#but I’ll call my doc on Monday

[cabbybaby]

sigh x 2

[dixons-sunshine]

Irish Man In A Closet | Murphy MacManus x Fem!Reader

A/N: Welcome to the first installment of “Murphy Mondays”! I’ve decided to dedicate Mondays to my favourite Irish man to get some more writing done for him. Anyways, I hope y’all like this!

The sound of rock music playing could faintly be heard through the walls of the supply closet. Joyous laughter and calls for more shots could be heard as well, though those sounds were drown out by the more prominent sounds of gasps and light moans that traveled between you and Murphy.

“Murphy,” you gasped out when he nibbled lightly on the sensitive spot right below your jaw. You tilted your head back against the wall Murphy had you pinned against. “I gotta get back to work.” Murphy simply hummed and continued his onslaught of kisses, trailing down your neck. “Murph, I’m serious. I can’t lose this job.”

“Nah, you won’t,” Murphy denied in a murmur against the skin of your neck. “Doc loves ya. He’d rather come to work naked than fire you.” His lips trailed back up your neck, up your jaw and stopped to hover just above your lips. “It won’t matter if you decided to bail now to, I don’t know, come back home with me?”

A light laugh escaped your lips, one that was muffled when Murphy slanted his lips across yours again. His hands trailed up from your hips, all the way up to your face to gently and tenderly cup your cheeks in his hands, the gesture a stark contrast to his rough, calloused hands. You slightly pulled away from the kiss, your hands on his chest to halt him when he tried to chase your lips with his. You giggled and shook your head.

“Woah there, cowboy. I’m serious. I’ve gotta get back to work.” The look on Murphy’s face was both amusing and almost made you give in to what he wanted. His ocean-coloured eyes looked deep into your own, the man behind them trying his best to convince you with his version of puppy dog eyes. However, you managed to hold on to your resolve. “That isn’t going to work on me, Murph.”

A mischievous smile broke out on his face. “Can’t blame a man for tryin’, las.” He sighed and took a step back, reluctantly forcing himself to be rational. What you said was true. You did need to go back to work. It certainly didn’t mean he had to like it, however.

You smiled at him and stepped away from the wall. Your hand came up to gently cup his cheek, your thumb rubbing over his skin affectionately. “I get off in an hour. How about you take me home?”

Murphy could instantly understand the implication behind the otherwise innocent statement. He nodded his head vigorously. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do that.”

“Good.” You leaned up to press a chaste kiss to his lips before withdrawing. You began to fiddle with your clothes and hair, hoping to fix your disheveled appearance. “How do I look?”

Murphy couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at his lips. “You look like ya just made out with an Irish man in a closet.” He laughed when you sent him an exasperated look, one that clearly told him to be serious. “Ya look fine, love. I promise.” He gave you one final kiss before turning towards the door. “Don’t forget whatever Doc sent you in here for.” With that, he left the supply closet.

You exhaled deeply and quickly grabbed the thing you had been asked to go get—the mop—before exiting the supply closet as well. You walked back into the main area of the bar and behind the counter, when you heard Connor’s voice ring out from the other side of the counter.

“Well, well. Would you look at that? I was right. Murphy did follow you to the supply closet, didn’t he?”

“Shut up, Connor. I told you, I went to the bathroom.”

“Oh? Didn’t realize Y/N changed her name to ‘the bathroom’.”

[discokicks]

BAD IDEAS (ON THE SAME PAGE) — JAMIE TARTT

a fic inspired by bad idea right by olivia rodrigo!

masterlist! song inspo! AO3!

pairing: jamie tartt x fem!reader (no use of y/n!)

summary: football star jamie tartt is an asshole. he’s the one ex of yours that your friends always hated, one that you now all joke about, and one you haven’t spoken to in four years. however, after a chance encounter, the two of you reconnect, and he leaves you with his new number and a hundred questions about his reformed personality. but seeing him tonight would be a bad idea, right?

word count & rating: 11k (wowza), M! (18+! minors get away or i’ll narc on you to your guardians)

warnings: SMUUUUUUT, porn with plot, lots of suggestive language, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, sprinkling of a handjob, unprotected p in v (wrap it up kids), angst, mentions of alcohol, probable secondhand embarrassment, exes reuniting (it needs a warning sometimes), jamie tartt was an asshole and is now just a prick (in the best way possible), reader is a physio, major fluff, and swearing. also reader is american (bc the author is too. sorry </3)

authors note: well. i wrote it. olivia wrote this song for teenage girls in their twenties (me) only and i immediately thought of this fic the second i heard it. i'm calling this an exercise in smut writing before i embark on my aces (my roy kent series for my new friends) eventual-smut-adventure, so this evolved into something i wasn’t expecting but i had so much fucking fun writing it. god, i love jamie tartt. also! this is my first smut fic at this type of level, so go easy on me. hope you all enjoy. love you all tons! -mags

There are two universal truths in life. 

The first is that the coffee shop you frequent on your way to work will and will always have the best cold brew you’ve ever tasted. The second is that Jamie Tartt will and will always be a massive fucking prick, and you’ll never see him again for as long as you live.

These are two things you live by, and while they may seem rather mundane or petty in the grand scheme of things, they are the only truths you can count on these days. Especially when everything else is so up in the air.

However, the universe doesn’t seem to believe in these things as blindly as you do, and this becomes evident the moment that you step into the shop on a gloomy Wednesday morning. Because these two truths (well, they’re fucking bald-faced lies now aren’t they, huh?) are broken within approximately two minutes of each other with seven words.

It began when you greeted Natalia, the barista who was here every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday before your shift at the clinic with a wide smile. As soon as she saw your face, her expression turned apologetic, albeit a bit dazed.

“You’re gonna hate me,” she says, putting her hands on either side of the register. Your brows shot up at her words. “We just ran out of cold brew.”

Your face falls. “You’re kidding.”

“We were low on it this morning,” she starts to explain, “our stupid night-shifters didn’t prep enough last night. And it’s been selling like crazy today.”

“Seriously?” you nearly whine. “I might cry.”

“I’m sorry, Doc,” she apologizes, but she doesn’t sound too apologetic. Natalia’s eyes keep shifting to your left, the dazed look in her eye never faltering. Then, she says the fated seven words. “But he took the last of it.”

You turn your head in the direction she’s been looking, and your blood runs completely cold. You think you could drop dead and go to hell at this very moment, and it’d be a better existence than what awaits you in the next five minutes. And while this all may sound dramatic, you don’t care. 

You don’t care because Jamie fucking Tartt is standing across from you, newly long hair peeking out from beneath his hood. He’s engrossed in whatever’s on his phone, fingers flying back and forth like he’s texting. 

You think you could run. You’re pretty sure you could successfully make a break for it and leave Natalia high and dry without him seeing you. It’d be an easy exit, and you’d never have to see him again.

But then, as if he can feel your eyes on him, he looks up. And the second he meets your gaze, his face falls in what you can imagine was a similar fashion to yours. 

Fuck.

Luckily, Natalia is none the wiser. She barely notices your expression, and with Jamie by the pick-up area, she can’t see the way he’s looking at you. So, instead of questioning you, she straight-up giggles.

“I know,” she practically squeals. “I was totally going to save you the last of it, but he asked for it. And I mean, c’mon. It’s Jamie Tartt. I couldn’t possibly say no to him.”

You tragically know that feeling all too well. Knowing you probably would have had a snappier, more cutting response to that if you weren’t in the most debilitating phase of shock, you settle for a quiet, “It’s okay.” You nod at her, brushing it off in an attempt to be casual. “I can settle for an espresso today.”

Natalia nods, tapping it into her register. “Same size as usual?”

“Yeah,” you say, not completely sure what you’re agreeing to. You glance over again at Jamie and find that he’s still standing there, staring at you, and you immediately blink away. “That’s fine.”

The rest of the transaction feels as though it takes a millennium and three seconds all at once. You’re still caught off guard by the time Natalia gives you your receipt with a dazed look in your eye that now matches hers. 

However, yours isn’t because you just saw your favorite Richmond player or your favorite reality show villain. It’s because you’ve just seen your ex-boyfriend and you’re about to walk over and stand next to him for a prolonged period of time.

Nothing about this scenario feels real. You hadn’t seen him in four years. Not since things ended as ugly as they had, with him leaving you sobbing outside of a club at three in the morning, letting you know that things were over between you two. And he hadn’t even given you a reason. It was just that he wasn’t ‘feeling’ it anymore.

You saw in a tabloid about three months later that he was now seeing Keeley Jones (yeah, having to compete with that did not sit well with you at all) and had drawn your assumptions from there. Whether or not he’d been seeing her behind your back or had broken up with you to be with her, you didn’t know. You didn’t care. You were in your anger stage of the break-up and only knew one thing.

Jamie Tartt was a massive fucking prick, and you’d sooner walk on a bed of nails before you saw him again.

But now here he was. And there were no nails to be found.

You avoid eye contact as you pass him to wait for your coffee. There’s a piece of you that wants to say hi and play it cool, just to put on a show for him about how unaffected you were by everything that had happened. The other piece of you hopes that not a word is said for your entire time here.

Unfortunately, neither of those happen.

Jamie slides over to be near you, awkwardly rocking back and forth on his heels. His hands are stuffed in his sweatshirt pocket, and you wait for him to say something. Anything. But he doesn’t.

Instead, you can feel the ‘play it cool’ part of you rise up to the surface. You could do this. You could feign indifference. Fuck him, you could be cool.

You glance over at him and see that he’s pressing his lips together, eyes shifting around the coffee shop. It’s crazy how familiar you still are with his tells to know he’s desperately looking for a way to say something. 

You say it for him. “Hi,” you say simply. Cool and unaffected.

It’s as if the one word alone makes him flinch. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to say anything. “Hi—” He clears his throat after his greeting comes out cracked, and he stuffs his hands further in his pockets. “Hey.”

The awkwardness of this moment is killing you, and it’s taking everything in you to pretend like it's not. As you search for something else to say, you land on, “You took my cold brew.”

You can see his brows shoot up out of the corner of your eye. “Oh, fuck, did I?” 

You nod slowly. “Yeah,” you tell him. “I come in here every morning. Friends with the barista. Said she was going to save me the last of it, but…” You trail off and finally look at him. “She couldn’t say no to Jamie Tartt, apparently.”

You want to jump up and down about how well you’re doing right now. Maybe you are over him. Maybe you’ve finally moved past this shit, and seeing him once more is all you needed to solidify that. Maybe—

The second he chuckles softly with an apologetic smile, your confidence in those things shoots down. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“Since when do you drink cold brew, anyway?” you ask, frustrated with the fact that he’s fucking laughing in front of you. “You were always a like, caramel macchiato or frappuccino asshole.”

The names make him laugh harder, shaking his head. “Don’t like those anymore,” he responds. “Sugar hurts me teeth. Tryin’ somethin’ new.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “My fucking coffee.”

That chuckle continues with a shrug. “I’m sorry.” he says again. Then he pauses. “But it’s not like your name was on it, or anythin’.”

Your face draws blank, and immediately, Jamie can tell he’s made a misstep. And it’s not that you’re angry about the joke, it’s just the… everything. Him. The situation. Everything you can remember that you wonder if he bothers to remember too.

Before you can walk away, you feel his hand on your arm. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he repeats for a third time, turning you so that you’ll look at him. Your pissed-off expression meets his easy smile and it only fuels your anger more. “I was jokin’. I’m sorry I took your coffee. We can get ‘em to put your name on it if you want.”

“Whatever,” you mutter. It’s not the most mature thing you could have said, but frankly, you don’t care. You just want to get your consolation espresso and get the hell out of here. “What are you even doing over here anyway?”

You’re not sure why you ask it. You don’t know why you keep the conversation going. Jamie looks just as surprised as you are. “I moved over here a couple weeks ago,” he answers. “Got sick of the old place.”

“Can’t imagine why,” you reply. By the way that Jamie snorts, you know he recalls just how much you hated his apartment when you knew him. It screamed twenty-two-year-old AFC-money shithead and you would tease him about it constantly. “Was the empty beer bottle sculpture finally giving you mold poisoning?”

He chuckles again. “That came down shortly after we stopped talking.”

“Oh, so I was just lucky enough to see it in its final days?”

“Oi,” he says, pointing at you. “That thing was fuckin’ impressive and you know it.”

“Impressive in a dorm,” you shoot back. “Not a seven million pound flat.”

He bows his head in a guilty manner. “You remember that, huh?”

“Hard not to,” you answer. “You never stopped talking about it.”

He at least has the decency to wince at that one. “I know,” he says earnestly. It makes you look at him. He shrugs once more. “I wanted to impress ya.”

He did impress you. But not with things like that. He’d impress you when you watched him play, he’d impress you when he made you laugh, and he’d impress you on the rare occasion that he’d just be himself in front of you. Not some asshole footballer. Just him.

But you don’t say that. You say, “That wasn’t the way.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “Got that now.” He rocks back on his heels again, like he’s not sure if he should say whatever he wants to. “I was a proper fucking dick to you, wasn’t I?”

That almost makes you fall over. Did he just say that? Did he actually just admit that? Out loud, here, for everyone to hear? Accountability? Unprompted? From Jamie Tartt? 

You want to glance around to see if Rod Sterling’s going to emerge from the bathroom to narrate the next couple of minutes of your life, but are too shocked to do so. 

Your surprise must show in your eyes, because Jamie laughs to himself. “Yeah. Wild, innit?” He shakes his head. “On a bit of an apology tour this year. Trying to build back some bridges, or whatever.”

The nod you give him is slow, still reeling from all of this. “Right,” you say lamely. “Building bridges.”

“I’m serious,” he tells you and for a brief moment, you think he may just mean it. The sincerity in his eyes is clear. “I was terrible to you. And I’m sorry.”

Whatever you were expecting when you stepped into this coffee shop on this rainy Wednesday, it certainly wasn’t this. And you certainly weren’t expecting your first time reuniting with him to go this way— with him apologizing to you. The actual words ‘I’m sorry’ just left his mouth. 

You genuinely don’t know who this is. Because it’s certainly not the Jamie you knew.

You saw flashes of this guy. Quiet moments during your short-lived relationship, typically when it was just the two of you. It’s the type of guy you always knew he could be if he tried. The type of guy you pushed him to be. 

(Your friends always taunted you about having the ever-horrendous I-can-fix-him gene, and they never quite let go of it. But it’s not like it wasn’t true.)

Those flashes are why you held out for as long as you did. If it were anyone else, any other asshole who treated you the way he did, you would have dropped them in a second. But he wasn’t like that. Not always, at least.

It was terrible to think like that. You’d been in a low spot when you’d met him and had taken even lower when he left you. You’d recovered tenfold from that and now knew your worth. 

But as he stands in front of you, apologizing, genuinely apologizing, and looking at you like that, you start to question it.

No! the logical part of your brain practically screams. Don’t you fucking dare.

You’re keen to listen to that for the time being. It hardens you. And all you can do is nod at him again. “Well, uh—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You cough awkwardly. “Yeah. You were. Terrible to me. And, uh… thank you. For saying that.”

So much for playing it cool. You want to slam your head up against the wall but hold yourself back from doing so.

He nods at you, opening his mouth to say something else before he’s interrupted by one of the baristas calling your name. His cold brew’s sitting on the counter too, something the two of you clearly missed in the middle of your conversation.

When you reach for your drink, he grabs his too. He’s still staring at you, biting the inside of his cheek like he wants to say something. When you go to move around him, he stops you.

“Look, I just—” You look up at him expectantly, and his shoulders deflate. “I know you probably want nothin' to do with me. But, I just… I want to talk to you.”

Your espresso is hot in your hands. “Well, that sounds like a you problem.”

That’s when he says your name. Your actual name. Not the nickname that everyone calls you, not a pet name that he used to use, he says your name. And it makes you stop in your tracks.

It’s so stupid. It’s so fucking dumb that your fucking name can send you back to the day you first met him and were completely taken with him. You hate it. And you hate the way it makes your walls come crumbling down.

“Please,” he begs. “Can we… Can I at least give you my number? It’s a new one, but I-I think I’ve still got yours. You don’t have to use it if you don’t want to. But just so you can… I don’t know? Think about it?”

You wouldn’t know if he still had your number. You blocked him ages ago. But you doubt it. 

However, the more you think about it, the more you consider it. It’s the product of your resolve falling and well, everything else about him now. You think about it.

If you allowed him to give you his number, the ball would be in your court. You could do what you wanted with it. You could text him, you could tell him to fuck off, you could ignore him. It was up to you. 

And you don’t know if that’s worse or better.

You decide on better. The second you sigh, Jamie knows he’s got you. A wide grin breaks out on his face as you hand him your phone. “I’ll think about it,” you mutter. 

That’s good enough for him. He gives your phone back to you, new number inserted and new contact created. You’re glad he didn’t search for his old one. That one just says ASSHOLE in big capital letters with about a million gun emojis. 

(That was done by your previous roommates in an effort to get you to move on from him. You thought it was a bit overdramatic. You were never one for emojis.)

He’s smiling when he holds his coffee out for you. You stare at him blankly, thinking he’s attempting to cheers you. Instead, he shakes his head and says, “Take it.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Trade with me,” he clarifies and your expression turns to one of shock. “C’mon. You said it’s yours anyway, right?” When you don’t move he rolls his eyes. “Offer’s only good for another second. Me arm’s getting tired.”

At that, you sigh rather dramatically and grumble to yourself, trying not to act pleased by the gesture. You hand him your coffee and he gives you his. “Thanks,” you say. It was kind of him. 

His grin returns and he nods at you. “Alright,” he says. After a slightly awkward beat, he steps back from you. “It was good to see you, Doc. Really.” You’re taken back by how genuine his voice sounds and say nothing in return. “I’ll talk to you later?”

He says it as a question, hopeful and well-meaning. “Yeah,” you tell him noncommittally. “Maybe.”

That too, is good enough for him. Because he sends you one more smile, then walks out of the coffee shop with your espresso in hand. 

You’re still reeling from the interaction when you glance down at his your cold brew and see Natalia’s handwriting. She’s made it just as you like it, down to the milk and everything.

But below it is a small drawing. It’s a tiny shark fin with a #9 written inside, with little lettering circling around it.

Doo-doo-do-doo-do-do-doo.

You’re fucked.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” is the question that your best friend and former roommate Leah screams at you over drinks at a busy rooftop bar. So busy, in fact, that barely anyone looks over at the two of you.

You’d made the mistake of telling Leah that not only had you run into Jamie on Wednesday, but you’d let him give you his number. 

And you’d texted him after hours of deliberation.

It was something innocent, something you’d thought way too much about, but innocent still. You weren’t sure if you were ready to actually talk to him, but there was something about texting him that wasn’t so scary. Your guard was clearly still up, evident by how dry you were in your messages, and you were keeping your distance. You never texted back too quickly, didn’t ask many questions, and often left him on read. 

(Yeah, you’d turned your read receipts on for him. What about it?)

Your first text was a simple enough question, something that you’d been genuinely wondering about since you saw him. It was open enough for a conversation but not too forward. how’d you know my coffee order?

His response came in minutes later. Is that yours? Good taste. It was shortly followed up with, That espresso you drink was fucking disgusting though.

And that was that. That was how you started texting your ex again. That’s how you reconnected yourself with Jamie Tartt. That’s how you knew it was over for you.

And that’s how you’re pretty sure you’re about to kill your best friend.

Leah’s eyes were wild, somehow angry yet still disbelieving yet intrigued. But the intrigue was very minimal. Very minimal. It was hidden well by how pissed off she was at you.

She had every right to be pissed at you. She was the one who always warned you about him. She’d straight-up nursed you back to health when you broke up. She was the one who had to hear about him 24 hours a day until you were finally over him.

Leah had had a year of peace. And now you were killing her for good.

“You’re kidding, right?” she follows up with. Her grip on your arm is tight. “Please tell me your kidding.”

“Leah…” Your voice is weak.

It tells her everything she needs to know. “Oh, my God! Oh, my. God.” She puts her face in her hands. “You’re insane. You’re fucking losing it and we need to have you checked out right now.”

“I’m completely sentient and in control of my own body.”

“Are you sure?”

You sip at your cocktail. “I reset a knee today. I’m pretty sure.”

“I think you might need to reconsider,” she says. “Because you just told me that not only are you talking to Jamie Tartt again, but you were the one who instigated it!”

You deserve this verbal beatdown and you know it. But all you can do is shrug. “Technically, he gave me his number. He’s the one who instigated it.”

“I’m gonna throw my fucking drink in your face,” Leah threatens, gripping her glass in warning. 

You roll your eyes at her. “Nothing’s gonna happen,” you say, even though you know you’re probably lying. Leah knows this too. “We’ve just been texting a little. It’s nothing serious.”

“Yeah, sure,” she deadpans. “Right. And even if I did believe you, what happens if it does? What happens if you get back in your weird, scary Jamie phase and he kills you again? I can’t deal with that.”

“That’s not going to happen,” you assure her, and this time it’s more confident. Because you know you won’t. Not this time. Not if anything happens.

You’d met Jamie when you were twenty-two. You were in your first year of your Masters program, slightly lost as in your move to London to finish your journey to become a physical therapist. Or a physio, as they called it here. Whatever. You couldn’t keep up with the names. 

You were shadowing a physio at the clinic you now worked at, assisting him as a part of your internship at one of the football tournaments the clinic worked at. It was a ton of big-wig footballers, some names you recognized, others you didn’t. But it didn’t matter. They were precious fucking cargo and you were so paranoid about screwing up that you barely registered who they were when you worked on them.

That was, until a twenty-two-year-old Jamie Tartt sprained his ankle and plopped himself down on your doctor’s bench. He looked at you, you assisted him, and you were wrapped up in what you were doing that you didn’t even notice he was flirting with you. 

You didn’t realize until he asked you out. And the rest was history, for better or for worse.

You were surprised he went for you. You knew who Jamie was, what type of girls he liked to be seen with. They were singers and models and actresses. They weren’t you. 

(Perhaps that’s one of the reasons you liked him so much. Because he chose you. You didn’t like to think about that phase of your life.) 

But after six months of seeing him, he ended things out of nowhere. Right when you’d settled on the idea that despite it all, you might be in love with him. And that was that.

You hadn’t seen him since. Not until this week.

“Not gonna happen my ass,” Leah scoffs, bringing you back into the conversation at hand.

A sigh of frustration leaves your lips. “Listen, I know it’s a bad idea;” you tell her. “I know it is. But, I don’t know. There was something different about him, Leah. He was just… like not someone I recognized.”

“Maybe because his hair is fucking long and stupid now.” She brings her glass to her lips. “His highlights look horrendous.”

“I actually like his hair like this,” you admit, earning yet another eye roll. “Listen. I’m not saying he’s changed. He probably hasn’t. But I…” You trail off with a shrug. “I don’t know. What if he has?”

Leah’s looking at you like you’re the dumbest person she’s ever met in her life. “Are you hearing yourself right now?” she asks incredulously. “Babe, he was a prick to you. Like, category-five, prestige-level twat. Like, worst boyfriend you’ve ever had.”

“I know,” you repeat. “And I said nothing’s going to happen. But if it does, and it goes south, I give you full permission to say I-told-you-so for the rest of my life, alright?”

Leah bites the inside of her cheek, shaking her head. “Whatever,” she says. After a moment, she glances over at you. “I’m just looking out for you, y’know. I don’t want to see you hurt again. And I definitely don’t want him to be the reason for that hurt again.”

You grab her hand. “I know,” you say once more. “And I love you for it. But if I’m gonna be stupid, I’m fully aware of when I’m gonna do it. And it’s gonna be my own fault.”

There’s a moment of silence between the two of you before Leah nods. “Okay,” she finally says. “Okay. Fine. Your fucking funeral.”

“I’ll let you give the eulogy and allow you to call me a dumb bitch for ten minutes straight.”

“Sold,” Leah says, pointing at you. That slight intrigue you previously saw in her eye returns. “Okay, now that I’ve yelled at you, you need to tell me everything.”

And so you do. You tell her how he took your coffee, how you nearly threw up the second you saw him, how you played it cool until you didn’t. How he apologized to you. Joked around with you. Apologized some more. And then he gave you his coffee. 

You despise how excited you sound about it. Again, you’re trying to play it cool, but the people that know you the best can always see right through you. You’re excited about it. Excited about him.

It’s a bad idea to be excited about him.

It’s a bad idea to look down at your phone after you and Leah order another drink. Your heart stops when you see he’s texted you. 

It’s a bad idea to open the message when Leah excuses herself to go to the bathroom. What are you up to tonight? 

It’s past midnight on a Saturday and he’s texting you. It’s still preseason for him, so he might be drunk, he may not be. You’re three drinks deep and aren’t sure if you are.

It’s a bad idea to respond to him. getting drinks with a friend. You keep it dry.

It’s a bad idea to not look down at your phone until you finish the drinks you ordered. Because now, you’re definitely drunk and looking at it all with new eyes. 

Would you want to hang out tonight? No pressure.

It’s a bad idea to consider it. 

But it’s a worse idea to agree.

text me your new address. i can be there by 1:30.

Before you know what you’re doing, you’re knocking on Jamie’s door, intertwining your fingers together when you realize you’re shaking.

The second you do it, you regret it. You’re no longer feeling the effects of your drinks. It wore off on the Uber ride over here. And everything seems like a terrible idea now.

God, what were you doing? He treated you like that and the second you see him again, you go running back? He was an asshole. He’d made you question everything about yourself, he’d made you cry, he’d made you experience every fucking emotion in the book and all it took is one text for you to be back on his doorstep?

Your roommate was right. This was a horrendous idea and you were an idiot.

However, none of that matters. It doesn’t matter because Jamie Tartt’s opening his door and he’s got a stupid fucking smile on his face. And the second you see it, you know there’s no turning back.

“Hey,” he says as he opens the door. “You alright, love?”

You clench your jaw at the name, at his smile, about how casual he’s being, about everything. “Hey,” you say, avoiding his eyes to look around his flat. 

It’s a complete 180 from what he had when he first joined Richmond and what he had when you knew him. It’s a bit less mojo-dojo-casa-house-looking and something more mature. While you can still tell that a twenty-something guy definitely lives here, it’s decorated well, it’s put together, and it’s clean. No beer bottle sculptures in sight. He’s even got a fucking candle burning on his counter. Who the fuck is this and what did he do with the guy you knew?

Jamie follows you as you enter, wiping his hands on his sweatpants. “You find the place okay?”

His question snaps you out of your flat-induced haze. “Yeah,” you reply. You clear your throat. “This is nice.”

That same, stupid smile returns, but it looks a bit nervous. “Yeah. I told you it was a bit different, huh?” he chuckles. He walks toward his island, rounding it as he speaks. “Needed a fresh start or whatever. The old one was gettin’... old.” He watches you as you nod, continuing to look around. “You still in the same place with the same people?”

“Uh, no. Different place. No people,” you answer. You’ve stayed on your side of the counter, actively keeping your distance. “Willa moved to New York last year and Leah moved with her boyfriend. We live in the same building, though, which is nice.”

The small talk is fucking killing you. You’re not even sure if he cared to remember your previous roommates' names, so this all could be pointless. You can’t believe you’re here. You can’t believe you’re actually standing here, talking to him about the past. 

But as you finish speaking, he nods like he’s listening. Maybe he is listening. Maybe he does remember. 

“I’ll have to see that sometime,” he ends up saying, and the implication of it makes your head spin. He wants to see you again. Or he just learned small talk common courtesy. Whatever it is, it’s driving you insane. You have so many questions for him, so many things to say, and as he wipes his hands on his pants again and nods over to his kitchen, he asks, “Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got—”

“Why did you invite me here, Jamie?” The question comes spilling out of you, rushed as if it were waiting on the tip of your tongue and simply couldn’t stand to stay in any longer. Jamie stops in his tracks to blink at you. The look on his face encourages you to go on. “I mean, I know I texted you first. But why… why did you text me tonight? Why’d you—” You grimace, trying to find the right words. “Why’d you give me your number?”

He’s silent for a moment. Thinking. Evaluating. But his eyes haven’t left you. “Because I wanted you here,” he finally says. You cross your arms over your chest as he takes a step toward you. “Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since I saw you.”

You want to say that you’ve been driven crazy all week because you feel same, but decide against it. Instead, you look away from him and scoff. “Right.”

“I’m serious,” he tells you, and your heart stops with every step he takes. “I felt like I was goin’ insane. I didn’t…” For a flash of a second, he looks shy. “I didn’t think I’d see you again. And I didn’t think you’d actually text me. I mean, I hoped you would, but…”

He’s right in front of you, but you still refuse to look at him. Your gaze has shifted to the floor. “I shouldn’t have,” you mutter.

The asshole has the nerve to chuckle, but it’s nervous. Your stomach churns. You’re not sure if you’ve ever heard him nervous. “No, you probably shouldn’t have,” he agrees. “I don’t deserve it.” He pauses and your throat starts to tighten. “I didn’t deserve you.”

That makes you look at him. Either he’s actually apologetic about everything, or he’s gotten really good at knowing everything you want to hear. “No. You didn’t.”

His fingers tentatively brush your arm and you allow him to take your hand. “I know,” he says. “I was a fucking prick. I get that now. I should never have… done that shit to ya.” You’re close enough to him now that if you moved an inch, his forehead would be up against yours. He brings your hand up to his mouth, pressing a feather-light kiss to the back of it. The action makes your throat tighten. “And I can’t fix it. But I…” He trails off again and looks you dead in the eye once he has the words. “I want to make it up to you.”

Your resolve is getting weaker and you hate yourself for it. You lean back against the counter, like that will put space between you two. “Jamie…”

“Please,” he whispers. His forehead finally meets yours. You can feel his breath on your lips. You don’t pull away. “Let me make it up to you.”

The last front you have standing weakly presents itself. “If you think,” you begin, breath shuddering as his hand meets your neck, “that one 2 AM hookup is going to make up for what you did, I—”

“I know it won’t,” he says, and it sounds like he does know. “But I want it to be a start.” The fingers on your neck are now tracing your jaw. And they tighten when he says, “Let me show you just how sorry I am, yeah? Let me make it fucking good for you.”

Jesus fucking Christ. That last front dissolves the second he says that, and your logic flips on itself. You came over here for a reason. You knew what this was. At least you got an overdue apology. Whether or not he meant it, is still up in the air, but if he’s promising things like that, then you might as well get something out of it.

You struggle to get a word out, so you nod against his hand. “O-Okay,” you finally stammer out. The way he’s looking at you gives you enough confidence to say, “Fine. Make it up to me.”

Jamie’s lips curl into a smirk and say, “As you wish,” before they’re on yours.

He’s softer than you remember. His lips aren’t chapped, he isn’t as aggressive with it, and he isn’t as rushed. Everything about him feels more mature and you struggle to understand how fast he could have changed in four years. But you’re not complaining. Not when he’s kissing you like this, with more practice and passion than you can ever recall.

His hand unlocks from yours to slide it up your sweatshirt, and it’s surprisingly warm against your back. Still, you shiver from the contact and you can feel him smirk once more against your lips. 

The action alone prompts you to fork a hand in his hair and tug at it slightly, reveling in the soft sound that escapes him. Everything about him comes back to you at once, and you’ve never been happier to know that the same things still get him. If he wants to play it like that, you can keep up.

His hands drop to grab your thighs and lift you onto the counter, breaking the kiss momentarily. Your chest is heaving up and down, lips swollen and wet. Jamie appears to be in the same boat. “Fuck,” he whispers, sounding even more out of breath than you. He dips his head to press a kiss to your neck, nose rubbing against it as he makes his way down. “You look fucking gorgeous, by the way. Meant to tell you that at the shop.”

You’re too caught up in it all to play it cool, especially as he works at that one spot on your neck. “You look— fuck, you look good too. The long hair suits you.”

You feel him grin against your neck. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agree breathily. “Looked like a prick with the old cut.”

You feel his teeth dig into your skin at that one, and you hiss. “You liked that prick,” he reminds you.

You were in love with that prick, but you ignore that thought. “I liked a lot of things about him,” you respond. While it’s honest, the accidental double meaning of it isn’t lost on you.

It’s certainly not lost on Jamie. “Yeah?” he asks again. He lifts his head to look at you, hand creeping up your leg. “What’d you like?” You grip his arm as it rises beneath your sweatshirt once more. “C’mon love. Tell me what you want.”

You hate the way your breath hitches the second his fingers meet your back. You know what you want. You want to see what he’s learned since you last had him. What he’s like four years later. What’s changed, what’s stayed the same. But you’re too embarrassed and much too proud to ask.

Instead, you decide to say, much too shyly for your liking, “You know what I want.”

He hums in agreement, other hand creeping dangerously close to the inside of your thigh. “I do, don’t I?” he murmurs. “Bet I know everything ya want. But I wanna hear you say it.”

“Oh my, God,” you say under your breath, frustration creeping into your voice. The asshole fucking laughs at you. “I want you to make good on your promise. This seems far from it.”

“Right, right, I’m sorry,” he tells you. He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Just making sure we’re still, y’know. On the same page.” He glances at you. “Right?”

You blink at him. You’re not sure you could have been clearer about what page you’re on. But that’s not what surprises you. What surprises you is the seriousness in his eyes. How he’s searching for assurance in yours. And you know that if, for whatever godly reason, you wanted to stop, he’d pull away immediately, despite how worked up he clearly is. 

It's the bare fucking minimum, but it's more than you’re used to getting.

So, you nod. “Yeah,” you say. “Definitely on the same page.” 

The grin he breaks out to is nothing short of breathtaking. “Good.”

“But—” you suddenly say, stopping him from leaning in once more. He freezes beneath your touch, brows furrowing. “This is… This is a one-time thing. You’re…” You trail off to find the word. “You’re apologizing to me. That’s all this is.”

His smile falters, dropping momentarily before returning with a bit less radiance. It’s his turn to nod. “Okay,” he says, fingers now toying with the edge of your sweatshirt. “Gotta make it count, then.”

And with that, Jamie presses his lips back to yours, grabbing you securely and pulling you off the counter. Your legs wrap around his waist, grabbing the sides of his face, like that’ll stable you against him. 

This time, it’s more desperate. It’s more tongues and teeth, more force and intention behind each movement. He’s setting the pace, but you’re keeping up tenfold. While it’d been four years, you’re not sure if he’d ever kissed you like this. He’s passionate instead of aggressive. While he knows what he wants, he’s definitely not just going to take it. He may be leading but he’s listening to you. And that stirs something inside you that you haven’t felt in a long time.

That much is clear, because you unconsciously let out a quiet sound against his lips. You can feel him smiling once more as he walks you slowly to wherever the hell his bedroom is. You’re caught up in him. And by the way he’s gripping you, you can tell he’s just as caught up in you.

So much so, that he completely loses track of where he’s going and accidentally slams you into his doorframe. You yelp, more because of shock than pain, and pull away to glare at him.

Jamie’s already apologizing. “Sorry, sorry,” he says. “Still gettin’ used to this place.”

“Well, figure out how to navigate better,” you respond, verging on a pout as you rub the back of your head.

“I’m sorry!” he repeats. He’s still got you against the doorframe. “It’s hard to see with your big head in me face. And I can’t kiss ya with, like, my eyes open. It’d be freaky.”

“I’ll give you a pass for that one,” you reply dryly. “Be weird instead of giving me a concussion.”

He’s walking you toward the bed when he mutters, “I’ll give you something, alright.”

Your back meets the mattress and you try to ignore the way he held his hand behind your head when he laid you down. You have under a second to adjust before he’s on top of you. The desperation returns and it almost takes your breath away.

He’s essentially straddling you, tugging at the waist of your leggings before he leaves one last kiss on your lips. He finally gets to pull your sweatshirt off, something he’d clearly been dying to rid you of since he first kissed you. You lift your arms up to help him, finding that you quickly start to do the same to him. You hear him chuckle as you attempt to get it up his back.

“I got it, love, hold on,” he says softly, tossing your hoodie to the side to take off his own. Your eyes immediately go to his chest and stomach and you refrain from reaching out to touch him. When you look up at him, you expect him to be smirking. However, he’s doing the exact opposite.

Jamie’s looking down at you like he can’t fucking believe you’re real. It’s jarring, seeing him like this, but you figure he’s in the same headspace as you and is still struggling to process that this is happening. It doesn’t matter, because before you can question it, he’s moving to press a kiss to your collarbone.

Your hand falls into his hair as he works his way down, mouthing the area of your chest. He pauses before he gets to the bra you’re wearing. His eyes flick up to yours. “Can I—”

You’re nodding before he can even get the words out, shifting to make it easier for him. He discards it to the floor with the rest. When he looks back at you, he releases a shaky breath and just stares.

He stares so intently that you begin to get self-conscious. “What?” you ask.

The question takes Jamie out of his trance. He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. “I just— I… Fuck. I forgot how beautiful you were.”

That spreads a warmth through you, one that pulls at your core. As you feel your face heat, you realize you have nothing to say to that. Luckily, he’s already moving on.

Jamie’s different. Really different. And you don’t realize how different he is until you start looking at him like you are right now. You were trying to convince yourself when you told Leah that he’d changed, you’ll admit that. But right now, you think you may have been telling the truth.

He grabs the waist of your leggings once more, lifting your legs to pull them off. You can’t help the laugh that leaves your lips as he struggles to do so. He shakes his head with a soft smile. “Missed that.”

“What?” you ask again.

“Your laugh,” he replies. “Missed that more than you know.”

The sweet words hit you like a bullet. The vulnerability in his voice is what gets you. Goddammit, when did he get so fucking nice? It drives you insane. But it also makes you quietly admit, “I think I’ve got an idea.”

With your leggings now gone, Jamie’s smile turns fonder. Gentler. He presses a kiss to your leg but says nothing in response. He simply places your legs down, eyes flicking down. He lifts his hand to trace down your stomach, stopping at the edge of your panties. The feeling makes you flinch.

He hooks a finger in the band, and your hips buck up to encourage him. His other hand spreads across your hip in a poor effort to keep you still. “Easy,” he murmurs. 

You huff out a breath. “You can—” Your breath hitches as two of his fingers push into your underwear. “Fuck, you can take them off.”

His lips quirk up. “Well, thank you for the permission,” he says. “But not yet. I wanna take it slow with ya.”

Your mouth parts. “Why?”

“Because it’s been years since I’ve seen you,” he answers, moving up to kiss you softly. He speaks against your lips as he says, “And I’ve apparently only got one shot to do this right. So I’m gonna make this last.”

You roll your eyes at his terribly disguised jab. “You’re a dick,” you mutter against him.

“And you’re—” He cuts himself off and a gasp escapes your lips as he cups your core and rubs his palm against it. “Fuck, love. You’re really fucking wet.” He’s positioned on you so that you can feel him getting harder against you thigh. “This all for me, yeah?”

His voice is cocky, while still sounding awestruck. The remaining dignity you have left makes you roll your eyes, albeit a bit embarrassed. “It’s for whoever doesn’t take their fucking time to give me what I want,” you bite.

Jamie draws back from you with a full smirk on his face. “That so?” he asks. The hand against you starts creeping up to the band of your panties. “And what is it that you want? You still haven’t told me.”

You scoff. “I told you.”

He pulls your underwear down your legs and the air around you suddenly makes you realize just how exposed you are. You told yourself you’d never give him the satisfaction of seeing you like this again. But here you were.

His fingers brush against the inside of your thigh, and you shiver once more. “No,” he tells you gently. “You didn’t. You just said you wanted me to keep my promise. You didn’t tell me what you wanted.”

He’s moving closer and closer to the place you want him and you don’t know if you can take it anymore. You shift uncomfortably, as if that will cease the ache. But you know only one thing will.

So, you give him the answer he’s been waiting for this entire time. “You.” His gaze meets yours. “I want you, Jamie. Please.”

That breathtaking grin returns. “Just because you asked so nicely.”

And then he puts his mouth on you without warning.

You spasm at the contact, crying out as he uses both arms to hold you still. The second you calm down, one hand leaves your thigh and you feel him work two fingers into you. Fuck. He didn’t know that before.

And it’s not like he was ever bad in bed when you two were together. You’re not sure you would have stayed with him if that were the case. It’s just… he’s better now. He’s hitting everything nearly perfectly, not stumbling like he used to. He’s more confident. More assured. He knows what he’s doing.

And it’s fucking hot.

The sounds that fill his room are downright obscene. He’s gripping one side of you to keep you in place, splitting you open on his knuckles with the other. His mouth zeroes in on your clit, alternating between licking and sucking in a way that honestly has you close already.

“F-fuck,” you breathe. “Fuck, Jamie. Don’t st— shit. Don’t stop. Please.”

Of course, the fucking shit he is, stops. He grins up at you, but continues to slowly pump his fingers in and out. “You sound so fucking pretty begging like that,” he tells you. He’s just as out of breath as you are. He feels you clench around his fingers at the praise and it only eggs him on further. “Look so pretty too. Fucking gorgeous.”

“Jamie,” you whine again. He’s going too slow. Teasing. It’s not fucking fair. He’s supposed to be the one apologizing to you. “I need— Ngh. I need—”

“What do you need?” he asks. “Tell me.”

You think you’d kill him if you weren’t completely incapacitated. “More,” you manage to get out, wincing as he continues at his slow pace. You’re close. Embarrassingly close. “Just fucking more. Please. I’m—” You interrupt yourself with a moan as he shoves his fingers deeper into you.

“I know,” he nearly coos. “I’ve got you.”

And got you he does. Because not only does he pick up the pace, he stretches you with a third finger. The sting of it is momentary, and it subsides as soon as he bends down and swipes your clit with his tongue.

Your back arches. “Jesus fucking— Jamie. Oh, my God.”

He’s good. Of course, he’s fucking good. He’s Jamie Tartt. You’re not sure he’s ever been bad at anything physical in his life. Emotionally was another story. But that story didn’t matter right now. Not when he’s got you like this, and you’re teetering over the edge.

He pulls away from you, breath tickling your core as he speaks. “C’mon,” he chides. “I can feel it. You’re right there, aren’t you, love?” He takes your breathy silence as confirmation and nods to himself. “Yeah. You just need—”

He removes one finger and crooks the rest a certain way, deeper than before. Your heart may stop beating. He’s done something he did to you time and time again, something that he was actually really fucking good at, something he knew you liked years ago. When he looks up at you, he searches your eyes. And by the way they roll back, he knows he’s struck gold.

The smirk returns and he continues to work his fingers into you, smirk growing each time he hears you say his name. “Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s it. That’s still it.”

You could finish at any moment. The telltale heat is rising in your stomach, and you’re just waiting for the cord to snap. And then, as if your muscle memory takes over, you reach out for his arm.

But instead of letting you do it like before, he does something completely different. He intertwines his free hand with the back of yours and guides it to your stomach. And then he presses on your hand.

The pressure builds. You’re barely able to make any noise. And then—

“C’mon,” Jamie repeats. “Come for me, angel. I wanna see it.”

The cord snaps, and you do as you’re told. You come. Hard.

Jamie talks you through it, fingers still moving to coax your climax out of you. You’re sure you look pathetic, crying out and thrashing around in his bed, but you don’t care. You can barely fucking see right now.

It’s been a while for you. Or at least been a while since you’ve had anything that good. And it completely strips away any sort of attitude or frustration you had before.

When you finally come back down, you laugh softly, shaking your head and throwing your arm over your face. “Fuck,” you say through a chuckle.

You feel him shift, moving up the bed to hover over you once more. When he removes your arm from your eyes, you see that he’s smiling. “Nobody’s ever laughed after I’ve done that,” he tells you, a faux pout pulling at his lips. He bends down to press them to yours and you can taste yourself. “It better be a good fuckin’ sign.”

You laugh again, reaching up to cup his cheek and pull him into another kiss. “Very good sign,” you assure him. It’s muffled against him, but you think he gets the point. 

It’s then that you catch him by surprise and flip the two of you over, straddling him in a way that makes him release a breathy sound that you’d missed dearly. But, something feels off.

Your glance down at him, expecting to feel or see fabric once you reach his leg. But there’s not much. Only what feels like boxer shorts. It catches you off guard. When did he take off his—

It doesn’t matter. It’s easier for you now. Especially as your fingers move across his abdomen, biting back a grin at the way he shudders. He looks up at you from his pillow.

“What are you doing?” he asks leadingly.

You shrug innocently, fingers toying with the band hanging low on his hips. “Returning the favor,” you reply. 

Jamie makes a noise of disapproval, placing a hand on your thigh like that’ll stop you. “I’m supposed to be the one making it up to you,” he states, but his voice gets less firm as you cup him through the fabric. “Fuck. Y-You don’t owe me anythin’. No favors.”

You shake your head, pulling at his boxers so that he springs free from inside. Your eyes travel back to his as you reach out and gently grab his cock, staring down at him with a smirk dancing on your lips. “You sure?”

He looks pained. You don’t know why. You’re offering a way to take him out of his misery. But still, he shakes his head and moves his arm from your leg to your back. 

He takes his turn to flip you over next. He swears under his breath as he does so, shaking his head when you land on your back.

“I told you,” he says, taking his boxers all the way off now. “It’s about you. Not me.” He shakes his head again, but this time it’s a bit more frustrated. When he speaks, it’s mostly to himself. “Can’t believe I just fuckin’ said no to that.”

A snort escapes you. “You’re a changed man, Jamie Tartt,” you joke.

He shrugs before placing his arms on either side of you. His voice teeters on teasing and earnest. “I’ve been trying to tell ya that.”

You’re not sure if it’s him, or the situation, or the sex, but you think you believe him. It makes your chest heavy. But you can’t admit that. You won’t let yourself. So, you keep that feeling tucked away, way in the back of your mind for safekeeping. You know it’s better like that. For your emotional sake, at least.

You allow yourself to prop yourself up on your elbow and kiss him instead of responding to that, bringing him in closer. You can feel the length of him press against your stomach, and his groan vibrates against your lips. 

He pulls away, grinding into you. The heat of your body is making him go wild. “Can I—”

You know what he wants. And you want it too. “Please,” you say. 

He nods, moving to angle himself against you. You glance down to watch him, heat flooding your face as he strokes himself before glancing up at you. You nod in return, giving him the confirmation he needs. Jamie grins.

He slides in you slowly. The stretch is mild but grows as he hovers over you once more. It’s easy to adjust, having been warmed up moments before. But for Jamie, it’s not as easy.

He bottoms out almost immediately, tensing over you. His head bows, chin falling to his chest. “Fuck,” he curses. It’s quiet but straight-up sinful. “God, fucking— you’re so—” You grip onto his bicep as he steadies himself. “I’m sorry. It’s just— i-it’s been a minute. And you’re f-fucking tight. Jesus.”

You don’t mind. He feels good like this, despite the fact he’s not moving. Your hand travels from his arm to his hair, tucking a piece of it behind his ear before settling on his jaw. “It’s alright,” you tell him. “We’ve got time.”

Jamie’s eyes snap open at that, but he’s not looking at you like you thought he would. You were expecting a cheeky sort of smile, a smirk, something in that realm. But he’s not. He’s looking at you like…

It’s something you can’t define. Something you’ve never seen before. It churns your stomach yet makes your heart race. Neither of you says a word.

He just dips down to kiss you again and slowly begins to move inside you. Your lips part in a gasp, and he slides his tongue in your mouth. Your back arches into him.

Before you know it, he's breaking from you and is breathing heavy against your neck. “Shit,” he groans. “You’re just— fuck. You…” He trails off, mouth hovering over your collarbone. “You drive me f-fucking mad. God, everything about you. Y-you don’t even know, do you?”

The pace picks up. He’s thrusting into you harder now and your nails dig into his back. You hear him hiss at the contact, but neither of you seem to care. “Fuck.” It’s all you can say. “Fuck, Jamie.”

He’s clearly not done talking. “How’d I-I fuck this up? Huh?” You can’t tell if he’s talking to you or himself. His mouth is on your chest now and the feeling runs through you like fire. “Fucking idiot. Didn’t know what I had. Can’t believe I let you go.”

You clench around him and it throws him off kilter. You watch his jaw clench, hand beside you gripping the pillow you’re on. “You w-were an idiot.” Your agreement is much less effective when it’s closed out by a high-pitched moan.

“I know. Fuck, I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. Deserved better.” He continues to slam into you. “I wanna gi—” A strangled sound erupts from his lips. “Give you better. You’re so—” When he shakes his head, he looks wrecked. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Something about that sends a shock to your system. It makes you cry out and you can feel it. Your legs tremble around him. You’re close again. You’re really fucking close. 

He kisses you once more, deeper than before. It’s more frantic. Everything about him is more erratic. You can tell he’s getting there too. “Couldn’t stop,” he manages to get out, hot against your lips. “Couldn’t s-stop thinking about you. I missed you.” 

You clench around him again, the admission inching you closer. “Shit,” you say. “Fuck, Jamie, keep going.”

And keep going he does. His hand moves down your stomach, fingers finding your clit. He rubs circles into it and that sends you into a fucking tailspin. He swallows the sound you make. 

“Missed you,” he says again, but it’s more helpless. Jamie fucking whimpers. “God, I f-fucking missed you, angel. Missed you so fucking much, I—”

You don’t hear the rest of what he says because you come the second he makes that sound. It’s white-hot. Blinding. Your legs twitch around him and you claw at him as he continues to rub your clit. You’re loud, but you don’t give a shit. It seems to spur him on.

He’s not far behind you. He spills into you with a groan, stomach flexing as he heaves over you, twitching inside of you. You’re still recovering from your own high as you open your eyes to watch him. You catch his expression for a moment before he’s collapsing into you.

You release a soft ‘oof’ at the sudden weight of him. He doesn’t say anything for a moment and neither do you. You just breathe together. But after a moment you allow yourself to put a hand in his hair.

“You’re fucking heavy,” you tell him, but there’s not much bite in it.

You feel him chuckle. “Give me second,” he says. “Not as fuckin’ agile as I used to be. Took a lot out of me, alright?”

You roll your eyes but continue to run your fingers through his hair. “You’re twenty-six and like, the face of the AFC,” you tell him. “Richmond might have to shorten your contract if you’re dying after that.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Take that up with me Chairwoman then.”

You can’t help but laugh as you push him off of you, wincing as you feel him slip out. He lands with the same noise you did. “If she heard you complaining like that, she’d be on my side.”

Jamie grins at you, joining in on your laughter. He shifts toward you, grabbing your hand to play with your fingers. “You’re probably right. Shouldn’t be complainin’,” he says. He lifts your hand to his lips. “Not when you’re here.”

They’re sweet words. The casualty of them makes your heart swell. But that anxiety about him returns. One time thing, you tell yourself. Apology. One time. That’s all.

You pull your hand back softly and he glances over at you. There’s a hint of worry in his eyes, like that one movement set off alarm bells in his head. You give him an uneasy smile.

Before you can move to get up or say anything or do something, he’s talking. And you have to refrain from wincing. 

“I know…” He looks away from you. Shy. “I know you said one time,” he says, as if he can read your fucking mind. “And that’s… That’s okay. I get that, yeah? But I—” Jamie wipes a hand down his face, staring at the ceiling. “I meant what I said. I missed ya. Really.”

You missed him too. But your walls have been rising back up since he started talking again. “I don’t know what you want me to do with that,” you tell him, only partially lying.

You feel like an asshole when he winces. Maybe you were being an asshole. Maybe it was finally your turn to do so. 

“Just…” He finally looks at you. “If you ever… don’t want this to be just a one-time thing.” He waves it off in an attempt to look casual. You know he’s anything but. “You’ve got my number. Or whatever.”

The timidness in his voice makes your resolve soften. Even if you don’t see him again, you suppose you can let him down easy. He’s been kind enough tonight to deserve that. You nod at him as you sit up. “Okay,” you say. “I’ll let you know.”

It’s only slightly awkward as you get out of his bed and search for your clothes. He asks if he can call you an Uber home and you reject it, letting him know that you’ve got one on the way.

You can feel his eyes on you as you dress, ignoring the way they burn into you. You can tell he’s searching for something to say, or something to talk to you about but doesn’t know what.

You’re half-dressed before he can shoot himself in the foot and say something stupid. “Hey,” he finally says. You glance over your shoulder at him after you slip your sweatshirt on. “I’m really glad you texted me.”

The nice streak you’re riding on continues and you offer a small but genuine smile in return. “Me too,” you admit, ignoring the way that his own soft smile pulls at your heartstrings. 

Before you leave his room, you offer one more admission. You stop in the doorframe he hit you against, lips curling further upward. “It was really good to see you, Jamie.”

He props himself up on his elbow, smile growing. “Good,” he says, nodding. Then, like a prick, he winks at you. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

You physically cannot stop yourself from rolling your eyes and you hear him laugh to himself as you walkdown his hall. “Goodbye, asshole.”

He shouts a tired-sounding ‘bye!’ when you slip your shoes on, shaking your head as you look around his apartment once more. The candle on his counter is still burning, smelling of amber moss and palo santo.

You blow it out before you leave, knowing he’ll forget.

And as you do so, you feel yourself regress. Or grow. You’re not quite sure which one.

But it makes you curse under your breath and leave his flat immediately.

There is one more universal truth you forgot to mention. 

And that’s that the second you think you’re over Jamie Tartt, he comes back into your life and flips everything on its head. And it’s the only truth that’s been confirmed to you all week.

Because the second you arrive home and see that you have a text waiting for you, your heart picks up. You hate the way you get excited to see it.

I had a really good time tonight.

And the second he comes back into your life, you’re reminded that you’re not over him. Not even in the slightest. And it’s fucking debilitating. 

me too. 

And you know your friends are going to kill you the second you follow up with:

i’m free friday if you want to grab a drink.

[gay-wh0re-slut]

Are You Mine?

rhea x reader

content: reader accidentally gets knocked out causing memory loss but rhea is there to help you remember. a cute fluffy lil fic (gonna try first person in a more diary kinda way?? i hope this makes sense and works??!?!)

One Monday Night RAW went a little too crazy. Rhea and Shayna were arguing which ended up becoming a fight. Things got out of hand and chairs were being thrown. Sitting in the front row, I got free tickets because Rhea is my hot goth buff girlfriend, anyway, one of the chairs ended up hitting me in the head. Everyone thought it was planned but it surely was not.

I was immediately out, on the floor. For the sake of television, Rhea and Shayna continued to argue but once the segment was over and the commercial came, the goth wrestler jumped out of the ring and flew to my side.

Medics ran towards me, rolled me out on a gurney and drove me to the local ER. Once the show was done, Rhea drove to the hospital and forced her way towards my bedside. She was crying and holding my hand begging and pleading for me to wake up. I had tubes and lines all over me.

“Is she okay? Will she wake up?” the australian asked the nurse.

“She had a bad hit, so she’ll be out for a while. But everything inside is looking as good,” the nurse sounded dull and tired. I was probably her fiftieth concussion that day.

“So she will wake up?”

“It looks like she will be able to. Considering how hard she was hit, she might have some memory loss, so be prepared for that,” she wrote something on my chart.

“Fuck,” Rhea growled.

The nurse jumped a bit at the muscular woman in her intense makeup and dark clothing. She was scared of her when she walked in but it wasn’t even close to the craziest thing she saw that day.

“I’ll be back later to check on her,” she placed the chart on the hook.

“Okay…Thank you,” Rhea kissed my hand and rested her head on the bed.

The nurse left and closed the curtain behind her.

You’re probably wondering how I remember all this…well I don’t. This is what was told to me and a little bit of dramatization for the story. But this next bit I do remember because it was after I woke up and I was able to recover my memory, but not at first. Don’t worry, it’ll get good.

So after a few hours, according to the doc, I finally woke up. I forced my eyes open and looked to see who was resting beside me. I tried to not freak out about this large dark woman holding my hand but I couldn’t think at all other than “Where am I ?!”

“Y/N!! You’re awake!” she kissed my hand and I immediately pulled it away but she didn’t take too much notice of it because she stood and called for the nurse, “Nurse!! Please hurry she’s awake!! Nurse!”

The nurse walked just a bit quicker than her normal gait. Followed by two more who were checking on different tubes and monitors. She shined the small light in my eyes as I squinted away from her, she checked my pulse and my breathing before spewing off some random medicines.

“Can someone please tell me where I am and why I’m here?” I sat up trying to avoid everyone touching me.

“You had a bad concussion, you were out for a good few hours. You’re at Rosendall Grace hospital,” the nurse said as if she was reciting lines from a play.

“How?” was all I could say.

“It was my fault,” the scary muscular woman said sniffling in the corner, “I was arguing with shayna and we threw a chair and it hit you, I’m so sorry baby.”

“Who’s Shayna and why’d you call me baby? Who are you?” I felt the side of my head that was pulsing. It felt like my brain was going to burst out.

“Don’t touch, there’s a wound there,” the nurse pulled my hand away.

“Shit,” the dark woman slammed her hand on the wall, “You lost your memory. I’m Rhea, I’m your girlfriend and have been for two years. I’m a wrestler for WWE, and Shayna is another wrestler and we were arguing on television but you were in the audience.”

The nurses that were swarming around me looked at each other as if it finally clicked in their head why she looked the way she did and why she was here with me.

“What’s WWE?”

“You’ll remember later, too much to explai-”

“Please don’t pull out your IV,” the nurse grabbed my wrist.

“I’m scared, I don’t know who she is, I’m in a random hospital with nurses that could give two shits about me. I want to leave, please!” I tried wriggle my arm out from her grip.

Rhea sits down in the chair in the corner of the room, “Please just listen to them for right now and you’ll be out sooner. Fighting them won’t help,” she sighed putting her head in her hands.

“Fine,” I huffed crossing my arms refusing them from touching me more.

“Please, we need to fix it,” the nurse held out her hand.

If looks could kill, she’d be long gone by now with the daggers I was shooting at her. She didn’t budge. So I so dramatically give her my hand.

“Thank you,” she snipped, “this is medicine that will help with the pain… morphine,” she shot a look to the australian, as if she was making sure she knew what was going to happen. “You should get your memories back within the night,” she looked back at me giving a fake smile. Taking a big sigh and checking the medicine bag hanging near me, “try to jog her memory like talking about things she likes or about the moments leading up to the injury,” she turned towards my girlfriend before nodding her head. Who knows how long she’s been here.

“Okay, yeah… I can do that,” Rhea dragged the chair back to the side of the bed.

“We’ll be back later the check on things,” the nurse gave a nod and shut the curtain once more.

“Hey,” she tried to grab for my hand but I pulled it away.

“Don’t touch me, I don’t know who you are,” I turned away from her.

“You know me very well actually,” she sat back in the chair, “You know how much vegemite I like on my toast, you know that I love to be the little spoon, you know that I-”

“Vegemite?” I looked at her confused because what the hell is that, legitimately.

“Don’t worry about it,” she waved me away.

“And you,” I gestured frantically to her big arms and muscular stature, “like to be the little spoon?”

“Yes. Don’t start with me, princess,” she began to play into the memory loss as if I was someone she had never met before.

Unbeknownst to me, she was trying to win me back over but obviously I had no clue who this dark haired goth woman was. Did I think she was attractive? Yes but that’s not the point.

“Oh now you’re trying to flirt with me,” I said.

“I’m always flirting with you actually,” she winked.

The butterflies fluttered in my stomach and I tried my best to hide them but…

“Now how did I know that would fluster you, hm?”

“I don’t know! You’re good a flirting?!” I shrugged.

“I am, thank you,” she giggled.

“Ugh,” I huffed and crossed my arms. I remember thinking that she was so incredibly attractive and mysterious. I needed to know more about her but I had no clue where to start. We sat in silence for a good long minute before I decided to break it. “What did you say you did?”

“I’m a wrestler for WWE.”

“And what’s that?”

“It stands for World Wrestling Entertainment. My nickname is Mami, and I’m the big scary villain along with three other guys but we’ll get to them later.”

“Oh,” I really did try to process what she said but I was so far out of it that I had no clue what wrestling was. I thought that if I faked it, she would believe me.

“It’s okay if you don’t remember, you will eventually,” only then did I notice what she was wearing because she was putting everything on display by her manspreading. She noticed that I was staring pretty hard trying to take it all in, “What’re ya looking at so hard?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest. I’m trying to figure out what you’re wearing and why you’re wearing it,” I shifted in the bed.

“Oh,” she chuckled before she stood. “These are my boots,” she pointed at them as her feet turned in, “these are my fishnets,” she pulled at them with a snap, “they always gets holes in them but I think it makes me look cooler, and these are my lil booty shorts,” she pointed at them with both of her hands gesturing to her center, “this is my shirt with the group on it… that’s me,” she pointed at each of the silhouetted figures on the shirt, “that’s Dom Dom, that’s Damian and that’s Finn. They’re my boys,” she smiled.

“Hmm,” I said contently. I was really was fascinated by this woman. She was so… interesting.

She sat back down pulling the chair closer to the bed but I didn’t feel the need to shy away again. Something about her made me feel…safe.

She cleared her throat, “so do you remember anything at all?”

“Well, I know my name is (y/n) only because that’s what you said earlier, and I know I got hit in the head, and obviously I know how to talk, but other than that…” I couldn’t think of anything, nothing at all. I began to freak out a little but I tried to hide it as best I could.

“Hey, hey," she grabbed my hand, "it's okay, you'll get your memories back soon, I'm sure. Nothing to worry about, just a lil blip is all," she kissed my hand.

A shot of warmth from her voice as the kiss flew through me and calmed me almost immediately. I guess I did know her.

We sat in silence for a good moment as I studied her. Her eyes are an icy blue that almost close when she smiles wide, her teeth are perfectly white, her nose is long and skinny with a bump in the middle, it suits her. Her tattoos are dark but fit her style as if she was born with them, her calloused hands look rough but are softer than you can imagine. The way her black wavy hair falls perfectly around her face, framing it just right to accentuate her cheekbones. Her arms are muscular but you can’t tell when she’s relaxed, though I’m sure that if she flexed I’d go into cardiac arrest. I laughed at myself with that one.

“What’s so funny, love?” her voice was quiet but gentle.

The pet name didn’t phase me as much as the first one did, “just thinking.”

“Bout what?” She crossed her legs leaning on her elbow with her chin in her hand.

“How I wish I remembered who you are because I definitely think you’re my type,” I could feel my face getting red and hot.

“Oh trust me, I wish you could too because I most definitely am your type,” one of her blue eyes winked at me and the monitor started beeping faster.

She laughed as she looked at the heart rate going up, “Told ya.”

“Knock, knock,” a different nurses voice came through the curtain before she walked through, “your nurse left for the night so I’ll be taking care of you for now,” she grabbed my chart, “So how are you feeling?”

“My head isn’t throbbing anymore so that’s good, but I guess I still don’t have my memory yet.”

“It’ll come soon, but I’m glad the morphine is working,” she smiled as she put my chart back and flicked the IV bag to get rid of the bubbles, I’m not exactly sure why she did that though.

I gave her a weak smile before looking back at the dark woman beside me. She gave me another wink and the monitor beeped faster again.

“Oh! You okay?” the nurse shot me a look.

“Yeah, uh… I’m fine,” I tried to shrink myself down.

“She’s okay Doc, just trying to jog her memory,” the wrestler said.

“I see,” she giggled, “I’ll be back to check on you later. Maybe try to get some sleep, that usually helps others with their memory. Like a hard reset!” She quietly left the room, if that’s what you wanna call it.

“That’s actually a good idea, wait, when did we eat last?” my so called girlfriend asked.

“Around 5 I think?”

“What?”

“What what?”

“You remember when we ate?” She started to get excited.

“Oh… I guess I do!”

“Do you remember what you ate?”

“Uuuuhhhhhh….” I really thought hard about what food was, “Damn, no I don’t.”

“Damn,” her face dropped immediately, “I’ll get some stuff from the vending machine though, I’ll be right back, baby,” she stood and kissed my forehead.

As if someone hit me with another chair, my head pounded with memories. True Love’s Kiss really came through with this one. I remembered everything, who she was, what I ate, who I was, where we were, why we were here. I held my head as they came rushing back, “Rhea?”

“Yeah?”

“Do that again,” I pointed at my forehead.

So she did, but she didn’t notice that I said her name, which shoulda been the dead give away because I’ll be honest, I didn’t remember her name when she said it at the beginning of this whole mess.

“That’s what I thought,” I said.

“What?” she stepped back a bit.

“That I love you,” I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt.

“You do?! You remember?!” She was almost jumping she was so excited. “So who am I? What do I do?”

“You’re Rhea Ripley of the Judgment Day, you wrestle for WWE and most importantly you’re my girlfriend,” I shook my legs with excitement.

“Yes! Yes!!” She bent down and kissed my lips holding my face, “What else?!” she didn’t let go of my face though.

“We had burgers for dinner with the boys, Dom, Finn, and Damian. You had a match against Shayna that ended with me getting hit with the chair,” I laughed it off.

“YES!!” she kissed me once more, “NURSE! She remembered! Nurse!!!”

She came running in, “YAY!!” she was much more enthusiastic than the other one, “That’s exciting news!! Oh I love hearing about things like this, it’s so cool how the brain works,” she laughed. “I’ll get the doc to come check on you once more to see of you can be discharged. Be right back!” as she slipped out.

“I love you, I love you, I love you!!” Rhea kissed all over my face and down my neck finishing with a long kiss on my lips.

“I love you too…Mami,” I giggled.

“I can’t wait to get you out of here,” she snarled playfully.

“Me either.”

[schemmentisjacket]

Chapter 6 - First Day pt 3

Authors Note: Little something something about non binary queer new teacher coming in, leading to Melissa finding the one.

M:

They stooped slightly in front of you, tattooed hands out, blank palms up.

‘We’re gonna take it steady okay?’

You put your hands out and take hold of their forearms to steady yourself. They support you under your elbows and help you to your feet.

You stumble slightly as you make it to your feet, their strong hands moving to your waist carefully as you re-centre yourself.

They’re so strong, god get it together. You’re a mess, you think to yourself.

‘Do you want to hold onto my arm and I’ll support you with my arm around your back?,’

They ask, arm moving firmly around your back as they move you into your side. They pick your bag up from beside the desk in their other hand.

You nod and grasp firmly around their bicep, other hand holding their soft knit jumper to your forehead.

They support you down the corridor and out into the car pack, the cool breeze a relief against your flushed cheeks, not sure if from the accident or the warmth of their body against yours, strong, sturdy and supportive.

They’re an inch or two inches taller than you in your docs, so you slot comfortably into the side of their body as you walk along.

They lead you over to their jeep, popping the locks and opening the door for you. They drop your bag in the footwell and help you up into the passenger seat. The leather seats were cool through your jeans and blazer and you rested your head against the rest. The throb in your head steady, you close your eyes relishing the coolness.

‘Hey, no sleeping beauty,’ Charlie murmured as they started the car from the drivers seat, and angled the air con to gently blow in your direction before pulling out of the carpark toward the hospital.

You opened your eyes and took the opportunity to take in their profile from your seat.

Glasses sat perfectly their nose, accentuated their chiseled jaw line and the graduated fade of their hair, you could see a small mole or freckle on their scalp through the closely shaven hair.

There hands were still bare from gloves and you could see colourful tattoos on the backs of them, a small red woodland creature on one and a bright blue bird on the other. The fingers on the hand closest to you sat on the gear stick and you could see they spelt out STAY, you couldn’t quite see the other side.

You reach out with your free hand and run a finger along the back of the hand over the kingfisher that decorated it.

‘These are beautiful, why do you hide them?’

You speak quietly, scared to disturb the comfortable silence that surrounds you, only the smooth growl of the engine as background.

Charlie shrugged glancing over at you, ‘I guess I’m worried that most people see them as unprofessional. I’m already weird in some people’s eyes, always worried about what parents would think about someone like me teaching their kids. Add being tattooed to that and even some teachers would have stuff to say about it. Can you imagine Barbara seeing me like this?’

You chuckled, ‘Barbara ain’t as stuffy as you think, unless you got Bitch tattooed across your chest.’

‘Do I want to know?’

‘Parent with a tattoo, turns out she’s actually super supportive of the school, gets involved all the time.’

‘No nothing like that. Mainly animals and powerful women really. We’re here.’

Charlie popped the door and ran round to help you from your side, and into the emergency room. They helped you to a seat before popping to the reception to check you in and bring the paperwork over you’d need to fill in. Looking around it was pretty quiet, guess that’s the benefit of a Monday afternoon injury you thought.

You filled in the paperwork, Charlie holding the jumper to your head as you worked through the form.

‘Schemmenti!’ Called the Doctor.

‘Will ya come in with me? I don’t really like needles.’ You asked.

‘Of course I will.’

You sat whilst the doctor did the usual tests, shining lights in your eyes, asking questions, before beginning to clean up the blood from your face.

‘I’m going to need to numb the area and then clean it before stitching you up.’

Charlie scooted their chair closer to you, and took your hand in theirs. You squeezed as the Dr injected the anaesthetic into your hairline, before beginning to clean out the cut.

‘So with head injuries like this, we would recommend having someone with you to wake you every few hours for the first 24 hours, just as a precaution. Do you have someone at home?’

‘Jacobs away tonight and tomorrow he’s staying at his parents place, it’s his mums birthday.’

Charlie squeezed your hand again, ‘You can stay with me, if you want to?’

‘I wouldn’t like to impose.’

‘It’s no imposition. I’d worry about you.’

‘You’re all sorted then. You can take pain killers as normal. I’d recommend every 3 hours to be woken. Keep an eye on any changes in behaviour. Any problems come back in.’

[theworldofotps]

Phonecall (Drabble)

Pairing: Bayley x OC Melissa Word Count:388 Prompt: I've been thinking about you all day' 'If you just called to get off on my voice I'm hanging up.

For my dear @melissahausen (She's also Scottish so when she calls Bayley a name it's a term of endearment) --------- Tag list: @omg-im-such-a-masochist​ @melissahausen​ @new-zealand-chic @writtingrose​ @99hook @madhatterbri @sjwrites22​ @sassymox​ @mrsacklesevansmgk @xladyxfatex​ @adamcolesbaybay @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch​ @demonqueen29​ @itsicantbelievethis666​ @lilred91​ @rebellious-desires​ @claymorexpunisher @letsgivethisonemoreshot @ava-valerie​ @shortyiceheart​ @serpantscorpio8497​ @thatpanpal​ @thatnerdwriter​ @wrestlersownmyheart​ @vebner37​​ @seeingstarks​@whenimakeitshine1234​ @legit9thlunaticwarrior​ @blaquekitty @ironshamelessyouth @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin​ @ripleyswhore @moonrosekk @xbreezymeadowsx @alyyaana  @elevennbloom @melblacc @alliwant456  @mcreignsera @auburnwrites​ @aews-four-pillars If you wanna be added to the list lemme know. ---------- Melissa groaned flopping onto her bed after a long day at work she was so tired and couldn’t be arsed to do anything at the moment. She just wanted to cozy up under her blankets, watch some true crime docs and cuddle with her girlfriend. Considering the latter was away touring she would just have to be happy with the blanket and docs. Laying still for a few minutes longer she drags herself off the bed and goes to the bathroom. Grabbing a quick shower and changing into her favorite pajamas, Melissa walked back into the bedroom.

After grabbing her phone and remote Melissa sits down leaning against her pillows, going to her contacts she decided to call Bayley.

“Please pick up.”

She mumbled listening to the phone ring a few times and just before she hung up her girlfriend answered.

“Hey gorgeous sorry I was finishing up an interview but I’m going back to my hotel now.”

“Hi baby, that’s okay I just wanted to talk to you, I’ve been thinking about you all day and I miss you a lot.”

“I miss you too babe I should be home Monday evening so only three more days.”

“Can’t wait.”

Melissa smiled as she put on a true crime but left the sound off so she could still hear.

“So, tell me about the interview.”

She smiled listening as Bayley rattled on giving the occasional yes and mhm when appropriate she couldn’t help but slightly zone out. She loved when her girlfriend got passionate about her work it made her heart warm.

“If you called just to get off on my voice, I’m hanging up.”

“What?”

“You I asked a question and all I got was noises.”

“Sorry Bay, I just love listening to you talk about work and I kind of zoned out a little.”

“Oh, okay we’ll I’m nearly at the hotel how about after I shower, I’ll facetime you.”

“Sure you don’t wanna face time me when you’re in the shower?”

Melissa smiled as Bayley laughed, she could imagine the look on her girl’s face.

“We both know you’d be a whimpering whining mess before I even finished the shower.”

“You’re awfully cocky you silly cow.”

“I know my girlfriend now be a good girl watch a true crime doc and I’ll call you soon.”

[snelbz]

Better Or Worse {Chapter Five}

Nessian. Angst. Modern AU.

@snelbz x @theladyofdeath collab

Better or Worse Masterlist

Cassian —

True to my word, I’ve continued to sleep in Feyre and Rhysand’s basement. Now that it’s Monday, I have my bags in the backseat of my truck as I drive to this damn counseling session. As long as this doesn’t completely blow up in my face, I’ll be going back home with Nesta. 

I was surprised when she showed up at Feyre and Rhys’s, begging me to come home, to go to marriage counseling. A year ago, even months ago, I would’ve agreed to marriage counseling without any hesitation. But I meant what I’d said. I’m tired, and I’m past trying. 

At least that’s what I keep telling myself, but yet I’m here, pulling into the parking lot of some fancy little office on the far end of town. 

Nesta’s already here.

I see her car parked right next to the door. She’s still inside, but her car is off, and I find myself wondering if she’s just as nervous and unsure as I am about this whole ordeal.

After cutting the engine, I grab my wallet out of the cup holder and make my way to Nesta’s car. At first, she doesn’t see me, so I knock on her window and make her jump. She greets me with a scowl. 

Even when she’s mad, even when I’m pissed at her, she’s gorgeous.

“Come on,” I say, as she throws open her door. “We’re about to be late.”

I turn and walk towards the front door of the office building, knowing she’ll be a step behind me. Sure enough, I hear the clipping of her high heels on the pavement a second later. “I’ve been here since 9:45. You’re the one showing up one minute until ten.”

“You said our appointment was at ten,” I said, opening the door and holding it open for her. “So I’m here at ten.”

She glared at me as she walked into the building, but the waiting room was not a conducive place for the type of conversation we were prone to having recently, so she let it drop.

For now.

She headed right for the young woman at the receptionist’s desk, leaving me at the door, giving me a minute to appreciate her. The sweater she wore was loose and baggy, hiding her full breasts, but it was tucked into a pencil skirt that showed off her round ass. It was made of lace, with a shorter skirt beneath, showing off her long, toned legs.It was the kind of obscene balance that Nesta brought to everything in life.

I could barely tear my eyes off her ass, off those legs that hadn’t been wrapped around my waist in far too long, but once I did, I noticed the sweater was an old one of mine.

A knot of emotion caught in my throat that I cleared away before joining my wife.

“Dr. Berdara will be with you shortly, if you’d like to take a seat.”

Nesta gave a curt nod and swiveled to a set of chairs by the window. I quietly followed after a kind smile toward the receptionist. 

Nesta and I sat in silence for five awkward minutes before a door opened and our names were called. The therapist was around our age, maybe a year or two younger, which I thought was strange. Surely she had never been married, and if she had, she couldn’t have been married long enough to know all of the answers.

She seemed nice enough though.

Her and Nesta made small talk as they walked ahead of me down the long hallway and into an office overlooking the parking lot.

She gestured to a small leather couch for us to sit on opposite of her desk, which we did before she sat herself and smiled.

“It’s so nice to meet the two of you,” she said, sweetly. “I’m Gwyn.”

Wants us to call her by her first name? Another red flag.

“Not a fan of going by your title, Doc?” I asked, and I admit that my hostility may have been showing a little too much. I can practically feel Nesta’s eyes on me.

“I prefer a more casual approach when I’m first meeting new clients,” she explained. “Start us all out on even ground, rather than anyone above the other.”

Before I could reply, Nesta jumped in. “I think that’s a wonderful way to start out. I’m Nesta.”

The two of them looked at me, waiting. I started drumming my fingers on the arm of the couch. “And I’m Cassian.”

“As I said, it’s wonderful to meet you both.” Gwyn gave us another sparkling smile. “Cassian, why don’t you fill me in on why you two are here today?”

My fingers froze. “Why me?”

“Because Nesta made the appointment,” she said, nodding to my wife. At the same time, she nonchalantly flipped open a notebook and reached for a pen. “So since she took the first step by reaching out, I’d like to hear from you.”

“Pretty sure I took the first step when I told her I wanted a divorce,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. I can feel her go rigid next to me.

Gwyn jots something down in her notebook, either oblivious to the tension between us or used to the uncomfortable situation thanks to her line of work. 

“And what led you to that point?” She pushed, her voice gentle, which only makes me more agitated. “What made you ask her for a divorce?”

Alright. I guess we’re jumping right into this fucking train wreck.

“Nesta stopped caring about our marriage,” I answer, shrugging. “So now I have, too.”

“I didn’t stop caring,” Nesta snaps.

Gwyn gives her a smile. “You’ll have your time to respond, but let’s let Cassian finish.”

Well, shit. Maybe I don’t hate her.

Gwyn turns back to me. “What makes you think that she’s stopped caring?”

“In the last year, we’ve barely spoken to one another. We’ve barely spent any time together. When we do talk, it’s about bills or our schedules or her work, which I think is great, she’s great at what she does, but we don’t need to be constantly talking about deadlines and edits. Every time we’re in the same room together, she gets annoyed and snappy. Every time I ask her for a night off, where we can just be together, she refuses.”

Gwyn nods thoughtfully. “So you feel the root of your issues lies in her work?”

“I think she’s addicted to her work. It’s clear she cares more about it than she does me,” I answer honestly. “She definitely puts more work into her career than she ever has in our marriage.”

Anger is radiating off of Nesta, but she doesn’t say a word. 

“I hear you.” Gwyn writes something else down. “How long have the two of you been married?”

“A little over nine years.” Nesta worked on the night of our anniversary, but I don’t bring that up.

“And your issues just began a year ago?” Gwyn asks.

I hesitate. “I guess I don’t really know exactly when our issues started, but about then, yeah.”

“This may seem like an obvious question, but I’d like as much background as you're willing to offer.” She folds her hands over one another on her desk and looks between us. “Did anything happen around the time things changed? Was there a catalyst or an incident that led to what you both see as a deterioration in your marriage?”

Before I can even decide how much I want to divulge, seeing as I met this woman less than five minutes ago, Nesta answers for us both. “No, nothing.”

And then Gwyn is writing again. “No infidelity or skeletons in closets that came to light?”

When I look over at Nesta, I find her eyes already on me, her gaze pleading.

I wanted to be pissed that our marriage counselor was almost accusing me of cheating on my wife, despite knowing she was asking an innocent question. I wanted to be pissed that Nesta had lied to her face, despite being the one who suggested we come here to work on our issues. This was where she’d finally open up about what had happened that night, when our world had gone dark, after pleading with her so long to just talk to me.

But it wouldn’t be today. Nesta wasn’t ready, the panic in her eyes was evident enough.

I turned back to Gwyn just as she looked up from her notebook and lied, just like Nesta had. “No cheating. No skeletons. Nothing happened.”

Gwyn looked back and forth between us, skeptically, but nodded. “Alright. Well, finding a turning point is a crucial part of this process, so let’s start from the beginning. How did the two of you meet?”

“Freshman year of college,” Nesta says, and I don’t care that she’s suddenly taken control of the conversation.

“And you started dating?”

Nesta nods.

“And what was it that drew you to Cassian?”

The question throws me off guard and I hate how much I want to hear the answer.

Nesta clears his throat. “He was…wild. Confident. Sarcastic. And frustrating as hell.”

Gwyn smiled. “And you found that attractive?”

“I found him intriguing,” Nesta said, wistfully. “He could piss me off and make me swoon within a matter of seconds. I’d say that it was his passion that drew me to him, at first.” 

“And Cassian?” Gwyn asks. “What drew you to Nesta?”

I stare at my outstretched feet. “She challenged me. Captivated me. I was used to dating…girls with low self esteem who just wanted me to prove that they could have me, but Nesta was smart. Confident, too. I don’t know. I guess that I liked that she was different.” 

“Different how?”

It was a much more difficult question to answer than I would have thought. Not because I didn’t have an answer, but because it was hard to put it into words. “She pushed me. She made me dig deeper. There was substance, not just a pretty face, she helped me grow, I guess.” 

Nesta sits silently beside me, staring at her hands, and I tried not to notice that her eyes line with tears. 

“And when did you get married?” Gwyn asks, still watching me.

“A little over a year later. We married young. Both just turned twenty.”

“And did anyone oppose your marriage? Considering you were both so young.”

“My father,” Nesta answers, quietly, “but we’ve never had a great relationship so I didn’t really care what he thought. He came around afterwards.” 

She didn’t mention that he died a few years ago, but I can hear the pain in her voice as I often do when she talks about her dad, although rare. 

“Tell me about your wedding day.”

“It was small,” Nesta says, and it nearly sounds like she’s smiling, although her face remains neutral. “Just our closest friends, and my sisters. Our friend Rhys got ordained online and married us on the beach.” Unable to help myself, I chuckle. Rhys was the worst officiant of all time. He was drunk, which did make the awful speech he had concocted a little bit better. “I wore a dress that I found online for thirty dollars and we were barefoot. It was nice.”

She made that thirty dollar dress look a million bucks. I still remember exactly how she looked, with her hair braided like a crown around her head. I remember how I felt. It had been the best day of my life and I couldn’t believe that I was so lucky to marry someone I was so in love with, my best friend.

“You look lost in thought. What are you thinking?”

It takes me a second to realize that she’s talking to me. Nesta is watching me, expectantly. I clear my throat. “It was a good day.”

I’ve somehow said the right thing and the wrong thing, all at the same time. Gwyn gives me a smile and looks poised to jump onto her next question when Nesta speaks. “That’s it?”

I don’t respond immediately and neither does Gwyn, which leads me to believe she’s going to let this one play out, rather than intervene.

Thanks, Doc.

I turn towards her, unsurprised to find her eyes already on me, storm clouds brewing within. “I said it was a good day, Nes.”

“But that’s all you have to say? It was a good day?” She genuinely looks offended and my short fuse is getting incrementally shorter by the minute. “Meeting your brothers for a drink after work is a good day. When you find a twenty on the street, it’s a good day. And all you have to say is that it was a good day?”

My jaw locks and my fingers flex. “What do you want me to say?”

Pure rage flashes across her eyes. “I want you to say something meaningful.”

Something meaningful. Jokes on her. She’s the one that hasn’t said something meaningful in months, years, who can’t recall how to have a meaningful conversation if her life depended on it. I take a deep breath, then another. Those deep breaths are the only thing keeping me stable, keeping me grounded. “Something meaningful?” I repeat. 

“Yes,” she snaps.

Gwyn remains quiet.

My lips snap shut and I bristle, eyes planted on a pen sitting on Gwyn’s desk. “This is stupid.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Just talk, Cassian!”

My eyes snap to hers, and the second we make eye contact, I’m gone. I can see the emotion, the rage and sadness and hope, and that’s rare for Nesta. Especially lately. Lately, I’ve barely gotten anything from her, but now…she’s listening. She’s waiting. She’s hopeful.

“You want to talk about our wedding day?”

“Yes.” A tear falls down her cheek. She quickly wipes it away.

“The day I married you was the best fucking day of my life,” I say, looking away from her. “I loved you, Nesta. You were so damn beautiful, walking towards me with that overpriced bouquet. I had no doubt that you were the woman I was supposed to marry. All I wanted was you. I didn’t give a fuck when or where I married you. All I cared about was that you were mine. I meant every word I said in our vows. I’ll always love you, always protect you, always be there for you…” I shake my head. “I meant my vows, Nesta. But your vows were shit. Over the last year, you’ve proven that you didn’t mean a damn word you said that day.”

The room is silent, save for the occasional sniffle from my wife. She doesn’t respond and I’m sure as hell done talking for now.

Gwyn lightly taps the end of her pen against her notepad. “Can you tell me what you mean by that, Cassian?”

“I mean she hasn’t stood behind her vows, the promises we made to each other.” My voice is quiet now, all anger sapped from me as Nesta dabs at her eyes with tissue she produced from somewhere. I’m just tired now.

Reading through her notes, Gwyn says, “You’ve told me there’s been no infidelity, so in what way do you feel that Nesta hasn’t upheld her vows?”

“She’s never there.” I hate explaining this. It’s the same shit I’ve explained to my brothers for the past six months and nothing ever changes. “It’s like I don’t exist. All that matters is her books and her deadlines. She doesn’t put any effort into our marriage or even into our relationship.”

Nesta is noticeably silent now. Good.

Gwyn pushes. “Nesta, would you like to respond to that?”

Angrily, she swipes at a tear. “My books are my livelihood.”

“And you were my whole life.”

I don’t realize I’ve spoken the words aloud until both Gwyn and Nesta look at me.

I sigh, rubbing at my temples. Trying to move past the fact that I’m letting feelings I want to suppress out, I say, “Look, I’m proud of Nesta. Okay? She’s a damn good writer, and she’s living her dream. I get that. But since her career has taken off, she’s either working or stressed, and wants nothing to do with me, because I’m just another thing on her plate that’s already overflowing.”

Nesta doesn’t bother saying that I’m wrong.

“So you’re saying that Nesta needs to focus more on you,” Gwyn says.

“I’m saying that as long as she’s too busy working, our marriage is nonexistent.” Gods, I didn’t even want to come and now I can’t shut up. I lock my jaw and stare at my hands.

I feel Nesta looking at me but I don’t care to look back at the moment. 

“And how do you feel about what Cassian has said, Nesta?”

My wife is quiet for a moment, then she says, “I don’t know.”

I scoff and Nesta glares at me, but Gwyn is patient. “Do you not know, or are you unsure how to put your emotions into words?” 

Nesta shrugs, and I know she’s frustrated but I can’t find it in me to care much. “I guess I didn’t realize I was working so much, at first, but now I’m just used to it. I’m used to waking up and working until I go to bed. Ignoring Cassian was not my intention, I just wanted to be successful.”

“And now it’s a habit?” Gwyn asks.

Nesta nods.

“Would you say that you’re addicted to your work?”

Nesta hesitates. “I guess so. I guess it’s all I think about, yes.”

“Do you still enjoy being an author?” Gwyn asks, and I find myself intrigued by this question. For the first time in a while, I look at Nesta.

She’s staring at her wedding rings. “I don’t know. I love to write, but it definitely feels more like a chore than it ever has before. I don’t like the editing process. And sometimes I’m so stressed that I have writer's block and I go insane trying to write anything worthwhile, only for it to get torn apart during editing. My deadlines are getting closer and closer together and I struggle to meet them, because I’m always so stressed. And I know it affects Cassian. Then I feel guilty, but if I’m being honest, that guilt just makes me more stressed and withdrawn and frustrated and miserable to be around.”

The words rush out of her; her eyes never leave her rings.

“There may be a conversation that needs to be had with your publisher about the amount of work your putting out,” Gwyn muses, never one to give orders, just suggestions. “But as of right now, Nesta, I want you to think about how you used to balance work and your time with Cassian before. We’re nearly out of time today, but I want that to be what you consider until we meet again. Cassian, I want you to think about the amount of work Nesta does and how you can help.” I immediately want to protest that I know little about the written word, not like Nesta does, but she shakes her head. “I don’t mean in a literal sense, but to alleviate her stress. How can you help?”

I nodded. If we were here, I was willing to try.

“I want you two to go on a date before our next session.”

I blink at her, not sure that I’ve heard her right. “A date?”

“Yes,” she replies, closing her notepad and smiling at us both. Nesta’s expression is as confused as mine. “Dinner, maybe a movie or some dancing, the activity doesn’t matter. As long as the two of you spend uninterrupted time together, without work or deadlines, cell phones or emails, that’s our goal.”

Uninterrupted time with my wife.

The idea terrified me.

I hesitate, but it’s Nesta that says, “Okay.”

I don’t know why I’m so shocked by this, by her quick acceptance, considering this was all her idea, but I am. I’ve been trying to spend alone time with her for months, and I’ve gotten shot down every time. As soon as someone else mentions it, she says okay.

I tell myself not to be pissed about it, but I am.

Still, I say, “Okay.”

Nesta —

It’s been three days since Cassian has been back home, and it’s been…okay. Quiet, and there’s still not a lot of interaction between the two of us, but we haven’t been fighting. Although I guess it’s hard to fight when you barely speak. 

It hasn’t helped that he’s been working a lot this week. He’s a few men down at his restaurant so he’s picking up the extra slack, as you do when you’re the head chef, until they return. 

Still, when he’s gotten home we’ve had a small conversation about our days then we tell each other goodnight before Cassian makes his way down to the couch to sleep.

I hate being in our big ass bed without him, but I don’t mention it, not yet. 

Cassian got off earlier today, so we decided to take up Gwyn’s challenge. We’re going on a date. I’m nervous as hell, which is ridiculous, but I can’t help it. I want it to go well but I feel like I have to tiptoe around everything to avoid another screaming match.

I can hear Cassian humming to himself in the shower as I slip into a little black dress, one I haven’t worn in a really long time, and look in the mirror. I’m hot, I can’t deny it. I curled my hair and did a full face of makeup, which I also haven’t done in a while, and honestly? I feel confident looking at my reflection, more confident than I’ve felt in…shit, too long.

After clasping a simple diamond pendant around my neck and closing my jewelry box, my eyes fell on the cracked bathroom door in the mirror behind me, a bit of steam billowing out. The only thing I lacked to be completely ready were my heels, but seeing what occurred last time I walked in on Cassian in the shower, I respected his privacy and waited. I sat down on our bed — the bed I’d been sleeping in alone — and waited.

It was absurd, giving my husband privacy and space after being together for a decade. We were the couple no one shared their secrets with, because what one of us knew, the other did as well. We didn’t do it to gossip. 

We just didn’t keep secrets from each other.

I didn’t know at what point that changed, but I knew I was the cause. It all seemed to be my fault lately.

“You ready?”

My head snapped up. I’d been so lost in my own thoughts that I hadn’t heard the shower shut off or the door open completely.

And my husband stood before me in nothing but a dark blue towel, water dripping off his hair and running down his muscular body.

I watched as one particular droplet trailed down his neck, over his broad chest and well-defined abdomen, before absorbing into the towel wrapped around his hips.

“Nesta?”

Cauldron, boil me, I was ogling my own husband.

Tearing my eyes from his body, I met his gaze. I wasn’t entirely surprised to find heat there, simmering beneath the wall he’d put up between us. It had been a long time since I’d taken a moment to appreciate his body, a body he works hard to maintain, and I know he was as affected by our distance as I was.

Once I’d looked my fill, I cleared my throat, completely forgetting what he’d asked. “What?”

“Are you ready to go?”

I shook my head. “Almost. Just need to grab my shoes.”

He nodded, heading for his dresser, opening the top drawer, where his socks and underwear had always been tossed in with no rhyme or reason. As he began to rifle through it, I hurried into the bathroom, the steam already dissipating, and into my closet. Finding my heels was a matter of a few seconds and I was back into the bedroom before Cassian had even found a matching pair of socks.

“I’ll be downstairs,” I called, the straps of my shoes dangling from my fingers.

I only got two steps down the hall before I heard his voice call out behind me. “Nes?”

I turned, finding him standing in the bathroom doorway, a pair of black boxer briefs clutched in his hands. “Yes?”

“You look beautiful.”

A sudden pang of nausea swept through my stomach, fueled by excitement and longing at his words. I knew I was blushing. “Thank you.”

His smile almost reached his eyes as he disappeared into our bathroom and I hurried downstairs, Greg on my heels. 

My beautiful, fat cat hopped onto the couch next to me in the living room as I put on my shoes, trying to control my shaking fingers. 

My mind wanders back to my husband in a towel, as well as what lies beneath as I stand, my heels securely fastened. I take one last look at myself in the hallway mirror and take a deep breath as I hear Cassian coming down the stairs. 

When he comes into view, I want to run up to him and kiss him deeply, but I stay where I am. He’s wearing black pants and a dark crimson button down, both of which are perfectly fitted to his gloriously sculpted body. The top few buttons are undone, and I can see glimpses of his chest tattoo. But the best part? His hair hangs loose. 

“Ready?”

“Yes,” I say, nearly breathless, which makes him arch a brow. I clear my throat. “I’m starving.”

“Me too.” He comes near me, where his wallet and keys sit and snatch them up. He smells delicious, like that cologne I got him last Solstice. Once everything is in his pockets, he holds out his hand.

I blink before realizing what it is he wants.

Cassian is nothing short of a gentleman when it comes to a date.

I slip my hand in his and realize just how long it’s been since we’ve touched.

His fingers curl around mine as pulls me to my feet and we turn to head for the kitchen and the garage beyond. He drops my hand as he locks the door behind us and I’m surprised when he takes it again as we walk to his truck. It’s a short walk, but he’s apparently decided it’s been too long since we touched as well.

After closing me in the passenger side of the truck, he circles around until he’s sitting in the cab with me and starts it up. It roars to life and he backs out of the garage and the driveway.

As soon as he’s on the main road, he reaches over and threads my fingers in his.

I don’t say anything about it and neither does he, both of us silently enjoying the contact we’ve been denied for months.

“I made reservations at Sea and Vine,” he said, once the quiet in the cab was starting to feel less comfortable and more stifling. “I know how much you like their wine selection.”

The soft snort leaves me before I can stop it. “The wine selection, eh?” When I glance over at him, his ears are red. “Nothing to do with their cannolis?”

“Don’t hate on their cannolis,” he mutters, and I catch the hint of a smile. 

The rest of the car ride isn’t bad. We make smalltalk, which feels strange and unnatural, but not awful. We make our way to Sea and Vine, and park at a parking meter a few streets over. As soon as we’re out of the truck, he takes my hand again and pulls me close.

The heat radiates off his body, and now that his hair is completely dry, I admire the thick waves. He hasn’t shaved in a week or so, and a steady scruff has captured his cheeks, his chin. I love it when he’s not clean shaven. I think it’s sexy.  

Part of me wants to pull him into an alley and have him pin me up against the bricks. I want to revisit that heat we had when we were dating, when we were engaged, when we were newly married. There was a time when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other, when we would sneak away no matter where we were and fuck each other senseless. 

I’m just now realizing how long it’s been since we’ve even been on a date. The whole concept feels foreign, and I’m almost unsure of what to do.

It’s all so ridiculous.

When we make it to the restaurant, we’re ushered to our table and Cassian pulls out my chair. Once he’s seated across from me, we fall back into our small talk. We share about our days, and how things have been going at work. I order my favorite wine and nearly melt in the deliciousness of it. Cassian asks them for a cannoli before we even order dinner. 

To my delight, I’m enjoying myself. And, I’m hardly thinking about work, which is rare. I feel like I’m thinking about work every waking moment. It’s a nice change of pace.

“Gwyn seems nice,” Cassian says, once our food is placed in front of us. He has a plate of steak and pasta, while I have shrimp scampi. 

“She does,” I agree. “I like her approach. Very casual.”

Cassian nods and pops a bite of steak into his mouth. “I have to admit that I wasn’t so sure about counseling…but, I didn’t mind it.”

“It’s nice, having someone there to play the mediator,” I say, jumping right in. We can tiptoe around our problems or we can face them head on. After months of awkwardness and half-assed conversations, I was ready to get back to who we were. I just had no idea where to start. “Someone to let us finish our thoughts when the other wants to jump in.”

He says nothing, just takes another bite of his exquisite steak and raises an eyebrow, indicating I’m the one who needed the reminder more than he did.

Which, to be fair, was true.

I can’t help but chuckle as I eat, swallowing my food before I speak. “I’m just saying, having an outside party is helpful.”

“I don’t disagree,” he says, twirling his fork in his pasta, not looking at me. “Especially when it comes to shit we don’t want to talk about.”

Immediately, my walls started to go up, not liking where he was leading the conversation. I swallowed harshly, but there was no food in my mouth.

Clearing my throat, I started, “I’m going to make an effort to be home more, Cass—”

“I’m not talking about your work, Nesta,” he pushed.

My jaw clenched and I stared at my plate, still full of food. Cassian’s chewing slowed as he watched me. 

“I thought my work was the biggest part of our issues,” I began, slowly.

Cassian continued to eat, apparently able to eat through any sort of tension. “I think it’s a part of our issues. It’s not the only part of our issues, although it’s apparently the only part of our issues that you want to talk about.”

I’m quiet for a moment, pushing around my pasta on my plate. “Can we not? I want to enjoy my night.”

“I’m not trying to ruin our night,” Cassian says, his fork halting. “I’m just saying—”

“Well stop,” I snap, and instantly regret it. My eyes wander back to my plate. “I don’t want to talk about that tonight.”

“You don’t ever want to talk about it,” he mutters, and drops his fork. “It wouldn’t hurt to talk about it, Nesta.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We have to.”

“Not now.” The tone of my voice is final, and I see the hurt in his eyes. I know that what happened didn’t only affect me. It affected him, too, and we never had closure. I get that…but I can’t talk about it. I’m not ready. Even after all this time. I’m not ready. 

We’re quiet for a moment, and I wonder if anyone at the tables surrounding us have picked up on our awkward choice of dinner conversation. 

“I’ve lost my appetite,” I say, at last.

“Yeah.” Cassian’s not looking at me. All of the sudden, the mood has changed and we’re strangers again. “Me too.”

“Call for the check.”

His jaw locks but he gives me a stiff nod. With barely any of his food eaten, he motions for the server to come our way and asks for the check.

I feel guilty.

I also feel angry.

Uncomfortable.

Sad.

We sit in complete silence as our check is retrieved and we’re brought to-go boxes. I dump my shrimp scampi into one, and he pushes his steak into another. 

We barely make it out of the restaurant before he says, “I’m sorry.”

“About what?” I ask, as if I don’t know, which seems to make him mad.

“Don’t do that,” he says, stopping under a streetlight to glare at me.

“Don’t do what?” I ask, unable to stop my act, not knowing why. 

I can tell he’s frustrated, can tell he’s getting pissed. I notice he’s not reaching for my hand this time. 

“Act like you never have any fucking clue what I’m talking about,” he hisses. “I need you to communicate, Nesta. I need you to talk to me, to be open to me, to give me something of substance. I’m tired of these surface, meaningless conversations, and I’m tired of you avoiding everything we have to get out in the open. Therapy only goes so far.”

“Why couldn’t we just have a nice night?” I cry, and I hate myself for getting emotional. “We haven’t had a date in forever. This was supposed to be good for us.” And now we’re fighting on the fucking street.

Cassian just shakes his head and shrugs. “It’s not my fault.”

“Oh, right, it’s mine! It’s always my fault. It’s my fault we drifted apart, it’s my fault that you want a divorce, it’s my fault that we can’t—” the words fade away from me, stuck on my tongue. A tear falls that I wish kept itself hidden. 

He stiffens. “Nesta—”

“Go home, Cassian.” I start to walk away, but he quickly follows me.

“Come on. Let’s just go to the truck—”

“I’ll find my own way home,” I snap, trying my best to hurry ahead of him. I don’t look at him. I hardly acknowledge his presence. I need to be alone.

“Nes—”

“Please, Cassian!” I spin around, meeting his eyes. I can’t stop the tears from falling, can’t stop the feeling of utterly falling apart. “Leave me alone! Go home.”

I hate the angst in his eyes, the confusion, the loss. “Where are you going?”

I shake my head, backing up slowly. “I’ll see you at home.”

This time, when I walk away from him, he doesn’t chase after me. 

[atonalginger]

Snippet Sunday Monday-Funday!

Thank you for the tag @eridanidreams!

I've been meaning to share stuff and then the wednesdays and sundays roll by and I forget. And yes, it is Monday but hey! Still a good time to share!

I haven't been writing as much as usual do to a lot of stress this past month compounding with the stress I've had all spring-summer with a medical issue I think I've finally gotten squared away! and Hopefully September treats me better....

Now what to share...that is the question. I couldn't decide and expressed as much in the coemancer discord and @silent-moons-camp suggested a sentence of each thing I mentioned I could share. And I think they might be onto something so I'm going to do something like that. More than a sentence but not too much from several points in the upcoming Wild West party fic. All under the cut because otherwise this post would get unruly! There will be shenanigans. Angst. Emotions. Del getting gussied up.

first is some cat burglary shenanigans. Rokov and Doc Melody end up breaking into the Delgado Manor in the Core District for...reasons and have very specific instructions from Del.

Retrieve a specific old stuffed chihuahua from his childhood room.

Trash that fucking room

So...

When he stepped through the side door he saw the bag near the door already full. A commotion down the hall, complete with what sounded the hiss of a hull leak, made him freeze in place. That’s impossible, he thought as he furrowed his brow.

“I got the puppy,” Jay said, her hand appearing out of the doorway with the gold toy chihuahua in her hands. It was tattered, the red collar faded from time and little bald spots on the fabric, but otherwise in good condition. Signs of a toy well loved, “don’t worry I’ll leave some for you.”

“What are you doing in there?” he asked, hesitant to take a step with the call of the Blackest Sea still hissing in the house.

“He said to wreck the room,” the puppy bounced upward as she shrugged, “I thought you were excited for this.”

“I was…” Rokov walked down the hallway and accepted the toy from her. He could see loose stitches that struggled to hold the tail and several of the legs on. The stitches were rougher and with a black thread that stood out from the gold fabric. Someone hurt you and then put you back together. Question is who and why?

Rokov looked into the room and saw a mass of stuff: furniture, posters, loose objects, papers, bedding, and more, being pulled to a point near but not on the ceiling. The force ripping, tearing, and cracking the various materials as they tangled around one another. As he stared the hissing stopped and everything fell to the floor.

“What was that?”

“A gravity well,” Jay answered like it was no big deal, “I’d never really used it before, could never get the timing right in combat for it to be effective and if I’m not careful it could pull Sam into it.”

“You…how?” Rokov asked as he carefully tucked their prize into his coat pocket, “what are you using to do this?”

“Focus on the task at hand,” she reached up and gave his cheek a pat.

--

Next is angst. Fallout of the score of mementos brought back from the manor.

“What happened?” she pointed to the missing eyes.

“My little sister wanted to play with Marisol and I said no. She ran to Papa and he made me hand her over. Lupe was so mad at me at that point that she hurt Mari to punish me. I found the all the parts but could never figure out how to fix the eyes. She’d broken the stem with the sewing hole and glue never worked.”

“Poor Marisol,” Sophie gave the ashta a few loving strokes and then laid her back on top of the bag. He figured she’d go for another toy, continue exploring his past, and was nearly knocked over with the big hug his little bunny hit him with. He chuckled and wrapped his arms around her as she mumbled into his shoulder, “I’m sorry she did that to you Papa.”

“I am too, conejita,” he closed his eyes and settled onto the floor with his back to the bed, “To be fair to Lupe, she was very little when it happened. Younger than you. That destruction was her mimicking what she’d seen.”

“But you didn’t hurt your friends,” Sophie let go and went back to the bag to look at the others, “did you?”

“No,” he watched her as she pulled a stuffed trilobite, red with most of the limbs missing. Her jaw dropped as she looked over the mostly flat friend, her little hands tracing over the places where little legs should be.

“Did tia do this too?” Sophie held old Rio out to him.

He accepted Rio with a sad smile, marveling at just how flat she’d become from all those years in the bottom of that chest. He ran his fingers over the textured fabric before sitting the trilobite on his knees, “no, Lupe was innocent here.”

“What happened?” Sophie asked.

“I made my Papa mad,” he said in a hushed tone, “I was your age. Don’t remember what caused it, not that it matters. But he took Rio’s legs for it. Abuelo Rafa stitched up her body when he got home that night after he couldn’t find her legs.”

“And this one?” she held up a stuffed mossgnath, Paz, the tail and several legs reattached and the neck permanently bend after the foam rod was ripped out.

“Papa,” he admitted.

She sat down next to him with Paz still in her arms and leaned her head against his arm, “and all the other friends in that bag?”

He hugged his little girl tight, his nose buried in her blonde waves as he fought back more tears. She hugged him back, a little hand clinging to his flannel shirt tight. She didn’t need her Papa falling apart, now or ever. He was one of her rocks, a protector, someone who ensured she was safe and happy. It was all in the past anyway, he kept reminding himself as he pushed the painful emotions back into their holes, it shouldn’t hurt anymore.

--

for something lighter here's some Manny and Cora

Cora turned her body and brought her leg up onto the bale, her shin pressed against Manny’s thigh with her foot playfully hooking the outside of their knee. They placed a hand on her ankle, a subtle smile curling their lip as their cheeks turned red. Cora noted the reaction and tapped her foot against their knee a few times, “so a meeting of the black sheep?”

“Something like that,” Manny nodded, “Without getting into the weeds, Abuela Rosa stole something from her mama while she was on her deathbed. Something that was supposed to go to this cousin’s mother. Apparently Tio Gabi now has this thing. And he wanted to give it to his cousin because it’s technically hers by rights and family tradition. She was touched but refused to take the thing, insisting he keep it.”

“She’s scared of Rosa.”

“Si,” Manny made a face, “and I can’t blame her. Neither can he. She had an idea of what he could do with the thing and even put it in writing but it wasn’t what he’d hoped.”

“He wanted to fix something broken in the family,” Cora said, “wanted to feel like he could right a wrong.”

Manny tapped their index finger against Cora’s calf, “exactly.”

“We should let him know Sophie’s worried about him. He might be able to explain that he wasn’t so much sad as disappointed and that everything’s fine.”

“Good idea,” Manny grinned more openly, “you always know what to do.”

“Not always,” Cora shrugged, “I just get lucky.”

Manny laughed, “don’t be modest, it doesn’t suit you.”

--

And Del getting gussied up for the big party

He finished buttoning up his collar and carefully tied his red silk bow tie in the mirror, fluffing the loops and smoothing the ends so it looked nice and full for when the guests arrived. He wasn’t sure how long it would last seeing as he made it all of an hour yesterday before he pulled it loose. He was used to a scarf looped loosely around his neck and shoulder, not this thing tied snugly around his throat.

Delgado grabbed his black jacket and shrugged it on, smoothing the lapels and freeing his bow from the collar. He usually hated wearing suits, an early life of being made to dress up for bullshit he didn’t care about coloring his opinion of them, but he had to admit he looked pretty good in the mishmash of late 1800’s Earth fashion. There was more color, patterns, and life to the suit. It didn’t seem to be about being uniform with everyone else like the suits of today and instead allowed a man to express himself.

He walked back over to the desk and picked up the pink silk square, quickly folding it up and tucking it into his jacket pocket. It was funny the little things he retained from his youth, the pocket square folds his abuelo taught him being one of them. He chose a rose fold, a forgiving fold as there were no precise corners that looked like a budding pink rose in his pocket.

[rottenaero]

Send me an ask for W.I.P weekend with any of the following emojis and I’ll write five sentences for a fic I’m working on!

🦇

“ Diagnoses, doc?”

The jock curls his lip, starts heading to his wardrobe to find a shirt he can cut the back out of. “ I need you to shower, then we’re calling Joyce and Hopper so we can hopefully figure out why the hell you’re so-” He lifts his hands, gestures vaguely behind him as he pulls out a washed-out Hawkins Swim Team shirt, “-ehh.”

Eddie furrows his brows, “ Is that a technical term?” He asks.

🎧

He clicks on the movie, starts preparing his snacks in front of him “ ‘ Am I keeping this schedule?’ Hell no, think I’d actually go insane, sorry shit-heads. It’s only resuming for about-“ He twists his chair, shoving a couple puffs of kernel corn popcorn into his mouth.

“-two more weeks? And it’s not really a schedule.” He shrugs as he adjusts back to his normal position. “ My husband is just out of the house, he’ll be back for a few days, then he has one more week of absence.”

🪻

As soon as the door shuts behind them, she’s off, not waiting a second for a ‘whats wrong?’ or ‘ did you seriously just skip class?’

“ Okay, so- Thérèse and I were talking, right? And Nolan- that super annoying trombone? He came up mid-convo and just like- asked me out! And obviously, I was like ‘ Uh, gross dude, no.’ and he’s like ‘ Why? Are you a dyke?’ And I panicked so I said, ‘ No, I just have a boyfriend.’ “

Accepting emojis until Monday,, I may take a while to get to them since I have a concert Saturday,, but I promise I’ll get to them!

[ohmygillygoshoppler]

Let's hear them secret scientist headcannons, Ma. Pretty please 🙏🥺

huehuheuheuhwlhbsjhbclah~ y’all know what it is, mostly rambling I wrote most of this waiting for the dentist lol

Drew (Audrey do not call her that omg Saturday)

Mama’s albino. Isee it with my eyes and just feel it in my bones. She’s pale, her hair is pale, I she even had baby blues in TGIS so, yeah. 

Drew isn’t a huge fan of chocolate, opposites since Mom Monday had a thing for cocoa. Maybe she doesn’t have a thing for sweets in general? Like I can see Drew as more of a FoodSnack person rather than SweetSnack person. She’ll be like, “I want a snack,” And spend like 2 hours prepping the stuff for a food item that will be gone in 20 minutes and somehow, she’ll find a way to convince Doc to “help” with the cleanup after.

She always wanted a big family, But only managed to have Zak. She loves her family regardless, it's just not the way she thought they'd be. I mean, come on; Her and Doc are so romantic all the time, like there’s no way they woulda stopped at just one. If she could have given Zak a sibling, she would have, but it wasn’t in the cards. So, adoption, lmao.

My girl is a mystic through and through but she is not mystically inclined. She could tear out her hair and make a deal with the devil, and still not be able to conjure her own magic at all, but she is so well versed in it, you’d think she was a sorcerer or something. (Maybe she could, oh I dunno, help her magical buddies out with that know-how, huh?)

Doc “Solomon” Saturday

My guy has some serious PTSD and OCD issues that he hasn’t quite sorted out, and I’ll bet he’s scared to go into it given all the times he’s started talking about it, only to immediately shut himself up about it.

Like, seriously, my man needs a therapist.

I’m laughing and wringing my hands together like Argost himself thinking about all the fun times we’re gonna have with mr. Magic Doesn’t Exist now that he’s gotta help his new Angel Daughter find her friends. Sorry Solomon, but you’re gonna have an aneurysm.

Doyle Blackwell  **Professional Uncle

Such a cool dude, he can’t drink alcohol because he’s too cool to get buzzed (he's allergic to alcohol and will turn beet red after one drink help this poor man)

I get a lot of, “I dont deserve an apartment,” vibes from this guy so I say he needs more “Chillin at home with the fam,” And less “Shitty hostels wherever the cheapest.” Also man needs a gf (or bf, ffs nobody want him fr!!11!)

He's bi, and I know cuz he told me lmao

Paul Cheechoo (Uncle Bear!👏🏼 Uncle Bear! 👏🏼Uncle Bear!👏🏼)

Okokokokok, so I am super super projecting here because Cheechoo deadass reminds me of an uncle who is A.) also native af, we’re not Inuit but were fuckin n8v; and B.) also a fuckin geologist lesgoooooo

So guys got a big family, huge actually. Lots of cousins and nieces and nephews and aunties and uncles and such- making it a bit hard and a bit sad keeping the whole Secret Scientist thing away from his family. Especially after the Weird world incident when he became withdrawn from them, fearing Argost might do something horrible to his kin. So, he kept mostly to himself, confiding only in his fellow scientists.

I feel like his sarcasm and friendly demeanor is so sweet and endearing, especially for someone so friggin big, I mean good god- Look at this man. The friendly giant trope always gets me, so what? BUT! That being said, I’d like to think that sometimes my guy forgets how big he is… Like, we’ve seen how this guy gets tossed around like a ragdoll, maybe he also forgets he’s a brick shithouse, given all the times he’s gotten his ass whooped.

Man is Golden Retriever coded, and I wanna eat him alive for it./pos

Arthur Fuckin Beeman

My man! *kills him again and again and again and again an-*

Also, I love how we all saw this man, we all looked at each other, and we all said, “Yeah, he's autistic af.” Like, it's very clear that this man’s brain works… differently from others.

My brother once said, Liaos from Dungeon Meshi if he didn’t want to eat the aliens he just wanted to hang out and honestly…. Werk.

Does this man deserve an arc? Not really, but do I wanna put him in a few fucked up situations? Hang him upside down and shake him till all his tokens fall out? Maybe. Maybe Zak’ll help me, too. Shit…

Miranda Grey (Big Grey)

Ooooooohohohohohohohohoooo~ We hardly got anything with you, Doctor. Which means I can do whatever, and I both hate and love that-

I know you love your sister~ I know you’re sad about her betrayal~~ I know you’re hurting, girly, I know your devastated inside and you can’t do anything about it because so much shit is falling apart around you and now your sister fucked over the only people you can call friends, fuck you Miranda! Eat shit and die! ILY!!

I reeeeeeaaaaly think she’s guilty about what she’s done to the Saturdays, especially Zak, so maybe she might try and say or do something to try and make amends, but how? Thats a good question… I wanna know too, lmao.

Abbey Grey (Little Grey)

Ooooooooooooooooh~~~

I have plans for you, stupid bitch……

Agent Ex husband

The scariest mfer in all existence, most stifled man in all existence, omg. If War were ever made a fucking human, Epsilon would be his fate, and holy fuck- Yeah. Stoic? Check. Bound by a strict code of ethics/honor? Check. Big As Shit? Check. Scary????? Umm, yeah. My mans a Horseman.

Wants to be loved. Wants to rest. Wants to have a cigarette for the first time in years. Wants some coffee with extra cream and sugar. Does he deserve it? No,not really. But he does need it. His soul needs a good kneading, like dough.

However, he is fucked up for the way he raised Francis and how he’s always shutting hom down and telling him how his thoughts don’t matter like, damn, just tell the boy he aint shit why dont you-

I feel like, if I give Francis an arc, Epsilon should have one too. I wanna know more about him- surprise surprise- and what makes him tick. We see in the show that there is some care for Francis, we see as much when he gets so mad at Francis for not quickly following his instructions, but that begs the question; does he actually care, or is he protecting his interests, so to speak? Lots to learn, lots to pick apart.

[mp0625]

Svyatoy Patrik

Taglist. Masterlist.

Andrei Vasilevskiy x reader

Hopefully this finally posts correctly, from it deleting half of it from my google doc, and not letting me copy it onto my tumblr, then tumblr deleting it from my tumblr last night. This fic has been through a lot, this fic is for @lila-rose for @callsign-denmark ‘s Luck of the puck fic exchange. It was so fun to write for you!! And getting to write for Andrei, I love getting to watch stuff about him. Sorry about the last scene it was my first time writing a bar scene.

Also: I did not Specify the reader's role in the team.

Warning: Google Translate Russian

When you picked up the phone to start the call that you were dreading, you could feel the nerves all over your body. Once you got up the nerves to call after the first ring he picked up immediately.

“Hey Andrei.”

“Hey Y/N, what’s up?”

“Have you looked at the schedule lately?”

“No, why?”

“We play y’all on the Saturday before St Patrick’s day and we aren’t flying out until Monday.”

“Ahh so you’ll be here for Den’ Svyatogo Patrika”

“Yeah.”

————————————————————————

As the plane touches down in beautiful Florida you turn your phone off airplane mode and start texting Andrei. “Hey I know you have already started your pre game nap so you don’t have to respond, but we just landed and are taxing to the gate.” You follow it up with a second quick text. “I’ll see you tonight.”

————————————————————————

As Tampa got a second goal behind Andersen, Carolina came back and did the same thing for Vasilevskiy. But when one of the canes gets hurt and has to come off the ice, the Lightning take advantage of it and come out strong for the third. As the clock runs out the canes lose by two but it was just what the Lightning was needing after a horrible loss to the Devils on Thursday. After the game, and the team has came off the ice and started to pack up. Andrei came walking up from the home locker rooms. “Hey, Y/N since you don’t fly out until Monday do you want to go out tomorrow night for Den’ Svyatogo Patrika?”

“Sure, pick me up at my hotel.”

————————————————————————

“This is a nice place you picked out.”

“Yeah, it’s one of my favorites.”

As the night went on and y’all both had more drinks, the two of you started moving closer together, until you moved over to ask him if he wanted another drink or not when he captured your lips.

Taglist: @studioreader @honethatty12 @slafgoalskybaby @swissboyhisch @wondershells @cixrosie

[filthforfriends]

Chapter 10

Alpha!Damiano x Omega!Reader

Word count: 7.7k

Day 1 of Silence

When Damiano’s stomach rumbled you got up from the bed, assuming he’d want to go eat. Based on the look in his eyes, he very much did not.

“Love, you need food. You have a freakish metabolism.” His expression didn’t change. “How about I get you something to eat and bring it back?” Dami reached for his computer. Why hadn’t that occurred to you? He opens up a document and begins typing.

I’m really sorry for scaring you earlier. I don’t expect you to be my maid. 

His expression is so earnest. You take his face in your hands and press your foreheads together for a second.

“I don’t feel like your maid. You’ve watched over me for a year, Dami.”

I don’t want to hide in my room.

“Okay, but it seems like you don’t want to leave either.” He pauses and sighs.

They’re all going to be standing there, waiting for me to say something. I feel like if I start talking all the pressure comes back. I’m also so exhausted that talking sounds impossible, but also panicked. 

“Panicked, why love?” You rub a hand along his back, the same way Damiano does when he’s trying to comfort you.

It’s all just too much. 

He stops typing and looks at you, pleading with his eyes that you understand. Of course you do and he can see that too.

“You feel trapped?” He nods. “Trapped because everyone expects you to speak. Trapped because if you start talking everything goes back to the way it was, which is how we ended up here.”

Yes. Trapped by my AD2. I have to play the perfect part in case something happens. My entire life is an insurance policy, but it's necessary.

“I’m – I know you’ve been raised to think that, but I wonder if it's true. There might be another way.”

There isn’t. 

He’s so sure, but you aren’t. However, anymore destabilizing today would be cruel, so you put that in your back pocket as something to research.

“I think you’re so courageous to participate in the world. You have so much life and passion inside. No one realizes how much.” He doesn’t type. Instead he just rests his head against yours and folds your hands together. He can’t always be by his computer. Even with a cell phone, this written text thing is going to get exhausting.

“Let’s figure out a way to communicate, just us. One tap for yes and two for no?” Tap. “Okay that's good.” Yes or no questions were the place to start. Dami opens his computer and types one-handed.

Three=maybe

“Okay.” There's a burning question you can’t resist asking. “Have the non-verbal episodes happened since you were diagnosed?” Tap. “So you must have stuff like this,” you raise your clasped hands, “with your parents.” Tap, tap. “It's just all been on devices?” Tap. That struck you as strange. This was a fuck of a lot easier and more accessible than typing.

There’s specialty devices, but I hate them. Docs called me treatment resistant.

“Well, fuck them.” Tap. Dami smiles, finally. You knew Isabella and Matteo weren’t trying to punish or silence Damiano. They were terrified, too. They had to be. Doing everything by the book was their only way to cope.

“As long as we’re holding hands, we can talk like there’s no one else in the room. Okay?” He nods, looking weary, but more willing. “So I can either go get us lunch, dinner, whatever meal it is. Or you can come with me and we’ll feel like zoo animals together, because I guarantee I’m getting weird looks too.” Tap.

“Okay, so I got our meeting with the board pushed by, so you’ll be able to play on a temporary basis. Our appointment with Dr. Khatri is Monday morning. I’ll pick you up after your first class and we should have you back to school by lunch.” Tap, tap. “Of course, I’ve booked you in with your normal therapist –” Tap, tap. “But we should also see the specialist about more treatment options. I was thinking y/n could be somewhat involved this time.” Tap. “Dinner should give us time to strategize. As for what happened today –”

“Woah, that’s a lot of information!” Isabella had started hurtling words at Damiano the minute you turned the corner. “And none of it was phrased like a question,” you observe pointedly. Sandro has disappeared, but both Dami’s parents stand in the kitchen. No wonder he didn’t want to eat. Isabella looks floored, like she never thought to ask Dami instead of telling him what she perceived to be in his best interests. Matteo seems to be more receptive. 

“Right, good point y/n. So, um…” He doesn’t know where to start, so you jump in. Physically putting yourself between Damiano and his parents, you speak gently.

“Do you want to continue playing soccer right now?” He nods, tapping your hand as well to confirm the answers. “Would you prefer waiting to meet with the collegiate board until you’re more verbal?” He shrugs his shoulders and taps three times. “Okay, let’s give you time to think about it. Are you okay with having a doctor’s appointment in the morning?” Damiano winces, but nods. “Do you feel ready to go to school on Monday?” He shakes his head and then commences a stare down between him and Isabella. You expect her to demand Dami go to school for appearances sake, but she folds. Meanwhile, Matteo looks terrified.

“Are you okay with meeting with your old therapist?” He shakes his head and Isabella moves to speak up, but Matteo raises a hand to stop her. “What about a different therapist?” He makes eye contact with his mother while nodding. This seems to calm her.

“Well when would you like to decide on a new therapist? I could pull everything up over dinner today and —” She’s interrupted by Damiano shaking his head. “But our past specialist is okay? Fine, alright,” she sighs. That seems to be an adequate amount of integration for the evening. Matteo herds her down the hall and into the bedroom. Luckily, it’s too far away to perceive any concerned whispering. Still, you poke your head around the corner and try to eavesdrop.

Damiano watches this and shakes his head in light-hearted disapproval. When you turn around he’s pulling cilantro and shallots out of the produce drawer.

“Are you cooking?” you gasp. Confidently, he fills a pot of water and puts it on the stove. Afterwards, he takes a container of pasta out of the refrigerator with a block of what you assume is parmesan.

“I’ve never had fresh pasta before.” Dami is absolutely scandalized, holding a hand to his heart in Italian offense. You try to chop the tomatoes, but he won’t let you near the knife. You argue for your competence and end up stuck on cilantro duty, picking leaves off the stem. Damiano sits you up on the counter right next to him while he slices, dices, and works over the stove. The domestic proximity is nice. It seems that this is a hobby he genuinely enjoys because he starts humming. Occasionally he’ll look up from stirring and smile when he sees himself being admired.

“This counts as our first date,” you decide. Dami cocks his head to the side. “Dates aren’t always at a restaurant. They can also be someone making you a nice dinner.” At the word nice, he rolls his eyes. “This is fancy!” Cue a secondary eye roll. “Oh, I’m sorry we’re not all Italians who can make sauce from scratch.” You reach a finger towards the sauce pan to taste and get your hand slapped away. He probably doesn’t want you to burn yourself, which is why you do the gesture again to annoy him. This time Dami growls a little while batting your hand away.

With a burdened sigh, he goes to the drawer, pulls out a spoon, and dips it in the pan. Damiano blows on the liquid to cool it before handing the utensil over. Deciding to annoy him further you try the sauce and gasp dramatically.

“Why didn’t you warn me this would be hot!?” He tries to glower, but it doesn’t work because he’s smiling at your dumbassery. Dami gives you a peck on the lips and you repeat yourself with much different inflection.

“Why didn’t you tell me this would be hot?” You wink, wiggling your eyebrows. Damiano mimes hitting his head on the oven hood, putting himself out of the misery that was your sense of humor. 

Day 2 of Silence

It was barely Sunday when he woke you for the first time. The word codependence had crossed your mind when it was just assumed you’d spent the night again. You hoped the David’s were reasonable people who reasonably wouldn’t expect a 15 year old omega to do all the emotional labor of comforting Damiano. Upon reflection, they absolutely were. Isabella reminded you to prioritize your well being and gave you an out daily. However, she also lacked soothing maternal instinct, even for an alpha. While soothing, Matteo didn’t possess Dami’s intensity and couldn’t begin to understand it. So he could only provide well-meaning platitudes that he learned in the effective communication section of a parenting book.

Regardless of efficacy, they were there, they were committed, and they’d seen Damiano through to the other side of episodes before. If you felt over your head, you’d put yourself here, right? Except that giving Damiano their best wasn’t necessarily giving him everything he needed. So while you weren’t socially obligated, you did experience Dami’s suffering viscerally, in a way no one else did. There was simply no way to love him, feel pain that you could alleviate, and do nothing. 

Which had landed you here, in Damiano’s bed at 12:36am. Wide-awake and contemplating it, because being marked by someone suffering so much emotional turmoil, was uncomfortable. How could Dami sleep was answered three minutes after you’d rolled away from to get some personal space. He woke up, anxious, about to say your name but the words got stuck. Instead he sought you out via that gravitational pull and exploratory hands.

His touch didn’t make you jump, because you’d heard Damiano shifting around by the rustling bedsheets. He was a pretty active sleeper, so you ignored the hand that came to rest on your arm, pulling on you weakly. When he tapped, you assumed his hand was trembling, moving in a dream. However, the repeated canine whines got you to check for a nightmare.

Damiano was awake, his eyes fluttering open and closed. He was panting, breath heavy like he might cry. 

“Love, did you have a nightmare?” He shakes his head. His exploratory hand is lightly stroking your hair where it rests.

“Do you want to snuggle?” Dami nods, leaning in closer already. Based on him not pulling you over, you guess that he wants to be on your chest. With Dami’s upper body halfway on yours, his breathing returns to normal. His soft snores in your ear lull you to sleep. Trying to cool down, your unconscious body eventually creates room between itself and Damiano. This time you barely wake up. Your arms were already positioned tightly against you in sleep. Dami just pulls you against his chest, getting your head under his chin. 

Only during the third time do you realize the issue, because Dami startles you awake. The sensation of someone touching your scent glands overpowers any other feelings of safety. You sit upright immediately, bleary eyed and scanning your surroundings. Two warm, smooth, and study arms wrap around your waist. The anxiety immediately plumates, body recognizing Damiano before your brain does a second later.

“You scared the shit out of me,” you pant. Damiano sits up as well, pulling your back against his chest. One hand goes to your hair. When he moves it to expose the right gland, your entire body tenses. Damiano scents you and your heart rate slows. You relax against him while he kisses everywhere but your scent gland for a couple moments. When his lips finally brush the area, you don’t jump, humming in delight at all these sensations. 

Finally, you get your bearings. It’s 3:11am and this is the third wakeup because Damiano can’t sleep unless you’re physically touching him. How the fuck is he gonna sleep tomorrow? Also, how the fuck are you gonna sleep? This level of clinginess had gone from endearing to claustrophobic.

“Baby, I need you to tell me what's going on.” Dam grabs his computer from the nightstand and begins typing.

Afraid you’ll be gone. 

“What kind of gone?” Admiring Dami’s profile he’s beautiful as ever, but he’s also tired. There are bags under his eyes, his skin looks older. You’re both squinting at the screen, painfully.

Everytime I wake up and we’re not touching, I panic that it became too much. When I try to fall asleep my anxiety goes “if you’re not holding her then you can’t be sure she’s still here.”

“Oh, love,” you sigh, holding him sideways, check pressed to his shoulder. “I can’t sleep here every night. I have to go home.”

I know. It’s more if you said you’d spend the night then disappeared, what that would mean. I’d also be so worried about your safety, but you might not answer my calls because you’re mad at me, so I’l never know if you’re okay. Maybe you’d never talk to me again or you wouldn’t be okay and I’d never know anything and I’d just have to wonder forever. Like I could help if I knew, but I don’t know, so what if

Damiano’s typing speed has become hysterical and his hands are shaking. You push the computer from his lap and take its place, kissing Dami with his face between your palms. He mewls and crushes your body against his. This could easily became sex, and maybe preventing it from doing so is a bad idea. However, Damiano’s nervous system needs solutions that last longer than a couple hours.

“Mm ‘kay,” you pull away. “Let's go through this.” You pull the computer up beside you. “I wouldn’t disappear in the middle of the night because I love you and I know how stressful that would be.” At some point you’d have to muster the courage to say the words on their own and not in a phrase. Dami rests his head on your clavicle and gazes up at you with wonder and adoration in his eyes. He’d smiling, just barely showing his perfect teeth. His hand comes to tuck the hair behind your ears, so he can see your whole face. Taking a breath, you bite your lip and continue on.

 “As for ignoring communication, we can come up with a code word which means it's an emergency and we both promise that we’ll answer to that word no matter how angry we are.” Damiano loves that idea, nodding while adjusting your faces to be level. “And that word will be…we’ll figure it out later because I wanna go to sleep. Anything else?” 

How are you?  

Honestly

“I really need to sleep in my own bed tomorrow, but I don’t want to worry about you needing me to be here.”

I don’t, really.

“I’m worried that you’re not getting everything you need, but that you’re –”

But I love having you here, always. You’re always welcome.

“Thank you, dear. I wasn’t feeling rejected, but um…I worry that you can’t ask for the things you need,” you admit, stroking his cheek.

Really, I’m okay. Promise. If you knew the team of doctors I have behind me…

“Well, I mean…should I?” It’s something you’d considered, but didn’t want to overstep. “Because I plan to be here for the long haul.” Damiano squeezes you way too tight in response. “Oof! Alright.” He hums happily in your ear, more canine dialect than English. It's impossible to accurately translate because spoken language is dependent on a standardized system and the other is dependent on individual bonds. 

You try to tap into your feral side to bridge the understanding gap, but it's not coming easy. Could be because you're sleep deprived.

“Sorry,” you shake your head. “I’ve never been good at this.” You sigh and lay back in bed. Damiano types something and shows it to you before plugging in his laptop to charge. 

Don’t try to translate into words or emotions. 

You look at him, confused and a little frustrated. Deriving sentiments has always been the way you understood canine dialect. How was a person supposed to glean any meaning from the sounds?

Feel it on your body only.

He slides the computer under the bed and lays beside you. You comfortably find a big spoon, little spoon shape. As solacing as the position may be, your inability to communicate with Damiano via the only language he presently spoke was distressing. It felt like failing him as a partner. 

Dami made that rumbling hum from the back of his throat again and you tried to take his advice. The sound felt warm, soft…round. Gentle wasn’t the right word. It didn’t have any sharp corners or things that might poke you. It felt not gold, but silver…metallic? No, it shimmered in your mind’s eye. That shimmery feeling runs down your spine. The ball of warmth settled in the pit of your stomach as you yawned. 

Damiano’s hands tried unfurling your balled fists and you went easily, relaxing. He made a second, similar sound to encourage this behavior. The muscles in your face moved, even as you tried to still them. You felt the sides of your mouth curl into a smile. Between your legs tingles, too. The soles of your feet and palms of your hands felt toasty warm. Enjoying the sensation, you rubbed your fingers and toes together.

Dami fondly asked what you were doing. Except he didn’t ask, and you didn’t need him to, understanding his canine vocalizations. You shrugged in response and yawned again. He accepted this as an answer. To someone else it’d sound gruff and aggressive, but Damiano was actually being quite affectionate. He even scents you and rubs his cheek against yours. 

In this moment of shared peace, the significance of Dami’s communication sets in. He didn’t compliment you. It was so much more than that. He’d wanted you to feel good inside, good about yourself, content in your body, safe in his den. The way you’d made Damiano feel made him want you to experience all that in return. 

You tried saying I love you but the noise was too guttural. You were doubtful it made any sense until Damino growled in return. With a sentiment that big, there was no translating it, but all those pleasant sensations flared up once again. Instead of that ball of warmth and shimmering feeling, it was as if a heavy quilt came to cover you. The fabric was made of sunlight. That should have blinded you, but it didn’t. Nothing would harm you. Everything inside felt so cherished that your significance in the world was nearly suffocating. Each organ, each bit of connective tissue, every drop of marrow was affirmed as being special. This typical, average body that you’d had for 15 years was made a temple, consequential to the entire universe. Dami wanted to show you how he felt about you. 

Unsure if it's been a second or a full minute, you surfaced with tears in your eyes. Damiano’s thumb swept along your cheek in case, unable to properly see your profile in the dark. Still, he was deliberately observing, breathing relaxed and even. Relaxed perhaps because he felt all your gratitude and reciprocation. Dami kissed the back of your head and nuzzled to get comfortable. This indicated contentment and that he expected no further validation from you on this front. Each warm exhale tickled your healing mark.

Day 3 of Silence

“Is that a hickey!?” Watching the milk and coffee combine in a travel mug, you couldn’t help but wonder if the world couldn’t have waited another 10 minutes for this particular interaction. 

“Uh…yeah?” Dad stomps across the kitchen’s laminate floor, but you dodge him. Thinking you have a hickey is probably the best case scenario, so you hide on the other side of the fridge. Unfortunately, he’s having none of your evasion. 

“Don’t make me chase you around the goddamn kitchen, y/n.” With a sigh, you stand still. He yanks the collar of your pajama shirt aside and gasps in horror. The goal was to get your mark fully healed before he saw it. Without coffee, you’d forgotten all about that.

“Did he hurt you!?” your dad bellows. You swat his hand away and take a step back. Having someone yell in your face at 8am wasn’t exactly conducive to a positive state of well-being either.

“No. dad. Dami would never hurt me.” He’s shaking his head, face turning bright red.

“That – that thing is – is,” he stammers, enraged and pointing an accusatory finger at your precious mark. Seeing the anger and disgust directed at something sacred made you pull your shirt to cover it.

“It's not like that!” How you yearned to have a verbal Damiano, whose charisma could make this conversation so much easier. In an ideal world, you’d have told your dad together. Being accosted before you’d even caffeinated was perhaps one of the worst ways this could come about.

“What in the hell…” he turns you to the other side. Knowing the bruising on the right is going to be difficult to explain away, you cover it with your hand before he can get a good look. 

“Stop that,” he orders, checking his pockets for something. “Where is my phone? We need to call and report –”

“NO!!” Your feral scream surprises even yourself. The sound reveals exactly how violated you feel even when your words don’t. You’d done a lot of yelling with your dad, but this outcry was a novel sound that made even him freeze. He looked over his shoulder in alarm, at least shocked into silence and inaction. Upstairs are sounds of hurried feet and doors opening.

“It’s my mark! Damiano marked me. It’s completely normal, dad.”

“That is not normal,” he seethes.

“Mom! Clio!” you call. “Do you want to understand or is your mind made up?” Stomping down the stairs is definitely not your mother’s measured physicality.

“Why the fuck are you yelling before 10am?” Clio demands, gesticulating dramatically. “Oh, that,” she winces, looking over her shoulder for backup. “Listen, dad, I know it looks bad, but Damiano actually took care of it really well. It’s like wearing his letterman jacket.”

“Are you out of your mind, Clio? Look at it!”

“Well, what did you expect? Everyone knows how marking works.” Even discussing the interaction with your father felt icky, and a wee bit treacherous.

“I’m sorry, what did I hear about reporting something?” Your mother rounded the corner, breathless and still in her sage green nightgown. After quickly surveying the situation she speaks.

“Oh, no, Kevin there's been a misunderstanding.” She places a delicate hand on his shoulder, like all her softness could quell such brute force. Clio slinks upstairs, happy to be free of the situation. How jealous you are of her.

“There’s no misunderstanding, he doesn’t want to understand. He doesn’t give a damn! Why’d you have kids with an omega, huh? Why not just adopt and spare us all the misery?”

“Y/n -”

“He was going to report Damiano for abuse!” You don’t feel the hot tears on your face, but your parents' faces change in the way they always do when you cry. It’d become such an uncommon occurrence that your dad has a satisfying amount of dismay in his expression. You lean against the counter while panic creates a tightening fist under your sternum.

“Let's all just sit down and lower our voices.” Somehow, the three of you end up at the dining table, yourself and dad at opposite ends, glaring. Taking a deep breath, you pledge to give the man in front of you exactly one chance.

“He didn’t hurt me. Damiano marked me to show his devotion, how much he cares about me. If you actually went to Supports you’d know that it doesn’t hurt when you do it right.”

“Oh, bullcrap!”

“Kevin!” An even tempered person would recognize that this was all out of fatherly concern, but he’d threatened Damiano when he was already vulnerable and wounded.

“Darling, I’m sorry to make you cry with all the shouting.” Mother squeezed your hand, but everyone knew that the yelling wasn’t the reason for your tears.

“How's this for the omega you never wanted? I asked for the mark and it's my favorite thing about myself. Because he’s always with me!” You choke on a sob and make an ugly sound.

“Y/n –”

“I just want him to be here,” you confess through the tears. “I want him here,” gasp, “with me. Because he’d – because he’d know the right thing to say.” Except he wouldn’t because he’s not speaking. Partially because of bigots like your own father. The look in mom’s eyes reveals that she hasn’t mentioned it. She hasn’t mentioned any of it, probably so dad doesn’t find out about Alpha Dysregulation and exile your boyfriend.

“Well, until we can get this figured out,” dad motions vaguely towards your neck, “you’re not gonna see him.” There are no words to articulate your infuriation, so you accidentally dip into canine dialect. Standing up, you try to push your chair away from the table, but end up just pushing the whole table. Coffee splashes everywhere, dad’s chair almost tips over, the fruit bowl flips, and all its contents scatter. The apples make dull thuds as they land on the floor.

“No. We won’t be forbidding our teenage daughter from seeing her alpha right after she’s been marked.”

“He’s not her alpha, they’re not mated!” Mother doesn’t design to acknowledge this petty outburst.

“You should know that is unacceptable and irresponsible.” Your father assesses the situation, looking between his wife and his youngest rapidly. He comes to the conclusion not to challenge mom. 

“Right.” Kevin nods once, and it's a reminder of how miniscule proud men can look. 

“I think I am partially to blame here.” Mother’s words are shocking, not just to yourself, but also to father. “As an omega who decided they were not bound for an alpha, I have given you an inaccurate idea of what should be expected.” She sighs heavily, looking vaguely in the direction of the far wall. “And I haven’t done enough to correct that.”

“Well Olivia, I don't know that that’s true,” your father splutters. He gets up and grabs the kitchen towel to begin mopping up the coffee. 

“You shouldn’t be justifying yourself to him,” you bristle. The only person that should be undergoing self-actualization was your father. Never had her fickle submission to him been more arduous to watch.

“I’m not,” she replies curtly. “I’m apologizing to you. Your father is accustomed to a sanitized, genteel version of omega’s and I believe this is a direct result.” He straightens up slowly, then forcefully hucks the towel into the kitchen sink, insulted. For once, dad’s glowering doesn’t reduce her. Your mom isn’t quite standing up for you to your father, but she’s putting herself in the way. Every appraisal of your character has to pass through her first.

“It’s not your fault, mom.” You’re still flabbergasted at the turn this argument has taken.

“Maybe, but I allow the man I raised omegan children with to look at their world through a deficit lens. I should have shouldered that from the beginning.” You hear the floorboards creak and wonder if Clio is listening, just as enraptured, around the corner. 

“Olivia, I’m right here,” dad exclaims, indignant. Your mothers gaze never wavers from yours. It feels like a promise.

Day 4 of Silence 

53 hours was officially more than enough space. It was good that Damiano respected his own boundaries and didn’t show up for school. At the recommendation of his new therapist, he decided to take Tuesday off as well (after some reassurance on your part.) It’d also give the very colorful collection of rumors time to calm down. Still, you missed him like hell. Unknowingly, you’d become accustomed to Dami’s presence, months before you spoke. This building you’d driven past hundreds of times felt foreign without him. 

Ever the protector, Damiano was trying to give you time to recover and recharge. It’d been a tremendous amount of emotional labor and now he had other competent people to support him. Apparently, the new therapist was great and the hormonal specialist was discussing new treatment options to prevent the episodes. Messing with Dami’s endocrine system made you extremely nervous. What if he didn’t smell the same? 

Not hearing his voice puts a damper on your intimacy. You’d grown so accustomed to speaking almost daily. Whether it be on the phone or in person, the warm timbre of Dami’s voice was always soothing. After lunch, the missing him becomes too much. You send a text asking if it's alright to come over. It's mostly just courtesy. Two hours later he hasn’t responded and it's the end of the school day. You decide he must be napping and head over anyway. Maybe you could slide into bed next to him. A nap sounded pretty damn good right now, especially in the safety of your alpha’s room. What might occur after the nap was even more alluring.

It takes much longer than usual for the door to be answered. When you peek through the window, there's multiple figures having an unintelligible conversation. You’re about to leave since the David’s have company when Matteo finally opens the door and invites you inside. He looks uncharacteristically muddled, distracted even as he greets you. Standing formally in the foyer are two professionals with tablets in hand and analytic gazes.

“Sometimes there are drop in assessments after an episode to objectively evaluate home life,” he explains, obviously caught off guard.

“Oh, sorry! I texted Damiano, but he didn’t respond and I thought I’d just come over anyway.” You imagine that positive conclusions won’t be made about the pushy omega girlfriend who barges in. “I’m sorry for interrupting, I can leave.”

“No, that’s just fine,” a woman with intricate braids answers curtly. “It gives us a more holistic assessment.” She’s probably a psychologist and the balding man besides her you suspect to be a social worker, based on their uniforms.

“In cases of alpha-omega selective mutism, normalcy is good. Special treatment can actually make episodes longer,” he says. So act like nothing is wrong, reduce empathy, and hope the whole situation goes away. Great. After yesterday’s blow out, your capacity for holding your tongue with ignorant men is drastically reduced. It wasn’t very substantial to begin with. Giving the psychologist a pointed look, you decide to remove yourself from the situation.

“I think I’m just gonna go.” You awkwardly slink backwards towards the door, but before you can even reach it, you hear pounding footfalls coming from the direction of the kitchen. Damiano slides around the corner in socks, bites it on the hardwood floor, and catches himself, all while looking at you.

“Hey, crazy!” The rest of the room turns awkward while Dami’s face comes alive with a bright smile. Of course, they’d all been calling him crazy all day in veiled language, but no one would ever address it. You throw your arms around his neck and the embrace is so enthusiastic that it lifts you a few inches off the floor. He gives you a single, brief kiss, but in it is conveyed all the gratitude for forcing everyone to see that he wasn’t fragile.

Verifying that nothing has changed, you rest your face by his scent glands. Damiano does the same thing. The high bridge of his elegant nose presses into your trapezius muscle. You can feel his breaths quicken as he takes in your scent. Both by the sound of his sharp exhales and the quivering of his movement of his abdomen which is pressed against yours.You try to pull away after hugging for an already inappropriate amount of time, but he tightens the embrace. Damiano nuzzles your profile, a loving alpha who is unapologetic to the polite society that nearly asphyxiated him. If the room was empty, you’d close your eyes and treasure this moment where Dami uses your pheromones to self-soothe.

When someone clears their throat, he finally lets go, but keeps you in his personal space. As he kisses your head, temple, cheek, and back up again, you forget everything else. Smiling so wide that you feel shy, you hide your face against Dami’s chest, hugging again. This time the embrace is loose and more relaxed. The piling on his old sweatshirt is rough against your skin, but everything smells like him, so other senses lose their relevance in comparison.

When Dami presses his face to your hair, you realize it's been a few days since you’d washed it. There’s a moment of insecurity before reminding yourself that he’d far prefer the scent of natural oils to the fragrance of shampoo. It’s exactly what you’d prefer. Like in the car after soccer, when he was disgusting and sweaty and absolutely irresistible.

“Ahem,I just realized I haven’t properly introduced you. This is y/n, Damiano’s girlfriend.” Matteo not so subtly prompts the pair of you to let go. Damiano does so begrudgingly, keeping a hand wrapped around your waist.

“Great to meet you, I’m Clem, by the way.” Her eyes flit up to Damiano’s face, looking for permission to breach doctor-patient confidentiality. He nods, and her shoulders relax.

“I've been Damiano’s psychologist for over three years now. He’s a good one.” She clearly means it, despite seeing Dami at his worst. You like that about her.

“You’re a good judge of character. Oh, and it’s nice to meet you.” Before the other, less favorable, visitor can introduce himself, there's a new voice from the kitchen. A man with a scraggly beard, flimsy wire glasses, and a frumpy gray sweater leans against the doorway with his arms crossed. He’s judging you, but out of genuine interest, not critique. 

“That’s the first smile I’ve seen all day,” he exclaims, warmly. They must have been speaking, or rather communicating, in the living room when you came inside.

“This is Dr. Laurel, Damiano’s new therapist.”

“Please, call me Jay.” He’s relaxed in a room of anxious people. While everyone is treating Dami’s silence as a crisis, he seems almost curious. He’s invested in getting to know him, not just in doing his job for the sake of it. 

“Let's talk.” He beckons you over with a casual hand gesture and nonchalant nod towards the living room. It was all calibrated to not make the request scary, but it still was. Dami’s expression is reassuring, and he’s not all tensed up from stress. From the foyer, through the kitchen, and into the living room, you wondered about how sound would carry. Regardless, Jay got credit for not disrupting the safety of Dami’s den. Besides his bedroom, this was the most private place in the house because the living room was only accessible via the kitchen.

“Don’t worry about anyone overhearing,” assures Jay, as if he can read your mind. Damiano sits in the cushioned armchair, which you didn’t expect because it leaves you to sit on the couch alone. Bringing it up would just make the situation more awkward, so you cringe internally and go to take a seat. Dami makes a sound of indignation and grabs your wrist. He guides you towards him until he can get a grip on your forearm and tug. Surely he didn’t mean for you to sit on his lap in front of his therapist.

“Excuse me, young man? Young man, what are you doing?” you jest in a formal voice. Humor is the only thing you can think of. Jay chuckles, shuffling through papers with his eyes averted. Damiano puts the index finger of his free hand through a belt loop on your jeans. While you’re distracted reading the room, he manages to pull you close enough that he can lean forward, wrap his arms around your hips, and haul you onto his lap.

“Oof, okay.” You settle on sitting upright, knowing from the strength of Damiano’s embrace that you weren’t going to get away. He uncrosses his legs, hands hovering a couple inches away like guardrails while you adjust position. You roll your eyes at how overly cautious he was, as if falling two feet to the carpeted floor was going to hurt anything beyond your ego. 

“However you’re comfortable is fine by me.” Jay seemed to get his forms in order and set them down on the coffee table. He sits with his feet on the sofa, facing you. It’s a strange dichotomy: such a youthful gesture, to take up the entire couch, but at the same time he meticulously arranges the pillows behind him, grumbling about his back.

“So y/n, you are not my patient and are under no obligation to answer any of my questions if you don’t want to.” He clears his throat and clasps his hands. “With that said, everything that happens in my sessions with Damiano is covered under doctor-patient confidentiality. This includes anything you say as well.”

“Okay…I’ve – I don’t know if this matters, but I’ve only ever been to family therapy. I didn’t talk much though, because I’m the most normal of my sisters. I don’t know how it works.” Dami opens his laptop.

You don’t have to be here if it makes you uncomfortable. 

“No, no, I want to be involved. I just thought I’d meet your doctors at an office. I didn’t think I’d be part of it though.”

“Ah. You’re here to provide information, not receive treatment.”

“Oh, okay!” You relax back, leaning against Dami instead of sitting bolt upright.    

 “What do you want to know? We’ve only been together for…god, has it really only been three months?” You turn to Dami and he seems to be having an equally difficult time wrapping his head around how such a strong bond could be built so quickly.

“Fresh perspective,” Jay declares, cheerly. “Obviously old coping mechanisms aren’t working, so we need to find new ones. Dami feels you’re the only person who sees him for who he is.” Rather than meet your eyes, Damiano adjusts the position of his hands, one coming to rest just above the knee.

“So you want my opinion?” Jay gives a tight-lipped smile and gestures for you to continue. “Well, he’s not usually like this.” You tame Damiano’s hair as you speak, sweeping it away from his neck. “He has this cool, mysterious facade and under that is a confident, sporty exterior and under that is cocky alpha hard shell.”

“Sounds like a lot of defense mechanisms.”

“Oh, yeah and if you get past the hard shell he’ll pretend like he doesn’t really care to protect himself.” You fondly tuck a lock of hair behind his ear and Dami looks up at you through his lashes. He’s blushing and it distracts you completely until Jay reclaims your focus.

“Obviously, you’ve built a lot of trust. Which was the hardest layer to get past?”

“Oh, that would be the next layer.”

“There’s more?”

“Absolutely this man was a fortress.” You rest one arm on his shoulders and Dami uses the position to press his profile against your chest. “Once you get the bastard to actually feel something he freaks out and tries to control everything. But under that he’s afraid of himself.” Your smile drops and you press a long kiss to Dami’s forehead, breathing in deep through your nose.

“And is that fear of your Alpha Dysfunction?” Dami nods and Jay flips through some papers. “Well, it looks like you had one significant episode at..you were 11.”

I wasn’t diagnosed yet.

“Right, so that’s to be expected and you aren’t to be held responsible.” Jay gives Damiano a pointed look, reminding him to be forgiving of his childhood self. 

“But he had to move schools.”

“After a series of minor incidents. Essentially, he just got too many strikes.” Jay shuffles the papers pensively and takes his time setting the stack behind him.

She knows I went into headspace while hooking up with a beta a couple years ago, about how they flipped out and involved their parents.   

“Yet, clearly y/n knows you’re not dangerous.” He gestures to the way you’re tenderly cuddled up together. “Where does that fear come from? Is it fear of what you’re capable of or fear of Alpha Dysregulation itself?” The room falls silent, Dami drumming his fingers on his leg while he thinks.

I don’t know. Everyone acts like it's the worst thing in the world. They act like it's the end of the world that I have AD2. I probably internalized that.

“There's a lot of fear of abandonment.” Just saying the words makes you choke up a little. “It’s all to hide the AD2. Everyone needs to stop treating it like a dirty secret if they want Dami to get better.”

“I agree.” You look up at Jay in surprise. “Absolutely.” 

“But it’s not, uh,” you take a deep breath, fighting for an amicable way to phrase this. When you can’t find one you decide to speak anyway.

“It's not like it's just some small group of alpha parents who hate that Dami is better at soccer than their kid. It’s everywhere. Even that asshole,” you point in the direction of the foyer. “It’s his job and he can’t extend a modicum of empathy. No one can! Fuck, even Isabella doesn’t know how to be soothing.”

“Isabella is Dami’s mother?” Jay starts typing. Perhaps ranting to your boyfriend's therapist about his own mother was over the line.

“Yeah, but maybe it’s because she’s burnt out. I don’t have some special skill set. I just take the time to be comforting and loving and fucking listen. The whole family has protocols, but none of them actually comfort Dami. They always skip right to the solution.” You glance at Damiano to see if you should hold your tongue, but he looks genuinely interested, and a little impressed.

“Go on,” Jay encouraged, accompanied by rapid tapping sounds.

“Basically, all the parents are ignorant and they raise ignorant children. They create stereotypes that aren’t even accurate for Dami. But they don’t actually care about the truth, it's all about feeling important. It's not like he’s a grown up either who's been hardened by life and can take this shit. He’s technically still a kid!” You can feel that you’re ranting, but no one’s ever asked and listened before. 

“As long as he has to keep a secret, there’s stress. But the consequences of getting found out…how is a person supposed to function with that hanging over their heads? Why can’t we remove the stigma? Why can’t we just teach children how to interact with people that have developmental differences?”

“Excellent point,” Jay validates, gesturing at you to go on. It takes some of the wind from your sails, since you’re so used to fighting in these conversations.

“Yeah, everyone is doing what they think is right for his physical health, but what about his mental health? What about his autonomy? He should be consulted. He can’t be made responsible for whether he’s rejected or accepted by society. That’s not fair. That’s fucking unreasonable. He’s 17!”

“Asking these questions is important.”

“Yeah, but everyone is asking the wrong questions. ‘How do we get him talking again? How do we fix it faster?’ They should be asking why he stopped talking in the first place so it doesn’t happen again.” Jay must take a full minute to finish documenting. Or, at least, it feels like it. When he looks up, you realize you haven’t checked on Dami in a while. His face is still lent against you, pressed against your breast. Even partially concealed, you can see that his eyes are watering. It feels like a dagger to the heart.

“Wait, no!” you exclaim at the prospect of Dami enduring even more emotional hardship. The hand on your thigh comes to your face and he guides you into a passionate kiss. Even with your mouths closed, the public display of affection was entirely too personal. Knowing he’s only going to get this one kiss, Dami draws it way out, sliding his palm under your ear, fingers threaded into your hair. When he does allow it to end, he keeps your right there, forehead against his. Rather than pull back, you wait for him to release you, praying every moment that he’ll decide not yet. 

Despite having barely an echo of public decency when it came to physical affection, he does have to let the moment go eventually. Your cheeks burn, but Dami doesn’t have an ounce of shame. He sits up tall, challenging Jay to take issue with the act. After all, he is an alpha too. Jay’s demeanor is constant, unprovoked. You’re horrified at the prospect of Dami ruining his relationship with a therapist that could do him some real good. Tapping twice on the back of the shoulder doesn’t work. Resorting to school yard tactics, you flick his ear, finally earning his attention. He’s surprised and a little bit ticked off, but at least he’s not intimidating Jay. 

“It’s good that you two are so comfortable with each other,” he chuckles. Well that's one way to put it. You remove your arm from behind Dami’s neck, trying to create situationally appropriate space. That actually upsets him.

“Y/n, the vast majority of my clients are young alphas with behavioral issues. It takes a great deal to offend me.” He stands up with a groan, once again shuffling his papers. Jay does seem genuinely unbothered, bordering on serene.

“It’s good to see that Damiano is still feeling like himself. Tea, anyone?”

Notes: Expect chapter 11 much sooner! Thank you for reading my silly little fics <3 I always enjoy hearing your favorite parts and your thoughts. I know this isn't as spicy as past chapters but trust me it heats up very soon.

-XOXO Eden

Masterlist

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[hotpotatoshealthjourney]

A brief introduction to what multiple sclerosis (the main thing I have) is, from someone I follow on fb. She is very good at explaining things and very real about her struggles.

It’s been a rough week. Hopefully this coming week will be better. I had to cancel home health pt on Thursday (but managed to force myself to do it on Friday instead, but it was a major struggle). My body was just beat all week. Took at least one nap every day, most days at least 2 naps. So exhausted, so sore, so mentally worn out as well.

My doc put me back on 2 of my old anxiety meds that have worked for me in the past, so hopefully those work for me in the next few weeks. I could use the help. My depression is still at bay thankfully, but my anxiety is trying hard to beat me. I won’t let it. I’m stronger now than ever before and I *will* get through this.

Sir’s first week back at week is probably a big part of why the week was so rough. It made the anxiety get so much worse I’m sure, and definitely when my mind is struggling my body struggles more too. Tomorrow is a brand new week and I’m not going to bring last week’s problems with me into the new week.

Monday I am going to make at *least* 3 of the important phone calls I need to make (hopefully more, but it depends on how the first 3 go really). Depending on how those go, I might have some really good news financially that’ll cheer me up a lot. At worst, it won’t be any worse than I thought as of beginning of this past week. At best, it will save us thousands of dollars and get some nicer stuff that we wouldn’t have been able to afford for years and years. Fingers crossed!! I’ll update about it all after I make the calls.

Pt this week was primarily focused on balance. Stuff that to anyone with a normal-ish body seems crazy easy but for me was crazy difficult. “Ok so let go of the handles to your walkers, put your feet closer than shoulder width apart, no, closer than that too, good. Now stand there a bit looking forward. Good job! Now close your eyes and do it some more!” Omg so difficult. I really thought I was going to topple over several times. There was standing on one leg for like 2 seconds each over and over - I think she let me hold on gently for those. That was so hard, cuz my weak leg didn’t want to hold me up, but the other way my weak leg also didn’t want to lift up, so it was lose lose, hehe. Then the last balance thing was really more of a stretch and was the only part I enjoyed. Little slanted triangle thing she sat on the floor in front of me. I stand on it and it stretches my calves. Feels soooo nice.

We then did 3 different arm exercises with the weight rubber band thingies, then she left and I took a nap…I was out cold like 10 minutes after she closed the door behind herself, lol. Exhausting! And Sir keeps wondering why I don’t have the energy for sex lately. He’s been horny constantly lately, and keeps coming on to me, and most of the time I’ve either been just letting him fuck me cuz I’m too tired to resist, or telling him no cuz I’m just too tired to handle it at all. I feel bad for him, poor guy, and it’s not like I haven’t been horny, I’m just so fucking exhausted. I got my dose of Ritalin upped this week so hopefully that and the anxiety meds will eventually help. Hopefully. 🤞 I remain hopeful, which continues to amaze me given all that I’m going through. I’m truly proud of myself, honestly.

[some1s-sista]

What a suck fest of a Monday.

Started off normally. I got up and out for my walk earlier than usual before it got too steamy.

Fed the indoor cats and then the outdoor crew. Everyone was accounted for.

Two signs for the smokehouse arrived finally - one bent and one without hangers.

Went about my day, got a lot done. Went out to check on the kittens … 3 out of 4 are gone! We searched everywhere and cannot find them. I’m really hoping mama felt the porch has been too hot lately and moved them someplace cooler. She’s disappeared a couple times, but never for long, so I hope they’re close by and she’s checking on them.

Especially since we have the potential for tornadoes tonight!

And the cherry on top ... the chemo nurse called me to tell me the form I needed the doc to complete was ready and she emailed it to me. And of course, I never got the email.

So Monday can bite me and now tomorrow I’ll have to drive over there to pick it up.

[yourbestgal]

after much consideration i’ve decided i need to bite the bullet and get back on vyvanse because i just cannot get anything done. i tried calling my doc’s but the office is closed, they have bizarre hours. i’ll try again on monday. the sun will come out tomorrow

[perexcri]

cheer up, baby

i saw this post by @rotisserie5107 a few days ago, blacked out, and woke up with 26k words in a google doc at 3 am last night

so, yeah, here’s my jealous Will fic: cheer up, baby

and a nice little summary for those curious:

Will has been living a totally normal life since the Upside Down was closed two years ago–it’s just been school, homework, art projects, hiding the giant crush he’s had on his best friend for the past several years, and even working at Melvald’s to help carry his own weight in the Byers-Hopper household. It’s his junior year, and everything is going fine.

That is, until someone tries to ask Mike to prom in the office supplies aisle of Melvald’s during one of Will’s afternoon shifts. It sends his world spinning off of its axis, and he realizes there’s a little creature that lives somewhere in between his stomach and chest that likes to roar and claw at his insides. Some people might call it jealousy.

this was another case of me sitting down to write a one shot and it quickly spinning out of control, so i’ve split it up into 5 chapters to make it more manageable

now that i’ve exorcised this from my system, i’ll be updating my current wip either tomorrow or monday, since i had planned to yesterday and didn’t (for obvious reasons lol)

i hope you guys enjoy!! :]