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sarahowritesostucky · 4 months

Text

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 7129

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, referenced childhood abuse and resultant mental health issues, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, childhood abuse, self-harm, mental illness, and alcohol abuse.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter of this fic! Story Masterpost

12. Pôt de crème

Mary

That day really winds up feeling like the epitome of a terrible horrible, no good, very bad fucking day for Mary, and it starts early. Leaving the apartment for work after the massage cocktease from Hell is odd.

She’s left feeling happy to have helped, but also hurt, disappointed, and mad at herself, of all things. That was the perfect opportunity for her to make a move and finally force those two to tell her that they’re not interested! (Though a small and pitifully thirsty part of her brain still exists in the fantasy land where they’d take her up on it.) But she’d chickened out and kept it strictly platonic. Ugh. Lame.

She manages not to think about it for a while, as she gets into the rhythm of her day at the bakery. She still can’t shake the cloud of anxiety and irritability looming over her, though. The good old days of any lasting effects from Bucky’s drops are gone, and instead she’s left to slowly percolate a bad mood as she clocks in and figures out the best order to get her projects done for that day.

Dennis is the manager on schedule, which sucks because Mary’s never liked him, but he’s in the office for the most part, since he’s a stuck up do-nothing, and she's able to pretend that she’s alone.

No matter though. She can’t focus on anything, feels overly emotional, and almost breaks out in tears when she drops a tray of cupcakes on the floor. She manages to hold it together as she cleans up the mess, and moves onto the next task. Her list for the day now feels miserably long, and she doesn’t even enjoy decorating the base-iced babycakes that are waiting for her from yesterday. She fucks up the writing on one of them and loses her shit over something that is not worth losing her shit over. That’s the stupid thing that finally pushes her to tears, and she tosses her piping bag angrily onto the counter, what the fucking herself and feeling like she’s going crazy.

Like baseball, there’s no crying in kitchens: That’s what the walk-in’s for. So, she hides back by the dairy products until she’s able to pull herself together. She comes out shivering, not crying, and in a horrible mood.

Buttercream is next, so she gets the sugar boiling and the egg whites whisking in the forty quart. She tries to talk herself up in her head as she goes through motions of streaming in the sugar and then scaling the butter she’ll add to it once it’s whipped cool. “You’re not bad at your job,” she mumbles to herself, trying to push the threat of tears away with positive thoughts. “You’re not.”

Jesus fuck, why is she feeling like this? Nothing that bad has even happened! So she dropped some fucking cupcakes, so what? It happens. She checks her phone to see if she’s about to get her period, but that’s not it. Her focus is shit, so of course she eventually goes back to thinking about Bucky and Steve.

Today is Bucky’s day off. Mary thinks about him being in pain that morning and how his movements had been crippled by pain. … She thinks about his broad, muscled back under her hands, his warm skin, the moans of relief he’d given whenever she worked out a knot. Poor guy. Even though she hates to think of enduring it again, she has to admit to herself that she does care about Bucky, and she would endure it if he needed her help. Hell, if it’s something that’ll help him in the long run, she’ll have to do at least one or two more massage sessions to teach Steve the ropes so he can help his husband in her absence.

Bucky doesn’t want her to do it. She pouts about that, but scolds herself as soon as she realizes she’s doing so. Don’t be lame over guys who don’t want you. So Bucky and Steve just want to be gay together in peace, so what? Why is she losing her shit over the tiniest rejection like this?!

She ruminates on it while she’s at the stove stirring a massive batch of pôt de crème custard, and it occurs to her that the part she’s actually most upset about isn’t their platonic feelings for her: it’s her own lack of bravery and straightforwardness with Bucky and Steve, and how she’s become such a pathetic wallflower over the past few months.

Maybe if she’d flat out asked about a romantic relationship from the beginning, she could’ve gotten the rejection out of the way and been putting herself out there to meet someone new by now. She might’ve met a Dom at one of the Center’s socials, or at least could’ve been swiping the apps and going on dates. Getting laid.

But instead suddenly she’s turned into a shy girl (obnoxious). She hasn’t been a virgin since college, and it wasn’t like she wasn’t sleeping with whoever she could get her hands on, back before Steve and Bucky 'adopted' her. She’d been so good at it back then, saying what she meant and going for what she wanted, dragging at least one new guy back to her place to fuck every other week. Why can’t she just do something now?

Frowning, she decides that she will do something over it. The ideal would be to move back to her own place, but she can’t with the custody order in place and Dr. Linda on Bucky’s side. Gritting her teeth, she figures she’ll do the next best thing: she’ll start getting laid again. She’ll go out and meet people. She’ll go out straight after work each day. Unless he wants to physically tie her up and keep her prisoner in the apartment, Bucky can’t stop it.

She’s just got to work up the nerve to break his rules like that. Nerve which, in her current mood, seems quite out of reach. She sighs and reaches up to grab the Grand Marnier off the shelf for the pôt de crème. All she feels like doing now is going back to the apartment and crawling into bed, to be honest. She wonders if this is what actual clinical depression feels like. Maybe. Maybe worse. Sarcastically, she thinks that a shot or three of alcohol would certainly help, and then she pauses with her hand on the bottle as she’s about to pour it into the custard. Oh.

She’s not drinking anymore.

Fuck. That’s it. She’s hardly ever had sex sober in her life. Barely ever even flirted without some liquid courage in her system. That’s what’s changed. She always used pick up guys in bars, or at other places where everybody had a drink in their hand. And at home at her apartment, whenever the creeping buildup of anxiety and irritability would get to be too much, a couple vodka sprites were what made her feel better. She pauses in her stirring. Thinking about it now is making her almost physically yearn for a stiff one.

She looks down at the bottle in her hand, shame coloring her cheeks as soon as she has the thought. Even at her worst, Mary never drank on the job. She grimaces at herself and hurriedly sets the bottle back on the shelf before temptation can win out, then turns back to the stove.

“Fuck!” she hisses, scrambling to turn off the burner when she’s met with the sight of lumpy pôt de crème. She whisks it frantically to try and stop it, but it’s too far gone: The eggs in the custard have curdled. She throws her head back and groans. “God dammit!”

She makes a last ditch effort to save it by dumping the lumpy custard into a Cambro, tossing in a few ice cubes, and furiously burr-mixing it with the immersion blender, but it’s no use. She’s irrevocably ruined a massive batch of dessert (with the expensive liqueur already added in it, to boot) because she wasn’t paying attention. Growling, she dumps it all in the trash bin before Dennis can happen to walk by and see, then stomps back to the fridge to grab ingredients to rescale the recipe.

She lines up sheet trays of paper dessert cups on her workstation table for decanting … and takes one cup with her over to the stove while she stands there and cooks the second batch of pôt de crème.

It’s when she’s stirring and pouring that second measure of liqueur into the pot that she gives into impulse and pours a shot’s worth of the stuff into the extra paper baking cup—that she now realizes she brought over for this express purpose in the first place. She gives the empty kitchen a furtive glance, and tosses it back. “Ugh.”

Orange flavored liqueur? Really Mary?

She hears the rebuke in Bucky’s voice in her head, which is annoying and drives her to repeat the action once she’s drank the first. She tosses back a second. Gross gross gross. She checks the label on the bottle: 40% ABV. Good. She puts the bottle back on the shelf, pissed about feeling so uncomfortable in her skin that she stubbornly refuses to feel guilty over her actions, and finishes cooking the custard to a smooth nappé this time. Perfect.

She pours the custard over the white chocolate and lets it melt. She burr mixes it, strains it. Ready to go.

Later maybe she’ll feel bad about it, but as she grabs the sauce gun and begins the tedious process of dispensing the pôt de crème into the cups, that warm, pleasant feeling of a buzz starts to creep up on her, and she finds herself in a better mood before long. Things seem brighter, and she finally feels like she can breathe. She’s able to think about Bucky and Steve without feeling like a piece of dirt, and even laughs about the stupid massage episode. Two shots of liqueur on an empty stomach makes that seem like not such a big deal, and she simply decides that she won’t volunteer for massage duty anymore, because obviously it was a mistake. She’d liked helping Bucky to feel better when he was hurting, but not enough to make up for having to endure the very non-platonic swooping in her belly she’d gotten from having her hands all over his naked back. Fuck, is he ever hot. Both of them are. They’re bodies are just, guh.

She doesn’t need that frustration in her life.

She’s got a moderate buzz by the time she finishes her next project, and she cheerfully bops onto her next task.

It’s such a relief, not having that heavy feeling of anxiousness and general uncomfortability weighing down on her. Jeez, she hadn’t even realized how bad it had gotten. She forgot how much a few drinks helped. She gets giddy and chases that feeling, quickly sneaking another quick shot (this time of the rum they use on the rum buns, though, because it really was gross that she drank that liqueur straight—blecgh). What’s one more quick drink in between batches of cakes going in and out of the oven, after all?

… And then just once more, after she’s added the last chunk of the butter into the whipping forty quart. By the time she’s got everything set out to basic-build the next bunch of babycakes, she’s in a great mood. It’s almost as good as the subspace had been, back in the beginning with Bucky. She hums songs under her breath and moves around the kitchen assembling and icing the cute little five inch cakes that are her specialty.

It’s her pet project, something she’d suggested to Mr. Flaherty, the bakery’s owner. Not only are they friggin’ adorable, they’re easy to bang out a bunch of them all at once, small enough to cost pennies to make, and big enough and cute enough that people are willing to pay way more than the cakes are actually worth. Mary knows for a fact that they have the highest profit margin of any item in the bakery. She’s privately very proud that Mr. Flaherty had listened to her idea and decided it was something they would offer on the regular menu. Dennis had underplayed it—like the jealous killjoy he is.

Mary celebrates her good mood with another teeny sip of booze and then spends extra effort on smooth-icing in all the best pastel colors, thinking that today is a great day and can only get better from here.

Wrongo bongo.

“What the heck!”

“Oh, shit,” Mary hisses, running into the back when she smells burning bread and hears her manager’s voice calling out. Sure enough, Dennis is there, oven mitts in hand, angrily sliding a tray of blackened croissants onto the speed rack, and going back to the oven to pull out another. There are six trays of ruined croissants, and Mary grimaces “Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

Dennis ignores her until he’s finished pulling out all the wasted product, and when he’s done, he lays her out. “This isn’t fucking Panera Bread,” he tells her angrily. “We’re a mom and pop bakery. Profit margins are slimmer than slim!”

Mary cringes. “I know, I know, I’m sor—”

“How much money did you just cost us?” Dennis demands, hands on his hips. “Huh? Tell me. I want you to stand there and think about it and tell me how much.”

Mary stares for a second, then realizes that he’s dead serious. Humiliated, she licks her lips and does the math: 6 trays of 10 = 60 croissants, 60 x $4 per ganache-stuffed croissant, minus about $30 ingredients cost. It takes her longer than it normally would, since she’s been drinking, but when she’s worked it out she winces and looks down in shame. “I dunno … A little over two hundred, I guess.”

Dennis flails his hand holding the oven mitts. “We can’t afford to have you ruining hundreds of dollars of profit, Mary. Get it together.”

She frowns, indignant. “I was up front helping a customer,” she defends.

“That’s what the oven timer is for.”

“I know that. I just forgot to—”

“You’re forgetting a lot of things lately.” He gestures angrily at the trays of blackened croissants. “I’ve tried to help you. I gave you time off to get your shit together when your boyfriend came in and told me about your mental condition.”

Mary grits her teeth. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Dom, dungeon master, whatever,” he says nastily. “I don’t know what you people get up to. But I’ve given you a lot of chances cause you’re apparently dealing with some shit. I can’t keep doing that forever if you keep costing this place money.”

Mary glares and steps up closer, getting in his face. “Maybe if you actually hired someone for front of house on Tuesdays, then I could actually focus back here!”

Dennis’ expression changes suddenly. He narrows his eyes at her and leans in closer. “What’s that?” he says, deathly quiet.

Mary huffs. “I said, you need to hire more—”

“You smell like alcohol.”

Everything comes to a stop as his words hit her like a bucket of ice water. Oh, fuck. She takes a step back, shaking her head. “What?” She scowls like that’s absurd, about to say something to deny it, but the words die on her lips when she sees the way Dennis is looking at her. He knows. Mary feels sick.

Dennis’ expression darkens further. “Are you drinking on the job, Mary?”

“No!” (what’s she supposed to do, tell the truth?)

“I don’t believe you.” He squares his jaw. “I’m calling Mr. Flaherty in.”

“What?!”

“Two hundred dollars of wasted product? Drinking on the job?” He’s already walking over to the wall phone and picking it up. When he looks back in Mary’s direction, there’s a gleam in his eyes. Fucker never did like her. “I told him I thought you had a drinking problem, and now I have proof.”

“You don’t have shit!” Mary cries. She’s actually panicking though, as she watches him dial the number to call the bakery’s owner.

“I have the security cameras,” he says, looking vindictively pleased. “We’ll check them. You’re gonna be out of a job.”

Mary stands there and watches in horrified disbelief as Dennis calls Mr. Flaherty and tells him that he needs to have a word with him in person that afternoon about “something serious.” He doesn’t give details, and when the call ends and he hangs up the phone, he shoots Mary a smug look. “I’ll work the register so that you can finish your shift back here and not make any more stupid mistakes.”

Mary scoffs, panicked and angry and sick to her stomach with what’s happening. “No way! Forget it!” She hurries to untie her apron and yank it off. “I’m not gonna stick around here for you to lie and get me fired. I quit!” She tosses the apron to the floor and stalks back to grab her purse from the office, too panicked to think straight. She cannot stay there and see poor old Mr. Flaherty watch video evidence of her drinking on the job. He’s always been so nice to her, and now she’s betrayed him and fucked everything up. She’s just ruined the only job she’s ever liked.

Dennis is getting less and less angry and more gleeful about it. “Bye bye, Hot-Mess Mary,” he sneers. “Don’t bother coming back. We’ll mail you your last paycheck. Have a nice life.”

“Fuck you, Dennis!” she yells, though her voice comes out choked with emotion. She shoulders her purse and whirls around before there’s any chance of him seeing her tearing up. She hurries for the back door that leads out to the alleyway. It's heavy and metal, and she shoulders it open with a grunt, stepping out. “Jealous prick,” she says, only to hear him laugh meanly and call out from inside,

“Jealous? Of you? An alcoholic pervert?”

The heavy back door slams shut before she can answer, and there’s no handle on the outside. It takes approximately two point five seconds for her to burst out crying.

Steve

“Fuck, Honey, ugh.”

Steve digs his fingers into the meat of Bucky’s ass and shuffles closer on his knees. On the couch (whose cushions have since been put back into place), Bucky parts his legs even farther and Steve takes him in deeper. His other hand keeps nudging the toy that’s buried in his husband’s ass—the glass p-spot toy, because unlike Steve, Bucky loves firmness but hates vibrations up there. Steve’s been gently fucking him with it, nudging it against his prostate again and again, having found the perfect angle. Every grunt and moan that he gets out of Bucky has his own cock throbbing in his underwear, but he isn’t touching himself, is devoting every ounce of his attention to resolving the “problem” that Mary’s massage left Bucky with.

“You know,” Bucky says, voice a little breathy as he speaks between groans. “I’m never gonna—nnh. Never gonna look at this couch again without thinking of her oily hands sliding all over my back."

Steve hums in agreement, the sound reverberating around Bucky’s cock and pulling another hiss from him. Steve pops off to glance upwards. “Me too,” he says, and they share a look of heated yearning, before he shakes it off and sinks his mouth back down on Bucky’s throbbing length.

He’s been dragging it out, having fun with it. But now it’s gotten sloppy and wet, and Steve’s jaw aches, and he really wants to make Bucky come so he can finally get a hand around himself. He hums around Bucky’s cock once more while he still can, then takes him all the way to the hilt, nose pressing into his pubes and throat spasming around the head.

“Oh! shit …” Bucky’s fingers dig sharply into Steve's scalp. His hips stutter up of their own accord, making Steve choke a little, but he soldiers on. Bucky makes a helpless little sound that is very close to a whimper, and which has Steve’s belly pulling tight with arousal. “Close, Baby. So close, fuck …”

Steve purposefully chokes himself, letting it hit the back of his throat again and again, swallowing compulsively. It gets him what he wants, which is for this blowjob to be over.

Above him, Bucky slumps further on the cushions and groans long and low, the tortured moan letting Steve know that he’s cresting that edge. He pulls back to suck hard on the head, abandoning the toy to the clenching of Bucky's ass so he can stroke him through it. He hums happily when he feels the pulse of Bucky’s cock on his tongue, the hot spurts of cum, the clenching of thighs muscle beneath his hands. Fuck, it’s sexy.

Having been with the man for so long, Steve knows exactly when to ease off. He gentles his touch and stops sucking. He waits with Bucky’s softening cock in his mouth, not pulling off until the hands that were gripping him desperately a moment ago smooth gently through his hair in gratitude. Steve pulls off, keeps his mouth closed, doesn’t swallow. Bucky’s flushed and wet cock falls onto his belly, gorgeously swollen and spent. Steve’s staring at it covetously when Bucky gives a long, shaky exhale from above, tapering off in a satisfied groan. “Stevie,” he sighs happily. “Mmhh. Fuck. C’mere.”

He pulls Steve up onto the couch, not satisfied until he’s got him in his lap. Steve straddles him and smiles with his mouth still closed. “Good boy,” Bucky whispers, reaching up to gently cup the front of his neck. His eyes are heavy lidded but still heated as he strokes his thumb over Steve’s windpipe. He loves to watch Steve swallow his cum, and that’s why Steve hasn’t yet, is waiting for his signal. He’s very good at making a show of it: dragging it out, eye contact, showing the load on his tongue if Bucky wants, swallowing slowly and obviously; really turning it into an act of obedience for his husband.

He’s surprised when Bucky doesn’t tell him to swallow. “Hold it,” he says instead, confusing Steve. Bucky grins devilishly and reaches down between their bodies. He returns with the glass toy in hand and holds it up. “Get it wet," he purrs.

And Steve’s entire body goes stiff as he re-remembers that he’s married to the filthiest man on the fucking planet.

Steve must be filthy too, though, because a massive wave of arousal sweeps through him as Bucky holds up the toy with a dirty smirk and commands him to wet it up—with his own cum. Steve almost feels lightheaded from how all the blood rushes to his cock and away from his brain. He groans through his mouthful of cum, and Bucky’s lips curl. “You heard me. Do it.”

He looks down and aims, letting his mouthful of cum slide out onto the tip of the glass toy that was buried in Bucky’s ass not ten seconds ago. It’s obscene, filthy, and that only makes his belly swirl that much harder as Bucky uses his flesh fingertips to spread the cum around lazily, coating the clear glass with his own sticky cum. “Good,” he praises, still smirking at Steve through half lidded eyes. “Now, put it in.”

Steve groans and takes the toy from him. They haven’t done prep, but it’s a small, slim toy, and he knows it’ll slide in easily with the help of his husband’s own jizz slicking the way. Jesus Christ. He starts to move, intending to take his underwear off, but Bucky stops him with an amused shake of the head.

“Uh uh. Just pull ‘em aside and put it in. Keep your briefs on.”

“Fuck.” He listens, reaching back to pull his underwear to the side and press the head of the toy to his rim. He works it inside, eyelids fluttering when it pops past the muscle and glides in smoothly. “Oh,” he sighs, letting his underwear snap back and shifting his hips to feel the stretch against his rim, the heavy curve of it settling into place against his prostate. “Fuck.” He starts rocking his hips in tiny motions to work it inside him, barely-there sounds of pleasure escaping him each time it does. “Ooh, Buck,” he breathes. He doesn’t realize his eyes have closed until Bucky startles him with a kiss, growling and tugging him in close by the back of the neck. “Mmph!”

Their lips clash in a harsh, demanding kiss, Bucky taking possession of it and gripping the back of his neck hard to keep him still. Steve pants and whines and takes it, hips juddering forward to grind his aching dick against Bucky’s stomach. Each dominating swipe of Bucky’s tongue into his mouth makes him ache for more. “Buck,” he pants, right against Bucky's lips, where he's shamelessly kissing his messy mouth. “Baby, oh, please?”

“Yeah?” His hand cups Steve from over his underwear, squeezing the line of his erection. “You’re so fucking amazing, you know that?” he husks, dipping under the waistband to curl his fingers around him. “Make me feel so good, fuck, I love you.”

Steve moans and rests his forehead on Bucky's naked shoulder, looking down to watch. He whines when he sees that it’s the metal hand—which he already knew by feel, but the sight of it is a whole other level of hot. Steve thinks of it like a knife kink, or a gun kink: seeing something so steely and dangerous that close to him, wrapped around and working him, giving him pleasure. The sight of all that black and gold metal on his cock makes his belly clamp down hard in need. “Oh fuck, ” he breathes. “Oh. Fuck.”

“Yeah, Sweetheart.” Bucky kisses his ear and breathes hotly against him as he pumps and twists his hand, going tight just the way Steve likes. It’s messy from the precum that Steve’s dick keeps blurting out, and he whimpers at the soft, wet sounds it begins making. “I know,” Bucky whispers. “You get so worked up. I love that. Big fat cock n’ balls, but you wet up for me just like a girl, dontcha' Sweetheart? Bet you started right down there on your knees, too. Hard and leaking just from sucking me off, making a mess in your panties.” Steve groans in embarrassment and Bucky snickers. “Aw, don’t try to deny it. I saw that boner when you crawled on up here. Saw the wet spot on those tighty-whities, too.” Playfully, he snaps the elastic band of Steve’s underwear against his hip. “You get off on it. Pretty little cocksucker.”

Steve humps into his fist, which between how slick it is and how tightly Bucky’s gripping him, feels fucking amazing. “Nnuhh,” he moans, “I get off on you. You were so—fuck, mmph—so hard when she left. I f-felt bad for you.”

Bucky growls and strokes faster. “Don’t be patronizing, baby. I saw the state she left you in. At least I had the excuse of getting rubbed down.” He snickers lowly and presses another kiss to Steve's ear. “She wasn’t even touching you.”

“Fuck,” Steve says tightly, as he recalls the image of Mary sitting on the bed with Bucky, rubbing his naked back with her oiled hands—Her tiny oiled hands, that would look so good on their cocks. Fuck, he’s going to come embarrassingly fast. He pants, trying to get words out. “I—nuhh, oh. I wanted to—mmm …”

Bucky bites his earlobe. “Wanted to what? Tell me.”

“Wanted to watch her give you a happy ending,” he grunts. “Tell you to turn over n’ watch her jerk you off.”

“Oh yeah?” Bucky asks, voice dark and interested. “Mm. You miss women.” Steve whines and nods in lieu of an answer. “Well maybe we’ll get a third sometime. A special treat. Only this time we'll get a girl, take turns fucking her. Maybe I’ll even have her fuck you with a strap-on.” Steve moans and kisses him dirtily, and Bucky reciprocates, hand leaving Steve’s cock so he can hold his jaw with both hands.

Steve whimpers and his hips keep moving, chasing the friction that isn’t there anymore. “Buck,” he breaks off from the kiss to beg. “Please. Please. I need to cum.”

Bucky smiles and takes pity on him, but he switches up his hands, using the flesh one on Steve’s cock so that he can squeeze even more, really wringing up hard and thumbing under the head on every stroke. Steve sobs and sits back, bracing on Bucky’s shoulders and watching himself fuck into clench of his fist. “Yeah,” he moans. “Oh, God. Fuck yeah, just like that.”

“How’s that toy feel?” Bucky reaches his other hand underneath and taps against the glass toy’s base a few times— ‘tap, tap, tap,’ —humming in satisfaction when Steve cries out and ruts desperately into his fist. “Ooh,” he goads. “It feels that good, huh?” Tap, tap, tap. “It that gonna make you cum?”

“Nnnh.” Steve nods tightly, hips working hard. “Yeah, oh. Yeah. M’gonna. Ohgn…””

His balls draw up tight and his cock jerks when Bucky takes hold of the toy’s base and starts slowly pulling it out. That feeling against his rim is what does it, pushing him over the edge and making the pleasure coalesce and snap.

He cries out sharply as he shoots, his body straining and hips pulsing, ribbons of white cum striping over Bucky’s naked stomach, one after another.

“Fuck, Honey. So beautiful. Fuck that’s a lot. Fuck. Lookit’ you, big boy.”

His cooing praise drags it out longer, and by the time Steve’s dick is spent and softening again, he’s collapsed forward against Bucky, mess of cum between them be damned. He rests his head on his shoulder and hugs him while he recovers. “Fuck,” pants, closing his eyes and enjoying the sheer relief of it all. “That was good. I needed that.”

Bucky hums and rubs his back. “Me too.”

When they finally peel themselves off each other, they’re faced with two wet, spent dicks, and the mess of cum that did not magically disappear just because Steve wanted it to. He sighs and climbs off the couch.

“Shower,” Bucky decides, and goes into the bathroom with Steve following behind. He starts the water running and shucks his joggers that he'd only just pulled back up. “Feel like we were just doin’ this,” he complains.

“That’s cause we were.” Steve pads over and stands against him, leaning in, chest to chest.

Bucky leans against the wall and wraps his arms around Steve’s lower back while they wait for the water to warm up. “Do you really want a threesome?” he asks. “Like we used to do?"

Steve sighs and presses his forehead into Bucky’s chest. His first inclination is to say yes. They used to sleep with men, have threesomes a few times a year, for fun. They’d only stopped because they’d mutually fallen into contentment with married life. But Steve realizes it’s the way Bucky’s framed it: does he want to have threesomes again. With a girl. And the answer is no. Steve doesn’t want to have 'a threesome' anymore, with 'a girl', or 'a guy'. He doesn’t want anything casual. He says as much, and groans into Bucky’s skin. “I just want her,” he says. “I want it to be serious, and I want it with her.”

Bucky strokes his back, not saying anything for a long minute. “Yeah,” he eventually agrees. “Me too.”

Steve makes a mournful sound in his throat. “Can’t we try? Maybe ask her out on a date? She might come around if she doesn’t feel like we’re just trying to jump her bones straight away, y’know? We’ve never really had that time with her. It went straight from ‘how do you do’ to moving her in here with us.” Bucky’s chest rises and falls with a deep inhale, and his hands have stopped moving on Steve’s back, which is how Steve knows he's really thinking about it. “Buck?” he tries. “C’mon. Let’s just give it a shot. Linda said she needs sex anyways, and I know you don’t like the idea of her with another man.”

Against him, bucky growls grumpily.

“Just one more try,” Steve pleads. “Let’s just tell her upfront we have feelings for her and that we’d like to court her.”

Bucky snorts. "'Court’?”

Steve whaps him and pulls his head back. “You know what I mean. Nice stuff. Take her out, buy her flowers.”

“I know what you mean.”

They stare in each other's eyes as Steve reaches over to feel the shower water. It's warm. “It’ll be her choice," he says. "We won’t be bossy.”

“Kind of hard not to be bossy when she thrives on that.”

Steve gives him a look. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah.” Bucky sighs. “Yeah I know what you mean.” He pulls the curtain and goes to step into the shower, but Steve stops him from behind with a hand on his arm—his left one. “And this,” he says, looking at him with authority. “Let me take this off. And you keep it it off around the house like you used to do.” He watches the brief reluctance that plays out on Bucky’s face, but is relieved when his husband doesn’t turn it into a fight. “Thank you, babe,” he says, taking the arm off and setting it out on their bed before returning to the bathroom. Bucky’s in the shower, so he steps in and stands with him under the spray. He wraps his arms around Bucky from behind, letting his left hand drag up over his stomach and chest, up to the anchor site where it meets his pec. “You can be a good Dom without it, you know,” he murmurs.

“... I know. It was silly.”

He kisses Bucky’s shoulder. “Not silly. I love you.” In his arms, Bucky’s body bleeds all its tension and he lets a little bit of his weight come back through Steve, who kisses his neck again. “Tonight?” he asks, knowing that Bucky will know what he means.

Bucky nods. “Tonight.”

Bucky

“A bar?!”

"Yeah. Leave me alone."

Bucky stares helplessly as Mary kicks off her shoes and walks (stumbles, is more like it) through the apartment and back towards her bedroom. The conversation they've just had was short and completely non-productive, other than that it's got Bucky feeling like he's on the verge of blowing up. “Mare, stop! Come back here.”

She throws him the finger over her shoulder and pushes into her bedroom, shutting the door harshly behind her. Bucky growls and starts for the hallway, but Steve stops him with a hand to his shoulder, pulling him back. “Hang on, Babe.”

“She’s drunk!” Bucky hisses, turning furious eyes to Steve. “Been missing for hours and now this?! How did she even get it?”

“I know, I know.”

Bucky snarls, mad at Steve for being so fucking calm. “Did you give her her ID back?!”

“No! Don’t be stupid, babe.”

His eyes cut over, sharp. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Steve looks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “She’s thirty Hon. I’m sure there are plenty of bartenders who’d serve her without checking.”

“Well that’s just, just …” Bucky sputters, struggling to find the words. “There have to be consequences!” He starts for the hall again but Steve grabs him and pulls him back and into a restraining hug. Bucky kind of wants to hit him. “Steve!”

“Shh,” Steve says. “Sh sh, just hang on a second. Take a deep breath.” He holds him tightly, rubbing his back and nosing at his neck, and Bucky realizes that Steve is employing some of the things he’s learned at the CDP, trying to calm him down.

He blinks, noticing how hot his face feels, how fast his pulse is thrumming underneath his skin. He exhales shakily, feeling bad. “Fuck. I'm ..."

"Yeah."

"Sorry.”

“S’okay,” Steve whispers. “Maybe today’s not the best day, after all.”

Bucky’s eyes flick over in the direction of the kitchen table. “Better get rid of those, then,” he grunts, referring to the flowers Steve had picked up at the bodega for Mary.

“I will. And we’ll figure this out, find out what happened, and talk to her another day, okay? We'll get new flowers.”

“No, not okay,” Bucky insists, his anxiety ratcheting up again as he thinks of the state Mary just came home in. “We need to deal with her.”

Steve pulls back and meets his eyes, and Bucky feels like an asshole all over again. “What do you need?” Steve asks quietly.

Bucky grits his teeth. To spank the ever loving shit outta that girl, he thinks but doesn’t say. He knows better than that, even on the verge of an episode, he can tell that he’s not being logical. He closes his eyes and tries to take deep breaths, pulls away from Steve because he’s embarrassed. “Nothin’.”

“Hey, it’s okay to need—”

“It’s not,” Bucky snaps, walking over to the couch and dumping himself onto it. He feels kind of sick—likely his blood pressure making him nauseous. “How am I supposed to be a good Dom for her when I can’t even keep myself in check? Christ.” He shoves his face into his hand. “I’m supposed to be better than this.”

Steve takes a minute, and when he approaches Bucky it’s with a gentle, careful expression that Bucky hates. “Babe, you know that makes no sense, right?” Bucky just grunts and Steve says, “That's like a diabetic saying they should have better willpower to control their insulin levels.”

Bucky glares at him for the trite comparison, wants to snap at his husband to stop quoting CDP literature at him. But that’d be nasty, and he bites his tongue. “No,” he grunts.

“You got told by Linda that you’re not giving her enough, not doing enough to meet her needs, and it’s been days since you really went up. You think I can't see that her drops aren't doing it for you now? You're too in tune with her. You both need more. And I should’ve seen this coming.” Steve sinks down to the carpet in front of him and kneels there reaching to rub his palms over the tops of Bucky’s thighs.

Bucky scowls at the gesture. “That’s not your job,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to—”

“I’m your husband,” Steve says, almost authoritatively, even though he’s keeping his voice soft and calm like the Center professionals taught him. “It’s my job to take care of you, always.” He rubs Bucky’s tense muscles from over his jeans. “Babe, c’mon. Let me help you.”

Bucky closes his eyes and counts to twenty. When he opens them again, Steve’s still there, waiting. Bucky reaches out and cups his face.

Steve presses into it. “Sir,” he whispers, eyes lowered.

Bucky feels so guilty at that, even as he can feel his blood pressure lowering from the small display of subservience. “I love you,” he says.

Steve smiles softly and squeezes his hands over Bucky’s knees. “I know.”

Bucky sighs. He releases Steve and slumps back into the couch cushions, feeling like the biggest burden. “I should call and book someone,” he says. Steve’s not a submissive and he shouldn’t have to play that role just to fulfill Bucky’s medical needs. Linda’s helped him come to terms with that over the years. Steve, the self-sacrificing punk, would do it anyway, but Bucky knows when he needs to ask for outside help. “Nathan can usually take me last minute.” Steve nods and stands up, brings Bucky his cellphone to make the call. He sits on the couch with him and pulls Bucky to lie with his head in his lap as he calls the Center and makes an appointment. “Okay,” he says when he’s done, tossing the phone aside. “Six-thirty. He’s coming in after hours just for little old me.”

“Good.”

Bucky’s eyes cut sideways towards the bedroom hallway. Their plans for the night are ruined, and if he didn’t have himself to deal with right now, he’d be hard pressed to keep himself from going in Mary’s room, trying to scold her. “What about her?” he asks glumly.

Steve snorts. “Little miss drunk? She’s probably passed out. Don’t worry about it. Besides,” he runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “Can’t reason with someone when they’re like that. Discussion, punishment, scening? That’ll all have to wait until tomorrow, at least.”

Bucky makes a face and tries not to let his dominance start spiraling out of control again. “She’s going to AA.” Steve hums, and when Bucky looks up and catches his expression, Steve looks like he’s worrying for his safety. “Tomorrow,” he insists, obstinate. “I’ll take the day from work if I have to. Drag her there myself.”

“Maybe no dragging."

"Steve,"

"Linda first,” Steve suggests gently. “That’s a better first step, hm?” Bucky grunts, grumpy about it but knowing Steve’s right. He nods, and Steve runs kind hands through his hair. “Okay, good. That’s settled. Don’t have to think about it any more tonight.” He bends down and pecks a quick kiss to Bucky’s forehead. “So, six-thirty?”

“Mmhm.”

“An hour. … You want to help me get dinner started before you go?”

Bucky nods, turning and pressing his face into Steve’s lower belly, rubbing his cheek against his soft tee shirt and warm body. “Love you,” he mumbles, feeling sheepish from his outburst before. He knows it’s not his fault, but he still feels inordinately grateful to have Steve supporting him. “You ever get tired of all this drama?”

“Shuddup,” Steve chuckles.

“Mm. You should leave me for a normie." He’s got his eyes closed against Steve’s stomach, but feels the reproachful pinch on his neck. “Ow.”

“If I’d wanted a normie, I’d have married a normie,” Steve scolds. He pets over where he pinched. “And apparently I’m a glutton for punishment, cause I’ve got my sights set on another one’a you jerks. This is just a setback. We’ll let her sober up, you’ll go see the Pro, and then when everybody’s in the right frame of mind, we’ll deal with it. Now come on.” He pats Bucky on the back. “Mary's not the only one who can navigate a kitchen. I’ve got a recipe for chicken piccata we can try.”

Bucky sighs. He’s so fucking in love with Steve, and he’s never got any good way to say it. There's nothing. Wedding vows barely scratched the surface. “Okay,” he says, because what else is there to do but agree? Like most times, Bucky knows his more level-headed husband is right about this.

They get up and go into the kitchen to start pulling the ingredients for chicken piccata, and Bucky is able to keep his mouth shut for a full five minutes before his anxiety ratchets back up and he returns to haranguing Steve about confronting Mary—possibly later that night.

*Next chapter starts out IMMEDIATELY with the big confrontation and beginning of their romantic and sexual relationship, so I promise y'all won't have to wait much longer!

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Text

zest {chapter 1}

Pairing: Chef! Joel Miller x Professor! Reader (formally known as Bartender! Reader)

Summary: Changes are sudden, lifestyles are altered, and important questions bubble up but through it all, you have Joel by your side.

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: canon typical language, c'mon reader and joel have potty mouths, age gap (joel is mid 40’s / reader is late 20’s -early 30’s, protective joel, reader is canonically midsize, pregnant reader, surprise pregnancy, reader goes through nicotine withdrawal, smoking, cigarettes, nicotine use, lots of feelings, lots of emotions, complicated family dynamic, reader has family issues, death of a loved one, mention of life-threatening cancer, reader has religious guilt, restaurant lingo, triggers associated with the food industry, reader canonically has an eating disorder, mentions of therapy, references to time apart from each other, adult content, smut, piv, unprotected piv be safe y'all!), talk of marriage, adult conversations, joel and reader are down bad for each other.

REMINDER: this is a sequel series, the previous series can be found here {garnish}

A/N: THEY'RE BACK, BABY! ♡♡

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It’s the perfect spring day: sun shining in a warm but not hot brightness, a gentle breeze rustling the trees as you zip past them, an iced coffee, and the singing figure of Ellie in the passenger seat all make the first half of the day melt away. The amber of your sunglasses allows for everything to be swathed in the honeyed hue and you smile to yourself as you recall a rather heated comment from Joel ‘that every goddamn show feels so creative ‘n artsy when they slap the same tones over Mexico’ and then a softer set of words as he had cuddled closer to you on the couch ‘it’s not really like that, I’ve been there, darlin’, trust me’.

“What’re you all gooey lookin’ for, Sabrosa?” Ellie pauses to catch her breath between songs from the newest pop punk album from a band you first enjoyed in your teenage years. Unable to resist the temptation of adding it to your already laden down basket at the bookstore last week when you and the young girl had ditched Joel to run errands. “Ew, gross, don’t think about my dad while I’m sitting right next to you.”

“Oh hush,” You stuck your tongue out at her. Getting a kick out of how casually she sounded. It hadn’t ever been awkward between you two, or her and Sarah despite the six or so years between your birthdays. But then again, Sarah had let you into the secret of the older guy she had started seeing in her graduate program the last time she had been in town visiting… “It’s nothing dirty, just one of his many rants about my choice in television.”

“Lemme guess….oh! The washed-out way they show Mexico, huh? Cause you were watching…oh fuck, what’s that show called…”

“Breaking Bad.” Was the supplied answer from your lips as you turned on the turn signal and began to slow down to turn into the parking lot for the restaurant. It wasn’t operating hours quite yet, too early yet for the dinner crowd Joel preferred to cater to. But Ellie had a shift, and you were dropping her off after classes. She wasn’t in either of the ones you teach, having completed the two semester course you had started off with. But you both had a class that ended around the same time, living so close to the university, she liked being able to walk but then catch a ride with you. Tradition, the word rang in your head. Routine, followed it and you smiled wider at the way your life had fleshed out.

“That’s the one!” She exclaimed as she unbuckled the seatbelt and leaned back in her chair. “Man, I really don’t have the energy for work today, but the old man said we have a full reservation list and then open seating at the bar.”

“Gonna be that way for a while, the article about him came out only two months ago. Everyone’s clamoring for a chance to try the ‘bursting flavors’ and ‘exciting combinations’ of the renowned Chef Joel Miller.”

“Yeah, yeah. He’s hot shit right now, at least the restaurant is.” Reaching for her coffee in an imitation of you, she sipped at the whip cream, caramel whatever it is she had gotten. Coffee wasn’t her favorite, so she always got the espresso taken out, a glorified milkshake Joel had teased her once. “Proud of him, though. The restaurant was in shambles when he bought it from the previous owners, some shitty Italian place that never cleaned anything.”

“He’s done good.” You quietly agree, sipping from your own overly complicated drink. That was another tradition of yours and hers, to make your way through the menu at the coffee shops on campus, always pausing to get the special of the month. Joel claimed he didn’t understand the need for so much stuff mixed in with coffee, but you caught him stealing sips of yours if he were to come across it unattended around the house or when you were out and about with him and treated yourself.

“There’s my girls.” Joel chimes as you input your code into the gate for the employee parking and round the side of the building. His voice filtering in through the open windows as you pull into a spot and cut the engine. He’s leaned against the back of the building, cigarette in hand. “Was wondering what took you so long.”

“Accident on the main road, had to detour.” You appease as he approaches to open the door for you and pressed a greeting kiss to your cheek as you roll up the windows. He does the same for Ellie as she sidles up beside him for a side hug before trotting off to the door and disappearing through it. He let’s you pluck the lit cigarette from his fingers as you shoulder your bag and close the door. His hand goes around your waist to walk alongside you toward the building.

“As long as you two are safe, that’s all that matters. Today’s special is spaghetti all nerano, wanna do some grading here and try a plate?” He takes the smoking roll back from your offered hand and takes the last drag before tossing it into the pale beside the door. Opening it and leading you through it with a hand hovering over your lower back.

“That sounds yummy, I’m starving.” You toss him a smile over your shoulder before greeting everyone with a wave.

It’s well into the third hour of service and you never got the chance to leave once the doors opened. The bar had been struggling, Millie having taken over as manager and Mary trying to appease the picky impatient customers who all want a taste of the raved over menu and a glimpse at the alluring Chef Miller.

Picking up a shaker and twisting a bottle of vodka in your grip, you glance at the ticket that just printed and adjust the amount you free pour into it. Mary had been looked so guilty as she approached you’re the table where you do your work on a regular basis, the question of if you were willing to help out getting drinks started for those waiting on tables barely out of her mouth before you were nodding and cleaning up your stuff. It was now safely tucked away in the office and you were moving at a fast pace behind the bar to keep up with everything. Millie stepped down to let you take the reigns, knowing she would only get in your way. Ellie could be seen picking up and dropping off glasses at the well as often as Millie as she acted as barback.

The restaurant was buzzing, excited conversation and pleasant atmosphere making you remember the tingling high of getting off from a busy shift with a wad of cash tucked into your pocket. Just as you place a strainer over the shaker and begin to pour the contents over six shot glasses the door to the kitchen swings open and Joel walks through. You’re too busy, so you shift the chilled shots to the mat over the well and place the corresponding tickets beside them. Moving onto the next drink, you rinse out the shaker with the star sink in place.

His eyes catch yours through the crowd of people when you look up as Ellie comes up to take the shots and then watching as she delivers them, the sound of the shaker loud in your ear as you hold it over your head. His steps don’t falter as he approaches the table, he was delivering the plate to, but you could see something flash over his face. He’s back behind the door as you move to lodge the shaker open.

The night goes by quickly, taking orders for those lucky enough to snag a spot at the bar but hadn’t been able to make a reservation. Shoving each cash tip into a pint glass for the girls and even taking a few business cards from people interested in hosting parties in the space. You’ll be sure to pass those along to Mary, even if some of them requested you as the bartender. You didn’t mind, missing the atmosphere and good moments you had experienced in the setting. Ellie is taking back the remaining dishes from the last few tables, Millie is out back smoking after helping to clean up the bar top when Joel ambles from the kitchen once again.

He's got his chef’s coat unbuttoned and loose around the shirt underneath, the glint of his belt buckle catching the fairy lights around the bar. His steel curls are slicked back, but you could see the frizz and fluffiness where they rested over the back of his neck. He had been saying he needed a haircut, but you had made a sound in the back of your throat that made him put it off.

His eyes are trained on you as you move the trash cans full of empty bottles to line up beside the drink pick up area. You’re about to return behind the bar with a wink thrown over your shoulder when he snakes his hands around your waist and pulls you to him. He smells amazing, the perfect mix of savory spices, smoke, and Joel.

“Playin’ restaurant, huh? Thought you went home and passed out.” He leans down to kiss your jawline.

“Nah, Mary asked for my help when Millie got swamped.” You breath out, hands coming up to rest on his chest and push should he get a little too enthusiastic in you still being here.

“Not your responsibility.” His eyes hold no real heat or command, you know it’s born from a place of worry, of not wanting you to stretch yourself too thin.

“It’s okay, baby. I don’t mind.” You cradle his cheek in one hand and play with the collar of his open coat with the other. His eyes glance down, the glitter from your lotion catching the light on your neck and chest.

“Hmm, you looked good. Dress looks good on you, shakin’ those drinks and-“

“Dad, holy crap, it was so busy tonight. Some dude tipped me like fifty percent because he was trying to impress his date!” Ellie plops down on a stool with her server’s book. She doesn’t even look up from where she begins to go over the receipts. “Wait until everyone leaves to start doing that or better yet, wait until you’re home to do that.”

“One day you’re gonna meet someone and it’s gonna be hard to keep your hands to yourself.” You only giggle at the typical parent response from Joel. Ellie wasn’t a touchy-feely person, but you were sure she would be with the right person, you’d seen her flirty interactions with girls while out with you and your friends, tagging along for the free drinks and to have safe company. She was pretty smooth if she didn’t get into her head too much, soft touches to shoulders and waists, though she steadfastly refused to dance. With anyone, no matter the setting.

“Gross,” She begins to fill out the printed shift report before organizing the receipts in order and then asks you for the stapler. Detangling yourself from the man, you do make it back behind the bar. That’s when she notices the pint glass. “Holy shit! You made all that?”

“Huh? Oh, no. The restaurant did. Here.” You hand the wad of bills over to Joel. With your own shift report and stapled receipts. He uses two nimble fingers to extract the shift report but leaves the cash in your hand. Frowning, you track the report as it’s tucked into his back pocket along with Ellie’s. Her own cash tips secure in her booklet.

“Also gonna see about getting some of the petty cash from the safe for the hours you worked.” He begins to take the full bags from the trash cans, tying the ends together tight.

“Joel.”

“You worked, you get paid.” He doesn’t look up as he reaches into the bottom for the rolls sitting inside and begins to place new ones over the lips of the plastic.

“I’m your girlfriend. Who used to work here. I was just helping out.”

“Nope, not gonna fly, darlin’. It’s yours.” He slides the empties cans back around the bar for you to put back in their designated places.

“If you don’t want it, I’ll take it.” Ellie reaches for it and you let her swipe it from your hand. Only for Joel to set her with a look. “Oooor not.” She says as she puts it down atop the clean bar top.

“Joel!”

“Can’t hear you, Sabrosa, gotta make sure the kitchen duties were done.”

“Seriously, I’ll take it if you don’t want it.” You quirk an eyebrow at the younger girl, but Millie bounces up and says everyone was going out for a bite at the taco truck parked a few blocks down. They have a spot in a lot that has picnic tables and offer late night service. Ellie takes off, ensuring you she’ll text either you or Joel when she’s back at the townhouse afterwards. She’d been staying the second bedroom there more and more, as you found yourself splitting your time pretty evenly between it and Joel’s. He would join you sometimes, but certain nights either you needed you own space or he did and that was okay.

Sighing, you lock the patron door behind her and turn the sign from open to closed.

As you’re double checking everything is shut down properly, you open the washer to let the last load of glasses air dry, the steam billowing out. Turning when you hear the swing of the kitchen door again, Joel has his chef’s coat tossed over his shoulder and his backpack over the other. His eyes zone in on the cash and then a smirk takes over his face. You turn your attention back to the washer and ensure it’s off before you round the bar top and makes sure it was swept underneath the stools. You’re about to ask him which car you were gonna take home when you spot a crumpled napkin you must’ve missed.

As you bend down to pick it up, you feel thick fingers sneak beneath the skirt of your dress. You don’t think anything of it until you feel Joel tuck a bill from the stack into the band of your panties. Knuckles grazing against your slit as he moves to the other hip and does the same. You shoot up, the napkin forgotten as you try to turn around.

“Nu-uh,” His palms come to rest on your lower back and shoulders, bending you over one of the stools as the heat of his body looms close. He whispers something about having to scrub the video cameras set up around the dining room before you hear the clink of his belt being undone and feel him move your panties to the side. You throb at the feel of the cooler air circulating around the room, a gasp leaving your lips as he gently runs the head of his cock over your folds, arousal from you both making it such a smooth motion.

As he reaches over your back for something, he fills you up, the stretch of his girth feeling like a reward for the hectic shift completed. But you know the night would’ve ended like this either way.

A moan rips from your chest as he grabs a hold of whatever he had been trying to get, hips flush with yours. He chuckles, pleased with himself before his hands sneak around to cup your breasts as they threaten to spill out from your dress at the prone position. His fingers tuck more bills into your underwear, beneath the straps over your shoulders, into the already full cups to peak out over the swell of your chest. He even tucks one into the mess of your hair thrown up into a clip at the back of your head before his hands secure around your waist and he begins to thrust.

That’s the last memory you have of both smoking and drinking, only a few days before you had anxiously waited for a piece of plastic to tell you your fate. It was now a month since finding out, Joel making sure to go with you to get confirming bloodwork and a full physical. The headaches from missing both finally having abated. Joel on the other hand, he was sneaking cigarettes, you could smell the lingering smoke on him when would come home and you were still up. It didn’t really bother you, knowing he indulged for far longer than you had in the bad habit. But you missed the social aspect of the act, of seeking out the designated spots around campus and chatting, of sitting out on the back patio with Tommy as he enjoyed one on the evenings he stopped by with his own little family for dinner.

But it was all worth it, you mused as you poured yourself a cup of steaming water into what was once your coffee mug. Tea was something you indulged in now, the cupboard filled with the different types you were trying to work your way through to see what would help with the onslaught of nausea and also appealed to your tastebuds. You preferred the fruity ones, just like you did with your cocktails, hence the nickname Ellie had graced you with that stuck.

Jingling keys and heavy footsteps signaled you to Joel’s return, the sun still shining on the calm afternoon. He had been gone when you showed up at his house, a cookout planned for the day. Tommy and Maria had been here an hour, the grill just about ready for the first of many things to be cooked and the pool was sparkling as it awaited the arrival of Sarah and Ellie. You had spent the morning cleaning it of debris and adding a few treatment drops. The whole family getting together. It was good, it was a good feeling being surrounded by them all. You and Maria hitting it off even more over the news of what was to come. Her own child now nearing two, she had given birth while you and Joel were split. But you had sent a care package and visited her in the hospital with her favorite takeout.

It was so domestic, so full a life…it made you wonder why you hadn’t been able to experience it as a child yourself.

“Missed ya, darlin’.” Joel steps up behind you and embraces you. Kissing your temple, you feel the frown mar his lips as you don’t respond. “Everythin’ alright?”

“Yeah,” You mumble, turning in his hold and wrapping your arms around his chest. He smells like cinnamon and the grill brick he used while closing up the restaurant after a brunch shift and you breathe him in as you press your face into his broad chest.

“Gotta shower, wanna join me?’

“The girls will be here soon.” You hold him tighter, missing your own family even if it had never been the same as his own. Dinner once a month with your own father, no visits offered or initiated, grandparents raising you since you were young. A mother who had passed early due to complications from cancer she hadn’t known she had until she was pregnant with you herself. “Wanna make sure everything is ready for them.”

He peppers kisses into your hair before pulling away and disappearing upstairs.

The afternoon continues, the smell of grilling meat and roasting vegetables lilting into the air alongside ruckus laughter and bad jokes. Everyone is comfortable around the patio and the in the pool, food served and consumed. Just a few bites left of everything, Joel ensuring you that he would heed your cravings and what you felt like you could stomach, not worried about leftovers lately.

“So when do we get to meet the rest of the Sabrosa clan?” Tommy askes around the lip of his beer bottle. He’s across from you at the table, Joel off by the grill as he messes with something he hadn’t let you sneak a peak at.

“Oh, um…you don’t?” Caught off guard, the bite of food falls from your plastic fork frozen halfway to your mouth.

“No siblings or nothin?”

“Um, well-“ Clearing your throat you take the bite and chew it contemplatively. Honesty or the thinly veiled truth? Your mind is working hard, something Maria must hear in her seat beside you at the patio table. She shoots Tommy a look you catch out of the corner of your eye, trying to keep calm so the child in dozing in her arms doesn’t stir. “I’ve got two half-siblings, but we don’t keep in contact much.”

“They gonna be at the wedding?”

“What wedding?” “Oh my god, dad! You proposed and didn’t tell us!” Ellie and Sarah holler from where they’re in the pool, one of them resting on a floating device and the other is practicing her laps to get more comfortable in the water. Joel turns from where he was ensuring the grill was off and brings over the s’mores dip he had just let melt to perfection. Your stomach rumbles at the sight of the gooey swirl of marshmallow and dark chocolate, of the rye biscuits he must’ve whipped up at work steaming beside it in a single use tin. Set up with a divider in the middle.

“Haven’t proposed to ‘er yet, quit it.” He sits it down atop a trivet, but no one makes a move to reach for it until he gives the go ahead. But he doesn’t until he’s got one of the dark biscuits covered in the dip and set in front of you. Then it was fair game as the girls begin to swim across the length of the pool, or well Sarah tries to glide her floaty across while Ellie does. Tommy readies one for Maria before making his own, quirking an eyebrow at you as he watches the pull of the dip.

“But your dad is gonna walk you down the aisle, right?” Tommy presses on, not catching onto the awkward way you were shifting in your seat or how you had placed your fork down to rest on the edge of your paper plate. The dessert untouched. But you don’t get to think of an answer before one is flying from your emotionless face.

“Can’t, he’s dead.”

Silence falls over the once happy and jovial backyard, the splash of Sarah slipping from her floating longue echoing.

“Tommy.” Joel’s voice is firm as he pins his brother with a mild glare. Maria is equally unpleased with her husband’s penchant for talking without thinking, not reading the room. He yelps as she kicks his shin underneath the table.

“It’s okay, wasn’t much of a father when he was alive anyway.” You reach for the mocktail you had made a pitcher of for you and the girls to enjoy. No one says anything as you pour yourself another and take a sip from it. Not liking the tension that had crept into the atmosphere, you gather up your nearly empty plate and stack it atop Maria’s to take inside, making more room for the messy dessert. Slinking away, you feel Maria reach out a hand to trail down your arm, comforting you before you’re gone back into the house.

“You dumbfuck.” Ellie mutters under her breath, earning a glare from Joel over his shoulder for her language. But he doesn’t disagree. You do, but it wasn’t his fault. How was Tommy supposed to know he had picked the one subject you had nothing good to say about?

“Shit, I- holy shit.” Tommy’s voice follows you before he yelps a second time as Joel brandishes the still warm tongs from serving biscuits.

“Way to shove your foot in your mouth, we were havin’ a good time.”

“I didn’t know! I thought she was just quiet about her family not that she didn’t have any.”

“Tommy, you’re the father of my child and my husband but you are seriously so stupid sometimes.”

“Dad, she-she doesn’t have any family?” Sarah is tearing up, affected by the sudden realization of why you never brought anyone around except for a friend every once in a while. She could understand not having a mother, as her own was so distant, only showing up when she needed something or felt lonely in the life she created for herself. But to not have a dad? That was all she knew and she couldn’t fathom how her life would have been without him in it;.

“She’s got us, baby girl.” Joel goes to run a hand over her shoulder and press a kiss to the fluff of her kinky curls as she stands beside the pool set into the ground outside the patio. He wraps the towel she brought out around her and rubs it across her shoulders before lifting his hands. “We’re her family, pretty good deal, huh?”

“Dad….”

“She’ll be okay, I promise.”

The laid back vibe from the afternoon returns once everyone piles into the living room to watch the season finale of an admittedly awful reality tv show. But everyone was hooked and harmless bets were made on who would cause the most drama and how things would end. You’re a little subdued, but you make comments along with everyone else and laugh at the absurdity of what happens on the screen.

Stepping out of the bath you had decided to soak in, you startle when you see Joel sat on the small bench in the master bathroom across from the vanity as you pull back the shower curtain. He’s already changed into his sleep pants, his freckled and bronzed chest on display through the steam.

“Darlin’, why didn’t you tell me your dad was passed?”

“Because it doesn’t matter.” You stand in front of him, taking in the way he watches you through the mirror as you press a bead of toothpaste onto your toothbrush and wet it before popping it into your mouth. A heavy silence fills the room, tangling with the rose scented steam from the bubble bar you had used. The pink water swirling down the sink a near silent hum.

“It-uh, kinda does. Makes me feel…like a whole wedding would be…”

“You don’t have to ask me. We don’t have to get married if it’s going to be a problem.” Shoving down the worries and residual guilt of being raised in a certain religious culture at the thought of having a child out of wedlock, having a child as a single woman you catch the man’s gaze through the mirror. The burn of embarrassment simmers beneath your skin, shame for feeling such embarrassment sparkling behind it, creating a swirl of emotions you hadn’t wanted to feel this close to bed with an early class. You want to marry him, to experience that with him, to live life together as husband and wife, but it feels perfunctory when you didn’t even believe in the reasoning behind why you felt that way. He’s frowning, his brows knit close together, something off in the depths of his brown eyes.

“It’s not a problem…right?” You see the worry flickering through him, in the way his eyes shift and the way he clenches his fists in his lap. “I just…you know you’re a part of the Millers. Have been since the moment you caught my attention, but baby…I don’t want you to feel lonely if it’s my family and your friends.”

“Are you insinuating because I don’t have a family of my own, I’m somehow missing something?” Anger flared hot and sticky in you, washing out the embarrassment. The heat from your bath making it so much worse and you cross the room to pull the door open. Back at the vanity, you ignore his gaze and rinse out your mouth before moving on to clean and moisturize your face. He’s quiet behind you, knowing he phrased his sentiment wrong and this…this communication was new for you both. Still hard sometimes as you both realize how deep some things run and how different you could be.

“You know I’m not.” The gaze he has trained on you reminds you of the way he would watch you through the kitchen, tensions high as you both couldn’t seem to get your heads out of the dirt and just be honest with each other. A time that had passed, allowing for the present to bloom.

“Then a wedding wouldn’t be a problem. But it’s kind of moot, you haven’t proposed.” You don’t anticipate the slight edge to the words as they leave your lips, but they slice through the air. You feel shame overtake the waning anger, making your face hot underneath your massaging hands. The burn of tears threaten to ruin the routine you just completed and you hiccup as your hands flatten atop the vanity, head hanging between your shoulders. You do not like this, but you have no idea where it’s coming from. It really doesn’t bother you that he hasn’t asked. You know he has the intention to, the agreement of a visit to town hall and then a small party to celebrate. Nothing fancy, nothing crazy, simple.

“Hey,” He whispers as he comes up behind you, hands resting over the quick beating of your heart, his naked chest pressed to your back, the damp towel the only thing separating you. But you can feel his own heart between your shoulder blades, strong and sturdy. Grounding you in the way you had explained you preferred when overwhelmed. “I promise I wasn’t trying to upset you, just want you to be comfortable, to have everything you deserve.”

You let him help you to dry off the rest of your body, lotion lovingly applied to your body by his hands before you slip into a nightgown and slip between the sheets beside him. You kiss an apology to his lips, needing him to know that it was just initial panic and not the real way you thought or felt. He accepts it and offers one of his own, lips pressed to your chest, right over your heart before sleep takes ahold of you both.

“I said don’t.” You warned, no humor in your voice. You had tried and failed to put on every one of your pairs of pants, jeans, leggings, and none of them were comfortable. None of them zipped, buttoned, or stretched enough underneath the slight bump that had seemingly blossomed overnight. Joel was sprawled on the bed, working his way to getting up at the late hour. He had been at the restaurant late, later than usual as they had a party stay well after service hours. He had let the staff go on time, ensuring they would get the tip out but not wanting them to have to stay once all the cleaning and side work was done. One of the many things you adored about the man, his willingness to heed situations like that in favor of his staff even if he was gruff and to the point most of the day.

“Didn’t say nothin’, darlin’.” He rumbled from beneath the sheets, tan skin looking deliciously golden paired with the pale pink set you had insisted changing from the white that had previously been curled around the mattress. You had woken up with bad cramps last month, terrified something had happened as you pulled back the covers to find blood spotting the pristine fabric. A quick trip the emergency room as he shared in your panic, albeit in a more controlled way, assured you that spotting was normal during the early months of pregnancy.

“Dress...” You muttered to yourself, hand cradling around the small bump. Joel only hummed, stretching out to alleviate his sore body, thick legs appeared from beneath the fabric. Your eyes traced the long lines of his body through the mirror atop the dresser, drinking in the sight of him and your body began to thrum with arousal. When your eyes roved up the expanse of his broad chest dusted with dark hair to his face, he was smirking at you with an eyebrow arched in a silent question of how long you would ignore his deliberate departure from the bed.

You had all but jumped him when he got home last night, papers you were grading scattered all around you on the couch and coffee table, a Josh Gates show on the television for moral encouragement. He had teased you once about your affinity for the man but you had clapped back with his borderline obsession with Anthony Bourdain, to which he simply said ‘can’t help it darlin’, the man knew his shit’.

The dinner he had brought home had been tossed to the entry way table, as you knelt down to help remove him from his shoes and pants. Mouthing at the line of him through his boxer briefs before he could even get his keys hooked on the mirror over the table. He had been prepared to find you fast asleep, a different kind of tired taking hold of you more and more, almost demanding naps during the day when you got home from campus and right before dinner if you hadn’t worked. But you had sprung up from your spot and welcomed him home, the food forgotten in favor of getting your fill of the man that had been consuming your thoughts. The thought makes his cock fill, twitching underneath the sheets as he recalls your enthusiasm.

He sees the way your eyes dilate at the movement, the hush of his hand skimming down to grip himself.

Suddenly, you’re no longer debating over the clothing flowing from the draws inside the closet or those of the dresser. You peeled the pants you had been fruitlessly trying to zip up and nearly threw yourself at him. He greedily accepts your frantic kisses, starting from his shins and all the way up neck to finally connect with his own. He groans at the taste of coffee you had allowed yourself this morning, his own cup still steaming on the bedside table. His glasses beside it, his cellphone lighting up only to be ignored.

“Does mama need some attention?” He breathes into your open mouth, large palms caressing the exposed skin of your hips. His hands graze your middle, and you shy away from him, self-conscious of the extra jiggle, the stretchmarks from rapid weight fluctuation of your years now accommodating the swell of the beginning signs of the life you two had created together. “Hey, no, c’mere.”

You’re sure he sees the flicker of emotions across your face before you school it into a cool arch of your brow, the playful smirk of your lips. Falling back on bravado that wanes far too quickly these days as your hormones ping pong all over the place. You were just as apt to burst into silent tears as you were to jump him, confusing for you and devasting for him as he tries to read your moods as well as he can. He was hoping to dislodge the habit of you seeking refuge in the townhouse you had gifted Ellie, her own budding relationship prompting her to ask for her own space just as the new stage of your life became known to them. Equal parts of respect for the more tender and tense moments sure to happen and yearning for her own space again.

“Mama needs some new clothes, wanna spoil me?” Your voice is a confident hush, hands reaching forward to urge him to shift closer, both of you on your sides and facing each other.

“Do anythin’ for you, darlin’, you know that.” His teeth sunk into the curve of your neck, tugging you back to him. That seemed to get you to forget your insecurities as he felt you pull him closer, your smaller hands so soft on his chest as they caressed his skin.

“I think I wanna go to that fancy mall, maybe get some pretty underwear that won’t make me feel like a total loser.”

“I’ll take ya anywhere you want, maybe even that big shopping center in Dallas? It’ll be just like the trip we took to Arizona. Could get a hotel, see the sights and just relax. Hear they have a mac and cheese restaurant in the arts district.” He rolls to pin you down, and you move to allow him space between your legs instinctually. Body hovering over yours as he kisses down your neck, your chest, he lets his words sink in. The bralette you had put on doing nothing to hide the perk of your nipples. He laps at them through the thin fabric, delighting in the way it makes you arch up into him. You were so sensitive to his touch lately, your body on high alert as your hormones fluctuate erratically.

“That’s a lot, Joel. Shouldn’t we-“ Your hesitant words are cut off by a searing kiss, the press of his skin against yours making it hard to keep your train of thought.

“We should do what we want, darlin’. Wanna get everything sorted to go this weekend?”

Tears are suddenly pitter pattering over the sheets, darkening the fabric where they land after rolling down the sides of your face. He pushes his weight from where it pressed you to the bed, back on your sides and you let him, unable to stem the tears.

“Oh hey, hey it’s okay,” Joel crowds close, the thin fabric separating your bodies as you bury your face in his neck and curl your legs up, knees pressing into his stomach. Hiccups startle you both as you find it suddenly hard to breath through the onslaught of emotions spiking. “Hey now, darlin’, it’s alright.”

“I’m sorry,” You mumble into his skin, embarrassment flaring up hot in your cheeks and chest. You feel so silly, pulled in too many directions in so quick a succession. “I just…you’re so hot and I’m all bloated and my skin feels all tight and I really want some ice cream.”

Twenty minutes later, you’re happily spooning a sundae into your mouth with a red plastic spoon in the passenger seat of his truck. All the tears and frustration gone from you as you held tight to the treat in your hands with far too many flimsy napkins. He’s got a cigarette dangling from the hand he rests on the inside of the door, trying to keep as much smoke from wafting back into the cab as possible. Errands, today was an errand day and you smiled over at him. Pairs of sunglasses meeting, eyes hidden beneath them. He just leans over to press a kiss to your temple, not wanting to disrupt your enjoyment of the ice cream you literally cried over.

next chapter

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wheneverfeasible · 3 months

Text

Cheerleader!Eddie AU pt 2

POV: Chrissy

Part 1

TW: body shaming, eating disorders, abusive family, toxic relationships, drug use

Chrissy knew there was something wrong with her. Of course she did. Not because her mom told her there was, but because her mom told her there was.

A mother shouldn’t comment on her daughter’s weight, or make implications that her daughter’s worth was somehow tied to it. A mother shouldn’t encourage a relationship with a boy who only saw her outside appearance as a trophy to be won, never caring to even notice the red rim to her eyes or the way her smile never reached them either.

Or who never noticed when she didn’t eat at lunch or, the few times she couldn’t stop herself, she always went to the restroom immediately after and came back smelling of mint.

It was too much. All of it was just too much nowadays. She wasn’t happy, she knew that. She played pretend so well that sometimes she thought she was, but when she was all alone with just her thoughts there was no denying the gaping hole in her chest.

It was after one of these times that Chrissy had been unable to avoid eating and had to purge herself in the school restroom that she met him. Eddie Munson.

She’d made certain the girls’ restroom was empty before she pulled the trigger, and then she curled up on the dirty floor unable to take it and let the tears come. Which was, of course, when a decidedly male voice entered whistling and stumbled upon her. She’d heard stories of him before, knew Jason hated him with a passion, as did Tommy and the others.

Yet, despite the rumors of devil worship and criminality, despite being a Munson, Chrissy never once felt unsafe with him. He had looked genuinely concerned, and though his nose had wrinkled at the smell of her sick, he didn’t say anything about it or laugh at her. Instead, he helped her off the floor, holding the marker in his hand and why he was there.

And…she laughed. She giggled at the thought of Marcus getting his comeuppance on a girls’ toilet stall, because…yeah, he wasn’t that nice of a person. She hadn’t known he was the reason that Eddie had a bruise on his face, which only made her dislike of the footballer even greater.

They weren’t friends, her and Eddie, not yet, even if she guiltily told the boy other things he could write on the stall in retaliation, even when one of the things was about Jason. However, that wasn’t the last time they met. He had offered her a discount if she ever wanted weed, told her where to meet up with him if she did, and…she did. She wasn’t certain about smoking, but she felt comfortable with him and…screw it, she was tired of being what other people expected her to be.

Somehow those meetings at the table in the woods became more frequent, even when Chrissy wasn’t buying drugs, using a friends and family discount until Eddie eventually stopped charging her at all. Instead, they hung out, smoked, and talked about anything and everything. Up to and including her relationship with Jason.

When she finally made the decision to dump him, she binged the most she’d ever binged. Eddie was right there with her after, cooing as he rubbed her back and keeping her hair out of her face after, telling her so many amazing things about herself that she didn’t believe, told her things about himself that made her heart ache for him, and he held her as she cried in the bathroom of his trailer.

Things changed after that. She was ashamed he had seen her like that, ashamed that she wasn’t strong enough, but she realized she wanted to be, not just for Eddie, but for herself. So she dumped Jason and took a seat during the next lunch period at the Freak table, head held high. She was done being what people wanted her to be. When she took a bite of her sandwich, Eddie’s warm eyes on her, she took his hand and stayed in her seat the whole of lunch. She wasn’t suddenly better or anything, but it was a start.

Her and Eddie got on like a house on fire after that and, even though it was decided that they did not like each other like that after a disastrous kiss, they didn’t care if anyone else thought they were dating. Their holding hands and hanging all over each other definitely didn’t help.

And then Chrissy needed an emergency. She needed Eddie to stand in with the cheer squad because one of the girls was sick and she had no one else to ask. She batted her lashes and stuck her hands beneath her chin and she knew she had won even before Eddie’s first eye roll. And then it kept happening, and soon Eddie was more or less an official member of the Hawkins High Cheer Squad.

She, of course, thought fair was only fair and joined Hellfire, settling in with the others almost as easily as she had with Eddie. They had been a little taken aback by her homebrewed half-Orc barbarian Uragoth the Undaunted, but Chrissy adored playing as him. Only Eddie knew his backstory that he had had to kill his own Orc mother to prevent her evil from spreading, though she was looking forward to his lore dropping the further into his story they got.

And then Steve happened.

Chrissy’s eyebrows had skyrocketed when she watched that unfold in realtime, not having expected the older boy to be like her friend but…really, there was no denying how often Steve’s eyes were drawn to Eddie when they practiced, or his expression when he teased Eddie about one thing or another. And Eddie flirted back.

Steve hadn’t been the worst of them, despite his kingly status, so Chrissy allowed it to happen. Steve’s best friend, Tommy, was by far the worst, though even Steve had put a stop to a lot of things and everyone had to follow the king’s orders. It helped that her squad had warmed up to Eddie after he proved he was more than what people said about him too, and she thought she was finally getting them to agree to run a one-shot campaign through with Hellfire. It was going to be a surprise for Eddie, who still sometimes doubted the squad even really liked him.

And then they hatched up The Plan. They’d scoured the rulebook first, making certain Eddie couldn’t get in trouble, and then they unleashed him at the championship game in all his skirted glory. Eddie’s goal was to distract the opposing team, but Chrissy’s goal was to get Eddie laid. And maybe a boyfriend.

When Eddie returned to school the next Monday, wearing a deep blush and Steve’s letterman jacket, Chrissy wore a smug expression for the rest of the week.

Steve joined the Freak table, which was quickly becoming a Freak-and-Cheerleader table with how often the squad joined them too, but despite how obviously halfway-in-love the two boys were, Eddie never made Chrissy feel left out. Steve even invited his new best friend to start hanging out with them so Chrissy didn’t feel like a third wheel, some band geek she’d seen around but never spoke to before.

Robin Buckley.

Chrissy didn’t know what she thought about Robin at first. She was sarcastic but quick-witted, and though she hung on Steve as much as Chrissy did Eddie, she never felt alarmed or worried about Steve’s affections being anywhere other than they should. When Robin explained that she and Steve were Platonic soulmates with a capital ‘P’, Chrissy and Eddie could only exchange a grin because…yeah, they got that entirely.

Soon Chrissy and Robin started hanging out more whenever the boys had their solo date nights, or had “double dates” with them where they could be the third wheel together, and Chrissy found she actually really enjoyed the brash girl’s company. A lot. She was smart, and funny, and kind, and she was unapologetically herself, and she fit into their little group like she had been there from the start.

Chrissy did not like, however, when Robin started talking about a girl named Vickie, though she only brought her up when she was talking to Steve alone. That fact alone made Chrissy unhappy. Robin was her friend too, so why didn’t Robin tell her about this apparently new friend of hers also?

Of course, Chrissy didn’t realize that she made a displeased face whenever she heard Vickie’s name being brought up. Eddie noticed, however, and he and Steve would share silent communication.

It all came to a head when, after walking in on Robin complaining to Steve about Vickie having a boyfriend in college, Chrissy may or may not have said something a little snarky about why Robin even cared about that, resulting in a confession Chrissy maybe wasn’t as surprised to hear.

“Because l’m a lesbian, Chrissy!” Robin exploded, throwing her arms out wide as she glared at Chrissy over the sensitive topic. Thankfully, they were at Steve’s house while his parents were out of town, so it was only the four of them there. Steve also took that moment to sneak away back to his boyfriend. “Do you know how hard it is to find a girl to date in this homophobic town?”

“Then date me.”

Chrissy hadn’t intended to say those words, hadn’t even known she thought them, but there was nothing but truth in those three little words. Robin, for her part, just gaped at Chrissy. And, yeah, one of the things Chrissy enjoyed most was how expressive Robin was about everything, how gangly and awkward she could be, and how cute she was when she was shocked.

Grinning a little, Chrissy walked forward and lightly closed Robin’s mouth with the tip of a finger under her chin. She leaned forward, brushing her lips over Robin’s cheek.

“WHAT!” Robin squawked, face flamed red.

Chrissy just giggled, dropping her hand to tangle Robin’s fingers with her own. “Just date me then, Robin. I think I’ve been waiting for that longer than I’ve even realized. Unless you don’t like me like that, then we can just stay as friends I hope.”

Robin shook her head, not in rejection, but in a baffled daze. When she looked at Robin again, her eyes were shining bright and there was a wide smile across her lips. Her fingers tightened on Chrissy’s and Chrissy didn’t know who moved first, but soon she was having her first kiss that sent fireworks across her skin.

Later, when Chrissy and Robin rejoined Steve and Eddie red faced, hair slightly a mess, and hands clasped tightly together, all Chrissy could do was shoot Eddie a raised middle finger at his own smug look.

He was going to be insufferable, she just knew it. But that was fine, because this time she had a girlfriend by her side that she was pretty sure she was already halfway-in-love with too.

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 9 months

Text

Don't Speak 37

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, obsession, stalking, manipulation, reclusive behaviour, disordered eating, dissociation, allusions to abuse, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Reader is a reclusive loner who ventures down to the library on a simple mission. Her task is complicated by the man she meets there. (f!short!reader)

Character: librarian!Andy Barber

Note: Get ready for Andrew Barber's masterclass in manipulation.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you all. Take care. 💖

Your disbelief gives way to panic. You gulp and gasp for breath as you collapse onto the carpet, hugging yourself as you sink into horror. You’re repulsed by your own body, trapped in your own skin. A monster. Just as horrible as you always suspected.

Selfish, worthless, thoughtless. Your doubts calcify to certainty. You are a bad person.

But you don’t want to be. You never wanted to be. How can you be so terrible despite your best efforts? You have to be better. You have to try harder.

You heave and lift yourself on a shaky arm, rubbing your damp cheek as you sniffle and look around. Your head throbs but you won’t be sleeping that night. The violent churning in your stomach won’t let you. You don’t deserve to rest. You have too much to do.

You get up on tremulous legs. You find it hard to balance as the swirling haze of wine turns to a groggy pulsing in your temples. You massage them as each step sends a thump through your skull. You try to shake it off but it only gets worse.

You move carefully. You did this to yourself. You drank even after Andy warned you not to. You ignored him all day like a spoiled child. You did whatever you wanted and then you… hurt him.

You start with the kitchen. It’s already tidy from Amber’s help but you wipe down the counters to be certain, then you get out the mop, leaning heavily on it as you sponge the tile to sparkling. You move on to the dining room; surfaces, floors, and even the curtains. You sus out every speck of dust and dirt.

You find yourself sitting, folded over as you cradle your head and catch your breath. You’re weak and shaky but you keep going. You get up and return to the front room. You give pause before the couch, the throw pillows knocked this way and that, one on the floor. You tidy them and refold the blanket on the back neatly.

It’s too late to vacuum but you do your best to sweep around the edge of the carpet. You go to the mantel and straighten the ornaments that seemed to distract Steve that day. You stop at the thought of the doctor and nearly sob. What do you tell him? How do you tell him what you did? He would know what you are. What would he think?

Your teeth chatter despite the warm air. It’s not the temperature but your own fatigue that sets you to shiver. You carry on, making a careful progress through the large house. You suffer over every inch. You don’t know how else to show your remorse but to make everything perfect. Everything but yourself. You will never be perfect, you are inextricably broken.

The dawn rises and you let yourself rest in the bathroom. You rinse your face in cold water, trying to wake up. You take some painkillers for the beating in your skull and grip the sides of the sink, weary and worn.

A flicker catches your eye. You glance over at the white shower speaker. He must’ve replaced the batteries. You stand straight and roll your shoulders back. You’re not done. You will never be done. This task, not the cleaning, no, but you, trying to fix you, that’s something you’ll always have to work on.

You go back to the hall and stop short. You peer down towards the bedroom door; Andy’s. It’s silent and the edges are dark. You shudder out a breath and cross to the guest room.

You enter the solemn space and search for a new outfit. You pick out something he bought for you, that you know he’ll like. You tuck a white blouse into the brown corduroy skirt that buttons up the front. You match the outfit with a pair of stockings to warm your tingling legs.

You emerge, feeling stronger but hardly better. You descend the stairs, his silence and the stillness of the house suffocating you. You drag your feet into the kitchen and tie the apron on as you begin. You take out one of the cookbooks and search for the perfect breakfast.

The hours pass swiftly as you set to work. You focus on each ingredient, each step, as you put together the pieces. A quiche with the most perfect savoury crust. The scents rising around you tug on your stomach, the dregs of wine leaving your stomach barren and acidic.

You brew coffee and put together a tray. A mug, a plate of quiche, fruit salad, napkins, and cutler. You balance it all and turn to the long journey upstairs. It feels like a treacherous path. You fear you might not reach your destination and you wouldn’t be surprised if you’re turned away.

You stop at Andy’s door, like the gates of some vaunted castle, and swallow down your fears. You knock with your foot, careful not to cause too much of a clatter. No answer comes as you stew in the silence of the large house.

You turn your shoulder to the door and lean in, “Andy?”

Your call wilts into the still air and you wait. You clear your throat and try again, speaking louder this time. The crackle of your voice is harsh amid the empty lull. You listen, a rustle coming from the other side, and a sniffle.

Your heart catches in your throat as you face the door head on. The lock clicks as the handle turns back and a small slat of space opens between the edge and frame. Your eyes meet Andy’s single on, peeking out sheepishly.

“Good morning,” you try to be chipper, “can I… I brought you breakfast.”

He stares and blinks. His gaze falls to the tray in your hand. There’s a glisten across his iris.

“Andy,” you sniff, “I’m very sorry about last night.”

He closes the door and you stand dumbly in your dejection. You look down at the tray. You’re stupid to think food could solve the problem. That you could ever apologise thoroughly for your offence. You can’t take back what’s been done.

You take a step back but stop again, the tray rattle treacherously as the handle twists back again, this time with more force. Andy still wears the same clothes as the day before. His hair is dishevelled, his beard with short shanks jutting out at the chin, as he keeps his face down. With slumped shoulders, at a slight angle, he stands back.

“We can talk,” he utters in a fractured timbre. He sounds like he’s been crying.

You bow your head and step into the room. You go to the console table and lay the tray there as it starts to shake with your nerves.

The bedsprings compress as he sits with a heavy sigh. You keep your back to him as you try to sort out the pangs in your chest and stomach. You turn slowly on your heel. As he sits on the side of the bed, the glare of the lamp illuminates his features and the dark bruising along the left side. His eye is almost entirely swollen shut.

You gasp and cover your mouth. He keeps his eyes down meekly, as if trying to hide. You can’t believe you did that to him. How could you have done that? With just one hit?

“I’m so sorry,” you creak out through your dry throat, “Andy, I’m so so sorry. I didn’t mean to– I didn’t sleep all night, I feel so rotten–”

“Enough, dove,” he hisses, “enough.”

“Please,” you beg as you step forward only for him to flinch. You stop and clutch your hands in front of your chest; he’s afraid of you.

“I…” he begins and swallows thickly. He shakes his head and reaches to brush his fingers through his beard, only to wince again. “I… I love you, dove.”

Your eyes gloss as you watch him. You see how he musters his strength to look back at you. Never had anyone looked at you like that. Afraid.

“I love you, too,” you eke out.

“So…” he quavers and clears his throat, “so let’s move past this.” You see him struggle as he grips his thigh and forces his posture straight, “I won’t make you mad again and you won’t hurt me, right?”

It’s like a punch in the gut. You could keel over right there.

“I wouldn’t ever–”

“You did,” he insists, “dove, it’s not that you hit me, it’s… you broke my heart last night.”

“I’m sorry, I really am–”

“Sorry… doesn’t always fix things. I can’t forget last night, but if it doesn’t happen again, I can live with it,” he utters each word as if it hurts, “promise, dove, promise you won’t ever hurt me like that again.”

“I promise,” you spit out desperately, “please, I never meant to hurt you. I wouldn’t ever– Andy,” you bring your hands around your throat, trying to pry away the invisible fingers squeezing you, “there’s something wrong with me. I want to fix it. I… someone hurt me…and maybe that’s why…”

“I understand but it isn’t an excuse,” he reproaches, “you can break that cycle, that’s why you go to therapy… I’m starting to think that’s not working though.”

“N-no, it is– I–”

“Have you told Steve about who hurt you?”

You reel and shake your head, digging your nails into your own throat, “no…”

“So how are you fixing yourself, dove?”

It’s an accusation. That softness is gone and the razor is back in his voice. You frown and shrug.

“I’m trying–”

“Not hard enough,” he says, “look at me.” You do, you see the purplish blue bruises and his swollen eyelid. You see what you did. “If this happens again, you have to go. We can’t stay together. I won’t let you…” his timbre turns sandy and lowers his chin, “do what my ex did to me.”

He sniffles as he hides his face. Your heart clenches and you slowly inch towards him. Before you can get to him, he stands and staggers around the bed. You freeze as he clamours into the attached bathroom and the light flicks on. The harsh yellow blaze shines into the bedroom.

You daintily pad around after him and stop just before the doorway. He grips the frame of the mirror as he looks at his reflection. Tears trickle out down his cheeks and he looks down, gulping tightly.

“I didn’t… I didn’t look before,” he wipes his nose, “Dove, I couldn’t…”

“I’m so sorry,” you murmur, “I… I’ll leave. I’ll…” you blink furiously at the thought. Where do you go? You can’t go back to Amber, she doesn’t deserve someone like you. “I’ll go–”

“Where?” He asks.

You don’t have an answer.

“Then I’m the bad guy,” his words grit, “no, we’ll… work on it. Promise, dove, promise you’ll do better.”

“I will, I swear,” you plead, “I… will you eat breakfast?”

He flinches, slowly turning his head to peek at you, “breakfast?”

“I… I wanna take care of you. You need to eat. I… I made it for you. Special.”

His lashes flutter and he looks down at the sink again. He nods as if steeling himself. He pushes himself straight.

He turns to face you completely but before you can back away, not wanting to crowd him, you’re swept up in his arms. He hugs you to him, smothering you in the scent of his sweat and deodorant. You lock up as you let him squeeze you.

“I couldn’t sleep without you,” he whispers as he rocks you with him, “as much as you hurt me, I couldn’t. Dove, I need you.”

You slowly bring your arms up and wrap them around him. You feel how big he is. For a moment, you’re in awe that you could ever make him so afraid. You? How? His strength tightens around you, tight enough to force the breath out of you. Tight enough to break you if he wanted to.

“I didn’t sleep either,” you confess.

🕊️

You clean up the tray. The shadow of the previous night looms over you but you try not to let it consume you. The plate is clean but for a few crumbs, the fruit salad was quickly snapped up, and Andy is sipping his second cup of coffee as you lift away the remnant of his breakfast.

“That was good,” he praises over the brim of his mug.

“I’m glad you liked it. Happy you ate,” you say as your own stomach growls painfully.

“I got you to take care of me,” he smiles even as his cheek ticks. You’re both thinking of the unsaid, trying to ignore the ghost in the room with you.

“Can I–” you focus on his mussed hair, an unusual sight, “can I run you a bath?”

He seems taken aback. He tilts his head and sips again. You hold the tray in front of you, fearing his rejection.

“Of if you need space…”

“No, that would be… nice,” he rasps, wetting his throat with the coffee before continuing, “dove, I’d love a bath,” he licks his shining lips, “with you?”

Your mouth falls open and your eyes round. It isn’t just the idea of sharing the tub, but the hope of his offer. It isn’t forgiveness but it’s a start. He’s not casting you out.

“Y-yes,” you squeak, “y-yeah, I’ll go… I’ll go clean all this up and get the tub going.”

“Honey,” he pats his stomach in content, “you’re so good to me.”

You can only nod. It’s another reminder. You weren’t good to him last night. You paint a smile on your face and step back on your heel.

“Let me just get this to the kitchen–”

“Don’t I get a kiss?” He prompts before you can back up.

“Oh, uh, yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t…” you carry the tray closer, “I didn’t know if you wanted… one.”

“Always, dove,” he leans over and offers his puckered lips. You give him a peck as he hums. As you draw back, he purrs, “perfect.”

Your smile quivers on your lips. He watches you as you glance down at the tray. It’s awkward. It’s going to be for a while. You won’t ever forget this. He accepts you, even the bad parts. Even when it hurts.

“Love you, dove,” he says.

Your eyes flick up to meet his, “love you too… honey.”

His face brightens, “I like that,” he beams, “when you call me honey.”

“You do?” you bat your lashes.

“It’s like a song,” he says and teethes his lips, his eyes drifting away from yours, “beautiful like the rest of you.”

You squirm and squeeze the tray. You slowly turn away, the empty dishes rattling with you. The knot in your chest just won’t untangle. You want it to be alright but it still feels so wrong.

#andy barber #dark andy barber #dark!andy barber #andy barber x reader #steve kemp #defending jacob #fresh #series #fic #don't speak #au #library au #dark fic #dark!fic

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ajaxsbeloved · 5 months

Note

not sure if requests are open, (still new to tumblr) but can u write childe x fem!reader with ed? i just need comfort, i fell of recovery again

-: the road to recovery is not always steady :-

feat. childe

genre. comfort

summary. childe helps you get back on your feet when you slip

warnings: triggering topics, mentions of food, crying

authors note. tysm for this ask, as someone with an eating disorder this was an honor to write and i’m so sorry for posting it so late. thank you anon, you are brave and you are loved 🤍

In and out, with lungs meekly expanding and contracting as you stumble upon the streets of Liyue. Feeling weak you find some steps to rest on, with a pounding head you close your eyes and feel the world around you. It’s a typical day in Liyue; the streets are bustling and buzzing with chatter, shoppers and tourists visiting from around Teyvat. Getting back up there’s a rush to your head causing you to wince as your legs drag you back home, today was long and the sun was harsh. The feeling of fog overwhelms you, with a cloudy head you can’t seem to find where you’re going. Reaching out your hands everything feels distant almost as if you’re underwater, suddenly all you can recognize is the feeling of falling.

“(y/n)? (y/n) wake up”

Your eyes never hurt so much, with a mixture of a torturous headache and blinding light you manage to open your eyes and look around without moving too much.

“Where am I?”

You gather your strength as you try to sit up but an arm wrapped in gray stops you and lightly guides you to lay back down.

“Don’t move. You’re at home, just take it easy.”

Turning your head you find Childe at the side of the bed, his usual battle attire off and his more casual gray button up adorning his body. His eyes soften as they meet yours, a warm smile curling up his lips.

“What happened?”

“You passed out, Zhongli called me.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I didn't mean to inconvenience you.”

You sit up again, this time without his interference. Throwing your legs over the bed you hold your breath looking at them and feeling dull, throwing your feet onto the ground you nearly trip over your feet if not for grabbing onto Childe like your life depended on it.

“Get bad in bed (y/n)”

“It’s fine Jax I’m fine-”

“Get. Back in bed.”

You look down to see him holding onto your arm, feeling sick at the sight. With a heavy sigh and a few seconds of tension in the air you find it in yourself to get back in the bed, your body relaxing against the smooth sheets.

“I’ll be back, just stay here.”

Staring up at the ceiling you take in your surroundings. The sky outside looks muted and the lights are a little too bright, you’re cold. Despite the warm weather outside and fluffy blanket covering you, there’s a constant chill over your skin.

Childe comes back into the room after a few minutes, in his hands he holds a tray carrying your favorite food and drink, the sight alone is enough to make your blood pressure spike.

“Eat up” his face is relax and soft, he isn’t demanding nor is he asking

“I’m… I’m not hungry.”

“Come on (y/n), you just passed out you need to eat.”

“Ajax I told you I’m not hungry.”

“Have you eaten today?”

Silence, dead heavy silence. You chew on your cheek trying your best to come up with some sort of excuse, knowing it’ll never work on him anyway. You’re lack of a response says more than you can manage out your mouth.

“(y/n).... You haven’t eaten?”

“I was busy, you know how it is.”

“When was the last time you ate?”

“Umm… a few days ago I think.”

More silence, the tension was so thick and unbearable. Before you realized it your eyes welled up, maybe it was shame or embarrassment. Embarrassed to admit you hadn’t eaten, that it was intentional, that you hadn’t told him, that you were doing this to begin with.

“I’m sorry Jax.” your voice trembled, the tears slipped down your cheeks quietly and your breathing was no where near even.

He didn’t respond, you were scared to look at him. What would he think? Was he mad? Or disgusted? Or disappointed? You couldn’t bare the thought of any of it, it felt so scary. Before you knew it your head craned in his direction.

He… was also crying. His cheeks were stained with salty water that flowed from his eyes like a waterfall, without thinking you reach up to hold his face. He closes his eyes and leans into your hand letting out quiet sobs, and for the first time since meeting him you feel your heart break.

“Jax… I’m so sor-”

“Stop, don’t say it. Don’t be sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not noticing, for not paying enough attention to you, for letting you do this to yourself.”

He grabs your wrist and removes your hand from his face, letting go of your wrist he pulls you into a hug and kisses the top of your head. You feel his tears, his heartbeat, and for once you feel warm. The warmth is comforting, the way it all hits you like a truck you can’t stop yourself for sobbing in his arms. You feel safe, you feel loved, you feel like you’re supported.

“(y/n), I love you so much. I love you more than anything in this damned world, I can’t live without you. I can’t live knowing you’re hurting, and I know you are.” He pulls away and lowers himself so his eyes meet yours and now he’s the one holding your face.

“You’ll get better baby, I’ll help you.”

#[🍧 𝐥𝐞𝐞’𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬]#[🥮 𝗼𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬]#character x reader #x reader #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact #childe x reader #childe x reader comfort #genshin childe #childe genshin #genshin impact childe #childe genshin x reader #genshin impact childe x reader #genshin childe x reader #childe genshin impact #childe

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themorriganwitch · 1 year

Text

Never alone

Summary: Bradley finds you curled up on your living room floor, crying your heart out because your body image issues got the best of you

Trigger Warning: This One Shot contains mentions of self harm, body issues, Eating disorder and extremely overwhelming thought.

Words: 1,8k

A/N: This one shot means a lot to me, since it evolves around my own experience with body image issues, self harm and ED. If you are struggling with any on these topics, please know that you are valid and loved. If you ever want to talk about these things, feel free to send my a DM

Reblogs and Comments are always dearly appreciated

______________________________________________________________________

Your day actually started pretty good. It was a relaxing Saturday; the sun was shining, and you were able to sleep in since there was no need for a timer. The air was warm but breezy, so you wore your new green sundress, the one Bradley had gifted you last week because he saw it and it made him think of you. Then you headed out to meet Natasha for a late Brunch in the city.

You had an amazing time with your best friend, you laughed till your bellies hurt and talked about her upcoming vacation plans as well as about your bachelorette party next month. After you waved her goodbye when she climbed into her black Jeep, you had decided to make a short detour to your favorite clothing store, wanting to pick up a new set of lingerie to surprise Bradley as soon as he would be home after his day out with his boys.

But as soon as you slipped into the first set you picked out, a dark red one – your fiancées favorite color, and saw yourself in the mirror of the fitting room your entire mood changed.

Did your thighs really look that huge? Have your upper arms always been that wobbly? And your belly- you knew that you had gained some weight since you started your relationship, you just hadn’t notice how much you had gained, at least not until now.

And that’s how you found yourself sitting on the couch in your living room, wearing nothing but some panties and one of Bradley’s old shirts, eyes red and puffy from all the tears that had streamed out. You could not really wrap your head around why you are triggered to such an extent; you barely had any problems with your ED anymore since you went to therapy and worked through your issues related to food and self-perception.

But right now, you just felt like your 19-year-old self again who was lying on the cold bathroom floor crying their heart out while begging the Universe to just make the pain stop. To make you look like anybody else, to simply make that monster inside your brain, who told you to go to bed starving every. single. night. - stop.

Unworthy.

Unlovable.

Ugly.

All those thoughts circulated around your messed up brain, spiraling over and over until you had the feeling that you must die to make this horrendous pain stop.

Against knowing better, you spiraled even further, walking in the kitchen to grab the last chocolate ice cream cub that was left in the refrigerator. Hoping this would help to numb the emotional turmoil that had taken control over your entire body.

About thirty minutes later you found yourself again on the couch, t-shirt covered in brown stains while the tears had started to fall again. Your sobbing became frantically, your stomach was bloated painfully from all the ice cream you ate and now regret.

Trying to cover your emotions with food never worked and now you felt even worse than you did when you came home.

You lie down on the ground next to the couch, forehead pressed onto the cold tiles in the desperating attempt to ground yourself and simply sit this episode out, knowing very well that if this would not work you would go back into the kitchen, grabbing anything sharp you could find and stab your arms hoping the physical pain would over wash the emotional one.

Why did you have to go through this again and again?

Were you really this awful? How could Bradley even love you? You were ugly and obviously mentally unstable. He deserved better. So much better. After everything he had been through, he just deserved someone normal. Someone beautiful. Someone who is stable in themselves and who do not burden him with even more emotional ballast.

The voices in your head and the sobs you still could not managed to hold in were becoming so loud, that you did not notice how your fiancée stepped into your shared living room, a wide smile on the lips which slowly fades as soon as his eyes catch your embrace.

“Honey?”, he asked, trying to keep his voice calm. He slowly made his way to you, trying not to frighten you since it didn’t seem that you had noticed him.

His heart ached at his view: the love of his life curled up on the cold floor, your breath unregular from all the loud sobs escaping your lips. “Honey”, he tried again, this time a little louder.

If he thought the sight in front of him was hurtful a couple of minutes ago, he could feel his heart shatter as soon as you lift your head, eyes red and puffy, tears still running down your redden cheeks.

“I’m so sorry”, you said, voice raspy from what feels like hours of crying. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry”, you repeated yourself all over again, gratefully throwing yourself into Bradley’s strong arms as he sunk next to you on the ground.

“Shhh it’s okay, baby”, he said, rubbing your back in soothing motions as he pressed a loving kiss onto your hair. “I’m so sorry. So so sorry”, you repeated again and again.

After something that felt like hours, Bradley had managed to maneuver the two of you back on the couch, your head pressed in the crook of his neck while your sobs slowly start to fade. Your boyfriend had barely spoken to you, except for the occasional “It’s okay, I am here with you” and “Let it all out, you are safe with me”.

“What happened, baby girl?”, Bradley asked softly, after he made sure you were now calm enough to answer his question.

You cleared your throat, before lifting your head to meet your boyfriend’s beautiful hazel eyes. “I am not sure. I went out with Nat for Brunch and then…”, you went ahead and told him everything about your day and how you ended up on your living room floor.

Bradley sighed sadly. He knew about your body image issues and your Ed, you had told him about it after a couple of months after you had started your relationship. He knew all about your struggles, your nearly manic episodes when your thoughts tend to get the best of you, and you spiral deeper and deeper. “What were you thinking?” he asked, attempting to give you the opportunity to get rid of your overwhelming thoughts.

You closed your eyes, debating with yourself if you should tell him the truth, terrified of the idea he could think you are insane. But then you looked at him and you saw nothing but love and admiration in his eyes and you just knew that if you could not tell Bradley about what was going on, there would never be someone who could understand you.

“I just were in this fitting room, and I felt so ugly. So so ugly. And then I went home, and I just felt so awful, and I did not know what to do and in my head, everything got worse and worse. And then I asked myself why you could ever want me. Like you deserve so much, Bradley. You are the love of my life. You deserve someone stable, someone who does not carry that much baggage with themselves. Someone who is worthy of you love and someone who is”- you were not able to move on, because he cut you off, staring at you wide eyed.

“Hold on. Hold on”, he said, brows furrowed in concern. “Baby, how could you ever think that you are not worthy of me? Please listen carefully, honey. I love you; I love you so much that sometimes it feels like my heart must explode in my chest from all those emotions you make me feel. I know we are not married yet, but when I asked you to share your life with me, I promised you that I will love you always. Endlessly. Unconditionally. And I don’t care if you are not perfect, because no one is Baby. Even though, for me, you are”, he smiled softly at you, cupping your heated cheek with his right hand.

“You are the most beautiful person I ever had the pleasure to meet. No matter if you are all dolled up in sexy red lingerie or in dirty sweatpants and one of my old navy t-shirts. I don’t care if you gained weight, nor do I care if your thighs might look bigger than normal cause our bodies simply fluctuate from time to time. But I do care about how you are feeling about yourself, and if you don’t feel good about yourself, I am here to talk to. Please, for the love of God, please talk to me. We are a team, baby girl. Your problems are my problems, and your enemies are my enemies. And it does not matter if I must get at an actual person or the monster you have in the darkness of your thoughts. I am here to fight with you. And I will always fight for you. Okay?” You nod, again feeling tears swelling in your eyes but now not because of the overwhelming hate you feel for yourself but for the soothing love your fiancée makes you feel. As he always makes you feel. “I’m sorry”, you said. “I should have called you as soon as I knew how this would go down. But I was just so in my thoughts – “.

“No need to apologize”, Bradley interrupted you. “Next time you simply remember what to do. So, what do you think about taking a bath together? Getting you all cleaned up and then we can drink a tea, cuddle up in bed and watch an episode of the office?”

“That sounds great”, you answered smitten. “I love you, Bradley Bradshaw”.

“Not as much as I love you”, he answered before pressing a tender kiss onto your lips.

He heaved his big body from the couch, taking your hand and leading you both down the hallway to your bathroom.

The both of you knew that you would still have some stuff to talk about in the morning, but right now everything that matters were that you had your boyfriend right by you side.

Your boyfriend who just again showed how deeply in love he was with you, and that no matter how much your thoughts try to get the best of you, he would always be by your side to fight the demons inside your brain. With you. Together. Forever.

#top gun #top gun maverick #top gun one shot #top gun Drabble #Bradley Bradshaw #Bradley Rooster Bradshaw #Bradley Bradshaw x Reader #BRADLEY BRADSHAW x y/n #BRADLEY BRADSHAW angst #BRADLEY BRADSHAW fluff #bradley #Bradshaw imagine #BRADLEY BRADSHAW one shot #Jake Seresin #Natasha Trace #Bob Floyd #Dagger Squad

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senualothbrok · 8 months

Text

Progress

Gif by @dolceaspidenera

Summary: When you start your studies at Blackstaff Academy, you expect a battle with your demons. But the last thing you expect is to fall in love.

A slow burn, Professor Dekarios x OC journey through mental illness and recovery.

Word count: 10.6k

Trigger warnings: Mental illness, eating disorder, childhood trauma. Please practise self-care.

Disclaimers: Non-18+, angst (with a happy ending), slow burn, hurt/comfort, mental illness and recovery.

AO3 link

The sequel to this fic is Promise

This is progress, you think.

It is your first day at Blackstaff Academy, and you are standing in the entrance hall. Your body rattles with each shallow breath. Your robe hangs off you, limp and heavy. But you have made it. You are here.

You step into the bustling corridor. You can tell immediately that you are older than most of the other apprentices. Many of them look like fresh faced teenagers, giggling and buoyant. Despite the gruelling nights of failed spells and tear-stained scrolls, you cannot make up for all the time you have lost. Your mother never fails to remind you of this, and you will never forget it. It will be at Blackstaff as it has always been. You will remain apart, a stranger. Alone.

Yet, something inside you flickers. And as you step inside the lecture hall, you know: this is progress.

No one seems to notice as you find a seat at the back of the room. You are well-practised, flitting through overlooked corners. It is second nature, to loiter in the shadows while others claim the light. It brings you comfort to remain hidden.

It is the first time you lay eyes on him. Gale Dekarios, Professor of Illusory Magic. The pride of Blackstaff. Once Chosen of Mystra, who defied her order for sacrifice. Former archwizard, who fought alongside the hero of Baldur’s Gate. The stories of him reached even you in your confinement. From the legends, you expect a giant, towering with glory, bubbling with power and mastery. And though he is undeniably handsome, you are surprised at how otherwise unremarkable he seems.

He is robed in a muted violet, his arms clasped behind his back. He stoops ever so slightly, making him look shorter than his average height. Grey threads through his dark and tousled hair. Faint wrinkles frame his brown eyes. And when he speaks, he does not narrow spiteful eyes which demand obedience. He does not dole out proverbs that drip in arrogance. Instead, his words are the passionate dance of an artist in love with his creation. His gestures are lithe and tender, his smiles warm and earnest. Poetry peppers his wit.

He is not like any of the wizards your mother has brought home. He is not what you thought he would be.

Two flaxen-haired girls near you whisper and blush. You see the effect that he has on your peers, and part of you longs to feel something so light, so trivial. You cannot remember the last time you felt such a stirring. And later that day, you notice their envious glares when you are told that Professor Dekarios will also be your personal tutor. You learn that he will be responsible for your well-being during your time at Blackstaff.

You instantly feel a pang of pity for him.

But you brush it away. After all, you are making progress.

-----

It is bitterly cold on the day of your first meeting. He invites you into his office, which envelopes you in its warmth. You are backfooted by the way he beams as you take the seat he offers you, by how enthusiastically he passes you a tray of homemade cookies. You politely decline as always, despite your anxiety that it will offend him. You mother’s warnings and curses still ring in your head every time you choose not to eat or drink as others do. So you are grateful when he shows no hint of annoyance or judgment.

But why would he? He does not know you. To him, you are a normal, healthy apprentice, full of hope and promise. He has no reason to suspect otherwise.

He falls into his chair with a sigh. You look at him across his cluttered desk. It takes a moment to remember that this man is the renowned Gale of Waterdeep. Seeing him up close, you are surprised by his age. It is not that you were expecting an ancient like Elminster of Shadowdale. But you had thought a man of his accomplishments would be much older than you. Instead, there could scarcely be a decade between you.

Then again, the years have not been kind to you. Without your glamour, you could probably be mistaken for his peer.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Away from the crowd and the lecture hall, his voice is softer, his tone lower. You do not think you have ever seen such a genuine smile from a wizard. It is not difficult for you to return it.

“The pleasure is all mine, Professor. I’m honoured.”

He waves his hand – whether from irritation or awkwardness, you cannot tell.

“There’s no need for all that. The honour is in fact mine.” His gaze is wide and bright. “I fought to have you on my personal tutor list. I was blown away by your application. It’s not every day that an applicant can coherently and wittily refer to Halaster, Elminster, and Calliope in one breath. Nor was I expecting such an eloquent treatise on the beauty of the Weave and the primacy of creativity and imagination in illusory magic.”

You feel unmoored. Your application had been a risk. In a fit of desperate rebellion, you had done away with everything that your mother had insisted on including. All those puffed up platitudes about power, potential, pride – none of that had been yours. In a mad bid for freedom, you had felt a frenzy to show Blackstaff who you truly were, for better or worse.

Your mother was, predictably, furious when she found out. You could not avoid her ire, even when you shut yourself up in your room. You had almost wished you were back at the House of Healing, where she could not burst into you whenever she wanted, for whatever she wanted.

When you were accepted into Blackstaff, your mother spared no time in impressing on you that it was the strings she pulled that had granted you entrance. Your application was paltry, and it was only by her efforts that you had succeeded. You did wonder at this, given her tenuous connections as a distinctly mediocre wizard, her brittle and fading charms. But she persisted, as always, in taking credit for the things that you toiled for. It wore you down, after all these years.

Now, you turn his words over, searching for the hidden blade in them. You wait for the pulling of the rug, the customary insult. But they do not come.

“Your demonstration, too. Truly remarkable.”

You had not realised that he was there, when you conjured a canopy of stars above the examiners. The illusion had collapsed moments too soon. It was a failure. You seethed and ripped at yourself for weeks. You were expecting rejection, and then the tide of punishment that inevitably followed. But instead, you are here, powerless in the face of his praise.

He sees your confusion as you struggle for a response. But he misunderstands its nature.

“I was hiding at the back of the room,” he explains. “It isn’t generally conducive to applicants’ nerves, to have me there with the other examiners.”

He grimaces, as if his fame and reputation pain him.

“I digress. My point is, I think you have an artist’s hand and a poet’s mind, fundamentals in excelling at illusion. And I, for one, am extremely excited to see you progress.”

Sincerity is not unfamiliar to you. Brutally honest lashings about your deficiencies are the backbone of your existence. But the kindness and sincerity in his eyes are so alien that you must battle to regain your centre. He does not move his eyes from you.

“Thank you,” you manage. “Truly, Professor. I’ll do everything I can to make sure I’m worthy of your high regard.”

He tilts his head. He pauses, as if weighing his words carefully.

“Your mother has sent word to me,” he begins. “She’s been at pains to assure me that your time out of education doesn’t in any way detract from your aptitude. That you’re deeply penitent about your failures.”

You almost flinch. You did not realise your mother had spoken to him. You are suddenly seized by panic. What has she told him? What does he know about your past? Does he know about the Darkness?

“She says you’re eager to rid yourself of all shortcomings, and will do anything to fulfil your as yet wasted potential. She says that’s why you’re at Blackstaff.”

A frown creases his brow. His voice hardens.

“In return, I’ve been at pains to assure her that your aptitude is not in question. Your continued resilience in the face of considerable adversity only adds to your exceptional nature.”

He holds your gaze with a candour that suspends your breaths. For an instant, you feel seen, and it terrifies you.

“I’ve been extremely forthright with her. Any more references to penitence and past failures will be promptly rebuffed.”

His brown eyes are firm and gentle at the same time. You have no words, no actions that can capture the singularity of what he has done. You wonder how many times he has accomplished something that no one else has, then spoken of it as though it were nothing. How many times he has extended himself to help a stranger for whom no one else would have cared.

You want to thank him, but you do not know how.

“I’m sure my mother didn’t like that,” you say instead.

He chuckles. “I think the esteemed Professor Dekarios has gone down a notch or two in her estimations. But alas, I’ll survive.”

You share a moment of laughter. It lights a candle deep inside you.

“If I can do it, you definitely can.”

-----

You are accustomed to casting a glamour over yourself when you are in public places. You had started doing it at your mother’s insistence, and continued as you could not bear her shame. Eventually, the tentacles of that shame closed so completely over your heart that you could scarcely look in the mirror without it. It felt impossible to see yourself and keep breathing.

But at Blackstaff, you are surrounded by adept wizards, the cream of the crop. They will be instantly attuned to your glamour. They will see through to your core. It seems a futile waste of energies you could be better applying to your studies, which are your only focus now. And your mother is not around to berate you for failing to maintain the illusion. So you drop the disguise.

It is so hard, but then so easy. You let your dishevelled waves fall freely over your unpainted face. You rub at your kohl-free eyes with reckless abandon. You pick at your chapped, bare lips. You try not to poke and prod at the flesh hidden under your loose robes.

Freedom flutters in your heart, and you cherish it, though you know it is fleeting.

You finish your breakfasts, most of your lunches. You do not skip your dinners. You keep your mirrors uncovered. You only glance, never look. You try and keep your mind occupied when you are not in classes or studying. You promise yourself that one day, if it is in your power, you will pay back the debt that your mother lords over you. She has paid for your studies at Blackstaff, but you are determined to repay her with interest.

So you take a job at as assistant at Serpentil Books and Folios. Despite the jaw-dropping price of the treasures within, your income is meagre. The owner, Mr Serpentil, is gruff and cantankerous. It takes some convincing for him to take you on, but he seems reassured by your credentials as an apprentice at Blackstaff. The shop is dusty and dim, and you must squeeze through overflowing shelves and tight corners to sort through the books, scrolls, maps and other curios that you have never seen before. You can bury yourself in them when there are no customers. Amidst the centuries of knowledge, you are so hidden as to be nothing. It is perfect.

One rainy weekend, you are sorting through tomes at the back of the shop when you hear a voice you recognise. You peek out around the corner of the bookshelf. Your eyes meet a green feline gaze and a shudder of grey wings flecked with gold. A windswept and familiar face follows, eyebrows raised.

You realise that this is the first time he has seen you unglamoured. You wait for confusion, discomfort, displeasure. But there is only joy.

“Aurora,” he exclaims. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“Professor.” You step out, patting the dust off your robe. The thick swirls assault your nose and you sneeze.

“Bless you,” comes a matronly drawl.

You struggle to hide your excitement. This must be Tara the tressym, Professor Dekarios’ companion. Just the other day, you had overheard the second-year apprentices gossiping about her in the corridor. She had been summoned by the Professor when he was but a child. Once, she swiped a snoozing student so hard that she had a scar on her chin for weeks.

He follows your gaze, smiling softly.

“Aurora, may I introduce you to the inimitable, the one and only, Tara. My oldest friend and most faithful companion. I’m sure you’ll have heard some rumours about her. Rest assured that not all of them are true.”

Tara smirks.

Since you were a child, you have dreamed of meeting a tressym. You have never dared, nor had the requisite skill, to summon one on your own. But you are so overjoyed to meet one today that you worry whether your enthusiasm is maybe a little disturbing. You temper yourself.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tara.”

“And Tara, this is Aurora. As her name suggests, she’s a shining light amongst my current cohort of apprentices.”

Praise, so casually given. Devoid of malice, free of conditions. You shift awkwardly. Tara looks you up and down with large, appraising eyes. They are not without warmth.

“It’s lovely to meet you, dear. Do you work in this fine establishment?”

You nod. “I do, when I’m not studying.”

“That’s quite the commitment,” he remarks. “Quite the schedule you’ve set for yourself.”

You detect a hint of concern in his voice. You deflect.

“I just love knowledge so much, I can’t get enough of it.”

He clasps his hands together. “A woman after my own heart.”

As you speak, Tara’s gaze flickers back and forth. You can almost hear the wheels of her mind turning. If it were not an unforgivable intrusion to read her thoughts, you would do so.

“But can I help you with something?” you ask. “Is there something I can help you find?”

“Ah, yes!”

Tara sighs, long and loud, as he retrieves a leaf of parchment from the folds of his robe. He holds it out to you. You squint at a list of twelve, maybe fifteen, esoteric book titles. You marvel silently at the range of his interests – from first edition magical tomes and philosophical treatises to ancient recipe books. Your heart stirs to see a number of sonnet anthologies that you recognise.

“This is quite the list, Professor. Your collection must be a sight to behold.”

He seems to glow with your admiration. “I appreciate that you may not have all of these, but whatever you can find, I’ll take.”

“And any discount you could offer would also be appreciated,” Tara adds.

“Tara!” He spins towards her.

Tara twitches. “Mr Dekarios, man cannot live on books alone. Some of these works are ridiculously overpriced, and this establishment is not known for being kind to one’s purse. I will not allow you to go without bread for a book again, despite your nattering.”

He huffs, embarrassment flushing on his face. He flashes you an apologetic smile. Laughter ripples through you. It comes so naturally. You wonder why that is.

“I’ll do the best I can, Tara. I think there are a few buttons I can press with Mr Serpentil.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Tara chirps.

You turn and make your way to the poetry section. Behind you, you can hear them bickering in hushed tones.

“I have a good feeling about that one,” Tara declares.

You busy yourself with the list, but the flame within you burns a little brighter than before.

-----

You rarely spend your meetings with him discussing your studies. With the exception of the initial divination classes, you have no issues. And between lectures, assignments, demonstrations and your work at the bookshop, you barely have time for the Darkness to take hold. For the first time in years, you sleep deeply and without interruptions.

You have never had a friend. There was never a time or a place. Rarely was there anyone around you who was not a doctor or a nurse, hired help or your mother. Occasionally, there might be a suitor of hers, an ex-husband, a victim. And even at the odd times that you found yourself among peers, you could never let your guard down. You could never show anyone who you were underneath the glamour, the silent shroud. The threat was always too great.

So you do not know how friendship feels, but you wonder whether it feels something like this.

You speak to him without fear. He does not mock or dismiss you. Each time you speak, he is not simply waiting for you to finish. He does not store your words up like arrows to throw back at you later. He listens, and he remembers what you say, even when you forget. You laugh, sometimes with him, other times at him. You do not need to force the smiles which bloom on your face when he is near.

It does not hurt when he gives you guidance and instruction, even when it is firm and comprehensive. There is no punishment shackled to it. The gifts of his wisdom and knowledge come lightly, without the burden of conditions and demands. There is no disgust in his eyes when you tell him where you fall short and what you lack. When he speaks of his passions and you speak of yours, there is a river that flows between you. You can float in it, and you do not drown.

But he is your teacher, not your friend. It is his job to speak to you, to feign patience with your mediocre company. He is paid to take an interest in your pitiful life, so he can mould it into something worthy. You remind yourself of this each time your meetings go on longer than your allotted hour. When you start to share books and discuss them over unscheduled chats in his office. When he appears at the shop increasingly often without a list, browsing the shelves with recommendations and tenuously related anecdotes. When he stays until closing time, and walks back to Blackstaff with you, always matching his pace to yours. You remind yourself again and again.

He Is your professor, and you are his student. He does not know you, not truly. And he is a mystery to you. You are not equals, and never will be. And perhaps it is better this way. No one who saw the full measure of you would have the stomach to remain. Your life is a testament to this fact.

Yet there are times when you wonder. You had been certain that what you had with him was not exceptional. That it must be the same for the other apprentices.

“What’s he like as a personal tutor?”

Sitting in the lecture hall, an auburn-haired apprentice is gossiping with a freckled boy in the row in front of you.

“Professor Dekarios?” The boy wrinkles his nose. “He’s a bore. All he wants to do is talk at length about the syllabus, and all the amazing things I can learn if I focus on the ample opportunities at this illustrious institution. Snore.”

The girl snickers. “Not half as interesting and smooth as he looks, then.” She tuts. “I was expecting some spice and drama. The man lay with a goddess and bested a Netherbrain, and all that he wants to talk about is the curriculum? Disappointing.”

There is a gulf that soon forms between the man you see and the man the other apprentices talk about. And you cannot help but notice how his gaze darts towards yours across the lecture hall with a shared, secret knowledge. Each time a student shows up late, and he thanks them profusely for taking precious time out of their schedule to join him. Each time he begs a pupil to share the pearls of wisdom they are chattering about to their neighbour instead of following the thread of his lecture. You have to stifle a snort each time he delivers his most severe warning of all.

“The orb within me could level this entire city if it detonates. If I hear another one of you say they ‘just haven’t had time’ to practice this week’s spells, I have a very real concern about Waterdeep’s safety.”

Professor Dekarios would no more put an innocent in danger than your mother would embrace you in a genuine outpouring of affection. It is absurd, but the other apprentices fall silent each time he makes this threat. It is a source of endless amusement for you, and you can tell from the glint in his eye that it is for him too.

-----

You are sitting cross-legged, taking stock of all the tomes on the lower bookshelves. Tara is licking at her paw languidly beside you. Behind you, he is surveying the section on histories, making the occasional remark to himself. Mr Serpentil has gone for a meeting, so you can chat freely without repercussions.

“What did you think of Felaar Tanil?” he asks abruptly.

His invitation is a welcome interruption. You have been scribbling long and arduous author names in the half-darkness for hours. You turn to face him.

“I liked his work. Very heroic, very rousing. I think I prefer love poetry, though.”

“You’re a romantic.” He titters.

“I suppose.” You consider a moment, twirling your quill. “It’s hard for me to imagine something that I’ve never experienced. So it fascinates me. Without poetry, love would be a complete and utter mystery to me.”

He arches an eyebrow. “You’ve never been in love?”

A few months ago, you would have been unnerved by such a question. The intimacy of it. The directness. But with him, it does not feel like an intrusion, only a natural topic of conversation. You shake your head.

“Well, certainly not the kind of love that the poets speak of.”

What you know of love is confined to a boy who had insisted you take on the likeness of a different girl every time you touched, and a man who had baulked in the morning when your glamour slipped. A pointless and painful endeavour. Poetry is more than sufficient.

“I have no frame of reference…” You run the feathers of the quill over your cheek. “But I always imagined true love to be something like channelling the Weave. That sense of being fully seen, completely known, held in your lover’s embrace. Souls touching, flowing into each other as one.”

He is staring at you with an intensity that gives you pause.

“What? Have I said something foolish?”

To your relief, he laughs. His soft gaze drifts over your face.

“No, Aurora. I just never thought I would hear that sentiment from the lips of another.” He scratches at his chin. “That, too, is what I once thought love was.”

Tara hums. She has been so quiet you thought she had fallen asleep.

“Mr Dekarios knows full well that there’s a difference between the love of a mortal and the love of a goddess, Weave or no.” Her face is stern, but her voice is tender. “To be loved for who you are and not the magic you command becomes a tad more complicated when the Weave is involved.”

He is frowning now, lost in thought. You are not sure you understand what has passed between them, but it is not your place to ask. You turn back to the parchment and tomes.

“Aurora,” Tara asks after a while. “When do you finish at Blackstaff?”

A strange change of subject, but you answer nonetheless.

“In a year and a half. Assuming I pass my exams.”

Tara grizzles.

“Is there any chance you could complete your studies sooner?”

“Tara!” His voice is sharp, flustered.

Tara ignores him.

“Only that Mr Dekarios is quite-”

He is a flurry at the corner of your vision. His hand darts out to drag Tara away into a corner. There is a clamber of claws and wings, a cacophony of meows and muffled hissing. When they return, he is pink-cheeked, Tara smug but silent. You want to know what she would have said, but it is as though the conversation never happened.

You do not see Tara at the bookshop again.

-----

One afternoon, you stop by his office to return a book on Githyanki psionics. The door is ajar, and you nudge it open. He is sitting at his desk with his face buried in his hands, breathing heavily.

“Professor? Are you well?”

He looks up, and you are struck by the exhaustion in his sunken features. When his eyes meet yours, his face lifts and brightens. You tell yourself it is a trick of the light.

“All the better for your visit.” He runs his hands through his hair. “Come in, please. Close the door behind you, if you would.”

You enter with uncertain steps. You place the book on his desk. He nods in acknowledgment.

“Have a seat, Aurora.”

You lower yourself into your usual seat opposite him. You are troubled by the shadows on his brow. For the first time, you have a desire to be closer.

“Is something the matter, Professor?”

His smile is so weary. “Nothing new. Which makes it all the more taxing.”

You know that truth better than most. And perhaps you are not quite friends, but you reach out to him anyway. You feel a cord tethering you to him that you find hard to break.

“A problem shared is a problem halved,” you offer.

His eyes glisten like the earth after rain as he regards you.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve shared my troubles with anyone but Tara.”

His words are heavy with longing and loss. You realise, all of a sudden, that he is lonely. You recognise the devastating weight of that emptiness. It is the air you breathe.

You do not need to tell him. You do not know how, but you can tell he senses it.

“It wears you down,” he starts. “In the morning, the pupils demand to know how you could have betrayed Mystra. Not once, but twice. Mad for power, they say, fanatical with ambition. Then in the afternoon, they question your weakness. You could have seized the power and become a god. You gave all of that up for this? What a waste. What a disappointment.”

He has never told you directly about his dealings with Mystra or the defeat of the Absolute. But you know enough from the legends, the rumours, Volo’s second-rate autobiography. You have heard enough to imagine the burden of being Mystra’s Chosen, the trappings of a compulsion to seek ever greater heights. You know the anguish of being discarded like a used lover, and being mocked for giving up an ambition that would destroy you.

“It’s never enough.”

Those three broken words. Your anthem.

You do not stop to think about whether it is improper. All you can think of is the quivering of his voice as he bares his soul to you. It is a mirror from which you do not look away. You can endure your own suffering. But for someone like him to carry the same load – you cannot bear it.

In your confinement, what you had most wanted was a hand to hold. That is the yearning you remember now, as you take hold of his hand across the desk.

“You aren’t like them.”

His fingers tremble under yours. You cannot read the expression on his face.

“They’ll never understand. They’ll never understand what was done to you, what you lost. Your goodness. Your kindness. The depth of your sacrifice. They’re not capable of it.”

Your words are as jumbled as your thoughts, but they flow out of you like the tide breaking against the shore.

“You’re not like the other wizards. You’re…singular. There’s no one like you. There never will be.”

His gaze is a whirlpool. You are aware of his slender fingers interlacing with yours. You do not know what to do with the burning in your chest, the heat that travels up your neck. You jerk your hand back, your breath catching. Your legs straighten of their own accord. They carry you to the door without warning.

“Aurora…”

He is standing. There is panic in his voice, frozen in his face.

You look away. You cannot process what has just happened. You have no frame of reference for it.

“I’ll see you later, Professor,” you murmur as you leave.

-----

“Have you never felt the lure of power?” he asks.

You are reflecting together on Elminster’s musings about Karsus’ folly. He is in a sombre mood today, plagued by something that you cannot see. Over steepled fingers, he stares into a mass of scrolls on his desk.

Since your last encounter, he has avoided looking you in the eye. There is a strain between you now, like a coiled band tightening. You cannot understand what has happened. You cannot lose what you have. So you force yourself not to think of it. You pretend it never was.

“Not truly,” you admit.

He seems disappointed by your answer. You do not wish to mislead him. It is not quite the whole truth. You decide you can show him this part of yourself now. After what he has told you, it is safe.

“My father left us when I was a child. He took my brother with him. They were necromancers. I think my father dabbled in divination too. My mother was furious when they left. Not because she loved them, or cared about our family, but because she missed out. All of that power at their fingertips. All the things they could do. Instead she was left with me, an ugly duckling stuck in her own dreams, with no assets except a penchant for illusion. Imagine her disappointment. What a burden to bear.”

A burst of laughter overtakes you. It is perversely funny, to think about your life this way.

“Still, I wouldn’t change it. I’ve had enough power-obsessed tyrants for a lifetime. The story’s always the same. People never change. Wizards certainly don’t. I never wanted to be like them, and I never will. Even if I spend the rest of my life conjuring fickle, beautiful illusions that no one sees. Even if I’m a failure, a husk of wasted potential. Even if I’m never enough.”

You do not tell him about the one thing you would change. You would be rid of the Darkness and its clutches. You would be free. A vain hope.

“Aurora.”

He is watching you now. There is no more fear and tautness. He does not turn away when you return his gaze. It holds you, deep and full. There is a heat in it which stokes the flame inside you. You cannot ignore it. You do not know how you will ever ignore it again.

“Would you believe me if I told you you’re extraordinary, just the way you are?”

You would not. But a fire is blazing through you. It aches to say yes to him. For him.

You smile. “I can try, Professor.”

“Please.” He takes a shaky breath. “Call me Gale.”

-----

It begins as it always does. Missed breakfasts. Half-eaten dinners. Coverings on mirrors, and sleepless nights. You fight the shadows as they come. You resist the urge to restore your glamour. You take your meals in the dining hall. And for a while, you think you are making progress.

There are times now when you sit with him in silence. You look at each other across his desk, or between dusty bookshelves, and the feeling that swells inside you has no equal. It is sharp and wet and red, and when you look away, it is like a rending. An absence.

But you are terrified. You are distressed by the thoughts that take you unawares. The bristles on his jawline. The dark dip of his cupid’s bow. The stray strands of brown hair that fall over his eyes as they float over your mouth. The tingling of his fingers intertwined with yours. You flee, but the thoughts haunt you, bringing others in their trail.

When you were with him before, you did not dwell on the hoarse timbre of your voice. You did not worry over the wrongness that permeates every part of your body. You were not paralysed by the things you could not prove to him. You did not stand before him cowed by the ways in which you fall short.

It had been different with him. But now, everything has changed.

The shadows loom over you, and you struggle to outpace them. You arrive late to his class for the second time. You try to be discreet, lurking at the back of the lecture hall, but he catches your eye regardless. He does not make his usual terse announcement disguised as a jest, and you do not know why you warrant special treatment.

When the class is over, she approaches him with a question. You recognise her from your divination class. She is immaculate, outspoken, often called on for demonstrations. A natural talent. Her golden hair is set in elaborate braids which accentuate her high cheekbones. She bites her lip, widening her sapphire eyes as she listens to him. He is grinning, laughing, and you watch her throw back her shoulders in a confident display of the masterpiece that is her supple form.

You leave the lecture hall.

You cannot rise from bed on the morning of your next meeting. It is the first day at Blackstaff that you take no meals. You stare and stare into the mirror, pressing your fingernails into your soft cheeks, the bulge of your arms, your misshapen thighs. You lie on the floor, seeking out the points of your bones through your rubbery skin, crying when you cannot feel them.

But you persist. You must. You rise the next day. You go through the motions of your routine. You cannot miss another class or another meeting with him. But you miss breakfast. You are trapped between the mirror and the door, harrowed by your own reflection. You are desperate, tormented. You must leave the room. But you cannot as you are. You are a travesty.

So you do what needs to be done. You cast your glamour.

------

“Aurora?”

You stare at him.

“Are you alright?”

You are walking back to Blackstaff from the bookshop. He is holding the crook of your arm. As you come to yourself, you feel the firm grasp of his fingers. You register concern in his eyes.

“Do you need to sit down?”

You are not sure. There is a throb in your head as the spots in your vision recede. You struggle to hold onto the images before you.

“What happened?”

He frowns. “We were walking along and you stumbled.”

It has begun, you think.

“Did I faint?”

“You looked like you were about to.”

You nod. You move your arm away from his touch. He steps back reluctantly.

“I’m alright, Professor.”

You cannot bring yourself to call him Gale. It would be an admission. A miscalculation. Something lurches in his gaze. You cannot identify it.

“You don’t look well. And recently, you haven’t been yourself.”

You shake your head. You muster your most reassuring tone.

“I’m just tired. There’s no need to worry.”

“Aurora.”

There is earnestness in his every look, kindness in his every word. It hurts you. You look down at your feet.

“Over the past weeks, I’ve noticed something wrong. I’ve not wanted to raise it-”

The walls of dread spring up within you. Your reply is well-practised.

“I apologise for the slippage in my attendance, but I assure you-”

“I’m not talking about that.”

There is an urgency in his voice. Something in the twist of his features tells you that he knows. You must end this conversation now, before it is too late. But his next question winds you.

“Why have you recast your glamour?”

You cannot speak. You knew he would have noticed, but you had not expected him to mention it. Shame and terror chokes you.

He has drawn closer. He searches your face.

“Did you think you needed to? Do you believe you need to hide yourself?”

You turn away. “Please, Professor-”

“You don’t need it.”

You need him to stop.

“Please-”

“You’re beautiful, just the way you are.”

Something wrenches inside you. You cannot bear the tenderness in his gaze, the hidden things which he cannot see. You cannot manage a polite goodbye. You retreat.

-----

You cannot face him after this. You struggle to face anyone. It is a small mercy that the semester draws to a close.

You can feel the Darkness in your pores now. The shadows wrap around you like a cloak. It is only a matter of time before you are no more.

You have been at Blackstaff for a year. A year of progress. A year without a word from your mother. A year of not-quite-friendship with a man who has no equal. Soon, she will descend on you with her lashes of scorn and I-told-you-so’s. Soon, you will be back where you started, and it will be like none of this ever happened. Like his footsteps never graced the ruins of your life. You are mourning already.

When the end of year ball comes, your confinement has all but begun. You leave your room only for your shifts at the bookshop. It takes almost all of your energy to maintain your glamour and a semblance of composure. You yearn for more than mouthfuls of fruit and water, more than disturbed fits of sleep. But that yearning is fading as the Darkness sinks its tendrils into you.

You wind through the thrumming crowds celebrating in the courtyard. The apprentices are draped in their finery, with drinks in hand and delirious grins. It is early evening and the ball will soon be underway. You see the girl from your divination class, blonde curls bouncing, arrayed in a form-fitting gown of emerald splendour. You are a stooped scarecrow amidst a rainbow of frills, lace, velvet, and silk. You hide your face as you pick up the pace, already breathless.

Mr Serpentil had frowned when you offered to work on the night of the legendary Blackstaff ball. But when you assured him there would be no tomfoolery, he did not push further. Annual inventory and stock take is not a task for the light hearted, and he would rather be at the Yawning Portal than coated in dust and cobwebs.

It is a struggle to climb ladders and catalogue tomes, scrolls and maps, with only a sputtering candle to light your way. A few times, you almost fall, or you must wait, doubled over, for a dizzy spell to pass. But you cannot bear the sights and sounds of frolicking apprentices basking in their beauty, enjoying a freedom that you would be deluded to dream of. So you flee from Blackstaff to the darkness of the bookshop, where all that surrounds you is the scent of book dust and a solitude that has no significance.

You are alone, and soon, you will be no more.

You are vaguely aware of the passing of time; two hours, and then three. You ward off the false promise of sleep. Then there is a tapping. You ignore it at first. It is a figment of your longing, a mirage formed by your hope. But it becomes a rattling, then a knocking. You step out from behind the bookshelves. Your breath hitches when you open the door.

He stands before you. His earth-brown eyes burn with a warmth that spreads from your core to the tips of your fingers. In the dimness, he glows in purple velvet, his hair falling around his face like vines. His chest heaves, his lips part. His fingers ripple like waves.

“Professor,” you say. It is almost a whisper.

For a while, you simply stare at each other. You let yourself linger on every line, every dip and curve. You breathe in the scent of sandalwood and scrolls that swirls around him whenever he is near. You must learn it all now, before you lose it all later.

“Why…” You struggle for words. “The ball…”

He is shaking ever so slightly.

“I needed to see you.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. His hands flutter. He looks away and back at you. He starts and stops. You have never seen him in such a state. There is pain, desperation. Need. You are afraid.

He sees it immediately.

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, backing away. “This was… foolish. Inappropriate. I should never have…” He grimaces. “This was a mistake, Aurora. I’m sorry. I’ll leave you in peace.”

He turns. His gait is jolting, laboured. He is receding from you into the night.

Maybe it is because you want to feel something that is not hunger and fear. Or maybe there is still an ember inside you that will not be snuffed out. A flame that he ignited, that you do not wish to die.

“Gale,” you call out.

His name rolls off your tongue like it is a secret part of yourself. Your hand reaches for his.

“Don’t go.”

When he turns back to face you, the cloud has lifted from his features. A smile has broken on his lips. You have never seen anything so beautiful before.

-----

“It’s very dark in here.”

With a flick of his wrist, he conjures four floating orbs that hover around you. You are embarrassed that you have not done this, but it would be beyond your limited energies. You do not want to admit this to him.

You gesture towards a small nook you have carved out amongst a clutter of books and scrolls.

“This is a very poor alternative to the Blackstaff ball.”

He chuckles. “Not to me. I’d rather be sandwiched between these bookshelves than between drunk apprentices bragging about cantrips you can use in the bedroom.”

You raise your eyebrows. “The conversation I have to offer is much less scintillating, I’m afraid.”

Your fingers are still prickling where the two of you have touched. An ache grows within you is from the closeness of him. You struggle to break his gaze when his eyes meet yours.

“I beg to differ,” he rasps.

You clear a space on the floor for him. He lowers himself beside you with a groan, rubbing at his knees and his back. It is so strange to see the famed Professor Dekarios in a dust-streaked doublet, cramped and cross legged on a bookshop floor. Yet to have him here beside you tonight feels as familiar as a memory.

“I think I might need to do more stretches if we’re to keep meeting like this.”

You laugh. It radiates in his eyes.

There are many things that lie unspoken between you. But tonight, they are like a canopy of stars. They are there, and you need not cling to them, nor hide from their reach. You lean your head back against a bookshelf. You want to remember this moment, when you have nothing left.

“I haven’t been very good company lately.”

You are not sure if it is an apology or a confession. He tilts his head.

“Not so. I would take your company over any other. Every day. Any time.”

The back of his hand flickers against yours from where they rest, side by side. He clears his throat.

“Sometimes, I forget that you’re…”

He trails off. You recognise the look in his eyes as something like hunger, but not the type that defines the order of your days. It is a starvation of sorts, searching for release as his gaze flits across your burning cheeks, the quivering of your lips. You can hear the drum of your heart beat, chasing his laboured breaths.

Your eyelids flutter. You feel faint, but it is not what you are used to. It is like you are drunk, drifting towards each other in a stupor. You feel the caress of his nose against yours, the ghost of his breath on your mouth. His forehead presses against yours, his hair tingles on your skin. You draw together and apart, struggling against the tide.

“Can’t,” he murmurs.

You wrench away. You are panting, lost. You are not sure if your glamour is still in place. You press your hand to your mouth, your stomach lurching as you stand.

He stands with you, bereft, frenzied. And as you stare at him in silence, you wonder how you will survive the Darkness when you have bathed in his light.

-----

You refuse to see him at first. The nurse tells you each time he visits. He comes the day after your admission, then twice a week, at the times of your allotted meetings. He leaves books and letters. He passes messages via your doctor. But you cannot bring yourself to face him. Not after everything that has passed.

You cannot understand why he persists. ‘Because it is his job,’ the Darkness replies. ‘Because if you fail, it reflects badly on him.’ So, in a lucid moment, you ask the nurse to send a message back to Blackstaff. They can send you the materials. You will study. You will not fall behind.

It is futile, and you know it. The Darkness consumes you whole. Nothing but bones remains.

“You should see him,” the nurse says after three weeks.

You know Nurse Mona well. She has been at the House of Healing since you were a teenager. You have seen more of her than your father and brother combined. Life is a series of facts for her, with no room for ambiguity.

“It’s clear he cares deeply about you.”

You bury your face into your pillow. “That’s the problem.”

She takes you by the shoulders. She can be gruff, and you flinch as she turns you to face her. Tears are gathering in your eyes.

“I don’t want him to see me like this.”

She shakes her head, sighing.

“He already knows you’re here, and he keeps coming back. Why don’t you give him a chance?”

-----

You sit in the visiting room. It is cold and colourless, but it cannot temper the warmth of his bronzed skin and searching eyes. Across the table, he looks out of place. You feel ashamed to have brought him to such a void.

Gone is your glamour and your billowing robe, the walls behind which you have hidden. You battle against the feeling of your tunic and skirt laying snug against your skin. It is necessary, they say, to accept your form. You struggle to meet his eyes, not to cover your unglamoured face. You know its every bloated blemish, and the knowledge is an agony. You stand before the mirror with Nurse Mona every morning, sobbing at what stares back at you. You sit with her at every meal, tearing yourself apart.

They tell you this is progress. But you do not believe them.

“You don’t need to come here, Professor,” you begin. “You have better things to do.”

You do not know why your voice comes out strained and harsh. You do not wish to sound ungrateful.

“I’m sorry.” You look down at your hands. “I didn’t want it to come to this.”

He makes a strangled sound. There is anguish in his eyes when he looks at you. You cannot bear it. Not the pity. Not the burden of your suffering. You cannot inflict this on a man you hold so dear.

“Please.” You stand. “You don’t need to visit.”

His eyes widen. You had missed them so desperately – their brightness, their gentleness. You look away.

“Aurora-”

The promises spill out of you instinctively. Anything to get him away from this place, away from you.

“I’ll get back to my assignments as quickly as I can, and I’ll come back as soon as-”

“Listen to me-”

“-I can get cleared by the doctors-”

“Aurora-”

“-and I should be back in time for exams-”

“I don’t care about all that!”

You flinch. You have never heard him raise his voice. He stands unsteadily and crosses over to you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

His voice is a broken plea. Part of you yearns to reach out to him, to give him the shattered pieces of your heart. But that part of you is smothered in the Darkness. You do not know whether it will survive.

“There’s a lot about me that you don’t know.”

He lays a hand on your arm. “I know you well enough to-”

You pull away. “You don’t.”

You gesture around you, to your face, your belly.

“This is me. Damaged beyond repair. Worthless. Wasted potential.”

He is shaking his head furiously. You scoff.

“You’ve known me for scarcely a year in my three decades of sorry existence. Years upon years of this and much worse than this. And you think just because we shared of a moment of…” You grimace. “You think that because of that moment, you know me?”

You turn away from him.

“This is all I am. It’s all I’ve ever been.”

You expect him to remain silent, leave the room and never return. That is what you had hoped for. It is what you know. No one has ever seen you as you are and chosen to remain.

But he does not.

“This isn’t who you are.”

His certainty stirs an ember within you. You stare at him.

“At times when you can’t see it, I’ll be there to remind you.”

Your chest heaves. You cannot understand the miracle of this man and why he is here with you in the Darkness. All at once, you remember how it felt to be warmed by his flame.

He looks down, then back up.

“What’s between us…”

He inhales sharply.

“The…affection… that lies between us. Is it genuine? Have I misunderstood…”

Doubt quivers in his voice. You had thought it was clear, that you had failed to hide it. Suddenly, you realise that he, too, has been afraid. You cannot allow it.

“Gale,” you breathe. “You are singular. To me, you’re…”

You cannot find the words. But you do not need to. His eyes glimmer. He takes your hand. Slowly, gently, he presses it to his heart.

“Then do your worst. You can hurl insults at me. You can shout and scream curses to drive me away. You can refuse to see me when I visit, ignore my letters and messages. Do what you will. But I’m not going anywhere.”

Hot tears cloud your vision. When he takes you in his arms, you do not fight it. You do not worry over whether your frame is too soft or too hard under his touch. You do not think of your messy waves as he nestles his nose into your hair. You lean into his chest and weep.

-----

When she comes, he and Tara are already with you. As usual, she appears in your room without warning. All the better to backfoot and humiliate you.

Her hair is more red than auburn this time, her lips plumper, her cheekbones more jagged. You had forgotten how obscene her cleavage was, set against her petite frame. She leans over to plant air kisses around your ears, shrinking from touch, as though it still disgusts her.

You brace yourself. It is not difficult to maintain your composure with her, even when she twists the knife. Decades of practice and conditioning have prepared you for little more than this.

When you glance at him and Tara, though, you can see that they are not so inclined.

“Professor Dekarios.” She holds her hand out to him. “It’s lovely to meet you in person at last, after our lengthy and… lively… correspondence.”

His handshake is brisk, his jaw clenched.

“I must say, I’m very surprised to see you here. I’d heard rumours about your devotion to your studies and teaching, but this goes well beyond the demands of the job, surely.”

She arches an eyebrow, scanning the room.

“The nurses tell me that you often keep my daughter company as she…convalesces.” She narrows her eyes. “My daughter isn’t a rare talent who needs a special kind of nurturing. Neither are her…charms… so remarkable as to warrant special attention. Unless…”

She purses her mauve lips as she examines him from head to toe.

“I suppose when you’re accustomed to five course banquets, you might sometimes enjoy a nibble from a market stall.”

He bristles.

“Don’t worry, Professor.” Her teeth flash. “I can be very discreet.”

She lays a red-nailed hand on his arm. He jerks away.

“Madam.” His voice is so low it is almost a growl. “If you’re insinuating that there’s anything improper going on between me and your daughter-”

Her laughter is like nails on a chalk board.

“Oh? Am I to believe that you’re here with my errant daughter for her fine company alone?”

“Mother.” You stare at her. “Please give it a rest. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

She smirks. “Darling, to say the pot is calling the kettle black doesn’t even come close. Just look at yourself.” Her powdered face twists. “I should have known you’d disgrace yourself again. I don’t know why I bother.”

His brow darkens. Tara’s wings twitch.

“Your daughter is kind, wise, and intelligent.” His fingertips spark. “She’s exceptional in her resilience, magical aptitude, and good character. If she hadn’t been systematically poisoned by the rhetoric of those far inferior to her, she wouldn’t be facing these obstacles.”

It takes a moment for your mother to register what has been said. She is visibly shaken. She is not used to being challenged, much less on the subject of your welfare. No one has ever cared enough. A vein pulses on her temple.

“Are you suggesting that I-”

He keeps his voice level. “I’m not suggesting, Madam. I’m observing.”

Her alabaster cheeks turn crimson. A part of you is terrified at the onslaught that is coming. You fight the instinct to hide from her rage.

“How dare you-”

Tara’s wings dart out like shields as she hisses. Your mother gasps.

“Gods! You vile creature. I’ll file a complaint. I’ll destroy you, you cast off-”

His eyes glint with a sideways smile.

“Feel free to do your worst, Madam. I’ve faced down much more formidable foes than your good self and lived to tell the tale.”

She seethes. “I’m taking Aurora out of Blackstaff immediately.”

“Aurora is an adult, who can choose whether or not she wants to continue at Blackstaff. And I believe she has no intention of dropping out.”

He glances at you.

You shake your head. “I do not.”

“Then I’ll stop paying –“

“Her fees are already paid up, I’m afraid.” He shrugs.

She is shouting now. “You ungrateful-“

“That’s quite enough, Madam,” Tara drawls. “There’s no need to disgrace yourself any more than you already have. You can either leave quietly with your dignity intact, or I’ll summon a nurse to escort you off these delightful premises. Failing that, I could summon a portal to drop you in the middle of nowhere. Which would you prefer?”

After your mother has left, you gaze at him across the room. You are not entirely sure what he is bickering with Tara about. His face is flushed as he laughs at her. When he meets your eyes, a burst of lightning blazes through you. It takes all your strength not to bound over, take his face in your hands and kiss him.

-----

You had always fought the Darkness alone. You never wondered how it would be to do so with someone at your side. Not an observer, pointing out your failures at every turn, but a friend. A companion.

It is not easier, but it is different. When the Darkness comes, you have a hand to hold, and someone to hold out a flame. Someone who sees who you are and does not look away.

You miss months of classes, but he brings you notes and study plans. When you are able, he gives you lessons and demonstrations. It is impossible at first. So much of your mind has been consumed, so much of your energy lost. But together you wait until you are ready. When your feet are back on solid ground, and you can roam beyond the reflection that you see in the mirror. And when you can channel the Weave again, it is like recovering a lost part of your soul.

You are too far behind to reach the goals that you set for yourself when you first started at Blackstaff. It would be folly to expect top marks in your exams. It will be a challenge enough to pass them. He tells you this, again and again. It is still a battle to accept that this is enough, but it is a fight that you feel you may win. You are beginning to think those goals were never yours, anyway.

When you withdraw from him, or push him away, he waits. You are baffled by how he waits, even when your fear subsumes your hope. You learn from Tara that he has amassed a collection of books about the Darkness which he has digested from cover to cover. He has sought out the leading healers and medics to discuss how to overcome it. Sometimes, when you think of all this, you cry.

There are limits to his understanding. He is an avid cook, a passionate gourmand. He aches to share this with you. That he cannot causes him unspoken sorrow. In the later stages, when meals become easier, he brings you homemade treats. He has good intentions, but they lead to disastrous results. You promise him that you will try, and you will keep trying. That is more than enough for him.

You often sit in silence, looking at each other. A bond like yours does not need words to express it. You have a frame of reference to understand that now.

-----

“Oh.”

Your blurred vision is clearing. You lift your head.

“Did I fall asleep?”

You are curled up in an armchair. He sits facing you, smiling as you wake.

“Gods, I’m so sorry,” you yawn.

He chuckles. “There’s no need for apologies. I’m well aware of the effect my ramblings have on people.”

“No.” You straighten. “I’m so sorry, Gale. My sleep at the moment, it’s-”

“There’s no need.” He watches as you rub the mist from your eyes. “Besides, it’s quite marvellous, watching you sleep.”

“Gods.” You cover your face with your hands. “What did I do? Did I say something?”

He titters. “You did no such thing.”

You groan.

“You truly didn’t. You just slept peacefully. A wonderful, beautiful sight.”

You shift, fussing at the creases on your skirt.

“You see beauty in strange places.”

He tilts his head. “I see beauty where it’s brightest.”

It is not an easy subject for you. You know he senses it. Perhaps he feels that you are ready. You are not sure if you are.

“I think you believe that beauty is an alignment of facial features and limbs. A collection of aesthetically pleasing curves and angles. That’s what most people mistake beauty to be.”

You frown. “What is it, if not that?”

He leans forward. Passion surges in his every word.

“An alignment of the soul,” he breathes. “A fullness of character. Virtue. Goodness. Heart. No one who witnesses true beauty can live on unchanged.”

You sit quietly for a long while. He holds you with his gaze, gentle, boundless.

“I think I’ve seen it,” you say at last.

He brushes away the tear that slides down your cheek. “As have I.”

----

It is your last day at Blackstaff.

You are sitting in the courtyard, watching the wind whistling through the trees. You have just received your results. Never before have you received such a scattering of marks, some almost acceptable, others dangerously low. But you have done it. You have passed all of your exams.

Your highest mark is in Illusion. Perhaps that is predictable, given your interest and his assistance. Yet it still gives you joy, pure and true. It is a labour of love, with its own reward. But that is not the only reason why you feel so proud.

You close your eyes and listen to the fragile rhythm of your heart. You have made it. You are still here.

“I wondered where you were.”

You open your eyes. You had not heard or sensed his approach. He is a vision in deep blue, glowing in the sun. His robe swirls around him as he sits beside you on the bench.

“Canapes and cloying wizards aren’t really my cup of tea.”

He hums. “I don’t blame you. I did my rounds and made my escape as soon as I had the chance. I only hope no one comes searching for me. I’ve given a speech or two already.”

You chuckle. Birdsong caresses your ears. The smell of freshly cut grass and sandalwood fills your lungs. Your soul is full of light. In this moment, you are at peace.

He laces his finger through yours.

“I don’t think I need to say it, but I’m so very proud of you.”

You are smiling as you gaze at him. This man who has seen you as you are and does not find you wanting. This man who does not need magic to read your thoughts or feel your yearning. Your truest friend. The other part of your soul. The meaning of love.

“So what’s next for you? You’re free as a bird, the world’s your oyster, so on and so forth.”

His eyes dance, his hands are a flurry.

“Infinite possibilities,” you sigh. “The sky’s the limit.”

“Etcetera etcetera.”

“Well.” You pause. “I think…”

A stray leaf flies into his hair. You untangle it with your fingers and blow it back into the wind. He watches you, rapt, like you have made a miracle.

“I think I’d like to try one of your cookies.”

His laugh is a caress. “That can be arranged.”

You turn his hand over, tracing your thumb over the lines of his palm. His breathing stills for a while.

“Is there anything more you’d like to do with your newfound freedom?”

You bite your lip. You press his hand against your cheek, savouring its warmth.

You do not need to tell him. He already knows. It blooms on his features, smouldering in his eyes. You have never felt more certain about anything. You are no longer afraid.

You do not care if anyone can see. You fall into him as he draws your face to his. When your lips meet, it is as though they have touched before. Your tongues find each other’s in a dizzying flurry of wet heat. You are lost in his sweetness and musk, the softness of his hands, the roughness of his beard. You melt into each other in a stupor of halting breaths.

“Move in with me,” he whispers.

You do not need to answer.

------------------------

Read the sequel: Promise

Author's note: If you've made it to the end of this fic, thank you so much for reading. I am so grateful, and I hope you enjoyed it and got something out of it. This is the first time I've felt so vulnerable posting a fic - I'm not sure if this story will mean anything to anyone out there, and I know it's a hard read. But I had to get it out, and I hope it gives you something. Please, if you can, leave me a comment, it would be so special to hear from you.

If you liked this fic, you can check out my other work here.

#gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #bg3 gale #bg3 fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 fanfiction #gale fanfic #gale fic #bg3 gale fic #gale romance #professor gale x oc #gale x oc #bg3 fic #baldurs gate 3 fic #professor dekarios x oc

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hiiragi7 · 6 months

Note

hi there!! i've been reading some of the discussions you've had & many of them are super informative and some comforting to read from the perspective of someone who's questioning if they might be plural/have a CDD. i really appreciate ur blog & the views and experiences u share on it, it feels like a warm hug amidst The Horrors of Syscourse.

i've had something on my mind though. this is probably a silly question, but it's possible to have a CDD without (C)PTSD, right? admittedly i'm kind of just asking this for reassurance while i'm on my own discovery journey. like. i have experienced traumatic events and some of it is ongoing & i'm still living with the people responsible, but i don't think i fit the PTSD criteria due to not experiencing flashbacks or strong emotions related to the events—i usually just feel totally empty & detached from it. i still believe i've been negatively affected by the events hence considering them traumatic, but that doesn't include any kind of flashbacks.

i've been trying to look into it & find answers but i've seen a lot of conflating of having experienced trauma with having PTSD, so most of what i find is "can you be plural/have a CDD without trauma" discourse.

i think it'd be neat to see more conversations about this but free to ignore this ask if u don't want to answer it/if u don't feel equipped to! wishing u the best. have a great day!!

This is actually a very interesting question.

I've read a lot of medical literature on trauma, and each author in the field seems to define what qualifies as PTSD or PTSD symptoms differently, which also lines up with my own experiences with medical professionals in practice. In general, me simply being traumatized was enough for me to be given an automatic PTSD diagnosis, regardless of which therapist or psychiatrist I saw. Some professionals I saw were very specific with what they called what, others were a lot more loose with it.

I've seen a lot of differing definitions and academic debate over what qualifies as a flashback, dissociation, a posttraumatic symptom, and so on. That is to say, it can all be very vague.

For example, there are other forms of flashbacks that exist outside of the well-known ones; some people only relive traumatic events emotionally, or through repeated thought processes, or somatic pain. A lot aren't even aware these are flashbacks, because it's experienced as 'random' emotions or pain or spirals or some other response, and a lot have trouble figuring out what even triggers these responses.

Would these experiences fall under what we call flashbacks in PTSD? Well, it probably depends on who you ask. And, in practice, whether someone with these experiences gets diagnosed with PTSD or a mood disorder or a personality disorder or somatic pain syndrome depends on the medical professional evaluating them.

To further complicate it, a lot of people don't experience overt c/PTSD symptoms until they are no longer living in the traumatic situation, which, for people who develop cPTSD, means they may not show obvious symptoms until a very, very long time after the trauma started. I didn't start getting "classic" PTSD flashbacks and "waking up in a panic attack in the middle of the night" type nightmares about the trauma until I wasn't around the people who did it anymore. However, I have experienced many other trauma-related symptoms and heavy dissociation ever since I was very very little. Before I was diagnosed with PTSD in highschool, I was diagnosed with a lot of other things first.

There's also just the fact that, for whatever reason, people don't all develop the same symptoms in response to trauma. Some people with very complex trauma never experience classic PTSD symptoms. Some people are very dissociative and numb, or develop mood disorders, or obsessive-compulsive symptoms, or somatic symptoms, or eating disorders, or some combination of things. Some people never externally harm themselves or cope using substances while others develop addictions to these things.

In addition, some people's experiences with trauma don't fall under the PTSD criteria's definition of trauma, so even if other symptoms are present they don't "technically" fit criteria. And sometimes medical professionals use their own judgement and diagnose these people with PTSD anyway, and sometimes they don't.

Plenty of people diagnosed with other childhood trauma-based disorders besides CDDs also don't fit c/PTSD criteria or show many c/PTSD symptoms or receive a comorbid c/PTSD diagnosis for whatever reason. It's complicated and messy.

This is all to say, I've encountered medical professionals who treat PTSD as synonymous with "traumatized" and are very loose with what they call PTSD and I've also encountered medical professionals who are very strict about the criteria and are very insistent on only diagnosing people who fit that, and I've met a lot of professionals somewhere in the middle as well. I've also encountered plenty who would much rather focus on helping the symptoms than on what the diagnosis is or isn't, and who don't really like the way mental health diagnosis is structured in the first place.

So, to come back to your question... I don't think there really is an objective answer to it, though personally I'd just say "sure it's possible, and I wouldn't really worry about it much."

In the end, what I've found is that it doesn't actually really matter that much? Regardless of whether there is comorbid PTSD or whether there isn't (or whether it's delayed onset or etc), in the end what you're dealing with if you have a CDD is still trauma, and the treatment for that is more or less the same, regardless of what you call it. There might be differences in, say, approaches to medication specifically, or specific symptoms, but even that is often just throwing things at the wall and seeing what sticks. Honestly, in my experience, treatment mostly looks different based on symptoms and individual needs rather than diagnoses, really.

In general, I find that a lot of people dealing with trauma and mental illness tend to over-focus on diagnosis and getting it right and trying to figure out whether they "really" have something or whether they're mistaken or somehow faking or so on. I think that's an unhelpful approach to it; there's no objective way to confirm that sort of thing, and either way you still need ways to cope with your symptoms, and coping skills are useful regardless of diagnosis. Learning how to ground yourself is useful regardless of whether you "really" dissociate that bad, learning emotional regulation skills is useful regardless of whether you "really" have severe mood swings, learning calming techniques and self-care and how to be gentle with yourself are good things for everyone to learn, coping skills are not just for people with certain diagnoses. In fact, you don't even need a diagnosis of anything to do these things.

And with trauma, like... it's all just trauma processing in the end, really.

I'll even go as far to say that even if you don't have PTSD, books and resources for PTSD might still be useful to you if you have a CDD or another trauma-related disorder, since a lot of symptoms overlap with other disorders and especially with trauma the recommendations for what to do about it tend to be applicable to a lot of different situations outside of strictly PTSD.

I realize I rambled a long time just to say "well, it's complicated and depends on what we mean by PTSD, but also it's all trauma anyway" but I hope this was helpful still?

I'm also glad to hear what you said about my blog, it was very nice to read.

#syscourse #long post

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sinfulslytherin · 1 year

Text

Eat pt.1

Summary: Your Boyfriend doesn't let you eat properly in order to punish you. Draco tries to get your attention...

WARNING: Mature content, Eating disorder trigger

___________________________________________

I feel my head spinning on my way to my class but decide to ignore it. Grahams punishment can't last forever. At least I hope so.

I enter my classroom happily as I see that nobody is there yet and I can sit wherever I want.

I choose a spot in the very back of the classroom in order to dodge the akward questions from people I barely know. Questions such as:

"Did you get enough sleep?"

"Are you sick?"

"Do you eat enough?"

People who never talk to me suddenly can do so as soon as they see me struggle.

I don't know if I like the thought of some random people caring about me or hate the fact that they pity me.

Pity.

Just like Graham said.

People don't care about me.

They pity me.

I tired sigh escapes my lips as I grab my books and put it on the table.

The class filled up by now. That probably happened when I was sunken deep into my thoughts.

Madame Umbridge starts the class as we all suddenly hear the door opening.

"I apologize for being late."

Draco Dickhead Malfoy.

"A second time means detention Mr. Malfoy. Well,well...sit down next to Ms. Caddel." Chirps Umbridge in an irritating, high voice.

Well thank you, Umbridge.

Bitch.

I try to ignore Draco and keep my eyes on the blackboard that Umbridge uses to write down some things we need to learn for the upcoming test.

I suddenly feel Draco shifting closer to me and his hand seems to wander to my thigh.

My eyes are still fixed on the blackboard.

I suddenly feel something on my lap and Draco shifts back into his seat.

The only thing I can spot on my lap is a folded napkin.

I open it curiously only to find a small Crumpet.

The words "Be a good girl and eat up." are written in the upper right corner of the small piece of paper.

I glance over to Draco only to find him staring at the blackboard.

He never gives up, does he?

I don't know if he actually cares or just wants a warm body because he is tired of the cold.

But I can't be that. Whatever he wants.

Graham is going to kill me.

________________________________________

A/N

I have a spicy idea for the next few chapters <3

I am grateful for feedback of any form♡

Have a lovely day! <3

#draco fanfiction #harry potter #slytherin #draco lucius malfoy #draco malfoy #draco malfoy smut #hogwarts #wattpad #draco smut #gryffindor #hogwarts fanfiction #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #writing #enemies to lovers #draco x reader #malfoyfamily #malfoy #draco fluff

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mar3ggiata · 6 months

Text

professional help, c2. 'The urgency.'

simon riley x original character.

trigger warnings: violence, sexual assault, mentions of rape, trauma, sexual themes, swearing, use of alcohol and drugs, eating disorders, depression.

song to listen to when reading this: The Chain, Fleetwood Mac.

abstract: this is Jude, this is a little bit of information about me since you care so much, I don't even know you… anyway yes, I really like being mysterious, what you gonna do about it, punch me in the face? I'm not even real, grow the fuck up. see ya.

Sometimes, she just fucking hated her life. She supposed it was normal like that, it happened to everyone to absolutely fucking despise their lives, no? She wakes at the same hour everyday, does her makeup. Not too much, not too little to show she was sleep deprived and got high last night. Her identity was concealed under eyeliner and blush. She looks like a doll. She likes her makeup, she's quite good at it. She plays with her hairstyles, sometimes a bun, sometimes braids, sometimes loose with a headband, depending on the mood. She walks her dog and cleans his poop. Jinx, a 5 month old Belgian Malinois she adopted when she moved. She found him at a shelter for abused puppies, he was the last one to get adopted. She decided to take him, she planned to move to the countryside soon anyways. Gaining his trust was one of her biggest accomplishments, now the dog had a bit of an attachment issue, but they were working on getting better together. She drives to work with the same 4 playlists playing in her car. Old rock, Frank Ocean, some Italian songs here and there.

She always comes in dressed in dark colours, dark red, dark blue or black. She has 10 male patients and 8 female soldiers. Some of them are combat medics, some snipers. Demolition experts. She works 'till lunch time, eats alone, sometimes skips lunch just to make her body feel something and indulge in disordered eating, then goes outside to smoke and comes back in. After the afternoon sessions, she sometimes has groups together for some group therapy. Then she usually goes home and smokes weed while she cooks her dinner, she acts like she's in MasterChef, puts on music and pours herself a glass of wine 'Quando sei qui con me' she sings to her dog, 'Questa stanza non ha più pareti, ma alberi'. Jinx doesn't even know Italian. Two times a week, she teaches ballet at a local dance school. 13 year old is not old enough to be on point shoes. It's her favourite time of the week though. She gets to finally have control of a situation, she gets some respect. 13 year olds, a fucking nightmare… She gets to tell them what to do and correct their arms, their feet, their posture and they listen! They do, and they like her, they say thank you Alba, see you next week! They learn her choreographies, they follow her lead when she explains a new variation. They even like the songs she chooses for warm up. Mostly Abba.

Alba is not her real name, but they don't know that. A gift from Laswell, when she started working for her. A sparkly new identity, English ID and nice documents that prove she's an English citizen, born in Southampton. She's not. Kept a little bit of Italian in the fake name. She hasn't been in Italy in close to five years. She went on vacation alone in Tuscany once, just to feel her country again for a second. She is not in contact with her family, last message from her sister was three years ago, it went 'I hope you're alive.' Her mother taught her violence. To be in power. To be beautiful and kind. To never ever trust someone who wouldn't give their life for you. Her mother taught her loyalty, respect. She used to never cry as a child. She loved to know stuff, to read about planets. She would kill lizards in the backyard with her little brother, who died young. She saw her first gun at 13. Now, her name is not Alba and it sure isn't Jude. Or Judy, as some patients call her. They know it's a callsign, a code name, everyone has one, especially in the task forces. Hers is Jude. 'Jude looks like an angel, but her words have thorns'. That's what Billy Lunette had to say about her. Billy had been her favourite patient for the whole of 2021. He had PTSD, he had night terrors and was in a mental hospital for schizophrenia symptoms for a while. He wouldn't take his medication, he would smoke, he was a mess. He listened to her though. She was the only one who visited him in the hospital. She showed him he could trust her and he completely lost himself in her. He would call her at 3 in the morning, drop by her office too many times per day, developed a bit of a codependency, but she was able to help him through his pain. He would do research about the treatments, the medicine, cognitive behavioural therapy. Billy was happy now. He was grateful to have had her and she was grateful that Billy had been a great patient. Big challenge. Billy was her biggest accomplishment, and proof of the fact she wasn't completely useless in the army.

She didn't work for the entirety of 2022. She had an accident with one of the patients, classified information. She survived, but man was it hard to live after that day... Spent time with her dog, visited a friend in San Francisco, taught ballet. Price and Laswell felt so guilty they continued to pay her even if she wasn't working. Why she decided to come back she really didn't know. She thinks the truth is she likes helping people, makes her feel good. She likes the crazy stories and that she had a reputation at the base, she was starting to be respected. She craved that. And it really started to bore her, the routine. Until Arash. Seeing Arash so frighted and tense was new, he was a calm and polite gentlemen. She saw an invisible string tying his story and his damned pilgrimage book to the mission she knew had failed in the Middle East. Now, it was a little bit of a stretch. So she did her little research, put her Sherlock hat on, lit a cigarette and started digging.

She had fun, until things really started clocking. He was missing his doctor appointments on purpose on specific dates, to go do what? Call someone? She couldn't steal his phone. Send letters? She tried the post office but found out nothing. The bank really did give her his statements, which was pure luck. He had set his personal security questions as his birthday and his mother's name, which she knew, because he told her. She knew everything about him, even his social security number. Arash really trusted her and she had an incredible memory for unnecessary details. Also, he left his wallet on the couch in her office countless times, it’s not that she looked, it was just there and she remembered. When she saw him stressed and fidgety she knew he was hiding something. She kept a straight face, 'Arash, we can really talk about whatever you want, you know' and he would interrupt her 'You don't understand. The urgency!', he continued to say. She really didn't want to tell Price herself, she would have preferred for Laswell to do it. She took extra time in the morning to get ready that day. She was going in a separate area she knew very little about, and nobody knew who she was. Sometimes people mistook her for someone's wife, or daughter. She chose her outfit accordingly, she wanted to seem professional. She wore a sports bra. There was nothing to look at anyways. She didn't put on lipstick, not even the nude one. She was used to being underestimated, and being looked down at. She was also used to raising her voice and presenting herself as stoic and cold. She knew perfectly how to be violence. She noticed a familiar face once she opened the door of the briefing room. A familiar face mask. The skull guy, she had seen him before. Was he the guy…

She could't get distracted. Her little mission went smoothly. She always knew Price liked her and feared her at the same time, and when it came to his little soldier boys, she really didn't care what they thought. The guy from the day of her accident even spoke to her. Poor thing. She was really amused no one told him about the reason why she didn't want to go home alone. He did really good that night, she remembers him well. He didn't try to speak too much, he sounded gentle. A gentle giant. Unfortunately for him, no one was gonna tell him about that day. When she left the room, she went straight home. She doubted someone would ever contact her again about the situation, they would handle it themselves, and probably very badly. She was driving to her ballet lesson, still thinking they all looked so confused by her words. They were probably gonna do a stupid interrogation, or rather do nothing and wait for the next mission to be a shit show. Imbecilli.

'Alright girls, one more time please!' At least she had her little ballerinas to cheer her up. She had them warm up, she usually did the warm up routine with them. She walked between the four rows of kids at the barre, delivering her corrections. Jennifer usually had stiff hands, and she was tense in her shoulders. Kyla had a beautiful turnout but she often confused her arms positions. The jetes routine, they always forgot that one. 'It's three in front and switch… guys I'm not gonna repeat myself'. She thought she sounded rude sometimes, but 13 year old American girls were a nightmare to work with. Last month, she even had to deal with poor Gemma being bullied in the changing rooms. 'I'm gonna say this just once, three in the front, switch to the back.' she liked demonstrating, felt like she was taking lessons herself. 'Ta-ra, ta-ra, ta-da. And we're gonna hold here' she lifted herself on her toes and attached her right pointed foot to her knee. She let go of the barre, holding her balance on one foot. 'Passè.' she said. The girls groaned. 'The more you complain the more I'm gonna make you stay like this girls. We're gonna do one minute.' She went to the side of the room, to play the music 'From the top.'

notes: translation of the song: 'Quando sei qui con me' when you're with me, 'Questa stanza non ha più pareti, ma alberi', this room doesn't have walls no more, it has trees.

notes: Alba means something specific!

translation: imbecilli, means imbeciles.

notes: let me know what you think !! <3

love, mare.

taglist:

@ummmmmwat @ghostlythots @sweetfemmefatal @natxpat @chavarriakeren647 @ravenmoore14 @farther-than-pleiades @internallyscreamings @hwromi @atoxicrat @cuti3maddi3 @deafeningkittenblaze @its-celeste @serene-hills @lexidoll12 @poohkie90 @lunatiquess

@warmedbythebody @katzykat @iristhemuse @azkza @keiraslayz @abbyandermine @jennyjencakes @dest-nai @corset-briefs @nutze-kekse @ilytsukiw @b3anspr0ut

@pondsblog @missyouzoe @fallenkitten @bigauthorrascalturkey @bethtay @angelynn-nicole @starluv @stargirlisworld @giyuuslittleslut @impossiblecupcakelight

@rkrivees-blog @ghosts-hoe @kam1snotverysmart @gauky76 @freyjaaasstuff @spicyspicyliving @scottpilgrimvsmyfists @courtney0-0 @shinchanboi @darling006

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bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky · 2 years

Text

Empty Stomach | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Hi! This one's for my fellow ED sufferers. I mean, it's for everyone. But like, it's dedicated to those with past or current ED issues. That being said, do not read this if it is going to upset and / or trigger you. I will not be offended. Scroll on by if need be, catch ya next time. No worries, take care of ya mental health. Much love. ✌️💕

WARNINGS: Discussion of past eating disorder (bulimia), vomit, illness

The chill of the tile pushed its way through the fabric of your pajama pants. With your knees pulled into your chest, you sat hunched over on the bathroom floor. Back resting against the wall. Blanket draped over your shoulders. An unopened bottle of Gatorade rested next to you, along with a bottle of water you’d failed to drink.

The time read 3:48am. Three hours of nothing but misery passed surprisingly fast, you thought. It was just after midnight when a strong wave of nausea pummeled into you and forced you from your bed. And since that moment, you found yourself lurching over the toilet every twenty minutes.

Last night’s lasagna and red wine came up almost violently. And the tiramisu you’d eaten for dessert didn’t taste nearly as good the second time around. Round after round of painful retching disgusted you, made you cringe. Seeing your food make a second appearance only multiplied your already severe nausea. And with the way your night was going, you feared you’d never be able to enjoy Italian again.

The back of your throat grew scorched with stomach acid. Your nose burned. And the turbulence in your stomach refused to quit. Eventually, your body eliminated your dinner completely. It was gone, flushed away. And you thought you might be done with this whole nightmare. You even ventured back to bed.

But only minutes after warming the cold sheets with your body heat, you found yourself on the bathroom floor once again. With a vengeance, bile burned its way up your esophagus and forced itself out of your mouth. It seemed to you that this was your punishment for going back to bed. And so, you decided to take up residency in the bathroom for the rest of the night.

But you needed a blanket- desperately. It just so happened that this misery decided to take place on one of the coldest nights of the year. And if you were to survive till morning, you needed a small piece of comfort. You mustered enough strength to fetch a blanket- Bucky’s favorite blanket- from your bedroom and drag it back to the bathroom. It was sad. Pathetic, even. But holding the soft, woven fabric that smelled like him tight around your shoulders brought a sliver of ease. It wasn’t nearly as good as having Bucky there, but it was better than nothing.

Tik Toks and YouTube videos helped you pass the time between each bout of heaving. You watched every video recommended to you- as long as it didn’t involve food. Just the thought of watching Rhett and Link eat carne asada pizza or Rosanna Pansino make Macha macarons was enough to turn your stomach. Again.

The throbbing in your head, no doubt a side effect of dehydration, pulled you from the bathroom floor and into the kitchen. You needed water. Electrolytes. And you swore you’d apologize to Bucky for stealing a bottle of his Riptide Rush Gatorade. Not that he’d ever care; he would’ve given you his right arm if you asked for it.

When you finally settled back onto the bathroom floor with an arm full of drinks, you let yourself feel the sadness that came up with each rush of Vomit. You were too nauseated to drink any of the fluids you sought out. And more than anything, you wished Bucky was with you. Every night that he didn’t spend at your place felt like a night wasted. Without him, your apartment simply wasn’t the same. It wasn’t as comfy or as homey. Didn’t feel as safe. Something was missing.

Part of you was glad he wasn’t there to see your lasagna resurface, though. It was utterly vile and would surely embarrass you if he were witness. But you missed him all the same.

Between the violent retching and the bitter cold of late December, every cell in your body trembled. You were weak, cold, miserable. And very, very alone. If Bucky were with you, you knew he’d take care of you. He’d keep you company while your food rebelled against your body. He’d keep you warm. And he’d put a smile on your face, no matter how impossible it seemed.

Ever since you grew close with Bucky, you were there for each other. Took care of each other. It was a given, an unspoken agreement. You wanted to be the other’s support system. The one in their corner. Bucky never felt so safe with anyone, and you returned the sentiment.

He often needed stitches after a mission or talking down after a nightmare, and you were always there. No questions asked. You closed his wounds and held his hand. You pulled him as his body vibrated with panic. Comforting him was a no-brainer. And just as you were there for him, he was there for you. Whether the flu made you cough up a lung or a clumsy step left your ankle twisted, he had your back. He took care of you when you had an allergic reaction to truffle oil and brought you comfort when strep throat stole your voice.

You treated each other with the utmost care, the deepest affections. You each sat atop the other’s list of priorities, never leaving the number one spot. And by the time you started dating, you could practically read the other’s mind. When he needed you, you were by his side. And when you needed him, he was there.

But not tonight; tonight, he was at the compound. He’d had a long day of meetings about the Flag Smashers and John Walker that kept him trapped in a conference room for hours. He hoped that with the early start time that morning, he’d be out by dinner. He wanted to return home and snuggle up on the couch with you in his arms. But as 9pm rolled around, his hopes of making it back to you in a timely manner died.

At 10pm, Rhodey called it. Everyone was tired. Bored. Utterly fried. He dismissed the meeting- with the caveat that they’d reconvene early the next morning. And Bucky wasn’t happy. He dug his phone out of his pocket and gave you a call, voicing his distaste for the seemingly eternal meeting.

“I’m so sorry, doll, it ran long. Really long,” he’d said. “But I’m gonna head your way in a minute, okay? I should be back by…” he looked at his watch and stifled a yawn, “by elevenish.”

“Maybe you should just stay there tonight, Buck. You were up at five this morning- you sound sleepy.”

Bucky shook his head, even though you couldn’t see him. “No, no- I don’t wanna stay here. I wanna come be with you, sweetheart.”

“I’d rather be with you too, but it’s just one night,” you’d told him. “I know you’re exhausted, and I don’t want you driving back if you’re tired. It’s not a good idea. Just sleep there and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bucky sighed. “I just miss you, that’s all. I didn’t get to talk to you all day and now I can’t see you till tomorrow.” All he ever wanted was to be with you.

“If it weren’t such a long drive, it would be different, babe. But forty minutes of driving with a fried brain doesn’t sound safe.” You crawled into your empty bed and found yourself rolling onto Bucky’s side. The sheets smelled just like him; if you closed your eyes, you could’ve sworn he was home. “I miss you, too. But I’d rather you rest and come home tomorrow in one piece.”

From Bucky’s end of the line, you heard him step into the elevator and press the button for his old floor. “I know, I know. You’re right,” he conceded. “I really am beat. Something about going over the same details a thousand times took it out of me.” He leaned against the elevator wall and let out another yawn, “I’m gonna go to sleep, and I’ll see you tomorrow. Okay? I love you. So much.”

“Okay, Buck. I love you, baby”.

You hung up the phone, knowing damn well you wouldn’t get much shut eye. Being with Bucky every night always lulled you right to sleep. It was so easy to find peace in his arms that rest never evaded you. But without him, things were different. Your mind wandered. The bed was never as cozy. You stole a book from his bedside table and cracked it open, hoping to tire yourself out.

After two hours of reading, the nausea hit. Your mouth flooded with saliva and your heart rate jumped. You hadn’t relaxed since.

As you changed position, desperate to find a way to be comfortable on the tile, you wished you lived closer to the compound. If it were a five minute drive from your place, Bucky would've been by your side the second the meeting ended; it was where he belonged. But he couldn't come home- not tonight. And while you were glad he made the safe choice, you wished he was just right down the road.

Bucky spent every night at your place, save for when he was on missions. It was his home, just as much as it was yours. He kept all his clothes there and most of his things. He helped with all the household duties. He even fixed the faulty latches on your windows so that they no longer allowed the cold winter air to seep in.

But even after all that, he always knocked.

To him, it seemed like the least he could do. It didn’t feel quite right, barging into your apartment as though he owned the place. Sure, he basically lived there. But you didn’t make him help with rent- no matter how many times he offered. You knew he didn’t have much regarding monetary wealth. And his job didn’t exactly pay a salary. So, you never asked for his share of the monthly dues. It didn’t even cross your mind; you were just happy to have him there with you.

It was kind of you, Bucky had no doubt about that. But it didn’t feel fair. So, he saved the key you gave him and swore to use it for emergencies only. He opted, instead, to knock and wait for an invitation inside. ‘Like a vampire’, you always joked.

You checked the time once again- 4:01am. This was agony. And in your exhausted state, you found yourself missing Bucky more than usual. With the energy drained from your body, your emotions had room to grow in size. And the feeling that grew the biggest was your longing for him. Here you were, in your most vulnerable state, without the love of your life. He was almost an hour away, incapable of bringing you comfort in your time of need.

And while spending one night apart wasn’t the end of the world, it surely wasn’t ideal- especially when you felt like death.

But as you thought about how different things would be with Bucky there, you realized: even if he was home, you wouldn’t have woken him. Sleep often evaded him; and back before he found you, he never got more than an hour of uninterrupted rest at once. But with your help, he was getting better. He was sleeping more and waking up screaming less. Sure, it was a slow process, but there was hope for him.

And so, waking him for something as innocuous as food poisoning simply wouldn’t be right. If this were an emergency, things would be different. But if he lay sleeping in the next room while you puked up bad lasagna, who were you to wake him?

Knowing that he was home would’ve made your situation a touch more bearable, though. It would’ve been enough to bring you comfort. Even having the option to crawl into bed next to him or feel his hand in yours would ease some of the misery, even if you couldn’t leave the bathroom long enough to do so.

Miserable, you shot a quick text to Bucky:

Been puking my guts out all night :(

The intention behind the message wasn’t to upset him when he read it the next morning. Or to make him feel bad for not coming home to you. You just wanted to complain, to vent some of your negative feelings. And only for a second. It wasn’t often that you felt sorry for yourself, especially not when you knew how much Bucky suffered. But this was a moment of weakness. And now matter the horrors Bucky went through, he always listened.

Your forehead fell against your knees and your chin rested on your chest. A deep sigh filled your lungs. God, you were tired. Utterly spent. Voiding your body so aggressively drained every ounce of your energy.

You missed your bed. Missed resting in Bucky’s arms and listening to his heartbeat as you laid on his chest. You needed a respite, a quick break from the misery. With a yawn, you allowed your eyes to flutter shut and your phone to slip from your hands. And for the first time that night, you actually drifted off to sleep.

But a persistent thudding noise pulled you awake half an hour later. It roused you from the rest your body so desperately needed, and just as you wondered what caused it, saliva rushed into your mouth. You ditched your blanket and knelt forward just in time for more acidic bile to push past your lips. It burned inside your nose and made your eyes water, but the sound of your front door opening pulled your focus.

“Baby?” Bucky shouted from down the hall.

A reply sat on the tip of your tongue- but drowned in another wash of vomit.

The heaving, retching sounds coming from the bathroom sent a rush of anxiety through Bucky’s system. He fled in your direction and burst through your bathroom door as his heart hammered against his ribs.

“Oh, sweetheart…” he knelt by your side and took in the scene before him as you caught your breath. You, his best girl, getting sick. Very sick. He clocked the blanket on the floor, your dead phone- you must’ve been in here a while. “Hey, what’s going on, doll?” His tone was soft and his words gentle. But the worry in his voice was unmistakable.

It took a few long moments for you to recover. “I got food poisoning from the Italian place on 9th,” you rested once more against the wall. “I ordered take out for dinner and it was clearly a mistake.” Just the thought was enough to make you sick again, but you powered through.

“Oh…” A sigh of relief left Bucky’s chest. “Oh, I thought you were-” he didn’t finish his sentence. But his shoulders relaxed and the tension in his brow dissipated. He wrapped the blanket around you and pulled you gently into his side.

“What, Buck?”

“Nothing, doll. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.” He cracked open your Gatorade and offered it to you, “can you drink some of this for me? We need to make sure you stay hydrated.”

Something lingered under Bucky’s words. And though your mind was a bit foggy from the exhaustion, you put two and two together. “Oh, you thought… you thought I relapsed?”

Bucky nodded.

Back when you’d only been dating for about a month, you decided to be honest with Bucky. He was truthful with you about his past and the PTSD that followed; it wasn’t fair of you to keep things from him. And so, you opened up to him about your past issues with food. With your body image. The way you used to force yourself to vomit until there was nothing left. Or until you tasted blood. He knew all about your struggle to recover and the way that, sometimes, those dark thoughts still tempted you to void your system.

He listened and expressed admiration for your perseverance. He told you he was proud of you. He was so happy that, every day, you chose recovery. He kept an eye on you after you told him, watching for any signs of distress. But you’d done so well. You kept the promise you made to yourself. And just a few weeks ago, when the two-year anniversary of your last forced purge passed, he spent the day showering you in praise and congratulations.

“I know you’ve been doing really well- I didn’t mean to assume anything. But I saw your text-”

You frowned, more worried for him than yourself. "Why were you awake?"

“Couldn't sleep," he said. "And when I tried to call, you didn’t answer.” He felt another surge of anxiety flood his system, “I got nervous. I needed to come check on you.”

Your lack of energy kept you from climbing into his lap or throwing your arms around his neck. Instead, you nuzzled closer to him. Let your head rest on his chest. It was all you could manage. “Buck, you’re so- I didn’t mean to scare you, babe. Probably should’ve given you some context. My bad.”

He shook his head, “no, don’t worry about it, doll. I would’ve come anyway- you’re not feeling well, I couldn’t let you be here all by yourself.” He pulled you a bit closer, “I’m just glad you’re okay. Well, not ‘okay’ cause obviously, you’re sick. But I’m happy you’re not that kind of sick.”

Bucky once again offered you the bottle of Gatorade, which you finally accepted. A few small sips rinsed most of the lingering vomit taste from your mouth. “You weren’t supposed to drive…” you said after a while.

“I know. But you’re sick.” He prompted you to keep drinking. “And if you were, um…” he didn’t like saying the word.

“Relapsing.”

He nodded. “If that was happening, I thought you might need me.” Truth be told, he would’ve done anything for you. Killed for you. Died for you. He’d burn the world and everyone in it- all for you.

“That’s an understatement,” you gave a weak laugh. Your raw throat throbbed. “But we agreed you wouldn’t drive, Buck. You were supposed to sleep.”

He shrugged, “I couldn’t. Turns out I’ve grown accustomed to sharing a bed with you. Can’t sleep if I don’t have ya with me, sweetheart.”

It was sweet, yes, but struck a nerve. “Wait, so… you don’t sleep on missions?”

He shook his head.

“Buuuuuuck-”

“I know, I know. But I try- I always try. I swear. It just doesn’t work.”

With that, you found yourself lurching forward once again. Your eyes watered and tears ran down your cheeks. A painful force pushed out what little remained in your system.

“Wow, you have really strong feelings about me not sleeping.”

At his stupid joke, a small laugh rumbled out of your chest- followed by more vomit. Coughs and sputters rattled out of your chest. Saliva dripped from your chin.

And though you knew you weren't done with this bout of retching, you wouldn't let him off the hook. "You need rest, Buck. And if you haven't slept, you shouldn't drive. It's not-" A flood of bile interrupted you.

“Okay, alright. I know. I’m sorry, sweetheart. But we can talk about it later,” he said, easing a hand up and down your spine. “Just let me take care of you for now, okay?”

And he did. No matter how many times your body violently emptied, Bucky had your back. He kept you hydrated, even when you didn’t want to be. And held you close between bouts of heaving. He kept you company. Kept your spirits high, regardless of how awful you felt. And no matter how tired he was, he stayed awake with you. He freed himself from the clutches of exhaustion and kept only you in focus, never allowing sleep to win. He wouldn’t rest- not until you did.

Every few minutes, he checked his watch. Timing the space between each instance of nausea helped him anticipate your movements. Your needs. And just like you said, they attacked every twenty minutes.

“I’m really happy you’re here,” you muttered, your head resting in his lap. Your eyelids fluttered and your words came out soft, breathy. “Even though you weren’t supposed to drive… I’m happy you made it home.”

Bucky ghosted a finger across your cheek, “So am I, doll.”

Your eyes were fully closed now, and you’d fallen silent. Bucky hoped you’d finally been able to fall asleep. And then, out of nowhere, you spoke, “And you used your key.” Though opening your eyes was too much work, a warm, satisfied smile pulled at your lips.

Bucky, too, smiled. “I did,” he said. “Had to. Needed to get to you.”

A happy hum left your chest and you nuzzled against Bucky’s thigh. “Thank you… Love you, Barnes.”

“Love you, baby.”

And finally, you were out. Bucky kept his eye on the time. Twenty minutes passed. Then forty. And when an hour went by without you stirring, Bucky sighed with relief. “I’m taking you to bed…” he whispered, though he knew you couldn’t hear him. He snaked his arms around you with the utmost care and lifted you from the cold tile floor. He held you close to his body, almost as though he were shielding you from something.

“Thank god it’s only food poisoning,” he whispered in the quiet of your apartment. He remembered the pure dread than sunk in his stomach the moment he read your text. Your words painted a vision in his mind, a horrible picture of you forcing nutrients out of your system. He shook his head at the thought. “I was really scared for you tonight.”

He placed you on your side of the bed and wrapped the covers around you, protecting you from the biting winter air. A quick double back to the bathroom allowed Bucky to retrieve your water and Gatorade, and a trip to the kitchen supplied you with extra. Just in case you needed more.

And when everything was set just so, he stripped out of his clothes and finally climbed into bed. “See? Knew I should’ve just come home, doll.” This was all he wanted all day. He got himself settled under the covers and molded his body to yours. He was supposed to be here- right here- next to you. At all times. It was better for you, better for him.

Peace settled over your bedroom and Bucky felt exhaustion pulling him under- until an alarm sounded in his head. He quickly scrounged around in the dark for his phone and, against his will, removed himself from the bed. He was so close to getting some rest, to spending the night tucked closely next to his best girl- but of course, something had to get in his way.

He scrolled through his contacts with a sigh and found the name he needed before pressing call. James Rhodes didn’t particularly like Bucky. And definitely wasn’t happy that his least favorite person decided to call in the wee hours of the early morning. But the least Bucky could do was give him a heads up.

“I’m not coming in tomorrow. My girl’s really sick and I need to be with her.”

Rhodes couldn’t believe Bucky called him so late- or, early- to give him such inconsequential news. “Um, okay. That sucks, I hope she feels better. But people get sick, Barnes. She’ll be okay. I still expect you to attend tomorrow-”

“No, I’m not leaving her here by herself. That’s final.”

Rhodes tried to form a rebuttal, but Bucky ended the call. He even shut off his phone for good measure.

“Sorry about that, sweetheart…” he whispered, climbing back into bed. “But I’m all yours tomorrow. Well, let’s be honest, I’m all yours for the rest of time. But you know what I mean.”

Once again, he wriggled under the covers and snuggled close to you. You didn’t move when the bed dipped under his weight, nor did you stir when he curled around you. He knew you were so depleted, so spent that you wouldn’t wake until noon- if then.

“I’m so glad you texted me,” he whispered into the dark. He let a hand trail up and down your arm, pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “And I’m so- I’m so glad you’re alright.” He fidgeted and maneuvered himself, wishing he could scoot closer to you. But every surface of his body was already pressed to yours; he big-spooned you so intensely that not even a millimeter-sized gap remained. Still, he wasn’t close enough. He wasn’t sure he ever would be.

“But even if you weren’t- if you actually had um… if you-” he swallowed hard, “if you relapsed, I’d be here. I always will be- through all of it. No matter what happens. I don’t care how far away I am, I’ll find a way to get to you. I promise.”

With his promise spoken, a weight lifted from Bucky’s shoulders. He didn’t like thinking about you getting sick again, about your mind sabotaging your body like that. He knew it was possible, though. His own mental health hadn’t always been stellar, and he knew how easy it was to slip into the darkness. But the last time you battled your demons, you were alone. You kept your struggle a secret and didn’t bother resisting the downward spiral.

Bucky hoped that having him would make things easier if you ever did fall down that slippery slope once again. Not that being in a relationship could save your mental health- he knew well enough that that wasn’t possible.

He just thought that having someone by your side- someone who loved and supported you without judgement- would give you the strength you needed if the monsters ever came calling again. It certainly worked for him. Allowing you into his life kept him from the precipice on more than one occasion; he just hoped to do the same for you, if need be.

He knew you trusted him exactly the way he trusted you, and it granted him solace. He knew that if, heaven forbid, things ever got bad for you again, you’d let him help you. You’d be truthful with him about your struggles. You'd lean on him, go to him for support. Knowing that you had a safety net allowed him to breathe easier. And finally, after over twenty-four hours spent awake, Bucky fell into a deep sleep.

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