#not exactly but there is no tag for ambivalence | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

serawritesthings · 7 months

Text

AMBIVALENT MINDS

Pairing | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Fem! Reader Summary | There was no doubt an air of mystery surrounded Simon, and while you hadn't seen him in years, his sudden appearance rendered you shocked, to say the least. It doesn't come without complications, though, resurfacing feelings that should have been laid to rest. Tags | sexual content 18+ minors dni, smut, angst-heavy, description of violence, very sad :D Word Count | 12k A/N | Hello once again lovelies! I have recently been working in this fic about Ghost, where I had an idea that I thought was very fitting for him. I'm so used to writing for Arthur, so I'm a bit nervous, but I thought I would challenge myself for this one! I really hope you like it, and if you do, don't hesitate to let me know. I would much appreciate it! ♡ Also, I'm still head-deep in my Arthur Morgan phase, so the next fic will probably be of him. Enjoy!

Stoic had always felt like a suitable word to describe the ghost that haunted your mind. Lacing every corner of your thoughts, he strayed, forever walking the memories of your past–unwanted and unwilling, unidentified, and under no sense of obligation to you or anyone else.

His presence had become a looming shadow, casting a heavy gloom over what you so profoundly wished to forget. No matter how hard you tried to escape those clutches, he held on too tightly, etching his essence into the fabric of your consciousness as the echoes of his footsteps reverberated through the corridors of your mind, a constant reminder of what you wished could be undone.

But it left you more unsatisfied than initially prepared for, finding the distance between you to be nauseating, like the miles only made the hurt seem to grow closer until it was seeping into your very bones. Although reality had a funny way of keeping up with you, clouding the past in its grasp, so now, it only felt like someone else’s experience and not your own–oddly comforting and discomforting all at the same time.

Simon always seemed to have that effect on you, and it was always the most challenging part for you throughout the years you spent together. One day, you would find the rough exterior grow gentle as it warmed the harsh edges with the soft look in his consistently monotone eyes; the other day, sharp and cold orbs cut through you like a splicer–like you were a stranger.

It was hurtful and increasingly confusing, making you wonder if you had been in a one-sided relationship all this time. He kept many parts of himself a secret from you, heavily guarded behind thorny walls, as even the slightest inquiry made him shut you out completely. The struggle you went through to gain his trust was like tiptoeing through a glass field, every step bordering on agony.

He never told you where he lived, only ever sleeping at your apartment even though it was too cramped. And, as it came to his private life, he didn’t speak a word but almost knew yours entirely from the number of questions he asked and your willingness to keep talking the moment you got started.

Funny that his nickname spoke so well with his aura, for that was exactly how you had perceived him now that you had a clear look at him that wasn’t shrouded with love and admiration. In reality, you didn’t know who he was under all those layers and cautious ways, your conversations made up of carefully guarded expressions and chosen words, the depth of emotions often hidden behind a veil of protection.

Somehow, he had felt, well, real? More real than the faked chivalry you were so used to when you were brought up, parents having more wealth than you deemed necessary amidst their strive towards perfection. Compared to their stale kindness and expectations, Simon was a welcomed change, as exciting as he was human.

For a younger you, he was fascinating and shrouded in a prolonged mystery you begged him to tell you. But he never did, always preaching about the unsafety of his life and no less job, that you were better left unknowing–for your sake. So curious and unbelievably stupid you were at the time, not realizing the danger that surrounded Simon and how it could affect you.

You understood him, though, and you did for a long time, but for obvious reasons, it grew exhausting to harbor a love for a man like that. You were young and naïve, only surpassing your early twenties that were spent on edge with an older man you weren’t sure could love anyone, no less himself.

In the shadow of your own accord, the best years of your life passed away, and through long days of studying for your medical degree and battling the struggles of barely seeing him–wondering where he was most of the time–you set your sight on other things, naturally.

For this reason, you always reminded yourself that he couldn’t be loved because he didn’t want to. The thought bruised you because for the longest time, you couldn’t imagine being without him. Thank God that time heals wounds, for the thought grew dim; despite his looming presence, you couldn’t shake from your mind, even though you tried your damnedest.

“I wonder where you went just now, missus.” The warm tone of Gretel filled your ears comfortingly as it cut through the obnoxious clicking of the pen you tormented anxiously. Stopping abruptly, you glanced at the woman writing in a patience journal, focused but somehow acutely aware of your absent-mindedness.

“Oh, sorry.” You spoke quietly, the luminescent light flickering above you as you straightened your back, getting ready to continue your work. “Just stuck in my thoughts…” You trailed off with a sigh, avoiding her questioning gaze as she peered at you over the bundle of paper.

Although a sharp and hardworking lady, Gretel had a knack for seeing straight through you. It was a shame since you always prided yourself on your ability to stay undecipherable, a thing you learned after the heavy supervision you had been under when you were younger.

You could almost swear she was psychic, for she always had this look in her eyes, like every thought that passed through your mind was the most obvious thing in the world, and you felt just as ashamed every time you thought something filthy in her presence.

“Hmm, I know that look, dear. Why don’t you finish up and go home? Rest your mind for a while. Lord knows we have a lot of work to get done tomorrow now that the doctors have been slacking off lately,” she hummed unamused at the last statement, turning back to the endless words loitering the pages, glasses hanging low on her nose.

“Oh, you sure?” In all actuality, you weren’t interested in going home anymore. It felt too empty these days, the eeriness seeping into every corner of the house. Here, you at least had people around you every minute of the day, patient or college, and burying your head in work seemed more of an appealing way to deal with your emotions than staring endlessly into the white tapestry of your wall without a single second of sleep.

“Course I am.” Wishing you away with her hands, you glanced uncomfortably at the snow falling outside the window, hoping to stay in the hospital's warmth. But alas, you knew better than to question her, so you finished your work in silence, the loud drag of your chair notifying Gretel you were on your way.

“Any plans tonight?” She sent a mischievous look your way, expectantly. “A special someone, maybe?”

“No.” You only let out a breathy laugh, giving her a look that spoke too much of your answer. “No, I uh, I’m going to bed.” Cringing at yourself, you shut your eyes when your back was towards the inquiring woman, chastising your inability to make up a lie instead of telling her the sad truth.

“I don’t believe that, a fine woman like you staying home on a Friday night?” She put down the papers and put all her attention on you. “Blasphemy, if I’ve ever heard it.”

The corners of your mouth lifted slightly, appreciating her attempts to lift your mood. It was depressing, though; you could admit that. Earlier, you had heard both the younger and older coworkers gossip about the nightly adventures that awaited as the clock turned 5, feeling like shrinking into the floor at the lack of excitement in your life compared to theirs.

“What about that mystery man that came through here some time ago every time you got off work?” Her words made you stop in your tracks, the now remaining cold, stale coffee you were forcing down your throat spilling down the corners of your mouth, staining your shirt.

“Oh, dear, let me help you.” As the woman rushed towards you, your mind grew numb at the thought of the man you had tried so hard to push toward the back of your mind. Truthfully, you hadn’t thought about him for quite a while, but Gretel’s words forced you to face the cold eyes that stared back at you in your mind, ultimately ruining your every attempt.

“Sorry, I just-” Her reprimanding voice cut your apology short.

“No need to apologize,” she shushed you, grabbing the cup from your hands before you dropped it, smiling heartily in comfort as your cheeks flushed a bright red.

You gladly left the building after your mishap, and although with a large coffee stain under your jacket to showcase your bad luck, it felt relieving to be outside in the fresh air instead of your work’s stale smell of disinfectant and latex. More so, to avoid another possibility of embarrassing yourself somehow.

Gretel hadn’t pestered you more about your apparent surprise when she brought up Simon, but you could feel her eyes scrutinizing you when you weren’t looking. You pondered if she would be disappointed if you let her know you were mere strangers to each other, bordering on a heavy dislike from the abrupt end you faced.

When you grew tired of trying, you presented him with an ultimatum that took weeks for you to muster up the courage in order to speak of it. It felt more like he was the one to break things off with you than the other way around, which wasn’t exactly what you had in mind. He didn’t even get angry as the tears of distress from his lack of emotions ran down your cheeks when you questioned him, wondering why he stayed.

The look on his face wasn’t giving away an ounce of hurt, only remaining detached like he always did, like your talk was a major inconvenience. Your distraught voice didn’t affect him as you begged him to listen and realize, it took so much away from you always to be mindful of him.

“You never let me in, Simon. I feel like I’m tiptoeing around you all the time, like the smallest thing I say will set you off.” Whenever you spoke of this, it felt like he dissociated. You might as well be talking to a wall the way he seemed to bounce every word back at you, eyes observing you under the dim light of your kitchen where he leaned against the counter.

There had been something strangely different about him this time, though, as he came to you in the middle of the night, disturbing you, who had just managed to fall asleep after an increasingly tricky work day. It wasn’t that you disliked him coming to you, but he never told you why after being gone for so long, which troubled you.

“I don’t even know you! You never tell me anything, and you know almost all there is to know about me.” You gazed at him questioningly, only gaining a blank look back. Crossing his arms, he gazed out the small window of your kitchen as the rain made its way down the glass.

When you stepped into your apartment after your long walk from work, the memory hit you tenfold: everything looked remarkably the same as that day–the last day you saw him. If you focused hard enough, you could almost see him still standing there, watching you indescribably as you poured your heart out to him, begging him to stop shielding himself from you.

Now that you looked back at it, you almost felt embarrassed for how you behaved compared to his composed self, but you couldn’t hold back your frustration anymore. The pain and defeat you felt had boiled over, making you wonder if he had viewed you as childish for the words that poured out of you uncontrollably.

Taking your stained shirt off, you changed into something more comfortable before burying your head in the sheets, wanting to melt into the fabric so you could resume the ignorance of your past the following day.

It didn’t work, though, as you could almost feel the comforting rumble of his voice under your head like the sheets had magically turned into his chest, the steady beating of his heart pulsing heavily against your cheek. The fold in the linen grew into the familiar, scarred skin under your palms, your fingers tracing the ruined tissue that stretched far as the coldness of him heavily contrasted with your warmth.

The low chatter of your ancient TV grew distant as sleep started to pull you into its embrace. In the last remains of wakefulness, you could feel his coarse fingers caress your cheek before pulling some strands that covered it behind your ear–lingering on the soft curves as it hurled you closer to dreamless slumber.

“Stay quiet.”

Your eyes opened wide at the sudden breath that hit your ear; not a figment of your imagination, but someone whispering the words harshly against you. Your first instinct was to scream, but you found a broad, gloved hand already covering your mouth, muting the sound successfully against the otherwise quiet apartment–despite the low buzz of the TV in the background.

A heavy weight had you trapped underneath it, and you trashed wildly against the hold. Your movements grew limited, though, and as you moved, you found yourself pressed even firmer against the mattress, the voice you could recognize anywhere rumbling dangerously at you when you didn’t listen.

“I said quiet.” It felt like water as cold as ice washed over you when the familiar voice reached you, rendering you quiet and unmoving in pure shock.

You didn’t get much time to ponder over your current predicament, hearing quiet yet rustling footsteps step slowly on the creaking floor panels of your apartment. The hair on your arms rose when you realized others who were unwelcome walked outside the room, the creeping footsteps only growing closer to your bedroom door.

As they did, the hand covering your mouth slowly released its grip, but not before pushing a finger against your lips. You obeyed, feeling him pull you closer so you were pulled taut against him, having no choice but to follow his lead as he stepped away from the bed. Every movement was cautious and quiet as your back was pushed up against the wall beside the door, your whole frame covered by a broad back that towered before you.

It was Simon, no doubt. You were sure of it as you gazed up at the man, the broadness of his shoulders, the tall height, and the gruff voice that had called you out earlier. From what you could see from his back, he was dressed differently; a mask seemed to cover the whole of his head down to his neck, pulled into a sweater of the same color as a thick vest could be seen from underneath it.

In a hasty motion, you felt his hand graze the skin of your stomach as he pulled what appeared to be a gun that was strapped against his body from the waistline of his jeans.

Your breath hitched at the sight, the clicking noise as he loaded the metal slowly cutting through the quiet room, backing up even more so you were pushed tighter against the wall. The footsteps had ceased now, and for a while, you pondered if they had ever been there in the first place, wondering if this was reality or just a depraved dream your exhausted mind had conjured up in lack of excitement.

But then, you saw the door handler move slightly out of the corner of your eyes. Craning your head towards it in fear, your view was obscured though as Simon moved to shield you even further, lifting the gun as the door creaked open, the soft light of your hallway lamp illuminating the room, a giant shadow now apparent on the walls from the figure outside.

The door remained open, and the seconds ticked slowly like ages passed; your trembling hands made their way to Simons’s sides, grabbing his waist as you tried to keep your breathing quiet, heartbeat picking up as he placed a gloved hand on yours for a second to then wrap around the handle again.

What transpired next could only be likened to a horrible nightmare: the muted sounds of a suppressed gun going off, a body falling like a ragdoll down on the floor of your bedroom, dark blood seeping into the fabric of your rug from the man now laying there, completely and utterly lifeless.

Left staring at Simons’s back when he rushed towards the figure, he checked the man’s pulse in a quick motion. You couldn’t form a single sound, neither could you think straight as shock flooded you at the sight, eyes growing wide when you started to register what transpired.

Still remaining pressed against the wall in disbelief, you heard the low rumble of Simons’s voice speak into his intercom, eyes staring at you briefly through the holes in his mask before raising up, putting it back in his pocket while stalking toward you in big strides.

Grabbing your shoulders, he pushed you gently but hastily out the door, pushing your head to look forward as your gaze was transfixed on the dead man, finding it increasingly absurd to see that sight in the bedroom you had just slept in.

In your haze, you had found yourself being led into the kitchen, lifted up with strong arms on the counter as he grasped your cheeks in his gloved hands, finding your eyes unfocused and clouded.

“Hey, you okay?” His voice rumbled low in his chest as his eyes sought yours, patting your cheek gently to gain your attention. You craned your neck slightly to look up at him, eyes covered with black paint under the mask, seeming so familiar yet different from the man you knew.

“Simon?” Your voice was quiet, confusion lacing the edges as tears started to brim the corners of your eyes at the overwhelming emotions that hit you after the apparent shock that rendered you frozen.

“You’re alright,” he told you; as he swept his thumb over your cheek, a tear fell, bringing your head to his chest as his arms wrapped around you, gripping his waist in distress. Shushing you, he let you lean against him for a while as you sobbed, terrified of what had just transpired and what he had done.

You could still see the emotionless eyes staring back at you in your mind, the thought of them still lying in the next room shooting pangs of anxiety through you. Just like that, he had fallen to the floor, and through your tears, you started to feel the confusion fill you and the shock at what Simon had done.

He had killed a man. Also, he was dressed like a madman, wearing a mask and a vest, with a gun strapped into his jeans. He had been prepared to kill, and that thought hit you like a train as you felt your tears freeze, the arms around you caging you in until you started to push on his chest frantically, begging him to step away.

“What did you do!?” Distressed, you hit Simon’s chest in protest, feeling claustrophobic at having him standing so close after what he had just done. He didn’t budge, though, grabbing your arms tightly as he bent down to look you in the eyes.

“Stop that.” Sternly, he tried to get you to stop moving, but you didn’t listen. Still, uneasiness lingering in your thoughts.

“You killed him!” He hushed you with a dangerous look in his eyes, pulling your hands to your back so he could grip your wrists with one hand, stepping closer so he was pushed against you with the other hand gripping your chin forcefully.

“Listen!” He hissed loudly, making you stop your trashing when he did. “I need to get you out of here, got it?” You only stared at him frightfully as he spoke. “You need to stay quiet and keep close to me. Can you do that?”

When Simon didn’t get an answer, he closed his eyes for a second before opening them again, the fabric of his glove pulling your wild hair behind your ear.

“If you don’t do as I say, you’ll face the same fate as the man in your bedroom, understand?” You nodded slowly, and as he released your wrists in caution, he gave you a nod back when he realized you were listening to him.

“No matter what, you stay behind me. Got it?” His voice grew monotone as he took hasty strides towards your window, checking the empty street outside your apartment for a second before lowering the blinds. The kitchen grew shrouded in darkness, only the moon shining through the blinds. Taking a deep breath, you wiped your tears as you tried to gather yourself.

This wasn’t how you planned for your night to go. Just like any other Friday night, you were prepared to sleep the night away, not being witness to a murder, no less by your ex. He had been secretive through the years you spent together, and sure, you had made up various insane scenarios about his background. There had been crazier assumptions than Simon being a murderer, but that didn’t make the thought any easier.

Thinking about it made you shiver, wondering who he was beneath this facade he kept up and if this had been the case when you’d known him. Had he been hiding this from you all this time? You couldn’t help but feel betrayed, even if it was only you assuming. But then, he probably knew you would have one or two things to say about his, well, occupation.

Your first instinct was to keep your distance, but you realized you had no choice but to follow his lead if you wanted to escape this chaotic mess. Somewhere along your distressed mind and trembling hands that were a blend of his actions and being told you might have been killed tonight, his presence made the situation less grim, the usual safety he carried around him soothing your stress.

It wasn’t unusual, for he had always prioritized your safety–almost bordering on possessive. It had been a significant problem for you, seeing as it reminded you of your parents, whom you left when you turned 18, not wanting to be under that kind of supervision anymore. Countless memories of gruesome fights flashed before you, remembering the mood swings that turned Simon into a completely different person, words chilling and inexcusable action plenty.

Although many times horrible, his eyes had always been set straight on you, and despite them being sharp and calculated, you could almost feel the warmth radiate from them when they fell upon you. A hand on the small of your back, a large frame shielding you from others’ curious eyes and his sight, ever-so-watchful on you.

He was a man of actions, not words, and always picked you up when needed, walked you home, and even stayed in your apartment every chance possible, deeming it wasn’t a safe neighborhood. You had Simon to thank for the reinforced locks on your doors and windows, as well as the taser and pepper spray still in your purse to this day.

Cautiously, you trailed behind him as you moved through the hallway, the light above you flickering as you felt his hand planting itself on the small of your back as he reached around you. Pressing you closer to him, he took measured steps that echoed through the walls, not a single sound from the apartments surrounding you.

There was obviously something he wasn’t telling you, and there were so many questions you wanted to ask. Who was that man creeping through your apartment, and why, for all reasons, did Simon manage to be there at the right time? It felt too surreal to hold legitimacy, but somehow, you were thankful he was.

Simon’s gaze, once penetrating, had been soft when it met your wide ones a few minutes ago. It had always been rare to find him vulnerable, rarely getting a glimpse of the man behind the stoic eyes, but it reminded you of why you fell for him in the first place. The rare glimpses of love he showed were enough to fuel your own at the time, running on the tiny specks of affirmation that he might, in fact, love you like you did him.

But there was a twinge of something else, a draft of loneliness clouding them that you had never seen before. It shot a pang of sadness through you, although unwillingly, you couldn’t help but wonder if he had someone else to lean on when you left him, or had you been the only one?

Blinking the reminiscent thoughts away, you refused to direct your thoughts toward the pity that always laced your feelings regarding Simon. There hadn’t been anything you could do to help him anymore when you left him, and you had to put yourself first for once and realize that what you had was growing increasingly more destructive with time.

You were glad you cut it off before it got any worse, wondering many times how it would have panned out if you hadn’t left. And more so, he hadn’t given you a single reason to stay when you left, only gazing into the air like you weren’t there–not begging you to stay like you desperately wanted.

“Where are you taking me?” A worried curiosity started to take hold of you, and amidst your cautious eyes and careful steps down the stairway in the apartment building, the thought of who the now-dead man actually was and if there were more around swirled in your mind.

You only got a miffed head turn in response, glaring at you through the black paint as he raised a finger to his clothed lips. Getting his notion, you kept quiet behind him, sock-clad feet following his every step on the dirty, laminated floor. You didn’t see a single person on the way down, and it felt eerie despite it being in the middle of the night with everyone asleep.

As you descended on what you now realized was the entry floor, you suddenly felt yourself pulled roughly against the corner of a wall, face right before Simon’s chest. You heard voices coming from the opening of the building, sirens audible in the background as the sound of traffic lessened when someone closed the door–voices growing nearer by the second.

You gasped out loud at suddenly being trashed around, but when you saw the broad arms of Simon encase your head with his body pressed up against yours, you relaxed. Craning your head hastily to gaze up at him, you already found his eyes staring intensely at you, although faltering when he met yours in what you might have interpreted as shyness.

Your gaze flickered, unsure where to look now that he was so close to you. You opted to plant your eye on his chest, the folds and curves of the sweatshirt following his ample muscles that were hiding under the fabric, bulging when his m muscles flexed.

A deep, red blush grew on your cheeks, and you chastised yourself for being so obvious, wondering if he took notice. Redirecting your gawking, you tried looking towards the side but found his large arms blocking your view as he leaned down further to shield you from, well, you weren’t so sure.

After some time, you heard the hurried voices pass as the footsteps grew distant. As you looked up at Simon, relieved, you found him already stalking towards the entry door, grabbing your upper arm when you stumbled to drag you behind him.

It was freezing outside, the chilly air seeping into the thin cotton of your pajamas as you cringed when your feet stepped on the snowy sidewalk, now wholly wet. You didn’t have time to ponder it, though, being directed towards a black car poorly parked a few meters away, like the driver had been in a hurry.

The street was empty, aside from a few other cars littered around the streets, heavy with the snowfall that had been falling a few hours ago. It wasn’t a neighborhood with a good reputation, and often you read about the crime and dealings held in the dark alleyways and corners of the city. You didn’t have too many options, though, the already low pay from your nurse job being even lower since you just got out of school.

The seat underneath you was cold when Simon pushed you through the door, slamming it so hard that the sound echoed in the quiet street. Running quickly to the driver’s side, he wasted no time in starting the engine, tires screeching as he belted through the tightly built buildings into the highway.

His eyes were strained, staring firmly ahead, ignoring all laws of speeding when he drove faster–not that there were any other cars around. Confusion clouded your face as you stared at him staying taut against his seat, glancing worriedly in the rearview mirror every other second.

“What’s going on, Simon?” You asked him, voice audibly stressed, gripping the seat tightly and craning your head to look behind you. There was no answer, as expected, and it only managed to fuel your anxiety as you watched his jaw tighten under the taut mask caressing his jawline. It didn’t deter you from continuing to demand an answer to why you were in this chaotic mess in the first place and what his part was in it.

The engine’s rhythmic hymn provided a backdrop to your growing unease, prodding him to speak. “Simon!” You pleaded, but he remained silent, navigating the empty streets with a determination that intrigued and frightened you–the unanswered question hanging heavy in the air, thick and stifling.

Simon’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, and you were shot with a sharp, almost challenging look. “There’s people after you,” he snapped, voice cutting through the air. “But I can’t lay it all out for you now, so just do as I say.”

“What?!” You gripped the seat to turn around, seeing the road behind you devoid of any other cars. “You can’t be serious!”

His gaze, shielded and focused, hid the more profound truth–that the dangerous shadows tailing you were a consequence of his own actions, a perilous side of his life that had unexpectedly spilled into yours when he basked in the euphoria of being loved by you. The bonds you once shared had been like an anchor but now grew into a chain, its links forged in the crucible of his regrets.

You were left staring ahead while damning his stubbornness to not speak through the rest of the ride. The long way allowed you to think about the last hour and how absurd it was, especially seeing Simon again, which you had thought would never be the case some time ago.

Somewhere, deep in the crooks and nooks of your heart, it soared at seeing him again, prodding heavily at the memories you kept at bay, memories that hurt too much to consider many times. You examined his body that too many others bulged in pride and confidence, but to you, hunching slightly in exhaustion, fingers flexing nervously against the wheel.

He had grown much taller and broader since you last saw him, with an air of maturity surrounding him that you hadn’t noticed before. Admittedly, you were both grown adults now, more so since he was older than you, and it felt quite different to be near him. You were unsure if you had romanticized the few good parts of your relationship that weren’t shrouded in misunderstandings and miscommunication or if you actually missed the first and only man you had ever loved.

The air in the vehicle grew tight as time passed, but at least it was warm as he had put the heat on blast when taking notice of your shivering frame. The strain of emotions from the moments leading up to now seemed to get a hold of you, and in a tired haze, you felt your lids droop heavily as you tried to keep your focus on the road.

After some time, though, your head fell heavily against the door, neck craning uncomfortably as your body succumbed to the heavy load of the day. It felt like seconds had passed when you woke up from your deep slumber, head fitted into warm sheets covering your body in heaps as small orange lights shone through the blinds.

As you blinked slightly, you still felt the heaviness of sleep hanging over you, bare feet rubbing against the bedding as you snuggled closer into the warmth and familiar scent that surrounded you, once more falling into a dreamless slumber without wondering where the hard, plastic side of the door against your cheek went.

It wasn’t until the evening sun settled high in the sky that you awoke again, this time wide awake. Only, it wasn’t your bed; instead, dark, blue sheets covered your frame, shielding you against the coldness of the apartment–only now noticing a black jacket twice the size of your body wrapped around you.

–

Slightly dazy and confused, you rubbed your eyes that complained at having to remain open, sitting up straight. So, last night hadn’t been a dream? Smiling lightly, you realized your night had been much more action-filled than your colleagues if that counted for something.

“Hello?” Your voice broke through the silence, quiet and cautious, yet sure Simon had to be nearby. When the silence stretched on, you cast the blanket aside to recognize the familiar chill wound around your legs that weren’t shielded by the jacket.

Grimacing, you pulled the sides of the jacket closer to you, wondering if the heat was off. There was no mistake that it wasn’t yours, the wooden floor under your feet creaking audibly as you stepped over some planks that were missing, observing the small cracks that stretched on the walls and bedroom door that had been wholly wrung off its hinges, now leaning against the wall.

Walking into the small hallway, you stepped over the various objects loitering the floor, bending down to examine what appeared to be some old paperwork among the dirty shirts that couldn’t have been cleaned for a while.

Scrunching your nose, you grabbed the fabric to put it on the old plastic chair that missed one leg, wondering where you had ended up. You heard the slight thud of something falling towards the floor as you did. Gazing down in confusion, the appearance of a small portrait caught your eyes, not having been there a second ago.

Raising your brows, you bent down again, picking up the shiny paper as you observed the familiar smiling face. You remembered the day vividly, the memory making the corners of your mouth chirp up lightly as it flashed before your eyes.

You had rarely gone out with Simon, being told by him that it was too dangerous for you to be seen with him. Despite your disagreement about it, you often spend long days in bed, the smell of homemade breakfast wafting under your nose and the feeling of starved hands moving desperately, heatedly, now filling your mind.

You were buried in your bed sheets; face blushed with hair spreading wildly around you like a halo as you gave Simon a toothy smile, begging him not to take the picture through endless giggles as his hand tickled you playfully. He had just made love to you, tender in his own way, and told you he wanted to show you how beautiful you looked to him at that moment.

You placed the marred picture back into the heavy combat jacket you had laid on the chair just now, curious of the torn edges and suspiciously red substance covering it in some places. Had he kept that picture all these years?

“Simon?” Walking further into the apartment, you grew worried, wondering where Simon was. That’s when you heard the low rumble of his voice, talking in a hushed manner.

Tiptoeing faster, you caught sight of his large frame leaning against the kitchen sink, gazing at you monotonously when you entered as his mouth worded undecipherable words before ending the call, pulling the phone back into his front pocket.

As you placed the puzzle pieces together, you realized you were in his apartment. That explains it, you thought to yourself as your gaze wandered around the room, taking in the dire state of it. You couldn’t help but be surprised, never imagining that Simon lived in such a pigsty. It wasn’t that it was untidy; it was more like someone hadn’t been here for ages and ignored the dire need for renovations, looking like it would fall apart at any moment.

Your wide-open eyes met his calculating ones, and as you opened your mouth to speak, he cleared his throat before you could. “Sleep well?” He raised his brow as the question hung in the air, eyes caressing your form as he took you in.

“I, uh…” you trailed off, scrunching your forehead as you tried to find the right words, completely and utterly overwhelmed at where you found yourself. “Yeah, I think so.”

You got a nod back, still staring intensely into each other’s eyes as you wondered where to start the questions that burned in your mind. “You,” you stuttered. “You’re here.” Your fumbled words grew into more of a statement than a question, confusion lacing your expression.

Simon only gave you a look in response, and had you been looking close enough, you would see the corners of his mouth chirp up slightly, unwillingly, of course.

“What are you doing here?” you blurted out. “No, what am I doing here?” Shaking your head to clear it, you dragged a hand through your wildly tousled hair before trying again, glancing at him in irritation. “What’s going on?”

He straightened up from his leaning position but didn’t step closer, still rendering you shying slightly away from his intimidating posture as he towered over you, fingers gripping the fabric of his jacket slightly–nervously fidgeting your feet on the cold planks.

He nodded towards one of the old chairs surrounding a smaller table, beckoning you to sit down. Cautiously, you shuffled into the small kitchen, sitting tentatively on the chair as you hoped it wouldn’t break under your weight. Simon, though, stayed in his place, watching you indescribably before leaning his hands on the end of the table.

He glanced sideways like he was giving something a heavy thought before directing his gaze toward you again. “You’re in trouble,” he said. “The man I killed yesterday, he had been sent out to kill you.”

You froze in your seat as you felt shivers of utter fear running over your back as your heart began to race, its erratic beats echoing in your ears. The silence enveloped the room was broken by the ominous sounds of your breath, each inhaling a reluctant acknowledgment of the palpable reality you had dreaded.

Kill you? Why in the world would someone want to kill you? The fear grew into a hand that tightened its grip around your chest, making it harder for you to draw breath. Noticing your struggle, Simon’s hand flexed slightly as if he wanted to reach you amidst the panic but decided against it. Instead, he draped the mask he had been wearing over his head, revealing the piercing gaze accompanied by the blonde tufts of hair, messy from wearing the balaclava as the remains of sweat wetted the roots of his hair.

“Hey, it’s alright. He won’t get the chance now.” You weren’t sure if his words had been meant to provide you with comfort, but seeing him without his mask made you feel slightly safer.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” You only got a grunt in response as he straightened up, turning away from you to look out the window. “Who was he?” You asked, trying to crane your neck to get more glimpses of his face that he had shielded from you until now.

There was something different about them, but you couldn’t pinpoint what it was. They seemed tired, though; the bags underneath them were hard not to notice, heavy and swollen as the whites of his eyes were shielded under a light redness.

“Kessler.” He let on, words short. Noticing your silence, he sighed. “Victor Kessler”

“But why was he in my apartment?”

Rubbing his eyes, you saw the muscles tense in irritation. “He did… something he shouldn’t, so he got expelled from the task force,” he said. “We’ve been keeping a close eye on him every since, but revenge isn’t a fool's game–not for him, it seems.” He felt your gaze on him, sighing again when he realized you weren’t satisfied by the answer.

“Look, I don’t know. Revenge maybe? He was going to use you to get to me; knowing you being dead would give him the reaction he wanted. Either way, you don’t have to worry about him now.”

“Why would…” As his words sunk in after you started to speak, you stuttered, caught off guard. “Why would he use me of all people?” To say you were baffled was an understatement. What you had with Simon was a story from years ago, a thing of the past, which meant there was no reason for you to be the target of their malice.

You felt his eyes on you, but as you looked back, they returned to gaze out into the dark street lightened by the snow and the flickering streetlamp. There were many things you didn’t know of, many things he hadn’t told you–mostly because of secrecy and his stubbornness, but also from the humiliation he would face if he did.

He never thought about how strange it would be for you to wake up and suddenly see him in your apartment after all these years, but Simon didn’t think as he belted towards your building complex in sheer panic when he got the notion just in time.

Without your knowledge, he had been watching you ever since you decided to leave, dead set on never letting you out of his sight. It wasn’t for some sick, deluded reason as many may think, but more of a worry about how he had involved you into his life that he knew couldn’t be escaped, how your safety was compromised when he was too weak to leave.

“It doesn’t matter.” His response was short and conceit, brushing off your inquiries. You pondered over his words that fell reluctantly from his mouth, growing dizzy from all the questions that surged within you at the information.

“You’re a soldier?” He smiled slightly at your conversation change, unbeknownst to you, as his back faced your questioning glances. “Special force operator.”

“Oh,” you mouthed silently, like his words resonated with you. The Simon you had known for most of your life was a soldier? The thought was strange, but it connected some dots for you and the mystery that had always followed him. Special force operator?

“What’s that?”

“We handle things regular troops can’t touch, take missions that others don’t dare.”

“What, like superheroes?” You managed to get something that was supposed to be like a laugh but intertwined with a scoff.

“No, it’s not about playing superhero, love. It’s about being the one who gets things done when the stakes are their highest.” He felt your gaze burning on his back, closing his eyes as the word fell out against his will, like a habit.

He had sometimes called you that when you were together, the endearing term slipping out occasionally. You chastised yourself when you felt the familiar yet strange fluttering in your stomach when hearing it leave, cautiously raising from the chair like Simon was a provoked animal, even though he remained utterly still where he stood, not minding you.

You glanced shyly as you approached him, still not used to being in his presence after such a long time. “So, that’s why you always were so secretive, huh?” The fabric of your jackets touched slightly, the feeling making him glance down at you in a concealed startle at suddenly having you so close. He looked away as you glanced up at him, refusing to let him get away with a grunt as an answer this time.

“You could’ve gotten hurt if I didn’t.” He looked indecisive when your cold fingers lightly placed their way on his hand that rested on the window sill, dark eyes avoiding yours. The skin under your palm was freezing now that his gloves had been removed, the scarred tissue you knew so well contrasting heavily against your unspoiled ones, pads rough and rugged.

Worming your nimble fingers through the backside of his hand, you observed the difference quietly, leaning your head on his big arm tentatively. The muscle tensed under you, his body growing taut under your touch as he had always done, mostly when he came back from what you, at the time, didn’t know the cause of, bruised and apprehensive.

You relaxed slightly when he didn’t pull away, glancing into the street silently. You should still have been terrified to the bone, but safety had always been a given when Simon was near you, and now you understood why you had felt that way. It made you somewhat sad to realize he didn’t speak to you about who he was, but somewhere, you understood why he hadn’t, why he still didn’t tell you the entirety of the situation.

What rendered you speechless was that he had been keeping track of you for this long since he was aware you were in danger. While you had been trying to forget him and move on with your life, he kept tabs on you, ensuring you would be safe.

“You should have told me.” He shook his head immediately, stepping away from your touch, shivering as he still felt the lingering drag of your fingers on his hand.

“I’m glad I didn’t.” You scrunched your brows at his response, stepping toward him but not getting any closer as he grabbed your upper arms in warning. “You’ve only seen me now because you’re in danger, alright? I’ll let you be once you’re safe. I’m unsure if Kessler has any other connections, but I have people who will look it up before you leave. I also had someone go through your apartment and make sure to remo-”

“I don’t want you to leave, Simon.” You interrupted him mid-sentence, words leaving you before you could think them through. It was dangerous for him to be here since he raised feelings inside you that had been buried a long time ago and were best kept locked away; you couldn’t help it, though, for the good moments you remembered were so devastatingly wonderful–making your now boring life pale in its memory.

He stilled at your words, a profound conflict littering his blue eyes as he gazed into your guilty ones. Raising your hand, you placed it on his cheek, running it tentatively over his skin. You thought he would pull away, so you were surprised to see his eyes fluttering shut at the contact, almost leaning into your touch.

The air surrounding you grew taut, with an underlying tension from the warmth spreading low in your belly. Swallowing nervously, you couldn’t help but step closer to him, bringing your arms around his waist to place your palms against the broadness of his back, breathing in his scent as you pushed your cheek flat against his chest.

You shouldn’t, but there was a pull you had no choice but to follow, wondering if it would feel the same as before. You felt his arms wound around you, your lips trembling at the familiar feeling you remembered always used to leave you breathless with devotion.

Simon pulled you tighter towards him, thinking of how he had remembered you feeling against him on the cold, unsure nights, only a gun strapped to his back and a picture of you in the pocket closest to his heart.

Sometimes, when he was sure he was taking his last breaths, he would grab the piece of printed paper, dust it off from the ashes of war as his blood-soaked fingers swiped over the picture, coloring you in a tint of red as he remembered how you had looked the day it was taken. It’s what kept him going when he didn't feel like pushing on.

He wasn’t afraid of dying, neither was he of going to hell, for every day that had passed without you in it, only a picture as proof, already brought him into the scorching fire as the devil himself tortured Simon by only being able to watch you from a distance, all because of his own choices.

It was his fault, of course, that he had chosen this path, but when he met you, it was too late. No longer could he hide from the life he had chosen, having to sacrifice you so he could keep you safe. If that wasn’t torture in itself, he wasn’t sure what was.

The warmth that enveloped him ran like fire up his veins, all sense of logic falling out the window as he basked in your touch, suddenly grabbing your waist and hoisting you around his, stalking in significant strides towards the counter. You buried your head in the crook of his neck, feeling the coarse stubble rubbing against your cheek as you wrapped your arms around his neck, feeling his hands wander their way under his jacket that covered you, finding sanction around your waist as he sighed at the feeling of your nose trailing up his neck.

Bending his head down towards yours, his lips desperately sought yours, all restraint gone as the chains holding him back fell towards the floor in a loud clank, pushing your body taut against his.

Fueled by his affection, you bask in the tenderness of his touch and desperation in his movements as you push all sense of logic to the back of your mind, longing to feel what you had always felt with Simon, the feelings that had been simmering in the back of your mind.

You shivered as his calloused hands crept under your shirt, caressing the soft skin that had remained untouched ever since he left, battled-bruised hands seeking sanction in the curves of your body that filled his wanton dreams, dreams that always depicted you.

“Simon.” you gasped in a quiet voice, hands running up to rest in the tufts of his hair, arching your back when his fingers traveled down to your backside, palms fitting wholly against you as he pushed you tighter toward his front with a quick drag.

A grunt left him when your legs tightened against him, feeling your crotch pressed against him, the euphoric feeling bordering on nostalgia. The room that remained as cold as it had been before wasn’t anything you pondered over when his hands unzipped your jacket, leaving it still wrapped around your arms, but the shirt of your pajamas was now visible.

“Tell me to stop.” His lips attached themselves to the crevice of your neck, bringing the supple flesh into his mouth as he groaned against you, fingers running their way up your shirt to lightly skim over the thin fabric covering your bare chest.

“Stop, Simon.” You said, voice monotone as you heeded his command needlessly, not paying attention to what you were saying as his thumb slowly caressed the side of your breast, begging him to touch you as your legs automatically widened to let him step further into your embrace.

He didn’t stop, though, not being able to restrain himself any longer as he saw how deliciously your nipple strained against your shirt, mouth-watering as they seemed to almost beg for him to wrap his lips around them. Doing just that, he heard the sound of your moan vibrating through the quiet room as you felt the unusual feeling of his tongue swiping over it through the fabric, gasping as you felt him grind his middle against yours slowly.

“Push me away. I mean it.” Weak hands found his shoulder pushing against the muscles that hid under the fabric of his jacket as he growled out the words, not budging him one bit as he continued his assault on your breast, covering the other with his palm as he crouched down slightly to make up for the height difference.

Grunting in frustration at his body not following his mind, he lifted you up once more after detaching his lips from you, carrying your heated body towards the manky, old bedroom. You unzipped his heavy winter jacket the short way you could, worming your hands around him like a snake, disapproving of the bulletproof vest strapped to him under the sweater. Instead, you grabbed his cheeks between your hands, placing your lips on his once more, feeling him pushing you up against the wall in the hallway.

Putting you down on your feet, he roughly removed the jacket from your arms, then gently helped you pull the fabric of the shirt to reveal your upper body, feeling his hands grab your bottom to carry you into the bedroom, carefully minding your head as he laid you down on the hard mattress, standing up to examine you as your chest heaved out its breath, gazing tenderly at Simon.

That did it, no doubt. The sight almost made his knees buckle; he grabbed ahold of the small wardrobe placed by the foot of the bed as he removed his jacket, lifting your back up slightly to put it behind you, your desperate lips finding their place on his neck as he bent down, stubborn legs wounding their way around his hips as you dragged him towards you like a siren.

He couldn’t help but follow, comfortably fitting his front against yours, the thin fabric of your pajama pants letting him feel you better as he strained against his jeans, the material stretched tight under his massive desire for you. Your breath hitched as he moved languidly, placing his forearm under your neck as you stared up at him through hazy eyes, a deep blush falling from your cheeks to your chest.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he swore into the otherwise quiet room at the sight. As your eyes met, you could see the sharp eyes crease as he scrunched his eyes tight, dragging his hand that wasn’t under your head down the curves of your sides, memorizing every crevice like this was the last time he could feel it.

The room grew shrouded in the released tension, now thick with a burning want as the large man hovering over you pushed your smaller frame against his ruined mattress, shame not having the chance to fill him yet from the state of the room he was devouring you in.

You paid no mind either, letting out a cry when you felt his hand creep down between your bodies, feeling the warmth of your crotch under his thick fingers as he parted two of them, dragging their way on the side of your lips, never really touching you where you mostly wanted him to.

“I can’t do this to you.” His voice was rough, blending a deep want and a heavy twinge of regret like he was doing something completely unlawful. You stroked his temple with your nimble fingers, wiping the sweat dripping down his forehead away, caressing the skin lovingly.

“Do what, Simon?” He didn’t give you an answer as you asked him breathlessly, but you knew what he meant, feeling like this was too hasty, too quick. But you couldn’t stay away from him, and all the hurt and uncertainty he had let you face entirely on your own, it felt too good to have him near you–for him to want you.

The slow drag of his crotch against yours growing more forceful, you were brought from your thoughts, breath hitching as the large imprint of him rubbed over the material of your pants, feeling every slide grow muted as a warm shiver traveled down your back, a sting of pleasure shooting sharply up your body all the way to your fingertips.

It was numbing, the way he chased after your lips while trying to pull himself away from you, arm pulling you closer yet head pulling away from you. The internal battle he faced was visible, but your warm and caressing hand lulled him closer to you, soothing the harsh thoughts that filled his mind, the worrying that stretched the lines deep on his face.

At the same time, he panted, dragging your trousers down your thighs, refusing to pull away from you, so when he realized there was no other way, you heard the fabric tear amidst the loud ringing in your eyes from excitement.

Your eyes shot open, but before you could speak, you felt Simon’s thumb push its way into your mouth, muting your sound of protest as he buried his head in your chest. Your hands threaded through his hair as you scratched the roots in pleasure when his other hands rubbed you over your underwear, wetness seeping through the material so his fingers could glide over you more easily.

It was mind-numbing, the sparks of pleasure you felt as his calloused fingers finally met skin, dragging slowly between your folds as your panties were pushed aside.

“Oh, god!” A strangled attempt at speaking left you, mouth agape as you arched up against him, feeling a thick finger slowly wind its way into the gummy walls, clenching down on the intrusion. The feeling left you quickly, though, and as a whine of disappointment left you, you felt his finger caress your clit in soft circles, making your hips move in motion with his hand.

Swallowing your noises, Simon’s tongue wormed its way into your welcoming mouth, lips massaging yours as he grabbed your cheek with one hand gently. Running your hands under the fabric of his sweater, you grabbed the vest underneath it in discontent, trying to show him you wanted it off, unable to do it yourself as his heavy weight rendered you moveless underneath him.

His eyes, now a swirling pool of black in the dark room, gazed dangerously into yours, grabbing the end of his sweater and pushing it over his head, refusing to detach from you. As the skin of his upper body was revealed, your hands ran over every piece of skin you could find to then push against the straps, the vest detaching from its hold, Simon throwing it beside the bed in a hurry, grabbing your thighs to push the plump flesh up beside you, gazing heatedly at your puffy lips that peaked through your panties, red and tender from his fingers.

Closing his eyes, he tried to gather his clouded brain, vision unfocused as he could only make out the blissful expression on your face. Wiping his forehead, he kissed the soft skin of your thighs, feeling them stay planted firmly where he pushed them as he let go.

His hands lowered to drag down the zip of his pants, his hardness straining painfully against the fabric. As the material loosened, a sigh of relief left him. Still, then pleasure so sharp ran through him when he felt your nimble hands slowly caress the bulge in his briefs, beckoning him to retake his place in the crevice of your neck, almost biting into your skin as your hand wormed its way into his briefs.

God had imprinted your every touch into his mind, only dragging them out when nights had turned too cold or lonely. Like some depraved animal, he had imagined your hands gliding over him in the confines of this bed when he was on leave, other times imagining your fingers wrapping their way around his shaft as he found to sleep in the corner of some building, teammates only meters away as he fell into a helpless dream of you and your soft touch.

To feel you touch him like that again must have been some type of depraved joke from the devil himself, finding pleasure in the torture of knowing he would never be able to feel this again. The slow drag of your fingers down the trail of hair that led to his crotch, slowly palming the scorching shaft that pulsed against your touch, the small leak of precum making the feeling all too much for Simon to contain himself.

“Fuckin’ hell, are you trying to kill me?” He panted out, grabbing your wrist when it became too much. Instead of a noise of disappointment, the beautiful sound of your laugh clung in his ears, and when he looked up, he found you giving him a toothy smile, a blissed-out expression covering your face.

“Oh, Simon,” you said, staring warmly at him as you took in the heaving of his chest as he planted his arms beside you, covering your whole frame with his large body. Looking down, you parted your legs even more, the anticipation being too much for you to handle, wishing he would dampen the warmth spreading in the low of your stomach.

Suddenly you felt his mouth against your begging wetness, tongue laying flat against your lips as he massaged and licked striped to your red clit, mumbling incoherent words against you that only vibrated euphorically against your sensitive parts.

As you trashed underneath him, his hands wound their way under your legs, pushing your hips down to the mattress as you felt his tongue worm its way into your tightly clenched whole to then once more tease your clit with his tongue, staring up at your face as the paint around his eyes dripped with the sweat down the folds of your legs, almost eating you whole as he lapped at you.

Hitting his head lightly, you begged for him to end his torture with pleading, tear-filled eyes from the overstimulation. You felt him everywhere as he buried his face nose-deep into your heat, hands burning every part of your skin that they caressed frantically, like starved for the feeling of you underneath them.

Pushing the ball of your palm into his bulging, scar-littered shoulder when he didn’t listen, you hit him once more when you regained more power, and he pushed himself hastily above you, almost manhandling you as he removed your panties off your legs and throwing them behind him.

“Come here,” he tells you, and it isn’t until he’s buried deep inside you that your facade breaks, tears gliding languidly down your cheeks in a quiet sob as he thrusts slow and deep, pushing down your thighs until they are burning from the stretch against the mattress–spread wide for only him. Simon hummed at the thought.

Hugging his head close to you, you can feel the warmth of his breath fanning over your neck as the sounds of him thrusting against you echo in the room, hefty and bulky, as you feel him bullying his way into you.

You knew this was it, and for that reason, you held him tighter, trying to imprint his touch into your head–wishing to prolong this moment so it would never stop, pleading with whoever would listen to make him stay. Your pleading only turned into mindless babbling as the force of his hips pushed you further up the bed, breasts bouncing with every motion.

Hearing the words stumble from you like he remembered they always did, he cooed at you, feeling your walls fluttering around his cock as he swore. “I know love, I know.” Breathlessly, he pushed himself up on his hands, grabbing the headboard as he continued to pound into you, watching you cry out with wet cheeks.

Closing his eyes in pain, he felt his heart cramp when what he was doing passed through his mind, knowing this wasn’t fair to you. But he couldn’t stop himself from having you, for you rendered him weak in the knees every time, not sure you knew of the power you held over him.

“Simon, please,” you begged with a trembling voice, staring into his dark eyes as his breath heaved with strain, begging him not to leave you again. He kept his gaze locked with yours, face contorting in agony when he realized your face would haunt him forever, damning him for his ways. He would stay away and leave you alone–he just needed to feel you for one last time, just once more.

To avoid the hurt that started to spread in his loins at the thought, he suddenly pulled you up by your forearms as he laid on his back, pulling you into his strong embrace as he splayed you over his chest, legs on either side of his waist.

A whine left you when he entered you once again, rutting up into you with strong legs planted firmly on the mattress, feeling you glide up his body with every thrust as your head buried its way into his neck. What left you now wasn’t even moans, mouth open wide in a noiseless scream as his hips slapped loudly against yours.

Grabbing the back of your hair, he pushed your head up so you started into his eyes, trying to tell you the three words he couldn’t speak. You gave no indication of noticing, eyes flickering in both pain and lust, arms on either side of his head as he kept pushing into you.

“Stay,” you managed to get out amidst his assault on you, gripping his shoulder tightly as the coil in your stomach started to tighten almost painfully. He remained quiet as he shook his head, bringing your face closer so he could press his lips against yours.

His chapped lips fitted like a puzzle piece against yours, and your hand lifted to caress the fading scars littering the skin on his face. He hit every sweet spot inside of you, pubic bone creating heavenly friction against your sensitive nub as it rubbed together when his movements grew faster. You found it hard to breathe as he swallowed your attempts, and with one hand on your waist and the other pushing your lips against his, you felt lightheaded as you moaned out against his mouth.

Starting to hit the mattress beside you in panic, he only pushed you tighter against his robot-like motions; the feeling was entirely overwhelming as the warmth that had begun spreading low in your stomach now traveled its way throughout your whole body. Your legs lay limp on the mattress, his muscular legs moving to shove you back on the mattress, now gripping the headboard again so he could push into you with more force.

When his hand found your clit, you saw white streaks of sharp light before your eyes, arching your back of the sheets as a noiseless scream left you, wet tears gathering in the corners of your eyes as you saw his eyes set intensely on you from above, your head shaking from side to side from the pleasure as you felt Simon piston in and out of you.

You didn’t want him to stop, knowing that when he did, you would never see him again. You were sure of it, felt it in how he held you and looked at you. So, when you felt the foil snap, you could only cry out as your ears started to ring, pulsating heavily around him as the cramps of your orgasm filled you with a scorching pleasure.

Every thrust of his prolongs your pleasure, still shooting through you as you fall backward, limp under Simon’s still forceful thrusts.

“That’s it, love.” Panting above you, he fell into your arms, rutting heavily against you as he wound his arms around your waist, finding strength in his muscular legs to keep his hips going, grunting audibly against your neck as you kept clenching around him. “Give it to me. Only me,” he mumbled against your wet skin, delirious from being in your embrace he so had missed.

“Only you, Simon. It will always,” you hiccuped. “Always be you.” The sobbing, blissed-out words coming from you were the final straw, his thrusts growing harder but slowing down as he bit into the skin of your neck, knuckles turning white from gripping your waist as his face contorted.

The pleasure kept roaming through him as he kept on moving inside you, prolonging the feeling as his cum rimmed around where his cock entered you, dribbling down you in heaps as it kept coming, stuffing you to the brim.

Spent, you feel the heavy weight of Simon relaxing against you, staying inside you as he tries to regain his breath–not wanting to part from you. A shaking hand found your trembling ones, intertwining them as he caressed the back of it with his thumb, reveling in how your hand caressed the skin of his back, shivers running down it as he basked in the afterglow of being one with you.

Your already heavy eyelids tried to keep open, refusing to let him slip out of your fingers, but your body had grown spent as it strained against the sleep wounding its way through you.

“Simon,” you mumbled, voice almost inaudible as he brought your hand to rest with his beside your head, humming at you, the vibrating of his chest lulling you closer to sleep. As it surrounded you forcefully, you could only let the last teardrop fall from your eyes, knowing he was seeping out of your grasp like dust.

–

The cold was seeping through you the moment you woke up, shivers wrecking through you as the bleak walls stared back at you–the blanket wrapped around you doing nothing to protect you from the chill. In a daze, you sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes tiredly, trying to regain focus as you coddled the blanket closer to your body.

That’s when the horror spread through you, head trashing wildly as you gazed around you while taking in your surroundings. A familiar, worn-down apartment stared back at you, the night dark outside as you gasped, fearing being left alone in his eerie apartment.

“Simon!” You yelled out, voice trembling as you stepped onto the wooden planks of the floor, shielding yourself with the blanket as you bolted through the hallway into the kitchen, finding it empty as you trashed open the door to the bathroom.

Your heart picked up its pace, feeling like someone had shot you right through the chest when you realized you were by yourself–completely and utterly alone, and he had left you just like you knew he would.

“Simon!” You belted out once again, leaning towards the wall in distress as the cries grew soundless as the power of it traveled up your throat, feeling it constrict until the wails filled the empty space, sobs leaving you as you grabbed your heart in agony.

By some sort of hope, you had wished he would stay even though you knew it was inevitable, but as you took notice, that wasn’t the case. Once again, the warmth of his hands had left you, forcing you to come to terms with living the bleak years of your life without him in your life, disappearing–never to return to your embrace again.

As you stood there, sobbing with cheeks red with tears, you damned yourself for loving him in the first place, for letting him step into your life once more when you were finally moving forward with your life. Unable to take the pain, you slide down the wall, glancing up at the walls as the ghost of him starts to loom over you, his shadow growing more fierce–more apparent–as you cover your head, unwilling to face reality any longer.

#ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riley #cod #cod mw2 #cod x reader #cod modern warfare #ghost smut #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley smut #cod smut #simon ghost riley imagine #ghost imagine #cod imagine #Hurt no comfort

219 notes · View notes

trillscienceofficer · 11 months

Note

I saw you said in the tags that you don't agree with Seven being about 13 etc, and I could not agree more because it irks me so much when people say how Seven was mentally 6 when they freed her from the Borg, or something to that effect. She was abused by the Borg to the point of not having her own thoughts but she still aged. Maybe she struggled socially after she was freed from that but it didn't take away the years she spent in the collective. It's basically infantilizing and paired with Seven being perceived as autistic by some, or just the fact that she went though the trauma of being Borg, is ableism to me. End of rant.

I apologize for not replying sooner to this ask but I wanted to grab a couple of links before replying because yes, I think you're totally right that saying anything to that effect (that Seven is actually a child, or that 'she doesn't actually know what's best for her') is infantilization of a character who is canonically a physically disabled adult, as well as having a very strong subtext for neurodivergence, and that it plays into ableist stereotypes that contribute to making the lives of real disabled people tangibly worse.

First, I want to make clear that no matter how muddled the metaphors get when it comes to Seven (and oh boy do they, between the cyborg technobabble and the completely absurd way Seven was "dressed" and made up on Voyager, talking about her is always a struggle), she is disabled. She makes use of many prosthetics and she has to regenerate (ie she has to make use of an external device) regularly or there are unpredictable consequences to her health. I realize this is maybe not super clear from the text, which sometimes conveniently forgets about Seven's limitations re: regeneration (see this post) and turns her prosthetics into a sort of superpower; I'm not saying it's an accurate depiction of disability by any means, but it's not something that can be completely ignored when discussing Seven either. In all honesty I've downplayed this aspect of Seven's character in the past and I really regret it because after it was pointed out to me, it's indeed pretty obvious. The trauma of Borg assimilation was disabling, and it's embodied in Seven even more than it is in other xBs, since it happened to her so young. She can never 'get rid' of it and she doesn't exactly want to, either*, even with all her very understandable ambivalence about it ("I am human, but I am also Borg").

(*I think Picard S2 makes this argument more complicated but recent live-action shows have been truly fucking awful at dealing with disability and metaphors thereof so I won't try to make sense of it. What matters is that Seven ultimately couldn't be 'magically cured' there either.)

ETA: I forgot to add, Seven is absolutely an adult. To me there's no question about it; she's played by an adult and none of her storylines, none of her struggles about figuring out how to be an individual in a group, about how to live with the terrible guilt and responsibility about her actions as Borg drone make sense if she isn't an adult. The whole character of Seven of Nine falls apart if she isn't an adult who is struggling with the terrible consequences of trauma.

Second, infantilization is a very real manifestation of ableism. This article defines infantilization as "a nondisabled person having more power than a disabled person and using that power against them to invalidate their thoughts, opinions or experiences. This can show up in numerous ways, such as indirectly speaking to a disabled person or assuming that the individual can't advocate or speak for themselves." In short, treating a disabled person like a child who needs to be directed at all times and who is assumed to not fully understand the ramifications of any independent decisions. It's not a matter of just language, either: the same article points out that 1.3 million disabled adults in the US were under conservatorship in 2018, and that forced sterilization of disabled adults is still legal in at least 31 US states plus Washington D.C. So let me make this super clear: disabled adults having their autonomy revoked, especially their bodily autonomy, is absolutely an issue in our current world. And it all stems from this ableist conceptualization of disabled adults as being like children, incapable of making the right decisions by themselves and for themselves, especially about their own bodies.

Now it's maybe clearer how this relates to Seven's whole deal, both in the show and in fandom. On the show, so many things about her prosthetics and about her looks were decided by the Doctor without consulting her at all, and how ironic it is that the one taking the decisions is a hologram coded with the biases of so many medical professionals, and it's one of those cases when no one, no one challenges the EMH! Sure, the Doctor pretty much saved her by making the reclamation process very smooth, but of course the idea that he can 'shape her' and ultimately 'cure her' of her disabilities (subtextual neurodivergence included) keeps popping up in the show pretty frequently, and she almost never gets a word in edgewise. Seven and the Doctor end up striking up a friendship, and things get a little less eyebrow-raising, but still it's pretty horrifying how the sexism of the production translates into ableism diegetically, though to be fair to Voyager it's definitely not the only Trek show where this happens. It's just that being about Seven, it's a very sustained theme on Voyager, and one I really wish wasn't there.

Off the show, in fandom, I think it would behoove us to at least try to do better than Voyager. Ultimately Seven of Nine is a fictional character that has no real feelings to hurt etc, but again what message does it send to real people when (part of) the fandom insists that Seven is 'mentally a child' or 'doesn't know what's best for her' and can't take her own decisions about her own future, even her own name? Again I'm not saying this to be a scold, and I can recognize that I haven't always been fair in my approach of Seven's disability. There's a lot of work I still need to do, and language is just a very tiny start. But it is a start nonetheless; I'd like it if people could see it as well.

#askbox #this post owes a lot to @avoicefromthestars once again #whose perspective really opened my eyes on this issue #seven of nine #voy #ableism #ask me to tag

83 notes · View notes

slowwshoww · 6 months

Text

as someone who grew up hearing many languages besides my own native english spoken often, i genuinely don't understand the concept of being turned on by someone speaking a different language

why are dudes always ready to come on the spot when someone so much as says 'buenos dias' in a fic? some guy tells his sister she's a chismosa and he's coming in his pants like i have questions and you have answers

#fandom #this is extra prevalent in the rwrb fandom but even published fiction has this notion sometimes and i'm like #no that man is just complaining that the dishwasher's broken again it's not sexy #polls

14 notes · View notes

jijismochi · 1 year

Text

BTS Reaction: Coming Out To You

Pairing: BTS x Male Reader Summary: BTS and M/N are in a relationship. They decide now is the time they want to come out to you. (Reader is gay) Tags: Mild internalized transphobia, changing of pronouns (in some cases & halfway through the reaction), Hoseok's takes place post-intercourse & contains one curse word

RM | Kim Namjoon

Graygender: Outside the gender binary, with a strong natural ambivalence about gender identity or gender expression; a weak sense of gender identity.

Namjoon wasn't particularly nervous

More like he had questions about how exactly you would react

In his logical mind, he knew you wouldn't be upset, so he tried his best not to worry

One day, when you were cuddling on the sofa, he looked at you and smiled

He wanted to get it over with

He couldn't anticipate any reaction other than good or he would lose hope and back out of telling you

"M/N, I'm graygender." he stated

You looked at him in confusion, not knowing what that was

He noticed and started to explain it to you

"It basically means that I have a very weak sense of my own gender. I couldn't tell you if I was a boy or a girl or something in between. Honestly, my gender is little to none. It's- It's like a slightly more gendered form of agender."

You smiled at him and nodded

"Okay. That's fine with me."

He cuddled you tighter before posing his next question

"Do you think you could call me 'they' instead of 'he'? And stop calling me your boyfriend? I don't really like gendered terms."

"Of course, baby. Anything you want."

Namjoon kissed you all over your face, happy they didn't back out of telling you

"I love you so much." they spoke

"I love you too, baby. Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me."

"I'd trust you with my life, M/N."

Jin | Kim Seokjin

Genderfluid: A person who does not identify as having a single unchanging gender.

Seokjin had struggled with his identity for a long time

He loved pink, but it was girly, so he couldn't like it anymore

Armys called him 'princess' and the 'mother' of the group, and all he could do was insist he was a boy

He didn't want to face up to the idea he could be anything else

But he was getting older, and he didn't want to live in pain any longer

So he researched meticulously; any gender identity you could name, he had heard about it

Seokjin searched his innermost thoughts and feelings

Tried to read himself like a book

And he finally, finally landed on genderfluid

And then, all he wanted to do was tell the man he loved, but he was scared

So one day, when you were sitting on your living room sofa, he stared down at his hands and fiddled with his fingers

"M/N, I want you to know something."

Your mind searched the worst possibilities; was he cheating on you?

But that was far from the truth

He began to explain everything quietly

"I-I've fought with myself for a long time. I didn't want to admit that I was different. But I can't do it anymore. So, I'm genderfluid. Some days, I feel like a guy, and other days, I feel like a girl. Sometimes I don't really feel like either."

You were okay with it immediately

In your eyes, this could never change the way you felt about him

"I know you're gay, M/N. I would get it if you weren't happy about this. I just don't want to pretend anymore. I don't want to keep telling myself that it's not what I feel, because it is. I feel it all the time."

You took one of his hands in your own, lifting his chin up with the other

You just wanted him to look at you so you could tell him it was okay

That it didn't make you love him any less

He smiled a little, although still nervous

"I think, I want you to call me different pronouns based on how I feel. I don't know how exactly you'd figure it out, but I'm sure we could come up with something. I-Is that okay?"

You reassured him again that everything was alright

You just wanted him to be happy with himself

"What do you feel like right now?" you asked

"I guess neither. So maybe 'they'?"

"Alright. 'They' it is!"

Seokjin was almost overwhelmed with emotion

You, the man they were in love with, accepted them for who they were

They thanked you, and you quickly told them there was nothing to thank you for

You simply loved them for who they were, and that was it

Suga | Min Yoongi

Agender: Not having a gender; a lack of gender.

Yoongi wasn't too worried that you wouldn't accept him

Yet a part of him was still full of anxiety

Coming out to you was nerve-wracking, whether you would accept him or not

But he didn't want to hide himself from you anymore

One Sunday, you were sat at the kitchen table eating lunch

"I need you to know something about me." he spoke

You simply said 'okay' and waited for him to continue

"So, my identity is something that I've always wondered about. When I was younger, in school, I never felt that I fit in with the boys. But I didn't want to be a girl either." he started

"I was confused for a long time, so when I got older, I started looking into it online. I found this word, 'agender', meaning I don't have a gender. It felt like I finally had an identity."

He breathed out before continuing

"I know you started dating me under the impression that I'm a man, and this might change some things. But you're a big part of my life, perhaps even the biggest part, and I would like you to know who I really am."

"In most ways, this doesn't need to change how you refer to me. I'm not uncomfortable with being addressed as 'he'. But when it comes to my actual gender identity, I don't have a gender. I'm just me. So being called your partner, and you not calling me a man: I would like that."

You smiled at him fondly, him smiling back sheepishly

"Yoongi, your gender doesn't make a difference to me. I'm happy you feel comfortable enough to tell me who you are, and I can assure you that I'll only call you the things that you like being called."

"I understand you might've been worried, since I'm gay and all, but when it comes to you, that doesn't matter. I love you for who you are, not because I thought you were a man. Alright?"

"Okay." Yoongi replied

His anxiety subsided immediately and you continued eating lunch, only now you knew who he was

And you loved him for exactly that

J-Hope | Jung Hoseok

Demiboy: Someone who identifies at least partially as a boy or with aspects of masculinity, but whose gender identity is not fully male.

Hoseok decided that the right time to tell you was in bed, just after you'd slept together

Why? Who knows, but this was it

Once he had caught his breath, he turned onto his side to face you

"M/N, I want you to know that... I'm a demiboy. Basically, it means that I'm only partially a man."

"Well you look fully male to me..." you replied, tracing your hand over his stomach, thinking he was talking about his body

He furrowed his brows before realizing what you thought

"No, I don't mean my body. I mean my gender. My identity."

You panicked for a moment, worried you had upset him with what you said

"Oh, I'm sorry, Hobi. I didn't mean-" you started, but he cut you off

"Don't worry, I know you weren't trying to invalidate me. It's not a well-known word, so I understand."

You nodded, still a little concerned

"In terms of my gender identity, it means I don't feel like I'm entirely a man. Part of me is, but there's other parts of me that don't feel so masculine. I don't know what they are, so all I can tell you is that I'm at least partially a man."

"That's where the term 'demiboy' comes in. The other parts of me... they're just ambiguous. I can't tell you what they are, because I don't know."

You gave him a look of understanding and nodded again

Wondering if he had more to say

"I know you're gay. Which means that maybe you won't like the fact that I'm not just a man. But I want you to know."

You waited another moment before replying

"Hobi, first off: this is a really weird time to bring up gender." you chuckled

He laughed back, appreciating your normalcy

"Secondly, there is nothing you could say that would change how I feel about you. Yes, ordinarily, I'm attracted to men. But you know who I'm most attracted to? You. Man, woman, part man and part whatever the fuck else, you are the one I love. I did not fall in love with your gender. I fell in love with you."

Hoseok smiled and leaned over to kiss you

"I love you too, M/N."

Jimin | Park Jimin

Bigender: A person whose gender identity encompasses two genders.

Jimin had a whole lot of fear

He knew you were okay with transgender people, that you would be more than willing to date one and see them as the gender they identify with

But you didn't like girls, and part of him was a girl

He also didn't know if you'd understand the idea that someone could be both man and woman at the same time

So you sat there on your date night, watching the way his eyes looked like he was battling something

"Jiji, is everything okay?"

"No. No, it's not." he replied

You asked what was going on, and he reached for your hands across the table

You were 99% convinced at that point that a breakup was coming

"Jimin, you're scaring me..."

"No, please don't be scared! I just need to tell you something."

"Go on..."

Jimin squeezed your hands gently, kissing each of them once

"Whatever I say to you, promise you won't leave me."

"Jimin-" your eyes widened in fear before you were cut off

"Just promise me."

"I promise."

He sighed and buried his head in your intertwined hands before looking back up at you

He had no reason to be scared, yet he was petrified

"Okay. Okay. I feel like both a man and a woman. I don't know if you've heard of bigender. But that's who I am."

Your expression softened as you looked in his eyes

"Jimin, that's what you're so scared about?" you questioned, a hint of disbelief in your tone

He only nodded his head meekly, trying to hide away from your gaze

"Sweetheart... whether you're a man, a woman, both, or neither is the least of my concerns."

"But you're gay. And I'm a girl too. You don't like girls."

"Not usually, no. But I love you. I love you so much, so you being a girl as well as a guy has no effect on me, Jiji."

"But what if- what if I wanted you to call me a girl too, M/N? What if I wanted you to start using 'she' as well as 'he'?"

"Then I will absolutely do those things. You were my baby boy, and now you can be my baby girl too." you smiled

Jimin smiled back brightly, kissing your hands again

"I love you, M/N." she spoke, "So, so much."

"I love you too, Jiji. Please don't ever be afraid to tell me things."

"I won't anymore. I promise."

V | Kim Taehyung

Non-Binary: Not fully male or female; a gender that falls outside the gender binary.

Taehyung was 100% convinced you were gonna leave him

After all, you fell in love with a man, and he simply wasn't one

When you got home from work one day, you found him sitting on the couch in silence

You walked over and sat next to him

"Are you okay, baby?" you questioned

"N-No... I need to talk to you about something."

"Alright, go ahead, sweetie."

Taehyung immediately burst into tears

You pulled him into your lap and wrapped your arms around him

"Baby boy," you said without thinking, "tell me what's wrong."

Taehyung only cried harder at your words, although he knew it wasn't your fault

"Please don't call me that." he spoke

You furrowed your brows in confusion

Taehyung never seemed to mind that nickname before

"I'm sorry, sweetie. Why don't you just tell me what's wrong?"

"I-I'm not a boy. 'M not."

"What do you mean, baby? Like, you're transgender? You're a girl?" you questioned

"No, no. 'M not a girl either. 'M just- 'M just a person. I don't wanna be called a boy or a girl. 'M non-binary. I'm so sorry, M/N." he sobbed out

You ran your hands through Taehyung's hair gently

"Sweetheart, there's nothing to be sorry about. You are who you are. I love you no matter what."

"B-But you're gay. You only fell in love with me because you thought I was a man. But 'm not. 'M not a man."

"Taehyung, listen to me very carefully. I may be gay, and I may have started dating you as a man, but nothing could change the way I feel about you. You could be a girl, the literal opposite of the gender I like, and I would still be so in love with you. Gender doesn't matter to me anymore. I just want you."

Taehyung sniffled and looked at you, hoping you were being sincere

"You're not gonna leave me?" he asked

"No, baby, of course not. I would never leave you. I just wanna know how you'd like me to refer to you." you explained

"O-Okay. Um... I don't mind my name, but- but I don't wanna be called a boy or a girl. You can call me your partner if you want. And I don't like being called 'he'. I-I like the sound of 'they'. But y-you don't have to- to do that if you don't want to."

You looked at them with a sad expression

All you wished was that they could see how much you loved them

"Taehyung, my sweet baby, what I want is for you to be happy. If what makes you happy is being my partner, and being referred to as 'they', I don't have any problem with that. I just want to do what makes you comfortable, okay?"

Taehyung leaned further into you, clutching onto you like they were falling

And they were falling; even more in love with you than they thought possible

"I love you so much, M/N. So, so much."

"I love you too. More than anything in the world, Taehyung."

Jung Kook | Jeon Jungkook

Genderqueer: A gender identity that does not correspond to conventional binary gender distinctions.

You and Jungkook were out on a date at a restaurant when he decided it was time to tell you who he was

You sat across from him on a table, waiting for dessert to arrive

"M/N, there's something we need to talk about."

"Is everything okay? What is it?"

He looked down and chuckled nervously

"Okay, here it goes: I've been thinking about my gender for a while. I never really thought that just being a boy fit me. So I started looking into different gender identities online, and experimenting with certain things."

You listened patiently as Jungkook continued, doing your best to take in all the things he was saying

"I felt that the term 'genderqueer' fit who I was the best. It basically means that my gender doesn't really correlate to any traditional binary gender traits. So I'm not really a guy, at least I don't feel all that much like one, nor do I feel too much like a girl. My gender is just... unconventional. I don't think I really fit into one box. And I hope that you'll accept me for who I am."

You stayed quiet for a moment, still processing all the information

Jungkook looked up at you nervously; you looked like you were thinking deeply about it

Eventually, you looked back at him with furrowed brows

"Jungkook, I'm not sure what you expected me to say. I may be gay, but that couldn't matter less to me at this point. I love you for who you are, man or not, and I'm happy to call you whatever you want to be called." you explained

He seemed unsure for a moment, asking if you really meant it

Of course, you did

"So have you thought about what you like being called?"

"Well, I've been experimenting with different things lately; seeing what I like to call myself first. And I think I'm okay with most things. Boyfriend, girlfriend, partner. I like my name as it is. For pronouns, I don't really mind. He, she, they; I like all of them, so you can call me all of them. I guess I don't really have much preference, but I'd like it if you didn't stick to one."

"Of course, baby. I'll use all of them." you agreed

Jungkook smiled up at you, both relieved and excited about your reaction

"You really don't mind?" they asked

"I don't mind at all. If it's who you are, then I want to make you comfortable, Jungkookie. I love you more than anything I've ever seen and anyone I've ever known. All I want is for you to be who you are around me."

She appreciated that more than you could ever know

#bts #bts x male reader #bts x reader #x male reader #x reader #male reader #coming out #lgbtq #lgbtqia #graygender #genderfluid #agender #demiboy #bigender #nonbinary #genderqueer #enby #pronouns

57 notes · View notes

meikuree · 1 year

Text

shingeki no kyojin fic recs: hange zoë edition

in no particular order, here are some fics about hange zoë i’ve enjoyed reading. most of them are canonverse oneshots, ranging from 1k to 4k words in length, with an equal distribution of genfic and relationship-focused fic.

this list was compiled in Aug/Sep 2022, and I admittedly don’t keep up with snk fic often now, so anyone’s welcome to add self-recs or other recs in reblogs that you’ve enjoyed.

gen, pre-canon, missing scenes

Downriver by Lady_Bluebird (Levi & Hange | Gen | M rating | 1.2k) Hange patches Levi up in the woods after Zeke’s attack on him. M rated for graphic descriptions of violence and injury (it’s otherwise platonic, and centred on their professional relationship). a gritty, realistic look at their situation on the eve of the Rumbling.

knock down drag out by Senri (Levi & Hange | Gen | T rating | 1.6k) post-Wall Maria, Levi and Hange have a confrontation about Levi’s decision to give the serum to Armin. an excellent missing scene that builds on mere hints of Hange’s ambivalence about their involuntary promotion to Commander in canon to give them the airtime they deserve. we get to see exactly why and how being Commander’s a poisoned chalice for Hange, not to mention Hange’s resentment over the serum affair and Erwin’s death. Hange’s a principled person, but has their rough spots too; this fic showcases that well with nuance.

Zugzwang by Minos_forlorn (Pieck & Hange | Gen | G rating | 1.3k) Hange plays a game of chess with Pieck, while she’s captured and under their care in Paradis. a great look at these two connecting with each other outside of the circumstances within the manga, with good character insight into both of them.

Hanji's Notebook by lightningwaltz (Gen | T Rating | 4k) a pre-canon look at hange’s backstory, told through excerpts from their notebook/journal. it’s written in first person POV, but don’t let that faze you: this fic nails Hange’s idiosyncratic but reflective thought process, which is an impressive feat. the worldbuilding & deeper scythe into the lives of the Survey Corps’s members is wonderful too!

relationship-focused fics

Acceptable Cost by gogollescent (Erwin/Hange | Other | T rating | 1.5k) a short fic centred around a birthday celebration for Erwin, that offers a peek into Hange’s wonderful camaraderie with their comrades, and Hange’s life + outlook in the Survey Corps before the start of the manga. the characterisation is wonderfully sharp and insightful. although it’s tagged Erwin/Hange, imo this can pass as Gen until the last few sections.

alike by soapyheels (Hange/Pieck | Other | T rating | 2k) short and well-written bittersweet look at Pieck’s post-canon situation as she reflects on some Rumbling interactions with Hange, featuring a deeper conversation than what we got in canon. beyond Hange’s role, I really liked the notes about Pieck’s inner conflict, and how Pieck was able to build bridges with an enemy commander, and the hopeful note this ended on.

Lose the Ballads by Anonymous (Hange/Petra, Other | T rating | 1k) Petra can carry her own weight and whatever the Corps has to throw at her, including Hanji Zoë. a short fic charting Petra’s first meeting with Hange and a subsequent (implied) relationship. excellent Hange voice and characterisation, with sharp and resonant prose too; I’m in love with the version of Hange presented here, whirlwind-like but principled and with hidden depths.

And debauchee of dew by tselinoyarsk (snowlikeash) (Hange/Petra, F/F | T rating | 1k) Hanji learns not to just drink any little thing on Petra's drafting desk, else she be preyed upon. a short but fun interaction between petra and hange, featuring fun dialogue.

to end this off:

for my recs, please pretend I’m holding up a big stadium sign for all these saying “THIS FIC IS REALLY GOOD!!! you should be reading it!!” most of these fics are from criminally underrated authors, so the usual bromide applies: if you enjoy any of them, consider leaving kudos or a comment!

#cc-ing senri although you probably know most of these recs #snk #hange zoe #hange zöe #fic rec #pikuhan #hanpeto #eruhan #levihan #but mostly platonic #shingeki no kyojin #aot #attack on titan

71 notes · View notes

lumosatnight · 8 months

Text

20 questions for fic writers!

Thanks for the tag @acnelli (x), @schmem14 (x), and @indigo-scarf (x)!

1. How many works do you have on AO3?

I just reached exactly 100 works! Low-key so happy that my Pansmione soulmates fic was #100.

2. What’s your total AO3 word count?

301,754!! I am actually shocked by how high this is.

3. What fandoms do you write for?

Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling (97)

First Kill (TV 2022) (1)

방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS (1)

Wednesday (TV 2022) (1)

4. What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

What is this, fucking Jeopardy? [Drarry, E, 20.4k]

White, the colour of flowers [Drarry, M, 3.2k]

A Heart So Colourful ♡ [Viktor/Ron, E, 1.5k]

Impervius, Not [Drarry, T, 5.0k]

7 Days of Halloween: I Don't Feel Like Myself Anymore [Wolfstar, E, 29.7k]

5. Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

Oh heck yeah! I love getting and responding to comments. I've met some wonderful people in the comments section of fics.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Your Cigarette Smell [Sirius/Narcissa, E, 9.7k] with canon-compliant character death, so I think you know where this is going.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Any of my fluffy fics? Maybe Lavmione in Lavender for Morning or Nottpott in Silver Surprise.

8. Do you get hate on fics?

Not yet (*crosses fingers*). I've had some mildly annoying comments (like saying how they disliked background Dramione in a Drarry fic I wrote), but nothing to make me wanna bash my head against the wall.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind?

Umm... yes. I am currently in the middle of posting the smuttiest, most depraved series I have ever written for this year's Kinktober.... so check it out ig?

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

Not so much crossovers but heavily inspired by other stories. I wrote Dronarry in a Sandman AU and also Hermione/Daphne in a Twilight AU 😂

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of...

12. Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yes! My Nottpott fic was translated into Russian. How cool is that??

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before?

I have done art collabs but never co-written a fic. Definitely something I'd love to try. Maybe it'll happen next year!

14. What’s your all time favourite ship?

Idk there's too many to choose!! I probably read Drarry the most, but I think that's mostly because there's just SO MANY amazing Drarry authors. I can honestly be convinced to like any ship if I like the writing style and the story. I'm a huge rare pair and femslash shipper!!! The communities are just so wonderful 💖

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will?

Never say never! But I'm really lacking motivation to finish my Squid Games AU Drarry fic. I love the concept, but the plot is just not flowing.

16. What are your writing strengths?

Emotion. I like my fics to pack a punch. I think I'm getting pretty good at it.

17. What are your writing weaknesses?

Longfic. It's hard for me to sustain motivation for one idea. I have too many running through my brain at once, and I always get distracted by the shiny new headcanon.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic?

I've seen it. I've done it. I'm ambivalent, mostly. I think it can be a great way to show cultural differences between characters. But I also think 90% of the time it unnecessarily confuses the reader because if you don't know the language, you're just going to skip over the dialogue. And if you do know the language, then you'll notice if it doesn't sound natural. Yeah... not a fan when it's just google translated and copy-pasted.

19. First fandom you wrote for?

Harry Potter!

20. Favourite fic you’ve written?

Anything on my Author's Favorites list! From recently though, maybe my Perciver strip chess fic 😉

Tagging (no pressure): @crazybutgood, @anaxandria-writes, @sugareey-makes-stuff, @givereadersahug, @orange-peony

#tag game #asked and answered #20 questions

13 notes · View notes

pumpkinnning · 11 months

Note

Your tags on that Charles and Ferrari post ring so true!!!

(I'm assuming this is the same anon 😅)

yes exactly ! The way people have been talking about Charles re:Ferrari lately has felt kind of very one note and low key a bit disrespectful ngl like he's too stupid to quit something that's hurting him but like you said, it's not like he has any better options at the moment. He would maybe have a better car at RBR or Merc but he would clearly be on "enemy" territory and I think people underestimate how much fitting in a team impacts performance. (And it's not like those teams have an actual opening rn)

And yeah like @mountinez pointed out very accurately, it's his choice, he's a grown man and he knows his options far better than any of us do.

And putting the idea of an individual win so far above a win with the team he loves is very idk...focus on the macho individualistic superman aspect of sports that i kind of find toxic honestly ??? (It's the part of DTS i find honestly really annoying i think they should pay more attention to the team work and the mechanics and all the others who make this possible instead of staging all those fake little cockfights but anyway) it's like all those pundits saying Charles should Take Charge more like a Real Man and invent his own strategies and everything else instead of you know trusting the people whose job it is and actually have the data like bitch please !!!!

Like in the end I'm a Charles fan before anything else so if he leaves Ferrari I will think it's badass and healthy and if he stays I will praise his loyalty and commitment 😂😂 but whatever he does there will be a chance for it to fail and it will be easy to talk shit about what he should have done in hindsight but the truth is we don't know shit about what is really happening behind the scenes and a big part of it is down to luck and timing

And when it comes to rpf and writing fictional narratives inspired by all this - yes of course the pain and addiction of devotion to sth that doesn't love you back and the martyr/saint imagery it's all very compelling (a lot of us have probably been there lmfao i know i have)

but there is also a lot more there like what about the power fantasy of loving sth so hard you change its very nature ? What if patient love and commitment gets rewarded for once ? (What does it mean if we write it as always destined for failure?) What about saying no this imperfect thing i am fighting for is mine actually i am taking ownership and I am not going to cede ground to people playing selfish little games with it or leave it to crumble and succumb to its worst impulses ? What about the journey mattering more than the end and the people you chose to do this with mattering more than the victory and honoring your dreams and passion mattering more than a line in the history books ? If we are going to write stuff inspired by real people we should at least try to honor a bit of the complexity of real life and give space to complex ambivalent feelings

Lmfao anyway yes i am in the Thinking about Themes part of writing fic rn but yeah !!! I find this whole thing incredibly compelling and if/when Charles wins the WDC with Ferrari I will cry like a little baby for 3 days at least

#cl16 #f1 #charles leclerc #anyway as a seb fan it's also a bit the same like i am pissed off at ferrari for how they treated him but he still loves them so much #and it feels wrong to dismiss that because then what was it all for #he tried to love sth wholeheartedly and that's what matters a #also tbh i find it more interesting to blame specific people within ferrari #but hey maybe it's because i am also delusional and a bit of a masochist lmfao #answered asks #sorry for the long winded answer lmao i have two settings reply three months later or write you an essay

16 notes · View notes

anneangel · 2 years

Text

A homoerotic work/show leaves room for different interpretations about the relationship that its characters maintain, the relationship is ambiguous, so that each fan is free to assume WHAT is the level/type of relationship. The work/show never openly suggests anything, but uses occasions, motives, pretexts that allow or enable a different reading/interpretation without denying the ambivalence of each occasion, reason or pretexts. The Show/work thrives on AMBIGUITY of interpretation without denying it anything! Keeping the constant doubt about "what EXACTLY is this relationship?" and each fan will draw their own conclusions, without consensus.

They manage to simultaneously keep the conservative public and the Queer public, not having either of them as a defined "target public".

Eventually turns the characters' relationship into one of the most MEANINGFUL and affectionate ones in the story show/work, we can even get to the point of having an "I love you" (which leaves ambiguous whether it's romantic, fraternal, platonic or other kind of love), and in general it's not up for discussion because the show is going to make a ISSUE of killing one of the characters so it doesn't have to justify itself to the public.

(Or, if the show doesn't kill one of them, they will simply minimize all previous affection, and leave the relationship "open to the public's interpretation" in the End. Without the show really define, for themself and us, WHAT the characters' relationship was exactly).

As for Queerbaiting, the work/show previously SUGGESTED that the characters may become QUEER, using occasions, motives and contexts with ambiguous interpretation, but with no real intention of making this MORE than a mere suggestion, often later DENYING that there really was "ambivalence/ambiguity", and that any different reading was a "misunderstanding" by some fans. That is, they use the "bait" to get a Queer audience and call themselves "progressive", while trying to keep the conservative audience.

At some point the show/work will give more value to conservative audiences and either turn the Queer elements into mere comic relief (which is worrisome and horrible as this shouldn't be made into a joke) or the show/work simply denies absolutely EVERYTHING, as if it had never put the "bait" there (hypocrisy).

Homoerotic or Queerbaiting. Do you know of any shows that do this? Which one? #TAG.

#sherlock #merlin #vikings #athelnar #merthur #johnlock #vikings history #queerbaiting #homoerotism

59 notes · View notes

cecilysass · 2 years

Text

How to Eat Pleasant Holiday Meals With Co-Workers (5/5)

Read on AO3 | Rated M | Tagging @today-in-fic

Thanksgiving Day 2023

He originally started calling the kid Mick because she bore a certain resemblance to Mick Jagger as a baby, and it stuck.

At first this drove Scully crazy, and she would beg him to please try using the name they carefully selected for their daughter at birth. But as in all other things, he wore her down, and now he smiles triumphantly when he hears Scully using the nickname, too. Truthfully, no one in their family regularly uses the name carefully selected for them at birth – not Mick’s parents, not Mick’s brother – so Mulder doesn’t see why Mick should be any different.

Mick bears a certain coloring book outline resemblance to Scully: the shape of her body, her size, the texture of her hair. In all other details and in the substance of her personality she is a carbon copy of Mulder, a circumstance that both delights and concerns her mother.

When it was time for Mick to start kindergarten, Mulder’s anxiety spiked alarmingly. Not only because there was still a pandemic, not only because he was a paranoid sixtysomething stay-at-home parent with a laundry list of traumas, but because he was simply very attached to Mick. He liked having her around. She was his focus, his new work, his best and ultimate X-file.

When he floated the idea that he might homeschool her, Scully was sincerely appalled. Mulder and Mick already had hours-long conversations in the kitchen about evolutionary adaptations and Eastern spirituality, and she had begun to worry what Mick would be like as a ten-year old. As a 16-year old. As a 30-year old.

Actually, she worried she knew exactly what Mick would be like as a 30-year old. She worried she had already met that person, in the basement of the Hoover building thirty years before. She loves that person unthinkingly, fiercely, with every cell in her body. But she is also ambivalent about replicating him so precisely in the form of her small daughter.

In the end they agreed to send Mick to kindergarten at the local public elementary school in West Tisbury.

Now, everyday, Mulder waits for her bus out at the end of their drive with some sort of handmade snack, a domestic detail Scully honestly just can’t quite wrap her mind around. She can’t reconcile the Mulder she remembers from their earlier life — the one who never ate anything but a limited selection of takeout and diner food —with the Mulder who now painstakingly bakes banana bread for Mick.

Mick steps off the bus, takes off her mask, kisses him, accepts her slice of banana bread, and begins talking a blue streak about what happened at school or some idea she thought about on the bus ride home.

Scully works from home since they moved to the Vineyard. She sits at her wide office window and watches them walk up the drive together, talking intensely. This man and this child she loves so much, absorbed together in their own oddball world.

If her heart could create a resilient invisible bubble to hover around them and protect them, she would. Because she is also a paranoid soon-to-be-sixty-something parent with a laundry list of traumas. She remembers what it is to lose children, and she remembers what it is to lose him, too, in several significant ways.

This Thanksgiving, Mulder is teaching Mick how to make cranberries the Right Way, according to him. In the pot, with grated orange and cinnamon sticks.

Mick listens to him with a serious intent expression as he lectures her about cranberry consistency. She looks exactly like him, Scully thinks for the umpteenth time. The way her light green eyes lock on him as he talks, the way she has given him her complete focus, the round purse of her bottom lip, the tiny furrow in her brow.

After they have gotten the pot simmering, Mick and Daggoo run to play outside. Scully sets to work pouring the sweet potato filling into the pie crust, inhaling the nutmeg scent appreciatively. Mulder washes up the dishes, keeping an eye out the window.

Their house faces woods on one side, and on the other, there is a short walk down to the beach, which Scully loves. She loves having Mick growing up on an island, as Mulder did, and she loves being within earshot of the ocean herself. She belongs to the sea, and so does Mulder. Now, so does Mick.

The pie is ready to go in the oven— at least, she hopes it is, if it’s not overfilled. Scully regards it thoughtfully, licking a dollop of sweet potato off her thumb. Sweet potato pie isn’t her favorite, but she has made it now for years, as Mulder adores it. She admits to a certain pride now in her expertise.

“Hey Scully,” Mulder says in a quiet voice to her from the sink. “Come over here, will you?”

“Hold on,” she says. “Let me just put this in.”

She positions the pie, surface wobbling, on the top rack, then looks in at it, satisfied. She sets the timer for an hour and then scoots next to Mulder at the sink, nudging his hip flirtatiously. She’s surprised when he doesn’t respond, but his eyes are fixed out the window on Mick, who is chanting something in the tiny yard outside. Daggoo runs in excited circles around her.

“Watch her with me for a second,” he says in a subdued voice, his eyes not leaving the yard. “Just watch.”

Side by side they watch as Mick picks up a handful of crumbling leaves, and then she turns and says something, offhand, to an invisible playmate to her right. She offers the playmate one of the leaves, and then, shrugging, turns to her left to laugh uproariously at something another invisible playmate has said.

Scully chuckles fondly. She turns to Mulder to share in the mutual joy of their eccentric child, but stops short.

He is not smiling; his face is stone.

“What’s wrong?” She touches his cheek with her knuckle. “What’s worrying you?”

“She’s been talking to invisible people like this for so long,” he says in a whisper. “The whole time I’ve been washing dishes.”

“That’s upsetting you?” Scully asks.

“She never looks away. They have her full attention.”

“Mulder, this kind of imaginative play is a completely normal developmental stage for this age,” Scully says. “You know that. She’s above average imaginative. You don’t have to worry about schizophrenia or mental health problems when you see a child talking to imaginary playmates.”

“I’m not worried about schizophrenia or mental health problems,” he says, his pitch dropping. His eyes cut to hers.

Scully draws in a breath, understanding his implication. She turns to watch Mick more carefully, because she has seen too much to be a knee-jerk skeptic now.

Mick looks up at someone standing on one side of her and makes a face, and then turns and says something with animated passion to someone sitting next to her on the ground.

“What exactly are you thinking, Mulder?”

He looks at her. “What if she sees … things we don’t see? What if she’s like Jackson?”

“Jackson doesn’t see invisible people,” Scully says, studying his face like a map.

“What if Mick sees ghosts?”

In tandem they both turn back again to watch their small daughter. She has a stick and a leaf in each hand, and she is gesturing with them, making some kind of point to a group of unseen people.

“She could be surrounded by ghosts, Scully,” whispers Mulder. “So many ghosts.”

Oh Mulder, she thinks, turning back towards him and reaching out with her fingertips to trace his face. She’s not the only one.

“We’ll ask her,” Scully says, letting her fingers trail down his cheek and watching him closely. “If she’s seeing anything, she’ll tell you.”

With both hands she directs his mouth to hers and kisses him, because she knows her kisses can soothe him, calm him down.

She would say her kisses always soothe him and calm him down, but that’s not strictly true. They know now that it needs to be her kisses and 20 milligrams of citalopram a day, plus some regular therapy, fresh air, and exercise, ideally a run on the beach. Purposeful work doesn’t hurt either.

Still, as her hands stroke his face, her lips play lightly at his, she can feel it making the difference. He relaxes, kisses her back. His hands sneak around to her cup her backside.

“Want to stuff a turkey?” he whispers.

“We’re not stuffing our turkey,” Scully tells him seriously. “For reasons of food safety.”

“Was it not clear that was a come-on line?”

She stands on her tiptoes and speaks softly in his ear. “How about you peel my potatoes, Mulder?”

“That wasn’t a come-on line, was it?”

“As a matter of fact, no,” she says, smiling, pulling away to grab the bag of potatoes and place them in his hands.

***

Last year, Mick and Mulder made a paper turkey centerpiece for the table, stapling together strips of brown and red and yellow construction paper to make an awkward little bird, a googly-eyed objet d’art.

This year the decoration is a little battered and bent, but Scully pulls it out anyway and props it up in the center of the table, next to the small orange pumpkin and the decorative gourd.

It reminds her of another Thanksgiving years and years ago, when she and Mulder were in quarantine together, right after she had been returned from her abduction. He drew a sad little paper turkey centerpiece for their lonely dinner to make her laugh, cheer her up. Those two young agents, still tentative with the defenses around each other, seem in some ways like strangers to her now. Yet in other ways she also feels like exactly the same person.

The three of them work together to set the table and carry out the food. Mick carries the special Mulder-style cranberries and a basket of rolls, Mulder the platter of the healthy roasted asparagus Scully insists on plus the mashed potatoes and gravy, and Scully cradles the stuffing and a compact little turkey that will feed all three of them and still generate leftovers.

Once they sit down, Scully thinks fleetingly of a blessing or of sharing what they’re grateful for, but Mick starts grabbing for the rolls and Scully begins to serve her, and Mulder belatedly remembers to pour some wine, and they are distracted.

A few minutes later, Mick is finishing a long-winded explanation of marsupial traits when Scully and Mulder make significant eye contact across the table.

“Hey,” Mulder says casually. “Mick, I was curious if there was someone you were talking to before.”

Mick, who is mixing her cranberries and her mashed potatoes up methodically, looks up at him in surprise. “I was talking to you and Mommy.”

“No, I meant outside, when you were playing in the leaves.” He keeps his voice impressively calm, pouring gravy as he glances at her.

“Ohhhh,” Mick says, smiling a tiny knowing smile. “Outside, yeah.”

“You were talking to somebody?”

“My friends,” Mick says. “Can I have another roll?”

“Eat some of the rest of your dinner first,” Scully says briskly, leaning over to cut up slices of turkey on Mick’s plate. “What friends?”

“My friend Sib and my friend Sem and my friend Samantha,” Mick announces, cramming a spoonful of cranberries in her mouth.

Mulder drops the asparagus platter down on the table, and it lands a little too loudly. His hands are visibly shaking. His eyes meet Scully’s, and she tries to transmit a message to him: stay calm, g-man.

Her attention shifts back to Mick. “What do they look like? What do they talk about?” asks Scully with an encouraging smile.

“We play,” says Mick, matter-of-fact. “We like to play zoo. We built a whole wombat habitat today. Did you know that wombats poop in cubes, Mommy? They typically live in mountains and shrublands throughout Australia.”

“One of your friends has the same name as Daddy’s sister,” comments Scully, watching Mick’s face carefully.

Mick nods. “She has brown braids like the picture on Daddy’s desk, too.” She gestures with her hands to mimic braids and tosses her head from side to side playfully.

Abruptly Mulder stands up. His chair knocks backwards with a clatter. Mick startles, but he doesn’t seem to register her reaction at all.

“What about the other friends, Mick?” he insists in a low voice, fixing his attention on her, his eyes burning. “What do they look like?”

His daughter stares at him, wide-eyed. For her entire lifetime, her father has been easygoing and joking and gentle, a playmate and teacher. She has no memory of him being any other way. Her expression is one of shock.

“Sib is tall and skinny and has black sort-of spiky hair,” Mick says in an uncertain voice. “Sem is little and has short gold hair.”

“Mulder,” cautions Scully. He doesn’t even look at her. He doesn’t even seem to hear her.

“What does Samantha say to you, Mick? What does she say?”

“Mulder, enough.” Scully is out of her chair now.

“Does she say anything to you, Mick? It’s important. It’s really important. What does she say?”

“I don’t know, Daddy,” she whispers, her expression frozen.

“Does she tell you to do anything? Does she say anything about me?”

Scully is gripping his arm now, tugging, speaking firmly to him. “That’s enough.”

Mulder finally registers her, his expression desperate. “Scully, we have to—“

“Mulder.”

He turns back to Mick. “Just a few more—”

Scully sees no way around this. She twists back towards Mick, smiling as calmly as she can. “Mick, it’s okay. Daddy’s okay, just a little wound up. I’m just going to talk to him one minute, sweetie. Don’t be worried. We’ll be right in the other room.”

She drags him into the kitchen, her stomach a mass of nerves, hating leaving the child in there alone and frightened. “What is wrong with you?” she hisses. “You’re scaring her. You have to pull it together.”

“She’s seeing Samantha. What does it mean, Scully?“ His voice cracks. She can see from the wild look in his eyes that he’s terrified. She wonders about his medication.

“Mulder.” She puts her hands on his cheeks, forcing him to look her in the eyes. “Agent Mulder. Listen to me. Are you listening?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, his eyes settling on hers.

“She’s seen the photo of Samantha a thousand times. She knows the story by heart. To her it’s history, myth, legend.”

He nods rapidly, as though he is clinging to her every word.

“She probably just gave her imaginary friend that name because it’s in her mind, in her psyche. The other names sound made up, but that one — she could have just given her that name and imagined her looking like the photo. That’s typical imaginative kid behavior.”

“Scully,” he whispers. “You don’t think when she says Sem, and she says little with gold hair, you don’t think she means Emily?”

For a moment Scully’s chest seizes. She stares back at Mulder, feeling her eyes widen. This is how together they can sometimes enter a feedback loop, can frighten and disturb one another like no one else in the world can. But she hears Mick’s chair squeak in the other room, and it reminds her: they only have so much time left with her, their precious fresh start.

“No,” she says. “I don’t.”

His formative trauma was losing a little girl. No amount of therapy, no amount of medication, no passing of time, was ever going to keep him from being deathly afraid of losing Mick. She knows this. He does, too.

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat, sounding shell-shocked. “You’re right, Scully. Of course you are.”

“We have to go back right now,” she whispers. “Remember our number one parenting goal. She’s supposed to be the least traumatized of us.”

He nods again, and then it seems to hit him, what happened with the little girl in the other room. “Oh shit,” he says softly. “Oh shit, shit, shit.”

He immediately sprints back into the dining room and swoops his arms around Mick, and Scully hears him saying, “I’m so sorry, kid,” in his warm and loving voice, and giving his most empathetic explanation.

Scully takes a moment longer. She is still trembling. His distress has long been more personally arduous for her than her own; she can’t even remember now when this wasn’t true. Now it is true of Mick, too, and also of Jackson, although he usually goes to considerable pains to hide his troubles from her.

When she comes back to the table they are both smiling, and Scully feels relief wash over her.

“Why don’t we do the thing, Scully— the thing where we say what we’re grateful for?” Mulder suggests.

The idea makes her miss her mother so very much. How she longs to have her mom with her now, sitting across the table, smiling at Mick, this precocious, miraculous granddaughter she never got to meet. For that matter, Scully misses all the trappings of family Thanksgiving of younger years—her father standing over the turkey with the carving knife, Melissa peeling potatoes with a glass of red wine, Charlie setting the table wrong, Bill grumbling about putting the leaf in the table for their mother.

Mick’s Thanksgiving dinner seems very lonely and small compared to all of that. No wonder she makes up ghostly family members, thinks Scully.

“All right,” Scully agrees softly. She reaches out and takes each of their hands. Even at such a small table, even with so many ghosts haunting them, it won’t be hard to think of what she is grateful for.

***

“Do you remember the novel Remains of the Day, Scully?”

They’re letting their heads rest on the back of the leather couch in the study, drowsy and full of sweet potato pie, gazing out the large picture window with the view of the sea. Their legs stretch out before them, Mulder’s extending further than hers, of course. Their hands are both folded over their abdomens.

Mick, who had been on her iPad watching YouTube videos about wombats on the floor nearby, has curled up with a throw pillow and a quilt and fallen asleep, Daggoo slumbering happily up against her. So far, Mick sleeps flexibly and anywhere: more like Scully than like Mulder. Something for parents in their 50s and 60s to be grateful for indeed.

“I think I do,” Scully says. She is very relaxed. “I remember that you read it to try to impress me early in our partnership, didn’t you?”

He tilts his head further backward over the top of the couch and laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “I think that’s probably an accurate interpretation of my behavior. I read it that one Thanksgiving when we were in quarantine.”

“I was just thinking about that Thanksgiving today,” she murmurs. “You were trying to cheer me up, and I was so grumpy.”

Outside the window evening is falling. The sky over the sea is turning darker shades of plum, and the temperature is dropping. She reaches over Mulder for the quilt on the other side of the couch, and he immediately helps her pull it over them, draping it over their shoulders and laps. She folds her legs up and curls against him, resting her head against his shoulder, and he draws his arm around her without even thinking about it.

“Isn’t that what we’re in now?” Mulder asks, his voice soft and contemplative. “You and me. The remains of our day?”

He gestures to the sky painted with the colors of a fading sun, the beach gradually being drained of its vitality, swallowed in shade.

“Are you suggesting that our lives are almost over? Seems a little premature,” Scully says. “We have a five-year old I want to see grow up.”

“Me too, yeah,” he agrees. “But we’ve got a decent chunk of the day behind us already. Don’t we?”

Scully says nothing for a moment.

“The character in that novel has some significant regrets.” Scully shifts her head and glances up to examine his profile. “He’s dedicated his whole life to his work. He’s sacrificed happiness, made choices that caused him to miss opportunities. His relationship with the woman he loved. Are you comparing yourself to him?”

“Well, I’m not a butler, Scully.”

“Do you have regrets?”

Mulder twists his head and kisses the top of her forehead very softly. “Some. Of course.”

He rests his face against hers. They don’t speak for a moment. There’s no point discussing his regrets. Some she can easily guess; some she’s sure she shares. The choices that led up to the deaths of people they cared about. The choices that led up to having to give their son up. The choices that led to their separation.

“But there’s no good in looking back,” Mulder says, “and besides, how can I be dissatisfied with what I do have now? I have things in my life I never thought I would.”

Both of their eyes shift involuntarily to Mick, curled tranquilly with the dog on the floor.

“Things you never thought you’d want,” Scully says. She thinks of that lonely man in the basement working through Thanksgiving, who only had dinner with his new partner that first year because he felt sorry for her.

“I don’t know,” Mulder says with a sly smile. “I always sort of wanted you.”

She pokes him in the ribs. He playfully twists a little away from her finger, but then turns to her again to speak in a low, serious voice.

“You know, I know there are ways I’m broken that won’t ever be fixed,” he says. “I know I’m scared and haunted. And you, too, g-woman. But shit, Scully, I’m so grateful for this, for the remains of my day, because you and I could so easily have missed it. In so many times and so many ways.”

“Yeah,” she agrees, her voice barely more than breath.

“And … because it’s so beautiful. Such a fucking beautiful time of the day.” His voice breaks a little. “The absolute best time.”

She turns her head and kisses him gently, running her finger over his round lip. “You’re such a cornball in your advanced age, Mulder.”

“You’ll stay with me for all of it, right?” he whispers, sounding suddenly much younger. “All the other Thanksgivings we have?”

“Every one,” she murmurs. “Every single one. They’re ours.” Her promise becomes another kiss. And then another. Twilight turns into night.

#x files fanfic #xfiles fanfic #the x files

50 notes · View notes