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love-toxin · 6 months

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bonus night - mike schmidt

plot: jk it's just por-//SHOT

(cws: fem!reader, FNAF movie spoilers!!!, rough sex, riding, begging, a teeny tiny taste of dom mike, tit sucking, bruising, protected sex w/ a twist, post-fnaf canon, established relationship)

wc: 2k

There's absolutely no question that it's been a long fucking day. One of many, in fact, both behind him and yet to come.

Aside from his sleep schedule still being tremendously fucked from that five night ordeal, Mike's also had the stress of landing a new job and keeping it this time. He's lucky–god, he's lucky that an old friend of his just happened to have a connection–but that just puts more pressure on his ability to keep a level head and not lose this one. Plus, with his meds cut out as well as a whole host of new traumas to keep him up at night it's almost more stressful than fighting for his own life. With today being the end of orientation and the first real shift on the job, it's finally sinking in that a new chapter of life has started but his problems are still an uphill battle.

Bills, backpay, rent, Abby's therapy, pacifying their aunt who was quite aghast at waking up disheveled on their living room floor…it's been a process to say the least. His one saving grace has been you. You. His beautiful, gentle angel, with a voice like sugar and honey and skin as soft as velvet, warm like a shallow pool on a summer's day that he'd want to float in for hours. You're so precious he can't think of a single thing he's done in life that tops being your lover, or even comes close.

Well…maybe there's one thing.

“Mike,” The squeaking of the bed beneath you just barely drowns out the high, sweet whimper that your voice has melted into. “Please baby, slow down-”

A squeaky “ah!” flies from your mouth regardless of that insistent plea, your lover's hips like stone pistons as he bucks up and topples you over to land back against his chest. He loves you there; the feeling of your tits squished against his chest as he holds your ass in an iron grip. Thumbs dig into each cheek, palms splayed out to keep you spread but still in your place–stretched enough to take him but tight enough not to let him slip out. Not even now, an hour after he carried you through the door over his shoulder, when his spit and cum and sweat have coalesced into a damp sheen spilling over his lap. Fuck the mess. He'll clean it up later, if he doesn't just throw his whole bundle of sheets into the wash to scrub away the evidence.

Each thump, thump, thump of your body thrown down rings more in your ears than his, but both of you feel it equally. Your womb kissed with hard, stinging passion on every thrust, and Mike's stomach twisting and flexing as his cockhead beats that spot raw, instincts begging him to drain all he has left inside. He's got lots of pent-up energy to spare, and on the one night that his sister's gone to a sleepover you can bet he took the chance to let some of it out. He'd barely had time to grab a condom–as eager as he was, it pales in comparison to the heat between your thighs when you see him get all riled up. If he'd let you put it on for him, you'd probably have it off in a second. Now he's just at the mercy of your needy and downright addictive pussy.

“Fuck!” Your mewls shift into a spitting, hissing curse when he bites down on one of those beautiful breasts of yours. Unlike what a weaker man would do, Mike isn't averse to leaving bruises–what else could be expected? He tries to be a gentleman in public and you always tell him he is, but the desire to put hands all over those pretty tits and mark his claim on them is second nature now. And no matter how much you'll complain about them being sore afterwards, you'll still push them in his face with that devilish look that's daring him to do it all over again.

Besides, he can't resist those things swinging right in front of him. And you'll forget the sting so quickly, his tongue will make short work of those shallow wounds you feel as he latches his lips and starts to suck. Greedily.

“Mike!”

Your hands in his hair won't stop him. But they don't really want to–as always you love to tug but you never push him back, you don't try to get any more space between you because what's already there is still not close enough.

God your whiny voice is so cute. He couldn't feel more lucky to have picked you up when he did. How would he know that the girl he helped out once for an ice cream would end up being his girlfriend? He just thought you were cute, and he felt bad seeing your face fall as you counted out your change in line, so he hadn't thought twice about the dollar he put down on the counter in your stead. Such an adorable little ditz, and now he's got you riding his lap and kissing him awake nearly every morning. If he wanted to catch a break, this is it.

“M-Mike, m'gonna cum,” Your whimpers dig into his ear and tug at the strings of his heart, his head already turned to soothe you with a low, soft shush brushed by your cheek. There there. With a stroke of your hair, you're melting again.

“Mhm,” He hums again, his warmth a lull following the furious heat that's been sparked by the friction of his hips pumping at a violent pace. “Shh, sh sh. We’ll go slow, I promise.” His murmuring muddies your head, his fingers descending quickly towards their destination. Once they reach it at the crest of your soft, pudgy mound that's been brutalized by his cock, he's glad to see you finally let that tension go as you slump forward into his chest. You just need to cling to him for awhile, and he certainly won't be complaining.

The smell of your sweat, your heat, your sleek, soft tongue wetting the bruises your teeth leave in his throat, all that whining and groaning and high, girlish squealing as your hips hump his lap–these and more are all reasons he has to absolutely worship you. Your starry-eyed gaze as you look upon him in ecstasy etches itself into his very soul. He won't ever forget this…he won't ever forget you. Not the warmth of you both being cheek-to-cheek, your hand coaxing out his end as it trails reverently from his jaw down his heaving chest.

“Pleeeeease,” You whisper, so achingly sweet he could cry as easily as cum. “Please, baby?”

Please. Such a pretty word. Prettier from your mouth most of all, so pretty it hurts–nearly stings as he digs his nails in and leaves marks on each cheek, though it will moreso for you when you wince at sitting down at your desk tomorrow morning. You're shaking, trembling more like, and even if he made you wait for it you wouldn't be able to obey. The spasms wracking through you can't be controlled, nor can the grind of your hips down as you let those strong hands drag you all the way to the base. So far that it causes a twinge in your expression as the orgasm passes, your ecstasy blotting out the stretch that you're gonna feel all the way up to your hips in the morning.

But he's got to get in deep, has to make it ache, so he's got a grip so firm it's trembling up his arms and you're shaking even harder on top of him as he digs in and lets loose. There's no question he's hit your womb, it's more curious to whether he's broken through it or not…by the way you bite down on his shoulder and bear the pressure, though, he must be nearly there. Nearly squeezing through that tight, tight wall so he's draining his seed right where it's meant to be. And you paw at him all the while, lower lip quivering, tears threatening to spill, yet you won't let up on rubbing yourself back on his thighs–it just isn't enough until you've taken all he has to give, and even then he can spot that gleam in your eyes that begs for even more. The fact that the condom's split isn't even in his mind, it's floated so far away he won't think of it until it's too late to stop.

Yet all that heat hits the same end after the climax. The friction subsides, the breathing slows, and the two of you are left in content silence as you quietly come back to your senses. There's something even more intimate about losing oneself as a collective; being so hedonistic in pursuing an indulgence, yet facing the fear of baring your own heart to one you love in the process, and reaching an even more satisfying end as it all comes to a close. It's glorious. He wouldn't trade it for anything. He wouldn't trade sex for his own life now that he's had it with you. But, again, he's still coming down from the high–he’ll most certainly feel the embarrassment of losing himself so indulgently as the cool air from the AC starts setting in.

“Was that good, baby?” Your tone just drips with deliciously sinful innocence, god. You've got such a proud expression on your face as he finds the words through his post-coital haze, hands inching back down your ass to grab handfuls of it yet again. Once he's got a grip he tugs, and draws you closer to meet you in a kiss–and as wet as it still is from the exercise, the way you lean into it and giggle is just enough to send his heart burning into passionate flames yet again.

“Very. Always is.” Panting, sweaty, he'd have no trouble convincing the neighbors he was just having it out on a treadmill for the last hour. If he could afford one.

“The best you've ever had?”

“Best. Best and only. Can I get up now?”

“Mmm…” You make a show of thinking up your answer only to tap him on the nose as you lean forward over him. “...No. I like this.”

Mike claps you on the ass suddenly, the smack echoing loudly in his modest little bedroom and eliciting a squeal from you that's just as punctual. Your squirming only draws a heat up inside him again though, and he knows better than anyone that that's exactly what you want. You'd be happy if he never got out of bed again, and if he spent all day with his cock nestled nice and warm inside you.

“Up. I gotta piss. Don't make me count.”

“Fiiiiiiine.” Huffy and puffy as always, you soon relent and slip off with a bit of manoeuvring to flop into bed beside him. “Can I at least hold it?” Rather than say something equally as shameful, he just pushes his pillow over your face with reddened cheeks and ducks with laughter as you launch it back at him, already up and on his way to the bathroom to wash off–and to soon find the evidence of that broken contraception that's definitely gonna plant a seed of worry in him when he realizes. Or…maybe not. God knows how many jokes you've made about wasting his cumshots in your mouth, and how often you've jumped him with no inkling of whether he's got a rubber in reach or not.

Maybe this is just another chapter of life, one more stage he's been readying himself for unconsciously. Whatever it comes with, he's gonna be beside you either way–so in a sense, he's more prepared than he's ever been to face what lies ahead.

#mutuals if u look at me im legally required to gag u #mike schmidt #mike schmidt x reader #spicy writing #fnaf movie #fnaf mike #ellie writes #2k

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slasherbvnnie · 1 year

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Until We Found You

Hello! This is my first time ever posting onto here, so please excuse any mistakes or any tags that may be missing. I wanted to write about a poly!ghostface au and age up all the characters and place them into college. I hope this gets at least a few reads!

Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX

Context: Modern Day College Scream AU, Obsessed AFAB!Reader, Eventual Poly!Ghostface x reader, Eventual NSFW, All characters 18+

You bit down on the tip of your pencil, chewing the metal part of it as you spaced out for the hundredth time today. A few days ago news broke of one of your best friends being killed, Casey Becker, and like every day since that fateful night, news reporters were swarming the campus. Woodsboro University was famous overnight for it, a crazed killer on the loose in the town and no one knew why Casey and her boyfriend Steve were the victims. What made it truly unnerving was that no one knew if they were going to be the only ones.

It didn’t make you scared, not really at least, you were more intrigued than worried if you were going to be the next person to get a mysterious phone call. No, you spent the next morning with Randy and learned all about what happened. How Steve was found bound to the chair, duct tape and blood practically branded onto him, and how the Beckers found Casey. She was one of your best friends, you couldn’t deny you felt like you needed some therapy for not crying for more than maybe an hour over her, but something in you was more interested in who did it.

That was what was on your mind for the hundredth time today, any of Casey’s boyfriends all the way to fucking pre-k could be a suspect, maybe her family, or maybe it was some random stranger who decided to take their anger out on an unsuspecting teenage girl. Randy and you talked all first period about your suspicions on who it could be, even accusing each other of being the killer, it did fit after all, the two horror buffs who knew every goddamn easter egg in every horror movie there was, it seemed perfect.

“Sidney, can you please tell your friend the answer to at least make it seem like she was listening?” Ms. Crane asked, Sidney nudging you and whispering the answer as the class laughed. “ah, um, phosphorus gas.” You answered, looking at Sidney with wide eyes after you answered. “Phosphine, but I will take that. You guys can pack up, let me take role before you all leave.” Ms. Crane said with a sigh.

“What’s up with you? Are you totally sure you don’t want to go to the grief counselor after school? I mean even Tate went-“ “Sid, I’m fine, seriously. I just, it’s freaky is all. I mean not knowing who did it? What if they have a thing for college chicks, I think we fit into that category very well and-“ “And we will be fine, it was probably just a one-time thing…I mean it's more likely that it is, right?” Sidney asked as she packed her bag, putting a comforting hand on your shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, if you want you can stay at my place for the week, my dad’s on a trip and I would kinda enjoy the company,” she offered, smiling at you reassuringly. You gave a nod, “yeah, let me just at least spend tonight at my place, my mom will kill me if I miss dinner tonight and take off for a week out of the blue.” “Are you sure you’re really 19 and not 9?” Sidney asked jokingly, earning a laugh from you.

After dinner you had taken a shower, your parents had gone out for the night to take a late-night date- which you theorized was them renting a motel to not risk traumatizing you. You brushed out your hair as you sat down on your vanity chair, putting it into a braid before you went to bed. Your cat was sitting peacefully on your bed, moving every now and then to change her position before darting out of your room. “Irena!” You called after her, scoffing when she didn’t come back to the room. You put your hairbrush down onto your vanity, taking a look in the mirror before getting up from your seat. “I hope you don’t think you are eating even more food, missy, you got fed so much while I was at class today,” you said, acting as if Irena could really understand you. You made your way to your door, nearly walking out before noticing a paper had fallen onto the ground near your desk. You picked it up, reading the headline, Casey Becker and Steve Orth- funerals to be held on Friday the 27th at 9-11 AM. You sighed and set it down on the other papers stacked on your desk.

You walked out of your room, heading downstairs “Irena! Come on, I wanna go to bed,” you whined out, calling the cat to your room. You found her in the living room, hiding under the couch and refusing to come to you. “Fine, I’ll leave you a blanket out and don’t you dare come scratching at my door at 3 AM,” you told her, going to the hallway closet to get a blanket out for her. Once you had gotten one, you spread it out across the couch for her and said goodnight.

You were about halfway to your room when your phone began to buzz, digging it out of your pocket and seeing your mom's number you quickly answered. “Hey, what's up? You guys heading back already,” You asked, continuing up to your room.

“Heading back? Who said I ever left?” A strange voice asked on the other line, making you pause for a moment as you moved to make sure it was your mom. “Listen asshole, I don’t have more than 15 dollars in my bank account so have fun with whatever hot cheetos and mountain dew you can get with that,” you said before hanging up on them, putting your phone back into your pocket. You were up the stairs now, deciding to use the bathroom before you went to bed for the night but before you could open the door your phone rang again. “Didn’t I already say I don’t have money? What the fuck do you want?” You asked angrily, “Irena, right? Like Irena Dubrovna? Who did you prefer, Simone or Natassja?” The same voice asked you, making you look down the stairs. Irena hadn’t moved yet and no one was around her, or at least from what you could see. “If you hurt my fucking cat I will personally cut off your balls and feed them to he-“ A laugh from the caller cut you off, “I don’t have fun with animals. I’m not Bundy or Dahmer, I like to see my victims, human victims…struggle.” You heard your parent's bedroom door open, letting out a scream before running into your room and slamming the door shut, locking it quickly before the person began to bang on it. You looked around, going to your window and trying to lift it open.

The door cracked, it was like the scene from the shining, except this killer bore a white mask, you recognized it from the Halloween store- father death. You struggled with the window again, before giving up and grabbing the lamp from your bedside table and throwing it at them. The killer moved out of the way before they were hit, pushing their body against the door once more and climbing in through the opening. You could see them fiddle with their knife as if they had held it in their hands a hundred times already and were skilled at fidgeting with it.

You grabbed a glass organizer from your desk, taking the scissors from it before chucking the holder at them. The papers you had stacked before scattered from the throw as they fell down. You rushed to the window as they struggled to get up but never heard them stand. When your head whipped around to check if they were behind you, you instead saw them looking at the papers around them.

Masked killer, Casey and Steve headlines, Maureen Prescott, Cotton Weary trials, even the cutouts you had of Sidney from court. You were obsessed. There were drawings, suspects lists, hell all these needed were red kiss marks and ‘please fuck me mr ghostface!’ written in pink glitter pen ink.

You stared wide-eyed at them when you saw their gaze now on you, their head cocked to the side as a laugh sounded from behind the mask. Just then you heard the sound of gravel being crushed around from the driveway, your parent's car was pulling in, you saw them getting out from your window. When you turned back you noticed the person was gone, you ran downstairs and met your parents at the door, crying and beginning to blubber on about what nearly happened.

#poly!ghostface #poly!ghostface x reader #billy loomis #stu macher #scream au #poly!ghostface x female reader #billy loomis x reader #stu macher x reader #scream x reader #scream

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icallhimjoey · 20 days

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Reinvent Love

♥ ♥ Joseph Quinn x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Joe are treading new waters. You’re no longer flatmates, but still close. More than friends, but nothing defined. Nothing labeled. Determined to not lose what you have, though. But, can you?

CW / disclaimer: rpf, fem!reader, language, adult themes, jealousy, accusations, soft fluff, lil smutty, reader has hair long enough to tie up, season 3 of my flatmate!joe

Author’s note: oohhh big changes! we are TALKING! with our MOUTHS! what a time. This is the last part of flatmate!Joe - for real this time. I truly hope you've enjoyed what is still my most plotless (imo) bit of writing, lmk your thoughts <3

Wordcount: 4.4K

part one - part two - part three - part four - part five

There was something living inside of your chest.

It was only small, but definitely there. Soft. Vulnerable. Silently shrinking. It had gotten hurt and was wearing its bruises on the outside. When it got poked, you could feel the shooting pains as it curled in on itself more. It would find the safest spots to squeeze its eyes shut and you’d mentally tell it, it’s okay. You’re okay.

It wasn’t okay.

Maybe therapy wasn’t an insane suggestion, anymore, at this point. You felt like you were protecting a child to the point where you couldn’t let it see the light of day. Couldn’t let it go outside and play. Couldn’t let it have friends – let it meet Joe. Couldn’t let it experience anything joyful, because if you did, it’d probably experience more hurt too.

But it was hurting anyway.

And now it was only pain it got to feel. Never joy. Just bruises and cuts. Scrapes that slowly formed thick drops of blood that hardened into scabs which pulled at your skin and eventually turned into scars.

You wished you’d known that before you locked it up inside.

There was something living inside of your chest, and it carefully wished it could speak up and be heard.

When you’d walked out of your bedroom and into the living room, a surprised Josh raised his eyebrows at you. He was leaning back into the sofa and had an acoustic guitar in his lap that he was absentmindedly playing whilst he was watching TV on a low volume. The guitar playing stopped when he saw you and didn’t pick back up as he watched you walk over, pillow in hand, facial expression drained.

“Hey, what’s up?” the guitar got moved onto the floor.

You didn’t answer when you put your pillow down on the opposite end of the sofa and took the blanket you’d slept under before. You curled up, ignored Josh who tried to ask if you were okay a couple of times as you stared at the TV. He asked if you wanted to talk about it. Said you probably should talk about it if you didn’t want Josh to think about this all night.

“It’s going to keep me up if I don’t know if you’re okay.”

You ignored it all, didn’t give a shit if Josh was going to get a good night’s sleep, and eventually turned over and faced the back of the sofa. It sent the message it needed to. It took just another moment before Josh turned off the TV, and then the lights as he left you alone.

This was stupid.

But you were stubborn.

You were stubborn and were going to go to sleep on your sofa, even though you were the one that lived here, and maybe Joe should be the one to sleep on the sofa.

Or actually, he could go home. To his own flat. Where all things were his, and the only things that felt like they were yours were the plants you’d brought in and the toothbrush you’d left by his sink.

Yea.

Joe could just leave.

You didn’t care that he was still paying rent.

But you didn’t actually get up to go and tell him that. Of course not. You just wallowed in thought. In all the would-dos and would-says. Shivered because this new stupid blanket Josh got wasn’t thick enough to keep you warm throughout the night.

You made yourself cry inside of that soup of goopy misery. Felt what lived inside of your chest as it drowned and mentally apologised to it when, after three hours of not being able to actually go to sleep, after three hours of anger that turned into fragile neediness, you decided to get up and make your way back.

Find Joe.

Because, and fuck him for this, Joe always knew how to fucking fix it.

And there was something so silly about walking down the hallway of your flat with tears staining your cheeks to sneak into Joe’s old bedroom. To find Joe inside of the bed there, the lay-out of the room still the same. Joe’s side of the bed still the same.

The click of the door closing made Joe lift his head up in an attempt to see into the dark.

He hadn’t expected you at all, so for a second, he thought that maybe you’d just walked in to get something. Your phone. Or your charger. But then you walked around to your side of the bed and got under the covers. It was too dark to see your face, but you found Joe’s warm body and snuggled up. Pressed your forehead to his jaw and hummed through a sigh and Joe didn’t need to see your face to hug you closer. Didn’t need to see if you’d been crying to wrap arms around, and to tangle legs, and to press a small kiss into your hair.

You wiggled as you settled and sighed as you sunk deeper into the mattress. You could deal with the disappointment within yourself in the morning.

“I’m sorry.” Joe whispered into the dark, and you decided you could also deal with your disappointment in Joe in the morning, so you softly whined and said, “Pause.”

“Pause?”

“Mhm.”

Everything could just be paused. Postponed. Just for a few hours. You just needed to get some sleep.

Joe wasn’t in a position to not accept that. His heart felt full with the nostalgia he unexpectedly found with you sneaking into this room in order to get some sleep. It used to be like this. He was in the same location. In the exact same spot. Just, everything was yours now.

Me too, Joe thought.

Everything was yours now, including Joe. Whether you wanted him or not.

He squeezed you tighter and saw that you got to sleep. Traced finger tips across skin that warmed under the covers, and tickled into your hair by the nape of your neck, and he could feel how you were drifting off and, fuck off, he was yours.

He’d tell you in the morning.

Joe was going to tell you in the morning.

He would.

When Joe woke up, you were gone.

Fucking figures, Joe thought.

The private moment of waking up together that would’ve granted him the security and comfortability to say whatever needed saying was gone now.

Joe rubbed both hands over his face and scolded himself for not waking up as you had gotten out.

But it was fine.

There’d be another moment for it, he’d make sure.

Venturing out of your bedroom, you weren’t in the bathroom. Nor in the living area. He did, however, find Josh in the kitchen.

After awkward but polite good mornings shared, there was some uncomfortable shuffling around. Joe had made breakfast thousands of times in this kitchen, and he was already reaching to open the fridge when he realised that, actually, that was a weird thing to do. He no longer lived there. He couldn’t just go into cupboards and find the food that he knew was there – he knew exactly where the oatmeal went. He knew exactly where to find the cinnamon to sprinkle on top. How the coffee machine worked. Which cupboard to open to find the mugs.

Joe opted to busy himself making a coffee first. The machine was right there on the counter – less weird to reach for it and prepare himself a morning brew.

And Josh was cool about it. Opened a cupboard for him to fetch him a mug. It was a bit of an awkward dance, but a friendly one, tight smiles shared as Josh prepared his own breakfast.

It wasn’t until the loud noise of coffee beans being ground up that Joe decided to just… ask.

Might as well act like last night actually happened.

“Sorry about last night, mate,”

“Oh yea, no worries, I didn’t…” Josh frowned and shook his head as he scraped some butter onto his toast. He didn’t finish his sentence. Didn’t need to. Took a bite before buttering the second piece.

“Have you seen her?” Joe tried sounding as casual as he could, but failed miserably.

It was as honest and vulnerable of a question he was ever going to ask Josh. It revealed he had no idea where the fuck you’d gone, which in and of itself revealed that there was probably a reason you hadn’t told him.

But Josh was relaxed about it.

“Yea. Morning run. You just missed her, I think.”

And it took all within Joe to pretend that didn’t surprise him as much as it did. He just nodded. Pretended like that was a normal thing to hear about. Morning run. Sure. Miss be-useful-first-thing, what the fuck? When had you picked up that habit?

The coffee machine stopped whirring, and Joe took his coffee. Went for a sip immediately and instantly burnt his tongue. Rookie move.

“Is um… is everything okay? I don’t want to pry, but,” Josh asked as Joe moved around the island to sit down.

“Ah, well… you know,”

No, actually, Josh didn’t know.

Which was good.

Joe didn’t really want him to know.

Joe didn’t really want to explain.

Couldn’t really explain.

Where the fuck would he even begin?

“Hmm, yea,” Josh accepted the non-answer easily. “She seemed upset, but wouldn’t really say anything.”

Joe had to suppress a smile.

Of course you hadn’t fucking said anything.

“I asked like fifty times if she was okay, but she… I don’t know, she fully ignored me I guess. Kind of went catatonic on me a little.”

Joe drank his coffee and nodded.

“To be fair though,” Josh made big eyes at himself, “I was being really fucking annoying. I would’ve rolled over and ignored me too, I think.”

Both men let huffs of air escape them in silent laughter.

Then a moment of silence followed where Joe drank his coffee and Josh ate his toast. Joe realised he didn’t like how Josh knew things about you that he didn’t, but the upside was that it was incredibly useful, actually.

Josh talked where you... well, you did not.

“Did she cry?”

He wanted to know.

“No, she just… watched TV for a bit. I don’t know, she seemed tired so I went to bed shortly after to make sure she could get some sleep.”

That meant that, if you’d cried, you had waited for Josh to leave the room. Joe didn’t know if that was a comforting thought or not.

It didn’t take much longer for Josh to finish his toast and to casually suggest for Joe to make his own breakfast. Mentioned that everything on the bottom shelves of the fridge was yours before he walked out, and this morning was just full of surprises.

You split the fridge?!

What kind of sensible flatmate behaviour was this?!

When it was you and Joe, your stuff would just be thrown in wherever. None of it sorted. Joe would end up having your oatmilk in his coffee and you’d end up using his cheese in your omelettes.

Actually, he remembered how this had been the source of bickering for more than once. More than a couple of times. You would fall out over Joe having your food all the time, if he really thought about it. But it was always playful. Always something fun about it. A reason to swear at him until you made yourself laugh, and a reason for him to shut you up with poking fingers in your sides. The back and forth had never prompted you to split the fridge.

Had you and Joe ever been normal flatmates?

Probably not, he guessed.

Joe decided against breakfast in the end and just finished his coffee. Waited until you got back from your morning run, which he still had a hard time wrapping his head around, and when he eventually heard the front door open, he got up to make you a drink.

You knew Joe was still there by his coat that was hung up by the front door.

Fine.

It was fine.

You were sweaty and sticky and hot and you could feel your heartbeat in your face, but it was fine.

Walking into the kitchen, you were welcomed by Joe in jeans and a T-shirt, bare feet, hair stupid, already holding out a glass of juice for you.

You took it and refrained from talking as you had a sip. Looked at him over the glass though, and you hoped that what Joe would see was determination. Strength. That he saw someone who wasn’t going to take bullshit, because you weren’t.

You’d just gone for your very first morning run for fuck’s sake.

For a moment Joe just looked right back at you. Watched you have the drink he poured for you. You had bits of hair stuck to your flushed neck and had to breathe through flared nostrils. It was wildly attractive, if you asked him.

“Morning run?”

You caught a small smirk from Joe that you turned away from. Couldn’t look at him be cute when you were supposed to be mad at him still.

Then, in a rogue move, Joe opened the freezer and took a single look inside to find a frozen pizza he took out and tossed onto the counter.

That was meant to mean something.

You gave it a blank stare as Joe looked at you and you sighed.

“Hey,” Joe tried getting your attention back on him, but instead, you put the glass down and turned around. Walked out. Went to your bedroom.

Joe followed.

“Hey,” Joe tried again, stood in your doorway, watching you collect an outfit. “Talk to me.”

It went ignored.

This was the worst part of not having an ensuite; having to take just enough clothes into the bathroom to change in there. You and Josh weren’t exactly on a just-a-towel level yet. Bathrobe felt scandalous too, somehow, even for the five steps it took to get from your bedroom into the bathroom.

Josh could see you in clothes or not see you at all.

Joe easily moved aside when you walked past him, out of your room, and you looked at him as you did.

“Come on. Tell me what you’re thinking.” Joe tried again.

It didn’t feel like you were fully ignoring him, but you weren’t answering him either.

You were thinking Joe was being an idiot.

You were trying, had been trying really hard to meet him where he wanted to be met, and then he just went and let you know he didn’t trust… you? Your flatmate? The situation he’d created with his own two hands?

Felt unfair.

You didn’t say any of that though. Just walked into the bathroom, and then left the door open.

Joe would get the hint, you thought.

He did, but only when you started peeling off your sweat-soaked top with the door wide open, still.

Joe moved quick. Sort of scrambled to get into the bathroom, to lock the door behind him, and then to help you get your top over your head as you struggled with the damp fabric around your shoulders.

You undressed, and Joe helped, and you made eye-contact the whole time.

You could see how he was searching. Trying to find whatever you weren’t saying in your eyes, his chin tucked in, his eyes pleading, all soft and rounded.

Joe tried.

He really tried.

You were getting naked right in front of him, body flushed and glistening with sweat and he got a good look as you stretched your body over the bath to turn the shower on and then you kept staring right at him as you removed more clothes and you were doing something with your eyes and Jesus fucking Christ, Joe was trying.

Trying to not grab you by the shoulders and give you a good shake.

Trying not to let his eyes skirt downward because you’d just removed your sports bra and, oof, man, that was a lot of skin on show.

Joe was trying not to hold you by the face and trying not to get real close and trying not to whisper words into your mouth in hopes of coaxing out some of your own. Which… he failed. Because he did get your face into both his hands just after you’d reached up to untie your hair. He did get real close. And he did ask you once more to just talk to him, please.

You handled the close eye-contact fine.

Handled the cupping of your face fine.

And Joe couldn’t stop searching your face.

Was there truly no budging?

Was this… was this it?

Had he just gone and fucked it all up for himself? Had the big plan behind his move imploded because he couldn’t deal with the fact that you were now… no longer in his flat with him? Joe’s mind tried to make sense of it, but all he could really come up with, was that you probably didn’t even consider the two of you to be together.

You’d never talked about that.

Had never mentioned it.

Hadn’t labeled it.

You were just close flatmates that weren’t actually flatmates anymore, and… and now what?

He just wanted you to talk.

You were just in your underwear now, stood in a small bathroom and Joe ticked off all boxes in his mind: you were alone, check. You were close, check. You were in your safe space, check.

The shower was hot now, slowly filling the room with warm steam and, fuck, if you would just fucking talk.

Joe was about to repeat himself. Was about to say it again. But then he saw it.

Something changed.

Your eyes softened and your mouth tightened as you tried to keep your lips wobbling. As you tried to not let what was living inside of your chest get out. When you started blinking more rapidly as your eyes stung with tears, you also began avoiding eye-contact and, good. This was good. Joe let you go then, and watched as you got out of your last piece of clothing before you stepped into the shower.

You left the shower curtain open, and Joe thought he’d never undressed quite so fast.

You’d never shared a shower before.

Something about it felt really momentous, but you didn’t have the opportunity to think about it for too long. The thought vanished just as quickly as it had crossed your mind, because when Joe stepped into the bath behind you and held you by the shoulders before curling his arms around to hold you close, you decided that, actually, you were going to talk.

“You left,” you started, voice far thinner than you wanted it to be.

“I know.”

“You left and you’re making me feel bad about it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not fair. It’s not my fault you moved out,” you reached up to hold onto Joe’s arm across your front and you felt how your eyebrows knitted together when you softly followed with, “Is it?”

And, fuck.

Something snapped into Joe’s chest.

Something swelled and popped.

He didn’t know what that was, all he knew was that it hurt.

“No!” Joe tightened his arms before he let you go enough to turn around. “No, baby, of course not, is that– do you think I left because of you?”

You looked at each other, and for a moment, Joe didn’t know if he was looking at shower water or tears that were running down your face.

You gave a small shrug before Joe lifted his hands to your face to wipe at your cheeks. If they were tears, they had no business being there, so he needed them gone.

“I didn’t leave this place because of you. Hey,” you avoided eye-contact, so he grabbed hold of you by the face again where both your of your hands found his wrists. “Look at me. Look– I did not move out because of you, all right?”

Well, he did… but, it was nuanced. He moved out for the both of you. He had to be careful. He couldn’t say the wrong thing and ruin what already felt ruined enough.

You gave a tiny nod that he could feel more than he could see, and you looked so fucking sad, Joe couldn’t help but move in to try and kiss some of it from your face.

He hoped you believed him.

You were naked in a shower together, of which Joe was getting none of the stream, and you were trembling because of things Joe had said and done and all he could think to do was hold you.

So he did.

It was a terrible waste of water, but it felt so incredibly necessary for him to not pull back until you did. Let you take the lead. Curl an arm around your head, the other around your waist, and follow your pace.

Joe felt how you were trying to control your breathing, and, you were right. He wasn’t allowed to be the cause.

He was the reason why you were feeling the way you were feeling and he realised he had been, for a while, probably.

Joe pushed you.

Joe had been pushing you.

He shouldn’t have.

He shouldn’t have left and he shouldn’t have tried with all his might to keep you as close to him as you had been before and he shouldn’t have taken his jealousy out on you and he shouldn’t have repeatedly asked you to talk to him because look! Look what all of it had lead to?

Your lead.

Your time.

Your pace.

No more making you meet him halfway.

Joe was going to wait for you.

He would.

It didn’t fucking matter how long it was going to take you, or if you’d even get there at all. He was going to wait. If that meant actually befriending Josh like a normal person, then he was just going to have to befriend Josh like a normal person.

Joe held you close until your finger tips stopped digging into his skin so much, and then he softly said, “I’ll wait.”

That made you look up at him.

“I’ll wait for you. I can be patient.”

And, you frowned. Because what the fuck was Joe talking about.

“But…” you started, and you felt it then. You could feel whatever was inside of your chest collect every little speck of bravery it could find within your body. It pulled it from the muscles in your legs and from the bones in your arms. Found some hidden inside the beating of your heart and then some more in the humid shower air inside your lungs. And then, it said it.

“I’m right here.”

Joe blinked at you. Didn’t get it.

“I’m right– Joe, what do you mean, you’ll wait. Have we not been– is this not what we’ve been…” you furrowed your brow at how words seemed to escape you. All bravery gone.

Joe saw.

Heard what you were saying and, before you even fucking knew what was happening, Joe had both his arms around your waist and lifted you up, effectively pressing his face right into your tits as he scared the living daylights out of you because you were in the bath.

“Joe–” you shrieked, but were quickly shut up by his mouth that pressed to yours before your feet had even properly touched down again.

“I love you.” Joe squeezed it from his own mouth right into yours. Barely got the words out normal as he didn’t want to stop kissing. Didn’t want to break contact, lips and hands doing the most.

“Joe,” you laughed, giving his shoulders a light push before you felt something against your hip, and– oh.

“No, I’m sorry. Ignore that. I love you. Did you hear me? I love you. I said I love–”

“I love you too.”

Joe froze before he groaned with both eyes squeezed shut, and you looked down to see how hard that had made him.

“I love you too,” you repeated yourself and saw it jump, leaking already, and Jesus, that was quick. This was a fun game actually. Talking suddenly didn’t seem so bad.

“Hey, I love you. Did you hear me? I said I lovemmpf–” Joe got a hand over your mouth just for the sheer agony of what it was doing to him.

You took your shot and bit right into his fingers.

“Stop it, you’ve got to– you can’t–”

And, yea, you could actually. You shut Joe up with kisses of your own this time.

You were sharing your first shower together, and it felt sort of momentous.

It felt momentous because you’d shared words that had been stuck in the back of your throat for a while now.

It felt momentous because Joe just told you that he loved you.

It felt momentous because you said it right back and everything about it felt right.

It felt momentous because you were going to have loud shower sex and Josh was likely going to hear you and you actually didn’t care about it. You cared more about the pizza that was slowly defrosting on the kitchen counter which actually sounded like the perfect breakfast food, if you were being honest.

You and Joe were just flatmates, but not.

Were just close, but more.

Were in love. Had said the words now, for the other to hear with their ears, and wasn’t that a shocking turn of events after last night?

Joe couldn’t explain it if he tried.

Didn’t really want to either.

As long as you knew. As long as you understood.

And you did. The proof was in the pudding.

Something felt alive in Joe’s chest. And in yours too.

Maybe someday, they could meet.

Have a chat.

Talk things through.

Or not.

They could also just look at each other. Sit on the sofa. Curl into each other and eat pizza. Watch the first ten minutes of films before they’d doze off together. Make fun of plants that got overwatered in a desperate attempt to keep them alive because they were buddies with yours and Joe could never be responsible for the death of plants that had friends, were you joking?

They’d call you idiots.

And, yea you were.

But it was fine.

You were just close. In love. Together. And that didn’t need explaining. As long as you knew and understood, that was all that mattered.

You were all that mattered.

Your lead.

Your time.

Your pace.

Your love.

the end

---

The Taglisted

@ali-in-w0nderland, @alwayslindie, @babybluebex, @capricornrisingsstuff, @chaoticgood-munson,

@choke-me-eddie, @demonsanddemogorgons, @did-it-work, @dirtyeddietini, @djoseph-quinn,

@dolcevit4, @eddies-puppet, @emma-munson, @emotionaldreamer, @everythinghasafacee,

@figmentofquinn, @ghost-proofbaby, @ghostinthebackofyourhead, @hanahkatexo, @harringtonfan4,

@hazelenys, @jewellethief, @joesquinns, @keikoraven, @kennedy-brooke,

@lovelyblueness, @manda-panda-monium, @mandyjo8719, @mexicanfolklore, @munsonluvrr,

@munson-mjstan, @nadixq, @nglharry, @notverywise, @pepperstories,

@phyllosilicate-s, @royale1803, @sherrylyn628, @sidthedollface2, @solzi1420,

@songforeddiemunson, @sweetberry47, @take-everything-you-can, @thebellenouvelle, @tlclick73,

@werepartnersnow, @winterwakesthewolf, @witchwolflea, @yelyahcardella, @yunirgo

taglist currently full, sorry

#joseph quinn #joe quinn #joseph quinn x you #joe quinn x you #joseph quinn x reader #joe quinn x reader #joe quinn fanfic #joe quinn fanfiction #joseph quinn fanfic #joseph quinn fanfiction #reinvent love #define close #explain us

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bubbles-for-all-of-us · 9 months

Text

Always have but never hold

Previous chapter

a/n Welcome to the tenth and final part. Do tell me if you think this should go on. I'm at the crossroads. Not too fully sure where to go on with this from here. These two have had a journey so had I. Thank you for everyone who tagged along. 🤍✨

warnings: nightmares, overwhelming feelings, past trauma, miscommunication (should have been a warning from the start lol).

Parts in cursive are flashbacks.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

How surreal is the concept of meeting someone and having them change your life forever? Finding a soul that radiates the same energy, or at least the energy that attracts you. Feeling drawn to them. Craving to bask in the warmth of their presence because it just feels right. Because it feels true. Because it feels safe. And you can't help it. No matter what. No matter the obstacles. No matter the fears. That person's soul is there, and all you want to do and think about is how you can't let them go. It was weird. Everything still felt so confusing. It was surreal at times when you would wake up in your old bed, cuddled up between the sheets that you both used to lay under. All the what-ifs and why-not, questioning the choice of staying. Choosing to grow and forgive to allow someone to stay.

Carmen walked through the door. A neatly wrapped package of food was in his hands. He started doing that a lot—bringing food home from family. And not just leftovers, not just something that someone didn't eat. A whole, fully intentional meal. The apartment seemed too silent, and at first, anxiety kicked in—that same anxiety of losing. But the dull light from the living room soon chased those thoughts away. And that's when he saw you. A knitted blanket over your body. Book in your hands, the smell of the scented candles filling the room. And then there were your eyes. The gaze that found him. And Carmen was smiling, soaking up the sight in front of him.

"You're home early", you said as Carmen quickly shrugged off his jacket. "Yeah, not much we could do today. Plus, I had a meeting with the doctor". You close the book, sit up, and allow Carmen some space on the sofa. "How did it go?", the past couple of weeks have felt pretty much like a daze. After an endless amount of tears and conversations, you agreed to move back in with Carmen. Marcus had flown back to Copenhagen alongside Luca. Meaning that you would have to pay for the place you had been renting on your own. And that wasn't an option because you were already tight on money. Was Luca excited to leave you alone in Chicago? No, he was not, but he chose to not fight your choice too much.

"Just be sensible", he said, "Both with your choice and yourself", you hugged him tightly. Letting go of your lifeline felt weird. It left you vulnerable. Fully exposed to the cold world around you. But you knew that you couldn't hide behind Luca forever. "You know that I love you, right?", he muttered, pulling away slightly. "Us against the world forever", you looked at him. Truly look at the man in front of you. The person who jumped in to save you so many times. Who took the hit meant for you. Who drove for hours to get to you. Who sat in the doctor's office with you. "Do you think this is a mistake?", you asked him, but there was no suggestive reaction on Luca's face as he said, "Listen to your heart and then consult with your brain just in case", you had chuckled at his words before you pulled away.

And now you are here with Carmen. Unsure of what status you two held. Partners? Lovers? Exes? Strangers? Sitting in the apartment, which had been clear evidence of Carmen's pain. The distraction painted the apartment in a heap of mess. "I didn't like it. I mean, I never do", Carmen ran his hands through his hair. "It still feels strange. But people... like, I don't know, do they eventually stop finding it weird?", he asked you. Considering that you both were in therapy now, recapping and running through your conversations with doctors was something you did a lot. Strangely, you found comfort in it.

"I don't think you do", you whispered after a moment. "Picture it like this. Does it ever get easier to tell strangers that something in your life fucked you over so much that now you need to see a doctor?", you both snickered, and Carmen moved to open up the boxed food. It felt almost as if you were roommates once again. Just differently from that time in New York, you didn't want one to move out. You were fighting to make this work. To keep one another. To grow the roots that would hold you together.

"How was the art gallery?", you looked up at him in a way surprised that he even remembered. "Exciting. They want me to work on a project with them", you said as if it was nothing. But Carmen's eyes were big, and you could feel true joy in them. "Wait! That's awesome. That's... I'm proud of you", he muttered. You watched him. His sparkly eyes now reminded you of the time he sneaked into an art tour you were doing back in New York. Asking just the right questions. Making the lazy tourists roll their eyes. But your heart had been so full. "I'm meeting with them this Friday for dinner", you said. "Maybe they'll change their minds till then", you shrugged, reaching for the pasta in front of you. "They won't", Carmen said, making you chuckle, "You don't know that", "I know that you're awesome", you sucked in a breath as you watched him for a moment. Letting his words truly sink in.

Carmen's been watching you for a while now. Not in a creepy way, though. He was just mesmerized by how someone was capable of looking so beautiful even while fast asleep. You two had decided to watch a show after dinner. He knew you wouldn't last long. You never did. Getting sleepy almost immediately. The distance between you two seemed astronomical, yet you were only a couple of feet away. Sat at the other end of the sofa. Carmen wished he could hug you. No, he would have settled for anything. But then he at least wanted to feel your body heat. Anything to let him know that this wasn't just all in his head. That you weren't just a cruel joke of his imagination. Carmen watched your eyebrows crinkling up—another bad dream, he thought. And within moments, even while still asleep, you looked so much smaller. So much more powerless as the demons lurking in the shadows took over. Carmen wasted no time scooting closer to you, his fingers brushing the hair away from your face. A scared cry left your lips, and it was as if Carmen's body was working on autopilot. His arms sneaked around your middle as he pressed his chest against your back, bringing you closer to him. Your fingers reach out to grasp his arms. "I've got you", he muttered, "You're safe here. I'll keep you safe". His face was nuzzled in your hair as he spoke. A loud gasp filled the room as your body jerked up, only to fall against Carmen's chest. You let out a shaky breath as you tightened Carmen's hold around you. Afraid you might fall. Afraid you might crumble if he lets go. "Stay", you whispered, holding onto him even tighter. "I was not planning on going anywhere", Carmen muttered, kissing your shoulder.

"I like the black plates. He, of course, has zero opinion until he suddenly has so many opinions that I feel like I will have a whiplash", Sydney said in frustration over the phone. You giggled slightly at how she never failed to call you every time Carmen got on her nerves. "Do the gray one and meet him in the middle", you suggest, dunking your brush into the paint before adding new strokes to the canvas. "Grey, they only have grey with blue", Sydney growls, "I give up". You drop the brush into the water jug. "You want me to come down? Look through it?", you ask her softly. You've been away from the restaurant ever since the fire. Well, not fully away considering that Sydney had turned to your daily reporter, but still. You hadn't put your foot down on that property. "I... You're busy. I don't want to bother you", she dragged out. "I'll be down in a bit. Hold the front line till then, Syd", you told her before hanging up.

It felt almost like a flashback as you made your way down to the restaurant. Flashbacks of your heading there with Carmy right after the funeral. The times you ran up and down the street for nearby deliveries. The times you stood outside with him, just holding his hands and breathing. The times you smoked outside trying to fight your own overwhelming emotions. You never hated the concept of the restaurant. Quite the opposite; it was an interesting little bubble. You valued Carmy's love for food, even if it wasn't your own. Well, a lie. You learned to love food from him.

"Okay, hold it like this", he said, standing right behind you and guiding your hands. Showing you how to cut properly. "Don't use the tips of your fingers to hold", he said, carefully moving your fingers to a proper position. "And then you do that fast shit? Chop, chop, chop", Carmy lets out a low laugh at your impression. Turning to kiss the side of your head, "Maybe no chop, chop just yet. Get used to cutting veggies like this first. The speed of it will come with practice". You made a sad face before saying, "You do it then; it's captivating", you handed Carmen the knife, resting your face in your hands as you watched him do his thing with a light smirk on his face.

Carmen was feeling his anxiety beating right into his ribcage. The people around him were too loud. Too demanding. He felt like the sounds around him were slowly suffocating him. Ruthlessly dunking his head under the water. Keeping him under even as his lungs ran out of oxygen. All he heard was Carmy this and Carmy that. It felt like one of those torture techniques where your libs were tight to different horses, each pulling you to all four different sides. Carmen didn't have answers to the questions people were demanding. He simply didn't know, and now...

"What's all the shouting for?", and that's all it takes. It feels as if everything around him dies down. His lungs now easily welcomed the air around him. Mind slowing down. He lets out a deep sigh as his eyes fall over your frame. Hair up in a messy bun, the one that he loved so much, with loose pieces framing your face. You have one of Carmy's old shirts on. There's a paint stain on it, and for some reason, that makes him smile a little. His salvation. His love. His home.

"My girl", Tina rushes forward, wrapping you up in a tight embrace. "It's been weeks; let me look at you", she cups your face, looking you all over. You can't help but smile at her. Without a doubt, you missed her presence during your weeks away. "You look pale as paper", she says, shaking her head. "I'll make you my mama's soup. I will get you back on your feet", At this point, you're almost convinced that her eyes will not leave you, no matter where you go. "It's not necessarily, Ti", you move to squeeze her hands, but she only huffs, "It's a must, Mi Nino. With a man like that you have to run around", she scoffed Carmy's way, but he only clenched his jaw. Choosing to stay silent. "I'll steal Carmen for a moment and then be out to help", you glance at Sydney reassuringly, watching as her hands full of plates sag at her sides, but you don't let yourself think about it much as you step forward, brushing your fingers against Carmen's wrist before dragging him towards the office.

"You're okay?", you breathed out once the door closed behind you two. It was silent for a moment. Just Carmen's irregular breathing. Your fingers were still intertwined with his, and from the grip Carmy had on them, you knew he had no intention of letting go. "It's just... I just... don't know shit", his voice was barely a whisper. You nod. "Talk to me about it", you mutter. His eyes find you. Talk. Such an easy thing, right? Not to your two lately. But you've both been trying. Trying to not only listen but also hear. See without being asked to. "Yeah, I think I can do that", he says, nodding his head. You brush your fingers through his messy hair, nodding alongside him.

When you emerge from the office, it's a solid hour later. You have sketches in your hands. The idea of the restaurant. Visuals for plating and a whole Pinterest board just for the restaurant vibe itself. Sydney is sitting by the table, her head resting on the surface. A lot had changed while you were away. The place had been closed. At least three walls were missing. There was a mold issue. But mole issues no more... You'll get to that eventually.

"Right, so he wants a classy, sophisticated look. Something that would be good for plating different dishes in", you plop your sketchbook to the table. Reaching for the plate closest to you. "And he couldn't just tell me that?", Sydney huffed, "How do you meet his brain waves?" You let out a chuckle. Oddly enough, you had learned to read Carmy's mind as if it was a book. "So what did he say no to?", you asked her once more. "Amm, let me see. Fucking everything", Sydney gives you a fake smile, and you bit your lip, suppressing a laugh.

With your phone on the side, the mood board opened, you glance from the plaits to the visuals. Quickly making a yes and no line. Sorting everything into different plating arrangements. Mixing pricier pieces with more affordable ones. Pulling up a color palette for different napkin options. Once you were satisfied, you drew your eyes back to Sydney, who stood there with her mouth slightly open. "That's some dark magic shit", she breathed out. "Be careful; it might turn you into a frog", you shimmy your fingers in front of her face before pulling her closer. "This is... This is perfect", her eyes scanned the table in front of her. "Get everyone to vote for what they like best", you suggest; "Carmy will like this", you point to the third option. The contrasting plate colors and clean-edged dishes were something that no doubt would bring him back to Michelin-class places.

You slipped outside for a quick smoke. Enjoying the little breeze of the evening. Needing a little moment to yourself. You breathed out the smoke carelessly before realizing that you were not alone. "Oh, sorry", you quickly chase the cloud away, adding, "You're okay?". The greenish-pale face was clear evidence of nausea. "Just... It's really warm inside", you only nodded in agreement. And then the silence falls, but the insane kind. The one that you know holds a lot of unsaid feelings. You try to ignore it but fail miserably, "Just say what's on your mind, Natalie".

The woman shakes her head. "I feel guilty", she admits, about the whole Claire situation". That name itself sends a shiver down your back. "Don't waste your breath on it; Richie already told me everything", you take another drag from your cigarette but blow out a smoke away from Nat, not wanting to make her feel any sicker. "I never had a girl friend in the family. Boys had been shit with ladies", she breathed out. "But then you came, and there were so many emotions, and I didn't know you, and maybe I got jealous", you turned to look at her once her words died down. "So... you decided to break me and Carmy apart because you were jealous?", you ask her. "Wow, this family is truly insane", you breathed out, shaking your head.

"I just needed someone familiar; we all needed someone familiar,", Natalie said, but you only shook your head. "That's very hypocritical of you. Carmy already knew me very well, may I add. You could have gotten to know me too". She falls silent for a moment. "Did Richie tell you about the letter?", she asked, not meeting your eyes. "What letter?", you breathed out. Nat nods her head as if reassuring herself before saying, "Michael wrote a letter. It didn't say anything about me and Richie besides the general love you all", she said, "But he mentioned Carmy so many times, and...", her voice died down. She looked like a frozen statue for a moment. "Your name was there too. Mikey felt like an ass that he won't get to meet Carmen's future wife. Won't get to tell you embarrassing stories. Won't hold your kids", those words make your own eyes sting. Breath hitching in your throat. You were not sure of what to say.

"I'm pregnant, you know, and he didn't say anything about my kids", she said through gritted teeth. She moved to wipe her tears away quickly. "Oh, Natalie", you said, dropping the cigarette to the side before stepping closer to her. "It was so fucking petty, and I've been feeling so guilty, but I just wanted something to finally be about me", she crocked out as more tears came rushing down her cheeks. You quickly embraced her, bringing her hiccuping body closer to your chest.

"I've never wanted to...", she cried, but you shook your head. "I was never here to take your space and take your brothers away from you. They both love you a lot, believe me", you reassured her. "You stood up for Carmy at the funeral. No one had been so direct with our mother... I just wanted", she whispered, and all you could do was nod because you knew very well what she wanted. Something that you too had been wanting for so long. Someone who could protect her. To always have her back. To turn into a shield against the harsh world around her. That's what Luca was to you. That's what you were to Carmen. "I'm so sorry", she pulled away slightly, looking into your eyes. "I know, Nat, and I forgive you", you muttered, brushing your sleeve over her damp cheeks, "Now come on, you'll get a cold here, and we need to get you something to drink".

Everyone had eventually gone home. But not before eating the soup that Tina had made while sitting on cardboard boxes together. Only now did you realize how much you had missed this in some way. The little gathering after the day. Something warming to look forward to. Sydney put Marcus on the phone, and to see his beaming face was one of the most rewarding things. You knew you had Luca to thank for that. For bringing back the passion and excitement that used to bubble in Marcus. Richie had pulled into a little side hug before he too stepped out of the place. "I'm glad to see you back", he muttered. You didn't say anything; you just squeezed his hand in return.

"What are you doing here?", Carmy's voice brought you back to the room. You had slipped away to look at the wall facing the entrance. A big white wall that was staring right at you. "Just looking", you muttered. Carmen sat down beside you, following your gaze. He didn't say anything for a while. The silence felt like a warm blanket. "You should paint this wall, or we could hand one of your paintings", Carmy said, and you quickly turned to face him. "That's the main wall", you breathed out. "Exactly why it should be painted by you. If you want to, of course", Carmen stated firmly.

He gazed at you, catching your eyes already on him. "You were thinking about it yourself, weren't you?", Carmen asked, knowing the answer right away when your checks went pink. "I was...but with everything", you breathed out, "It's weird because I love you so much, but I still feel like there are so many things that we need to rebuild".

Carmen reached for your hand, lifting it to his lips before kissing your delicate skin a couple of times. "There's no rush", he breathed out, turning the ring on your finger, "I know where I want to get to. I know what the final destination looks like". You crook your head to the side. Reaching up to brush your fingers through his hair. "Do you want to share?", you ask shyly. Carmy pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around your waist. "It's nothing complicated. You and me. That's all I need", he breathes out, his eyes darting from your eyes to your lips. You reached up, brushing your fingers across Carmy's cheek, and he instantly leaned into your touch. "I think I like that kind of future", you breathed out. His big blue eyes seize you once more. And there's a shy smile on his face. "You do?", he asks, and you nod your head. You run your thumb over his lips a couple of times, and then he's brushing his lips against your own, and it feels like the first time all over again. The same heat rushes to your cheeks. And it's nothing but slow love that you can promise each other now. Patient love that grows alongside you both. One that doesn't put labels. Just promises to keep you both warm. All you need to do is to promise to hold onto one another.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

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peachesofteal · 1 year

Text

Alone / Chapter 3

Part of the Sassy series. Chapter 3/3.

Simon Riley/female reader 9.1k words - AO3 18+ Minors DNI. Smut. Praise kink. Size difference/kink. Blood and violence. PTSD. Trauma. Panic attacks, night terrors, catatonia, relationship issues, emotional hurt/comfort. Medical stuff. Angst. Mentions of having a uterus/children. Soft dad Simon Riley. Simon is a great dad, that's all. Soap is a good uncle. John Price. Simon is living in a nightmare.

If you’re living in a nightmare, then Simon is living in hell.

It plagues his every waking second, invades his consciousness when he’s finally able to get to sleep, envelopes his reality at work, at home, everywhere. Anywhere. The sun has permanently set and there is only darkness now, only the bad, only the evil left, his existence devoid of your golden rays, his life bereft of your warmth on his face.

It is easy to feel like a ghost. On the days he doesn't have Theo, or he's not on an op, he struggles to keep himself functioning, struggles to make sense of his day to day. The violence helps, when he's with the 141, the familiar feeling of executing, of hunting grounding him in a reality that doesn't seem so far fetched, doesn't seem so outlandish. When he's home, Soap helps by calling and texting incessantly, and Price consistently drops by, inviting him for dinner or asking him to look something over. Everyone makes an effort, to make sure he's not forgotten, to make sure he knows they care.

This hell, this nightmare, feels oddly similar to being buried alive. It feels comparable to being trapped beneath the ground, dying, slowly, the air around him casually evaporating with every breath he dares to draw. It feels like when the earth tried to pulled him back under, when the clay tried to trap itself inside his lungs, clogging the passages of his alveoli, dirt mixing with blood mixing with saliva, caking itself in his throat and into his very conscious.

It only feels different, feels less like hell and more like his old life, when he’s with Theo.

Sometimes, he pretends that it is still his old life. That he’s just out with Theo at the park, and when they get home, you’re going to be there. Or, he and Theo are out for “guy’s night”, as you used to call it, at the restaurant down the street, and you’re out somewhere else with Price’s wife, for a monthly happy hour that will undoubtedly bleed into dinner, and end with the two of you on the couch watching some god awful tv show until Price comes to collect her. He pretends when he’s grocery shopping that he’s checking off your list, each section sequenced to reflect the supermarket’s organization, something you always did to help make it easier for him, to get him in and out as quickly as possible, because you knew how he felt about large places with lots of bodies and too many obstacles. He pretends that the house that he rented is actually his home, pretends it the house down the street, the one that you live in, the one that you two of you bought together. He pretends that the bed is empty because you’re just working late again, up with tired eyes in front of your laptop, your brain computing and processing lines upon lines of numbers and formulas of things he doesn’t understand.

All of these things, they happened before.

Before you were plucked from a springtime walk, Theo left crying in the pram on a sidewalk while you were injected with something that rendered you unconscious until you woke in a concrete room halfway across the world.

Before the phone call. Before the video.

Before the rescue. Before the massacre. Before he snapped. Before his rage, the path of bodies left in his wake, before Soap had to pull him off a corpse that he had pummeled to death. Before he cut off the hands of every single person who had touched you. Before the sound of the men begging for their lives lived in his head, before the intensive, four times a week therapy sessions that had to last hours long just to get him back to baseline. Just to get him back to a point where he could take care of Theo, take care of you.

Before the hospital and the damage from the infection and the complications from the injury to your lung.

Before the catatonia and the night terrors and the panic attacks that left you confused and alone inside your own head.

Before the rot invaded his home. Before its sticky, tentacled ropes of poison spread across the walls. Before it cast its sickly shadow across your face.

Before, when you still called yourself his wife. When still wore your ring. When you still told him you loved him.

Before he failed.

Before you left him.

Before.

“I hate them.” Your sullen voice crackles through the phone, muffled and distorted. It’s the best reception he’s gotten in eight days, and you still sound like you’re a million miles away and underwater at the same time. He swallows the disappointment.

“They can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, they’re bad, Si. They’re all helicopter moms. Prissy and obnoxious. One of them won’t even let their kid use the slide because she’s scared about some kind of toxic lining on it. I don’t know. Why did you bring your kid to a playgroup if they’re not allowed to play?” You huff, and he’s glad you’re not on a video call right now, because he’s smiling, his eyes are closed and he’s imagining you pacing in the kitchen, waving something around in your hand for added effect, tops of your thighs peeking out from under the hem of a too big t shirt. He knows if you caught him grinning when you’re all cross, there’d be hell to pay.

“Is Theo havin’ fun?”

“Eh. Yeah. He’s bigger than all the other ones his age so he kind of gets to do what he wants.” He chuckles at that, foolish pride blooming across his cheeks, and he can practically hear you rolling your eyes through the phone. “Still struggling with the concept of sharing.” You add, and he nods to himself. It's not a surprise to either of you, and sharing has been a work in progress at home.

“He’d learn how to share a lot faster if he had a sibling.” He offers, and you laugh on the other end before abruptly going silent, like you’re holding onto to a secret. “Sass?”

“I did it.” You breathe.

“You did what?”

“I did, what we discussed. Last month, just before you left. I went to the doctor and… she took it out.” He sits straight up, boots scuffing along the dirty safehouse floor.

“You got your IUD out?” His bones rattle in his body, eyes wide while he waits for you to confirm it.

“Yeah, Si. I… I’m ready. I want to start trying when you get home.”

“Are you sure? I thought you said-“

“I am. And I know… what I said. But I talked to my doctor, and she helped lessen some of my anxiety about it. I had an ultrasound to look at my uterus and she thinks the chances are good. I… feel good about it.” He pads the silicone ring with his thumb while he takes long, deep breaths to steady himself. “So, I guess, you better hurry and get home so we can start trying because it takes two, ya know?” You laugh again, but he hears the wet sound in the back of your throat, the thick, syrupy sound of your tears, and his heart clenches in his chest.

“I-“

The timer on his watch goes off. It’s loud enough that you can hear it, and you sigh.

“Gotta cut the line?” you volunteer, and he grunts out a yes even though he wants to stay on it for hours more, telling you how much he loves you, how excited he is, how he can’t wait to give you another baby. “Be safe, okay?”

“Always. I love you. I’ll see you real soon.”

“I love you too.” He presses the end call button and tucks the phone away in his pocket, leaning his head against the wood paneling of the door. Another baby, you wanted to have another baby.

He’s still grinning like a complete fool when he comes down the stairs to where Johnny and Kyle are hunched over a tiny aluminum table, shoving some sort of MRE down their throats. When Gaz spots him, his brow furrows, and he half hollers with a mouth full of food to Johnny.

“What’s got ‘im in such a good mood?”

The hallways in the medical office building are beige, a shade lighter than the darker beige carpet, which complements the brown chairs of the waiting room. It used the bother him, the blandness, but now he supposes he’s grateful for it. It’s less distracting. Less obtrusive. It lets him think, which is exactly what he’s doing, thinking, about you, about Theo, when he pulls the big walnut colored door open and spots you curled in on yourself in a waiting room chair.

He’s surprised to see you here before him. He’s surprised you even showed up if he’s being honest. He knows how you feel about therapy in general, and with the way the last couple’s session went, he’s shocked you’re willing to give it another go.

It burns just the smallest amount of joy in his gut.

Don’t. Don’t get your hopes up.

“Hi.” You croak.

“Hey, Sass.” Your face is guarded as you nod up at him, everything in your expression haunted and hesitant, the emptiness he knows you’re carrying around inside of you spilling out through your features as plain as day. He can’t stand it. “Sleep okay? Have a good late-night chat with Soap?” He probes and you scowl back at him, fire sparking behind your eyes while he fights the urge to smile. There’s my girl. He doesn’t mean to goad you, doesn’t want to anger or upset you, but he’ll take what he can get.

Besides, he already knows you must have in fact, slept better than usual, because you didn’t call Johnny. And he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night to the half a ring-hang up that you’ve started doing in these past few weeks, something that’s developed since the day the two of you watched Moana with Theo, and you fell asleep next to him on the couch after your panic attack. The day that felt like a dream, when Theo asked to go for a walk to the playground, and you shyly asked if he wanted to come along. The day that he’s been replaying over and over in his mind, the day that felt like progress, that felt like something more than this nightmare he’s been living inside.

He’s about to ask how Theo was for you this morning when the office door opens, and Dr. C is smiling at the two of you from the other side.

“Hi guys, come on in. I just need to grab a tea.” He motions for you to go first, and you falter in your steps before you’re brushing past him, your fingertips grazing the hand that lays lax at his side.

This time, he doesn’t hide his smile.

“How is she?” His pacing comes to an abrupt halt when his therapist, Dr. C comes out through the door, a tablet in her hand, lines of her face nearly impossible to read. She motions to a set of chairs, the uncomfortable ones that line the hall, and then takes a seat opposite of him.

“The staff psychologist here wants to release her to an assisted living facility until she shows improvement.”

“No.”

“Mr. Riley, I-“

“No. She can’t go to one of those places. She can’t.”

“They have places that specialize in care for cases like your wife. It’s not like sending her to a nursing home.”

“I don’t care. She needs to come home, with us. Theo needs her. I need her. Once… once she gets home, she’ll do better.” Dr. C sighs.

“She’s catatonic, Simon. She’ll need her PICC line for nutrition and medications, another IV for fluids. She’ll need someone to bathe her, turn her, do her wound care, things you’re not prepared to do.”

“The fuck ‘m not.” He doesn’t know how to do an IV, sure. But he can do everything else. And he knows he can hire a nurse or someone to do the other things, the medications, the tubes, the wound cleanings. “I’m not sending her away.”

“That’s not what this is.”

“It’s not happening. She’s coming home. With me.”

“Johnny took Theo to the park today. Bug tripped comin’ off the slide and nearly cut his chin open. He’s okay, just a deep scratch but it scared him. Johnny said he cried for you the whole way home.” He strokes the pad of his thumb across your cheek, watching your eyes for movement from where they stare, straight ahead, out the master bedroom window. You’re curled on your side, knees tucked up to protect your abdomen, hands clenched under the mountain of pillows.

It's been so, so long since he’s heard your voice. So long since he’s seen you smile, or laugh, or even engaged in a single word that’s being spoken to you.

He feels like he’s losing you. Like you’re slipping away from him, drowning right in front of him.

It feels like Theo is losing his mom.

It feels like he’s losing his mind.

Sometimes, he wants to scream at you. Wants to grip you by your jaw and turn your face towards his and force a reaction from you. Wants to pull the tube that’s feeding you free from your chest and force you to eat on your own. Wants to beg and plead and cry at your feet, wants to shake you until you have no choice but to tell him to stop.

Dr C. has told him again and again that it will take time. That you’re healing, your mind and your body is processing an unfathomable trauma, and that what’s happening to you, this catatonia, is the way your brain is helping protect itself.

So, he tries to remember you, like before. He clings to his memories. The videos on his phone. The live photos that feel like stolen snippets from someone else’s life. He carries it all with him, every day. He shows you the photo and videos on a slideshow every night in hopes something will bright light to your lifeless eyes. He rubs your back and holds your hand, tries to comb through your hair as gently as he can, waters the plant that sits on the windowsill. He does Theo's bedtime routine in here now, reads his stories aloud to the two of you, Theo always curled up against him while you lay unmoving beside him. He reads from the stack of books that you have sitting next to your side of the bed, the collection of them that you were working through before you were taken. He massages ointment into your scars, press the pads of his thumbs into the arch of your feet like he did when you were pregnant, lays awake beside you and speaks aimlessly about nothing. He presses his lips gently to your cheek, your forehead, your mouth. Anything, everything he can do to try to bring you back.

Nothing works. The bed feels like a grave. The house feels like a mausoleum. The only life left inside of either of you is your son.

He sits there next to you until he hears the front door, the sound of Johnny bringing Theo back after their adventure out for takeaway forcing him to pull your blanket up under your chin, tucking you in gently until he’s satisfied it’s to your liking.

“I’ll be back up, after dinner, okay? I’ll bring Theo in to say goodnight.”

“So, how have things been?” Simon likes Dr C, a revelation that he’s grown comfortable with in the past year or so. She is easy to talk to. She does not flinch away from the gruesome details of either of your lives. It helps that she specializes in PTSD and war related trauma therapy as well, of course, but she offers him warmth, and understanding in his sessions. He feels comfortable with her. He feels so comfortable with her, that when you were in desperate need of help, he thought of her first. He feels comfortable knowing that you’re seeing her for therapy and that you’re receiving the same kind of care and patience that he has. He knows Dr C is good at her job, and it brings him comfort, in a strange way, to know that someone who has helped him, is helping you, and the two of you now, together.

“Mrs. Riley?” she tries to encourage you, and you meet her with a half hearted nod and a shrug.

“Okay, I guess.” She looks at him next, the same question bouncing around the room.

“We spent some time together, three weeks ago. Watched a bit of a movie with Theo, and then we all took a walk. Went to the park, even.” Your hands flex and tighten where they sit in your lap, shoulders high and tight.

“That’s great, I’m sure Theo was very excited. How do you feel it went?” He stays quiet, giving you time to talk if you decide that’s what you want. You don’t, and it doesn’t surprise him. Start slow. Nice and easy.

“It went better than the last time we uh, tried a family activity.” He provides when you stay tight lipped, and you immediately cringe, guilt snapping across his skin. Could’ve phrased that better. He wants to grab your hand, stroke his thumb across your knuckles and press his lips to your pulse point all while telling you it wasn’t your fault. Wants to tell you he loves you, that nothing that has happened, has been your fault, even though he knows your own mind is eating you alive with the idea. He can see it all now, the stuff in your head. The awful, hellish landscape that has become your mind. He wants to take it away. Wishes he could scoop it out of your brain, pull away every piece of dark and infectious rot that plagues you, separate it from your nervous system like he's a surgeon. He can't. He's tried.

Dr C. allows the room to fall silent for a moment, as is her custom, before moving on. She does it for you, more than anyone. Gives you time to prepare, to switch gears. It also gives you an opportunity to speak, if you choose to.

You don’t, usually.

“We’re at the six-month mark this week.” His heart stops in his chest. No. “We did agree, that after six months, we would evaluate where we are and potentially discuss how you’re both feeling about the separation. Do you think that’s something you might be open to exploring, Mrs. Riley?” He watches your throat bob with a swallow, your gaze shifting from its absent state to something hopeless, something worried.

“It’s not the right time.” He rushes out to ease whatever it is that’s causing you turmoil. The therapist nods at him, acknowledging his words, but keeps her eyes on you.

“Mrs. Riley?” He holds his breath while you look down at your lap, eyes searching for something on your skin, some kind of an answer he hopes you won’t find. The room is dead silent while you slowly lift your neck, head turning so your eyes find his. Just like a hundred times before.

Your voice is soft, angelic when you finally speak.

“Yes. I would open to talking about it.”

The scream is hard to distinguish. In the dark, it could just be a part of his ever-present nightmares, just another piece of his mind twisting his memories and his reality together to form a special kind of hell. It’s hard to tell at three in the morning, but he’s sure he’s awake in his own bed, your body twisting and turning beside him, terror pouring from your lips while you sweat against the sheets. His pulse thunders in his ears, the broken cries coming from you echoing throughout the room and stopping his heart.

He rolls onto you immediately, trapping your kicking legs beneath his, a hand coming up to cradle your face and tapping your cheekbone with the pad of his index finger, a gentler way of trying to pull you out, a method that has had varied success in the past.

“Come on, sweet girl. Wake up for me.” Your mouth presses into the pillow and you scream, your body shaking in his hold, face wet with tears. “Shhh. It’s alright. You’re alright, you’re safe.” You’re terrified, and he can’t soothe you, can’t wake you to bring you into reality, the desperation he feels compounding when your wet cheek presses into his palm. You thrash, arms swinging, and he tries to hold you steady while your voice crests with a sob that shifts in a shriek next to his ear. “Sass! Please. I’m here, I’m right here.” His voice breaks, raspy and raw, but nothing reaches you, nothing matters. You’re not here, you’re still there. In that room with the concrete floor that’s stained with your blood. Your hand moves again, this time making contact and digging into his face, his flesh parting beneath the fine edge of your nails, blood pooling underneath them when he pushes your arm away, pinning it down by your side while you cry. He’s helpless, trapped in this hell alongside of you, drowning beneath the current of your nightmare while you free fall through your terror, unconscious and unable to be woken. He can’t even feel the sting of his cheek, can’t feel the small wounds that are leaking blood down his skin, none of it registers. All he can do is hold you, talk to you as calmly as he can while you sob, your voice eventually falling into soft whimpers as you slowly settle.

“Daddy?” Theo’s little voice calls from the door, where he’s standing wide eyed and terrified and Simon curses while you shiver in his arms.

“It’s okay, bug. Go back to your bed.” Theo shakes his head no, unable to look away. He looks so scared and Simon’s heart shatters inside his chest, something he thought wasn’t even possible anymore.

“Mum?” Theo cries, face scrunched up, hands clutching his blanket to his chest. Your cries are muffled now, and although you’re still shaking, he can’t leave Theo in the doorway, watching you like this.

Simon pulls the blankets back up over your body, tucking you in as tightly as he can manage and then scoops Theo up, carrying him down the hall while he shushes him, running his fingers through his hair while he cries.

“Shhh. She’s alright, Mum’s alright. She’s just havin’ a bad dream. Just like we do sometimes, yeah?” Simon coos while Theo sniffles, his face resting on Simon’s shoulder, blanket tucked between their bodies. “C’mere, let’s lay down.” He lays Theo on his kid’s sized bed, curling his own body around him, most of Simon’s legs hanging off the end. Theo holds onto to him so tight that it feels like he’s trying to burrow himself in Simon’s body, to hide there from his own fears and nightmares, and he rubs his back soothingly until Theo is blissfully asleep, safe in the arms of his dad.

He clips your nails short the next morning. You stare out the window and say nothing.

There’s a lot of noise in Simon’s head.

He can see your mouth moving, can see Dr. C’s mouth moving, but he can hardly hear either of you, your voices drowned out by the white noise-static sound that’s cutting through his brain, slicing down into his flesh, past his sternum to where his heart beats slowly.

“I don’t want a divorce.” The words ricochet between his ears, and he feels like he’s been doused with cold water, the shock of your words startling him from his stupor as he blinks stupidly at you. You don’t want a divorce. Joy, pure, unaltered, endless joy fills him until he’s nearly smiling, his cautionary behavior going out the window with your admission. You don’t want a divorce. Your voice is heavy with the weight of everything you’re feeling, and it feels sick to feel how he does right now when there are tears spilling over your waterline and down your face. “B-but I don’t know if I can be… how we were. I don’t know if I know how. Or… if I deserve…” you trail off, and he closes his eyes against the sinking feeling in his stomach. You don’t say anything else after that, lip tucked between your teeth, brow creased like you’re concentrating. The therapist says your name, twice, to try to bring you back, and then when you finally make eye contact, she continues on.

“Do you see a path, in your mind? A path forward, for your marriage?”

“I do-don’t know… I don’t know what it would look like.” Dr C. let’s the room go quiet again, and he’s surprised when you lift your gaze to his once more, your eyes seeking something in his. He’s not sure what it is, doesn’t know what to give you in this moment, which is a foreign concept, considering he used to be able to anticipate your moods and moves, your decisions and your ideas. The two of you used to know each other like the back of your hands and now… sometimes it feels like he’s in love with a stranger.

“I have an idea.” Dr C. says and you straight a little, looking at her with a somewhat grim expression. “Have you considered going on a date?”

“A date?” you blurt, and he tenses.

“Without Theo. Just the two of you, somewhere you both feel comfortable. Leave your expectations at home and take the time to talk to one another, one on one. Reconnect.” You’re going to say no. There’s no way you’ll go for this. You gnaw on your lip for a minute while your fingers play idly in your lap. He braces himself for the rejection, for you to say it’s too much, too soon, that you’re not ready, you can’t do it. All of these things, he would not blame you for.

All of these things, make him grateful he doesn’t have Theo tonight, and that he’s got a fresh bottle of bourbon on his kitchen table.

“Okay, well. I guess we can call Price and see if they want to babysit?” He turns to look at you, dumbfounded, mouth slack with shock while you give him the most nervous, the most hesitant smile. It blinds him, momentarily confusing him, like it’s a trick. Like it’s all wrong, and you’re going to change your mind, or something else is going to happen and derail this. It’s also, all right. You, smiling at him, looking like you actually might want to… spend time with him, see him without it having to be the usual Theo pass off. Like you might still want this, want him.

Dr C. clears her throat expectantly, and he stumbles to get his words out, to catch up.

“Yeah, Sass. Let’s… set it up.”

“Mum better?” Theo’s little fingers fold over his board book, eager smile on his face as he tips his head back to squint at Simon. He’s heard you, in the bedroom earlier, arguing with the nurse that comes every morning. It was quite a surprise for her when she got here, to see you sitting up in bed, eyes blinking and brow furrowed, Simon helping you rotate your wrists that have grown stiff and sore. “Pa’cakes fa Mum?” Simon smiles. Sweet lad.

“Yes, we can make Mum pancakes. She can’t really eat a lot but I’m sure she’d love to have breakfast with you.” He rubs his chest absentmindedly, stroking over a particular raised bump of skin, a scar from an op years ago. You had been running your fingers over it, this morning when he woke up, shocked to feel you turned into him, tucked up against his chest, your hand tracing light touches over his skin. Your voice had been rough, scratchy from lack of use, and you complained that every muscle in your neck and back ached, along with you joints.

He said you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

You told him you loved him.

And then Theo woke up.

It’s a messy process, making pancakes with his son. Theo likes to do everything himself, including pouring the milk and cracking the eggs into the bowl. You usually handle it with such grace, such patience, giving Theo the time he needs to explore the mechanisms of it, feel out what interests him and explain every step to him. Simon tries to embody that part of you, he does, but it’s not as easy as you make it look. Especially when Theo cracks three eggs on the floor.

“Uh oh!” he yells, and Simon closes his eyes, breathing through his nose until his chest is thoroughly expanded. He wants to be upstairs, with you. Wants more than the two hours he got at dawn before Theo woke up and then nurse came over, wants to hurry it up so they both can be up there, sitting with you, him and Theo. “Sorry, Daddy.” Theo’s sad voice brings him back to the now, and he snaps his eyes open to see his disappointed little face, eyes worried as he looks at the batter bowl.

“It’s alright, bug. Accidents happen. Let’s try again, yeah?”

Forty minutes later, Simon’s finally got a stack of pancakes on a plate, him and Theo sitting on the bed next to you, and a cup of coffee in his hand. He’s cutting them one by one into little pieces, and then handing you the fork so you can help Theo.

“Don’ need ‘elp mum!” Theo exclaims, wrapping a paw around your fingers and pushing the fork into his mouth, chewing with a smile. You laugh and lean over to kiss his head.

“Where did my baby go? I swear just last week you were saying your first word.” It’s meant to be sweet, to be a throw back to when Theo was actually a baby, but it settles like lead in the bottom of Simon’s stomach, and when he glances up at you, you’re wearing a faraway look, thinking about something he cannot name.

Five days after the joint therapy session, Simon is standing in your living room trying not to feel completely dumbfounded. Or terrified. Or elated.

Or anything. He’s trying not to feel anything at all, because if he does, then it will mean something, it will matter, and it will possess the ability to ruin him. If he lets himself feel it, the hope, the happiness, it will make it all that much worse at the end, when this doesn’t work. When it’s too much for you.

He had even called you later that night, after the session, to make sure that this was something you actually wanted to do, that you hadn’t felt pressured into it by being in a room with him and the therapist. When you had doubled down, he hid his surprise as best he could, and reassured you that he also wanted to go when you asked him in a small, hesitant voice if he thought maybe, it wasn’t such a good idea.

“Can I have a kiss?” you ask Theo as you bend down, the curve of your ass displayed in the black cocktail dress you chose to wear. The dress, that had him gaping like a fish when you came down the stairs, the dress that highlighted the ins and outs of your body that he used to be so bloody familiar with. Theo wraps his arms around your neck as tight as he can, little face happy and excited with the prospect of spending all night with Price and his wife, who will assuredly allow him to eat all the cotton candy flavored ice cream he wants and put him to bed late. They’re taking him to theirs, something they’ve done in the past (albeit for far less joyous reasons) which works better for everyone. That way, they can sleep in their own bed instead of your guest bed or his couch, and Theo doesn’t have to be woken in the middle of the night to be carried home.

Price’s wife ruffles Theo’s hair as you hand her his little backpack. Simon pretends not to notice the way John tracks her movements, the way he catalogues everything she does with Theo. He pretends not to the see the brief flicker of something across his face, the flicker of wanting that shadows his blue eyes before they clear again. It’s not Simon’s place, to know these things. To notice them.

Instead, Simon bends to scoop Theo into his arms, giving him a big hug and breathing in the smell of his baby shampoo before placing back on his feet gently, his little boy grinning up at him with a face full of love that twists his heart sharply.

“Thanks again.” You smile at her, and she nods while John takes the backpack, and she takes Theo’s hand in hers. “You know the drill.” You shrug and she laughs softly before agreeing.

“We do! We’re going to have a lot of fun, huh Theo?” Theo nods excitedly and you manage to give him another kiss on the cheek before straightening.

“Alright, well. One of us will grab him, in the morning. I’ll text you.” You’re looking at her funny, something different in your eyes, something he’s not sure how to interpret. It’s odd, but it passes in a blink, and then she pulls you into her arms, whispering something in your ear that he cannot hear. You answer her softly, a quieted hum of words, before stepping away and giving the final nod to Price.

“Alright, honey. You two ready?” John’s hand presses to the small of her back, a reassuring and guiding touch, and then they’re all out the door, Theo holding both of their hands while they make the trek two blocks away to their own house. You watch them until they’ve faded from sight, and then turn around with your hands on your hips, a nervous expression that probably mirrors his, on your face. The hardwood beneath his feet feels like fucking sand.

“Well… should we?”

“You don’t get it! You’re not listening to me!”

“There is no one in your life, on this planet, who understands the way you’re feeling more than I do.” He tries to explain it, tries to reason with you. Tries to make you see that he gets it, that he knows how it feels. You won’t listen, you don’t budge. You only take a step backwards, hand outstretched against his chest as a warning.

“No you don’t! You didn’t die, Simon. You came back.”

“So did you.”

“No, I didn’t. I… I was fucked up before and you know it. Whatever was left was taken. I didn’t fight hard enough. I didn’t survive. It wasn’t enough.” Your voice is high, reedy, and a warning bell goes off in the back of his mind, the memory of your panic attack from last week fresh in his memory. You still have the stitches in your hand from the bathroom mirror glass, and he winces when you make a fist and thump it against your thigh.

“Hey, hey. It's okay. You’re getting-“

“Stop!” you cry out. The haunted expression on your face looks all wrong, and he knows you’re sinking farther and farther into your own head, going somewhere he cannot reach you. “You fought and won, you survived. I was too weak. I c-couldn’t… I tried. But I failed.” You let out a gut-wrenching sob, arms wrapped tight around yourself. “I wanted to die! I gave up. You had to fucking save me, Simon.”

“Sass-“ He tries to reach for you, tries to pull you into his arms, into his body where he can protect you, but you jerk away.

“Don’t touch me. I can’t… I don’t know what to do.” Your eyes are glassy, chest heaving while you struggle to breathe, fingers dug into your own scalp for dear life. “I don’t… I can’t do this.” You’re gasping now, trembling, eyes wide and panicked, and he steps closer, brushing his fingers along your forearm back and forth until you’re softening to him, slumping forward into his chest.

“It’s alright. You’re safe. You’re here, Theo’s here, I’m here. You’re not alone. There’s nothing to fear.” He says it over and over into your hair, lips just above your ear while he eases you to the floor, your fingers tight in his shirt, tears wetting the fabric. “I’ve got you.” He soothes, and your body folds up into his easily, his arm going around your back to hold you firm while he rocks the two of you in the dark of the bedroom until your gasping breaths turn to quiet sobs, and you fall asleep against his chest.

He takes you to the Italian restaurant. It’s the one he took you to after the two of you bought the house, when you first moved over here. It’s dark, and secluded, and only has two entrances/exits, both of which he can see from the table in the back. Most people consider the candlelit, barely lit atmosphere romantic, and it is, but for the two of you, it serves a different purpose. It allows you to relax. It allows him to remove his mask.

Tonight, it allows you to feel comfortable in a dress that clearly displays more skin than he’s seen you show in eight months. The darkness swallows your scars, drifts around you in an inky black cloud, envelopes your shoulders like a blanket. The candlelight flickers across your face, and he watches you sip your wine, putting the glass down and picking it back up again and again, before either of you have even ordered dinner.

“You look beautiful.” He offers it gently, tentatively, unsure of where to start, where to take this. A gift has been dumped in his lap, a priceless, perfect, beautiful gift and now he doesn’t know what to do with it. His heart wants to rip the band-aid off, tear the wrapping paper free, uncaring if he makes a mess or crinkles the paper, but his mind knows better. His mind knows he has to take it crease by crease, ribbon by ribbon, ensuring each fold unfurls correctly, ensuring each edge comes easily.

“Thank you… you look pretty good yourself.” Your lips curl into a little half smile over the rim of your glass and he can’t help but return it, indulgently sinking into every word you say, every glance you give him. He feels intoxicated, drunk on you, flying high from the way you’re looking at him, like you still know him, like you still love him.

“So.” You play with the fork on the table, turning it from back to front repeatedly and he beats back the urge to reach for your hand and still you, to try to calm your nerves. It's me, Sass. It's just me. I'm right here.

“So.” He parrots back, and your fingers wave in the air like you’re trying to conjure something. A safe topic of conversation maybe, or another glass of wine, since yours is now nearly empty. The candle sputters and then steadies, illuminating the expression of worry that’s etched into your face, and it spurs him forward, pushes him into momentum until he’s laying his forearm across the table, palm up, waiting, hoping.

He holds his breath.

You stare at him without saying a word for a long time, the restaurant and its patrons moving around you, the world continuing to turn while his oxygen depletes, and he holds himself as still as a statue. You stare, and you stare until-

Your hand lands in his, perfectly curled along the inside of his fingers, thumb pressed to the curve of his wrist, and you blink furiously at your lap.

When you lift your head, there are tears in your eyes, fat, wet tears that fall down your cheeks when you open your mouth.

“I miss you.”

“You don’t understand.”

“THEN TELL ME!” your mouth drops open in shock and shame licks up his spine, horror icing through his body inch by inch as he stumbles to apologize. “I’m sorry, Sass. I’m sorry, I… I don’t mean to yell, I.." The words trail off when he comes up empty. He has no excuse.

It’s been a long, long time since he’s raised his voice when speaking with you. The memory of the last time, the aftermath of the op where you intentionally disobeyed him and put yourself at risk feels a million miles away right now, and just like yesterday all at once.

Except now, it’s not him running away from you.

It’s you that’s running away from him.

Dinner flies. It feels like a dream, a soft, fragrant dream that he can smell and taste, something tangible, touchable. Something real. You order another glass of wine, and he orders a pour of bourbon, and then another. It lubricates the two of you, easing your tongues and pushing you into conversations that feel safe. You talk about Theo, and Johnny, and Price and his wife. The two of you go back and forth about the finer details of an op you’ve always been fond of arguing about.

His eyes don’t leave your face the entire time. He tries to decode your expressions, your posture, your body language, all through the meal and then after the check is paid. He watches you as he leads you out of the restaurant onto the street, clocks your steps as you turn in a circle on the sidewalk, a sly, hopeful look reflecting on your face when you step closer and say,

“Walk with me?”

It’s a long walk from the restaurant to the street where your respective houses sit, but he doesn’t mind. By the time the two of you are crawling to a stop in front of his door, you’ve got your hand in his, your arm pressed to his side, and he can feel the heat of your skin through his jacket. You’re quiet until you’re turning towards him on the front step, his sanity being held together in this moment with some tape and glue, and you step closer into his orbit, fingers lightly holding the front zipper of his jacket, head tilted back, face turned up towards his. You're the sun, you're the sun, you're the fucking sun and you’re not wearing your armor, there’s no vacant expression on your face, no layer of fear or sadness or anger. You look… like his wife in this moment. You look like Theo’s mom, his partner, his bomb tech, his sweet girl.

You look like you’re still his. You’re looking at him like he’s still yours.

Your lips part, and he leans into you, mouth hovering above yours, just out of reach for so many reasons. He shouldn’t do this. It’s too fast. You’ll pull back. You’ll slip away. This is too risky, it’s too much, it’s too fast, you’re not thinking clear-

“Si.” You pull at him. “Kiss me.” He’s powerless to the command, or request, or whatever the bloody hell it is. It doesn’t matter, because he’s pressing his mouth to yours in less than a second, the searing heat of your tongue pushing into his mouth sending a cool shock down his spine and lighting every muscle in his body on fire.

Home. He’s home.

When he opens the front door, he doesn’t hear anything. No kid’s television shows, no sounds of you or Theo. No happy little boy running to greet him. No sign of you on the couch, no sound of you in the back or in the kitchen.

He finds you in the bedroom, alone.

“Where is Theo?”

“He’s at the Price’s.” your voice is hollow. Empty, like your facial expression. Haunted, like your eyes. The quiet of the house makes him wary. Something prickles along his skin, raising the hair on the back of his neck.

“Why?”

“I wanted to talk and I… didn’t think he should be here.”

“Talk about what?” It’s a grunt, a gruff question that he levels nonchalantly while he waits for you to speak as he strips off his boots and sits down on the bed. He doesn't ask you anything further, doesn't push for elaboration. He doesn't want to. Can't bring himself to hurry whatever it is along, uneasiness snaking up his spine while he observes your uncomfortable posture.

“What do you see? When you look at me?” you ask, and he frowns.

“I see… you, sweet girl. Theo’s mom. My person, my wife.” You don’t respond, you just continue to stare at your feet, so he says your name, your real name, as softly as he can manage, hoping to pull your attention.

“Your person is broken.”

“No, she’s not.”

“She’s a nightmare.”

“Stop.” His tone cuts through the air and you jerk, your eyes finding his, the despondence behind them enough to make his head spin.

“I should have died there.” You croak. “I should have died, Si. It would have been better than this. You could have buried me, moved on.” Nausea sweeps him. He feels ill, like he did when he found you in that room, like he did when he loaded you onto the heli barely alive. He takes a deep breath to steady himself before speaking again.

“This… this will get better, Sass. You’re still healing, physically, mentally… it doesn’t happen overnight. It takes time.” He tries to pull your hand into his lap, but you wrench it away, standing up from the bed.

“It’s not that easy.” You pace back and forth, and he wants so badly to stop you, to hold you and tell you everything will be alright. That he understands how you feel, and he promises you’ll feel better, one day. Even if it feels like it might never be true. His skin itches beneath his clothes.

“I know it’s not. I know that it feels impossible right now and-“

“No.” You cut him off.

“No?”

“No, you don’t know. You’re not hearing me! You haven’t been listening to me at all.” You whirl on him. “I’m not like you Simon! I’m not… I don’t deserve you, or Theo, or anything. I don’t-“

“That’s enough. I can’t listen to this anymore.” He snaps, rising to full height. His temper breaks, his own sadness and anxiety burning together to form something else, something desperate, something afraid. It's not what he meant to say, not what he meant at all. He wants to tell you again, that it's not true. That you do deserve him, and your son, and good things. That you aren't weak, or pathetic, or dirty. He meant to tell you that he doesn't want you to say these things, these awful things about yourself anymore because speaking them out loud just makes them feel all the more true to you. It comes out wrong, all wrong and too sharp, too harsh and you step backwards, pulling the bedroom door wide before he can stop you.

Your voice is a shattered chime when you whisper to him over your shoulder.

“Your wife is broken, Simon. She’s gone.”

You’re tangled in one another. He barely gets the door locked before he’s lifting you by the thighs and pressing you against the wall as gently as he can manage, his cock hard for you beneath the thin cotton of his briefs, your hips rocking forward against him while your head leans back to expose your throat.

“Sass.” I love you. It almost spills from his lips, but he holds it back at the last moment, groaning into your skin instead, and you whine his name back to him, fingers flying over the buttons of his shirt, your hands pressing to his stomach while he rucks the bottom of your dress up past your hips. It’s not gentle, it’s not sweet. It’s frenzied, and frantic, and spurred on by the way your hands push and pull at him, your mouth desperately seeking his, your nails digging into his scalp as you press yourself against his cock.

“Please.” You whimper, and how can he possibly deny you anything? He cannot. He would never. You reach beneath the waistband of his pants and grip him, hand stroking up and down his length, thumb pressing across where he’s dripping with pre-come.

“Bloody hell.” You’re squirming where he holds you up on the wall, his fingers pulling your thong to the side and stroking through where you’re soaked for him, circling your clit with quick touches until your thigh muscles are tensing around his waist. His size compared to yours is glaringly obvious in this position, your legs spread so wide before him, the mass of his body overtop yours like you're pinned beneath a mountain. He loves it. Always has.

“Fuck, Simon. Please.” You beg again, your hips flexing, seeking friction, his hand spread across your rib cage to hold you steady while he unzips his pants and lowers you down the wall a fraction, just to the right height, just so he can-

Your breath hitches when he pushes inside of you, head tipped back, eyes clenched shut with your nails digging into his shoulders.

"Christ." he hisses between clenched teeth. You whimper, the noise something off key and he stills, cradling your face with his palms and lowering his mouth to yours again. "I know." He soothes you. "You're taking me so well, sweet girl." You’re so tight, so warm and wet and perfect for him it makes his head spin, makes his knees feel like they might collapse. You relax around him, softening and he praises you, nipping your bottom lip while he grinds his body against yours. "There you go. Good girl." He fucks you deeper, harder and harder until he's sure he could be hurting you, burning to bury himself as far as he can, burrow himself beneath your skin so you're never without him again.

His. His girl. His wife. His love. His home.

You’re home. You’re home. You’re home.

He feels the swell of emotion rise inside of him, the sum of all his feelings, all his pain, all his hope coming together until he’s fucking crying, pressing his face into your neck to hide his tears.

“I love you.” he chokes, lips grazing along salt dotted skin, and you whimper something in response, something that sounds like I love you too, except slurred together, mushed between moans while he thrusts up into your cunt over and over.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

He pulls you along with him towards your orgasm, his fingers working your clit expertly, the muscle memory searing the two of you together until you’re both gasping, shaking messes, bodies spent from explosive endings that were too much, too soon, when all he wanted was to be notched inside of you forever, fit within you perfectly, like it always was before.

You go languid in his arms, the sheen of your sweat glossing across your chest and up your neck, the corners of your lips upturned while you pant. He says nothing, just holds you there, stares down at you, stroking a thumb across your cheekbone gently, like you’re a thing made of glass, fragile and precious, the most valuable thing his arms have ever held.

As the seconds tick by, your smile shifts, fades like the setting sun, and your eyes change from half lidded to alert while your mouth tilts, the smile slipping away into a frown and then… into an o of surprise.

“Oh my god.” You clasp your hand over your lips and unwrap yourself from around him, standing on your own two feet. “Oh.” You whisper it now, an adject expression of dismay on your face, and he holds his hands up, palms out, to try to contain you where you stand against the wall, like you’re a frightened animal he’s trying to catch.

“Sass.” He levels, keeping his voice even and steady, but you ignore him, stumbling to the couch where his black hoodie is sitting. You pull it over your head with trembling hands, your head shaking back and forth while it falls to your mid-thigh.

“This… I’m… I didn’t mean… I wasn’t-“ You cringe, your hand going to side of your face to cover your ear, like you’re hearing something that’s too loud, and horror washes through him.

“It’s alright. You’re safe.” He tries to calm you but it’s fruitless, your eyes are wide and frantic, and they’re darting between where he stands and the front door.

“This… I d-don’t… this was wrong.” The word smarts across his face like he’s been slapped. Wrong? “I… I meant t-to go slow to… not…” He gets within arm’s reach of you before you’re moving away, stepping backwards on hesitant feet, hands clenched together like you’re holding onto yourself for dear life.

“Sass, listen to me. I-“

“I ca-can’t.” You’re panicked now, breaths coming in staggered gasps, and he wants so badly to hold you, keep you close to him, reassure you, promise you that everything’s okay.

He tries to move closer to you, to reach out to you but you’re already running away. Already moving towards the door on unsteady legs, clips of words spewing from your mouth that don’t make any sense. His vision doubles, then triples, and the world feels out of sync, off balance while air rapidly leaves his lungs and his brain feels like it's being split apart. No no no. Please don't go. Please. He can't breathe. He can't move. He can't do anything but watch his nightmares play out in real life, watch as you hold your head in your hands and slam your eyes shut like you too, are feeling what he's feeling. Please don't go. He's a child again, a small, frightened boy, screaming and crying and begging aloud to no one, pleading with someone to save him, to make it all stop.

You reach for the door handle and he cannot bring himself to move. He's frozen in time, frozen to the floor, the gleam of his wedding ring mocking his heart and his hope while you tremble, your legs unsteady beneath you, his come leaking out from your body as you abandon him, run from him, leave him. Again.

When the door clicks shut, he falls against the wall and succumbs to the first panic attack he's had since Theo was born, slumped over in his living room, empty handed and alone.

#sassy series #peaches writes #simon x sass #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x you #simon riley x female reader #cod mw2 #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost x reader #mw2 #mw2 fanfic #cod mwii

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stardewremixed · 11 months

Text

First Kiss with Shane

@hellhoundmaggie requested a first kiss scene with Shane. He was the first guy I romanced in SDV, mostly because it was easy to in the beginning and I wanted that first-year flower dance so badly. 😂 🌸

🎈 In case you missed it - First Kiss with Harvey. 🎈

While Harvey holds a special place in my heart and is generally my go-to husbando, I didn’t want to leave my “first SDV squeeze” in the lurch. I’m trying to expand my experience with writing romance in general. Hope you enjoy. It’s a freakin’ novella. Haha. I don’t do short, and I wanted to show how he fell in love with the Farmer, and she with him.

This is female farmer x Shane = first kiss. This one might be a little more PG.

😉❤️‍🔥🔥

Sweaty palms. Greasy hair. Chubby cheeks and legs. Is this what she sees in me?

Shane stared bleakly at his own reflection in the refrigerator door. It was quiet. Nearly noiseless in the back aisle of the stark JojaMart. A lull in the daily traffic around 4pm on the dot. When his shift ended.

Shane pressed his forehead against the glass, grumbling to himself about his infinite lack of progress on losing weight. Ever since he started going to therapy and quit drinking, he felt confident that his life would turn around. Like magic.

However, life outside the rehabilitation center was much harder than he remembered. He was still stuck in the same dead-end job. He was still bumming a room off his aunt with his piddly rent And he was still rather plump around his abdomen.

Every time Morris ordered him around, in that pompous high London accent, Shane wanted to give up. To give in. To snatch a beer outta the cooler and gulp away his frustrations.

Instead, he settled for cussing under his breath, and resolving to keep his head down. At least until he could find another job. No one seemed to be hiring in this dying town. The recession was still hitting hard. And he knew he was lucky to get his old job back after nine months in detox and rehab.

It was worth it. It would be worth it. He convinced himself as he puffed a lazy strand of hair out of his eye and continued stocking cartons of overprocessed milk, nothing like his aunt’s fresh bottles or the farmer’s delicious cheeses.

While he was still grossly underpaid, Shane worked out the math. In six more checks, he could repay her. The Jolly Rancher. Just thinking about his silly little nickname for the farmer lady to the north gave him a warm feeling. The kind that alcohol used to give him, only better, more real. Her smile was sweet.

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When she first arrived in town, Shane genuinely disliked her. All her bubbly, bouncy, jolly persona encroaching on his flat, boring, grumpy existence. He had cultivated a philosophy of "me myself and I" and was perfectly content being alone, sulking into a pitcher of beer at the end of the night. But not really…

Her jovialty grew on him, especially when he would see her around town, helping people out. At first, he figured she was just another city do-gooder come to convert the backwater people to a more modern lifestyle. But her joy and kindness was genuine. Even when he yelled at her to go away, she still murmured a heartfelt apology for disturbing him and then brought him freshly grown peppers or tomatoes the next day like nothing had ever happened.

The Farmer purchased cows from Marnie so she could make her own specialty dairy products. He was seriously impressed. Because what city girl just ups and buys cattle?

Sometimes when he was restlessly tossing and turning in bed (and if was honest, lonely), Shane would wander around in the wee pre-dawn hours. He always seemed to make his way to her ranch. Most of the time, she was out in the barn milking the cows and talking to them like they were her babies, with just a lantern illuminating her soft face. She was so beautiful.

Raising cattle was no simple task. He knew this from watching his aunt. And Marnie had horses, pigs, goats, rabbits and chickens to think of too. He wasn't sure if the new rancher in town, with little to no experience (save her degree in veterinary medicine), was stupid or brave. Over time, he determined she was the latter.

Out searching for a lost cow in a thunderstorm. Not thinking about her own welfare. Only wanting to reunite a terrified animal with its herd.

Fixing fences after wolves knocked down the back posts time and time again. Her fingers bleeding and scarred because of her lack of self-awareness sometimes. And chasing of “’dem there wolves” with sheer willpower... and... a big stick.

Rebuilding the barn from scratch when a wildfire spread down from the mountains. She saved every single one of those animals. And needing treatment for smoke inhalation because she went back in for the tiniest frightened newborn.

He remembered the time she got kicked in the head by one of the cows. Shane was so worried about her, even if he wouldn’t admit it when he carried her to the Clinic. Thankfully, it was only a minor concussion. (And it was an excuse for him to deliver Marnie's special basket of goodies to her twice daily so she didn't have to worry about feeding herself during her recovery).

The rancher struggled for a whole year, after arriving in the Valley. But even when things went wrong, she was up and back at it the next morning with a lightness in her heart and step. It. Was. Admirable.

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Shane resolved to do better. To be better. She made him think about how things could be different if he wasn't a self-sabotaging jerkwad. The number of times she dragged his sorry ass home after getting plastered at the Saloon was too high to count, even if it was out of her way, even if she said she didn't mind. She wanted him to be okay. To be safe. She said so.

And she half pushed, half dragged him to the Clinic the night things got really dark. When he faced the edge of the cliff and thought "No more!" When he thought death would be a welcome reprieve from his pathetic life.

She never judged him. She didn't enable him like his aunt. She didn't fall apart into a puddle of tears like Jas. She didn't lecture him on the evils of his ways while twirling his moustache like Harvey. Okay. Shane chuckled to himself. Maybe that last part was an exaggeration and unfair to the good doctor.

She. Simply. Cared.

Through her actions.

In the beginning, it was little things. A happy hello. A robust handwave. Then she started pulling up a barstool next to him in the Stardrop. She would ask him about his day and he would always answer the same way. But "go away" somehow morphed into a sarcastic "just peachy" and then eventually a half-hearted "fine, you can sit there." Once she jokingly called him Peaches.

He didn't want to be bothered with her questions and idle chatter. He didn't want to listen to her ranching successes and woes, retold in a much-too-chipper voice. He didn't want to know about Bluebell and Daffodil and Daisy, how Mister Munster was nursing a hoof injury and how Mrs. Butters was expecting her second calf. Why did she think he cared about such details?

But it grew on him. Those rosy, ruddy cheeks, enjoying a hard-earned glass of whatever Gus had on tap. The way her eyes lit up and sparkled when she talked about her animal friends. The way her pale pink lips pouted when she lost a game of Journey of the Prairie King in the saloon arcade. Again.

Shane found himself drawn to her energy. And he found himself missing her on the nights she didn't stop into the Saloon. Which was a rarity, but did happen.

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Shane knew she was someone special when he would watch the entrance door, breath caught, hoping she would breeze through, and then she didn't. Two days in a row. He started to feel disappointed, but brushed it off. Three days. He started to get concerned. On the fourth night, he went looking for her. And that's when he learned she was sick.

He practically broke down her door when she didn’t answer.

“Aww you were worried,” she laughed weakly, and coughed.

She looked rather pitiful, bundled under the blankets, hair sticking to her cheek, eyes droopy and dark. She thought Marnie would have told him. His aunt had sent a few of her ranch hands to help their neighbor out while she was under the weather. so her cattle weren’t forgotten

No, Marnie never did. He suspected it was because she didn't know it would matter to him. But it did matter. She. Did. Matter.

Without a word, Shane went to the kitchen and returned with a cool towel. He didn't even think. He laid the back of his large hand against her delicate forehead. He could've sworn the little Miss Jolly Rancher blushed. Or maybe it was the slight fever she was running. She audibly sighed as he placed the wet cloth against her burning cheek, closing her eyes and mumbling her thanks.

He wanted to know the last time she ate. She grunted and said something about some cereal earlier that morning. She didn't know for sure. She had slept most of the day. He promised he would be right back.

She told him not to bother, as she struggled to lift her body off the bed, propping up by a shaky elbow. He insisted she lie back down. She was a stubborn one. Her protestations didn't last long as her head was too foggy to think straight. He microwaved a bowl of soup. She tried to sit up again, and he fluffed her pillows so she could prop up.

Her grip on the spoon wasn't firm, her trembling hands an indication of just how weak she was. So he caught the escaping silverware and lifted the soup to her lips. She turned red as a hot pepper, but he eased her with a surprisingly tender words, "Please. Let me take care of you for once, Miss Jolly." His own face and ears were probably red too. But she accepted.

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Since then, he began the habit of calling her "Miss Jolly." She flushed every time, but he enjoyed flustering her. It was nice… to care… about… someone.

She returned the “favor” and called him Peaches. At first, jokingly, just to annoy him. But over time, even the ridiculous fruity nickname grew on him. She was invading his thoughts and heart and he couldn’t stop her.

He knew he had to change. He had to get better. Alcoholism was a disease that had ravaged his life and he was ready for something better. He couldn’t live like he had been any longer. She had changed everything for him. And he wanted to change in return.

Disappointment smacked cold. He had researched so many places. But the one place that seemed to fit his needs and desired treatment plan was out of reach. Prohibitively expensive. He sold his dad’s watch. His car. He worked longer hours. Maybe in a few years he could make up the difference.

She knew how much he wanted this... and how badly he needed this. Every glance at his savings account wanted to drive him to the bottle, the hopelessness of a solution just out of reach because of his crappy medical insurance. They wouldn’t cover it. Even though he was pretty sure Joja was the reason he drank so heavily.

No, that wasn’t true. It was his own insurmountable guilt. Of surviving the accident. When they didn’t. Of leaving Jas without a respectable father figure. Or a mother. He didn’t even fight when the courts wanted to give him jail time.

His aunt got a lawyer and gave him a place to stay when he got out. She helped him put together a resume and practically shoved the application for overnight backroom clerk in his hands. He had to face the music. He wasn’t cut out for any other job. And it was basically a glorified “stock boy.”

Approaching middle-age, recently released from prison, and overwhelmed with a crushing lack of self worth, Shane interviewed and got the job. He should be grateful. But the hours were grueling and monotonous. Customers were rude. Employees were ruder. Except that Sam kid. He was a ball of sunshine. And his boss was sucking the life outta him.

So he drank. He drank to forget. Because he couldn’t forgive himself. And every time he looked at Jas’ little pained expression, he drank more because he felt... so... damn... worthless.

The Rancher changed things for him. He felt more positive. He got up earlier. He brushed his teeth. He combed his hair. He put on his uniform for the world’s lousiest low-paying job and went to work hoping things would be better.

Faced with the inability to actually “get better” was... frankly... terrifying. What if he went back to being that same old pathetic blob of a human again? After ten agonizing days, he finally confided in the one person he knew he could trust. His “Miss Jolly.”

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He couldn’t believe he had been moved to tears. She surprised him... again. With her thoughtful generosity and selflessness. She promised to pay for the difference. Whatever he couldn’t afford. She told him it wasn’t a big deal. It was a VERY BIG deal! She still had some of the inheritance money from her grandfather. What she hadn’t spent on fixing up the farm.

“So I don’t get those gingham curtains I’ve had my eyes on for the past month,” she quipped.

It was serious. He couldn’t accept it. He wouldn’t accept it. It was too much. He didn’t like the idea of being indebted. He was stubborn. He could refuse.

But she was more stubborn. She insisted it would be a loan, not a gift. He could pay it off over time. Without interest. Or he could work it off - sweat equity - on her ranch. Maybe with those chickens he liked so much.

In the end, he caved. He packed up what little he could take with him. And she walked him to the bus stop. Kissed his cheek. Squeezed his hand. And said the words that simultaneously made him laugh and warmed his heart.

“Go get ‘em, Peaches.”

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That was a year ago now. When he came home, she threw a big surprise party for him. A few people from town, his aunt, Jas. And she never looked more beautiful. She even found chicken shaped balloons. Because... what guy doesn’t want balloon animals from the girl he’s crushing on?

Crushing on? He smirked. I sound like a middle schooler.

He split his time between the market and her ranch. Gradually spending more and more time on her farm. Gathering eggs before his shift. Feeding chickens on the way home from work. Sipping peach iced tea in the shade of her porch and thinking this life wasn’t half-bad. But he wanted more.

She started bringing by lunches on his longer shift days. Homemade sandwiches and fresh-pressed juices and handpicked peppers. The kind that burst with sweetness or that spicy kick he needed to get through the rest of his day.

She learned to roll her own dough. Once a week, on hot summer evenings, she would make him pizza with her own special spicy red sauce. Wearing that cute little red and white checkered apron around her jean shorts and just below the edge of her tank top. Too hot to be standing around the stovetop making pizza sauce or the oven to bake the dough. But she did it for him. Shane looked forward to it after a long and grueling Saturday shift.

He still stopped at the Saloon most nights, but now it was just to drink soda and share a pepper poppers appetizer. Gus started bottling root beer, made from bark and flowers and herbs from around the Valley. It wasn’t alcoholic. And it was an acquired taste. Getting better with time.

She would breeze in and offer suggestions and feedback. Shane enjoyed watching the two “play” squabble over the choice of leaves. The kindly saloon owner and the girl he liked collaborating to make him a refreshing drink became a welcome nicety.

Most nights, they didn’t stay long. Heading out for long walks around town. Shoes scuffling along cobblestones. Kicking up dirt on wooded paths. Kicking off on the beach to feel the mushy sand. Talking about nothing important, but always special. Any time with her was special.

He couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have a friend like her. To have a woman of her rare caliber show him any attention at all. She got past his defenses and he welcomed it. And deep in his heart, Shane knew - this was love.

With today’s paycheck, he could finally take her on a proper date. Somewhere out of the Valley. Someplace where they could have fun together. He felt the excitement and nervous anticipation rising in his chest. Somehow he fumbled through an “ask” on her front porch this morning, managing to invite her to join him... if she wanted... at the bus stop... around 5pm. He had tickets to see the Tunnelers play.

Shane finished his shelf, glancing at his watch. Ten past four. Just enough time to get home, showered, and changed. He disposed of the empty boxes in the dumpster and delivered the cart to the back room. Opening his locker, he hung his apron on the hook. Instantly, he felt lighter. Like that thing was a noose around his neck. A ball and chain. He really needed a new job. And in fifty, no, forty-six minutes, he could see her...

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"SHANE!"

The shrill obnoxious tone pierced his moment of peace. The voice could only belong to one person - a holllow husk of a corporate shill, even more unlikeable than him, if that was even possible. Shane frowned, his eyes clamping on the store manager barreling toward him at full speed.

“A whole second shipment came in just now,” the man grunted. “Like I need this when I’m short-staffed, as always,” he offered an exasperated sigh.

I can’t imagine why... Shane thought to himself, bemused. The boss was insufferable. Always barking orders. Never praising his team. Paying peanuts. Polishing his baby - a silver Rolls Royce in mint condition - parked in the only covered spot in the entire Joja lot - every night - instead of doing paperwork like he should. How was he still employed? No one at corporate cared.

“Not my problem, Morris,” Shane replied.

“No, no, no,” Morris fluttered his short arms. “It is your problem. I need you to stay late and help Sam empty the truck.”

The man continued to ramble something about “this is why I pay you” and “you think you can do better somewhere else?” He badgered Shane about his “work ethic,” even if Shane had been a near model employee since returning from rehab. Even if his former colleagues actually welcomed him back, much to his shock. Shy little Claire even commented on how he was “different” than before.

Shane had been nominated for employee of the month, no doubt, angering Morris. The man had it out for him. Sticking him on graveyard shifts. Making him mop baby puke in the aisles. Forcing him to attend a “hospitality” seminar so he could learn to be nicer to, in Morris’ words, “bored housewives who somehow like your prickly personality.”

Morris, a man who prided himself in appearance, with his neat little bow tie and perfectly ironed jacket, couldn’t believe how the ladies bought more after a rough encounter with Shane. It was good for business, of course, and Morris would take all the credit. That hospitality seminar wasn’t cheap, he constantly reminded Shane. Like rehab hadn’t made him a better person already. Or his relationship with little Miss Jolly.

“They just fawn over your monotone delivery of the daily sales,” Morris droned on. “Yoba only knows why. You haven’t been educated at the finest university this side of the Pond with an impeccable taste in... well, everything.” Morris puffed his chest.

“I just don’t understand why they giggle at the register about the ‘handsome’ stock boy when they could have me recite the daily sales in Shakespearean English for heavens sake. Well, no matter. I can use what I’ve got. You.”

The man thinks I’m a frickin’ pack of meat.

“Now in order to have sales, we must have stocked shelves. And in order to have stocked shelves, I need to have you stay longer. Because shelves don’t stock themselves... and what are you staring at?”

Shane rubbed his jaw, catching his reflection in Morris’ little glasses. Could I really be that handsome? Morris wasn’t wrong. The market had been a little busier than usual in the mornings and around lunchtime. Shane came back from breaks early sometimes because customers “requested” him. He could reach the “tall” shelves.

But he wasn’t that tall. And most times, he needed a ladder. Unlike Sam. But even Sam told him he had been relegated to “cute” because the female patrons wanted to check out the new guy (on the ladder) because Shane possessed a look of danger and mystery, and had that "hot dad bod."

Like that’s really a thing I wanted! Shane rolled his eyes. It's all a little disgusting. Being oogled. Because what? Dangerous? Dad bod? I’m just me. There was only one gal he wanted checking him out. And he needed to get going if he was going to meet her.

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“No can do, Boss,” Shane removed his Joja cap and hooked it alongside his apron. “Got plans tonight.”

“No, no, no,” Morris’ voice grew tight, his eyes becoming tinier. “That won’t do. You must cancel your plans.”

“Do I get overtime?” Shane asked, half-distracted by the photo occupying the inside of his locker.

It was the only thing he had ever decorated with at work. A photo of him and Miss Jolly at the Moonlight Jellies festival about a month ago. It was the one time he actually thought he was photogenic. How could he not be happy? With a gorgeous gal by his side, smiling and laughing as the photo was taken, a woman who believed in him, rooted for him, and cared for him. Shane’s expression softened as he thought about how much she had impacted his life.

“You know what?” Shane ripped the photo from his locker wall with gusto. “I quit.”

“Are you even listening?” Morris was saying. “And no, I’m not going to approve overtime. You left early by one minute the other night. One minute!"

"And one time last week, you were late by three minutes. I will not approve overtime for someone who nearly runs over a flock of geese with his bicycle and is late to work."

"If you’re going to keep up with this lazy attitude of yours...” he huffed and straightened his jacket. “I may have to reconsider my decision to rehire you... even if you bring in the ladies... I mean... sales...”

“What?” Morris’ eyes grew wide as saucers beneath his horn-rimmed glasses, and then his expression darkened, as if Shane poured bitter coffee all over the plates. “You cannot quit. Are you joking?”

“Well I do, and I’m not,” Shane shoved the old rusty lock that never latched properly into the other man’s hand, a smile crossing his face. “With pleasure.”

Shane waltzed out of the soul-sucking store, leaving a dumbfounded former boss as the double doors whooshed behind him. He closed his eyes and took a big gulp of sea-salt air and sighed. He felt free.

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When she met him at the bus stop, his heart skipped a beat. She looked radiant in the setting sun. Her eyes sparkling like stars. And her sexy little denim skirt was a nice touch too. The way her hips swayed ever so slightly on approach. He forced his gaze upward.

"Hiiii... Miss Jolly. I'm glad you decided to come," he greeted, his tone a bit stilted and formal.

What am I doing? He rubbed the back of his head.

"Of course, Peaches. I'm excited," she grinned. "This will be my first game."

"You'll love it!" he replied, wrinkling his nose at her childish nickname for him. And I will too with you by my side.

"Is that cologne?" she asked when she reached his side.

Her fingers curled around his hoodie strings as she closed her eyes and took a whiff. "I like it." She grinned and winked at him. "A bit spicy."

"Yeah yeah," he murmured and ushered her onto the bus, but he hopped up the step behind her, feeling a little lighter on his feet.

"You're in a good mood," she remarked as they wandered toward the back of the bus.

The atmosphere was charged. Rowdy. Everyone seemed excited for the Tunnelers game. He nodded to a few familiar faces before settling in next to her seat. The back was better than the front. Cool kids sat in the back. What am I? In the sixth grade?

Still he was relaxed. Smiling even. She repeated her statement as if he didn’t hear her the first time. Damn straight I’m in a good mood. Because I get to spend time with you… maybe even tell you how I feel tonight… He decided the overcrowded bus wasn't the best place for that confession. The vehicle lurched forward and so did the conversation.

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"I quit my job."

Her eyes widened and a slow smile played at her lips, drawing his attention to them. I bet they're juicy. He had fantasized about kissing her, ever since she planted one on him at this very bus stop twelve months ago when he shipped off to rehab. Out of respect for their “business arrangement” and friendship, he held off on the liplocking, but it didn’t mean he still didn’t wonder what it would be like if he had just turned his head to meet her mouth that night.

“Good for you,” she laid a hand on his shoulder.

Her gentle touch bringing him back to reality and away from his lustful la-la land.

“I knew that place was killing the light in you. I just wish I could've seen Morris' smug face when you finally told him."

"Light in me?" he repeated, ignoring the statement about his ex-manager.

"Yes," she slowly slid her hand up to his cheek, blushing a little while she moved. "You look better. Brighter."

"That's just the shower talkin'," he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"No, it's you, Shane," she replied, dropping her hand far too soon for his liking.

He wanted to beg her to keep it there, against his cheek. But present company dissuaded him, and he remained silent, nodding his thanks. The way she said his name... he bounced his leg a bit in nervousness as the bus bumped along the road... it made his knees weak and his head clouded.

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"Did I miss anything?"

Shane descended the last step, returning to their seats in the stadium, snacks in hand. The game was tied up, the teams neck and neck in their scoring with each other. It was one of the most thrilling games he had ever seen in person. Even more exciting because she was there. With her incessant questions about the rules. Her exuberance at the Tunnelers' first goal. Even the little wrinkle around her eyes when she didn’t understand what was happening. He loved every minute of it.

And he loved explaining things. Even if he worried about boring her to death with his encyclopedic knowledge of gridball, he couldn’t stop talking. This was something he loved and he was sharing it with the woman he loved... even if she didn’t know it yet.

"Only the announcer making bad jokes," she smirked. “And that guy...” she pointed to one of the pros. “...doing a silly little dance for the fans.”

“Yeah, he’s known for that,” Shane laughed awkwardly, feeling a small twinge of jealousy that another man had caught her eye.

“Not that he’s any good at it,” she laughed too. “Not like our little grooves in the Saloon.”

“Oh?” he quirked a brow. “By the way, I got us some nachos. I asked the vendor to add some hot peppers… just like we like it."

"Like we both like it," she said in unison. "Thanks,” she snagged a chip and did a deep dip into the sauce. “You should've let me pay for snacks since you paid for tickets and the bus fare."

"Naw, we're on a date," he shrugged. "The guy pays. Plus, I wanted to."

Shane averted his eyes, suddenly self-conscious. "Did I tell you how much… I l…love…. Gridball?"

She stopped and looked at him as if surprised by his old-fashioned thought. I shouldn't have been so careless, he grimaced. Then he immediately wished his face wasn't so readable.

It was a date. A real date. But somehow they slid from acquaintances to friends to best friends and then... somehow something more, without ever defining the relationship.

Did she want parameters? Did he need a label? Were they... ever going to be what he hoped to be if he ever got his head out of his ass and asked her for real?

"Yes, only the thousand or so times on the bus," she smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And I knew you played in high school.”

Just like that, she slipped back to a more neutral topic. And he mentally flogged himself for the missed opportunity.

“Yeah, blowing out my knee pretty much killed my chances at playing pro,” he said. “Doesn’t stop me from enjoying the games though.”

“Have you ever thought about it?” she inquired. “Going back. Maybe the minors or even just a pick-up team. I bet you looked great in a uniform,” her eyes twinkled mischievously. “And I wouldn’t mind the view of you in those white pants.”

Red flooded his cheeks. Is she messing with me? How does she do it? Go back and forth between friendzone topics and flirtation? She made it look effortless. She was toying with him. She had to be. Dancing around the subject. Hoping he would ask. Or was he imagining things?

Her hand hovered dangerously close to his side. Brushing the hem of her skirt. Nearly touching his shorts. He gulped, feeling flattered, but strangely unprepared for her seductive little smirks. He handed her the soda he fetched, and she thanked him, gulping back the liquid as if it were a small instead of a large. Saying something about all the cheering making her thirsty.

He was the thirsty one. Eyeing her up and down and wanting to close the distance between them. Taking it from flirty friends to... faithful lovers. He never wanted a woman more than he did right now. To devote all his love and passion and energy and goodwill into being there for her just like she had for him.

For the whole second half of the game, he nursed his cola. Distracted by her every move. The way she would raise her heels in anticipation of a score and lower them back to the ground when they didn’t quite make it. The way she spoke with that happy voice of hers, the kind that could lull him to sleep or rally him to make his best efforts. The way she repeated back facts she was learning about the sport, that he had literally just taught to her that night. He was completely mesmerized... so much so... he forgot to actually watch the game. For once, he liked the distraction.

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When the Tunnelers scored again, she nearly flew off the ground, wildly cheering for their unexpected interception. He caught her hand as she was jumping back down. She squeezed it and continued whooping and shaking her fist victoriously in the air, never taking her eyes off the game. It was now or never.

"Hey," he said loudly to be heard over the stadium noise. "I've been meaning to tell you… thank you.”

“For what, Peaches?” she said, teasingly. “Did you see that? How many yards was it? Seventy-five? Eighty?”

“I mean it, really,” Shane cleared his throat, leaning closer to her ear. “ For sticking with me through everything."

She turned to face him, her expression growing more serious.

"My… anxiety… depression… you know," he continued, fumbling over his words. "The alcoholism… I mean, I wasn't exactly the funnest person to be around back then."

Did I just use the word funnest? He rubbed the back of his head, hoping to read her expression, but for once, he couldn't.

“You do that... when you’re nervous,” she remarked. “That head rub thing...” she reached up and ruffled his hair. “It’s... cute.”

“Uh...” Shane trailed off. She was not making this easy. But he needed to say the words aloud now or he never would.

"You… uh… still helped me. You've been a really… good… friend to me," he shared, and then immediately regretted his word choice.

"Oh," she said, quietly.

Was that a flicker of disappointment in her eyes?

He hurried his words. "Anyway this is your first gridball game, huh? Well? What do you think?"

Smooth, Shane. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Changing the subject again, you frickin’ chicken.

"Oh…" she said, glancing back to the field, sounding a little confused. "Fun. I guess, Pelican Town seems pretty boring in comparison. Unless you count Sam's punk rock blaring at 11pm, breaking noise ordinances." She forced a chuckle.

Is she…? Am I imagining things?

"I'm surprised," he replied. "Didn't you move to the Valley to escape the noise of the city?"

She's looking at me again with those beautiful heart-melting eyes. He rushed through his words.

"I mean… don't get me wrong. I totally understand. My life in Pelican Town is pretty bland, you know. And now that I don't have a job, I gotta find something meaningful to do with my time again. A guy's gotta eat, right? Heh?"

"I was thinking about that," she replied, without looking at him. "I think it would be nice to have you around full-time."

"What?" he blinked.

"I've got one ranch hand now to help in the back pasture and one that helps out with the milking and all, but if I'm looking to expand, and if they ever take a sick day, I could use some extra hands," she continued. "Maybe your hands?"

I couldn't. Possibly. Was she blushing?

"You've already… done so much for me," he hated the hesitancy in his tone. "I… uh…"

She ignored his last comment. "This would be a business thing. We could do it temporarily to see if you like it. And if it's a good fit for both of us. I can be a bit of a…" she narrowed her eyes, mischievously. "Hard taskmaster."

"Oh? Yeah I've heard that from your current employees," he smirked. "But you are still a jolly one."

"Yeah…" she smiled, almost shyly, tucking a hair over her ear. “Your Miss Jolly.”

The noise level in the stadium increased near ten-fold. All he could think about was how she said the words. She was begging him, wasn’t she? Walking right up to the brink and leaving him there? He reluctantly ripped his gaze away from the farmer to the field.

"Gah!" he screamed, his volume matching the crowd. "The Tunnelers are on the attack."

"Yes! Yes!" she shrieked. "Oh my Yoba! Final seconds. They're gonna…" she jumped up and down and clapped her hands. "They're gonna break the tie."

"GOAL!" they yelled in unison.

He never felt so happy. He was going on six months sober. He quit his horrible job. The farmer was offering him another one so he could see her every day. And he got to watch his favorite team in the world in the closest game in history with his favorite person in the world. Sharing this moment together meant everything.

"Thank you Shane!" she said, trying to catch her breath. "This was the best evening ever with you!"

"I know, I know!" he exclaimed. "Probably one of the best moments of my life."

Before he could stop himself, his lips were against hers. Surprise flickered in her eyes. All he could hear was the thudding of his own heart. She was flushed. The warmth of her lips. The taste of root beer. The delight overwhelming the alarm bells. He took a step or two back, stumbling as he came to his senses.

"Oh?" he gasped for air. "Uh… um… sorry. I guess I got carried away there. Maybe I had one too many... sodas. All that sugar. Ha!"

Shane reached up to rub his head like he always did when he was nervous, just like she had noticed. Except this time, she strutted toward him, confidence in her eyes as she grabbed that hand and tugged him down. As they kissed for the second time, he felt her melt into his arms as she offered a faint “finally,” barely audible amidst the roar of the crowd.

Encouraged, Shane grinned, hoisting her off the ground. She giggled and kissed him more fervently. Maybe he didn’t need words. Maybe he only needed actions to show her how he felt.

And she was reciprocating. A dream come true. Their eyes remained locked in a loving gaze as he pulled back from her lips. When he finally set her down, he breathed heavily.

"You really do love the Tunnelers?" she teased, disentangling her hands from his hair.

"No," he shook his head, determined not to let this moment go by. "I really do love you."

"Come on, we'll miss our bus outta here," she grabbed his hand and pulled him through the exiting crowds.

“Wait,” Shane pulled her back for one more greedy kiss.

She happily accepted, but he felt a fleeting ping of sadness even as they kissed in the stairwell, people pushing around them. He wondered if she even heard his confession. Maybe it's too soon? We just had our first kiss. She probably didn't hear me.

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When they reached the parking lot, the reality of what had just happened still sinking in, they were too late. The bus huffed away with a puff of smog. They had just missed their ride back to the Valley. And there wouldn’t be another one until morning. If he hadn’t been so carried away and enamored by his date, maybe they would’ve left the stadium sooner.

“Guess we should call a taxi,” she broke the silence first. “Or... actually... find a hotel.”

“A hotel?” he repeated, his ears perking at the thought of sharing space with her.

"Yes," she replied, without skipping a beat. "I mean, if we're gonna be stuck together in Zuzu overnight, we should get a hotel. A taxi ride would be really expensive and I don't think we have enough time to get across town to catch the train."

"Oh right," he said softly. "Uh… I can't let you pay for a hotel too."

"It's no trouble," she pulled out her cell phone and started scouring the internet for places. "And a hot shower sounds nice after all the sweat and grime of us in there,” she nodded back toward the stadium. “...jammed in like sardines."

"Uhm…" he blinked rapidly. You're a grown man. Get it together.

"This place looks nice," she showed him a picture after a minute or two, while he awkwardly plopped on the edge of the sidewalk. "And it's got a 4-star rating." She sat next to him, dropping her hand on top of his. “Oh look it’s got an in-suite jacuzzi.”

"Uh… sure," he shrugged, uncertain about what to do with his hands that so desperately wanted to kiss her again. "Well, that definitely was a good game."

"Yes, and it's going to be an even better night, because it doesn't have to end here," she smiled sweetly. “Since we’re getting a hotel,” she winked.

“Oh yeah... and we won too,” he stammered. “The Tunnelers, ya know?”

“No... no, I didn’t. Really? They did?" she smiled sarcastically, and leaned closer. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What?” he gasped, feeling shocked as her blase attitude toward his favorite team.

“I mean, it was great... and all... and their win was pretty spectacular,” she acknowledged. “But I feel like I won the lottery with you here.” She interlocked arms with him. “Did you mean it? Shane? When you said you loved me?”

So she did hear me! And the way his name fell from his lips caused his heart to soar and he found his confidence.

“Yes, I meant it. I love you,” Shane replied. “But I wanted it to be special. Better than this... stranded in a parking lot with trash all over the place.”

“It is special,” she replied.

“But it wasn’t perfect,” he grimaced. “I was planning on telling you when we got back... when I walked you back to your place tonight.”

His head felt hazy with love and desire as she kissed him again. This time, she draped a leg over his, pressing against his chest. He audibly moaned, leaning into the kiss. His hand naturally slid down her back to help her balance, and he squeezed softly, like he had wanted to for a long time. She matched his intensity with a clutch of her own, and he groaned again, reluctantly breaking their touch.

“I don’t need perfect, Shane. I just need you."

His heart leaped from his chest as she continued.

"I love you too. I want you.”

“Ahhhh... then let’s get to that hotel,” he said, the heat of her breasts against his chest creating a near uncontrollable fire within him.

“Fine,” she playfully pouted. “I’ll behave... Hot Stuff," she fanned herself. “...for now... since we’re in public.”

“Believe me,” he replied with a heavy sigh, feeling a healthy growth between his legs. “I want you all to myself.”

She giggled and tapped her phone. "Done. Got us booked.”

“That fast?”

“Yes, It’s only a two and a half block walk. Now… shall we?" She jumped to her feet and darted away briskly.

“Someone’s impatient!” he smirked. “What if I had said no?”

“I wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“Oh really?” he liked teasing her as she brought out his confidence. He started into a jog away, passing her on the sidewalk. “Well, I’ll see you soon.”

“Shane!” she laughed and chased after him.

Of course, he let her catch him. She playfully punched his arm, but then lingered. She was beaming. And he was too. Shane took her hand, looking down at the woman he loved, and smiled, brighter than he ever had in his entire life. She loved him and wanted him… just as he loved and wanted her.

“Shane?”

He wrapped an arm tightly around her shoulder. Tonight, he was going to make her fully his, and he would be fully hers.

"Yes, my Miss Jolly.”

498 notes · View notes

queenshelby · 14 days

Text

An Illicit Affair

Part 37: Movie

Pairing: Cillian Murphy (46) x Reader (23)

Warning: Age-Gap, Taboo Relationship, Infidelity

During dinner, you brought up your last-minute plans to go away with Cillian for a few days, for a change of scenery and to escape the confines of your family home, which was an idea that neither of your parents appreciated very much.

"You have therapy sessions and your treatment, you can't just leave," your mother protested, but you were insistent.

"I know mum, but I think this little break will do us good," you argued while Cillian reached under the table and placed a comforting hand on your knee, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"I agree. I think a trip away might actually be helpful in Y/N's recovery," Cillian cajoled with an easy smile on his face.

"I suppose you are right," she admitted, offering a soft smile but your father shook his head, his eyes narrowed.

"No, it is not a good idea," he insisted. "You need to focus on your therapy sessions and your treatment! You have only been out of the hospital for a short time."

You rolled your eyes. "That's exactly why I want to go away. The constant appointments and therapist visits are driving me insane."

The room fell silent as your father looked back and forth between the two of you. Finally, he let out a deep sigh.

"Well, I don't like it, but I guess there's not much I can do to stop you. You are an adult now," he said reluctantly, shaking his head. "But no monkey business, alright?" your father said sternly, locking eyes with Cillian, which was a gesture that caused you to let out a giggle.

"Dad, please," you chuckled but your father looked ahead sternly, his expression serious.

"Alright, alright," you thus conceded with a smile. "No monkey business, I promise dad," you said, assuring him before turning to Cillian to work out the details of your trip together.

"Where would you like to go?" Cillian asked once again, his eyes sparkling with excitement. He couldn't wait to get away from everything with you.

"I don't care," you replied, your tone equally enthusiastic. "As long as we are together, I don't really mind where we go."

"What about the countryside? Or maybe a beach house somewhere?" Cillian suggested, thinking out loud. He seemed to be in deep thought as he ran through different ideas in his head, trying to pick the perfect place for you two to go.

"How about that bed and breakfast by the lake we used to go to when you were little? It's only a two-hour drive from here," your mother suggested, causing your father to shake his head once again.

"They only have small rooms. Y/N needs space and she needs her own bed," your father said, interrupting your mother.

You could feel the tension between your parents rising as they bickered back and forth, each of them trying to assert their opinion on where you should go.

Cillian, sensing the growing disagreement, decided to interject before things escalated any further. "What if we rent a house near Edinburgh? We can find something with plenty of space and privacy. That way, Y/N can have her own room and I will be nearby if she needs help," Cillian suggested, knowing how much you enjoyed that region.

Your father thought for a moment before nodding in agreement. "Now that's an idea that I can get on board with," he said, offering Cillian a small smile, while you narrowed your eyes slightly, wondering whether Cillian really wanted to stay in separate bedrooms while you were away.

***

After dinner, you went to your room with Cillian, telling your parents that you wanted some privacy with him to watch a movie in bed and, whilst your father did not like the idea of you spending time with Cillian on your own, he reluctantly nodded in agreement.

"Do you seriusly want to sleep in seperate bedrooms while we are away?" you asked right after you rolled on to your small bed with Cillian's help while he pulled out his phone, looking for a holiday rental for you.

"God no," Cillian laughed, not bothering to look up from the app on his phone. "I just wanted to put an end to the conversation and make sure that there were no objections from your father."

You chuckled, rolling to your side to face Cillian as he placed his phone down on your bedside table.

He glanced at you and smiled before reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "I can't wait to share a bed with you again, actually," he told you , his voice heavy with desire.

You blushed at his words, feeling a familiar flutter in your chest. "I can't wait either," you replied softly, reaching out to take his hand in yours just as he leaned in to kiss you.

Laying face to face, on your small single bed, your lips met in a passionate kiss as you wrapped your arms around him and pulled him closer.

You could feel the heat of his body pressed against yours, his breath hot against your skin as he deepened the kiss.

You could feel yourself getting lost in the moment, forgetting about everything else except for him and the delicious sensations he was making you feel as, suddenly, your father barged in to the room without knocking, catching you mid kiss.

"I thought you were watching a movie," he said gruffly, causing both you and Cillian to jump apart abruptly.

"Fuck," you muttered under your breath as you tried to straighten your clothes and catch your breath. "And I thought we agreed on knocking before coming into my room," you said, trying your best to sound casual.

Cillian's face was as red as a tomato, but he quickly regained his composure and gave your father a polite smile. "We were about to," he replied, trying to hide his embarrassment.

You, on the other hand, could feel your cheeks flaming as you looked up at your father, who was still standing like a statue at the door with his arms crossed over his chest.

"I can tell," he replied dryly. "Look, I know I said that you could have some privacy together, but there are rules in my house that I expect to be followed young lady," your father said, his voice firm. "No shenanigans under my roof ." Your father's gaze shifted from you to Cillian. "Do I make myself clear?" he asked and Cillian nodded, his face still red, as you both tried hard not to laugh.

There was something almost comical about this entire situation, seeing that your father and Cillian were almost the same age, and yet your father was still acting as if Cillian was a young boy. But, then again, you supposed that was just the price to pay for pursuing a relationship with a man who was old enough to be your father. It was an awkward situation and, luckily for you, Cillian took everything in stride and gave your father a lop-sided smile.

After your father finally left the room, you were able to relax again and, as if nothing had happened, continued to kiss before, eventually, turning on a movie.

Neither of you paid much attention to the movie however, as you couldn't keep your hands off of each other. It was as if you were both addicted to the feeling of being around one another and, no matter how much you had, it was never enough.

Just as you were about to undo Cillian's belt, however, there was a knock on the door, startling you both.

"Come in," you called out, and, unsurprisingly, it was your father checking up on you again.

Cillian, seeming to be getting annoyed by his presence, quickly sat up straight and fixed his clothes while you paused the TV and took a deep breath.

"What is it now?" you asked, unable to hide your irritation as your father entered the room, looking around suspiciously as if he could catch you in the act of something scandalous.

"Just bringing you some popcorn," he then said, causing you to raise an eyebrow.

"So, what happened to the rule of no food in the bedrooms?" you chuckled, accepting the bowl of popcorn from your father who shrugged his shoulders before leaving your room again.

"Just this once," he instructed before closing the door behind him, leaving you alone with Cillian who let out a sigh of relief.

As soon as your father had stepped out of your room, you returned to the task at hand of undoing Cillian's belt who, immediately, stopped you in your tracks.

"We should wait until your parents are asleep," he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "Because the last thing I want is for your father to catch me with my pants down," he added with a chuckle.

"True that," you said before asking whether he would be sneaking into your room later.

Cillian nodded in response and leaned in to give you a quick kiss. "If this is what you want," he whispered, his lips brushing against yours.

You nodded eagerly, whispering back that it was and, with a conspiratorial wink, Cillian promised to come by your room as soon as he was sure that your parents were fast asleep before you both finished with the movie.

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#cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy #cillian murphy fic #cillian murphy fanfic #cillian murphy fanfiction

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banned-for-horny · 8 months

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How Does That Make You Feel?

Robin needs therapy after the dock events. Dr. Harper is happy to help.

tw: noncon, terrible therapy advice, description of abuse/violence, Sorry Robin

I'm gonna consider this my final bit of robin whump to cap off the sorry robin save file before starting a new one lol. happy halloween!

The office is...cozy. Clinical, with its white walls and sterile smell, but softened by the yellow glow of a standing lamp and the giant couch that sinks under Robin's weight. It's different from the office that you described when you attended counseling sessions, but you also paid your rent on time and didn't need such comforts like this. You didn't feel the need to keep your back to a wall with your eyes on the door at all times.

"Are you sure you don't want a snack?"

Robin flinches, spine snapping to attention. "I-N-No, I'm fine. Thank you, though."

Across the room, sitting back in his own overstuffed chair, is Dr. Harper. He gives Robin a pleasant smile as a pen twirls between his fingers. "Of course. Remember, it's free. All you need to do is ask."

Robin tries to smile at that. It's a kind gesture, but taking food from strangers still doesn't sit well with him. "I'll...remember."

"Good. Now then!" Dr. Harper shifts, just enough to allow his left ankle to rest on his right knee. "Why don't we get started? How have you been since our last session?"

"I've..." Robin stalls, nails biting into his knees. "It's been...bad."

Dr. Harper's brows lift. "How so?"

"I-Well..." Again, he stalls, more out of guilt than actual hesitancy. He's gotten better at this, collecting his hazy thoughts and molding them into proper words. When he'd first had his solo sessions with Dr. Harper, it took him an hour just to stop sobbing. But those had been about the...the memories at the docks. This time..."I-I had a really bad dream. It's been...bothering me ever since."

"Oh?" Dr. Harper twirls his pen. "Describe it to me, if you can."

And, really, Robin should have been prepared for this. Dr. Harper likes to hear things in vivid detail. He says it helps ground a person to reality, keeps them from dissociating or avoiding the truth. It does help, but just thinking of what Robin is about to say makes his stomach churn. "I-It...It was about my friend." His gnawed nails scratch his palms as he pulls his feet onto the couch, tucking them under his thighs. "The one who recommended you?"

"Ah, I remember them," Dr. Harper says with a fond smile. You were an excellent patient, apparently. It doesn't make the knot in Robin's stomach any looser. "What happened in your dream that involved them?"

Robin hugs his stomach, slowly hunching over in some attempt at shielding himself. Phantom aches begin to throb under his skin, fists and rods and whatever toys they could find beating into his torso until he could barely breath. Details, he tells himself. Details.

Click!

"I-I hurt them," Robin forces out. "I would...We were in a room, a-and I was ch-choking them. I don't remember why, but-" But he was squeezing hard and tight, sinking his fingers deep into the back of your throat. Even now, he remembers the way your muscles convusled under his palms.

"Focus," Dr. Harper calls, followed by another click! of his pen. "What else happened?"

Robin's stomach only sinks. No matter what he did, you wouldn't stop thrashing. He remembers that. He tried to punch you, but pulling a hand away gave you to opening to get away, and when Robin tried to chase you, he-

Click!

"I-I was stuck." Robin's voice catches in his throat. "There was this-this chain and when I tried to follow them I couldn't run and they..." You didn't wait for him. You ran and ran and left him behind. Robin doesn't realize he's crying until the tears hit his pants. He grabs the tissue from its box and dabs at his cheek, struggling to breathe through his clogged nose. "I...think I woke up after that."

Dr. Harper hums, twirling his pen as Robin grabs another tissue. "It sounds like you have some budding resentment towards your friend."

"What? No," flies out of Robin instinctually. "T-They're my best friend. I-We've been together ever since I can remember."

"And yet you dreamt of hurting them. Why do you think that is?"

"I-I don't know."

Dr. Harper's smile thins. "May I posit a theory, then?" At the orphan's nod, the doctor sets his foot down and points at him with his pen. "You're upset at them because they're the reason why you were sent to the docks."

Click!

"W-What?" Robin recoils as Dr. Harper nods, apparently satisfied with his assumption. "I-That-it wasn't their fault. It was my own-"

"But they're responsible for you, aren't they?" Dr. Harper asks. "I recall you mentioning that they help pay your rent at the loft."

Ah, right. That little lie. Robin almost forgets that you and he had agreed to not tell the doctor about Bailey's payments to avoid even more threats on their life. Still, Robin nods slowly, massaging his legs. "Right. Why would I-I hate them for helping me?"

"I don't think they're really helping you." Dr. Harper frowns, now, apparently serious enough to open his eyes fully instead of remaining half-lidded, like he's finally awake instead of operating in a dream. "Let us change subjects for a moment: Why do you think you've been targeted more often?"

Because I'm weak, Robin thinks. His mouth falters, but from the way the doctor's frown deepens, he doubts he'll need to say it aloud.

"Perhaps," Dr. Harper says, "but in comparison to who?"

"To...my friend?" Robin guesses.

"Precisesly. Now, if you don't mind, could you stand?" Dr. Harper rises from his own seat in time with Robin. The doctor is quite small compared to him, but that is to be expected; Robin is one of the tallest orphans-actually, he's one of the tallest students in the school, beaten out only by Whitney and some upperclassmen. The only thing stopping him from really filling out his frame is his restricted diet courtesy of Bailey. "You make for quite the intimidating figure at first glance. Your friend, on the other hand..."

You're shorter than Robin. You're smaller than Robin. In fact, Robin knows he can pick you up easily and has done it plenty of times before. Outside of physicality, though, you...you trump him. You've put people in the hospital before. The police haven't been able to put you away simply because you had enough connections to get rid of evidence, and if the evidence can't disappear, then you just use your fists.

Click!

"They only target you because your friend is too dangerous to hurt." Dr. Harper lifts his pen and presses into Robin's sternum. All it takes is a single tap - with a click! of his pen, he pushes the orphan back into the couch. "You're kind, Robin. Too kind."

Robin's protests escape him when he lands. The doctor stares down with a frown.

"Your friend is supposed to protect you."

Click!

"And yet all of this has only come about because of them."

Click!

"Does that not annoy you?"

"I..." Robin wants to say no, it doesn't, but that smoldering heat he'd buried in his gut is starting to spread, eating away at the guilt until his fingers curl. "Y-Yes."

Dr. Harper steps back, twirling his pen as his brow lifts. "Yes, what?"

"It annoys me."

Click!

"Then why not tell them?"

"Because I can't," Robin says. The heat claws up his chest, circling the point where Dr. Harper had hit him with the pen and bleeding into his lungs. "T-They're just trying to protect me-"

The doctor frowns at that answer. "And they didn't do a very good job of that, did they?" He leans down this time to stare Robin right in the face, pen clicking behind his back. "How long were you at the docks, Robin?"

Robin's blood freezes. Five days. The sun rose and set five different times.

Click!

"What did they do to you, Robin?"

Hurt him. Beat him-no. Details. They started with treating him like bellboy on a cruise, made him walk around naked and serve the people while their hands scratched and slapped and punched. And when he dropped a bottle of wine worth £20,000, they forced him to kneel in the shards and clean it with his tongue. And after that, they used whips and rods and laughed when he couldn't keep count. Someone slathered him in some pink cream and taunted him when his cock felt like it was going to explode from how hard it pulsed. Before that, though, they used clothespins to pinch his foreskin back and after that they'd used ropes to strangle him and see how close they could get him to pass out before loosening up just enough to breath before trying again.

Click!

"And why did they do all of that, Robin?"

Because of you.

Ding!

Robin blinks as Dr. Harper's waist chimes. He reaches for his pager, grimacing at whatever notification flashes on his screen. "Seems we're having an emergency," he says and pockets the device. "I'm afraid we'll have to cut this session a little short."

"That's okay," Robin says slowly, thoughts still a mess of his own anger. He rises and clears his throat, massaging the ache out of his hands. "I-Um...what should I do next time? Or..."

Dr. Harper hums, tapping his pen against his lip. It stretches into a chipper smile that shuts his eyes and sends shivers down the boy's back. "Why don't you invite your friend to the next session? Sometimes it's easier to tell someone how they feel when there's a third party to intervene if something goes wrong."

Robin is a XX-year old male student with a prior history of social instability. He is an orphan with no known relatives. His legal guardian is the orphanage's caretaker. He lives in a flat with a roommate, who also lived in the same orphanage. Robin attends classes regularly at the local school and works part-time at a café. Recently, Robin reports feelings of insecurity and self-doubt, with the source of these feelings stemming from his roommate. Robin

Dr. Harper huffs, glaring at the report before him. He never was one for writing case summaries. Much of his work required direct, hands-on approaches and left very little time for him to accurately write down notes. He could have an assistant do it for him, of course, but...Robin is a special case.

"Rob-Ghck!"

Dr. Harper looks up just in time. Robin's right hand crushes your mouth while the other frantically claws at his shorts. Your knees are hiked, legs kicking, but whatever hits you land only spurs the orphan on. The curve of your waist bucks and twists, muscles taut under your exposed skin. Huh. Seems you really do have the better physique.

A muffled hiccup draws his gaze to your face. There are tears already spilling down your cheeks, hands clawing at Robin's wrist. His mad fervor begins to slow. The hand crushing your face begins to relax.

Click!

Robin's nails bite into your cheek, and the struggle renews in earnest.

Dr. Harper shifts in his seat, sitting up to ease the strain of his trousers against his erection. Where you have your strength, Robin outweighs you in his rage. He frees his erection in a few frantic tears of his shorts. He doesn't even bother looking for a condom when he sinks into you. It's not like those dockworkers would have used a condom on the poor orphan.

The pained wail that escapes you makes his blood sing.

Dr. Harper readjusts his clipboard to shield himself, then quietly unbuckles his belt. He doubts he needs to be careful, really, but Robin is a bit...tetchy. Best not to draw his attention right now.

Click!

He palms his erection just as Robin begins to thrust, each snap of his hip jolting your entire frame. The orphan's body nearly covers yours as he curls into you. Your legs have frozen around his sides - out of pain or fear or resignation, Dr. Harper can't tell. Your hips, though, jerk with each thrust, up and into Robin's own. You must be more into this than he thought. Perhaps you'd expected it earlier, when the orphan had yelled and yelled about his memories at the docks. After all, you are Robin's closest friend. It would only be the right thing to do after everything you put him through.

Click!

Robin finally releases your face in favor of caging you in his arms, burying his face against your throat and swearing with rage. You let out a pained whimper and scratch at his shoulders. It only leaves thin, red lines that, really, probably feels incredible.

"I-Hah-Fuck-" Robin practically crushes you beneath him, hips a blur. A pulse runs through Dr. Harper's cock at the sight, stomach knotting as he jerks his hand faster and faster. He pants between clenched teeth, a beautiful harmony to the melody of gasps and groans before him, and when your desperate, tearful eyes meet his, the doctor twitches and sends his cum splattering against his clipboard.

From the way Robin buries himself into you not a second later and moans, Dr. Harper can't help but chuckle. He tucks his cock away and slips an extra sheet of paper over the report. The cum begins to smear the fresh ink, but he sets it aside in order to lean forward with his pen.

Click!

Robin slowly unravels in your arms, muscles going lax as he pulls his hips back. His cock slips out of your stretched hole with a soft shlick, sending a jolt through the doctor's spine. Anger still simmers in his gaze when you start to sit up, pulling your shirt up to shield your bare chest. Dr. Harper's smile only grows at the sight.

"I think," he announces, "that should be good for today. You've made some excellent progress, Robin."

Robin's slow blink does little to clear the fog in his eyes while he smiles. "Yeah...that's good."

"As for you." Dr. Harper points his pen at you and smiles when you shrink back in fear. "Thank you so much. Robin really needs your support, and this was a huge help."

Click!

"You're such a good friend."

Your puffy lips part, waver, then seal shut, head bobbing in a tiny nod before turning to Robin. The boy is already dressed and ready to leave the office, a dreamy smile on his face as he offers a hand to you. It takes you two seconds too long to take it.

Dr. Harper clicks his pen, smiling when two different pairs of eyes land on him. "Same time next week?"

"That works," Robin answers with a happy nod.

Beside him, your knuckles tighten. The smile you show him doesn't quite reach your eye. "I-I think I'll be busy-"

"Nonsense." Dr. Harper waves his hand and scoffs, thumbing the top of his pen until it clicks. "What could be more important than supporting your best friend?"

Under Robin's expectant gaze, you shrink back and whisper, "Nothing."

"Exactly." With that, Dr. Harper rises from his seat and presses a hidden button on his pager, the ding! resounding through the cramped office. He makes a show of grimacing at the blank screen, then offers the same apologetic smile as before. "Well, I'll see you two next week then. Take care."

Once the door is locked, Dr. Harper picks up the report and grimaces. For Robin's file...eh, he can have an intern pen it out for him. You, on the other hand...Dr. Harper smiles and fishes out a blank report sheet, mind abuzz with treatment plans. Your hesitancy, non-compliance, neglecting the needs of your friends? All the signs of a troubled patient in the making. Hopefully he'll be able to intervene before you end up like Robin.

#degrees of lewdity #banned writing #if this was enough to piss off robin imagine what would happen after the UB!#...actually wait robin in the asylum would be interesting #anyways i actually based harper's report on a case study i have in a textbook #medical malpractice is hard to write apparently #also him jacking off and finishing first was so pathetic i just had to add it #sorry robin

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johntaylor0706 · 28 days

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Understanding Attachment Disorder: Causes, Symptoms, and Types ?

Attachment disorder is a complex psychological condition that affects individuals’ ability to form and maintain healthy relationships. In Ireland, access to support services such as couples counselling, relationship counselling, and depression counselling in areas like Rathmines and Dublin is crucial for those grappling with attachment issues. Let’s delve into the causes, symptoms, and types of attachment disorder to shed light on this often-misunderstood condition.

Causes: Attachment disorder typically develops in early childhood due to disruptions in the child’s primary caregiver relationship. Factors such as neglect, abuse, inconsistent caregiving, or separation from caregivers can hinder the formation of secure attachments. These early experiences shape the individual’s ability to trust others and regulate emotions, contributing to attachment difficulties later in life.

Symptoms: The symptoms of attachment disorder can manifest differently depending on the individual and their attachment style. Common symptoms include fear of intimacy, difficulty expressing emotions, lack of empathy, impulsivity, and distrust of others. Individuals with attachment disorder may struggle in romantic relationships, experience heightened anxiety or depression, and have difficulty maintaining friendships or professional connections.

Types: Attachment disorder is typically categorized into two main types: reactive attachment disorder (RAD) and disinhibited social engagement disorder (DSED). RAD is characterized by withdrawal, avoidance, and reluctance to form attachments with caregivers or loved ones. On the other hand, DSED involves indiscriminate sociability, excessive friendliness, and a lack of boundaries with strangers, reflecting a pattern of overly familiar behavior.

In Ireland, access to affordable counselling and psychotherapy services, including low cost options in Dublin and Rathmines, is vital for individuals struggling with attachment disorder. Seeking therapy, whether through couples counselling, relationship counselling, or stress counselling in Rathmines, can provide a supportive environment to explore attachment issues, develop coping strategies, and improve relationship dynamics. By raising awareness and understanding of attachment disorder, we can better support individuals in their journey toward healing and healthier relationships.

#Couples Counselling Dublin #Relationship Counselling Dublin #Relationship Counselling Rathmines #Depression Counselling Dublin #Depression Counselling Rathmines #Stress Counselling In Rathmines #Therapy South Dublin #Therapy Rooms To Rent By The Hour #Low Cost Psychotherapy Dublin #Low Cost Counselling Dublin #Affordable Counselling Dublin #Affordable Psychotherapy Dublin #Affordable Online Counselling Dublin #Affordable Psychotherapy Rathmines

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zaebeecee · 29 days

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Untitled CasinoBomb one-shot •

TW: ADDICTION, ALCOHOL

Husk was a gambler.

This was not new information to anyone who had known Husk for more than an hour. It wouldn’t surprise anyone, either, to learn that he’d played his first hand of poker before he was seven years old. Cards and dice had followed him his entire life, both to his benefit and to his detriment, as he followed the call of illicit games in the back rooms of speakeasies through the streets of Atlantic City to the shiny new casinos popping up all over the Las Vegas strip. He had won and lost more money, he thought, than Rockefeller had ever had in his accounts.

He wasn’t proud of his habit—he wouldn’t call it an addiction, not out loud, not to anyone else, not even to himself—but he wasn’t really ashamed, either. What was there to be ashamed of, really? It was a vice. He was in Hell. Everyone had at least one vice in Hell.

It’s funny, Alastor had once said, his eyes creased with mirth and his smile stretched near to the corners of his eyes, his usual malicious cruelty sharpened with intent as he stared at Husk without blinking.

Husk didn’t want to know, so he didn’t want to ask, but he knew the Radio Demon wouldn’t leave until he did. What is? he asked, putting every iota of how little he cared into those two words.

A gambling addict who works as a croupier, Alastor had answered with a laugh in his voice that was echoed by the distant ghosts of the live studio audience he carried with him everywhere. I have it on good authority that a drug dealer is expected not to rely so heavily on his own product.

Husk had snarled, which had done nothing, but he couldn’t have answered if he had wanted to. It was correct, after all, and Husk didn’t need Alastor to remind him of yet another way in which he was an idiot.

Because he knew. He had known when he was alive, and he had known after his death, too. It had been his entire existence, so much so that his body even took on attributes of the casino, and wasn’t that a reminder he didn’t need every time he looked in a mirror.

Everyone thought gambling was about winning. Whether it was Charlie trying to sus out if he was open to the group therapy sessions, or Angel Dust asking him why the hell he had kept playing after he lost, they all thought that winning was the point of gambling. You bet your money, you put it on red, the roulette favors you, and you walk away richer than you were when you sat down.

It wasn’t about winning. If it was, it wouldn’t have been so difficult to stop. It wasn’t about losing, either, though Husk had wondered if that was part of the problem in some of his lower and more pessimistic moments. No, gambling was about the moments that existed in between.

It lived in the way the dice rolled across the felt tabletop.

It lived in every tell of another player, every call and every raise, every new card dealt and every hand revealed.

It lived in the moments of the roulette wheel’s slowing momentum and the little ball searching for the pocket that would tell you if you won or if you lost.

Risk. That was what gambling was for: the thrill of the unknown, of taking a chance, of betting your rent or your food for the next week or even your fucking house on a game that could set you up for life and ruin you and you would never know which one it would be until you played. Husk had won, and he had lost, but every victory and every defeat was nothing but a little change in the long road that was the risk.

If Husk was honest with himself, he would have admitted that gambling was the only way he felt anything anymore.

Of course, Husk was never honest with himself.

The Hazbin Hotel was, for a multitude of reasons, somewhere safe for a sinner like him to set up shop. Vices were discouraged, and Charlie didn’t permit gambling for money, so the only gambling they ever did was to pawn their chores off on each other. It was almost like Alastor had done him a favor, dragging him through the ether by the throat and lashing him to the bar, even though Husk would chew his own wings off before admitting that. And the residents, too, were safe for one reason: they were predictable.

Alastor was volatile, of course, but Husk had known him for years and was fairly sure of the things that would set him off. He liked his creature comforts, he liked his schedules, and he didn’t like people disturbing his routines. Predictable.

Niffty, too, liked her routines, though they more manifested in the form of a regular rotation of cleaning duties and a fairly strict mealtime schedule that only grew erratic when someone else wanted to use her kitchen. Aside from inappropriate comments that could come from nowhere, she didn’t shift much, and she could usually be found stabbing bugs or cooking. Predictable.

Charlie made schedules for everyone constantly, always wanting to try new group building exercises and never springing unexpected surprises on them. She took everything in stride as best she could, and her meltdowns were always private and controlled. Predictable.

Vaggie was measured, strict, and always adhered to her own moral code. If something happened and it involved Charlie, she would be by the princess’s side throughout. If it did not involve Charlie, Vaggie probably didn’t care. Predictable.

Angel Dust was also volatile, of course, but it was always in the same way. He would get angry at any insult to his profession or anyone removing his indulgences, and everything else would be met with either vulgarity, sarcasm, or some combination of the two. Predictable.

Sir Pentious was paranoid and enthusiastic, quick to anger and always taking it out on his Egg Bois. He cried at the drop of a hat and seemed, even now, to really want to be an overlord despite the fact that he didn’t have the stomach for it and would always opt for a less violent option unless he was trying to impress someone. Predictable.

But the hotel had more foot traffic than simply the staff and their two residents, though most didn’t come through very often and few stayed for any length of time. Of course, among those few was Angel Dust’s best friend and supposed partner in crime, who was stopping by the hotel with increased frequency to check up on the spider demon and get into whatever else she could find while she was there.

Cherri Bomb.

Cherri Bomb was not predictable. Or, rather, she could be relied on to be unpredictable, if that made any kind of sense at all. No one, not even Angel Dust, seemed to have any sort of idea how her mood would hold up from minute to minute and what sort of erratic change might follow. She might stab someone over an insult one day and shrug the same words off the next. She might agree with you one minute and shout at you the next, even if you hadn’t changed what you said. If she stared at you with a stony gaze and invited you to keep making your point—always a threat, in Husk’s experience—you had no idea if she was furious, or if she would start laughing and inform you she was just fucking with you.

Husk had learned more about how they cussed in New Zealand in the past month than he had in the century he had existed, all of it from sarcastically calling Cherri Australian.

At first, he hadn’t known what to expect from her. She was hardly the first one to introduce herself to the hotel’s residents by blowing up a wall, so that wasn’t even notable, but everything else made her complicated in a way that Husk hadn’t let himself contemplate in a long time. For a while he was convinced that the issue, where she was concerned, was ensuring that no one did anything to set her off and create a chain reaction that would inevitably lead to more damage to the hotel. It wasn’t long before he realized the problem was that they couldn’t make that assurance.

Cherri’s presence in the hotel was unpredictable. It was a risk. And that made it exciting. The first time Husk had that realization, he had drunk an entire bottle of Alastor’s rye to drown the thought without care for the inevitable consequences.

It hadn’t worked, because the next morning, he had a headache that rivaled those from his youth and he was still just as confused and frustrated as he had been before.

Even though Cherri had declared that she was not, in any way, interested in redemption, that didn’t stop her from coming to the hotel with increased frequency. She would often leave to Angel Dust’s room and spend hours up there with the spider demon, but sometimes, the two of them would hang out at the bar. Husk served them drinks—Angel Dust his martinis according to the extremely strict regimen Charlie had set, Cherri vodka blushes and dishes of lime that she ate down to the rind—and listened to them as they talked about their nights out and Angel bitched about his job and Cherri occasionally mentioned someone named Izzi that she never dwelled on and neither of them seemed to like. Sometimes, Sir Pentious would discover that Cherri was in the hotel, and would proceed to make an ass out of himself before retreating into his basement to hide until she was gone.

Husk wondered if he should talk Pentious through a method of actually seducing Cherri, if he was that set on it. Maybe then Husk could stop thinking about… well. Anything else. Of course, Husk barely knew anything about actual seduction himself. He hadn’t been with anyone in decades, and before that, there had been less courting and more blunt sentences that led to one night stands with people whose names he didn’t remember because he hadn’t known them in the first place. Pentious was probably better off with his fumbling on his own than taking advice from Husk, because he was likely to get the snake slapped or worse.

The air was heavy with acid rain one evening as Husk took inventory at the bar. Even with so few residents, he found himself needing to take stock and submit orders to Charlie almost as much as he would have at an actual club; these sinners were clearly taking advantage of the fact that their livers couldn’t give out, and the princess wasn’t any better with her straight Mephistophelian absinthe shots. He was almost done when he heard someone pull out a bar stool, his left ear twitching when that someone sat and began patting their hands on the bar top. “Hold your horses,” he grumbled, doing math in his head as he wrote out the whisky order.

“Look at you, so responsible,” a familiar Kiwi-accented voice said, and Husk’s ears twitched again, but he didn’t turn around. Instead, he simply tried to gauge Cherri’s mood without looking at her face. “You’re not closed?”

Husk shook his head. “Nah. I just do inventory while these assholes are otherwise engaged before Angel Dust can come along and start saying numbers at random. That wasn’t a suggestion,” he added firmly.

Cherri laughed, just a little. “Wouldn’t dream of throwin’ you off,” she said, so innocently that she wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that she was full of shit. After that, she went quiet, tapping away on her phone while waiting for Husk to finish his work.

The cat demon signed off on the order and ripped the page from the notepad, pinning it up for Vaggie to grab the next time she passed by. Husk then turned to Cherri, taking up a glass, some vodka, and a bottle of grenadine. “Angel snubbing you? I was pretty sure he came back from work.”

“Oh, he’s in his room,” Cherri said. “But he’s busy. Said I could either wait down here for him or go home.”

“Busy?” Husk echoed, frowning at her, before the light went off in his head. It didn’t help his frown. “Oh. Alastor.”

“Do you have any idea what they’re doing in there?”

“No idea,” Husk confessed, slicing up a large lime and making sure it hadn’t dried out. “Angel told me to mind my business, but I think they’re plotting something. At least, I hope they are, because anything else isn’t worth considering.”

“I don’t like him,” Cherri grumbled.

Husk smirked. “Get in line. Nobody does.” He pushed the drink and a plate of lime slices towards her. “I’m guessing you decided to wait.”

“Have you seen the weather?” Cherri snapped, gesturing sharply towards the nearest window. “You think I wanna melt my skin off?”

Husk felt the fur along his neck and the backs of his arms standing up a little. He didn’t know if that was a reflex on his part, or a response to the way the air began to smell like nitrate when Cherri got worked up. “I think you do whatever you feel like doing no matter what the weather is like.”

She stared at him for a moment before she smirked and picked up a lime slice. “Thanks,” she said, before biting into it and stripping the fruit cleanly from the rind. Her wince looked satisfied. “What do you do when the weather’s shit?”

“What I always do,” Husk said, returning to cleaning the outsides of all the liquor bottles, just in case of any alcohol on the necks. “Fuck all.”

“Do you ever leave?”

“Only under extreme duress.”

“That’s not healthy, Captain Buzzkill.” Cherri leaned on one elbow and twirled a bare lime rind between her fingers, her x-shaped pupil watching Husk contemplatively. He didn’t rise to the bait, just continuing his work and waiting her out. Finally, she said, “You should come out with me sometime.”

Husk snorted in mild amusement. “What would you want to hang out with an old curmudgeon for?”

Cherri shrugged one shoulder. “I dunno, because you could stand to loosen up and I have to deal with you every time I come here, so you might as well remember how to have some fun.”

“I don’t do fun.”

“You’re gonna.”

Husk raised an eyebrow at her and leaned one hand on the bar. “You plan to make me?”

Cherri grinned, all sharp teeth, but Husk wouldn’t have defined it as a smile. “If I have to.”

It was a surprise to both of them when Husk actually chuckled, the sound as low and rusty and unused as it was on every occasion he laughed, rare as they were. “I’d love to see that.”

Suddenly, Cherri’s expression turned serious. Suspicious, almost. “Are you hitting on me, Husk?”

Once again, the air immediately felt dangerous, and once again, Husk felt the fur on his neck standing up. Cherri wasn’t blinking, and she wasn’t speaking. Any answer he could give had the potential to offend her. Husk felt oddly exhilarated, hesitating long enough to savor the feeling that he was gambling something more vital than money. Finally, he admitted, “…frankly, I got no idea.”

Cherri’s brow furrowed over her eye, her lips pursing, before she burst into laughter that instantly destroyed the tension and told him he had won that hand. “Fuck, you’re funny,” she said in a voice that was almost fond. “Come on. Come out with me some night.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Come on,” she wheedled.

“It’s the best you’re gonna get,” Husk warned, and she rolled her eye dramatically but seemed to drop it as she took up her drink. “You gonna drag me to some of those seedy dives you and Angel haunt?”

“Maybe,” Cherri said. If Husk was being generous to himself, he would call her tone flirtatious. “You’ll just have to take a chance.”

Husk found himself smiling, though why, he had no idea. “…well. That happens to be my specialty.”

-fin-

#hazbin hotel #hazbin husk #hazbin cherri bomb #hazbin fanfic #cherri bomb #husk #casinobomb #my writing #fanfic

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blueberryratz · 5 months

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not asking for money; please send me resources

so i will potentially be moving soon - my family has taken financial hit after hit and its not looking good for us to be able to afford rent. my mother wants to house with my grandparents and i am completely uninterested in joining due to how far it is, the lack of space/privacy, and the fact that my old abuser lives there currently. since im 18 now this means i will have to find alternate housing by myself and i have very little idea what to do. please send me advice, suggestions, or any resource you may know on the following topics:

transport - probably my biggest issue. even if i can quickly get my license i dont have a car nor insurance. walking/biking to where i need to go is not ideal because my legs get fatigued and weak easily and if i need to bike to work and then do an 8 hour shift i think i would die. also there is literally no public transport where i live because texas hates me

housing - right now my best bet is most likely moving in with my step dad and paying him rent, but honestly if im gonna move out anyway i might as well see if there's any options i have for living outside my parents' house. some options ive thought about are the transitional housing for homeless young adults near-ish to me as well as finding a room to rent in the area im already residing

money/jobs - i currently have a job that pays $13.20 an hour but i just started this week and i haven't seen a paycheck yet. im currently flat broke. if i need to move out i may drop out of college and see about working full time for the first time and/or taking a second job

mental health - i currently get meds for free through a public program i utilized but im not getting the therapy i need especially for this stressful time. i have autism, ptsd, and osdd and need a therapist that specializes in those issues

physical health - as stated before my legs are not very strong and its impacted my work life multiple times previously to the point of losing my job. i have no idea whats going on with my legs and finding out what the issue is would be great so i can find solutions, but i don't have insurance and i dont know the first thing about getting ahold of it

i will update as i recall anythings else id like help with 👍 for a frame of reference i live in north texas. thank you for reading/reblogging/sharing suggestions :)

#🦈

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deepperplexity · 5 months

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Prompt: 12. Giver Of Gifts [D2]

Pairing: Gruber x Fem!OC

POV: First, OC

Setting: Countryside resort near Darlington

Continuation of: RICKMAS2022 prompts 14. Icy roads & 15. Frosty Glass and RICKMAS2023 Prompt 11. Imperfect Holiday

A/N: Hi darlings! I know I’m a day late, well, like 11 hours late, but my daughter needed me a little extra yesterday (nothing bad, she was just very cuddly and wanting to be literally on me) so when I got har to sleep I was so exhausted I couldn’t finish the fic. It’s a long one 😂 But here it is! And I’ll get today’s fic up later as well, don’t worry! I feel super creative and rested today so I’m going at full speed! 😍👏 But, this is the last fic of Hans and Anna-Louise. It’s been one of the hardest serial fics I’ve ever written, it takes so much with the language use and all that but I have had such a good time writing for these two! I really hope you’ll enjoy this one and how it all turns out in the end 🥰❤

Tags/TW’s: Light One Bed Trope, Kissing, Cudlding, Hugging, Being Left Behind, Secret Identity, Secrets, Self-Doubt, Finding One's Own Value, Gift Giving, Being Spoiled/Cared For, Criminality, Unlawful Actions, Falling In Love, Confessions Of Feelings, Indicates Hazardous Situations, Second Hand Revealing Of Secrets, Worrying, Charity, Fluff, Angst, H/C, Reassurance

Word Count: 6.7k+

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

Our lips parted, my first ever good kiss. Fabulous, wonderful, perfect kiss. And it was with him, the man who not only saved my life and held impromptu therapy sessions over muffins but who also saw me and heard me — a man who I deeply felt cared for me, truly. To kiss him was… a trip. A real trip of every sensation my body was able to feel and no sooner had it ended than I wished to do it again.

“Schnuki, don’t doubt my want of you, or how special I think you are,” he whispered, it came out thick and heavy in his dark rumble of a voice. “I will spoil you in any and all ways I see fit, understand me?” he continued. “I— You are something else, Hans…” He chuckled at that and kissed my forehead in that gentle manner of his tightly groomed beard gentle but firm against my skin. That kiss only felt even sweeter now that I knew how urgently and intensely he could kiss my lips.

“Tell me you understand,” he urged. “I-, I think I understand. It’s difficult for me, I can’t really understand why me, and how it became me, but I’m bloody happy about it either way, is that alright?” I asked, my cheeks burning once more, perhaps I’ll evolve second-degree burns with this amount of blushing? Or I’ll need to chug water, all this warmth will leave me dehydrated. “That’s alright, I’ll make you understand in due time.”

There was a knock at the door and Hans slid out of my grasp. “Go put those on,” he said, pointing to the pyjama set of silk still on the bed. I nodded and grabbed them, heading to the bathroom just as he opened the door and I heard the bell boy announce that he was room service.

When I came back, dressed in the fabulous silk that made me feel wrapped in a cloud, Hans sat on the bed with a tray atop the covers with two covered plates, two glasses of orange juice, and a plump-looking blueberry muffin. “Is that for me?” I asked, pointing to the treat. “Yes, thought you could see if this fancy place compares to that little café.” I smiled at him and he patted the bed beside him, I carefully sat down cross-legged and he lifted off the silvery coverings that kept the food warm.

The smell of bacon, eggs, and pancakes wafted up my nose — my stomach promptly growled with desperation to have the goodies. “S-sorry…” “My sweet treat, never apologise for any bodily functions with me. If you’re hungry, I’ll give you food. If you’re cold, I’ll offer my coat. If you need a shower, I’ll rent an entire house for one if needed.” I gaped at him while he smiled cheekily at me, it was nearly a smirk yet not quite. “Ooo-kay,” I said, prolonging the word far more than necessary, but what was I to say to that?

Hans pushed a fork toward me. “Eat, then we sleep.” I didn’t hesitate. Is tarted in on the bacon and eggs, cutting the long pieces of meat and mixing it with the eggs before topping it with a healthy dose of salt and shoving it into my mouth. The flavour burst atop my tongue and I groaned in appreciation. “Best, eggs and bacon, ever, had,” I mumbled as I chewed. “So good.” “Glad to hear it,” he said and started in on his pancakes, his knife and fork moving with steady precision while mine flew in an uncoordinated manner all over the plate.

When the plates were cleared I chugged the juice. I was full, but that muffin looked bloody tempting and I didn’t want to be ungrateful so I grabbed it and took a huge bite out of it. It was good, not as good as the ones at home but moist and flavourful. “Good?” Hans asked and I nodded. “Really good.” I took another bite while Hans cleared away the tray from the bed. “But not quite as good?” How did he know? I never even really ate the muffin last time, did I? No, no I don’t think I did. I was too wrapped up in him and how he held my hand and talked about how I was being treated, I mean, it’s not Ferdinand’s fault, but I think he was madder at Dad and Sis, then again I could be wrong. I’m often wrong, I guess, I never thought Mum would leave, or that Martha would become a dear friend, least of all I’d skip town with a rich German—

“Schnuki?” “Huh? Hmm? Yeah?” Hans smiled gently at me, stroking back a strand of hair by my cheek and hooking it behind my ear. “Lost in thought?” he asked. “Oh, umh, suppose so,” I said. “How did you know about the muffin?” “That it’s not as good?” I nodded. “It’s all over your face, little treat.” “What?” “You talk quite a bit, and you think even more I believe, but your face says everything one needs really. Just have to look,” he said and I wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

“Sorry…” I mumbled, looking down at my half-finished muffin while fiddling with the striped paper around it. “Don’t be, I quite like how open you are, and willing to share. Not a common thing these days, you know. You’re a rarity.” I scoffed. “That’s for sure. Imagine if everyone blabbers like me? Gosh, blimey, the world would be a headache-inducing verbal madhouse,” I chuckled, yet it made me sad, to be honest. “I’m not talking of others, just you,” Hans said and leaned over to kiss my temple. “Now, time to sleep.”

He went around the room, turning off lights and making sure all doors were locked before he pulled all the curtains while I got comfy in the giant bed — honestly, it was the softest and most comfortable bed I’d ever laid in. Then I bolted upright as the last light went out. There’s only one, just one, he’ll sleep next to me, oh gosh, he’s going to be next to me!

The bed dipped and Hans indeed slipped in under the cover - the single cover that was made for two people. “Schnuki? Aren’t you lying down?” “Oh, umh, yeah, yeah sure am,” I stuttered out and slowly sank down. “I won’t bite,” he whispered right beside me. “Come here.” He pulled me in, his arms securely wrapped around me while my heart galloped in my chest. I’d never shared a bed with anyone, and sharing a bed with Hans was an experience that had me tingly all over.

“My sweet treat,” he hummed and tugged me flush against his front, spooning me. “H-Hans,” I whispered and he hummed a sound of contentment. “I’ve never… Never shared a bed without any bloke,” I continued and he squeezed me even tighter. “What a lucky bloke I am then.” I don’t know, I think maybe I’m the lucky one. Feels like it, feels like I’m getting some Christmas miracle. A man being a miracle, bloody hell that’s a thing I never thought I’d think.

***

I’d fallen asleep way too fast in his arms. I slept all through the night and when morning came I woke up alone. The bed and room were empty. I did what any sane person would, I buried my smiling face in the pillow and kicked my legs under the cover with a giggle erupting from me. Hans, sweet Hans, and he’s with me! Me! Me? Like, what? I swear if I wake up in some snow mound after having slipped and hit my head or whatever nonsense I’ll go straight to whoever runs this show and strangle them.

The door opened, and faint footsteps echoed through the room. Hans probably thought I was asleep still. “Hans?” I asked, peeking out from under the cover, turning my head to not be buried in the pillow. “Scnuki, you’re awake, good,” he said and a second later the curtains were drawn away from the window and balcony door. “Breakfast will be here any minute.” “We really having it out there? It looks bloody cold,” I said while half sitting up. “You’ll be warm with blankets, and I ordered extra coffee. Black.” “Coffee, god, yes please,” I moaned and dragged myself out of bed to go freshen up in the bathroom.

I rummaged around my bag first though, looking for some fresh clothes to wear. “On the chair,” Hans said while pulling away the rest of the curtains while I looked over my shoulder. There were several bags on the chair, so I scurried over only to freeze as I looked into them. Clothes, shoes, gloves, a purse, and all gorgeous and expensive looking if my eyes served me right.

I grabbed a thick white jumper, knitted with little pearls added in a snowfall pattern from the shoulders and over the chest. “Hans-, Hans this is too much, way too much, and expensive. Are you completely bonkers? Gone mad with a Christmas flu or something?” He only chuckled and walked up to me. “You deserve pretty things, nice clothes, warm clothes,” he said and gave my shoulders a squeeze while I looked at the jumper in my hands. It was way, way, way too much.

“Now, get dressed, and we’ll have breakfast.” “But I can’t wear—” “Schnuki, accept my gifts for you.” I looked up at him, his eyes earnest and his features soft as he asked me to simply allow him to spoil me. I’d never been spoiled, or taken cared of, or even cared for . “In silks…” I muttered, remembering his words from yesterday about wanting to come home to me dressed in silk and finery.

I did as he asked, taking the jumper, some really pretty white jeans with a matching belt of cream and gold before nabbing some new underwear and socks as well. I stopped in the bathroom, before closing the door. “How do you know my sizes?” I asked, turning to look at the cheekily smirking man. “I just looked at you,” he said. “You are very easy to look at, my little treat.” I must have blushed scarlet, my skin was on fire once more and a knock at the door saved me from making a fool out of myself.

I felt like a tenner in my new clothes, the full-length mirror in the bathroom gave me the full view and everything fit perfectly, hugging my somewhat straight shape and perfectly complimenting my skin and hair. I’d done it in a side braid to keep it away and not hide the sparkling pearls at the top of the jumper. I didn’t have any make-up, but I never used much more than some powder and mascara anyway.

Hans had set up our breakfast on the balcony when I left the bathroom. He was on the phone again, this time speaking in German and I couldn’t understand a word of it. His voice was perfection in German though, the harsh language only complimenting his deep voice further. Perhaps I should learn German too? Would be neat, not that I need more languages to talk in but it’s nifty to know more than one language.

I sat down on one of the chairs covered in a thick fur and dragged two of the blankets over my legs. “Coat,” Hans said as I was getting comfortable and I looked up. He was indeed looking at me and then nodded toward the room. I grumbled a bit but got up to fetch my jacket, it wouldn’t make much of a difference but it was cold outside.

I stood stock still in the middle of the room. By the door, where his coat had hung before, was a beautiful winter coat. It was wine red with black fur along all hems and a black belt with a golden buckle around the middle. It looked as expensive as his and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how he’d managed to get me so many things in a mere few hours — and we had both been asleep. The amount of money he’d spent had my stomach twisting, but it wasn’t all bad. There was a warmth and joy there too, that I was worth something to him meant the world to me. Even if he showed his care in monetary ways far from my own reality I wasn’t going to just dismiss his chosen way of showing he cared.

I grabbed the coat and put it on while walking back to the balcony. It, too, fit perfectly of course and the lining on the inside was silky smooth and I felt toasty in it — and pretty too. Hans was still on his call but he spun his finger around, asking me to twirl and with another blush across my cheeks I did as he asked. It was really the least I could do. His smile made me smile even wider while I mouthed “thank you”. He nodded and said something harshly in German into the phone while I got back to my chair.

“Take care of it, we have four minutes, that’s it,” he finished in English and snapped the phone shut. “I like when you talk in German,” I blurted out while reaching for my coffee cup. “Is that so?” I nodded. “How come?” he continued. “Sounds very brazen and, I dunno, large? Like, the words sound large, and it suits your voice. Your voice is really good, you know. I like it a lot, I mean, it’s not a common voice, but it’s perfect for you, and I like it,” I blabbered while fidgeting with the blanket with my free hand. “I’m glad to hear it.” “But, what do you have four minutes to do? I heard you say that yesterday too,” I continued without a break and the look on Hans' face stopped my flow of words.

He sat down, adjusting his coat and grabbing his coffee. “How much did you hear yesterday?” he asked, almost too calmly. “Oh, not much, sorry, was it banking stuff I shouldn’t know about? Like about the stock market and stuff? I heard you mention stocks and time stuff, and you look like a banker so I just assumed,” I said, worry blooming in my gut I had done something he would be upset with me over. But he smiled at me, instantly taking away the worry. “It’s alright. Don’t fret,” he said and sipped his coffee. “I’ll tell you in due time, not now though. Now, it’s time to get some food in you.” And feed me he did. Pancakes, bacon, eggs, little cucumber sandwiches, and different cheeses on lightly toasted bread along with some fruits and juice. I ended up absolutely stuffed.

***

I turned off the shower, after having walked about the grounds most of the day I’d felt a need to clean up when we returned to the room after a lovely dinner down at the main restaurant of the country resort. It had been a really wonderful day and Hans hadn’t asked me to shut up once, he actually seemed to enjoy my blabbering. But I didn’t blabber as much with him, there was no need as he listened when I chatted. The man had patience, I’d give him that.

He was on his phone again, but lying on the bed this time while talking in German. He sounded very precise, as if he were giving instructions or something when I came out dressed in my silky pyjama set. He looked at me with a sweet smile before lifting the cover so I could have it over my legs as I sat cross-legged beside him. His hand landed atop my thigh, his finger stroking circles on the inside of it and I felt as if I would go mad with having his hand there.

He barked something into the phone before slamming it shut, tossing it to the foot of the bed. “Idiots,” he muttered before falling back on the pillow. “I’m surrounded by idiots,” he kept going. “Hey, I know I’m not the brightest star in the sky but that’s a bit mean,” I said, a chuckle to my voice. “Not you, schnuki. Never you,” he murmured without looking at me, keeping his eyes closed while he let out a deep sigh.

I scooted down, laying on my side to watch his beautiful profile. Without thinking I reached up and began stroking the tips of my fingers through his lush beard. He hummed and seemed to relax. But that only lasted a few seconds. “I have to leave,” he said. “Leave?” I asked, alarms blaring in my head like bloody hounds after a fox. “For a few days, I would ask you to come with but the situation requires my undivided attention and you steal it most of the time,” he chuckled, as if he’d made some smart remark. “What do you want me to do?” I asked, fearing and wanting the answer. “Stay here, enjoy every luxury, and wait for me.” “In silk?” I teased and he finally looked up at me, a cheeky smile across his thin lips framed by that gorgeous beard I’d a second ago been touching.

He had me on my back a second later, twisting us so he lay between my legs with the cover between our bodies while he kissed me most deeply. Blimey, he really was a fantastic kisser, and every inch of me felt all tingly. I was turning into the giddy schoolgirl stereotype with him, and it felt good to be able to just relax and be.

“Will you wait for me?” he asked against my lips, only half breaking the kiss. “I’ll always wait for you. I don’t think I’m completely daft by thinking there’s something very special between us?” “My sweet treat,” he whispered, pecking my lips once. “You have no idea how special you are to me. One day, perhaps you’ll see, but until then I’ll do everything in my power to show you.” “Bloody hell,” I murmured. “You’re making it impossible not to fall for you, Hans.” “Good,” he said with a smile. “So you’ll wait here for me?” “Yeah, sure, I’ll wait right here, lavishing in silks and eating the best bacon and eggs.” He laughed at that, a deep and throaty sound I couldn’t ever get enough of. To think, all this became possible ‘cus some bloke knocked me over on the sidewalk, it really is quite the hallmark movie setup. Being the main character for once isn’t so bad.

Hans cuddled me for another hour while he asked how I used to celebrate Christmas, but that conversation took a nose-dive and he ended up pissed at how my family had treated me, so, we switched to talking about our favourite things instead. It was too easy talking with him, just being with him, and I didn’t have to wonder if I’d have to repeat myself, he always listened and remembered.

When he was dressing to leave I felt a knot grow in my stomach. There was still so much I didn’t know about him, where he was going and what he was doing were two of those things. But I didn’t ask, it felt like he didn’t want to share that with me yet. And, if he was a banker, perhaps there were some confidentiality issues with him sharing that stuff with me.

“You’ll be back, right?” “I’ll always come back for you, schnuki.” He kissed my forehead after that, stroked my cheek, and left while I remained staring at the door for a long moment. It felt so empty with him gone but he’d left me a little gift on the bedside table he’d instructed me to open once he’d left.

So, once I got out of my daze, I bolted over and grabbed it. I was as curious as a cat and ripped open the envelope only to find a little note and a wad of cash. Like, a whole wad of it. “Spend it all before I return, I dare you, my sweat treat. Oh, Hans, you’re too bloody much!” I laughed while checking just how much I was supposed to spend, I damn near keeled over at the full two grand he’d left behind. How am I supposed to spend two grand in just a couple of days? Can I give it away as tips? I mean, surely servants don’t earn that much and it’s Christmas time too. Would that count as spending it though?

I went to bed wondering where he was going, and what to do with the money he’d left for me, and how rich the man I was falling in love with really was. Thinking of all the gifts, where he had us staying, and now the cash he’d left behind, golly, it nearly made me uncomfortable to think of. I was a nobody, from a nowhere town, with a less-than-desirable place in life. How was I supposed to be in his life, and be what he wanted and needed? Was I enough for him at the end of it all? I still wasn’t quite sure why he liked me so much, then again, I knew very little of him too yet I was sure he was the one for me — so, was it really so silly to think he felt the same?

***

I’d given half of the money away. I just couldn’t spend it on myself. The concierge had been super helpful in ordering a silly-expensive coat for Hans that I used 800 of the 2,000 on and then I’d used about 200 buying some extra room service, and then some 1,000 as tips for the workers and a Secret Santa fund for the children at the Darlington Hospital which the resort had a little tin for with an information pamphlet about it all.

I also ended up buying a Christmas card from the reception that I sent off to Martha, letting her know I’d left and was doing well with the German gentleman she liked so much. I had reminded her to put her teeth in while eating and not give the fat little dog she loved so much too many treats and then ended it all with well-wishes and a Happy Christmas wish too.

I was lounging in bed two days after Hans had left, flicking through the channels on the TV while sipping some hot cocoa. I watched a commercial for dog's teeth and a treat that supposedly helped keep them clean and then the news came on as I sat myself up, cross-legged with my hands wrapped around the mug tightly.

“Tonight, the unfolding of events at a large Newcastle bank left many shocked. Just an hour ago, four men entered while wearing rifles, and in what must be a record-breaking unfolding of events, in a mere three minutes and fifty-six seconds, the vault had been cracked, emptied, and the men had fled the scene. No civilians were harmed, and no shots were fired. The police were at the scene less than a minute after the alarm was pulled, which was not until after the events had passed.” Gosh, it’s Christmas time, who’d rob people around Christmas? I wondered while sipping my coco, watching the screen. “As the police investigate, we have video footage of the men in question. Four white men, neither of their faces being captured on any of the cameras in the bank, but this is what they look like in the available footage.”

There was hot cocoa all over the bed, it had spurted out of my mouth as a silhouette I’d have known anywhere filled the screen along with three others. “FOUR MINUTES!” I shrieked while looking at the blurry image of Hans’ back, his perfect hair and straight shoulder dressed in that beautiful coat of his seemed to damn near burn my eyes. “The police say these men are extremely dangerous, with witnesses claiming three of the men spoke in German we implore all civilians to be wary and if you should see the men in question do not approach. Call the police straight off,” the news lady said further but I could barely hear it.

My mind ran rampant, spinning with all thoughts possible while the news turned to the next event of the evening. My hands cramped around the mug and I couldn’t stop my bloody lip from trembling or my stomach from filling with the sensation of dread. I’d been a daft muppet. A stupid, blabbering, silly-nilly living in a delulu world where rich German men who cared and listened were honest bankers and no danger to the world at all. Bloody hell! I’m in love with a criminal! I stuttered out a breath, one of my hands covering my mouth. “I’m in love… with a bank robber,” I whispered while I cried silent tears of hurt and worry.

I paced the length of the room for several minutes while trying to shut my mind up. The thoughts were an endless barrage of anxiously hurt and worried words I couldn’t stop. I tried in every manner possible to figure out what the bloody hell to do, how it all had gone to pot, how I wasn’t running toward a better life with an honest man who spoils and pampers me — no, no I was running away from an honest life to be with a bloody bank robber who I knew absolutely nothing about! “God, I’m so fucking stupid!”

The clock struck midnight, and still I paced. Back and forth, back and forth. My mind was in shambles but worse than that, my heart hurt and all my feelings were screwing themselves over to be at the center of attention. Why do I just want to crawl up in his arm, talk it alllll out and have him make it sound sane? Have I lost my marbles? Gone mad? Why am I not legging it right out of here?!

I fell asleep while tossing and turning, trying to make sense of my thoughts, arguing against myself — I mean, I hadn’t exactly seen his face or anything, but I knew it was Hans on that news channel. I knew it. Yet I fell asleep with the final thought of wanting him to hold me and make it all make sense.

***

I was a wreck. Everything was topsy-turvy. I had my bag packed but never left. I’d almost called a cab, yet I never did. I swore myself blue over having spent the money he had left — money I could have used to leave, hide, run away, and never speak a word of any of it ever again. Ha! Sure, as if I could ever keep my mouth shut.

I glared at the fire in the hearth of the room, I wasn’t unfamiliar with keeping a fire going to stay warm so stoking it and lighting it had been no issue. The warmth, that was another thing altogether. I felt cold to my bones, even if I was tingly warm on the outside. My nose was even slightly dusted with sweat from sitting so close to the roaring fire beyond the glass doors. The room was sweltering, the air a bit bad given how much oxygen the fire consumed, and I felt a bit dizzy, to be honest, but I couldn’t make myself move.

It had been three days since I saw the news. I’d gone over every bloody detail of everything since I met Hans several times. Especially the phone calls he’d been on. I could no longer go to delulu land and pretend it wasn’t him, I knew it was, there was no other explanation. How bloody perfect this is. The bank robber and the blabbering missy who can’t keep her mouth shut. He won’t come back to me, will he? How could he ever trust my blabbering mouth? We don’t even know each other! But that thought didn’t sit right with me.

After everything that had happened, I was wholly in love with the annoyingly handsome bloke with his charming smiles and cheeky smirks. No matter how silly that was, how stupid it made me, I couldn’t make myself leave when there was even a small chance he’d return for me. And what then? Hmm? Pretend you don’t know? Keep quiet about his secret so he won’t think you’ll blabber? Come on, Lulu… And why am I calling myself that god-awful name?!

“What the— Schnuki!” Hans' hands were on me the next second, I hadn’t even had time to turn my head when his voice filled the room. “Hans?” I asked, feeling disoriented and half-asleep. “What are you doing?!” His hands left me and he ran through the room in a blur of a grey coat. He threw the balcony doors open wide. Cold, crisp air flooded the room and I blinked rapidly.

He was on me the next second. “Up, up,” he said but then grabbed me and hoisted me up bridal style before carrying me out on the balcony. I inhaled with a gasp, feeling all the drowsiness disappear and my vision cleared while a string of curses (it sounded like) left Hans’ mouth, spoken in German before he sat me down on my feet.

His hands grabbed my warm face, the sweat now chilled by the December air. “Are you insane?” he asked in a rush while his eyes searched mine. “I was cold,” I managed to push out while my head ran away with me — all my thoughts coming back with a rush. “You could have died,” he snarled before tugging me close and wrapping me in his arms. Blimey, he smelled so good. Felt so infuriatingly good to be close to. “So could you,” I whispered. “What?” “Mr Bank Robber,” I only said, feeling too tired to deal with any of it now that he was finally back with me.

He stiffened all around me. “You know,” he hummed darkly, his voice far harsher than ever before. “Hard to miss when you were on the news.” “You recognised me from that ?” he asked, leaning back to look at me with widened eyes. “Pffth, I’d know you anywhere.” “Should I be worried or flattered?” “I don’t know, are you leaving me behind ‘cus I talk too much and you feel like you can’t trust me after everything I’ve trusted you with? Including leaving everything behind after meeting you only twice and knowing absolute piss about you?” My words turned angry, fearful really. “Schnuki, calm down for me,” Hans hushed gently, his features softening once more while he looked down at me as I shook in his arms.

He kissed my forehead. “You shouldn’t tell a woman to calm down, has the opposite bloody effect, ya’ know…” He chuckled at that. “I only said so because you feel very anxious, feel free to go off on me anytime you like, little treat. I don’t mind it.” “Sure, bet you're used to having people screaming at you and around you and blurting out nonsense in the heat of the moment.” “You never speak nonsense, don’t say such a thing,” he admonished. “But I do need to know if my secret is safe with you?” “Pffth, as if I could ever say anything to anyone that wouldn’t be good for the man I... You’re a foul git sometimes, you know that?” “Hmm? How so?” “Leaving me here while going out to rob—” “Inside,” Hans said, interrupting me. Course, right, inside, talking about bank robbing on the balcony where anyone can hear is stupid and dangerous, wow, gosh, I’m fucking this right up from the first minute. Stellar job, Lulu. Stellar job…

Hans closed the door behind us and swiftly grabbed my hand to lead me to the bed. He sat me down before closing the vent to the fire, smothering the flames to near embers, and then sat next to me while taking my hand in his once more. I stared at him, and he looked at me.

After a minute of silence, my tears began to flow. “You’re leaving me behind, aren’t you?” “Tell me why I’m a foul git sometimes,” he countered while squeezing my hand. I snivelled and took a deeper breath. “You just left me here, while going off to rob a giant national bank without a word about it. What if you’d been killed? Or captured? Or just hurt, or whatever? I would have just been bloody sitting her until they would have kicked me out for lack of reservation and money. You just left me behind without a bloody word!”

Hans looked at me, a baffled expression taking over his handsome face. “That’s what I’m a foul git for?” “No. You’re a foul git sometimes ‘cus you don’t talk to me. I talk to you all the time, about everything that pops into my head almost.” I glared at him, but it was hard with the tears and snivelling. “But I know nothing of you, like, not a bloody thing. Are you even German?” I asked, daring him to lie to me with my eyes but he just chuckled. “Schnuki, my sweet treat, my little bean spiller,” he said while tugging me closer. “I’m very much German. And you’re a delightful surprise, know that?” I scrunched up my face, swiping at my cheeks. “What?” “I was going to tell you, in due time. I mean, can’t really continue hoaxing you. You’d want to know about the money, my trips, my never staying in one place for long, and such things, no?” I nodded. “Yet here you are, a snivelling mess bawling about me not telling you from the very first moment I’m an international criminal, a successful one mind you,” he said with cheek to his voice and a smirk I couldn’t help but chuckle at.

Hans turned slightly, making us nearly come face to face on the bed. “I knew you were special the moment I met you. Just something about you,” he said and my shoulders softened at the sweet words. “Didn’t think you’d be quite this sweet and understanding, but I’m glad to have been wrong for once.” “You’re not getting out of this by sweet-talking me, spill the tea. All of it. If I’m going to follow an international criminal all over the bloody globe I’ll be damned if I don’t know everything, ‘kay?” I said, feeling as if the world had turned upside down. “I won’t let you leave me behind like everyone else. You’ve ruined any chance of that with everything you’ve done and said so far, I don’t want to be the abandoned puppy anymore.”

Hans kissed my knuckles, letting his lips stroke over them a bit before he lowered our hands again. It sent a shiver down my spine and I really had gone completely bonkers because of him. Not any worse a life than what I had, better even perhaps. Always wanted to see the world, maybe I’ll get to do just that now, even if it is with a criminal, I’ll be safe. I know it. “A dime for your thoughts?” I smiled at the wrongful expression. “Just thinking about seeing the world and being safe, I think I’ll be more safe with you than anyone else.” “An international criminal?” “Well, yeah, sure, but you’re not just any criminal, are you? I mean, obviously it’ll be harrowing and less than fun at times, I’m sure you’re not always staying in posh settings like these,” I said, waving my hand about the room while Hans nodded reluctantly.

“But still, I think you’ll keep me safe, won’t you?” “Always, my sweet treat.” “And, I haven’t recalled a single lie you’ve told, that I know of at least.” “Never lied to you.” “Yeah, I know, and that makes me feel better about this whole thing. I mean, not your fault I didn’t press on the whole bank man thing, right? And besides, you treat me like… like I mean the world to you and you’re always listening, and talking to me like you’ve really heard what I said and you’re very caring, and sweet, and just, yeah, good, you know? It’s not like—” Hans kissed me at that, interrupting my blabbering that had turned faster with each word as my anxiety and need to explain myself as fully as possible shot through the roof.

He stopped my scrambling thoughts and kissed me until I was relaxed once more. “Didn’t mean to stop you from talking, you’re free to talk as much as you need, but you were getting too anxious, schnuki.” “T-Thank you,” I exhaled. “You’re right, I just… Just need to explain myself. I always feel a need to explain myself.” “I understand.” “Yeah, no, sure, I know you do, I’m just sorry I can’t stop myself, I know you understand, and you don’t mind, and all that, and I’m really grateful for— Oh, right, you know, sorry…” Hans chuckled at my embarrassed smile and stroked my cheek once more with his warm hand.

“Do you want to join me, then?” he asked, no pressure to it, just genuine wondering. “If you don’t mind.” “I want nothing else than have you with me at all times possible.” “Then yes, yes, please. I want to be with you, Hans.” “And I with you, but we’ll have to work on that anxiety of yours. Sometimes you’ll have to be on your own, but I will always come back for you.” “Promise?” “I promise.”

He held me tight, kissing the top of my head while I drew a deep sigh of relief, feeling like an overfilled kettle boiling too wildly, all my emotions spilling over. “You gotta cool it with the whole giver of gifts thing though… I couldn’t spend the money you left behind, I gave half of it away…” “I knew you would… You’re goodness and sweetness, all wrapped up like a delicious treat and that wrapping will be of the finest kind imaginable. I’ll make sure of it.” “Hans!” I scolded with a laugh. “I will always spoil you, schnuki. You deserve nothing less than the best of everything, always.” Then I hope you’ll enjoy the coat I got for you… A gift from you to me, became a gift from me to you, don’t really know how valid that is but it’s the thought that counts, right?

“Now, my little treat,” Hans said after a moment, “how would you feel about spending Christmas in Alaska?” “Alaska?!” My eyes were wide with something I could only think to look like unbridled joy. “It’s perfect for the winter holiday, no?” “I’d love to,” I confessed. “Thought you would,” he said with one of those charming smiles and a twinkle in his clear eyes.

Blimey, I was going to Alaska with an international Criminal. What a way to spend my first Christmas away from home. Bloody hell I wanna call Dad and tell him to fucking shove his mints up his arse, I was going to see the whole damn world with the man of my dreams. “I think I made it,” I mumbled into Hans' chest. “Whatever you thought before those words, I agree, sweetie. I feel the same way,” Hans whispered before holding me even tighter while I inhaled the wonderful scent of him.

“I… Hans, I love you…” “Schnuki, my sweet treat, my Christmas miracle,” Hans said in such a deep tone it was difficult to hear him clearly. “I love you too, since the moment you smiled at me for the first time.” I shivered at the sweet words and buried my face in his neck. Life was so perfectly imperfect I couldn’t keep the laughs and tears from spilling over. I was where I was supposed to be, where life would take us I couldn’t even begin to think about but I knew, no matter what, Hans would always come back for me and I would always be his. My gentleman criminal.

LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST

A/N: I just love this serial fic so much, gosh, feels so good they sorted it out and have mutually agreed they re to stay together and just-, travel the world and care for each other and just-, waaaaaaah! 😍👏 I know I was a day late with this one, I'm really sorry but I hope you feel these nearly 7k makes up for it - and you'll still get today's fic later today as well! I'm gonna write at record speed today - have to, my entire weekend is full of Christmas celebrating (I'll squeeze in some writing as often as possible so you'll get fics daily though).

Gosh, feels a bit sad to say bye-bye to these two, maybe I'll revisit them at some point in the future but I can't make any promises. It's really difficult to write this one for me (the literal language use I mean) so we'll see. I kinda like leaving them here too - it's a sweet ending that's closed but also open 🥰

Q: What's something you really enjoyed/liked/feel good about that happened or you did during 2023? A: for me, it's a few things but publishing my OW writing is probably the biggest thing really 🥰👏

TAGLIST: @lizlil @snapefiction @darkthought15 @monstreviolet @flowerdementia @marvelschriss @once-upon-an-imagine @ravennight41 @caseydoodles98 @slytherinprincess03 @theconsultingdetectiveswife @grimmyhild @monster-energies @myobscureimaginarium @snowblossomreads @eternal-silvertongued-prince @cherryglossie @setsuna-meiou31 @helena211 @a-queen-and-her-throne @justsaturn0 @turvi @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky @sunnylikesfrogs @mamawolfsmith16 @dianilaws @sassanoe @snapesrn @bernadette-peters12 @sammy-13 @smartowl999 @castleofthorns @serenanight87 @leah1243 @mamawolfsmith87 @snowblossomreads @ladykardasi @eternal-silvertongued-prince @lyrixsnape @daddythanatos

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[Dec:2023]

#rickmas2023 #rickmas #hans gruber #gruber x oc #hans gruber fic #christmas fic #alan rickman #rickmaniac

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bloodblanks · 2 years

Text

solace [masky / hoodie x reader] — chapter i.

Two years after the disappearance of Tim and Brian, you were finally ready to move on with your life and attend university in a new city. As you prepare to leave, your innocent quest for online furniture shopping devolves into an insidious nostalgia trip as you reminisce your missing best friends.

author's note: this fanfiction will contain explicit content, including rape/non-con, kidnapping, stockholm syndrome, and similar themes.

please read at your own discretion.

<- previous chapter

You knew there would be a storm tonight. The sky flushed with muted shades of blue, dark opaque clouds roaming above, covering the rest of the city and blocking out any sunlight. However, it wasn’t like you needed the sun. In fact, you were perfectly pleased without it. You had contented yourself with spending the entire afternoon cooped up in your room, browsing through the many tabs of furniture that IKEA had to offer. While the selection was plentiful, they were missing one thing—something you actually liked. With a sigh of frustration, you put your laptop down and flopped back onto your bed.

It wouldn’t be long until you would be moving to university, just a few weeks away, and you still hadn’t picked anything. Maybe it was your fault for renting an unfurnished apartment, but you liked the idea of decorating everything precisely as you wanted it. That, and it was cheaper as well.

Your parents had agreed to help you move your pre-existing things and assist in assembling the newly required furniture when it arrived. After all, they would be within driving distance of your new home, just two hours North. You knew the travel between the two cities was inconvenient, only really doable by car, hence the new place.

Why you attended a university two hours away when you could attend the prestigious university in your current area was beyond most people. The truth was that you hadn’t been accepted to the one close to you, and either you’d attend the one that granted you acceptance or none at all. Of course, you kept this fact well hidden from everyone around you, including your own family as well.

While the university in your area was prestigious, it wasn’t by any means Ivy League or even close. Your grades were just lacking, to say the least. But you would never want to suffer the shame of having to admit something like that. And so you lied, telling everyone you just wanted a new experience. Something along the lines of seeing the world and making new friends. What bullshit, you thought.

Then again, however, there was some truth to that statement. It was possible that a change of pace, a breath of fresh air, and a new start would do you good. You had never lived anywhere else, and perhaps you could use some adventure or at least a new city to explore. Your hometown had gotten stale and rather suffocating for you to live in. Not only were you tired of the same mundane everyday routine, but you also constantly suffered from a weight that hung over you, no matter where you went.

It could only be natural, though. After all, too much had happened for you to be able to just shake things off and leave them in the past. Not that you didn’t try, you did. You did your best to rid yourself of the sullen atmosphere constantly lingering over you. You went to therapy and talked to people, but nothing changed. It was just too much, too soon, too hard. Even though it had been two years since the incident initially happened, your memories held far longer, far more than just that.

Maybe it was just an unfortunate event for the rest of the city. At the time of the incident, the residents had been sent into a panic, but as more time passed, what happened was no longer relevant, no longer thought of, and no longer worth caring about. Everyone moved on with their daily lives, returned to what they were doing previously, and continued like nothing had happened. Everyone save for you and a few others. But there was no reason for it to have affected anyone else; you knew that they didn’t share the memories you had, didn’t experience the events you did, and didn’t know the story like you knew. Like you still know. You swore you’d never forget.

Your online furniture shopping quest was long since over. You were no longer in the mood to do such frivolous things, not when the same thoughts that had haunted you for the past couple of years rose back up from the dead. You stood up from the bed and turned your laptop off, causing the music you played in the background to sharply cut off. The room was now completely silent like it always was when you allowed yourself to reminisce about the past. Inhaling slowly, you took a deep breath to steady yourself before you opened your closet, reaching into one of the bottom shelves. Your hands brushed across the familiar texture of cardboard. Sliding your hands underneath the box, you picked it up and took it out of the closet. You could see the memorabilia peeking out of the box as you set it down on the floor before you, sitting down cross-legged next to it.

Taking out the first item was always the same. It sat at the very top, covering everything beneath it as if it was the lid of the box. Touching your hands to the soft fabric of the hoodie, you brought it up to your face, leaning in and smelling it. Maybe that was weird, but at least it was strange in the privacy of your own bedroom; nobody else had to know about this. Inhaling the scent of citrus and pine, you noticed it had somewhat faded since the last time you took it out. It had been quite a while, so it was only natural, yet you still felt a tinge of sadness, wondering just how much more time it would take until the scent was gone entirely, leaving you with nothing at all. You wished for the ability to freeze time, solely for this piece of clothing, so that the harsh tides of time wouldn’t wash away the remaining fragrance, leaving you exclusively with wreckage. The scent wasn’t particularly delightful; it was likely some cheap, far too strong—although that did turn out to be in your favour—male deodorant spray. But it smelled like him.

It smelled like him, and that was one of the few things you had left. You were grateful for it.

Tim was going through his emo phase when he owned that hoodie, although he was robbed of the chance to grow out of it. You wondered, if he was still here, would he have grown out of it by now? Probably, you thought. Likely, he’d be going to university as well. With his grades when he was still here—he never cared much for school—he probably would’ve had to attend the same university as you. Maybe you wouldn’t have been so alone.

It wasn’t even a question when it came to Brian. Putting down the black hoodie and picking up Brian’s notebook, you knew for a fact he would have easily gotten into almost any university he wanted. Perhaps you were biased, but you believed it to be accurate, regardless, that Brian was a genius. You thought so then and still felt so now as you looked through his notes. His writing was clear, his notes were organized and neat and always came in useful when you or Tim chose to sleep in during class. It was surprising that he was in the same classes as you or any of your courses at all, considering how he could’ve taken them all at a higher level. You wondered if he just chose not to, for whatever reason. If it were you in his place, you likely would have stayed back to remain with your friends. You would’ve done anything to be by their side.

Outside your room, the rumbling of thunder could be heard. Glancing out the window, you saw a brief flash of lightning. The storm came on fast. You actually quite appreciated stormy weather. While most people held disdain for it, you found the roar of thunder soothing in some strange way. You continued looking out the window, watching as the strikes of lightning lit up the sky like New Year’s Eve, counting down the seconds until the sound of thunder was heard. You didn’t need to do so; you knew you were safe in your home, but nonetheless, it had become a habit of yours.

“Do you know how to tell the distance between lightning and thunder?” Brian asked. The three of you were sprawled over the roofed area of the back porch, watching as droplets rained down upon you, the sky filled with dense, thick clouds.

“You just count the seconds in between,” you grumbled, thinking he was taking you for an idiot, “everyone knows that.”

“No, not exactly. You have to divide by three.” You rolled your eyes at Brian correcting you. He often did it, and while you were impressed by all the random facts he knew, you didn’t appreciate being constantly wrong, even though you were accustomed to feeling stupid around Brian. After all, you copied off his homework. It wasn’t solely because you were lazy. That alone said enough.

“Aw, is someone pouting now?”

Tim loved teasing you and now was no exception. It was a common occurrence that he would be getting on the last of your nerves while Brian was audience to it. You knew that Brian would step in if things got too far, but until then, he found amusement in the petty squabbles you two would have. He just didn’t show it.

“Shut up. I’ll beat your ass.” you jokingly threatened Tim, but if he ever pushed it, you wouldn’t hesitate to make truth of your threat, and the both of you knew that. It didn’t happen as often as it used to; however, you regularly got into fights when you were younger. Back then, you were stronger than him, and your battles tended to result in Tim getting upset and then complaining to Brian, who always played peacekeeper. Things changed after puberty. You stood at an unfortunate [height] while Tim had grown to an approximate 180, and while he wasn’t as tall as Brian—who was at least 185cm—he had the muscle to make up for it. You no longer stood a chance against him, let alone be able to win fights like you did pre-puberty. However, the two of you would still play fight, and he’d still entertain you and go easy. Tim had accidentally used too much strength a few times, and you’d get a minor injury of sorts, but those times were far and few between.

Whenever that happened, Tim always insisted that he didn’t care and that you had it coming, all while Brian would be helping you up and telling Tim off. You never took it personally when it happened since you were friends, and you did kind of have it coming. As much as he would say he didn’t feel bad, you know that he secretly did because he was always friendlier than usual for the upcoming days afterwards.

“One Mississippi.” Tim counted, interrupting your thoughts. There had been a flash of lightning.

“Two Mississippi.” Your turn. It would be Brian after.

“Three Mississippi,” he said, right on time.

The three of you counted to twelve in turn before the inevitable crash of thunder was heard, a deep rumbling that shook the skies.

“Four kilometres.” Brian noted, and you replied, “Yeah, we get it. You’re good at math.”

Tim snickered. “Not like it’s basic math or anything.”

He earned himself a light smack on the upper arm. You saw the corners of his mouth twitch upwards right before he jumped on you, tackling you to the ground. You wrestled against his grip, which he never held too firmly, and you managed to eventually roll out from underneath him, panting for air.

“You two are children,” Brian commented, stifling a giggle.

“You’re the same age as us!” you yelled.

“Not maturity-wise,” he responded.

“Whatever you say.” you scoffed at him, crossing your arms over your chest, beginning to pout.

As the three of you turned your attention back to the storm brewing above, you watched in unison the bright flashes of the sky and counted in unison the seconds between the next clap of thunder. Eventually, you started feeling cold, asking to return indoors.

And so you did, but that was not the last time there was a storm, nor was it the last time the three of you counted for it. You had been together counting for every storm since, almost like a tradition, and as the three of you were rarely apart, you had not missed a single one since.

Now that it was just you, you vowed to continue your tradition. For them. In memory of them.

You were still clutching Brian’s notebook, gaze frozen towards the window, when you slowly woke from your daze. You absentmindedly flipped through the rest of the pages in the notebook until you noticed something odd that caught your eye. Flipping back a few pages to where you had seen it, you looked at the doodle on the page. It was a small, crudely scribbled drawing of something resembling a stick man with many trees surrounding him. Seven, to be exact. You frowned. You found something about the drawing eerie and unsettling, but you weren’t sure what exactly it was. Maybe it was just the fact that Brian never typically drew, or it was the lack of context behind the drawing, or perhaps the strange style in which it was drawn, resembling a child’s art in one of those classic horror movies. Why had Brian drawn this? Did it matter? You weren’t sure of the answer.

Lightning flashed outside your window, a bright beam shooting down from the sky. You began your count, “One Mississippi, two Mi—” and then you were cut off by the loud crash of thunder. You didn’t know how to do the exact math, but you were sure it would equal less than a kilometre, the closest it’s ever been. Previously, you had only counted up to three Mississippis, and it was with Tim and Brian. You shuddered, a chill running over your skin, the air in the room suddenly dropping a few degrees.

It couldn’t have been anything. Surely not. There’s nothing objectively wrong right now; I should just calm down. Taking a deep and slow inhale, you tried to steady your breathing and heartbeat, which was beginning to accelerate. Breathing out, you closed the notebook shut, putting it back inside the cardboard box. You did the same with the hoodie, and you pushed down the two flaps of cardboard on top, closing it and then placing it back inside the closet. Back where it belonged. A case safely storing your memories, something to be left in the closet, doors shut, lingering in the past—it was anything but.

You had told yourself that you would leave it here, leave the box of things here and all the memories attached to it in this home. You would start anew, meet new people, befriend them, look towards the future, and forget about the past. But deep down in your heart, you knew you just couldn’t do it. While you had given up on finding them sometime around a year ago, after exhausting your efforts and staying up each night, you hadn’t moved on. From the search, perhaps, but not from the loss. As you glanced at the box you had just placed down, you already knew it would be coming with you to your new apartment.

And that each time you missed home, you could take out the box and still feel like a small part of them was with you. It could almost be as if they never left your side. Like they were still here. Like things were normal.

Like your world hadn’t fallen apart right in front of your eyes.

Crawling into bed, you pulled the covers over your body, deciding it was a good day for an early bedtime. Hiding in the comfort of your sheets, you counted the distance between the times your bedroom was set alight and listened as the thunder cried, slowly drifting off to sleep.

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