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Cracks and Gaps - The Worst Day (part I) Carmen Berzatto x Fem!Reader Mature (Explicit in the following parts) 7434 words ao3

You meet Carmen in Copenhagen through a mutual friend and bond over shared experiences. After following his rising career from afar, you reconnect in Chicago when he renovates his late brother's restaurant. As an editor, you can't miss an opportunity to find out more about the comeback of this chef prodigy.

A/N: I've started writing this story a looong time ago last year. There will be two more parts. I would like to thank @carmyboobear for being the most incredible beta and helping me out on the rocky journey. They're a very special person to me, and also a fantastic and inspiring writer themselves. Please, check their Carmy stories if you haven't!

THE WORST DAY

The first time you meet Carmen, you are both a little over twenty and in Copenhagen. He is staging at Noma, and you are interning at a design studio where everyone is very “green.” From one of your conversations with Carmen, you learn that Pop-Tarts and Cheetos are illegal here. In Europe. Most of the sodas that stained your tongue crazy colors when you were a kid are banned too. He lectures you on Scandinavian agriculture and food production.

Carmen is skinny and short—still a bit taller than you, though—with sharp, high cheekbones and bulging eyes. You don't know enough about each other to be “friends,” but he is a good companion. Your high school friend Becky knows Carmen’s older sister; that’s how you found each other in Denmark’s capital.

On two rare occasions, you get drunk together, and that happens only when he is stressed from work. Like, stressed STRESSED. You'd think he only drinks special natural wine from Lofoten or something, but his choice of poison is canned Budweiser. Maybe he misses home as much as you do. Maybe that’s what leads you to almost kiss him the second time. Carmen lives on a boat, and he takes you there, where you drink vodka mixed with herbs and licorice that Carmen concocts, his tongue peeking out between his lips as he concentrates. The drink tastes good. Weird. You don't hide your grimace. Neither of you comments on the alcohol ratio. It's more vodka than anything else, that's for sure.

Carmen is not your type, physically or character-wise—you are an introvert yourself, so you need someone to bring you out of your shell. Obviously, doing an internship on a different continent is a huge step, one that is only on you. He also smokes a lot and probably doesn't wash his hair. You've heard about his crazy mother and bonkers family from Becky, so you understand why Carmen is Carmen. Why he’s run off to Europe. It's just—his face—his eyes, when he's telling you about his dream job at Noma or Alchemist—they glow, and he becomes so animated, the quiet excitement seeping to the surface, and there's fondness blooming in your chest. He also knows a thing or two about sports, as you do, the subject bringing you back to Chicago, and the longing for “home” and “familiar” is terribly strong in the moment, enhanced by the alcohol. And Carmen, the boy sitting opposite you, with burns on his hands and ripped jeans, is both of those things put into one.

Nothing happens between you two, but the urge to press your own lips against his lingers after you leave in a taxi, not brave enough to ride a bike under the influence.

You try to stay in touch after Copenhagen, messaging Carmen on his empty Facebook profile, sending a text once in a while, mainly at Christmas, and when you have some terrible junk food, just to make fun of him. When he FaceTimes you, he’s in Paris, and you’re in Dublin. The next time, he’s in California.

He rarely ever answers messages on the phone. Usually, it's an emoji, sometimes a word or two. Soon, there are no answers, and you can't be bothered. You carry on with your life in Chicago, and it doesn’t take long before you start seeing Carmen Berzatto in the paper, on the internet. The young prodigy chef, everyone says. Reluctantly, you read the articles, thinking about the Copenhagen Carmen, smiling at his photos. He's grown up, filled out. His hair is curlier, his shoulders wider, his biceps stronger. He looks good. Good and sad, you think to yourself, and decide not to text him to congratulate him on his star career. Carmen is not one to care about what you think of it.

It's only when you hear from Becky that Mikey Berzatto has died, that you think of Carmen properly, after years full of work in the magazine office, one shitty almost-boyfriend, and summers spent in Europe, writing about sustainable travel and solo adventures. Becky says that he's inherited a restaurant from Michael. You decide against sending him condolences—too personal.

But about ten months later, there's whispering that a fancy restaurant, The Bear, is replacing The Beef of Chicagoland, and it's actually your boss who tells you that you should go check the place out.

You are not into that whole haute cuisine thing, to be honest. You never understood those tiny little portions and strange ingredients and their combinations. You prefer good pasta with Bolognese sauce or roasted chicken with mashed potatoes. Sometimes you wonder if Carmen's strange relationship with his family is what's keeping him away from his Italian roots and forcing him to work in pristine, starched whites in sterile kitchens, cooking intestines and antlers, making it art.

---

Becky gives you Natalie Berzatto’s phone number to get in touch with her to try to schedule an interview for the magazine feature. Your boss, Rob, hopes that Carmen could even make it to the cover soon when The Bear takes off. You’re not sure how you feel about bypassing Carmen completely and going straight to his sister.

So one Thursday, in early May, you decide to walk there, unannounced. You corner the building, passing a big glass window, and before you make it to the main entrance, you nearly collide with a very wonky wooden stepladder. With Carmen Berzatto on top of it, fiddling with a screwdriver or a similar tool, and a signboard.

The second you make contact with the ancient stepladder, Carmen shouts, "Fuck!"

“Sorry,” you yelp, and one glance at the man high up confirms that you are indeed dealing with the Chef himself.

“Could you watch out?” he says angrily as he makes his way down, measuring every step carefully.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again, waiting anxiously for Carmen to—hopefully—recognize you. To anyone walking by, you must look like an idiot, standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting motionless and stiff for a guy to climb down a ladder.

You don’t know what you had been expecting but definitely not Carmen staring at you with his huge, bloodshot eyes for seconds that feel like minutes. You nearly turn around and walk away, no joke.

He looks—

“You look—” you start. Terrible. But also, like, gorgeous. Terribly tired but hot. Is it awful of you to think that?

“Hi,” Carmen says, one hand going into the big mess of his hair, the other one into his pants pocket. He's avoiding your eyes, which makes you even more nervous, makes you think it was not such a great idea to come here.

“Hi!” you say, probably overly enthusiastically. “You're back in Chicago,” is the first thing you can think of.

He nods. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Well, congrats on the new place,” you say, gesturing to the building behind him, newspaper covering the windows. “I'm really sorry, I thought it was already open,” you explain, tugging on the hem of your lilac sweatshirt nervously. Can he tell you’re lying? “Becky mentioned something about it.”

“No, we’re opening next week,” Carmen says, holding a cigarette between his fingers.

“I'm really curious,” you smile carefully, testing the waters, wondering how he's going to react. You haven't seen each other in more than five years, and Carmen's never been exactly friendly. Not like mean, but definitely not easily approachable. “I work for this magazine, and we would love to do a feature on this,” you say, leaving out that it's you who would be writing it. Who wants to write it. Not only about the place but about Carmen, the enigma, the quiet boy, the excellent chef.

He only nods, clearly not sharing your enthusiasm. “Maybe later,” he taps the cigarette against the palm of his other hand. “When we're ready for this kind of thing.”

“Of course,” you agree quickly.

“Might be a while.”

“So what is the big plan?”

Carmen looks at you, measuring you. Like he thinks you have some ulterior motive. He lights up the cigarette, taking a long drag from it, and you fight not to scrunch your nose in disgust. The older you get, the more you hate the smell. Especially when someone is blowing out the smoke aimlessly—almost—in your face.

“My partner—Sydney, she’s hung up on the stars. So I guess a fine dining kinda place,” Carmen says, flicking the cigarette butt in the general direction of the gutter. The second sentence comes out more like a question than a statement, but you are still processing the first one.

“You run a business with your girlfriend?” you swear you don’t mean it to sound so accusing.

Carmen takes a step back, physically—bumping into the stepladder behind him—and mentally, too. “No! She—Sydney’s my business partner.” The defensive tone tells you exactly how your words sounded though. You wince. “We’ve been working on the new concept together with Nat, and the whole crew, actually. It’s—it’s a family business, I guess—uhm. We had only like three months to finish, and—”

You can see he’s really flustered. He’s starting to stutter, hand nervously scratching his neck. You hate the sight, hate that you’ve made him feel like this.

“I’m sorry!” you interrupt him. “It came out all wrong. I shouldn’t have said that,” you say urgently, hoping to see him relax back to his non-caring, nonchalant, tired-looking self. How could you mess up so quickly? Is that your special ability or a curse?

“‘s fine,” Carmen says, and he does relax a bit, shoulders dropping an inch. He doesn’t look friendly though. Or in the mood for a chat. “I just—she’s a business partner,” he repeats obstinately, face red.

The moment grows awkward. In your coat pocket, you touch a pack of chewing gum and start fiddling with it. “I—my office is nearby so I thought I could come around and see the progress,” you say into the void, trying not to cringe too much. “Maybe I would take a few colleagues for dinner.”

“The reservations aren't open yet,” Carmen says in a flat voice. You can’t call him out because it’s probably true anyway. Plus, you just lied again—the offices are not close; you had taken the L—and you feel bad about it.

There’s not much left to say, you realize. He’s not giving you any space to turn this “accidental” meeting into a proper conversation. You shuffle your feet nervously, feeling stupid.

“Alright. It was nice seeing you!” you say, as it’s about time to end this. “Hope everything’s gonna work out great!” you add in a cheerful tone, already setting to walk back to the station.

“Yeah. Thanks. Bye.” Carmen says back, lighting a second cigarette.

What a nightmare, you think as you walk through the busy streets.

—

In the following weeks, you almost forget about The Bear. Rob complains about the nonexistent article on the new, already hyped-up restaurant and wasted opportunities, but what can you do? The not-at-all-accidental meeting with Carmen had been a disaster you actively try to erase from your mind. Working on your regular column and material for the website keeps you busy. Then Becky calls out of nowhere, and you two arrange lunch at The Marq. You end up swapping hilarious stories from the last two months you hadn’t seen each other, and you secretly pray she doesn’t ask about Natalie Berzatto or her brother. You're out of luck, because she does—of course she does—and you have to lay the cards on the table.

“You did contact Nat first though?” is the first thing Becky asks.

“I didn’t,” you shake your head. “I didn’t want to exclude Carmen right at the very beginning,” you admit.

“Oh god,” Becky rolls her eyes at you, taking a small bite of her salmon cake sandwich.

“I knooow,” you quickly stop her, feeling like ordering something stronger than the simple soda you’ve been drinking.

“I think you should still call Natalie,” Becky says, pointing at you with a determined frown. “I went to see her and her new baby just last week. She asked about you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “Apparently they could really use some help getting the word out about The Bear. A good excuse to talk Carmen into an interview maybe? An exclusive one?” She wiggles her eyebrows, knowing how cool it would be for you to come up with this.

“Maybe,” you muse, playing it cool. Inside, you are already hyped up about the possibility of scoring the first interview with the former best chef in the world. Is he still good at all? Why did he disappear? Why is he back?

—

The anxiety of the following days forces you to actually text Natalie. You’ve been checking online websites and Instagram accounts apprehensively, worried that a medium might publish something about The Bear before you get a chance. Rob isn’t a dick, but you wouldn’t want to look incompetent in his eyes. So far, you’ve been able to steer away from conversations about the new Carmen Berzatto restaurant at work. Your work ethic makes it difficult for you to let The Bear go without a fight.

That’s how you find yourself in front of Natalie’s door. When she opens it, she doesn’t hide her fervor.

“Oh, finally! Hi! Please come in.” She ushers you inside. You’ve never seen her in person, only on Becky’s Instagram, maybe, and even though the exhaustion is apparent on the woman’s face, you can spot the similarities with Carmen in her features right away.

From the dark hallway, she leads you to the sitting room. When you look around, it’s hard to find a clutter-free space. Every surface is covered with baby clothes, baby diapers, baby wipes—clean and dirty—bottles—full and empty.

“Sorry for the mess,” Natalie appears next to you, snatching away a baby muslin from the sofa. “Have a seat, please,” she nods. “The baby’s asleep. Hopefully for the next—” and she checks her watch, “another twenty minutes.”

As you sit down, Natalie collapses into an armchair, not minding what appears to be a pile of freshly washed newborn onesies and other clothes underneath her.

“Thank you so much for stopping by,” she says sincerely, and you notice the many stains on her purple t-shirt.

You smile. “No problem.”

“Becky said that you know stuff about Instagram and social media and marketing and all that?” Natalie’s eyes are wide and hopeful.

“I would say so,” you nod.

“I’m not sure what Becky mentioned already,” Natalie says as she starts pulling the baby clothes from under her and folding them absentmindedly. That definitely says something about the state she’s in, without Becky describing the situation to you—not only with The Bear but also Nat herself. “Carmy’s putting so much into the restaurant—we all are—so much hope,” she babbles, “none of us have slept properly in weeks—months! And now the baby...” Natalie’s gaze becomes unfocused for a moment before she blinks rapidly. “The timing’s not so great,” she forces out a weak laugh, and you smile again, already feeling bad for her, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

“I understand. It’s hard,” you empathize, feeling genuinely bad—not for The Bear—but for Natalie.

“I’m not a marketing guru, but I can research things,” she carries on, more confident now. “But I can’t be there all the time, y’know? It’s just not possible. If—if someone could help with keeping the place afloat and spreading the word—” she stops talking and folding, looking directly at you. “That would be just so awesome,” she finishes quietly, her bottom lip wobbling.

You know that Nat’s not trying to emotionally blackmail you, even though the situation kinda feels like it, and you do feel for her.

“I can help, yes.”

“I’ll talk to Carm and Sydney, and we’ll figure out how much we can offer you!” The relief and excitement are apparent in the way Nat jumps up from the armchair.

“That’s alright, really,” you say calmly, putting a hand on her arm now that she’s closer. “We can discuss this later,” and you give her another encouraging smile.

The unmistakable sound of a baby crying comes from somewhere in the house. Poor Natalie freezes, her hand going to touch her chest. She takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Thank you. Thank you,” and she takes a hold of your hand, squeezing it. “I’ll tell Sydney to get in touch with you—or you can actually just go to the restaurant; they know about you.”

That makes you slightly uncertain as you remember your first attempt at an unannounced visit to The Bear.

“Alright,” you nod with a polite smile. After all, you’re getting something out of this too.

—

Sydney texts you exactly 22 minutes after you leave worn-out Natalie and her baby behind and invites you to come to The Bear the next day. To make yourself appear more untouchable, you reply that the soonest you’re available is next Monday. Make them wait.

It gets you on edge, though, and more than once you think of Carmen in his tiny Copenhagen kitchen, how things used to be. How easy it is to grow apart. Not that you’d been friends exactly. Hard to be anything like that with a person as closed off as Carmen Berzatto.

On the agreed Monday, you dare to finish early at work and take the train to The Bear. Your stomach is in knots, even though you’ve been pretty brave about the whole thing. It’s just—you’re not sure how Carmen’s gonna react when he sees you, and you’re already thinking about the worst possible scenarios. Just stop! you tell yourself resolutely, forcing yourself to concentrate on the simple but well-thought-out marketing plan you prepared to present. Without being asked. If Carmen sees that you actually KNOW things, he might change his opinion about you. Not that you KNOW his opinion, but—maybe he would actually acknowledge you finally.

It’s just after the family meal when you arrive. A tall man who introduces himself as Richie lets you in instantly, and he’s clearly been informed about your arrivall. As soon as Sydney is notified of your presence, she rushes to you from the kitchen in the back, wiping her hands on her apron. You notice right away that she’s friendly and calm, and it relaxes your nerves. There’s no doubt she loves the restaurant and her job, and you see that she worries as much as Natalie does, or even more.

“We’re opening in two hours, so it’s a bit wild in the back, but maybe you wanna see the kitchen?” Sydney offers as she’s showing you around the newly restored restaurant, opening the heavy door. “A quick peek,” she adds as a loud cracking noise comes out of the exact door.

You’ve been to a couple of kitchens, and you must say that this one’s definitely on the chaotic side of the scale. People in white aprons run here and there, no one’s still, not even for a second. There’s a good amount of shouting and a huge amount of swearing. In the middle of everything, there’s Chef Carmen Berzatto. He looks like a character from Cartoon Network. His wild hair is sticking out in all directions, dark tattoos covering his arms and hands, face sweaty, eyes ready to pop out of his head. He’s shorter than most people you see circling the kitchen, but the loudest one. He shouts orders, and you notice the vein on the side of his neck—it sure is ready to burst. You wonder how far he is from having a heart attack.

“Or maybe next time,” Sydney mutters, gently pushing you out of the way and shutting the door again. She leads you to one of the brown wooden tables where you settle again.

“Is he always like that?” you ask Sydney, actually glad that you’re not in the room where the storm’s currently happening.

“Only when he’s stressed,” Sydney explains shortly, an apologetic smile on her lips.

When it comes to money, it’s obvious The Bear doesn’t have much to spare, that much is clear. Sydney is extremely apologetic and sweet about it.

“There’s a marketing budget—previously non-existent—that we’ve set aside and can offer. It’s just not much, I’m afraid,” she tells you, jittery.

You want to reassure her, to tell her that you're doing it for Carmen, for an old "friend." But from what you've gathered, Sydney doesn't even know that Carmen knows you.

So you just smile and reassure her anyway. "I'll put it on my resume. I can use more cases with social media for hospitality," you lie.

Nodding, Sydney clarifies, "Yes, just Instagram. Please. Carmy doesn't want to put anything in the press. Yet."

When a curious Richie joins you at the table, you present the Instagram plan to both of them. Even though Richie can't help making a few rather stupid remarks that only he finds funny, they both listen carefully. You see a lot of skepticism on Richie's face, probably because he doesn't understand some of the big words, you guess, but Sydney seems to be really into everything from pictures of the food and the weekly specials, to quick reels showing potential customers a little bit of behind-the-scenes action.

"Oh, I'm sure Cousin will be thrilled to have people sticking their noses into his business," Richie says, and you're not sure how serious he is. But Sydney shushes him, and you carry on, showing her the mock-up of the possible Instagram feed to set the mood for the profile.

For the next three weeks, you go to The Bear twice a week to gather some content—photos and videos. You talk to the crew and film those who are okay with it. Your presence is met with mixed emotions, but Sydney's gratitude and kindness make up for every suspicious glare and exasperated sigh when you find yourself in someone's way. Besides the restaurant, you take your neighbor's dog for a long walk every Saturday morning, call your mom and dad to check in, scroll Instagram instead of finally starting an actual book, and often wonder why Carmen is so hostile towards you.

Generally, you try not to hang out in the kitchen directly, especially not when Chef Carmen is present. Being uncomfortable in a new environment makes you positively anxious, causing you to go through a whole pack of your favorite cinnamon Simply Gums a day.

You also remember to always tie your hair up—not that the staff there wear hairnets or anything, but you don't want Carmen to find another reason to frown at you. He's been basically only frowning or ignoring you. Hard to tell which one is worse.

You always clean your hands super thoroughly, like during COVID, singing the "Happy Birthday" song to time it before daring to even stick your finger in the restaurant. Sydney offers you an apron to protect your work clothes, which you refuse. You sense from some people there that you're not entirely welcome.

But the more you avoid Carmen, the more likely you are to bump into him. You know Murphy's Law. So one morning, he just appears from around the corner, carrying a tray of mushrooms.

For a second, you're actually horrified that he's going to introduce himself. Before that can happen, you blurt out, "Uh—do you remember me? Copenhagen?"

Carmen stops and looks at you, wiping his wet hands on the towel attached to the string of his white apron. "Yeah," he confirms, "yeah, I do." He says your name, all soft and correct, along with your surname, and with his eyes fixed on you, you're frozen to the spot, affected whether you like it or not. Then he leaves to taste Tina's roasted peppers.

Obviously, your mind can't let the episode slip away. As you type copy for the upcoming Instagram posts, you pause every so often to cringe at how embarrassing you behaved. Of course, he remembers you, for fuck's sake! You're working in his restaurant—kinda.

"Hey! Copenhagen! You wanna see this?" Carmen yells a bit later from the other side of the kitchen, and you falter, deciding whether you're really going to answer to him calling you that.

You bite your tongue and trail hesitantly to the station where Carmen is with Tina and Ebraheim, gathered around a saucepan.

"Tina, chef, this is excellent. Well done," Carmen says to her as you approach, then turns to you.

"This is what we wanna share with the world. Perfect red pepper sauce. Simple but delicious."

"Okay," you respond, taking in the expectant way all three of them are looking at you. Like you're some kind of magician. Or a fraud.

"Just," Carmen adds before he sets off, "no recipes leave this kitchen," and he waits for you to confirm.

"Right."

Slowly, you start to question why you're helping The Bear. Is it because two years ago you thought of Carmen and what you might have felt for him? What could have been? More than the chef himself, you find yourself growing fond of the place and the employees—some of them! Seeing the Instagram followers number increase fills you with pride and satisfaction. Fuck Carmen.

---

Mornings are usually the only time when Carmen isn’t around, and you try to time your visits so your paths don’t cross.

Wanting to snap photos of the new tableware and make a quick, fun video reel, you head into the kitchen. There's no one around—Sweeps is probably hiding somewhere, and Sydney might be in the office. Not wanting to bother anyone, you set your always-heavy handbag on a chair and start looking for everything you need. There's no reason for you to feel like you're sneaking around, but you can't help feeling nervous. That’s when your clumsiness strikes, and you manage to knock over a glass of water. Rolling your eyes, you get on your hands and knees to wipe the spilled water with a rug that you hope is meant for cleaning, as you’re very aware of every item having its particular function here.

You straighten up and stretch to get one more plate from the shelf. Then you lose your footing on the still-wet tiles. Your foot slips, and the top plate falls to the countertop with a loud cracking noise. You react quickly, trying to break the fall, but there's no use. The plate shatters to pieces.

Of course, it’s Carmen himself who emerges from the door leading to the office, and you wince—both physically and mentally—preparing yourself for a very unpleasant collision.

“What’s going on?” he asks as he approaches you, eyebrows pinched. He’s not wearing his chef whites, just a simple white t-shirt and dark jeans.

“Sorry, I—” you start apologizing as Carmen stands next to you, assessing the damage.

“What—what’re you doing here?” he asks in a very flat voice, staring at the pieces of ceramic.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to tidy this and also pay for the plate, obviously,” you ramble, reaching down for the shards.

“Don’t,” Carmy barks, stopping you by grabbing your shaking hands in his. His hands are big, the tattoos making them look harsh and crude, even though the touch is gentle. “Don’t cut yourself,” he adds quietly, holding you until you relax your arms and then a second longer.

He must sense your nervousness. “It’s fine, I’ll get it,” Carmen assures you, catching your eye. “Hey,” he lays a soft hand on your arm, “step away, I’ll clean this.”

Nodding, you step back and wait patiently, disconcerted, watching as Carmen carefully handles and discards the shards, then checks the floor for any tiny fragments. He turns back to you.

“Are you okay?” he checks.

“Yeah.” And you’re more thrown off balance by having Carmen pay attention to you, all of a sudden, than by damaging the kitchen’s equipment.

He studies you for a moment, his face unreadable, and you’re the one to look away first. Which you hate, by the way.

“You wanna see some stuff I’ve been working on?”

“Sure,” you agree, taking a deep breath to relax further. “I’m sorry. The loud noise—” you wave your hand in the air vaguely, rolling your eyes at yourself. “Just scared the shit out of me, I guess,” you finish with an apologetic smile.

“You’re alright,” Carmen confirms and disappears for a bit. In the meantime, you have a small meltdown, shaking your head at yourself for being so, so very terribly lame. Luckily, before he returns with a tray of different dishes, you pull yourself together.

Carmen sets the tray down, revealing an array of colorful and sophisticated meals that instantly catch your curiosity.

“Any allergies?” he asks.

“Passion fruit—easily avoidable. Sometimes kiwi,” you list. “And grumpy chefs,” you add cheekily, feeling bold.

Carmen pauses. “I’m not grumpy. I’m focused.”

“You weren’t like this in Copenhagen,” you say softly, leaning a bit closer to him, your body language signaling that once you had been comfortable around each other.

“I’m more focused now,” Carmen retorts, stubborn and maybe a bit offended. “Back then I—uhm—I felt comfortable around you. It was easy.”

“And now?” you almost whisper.

But Carmen ignores the question, pushing the first bowl closer to you. “Here, taste this… or take a picture and then taste it.”

And you understand that the re-bonding is over.

---

Soon, you drop the habit of visiting the restaurant only in the mornings. One reason is that spending time with Carmen, talking to him or watching him cook and explain things, makes you late for work twice in a row. That usually never happens as you take pride in being on time at the office. You don’t work at The Bear for money, but you hardly think about it that way. When you decide to pop in during the morning, Carmen shares his deadly strong black coffee that he mills himself with you. It’s bitter but heavenly. Secretly, you like drinking it while chewing your favorite cinnamon gum, which somehow makes the taste even better—smoother and richer.

The second reason—you discover that Carmen is much calmer in the evenings after service. Less jittery, more relaxed. His blood flows slower, you think. His heart pumps with more ease. Sydney and he share thoughts and plans for the restaurant with you while you all sit at an empty table. It’s nice, you think, while watching Carmen’s hands play with a napkin. His hands are especially nice.

It’s Saturday and raining as you find yourself sitting in Gordon Ramsay's Burger. Nothing could’ve surprised you more than Carmen asking you to go out eat together. Had he felt bad for ignoring you at the beginning? You’re watching the rivers of raindrops on the big glass window, waiting for Carmen. As usual, you’re ten minutes early, and after you order a Life’s a Beach, the first thing on your mind is you're just early, he didn't stand you up, and then: this is not a date, babe! Which instantly startles you into sitting up straight and looking around, as if someone could see your embarrassing thoughts. Why are you even thinking about this?? Then Carmen arrives, wet patches on his shoulders and jeans that cling to his thighs. He chooses the Chicago hot dog and three different burgers with a bunch of sides. While he only nibbles on them and writes down notes on his phone, you feel bad for wasting the food and eat more than you should. Carmen studies the buns very carefully and asks you a lot of questions about the food, some of which you find amusing and actually—endearing. When you go to bed that night, your belly’s uncomfortably full. You dream that you’re pregnant and about to go into labor, and you’re pretty sure that Carmen’s the father. And, honestly, do you need a book of dreams to explain the meaning? Fuck.

---

All goes to hell next week when Carmen sees you eating a sandwich from the corner shop down the street. Instead of having your regular lunch with Becky, you’ve chosen to run to The Bear so you could see Marcus unveil his new dessert. But before that, you popped into the nearby deli to order a mozzarella and sundried tomato sandwich. No one at The Bear had ever explicitly invited you to the family meal, and you would never dare to have free food there. But the way Carmen looks at you while you sit on the step by the back exit, eating the rather dry sandwich, is indescribable. The stern look on his face is back, with a closed-off facade. His eyes are cold. Before you take it all in, you wave at him awkwardly, chewing. Carmen retreats back inside wordlessly, leaving you confused and a little hurt.

Unfortunately, the atmosphere surrounding you doesn’t improve when you return to work, the stupid sandwich sitting in your stomach like a heavy stone. You have a big argument in the meeting room while planning the next month's issue. Then one of your co-workers makes a nasty remark about your single life. The afternoon drags on painfully slowly, which forces you to message your cousin—an astrologist extraordinaire—to check what the heck is going on with the universe.

Tuesday morning is rough. The second you wake up, you know you’ve overslept because you never get up without the alarm ringing angrily. A single glance at your phone proves it to be true. Right after, you notice three missed calls from Sydney and two from Nat. There are no text messages, though.

At first, you intend to call Rob to beg for a home office day, something you rarely ever use. But as soon as you check your calendar, you’re reminded of the big conference happening from 11 a.m. until 5 p.m. You rush to work, finishing your makeup on the train, then enter the office building to quickly run through notes with your colleagues. The first time you have a chance to make a quick phone call is when you finally go to the bathroom. It’s Natalie who you manage to reach first, as the lunch rush at The Bear is just unfolding. Over the cries of Natalie’s baby, you hear half-sentences about a recipe, Carmen, and a leak. It’s hard to put it all together. At 4 p.m., Nat finally sends you a text. It says: “Recipe’s published in Taste of Home. Carm’s mad. Says someone leaked it.”

It contains a link to the Taste of Home website, with Carmen’s perfect Berkswell Pudding recipe in the Top Recipes of the Week, marked “Chef’s tip.” You check it again to make sure, and surely—it’s one of the dishes Carmen introduced to you just last week. You didn’t dare to photograph it, much less taste it. You remember concentrating on the way his lips moved when he explained the preparation process, not much on the cooking itself.

What’s clear to you is that the "Someone" from Nat’s message is actually you.

A gloomy dread settles in your stomach as the meeting goes on and on. You barely pay attention, which makes everything even worse. You’re scared of what’s happened in the restaurant, and you’re worried that you’re going to miss something important in the meeting.

When you run for a second quick bathroom break, instead of peeing, you think of your next step. You could try to call everyone in the restaurant, try to find out what the hell is going on. But you don’t want to be seen as hysterical. You check Instagram and possible messages to find traces of a catastrophe. There’s nothing. Again, you open the website with the recipe. The photos are pretty sloppy, definitely not something Carmen would prepare. As you check the ingredients, you notice there are some major differences from Carmen’s dish. All in all, the only thing that stops you from texting Carmen is your pride. And true fear.

Absolutely dreading facing Carmen, you make it to The Bear during dinner time. Which, obviously, is the worst possible timing. You’re only praying that he’s not in the kitchen but hiding in his office, deep in paperwork.

It’s Sydney who you meet first as you sneak into the restaurant through the back door. She grabs your arm.

“Don’t go to talk to him now! He’s in a really, really bad mood. Natalie and I were trying to call you.” There’s genuine worry on Sydney’s face, her eyes big and honest.

“I don’t understand what happened,” you frown. You can feel a headache approaching from the intense day in the office. “I think he should tell me himself if there’s a problem.”

“I’ve been trying to work it out with him, to explain—”

“Explain what?” you question, more sternly than you usually are around Syd.

She falters. “It’s just this stupid thing—and we love having you—don’t let Carmy upset you,” Sydney half-explains. It doesn’t make much sense, and you shake your head, heading to the office. You’re more mad than afraid now.

You don’t wait for an invite after you knock shortly. Closing the door behind you, you find Carmen leaning against the desk, a bottle of water in his hand.

Everything inside of you drops the second he lays his eyes on you. There’s no doubt he’s angry.

“Didn’t Natalie tell you you don’t have to come here again?” Carmen asks curtly. “I’m surprised you think it’s okay to be here.”

Not expecting Carmen to be this harsh from the beginning, you swallow instead of answering.

“I hope that you’re happy now,” he says meanly, putting the bottle down on the desk.

“I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you croak out, sincerely meaning it.

Carmen straightens up, watching you like a feline. “The recipe. It’s out. One fucking thing I asked not to get out, and now the whole of America can see and fucking even cook it at home.”

You’re frozen to the spot. From the very beginning, you knew that Carmen is not a person to mess with, hoping that you would never experience his anger directed at you. Now it’s happening.

You want to say something about no one being able to cook the way he does, but it’s pointless. Instead, you’re fighting off the flush on your face from embarrassment. You feel like a child being scolded, but you don’t want to look like one.

The muted but still loud kitchen noises bleed through the closed door. A shout, clattering. Not loud enough to stop Carmen from piercing you through and through with his ice-cold eyes.

“I promise I didn’t do anything like that,” you say, desperately wanting the chef to believe you. “I swear!”

Carmen pinches the bridge of his nose, one hand propped on his waist. You wait, breathless, for his next move, scared to death. The shirt you have on is wet with your sweat. The really badly smelling kind—the one your body produces when you’re stressed or scared. And you’ve been stressed since the very morning. You flinch when you move your arm and the odor hits your nose, hoping that Carmen can’t smell you. You would be mortified. The strap of your tote bag is digging into your shoulder painfully, but you don’t dare to move to put it down to relieve your arm.

“This all doesn’t—it doesn’t make any sense,” Carmen starts pacing, looking down at the floor and not at you anymore. You’re not sure if it’s better this way. “You come here, wanna do a fucking interview with me, or some shit, then you show up again—this time wanting to work here. For free! So, please, tell me—how does it sound, huh?”

Petrified, you realize how exactly it all sounds. When Carmen says it like this, it makes you look like a fraud. Like a terrible, terrible person. A liar. Your mind goes weeks back, back to the moment you actually thought of maybe digging some scoop in here, maybe convincing Carmen to do the interview after all. But it’s far from how he’s making the situation sound.

“Carmen,” you start without knowing what you want to say. Carmen’s stopped walking around the tiny office like a caged animal, and he’s again looking at you. There’s so much tension in his face, back hunched. “It sounds bad, but may I explain—”

“You may not,” he cuts you off briskly. His neck—normally a place you find sexy—is all red, and the thick vein there is getting more and more prominent by the second. “No one fucks with my business, you understand?” Oh—and he’s shouting now.

The natural defense, you didn’t know existed, is to make yourself smaller. Somehow, anyhow. You hang your head, avoiding looking at his face. You just can’t meet his eyes, even though Carmen’s bowing and tilting his head to force you to.

“It’s like I have to start asking the staff to sign an NDA,” he carries on.

Carmen’s getting slowly closer and closer to you, pushing you against the wall by the door. He’s not touching you but only because you’re not allowing it. You’re sick with humiliation. Lost for words, probably for the first time in your life.

“—and Nat fucking leaves me here—us, all of us—and that’s just not fair. I would expect so, so much more from my sister. Not that my brother was much better,” he chuckles humorlessly, but you see it’s more like an effort to catch his breath. “Lousy fuckers… Do you think you do your job well here, chef?”

He’s scaring you now. The hair by his temples and above his forehead is damp, and his gesticulation is wild and weird.

“Do we disgust you here, is that right, hm?” Carmen probably finally sees your frightened expression because he adds, “Why would you buy food somewhere else and then come here to eat it?!” You understand that he’s referring to the day he saw you eating the sandwich by the rear exit. Unsure whether he expects you to reply, you decide to stay quiet. Your knees are starting to shake, from exhaustion after the long day and perhaps, from Carmen’s current behavior.

“It made ME sick,” he says, his face just inches from yours when one of his hands slams into the thin wall right next to your head. The noise echoes in the room, and you’re desperately hoping it’s not loud enough for the others to hear from outside. You would die on the spot if they knew what’s going on here.

“Who do you think you are?” Carmen shouts some more, loud, by your ear. It vibrates through you and never stops. You’re shivering all over, you notice. It’s not okay, not okay!

At last, you raise your head, chin jutting out. “No one’s going to talk to me like this. No one,” you spit out in the chef’s face, taking him by surprise. “Don’t you ever shout at me again,” and you jab him right in the middle of his chest, instead of punching him there like he deserves.

When you’re leaving his office and rushing to the back exit, you hear Carmen yelling.

Everything feels tense and your hands are shaking. Your jaw is set so hard your teeth could crush from the pressure. The fresh air hits your face, and you focus on breathing deeply through your nose. The sounds remind you of a steam engine. You walk for about a minute, mind blank with the shock. Only when you turn a corner do you allow yourself to stop, which causes the first tears to fall. You’re so mad at yourself. Why the fuck are you crying?! There’s so much frustration in the crazy mixture of emotions you’re feeling. You’re completely overwhelmed with it, not knowing what to focus on at first.

Out of habit, you look for your phone in your handbag to check the screen. The fucking heavy bag that’s been killing your shoulder. Frustrated, you let it slide off your arm and down to the sidewalk. You don’t even care if it breaks, as it lands with a noisy, dull sound. It had been years since you got properly yelled at, and you’re angry that it affects you this much. You promise yourself to take a few seconds here, in the middle of an empty street, then call a cab. At home, you can cry.

PART II

#here it is! i can't quite believe that it's happening #the bear #fic #my fic #carmen berzatto x the reader #carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #carmen berzatto fanfic #carmen berzatto fic #the bear fanfiction #carmen berzatto x you

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queenshelby · 4 months

Text

Our Little Secret (Part 46)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Infidelity, Age-Gap, Triggers

A week had passed since your abrupt departure from Los Angeles with your daughter Mara, spending all your savings on an earlier economy class flight to Dublin.

You had to get away from Cillian as quickly as possible for now, to clear your head, and to decide what your next steps would be.

Cillian, of course, had begged you to stay while he attended a few more press events and interviews, but you didn't even wait for him to explain himself to you. Immediately after hanging up the phone with Amanda, you had stormed through the hotel suite, bursting into tears silently as you packed a small bag, preparing to leave.

Over the next few days, right after you took the long journey back home with Mara, you struggled to process everything that had happened. Cillian tried to call you over and over again, but you never answered his calls.

You wanted nothing more than to scream, to cry, to break something—to do anything that would allow you to release the intense pain that he had caused, but you knew that Mara was depending on you.

***

"It's just you and me now babygirl," you whispered into Mara's ear one evening as you tucked her into bed, trying to embrace the role of a single mother bravely. After all, you always knew that this possibility loomed in the background, even when you naively thought that you were destined to be with him forever.

You couldn't believe how blind you had been, allowing yourself to fully invest in someone who had already shown you time and time again that he couldn't be counted on.

You couldn't stop thinking about the way he had looked at you, promising you a future together, making you feel cherished and loved, only to betray your trust in the most deceitful way.

You felt a hot tear trickle down your cheek as you buried your face into Mara's soft curls. It wasn't fair. You didn't deserve this pain, this heartbreak. But, as you listened to Mara's steady breathing, you knew that you couldn't give in to despair.

"Karma is a real bitch," you then thought to yourself, seeing how Cillian and you had started out as an affair too. He was cheating on his wife with you and now you were the one who was being cheated on.

The raw pain cut through you like a hot knife, sharp and searing. Cillian's face flashed through your mind, taunting you with the broken promises and lies that only the innocent fall victim to.

Returning to the living room you noticed a vehicle parking outside on the street in front of your little terrace house. It was a small Crolla, a car that was very familiar to you and which belonged to no other than Cillian's sister Siobhan.

You weren't expecting a visit from her, especially not in the wee hours of the night, but you didn't mind. She was one of the rare people you could count on these days even though she was a member of Cillian's family.

Quickly, you dried your tears and went to open the door. Siobhan stood there with a serious expression on her face.

"Hey," she greeted, but even her warm voice did nothing to mitigate the heavy feeling that pressed onto your heart still. "Can I come in?" she asked, and you stepped aside to let her walk past you.

You noticed that she was carrying a bottle of wine and two glasses in her hands. "I figured we could both do with a drink tonight," she added while she placed her possessions on your dining table.

You hesitated for a moment before closing the door and joining her. "You have no idea," you sighed, leaning against the back of one of the chairs.

Siobhan gave you a concerned look before pouring you a generous glass of wine. "Oh, I think I do. I saw Amanda today and, fuck, Cillian didn't even tell me about any of this because, if he had, I would have come to see you sooner Y/N. I am so sorry," she muttered, exasperated.

"It's okay, really. There was nothing you could have done," you shrugged, sipping on the wine like it was water. It burned your throat as it went down, but it somehow made you feel a little better.

"No, it's not. I know how much this must have hurt you Y/N. My brother can be such an idiot sometimes, but he does love you, you know?" Siobhan told you, causing you to cry and laugh all at the same time.

"If he really loves me then , why did he cheat on me?" you asked, your voice cracking with emotion.

"Because he was hurt when you knocked down his proposal," Siobhan told you, explaining Cillian's turmoil to you. "And he acted impulsively which, really, is no excuse for what he did. It's just an explanation," she told you, but you no longer cared.

"Well, it doesn't change anything now. I'm done with him," you informed her, your voice shaking a little as the reality set in.

"But-" Siobhan started to protest, but you stopped her.

"No. This is not what I want anymore," you sighed, running a hand through your hair as Mara slept peacefully in her bed upstairs. "I am better of alone and, honestly, our arrangement still stands. He will support me and Mara financially and he will get shared care, just like I had promised him. Nothing more and nothing less," you concluded firmly while taking another sip of your wine, watching Siobhan frown concernedly in return.

"You know Y/N, I never gave you enough credit in the past for how mature you actually are, especially for your age. You are much more of an adult than most of my clients and you are certainly much more mature than my almost fifty-year-old brother," Siobhan finally shared, but it wasn't enough to stop you from hurting still.

***

The following days passed slowly, with you trying to rebuild yourself and your life. It hurt like hell, to be back in the city that reminded you so much of Cillian and the times the two of you had spent together, but you didn't have much of a choice.

He came over one day to pick up Mara just as you had agreed upon when he came back from LA. Wen he arrived he also wanted to talk to you about what happened but you refused and did not even let him through the door.

"No Cillian. Like I said in my text message last night, all that matters now is Mara," you told him face to face now that he stood in front of your door. "You can see her three days a week, no nights for now and I do not want any contact with you unless it relates to our child," you continued with a clear, firm voice, making a strict compromise so that he could spend at least a little time with Mara until she was ready to stay at his house over night.

Cillian nodded and seemed surprisingly accepting of your conditions.

"Okay," he told you as you both stood at the front door of the house for a minute before Cillian finally reached out and gently touched Mara's cheek.

"Do you want to take her while I get her pram and bag?" you offered to Cillian who, again, nodded silently. With a heavy heart, you handed Mara over to the man that you loved dearly, but who had betrayed your trust.

Cillian took Mara into his arms and looked down at her happily as she babbled at him, giggling after he spoke her name. "She has grown so much even in those few days," he remarked, his voice thick with emotion.

"She sure has," you told him. "Now, do you have enough milk in the freezer for her? I left some there the last time I visited you last. It's all dated and labelled, just make sure you heat it up right, okay?" you added, trying to keep your voice steady and authoritative, even though you wanted nothing more than to break down and weep.

Cillian looked up at you with a pained expression on his face. "I will make sure to do that," he told you, tears welling up in his eyes.

You nodded and turned away from him before he could see the sadness creeping up on you. "Okay Cillian. I expect her back by seven. Don't be late," you said softly before pushing the pram and baby bag on to the front porch. Cillian took them without a word and stepped outside. He looked at Mara again, a lingering longing in his eyes, a feeling that was all too familiar to you.

You closed the door softly and leant your head against it. The emptiness in the house suddenly felt bigger, suffocating almost. But you had to get used to it now. This was your life from now on.

***

The next few weeks were tough, but you made it through them with the support of Siobhan and your mother as well as your best friend Emma who suggested a night out while Mara had her first sleepover at Cillian's house, which was something that made you panic.

You never not had Mara with you over night, it had always been the two of you, or sometimes even the three of you. But, after careful consideration and speaking with Cillian about it, you finally agreed to it with a certain hesitancy.

As you stepped out of your house, ready to meet Emma for your long-anticipated girls' night, you took a deep breath and tried to remember who you were before Mara entered your life.

The thought caused a wry smile to grace your lips and, with a spring in your step, you continued down the path towards the small car that your friend drove as she picked you up along with some other girls from her class.

They were all about your age, but none of them lived the way you did. You were a single mother living in the suburbs while they were all single and sharing a flat in the city.

They were out partying and hooking up with guys while you were home, changing diapers and reading bedtime stories. They were having the time of their lives, while you often wondered if this was all that life had in store for you.

But as you slipped into the passenger seat of Emma's small car, you felt a sense of excitement that you hadn't experienced in a long time. You were ready to let loose and have some fun, and you knew that Emma and the others would make it an unforgettable night.

"Holy shit, you are looking good," Tina, one of the other girls you still knew from school days, remarked as she climbed into the backseat, and you couldn't help but feel a little boost to your confidence. You thanked her with a smile while Emma glanced at you from the driver seat, smirking triumphantly while you pulled out your phone to text Cillian, ensuring that Mara was comfortable and okay.

"She will be fine, Y/N. She is at her dad's house, remember? He is old enough to look after her. You need to stop worrying," Emma assured you as she navigated through traffic, making her way into the heart of Dublin, where the bustling nightlife came alive.

"I know, it's just -" you started to mumble but then stopped, letting out a quiet sigh. You couldn't deny the fact that leaving Mara behind on her first sleepover with Cillian was hard. It was unfair, you thought, that parents shouldn't experience the pang of abandonment when it comes to leaving their child behind while Tina chimed in, quickly changing the topic after Emma told you again that Mara would be just fine.

"Hey Y/N. I am curious. Does he pay for your house and car?" Tina asked, a hint of jealousy tinging her voice. You weren't close to her, but you knew that, especially after your public appearance at the Oscars, which had now been almost ten weeks ago, many of the girls you knew had been talking about nothing else but you and Cillian. After all, he was super famous now and you had his child and not many women could claim that status.

"Well, yes he does, because I am a student, just like you Tina," you replied, suppressing the irritation in your voice. "And we had a child together, so it seems fair," you justified yourself and feeling a little nervous about exposing too much information and stirring up unnecessary envy among your former classmates.

"I suppose you have it easy then," Tina said, still showing an envy-filled tone in her voice. "My mother never even got child support from my dad," she added, causing a heavy silence to fall over the car as Emma glanced at Tina sternly in the rearview mirror.

"Things are different now, Tina. Cillian is -," Emma chastised but, before she could continue, you interrupted her.

"Can we just stop talking about my ex now and focus on our night out?" you requested, hoping to steer the conversation in a different direction.

Emma nodded in agreement and changed the topic, talking about her last date and the awkward ending that it had while the girls in the back seat listened attentively and added their own commentary on the subject, making jokes and trying to make each other laugh.

You tried to focus on the conversation but couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of sadness as you thought about Cillian and the life you had once imagined for yourselves.

You had hoped to grow old together, raising Mara and making memories as a happy little family, but fate had other plans.

Your mind wandered as you entered a crowded dance club, clinging to your drink as you tried to push aside the thoughts that threatened to consume you. The beat of the music pulsed around you, vibrating in your chest as you moved to the rhythm, trying to lose yourself in the seductive sounds filling the air.

But the despair that tugged at your heart wouldn't let you go, no matter how hard you tried to shake it off.

It clung to you like a persistent shadow, a constant reminder of what you had lost, and you pulled out your phone again, texting Cillian, to see whether Mara was fine.

He quickly responded, of course, telling you that she had already fallen asleep and that he was having a great time, spending time with her. It was then, in the dimly lit club, that you realized that this was your new reality, which is when, suddenly, a young attractive man bumped into you, spilling his drink all over your black dress.

"Oh, I'm so sorry! Here, let me help you clean this up," he said, sprinting away to the bar and returning with a wad of napkins and a sympathetic smile.

The unexpected kindness in his large, green eyes touched you somewhere deep within your soul, and you couldn't help but feel a tiny spark of warmth and attraction ignite between you.

"Thank you," you murmured as you took the proffered napkins, still feeling the anxious tension of uncertainty in your stomach after receiving Cillian's text about your adorable daughter sleeping soundly in his arms and it was then when he even sent you a photo of her, a gesture which you appreciated.

Just as you looked at the phone the man nodded with a reassuring smile, his eyes sparkling with interest and curiosity as, at the same time as handling your phone, you nervously tried to dab the spilled liquid from your dress without causing further damage.

"You look like you're having quite the night here," he persisted, attempting to keep up a friendly conversation as you glanced at your phone before putting it back into your handbag.

"Yes, I haven't been out in a while," you replied, smiling at the stranger's persistence as he still stood there, looking at you.

"Really?" he asked. "Why?" he asked, genuinely surprised by your admission as you continued to wipe away the residual drink stain on your dress.

"Well, I had a baby -," you began to say before shaking your head, realizing that this must have been the worst pick up line ever. The man blinked a few times, his eyebrows shooting up towards his unkempt brown hairline, but he didn't falter. Instead, he dug his hands into his jeans pockets and rocked back on his heels, a friendly half-smile on his lips.

"You had a baby? For real?" he inquired inquisitively, maintaining a friendly and interested facial expression. "I mean, you don't look a day over twenty-one," he complimented you.

"Well, I am not," you chuckled. "I am twenty-one, actually," you confessed, feeling vulnerable and exposed all of a sudden.

But the stranger, who introduced himself as Sean, only seemed more intrigued. "Wow, you had a baby already? That's impressive," he admitted, hoping he hadn't dwelled too much.

You nodded, flustered by the attention. "It's not easy but, hey, life happens," you shrugged, determined to keep it light.

"I assume you don't have kids?" you asked, curious, wondering out loud without considering the fact that this topic might be slightly weird for a twenty-something year old man.

"No , I don't. Not yet anyway," he answered with a small laugh, shaking his head ever so slightly, causing his mop of hair to bounce wildly on his head.

"Well then, I guess I just told you way too much about me, huh?" you asked, feeling a hint of shame creep up your neck and onto your face.

Sean smiled at you genuinely and kindly, his eyes fixing on yours, a connection forming between you two. He shrugged.

"Not really. I mean, you know, things happen and I -," the man began to say before awkwardly telling you about himself. "I am 27 and just finished a degree in engineering. I only just moved to Dublin a few weeks ago and, uhm, I am single and would really like to buy you a drink, if you let me," he stammered. "Unless, of course, you actually have a man in your life, because you had a baby and stuff, so if the father is around then forget about what I just said," he added, catching a whiff of disappointment in his voice.

You smiled and shook your head. "My daughter's father is out of the picture," you told him honestly, softening your eyes as you observed him moving closer to you.

"Great, so what are you drinking?" he asked and, with that, you knew where this was going.

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

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cillianmesoftlyyy · 8 months

Text

The Ward Pt. 3 | Jonathan Breech x fem!character

Summary: Jonathan Breech is sentenced to three months in a Dublin psych ward after trying to take his life. He meets a girl and thinks he's fallen in love... but is this just a product of opportunity and loneliness or could it be more?

Warnings: Based heavily on One the Edge (2001) so there is already a lot of mental-health specific discussions. More specifically- mentions of suicide, self-harm, death, depression, anxiety, feeling helpless and alone, medication, vomiting, pregnancy. Pt. 3 has smut: unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), and loss of virginity. Please don't read if you think any of the previously mentioned topics could be triggering! Some of this is taken from my personal experience with mental-health issues so read with care.

word count: 3790k

Pretty- Coco & Clair Clair 🎶

Narc- Interpol 🎵

Note- One the Edge is free on Internet Archive...

Please read the warnings before continuing, thanks!

After group therapy, Jonathan walked into the men’s bathroom on the women’s ward and stood just inside as the door swung closed quietly. Margaret was sitting on the ledge as she had a day or two before, reading. She looked up as he entered and closed her book.

“Was I really your first real kiss?” He asked and she scoffed in surprise.

“What?”

“Was I really your first kiss?” He asked again and Margaret stared at him before answering, a blush already forming on her cheeks.

“Yeah…”

“How was it?”

“You were there, remember?” She put her book aside and put her palms against her face to cool them. She looked at the wall, too embarrassed to look at him.

“Pretend I wasn’t.” He smiled and she rolled her eyes, “tell me how it was.”

“It was good, I don’t know.” She laughed uncomfortably and he smiled wider.

“Tell me how you felt when you kissed me,” he prompted and she shook her head in uncomfortable disbelief.

“Well, um I felt happy and good like I didn’t want to stop. I liked looking at you and I liked feeling close to you.” She answered. “Is that what you meant?” She furrowed her eyebrows and Jonathan nodded.

“You liked kissing me and I liked kissing you. I don’t think this is just a relationship of convenience, I think we could really like each other.”

“Here we go,” she jumped off of the ledge and landed beside Jonathan who had one hand resting against the handicapped stall.

“Just hear me out! I thought about what you said and I think I really do like you. I like talking to you and I think we understand each other really well.” He explained and she laughed softly.

“We both tried to kill ourselves, of course we understand each other.”

“But see, that's the thing. We understand each other better than other people would. You said that there are plenty of attractive girls out there but what makes you so sure that I would choose anyone else if I could choose you?” He waved his other hand as he spoke. She had started to walk away when she turned back and went up to him, talking low.

“Because even though we kissed and we may like each other, we don’t know each other at all. I’m some girl from America who happened to take too many pills to kill herself and it didn’t work. In any other situation, you would have walked past me on the street and gone for someone else.” She started to get upset and he looked down at her from against the wall. “I’m not interesting or beautiful or that smart, I’m just depressed and lonely and that makes me easy to love when you have nothing else to do.” Jonathan inhaled quickly.

“I don’t agree with you at all. I think you’re interesting and so beautiful that it distracts me during group therapy. Even though I’ve only been here for about a week, I feel that I have a pretty good idea of who you are and what you mean to me and my happiness, and you mean a lot.”

“But what if I can’t make you happy?” She interjected, angry tears filling her eyes. “Not everything can be solved by sex and love, Jonathan. We’re unstable and could kill ourselves at any time. You can’t trust me and I don’t trust you,” she whispered and started to turn when he reached for her.

“Margaret, I love you.”

“Don’t say that when you don’t mean it!” She nearly screamed, hitting his chest with her hands. She started crying as she hit him weakly. He watched her, his jaw clenched. “Don’t call me cute or beautiful or anything else when you don’t fucking mean it!” She cried and pushed herself away from him. Her nose was runny and she wiped it on the sleeve of her green jumper. Her hair was messy and some of it stood up. She took a deep breath and looked back at him, caught in the beauty of his eyes. “We lie all the time. We lie about how we feel and about how sad we are so that others feel better about themselves. We can’t lie to each other, not here. So, don’t lie to me, please. I’m sick of lies, Jonathan.” She whispered sadly and Jonathan closed the distance between them and held her. She didn’t resist and hugged him around his waist, putting her face in the crook of his neck. He kissed the top of her head and smoothed down her messy hair. She cried quietly against him and he waited patiently, holding her closer.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her cheek, “I won’t lie to you, I promise. I’m so sorry.” He promised, though he hadn’t been lying. “I shouldn’t have sprung that all on you but I wasn’t lying, Margaret. What I said was true. I won’t force you to believe me but I promise that I was telling you the truth.”

She stopped crying slowly and took in a shakily breath. He rubbed her back, feeling the warmth of her body through her clothes.

“What if I don’t feel the same way? What if I hate you?” She whispered and Jonathan looked up at the ceiling tiles. He knew that it was a possibility and he was prepared to accept it. He put his chin on top of her head and exhaled slowly.

“Do you?” he asked, “Do you hate me?”

Margaret thought for a moment and shook her head against his chest, “no.” Jonathan sighed in relief and pulled her even closer, kissing her head. She gripped his shirt gently in her hands, her fists clenched against his back. After a few minutes she pulled away and went to the sink where she splashed cold water on her face. She rubbed cold water over the back of her neck and took a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall, wiping the water away. He watched her with a sense of wanting, wishing that he could touch her face how she was now. He crossed his arms over his chest and rested on one hip, jutting the other out. He sucked on his bottom lip and leaned his head back against the yellow tile of the outdated bathroom. He built up the nerve and left the wall, standing beside her at the sink. He took the paper towel from her hands and wiped the skin beneath her jaw and below her collar. He kissed each place after he wiped it and she closed her eyes, breathing softly through her parted lips. Then he kissed her and she brought her hands to his neck, tracing the lines of tendons in his neck. He pulled away and threw the paper towel into the trash.

“You’ll be ok?” He asked and she smiled softly from the sink.

“Yeah. You?” She asked and he nodded.

“Yeah,” he smiled back and left the bathroom. He smiled to himself as he went back to his room. He sat on his bed as the sun set, his hands clasped around the back of his neck. He sat like that for what felt like hours. He rubbed his eyes and kicked off his shoes, realizing how long he had been sitting there, staring at the floor. The razor, still lying by the wall, caught his eye. Jonathan crossed the room and grabbed it from the floor. He twirled it in his fingers again and studied the sharp edge. The release of pain was always nice but he hated the way the blade had felt, stinging as it would slice through him. He put the blade back into his carton of cigarettes and pushed the box further away on the table so that he wouldn’t see it. The sun had completely set by now and he stood at the window. The bars blurred in his vision so he could only see the garden outside. He thought about Toby and how they had escaped over the wall for the night, and how he had come back to Margaret waiting for him in his room. The thought of her prickled his skin and jumped his heart. Why couldn’t they find comfort in pain, especially when it was in each other? Maybe this wasn’t just a momentary salve, what if there was a reason why they were both here together? Life was never ensured and he was young and wanted everything out of life while he could still bear being alive. The analog clock on the wall read midnight and he sighed quietly, trying to make himself tired. Time changed shapes when he was depressed, it slipped by quicker than he could understand or it slowed down to a painful trickle. The corridors were quiet outside and the night nurses retired to the office, listening out for the sound of harm. Jonathan’s door clicked open and he jerked around, expecting to see a nurse.

Margaret closed the door quietly behind her and looked at him, a shy smile coming to her lips. His silhouette blocked the light from coming in through the window but she could still make out his sharp face in the shadow. She walked up to him and kissed him softly, her hands finding the angular shapes in his face. His lips were slightly chapped and he licked them when she pulled away for breath.

“You’re here,” he whispered and she nodded.

“You were right. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he put his hands around her hips and ran his thumbs up and down. Her white nightgown glowed in whatever light still managed to shine through the small window. Like before, he could see the shape of her body below the clothes and he shivered. She wore no shoes so she stood on the balls of her feet to kiss him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He leaned into her and supported her hips as she balanced. She took a step back and panted slightly, he watched her, his lips pink from kissing. She took the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head and dropped it ungracefully to the floor. Jonathan stared at her as his heart quickened further. He thought he knew what was happening but he wanted her to lead him, he wanted her to be in control as it started, so he waited until she went back to him and unbuttoned his cardigan. He kept his arms by his sides and let her push the cardigan off his shoulders and down his arms. She studied his body as she undressed it slowly. She unbuttoned his top, the one that was still too short on his arms, and paused when his chest was exposed. With her shaky fingers, she traced the line of his sternum down to his navel. His stomach flinched below her cold touch and he smiled as he watched her, her lips held open in awe. She took off his shirt slowly and kissed his collarbones up to his shoulders. He yearned to undress her immediately but he waited for her to explore him completely at her own pace.

Margaret looked up at his eyes that looked royal blue in the dark and hooked her fingers around the waistband of his pants. He nodded and she pulled down his pants, so he stood with only his boxers and socks on. She stepped back once again and looked at him. His chest was hairless and smooth, there was some scarring from old acne at the base of his neck. He had long lanky legs and longer dark hair that swept naturally to either side of his face. He was beautiful, she thought to herself. He could tell that she was giving him his turn, waiting for him to touch her as she had touched him. He approached her slowly and started by tucking her hair behind her ear. She closed her head and leaned into his gentle touch, he smiled. Jonathan ran his index fingers down either side of her chest to her navel and bunched the fabric of her nightgown into his hands. Then he moved his fingers to the cuffs of her sleeves and played with the small eyelets of lace decorating each one. He smiled down at her and when she opened her eyes, she smiled back.

“Are you ready?” He asked her quietly and she nodded.

“Yes.”

Jonathan returned his hands to the fabric around her navel and pulled the dress up and over her head. Her hair fell back against her shoulders when the gown left her head. He put the dress aside and looked down at her bare chest. He didn't expect her breasts to be bare below the gown and the sight of them made him blush. His hands rushed to touch them but he managed to slow down his movements, touching her ribs first before sliding his dry hands over her chest. She exhaled shakily as he cupped and squeezed her breasts in his hands. It was like he was seeing a girl naked for the first time, though he was not a virgin by any means. He knew she was, he could tell without her having to say the words. So these moments were important to her and he wanted to honor that. He moved his hands up to the base of her neck and he kissed her. He lowered himself slowly to the ground, to his knees, and looked up at her. She looked down at him with a mix of fear and anticipation. He smirked reassuringly and kissed the front of her underwear.

“Can I taste you?” He asked quietly and she drew in a shaky breath before nodding with a small whimper. He slowly pulled down the waistband of her underwear, exposing her cunt, and left the underwear half-way up her thighs. He felt his erection push against his boxers as he placed a second kiss on her cunt and she gasped quietly. His hands held her thighs still as he licked the closed entrance, guarded by a small gathering of hair. He lowered his head farther and ran his tongue up and down her slit. She gasped softly as he did so and her hands found his shoulders which she squeezed. He raised his head and kissed her navel where she had a small freckle. He pulled her underwear down the rest of the way and helped her step out of it. He stood up and cupped her face in his hands.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered and she held his wrist, looking up into his blue eyes.

“Will you fuck me?” She asked him slowly and he smiled.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “yeah.”

She kissed him and breathed deeply through her nose, catching his scent and relaxing against him. Jonathan guided her to his bed and they both crawled onto the mattress and sat on their knees, kissing each other hungrily. She lowered herself back onto the bed, her head at the foot of his bed. He supported himself above her, his arms on either side of her head, careful to avoid her hair as it spread out around her head. He looked at her, startled by exactly how beautiful she really was. He kissed down her chest and held the tops of her thighs in his arms, lowering his head to taste her again. She squirmed as he nibbled at her thighs and traced her labia with his tongue. He sucked and prodded her while she whimpered quietly, her hands still gripped around his shoulders. He hummed against her and she moaned, her hand snapped against her mouth to ensure that she wouldn’t be too loud. He came up for air and smiled. She was arching her back against the mattress, her chest rising and falling with excitement.

“Are you ready for me?” He asked her and she propped herself up on her elbows.

“I think so,” she whispered.

“I’ll go slow, ok?” He nodded reassuringly and she smiled nervously.

“Ok.”

He slid off his boxers, showing his erection. Margaret looked at him, her brows furrowed in fear. He noticed her expression and cupped her cheek with his hand.

“Hey, it’ll be ok. You can tell me to stop anytime and we’ll take everything slow.” She smiled softly and nodded again. He spat on his hand and fisted himself slowly, coating his erection with the lubricant. He moved the head of his erection against her and pressed gently at the small opening. “It’ll hurt a little at first. I’ll try to be gentle, tell me to stop if it hurts too much.” He rubbed the side of her thigh and pushed inside her just a little. She exhaled stiffly and he pushed a little farther.

“Relax, It’ll feel better for you if you do.” He cupped her face and waited for her to relax around him before going all the way in. She gasped sharply when he was inside but as soon as he was, her body opened to accommodate him. The stretch of him inside her was nice and she caught her breath.

“Ready?” he smiled, his arms propping himself up above her. She nodded enthusiastically and slid her hands up his chest, to his neck.

“Yes, I’m ready. I’m so ready.” She whispered and he chuckled softly. He thrusted farther before pulling out and doing it again. She learned how to catch and release her breath as he entered her, hitting a spot that made her gasp in pleasure. She didn’t think that penetration could feel so good. Jonathan panted and tried to compose himself as he slid in and out of her tight cunt. He moved slowly above her and shivered in pleasure at the sound of her quiet moans. He dropped his face close to hers and watched each other as they opened their mouths in silent gasps, exchanging hot breath.

“Faster,” she whispered and put her hands on his lower back, pulling him farther inside her.

“Fuck,” he gasped weakly and moved his hips quicker, her walls tightened around him as she squeezed her thighs. The bed squeaked quietly beneath them and she laughed quietly, bracing one hand against the wall beside them.

“Jesus, Jonathan…” she gasped and threw her head back against the mattress, “so good…” was all she managed to get out and he cupped her breast with his free hand.

“Fuck, fuck,” Jonathan cursed and changed the angle of his thrusts, hitting her G-spot exactly. She gasped loudly and covered her mouth quickly. He covered her hand with his hand and went faster, hitting the spot again and again. He watched her eagerly as her eyes rolled back into her head and she grew wetter around him. He gasped quietly and panted, the muscles in his back flexing and relaxing with each thrust.

“You’re going to cum,” he panted out and she nodded breathlessly beneath their hands. Her legs wrapped around him and pulled him as far as he could go inside her and he tried to quiet his involuntary whimpers as she kept gripping around him and coercing him deeper and deeper inside. Finally she came and he felt her finish around him. She moaned into her hand and he helped stifle the noise as she finished. He pulled out and kissed her, his hands now pulling the cum from between her legs and coating his still-erect penis. He fisted himself as she kissed him, sucking on his tongue and his lips as she came down from her organsmic high. He was still wet and hot from being inside her and he finished in his hand, shooting his cum onto the cement floor. He broke their kiss and panted heavily above her, his arm now tired from masturbating.

“Did you finish?” She asked softly and he nodded. “You pulled out,” she observed and Jonathan smiled.

“You said you were scared of getting pregnant,” he laughed, letting his head fall against her stomach. She smiled, contracting the muscles in her abdomen, and she carded her fingers through his hair. He turned his head to rest his cheek on her bare stomach and looked up at her. She stared straight up at the ceiling and twirled his hair.

“Was it ok? Did it hurt?” He asked softly and she shook her head.

“It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. It was really good, Jonathan,” she sat up and he rolled over to rest his head on her thigh. She leaned over him and kissed him. He sat up and ran his hand around her waist, kissing her more.

“You were so perfect,” he whispered.

“Is this how it’s supposed to end?” She asked him as he pulled away. He furrowed his brow.

“What do you mean?”

“Do I go back to my room now? I don’t know what people do after sex.” She pulled her hair around her shoulder and braided it nervously. He laughed lightly and shook his head.

“No, no. You can stay here. I want you to stay here…” he trailed off and admired how her body looked in the moonlight after they had fucked. Her face was flushed and her lips were wet from kissing.

“Ok,” she dropped her hair and nodded slowly, “I'll stay.”

“Good.” He smiled and reached over the bed for their clothes. He pulled the sweater over her head and rubbed her arms to warm them up. She pulled on her cotton underwear while he put his pants back on. He pulled down the covers for the first time since getting there and they crawled beneath the blankets. They faced each other and Jonathan petted her hair away from her face, absorbed by how soft she was.

“Your lip’s getting better,” he observed and she smiled.

“Who would’ve thought,” she joked. They stayed there in silence, Jonathan stroking her hair. Margaret shifted closer to him in bed where it was warmer. “Are you tired?” she asked in a low voice and Jonathan nodded slowly.

“Yeah, a little.”

“Did it take a lot of energy?”

“To fuck you?” He smiled.

“Yeah,” she laughed quietly and he shrugged.

“Yeah but it was worth it. I like being tired after. I liked making you cum.” He added at the end with a smirk.

“I liked it too. I like you.” She nestled her head below his and he sighed, wrapping his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head and waited for her to fall asleep before drifting off himself. She smelled like the outside, fresh and clean like rain. The smell washed him away.

----

The end? lmk below if I should continue this series :)

#cillian x fem!reader #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy #smut #cillian fluff #young!cillian x reader #young cillian murphy #jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane #jonathan breech #on the edge 2001 #multi chap fic #cillian fanfic #fanfiction #cillian fic

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bellaxgiornata · 1 year

Text

Whatever You Want

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader Word Count: 3.4k

Summary: You've been having a difficult year adjusting to your life in Dublin, struggling with a few things that you've kept hidden from Michael so as not to burden him further. Though when he comes home unexpectedly early from a family meeting, you realize he's been reading you better than you'd thought.

Warnings/Tags: light angst, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff, soft Michael

a/n: Just a short little comfort fic to wrap up my Comfort Fic Week! Always love me a soft Mikey. Feedback is always appreciated!

Grabbing one of Michael’s shirts from the laundry basket on the bed next to you, you proceeded to fold it, your eyes staring absently out of the bedroom window beside the bed. The sky was overcast today, gray clouds hanging low despite the fact that it wasn’t supposed to rain this morning. Somehow it seemed like the weather was reflecting your mood–or maybe amplifying it.

Hands moving of their own accord, you neatly stacked the now folded shirt on top of the pile of Michael’s other shirts before reaching into the laundry basket and removing another one to fold. Your hands continued to move mechanically as you worked, folding clothing item after clothing item as you removed each one from the basket.

Inevitably your mind began to wander.

Michael had already been gone by the time you'd awoken this morning. He had yet another family meeting to attend early today despite the fact that it was now Sunday. He'd been busy this entire past week taking care of a 'problem' with the family's supplier before spending the rest of the week cleaning up some issues on the business end of things. You’d barely seen him for days now, which wasn’t the usual between the two of you. And although he’d been excited to see you the handful of times you’d both run into each other at home this week, you had been distant.

Admittedly you’d been struggling for this entire past year that you’d officially been living in Dublin. Struggling under the weight of your own family issues that you often kept from Michael–because he already had enough problems to deal with when it came to his family. You’d also been struggling under the pressures of things at work, forced into playing the mediator between the two owners of your company who fought with each other like actual children on a near daily basis. It had been wearing on you for months now, but you yet again never revealed any of this to Michael. He was busy enough as it was, and even though he was nothing but loving and attentive to you when he was home, you knew he had enough on his mind to worry about. So you always greeted him with a smile when you two were together, choosing to shove everything down, down, down until you couldn’t feel it for a bit.

But truthfully? You felt like you were drowning. You missed your family now that you were living abroad in Ireland so you could be with Michael; a feat accomplished with the help of his family–the one good thing they had managed to accomplish for you both when they had fast tracked your visa. But all the health complications back home had you missing your family even more. And you had quickly begun to hate your job with a passion ever since the owners had begun to bicker and fight, leaving you to solve the company's problems. And the office work you were doing wasn't even remotely your dream job, but you knew it wasn't realistic for you to quit just to pursue a dream.

The sound of the front door opening and closing downstairs met your ears, causing your hands to momentarily pause their movements, the shirt partially folded in between them. You could hear the sound of Michael downstairs, opening the closet door and putting away his jacket and shoes. Brows furrowing together, you wondered why he was home so soon.

“Where ya at, love?”

Michael’s voice rang out through the house, the sound of it drowning out the noise in your head–for now. Stacking another shirt of his onto the pile, you turned over your shoulder and called back to him.

“Upstairs, Mikey. Just doing the laundry.”

You grabbed another pair of jeans from the basket, hearing the heavy and tired footfalls of Michael as he made his way up the stairs. As you sorted the pair of pants in your hands with the others, leaning across the bed to reach the pile, you heard Michael making his way across the bedroom before you felt him come up behind you. His arms were soon wrapping around your waist, his nose brushing back and forth against the side of your neck as he let out a pleased hum.

“Missed ya, pet,” he murmured.

Straightening back up, your hands landed on his forearms, giving them a gentle squeeze before you unwrapped them from around you. You felt the way Michael stiffened against the back of you, his face soon drawing away from your neck. Glancing over your shoulder at him, you sent him a brief, tense smile. He took a step back, his eyes narrowing as he studied you.

“Wasn’t expecting to see you back this morning,” you said, turning back towards the bed and reaching a hand into the basket, pulling out another piece of clothing to fold. “The meeting go alright?”

“Yeah, it was grand,” Michael answered distractedly. “Ya alright, love?”

“Mhmm,” you hummed out. “Just trying to catch up on laundry. Figured you’d be gone most of the day. Knew you were low on fresh clothes with how busy you’ve been this week. Thought I’d take care of it for you today.”

“Pet, ya know I could’ve done the laundry myself later today,” he told you.

You neatly stacked yet another one of his shirts onto the pile beside you, nodding as you reached your hand into the basket. You drew out the last piece of clothing, about to fold it, but Michael pulled the pair of pants from your hands.

“Hey, stop,” he said softly, catching your eye. “Is somethin’ wrong? Ya haven’t been acting like yourself all week.”

You bit back the urge to point out that he hadn’t actually seen you much this past week. Instead, you sent him another tense smile.

“I’m fine, Mikey,” you said, gesturing to the pants in his hands. “Now can I finish the laundry? I’ve got other things to take care of today.”

Michael drew the pants out of your reach, his dark brows knitting together. His lips thinned along his face as concern washed over his features.

“What other things have ya got to take care of?” he asked.

You sighed in irritation, crossing your arms over your chest in annoyance with how he was slowing down your list of chores and errands for the day. Michael certainly helped out with many things around the house, but usually when the Kinsellas came to him to solve a plethora of problems for them, you were left to pick up the slack. Which is exactly what had happened this week on top of everything else you’d been silently dealing with.

“The house needs to be cleaned, Mikey,” you pointed out. “And the kitchen is an absolute disaster. I haven’t even managed to finish working my way through all of the dishes from the other night when Jimmy and Viking decided to eat every last damned thing in the house. Which also means I need to pick up groceries from the market still, and I haven’t even had a chance to sit down to make the list. Not to mention, I still have another two loads of laundry to take care of, so can you please just let me finish?”

A frown pulled the corners of Michael’s lips down, his hazel eyes softening as they held yours. A second later he expelled a rough breath, his shoulders dropping at the movement. When he tossed the unfolded pair of pants onto the bed, your eyes widened in shock. Your mouth opened, ready to chastise him for being so uncharacteristically callous, but he’d so tenderly grabbed your hands and drew you towards himself that the gesture quickly left you stunned and speechless. All you could do was stare in confusion at him as he drew you into himself.

“Forget ‘bout all o' that today,” he told you. “I’ll handle it tomorrow. All of it, I promise.”

“But don’t you have things you need to do?” you asked.

Michael wrapped his arms around your shoulders, one of his hands gently guiding your head to rest against his chest. Reluctantly you allowed it, though you were tense in his embrace, your body unable to relax. You really needed to get these things done because you didn’t feel like grabbing groceries at the market after work tomorrow.

“I’ll take the day off,” he replied. “Handle everythin’ at home. Even have dinner ready for us when ya finish work. Yeah?”

“Mikey, don’t promise me something that you can’t follow through on,” you warned him. “I know how your family is. I know they’re going to–”

“Hey, shh,” he hushed you, one of his hands soothingly running up and down your back. “I’ll tell ‘em no. Not to bother me tomorrow. Doesn’t matter what they say. Ya deserve some help ‘round here. Been takin’ care of everythin’ this past week–everythin’ this past year, really. And I wanna show ya that I appreciate it, love.”

“It’s not a big deal, I can handle it,” you told him, the lie almost automatic.

You felt him shift above you, resting his cheek against the top of your head. His hand continued to soothingly run the length of your back over and over, the calming feel of it slowly easing the tension in your muscles.

“I can tell ya have been stressed, pet,” Michael murmured. “Can see it on your face. Somethin’s been goin’ on with ya. It has me worried.”

Nervously your tongue slipped out, wetting your lips. You couldn’t believe he’d picked up on anything being off with you. You thought you’d been hiding everything from him so well. And you certainly didn’t need him worrying about you, too.

“I’m fine,” you whispered.

“Don’t lie to me,” Michael said, voice firm but not angry. “I know ya too well, love. I know ya aren’t alright.”

Turning your head, you buried your face into Michael’s chest, breathing in the scent of him. He smelled faintly like his leather jacket and gasoline, probably from riding his motorcycle this morning to the family meeting. Just beneath the scent of both of those you could smell the bit of his soap that always seemed to linger on his skin. It was something with sandalwood–you knew that because the nights he’d be out working a job and not coming home to you, you’d purposely shower with his soap. Just to feel like he was still there in bed with you. You couldn’t fall asleep otherwise.

“Tell ya what,” Michael said, breaking the silence that had fallen. “How ‘bout I take ya for coffee this mornin’? Your favorite shop. Then we can visit that little bookstore ya love so much. The one just on the corner? I’ll buy ya whatever ya want.”

A small smile slipped onto your lips and you reluctantly withdrew your face from where it had been buried against Michael’s chest, his own head withdrawing itself from the top of yours. Looking up at him, he was smiling warmly down at you, his eyes full of affection and love.

“Yeah?” you asked him softly.

“Buy ya the whole damn store if ya want,” he said, tone light and teasing as he grinned back at you. “And ya know I would, love. ‘S’not like I don’t have the money.”

“Okay,” you answered slowly, your attention shifting back to the laundry on the bed. “As long as you really will have time to take care of everything tomorrow though. Because I have to–”

Michael’s hand gently cupping your cheek and turning your face back towards him quickly quieted you. That warm smile was back on his face, the brightness of it reaching his eyes.

“Go get ready,” he ordered. “I’ll finish the rest of this. And the other stuff I’ll do tomorrow. Promise. Forget ‘bout it already, yeah? Just go take a few minutes for yourself.” His smile briefly faltered as he nervously added, “Then maybe afterwards ya can tell me ‘bout what’s been goin’ on? Ya keep lockin’ me out, pet, and I really wish ya would let me in. I want to help.”

“You just–just always have so much going on, Mikey,” you told him softly. “You don’t need my shit, too.”

“Hey,” he said firmly, his eyes narrowing as he lowered his face towards yours. “It isn’t shit, ya hear me? Ya matter to me. More than ya know. Don’t brush yourself off when it comes to me, love, alright? Talk to me. I’m beggin’ ya.”

Chewing the inside of your cheek, you slowly nodded. “Okay,” you agreed. “Later, I will.”

“Good,” he replied, gesturing his head towards the bathroom as a smile curved his lips upwards. “Now get your adorable arse ready. ‘Cause I wanna spoil my girl today. I’ll take care of the rest o’ the laundry.”

Feeling giddy at the prospect of having a day to spend where it was just you and Michael, grabbing coffee and buying books, you spun on your heel without further encouragement, hurrying your way to the bathroom to get ready.

°•°•°•°•°•°

You hummed out a curious noise, skimming over the summary on the back of the book in your hands for the second time. Behind you, you heard Michael huff out an amused, light laugh. The sound caught your attention and you looked up from the back cover, eyeing Michael’s smiling face curiously from his place beside you. He held up the small stack of books in his hands, gesturing his head towards the one you were still holding.

“Add it to the pile, love,” he urged. “Ya know ya want to. I can see it on your face with the way you’re lookin’ at it.”

Rolling your eyes you held out the book, a grin on your lips as you added it onto the stack Michael was holding. He shot you a flirtatious wink that only had you grinning wider, but when your eyes landed on the clock on the wall behind him, the grin faded. Surprise washed over you instead, a pang of guilt hitting you instantly.

“Why didn’t you tell me we’d been here for over two hours already?” you exclaimed, wide eyes landing back on Michael. “I’m so sorry, Mikey. I didn’t mean to be here so long!”

Michael only laughed, shaking his head back at you. “Pet, I told ya this mornin’ like I told ya over coffee before we came here–take as much time here as ya want. Buy whatever ya want. I’ve seen how much ya have been workin’ your arse off at that office this year. I know ya haven’t been goin’ shoppin’ or out to dinners with your friends as much lately.” Something like guilt spread across his face as he continued. “And I–I know I haven’t been ‘round as much the past few months, what with everythin’ goin’ on with the family. But I wanna change that. Startin’ today. Besides,” he said, suddenly looking a little shy, “I could honestly spend my day watchin’ the way ya wander ‘round in a bookstore. The way your face lights up when ya find a book–" he paused, that shy smile still on his mouth directed at you, "–the only other time ya look like that is when you’re lookin’ at me," he finished softly.

“Because you make me happy,” you told him, the grin returning to your lips.

“I know,” he replied with a nod.

“And coffee also makes me happy,” you added before gesturing a hand at the shelf beside you. “So do books. Best way to relieve stress is with a good book and some coffee.”

Michael chuckled, nodding his head even more as his own smile widened. "Exactly why I suggested gettin' coffee before buyin' books, love."

The corner of his lips twitched before his expression changed to something serious, his lips thinning as he shifted his weight back and forth on his feet, looking like he wanted to say something else. You hadn’t missed the shift in his mood as you curiously eyed him in return, wondering what was now suddenly on his mind.

"How has work been?" he asked carefully. "Ya seem stressed more than usual lately. Been worried 'bout ya."

Expelling a sigh at the topic change, you turned and made your way out of the aisle of books you both were in, searching for another one in particular as you mulled over his question. Michael followed closely behind you, still carrying the stack of your books in his arms as he walked.

"It's been difficult this year," you admitted slowly, eyes scanning the aisles as you looked at the different genre signs hanging above them. "I can't stand it lately, if I'm being honest," you finally confessed. "My bosses literally bicker in every meeting I have with them and I'm always trapped playing their mediator, always left cleaning up the company problems they don’t even deal with." Hands curling into fists at your sides, you could feel your irritation returning at the thought of work tomorrow. "They don't even talk about work most of the time anymore, either. I swear, they're going to run their business into the ground if they keep it up."

"Then quit."

You abruptly stopped in front of the aisle you'd been looking for at his blunt suggestion. Turning swiftly on your heel, you looked back at Michael in confusion and shock.

" Quit ?" you asked him in disbelief.

He shrugged easily. "Yeah," he answered. "Quit. You've always hated it there and now it's upsettin' ya. So quit. 'S'not like ya need the money. Ya know I'll take care of ya."

"Mikey," you said, pulling a face, "I'm not going to just sit at home and be some–" you waved a hand through the air, "–trophy wife. Or–or girlfriend or whatever," you awkwardly added when Michael’s smile grew at your word choice. "I like feeling productive."

"Your choice, love, but I happen to think ya would make a fine trophy wife," he playfully teased, shooting you another wink. "But ya know I've got ya. So quit. Find somethin' ya like. Because I know that's not what you're passionate 'bout."

With a huff you turned, focusing back on the aisle before you. You stepped into it, eyeing the books on the shelves as you looked for one in particular.

"Say it like it's that easy," you muttered, eyes scanning the various titles.

"It is," Michael pressed. "Give 'em your notice tomorrow. Quit. Do what you're passionate about. Because I know you've been dying to do photography instead. And you're damn good at it, love. And I know ya been dyin' to work for yourself.”

Chewing your lip, you let his suggestion settle in your mind. He was right, you did want to do photography. You'd been talking about it since you'd first met him. And you had been dying to work for yourself, especially with how your bosses had been this past year. It would be nice to do something you were actually passionate about, and you did know that Michael would take care of you while you started up the business–he'd already told you he wanted to marry you. He certainly wasn’t planning to go anywhere.

You hummed out a noise, your hand reaching out and pulling the book you'd been looking for off of the shelf. "Alright," you told him, turning around and placing the book on the stack in his hands. "I'll quit tomorrow," you told him. "You're right, photography is my passion. And if you're going to push me–"

"I absolutely insist ya do, love," he cut you off.

"Alright," you repeated, nodding your head. "I'll do it."

Michael's smile grew even wider, the warmth of it reaching his eyes as they fondly gazed back at you. You couldn’t fight the smile on your own face knowing that you’d never get over how lucky you were to have met him–or how handsome he looked when he smiled at you like that.

Eventually Michael's eyes curiously glanced down to the book you'd so quickly placed onto the pile he was carrying. A look of confusion crossed his face, brows drawing together as he looked back up at you.

"One Hundred Years of Solitude?" he asked.

"Yeah," you said, your smile turning cheeky as you made your way out of the aisle and over towards the register. "It's for you. About time you read something that wasn't a Steinbeck, babe."

#michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella #michael kinsella fluff #bellas comfort fic week #kin amc

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siampie · 7 months

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Finding You || Chapter 1

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings/tags: pinning, childhood trauma, eldest daughter syndrome

A/N: Okay, wrote this in two days and couldn’t wait to share it with you guys. Alright, hear me out. I’ve rewatched Kin while writing this chapter, and I realized that there is a house right next to Michael’s and they share the same driveway. After some research, I’ve learned they are called semi-detached house. They share a main wall. Usually, they are mirrored. It isn’t the case in Kin. And I kept it that way. So, be prepared for some shenanigans or not. I’m not really sure what I’m gonna do with that information. If you have some ideas just drop them in the comments. It could be fun for future chapters. So, I’m happy to share the result of my investigation. I also hope I did a good job in writing Michael’s brief POV. And forgive my attempt at writing an Irish accent. I don’t think I did a good job. But I’ll let you be the judge of that. Can you also tell that the only other person I really like from this family is Birdy? I hope you’ll like this first chapter. Enjoy!

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Tag list: @marytheweefrenchie, @sunflowersandsapphires, @schneeflocky, @danzer8705, @shouldbestudying41

Dividers by @cafekitsune

Dublin, Ireland. When you decided a few months ago to move out, Dublin wasn’t even on your list of destination. You didn’t even think of it. But there you were. You jumped the sea, as they would say back home. You had crossed two oceans to reach this beautiful city. To start anew.

After your father passed away, a little over two years ago, you needed a fresh start. You had spent a decade taking care of him while he was sick and in recovery. Working small jobs, barely having any friends or barely going out. You lived to take care of him and nothing else. When he died, you were saddened, yes. But you had felt relief more than anything. And then, you had felt guilty for it. He was your father and you loved him. Although, resentment had taken over in the last few years. Not just towards your father, towards your siblings too. Still, you loved him.

Why Dublin? You did not know. Why not Dublin? As you were making the decision to move out of your current place—place you had shared with your father—you had seen an ad that promoted travels to Ireland. It looked so beautiful and so green. It looked so inviting and you thought to yourself; Ireland seemed like the perfect place to start over.

So, there you were, settling into your new home. Your father had not forgotten what you had sacrificed while you took care of him. In his last will, he had left you a significant amount of money to do as you pleased. He wasn’t rich by any means, the money he had left was significant for someone like you. A couple of hundred thousand euros. When you heard the news, you were surprised by that. You had not realized that your father had saved up so much money. You even wondered where it had come from since you were the one who had managed his financials in the later years. You were not complaining though. He had left you enough to start over. It had been enough for you to move country and buy your new house.

Of course, your siblings had been supportive in your decision. Giving you their blessings, not that you had needed it. Not really. It had made your decision to move easier though. The most supportive of them was your youngest brother; Matthew. It was funny to you that he was now your greatest support. Growing up you both hated each other. You were his eldest of five years. You fought constantly, always at each other’s throats. And now, you were the closest you had ever been. He was the one you turned to when you needed help. And every time, he needed help he turned to you. It wasn’t that you did not trust your two other siblings but you trusted him the most. And they knew it.

You had started a new job too. You worked at a call center for an insurance company. Providing people with the help they needed for their house after a housefire or for water damages, or even after they had been robbed. It was not your dream job but it was a job. It paid the bills and the groceries. You had no reason to complain really. Except about the people that were calling and sometimes being rude on the phone. You understood that it was taking too long for some of them but you couldn’t go against the system. There were rules you had to follow and you were doing your best to provide them the help they needed. However, some of them had a tendency to forget that you were also human. And yelling at you, was not going to make you go faster.

Funniest part about you working in a call center was that you hated talking on the phone. As an introvert, you hated phone conversation. Your sister; Mary knew it more than anyone. You had told her that you always get annoyed every time she called. You did talk to her on the phone and you always ended up having a good time on the phone. But it always felt as though she was being rude anytime she called you. So, that you chose to work in a call center, was a laughable idea. Because every time the phone rang, which was pretty often in your line of work, you hated it. Sure, you had a script to follow but some of those problems were specific and you needed to think on the spot. Which you weren’t really good at. That was why you loved texting more than you loved calling. At least, when you were texting you had time to think of an answer. On the phone, you were pulling answers out of your ass. And they weren’t sometimes the best. Also, staring at a screen all day was draining.

In spite of that, you loved your new house and your new life so far. It was all perfect. Except maybe for the fact that you were living next door to criminals. You knew you should have questioned it when the house was sold to you for a low price. You knew it was low because it was Dublin and houses all over the market were much more expensive. But this one went to you for a price you could actually afford. You had gone in expecting to have to rent the place and when they offered to sell it to you instead. You had agreed. However, the realtor had failed to tell you who were your neighbors.

As soon as you had moved into your new home, one of your neighbors had brought you a housewarming gift. A sweet lady that lived across the street from you. Her name was Bridget Goggins but she went by Birdy. She had long and dark curly hair. Blue eyes and a kind smile. She had shown you nothing but kindness and you had appreciated it. You immediately took a liking in her. She had told you that her nephew Jimmy, his wife and his two sons lived two houses down from yours. And she had briefly mentioned her nephew; Michael. Apparently, he lived right next to you. He had been gone for some time. And that explained why the house was empty. For you, at the time, you had not seen anything wrong with it. It was just a neighbor being friendly to you and making you feel welcome.

She had been nice. Very nice. Albeit a little too curious about you and your family. Your lips were tight. You did not like to share information about yourself. And you were protective of your family. You gave her very basic and vague information. It wasn’t against her. It was just a thing your father had trained you to do. He had drilled into your brain to not share information about your family, because people would use it against you. So, you mostly hid things about your family and even, lied to some. You didn’t lie to Birdy; you just didn’t tell her much. And neither did she. And you respected that.

You would later learn that the Kinsella, Birdy’s family, were notorious criminals. They dealt in drugs trafficking mostly and may have been involved in a few murders. Specifically, Michael Kinsella. He had been gone alright. Eight years in prison for manslaughter, of his own wife. And it all clicked. The low price, the empty house next door, Birdy being way too curious about you. It all made sense. And it also scared you. You did not want to get involved with the Kinsella. Not if they were going to create problems for you.

You kept to yourself mostly. You barely saw Jimmy and his wife anyway. It was easy to avoid them. As for Birdy, it was slightly more complicated. The woman seemed to always know when to find you. And since you did not want to be rude to her, not just because she was a criminal. But mainly because you were a pushover, you could not refuse her. You kept your distance as best as you could. Although, it was impossible for you not to take a liking in her. She was most of the time motherly towards you. And you had craved that sort of affection since the day your mother had walked out of your life. And as much as you wanted to avoid the Kinsella because of their line of work, you found it hard to just pull away from Birdy. You liked her very much. Against your better judgement.

Apart from living near the Kinsella, your life was quite good here in Dublin. You were settling in nicely. And you loved your house. It was yours, and you made it cozy and warm. It was your own little haven. You loved coming back to it after a long day of work.

Sitting on your couch, you were unwinding after the long day you just had. You heard a distant peel of laughter. When you crossed path with Birdy this morning and she had offered to drop you off, she had mentioned the return of her nephew Michael. She was going to buy some party food for the evening. So, you knew what it meant, your neighbors were celebrating the return of the prodigal son.

And soon, the empty house next door would not be so empty anymore.

It made you nervous for some reason. You were about to share a yard with a murderer. You did not know what to expect. Hopefully, with you two sharing a wall, you’d know how to avoid him. You groaned out loud realizing that Birdy might create problems in the future. You had grown closer to the woman in spite of yourself. And she made it a habit to come and visit you sometimes. Whether you liked it or not you may actually cross path with Michael Kinsella.

“That was a short reunion.” You mused out loud when you heard the distant goodbyes. You switched off your television before going upstairs, to get ready for bed.

You had fell into a fitful sleep that night. Knowing that a man capable of murder was sleeping next door to you, made you feel unsafe. You had lived months in your home, knowing well you lived next to criminals. And yet, it was the man next door that made you feel unsafe in your own bed. And you had not seen him yet. And you had no intention to.

Lack of sleep did not make for a good day at work. You prided yourself in being a very patient person. You had trained yourself though. When you were younger; in the years that followed your mother’s leaving; you had been a very short tempered and moody person. And being a teenager at the time did not help the matter. You would explode at random at the people around you. And it was always your family that was on the receiving end. Did it come from anger? Or grief? Or even sadness? You did not really know. You were pretty sure it was a combination of it all. What really helped though, was your family making fun of you every time you did lose your patience. They would apologize profusely, with a smile on their faces, while bowing to you. The overreaction from them made you laugh every single time. It made you realize how ridiculous you could be. It made you realize you had no business being this enraged because they breathed in your direction.

However, what made you really snap out of it, though, was your sister. You did not remember what was said or when it was really. All you remembered was that one morning during breakfast, your sister was speaking to you and you snapped at her. For no reason at all. And it had brought tears to her eyes. It had hurt her. And it made you realize that you never wanted to make your sister feel this way ever again. She was your only sister and your best-friend, and you needed to treat her better. You needed to treat the people around you better. So, you took it upon yourself to think before you spoke. You stopped yourself before you could snap. Always, taking a deep breath and gave yourself a few seconds before opening your mouth. And sometimes, you just kept quiet and walked away. It had helped you over the years in growing more patient. And also, nowadays, you did not give as much of a fuck as you did back then. It took a lot more for you to lose your temper.

Lack of sleep, on the other hand—never made a good friend when it came to keeping yourself in check. Everything and everyone irritated you. If they glanced at you or even opened their mouth to speak to you, you would get annoyed. But you did keep yourself in control the whole day. You kept yourself in control with your colleagues and with the clients on the phone. And now, you were terribly exhausted. You couldn’t wait to just drop in your bed and be dead to the world for the next twelve hours.

“Hey, Birdy.” You greeted quietly as you got to your house. She was on your neighbor’s doorstep about to go in.

“Hello, pet.” She smiled at you. “You look properly tired, dear. What happened to ya?”

“I feel like it too.” You snorted. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. But I’m going to make up for it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nodded. “You’re visiting the new neighbor?”

“I’m bringing him some proper food.” She showed you the trays she was holding. “There’s some here fer ya.”

You sighed. “You didn’t have to, Birdy.”

“I like taking care of ya.” Birdy answered with a soft smile. “Come on, take it.”

“Alright.” You yielded before taking the tray off of her hands.

“Have you met Mikey yet?”

“Can’t say I had the pleasure.” You shook your head, fishing for your keys.

“Wanna come and say hi?” She offered.

Your lips twitched up in the corners. “Not really. Another time, perhaps?” You unlocked your door.

“Yeah, another time.” Birdy smiled at you as you disappeared into your house. As she, herself, disappeared into your neighbor’s house.

Michael was sitting on his sofa, a book in his lap. He had not been reading, not really. His thoughts kept going back to his daughter Anna. He couldn't resist the temptation to go and see her. He had kept his distance but he had taken everything in him to not get up and run to her.

She had looked so grown since he last saw her. She was no longer a child; she was growing to be a young and beautiful woman. Eight years had been a long time away from her. He had missed out on so much. He missed her so much it was hard to breathe sometimes. He had to do things right by her. He needed to do what was right, if he wanted to have her back in his life.

He would straighten out his act. He would stop dealing with the family business. He would keep out of it. He would do everything he could just so he could have her back in his life. It was the most important thing to him at this moment. Anna was the most important thing to him at this time. He must do right by her.

Muffled voices from outside drew his attention away from his own thoughts. He had recognized Birdy but the second voice did not belong to someone he knew. He couldn’t hear much of what was being said. But Birdy and you had seemed really close by the sound of it.

Birdy had pushed the door open and stepped in. “Good evenin’ Mickey.” She greeted him softly. “Brought ya some proper food.” She said showing him the covered dish she had in her hands.

Michael smiled back at her. “Thank ya, Birdy. But ya didn’t have to do that.”

Birdy walked into the kitchen. “Of course, I had to.” She placed the dish on the kitchen counter.

“Who were ya talking to?” Michael couldn’t help but ask. He was curious to know more about you. Especially if Birdy seemed to be close to you.

“Your new neighbor.” She replied taking off her coat. And then gave him your name.

So, that was you; Michael thought. He had caught a brief glimpse of your shadow through your large window, after he had come back from Jimmy’s. The curtains were drawn. But he had seen you through them as you moved around your kitchen. For as far as he could remember, the house next door had always been empty. People tend to refuse to buy once they knew who would be their neighbor. And he couldn’t blame them. It was now strange for him to suddenly have a neighbor after all those years.

The empty house next door would not be so empty anymore.

“She’s a real sweet girl, ya know. A hard worker too. But a bit lonely.” Birdy opened his fridge. “She could use some more friends.”

“Yeah?”

“So could ya.” Birdy wore a small smirk on her face. “I’ll put this in the fridge. Ya can have it later. I’ll get you a few more bits, Mikey. Fill this up for ya.”

“Nah, ya don’t have to go to any trouble. I could do that.” Michael moved to the sofa’s armrest.

“It’s not trouble.” Birdy told him strongly. Before moving next to the stairs. “Not for family.” She smiled at him. “Missed havin’ ya around, Mikey. We all have. We’ve all been waitin’ for ya to get out.” Michael hummed in response. “Especially Frank and your brother. It’s been tough on them without you.” She said softly, gazing back at him. “Carryin’’ the load all on their own. I mean Eric is—he’s a good boy. But he’s not you.” She gave a small shrug.

Frank had put her up to this. Michael just knew it. He knew what she was getting at. Frank wanted him back, in the family business. But he couldn’t do that. Not if he wanted to see Anna again. He wouldn’t change his mind about this.

“But you’re back now,” Birdy said and Michael nodded in response. “That’s the main thing.”

“Yeah.”

Birdy walked up to him. “You understand what I’m sayin’. I know you do. You’re not like your mother. You’re a Kinsella. And we stick together.” And she leaned and rested a light peck to his lips. “Always.”

You probably would have gone another night with a restless sleep if your body was not so exhausted. You had heated up some of the food Birdy had brought you. Although, living next to crime lords was not ideal, Birdy made it easier by taking care of you. As much as you had taken a liking in her. She had taken one in you. Always showing up at your door with extra food or inviting you over to share a cup of tea or coffee. The only issue was that you did not know if she was being sincere with you. You didn’t entirely trust her. Your lack of trust may not have been entirely due to her being a Kinsella. It was also due to your past. You had been burned too many times before and you didn’t know whether she had ulterior motives or not. But you had wanted to trust her more. You really wanted to.

Although, you knew you shouldn’t want that.

You were in a better state of mind that morning. You had your coffee; you were awake and rested. And you hoped for a better day at work.

“Good mornin’.”

You gasped as you turned sharply to face your neighbor. You had not paid attention to your surroundings, too focused on going through your morning routine.

“M’ sorry. Didn’t mean to scare ya.” He softly chuckled.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly. “I just—wasn’t expecting you, that’s all.”

Your heart started to gallop like a wild horse under your ribcage. You were facing the neighbor; you did not want to face. The man who had been sent to prison for manslaughter. You had to remind yourself of that. Because in spite of what you knew, the man standing in front of you was quite handsome. with his thick beard and dark hair. And his hazel eyes were beautiful and seemed kind.

“I’m Michael.” He put out his hand.

Your eyes snapped to his hand. You should probably take it. You really shouldn’t but this would be rude, wouldn’t it? “I know.” You said and introduced yourself. Making the final decision to put your hand in his. His calloused fingers felt rough against yours but his grip was warm and gentle. “Your new neighbor.”

“I know. Birdy told me.”

“Yeah.” You smiled quickly. You pulled your hand out of his grip. “I have to go. I—I don’t want to be late for work.”

“Okay.” His face fell slighty, and you momentarily felt bad.

“It was nice meeting you, Michael.” You said. You did not want him to think that you were running away from him.

“Yeah, you too.” He gave you a tight smile.

“Yeah, bye.” You turned away quickly and made your way to the end of your street where your colleague was waiting for you.

Real criminals didn’t look like criminals, you needed to remind yourself of that. No matter what you may think, Michael still killed people. He only got caught for the murder of his wife. He didn’t matter that he seemed kind. He didn’t matter that he looked handsome. He was still dangerous.

“Fuck!” You cussed as you were getting closer to your colleague’s car. “I’m in trouble.”

Chapter List || Next chapter

#michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x fem! reader #michael kinsella fic #michael kinsella #michael kinsella fluff #kin rte #kin bbc

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hannahssimblr · 3 months

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“She’s so cute,” Jen says, watching Evie crouched by the pond in St. Stephen’s Green. She is breaking up the last third of her ice cream cone and feeding it to the ducks.

Experiencing Dublin through her eyes has been the most entertaining part of the day, because when we’re with her, following her from shop to shop as she announces she’s found a soap or candle she can’t get at home or stops to watch a street performer sing the same roster of songs he does every single weekend, the city doesn’t seem like such an awful place.

Now we’re taking a break. We’ve had lunch at a burger restaurant set up to look like an American diner, wandered through the science museum touching all of the exhibits, and made her try the sea salt flavour at our favourite ice cream parlour. She liked it, which means that she has objectively good taste, and evidently, so do the ducks.

“Look at her! They love her, she has a way with them.”

“Are you supposed to feed ice cream cones to ducks? Doesn’t it make them explode or something?”

“God, you’re not supposed to feed them anything these days, are you?” She grins at Evie, enamoured, “It’s so hard for me to get my head around the fact that she’s friends with someone like Kelly. How does something like that happen to a person?”

“Same as how someone like me is friends with someone like you. People just get trapped.”

She snorts, “Am I the victim or are you?”

Evie tries to pet the smooth head of the duck that waddles closest to her, and then squeals as it lunges to peck a piece of wafer right out of her hand. I smile. “What do you think about her and Liam?”

“They seem cute, I’m happy that, like, something is happening for him in that department.”

“Hm. I don’t think she likes him.”

Jen glances at me, “Did you get some delicious piece of gossip about this while I was in the gift shop?”

“No, not really, I just have a feeling.”

“Probably projection then. I don’t think you want Liam to be happy.”

I scoff. She is ridiculous sometimes, “As if I care if Liam is happy or not, that has nothing to do with me. I was just sharing a point of view that I have.”

“Ah, I get it!”

I squint, “What do you get?”

“You want her for yourself.”

“What? No. Shut up with that stuff. First Claire and now… they're literally just random girls to me.”

“Look at that pretty face though, you're so weak for cute features,” Evie gets to her feet and wipes her hands as the ducks scavenge for crumbs in the dirt around her.

“She’s not what I go for. She’s too… she’s a bit weird,” I flinch with guilt as Changing-Room-Fitzy in my head slaps me on the back. See, lads? Turner agrees. Complete oddball, right man? I don’t answer him.

“Wow, okay.”

She’s coming back toward us now, “Do you guys have any more food on you? The ducks have me tortured over there asking for it. They might start pecking me to death if I don't provide for them.”

Jen digs in her bag for a little bag of almonds, “There you go, chick,” and as Evie goes back to the birds and begins doling out the nuts, Jen shakes her head at me, “You should learn to be nicer about people,” she says “This whole dickhead attitude thing is getting real boring.”

Beginning // Prev // Next

#lucky boy 2010 #quite enjoying fitzys presence in judes head as the voice of toxic masculinity i guess #maybe i'll roll with it going forward idk #anyway DUCKS

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sukipershipper · 1 month

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Your Darling Irish Rose - SWTD Oneshot

(TW: lots of swearing and something sliiightly naughty but nothing too much lol, have fun!) -----

Cillian…Seems like it’s been so long since I last held you.

I keep looking out the window, expecting you to be coming home, just like you always do. But each day leaves me feeling more disappointed than the last.

I know you’re working hard though.

I know you’re doing your best and that’s what I know is important.

I just wish I could be back there with you.

But…you know better than any that fate is a cruel mistressIf she weren’t, we wouldn’t be apart

I really hope the rig allows you home for Christmas…I miss you more and more each day…I’ll be waiting every day for you…waiting until I can hold you in my arms again and hear your beautiful voice, mo ghrá…

Please don’t forget to write…love…your darling Mary

P.S you better have shaved your face when you get back mister, I know you love your stubble but it looks horrid on you <3

The little scribbled heart at the bottom of the page made his heart flutter. He rolled his eyes as he let out a low laugh, his lips barely touching as he read the paper once more. This would’ve been the 10th time he had read it. The letter itself was sent a month ago but it was the last letter he got from Mary. He loved reading her latest tellings of the day, so he felt saddened that he hadn’t gotten a letter from her recently. But he held onto hope that she was just busy and had forgotten. The two had always been busy bodies. From the small coffee shop they ran together in the streets of Dublin, which she now ran with her sisters, to the work they did together on the Beira. Mary was a very beloved face on the rig. She was one of the few doctors on board. Though her profession was hindered slightly due to poor equipment provided by Cadal, she still managed to do it with relative ease.

She had many good friends onboard, minus Addair. Hell, even Rennick liked her, thought she was the sweetest thing to roam the earth. And, of course, O’Connor adored her so. The nights they weren’t busy he’d take her into his arms and they’d waltz under the stars to a tune playing in the crew lounge, only barely audible through the walls but a beautiful melody that would envelope them both as they swayed together.

He longed for her touch as much as she did for his.

Yet, like she had stated, fate was cruel and had separated them. Come the start of the year, Mary found it harder for her to continue her work, and had asked to go back to the mainland until further notice. Rennick, of course, was understanding for her. But with him it was another story. He had barely been allowed to utter the first sentence before being told “Fuck off, ye have a job tae do here, get on it!”

To say that fucked him right off would be an understatement. Mary was quick to reason with him that he is the head of the Pontoon team and no-one could run around down there with such ease as he could. Didn’t ease the separation by much but her promise of letters back and forth helped settle his mind for the time being.

That was back in January. It was now August and he still waited until her next letter or at least a call from Rennick who she had promised updates for every fortnight. Still, nothing.

Ah well, she was probably just tired was all. He sat himself up and made his way to the canteen, brushing past a damp spot of the floor that made him roll his eyes, turning his gaze upwards to where a small leak had begun to drip in his room. “Swear, Rennick better fix tha’ shite…” he grumbled, chucking on a warm jumper for the morning before making his way to fix himself some breakfast. He passed a few friends and workmates along the way, eventually stopping at Finlay who was hopping down from fixing the lights above. “Mornin’ Lass!” he quipped, resulting in a light kick and an indignant smirk on her face. “Ye better watch yer mouth! Callin’ me lass, bloody hell…” she chuckled, giving him a shove. “What wuid Mary say, hm?”

“Oh, pipe down, she’d be ‘avin’ a gaff too!” he chortled. Finlay rolled her eyes with an exaggerated groan as she accompanied O’Connor down the hallway. “Thought ye had fixed tha’ part already?” O’Connor asked, gesturing to the light fixture behind them. Finlay huffed, “Ah did! But Ah swear, is like one thing breaks after the other!” she exclaimed, “Ah tell ye, Cilly,” she spoke - using the nickname Mary often used for him, making him smile slightly. “This rig…is a fuckin’ pile of shite it is…Rennick needs tae put calls through tae get this fixed o’herwise we ain’t gonnae get tae drillin’ at all…Ah mean, look at yer room!” “Ach, I know…” O’Connor grumbled again, “...Swear, it’s like as soon as Mary left this shit started happening…” the thought made him chuckle, “Heh, i-is like she was the ray of sunshine keepin’ this rig together!” he laughed, getting a brief chuckle out of Finlay, “Team effort then, she does all the hopin’ and wishin’ I do the maintenance, hah!” she joked, sending both into a fit of laughter as they descended the stairs.

As they entered the hallway that led to the canteen, the echos of their workmates rang out loudly, followed by the sound of crashing cutlery and their cook, Roy, yelling at one of the crew, followed by a chorus of laughter as they made their way through the door and into the canteen.

“MUIR! FOR FUCK SAKES, STOP IT!” Roy yelled, watching as one of the deckhands, a rugged figure with an oddly slim face, danced around on the tables, being egged on by his friends.

O’Connor laughed at the sight of Muir, laughing even more at Innes who seemed to be egging him on the least but still thoroughly enjoyed the sight (though to O’Connor, Innes also seemed to be enjoying the view from where he stood, Muir’s body turned to face away from him left ample opportunity for Innes to stare at the lads ass) and at their newest cod, Caz who was dancing with Muir, albeit on the ground. He loved the vibrant camaraderie of the crew here, and the way that everyone seemed to laugh and smile along with any of the hijinks that one group may get up to. It helped to lighten the load and lessen the burden he felt of being alone without his beloved, although it didn’t help the twinge of sadness he felt not seeing her in the fray, dancing and jumping along with the rest.

The man had very little time to ponder it as a loud banging of a ladle from Finlay got them all to settle down as her voice boomed “A’RICHT YA LOT! SIT DOWN AND FILL YER GOBS! NO MORE PRANCIN’ AROUND, C’MON, C’MON!” O’Connor laughed heartily, his respect for Finlay shooting through the roof as he sat down at a table with Caz, Innes, Muir and his two other close mates, Trots, and his best mate from before he even worked on the rig, Gibbo. The two had met when O’Connor took on a chance fishing job on a small boat off the coast of Scotland nearly 10 years ago. It was a good chance for O’Connor to get used to the water's motions and make a good connection to help work on the rig when it was ready to be placed. Granted he wait for that was a whole 8 years after the fact but it worked for him.

“Took ye long enough!” Innes joked, getting a laugh out of O’Connor once again. “What kept ye?” “Probably gawking at that letter from Mary, hm?” Caz asked. O’Connor nodded, “Just reading her words in her voice makes all the pain and worries of the day just go- WOOSH!” he exclaimed, his hands flying out beside him to punctuate his words.

“Ye get any new letters from her yet, lad?” Muir asked. O’Connor sighed, “Nae,” he explained, “But hey, there’s always tomorrow…” he spoke, though his voice was a bit uncertain.

As he sat down, Gibbo slid him a plate he had made for him earlier, hashbrowns, toast, eggs and some delicious strands of maple bacon, before he could even put the fork in his mouth, Trots instantly began yammering on. “The state of this crew, someone needs tae keep ‘em in check!” he began, earning an instant groan from Gibbo. “Christ, not again-” “From the rags on the floor to the parties, ye’d think we were in the states! No care, no rules, no order! Just a big ole, messy pile of fucken’ shi-” “WE GET IT, TROTS,” Gibbo groaned, “Chill out, Cillian’s just sat down! H-He doesnae wanna hear yer nonsense!...Right?” the other man asked, turning his gaze to O’Connor, who sat peacefully eating. He took notice of Gibbo’s expression, one that pleaded with him not to let this go on. O’Connor gave a coy smile, however, “Oh, well, actually…” he began, resulting in wide, horrified eyes from the stocky man beside him.

O’Connor leaned in close to the Union Rep, “I remember you telling me about a bit of mould in one of the rooms that ne’er got addressed, but I forgot what it was ye saw! Care tae tell me?” “Well, as a matter of fact-” Trots began, his sentences turning into a flurry of rambles as O’Connor sat contently, eating his grub and listening to Trots, all while Gibbo shot him a look of ‘Fuck you’.

The Irishman simply sat and finished off his plate while Trots yabbed on. The minutes ticked by as he ate, and still, all he could think about was his Mary. He ate absentmindedly, clearing his plate just before Trots finished his rambles. He looked at the clock on the wall and moved to stand. “Well, thanks fer the story, Trots my boy!” he spoke, “I’m sure Gibbo here would be more than happy to listen to ye now-” “Prick” Gibbo muttered through gritted teeth. “But, I best be off,” he continued, about to grab his plate, “Ye know how it is, Rennick needs me in-” *BZZT*

‘O’CONNOR! MY OFFICE! NOW! NO DAWDLING, MOVE IT!’

*CLICK*

The whole canteen went silent, eyes turned to O’Connor who simply blinked in shock at the mention of his name. It was very rare that O’Connor ever got called up to Rennick’s office, so either he was needed for a new task or he royally fucked up something. Either way, he set his plate back down and sighed through clenched teeth, looking back towards the table as he mouthed ‘Wish me luck’ to them. After a few minutes of darting across the deck and up to the crew lift where he could reach administration, he knocked on the titular door that opened to the office of Davey Rennick. He took a deep breath and pushed it open, forcing a smile. “Mornin’ Sir,” he began, aiming to continue until he saw… “‘Ello, Cilly” Addair spoke lowly, though oddly, not in his usual vicious tone as he leaned against one of the filing cabinets. O’Connor felt his eyes narrow and how fists clench as he stared daggers into the British fuck beside Rennick. “What’s ‘e doin’ ‘ere?” O’Connor snarled, his accent noticeably thicker.

“He’s here tae help me, that’s why,” Rennick replied shortly. It wasn’t an unknown fact that O’Connor despised Addair with a burning passion. The two had always butted heads and competed to see who could a job better or win at pool. Rennick was very aware of this, often having to scold the two from on the deck just beside his office if he ever saw them in a fight. He knew this was a very risky meeting but for a reason beyond Rennick’s comprehension, Addair had insisted on sitting in on this. So he allowed to go on, but he could see it would require a lot of standing in between the two men as Addair instantly puffed out his chest, standing up off of the filing cabinet and making his way around to meet O’Connor, who instantly straightened up and did the same thing back.

“Fuck are ye here for, eh?” O’Connor growled, “Ye ‘ere te watch me get tha’ boot, huh? Oh, I bet ye were the one who lied and said I fucked somethin’ up, ay?” “Fuck off, cunt,” Addair snarled back, “Trust me, if I wanted to watch you get thrown off this boat, O’Connor…I’d throw you off myself,” he whispered that last part, his sombre expression slightly fading and giving way to his usual snake-like tone. The comment prompted a low growl out of O’Connor and before he knew it, his hands flew to Addair’s chest and he gave him a firm shove. “YA FUCKIN’ PRICK!”

Addair retaliated with a shove of his own and the two got into a big shoving match, their hands catching each other as they tried to push the other down. Rennick slammed his fists on his desk, “SIT THE FUCK DOWN, CILLIAN!!” he yelled. The two men stared at each other before O’Connor huffed and took a seat. Addair returned beside Rennick as the boss sat back down and sighed.

“Look,” Rennick began, “No one’s ‘ere because ye got the fuckin’ sack, a’richt?” he spoke, his voice much softer than O’Connor had ever heard it. “Addair is here because he got a letter incorrectly addressed to him…it was meant tae go tae ye…” he explained. O’Connor’s face scrunched up in suspicion.

‘Conveniently’ the person he hated the most got his letter? Yeah right. Rennick either read his thoughts or saw his expression because he immediately began to explain again. “I get it, ye two hate each other’s guts, Ah wuid be suspicious too…but believe me, this is the truth…Addair?” he spoke, gesturing for the Fat fuck to speak. “Look, I think yer the biggest waste of space on this rig, and I know ye’d rather want me burned in a furnace than talking to ya…but…” he paused, his hand going to his head.

O’Connor’s expression softened as he watched the body language change and the mood of the room seemed to shift.

“This…this was sent from the hospital in Aberdeen…” he explained, “...Me ex is in there…she sent a letter to me filing for divorce…which I still think is bullshit-” “Get to the point, Addair,” Rennick interrupted. Addair scoffed, handing O’Connor the letter. The latter simply stared, “W-Why would I be getting a letter from the hospital?” he asked, his voice no longer carrying his accent, hinting at the vulnerability he felt in that moment.

“It’s not directly from the hospital itself, but from the address…” Addair continued, “...I uh…admittedly…I had a read of it-”

“Ye read my mail?” O’Connor asked, his voice raising in volume. “Yeah…is from your broad, Marianne, whatever her name was…” Addair responded, “...somethin’ stupid I reckon…” he scoffed resulting in a growl from Rennick. He took over the conversation. “Addair thought it best if ye read it…Mary had sent it personally for ye…” “Ye read it too, Rennick!?” O’Connor yelled, standing up. Rennick stood up with him, “Listen, I’m given’ this tae ye fer ye tae read in yer own time, but I ken ye’ve been waiting ages for Mary to right back…this is why it’s taken so long…” “W-What’s that supposed ta mean!?” “JUST-” Rennick paused and took a deep breath, “Read it, O’Connor…”

The man simply stared in horror at the thought of what was in this letter. Trembles began to take over his body as he opened the letter, his eyes wide as they scanned the page. It didn’t take him long before he found the part that had thrown the whole mood of the office.

One word that now engraved itself into his mind.

‘Leukemia’

O’Connor felt his knees buckle, he tried to adjust his footing, his hands on Rennick’s desk barely managing to catch him as he felt his weight overpower him, his body shaking slightly and his eyes wet, brimming with unshed tears that he didn’t want to let fall. He couldn’t even read the rest of the letter. He simply held it in his hands as he took shaky breaths, trying to hold back his sobs. “Sh…S-She…She can’t!” he whispered. Rennick shook his head, “I’m sorry, Cillian…she’s a lovely lass…which is another reason why I needed tae give this tae ye…she found out a few months back apparently…”

O’Connor was in paralyzed horror. The woman he loved, his Irish Rose…was battling the worst thing he could imagine. Hospitals would be hard on her, he knew it, her treatment would be difficult. She would be in that hospital suffering and getting last at every amount of treatment she required. The thought sickened him. But what hurt more was the realization that dawned on him…she was alone.

He was out at sea here, no way to get off with his rostered hours…and she was stuck in a dingy old hospital room by herself…she was alone and he couldn’t be there for her.

The thought was horrible and he could only stare with wide eyes between the two men before him. Rennick sighed, “Ah’ve let the Mainland team ken…but…it’s unlikely they can get a bird out ‘ere for ye before the Holiday Shift…trus’ me, Ah’m as pissed off as ye right now about it…Ah’ll ‘ave another call for ye, but I cannae promise ye’ll be going back…Ah…Ah’m sorry…” the man spoke, his voice soft and almost trembling itself as Rennick sank into his seat. “Yer…yer free to go…both of ye,” he spoke.

With that, Addair walked out first. O’Connor took longer to go, but once he did, his eyes were fixed on the floor, He didn’t dare look up, his thoughts swimming in a pool of shock and disbelief. He then felt a strong hand on his shoulder. He looked to see Addair, staring at him with sincerity. “I don’t believe to be what makes us friends…I doubt we ever will be…” he said in a low voice, “...but…I’m sorry this is happening…despite how much of a prick ye are to me…and how much I am to ye…doesn’t mean ye deserve this…you or her…Write back to her when ya can…let her know how much ya love her before ye can’t…”

With that, Addair headed back down to Engineering, a sigh of disbelief escaping him. O’Connor stayed there for a while, still processing everything.

The journey between the walk from the office to the canteen was a blur and O’Connor felt as though he wasn’t even there. The room was empty with no one else but him, Roy and Finlay who were gabbing on in the background. O’Connor barely saw their forms, only hearing their muffled voices in his mind.

It was only when Caz’s voice rang out that he jumped back to reality and saw himself surrounded by his friends. Caz and Gibbo knelt directly in front of him, Trots on his left side and Roy on his right as Innes and Muir stood in the back together and Finlay stood with Brodie on the other side behind Gibbo. “Ye a’richt?” Caz asked, his eyes searching O’Connors face for an answer.

O’Connor didn’t answer right away, simply staring down at his hands.

“O’Connor?” Finlay called, tapping the man gently on his cheek with her knuckle, trying to pry a response from him. Still nothing.

Gibbo shuffled a little closer. ‘Cillian…Cilly…” he murmured, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Did Rennick give ye a boot?” Muir asked, a little insensitively but in his genuine way nonetheless. “Did ye want me tae punch him?”

O’Connor shook his head with a laugh. “No…no…” he mumbled, “...I’m fine…It’s not me I’m cryin’ o’er…” he explained. He showed the letter in hand. “Oh, Mary got back?” Roy asked. O’Connor nodded, no verbal response from him, however.

“Lad, ye’re worrying us,” Trots spoke softly, holding O’Connor’s hand. “Are ye okay? Is Mary okay, what happened?”

It took a few seconds but soon, soft whimpers escaped him, followed by his shoulders trembling and shaking with pent up sobs. His eyes pooled with tears that were threatening to spill at any second as his whimpers grew louder and more pained. And all at once, the floodgates opened as soft sobs escaped him, he clung to himself holding his elbows tight as he doubled over. Trots leaned on him, giving him comfort in a supportive embrace while Gibbo tried to get O’Connor to look at him, being gentle as his hands tried to cup O’Connor’s face and get him to look.

“Cillian, look at me- Its a’richt, it’ll be a’richt” he tried to assure him, but it was to little avail as the tears continued to fall and the sobs grew louder and more desperate. “IT’S NOT ALRIGHT!” O’Connor wailed, gripping onto Gibbo tightly who instinctively threw his arms around him in return, “IT’S NOT FAIR…She’s back on the mainland alone, she’s f-f-fighting Leuk-kemia alone a-and I can’t even h-help her…!” He sobbed. The mention of the condition sends everyone into varying states of horror.

“M-My darling, Mary…” he trembled, his body shaking even more as deep sobs escaped him, even louder than before. “O-Oh god…M-Mary…MARY!!” he cried, heaving into Gibbo’s shoulder, the latter only able to close his eyes as he held his friend, the reality of what he faced weighing even heavier on him.

“I’m so sorry, Cillian…” Gibbo spoke, his own eyes growing misty as he held his friend. Trots, seeing that more of the crew were coming in, knew that this was a matter best dealt with in privacy. He shared a look with Gibbo and the two stood and led him to the accommodation, settling him into Gibbo and Dobbie’s room. O’Connor’s shaking had subsided but the tears still poured.

Gibbo allowed O’Connor to lean into him, Trots offering a comforting side hug, albeit quite awkward, giving some comfort as O’Connor let out a shaky sigh.

“I’m sorry, Cilly,” Trots spoke, “That’s something a couple should ne’er go through…that ain’t fair…it ain’t fair at all…and Cadal ain’t lettin’ ya go to see her?” “R-Rennick is tryna sort it out but…h-he reckons there’s no point in getting my hopes up…he was so nice to me about it too…” O’Connor explained, prompting a chuckle from Gibbo, ‘That’s a first, aye?”

O’Connor smiled slightly as he added to Gibbo’s joke. “Nah, what’s a first was Addair bein’ nice to me, fer once…” he commented, resulting in audible gasps from Trots and Gibbo on both of his sides. “No fucking’ way”

“Are ye pulling me tits right now?”

“Gibbo-”

“What?”

O’Connor laughed, feeling a little bit of levity as he sat there. He held the letter in his hands still, though it was a bit crumpled due to how hard he held it. “I…I hadn’t even read the whole thing…” he explained, “I-I got to the mention of…it…and I stopped…I couldn’t finish it for her,”

Trots looked at him with an eye of curiosity. He held out his hand at O’Connor with a smile, “May I?” he asked. O’Connor stared for a second, simply looking back and forth between Trots’ face and his hand, but he soon handed the paper to his friend and Trots unfolded the crumpled sheet and began to read it aloud for him.

As he read, O’Connor imagined Mary’s voice speaking to him as he had done every day before now.

“My darling Cilly…

…I’m sorry I haven’t written back in so long…fuck it’s been hard to want to do anything now…

…I feel bad having to explain to you this way but I have no choice do I?...I have Leukemia…I got diagnosed back in July…it wasn’t easy, but rest assured, I have been given the best doctors…I believe one of them may know your mukker, Cameron…she’s been talking my ear off nonstop about her man, can ya believe?”

That part made O’Connor laugh again, imagining Caz’s wife Suze babbling on to his poor Mary in her bed. The thought was as hilarious as it was comforting to him, knowing she was being treated well.

“...I had struggled trying to put this into words…in fact I didn’t even write this myself, Ms McLeary did! I just…I missed you so much…but I never wanted to burden you with this…I know treatment for someone like me…like either of us would usually be hard…we’ve never had it easy…but Suze is different…this place is different…it’s looking up for the both of us……We’re gonna be fine, I can feel it…just promise me you won’t get yourself hurt or put into a tizzy by that Addair fella…and for the love of all things holy when and if you visit you had better shave that stubble, or no snuggles for ye once I’m better!”

“Better get on it then!” Gibbo joked, the three men all laughing in response before settling down so Trots could continue reading.

“In other news, the shop is doing well back home, Daisy and Lilliane are taking care of it, and yer old friend Finnegan even popped by for a visit here! He gave me some flowers and told me to tell you not to leave his wellies lying around in the ground, the dogs got em last night and he had to walk in socks and slippers, ha!”

There it was. Her trademark sunshine personality, her golden, bright and peppy attitude made him always smile whenever he saw her. He could practically feel her warmth around him despite her situation and he loved how she could always see the bright side of everything no matter what.

“I can’t talk for too much longer, but this is just to say, I’ll be okay…we’ll be okay, don’t fret too much about me…I know you’re doing your best and I don;t need anything more than to know that you’re happy…I love you mo ghrá…Come visit me soon so I can hear your darling, bassy voice and feel your arms around me again…my strong, handsome man…my O’Connor

Grá mo chroí thú, Tá mo chroí istigh ionat Mo chuisle

Lots of love, from your darling irish rose

Sincerely

-Mary O’Connor”

O’Connor felt his eyes well up with tears once again, but this time they weren’t of sadness, but of love and longing. He felt the same painstaking feeling of want as he did before, but this time there was a sense of relief, of comfort, knowin that she was okay.

Hearing her words were like a lifeline to him that he didn’t know he needed and he smiled as he leaned into his friends embrace, feeling a sense of comfort he hadn’t felt in a bit.

She was right…She was always right…

They were going to be okay…

#swtd #still wakes the deep #swtd O'Connor #O'Connor #fic #long fic #Gibbo #Trots #Muir #Innes #Finlay #Brodie (mentioned)#Roy #Caz #Cameron McLeary

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melodymunson · 5 months

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Tom Grant x fem reader blurb

ao3 link

Tom was your best friend and lover. Ever since he had ended things with his ex-girlfriend Ruth, he was torn before he had met you. Nothing was going right or his way until you came into his life. One day on the beach you were walking and came across Tom. He was sitting in the sand and you were interested in who he was. Going up to him you got to talking. Both of you had recently been broken-hearted. After his ex moved out he was distraught. It was a chapter that he was done with. After talking for a bit you found out you had many of the same interests. The next day you visited him in his caravan in the trailer park and watched a cheesy rom-com.

The next week you went to dinner together on your first official date. You wore your best and most favorite dress and Tom was looking more dapper than ever wearing his brown suit. The next few months were filled with so much passion. You spent a lot of time on the beach together and exploring the countryside of England. Making love with Tom was always mind-blowing. You bought the Kama Sutra to try out new positions and loved every second of it together. The both of you were adventurous and open-minded in the bedroom. He'd buy you so many amazing sex toys. You even got him a personal Fleshlight shaped like your pussy from a mold. For you, Tom had a mold made and sculpted of his cock. One day though his ex came back and threatened you. Tom had none of it and he consoled you. The caravan park owners were aware of Ruth and eventually Ruth stopped showing up. Tom would do something nice for you every day. Whether it be doing your laundry for you, cooking spaghetti dinners by candlelight, or buying you flowers and winning you stuffed animals from the arcade he worked at just because. He would also buy you chocolates your favorites and your favorite candy as well. With Tom, you felt so happy. Eventually, you adopted a cat together a tuxedo kitten named Cookies and Cream. When it was New Year's you would watch the fireworks together. Christmas was amazing too because he met your family and you got to meet his family too. Once you moved in together you spent all your time together. The sex with Tom was mind-blowing. He was a pleaser and giver. Even though he loved receiving he also loved to go down on you. Pleasing you and making you cum was his priority as well as making sure you were dehydrated. Tom could do this special thing with his tongue that drove you crazy. Giving you endless orgasms and making love anywhere and everywhere drove him crazy in the best ways and he was madly head over heels in love with you. He'd love it when you'd get manicures especially when you painted your nails red it turned him on so much and he loved looking at your nails finding them sexy. Of course, Tom was the most loyal and trustworthy man there was. One day you found out you were pregnant. Tom took you to all of your hospital check-ups and soon you found out you were pregnant with twins. Soon you found out the twins were a girl and a boy. Tom loved to rub your pregnant belly and you were both overjoyed by this news. It was magical and wonderful. It was the best news ever. The pregnancy went well without complications. Pregnant sex for you was bearable because Tom massaged your belly and talked to your stomach waiting on you hand and foot. The twin's room was painted half blue and half pink. In the delivery room, Tom held onto your hand letting you squeeze his hand as hard as it hurt. Soon your beautiful babies were born safe and healthy it was truly a miracle. Tom proposed because he wanted to not because of the babies and you were engaged with the most beautiful engagement rings. You were married with your close family and friends in attendance in Dublin, Ireland. Your honeymoon was in Italy and it was the most romantic trip of your life followed by some time in Paris, France. You were able to move into a bigger place together eventually and give the twins a better life on the coast by the ocean in London. And so you lived there going to the beach every day making sand castles with your precious twins. Cookies And Cream had a litter of kittens and you kept three (2 girls and a boy) naming them Maddie, Snickers, and Cutie Pie. Eventually, you adopted a golden retriever puppy named Daisy. The cats and Daisy got along so well and the kids loved her too. Your life with Tom was nothing short of a whirlwind romance and every day was filled with so much love.

tag list: @jadeylovesmarvelxo @ali-r3n @somethingvicked @koskeepsake @munson-mjstan @eddiemunsonfuxks @rowanswriting @edsbug @babygorewhore @inourtownofhawkins @emsgoodthinkin @seatnights @corrodedcorpses @lovelythoughtfulcupcake @zestychili @stolen-in-moonlight @hellv1ra @lovemesomeeddiemunson @m0llygunn @emma-munson @prettyboyeddiemunson @dollalicia

#tom grant #tom grant x reader #tom grant x you #makeup #makeup 2019 #tom grant blurb #tom grant x fem!reader #tom grant imagine #tom grant drabble #tom grant oneshot

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donnas-dollface · 1 year

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Dating Miss Molly O'shea Headcannons;

characters: molly o'shea (x gn reader)

a/n: sorry dudes she won't leave my brain and i cannot get anything done because of it LMAO my apologies if she's a bit ooc, i haven't exactly written for her so I'm not expecting to nail it first try! we'll be back on Donna's track whenever i catch up with my school work 🫶

warnings: possible ooc molly,mention of a slimy haired asshole(Dutch)

dating Molly is you teaching her to relove herself, and seeing her worth. she's been brushed aside, silenced and ignored. sometimes she feels as though her opinion amounts from little to nothing. doesn't really stop her from voicing them though.

she's not exactly used to being heard either. You actually listening to her, whether it be her shouting or crying, it's relieving. And you're not screaming or yelling back at her? what is this.

touch starved touch starved touch starved touch starved touch starved- Ahem! She craves physical touch but doesn't exactly know how to ask for it. Molly also isn't into PDA, but she'll warm up into being a cuddle bug whenever you're alone :)

Enjoys walking around camp with your hand in hers, or just simply with your pinkies interlocked. And is a sucker for cheek/knuckle kisses.

if you want her to melt into a puddle just compliment her features or her laugh. it makes her smile and giggle, sometimes she'll swat your arm softly. "Oh you."

kiss her freckles too. it makes her short circuit if she's not expecting it.

definitely enjoys teasing and picking on you. when's she's comfortable enough, she leaves her little lipstick marks on your face and that is HARD to get off.

writes you cute little poems but is too nervous to actually show you. and love letters!

She's a little antsy about being around horses. just one of her "irrational fears" but you don't mind. If she's sharing your saddle, best believe her arms are snug around your waist so she doesn't slip off.

when that gramophone comes out, you two are dancing to it. she's a really good dancer, and even if you have two left feet, she still enjoys the fact you're making an effort. but you probably might wanna learn, she doesn't really enjoy leading.

Her favorite way of time passing with you is just sitting in your shared tent reading to/with you. sometimes she'll share gossip you might've missed while you were out or on a job, or sometimes you're sitting in the silence.

She doesn't like to show it but she really does miss Dublin, and her family on occasions. the best you can do in these situations is ask her to accompany you to St. Denis for a show and to do some window shopping.

Molly believes very strongly in her opinions, and will voice whenever she doesn't like something. You're getting called to go on a job that sounds a little shifty? She's barking at Dutch that if anything should happen to you, she'd have him roasting on a stick. or she's telling you not to do it.

"Tere's no way in 'ell I'm letting you do it!"

Comfort is also foreign to her. Apologizing too. Sometimes, she'll say something she knows was too far and she immediately shuts down. You'll be storming out of the tent to cool off and she's just there cursing herself to hell.

"Oh good one O'shea, they'll definitely leave ya for tat!"

and she does fully believe it. but somehow you come back, and she's just unsure how to react to it. "I... I'm sorry." be patient with her, she'll recover it eventually. just not used to having an actual relationship with love and care.

ohh... she's an easily jealous woman. she trusts you, don't get me wrong, but somebody touching your arm or laughing a little too much at your jokes irks her. she glares them down, and will scoff/huff whenever they say something flirtatious to you.

adores surprise gifts! and when you remember some tiny little detail about herself akcbdjjs the gifts doesn't have to be like extravagant, she likes when you come back with a simple bouquet of wildflowers.

envisions your future together like the hopeless romantic she is. she personally would like to move back to the city, but if you don't want it or would rather stay in the great wilderness, she'll do that for you.

thanks for reading! hopefully this is good cause i do really like molly, i just need more practice with her character.

little spoon most of the time. please just hold this woman, she finds comfort in it. she also gets cold easily.

#red dead redemption two #red dead #red dead 2 #red dead redemption fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption #rdr2 #rdr2 x reader #molly o'shea #molly o'shea x female reader #molly o'shea x reader #molly oshea #molly o’shea #molly rdr2 #rdr2 molly

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spidervee · 2 years

Note

hi helloo so happy your requests are open! can you do tangerine comforting reader when she’s upset? thank you queen v!

hello! thank you, sweets! here is some tangerine trying to be sweet and comforting. I hope you enjoy the direction I chose for this one 🌻🍊 18+ only; fem!reader, so much cursing and general irreverence; mentioned death of an animal, but it’s not meant to be angsty??

You’re weeping—damn near inconsolable, and Tangerine has no idea what to do. He’s already broken something; the lowball glass he’d been sipping whiskey from when you returned to the flat had shattered between his fingers when he first saw your tears, amber liquid spilling out onto the expensive rug though he couldn’t give half a fuck.

And then you’d gone and sunk to the floor, your back pressed up against the wall and now he’s hovering over you, hands moving quickly as they assess for damage, mouth automatically asking where Lemon is, though he knows Lemon is visiting his “friend” in Dublin for the next two weeks.

There’s no blood, yours or otherwise, on your person, and though your hands are trembling and your cheeks are streaked with hot tears, Tangerine knows there’s nothing physically wrong with you—which makes this so much fucking worse because he’s good at tossing a wet wipe on a cut or wrapping a half-arsed bandage on broken skin. But he’s much less adept (read: not at fucking all) at healing things on the inside. Christ, he can barely manage all three of his feelings (irritability, rage, and—somehow, thanks to you—love), let alone other people’s. This is much more Lemon’s bloody deal. Fuckin’ tosser had to be in Ireland, of all places, getting his end away and—Jesus. Fuck—a particularly loud sob makes him jump, makes him contemplate the logistics of buying two plane tickets to Dublin so Lemon can fix this.

“I k-killed him,” you wail, drawing your knees up into your chest, “I killed him T-tan…I didn’t m-mean to…” There’s a little bit of snot running from your nose and Tangerine is torn between wanting to fetch you a tissue and not wanting to take his eyes off of you for a moment. You look so bloody pathetic there, it makes his heart fuckin’ ache—something he thought it had lost the ability to do years ago.

Still, if this was a job gone tits up, maybe he wouldn’t need to buy plane tickets—a blessing because chances are on such short notice there’d only be economy seats left and, as much as he secretly adores you and wants nothing more than to whisper there fucking there and have you stop crying, the thought of a flight squished between two random twats is somehow worse than your tears.

“Killed who, love?” Tangerine tries to maintain a gentle tone. He’s not annoyed, not at all, not with you at least, but his voice, he knows, is always a bit on the wrong side of gruff.

A fresh wave of tears, followed by a small sniffle, has Tangerine coming down to the floor beside you and Christ if this isn’t proof he loves you, then what the fuck is?

“The sq—it was so small, Tan. And it just came out of nowhere and into the road.” Your voice tapers off into a horrified whisper and your bottom lip starts to tremble. Tangerine blinks, suddenly starting to understand.

“A squirrel? You ran over a bloody squirrel?” He can’t help but to sound relieved and you scowl at him, a little wounded. “Love,” he continues, cupping your face in his hands. The metal of his rings is cool against your heated skin and he smells like whiskey where it had run over his fingers. “You’re a goddamn assassin for hire and you’re crying over a fuckin’ squirrel?”

He sounds so perturbed that your tears start to turn to giggles and you hiccup. “He was innocent, Tan!”

“Yeah,” he agrees, “But so was that poor bloke who got in your way in Budapest last week.”

A wince—Tangerine knows he’s got you. Maybe he’s not quite as bad at this as he thought. He can’t tell Lemon though—that muppet will somehow make it seem like he’s the one who taught Tangerine how to be good with people (read: he did, but no one other than the voice in Tangerine’s head needs to acknowledge that).

“That was…it was different,” you mumble, suddenly shy. You move to curl into yourself, but Tangerine is there instead, allowing you to curl into his chest and clutch the place where his shirt is unbuttoned slightly more than necessary.

He makes a noise in his throat, somewhere between agreement and amusement. “How’s it different, love?”

You pause for a moment, burying your face further into his chest, enjoying his smell and trying not to admit how much it calms you. “‘S’cause people fucking suck and squirrels don’t.”

Tangerine laughs and kisses the top of your head. “There’s my girl.”

#tangerine x reader #tangerine x you #tangerine bullet train #tangerine imagine #bullet train tangerine #tangerine x fem!reader #tangerine x reader fluff #tangerine x reader angst

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cellophaine · 11 months

Text

Dark Paradise

Pairing: Michael Kinsella x F!Reader

Word Count: 1841

Warnings: Hurt and comfort. Fluff.

Author's Note: Guess who did not work on her WIPs and started a new one? This idea struck me when I was scrolling through Twitter and I came across a photo of Charlie with his big bulky arms and my head went hmm no thought just feel. Then it took shape in my head, and now it's here! I do have more of this to make it into a small series if there is a demand for more!

P/S: This is my first time writing for Michael so it's still a foreign land for me, any characteristic is my personal interpretation of him. This takes place in season 1.

GIF Credit: @pajamasecrets

The night had pulled its inky shade over the sky, dying the clouds and its backdrop a dull shade of gray. The wind sunk its biting claws into the exposed skin on your neck and hands, which meant if you didn't press harder on the pedal, you might catch the brunt of the rain. You squared your shoulders and revved the clutch, letting the engine roar louder and carry you further away from the city.

Your eyes were on the road, but your mind was elsewhere, working to stave off the emotions from resurfacing. You could feel yourself gradually shutting off from the arduous day, putting distance to everything that happened. It numbed the pain somehow despite the taste of copper still lingering in your mouth. It was your defence mechanism, and with where you were heading to, and who you were seeing within the next minutes, you would need it.

The first few droplets of rain fell and clung to you by the time you made it to the familiar neighbourhood. The street was empty, void of sound and people, making for a surreal experience as you were so used to the noise of Dublin. It was the exact reason why you and him chose this area. Close enough to others, yet secluded enough to preserve privacy and raise no suspicion. Both of you could come and go as you pleased.

Your motorcycle pulled up at the house, and you took a moment to observe its exterior as the rain fell, dying the bricks a darker shade. The curtains were closed, but the light at the door was on.

You shut off the engine and hopped off, opening the latch of the low iron gate before guiding your motorcycle into the small front yard. You placed the helmet on top of the seat and closed the gate. Before you could place your hand on the knob of the dark green door, it flew open, revealing the man behind it. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him.

He looked worse than when you saw him last, which was a week ago. His hair was tousled as if he had run his hand through it so many times. His stubble had grown slightly thicker. A spark of relief flashed in his sunken eyes when they settled on you. They roamed and explored and you knew he was looking for any sign of injury. You felt the same ease. He looked tired if not injured, and you would rather take the first than the latter any day. For a long moment, you said nothing to each other, taking in the sight of the other person, silently assessing.

"Are you hurt?"

You finally found your voice, small with an edge of shakiness. Relief washed over you as Michael shook his head. He asked.

"Are you?"

You mirrored him. It was a harmless lie, one you could handle and one he didn't have to know. His features softened. He stepped back, allowing you to come in and closing the door behind you.

The house was lit in dim lights, and even though it looked cold and lacked almost everything personal, it had provided you with such great consolation for the past few months. Maybe a part of the appeal was Michael being there with you for most of your time here. You draped your jacket over the chair and turned around to meet his eyes.

"Do you want anything to drink?"

You shook your head at his offer.

"I’m fine."

You walked to the couch and sat down, pointedly leaving a space beside you so he could join you. He accepted your wordless invitation; the couch slightly dipped, bringing you closer to him. Your shoes were off, and Michael's house slippers were off too as you made yourself comfortable. One arm hung on the couch's back, the other on his lap, his body opened itself to you and drew you in for comfort. But you ignored it, wanting to distract yourself with something else. Something stronger than a soft cuddle, and louder than a comforting hug. You needed to feel a different type of heat, one that didn't originate from anger and bloodlust.

You crawled to him, settling yourself between his thighs. Michael stayed quiet, patiently waiting for your next move when you moved into his space, and took his face in your hand. You caressed the stubble, feeling its roughness and his soft exhale on your lips when you erased the distance and kissed him.

It was soft and teasing at first, then it grew harder, and greedier as you gave into your greed of him. One week without him was one week too long, and even though you knew it was a bad idea to get so attached, you couldn't help it. It was never your intention to get so hooked on his touch, his voice, and everything about him, but perhaps it was your selfish want that decided that for you. Your primal instinct, your desire that said you deserved something of your own, even when it was something unnamed, undecided by both of you. Perhaps it was just a fleeting infatuation since it couldn't possibly be love, because if it was, it would be detrimental for both of you. You knew better not to start the fire, not to give into temptation, yet you couldn't help but dive head-first into this unknown territory. That all it was, you told yourself, a guilty pleasure you allowed yourself in your situation in which what you wanted was forbidden.

Your kiss grew needy, and you pulled away for some much-needed air. You made your way down his throat, nipping and kissing at his skin, pleased to hear the soft moans reverberating in his throat. Michael's hands grabbed at you, at your clothes, and found their way under your shirt. You were so deep in the taste of his skin on your tongue that you didn’t pay attention when his hand grazed the bandage on your side. Upon the discovery, Michael pressed his fingers to it, and you gasped out of surprise more than pain. He immediately pulled away and looked at you inquisitively.

"You’re hurt."

"No, I’m not. Please–"

Another press of his finger and you hissed. Michael sat up straighter, pulling at your arms that were wrapped around your torso out of reflex to shield yourself.

"Let me see."

"No."

"Let me help you–"

"I don’t need your help."

You jerked yourself out of his reaching hands and darted to the other side of the couch. The distance wasn't much, but it made you feel protected somehow. You kept your face turned away, embarrassed that he found out the very thing you were trying to hide. Your hand found your side, touching the gauze and sighed in relief to find the gauze dry. For a little while, the air between you was tense with silence.

You could feel the frustration warm in your blood. You just wanted to forget about today, but Michael was a reminder of why what happened to you happened. It could be worse if it wasn't for his warning. You could bleed to death in a parking garage right now.

The couch dipped and moved again before you felt Michael's arms wrapping around you. He pulled you toward him like you weighed nothing, and settled you between his thighs once more. Your body was still tense, rigid to his handling. His hand wove into your hair, grasping just enough and pulling gently so you fell into him. You melted completely into him as he found the sensitive spot behind your ears and kissed it. He kissed your temple next, like an unspoken apology. You let him hold you, let his finger draw a soothing pattern on the skin of your arm, let your breathings join as one, let the weight of your day slip away from your shoulders.

"Was it Eric?"

His voice was small, timid as if he didn't want to confirm it himself. You shook your head.

"Eric could never get this close to me. Try again."

A soft chuckle and a brief pause later.

"Jimmy?"

You shook your head again. Michael was unsure now, you could tell by the way his pattern on your skin was disturbed.

"Amanda?"

You nodded.

"I know. Surprised me too."

You fell silent again. The memory of everything that went down this afternoon became fresh cut again, and it stung as reality set in. Michael spoke; his words sobered you up quickly.

"You know, my offer still stands. If you come with me, my family will know that you’re with me. They won’t touch a hair on your head. I’ll see to it myself. I’ll protect you."

You sighed heavily. Michael hadn't given up on the idea that was so fantastical that it would never come true. After all, this was real life, not a fairytale.

"And who will protect you from Eamon, Michael? He is nothing if not a vicious man who would stop at nothing just to prove a point."

At his silence, you advanced.

"He would destroy your family to get back at you for meddling with his bastard daughter."

The paradoxical nature of your relationship was a secret only the two of you knew. Beyond rivals, you were supposed to be enemies. But amidst the vendettas and vengeance between your families, you found solace in each other. In a time like this, when your families were at war with one another, if the knowledge of your clandestine bond got out, it would be a death sentence for both of you. Yet, you were willing to put your heads in the noose, waiting and holding your breaths for the moment the floor underneath your feet would give out. You were doomed from the start.

You turned in his hold to face him. You touched his chin, urging him to look at you. His expression was guarded, and his eyes were full of the sadness he tried to keep at bay. But you saw it. You saw through him as you went through similar emotions yourself. His suffering and yours were one and the same.

"Can we … not talk about it tonight? I just … want to be here, with you."

It took him a moment, but eventually, Michael nodded, and you thanked him with a soft kiss. You returned to the old position, his hold on you tighter now as you unconsciously shifted closer to him, craving the close contact. Under this roof, within these walls, neither of you was your family. You were simply two people who shared the same thoughts you wouldn't dare to name, feelings you wouldn't dare to acknowledge, because to do that was to accept that you cared about each other more than you should, that you should have never been involved in the first place. In this house, you bore no names and obligations. You could just be yourselves.

You were on borrowed time, and you knew it.

*Likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated!* Follow my side blog to receive notifications whenever I post! @cellophaine-archives

#michael kinsella #michael kinsella x reader #michael kinsella x you #michael kinsella x f!reader #michael kinsella x y/n #kin amc #amc kin

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queenshelby · 1 year

Text

The Fourth Season (Part 12)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Age Gap (20 Years), Fluff, Angst, Sexual Tension

Words: 4,876

PLEASE COMMENT AND ENGAGE! PRETTY PLEASE...

The next week in summary…

Being your first week apart from each other since commencing filming of Season Four, it felt strange to be on your own, day in and day out. Even your bed felt empty now especially since, right before your departure, you had secretly shared most nights with Cillian in his apartment.

Of course, Emma and your family were with you now but this was not the same nor was it enough for you as, for some reason, you missed Cillian’s company terribly and it was almost like you had suddenly become dependent upon him.

You were usually quite happy to be on your own and did not need a man to look after you. Even with James, throughout the years, you did not feel like this. You never really missed him, but with Cillian it was different. You missed his jokes, your conversations, listening to his voice, his scent, his kisses and his touch.

His touch though was certainly the one thing you missed the most. You loved being intimate with him and you were certainly ready to take your relationship to the next level.

Your POV

Your first day in Cork was also the day of your grandmother’s funeral and, not surprisingly, you were saddened and felt miserable that day.

Cillian had contacted you a few times throughout the day, seeing how you were feeling and telling you, during his breaks, that he was thinking about you.

He told you that he wished that he could be there for you, comfort you and, when you texted him back, telling him that you missed him, he told you that he missed you too. According to him, nothing felt the same without you and he could not wait to see you again in Dublin in seven days’ time.

Your parents, unfortunately, quickly caught wind of the text messages going back and forwards between you and the fact that notifications came up on your phone as “Cillian Murphy” made your father rather angry.

“Why does this man keep texting you?” he asked around midday just after you had arrived at the dining hall of the congregation. The funeral took place that same morning and it was now time to mourn and eat, which you always thought was some kind of awkward combination. Food and tears, sadness and appetite, and you were not even hungry.

“What are you talking about?” you asked your father while your brother and Emma were listening in. Of course, only Emma knew about your secret relationship with Cillian, but your brother certainly became suspicious now that Cillian had been texting you all day.

“I have seen at least six text message pop up on your phone. They were all from him. You are on holidays and he knows that, right? He should not keep bothering you with work” your father then exclaimed furiously, almost causing Emma to break out in laughter. If your father knew what she knew, he would probably explode right there in front of you.

“He is just being nice dad. He knows about granny’s passing and is sending his condolences” you told him, not yet knowing that your father knew Cillian from school. The way he reacted though made you wonder why he cared so much about the contact you kept with a fellow cast member and whether he knew something more than he let on.

“Well, you should put your phone away now Y/N. Be respectful” your father then lectured you and you rolled your eyes but complied with his request nonetheless.

You sent one final message to Cillian, telling him that you would be in touch later that night and wishing him a pleasant and easy day on set.

“Will do. I will call you tonight. Love you x” was what he then sent back and, just as you opened this final text message from him, your brother looked over your shoulder. He was intrigued but not really surprised.

“Fuck, Cillian Murphy loves you, eh?” he said almost immediately before breaking out in a childish giggle.

“Oh my god, please! Stop spying on me” you told him with blushing red cheeks.

“Dad will kill you if he finds out that you are seeing him. He is like twice your age” your brother then said without thinking to mention the fact that your father had a connection to Cillian. He simply assumed that you knew and were thus simply being rebellious and cheeky. Perhaps it was the forbidden that turned you on or perhaps it was just bad luck.

“You won’t tell him though, will you?” you asked nervously nonetheless and your brother shook his head.

“God no. You don’t tell him my secrets, so why would I tell him yours?” your brother then said before making you follow him to the buffet which is where, much to your surprise, you saw four familiar faces.

James, his sister (who had tried to hit on Cillian when visiting the set) and their parents were there as well and, despite your dislike for James’ parents, they greeted you with open arms.

They offered their condolences and congratulated you on your role in Peaky Blinders. According to them, you were doing well and this, for some reason, they did not expect. They had always expected you to marry their son and have children soon, thereby giving into their demands but none of this was ever on your agenda. You were too young to have children and wanted to focus on something you loved.

“Of course she is doing well. She is fucking talented” Emma then blurted out, causing them both to furrow their eyebrows and your brother to laugh.

“I am sure she is. Anthony Barnes seems to be rather impressed by her performance” James’s father then said before asking you whether you knew that, for Season Four, his company was a major financial sponsor.

Between the BBC, Caryn Mandabach’s company and Netflix, the show did not receive enough funding following an increase in spendings during Season Three, hence the reason his company invested $3,000,000 towards the production, in turn of which James was given a role in Season Four and the family business was given the merchandising rights.

“I am aware” you said before having been advised that, the fact that you were casted, was pure luck which, of course, was a comment that bothered you.

“Luck you say?” you asked before your brother interrupted.

“I think my sister was casted on merit. She auditioned and got the role fair and square” your brother argued before, finally, your father stepped in and ended this conversation.

“I think we can agree to disagree. This is a funeral and we should be respectful to one another, yes?” he said before asking James’s father how he was. Your father had always pandered to James’s parents and the way your brother spoke to them so truthfully did not sit well with him.

In the end though, the conversation came to a natural end following your father’s interruption and you felt as though you needed some fresh air after all this awkwardness inside.

“Would you excuse me please” you thus told the group who was now talking about religious believes and even Emma knew to give you some space rather than to safe herself from this nonsense.

James, on the other hand, did not and followed you outside.

***

“James, please, I just need a moment to myself” you said as soon as you saw him behind you but he pulled you aside and smiled.

“I just wanted to tell you that I am really sorry Y/N” he told you while handing you his handkerchief.

“Please, I don’t want to talk about us today. If this is…” you began to say while wiping away your tears.

“No. Shit. This is not about us” James interrupted you. “I am sorry about your grandmother’s passing. I know how close you were to her and, if you need anything, even if it is just a shoulder to cry on, I will be here for you” James then offered before giving you a very gentle and tentative hug, which was a gesture you appreciated and did not think anything about.

“Thank you James. That’s good to know” you told him before smiling through your tears.

“You are most welcome Y/N” he then told you before, all so suddenly, pulling you in for a kiss.

Your lips touched for a split second and it took you at least three times as long to comprehend what was happening.

“Oh my god James. What the fuck” you spat after quickly pushing him away and wiping off his saliva.

“I thought that…” James began to say ignorantly before you interrupted him.

“You thought that you could kiss me? Right fucking now while I am grieving?” you asked, shaking your head, before telling him how appalled you were by him using your vulnerability like this.

“I still love you Y/N” he told you in response while trying to reach for your hands and you chuckled.

“We are done. I told you that many times” you reminded him and this was when he asked you whether you were seeing someone else which, of course, was an answer you should have declined to answer. But, you could not. You just wanted him to back off and leave you alone.

“Yes James. I am seeing someone else” you thus told him sternly.

“Who is he?” he asked almost angrily but you simply chuckled again and shook your head in disbelieve.

“That is none of your business” you told him before, finally, storming off and walking back inside.

Cillian’s POV

On the same day, which was also Cillian’s second last day on set before his scheduled return to Dublin for a one-week break with his kids, Cillian too had to deal with some unwanted and unsolicited attention from his assistant Lorraine who, clearly, had taken a liking in him ever since starting her role.

Unlike some other women on set, she was becoming rather difficult for Cillian to deal with and it was at around 3 o’clock in the afternoon that she took her liking for him to the next level.

As so often, she walked in on him as he was getting changed in his trailer and startled him.

“Please knock” Cillian reminded her before pulling a t-shirt over his head and Lorraine nodded reluctantly.

“I am sorry Cillian. I forgot” she told him before handing him a cup of coffee, which she had just fetched from the cafeteria.

“Thanks” Cillian said politely as he took the cup from her hands and, just as he did, she smiled.

“You are welcome. I thought you might need a pick-me-up” she said before, somewhat seductively, biting her lower lip.

“Right, yes” he chuckled, although, to him, these kinds of advances were becoming rather annoying and bothersome. Cillian knew that he needed to address it, but did not feel the need to have an argument about it.

“Lorraine, can we talk for a minute please” he said nonetheless, knowing that it would be for the better while, unbeknownst to him, Lorraine expected the conversation to go somewhere else entirely.

With that , she nodded and stepped closer towards Cillian who, by this point, was somewhat confused.

“I have the feeling that you like me a little more than you should, and…” Cillian began to say while backing away from her until his back hit the corner of the kitchenette bench.

“I do and I hope that you like me too” Lorraine interrupted before, all so suddenly, using the same move James had used on you just hours earlier.

She leaned in and kissed him for a split second before Cillian pushed her away gently.

“Lorraine, I don’t feel that way about you and perhaps we need to consider getting you to work for someone else as this has become rather uncomfortable for me” Cillian then told her honestly which, in the end, caused her to leave the trailer shortly thereafter.

YOUR POV

It was later that day, when you were at home and were slightly tipsy following a little too much to drink at the wake. Cillian had just finished on set and you called him from your room after he had texted you, letting you know that he was available to talk. Emma was in the living room, giving you some privacy and your parents were busy preparing dinner.

“You won’t believe what happened today” was the first thing you mentioned to him before telling Cillian about the incident with James which, for some reason, distracted you from the fact that your grandmother had passed on. It was not a pleasant distraction but it was better than nothing and Cillian knew not to drill you with questions about the burial and the wake, which too was a fact you appreciated.

Thus, instead of talking about your grandmother’s passing, you spoke about James and, eventually, Cillian even told you about Lorraine.

“I actually had a very similar incident on set today” Cillian joked after you made fun of James and you knew that it must have been Lorraine who made an advance towards him.

It was an assumption you then voiced and which Cillian confirmed. It was a matter of time and, when Cillian informed you that she would be assigned to someone else after he got back from Dublin, you felt some relief.

“Oh god, I hope it isn’t me. I don’t want to work with her now that I know that she kissed you” you laughed, causing Cillian to chuckle before telling you that it would be funny if she was assigned to James instead as, in his mind, their attitudes were quite similar.

“Is she a good kisser at least?” you then teased Cillian after discussing the incident for a while, but he simply laughed it off.

“The kiss didn’t take long enough for me to find out but I doubt that she could compete with you babe” Cillian told you jokingly, following which you whispered something naughty in to the phone.

“Probably not. You said that I have an unusually skilled tongue and, surely, not everyone can have this kind of skill, right?” you teased just before you heard a knock on the door of your room.

“Dinner” your father informed you and, with that, you told Cillian that you had to go.

***

Over the next few days, you spent some more time with family and friends. You went to the movies twice, took some time going out with Emma and engaged in some retail therapy.

Shopping was not really your thing but Emma loved it and dragged you along.

You had shared a room with her for several days now and she knew that things were getting more serious between you and Cillian. You spoke to him every night and, every night, she needed to make an excuse to leave your room so that you would have some privacy.

“We have to get you some sexy lingerie before the weekend I think” she kept on reminding you and, in the end, you went to a large department store with her and bought exactly that.

Black lace lingerie was what you picked out and you were certain that Cillian would appreciate it. But, unfortunately for you, your parents did not.

As usual, your father was snooping around in your room when, on the day before you were due to leave Cork, he saw the lingerie hanging up over your armchair, which is where you had left it to dry.

“What is this? Is that yours?” your father asked as soon as you walked through the door but you quickly shook your head.

“No, it’s Emma’s. She left it here” you lied and, since you were good at your job, he bought it. Emma had already left two days ago and your father thought that you were catching up with her again soon.

“Why is it wet?” he wanted to know nonetheless and you laughed.

“Because I washed it for her. I assumed that it had been worn and I did not want to stuff her dirty underwear into my suitcase” you explained and your father responded with a quick “I see” before making an observation of his own.

“You know, this kind of underwear is terribly inappropriate and she should be ashamed for wearing it” he said and you had to supress a giggle.

“Uhm, dad, it’s just underwear” you argued but he did not see it this way.

“It sexualises women and sexualisation of a gender in today’s society is not good” he told you and, again, you chuckled quietly.

“Yeah, well, you can tell her that. But, trust me, I doubt that she will listen. Also, I doubt that she would show it off in public. Maybe it just makes her feel good about herself” you responded before your father asked you some questions about your impending stay in Dublin. You had told your parents that you were staying there for two nights to watch a theatre play with some friends and visit a brand-new art exhibition.

“So what time are you heading off tomorrow?” he wanted to know and you told him that your train was leaving Cork at noon.

“And who are you staying with again? I am just a little worried and, in case anything happens, I need to know who to contact” your father then explained, but you laughed it off.

“You worry too much” you told him before answering his question nonetheless. “I am staying with Emma at her cousin’s house” you said and he nodded with approval.

“Okay Sweetheart. Be good, alright?” he then told you and you chuckled once more. He always told you to be good and the fact that he spoke to you as if you were a child amused you.

“Yes dad. Now go to bed. You start work at 4 o’clock tomorrow” you lectured him in response, in turn of which he gave you a quick hug.

“Goodnight baby. Your mother will drive you to the train station at 11, but please text me when you get to Dublin safely, okay?” he asked before saying his goodbyes.

“Okay dad, goodnight” you said before pulling away from his embrace.

It was only 9 o’clock and, after your father had gone to bed, you decided to settle down on your bed with a novel in your hand until, eventually, you reached for your phone and texted Cillian.

***

Knowing that his children would have been in bed by now, you expected a response from him rather quickly and it was not really surprising to you when he tried to call you right away.

He hated texting but, when staying in a room right next to your parents, you much preferred it that way. You couldn’t talk freely to him without whispering quietly and, even when you where whispering, you worried that your father was listening in.

‘Can’t talk. Dad is in the room next to mine and the walls are thin’ you thus texted Cillian after declining his call and his response to your message was rather sweet.

‘That’s a shame, because I was looking forward to hearing your voice’ he said before texting you again, asking you what you were up to.

‘I am about to have a bath I think’ you told him before realising that this may spur him on and, when you did not hear from Cillian again for at least five minutes, you decided to make a point of it.

After all, you could not wait to see him again and the fact that he was looking forward to being with you after a week of being apart turned you on.

‘Do you want me to send you a picture of myself in the bathtub?’ you thus asked and, unsurprisingly, his response to this question was quick.

‘How could I possibly say no to an offer like this?’ he asked and you sent him an emoji in response, knowing very well that he hated to use them himself.

‘Okay, stay tuned…’ you then finally texted before running yourself a bath.

***

Running the bath took you about ten minutes and, after the tub was half full, you climbed in while placing your phone on the corner of it.

You took in and appreciated the warmth of the water for a while before picking up your phone again and texting Cillian.

‘I wish you could be here with me. I miss you’ you said before taking a quick selfie which showed your face and your wet breasts, but nothing else.

You then applied some wash to your skin and worked your hands up and down your body which is just when Cillian responded to your text.

‘You are beautiful. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow’ he simply said but you needed more from him so you rubbed the suds into your breasts and, by this point, your nipples had become visibly sensitive and erect. Your soapy hands roamed every inch as you gave yourself the most sensual of washes before taking yet another picture of yourself, this time of your breasts alone.

‘I am looking forward to you touching these tomorrow. Would you like that?’ you asked before running your hand down your inner thighs before finally arriving at your lips and rubbing your clit up and down.

‘Of course, I would like that. I want to touch you everywhere, but you already know that’ Cillian responded and, again, you took a picture, this time of your wet mound as, slowly, you stoked your clit with the other hand. Your finger was sliding up and down the slit of your lips as your pussy grew wetter and wetter while you saw Cillian, in the back of your mind, wondering what he was doing right now. Was he masturbating too? Does he ever? Probably yes...

‘Do you want to touch me here?’ you then texted, attaching the latest picture you took for your boyfriend and, just seconds after you hit sent, he sent you a message containing just one word.

‘Fuck’ it said before you received another. ‘You are not being fair right now’ he then told you and you knew that you had to ask.

‘Are you hard?’ you wanted to know as your excitement grew.

‘Yes. I am now. Thanks to you’ Cillian responded quickly and this was not yet enough.

‘Good, then masturbate, and send me a picture’ you told him and he was surprised by how eager you were. You never texted him things like this but he sure was not going to complain.

‘Really? You want me to send you a picture of myself while I masturbate?’ he ought to clarify nonetheless and, after you sent him an eager but firm ‘yes’, he complied with your request.

Within seconds Cillian sent you a picture of himself, laying on his bed, completely naked, holding his hard length in one of his hands while taking the photo with the other.

‘Fuck that’s hot Cillian. I am just thinking about you stroking your cock now’ you simply sent back as you imagined Cillian masturbating to those pictures you have sent and, with those thoughts running through your head and while imagining Cillian stroking his hard cock, you slid a finger into your pussy whilst still slowly working at your clit.

‘Make yourself cum babe’ Cillian texted back while you tried to do exactly that. You imagined him, stroking himself and cumming over his hand, moaning and groaning. Filthy thoughts were overwhelming your senses and then, after getting faster and faster, an orgasm finally rippled through your body and you let out a stifled moan. You knew that you rushed it, but you also knew that you had to as, usually, after about ten minutes, someone would want to use the bathroom. There was only one in the house and it had to be shared by four adults.

“Damn” you thus gasped and, after finishing up in the bath, you soon found yourself standing in front of the mirror, staring at your phone. You were desperate for more than your own fingers inside you but you were full of hesitation. Should you text him and tell him what you had accomplished? Should you text him and tell him what you wanted him to do now?

***

“I did cum, thinking about you doing the same. I am aching for you so badly. All I could think of was you, stroking your cock” you texted him in the end and, as soon as you hit sent, you were overcome with regret as, again, there was no response until, minutes later, you received another text.

‘I am aching for you too and I can’t wait to taste you again and make you cum myself, using my tongue’ was what it said and this turned you on all over again.

"And I can’t wait to put your cock into my mouth and swallow all your cum” you told him while taking yet another picture of your pussy for him, which was evidently rather wet.

“You are so wet babe. Tell me everything you have been thinking about. Surely, it wasn’t just a thought about me stroking my cock” Cillian responded and this gave you a real boost. You knew that you had peaked Cillian's interest.

“I have been thinking about you doing a lot of naughty things to me” you replied almost shyly though but Cillian did not let it go now.

“Be specific” Cillian demanded and you figured that you might as well tell him the truth of what you have been fantasising about for the past six days or so. Of course, imagining him masturbating was one thing but there were things that you wanted him to do to you. These were the things that had been on your mind ever since you left Liverpool and most of these things were things you have not done before.

“I have been thinking about what you would feel like inside of me” you then told him and it took Cillian a while to respond.

“Now this is a picture I cannot get out of my head” Cillian told you reluctantly and you decided to take this further.

“I can just imagine how much your cock would be stretching my pussy” you said and this was almost too much for Cillian. He was lost for words until, suddenly, he received yet another text message from you.

“I want to sleep with you when I come to stay with you tomorrow. I want to feel you, all the way, inside of me” you then said and Cillian was somewhat surprised by your request.

“If this is what you want then I am more than happy to oblige, but there is no rush babe” he reassured you while still being turned on by the sheer prospect of it.

“I know, but it is what I want” you texted back before making another request. “Now send me some more photos of yourself. I want to see how hard you are…” you demanded and, within a few minutes, you received three of them.

“Sexy” you told him before, finally, taking up the courage to give him some more orders. “Now stroke yourself while imagining your cock pushing into my pussy and, when you are done, send me a picture of when you came. I want to see your cum, covering your stomach and cock” you told him and, ten minutes later this is exactly what you received. It must have been the hottest thing you had ever seen and you knew that this picture alone would get you off all over again.

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doueverwonder · 6 months

Text

The Visit

Y'all guess who's back to writing (finally); everyone say thank you to @hetagrammy for talking to me about IreNor which made me want to write again and for beta reading; she is a person of many talents.

Welcome back to world building the fics, couple of notes + human names;

Because I can I hc Faroe and Iceland as Norway & Ireland's kids; Alisdair has right to be worried he's not just an asshole.

Alisdair = Scotland Molly (or Máire) = Ireland Sigurd = Norway Ida = Faroe Islands

TW: for references to domestic/sexual abuse (character accusing another of it, nothing is actually happening)

ao3 link here

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been too long since Alisdair had seen his sister, a couple decades at least. He didn’t even know where she was living, what she was up to, if she were even alive. When you knew as many people as centuries of life could afford you it was easier to find someone though, he assumed she was living in an abbey still; which one he wasn’t sure but that was his first guess to start looking. That was the clue he had given: his sister Máire, she lived in an abbey, made her living writing manuscripts. Even threw in her goldsmithing hobby, and a rough description based off the last time he had seen her. As he was sure there were a thousand Máire’s who helped write manuscripts in Ireland alone.

This wasn’t what he expected, out of all the places in Ireland, Dublin, a viking settlement, was the last place he expected to find her. He had heard of the city, which seemed to be a rather large hub for the Scandinavians now. He couldn’t believe how many boats were in the harbor, they lined up endlessly. He remembered one of the last conversations he had with her, he had half begged her to stay away from the coasts; convinced himself the farther inland she was the safer she would be. As usual anything he, or Dylan, asked of her spurred her to do the absolute opposite. Considering this is where she was living maybe Arthur had asked her to stay away from the coasts as well, she would happily let herself get captured if it meant spiting Arthur.

He kept his head down, not wanting to draw attention with all of them around here. Reasonably he didn’t trust these people, he had already lost Shetland, Orkney, Caithness, and Sutherland; not to mention the Isle of Mann. Four girls and a boy, all fathered by the Norse personification and promptly left behind. It wasn’t uncommon for nations to leave their children in their own land until they were older; didn’t mean he had to like how recklessly he had them; nor did it mean he couldn’t feel bad for the bairns.

He came to the house he had been told; it took far longer than he expected, and had to go through what seemed half the clergy in the country before someone knew where she was. Only finally finding out from a priest that seemed ten years too old to be alive, but here he was. It was on the outside of the city, a small house looking like it wasn’t made to be a long term shelter, there was a small area of farmland around it. He opened the gate making sure to close it behind him so the chickens that milled about wouldn’t get out. A cat sat on top of an overturned crate, gazing over him lazily. That surprised him, Molly had never been much of a cat person preferring dogs, said they were more useful.

He dusted himself off as he stood at the door, he didn’t need Molly immediately scolding him over his appearance. He knocked heavily, she tended to daydream and not hear things too lost in whatever she was doing. He didn’t want to just walk in either lest he scare her, or he had the wrong house. The wrong Máire. He hoped not.

The door opened, he smiled expecting his sister. Expecting for her to throw herself into his arms for a hug, they had never been apart for so long he was so excited to see her. His face fell, instead of his sister stood a man, just barely taller than him, blond with blue eyes, dressed as a northmen. The Northman, Sigurd, the source of all his troubles stood in front of him. Molly must have been here, it was too much of a coincidence there is no way he was here and she was not at some point.

“Where is she”

“No hello?” it infuriated him how calm the other was, Sigurd was always infuriatingly calm, even when facing Alisdair.

“Where is my sister?” Alisdair started again, his voice firm but loud, “Where is Molly? What have you done with her, you heathen?!” he spat the word in his face.

Sigurd looked upset, but was nowhere near losing his temper as Alisdair was, “She is fine, and I do not–”

“She can not be fine if you are in her house I–” Alisdair stopped, a small voice, clearly inquisitive, asking something. He looked down, a child no older than four, maybe five clung to Sigurd’s leg. He was going to brush her presence off, Sigurd had plenty of bastards, all of which deserved to hear the truth about their father regardless of age. His gaze lingered on her just long enough for her to look up at him. He froze suddenly, the girl was blonde and blue eyed, just as her father was; but the shape of her face, the way the frizzy curls framed her face… that was Molly. Sigurd must have noted his new interest and he shooed her away. Alisdair’s trance broke as he watched her go.

“Where is my sister?” he demanded again, this time peering over Sigurd’s shoulder trying to see into the house. He wanted to see the girl again, he wanted to see her closer, that had to be his sister's child.

“I already told you” He stepped to the side to block Alisdair’s view, “She is fine, why are you looking for her?”

“I��m not allowed to see her?”

“I didn’t say that”

“Then where is-”

“Sigurd? Who’s at the door?” He froze, moments away from pushing the other man out of the doorway to get into the house. The voice was Molly's. He needed to see her, he needed to know she was okay, he needed her alone, he needed to know she wasn’t being kept with him against her will.

Sigurd stepped to the side so Alisdair could see in the house, Molly came into view and seeing her face took some of his anxiety away knowing she was okay. Knowing she seemed unhurt. The relief was short-lived, his eyes fell on the small girl he had just seen now rested on her hip, he froze seeing her swollen stomach.

Molly froze, she just stared at him for a moment, he tried to decide if that was a good thing or not. “Alisdair!” the hesitation morphed into an almost forced looking smile, there was a panic in her eyes that he knew shouldn’t be there. “I thought I heard your voice, but I didn’t want to hope too much!”

She moved as quickly as she could over to him, she handed the child to Sigurd and hugged Alisdair tightly, his eyes didn’t move from Sigurd, he put his arm around Molly not in a hug, but as if he were trying to protect her. It was impossible to not assume what he was, the stories he heard, the things he had seen, he wanted him dead. Everything played out in his head, he couldn’t touch him while he was holding her; the girl was at no fault for her fathers actions.

Molly let go of him, though she stayed close, smiling up at him. “I swear it seems you’ve gotten older since we last saw each other, you have to tell me everything, how are you? How are Arthur and Dylan?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but every thing that came to mind had to do with what was in front of him. Her smile wavered, she was always good at knowing what he was thinking, “Silly me, you’re probably exhausted, come in, come in, we can talk later” she hugged him again quickly, this time taking the chance to whisper “wait til Ida goes to bed”

He tensed once she let go, swallowing heavily, he assumed Ida was the girl. He nodded, but put his gaze back on Sigurd. He couldn’t help but take note of how heavily Molly kept her grip on him as she pulled him into the house, how she kept her distance from Sigurd, how she had whispered instead of asking aloud. Every instinct screaming to get Molly and Ida away from him. But he stayed quiet as Molly took her daughter back from Sigurd.

“Mo réaltín,” Molly held the girl up a bit to be closer to eye level with him, “meet your uncle Alisdair.”

~~~~~~~~~

The sun had set long ago, Alisdair sat watching his sister, Molly looked exhausted, her head rested on Sigurd’s shoulder, his arm around her. It infuriated Alisdair, he hadn’t gotten an answer yet, he hadn’t been given reasons to not kill Sigurd where he stood. If he threw him in the sea, it would take him longer to come back. The only punishment Alisdair could see fit for what he had done to her.

“She’s long asleep” Alisdair commented, hoping to spur the conversation. He had spent all day with the small girl going on about all the things she liked (playing tag with the children down the road, the pictures in the windows at church, when her father told her stories about the gods); her favorite foods (pickled fish among them); the names of all the chickens (though she noted she preferred the sheep). It was easier to talk to the niece he didn’t know existed, ignore how she had her fathers nose, and her smile was too much like the Danes’. Ignore how she spoke Norse, and stumbled over the bit of Irish she proudly tried to speak to him in.

Molly sat up a bit, she looked over at Alisdair, “what do we need to talk about?”

He hesitated, he knew she knew, “can we go somewhere else?”

“I’ll leave” Sigurd said instead, “I’m not making my pregnant wife go outside at this hour”

“Wife?” It pissed him off hearing him refer to her that way, he spoke as if Molly weren’t in the room “My sister wouldn’t marry a pagan, much less willingly carry his children.”

“But she did, and she is, so apparently you don’t know her that well.” Sigurd didn’t move from Molly’s side, he felt he held more power over Alisdair with her in his arms. “And I don’t like what you're implying about me”

“I’ll say whatever I want about you because I know the truth.”

“And what is the truth?”

“I know what you viking are like.” Alisdair stated it plainly, “You show up, and take what you want without asking. That’s what you did with her; you were tired of just trinkets, jealous of your men getting to take whoever they wanted.”

“Alisdair, sto-” she started but before being able to get anything beyond his name out was cut off.

“And you knew the best way to make her stay with you was to have something to hang over her head,” he threw one of his hands towards the other half of the house where Ida was asleep, before gesturing to Molly, clearly trying to accentuate her current state. “You would have a dozen children just to keep her with you”

Sigurd’s face barely changed, but Molly could feel him tense. He sat up straighter, his jaw clenched tight enough she could hear him grinding his teeth to keep himself from saying anything,

Molly knew Sigurd wouldn’t say anything, he wasn’t a pushover but he wouldn’t want to distress her or wake up Ida either. He would hold his tongue until morning. She stood suddenly, “Alisdair, outside. Now.” She turned to Sigurd, assuring him a small walk wouldn’t kill her. To spite her brother she took his fur with her, pulling the oversized garment over her shoulders as she followed Alisdair outside.

As soon as the door closed behind her she faced him fury in her eyes “What the fuck was that”

“Molly you don’t have to pretend to—“

“I’m not pretending anything!” She huffed loudly, “He is my husband, I love him, he hasn’t done anything I didn’t give him permission to.”

Alisdair was desperate to get her to admit something, anything to prove Sigurd had done something to her, that he wasn’t just being rash. “How do I know you're not saying that because he’s still right there?”

She huffed stalking off expecting him to follow her, he did right at her heels. Admittedly he was having a hard time keeping up with her, which was embarrassing to admit considering she was at least six months along already.

They were well out of hearing distance when she started talking again, repeating her earlier statement: “Sigurd is my husband, I love him, he hasn’t done anything without my permission. We didn’t plan Ida, or this baby, but I love being a mother and he’s a wonderful father.”

A silence fell over them, as they kept walking. Alisdair knew Molly had no reason to lie to him, not when he wasn’t around to hear her. But he couldn’t believe she would fall for him, he couldn’t rationalize with everything that had happened that she would be okay being with him.

“We can wait a few weeks so he doesn’t suspect, we’ll leave in the middle of the night, I’ll carry Ida so she doesn’t wake up. He won’t know we’re gone until–” he ignored everything she said. He didn’t think she was genuine, something must be wrong.

“Alisdair.” She stopped suddenly, turning to face him, “I’m in no condition to travel, and even if I was I wouldn’t go with you”

“I’ll come back for you in a few months then.”

Molly went quiet looking up at her brother, she didn’t know how to tell him what she needed to. “I’m not going to be here in a few months.”

“You’re going back to Norway with him?”

“No. Once summer comes, and once he’s able to go get the rest of his children we’re all leaving for Iceland.”

“No.” he didn’t even need to think about it, he wasn’t going that far away, he wasn’t letting her go that far from home. He wouldn’t be able to check on her, he wouldn’t be able to come get her if something happened.

She sighed, “You know that means nothing,” she turned around going back to the house, “I’m going with him, I’m sorry you don’t trust him, but you can’t throw accusations around, especially after he’s been nothing but kind to me”

“Nothing but kind?” if Alisdair wasn’t so angry he would have laughed. “You call what his people do to you, to me, kindness?”

Molly stopped, she looked at the ground sighing. She faced him, but didn’t move any closer, “Seventy years ago now there was a raid on the Abbey I was living in. For some reason or another they decided I wasn’t to die with everyone else and brought me here…”

Alisdair thought he had it, he thought he had his gotcha. That Molly was finally admitting the horrible things he had done to her.

“Sigurd paid them off and let me go back about my business, not asking anything in return. That is what I call kindness, Alisdair.” Molly sighed, “It’s been too long, because you think I’m stupid now, enough so to let a man manipulate me into things, even if he had forced Ida on me I would have found a way out for both of us. You should know that.”

Alisdair was taken aback, he hadn’t been trying to imply Molly to not know what she was doing. His assumptions had nothing to do with her, everything to do with him. He just got here, he had only seen her for a day. He thought he would show up and Molly would still be the same as the last time he had seen her, he thought she would still be his little sister and nothing more; he supposes he wasn’t always right though.

“I know I won’t be able to stop you; but I can’t stay around if you’re going with him.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.” They stopped in front of the house, “But I was hoping you would be around when the baby came.” She opened the front gate not looking at him, “you are welcome to stay for a few days, but I expect you to apologize to Sigurd if you do”

“I’ll find somewhere else then.”

Molly nodded, “I’ll get your things then, he may not want you in his house if you don’t plan on taking anything back.”

“Wait.” Molly stopped looking at him, he came here to check on her. She might be insisting she was fine, but he didn’t trust Sigurd, he couldn’t start trusting him just on Molly’s word either. He couldn’t help but feel as though he was admitting defeat, but… “If I apologize you’ll let me stay?”

“I will,” she shrugged, “But you’ll have to see what he says”

“I’ll stay, if I’m allowed.”

#hws norway #hws scotland #hws ireland #hetalia #irenor #hws faroe islands #iceland is also technically there but not rlly #apersonwhowrites #believe it or not this started as a silly idea

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