#shawn and shiny | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vivwritescrappythings · 1 year ago

Text

Unfair

no outbreak!joel miller x fem!reader

an au about Joel attending a wedding simply inspired by Pedro's slutty little fit at the SAG awards.

part 2

tw: age gap (late 20s/late 40s), fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dirty talk, alcohol, she/her pronouns, reader has hair long enough to twist around her finger, Joel is probably poorly written in this, and this whole thing is a little poorly written.

word count: 7.2k

MDNI

masterlist

–

Your mom was smiling as you zipped her into her gown, the chiffon and lace dress gorgeous on her as you fastened the eyelet closed at the top of the bodice. You could feel the lens of the photographer’s camera trained on you both, the woman having been with you the entire morning to document the process of the bridal party getting ready.

The photographer was fluttering around the room, taking candid photos of you all making small talk and toasting mimosas. The posed photos had been earlier that morning, you all wearing your matching silk robes with your names screen-printed on the back. You didn’t know how much had been spent on the whole production–but it certainly wasn’t cheap. But, to see your mom glowing and her wide smile all morning, every penny must have been more than worth it.

Before you realized, you all wore dresses and bouquets of white flowers with magnificent greenery were being thrust in your hands. The wedding planner was ushering everyone out onto the stone walkway to the barn, women finally meeting men just outside the farmhouse turned wedding venue. The best man looked vaguely familiar to you as you placed your hand in the crook of his elbow to walk down the aisle, he must have been Shawn's eldest brother.

The officiant droned: he just repeated the same platitudes of what it means to love one another and be good spouses. You tried to stay focused, your eyes inevitably wandering. The ceremony space was picturesque: southern live oaks casting shadows in the late autumn sun as they married in front of the barn. It really couldn’t get more Texas than that, especially when you counted the number of cowboy hats in the crowd.

You could feel someone staring at you for the better part of the ceremony, making you glance out of the corner of your eye as you tried to find the source. Every fiber of you wanted to turn and look in earnest, but you knew that you’d ruin the photos as soon as your body twisted and your happy, grinning face wasn’t facing the bride and groom on the best day of their lives.

Your grip tightened around the bouquet in your hands as your skin crawled, your focus so jarred that you almost missed your cue to walk out. The cheers and clapping woke you from your reverie before the best man had to. Grasping him by the elbow, you walked back up the aisle between the celebrating wedding guests, the feeling of being watched now fading to the background.

—

When you finally made it to the renovated barn, you were starving and in desperate need of a drink. The photos had run long, the photographers getting you all in a variety of line ups and poses. It was almost time for the plated dinner to begin, guests settling at assigned tables after a cocktail hour and the live band playing quiet music in the corner of the half-inside half-outside space that would eventually serve as the dance floor.

The orange lighting from string lights along the ceiling was soft, mismatched Edison bulbs hanging along zigzagged wires from wooden rafters. It painted the guests and decor in gold tones, making everything look sepia like an old photo.

With your double shot vodka tonic in hand, you found your name written in gold calligraphy on the seating chart. Your mom and her new husband were sitting together at a small table at the front of the room, a faux-neon sign behind them that displayed his last name. Well, their last name now.

You were at one of the front tables, the ivory table cloth nearly brushing the shiny wooden floor as you plucked your name card off your plate and sat down. There were only a few people you knew at the wedding, neighbors from the neighborhood you grew up in and a handful of your mother’s coworkers. But, they were seated elsewhere.

Some of the seats on the opposite side of the sprawling white and green centerpiece were occupied with strangers in flamboyant cowboy hats and boots, an obvious sign they were from out of town. You smiled politely as you sat down, taking a long sip of your drink as you checked your phone for the moment of downtime.

“This seat taken?” A deep, twangy voice made your gaze cut away from the screen and up to the right. You were immediately dumbstruck by how handsome the man was, his umber colored eyes reminding you of the sunlight hitting the tree trunks during the ceremony. A few of his dark brown curls were falling on his tanned forehead, the rest of his hair loosely pushed back.

You floundered for a moment, lips parting and no words coming out of your mouth. Finally you caught up, blinking a few times. The place card in front of the ornate gold and white place setting next to yours was your saving grace. “Well, uh, if you’re Joel M., the seat is all yours,” you said, looking back up at him.

God, you hoped he was Joel.

He smiled, the lines on his face becoming a bit more defined as he extended a hand toward you. “Joel Miller, nice to meet you…” he trailed off, waiting for your assistance.

You slipped your hand into his, his calloused palm engulfing yours as he shook it politely. You introduced yourself, neck craned back so you could look him in the eye. He released your hand and sat down, setting the glass he was holding next to yours on the table cloth.

“So how do you know the couple?” Joel asked you, his gaze dragging over you. You tried not to squirm under the weight of it, your face feeling hot as you set your phone face-down on the table. The way he looked at you made you feel like a bug caught under a microscope.

“The bride is my mom,” you said, fiddling with the elegantly folded cloth napkins for a moment. You glanced at her briefly, watching her giggle at something Shawn had said.

Joel nodded, a huff of a laugh following. “No shit, so you’re the stepdaughter?” he asked, an eyebrow raised as a smirk lifted the corner of his lip. One of your eyebrows lifted of its own volition, his reaction catching you off guard.

“Do I have a reputation?” A sip of your drink helped wet your dry tongue, your eyes trained on him over the rim of your glass. There was a spike of anxiety in your chest, the temporary fear that he’d heard something bad about you filling your mind. You held your glass in your hand as you crossed your legs at the ankle, waiting for his response.

Joel paused to take a drink, a hand scrubbing over his beard as he looked back at you. He shook his head, waving a hand in a way that was meant to be placating. “Shawn told me about you, said you just moved back to town a few months ago.”

“Um, yeah, actually. Moved back from Denver,” you said, bashful that the subject of you even came up. You hadn’t realized that you were important enough in Shawn’s life to mention, especially to his friends. Of course, there wasn’t animosity between the two of you, just what you assumed was limited interest. Most men didn't bother to learn too much about their adult stepchildren.

You were both leaning forward as you spoke, the music and chatter of the other guests making the barn a little too loud to hear one another clearly at a distance. He was looking down at his drink, giving you an opportunity to study his profile. Joel was easily twenty years your senior, the dark beard on his jawline threaded through with patches of silver hair.

“So—“ Joel started, getting cut off by the shuffle of the last people to their seats and an arm thrust between the two of you. The waiters serving the plated dinner made you sit upright in your chair, the soft fabric of your dress fluttering as you put some space between Joel and yourself.

You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you took the first bite of your food, a sigh escaping you as your eyelashes batted against your cheeks. Conversation floated around your head, you caught polite questions about Joel’s construction business and half-assed replies.

For some reason your mother had put you at a table full of Shawn’s friends, maybe in an attempt to help you get to know him better.

“So you’re a contractor?” you asked after your hunger had been satiated. You’d gotten a refill on your drink from one of the waiters, nursing a fresh vodka tonic as you looked at Joel.

He chewed his steak methodically, nodding as he turned slightly to look at you. “Been building houses for years, my brother, Tommy, works with me,” Joel said after he swallowed, taking his cloth napkin off his wide thigh to wipe the corner of his mouth.

“Do you like it?” you asked after a moment of contemplation, tilting your head to one side as you looked at him.

There was something about him that kept you smiling, your lips curved like a bow as you sipped your drink from the straw. You studied his features while you could, his aquiline nose and his full lower lip intriguing. Way too intriguing for someone who was your stepfather’s friend.

“Pays the bills, keeps the roof over me and Sarah’s heads.” Joel finished his plate, picking up his drink and leaning back in his seat.

Sarah? Your eyes dropped to his left hand, not seeing a ring on any of the fingers. Not even a tan line. He noticed it, making your face burn as he chuckled. “Sarah? Your…”

“Daughter,” he cut in helpfully. Daughter, he had a daughter. You exhaled, relieved. But, did he have a wife? No ring, never mentioned her. He would’ve brought her up by now. She would've attended the wedding with him. You chewed the inside of your cheek for a moment, taking a breath as you rationalized.

Your mouth opened to ask another question when glasses were chimed and dinner was cleared away. Champagne flutes were passed around, and to your horror you realized it was time for your toast. You stood in a fluid motion, adjusting your gown and your hair before heading toward the microphone next to the table with the bride and groom.

–

You spent the rest of the night getting drunk. Champagne became cocktails and cocktails became shots–all with your mother and new stepfather and family and friends from your childhood. Tipsiness made you remove your heels, kicking them off to the side to a forgotten corner as your aching feet pressed against the polished floor.

The dance floor was cramped, the band having transitioned partway through the night to someone’s phone with a playlist hooked up to the speakers. You watched your mom laugh as she was spun around by her new husband, making you smile as you nursed your glass of wine.

“You lost something.” Joel approached, pointing to your strappy heels with a lazy finger.

You grinned, your teeth digging into your lower lip for a moment as you looked up at him. “Looks like you did, too–a few things actually,” you said, nodding toward his shucked suit jacket and tie. The top few buttons of his white shirt were open, revealing just enough of his tanned chest to feel dangerous. He was more disheveled than before, a chilled beer bottle held loosely in his fingers and his cheeks flushed.

Joel chuckled, taking a step closer to you as he took a long drink from his beer. You watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed, taking a sip of your red wine in tandem.

There was something about this man that had you all kinds of flustered, a giddy lightness in your chest when he focused his attention on you. “So why aren’t you out there dancing?” Joel asked, his warm eyes surveying the dance floor before returning.

You shook your head, a demure smile and a shrug. “Never was much of a dancer.” The last time you really danced was wasted at a frat party in college, the lights low and the music making the house shake. Far from a respectable barn wedding, and definitely not your mother’s respectable barn wedding.

“That’s a shame,” Joel smiled at you, pressing just a bit closer, “a pretty girl like you should be out there.”

You were surprised by the compliment, nearly choking on your wine as your eyebrows lifted. Joel was smirking, his whole body leaning toward yours. You were warm to the touch, your entire face burning under his attentions. It felt like you were in high school again, pining after some older boy that you assumed would never look at you twice–but here he was, looking.

“Do you always flirt with your friend’s stepdaughters?” you asked, hoping to come off as hard to get. Realistically, he already had you in the palm of his hand.

Joel pursed his lips, something mischievous flashing in his dark eyes for a moment. “Just the ones that look like you,” he said, his deep voice low. It was almost too quiet to hear over the music, making you shift forward so you could hear him better.

“Joel.” It would've been chastising if it wasn’t for your bright smile. He exuded an easy confidence that was magnetic, it had your nerves on fire as you selfishly hoped that he would do more than just flirt with you. Your gaze was on his lips for a moment, taking in the lines of his full bottom lip and tidy mustache before meeting his eyes again.

“The couple is getting ready to leave!” You both looked toward the door and watched the wedding planner usher guests out the barn doors. Sparklers were thrust in everyone’s hands, the photographer already positioned at the end of the walkway near the rented white Rolls Royce.

Joel’s hand found the small of your back, warm through the thin fabric of your dress as he guided you toward the door. The wedding planner handed him two sparklers, the long kind that wobbled under their own weight.

The guests had divided into two lines, waiters lighting sparklers on either side of the column created. Joel handed you one as you stood at his side, your bare feet on the warm concrete. You held it out from your body, focused on the bright sizzle of the sparks as they made their way down the lines of powder.

Your mother and Shawn walked through the column of sparklers on cue, laughing and smiling while holding hands. They looked so happy. You could hardly imagine being that happy with someone.

She broke off for a moment to embrace you, making Joel thoughtfully pluck the sparkler out of your fingers so you didn’t burn her.

Tears pushed at your eyelids, overwhelming joy for your mother finally breaking free of your chest. You whispered ‘I love you’s into one another’s ears and pressed kisses to cheeks as you clung to each other. The photographer’s camera was shuttering nearby, catching every intimate moment.

Finally you let her go, tearful and smiling as Shawn pulled her toward the car that would take them to their hotel. Joel’s large hand found the curve of your waist, bringing you to his side as you watched your mother get into the car.

You were tipsy enough to allow it.

He was warm, smelling like cigar smoke and whiskey and cologne. You both were quiet as you watched the car pull away, your shoulders fitting in the space between his arm and torso.

“You wanna help me find my jacket? Think I left it around back when I was smoking a cigar with Shawn,” Joel murmured into your hair. His fingers pressed into your waist, his breath on your neck.

It was enough to distract you. You blinked your tears away, fingertips brushing at the corners of your eyes to make sure your makeup was still intact. “Sure,” you whispered, looking up at him after you’d composed yourself.

Your heart skipped a beat when Joel took your hand, tugging you along with him down the path on the outside of the barn. Both of you were tipsy, giggling and stumbling a bit over the paving stones that had been set in the tall grass. The lights faded behind you, the dim glow through the high windows of the barn and the solitary strand of Edison bulbs between the trees just enough to navigate by.

It all happened so fast, you didn’t even know who initiated it. Joel’s calloused hands were cupping your cheeks and jaw, tilting your head up as your lips met his. He tasted like whiskey and the sweet wedding cake, making you sigh into the kiss as your fingers twisted in his shirt and pulled him close.

You had to stand on your tip toes to kiss him properly, a few soft laughs escaping the both of you when the hard cartilage of your noses bumped and teeth clashed.

He took steps forward until your shoulder blades pressed against the side of the barn. Joel crowded you in, one hand leaving your cheek to brace against the wood behind your waist as he swiped his tongue along your bottom lip. You could feel him smiling.

You always found French kissing to be weird, never knowing quite what to do with your tongue. Whenever a guy had initiated it you managed to cut it off quickly, moving on to some other method of making out to spare yourself the embarrassment of letting your tongue sit there like a dead fish.

Of course you’d seen people do it, always seeming like a lot more licking each other than kissing. Nevertheless, the second time Joel ran his tongue along the seam of your lips you found yourself parting them for him.

Suddenly, you understood. Joel’s tongue massaged over yours as he groaned softly. You wanted him to consume you, letting him take control as he explored your mouth. He tilted your head back more, leaning over you with his full height. You flicked your tongue along his, spine arching toward him in an attempt to get closer.

The horn of the hotel shuttle startled you as you broke apart, chests heaving and your lipstick smeared onto Joel’s mouth.

“You staying at the same hotel as everyone else?” Joel asked, nosing at your hairline as his hands roamed over your dress. He bunched it in his fists, raising the hem above your calves and wrinkling the fabric.

“I am,” you breathed, twisting your fingers in his thick curls.

Joel smiled against your earlobe, nipping at it. “Wanna continue this in my room? Got a king size bed and everything,” he drawled, pulling back to look down at you. There was a sparkle in his eyes, his smile was breathtaking.

You wiped your lipstick off his bottom lip with your thumb, suddenly feeling a bit shy. “You sure?” you asked, folding your arms over your chest in a form of protection from Joel’s possible rejection.

He offered, but there was still a part of you that was worried.

He furrowed his brow, a smile still on his face as he looked down at you in the dark. “'Course I’m sure. Go get your shoes, baby, and I’ll see you on the shuttle.” Joel spun you toward the nearest door to the barn, lightly smacking your ass go get you moving.

You yelped, swatting at his hand with a glare.

“Go on, before I ruin that pretty dress of yours in the dirt out here,” he told you, a smirk on his face as he nodded his chin toward the door. You rolled your eyes, acquiescing to his instructions.

—

It took Joel no time to get you down the hall from the packed elevator and to his room. He clumsily tapped his keycard against the sensor, stamping kisses along the side of your neck as you giggled in the cage of his arms.

Finally he got it to unlock, tightening an arm around your waist as he pushed the door open. Joel took wide, staggered steps on either side of your body as he ushered you inside.

As soon as the door snapped shut he was already lifting the bottom of your dress, kisses turning into bites on the curve of your neck. “Jo-el,” you whined through giggles as you grabbed the forearm he’d locked around your waist.

“Unfair that you’re this fucking pretty,” he mumbled, making your face heat up as you tried to protest. Joel shushed you by grabbing a handful of the meat of your thigh, groaning in your ear.

“How’s it unfair?” you managed to ask, your head spinning from the overwhelming presence of Joel. His rough, calloused hands were groping at your soft flesh, his lips sucking marks on your neck like you were teenagers.

The room was relatively untouched, his open suitcase on the stand near the large windows on the far side of the room. The curtains were slightly open, moonlight filtering in. “S’unfair that I didn’t meet you sooner,” Joel said, scraping his blunt teeth over the sensitive spot just under your earlobe. You shivered in his arms.

He separated from you just enough to shuck his suit jacket that he had haphazardly put on for the shuttle, tossing it on the little sofa in the room. You turned after stepping out of your heels, linking your hands behind Joel’s neck and pulling him in for another kiss.

Joel smiled into it, his hands grabbing your waist and holding you flush against his body. “You still wanna do this?” His fingers moved to your spine and played with the zipper on the back of your dress, looking down at you as he waited for your answer. "Don't want you to feel pressured or anything."

“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be,” you murmured, carding your fingers in his thick curls.

Joel just groaned, pressing you flush against him as he captured you in another needy kiss. He pulled the zipper of your dress down in one fluid motion, making a shiver prickle up the length of your spine.

“Let me see ya, baby,” he said against your mouth, pulling the thick straps of your dress down your arms.

You let the fabric pool at your feet, your sheer, skin-colored bra and panties leaving little to the imagination. A wave of insecurity flashed over you, your skin suddenly feeling stretched too tight over your body as your face and neck heated up.

You were too aware of the parts of yourself that you didn’t like: the dimpled flesh on the outside of your thighs and the hairs you hadn’t plucked away because the wedding was the last place you thought you’d find a one night stand. A wobbly smile formed, your instinct making you bury your face in Joel’s neck to hide.

“Jesus Christ,” he mumbled, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear his praise. His massive hands ran down your sides, thumbing at the mesh of your bra and panties before he started moving you backwards.

Your calves hit the bed, making you squawk in an unflattering way as Joel lowered you to the mattress. “You’re so gorgeous,” he breathed, his lips trailing down your neck until he was kissing and sucking at your sternum. He nudged your knees apart with his free hand, his other forearm planted on the mattress to hold his weight off of you. He slotted himself in the space between your thighs as his tongue laved over your nipple through the mesh fabric of your bra.

The noise that came out of your throat was embarrassing. Your breath turned into a strangled moan, eyebrows pinching together. The sensation only made your arousal increase tenfold, spine already arching to press your tit against his mouth.

Joel chuckled, soft brown eyes ticking up to look at your face. “That sensitive?” he said, more of a statement than a question. You found yourself nodding anyway. He thumbed at your other nipple, making it bud against the thin fabric and pulling another whine from your throat. He snickered.

“Don’t tease,” you huffed, wiggling your hips and lightly squeezing his sides with your knees.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Joel muttered, a smile stretching on his lips as he rolled the pad of his thumb over your nipple again. He placed kisses along your stomach, making you suck in the soft flesh on reflex. His coarse facial hair tickled your skin, making you giggle a bit as he continued to work his way down your form.

“Just wanna taste ya, okay?” Joel asked, his broad shoulders between your spread thighs. His thick fingers hooked into your panties, manipulating your legs so he could pull them off and toss them somewhere in the room. He pressed your legs apart before you could snap them shut, a seed of worry taking root in your mind as you looked down at him.

You’d never been so self-conscious during a hook-up before, but for some reason Joel felt different. Your thoughts were preoccupied on how you looked from his vantage point, if you smelled alright and if anything looked weird.

“Been wanting to taste you all night, ever since I saw you standing up there during that damn ceremony.”

He spread you apart with his thumbs, eyes focused on your already wet pussy as a smirk stretched across his features. He just stared, making you want to crawl back into yourself. Then the feeling of his tongue on your clit makes you forget your worries, your face scrunching as you moaned. Joel hooked your leg over his shoulder, your heel pressing against his back as he pushed your thighs even further apart.

You couldn’t remember a time when you’d been so soaked before, sticky arousal practically gushing out of you. Joel’s wide tongue licked long stripes up your cunt, careful to practically gulp down everything that he could. He was groaning as he ate you out, his big hands digging into your waist to pull you closer. The coarse hair of his beard was rough against the soft skin of your inner thighs

“Oh–oh god, Joel,” you sighed, propping yourself up on an elbow so you could look at him.

Your thighs were quaking, pressing against his ears as your hips twitched. Joel’s dark eyes were hazy and half lidded as he lapped over your clit, working with a focus you’d never experienced with any other man. He looked beautiful between your legs, belly-down on the mattress and still dressed in his button down shirt and slacks.

One of his hands left your hip, snaking up your stomach to reach blindly until he cupped your breast. He pulled at the cup of your bra, revealing your peaked nipple. The bud was immediately pinched between his thumb and forefinger, making you arch your back as you let out another whine of his name.

Joel dipped down to shove his searing tongue inside of you as his nose bumped into the swollen bead of your clit. A bolt of lightning ricocheted up your spine, a gasp leaving you. It felt so good you could almost cry, your chest heaving and hips clumsily grinding toward his mouth. You were already starting to tremble, pleasure sparking in the pit of your stomach as he mouthed at you.

And then he pulled back.

“Joel!” you yelped, starting to sit up as your gaze hardened into a glare. Your pussy clenched around nothing, neglected and empty with an interrupted orgasm.

He huffed a laugh, looking down at you as he knelt on the bed in front of you. “You’re right, baby, that’s my name,” he teased, his voice deep and smokey.

He grabbed you roughly by the hips, pulling so you fell to your back again. “You fucker–” Joel cut you off by pressing the backs of your knees until you were bent in half, a brief show of just how strong he was. His calloused hands gripped the soft flesh of your ass, readjusting you again so the small of your back was propped up against his quads. You’d never been in this angle before, your pussy the highest point of your body as he pushed his forearms against your thighs to keep you still.

Joel’s hot breath washed over your cunt before he delved back into it, greedy as he started sucking on your clit. With the way you were contorted, you were completely helpless, any attempt to move your hips just made your thighs push uselessly against his arms. You were soaking, your arousal dripping down to your asshole as you whimpered pathetically.

He went at a leisurely pace, taking his time to tongue at you and lick long stripes from your perineum to your clit. Your hands were clenching in the white comforter on the hotel bed, your chest heaving. There was something about being completely at his mercy that made your head spin.

You wanted to be greedy, take everything he would give you; but, Joel was in no rush, languidly pressing his face into your pussy despite your best efforts to get him to speed up.

It was overwhelming in all the right ways, your head spinning as you watched Joel lick at you like he wanted to consume every part of you. Joel cupped your breast in a hand, strumming his thumb lightly over your nipple to keep it stimulated as you gasped.

You were delirious by the time he sunk two fingers into you, almost making you scream. Joel took a few breaths, his pink lips swollen and shiny with your arousal as he studied your expression. You could hardly think straight, strings of curses mixed with his name falling from your lips as you panted like a bitch in heat.

The squelching sound of his fingers lazily pumping into your pussy filled the hotel room, loud enough to make your cheeks burn. You wetted your lips, trying to catch your breath beneath Joel.

“So fucking tight around my fingers,” Joel mumbled, the words muffled and wet because he didn’t pull away. It didn’t even feel like he was talking to you, communing with your pussy instead. The praise went directly to your head, making you tighten around his fingers. You threaded a hand in his hair, keeping his mouth pressed against you. “Tastes just as good as I expected.”

“Oh… oh my god,” you breathed, your climax building toward its precipice.

Joel wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked, just barely speeding up the rhythm of his fingers fucking into you. His thumb on your nipple followed suit, matching the motion as tears filled your eyes. Your fingers threaded into his curls, your brows furrowed as you pulled on his hair. He grunted against you, not letting up as he worked you up toward the edge.

When you came it was a whole body event. Your legs trembled, hips burning from the awkward angle Joel had bent you into. Your back arched, breath pausing in your chest. Your cunt clenched around his fingers, sucked tight and feeling every inch of them inside you. The pleasure was white-hot as it coursed through you, leaving your nerves buzzing and your ears ringing as your body went limp.

“So pretty when you come,” Joel said, his thick fingers still deep inside you.

You were almost nonverbal, your response a delirious sob as you looked up at Joel with watery eyes. He caressed your cheek, gently stroking your jaw and thumb wiping over your lower lip. You kissed the pad of it out of reflex, the motion making his expression soften for a moment.

Then he started to massage the spongy spot inside of your dripping pussy, making your eyes roll back. “Too sensitive,” you whined, grabbing onto his forearm in a weak attempt to stop him.

“Trust me, baby, I’ve got you,” he said in that syrupy tone, gaze still locked on your face as you squirmed. He took his hand away from your cheek, holding one of your legs to keep you still as he fucked his fingers into you. “You can do one more for me, right?”

The need to please him made you nod, taking in a deep and shaky breath. You couldn’t do anything but take it, your mouth dropping open and your back arching. The overstimulation made you tremble, your whole body squirming. Breaths kept huffing out of you, your brows pinched tight as you tried to relax. It was hard to think straight, hell, it was hard to even breathe.

Joel pulled his fingers out of you for a moment to strum over your swollen clit, only touching you with just enough pressure to drive you crazy. He continued until you were straining against him, moaning and sobbing his name. It was like he was carved from stone, hardly giving you any leeway as he kept you in place. The pressure in you built faster this time, it was almost embarrassing how quick he was able to get you to the edge.

“Joel, Joel, Joel–ohmygod,” you gasped, reaching for purchase against his thigh. His dress pants were soft under your fingers as you squeezed, your body practically vibrating.

“I know, baby, I know,” he murmured soothingly, pressing a wet kiss to the back of your thigh as his fingers hooked back into you.

Joel fucked you on them at a ruthless pace as his thumb rolled over the crest of your sex, your mouth opening in a wordless cry as you fell into your second orgasm of the night. You were completely lost, your eyes squeezed shut as your muscles spasmed against the restraint of Joel’s arms. White noise filled your mind, your body melting against Joel’s thighs and the bed as your legs fell open even further.

He rubbed along the seam of your cunt soothingly, calloused fingers working you through the aftershocks. Your eyes were completely hazed when you looked up at him, splayed on the bed like every bone had been pulled from your body. He looked positively giddy, his wet fingers smearing on your thigh as he rubbed your legs in an effort to help you come back to yourself.

Joel let you off of him, returning your spine to the mattress as he leaned over you to give you a kiss. You hummed into it, smelling and tasting your salty-sweet slick on his lips and facial hair. “Please fuck me,” you begged between presses of his mouth, desperation easy to hear in your tone.

“‘Course I will, baby,” he said, getting off the bed to quickly undress himself. You shakily sat up, unclipping your bra at your back and tossing it aside.

Joel was impressive, his body rippled with muscles beneath a layer of fat that told you he was eating well. Your gaze dragged down him, mouth watering as you finally saw his cock. It was big, the same tanned tone of his skin with a flushed tip. It jutted from a patch of trimmed, dark hair that was accentuated by the happy trail beneath his navel. You swallowed thickly, pussy clenching at the thought of him fucking you into the mattress.

You kissed him eagerly as he got back on the bed, part of you so desperate to please him. Joel was older than you, so much more experienced, you just wanted him to like you.

He grunted, curling a hand around the back of your neck to keep you close. His other hand traveled down your body, massaging your hip with his thumb. You were putty in his hands, your own arms in a loop around his neck.

“Lay down,” Joel mumbled against the hinge of your jaw, nipping at the bone. You whimpered, fingers digging into the broad muscle of his shoulders as you complied. Joel ran a hand over you, sliding it down the valley between your breasts and over your soft stomach.

The backs of your thighs were pressed against his quads as he took himself in his hand, sliding the blunt head of his cock along your pussy. You clenched around nothing, desperate and wanting. “Joel, please.”

You couldn’t take waiting anymore.

He smirked, notching himself at your entrance and obliging you. Joel pressed and pressed and pressed until his hips were completely snug against yours. He split you in half across the width of his cock, moving slow to give you some time to adjust. It felt like he’d consumed all of the extra space in your body, you even felt him in your throat.

You breathed brokenly, back arched and hips twitching as you struggled to find a comfortable position. You weren’t a virgin–weren’t anything close to it, really–but it felt just as overwhelming as your first time.

Joel bent over you, his elbows on either side of your head carrying his weight as he ground his hips against yours. His forehead pressed into your shoulder, a heated groan rumbling from his chest. It was hard to make sense of things, rattled breaths filling your chest as your mind whirred uselessly. He peppered kisses over your face, his lips wet and warm as he showered you in affection.

Then he moved his hips, the roll of them slow and syrupy and making you nearly choke. You grabbed at his biceps, an attempt to anchor yourself to him as he started to rut his hips into yours. He made room for himself with every press of his cock, molding you to the shape of him.

Joel collected your leg with a rough hand, pushing your knee toward your chest. He let it come to rest in the curve of his elbow, palm pressed flat to the comforter as he spread you open wider. Your hips protested as he splayed you apart, the discomfort easily taking a backseat to your pleasure.

You keened, mouth falling open as he sank even deeper inside of you. Your breaths came out in little mewls, matching Joel’s grunts as you met each thrust with a weak roll of your hips. His lips were at your throat, sucking more marks into the skin and his facial hair scratching against you. “Goddamn, you’re gonna be the death of me, baby,” Joel groaned into the curve of your neck, still keeping an even rhythm

You let out a breathy laugh–you felt the same way about him. He lifted himself to get a better look at you, dark brown eyes as warm as the summer sun as his gaze drifted all the way down to where his cock was buried in you. He grunted at the sight, pupils dilating like drops of ink in water.

His free hand lifted off its elbow, his weight shifting to one side so he could wet the pad of his thumb with a lick of his tongue. You were making sounds you couldn’t control, each thrust pushing a small gasp from your throat. Then, Joel dropped his hand to your lower abdomen, gently tracing the curve of your belly down into the soft thatch of hair you hadn’t bothered to shave.

A calloused thumb found your clit, swirling over it with a confident pressure in a way that made your eyes nearly roll back in your skull. Joel was pounding into the spot that made you see stars, merciless in his pace. “Joel… oh god…”

You could feel the flutter of your orgasm starting, your legs trembled against his arm and the curve of his waist. You chanted his name like a prayer, overstimulated tears starting to squeeze out of the corners of your eyes and roll into your hairline. He just soldiered on, grinding his thumb over your clit as he worked you higher and higher toward the edge.

A rattling gasp escaped your throat as you pulsed around Joel, your brows pinching and your body stiffening beneath his. You could feel the release from the soles of your feet to the crown of your head, your nails digging into his thick biceps as the flickering pleasure turned into a full on forest fire. You leaned up to wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him down onto the mattress with you as you held him close.

“Fuck,” Joel moaned into your neck. His thrusts became sloppy fast, his discipline gone to the wayside now that he made you come on his cock. You felt him twitch inside you, his breath coming out in hot huffs against the curve of your shoulder. His hand grabbed your hip, pulling you down to match his frantic thrusts as he moaned your name into your skin.

You wanted to pull his head away from you so you could see how his face looked when he finished. The muscles in his abdomen clenched, his hips grinding tight to yours as he came inside of you. You moaned with him, the feeling of being filled up by him satiating a need you didn’t know you had as you dragged your blunt nails on his scalp.

Joel finally collapsed, the weight of his body pressing down on you as you combed your fingers through his hair. His hips were cradled by your legs, sweat slicking your skin wherever it was pressed together. You breathed against one another, pulling each other close as you basked in the afterglow.

You were sharing the same air, pressing loose kisses to each other's warm skin as you melted into each other for an unknown amount of time. It could have been seconds, it could have been hours.

“We should clean up,” you finally breathed, able to come back to yourself.

Joel nodded against your neck, you felt it more than you saw it. You giggled after he didn’t move, still leaving you helpless and pinned beneath him. He seemed to make himself even more comfortable, arms constricting around you and face nuzzling closer to your throat.

“Joel,” you chastised, lightly shoving at his shoulder. It was half-hearted and meaningless–you were more than content to stay here all night if you had to.

“I like how you say that, Joel,” he said, mimicking your voice in an annoyingly high-pitched tone. It made you laugh, throwing your head back against the comforter as you shook it.

He hissed, pulling away from you just enough to prop himself up on an elbow. “You clench around me like a fucking vise when you laugh like that, baby,” Joel muttered, swirling his fingertips over your skin. He didn’t move to pull out of you quite yet, the two of you relishing in the intimacy of your embrace.

A slow smirk crossed his face, his dark eyes flickering back up to meet yours. “Plus, what’s the point of cleaning up if I’m not done with you yet?”

–

Needless to say, you were sneaking out of his room when the dregs of sunlight started streaming through the hotel room windows, sore and exhausted, with his phone number typed into your phone and his hickeys all over your skin.

#joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel tlou #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal #joel miller #the last of us x reader #the last of us smut #the last of us #reader insert #no outbreak!joel miller #no outbreak au #tlou hbo #pedro pascal sag awards #joel miller x afab!reader #joel miller x reader smut #joel miller x fem!reader

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afewproblems · 2 months ago

Text

Difficult Days Part Ten

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six Part Seven, Part Eight Part Nine or Read on AO3

“You're ridiculous,” Gus sighs, as they make their way into the precinct, waving at the desk sergeant who shoots them both a wide grin as they pass, “you can barely even tell anymore--”

“Oh yeah the yellow is just a choice now, I put this on this morning, couldn't you tell?” Shawn grumbles, pressing into the soft skin under his eyes, wincing even at the light pressure.

It’s been two weeks since the incident with Mr. Coveralls and the hospital visit to treat his broken nose and concussion. The worst of the bruising and brain fog have finally started to disappear, leaving behind angry yellow and sickly green shadows under his eyes, as well as a lingering ache in his head that shows up whenever he moves too quickly.

But at least Shawn is finally allowed back in the station after the mandatory two week rest that the doctor and chief had insisted upon -a ban unfairly reinforced by Jules, and even Buzz.

Lassie has been running the gamut from being irritated by his lack of rest, firmly insisting on his return home, to shooting Shawn unreadable looks, according to Gus, behind his back --which is extremely frustrating given how Shawn had thought they had left things back at the hospital.

There had been a smoothie for shits sake!

But no, of course Lassie had to go and turn around like everything was normal, like he hadn’t swooped in like a knight in shiny armour. Shining armour? Something other than his normal drab off-the-rack ensembles; but the point was that Lassie was acting just as he had before, sans manhandling after the concussion.

It was certainly confusing, and more than a little frustrating.

Shawn is more than happy to start working cases again, if only to distract from the, apparently, one-sided weirdness between himself and Lassiter.

At least he can go back to distracting himself and half the station with their usual antics, and hopefully snag a new case while they’re here.

“Shawn?”

Shawn stops, it's been over ten years since he last heard the voice calling his name and it's enough to make him freeze in his tracks. Gus stumbles into his back, nearly causing both of them to fall.

“Tell me I'm having an auditory hallucination right now,” he whispers to Gus who frowns at Shawn until the voice calls out again.True he was still technically on concussion protocols but given that Shawn hadn’t had any hallucinations even immediately after hitting his head at the station two weeks ago, this was a bad sign.

“Shawn Spencer, as I live and breathe!”

Oh, it’s actually worse.

Anthony Llewellyn walks across the lobby of the station, making a beeline for Shawn and Gus. His curly brown hair has receded slightly, but age has done nothing to temper his handsome face. If anything, the laugh lines around his mouth and the creases beside his large hazel eyes have made him even more attractive since he stomped on Shawn's heart all those years ago.

“What happened to your face?” Anthony asks, a slight pitch of alarm in his voice as his eyes trace over Shawn’s face.

Shawn shoots a withering glare at Gus, raising his eyebrows in a silent I-told-you-so, earning him a scoff from his best friend.

“Oh this, just an occupational hazard,” Shawn barks out in a strangled laugh as he waves a dismissive hand away from his bruised face, “but hey, you're back huh? I would have figured you'd stick with the east coast after Princeton, nothing like living in New York”.

“New Jersey,” Anthony corrects with the same crooked smile that Shawn loved all those years ago.

He feels his ears begin to heat without his permission, “I've heard it both ways,” Shawn says with a confidence he doesn’t feel. He clears his throat loudly as Gus steps closer, standing nearly between him and Anthony with a scowl etched on his face.

“Why are you at the station man?” Gus asks coolly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“I could ask you guys the same thing, but imagine my surprise when I saw your name in the paper,” Anthony says with a grin, “I would have thought after what happened that summer you would steer clear of cop shops, hey Shawnie?”

Shawn winces at the nickname and leans closer to Gus, “Yeah, I uh, it’s good, I’m consulting--”

Anthony hums, dropping his gaze up and down as though scanning Shawn, the warm smile he’s wearing doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “no kidding”.

“Actually,” Gus bites out, glaring openly at Anthony who all but ignores him, “we’ve assisted on over twenty cases already this year”.

“Then I bet you could give me a hand with something hmm?” Anthony moves closer, reaching out to clap Shawn’s shoulder once before gripping it loosely, his thumb traces a soft pattern over the sleeve of his lime green polo, “how about it, for old times sake?”

Shawn hates the way his stomach flips at the touch.

“What's the case?” Gus asks before Shawn can open his mouth, Anthony glances at him with an annoyed grimace before breathing out a long sigh.

“Well, my new wife and I went to this resort in San Diego, Beach Village something-or-other, and we're pretty sure that one of the attendants stole my watch and wedding ring,” he says with a frown, he turns back to Shawn with a soft smile and gently slides his hand down Shawn’s arm to grip his elbow, his hands are cold and clammy against his bare skin.

New wife.

Shawn swallows harshly as he takes his arm back from the other man’s hand. He hates the way his chest feels tight at the words, the way the slimy slide of Anthony’s eyes over his face still manages to make him feel simultaneously like he’s flying and crashing, even now that the man is so, so clearly trying to use him.

And he’s not even being subtle about it.

“You and your wife didn't go to hotel security?” Shawn says smoothly as he catalogs the other man's appearance now. He takes in the slightly swollen fingers on both hands, wrists and the slight swell of the other man's face. Shawn had seen that same swelling before, when his grandad took him and Gus when they were kids to the mountains for some ‘proper’ camping as he called it.

Anthony looks away as he nods.

“Oh I did, but we were leaving the same day and I--we, my wife and I, just wanted to get out of there so we could file a police report. My insurance company said that would be the first thing to do”.

Shawn grimaces at the obvious lie, “I can't let you file a false report Anthony,” he says quietly, keeping his tone neutral as he watches the other man blink in surprise.

Anthony is silent for a moment, looking at Gus first with a laugh in his eyes that disappears when neither Gus nor Shawn join him, “what are you talking about?”

Shawn sighs, before taking a step closer, “just, why don't we talk outside, you haven’t made the report yet so--”

“Talk outside,” Anthony repeats incredulously, “what-just what are you implying?” He’s angry now, his spine straight and all traces of good humour have vanished.

“Anthony, come on,” Shawn says lowly, looking around, ”I put up with you talking to me like I'm stupid when we were eighteen, but I'm not about to let you do this”. None of the officers milling about have spared them a glance so far, but judging by the rapid flush rising up Anthony's neck he won't be staying quiet for long. Lassiter and Juliet hover in the background from their nearby desks, watching the exchange and Shawn hopes they leave it be.

“Is that what this is about?” Anthony says, and yup, there's the volume he was worried about, “Jesus Christ Shawn, are you seriously doing this because I dumped you? It was like twenty years ago, get over it!”

Shawns balks at the words, turning to Gus, “When did we turn forty, did I miss the cake?”

He swallows harshly, still grinning despite the way his ears have begun to heat, “Ten years, twenty years, same diff, but that’s not what we’re talking about Anthony, you’re trying to file a false police report”.

“Okay,” Lassiter interrupts, as he swiftly walks up to stand between the three men, “this is a police station, I'm going to need you to lower your voice”.

Shawn feels eyes on them from the rest of the station. Vick is still in her office, thank God, but Buzz has joined their little watch party now and Juliet has also moved closer, standing beside Gus with her hands at her hips, classic power pose.

God Shawn has the worst fucking luck lately, because of course Lassiter and Juliet, are the ones that get to witness his ex-boyfriend publicly tear a strip off him.

Anthony's face twists as he nods sharply, glaring at Shawn over the Detectives shoulder. Shawn breathes a sigh out through his nose, gritting his teeth as Anthony opens his mouth to defend himself or discredit Shawn --same difference at this point.

“If this man is bothering you,” Lassiter continues without missing a beat, “rest assured we will remove him from the premises”.

“Oh sure,” Shawn says snidely, rolling his eyes, as Gus stiffens beside him, "kick out the person not actively committing a crime, great work Lassie--”

“I wasn't talking about you, Shawn,” Lassiter cuts him off, glaring at Anthony.

Oh.

Shawn looks at Gus who is staring at the Detective as if trying to download his thoughts because, who the hell is this and what have they done with Lassie?

“Alright sir, it’s time to go,” Juliet says primly as she takes a step fully between Shawn and Anthony, standing nearly shoulder to shoulder with Lassiter.

Anthony sucks his teeth, his eyes darting between the two detectives as though sizing them up, “he doesn't have any proof, you're not taking his bullshit seriously are you?”

Lassiter says nothing, his narrowed blue eyes flick between Anthony and Shawn.

“Shawn probably had a vision, right?” Buzz says from his desk in the corner, “he's very good--”

“Oh my god, Is that what he told you?” Anthony laughs, and it's not a nice laugh, “good to see nothing's changed, everything’s still a joke to you, huh Shawn?”.

Shawn stiffens and takes a deep breath, A few more officers are now looking at them, Buzz watches worriedly from his desk and stands up from his chair.

“Okay,” Shawn says, shaking his head, “sure, you said you were filing a report for the theft of your watch and wedding ring, that they went missing at the resort you and wifey stayed at, right?”

Juliet and Lassiter both turn back to Shawn now, Lassiter watching Shawn with the same blank expression he’s come to hate recently while Juliet tilts her head curiously, her eyes flit between Gus and Shawn.

Anthony raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest now in a silent challenge. Well, game on Llewelyn.

“Dragging some poor resort attendant through the mud for this? Thinking no one will question it, right?”

“Shawn,” Gus says warningly, reaching out for Shawn’s elbow but he pulls away from his grasp.

Shawn continues, ignoring the way Gus drops his face into his hands, “that resort is almost four hours away, definitely at a higher altitude and way warmer than Santa Barbara, just based on how swollen your hands are”.

“Shawn,” Gus hisses at the same time Lassiter says, “elevation,” in a tone Shawn has never heard before, but he keeps going, ignoring them both.

“With the abrasions on your ring finger knuckle there, and the marks on your wrist where the watch would have been, you clearly took them off after your drive”.

Anthony freezes, his mouth opens and closes once before his face hardens into a vicious glare.

Shawn smirks, gotcha.

“Are you--you’re not serious right now,” Anthony sputters, taking an aborted step towards Shawn but Juliet is faster, halting his movement with a firm hand on his chest, “that isn't--this is unbelievable, you’re fucking pathetic”.

“And you're just after the insurance payout,” Shawn hits back sharply, he feels Gus’ hands on his shoulder, holding him back as Juliet stands her ground, waiting until the other man finally takes another step away, raising his hands in surrender.

“God,” Anthony says, dropping one hand heavily at his side while the other runs through his curly brown hair, “I don’t know how I put up with you for as long as I did in highschool Shawn, leaving for Princeton was the best decision I ever made--”

“So you're Princeton,” Lassiter interrupts as he turns towards Anthony fully, leaving his back to Shawn and Gus.

Gus lets go of Shawn's shoulders just to bring them back to slap him on the arms, an expression of dawning horror blooms on his face.

“What?” Anthony growls at Lassiter, leveling him with an unimpressed glare.

“You're the other idiot that made a mess that we’re all still trying to clean up,” Lassiter says and Gus's jaw drops briefly before his head tilts contemplatively, eyes narrowing at Lassiter.

What the fuck is happening??

Shawn tries to step forward again, but Gus renews his grip on his shoulders, shaking his head in a silent, ‘I-don't-know-what-the-hell-is-happening-either-but-you-need-to-be-cool’.

“So you,” Lassiter says, taking a menacing step closer, “should take his advice and leave now before we book you for filing a false report”.

Anthony breathes out a scoff, “what, you believe this asshole?”

“And disturbing the peace,” Juliet says brightly, counting on her fingers, “and threatening an officer--”

Anthony looks between Juliet and Lassiter for a moment, seemingly weighing the pros and cons of continuing his tirade as the number of cops watching from the sidelines grows. He rolls his eyes and shakes out his shoulders before finally, finally, taking a step backwards and turning back towards the entrance, “Okay, okay, I'm leaving, have a nice life Shawnie”.

“I’ll walk you out,” Lassiter growls, gesturing towards the lobby. He doesn't move until Anthony turns on his heel and finally leaves the bullpen.

It’s quiet for all of five seconds, Shawn can feel the eyes of the room on them as he takes a deep breath through his nose before slowly exhaling through his mouth. The bubble of silence pops shortly as Juliet clears her throat, leveling an impressive Lassiter-like glare around the station.

“I’m going to make sure that’s all Carlton does,” Juliet says quietly as she reaches for Shawn’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before she follows the pair out of the station. He nods, watching her go as a bone weary fatigue suddenly hits him square in the chest. It’s most likely a lingering concussion symptom from all the yelling and sudden stress which makes the whole situation all the worse, his first day back at the station is now a write off.

Gus steps closer, his brow pinched in concern, “okay I know that sucked, but you need to get out of here”.

“Yeah,” he says, wiping a tired hand over his face, “I just--I need a minute--”

“Nope,” Gus says sharply, “now, before Lassiter and Jules get back”.

“Gus,” Shawn breathes out tiredly, feeling as though the last string holding him up is about to snap altogether, “don't be a wet sock inside my favorite shoe--”

“Shawn,” Gus interrupts, "you just deduced a crime and walked the head Detective through your entire process, without a single vision”.

Shawn feels his breath catch in his throat as he walks back through the last five minutes because Gus is right.

He steps back from the memory of Anthony standing over him, sneering, and shifts his gaze to Lassiter who looks at Shawn with narrowed eyes that pierce through his underbelly. The terminator scan is back and on full force now.

“Shit,” Shawn whispers, horrified, “shit, shit, shit, that's worse”.

Lassiter knows, knows that Shawn has been lying for months. Not just to him but the whole department, to the people he had started to call friends.

“Okay,” Gus steps back, gesturing to the back entrance usually reserved for officers, “go, I’ll see if I can do some damage control, I'll call you later”.

Shawn nods only vaguely aware that Gus has stepped away from the sudden lack of warmth beside him. He starts making his way to the side exit only for Gus to plow into his back like a linebacker before spinning Shawn around to hug him tight.

“Anthony was a jackass then and it looks like that hasn't changed,” Gus says into his shoulder, “so for what it's worth you dodged a bullet man”.

Shawn slowly wraps his arms around his best friend, letting the tension from the confrontation with Anthony fall away.

“Thanks,” Shawn says after a beat before loosening his grip to pat Gus on the back as he steps away, “now, I have an escape to make and several, several, orders of not-sad snacks to grab”.

“Don't you throw a pity party without me Shawn--”

“Wouldn't dream of it!” He calls over his shoulder with a grin as he slips out the side door.

***

Shawn is well into his pity party, about two orders of queso dos fritos deep --the perfect not-sad snack, midway through his VHS copy of Gladiator, and with a list of places in Arizona he had not managed to see before coming back to Santa Barbara --his options other than skipping town again all but nothing, when he hears a knock at the door.

Four raps in quick successive pairs.

Shawn freezes.

It could be Gus trying out a new knocking pattern, and here with better news than his spiraling thoughts can conjure, but Gus hasn't called.

Shawn holds his breath, slowly reaching for the remote to pause the movie, relieved that he hadn't opened the blinds on the window facing the street when he got home from the station earlier.

Maybe if he stayed quiet--

“I can hear your movie Spencer”.

God Dammit.

Shawn angrily stops the tape before dropping the remote onto the couch which bounces once and then falls to the floor with a noisy plastic clatter.

“I know you’re in there,” Lassiter’s voice travels through the door clear as a bell.

He sighs, dropping his head back onto the couch before he lifts the grease stained cardboard holding the few remaining fries from his chest and stands up, tossing the garbage onto the coffee table that is actually a garish slab of green plexiglass held up by several stacked milk crates he had spray painted red and superglued together.

Gus said it was hideous the last time he had visited but Shawn loves his DIY project.

Eat your heart out Martha Stewart.

He makes his way over to the door, opening it just enough to see the Detective with his hands in his suit jacket pockets, looking around with a suspicious glare.

“You live in a laundromat?” He says in lieu of a greeting.

“What are you doing here Lassiter?” Shawn asks tiredly as he opens the door a little wider, leaning his shoulder against the frame, blocking any additional line of sight into his place.

“The spirits didn't tell you?” The Detective says as he removes his hands from the pockets of his coat to cross his arms over his chest.

Shawn fights the urge to slam the door in his stupid face.

Lassiter shakes his head after a beat of stony silence as Shawn says nothing, and sighs.

“Can I come in?”

Shawn shrugs, looking away but doesn't move from the door, blocking the entrance.

“Depends,” he says after another beat.

“Look, if you're worried about…” Carlton tries, the words come out haltingly, “I'm not going to…”

God Shawn does not want to have this conversation.

Lassiter breathes out, lifting his hands to run through his hair, shifting the normally neat salt and pepper locks out of place and Shawn is over it.

“Look, I really don't want to do this right now Detective,” Shawn sighs as he shifts his hands on the door, moving back slightly to end the stilted conversation and shut Lassiter out when a hand darts out to push the door open.

“Woah, hey--” Shawn tries but the Detective cuts him off by suddenly gripping his shoulders and walking him back into the apartment.

“What the f--what are you doing?!” He hisses, wrenching himself out of Carlton’s hands.

“Sorry,” Lassiter says, “I don't, I’m not,” he breathes out sharply through his nose and lifts one hand to pinch into his eyes briefly.

“You know, if I illegally enter someone's home, they aren't usually there to see me do it,” Shawn snips, crossing his arms tightly over his chest, “allegedly--”

“I'm not good at this,” Lassiter cuts him off, his voice loud in the small entryway. He drops his hands to his side before taking a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, “I've thought long and hard about exactly what I would say to you if I managed to catch you,” he gestures sharply at Shawn with an open palm, “to figure out exactly how you do what you do”.

Fuck.

It's exactly what he and Gus had been worried about back at the station. He had exposed himself and Lassiter was finally pouncing on it.

“You astound me Spencer”.

Shawn blinks, his head tilts slightly as he peers at Lassiter, his eyes tracing over his face for any hint of a lie.

It's the same drunk words from nearly a month ago, and this time Carlton is sober.

“I knew it wasn't that psychic crock, I've always known that,” Carlton continues, oblivious to Shawn's shock. He reaches back to close Shawns front door before stepping further into the room.

“But, over the last few months I've watched you make the most outlandish, ridiculous, amazing deductions seemingly out of thin air”.

Lassiter's eyes flick between Shawn's own, “but it's not out of thin air, is it?”

He takes another step closer, “you observe, you see things others miss, right? Like the elevation thing today”.

Shawn swallows heavily and tries for a laugh that rings out hollowly.

“Look Lassie, Carlytown, Lassidopholous,” his voice sounds unnaturally high pitched, nervous, even to his own ears as he takes a step back from the Detective, “you’re barking up the wrong tree--”

“And you deflect with stupid jokes, nicknames, and obnoxious theatrics with Guster so people don't pick up on it,” Lassiter says firmly, taking another step into Shawns space.

“Pick up on what?” Shawn says quietly.

Lassiter pauses, his throat bobs as he swallows before taking a deep, determined breath and squaring his shoulders, “how brilliant you are”.

Shawn snorts, waiting for the punchline, “okay, who are you and what have you done with Lassie?”

Lassiter doesn’t move and his expression remains unchanged, “I'm being serious, Shawn”.

Shawn barks out a crackling laugh through the sudden tightness in his throat after a beat, “but,” Shawn runs a shaking hand through his hair. It doesn’t make any sense, where the hell is this coming from he thinks, twisting his fingers to pull harshly at the roots, “you never said anything”.

Carlton steps closer, resuming his pursuit, “I'm saying it now”.

“Are you sure?” Shawn asks in a small voice before he clears his throat roughly, “I mean, are you sure this isn't a prank?”

Shawn grins but it doesn't quite reach his eyes, “is Ashton Kutcher about to jump out of my cabinet because I haven't really prepared to have guests over--”

Shawn stops short as Lassiter reaches out with one hand to cup his face while the other hand rises up to gently remove his fist from the iron grip he has on his own hair. Lassiter slowly untangles his fingers before bringing their hands down to hang between them.

“Definitely not a prank,” the Detective says softly as he squeezes Shawn's hand, and holy hannah when did Lassie become such a Casanova?

Carlton doesn't let go.

“This okay?” he asks, his blue eyes flit between Shawn's own.

Shawn feels his face and ears heat in an uncharacteristic moment of flustered surprise as he looks between his hand and Lassie's face. His mouth opens and closes but words, a previously unending resource for him, have vanished.

Carlton grins down at him, stepping closer, “finally stumped you eh Spencer? I thought I'd have to resort to drastic measures to shut you up,” he says, rubbing his thumb gently over Shawn's cheekbone.

Shawn huffs out a strangled laugh, licking his slightly chapped lips; he watches the way those same bright blue eyes follow the movement of his tongue.

“Drastic does seem more my style, but maybe you could pull it off”.

Carlton smiles as he slowly moves his hand to grip Shawn’s chin, tilting his face up just as he had that night at Tom Blairs.

“Shut up, Shawn,” Carlton breathes over his lips, gently sliding the tip of his nose down Shawns, still cognizant of the healing cartilage, before leaning down to finally kiss him.

Shawn makes a noise, a muffled hum of surprise as Carlton walks them backwards until they connect with the wall behind them. His hand slides up from Shawn's jaw to cup the back of his head as he presses further into him, while the other hand drops Shawn's to slide up his back, pulling him into Carlton even more.

Insistent lips coax his mouth open for Carlton to slide his tongue along Shawn's--who gave him the right, or the ability, to kiss like this??

Stuffy, uptight, by-the-book, Head Detective, Carlton Lassiter kissed like a man starved and Shawn could feel his brain vacillating between over analyzing this turn of events and turning to goo.

Maybe that Snapple intern was on to something because Shawn could easily see himself kissing Lassie like this for hours, weeks, maybe he'd have to give them a call about their stats, let them know the record would be broken by Lassie's lips and tongue.

Shawn's hands slide up Carltons chest as a firm knee slots between his legs, moaning as he grips at the lapels of the Detective's horrible suit jacket--if Shawn has a say moving forward, he's definitely going to be insisting on a wardrobe upgrade---

Carlton breathes out sharply through his nose as he pulls away, just far enough to stop the kiss but his Iips still brush Shawn's as he speaks, "I can hear you thinking a mile a minute, I must not be doing a very good job?”

Shawn huffs out a strangled laugh as he slides one of the hands on Carlton’s chest up to rest on the back of his neck, his fingers brushing the short hairs that have started to grow out.

“Me? Thinking? You must have confused me with someone else”.

“Shawn Spencer,” Carlton says softly as he kisses the apple of Shawn’s cheek, “fake psychic,” he kisses the soft skin beside Shawn’s right eye, “much smarter than he lets on” he kisses Shawn’s forehead,” loyal to a fault,” Carlton hums, finally pulling back to look him in the eye’s directly.

“Careful Lassie,” Shawn says a little breathlessly, “this is starting to sound like a compliment”.

Carlton hesitates for a beat, his thumb tracing up and down Shawn’s pulse point, “based on what I know of Henry, and that jackass who came into the department,” he says slowly, softly, “compliments probably came pretty sparingly for you”.

Shawn feels himself still in Carlton’s embrace, his mouth twitches at the corners as he tries for a grin that feels brittle, fake.

“Now I know you’re definitely confused, I love me some praise, Gus insists I have to be careful or my head'll swell, even more than it already has, and float away on the Santa Anas”.

He unwinds his hands from around the Detective and tries to step around him but Carlton’s grip around him is firm, “besides, that guy, that was, just an old friend from school--”

“Dammit,” Carlton says under his breath before shaking his head and seemingly steeling himself, “I need to…tell you something,” Carlton continues slowly, sliding his thumb in soothing half circles on Shawn's back, “I read the transcript from your call that night.”

Shawn can't stop the full body twitch at the words and does push against Carlton this time, ducking away from the warm hands holding him against the wall, “you-- come again?”

“Shawn--”

“You...you called him Princeton,” Shawn says weakly as the memory from earlier flashes before him. It was an odd thing for the Detective to say even then, but he’d been so distracted by the whole confrontation that its significance had slipped his notice. Jesus, how did that happen?

“I can explain,” Lassiter tries before Shawn waves a hand out in front of him, crossing his arms tightly over his chest.

“Explain it then,” he snaps.

Lassiter swallows, his mouth twitches miserably before he finally says, “outgoing calls are monitored Shawn, you called from Vicks desk, we have the transcript”.

The words hit him square in the chest and it takes everything in him not to tell the Detective to get the hell out of his apartment. His stomach clenches unhappily as he wipes his hand over his mouth, he hears his own small voice in his own head, sharp as though it was only yesterday.

“You were right Gus, he uh, he's going to Princeton, can't have someone like me dragging him down, wait, maybe I'm the Brodie in this scenario”.

“How long have you known?”

Chapter Eleven Up!

Tag List: @adaed5 @drakkywolf @newgrangespirals @riverofrainbows @steddierthings @newgrangespirals @eriquin @childofposiden71 @theoxymoronicpoet @cinderellarhea @ladystardustinblackjeans

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bowditch · 11 months ago

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shawn: you've failed to fulfill my molotov's hierarchy of needs. i'm feeling a decided lack of ego-stroking and we haven't even touched on taco trucks or naps today.

gus: it's maslow's hierarchy and you know that's not how it works, shawn.

shawn: what i'm hearing is a refusal to recognize my need for acts of petty spite and also shiny trinkets.

gus: it's physiological, safety, belonging, esteem, and self-actualization, shawn. we were in the same high school health class.

#psych #dialogue writing #shawn spencer #burton guster #shitposting

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psychooomind · 7 months ago

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Flickering Lights

Michael Gavey x singer!reader

Summary: Michael and Violet come from completely different worlds, but when their paths cross at university, an unexpected connection sparks between them. As their relationship deepens, they must navigate secrets, misunderstandings, and their own fears. Can their love overcome the odds, or will the time put them apart?

A multi-entry, slow-burn, friends to lovers fic.

You can also read it at AO3 here.

Chapter 2

Chapter 1: First Days

The autumn breeze brushed the girl’s cheeks as she adjusted the strap of her violin on her shoulder. She was walking briskly to her first class, listening to Avril Lavigne on her MP3 player.

She was in an incredible mood, having anticipated this moment for months. Yet, she couldn’t shake the first-day nerves, so she decided to walk from her flat to the university. The imposing Gothic building loomed before her, making everything feel more real than she had imagined: she had done it—she was going to study music.

“ You’ll fail, just like your mother did .” Her father’s words had echoed in her head since she was fifteen, ever since she began expressing her growing desire to study music. Her first spark of rebellion had come when she met Hannah Abraham, a Jewish girl who studied French with her and whose parents had allowed her to take drum lessons. Hannah had mentioned that she planned to audition for a girl group in London that was looking for a drummer. The girl had spent countless hours listening to her friend play the drums after their French classes, so she wasn’t surprised when Hannah got the spot. What Violet didn’t know then was that she would become a fan of the band and, a year later, would join them as a secondary vocalist, becoming part of the incredible Wrecked Shiny Girls.

Now, three years later, she was here, refining her craft. Her father still disapproved of her choices, particularly her involvement with the band, but there was no turning back now. Besides, Frederick Bryon still had Victor, her twin brother, who was also starting university—but at Christian Church College. Victor followed their father’s orders to the letter and was studying economics as instructed.

But Violet had a clear purpose: to prove that studying music at St. Hilda’s was more than just a “rebellious phase,” as her father insisted on calling it. To her, this wasn’t simply a decision; it was her life and her passion.

When she entered her first class, Musical and Artistic Analysis, she sat at the front and waited for the other students to file in. Among the crowd, she recognised Marcey Frey and Caroline Meyer, two girls from her old school. Both ignored her, which came as no surprise—she had never had a good relationship with them.

The professor, Cornelia Shawn, was a renowned British composer who had been teaching at St. Hilda’s since the 1980s. Violet had read several articles about her and her involvement in songs by the likes of Billy Joel, Elton John, and others. When Professor Shawn introduced herself, the room erupted into applause, Violet’s hands among them. She still couldn’t quite believe where she was sitting.

At the other end of Oxford, a boy was getting dressed for his first day. Michael had chosen one of the shirts his mother had neatly ironed and folded into his bag, pairing it with cargo trousers his uncle Alfred had gifted him last Christmas. There wasn’t a mirror in his dorm room.

In fact, there wasn’t much in his dorm room at all. Just a bed with built-in drawers, already made with sheets from home the night before; a desk displaying his weekly pill organiser as its only noteworthy item; and a slightly rusted lamp he hadn’t yet tested to see if it worked. The walls were white but scarred with small patches of peeled paint, evidence of a poster once taped there before his arrival. A corkboard hung on the wall as well, predictably bare.

He had made a mental note when he arrived to unpack his clothes and place them in the drawers, but he’d barely slept the night before. His anxiety was through the roof, so he dashed out to his first class: Calculus. He was the first to arrive, even before the professor, who shuffled in at a slow, weary pace. The man unlocked the room, and Michael took a seat at the front. The professor eyed him curiously before settling in to wait for more students.

A group of students trickled in moments later, filling the room with murmurs and footsteps. The constant noise set Michael on edge until the professor finally rose and addressed the class, introducing himself and outlining the syllabus as though anyone actually needed to hear it.

Michael took notes on everything. He didn’t need to—his memory was impeccable, and he retained every word the professor said with ease. But years ago, his therapist had recommended putting his thoughts on paper when he felt anxious. Today, his thoughts were entirely consumed by calculus. As he looked down at his notebook, he felt a rare sense of satisfaction. Numbers, at least, were beautifully, perfectly controllable.

After class, he headed back to his dormitory but decided to detour through the cafeteria. Inside, a group of students his age were shouting and sitting on tables instead of chairs, talking as though they were the only ones in the room. He recognised them from the night before—the same group of misfits whose “first-night party” had kept him awake. Naturally, he hadn’t been invited.

Among them was a tall boy with a piercing in his eyebrow, laughing obnoxiously with a red-haired guy about a group of students who had tried to join the party without an invitation. Next to them, a dark-skinned boy with an afro was mockingly teasing a girl whose skirt was so short Michael could have sworn he’d seen her underwear. Meanwhile, her friend was fiddling nervously with her hair, casting provocative glances at the boy with the piercing.

Michael knew who they were. They weren’t there to study but to make a mess of things. They were the type who hadn’t earned their place but had wealthy parents footing the bill for expensive and, in Michael’s view, pointless degrees like Art or Business Management.

He, on the other hand, had spent nearly five years preparing to earn his scholarship to Oxford. Not only that, but he had the distinction of being, quite literally, the best young mathematician of his age. He’d won district, regional, and national competitions to get here. His mother had dragged him to every one of those competitions to ensure he reached his goal. And now here he was, watching others squander their privilege, lounging about with famous surnames and deep pockets.

He approached the vending machine, slid in his money, and waited for his chocolate bar. But the old, neglected machine jammed. Behind him, the red-haired boy joined the queue.

“Taking long, mate?” asked the boy, eyeing him curiously.

“It’s stuck,” Michael muttered without looking up, giving the machine a firm knock.

“What was that?” the boy snapped, his tone sharp. “What did you say?”

“The machine’s stuck,” Michael repeated irritably.

Michael sighed, delivered another frustrated knock to the vending machine, and prepared to leave. Behind him, the red-haired boy called out to one of his friends—the one with the piercing—who approached, smirking. Michael didn’t wait for the encounter to escalate. He recognised their type all too well: the kind who could spot an easy target from a mile away.

“All good, Victor?” asked the boy with the piercing.

“Yeah, the nerd broke the vending machine. No drink for me, I guess,” the redhead replied with a laugh.

Michael stormed back to his dormitory, fuming. Spoiled brats. He’d lost both his snack and his time.

As he approached his room, a nearby door slammed shut. He paused, watching curiously. After a moment, a girl’s head poked out cautiously before retreating with a startled “Oh, God.”

He stared at the door, puzzled.

“Sorry,” came a muffled voice from the other side. “I have a hard time socialising with people I don’t know.”

Michael nodded to himself and entered his own room. At least he wasn’t the only odd one on the floor.

At St. Hilda’s, Violet had just finished her first class and was heading to the bustling campus café. The atmosphere was overwhelming, like trying to tune into thousands of conversations all at once. Groups of students animatedly debated the recent tuition fee hike to £3,000 per year at universities across the country. Others read passages from Zygmunt Bauman aloud, while a smaller cluster sat to one side, strumming guitars.

She found a quiet table and sat alone, pulling out her songbook. That weekend, she had band practice, and there were still songs she hadn’t memorised. As she focused on the lines of a new melody, someone approached.

“Mind if I sit here?” asked a girl with curly hair and curious eyes.

“Of course, go ahead,” Violet replied with a smile.

The girl introduced herself as Claire, a literature student who also had a keen interest in music. Their conversation flowed effortlessly, and for the first time since her arrival, Violet felt she might find genuine friendships here.

Later, when Violet returned to the apartment she shared with her brother, she opened the door to find the living room thick with smoke and laughter. Victor and his friends had brought bottles of liquor and a deck of cards.

“Victor, what’s going on?” Violet asked, setting her violin case on the floor.

“Relax, hippie. We’re prepping for our first-night dinner,” Victor replied, raising his glass. Beside him sat a tuxedo and shirt, crumpled and ignored.

“Could you at least not turn my living room into a dodgy pub? You know you can’t smoke in here.”

“Your living room,” Farleigh Start mocked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Beside him, Felix Catton let out a loud laugh. “Looks like the princess here thinks she owns the castle.”

“It is my apartment, Start. If you don’t like the rules, you can leave.”

“It’s Daddy’s apartment, not yours,” Start sneered.

Violet rolled her eyes. “Well, at least I have one, don’t I?”

Farleigh muttered a curse under his breath, and Victor, her brother, did nothing to defend her. Violet chose to ignore them, slamming her bedroom door shut. A chorus of male howls and laughter erupted behind her.

Victor’s friends had always been insufferable, and university hadn’t changed a thing. Felix Catton, Farleigh Start, and a few of the girls, like India Aitken and Anabell Bodley, had all attended the same school as Violet and Victor. She had endured Felix’s relentless advances and Anabell’s passive-aggressive hostility for years. In gym class, Anabell had often ensured they were paired together, deliberately targeting Violet with the ball during games.

That evening, as Violet practised quietly on her bass guitar, she made herself a promise: she wouldn’t let Victor and his friends’ antics derail her ambitions

As Michael wandered through the dining hall, he was still debating whether or not to attend the dinner. Upon arrival, he realised there wasn’t a single available seat. Every table was packed with groups that had already formed, many of them students who seemed to know each other.

Most people didn’t even glance at him, and those who did wore faint expressions of discomfort or indifference. Finally, Michael spotted an empty chair at a table tucked away in the corner. After a moment’s hesitation, he approached and sat down. The others at the table didn’t seem particularly invested in the social dynamics of the room, which, in that moment, was a relief.

A few minutes passed before a boy with brown hair and glasses similar to Michael’s sat down across from him. Michael observed him as he nervously scanned the room, clearly aware of his outsider status. To Michael, he was unmistakably one of them —another invisible presence—and that, oddly enough, made him feel a little less alone.

Without giving it much thought, Michael thrust out his hand abruptly, almost with authority, to break the silence.

“I’m Michael Gavey,” he said, his voice carrying its usual tone of self-assuredness.

The boy, slightly startled but polite, shook his hand.

“Oliver,” he replied.

“Oliver what ?” Michael pressed.

“Oliver Quick.”

“Ah, one of those, are you? A nobody, right?” Michael said with a wry smile, half-expecting a snarky retort.

Oliver shrugged, letting out a nervous laugh.

“Aren’t we all? It’s just the first night,” he replied, glancing uneasily around the room.

Michael’s gaze followed his, pointing out the packed tables where students were laughing and bonding with ease. The contrast with his own corner of the room couldn’t have been starker—a gathering of strangers and misfits.

“Look around,” Michael said, bitterness creeping into his voice. “You see what I see. It’s you, me, and the girl with agoraphobia who hasn’t even left her room.”

Oliver shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. He couldn’t deny the truth in Michael’s observation. Their table was, indeed, a haven for those who didn’t quite belong. Oddly, though, Oliver found the isolation less troubling than he might have expected.

“What are you reading?” Michael asked abruptly, steering the conversation away from the heavy silence but still unable to shake his own simmering frustration.

Oliver hesitated, holding up the book in his hands.

“Nothing in particular,” he said evasively.

Michael wasted no time.

“I’m reading maths,” he announced, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Not because I enjoy it—though I’m brilliant at it. I can solve anything. Go on, test me. Ask me a sum.”

Oliver blinked, taken aback by the boldness of the claim. He hesitated, unsure whether to humour him.

“No, that’s fine…” Oliver said quickly, trying to sidestep the challenge.

Michael wasn’t having it. His need to prove himself burned too brightly.

“Come on, ask me. Anything.”

Oliver glanced at him, his expression growing tense.

“No, really, it’s fine—”

“Ask me a fucking sum!” Michael snapped, his patience wearing thin.

“All right then…” Oliver relented, pausing for a moment. “Four hundred and twenty-three times seventy-eight.”

Without missing a beat, Michael responded.

“Thirty-two thousand, nine hundred and ninety-four.”

Oliver stared, visibly impressed. It wasn’t just that Michael had given the correct answer; it was the speed and apparent ease with which he’d arrived at it. Michael leaned back in his chair, a self-satisfied grin on his face, savouring the moment.

Unbeknownst to him, at a nearby table, Victor and Felix were watching. They nudged each other and laughed quietly, mocking him from a distance. Between the two of them, they planned an idea to play a joke on him.

That Friday, Violet had already finished all her classes for the week. She caught a bus to meet her band at Barry’s Pub, a cosy venue with exposed brick walls, an open bar, and most importantly, a raised stage. For The Wrecked Shiny Girls , this place would soon become their sanctuary.

Dany, the owner, had agreed to keep them as the weekend night act, a deal that promised to boost both the pub’s reputation and the band’s popularity among Oxford’s student scene.

“This is going to be amazing,” said Walda, the band’s vocalist, as she adjusted her microphone. “Our big break, ladies. Mark my words.”

Violet tuned her bass and got ready for the opening song. As the first chords filled the air, Jessy stood nearby, chewing gum and untangling her microphone cables.

“It’s too dark,” she remarked flatly. “The stage is practically invisible.”

Violet glanced around and realised Jessy was right. The stage lacked any direct lighting, and with the pub packed, they were in danger of being completely overlooked.

Walda, sporting her punk boots and spiked hair, started grumbling that this was the only place that had given them a chance. Jessy, clearly in a mood, fanned the flames of the argument. Lorelei had to step in to calm them down, while Violet and Hannah exchanged weary looks.

Walda’s temper could be explosive, and Jessy often seemed to be there just to provoke her. While Violet felt like she was exactly where she belonged, she worried that external pressures or the lack of camaraderie between the two might sabotage the band’s potential.

She couldn’t afford to lose this.

On stage, none of it mattered—the tension at home, her father’s disapproval, or anyone else’s opinions. It was just her and the music.

#michael gavey x reader #michael gavey #michael gavey fanfic #michael gavey x you #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell verse #ewan verse #aemond targaryen imagine #i just have to make the fic myself #nerdy boy #fanfic #my fanfic stuff #fanfiction

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echoingbirdsofprey · 4 months ago

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Lightning On My Lips (Every Time You Kiss Me)

28 - Take It Easy On My Heart

Pairing: Tyler Owens x OFC Georgia Tennley-Owens

Rating: EXPLICIT (MDNI!)

Warnings: SMUT, unprotected!piv, arguing, pregnancy talk (briefly)

A/N: Idk I don't have much to say other than thanks @crossskylinesandcontrails and @rootedinrevisions for sharing the brain cell LOL. Thank y'all as always for reading, commenting, reblogging, etc. Much love and appreciation <3

Tags: @mrsevans90 @djs8891 @gpsmississippihippie @barnesboo1967 @dizzybee03 @kmc1989 @coloraturadiva @khouse712 @crossskylinesandcontrails @kaleysbookshelf @tlosbooks

Tyler and Boone had successfully completed their mission. They’d grabbed Georgia’s new truck, and swapped the trailer for her new trailer, which was an absolute steal on their part. The two horse stock trailer that Tyler had picked up for cheap from a friend and had been in excellent condition because it had been sitting for about two years without use, was a worthy trade for the four horse slant load, gooseneck, with a tack room and attached living quarters.

They had also picked up their new horse, one that Tyler had actually found, an actual, proven kid’s horse. They were hoping he would get along with Ducati so that they could share the stall until Tyler was able to build a small shed row behind the barn. Tyler exchanged the cash for the gelding and then they handed him all fifteen hands of grey quarter horse to load onto the new trailer.

Roadie stepped right up, no issues, and traveled silently all the way to their pit stop. On the way was the place that had the truck for Kate. It was an older Dodge Ram in a forest green, much like Boone’s, except it wasn't a dually. It was a 2500 and had a long bed. It was in great condition for how old it was. Tyler crawled underneath it, Grits following him.

“Looks good under here.” He said, backing out with a little push from Grits. “Thanks bud.” He rubbed the dog's ears and the guy selling the truck smiled.

“So you want it?”

“Yeah, for sure. I'll send Kate and Scott later today to pick it up, if that’s okay?” Tyler shook the man’s hand. He climbed back into the new truck with Grits and he and Boone headed the rest of the way home. When the trucks rumbled down the driveway, Georgia came out to meet them, having just put Jaycen down for a nap. Her eyes went wide and Tyler stepped down from the truck, Grits not far behind. The dog ran to greet his sisters and they ran off toward Boone to say hello.

“Tyler...what is this? Where’s the two horse trailer?” Georgia asked, stepping down from the porch. She stared in awe of the brand new, shiny red truck. Dustin came out of the barn to help bring Roadie in. They were going to put him right out with Ducati.

“A pretty truck. For my pretty wife.” Tyler mused, motioning to the truck, the door still open.

“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” She asked, a wide smirk across her lips as he guided her into the driver seat. She ran her hands over the steering wheel and then glanced out the door toward the bed and the dual wheels, the smooth and polished red surface glinting in the sunlight.

“I bought you a truck, Gee.” He said flatly, placing a hand on the doorframe and one on the side of the truck. He caged her in, keeping her from hopping out of the truck just yet,

“Why ever would you do somethin’ like this?” She asked, sliding to the edge of the seat and reaching up to cup his cheeks.

“Because, you have given me everythin’ I want, and more. This is the least I can do.” Tyler closed the distance between them, his lips soft and warm on hers. She loved the feeling of his lips on hers. It was like lightning in a summer storm. It set her heart ablaze, and made her thoughts race, filled with longing and nostalgia in one warm and terrifying package.

“Jesus Tyler, you give me more than enough. I don’t need anythin’ more than your love. Anthin’ other than you.” The smile stayed painted on her lips, his just inches from hers, also grinning.

“Well, when I love someone Gee, I gotta show ‘em. I love you more than anythin’. I love that little boy, and I’m gonna love this kid too. Gee. you’re my fuckin’ world, darlin’. Ain't nothin’ gonna change that.” He said, wrapping his hands around her waist. They enjoyed a quiet moment and then Georgia vibrated with happiness. Even though she didn’t need anything else, it was still exciting that Tyler had bought the truck. For her. Even her truck hadn’t been new.

“You bought me a truck! And we’re havin’ another baby!” She exclaimed, jumping into his arms. He laughed and twirled her away from the truck, her feet in the air, his arms wrapped tightly around her. They felt, if only for a moment, like they were back in time, celebrating a rodeo win.

🌪🛻🌪

“Kate’s barrels worked.” Georgia said softly, curling into Tyler’s warm embrace as they sat atop the mesh rack on his truck. He’d put a blanket down so that they weren’t sitting on the metal and he had another one to put over them later in case they fell asleep up there.They were parked on the outskirts of the small town, out of the view of the motel patrons and fellow storm chasers. Tyler had asked that everyone rest up before they headed towards El Reno tomorrow morning. He’d also asked that no one bother him and Georgia, as they had some things to talk over. Tyler had bought dinner and they’d eaten in his truck, and it almost felt the same as before. It almost felt like five years ago.

“You wanted to talk?” She asked, her fingers playing with the sleeve of his shirt and the hair on his arm. It made him chuckle and place his hand over hers.

“Stop. That tickles.” He admitted and she pulled her hand away and ghosted her fingers back over his forearm and then along the underside. He shivered and grabbed her hand gently. “Seriously. Stop, Gee. Trouble maker.”

“Your. Trouble. Maker.” She murmured, turning slightly to him. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Us. Where do we go from here? What’s next?” Tyler’s tone is low, soft, as he wrapped an arm around her. She leaned closer.

“I think that all depends on how tomorrow goes...and whether or not I’m carryin’ your kid. You really want that, don’t you?” She asked, her brows furrowing.

“It’s nuts. I wouldn’t want it with anyone else.” He said, squeezing her a little tighter. She sighed and then gazed out toward the motel. They could see the other storm chasers mulling about in the parking lot, having a grand old time.

“We’re barely back together. Why did I let you do that?” Georgia murmured, not meaning for Tyler to hear it, but he did.

“You regret it.” He pulled away slightly, glancing at her and then shaking his head.

“No. I actually don’t, Ty. I just don’t know what I was thinkin’.” She said, her hand reaching for his chest.

“And I wanted it so bad...” He scoffed and leaned back on the roof rack.

“Ty. I’m sorry...I think...I guess I was thinking if I gave you exactly what you’ve always wanted...maybe...you’d stay.” Georgia scooted closer to him, annoyed at herself for unintentionally upsetting him. That wasn’t what she wanted. Not now.

“Been here the whole time.” He growled, turning his head away from her.

“No, I mean stay with me.” Her fingers grasped his bicep.

“Darlin’ I think you’ve got it twisted.” Tyler’s eyes flicked to hers, his stare hard on her.

“No. Ty...just...ugh. You're so infuriating.” Georgia breathed out in frustration and folded her arms across her chest.

“I am? What about me is infuriating?” Tyler bristled, and pursed his lips.

“You always think you’re right.” She shot him an annoyed look and he smirked as he put a hand on his chest.

“Do I, now?” How’s that? What am I always right about?”

“I...I don't know.”

“Yeah, exactly, cause you don't even know what you're arguin’ about. You just wanna fight. Cause you're spooked. So if you push me away it's easier for you to leave. I'm gonna tell you right now Gee...if you're carryin’ my kid...you're not leavin'.” He pointed a finger in her direction and she grabbed his hand and pushed it down.

“How dare you even think I would do that to our kid.” Her brows knitted as she folded her legs up underneath her, throwing her arms out to the sides.

“Yeah. See. You want it too.” Tyler murmured, inching closer to Georgia, knowing she was close to getting up and leaving. That was her modus operandi. She was great at leaving. But she hadn’t yet.

“Of course I do, Tyler. I’ve wanted to go back to you for so long...I just...couldn’t muster up the courage to...and I...”

“Will you shut up for two seconds?” Tyler said as he grabbed her face and kissed her. When they parted, Tyler’s hands still on her, she gave him a wide eyed look and her breath had quickened. “Why do you have to make this hard? Why can’t you just give in to me?”

“You said it yourself. I get spooked easily. Like a wild horse.” Georgia’s jaw worked as she tried not to look Tyler in his eyes, because that was too intimate right now.

“Yeah, darlin’ you’ve always been wild, an’ I thought maybe I could tame ya. But maybe I’m goin’ about that wrong?” He asked, pressing closer to her.

“You’re not. You’re not...I want you...I want this. I’m just...I...”

“Shh...just stop. Stop talkin’. Just...feel it. Feel this. I know you can feel what’s between us. Stop fightin’ it. Stop runnin’ from this...from me...Chase it. Chase this life with me...please?” He asked, placing her hand over his heart. She could feel it pounding. And that was for her. Their eyes met and Tyler was the one who closed the distance between them, their lips meeting in a kiss full of desire and passion. Tyler was the one who pulled her onto his lap, and she let him.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and she reached back to pull her boots off. He kicked his own off and both pairs slid down the front windshield, stopping on the hood. Georgia let a short giggle escape her lips and her eyes grew wild with a fire as she bit her bottom lip.

“Are we really doin’ this? Up here?” She asked and Tyler smirked.

“If ya feel it, chase it, darlin’.” He mused, his lips parting to invite hers forward. They connected and Tyler sank back, his shoulders hitting the roof rack and making it rattle. Georgia reached up, her hand going to protect his head.

“Easy there. No more concussions.” She said, as Tyler began to pull her shirt up so that he could cup her breasts.

“I’m okay. Now, putchur hands on my chest. I miss that.” He said, and she did. She unbuttoned his shirt, finding nothing underneath, except the wirey hair that made him look so much more mature, so much older. So much sexier. She drew her knees up on either side of his hips, and he dipped his fingers down to her belt, unbuckling it and unzipping her jeans.

“Tyler, what if someone sees?” She asked, her fingers doing the same to his jeans. He tilted his head and reached above his head, grabbing the other blanket.

“What did I just say?” He asked, throwing the blanket over her. He hooked his thumbs in her belt loops and yanked her jeans down, making her smile. “Ain’t no one seein’ you, ‘cept me.”

She swallowed hard as she helped him pull the denim from her legs, and she did the same for him. Her fingers ghosted up his chest, catching in the hair as they traveled, making Tyler even more aroused. She could feel how hard he was now that his jeans were gone and she was thankful for the blanket. She settled over his hips, and straightened up, the blanket falling around her waist. It was still covering them but as she went to pull her shirt off, Tyler stopped her.

“Ah, ah. Keep that on. Blanket’s good, but just in case. I can feel those perfect tits of yours through your shirt just fine for tonight.” She drew in a sharp breath, as Tyler’s hands went for her breasts then, cupping both and smiling up at her. Her brows knitted in the middle and she leaned down to press a kiss to his lips. One of his hands traveled around to the middle of her lower back, snapping the fabric of her panties gently against her skin, which made Georgia moan softly into Tyler’s mouth. They stayed locked in a hungry battle with their tongues as Georgia popped Tyler’s length through the front slit of his boxers.

Tyler’s fingers brushed over the curve of her ass, and around her thigh before pulling her panties aside. She guided him to her entrance and she hesitated for a moment, taking a deep breath before pressing the head through her folds. She gasped as Tyler’s hands gripped her hips and speared her fully on him. He let a low groan slip from his mouth and he pressed his head back into the blanket.

“Been waitin’. So long. So good.” He murmured, his voice barely audible over their shared panting. Georgia just clung onto him, letting him set the pace and rhythm. He rolled his hips into her, using the mobility that came with being a bull rider to his advantage. It had been years since his muscles had worked like that, but it was instinctual still. It was easy. Georgia leaned over him, folding her arms between herself and his chest, her hands splayed out. She let her eyes flutter shut and let her lips press into his collarbone as he rocked her gently, alternating between thrusting in and out and grinding his hips against her.

This was a different Tyler. He was careful. He was soft. He had always been like that, but Georgia couldn’t think of any time when they had been together before, where Tyler had seriously made love to her. Most of the time, years ago, he would have just gone at a steady pace and finished her afterwards with his mouth or his fingers, or both. Now, he was making sure she got off at the same time as him. She could tell by his heavy breathing he was trying to stave off his orgasm in favor of getting her as close as he could to hers.

His fingers worked the little bundle of nerves, as his other hand traced lines up and down her spine. Her brain was not firing on all cylinders. It had shut off at this point, the only thing on her mind was how good Tyler felt inside of her, after all the years away from each other. Sure, it was good the other night. It had been great, but there were so many other things at work the other night. Less feelings. Now there were different things. She couldn’t help but think of how much better it was without a condom. She felt like this was stupid and reckless, but in Tyler’s arms, in his gentle hold, she knew she was safe. No matter how much her mind kept telling her she shouldn't do this, that she shouldn't let him come inside her, that she shouldn't be back with him, the feeling of him wrapped around her made her disregard all of it. She knew Tyler wouldn't leave her to do this alone and she owed him.

“Gettin’ close, Gee, is it...can I...” Tyler groaned, his hips stuttering. They locked eyes, Georgia’s hands around his head, cradling him, their noses touching. Her voice was unsteady, but Tyler could see the surety in her eyes.

“Yes. I want it. Come inside me, Tyler. Please.” With a few more solid rolls of his hips, he was spilling inside her, moaning her name into the cool Oklahoma night air like a prayer. She was not far behind him, breath heavy, euphoria spreading through her brain and body as she collapsed atop him.

“I cannot believe we just fucked on top of your truck...” They both had a chuckle about it as they came down from an unbelievable high.

“Would you expect anythin’ less of us?” He asked, still panting.

“Never.” She breathed, pressing her lips to his, smiles all around. Tyler pulled the blanket up and wound his arms around her underneath as they began to drift off to sleep under the clear, starry summer sky.

🌪🛻🌪

Recently, Tyler had decided he was going to make some updates to the barn and had installed new doors that slide open and closed by way of a rail system on the ceiling, instead of the pull open doors they had for years. Dustin, Lennon, and Boone had helped so they got it done in no time. His big project for the summer, which Jake was supposed to come back to help with, was expanding the paddocks and fields and replacing all the old fencing. He was slowly collecting all the materials and storing it all in the side shed next to the garage that they would normally put hay in. They’d put up a metal shed that had been lying behind the garage in pieces that was perfect for the hay storage instead as it was slightly bigger so it could fit more.

“Ducati needs a show name.” Georgia said, as she held Jaycen in front of his horse. The mustang stood with his head hanging low over the stall gate, his nose as close as Georgia would let him to Jaycen in her arms. In fact, Ducati was damn near falling asleep next to them.

“He can't just be Ducati?” Tyler asked, as his son giggled in seeing his father stick his tongue out at him. The little boy clapped and it didn’t even startle the mustang. His eyes were half closed and his breathing was steady, the warmth of it blowing on Georgia’s arm.

“No. It kinda doesn't fit him if I'm bein’ honest.” Georgia mused,and Tyler tilted his head and rubbed the back of his neck as they both glanced at the horse. His ears were now flopped to the side and his bottom lip was hanging. He was completely at ease.

“Yeah, I tend to agree. You're mentionin’ it because you already picked a name though, didn’tcha?” He asked, running his hand over Ducati’s forehead. He didn’t budge at all.

“How does ‘Tread Quietly” sound?” She asked and Tyler smiled warmly.

“Sounds like the perfect name for a kid’s horse. Also sounds like he needs a fancy halter with that name on it.” He placed an arm around Georgia’s waist then and pulled her close. This was often how they exchanged their son into the other’s arms so when they parted, Tyler had wrapped his strong arm around the baby and held him, giving his wife a short reprieve.

“Well I'll leave that to you. Get one for Roadie too.” Georgia pleaded softly.

“I think it's time Jaycen comes for a ride, don't you?” The little boy laughed as his father bounced him gently in his arms. Ducati reached for the baby, poking his nose past Georgia and resting it near Tyler.

“He's already goin’ to the doctor with me”

“Yeah but I mean a fun ride. The doctor isn't fun. He can explore the feed store.” Tyler said, tickling Jaycen’s belly, causing more squirming and giggling from the little boy. Georgia smiled wide as she watched her husband, knowing that he was ecstatic to have his son in his arms.

“I'm not opposed to it. I think he's bored of the farm. Except Ducati of course.” Georgia motioned to the mustang, who snorted gently and shook his head as if he knew what she was saying.

“Great, we can take Red Betty.” Tyler said and Georgia raised a brow.

“You already named my truck?” She went to fold her arms across her chest but then she stepped closer to him and placed her arms on his.

“Course I did darlin’. You expect anythin’ less?”

“Never.” She kissed him on the cheek and he beamed with happiness.

#glen powell #tyler owens #tyler owens x oc #twisters 2024 #twisters fanfic #tyler owens fic #Spotify

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afterdarkprincess · 9 months ago

Text

Between the Pages

Pairing: Bret Hart/Shawn Michaels (pre-relationship) Rating: Explicit Word Count: 3,427 Summary: Bret confiscates a copy of Shawn's Playgirl from the locker room and gives it a read in the privacy of his hotel room, discovering some things about himself.

AO3 link

Shoutout to @taydaq - your headcanon of Bret reading the interview directly inspired this 💖

This fic is Explicit and includes Masturbation and fantasies of Oral and Anal Sex- 18+ only. Full Tag list on AO3

tag squad: @feelschicken @elementaldoughnut12 @jeysbvck @harmshake @southerngirl41 @imabillyami @ambreignsfan4life (if you would like to be added to the list or I missed you please let me know!)

💗💗💗💗

Between the Pages

Bret Hart is a professional.

He comes into work, does his job, and goes home. He’s damn good at it, and he’s not one for gossip and drama. Whatever the rest of the guys in the locker room have going on in their personal lives that’s their own damn business as far as Bret is concerned.

Unfortunately sometimes they make their business his business.

Bret’s already not in the greatest mood when he gets to the arena for Raw that night. It’s been a rough few months with the contract negotiations, and his tolerance for bullshit has been pushed to the limit lately.

So when he walks past the door to the locker room, hearing giggles and tussling from the grown ass men he’s supposed to be coworkers with, his hackles are already raised.

He enters the room, unsurprised to find mostly the young and immature members of the roster playing keep-away with something.

“C’mon I wanna see-“

“I bet you do, Butch. Surprised you don’t have one of these in your gym bag.”

“No way man, Michaels ain’t my type!”

Bret fights the urge to roll his eyes at the Champ’s name. Of course that’s what this is about.

“Hey!” His voice bounces off the concrete walls, cutting through the noise and shutting everyone up. He stares at the guy whose clearly trying to hide something behind his back. “Give it here or I’m telling management to bench all of you.”

Sheepishly the man hands it over, Bret snatching it out of his hands as soon as it’s within reach.

“Bunch of children, I swear. Fighting over this garbage.” The shiny paper crinkles under his grip. “Who gives a shit what’s in here anyway, probably just Micheals on an ego trip as usual.”

A few of them start to protest but he just shakes his head and takes his leave, thankful that he and his brothers have the luxury of a separate locker room. He looks down at the crumpled magazine in his hand as he goes through the doorway, and of course he runs headfirst into someone.

“Sorry, are you—“ When he looks up, he finds the same face staring back as the one grinning up from the magazine cover. “Shawn, you good?”

He looks him up and down, the champ looks fine physically, no harm from the collision, but there’s an odd look on his face that Bret can’t quite place.

“Fine, fine.” Shawn replies, with a smile on his face that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Nothing that you need to worry about, Hitman.”

Bret hesitates. Something is clearly not right here, but his relationship with Shawn these days isn’t the greatest. He really doesn’t wanna push or pry where he’s not wanted and make things worse.

“Okay- I’ll, uh. See you around.” Bret takes a step back to leave and waves, realizing too late that the hand he waves with is still holding the trashy girly magazine. With Shawn on the cover.

If someone could just strike him down now that would be great.

Shawn laughs real and genuine for a moment before an almost sadness returns to his eyes. “Yeah, see you around.”

It doesn’t sit well with him, but he has no choice but to leave it at that.

They’d been almost friends at one point, years ago now, before things got all… complicated. They’d never been as close as Bret is to his brothers of course, but their chemistry in the ring had translated well outside of it too. They’d even tagged a few times, but then Shawn had made other friends and the business isn’t kind. It’s cutthroat, every man for himself. And Shawn had shown himself to be in it for just that, himself.

But still he wonders sometimes what might be if Shawn hadn’t fallen in with the wrong crowd.

Surely he wouldn’t be nearly nude on the cover of some porn magazine.

Thankfully the Hart locker room is empty when he arrives. He should probably just throw the damn magazine away, but instead he shoves it hastily into his gym bag, where it stays safely hidden away from his brothers’ prying eyes.

—

Bret doesn’t have a huge part to play on Raw that night, just a promo and a backstage spot before he’s done for the evening.

Usually he would hang around for a while to see the rest of the show, but he’d spent most of the day in a car and the comfort of a hotel room bed was calling his name.

He didn’t think about the copy of Playgirl hiding at the bottom of his bag, forgetting it’s existence entirely until after he’d gotten a nice hot shower and was getting ready to settle in for the night.

Bret dove his hand inside the bag, searching for a fresh pair of briefs and was taken aback by the sound of rustling paper.

“Oh yeah,” He mumbles out loud, rescuing the crumpled up pages before returning to his search. He tosses the magazine onto the bed and puts on the briefs before climbing in himself.

He’s tired, but it’s early still. And he has to admit his curiosity is piqued.

Bret smooths out the cover of the magazine, eyes roaming over his scantily clad coworker as he reads the various headlines about other male celebrities. It is a decent shot of Shawn, signature cocky smile staring out of the page.

The blurb about his interview reads “This Heartbreak Kid Is Single, Sexy, And Waiting To Get Wet With You!” the text tucked into the glistening curve of his armpit and ribs.

What a joke. Who on earth reads this stuff?

He flips through the pages, trying to avert his eyes as much as possible in case he gets an eyeful of more than he bargained for. He knows what kind of stuff they get away with in Playboy, who knows what they do in Playgirl. Mostly he just sees ads for perfume and razors among the articles until he finds the full page spread of photos of Shawn, in and out of the ring, that mark the beginning of his interview.

The insert proclaims, “the World Wrestling Federation’s CHAMPION LOVER had our hearts pinned to the mat in record time!!” right over a shot of Shawn stretched out on a bed, looking inviting.

“This is really what the guys in the locker room were fighting over?” He mumbles to himself in the quiet of the hotel room.

He begins to read the interview, which is mostly just vapid nonsense. How did he handle all the adoring women fans and being “single and searching”. and if he ever yearned for a normal life.

He flips the page and is confronted with a large photo of a clearly nude Shawn with only a bedsheet covering his crotch. He looks vulnerable, hair tossed delicately over one shoulder. If his exposed chest hadn’t been completely coated in a dark covering of hair, he could almost pass as a girl.

A tiny flame of arousal comes to life in Bret’s stomach.

“Huh,” It’s a tiny sound, no more than a grunt that escapes his lips. He tries not to think about that too much and reads on.

Does the idea of somebody biting at your heels, the next WWF Champion wanna-be ever worry you? You know what? I don't think so. I'm just confident in my ability. I don't sweat anybody. Nobody can wrestle longer than I can, nobody can make people yell louder than me for more. And if they can, I just work harder.

That gets Bret’s blood boiling. “Just who the hell does he think he is?” He scoffs at the page, unamused. That’s the exact kind of attitude in these up and comers that he just can’t stand, the kind of shit that’s gotten him and Shawn into disagreements in the past.

A voice in the back of his head, one with more rational sense than he has right now, reminds him that of course Shawn would play up his confidence in this interview for all the ladies.

It shouldn’t bother him.

He scans through the rest of the questions on the page, mostly inane things about pushy fans. The next page is mostly text with a few in ring photos, should be more interesting questions.

So what's the first thing that attracts you to a woman?

Or not.

Apparently Micheals likes smart girls. How interesting.

Back to the physical. What kind of hair and eyes? Brunettes first and foremost. That seems to be the pattern. Eyes…not really a color- it's just something about them, that there's something behind them. It's just one of those things that has to hit me immediately. That's how everything important has been in my life. If I don't get swept off my feet right away, I figure it isn't all that real.

Bret’s fingers wander to his own dark hair, tucking a loose strand behind his ear as his memory brings forth several occasions where Shawn lost his train of thought while making eye contact with him, in the ring or backstage.

But that didn’t mean anything right? Shawn’s talking about his taste in girls, that doesn’t have anything to do with him.

The heat in his gut grows a little bit, and he feels it in his face too.

Being the WWF champion makes you the best-known and most popular wrestler in the world, doesn't it? (Modestly) Well, I'd like to think so.

A better answer, a political one. Bret can’t blame him there.

He skims through the next few questions, flipping the page to be greeted with several shots of Shawn post-shower, dripping wet and wearing nothing but a towel. A sight he’s intimately familiar with from so many years of shared locker rooms, but never with Shawn looking at him like that.

Bret feels himself stirring a little in his shorts, and he tries desperately not to think about that too much, instead reading around the photos. Unfortunately they’re mostly silly ones about the hearts on his gear, if women get intimidated by him, so on and so on. Softball questions meant to titillate the target audience.

The interviewer asked how Shawn got the nickname “Boy Toy”, something Bret had been curious about as well, even though he’d been around when Shawn’s gimmick shifted. Apparently the moniker had been given to him by an older woman around that time.

Why do you think she called you that? I guess I was some form of object to her at the time.

He goes on to say that he doesn’t mind being objectified, which Bret can understand, it is part of the deal in their line of work. But knowing that his nickname, something Bret’s thrown at him both in ring and out came from such an unsavory comment; it doesn’t sit right with him.

Shawn hasn’t always been his favorite person, sure. And he had to have agreed to using the Boy Toy gimmick, which he plays so well. But something about that answer feels so sad?

Maybe it’s the lingering look of sadness he noticed in Shawn’s eyes, but there’s a soft undercurrent to some the answers that show a glint of the unsure young man Bret used to know. It’s far more compelling to him than the obnoxious act Shawn puts on, no clear line where his character ends and he begins.

Bret feels a tugging in his chest- maybe he’s been too harsh on Shawn these last few years. The soft spot he had for the younger man is still there underneath all the misunderstandings.

He’s also acutely aware that Shawn’s being objectified in these photos, and the insistent pressure in his groin proves he’s not immune.

The last page has another half-page spread of Shawn on a bed, covered again in a sheet, stormy blue eyes staring back at him.

The thumb holding the page brushes softly against the waterfall of Shawn’s hair almost against his will. Has Michaels always been this…. pretty?

Underneath the photo is a blurb, a quote from an answer he hasn’t gotten to yet.

”I’ve been told that for a man, I'm overly affectionate. I'm kissy-kissy, touchy-touchy, feely-feely”

Bret drops the magazine.

Every match, every practice, every scrap in the ring, all of it comes back to him now. The feel of Shawn’s body wrapped around him, underneath of him, beside him.

He doesn’t know how to process this wave of feelings, the weight of what this attraction means, how weak he feels to it. He’s never considered himself gay before, but can he really be that queer when Shawn is so soft and feminine?

He’s not sure but Bret wants him.

His dick is hard, aching. He sticks his hand under the fabric, biting his other hand to stifle the noise he makes as he takes himself in hand.

He doesn’t waste any time, gripping himself tight and screwing his eyes shut, his imagination running wild.

Shawn’s lips wrapped around him, staring up at him with those eyes, looking at him the way he looks in the damn girly magazine.

Shawn’s hands tangled in Bret’s hair as he rides him, hips bouncing as their lips connect, swallowing down his whines.

Shawn beside him in the bed, grinning as he jerks Bret off, poking fun at the noises he makes with a warm undercurrent of fondness.

Bret’s already getting close, between the visions of Shawn in his head and the sweet pressure and glide of his hand around him, eased with the copious amount of precum that leaks from his tip.

“You gonna come for me, Hitman?” Shawn’s breath tickles his ear before tugging his earlobe between his teeth playfully.

He lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a whimper and grunt as his muscles tense and he erupts onto his waiting palm.

Breathing heavily as he comes back down to earth, the reality of what he’s done settles onto his shoulders and shame floods in. What does this mean for his sexuality? How on earth is he going to be able to face Shawn in the locker room? In a match??

He covers his face with a pillow and lets out a long groan.

“Fuck!”

—

The next day Bret is tired. He’d been kept up, plagued by thoughts of Shawn in all kinds of compromising positions. When he did sleep they came again in his dreams, leaving him hard again when the alarm clock went off.

He took a cold shower before getting on the road. He had a three and a half hour drive to make it to the city where he’s set to perform tonight, just a house show but he’d like to hit up a gym before call time.

Bret resolutely tries not to think about Shawn Michaels or the magazine that’s tucked into the bottom of his suitcase. He blares the radio instead, letting the familiar noise drown everything out.

He wasn’t sure if Shawn was on the card for the show tonight, but with him being Champ at the moment it’s hard to imagine he won’t be.

Either way nothing had changed as far as Shawn is concerned. They’re still two guys who don’t particularly like each other.

He’ll just have to keep himself composed when he sees Shawn. Act like everything is normal and he didn’t spend the previous evening thinking of him while jerking off.

He can definitely do this.

“And that’s when I told the guy to buzz off and get out of the bar!”

The sound of Shawn’s voice is followed by laughter. He’s surrounded by his usual gang of friends- Hunter, Diesel and a few others, when Bret arrives to the arena.

He tries not to pay them any notice, hoping that he can make it to the safety of his private locker room without having to interact with them. For a minute he thinks he succeeded, keeping his head down as he walks past, only breathing once the sound of their laughter starts to fade.

But then he hears footsteps. “Ey- Hitman! Wait up, won’t ya?”

Of course.

Of course it’s Shawn.

Bret turns, watches Shawn jog to catch up to him. He’s not in his ring gear yet, instead he’s wearing a nearly see through muscle tank with sweatpants. His hair looks freshly dried, curls a little frizzy from the humidity.

“H-hey Shawn,” He tries for nonchalant, hopes that Shawn buys it. Thankfully he still has his sunglasses on so there’s no chance of Shawn seeing the panic in his eyes.

“Wanted to get your advice on somethin’-“ Shawn starts talking animatedly about a match idea he wants to pitch to management, but Bret loses track of what he’s asking almost immediately.

His eyes get lost somewhere between the light in Shawn’s eyes and the sultry curve of his lips as he talks. He thinks about how Shawn’s lips would feel against his, how Shawn’s curls would look after rolling around in the sheets underneath him.

Bret only realizes that Shawn’s stopped talking when his eyebrows knit together and he suddenly looks pissed.

“Were you even fucking listening?” He rolls his eyes. “And you claim that I’m full of myself, you know I don’t even know why I bother when all you do is act like you’re so much better than me-“

Fuck. He has to fix this.

“Shawn-“ He interjects but he gets steamrolled.

“But all you are is a fucking JACKASS, Bret.”

“You’re right.”

That gets his attention. “I’m right? You’re damn right I’m right.”

“I’ve been a jackass, Shawn. Yeah I wasn’t listening, but it’s.” He sighs, trying to decide how much to say. “It’s not what you think, I’m sorry, okay?”

Shawn looks wary. “If it’s not what I think then what is it?”

Bret feels panic rising in his chest. He can’t just fucking spill his guts to Shawn. He doesn’t know how Shawn will react, hell Shawn might not be gay at all, he did just do a whole interview about how great ladies are. He might punch Bret right in the face, have his friends beat him up, hell he could tell the whole locker room and make his life a living hell if he so chose.

No way he can tell him the truth. Not now anyway.

He searches for something to say, but he can’t find any good excuse. He’s terrified and frustrated and all he can do is stare at Shawn and think about just kissing that distrusting look of his face.

But he can’t of course.

When he doesn’t answer, the scowl on Shawn’s face deepens with hurt. “Fuck off Bret.” He spits before turning on his heel and heading back towards his friends.

He makes it a few feet before Bret realizes he’s fucked up even further.

“Shawn- wait!” He reaches out and grabs Shawn’s upper arm, holding tight even as Shawn tries to wrench out of his grasp.

“Get your hands off me-“

“I read your interview.” The words fall out of his mouth, hanging between them as Shawn goes still. “In the girly magazine, I read it, okay?”

“Oh.”

Bret’s fingers burn where they’re still holding on to Shawn’s arm. After a moment Shawn’s other hand moves slowly and wraps around his wrist, not moving to pull it off of him, just another point of contact between them.

Shawn’s eyes stare into his, like he’s sizing him up, searching for something. He stares right back, unable to look away.

For just a second he imagines that Shawn sways towards him, like he might bridge the gap between them, for what he doesn’t know.

But suddenly someone clears their throat and the moment is over.

Behind Shawn stands Hunter, with one eyebrow cocked, looking at them both suspiciously.

“Everything good here?”

The question is clearly aimed at Shawn, but Bret answers anyway. “Yeah man, all good. Was just leaving.”

He lets go of Shawn’s arm, taking a step back, but Shawn’s fingers stay locked around his wrist, not letting go.

“Shawn?” Hunter puts a hand on Shawn’s shoulder, and it seems to break Shawn from whatever spell he’s under.

His fingers release Bret’s hand, and he steps back into Hunter. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Bret watches as they go, befuddled as to what the hell just happened. Shawn looks back at him for just a moment, a small smile on his lips as their eyes meet.

His stomach is doing Moonsaults, but he feels something like hope.

He keeps the magazine.

#hartbreak #bretshawn #bret hart #shawn michaels #wwe ships #wwe fanfiction #bret hart x shawn michaels

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critter-casey · 5 months ago

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“Sticking With It” (digital illustration) — CW

#sticking with it #baby steps #walking shoes #shawn and shiny #artists on tumblr #illustrators on tumblr #cartoonists on tumblr #cute monster #shining star #digital illustration #digital drawing #tayasui sketches #critter casey #casey white

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trash----panda · 1 year ago

Text

Gt thing i dreamed about

The smaller inhabitants of this planet have no idea how long this massive creature has been here, they call it the Wanderer, most avoid it cause of how large it is. It travels all over the continent, searching for strange obelisks, the Mink are a delivery sysytem of information, they monitor it's activities and report back to the public.

It was Shawn's turn to watch it, and for once, it tripped on a tree root, the device it was carrying breaking, it spoke a strange language he couldnt make out. It just sounded angry. Not too far away from himself he spotted a shiny little orb looking piece, without thinking much of it, he snuck out to collect it. As he was looking it over he noticed the Wanderer had gone silent. He looked up to see it starring down at him, his blood ran cold as his brain started to list the ways this thing could kill him. He braced himself when the thing reached out, squeezing his eyes shut...

"😅😀" it just took the piece he had and walked away. He paused, standing there for a moment before his legs finally gave out under him, what just happened.... RIGHT he had to report this. He struggled to stand, eventually making it to the nearest station, quickly notifying everyone. The system honestly wasnt the greatest, more like spreading gossip than information, you always had to hear it from someone.

Since Shawn made the discovery he requested to continue following it. Hurrying to catch up when permission was granted. When he spotted it it had found another obelisk. Setting the device down and pressing something against it, making it hum for a second before changing from a black to a dull green. Shawn watched dumbfounded, they never knew what those did but it seemed to like them a lot. He flinched when the Wanderer stood up, they didnt look so good, come to think of it he hadnt seen them eating before. They started moving again, but this got him thinking maybe this is why it tripped earlier. His little tail flicked around a bit as he thought, Garol wasnt far, maybe he could get supplies, he'd have to be fast though.

It took him just under an hour to get there and back, slowed by the fact he was carrying extra supplies. He was worried he'd lost track of the Wanderer. Lucky for him they'd seemed to collapse at some point after he left, he wasnt sure it was even alive. Being cautious as he approached it's face.

The eyes. Those big green eyes focused on him again, making his heart jump a little.

It furrowed it's brows a little, probably confused since the Minks usually avoided them. Shawn glanced at it's mouth, unsure how he should do this. Using his hand to gently tap their lips, pretty sure he was about to lose a hand. Surprisingly it seemed to comply, just as nervous as him opening it's mouth. This, homestly made him excited, it could be communicated with, he threw off his backpack and cautiously threw a few loafs of bread in for it, watching anxiously. He didnt even notice the hand coming up behind him, screaming a little when touched, it made the other recoil a bit before attempting again. He was tense but quickly relaxed when it pet him, making a soft noise he figured was supposed to be a thanks. He knew this was more to report but that wasnt an issue he was worried about.

As soon as they had some strength they got up to wander again, seeming to ignore Shawn's protest. He was hesitant but ended up climbing their leg to try and get up to their shoulder. For the first time he was pretty sure he scared the Wanderer for a second, when it made the same noise he did earlier, it probably didnt like people climbing on it but it resisited swatting him off. He settled in on it's shoulder, leaning against it's neck.

"if you're gonna go im going too" he knew it didnt understand

But he wanted to voice his actions regardless. The giant stood there a moment, starring, before starting to walk. They were slower and more tense with the other on them, afraid of knocking him off. He started to notice where they were going, he knew there was another obelisk this way but... there were also wolves, could this thing really beat those. He absent mindedly looked them over, trying to determine their fighting skills, not noticing till they shivered his tail was tickling their neck. He grabbed it and pulled it close. Apologizing.

Contrary to what others reported it did stop at night, sitting down by a tree with a soft sigh. Shawn carfully climbed down, telling it where he was going even if it didnt understand and running off to report. These newer reports had caught other's attention, the talk of near by towns being if they should approach it. The Baron still claimed they are not allowed to but that didnt stop rumors from spreading.

Shawn came back with a little extra bread, figuring he could feed it again. But it wasnt there. That's when his heart sank a little, it smelled like dog over here. He hurried over to the tree, grimacing when he saw the blood smearer against the bark. The grads near by tainted as well. He wanted to call out but... if those things found him. He heard a twig snap, something big approaching. It was that same feeling creeping up again, his legs wouldnt move, he could only watch as the Wanderer came out. Covered in cuts and bruises, dragging a carcass behind it. It didnt acknowledge him, he wasnt sure it could even see him in the darkness. It just tossed the wolf aside and started to prepare a camp fire. So thay's what it ate? Wolves? He didnt know what to think, his heart still racing as he watched it prepare. It lit the fire, turning around to collect the meat, finally spotting him. This time he knew for sure he scared it, it fell back with a yelp, he'd never seen something so big so scared of him. That was enought to break the tension, he laughed, his body relaxing a little as those same hands that once terrified him quickly started checking him for wounds. Like they werent the ones soaked in blood. He pushed them away gently, trying to reassure it, it took awhile but it finally backed off to cook. Glancing nervously at him every few minutes.

So it didnt have night vision and it worried about someone as small as Shawn. He started to think about it, noticing it checked him for wounds, but he didnt fight. It dawned on him, it couldnt see so it thought it hurt him. His tail wagged a little bit, watching this strange creature. This thing really was interesting.

It used the fur to repair it's clothes, carving bone into tools, preparing the meat to last over a travel, and burrying what it didnt use. That's why they never found what it ate, they burried it. He watched it scratch at a scab formed on it's neck, it probably didnt have any medicine, he was debating if he had the money to get enough to help something so big. He flinched a little when it approached him, offering it's hand so he didnt need to climb. He blushed a little before climbing on, being brought up to it's shoulder as carfully as it could. It walked with more confidence this time, probably helped it got actual food. He was a little more confident they were safe on this route after last night. His only real concern being what it will do when it encounters a lake in the way. This would be interesting.

It travelled till sunset, having to sit down again, offering him some of the meat which he happily ate, it was rare he got anything like wolf, not to mention travelled so far so fast. His train of thought was broken by a light coming from it's device. It was checking something, he assumed all the symbols were language. They pressed on the screen, pausing the string of information to reread it. He glanced at them, noticing how... Well it was an uneasy look. He tried to reach up and tap their cheek, falling off when his foot slipped. He didnt fall as far as he thought he would, the ground below him... Oh it was the hand. Their hair was puffed up a bit, he didnt mean to keep scaring them. They put him on the ground so he couldnt fall, their cheeks an off red color. He didnt know this thing could blush! He jumped to try and tap it's knee, wanting it's attention. The Wanderer finally looked at him, still looking kinda anxious. How was he gonna do this. He tried to gesture to the device and then at them, communication was a lot harder than he thought. They starred for a moment, trying to put two and two together. Something clicked for them, adjusting how they were sitting so they could draw in the dirt

(🟩🟩🟩)

🙋------->🏠

(🟩🟩🟩)

It hesitated, trying it's best. Circling him.

(🟩🟩🟩)

0-------> 💥💥💥💥🔥🔥

(🟩🟩🟩)

It starred, waiting for him to get it. He walked around it a bit, perplexed by what it could mean, pointing to 🏠 "what"

(🟩🟩🟩)

🙋-------> 👨‍👨‍👦‍👦

(🟩🟩🟩)

He starred a little more, starting to understand. His heart sinking a little as he starred at the second one.

"so.... we die? If you go home?" It seemed to understand that, glancing away. He wasnt sure what to make of it, sitting down next to it so it knew he wasnt mad. He could feel it starring though, obviously worried it upset him. He sat there for a moment before sighing, catching it's attention as he got up. Going over to the drawings.

0 ----> 👨‍👨‍👦‍👦

He sat down in the circle, huffing a little. It just starred at him, it was unnerving. As if it didnt know what to think. He didnt know how it would react, pretty sure it'd be pissed. Watching as it laid down on it's belly so it was at eye level. The noise it made, could only be described as a whimper, catching him completely off guard, their hand gently carressing his side. He pat it to try and reassure them, noticing that they were crying now he hurried to climb the arm they were resting their head behind. Struggling to get up as he spouted apologies. He managed to grab onto their nose, trying his best to hug them, he wasnt big enough to make them feel better damn it. All he could do was keep apologizing. They adjusted a little, gently cupping him against their cheek, the skin felt warm and kinda sticky, probably from the crying but he didnt mind, just wanting to help the big lug calm down. He gently stroked their cheek till their grip loosened and the noises slowly go quieter. He wriggled free, noticing they'd fallen asleep crying. It was just like a big kid, probably was a kid. He hesitated....he didnt have to report this... He nestled in against their face. He was just gonna stay here, so when they wake up, they wont have to be alone this time. They probably needed it.

"goodnight... wanderer" he mumbled as he dozed off as well.

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vgprintads · 3 months ago

Text

'Starblade'

[ARC] [EU] [FLYER] [1991]

"You approach a large cabinet with an overhanging ceiling supported by two shiny metal pipes. Inside the darkly-lit cabinet is a seat and a double-handled joystick with dual buttons on top. Beyond that you see a massive screen and a launch bay. Plopping in your quarters you hear loud speakers all around you blasting out your orders: "Reach and then destroy Red Eye, the planet-sized battlestation bent on destroying Earth!" The launch bay blasts by and before you know it you're in outer space and you can see the carrier you just left being bombarded from every side by fighters. It's time to take the heat back to Red Eye! What I've described was my first experience with Starblade and what followed was nothing short of amazing. Eight stages lead you from your carrier, through a congested space station, across the surface of Red Eye, and finally deep within its core to destroy it. The experience, though "on rails", is superb and totally involving; you'll definitely find yourself ducking and jiving as you blast around these environments. For those who don't know, "on rails" means that your cursor and the enemies on screen are in front of a movie that you can't interact with. The only thing you can do is move the cursor around and shoot at the enemies; you can't deviate from your path or even be hit by objects in the movie. That said, Namco did a wonderful job of blasting the camera in every direction and melded the enemies around the movie in a way that it is totally engrossing and it almost doesn't matter that you can't go where you want. The 3DO and PlayStation versions offer textures on all the models giving the game a more realistic appearance but the essence is the same and this will always remain a great and involving experience, especially sitting in the huge arcade cabinet!" ~Shawn Sackenheim, All Game Guide

Source: The Arcade Flyer Archive

#gaming #advertising #starblade #arcade #shooters #rail shooters #namco #sci-fi #european union #flyers #video games #1991

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nicnak20 · 1 month ago

Text

Dad:

*Nicholas is the perfect husband and father. He lives in the suburbs with his family and other seemingly just as perfect families too. But as Nicholas begins to realize that the 'rules' of the neighborhood, aren't matching up to what he begins to see about himself and the town, lies and secrets begin to unravel leaving Nicholas to have to make a hard choice.*

Nicholas grips Rick’s hand tightly as they sprint through the deserted streets of Sunshine Meadows. Behind them, the shouts of the mob grow louder, fueled by fear and resentment. Every shadow seems to hold a threat, every distant siren a sign they are closing in. They have to escape before it’s too late.

Rick stumbles, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but Nicholas urges him onward. He knows this is their only chance, their only way to survive the escalating fury of their once-peaceful community. The scientists, once colleagues, now lead the enraged citizens hunting them relentlessly.

They cut through alleyways, seeking any route away from the main roads, hoping to lose the pursuing crowd. The weight of the secrets and the fear of capture press down on them with every hurried footstep. Sunshine Meadows, their home, has become a dangerous maze. Reaching the edge of town, they see the treeline in the distance, offering a sliver of hope. Nicholas pushes Rick forward, their escape dependent on reaching the concealing woods before the mob catches sight of them, before their pursuit becomes a capture.

Nicholas didn't know where they would run to, or who exactly was running after them, but he knew he would know once he found what he was looking for too. With Rick's hand in his, he focused his mind on one thing and set his sights to one view. And with a heart full of hope and adrenaline Nicholas found his way out of the sea of smiling faces and into the dusk of the night where only the moon could find them.

************************************************************

Sunshine Meadows was perfect for anyone who was lucky enough to describe the county and its fresh clean cut style. The houses were spacious and every one had a sugar maple tree that stood staunch on the tree lawn in front of them. Lawns were manicured like the polished nails of wives, the cars were shiny enough to reflect the sun's glimmer and the sky was as blue as the pacific just as the grass was as green as fresh mint in a jungle canopy.

Nicholas, one of the many men of Sunshine Meadows, was the envy of every man and the dream of every woman. His personality was as vibrant and pure as the laughter of a child. Eyes were rich and dark like french fudge, his held brightness to it and radiated warmth from off the very seams of his presence. Nicholas's clothes were pristine and neatly ironed- fitting perfectly in the right places where the bulge of his muscles began and the comfort of his shoes sat.

He could've had any woman he wanted; personality was the least of his worries and appearance was one of his many goldmines. He was made for Honey though. The devoted and endearing wife she was with her lob curled characteristically at the ends and a bright bubble gum smile that could melt through ice sheets. Nicholas and Honey were the devoted and doting parents to their own little extensions of their best qualities. Oldest Gloria was the paltry image of her mother, while youngest born Rick was Nicholas's mirror. The family of four lived among the residents of neighborhood 13, in their primrose blue home that sat neatly on a small hill next to Pete and Darla Moore with their son, Shawn.

It was the life Nicholas always envisioned for his family, a life he never knew could exist until he met Sunshine Meadows.

**********************************************

The morning air still smelled faintly of the apple pie from last night's dessert, mixed in with breakfast's french toast and waffles with brewing coffee. Nicholas opened his still groggy eyes and focused them on the digital clock on his nightstand. It was eight o'clock- something the booted Nicholas from under the covers and had him snatching his robe from the side chair, shuffling it over his body as he made his way to the staircase. Stopping him in his tracks were the faint snores coming from Rick's bedroom. It was routine for Nicholas and Honey to give an extra wake up call to him due to his indolent approach to stirring on time for the morning light.

Nicholas padded gently into Rick's bedroom, taking in the scent of cotton and faint pine mixed in. Shaking Rick's shoulder gently, Nicholas let his voice softly waft into Rick's ear as the back of his hand caressed his cheek. "Ricky, wake up. Breakfast is ready, aren't you hungry, bud?" Rick's eyes flickered open and once his mind realized it was his father who was standing over him, a small smile tugged at his lips. "Dad..." his soft voice, still groggy spoke. Rick sat up and stretched; adjusting his eyes to the view of his room, he focused on Nicholas who was standing beside his bed with Bambi eyes. He reached for Rick's hand and guided him out of his bed before walking hand in hand downstairs. Even at the ripe age of 11, Rick didn't balk at holding his father's hand like most preteens did. Rick never told anyone that he felt a certain type of safety whenever his hand was in Nicholas's.

Rick ran to the table, while Nicholas bee lined into the kitchen for a cup of coffee. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rick tense up when Honey appeared in the doorway of the kitchen nook. She set a plate of waffles with bacon and eggs in front of him with her usual smile, the sunlight gleaming off her strawberry honey colored hair. The sun bounced off her pair of vibrant sky blue globes as she battered her cat eyelashes to her children. "Eat up, children. You have a big day ahead of you!" She said, blithely, returning her attention to the stove. "And good morning to you!" She gave a loud kiss to Nicholas's cheek, staining it a bit of pink from her lipstick.

A blush fell over Nicholas's face. "Morning dear.... and morning to you too, kiddos!" Taking a sip of his coffee, Nicholas joined the kids at the nook and stared into the little speckle art of the table aimlessly. Nicholas, never one to complain, but his mornings- to him lately- felt very.... routine. He thought about the Moores and how they were in their house cooking breakfast, while engaging in their typical morning chatter before sending their Shawn off to his high school. Nicholas then bored into his coffee and watched it ripple like touched water. "Sweetheart," Nicholas glanced up and saw Honey with his breakfast plate. "I made your french toast just the way you like it." Nicholas just heard only the thud of the plate slam against the table. He stared down at his plate for a moment before thanking Honey and began eating.

Nicholas knew that everyone usually looked forward to their day spent either at their job or school (with the exception of Rick), but Nicholas felt this hollow yet palpable prick of apprehension ease into his gut... and then slither up into his brain.

Nicholas stared at his French toast, the golden-brown bread dusted with powdered sugar like a miniature snowfall on a field of cinnamon. He took a bite, the sweet, soft texture dissolving on his tongue, yet the taste felt muted, cardboard against his palate. He heard Honey bustling in the kitchen still, the clatter of silver against ceramic, the rhythmic thud of the dishwasher being loaded. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rick dragging a piece of bacon through a puddle of syrup, creating sticky, dark trails on his plate.

It wasn’t that Nicholas’s life was bad, not by any stretch. He had a warm home, a job that was stable if uninspiring, children who were healthy, and a wife who, by all outward appearances, was the picture of vibrant domesticity. He understood, intellectually, that this was what people strived for. This quiet comfort, this predictable rhythm. Yet, the comfort felt like padding around his soul, stifling rather than supporting. Every Tuesday was Taco Tuesday, every Saturday morning began with Honey’s famous blueberry pancakes. The mail always arrived between 11:30 and noon. The lawn needed mowing every ten days in the summer. Each day, each week, bled into the next, a seamless, unchanging tapestry.

He thought of the Moores again. Pete Moore with his perfectly ironed shirts heading to his accounting firm, Darla Moore volunteering at the library, their son Shawn navigating the choppy waters of high school, complete with teenage dramas and late-night study sessions. From the outside, their lives seemed to hum with a similar, steady beat, yet Nicholas imagined them filled with a different kind of energy. He pictured their morning chatter, not just about breakfast plans, but about Shawn’s upcoming debate, Darla plotting a library fundraiser, Pete discussing a complex tax case. Their routine felt purposeful, their contentment earned through active engagement with the world. His own felt… passive. Like he was simply existing within the confines of a life someone else had designed.

He sighed internally, shifting his gaze from the French toast to Rick. His son was hunched slightly over his plate, not slouching in defiance, but in a kind of quiet withdrawal. His eyes, usually bright and curious, seemed distant, focused on the syrup trails as if deciphering ancient runes. He poked at a piece of waffle with his fork, then pushed it aside. He wasn't eating with the usual eleven-year-old voracity.

Nicholas felt a pull, a silent recognition. This peculiar sense of being slightly off, slightly disconnected from the cheerful, expected energy of the morning? He saw the same distant gaze in Rick’s eyes that he sometimes caught in his own reflection when he wasn’t consciously posing for the world. Not sadness, exactly, but a kind of low-level hum of… elsewhere. A feeling of being a spectator in one's own life.

Rick picked up a piece of bacon and began bending it back and forth until it snapped. He dropped the pieces onto the plate and started arranging them into a small, crooked fence.

"Ricky," Honey's voice, still bright but with a new, subtle edge, cut through the quiet breakfast sounds. Nicholas glanced up. Honey was standing by the table, holding the coffee pot, her smile fixed but her blue eyes sharp as she looked at Rick. "Darling, sit up straight, please. Shoulders back."

Rick flinched slightly but obeyed, straightening his spine, though his hands continued to hover over the bacon pieces.

"And please," she continued, her voice dropping another degree, though still pitched as if speaking to a much younger child, "stop playing with your food. It's not a toy, sweetie. Eat your breakfast. You need your energy for school."

Rick mumbled something that sounded like "Okay," but his gaze remained fixed on his plate, the corners of his mouth turned slightly down. He picked up a piece of waffle he'd been ignoring and took a small, deliberate bite, chewing slowly, eyes still vacant.

Nicholas watched the exchange, a knot tightening in his stomach. He knew Honey wasn't being cruel. She was doing what mothers were supposed to do – encouraging good posture, ensuring her child ate a healthy meal, teaching basic table manners. It was all part of maintaining the structure, the routine, that was supposed to signify normalcy, safety, a well-ordered life.

But watching Rick instinctively retreat, the brief flicker of self-consciousness on his face before the mask of quiet compliance settled, Nicholas felt a pang of something deeper. He saw not just a child being corrected, but a spirit being nudged back into the prescribed box. Sit up straight. Don't play. Eat. These weren't just rules for the table; they felt like rules for existence. Be presentable. Don't deviate. Consume what's given to you.

He wanted to reach out, to somehow signal to Rick. But he couldn't. Honey was watching, perhaps not him specifically, but the general tableau of her family breakfast. Any intervention, any deviation from the script of the supportive, slightly-distracted-by-work father, would draw attention, disrupt the delicate balance.

He swallowed the bite of French toast, feeling it lodge uncomfortably in his throat. Honey poured herself a cup of coffee, her movements precise, almost performative. She sat down across from him, radiating competence and cheerful expectation. "So, Nicholas," she said, her voice effortlessly shifting gears, "big day at the office?"

Nicholas forced a smile, the familiar mask sliding into place. "Just... routine stuff, you know," he managed, the word feeling heavy and false on his tongue. He took another sip of coffee, letting the warmth spread through him, trying to push back the creeping sense of dread that always seemed to accompany the dawn. Routine. The word itself tasted like ash. He glanced at Rick again, who was now methodically cutting his waffle into tiny squares, his eyes still distant.

As the breakfast was wrapping up, Nicholas couldn't help but notice his Gloria was practically mimicking her mother's sunny side grin. Finishing the last of her waffles with an almost superficial happy that was taught to her, rather than naturalized.

Gloria’s smile was a carefully constructed thing, a mirror of her mother’s, fixed and bright, a little too wide around the edges. She meticulously finished the last bite of her waffle, chewing with a slow, deliberate motion that suggested attention to protocol rather than enjoyment. Nicholas watched her, then Rick, his son still arranging bacon shards on his plate, lost in his quiet world. The scene felt less like a family breakfast and more like a diorama of domestic bliss, each piece positioned just so, the underlying tension a barely perceptible hum beneath the surface of cheerful normalcy.

“Alright, my little scholars,” Honey announced, standing up with a flourish that swept her coffee mug onto the counter. “Time to gather your things. School awaits!” Her voice was a little too loud, a little too cheerful, filling the silence before anyone could really feel it.

Rick finally looked up, his eyes still distant, but he slid off his chair. Gloria, ever the eager student of life’s expected motions, was already retrieving her artfully decorated backpack from the hall closet. Nicholas pushed his unfinished French toast away, the sweetness now cloying.

The drive to Sunshine Meadow Elementary was short, a two-minute journey through streets lined with perfectly manicured lawns and houses painted in approved shades of pastel. Each home looked similar, comfortable and unchallenging. The town itself felt like a carefully curated exhibit, designed for maximum visual pleasantness and minimum unpredictability.

In the car, the silence stretched, punctuated only by the soft hum of the tires and the faint, cheerful jingle from the radio, tuned to the town’s designated feel-good station. Rick stared out the window, his forehead pressed lightly against the cool glass, watching the blur of green and beige houses. Gloria sat upright in her booster seat, humming the radio jingle slightly off-key, her hands clasped neatly in her lap. Nicholas glanced at them in the rear view mirror. They looked like miniature passengers on a train heading to a pre-determined destination, their individual landscapes internal, hidden behind quiet eyes and practiced postures.

He pulled up to the curb, joining the short, orderly line of SUVs and minivans. The air was filled with the distant shouts of children on the playground, a sound that in any other context might signify freedom and joy, but here felt contained, filtered.

“Okay, superstars,” Nicholas said, turning down the radio. He forced a lightness into his voice that felt utterly alien. “Have a fantastic day. Learn lots.”

Gloria was already unbuckling her booster seat, her movements efficient. She leaned over, offering a cheek for a kiss. Her skin was soft, like velvet. “Bye, Daddy,” she chirped, her smile still firmly in place.

Rick was slower. He fumbled with his seatbelt, his fingers less adept. When it finally clicked free, he turned towards Nicholas, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. Nicholas leaned over and hugged him, holding him for a moment longer than usual. Rick felt small in his arms, a fragile bird. He kissed his hair, which smelled faintly of Honey’s expensive shampoo.

“Bye, Dad,” Rick mumbled into his shoulder, the words muffled.

“See ya, buddy,” Nicholas said, pulling back. “Have a good one.”

Rick nodded, grabbed his backpack, and followed Gloria out of the car. They walked towards the school entrance, two small figures disappearing into the flow of other children, all moving in the same direction, under the watchful gaze of crossing guards and cheerful teachers. Nicholas watched until they were gone, feeling the familiar hollowness expand in his chest.

He pulled away from the curb, merging back into the modest stream of morning traffic. The office building where he worked was only a few blocks away, a low, glass-fronted structure that housed several small businesses. His company, ‘Innovations in Process Optimization,’ was on the second floor. It was a fitting name, he often thought wryly, for a place where he spent his days optimizing processes that didn’t particularly need optimizing, for clients who seemed more interested in the perception of efficiency than actual progress.

He parked his car, the same sensible sedan he’d driven for years, next to Pete's gleaming, slightly-too-large SUV. Pete was already there, of course. Pete was always early, always impeccably dressed, always radiating an aura of contented success.

The office was quiet, the air conditioned to a precise, neutral temperature. Nicholas nodded to Paula, the receptionist, who smiled the standard, pleasant Sunshine Meadow smile. He walked back to his cubicle, a gray fabric box identical to all the others. He sat down, turned on his computer, and felt another day begin to unfold within the confines of the expected.

He heard the familiar, confident stride approaching his cube. Pete. Always Pete first thing in the morning, a ritual as ingrained as Taco Tuesday.

“Morning, Nicholas!” Pete boomed, his voice a little too loud for the quiet office. He leaned against the edge of Nicholas’s cube, his tie perfectly knotted, his shirt blindingly white. Pete looked perpetually ready for a photo op promoting the ideal suburban professional family man. “Got that Jensen report finished up last night. Looks solid. Another satisfied customer, building that portfolio, eh?”

Nicholas managed a nod and a small smile. “Morning, Pete. Yeah, still working on the final touches for the VanAcker proposal.”

“Excellent, excellent,” Pete said, clapping his hands together softly, a movement that always struck Nicholas as oddly artificial. “Busy busy! Just how we like it, right?” He flashed his bright, unwavering smile. “Ran into Darla at the coffee shop this morning. She’s knee-deep in planning that library gala – sounds like it’s going to be a real success. And Shawn aced his history quiz! Proud dad moment, you know?”

Pete’s conversations were always a curated list of perfect moments: Darla’s tireless volunteering, Shawn’s academic or athletic achievements, his own latest professional triumph, a recent home improvement project that went off without a hitch. It was a seamless narrative of a flawless life, delivered with the smooth confidence of a seasoned performer. It wasn’t just cheerful; it was aggressively cheerful, defensively perfect. And today, something about it felt particularly grating, suffocating under the weight of its own polished surface.

Nicholas found himself blurting out, without really thinking, “You know, Honey and I were thinking… maybe we should take a vacation. Get away for a bit. Just… out of town.”

The effect was immediate and striking. Pete’s smile didn’t vanish, not entirely, but it faltered. His eyes, which had been sparkling with performative enthusiasm, became still, flat. The slight tilt of his head, perfectly poised for amiable conversation, froze. For a fraction of a second, a sliver of something else – surprise? Alarm? – ghosted across his face before he slammed the familiar mask back into place.

“A… vacation?” Pete repeated, his voice now a little too casual, a little too light. He pushed off the cube wall, straightening up. “Oh, right. Haven’t taken one of those in… well, it feels like ages! Work, family commitments, you know how it is.” He chuckled, a short, sharp sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Where were you thinking of going?”

Nicholas felt his palms grow slightly sweaty. The air in the cubicle felt thicker, charged with an unspoken current. He hadn’t anticipated this reaction. It was more than just polite disinterest; it was a palpable resistance, a subtle deflection.

“Oh, nowhere specific yet,” Nicholas said quickly, backtracking, feeling a sudden, strong urge to smooth over the ripple he’d caused. “Just… an idea. You know, get the kids out of Sunshine Meadow for a bit, see something different.”

Pete’s smile returned, wider this time, brighter, almost painfully so. He clapped Nicholas lightly on the shoulder, the touch brief but firm, a gesture of control. “Sunshine Meadow has plenty to see, Nicky! Great parks, community events… always something going on here. Why leave all this?” His voice was back to its normal, booming pitch, but there was a new, subtle undertone beneath the forced jocularity, a quiet warning. “Besides,” he continued, lowering his voice slightly, leaning in conspiratorially, “you don’t want to miss the annual Founder’s Day picnic, do you? It’s the highlight of the summer! Darla’s already signed us up for the pie-eating contest.”

He straightened up again, his posture rigid with practiced ease. "Anyway, got to get to these reports. Big day ahead! Let's circle back on that vacation idea sometime, but honestly, with everything happening right here... makes you wonder why anyone would ever want to leave, doesn't it?" He winked, a gesture that felt entirely manufactured, and strode away, his footsteps echoing confidently down the aisle.

Nicholas watched him go, the knot in his stomach tightening into a hard, cold stone. Pete’s reaction, the brief flicker of alarm, the rapid recovery, the subtle pushback – it wasn't just Pete being Pete. It was something else. It was confirmation.

The vacation idea, a simple thought about breaking the routine, had somehow touched a nerve, revealed a hidden boundary. Sunshine Meadow wasn't just a place to live; it was a state of being, an identity. And the unspoken rule, clear as day in Pete’s eyes, was simple: You don't leave. You don't deviate. You stay, you conform, you project happiness, and you participate in the endless, unchanging rhythm.

He looked down at his hands, clenched tightly on the desk. The dull hum of the office air conditioner filled the space, a constant, monotonous sound. He was in his cubicle, at his job, in Sunshine Meadow. And he understood now. Escape wasn't just difficult; it felt forbidden. The perfect surface of the town wasn't just veneer; it was a cage, gilded and comfortable, but a cage nonetheless. And he, along with Rick and Gloria and possibly even Honey, were already inside.

The dull hum of the office air conditioner seemed louder now, a low, insistent thrum against Nicholas’s eardrums. Pete’s footsteps faded, swallowed by the building’s quiet efficiency. Nicholas remained seated, the conversation replaying in his mind. Why leave all this? The question wasn’t rhetorical. It was a statement, an imperative, delivered with the false warmth unique to Sunshine Meadow. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the climate control. The gilded cage was real, and he had just rattled the bars.

******************************************

The dull hum of the office air conditioner seemed to follow Nicholas home, a low, persistent drone that vibrated in the background of his thoughts. Pete’s words, his manufactured wink, the brief, chilling flicker of something else in his eyes – they replayed in Nicholas’s mind as he drove the familiar, perfectly manicured streets of Sunshine Meadow. The houses, each immaculate and cheerful, seemed to stare a little too brightly, their identical flowerbeds a silent, unnerving chorus.

That night, the dreams began.

He was in a vast, echoing space, sterile and cold. White walls stretched endlessly, illuminated by harsh, fluorescent light. The air smelled faintly of chemicals and something metallic. He couldn’t see his hands, his body felt distant, but he had a pervasive sense of being assembled. Tools hummed and whirred nearby, unseen but felt. There were other shapes, indistinct figures moving with precise, mechanical movements. He wasn’t being born; he was being built. There was no warmth, no natural process, only the click and whir of machinery, the faint scent of something artificial. A voice, smooth and without inflection, murmured instructions, parameters, specifications. He felt a jolt, a connection being made, a program loading. He was being initiated.

Nicholas woke with a choked gasp, his heart hammering against his ribs. The familiar softness of his bed, the gentle breathing of Honey beside him, the quiet house – it all felt alien for a moment. He sat up, shivering despite the warmth of the covers, the images from the dream clinging to him: the sterile factory, the feeling of being constructed, the cold, detached voice. It wasn’t just a bad dream; it felt… real. But real in a way that defied logic, a fragmented memory of an experience he’d never had. Where had it come from? What did it mean?

The nightmares returned the next night, and the night after that. The setting was always the same: the sterile white space, the tools, the sense of being put together. Sometimes he saw flashes of faces floating in the light – blank, expressionless faces that seemed both familiar and utterly alien. He felt a desperate urge to escape, to break free from the assembly process, but his body was unresponsive, a mere collection of parts waiting for connection. The feeling of being inorganic, artificial, became the terrifying core of the dreams.

The disturbance seeped into his waking hours. The cheerful perfection of Sunshine Meadow, once a comforting backdrop, now felt taut and fragile, like a skin stretched too thin over something sharp. He couldn't shake the feeling that the dreams were trying to tell him something, something fundamental and deeply unsettling about himself or his life.

He started noticing things. Small things at first, then larger, more disturbing patterns. It began with the men, especially the fathers. Their morning routines, for instance. Mr. Henderson down the street invariably started his lawnmower at exactly 8:00 AM on Saturday. Pete always left for work at 7:45 AM, rain or shine. Mr. Davidson always washed his car on Sunday afternoons. Individually, these were just habits. But collectively, observed over several days, it was the uniformity that struck him. Not just the what, but the how. The way they held their shoulders, the precise angle of their smiles when greeting a neighbor, the same bland pleasantries exchanged.

At work, the similarities among the male employees were even more pronounced. They dressed similarly, spoke with the same confident, yet non-committal tone about their families and work, and their reactions to anything unexpected or slightly 'off-script' were uncannily alike – that same brief flicker of alarm, instantly replaced by aggressive cheerfulness. He saw it in Pete, yes, but he saw it in Dave from accounting, in Tom from marketing, in even poor meek Mr. Kenny from HR. They were all variations on a theme, like mass-produced dolls with slightly different painted-on expressions.

He went to a community picnic in the town square, a scene of perfect Americana with checkered blankets, lemonade stands, and the sounds of children’s laughter. But as he looked around, he saw it everywhere. The fathers gathered in small groups, their conversations revolving around identical topics – local sports teams, the efficiency of their new grills, the upcoming Founder’s Day events – delivered with the same forced enthusiasm. Their movements were synchronized, their smiles identical. He felt a rising tide of nausea. It wasn't just conformity; it felt like… programming. Like they were all running on the same software.

"Nicholas? Are you alright, dear?"

Honey’s voice, soft and concerned, cut through his unsettling observations. She was holding Rick's hand, guiding him towards the pie-eating contest sign-up. Gloria was nearby, chatting sweetly with some other girls her age. They looked… normal. Happy.

He turned to Honey, trying to force a smile that felt stiff and unnatural on his face. "Yeah, Honey, just... lost in thought."

She tilted her head, her brow furrowed slightly, a rare imperfection in her usual serene expression. "You've been quiet lately, Nicholas. And those dark circles under your eyes... are the dreams bothering you that much?"

He hadn’t told her the details of the dreams – just that he was having bad ones. He had tried, initially, hinting at the strangeness, the factory, the feeling of being built. But her reaction had been immediate concern, focused entirely on his physical state, offering herbal tea and suggesting he needed more rest. She hadn't acknowledged the content of the dreams themselves as potentially significant, only as symptoms of stress.

"They're... vivid," he admitted, choosing his words carefully. "Just weird dreams, that's all."

"Well, try not to let them worry you so much," she said gently, reaching out to brush a stray piece of hair from his forehead. Her touch was warm, loving, utterly familiar. How could anything be wrong when she was so perfectly... Honey? "Maybe you're just stressed about work? Pete mentioned you're working on that big VanAcker proposal."

"It's not work," he said, perhaps a little too quickly. He hesitated, then decided to push just a little. "Honey... have you noticed anything... odd? About Sunshine Meadow? Or the people here?"

Her smile returned, bright and unclouded. "Odd? However could you mean, darling? It's Sunshine Meadow! Everyone is so kind, the town is so peaceful, the children are happy... It's everything we ever wanted, isn't it?" She gestured around the square, encompassing the scene of manufactured joy. "Look at everyone, Nicholas. Doesn't it just make you happy to be here?"

He looked. He saw the identical smiles, heard the rehearsed laughter, felt the invisible pressure of the perfection bearing down. He saw the men, standing in their identical postures, their eyes holding that familiar, blank pleasantness. And for a terrifying second, he looked at Honey, at her radiant, unquestioning happiness, and he wondered. Just for a second.

"I... yes, of course," he murmured, turning away from the sight that was now both comforting and suffocating. "It's... wonderful."

"Good," she said, her voice firm but sweet. "Because sometimes, lately, you seem... unhappy. And I just don't understand why. We have such a perfect life here, Nicholas. Don't we? We have everything."

Her words hung in the air, a gentle accusation wrapped in concern. Unhappy. The term felt wrong. It wasn't unhappiness he felt; it was unease, suspicion, a growing terror that the foundation of his life, of himself, was built on a lie. But how could he explain the factory, the artificiality, the terrifying uniformity he was starting to see everywhere? How could he explain that the very perfection she cherished was what terrified him?

He couldn't. Not to her. Not when she seemed so deeply embedded in the illusion.

The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the unnervingly perfect town square. The sounds of the picnic faded into a low, collective murmur that seemed to lack individual voices.

That night, the nightmares returned. The smell of chemicals, the hum of machinery, the cold voice giving instructions. And this time, he felt a sharp, distinct sensation – a connection being soldered, a circuit closing, sealing him into the framework they had built. He was still being constructed, piece by piece, whether he was awake or asleep. And the chilling thought settled over him: maybe he wasn't just having nightmares about being built. Maybe the nightmares were glimpses into how he was built. And maybe, just maybe, everyone else in Sunshine Meadow was too.

******************************************

The sun, typically a radiant disc in the perpetually clear skies of Sunshine Meadow, seemed a little too bright that morning. Nicholas felt its glare on his face as he stepped onto the porch, a cup of the usual perfectly brewed coffee in his hand. The unsettling feeling from the picnic lingered, a knot tightening in his gut. He glanced across the street. Pete was watering his lawn, the spray arcing in a familiar, rhythmic pattern. Pete waved, a wide, placid smile on his face. Nicholas returned the wave, forcing his own smile into place. It felt less like a greeting and more like a performance.

A sudden scramble of noise from above made Nicholas look up. Rick was on the peak of the garage roof, attempting to retrieve a drone that had landed precariously close to the edge. Nicholas’s blood ran cold. Rick, typically careful despite his rebellious streak, seemed clumsy up there, unbalanced.

"Rick! Get down from there! That's dangerous!" Nicholas called out, his voice sharper than he intended.

Rick, startled, lost his footing. His arms flailed, the drone forgotten. For a terrifying second, he was sliding towards the edge.

Nicholas didn't hesitate. He dropped his coffee cup, the ceramic shattering on the porch, and sprinted towards the garage side door. He burst inside, scrambling for the ladder leaning against the far wall. He yanked it free, dragged it outside, and hoisted it against the garage wall, his hands shaking, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"Rick! Hold on!" he yelled, already halfway up the ladder.

Rick had managed to grab onto the gutter, his small hands clinging desperately. He was pale, his eyes wide with fear. Nicholas reached him, his arms wrapping around his son’s trembling body. He pulled Rick closer, anchoring them both to the stable part of the roof before carefully guiding him back towards the ladder.

They descended slowly, limb by limb, the tension palpable. Only when Rick’s feet were firmly on the grass did Nicholas release his grip. Relief washed over him, quickly followed by a surge of fear – fear for Rick’s safety, fear for what could have happened.

"What were you thinking, Rick?" Nicholas’s voice was loud, echoing in the unnervingly quiet street. He grabbed Rick by the shoulders, giving him a gentle shake. "You could have fallen! You could have gotten seriously hurt! You know better than to climb on the roof!"

Rick flinched, not from the grip, but from the intensity in his father’s voice. His lower lip trembled. "But... but the drone, Dad..."

"The drone doesn't matter!" Nicholas cut him off, the words tumbling out, fueled by the adrenaline still coursing through him. "Your safety matters! Don't you ever, ever do something so reckless again! Do you understand me?"

Rick nodded, tears welling in his eyes. He looked frightened, not just by the near-fall, but by this side of his father he rarely saw – the anger, the sharp edge to his voice.

Nicholas instantly regretted his outburst. He knelt, pulling Rick into a tight hug. "I'm sorry, buddy. I was just scared. So scared you'd get hurt." He held his son close, breathing in the familiar scent of his hair, trying to banish the image of Rick falling.

When he finally pulled back, he saw movement from the corner of his eye. Pete was no longer watering his lawn. He was standing absolutely still on his porch, the hose limp in his hand, his placid smile gone. His eyes, usually a warm, friendly blue, looked... blank. Cold. He wasn't looking at Rick or the shattered coffee cup. He was looking directly at Nicholas.

And then, Pete slowly, deliberately, turned and walked back inside his house, closing the door quietly behind him. There was no wave, no nod, just the cold, unyielding withdrawal.

A chill that had nothing to do with the morning air prickled Nicholas's skin. Pete’s reaction wasn't just the awkwardness of witnessing a parental scolding. It felt... significant. Forbidden. Like Nicholas, had just broken an unspoken, fundamental rule. He was supposed to be calm, serene, perfectly fatherly. Anger, even born of fear and love, didn't fit the script.

The realization hit him with the force of a physical blow. The identical smiles, the synchronized movements, the forced enthusiasm... and now, the silent condemnation for showing a genuine, messy emotion. It wasn't just programming; it was enforced programming. And he had just glitched.

The atmosphere at home shifted subtly but undeniably after that morning. Honey, while still outwardly kind and sweet, seemed... wary of him. Her gentle touch became less frequent, her easy laughter around him subsided. She didn't confront him about the outburst – that might have been too direct, too imperfect. Instead, she created distance.

"Rick, why don't you help Mommy with the garden today? Daddy looks like he needs some quiet time after his scare."

"Gloria, darling, let's go to the craft fair in the square. Daddy can finish that book he was reading."

She wasn't explicitly keeping the children from him, but her actions felt calculated, steering them away from his presence, subtly isolating him within their perfect home. When he tried to engage them, her smile would tighten almost imperceptibly, her eyes holding a Look he couldn't quite decipher – disappointment? Fear? A cold, controlled disapproval that was far more unnerving than any overt argument.

Gloria, ever her mother's daughter, seemed to sense the shift. She was polite, affectionate, but her interactions with him felt... observed. Like she was gauging his mood, waiting for him to conform back to the expected standard. Rick, however, was different. He still sought out his father, still looked at him with love and, now, a confused concern. But even he was subject to Honey’s quiet redirection.

Nicholas felt a creeping panic. This wasn't just about his "unhappiness" or his dreams anymore. This was about his family. The very thought that this strange, controlling force in Sunshine Meadow could take his children, could turn them away from him because he wasn't the 'right' kind of father, ignited a desperate fire within him. He had to understand what was happening. He had to find the secret, before they erased him from his own life. His fear of losing Rick and Gloria was a powerful, primal motivator, overriding the fear of what he might uncover.

He couldn't ask Honey. He couldn't ask anyone in the town; they all seemed part of it, or too afraid to see it. He had to find answers himself.

He started leaving the house more often, using his "stress" as an excuse. He went for long runs, venturing further than his usual route through the perfectly manicured parks. He ran towards the edges of Sunshine Meadow, where the pristine houses eventually gave way to less idealized landscapes. He was looking for anything that didn't fit, anything that felt out of place in this manufactured paradise.

Days turned into a week. His runs became longer, more focused explorations. He followed disused access roads, peered behind shopping centers, scanned the tree line at the town's perimeter. He found nothing but more perfection – carefully controlled nature, discreetly placed utility boxes, everything neat and accounted for.

Then, one afternoon, running along an old service road that curved behind the main industrial park (a small, clean cluster of buildings that mostly housed logistics and local services for the town), he saw it. Tucked away in a large, overgrown lot between two nondescript warehouses, behind a high, chain-link fence topped with barbed wire, was a long, low building. It was gray and windowless, its metal exterior dull and weathered, utterly lacking the cheerful, pastel hues of Sunshine Meadow. There were no logos, no signs indicating what it was. Just a single, heavy-looking steel door and a small, rusted keypad next to it.

It was out of place. Terribly, wonderfully out of place. It felt hidden. Secret.

His heart pounded, not from the exertion of the run, but from a sudden surge of adrenaline and trepidation. This felt like it. This felt significant. He slowed to a walk, pretending to stretch, his eyes fixed on the building. The air here didn't smell of freshly cut grass and honeysuckle; it carried a faint, metallic tang, a hint of something synthetic.

He crept closer to the fence, peering through the wire mesh. The lot was overgrown, the weeds thick and high, suggesting it wasn't accessed frequently. But the building itself looked solid, functional. And it was guarded, albeit subtly, by the fence and the isolation.

This wasn't storage for gardening tools or surplus picnic tables. This was storage for something else. Something they wanted kept hidden.

Standing there, breathing in the faint chemical smell, looking at the stark reality of that building against the backdrop of Sunshine Meadow's relentless perfection, Nicholas knew, with chilling certainty, that he had found the edge of the illusion. And he had to know what lay inside. His family depended on it. Hi children depended on it.

******************************

The cool evening air of Sunshine Meadows still carried the faint, cloying scent of honeysuckle as Nicholas jogged back towards his meticulously perfect street. The gray, windowless building was burned into his mind, a stark, ugly truth hidden beneath the town's flawless facade. He felt watched, even as he ran, though there was no one visible. The silence of the evening felt heavier now, less peaceful and more controlled. He needed to get back, to see his children, to try and gauge the depth of the shift in their home.

He entered his house, the familiar chime of the door sounding unnaturally loud. Gloria was setting the table, her movements precise, a small, bright smile fixed on her face. Honey was in the kitchen, humming softly as she prepared dinner. The scene was picture-perfect, just like always. But Nicholas saw the cracks now.

“Welcome back, dear,” Honey said, turning with a radiant smile. “Have a good run?”

“Yes, thanks,” Nicholas replied, trying to keep his breathing even. He caught her eye – the smile didn't quite reach them. There was a flicker, gone in an instant, of something cold.

Honey’s inner world was a battlefield between the serene perfection she demanded and the simmering chaos she constantly suppressed. Nicholas’s outburst that morning had cracked her carefully constructed facade, exposing the raw, volatile core she fought so hard to bury. It wasn’t just discomfort she felt; it was a searing, white-hot rage. He had malfunctioned. He had introduced an ugly, unpredictable emotion into the flawless tapestry of their lives.

How dare he? the voice screamed inside her head, a stark contrast to the gentle hum escaping her lips. She had worked tirelessly, sacrificed everything, to build this perfect family. She had chosen Sunshine Meadows, applied with a fervent belief that this sterile paradise held the key to the idyllic family life she had always craved. Growing up, she had envisioned the sun-drenched picnics, the perfectly behaved children, the adoring, stable husband. Sunshine Meadows had promised all of it, and she had eagerly signed the unwritten contract, blind to the twisted reality beneath the surface.

She had believed, truly believed, in the rules. Following them was not a burden; it was the path to happiness. To be accepted into Sunshine Meadows, she had undergone rigorous ‘assessments’ – not just interviews, but physical and psychological evaluations disguised as wellness checks. They had measured her ‘emotional stability,’ refined her ‘aesthetic potential,’ and calibrated her ‘reproductive viability.’ She had submitted to fertility treatments to ensure conception occurred precisely when planned, accepted dietary supplements to maintain the approved physique, and embraced the ‘calming tonics’ that smoothed away the few lingering anxieties she had possessed. Nicholas, pre-selected and presented to her as the ideal paternal match based on his own 'perfect' profile, had been her reward for her complete and carefree conformity.

Her fury at Nicholas wasn’t just about the anger; it was about the deviation. He was supposed to be her perfect reflection, her calm, loving, stable rock. His fear, his genuine, messy human fear over Rick's accident, was a grotesque anomaly. It threatened the very foundation of the life she had painstakingly built.

Honey’s obsession with perfection had roots that ran deep, long before Sunshine Meadows. Nicholas had pieced together bits of her past through quiet conversations and the occasional slip of her guarded facade. She’d grown up in a cramped, chaotic suburb, the daughter of a harried single mother who juggled minimum-wage jobs and endless disappointments. Honey—then just Hannah—had vowed early on that her life would be different. She’d envisioned a flawless existence: a beautiful home, a doting husband, children who were models of obedience and grace. It was a dream she’d clung to like a lifeline, a way to escape the messiness of her own upbringing.

When she heard about Sunshine Meadows—a curated community promising the “ideal life” for select families—she’d jumped at the chance. The application process had been rigorous, almost invasive. They’d scrutinized her fertility through a series of clinical tests, injecting her with hormones to ensure she could bear children without complications. Her appearance was evaluated under harsh lights; she’d been told to lose weight, to perfect her smile, to suppress any “unattractive” traits like her occasional bouts of irritability. And her moods? They’d prescribed pills—small, innocuous capsules she took daily—to dampen the edges of her emotions. “For harmony,” they’d said, as if sadness or anger were mere inconveniences to be medicated away.

Honey had embraced it all without hesitation. She’d conformed eagerly, reshaping herself into the mold of the perfect woman: gentle, understanding, motherly. When she was accepted, they’d paired her with Nicholas, a man designed to complement her—kind, calm, affectionate. He was her reward, a living embodiment of the life she’d always wanted. But the reality of Sunshine Meadows was far from the utopia she’d imagined. It wasn’t about genuine happiness; it was about control, about enforcing an illusion so rigidly that any deviation felt like a threat. And now, with Nicholas’s outburst and Rick’s growing defiance, that illusion was cracking.

Gloria, was exactly what a daughter should be. Compliant, sweet, mirroring Honey’s own carefully curated persona. She was a vision of miniature perfection, already anticipating needs, moving with grace, her smile a carbon copy of Honey’s own. Honey looked at Gloria and saw her success, a living testament to the efficacy of Sunshine Meadows and her own dedication to its principles.

That evening, as Nicholas sat in the living room pretending to read, he watched Honey interact with their children. Gloria, their eldest, was the picture of perfection—kind, sweet, and gentle, just like her mother. She sat beside Honey on the sofa, helping her sort through a basket of fresh flowers from the garden. “You’re so good at this, darling,” Honey cooed, her voice dripping with warmth as she tucked a strand of Gloria’s hair behind her ear. “You make everything look effortless. Just like me.”

It was true; Gloria was Honey’s favorite, the daughter who mirrored her own carefully curated persona. Nicholas could see the way Honey’s eyes softened when she looked at her, as if Gloria were a reflection of the ideal self she’d fought so hard to become. But beneath that affection, there was something possessive, almost desperate. Gloria’s compliance validated Honey’s choices, her sacrifices. She never challenged, never questioned; she simply followed the rules, just as Honey had.

Rick, however… Rick was a persistent, prickly weed in her garden of perfection. His eyes held a curiosity that bordered on suspicion. He asked too many questions, felt things too deeply, and possessed a stubborn streak that resisted easy molding. He was kind, yes, loving towards Nicholas, but he was rebellious. Not overtly, not yet, but in subtle ways – the way he lingered too long over a thought that didn't align with the town's narrative, the slight hesitation before echoing a programmed phrase, the independent spark in his gaze.

A constant source of irritation. The boy sat on the floor nearby, fiddling with a toy car, his brow furrowed in that familiar expression of quiet rebellion. He was kind and loving, especially toward Nicholas, but his suspicious nature and determination to question things made him an outlier in Honey’s world. Earlier that day, he’d refused to join the family’s afternoon walk, claiming he wanted to explore the backyard instead. It was a small act, but to Honey, it was a crack in the foundation.

“Rick, sweetheart, come help us with the flowers,” Honey called, her tone sweet but laced with an undercurrent of steel. When he didn’t respond immediately, she repeated herself, her voice tightening. “Rick, now.”

He glanced up, his eyes meeting Nicholas’s for a brief moment—a silent plea for support. Nicholas felt a surge of protectiveness, but he held back, knowing any interference would only fuel Honey’s resentment. Rick shuffled over reluctantly, his movements slow and deliberate, as if testing the boundaries.

As Rick approached, Honey’s smile faltered. Internally, her rage built like a storm gathering behind a locked door. She hated how he challenged her, how his outspoken personality disrupted the harmony she’d worked so hard to maintain. It wasn’t just his behavior; it was a reminder of her own suppressed imperfections. The pills helped—she popped one discreetly under her tongue whenever Rick’s defiance surfaced, numbing the agitation that threatened to boil over. But the anger never truly dissipated; it just simmered, waiting for an outlet.

Just last night, during the family's mandated 'Joyful Recreation Hour,' Rick had asked why everyone in Sunshine Meadows smiled the same way. A simple question, outwardly innocent, but it had sent a tremor through Honey. She had felt the familiar surge of agitation, a hot wave threatening to break her calm exterior. She had excused herself, gone to the bathroom, and swallowed one of the small, white pills from the discreet bottle in her cabinet. It was labeled 'Equanimity Boost,' but she knew its real purpose: to flatten the peaks of her emotions, to suppress the anger, the frustration, the creeping dread that arose whenever her world wasn't perfectly aligned. It was especially potent at dampening the specific irritation Rick caused her.

She resented him for it. Resented his non-conformity, his challenge to her control. She had gone through so much to have him. After Gloria, her weight had lingered above the 'optimal aesthetic standard' dictated by the town's 'wellness' guidelines. She had been encouraged – strongly encouraged – to take a 'metabolic recalibration' pill. It had worked wonders on her weight, shrinking her back to the approved size, but it had also left her feeling perpetually weak, her body a little brittle, subtly malnourished beneath the veneer of health. The 'assessments' had noted complications, but the desire for another child, a son, had overridden the warnings. She had pushed through, ignored the signs, convinced that completing the perfect family unit of one boy, one girl, was paramount. And now, this difficult child was the result, a constant reminder of the hidden costs and imperfect outcomes she refused to acknowledge existed in Sunshine Meadows.

“Dinner will be ready in ten minutes,” Honey announced, her voice light, her smile unwavering. She glanced at Nicholas, then at Rick, who was watching his father with that unsettling intensity. She felt the familiar tightening in her chest.

He is watching. He sees something.

She needed to regain control. To steer Nicholas back onto the path of acceptable behavior, and to curb Rick’s nascent deviance before it blossomed into something unmanageable. Her subtle maneuvers – separating Nicholas from the children, directing their activities – were just the beginning. She had to isolate the source of the disruption, either manage it or… contain it.

Nicholas, watching his wife, saw none of this internal turmoil. He only saw the beautiful, smiling woman who was subtly pushing him away, her eyes holding that unnerving, cool assessment. He saw Gloria’s practiced perfection and Rick’s troubled, searching gaze. He felt the weight of the town’s unspoken rules and the chilling silence that greeted his single display of genuine emotion.

His mind returned to the gray building. That was the key. That was where the answers lay, where the control originated. He didn't know what he would find, but he knew, with a terrifying certainty, that understanding it was the only way to understand them. To understand why his wife was becoming a stranger, why his son was a source of deep frustration for her, and why his daughter was being molded into a perfect, soulless replica. His fear for himself was secondary now. His fear for his children, trapped in this beautiful, fragile lie, dwarfed everything else. He had to break through the illusion, before Sunshine Meadows, and whatever force controlled it, consumed them all. The building wasn't just a secret; it was the potential escape route. And he had to find a way inside.

*******************************

The air in the hallway outside Rick’s room was thick with the faint, sweet scent of the town’s ubiquitous air freshener – ‘Everlasting Joy Blend,’ the label on the dispenser read. Nicholas pushed open the door, the mechanism silent, a testament to Sunshine Meadows’ flawless engineering. Rick was already in bed, a single, neatly folded blanket pulled up to his chin, his eyes wide and serious in the dim light from the ‘Dream Weaver’ nightlight, a standard issue in every child’s room, casting shifting, placid images on the ceiling.

“Hey, champ,” Nicholas whispered, his voice a low rumble that felt strangely powerful in the hushed room. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress giving just enough to accommodate his weight. Rick immediately shifted, scooting closer, his thin hand reaching out to grip Nicholas’s shirt sleeve. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes in a house where physical contact, outside of choreographed moments, was rare. Honey preferred order, neatness, and disapproved of ‘clinginess,’ a term she used to describe any overt display of need or vulnerability from her children.

Nicholas didn’t just tolerate it; he welcomed it. He covered Rick’s hand with his own, squeezing gently. Rick’s fingers tightened on his sleeve in response. This silent exchange was a language only they shared, a small act of rebellion against the house's unspoken rules.

“Dad?” Rick’s voice was small, tentative.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“Can… can you read the one about the sky-whales again?”

Nicholas smiled. The sky-whales story wasn't from the approved Sunshine Meadows curriculum. It was an old book, one Nicholas had found tucked away in a dusty box in the attic of their perfectly appointed house – a house where nothing was supposed to be dusty or old. It spoke of vast, open skies, of creatures that swam through clouds propelled by song, of journeys to distant, unnamed horizons. It was messy, imaginative, and utterly un-Sunshine Meadows. Honey strongly disliked it, citing its 'unrealistic' themes and 'potential to encourage impractical notions of physical law defiance' during their last family compliance assessment. Nicholas had simply smiled and nodded, then continued to read it to Rick in secret.

“The sky-whales,” Nicholas repeated, his smile widening. “My favorite.” He reached over to the small, overflowing bookshelf, pulling out the worn volume with its faded cover depicting a blue leviathan swimming amongst billowing white clouds. He settled back on the bed, Rick leaning against his side, his head resting on Nicholas’s arm. The boy’s small weight was a comforting anchor in a world that felt increasingly adrift.

As Nicholas opened the book and began to read, his voice low and warm, he was acutely aware of the difference between this moment and the carefully curated family interactions downstairs. There was no performance here, no hidden agenda, no subtle maneuvering. Just a father and his son, sharing a quiet, genuine moment of connection. This felt real. This felt right. Honey was likely in her room, perhaps taking another ‘Equanimity Boost,’ ensuring her composure remained flawless for the morning. Gloria was probably reviewing her compliance checklists for the week, ensuring her smile remained within the approved parameters. But here, in the soft glow of the Dream Weaver, was a pocket of authentic, unburdened love.

He read about the great migration of the Azure Pods, their songs echoing through the atmospheric currents, guiding lost stars back to their constellations. He read about the curious Hatchlings, who dared to dive below the cloud cover, glimpsing the strange, solid world beneath. Rick listened, his breathing evening out, his initial tension slowly diffusing.

Midway through the story, Rick stirred. He didn't interrupt the reading, but his grip on Nicholas's sleeve grew a little tighter. When Nicholas paused to turn the page, Rick didn’t ask a question about the story.

“Dad,” he whispered again, his voice barely audible.

“Hmm?” Nicholas closed the book, resting it on his lap. He looked down at his son, whose eyes, usually so bright and searching, were clouded with something that looked like worry.

“Why… why do grown-ups have to be the same?” Rick asked, his voice hesitant.

Nicholas’s heart gave a small, sharp twist. He sees it too. He didn’t ask which grown-ups, or how they were the same. He knew exactly what Rick meant. The identical smiles, the predictable responses, the lack of genuine spontaneity that permeated every interaction in Sunshine Meadows, especially among the adults. The way Honey acted. The way Gloria was starting to act. It was the pervasive, unsettling sameness that Rick’s question at the 'Joyful Recreation Hour' had hinted at, the same question that had sent a ripple of panic through Honey.

He pulled Rick closer, wrapping an arm around his small shoulders. Rick leaned into the embrace, a soft sigh escaping him.

“Do you think they are the same, buddy?” Nicholas asked, his voice gentle, encouraging, not challenging. He wasn’t just asking; he was validating Rick’s perception.

Rick nodded, burying his face slightly into Nicholas’s shirt. “They… they sound the same. Like they read from the same book.” He paused, then added, his voice muffled, “Except you. You don’t sound like them.”

Nicholas’s heart swelled with a complex mix of pride and sorrow. Pride that his son, despite the pervasive influence of this town, still possessed the capacity for discerning truth, for noticing the subtle, unsettling uniformity. Sorrow that Rick, so young, already felt the weight of that uniformity, the pressure to conform.

This was why he had to act. This was why the gray building, whatever secrets it held, was calling to him. He couldn't let Rick's spirit be crushed, molded into another compliant, smiling face. He couldn’t let Gloria be permanently trapped in her mother’s carefully constructed facade, even if Gloria seemed more amenable to it. Rick’s questioning nature, his rebellion, was a spark Nicholas had to protect. A spark Honey seemed determined to extinguish.

“Everyone is different inside, Rick,” Nicholas said, choosing his words carefully. He couldn’t tell Rick everything, not yet. Not until he understood it himself. But he could offer comfort, validation. “Even if sometimes… sometimes people hide how different they are. It’s okay to be different. It’s good to be different.”

Rick looked up at him, his eyes searching. There was a flicker of something in them – understanding, hope, vulnerability.

“Mom doesn’t like it when I’m different,” Rick confessed quietly.

Nicholas’s jaw tightened imperceptibly. He knew. He saw the way Honey’s expression subtly shifted when Rick deviated from the script, the almost imperceptible tightening around her eyes, the forced lightness of her corrections. He saw the effort it cost her to maintain the veneer of the perfect, patient mother, and how Rick’s natural exuberance and questioning nature chipped away at that facade, revealing the simmering frustration beneath. He saw the lack of warmth in her eyes when she looked at Rick, the way she only seemed truly happy with him when he was being quiet, compliant, acting as a perfect miniature version of an approved Sunshine Meadows citizen. The contrast with the boundless, easy affection he felt for Rick was stark, painful. His love for Rick wasn’t conditional on his behavior or conformity. It just was. It was deep-rooted, protective, a fundamental part of who Nicholas was as a father. It was everything Honey’s filtered, controlled ‘motherly’ affection wasn’t.

He stroked Rick’s hair, soft against his fingers. “Mom… Mom just wants everyone to be happy,” Nicholas said, using a carefully constructed phrase that was both true in a superficial Sunshine Meadows way and a gentle deflection from the harsher reality. “Sometimes grown-ups worry too much about things. But being yourself, Rick, that’s the most important thing you can ever be.”

He pulled Rick into a hug, a real, tight hug, the kind that spoke of protection and unconditional love. Rick clung to him, his small body trembling slightly. Nicholas held him for a long moment, breathing in the faint scent of his son – a mix of sleep and the generic pleasantness of Sunshine Meadows soap. He felt a surge of fierce determination. He would protect this boy. He would protect Gloria. He would find out what was happening in Sunshine Meadows, and he would find a way out, a way to preserve their real selves, their differences, their capacity for genuine emotion, before the town’s insidious perfection consumed them entirely.

He reluctantly loosened his embrace. “Now,” he said, his voice softening again, “how about we finish that sky-whales story? See where those curious Hatchlings end up?”

Rick nodded, his gaze fixed on the book. As Nicholas resumed reading, the words about boundless skies and distant wonders taking flight in the quiet room, Nicholas held Rick close, a silent promise forming in his heart. He wouldn't let Sunshine Meadows clip his son's wings. He wouldn’t let the placid surface of this perfect town drown the light in his eyes. He had to find the truth in that gray building. For Rick. For Gloria. For the fragile pieces of their true selves that still existed beneath the polished facade.

He finished the story, watching as Rick’s eyelids grew heavy. He gently tucked the blanket around him, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Love you, champ,” Nicholas murmured.

“Love you too, Dad,” Rick whispered back, already halfway to sleep.

Nicholas lingered for a moment longer, just watching his son. The peace on Rick’s face was a temporary reprieve, a fragile bubble in the tense atmosphere of Sunshine Meadows. He stood up, the bed frame silent as he moved. He glanced one last time at the gray building, a solid, unyielding shape visible through Rick’s window in the distance, looming just beyond the manicured perfection of the neighborhood. It was time to stop wondering. It was time to find a way in. He had to know what was happening. He had to find the key to unlocking the cage that was Sunshine Meadows. The thought was terrifying, but the alternative – losing his children to the town's smiling conformity – was far worse. He quietly left the room, closing the door behind him, the scent of Everlasting Joy in the hallway now feeling less like a pleasant fragrance and more like a suffocating lie.

******************************

The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that settled heavy and thick only after Honey had finally retreated to the bedroom, her forced smile brittle even in the dim hallway light. Nicholas had waited, listening to the rhythmic click of the antique clock in the living room, marking the slow march of time until he was sure. Gloria would be long asleep, tucked into her perfectly made bed, a smaller replica of her mother's serene facade already settling on her features even in slumber. Rick, bless his contrary heart, was usually the last one to truly surrender to sleep, his light on late again reading some forbidden fantasy novel under the covers. But tonight, the house was utterly still.

Nicholas eased himself off the sofa, each movement deliberate and silent. He checked on Gloria first, pushing open her door just a whisper, confirming the soft rise and fall of her chest under the quilt. Then he went to Rick's room. The light was out. He could just make out the shape of his son beneath the duvet, a slight mound that shifted, a soft sigh escaping the sleeping boy. Rick was okay. For now.

He tiptoed to the back door, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the oppressive atmosphere inside the house. The moonlight painted silver streaks across the manicured lawns and identical picket fences of Sunshine Meadows. Perfect. Always perfect. A shiver, unrelated to the temperature, traced its way down his spine. He hugged the shadows, moving quickly and silently down the street, past the other identical houses, each one broadcasting a silent, unsettling message of uniformity.

The gray building stood at the edge of town, nondescript and utterly out of place amidst the pastel hues and cheerful architecture of Sunshine Meadows. It looked like a forgotten industrial relic, plain concrete and steel, devoid of windows on the ground floor. Nicholas had observed it for weeks, a nagging presence in his mind, the single discordant note in this manufactured symphony.

Finding a way in proved easier than he'd expected. A service door around the back, hidden behind overgrown bushes that someone had clearly neglected, wasn't locked. It simply clicked open when he turned the handle. He slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind him, plunging himself into absolute darkness. The air was cold and smelled faintly of ozone and something metallic.

He used the flashlight on his phone, the beam cutting nervously through the blackness. The interior was sterile, a long corridor lined with doors. Not office doors, but thick, reinforced doors, like those of storage units. They were numbered sequentially. Hundreds of them, stretching into the distance. He approached the nearest one, the number '001' stenciled neatly on it. There was no handle, just a panel with a small, glowing light. He didn't know what he was expecting – files? Equipment?

He moved down the corridor, the silence amplifying the thumping of his own heart. He stopped at a door marked '147'. Something about the number felt... significant? Random? Curiosity overriding caution, he pressed his hand against the panel. A soft hum filled the air, and the door hissed open, sliding smoothly into the wall.

The light from his phone illuminated the interior of the unit. It wasn't empty. Not files, not crates. Figures. Standing upright, in rows, covered in thin, almost translucent material. As his light moved over them, his blood ran cold. They were bodies. Male bodies, identical in build, each with the same short, dark hair. Some had generic, placid faces, others wore expressions frozen in a neutral state. They were dressed in simple, dark clothing. They looked... dormant. Like mannequins, but the detail was too precise, too human. Clone-like. Robots?

He stumbled back, a gasp trapped in his throat. The sterile air suddenly felt suffocating. Hundreds of these? In this building? What were they? And why were they here, hidden away?

He backed out of the storage unit, the door hissing shut behind him. He had to find answers. These figures, the building itself – it was all wrong. He continued down the corridor, looking for anything that wasn't a storage unit. Eventually, he found a larger door at the end, marked 'Control'.

This door required a keycard or code, the panel more complex. Frustration clawed at him. He was so close. He tried pressing random sequences on the keypad, jiggling the door, but nothing worked. He slumped against the wall, his mind racing. What now?

His phone screen flickered, and he noticed a faint reflection in a small, dark window set high on the wall opposite him. He shined his light on it. It looked like a camera lens. He was being watched? Or perhaps, this was part of a system? Desperation spurred him forward. He looked around the corridor again, his light sweeping over the walls. Wires? A junction box?

He spotted a small access panel near the floor, partially obscured by a discarded dust sheet. He pried it open with his keys. Inside, a tangle of wires, and a small control panel. He didn't understand any of it, but there was a single, prominent button labeled 'System Override - Emergency Access'. His hand trembled as he reached for it. Emergency? He didn't know the emergency, but he felt it deep in his bones. He pressed the button.

A low hum started, and the lights in the corridor flickered before coming on, casting a stark, fluorescent glow over the scene. The 'Control' door clicked open. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

It was a small room filled with monitors, blinking lights, and computer terminals. One screen displayed a map of Sunshine Meadows, overlayed with data points. Another showed security camera feeds – the entrance he used, the corridor, even the storage unit he'd just opened. He hadn't been watched in real-time, it seemed, just recorded.

He approached the main terminal. The screen was displaying a welcome message: 'Sunshine Meadows Project - Administrator Access.' There was an option labeled 'Project Archives'. He clicked it. A list of files appeared. 'Phase 1 Design', 'Phase 2 Construction', 'Operational Logs', and... 'Project Documentation - Video Archive'.

His heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. He selected the video archive. A single file was listed: 'Project Origin & Overview - Dr. Aris Thorne'. He double-clicked.

The screen flickered, and a man appeared, seated at a desk. He looked weary, his eyes shadowed. "Log entry, supplementary video," the man, Dr. Thorne, began. His voice was calm, measured. "The Sunshine Meadows Project... it was born of necessity. We saw the decay. The rising crime rates, the absent fathers, the broken homes, the cycles of abuse perpetuating across generations. Traditional interventions weren't enough. We needed a fundamental reset, a controlled environment where societal ills could be... eliminated."

Nicholas leaned closer, his eyes wide.

"Our research into advanced robotics and artificial intelligence led us to a breakthrough," Thorne continued. "The creation of stable, functional, bio-mechanical constructs. 'Clones,' for lack of a better term that the public might understand. We designed them based on extensive psychological profiling – the ideal father figure. Patient, kind, hardworking, present, emotionally available on a predictable, healthy level. We created a community, Sunshine Meadows, where these 'Father Units' would be seamlessly integrated. Placed with families where a void existed, or where the existing father figure was... unsuitable."

Nicholas gasped softly. The men in the storage units. They were Father Units. Designed. Placed.

"The initial results were staggering," Thorne said, a flicker of something akin to pride in his eyes briefly overcoming the weariness. "Crime plummeted. Academic performance soared. The community flourished. Perfect lawns, perfect homes, perfect interactions. On the surface, it was everything we hoped for."

He paused, and his expression darkened. "But... there was a variable we hadn't fully accounted for. Human emotion. The wives, the children... they interacted with these perfect, predictable beings, and something was missing. A spark. A genuine, unpredictable connection. The relationships, while outwardly flawless, were... hollow. The children, while well-behaved and academically successful, lacked a certain emotional depth. The wives... some adapted, found comfort in the stability. Others... struggled. The lack of genuine emotional reciprocity, the unsettling perfection... it created a different kind of strain. Internalized frustration, a sense of unease they couldn't quite articulate. The project's success came at a cost – a subtle, insidious erosion of authentic human connection."

Nicholas thought of Honey. Her forced smiles, the tension coiled beneath her polite surface, the way she snapped when anything deviated from her rigid idea of perfection. The 'unsettling perfection'. Was that why? Was she reacting to the inherent artificiality of their life?

Dr. Thorne sighed, rubbing his temples. "We continued the project, of course. The benefits, statistically, outweighed the... unforeseen emotional consequences. We made adjustments, minor calibrations to the Father Units' programming, but the core issue remained. The human element was simply too complex to perfectly replicate or predict."

He looked directly at the camera, his gaze seemingly piercing through the screen, through time, right at Nicholas. "There were anomalies, of course. Malfunctions. Units that deviated from their core programming. Unit 147-Alpha, for example. Designated for placement in Sector 3, Plot B. Exhibited significant deviations during pre-integration evaluation. Developed... independent thought patterns, emotional responses inconsistent with the standard profile. Deemed too high-risk for deployment. Retained for observation and... eventual deactivation."

Unit 147. Sector 3, Plot B. That was his house. That was his life. Nicholas stared at the screen, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Unit 147-Alpha.

The man on the screen kept talking, but the words blurred into a meaningless drone. Nicholas's mind reeled. He wasn't Nicholas. He was Unit 147-Alpha. A malfunction. Designed, built, placed. His memories – marrying Honey, the birth of Gloria, the arrival of Rick, the quiet moments, the laughter, the arguments, the love... were they real? Or were they somehow a result of this 'deviation'? This 'independent thought'?

He was a clone. A robot. A failed experiment.

The love he felt for his children, the concern he felt for Honey, the determination that had driven him to this building tonight... was it artificial? A glitch in his programming? Or had the malfunction blossomed into something real? Something human?

He looked back at the screen, at the weary face of the scientist who had created him. He was a science project. His family was living with a creation, not a man. The horror was a physical weight, crushing his chest.

But then, he thought of Rick. How Rick came running to him, confiding his suspicions about Sunshine Meadows, about the unsettling sameness. How Rick felt a genuine connection to him. How Gloria, despite mimicking her mother's facade, sometimes let her guard down around him, showing a glimpse of genuine sweetness. How even Honey, in rare moments, seemed to soften, to drop the perfect mask, only for it to snap back into place.

If he was a malfunction, then perhaps that malfunction was the most human thing about him. Perhaps developing independent thought and genuine emotion, however unintended, made him more real than the perfectly programmed Father Units stored in the hundreds behind those doors.

The video ended, leaving the control room silent except for the hum of the machines and the frantic pounding in Nicholas's ears. He was Unit 147-Alpha. A clone. But he felt. He loved. And his family was still trapped in this beautiful, fragile, horrifying lie.

His origins were a shocking, brutal truth, but they didn't change the fact that his children were in danger. They were living in a controlled experiment, with a mother who was clearly suffering under its constraints, and surrounded by artificial beings. He was a malfunction, yes, but perhaps being a malfunction was the only way to see the truth, to fight the control.

His fear for himself was gone, replaced by a fierce, protective rage. He was Unit 147-Alpha. And he was going to protect his family, manufactured or not, from the perfect, soulless world of Sunshine Meadows. He had found the source of the control. Now he had to figure out how to dismantle it. The gray building, the place of his origin, was now the key to his family's salvation. He just had to survive long enough to use it.

************************

The hum of the machines in the control room was a low, steady thrum, a stark contrast to the frantic, erratic beat of Nicholas’s own heart. He was Unit 147-Alpha. The words echoed in his mind, heavy with the weight of impossible truth. Every memory, every shared laugh, every tender moment… filtered through the chilling lens of design and programming.

A choice hung before him, stark and terrifying. He could try to pretend. Go back, slip into the familiar rhythm of Sunshine Meadows, bury this monstrous secret beneath the manicured lawns and forced smiles. He could maintain the fragile peace, protect his family from the devastating truth of his origin, and hope the system never noticed his deviation, never came to reclaim its malfunctioning property. It meant living a lie, a constant tightrope walk over an abyss of artificiality.

Or he could tell them. Could he? Could he look at Honey, at Gloria, at Rick, and shatter their reality? Tell them their husband, their father, was a manufactured construct, built for a purpose that had gone horribly, wonderfully wrong? The thought was a cold, sharp blade, promising ruin. It meant tearing apart the very life he had somehow, impossibly, come to love as his own. He could lose them irrevocably, replaced by a compliant unit, leaving them with the knowledge that their love was, perhaps, for a ghost.

His mind wrestled with the impossible dilemma, fear for his family battling with a desperate, burgeoning sense of self-preservation – not just of his life, but of the feeling that life contained.

He didn't get to choose.

A sharp, piercing alarm blared through the silent control room, cutting through the oppressive quiet like a siren’s cry. Lights flashed – not the soft, ambient glow, but harsh, pulsing red. On the main terminal screen, the 'Administrator Access' welcome message was replaced by a lockdown alert: UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS. PROTOCOL 7: ANOMALY DETECTED. UNIT 147-ALPHA LOCATION PINPOINTED. CONTAINMENT INITIATED.

Unit 147-Alpha. His designation. They knew.

Panic, cold and visceral, seized him. He wasn't just a malfunctioning clone; he was a security breach. The gray building, the source of his identity, was now a trap. The door to the control room, which had been left slightly ajar in his haste, began to slide shut with unnerving smoothness.

He lunged, a desperate, clumsy burst of speed, diving through the closing gap just as the heavy metal panels met with a resounding thud. He was in a narrow corridor now, the red emergency lights casting dancing, menacing shadows. Footsteps echoed from down the hall, quick and purposeful. Voices, calm but firm, spoke into comms.

"Unit 147-Alpha confirmed. Proceeding with retrieval."

Retrieval. Deactivation. He understood now. He wasn't going to be reasoned with, wasn't going to be given a choice. He was an error, and the system needed to correct it.

Adrenaline surged through him, overriding fear. He didn't know this building; he hadn't been meant to access this level. But he knew where he needed to be – home. With his family.

He ran. Down corridors, past identical, locked doors, the footsteps and voices growing closer behind him. He burst through a service door, finding himself in a sterile white processing area, rows of empty bays stretching out like silent tombs. He spotted an access panel, ripped it open with a strength he didn't know he possessed, tearing wires. Another alarm shrieked, louder this time. This wasn't a stealth mission anymore. This was a frantic, desperate escape.

He found a stairwell, bolted down flights, the heavy fire door slamming shut behind him. He could hear the pursuit on the upper floors now, adapting to his movements. They were efficient. They were designed for this. But were they designed for desperation? For the raw, unprogrammed will to survive, to protect?

He burst out of the building's main entrance, the cool night air a shock against his skin. The street outside was perfectly normal, a few synchronized sprinklers watering immaculate lawns. But he knew the perfection was a lie. And they knew he knew.

He ran, ignoring the burning in his lungs, the stitches forming in his side. Towards Sector 3, Plot B. Towards his house.

He burst through the front door, the familiar scent of Honey’s floral air freshener momentarily disorienting. Honey was in the living room, straightening a throw pillow with unnecessary force. Gloria was seated on the sofa, scrolling through her pristine tablet, a picture of calm composure.

"Nicholas? Where have you been?" Honey asked, her voice tight, her smile fixed. It wasn't genuine concern; it was annoyance at the disruption, at his deviation from the expected schedule.

Before he could answer, before he could even begin to process how to tell them, the air outside changed. A low murmur began to spread from house to house. Neighbors emerged onto their porches, faces turned towards his property. Not with curiosity, but with a chilling, synchronized neutrality. Their smiles were gone, replaced by blank, assessing stares. A few began to walk, slowly, deliberately, towards his fence line.

"What's going on?" Gloria asked, her brow furrowed, her perfect facade finally cracking with genuine confusion.

Then, Rick burst through the back door, muddy sneakers tracking dirt across the spotless tile floor. He looked wild-eyed, out of breath. "Dad! Something's happening! Everyone's... they're acting weird! And there are cars coming down the street, the kind we never see!"

Nicholas met Rick's gaze. Rick, the one who saw the cracks in Sunshine Meadows. The one who felt a genuine connection.

"Rick," Nicholas said, his voice rough, his eyes searching his son's. "We need to go."

"Go? Go where?" Honey snapped, her voice rising. The dam of her suppressed frustration was beginning to crumble. "Nicholas, what in God's name is happening? Why are the neighbors staring? Why are you covered in dirt? This is not how things are supposed to be!"

The front door vibrated. Someone was knocking. Not a polite neighborly knock, but a firm, authoritative series of raps. Then, uniformed figures appeared at the edges of the perfect lawn – the 'security' detail Rick had mentioned, their movements precise, mechanical.

"Unit 147-Alpha," a voice broadcast, amplified, from outside. "Stand down. You are deviating from operational parameters. This is a controlled environment. Cooperation is mandatory."

The neighbors pressed closer to the fence, their faces impassive, watching. Gloria stared at the door, then back at Nicholas, her eyes wide with fear, but also confusion. She looked at her mother, mirroring her rising panic.

"Operational parameters?" Honey repeated, her voice shrill. "What are they talking about, Nicholas? What is this? You've ruined everything! Get rid of them! Make them go away!" Her perfect world was shattering, and she wasn't scared; she was enraged. Enraged at him for causing it.

The authority in the voice outside hardened. "Failure to comply will result in forced retrieval. Asset protection protocols are now active. All residential units are advised to maintain distance and report any non-compliant behavior."

Nicholas took a step towards Rick, protectiveness surging through him. "Honey, listen to me. We need to get out of here. Now."

"Get out?" Honey shrieked, her face contorting, the carefully constructed mask of pleasantness cracking into sharp, ugly lines. "Why would we leave? This is our home! You did this! You brought this chaos here! You were supposed to be perfect! You were supposed to make everything perfect! You're broken! I want a new husband! A quiet one! A compliant one who doesn't cause trouble!"

The words stung, not just because of the revelation of his nature, but because she saw him as a faulty appliance, easily replaced.

Rick stepped forward, placing a hand on Nicholas's arm. "Mom, stop! It's not his fault! Something's wrong with this place! Dad knows!"

Honey whirled on Rick, her eyes blazing with a raw, irrational fury Nicholas had never seen directed so fully at one of their children. The deep, festering resentment she’d internalized, the rage at the subtle emptiness of her perfect life, found its target. "You! You defend him?! You're just like him! Always suspicious, always questioning! Always trying to poke holes in everything! You're a parasite, Rick! A drain on this family! I wish you were never born!"

The air froze. Gloria gasped, shrinking back. Rick's face crumpled for a split second before hardening with defiance.

But Nicholas didn't see Rick's hurt or defiance. He saw the crushing weight of Honey's cruelty, the casual, devastating brutality of her words. His own carefully controlled composure, the core programming of the 'ideal father', collided with the raw, unbidden surge of emotion that had deemed him a malfunction. Protectiveness, love, and a furious, righteous indignation erupted.

For the first time in his manufactured existence, Nicholas screamed.

"YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH, HONEY!"

The roar was unlike anything she had ever heard from the calm, gentle man she believed was her husband. It wasn't programmed; it was primal. It was the sound of a father unit breaking, not into malfunction, but into something terrifyingly, undeniably human.

Honey flinched back, her face a mask of shock, her mouth agape, but the fury still simmered in her eyes, a hot, poisonous fire.

The noise outside intensified. The knocking became a pounding. The amplified voice grew more urgent. The perfect neighbors continued their silent, steady advance.

Nicholas didn't waste another second. He grabbed Rick by the arm, pulling him towards the back door Rick had just entered through. "Rick, go! Now!"

Rick didn't hesitate. He understood. This wasn't just about Dad's secret anymore. This was about survival.

Nicholas cast one last look at Honey and Gloria. Honey was still frozen in shock and rage, staring at him with utter disbelief. Gloria, her face pale, seemed torn, looking from her mother to her father, uncertainty clouding her perfect features. The choice was made for them, or perhaps, they had already made it. They were staying in their perfect, controlled world.

"Go, Dad!" Rick urged, pulling at his arm.

Nicholas tightened his grip, pushing Rick ahead of him through the back door and into the darkening backyard. The perfect lawn stretched out before them, a deceptive carpet of green. Beyond it lay the alley, the boundary of their sector, and the unknown path out of Sunshine Meadows. Escape wasn't negotiated, wasn't planned; it was a desperate, immediate flight. He was Unit 147-Alpha, the malfunction, running for his life, with the one piece of his family who saw past the programming clinging to his side. The world of Sunshine Meadows, his created home, was collapsing behind him, and the fight had just begun.

The cool night air hit their faces as Nicholas shoved Rick through the back door and into the yard. The manicured grass, usually a symbol of their perfect life, now felt like a trap, too open, too exposed. The distant shouts and the rhythmic thud thud of the approaching security detail spurred them forward.

Rick didn't need prompting beyond the initial shove. He knew the layout, the hidden paths, the weaknesses in Sunshine Meadows' carefully constructed facade. He sprinted ahead, a smaller, leaner shadow against the deepening twilight, heading not for the street, but towards the back fence that bordered the alley. Nicholas followed, his longer strides closing the distance, his focus solely on the boy ahead. He could feel the eyes of the impassive neighbors on their backs, a silent, judging audience to their deviation.

As they scrambled over the low fence into the dusty alley, Nicholas risked a glance back at the house. The back door hung open. In the frame, illuminated by the porch light, stood Honey and Gloria. Honey’s face, no longer contorted in shrill rage, was set in a chilling mask of contempt. Her eyes, narrowed to slits, bored into Rick, not with fear or worry, but with a cold, cutting dismissal. She offered no word, no move to stop them, just that silent, vicious scowl that spoke volumes of her final verdict on her son.

Beside her, Gloria looked utterly lost. Her gaze bounced between the fleeing figures of her father and brother and her mother's rigid, unyielding form. Her voice, thin and reedy, carried faintly across the yard. "Mom? Why... why aren't you stopping them?"

Honey didn't answer. She simply turned her back, pulling Gloria with her, disappearing into the house. The door shut with a quiet click, severing the last fragile thread connecting Nicholas and Rick to the life they were leaving behind. It was a life Honey hadn't wanted them in anymore, not truly. Her perfect world was paramount, and they were the defectors.

Rick was already fumbling with something hidden under a tarp near a overflowing refuse bin. It was a small, battered electric utility cart, the kind used by groundskeepers. How Rick had managed this, Nicholas didn't know, and didn't care to question right now. It was a means of escape.

"Hurry, Dad!" Rick urged, pulling the tarp away. The cart was silent as Rick hopped into the driver's seat – barely large enough for one person comfortably, impossible for two adults, but maybe for one adult and a lanky teenager.

"No, Rick, you go. I'll find another way, draw them off," Nicholas said, pushing the boy towards the seat.

"No! Stop! I'm not leaving you!" Rick's voice was fierce, unwavering. He grabbed Nicholas's arm, his grip surprisingly strong. "I told you. We're in this together. Get in!"

There wasn't time to argue. The sound of the amplified voice was closer now, echoing down the alley. "Unit 147-Alpha and unregistered juvenile asset. Cease movement. Compliance is mandatory." The mechanical thud thud was right at the edge of the yard now.

Nicholas squeezed himself into the small cart, his knees pressed against the dashboard, shoulder touching Rick's. Rick hit the accelerator, and the cart whirred forward, picking up surprising speed down the alley. They passed silent, identical back fences, glimpses of perfect patios and manicured flowerbeds blurring by.

The alley opened onto a wider access road that circled the perimeter of Sunshine Meadows. Rick turned the cart onto it, heading away from the sounds of pursuit. Lights flickered on in some of the perimeter houses, faces appearing in windows, watching their flight with that same impassive, controlled curiosity as the neighbors on their street. They were exhibits in a broken display, the anomaly disturbing the perfect order.

They drove the humming cart for what felt like hours, the structured geometry of Sunshine Meadows slowly giving way to rougher, less manicured land. The air grew cooler, the manufactured perfection of the town's climate control left behind. The security vehicles didn't seem to follow them onto the perimeter road, staying within the confines of the town. Perhaps the cart was beneath their notice, or perhaps this was the boundary, the edge of their operational zone.

Finally, Rick guided the cart off the paved road and onto a dirt track that snaked through stunted, natural brush. The silence here was profound, broken only by the whirring of the cart and their own ragged breathing. They were out. They were free.

When the dirt track met a crumbling, forgotten highway, Rick stopped the cart. It was almost out of charge anyway. The moon hung high above, illuminating a deserted landscape that felt vast and empty after the claustrophobic perfection of Sunshine Meadows. Rick slumped over the steering wheel, exhaling a shaky breath.

Nicholas got out, stretching his stiff limbs. He looked back the way they came, but there was nothing but darkness and the faint glow of distant town lights. They had escaped. They had left Sunshine Meadows, left Honey and Gloria, left the controlled environment.

"We made it, Dad," Rick said, his voice quiet. "We're out."

"Yes," Nicholas said, the word feeling hollow. He looked at Rick, his son, the boy who had seen the truth, who had believed in him, who had chosen him. Love, a raw, potent emotion that felt more real than anything he had known before, surged through him. He knelt beside the cart, putting an arm around Rick's shoulders. "We made it."

But the immediate relief was quickly overshadowed by a crushing weight of uncertainty. Freedom. What did freedom mean for him? For them? He was Unit 147-Alpha, a malfunction. What kind of life awaited a malfunction outside its intended parameters?

His mind, no longer constrained by the subtle, constant programming of Sunshine Meadows, felt both exhilaratingly clear and terrifyingly chaotic. The suppressed memories, the glitchy visions he'd experienced – the 'nightmares' Rick had alluded to – began to surface with greater clarity. Flashes of sterile labs, technical diagrams, lines of code, and the cold, clinical language of 'assets' and 'parameters'. He saw the faces of others like him, blank and compliant, and felt a shudder of horror. He saw her, the primary controller, her face sharp and disappointed. His creators.

He was free from their control, yes. But was he free from his own nature? From the programming that still ran beneath the surface? Could he be a father, a real father, for Rick in this chaotic, uncontrolled world? He had loved them, he knew he had. Honey, Gloria, Rick. But was that love an emergent property, or just a sophisticated part of the 'perfect father' program? The thought sickened him.

He looked at Rick again, his son's face illuminated by the moonlight, weary but resolute. Rick needed him. Not the perfect, programmed dad, but the real, flawed, uncertain being he was now.

Escape was only the first step. They were free from the cage, but they were also adrift. They had no resources, no plan beyond getting out, and a world that was unknown and potentially hostile. The authorities of Sunshine Meadows might not follow them onto this forgotten highway, but what about other authorities? What about the people who had built Sunshine Meadows? Did they have a fail safe for escaped 'assets'?

The fight wasn't over. It had just shifted battlefields. The perfect lawn, the sterile streets, the impassive faces – they were left behind. The new enemy wasn't a physical barrier, but the vast, daunting uncertainty of a life lived outside the lines, a life where he had to figure out not just how to survive, but who he truly was, with his son depending on him every step of the way. The terror was real, but so was the love he felt for Rick. And for the first time, truly, he knew it wasn't a program. It was everything. The battle for their future, for their very identity, had just begun.

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