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coriolantha · 18 days

Note

i still think abt this fic. everyone NEEDS to read this.

Hey I love your work so much!!

I was thinking of maybe a Mike Schmidt x reader where the reader is all like “I’m not good enough for you, I don’t deserve you” stuff and then like Mike makes it up to the reader to show them that they are more than enough 🫶

Sure, but it's gonna hurt!

Blue Sunrise

Mike Schmidt x Gender Neutral! Reader

Summery: All is well, yet you aren't. A fact that disturbs and irritates you so, even if it shouldn't.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no use of gendered pronouns for Reader, SFW with brief mentions of smut, pre-established relationship, set during the movie but that's honestly not very relevant, hurt/comfort, Reader and Mike both have PTSD, this isn't projection, bed rotting, depression, self-loathing, night terrors/nightmares, panic attacks, sleep deprivation, mentions of medication, lack of self care, slight self-harm (scratching), breakdown, nosebleed.

Notes: *in sonic snapcube dub voice* heyyyyyyyyyyyy what's upppppppppppppp it's meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee (STOP!!)

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6:34 A.M.

The dawn is gentle, the sky a soft blue behind the thin, cheap blinds that cover the bedroom window not that far in front of me. If I wanted, I could get up and open the window, revealing the surely beautiful and gorgeous sunrise that waits for me just outside the blinds.

But I don't. And I won't.

Birds sing gently outside, waking up and fliting about here and there. It's my favorite part of the day, quite frankly. When I can, I open the window to allow in the fresh, cool air, moist with the morning dew, unmuffling the bird's songs as I drift off to sleep, my schedule mostly in tune with Mike's for his night shift. Sometimes I manage to stay awake to greet him when he returns home. It's always nice when I do. His smile is lazy, his strides long and slow as he makes his way to the bed, peeling off his work clothes and crawling under the covers with me. Sometimes he'll press himself against me, his lips finding my neck as his hand dives between my thighs, his fingers trained on one goal as he murmurs against my skin how much he's missed me. Sometimes I wake to this.

There's a part of me that wishes he'd do this today just so I wouldn't have to think.

The lock on the front door rattles as someone attempts to insert a key into the hole. It doesn't matter how long he's lived here or how he uses those keys every morning, he still takes a moment to make sure he's using the right one, and on the first try he usually isn't. So it takes him a solid minute to unlock the door and enter the house. If we had dogs, they'd surely drive us insane from his routine. It slightly drives me insane already. But I'm technically not even supposed to be awake, so I never mention it.

When Mike finally enters the house, the first thing I hear after the satisfying break of the doors seal ringing throughout the living room is a deep sigh as Mike's backpack lands in front of the coat rack. He should be quieter about setting it down. I would be. But I think he assumes we should be so deep in sleep it really wouldn't matter, and it honestly doesn't make much noise. Just a slightly dull 'thud' against the thinly carpeted floor.

Next I can hear his car keys land in the bowl they're meant for. Again, he's a bit too loud with it all. At least, while people are sleeping. But it's not really a bother. In a way, I like it. It gives me a routine to memorize, his sounds before he'll trail to our room and come press himself against me.

The rocking recliner creeks softly as he sits in it, lazily undoing the laces on his boots before he tosses them towards the coat rack. And next he'll duck his head into the fridge I'm sure and look for the leftovers I put into a big bowl for him to warm up - which he won't, because he's a psychopath who likes cold food. - and then when my alarm goes off, he'll come to wake me up, rising from the old couch where he's very quietly reading his book while he eats and do whatever he has to do to prevent me from slipping back into sleep. He's very good at that job. Especially when he uses his tongue.

But today there's a break in the routine. Today, his footsteps are padding towards our room, the door quietly opening as he slips in. I can hear him let out a soft sigh as he tugs on his hoodie, pulling it off and then discarding of his jeans, which muffle the clack of his belt buckle as he slips them off. Left in his undershirt and boxers, he crosses the room to open the blinds and the window, letting in the fresh air and leaning against the thin windowstill for a moment. Now, I can see him.

He looks rested, a little more than he should for having just finished a night shift. I keep telling him he's going to get fired, but he always wiggles his way out of that conversation. The bags usually under his eyes aren't too deep this morning, which while problematic is relieving. His skin is pale blue from the dawns light that pours into the room. His dark curls are more thick on the top of his head, clumped together from him not brushing them after his shower. He must've used too much conditioner, because his hair also looks thicker than it usually does. The breeze blows his oversized pale blue shirt against his chest as he leans forward, allowing his eyes to close as he takes in a deep breath. It feels like an overly private moment. Like I've intruded by watching him. I don't see him like this much when he isn't alone. When he's with me or Abby, he's alert. Somewhat on guard. It's like he's watching us to make sure we're okay. He's too used to things falling apart in an instant. But when he's alone, physically or emotionally, the walls crumble away to reveal a man who enjoys peace. Who smiles softly as he bends down low, resting his chin upon his arms, letting the dawn greet him and being the supposed first in the house to greet the dawn. And I feel like a stalker for watching him. A scene that feels as if I've stolen what will now only exist deep in my mind for when I want to remember one of the few times he has truly ever looked at peace with the world. It's a scene out of a painting. As private as a prayer. I should grant him more privacy, but I don't. In a captivated and enchanted way, I can't.

I'd never tell him this, but in this moment he looks like his mother. And not in the sense of him being her son. No, based off of the few photos I've seen of her in more private, intimate instances, like when she was holding a very small Mike on her lap on his second birthday, or when Mike's father had stolen a photo during their honeymoon when she wasn't looking, Mike looks just like her. Quiet, serene, not hiding anything from anyone because there's no need. At this moment it is just him and the gentle, late winter breeze that makes my nose begin to sting. He's beautiful. Just like she was.

The moment comes to an end, and now it is just a moment that exists only within my mind as his eyes open. The blue dawn brings out the green in his eyes that's usually hidden by artificial light that overpowers the amber, turning them mostly black in some instances. That's the color I thought they were until I saw him in proper daylight. His long lashes bat once, twice in an almost sleepy manner as he shifts his focus, now turning his head to look at me. I shut my eyes quickly, my canines biting into my tongue to force myself to keep a straight face. But it's too late. We made eye contact, even if it was only for a second, and now he knows I'm awake.

"Sweetheart?" He whispers softly, his voice low and slightly gravelly in the way it always is. His 's' and 't's just a tad sharp, clear as always when he speaks. I hear the floor groan as he pads towards me.

I don't speak. I'm not supposed to be awake. I should be asleep, he would rather I was asleep. I tried to be asleep.

He stops in front of me, I can hear the floor groan louder as he crouches in front of me. He's trying to decide if I'm awake or not, if maybe he'd been tricked into thinking we made eye contact. But something convinces him he hasn't, and the bed sinks as he places a hand upon the mattress to support his weight while he kisses my temple.

"Hi," he whispers against my skin, placing another kiss just above the curve of my brow. "Good morning." He places another kiss on the space between my brows, his lips now trailing up to the middle of my forehead. "You look so pretty like this."

Like what? My skin shining with oil, my nose dirty, my body heavy from not having moved?

Something makes him pause when his lips find my cheek. He keeps his lips pressed against my skin for a moment before he pulls away, licking his lips as he looks closer at me.

"Hey," he whispers softly, a finger finding my chin. "Open your eyes."

I don't want to. When I do he'll instantly know what I've been doing, and I don't want to handle it. I don't want to deal with it.

His hand slips under my head, between my cheek and my pillow.

"Sweetheart, your pillow's wet," he says in quiet surprise. "Open your eyes, talk to me."

Hesitatingly, I obey. Cracking my eyes open and trying not to reveal how horrid the dryness in them feels after allowing them rest for a few moments after keeping them open for what could have been hours at this point. Mike's face is inches from mine, his brows furrowed in concern as his eyes scan for other obvious signs of distress.

"Hi," I croak in a tired, unused voice as I try to pretend all is well. Mike unfortunately knows better.

"What happened?" He asks concerningly, taking in the tone he does whenever Abby is upset, fretting over me like I'm an injured child as both of his hands cup my face, his lips finding what he's confirmed are thin, itchy and salty tear tracks, placing several, feather-light kisses along them.

"Nothing," I answer honestly, my voice still cracking. "I'm fine."

"Your eyes are red, baby," he says softly, pulling away to look at me again while his body inches closer. "You look like you've been crying for hours."

Ha. I wish. If I had been, maybe I'd feel better about everything. But instead, I've been lying here since Abby went to bed, feeling numb and dead internally as I willed myself to be upset about anything. Work, bills, the color of the walls. I'd succeeded maybe twice, little tears streaming down my face for a minute or two. But then they would stop, and it would feel as though I couldn't cry. Really cry. Like there was some emotional, maybe physical block preventing me from just truly letting all of my emotions out in a possibly hysterical fit. One that would mean I could connect to my humanity. I don't know what's wrong with me. So, instead I just say "I haven't cried."

Mike opens his mouth to call bullshit, but his brow furrows tighter as he thinks. "What's wrong?" He asks again, now lifting my head to allow one arm to slip underneath so I can lay upon it.

"Nothing," I answer again, truly unsure of what to say. "I'm really okay."

And I am. Work is fine, I am fine. Friends are fine. I don't have entitlement to be upset.

"Is it another episode?" Mike asks softly, now pulling his body onto the bed to lie next to me, fully committed to being partner of the year over here. Ugh. Great.

"No," I answer quickly, averting my gaze. Mike's hand cups my cheek, his body cool compared to mine. I'm soaked in sweat from sleeping - read: laying motionless on the bed since 9:30. - in too warm of clothes in too warm of a room under too warm of blankets. I probably stink. Meanwhile the morning air makes Mike feel refreshing. He's perfect. I'm a mess.

"It's okay if it is," Mike says softly. "It's nothing to be ashamed of if-"

"I'm not having an episode," I say firmly, cutting him off as though it will solidify my statement more than his if I finish mine first. "I'm just not."

I don't pretend to be perfect. I'm not, and I never will be. I know that's okay. I know episodes happen, and that I'll be okay. I've been so much better lately on my new schedule. I'm working, I'm happy.

I have absolutely no good reason to be in the midst of a depression episode. One where the memories won't leave my mind, where I can't sleep, can't think about anything but the past. It plays in my head over and over again, and I can't stop it. Even though I try. I read, I journal, I bathe. But I don't feel real. People don't feel real. Mike is disorienting in the sense that he is the only thing that truly feels real. Where the pale color of the sheets seems hypnotic, his slightly tan skin contrasts to remind me this place really does exist. The furniture and details of the room seem as real as something from a video game, renderings that aren't as realistic as they could be that blend into the wall more as you look. Flat. Nothing. But the freckles on his nose are real. Strikingly real. Overly real. It's as though someone took their time to place each one, carefully deciding their color, their opacity, their placement. I want and love each one, but at this moment they slightly torture me by drawing me into a comforting trap.

"I haven't had an episode in over a month, I'm better," I attempt to say in a firm, solid voice. But I'm too tired, too worn out. My chest burns both from anxiety induced heartburn and how shallow my breathing has been for the past several hours. Mike looks sad, and I hate that. Deeply.

"You have been doing better," he says softly, like a reassuring parent. "I've seen that. And I'm so proud of you."

But I still have this. I'm still like this. I still can't have people wrap their arms around me from behind because I'm instantly taken back to when it would end in me collapsed on the ground, panting, crying, calling out for help that just wouldn't come. I still can't wear shirts with too tight of collars because it always end with me half naked, ripping the shirt off while hyperventilating. That was how I had to tell Mike. For our first Christmas together he bought me this beautiful turtleneck, knowing I liked the style but didn't own many. A dark evergreen color, affordable but a lovely tight-knit material, I adored the thing. But the moment the shirt was over my head, the neck felt like a hand suffocating me, and though I tried to tolerate it fie as long as I could, it only took one casual graze of his hand along my back to send me reeling into a corner, hyperventilating, sobbing, blubbering like a terrified child as I clawed at my neck while he tried to get it off of me.

'I'm so proud of you.' The statement feels like a backhanded reward. It feels as though I'm an idiotic child who just can't learn their ABC's or basic fundamental math. It feels like I'm a small toddler surrounded by adults looking at me full of pity in their eyes while they think 'well, you'll never be normal by any means. But maybe one day if you're lucky, you'll work in a Subway.' But they don't tell me this. They just praise me for existing. 'You woke up today! You put on clothes today! You didn't kill yourself!' It makes me want to scream. Yes, even at him. I want to grab him by his shirt and scream until my voice is shattered 'don't praise me for the bare minimum! I'm not a child!'

But I know he's not. I know he feels the same way when he slips back in progress as well. There was a solid month last year where Mike's insurance refused to pay for his sleep medication due to some paperwork slip and such, something they eventually realized was a complete blip on their end. But that month was hell for Mike, who could barely sleep well even with the medication. His easy smirks were replaced with cracked lips, skin raw from constant biting. His eyes were filled with paranoia from lack of sleep, and worse were the night terrors. Mike didn't even know he was still capable of having them, usually sedated by his meds well enough that if there was a nightmare, he just stayed asleep. At worst he'd wake up in a haze, maybe a very short yelp if anything. But without his meds, it was screaming. Constant screaming. There were nights he would wake after only an hour and he'd start, his voice shrill and reverberating off the walls as he thrashed in the bed. You couldn't console him, touch made him worse. When it happened, you simply had to leave the room and pray he would be okay. The episode could last anywhere from five minutes to an hour, and you would know it was over when all you could hear was broken sobbing, quiet and childlike in nature. Then I would return to the room, and there he'd be. Sometimes wrapped in blankets, sometimes his shirt torn off of himself. Usually sitting either in the dark corner of the room or on the floor of our closet. Red, angry marks would trail along his skin from clawing at himself with his uneven nails, some of them being actual cuts he'd managed in his terror. I'd carefully clean his cuts with cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide while he silently stared ahead, too ashamed to speak or make eye contact with me. And too terrified to sleep again.

Sleep deprivation didn't help, either. One day I saw him with a Redbull stuck in his hand, seemingly never empty despite how much he drank from it. At first I thought it was one, than I realized it was three, then I realized I didn't really know what number he was on. It was surprising how well he could take the new, unusual load of caffeine that tastes sickly sweet without so much as a twitch of an eyebrow. I didn't realize he was trying to starve off sleep until the next morning when his leg was bouncing a mile a minute and he was snapping at every little thing. That day he had a breakdown over dropping an unpeeled onion. And that's when it slipped out.

I didn't judge him. I was terrified for him, but I didn't judge him. And I could tell the same was true for him when I would have my slips, though mine looked different. Mine looked like a lack of self care and rotting in our bed, staring pointlessly ahead until he would lift me off the bed and carefully guide me to a warm bath, where he'd gently wash my skin with a soft rag like I was a newborn while I stared ahead at nothing. At this point we had learned to tell the oncoming signs of each others episodes, and how to starve them off. And if we couldn't, how to help each other through them.

Usually, I don't mind. But today, it hurts. It all hurts.

"Have you eaten?" Mike asks me gently, his thumb gliding over my cheekbone as he wraps me in his embrace, careful of where he places his hands on my person. Like I'm a bomb.

I don't want to be treated like this anymore.

"Yes," I sigh in an irritated voice, like it's the most inconvenient thing he should ask me such a question. But I haven't. I feel empty and yet too full at the same time, and guilt pounds behind my left eye with the ferocity of a headache that I can't just mother myself.

Mike doesn't believe me. He'll pretend he does, but the press of his lips betray him as he takes a deep breath in like he's trying to tell what wire to cut next.

"Would you like to have breakfast with me?" He asks softly, his thumb still stroking just below the raw corner of my eye. It burns. All of it.

'No,' I snap in my head. But I just tighten my jaw and press my own lips together.

"I'm not really hungry, but thank you," I say in a tight voice. Now he's going to pretend that's okay, and he'll go get his breakfast. Then he'll pretend he can't finish it all, joke lightly and say I gave him too big of a portion even though he eats like he's still a growing teenager, and offer me little bites as he "tries" to finish the rest, then eventually trick me into finishing it. He isn't slick, and I'm not a child.

"Hey," he says in a light whisper. "I was thinking maybe we could go out today? All three of us? Or I could call Max, see if she'll watch Abs for a little bit so we can get away?"

Distraction. Cute. I don't need it.

"That could be nice," I admit through half gritted teeth, not meeting his eyes. "Where to?"

"Anywhere," he says too quickly, obviously relieved to have a straw to grasp at. "Your choice."

Guilt twists in my chest like an alien creature settled in my lungs, burning as it begins to slither its way towards my throat to suffocate me on its wrath. He doesn't need to do this. Can't he see how well I'm doing?

"How was work?" He asks me in an attempt to keep me talking. Mike doesn't like silence, not like this. Not really any time. There's always noise throughout the house, whether it's a show on in the background or white noise from his cassette player. He can't stand silence. Especially from people.

"Work was..." Fine? The usual? Non-eventful?

"Good," I decide. Mike presses his lips together again. Stop doing that.

"Yeah?" He asks in a slightly tight voice.

"Yeah," I confirm in a tighter voice.

"You didn't... call out or anything?"

My bottom left back molar feels like it might snap from how tight my jaw is. "Why?" I ask, venom unintentionally creeping in.

"Just asking," he says quickly.

"Why?" I press harder, wanting to know who told on me. Abby hasn't even had the chance to speak with him.

'It's because he knows your patterns,' I think. 'He's trying to gage how serious this is.'

"Maybe we could go out for breakfast? We can wait until Abby wakes up, go get some Waffle Hous-"

"I'm not having an episode," I snap quickly, more harsh than I intended. My tone makes him flinch slightly, his eyes shutting for a moment as he takes another breath in. Now I'm scared he'll pull away.

"We... don't have to talk about this right now," he says softly, opening his eyes again and wrapping his arm around me tighter. "Let's just focus on breakfast."

The guilt pounds in my kidneys, which are sore since I haven't left the bed since I laid down after putting Abby to sleep, but I did have a full water bottle around 3:00 in the morning. It's not Mike's fault I backtracked. He's just trying to be nice. I'm the asshole here.

"I'm sorry," I say in a small voice, dropping my gaze and biting my tongue between my canines again to stop the tears that are now willing to come freely to burn my eyes during such an inappropriate moment.

"It's okay," Mike says softly, placing a kiss on my forehead. "Don't even think about it."

'Don't even think about the fact he's just trying to be a decent person and you can't even say 'thank you,'' a grating voice in my head chides me. 'What, you're too good for a free meal?'

"I'm sorry," I repeat softer, my nails digging into my wrist that I'm holding to keep control over myself. Mike's hand is searching for mine, ready to pry it away to prevent me from doing what I need to to prevent the waterworks.

"Hey." Stop with the 'hey's. "I said it's alright, you're okay."

It's all bad. Everything's bad, and it's not going to get better. I keep thinking I'll get better, I keep thinking I'll be okay. But every two steps forward is one step back and I can't keep doing this redundant bullshit for the rest of my life. Am I going to be 40 at the office Christmas party sneaking off to freak out in the bathroom because something triggered me and I just can't get a grip on things? Am I even going to make it to 40?

Mike is comforting me, cradling my head to his chest and rocking me back and forth. And his shirt is wet. I don't like that his shirt is wet, it should be dry. Why is it fucking wet?

"It's okay," he's whispering in my hair while horrid choking sounds come from somewhere around us. Maybe the other room? "You're alright, it's okay."

I'm aware it's alright, I'm aware it's okay. Why are you wet? Why does my head hurt?

"I can't- sleep," my voice chokes out between guttural sobs, my face pressed into his chest. "It's all nightmares."

Oh. Shit. That's me. The wetness, I did that. My bad.

"I know, it's okay. How long?" Mike asks softly. What, are you gonna call my therapist?

"A week," I moan into his chest. My ribs expand with each recycled breath I steal from against his chest, and I can feel him trying to gently tug me away so I can get one with fresh, cold air instead. I don't let him. My lungs burn more. "They just won't stop."

"It's okay, it's only temporary," he says softly, his hand pushing away some of the blanket to relieve me of the boiling warmth underneath. The cold air is refreshing against my skin, even through my clothes are soaked with stinking sweat.

"No, it's not!" I cry hysterically into his chest. "They don't go away. None of it goes away. I want it to go away!"

He's nodding, rubbing circles on my back as I grip his shirt hard enough it may stretch.

"It'll get better. It did for awhile," he reminds me.

"But I'm back here. I always end up back here. I was doing so good!" I sob, feeling the wetness on his shirt begin to slightly thicken, probably due to snot. I try to sniff it back into my sinuses, but I think that just draws his attention to the new fluid he's covered in.

"That's okay. You'll do even better next time. And if you don't, that's okay too." Don't say what I think you're going to say. Do not. Michael, I'm serious, don't- "I'm still proud of you."

Fuck. Ooooooff!

This is the real release of my emotions. Now I'm gasping, choking, sobbing, making horrible sounds that sound like a European ambulance siren wailing through the streets to announce someone's dying on the way to the hospital. My head throbs with the pain from the heavy crying, and I may give myself a nosebleed from the passion of it all. And Mike, his patience thick and durable, just holds me through it all. Letting me soak his shirt, dirty his skin, grab at him blindly while I wail like a spoiled child, just repeating the phrase over again. 'Proud.' What pride. What honor to be had at such a breakdown. Yes, very understandable.

"I should be better," I sob into his chest. "You deserve better."

"What?" He laughs lightly, and at first it feels mocking, but then he's pulling my head away fron my soaked enclosure and his eyes are so gentle for a moment I know the light laughter is simply from surprise. Then his eyes widen and he's back in parent mode.

"Don't leave me. Don't leave me!" I choke out while gripping his shirt. At first he thinks I'm talking about our relationship, then he realizes I'm not letting him pull away.

"Sweetheart, you're bleeding," he gently explains. "Let me wipe your face. I just need tissues. I'm not even leaving the bed."

But that's too much. Let me bleed, let my head throb, let this headache take the vision away in my eye from how bad it hurts. Let anything happen so long as I can stay in this moment. Don't break the spell. Don't let me go numb again.

"Don't leave me," I cry pathetically, my eyes all scrunched together in the same manner as wailing infants, my grip on his shirt not breaking. Sure enough, there on the wet spot of his shirt is a dark stain of blood that should hopefully come out if we wash it fast enough.

"Let me do that," I'm saying as I try to peel off his shirt now. "Let me wash it."

He's gently guiding my hands away. "Don't worry about it," he says gently, kissing my hands and wrists like they might break even from the delicate graze of his lips. "Let me take care of you."

He does this all the time. He always takes care of me. I should do more. Be more. For him.

"You deserve better," I choke out, feeling like I may suffocate from the tears. Mike's brows furrow in concern, and he grips my chin very carefully as he makes me meet his eyes.

"Hey, no. Get that out of your head, it's all okay," he tells me softly, staring at me like if he can't verbally convince me, his hard stare will do the trick. "I don't want to hear you talk like that."

"I should be better," I repeat, my crying lessening slightly as I try to hold eye contact.

"You're getting better," he reminds me. "This is the happiest I've seen you since we met. You'll get back to that. Hell, you could feel the same way tonight. It's okay. Take a day off. We all need one, even normal people," he says softly, stroking my hair as he kisses my forehead. "Can you just let me take care of you in the meantime?"

No. Go away, let me rot.

"We can still go out for breakfast," he offers gently. "I can still call Max, or we can all stay in. I'll set up a nest in the living room so you can watch TV. Works you like that?"

Stop. Stop being nice to me, stop trying to make me feel better. It all just feels awful. I don't want this guilt, someone takes it away.

Mike must sense my overwhelmed emotions, because he places another kiss on my forehead before asking if he can clean my face again, and this time I say yes. He pulls away, which is still upsetting but less so. I don't make a deal out of it this time at least. He opens a drawer, searching for wipes and pulling them out before turning back to me.

"Do you want to sit up?" He asks gently. I bite my tongue to prevent another mocking thought directed towards me and nod. Bones crack as I do, my kidneys hurt worse. But at least I finally moved.

Tears still streak down my face as Mike wipes away the snot and blood, his large hand gently cupping my face as he does. There's a soft smile on his face, though I'm not particularly sure why. And when he's done, he runs his thumb along my bottom lip before placing his own lips on top of mine. They're chapped, one spot raw from excessive biting. But there's still some leftover chapstick on them, and it tastes like grapefruit.

I tug on his shirt, one hand sneaking under it to feel his cool skin underneath. He gently takes my wrist once more, then pulls away. A silent rejection. He knows that I'm just looking for a distraction from my emotions, and in a moment he'll offer a much healthier one. He does discard the shirt, leaving his chest bare, but only so that he doesn't smear my fluids back onto me as he pulls me in for another embrace.

"We'll be okay," he promises. "Everything will be okay."

"What if it's not?" I ask in a quiet, strained voice.

"Then it'll be okay later. You can take time to not be okay," he says.

There's a short silence before either of us speak. And when I hear his voice hitch in the way it does when he's about to say something, Abby's alarm rings crystal clear in her room. Then the sound of a truck rattles by on the road in front of the house. Birds continue to sing. And my pours feel so clogged I'm sure my skin will be lashing out for days.

But it'll all be okay.

¤▪︎{♧}▪︎¤

"Can we have some fluff to reco-" no. Suffer.

Taglist:

@cassiecasluciluce @gh0u1ishly @joshhutchersons-slut @schmidtsbimbo @sugarevans @wompwompwomp57 @jhutchissupercool @laurrrelise. Thank you for your support pookies!!! <3

•▪︎Masterlist▪︎•

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coriolantha · 19 days

Text

hmm im thinking of making the clapton fic angsty but ....

#this is very tempting #i think a fluff would do better though #i really dont know what to do now #josh hutcherson #jhutch #clapton davis x reader #clapton davis x you #mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt

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coriolantha · 20 days

Note

Wait imagine listening to music with clapton while in detention.. like sharing earbuds with him while yall sit in silence🫢 and then a cringe song comes on at the wrong time LMAO

BLESS YOU anon this is so cute

Saturday School

Clapton Davis x gender-neutral reader

Word count: 2k

Tags: fluff, a little cringe, romantic tension, older Clapton & younger reader

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You'd managed to get through nearly 12 years of schooling without getting sentenced to detention.

Unfortunately, today resets your streak. Only a measly two weeks at this shitty school and you've already gotten yourself into trouble. Just your luck, huh?

God damnit. Surely, this is going to be absolute hell. I mean, it isn't even a regular after-school detention, but Saturday school.

As you take a seat in the meticulously-arranged circle of desks in the library, you spare a glance at the other students. You vaguely recognize some of them... the goth chick looks familiar, at least.

They all seem disinterested, so you copy their aloof attitudes and lean back in your chair. Yeah... that seems right. Just do what everyone else does, and maybe you'll survive this.

Suddenly, the door bursts open and slams against the wall. You turn to look, and see the principal himself storm through, dragging a boy in by the ear.

Oh great. Finally, someone you recognize, and it's motherfucking Clapton Davis.

"It's not fair! I don't even HAVE Saturday school!" He whines, wincing as he's roughly shoved towards an empty desk. The desk right next to you. Wonderful.

"Should have thought about that before coming to school on a Saturday." The older man growls, giving him what he probably thinks is an intimidating look. Honestly, he just looks silly.

Clapton groans, slinking back in the desk and letting out an exaggerated huff that blows his bangs around.

God, can't that guy just be normal? You only just transferred here and already you know almost everything about him. Not by choice... obviously. He's just somehow the center of attention wherever he goes. Even in goddamn Saturday school.

"And as for the rest of you..." The principal continues his rant, glaring at the small circle of students. No, prisoners.

"Just remember. I have eyes and ears everywhere. EVERYWHERE."

With one final less-than-intimidating-glare, the man stomps out, closing the door behind him. Is that it? He's just going to leave you here in a roomful of delinquents with nothing but a vague threat to keep you all in check?

You glance around at the other students, but no one says anything. Hm. Maybe that's normal. You have no idea, so you just lay your head down on your desk, determined to get through this mess as simply as possible.

Turns out, that sentiment might prove to be more challenging than you thought. You hear a quiet "thud", and shift slightly, peeking an eye to your left to see what the noise was. Are you crazy, or does Clapton look... closer?

Nope. Not crazy. With another soft thud, he scoots his desk over again, inching it closer to yours.

"Pssst." He whispers, extending a leg out to nudge your foot. He's less than a yard from you at this point. Though you can't see the other students with your head buried in your arms, you're sure they've noticed. Damnit. Why did this jackass have to draw attention to you?

"What do you want?" You grumble, shifting on the desk so he can see your face, but still trying to stay hidden from the other students.

"I haven't seen you around before. You new?" He gives you a sheepish grin, eyes flickering with mischief as he takes you in.

"Yeah." You respond dismissively, giving him a flat stare. Please just pick on someone else, Clapton Davis.

"Cool, cool..." He crosses his arms and leans back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling.

You watch as he restlessly taps his feet and tries to balance on two legs of his chair. He's so high-strung. Like a chihuahua. Small like one too. Hah. The thought makes you smile, which he unfortunately notices and takes as a sign of interest. Damnit.

"So... what are you in for?" He asks, treating the exchange like you're two inmates. Honestly, it's a fair comparison.

"I, uh... Accidentally lit my teacher on fire."

With a crash, Clapton tips back in his chair completely, hitting the floor. Hard.

"You WHAT?"

The sudden noise makes you jolt upright, and you can feel a blush creeping up your neck as the other students turn to stare.

"Accidentally!" You protest weakly, hanging your head in shame as Clapton scrambles to his feet.

"How the fuck do you 'accidentally' set someone on fire?" A dark-haired boy across from you scoffs, and a few other people voice similar questions.

"Okay so... Mr Jones's sleeve caught fire while giving me a demonstration with the bunsen burner..." You start, taking a deep breath and staring down at your desk to calm your nerves.

"I panicked and doused it with a vial of the closest liquid... apparently an extremely flammable liquid..."

"Is THAT why he went home early Friday?" A blonde girl asks, letting out a shrill laugh, like that of a hyena.

"Woah. Sick." The goth-looking girl just nods in approval before lying her head back down on the desk.

Before you can give any kind of response, you feel your desk jostle as Clapton's slams into it. Apparently he'd taken the initiative to get a little closer while everyone was distracted by your story.

"So, Grizzly Lake High has a new pyromaniac, huh?" He teases, propping his elbow up on the desk and resting his chin on his fist as he grins stupidly at you.

"New?" You scoff. "You mean you had an old one?"

"Hey, there's a lot of weirdoes here." He shrugs.

"Yeah... I can tell."

He pouts and tries to feign offence as you pointedly look him up and down. God, what a stupid fucking face.

"You're not in any of my classes, are you, newbie?"

"No. I'm a Junior."

"Ah. Well, maybe we'll have some together next year."

"Next year? Aren't you a Senior?"

"Yeah, but with the way my grades are looking..." He grimaces, shaking his head sadly.

"...you might be a Senior again next year?" You finish for him.

"Yeah."

"Bummer."

An awkward silence settles between the two of you, and Clapton starts to squirm, looking as if he wants to say something else.

"How'd you end up here? In Saturday school, I mean." You ask, if only to cut the tension. Not because you actually care.

"Oh." His face falls, clearly annoyed just thinking about it.

"Principal Verge confiscated my skateboard Friday... I was supposed to get it back at the end of the day, but I ended up getting detention... By the time I was done, he'd already left and locked It up in his office."

"Sooo... you came to steal it back?"

"Not steal! There's sometimes a few teachers here on weekends... I was just gonna ask one of them..." He mumbles, hanging his head.

"But stupid Verge caught me 'sneaking around' and threw me in Saturday school."

"Oh, so he just has it out for you, huh?" You tease.

"Exactly!" He hisses back, eyes wide with excitement.

"People just don't understand. I'm not a troublemaker... just unlucky."

Unlucky? He seems pretty damn lucky to you. Everyone likes Clapton Davis. Everyone but you, it seems.

"Pfft. Maybe you could try being quiet and sitting still for once." You muse, trying to hold back a smirk. He might be onto something though, honestly. He's a total trouble magnet... which is why you should probably just put your head back down and ignore him.

"Hey!" He pouts, feigning hurt as he reaches into his pocket.

"And to think, I was gonna offer to share..."

This piques your interest, and you lean closer to him, trying to get a glimpse of the object he's fiddling with under his desk. An iPhone. Great.

"Won't that just get you in more trouble?"

He rolls his eyes in return. "Look around. I'm not the only one."

Sure enough, when you look more closely at some of the other students... yep, at least half of them are on their phones. The way they slump over the desks sort-of hides it, but once you knew what to look for... damn. He's right.

"Why? What's even the point of Saturday school, then?" You're completely baffled by this revelation, shaking your head.

"What's the point of school at all?" He counters, shrugging and popping an earbud into his ear. His wired headphones are extremely tangled, but he offers you the other earbud anyways.

"So, wanna share?"

Damnit. You really shouldn't. But you hadn't brought your own phone, and fuck, that grin of his...

"Fine. What do you have on there?" You sigh and accept the earbud, scooting closer to him so it'll actually reach your ear. There's not much slack with how tangled they are, so the two of you are nearly cheek to cheek as you hunch in your seats and peer down at his phone.

"Here, I'll turn on my playlist."

He fiddles with the little phone, and you can feel his breath mixing with yours as he speaks. Eventually he gets some music playing, but you can hardly hear it over the beating of your own heart.

"What do you think? You like 90s stuff?" Clapton smiles warmly, turning to face you.

His smile is contagious, and you can't help but let your gaze flicker down to his lips... just for a moment. He's so close, his mouth just inches from your own.

"Uh, yeah. I-I mean, who doesn't?" You mumble lamely, feeling a familiar heat creep up your neck and tinge your cheeks. Fuck. He's not that cute, get yourself together!!

"I know, right?" Apparently that's the right answer, because he turns his attention back to the phone, scrolling through his playlist and pointing out his favorite songs.

His music taste isn't bad, actually. You find yourself nodding at his choices, and soon you begin to forget where you are. The other students fade into the background, and Saturday school starts to feel a little less grim.

That is, until the song changes and the vibe is completely thrown off. What the hell is this? Your brow furrows and you try to make out the nonsense lyrics.

Cat? I'm a kitty cat. And I dance dance dance And I dance dance dance Cat? I'm a kitty cat. And I dance dance dance And I dance dance dance

The lyrics repeat over and over, and Clapton nearly drops his phone in his scramble to change the song. In his rush, he gets his password wrong over and over, making it impossible to fix.

"Clapton, why the hell is this on your playlist?" You ask, putting a hand to your mouth in a failing attempt to stifle a giggle.

"I-it's catchy, alright??" He mumbles, still trying to change the song. He gets his password wrong for, like, the tenth time, and it locks him out of his phone for thirty seconds, leaving you both stuck with the nonsensical cat lyrics ringing in your ears.

You try to keep your composure, but when the man singing the song starts meowing, you completely lose it and throw yourself onto your desk in a fit of laughter.

Unfortunately for Clapton, you accidentally tug the headphone cord with you, unplugging it from his phone. As you bury your head in your arms and laugh uncontrollably, the silly cat song starts blasting out loud for the whole room to hear.

And he can't even do anything about it, because he's still locked out of his phone for the next 20 seconds.

"S-sorry!" He shouts, trying to cram his phone into his backpack to shut it up.

You can feel all eyes on the two of you, but this whole situation is so utterly ridiculous, you don't even mind the attention. A few other kids snicker, and you can't help but feel a little bad for him.

Your remorse fades as soon as the principal throws the door open, immediately turning his attention to you and Clapton.

"Both of you!" He roars, pointing an accusing finger. "Detention on Monday! And Tuesday!"

Damnit. You knew this boy was trouble, and yet...? As the cat song finally stops, you meet Clapton's gaze, a sheepish smile plastered across his face.

Maybe spending a little more time with him wouldn't be so bad.

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Author's Note: Sorry if it wasn't fluffy enough...? I mean, the reader kind of hates him at first, and they don't even kiss... But the request was really funny, and I love putting Jhutch characters in awkward situations <3

Maybe I'll write a sequel? Probably not, though. Sorry it took so long to write, also. I wrote half of it and then let it sit in my drafts for weeks before writing the other half.

Hope y'all enjoyed, feel free to send in more requests!! I'll get to them eventually, even if it takes weeks. <3

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coriolantha · 26 days

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do you ever just … picture a whole scene, a whole fanfiction in your head, you know how to place every single word of the english dictionary that you need (or your language dictionary), you know how to structure your sentences, you know just what your characters are going to say to each other and then… and then you just open microsoft word.

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coriolantha · 28 days

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thank you for tagging me <33

heres my top 5 :d!!

1. Strange Honey - The McCharmlys

2. Everything She Wants - Wham!

3. Terrence Loves you - Lana Del Rey

4. Heart-Shaped Box - Nirvana

5. Blueprint - Stray Kids

ik some of these are basic but 😵‍💫

@cuteskunkz @ronniehutch @sleepyhutcherson

this is gonna be embarrassing

tagged by: @littlemarianah

Here are my top five songs of the month according to spotify. its a confusing collection lol:

1. Oysters in My Pocket by Royel Otis

2. Tummy Hurts by Renee Rapp

3. Perfect (Exceeder) by Princess Superstar

4. Plan B by Megan Thee Stalion

5. Tunnel of Love by ilyTOMMY

i... yeah i had a weird month. The songs are fire tho.

tagging:

@mollywog @triassictriserratops @vasilissadragomir @wistfulweaverwoman @sameschmidtdiffname @everdares @tetheredfeathers

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coriolantha · 28 days

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sorry for being ia for a while this week was rough <3

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coriolantha · 1 month

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currently writing a clapton davis fic :d!! i've barely seen any fics of him recently 😓

#i wish clapton davis was real...#jhutch #clapton davis x you #clapton davis x reader #clapton davis #josh hutcherson

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coriolantha · 1 month

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I WISH YOUNG JOSH HUTCHERSON PLAYED SPIDER MAN SO BAD UGH I KEEP SEEING CLIPS WHERE HE WOULD BE PERFECT FOR THAT ROLE

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coriolantha · 1 month

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List 5 things that make you happy, then put this in the askbox for the last 10 people who liked or reblogged something from you! Get to know your mutuals and followers :3

thank you!;!!;! <3

what makes me happy *ੈ✩‧₊˚ ✧˖*:

1- reading

2- watching any movies/shows that josh is in

3- rainbows!

4- cities (during the night!!)

5- when my allergies arent bothering me

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