Iplier and Septiceye One-Shots and Imagines - Book 2

Night After Night (Darkiplier)

The days were long and hard. The nights drew to a close too quickly, having been wasted with drink after drink. Blaring lights were all you remembered lately; that is, other than the man that woke up beside you the morning after.

Your life was a blur; your happiness, essentially nonexistent. Your sour life was masked with kiss after kiss, late night sex, one night stands, and the bitter stench of the alcohol mixing with the bile that was emptied from your stomach after hours and hours of trying to forget.

You wanted to forget your sad excuse of an existence.

You wanted to forget you.

Once more, your eyes groggily opened to a blurry image. A figure beside you, sound asleep, his bare shoulders rising and falling calmly. Turning around, the harsh sun, high in the sky, blared through the cracks in your blinds, making you squint to see the time.

It was past noon.

With a groan, you sat up and grabbed your undergarments, hoping to get dressed before the stranger in your bed awoke.  There was a bitter taste on your tongue, the stench of alcohol reeking on our body.

Your ears rang quietly, a high-pitched whistle that annoyed you more than anything. Your vision swam, your head throbbed; that was nothing compared to the ache in your chest, the high from the night before fading as you remembered that there was another day to face.

There was a groan as you were slipping your shirt on. Your eyes flickered to the lump on the bed, moving and turning to face you. His dark eyes roamed your body, found that it was clothed. Finally, his gaze turned to you.

He seemed to be at a loss for words. He opened his mouth, closed it, then asked,

"What time is it?"

"A bit past twelve, I think. There's a clock over here," you replied, nodding towards your bedside table and to the alarm clock, the LED lights flashing the time.

The man nodded slowly, sitting up. The blanket fell from his torso and you looked away quickly.

"Do you need anything?" you asked in a quiet voice. "Painkillers, water?"

"I think I'm good, thanks. Was last night... okay?"

"I... think so. Bit blurry, y'know?" You forced a chuckle, trying to find some sweatpants to cover your bare legs.

The man said nothing, just look to the ground to find his articles of clothing.

"I'll be downstairs if you need me," you said, slipping into the pants you found on top of your dresser. "Give you some... privacy." Walking out of the room and closing the door behind you, you bit your lip to hold back the urge to scream, too tired and too much in pain to allow it even if there was no one else in the house.

He came down just as you finished brushing your teeth.

"I... it was nice... well...." His gaze refused to meet yours as he struggled for something to say.

"Just... maybe I'll see you later," you said quietly, turning away.

"I... yeah. All right. I'll see you then." With a sombre blink, he turned away and exited the house without another word.

The rest of the day was a blur; television, work, drinking, more work, more drinking. Your eyes glazed with the alcohol and the prospect of going to another bar, the drugs in your system giving you a high that was just never enough anymore.

You woke up to find yourself in the corner of your living room. A bottle of vodka was sitting beside you, half-empty, and broken glass shimmered in the moonlight filtering through the window.