you don’t undo the work that Simon had done. 

You hear a knock on your door and it makes you jump but Simon quickly answers it. He calls your name to let you know the food has arrived and you quickly make your way to the kitchen. 

He’s methodically separating the food he had ordered into two separate groups, clearly having ordered for himself as well. 

It smells positively delicious and you find your mouth watering as your stomach growls. 

You turn to the fridge, opening it to grab a bottle of water out of it. You notice that the loaf of bread you had in there is gone, most likely thrown out by Simon when he realized it was moldy.

You feel your cheeks burn in shame when you imagine him knowing that you had been eating moldy bread because you couldn’t afford to buy groceries – although, even if you had all the money in the world, you were sure you wouldn’t have felt like going out to get any. You wouldn’t have been able to order since you’d broken your phone. 

You open the styrofoam tray and immediately start devouring the chicken tenders he had ordered for you. It was simple, easy, and tasty. He clearly didn’t want to order you anything too hefty given the fact you’ve been existing on bread. 

He had a burger, taking slow bites of it and occasionally nibbling at his fries. You took the opportunity to look him over. 

He honestly looked the same as ever. He didn’t have dark circles or bags under his eyes like you did. He didn’t have red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes from crying for days. For some reason that made a pang of resentment surge through you. He seemed completely unbothered by everything that had happened. Unbothered, even. 

His words ring out through your head like a bell. 

“We’ll see how long you last without me before you’re hanging from a bloody rope.”

Tears sting the back of your eyes again but you bite them back, choosing to take a bite of your french fries. You realize now that you can hear the washing machine going. Clearly, he had put your bedding in there to wash. 

Maybe he was right, you couldn’t survive without him. Couldn’t even wash your own damn laundry. 

“What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” he interrupts your self-deprecating thoughts. 

“Oh, um,” you scramble to think of what to say. Something not depressing or something that could upset him, “I was just wondering what you’ve been up to these few days!”

You try your hardest to sound chipper and interested. You’re positive he doesn’t buy the act in the slightest from the soft, pained look he gives you. But he thankfully plays along. You’re grateful because you don’t want to cry again.

“I was uh,” he cleared his throat and took a sip of water, “I was on base, actually. Nothin’ interesting, really. What, uh, what about you?”

You feel your smile falter and you look down at your food, “Nothing interesting. Tried to get my job back but that was a bust,” you chuckled, playing it off like a goofy anecdote, “Turns out your ex-boss doesn’t like when he gets beat to shit because of you!”

Simon drops his burger into his tray and his nonchalant expression turns sour in half a second, “You tried to go back to work at that shithole? Why the fuck would you do that? You know it’s not good for you!”

All over again, you feel your body flush with anger, and you’re shouting at him before you know it, “What the fuck was I supposed to do, Simon?! You left and I had no idea what the fuck I was supposed to do without you. I assumed you were gone forever,” you voice pathetically broke but you ignored it, tearfully glaring at him, “All you said was that I was gonna end up killing myself and I was doing everything in my power to prove you wrong.”

“You should have known me better than that!” he shouted, slamming his hands on the countertop, “I never would have left you–”

“That’s exactly what you did!” you shriek, pointing an accusing finger at him, “You left me! You ignored me when I needed you to go get laid and then left like I was nothing to you! Look at you for fuck’s sake, I’m a fucking wreck and you look like you couldn’t have fared better! I almost let that scumbag fuck me just to get my fucking job back, Simon! All because you left me.”

For once in his life, Simon seems utterly lost for words. The only sound in the small kitchen was the steady dripping of your leaky sink and you’re stuttering, sharp breaths as you force yourself to not break down all over again. 

“I should have known you better?” you whisper, resting your hands on the countertop, hanging your head so you can catch your breath, “Apparently I should have. Maybe then I would have known better to depend on you like that.”

Simon stands there, across the counter from you but feeling like he was miles away. You could hear his breathing stutter every few seconds, like he was gearing up to say something but he seemingly changed his mind every time. 

The washing machine jingle rang through the apartment and he immediately stepped away. 

Typical. Simon was never the type to truly let himself be emotionally vulnerable so there was no reason for you to expect it now. 

With him out of the room, you took the chance to wind yourself down, taking a few more bites of your tenders. You could hear Simon moving the laundry to the dryer, slamming it closed before turning it on. 

But he doesn’t reappear, evidently hiding out in the tiny room off the kitchen where your washer and dryer were. He was probably collecting himself just like you. But he appears a second later, lingering out of the corner of your eye. You can see him looking at you but you can’t bear to look back at him.

“I didn’t…” he pauses, taking a breath, “I wasn’t…” he lets out a sound of frustration before he tries again, “I wasn’t okay while I was gone.” 

He doesn’t say anything more. It was evident that that was all he was willing to give up in the moment. But you want more from him, you need more. 

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to get past this, Simon,” you whisper, “Everything’s so fucked up. I’m fucked up.”

“I am too,” he says softly, drumming his fingers against the counter, “We’ll fix it.”

His assurance marks the end of the conversation and you both resume eating the dinner he had ordered. But it’s silent and neither of you make an attempt to fill it. 

Once the food is eaten, you take a seat on the couch, knees pulled up to your chest as Simon takes your laundry basket from your bedroom and puts the clothes in the washer. 

Your eyelids feel heavy and you wish so desperately that you could crawl into bed and sleep. You suddenly realize that you have no idea what time it is. 

“Simon?” you call out when you catch him passing by. He stops at your calling, raising an inquisitive brow, “What time is it?”

He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone, unlocking it so he can see, “9:20.”

“Oh…” you respond, tucking your head back into your knees. 

Simon walks away at that and you briefly wonder what he’s doing now. But your eyelids are so heavy and you’re finding it so hard to think clearly. 

You’re pulled from your sleep a soft hand petting over your head. Your eyes slowly drift open and you’re met with Simon’s sweet, brown eyes. 

“Made your bed,” he says so softly, thumbing over your cheek, “Go ahead and get some proper sleep.”

You nod your head and sit up, briefly wondering how you managed to flop over on your side without waking up. Simon takes your hands and helps you to your feet.

You stumble down the hallway and immediately toss yourself onto your bed. You don’t even bother to crawl under the blanket, simply drop your head onto the pillow and let sleep overcome you. 

When you wake up next, it’s from a nightmare. You gasp into consciousness, eyes wide open in the inky blackness of your bedroom. Your heart pounds in your ears and you find yourself panting, trying to stabilize yourself. 

A heavy weight tosses itself over your middle and you almost panic before you smell Simon’s cologne. Immediately, you relax and sink back into the bed. 

“You’re okay,” he whispers, voice thick with sleep, “I’ve got you.”

“I want it to stop,” you find yourself whispering, feeling so utterly exhausted, “The nightmares.”

Simon tugs you over to him, tucking you securely against his chest, his arm like a heavy weight draped across your abdomen, “We’ll get you fixed up.”

As you close your eyes and sink into his embrace, all you can think is that you should have never been broken in the first place. 

You finally sleep through the night but you wake up feeling far from refreshed. What’s most shocking is that you’re still wrapped up in Simon’s arms – and he’s still asleep. The sun is well risen now, he should have been up and about a while ago. He never strays from his schedule.

You find yourself staring at him. It wasn’t often that you got the chance to see him so peaceful. His lashes were so long, brushing his cheeks. You rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart and the deep sound of his breathing. Your eyes slowly drift closed again and you let yourself drift off to sleep once more. 

When you wake up next, it’s because Simon is trying to carefully move you off of his chest so he can get up. You whine and find yourself clinging to him again.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he mutters, settling back against the headboard. He wraps his arms around you and lets you melt against him again, your head resting against his chest.

“You slept late,” you find yourself commenting.

“Yeah, uh,” he clears his throat and softly rubs your back, “I haven’t had the chance to sleep much. Base is pretty loud.”

You want to mention that it’s never been a problem for him before but you bite it back. Instead, you hum in response. 

As you’re left in the still quietness of the late morning with him, you realize that you still have no idea how you feel about him. You don’t know how you feel about him being back. On one hand, you’ve missed him so, so dearly and you feel so complete with him by your side. You feel safer and more whole, like you could actually start healing again. 

But on the other hand, there feels like there’s a wall separating you two. The fight you two had is a heavy weight that seems to continuously pull you under the water despite how hard you fight to resurface for air. 

You love him, you really do. 

But you’re still so angry at him. 

And it feels like neither of you are going to actually talk about it properly. 

The two of you eventually make it out of bed and get moving around. You still don’t have any groceries but Simon simply orders something for breakfast again.

“Somethin’ I need to ask you,” he says, suddenly terrifyingly serious as the two of you stand in the kitchen eating.

Anxiety flares through you but you try to appear calm and cool, “About?”

“You said that,” he takes a second to collect himself, seemingly searching for the right words, “You almost slept with that guy for your job back.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach, “Yeah…what about it?” 

Simon paused when he heard the defensiveness in your voice, “You really almost did that?”

You frown, “So what? I can do what I want, Simon.”

He sighs softly, holding his hands up, “I’m not tryin’ to fight, love.”

“I don’t know why it’s your business,” you mumble, using annoyance to hide the shame you feel, “I just needed a job is all.”

He nods, “You don’t need to worry about that, alright. I’ve got you.”

You take a bite of your sandwich, intent on trying to take the attention off of you, “There’s something I wanted to ask you too.”

“Go ahead,” he says softly, sipping on the drink he ordered – some kind of soda if you had to guess.

“That night…” you start, pausing when you notice the way he stiffens immediately. He plays it off by going back to his food, “You, um, you left to hook up with someone, right?”

He places his sandwich down and sighs, “Yeah.”

“...Why?” you finally ask, “I mean…”

You trail off and Simon remains silent. The tension is so thick you could practically see it between the two of you. Your heart hammers in your chest, anxiety steadily festering the longer he’s quiet. You think he isn’t going to respond at all and start to give up, hanging your head. 

“I wasn’t thinking clearly,” he finally says, “It was a…last minute choice and it shouldn’t have happened.”

He says it but you don’t feel any relief. That concrete weight on your chest isn’t eased in the slightest. It’s an excuse, something he’s saying to get you off his back. And that doesn’t feel good.

“I um…” you clear your throat to get rid of the way it sounds thick, “I’m sorry for that time, by the way. When I was throwing things and I-I hit you. I shouldn’t have done that, it was wrong of me. So, I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he says softly, shrugging his shoulders dismissively, “You were upset.”

“Simon…” you mumble, food completely forgotten in front of you, “I want to talk. About everything,” Simon seems annoyed immediately but he tries to hide it. You know him too well for that, though, “I-It was a lot and I think we should talk about it – really talk about it.”

He says your name exasperatedly, turning to open the fridge so he can put his leftover food inside before he slams the door. “I don’t want to talk about anything.”

“But I do,” you say, following him as he storms out of the kitchen, “You said some really mean shit, Si. I want to talk about it!”

He storms into the bedroom, slamming it open as he busies himself with picking up inside. You can tell he’s uncomfortable and simply trying to take his mind off of it. But you’re not going to let him avoid it.

“I don’t,” he snaps, final and harsh.

“I do!” you argue again, “I-I want to know why you said that to me. I want to know how you could–”

“Fuck sake!” he hisses through clenched teeth, ripping his hoodie off of a chair he had tossed it onto. 

He pushes past you, tugging it over his head. You follow him out of the room, watching with wide eyes as he picks up his mask from the coffee table. He tugs it on, painfully silent as he fits it into place. 

“What are you doing?” you finally ask when he gets to the door, slipping his boots on with a grunt, “Where are you going?”

“Out.” he growls, jerking the door open so hard it rattles on its hinges.

“Don’t run from me, Simon!” you cry, grabbing hold of his sleeve to keep him from stepping out, “Are you ever going to tell me you're sorry? Are you ever going to look in my eyes and tell me that you're sorry for what you said to me? For leaving me? Or are you just going to do it again?” 

You can’t fight the tears as you cry out, trying to tug him back into the apartment. But he gives you one final look before he rips his arm from your grasp and slams the door in your face. You’re left alone again, frustrated,  sad and utterly confused. 

You wished he would stop leaving. 

You decide to stay up a little later than you had lately, waiting for him to come home. The oven clock read a little past midnight when you finally called it and crawled into bed. Tugging his pillow to your side, you wrapped yourself around it and tried to imagine that it was him in your arms again. Closing your eyes, you will yourself to fall asleep, no matter how much you want to stay up and wait. 

You’re jostled awake by the weight shifting on the bed. Your eyes flutter open as it creaked under the additional weight. You know it’s Simon, even though your back is to him. He remains silent, clearly trying not to wake you and unaware that he already has. 

The heat radiates off of him in waves, comforting and nice. But despite that, you feel tears welling up until they finally trickle down your cheeks. You can hear Simon’s soft breathing and you can feel him shift every once in a while as he tries to sleep. 

“I can’t do this, Simon,” you find yourself whispering. It’s quiet but you know he hears it, “I want to feel better again. I want to stop being so fucking angry at you but you won’t let me. You just leave me again and I want you to stop. I want…” you suck in a breath and find yourself struggling to continue, simply dissolving into cries. You quiet them as best you can into your pillow.

Simon is painfully silent and still. You’re positive he’s not going to say anything. He’s going to pretend to sleep so he can avoid talking about it because that’s what he does best – avoid. When things get too hard or emotional, he avoids it like the plague. 

You suppose it’s from the way he grew up. A mama’s boy who was punished by his father for showing any kind of emotional vulnerability. It led to him being terrified of it as an adult – he refuses to let himself show that kind of weakness, even to someone who means something to him. And you know that you do – mean something to him, that is. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally whispers, just an echo in the darkness of the room. But it draws you to silence, “I’m sorry,” he repeats, voice thick with emotion, “For what I said to you and for the way I acted that night. I fucked up, I know. It never should have happened. What I said should have never–” he lets out a heavy breath, “I never should have said it.”

You roll over, blinking the tears out of your eyes, which tumble down your cheeks. With a sniffle, you scoot closer to him, his warmth welcome and comforting. He opens his arms for you, letting you situate yourself against him. You rest your head against his shoulder, letting your hand rest against his chest. His own hand comes up to take it in his, bringing it up to press a kiss to your knuckles. 

“You mean…” he trails off again but you remain patient, knowing it’s difficult for him to fight through his desire to flee, “You mean a lot to me. I never want to lose you. You’re…important.”

You nuzzle your head against him, a silent acceptance of his apology. He kisses the top of your head and pulls you more firmly against him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again for good measure.

He didn't look you in the eyes and tell you he was sorry but he did the best he could. In the inky blackness of your bedroom, as you shared a bed, and he held you so sweetly, he finally said what you needed to hear. And that's truly all you could ask for.

PART TWO.

do not modify, translate, or repost.

[queenimmadolla]

𝐅𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐌𝐞

(A Lisa Frankenstein, Eddie Munson AU)

next ┊ 𝐒𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Summary: After a series of unfortunate events in your life, and lonelier than ever, you often turn to a dead guy and his tombstone for comfort. Never in your wildest, fucked up dreams did you imagine he’d turn to you for the same thing, but you find yourself hiding a living corpse, bringing him further to life, reaping some justice, and cutting off a lot of body parts all while trying to fit in and falling in love.

a/n: Part One is here! Just want to say thank you to my friends for hearing me rant and rave about Lisa Frankenstein for weeks now, though I’ve been unbearable with this concept in my head. This will be the longest chapter, just to establish some stuff, but we’ll get to the slaying! Hope you love Undead!Zombie!Eddie as much as I do. Happy reading! (p.s.,there will be some romantic smut in a later part)

Chapter warnings: a bit steve harrington x reader, some eddie munson x other female, death of a family member, brief description of SA (bordered with RED DIVIDERS if you’d like to skip), mistreatment of Reader, suicidal ideation (reader just has dark humor), implied murder, very campy, very cunty.

THEN, 1986.

  “Where you head’n too so in a hurry, boy?” Wayne Munson asked, sat on the couch with a mug of steaming hot coffee in one hand and the television remote in the other as he watched his nephew bounce around the trailer, grabbing all of the the items he let haphazardly around. 

  Wayne always told him to pick up his things, but like the rambunctious boy he was, there was no breaking out of his messy habits.

  “I got people to see, pops. Things to do. Trouble to ‘cause, cops to anger, you know the drill.” Eddie didn’t even need to turn around to know his uncle was scowling but he was proven correct when he turned to throw his father figure a shit eating grin over his shoulder, “Kidding, old man. Mom had me baptized when I was a baby, remember? I can do no wrong, like Achilles.” 

  “Wha’?”

  “Ugh, dad. If I have to explain the joke, it ruins it. I’ll be back by dinner, alright?”

  Wayne fixed him with a pointed look, “You best be on your best behavior, you hear me?”

  “Always.” Eddie gave a mock salute before dipping out the front door, still grinning as he tossed the keys of the van and caught them midair. 

  While he wasn’t necessarily going to cause trouble, he certainly would be providing the fun grass, powder and pills that were often behind it. Eddie knew Wayne was aware of what he did, had implied so when talking about how he knew Eddie was a good kid, just living in the wrong circumstances sometimes. Always said he wanted nothing but the best for his boy and for Eddie to realize he was meant for more than what this particular town forced on him. 

  Made Eddie’s chest tight, but seeing things like the broken patio board—Eddie had accidentally stomped through it after seeing a spider—reinforced Eddie’s belief that he’d much rather help out any way he could than let his uncle bear the financial weight of providing for him. 

  The van roared to life, after sputtering for a good seven seconds, and Eddie revved the engine a little. As he let her warm up, something in the side mirror caught his attention. 

  Someone. 

  Sheila. His neighbor in the trailer across the street. She was hauling a box to a car, looked rather heavy and Eddie would have dropped everything to scramble over and help her, had it not been for Mr.Brawn at her side. 

  Eddie watched as the guy, who stole the girl he was in love with right out of his arms, grabbed the box. The two lovers exchanged words which ended with them laughing at something as she followed him to the car.

  He slid the box into the packed car as she climbed into the passenger seat, and before Eddie knew it, he was watching her drive away, right out of his life forever.

  Eddie hadn’t even realized he was clutching his steering wheel so tight, his knuckles were straining against the skin, hot tears pooling at his waterline but he refused to let them fall. He’d shed more than enough tears over her, over what could have been.

  They started off so promising; throwing flirty waves from their bedroom windows, occasionally at school, before she approached him for weed. After that, came the whirlwind romance and Eddie hadn’t considered himself a romantic before—hadn’t had a whole lot of opportunities to make that discovery but he was so fucking romantic. A big sap. And he wasn’t ashamed of it. 

  Until she’d graduated, and he hadn’t. Again. Turns out, not trying at academics all year and then aiming to ace finals wasn’t enough. 

  Suddenly, all the bullshit naive plans they had to run away somewhere far from Hawkins weren’t possible. At least, Sheila couldn’t with Eddie. 

  He lost her to a guy in another band, had made the mistake of taking a piss after he and Corroded Coffin performed to their tiny ass crowd, and had come back to see her talking to the keyboardist of the band that had gone on before them. She looked entranced, leaning forward to hang on to whatever the fuck he was saying. When Eddie had gone over to ask her if she was ready to head out, fully prepared to tuck her under his arm and way from the keyboardist, she’d insisted and told him to his face, in front of his apparent competition, that she was gonna stick around a little longer and he should head out without her.

  He’d spent the entire night pacing in front of his window, glancing out of it every five minutes and every time he heard a pair of wheels turn onto the dirt road. Eddie got his confirmation when his car happened to be one of them. He’d watched, heart splintering, as the keyboardist got out of the car and walked around to open her door for her before they disappeared into her trailer. Eddie knew her dad worked nights. Knew what she and that musician were doing and he’d thrown up the entire contents of his stomach at the imagery before passing out.

  Eddie woke up to Sheila hovering above him and framed by the glow of the bathroom light like some angel. She’d dumped him right there and left the spare key he’d trusted her with on the table.

  And now, she was living her dream with someone else while Eddie got to stick around this shitty town with these people who could barely stand him for no reason (and yeah, okay, maybe he’d poke their buttons). In truth, while he was a little heartbroken over her, it was the fact that she still got her happy ending that hurt the most.

  The girls around Hawkins might have been interested in maybe hooking up with him, but they weren’t interested in being Eddie’s girl. Weren’t interested in falling stupid in love with him, making plans to start a life together. Didn’t want him in their plans.

  Eddie Munson was lonely. And it sucked.

  With a heavy sigh, he cranked on the radio, fingers twisting the volume dial up to the most obnoxious level before shifting the gear to drive.

  “It’ll get better, Munson. Love ain’t no stranger.” He mumbled, sucking on his teeth and pulling out on the road.

  If he had known then where it would lead him, where the night would take him, he would have at least hugged his uncle. It would be the last time he saw him, and it would be the last time Wayne Munson saw his nephew alive.

  Three days later, he’d be identifying and weeping over his boy’s body in the morgue after reporting Eddie missing when he didn’t come home.

  NOW, 1989

  “Where are you going? It’s almost time for breakfast.” Chrissy called out, head poking out from her bedroom as she watched you race down the hall.

  “Not hungry! I’ll be back soon!” You called over your shoulder, the large sheet of craft paper wrinkling in your hand as you took the stairs two at a time before bounding down the short entryway.

  You’d almost crossed the foyer and then slammed yourself back against the wall as you saw Laura, Chrissy’s mom, fiddling with something at the table. She had the radio on, some garbage self help tape spewing nonsense to her, and that condescending smile on her face.

  Yeah, you’d be avoiding her, lest you wish to be verbally and eloquently belittled. How Chrissy came out of her toxic womb to be such a good person, you’d never understand. 

  When Laura crossed into the kitchen, you sprinted for the door, fumbling a little with the knob in your urgency, but once you got it open, you were out, running across the walkway and the fencing around the house until you were in the woods behind it.

  Only then did you feel safe, the trees a welcome reprieve from your living situation, the magnifying glass this new town had you under, and from the world in general.

  You’d come from a small town before Hawkins, so you were used to small town living. But these people were so judgemental. You hadn’t even grabbed a box from the moving van before your neighbors were casting you snide looks, noses turning up and backs to you as they watered their yard and lounged about.

  Four months later, nothing had changed. If anything, they were more open with their disdain for you, commenting on your demeanor (and you were a cool fucking person), outfits, hair, body. It was annoying. They were annoying. EVERYTHING was annoying. 

  You didn’t even want to be there but you had no real choice. You’d graduated high school a couple of years ago and despite the popular teenage notion that you’d simply pack up your things, go to college and be successful at whatever career you wanted, life did not happen like the movies. The freedom you’d been promised by your own delusions never came. That bitch came with a hefty price tag and you weren’t exactly jumping into a safe of gold coins like Scrooge McDuck with your minimum wage job. 

  You’d gotten into several schools of your choice, but scholarships wouldn’t be nearly enough to cover it, and you’d literally have to sell your entire body to science if you wanted to be able to afford the loans you were being offered, since their interest rates were higher than the standard human beings’ lifespan. 

  So, living with the ‘rents was checked off on your list of things you didn’t want to continue doing past your high school graduation. And hey—you were only 19 years-old! You were still young! Just save up a few years, and maybe one day you’d be able to think about taking a loan. You had time. What could possibly go wrong to throw your plans off?

  Your mother was murdered.

  Yeah, that was a bummer. Could’ve been worse, you supposed. You could have died with her, when your home had been broken into, and sometimes you wish you had. Alas, you were still breathing, albeit extremely traumatized. But only good ol’ mom was six feet in the ground, in an entirely different town, because your father had also moved on a mere few months after her death, with the worst woman to leave flaming footprints on the earth’s crust, and they’d eloped after like six dates before moving you to a town where you knew no one.

  Thinking about it actually made you sick and feel a little delusional. 

  The only real good thing about your entire soap opera of a year was the community college you’d been able to enroll in. You had no real idea what you wanted to do in life, had no real drive for career paths, but you were doing something, and that something kept the she-devil that was your stepmother off your back. Most of the time. Some of the time. She couldn’t say you were a deadbeat yet.

  Chrissy, your sweet to a definitive and insensitive fault step-sister had pushed you into going with her for registration. Convinced you it was the perfect way to make some friends. It was hard to say no to Chrissy, she had a way with people and could make the meekest soul feel like they were capable of anything and everything. She could always see the best in people, and she was outgoing. Your time in Hawkins had been brief, but you’d easily gathered Chrissy was popular, a former cheerleader (and she’d successfully tried out for the community college team) and beloved by all. While part of you felt a little jealous at her confidence, you admired her more. She was never intentionally mean to you, either. She made the occasional comment, but it seemed like Chrissy had more so a filter problem, rather than spitting anything out with sugar coated hostility like her mother. Chrissy was...nice. After everything you've been through, you could use a little nice in your life.

  And sometimes nice was also the woods behind your house, as it led to the Hawkins’ Cemetery. 

  Morbid, sure, but you couldn’t help yourself. After a particularly nasty encounter with Laura the first week of your Hawkins sentence, and feeling lonelier than you’d ever felt before, you’d gone for a walk, tears decorating your face with wet trails as you tried to physically hold yourself together, arms wrapped around yourself. 

  You’d arrived at the cemetery, and because you couldn’t pay your mother a visit, you decided the only decent thing to do was visit other lonely souls.

  You’d stopped to pay your respects to just about every tombstone and plaque, but one in particular caught your attention.

  Tucked away in a corner and separate from the other graves, under a weeping willow, was the most damaged tombstone of them all. Parts of it were broken off, a lot of the information pertaining to the individual underneath it was seemingly grated off. You had no idea who it was, the only remaining legible letters were MUN and you figured it was he simply because you’d taken some paper to the tombstone for etching and ran a black crayon over it. You’d been able to make out the word ‘he’ on the paper and deduced it had once read may he rest in peace. 

  The state of his tombstone surprised you, given how recent the date of death was. While his birth date had also been worn away, the year of death—1986–had been left. It was 1989. No way his grave should’ve looked like that.

  Apparently, even the groundskeeper avoided his part of the cemetery. The grass around his grave was overgrown, and pitiful. So, you’d gone home, grabbed the lawn mower, and pushed it all the way over. You’d ended up disgusting, covered in grass, dirt and sweating like a cheater on a Sunday morning, but his grave was looking better. You’d taken to caring for his grave after that. A bunch of your trinkets and things you'd seen that you immediately thought he’d like surrounded him now and you’d even planted some bluebells. 

  He also made surprisingly good conversation, even though he never talked to you. His presence, while mostly imaginary to you, was comforting. 

  So, during any free time you had, you were sat against his tombstone, chatting about your day, life, whatever you wanted. Felt like he was always listening, no matter the subject and it was really lovely to be heard.

  When you arrived at the cemetery, it was practically vacant, with just the red headed girl you normally saw. You didn’t see her all the time, she was just one of the faces you saw the most, and that was only a handful of occasions. For the most part, Hawkins didn’t seem keen on remembering the dead. 

  “Hope you haven’t been lonely without me,” You greeted as you approached his tombstone, ducking under a few low hanging willow branches that still brushed over you anyways. You’d have to ‘borrow’ Laura’s shears soon, the willow tree was hauntingly beautiful around his grave, but you wanted its branches and leaves to frame his grave, not conceal it, “I missed you.”

  It was a little odd, but you did. 

  When you weren’t at his grave, you were thinking about him, trying to put a face to MUN, wondering what his life had been like. Did he have any loved ones? What had his interests been? How had he died? Had he felt as lonely as you did?

  “I know, I know.” You settled onto the grass in front of his tombstone, securing the craft paper to his tombstone with some masking tape, “I was just here last night.” You imagined he would say.

  “I just can’t stay away from you. You have a very intriguing aura: I can’t see it because you’re dead, and that makes me want to know you more.” You pulled a black crayon from your pocket and went about scribbling on the paper, over where you knew MUN would be etched in stone, “I’ve said it a million times, and you’ve probably turned over in your coffin repeatedly because of it, but you’re the only one who understands me. And you’re the only one here that I care about—probably in the whole world actually, except maybe Chrissy but I know her friends think I’m weird, and I don’t want to drag her down with me.”

  Once the letters appeared on the paper, you sprawled out STER and you dropped the crayon to produce a pretty hot pink marker from your pocket instead, signing your name with a little heart to go with it just above the last name you’d crafted for him.

  The odds of this dude being a Munster were slim to none, but you thought it was fitting for someone who lived in a cemetery.

  You sat back on your haunches to admire it, it was a cute piece. Would look nice on your wall and whenever you missed him and found yourself longing to be near his grave, all you’d have to do is turn on your side and you'd be able to see part of him. 

  You ripped the paper off his tombstone, and weighed it down on the grass with a rock. With that out of the way, you gave him your full attention, shuffling until your head and shoulder were leaning against the stone, “Would you wanna be dragged down with me? Be seen with me? I’m somewhat of a pariah around here. Did you have better luck when you were still kicking?”

  You figured with how fucked up his tombstone had been, probably not. You imagined he’d confirm it, too. Just out right say, ‘Nah, these assholes hated me.’

  “Yeah, looks like we’re two peas in a pod.” Then you glanced down, fingers, twirling the blades of grass over his grave, “Or, you know. Casket.”

  You let silence fall over you, broken only by the chirping of birds in surrounding trees.

  “Goddamit, why do you have to be dead?” Your eyelids fluttered close, and instead of the cold stone, you imagined your head pressed against a warm chest, rising and falling with breaths, and a heartbeat thumping strong below your ear, pushing blood throughout his body. Imagined he was alive, arms slipping around you, firm and strong to hold you together so you didn't have to anymore.

  But he wasn’t, and you were reminded when the groundskeeper shouted, “HEY!”

  You shot up, glancing around until you saw him by the entrance with a leaf blower, “YOU AWAKE?”

  What kind of a dumbass question was that? Sure, it had looked like you were asleep but you were clearly alert now.

  “YEAH!” You shrieked back to be heard, and he went back to not caring. 

  “He can see me leaning against your tombstone, but he can’t see overgrown grass, weeds, rocks, or your grave in general when I’m not here. Men, always so selective, amirite?”

  You glanced at the stone, half expecting it to respond. “Eh, what do you know, you’re just a man, too.” You reached your arm back, knuckles trailing over MUN.

  “Despite you mouthing off to me most of the time, I brought you something.” You reached into your other pocket and pulled out a necklace, lined with black pearls and a cross pendant. It had been your mother’s. While she had a pension for religion, it wasn’t something you thought about. Dying, sure, but whatever afterlife? Not so much. Felt wrong, sometimes, to carry it around with you—felt like you were disrespecting her a little bit to not believe what she did, even though she had no qualms with it when she was alive. So, you figured why not trust it with the other important person in your life?

  “Pretty, huh? It was my mom’s. She’s dead, like you. You wouldn’t happen to have seen her around, would you?” You joked, fingers stroking over the pearls. There was no risk in leaving them with your dead friend, people avoided him and you had a feeling even grave robbers wouldn’t dare step near the willow, so they’d probably be with him for the rest of eternity, “I want you to have them, take care of them for me.”

  You placed the necklace over the peak of his tombstone, smiling when they didn’t fall from their place, “Mm, you look good in them. Better than I do, I’m not big on pearls. More of a silver jewelry kind of girl. I could do gold and diamonds, though, only for a wedding ring.”

  You held your arm out, admiring your ring hand void of any actual rings, “Nothing too gaudy, of course. That’s what my earrings are for.” 

  Your eyes trailed from your outstretched fingers, to your wrist, and the watch decorating it. The time made you heave a heavy sigh, “I gotta go. Chrissy’s dragging me to a party tonight, so I’ve got to mentally prepare for that. You’ll think of me while I’m away, won’t you?”

  Trailing a finger down the stone, you leaned forward to press your lips to it in a sweet kiss. 

  “I’ll be back soon, and this time I won’t forget my book of sonnets. I know how much you love the cynical poems I force on you.”

  And though you announced your departure, you found it hard to leave him, like you always did. It took all you had to gather your crayon, marker, and your new poster (and you kept dropping all three to have an excuse to linger) and leave the cemetery behind, glancing back impulsively every couple of steps until it was no longer in view, and the moment it wasn’t you wanted to drop everything and run back to him.

  You had to remind yourself he was a stranger, who didn’t care for you, rotting in the ground. And it sucked. 

  “I don’t wanna go.” You announced, staring into the bathroom mirror you shared with Chrissy. You’d just finished your makeup, eyes heavily lined, and lashes coated an electric blue that made your eyes pop. You were always a little heavy handed with your makeup, you figured the whole point of it was to use it as you wanted. Your hair had been manipulated to hell and back, but regardless of what you did, you were unsatisfied with the girl staring back at you, “I’ll just stay home.”

  “Not on my watch!” Chrissy declared, reaching in front of you for her pink lipstick. The bathroom counter was littered with your combined beauty products, “This is the first major rager of the year, the perfect social gathering. You need to meet people, sissy.” 

  You scowled at the idea, “I have met people.”

  Chrissy tubed the lipstick bullet, rubbing her lips together as she gave you a concerned side-eye, “People who like you, sissy.”

  Ouch, there’s that brutal honesty.

  “It’s not good for you to be on your own all the time,” She set the lipstick down so she could place a dainty hand on your shoulder, big blue eyes focused on you, “I worry about you. Daddy and mom worry about you. Your doctor worries about you. You need to get out more.” Chrissy stressed, pink lips pulling into a reassuring smile before she went back to focusing on the mirror and her makeup.

  You let out a heavy sigh, mulling her words over. Definitely could have been phrased better, but Chrissy was right. You were currently the town recluse, and occupying your room and the town cemetery wouldn’t change that. 

  “That blush isn’t the right shade for you, sissy.” Chrissy broke you from your thoughts and your eyes drifted back over to your reflection, the girl looking so unsure and right back at you, “You really have to accentuate your features, compliment them, because you’re already beautiful.” 

  Didn’t feel like it.

  Your expression must have given your inner thoughts away because Chrissy turned to you again, practically bouncing, “Wait a minute, you could use my tanning bed!”

  You deadpanned at the mention of the ridiculous full on salon tanning bed that Chrissy owned. There was a dedicated mini garage in the backyard for it, next to the pool, and complete with neon lights, her beauty pageant trophies and sashes as well as her cheer trophies. The PG&E bill was always through the roof for the Tan Shack alone, and you still had no idea how Laura could afford it.

  “No, Chrissy I-I don’t think that would work on me. At all.”

  Chrissy waved off your concerns, “It’s not about the tan, or even if you can tan. It’s the experience. When I lay in that tanning bed, with those little goggles on my eyes and I can hear the buzzing, I feel myself blooming. Regardless of whether or not my skin actually tans,” It didn’t. Chrissy burned but she somehow still looked good, “I feel amazing about myself.”

  “Are you sure that’s not cancer?”

  “You’re so funny!” Chrissy laughed even though you were being serious, “Sissy, every girl deserves to feel beautiful. If I can provide you with an experience that might raise those confidence levels that are dragging across a nail-covered floor right now, why wouldn’t I?”

  Your eyebrows furrowed, trying to decipher if that was a compliment or not, but you didn’t have long to mull it over before Chrissy was framing your face with her hands. 

  “And I can. Please, let me do this.”

  You groaned, long and drawn out and awkward, before squeezing your eyes shut and slowly nodding your head. She squealed, clapped her hands together and dragged you out of the bathroom.

  After explaining how it all worked, Chrissy bid you a cheerful goodbye and left you to your own devices so she could finish getting ready for the night ahead of you both.

  You’d selected your tan level, positive you wouldn’t see any real results but maybe the ‘experience’ would benefit you and shed your fuzzy slippers and robe, leaving you in some boy shorts and a tank top as you tried to settle yourself in the tanning bed. The dip was awkward, and you couldn’t get a good grasp on the top of the tanning bed since it was meant to only open and close rather than stay in position so grasping onto it for balance as you lowered yourself in led to you conking yourself on the head with a noticeable bonk.

  You hissed in pain, rubbing the sore area as you clambered the rest to the way in. Once you’d stretched your legs out, lowered the top, maneuvered the goggles over your face and waited for the magic to happen as you were surrounded by neon blue lights.

  You heard the buzzing as the tanning bed started up. The magic happened alright. The entire tanning bed shocked you, and you shrieked as you felt the intense electric current ripple throughout your body, sparking every single pore in the worst way possible.

“I’m so sorry you got electrocuted, sissy.”

  Chrissy broke the silence as you sulked in the passenger seat, your hair a little bigger than normal and not a result of styling. After getting all five senses shocked out of you, you’d come out with a hairdo that would not usually be up to par with you, and some serious case of static electricity. You’d tried to gently press your hair down and when you saw a literal spark in it, you decided to just leave it alone.

  Your step-sister had been apologizing since.

  “It’s alright. I survived.” And you wanted to forget about it. 

  You could see Chrissy glancing nervously at you from the corner of your eye as she drove you to the party location.

  “So…how are you liking Hawkins Community, so far?” She asked, thankfully changing the subject. 

  “It’s fine. The campus looks relatively the same as the community college I toured in my old town. Classes are decent.” Pitiful. The classes were so boring and straight out of the book, but it cost you a fraction of a fraction of what you’d have to pay to attend a university. 

  Chrissy lips turned up in a mischievous smile and you internally groaned, fully expecting her next question.

  “See any cute boys?” And then, as an afterthought, “Or…girls?” Then she took her eyes off the road again, squinting at you as if she was trying to assess something, “Or…..anyone?” 

  You betrayed yourself, eyes darting to the window before they were back on her and she perked up in the driver’s seat. 

  “Okay, spill.”

  Your heart started thumping wildly in your chest as one particular guy came to mind, but you hadn’t thought about him too much. Hadn’t allowed yourself to entertain the idea of a romance with him. That’s how people got their hopes up and letdown.

  “Sissy! Sissy, come on. You have to tell me. I’m your only friend!” 

  This time, you could tell she was joking, even though she did have merit. You bit your lip as she ribbed you a bit more, the corners of your lips tugging up into a smile. 

  “Okay, okay!” Your hands flew to cover your face, embarrassed, shy and a little giddy all at once to actually be admitting you had a crush. 

  “Steve Harrington.”

  “STEVE HARRINGTON?” She repeated, incredulous and you shushed her even though it was only you two in the car.

  “Sissy, that’s so unexpected! I haven’t really seen him since high school but I didn’t think he’d be your type.” Chrissy admitted with a shrug of her shoulders.

  “He works in the library.” You sighed out, recalling your brief interactions with him when checking out a couple of books. He’d been kind, made a couple of humorous comments about the titles, and always tried to meet your avoidant gaze, which meant he was being nice to you. Coaxing you out of your shell. You actually didn't have much trouble interacting with people, you were more abrasive than you ever were shy, Steve was just a little too easy on the eyes. Made you forget how to talk, and on occasion, walk. It was embarrassing, “Always makes those cute displays with recommendations.”

  “Good for him,” She commented, sounding impressed. “I didn’t really know he was intellectual. Wasn’t, the last I heard. Had a big reputation in high school, seemed kind of mean and everyone called him King Steve.”

  You frowned, feeling the need to protect him, “Didn’t they call you the Queen of Hawkins High?”

  “Yeah, but only to make me seem pretentious.” 

  You raised your eyebrows, glancing away. Chrissy was kind, but sometimes, she could be pretentious.

  “And anyways, I’m not a student at Hawkins High anymore, so they can’t call me that. Maybe Steve really did change. Come to think of it, I haven’t heard much about him since he struck out with a series of girls. Maybe he took a good look at himself and decided a change was needed.” You could feel her eyes on you again. 

  “Does he flirt with you?”

  “No.”

  “See him flirt with any girls?”

  “Nope.”

  “Does he still make his hair all big and poofy?”

  “Looks more voluminous than poofy.”

  Chrissy hummed, “An improvement. Is he all beret wearing and drinking coffee now?”

  You tried to recall ever seeing him in a hat, let alone a beret, “No, I don’t think so. If anything, he’s introspective.”

  “He’s on the spectrum?”

  Your smile waned when you realized she was asking a legitimate question, “Oh. No. That’s—that’s not what that means. I just meant he’s thinking about what he does; how he acts, how he behaves.”

  It got quiet for a few moments.

  ”Well,” Chrissy broke the silence once more, “He might be there tonight. I’m not sure if they’re still friends, but Tommy Hagan is hosting tonight, and once upon a time, they were inseparable.”

  You made a sound of acknowledgment, upper lip twitching in disgust. You knew Tommy, saw him around campus. He was a big jerk, you’d witnessed him throw some guy’s backpack in the trash and pour his drink on it. You wish you’d known it was his party you were going to in advance. Tommy was a nasty piece of work, so his friend group was the same. Out of all of them, though, Carol got on your nerves the most. 

  She didn’t pay you a whole lot of attention, but when you were walking in with Chrissy—and this is Chrissy, so she acknowledged everyone—and she said hi, Carol would just look you up and down before pursing her big mouth like she’d sucked on something sour. One day, you’d like to give her your fist to suck on.

  ”Patrick McKinney is bringing three kegs and I heard Reefer Rick is bringing his whole inventory.”

  “Reefer Rick?”

  “Yeah, he’s the local drug dealer now. I mean, he’s always been but he used to have somebody sell for him while he supplied, but he died.”

  Your eyes widened while your pupils dilated, mind conjuring up some image of a poor dude being murdered for drugs and then the supplier just taking over, not fearful at all of meeting the same fate, “He died?”

  Chrissy nodded her head, looking thoughtful, “Yeah, Eddie Munson.”

  Munson.

  You sat up in your seat, fully alert and invested in the conversation now, “Eddie Munson? Is he buried under the willow tree in the cemetery?”

  You stared at Chrissy, willing her to think faster as she squinted and pursed her lips, “I think Tina mentioned something about someone peeing on a tree over there, so I think so.”

  Your mouth dropped open, expression utterly horrified that someone could do that, “That’s beastly, what the fuck?”

  “I know,” Chrissy sighed with a shake of her head. “I didn't know him all that much, bought some weed off of him a couple of times and he seemed a little scary—appearance and mannerism wise—but he seemed nice when you had to interact with him. He didn’t deserve that.”

  “How did he die?” You asked, voice small and heart shrinking. You didn’t like where this was going. Didn’t like it one bit.

  “Well, the official determination, if I remember right, was like a drug deal gone bad or something, but no one really believes it. He was known to have weed on him, kept the harder stuff somewhere else. Everyone knows he was murdered. They did a number on him, it was all everyone could talk about because Sydney Porter couldn’t even get her dad—he worked at the station—to show her pictures. He told her they messed Eddie up bad. People here really didn’t like him. No one knows who did it though.”

  You sunk back into your seat, mind troubled and stomach turning. This whole time, you'd been tending to and caring for the grave of a murdered guy, taken from this world simply because people didn’t like him. He must have been so lonely. So scared. And they killed him.

  Chrissy was wrong. People in this town knew who killed him, because one of them, or some of them, had to have been his murderers.

  Your fingers curled into tight fists, painted nails digging into the flesh of your palms. Chrissy noticed the change in your demeanor.

  “Oh, sissy. You’re such an empath. Don’t be so sad, I know it’s a horrible story, but he’s resting now. In peace.”

  “No, he’s not. They fucked up his tombstone. He can’t even be dead in peace.” You huffed, furious on his behalf.

  “How do you know?” Chrissy asked, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow. 

  “I go there a lot, it’s nice. Quiet. A little creepy, but that adds to its charm, makes it relatively peaceful. I’ve been visiting all the graves, but I was drawn to him the most. Etched his tombstone. He’s my favorite.”

  Despite the horrors you’d learned, the thought of Mun—Eddie, still brought a wistful smile to your lips. Maybe your presence was enough to settle him, bring him a little bit of peace this town and the people in it refused to give him.

  “H-He’s your favorite…?”

  “Yeah. I feel this….connection with him. From the very first time I visited. Now, I leave him gifts, flowers, pretty stones, poems I wrote, a book of sonnets I stole from the library.”

  “You….should talk to your doctor about this, Sissy. That’s really weird. That’s really weird, sissy.”

  You fought to not roll your eyes. As much as you cared about Chrissy, and knew she cared about you, she didn’t understand you. 

  “Well, since people ruined his grave, I thought it might be nice to clean it up and make sure he’s not forgotten.” You snapped, “It’s not like I call him my boyfriend or anything.”

  Chrissy eyed you skeptically, “Well, then that’s nice of you, I guess. Just don’t go around telling everybody about that, or you’ll be known as the Ghost Whisperer.”

  “He hasn’t talked back to me yet.”

  Chrissy laughed, and freed one hand off the wheel to lightly slap your arm, “See, now that’s funny. If you do tell anyone, end it with that joke. You’ll be a riot.”

  You smirked, staring out the front windshield. You’d let her think it was a joke. For now.

  You made a sound of displeasure as Chrissy pulled into a clear space on the grass and parked. She jumped out to dance over to her friends, some wine coolers cradled in a plastic bag she clutched.

  You allowed yourself a full minute to stew in your misery before getting out of the car and following after her. As you neared her group, you quickly realized that was a bad idea. 

  “Oh my GOD! Vickie, you fixed your teeth! They look so good. I wasn’t gonna say anything because I thought you were happy with the overcrowding, but now that you fixed it, I can’t look away!”

  Yeesh. You beelined away from them and wandered around the crowded front lawn, dodging rowdy friend groups and couples until you spotted a cooler.

  Maybe a drink would calm you down.

  You squatted down and popped the lid, digging around the ice but all you spotted were Pepsi and Squirt cans.

  “The liquid fun is inside.” A guy’s voice came from behind you and you rolled your eyes. You were so not in the mood to be hit on right now. 

  “What?” You asked, tone bored, but you didn’t want to make him seem helpful so you grabbed a Squirt.

  “Alcohol. He keeps it inside.”

  You slammed the cooler shut and popped the tab of the can, rising to your feet, “Yeah, I figured that mu—shhhh.”

  Oh, shit. 

  Steve Harrington was standing before you, eyes alight with mirth as he smirked down at you.

  You swallowed hard, hoping to god your tongue hadn’t gone down with the movement. See? Here you went getting all stupid around him.

  ”Funny seeing you here.”

  You laughed nervously, “Yeah. I—uh, mhm.” You forced yourself to take a drink of your soda to keep from making an even bigger fool of yourself.

  “Sorry if it’s weird of me to just walk up to you. I was chilling on the side of the house and thought I saw you, but I’m a little nearsighted and I didn’t bring my glasses.”

  You pulled the can away from your mouth as your brain registered the lack of metal frames on the bridge of his nose. He looked handsome with and without them, that wasn’t fair. It was still throwing you off. 

  “It’s—It’s okay. Uhm, no harm done.” You shrugged your shoulders, hoping it looked cool and not as stiff as you felt. You even added in a smile with some teeth for a little razzle dazzle.

  “I actually came over here to tell you your books are significantly overdue.” Steve deadpanned, tongue playing with his canine tooth as he scrutinized you and you shrunk, smile falling from your face. You had got to get better at following up on your due dates.

  “Oh.”

  He scoffed, face breaking out into a grin as his shoulders shook with his chuckles “I’m kidding.”

  OH, THANK FUCK. 

  “Oh,” And then, because every god probably hates you, you started snorting with laughter. You cut that shit quick, clearing your throat as you took another sip of your beverage.

  “So,” Steve took a step closer to you, “Are you enjoying─”

  “Hey!” Carol stepped right up to Steve, practically leaning all over him as her ruby red lips spread into a seductive smile, eyes lidded and no doubt a few drinks in with a drink for Steve in her hand. For the billionth time that night, you rolled your eyes, trying not to gag at how desperate she was. You knew Tommy had recently dumped her, the entire town knew and now she was clearly trying to get into Steve’s pants, “I found the keg.”

  She could eat shit, his pants were yours.

  “Oh, Thank you.” Came Steve’s bleak reply and part of you thought he might have actually wanted to talk to just you. Now, you were really annoyed she’d interrupted.

  “Hey, Carol.”

  Carol looked surprised that you’d even dare speak to her, raising her eyebrows, “Hey. Hi— sorry, how do we know each other?”

  “You’re my lab partner.” You were unimpressed, you expected her to be a better mean girl. 

  “Yay me.” The smile she directed at you was anything but friendly, reminding you of the one Laura would make after you did something in public she didn’t like, but she couldn’t yell at you until you were home. Carol swirled the liquid in her cup around, head tilting as she offered it to you, “You wanna sip, partner?”

  “Carol.” Steve warned and she tutted, flicking her wrist.

  “You’re right, I don’t know why I assumed she partied.”

  “I’ll take a beer,” You could handle alcohol, had cleared your mother’s wine cabinet after she was murdered, so this would be no big deal.

  Carol looked annoyed but handed you the cup, and to make sure you wouldn’t gag and vomit, you threw it back, throat opening as you swallowed the liquid as fast as you could to refuse it as much time on your taste buds as possible.

  When you lowered the cup, you realized you’d made a mistake and glanced into it at the small amount left behind, watching as the ground in your peripheral view began to shift.

  Steve seemed to realize something was wrong, quickly taking your cup and ingesting what was left. His suspicions were confirmed and he spat it out on the grass before scowling at Carol, “PCP? Really, Carol? What the fuck is wrong with you? Why the hell would you give that to her!?”

  “Oopsie.”

  But it was too late for you. You dropped the soda can in your other hand and lifted your hands to your face, watching the lines around your palms and fingers begin to move, swirling around and you backed away from them, watching as everything around you began to come undone.

  “Hey!” You heard a voice next to you and someone started rubbing your back, you hadn’t even realized you were crouching. You craned your head up to see Chrissy and you frowned. Her voice was so different, distorted. She sounded more like your dad than Chrissy. 

  Her face was both far away and right in front of you, you reached a hand out to test the theory, see if it really was close. Chrissy caught your wrist, frowning at the state you were falling into.

  Chrissy started asking you questions, about what you’d taken, what you drank but her voice was too loud for you, and the purple behind her head was distracting. Still, you nodded your head.

  At your confirmation, Chrissy’s frown intensified and she helped you to the ground before darting over to chew Steve and Carol out.

  You couldn’t stay on the grass for long, the blades of it stabbing you and sending pain shooting up your palms and into your bones so you crawled some distance away before you managed to push yourself up and stumble towards the house. It was hard.

  Everything was moving. You heard a loud sound and glanced around wildly until you were staring up at the sky, mouth dropping open to see green clouds and lightning. 

  You had to get away, the need to escape, be safe was urgent but it felt like the closer you got to the front door, the farther away it went. Your breathing was heavy and panicked as you kept stumbling forward, arm outstretched and finally you reached it.

  You yanked it open and nearly fell inside, tripping over your feet until you hit the back of the couch and used it to sink to the floor.

  You heard your name being called and lifted your head, eyes crazed as you tried to find the source. Fred Benson approached you, the skinny boy squatting to be eye level with you.

  “You okay?” He asked and you reached forward, grasping his face in your hand and squeezing to make sure he was a real person.

  “You.” Was all you said, booping his nose but still suspicious of him. Was he real?

  “Uh, yeah. It’s me. It’s Fred, we sit next to each other in ASL class.”

  He looked like Fred. You still didn’t believe he was human, squinting as your hands grasped at the back of the couch.

  “You don’t look so good,” Fred pushed the frame of his glasses up his nose, brows furrowed in concern, “Let's find somewhere for you to sit down for a minute. Or maybe a while. Man, what did you drink?”

  He stood up, offering you a hand and you took it but didn’t pull yourself up. Fred heaved with all his might and managed to get you on your feet but he realized just walking you wouldn’t be enough, and so did you because you draped yourself over him, one arm over his scrawny shoulders.

  Fred cursed under his breath but held your weight, leading you out of the populated living room and you watched a couple furiously make out on the couch cushions as you passed.

  “I hate parties. I don’t know why I came—well, actually I do. I never got invited to these in high school, so I guess I’m living out my fantasy now. In all honesty, I’d much rather be watching Weird Science. So far tonight, I’ve seen three cheerleaders throw up and a baby being conceived.”

  “Uh huh,” Was all you could get out, watching people swirl past you like shooting stars.

  “Would you count that as escaping the teen pregnancy statistic? I know they’re out of high school, but we’re all still pretty young.” He commented as he led you up the stairs. You tripped several times and almost sent him flying down them but the two of you managed to make it. 

  Fred was heaving by the time you'd shouldered him into the hallway wall, his face and hands clammy.

  ”Good god, how did I pass P.E.?” The two of you paused there until he regained his breath while you plastered yourself against the wall, cheek pressed to it and hands stroking over the wallpaper. Eventually, Fred peeled you off of it and kept moving until he could find a place to put you.

  “You like movies right? Got any favorite directors? Or favorite films?”

  “Wall.”

  “Huh? Oh, you’re just admiring the wallpaper.”

  “Great Wall of China.”

  Fred positioned you against the wall, looking a little annoyed. You didn’t care, could only focus on the framed photo of the Great Wall of China directly across from you.

  “Oh.” Was all he said when he spotted it. “Stay right here.”

  Then he disappeared and you watched as the painting came to life, and the stones of the wall began moving, rippling. You didn’t even know stones could move like that but now it made so much more sense. 

  Fred appeared again, tugging you along into an empty room. You spotted a trash can and nearly threw Fred into the bedroom wall as you dove for it, retching everything out of your stomach. You could hear Fred gagging, but he was decent enough to make sure your hair stayed out of your way. When you were done, he helped sit you up on the bed, and nearly collapsed next to you.

  ”We did it,” he cheered with no real gusto. And you sat there, still feeling the earth orbiting. It was the most odd sensation, you could feel a spot on your brain pulsing, like a migraine but it felt so euphoric to close your eyes.

  “Here,” They snapped right back open and you glanced to your side to see Fred offering you a handkerchief. Of course Fred Benson carried around a handkerchief. How amusing. 

  “Thank you,” You gave the three versions of him you could see right then a smile and used the handkerchief to wipe your mouth, eyelids fluttering close just as the sound of thunder filled the room, and a flashing of lightning accompanied it.

  “Huh, a rainless thunderstorm, looks like the angels are bowling.” You heard him muse next to you.

  And it brought another smile to your face, “My mom used to say that.”

  At the mention of her, your brain conjured up all the happy feelings and memories of her, huddled on your couch, in your old home watching black and white horror films. They didn’t scare her, so she could tolerate them. You missed her. She made you feel so light, so seen, so—no.

  Something was wrong. Something felt very, very wrong.

  Your smile faded and you felt your belly sink as you opened your eyes.

  “Does that feel good?”

  You didn’t want to, but you looked down to see Fred’s hand on your breast. Your breathing picked up and Fred let go of you to grab your wrist and force you to touch his crotch, “Well don’t just sit there, help me out. Finish what you started.” 

  Anger filled you and you yanked your hand away, “No.”

  Fred opened his mouth as you got up, rushing away from him and stumbling back out the way you remembered while he yelled at you.

  You had to get out, had to get away. Had to be safe, feel safe. You banged against walls as you went, desperate to get out of the house, away from Fred, from everyone, and to safety. That was your only concern as the drug really hit you.

  All you could remember was seeing colors, hearing and feeling the wind against your sweaty skin, leaves blowing with it and gusting around you.

  You had no idea how you escaped the mad house, how long you’d even been walking or how you actually got there, but you found yourself in front of the cemetery, a flash of lightning illuminating the gate.

  To anyone else, a cemetery would have been the worst place to find themselves on a night like this, but you’d already been to hell so you trudged forward, feet taking you to him. Even in your drugged state, you were able to find your way to Eddie. Always would be.

  Your knees dug into the grass as you collapsed in front of his tombstone, fingers reaching forward to trace over MUN and 1986 before your body curled around the large stone, hugging yourself to it. Electric blue tears slipped down your cheeks, staining them with your mascara.

  “I wish I was with you.” You whispered, hating everything, hating this town, hating the people, hating Fred Benson, hating Carol, hating Laura Cunningham, hating how your mom wasn’t alive, hating how the one person you’d unknowingly sought for comfort was someone you’d never met before who was six feet under the ground. And you hated how you weren’t down there.

  You laid there, hugging his tombstone for hours under the thunder and lightning as the PCP slowly left your system.

  When you were able to stand up on your own, you gave the tombstone another kiss, rested your forehead against it and quietly thanked him for helping you find your way home before you left, following the path you’d made during all of your visits.

  The house was quiet when you got in, and Chrissy’s car hadn’t been parked in the driveway when you’d walked up so you figured she was still at the party. Sluggishly, you made your way up the stairs, falling into your shared bathroom. Your hand searched the wall, struggling to find the switch. Once your fingertips made contact with it, you flipped it and squinted as the room was flooded with the warm light. It was still too much for your eyes but you kept it on and walked towards the mirror

  The girl looking back at you was not the same one you’d last seen in it. This girl had blue smudged all around her eyes, faint trails of it over her cheeks and a rats nest for hair. Her eyes burned, not from the light, but from a fury within. 

  She was stuck in a life she didn’t want to live and couldn’t do anything about. As a large strike of lightning flashed from the window positioned at the back of the bathroom, towards the back of the house, you decided to put her out of her misery, picking up a blow dryer and smashing it against your reflection with a yell.

  You stood there, chest heaving as you stared at the broken reflection. Then you tossed the blow dryer onto the counter, and went to bed.

  Your dreams were much more pleasant than your reality, eyelids fluttering open to the ceiling of your old bedroom. A glance to your side confirmed your mother’s photo was at your bedside, next to your alarm clock on your old bedside table.

  “Well?” Her photo asked, shooting you that gorgeous smile of hers, “What are you waiting for? Go get him.”

  Your confusion was momentary, your mother raised her chin in a direction and you knew what would happen, you were giddy for it as you looked down to see yourself wrapped in the most beautiful wedding gown you’d ever seen.

  You rose from the bed into a sitting position, picking up the bouquet on the pillow next to you. Your dresser mirror was directly across from your bed and you took a moment to admire the beautiful girl staring back at you. Where you last remember seeing trails of tears were diamonds, glittering against your skin. Her eyes sparkled with a joy you’d never known. You bid her one last smile as you turned your head to the figure sitting on the edge of your bed, dark curls cascading down his neck, past broad shoulders with his back to you. 

  His right arm was out, palm up.

  He was waiting for you.

  You shifted until you were on the edge of your bed next to him, staring straight forward just as he was.

  Without looking, you knew exactly where his hand was, and you placed your left one over it, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours. Slowly, the two of you leaned towards each other, until your head was on his shoulder and his cheek was pressed against the top of your head, his fingers curling around your hand to ground you. You sighed, all the tension and weight of the world leaving you.

  “Sissy. . .”

  “Sissy…”

  “SISSY!”

  You groaned as Chrissy shook you awake, eyes prying through all the mascara that had crusted over your eyes. It took a couple of blinks until you regained your clear vision, gaze locking on Chrissy leaning over you. Her face was clean of any makeup, skin glowing and hair wrapped up in rollers.

  She’d gotten home later than you and had still been able to look perfect. 

  What the hell?

  “You better get up, sissy. My mom’s losing it over the bathroom mirror.”

  You were confused for a second until you remembered smashing it with a blow dryer last night—or this morning. Well, it definitely would have broken at the sight of you now, anyways. 

  You frowned but made no move to get up so Chrissy tugged your blanket off of you, giggling when the both of you realized you had your hand in your underwear. Hastily, you yanked it out, and threw the blankets back over yourself.

  “It’s okay, Sissy. Everyone does it. It’s natural.”

  “Oh my god…”

  “So, what happened last night to bring this on?” She wiggled her eyebrows and you stared at her for a second. Part of you wanted to yell at her, berate her for letting you stumble around while high on a drug you’d never taken before, the other half knew in Chrissy’s World, it was all rainbows and sunshine—at least, it had been since she’d forced her mother to respect her boundaries. Chrissy didn’t expect the worst in anyone, didn't expect anyone to take advantage of you and certainly didn't expect you to wind up walking to the cemetery and then home on a bad trip. No, in Chrissy’s World, you’d probably spent the night flirting with someone, probably Steve, maybe fooled around in his car before he drove you home.

  You didn’t see it necessary to shatter her world so you groaned instead, the full force of your migraine hitting you now that you were out of sleep’s clutches, and covered your hands with your face.

  “Ooh, your knees…”

  You glanced down to see what she was staring at and sure enough, your knees were scratched up from kneeling at Eddie’s grave, but in Chrissy’s World…

  “I fell.” Was the only excuse you could come up with and Chrissy smirked.

  “Me, too.” Her eyelid dropped in a wink just as Laura yelled upstairs for you, so, begrudgingly, you wrapped yourself in your robe and headed downstairs to receive your punishment.

  Just as you suspected, Laura had attacked you with allegations—that were true for once, you had smashed the bathroom mirror—and your dad looked like he could care less.

  “You know,” She stated, fixing you with those unnaturally blue eyes of hers, “Your dad wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. See the good in you, but I knew. I’m an Intuitive Person, you know. An IP. They’ve got seminars for people like me.”

  Your mind flashed to How to Handle a Narcissist. 

  “Laura…” Your dad warned and Laura inhaled sharply, displeased that your dad was sticking up for you. For once. 

  “Did you know there was a tornado last night? It hailed. Wind blew the fence over. The yard is covered in debris, and now I have to focus on repairing the bathroom, too. I don’t think that’s fair.” She huffed and Chrissy spoke up from her place on the couch.

  “It was a tornado watch, mom. Not a real tornado.”

  “Actually, Chris, the weather was downright crazy last night. I mean, it was really something, I saw green lightning. Big balls of it in the sky.”

  You and Chrissy shared secret smiles at hearing your dad talk about big balls.

  “Love muffin, could you swap out being a weatherman for being a father, right now?” Laura gritted out through her chemically whitened teeth.

  “It’s a Meteorologist,” You mumbled and her head snapped over to glare at you before she was speaking to your father again.

  “Honey, your daughter is a vandal. She’s got a taste for vandalism, and she is deliberately vandalizing and destroying property. First, it was my collection of Precious Moments figurines─”

  “That was an accident, you didn’t wrap them in bubble wrap and I dropped the box when I tripped over the front steps.”

  “Mother,” Chrissy chided, hands crossing over her robe. “Be. Nice.”

  “I am being nice,” Laura hissed, glare never leaving you, “But I refuse to coddle her. She’s headed straight to the nut house with this behavior.”

  You frowned, wiping away some of the dried mascara under your eye, “Can you say that if you’re a Psych Nurse?”

  Laura had the decency to look embarrassed before whacking your father’s arm. He sighed, putting his newspaper down, “Sweetheart─”

  You clocked the twitch in Laura’s eyelid at the affectionate name your father used to refer to you.

  “─You’re gonna clean your bathroom, alright? Sweep up all that glass.”

  ”And?” Laura pushed, still staring at you.

  “And…..um. Pay for the mirror, I guess.” Laura turned her nose up, hurmphing. 

  “That’s fine, can I get ready for work now?”

  Your dad nodded and Laura looked like she wanted to protest but you turned your back to her and made your way upstairs, hesitating at the top when your fathered turned the volume of the TV back on and you heard the news reporter reporting from the cemetery, talking about a grave, under a tree, that had been struck by lightning. 

  You wondered if it had been Eddie’s. There’s no way you’d be able to check today, you’d get home from work too late, so you’d have to check tomorrow.

  You tried to stay busy during your shift at the local tailor’s. You didn’t really have a passion for it, but you were relatively good with a needle and thread. With the magnifier headlamp, you were practically unstoppable, altering coats, dresses, blouses, shirts, all with minimal finger injuries—though luminol on some of these clothing items would no doubt reveal traces of your blood.

  But hey—you now knew what it meant to work so hard you put your blood into something and you always had band-aids on you, in case anyone needed one.

  You were so invested in your work, you hadn’t heard the bell above the door chime when it was pushed open, and didn’t notice Steve leaning against the counter, watching you work until he cleared his throat.

  You jumped, head swinging around to see your crush smiling at you and you raised the magnifying glass portion of the head lamp off your face, feeling embarrassed that he’d seen you with the headgear on in the first place.

  “Hey! I didn’t know you worked here.”

  You let out some nervous laughter, mind racing for ways to make this seem cool but you came up short. “Yeah, I—employed.”

  “I can see that,” He chuckled, amused by your lack of verbal sparring.

  You didn’t know what to say after that so you stared, fingers twisting and pulling the thread you’d been working with, desperate for him to say something or get out.

  “Oh! Uh, I heard you guys also get rid of stains? I’ve got this one on my pan─”

  “THAT WE DO!” 

  You sighed, eyes slipping shut as your moron of a boss came bursting out of the office.

  “What can we do for you, Harrington?” Murray asked, leaning against the counter, causing Steve to lean back, smile now less than thrilled.

  “Murray…I forgot you worked here.” Steve said it in a voice that made you think he would have avoided the shop had he known who it was that was currently in charge of running it.

  “Yup, got me this sweet little gig. And no radios.” He gestured around to the shop, void of any technology save for the cash register—and he made sure it was never him operating it, “Would like to see the government try to control me now.”

  “Right, I just came here to drop off my pants, spilled something on—well, it doesn’t really matter, I just spilled something on them.” Steve placed the folded pair of pants on the counter and Murray immediately unfolded them, searching through the fabric until he found the stain by his crotch. To both your horror and Steve’s, he lifted the strained fabric to his nose, sniffing deep.

  “Mm. White wine?”

  It took Steve a moment to find his voice and close his jaw, “Crush. The soda.”

  “Same thing. We’ll get this right out, my man.”

  You and Steve shared one more look of disbelief before he slowly backed away, the bell above the door sounding as he left.

  “He’s a nice guy,” Murray commented and you shrugged your shoulders, wanting this conversation to be over, “I’m surprised you know him, little loser.”

  You shot him a glare.

  “Oh, c’mon, lets not pretend you’ve got an active social life—if I call you in for a shift, you’re available. Nothing wrong with being a loser. I was one throughout high school and look at me now. Who got the last laugh?”

  You were positive the look of pain on your face should have told Murray that anyone other than him got the last laugh. He was a forty something year old, afraid of technology, convinced the government was watching him, who tried to befriend teenagers. 

  You’d have to kill yourself if you were anything like him.

  When he disappeared back into the office, because of course you’d have to get rid of that stain for Steve, you snatched the pair of pants off the counter. Glancing around to make sure there weren’t any eyes on you, you pressed them to the side of your face, imagining yourself hugging Steve instead of the pants. They smelled like him. It was bliss.

  Then your eyes snapped open.

  Oh, god. You were a loser.

  After your shift, you’d gone straight home. Normally, you’d stop to grab a bite or something, you still had to pay for the mirror you broke so fast food was off the table for a couple of weeks, but on your dining room table when you walked into the house.

  A pizza box. Your stomach growled as you imagined the slice of cheese waiting for you.

  “Is there any left?” You asked, already making a beeline for it.

  “Should be a slice left,” Your dad mused and as you tossed the top of it open, all you wanted to do was maybe beat him with it.

  There, on the parchment liner of the pizza box, was the skinniest and tiniest slice of pizza to ever be cut. Not even the width of two of your fingers.

  “Want me to order another one, sweetheart?” Your dad asked and Laura immediately inserted herself into the conversation. 

  “She can eat it, love muffin. Besides, we’ve got vegetables in the fridge if she’s still not full.”

  “I said we should have ordered two, but my mom had a coupon she wanted to use.” Chrissy didn’t sound impressed.

  “Yes, we got a free soda!”

  Chrissy ignored her mom, “Sissy, we’re going to the movies! You could get something there, they sell pizza and nachos, right?”

  You knew she was trying to find a solution for you, but your bullshit meter for the day had already been capped. You didn’t want movie theater pizza or concessions, you wanted a  reasonable slice of this pizza, not some scrap your step-mother had saved you. It was obvious she was implying that she, your dad and Chrissy were the perfect sized family and you were simply an afterthought. Unwelcome.

  “Yeah, I’m passing on the movie.”

  Before you could stomp upstairs, Chrissy caught your hand.

  “Sissy, please? We’ve got to bond as a family, it’s crucial. If it takes two, how can I do it as one?” She pulled you into her side.

  “Really, Chrissy, I’m super tired.”

  “You’re tired?” Laura asked, incredulous. Here we go again.

  “All you do is work with a sewing machine for hours like some old spinster, I can hardly imagine that being tiring, but my Chrissy just got back from a five hour long cheer practice. They were throwing her around like raggedy ann and she stuck every landing.” 

  “Mom, stop.” Chrissy blushed, but you could see how proud she was of herself, “I’m sure Sissy pokes herself with those needles all the time, and it hurts, I’ve been prodded myself during all of my custom fittings.”

  “I have finger calluses so I don’t even bleed anymore,” You begrudgingly admitted, “I can take it.”

  “I bet you can.”

  After they’d left for the movies, you’d gone upstairs, showered, put on your comfiest pajamas and fuzziest slippers, you grabbed a bowl of chips and set yourself up in front of the TV to watch Dawn of the Dead. You had to give props to all these zombie actors, you couldn’t imagine having to act out being one of the walking undead, imagined it felt pretty stupid but the paycheck and experience must have been cool.

  You popped another chip into your mouth just as someone knocked on the front door. As you placed the bowl of chips on the table to get up, the knocking got louder, more aggressive and you hesitated, fear beginning to swell up inside of you.

  Maybe if you ignored it, they’d go away.

  You turned your attention back to the tv, picking up the remote to lower the volume and hopefully hide your presence in the house. 

  Then, much to your horror, you heard the distinct sound of a pained, gurgling groan. It sounded very similar to the ones you’d heard the zombies making on your tv, but this one was louder. 

  And it was coming from outside your front door.

  You crouched, duckwalking to the foyer where one of the house phones was placed. You’d just picked it up from the receiver when a shadow from the living room window caught your eye. You barely had time to turn your head when something came crashing through it, breaking the glass and yanking the curtains from the rod.

  Shocked, the phone slipped from your hands, banging against the hardwood floor of the foyer and you let out a scream at the same time as the person on your TV, running away from the figure invading your home. 

  You made it to the dinning room. Literally scrambling across the table to put an obstacle between you and the stranger—no, creature. Tall, caked in mud, leaves and stems, it resembled the Swamp Thing. It grunted, groans low and reverberating off the walls.

  “Uuuhhhnng…”

  This couldn’t be happening to you, you couldn’t die like this!!!! It was supposed to be by your hand or nothing!

  ”STAY AWAY FROM ME!” You shrieked, picking up the decorative plates from the table to throw at the creature. You nailed it a couple of times, watching it stumble as the fine china shattered against it. When you ran out of plates, you bolted from the dinning room, screaming as you scrambled up the stairs, and lost one of your slippers in the process but to hell with it! You had to get out of there. Hopefully, one of your neighbors heard your shrieks of terror and called the police.

  You peaked over the railing at the top of the stairs, to see the creature analyzing your slipper. While it was distracted, you locked yourself in your room and made your way to your bedroom window, pulling it open.

  “Okay, okay. I can do this, no big deal. Stunt actors do it all the time.” You climbed outside of your window, body nearly convulsing as you almost slipped down the roof, “Nonononono.”

  You tried to grip onto a couple of shingles but they gave away, slipping right off the house to shatter against the concrete walkway and you realized Laura had no fucking idea what she was doing when it came to house repairs, the dumb bitch had just laid the shingles out without securing them.

  “OH MY GOD-I’M GONNA DIE! HELP!”

  Your body slipped further down the roofing, until you were forced to grab the gutter, gagging when your fingers squelched against whatever was in it. You dangled a good six feet off the ground, and while it wasn’t exactly a ten story fall, with your luck, you’d land on your head and break your neck.

  Whimpering, you tried to pull yourself back up the roof, but it was no use. You had nothing stable to grab onto as you yanked yet another shingle clean off. You glared at it and muttered a goddammit before tossing it somewhere behind you as you went back to hanging on for dear life. 

  “Oh, no.” You mumbled, terrified as your fingertips began to lose their grip, wet with the mystery sludge from the gutter. “No, NO!” 

  You lost your grip, plummeting down but you didn’t meet the concrete. No, the Creature broke your fall and you were now face to face with it. The pressure of you landing on it, made it spit up into your face, green sludge, and you gasped before breaking out into screams again.

  Pushing yourself up and off of it as you ran around your front yard, nearly blind. You were not opening your eyes to let that bacteria infested swamp slime, water, whatever the hell it was, into your eyeballs. 

  You could hear the Creature stomping around behind you as you bobbed and weaved, could feel his presence and you could not believe you were actually gonna die fighting off a swamp monster in your front yard while blinded—in clear and plain view for your neighbors to see, by the way, and unbeknownst to you, an elderly couple was watching you, not even a little concerned about your well being or the creature chasing you around.

  “Stop it!”

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Go away, I’m just a girl!”

  The timed sprinklers went off and you were soon assaulted with them as well. With just about all your senses done for, and the sprinklers washing the guck away from your face, you made a run for the house, slamming your back against the door and locking it behind you.

  Your chest was heaving, wet body pumping with adrenaline as the back of your head thumped against the door. You weren’t done yet. That creature was still out there!!!

  You dove for the phone on the ground, hanging by its springy cord and shouted out hopefully loud enough for it to hear, “I’m calling the police, so if you don’t want your ass riddled with bullets, I’d suggest you leave! They shoot before asking questions!”

  You frantically dialed 911 but there was no ringing, instead, you could still hear buttons being pressed on the other line.

  Bleak, and accepting your fate, you put the phone back on the receiver, and turned towards the living room, where the other phone was located. 

  On the chair, next to where the table the phone normaly rested on, was The Creature. 

  You grabbed one of the lamps, ready to use it as a weapon but it didn’t attack you, just turned the phone receiver this way and that, as if admiring it. 

  Despite your fear, you took a reluctant step forward, casting the creature in the glow of the lamp you clutched and for like the billionth time that night, you gasped.

  The sprinklers had washed some of the filth off of it, too. Before, its head had been caked in a mud helmet, but now, you could actually see it’s head. It had long, disgustingly dirty curls, and wore a leather jacket, jeans and tennis shoes, all covered in grime.

  When it craned its head up to look at you, you readied the lamp, poised to throw it at it—him. It was a guy. Big brown eyes, stared up at you and he made no move to attack.

  Slowly, you lowered the lamp, and crouched down a few feet away.

  His attention returned to the phone—shoe shaped—in his hands and shakily, with stiff limbs, he put it back on the receiver.

  “It’s…It’s cool looking, right? The-The shoe phone.” 

  He glanced over at you and then the phone again as you mumbled out an explanation, 

“Our neighbor in our old town cheated on his wife and she threw all his stuff out the window at him and my dad snatched the phone.”

  “Merrrruhhhhh.” He moaned out, picking up your slipper and offering it to you. When you just stared, he dropped it and you moved the lamp to the side, crossing your legs.

  “I’ve never seen a zombie before.” You marveled, then squinted, “You are a zombie, right? An undead?”

  It took him an entire minute to choppily raise his shoulders, you realized he was shrugging. Or trying to. Every movement he made was choppy. Reminded you of how stop motion was made, except his scenes weren’t being played fast enough to have fluid movements.

  He tried to get up and promptly slipped, accidentally elbowing the mini sound system at his side. It turned on, Sinead O’Connor’s Drink Before the War playing. You’d been the last to use it.

  You watched as his head tilted in interest as Sinead began to croon out lyrics.

  “Do you like music? This is Sinead O’Connor. She makes music that heals souls.”

  He raised his wrist to his chest and you inhaled sharply as you realized he was missing the hand on it.

  “Uhm, no—I don’t think she healed your soul. I meant like, figuratively. Her music makes people feel.” You placed your hands on your own chest, trying to convey your meaning, “She’s one of my favorites.”

  A surprisingly comforting silence fell over the two of you—though he sometimes made his quiet dead guy gross sounds—as you stared at him, taking in the green-gray tint of his skin beneath the dirt all over him, cheeks sunken in. You had a feeling if you touched his skin, it’d be hard, maybe waxy and it was a bit unnerving how human his eyes were, but duh! Of course they were, he was a human. Just. A dead one. At least he wasn’t a skeleton.

  Man, Hollywood wasn’t too far off with their interpretation.

  “C’mon,” You stood up, eyes taking in the state of your home and all the dirt the two of you had dragged in, “I gotta hide you, new dead friend.”

[ervotica]

𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠

pairing; azriel x fem!reader

summary; and so i cry the light is white and i see you

when your wings are taken from you in a brutal act of torture, you see no way to ease your grief. your mate is there to guide you back when you need him most.

warnings; hurt/comfort, ANGST, suicidal ideation, sorta suicide attempt, in depth descriptions of injury

The wind stings at your flushed cheeks where you stand at the edge of the rooftop. It's dark, iridescent balls of light expanding at every edge of your vision as you take a step towards the lip of the roof that overhangs from the house. Wetness clings to your eyes, threatening to spill over your itching waterline when you gaze down to the sea of lights below.

You long to feel the whip of the breeze against your face as you rise and dive into the night sky, to scream and yell at the top of your lungs as your wings flap behind you in tandem with your family.

You'll never feel that again.

You've been a shell of yourself since the day your wings were taken. Had them brutally cut from your body, hacksawed until all that remained were jagged stumps in place of gorgeous, thick corded planes of muscle. Naked. Half the person you once were. Your back is a myriad of scars, still healing and bruised, ripples of broken flesh marring your once untouched skin.

You are broken and ugly and miserable.

It took weeks to even walk again, weeks of rehabilitation, physical therapy with Madja. Weeks of sobbing in your mate's arms as he held you upright, of wanting to claw your way out of your own skin and scream and rage until something snaps you out of this living nightmare. Weeks of Azriel having to force you to eat and drink, to get outside in favour of withering away in your bed.

You're teetering on the edge of the building now, swaying in time with the gusts of air that threaten to send you toppling onto the street below.

"My love, what are you doing?" Azriel's voice breaks you out of your haze, but you don't move; you don't make any effort to step away from the edge. One wrong move from either of you and you're dead.

"I miss flying," you croak.

"I know you do." His voice oozes with pity and it sends rage hurting through your veins like the white-hot lick of a flame. You stumble, swatting Azriel's hands away when he surges forward to wrench you back. Your pulse roars in your ears and you lose focus of his speech, each pleading word blending into one another until you don't bother to decipher the words at all.

"Come back to me," he shouts over the ringing in your ears. "Come back to me, mate."

The name seizes your muscles, pours into your soul like molten lava and solidifies, heavy and unforgiving.

"Why?" you whirl around, heels hanging over thin air, nothing to break your impact were you to fall - or throw yourself - from this great height. Azriel's unnaturally still, not moving, not breathing- calculating how long it would take him to dive after you if you were to slip. "Why do you call me that? Why don't you run from me, leave me here now I'm not of use anymore."

He takes one step, and then another. Sweat beads on your brow despite the frigid chill of the night- his scarred fingers outstretched, waiting for you to take them. The golden thread inside your chest pulls taut like a bowstring. He's calling you home.

"You are my mate." he says. "I need you. Come back to me, my love."

"I'm ruined, Az." The words stick in your throat like syrup. "I'm no good to anyone, anymore. All I'll do is burden you." A sob rips through you. "You won't be happy with what I am now. I just want you to be happy."

The confession almost brings him to his knees.

Something snaps inside of him; eery calm replaces terror as he surveys you with narrowed eyes and a tilt of his head.

This is not your Azriel.

This is the feared shadowsinger- who wears a mask of cool wrath, who bows to no one. A calculated facade of composure.

"You are not ruined," he growls. The glacial fury in his voice has your breath catching in your throat, your insides freezing as if his words have wrapped icy fingers around your throat. "You are my mate, and you will step down and come to me. Now."

You find yourself complying without question, moving away on wobbling legs until your limbs give out and you're tripping over your own feet, hurtling towards the ground. As fast as the mask appears, it slips away, pure, unrelenting relief cascading down the bond.

Azriel's already there, hooking his arms beneath your own to shoulder your weight, a hand atop your head to anchor your body to his own even as you shudder and scream and soak his leathers with angry tears.

"I know, my love. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he murmurs, the words a whisper into your hair as you claw at him, legs buckled and utterly useless. You're settled against thick muscle, tucked under Azriel's chin where he's lowered you both to the ground.

"I'm nothing," you gasp against his chest. "I have no place here anymore. I'm useless."

His hand is an anchor against the back of your neck, grounding when he squeezes the malleable flesh to draw your gaze to his own.

"You are everything."

The welcome pressure on your neck lulls you into drawing a long breath. Azriel deflates, hazel eyes trained on the rise and fall of your heaving chest.

"I am nothing without you," he continues on. "You are my life and my heart. Were you to die, I'd go by your side with a smile. I can't bear the thought of living in a world where you do not exist."

His wings twitch where they're tucked behind him. Your trembling fingers splay against the sharp angle of his jaw.

"I'm sorry," you croak. "I never want to leave you." His knuckles drag across your cheekbones, brushing away the tears that stain your balmy face. "I don't know how to live like this."

His lips press to your temple, brow nestled against the wisps of windswept hair at the crown of your head. He smears a kiss there and ventures lower. One against your jaw, your chin, in the crease of your brows.

And then he slants his lips over your own. Your muscles go soft, ragged breaths evening as he parts your lips with a swipe of his tongue, a hand splayed against the base of your spine as you sag. He brushes your nose with the tip of a scarred finger.

"Come on," he murmurs, urging you to stand. When you do, he tucks you into his chest, arms slung over your shoulders in a crushing embrace. "I will do anything to make this easier for you, my heart. I know it will be difficult, and I know it's scary. But stay with me."

Your arms tighten around his middle.

"Always."

[charliemwrites]

Part 6 of SpecGru (former 141) reader; Simon’s perspective again.

Content: brief implication/mention of reader having idle suicidal ideation. In the way of “I don’t care if something happens to me” kind of way. Happens during a phone call between Price and reader’s new captain.

Please be careful and safe. If someone needs this part summarized, let me know. I love you all very much <3

Here’s the truth of it: Simon never meant for you to leave.

You were too close, that was true. He did everything short of actually hurting you to drive you away. Treated you like a plaything, took your kindness and patience and feelings for him for granted. Left you cold and alone in a hospital bed — unable to see you pale and half-dead all because you were so goddamn headstrong…

That had put it all in vicious perspective. That he couldn’t keep you safe; knowing him, following him, would surely end with you on a metal table rather than a clean hospital bed.

In hindsight, he knows it was as much for his own sake as yours, trying to force that emotional distance between you two. But he just… he can’t do it. Not again. Not you. You’d break him.

But he never meant for you to leave. Not really.

Maybe take an extended solo mission. Or just break off the romance of it all. Maybe you’d stay away for a while, give him time to sort out his feelings and shove the useless ones back into the pit they belong in.

He didn’t expect you to be gone as soon as you could stand.

“You said yourself, Simon, she’s too young and reckless. The 141 can’t afford to babysit her,” Price explained.

“She nearly got you killed, LT,” Soap pointed out. That was before he found out that you were gone for good, not just on disciplinary leave.

And when he did…

“No. No, she dinnae…” he wiped a hand down his face, eyes going a bit glassy. “Why? Why would she… didn’t we mean anythin’ to her? I know we were all a bit on the rocks but ‘s just cos she gave us a scare…”

Gaz took it the hardest, showing up most morning with red-rimmed, puffy eyes. He tried texting you a hundred times; they never went through.

He and Soap begged Price to reconsider, saying that he had no right to kick you out without consulting the rest of the squad.

“I just told her that she should consider transfer,” Price corrected, steely.

“Same fuckin’ thing, ain’t it?” Soap raged. “What else ‘s she gonna do when it’s her captain sayin’ it?”

And Price had finally crumbled, his stubbornness giving way to a clearer head and regret in the aftermath. Simon knew how he felt; had been haunted with the same gut-wrenching feeling for two weeks by that point.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have…” he wiped a hand down his face. “I’ll call Laswell, see if she can put us through.”

As it turned out, your new team had deployed you almost immediately. You were gone, relying on teammates you barely knew, and there was no guarantee when (or even if) you’d be reachable again.

When Laswell put Price through to your new captain instead, he scoffed down the line.

“That how the great John Price sends off his own?” He gruffed.

“I take care of my own,” Price replied, narrow-eyed.

“That’s explains it then, doesn’t it?” A shifting on the other end. “Well, she’s one of mine now, at least; better off that way I think.”

He was on speaker phone with the SpecGru captain. Shouldn’t have been, but it wasn’t a confidential call. So the rest of the 141 was there, vibrating with the effort to stay quiet.

Simon balled his hands into fists, arms crossed. He didn’t trust anyone with one of theirs. No, you belonged right there with the rest of the 141. They could keep you safe, keep you alive.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Price growled.

“Let me just ask you this, Price. And only because I need to know how to take care of her.” A pause, shuffling of papers. Something heavy and almost… hesitant in the silence before- “Did she always have this DNR order?”

Price’s office turned to ice. Simon’s entire shuddered, cored out. The arm of the chair Soap was occupying cracked. Gaz’s hand was covering his mouth, blood draining from his face.

“No,” Price answered, voice little more than rust.

A grunt on the other end.

“Thanks for the insight,” your new captain replied, sounding nonplussed. “At least you were good for something.”

The line droned, dead.

—

You’re standing with the rest of SpecGru, beaming like each and every one of them hung a star just for you. They orbit like you’re the sun, even Nikto, holding you in his arms, letting you lean back against him.

(You used to look at Simon like that. Used to let him hug you like that on the occasion he was weak and gave into the temptation to hold you.)

Every time he looks at you, it’s like a stranger with your face all over again.

You hold your shoulders differently. Tilt your head different. Have a certain control over your facial features better than any mask Simon’s donned.

Today you’re dressed down from your tac uniform. Specifically, your long-sleeve thermal has been replaced by a sleeveless gym shirt. It reveals that tattoo he caught only a glimpse of before — a big, intricate thing from your shoulder down your wrist.

(He and Johnny were going to go with you for your first tattoo. You asked them for all sort of recommendations. Enjoyed tracing Simon’s sleeve when he let you.)

There are more scars too. Burns, bullet grazes, jagged knife marks and patches from bad scrapes.

Nova is finishing up the wrapping on your hand, the other already done. You’re listening to something Russ is spouting off about, whatever it is making you laugh loud enough to be heard where Simon is lurking.

“C’mon,” Johnny says, bumping shoulders with Simon. “Know we fucked up yesterday, but we can try again. Maybe letting her beat the shite out of us will help clear the air, aye?”

Simon forces himself to look away. He already knows you won’t be glancing over.

“Yeah,” he replies. “Maybe.”

[cherriesxinthespring]

WASTELAND, BABY!– ellie williams x reader

hi! I'm writing a new series that happens after the events of TLOU II. it's an enemies to lovers. A story about ellie eventually finding happiness and love again. She finds her light; and so do you.

Before you read the summary– please read this. Free Palestine. Do not consume tlou fanfics without educating yourself about its zionist themes.

*SUMMARY: You had decided to give life one last try. That was it. After the events in The Last of Us Part II, Ellie decides that the only way to find peace is to turn herself in to the fireflies. She finds a lead; they tell her to find you, a young woman who wanders around with no purpose. When she eventually does, you refuse to tell her where the fireflies are; if she finds them, everything that you did in your past would've been for nothing.

You embark on a journey together, walking through rain, snow and through the darkest places this cruel world has to offer. What neither of you expect, broken and traumatized, is to find the light again in each other.

LINKS: read it here. playlist.

C.W/GENERAL TAGS: enemies to lovers, AFAB reader, eventual smut, gun violence, ellie kinda kidnaps you?, suicidal ideation (both ellie and reader), r! is wounded, PTSD and trauma, triggering flashbacks. canon violence in the game, depression. Overall heavy themes, but happy ending i promise!

"For the world is Hell, and people are on the one hand the tormented souls and on other the devils in it." (Schopenhauer, On the suffering of the world)

CHAPTER 1: One last try. You encounter Ellie. She follows the trail of blood you were leaving. You refuse to give her the information she wants. So, she drags you through the entire state of Montana. "You’re bold for someone unarmed and bruised, with a gun pointed to their head"

CHAPTER 2: Courage, dear heart. A small flame inside you ignites. you finally have a purpose; to mislead her, and to escape from her. You come up with a plan, and that involves earning her trust. just enough until she becomes sloppy. But you can't let her see your skills; she might see you as a threat. That plan quickly goes to waste when you encounter a large group of clickers.

“I could kill you right now,” she said, holding your own knife against your throat. Her knuckles were white from how much force she was using. Her features were almost unrecognizable.  “Then you’d break your promise,” you said. “Promises mean nothing in this world.” 

CHAPTER 3: No one left to sing to

The rain doesn't stop, so you and this strange girl are forced to stay inside the cave. You're feverish, disoriented. After a conversation in which she mentions the fireflies, you decide to go through her journal to find answers. And you do.

"Are you a firefly?" she asked, like she had just read your mind, or you were thinking out loud. “not a firefly,” you said. you held back a laugh, but she saw the flash of a smirk. You, the reason why they were gone after Salt Lake City, a firefly. “Definitely not.” you paused.  “are you?” you asked.“No.” She analyzed your features, trying to read you.“Do you want to become one?”Her gaze drifted towards the wall behind you, and not your eyes anymore. Somewhere in you, you knew that for some reason it was a sensitive topic for her. “it’s not that– I owe them something. I have for a long time” 

CHAPTER 4– Your blinding light Summer 2033, Boston QZ You waited for Hannah to come to you. Life in the QZ was simple for you; being confined in between four walls, listening to your mom's Beatles cassettes, and sneaking out past curfew. That is, until your mom slowly starts abandoning you. "Maybe Hannah was the only one you had, after all"

CHAPTER 5– This darkness i'm condemned to

Ellie and you finally reach the nearest town. And your plan is successful; you finally lead her to danger. What you failed to account for is that this danger can harm you, too.

“took them out right?" you said, trying to test the waters. Trying to sound lighthearted, but failing completely at it.  "Damn right you did," she said.

CHAPTER 6: The injury of finally knowing

taglist: since i impulsively deleted my old account, i'm tagging my old taglist. it's still me! the bitch that wrote the abby greys anatomy AU! you can still join my taglist here

@kissesskittens @zahraaziza @uraesthete @elsvrse @lonelyfooryouonly @ximtiredx @ellabsprincess @spaceshipellie @machetegirl109 @sc0ttstre3ted @taylarxse @carmellie @mayfieldsz @brooklynvwilliams @rinarchy @elliesgffr @wannabwanted @ellabsweet @sapphic-and-sappy @imyour-favouritegirl @andersonsgirl @heyabimina @novadanversss @mulan-but-gay @lez-zuha @abbys-sweat-wife @maribelo-o @peppesgirl

if your name is crossed out, it means I can't tag you– please check your settings and follow these steps!

dividers by @saradika-graphics.

[ghostofwriting]

Kildare Split Part Four: in another life

Rafe Cameron x reader

Chapter 4: in another life

Note: Here's part four!! I'm still crying over TTPD. Down bad is so incredibly Rafeit's insane. Anyway!! I love you all so much, thank you for reading and being absolutely wonderful. This part covers the smau up until part 26. Good luck soldiers!!

Warnings: none, not edited, angst, swearing, sadness, julio, mentions of drugs, mentions of suicidal ideation.

Word Count:  6,722

Synopsis: Everyone has noticed that there's been a shift in how Kildare Split acts around each other. Rafe and Y/N used to be so close, they were always pictured together, and always shared stories of each other and for the last few years, there has been nothing from them. A behind-the-scenes look at what went down between everyone's favourite band.

Chapter 4: in another life 

It’s a nightmare. Everything feels off. The walls are caving in. His mouth feels as if he had chewed on cotton balls for the past hour. It’s spinning. He’s lost control of himself and he doesn’t know how he’ll get it back. 

It started because of the thought of them together. Forever. Married. Having kids and living happily ever after clawed and his chest and ate him from the inside out. It was an ugly feeling. He wanted to be happy for her. There was no way he could be. Not when he was so deeply in love with her. Not that he ever stopped. 

It was just one blunt. He stole it from Barry. He was careful not to disturb any of the other drugs he had in there. Careful not to look at them too long. He’s been good. Has been clean for more than two years without any missteps. And here he is high once again. It’s just weed he tells himself. It’s fine. He’s fine. 

They’re about to go onstage when Sofia loses her mind. She goes absolutely ballistic. He’s pulling her off to the side away from prying eyes.

“Stop. Relax. Let me explain.” Everything comes out in a jumble as he’s trying to balance his damn guitar and get her to stop flailing her arms everywhere. 

“There’s no explaining anything. We are over. We are so done, Rafe. Holy shit I cannot believe I put up with your crazy obsession with your friend who by the way you didn’t even date. You’re insane.” 

“Can you calm down for a second?”

“No! For your information Rafe. She doesn’t want you! She’s moved on! And we could have too but no. You’re here still pining over something that doesn’t exist. You are so incredibly disrespectful to me. I have been nothing but supportive of you. And I have put up with so much shit from you so much hatred because what? Did I take you away from her? You chose me! You left her. And now I’m leaving you.” 

“Sofia-“

“The way you have treated me the last couple of months with your album release and hinting that it’s about her? Do you have any idea how that makes me look? How it makes me feel? You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

“That’s not true.”

“Oh! Sorry! You and her! And barely even yourself, you know how I know?” She looks at him, volcanic ash in her eyes. “Because you’re fucking high right now!”

“Keep your voice down.” He pulls her deeper into the corner they’re standing in.

“Fuck you, Rafe. I loved you. I did. I thought that once she moved on, we would be okay. I was wrong. Do not sabotage this for her. She’s happy. You’re not good enough for her. And not for me.”

She does a 180 and storms off away from backstage and away from him. He looks up and Topper is staring at him from where he stands beside Sarah, her hand is on his arm, a look of concern on her face. He shakes his head at them and turns to the stairs that lead to the stage. He spots Y/N and Julio, they’re talking quietly to each other, he sees her laugh and touch Julio’s face, and he kisses the palm of her hand.

Fuck this. He runs back to the green room. He knows he left it around here somewhere and he knows where the lighters are. He digs through three of Barry’s jackets before he finds the blunt. Barry must have moved it. When he pulls it out, a plastic baggie with four white pills comes up with it. He thinks about putting them back. He wants to put them back. He hears the 5-minute warning, stuffs the baggie in his jeans and runs to find a lighter. 

+++

There’s something off about Rafe. She notices when they begin their second song. He’s swaying more than usual, coming up and singing to her face a little too closely. 

It must be because they’re trying to be friends. And maybe the fight with Sofia. It was pretty nasty the way she went at him. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, the crowd and music drowning them out. Sofia looked upset. She must have cooled off because she’s in the audience standing next to Sarah. Not that their manager would allow her to leave even if she wanted to. It would cause too much speculation online and that’s something they don’t need more of. 

She hasn’t had to protect Julio from how Rafe and her used to act on stage, during their no-talking years, they still put on an act but it was nowhere near the level of how they acted pre-everything. They were pretty heavy on the PDA, without confirming anything of course. It was more like singing into each other's mics while staring longingly into each other’s eyes. A lot of heavy petting, she would drape herself around Rafe, Rafe would swing her around and carry her. They would practically make out on stage every show. They did everything but have sex. It’s no wonder the theories and rumours started. 

Post everything that went down, they tamed it and kept it to their side of the stage unless they were switching over. They didn’t share a mic and looking at each other too long was off-limits. And now, well now, it looks like Rafe wants to sing into her mouth with the way he gets closer and closer. Julio knows about their past and he knows that she would never do anything to hurt him but this is a little much. She doesn’t want to rub anything in his face or make him feel disrespected. She also can’t diss Rafe on stage. They have an act. They’re all best friends and nothing bad has ever happened between them. 

So she plays along. And she sings into his mic, she whips her hair in his face and he sings over her shoulder. They’re closer than they’ve ever been. This should be a fun one to look at online. At some point, her shirt comes off. She’s a little angry at Rafe’s immediate switch-up. She feels that since they’re just figuring out how to be friends, he could give it a rest and not go all out. So her shirt comes off. It got stuck on the mic stand, she got pissed off that it ripped a little and she took it off, throwing it into the crowd. At some point Rafe is not even fully on the stage anymore, he’s lying down looking up at her as he plays his guitar. She’s standing over him, singing into the mic and playing the bass all while wondering what the hell has gotten into him. 

Security is going insane over Rafe hanging off the stage and people are trying to grab his legs. Sarah is diving into the crowd trying to get a shot of what’s happening on stage. She kind of wants the show to be over but at the same time, it’s the most fun she’s had on stage in a while. 

+++

Trying to find their footing after not being friends for three years, that much is clear. One moment he’s trying to make out with her onstage and the next he can barely look at her. It has been a little bit harder than she thought it would be. 

It’s strangely painful. The realization that they can’t go back to how they were before anything happened. She knew it wouldn’t be easy but these awkward silences might kill her. 

She’s sitting between Topper and Rafe, staring directly at Barry’s bored face as Ash explains who kows what. Something about which celebrities and important label heads are coming to tonight’s show. 

She didn’t care about the label heads. One of their most important shows had been the one two days ago. Their friends had all flown in from different places to see them. Now back in the city she calls home, that’s still all that matters. 

Cleo and Pope flew in from New York, John B and JJ had flown in from Hawaii. JJ would be leaving almost immediately after to continue training for the next big surf competition and John B would be staying at Sarah’s. Julio was at her house, she didn’t want him to have to spend the entire day at rehearsals so she told him to come by when he was ready. Ward was around somewhere too, probably with Sarah and John B. Kelce was at his hotel and would be arriving later with Kie after he got her from the airport, the only one that had missed the last show. It was an important show for them because of their people not because of some random celebrity they didn’t know. 

After the show, they would go to one of their favourite bars to celebrate and then she would be off to North Carolina for a week before moving to Madrid for the foreseeable future.

She was so excited to be there a bit before Julio started filming so they could visit his friends and family. 

After Ash is done running them through the guest list, they have some downtime before their private soundcheck and the fan soundcheck. Fan Soundcheck is her favourite because they get to play some deep cuts and answer some fun questions.

They’re standing backstage as one of their stagehands announces they’ll be out in three minutes. They’re standing in a circle making sure that their in-ears are on. Barry and Topper bickering about some random thing.

“Ready, buddy?” She looks at Rafe, her eyebrow raised as Barry laughs. 

“Buddy? Good one.” Topper laughs as Rafe’s face turns red. 

“Okay yeah, I’ll never say that again.”

“Please,” she laughs, “let’s go.” She leads the guys onto the stage as their fans start screaming. 

They play a song right off the bat and then sit down for a few questions. 

Everything is going fine, the mood is great, they’re all vibing with each other on stage, it’s great. Right up until it’s not. 

“Hi, my name is Sammy, my question is for Y/N.” She smiles at the girl and waves. 

“Hi Sammy, I remember you! You saw our last show too,” she speaks into the microphone. 

“Hi! Oh my goodness yes. I drove here from San Francisco after getting tickets last minute.” The girl rambles. “Okay, so I was wondering, what are you most looking forward to doing on your break?” She mulls over the question before answering. 

“I’m going to be semi-moving to Spain for a while so probably just exploring the city.” Sammy nods and thanks her as the mic is passed to the next person.  

Something shifts on stage after that question. She doesn’t know if she missed something or what, but suddenly the mood is tense. Barry’s in between her and Rafe and she can still feel the tension coming off him in waves. 

After the last question, they played one more song and bid the fans goodbye, telling them they would see them in a few hours for the show. 

Barry goes and does whatever Barry does before a show, Rafe storms off and Topper follows him. She looks over at her guitar tech who just shrugs his shoulders and takes her guitar from her. 

She texts Julio asking when he will be getting to the arena. When she doesn’t receive an answer, she sits in the green room, with no idea where the boys are. 

She dozes off for an hour before her phone blows up with texts from Rafe. She opens Julio’s message first, telling her that he would leave her house in an hour. Then she goes to Rafe’s texts, saying something along the lines of needing to talk to her. She sees that she has notifications from Twitter as well and opens those. From Rafe too. 

“I need you”

“Please don’t go”

“Y/N”

What is he doing? They just talked about trying to be friends, she knows about his feelings but he can’t go around blowing up her phone. He’s just sad about Sofia, how could he expect her to stay after he confessed to her that he still had feelings for his ex who wasn’t really his ex? 

She asks him what he’s doing and he asks to meet her. She tells him no, and that it’s too late to d this. Too late in the day, too late because the show is about to start, and too late because she’s going and she doesn’t want him. 

After telling Cleo to haul ass to the arena. Needing to speak to her about the Rafe of it all. She runs to the bus to hide. She doesn’t want to see him so she’ll avoid the arena. 

She doesn’t think about how if he doesn’t find her inside, he’ll look for her on the bus. 

“Y/N?” She hears him call. She’s in her bunk, curtain drawn and holding her breath. He walks closer and stands in front of her bunk. She can see his shadow. 

“I know you’re in there.” She stays quiet still. “Please talk to me.” She sighs, not able to deny him when he sounds so sad. 

She draws the curtain open and meets his eyes. 

“We talked about this.”

“No, we talked about how I would try to be your friend. Not how you’re going to move away with your boyfriend.”

“What did you expect me to do? Sit at home alone for however long the break ends up being?”

“No, I thought we could hang out when we were both home and repair our friendship or whatever.”

“Rafe, I can’t do that. I won’t put my life on hold for you anymore.”

“Why are you doing this? Why can’t you just feel the same way? Why won’t you love me?” 

She’s surprised by his words. For the first time, she looks at him. Takes in his dishevelled appearance, his jittering hands, and the dilation of his pupils. 

“Are you high?” she swings herself off her bed to get as much distance between them as possible. 

“No.” He’s lying. 

“What the fuck Rafe? Why would you do this to yourself?”

“Because I’m fucking sad okay? And I don’t want to feel anything.” She can’t believe he would go down this road again,  after being clean for so long. She can’t believe he would be around her like this. Not when he knows how many bad memories it brings.

“You have to leave. You have to get away from me.”

“Y/N.” His voice cracks.

“No. You know my history, the shit I have been through because of drugs. You know it very well actually. I don’t need to be around your erratic behaviour. It’s triggering, it hurts me.” Her voice is firm. 

“Okay. I’m sorry.” he backs up turning around quickly and storming off the bus. 

She sits back down, her hands slightly shaking. If he’s using again, she doesn't know if she can have him in her life. 

+++

He’s happy Sarah’s the one that finds him. He’s spread out on the floor. The curtain covers him from the fans' curious eyes. The stage is quiet, with only a few people coming and going. The rest of the crew’s at dinner. 

“What are you doing?” She stares from above him.

“Laying.” He mumbles

“Are you not going to come eat dinner?” She points behind her in the direction of the lunch room.

“Not hungry.”

“What’s wrong?

“Sad.” He sees the annoyance at his one-word answers cross her face. 

“Rafe, full sentences please.”

“Y/N told me to go away. That she couldn’t be around me.” She crouches down next to him. 

“I thought you two were trying to be friends?” she questions. 

“I ruined it.” He can feel himself well up. 

“How?”

“By being high.”

“You are not.” she kneels left to him now, grabbing his face roughly and bringing it so his eyes are aligned with hers. 

“I am.” She looks angry at him. He feels tears start to gather. God, why does he make the women he cares most about in his life so upset?

“You can’t be high. You’re an addict.”

“Just weed. Nothing more.”

“I don’t care if it’s just weed. It’s not just weed for you. It’s a slippery slope. You go from weed to forgetting you’re sober, to cocaine.”

“I’m sorry.” The pity in her look makes his stomach twist.

“Let’s go get you cleaned up before the show. You need food and to sober up.”

“I’ll be sad though.” She stands up, extending her hand out for him to take. 

“You’re high and sad, I don’t think it helped.”

“That’s what the cocaine is for.” He jokes, it doesn’t earn him a laugh, just a scowl.

“Don’t even joke about that.”

Maybe he can get drunk after the show, then he’ll forget how sad he is. 

+++

The show goes off without a hitch. They are all smiles, dripping with sweat as they take the final bow of the tour. Tears are prickling her eyes as she looks over at Topper. His smile was big and shining. She looks at Rafe and he’s messing with Barry’s hair, a burst of laughter leaving him as Barry jumps on his back. Barry waves to the crowd as Rafe piggybacks him off. Topper grabs her hand and pulls her off the stage, waving one last time before they can’t be seen anymore. 

Julio waits for her, a huge grin on his face and his arms wide open for her to run into. Once she lets go of him, she hugs Cleo and then Pope, and then she’s tackled by JJ, Kie, and John B. 

“You all killed it!” JJ yells in her ear, making her jolt back. 

“Fucking best show we’ve ever played!” Topper screams, coming up to her and hugging her. Barry joins the hug putting his sweaty arms around them both. Rafe hesitantly joins the group hug. 

“Another successful tour,” he says, his eyes catching hers in the huddle. She smiles softly. 

“Let’s go party!” Kie screams from down the hallway where she’s started to walk away. 

Everyone starts cheering and following her lead. She finds Julio’s hand as they make their way to gather their stuff and leave the arena. 

+++

He spots Julio come in through the back doors of the club, Y/N hanging off his arm, her lips swollen. His eyes soften when he looks at her. He sees how much he loves her, and how he would never hurt her. He would go to the ends of the world for her. And he hates him. He can’t stand that she’s not hanging off his arm. That he’s not the one kissing her against a brick wall outside a sleazy bar. 

Sofia’s gone. They’re done. And he’s hurting for the relationship that he could have had if he had let go of Y/N. Not that he ever could have. It wasn’t in the cards for him. A world where he wasn’t irrevocably in love with her didn’t exist. 

“You okay?” Sarah comes up next to him, planting her hands on the table to steady herself. 

“I’m high again.” He confesses. 

“Rafe, we talked about this.”

“I get that I just can’t stop. Everything hurts.” They look of pity from earlier returns.

“You need to stop.” He looks past her to where Y/N is.

“It’s just weed.”

“You don’t get to do weed. It’s not just weed to you. Slippery slope remember?

“I know.” 

“I’m here for you. I think you need to go back to rehab. Either before you tour or after. It needs to be sooner rather than later.  I’ll drive you there myself.” She offers. 

The idea of going back to rehab irks him. He’s not as bad as he was last time. He has control over it. At least that’s what he tells himself. 

“I don’t know how to be okay watching her be with someone else.” Sarah looks behind her at Y/N with Julio. Her smile lit up the room. Her laugh was music to his ears. 

“You don’t get to break down about this. You made your choice. Let her be happy. you need to focus on staying sober, you heal, and you move on.” 

“How?” He can’t rip his eyes away from the couple. Wishing with everything in him that it was him with her.

“By being her friend, Rafe.” She pats him on the back. He watches as she follows Topper out the back door where Y/N and Julio had come through earlier. 

Everything he and Sarah talked about flies out the window when Julio of all people see him standing there with a little bag full of who knows what that Barry gave him. Barry’s drunk and high, that’s one of the only reasons he gave it to him. Barry would kill him any other time. 

He’s been toying around with the idea of just doing it. Taking all these pills and getting it over with. 

“You probably shouldn’t take those.” Rafe side glances at him but doesn’t speak.”

“If you’re doing that shit you shouldn’t be around her.” Rafe doesn’t like him and he likes him even less when he tells him if he can or can’t be around Y/N.

“Mind your business.” He barks out.

“This is my business, you know why? Because she’s my business. And she’s a recovering addict too, Rafe. Or did you forget?” He shrugs. 

“Look, I don’t care if you care about your sobriety. But we both know you care about her enough not to risk hers. So if you’re going to do that shit, don’t bring it around her. And stay away from her.” This is the angriest he has ever heard the dark-haired man. 

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do on my tour with my friends.”  Deep down he knows Julio’s right. Right now he doesn’t care what the man says. He wants to fight him. 

“Do whatever the hell you want with yourself, I’m asking you to please, stay away from Y/N if you’re going to do drugs.”

“So you’re isolating her now too.”

“What does that mean?” Julio looks at him, one eyebrow raised, lips tight.

“You’re going to take her away. You’re taking her away from her family and her friends, to live in a country where she knows nobody. What kind of boyfriend does that?” 

“I’m taking her away from you, right?” 

“Yeah, you are.” The words spill from him before he can even think of denying them. 

“She isn’t anyone’s to take away. She makes her own decisions and she chose to be with me.” Julio saying shit like that makes him feel like he thinks he’s the best option. The best man out there.

“Shut up. You’re not better than me just because you say that stuff.”

“I’m not better than anyone, just let her be.” He doesn’t say anything. Julio stands up.

“You had your chance. Let her go.” He stays quiet. Julio starts to walk away. 

“I can’t.” He sees as Julio’s steps stutter.

“I’m going to fight for her.” 

“There’s nothing left to fight for.” He walks away. Back into her arms. Where he wishes he could be.

+++

The two weeks back home in Kildare were filled with press and interviews. Filled with people asking them when the next album was and when they would be back. He was scheduled to go to rehab after two weeks back home but due to scheduling, they had to move his tour up. Y/N was already in Spain. She spent a bit of time with her family, made sure everything was good and then flew off to Europe, taking his heart with her.

They were okay again, he had explained that he would go to rehab and try to get himself under control again. She told him that she was proud of him and that she wished him all the best. She told him that she wouldn’t be able to make it to his first show but that she would be there for his last. She hugged him goodbye on her last day on the island and told him that he would see her soon. 

The engagement scare still circulated in his brain. He’s so afraid that she would get engaged while she was away and he would truly lose her forever. Whenever he thought about it he felt like throwing up. 

One month. One month and he would see her again. 

+++

She stayed with Julio’s family for three weeks in Madrid before they had to go to Valencia where he had to film. She liked being in Madrid the most because she knew how to get around and she could stay at Julio’s house. In Valencia, they’re staying in a hotel so she doesn’t have the comfort of her things. She’ll go to the set with him most of the time but other times they are such long shoots she’d rather do anything else. She wants to explore but she’s so directionally challenged she’s scared to get lost and never return, her map couldn’t even save her sometimes. 

Julio cooks for her every day, he teaches her how to cook some dishes he learned in his classes, they write songs together, and she runs songs by him which turns into them taking turns serenading each other. They drunkenly kiss under street lights and dance in the rain. She’s never felt happier, ever been so in love. 

A month in and she’s back in Los Angeles where Rafe’s playing his last show. She’s excited to be here for him but she’s counting down the hours until she can go back to Spain. 

When she gets home she checks to see that her house hasn’t been broken into and that all pipes are still in place. Her worst nightmare is returning to a flooded house. It all seems normal, she opens a few windows to air it out. Penny’s back in Spain with Julio so she feels extra alone. 

She texts Rafe that she’s back in town and he texts her back within a minute. 

“Thank you for coming, angel.” She smiles at the nickname and responds,

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

He sees her and his world stops. Her hair is in loose waves and it looks a little longer than when he had last seen her. His heart reaches out to her, begging to be in her presence. Sarah notices him there standing like an idiot and waves him over, the motion grabbing Y/N’s attention. 

“Hey,” he says walking over.

“Hi!” She says putting her arms out to him, she goes on her tippy toes to reach him. 

“How are you?” He asks her, slowly letting go. 

“I’m good! Jetlagg is kicking my ass, but happy to be here! Look at you, rockstar.” She has a wide smile on her face that makes him feel like he’s seeing the sun for the first time.

“Yeah,” he laughs a little, scratching the back of his neck, shy all of a sudden.

“I heard a little rumour that Sofia was around?”

“I invited her to a show, extending a branch and all and we talked but that ship has sailed.”

“Are you on good terms?”

“I think we could be better, but it’s okay, I’m not holding my breath.” She links her arm with his, he looks at where their arms connect and feels like he’s on fire. How is he ever going to get over her?

+++

Rafe is amazing. He’s in a class of his own when he’s up on stage giving the show of a lifetime. It makes her tear up. She can’t help but think how he almost gave this all up when they were younger. She can’t imagine him anywhere but the stage. If he were working for his dad, his star would be caged. She’s so happy she could be a small part of his journey. He deserves the world. 

For the first time since they started talking again, she feels like they can go back to normal. She loves him. She can have her best friend back. 

+++

She doesn’t know how fast everything can fall apart. It’s perfect. Too perfect. She should have known that the other shoe would drop sooner or later. That’s how her life goes. She should have known she couldn’t have everything she wants. Things get ripped away eventually.

Rafe and Topper had mentioned that there were rumours they might have to go on a festival run. She hasn’t heard anything from their manager or their label. She likes the idea of a festival run, it could get them playing in front of people who don’t know who they are and expose them to new crowds.

She misses performing, she knows this would cut her time in Spain short. Much shorter than anticipated. She’s supposed to be there for almost seven months, with a bit of travelling back and forth until Julio finishes filming and they can stay in New York for a while. 

She’s only been here for three months. It’s been so nice to be back with Julio full time, and get to do normal couple things after work. She doesn’t know how she’ll break the news to him. She chooses not to until she knows for sure. 

The peace is short-lived. 

“What is this?” Julio holds up the phone for her to take. She grabs his phone and looks at Boston Calling’s festival lineup. She reads trying to see what he’s talking about and finally finds what he’s asking about. Saturday, May 8th: Kildare Split B stage. 

“I promise I didn’t know anything about this.” She tries to reassure him.

“That’s in two weeks.” He says to her, she feels the emotion in his voice.

“I know. I’ll talk to them.” She gives him his phone back and wraps her arms around him. 

“I’m sorry.” They stay wrapped up in each other, silence overtaking them.

+++

“Ash, no one told me. I just thought I had more time.”

“There’s nothing we can do, we have the contract, you’re expected here.” She slides her hand over her face and sighs. 

“Okay. That’s fine, but I’m leaving right after, no press.”

“Y/N, that’s not the only festival. You’ll be doing stops all spring and summer.” Her stomach drops. 

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” 

“I’m sorry. The label will make no exceptions. You have to be here for every show.”

+++

She cries in Julio’s arms about having to leave so soon. He tells her it’s okay and that it’s nothing that they aren’t used to. She hates being used to being so far from him. She already misses him. 

They try to get back to normal for the remainder of the time but something shifts. She can’t quite place it. She doesn’t know if it’s her or if it’s him. It feels off. For the first time since they met, it feels like they’re orbiting around different stars. 

They’re returning to their apartment from lunch with one of his co-stars when her world starts to crack. She knows what he’s thinking before he even says it out loud. His eyes are sad and she can read him. She’s never hated him a day since they met. Not until now. She tries to distract herself, tries changing the subject, she tells him she’s going to shower and get ready for bed. 

In the shower, she tries to scrub away the doubt and rubs at her skin to try and rid herself of the feeling. Impending doom. The world ending. A black hole fiding her universe and destroying it before she can do anything to stop it. 

When she gets out of the shower he’s sitting on the edge of their bed facing her, she’s still trying to avoid it, she kisses his cheek and turns away. He stops her from walking away by grabbing her hand and pulling her towards him. She doesn’t face him. She can’t.

“This is so hard.” His voice comes out hoarse.

“Then don’t do it.” 

“I love you so much it hurts.” It’s not supposed to hurt. He taught her that. 

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

“You said we could get through it. You said that it was nothing we hadn’t done.”

“I know what I said. I thought I could.”

“And now you can’t.” He looks at her, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry. I wish things could be different.”

“No. No. No. Stop, no, you don’t get to break up with me.” She’s screaming, the tears already spilling from her eyes. She’s never felt so crazy. And her world falls apart. She doesn’t remember a time before her life was him and her.

“Y/N. You know I love you, I would do anything for you, and this is the right thing to do.”

“No. You don’t get to choose what is right for me. I do. And I choose you. I always choose you.”

“It’s not feasible. Being away from you. It hurts too much. It hurts you and it hurts me. I can’t do 

it. My heart breaks every time you leave.”

“I’ll do anything.” Tears fall from his eyes as he gulps.

“Moving here is not realistic for you, you were supposed to be here for way longer and look, you leave in three days. I don’t blame you. It’s everything you’ve worked for and I won’t be the person that holds you back.” She’s sobbing now, she can’t see him over her tears, she’s shaking and desperate to get him to listen. To keep him. 

“I’ll quit the band.” It comes tumbling out of her mouth before she can stop it. she grabs his face and makes him look at her. “I’ll quit.” He looks at her eyes wide. 

“No.”

“Julio, please.”

“You don’t mean that, you’ll resent me and you won’t be happy and it’ll ruin us.”

“I won’t. I promise.” She’d never heard these sounds come out of her body before, so guttural and painful from somewhere deep inside her. 

“You will. You would never ask me to quit acting, would you?”

“No,” she whines, the tears flowing.

“Then how could I ask you to quit your dreams?” He’s right. She knows he is and it fucking hurts. She wants to rip her heart out. She’s never felt pain like this and she wishes she could have never met him. 

That’s not true, the thought of never having him in her life hurts. No matter how painful this moment is, the realization that their relationship is over is, she would never take back the years she spent with him. He showed her what it meant to be loved. How it felt to be seen and wanted. He taught her selflessness in love. She would never take it back. She needs to numb the pain. 

She falls into his arms, her face on his chest as she cries and cries. He holds her like he never wants to let go and cries with her. God how she wishes she could live another life. How she wishes they could be other people. In another life, she thinks. In another life. 

He’s what she wants, but she’s not what he needs. Because she’s hurting him. She’s been hurting him and he can’t put up with it anymore. She’s not worth it.

She books her flight for that night. Not wanting to prolong their inevitable goodbye. She watches as he closes the door to his apartment. The last time she’ll be here. They hold hands on the way down to his car and then as he drives her to the airport where he kisses her for the last time. Kisses her goodbye. And she gets on the plane and cries all the way home. The flight attendant keeps bringing her water and the people around her are whispering. She closes the curtains around her pod. Her eyes focus on the sides of the window as the frost builds like little spider webs reaching out to her.

She loves him. She loves him. She can’t believe this.

+++

She gets to her house. Penny next to her. She sets her stuff down next to the door and collapses into a pile of skin, bone, and numbness. Her heart missing. Her heart was somewhere back in Spain with the boy he dragged her out of her isolation and brought her back to life. How could she ever be okay again?

She doesn’t leave her house or her bed until the day she has to be on a flight to Boston. She has about 100 missed calls and a billion unopened text messages. She doesn’t care to talk to anyone. Doesn’t want to explain the breakup. 

+++

She can feel herself isolating. To the way, things were before him. She’s in a room full of people and she feels the most alone she’s ever been. She waves everyone off, not giving them a second glance. She marches on stage, she plays the show with a missing heart. Pretending she’s okay. The band sees right through her, the fans don’t know better. 

Everyone is worried about her. Ash forces her to come out with the band and crew. She’s probably scared she’ll overdose if she’s on her own. All the telltale signs of how she used to be. They’re keeping an eye on her. 

She doesn’t feel like she’s in her body, she’s floating through life right now. She walks out onto the balcony, needing fresh air. 

Everyone’s dancing as she sits on the balcony and stares at the night sky. The wind makes goose bumps rise on her skin. She feels another tear try and escape her eye. She blinks it away before it can. She’s so tired of crying all the time. 

“Hey, you.” Topper steps out into the crisp air. 

“Hey,” she whispers, trying to cover that she’s been crying. 

“You okay?”

“No.”

“It’ll be okay. Sometimes love just doesn’t last. It happens and it’ll pass.”

“We didn’t break up because we didn’t love each other. If the distance didn’t exist I would still be with him. I would choose him over and over again but I was hurting him and in turn, I was hurting myself and neither of us expected or would accept the other quitting their dream jobs to move. So we’re done and it fucking hurts, Top. I saw forever with him. I haven’t felt that way about anyone ever. Part of me thinks that one day, when we’re both settled and not chasing the next best thing, we’ll be together.” She’s choking up, tears spilling over.

“Come here,” he opens his arms to her and she falls into them, “I’m here for you.” she looks over his shoulder to where Rafe is with their friends. 

“For now I just want to drink and cry and sleep for three weeks. I want the pain to stop. I don’t want to feel.” She pulls back from Topper, grabbing his arm and dragging him back inside. 

She would forget. At least for tonight.

+++

Her head pounds in the morning. She would blame all the crying she’s been doing but it’s mostly the alcohol. Cleo would kill her if she knew how much she was drinking again. She opens her eyes and looks around the half-lit room, the morning sun peeking through the curtains. The curtains are on the wrong side of the room. She looks around some more and notices clothes thrown on the floor. Men’s clothes. This isn’t her room. 

She remembers bits of the night before, kissing and touching in the elevator ride, the fight to find his room key, looking into his blue eyes and forgetting the name of the man with the brown eyes. At least for a moment. She blinks as if that would stop the headache.  

“Shit.” She hears from beside her. She slowly turns her head until her eyes meet the blue eyes staring back at her. 

“Top.”

“Fuck.”

[throneofsapphics]

I figured I should ask before requesting but here goes nothing, again, ‼️TW‼️;

Can I request more angst with Az? Like uhmm.... Maybe the reader has extreme trust issues and she finally has opened up to Az but now that Elaine is here, she finds Ax drifting (not much but they don't do their normal dinners together as much as they used to, they don't bathe together as much, etc, small things she needs to that stability) and it starts to eat away at her but she doesn't want to tell Az about her feelings because she feels like a burden but then maybe Mor or someone convinces her to talk to him but he's had a long day so he snaps at her and leaves and she ends up... Offing herself..... Uhm.. and then Az's finding her body the next morning and his reaction and everyone else's too...... 👁️👁️

It only takes three 

Azriel x Reader

Summary: “There were three words you came to say, three little syllables, and it only took three to shatter you.”

Warnings: suicide, pills & alcohol, suicidal ideation, angst

A/N: I appreciate you asking, thank you for the request! & what’s a little more trauma for the inner circle? know your triggers y'all, this is heavy

Azriel dedicated himself to gaining your trust. The one person who managed to knock those walls down, and it took decades before you’d opened up to him. Mor was a close second. Maybe it was a cliche, but he understood you, more than anyone else. He’d listened through everything, listened as you broke, and helped you put the pieces back together. 

All these years, you’d been waiting and hoping he’d see it, hoping he’d feel the same bond you did. You were somewhere between friends and lovers, nothing ever clear or defined. But, you knew he was the one person you could rely on. 

Resentment was ugly, and so was jealousy, but you couldn’t help those emotions as you watched his infatuation with the middle Archeron sister grow. It was nothing against her, she truly was a lovely person, and you could see why Azriel took an interest in her. The nasty little voice told you he’d grown tired of you, that you were too much, that he’d found someone less burdensome - as you’d always feared. 

At first, you wrote it off as him being busy. That’s what he said - and he’d never lied to you. After the war with Hybern, things hadn’t quite settled and his workload was high. You tried to be understanding, to be respectful of the boundaries he’d subtly set. But you craved your old routine. Wednesday morning breakfasts, him slipping into your bed when he couldn’t sleep, bringing him tea when you knew he was working a late night. He used to always leave his door cracked, but recently it had been locked. Any knocks went unanswered, even though you could hear him inside. Instead, you’d leave the cup outside of his door, only to find it there in the mornings - untouched. 

It really began to fall apart, to you, when you went to visit Feyre at the River House. Azriel said he had some kind of work mission, that he’d be out for the day, and as Feyre led you around, he was in the gardens, with Elain. You didn’t let him see you, instead you stuck out the rest of the tour with a smile, saving your tears for home. 

It was a different type of torture, watching the one person destined for you fall in love with someone else. You tortured yourself too, holding on to hope he’d realize and he’d come back to you. 

Finally, you built the courage to tell Mor. You needed a sounding board, someone to give some advice, someone outside of your head. 

“Tell him,” Mor encouraged you, “he’ll understand.”

“He’s been pulling away, I don’t want him to think I’m trying to … I don't know, trap him.” 

“Az,” she sighed, “he’s wanted to find his mate for … well maybe even for centuries. For a shadowsinger, he’s too stubborn to see what’s right in front of him,” her mouth curved up at one corner. “If you don’t tell him, he might never know. I imagine you’re tired of waiting.” 

“You have no idea,” you laughed, but stood. Brave. Three words; I’m your mate, and at least the weight would be off your chest. Whatever happened next, whatever his reaction was, you could figure that out as it came. Despite the growing distance, he was still the person you trusted above all, and you knew he wouldn’t hurt you. 

For once, his door was open. This felt like a good sign. 

“Az,” you called, peeking your head inside the room. “Can I talk to you about something?” 

“Tomorrow,” a clipped one word answer, not even bothering to look up from his desk. 

“It really is important.” 

“It can wait.” there was such a finality in his tone. Almost like he thought nothing regarding you could be important. But you wanted to give it one more shot. 

“Please-” 

“I don’t care, whatever it is, I. Don’t. Care.” 

Well, he’d finally looked up at you, like you were some obnoxious fly he was trying to get rid of. Swallowing your tears, you nodded and turned away. Part of you knew you couldn’t promise tomorrow. 

There were three words you came to say, three little syllables, and it only took three to shatter you. To shatter the fragile self he’d helped you build. 

-

Maybe it was intentional. You knew exactly what this cocktail could do to you, and you wanted that sweet release to drag you under. When every breath felt like a chore, every word like an ache tearing out of you, it felt like the only option. 

One hand clutched the bottle of pills, the other the bottle of wine. 

Pills from a friend, who warned you taking too many could kill you. That warning was a siren call now. 

You were already drunk when you poured the entire bottle into your hands, throwing them back without a second thought, wine washing them down. It would take you into sweet, sweet oblivion, and only the mother knew whether you’d wake up on this earth or not. 

Maybe your soul could become one of those pretty little spirits, migrating on starfall. Or maybe you’d end up in another universe, like the ones you studied in the library. You giggled to yourself. Anywhere else felt like a better option now. 

You were definitely hallucinating, because three little butterflies floated in front of you, reaching out you felt them touch your fingers. Was it welcoming? Or an omen? The butterflies faded, bursting into dust, and the tears began. A few minutes later, you knew nothing.

-

“Where’s y/n?” Mor asked Azriel as he stalked into the room. He was still in a piss-poor mood, and this was the last thing he wanted to do this morning. Going to a court meeting. 

“Do I look like her keeper?” 

Mor seemed a bit confused by his response. “Can you get her?” 

He wanted to ask; why not you, but it felt a bit too childish. Besides, he needed to talk about last night anyway. Too late, a shadow whispered in his ear. It’s never too late, he could fix this. Taking the stairs two at a time, he headed for your bedroom. Shadows swirled around him, in front of him, searching and … storming the room. They unlocked the door before he could, gone, gone, gone, they whispered to him. Had you left in the middle of the night? He couldn’t hear you in there, but your scent was still fresh. 

And alcohol. A pit settled in his stomach. Gone. Too late. 

Azriel pushed the door open. Not in your room. A small click and his shadows opened the door to your bathing room. There were sweet and tender memories from that room. Him washing your hair, delicately working through the strands that always seemed tangled, you washing his wings. 

He didn’t think this would be one of those memories. 

Pushing the door open, he fell to his knees. 

-

Mor heard the guttural scream, one of pain and sorrow. Something she’d never heard from Az. Mor didn’t bother taking the stairs, and winnowed to your door. Directly across from her, another door was swung open, offering her a clear view. Azriel on his knees in front of … your body. Lips blue, skin white. His hands pressed down on your chest, up and down, up and down. 

“You’re late,” Rhys said, echoing through her mind. She only cast the image to him. Within a minute, more voices and footsteps sounded inside the house. Mor had already crossed the room, kneeling next to Azriel, her magic searching desperately for a sign of life. 

Minutes later, Madja was there, crowding in behind her. Cassian pulled a thrashing Azriel away from your body. 

Mor could only stand by the door, mouth parted and body still in shock. 

An empty pill bottle, one blue pill laying next to your hand, as if it had fallen out. An empty bottle of wine on the floor, dregs of red liquid still gathering in the bottle. 

Today was supposed to be good. Last night, you’d told Azriel you were his mate. She was prepared for the two of you to miss today entirely. 

Something had gone terribly wrong. Whirling around, she took one step closer to the shadowsinger, each movement laced with fury, entire body trembling. 

“Did you reject her?” Mor had skipped the earthly and deadly quiet, and screamed at Az, power rumbling through the room. 

“What do you mean reject?” 

“She is - was - your mate.” 

-

Azriel felt like his world stopped. Each word sliced into his chest. Mate. 

That’s what you wanted to tell him, and he told you, unequivocally, that he didn’t care. He was the person you trusted above all others, at one point. The one who spent decades breaking down those walls, slowly and carefully gaining your trust. Decades working towards that goal, and a year to throw it away. 

This was his fault. 

He could imagine the hopeful look on your face as you peeked into his door. If he’d seen that … if he’d just looked. 

“Az, can I talk to you about something?” Fuck, he’d forgotten to lock his door. Papers obscured his entire vision. Today had been too damn much, and he didn’t want to talk to anyone. It wasn’t specifically you.

“Tomorrow,”

“It really is important.” Desperation, but he knew there wasn’t much going on in your life. A shadow swirled angrily at the callous thoughts. 

“It can wait.” 

“Please-” 

He looked at you, your face had fallen. The beginnings of tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. Listen, listen, listen, his shadows were nearly begging. Tomorrow, he told them. 

“I don’t care, whatever it is, I. Don’t. Care.” 

You finally left. A small tinge of guilt, but he’d make it up to you tomorrow, or maybe the next day - that would be Wednesday, and he’d get up early to bring you breakfast, the old tradition you’d fallen out of habit with. Something easily revived. 

Tomorrow, however, would be chock full of meetings. Meetings you’d be at too, and he’d make the time to hear you out, to apologize. 

Now, a shadow curled next to his ear, pleading. He ignored it. They’d always favored you, and now he’d even say they were fussing. You were strong enough. 

Azriel had ignored everything. Ignored each warning sign, ignored the desperate pleas of his shadows and the tears on your face. You cried, but it was never often. 

“It’s my fault,” he said - more to himself. “My fault.” 

He felt himself crumble, felt everything he used to keep himself in check slip away, his magic threatening to burst from him, to turn this house to rubble. He didn’t fight as Rhys grabbed him, as he winnowed him out to somewhere far out in the mountains. His brother released him as soon as they landed, but didn’t leave, he didn’t abandon him. Rhys should’ve, should’ve left him out here to bury himself. That’s what he deserved. 

The ground shook, parts of the mountains surrounding him faded into dust, snow flooded down the sides, birds squawked as they fled. He spent hours, hours and hours up there - until his siphons dulled, until he felt his magic start to protest, until Rhys had to knock him unconscious before he let it tear him apart.

[thedreamlessnights]

Hi! I’ve got a request for Astarion and Dark Urge Tav. Like they got together through act 1 and 2 and confessed their feelings for each other, but when they go to see Gortash become Arch Duke Tav realizes that she used to be lovers with Gortash before her memory was wiped. Queue angst and hurt/comfort and fluff and hhhhh Gortash loses plssss

I absolutely loved this concept and had so much fun writing it! Dark Urge's route changed me as a person, and I honestly feel like it's a perfect match for Astarion. Thank you so much for sending this in, and I hope you enjoy!

Aching (Astarion x F!Reader - Dark Urge)

Warnings: Major spoilers for Act III of Baldur's Gate - particularly for the Dark Urge playthrough. Mentions of blood, killing, death, and suicidal ideation. Dark Urge being Dark Urge. Hurt/comfort, self-loathing, angst with a happy ending.

Word Count: 4.6k

Like so many other things, the sight of Lord Enver Gortash tugs at a painful spot in your skull. 

You’ve come to differentiate them: the gaping, aching tug of your lost memories and the sharp, swift yank of the tadpole. Somehow, his presence pulls at both of them in equal measure. There’s something on the edge of your tongue, but it won’t be said. A memory behind your eyes, but it won’t be seen. 

One thing is clear enough - you know this man. For better or worse, the two of you have met before.

Karlach clears her throat behind you, and you return to yourself: not lost in the dark void of your memories, not consumed by the itch for blood. Wyrm’s Crossing. 

Gods, you’d nearly forgotten. You’re in the middle of a throne room, surrounded by dozens of people, here for the coronation. Wyll’s father stands in the center of the room, all but a meat puppet under the Absolute’s control. 

The Absolute, which Gortash is a part of.

The soon-to-be Archduke sees you, and something shifts in his gaze. His expression softens. Given all the trouble you’ve been causing for him, that expression comes as a shock - but what he says next is jarring to your core.

“Dearest patriars, but a moment,” he requests. “I must greet a most important guest.” He strolls toward you, arms spread wide as he steps forward, and smiles. “Crawling back from her bloody disgrace - it’s my favorite assassin! Gods, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

And suddenly, you are two pieces of a whole. One longs to step forward, knowing him, wanting him. The other longs for nothing more than to jolt away from him - from the misery you know he’s been causing. Not only to you, or even Karlach, but to your home; Baldur’s Gate.

“Hang on,” Karlach says. “What? You know each other?”

As if you could have possibly known that. As if you’d been willfully keeping it from her. As if your amnesia is a silent betrayal.

“We have important matters to address,” Gortash says dismissively. “My reunion with Karlach can wait.”

Gods, it’s all too much. You’re trying to think, but your mind is swimming in front of your eyes. Your skull throbs. Your heart thuds unevenly in your chest. Something in you is fundamentally disrupted. 

“Don’t talk to me,” you manage to spit out. “Talk to her.”

After all, she deserves it. Ten years in Avernus, a flaming engine in her chest, a slow, painful oncoming death that none of you can prevent - or at least, not while she’s refusing to go back to the hells. She deserves a talk with the man who betrayed her. More than anything.

But Gortash won’t be swayed so easily, it seems. “No offense to my old friend,” he says, not even bothering to look at Karlach, “but it’s you I have been dying to see. After all, you abandoned us some time ago, leaving a rather uncomfortable hole in our plans.”

Fond. His expression is unmistakably fond. 

You don’t know what plans he’s talking about, though. What to say to him? Should you treat him like a friend, exploit his familiarity down to the hilt for the sake of the information you might obtain? Should you be honest and find out more of your lost self? Do you even want to?

As it turns out, it doesn’t matter what you’re planning to say. Gortash sees your face, and that’s enough. “Oh, I’d forgotten,” he remarks, “your memories are quite lost, aren’t they? Orin told me she’d made a fool of you.”

Orin. A picture flashes in front of your mind. Warm blood, oozing from a gash in your head, streaming down into your eyes. A sharp, fierce tug of betrayal that digs into your chest, sours in your mouth like milk. 

Then, another image. A recent memory: Orin. A gruesome suit of skin. A bloodthirsty tongue. The Netherstone in hand.

But Gortash is still talking.

“To think you and Karlach traveled together all this time, and she hadn’t the faintest you were one of my nearest and dearest,” he’s saying.

Karlach tenses, and you suddenly feel sick. Your hands go slick with sweat, and you can feel, not see but feel, the others silently fuming behind you. 

All of this is adding up to one big, horrific picture. A conclusion you despise but can’t deny. Something affectionate in your chest. The admiration in his gaze. The way he’d greeted you. Nearest and dearest. 

Lovers. You and Gortash were lovers. 

The walk back to camp is the most painful of your life - that you can recall, at least. You’d rather be feral again, tied up like an animal on your bedroll, attempting to bite Astarion. 

Part of you wishes you’d decimated Gortash the moment you’d laid eyes on him. If you had, all of this could have been avoided. The swirling guilt in your stomach for something you don’t even remember. The sting of reproof from nearly every single one of your companions. The betrayal in their eyes.

You’d done this. All of it. The Absolute, the march on the city, the tadpole now squirming around in your brain. You and Gortash had planned this out, and now you’ve fallen victim to it. 

It seems like a disconnected idea, a person you can’t imagine being. The further you go on, the less you recognize your old self. The more you despise it.

Gale had certainly chewed you out. Karlach isn’t talking to you. Gods, even Shadowheart is angry. Shadowheart, who should know more than anyone else what this is like. 

Astarion, at least, doesn’t seem as upset as the others. He’s liked his tadpole for the most part. Is some odd part of him grateful for your role in this? For the power it’s given him? You can’t tell. 

You should be able to tell, shouldn’t you?

When the silence becomes unbearable, you grab a bottle of Berduskan Dark as a peace offering and join him at his tent, crawling through the entrance and sprawling yourself over his various pillows. “Do you hate me tonight, too?” you ask lightly.

He raises a brow and rolls one of his shoulders, feigning annoyance. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says, his tone teasing and casual. “It’s not often I find out the woman I’m with is behind a horrible, malicious scheme to control an elder brain.”

Your words of penance fall flat even before they’ve touched your tongue, so you pour him a glass of wine in response. 

He smiles. “Trying to win me over, darling?” he asks, tilting his head. “You’ve caused quite the commotion around camp, you know. Gale is positively furious.”

That sensation of guilt comes again, but this time, it’s overpowering. It makes you want to crumple in on yourself, to erase the horrid, evil parts of you that are left like bloodstains on a white shirt; things that won’t be scrubbed away, present and never-escapable.

“I didn’t know,” you start, firmly but barely kept together. “I swear, I had no idea-”

“Relax, dearest,” Astarion says. “As you know, me and the tadpole are the best of friends. No need to explain.” He pauses. “Although,” he says, suddenly becoming very interested in inspecting the brim of his glass, “you and Gortash seemed to be old friends, too.”

You know what he’s asking you, and you don’t have it in yourself to lie to him. Instead, you slowly nod, pouring yourself a glass of the wine, too. Gods, do you need it. 

“We were lovers, I think,” you finally answer. “I can’t remember anything about it, but… the way he talked to me. It seemed like we were more than friends.”

He pulls a face. “Well. I certainly hope he won’t be serving as my competition. You can do so much better.”

You stare at him: the sudden tension in his shoulders, the pasted-on, confident smile that plays on his lips, the dark glint to his gaze. 

“You’re jealous.”

He scoffs. “Jealous?” he exclaims, laughing a little. “Of course I’m not jealous. Honestly - it’s hilarious. A Bhaalspawn and Bane’s chosen. In another life, I would have been rooting for the two of you.”

But there’s a crease between his brows, and he won’t quite look at you. You reach out for his hand, and his expression softens. He playfully rolls his eyes, but he takes your hand all the same. “And what is our vicious little mastermind thinking about?” he asks, leaning toward you.

“I’m thinking,” you say, “that Lord Gortash could never compare to you.”

“Oh?” he asks, moving in a little further. He loves preening for compliments, and you love treating him to them. “Do go on, dearest.”

You trail your thumb over his knuckles. “Well, he’s clearly nowhere near as handsome as you are.”

Astarion tilts his head. “Of course he isn’t. The man couldn’t hope to compare with a… world-endingly handsome vampire.” He squeezes your hand, lifting a brow. “Anything else?”

You can’t help smiling now. “His taste in clothing is awful. Didn’t you see his boots?” you ask. “Tacky.”

He scowls. “I did. Horrendous, honestly. And at his coronation, no less,” he remarks, tutting. “Well. I’m glad to see your standards have improved, darling.”

“As am I.” You take a sip of your wine, swirling it in your hand, enjoying the feel of Astarion’s grasp in the other. 

With him, you can almost forget the worst parts of yourself. The others, as much as you love them, only make your crimes seem so much worse. There’s a constant forgiveness sought with each conversation, a debt you can never repay that lingers underneath the way they see you. But not with him.

He mirrors you. He sees you. What you really are, not what you were, not the echo of your old life. All your past grievances, well… those don’t matter to him. Everything you’ve done, he considers himself worse. 

Part of you thinks - if the two of you actually make it through, that is - that bit by bit, you may actually heal. Maybe, you’ll actually have a life with him beyond the tadpoles, and beyond Baldur’s Gate. Maybe, the two of you will build something far beyond those who once controlled you.

And then the night comes.

You leave Astarion in his tent to trance, telling him you mean to sleep even though you have no intention of doing so. You never rest well, but it’s aggravated, lately. The Urge is always at its worst during the night. The shadows reflect your darkest self back at you, and your fingers itch for blood. Your mind becomes a haze of gore. Your teeth fix on a tender part of your cheek and press down until you taste iron. 

You’d like to say that this part of you is a clean split from the other - that it’s easy to tell where the Urge ends and you begin - but it’s not. Your thoughts so often drift. You’d been the one feeling that sickening sense of satiation when Alfira lay dead at your feet, her blood drying on your skin. And it’s you who feels a strange tug toward Gortash - some lingering yearning that won’t be scrubbed away. 

And you try. Gods, do you try. You take a rag and sit at the river and rub until your skin is raw, trying to get the metaphorical blood off your hands, trying to cleanse yourself of the want that pulls at your chest when Gortash slips into your thoughts.

But it doesn’t work. It doesn’t work at all.

The way you want Astarion feels different. It’s grounded. Natural. Being around him feels as easy as breathing. Gortash, though: there’s something so very strong there, something ripened with time and obsessive, almost. Something that wants him no matter what you tell yourself.

You want to win this. You want to look at the faces around camp and tell them that their faith in you is not misplaced; that you are capable of what they want you to be. You’re more than the monster in your thoughts. When you’d resisted killing Isobel and Astarion despite your butler’s commands, you’d thought there was a chance for that to happen - for you to become something outside of your murderous tendencies. 

Now, you’re not so sure. 

Your role in the creation of the Absolute has changed things. This feels… unforgivable. Not that Alfira’s death wasn’t already unforgivable, not that you haven’t already sinned enough, but… it’s tallying up to a truly heinous amount of perversion that you can’t fathom anyone here tolerating, much less accepting. Astarion, maybe, but he deserves better than this.

You’ve already tremendously ruined things, and on top of that, you find out you were responsible for turning all of the people you care about into thralls? 

It’s enough to shake you to your core. Enough to sow doubt in your mind, spreading like a slow poison through the veins of your thoughts, slowly choking them away, slowly consuming you.

You really might lose.

Gods, are you strong enough to win the long-fought battle against yourself? Do you have it in you to completely turn away from your past? You won’t give in without a fight, of course, but what chance do you have against Bhaal when he’s in your very mind, rooting himself into every inch of you? 

In the days, you have hope, but in the nights, when you’re alone, you feel certain you’re doomed. That perhaps, this side of you will take over, and you’ll be absolutely helpless to stop it.

The true question is this: when the darkness takes over, will you still exist; forever trapped in the body you once had control over? Or will Bhaal’s presence ravage you, body and soul, and leave nothing of the thing you once were?

You really can’t decide which is worse.

You’re used to your hands shaking, by now. Your fingers have often trembled around the hilt of your blade, itching to drive your knife deep into sweet, bleeding flesh.

This is different. 

It’s fear that takes your body, not the Urge. Fear that compels you, not Bhaal. Are you afraid to lose to Orin, or afraid of what you might become?

Astarion stands behind you, observant but tense. The two of you have come so far now that it almost seems foolish to think of losing. He’d defeated Cazador. He’d resisted the Ascension. If he’d found it in himself to turn away from his darkness, can’t you?

Yet, some part of you still thinks you might disappoint him. Some part of you still fears the monster that lies within yourself.

Astarion rests a hand on your shoulder, knowing you all too well. “You can do this,” he says, lightly squeezing. “I know you can.”

And the sheer, beautiful belief in his eyes - belief in you - is enough to have a little hope again. Not much, but some. You can do this. 

You step into the center of the circle, hands around your blade, and you believe.

It all goes by in a blur. 

Orin is a viper, tightening her strokes around you, striking fast and hard. Her movements are rapid and graceful, her dance lithe and experienced. Even in her slayer form, there’s a deadly beauty to her actions. Every slash, every wound she inflicts on your skin, is a vicious reminder that she’s nothing but practiced in this regard.

Perhaps she’s forgotten, but you are, too. And, this time, your pride doesn’t blind you to the threat she poses.

Your body moves instinctively; for once, you let the Urge guide you freely. You leap out of the way of her claws, dig your blade into her side. When the scent of blood hits the air, you rejoice. When you feel pain, you bask in it. 

Flashes of your past echo in front of your eyes - being in the pod, blood gushing into your eyes. You remember the agony of her betrayal, the fear as you’d smashed your skull into the glass again and again and again. Anything to escape what she’d done.

It’s despair that takes over you, not fear. It’s your fury that deals the final blow, not the Urge. And when Orin finally falls, your blade in her ribs up to the hilt, you feel no relief, no satiation. 

Only grief. Nothing but grief.

You don’t know what you mourn for - your old self? The life she’d robbed you of? No - no, you despise your past. You despise who you were. So what tugs at your chest this tenderly? What force brings you to your knees?

For just a moment, you almost forget about Bhaal.

Of course, he won’t be forgotten - not here, not in his own domain. Not when you’re his creation. Sceleritas Fel is in front of you, applauding your victory, calling you the Chosen One. 

“He is near,” he says. “He comes for you.”

Fear flutters through your chest. Bhaal’s Chosen. It tempts you, even now. The Urge has slithered into the very heart of you, kept somewhere in your ribs, so dark and alluring that you can barely breathe. 

It salivates at the sight of the blade slicing through your butler’s chest, sways at the sight of his blood. His body rises, limp and lifeless, and it’s all you can do to stare, still breathless from the fight, still silently devastated, as more blades cut through the skin one by one - impaling him until his blood seeps onto the stone below; dark, crimson liquid shining over the cold floor.

And in his reflection, you find Bhaal.

He is everything you’ve felt in the Urge and more - the sweet whispers of death in your ear. He’s the honeyed tone that compels you to serve him, compels you to bring forth destruction in his name. In chaos, he triumphs, and in blood, he revels.

This is a gift. An offering to you, his Chosen.

You could accept. You could stop fighting against your destiny, against this thing you were born to become. You could do what he asks, and wreak beautiful havoc on this world. You’re exhausted. Every muscle in your body aches - not from Orin, but from this never-ending fight against yourself. 

How strong you could become, remedied of these burdens. How well you would please your father. It would be so easy. All you’d have to do is accept…

And then you see Astarion. 

His face is paler than usual, a tension in his shoulders, a quiet exhaustion in his eyes. You see him now, as he is, and you see him as he was in the ritual chamber: the temptation of power right beneath his grasp, begging to be taken. He’d sacrificed so much. The light of the sun on his face. The relief of hunger. The burial of his shame. All of these, he’d refused, but he’s finally free. He wants that for you, and you want it, too.

No matter the cost.

So you refuse. You look Bhaal in the eye and refuse his gift, knowing what it will mean for you. And when he threatens your life, you refuse again. No matter the cost, you think. Death is freedom in its own way.

The sudden agony that wracks through your body is unlike any you’ve ever known. It boils through your blood, singes body and soul, brings down you to your knees with the very force of it. Your chest seems to cave in on itself, expelling your inheritance to Bhaal with every beat of your heart. 

Even when he lifts a hand and raises you into the air, you feel crushed - suffocated. Your teeth grind against each other, your skull throbs in agonzing waves, blood flows steadily over your tongue. Your heart slows, your essence fades. Sharp, blinding pain overtakes your vision until all that’s left of you is the shallow, scraping breath in your lungs.

All at once, everything fades, and you’re left in darkness.

And in the darkness, there is finally peace.

Being revived feels like a cruelty. Death is sweet and calm and simple. Emptiness. Oblivion. It is silent, and you are grateful.

Until you’re not. 

You’re not, because you’re no longer dead. Something rips you from your painless sense of stillness - throws you back into the misery of life. You fight against it, but it’s pointless; you have no say in this, and it will take you where it desires. 

You find yourself in flesh again, find the familiar sensation of your tender skin. You find yourself before Withers, bruised and broken, but reborn.

He’s a sight for sore eyes, but there’s something else that lies in your chest. A silence that hasn’t been there since… since before you’d woken up on the nautiloid, confused and alone, not a memory to be found aside from meaningless scraps and a face you didn’t recognize. 

The Urge is gone. All that’s left is you.

It feels empty.

This should feel heroic, this return of yours that leaves you panting with the throes of death, covered in blood and on your knees. You’re back, you’re alive, and gods, you’re glad to see your friends and your lover, but it’s empty. 

You deserved to die, didn’t you? It was your horrible knowledge, the one you kept tucked away even from Astarion. That never-ending guilt. After your crimes, after all the horrid things you’ve done with these hands, this body, before you’d lost your memory - you’d most certainly deserved to be put down. 

You don’t dare look at Astarion, but you look at Withers. Surely, he must know what you are. Surely, he must know what you’ve done.

“I deserve to die,” you tell him, your voice shaking as much as your body. “For all the evil I have done.”

Withers stares at you, his expression unchanged. “The sole way to atone for thine actions is to do better, in a new dawn,” he says - and gods, he smiles. He’s proud of you, you realize. Proud of your resistance. “That dawn has come,” he announces.

And if he will not be swayed, you suppose you won’t, either. You’re alive, whether you like it or not. Whatever pieces are left of you and the life you might live, you’ll put them together. You’ve done it before, and you’ll do it again.

The important thing is that you’re finally free.

“Bhaal tried to extinguish thee,” Wither observes, “but his wrath is imprecise. He only succeeded in killing the part of thee he knew. The Urge that drove thee to terrible acts. The spark of brutality that made thee his. But there is a new part of you that hath grown during thy travels. That part, Bhaal could not extinguish. And so, instead of destroying thee, he hath made thee anew.”

“You get to start over,” Astarion says. He gazes at you, a mixture of leftover fear and relief and care. “To be the person you want to be. Not what someone else made you to be.”

And gods - even in the worst of yourself, you know that he sees you - wants you, all the same. If you’re at his side, you’re sure you can do anything.

“Greet the bloodless dawn, child of none,” Withers says, and for once in the shabby remembrance of your life, the guilt that haunts you finally sweeps away.

Gortash knows you’re coming, you think. After your stint at the Iron Throne and the foundry that now lies in ash, he must. Your memories are mostly lost to the aether, but you do know this - he’s no fool.

Still, when you see him again, there’s that strange, leftover twinge of your past. It’s dead now; whatever warmth there was in his presence has become ice. Your old self has died along with your Urge, rotted away like your need for blood. After all, the part of you he cared for was maniacal. Brutal. Not as bad as Orin, perhaps, but deranged. It sickens you to know he cared for someone like that, when you’ve despised yourself so.

It sickens you even more to know that he knows no guilt for his actions. How much have you suffered over your own deeds? How often have you awoken in sweat, drenched from head to toe with the fleeting remnant of your past deeds tainting your mind?

And here he is, smug and so sure - of himself, of this path, of Bane. And he knows no regret, or guilt, he makes no apologies. A part of you may have once loved him, but no more. Whatever he’d once seen in you, it no longer remains.

You wonder if he can tell. After all you’ve done to him, after the havoc you’ve wreaked on his plan, does he realize that the person he cared for no longer exists? He seems not to. Not until Karlach launches at him and you draw your blade, willing to kill when it’s necessary but not craving an ounce of blood more.

The fight is long and brutal, but it’s familiar. You have your friends at your side, people you trust even more than yourself. It flies by in a blur, only ending when Karlach’s axe sinks into Gortash’s gut and he crumples to his knees, letting out a final rush of air before he goes still.

Like so many other events, this should feel triumphant, but it doesn’t. Like so many other things, this isn’t fair. Gortash is gone, yes, nothing more than a body on a floor, but there’s no celebration, no relief. 

Karlach has gotten her revenge, but she will never get her life back. She will never regain what he took from her. 

You have the Netherstones, yes. But gods - that doesn’t stop the sickening feeling deep inside.

You head home with nothing but grief and an aching body, your hand held tight in Astarion’s, and you finally allow yourself to fully mourn the life you’d lived - the things you’d done, and the people who no longer live because of you.

With Gortash finally gone, the air of the camp changes. You’re so close to your goal, but there’s an underlying tension that fills the air. It has you making your way to Astarion, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and nuzzling into his neck. 

He holds you close, his thumb trailing over the nape of your neck, and the action slackens the tension out of your muscles.

“So,” he starts, “how are you feeling, now that your old lover is gone?”

You huff, shaking your head. The action brushes your nose with his skin, and you can smell him all over you. The warmth of brandy, the sharpness of rosemary. “I don’t remember any of it,” you say, words soft. “I… don’t really feel anything.”

You recall his numbness after Cazador. Dame Aylin’s emptiness after smiting down Larroakan. Karlach’s grief after killing Gortash. Even after your fight with Orin, there hadn’t really been relief. Just… a sense of loss. 

He gently takes your face in his hands.

You’re scared, really. You’re so close to succeeding, so close to getting the tadpole out of your mind, and yet, you’re terrified out of your wits. What the hells are you supposed to do, now that failing holds the most weight?

“Do you really think we’ll win this?” you ask him. Your fear slips into your voice and breaks it, and you wince.

“Of course I do,” he says. “I don’t know about you, darling, but I have no intention of dying again.” He presses his lips to your forehead, the gentle touch soothing away your fear. “We’ll get through this. Trust me.”

And, despite the fear, the pain, the loss - despite every curve that life continually throws at you, every defeat you muster through, you know he’s right.

You’ll get through this; just like you always do.

[mylovewithyourlove]

Bitch, you better post that shit that you think “no one will relate to”.

Likes or no likes.

Reblogs or no reblogs

Post that shit. Love your life. Be YOU. Let people “misunderstand” you.

What’s more badass than doing things EVEN WHEN people DON’T validate you for it???

[mrsnancywheeler]

the lakes (12) // finnick odair x f. reader

summary: it's supposed to be over, you and Finnick are supposed to spend the rest of your lives helping each other heal. living as peacefully as possible, but the the third quarter quell throws a wrench in your domestic bliss.

previous chapter / next chapter

masterlist

7.9k words

warnings: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, extreme mental health issues, suicidal ideations, gore/violence/death, self-hate, allusions to trafficking, use of explicit language, more angst, mentions of vomiting, dissociation, terms of endearment, unedited, no use of y/n, a codependent couple with a shared savior complex, paranoia

When you'd realized the monkey mutts had stopped where the beach began you wanted to collapse into the sand in relief. All you could do was stare on as Peeta tried to comfort the Morphling woman who'd sacrificed herself for him before her body was raised from the waters. Even if Plutarch was supposedly in on the plan, it seemed like the arena couldn't wait to kill you all off as soon as possible. The conversation switched to finding food, another thing your brain couldn't care less about. You supposed you should be from all the running, fighting, and sweating, but you just had a huge pit in your stomach as you thought about how Finnick could have died not long ago.

It had always been a possibility that you were very consciously aware of, but the imminent threat wasn't really present. You had no qualms that he would be able to protect himself, yet he hadn't been able to when the fog came rolling in. Well, he would have been able too if hadn't come to Peeta's rescue, but to get out, that was a requirement. Adrenaline has kept you going after that, when the monkeys attacked, but the dread filling you now was like lead.

“Hey," One of Finnick's warm, calloused hands cupped your face, “What's going on, sweet girl?" His face had that endearing always somewhat cocky smirk on it that was a permanent source of comfort in your life. But you just stared at him, at those ocean eyes you would drown in if given the chance. The look in his eyes shifted to one of higher concern, “Are you hurt?" He looked up and down your figure, looking for sounds, tilting your head to see the back, looking for signs of infection and grew more concerned when he found nothing to send off alarms. “Angel, you gotta tell me what's wrong." He urged.

You tried to blink yourself out of your stupor, "Nothing just wanna be with you.”

"You are with me.”

"Yeah I know.” He looked at you suspiciously, but knew better than to push. You grabbed this hand and he squeezed it, pulling you along as he went on his search for oysters. When he was sure he found a spot and began his digging you sat down in the water. Letting the soft waves ripple across your legs, if you closed your eyes you could pretend to be home again, this was so similar.

“I'd never leave you alone, you know?" Finnick's voice brought you back from the fantasy and you looked at him quizzically. He was still digging through different areas, of course the oysters were in such unnatural places, that was a reminder of how fake the fantasy was. "I'd always come back to you. You don't have to worry about me leaving you behind, or making you feel abandoned.” You looked away, staring at the glistening waters once again. There was no words you could think of to say, you wondered if you were still in shock, it felt nothing like how it had been described, but maybe this was all some weird, fucked up trauma response the universe had left you with as further punishment. Your mind was blank of anything other than how he, your amazing, smug, caring, generous, loving Finnick could actually be taken from this world and it would keep on spinning without him. Then his hand grabbed yours once again and he effortlessly pulled you from the water to walk with him back to Katniss and Peeta.

You laid your head on Finnick's shoulder as everyone began to eat. He opened one of the oysters up and offered it to you, but you just shook your head. There was no room for hunger, no room for anything except trepidation.

He shook his head back at you, “You need to eat." Finnick offered it back to you, he was so bossy and it made you love him even more.

“I'm not hungry, Finn." You knew you were exposing yourself with the nickname, which you only used when you felt most vulnerable, but it slid off your tongue so easily in the moment.

“You're gonna talk to me now?" He asked playfully, trying to lighten the load. You scowled at him, lightheartedly elbowing him in his side and he laughed.

“You're so mean to me." You burrowed your head back into his shoulder.

He scoffed, “I just put all my effort into a monologue of my devotion to you and then you decided staring at the waters which are in front of us all the time was more interesting.”

He was right of course even if it was all in jest, but you weren't going to let him win regardless of that fact. “It was hardly a monologue-" He turned to you abruptly, you frowned when your head lost contact with your shoulder but he grabbed your hands in his.

“I don't understand why you have cared about and loved me so deeply, except in the way that I know that's how I feel about you. You being here is the bane of my existence because I know that there isn't a day I could live without seeing your smile or sweet domesticity. You don't understand why I want to protect you so badly, but it's the same way you want to protect me. There isn't a universe where I could leave you when I know you need me, I married you as a promise that I would always return to you, protect you even if you're stubborn and here anyways. Death couldn't part me from a world that you were still in.” His sea green eyes were so serious and it did reverberate within your heart, but you still let yourself laugh.

"You are such a sweet-talker.” You announced with an eye roll, knowing he was right about how you felt. Except maybe selfishly if death parted the two of you, the only assumption you had made was he'd find someone else, some other smarter, braver, prettier partner who only couldn't compare to you in their adoration of him, but maybe that was a stretch as well.

“And you are impossible to please." He quickly packed your lips which left your yearning for his honey-dripping lips for seconds longer, if you suffocated with them on your own it would be the happiest you'd ever be. “Now eat, my love." You could melt into the sand thinking about how this man would pour out a heartfelt monologue just for you to leave your head long enough to eat, he was perfect, there would never be anyone else like him, and there never had been. He was it for you.

Screams interrupted your thoughts and you instantly stood up, “That's new." Peeta said as he rose as well, you all stood, staring across the beach where water seemed to be overflowing a portion of the jungle. Flooding that rushed from the trees and was so tall it was as high as the Cornucopia that bounced against, leaving large waves to rush up your feet. A drone came to pick up a body and it solidified in your brain that regardless of what Plutarch had planned these were never meant to be long Games, nor particularly violent with all the events occuring.

“Someone's here." Katniss said sharply, quickly pulling out an arrow, ready to shoot. You looked at the figures approaching from the jungle, not too far away. The aggressive motions of one of the figures nearly instantly told you who it was.

“Johanna." You whispered out and then Finnick was running forward.

“Johanna!" He shouted, catching her attention. You followed after him as she yelled back at him. Beetee and Wiress instantly run into the water when you realize Johanna’s figure was so obscured because she was covered head to toe in blood.

“Oh my god, what got you?" You asked, there was no way that much was hers or even someone else's. It was clotted in her hair, her skin, each piece of fabric.

“We were all the way, deep into the jungle where I thought it was going to be safe. That's when the rain started, I thought it was water, it turns out to be blood. Hot, thick blood, coming down. It was choking us! We were stumbling around, gagging on it blind.” Johanna signs through her explanation, ignoring Wiress’ mutters of tick, tock, tick, tock. Which you push away as well as just Wiress being Wiress. “That's when Blight hit the forcefield, he wasn't much, but he was from home.”

"What's wrong with her?” Katniss asks about Wiress, still muttering.

“She's in shock." Beetee is washing the blood of his glasses in the sea water. “Dehydration isn't helping, do you have fresh water?"

“We can get some."

Wiress is clinging to Johanna, desperately repeating her mantra. Who's trying to shove the older woman off, for most of you this is just the dynamic that's been accepted. You've each accepted a role to maintain relationships with one another, Wiress the crazy one, and Johanna the aggressive one. Katniss is put off and runs to Johanna, ready to fight.

“Hey what're you doing?" Johanna yells, Finnick trying to pull her away as you try to get between her and Katniss. “I got them out for you!” They're finally ripped apart when Peeta has his arms around a visibly confused Katniss. "Let go of me, Finnick!”

"Let's just go get you cleaned off.” You tilt your head walking with her and Finnick into the water. "I'm sorry about Blight.”

"Yeah.” She says gruffly as she dunked her head into the water, blood instantly beginning to spread into the once clear waters.

"And I didn't really get to thank you for saving me earlier, so thank you, Johanna.”

"Well I'm sure he would've killed me himself if I hadn't.” She nodded her head at Finnick. “Better go make a better impression with the Girl on Fire over there." She rolled her eyes, stalking over in that direction.

“Deep down she appreciates a thank you." Finnick's wrapped his arms around you from behind and you sway in the water. You hummed in agreement, just enjoying the feeling of his arms around you. What you would give for this to be the two of you in your kitchen back home is immeasurable as well as the things you would do to get that back.

“Were you serious though?" You blurt out, forcing yourself to acknowledge your feelings with him. There's a beat which you figure must be confusion as he tries to figure out what you're referring too. Before you have a chance to add on, he'd seemingly figured it out though.

“Of course I was serious. You don't have to worry because you're not gonna get rid of me that easily, angel." He chuckles, his lips pressed to the side of your head. You nod slowly,

“Thank you." You mumbled out, embarrassed that you'd even let the anxiety take over, but also not completely convinced. It felt shameful that no amount of words or actions was seemingly able to convince the deepest parts of your soul of anything but the worst.

“It's a clock!" Katniss yelled out catching everyone's attention, she helped Wiress out of the water where they've been sitting and began walking towards the Cornucopia . “This entire arena seems to be laid out like a clock, with a new threat every hour, but they stay only within their wedge.” Katniss explains and you all follow her, "It all starts with the lightning, then the blood rain, fog, monkeys, that's the first four hours. At 10 that big wave points from over there.” She points forward, Wiress stops walking. As if she's cautious of something.

“Wiress, you're a genius." Finnick smiles as you all keep trekking forward.

“The tail points at 12." Peeta observes when you reach the shining Cornucopia.

“That's where the lighting strikes at noon and midnight.” Katniss further explains.

“Strikes where?" Beetee asks, holding his coil of wire close.

“That big tree." She points once more and Beetee seems pleased, Wiress sits down on the edge of the rocks murmuring a nursery rhyme to herself.

"Great job, Wiress. We'll try and listen more next time.” You patted her shoulder before following the rest of the group to where a circle is being drawn out in the sand. Dividing it up in the clock like sectors of the arena. Trying to find out what comes next in each portion of the arena.

“It doesn't matter as long as we steer clear of whichever sect is active, we'll be safe, yeah?”

" Relatively speaking.” Finnick nods along and then Wiress' ambience of nursery rhymes is quiet and she gasps. Your head shoots towards where she would be and there's Gloss, knife in Wiress' chest. Before you'd even had a chance to react Katniss’ arrow had pierced through his chest, you'd no clue where she'd come from, but you could hear a sound of outrage from Cashmere. You followed the sound and saw her lunging forward, blindly trying to avenge her brother. Without a second thought you'd shoved Katniss out of the way and a knife was flying out of your hand into Cashmere's heart. Her head hit the ground and that dreadful buildup of guilt was returning. She'd always been kind to you, there were amicable jokes and small complaints to one another at parties. An understanding that you'd struggled through the same, ever present issues and now you were once again the person cutting that life short after allowing a bond to be created. But you had to keep Katniss safe, to get her out of the arena, regardless of the consequences.

The Career pack had seemingly crept up on all of you, Finnick and Peeta were fighting off the attacks of Brutus and Enobaria. Your next knife barely missed Enobaria as she fled to the other side of the Cornucopia, Katniss’ arrow doing similarly with Brutus. Peeta tried to run after them, even if people talked about him like he was the weaker one, you'd seen from the way he trained with Brutus that it was anything, but true. Finnick knew that regardless of Peeta's strength he needed to be protected, kept alive, so he blocked him from the chase. Katniss; however, did try to follow after them, make sure the two were gone, Johanna followed behind. Under no circumstances could you let the Mockingjay get hurt, Peeta was because of that, but she was the one you'd been instructed to get out.

You looked over at Finnick, trying to communicate with him that you'd be following and he gave a curt nod. Only a few steps in though you were completely thrown off your balance, your brain started buzzing. You weren't sure what was going on except that your hands were desperately searching for crevices in the rocks to hold onto. The force of the wind whipped at your skin so hard it genuinely hurt and your fingers tried not to slip on the wet rocks. It was spinning, the Cornucopia was spinning around at full force, trying to throw you off, you tried to calm down. Focus on seeing if you could spot Finnick through the water sprays and the way it hit your face in harsh droplets. It wasn't that different from being on a boat, crabbing when the weather got difficult, being tossed around. Maybe if you shut your eyes that's what you could imagine this was, but then your hands were slipping and you were trying to force your body to stay still. Fingers blindly searching for another crevice, rocks scratching at them as you tried to dig your fingers into the rock. Body sliding down, it didn't matter that you could swim, if the impact was too harsh you could go unconscious on impact and no amount of experience in the water could save you from that.

Finnick would be okay though, if anyone was fine it would surely be him. He'd know exactly where to place his grip, he'd be strong enough to hold on, he could probably hold onto someone else too. Those thoughts are quickly cut short when you hear yourself screaming as something, something sharp, has lodged itself into your back. Breathe, you tell yourself digging your fingers into the rock deeper. Something is tearing into your back, the pressure of the wind definitely isn't helping, and you're barely able to focus on keeping hold of the slick rocks. Through the wind you can hear more screams, shouts, too obscure to make out who the belong to, but it reminds you that you need to survive long enough to rescue Katniss, you need to keep holding on.

Finally, the movement is slowing down, at least you think it is, maybe your perception of speed has just changed. By the time the Cornucopia comes to a stop you still feel dizzy, like a phantom of the spinning. When your brain stops buzzing the pain in your back is worse than you expected. It's torturous to try and stand, but you bite your lip, trying not to groan as you stand. Your legs are wobbly at first and then you hear Finnick call your name.

“Finnick there's something in my back." He's running towards you, eyes full of concern. Your taking deep breaths to try and move through the pain, “I need you to take it out."

Soon he's behind you and before you can say anything more his hand grabs yours from behind, "This is gonna hurt a lot-”

"Don't tell me, just rip it out, like a bandaid.”

"Angel, I can't do that. I'll do it as fast as I can, but I can't just tear it out without causing more damage." His fingers are rubbing circles on the back of your hand.

You're crying a little and even though it causes more pain you laugh a little, “It's one of those stupid scalpel chains isn't it?"

“Yeah, sweet girl, squeeze my hand as hard as you need too." You're nodding, putting the free arm to your mouth to try and muffle yourself if you scream at all. Trying not to bite when you realize this is just as excruciating as the fog had been, fingernails digging into Finnick's hand as he pulls out each piece of the chain. “I've got you, angel, it's okay." By the time all the pressure from the chain has left your back you feel faint. “There we go, all done, you did such a good job." There's no chance to acknowledge him when you're letting yourself run to the edge so you can hurl into the water.

You force yourself to keep standing, “How bad is it?"

“Just deep enough to stick, but you're gonna be okay.” Finnick helps you steady yourself, avoiding the tender wounds on your back.

"Let's just get what we need and get off this bloody island." Johanna says and everyone complies.

“I can carry you, if you want." Finnick offers, already helping you across the rocks.

“I can walk, Finnick, I'm sure soon enough we'll be hit with something else that gives me enough adrenaline that I won't even feel it." You shrug, trying to force yourself to have good spirits. “And I still think hypothermia was worse so-"

He lets himself laugh, shaking his head, “You say that about everything."

“Because it's true! I was so cold that I felt like I was on fire and I was seeing things, I'm sure my back can take a few hits."

"Okay, angel, whatever you say.”

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You don't know how long had passed since they stripped you of your wet, muddied, bloodied clothes, or since they injected you with something that made you pass out until you woke with seemingly no injuries to remind you of the past except the stitches in your side. You do know that now they've allowed you rest, before you're thrust back into the Capitol to be seen, to be crowned. The blankets felt like the softest thing to ever grace your skin and the mattress itself is a blessing, but you can't appreciate it when your eyes bore into the wall, guilt infesting your bloodstream.

Light floods into the room and you fear that you've been lost in your head for so long it's already time for them to play dress up with your lifeless body. But his scent is something you've always known instantly, saltwater, sand, the smell of home. You don't even look at him, there's no point, you need the darkness to engulf you and let you have a redo.

“I wish you let me die in that arena." You don't recognize your own voice, so hoarse, so numb.

He took a cautious step into the room, “I know." Finnick sounds like he's already resigned himself to this, to whatever this is. You finally tear your eyes from the walls, briefly having let them pass over his figure, but doing nothing more than scooting over. You hope he got the message you silently urged for and of course he does, he gets you so well. When his body heat is by yours once again, you resent that you're able to have it, that you fought to have it.

‘You don't deserve to cry,’ is what you had begun to tell yourself the moment they grabbed you from that arena. The tears of a murderer do little to those whose blood they've shed. Yet when his hand is cupping your cheek, you feel the tears returning. The longer the silence persists, the better you'll be able to hold back from crying, but eventually you succumb to the uprising of tears and you've probably stained whatever Finnick is wearing.

“He's my best friend Finnick." Was. He was your best friend. Before you dug your talons in, chewed up the parts you needed, and kept the blood on your hands. That bright, beautiful boy that by all means you were supposed to end up with. You'd resisted that ending so much the universe had seemingly decided to make it a tragedy instead. “My best friend." His home was yours, his family was one with you, but you had to be selfish and greedy, so karma took its place.

Finnick's hands cradled your head, and you let yourself push away just to melt right back into them. “And he tried to kill you."

It made you seethe, how dare he be right, "Because I used him, I did that to him. He should have killed me, I'm not meant for this, Finnick.”

"Angel, the Capitol is eating out of your hand, you go out there, you smile and laugh, they love it. And then you walk straight off that stage to me.” You've sat up, trying to stop the hyperventilation that's taken control of your body. You can feel his hands on yours, trying to guide your breathing, but your brain felt too loud to even attempt to follow.

“Why'd you let me do it? You should've told me it was stupid, you should've let him win. He has a family who cares about him, oh my god his family!" Maybe it's not fair to blame Finnick, it had been your idea after all, but it helps because you felt like the insurmountable grief would eat you alive.

He pressed his forehead to yours, “I know, I know, angel, I'm sorry." Later you'll feel more remorse for what you said, but now you could barely breathe.

"You'd said you wanted to keep me safe and now I've screwed it all up because the world is punishing me."

Finnick had gone back to trying to steady your face, for his hands to calm you, which only works to remind you every one in a while to breathe. “Nothing is punishing you, this isn't your fault."

“No, it is, it's all my fault, Finnick! I couldn't just be satisfied with how my life was supposed to be. I wanted you so bad and pushed away my fate and so now the universe has to punish me"

“Stop it." His voice is grounded, caring but stern like the way he's been holding your face. “Don't do that, sweet girl, no one is getting retribution against you for anything.”

"What are the odds? Who does that happen to, Finnick? I just happened to get pulled in the same year as my best friend who everyone knows I'm supposed to end up with and then suddenly you want me again?”

"The odds are never in anyone's favor. And I wanted you anyways.”

You've begun scratching at your chest, which you've never done before, but the newfound anxieties seem to have taken over. But Finnick instantly is pulling your hands away. "I'm not meant for this, I'm just supposed to be the person who gets married and lives in some small house on the beach, who goes to the markets, not this.”

“And you put on a show for them, angel, and then we get to go back home and live that life as much as possible. You only have to keep the act up for them." You didn't have it in you to keep explaining otherwise, you were exhausted, although part of you told yourself you'd be better off without sleep, that you didn't deserve rest. Finnick could of course sense it all and pulled you into his chest. The warmth you'd so missed finally fully surrounding you, protecting you from everything, even your own thoughts for a little while. It was a heat you so desperately craved and the idea you'd never feel it again had haunted you when you'd almost died in the cold. So you nuzzled yourself deeper into his chest, "Get some rest, sweet girl.” His lips pressed to the top of your head.

Your brain refused to rest peacefully, but if you so much as mumbled in your sleep Finnick was there to soothe you until it passed and eventually he was waking you. For a moment, when your eyes had just fluttered open, it was easy to imagine that it was just you and Finnick back home, that none of that had occurred had ever happened. Maybe if you convince yourself of that delusion for long enough it would be an easy enough fantasy to slip into whenever you needed to give the Capitol a facade of joy. You were a victor after all.

“They're just going to do the same process that happened before the parade before your stylist gets whatever she had planned ready. I'll be there when you're done."

"Finnick, I'm sorry.”

"You don't have to apologize to me.” He understood what you'd gone through, he'd been there too and even though you knew that it still felt cruel to have blamed him for anything related to your actions.

"I-” He interrupted you with a kiss, you'd almost forgot what his mouth was like, the taste of honey on his lips.

"I’ll meet you after, angel.” He parted ways with you at the sleek, silver door to a scarily, clinical room. Soon enough you were being surrounded by a flock of your designing team to get your primped to the nines.

“You literally had me on the edge of my seat, it was divine." One of them squawked, making sure your body was completely devoid of any hair they hadn't specially planned to be there. You simply smiled as gratefully as you could, nodding along with each remark they made.

“We need more games like you, I mean they're all interesting, but you brought such a kick to it. One of the most entertaining by far!" One squealed, trimming your nails. Making a small look of disgust when he pulled out the dried mud and blood lodged underneath your fingernails.

“Oh, you'll be a must have at my big birthday gala next month. You will come won't you?” The woman with bright green hair who was powdering something onto your face asked eagerly.

“Of course, you've all done so much for me!" Your face hurt from the forced smiles as you gushed, and they oohh’d and aahh’d at your performance.

“You are the sweetest little thing, I could just burst!" The green haired woman waved her hands around expressively, the others nodding along with her.

“Anyone who doesn't already love you, will have to now!" The man announced, putting down your hand.

“Well we've done the makeup Cambrie requested, so we’ll let her know you're ready for the dress. It's simply divine. You'll wait right in there." You were ushered into a much more comfortable looking room and the smell of food instantly made you salivate. You'd forgotten how long it had been since you'd last eaten, especially something more than small fish, rabbits, berries, and nuts. Instantly you dove into each dish you could, eager to finally fill your stomach that has longed for food for over a week now.

You'd nearly eaten your fill when Cambrie’s bright voice filled the room. “I knew it would be you, I told everyone I could how much of a sweetheart you were! And now everyone wants one of my looks. You are such a blessing!” She kissed both of your cheeks,"You know what they're calling you?” You shook your head, not sure if you really wanted to know. "A Princess!” She squealed, obviously filled with glee."That's amazing to work with."

You smiled as big as you could to match hers, “Oh I'm flattered, but why that?"

“I mean look at you, the sweet, little girl from District 4 with two men pining to have her. Not a slob like some of the victors from past years, perfectly kind and refined." If it was considered kind and refined to manipulate and kill other children, then you guessed you would fit the bill. “So your dress reflects that, the princess style as one would say. I would've loved to incorporate a tiara, but since you'll be crowned at the end of the night we had to forego that."

The dress shimmered like the ocean in sunlight,"It's beautiful.” You said starting at the gown, it felt wrong to dressed in the Capitol's finest as Conway was being shipped in a wooden coffin back home.

“Just like you!" Cambrie clapped her hands together before leading you out of the room to where you'd wait to be presented back in front of Panem. Finnick immediately caught your eye and you resisted running straight to him.

“You look beautiful." He had a twinkle in his eye, that made you want to slip back into the fantasy that all of this wasn't because you'd won the Hunger Games, that it was just a regular day.

“You're not too bad yourself.” You shrugged with a playful smile. Then faster than anticipated it was time to go, Finnick squeezed your hand encouragingly. You let your smile fall for a fraction of a second to take a deep breath before plastering it back on.

“You've got this.” He whispered, kissing your hand before releasing it as you walked towards the steps of the stage.

“You know her, you love her, our very own Capitol Princess and victor of the 69th Annual Hunger Games!" He shouted your name into the microphone to a resounding applause as you walked onto the stage. Making sure to wave to everyone you could each of whom flailed their arms in excitement. “I think I speak for all of us when I say we're very excited to have you back." People cheered in agreement as you let out an airy laugh in response.

“Well Ceaser, I'm glad to be back, everyone is so kind!" You were smiling so hard your nose scrunched up, in hopes that they found it adorable.

“I would ask you what you're most excited for now that you're back, but I think we know the answer to that one." He quirked his eyebrows and the audience murmured in agreement.

You felt your face getting hot and looked down shyly, “Oh Ceaser-" You tried to make yourself seem as much like a hopeful romantic, innocent girl as you could. Maybe it could reverse the effects that manipulating Conway may have had on how you were perceived.

“Am I right? Have you been able to rekindle flames with a certain Capitol Darling?" You hid your face in your hands for a second, kicking your legs, the audience laughed, and you were certain there must be cameras somewhere planted on Finnick to try and capture a reaction. "I think we know what that means.” Caesar shot his blinding smile at the crowd who cheered.

“All I can say is there are many things I'm excited to return to, and people." You'd accepted since your interview that if you did win then your romantic life would be of great interest to the Capitol, so you didn't shy away from playing into it, giving a small, longing look off the side of the stage that the cameras would be sure to pick up.

“And I suppose for now you'll make us settle for that as an answer?"

“For now, Caesar, a woman has to have her secrets." You repeated, alluding back to your original interview, and the audience gave a playful groan.

"Well then, for now, that's an answer we'll have to be happy with. But I know we're all burning to go over these highlights with you.” The highlights, your moment to try and keep up the persona while rewatching the moments already ingrained into your mind. Everyone watching seemed eager with anticipation of the cheers were any indicator.

“I wouldn't want to keep anyone waiting then." Your gaze was purposely wide and as doe-eyed as you could make it be. The Bloodbath was first, your kills, the alliance and you were able to maintain the facade as he pestered you about your abilities with the knife. You distracted your brain with how cold the auditorium seemed to be, how thin the fabric of the dress was which left you trying not to shiver. Then it was conversations with Conway and you tried even harder to play into the act while trying to detach yourself from reality.

“I know some people were definitely rooting for you and Conway in the tragedy of it all, but I have to ask, and I want you to be honest. Did you love him?"

“He was my closest friend in the world, of course I loved him." Not like how he wanted you too, or how you knew logically you should have loved him, but it was love. Your voice was soft, sweet, and trembled with the fear of tears. Which you decided could actually be helpful at some point to keep painting yourself in this light.

You could have sworn you saw audience members crying, not because they cared about you, or him, but because to them this was a tale of tragedy that added a kick to their entertainment. Caesar hummed, “But you loved someone else more?" His voice was softer in the microphone as well.

You looked at him, “Only one of us was going to come out of the arena, it wasn't a matter of who I loved more." What a lie, if it was Finnick you were certain you'd give it all up for him in a split second. Sounds of sobs filled your ears and you pushed down the anger you felt at these people for how they'd ripped your life, Conway's life apart , just to cry over it now. Next was the highlight where you'd almost died and that was much easier to talk about, besides the fact that you could currently feel how cold your nose was getting which made your body want to curl up, you took every muscle to resist that impulse though.

“What were you thinking when that parachute was flying down from the sky?"

“Honestly, Caesar, it's fuzzy, but I'm pretty sure I was hallucinating." You forced a nervous laugh which the audience returned in full force and so did Ceased. You turned your body to face them, “However since then all I've wanted to say is thank you, to all of you who sponsored me during the games." The tears about Conway you let spill in full force about this instead, silently hoping it would win even more people over. “I'm just so grateful for all the generosity you've shown me and I will forever be." The crowd gave out noises of approval.

When the coverage of the battle between your allies and the Careers began and all the way up to those you cared about most in those Games, you let your soul float into the clouds. Allowing a smiley, teary eyed autopilot to take over your brain. You don't remember leaving autopilot until you were seated in some sort of throne-like chair, President Snow giving a speech to the citizens of Panem. He turned to you and you rose as he approached you with a crown, a crown that represented how you backstabbed your way to the top.

You bowed your head slightly as he placed the cold metal on your head, “Wonderful job, my dear." He said gruffly with a smile and although you could feel your body shaking, you forced one back.

“Thank you, Mr. President."

Yet he reiterated his statement in a way that gave you chills that you couldn't understand, “A wonderful job, you've really proven what these games are about."

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

"Did we leave the spile in one of the trees?” You ask, dehydration certainly isn't helping how lightheaded you felt.

Peeta nods, “Yeah, impossible to know which one though."

"I'll go find it then.” You volunteered.

"I need to give the beach a good walk around, as well, let my brain finish thinking something up.” Beetee stood up, coil of wire in hand.

“You're not going alone." Finnick objected, ready to go with you.

“I'm not going alone, I have Beetee. We'll be fine, Finnick, it's a circle you'll be able to see us the whole way around." He looked reluctant, but knew there wasn't much he could do unless he followed you around, but he couldn't leave Johanna to take care of both Katniss and Peeta.

He sighed, “Be safe." His tone was even, straight-laced, “Beetee make sure she doesn't do anything stupid."

You scoffed, “I'm looking for a spile!" But Beetee nodded to Finnick. “I’ll be fine! If I need you I'll scream." He exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

“I'll send out a search party if you're not back in 20 minutes."

You looked around the arena slowly before looking back at him, “I'm sure there's no way of telling, but I'll be back. I promise." You smiled and he's still frowning, but he kisses your forehead and lets you walk off with Beetee.

“20 minutes!" He shouts after you as you begin walking around the perimeter of the beach, looking around the trees.

“So what's your plan with that?" You nod towards the coil Beetee is fiddling with.

“We've got water, lighting, a conductor, everything we need to electrocute." Beetee responds, you're ducking in and out of the trees. Searching for where the spile could be nestled in. You're far enough that you can't really see the group through all the trees, but that doesn't bother you until you hear a scream. It's far enough away that it's faint, screams of a young girl and then Katniss. You and Beetee are looking around, listening to the noise that's carried only by the breeze, when another voice enters the cacophony. It's familiar to you, but your brain struggles to process the sound. “That's you." Beetee says slowly.

Your brain does; however, instantly register the next scream, calling your name, Finnick. Instantly you'd ran out of the treeline back into the sand, back to where you'd left the group. “Finnick!" You screamed back, heart racing in panic. “Johanna, where's Finnick?" Both him and Katniss are gone, you can hear their shouts on top of the other noises.

“He followed her in." Johanna tilted her head towards the jungle and your legs instantly started moving, to find him, to show him the screams aren't really you. “It's already closed off, you can't go in."

"What do you mean, closed off?” You get your answer instantly when your hands touch the shield surrounding the woods the screams are coming from. You see Katniss running forward screaming and Peeta comes up by you, telling her it's just the birds. What birds? She's being hounded by them as she falls to the ground and you realize the screams are coming from them.

“Jabberjays." Beetee says, coming up behind you. You let your hands trace along the wall as you keep walking.

“What're you doing?" Johanna asks, exasperated.

“I have to find him, if he can at least see me-" Her scoff interrupts you but you keep darting your eyes through the trees in this clear cage, following it.

“He knows by now that it's not really you.”

"I know that!” You don't mean to snap at her, it frustrates you that you even pulled your eyes away from the jungle. "I know him, Johanna, and if he can see me then he'll know for certain that I'm okay." You're about to turn in the jungle as you follow the wall but Johanna grabs your arm, you start to shove her off. “Let go of me!”

"You go in there and it could be the next hour, the moment those stupid mutts are done, whatever is in there you'll be stuck with.”

"I don't care!”

She grabs you again, "But he does!” The frustration makes you want to cry all over again. She's right and that infuriates you, looking back inside the bubble when you catch a glimpse of him. Sitting, knees to his chest, covering his ears as he whispers something to himself, eyes clenched shut as birds flutter around him.

You don't care if he can't hear you when you hit the wall, “Finnick! Finnick!" Johanna mumbles something, but you don't listen. Too busy trying to beg him to look your way, but he doesn't. All you can do is watch him as he talks to himself, the way his fingers dig into the side of his head, how hurt he looks. You hate yourself, for disregarding him to go search for the stupid spike, for letting him be there for you and now not being there for him. "There's gotta be a way to break it.” Your voice cracks.

"I helped design the technology, it's unbreakable." Beetee’s voice is quiet in the clamor going on in your head. You hate him too right now for giving them this, something to stop you from getting to him. Forehead pressed to the wall as you let yourself cry, let the shame take over your body. You've forced yourself to keep your eyes on him, to suffer more, a just punishment for allowing this to happen. If you'd stayed out then the screams wouldn't have ever lured him in deeper. At some point he removed his hands from his ears and began to stare forward numbly. Allowing the birds to screech in his ears with your stolen voice, you resent yourself more for not trying harder, for letting him slip into such a state even if there was nothing more to do. Centuries seem to pass when suddenly there's a silence and your head falls forward, the wall is gone, the birds are lying on the jungle floor.

Instantly you're running forward, you want to scream out in relief that it's finally over, but you're terrified to startle him. You kneel down in front of him, there are streaks on his face from what must have been tears, but now he's just blank. “Finn?" It's whispered, so as not to put him on alert.

Slowly his eyes moved to your face, at first it's somewhat untrusting, like he doesn't believe it's really you. The worry on your face must prove to him otherwise because that look is soon gone.

“Are you okay?" You know the answer is no, but you don't know what else to say, too guilt ridden to think of a way to help.

“Yeah, I'm fine." He mutters and you nod just kneeling by him.

Your stomach is churning, it felt like your blood was full of pure, unfiltered anxiety, so you force your foot not to tap, but you can feel your toes twitching. “I'm sorry.” You croaked out and he shook his head again, "No, I am, I'm sorry Finnick. I should've stayed with you, I should've-"

“Are you hurt?" His hoarse voice asks, it's numb like the way his eyes are.

“No, Finnick, I was fine, I am fine!"

“Then it doesn't matter." He shrugs.

“It matters to me." Finnick looks at you, like your words are finally sinking into him. Cautiously you bring your hands up to his, “Do you wanna go to the beach? We can, we can go there." Besides the fact he always wanted to be at the beach back home, that was especially true when the episodes of not being able to ignore the burden on his shoulders happened. Your own uncertainness made you angry with yourself, he was always putting on a facade to be strong when you needed him too and now when it was your turn, you couldn't even stop your voice from shaking. His head moved ever so slightly, “Yeah? Come on." Slowly you began to rise, keeping your hands on his as he stood as well. As carefully as you could you guided him back to the sands of the beach, to the waters.

He instantly submerged himself in the water as he sat down, letting waves rise on him. You followed suit, wrapping your arms around him and he leaned back into you. “Don't leave me either." Finnick eventually spoke, the setting sun highlighting his face.

You shook your head furiously, “I won't." Maybe you didn't understand what about you he found grounded or endeared him, but you did know you never wanted to see or even think of him the way you just had, again. You also accepted there would never be a day where you didn't think about it, what you did, how he looked, how he acted, how scared he seemed. It would haunt you and you would let it, if only to make sure it never happened again. Part of you wished the seawater would consume the both of you here, forever immortalize you with it and make sure there was never a moment you could be parted from each other's arms. Yet a larger piece of you was more determined than ever to execute the plan the best you could so you could be free of the control and mind games of the Capitol, so you could just live the rest of your life out with Finnick the way you'd both intended. To end it all, no matter what it took, so nobody else would have to live the life of the so-called ‘Victor.’

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

I cannot thank you all enough for reading, this was a longer one and I'm sorry it took so long to get out. feedback, likes, comments, reblogs, are all super appreciated and my ask box is open, I'm slowly getting through requests as well! you're all so amazing and sweet, it's really kept my passion for this series alive and I have so many ideas. again thank you all so much for reading 💋

taglist: @coriolanussnowswife @avoxrising @artsyaquarium @jennaaaaaaaaaaaa @secretsicanthideanymore @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts @thatonegayloser616 @libertyybellls @meri-soni-meri-tamanna @ravensinthedaylight @innercreationflower @uhnanix @aesthetic0cherryblossom @yourdailymemedelivery @ang3lflor @maxinehufflepuffprincess @prettybiching @miserablebl00d @wowzabowza69 @nomorespahgetti @problematicpastry @abaker74 @nj01 @whens-naptime @sarcasticbooknerd12 @cakes-hq @honethatty12 @s1lngwns

[angelicsoka]

SARA, l. hughes

word count | 1.3k

pairings | luke hughes x fem!reader, platonic!quinn hughes x reader, platonic!jack hughes x reader

summary | luke’s girlfriend has suffered in silence for too long, and luke noticed the warning signs too late

warnings | HEAVY themes of suicide and suicidal ideation, mentions of self-harm and depression, underage drinking and smoking, mentions of blood. ANGST ANGST ANGST, open ending, this is not a happy fic, luke is fucking oblivious. based on the song sara by we three. no use of "y/n". lowercase intended

a/n | this is my first time posting in here so i'm still figuring out how this all works lol. this is NOT proofread. also this is probably the darkest thing i have ever really written.

little sara, you're a diamond in the rough

and i know that you don't hear this all enough

and i'm sure that's why your wrists have tons of cuts

and i'm sure that's why you think you're not enough

fingers traced over the faded scars and onto the raised ones, the urge more than she can handle. but she deserved this. she deserved to feel so shitty, she was shitty. she ruined everything good she had, her relationships and job. a repeated process, be happy for a while and then fuck everything up. “who would care if she fucked one more thing?” was the thought that ran through her head, crimson covering the sink.

your mind can only think about the things it shouldn't

your brain is filled with thoughts of wishing that ya didn't

little sara, perk your ears up, try to listen

but she can't hear a sound because she's locked in a prison

the room was loud, but the noise sounded so far away as she dazed off. she was brought back to reality by luke swinging his arm over her shoulder, pulling her close. the sudden movement made her quietly hiss as her arm brushed against him, the fresh wounds in the back of her mind. she forced a smile on her face, looking to luke who gently kissed her forehead. he offered her a beer, to which she took, ignoring the concerned look on quinn’s face. she had been drinking all night  but luke didn't have to know that. it slowed the thoughts, so how could it be a bad thing?

luke began to chat with his brothers and their friends, oblivious to the smile that had dropped from her face. oblivious to the fact that she was practically chugging the beer in hopes to stop the horrible thoughts that had begun to invade her brain once more.

and she was oblivious to the concerned looks of her boyfriend and friends as she abruptly got up, walking outside. she sat down, pulling the cigarette from its box, lighting it. she took a drag, jumping when a voice spoke up:

“you’re killing yourself, you know that?” she whipped her head around to see quinn standing there with his hands in his pockets. “does luke know you smoke?”

“why do you care?” she snapped, turning to look back at the yard. it was quiet, crickets chirping being the only thing making noise. she ignored quinn as he sat beside her, taking another drag. she held back her tears, not wanting to break down in front of her boyfriend’s oldest brother.

“he loves you, you know? the way he looks at you says it all. you're good for him. i don’t think i've seen him this happy in a long time.” she forced a small smile at quinn’s attempt to comfort her. he was lying, he had to be, because who could love a fuck up like her?

all your friends they wanna smoke 'cause it's a friday

but you've been smoking straight probably since last sunday

i know you know you shouldn't say that you are okay

but you still look 'em in the eye and lie then go to use your ashtray

she was high, but when was she not? the boys passed around the blunt, each taking drags from it. they were joking around, jack and trevor wrestling beside her. luke held her close, his fingers gently running down her arm. she ignored the burning sensation that occurred when luke’s fingers accidentally brushed over her wound, a smile plastered on her face. luke seemed to be the only who didn’t notice that the smile didn’t meet her eyes. she huffed out a laugh at a joke made by cole, settling her head against luke’s shoulder. for a moment, she felt happy; carefree. 

that all ended when that singular thought crossed her mind: they hate you. such a simple thought, but she felt as though she had been sucker punched. she subtly shifted off of luke, who seemingly didn’t notice. she twiddled with her thumbs, ignoring the feeling of someone looking at her. she felt jack nudge her, handing her the blunt. she accepted it, unable to really meet his eyes. “you okay?” quinn mouthed to her when she met his eyes. 

“yeah.” she lied through her teeth, averting her eyes and grabbing the ashtray.

little sara, last night, you got it bad

in that moment, you could barely even

add up two or three reasons why you're glad

and i guess that's why you grabbed your pen and pad

it was 6:14, and you could barely even read

all the words you'd written down when it was time for you to leave

your phone was on the ground and you could barely hear it ring

couldn't even hear a sound, couldn't feel a single thing

nights were the worst. being alone in her thoughts led to serious consequences, this night no different. she did what she was suppose to, all the coping skills she had learned. still, she couldn’t come up with any reason to stick around, which is why she now sat at her desk, scribbling rapidly. she couldn’t hardly read the words on the paper, tears cascading down her rosy cheeks as she practically destroyed her desk in search of the blade. the distance sound of her phone ringing stopped her for a moment, the contact name and picture for luke clear on her phone. she pushed the second-guessing thoughts aside, muting the call.

luke swore when she once again did not pick up, the text that started this now open: i love you, lukey. i hope you can forgive me. he swore to himself, angry that he had missed the signs. as he thought about it, the signs were so clear, how could he have not noticed? he begged for jack to drive faster, dialing her number once more. luke wiped his tears as jack sped up, praying for her to be okay. he hoped he would make it in time, to be there when she needed him most.

now it's 6:15, and you're on your knees

blood is on your sleeves, and your lungs won't breathe

eyes are watering, body's shivering

and you're wondering what is happening

now it's 6:23, and they're on their knees

begging "jesus please, can you make her breathe?"

'cause they finally see what was happening

underneath their nose and underneath your sleeves 

she sat against her bed, sobs racking through her body. her chest was tight, her breaths short as she began to lose consciousness. she began to shiver uncontrollably, curling into herself to create any kind of warmth. she looked up when the door was kicked in, her vision blurring. her eyes fluttered close as luke ran to her side, her life slowly leaving her body. 

“get something to stop the bleeding!” luke yelled to jack who was frozen under the doorframe. he snapped out of it, grabbing the blanket that was balled up on her bed. he began to put pressure on her wounds as luke pleaded with her to wake up. they continued this until the paramedics arrived, luke hesitant to leave her side. for the first time in a long time, luke cried into his brother’s shoulder. and he swore to himself that he would never miss the signs again.

she can barely see the pavement

she can barely read the signs

people think she's complicated

but never wanna look inside

'cause she's a little too r-rated

and they're a little too damn blind

she's just looking for her angels

but they're a little hard to find

[mumms-the-word]

Choosing to Live

Pairing: Gale x Tav (you/reader POV) Summary: Shortly after Gale decides to defy his goddess and not self-destruct in the caverns below Moonrise Towers, you turn and see him struggling with the conflicting emotional fallout of his decision. CW: death, suicidal ideation, panic attacks, survivor's guilt (implied), coercion (implied) A/N: I was inspired by @gangstagandalf's emotional fanart of Gale and Tav just after Moonrise. It's not quite the same scene as their art but I just couldn't resist writing my own angst version. Check them out, their art is lovely! @gangstagandalf I hope you don't mind if I borrowed a few of your lines from your original post! (Pic is of my tav Dani because that’s all I got) UPDATE: Now on AO3 woooo

You watch as the husk of Ketheric Thorm collapses at your feet, a hollow shell of dessicated flesh and heavy armor. You’ve done it at last—you’ve defeated the Bone Lord’s Chosen, the first of three enemies who have enslaved an Elder Brain through the power of some sort of crown it bears. 

At the thought of the crown, you turn your head, seeking out the person who had first pointed out the crown to you. It was the thing that seemed to wake him from his reluctant obedience to his goddess’s command. There had been hunger in his eyes, more than you’d ever seen in him before, and for a brief moment you had thought yourself and him safe from the commands of the goddess of magic and mysteries.

But then he’d steeled himself. You’d watched as he physically and mentally struggled with the weight of the goddess’s demands, preparing himself for what he thought was inevitable.

Death. Destruction. Catastrophe. But one that would supposedly thwart mass enslavement at the whims of an elder brain and three evil Chosen. A noble sacrifice, but one that would kill dozens of innocent lives, too.

You don’t remember what all you said in those panicked seconds between him making his decision and you being dragged into a battle against Ketheric. You recall, vaguely, that you had clutched his robe in your hands and told him you loved him. There had been other words, too, but they were lost to your memory. Whatever it was, it had been enough. Because as of this moment, the elder brain has disappeared, Ketheric is dead, and you are not.

Your eyes find him, your love, your Gale, standing on a far platform where he had climbed to better aim and prepare his spells. He stands, leaning against his staff, panting, staring at the lifeless and inert body of Ketheric at your feet, and then his gaze shifts to you. You, covered in your blood and Ketheric’s black, fetid ichor, in bone dust and illithid matter. You probably look horrible, you think. You know you should bend down to examine Ketheric’s body and see what the glowing stone in his chest is all about, but you can’t look away from your love. Not now.

Not when you were so close to losing him to his goddess’s arbitrary and cold demand. 

But you didn’t. He’s alive. He’s alive. The thought pumps outward from your heart, warm and reassuring like the blood rushing through your own veins, reminding you that you too are alive. Your only thoughts now are of closing the distance between the two of you and peppering his face with kisses, telling him how proud you are of him, how brave he’s been, how much you love him. But as you take a step toward his platform, a shift in him gives you pause.

He slowly kneels down, still leaning heavily on his staff, and for a moment you think he’s praying, in the same way Shadowheart kneels to pray to her goddess. But no, his eyes are wide, staring, unfixed, not closed and reverent. After a moment, he sits fully on the ground, his staff falling with a clatter against the surface of the platform, and he buries his face in his hands.

You go to him immediately, using a last rare scrap of magic to misty step directly onto his platform. He’s shaking with fine, shuddering tremors as you approach, your steps cautious and soft but your heart aching and yearning to rush over. You reach out a hand, your own fingers trembling as they hover suspended above him, and you whisper his name uncertainly.

“Gale?”

You hear his voice but his words are muffled by his hands. You bend closer, making out fragments as his words tumble forth in a soft, whispered babble.

“Oh gods, oh gods,” he gasps. “I nearly—I almost—I could have—the orb. What have I done—”

“Gale,” you say again, finally kneeling in front of him and laying a hand on his shoulder. He jolts at the touch, stiff and startled by you, but you don’t let it deter you. You squeeze his shoulder in what you hope is a reassuring touch, even as the tears threaten to choke you as you watch and feel him tremble. “It’s all right. We’re safe. My love, you’re safe.”

He lowers his hands, one clenching the fabric of his robe over his chest, his breaths coming shallow and quick. His gaze on you is so different than before, all the warmth and steadiness and gentle, shy uncertainty that came with looking at you replaced with abject horror and unfocused panic. You get the sense he isn’t really seeing you, but staring through you to some theoretical what-if nightmare. One where you didn’t make it out alive. 

“I very nearly killed us all,” he mumbles, still clutching his chest. "I nearly killed you."

“But you didn’t—”

“I was so close to—to—th-the orb, I could feel it stirring, like it wanted me to—” He breaks off, his hand tightening in the fabric of his robe. The mark of the orb glows faintly, the barest hint of illuminated magic threading upward toward his eye, casting an orchid-purple sheen to his dark iris. He bends forward slightly, combing a hand roughly through his hair and clutching brown and gray strands tightly in his fist, his eyes wide. You half-expect him to be sick as he presses his other hand flat against his chest, breathing heavily. “And now I’ve defied my goddess. I—”

He turns suddenly, sharply, twisting to prop himself up on hands and knees away from you as his body rebels against him and he retches. Very little comes up—he hasn’t been eating well since you first stepped into Moonrise and he found himself faced with the very real possibility of sacrificing his life—but his body shudders and bucks violently as it attempts to dispel everything inside him. Not just the contents of his empty stomach but the fear and loathing and terror too. 

You don’t shy away from him. You shift closer, sitting on your knees at his side as his body settles into little shivers, his hands pressed flat into the surface of the platform. Your eyes are burning with tears now and you want to sob, your heart shattering for this man, your love, your heart’s song, but you have to be strong for him. You smooth his hair from his face, fingers brushing against his sweat-slick skin, and you cradle his feverish cheek in your palm. You say the only words you know to say and you repeat them as many times as you have to before they break through the haze of his clouded mind and resonate within him.

“Shh. You’re safe, my love. I’m here. I’m here with you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, my love. You are safe.”

He leans into you and you gather him in your arms, rocking you both gently as he rests his head on your shoulder and wraps his arms around one of your arms. His shoulder is awkwardly pressed into your chest and he’s half-curled into your lap, weighing your knees uncomfortably down into ground, but you don’t mind. Discomfort and awkwardness don’t matter. What matters is that he is alive and so are you. You remind him of that in words, in your stream of murmured comforts, along with all the rest. 

It takes several long moments for his breathing to even out again, and another few for him to finally rest against you without an errant shiver wracking his body. But he calms at last. The tears on your face have since dried, but your heart aches no less than before. To think that your love would suffer so for making the right choice—the choice to live—but to suffer nonetheless out of a sense of guilt and fealty to a goddess that had thrown him aside like a broken toy.

It fills you with an uncommon rage. The gods are ever cruel, but the goddess of magic—you dare not even give her the honor of her name in your own thoughts—she is among the worst in your eyes. Even now, as your love struggles to compose himself, it isn’t a goddess’s arms or a goddess’s blessing that are there to comfort him.

The arms that are wrapped around him are your own. The comfort you have to offer is that of warm flesh and soft breath, mortal and precious. And it is better—better, you tell yourself with all the prideful conviction of a mortal soul—than anything an immortal, unfeeling goddess could offer.

He finally stirs, straightening up to look at you. Or look at your shoulder, rather, unable to meet your gaze. His expression is hollow, sorrowful, but calm. You know the road to him accepting and finding joy in his decision to defy his goddess is not yet over, and the path ahead may still be thorny.

But at least he has the chance to try and walk that path, rather than ending it all here.

"Forgive me," he says softly. He seems to want to say more, but the words don't come easily. You shake your head, not caring what he's trying to apologize for.

"There's nothing to forgive, my love. You made the right choice." You caress his cheek, wiping away the grime and the tear tracks that have collected there. “I love you, Gale.”

He finally meets your gaze and oh, your love, he looks so exhausted. But there is a flicker of his old self still there, a warmth that is familiar in his dark eyes. You press your forehead to his, still caressing his cheek, and close your eyes. 

He’s alive. That’s all that matters. You can figure out the rest as you go.

“I love you, too,” he whispers.

You have to get out of here, out of this cavern of flesh and stone and brine. You have to face the problems of the world at large, the threat of the elder brain and more. You know that. But you steal a few more moments for yourself, breathing softly with Gale, treasuring every breath as though they were more precious than diamonds.

———

You set out to leave the shadow-cursed lands at what you think is dawn the next day. Even with the curse waning, it’s hard to tell the time with the sun still obscured. But the hope is that as the land fades away behind you, you’ll be walking forward into sunlight and not more night.

You and Gale walk at the back of your little group, your companions moving on ahead. With each step, the shadow curse lightens. There are hints and signs of new life all around, tiny green leaves fluttering against once-dead branches, thin shoots of grass poking upward from the cold, dry ground. It restores your hope for good things to come. Not just for these lands, but for you. For your love.

He’s been quiet since the fight against Ketheric. Contemplative. Thoughtful. You had spent the night wrapped in each other's arms, counting his every heartbeat and breath until you were pulled into slumber, suspecting that he had done the same for you. When you woke you both pretended that sleep had cured you of the previous day’s torments and used the task of breaking up the camp to travel onward as your distraction from your concerns. But you watched him across the camp anyway, a knot of worry in your stomach.

Sometimes, both this morning and in the moments traveling now, you see that hunger in his eyes as you did when he first saw the crown atop the elder brain. But sometimes you just see a lingering sorrow. You haven’t been able to bring yourself to ask him about it. Not yet. It’s enough that he’s here with you, and you trust him to speak to you about what weighs on his heart in his own time. But you still worry.

Just up ahead, the shadow curse seems to fizzle out entirely, like a fog that dissipates as the sun burns it away. Beyond the threshold is sun-warmed landscape. Though scarred by the smoldering and abandoned remains of the Absolute army’s campfires and shelters, nothing has ever looked so inviting to you before. You rush ahead, eager to feel the sun on your skin again.

The difference in temperature alone is enough to reassure you that the shadow curse is behind you at last. One second you are enveloped in the chill and dimness of the shadows, and the next you are warm and bright in the light of the sun. You pause just a few steps into the sunlight, stretching out your arms and lifting your face toward the sky, drinking in the warmth. At last. You feel as though you can breathe freely again.

You turn to smile at Gale, but he is not at your side. He lingers in the shadows, watching you. The shadow curse is like a sheer black veil between you, obscuring his expression slightly, but as you step closer you realize his eyes are glimmering with unshed tears.

“Gale?”

He blinks, as if awakening from the depths of his thoughts, and quickly rubs his eyes. “Ah…my apologies. Lost in thought, I suppose.”

You hesitate to leave the warmth of the sun, but you sense this is more important than sunlight. You step onto the threshold of the curse, reaching out a hand to him. You want to pull him out of the shadows and into the light with you. He stares at your hand a moment before taking it, but he doesn’t move. Like he isn’t ready yet. 

“Tell me what’s on your mind, my love,” you say gently. “Tell me how I can help.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but for the first time, words seem to utterly fail him. He swallows, gazing at you with a stricken expression, and tightens his hold on your hand.

“It’s simply…I am…in awe,” he says at last. “Of you. And I am mortified with myself. No, more than mortified. I nearly…”

You sense the flow of his thoughts instantly, your minds connecting via the tadpole, his thoughts unconsciously opening up to you. At first he resists, his mind shutting down like a trap to spare you, but then the shields waver and fall away, and you are pulled into his memories. You feel the struggle within him as he stares at the elder brain. You feel the heat and pain of the orb inside, as if reminding him of his purpose. You see yourself through his gaze, the fear and love warring in your expression as you beg him not to go through with his sacrifice. You feel the moment he makes his decision, his resolve hardening like steel in flame, only to shatter, brittle and broken, the moment the brain disappears, the pieces transforming into needles of doubt that bury themselves in his psyche, his heart, his body.

As the familiar, terrifying sight of the colossal avatar of Myrkul rises into your vision once more, for one fleeting moment, you sense the desperate desire to end it all now, to end the storm of uncertainty in your mind, the pain of the orb, the fear of disobedience, the exhaustion of facing another battle with impossible odds. For one fleeting moment, you consider letting go and letting the orb obliterate you and everything around you.

And then the connection ends, and you are left standing at the threshold of the shadows with Gale’s hand in yours.

“I nearly killed us all with one rash thought,” he murmurs quietly. “The thought of my sacrifice never left my mind, even as I swore to you I wouldn’t go through with it.”

He takes a shuddering breath and a tear drips down his cheek. You catch it with your fingertips as you cradle his face with your free hand, your heart breaking for him all over again. His tears prompt your own and you struggle to hold them back, for his sake.

“And now,” he says, his voice altered, thick with tears. He swallows. “And now I see what I fool I was to doubt. To doubt you and your wisdom. To wish for death so quickly.” 

He meets your gaze and you see a thousand words he hasn’t said yet there in his brown eyes. A hundred apologies, a hundred ways to beg forgiveness, a hundred confessions of love, a hundred praises, all about and for you. It’s a torrent of love and longing and guilt in his eyes and your knees nearly buckle at the sight of it.

“I would have condemned the brightest of stars to death,” he says. “I would have robbed the world of its greatest treasure. And for what?”

“Oh, Gale,” you whisper. You abandon the sunlight to join him in the shadows and embrace him, holding him tightly as he struggles to regain his composure. “No more. You made the right decision. You’re here with me. I’m here with you. We’re alive, my love, because of you.”

“But I could have—“

“But you didn’t.” You pull back to cradle his face in both your hands and wait until he’s looking you full in the face. You want him to see your own resolve, but also your love, your faith in him, your pride for him. “You chose to live, my love. That is the most important thing. That is all that matters right now.”

He stares at you, letting your words sink in, until at last he smiles. Though it’s still tinged with sadness and guilt, it’s genuine. It soothes your spirit and settles some of your worries. 

“I don’t deserve you, you know.”

You shake your head. This isn’t about deserving, but you know that’s a battle you won’t win here. Instead you kiss him, your lips soft against his, and you let that suffice for words for a moment.

When you finally pull away, he seems a little restored. The love is back in his eyes and his smile isn’t weighed down as it was before.

“I love you,“ you say.

“And I love you,” he responds. “Immensely. More than I scarce dreamed I could love anyone.”

“We will find another way to deal with the brain and quiet the orb inside you. Some way that keeps us both alive and together. I swear it.“

“I believe you.” There isn't a trace of uncertainty in his voice when he says it. “I want that more than anything.”

“Want what?”

“To live. With you. To see the dawn of a new day with you, the dawns of a thousand more days. To know that the road ahead, whatever it holds, won't be spent alone, because I'll have you by my side.” He pauses, as if a thought is only just now coming to him. “I can...I can have that hope, now. Thanks to you.”

You smile. You take both of his hands in yours and step back, placing yourself once more on the threshold between shadows and sun. “Then will you join me in the sunlight?”

He looks at you, then at the sunlit road beyond, and then back at you. He nods, letting go of one of your hands but tightening his hold on the other. “Yes. I’d love to.”

Without another word, he keeps his hand in yours as you lead him forward step by step.

Away from the darkness and into the light.

[theidiotwhowritesthings]

The World Ended

Joel Miller x F!Reader

Warnings: Joel Miller is hella manipulative, power imbalance, non descriptive age gap, Dub Con, smut, oral fem receiving, fingering, rough sex, P in V, Dom!Joel Miller, breeding kink adjacent if you squint and read between the lines, mentions of death of child, mentions of suicidal ideation (no more so than the show discusses), mentions of trauma, inspired by '10 Cloverfield Lane'

Word Count: 5,852

Summary: You wake up in an entirely new world, but you find comfort and love in an ally. He saved your life after all. Why wouldn't you trust him? Haunted Hoedown prompt: Stranded AU/Cult AU + "every moment might be our last, let's make the most of it."

[a/n: my contribution for haunted hoedown b/c i was inspired and couldn't resist (def cheated and ignored the days tho i just picked my fav parts of different prompts lol). 10/10 would recommend surfing that tag b/c people are making WORKS OF ART. This is just my toss it together addition lol]

"manipulation and control can sometimes be disguised as love." -abegail turingan

It was odd to wake up with no memory of going to bed. Disorienting was probably the more accurate word. Enough so that for a brief moment all you could do was stare up at the concrete ceiling above you. There was a headache lingering behind your eyes that no amount of blinking would clear away. Where were the stars? The thought drifted through your foggy mind. Your bedroom had glow in the dark stars plastered to the ceiling. A design choice that a nine year old you chose at the store, and one that your parents were never able to peel away no matter how many years had passed⏤ they were nostalgic in that sense. You must have been just like them considering you admired those cheap, plastic stars while staying in your parents’ home during this visit.

But the stars were gone.

Everything was gone, and the sharp smell of antiseptic and bleach replaced the floral scent of your mother’s detergent. You turned your head into your pillow in hopes that the comfort of your bed would ease the headache that seemed to worsen the longer you were awake. You found no comfort though because the pillow you laid on was not your own. 

Slowly, you began to sit up and you weren’t sure what was more distracting: the unexplained aching pain of all your muscles or the unfamiliar strange room you found yourself sitting in. The walls were like the ceiling, undecorated concrete, and the only bit of furniture was the metal framed cot you were now lying on. A hospital gown covered your otherwise bare body. 

The clarity that settled in your mind was stark and startling. Any of the fog you initially woke with vanished in a snap, and your breaths came in quick, hyperventilated gasps. Oh, God. Oh, God. You threw your sore legs over the edge of the bed to rise. Your feet only brushed against the cold tile of the ground before you found yourself sprawled on the floor. 

“Help…” The word left your lips in a breathless whisper as you tried to move your weak legs. You could only manage to sit up. “Help.” With every attempt, your voice grew stronger until you were screaming. “Help me! Help!”

A heavy, metal door, one across the room that you hadn’t even noticed in your panicked state, began to creak open. You sucked in a sharp breath, fear palpable, as an unfamiliar man stood in the doorway. He was older than you. Gray littered his brown, messy hair and facial hair, but it suited him. The man wore a dark green flannel that accented his broad shoulders. Everything about his figure exuded strength and intimidation from his build to the large hands that held a box of some kind. However, the moment his dark brown eyes landed on yours they softened. His shoulders hunched marginally, as if he were trying to look smaller than he actually was, and a line of worry formed between his furrowed brow.

“Hey! I need someone in ‘ere!” He barked over his shoulder, never breaking eye contact, in a deeply southern drawl. The man rushed into the room toward you, but when you flinched at his approach he slowed his pace. He took one hand off the box to hold in your direction, palm stretched outward, “It’s alright. You’re safe. Promise.” Coming from a stranger, and in this scenario, his words did nothing to calm your racing heart. You crawled backwards until your back hit the cot. Your name suddenly left his lips. “I’m⏤ My name is Joel.”

“How⏤ How do you know my name?” You gasped.

“Your license. It was in your bag. Didn’ mean to pry but…” Joel said slowly. “Are you⏤”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence as you blurted out, “Where the hell am I? Why am I here? What is going on? I⏤”

“Whoa, whoa.” Joel knelt down in front of you but kept his distance which you appreciated. “One thing at a time, darlin’.” He shook his head. “You were in a car accident… ‘bout two days ago now.”

“A car accident?” As the words left your own lips, there was a flicker of some forgotten memory playing in your head. The sound of a car horn, blinding headlights, the crunch of metal on metal, and the taste of blood. You flinched, “I… Oh, God.” You held your head with a trembling hand but winced as your hand brushed against a tender spot on the left side of your face. “Is this… Is this a hospital then?” The room resembled a prison more than it did a hospital room. Plus, it made no sense to you that your parents weren’t here. The man saw your license which meant they’d know who to contact. “Where is my family?”

Joel hesitated and you saw a look of what almost looked like regret in his eyes. You repeated your question more firmly this time. He sighed, “That’s… tougher to answer.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

A second later, a man and a woman dressed in bright orange HAZMAT suits came storming into the room. It was a blur of yelling and chaos and they descended upon you. Joel argued loudly with them and your head was spinning enough that it was difficult to follow what was happening. Gloved hands wrapped around your arm, ripping you up from the ground, but it was short lived. The man who had grabbed you was shoved away by Joel who gently sat you on the side of the cot before standing in front of you as a barrier.

“Don’ you fuckin’ grab her like that.” Joel snarled. The soft kindness that had been in his tone only moments ago was gone now. “You hear me??”

“Sir, you are not supposed to be in here.” The woman snapped. “Her wounds⏤”

“Her wounds are from the accident. I already told you.”

“We still need to test her⏤”

“Fine, but you don’ jus’ fuckin’ grab ‘er like that!”

There was nothing about this moment that could be called peaceful, but Joel’s defensive stance and his deep voice somehow managed to calm your racing heart. You didn’t know why the man was so protective over you, but you’d take any ally you could in this moment. The argument continued long enough for only a few more verbal jabs at one another. It settled on Joel sitting by your side glaring at the man in the HAZMAT suit as he used two separate swabs on you. One against the wound on your forehead and the other in your mouth.

“By entering without precautionary measures, you have bought yourself another 24 hours of quarantine, Mr. Miller.” The woman announced.

Joel didn’t respond but just glared at the woman instead. The second the two of them disappeared out of the room, Joel’s features softened again. You hugged yourself, trying to keep from shaking, and swallowed the lump that now sat in the middle of your throat. “Thank you. For that.”

“Least I can do.” Joel murmured as his eyes traced your face⏤ examining your wound, you assumed. You weren’t quite sure what he meant by that, but Joel didn’t elaborate. Sitting this close to him, there was something familiar about. You weren’t sure why because you were positive you had never spoken to him before. You’d remember a face this handsome. A voice that distinct and hypnotizing. “How do you feel?”

“Um. Sore. Confused.” You admitted. Recalling how the woman addressed him, you cleared your throat. “Mr. Miller⏤”

“Joel, darlin’. Jus’ Joel.”

“Joel…” You tested the name out. “Please⏤ Please tell me what’s going on. Where am I? Where is my family? Why⏤ Why were they in HAZMAT suits?”

The stranger you were finding comfort in let out a slow sigh. He rose from the bed to pick up the box he had brought with him. You had forgotten about that entirely. Joel sat back down after opening it and offered it to you. There was a simple set of men’s clothes in the box along with a water bottle and bag of chips. He shook his head. 

“All I had were a few of my spare things.” Joel said. “Figured you might be thirsty or⏤ or hungry.”

You appreciated the gesture, but it wasn’t what you wanted right now, “Joel. What happened?”

He let out another long sigh before meeting your gaze with a look of mourning, “The world ended, darlin’.”

The bunker was large enough to fit thirty or so people. It was an underground, concrete community made by a survivalist who went by the name of Ezra. You had yet to meet this mysterious man which felt odd since the community wasn’t that large, but it wasn’t too shocking since you didn’t do much exploring since your arrival. 

The world had ended. That’s what Joel told you. Hell, that’s what everyone kept telling you, but none of them could tell you concretely how. Every time the discussion came up, there was a new story involved. Aliens had invaded. Zombies had overtaken. A virus wiped out humanity. The theories were endless and since you couldn’t remember your last moments above ground you had no opinion on the matter. The last thing you could recall was leaving the house to meet some old friends who stayed local to your hometown for drinks. You got into the car, and the next thing you remembered was waking up in a concrete room.

You hoped your memory would come back gradually, but two weeks had passed and nothing was any more clear. You mourned a muddled memory. Families and friends ripped away from you in uncertain measures, and it left you reeling. The only pillar you had right now was Joel Miller. He had saved you in more ways than one. When the world went to shit, Joel was on his way to the bunker. All the people here were either friends or they knew this Ezra character in some way and that’s how they bought themselves a ticket into this sanctuary. Joel had been the survivalist’s contractor. Helped build this place and even mocked the man when first given the job. 

But, when the world did end, Joel was offered safety and on his way there he came across your wreck on the side of the road. He scooped you up and fought for your place here with him.

You owed him your life.

The sound of a door opening snapped you out of the daze you had fallen into. Joel stepped into the shared bunk space looking worn out. While your simple duty in this community was currently food prep, Joel’s was more labored. He helped with any repairs and upkeep to ensure everything was working as it should. He dropped his tool belt by the door with a groan.

“Long day?” You asked with a small smile. Joel grunted an affirmative. He crossed the small room to drop down onto the couch. Since you were technically an add on rather than one of the invited, you were forced to share the room with Joel. Though ‘forced’ wasn’t quite the right word. You honestly didn’t mind it at all. Having a familiar face, even if it were one you only just met, brought you comfort. Though you kind of felt bad he was now stuck with you. There was no way he could’ve known saving your life off the side of the street was going to chain your existence to him.

The room was decent though. There was a simple bed in one corner, a couch pushed up against the wall, a table with two chairs, and a mostly empty drawer. Over the last two weeks, you and Joel had collected or traded objects to make the room your own. You traded a set of spare socks that had come with the room for a small, blue vase that you set in the middle of the table. Joel had even managed to find a few books and magazines that he gifted you.

You pushed up from the bed to sit on the couch beside him. You pulled your legs in to tuck under yourself. The shirt you wore was one of his flannels, you still had limited clothing options, but you had managed to scourge up a pair of yoga pants that fit you well enough. 

“You?” Joel asked as he rested his head on the back of the couch.

“Food prep was exciting as always.” You joked. Joel breathed out a small, tired chuckle. You nodded toward the bed. “Lay down. Sleep.” Joel shot you a light glare. From the beginning, Joel was adamant about sleeping on the couch so you could have the bed. Even when you told him it made more sense for him to have the bed since you were smaller. Joel wouldn’t even listen to the suggestion of swapping turns. “Joel.”

“Couch is fine.” Joel replied gruffly and closed his eyes.

“If it’s fine then I should have no issues sleeping on it, right?”

“Ain’t gonna happen.”

You set your hand on his arm and felt him slightly stiffen at your touch. Joel cracked open his eyes to peek at you. “Please take the bed tonight. Please.” He furrowed his brow and you gave his arm a squeeze. “Nothing would make me happier right now. I’m serious.”

Joel didn’t say anything to begin with. He just held your gaze and under the weight of his stare you felt the back of your neck warm. The man was painfully attractive, it couldn’t be argued, but that wasn’t what made your heart skip a beat or your core secretly ache. It was the way Joel looked at you and spoke to you. The way he treated you. If his gaze were to be believed, you must have been a work of art. Joel stared at you like a dying man watching his last sunset. His voice was always deep and honeyed when he spoke to you. The words he chose put the respect and care he had for you on clear display. 

The world ended and everything in your life felt cold, but not Joel. Joel was warmth.

Joel’s other hand settled on top of your smaller one. His thumb traced your knuckles and your throat felt tight at the contact. He gave your hand a quick squeeze and then stood up with a groan. You heard his knees crack, but he made no comment on it. Joel just leaned over and pressed a kiss to the top of your head, “Thank you, baby.”

You watched him kick off his boots and drop into bed. A soft groan left his lips and he fell asleep before the lights were even off.

 The sky was blue. Your head rested on Joel’s shoulder as the two of you sat on the ground leaning back against the wall. A total of a month had passed now, and you confided in Joel that you missed the sky. In response, he brought you here. It was a restricted space that he only had access to because he would come up here to do repairs on the electrical system. In the entire bunker, it was the closest to above ground that you could be. Only one staircase and a thick, metal door separated you from the world outside. On the door was a small window and from where you sat you could see a patch of sky.

“Do you think the world really ended?” You asked softly.

Joel glanced at you without jostling your position too much, “What’dya mean?”

“The sky is too pretty for the world to have ended, don’t you think?” You mumbled. It wasn’t just the sky that created your doubt. There was a woman who worked with the mysterious Ezra. She said she would type out anything he dictated to her. She didn’t think the world had ended. She thought it was all some conspiracy or ploy. You weren’t sure how much weight you put into her words, but it left the question in your mind. “What if the world is completely normal up there and we’re just rotting away in a tomb?”

Joel shook his head. “You hear the sirens an’ gunfire. The SOS broadcasts on the radio.”

“Couldn’t that be faked?” You asked. Joel hummed in a noncommittal fashion. You shrugged, “You never told me how the world ended. Everyone else has given me their two cents, but you never talk about it.”

“Cause it doesn’ matter.”

“Why wouldn’t it matter?”

Joel was silent for a few moments, but you waited patiently for him to speak. He shifted and with your head still on his shoulder, his hand found yours. “It doesn’ matter ‘cause… my world ended two years ago.” You lifted your head so you could face him, but Joel kept his eyes on the patch of blue sky. “I… I lost my daughter. Sarah.” You squeezed his hand as your heart ached for him. “Wasn’t fair. Should’ve been me. But… But nothin’ has made much sense since.”

“Joel, I am… I am so sorry.” You whispered.

“I lied.” Joel said and your eyebrows furrowed. He swallowed nervously and finally turned to look at you. “When I found ya, I wasn’ headin’ to the bunker.”

“Where… Where were you going then?”

“Home.” Joel shrugged. “The sirens were goin’ off, people were in a frenzy, Ezra texted me some freakish invite, but… I planned on headin’ home to jus’ wait for the end.” It was devastating to hear someone you had come to care so much for admit that truth. Your heart broke for him. Not a single shred of you could ever imagine the pain or horror of losing a child. “On my way, I ran into you. Saw your car flipped on the side of the road. Once I got ya out, it’s not like I could take ya to the hospital with the way all of it was so…”

Joel motioned to the bunker around the both of you. The rest was history. In the silence, you could hear the whirring noise of the motors working the fans and the pounding of your heart in your ears. You let the hand not in his lift to rake your fingertips through the scruff on his jaw as your thumb rubbed back and forth over his cheek. Joel’s eyes fluttered closed at your touch and a soft breath left his lips. He leaned into your hand.

“I… Joel, I don’t know what to say…”

“This is ‘nough.” Joel murmured. There was a tension that had formed the second you caressed Joel’s face and it only built the longer you were in contact with him. It was a long time coming and was only coming to a head just now. You could control yourself, you were sure of it, but when Joel’s sad eyes opened once more the breath was knocked out of your lungs. His lips twitched into a small smile. “You’re the first thing I’ve cared ‘bout in a very long time, baby.”

The world had ended, supposedly. What was the use of wasted time?

You leaned in and pressed your lips against his. The kiss was soft and hesitant. A brush of you against him as Joel breathed in a strangled gasp. He pulled back and your heart dropped. Embarrassment filled your very soul as you let your hand fall away from him.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn't have. I just thought, every moment might be our last, we should make the most of it. Or⏤”

“It’s not that, baby girl.” Joel immediately cupped your face and you felt yourself melt between his warm, coarse hands. “You don’ owe me this. You know that, right? I don’ expect…”

You gave a small shake of your head, your eyes glued to his lips, “I know, Joel. I know. I… This is my choice. I want you.”

Joel took in a slow breath through his nose as his jaw locked. His hands tightened around your face, caressing the skin along your face and neck, and one hand slipped to cup the back of your head as his forehead leaned against yours. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, “Say it again.”

“I want you, Joel.”

Joel initiated the kiss this time, and it was far from hesitant. At your consent, it was like he dropped all semblance of his self control. His lips were bruising against yours and Joel was desperate in getting you closer. He dragged you over so you were straddling his lap. His hands roamed down your body until they found your hips. Joel’s tongue slipped past your parted lips just as he dragged your aching core against his half hard cock⏤ thrusting up against you while swallowing the moan that left your throat.

He wrapped an arm around your middle and suddenly you found yourself on your back. The cool concrete floor was jarring to how hot you felt. Hands sunk into the waistband and with one firm pull both your tights and underwear were down to your ankles. You gasped in surprise, but Joel didn’t pause. 

“Jesus Christ, what a pretty fuckin’ pussy, baby.” Joel groaned and tugged a foot out from your clothes so both articles wrapped around only one of your legs. He roughly grabbed your thighs and dragged you closer so when he dropped to the ground his mouth was immediately buried into your warmth. You yelped at the contact but it was followed by a wanton groan as his tongue ravished you. It was messy and rushed. Joel ate you out like you were his last meal, and the groans and slurping sounds he made were downright sinful.

“Joel! I⏤ Oh, God.” You gasped and your hands buried in his hair. Your hips lifted to chase after his mouth, but Joel dropped his arm across your waist and pinned you to the floor with a chuckle. 

Joel lifted his face and turned to bite down on your thigh. You cried out at the sting of his teeth against your skin, but the drag of his hot tongue against the spot left you whimpering. “C’mon, baby.” You tugged on his hair to try and get his lips back where you wanted them, but he stayed firm. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”

“Want you, Joel. Need you.”

Thick fingers dragged up and down through the mess he’d already made and one began to prod at your entrance without actually sinking in. “Again.”

“Please. Please!” You tried to grind down against him, but his grip on your waist kept you in place. “I want you, Joel. Want you so badly. Please.” Joel had one fingertip circling your hole, but at your desperate pleas he sunk three of his large fingers right in. You screamed, both in alarm and at the sharp sting, “Shit! Joel, too much!”

“Shhh, baby girl. You’re okay.” His lips found your clit and the suction he applied there slowly took away the sting of his rapidly moving fingers. Just as he reassured you, you were okay. More than okay. Pleasure was clouding your mind and you were a squirming, sopping mess under him. Joel’s fingers curled up into you, dragging against your walls, and he made quick work in finding the spot that punched stars into your vision. “There we go, baby. Jus’ like that.” He kept his lips against your clit as he spoke and your wet flesh muffled his praise. “Lemme feel you squeeze ‘round my fingers so I can feel you squeeze ‘round my fat cock. C’mon.”

Teeth nipped at your clit, followed by the smoothing of his tongue, and combined with the pounding of his fingers you came with a shuddering cry. Joel didn’t stop his onslaught and he lowered his lips from your clit so he could drink up every bit of the soaking wet mess he made.

“Joel. Fuck.” You gasped for the air he had somehow managed to punch out of your lungs with his hand alone. “That was…”

“Not done, baby girl.” Joel sat up on his knees but kept his place between your legs. You weakly pushed yourself up onto your elbows and it only dawned on you then that this entire time he had been fully clothed. It was an almost uncomfortable balance between the two of you. “Get up ‘ere.” You began to push up from your elbows and the moment you were close enough his hand wrapped around the back of your neck so he could help you up the rest of the way into the seated position you now sat in. He gazed down at you, pupils blown in lust, and his dark stare soaked in the sight of you. “Say it.”

Knowing exactly what he wanted, you mumbled, “I want you, Joel.”

“Good girl. Open.” Joel grunted. The hand at the back of your neck grabbed you by the hair and he tugged down so your chin was tilted up. Joel shoved the three fingers he had deep in your cunt into your mouth. You closed your lips around him and moaned at the taste of yourself. “Belt, baby. Get my belt.”

You tried to glance down, but Joel kept his grip on you tight so you could only stare up at him as he pushed his fingers deeper into your mouth. Blindly, your hands groped for his belt and you struggled to get it undone as you gagged around his fingers.

“Shh. You can multitask, baby, I believe in ya.” Joel cooed and didn’t relent. “Work at it. Be good.” You traced his thick fingers with your tongue and your hands finally managed to get his belt undone. You got your hands into his pants, tugging down his boxers, and Joel groaned loudly as your hands wrapped around his hard, girthy cock. The size of him alone had you tense in surprise. “Hey, it’s alright, baby girl.” Joel’s fingers slipped out of your mouth and you couldn’t help but cough to try and clear the tickle at the back of your throat. He carefully pushed you down, onto your back again, but he followed with you so he was hovering over your body. One hand at the back of your neck, cupping it softly, while his other rested by your head to hold himself up. “You can handle this. I swear, this perfect pussy is made for me, baby.”

Joel lowered himself to capture your lips with his. The kiss was soft and tender. It was a sweet moment as his cock dragged slowly against you. His tongue licked against the curve of your lower lip just as the tip of him notched at your hole. You opened your mouth to ask him to start slow, but Joel shoved his tongue into your mouth, deepening the kiss, as his painfully large cock shoved into you. You screamed, muffled by his own mouth, as he bottomed out in one single thrust. Tears involuntarily sprung to your eyes at the intrusion and you pulled your lips away from Joel by turned you head. Your fingernails dug into his back.

“Joel, that⏤ that kind of hurt.”

“I know, I’m sorry, baby girl.” Joel buried his face into the crook of your neck. He left open mouth kisses there between reassurances. “Jus’ give it a minute. You’re doin’ so good. So good.” Joel was thankfully staying still inside of you and with the work he put in along the length of your neck you began to feel the sting start to fade. Joel shifted, just a bit, and you shuddered at the slight drag of him. His cock twitched and he moaned against your skin. “Fuck, you feel so good. So perfect. Knew you would.” Joel gave a short, experimental thrust and you gasped at the wave of pleasure you were pulled under. “Gotta move, baby girl.”

Joel pulled back until just the tip remained then rocked his hips forward hard enough to push you across the concrete floor. He roughly grabbed you by the thigh and pulled your leg up. You followed his lead and hooked your ankles around his back as Joel’s grip on the back of your neck tightened and he quickly fell into an unrelenting pace. 

“Told you, baby girl.” Joel grunted, the only other sound being your breathless moans and the wet sounds of your pussy sucking his cock in with every powerful thrust. “Made for me.” Joel sung praises as that band of want and desire tightened in your core by the second. His hand slipped between your bodies to find your clit once more and your eyes squeezed shut with a gasp. As soon as they shut though, his touch was gone and with that hand he grabbed you by the face. Your eyes snapped back open in surprise. “Nuh uh. Eyes on me. You hear me?” You nodded and he tightened his grip⏤ his fingers digging almost painfully into your cheeks. “Words, baby. Lemme hear you say it.”

“Keep⏤” You gasped. “Keep my eyes on you.”

“Good girl.” Joel’s hand slipped back down and when his fingers reached their goal it took every bit of strength to keep your eyes open. Your orgasm slammed into you like a freight train and a cry of pleasure slipped past your lips. Joel groaned loudly. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Takin’ me so well, baby girl, just like I knew you would.” 

His pace ramped up but he lost his rhythm and in a brief moment of clarity you gasped, “Joel! Joel, you gotta⏤ fuck! Oh God. You gotta pull out, Joel.” He didn’t slow and for a brief moment sharp fear mingled with the overwhelming pleasure. “Joel!”

At last second, Joel ripped himself off you with a guttural groan and you felt the warmth of his release spurt on your hips. Your entire body went lax as he continued to milk the last bit of him onto your body and you felt the warm, sticky cum drip down the sides of your hip and down into your pussy as well. 

Joel tucked himself back into his pants, without clasping his jeans, and he rubbed a hand up and down your thigh soothingly. You were trying to catch your breath as Joel separated your underwear from where it was tangled with your yoga pants around your ankle. You lifted your head and watched as he used your underwear to wipe away the cum now drying on your skin. 

“C’mon, baby girl.” He tucked your panties, now a damp mess of your spend and his, into his flannel pocket and helped you slide your legs back into the yoga pants. When they were back in place, he pulled you to stand and grinned when your knees nearly buckled. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You chuckled and clung to his shoulders. “That was… a lot.”

That had felt incredible, and the fact that it was Joel made it even better. But, it had been rougher than you thought it’d be. Not that you really minded. It just… caught you off guard. Your mind was still too drunk on pleasure to fully understand your feelings on it.

Joel leaned in to settle his lips against your temple. He hummed, “From the second I saw you, baby girl, I just knew you’d be my world.”

“The first second?” You teased. “Me bleeding in an upside down car?”

His lips were curled up into a smile you could only describe as boyish. Joel leaned in again to lock his lips with yours and you wrapped your arms around his neck to help hold yourself up.

The world had ended, but you had a new world now and everything would be just fine.

Right?

BEFORE

Joel stood at the gas pump staring at his phone as his truck was filled. His strange client, the survivalist who asked him to help build a bunker, had shot him a message that made little to no sense. He rambled about the “end of the world”, and invited Joel to join him in the bunker for the “start of something new”. Joel tossed his phone back into his truck with full plans to ignore it. He’d drive to the bar and spend the night drinking. It’d be nothing new. He was a regular at this point.

As he climbed into the driver’s seat his gaze lifted and he spotted you exiting a store across the street.

You from three days ago. You who he met at his usual drinking hole. You who had left him breathless. Joel had been drinking alone, the usual, when you and your friends drifted into the bar as an already half drunk mob. One of your guy friends had gotten rowdy near him, joking with another, and he bumped into Joel and spilled his entire whiskey.

Before he could even begin to lose his temper, you had swept in to save the day. It was obvious you were drunk yourself, but you cleaned him up, apologized for your friends, bought him a new drink, and just sat there and talked. You rambled about being in town to visit your family and catching up with old friends, and Joel found he could listen to you all day.

There was something magnetic about you.

Enough so, that he found himself following you down the road. You were driving toward the edge of town. Maybe to meet with friends at that new bar and drink some more. The roads grew less crowded as you got further out, and Joel thought about following you into the bar. Just to talk. It had been so long since he craved conversation of any kind. He realized though that you probably wouldn’t want anything to do with him. You were young and beautiful and clever. A ray of sunshine. Your options for company were endless and Joel couldn’t imagine being anywhere but at the bottom of that list. Drunk you had put up with him, but sober you probably wouldn’t spare him a glance.

Joel’s eyes darted to the passenger seat where his phone sat. A second passed, and a decision was made. He flashed his lights and laid on his horn. Your car slowed cautiously and he began to speed past you. He looked out his passenger window and the last thing he saw was your wide, confused and fearful eyes before he swerved into you.

He slammed on the breaks and watched your car flip a few times before coming to a stop at the edge of a ditch. Smoke billowed from the broken remains of your vehicle and Joel stared wide eyed at what he had just done. Guilt gnawed at him and he scrambled out of his truck to race to the driver’s side of the wreckage. You were hanging upside down from your seatbelt and blood dripped from a gash along your temple. A bruise was already forming at your hairline. But you were alive. Thank God. He hadn't even considered how wrong that could've gone. It seemed the universe was on his side for this.

Joel knew what he had done was wrong, but it was too late to go back.

He had made the decision⏤ your world ended and he’d be the one to build you something new.

[if you're curious the Ezra I mention is the Pedro Pascal character from Prospect (he just screams cult leader, doesn't he?) and i lowkey maybe have plans for a follow up on this but from the POV of a different reader and Ezra]

[lunarw0rks]

hi! im not sure if you do any requests like this but if you wouldn't mind, with ghost or konig, where the reader is depressed and has suicidal ideations and ghost/konig save them before it's too late? ive gone through somewhat similar things and it would be comforting reading someone be there for them!

A/N: I don't mind requests like this, just read with caution, please! To anon, or anyone reading that has gone through this, you deserve happiness and are loved!! "988" is the nationwide hotline ♡

┊ ➶ ｡˚ ° I hope you don't mind, but I chose Ghost since I haven't written for Kӧnig (YET) Italics are Simon's perspective when it's happening at the same time as reader.

Summary: You feel swallowed by depression, but Simon saves you just in time.

Warning(s): depression, talk of suicide, PTSD themes - DO NOT READ IF THIS TRIGGERS YOU!!, established relationship, GN!Reader, no use of y/n, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff at the end

Word Count: 1.5k

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ♡¸.•*' | ao3 ver.

In Your Arms // Drabble

The world's weight had been on your shoulders; the constriction on your chest gave you a constant state of crisis, the strain on your heart soon to break it to pieces, and most of all the strain on your mind.

Each waking moment was a gamble of numbness or overdrive. In the instances of numbness, you were withdrawn, coasting your way through meals, laying awake at night with a blank stare. When you were in overdrive, it was like each bad thought physically pilled itself atop you, increasing your irritability and defensiveness.

It was as if the real you were trapped inside somewhere, but you were being overruled by an enclosure of gloom.

Chores, conversations, and the people you loved dearly became a melancholy hassle. You hated every second of it, and most of all hated yourself for behaving like this. At first, you were begging for an out—some savior to snap you out of it.

But now, you felt hopeless—and were making plans to give yourself that out.

You finally had an opportunity, a few hours where you’d have the house to yourself, with Simon out for a few hours. The problem was, gathering the courage. Even though you had the thoughts raining down on you, it was a decision you would never be able to take back.

You were sat in the shared bedroom, on top of the bed you’d just remade. It had been God knows how long by now, and all you could do was stare blankly at the wall ahead, choking back sobs. You looked at his side of the room, seeing the stark contrast between his and yours.

When you thought of him, how he’d be better off this way, it nudged you toward your answer.

Simon noticed your off-balance behavior the day he arrived home. Despite telling you how lovely you looked, he could tell the isolation of his deployment had taken its toll. The bags under your eyes, the dark circles worsening, your sudden change in eating habits—something he greeted like an old friend.

He, of all people, understood the feeling. He just didn’t know how to confront it.

He was never good with his words, or his ability to provide comfort physically; he relied on his crisis training, and most of all, how much he loved you.

When he said he was going out with friends, he was. At first. He found himself sitting in the driveway with a pit in his stomach, his anxieties swallowing him. He was protective, to begin with, but paired with the behavior changes, he was practically trembling at the thought of something horrible happening.

He was white-knuckling the steering wheel, debating on spending his night inside with you. Guilt consumed him for even considering going out anywhere when you’d waited months for him.

His stomach was in knots, twisting and turning, begging him to give in to nausea overtaking him any second. Something was wrong, something was going to happen.

You were fighting yourself again. The thoughts were racing so hard you could swear you heard them buzzing around your head like an angry swarm of wasps, each of them a stinger in your skin.

You reached for the nearest object—the remote—then stood to your feet, sending it plummeting towards the wall in front of you. It shattered the hanging picture frame on impact, sending shards of glass around the bedroom.

It did nothing to silence the thoughts. The sudden rush of fury only fueled them, begging for you to do something more to stop them—the only option you felt you had left.

He had his car door open, gathering his things before he was on his way inside. He’d made his decision, he would rather spend the night with you.

Simon’s trained ear heard the faint shatter of glass, seeing that the upstairs bedroom was the only one lit. There was no hesitation; no second thought to make sure it wasn’t a critter in the garbage can or another household.

He unlocked the door swiftly, a hand hovering over the holster underneath his jacket. The downstairs was clear, nothing askew. He next went up the stairs, leaning in the direction of the bedroom to pick up any sound coming from it.

In his mind, he was fearing the worst, paired with the anxiety he was already having in the car. He’d been here before, with too many people. It couldn’t, no, wouldn’t happen again, not with you.

When the door creaked open, it revealed you, shriveled against the wall with your head in your hands. Beside you, was a broken picture frame, sent flying into pieces around the room. His mind put the pieces together—the irritability, the insomnia, the withdrawn behavior, his gut feeling—all coming together now.

But his worst fears hadn’t come true. You were alive. Alive, and in need of his help. His gut feeling, that painful ache in his stomach when he left, it was right.

His knees dropped to the ground beside you, ignoring the slices forming through his clothes. His entire focus was on you, nothing else.

“Love…” He whispered, grabbing ahold of your knee to make you look his way. When your pooled eyes met him again, he felt like his heart had been ripped in two.

The sight of you, the pain written in your expression. Not physical pain, not heartache, but hopelessness. A specific, known too well by him, expression.

Simon could barely stand it, the person he practically breathed for, fought for, succumbing to their sorry—and he could’ve been too late. The warmth of your flesh under his fingertips, how it shivered, he knew you were still here, still breathing.

He was at a loss for words, even for a man who spoke very little. Angry at himself, not you, for not saying something earlier on. His withdrawal was both a blessing and a curse—a lesson well learned, now that his life with you had flashed before him.

Without a second thought, he scooped you up, setting you gently on the neat bed. He remained standing in front of you, staring down at you with a foggy expression.

“I’m sorry,” You muttered, blinded by the tears.

Simon visibly shook his head, forcing yours into his chest. It wasn’t your fault, and if he could force you to believe that, he would. He didn’t have words to give you, only the comfort of his presence. He just held you; held onto your frame as you wept into his abdomen, soaking through the fabric of his tee.

Tears only teased at his own eyes, but never made it past them. Though internally, he was weeping for you, nearly inconsolable.

It was his job to follow orders, to do his duty. His duty now, was you. He had to be strong for you, always, otherwise he had no purpose left on this Earth.

When the sobs had turned into defeated sniffles, he dropped to his knees to meet your eye level. Him, never one for eye contact, but he couldn’t take his eye off you now.

“I’m here now, I promise.” His deep voice echoed through the room, bouncing off your repines for his comfort.

You were still in shock, how one minute ago you were so close to the edge, but the next he was by your side. The sorrow only subsided for the moment, but with him as a distraction, you knew you had at least one person there for you. One person who understood what you were going through, no doubt about it.

His large hands, the ones stained with the blood of his hands, gently cradling your face until you were lucid enough to give him your full attention. He was there for you, no matter how hard the stubborn thoughts tried to convince you he wasn’t.

They moved from your face, to your neck and arms, then your fingers, searching for any sign of physical injury.

“Let me help you, please…” Simon placed a small kiss on one of the tear droplets streaming down, wiping away the rest with his thumb. His hand went down again, clasping around yours tenderly as he routed you to the shared bathroom.

He grabbed a spare cloth off the rack, wetting it slightly in the sink as he traced it along each tear stain, his other hand on your waist the entire time. He was focused and stiff, but his eyes were gentle.

When he finished, he cupped your face again, touching his lips to yours, then your temple. “You are everything to me, got it?” He whispers against your forehead, eyes still wide, reeling with the shock of nearly losing you.

Your head was in his chest again as one hand remained on your waist, the other holding your head in place. He was savoring this, not taking you for granted for a second.

Deep inside, he was picturing all those months he’d left you alone to feel like this.

How each tear he wiped was a lash of regret. He was going to make up for it from now on. Whether he could help you one on one, or you talk to a professional, he would back you every step of the way.

That was his duty.