cw:afab!reader, references to depression/medication, soft!simon. 2k words
“can we book in sex on friday evening?” your voice cuts through the silence of your shared lounge - almost hesitant.
not hesitant like you're expecting to be rejected, hesitant in the way someone is when they feel out of practice. when somewhere along the way they lost all their powers of seduction.
simon looks up over the page of the book he's reading - eyebrows furrowed before they relax, like he's trying to make sure you're not asking out of some misplaced sense of obligation.
“friday works.” he confirms, “be back late so you'll… have some time to yourself first. to do your… preparations.”
preparations.
the polite way to say you'll either watch or listen to or read some porn in the bath before he gets home to try and kick start your body and brain into getting onto the same page about wanting to fuck.
you snort softly at the phrasing before nodding, "okay. just let me know when you're on your way home."
quiet settles over the two of you again, peaceful, yours.
then simon clears his throat.
"the new meds seem to be helpin'." he says quietly. "yer smilin' more. s'nice."
you nod, once. "they are." you confirm quietly. there's a beat of silence and then, "… sorry they've broken my fanny."
simon just shakes his head, brown eyes meeting yours. "not broken. an' don't be sorry. rather have you 'appy than horny. only one of those is important to me. an' it's not the availability of yer cunt."
your ears get hot at the bluntness, but your chest tightens with relief at his words. but still. there's a twinge of guilt in your stomach, like you're somehow not keeping up your end of the bargain you made when you decided to be each other's.
"i know. you always say that. but…"
"no buts." he cuts you off firmly, no room for argument. "no ifs. no fuckin' anythin'. i love you. i love yer smile and yer laugh. an' yeah, i love fuckin' you. but i'd rather you were smilin' at my bad fuckin' jokes again than drippin' all over the house."
Si ❤️: 10 mins off
Si ❤️: don't rush. take your time
Si ❤️: gonna shower in the en suite. you'll take one whiff of me and absolutely change your mind
Si ❤️: (which would be fine. no pressure. didn't think before i sent that.)
the messages overlay the porn playing on your phone screen one by one.
you don't pause the video right away - let yourself stay in the little bubble of horny you're trying to build. the bathwater is going lukewarm around you, but your skin feels warmer now from the small spark of anticipation that's beginning to grow in your stomach.
you can't help but feel a small twinge of grief that six months ago this same activity would have had you throwing yourself at simon - that six months ago you didn't even need to prepare to have sex with your husband. that it felt like the most natural thing in the world, not something you had to manufacture.
but then you remember his words "yer smilin' more. s'nice." and the grief fades, replaced with a pang of fondness so strong it almost hurts.
you let your eyes focus on the video again, letting the sounds of soft moans and the wet noise of skin on skin filter through your headphones; try and remember that the joy you see on the amateur couple's can be yours too.
you pause the video, typing back a quick message.
just getting out. haven't changed my mind. x
you dry off quickly, clean your teeth, slip into one of simon's old t-shirts; the black colour long faded to grey, band logo once printed on it lost to the passage of time. there's a hole in the hem and it's stretched out around the collar.
but it makes you feel safe, and that's what you need right now. not lace bodysuits and stockings. by the time you've padded into the bedroom you can hear the shower running - see that today's clothes didn't even make it to the washing basket in the bedroom, instead left in the one downstairs.
you wrinkle your nose - you know that means you're probably going to need to get the stain remover out later. but you appreciate that simon hasn't brought the smell of whatever it is up into your room. you light a few candles as you hear the shower switch off, pull the curtains and turn off the big light; leaving the room in a soft glow of the candles and bedside lamp.
little things you've learned make you feel more relaxed.
you're just settling on the edge of the bed as the en suite door opens - knees tucked up under your chin, heart beating a little faster than normal. simon appears, towel slung low on his hips, water still dripping down from his blonde hair and onto the scarred plain of his chest. his eyes find yours immediately, soft in the way they only ever are when he's looking at you.
"hi." you say softly, lips pricking up at the corners as you look at him.
fuck. it really does help the situation that he looks like that.
he crosses the room in two strides, one hand reaching to cup the back of your head as he leans down to kiss you - soft, slow; the kind of kiss that's a hello and isn't an expectation. his hand strokes up your bare thigh slowly; fingers pausing at the hem of your - his - t-shirt, stopping short of pushing it any higher. "hey dove," he replies softly. "missed this smile."
your smile. that's what he missed about this situation. that specific, soft, wanting smile that you only ever give him when you're about to get him in bed.
and it's that that has you pulling him down on top of you.
your t-shirt gets pulled off with careful hands; his towel lost somewhere to the floor. he ends up hovering over you, pressing kisses down your jaw, your throat, takes his time. his thumbs stroke an almost soothing pattern across your ribs as his lips trail lower - but when he reaches your stomach he pauses.
"tell me somethin'." he murmurs, "what were you watchin' in the bath?"
your face heats immediately, throat drying out as you stare down at him with an expression of absolute horror.
he just hooks your legs over his shoulders, presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, looks up at you expectantly.
"just… soft stuff." you manage to murmur back. "couple in their bed. they… they looked like they were enjoying it. not… faking it."
he presses a kiss higher up your thigh, then another, before his breath is ghosting over your core. his tongue traces a slow line from slit to clit; gentle, soft, curling through soft heat like he's not in any kind of rush.
your hips twitch.
simon hums against you, an almost approving noise; like he's proud you actually answered. "yeah? what were they doin'?" he flicks his tongue against you again - more targeted this time. you gasp slightly as he settles in, one arm slung across your hips, fingers tracing over skin. every motion he makes is purposeful - circling your clit, dropping down down to dip inside you, tracing every inch of you with his tongue in lazy strokes.
your fingers thread through his still damp hair, nails scratching over his scalp in the way you know he likes. "they were taking it slow." you breathe. "she was on her back like this. he kept… talking to her. telling her how good she felt."
"slow." simon repeats, "like this?" his lips wrap around your clit, sucking gently before soothing it with broader strokes. your fingers tighten in his hair enough that he groans - all enjoyment and no pain. "you liked hearin' how much he wanted 'er?"
"yes-" the word breaks into a low moan as he slides two fingers inside of you, curling them perfectly against the spot he knows so well; mouth still focussed on your clit. "fuck, si…"
he doesn't speed up. just keeps a steady, slow rhythm - eyes flicking up to watch your face. he pulls away enough to murmur gently, "i want you dove - all the fuckin' time. everything you do is so fuckin' sexy i feel like i'm goin' insane." a soft kiss to your clit, "'m sorry if i stopped tellin' you." another kiss, "jus'… don't want you to ever feel like you 'ave to jus' cause i'd live inside you if i could."
your eyes burn, hands dropping to brush your thumbs over his cheekbones. "i know si. i promise."
he nods once, satisfied that you're not lying to make him feel better by the wet shine in your eyes. he drags the flat of his tongue over your clit again. "was she makin' the same little sounds you make? the ones that make me fuckin' melt?"
you nod, hips rolling under his mouth; the combination of his mouth and hands and the gentle questioning pulling you under. the porn in the bath feels distant now - a distant second to the real thing: simon riley between your legs, focused solely on you, coaxing your body to the edge with nothing but patience.
when you come its with a soft, shuddering cry - the same noise he loves so much - pleasure rolling through you in warm waves as simon works you through it. he waits until your fingers are limp in his hair before pulling back entirely, then kisses his way beck up your body until he's braced over you again, propped on one elbow so he doesn't squish you under his bulk.
"still good?" he murmurs. his cock is hot and hard against your thigh; twitching against you as he presses a kiss against your neck - but he doesn't push forward, doesn't press. just rests his forehead against yours.
“yeah,” you whisper, reaching between you to stroke him gently. “i want you, si. want this.”
he kisses you again, tasting like you, and lines himself up. he presses in -slow, perfect - eyes locked on yours the whole time. your fingers trace the scars on his jaw, eyes widening as he bottoms out; filling you in a way that's so achingly familiar now. he pulls back, pushes in again; soft, shallow rolls of his hips.
you brush your nose against his. "you don't have to be so careful with me, si."
"i want to." he replies simply. "been thinkin' about this since you brought it up. about makin' you feel good."
you, not him.
you thighs slide to wrap around his waist on the next thrust, taking hip deeper just by the nature of the position and he groans - a wrecked noise that carves itself into your memory.
"this alrigh'?" he murmurs against your neck, hips snapping just a little harder; thumb sliding into the space between your bodies to rub gentle patterns against your clit.
you nod, jaw going slack as you feel heat flood your stomach again. "yeah. s'perfect." you manage to murmur back.
he presses a kiss against the corner of your mouth, keeping up that same steady rhythm. "i love you. i love you when you're happy, an' i love you when you're sad. i love you when you're horny and climbin' me like a tree an' when all you want t' do is watch greys anatomy on repeat an' eat little moons. nothin', fuckin nothin', matters to me as much as you do."
you bury your face in his neck, cheeks hot, eyes burning, "i love you too."
your second orgasm is like sinking into warm water; nerves lighting up hot one by one, teeth sinking into the curve of his his shoulder with a whimper of his name. he follows immediately after, the pulse of your cunt around him dragging him over the edge, face buried in your hair as he breathes you in.
he doesn't pull out right away - just holds you, fingers stroking over sweat damp skin, pressing lazy kisses to your temple.
"still smilin' down there?" he murmurs softly.
you huff out a soft laugh, body and brain soft with satisfaction. "yeah, si. still smilin'."
"good." he kisses the top of your head. "that's all i need, dove."
Johnny who’s absolutely given up post TBI after his discharge.
By losing his position, he’s lost his mates, his purpose, the whole lot of it. The spasms and loss of fine motor have made drawing almost impossible. He has to meet with that damned physical therapist once a week who makes him feel like a baby, nice as she is.
But honestly? He thinks the worst part might be the pity. The endless calls and texts from his ma, asking if he’s alright, if there’s any pain, if he needs her to come over. Even when he gets to spend time with his old team— he can tell they’re holding back from talking about work. They don’t want to rub it in his face— the things he can’t do with them anymore.
And to make matters worse, he never shows up with anything for them. Their idea that poor Johnny is stuck rotting away in his house, nothing to do and alone for hours on end with nothing but his scrambled egg of a brain? It’s completely correct.
He eats microwave meals and pity-dinners from kind neighbors that make him something extra. He scrolls on his phone— his hands are at least good for that. Every so often he’ll drag himself to the pub hoping for normalcy, only managing a pint or two before the bitterness of it all forces him to leave. Seeing the sports games, friends laughing, even blokes in suits close to snapping from stress at work. He envies all of it.
Asking you out is just something to get people off his back for once. So he can tell them he’s trying to get out there and make something of himself again. That there’s some sort of hope for something better deep inside of him. So when he wakes up at noon there might just be one or two missed calls from his ma instead of 12.
Never in his wildest imagination did he think you’d say yes— and look so damned thrilled doing it.
also i was playing around with brushes and had the epiphany that i can actually draw with a sketchy pen like i do on paper, insane right
further explanations/ramblings below the cut
cw for brief mentions of unspecified eating disorder & depression. I don’t go into many details, and these topics are mentioned as if listing facts, but I’d rather be safe than sorry!
Link was on his way back to Hyrule after OoS/OoA when the storm struck him down and he fell into the Windfish’s dream. Zelda was expecting him back within a certain timeframe, and was pretty distressed when he never showed on time. Her relief was immense when he was found adrift on some flotsam.
OKAY so.. idk what the general consensus is if Legend actually died after being struck by lightning or was in some sort of stasis below the sea while stuck in the Windfish’s dream, but I like to think the lighting did actually kill him, and the Windfish brought him back as thanks 🙂↕️🙂↕️
ik it’s not actually the Windfish in PH, but I’d like to think the whale and him are the same. Or at least the same kind of entity! And just like in PH, time moves differently outside of the dream then inside, so Legend was there for months, but in reality barely a week had passed.
When he initially gets back to Hyrule, he’s taken to the infirmary in the castle, much to his chagrin. And while yes, he was severely dehydrated, sunburnt, and injured from the shipwreck, it soon became apparent to the healers that the worst of his injuries weren’t physical. He was moved to some guest chambers in the castle so Impa and Zelda could keep an eye on him while he recovered.
Immediately following his recovery from the ocean, Link was very spacey. He was extremely depressed, as someone in his situation would be, and was having trouble discerning if he truly was in reality or was still dreaming. He’d occasionally dissociate fully, but would mostly be aware, if not in a state of derealization.
He would refuse to sleep for days at a time, and would often find himself delirious, which did not help his derealization. He found that playing the Ballad of the Windfish helped ground him in reality, as it never woke him up. He developed insomnia, due to Koholint, and even during LU he has bouts of extreme anxiety about sleeping.
I like to think that constant adventuring, especially when being hunted down as a child, doesn’t lend itself well to keeping a healthy eating schedule. Legend never really ate well, and is pretty scrawny for it, but in his depression after Koholint would rarely eat at all, but he definitely has always had some sort of unspecified eating disorder going on. He’s very thin, and while he’s eating enough to not be skeletal by the time of LU, he’s definitely just skin and wiry muscle.
Even though it was bleak initially, Link did get better. Unbeknownst to him, and not told to him until he began insisting on going back to his home, his uncle had passed while Legend had been in Labrynna & Holodrum. He left the castle anyways, home to an empty house and an overgrown orchard (´༎ຶོρ༎ຶོ`).
Due to his depression, he didn’t exactly take care of himself well and was unconcerned about appearances. His hair had grown considerably during his time in the castle and he hadn’t bothered to cut it even after returning to the orchard.
Something that was really pivotal in getting Link back on his feet was his apprenticeship at the blacksmith. It gave him a reason to get out of bed, make efforts to take care of himself, and stay grounded in reality.
He did eventually cut his hair after Zelda mentioned it once while visiting. rip
Honestly, the whole meeting 8 other Heroes who share your same soul in an adventure across time probably sounds pretty unrealistic. For a while at the beginning of his adventure, he struggled with truly believing it was real, even if he played the Ballad of the Windfish and didn’t wake up back in his bed at home.
idk if i’ll ever write/draw about it, but what about an AU where Link’s Awakening is Legend’s most recent adventure. So this extremely done with everything and very paranoid Legend is thrown right into LU immediately after 🤔
He is just someone that takes care of people so so well, and not even in the condescending and judgemental way that most doctors are. He really takes care of you from a place of love and understanding.
Like when he makes you a schedule and you think I'm not following that, I'm not a child anymore and he makes you follow the schedule to the letter as much as it annoys you the first times.
He starts to push you gently out of bed for a morning run, even when you groan and curse at the air. And every time, he helps you get ready, tying your sneakers and doing your hair in a ponytail while you try to keep yourself from going back to bed.
Later he makes you meals with lots of nutritious food, confiscating that chocolate bar you planned for breakfast.
"It's not fair! You eat more sugar than I do!"
Your complaint is only met with a kiss on the forehead and a soft
"Let's share the bar once we've finished eating, darling"
There is simply no way you are gonna skip meals and/or eat trash in his sight. Even when you start binge eating he changes the lots and lots of candies to sweet sliced pears and occasional mints.
He makes you return to your interests and hobbies, telling you to teach him some tricks that he picks up immediately cause well, he is Zayne.
He even starts taking your phone away in subtle ways, like pulling you to his lap while he reads a book under the excuse of reading it together, or getting all cuddly at night after noticing you already spent the last 3 hours scrolling down instead of sleeping, saying "Let me see your face before going to sleep, I want to dream of you" and in his embrace your drift to sleep too.
And even when he is not home in his own busy schedule, he makes sure you know he is thinking of you via sticky notes that reminds you of eating the breakfast he prepared for you this morning, messages asking you to show him your progress in that new thing you wanted to learn, phone calls that serve as a podcast about his last patient who only agreed to take the medicine if he made him a snow seal with his evol, and a long etc.
Each day he takes care of you and each day you learn to be a little more confident in treating you and your body with kindness. Who could have said that a nice sleeping schedule, three meals a day, water intake and doing things you enjoy actually makes you feel better?
It shouldn't be surprising that you can't help but smile and get all clingy to him knowing that his love is making you love yourself more, he is an expert fixing hearts after all.
Pairing: Jack Abbot x depressed!reader - established relationship
Content Warning: Angst. Depression and all the wonderful things that encompass it. Breaking up.
Author's Notes: My first ever smau!!!!!
Summary: It’s past midnight, you’re at an all time low, worse than usual. One thought feeding into a million...leading into you staying up all night overthinking and being convinced that the right thing to do is to break up with Jack.
Masterlist
Dividers by me
Author's Notes: omg stop I made myself cry when I kept rereading to edit. Him sending her a good morning text thinking today is gonna be a normal day breaks my heart. Poor Jackie I'm so sorry, it's for your own good, I promise </3
˗ˏˋ♡ˎˊ˗ Thank you for reading ˗ˏˋ♡ˎˊ˗
˗ˏˋ♡ˎˊ˗ If you liked it, please let me know in the comments! ˗ˏˋ♡ˎˊ˗
When you're feeling unmoored and unsure about love, James is a constant
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
cw: mental health issues, idk what this is really just kind of word soup
James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 1.2k words
You watch James reheat last night’s dinner on the hob. A pasta recipe he found in an old book of his grandmother’s. In a handful of minutes he’ll dish out enough for each of you, put one of the short-tined forks you like in your bowl without even having to think about it, and come join you in front of the television. You’ve been glued to it since you got home from work.
You wonder if he wishes you weren’t here. If he wishes you were closer or father, maybe standing behind him in the kitchen, passing back and forth sweet touches and chatting about your days. You want James to want that, you think. You want him to miss you.
It’s not fair, because you’re the one pulling away. You don’t know what you want from James, either. You want to be doted on (in obscene amounts; a soft, pitying voice and knowing how you feel without you saying and wearing him around like a jumper) and you also want to be left alone. You keep finding yourself in the middle distance, the least satisfying compromise.
“Shit. Angel”—Least fitting epithet. It melts you in a way that burns—“could you grab the rolls from the freezer? I forgot to thaw them.”
“Sure.” You get up, joining him in the kitchen. Was this James’ way of asking for you to join him? You feel guilty for making him ask. James deserves someone who offers to help.
You wonder if James is thinking the same thing. You wouldn’t blame him for wanting someone better, who does more than you. He probably wants someone who leaves the house more often than to go to work.
You do, sometimes. Not as much the last few weeks. The last few weeks, you’ve gotten up, gone to work, come home, eaten dinner in front of the television, and gone to bed. You’ve barely been conscious. (It’s better than being conscious. Any time consciousness creeps up on you, lately, you end up feeling too wretched to do anything at all.) The days drag on in dribs and drabs. If you unfocus your eyes, it’s two weeks ago, and everything exactly is the same.
James definitely deserves better than that.
You hold a couple of bread rolls over the steam coming off the pasta while James cleans the dishes you forgot to clean the night before. When he comes back and sees what you’re doing, he clicks his tongue approvingly, reaching around you to give the pasta a stir.
“Brilliant girl,” he says, bending closer. By the time his lips brush your temple, the rest of him has already turned away.
You wait for a glow that doesn’t come.
It’s not brilliant; James is wrong. All you end up with is soggy, half-frozen bread and too-hot hands.
He eats it anyway. In front of the television, as has become your ritual, not talking. You feel like you haven’t talked to James in ages.
He talks, of course, about small things, but nothing substantial. It’s your fault for not asking the right questions. You know his team has drafted a new player who James likes, but you don’t know if he misses his old teammate. You don’t know how his dad is doing apart from his frustrations with the unknown pest in his garden, or what James’ favorite song of late is, or what actually ended up happening with that thing he was going to bring up with his coach.
James wouldn’t know much of the same sort of information for you, but that’s not his fault. You haven’t been much of anything for a while.
“Hey,” says James, during a commercial break. You look over and see that his bowl is empty, set on the coffee table. You’re still picking at yours. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Okay,” you say, wary.
He glances at you, then back at the television. He looks almost nervous. “I wondered if—okay.” James seems to resolve something inside himself, turning to face you fully. “Here’s the thing. I don’t want you to feel weird about it, I’m just asking because I want to know.”
Dread sinks like a stone down through your middle. “Okay.”
“I can’t tell if you’re just upset or upset with me.”
You blink. It’s wounding, though you have no right to be the one wounded. Gore seeps from you anyway. “I’m not upset with you, Jamie.”
He nods. Then, “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” you say, softly, “I’m sure. I’m sorry for making you think that.”
“It’s okay, don’t be sorry.” James brushes you off easily. He reaches for your leg, rubbing as his eyes go back to the television. Some ad for dog kibble. Once again, you wait for a warmth that doesn’t come. “You just haven’t seemed like you wanted to be around me very much.”
“I’m trying to.”
James turns back, hurt embedding itself in his features. “I don’t want you to have to try to, angel.”
“Sorry, that’s not what I meant. I’m just not…I don’t want to do much. It’s not you.” You pause to look at him sincerely. “You’re the best part.”
James has been indelibly lovely, as much of late as ever, but it’s like you’ve forgotten how to appreciate it. It doesn’t burrow itself inside you like it should. You crave his attention, but when he kisses you, compliments you, knows your favorite fork, you don’t feel loved the way you think you usually do. You don’t feel much at all.
It’s unsettling. Like a food that used to be your favorite, your death row meal, suddenly tastes bland in your mouth.
“The best part?” James echoes, teasing and yet somehow sincere at the same time. He’s aiming for levity but seeking reassurance, and you have no reservations about giving it to him. James loves you (though you can’t imagine why, can’t figure how the you you’ve been recently could be meant for love at all) and you love him.
“Of course you are,” you say.
His smile fades. Not into sadness, but something more pensive. He’s considering you. Your show is back on the television, but neither of you turn to face it. “You seem tired,” he says, kindly.
You shrug. “It’ll go away.”
It’s strange, knowing something and still not believing it. You’ve laid in bed the past several nights in a row drowning in the dread that this might never go away. It feels innate to you, inextricable, the way some parasites take over their hosts. But you find you can tell the truth for James’ sake.
James hums. “Do you want to be around me now?”
“Yes,” you say, automatically.
“You don’t have to say that if you don’t feel like it, sweetheart.”
“I do.”
“Okay, then…” He shuffles around a bit, looking almost shy. And a shy James Potter is enough to make you hold your breath. “Want to have a cuddle for a while?”
You move into his hold wordlessly, letting your boyfriend fold his limbs around you until you’re practically wearing him like a jumper. James sets his lips to your head.
