#the cold of december and the smell of cigarette smoke | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

quizzicalwriter · 11 months

Note

hi! i loved your writing on dallas. could you please make a pt.2 of riverside where they're back at Buck's and they share an intimate moment (nsfw or not). thank you!

Riverside

Part Two

Pairing: Dallas Winston x Fem!Reader

Summary: Second part of ‘Riverside’ follows you and Dallas on the walk home and what happens after!

Warnings: SMUT. MDNI. Kissing, touching, slightly dominant Dallas, oral and fingering (both reader receiving.)

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: Thank you for the request!

The walk back to Buck’s shouldn’t have taken that long, but the way you kept cussing under your breath with each squelch your shoes would make beneath your wet feet slowed things down to a snail's pace, enough for Dallas to groan inwardly and light another cigarette.

“You want my shoes?” He asked, pausing in his steps as he turned toward you, causing you to walk face-first into his chest due to your preoccupation with your damn shoes.

“What? No, no. I’m okay.” You replied, brushing your hair from your face where it’d flown forward when you’d all but head-butted Dallas’s chest. Luckily he didn’t care, his fingers moving to help you clear your face of your still-wet hair as he smirked around his cigarette.

“You’re stubborn and you’re cold, even with my jacket.” He murmured, leaning down ever so slightly to meet your eyes. “Still tryin’ to say you aren’t cold?”

You scowled at him then, the look making Dallas laugh as he turned back on his heel to continue the walk with you following in tow, sulking because you knew he was right, even if you didn’t want to admit it.

The leap into the river had led to Dallas kissing you, so you couldn’t say you regretted it all too much. Hell, you’d probably have done it in December if it meant Dallas’s hands found their way to your waist and breasts as they did back on the riverbed. The thought alone made your cheeks flush, thighs clenching together as you tried to clear your mind from your lascivious thoughts of the man walking in front of you.

You knew Dallas well enough to know that he would’ve walked the trek back to Buck’s barefoot if you’d asked him to, but you didn’t want to, maybe due to a combination of your stubbornness and not wanting to be the cause of Dallas accidentally walking on some broken glass given how the streets of Tulsa were on the best of days.

Thanks to a walk through a nearby abandoned apartment complex, you two were able to enter the city within five minutes. Dallas didn’t seem to like the idea of walking you alone, made much apparent by his continuous fiddling with his switchblade in his jean pocket as his other arm held you securely by his side. Nobody’d ever mess with you, not with Dallas by your side, he’d fought nearly everyone in town and then some, it felt like having your personal guard dog as you walked beneath the flickering streetlights, your gaze locked straight ahead, except for whenever you felt the pull to look at Dallas.

As you both walked up the street leading to Buck’s bar you quickly became aware of the sheer amount of cars surrounding the establishment. Dallas seemed to realize just as you did, a curse falling from his lips as you two squeezed your way between muscle cars and broken-down pieces of junk you found yourself amazed even made their way to the bar. The music was loud before he opened the front door, making you wince somewhat as you leaned into his side, allowing him to guide you through the dense crowd and cigarette smoke toward the stairs.

You thanked your lucky stars that nobody called upon Dallas besides a few greetings directed toward himself and you, not wanting to linger where the smoke was the heaviest and the conversations consisted of drunk individuals trying to scream over each other to ensure they were heard.

He opened his bedroom door for you then, holding it open as you walked beneath his arm into the warmth that poured from his room. It smelled heavily of him and his cologne, the scent making you feel safe, almost reminiscent of how a home should feel. You walked over to his bed, draping his leather jacket over the metal railing at the end of the bedframe.

There was a moment when you turned to face him, clothes clinging to your wet frame as his eyes looked you over. There were unspoken words exchanged between you then, your hands fumbling with the fabric of your shirt as you shifted on your feet, waiting for him to make the first move. Despite the warmth of the room you still felt your skin alight with goosebumps, a slight shiver running up your spine as your body acclimated to the new temperature.

The way you shivered made Dallas frown, clicking his tongue against his teeth as he moved toward you, both of you now enveloped in the warmth of his bedroom. The music still raged downstairs, some band you couldn’t recognize, but the only thing you could focus on was the way Dallas touched you over your clothes. His eyes flickered up to meet yours then, a smile evident on his face.

“Told you, didn’t I? Shouldn’t have gone in that water, got you shivering. Can practically feel your heartbeat through your skin, doll.”

There was always something electric in the way that Dallas touched you, his hands drifting up and underneath your shirt, fingertips ghosting over your skin. He knew how to make you writhe, to make you desperate enough to consider begging, which for someone like you didn’t come easily. You could feel his fingertips drift over your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples as he leaned down to press another kiss to your neck.

This was gentle, incredibly gentle for how irritated you’d made him earlier in the night. Something in his eyes made you not question it, his brow furrowed and lips parted as if he were committing every facet of your body to his memory. You only caught onto his game when your back involuntarily arched, pushing your chest into his palms. He abruptly pulled away, brown eyes flickering up to you as he tilted his head to the side.

“Can’t move while I’m tryin’ to warm you up, doll.” He stated, his voice reminiscent of how you’d chastise a kid for stealing something from a candy store. It made a whine die in the back of your throat, face skewing in desperation as you fought internally with yourself to be good.

After a moment he resumed, cupping your waist before sliding his hands down to your waist, then trailing them to the front of your jeans to slowly unbutton them. How he managed to keep his cool in such a manner never failed to amaze you, while your chest was heaving deeply with each breath he looked completely calm, occasionally narrowing his eyes whenever you began squirming against his touch.

As he pulled your jeans down, he moved down with them, effectively propping himself up on his knees in front of you as he helped you to step out of the denim. Once your legs were free he rubbed his hands along your calves, thighs, everything he could get his hands on. And then he started kissing along your skin, open-mouthed, lewd kisses that made you instinctively grab at his hair.

“Skin’s still so cold.” He whispered, fingers hooking around the band of your underwear as he slowly pulled it down to expose your glistening cunt to the night air. After he helped you to step out of your underwear you watched with bated breath as he began trailing another series of kisses up your legs, stopping short of your inner thigh. His hands grasped at the plushness of your ass, squeezing it hard enough to pull a squeak from you as you nearly stumbled on your own two feet.

“Dal, I-“ Before you could utter another word he moved between your legs, tongue flattening out against your folds. Your knees immediately buckled, causing you to stumble where you stood as you grasped at the skin of your thighs, silently pleading with yourself to not move - you didn’t want him to stop.

Your lips parted, whined out noises pouring from you as his tongue continued working between your folds, his eyes cast up at you as his grasp on your hips and ass tightened. You weren’t sure how many women he’d done this with, but all you could think of was the warmth and wetness of his tongue as it swirled around your clit and how he moved it in an almost expert like manner.

“Fu-uck.” You groaned, brows furrowing as your hips began moving against his mouth, pulling a grunt from his throat as he harshly slapped at the plush skin of your ass.

“Stop moving.” He all but growled out, quickly moving back between your legs as he began sucking at your clit, bringing his hand forward to curl two fingers into your cunt, slowly pumping them within you to match the tempo of his tongue.

Whatever coldness lingered against your skin from the frigid night air was long gone, replaced by a white-hot longing as his fingers pumped within you, the lewd sound of your arousal against his tongue and his fingers stretching you out filling the room along with your own near pathetic whines.

You could feel your orgasm building, inner walls clenching down around his fingers as he continued laving at your clit like a man starved. Every inhibition he’d had prior about having you stay still was long out the window as your fingers laced through his hair, locking onto the dark brown strands as you ground down against his face. You could’ve sworn you felt him smile against your cunt as your moans took up an octave, head falling back as you came against his tongue.

He slowly removed his fingers, taking a moment to pepper kisses against your inner thighs as you struggled to catch your breath. His hands smoothed up your sides as he moved to stand, the wetness once on his fingers pressed against your skin. You couldn’t bring yourself to be bothered, not when he’d made you cum against his tongue with enough ferocity to have your breath locked from your lungs as if you’d been winded.

He removed his jeans then, tossing them along with his belt into the far corner of his room, the fabric and metal falling with a soft clank. You didn’t have to look to know how hard he was, feeling him press against your stomach as he leaned down to capture your lips in a kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, your hands threading through his hair as you leaned up onto your toes to deepen the kiss. Only when your lungs were aching for oxygen did you pull away.

His lips were glistening in the moonlight that poured in through the bedroom window, his eyes dark and full of want. You were still weak, chest still heaving from your last orgasm as he scooped you up, helping your legs to wrap around his hips as he moved you both back to his bed.

You could feel the desperation pooling off of him, how his breath caught in his chest as he felt your bare cunt against his cock. How he looked at you made you feel as though you two had been doing this for years, a deep layer of intimacy in his gaze that you doubted he’d ever shown to anybody but you.

As he laid you down on his bed he made his way between your thighs, right hand moving to lift your thigh to drape it loosely over his hip. Neither of you felt the need to say anything, an unspoken layer of trust between you being heavily apparent as he leaned down to connect your lips again as he pushed into you.

The accompanying stretch felt heavenly, far bigger than his fingers. You could only gasp against his lips as he waited for you to nod, giving him some sort of sign that you were alright enough for him to move. As soon as you nodded he began rocking his hips, his brows furrowing as he tried desperately to conceal the low grunts that threatened to leave him.

“So tight.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to the pulse point of your throat as he rolled his hips against you. “So fucking tight and warm.”

His voice was wavering, a noise akin to a whine falling from his lips as your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him deeper into you. As his cock rocked into you, he reached a hand down between your bodies, swirling his middle and ring finger around your clit in sync with each roll of his hips.

The combination left you reeling, eyes screwing shut as your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers digging into the muscle that lined his back as you began moving your hips to meet his movements halfway, each thrust hitting so deep within you that you swore you could feel him from the outside had you placed your hand on your lower stomach.

This was more intense than you had bargained for when he’d taken you upstairs, more intimate than you’d overheard from when he’d take women during parties. This was Dallas in a new light, one without the borders he usually shone around himself. You couldn’t help but crave it, crave all of him with each thrust within you.

With a strangled groan his grasp on the sheets beside your head tightened, his fingers against your clit picking up in their pace as he whispered against your skin. “I’m gonna cum.”

The words left you speechless, only nodding as you felt your second orgasm of the night building within your lower stomach. You pressed languid kisses to his jaw, moaning against his damp skin in between each kiss. His hand moved from the bedsheet then, moving to cradle your face as he leaned against you, effectively pressing you against the mattress as he rutted into you.

“Dallas-“ Was all you could muster, cunt spasming around his cock as you came undone, the feeling of you tightening around him causing him to grunt. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, hand quickly moving to pull himself out of you, cum shooting in hot ropes against your lower stomach as he did.

He looked ethereal when he orgasmed, brows screwed together, lips parted as he grunted, cum spilling over his fingers only to drip along the top of your cunt. As he caught his breath he looked up at you, his cheeks flushed crimson as he moved to kiss you, not bothering to fill his lungs with much-needed air in preference over having your lips against him for as long as he could stand it.

After you two pulled away, both needing to breathe, he wrapped his arms around your center, pulling your back flush to his chest, pressing another kiss to the back of your neck just as he had by the river. The feeling made you hum in contentment, resting your cheek against his pillow as he intertwined his legs with yours, his breaths growing soft, almost in tandem with your own.

“Told you I could warm you up.” He whispered against your skin, a cocky grin evident in his words, causing you to roll your eyes as you laughed.

A/N: If you have read this far, thank you!! And thank you anon for the request, I’m always happy to write things if I’m able to. As always my works can be found on ao3 as well under the user Unscriptural! Hope you guys enjoy this, still getting used to writing smut - well, getting used to sharing it.

#dallas winston x y/n #dallas winston writing #dallas winston drabble #dallas winston x reader #dallas winston imagine #dallas winston #dally winston x reader #dally winston #the outsiders writing #the outsiders fanfiction #the outsiders fanfic #dallas winston smut #dallas winston x reader smut #my work #request #anon ask #the outsiders dallas #the outsiders #the outsiders dally

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prettypeppermint · 1 year

Text

the gift of silence (how sweet the sound).

for t. shelby. a continuation of 'amazing grace.'

You weren't speaking to him. And it was slowly driving him up the wall.

Not that you were normally a chatterbox in the face of Thomas Shelby; you rarely spoke to him unless you needed something. You were always more of a looker; your eyes bore into his from across the room whenever you overheard something you shouldn't have; you studied his slight quirks and subtle movements and stared blankly at his handwriting when verifying papers; you looked when nobody else did. In a sea full of heads, your eyes were always turned against the tide--snowy sea glass amongst pebbles in a blinding summer's ocean. He noticed your gaze when you thought no one did.

Sometimes, wisdom lies in silence rather than words. You knew that above all others.

Come to think of it, that night was the most you had ever talked to him directly since he'd known you. It was the most candid he’d ever experienced you. And he was frightfully prepared.

It wasn't the fact you weren’t talking that bothered him--more so the absence of your voice--something he never thought to irk him until he realized just how much he wanted you to spare him a whisper. He wanted to see you all worked up the way women get sometimes; he wanted to watch you unravel. But you were always so tightly bound.

It's been days since he kissed you--touched you. Thomas was a man of self-control, and he knew it was both the first and the last time he'd ever be selfish with you again. He didn’t know it, but he yearned to wade a bit longer in the satisfaction of knowing you were at least a bit frazzled by him. But you seemed as much out of place as snow in December.

He didn't like how you were added to his long list of tasks and responsibilities. He didn't like how you weighed down his shoulders.

Even with all the help you gave around these parts, you were always just a burden to his mind--the way you smelled of a place far away, the coyly cold shoulders you gave and the moles on your hips. He didn’t like it one bit.

Because now he was the one staring at the back of your neck, at the way your ringlets bounced in a manner almost comical against your serious face. Everything about you seemed to be a paradoxical phenomenon: your coquettish features that rarely spared a smile for anyone, your soft eyes that revealed hardened thoughts, your bouncy curls and the ribbons that sometimes adorned your braids and the lacy little ensembles that complimented your loveliness.

You were so ironically unapproachable. You never missed the quips and spare jokes about it: that people could sense your presence because the room gets cold, that a smile would sit prettier on your mouth than all those cigarettes.

You appeared unperturbed by the smog-capped skylines and rubble-ruined streets of Birmingham; all the sins of the city never wore wrinkles between your brows or sowed smoky wisps along your hairline. It was almost as if you were preserved in that eternal Kilkee ruralness--as if you brought a piece of the Irish coast with you to this Godless city. Farmer's daughter. Fisherman's treasure. You were outlasting and evermore. You were something of the sea.

"I said I needed fifty hand-copies of last month's inventory on my desk by this morning," Thomas breathed matter-of-factly, leaning against the door frame as you indulged in your morning smoke, an old whiskey in his hand. He liked the way your bare shoulders looked as they reflected the breaking dawn--the way the sun collected in your collarbones and made your hair shiny.

It was his turn to stand at the doorway. It was his turn to bear his weight at the threshold.

"I put them on your desk two mornings ago," you responded, matter-of-fact, “Perhaps you forgot to look under your arse, Mr. Shelby.”

Where along the line had he become Mr. Shelby?When did plain, old Thomas leave your vocabulary? He liked it when you called him that--just Thomas.

You never intended to sound so coy all the time. Aunt Pol like to say you were just a pretty girl with a sharp tongue and a sharper mind--sometimes to your own doom.

At that, Thomas tossed a hefty stack of unsorted paperwork on the coffee table you were sat at. He watched as your rosy elbows wobbled under the wood and ash flitted from your slim cigarette.

"You forgot these, Ms. l/n." he rasped blankly, trying to see through to your eyes from the back of your head.

Without looking at him or the papers, you stood up and took your time neatening them up before heaving the stack into your arms. As you passed by his figure in the doorway, you discarded your cigarette in his whiskey glass.

He was left staring blankly at the empty scene before him--one that was once fulfilled with your presence--a sense of longing boiling up in his core. It was out of character to be so subconsciously infatuated with the idea of getting a rise out of you. It was almost ridiculous.

Mr. Shelby seemed to be a master at pushing good things--good women--away.

"A bit harsh on the girl, don’t you think?" Aunt Pol piped knowingly from behind him, emerging from her watchful shadows once you had retreated to Thomas's office.

"No different than I've always been," he said, eyes still trained on the spot at the chair that was once yours.

"Don't take women for the fool that you are, Tommy. I see the way you've been eyeing her--picking her apart. I'll have you fucking another whore before you sink your claws into another girl with a bright path ahead of her."

"Her path ends here, Pol. No girl who ever got tangled up in Shelby business ever makes it to London."

Aunt Pol glared at his nape before leaving him there, sinking in his own wallows.

~~~

"Where're my copies?"

"I threw 'em out."

A moment of silence pulsated through his blood and rose to his brain. He had found you sitting and smoking in your usual spot, merely thirty minutes after his most recent orders. He slowly walked up to your lax frame, still dawned in your silky, lacy little thing of a nightgown.

"I trust that you know those were Mr. Kimber's papers, Ms. l/n," he rumbled lowly--dangerously, "Papers I won't think twice about having you dig through the trash for on the street in nothing but your slip."

"You've done worse," you responded calmly, taking another draw of your cigarette. Recently, you've been blowing through more than your daily 6, and he never failed to notice the little things.

He stepped even closer, his hands buried adamantly in his pockets so they wouldn't reach out for you. Why was loving Grace so easy, and loving you felt like a sour seed in his stomach? As if it would burrow holes in his organs and infect his blood until you did something about it?

"You're gonna get me those papers or I'll have you thrown out to the streets after happy hour."

With that, you stood abruptly from your chair and walked with brisk strides toward the wastepaper bin at the leg of the center table. You plunged your hand into it and pulled from the depths of millions of cigarette butts Thomas's precious Kimber papers. You slapped them on the table riddled with ash and peanut shells and flipped through each page for him, fully filled out and stamped with fresh ink.

Then you climbed atop the table, standing precariously on the splintering wood in your dainty, red dance heels so you could have the upper hand for once.

"You don't get to disrespect me because of your fragile, faulty, little boy of a heart. You don't get to disrespect me because I have an ounce of self-preservation in the face of a man with the power you have. And you don't get to disrespect me, because I am y/n l/n, and I don't work for men who lead with the brain in their cocks." It came out eerily steady, unlike any rage he'd ever been at the receiving end of before.

It was like a flash of soundless lightning; you were gone as soon as it happened, having stepped down from the table to retreat to your sun-spotted, smoke-stained corner. And he was left with the storm that came afterward, soaked in an alien feeling that hadn't made itself quite known to his heart yet.

But much like how most things rear their ugly heads at night--drunkards emerging from their taverns and whores from their brothels--Thomas Shelby's ugly little things were no exception.

Night changes a man; it shrouds him in regret and urges forced down throughout the day and lust unravished.

Night made Thomas hungry.

And so he found himself watching over your sleeping form folded at the waist and draped across the table you've been sitting at the entire day, where you've done nothing but stare out the window and let the smoke abuse your lungs. Your cigarette, now a measly stub, was still haphazardly pinched between your tired fingers. He found that smoking didn't suit you--it tainted your rosy face that otherwise emulated an ethereal countryside purity. The Irish foreshore was still fresh on your cheeks.

In sleep, you reverted to the girl you were born as: simple and lovely and kind as a bird.

He felt the sour seed growing.

He slipped his hand around your wrist and maneuvered your body onto his back with ease before carrying you to his room where he set you down on his sheets. His hand instinctively reached for the pipe on the nightstand, but it trembled before tightening into a fist that fell limply at his side.

What he hadn’t known was that you both experienced night terrors, but as he lay awake on the floor next to his bed with your writhing and moaning frame, it became abundantly clear.

He wondered what was haunting your conscience and digging its way into your sleep. Maybe you've been through a few wars of your own. None that men would know, anyway.

As his mind continued shifting and shuffling, he felt a warmth press into his back; you had stepped off the bed and laid down on the cool, dry planks next to him--back to back and facing away from each other. He could feel your silk stick to your sweat. Time froze, and within that time, so did the nightmares.

Seconds drawled into minutes before it all became a blur as shadows morphed into stories on the moonlit wallpaper. It stretched and stretched.

"Do you want to know what I dream of at night?" you slurred, breaking the industrial silence. Your voice was thick with an unrestful break from the world.

When Thomas didn't respond, you continued: "I dream of my home in Ireland: its salty mist and green softness all around. I'm standing there, on a plain, looking out over the ocean. I'm smiling. And each time the tide hits the rocks and recedes back into its basin, I see something emerge from the salt onto the rocks. They're people--bodies--their skin so bloated and fermented from the salt I can't even recognize them, but it feels like I should. Like I know them. And I'm stuck on this plain, trying to make out the faces of my mother and sisters and brother as they keep piling up. Over and over and over. I can't stop it. Because the tide always ebbs. It gets closer and louder, and I'm still smiling. And I pray I wake up before it gets to me and I'm the one on the rocks, rotting and unrecognizable. And I feel awful for it."

Another silence spanned, and Thomas realized he was foolish to ever wish it away. Because silence was how you both communicated. Silence was the language only the two of you were fluent in. Silence bridged the gap that words created. Silence was what he wished for when he heard the shovels chipping at the wall night after night.

"Thomas, you love me." It was a mere whisper, as if you too were scared of ending the silence--the gift of time.

"I love you," echoed Thomas. It was so low and so guttural, as if sprouting from that very sour seed that--within the span of the night--had grown into something pulpy and bittersweet instead.

With that, you both dozed off. And Thomas woke up without the sound of the shovels.

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kvnimago · 1 year

Text

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader (18+ oneshot)

— some things are (better) left unknown

word count: 4k+

⚠️: 18+, angry-fucking, GRAPHIC depictions and descriptions of smut, slut shaming, degrading, "good girl" shit, profanity, petnames kinda, they-think-they -hate-eachother-but-will-absolutely-submit, cant-really-think-of-anything-else-just-prepare-yourself-pls

(reblogs are highly appreciated! i'm a new acc)

—

For what felt like hours, days, even. You felt eyes boring their presence upon you. Like a laserbeam going through your thick skull. And it was of no use trying to see who it was, because there'd only be one person to do that.

Your hands reach for the cold steel spoon, engraved on it was 'Task Force 141'. You felt your fingers brush over the letters as you picked it up and held it to your mouth, the hot soup going through your lips and into your stomach.

It'd been a long day, when the winter was out to kill, and when the warm fires were less orange than any other December when you lit it up.

Although, the light on your cigarette appeared much brighter than any chimney to you today. You couldn't tell, at this point, if you were actually full from the meal or the Cuban you held in between your index and middle finger.

You got up slowly from your chair, which was rocking back and forth whenever you sat down or got up. You could smell another familiar scent of smoke coming from the other seat beside you, though it wasn't something very significant as of this moment.

Captain Price approached you as you looked away from your seat, checking if there was any spots of food you left behind, "Hey, kid."

"Yes, Capt?"

Price pulled out a letter from his pocket, the material of his gun rustling against his belt from his pants. "Think you can grab these from the basement for me? I need it by tomorrow."

You reluctantly take the letter, it contained some vehicle tools, ammunition supply, uniform badges, you name it. Just regular stuff, not anything too difficult. But you were neither prepared, nor did you see it coming, when he said the next thing:

"I'll have Lt. Riley tag along. That alright with you, Simon?" He said, fully aware of the fact that Ghost couldn't ever say no. He was the Captain, after all. And it was.. apart of his job to follow his orders.

Price nods approvingly without even waiting for your answer, nor Ghost's, "Good. It's in the basement. The dark room without any lights, so just bring one." He looks at his watch, 8:27.

"You should be back at 5 in the morning, clear?" he emphasized, he was always one to take the job very seriously.

As he walked away, you felt that peering stare from earlier return. All you could do was feel the wrinkles on the paper, which smelled like conditioned air.

You didn't dare turn around, you stood there, hands behind your back. Like an idiot, honestly. That's what Ghost would say.

The sound of a metal seat's legs rubbing against the tiles entered your ears. You'd be lying if you said you weren't nervous as hell bein' around him.

"Come." said Ghost, "Stop wasting your time." he added.

You shut your eyes tightly and reopened them for a quick second and turned around, met by his terrifying thousand-yard stare which was surprisingly all natural. You have a guess that it's because of the mask that you notice it ever so often.

"You're still mad at me."

Ghost placed his utensils on the tray which sat on the table, tilted. "And?" he asked you.

"You wouldn't want to go in the basements alone. You'd piss yourself." his mask moved as he spoke, and you could've sworn that you heard a light laugh coming from his nose. You were afraid that he wouldn't cooperate due to the fact that you both had a slight mishap the other day, but to your relief, he's.. seemingly alright about it.

He mannered for you to come along, so you did. You were following him, hands behind your back, you got a great view of how he wore his gear, how messy some other parts were, and how he kept some specific adjustments to his uniform. For example, he has to not button the first 2 buttons on his shirt. He just covers it up with his tactical vest, because his waist is smaller than his upper body.

You smile to yourself, though it only appeared internally. After all, you're still mad at him.

"Still pissed, Sergeant?" his bone-chilling tone entered the atmosphere. Why, it was cold and stern. Had no gentleness or anything of the sort behind it.

You paused and stopped in your tracks, followed by a small grunt that escaped your mouth as you spoke: "Don't know." your response was a bit.. blunt. Not mixed with anger, or a sense of 'I don't care'. You just simply uttered the two words.

He turned to you, also stopping in his way. You could feel lava in your ears boiling at it's own temperature when he was now heading your way, the distance was closed from a meter apart, now at a foot apart from eachother.

"That is fuckin' idiotic, woman." every word he said felt like a dull blade being pressed against your chest. Over and over.

You glared, irritated by the comment. Woman? "Thank you, Simon." you retorted, it took about a thousand horsepower to bring yourself not to sound so affected, the annoyance evident in your eyes as you brought yourself to look at him in the eyes again.

"Fuck did you just say?" he doesn't like being called by the first name. Not at all. Especially when it's you, your words are like scratching at plates to him. Even the thought alone of you makes his head hurt.

You smiled a little, fuck, I think I've really gotten into his skin. "I don't know, Simon. Would you please get out of the fucking way and go to the basement now?"

It'd be very strange if you hadn't spotted his fists clenching a bit. He had a.. short temper, that's for sure. But never have you seen him let it out, which was another factor that removed your fear around him. Well, besides the death stare.

He didn't look at you again. For the next 5 minutes you both spent together trying to walk across the base to get there.

The room was dim. Only about 4 lights which were scattered all over the basement, and it wasn't much, because the basement was fucking huge.

"A pistol for the Captain and ammunition supply. Find it." Ghost demanded. Like he was the one in charge.

You dug in your pockets, the sound of multiple things clanging against eachother, no luck.

"Did you bring a flashlight?" you questioned, you didn't have one on you.

"I'm gonna fucking kill you, Sergeant." he stared at you, getting back up from what he was doing.

You backed up just a few inches off your foot, "Jesus. Fine. I can manage."

Ghost seemed satisfied with your reply, because you could see him turning around again through the dim lights.

You absolutely lied. It was impossible to see in the near-dark. Only the small shine of metal was a hint to what you were trying to find.

You went further into the dark, no signs of what you were trying to find, based on your sense of touch.

Boxes could be heard being carried and put on the small side-tables. To add, the ring of alloy was very apparent especially when there was nothing else that could be in your ears.

"You found anything?" you asked, trying to break the silence.

"No."

"Me neither."

You sighed, it should be around 8:50 now.

Ghost couldn't stare at you or penetrate at your soul with his glare, no, not through the dark. It removed an essence of control as he knew.

"I'm not mad, Lieutenant." You told him, desperately trying to fight the silence.

"Shut up and find the things we need."

A solid ten minutes passed before you found a pistol, contemplating on whether or not you should go back the minutes-long walk to your quarters to get a flashlight, because time was running slow.

Ghost heard the gun being cocked, moving over to your spot. "I haven't found anything."

"So? What does that make me?" you replied, his jaw clenched when he realized you were mocking his previous reply to you.

"An idiot. Because your arse forgot the light."

He came closer to you, although it sounded like he was far away. You couldn't ignore his comment, "You took your mask off, right? Now I really should've brought a flashlight, so I can see that ugly fuckin' face of yours."

You felt a cold shudder go through your spine when footsteps came louder.

"That would've been a hell of a sight to see, because I'd say I'm not ugly." he spoke in a deep, sultry voice.

"A good hell doesn't exist." you replied.

"Bullshit." he breathed out, jamming boxes on the floor again, "You can be mad for all I care, because I don't."

You could feel his black stained eyes once more, although not visible, it was all the more apparent when you heard his footsteps getting closer behind you.

"That's a shitty response, boo, Simon."

"You're shitty."

"Fuck you."

Veins popped on his forehead, his balaclava sweaty from the lack of ventilation inside the basement,

"Be mad at me all you want, yeah? Not my fault some dumbass fuck is on my squad."

Now was not the time to be discussing about your personal endeavours, it was a time to follow Price's orders, not to waste the precious hours.

Silence devoured the void that kept his distance from you. Simon never really liked you, favored you, or even talked to you that much, you think you really fucked up and outdid yourself the moment you messed around during a mission and let an enemy loose.

He always looked away from you.

Johnny would say he'd go silent whenever you were mentioned or whenever you were around, for some reason that even he didn't know.

And you thought that maybe, just maybe, this would've resolved your issues with eachother.

Wrong. He's still the fuckin' asshole he is, always shoving it in your face that you're incorrect, telling you how to do this and that. You'd stare deep into his dark and sullen eyes, when the nights were just right that he would be angry-fucking you right before or after a mission. Nonetheless, it didn't change his view about you.

Simon couldn't see anything, yet, he wanted to go over to your spot. You gasped when you felt a clothed hand on your butt, breaking the trance of thoughts you were in. You heard a small grunt with it, too.

You could barely see anything, but who else was there except for Ghost?

"Simon. Get your fucking hands off my ass." you commanded, grabbing his hand and pushing it away from you.

Ghost emitted a groan, surprised by the sudden movement.

"What hands?" his accent was thicker than the dark, a shudder entering your spine again when his breath hits your neck from afar. "That is not my hand, sweetheart."

The knots in your stomach tightened. He grunted again, and you felt the warmth of his breath tilt to the side, "Sergeant. Get your goddamn hands off my pants." he spoke slowly and firmly at every word.

"Don't need to fuckin' grab it like that—just ask nicely." he sighed at that last part, dark and threatening was his tone, though his eyes had seemed to tell a different story, which again, wasn't visible to your sight.

His words left a bittersweet taste in your mouth, your body warm from the burning tension. And also from the anger that flushed in the tips of your ears, you didn't know of a single bit where this was going, yet you let it happen.

You could feel the strong presence of a stiff vest on your back, your legs rubbed against his muscular thighs. The low ponytail on your head was coming loose,

"You know what?"

"Yes?" your response sounded more like a breathy noise than a word, the heat emerging from inside you. There was nothing to be denied, no matter how upset, disappointed, or irritated you were.. you'd always come back for him.

"You're a fucking slut, that is—Your anger towards me is no match for that filthy cunt of yours."

You whined, involuntarily, every breath he took shattered itself on your neck, "God. I fucking hate you."

"Really? Those hands and that pussy of yours say otherwise. Every fuckin' time."

A soft grunt escaped your lips, and this was only from his words.. How? It was indescribable, what you felt. The rim of your cargo pants were tugged by gloved hands, you sighed lightly,

"Turn around."

You followed his orders like a lost puppy in search for its owner, his sentences were like hymns to your ears, frankly, hypnotizing you and leaving all common sense behind.

Ghost lifted his skull mask and took it off, setting it aside on the makeshift table that had been sitting in the basement for a long time. He'd also taken his balaclava off, his cold lips exposed to the air, a huge part of you wanted to see whatever glorious sight was behind the dark.

Your soft fingers traced and tried to visualize what you were feeling. He had long eyelashes, a pointed nose, and a sharp jaw. It made you all the more eager, that's for sure.

A startled gasp left you as his forearms brushed against your hands, lifting you up and using his leg to support you like a seat, he had his chest pressed against you, your back pressed against the wall. You could feel his eyes on you, your mouth hung slightly open to support your heavy breathing.

You lowered your hand to be placed under his thigh, his expression wistful, hot breath trickling down your neck.

You can recognize his chest moving up and down slightly, breathing in and out, and it makes your inside tingle and your heart race. The smell of clean clothes and cologne filled the room.

Then there's more silence. Like a weird and unnerving silence, like the world had stopped spinning for the two of you.

"Simon?" you inhale the small essence of his cologne, the scent brushing and bouncing against your nostrils.

"What about me, Sergeant?" His voice is soft, almost a whisper, while he gently touches your chin with a finger. He tilts your head, turning you to face his eyes through the dimly lit room.

And then, finally, the silence is broken by the hungry breath that escapes his lips, he kisses you passionately, his grip on your hand tightens as he slowly but surely pulls you towards him. He wraps his arm around your waist as he holds you close to him, his cheek pressed against yours. His lips are rough, starving. Like this moment was supposed to happen, and it did. In the back of his mind.

The warmth of his hand seeps through the outer of his glove, before he pulls away from the kiss and bites on the corner of his glove so he can take it off.

His mind is fuzzy, "Do you even have panties on?"

"No, Lieutenant." you words dragged like a sigh.

You could hear him chuckling lowly, "I figured, since you're such a little slut."

Your mind was cloudy, it was agonizingly taking so long. You couldn't take it anymore, you tightened your grip on his pants, he groaned, muffling his moan with his hand that still had a glove on.

"Mmh— fuck. Can't take it anymore, Sergeant?"

You nodded instantly, his hand felt the rush of your nod as it was still on your chin.

"Words. I want words."

"Please, Simon. What do you want?" you hurried to reply, your mind in shambles.

"Me? What do I want?"

He teased you, the lump in your throat larger. The warmth in your belly forming a larger pool for you to endure.

"I don't fucking know—Just tell me!" you craved at the thought of him commanding you, asking you to do what he wanted, the thought of him whining and moaning as he asks you to go faster on him, pumping him dry 'til the walls are white.

Ghost huffed in pleasure, "Gotta finish what you started on me, no?"

He lets go of you, using only his thigh and leg to support you for the time being. He coaxed his chin up, unbuckling his belt. You tried to hold yourself up with your own arms, but the myriad of lust, pleasure and somewhat— anger and annoyance trailed along your brain.

It took all of his strength not to let his head fall back, he felt the cold air touch his shaft, he shivers, your other hand travelling by itself from his thigh to the head of his cock.

He absolutely dissolves in your touch—getting off to your soft hands instead of his big, calloused hands that assist him almost every other night that you pop up in his mind.

His hands slipped up your shirt, feeling your back. The sudden touch making you squirm and arch your back, pressing yourself even further against him.

"Mmpfh— wish I could—" he cuts himself off with a groan, "—wish I could fucking see that pretty fucking face right now."

You gasped, his hand even further up your clothing, causing you to grow your hand's pace on his cock, he moaned lowly, "You ever get off to the thought of my cock in your hands?" he was eager for a reply, probably, to validate his own thoughts about you,

Your breathy sentence responds to him, "Yes."

He chuckles, seemingly content with your answer, he can't stand the silence anymore, apart from the slow slopping of your hands that barely manage to wrap themselves over his thick cock. He crashes onto your lips again, your noses touching, he opens his mouth lightly, inviting your tongue to go down on him.

When you enter his mouth, it's full of a flavor indescribable to man, your hand pounced on him, touching his stomach with every stroke, his bleary eyes rolled back, parting away from the kiss to release a moan.

"You sure no one can hear us down here?" you asked in between the crazy shit you guys were already doing, audible from outside or not, there was no taking back what was happening in this moment. You were fully aware.

"Never said so," he huffed, "fuck, fuck—go faster—mmh—"

The pleasure he was feeling was indescribable, though you could say it was a bit selfish of him to cum first, you'd think he deserved it, and—not to lie, you were getting off of this, too.

He let out a low groan as your pace quickened, beads of sweat smudging on his black stained eyes, he thrusted himself in and out of the "O" shape your hands had formed, though his cock was too thick that the "O" would form into a "C" every time he went through it. He shuddered, feeling his climax getting nearer and nearer,

"Fuck—I'm so fucking close—don't you dare stop—" he let out a breathy and low pitched moan every time, each pound of your hands on him getting wetter and wetter.

You grinned like the cheshire cat, your eyes low and heavy as you wait for him to reach his high, your balance on his thigh getting weaker as he shudders, his hands placed roughly on the sides of your hips, rocking you back and forth to force your hands further down his length.

You moved faster and faster, moving frantically at him, he lowered his head and mumbled into your hair, "Fuck, mmph—Jesus..—I'm gonna fucking cum." every word he pressed onto your head vibrated throughout your skull, his low and growly voice rang through your ears, his moans were melodious to you.

Your breathing was heavy, as he rode out the last of his climax on you, his thighs squeezed against your leg, shaking as he releases all the pent up anger he previously had on you.

He sighed loudly, drops of milky white fluid dripping over his cock, he picked it up from the slit of his dick, an airy whine leaving his lips.

The cloud in his mind was getting clearer bit by bit, although, the pleasure would never escape his mind, not ever.

He entered his coated fingers into your mouth, laced with his own cum, the saltiness lingered in your mouth, before he rammed his digits farther down your throat, causing you to whine and gag, he stabilized his breath for a minute or more.. but you couldn't tell how long it took, your mind was in a haze.

"Fuck, your turn." he cooed as his fingers slid out of your mouth, making you gasp for air in delight. He swiftly unbuttons your pants, sliding them down in a fast motion and throwing them to the ground, "You can worry about finding your clothes later."

He started by lifting your thigh up, gripping it like there was no tomorrow, "Leg. On my shoulder. Now." he commanded, sliding your panties off your legs as you willingly let his cock get a better view of your now unclothed cunt.

"I can't fucking—oh God!—" your sentence was cut abruptly by the thick and wet head of his cock entering the gateway of your soaked pussy, it wasn't fully in, yet you were beginning to go crazy. He moaned, the back of his hand pressed against his mouth, muffling the loud noise to prevent it from bouncing against the basement walls, "You fucking—" his moan reached his mouth faster than his words, "Shit—your pussy is so fucking tight!" he cursed.

Your lower body was completely naked, your head tilted enough just for you to be able to breathe properly, a sharp sensation enters you as he goes further down in your pussy, his huge size making it difficult for him to enter fully, "Sorry, sweetheart." he apologized, a grin evident in his tone.

You can feel his hands travel from your waist to your ass, cupping them for support so you don't fall and make him slip out of you.

Nothing could've prepared you for the moment he slips fully into you, causing to to babble and cry words that were pure gibberish, the sounds of him pounding against you harmonizing with your moans, "Oh my—fuck!—" every thrust he lets out on you sends a jolt of electricity up to your spine, you bring your hand to grab a fistful of his hair, making him push against you even more.

"Feels better than your hands." he breathily shakes, he goes in and out of you, grinding against you as you continue to lose yourself, your pussy sucked and groped his cock in.

You swallowed hard as your ass was clenched by his rough hands, low grunts escaping his mouth as you let out sweet little cries of pleasure, "Fuck!—Simon—That's it—Mmmfh!—" your tender voice was like a song composed and played out just for him. His ego growing bigger and bigger with every moan that escapes your lips.

You heave, struggling to breath. His movements grew frantic and impatient, your walls contracting on him, he enjoyed every single bit.

"Greedy fucking pussy." he commented, savoring every moment you were inside and outside of him, your sensitive cluster of nerves waiting for their release any time soon, he leaned further on you, forcing his breath to trail along your neck. You cried, nothing on your mind but pleasure.

Your blood roared in your ears, buzzing with every second you were thrusted on, both you and Ghost drowning in pleasure. You bit back a moan, trying not to erupt the whole world, the center of pleasure circulating all around you.

Your moans start getting louder as Simon starts to quicken up his pace, recognizing your incoming orgasm bundling up around the sensation of ravaging pleasure in him.

Your mind went into a cloud, accompanied by the sloppy noises that came along, you felt your whole soul go into an extraterrestrial world—another dimension, you cried and mumbled his name all over, soaking you all over him.

He pounded into you one last time, before you came within him, your fluids melting in themselves, he let out a breathy and hitched moan and pulled his cock out of you, pumping the last bits of his semen out of the head of his dick and slurring his words, taking his time to put a finger around your cunt and swirling it around gently, taking it up to his mouth and sucking on his own fingers, tasting all off your precious juices and humming to himself, "Pretty girl.. best thing I've ever fucking had."

Simon felt content with what happened between the two of you that night in the basement, and although he never dared speaking about it again.. But he wishes it would happen just one more time. Maybe, even two.

#simon ghost riley #cod #simon riley #simon riley x reader #smut #simon riley smut #oneshot #call of duty #ghost mw2 #ghost cod #ghost x reader #ghost mw2 x reader #simon ghost x reader

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cherryys · 2 months

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Thinking of megumi picking up smoking post-shinjuku. he doesn't really know when it started, but hanging around shoko for so long had started to rub off on him at some point. He becomes used to the smell, seeks it out even, one constant amongst the maelstorm that is now his life. One unattended box later, and he's huddled in a balcony in the cold air, hands red from frostbite while they shake around the lighter, one click after the other barely audible over the strong December wind until the embers finally catch on the cigarette, illuminating his face in a cold orange, the dim blue hue of the snow-covered Tokyo a cold contrast. The smoke fills his lungs like that damned water did a month ago, and maybe that's what compels him to finish the entire thing. Maybe he misses it. He had never been one for healthy coping mechanisms, anyway.

#self-destructive megumi i love you #*slaps roof of this car* this bad boy can fit so much trauma and unhealthy coping mechanisms #all this tells me is that i gotta write a post shinjuku fic asap #fushiguro megumi #megumi fushiguro #cherry writing??? more likely than you think

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obetrolncocktails · 1 year

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Karma Sutra | Sam Kiszka X Reader | Part 1

Warnings: In this chapter-slut shaming, objectifying women, use of alcohol. This series will include 18+ content. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 2.2K

A/N: This series is one of the first that I put out. It has been left incomplete for quite a while. I felt that it needed some updating and reworking, but it is one of my favorite plot archs...so get ready. There will be fluff, smut, and a WHOLE lot of angst, so pull up your panties and get ready.

Summary: Chasing after the boy who is easily known as one of the sexiest and cockiest on campus...what could go wrong?

You felt eyes on you as you walked across the quad between classes. For what reason, you couldn’t place, but you knew that you were being watched. Peering across the quad, eyes flitting in all directions, you attempted to find the source of your insecurity. Nothing. You bundled yourself tighter within the thickness of your peacoat, shielding yourself from the blustery December cold. Making your way under an awning, you smelled the familiar odor of cigarette smoke. It wafted in your direction, beckoning for you to turn your gaze upward. Ugh. Of-fucking-course. Sam douche-bag-extraordinaire Kiszka. “Cold as fuck out here,” he said, puffing out O-rings of smoke from the side of his mouth.

“Mm, so you decide to step out in twenty-four degree weather to smoke a ciggy?” You spat sarcastically.

“Bad habit, sweetheart. You know what they say…they die hard.” You couldn’t help but roll your eyes and kept walking away from him. “There’s a party on the row tonight–you coming?” your eyebrows furrow instantly, turning to meet his gaze.

“I haven’t been to a frat party in over a year, Sam. Why would I?” He threw his hands in the air, shrugging. His cigarette remained burning between two fingers, dropping ashes every few seconds to the ground. “Just thought it might be nice to see a refreshing face for once.”

What the fuck? Why was Sam taking sudden interest in me? “I gotta make it to class. See you around.” You waved him off and continued walking to class.

“Hey, Y/N, for old-time’s-sake, it really would be nice to see you there.” His eyes were the color of chocolate, which was ironic. His beauty could melt any girl on campus just like the confection–except for you. You would always be the exception.

“Bye, Samuel.”

Samuel. He liked that. He bit at the corner of his lip, his eyes following you as you disappeared within the halls. Mm, I’ll save her for later. Blowing out the last puff of smoke, he stubbed out his cigarette against the brick wall, dropping it carelessly to the ground before strolling away to the next entertaining encounter.

***

Philosophy class soon turned into Philo-so-fucking-boring class extremely fast. Your mind wandered from the lecture, unable to focus. Why the fuck was he watching me? The truth that you wouldn’t even admit to yourself was that you had feelings for Sam, and had since freshman year. They had remained in the recesses of your mind ever since. For one, he was an asshole. You and almost every girl on campus knew it; however, some part of you would always have a soft spot for him, no matter how cocky he was. He just didn’t know it, and you sure as hell wouldn’t show it either. Fuck that red turtleneck sweater. Why did he have to look so good in it? You caught yourself doodling random hearts and sparkles in the margins of your notes as you thought about him.

“Pssst, hey.” Your best friend, Paige jabbed you from behind with the top of her pen. “Pay attention, there’s going to be an exam tomorrow.” Your hands flew to cover your notebook from her view. “What are you hiding?” She whispered, curious as to why you were being so secretive.

“It’s nothing, just drawings.” You realized a little bit too late that mere drawings wouldn’t have elicited such a reaction.

“Doesn’t seem like it’s just a few drawings.”

“Ladies, would you like to share your conversation with the class? Is it more important than the material that will be on tomorrow’s exam? Would you like to take it today after class since you don’t seem invested in the review?” You fell silent and averted eye contact, heat creeping up your necks to your faces. The remainder of class passed excruciatingly slow. When three o’clock finally arrived, you filtered out of the classroom to meet up with Paige.

“So I was thinking…how would you feel about going to the Row tonight.” Meeting your expectations, she recoiled instantly.

“Uh, who are you and where is Y/N? You never go to parties.” You turn away from her and begin to walk down the hallway.

“I just thought it might be nice to do something different for a change.” Your cheeks were flaming again.

“You’re such a liar. Who is it?” You bit your lip.

“What do you mean?” you stalled. Paige stopped you mid-gait, grabbing at your arm.

“Who is it, Y/N?” You had no choice but to look at her.

“Ryan McClean.” Another Lie. It was a good replacement though. He was sweet, good looking and respectful. At least as much as could be expected for a frat boy. Paige stepped back with a hand on her hip.

“You’ve never mentioned him, let alone told me you have a crush on him.” You continued to walk, ushering her forward.

“Well, it kinda happened fast. I don’t know–I was hoping to see him tonight. I wanted to look cute.” You saved face by putting on an extra air of confidence.

“Okay, okay I see you!” Paige grinned, snapping her fingers left and right as she walked.

“Unfortunately, I have a date with Mark tonight–so I won’t be able to go.” You nodded, secretly relieved that she wouldn’t have to see you lose what little humility you had left.

“Stay connected to the phone, don’t drink too much, play safe, get home safe,” she counted off on her fingers.

“Thank you, Mom. Would you like to dress me, too?” you asked, grinning. Paige rolled her eyes playfully.

“Actually, now that you ask, let’s go pick out an outfit that doesn’t scream…pilgrim lost in the twenty-first century.” You eyed her for a silent moment, challenging each other not to laugh, but you were the first one to lose, throwing your head back and cackling at her.

“You are such a bitch!” You said, elbowing her. “Let’s go." Paige wouldn’t let you go to that party without looking your best.

***

“Lacy Monroe.” “Total babe, 13/10. Would fuck her any day,” Wyatt Sellars interjected, a massive grin pasted on his face.

“Okay, how about Holly?” Matthew asked the question from the ping-pong table, tapping balls back to Wyatt. Christian Hearst entered the room next, a towel wrapped around his waist, applying deodorant to his armpits.

“Wilson? She’s a bit of a bitch, but I'd chase her for a little while until I got bored.” He chuckled, walking to the fridge for a beer.

“How about Y/N?” The room falls silent, save for the fast bounce of the forfeited ping pong ball that was previously in play. Samuel Francis Kiszka. He sits cross-legged on a lounge chair in the corner, knocking back the rest of his IPA.

“You mean the sexiest girl at school?” Wyatt offered. “Is she Mormon or something? She could have easily made her way through the entire football team by now.”

“Jesus, you dumb fuck, she’s not Mormon.” Christian came behind Wyatt, thumping him on the back of his head.

“Well-I didn’t know, I–”

“I think she’s stunning,” Sam says, leaning forward to place his elbows on his knees. His grin was obvious. His cunning expression cut through the room.

“Okay, asshole. What’s with the look?” Christian moved to the couch, taking a seat across from sam.

“I saw her today. Walking to class.” He licked his lips as he talked. Christian rubbed his hands together, prepared to hear about some salacious romp.

“And?”

Sam’s eyes grow wider. “Oh, n-nothing happened, I just saw her.” A chorus of disappointed scoffs filled the room.

“You suck, man. You literally had us going, just for fucking nothing,” Wyatt whined.

“It’s not like anything would happen– I’m pretty sure she’s a virgin anyway,” Sam continued.

“Oh, so she’s the pick of the litter. Nice!” Matthew interjected. Sam looked at him with a minor look of disgust, shaking his head.

“So why are you being a pussy, Sam? I Bet–” Christian pointed his finger at Sam in a telling gesture. “I bet you…I bet you that she won’t let you take her virginity before the month is over.” Rising from his seat, Sam padded to the kitchen tossing his beer bottle across the room, where it clattered into the trash can.

“I bet you I can make it happen. Six hundred dollars and open supply of weed for one month–split evenly.” His grin emanated throughout the room.

“Aha, bet!” Matthew said, coming around Sam to slap him on the back in approval. “Paying up like a man.” Sam took a long gulp of his beer before retreating to his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

***

Just as you finished your makeup, your hand slipped and your eyeliner streaked messily through the eyeshadow that you had just applied so effortlessly. “Fuck!” An exasperated sigh escaped your parted lips as you wiped at your eyelid to salvage the look. After several minutes, you emerged from the bathroom, fully dressed except for your top–you didn’t want to ruin it with makeup stains. Just as you pulled your head through the sparkly black crop top, your phone chimes. Paige.

Show Ryan what he’s missing, bitch! Shake that ass in my absence, too. Stay safe, I love you. Call me if you need me.

Right. Ryan. My little secret. You sent her a quick text wishing her well on her date. Pulling a pair of gold hoops through your ears, you got a notification that Carlos, your Uber driver, was waiting outside of your apartment. Grabbing a few last minute items, you made your way downstairs. Pulling up to campus, you noticed one thing first. It was loud. So loud in fact, that your head was pounding by the time you made it to the Row. The identical houses were arranged in a perfect square with a patch of green lawn in the middle. Adirondack chairs littered the grass, loosely thrown around a glowing brick fire-pit. Girls looped themselves around boys, chattering aimlessly with beverages that sloppily poured over the sides of their cups and onto their laps and into the grass. They giggled and slurred–their heels dug into the earth, causing several unfortunate partygoers to trip and lurch, earning themselves yet another spilled drink or bitchy laughs from gaggles of jealous and judgemental girls.

You rolled your eyes, debating on going after all, but your feet were already moving underneath you, carrying you along the sidewalk that led to each house. Who were you to think that it was smart to come here alone, especially when it was the first party you had attended in God-knows-how long?

“Y/N!” Your eyes darted upward, trying to place the voice that was calling your name. You found him. Your eyes met his and you instantly felt like you were drowning. A vignette seemed to filter out the unnecessary material around you; the blaring music muted, the giggles and shouts subsided into soft static. He was impeccably dressed in navy silk. A tailored blazer skimmed his bare chest, provided as a mere accessory rather than a true piece of clothing. His bottoms hugged at his frame, falling just above a perfectly shined pair of leather loafers. His hands were casually tucked into his pockets as he looked directly at you–with that fucking smile.

He strode towards you, knocking you out of the trance. Your breath hitched, sending bolts of panic through your system as he approached. Oh shit, what do I do? You thought, averting eye contact as you made every attempt to not look as awkward and helpless as you really were.

“You’re not a hologram, right? If I remember correctly, you acted like you would rather be caught dead than come to the Row.” His feet landed in front of you as he arrived. You met his eyes, crossing your arms defensively.

“Well, I wanted to see what I was missing–by the looks of it, it just looks like it’ll lead to meaningless sex and a bitch of a hangover.” He readjusted in his spot, cocking an eyebrow upward. He likes your sass. He likes it a lot.

“Well, it is a party, Y/N, what better to do than get drunk and fuck, hmm?” You scoffed at him, stepping off to the side, making your way to the first house. You heard his shoes tapping the pavement as he walked. Good. You wanted him to follow you.

“What is your drink of choice?” He asked, trying to change the subject to something more playful. “I usually stick with tequila–the citrus notes are just–” You heard him kiss the tips of his fingers in a “chef’s kiss” gesture from behind you. You couldn’t help but grin, careful to maintain your guarded disposition.

“Got any Pappy?” You asked, turning over your shoulder with a grin. “I’m an expensive lay.”

Sammy snorts. “Two thousand dollar bourbon? You know the fucking answer, sweetheart.” That earned him a smile. You turned to face him and were immediately tossed upside down at the sight of his dimples.

“Well, we do have some lovely white claw reserve that was bought at this very upscale store. Maybe you know it–Target?” You couldn’t help but chuckle at him.

“Shut up, Sam!” He smiled warmly, coming beside you, pulling an arm around your shoulder.

“Let’s go find something worth drinking, hmm?” You hadn’t processed what was happening, but you didn’t want to, either. You let it happen, weighing risk versus reward. You stepped forward into the party with him at your side, forgetting the lie you had told paige. So much for finding Ryan. Instead, you found Sam.

End of Part.

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castieltrash1 · 10 months

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on the 1st day of rothmas, castieltrash1 gave to me... holiday decorating with the tim roth characters! (more below the cut xoxo)

⋆ freddy “mr. orange” newandyke (reservoir dogs)

freddy’s place has never really been cohesive, to say the least. you’ve noticed none of his dishes or cutlery match and most of the time his bedsheets and pillowcases are different patterns or colors. besides his blue walls, retro comic book posters, and that stained glass cross by his front door, he doesn’t really ‘decorate.’ as long as his work stuff is easily accessible, everything else just kind of fits wherever. he prefers spending his free time on renovations -- clanky bathroom pipes or a loose kitchen cabinet hinge are more important to him.

that being said, freddy is a traditional christmas decorator. as early december rolls around, he lugs his fake tree out of storage, hangs a wreath on the door, and strings up some lights. most of his ornaments are plain glass bulbs, but he’s collected a few keepsakes over the years! in all honesty, he’s secretly excited to settle down with you and make a home out of someplace (preferably not his messy apartment.) it’s not in the cards just yet, but he knows someday you two -- and maybe some pets or kids if you feel so inclined -- will have a cozier domestic setup where christmas feels less like an obligation and more like a celebration.

“step back and tell me if this shit is straight,” freddy says, jerking his chin up to the string of lights he’s hanging above the door. you hesitate for a moment, not wanting to put the ladder he’s balanced precariously on out of reach in case he falls; a scenario that seems completely likely considering he’s got a nail gun in one hand and a half-smoked cigarette propped between his lips.

you slowly inch backward and… “oh. they’re- uh…” one end is about three inches higher than the other, give or take. “no, they’re good. perfect.”

freddy snorts, a flicker of ash falling to the ground. “i’m a cop, remember? i know when you’re lying.”

⋆ cal lightman (lie to me)

cal has always been your average low-effort christmas decorator. half of his presents are wrapped in a brown paper bag, for christ’s sake. towards the end of his marriage with zoe and shortly following their separation, he put a lot of effort into holidays for emily’s sake, but now that she’s grown, his co-parenting relationship has mellowed, and he’s got you in his life, there’s a lot less pressure for the holidays to be perfect!

he is absolutely going to keep cutting corners, though. why would he wobble on a ladder outside in the cold to hang up lights he’ll have to take down in a month anyway when he can just use those projectors that shine colors all over the house? and sure, he likes ornaments, especially the cheesy hand-made ones emily made in elementary school, but he’s content throwing some tinsel and popcorn strings on a lit-up tree and calling it a day. speaking of trees, they’re one of the few splurges he’s willing to spend his time and money on. he likes the smell and look of real ones, sue him!

“did you even measure the door beforehand?” you ask, barely able to see the top of cal’s head over the massive tree in the way. he’s got one end, you’ve got the other, and emily has disappeared somewhere in the middle of the prickly pine needles.

“it’ll fit!” cal yells back, just as emily crawls out from under the mass of branches, sweat and melting snow glimmering on her forehead. she takes one look at the way you’re straining to pull the top through the front doorway and laughs under her breath, shaking her head.

“twenty bucks says we have to bring it in through the backyard.”

⋆ philip chaney (captives)

when you meet philip, he’s been moved to a short-term facility, so the rules are more lax. it’s still prison so traditional decorating is out of the question, but you two make it work. he doesn’t want to draw unwarranted attention from inmates or cos whose radars he’d rather not be on, so philip sticks to his favorite and the safest way of sprucing up his cell: photographs. bring him pictures of you, your decorations, and your tree during visits and he’ll tape them to his wall or the underside of the top bunk to admire before bed.

on his days out -- after his classes are over and he’s got an hour to blow before the bus arrives --philip loves walking around to see all the christmas lights. it’s freezing, but he never seems to notice, too busy pointing out his favorite decorated buildings and houses. his old contracting and electrical wiring jobs make him a pain in the ass, though, since he never stops scrutinizing the shoddily hung lights or clear fire hazards.

philip flicks the ash of his cigarette, eyes narrowing at the bundle of cords tucked on the side of a building you two always pass; now covered in flashing red, white, and green. your fingertips are freezing off and you can’t tell the smoke of philip’s exhales from your breaths of white air.

“philip.”

“what?” he looks back at you, pointy teeth curling into a knowing grin when you glare. he keeps walking, leading you somewhere warmer, but doesn’t let up. “they’ve got three fuckin’ cords plugged into one bloody outlet.”

⋆ ted the bellhop (four rooms)

ted is kind of like a retail worker -- christmas decorations and music send a chill up his spine. thoughts of working new year’s eve at the mon signor make him lightheaded and the last thing he wants is to bring that home with him. unfortunately, he also gets sad if you two don’t decorate, so it’s a lose-lose situation. he’ll eventually decide that the bellhop’s room remain decoration-free for his sanity, but at home, he needs a little holiday cheer.

don’t let him try any handmade or crafty type decorations. if there’s one thing ted’s bound to do it’s burn himself, start a fire, rip something, trip over something else, electrocute himself, fall off a ladder, and end the night slamming his fists against the floor yelling “why, god, why?!” make it simple and save yourself the headache. give this man some plastic ornaments, battery-powered fairy lights, and a few garlands and he’s set.

as the first few notes of “jingle bells” fill the room, ted’s neck snaps toward your cd player, the color draining from his face. “turn that off. please. now.” you watch in slight amusement as the candy cane in his fist cracks under the pressure of his whitened knuckles.

as you skip the classic tune, ted lets out a comedic sigh of relief, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “i heard that fifty-seven times last shift, you know!”

⋆ joshua shapira (little odessa)

besides the fact he doesn’t celebrate, joshua isn’t a big decorator to begin with. most of it is out of necessity -- wherever he’s holed up has to stay discreet for safety reasons. the last thing he needs is bright flashing lights pointing potential threats in the right direction. if you two live together or are settling down, he’ll let you decorate inside, regardless of which holiday you celebrate. he’ll tease you, but, as long as it makes you happy and isn’t too overboard, he doesn’t mind.

the few hanukkah pieces he has are heirlooms his mom secretly gave him after he left home. after her passing, they became even more important to him. he keeps them safe all year long and makes sure they -- the menorah, especially -- are proudly displayed by the front door window. he doesn’t have the best memories from home, but lighting the candles has always been one of them.

after reciting the respective blessings, joshua takes the shamash and begins lighting the menorah. you watch as the flames spark, slowly moving from the left to the right with each candle. the reflection flickers in his eyes even after he finishes and steps back, pulling you close.

“it’s beautiful,” you softly murmur, resting your head on his shoulder.

he nods, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “yeah… it is.”

⋆ guildenstern (rosencrantz and guildenstern are dead)

medieval yule decorations are all about the foliage. guildenstern might not be able to differentiate between most plants and flowers, but he knows a good branch of holly when he sees it. he prefers the celebrations, music, and food more, so he won’t go all out, but he still enjoys being festive. also a big fan of mistletoe for its symbolic protection and the excuse it gives him to kiss you.

if you two spend yule at or near elsinore, you’ll be treated to the castle’s extravagant decorations. the great hall is especially beautiful this time of year with the roaring fire, bright greenery, and intricately embroidered tablecloths made of fine fabric. the church would also likely have trees donned with paper flowers and apples to celebrate!

guildenstern sidles up to you in the great hall, biting into a crisp red apple. the sharp crunch cuts through the music playing and you shoot him a glare. “pray tell, where did thou find that?” the banquet had a variety of feasts, but there wasn’t an identical fruit in sight. the only place you’d seen one was those decorating the church’s oaks and surely guildenstern would never-

“upon a tree outside,” he replies, grinning between chews. “there are more to be found, should thou desire one.”

⋆ david (resurrection)

david doesn’t like celebrations of any kind unless he’s the focal point. he won’t make that obvious at first, of course, but you’ll slowly realize his attitude shifts whenever you bring up the holidays. the more decorations you put up, the more kindnesses he asks of you. it’s a simple trick that gets your brain to associate festivities with sacrifice and discomfort.

if he’s feeling kind or wants to reward you for his own benefit, he’ll let you have a few decorations. it’s important you realize that it’s a privilege bestowed by him, so you’ll be more thankful for it. most of the time, you’ll be responsible for putting the decorations up and taking them down, but he might surprise you in the morning with a few lights or tinsel hung just to hear you praise him.

it’s a simple strand of lights above the door, but it’s the most decorative thing you’ve seen this christmas season. your eyes practically water at how warm and cozy it feels, and david rests his hand on your shoulder, squeezing it softly.

his lips curl into a smirk as he watches the colors dance on your face. “aren’t you grateful, dearest? i did this just for you.”

⋆ colin (meantime)

while colin’s family does decorate for christmas, it’s never been too exciting for him. they can’t afford anything new, so he’s seen the same lights, figurines, and garlands used every year since (and before) he was born. most of the houses near his are the same, too. in the past, he’d cut festive pictures out of magazines, the newspaper, and advertisements on food boxes from the grocery store, but mark teased him relentlessly for it.

visiting you gives colin an excuse to admire your decorations as long as he wants. if you two aren’t together yet, he’ll find a way -- mostly with coxy’s goading -- to offer to help you hang lights or some other mundane task that lets him spend more time with you. he’s quiet during the whole process, but you notice he’s extremely careful, making sure everything is set up exactly how you want it.

“oh, wow!” you stare up at the string of lights dangling from your roof trim with an excited laugh, one that turns into a fearful gasp as you watch colin wobble on the ladder at the sound of your voice. “oh shit.” you quickly grip the metal to steady it, peering up at your flustered friend. “are you okay?”

“i-i…” colin’s face is bright red and you’re not sure how much of it is from the cold. “… didn’t hear you… come out.”

“sorry,” you wince, biting back a frown. you’d gone inside to make some snacks and hadn’t thought twice about making your presence known. “the lights look great, though!” this time, the darkening of his cheeks is an obvious result of your praise, and you nod toward the front door, hoping to get him back inside. “hungry?”

⋆ gerbino de ratta (virgin territory)

safe to say, you won’t be doing a lot of decorating with a plague spread further than you could ever travel. any celebrations you have will be limited to those in gerbino’s closest circles, mainly his men, so it doesn’t matter all that much anyway. at most, he’ll “buy” you some nice gold and pretty candles but everything must remain inside lest it be stolen (again.)

“this is beautiful,” you say, mesmerized by the pristine candleholder gerbino’s brought home. he’s even found a tall beeswax candle to pair with it; already smelling sweet despite not being lit. “where did you get this?”

gerbino’s smirk falters. “never mind that, love,” he quickly replies, guiding you toward the mantel that holds all the other trinkets he’s gifted you. “let’s light it, yes?”

⋆ oswaldo mobray (the hateful eight)

your dearest “english pete” is a big fan of the holidays and all the celebrations that come with it. since you two and the rest of the domingre gang are often on the move, most of your “decorations” are on various stagecoaches and horse reins/saddles. pete, in particular, is a big fan of wreaths and holly but he also sniffles and sneezes with the foliage so close to his sleeping quarters.

pete also loves decorating you. he’ll spend whatever he gets from different heists on soft silks and velvets that you can wear through the cold season. some of it is embroidered, and some are pristine heirlooms stolen from richer folk. you usually manage a good collection by the time the near year rolls around!

“hm… hm… yes, yes, like this,” pete mumbles under his breath, a white puff of air in the cold wind. he fiddles with the new red velvet cape he’s found you, fingers adjusting and readjusting the fabric through his thick leather gloves.

he steps back and you grin, teeth near chattering. “well?”

“quite dashing, if i do say so myself, love.”

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

12 days of rothmas masterlist

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hannahssimblr · 10 months

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Chapter Five (Part 2)

I talk with a group of people for a while as I sip from a mug with gin and tonic in it, and when I’ve had enough mug fulls of it I stop noticing the anxious way I feel when everybody turns to me as I speak, the silence that opens up for the words that leave my mouth, and eventually I start enjoying myself again. The people I’m talking to are nice, they listen to me with engaged expressions and laugh when it’s my turn to share a funny story, and soon I can relax, letting the warmth from the gin radiate out from my stomach and engulf my whole being, and I can laugh, and I can ask questions and I can be charming and funny and think of interesting things to say to people without the added agony I’ve become so used to in my sober life.

After a while one girl pours shots of something on the kitchen counter and we all drink them together and then cheer as though we’ve done something wonderful, and then we have another a few minutes later. And then another, and another. When they go outside to smoke a joint I go with them, and even though it’s December and my coat is in a pile on somebody’s bed, I don’t feel the cold so much anymore. When they pass the joint to me I refuse, because I fundamentally oppose drugs still, but as I watch it pass over me to the guy standing beside me I notice that my eyes won’t focus on anything. Everyone is still talking, but I slowly withdraw from the conversation, finding myself struggling to follow it now, only laughing along at the same time as everyone else without ever actually hearing the parts that are funny. I realise that I’m drunk. Very drunk.

I go back inside the house and weave through all the people, feeling like my head is tilting to the left even though it isn’t, but I have to keep righting myself like my balance is about to give out at any moment. I bump into somebody and have to apologise, and I try to think of the last time I’d had so much to drink, and I can’t. I can’t remember ever feeling this way in front of so many people, and I find myself wishing for the comfort of somebody familiar and comforting and safe. I want Claire, and at this point I’d even take Shane if he was going to take me away from this house and this dizzy feeling. Even if he scolded me for it, I’d take it.

I go upstairs to the bathroom to find Marnie, but as I open the door, Fiona stops me from coming in. “She’s being sick.” She tells me.

“Okay. Will you tell her I’m going to go home?” I say, and Marnie’s reply comes amplified by the toilet bowl. “You have to wait for me. You said I could stay with you.”

“How long will you be?”

“A minute.” Fiona says, and then closes the door on me.

I sigh and hold onto the bannister, fearing that my new left veering quirk will send me careening down the stairs and onto the tile floor beneath. I get an intrusive image of that actually happening to me, the way that my blood would look in a halo around me on against the monochrome tiles, red, black and white like something directed by David Lynch. The idea of that makes my stomach lurch, and I hold onto the wall next to me and begin an unsteady ascent to the second floor where there are two bedrooms. One, on the left with this heavy, bassy music is coming from, and the sound vibrates through the carpet and into my bones like it’s trying to invade my body. It’s Odd Future, I think, but I can’t think of why I know that. I go into the bedroom on the right where there’s an enormous mountain of coats heaped onto the bed, and I start digging through it until I find mine, and then as an afterthought grab Marnie’s too, which is easy to spot as it’s some kind of faux-fur electric blue shag that smells like cigarettes and Thierry Mugler’s Alien. I bundle both coats up in my arms and take them back out to the stairs, where I hunker down on the steps with my eyes on the bathroom, waiting for Marnie to finish vomiting so that we can go home.

I wonder absently what’s going on in the left bedroom as I wait. I hear voices through the walls over the sounds of the music but I don’t really care enough to get up and check as I know it’s probably a group of people having some cool, exclusive private session. It’s only another moment before the door swings open and the noise suddenly louder, more booming. I turn around to see Dean standing there behind me. I haven’t seen him for hours.

“I thought you were gone.” I say.

“No, I was here.”

I peer into the bedroom behind him and in the moments before he shuts the door I can see a group of people in there but can’t see what they’re doing. He sits next to me on the top of the stairs and when I look up at his face he looks strange, unfocused, his mouth hanging open a little bit like he’s in a daydream. His eyes are weird.

“Are you alright, Dean?”

“Yeah.”

I can’t think of anything to say. I’m tired, I’m drunk, and he doesn’t say anything to me either, so it feels alright to just sit without speaking, and time becomes kind of elastic and meaningless, and I lose grasp of how long we stay there.

Eventually, he moves his arm, takes the hand that I have resting on my lap and flips it over so that my palm is facing the ceiling. Then I watch with surprise as he traces the line on my palm that I read once was called my life line, and his touch is light and tickles a little, and even though it doesn’t feel bad, it strikes me as a very odd thing to do. I don’t move my hand right away, and I look over at him slowly, questioningly, and he’s wearing this concentrated expression on his face like he’s fascinated by the sensation.

I take my hand away from him when I remember that if anybody else knew that I let him touch me in this way they’d disapprove of it. “Sorry.” I say to him, “It tickles a bit.”

“That’s alright.”

I shift my body further away from him so that no part of me is touching any part of him anymore, and as my shoulder meets the wall, I rest my head there, the vibrations of the music stronger inside the plasterboard that separates the bedroom from the landing, and even though I don’t feel good and everything is strange and uncomfortable, I shut my eyes for a minute until I feel Dean get up and go away and then open them moments later to see him stumbling down the stairs, throwing his whole weight onto the bannisters as he spins around the landing, overshoots it and launches his body onto the wall. He swears under his breath and then completes his shaky descent to the hallway below just as the bathroom door opens and Fiona emerges.

She looks up at me from the middle landing. “She’s alright. She just needs to go home now.”

“I’ll take her.”

“Are you able to?”

“Why, can she not walk or something?”

“Can you?”

“Yes.” I stand up slowly and make my way down to her, being careful to watch every step as the positions of my feet shift around wildly in front of my eyes, my vision misaligned, unable to tell which of the stair steps are real and which I’ve made up.

“Come here.” Fiona says, taking me by the hands and helping me down the rest of the way. “The both of you are fucked. I’ll get you into a taxi.”

“We’re getting the bus.” I insist.

“You missed the last bus, darling, so either you get a taxi or walk.”

“What time is it?”

“Three.”

When Marnie emerges from the bathroom she looks bloodshot and miserable, her hair lank and her face covered in a sheen of sweat. It looks like she threw up a bit on her top, but I let Fiona dab it off with toilet paper, and then she brings us both outside and puts us into a taxi. As soon as we get in, Marnie rests her head on my shoulder and goes to sleep.

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#sims #sims 4 #ts4 #simlit #sims 4 story #sims story #writing #fiction #romance #sims 4 storytelling #sims4 storytelling #sims storytelling #lucky girl part 2

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creativepawsworld · 2 years

Text

Everything But You - Part 6

Pairing = Cillian Murphy x OC

Summary = Things take a wrong turn when Andrew shows up at the next The Sons of Mr Green Genes Concert.

Warnings = Language, Grammar, 90s Cillian, Insults?

Word Count = 1852

It had been two weeks since Cillian and I had sex at the dance studio and things were definitely different this time. He was calling more, wanting to hang out with just the two of us. I honestly felt myself falling for him.

Brushing off the lint from my black skirt, I checked my appearance three more times in the mirror before getting a taxi and arriving at the Black Duck bar, where Cillian's band was performing tonight.

My eyes instantly fell on Billy who was standing outside having a smoke, jumping from foot to foot as the cold December air nipped at his bare arms.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, feeling the cold against my skin. I forewent a coat to maintain my sexy, rocker chick look. I felt like a coat ruined the illusion, style overcame substance tonight.

"Marion bailed and I wasn't going out alone I am not that desperate." He scoffed with a slight roll of his eyes, wrinkles creasing at the sides of his lips as he inhaled deeply on the white cigarette.

"Besides I heard young blue eyes is playing tonight." He wriggled his eyebrows at me.

"He is. That is true." I blushed, tucking my hair behind my ear.

"What's going on with you two hm?" He questioned, a cheeky grin spreading across his face once he noticed my reddened cheeks.

"I really like him Bil…"

"Tell me something I don't know." Billy rolled his eyes, putting the ends of his cigarette out against the pebble-dashed wall before tossing the remains down a drain. "Come on let's get inside before we turn into ice cubes."

Walking arm in arm, we pushed our way through the crowd, Aoife was sitting at a table with one of Andrew's friends, Calvin. I instantly felt bile rise in my throat at the thought of him being in the same bar as both myself and Cillian but mostly because I would have to see him again.

"Don't look so scared, he isn't here. I don't believe so anyway." Billy spoke in my ear. Without realising it, I had pulled him to a stop at the sight of the taller man at the table but hearing his words I felt relief wash over me.

"Effs, been getting rather close to this doctor hunk."

"I can see that." I nodded, walking next to him, and approaching the table with a smile, which Calvin returned.

"Cillian was here. He was looking for you. Wanted to talk about something but wouldn't say what." Aoife acknowledged my presence with a smile. "I think someone is smitten." She winked, wrapping her pink lips around the tiny red straw in her drink.

Glancing over at Calvin, he was watching the conversation with an indifferent look on his face before allowing a smile to take over.

"Don't worry I won't say anything to Drew." He chuckled with a shake of his head. "He didn't deserve you."

"Oh okay, thanks." I nodded bringing the drink Aoife had slid over to me into my hands and up to my mouth, sipping through the straw my eyes wandered throughout the crowd for a certain blue-eyed musician but he was nowhere to be found.

Being late to the party, I was in charge of getting the next round of drinks, I didn't mind as it allowed me to scan the crowd a bit better. My heart sank when I noticed a familiar blond sitting at the bar nursing a pint of Harp in his hands.

Rolling my eyes, I turned my back on him completely hoping the bartender would serve me in record time so I could escape back to my table without dealing with him. But it appeared luck wasn't on my side.

"Brianna, fancy seeing you here." Andrew's voice entered my ear. I felt his hand slide across my lower back from behind before he stood in front of me, pint half drunk.

"What do you want Andrew? You don't even like bars like this."

"No but I wanted to see you and I knew you would be following that loser from the band around like a lost puppy." He laughed darkly, the smell of alcohol ripe on his breath, looking into his eyes I noticed his pupils were slightly dilated, he had a lot more than that pint to drink.

"The only loser I see around here is you" I spat back, turning to glare at the bartender who had once again skipped over me to serve another.

"Don't be like that Brie, come on you and I had a good few years let's not throw it away over some wannabe musician." Andrew's words were slightly slurred.

His hand came up to place some hair behind my ear, and the back of his fingers stroked against my cheek, working their way down towards my jaw before I pulled away.

"We are done Andrew get that through your head."

*****

Returning to the table, I placed the drinks down just as The Sons of Mr Green Genes got on stage to perform.

Cillian took centre stage. He looked gorgeous tonight in his tight-fitted black t-shirt that clung to his smaller frame. Throwing the strap of his guitar around his neck, he adjusted the microphone to his lips, it was then I noticed the annoyed scowl on his face.

"Someone upset Mr Blue Eyes this evening." Billy mused, eyebrows raised so high they were practically touching his hairline.

Glancing over at him, I squinted my eyes and shook my head in confusion, silently asking him what he was talking about as the band started to play the song -Time Travel.

"He saw you talking to Andrew before he went on stage." Aoife sighed, a sympathetic smile on her face as she placed her now empty glass onto the bar tray, taking her new drink in its place. "I think he believes you invited him."

"I didn't!" I defended myself immediately. "Why is he even here? You said you wouldn't say anything about me being here." I pointed at Calvin who had held his hands up in defence.

"I haven't said a thing. He has been following you for weeks, showing up at this band's gigs across the country just to see you."

"What?" Aoife screeched, jumping out of her seat to stand next to me, a concerned look on her face as she stared down at her date for the evening. "Why did you say anything?"

"He's harmless." Calvin brushed it off.

"They are always harmless until they aint." Billy scowled throwing one of his dirtiest looks at the buffer gentleman sitting across from him.

"That's disturbing. What a creep." Aoife scoffed, throwing a look of disgust over her shoulder but Andrew was gone. Where? I wasn't sure but he was out of my sight.

Wrapping my arms around myself, I tried to ignore what had happened focusing all my attention on Cillian who was once again so lost in his music, he looked like he was in a complete trance. I felt my heart beating in my chest, as I thought about our last few encounters and we were certainly overdue for another.

Losing myself to the music, I swayed in time, Billy joining next to me for a few before returning to his seat. Cillian avoided eye contact with me the entire set, his brother Paidi waved to me a few times before the beginning of each song, and even nudged Cillian, nodding in my direction but still he refused.

Feeling deflated, I returned to the table, taking a large mouthful of my drink when Emer appeared at our table, dressed in a red dress two sizes too small. Her chest was straining against the bust, one wrong move and she would be flashing.

"Jesus." Billy choked on his drink. The liquid coming out of his mouth hit Calvin like a spray.

"You alright?" I asked, patting him on the back, his eyes turned red from the lack of oxygen, and the drink was running down his nose as he gasp loudly. Handing him a white napkin he patted himself down.

"She nearly fucking killed me." He wheezed pointing at Emer, who stood innocently at the end of the table. A doe-eyed look in her eyes as she watched Cillian on stage, completely obvious to what was happening around her.

"Emer? What are you doing here?" I asked, ignoring Billy's over-the-top dramatics, another male in my life that would excel in the art of acting.

"Oh Cillian invited me, between us I think he is into me but he is trying to play it cool." She giggled and for the first time tonight, Cillian looked in our direction sending a wink.

Biting back a growl, I felt a pang of jealousy in my heart as Emer jumped up and down on her feet, clapping her hands together frantically as the band finished their set.

"You okay?" Billy asked, sliding next to me, and wrapping a protective arm around my shoulders.

"I'm done. I'm so fucking done." I growled, throwing myself back into my seat, and crossing my arms over my chest.

I didn't want to put a sour note on the night, Emer had disappeared into the crowd no doubt going to find Cillian after his set and I was determined to enjoy myself.

I was not going to let Cillian fucking Murphy get to me anymore.

*****

Yelling loudly, Billy and I both giggled as we jiggled on our feet, fighting off the taste of yet another shot of tequila. Aoife and Calvin had disappeared into the night after the band's set finished, no question what it was they disappeared to get up to.

"FUCK THE MEN." Billy cackled loudly, slamming the now empty glass on the table. Throwing his hands in the air and dancing to the music in his head.

"Enjoying your night?" I heard that Irish brogue that if I had been sober, would have had me weak at the knees. Turning around to face him, he stood behind me with his hands inside his jeans pockets, an unreadable expression on his face.

"I am. Where's Emer? Get bored of you already?" I asked with a hint of venom. I heard Billy behind me creating loud cat noises. I could just see him in my head, scratching the air with his claws.

"Toilet," Cillian answered flatly.

"Great," I replied with a small shake of my head as an awkward silence fell over us. "What do you want?" I asked breaking it.

"Where's your boyfriend?"

"Don't have one."

"I saw you with Andrew earlier Brianna, seemed pretty cosy."

"What does it matter to you?" I snapped, stepping into his space but he only shrugged his shoulders in response.

"The man is stalking her blue eyes," Billy answered his question for me. "She came here for you but you chose the blonde who wears her little sister's barbie doll dress out in public so FUCK YOU."

"Yeah FUCK YOU" I laughed joining Billy as we held up our middle fingers. "This is your loss, Murphy."

*****

Anyone interested in the bands song I found it on YouTube - Time Travel it’s rather a bop if I do say so myself.

Taglist

@stars-of-scorpio @lovemissyhoneybee @peakyscillian @cillmequick @forgottenpeakywriter @lyarr24

#cillian murphy fanfic #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian murphy #90sCillian #90sCillianMurphy #ThesonsofMrGreenGenes #Everythingbutyou #Cillianmurphyxoc

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loserboyfriendrjl · 2 years

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the candles were lit, the christmas tree was put up, baubles and tinsel and lights, beautiful and warm. somewhere above him, someone made gingerbread, the smell of cinnamon and ginger coming out through their window in the cold air of december. carols sung under his window, frank sinatra, and carols passed down from one generation to the next, parents to children and children to their own.

and remus was utterly miserable.

he lit up a cigarette with a snap of his fingers, the same way sirius used to. remus liked pretending he never quite got the hang of it, just so he could feel sirius' face, so close to his, their noses almost touching, their love burning them the same way fire burnt the nicotine, the cigarette, all of it. remus liked joking to himself; had they not been smokers, maybe they wouldn't have set fire to everything they ever had.

the last christmas he had spent was with them. of course, looking ragged and weary and through james' thick, dark hair, remus was sure he could make out greys. lily's hair seemed untameable, and remus chuckled, telling her she finally resembled james.

peter looked ill, and his eyes continued darting from his friends to the door.

(remus asked him if he was fine; he said it was nothing. he was dead now. all so sudden. he had gotten the invitation from lydia to his funeral. he came, and she cried on his shoulder and he helped carry his casket. it made him sick to his stomach, and he locked himself in his room and, for the first time since his mam's death, he allowed himself to grieve. real, raw grief.)

marlene and dorcas looked the best out of all of them, but lines of worry still crossed their faces whenever they looked over to james and lily, hari in their arms, taking turns. a façade of happiness, because even if babies are wordless, they know. they can feel the air of misery, of anger, of death, looming above their heads in thick smoke.

the last christmas they had spent together, they were alive.

and now they were dead. the only thing father christmas had brought that year was death, grief, anger, and feelings so complicated and never explained. he could have brought a little bit more time, to bid one last goodbye.

happy christmas, war is over.

#death tw #and of course i could not miss the opportunity to write some angst for the holidays too! so this is christmas (waaaar is oooover)#if you know you know #last year i've written something based on that song if anyone wants the link feel free to dm me and ask for it i don't mind /gen #anyways remus being sad for christmas has GOT to be one of my favorite tropes ever #in my fic which is not a fic yet hope is still alive but [SPOILER]#anyways #james potter #lily evans #hari potter #marlene mckinnon #dorcas meadowes #peter pettigrew #sirius black #wolfstar #remus lupin #remus lupin angst #my writing

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princesspuffle8 · 6 months

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The Boy Born from an Obsession: Tom Riddle One shot

Trigger warnings ahead: mentions of Su!c!d3, self depreciating talk, abandonment, mentions of SA, mentions of abuse, overall dark tones

London, England

December 1926

The crunching of the snow sounded so distant under my feet as I made my way toward the hospital. The contractions weren't very strong but the healer in St Mungo’s said it was best to rest before the birth, but if I rested and didn't get back to the city how would he know where I was? I had to see him again, I know he’s waiting for me… waiting for our baby… so a muggle hospital would be the place he’d be right? As that thought formulated in my mind, a new wave of pain hit my aching body and I was barely able to catch myself on the cold frigid brick wall next to me. A contraction? Why now?!

“Hold on baby… please… we’re almost to where your father will be,” I begged as I put pressure on my bulging stomach with my hand as I resumed my march through the snow with renewed vigor, ignoring the nagging voice in the back of my mind that whispered that he had left us before and that he would abandon us again. Focusing on the contraction and the pain, I surged forward until I reached the hospital steps, legs shaking beneath me. I had made it. Just a couple more steps to Tom, my beloved, just a few more agonizing steps.

At the landing, a nice young gentleman with light auburn hair and stunning hazel eyes opened the door for me. Gently ushering me inside while jovially chastising me for not wearing warmer clothes this winter, even though this was all I had. Pursing my lips into a thin smile and willing myself not to cry, I gave him a curt thanks and dusted the snow off myself. Who did he think he was! He didn't know me! I wasn’t a charity case that had come on hard times, I was a Riddle! I was a wealthy wife…

“Who’s husband left her because she’s filthy and worthless,” the nasty voice in head reminded me as I made my way to the front desk where the reception nurse was sitting smoking a cigarette. Her sultry green eyes and wild red hair contrasted greatly with mine as I rustled a couple strands of my dirty greasy blonde hair between my fingers, waiting for her to acknowledge my presence.

“State your name and purpose, ma’am,” she exhaled a puff of smoke in my face causing, the putrid smell to fill my lungs and sting my eyes, a deadly combo. Bare with it, Merope, it’s all for seeing him again.

“I’m pregnant ma’am and very close to do. I was wondering if I can give birth here and call my husband,” I asked my voice coming off more timid than I’d hope. Why was I asking her if I could give birth here? This was a hospital wasn't it? Surely they couldn't turn me away…

A moment passed and another puff of smoke was exhaled into my face as the lady eyed me up and down for what felt like eternity before she put out her cigarette and leaned across her desk, red lipstick stained lips glistening against the wintery morning light, as she gave me a pitiful look. “Look darlin I’m going to be straight with you, I don't think you can give birth here,” she stated as my stomach dropped.

“What do you mean I can’t give birth here,” I nearly yelled attracting the unwanted attention of nosy patients and nurses alike as the green eyed woman shot me a look as if she was scolding a small child. I shrank into myself and clutched my stomach for support, the kicking of the unborn child inside me smoothed my screaming thoughts.

“I’m not trying to be mean ma’am, however it doesn't look like you can pay to see the doctor much less room and board or any treatment for that matter.”

“But but this is a hospital,” I mumbled as that feeling of embarrassment and naïveté were beginning to swell up and constrict around the heart in my chest. This was just like all those times back in the village where the shopkeepers wouldn't let us have food or some basic magical items because we were poor.

“Yes, this is a hospital but these things cost money darlin,” the red headed nurse sighed as she sat back down in her chair and leaned back into a slouching position. I watched as she fished out her cigarette cartridge from inside her breast pocket along with a matchbook, swiftly and eloquently made quick work getting out a new cigarette and lighting it. I wasn't as eloquent as her, I could never be as eloquent as she was, the thought ran across my mind as I became very aware of how out of place I was at this hospital wearing a raggedy dress with patches sowed in where the seams had ripped and gave out. My stockings had holes in them and my boots were worn and scuffed. My jacket was from some male I pawned off of and was way too big for my frame, I had no scarf and what you could call gloves on my hands didn't even protect my fingers from the harsh winter weather. Compared to the eloquence of the nurse and other patients of this hospital who were very well dressed, I looked like a rat who had managed to scurry her way into a palace.

For a moment, I felt as if the floor had been swiped out from underneath me as a new wave of pain hit me once again, another contraction. Gripping the countertop, I tried to focus on something that would distract me from the pain. Something, anything to district from this ungodly pain…

“Is that a telephone perchance,” I asked as I exhaled a breath and looked at her with pleading eyes, the ringing of the phone had just stopped and it brought back one of the happiest memories I had, my wedding day at Tom’s family’s manor where they had such sophisticated muggle appliances such as a telephone. I have never seen one in my life before and was fascinated by the appliance which Tom taught me how to use. Oh my love, Tom… how I wish you were here to tell them all to bugger off and hold me while I endured this pain for our child.

“It is. Why,” the nurse asked as she exhaled another puff of smoke lazily.

“May I make a phone call to my husband? He can pay for everything I swear. His name is Tom, Tom Riddle. If I could just call him he’ll be over and pay for my expenses and I can give birth here,” I pleaded with her as my voice cracked in desperation. Why wasn't he here? He was supposed to be here!

“Your husband,” the nurse drawled suspiciously as she quirked an eyebrow at me as if I was lying.

“Yes my husband, call him,” I snapped at her, feeling a bit irate at the moment. This stupid muggle twat, how dare she question that I was married to Tom. How dare she question our love! I was with his child after all, he married me not her. He wanted me!

“Alright, I’ll call him,” the nurse sighed as she got up from her seat and headed to the phone located in the hallway. I watched as she stayed on the phone for awhile, talking to whomever was on the other end before she trotted back my way, her heels clicking against the tile floor before she sat down in front of me, taking another long drawl of her cigarette before looking directly at me.

“Well,” I demanded, a surge of confidence flooding through me knowing that my husband would come to my rescue.

“I was able to contact a Tom Riddle…”

“See! I told you! Now if you would just admit me into the hos…”

“And the man on the other side said that he didn't know you. He said that and I quote, “I wont give that whore a cent! Not one bloody cent. She can bleed to death after giving birth for all I care. Don't contact me again,” the nurse stated as something within me shattered, her words seemed so far and distant.

“You’re lying! Tom loves me. He loves me so why would he say such horrible things. That’s not the Tom I know… the Tom I know is loving, affectionate, protective, he cared about me when no one else did! I’m his wife! I gave my everything to him. I have his child! You’re lyingI You’re lying! Call him again! Call him! He’s mine… my husband! We love each other,” I screamed at her as tears streamed down my face and I clutched my stomach in distress. Suddenly the baby’s kicks were no longer comforting and soothing reminders of what I had created with Tom. Suddenly the were painful and horrible reminders that he had left me.

“Ma’am, I need you to calm down…”

“Stopping the amortencia was a mistake. It was a mistake! Why isn't he here! I need him here,” I was panicking now as the pain from the contraction dulled and the movement of the fetus within me made me want to lurch. I wanted it out. If it hadn't been for this… this thing I would have never stopped giving Tom amortencia! He would still be mine. We would still be happy.

“I don't know what you’re talking about ma’am but I think you need to go,” the nurse implored as she put out her cigarette and gave me a sharp look as she stood up from her seat in an intimidating manner. What kind of nurse was she?! Wasn't she supposed to help sick or injured people?

“Go? Go where? Can’t you see I’m pregnant! Where else can I go to give birth,” I wailed as more tears I didn't know I had began to stream down my face, blurring out the image of a tall blonde man who came up next to the nurse and put a hand on her shoulder, easing her back into her seat.

“Dr. Jacobson, are you done with your shift,” the nurse asked a bit stunned at the man but complied to his gesture nonetheless and sat back down into her chair.

“More or less. I heard a bit of commotion out here and I’ve come to investigate. Is everything alright ma’am,” he asked me as he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to me allowing myself to clean my face up a bit.

“No. Its not alright! I’m pregnant and she said I cant give birth here! This is a hospital isn’t it! Why cant I give birth here,” I wailed to him, watching his slight bewildered look on his face before he looked over to the nurse who huffed in an annoyed manner.

“I told her that she needed money to pay for the facilities and obviously she’s lying about her husband being willing to pay for anything. I just contacted him sir, this woman is… delusional,” the nurse said the last word under her breath but it was loud enough for me to catch it.

“I’m not insane,” I yelled as I resisted the urge to hex her and instead fingered my wand as it sat in the inner depths of my front pocket. Oh how I would like to give her a good taste of my magic.

“I’ll handle this Deborah. What was your name Miss,” the blonde man asked as he flashed a smile and put his hand on my shoulder, gently guiding my away from the front desk and towards the hospital doors. In that moment I panicked as I dug my heels into the ground and resisted his gentle tugs, they were gonna kick me out and let me give birth on the streets like some animal. The thought elicited a new amount of sobs that spilled from the back of my throat and resounded into the hospital foyer.

“How can you people do this! Its the middle of winter! My child will die if it’s born in the streets,” I frantically yelled to the man. If this unborn thing died, Tom would never forgive me. It’s his heir after all.

“No one said you will have to give birth on the streets, miss. I will personally drive you to a place where you can give birth comfortably and they wont charge you anything either. If you’ll just tell me your name miss,” he asked once more his bright calming blue eyes reflecting into my dull gray ones as I bit my bottom lip and contemplated my options. I couldn’t give birth here, that prissy bitch of a nurse had made it evident that I was not welcome here and I cant give birth at St. Mungo’s for my father and brother would potentially find out even though they were locked away in Azkaban. I was out of options, and this man seemed like a kind gent, much like my Tom.

“Merope. Merope Riddle,” I choked out as I followed him out of the hospital and he guided me to his car sitting in a parking area outside of the facility. He was a gentleman through and through as he opened the door for me and helped guide me into the seat since it was hard to sit down with the baby dancing inside my womb.

“Trust me Mrs. Riddle, you and your baby will be… safe. I can’t say its the most comfortable of places, that would be lying on my part but at least you’ll be out of the cold,” he comforted me as we both sat in the vehicle and he drove away from the hospital towards Merlin knows where. We passed multiple buildings and parks covered in snow, until we reached the less populated outskirts of London. There were a few apartments about this area, I recognized them as Tom had pointed them out on our honeymoon that these were where poor factory workers lived and laughed at the run down conditions. What I would give to live in one of those right now with Tom at my side instead of this blonde physician. Passing the apartments, the car lurched to a halt in front of a very large gated manor. The outside of the building was a dingy rust colored mansion with multiple vines creeping up the front of the building. There were various windows about the building and in some of them I could see the ashen faces of children who were inside the building on the other side of the glass.

“We’re here,” Dr Jacobson said giving my hand what I suppose was meant to be an encouraging squeeze but to me, I could feel the bile of disdain travel up into my throat. Did he think I couldn't read? The black gate in front of the building spelled out a place that I had been dreading to see for months, an orphanage.

“Is there truly no other place,” I inquired as I let him help me out of the car once more, my tears all but forgotten as we both headed to the gate and gently pushed the iron bars open.

“This is the best I can do, Mrs. Riddle.”

“I see. Thank you for your kindness,” I muttered despondently. How could I have even hoped for better. There was no room in this world for the weak and poor, not in the muggle community or the magical one. My father and brother taught that to me well, if only I had listened and not hoped.

I let the doctor knock on the giant doors that lead to the inside of the manor. It took a moment but the doors soon opened and we were greeted by an elder woman dressed in a black cotton dress with messy brown hair done up into a bun and stern brown eyes. She took one glance at me and then gave the doctor a brief look before sighing and moving out of the doorway, granting us access to the hallway within.

“Please come in,” she said, her voice sounded a bit hoarse but I paid no attention to it or tried my best not to.

“Its good to see you again, Lady Tilda,” the doctor said as he took off his hat and gave a rather informal bow to the brunette older woman who just sighed.

“I take it she needs a free place to spend the night and give birth correct,” Lady Tilda directed her statement at me as I nodded my head yes and followed her as she began moving out of the entrance hall and down one of the many corridors in the building.

“Yes. May I give birth here,” I poised the question as we entered a room with cots lining the inside of it and some old medical equipment sitting on a tray in a cart that was situated in the middle of the room. Silently, the older woman motioned for me to come sit at a cot which I gratefully took. I was tired and my feet hurt.

“I will send for a nurse to look after you in a moment. Make yourself comfortable, you may be here for awhile,” the elderly woman said as her and the doctor left the room and I never saw either of them again. Staring blankly at the doorway, I waited for anyone to enter the room and clung to the hope that my darling Tom would show up in the doorway and soothe me. Telling me that everything was going to be alright and whisk me away from this dreary place. Only that did not happen and instead a smaller petite built woman entered through the doorway, wearing a similar dress as Lady Tilda. The only difference was she was younger and she had very visible freckles covering her pale face.

“You must be Mrs. Riddle. Its a pleasure to meet you. I’ll be your nurse and midwife, my name is Bethany Birchwood but you may call me Bethany or Beth like the children do,” the younger woman introduced herself as she held out her hand for me to shake which I did so reluctantly, disappointed in the fact that it wasn't Tom who had walked through those doors.

“You can just call me Merope,” I told her, refusing to meet her gaze. I didn't want to hear his last name, a name that brought me so much joy being married into was killing me on the inside.

“Alright, Merope it is. Would you like some tea to warm you up? Or how about some nice warm broth? Its not much but it’ll be helpful for you to eat something and regain a bit of your strength for when the baby is born,” she asked as she gently took both of my frail hands into hers and began to rub warmth back into them, a kind gesture that brought tears to my eyes as I nodded allowing her to let go of my hands and scurry off into some other part of the orphanage. She’s such a nice girl. Tom would’ve liked her. We could’ve hired her to be my midwife at his parents house. I wonder what he’s doing now, does he know his child is about to be born anytime now? I wondered as I fingered the hilt of my wand in my pocket.

I didn't know many spells since father nor brother thought I was worthy of learning any, but I was able to learn a few of them from my mothers old spell book. One flick of my wand and I could see Tom and tell him about the soon to be birth. Just one flick and I know he would come running back, or at least I hope he would. Would he even make it in time to see me before the ministry did? Tom was a muggle, he shouldn't know about magic let alone have known about amortencia. If they find out we will never be together again, I panicked and my breathe hitched in my throat and tears welled back up in my eyes. Just in time for me to see the blurry figure of Bethany enter the room and quickly set down the tray on the bedside tabletop before sitting down on the cot besides me.

“Don’t cry love, shhhhh everything is gonna be fine,” She soothed me as she held me in her arms and rubbed comforting circles on my back while rocking back and forth like a mother would do for her child, like my mother did for me all those years ago.

“Do you think you can eat a bit love,” she asked me after a couple minutes as she directed to the food that she had brought in for me to eat.

“Yes. I can eat,” i told her, feeling a bit famished as I looked at the stale piece of bread and potato soup with broth. It wasn't much but it would have to do. Reaching over to the tray of food, I began scarfing it down with what little energy I had left in my body. Today was exhausting.

“If you’re still hungry, I’ll see what else we can spare to give you. You’ll need all the energy you can get for the birth,” Bethany told me as she rubbed my swollen belly where the fetus seemed to be happily kicking against her touch. I didn't say anything about her touching my stomach, I could hardly care as the more movement I felt the more I longed to be elsewhere… anywhere but here as long as it was with Tom. This thing had torn us apart and I would be happy to be rid of it.

“Thank you, you are very kind,” a voice that sounded distantly like my own replied in a mechanical way before the silence engulfed the room once more. I didn't want to speak to her. Even though she was so nice, she wasn't whom I wanted to see. I wanted my husband, and as the hours passed and daylight gave way to the night sky it seemed like less and less a possibility that I would see him again.

“Where are you, Tom,” I whispered quietly to myself. Bethany had stepped out of the room to go to the lavatory which left me all alone with my thoughts, well almost all alone, it was me and this fetus that resided within me.

“I miss you,” I mumbled out loud as I was about to touch my stomach only to feel liquid pool around my legs in the worst possible way, my water had broken and the child was definitely coming with or without Tom being by my side. As a new more powerful contraction hit me, my midwife Bethany came back into the room and one look at the situation and she immediately went into action. Forcing me to take off my stockings and undergarments so that the baby could be born and monitoring my contractions and dilation. It was all going so fast, too fast… I thought birth was supposed to take hours! Another painful contraction hit followed by another one, they were getting closer and closer each one more agonizing than the last.

“You’re doing great Merope! You’re dilating quite fast. I suppose you may have already been a bit dilated before coming here. You’re 9 cm dilated, only one more to go and its pushing time,” Bethany encouraged as I smiled half heartedly while gripping the sheets so hard that my knuckles turned white.

“If only I could cast magic… I may be able to numb some of the pain,” I cried out only to realize that I said my thoughts out loud which earned a hearty laugh from Bethany, who as I suspected was a muggle who didn't know any better.

“If only ha! That would make all deliveries so much better,” Bethany laughed as she checked on me beneath my gown again and came back with a hearty grin… a look on her that I did not like.

“I believe its time for you to start pushing. When the next contraction comes, I need you to push with all your might ok,” she stated kindly as she wiped some of the sweat off of my forehead and gave my hand a good squeeze. This was really happening, I was really giving birth… alone in an orphanage.

“I’m scared,” I croaked. I was terrified. The pain was enough to scare any living man, let alone woman but here I was doing all this alone for a man who wasn't even there to hold my hand or sit outside a waiting room for me.

“You’re gonna be ok. You can do this Merope. You’re stronger than you think, now when the next contraction comes… push,” she emphasized the words push and sure enough the next contraction hit hard and fast. I followed her instructions the best I could and pushed, I pushed with everything I had, letting out a blood curling scream and crying each time a new wave would hit. It was painful, oh so painful as I could feel the head of the child ripe me apart down below as Bethany happily exclaimed that she could see its head crowning.

“I cant do this anymore. I can’t,” I cried utterly exhausted and in so much pain. How did women do this all the time? How did my mother do it, were the thoughts that were swirling through my head as another powerful contraction hit and I felt as if I might pass out.

“Yes you can Merope. You must. For your own sake and the sake of this child. All I need are two more pushes from you. You can do that right, just two more giant pushes,” she emphasized as she smiled at me and I nodded weakly and gritted my teeth pushing as hard as I could. It was agonizing but for a moment relief washed over my fatigued body as the smaller body of my child was removed from me and it let out a healthy wail into the night.

“Congratulations Merope! It’s a boy,” Bethany exclaimed in excitement as she handed me the small wailing baby that was covered in a slimy white coating and some bits of blood on him. He was small and wrinkly but had a very loud cry which indicated he was healthy.

“My baby boy,” I smiled lovingly as I cradled him in my arms and cooed at him, hoping it would soothe his cries. The effect was almost immediate as his wails slowly reduced to whimpers before he nuzzled his head in my chest and one of his tiny fists gripped my finger.

“What will you name him,” Bethany asked as she scurried to another end of the room and wheeled over the tray with medical instruments in it lay. With the quickness and ease of a professional, she clamped and cut the umbilical cord and swathed my child in a warm blanket so he wouldn't be exposed to the night air before helping walk me through the placental delivery which was honestly like pushing out a small ball of period blood. It was grotesque but necessary.

“I will name him Tom, after his father,” I said in a day dreamy state as I noticed little tufts of dark brown hair shooting from his pale head which I gently caressed as he had passed out from exhaustion.

“Tom Riddle? That’s a nice name. No middle name though,” Bethany inquired as she looked between me and the baby.

“I have never thought about a middle name before, but I think a suitable one would be to name him after my father Marvolo. Yes, that will do. Tom Marvolo Riddle will be his name,” I told her. It was the perfect name, the blend of both our worlds… muggle and magical.

“That’s an excellent name. Let me get the birth certificate form for you filled out so we can mail it to the British royal registry and then i’ll help teach you how to nurse if he doesn't latch on properly. You should rest now,” Bethany replied as she slowly got up and started to head out of the room before it dawned on me, maybe they too have a telephone here. I could make a call to Tom! Notify him that his son was born. He’d be delighted to know, I’m sure he would.

“Wait please! Is there a phone I could use? Please this is urgent. I would love to contact my husband, tell him that our son is born,” I pleaded with her, hoping that my eyes conveyed my unwavering conviction in this matter. There was no way what that other lady said was the truth. Tom wasn't that kind of man.

“We do have a phone… but you really should rest and recover. You tore quite a bit and you're still bleeding a bit,” Bethany said hesitantly as she bit her bottom lip and looked anywhere but my eyes. Why were all these women so hell bent on keeping me from my husband. Whores! The lot of them.

“I will be fine. Please, I need him to know,” I urged as I got out of the cot and staggered her way, leaving the small baby Tom in his portable cradle all by himself. He was asleep so he should be fine and I’ll only be gone for but a moment, I consoled myself inwardly as I made my way to Bethany standing at the front entryway of the room who sighed but began showing me the way to the phone regardless.

“Just one quick phone call. We normally just use the phone for emergencies,” Bethany instructed me as I staggered behind her with a little hop in my step. I get to hear Tom’s voice. Tom, my love, how are you doing? Have you been eating well? Did you miss me? Why didn't you come to see me and our child? All of those thoughts jumbled in my head as my heart pounded in my chest as I came upon the orphanages phone. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I dialed the number that I memorized for Tom and asked the operators to link me to the phone in the riddle manor. It wasn't long until an all too familiar voice answered the phone.

“Hello? Who is this,” the deep baritone voice of my lover, my husband, answered on the other end. He sounded cautious but open to talking, which I took as a good sign.

“Tom? Darling, its me! Merope, your wife. Where are you? I have just given birth! You have a son,” I exclaimed gripping the phone tightly as silence came from the other end. Deafening silence that seemed to last for ages, and as moments passed I feared that he had hung up on me.

“Tom?! Are you there?”

“Why are you calling me,” came the steely voice from the other end which took me aback. It was still Tom’s voice but not the loving, caring, and protective voice of the man I loved and married.

“Don’t jest dear. I’m calling because I gave birth and am wondering when you will come pick us up. We are at Wool’s Orphanage. The horrible nurse at the hospital told me that you said some nasty things so we had to come here. But everything is ok. I have had a wonderful midwife and your son, your heir was born safe…”

“Bloody hell would you just bugger off already! I thought I made it clear the day I left and every other day that followed that I don't want to see your filthy face before me ever again. Whatever the nurse told you in the hospital was correct. You’re a whore… no you’re worse than that and I loathe your existence. What you did to me… with whatever devilsome power you sold your soul to I want no part in! I want no part in what you forced me to make with you. As far as I’m concerned we were never married and we never had a child,” the man on the other end spat into the phone, each word digging a knife deeper and deeper into my heart as tears begun to stream down my face.

“Tom please, I can explain. Please don't abandon me… I love you,” I cried clinging to the phone for dear life as my knees shook, barely holding up my small frame.

“I don’t love you. Never have and never will. If you dropped dead I wouldn't even bat an eye nor shed a tear, that’s how much I care about you Merope. Don’t ever call this number again. It wont end well if you do. Goodnight,” were the last words spoken between me and the love of my life as I heard the distant click of a phone hanging up and then silence. Silence that stretched for eternity as I gripped the phone with both hands, tears wildly streaming down my face.

‘Tom?! Tom?! Please answer! Tom,” I cried into the phone before I felt strong but small hands pry the device from my frail ones and put it back on its stand as I collapsed into the arms of Bethany who stood by there waiting.

“Shhhh love. Its gonna be alright. Come on now, lets go back to your baby. I bet he’s hungry and wants to see his mother,” she soothed me as a loud sob escaped my mouth, drowning out everything else around me. I was so stupid. So foolish to think that I deserved his love or any love for that matter. My father and brother were right! I was Merope the loveless. No one could love me and I couldn't love anyone in return.

“I gave everything to him! I gave up everything I had and it still wasn't enough,” I sobbed as Bethany became like a pillar, holding me up and guiding me back to the birthing room where young Tom jr was sleeping soundly.

“Its not you dear…”

“Yes it is! It’s always me! I always mess everything up. My brother and father tried to tell me this early on and I didn't listen. I shouldn't have hoped. I shouldn't have wished for better. There was no point in any of this! He doesn't love me! He… he never loved me. I should just disappear, i’m not needed in this world,” I cried as I sat down on this the bed, a fresh new set of sobs wracking through my body.

“Of course you’re needed in this world, that small baby over there needs his mother and doesn't know any different. You’re all he has,” Bethany told me gripping my shoulders as I looked over at the small baby sized bed to see the pale boy with tuffets of brown hair squirming. Suddenly I felt sick to my stomach, all motherly feelings I had felt for this… this thing were gone and replaced with loathing and hatred for it. It was all its fault! I wouldn't have stopped amortencia with Tom if I wasn't pregnant with it! It was his fault that Tom left me! This thing ruined everything for me! It ruined and injured my body, it destroyed my relationship with Tom… it… it was evil.

“I hate it! I don't want it! It ruined everything for me,” I screamed at Bethany causing her to take a step back with eyes wide open as the baby whom I was referencing to woke up and started crying loudly. Covering my ears I tried to block out the cries from the newborn thing in the bed next to mine. Shut up. Shut up. Shut up! Were the only thoughts I could muster as I ignored the fact that Bethany had picked him up and was bouncing and cooing him.

“He’s probably hungry. I think you should feed him,” she told me as she tried to hand him back to me and I shoved her away, hoping that both her and that thing would fall to the ground. Unfortunately, she caught her balance right away and neither of the two of them were hurt. Instead she walked right back to the baby bed and placed him back down in the baby bed before turning to me, an odd fire lit in her eyes as she walked over to me.

“You will cease this behavior this instant,” she proclaimed rather loudly as her hand reeled back before it made contact with my cheek in a loud and prominent slap. The kind midwife who had brought me food earlier was gone and replaced by a woman who resembled my brother when he was angry… always physically assaulting me even though I didn't do anything that was wrong.

“You have a child. You are a mother now. It is time to stop being selfish and grow up. Now, will you feed your baby or do I have to give it formula,” she asked in a stern voice as I touched the cheek that she had slapped. It was already starting to swell a bit. Looking down at my lap, my sobs slowed down into nothing but silent tears. I had to comply to what she was demanding, after all people like her were all the same. Nice when they want to use you for something, and mean when you didn't do what they asked of you.

“I’ll feed him,” I whispered as I slowly shed my top and revealed my breast exposing my nipple to the cold night air as I held out my arms for the neonate to be placed in them. Cautiously, Bethany gathered up my son in her arms and gave him to me. For a moment I hoped he wouldn't latch so I could discard him and let her feed him, but that moment passed very quickly as the young child latched onto my erect nipple quite fast and eagerly as he milked what little nutrients my body was producing dry. So much so that I had to switch to the next breast, I wasn't producing much but he demanded so much from my body. They all demanded so much from me! I was tired. I don't want this. After the feeding, I handed Bethany back the child. I just wanted to sleep.

“You’re doing great Merope. Trust me it’ll get better. Even without your husband, life goes on,” Bethany reassured as she tucked little Tom back into his cot and helped me into the one I was using. My eyelids felt heavy and my body felt so exhausted, but that was fine. My love didn't want me anymore… no one wanted poor pathetic Merope so it would be alright if I went and disappeared right.

“Will it really,” I asked Bethany as I fingered the hilt of my wand in my dress under the covers. I knew she was lying, they all lied when they wanted you to do something. It was like second nature to them.

“Of course it will! Let me go get the birth certificate so we can send it to the royal registry. I’ll be right back so rest up ok,” Bethany told me as she quickly scurried out of the room and disappeared out of the corridor. Leaving me alone with the small baby in the big empty room.

“I don't want to be here anymore,” I whispered as I gripped the hilt of my wand and pulling it from the pocket in my dress where it hid. I twirled the delicate oak wood in my fingers numbly as I gazed dazedly at the ceiling. No one loved me. Not my father. nor my brothers, or even my husband. Everyone who loved me, my mother, had passed away. So why don't I join her? Join the person who loves me. Leave this mortal plane and be free. Pointing the wand at my chest, I felt a tear slide down my cheek as I looked over to the child who was squirming once more. Perhaps he sensed my magic, an amusing thought danced in the back of my mind as neither love nor disdain for the child filled my heart. Just apathy.

“Hopefully you’ll live a better life than me little Tom. Find love. True unrelenting love, and hold on to it with all your might so you don't end up like your pathetic mother. I’m sorry, I cant do this anymore. Forgive me,” I told him as more tears slipped down my cheeks as I pointed the wand at my chest. Goodbye little Tom, goodbye father, goodbye brother, goodbye my love…

“Avada Kedavra,” I whispered, preforming the necessary wand motions for the killing curse as a green light emitted from my wand and struck me square in the chest. As the world faded around me the last thing I heard was a wail from my child, my little boy as if he was crying out for me. Oh god… what have I done, were my last thoughts as my consciousness and life force faded from this world.

Bethany POV

The wailing of the newborn baby brought me back to the infirmary with the paperwork, was that woman really neglecting her child? I don’t know the circumstances between her husband and her but right now her baby needed her. Upon entering the room I resolved to give her a firm scolding, that was until I saw her arm dangling limp over the side of the bed. Oh god… oh god no.

“Merope,” I called out to her as the papers in my hands fell to the floor and I dashed over to her bedside instantly checking her pulse on her wrist, mildly aware of her baby’s cries in the background. No pulse. I checked again on her neck just in case. No pulse. I put my head to where her heart should be, tears welling in my eyes, no pulse. What went wrong! She was bleeding a bit but it was not that much! She shouldn't have died. Oh god what happened here?! I was drawn out of my own pity party by the wails of her newborn which had now reached a deafening volume, so loud in fact that I could’ve sworn that the window in the room had cracked slightly. He must’ve sensed that something was wrong, that his mother was no longer in this world. Scooping him up, I did the best I could to sooth him. Gently bouncing him against my bosom while rocking my body back and forth.

“Its going to be ok, its going to be ok Tom,” I told the poor newborn as his sobbing continued as if he was crying out for his mother to come back. Biting back my tears, I took Tom with me to see Lady Tilda. Another orphan had officially arrived at Wool’s Orphanage.

2 months later

Lady Tilda’s POV

There weren't many infants at Wool’s orphanage. Of course they had an nursery specifically for abandoned infants but more often than not most of the kids that were there were between the ages of two or older. In fact, Tom had been the first infant that was born in the orphanage and remained in its care in a long time, years in fact.

Sighing, I picked up the small sniffling babe and gently rocked him in my arms. He hadn't been the same since his mother had passed away, it was like he knew she was gone. He cried constantly to the point where he either exhausted himself or dehydrated himself, neither of which was a good thing.

“You must really miss her, poor child,” I mused as I began to prepare his formula for his morning meal. The doctor said that he may be expressing some post trauma from loosing her and that this would go away with time as infantile amnesia kicked in but for now to keep a close eye on him and to make sure he wasn't dehydrated. It was round the clock care for sure and there weren't that many orphanage staffers on hand who could handle a newborn, especially not one in need of such intensive care. “You know, some day you’re gonna look back on this all and it’ll be a long forgotten memory so there’s no need to shed any tears,” I hummed in a sing song like voice as I finished sanitizing the bottle and checking the temperature of its contents. Hmmm, just right. Finding the right balance between holding him and supporting his head was tricky because I hadn't held a baby in so long but little Tom didn't mind, because as soon as he saw the bottle his mild whimpers stopped and he suctioned on to the lip of the bottle sucking out the milk while his tiny hands tried to steady the object.

“That’s it little one, eat up,” I sighed as I walked over to the rocking chair in the nursery and took a seat. Tom’s new nurse would be starting soon and helping with his care since all the other caretakers were exhausted. At least until he was of toddler age and could feed and potty by himself.

“You have a long road ahead of you but you’ll be alright,” I lied looking into his navy blue eyes which would surely turn brown as he got older, most of these orphans didn't turn out alright or survived for that matter and I was sure he wouldn't be an exception either.

#harry potter #writing #villain #headcanon #tom riddle #lord voldemort #merope riddle #dark themes #fanfic

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nought-shall-go-ill · 11 months

Note

Was thinking about TOHOTS in the car today 🥰 wanted to drop by and share some love for the world you’ve created there!

This was sent so very long ago, and I’m so so sorry for that — but guess what world I was looking back on last night?

Technically, TOHOTS is still very much on hiatus as I get my life together a little, but because of that — and because I love it still so very much — I thought I’d share a rather large and unedited snippet from Chapter 6.

Anyway, thank you always for your kindness and support, @kay-elle-cee . Please take this as a token of my gratitude.

December 1975

“Where’d you even find this place anyway, Mare?” asked Lily.

She, Mary and Marlene were tightly tucked — feet pressed against the wall, knees near faces — into a small nook by the Transfiguration office, each with a neatly rolled cigarette in their hand. It was past 1 o’clock in the morning

“Potter,” replied Mary on an exhale. “I caught him coming here after Potions the other day.”

“I thought Potter didn’t smoke?” said Marlene. She was fiddling nervously with the Zippo lighter the girls had just used.

“Probs goes for a bit of a chug between classes,” answered Mary, making a lewd gesture towards Lily. She had in recent months developed on a strange sort of whim the belief that James Potter fancied her.

Lily answered in kind by raising her middle finger. Mary blew her a kiss.

“Shit. Someone’s coming,” muttered Marlene, just moments after Lily had heard the footsteps herself.

The girls put their fags out on the wall and watched in silence as McGonagall entered their frame of vision. A tall boy with his head drooping down to his shoulders followed behind her. It took Lily a moment to realise it was Sirius Black.

“You will wait here,” ordered McGonagall with a snap of venom rare even for her.

Sirius simply looked up and stared at her, his grey eyes sharp and cold.

The three girls shared a look.

“I need to organise your punishment,” she continued. “You heard the headmaster. We will do our best to deal with this discreetly but it will be a year of detentions at least.”

Sirius nodded, but his jaw was still tight, his expression like ice.

“Do not move from this spot.”

McGonagall turned on her heel and stormed into the office, leaving Sirius behind to slump against the adjacent wall.

“What do you think he did?” whispered Mary.

“Dark magic?” suggested Marlene. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen McGonagall that angry.”

“Naw,” replied Mary, moving forward slightly to get a closer look. She had always been the bravest of the three. “The Gryffindor boys don’t practice dark magic.”

Lily couldn’t help but think that comment was more than just a little pointed, so she bit her tongue, turning to face Sirius once more.

She wanted to believe Mary — and she would, just days later, when the first of the attacks occurred — but right then all she could think about was just just how terrifying Sirius looked.

Leant against that wall, he was somehow rigidly still — like a bloodhound that had sniffed out its prey — his features straight and emotionless, his eyes as wicked as the prisoners of The Prophet’s pages.

But then something caught his attention — the lingering smell of cigarette smoke, most likely — and he raised his head, inhaling deeply through his tall, aristocratic nose.

And he laughed.

It was a deep, echoing, dark bark of a laugh.

Whatever he’d done, Lily thought to herself, he certainly didn’t seem to feel guilty about it.

***

December 1980

“I have business to attend to this morning, Lily,” said Dumbledore as he and Lily reached the entryway where James was standing. “But I will return in a few hours to let you know the exact details of your new role.”

“Thank you, sir,” Lily replied, though the old man had already made it halfway back to the barn.

“Right,” said James, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Shall we get started?”

“Not before she’s had breakfast,” came another voice from behind the door, and out popped Emmeline’s head following it.

Before Lily could explain she had already eaten, the older woman had firmly guided her to the kitchen where she found Nicolas sitting next to a large pile of pastries. He had a mirror in his hand that he was staring at intently.

“Lily!” he exclaimed looking up at her with a bright smile. He had healed a lot since she had last seen him, yet some of the scars were still stubbornly scabbed across his wizened face. “Wonderful to see you here, my dear! Please help me finish some of these off. Emmeline here likes to feed the five thousand.”

Emmeline laughed, but nonetheless, brought another teeming pile of pastries to the kitchen island. James picked up a croissant off the top, smirking knowingly at the whole scenario.

“Well, I want you both to feel at home,” said Emmeline, settling a plate down in front of Lily.

“Emmie, darling,” came — to Lily’s astonishment — a voice from the mirror, “I’ve told you, he has a grapefruit at home and that’s it.”

Nearly a decade in the Wizarding world, and it was still surprising Lily — it wasn’t every day that Perenelle Flamel’s voice came out of a household object after all.

James seemed to have picked up on this shock though, as he smiled gently and added:

“This is a little invention of Sirius’. We thought it would be a good way for Nic and Perry to stay in touch.”

“Ah,” she replied, uncertain of his informality. Even she was hesitant to call the Flamels by their nicknames, and she had known them for nearly three years.

“You know Perry,” said Nicolas. “Always so keen to be back with her hydrangeas.”

“Je te l'ai dit plein de fois, c'est pas la saison des hydrangea!” replied an irritated Perenelle.

James and Lily chuckled.

“You’ve got to be nicer to Herbologists, Nicolas,” said James, taking the seat next to Lily and another pastry she didn’t recognise. “They could kill us all with just a few seeds.”

“That’s the sort of common sense I need in a husband,” said Perenelle, though turning her head Lily could see that the handsome face of the 600-year-old woman was bright and smiling in the small mirror.

“Now, Lily,” interrupted Emmeline from the cupboard. “As you’ll be spending quite some time with us, you must choose your own mug.”

Emmeline levitated about 30 mugs at Lily’s eye height. She couldn’t help but notice about half of them had a lion emblem on them in some manner or another.

“There’s a lot of Gryffindor here,” Lily remarked, giggling just slightly and taking one that had just a subtle Gryffindor crest on the base. James grinned widely as she did so.

“Mmm,” grimaced Emmeline, transporting the rest of the mugs back with an elegant swish. “Fleamont — may he rest in peace — was a wonderful man, but, Merlin, his enthusiasm for Gryffindor was a touch… much.”

James laughed — a warm, welcoming, gentle hug of a laugh — tipping his chair back with his head.

“Much is subjective, Em, don’t you think?”

“Hmmm.”

“What house were you in Emmeline?” enquired Lily. Nicolas and Perenelle had picked up a quiet conversation in French next to her.

Emmeline raised her eyebrow, a daring look.

“Slytherin, dear.”

Lily blinked. Of all the Slytherins she knew, Emmeline certainly didn’t seem like one of them.

“Oh,” was all she could reply.

James laughed again, though this time Lily didn’t find it quite so welcoming.

“Oh?” continued Emmeline, her eyebrow still raised. “Didn’t expect that? And they told me you have a Slytherin best friend, dear. I thought maybe you’d be a little different.”

“Of course, there’s nothing wrong with Slytherin,” Lily added quickly, feeling the flush rise in her cheeks.

“Well…” remarked James with a chuckle, and Emmeline simply rolled her eyes at him.

“I’m just teasing, sweetheart. Though I do wish some people,” Emmeline gave a pointed look at James, “would be a little nicer about the rival school houses. I’m hoping you might be able to help there.”

“Me? Why?” replied Lily, taking a pastry for want of something to do with her hands.

“I hear you were quite a force to be reckoned with back in the day. Standing up for all that needed it, regardless of their house, and even if they were Slytherin. Quite an anomaly unfortunately, even in my day…”

James nodded along encouragingly, and it made Lily feel quite sick.

It was true. Lily had done that. She had taken pride in doing that, in fact, for years during her schooldays. She had been blessed with a confidence that many teenagers lacked, and well, it was horrible to just sit there and watch people be teased, people be bullied, Gryffindor or not. What else was she supposed to do? It wasn’t just Sev and Mary who dealt with the cruelty of bullies.

But somewhere along the line that had all stopped. She had stopped.

She wondered when she had stopped.

“I hear this one was one of the worst offenders,” added Emmeline with the sort of sternness of a mother or beloved teacher.

Lily nodded, uncomfortable with where this was going.

Because that was true too, wasn’t it? She wondered also when James had stopped being so cruel.

Had he?

The silence of the English speakers in the room hung stagnant for just a moment before James spoke.

“She really used to rip into me, Em,” He tried to smile at Lily, but she looked away with a dash. “But I deserved it.”

Something about this comment awoke a sprinkle of untapped bravery.

“Well, yes, you did,” said Lily, and not only Emmeline, but Nicolas and Perenelle laughed at the comment. As did James, who caught her eye on the pause, though she could not read what he was trying to say.

“Ok. Fair.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “I deserve that. But how about we start that tour before my head swells up so big that I can’t fit through the doorways?”

It was Lily’s turn to smile now. That had been one of her most commonly used insults for him in fourth year.

****

Linfred Farm was even more beautiful (and magical) than Lily had realised.

There were more than a dozen rooms on the property, each one decorated in the sort of cosy Englishness that she was sure had only ever truly existed in mind rather than manner: William Morris prints, paintings of rolling hills, piles and piles of mismatched toys and books and other signs of a comfortable life in the country. It was the sort of place that James could show her around with pride — and indeed he did.

She mostly just listened intently — only adding the small, insignificant comment here and there — still unsure of how their relationship was now defined after the events of the previous month.

“Emmeline has set up your room in the nursery again,” he told her, stopping by the yellow-filled child’s room where she’d stayed before. “But please feel free to change. There’s a number of rooms available.”

“Oh no. It’s fine, thank you. Here will do quite well.”

How strangely formal they were being. If only Mary could see her now…

“Right, well, eerrr. That’s it.” He pulled a hand through his thick, dark hair. “I suppose I should get you back to Nicolas. He usually enjoys some television at this time of morning.”

She had watched an episode of Play Your Cards Right with Nicolas last time she was there, but the idea of the very old man tucked up before a television set was still a strange idea to her.

“I never had Nicolas down for such a telly fan,” she remarked.

“You’re not?” enquired James. He beckoned for her to go down the stairs before him.

“Oh, um, I guess not. I don’t own one.”

She didn’t imagine it would go down well with Severus if they did. Not that she blamed him. Muggle items were a contentious point for very understandable reasons.

Still, her mother had loved her films so much when she was a child.

“I love it!” said James, with the enthusiasm of a small infant. “Well, I love cinema. Dorcas has really got me into it. Those moving pictures — what a feat of transfiguration. Of course, it’s not transfiguration but— well, it’s fantastic, isn’t it?“

“You’ve been to the pictures?”

Lily had a hard time seeing a pure blood like James Potter in such a Muggle place.

“Well— no. But I would like to some day.”

It was almost endearing the way he spoke so passionately of something that Lily had known her whole life. She wondered if it explained her mother’s similar affection for the art form.

“My favourites are,” he opened the door to the kitchen for her, “Mädchen in Uniform” (Lily blinked) “and… The Sound of Music.”

“How are you watching these without going to the cinema?” she asked. British terrestrial television would take a few decades to get to that level just yet.

“Magic,” he winked, and she tried her hardest not to blush, turning instead to Nicolas who was still sitting in the centre of the kitchen.

“Finished?” he enquired, moving very slowly — and with an obvious amount of pain — to get to his feet. “Let’s start your work then, shall we young lady?”

#tohots #chapter 6 preview #i promise you I’ll post this some day guys i promise #but in the meantime…#kay elle cee #the loveliest asker in all the land

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reeshyz · 2 years

Text

Title: 24 Reasons Pairing: Richard Z. Kruspe / Till Lindemann Presentee: @kitthefox Prompt: Advent Calendar Warnings/Tags: Mutter Era | Drug mention | Angst & Hurt / Comfort Word Count: 2.374 Summary: Richard wants to leave the band. He feels like he needs something else. Something new. Till shows him that there is a reason to stay. Read on AO3: here ♪

The pre-production for their new album was almost done, but the band was still kinda restless. Richard feels mostly angry these days, but he still tries to hold himself back. He doesn’t like any of the shit they have managed to record so far.

“I’m just saying, we could look over the songs again. I think there is something missing,” Richard says quietly. Paul who sits opposite him sighs very loudly and puts his guitar away. Thank god, the thrumming had been giving Richard a headache anyway.

“Look, we get that most of the songs aren’t your typical style, but we all decided that we wanted to try something new,” Schneider says and he takes another sip of his coffee. Richard looks down to his own mug for a second.

Tomorrow they would all leave Heiligendamm and settle down before Christmas. December is so close now, Richard feels like he can already smell the snow that would soon settle over the landscape. Only a few more days, but Richard knows that he doesn’t want to record their album like this.

His hands are shaking.

“I don’t want my name on a record like this,” Richard answers. He tries to keep his voice light and playful, but it doesn’t work out. He can see how Ollie closes his eyes and looks away. Paul sighs.

“I mean you’re also free to just leave the band,” Schneider says now and Richard bites down on his lower lip. They really had fought a lot the last few days and Richard knows he said some very bad things too.

Richard knows he has hurt his friends and yet he feels so unsatisfied with their new music, that he just can’t shut up. He doesn’t understand how they can not see it? They have much more potential than that.

“If it means that I don’t have to see your face again, sure,” Richard replies, the anger taking over again and there is nothing he can do about it. This time Schneider gets slowly up, Richard happily looks up at him, not backing away at all.

“Guys…,” Flake whispers behind them, but they ignore it.

“You don’t mean that. You’re too cowardly,” Schneider says and there is a nasty grin on his face. Richard wonders sometimes what happened between them all. There are so many rifts between them now.

His drugs caused most of them, but not everything. It’s not his fault that they can’t see his vision.

“Watch me,” Richard says slowly and with that he turns around and walks out of the room.

“Oh we will be glad that you’re gone!” Schneider yells after him.

Richard doesn’t answer. Instead he goes upstairs first and walks into his own room. There he takes a deep breath and then slowly packs his personal stuff back into his suitcase and puts his favorite guitar on top of it.

He would ask someone else to get the rest of his stuff. Right now he doesn’t care too much about this. He doesn’t care too much about any of this. Richard opens his nightdrawer and takes out a small bag.

Only to find it empty. He slams it against the wall.

Richard’s fingers are shaking even more now and so he walks outside on his balcony for a second. At least he still has some cigarettes left, so he carefully lightens one and blows the smoke out into the cold night.

Here it’s so quiet. Richard ignores that he’s shaking a bit already, because he’s just wearing his soft jumper. Instead he looks down to the small town they’re staying in. It looks so peaceful. So schön.

There’s a knock on his door.

Richard huffs, but stays silent otherwise. The door opens anyway and Richard knows it’s Till because nobody else would dare to do that. Richard slowly turns around and there he is. The singer looks sad, Richard’s heart out of stone, squeezes painfully in his chest.

He’s not even sure when he turned into this version of himself. Normally Richard loves to show his affection or gets bathed in it, but lately…

Till looks so broken, when he comes outside on the balcony as well, surely he had seen the suitcase.

“Will you really leave?”

“Yes.”

Richard can see how much that hurts Till. He doesn’t take it back though. He knows that he has to leave right now. Otherwise he would just end up hurting himself and the others even more.

He just never wanted to hurt Till.

“When?”

“Probably tomorrow, before anyone wakes up. I wrote Joey already,” Richard says and Till nods slowly. Richard takes another drag from his cigarette, he slowly feels himself calm down. Till always had that energy on him, even without doing anything.

“Is there… any way I can make you stay?” Till asks so softly. So hurt. Richard swallows his own feelings down. He had always been rather good at that.

“I don’t think so,” Richard admits. There is of course a way, but Richard would never tell him about that. He’s not stupid or particular has a death wish. He kinda needs his best friend in the way he has him now.

“And how long will you be gone?” Till dares to ask. Richard looks at him now. There are still some street lights on behind them, but the moon is already up as well and Till looks so beautiful like this.

As if someone can read his thoughts, it slowly starts to snow. Richard looks into the sky for a moment.

“I’m not sure yet,” Richard whispers back. He doesn’t want to leave the band forever… at least he thinks so, even now. But maybe the others wouldn’t want him back after he leaves. Richard sighs.

“I hate this,” Till mutters almost too quietly for him to hear. Richard nods.

“I’m sorry,” Richard offers and Till steps even closer to him. When he holds his arms out, Richard playfully rolls his eyes, but lets himself be hugged anyway. It feels good and he flicks his cigarette away, so he can cuddle against Till’s chest.

“Do you know where you will go?” Till asks and there is so much hope in his voice. Maybe he thinks that Richard would just leave Heiligendamm. Richard knows the next sentence will hurt him as well.

“New York,” Richard answers and Till breaks the hug. His green eyes are so wide and so full of pain. Richard presses a cold hand to Till’s cheek and he tries to smile.

“W-what do you mean?”

“I thought for a while about this. Joey offered to help me settle down there,” Richard says and both sentences are the truth. He had been thinking for weeks about this and yes he feels bad, but he knows this will be better for all of them.

It’s what he tells himself at night, when he wakes up crying.

“This band needs you,” Till says and Richard squeezes his eyes shut, when Till’s voice breaks. That’s why he wanted to leave overnight. He didn’t want to say goodbye to Till, he had known how much this would hurt him.

“I don’t think so anymore,” Richard admits, his own voice shaking and he hastily wipes over his eyes, before he’d start to cry like an idiot in front of Till. Sure he had cried in front of him before, Till is the only who had ever seen him cry besides his parents maybe, but he has to stay strong now.

For both of them.

“Will you… will you ever come back?” Till asks the question Richard doesn’t want to hear. He’s not sure about that yet, so he doesn’t answer. He had already tried once to leave Till and his feelings behind, because he knows he’s not good enough for someone like Till, but back then it hadn’t worked.

Till nods to himself and then walks back inside. For a moment Richard thinks that he will just leave, because Till even walks out of his room. Instead it takes only a moment, before Till is back.

This time he’s holding a package in his hands.

“I want you to have it. I… I made it for you and I originally wanted to give it to you in a few days, but… you should have it now,” Till says and he holds the package out. Richard slowly takes it, noticing that it’s rather light.

It’s starting to snow even harder now, it looks beautiful in Till’s dark hair.

“Thank you,” Richard whispers. Till leans closer and presses a soft kiss to Richard’s cheek.

“Maybe… maybe it will make you come back to me,” Till says and before Richard can reply again, Till turns around and really leaves this time.

Richard isn’t sure how long he stays out there on his balcony.

“Hey what the hell is this?” Joey asks, when he finds the package a few days later, buried underneath other stuff. For now Richard is staying at Joey’s. He doesn’t have an apartment in New York yet.

“Uhm… something Till gave me,” Richard answers and he slowly takes the package in his own hands. He hadn’t opened it so far, so he sits down on his couch and does that now.

“Oh.”

“What is it?” Joey wants to know and Richard holds it up.

“It’s an advent calendar. Seems like Till really… made this for me,” Richard says and he can’t help but tear up at the thought. He tries to swallow his tears down and nods to himself. That is so sweet and thoughtful.

“Open it then! Today is the first of December!” Joey says, sounding so excited himself. Richard feels so bad. He hadn’t even called Till or anything when he had landed. He had been so sure that this would be the best for them.

Richard’s hands are shaking when he opens the first little bag. It reminds him of the night he had last seen Till. He misses him so much.

Inside the bag is a bit of chocolate, which makes Richard smile and a small piece of paper. He’s not sure if he wants to open it.

Joey is still watching him, his smile so encouraging.

Richard takes another deep breath and then opens it. He can see that Till wrote that with his fancy pen.

“Reason 1 why I’m in love with you: You are everything I never knew I needed. I wanna stay with you forever,” Richard reads out loud.

“Oh shit,” Joey says and Richard nods.

This time he can’t help those tears. Fuck. Richard slowly turns away from Joey and hides his face in his hands. He misses Till so much.

Till - who actually loves him.

Richard would think that this is a joke, but Till would never make a joke about something like this. Richard’s heartbeat picks up again and he sobs into his hands. He wants to go back home. To his Till.

“I m-miss him,” Richard says and he hears how Joey gets up. Joey pats him on the back and then gives him his phone. Richard takes it and Joey leaves him alone for the moment.

Richard clicks on Till’s number. He isn’t even sure how late it is already in Germany, but he needs to speak to him now.

“Scholle?”

“I love you too,” Richard bursts out and he winces when he realizes that he hadn’t even said anything else. Till is chuckling though. It’s Richard’s favorite sound in the world (besides his guitar).

“You mean that?” Till asks and Richard imagines him blushing. He wants to see that. He wants to touch the blush, feel it. Rub his cheek against Till’s and make him laugh.

“Yeah. I’m sorry that… Till I… I miss you. I opened the advent calendar. Please, don’t tell me that it’s too late to come back home,” Richard says and Till makes a surprised sound.

“It will never be too late. I will always wait for you,” Till whispers and Richard’s throat closes up again. Before he knows it he’s already crying again. Till makes a soothing noise and hums quietly into the phone.

“I was so dumb. I thought I need distance, but… all I need is you,” Richard admits and while he feels kinda silly about sounding so romantic it also sounds right.

“Why did I bother to write down 24 reasons why I’m in love with you, when I already won you over with the first one,” Till says now and he laughs so cutely again. Richard is for sure blushing himself now.

“I’m in love with you for years,” Richard mumbles back.

“Good. Does that mean I get an advent calendar too?” Till laughs and this time Richard laughs as well.

In the end he doesn’t know how long they spend on the phone together, but he falls asleep with Till’s voice in his ears.

He wishes he could always have this and for the first time he actually believes he could have this.

A week later Richard is almost falling asleep on Till’s chest.

He had been right after all. He had needed a new perspective and a break from the band. But never a break from Till. He just needed to be even closer to him.

Till carefully strokes through his hair, before he presses a kiss against his temple. Richard hums and nudges him, so Till would finally read the newest letter of the advent calendar.

It’s his favorite thing in the world.

Till laughs and starts to read. Richard blushes and squirms a bit, but he has to say that he really enjoys hearing what Till loves about him (even if he doesn’t agree sometimes).

In may they would meet up with the band again in southern france. But right now Richard doesn’t want to think about them again.

Right now he wants Till to open his own calendar. Richard had bought that one in New York, since he didn’t have time to actually make one of his own. But Till loves the chocolate one, he had said.

Maybe next year he would make Till an advent calendar with 24 songs only for him. Richard smiles.

Yeah.

He likes that idea.

#reehshyz advent calendar #tillchard

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words2livebyblog · 1 year

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INSTRUCTIONS ON HOW TO GET OVER HIM

Friday, August 5, 2011

On the first night…

Imagine a monster the size of a house outside your building. See it rise out of the East River on a cold December night and settle next to your bedroom window, Manhattan lights from across the river dancing along its scales, two explosions of steam shooting from its nostrils and fogging the glass. Imagine that it loves you and will tear the flesh of those who don’t. Imagine it will never leave you. Let this inexplicably lull you to sleep.

In the morning…

Forget about the monster. Play Tetris in bed. Play well. Decide that if you score over 100 lines then he still loves you. Final score: 99.

Later…

Cry on the F train. Make it look like you’re resting your eyes, or concentrating on the music in your earphones, but feel something move from your chest to your throat, like a worm through an apple and let your eyes swell, get fat with tears. Then count the stains on the floor of the train, see them blur and drown, change shape. Trust that the strangers around you assume you have bad allergies this morning. Decide it doesn’t matter. Let them look at you and wonder.

Reach 23rd Street and feel suddenly haunted by two words. Let them arrive like a car accident, a violent Subaru running a red light. Hyper. And sensitive. Put them together and feel your hands get wet. Look up at the digital letters glowing red above the heads of standing passengers, hear the woman from the future’s voice through the loudspeaker. The Next Stop is Hyper Sensitive. Stand clear of the Hyper Sensitive.

Think of your Hyper Sensitivity as a condition, like asthma. Or a limp. Imagine the rest of your life with a limp.

That night…

Have a cigarette by your window and blow smoke at a faded moon. Play a sad song on your stereo, a woman’s voice, or guitar strings. A violin. Try to let it comfort you, knowing it should be his hands playing notes against the back of your neck, rubbing your scalp maybe, or pressing his thumbs into your shoulders. Feel your skin plead for his touch, every small hair on the surface reaching, like a nest of birds, newly hatched, starved.

Don’t enjoy the cigarette. See the smoke camouflaged and lost against your cream colored walls, making it feel like it doesn’t count.

Then…

Call a friend. Tell her everything:

You: He said I was a nightmare.

Her: You gave him nightmares?

You: Probably. But what I think he meant was being with me was a nightmare. Working with me was a nightmare. In fact, he said, working with you is a nightmare. You are a NIGHT. MARE.

Her: Ouch.

You: Do you think I’m a nightmare?

Her: Um…

Wait for her to answer.

You: Well, do you think working with me is a nightmare?

Her: Um…

Tell her thanks for listening, but that it’s time to take your dog for a pee. Feel like you swallowed a large boot. Imagine vomiting it into her lap.

Her: You’re not a nightmare. You’re… sensitive.

Walk the dog. Stay a few steps behind her, following like a piece of toilet paper stuck to a shoe. Imagine letting go of the leash and floating away. Know your dog won’t notice, her senses occupied by things living in the dirt and concrete that are more appealing than the smell of your sadness. So float away. Watch your dog get smaller and smaller and keep going. Until all you see is the roofs of buildings, squared shapes like a game of Tetris. Fit them together and watch them disappear. Try to make the world below you disappear. Create an empty canvass of black. And when there’s nothing left, fall. Never landing.

In bed…

Keep the monster from the East River by your window for another night. But this time it is discovered! Sirens and flashing lights, helicopters. Bombs exploding, the monster roars. Create a force field around the monster. Ride it’s back and terrorize Brooklyn.

Sleep and dream of something else entirely. Arrive at your old high school in your mother’s 1987 Volvo station wagon. Get out of the car and realize you’re naked from the waist down. Pretend this is normal, but feel yourself travel through humiliation like a ship through a dense fog. See him among a crowd of loud teenagers and realize you are there to pick him up from school. He is strolling, wearing a backpack full of books. He is happy and talking on a cell phone. He is beautiful. He sees you and his smile fades. He tells whoever is on the other end of his call that he has to hang up. Get scared that your presence is not expected, nor welcome, that you’re a stalker. But then he greets you, kisses you. His lips are withholding. Wake up and realize that every kiss in the real world was like this. Withholding and afraid.

Walk slowly to the F train, a boot in your chest, a bloody corpse handcuffed to your ankle.

During your walk…

Add up your flaws. Organize and separate them physically in your mind like cutlery. The forks from the knives from the spoons from your envy and your resentment from your suffocating loneliness from the smaller spoons and oddly shaped spoons from your angry righteousness and your very conditional loving from the sharp knives and the dull knives from the strange shape of your penis from the chopsticks from the can opener.

Put your flaws in an imaginary box, neatly arranged and placed according to their shape and size. Throw the box in the East River and watch it float away. Imagine shooting at it with a handgun, trying to sink it. Miss. Watch it live loudly on the surface of the water, floating past the Statue of Liberty, bobbing in the wake of the Staten Island ferry, washing up on the shore of a beach somewhere, discovered and opened by him, who recognizes the items in the box like bad memories from his childhood. See him bury the box in the sand.

Get off the F train. Climb the stairs of the subway station, drag your corpse up 6th Ave. Turn onto 26th Street and run into the last person you’d like to run into.

Them: Heyyyy! How are youuuuu?

You: Goooood. How are youuuu?

Them: I’m greeaaat! You look tired

You: Yeah?

Them: Someone special keeping you up late?

You: Only creatures from the East River.

Them: Huh? You’re crazy.

You: Yeah.

Them: Hey, you still seeing that guyyyy?

You: It didn’t work out.

Them: Awwwwwwwwww, that sucks. You working?

Shrug and sweat. Try to find the courage to push this person into moving traffic. Fail. Realize that your shoulders have reached your ears and that it’s hard to swallow. Hate this person. Lose track of what they are saying because you are watching them die an excruciating death. Get caught.

Them: Um. Are you okay?

Imagine answering no and breaking, shattering into a million pieces of you, an exploding hourglass, dried up rose pedals crushed in a fist. See your self stuck to the bottom of people’s shoes rather than swept away by the wind.

Them: Cheer up, will you? And come see my show!

Go see the show on the off chance that he might be there since he knows someone who knows someone who knows someone who’s in the show. Take a seat in the back row. Notice you are tripping and bumping on your way to sit down, your limbs clumsy and slow, unable to keep up with the speed of your heart. Keep your eyes on the floor and the backs of people’s heads. Every now and then pretend that something has called your attention and forced you to look up. Then search for him and feel the layers of your skin flash hot. Don’t find him. Feel a mixture of relief and misery. Wait for the lights to go down and take your first breath. Be careful not to breathe too deep because at the bottom of your lungs is a sob.

In the dark, watch a show about a young girl who meets an older man. They are both searching for home and find it in each other. They are afraid, but drawn to each other like magnets, like a newborn to a breast. They try to destroy each other. The man understands that in order to save her he must make her leave, so he hurts her, so deeply she barely survives. Weep. Wipe tears from your neck. Allow your face to make different shapes of grief in the dark.

Next…

Mary your emotion with inspiration, with progress. Board the train back to Brooklyn and study the strangers around you. Love them. Each of them. Give an older woman your seat and have a better view of everybody from where you’re standing. Die for them, give them everything you have. Feel your toes pulling your socks away from the soles of your shoes to contain your elation, press your tongue to the roof of your mouth and clench your teeth to suppress a stupid smile. Watch a child holding a silver balloon. Imagine buying the child one thousand more.

Walk home from the train with a strange tickle in your groin. Remember the first time you saw him, sitting near him and studying his feet, the amount of hair on his head. His nervousness. The moment you caught him noticing you and the air beginning to sing.

Remember being amazed by all the details, subtle communications, by the way he leaned against a counter and watched a fly travel across the plastic surface of a table.

Enter the front door of your apartment and embrace your dog. Speak to her in a ridiculous voice. Feed her treats. Get on your computer and write enthusiastic emails. Tell someone it’s been too long, make plans. Tell someone else they’ve been on your mind, that you look forward to clinking drinks together in a place with loud music and candle wax dripping onto a bar.

Get on Facebook. Study people’s profiles, read their status updates. “Like” them, post comments. Type his name into the search engine. Look at his profile picture. See a handsome picture of him on a mountain, smiling in a green world. Remember the trip and the moment the picture was taken. Notice the picture has been cropped to remove you from the foreground. Read the posts on his wall. He is making plans. He is going dancing. He will meet a guy named Roger who is shirtless, who has muscles and a gotee. Scroll further down. He is reading about Buddhism. He is discovering Kandinsky. Scroll further. There is a quote:

“A girl can wait for the right man to come along but in the meantime that still doesn't mean she can't have a wonderful time with all the wrong ones.” CHER

Lose touch with the lower half of your body and feel the boot turn to solid steel in your chest. Hear a strange sound behind you. Turn and see that your dog has vomited a thick yellow substance onto the floor. Clean up the vomit.

Get in bed. Hold your pet close to you. Close your eyes but they feel violent behind your eyelids. Listen to your pet’s breathing and consider her death, the inevitability of it. Feel stupid for loving something you know you will outlive.

Stay in bed. Wait for the monster to visit you. Wait until morning.

Stay in bed.

Beg for the day to end, for the hours to blow by without size or significance. Hate the weight of your head, the feel of anything against your skin. Listen to the sound of a neighbor waking and showering, the whistle of a teapot. Hear it mocking you. Know if you get out of bed you will feel the cold chill of shame hiding in your bathroom tiles and pushing against the naked bottoms of your feet. You will see your image miserable with an electric toothbrush in its mouth, you will wish you could shower and be dissolved, melt the skin off your bones and kill the heart that can’t be loved.

Stay in bed. Plead into a pillow. Make the mistake of slipping into sleep. Dream of your mother. She is alive. She is wearing a hat and you can’t see if she is crying. Beg your father not to leave her. Look into her eyes when she offers you a plate of food. Know that if you refuse it, you will lose her again and again and again.

Wake up.

Listen to your phone ring. Listen to it not ring. Wait for the monster.

Another neighbor leaves his/her house. Your dog is scratching at the floor, it sounds like the ugly heart inside you. Stay in bed.

Buy a new game on your iphone. There are zombies and you can shoot them with a number of different weapons. Advance to a high level and buy a chainsaw. Saw their heads off, split them in two and step across their remains. Kill 1,572 zombies. A high score. Get out of bed.

Go to the bathroom. Take your iphone with you. Kill more zombies.

Walk the dog. See zombie bloodstains on the sidewalk. Hear zombie killing music in your head.

Continue walking. Make your way to the river.

When you get there have this fantasy:

There is a small dinghy tied to a dock. You get in it with your dog, untie the knot and float out to see. The world disappears quickly and soon you and your animal are surrounded by water. Heavy, melancholy clouds hover and you can’t distinguish the ocean from the sky in the horizon. It is endless. It is the end.

Your heart is peaceful. Your dog rests her head on the edge of the raft, ears alerting every once in a while to any passing activity on the surface of the water. You fall asleep and dream of nothing, only the presence of water. When you wake up, it’s night out. It is pointless to open your eyes because you can see nothing in the darkness, only the sound of the sea and it sounds like nothing. You can feel the warmth of your animal against your body and your senses strive for something more, reaching for a noise or a shape but can find nothing, only the water and the darkness.

Float further and further out to sea. The darkness burns away and you see the sun rise over a dead calm. An enormous shadow appears from below. The surface bubbles and is broken, the calm is shredded and the monster rises from the deep and is before you, a silhouette of hugeness dripping wet and framed by the kind light of the sun. Have this conversation with the monster:

The Monster: What are you doing here?

You: I’m not sure. Where have you been?

The Monster: Yeah, um…

You: I’ve been waiting for you.

The Monster: Sorry. You brought your dog?

You: Well…

The Monster: Is she hungry? Have some of this.

You: Thanks. You’re very kind. Are you ever coming back?

The Monster: Hm.

You: I sleep better when you’re around.

The Monster: I understand.

You: I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it if you don’t come back to me.

The Monster: Don’t make this weird.

You: Sorry. I’m not myself these days. Or maybe I am myself, maybe I’m exactly me and that’s the problem.

The Monster: Well that doesn’t sound very healthy.

You: That’s what I’m trying to tell you.

The Monster: Right.

You: Can I stay here with you?

The Monster: Um…

You: I like it here.

The Monster: I don’t think it’s such a good idea.

You: Why not?

The Monster: Don’t cry.

You: It’s just… Things aren’t really working out. I’m not sure I have anything good to contribute.

The Monster: Hm.

You: You don’t really want to hear this, do you?

The Monster: It’s not that.

You: It’s okay. I get it. Maybe I should just go.

The Monster: No. Stay a while.

You: Really?

The Monster: Sure.

Spend the day with the monster. Watch it do tricks in the water, turn the surface of the ocean into a Vegas fountain. Talk about things that aren’t painful, things that float through the air like flakes of skin. Sit through silences between the two of you. Watch the color of the air change, the calm of the water reach a stillness that freezes your reflection like a photograph. Stare into the water. Ask the monster to show you the bottom of the sea. Feel surprise when it agrees to. Then take its hand and sink. Think of Virgina Woolf with stones in her pockets, of Holly Hunter with a rope tied to her ankle and attached to a piano.

Go to the bottom of the sea.

When you get there ask for some time alone. The Monster will reluctantly agree and fade from you like a memory.

Sit at the bottom of the sea. Do some thinking. Relive a happy memory. Invent the details that are missing to keep it from slipping away. Think of a childhood pet, the first time you tried a doughnut. Stealing gum from a candy store, getting caught. Remember the fourth grade. Missing every Friday recess because you could never find a way to behave. Remember the first time you learned to hide something in your heart and understand that your very first secret has been hiding inside all this time, shaking just under the skin, afraid of his touch, but longing to be held, released. Set free.

Feel your thoughts lift and float to the surface, your pores flooding and the pain inside squeezed out of you like the final remains in a tube of toothpaste.

Finish the fantasy here.

Take your dog home. Feed her dinner. Make something for yourself.

Call your local cable company. Order movie channels and recording options in preparation for the lonely nights ahead. Forgive yourself for this.

Think of writing some of this down but have a cigarette instead. Forgive yourself for this.

Forgive yourself and eat some ice cream. Do some online shopping, watch porn.

Wake up in the morning one day closer to having cable television. Brush your teeth, take a shower. Walk the dog.

Think of the sea.

Finally…

Ride the train into the city. Sit across from a handsome man. Feel ignored. Look for the attention of a different stranger each time the sliding doors close. Give a woman your seat. Say your welcome after she thanks you. Imagine her scolding the boys that don’t love you back.

Feel the safety of all the people you don’t know on this train ride, of having them near you. Let them protect you. Let them love you. Until you reach your destination.

Posted by Pedro Pascal at 2:40 PM

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom

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23fallencomets · 2 years

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I Can't Go On Without You

Summary: Max calls up Mike at three am, without any questions asked, Mike goes to her.

Tags: Max Mayfield & Mike Wheeler, Minor Character Death

Its on Ao3 too

“Mike?”

“Max? It’s three in the morning?”

“I know – its… its my mom. Can you come to the hospital please?”

“I’ll be there.”

He doesn’t care to be silent, shoving his shoes on and grabbing a sweater. He doesn’t think of Holly still awake or the fact that his mom had for sure heard him slamming things around as he swipes his keys off the kitchen counter. His walkie is in one hand, the open channel silent as he starts up the car and peels out his driveway loudly, waking up the sleeping neighborhood.

He looked at the time, the numbers 3:12 flashing at him. He easily drives down the empty streets, definitely breaking a few speeding laws as he approaches Hawkins General. He sees Max sitting outside, smoke curling around her in wispy clouds. He gets out, barely remembering to lock his car as he jogs towards her. She looks horrible. Her face is splotchy, bright red against her pale skin and her freckles seemed almost non-existent. She drops the cigarette, putting it out under her shoe before stepping forward and crashing into Mike’s chest.

He instinctively wraps his arms around her, one hand around her waist and the other pressing her head to his neck. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, he doesn't know why she’s at the hospital at three in the morning, but he’s here, holding her tightly as if he could put back all her broken pieces back together. She smells of smoke and cheap rose perfume and her hair feels tangled, the strands being held up by a dingy hair tie. She’s still in her Ralph’s Records uniform: A black bowling shirt with the store name embroidered on the right side of the shirt and her blue ripped jeans.

She pulls away first, her breath still ragged and quick. Her face is still red, and her eyes are bloodshot as she leads him inside, walking past the nurses mulling around the nursing station. He catches their worried looks as Max tightens her grip on his hand, tugging him into the elevator. She stands across from him, arms crossed and her face dejected. Its different from that night in ’85, when they had been standing outside Billy’s hospital room waiting for the doctors to confirm if he was alive or not.

He wasn’t, the Mindflayer destroyed his chest cavity, taking his lungs, heart, and any organs that had gotten in the way.

That was the last time Mike had seen Neil Hargrove, tear marks streaking down his face and Max had muttered something about Neil only crying because he hoped it was him that ended his son, not some measly mall fire. Still, Mike only felt the surface level of empathy for the horrible man with a rotten son.

Almost three years later, Mike feels like he’s still stuck in that moment, the only difference was that the Party wasn’t here. The Byers were still in California, far away from Hawkins as they can get without leaving the country. Dustin wasn’t even in Hawkins either, he was in Utah, spending his winter break with Suzie and Lucas was in Chicago with his parents, looking at some of the schools that had scouted him for the various sports he played.

“My mom got hit.” Max finally says, “A drunk driver drove her into a tree. The driver died on the way to the hospital and my mom, they said she won’t make it.” He pulls her close, hands almost shaking as the elevator finally opens. She pulls away, her shoulders squaring, and she steps out into the flurry of doctors running the floor. She waits and Mike waits with her, waits for the inevitable news that Susan Mayfield died on a cold December night in 1987 because someone decided to drive drunk.

Mike goes in at six thirty to make a promise, hoping to ease Susan Mayfield’s mind.

For the first time in years, Mike prays to a god he’s not sure exist and prays for an easy passing.

Max goes in at six-forty-seven to say goodbye and at seven am on December 19th, 1987, Susan Mayfield succumbs to her injuries.

At seven am, on that snowing morning, Max Mayfield is the last of her family.

At seven am, on that cloudy, cold morning, Max Mayfield becomes an orphan at the age of seventeen.

They leave the hospital almost at midday, Max has to fill out paperwork and she wants to sleep forever once they’re done.

Mike takes them home, sits in the car for a complete thirty minutes with her, takeout slowly cooling at her feet before she sighs heavily and grabs the bags. She heads to his room, whispering a ‘good afternoon’ to Mrs. Wheeler before disappearing up the stairs. Mike realizes suddenly how exhausted he is as his mom meets him in the hall, a worried look on her face. Her hair is brown again, just how it had been before everything went to shit, before his best friend went missing and they were fighting interdimensional monsters every week for the next four years.

He seeks her comfort just like he did when they pulled Will’s fake body out of the water and when the Byers left Hawkins, taking two pieces of him with them.

( He doesn’t mention the day him and El broke up over the phone four months after she moved away and he cried into her lap at fifteen years old)

“Susan is dead.” He whispers, “Can she stay here?”

And Karen Wheeler is a mother, she raised three good, smart kids. She feed the three boys that never left Mike’s side. She let them have free reign of the basement and let them stay as long as their parents let them. With a gentle nod of her head and a kiss to the side of his head along with a whispered promise that she’s always welcomed, does she let him go.

Mike finds Max in one of his shirts. It’s the Hellfire one, he had gotten an extra, paying Eddie an additional twenty dollars he won in a bet with Nancy for it. It was big, hanging off one of her shoulders exposing her collarbone. She was eating her fries, eyes distant as Mike entered his room quietly, the door clicking shut behind him. She doesn’t look at him as he takes his own food and eats it in silence next to her.

When they’re done, Mike closes the curtains as Max gets comfortable on the bed, claiming the side by the wall. The room is engulfed in darkness as Mike crosses his room, blindly gathering their trash and going to throw it away. He comes back a few minutes later, a cup of water in hand. He places it on his bedstand as he slips under the covers with Max. She easily fits herself into his side, her cold hands (they’re always cold and it makes him want to hold her closer, to warm her hands up in between his own) fisting his shirt.

It’s easy, familiar in a way they can’t explain. They’re two parts of a song, completing each other in a way no one but maybe Steve and Robin can relate to. He slides an arm around her waist, pulling her close and tugging the blankets over them. Her chest rattles against his side and its easy to press his lips to the top of her head.

When they wake up, he’ll sit her in between his legs and wrangle her hair out of her knotted ponytail and make her hair pretty with simple plaits he begged Nancy to teach him.

When they wake up, he’ll hold her as she cries.

When they wake up, he’ll promise to never leave her, that wherever she goes, he’ll follow and she’ll give him a watery laugh and ask if he’s planning to replace Lucas, because after everything, the two are still together.

But for now, the two sleep, embraced in the warmth they share. Mike’s humming lulls her to sleep as his hand gently rubs circles over the shirt she had made fun of him for wearing.

For now, on this wretched winter day, Max sleeps knowing that when she wakes up, Mike Wheeler will be there, holding her together as her world continues to shift and change.

#mike wheeler #max mayfield #they deserved so much #MIKE LOVES HIS FRIENDS #Mike and Max are each others Steve and Robin #Max truly loves Mike #Its angsty and sweet #stranger things #post season three #not exactly canon compliant #the other one sort of it

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