#patched up | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

youvebeenlivingfictional · 5 months ago

Note

What do you think happened to the characters after your fic patched up? Did will get his priorities straight and commit to the reader…pls say yes

Unraveled - Sequel to Patched Up

Here is a very long answer 💖

Rating: Explicit - 18+ only. Minors, DNI.

Pairing: Will Miller x Reader

Warnings: Fluff/angst (flangst). Sexual content: Vaginal sex; safe sex; biting. Not beta-read.

You don't think your coworker means to send your whole day careening off its axis, but it happens anyway. It's tacked onto an invitation to hang out that weekend, coupled with a sigh that she's had no luck hooking up with Ben (who's been out of town) or with the manimal.

You still wince at the term, but you're more intrigued at the fact that Will has turned down your gorgeous friend.

"Oh?" You ply as innocently as possible. She doesn't seem terribly put out as she shrugs a shoulder, setting her laptop and notepad down on her desk.

"He was nice about it, at least. Said he was flattered, but that he travels a bunch, already has his eye on someone."

She says it like it's nothing. And to be fair, to her, it is nothing.

She has no idea that she's just touched on the tenuous string keeping Will—the thought of him in your arms, in your bed, the idea of him—and set the fucking thing on fire.

You're numb and quiet for the rest of the day as the seams of your misplaced devotion silently disintegrate. You drive home stoically, unable to even bring yourself to turn the radio or a podcast on to distract yourself.

You step inside your apartment at 6:02 pm, shut the door, lock up, and draw in a deep breath.

You have no right, no reason to mourn. There's never been an agreement between the two of you. No exclusivity, no expectations, just...an understanding. You'd talked about it. You'd settled on this decision. This is your fault, isn't it?

You should've quit while you were ahead, drawn back when you'd found yourself in tatters after spending nights with him; seaming your sanity back into one piece as your mind spun with his tender smiles, and steady touch; with his eyes slipping shut as his hips bore down against yours—

You raise a hand to pinch the bridge of your nose, fighting desperately to staunch a wave of tears that have been waiting in the wings since approximate 10:38 that morning. You can't rationalize this, not right now.

You'll let yourself put your delusions to bed tonight. You can blame yourself all you want tomorrow, and put yourself back together the way you always have.

Piece by piece, thread by thread, you draw yourself back together over the next week, two weeks. You stop letting your every other thought be of him—his sweet eyes, and warm hands, and crushing kisses.

You even go out with a couple of people. You don't shy away from the attention that your coworker manages to drum up when the two of you go to the bar, and when some is directed at you, you manage not to shy from it. You let someone new catch your eye, and hold it for a couple of dates.

The time you spend with him that evening is nice—you go bowling, and then grab a drink. He leaves you on your doorstep with a chaste kiss. It's sweet.

But it doesn't make you feel much.

You think, right now, that may be what you need. Something that can be gently tried and carefully broken in, like a new pair of shoes.

You're just hanging your jacket up when you hear a knock on your door. It makes you freeze, your brow furrowing. You pat down your pockets, glance over your shoulder for your purse. You didn't forget anything in his car—you checked before you got out. You tread toward the door softly, wary of the click of your heels on the entryway tile.

He can't have come back for another kiss, that first one wasn't all that spectacular. He can't want to break things off with you in person. You've only seen one another twice, and besides, why not do that instead of kissing you if he wasn't feeling it?

You peer through the peephole and just manage to stop yourself form sucking in an audible gasp.

The sight of Will Miller at your doorstep has never made you feel queasy before.

Nervous? Sure. Fluttery? Absolutely.

But right now, your heart feels like it just shocked your entire system before dropping into your bile-filled stomach.

You consider for a few moments as you watch him wait calmly on the other side of the door. It's possible that he just got there—that he pulled up, parked, walked up to the front door. But...It's also possible that he saw you get out of that man's car. It's possible that he saw that man kiss you, watched that man leave, and walked up your front steps anyway.

Maybe whoever he has his eye on is busy tonight. Maybe he wants his old, comfortable stand-in, and knows for sure that you're home. You gnaw the inside of your cheek, drawing in a deep breath and rubbing your hand over your pounding heart.

You can leave him in the cold. You can leave him on the doorstep, send the message that you're not interested anymore. You don't have to let him in just because he probably knows that you're in there.

Whatever you do, you cannot open the door. If you open the door, you'll let him in, and then all of the hard work that you've put in over the last couple of weeks will be hacked up, fit only to be sold for scraps.

The night air seems chillier than you remember from just a few moments ago—but then, you had been wearing a jacket.

Will waits there with his hands in his pockets, taking a couple of steps closer as soon as the door is opened fully. You force yourself to stand staunchly still, eyes set on his. But his gaze just sweeps from yours to linger on your lips before capturing yours again.

You won't let him inside, you can just tell him that you've had a long day and that you'd like him to leave.

He lifts one of his hands, knuckles stroking gently along your cheek as he watches your lashes flutter at the contact.

"Can I come in?"

You can say no. He probably just saw you with another man. He knows that you're at least dating, if not with someone. Just because he's here, just because he decided to show up, doesn't mean that he's entitled to your time.

He's taking his time.

He has before, but this is different. And it occurs to you belatedly that it may be some kind of goodbye. It makes you ache, and hide your face in his neck as his hips roll against yours with deliberate slowness.

You draw in the scent of him—his cologne, and deodorant, and sweat, and Will—and you let out a shaky little breath. You're dangerously close to unraveling the way you did two weeks ago, but you can't, not with him here. So you turn your head, squeeze your eyes shut, sink your teeth into the slope of his shoulder.

Will's hips stutter against yours as a groan punches out of him. But he doesn't let out a word of complaint, or teasing. He slips a hand up from your thigh and grasps the hair at the nape of your neck, forcing your head back. His slick skin slips from your teeth as you shudder, your back bowing as you push up against him.

Will peers down at you, those sweet lips parted as he pants softly. His typically bright blue eyes are dark, and covetous. You get as good a look at them as you can before his mouth descends on yours, tongue slipping between your lips.

You can't bring your hands to settle. The sweep across his arms, his hair, his neck, his face, the slick indent of your bite mark.

And maybe it's your turn to be the sadist, to twist the knife knowingly, just a little.

Pressing into the tender skin makes Will break the kiss with a hiss. His hands raise to grasp yours, intertwining your fingers and pinning you them to the bed. You whimper, pressing up into his iron-tight grip, but to no avail. You squeeze his hands, sink back into the mattress, and unravel as he gives and takes and takes and takes.

"When'd you get back in town?"

Asking the question feels like you're losing the last vestiges of safety that you'd managed to build up around yourself in your time without him. You shouldn't still want to know. You should give less of a fuck about where he's been, what he's been up to.

But with his body nestled against yours, his palms resting on your thighs, you tell yourself that you'll pick yourself back up tomorrow (again), patch yourself together (again), and move on from Will Miller once and for all (again).

He doesn't answer right away, and after a few moments, you realize that he isn't awake.

Tipping your head down to get a better look at him, you see his closed eyes, and you stop breathing for a moment to feel his—the deep, even pull of it, the push of it against your bare skin. You blink dumbly for a moment before you tip your head back.

You can wake him up. You can shoo him out. He's a grown man, he can handle it.

You reach out just enough to draw the covers up over the two of you and your bedside shut the lamp off.

You awake to the feeling of Will pressing his teeth into your clavicle—not hard enough to hurt, and likely not anywhere near enough to mark. But you groan and wriggle, shoving at his forehead all the same. He just presses his body more tightly to yours, hands slipping down to grasp and pin your hips.

You scrub your eyes sleepily, smiling as Will's tongue laves to irritated skin. He rests his chin against your shoulder, the brush of his beard just on the edge of tickling you. You reach up, gently raking your nails against his scalp.

"You stayed."

He doesn't nod, or him, or shrug. He just watches, and waits. And you can handle silence, you can. You'll wait him out.

You manage all of ten seconds before it gets to you.

"...How long have you been back in town?"

"A few hours."

Hours? You'd been expecting him to say days, weeks—

"When did you—?"

"Around nine."

Nine. You'd been dropped off around nine. If Will was being honest, it meant that he'd driven right to yours. You avert your gaze, fighting to keep your composure in the face of Will's steady focus.

"Oh?"

"Mm." One of his hands smooths up and over your thigh, fingers swirling in aimless patterns. "Who was he?"

You're unable to stop or hide your wince, and you pull yourself out from under him as your tangle of feelings flare. He lets you up, and sits up himself. You can feel the close watch that he keeps on you as you grab your bathrobe, tugging it on and tying it more tightly than necessary.

"Well?" He prods after a moment.

"Just a guy I've been seeing."

"How many times?"

"A couple."

"Serious?"

"The hell does that matter?" You scoff. Will remains steady in the face of your irritation, just watching you move around your room, picking up your discarded clothing. You lay his pants on the bed, and he gamely catches his underwear and shirt when you throw them at him. He stands, pulls the underwear on, but doesn't bother with anything else.

"You wouldn't have let me in if it was," He argues. You shake your head, your protestation clogging up your throat. You both know he's right on that point, there's no point quibbling.

"Was your first choice unavailable?" You grumble.

"Excuse me?"

"I've been told you have your eye on someone." You don't dare look at him as the quiet fills the room, and stretches to suffocating as you wait for Will's answer.

"...Yeah," He confirms. And it's like it's 6:02 in your entryway all over again. Tears prickle in your eyes, and your stomach churns with upset. But you just nod, raising your hand to pinch the bridge of your nose and steady yourself again.

"So?" You press. "Why aren't you wherever she is?"

"I am."

It's spoken deceptively softly, so quietly that you nearly miss it the same time. You shake your head, trying to make sense of the words over the blood pounding in your ears.

"Excuse me?"

You register the slight creak of the floorboards as Will stands, the soft padding of his feet as he gets closer. He takes hold of your wrist, drawing it back from your face as he gently grasps your chin with his other hand.

"I just got back into town and I came right here," He murmurs.

"For a bootycall."

"To ask you out...And yeah, for a bootycall."

His warm smile widens as you sputter a disbelieving laugh, the force of it pushing a few waiting tears from your eyes. Will reaches up, gently smoothing the drops away before he presses a kiss to your forehead.

"I should've said something sooner. That is," He dips his head to meet your eyes, "If this is something that you want."

You huff, reaching up and dabbing irritatedly at your eyes with the sleeve of your bathrobe.

"Can we just be clear about what this is?" You sniffle.

"Dating, for a start."

"A start?"

"Mhm. I'm happy to take it slow, considering how quickly other areas have accelerated."

You consider him for a few moments—the heat of him, the steadiness. He stayed. Will Miller fell asleep in your bed, in your fucking arms. He came to your first.

Your eyes stray to his shoulder, to the slight mark left behind by your teeth the night before. You reach up, skimming your fingertip over it.

"Sorry," You mumble.

"S'okay," He soothes, smoothing his hands over your hips and drawing you closer. "So?"

"Okay."

"Can we just be clear about what you're saying 'okay' to?"

You do your best to shoot him a disapproving glare, but you can't help the smile beginning to twist your lips.

"Okay," You lean into it. "I would like to date. For a start."

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