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antiyourwokehomophobia2 · 3 days

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Man, this pisses me off so bad. If you're a woman who relates more to males than other women, it's because you've decided to focus more on how you're different from other women rather than how you're like them. You will literally never have more in common with males, and males do not feel the same way about you. These cute little posts that you write about how you love males more than your fellow women? They do not write the same thing about you. They hate and mock you constantly. Anyone remember "Cis women need to shut up"

"As a cis woman, I agree"

"You need to shut up, specifically"

Yea, that's how they feel about you and your solidarity.

The difference between lesbians and trans women in female spaces is the fact that lesbians do not have high rates of violence. There is no group of women that outclass men in terms of violent tendencies. Trans women retain the rates of male violence that regular men do. I'm not saying you have to treat trans women like they're all violent beasts, but if you can't see why female people would be uncomfortable with male people in their spaces, you're either naive or genuinely unsympathetic towards the very real fear that women have of being subjected to male violence. You can't say trans women and lesbians are similar because, unlike males, there is no statistical evidence that lesbians are highly likely to take advantage of a woman. If it turned out that 98% of rapes were committed by lesbians, I would 1000% understand why straight women don't fucking want to be around me. Have some fucking empathy, holy fucking shit. Even if you are completely on board with trans women being in female spaces, at LEAST acknowledge that it makes sense for women to be concerned about who is allowed in their spaces. It's crazy how I could tell someone I have a fear of dogs because one bit me when I was a kid, and they'd put their sweet pooch up, but God forbid a woman be cautious around a demographic who commit 90% of all violent crime. Oh no. That woman is suddenly a terf bitch.

I have nothing in common with trans women. I don't care how much pain they have experienced. We are not the same. When I was twelve, I cried and I cried as I put my palms together to pray to a God I hoped would be able to take away my homosexuality. I didn't even grow up in a particularly homophobic family. Both of my parents were accepting of me, but I still sat in the dark of my room, tears streaming down my face, as I prayed to have my sexuality changed.

Two years later, one of my friends made a joke about me dressing to impress my crush. She said my crushes name---a feminine name. A girl sitting in earshot heard her, turned to me, and asked me with disgust if I was gay. I said no without even thinking about it. It absolutely did not help that we were in a locker room with other girls. I was aware of my sexuality by that point, but I was 14 and unable to hold my own against a girl looking at me like THAT. For a few weeks after that, that girl made comments about how she was "watching me".

I know pain, I know discomfort, I know what it's like to feel predatory. Seeing feminine women, especially if they're white, makes me feel like an alien. I look at them and think "how are we so different? I see none of myself in you."

Sometimes I'm right. Sometimes we're not similar at all. But guess what? That doesn't mean I'm similar to a straight male. Fucking hell, sometimes I'm not similar to other lesbians. That's completely normal. I think OP needs to read better work by cishet women. If you think that there is not a single piece of cishet female writing that can move you more than something written by a male, you're not looking in the right places at all. I don't understand why some LB women seem to think that the very act of someone being a straight woman makes them incapable of relatability. Of course it makes sense for you to be cautious. Lesbians deal with a lot of alienation and predatory feelings, but if the very ACT of a woman being cis and straight makes you feel like she has absolutely nothing in common with you...? The issue lies with you. YOU are the one othering THEM. Not the other way around. You're the one who has decided that a few cis straight women othering you means that they ALL will so you'd better beat them to the punch. You're the one who has decided that your relationship to womanhood is so astronomically different from straight women that nothing they say speaks to you. That's INSANE. Do you realize how much you have to alienate yourself from womanhood to feel more relatability with a male person than a female one? Idk how to tell you this, but it is highly probable that the most cis, most het woman you have ever met has had a period. It's highly likely she's been harassed by a man. It's highly likely she's been made to feel inferior by way of being born female. No, they can't relate to the experience of being a lesbian who is made to feel predatory for no reason, but to say that nothing a cis het woman says/experiences can move you at all? Nothing they say can make you feel like your experience with womanhood and hers are similar? Do you realize how you sound? "Trans women have been harassed by men and made to feel inferior, too!!" Okay! So you should be able to relate to cis women in the way you do trans women, right?

I told my discord server that I was nervous about my future roommates. I showed them photos and someone said "all this tells me is that they're feminine and white" and I literally think about that all of the time. I was projecting. I was so scared that these white, feminine, probably straight women were going to judge me for being a black lesbian that I didn't even realize that I was the one violently judging them based off of nothing but their skin color and their femininity. I knew nothing about them. I STILL know nothing about them. I've barely spoken to them. But already I had labeled them as unrelatable judgemental women because of how they looked. Hold on. Wasn't I the one afraid of them judging ME? How could I be so afraid of them judging me for being a black lesbian when I was the one judging them already? What sense does that make?

You guys are so busy writing off cis straight women as unrelatable bigots that you've failed to see that you're the one who is extremely prejudiced against them. And I absolutely fucking know someone is gonna read this and say "well, you can't say that all trans women have male violence patterns and dahdahdahdah" and it's like. But YOU can say that cis straight women are so unbelievably different from lesbian women that you'd rather say you're more similar to a straight up fucking male???

I'm not saying it's not a little jarring to see women who are so different from me. I'm not saying I haven't been burned before and there's no reason for me (or other lesbians) to be cautious. But I will literally ALWAYS have more in common with cishet women than I ever will a man pretending to be a woman.

One time I had a professor. She was on the older side (I'd say 40's) and white. Not the type of person I'd think I'd click well with. She was straight and married with children. One day we talked after class, and the only thing that ended our conversation was the fact she had an event she had to go to. We would've talked longer if not for that. She emailed me a little while later to tell me that she enjoyed our chat. After that, she actually hugged me on two occasions. You wouldn't think we'd have common ground. An older, straight, married white mother and a young black lesbian. Both of us are "cis" but I can tell you I relate to her much better than I ever could someone born male.

I once had a personal trainer who was a feminine woman. She had acrylic nails and everything. One time she said that she couldn't hug her male friends anymore because she had a boyfriend (he wasn't the one enforcing that rule. That was something she personally felt). Also not someone I thought I'd click well with. But we did. One time we had a really productive discussion that was actually derived from the conversation with my professor. I felt very close to her in that moment. Our conversation came to a close because she had another client, but I still think about that convo.

There have been so many fucking times where I thought "this woman is not like me. Look at her." But what I realized was that I was the judgmental one. I was the one deciding we were different, not her. I was the one writing her off. I was the one convinced we had nothing in common.

I am BEGGING you not to alienate your fellow women. There are no inherent traits that make you unable to relate to other women. No amount of whiteness or cisness or straightness can make a woman completely unreachable. I am NOT talking about political parties or views so don't fucking try me with that shit. Obviously that puts a wedge between people, but someone simply being born cis and het does not make them alien from you. For God's sake, look at the fucking MeToo movement. Women from all fucking backgrounds who share an experience that an unfortunate amount of women go through. Women from all different races, sexualities, etc. who came together to talk about how they've been subjected to sexual violence. Ellen degeneres was one of them. How does that fit into your "lesbians and cishet women cannot relate to each other" spiel?

OP's post has 130k notes and it makes me fucking sick. Holy crap y'all, we need more solidarity than this. Other women are not your enemy. I'm begging you to reconsider your approach to women who are different than you. You are missing out on people who can love and support you in a way that literally no male can. You are depriving yourself. Just because a few cishet women in the past alienated you, does not mean that you have to continue their legacy. Let it go. Everyone on earth can see you embracing your hatred of women, and you wonder why your fellow women never hug you? They fucking can't! Put your hatred down and make space for the love that comes with realizing that you absolutely are like other girls!

#You guys think you're so progressive but you're just in a woke version of not like other girls #Stop comparing lesbians to literal males #Jesus fucking Christ #I actually hate you guys so fucking much #I'm never telling anyone I'm gay every again bro #I hate all of you #I should've prayed to be asexual man #Maybe god would've taken me more seriously

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cursedonyx · 2 days

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The Bars Between Us (Part 2)

Read Part 1 here

AU in which Sebastian was sent to Azkaban despite Ominis and Dracaena trying to keep his secrets. They spent the next several years trying to free him, and eventually succeeded. Now free from confinement, Sebastian is not the same, Azkaban has sapped him of everything he once was, and Dracaena is determined to bring back the man she knew.

Sebastian has to spend a week in a halfway-house, readjusting to life outside Azkaban before he will be allowed to come home. Dracaena must support him during this time, dealing with his nightmares, his physical weakness, and some very difficult questions that he needs an answer to.

Word Count – 6.7k

It took a long while for sleep to find her. A hundred thoughts chased themselves in circles in her head, yapping and snapping for attention as she stared across the room, her back propped against thin pillows, listening to the faint whisper of wind beyond the window, a faint rustling as it chased a few fallen leaves in circles around the bare courtyard.

At the front of her mind was Sebastian, curled beside her and sound asleep, his brittle limbs wound around her, stripped of almost all muscle and fat. How thin he was. How pale. How empty he seemed. She ran a hand over his hair, the motion calming her fluttering heart.

Immediately following him was Ominis, the man she loved and had committed herself to, heart and body and soul. His gentle smile, his elegant hands, his noble bearing and pure spirit. How she adored him for everything he was, how he seemed to instinctively know her innermost thoughts and desires, ready to comfort or advise before she could even tell him what was on her mind, how he was perfect in every conceivable way.

Next in the baying pack of her thoughts was simple, burning guilt. It was the kind of guilt that made her heart fold in on itself, as if it was shrinking, her anxiety spiking. Guilt for Sebastian’s condition, guilt for not working harder, for not getting him out of that vile place sooner. Guilt for abandoning him. It didn’t matter that she and Ominis had devoted every spare second to freeing him, it hadn’t been enough. They’d fallen in love, and had sometimes spent languid days in each other’s arms, instead of working on Sebastian’s case.

Dracaena winced. That was another level of guilt to add to the tottering tower. How much more could she stack before it teetered and fell?

She had been intimate with Sebastian while she was engaged to Ominis.

Yes, she could tell herself he needed it to feel human. He’d said so. It had made him happy, and she had vowed to make him happy. And yes, she could remind herself that Ominis not only expected her to do so, but had encouraged it. She bit her lip. Why had Ominis encouraged it? He was as devoted to her as she was to him, perhaps even more so. He knew she had once held Sebastian in her heart as she now did him, but was it wrong for her to expect at least a little jealousy? Every other man she’d ever known would have been incensed at the idea.

Not her Ominis. Not her future husband. Her happiness was at the front of his mind, always, as his was with her.

She traced the shape of her ring, unable to see it properly in the darkness, but she knew every detail of it by heart. She’d spent long hours gazing at it, dreaming of her wedding day, showing it off to her friends and colleagues, elated beyond measure, wanting nothing more than to spend the rest of her life with him, and only him.

Now there was doubt.

She loved Ominis, perhaps more than she had ever loved another person. He was the sun in her sky, the stars of her night, the river that flowed through her very being and gave her life.

She also loved Sebastian. She had loved him all this time, no matter how she had tried to hide it, to forget how his easy laughter and free spirit made her heart soar. To ignore it now would be akin to ignoring the building burning down around her.

Her brows drew together as Sebastian mumbled in his sleep. How could she love both of them so deeply and completely, her feelings for one undiminished as the other bloomed? Surely such a thing wasn’t possible? What would it mean for her impending marriage if she loved another man as much as she loved her fiancé? Ominis might have agreed to her providing Sebastian with the comfort he needed, both physical and emotional, but did that stretch to love? How long could he endure it?

Such were her thoughts as the night slid by, the sky beginning to lighten behind the heavy curtains, the thin line of grey on the ceiling soon becoming peach, then yellow as the sun climbed into the sky. Dracaena found herself dozing fitfully, waking at the slightest sound, the tiniest movement of the man beside her, his head in her lap, his arms locked around her waist, his thigh draped over her shins. On more than one occasion he stirred more vigorously, whimpering and groaning as some nightmare or another played out behind his lids, but all she had to do was pull him close to her, whispering soft, comforting sounds in his ear, stroking his hair and his back until he settled.

She jolted awake with a start, wincing as a thin wire of pain lanced through her neck. She stared about a moment, wondering what had woken her, before she looked down and met Sebastian’s eyes. He was gazing up at her as if she was a unicorn, a phoenix, perhaps, as if he wasn’t quite sure she was real, as if she was the most beautiful thing to ever grace his vision. The sight of him looking at her like that made her heart both swell and shatter, and she reached down, cupping his cheek tenderly.

“How’d you sleep?” she murmured.

Sebastian drew a long breath, letting it out just as slowly.

“Better than I… have in a long… time,” he said, his voice still weak, his eyelids lowing by half, a tiny smile on his face. It faded as quickly as it had come. “Drac… I’m… sorry. About… about last night, I…”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she assured him. “Bassy, I can’t even begin to imagine what you’ve been through, but I’m here to help you, no matter what you need, okay?”

His jaw tightened. He didn’t say anything else, but his gaze was fixed on her hand, on her engagement ring.

Dracaena shuffled down and pulled him into a tight hug, her fingers winding into his hair and pressing his face into her shoulder, careful not to hold him too firmly. He was so frail she was afraid he might snap if she tightened her arms too much around him.

“Do you want to sleep a little more?” she asked. “There’s a few things I need to do this morning before we get to our list.”

“List?” he echoed, and she explained the rules the Ministry had laid out for them, the daily reports she had to write, the exercises he was expected to do, all those little things that were supposed to prepare him for his re-entrance to civilised society. Sebastian nodded slowly as she spoke, then stirred, sitting up with difficulty. He frowned down at his hands, once large and strong, now skeletal.

“I feel… so weak,” he whispered. “I never noticed… I can barely… even talk properly.”

“Your strength will come back,” she said, smoothing her hand over his back, his skin warm and taut, biting her lip as her fingers traced the protrusions of his spine, the sharpness of his shoulder blades. “It’ll just take time.” She cleared her throat delicately. “Let me get some breakfast going, do you need me to help you with anything?”

Sebastian shook his head slowly, still frowning down at his hands. Dracaena waited a moment longer, then slipped out from under the covers, remembering only then that she was in nothing but her undergarments. By Sebastian’s sharp intake of breath, it seemed she wasn’t the only one who had noticed. Fighting a smile, Dracaena strode for the bathroom and took a quick shower, brushing her teeth then towelling herself dry as fast as she could. Though it seemed to her that Sebastian’s mind was still very much his own, there was a growing prickle in the centre of her chest, a rapidly twisting ball of anxiety that tightened the longer she was away from him.

What if he fell? What if he got hurt, or heaven forbid, did something to himself? He could barely stand upright alone, why the hell had she left him?

Dracaena all but flew back into the main room, her blouse only halfway buttoned, a comb caught in the tangles of her damp hair, pulling up short with a sharp gasp of relief as she saw Sebastian hunched at the tiny table, reading the note pinned to the wall. He jumped as she clattered in, whipping around to face her, his face a mask of terror.

“It’s just me,” she said in a rush, raising her hands and approaching as swiftly as she dared. “I’m sorry Bassy, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He turned away and flopped to the tabletop, his head buried in the crook of his arm. He shivered a little, and she rushed to put her arms around him.

“Love, what’s wrong?”

He shook his head and shivered again. Dracaena bit her lip, her hand making small circles over his back. He didn’t respond, and she straightened.

“Are you hungry?” she tilted her head, but Sebastian kept his silence. “You should eat something, darling, it’ll help get your strength back.” She backed off towards the cupboards and browsed through, frowning lightly at the poor fare. For some reason, she’d been expecting more to have appeared overnight, or perhaps some more variety to the oats, rice and tins of plain fish and vegetables. Hell, even a few potatoes and onions would make the world of difference. On the inside of the cupboard was a list of suggested meals, and each of these had measurements for each ingredient deliberately underlined.

It had been one of the conversations she’d had with the Aurors before she’d left for Azkaban. Sebastian was only allowed to eat small amounts, or he might get sick. She looked down at the pair of bowls before her, a packet of oats in hand, wishing she was able to at least mix them with hot milk instead of water. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn’t dare add any more to her own bowl than the amount suggested. How could she sit and feast while he starved? It was only for a week, and once he was home, she’d make him something truly delicious.

She curled her lip at the cupboard. Sebastian had always been fond of sweet things, but there wasn’t a grain of sugar or honey to be found.

Dracaena sighed softly and boiled the kettle with a flick of her wand. There wasn’t even tea or coffee, and she wasn’t quite sure how she was going to function without her morning pep.

Sebastian was still slumped over the table when she brought their breakfast over, and for a moment, it seemed like he’d fallen asleep. She nudged him gently, and he stirred. Dracaena bit her lip and grasped his shoulders, helping him sit upright. His gaze was unfocused, his expression hollow. She gently pressed a spoon into his hand, waiting patiently until his fingers curled around it.

“Make sure you finish it,” she said softly, guiding his hand to the table so his wrist rested on the wood, the edge of the spoon resting against the bowl. She settled beside him and devoured her own paltry breakfast, hoping it would encourage him. As much as she loved him, she drew the line at feeding him like a kid when he was capable of doing so himself. “Don’t let it get cold, love.”

Sebastian blinked slowly and began to stir his food, occasionally taking tiny, slow bites. Dracaena couldn’t blame him for the lack of enthusiasm, at least their dinner last night had a little flavour. The porridge tasted like wet cardboard.

Once she was certain he was content with finishing his breakfast, Dracaena summoned the small folio of parchment the Aurors had left with her the previous day. Each sheet held a form for her to fill out, the daily reports she was supposed to write for Sebastian. They’d arrive at ten each morning to collect the one from the previous night, and she winced as she glanced at the clock. It was a quarter past nine. She summoned a quill and ink as Sebastian pushed his empty bowl aside with a grimace and set his head back on his arms with a low sigh. She idly ran a hand over his hair as she eyed the form, tapping the nib of her quill against the inkpot.

The Aurors had been explicit in their expectations. She had to detail everything.

The trouble was, everything included their passion last night. Her throat worked a moment, the tip of her tongue sliding out to capture her lower lip and bringing it between her teeth. She could remember the taste of him vividly, pepper and tang, a slight hint of citrus mixing with the heady scent of sandalwood. Once he had carried the soft musk of old books on his robes, for he was rarely more than an hour away from reading some tome or another. Not now, though, that scent was painfully absent. She tilted her head. There would have been no books in Azkaban.

Dracaena gave herself a little shake and set her quill to the parchment as Sebastian dozed beside her, filling out his name, prison number and all his other personal details. She moved to the Activities section, and hesitated again. She made brief notes, such as cutting his hair, shaving him and helping him bathe, making sure he ate his dinner and sending him to bed. She paused, and swore under her breath.

It wasn’t that she was ashamed of what they’d done. Guilt-ridden, perhaps, but not ashamed. That said, was she even supposed to have entertained him so? Was it really necessary for the Aurors to know she’d buried her face between his thighs and sent him to heaven, if only for a brief time? How the hell would she write it?

She swore again and settled for a partial truth.

Sebastian struggles to sleep alone. He finds comfort in another person’s presence, so I spent the night in his room. He nightmares frequently and wakes screaming if he is by himself.

That would do. She could only hope that the Aurors didn’t push her for any more details than that, for she had no desire to find out what the unspecified Trouble would be if they did.

She jumped as a loud knock came at the door, but it was nothing compared to how Sebastian reacted. He launched himself out of his seat as though he’d been electrocuted, stumbling over his own feet and crashing to the floor with a muted yelp, kicking at the threadbare carpet as he scrambled backward, his eyes wide, his teeth bared in a rictus of sheer terror.

“Sebastian!” Dracaena leapt after him, dropping to her knees as he tried to wedge himself behind the sofa, trembling so hard his teeth chattered. He covered his face, turning away with a low whine as the knock came again, the sharp raps more insistent than before.

“Just a moment!” she called, reaching for Sebastian as he cringed away. “Darling, it’s alright, it’s just the Aurors, they’re here to pick up my report, that’s all.”

Sebastian didn’t respond in any way other than to try and push himself further behind the sofa. It didn’t move an inch, and Dracaena sighed softly, taking the corner of it in her hand and easing it away from the wall. Sebastian tucked himself in further, and she squeezed his shoulder, torn between staying to comfort him and attending to the Aurors outside as the knocks came again, three deliberate, loud bangs. Each of them made Sebastian flinch.

“Just stay there, I’ll be right back,” Dracaena said, scrabbling to her feet and rushing for the door, plucking the report off the table as she went.

She opened the door a crack, peering out at the tall, cloaked men that stood on the step. Their faces held all the expression of a brick wall, and the tallest one held out his hand expectantly. Dracaena swallowed, and passed over the form. Without a word, the Aurors turned as one and stalked away. Dracaena watched them, a light frown on her brow as they crossed the courtyard, two of them veering off to resume their patrol, the tallest one moving to the small building by the gate of the complex and vanishing inside. Muttering under her breath, she closed the door and hurried back to the sofa.

Sebastian had tucked himself so tightly into the tiny gap that for a moment she feared she wouldn’t be able to pull him out. His head was on his knees, his fingers laced together atop his head like a shield. He was shivering, his breath trembling, and she reached out a tentative hand, resting it on his bony shoulder. He flinched.

“They’ve gone,” she said, keeping her voice as low and calming as she could manage. “They won’t be back until tomorrow, you can come out now.”

Sebastian didn’t respond, but he huddled tighter around himself, clamping his hands over his head, his face pressed into his knees. Dracaena shuffled a little closer, her heart aching at what Azkaban had done to her dearest friend. How bright he once was, how cheerful and determined, how clever and witty and smart. How could he have been reduced to this, this cowering man frightened of a simple knock at the door?

“Sebastian,” she gripped his shoulder. “The Aurors will be here at ten o’clock each morning that we’re here to get my report. They won’t take you back, alright? That’s not what they’re here for. Even if they wanted to, I wouldn’t let them. You remember what I can do, right?” she shuffled as close as she could, and he shied away again. “It’s alright, Bassy. I promise you I won’t ever let anyone take you there again. They’d have to kill me before I let them.”

✧˖°⊹ ࣪ ˖ * ˖ ⊹°˖✧

It was past midday before Sebastian was able to unfold himself enough to reach out, and she pulled him to her chest gladly, enveloping his skeletal frame in a gentle, yet insistent embrace. He clung to her with all the strength he could muster, his grip on her blouse little more than a phantom. Dracaena led him to the bathroom and helped him shower, averting her eyes despite the desire to admire him, then supporting him to the bedroom, towelling his hair dry and picking out a new set of clothes from the selection provided by the Ministry.

“We’ll have to get you something more your style when you come home,” she said, pulling a smile onto her face as she browsed through the cheaply made, dull-coloured shirts and trousers in the wardrobe. Sebastian simply sat on the bed, a towel around his waist, his absent gaze fixed on the carpet. Dracaena sighed softly and lifted him to his feet, helping him dress, trying once again to ignore the shape of him as he leaned against her, his head on her shoulder, his hands sliding over her back, then resting on her hips as she sat him back down and buttoned his shirt, his eyes finally focusing on hers.

She knelt before him, and something passed between them, a spark of connection, of longing, something that spoke of adoration and loss, of a love held burning, an ember nursed and nurtured for six long years. In that brief moment she saw him as he had once been, bright-eyed and feisty, flirtatious and gracious, hot-headed and demanding, fiery and consuming.

Her Sebastian. The boy she had grown to love, the man she had stood beside despite it all. Betrayed by an unknown person, stolen from her before either of their young minds could comprehend what such a sentence could mean. She would bring him back, no matter the cost, and rain hell itself down on the soulless bastard that condemned him to a life of torture.

He blinked and looked away.

Dracaena lowered her eyes, frowning at the sharp, thinly laced brogues the Ministry had provided. They had to take a walk about the courtyard, to build up his strength, but even to her the shoes looked uncomfortable, the kind of footwear that would bite just under the ankles, that would pinch the toes, that would nip and squeeze in all the wrong places. She wasn’t even sure if Sebastian could manage the intricate laces, and she’d be damned if she did it for him. For all her luck, she’d tie them too tightly and make them hurt, or too loosely and make him trip. Setting her lips in a thin line, she transfigured them into a pair of comfortable loafers, easy to slip on and off.

Sebastian eased them on and made a face.

“Too tight?” Dracaena asked, as he shuffled his feet.

“No…” he managed, his voice a hoarse rasp. “Just… odd. I’ve not… worn shoes since…” he trailed off, his gaze growing distant and hollow once more.

Dracaena managed a smile and helped him to his feet, throwing a thick cloak about his shoulders. She slipped an arm around his waist, pulling his over her shoulders, and they set off for the door. Stepping out into the cool air made Sebastian tense, and he stared around warily, his eyes lighting on the distant figures of the Aurors patrolling around the perimeter of the fenced complex they found themselves in.

“Come on,” Dracaena laced her fingers with the hand resting limply about her shoulders, her other at his back. “Ten minutes around, that’s all, then we can find something else to do for a bit.”

Sebastian gave a slow nod and they set off at a glacial pace. Though Sebastian was capable of at least walking in a straight line, within the space of two minutes his breathing was laboured, and he leaned more and more upon her until she was practically carrying him.

“Do you need a rest?” she asked, as they made another circuit. Sebastian set his jaw and shook his head, a spark of that old fire glimmering behind his eyes. It was gone in a flash as he lowered his head again, focusing on the ground, but it gave her hope. There was still something of him in there, that fierce determination that drove him so passionately to learn, to fight, to break every rule under the sun and charm his way out of it. A lump formed in her throat, and she brushed away a glimmer at the corner of her eye.

Once their ten minutes were up, Sebastian could barely lift his feet, his grip on her shoulder alarmingly weak. She supported him back to their rooms and the moment the door clicked shut, Sebastian collapsed completely, flopping to the side with a low groan, his complexion a strange mix of flushed and pale. Dracaena cursed under her breath and hooked her free arm under his legs, carrying him to the bedroom and lying him atop the covers before summoning him a glass of water.

She cupped the back of his head as he sipped, then his eyelids fluttered, and he all but passed out, his breathing laboured. Dracaena perched on the side of the bed, biting her lip. He was so much weaker than she’d thought, but she had to keep trying. He had to keep going. She would not let that vile place take him from her forever.

Brushing away cool tears from her cheeks, she moved back into the other room, wondering if she could summon some tea. She and Ominis always felt better after a good cup of tea, surely Sebastian would as well.

As if thinking of her beloved summoned him to her, there came a tapping at the window, and Dracaena opened it to find a pretty barn owl astride the sill, a letter clamped in its beak. She took it, recognising Ominis’ elegant script on the front of the envelope. She slit the parchment eagerly, heading back to the bedroom to read, absently pulling a spare blanket over Sebastian’s sleeping form.

My darling Dove,

I am delighted to hear that you and Sebastian are safe and well, or at least as well as can be expected. I feared he would be somewhat insane from the torment he endured, but it gladdens me to know he has you to support him, whatever he needs.

I miss you terribly, my love, but I know it will only be a few short days before both you and my true brother are back home, where you belong. I have taken the liberty of preparing one of our spare bedrooms for Sebastian, though I am somewhat at a loss for what decoration he would prefer, having never had an understanding of such things. Perhaps you might enlighten me as to what he would like, and I will endeavour to make it so. I’m sure the Ministry will spare us a few House Elves to assist with the project, Spavin has rarely been one to deny me. Does he need a new wardrobe as well? Do send me his measurements if so, I’ll purchase a selection for him.

I can’t imagine how difficult this is for you, Dove, to endure this alone. I do wish I had come with you, but fear it would overwhelm him. I shall simply wait for your return, eager for the feel of you in my arms once more.

Do keep me updated on his progress, I will be most keen to hear all the details once you’re home safe.

All of my love to you and more,

Ominis

Dracaena sighed, a smile resting on her lips as she read the letter over and over. Five and a half days, and she would be back home with him.

And Sebastian.

She glanced at him, judging that he would sleep for at least an hour or two. His breathing had steadied, and she brushed a strand of hair off his forehead, her hand curving down to cup his cheek, missing how they had once been so full, bordering on chubby, but never quite making it there. Her eyes lingered on his freckles, tracing patterns between each fleck of caramel and amber, and she caught herself sighing.

She drafted a quick reply to Ominis, telling him how much she missed him, giving a brief update on Sebastian’s condition, providing the required measurements he requested via sneaky use of a conjured tape measure, pausing only to wonder how Sebastian would like his bedroom to be decorated. To her dismay, she hadn’t the first clue. She’d been to the Sallow's old cottage, though Sebastian never had his own bed there and Anne had decorated it to her preference once Solomon had died, and Sebastian's dorm at Hogwarts was decorated in the Slytherin fashion, all emeralds and silvers and dark woods. She’d never asked if it was his style, if he liked it.

There was a lot she’d never had the chance to ask him, caught up as they were in his quest to cure Anne and her own trials with Ancient Magic. She could hardly remember a time they’d just sat down and had a normal conversation, getting to know each other better. Everything she knew of him was inferred by what she saw, the adventures they had, and the snatches of his history he gifted her when he provided context as to why he was trying to hard to help his twin.

The twin he no longer had.

Dracaena sighed, added a line to her letter for Ominis to keep his room neutral for now, and they could decide when they were home. She sent it off with a tawny owl and frowned at the kettle. If she didn’t get some caffeine soon, she was going to become irritable, and that would be disastrous for both her and Sebastian. The thought of snapping at him chilled her.

She heard movement from the bedroom and hurried back to find Sebastian stirring. She settled on the edge of the bed and took his hand as he woke, smiling gently as his eyes found hers.

“Feel better?”

He gave a slight shrug, struggling to sit, the blanket pooling in his lap. Dracaena drew her wand and levitated it off him, folding it with a flick. He eyed it, and she smiled.

“We’ve lots to get you when we get home,” she said. “Ominis is going to get you a whole new wardrobe, won’t that be nice?”

Sebastian tilted his head, looking mildly surprised.

“I’m sure it’ll only be a few outfits to start with, but we’ll all take a trip to Diagon Alley once you’re feeling up to it,” she continued. “We’ll have lots to get, parchment and ink and books. We’ll get you a whole library, Bassy, anything you want.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly, his deep eyes taking on a faraway look, and Dracaena glanced at her wand.

“We’ll need to get you a new wand, as well,” she said, and Sebastian’s eyes dimmed, the corners of his mouth turning down.

“I want… my wand,” he said.

Dracaena understood, and she squeezed his hand gently. The thought of being parted from her wand was akin to being parted from her hand, and for someone to take it, to snap it in half as if it had no more value than a simple twig… she shuddered at the thought, and slid an arm around his shoulders.

“It’ll be alright,” she soothed. “Ollivander will have something that’s just perfect for you, you’ll see. We can even get a handle that matched your old one, yeah?”

Sebastian looked away, leaning against her and sighing deeply. She nuzzled his hair, allowing herself to indulge in the scent of it for a few heartbeats.

“I know it won’t be the same,” she said. “But it’s better than nothing, right?” she pulled back a little and ruffled his hair gently, the motion similar to how she used to wind him up when she had the chance, playfully messing up his wild waves until he did the same to her, the pair of them laughing so freely. He didn’t laugh now, but he leaned away, turning to face her.

He met her eyes, an intensity dancing there that had long been absent, and she stilled. That look had always made her skin prickle delightfully, as if he was staring into her soul and seeing her for all that she was, and it always promised that trouble was soon to follow.

“When did… Anne die?” he asked.

Dracaena froze.

“You… you know?” she said, stunned.

Sebastian turned away, an agony on his face so similar to that of a victim of Crucio that she was surprised he didn’t howl with pain.

“I… suspected,” he said, the end of the words cracking. “You… confirmed it… just now.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, reaching for him, but he didn’t react to her touch. “Bassy… she fought so hard, for so long.”

“When?” he repeated.

“Three years ago,” she said, and he loosed a tiny, broken sound that pierced right through her heart. “I wanted to let you know, to visit, hell, even to send an owl, but we weren’t allowed. We tried everything, I promise.”

He shook his head, his shoulders beginning to quiver, and Dracaena tugged him back to her, a hand at the back of his head, her fingers winding into his hair until he slumped against her, his arms rising, grasping at her blouse.

“I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “We… Ominis and I, we buried her on that nice hill in Feldcroft. Ominis said she used to like the view there. It’s right under an apple tree, so she gets blossoms twice a year. We… we take a trip every couple of months to leave her fresh flowers. I was going to tell you Bassy, I swear I was, I just… I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Sebastian didn’t answer her, but his shoulders still shook with restrained sobs, the neck of her blouse growing sodden as she held him, the light outside dimming as the coolness of autumn pushed the twilight into the sky.

✧˖°⊹ ࣪ ˖ * ˖ ⊹°˖✧

It was almost nine o’clock by the time Sebastian stirred, and Dracaena cupped his cheek, tilting his face to hers and kissing him gently. Sebastian leaned into it with a low groan, but she pulled back, searching his face.

“You doing okay?”

It was a foolish question, but Sebastian nodded.

“I knew,” he said, his voice low. “I… knew… somehow. I just… didn’t know when. Thank you… for telling me.” He leaned in to brush his lips over hers once more. She allowed it for a moment, then moved to kiss his cheek.

“You should eat something,” she said. “We missed lunch, darling. You must be famished.”

Indeed, her stomach was doing a rather marvellous impression of a grumpy hippopotamus, but Sebastian shook his head.

“I’m… not hungry.”

She frowned a little. “Bassy, you have to. I don’t want you wasting away, there’s barely anything to you as it is.”

He shot her a glower, but far from upsetting her, her heart leapt. There was the Sebastian she knew, the argumentative, stubborn man she knew so well.

“I said… I’m not… hungry.”

She fought a smile. He’d been able to manipulate her once, using his charm and intelligence to sway her into doing almost anything he wanted. She’d not forgotten what she’d learned from him.

“Please?” she said, letting her eyes widen a fraction, her brow knitting. “For me, Bassy? I’m worried about you. Won’t you just have a little, to make me happy?”

He curled his lip in a sulky grimace, and it was a struggle not to laugh at such a display of petulance.

“The food here… tastes… like the way… Prewett’s robes… used to smell.”

“I’ll try not to be offended,” she said cheerily, and Sebastian shot her a guilty look.

“Sorry.”

She did laugh this time, and rumpled his hair, drawing a tiny smile from him. He allowed her to help him to his feet and lead him to the table, and he winced a little as they went.

“What is it?” she asked, peering at him in concern.

“Ache…” he said, and made an inarticulate gesture. “Legs… my back.”

“Hm.” Dracaena settled him at the table. “That’ll probably just be because you’re not used to moving around so much. Tell you what, I’ll make us some dinner, and if you eat it all, I’ll give you a massage, how’s that sound?”

Sebastian glanced at her, and she noted a definite spark of interest. “Alright.”

She quickly busied herself at the stove to hide her grin, ferreting around in the cupboards above. To her absolute delight, she discovered a pound of butter wrapped in wax paper hidden behind the tins. Yes, the Aurors had advised not to feed Sebastian anything too fatty, but he needed to put some weight back on, and soon. She repeated their first meal of white fish and beans, and absolutely drenched it in butter, crumbling a little salt over it for flavour. She’d have to ask Ominis if he could possibly send something a bit more hearty than the crap they’d been provided.

Sebastian brightened after the first mouthful, even smiling a little as he tucked in.

“Better?” Dracaena asked, the small dinner barely making a dent in her own hunger, but that mattered little.

“Yeah,” he said. “Much. Thanks.” He glanced at her, then away again, rubbing the back of his neck and giving a slightly exaggerated wince. “What… now?”

She withheld a smirk, knowing full well he was thinking of her hands gliding over his back. She was thinking of the exact same thing, and the realisation sent a flash of guilt into her belly. Merlin’s arse, she was engaged! She knew it would help him, to soothe his sore muscles, but she knew all too well where such things could lead. Whenever she favoured her fiancé with such a treat, it always ended in deliciously lazy, loving sex.

Her cheeks warmed as she thought of him, his alabaster form scattered with beauty marks melting under her hands. By god, she’d give anything to have him here. Even now, after years together, the thought of him made her stomach flutter.

Sebastian was still stealing furtive looks at her, and Dracaena smiled, tilting her head at the sofa. “Lie down over there, love. I won’t be a moment.”

Aside from when he’d had his fright from the Aurors knocking on the door, Dracaena was quite certain this was the fastest she’d seen Sebastian move as he almost darted for the sofa, perching on the edge as he fixed his eyes on her. She tidied up the plates, giving herself a mental pep talk, trying to convince herself to behave, to keep a firm line between the comfort he needed and letting things get too far.

Taking a steadying breath, she turned back to him and gestured for him to lie down. He obeyed instantly and she leaned over, plumping one of the cushions to rest his head on. She settled herself beside him and rested a hand on the small of his back.

“Usually this is done without a shirt,” she said, almost guiltily. “You don’t have to take it off, of course, only if you’re comf-”

He was struggling with the garment before she’d even finished speaking, and she huffed a soft laugh, reaching over to help him out of it. He gave her a shy smile, his eyes bright.

“You’re… okay with this?” he asked.

“Of course,” she replied with far more confidence than she really felt. She knew what Ominis liked, and his slender frame hid a surprising amount of taut, elegantly defined muscle. Sebastian was all skin and bones, what if she hurt him by accident? She swallowed past a drying throat. “Just… try to relax, okay? Let me know if you need me to stop or change anything, yeah?”

Sebastian nodded, closing his eyes as Dracaena set her palms on his shoulders, moving them in small, slow circles, watching the slice of profile she could see. His expression didn’t change, but his features relaxed a little, and a long, slow sigh left him as she slid her hands over his shoulder blades, applying light pressure. The motion seemed to soothe him, the tightness in his back easing slightly as she followed the direction of his spine, easing her hands almost to his hips, then back up to the base of his neck.

She tried to think of anything but the feel of him under her hands as she worked, but soon realised this was an exercise in futility as he let out a soft, breathy groan, wriggling his shoulders against her hands. Dracaena closed her eyes a moment, then increased the pressure marginally, the corner of her lips pulling out in a crooked smile when Sebastian hummed contentedly, his long, bony fingers digging into the sofa cushions. Each time she moved her hands down to his hips she paused, feeling him tuck them forward, pushing into the sofa.

She fought with herself for a solid half an hour until she decided she just couldn't do it. Not now. Not tonight. Dracaena drew a soft breath and pulled her hands away, her regret palpable.

“Better?” she asked, quietly.

Sebastian mumbled something unintelligible, reaching back for her hand. It didn’t take a genius for her to know what he was asking, but she couldn’t. Mustn’t. She took his hand instead, giving it a light squeeze, and he seemed to understand, a tiny, sad-sounding whine murmured into the sofa.

“I don’t want to do too much,” Dracaena whispered. “It… can damage your muscles if we do too much.”

While true, the excuse still rang hollow to her, and it was with no small level of guilt and confusion that she helped Sebastian roll onto his side and curl up around her, his head in her lap. She stroked his hair until he fell asleep, staring at the wall opposite as the room darkened to black around her. Whether she would manage the rest of the week without messing up again, she wasn’t sure, but no matter what he had said or implied, her Ominis deserved better than that.

Masterlist

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #mc x sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt x mc #hogwarts legacy fanfic #dracaena hoctina #post azkaban sebastian

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mirage-aera · 3 hours

Note

can we please get more angst? 🙏

like what if reader decides to unalive herself? cant take the grief anymore and knowing that drinking and binge eating will not do anything but just burn money and delay the inevitable. and simon is too late to save her. cue simon grieving in return and drowning in guilt and self hatred for putting her in that situation.

•°. *࿐ Drowned

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ : Let Me Down Slowly - Alec Benjamin

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Reader

pt. 1 - pt. 2

Synopsis: By the time Simon returns to your shared home, it's already too late for you. You've hit rock bottom in the rabbit hole, and Simon is ready to jump into that same hole.

Word count: 2.606

Masterlist

First of all I’d like to apologise for my two month(?) absence. I got overwhelmed with school work that I needed to focus on and some personal problems happened. For anyone who has stuck around, this is the long waited part 2 that I promised a while ago. I haven’t written anything in my long break so bear with me. Second of all you guys really want more angst from me. I was planning on doing a happy ending but this will do.

TW!! Suicide, alcoholism

For the people that wanted to be tagged: @somehopeatlast @yyiikes

It’s too much. Everything is too much. Everyone has been telling you that healing takes time. When in reality, all that you feel is despair. Instead of the wound gradually closing, all that’s really happening is your heart getting ripped out day by day. You don’t know how much longer you can keep this charade up. You’re throwing people fake smiles left and right, and ‘I’m fine’ has left your mouth more times than you could actually care for. It’s as if you’re living life as a mindless zombie. Barely doing the bare minimum to sustain yourself. Every time someone checks up on you, you tell them you’re doing okay, could be better but you’re fine. At least, that’s what you want them to think. You’re just a shell of the person you were when Simon was still here and alive. You’re blowing through your money like no tomorrow. But can you get yourself to care enough to do anything about it? No, and not for the foreseeable future. You spend your days drinking away, either at home or in bars. You’ve tried moving on, but the only thing you’re able to see in them is Simon. You chicken out before anything can get serious. Your bingeing habits haven't changed a bit, you’re on the same routine.

It's been months and you can’t get out of this rabbit hole you’ve dug yourself. Months.

It’s crazy to think about the chokehold Simon has on you, even when he isn’t physically here himself.

You’ve had enough. You’re not living life as is. You’re practically a dead person walking, a mindless being. All you’re doing is blowing money when you could be doing anything else but that. You’ve contemplated long and hard about this decision, and to be frank. You see no negatives to this option. Taking the way out seems like a way better alternative for you than continuing to waste the air around you with useless breaths.

The hooded figure that you sometimes see outside your window has started showing up less and less. You’ve made eye contact before, but before you can even mutter a word out the shadow has vanished. As if he never existed and is a figment of your imagination. You could’ve sworn that those were the eyes of Simon. His sharp brown eyes are unmistakable. You can recognize them from anywhere. But, he is dead. The possibility of it being him is simply impossible. You stare solemnly out the window. You want to see whether the shadow really is a figment of your imagination, or if it’s actually a person. But they never show up. If the shadow had shown up, would you have gone through with your plan? Probably not. As insane as it might sound, you feel a sort of pull for the shadow. As if it’s calling out for you.

When all you can see is the dark starry night. You sigh and shut the blinds. No one needs to see what you’re going to commit. You head upstairs to your once-shared bedroom. You walk absentmindedly to Simon’s bedside drawer. Revealing a small handgun. He always keeps weapons on him, or around him. To keep both you and him safe in case anyone ever dares to try anything in your own home. You pick up the piece of iron. Simon has taught you how to use it, in case there’s an emergency and he isn’t there to protect you. Back then it felt like a light piece of metal. Now, it sits heavy in the palm of your hand.

You slowly sit on the floor. Your back against the side of the bed. You expected to feel afraid. But to your surprise, you don’t feel anything at all. As if everything is numb. For that part you are a little thankful for, it’ll make this so much easier for you to do. You turn the gun in your hands. Inspecting your executioner. Minutes pass, and you’re still sitting idly on the floor. You’re waiting for the right moment. Deep down, you’re hoping that Simon will walk through the door. Wrap you up in his arms and tell you how everything is okay now. That it was simply a mission gone wrong, which made it so he couldn’t come home at the promised time frame. But as the silence of the house engulfs the house in an eerie peace. You close your eyes. This is the right moment. Simon won’t show, and he won’t show. You need to get that in your thick skull.

You look around your shared bedroom for the last time. Picture frames litter your dressers. His clothes are still hanging in his section of your closet. You put the gun away and back into his nightstand. You can’t do this, not here at least. Not at the serenity that belongs in your bedroom.

You scramble up from the floor. You pick up the crinkled piece of paper sitting on Simon’s desk. You go downstairs and pin it on the fridge with a magnet. Visible for anyone who comes looking for you. You rush outside, not bothering to bring a jacket with you. You’re not going to need it anyway. You run outside, not noticing the shadow blending in the night watching you. He wants to follow you, like he usually does, wanting to make sure you don’t do anything stupid or that you’ll regret. But this time, he can’t bring his feet to move. He simply watches you run off to whatever destination you have in mind.

You run off to the bridge you frequent with Simon. Not a lot of people go across it during the day. No one ever comes through at midnight. Giving you time alone to think and reminisce. You lean on the metal railing. Images of the various late-night dates Simon would take you on during his off days flash through your mind. You crack a small smile at that, embracing the pleasant memories once again. Your smile drops. Memories, that’s all they’ll ever be. You won’t be able to recreate them or make new ones anymore, not with Simon or anyone else. You brush away stray tears and let out a soft sniffle. You climb over the railing. You stand on the other side, peering down at the frigid cold water below. You look behind you, making sure no one is there. You suck in a deep breath, close your eyes, and let yourself slowly tip over the edge. One to two seconds feel like minutes. You feel the wind rushing past your face. Soon the cold water greets you. Despite the freezing temperature, it feels like a warm embrace. As if it’s welcoming you. You let yourself sink, letting more memories of you and Simon flash through your mind. Soon enough, everything goes black. You’ve lost this battle. Was it worth it? Some would say not, but to you? It was. You were miserable day after day. This was a peaceful alternative.

***

The shadow gets worried when hours pass by and you don’t return home yet. A bad feeling settles in the depths of his stomach. A nauseating feeling overwhelms him. He emerges from the shadows of the night. His mask was illuminated by the moonlight. He wants to know where you’ve gone. He shoves a flowerpot on your front porch aside with his foot, revealing a spare key. He grabs it and unlocks the door. It opens slowly. He steps inside, he takes off his worn boots. Not wanting to have anything traced back to him, anything that’ll show someone has been in the comfort of your own home. He looks around with confusion. He spots your phone and keys on the dining table. That’s weird. You never leave without those items, something Simon has drilled into your mind. He frowns behind his mask. He looks around everywhere. Eventually, he finds himself in the kitchen. At first glance, nothing seems out of the ordinary. He squints his eyes at the fridge. A note is pinned on the piece of metal. He takes big strides towards the fridge and reads the note. His heart sinks to his stomach. The urge to throw up is getting to him.

To anyone who finds this note. It’ll most likely be you, Price. I’m sorry. I know I’ve said that I’m fine, that I’m getting better. But I think you know this as well, that I’m not. If anything, I’m getting worse by the day. I’ll keep it short. I have nothing much to say anyway. Not that anyone would care. Don’t come looking for me. I’ll be long dead by the time you find this note. I don’t even know where I am. I might be in my bedroom, bathroom, in a ditch somewhere, or even floating in a river. On the bright side, I’m happy. Happier than ever. Don’t worry, I’ll be okay. I have Simon to keep me company.

I love you Simon, I’ll see you soon.

He rips the note off the fridge. He rereads it over and over. Hoping, no, praying that his eyes are deceiving him. That this is just some sick joke being played on him. You’ve done your fair share of pranks on him, but they’ve never been this extreme. He crumples up the note and shoves it in his pocket. He rips his mask off and throws it on the table near your phone and keys. He lets out a snarl. He slams his palms on the wooden table. “Fuck!” He exclaims. He pulls out his burner phone. He dials a number. They immediately pick up on the third ring. “Simon.” A low voice comes through. “Price.” He replies. He clearly doesn’t sound happy. He can’t let out tears, not now. He doesn’t deserve to. “Did you find something?” This sets something ablaze in Simon. He lets out a dry chuckle. “I’ve found something alright.” He sneers. He can’t help but convert the feeling of anguish to anger, and frustration. Anything but sadness. A low hum follows. “What did you find?” He takes a deep breath in. “I’ve found a suicide note in my own home.” He spits out. A painful silence ensues. “What?” He glares at the wall, lined with your pictures together. “You’ve fucking heard me. Want to explain that to me? You said she was doing fine!” A sorrowful sigh could be heard through the fun. “That’s what she said. I-” Simon interrupts him. “And you believed her?! How didn’t you see what was going on?! I told you, I fucking told you to keep an eye on her while I am gone!” He snaps. Something he probably shouldn’t do to Price, but he can’t bring himself to care right now. Another sigh could be heard. “Simon, listen. The mission-” He scoffs. “I don’t give a damn about the mission right now. My girl is dead for fucks sake!” He shouts. He continues. “I wasn’t happy with this mission. I already told you, I’d only agree to do this if you keep a close eye on her. I trusted you, Price. Now look at what happens. I faked my death, and now she’s dead!” He takes another deep breath to calm himself. “After this mission, I’m done. I’m pulling out. It’s about time I retire from this shithole anyway.” He sneers and hangs up. He throws the phone down on the table as well. He runs a hand through his hair in frustration.

He takes a seat at the table. He runs his hands down his face. A million thoughts run through his head. How did it end up like this? Multiple what-ifs pop up in his mind. What if he showed himself to you on the first day he came back to see you, would you still be alive? He lets out a low growl and slams his fist down on the table. Silent tears stream down his face. How does he always fuck up whatever good comes in his life? At this point, he’s just cursed. He can’t have happiness without something ruining it.

After he collects himself he gets up, but he still has work to do. And as much as he wants to drown himself in guilt and self-hatred. He understands that he still needs to finish his mission. He narrows his eyes as he walks out of your house. The people at the other end of his wrath need to watch their backs. Simon will make anything and anyone suffer, to make them feel the same pain he’s feeling. Deep down, he knows nothing will compare to it.

***

A fucked mission later, a hell of debriefing, he comes back home as a retired soldier. A home that has turned into a cold, haunting, and uninviting. Everything that made this house a home was you, you were his home. You aren’t here anymore. And it’s all his fault. If only he went against orders, let you know what was happening. You would still be here. If only he came to check on you more often, he could’ve seen the signs and stopped you. If only he could’ve shown any sign he’s still alive, you would probably still be here. Alive, breathing, at home, doing whatever you love to keep yourself busy while he’s gone. But no. He fucked up, and he’s paying the price for it.

For days on end, he will feel the remorse, the regret, the guilt. He would fall into the same rabbit hole you dug. Instead of you going down it. You’re already rock bottom, he’s simply joining you. He spends his time drinking. That’s what he knows helps best in this situation. Whenever he’s not drinking he’s spending time in his home gym.

A thought crosses his mind. The same one that has yours at one point. He lays in bed, your pillow still has your smell and it haunts him. He reaches over to his nightstand and opens his drawer. What he sees breaks his heart all over again. His gun. It has been moved. He’s certain this wasn’t how he left his gun before he left. He always made sure that the grip was facing him so he could grab it quickly in a time of emergency. It isn’t lying in that position anymore. He sits up with the gun in his hand. He plays around with the piece of iron in his hand. Unloads and loads the bullets over and over. Pushing the safety back and forth. Anything to distract him from the void he’s feeling in the pit of his stomach. Your note that you’ve left on the fridge rests on his nightstand. You said you were going to be okay. That you’ll have Simon to keep you company. Well, he isn’t fucking there, is he? He wants to join you so desperately. But he’s afraid, not of death. But even if there is an afterlife, would you accept him? He lied to you. A lie that cost you your life. He doesn’t know if he could endure that on top of the grief he’s feeling. But even seeing you one last time would be better than this.

So he sits there, in the darkness of your shared bedroom. Contemplating if he should join you. Something you were doing a few nights prior. If only he didn't accept the damn mission. He wouldn’t be drowning in his grief and self-hatred if he let the mission go. You would be here, in his arms. And that thought would forever haunt him until he does opt for the other route.

I’m sorry lovie, for everything.

#cod #cod x reader #cod mwii #cod mw2 #ghost #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty #call of duty x reader

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