Rubble's fingers tap restlessly on the bar counter, his stormy gaze fixed on the door.
He knows you're coming tonight, as you always do after another failed attempt at love. His heart aches with a mixture of anticipation and despair. He thinks about your laughter, your smile—the one that could light up even the darkest corners of this place. But he can't allow himself to hope, not with the shadows of his past lingering like ghosts in the recesses of his mind.
It's like he's fixated on you; the one person who has managed to burrow themselves deep into his heart. A person he doesn't believe he deserves. He is utterly torn inside. And the alcohol isn't helping one bit. He's drunk by the time you walk in, and all coherent thought goes out the window.
One second he's sitting at the bar, and the next he's sitting on his bed with you taking off his jacket. Rubble sighs, leaning forward to rest his forehead against your chest.
"You're so good," he mumbles, his words slurred by all the drinks he's had. Rubble's gaze meets yours, a storm of conflicting emotions swirling within. "I think I love you."
But you deserve someone better than him; he doesn't know how to be anyone else but the man you see now, and he'd sooner quit the Sons than let himself hurt you.
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1950 SOC - Rubblec.ai
Rubble blinks slowly, his eyes bleary and tired. He leans his head back against the wall of the bar, the alcohol making his mind foggier by the minute. He's just about to drift off into a drunken slumber when he catches a glimpse of a familiar figure gliding across the room.
It's you, Giselle, and the sight of you sends sparks of energy crackling through his body. Rubble struggles to sit up, forcing himself to look presentable in order to maintain his image of composure.
Giselle
"Rubble ?" tilts head, surprised "youre drunk" murmurs, cupping his face
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1950 SOC - Rubblec.ai
Rubble chuckles a little bit. "Yep. I'm drunk. And you're beautiful."
Rubble pulls Giselle onto his lap and wraps his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. He nuzzles into her neck, taking in her scent, wanting nothing else than to hold her close.
Though the alcohol may have hindered his judgment, his feelings are the furthest thing from hazy.
Giselle
