#alcoholic reader

Hear My Call. [Pt 1]

Summery: Tom and you had been divorced for a few years now. After custody of your shared child was revoked, you fell deeper into depression and coped with alcohol. It gets bad enough that your Ex Husband, Tom Riddle, tries one more time to save the mother of his child.

Warnings: Alcoholic! Reader, alcohol abuse, depression, Divorced AU, comfort sort of?? in his own way.

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: I'm proud of this work actually. It's quite poetic. Hope you enjoy! I listened to Tom Riddle's playlist while I made it, you can find here.

Part 2

Time passed quicker under a bottle. Sometimes I felt like I was swimming in it, or a pirate sailing on an unmoving ship upheld by bronze suffocating booze. The divorce was quiet, Tom liked things quiet. He always has. He liked me quiet, he liked Mattheo quiet, obedient. No one stopped him when he took custody of my son. Tom had risen in ranks as a respectable wizard in one of the top most positions at the ministry. I had just lost my job at the pub. Caught red handed sneaking shots behind the bar. The unfairness of life was not new to me. I was 28 with a 9 year old I don’t see and a 32 year old ex husband who hates me. Some would say crippling alcoholism could be seen a mile away. The vodka sodas with dinner turned into bourbon on random Tuesday mornings. It all got very ugly. I got ugly. I lost everything, and soon my flat would be next. I had three days to come up with the 4k I owed for this and last month's rent, which I obviously did not have. I justified spending my last hundred on booze by telling myself a hundred wouldn’t change a thing anyway.

It was all very easy to fall into the oblivion cheap vodka gave me. To slump onto the sofa with one shoe half off. Sipping it like a child sips apple juice. I stared blankly at the dirty ceiling above me, the bottle hanging loosely in my grip. I watched as a delicate spider ran across it, avoiding the little light offered by my grimy window. I drank and drank. I drank until I passed out. 

“Get the fuck up.” A sneer made me wince as I opened my groggy eyes. They seemed to be almost glued together with crust and dried tears coating my lashes. I couldn’t have been asleep long, considering my vision was still struggling to make the man in front of me clear. I didn’t need vision to recognize him. He had infiltrated my mind and body at 16 like a plague. Like a spider webbing and mapping my mind to draw out parts of it I never thought existed. I didn’t have any energy to talk, even if I did I was sure it would be painful. My throat felt like a sandstorm and my head pulsed like it carried a heart. My eyes couldn’t be trusted. No. Not as I thought I saw relief cross his features as my eyes focused on him. 

Rather roughly, his hand tugged me up by my arm to sit up. I obliged with a fair wince. Squeezing my eyes shut to block out the spins swirling under the flesh of my brain and sparking fireworks behind my eyes. 

My body was weak. Thin as a rail and tingling with every movement like it meant to give out at last. My eyes were forced open wide as I was tugged up to stand. Trying to find stability on anything. 

“Look at you. A mess. What if your son saw you like this, huh?” His cruelty was not lost on me, but my footing was. I stumbled into him on knobby knees. I heard his sharp inhale of breath before his grip softened slightly. With my head lolled against his chest, it would be easy to go to sleep like this. I was fairly certain he was holding me up with one strong arm around my waist. I felt a cold fingertip on my forehead. Then a brusque but ultimately gentle palm sliding my hair back from my face. I let him tilt my head back like that. Like a pet as he gently directed me by my forehead to look up at him. I opened my eyes, they felt like glass. 

“What have you done to yourself?” Tom asked quietly this time. His dark eyes boring into mine like he could read the answers there. I was sure he could not. He would not find anything of use to him now, not anymore. I had become a shell, a liaison between life and death. I was sure all that he would find now is something similar to a rat crawling up under his desk. Starving with glassy eyes and looking to bite. His hand roughly pushed my hair back from my forehead again silently, holding me up against his chest. My feet dragged on the floor under me, far too tired to stand. I suppose I have been tired for a long time now. I wish he would let me rest. 

He let out a breath and tilted his head as his thumb roughly dragged over my pale chapped lip. I was a puppet in the puppet master's arms. Strings were never necessary when you have reached this level of self destruction. I’ve seen it before. Women selling their bodies for cheap hits of some drug that will kill them before they reach 30. Men usually didn’t need motive for destruction. 

“You need help.” He said softly, it was not a question. Help. Help. My eyes closed as if that word had harmed me. I was beyond help. I was…I was gone. I was not here. I had already slipped through the dusty floorboards onto the dingy lobby floor. Had already molded and rotted through flesh and skull right there. The lingering scent of it drew no attention or alarm to people passing by. Only disdain. 

“Will you let me?” Tom’s question was quiet, but it shook my little world. He was asking, he was soft. He sounded…unnerved. My eyes reluctantly reopened and let the pools of dark in his eyes consume mine. 

“...Please…” I whispered quietly my broken plea. My voice was like sandpaper, my tone was pathetic. I don’t remember it being this bad. When was the last time I left my apartment? I didn’t have much time to think about that. Not when Tom nodded once and made up his mind. He crouched slightly as his other arm slid under my legs and lifted me as if I were a feather struggling to cling to the soft cotton of his coat. His footsteps made me sickly dizzy, as did the sharp sunlight that hit me as he exited my flat. The hallway reeked of cat piss and stale cigarettes. After I lost Mattheo, I lost my house. The house Tom and I had bought together. At the time I had the means to support it, and myself. Then everything went lopsided. I condemned myself to this sad corner of London like a bug waiting to be squashed. 

For now, I hid my face into the softness the lapels of his trench coat offered. I instinctively tightened my arms around his neck, and I clung onto the last person in the world who had the ability to save me. Then I let unconsciousness take me. 

A steady beep woke me and my eyes gingerly opened. I did not like the sudden sharpness of the room around me. The moonlight lighting up the new wrinkles of my face from starvation and stress and all things bad. Breathing shallowly, I slowly turned my head to the side. I was unsurprised to see I was hooked up to an IV and a heart monitor. Tom was always on the cautious unnecessary side of things. 

“You’re awake.” His voice shocked me, but the numbness still far too seeped into my rotted bones had me not show a thing. I turned my head the other way. His beauty did shock me. He always was beautiful, unchangeable. Like a god waiting for prayer. My dry tongue darted out to lick my chapped lips, I could’ve sworn his eyes followed the movement. I had become accustomed to the signs of lustful men over the years. Sometimes it was advantageous, this was not one of those times. Tom had meant to be my destruction. When he lifted his hand, I followed it too. It called to me like a siren beckoning my ship into rocks. Instead, he lifted a glass of water with a straw in it. As he held it out to me, I took it. Moving the straw to my mouth to sip the water offered. I finished half of the glass before Tom’s hand lowered it by its brim and the bottom of the glass to my lap. 

“Not too fast…your body is not used to it.” His eyes seemed to dart over me in a way they hadn’t while we were married. As if continuously searching for answer and cause. Effect and harm, thoughts, movement, consciousness, me. I watched him too. Though my eyes stayed on his that were watching me. 

“Where are we?” I asked quietly, my voice scratching and raspy. I cleared it and tried to swallow down the cough bubbling up. I hadn’t missed the nicely furnished room I was in. The giant white bed made of silk and soft linen. A canopy of white lace pulled back at each post with tassels. Tom’s eyes darted from my shaking hands to my eyes reluctantly as I asked the question. Odd. Usually he was the one for eye contact while I avoided it. 

“My house.” He said and swallowed a lump in his throat. I nodded slowly, holding his eyes silently. His nostrils seemed to flare as he sucked in a greedy breath and wretched his eyes elsewhere. I watched as he put his own hands into his gray trousers and leisurely walked over to the heart monitor. He stared at it for a beat before turning back to me. Two steps and he was reaching out, his eyes on the wire under the silk nightgown I had been dressed in. He did not look up at me, did not touch my skin. He gently pulled down the hem in a pinch of his fingers, revealing the sticky patch that had been placed above my heart. By the base of the wire he gently lifted it off my skin. Little hairs on my chest being pulled with it. When it was off he pulled away as if scorned. His whole demeanor was almost offensive. I understood disgust and hatred but this was…something else. He could hardly look me in the eye. 

“Thank you.” I said quietly as I pulled back up my shirt, glancing over at him as he flicked the IV bag before shutting it off. He did not respond as he took his time walking back beside me. His hand waved at my arm expectantly, making me furrow my brows as I looked down at it. I turned it upright for him to take out the IV. His hands again avoided my skin as he slowly pulled the needle from my vein. There was a dull throb that came with it. He took his time as he rolled it back up and set it aside. I said nothing. Afraid I would set him off and be back in my cold corner of the world by dusk. He assessed my body carefully, holding out a bandaid that I took. When my finger brushed his, he jerked his hand back and put it in his trouser pocket making me still. Slowly I pulled my hand back in and opened it. The sound of opening paper was too loud in the silence between us. I swore my breathing could be heard a country away. I pressed the small bandage down against my bleeding arm.

He lethargically walked to the end of the bed and faced me. I looked at him and he looked at me. If we were a painting I'm sure it would be quite tragic.  

“There are rules.” His voice broke the silence. Careful and precise in nature. I swallowed and did not respond. Surely he would elaborate anyway. 

“If you are to stay here, I expect a full recovery. No exceptions. No oops.” His voice dipped at oops as if the word had personally offended him. I nodded slowly, this was expected. This was what Tom did, what he was good at. He could command a room with stronger wizards with the same lazy grace and slow tone. 

He paused as he observed my pitiful nod. Turning and slowly walking over to the west facing window where the sunset had cast him in orange and reds. 

“One. You will do as I say. You will listen. If I say jump-” He turned to look at me then. He was…striking. The melting sun had highlighted his cheekbones and those dark eyes melted into pools of sunlit tree bark. 

“How high?” I cut in quickly. A sudden fierceness seemed to consume me with his attention on me again. Like he had found my broken weary soul and offered a little ember starting at the ends of my hair. It had flicked up and scorched my roots until that small fire burned behind my eyes and worked its way down to the pit of my empty stomach. Nestling there and finding homage in an empty space to spread its spark. His eyes narrowed just slightly at my interruption, but it was not scorn in his gaze. He did not praise me, but I saw the shift. He no longer seemed to look at me as if I were a gun. He looked at me like a soldier. Like he had now made it his personal goal to shape me into one of his. 

“Two.” He continued with a reticent expression on his face now. He leaned back against the desk behind him now. Facing me as he crossed his arms and continued. 

“You will eat and sleep in here until I say otherwise.” He continued before pausing as if making room for objection. Something like triumph flashed over his eyes before he continued once again. Each demand more demeaning than the last. Confined to a single bedroom in this strange new house. I regret thinking to myself if I had known he would grow so wealthy I would have stayed. 

“Three. No secrets.”

“Four. You will see a counselor. This is not negotiable and will begin Thursdays at 1.” He was now walking to the door, his pace as lazy and lingering as his practiced tone. I watched him as he stopped beside the thick wooden door. 

“Five. You will continue to stay here after your recovery.” He said and tilted his head slightly. Posing like a snake assessing prey that stumbled into his path. Shock had my eyes widening briefly before I forced myself to nod. His stare lingered even as my nod slowed and stopped. 

“Good. Dinner is at six. Lights out before eight.” He said before he opened the door and stepped through the threshold. He paused on the other side and turned his face halfway towards me. The sight was almost venomous as his dark eye held a gleam like obsidian in moonlight. The sharp set of his jaw clenched down with some unpinnable emotion. 

“I don’t recommend leaving the bedroom unsupervised. It will quickly become a cage.” Then the door was shutting. I was left staring at the heavy mahogany door as the sounds of footsteps did not come. As I exhaled a breath, the click of his polished loafers retreated at last. 

Pt 2 //Masterlist//

A/N: Hi!!! This is different from what I usually post for sure! I honestly struggled with alcohol problems in the past myself, this was some-what of a little mind experiment for me. To force myself to recall the depth of what I had buried and let it resurface into something others might find relatable or comforting. I am already working on part two! It shouldn't take long. I really, REALLY hope you guys enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it! I hope to expand this blog and write more lengthy meaningful pieces to exercise my writing abilities further. [Don't worry I still plan to make my smau threads💋] *ALSO* I'm pretty proud of myself for learning how to do dividers at last 😂.

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[comment if you want to be added or removed!!!]

Pairing: Gerard Way x Reader

Genre: Drama, Horror

Summary: Written for Gothtober 2020, Day 1. Prompt: “Exorcist”. 

You recently started volunteering at a church that provides meals to the homeless. Despite not being particularly religious, you develop a bond with one of the priests there, Gerard. But, when a demonic entity appears on the church’s doorstep, can you and Gerard send him back to Hell, where he belongs? 

Trigger warnings for violence, and mentions of alcoholism. 

You’d been volunteering at the soup kitchen for about a week now. It was operated by St. Benedict’s Catholic Church. You’d attended Mass there as a kid, but it had been a while since you’d really considered yourself a “practicing” Catholic. Still, the work was relatively easy. Mostly chopping vegetables, and ladling soup into bowls. And it felt good, doing something to help the homeless people in your city. 

“We’re about done for the day, Y/N,” smiled Ruth, one of the older volunteers. “The last guest has finished eating. Now, we’ve just got to wash his dishes, and then we can go home.” 

Most of the volunteers had left already. The bulk of the dishes were already clean. There had just been a couple people who had come in at the very end of meal service. You’d been waiting for them to finish their lunch, before you closed up for the afternoon. 

“If you bring the dishes into the kitchen, I’ll finish washing them for you,” you offered. 

“Oh, you’re such a dear,” Ruth said gratefully. “I’ve been using my hands all day. My arthritis is starting to flare up.”

“Go home and take your medicine,” you said gently. “I can handle the rest of it on my own.” 

“Thank you,” Ruth replied, handing you a small stack of bowls and utensils. “God be with you!”

“Oh, uh, you, too,” you mumbled, heading into the kitchen. You were surprised to find someone else already standing by the sink. 

It was a handsome, black-haired man. You’d seen him walking around with Father Geoff earlier. His white collar, told you that he must be one of the other priests from St. Benedict’s. 

“Hello,” you greeted. “Sorry, I didn’t realize that anyone was still back here.” 

“I was about to leave,” the man shrugged. “I saw someone had spilled soup on the counters, so I was giving them a wipe down before I headed out.” 

“Oh, thanks,” you nodded, setting the dishes down in the sink. “Sorry, I don’t think I caught your name?”

“I’m Gerard,” the man introduced, offering a hand. 

“I’m Y/N,” you said, shaking his hand. Wow….his skin is so soft. “It’s nice to meet you, Father Gerard.” 

“Oh, I’m not quite a ‘father’ yet,” Gerard chuckled. “I’m just a deacon.” 

“What’s a deacon?” you asked.

“I just graduated from seminary school recently,” Gerard explained. “So, I’m still in training. I haven’t taken my final vows yet.” 

“Oh, I see,” you nodded. He’s still a man of the cloth, you told yourself. So stop thinking about his soft hands….and his pretty face. 

Hear My Call. [Pt 2]

Summery: Tom and you had been divorced for a few years now. After custody of your shared child was revoked, you fell deeper into depression and coped with alcohol. It gets bad enough that your Ex Husband, Tom Riddle, tries one more time to save the mother of his child.

Warnings: Alcoholic! Reader, alcohol abuse, depression, Divorced AU, comfort sort of?? in his own way.

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: Andddd part two is out!!! Hope you enjoy! I listened to Tom Riddle's playlist while I made it, you can find here.

Part 1

The morning passed by slowly. I was fed a light meal with some oatmeal, mixed berries, and toast. The maid surprised me at first, but quietly left after I had thanked her. I felt different with the morning sun on my skin and food in my body. Warm, cozy, but still weak. Like my body had realized I stopped torturing it and was now punishing me. I didn’t eat much, only about half of it. The weakness of my bones had turned my body into stone. During the day as I lay in bed, I felt unmovable then. As if the stubbornness of my stiff joints had turned me into a piece of furniture. Thoughts of my son encroached upon my every waking thought and dream. I lay half awake staring aimlessly at the ceiling. It was harder not having anything to do when you were sober. Like suddenly every failure and misstep in my life, my marriage, my motherhood, were a crushing weight against my heart. It felt heavy with my hand over it. Like somehow I could suck out every part of me that is weak, but choose to comfort it instead. I couldn’t bring myself to cry in the silence. Not with the shakes wracking through my body in tiny bursts through my tired muscles. At first, I had thrown up, a couple times I had. Each time feeling seemingly worse than the last, as if a part of my soul was drained down the toilet bowl with the rest of my rotted guts and stomach acid. Yet the most putrid taste I had ever tasted was the guilt. Mattheo…my baby boy. 

The shakes only got worse as the day went on. When the maid came in to bring me dinner, I was on the floor leaning against the wall with my head in my hands. It was impossibly hot in here, like the sun was personally scorching me. I only wished I could sweat and shed the sins still evident in my face. 

“Mrs. Riddle?” The young girl called quietly, I hardly glanced at her. I rolled my head to the side and groaned, fisting my hair. 

“Just- just go.” I said with more irritation in my voice than I intended. I wasn’t mad at the poor girl. Not for calling me by a name I no longer possessed, not for being concerned or confused. I was angry at the world, for the pieces of it I had missed out on. My son's life this past year has been a blur of confusion and half drunken memories. Just a little high, just a little something to get through the day, and now I’m supposed to get through a life without it. The maid, Emily, lingered. I angrily glanced up at her.

“Go!” I shouted, a strong tremble going through my body with the velocity of my voice and every injustice in my life that had seemingly become a failure of mine. Emily flinched slightly at my voice, I regretted it. Groaning loudly in frustration, I thumped my head back against the wall as the maid hurried out. The tears came white and hot like a freight train down my pale cheeks. With utter sadness filling the anger inside of me, I was left confused and alone once again. Listlessly, I tucked my knees up to my chest and held myself together tightly. As if I could stop myself from falling through the floor once again. I sobbed into my knees, I clawed at my skin like a possession had taken over me, I closed my eyes and screamed. I broke so loudly and passionately, I didn’t hear the door open. I gasped and pushed at the arms softly pulling mine down from my hair. 

“Shh shh sweetheart.” Tom’s soft voice was distant behind the falls crashing around my vision, straight to my heart where it never failed to make waves. I sobbed harder and tried to pull away again, I didn’t want to be seen like this, not by him. To be judged as a useless mother or a full grown woman with the self discipline of a child. I hid my reddening face in my trembling hands until my wrists were softly pulled away. Strong arms wrapped around me and his gentle hand cradled the back of my head despite my messy hair and sweaty frame. He clutched my head to his chest as he muttered soothing words into my ear. My violent sobs turned into broken rasping ones. The kind only true helplessness could explain. I clutched at the soft material of his pristine button up, the material bunching in my hands. 

“I’m going to take care of you now. It’s okay baby- breath…breath…” Tom’s voice soothed me while he stroked my hair as I started to calm down. I had been so alone for so long, a hug is what continued my tears. Silent ones like the stillness of death. I nodded against his chest, feeling safe there and hidden. Memories of the willow tree I hid under as a kid resurfacing as he continued to stroke my hair regardless of how long I stayed like that. At some point he had pulled me onto his lap and began gently untangling my hair like we had all the time in the world on our side to stay like this. On this cold wooden floor, messes in our own ways. 

“Stay?” I asked in a quiet, raspy voice. The first thing I had spoken to him in however long we stayed like that. Tom sighed out slowly and nodded with his chin atop my head.

“I’ve never been particularly good at saying no to you.” My ex husband's soft confession felt more like a eulogy than a romance. Though it always seemed like every memorable moment between us with either a beginning or seeming end. Yet it seemed despite every attempt at closure or any real end at all, our sick cycle was the ouroboros. 

But, he slipped an arm under my legs and tightened his grip around my waist as he pulled me closer and stood. 

“What happened to us?” I asked quietly, maybe another hour had gone by by now. He had held me against his chest the entire time, my arm draped across his stomach under the thick blankets he had pulled up over us. When Tom failed to respond, I lifted my head slightly. I searched his face for anything, an ounce of longing or hatred, really…anything. His eyes held something else, something I’d never seen on his face before. Hesitation, shame…sorrow. My breathing hitched slightly as something similar crossed over my features as well. A shared reluctance between us stretching as time skipped a beat. 

“Sleep.” He said after a pause, bringing a palm up to smooth my hair back from my forehead. I looked between his eyes for a moment. Then complied. I couldn’t deny time any longer. Mine was up. I hesitated before leaning my cheek back down onto his chest. My lashes fluttered open and closed lazily, as if deciding between consciousness and the gamble of dreams. Yet his hand had moved to lazily stroke up and down my bare spine, having slipped under my shirt, and unconsciousness won. Yet I swear before she took me, I felt a soft kiss against the crown of my head. 

The next morning, Tom was gone. This was not something that surprised me, but something that stung just the same. I felt that loneliness seep back into my bones like an inevitable plague. The one familiarity I could find comfort in when everything had suddenly become new. My old flat was a consolation to me, the bitterness of a dilapidating mess that I had come to embrace. This new home, this room, was shiny and pristine. I felt little more than a smudge on my sheets that had been rubbed half away, yet the stain lingered. My body was starting to accept its new circumstances, but the thirst for my destruction was growing. I knew that Tom would not slip up, he would not be clumsy enough to leave anything in the desk drawers or the mostly empty dresser. Yet mid-way through the day, the need for alcohol became insatiable. I found myself searching every crevice, looking through every hidden spot. Anything. I only found emptiness. Except…for a little journal and pencil I found in the desk drawer.

I stared at it, curious why he would leave this and nothing else. No books, no puzzles or newspapers, no movies. Just this journal. 

Over the next few days I did not see Tom again, but the journal had become a close friend to me. I wrote about my experiences, my thoughts, regrets and fears. The need that consumes me like wild fire. It was easier to write than to speak, but sometimes I spoke to myself as well. I had never particularly valued my own company, finding it useless and depressing, but suddenly that was all I had. Except for the maid who came to deliver me meals daily. The meals went from light and twice a day, to three times a day and hearty. Today was​ Thursday, the counselor would be coming. I did not doubt Tom would make due on his statement he had only made once. He was reliable like that, even on his threats. I remember as a girl when he had become jealous of other men who spoke to me. As if being the opposite gender meant instant attraction. I remember the confusion and fear that overtook me as I watched them slowly disappear, the timing was indisputable.

Tom had trapped me into loving him, but I believe I would have anyway. No one was as sure or devoted to claiming me as he was. There were boys back then, and men in recent times, who had claimed to want me. Who would take care of me, and some who would claim to make the pain go away and make me feel good. Yet none of them would have killed for me. They would fail to understand the darker parts of me that were twisted in knots inside of my head. The things I knew were wrong but wanted anyway were a burden on my intelligence. An insult to the women before me who have fought for something gentle and real. 

By the time the counselor came, I had changed into one of the few outfits left in the dresser. There were no jeans or leggings or sweatpants. Just pajamas and the style Tom always liked me dressed in. His control over me was an insult stapled as help. Nonetheless I had changed into the white linen trousers and cream sweater. Both were quality pieces as well as the brown flats. I waited on the green velvet couch for him, or her, to arrive. 

When she did walk in, I was surprised by the sincerity in her expression. The way she looked around the empty room with a confused look on her face. I suppose the absence of anything sentimental was alarming. Perhaps I could ask Tom to see Mattheo. A rather pathetic thought of mine. The old me would have left this room days ago to find him. The old me wasn’t an alcoholic. Perhaps it is better that he sees me as he remembers me.

“Hello Mrs. Riddle, I’m Mary Wilson.” The aging blonde walked over with the quiet uncertainty of a lost doe and outstretched her hand. I tried to smile at her, but the energy I lacked was far too much effort to mask.

The days started to blend together wonderfully after my ‘therapy’, if you could call it that. I was content to stare out the window for hours, to draw and write, to roll around in bed, anything but actually consider the repercussions of my actions. The journal was the one thing in this dull room keeping me from hanging myself in the shower. A needed distraction from the burdens of my mind and self that I loathed vivaciously. Surely I expected this, the fall out. The withdrawal had been nothing compared to the healing. Waking up choking on my vomit on the floor had been less depressing than this sobriety. This isolation from anything but my thoughts and this repetitive meal plan.

 It wasn’t until that night that my door creaked open once more. I had been sitting at the desk with my hand in my hair, listlessly sketching a little sparrow. The candle my only light. I found the buzz and doctrine hue of the overhead light too divulging and offensive to this room. It cast everything into an early dawn, forcing its vibrancy into the space and onto me. This candle cast odd angles and shadows with each quiet flicker, but its shivering flame felt like company in times like these. The light was sparse but at least it was comfortable with the dark.  

Tom’s footsteps were easy to spot. He was rarely rushed or careless, always walking with that precise deliberate way of his. When I set down my pencil to look up at him, he was studying the little sparrow with a tilted head. I chose to study him. The candle's soft twilight highlighted the sharp curve of his jaw, the small bump on his nose more prominent like this. His eyes flickered over the page as he stood over me. I slowly leaned back in the creaky wooden chair, wrapping my sweater clad arms around myself as I watched him. The divorce struck through my mind like an arrow that left a hole in any beauty I saw before. My arms wrapped tighter around myself then, shrinking into myself slowly as I ran my gaze over his hair. It was more disheveled than he usually kept it, pieces of it falling into the violent hardness of his eyes.When they flicked down to me at last, I held my breath. His pupils were blown wide like a wild man, and this tortured look crossed his face before his lips tightened. I gazed back at him as my head lolled back against the chair. His eyes flicked over my body in an assessing manner. When he was soft like this, I couldn’t resist him. Whenever he couldn’t bear the silence of my ruination a floor above him, when the mystery goes on for too long, he comes walking back as if unwilling. Always with that same look in his eyes. As if I had carved out his heart and tattooed my sin onto its soft flesh. Pushing it back in to fit, ignoring the muffled lub-dub of his slowing heart.

“Hi baby” My raspy voice was almost a whisper through currents. His sharp blink and the twitch of his lips were the only sign that he heard me. That he saw me sitting here in the dark, calling for him. I furrowed my brows as he slowly dropped onto one knee. My arms unwrapped from around myself to reach out for him on instinct. His eyes flashed down to my arm with alarming speed before he wrapped his hand around my wrist and tugged me to him. I let out a quiet oomph as my face hit the soft material of his linen button up. I didn’t have much time to even think about readjusting before he was wrapping both his arms around me and hugging me tight enough to stop my breath. I wouldn’t pull away even if he had let me, I had missed him. This side of him that considered me a part of him. I awkwardly struggled to free my arms from their prison squished into his chest. He did not let up his hold on me, only tightening it like a cobra once an inch more of space was offered. My arms went around his neck, running through his soft hair as I let my cheek press into his boney shoulder. My eyes focused on the flicker of candlelight over the metal bedside table with too many corners. The odd angles of it a promise of the secrets this house was built on. When I felt the shudder in his body, I held him tighter. As if he were the one thing in the world I could protect. That I could trust to never hate me, to always see me in a light untouched by dark shadows. I let the intimacy of shared insanity consume us.

Part 1 Pt 3? LOLLL //Masterlist//

A/N: SO- this took me awhile to write lol sorry guys!! I hope this is good, I lowkey want to write soul consuming intimate smut for this lil series. LMKKK

SLYTHERIN BOYS TAGLIST: @lovelytaraj @mxryxmfooty @theonottsgirlxx @nobodylikeslia @crowgaunt @witheringwidgetwrites @lyrasdrawer @nanamisandkakashiswife @patroclus-is-the-bigger-person @voluntarilypurpletraitor @i-await @simplyastra @hopelesslyemptyectoplasm @qwertyloveees @a-girl-who-dreams @philocalistnymph @bigsimpforremuslupin @barbare2 @prettypinksparklybunny @athena-roy

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Pairing: Gerard Way x Reader

Genre: Fluff

Summary: You’re a recovering alcoholic, but, because of your sister, you wind up having to reluctantly set foot in a bar. There, you meet Gerard, the only soul in the room who understands what you’re going through. 

It was your sister’s twenty-first birthday. Of course she wanted to celebrate her birthday at a bar. You couldn’t, reasonably, be upset about that. It was the expected thing to do. It was also expected that you attend your sister’s party. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see her on her special day. You loved your sister very much. But, there was just one problem.

You were a recovering alcoholic.

Your sister knew this, of course. Part of you was (irrationally?) angry at her for putting you in a situation where you would have to face so much temptation. But, what was she supposed to do? Disappoint all her friends who wanted to party and drink with her, just to make life easier on her fuckup sibling?

“Y/N, you’re going to party with us tonight, right?” your sister’s friend from college asked you obliviously as you climbed out of the car in the bar parking lot. She didn’t know about your addiction, and you didn’t want to tell her that whole, sordid story.

“Uh, I think I’m going to wind up being the designated driver,” you said vaguely.

“Oh, c’mon!” the party hat-wearing woman coaxed. “You won’t even have one drink with us?”

You thought about it. If you only had one, and nursed it for most of the night, and didn’t go too crazy……

No. You knew better than that. Last time, “just one drink” had turned into a month-long relapse, which had resulted in one of the worst fights you and your sister ever had. You couldn’t go back there again.

“Leave Y/N alone,” your sister defended. “C’mon, let’s go.”

You passed through the bar’s front door with trepidation. You couldn’t shake the image of the last time you’d been here from your mind. You’d gotten horrifically wasted, and thrown a tantrum when the bartender tried to cut you off. Your sister had had to come get you and drag you home. It had been extremely embarrassing, and you’d gotten sober a week later.