#Sobriety Shirt Recovery

[cleanaf]

[alittlegiraffe]

hi gracie

once Marshall got sober from his addiction he can’t help but realise he’s staying clean by his new addiction, that being his wife.

Title: "Need Me Like This"

He always needed you, sure.

But not like this.

Not the way he does now—like you’re oxygen, like the only thing that keeps his hands steady and his heart from clawing out of his chest. After everything he’s been through—rehab, relapse, recovery, guilt—you’re the only constant he trusts not to slip away. The only thing he can grip that won’t fall apart in his fists.

And that’s made him… different.

You weren’t expecting it, not exactly. For so many years he was numb. Physically there, emotionally distant. He loved you, always had—but addiction built walls inside him you couldn’t always break through. And you tried. God, you tried. But sometimes loving someone meant enduring the seasons when they didn’t love themselves enough to hold your hand through the storm.

Now?

Now he doesn’t let it go. Now he doesn't let you go.

You hear it in the way he says your name—low, rough, needy—as he comes home from the studio early and finds you curled on the couch in one of his hoodies.

“You been here all day?” he murmurs, throwing the front door closed with more force than needed. His boots are already being kicked off, his eyes locked on you like a man starved.

“Yeah,” you nod softly. “Worked from home today.”

Marshall crosses the room in three long strides and doesn’t stop until he’s got your face between his hands. His mouth brushes yours, desperate but gentle, like he’s making sure you’re still real.

“You didn’t answer when I texted,” he says against your lips. It’s not an accusation, more like a confession of panic. “I hate that shit.”

“I was on a call. I wasn’t ignoring you—”

“I know,” he cuts in. “I just—I can’t not know where you are. Not anymore.”

There’s a beat of silence, heavy with unsaid things. His breath fans across your skin. You see the flicker of emotion in his eyes—the kind that doesn’t always have a name but always ends in you pulling him closer.

This version of Marshall is sharper. Clearer. Intense in a way sobriety has laid bare. He sees you now—really sees you—and the years he spent fogged out haunt him. He doesn’t let anything go unsaid anymore. Doesn’t leave you wondering.

He tells you what he needs. What he wants.

And God help you, you want to give it to him.

“You know I can’t sleep if you’re not next to me,” he mutters one night when you linger downstairs too long, folding laundry like it’s urgent.

He appears in the doorway shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair a mess from pacing. The veins in his arms stand out. His voice is low, dominant—but there's a tremble under it you recognize.

Not weakness.

Need.

“You been gone long enough,” he says, beckoning with two fingers. “Come here, baby. Come upstairs.”

You swallow. “Just a few more shirts—”

“I said come here.”

That’s the part that changed.

Before, he was controlling to keep everything from spinning. Now it’s different—now it’s to stay grounded. Now it’s because he needs you tethered to him to stay okay. You’re the quiet place his chaos leans into.

So you drop the laundry and go to him, and he pulls you in, wraps you in those strong arms like he’s scared the world might steal you if he doesn’t keep you wrapped tight enough.

Later, in bed, he doesn’t let you stray an inch. His hand stays on your hip. His chest pressed against your back. He murmurs things he used to keep buried.

“You got me through it,” he breathes against your neck. “All of it. You don’t even know. I was fuckin’ drowning. And you—you just kept loving me. Even when I didn’t give you anything back.”

“You give me everything now,” you whisper.

His grip tightens, and he groans softly like it hurts to feel that kind of truth.

“I’m never lettin’ go again. You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“You’re mine, baby. You always were. But now I’m yours, too.”

You shift to face him, sliding your hand across his bare chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heart. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I want all of you. Even the parts that used to feel far away. Especially those.”

That breaks something in him. He kisses you like a promise and pins you there beneath him, murmuring how much he needs you, how you make him feel safe, how no one else will ever touch what belongs to him.

And in the haze of love and want and heat—you realize the craving goes both ways.

You ache for his possessiveness. Crave his dominance.

Not because you’re weak, but because after all the distance, after all the quiet pain of watching him destroy himself and praying for the man you loved to come back—you want to be needed like this.

You want to be his anchor. His obsession. His peace.

You already are.

And Marshall?

He’s never letting that go again.

Your back hits the mattress with a soft thump, and before the breath can even leave your lungs, he’s on you—pressing down, settling between your thighs like he belongs there.

Because he does.

“Been thinking about this all damn day,” Marshall mutters, voice thick, hot against your throat. His hands are already under your shirt, palms dragging up over your stomach, over ribs that stutter with each shallow breath. “You, walkin’ around in my fuckin’ hoodie like you don’t know what that does to me.”

You whimper as he strips it off in one fluid motion, baring you completely to him. His eyes drag over your skin, pupils blown wide. You don’t even have time to feel exposed—not with the way he’s looking at you, like he needs this just to breathe.

“Every second I’m not touchin’ you is too fuckin’ long,” he growls, dipping down to kiss your chest, your collarbone, teeth grazing the soft flesh just enough to make your back arch.

“Marshall…”

You sigh his name, barely audible, but he hears it like a plea.

“You don’t even know,” he mutters, kissing lower, slower, until his mouth lingers just above your breast. “How bad I want you. How bad I fuckin’ need you right now.”

He doesn’t wait for permission. Doesn’t need to—you already gave it to him the second you dropped that laundry and followed him upstairs. You gave it with your eyes, with your breath catching in your throat every time he said mine.

His mouth closes around your nipple, warm and wet, and the moan that slips from your lips is real, unfiltered. Your fingers dig into his shoulders. His tongue swirls slowly before his teeth drag across just enough to make you gasp.

And then he shifts, kissing down your stomach, gripping your thighs as he parts them like he’s carving out a place for himself there.

“You’ve been so good for me,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh. “You held me together when I didn’t deserve it. Took care of me when I couldn’t even look in the mirror.”

His voice thickens with emotion, but his eyes are full of heat. Focused. Hungry.

“Let me take care of you now,” he growls.

You nod, breathless, hips lifting toward him—but he grips them down hard, holding you in place.

“Ah-ah. You stay still, baby. I’m not done lookin’ yet.”

You flush under the weight of his stare, legs trembling slightly as he finally brings his mouth between your thighs—slow, intentional, worshipful. The first pass of his tongue is slow, deliberate, and your fingers tangle in his hair like they have nowhere else to go.

He doesn’t rush. He devours.

His tongue moves in firm, rhythmic strokes, like he knows your body better than you do. When your thighs start to shake and your moans come faster, he only tightens his grip, holding you there, drawing it out.

You’re close. He knows it. He wants it.

“That’s it,” he rasps against you. “Give it to me. C’mon, baby. Let go for me.”

And when you do—when you come undone beneath him, trembling and gasping his name like a prayer—he kisses his way back up your body, dragging his tongue across your skin like he can’t get enough.

“Still with me?” he whispers against your lips, cock pressed hard against your inner thigh now, hot and ready.

“Always,” you breathe, eyes glassy, body still twitching from aftershocks.

And then—then—he pushes inside you with one long, deep thrust, groaning into your mouth at the way you tighten around him.

This isn’t frantic. This isn’t rushed.

It’s claiming.

Every roll of his hips is heavy and deep, his hands everywhere—gripping, guiding, grounding. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath matching yours, syncing the way only you two ever could.

“Mine,” he whispers, over and over. “All fuckin’ mine.”

And you take it. Crave it. Give every piece of yourself over because you want to be his. You want him to need you like this forever.

His rhythm picks up, rougher now, teeth gritted as he fights to hold on.

“Say it,” he growls.

“Yours,” you gasp. “I’m yours, Marshall.”

That does it.

He groans into your mouth, hips snapping, burying himself deeper until you cry out again—your bodies clashing in heat and desperation and something deeper, something that’s always been there, waiting for this version of him to come home.

When you both finally collapse—sweaty, breathless, still tangled—he keeps you there. Wrapped in his arms. Claimed.

He buries his face in your neck, still catching his breath.

“Don’t go nowhere,” he murmurs.

“I’m not,” you whisper, curling into him.

You don’t have to say I love you. It’s there in every touch.

And in the way he clutches you tighter like letting go might break him all over again.

---

The early morning quiet is soft, golden, and still. The only sound in the house is the faint ticking of the clock over the stove and the rustle of sandwich bags as you line them up neatly across the counter. The sun hasn’t even fully broken yet—just streaks of pale blue light through the kitchen window as you move like muscle memory, spreading peanut butter, folding napkins, slicing strawberries just the way Whitney likes them.

It’s peaceful. Familiar. Routine.

You didn’t even think twice about slipping out of bed.

You’d laid there for a few long moments in the dark, your legs tangled with his, heart still warm from the way he held you through the night—his arm heavy around your waist, his breath soft against the back of your neck, like even in sleep he couldn’t let you go.

But the mom part of your brain woke first.

School morning. Kids. Lunches. You’d told him last night you’d handle it. And when Marshall’s grip loosened just enough for you to slide out, you did it carefully, like a secret. You kissed his temple before you left.

You thought you’d gotten away with it.

You didn’t expect to feel him behind you an hour later—bare-chested and sleepy, his arms suddenly sliding around your waist like a vice.

You gasp a little, then melt immediately as you feel him press his entire body against your back. He’s warm. Barefoot. Still heavy with sleep, his face burrows into your shoulder with a groan.

“You really got up without me?” he rasps, voice rough and thick with sleep. “You snuck out, for real?”

You smile, lips tugging upward as you lean back into him. “Didn’t sneak. I kissed you.”

“That don’t count,” he mutters against your neck. “I wasn’t awake to enjoy it.”

His arms tighten.

“I woke up to cold fuckin’ sheets and no wife,” he grumbles, dragging his lips along your shoulder lazily. “That’s disrespectful, babe.”

You laugh quietly, reaching back to run your fingers through his messy hair. “I was making the girls’ lunches. I figured I’d let you sleep. You were out cold.”

“‘Cause you wore me out,” he mutters, smirking against your skin. “And now you’re down here doin’ mom stuff like you didn’t just let me fuck the soul outta you seven hours ago.”

You elbow him gently, blushing. “Marshall…”

“What?” he murmurs, nuzzling closer, his tone dropping lower. “You think I forget shit like that? You think I don’t wake up hard as hell just rememberin’ how you sounded?”

You turn in his arms, heart thudding a little faster when you see the way his sleepy eyes spark the moment he really looks at you.

You’re still in his hoodie, sleeves pushed up, no makeup, hair a little messy from sleep. But he looks at you like you’re the whole damn world.

His hands slip down to grip your hips. “You don’t leave our bed without sayin’ goodbye, baby. Not anymore.”

“I didn’t think you’d wake up.”

“I always wake up when you’re gone.” His voice is soft but firm now, thumb brushing your cheek. “Doesn’t feel right without you there.”

Your heart squeezes. All those years when he barely stirred in his sleep, numb and checked out… and now he notices the second your side of the bed gets cold.

You lean in and kiss him—slow, sweet, his lips warm and lazy against yours.

“I’ll come back up after I get them on the bus,” you whisper.

He hums low, satisfied, pulling you back in for another kiss. “Damn right you will. Might not let you out again after that.”

You hear the sound of little feet upstairs, then a door creaking open, and you both pause.

Marshall groans quietly. “Aight. Fine. You win.”

He gives your ass a soft smack before stepping back, rubbing at his eyes.

“You makin’ coffee or what?” he asks, already opening a cabinet for mugs.

You smile at him over your shoulder as you go back to slicing fruit. “I was waiting for you.”

He grins, eyes sleepy but full of something deeper. Something real. Need, still there—but wrapped now in comfort. In forever.

“Good,” he says. “Don’t do this life shit without me, babe.”

You don’t plan to.

Not ever.

You barely finish sealing the last sandwich bag when the sound of footsteps thump-thump-thump down the stairs—first fast, then heavier—and suddenly the kitchen isn’t quiet anymore.

“Morning,” Hailie mumbles, still yawning as she shuffles in, hoodie too big and hair in a messy bun. Alaina follows behind her, already dressed and scrolling through her phone like she’s halfway into the day.

And then—

“Daddy! I heard you talking to Mommy!” Whitney sings as she flies in and crashes into Marshall’s legs, wrapping her arms around him with all the strength her little body can muster. “You were sayin’ mushy stuff again!”

Marshall groans through a laugh, one hand on her back as he leans down. “Mushy? Who said it was mushy?”

“You did,” Whitney grins, looking up at him with all the devilish sass of a seven-year-old who knows she’s got him wrapped. “You said you wake up hard thinkin’ about her.”

Marshall nearly chokes. Hailie snorts into her cup of coffee. Alaina looks up from her phone, wide-eyed.

“What?” Hailie blurts, choking on a laugh. “Please tell me she misheard you.”

You’re frozen, lips parted mid-lunch prep, eyes locked on Marshall like you’re on your own, babe.

He scrubs a hand down his face, shaking his head, but his ears are definitely turning pink. “Nah, nah, that’s not what I—Whit, where were you?”

“I had to go potty and I heard you,” she says, matter-of-fact like she’s recounting the weather. “And you said you don’t like cold sheets. And you love Mommy. And she wears your hoodies.”

Now you’re laughing, unable to hold it back. Marshall side-eyes you like don’t you dare, but you can’t help it.

“Busted,” Alaina grins.

“Tragic,” Hailie adds, sipping her coffee with fake sympathy.

Marshall groans. “Y’all act like it’s a crime to love my wife.”

“It is when you get caught sounding like a teenage boy about it,” Alaina fires back, smirking.

“But he looooves Mommy,” Whitney sing-songs, bouncing on her toes before launching herself into your arms next. “And I do too!”

You scoop her up and kiss her cheek, giggling. “I love you, baby.”

Marshall leans in close, lips brushing your temple as he murmurs, “This is your fault. If you weren’t so damn perfect in my hoodie—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence with the kids in the room,” you whisper, eyes wide.

He grins, wicked and unbothered. “Later, then.”

“Oh my god,” Hailie groans, covering her ears as she walks toward the fridge. “You two are disgusting.”

Alaina laughs, tossing a napkin at her dad. “Honestly though, it’s kinda cute. You didn’t used to be this clingy.”

Marshall just shrugs, wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you into his side like it’s instinct. “Yeah, well. Took me long enough to get it right. I’m not lettin’ go now.”

Whitney nods with full dramatic flair. “Daddy gets sad without Mommy. He told me once when she was at Target for a long time.”

You crack up again, nearly dropping the juice boxes.

“Man,” Marshall mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “I need a fuckin’ PR team in this house.”

“You need to stop making out with Mom before coffee,” Hailie snarks.

“You need to not eavesdrop while I’m flirtin’ with my wife,” he fires back with a smirk.

The chaos only grows from there—cereal being poured, hair being brushed, bags being packed.

But through all of it, Marshall stays close. A hand on your back. A kiss pressed to your cheek as he helps Whitney tie her shoes. And when the girls are finally out the door and the house falls quiet again, he pulls you in by the hip and whispers:

“Next time, you wake me up first.”

You smile up at him. “What if I want to let you sleep?”

He leans down, mouth brushing yours. “Then I’ll just have to sleep with my arms around you tighter. Problem solved.”

And it is.

Because for the first time in a long time… he doesn’t let anything go unsaid. And he never lets you go.

---

One second you’re standing by the sink rinsing out Whitney’s juice cup, and the next, you feel his chest pressed to your back again, heat rolling off him in waves. His arms slide around your waist like he never let go.

“Now,” he murmurs, voice low and husky against your neck, “where were we?”

You don’t get a chance to answer—his mouth finds yours before you can even turn fully, and God, it’s like he’s been waiting all morning. Like he’s been holding back just long enough not to traumatize the kids at breakfast.

You let out a soft gasp as he kisses you—slow but firm, like he’s taking his time but still making a point. His tongue teases yours, his fingers gripping your hips and then slipping lower, bolder.

“I’m not done,” he mutters when you pull back for air, eyes dark, hand sliding beneath the hem of your hoodie. “Not even close.”

You arch into him instinctively, fingers threading into his shirt, already half-lost in the moment—

Knock knock knock.

You both freeze.

Another knock. A pause. Then the faint, too-friendly voice of your next-door neighbor.

“Hey, uh—sorry to bug you guys! Think I got some of your mail again!”

Marshall’s hands go completely still on your waist. His jaw tenses.

You stifle a laugh, pressing your forehead to his chest. “Your timing,” you whisper, “is truly cursed.”

He groans and lets his head fall back, grumbling something very not family-friendly under his breath.

You go to move, but he doesn’t let you go. “No, I’ll get it. You’re not answerin’ the door like this.”

You glance down at yourself—you’re barefoot, flushed, still in his hoodie and a pair of sleep shorts that aren’t doing much to hide how turned-on you were about three seconds ago.

Fair enough.

Marshall brushes a kiss against your cheek and reluctantly steps away, muttering, “Swear to God, if it’s that guy again—”

You hear the door open and lean against the kitchen counter, pretending to be very interested in re-aligning the fruit bowl.

From the front hall, you catch bits of the exchange.

“Hey, man! Sorry to bother you—think this one’s yours,” your neighbor says, all cheery and oblivious.

“Oh,” Marshall’s voice is flat, clipped. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You can practically feel the tension. But your neighbor just keeps going.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt anything. You and your wife—man, you’ve got a beautiful one, you know that? She’s always out there in the yard with the kids, looking like she stepped out of a magazine.”

There’s a pause.

A long one.

Then Marshall’s voice, low and lethal smooth.

“Yeah, I know what I got.”

You wince and peek around the corner just in time to see Marshall take the mail with a sharp nod, eyes hard.

“Thanks for bringin’ it. We’re busy.”

And just like that, he shuts the door—maybe not slamming it, but it’s got enough force behind it to send a message.

He stalks back toward you, mail in hand, jaw tight.

“That guy,” he mutters, tossing the envelopes onto the counter, “needs to learn how to shut the fuck up.”

You blink at him, biting back a smile. “He was being nice.”

“He was—babe, he was fuckin’ drooling,” Marshall growls, coming right back into your space. “Standin’ there talkin’ about how you look in the yard? Who the fuck does that?”

You place a calming hand on his chest, but he doesn’t ease up—his hands are already on your waist again, pulling you into him.

“I’m fine,” you say softly. “I didn’t even see him.”

“He saw you.” His voice is lower now, possessive and rough. “And I don’t like that shit. Don’t like anyone talkin’ about you like you’re somethin’ they get to look at.”

You cup his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. “I’m yours.”

That does it.

His hands tighten. His mouth finds yours again, hotter now, edged with that jealous fire that never really went away—just buried under the routine of normal life.

“You better be,” he murmurs between kisses. “You’re mine, baby. Only mine.”

You let him back you up until your thighs hit the kitchen island. Let him kiss you breathless all over again while the half-washed dishes in the sink and the mail lies in a crooked pile across the counter.

Because nothing else matters when he needs you like this.

And the truth is—you crave being his.

Even more when he reminds you like this.

Marshall’s breath is ragged against your neck.

You’re still pinned between him and the kitchen island, lips kiss-swollen, heart hammering. His hands are on your hips, gripping like he can’t stand the thought of you ever being touched by anyone else—looked at by anyone else.

And he’s not pretending to be calm anymore.

You whisper his name once—just soft, gentle—but it’s all it takes.

He lifts you without warning.

Arms scooping under your thighs, back flush against his chest, the world tilts as he carries you up the stairs without a word. You cling to his shoulders, your fingers gripping the back of his t-shirt, your breath shallow with anticipation and heat.

He kicks the bedroom door open, walks straight in like a man on a mission, and sets you down gently on the bed—but only for a second.

Because then he’s crawling over you.

His hands bracket your face. His body covers yours.

And his eyes—his eyes are locked onto yours like nothing else exists. Like the kitchen, the neighbor, the teasing from the girls—it’s all background noise. You are his focus now. You are the whole world.

“I don’t like anyone talkin’ about you like you’re available,” he murmurs, voice thick and low. “Like you’re some sweet little thing they could get if they tried hard enough.”

“I’m not,” you whisper back, reaching for him. “I’m not available. I’m yours.”

But he doesn’t kiss you yet. He needs more. Needs you to feel this down to your soul.

“Say it,” he says, rougher now. “Say who you belong to.”

You bite your lip, breath catching, already trembling under him. “You.”

His hand slides up under your hoodie, splaying across your belly, your ribs, like he needs to remind himself what’s his. “Say it better.”

“I belong to you, Marshall.”

His breath shudders out of him.

“Damn right you do.”

Then he kisses you again—devours you this time. It's not just lust. It’s possession. Worship. Need. Like the part of him that spent too many years numb still doesn’t believe you’re here, real, soft and willing beneath him.

Your clothes come off in pieces—his shirt first, your shorts next, and he takes his time with each one. He kisses your skin like it’s sacred. Trails his fingers down your sides like he’s memorizing you all over again.

“You don’t walk outta our bed in the morning without wakin’ me up,” he says against your throat, every word hot and deliberate. “You don’t answer the door in my hoodie with nothin’ under it. You don’t let anybody think they got a chance.”

You’re panting now, already wrecked from the way he talks alone.

“I don’t,” you whisper. “I won’t.”

“Good,” he growls, hands sliding down to grip your thighs. “’Cause I’m done pretendin’ I’m not fuckin’ addicted to you. I need you close. I need you soft for me. Mine, you hear me?”

You nod, nails digging into his back. “I hear you.”

But that’s not enough for him.

He grabs your chin, eyes blazing. “Then say it again.”

“I’m yours.”

“Again.”

“I’m yours, Marshall. Always.”

That’s when he gives in. That’s when he really takes you—slow, deep, possessive, like he’s branding you from the inside out. His rhythm is strong and deliberate, every thrust grounding you in him, tethering you back to that place where only the two of you exist.

Your name on his lips is a prayer. His name on yours is a surrender.

And when it’s over—when you’re trembling in his arms, when he’s holding you like he can’t bear to let you go—he doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Just presses his forehead to yours and breathes you in.

“Don’t need nothin’ else,” he finally murmurs, voice cracked open. “Just you, baby.”

You kiss him softly, still aching, still glowing.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

And now? Now he believes it.

Because you didn’t just say it.

You meant it.

---

The sun had long since risen by the time your body stopped trembling beneath his.

And still, Marshall wouldn’t let you go.

Every time you tried—tried—to peel yourself out of bed, to throw a leg over the sheets and slide toward reality, he was there. Strong arms, bare chest, and that voice dragging you right back under.

“Mmh… no. Where you think you’re goin’?”

You’d laugh, breathless, “The kitchen, babe. It’s nearly ten—”

Didn’t matter. He was already rolling you back onto the mattress, mouth on your throat, his hand splayed wide over your stomach like he was keeping you right there by sheer will.

“You don’t need the kitchen,” he murmured, lips trailing lower. “You need to stay right here and remind me you’re mine.”

And just like that—he had you again.

It happened at least three times. Maybe four. You lost count somewhere between the second orgasm and the time he whispered, “Just one more,” even though you both knew it wouldn’t be.

By the time noon rolled around, the room smelled like sweat and skin and him.

The sheets were twisted, your legs draped over his thigh, your body aching in the best way. You could barely move. Not that Marshall was letting you, even now—he was on his side, propped up on one elbow, hand slowly brushing over your hipbone like he couldn’t stop touching you.

His voice came low, rough, laced with that post-high rasp. “You tryin’ to leave again, I’m gonna have to start all over.”

You huff out a tired laugh. “I need to pee, Marshall.”

He leans down and kisses your shoulder lazily, lips warm, beard scratchy. “Bathroom break approved. Then you’re comin’ right back.”

“Baby—”

“You think I’m kiddin’?” He pulls you closer again, arms caging you in, his thigh sliding between yours. “I spent too long not havin’ you like this. Years of us feelin’… off. Numb. I’m not goin’ back to that. Not when I finally got you soft like this again. Sweet for me.”

Your breath catches.

Because there’s something underneath the teasing—something raw. The man who used to disappear into himself. The man who used to feel so far away, even when he was right next to you in bed.

You press your palm to his chest. “I’m not goin’ anywhere. I promise.”

His eyes close for a beat. Then he kisses you—slower this time. Not hungry. Not possessive. Just grateful.

“Good,” he whispers against your lips. “’Cause I need you close, baby. Always. Like this.”

You hum and wrap your arms around his neck, letting him sink into you all over again.

Lunchtime comes and goes.

Neither of you makes it to the kitchen.

But somehow… you’ve never felt more full.

[bookinsomnia]

sleep in your car while you're driving by somethingdifferent

Rating: E

Summary:

Sobriety, Frank has learned, hasn’t made him any better at controlling his worst impulses.

Five times Mel finds Langdon and two times he finds her.

Series: it's an unforgiving world (but she's not an unforgiving girl) (part 2 of 2)

Artwork: Le Baiser (1868) by Carolus-Duran

Quote 1:

She was thinking about him: Dr. Langdon. Frank. His fingers inside her, breath hot on her skin. It’s not like she hadn’t considered it— stupid, idle imaginings, barely even a fleeting glimmer of a thought. Just when he stood closer to her than she expected, or he smiled at her over his morning coffee, or his hand brushed hers as he passed her in the hall. The same way you think about becoming fabulously wealthy, or intentionally crashing your car into the median on the highway, or giving everything up and deciding to live as a nun. He was smart, quick on his feet, the kind of handsome that made people stop in their tracks and gawk, that made Garcia call him ER Ken, that made one of her patients, an older woman, say to Mel, apropos of nothing, Good Lord, if I were thirty years younger. And Mel was— She knew who she was. 

Quote 2:

…he’s kissing her, or she’s kissing him, mouths open, her hands clutching his t-shirt. It’s immediate, and encompassing, and when his hands move to her hips to drag her underneath him, she lets out this breathless gasp that doesn’t even sound like herself. She feels different, new, more reckless than she should be. When he’s slipping his tongue between her teeth and pushing his knee between her thighs, it’s a little hard to remember what a bad idea this is. Because it is— Mel is aware of that, somewhere distantly. It was a bad idea when it happened at work, and it’s a bad idea now. He’s still in recovery; he’s not even actually divorced yet. But maybe, Mel thinks, she could stand to have a few bad ideas. She’s been so good at doing everything just right. She’s earned a few mistakes.

[netteisms]

you're toxic, i'm slipping under a santos x langdon fic read on ao3 rating: E word count: 3,554

Frank Langdon doesn’t know how he ended up with his cock shoved down Trinity Santos’s throat.

One minute he’s stepping into the shitty dive bar right next to the church where his NA meetings are held and the next he’s got a pissed off Santos in his face - not that he thinks she’s capable of any other emotion save fucking arrogance. It's not like he knows what he did to earn her ire. He hasn’t seen her since the day of the shooting. Robby had meant it when he'd kicked him out of the ER - Frank Langdon wasn’t welcome back until he’d gone through the motions: rehab, NA, drug test after drug test after drug test. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Santos snaps before he can ask her the same fucking thing. 

“None of your damn business,” Frank snaps, shoving her out of his way. She scoffs before stepping back into his path. “Do you fucking mind?”

“You know, for someone who’s supposed to be starting the path to recovery,” she says, voice low and flat. She shoves her hands into her pockets and rolls her neck, sucking her teeth as she glares up at him. “You’d have the good sense to not wander into a fucking bar.”

“Right because you care so much about my sobriety,” Frank says with a laugh of disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He brushes past her, shaking his head the entire way to the bar where he orders a light beer. Before the glass can touch his fingers, Santos snatches it up and drains over half before handing it back to him. She raises her eyebrows and shrugs, “I was thirsty and better in me than you, right?”

It devolves from there. 

Not that there even was a higher plane that they could ever inhabit together. Frank isn’t sure they’ll even be able to practice medicine in the same city, let alone the same hospital. She continues to steal his beers, he gets louder and louder every time he calls her out on it. It doesn’t take long before the bartender leans forward and hisses at them to get their shit together or get the fuck out. 

“Great,” Frank snaps, glaring at her. Santos just snorts, rolling her eyes, before turning away from him entirely. Frank scoffs, shaking his head. He’s had enough of this for one night. “Have a nice night, Santos. Try not to get run over by a car.”

He doesn’t wait for whatever smart aleck bullshit she’s bound to say. This isn’t the only bar in the neighborhood and Frank still hasn’t managed to have the beer he so desperately craves post meetings. He heads towards the back hallway, choosing to slip out into the back alley rather than out the front. At least this way, he’s walking away from Santos instead of towards her - a pathetic excuse for a victory but considering the state of his life, he’ll fucking take it.

He’s barely made it to the back hall when Santos grabs his arm and drags him into the bar’s tiny bathroom, “Are you fucking serious?”

“I’m not done,” Santos snaps, locking the door behind them. 

Frank scoffs, rolling his eyes at her audacity. He’s ready to snap back at, ready to keep arguing until he’s red in the face, when he grabs him by the front of his shirt and drags him forward, pressing her mouth to his in a violently closed lipped kiss. He’s quick to shove her away with both hands, “What the fuck, Santos?”

“Shut the fuck up, Langdon,” she replies with a sneer before kissing him again. Langdon’s hands stay limp on her shoulders, fingers clenching and unclenching as he tries to decide what the fuck he should do. She bites at his bottom lip, pulling on it until he grunts in pain, and lets it go with a pop. “God, you’re such a fucking pussy. I bet you’re high right now and just can’t get it up.”

“Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Frank snaps, trying to take a step back only to run into the sink. He groans as his lower back flares painfully, his teeth clenching almost as painfully as his muscles. “One day you’re ruining a man’s life and the next you're shoving your tongue down his throat?”

Santos rolls her eyes and sucks her teeth, stepping further into his personal space. For a moment he’s caught off guard by the vibrant color of her eyes but the moment quickly passes when she presses the heel of her hand into his half-hard cock. Her voice is obnoxiously lazy - uninterested when she asks, “I think ruining your life is a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you?”

This time it’s Frank that’s shoving his tongue down her throat. The groan she lets out is filthy as she grabs the back of his head, pulling on his hair until his scalp stings. He wraps a hand around the front of her throat. His thumb and forefinger fit perfectly against her jaw as he tilts her head back. Her nails catch on his happy trail as she struggles to undo the button of his jeans. He skips right over that part of the process and shoves his free hand down the front of her pants, the waistband practically cutting off the circulation to his hand. 

He loses whatever mind he has left when he feels how fucking wet she is. 

He presses two fingers into her just when her warm hand wraps around his dick. They let out matching pained groans, their teeth clacking as they each try to dominate and control the nature of their kiss. Frank bites at her bottom lip and tastes blood on his tongue. Santos pays him back with her teeth on his tongue. After that, he can’t tell which of them is actually bleeding - it's just a hot metallic tang under the staleness of the bar’s shitty beer. 

Santos yanks on his hair sharply, pulling his head back enough to look her in the eyes again before letting go of his dick and shoving her hand into his face, “Spit.”

When he complies without thought, she pats his cheek with the same hand with a muttered, “Good boy.”

“You’re fucking disgusting,” he hisses, jerking his face away from her wet palm. 

She laughs, mean and low, before spitting on top of what’s left of his own and reaching down to grab his dick again. Frank clenches his jaw, his eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment as she starts to move her hand up and down, her grip just a tad too tight to actually be comfortable. 

He’s never been so hard in his life.

“What’s that?” Santos asks, using the grip she has on his hair to shake his head from side to side. “Was that ‘Thank God, Doctor Santos narced on my ass before I killed a patient’? I think it was.”

The look on her face when he viciously pinches her clit and tightens the almost forgotten hold he has on her neck is almost as good as any high he’s experienced. His eyes flutter closed again as she twists her wrist, her thumb sliding over the leaking tip of his cock. His voice breaks a bit, softening the derision in his voice as he pants, “Oh, I’m sorry, were you saying something?”

Santos leans against his hand, eyes fluttering as the pressure increases, and presses her chest against his. His wrist cramps slightly at the awkward angle but it doesn’t stop him from twirling her clit between his thumb and forefinger. She drags her blunt nails against his scalp and practically yanks on his dick, “Put up or shut up, Langdon.”

“Jesus Christ,” he groans, shoving three fingers into her. She lets out an ungodly sound that he swallows whole. She’s disgustingly wet, her clit sliding against his palm as he moves his fingers in and out of her. There’s no rhythm, no smoothness, just a hungry need to carve out her insides, to make himself a home inside of her where she can’t ever get him out. 

Frank’s always heard that he’s got a possessive streak inside him. That it makes him dangerous and unreliable and a menace to anyone who gets too close. As horrifying as it is, Frank thinks Santos might just be the one who could weather the storm. 

The harder he fucks her with his fingers the louder she gets -  making these guttural, animal sounds that claw their way past the hold he has on her throat. Each one tastes sweeter than the last - cloying and addictive and enough to make his stomach churn. He might just puke. He wonders if it’ll taste like her mouth, like the spit he’s already been forced to choke down. Would he puke into her mouth? Down her throat? Fill her with his bile before filling her with his cum?

He pulls away with a gasp as his cock throbs in her limp grip. He’s still so fucking hard, leaking from the tip, his hips jerking forward on instinct as she starts to fall apart around his fingers. He forces himself to focus on her face, to catalogue each wave of pleasure crash over her face. Her mouth hangs open, her eyes squeezed shut, her cheeks red and splotchy. He can feel each breath that gets caught in her throat, her muscles spasming under his palm, her pulse rabbit-fast under his thumb as she strains against his grip to try and kiss him again. 

“I think you’re going to come, Dr. Santos,” Frank mutters. She whimpers a little with a reluctant nod that strokes his ego. He laughs a little under his breath, curling his fingers and rubbing at the warm softness inside of her. She gasps, mouth falling open as she struggles to open her eyes. Her pupils are blown wide, dark pools that he can see himself in - his disheveled hair and flushed cheeks. “I don’t know if I should let you.”

That gets her undivided attention. 

“Don’t really know if you deserve it, to be honest,” he continues even though he hasn’t stopped his fingers, hasn’t loosened his grip on her throat. Her cunt flutters around his fingers, her hips shifting as she tries to beat him to the punch. “You would try to go for it anyways, wouldn’t you? So fucking entitled, Santos.”

His voice is ragged, thick, unused. He doesn’t even recognize it - doesn’t know if he’d even recognize himself in the mirror. He’s never been like this with a woman - cruel, out of control, vindictive. But then again he’s never been with a woman like Trinity Santos. 

“Don’t you dare,” she hisses, strengthening her grip on his dick. Frank groans and tries to thrust through the dry, hot hold she has on him. It just earns him another violent squeeze. “Don’t give me a reason to maim you.”

“Think you’ve fucked up my life enough as it is,” Frank mumbles, slowing his fingers. He pulls one out, leaving only two fingers to gently push and pull in and out of her. He doubts she can even feel it with how stretched out and wet she is. Frank thinks the sound that claws its way from behind her puffy mouth could be called a growl. He slides his fingers out, pulls his hand out of her pants and sucks her juices off his shiny, wet fingers with a small pop. “Payback is a bitch and all that, right?”

“Oh fuck you,” Santos groans, rolling her eyes. She tightens her grip on his cock and shoves him back with her free hand until his lower back collides with the sink. His grip on her throat finally loosens enough that she can pull away from him, dropping to her knees in the blink of an eye. 

As insane as the night has become, Trinity Santos on her knees in front of him is an entirely new level of crazy.

Her tongue is hot as she runs it up the backside of his cock. A flat-tongued lick that gives him a full-body shiver. He reaches back to grip the sink with both hands. He stares down at her, mouth hanging open and eyebrows raised to his hairline. She winks at him before nipping at the superficial dorsal vein, sending a jolt through his entire body. His head drops back as a loud groan bursts out of his mouth. She does it again, making his knees buckle for a brief moment. 

“You’re so fucking easy,” Santos mutters with a huff before tilting her head, opening her mouth, and biting down. 

It’s not a hard bite, nothing damaging or painful, just the blunt feeling of her teeth on either side of his dick. It’s enough for him to jump, pressing at her forehead to get her to let go. She bats at his hand and rubs his tongue all over his cock, making it sloppy and wet before she swallows him down without any warning. 

“Fucking fuck!” Frank shouts, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. He tries to take a deep breath, tries to keep his hips from twitching forward, tries to maintain some sense of control and composure. It’s a losing battle when she hollows her cheeks and fucking sucks. “Goddammit!”

Santos pulls off of him with a loud pop, her lips plump and the same shade of red as her cheeks. “Shouldn’t blaspheme like that. God might just strike you down.”

“Are you serious?” Frank groans when she reaches up to cup his balls. Her grip is tight enough to make his cock twitch against her lips. Santos snorts, flicking at the tip with a finger. Frank hisses and nods along like a fool. “Yeah, okay, yeah, you’re fucking serious.”

“You’re the one with the wedding ring and crucifix in your locker,” Santos mutters with a casual shrug. Frank narrows his eyes at her, his mouth opening to snap at her about privacy and staying out of his fucking shit. “Don’t even, jackass. Not when I’ve literally got your balls in my hand.”

She gives said balls a tight squeeze that makes his stomach clench as he lets out a desperate gasp. He tilts his head back, his mouth falling open as he loses himself in the feeling of her hot mouth surrounding him. His hips jerk forward, his body running on instinct to fuck deeper. Santos gags, a wet gurgle of protest manages to squirm its way past his cock, the vibrations making him moan and thrust again. 

Santos smacks his ball sack in retaliation but the sting isn’t enough to stop him from shallowly thrusting into the back of her throat. She continues to gurgle as she inhales around his cock, sucking him further into her mouth. He feels her tonsils brush against the head of his cock for a brief moment before she’s shoving him back with both hands. He pulls free of her mouth with a pop and a loud gasp before Santos starts coughing. 

“You’re,” cough, “the fucking” cough “worst!”

“You’re the one who fucking swallowed my dick!” Frank reminds her, swallowing down the twinge of guilt that he’s made such a mess of her. He’s not like this usually - doesn’t remember a time when he ever pushed a woman’s boundaries like this when it came to sex. He supposes its just another sign of how much of a bad fucking influence Trinity Santos is on his sanity. “Don’t start shit that you can’t handle, princess.”

Santos glares up at him. With how red her cheeks are and how wet her mouth is, all it does is make him laugh and reach for her head. He digs his fingers into her scalp before slowly gathering her hair in his fist and tugging enough for her head to tilt back, her mouth falling open with a surprised gasp. Her pupils are blown wide, black overtaking the hazel green of her irises. 

He’s fascinated as her face morphs from indignant outrage to something desperate and hungry as he starts feeding her his cock again. He holds onto the base as he slowly thrusts into her mouth until there’s no room left. He grips her head with both hands as the head of his cock tuck itself behind her tonsils. Frank almost passes out, trying to choke down the groan that wants to burst out of his mouth when Santos digs her blunt nails into his thighs in retaliation.

“Of course shoving a cock down your throat is the only way to shut you up,” he pants. He doesn’t miss the way her free hand is shoved down her pants. “Way to be a cliche, Santos.”

Even with tears streaming down her face, her cheeks bright red, her mouth swollen and stretched, Santos manages to look infuriated. She digs her nails out of his thighs and grabs his balls with one hand, giving them a vicious squeeze that makes him shout. He growls, moving his hand to the back of her head to hold her pressed against his pelvis as he thrusts - hard. 

“You’re such a fucking cunt,” he hisses as she gags around him, spit dribbling out of the corners of her mouth. Her moans turn into a pained gurgle that echoes off the walls of the small bathroom they’ve commandeered. 

Even through everything that he’s forcing onto her, she manages to run her thick tongue over him. Frank groans, throwing his head back and closing his eyes as he sinks into the feeling. The bottom of his spine starts to tingle and he loses control of his hips, his rhythm beginning to falter as his orgasm starts to creep up on him. He forces himself to look down at her. He wants to see - needs to see her face when he comes. Needs to imprint the picture onto the backs of his eyelids so that he never fucking forgets the sight of her on her knees for him. 

His balls tighten and he yanks his cock from her mouth, furiously jacking himself off until he covers her eyes and hair with his cum. She’s too busy coughing a lung out to try and dodge the worst of it, just barely managing to close her eyes in time. 

“Fucking rank, dude,” Santos complains, gingerly standing up and moving towards the sink to clean herself up. Frank is quick to get out of her way. His heart is still pounding, his breathing labored, his half-hard and slowly getting softer dick still clutched in his sweaty, hot hand. “You know that’s the second time you’ve blue-balled me.”

Frank rolls his eyes and snatches some paper towels out of the dispenser to wipe his dick and hand clean. 

“Not my fault it takes you forever to fucking come,” Frank snaps as he throws his crumpled papertowels in the trash. He shoves her out of the way to wash his hands, glaring at her in the mirror’s reflection. Her eyes are just as disdainful as his own are. “Besides, you were too fucking eager to get at my dick, weren’t you?”

“It's a shitty surgeon who blames the scalpel when he kills his patient on the table,” she replies as she presses herself against his back to spit into the sink. She wipes her bottom lip with her thumb and scoffs a little before giving him a two fingered salute with a flick of her wrist. “See you later, Langdon. You know,” she shrugs casually, “if you don’t OD first.”

“Fuck you,” Frank snaps, spinning around and crowding her against the bathroom door. She raises her eyebrows as her pupils grow wide with excitement. He wants to wrap his hand around her throat again, wants to squeeze hard enough to make her face bright red and her eyes water. He wants to shove her pants down and give her the fucking she so clearly wants - hard and fast and painful. He hisses and steps away from her, running a shaking hand through his hair. “Seriously. Fuck. You.”

Santos scoffs and pushes off of the door, rolling her eyes at him as she reaches behind herself to unlock the door. Frank curls his hands into fists, trying to hold himself together, to hold himself back. Santos gives him one last look like she knows just how hard he’s trying to reel himself in from the violence and lust that only she seems capable of inspiring in him. It makes his stomach twist into an uncomfortable knot. 

He wants to tell himself that it’s guilt - more guilt - but he knows better, knows this feeling better. It's the same rush he gets before a really interesting case appears in front of him in the Pitt. The same thrill that went down his spine when he fucked his wife for the first time. The spike in his heartbeat when he recognized Santos next to him in the bar. 

Fucking anticipation. 

Just as quickly as it had rushed through him, it's gone. 

As Santos leaves through the bathroom door, Frank turns to puke into the toilet. 

His hands shake as he cleans himself up. They don’t stop shaking until after he’s gotten home and crawled into the bed in the guest room.

[m4ndysk4nkovich]

lip and ian / frank and monica

i have so many feelings about them- specifically in 7x08. that episode was very ian and lip, and i think the best part of that episode was this still of ian’s face after lip grabs him and screams at him

his face here is barely visible but it’s so telling. he’s breathing heavily and in shock and overall just seems almost scared. and like, i get it, i would react the same way because who wouldn’t, but something about the way he looks at lip reminds me of this

and i just know that he saw a little bit of frank in lip when he did that. maybe he thought of the story lip told about frank being sober when they were 9 & 10 and then going back to being a drunk, maybe for a second he just associated that with lip.

and not like this was purposeful (or was it?) but ian’s literally wearing the same shirt just in a different color.

lip isn’t frank, just like how ian isn’t monica. they both know this, but still the way they look at their parents vs at each other is similar.

(lip looking at monica when she was manic)

(lip looking at ian when he was manic)

or take lip’s monologue about ian from season six for example,

“you know, he thinks… being bipolar means he’s doomed to be a piece of shit like our mother. maybe it’s true.” “maybe it’s not.”

and just the whole dummy & alcoholic gene thing from season 1 made it so clear that something would happen to both of them.

and the fact that ian is always told he looks like monica and lip is always told he looks like frank, it’s just soul crushing.

and they both date people like their parents. ian dates older guys to fill the void frank created. lip dates unstable (usually blonde) women to fill the void monica created.

in ways, they are like their parents.

both frank and lip were academically smart, both of them were poor but had promising futures, and both of them are attracted to craziness/crazy women. (plus they’re alcoholics).

both monica and ian are caring people. they both have been used by people, specifically used in a sexual way. they’re both queer. (and they’re both mentally ill).

but the similarity between the two brothers is that they want recovery. they don’t want to be like their parents. ian wants his stability back. lip wants his sobriety back. monica was unmedicated, frank was beyond repair, but lip and ian wanted to change and they didn’t want the lives that frank and monica lived.

[chronically-ghosted]

a cute megalomaniac (recovery road - chapter i) series masterlist | AO3 Link | chapter ii

chapter rating: T (series: E)

word count: 6K

chapter summary: dieter's first day on set

chapter warnings/tags: mentions of rehab/addiction/withdrawal, language, no one gets along

a/n: My FC for Heidi is Sarah Goldberg and Timothy Olyphant as Mark (low hanging fruit, I know)

It’s getting hot inside the car. 

If he was going to sit this long in the fucking car, he should have left it running. Summers in LA are sneaky. Desert air is cold in the dark, but piercing in the day. He had purposefully parked in the shade, but it was still too much. He feels sweat break out across his hairline and he knows that won’t be a good look. He needs to look completely put together, completely at ease, relaxed. Unflinching. Unrufflable. Like he does tai chi every thirty minutes and can harmonize with the universe during rush hour traffic. 

He’s got to keep it together. 

But he can’t take his fucking palms down from his eyes. The heel of his hands dig into his eye sockets and for all the pressure it builds, it feels good. The pressure flushes out every other thought in his head and he needs to go into this clear-headed. If he fucks up again, it’s not just his ass on the line. 

He wants to believe things are going to be different this time. He wants to believe he’s going to be different. He’s worked his ass off to get here– sweated and shook and vomited into his own lap as the withdrawals tightened every muscle in his body– and now he just needs this one chance. Chloe – patient, perfect Chloe – was counting on him. If she said he could do it, he probably could. 

His left hand, fourth finger, twinges and that’s what brings his hands down from his face. He looks at the ring there. That gold beautiful ring. A promise made real. He swallows. 

Today, it’s a table read. Done it a thousand times. He’s actually early, for fuck’s sake. He glances down, triple checking he’s not wearing slippers or that mangy robe. Jeans. Black shirt. Easy. Chloe warned against the rings, but he’d sooner part with those than his right hand entirely. Sure he fucked up, sure he was a fuck up, but there were parts of Dieter Bravo that just had a right to exist. People wouldn’t recognize him without his rings. 

He did cave about the earring though. 

You’re almost thirty-six, darling. Nobody but rockstars can wear earrings at that age. 

When he went into rehab, he was thirty-three. He had lost two years of his life in that prison and he was not about to do it again. He had left his sobriety token at home, but he wished he had it now, just for something to squeeze, something to soothe his feverish palm. Again, Chloe had quietly nudged him: “do we need to get you a fidget spinner, baby?”

He wanted to joke, “that’s what the adderall is for,” but given that his doctor was forced to prescribe him something else for his ADHD after they found a dozen empty pill bottles under his bed, it probably wasn’t all that funny. 

He breathes, counting down just like the nice lady at the rehab center taught him to. 

Your self-destructive habits formed out of necessity. It’s time to reshape them. 

Today, it’s just a table read. He can do this.

He pops his sunglasses out of their holder on the console and slips them over his eyes. He takes one more glance out of the rearview mirror, half-expecting to be staring down the long lens of a TMZ reporter. He grabs the script from the passenger seat, curls it under his fingers— and still doesn’t move.

He likes this script. He likes the writer, seen their work in the past and it rocks. It’s good. It’s a good part. It’s actually better than good. It’s Oscar bait, the internet buzz says, and he has the lead part. An aging musician struggling to rebuild his life after a drug addiction ruined his band’s final tour. The scriptwriter didn’t actually say that he had Dieter in mind when he wrote the part, but Jesus– suffice it to say, he understood the material. 

The aging musician was going to help a young upstart find her way in the music scene. She joins the band. They flirt, they fuck, they fall in love, and everything is ruined by their own egos. End credits. Lights up. Oscar in his hand. 

He didn’t recognize the name of his co-star when his agent sent over the cast list. He honestly didn’t even ask about her. He had known the director, Heidi, for years, had worked with her in the past, and thought she had a real eye for scenecraft and a knack for finding that beating heart of a moment. He trusted her with casting the right part for his opposite, just as she had casted him. But it wasn’t even about his co-star– he was ready to dig in and see what the director could pull out of him. 

And fuck, if it worked for RDJ, then it could work for him. 

This had to work for him. He feels the pressure return behind his eyeballs. 

“Fuck it,” he hisses and nearly kicks the door open. The script curled up in his hand like a baseball bat, Dieter Bravo strolls across the hot parking lot to the studio sound stage and into the rest of his life.

He is used to being stared at. He is used to all eyes on him, but not like this. This feels too much like that last party when the cops showed up and found all of his illegal prescriptions. It makes him itch.

The empty stage is filled mostly with crew and staff, setting up lighting and testing the sound recording. They’re all busy, getting ready for next week to start filming, but they still have time to send him a worried glance. Because if he fucked up, they’d all be out of a job. They had enough courtesy to not actually whisper in front of him, but he knew exactly what they were saying just after he’s out of earshot:

“Oh, fuck, this is a Bravo flick? Shit, I gotta get another gig.”

“That asshole is here? Oh my God, this thing’ll be shut down in two weeks!”

“Fuck that guy and his stupid hair.”

Okay, that last one might have been projecting. He catches his own gaze in a pane of glass while he waits for the director’s assistant to return. His hair, despite his best attempts, would not lie flat, would not stay unrumpled. Another thing Chloe thought a man of his age should have a better grip on. 

He hasn’t seen another cast member and now he’s worried he got the time wrong and he’s missed it and he’s already started all of this off all wrong —

“Dieter! Oh my God, you’re here!”

Heidi, the director, beams at him so bright he actually feels himself go warm. She has her arms out open for him and he rushes to her, picks her up in his arms and twirls her. Her hair is back to her natural silvery blonde, cut short and kept out of her face with a tornado of bobby pins. He’s never seen her without her jean jacket, even at premieres. 

Early on in their careers, he found he had too much respect for her to try and sleep with her and they formed the closest thing he could call a healthy relationship over the years. She was like his sister, since his own didn’t seem like she’d ever pick up the phone again. 

It also helped that she was a raging lesbian, happily married, and wouldn’t go near his dick for all the money at Warner Brothers Studios. 

“Dieter, you look so fucking good, dude.” She pats his face and scrunches up her nose, those black headphones knocking around her neck. “Fuck, it’s been too long.”

“I know, Di, I know.” He always liked that their nicknames sounded alike. Dee and Di. A team. “How’s Lucy?”

“Pfft, you know her. Taken the kids up to Canada for the summer. Says the trees are more ‘real’ there,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I miss the little buggers, but shit, it’s nice to have a quiet house.”

He laughs, the knot in his chest easing. “Before school starts up again, you’ll have to come by the new place.”

“Oh, shit, that’s right. You just moved back into the neighborhood, didn’t you? I heard about that. You and, uh . . .”

He hides the blush in the tips of his ears with his hand, acting like he’s scratching an itch on the side of his head. “Yeah, Chloe and I are still together. Been married for a little over two years now.”

At that, Heidi’s bright green eyes snap open wide. She nearly launches herself at him to grab his hand, gawking at the only gold ring on his finger. “Shutthefuckup. You got married?! You asshole, why wasn’t I invited?”

He swallows past the hard knot in his throat. “It was a small thing. Could hardly call it a party.” 

Heidi, as she usually does, takes not a lick of his bullshit. “Uh huh. Well, shit, I guess we have to double date now.” 

“I’d like that.” He grins.

Her shock softens, and she punches his shoulder softly, her smile wide across her face. “You fuckin’ dork. I can’t believe you got married. Who knew Dieter Bravo would settle down?” 

He doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know what’s going to come out of his mouth if he tries to answer, so he just shrugs. Her eyes linger on him for a second more, before looping her arm through his and leading him away from the stage. 

“So have you read the script?”

He nods eagerly. “Yep. The whole thing. Front to back. It’s fucking incredible, Heidi.” 

“Yes it is! There’s so much to work with. It’s a little hoity-toity for my taste in some places, but I think there’s a way to balance the shmaltz with genuine emotion, you know? It’s so raw and real, I know you can get to those places.”

“Yeah, like I haven’t already,” he jokes off-handedly. They’re standing in the big open bay, where the crew can wheel in giant cranes for lighting or special effects, when Heidi freezes. A frown is growing over her face as though realizing something for the first time. A wind blows in and he thinks he can smell the desert in it.

“Oh, fuck, Dee,” she murmurs, not even looking at him. “This script, the material . . . you just got out of fucking rehab, and—”

He shakes his head, a bit frantic. He’ll get on his hands and knees if that’s what it takes to keep him on this project. “Heidi, this is fine. I’m fine.”

He takes her by her shoulders and makes her look him in the eye. 

“I want this part. I want this part so fucking badly. I know I can do it too. I’m going to do this project and it’s going to blow your fucking socks off. You can count on me. I’m responsible now, I promise.”

At that, her green eyes soften. “Responsible and married? Who the fuck are you and what have you done with Dieter Bravo?”

Early on in their careers, she had been right by his side, doing line after line of coke off hookers and strippers. But then she grew up. If she can have a family and a beautiful wife, then why can’t he? 

“Dee, look,” she says softly and touches the hand around her shoulder. “I’m not worried about any of that. I always knew you were something special, if you could just get out of your own way.” She glances away, shame making her mouth tick. “But I should have checked in more. I knew you were still in rehab, even after those times I called. I should have stayed in touch. I’m sorry.”

Something about her pity was unbearable. “Don’t. Please. It’s in the past. It’s over and I want to move on. This time, it’s going to be different.”

Heidi nods, smiling. “For sure, dude. We’ll do this together.”

He can fucking breathe again. She sees this and takes him by the arm, letting him get his feet under him. The air is warm, and Heidi’s hand is firm against his forearm. 

“I know the email said to meet at the sound stage, but everyone’s working out here, so I just put us in the back of the studio. Much more quiet. C’mon, I think I saw Mark’s car up front.”

She leads him to the next building, chattering on and on about the composer they got. How the music is gonna fuck so hard, they’re even trying to convince the studio to let them record a full fake album for the movie — “if you don’t wanna sing, Dee, that’s totally fine but I am begging you to do at least some of the guitar,” — and the building door opens.

It’s a squat building, probably more offices than anything to do with production, but it’s where Heidi is taking him, and a man, much younger than he is, stumbles out of the doorway, giddily laughing over his shoulder. He looks to be a PA of some kind — wiry, a little strung out, probably with dreams of writing the next Citizen Kane someday — but he’s looking at something over his shoulder. 

Or rather at someone. 

A woman, barely that but with all the cosmic designs of one, steps out after him. Her white cowboy boots hug just below her knee, her smooth legs, rich with the sun, curl up into a men’s white collared shirt. She walks and only a flash of denim shorts peek out the shirt tails.

She isn’t laughing, but smirking. Knowing something this poor PA has no concept of. Her black aviators push her lush hair out of her face and her fingers glitter with silver jewelry. She’s smiling at the PA like a leopard seal smiles at lemmings. 

She chews something in the back of her teeth and then blows a bright pink bubble. The PA’s smile falls off his face, watching, wide-eyed, as the gum snaps in her mouth. 

Dieter immediately and, without question, dislikes her. Dislikes her so much, he can feel it burn in his chest.

Her wicked eyes slide from the PA, over his shoulder, and land squarely on Dieter. She blinks. Heidi walks up to her and shakes her hand. 

“Oh, hey, kiddo, you found the right place.” 

That sharp-toothed glint in her eye is gone as she eagerly chats up Heidi, and the PA might as well have disappeared off the face of the earth. 

Heidi waves Dieter over and it takes a full two seconds for him to remember how walking works. The sun is hot on his back. 

The woman — the girl — is looking him up and down, calculating and cool. As if she, unlike him, hasn’t quite made up her mind about what she thinks of him. 

Heidi waves a hand in between you two. She says your name and his mind suddenly locks onto it. He suddenly knows who you are before Heidi says it. He skimmed it on the cast list, barely memorable, at the time insignificant because he didn’t recognize it. Still doesn’t, but that name is embedded in his brain now, nailed down spikes and taken up residence. 

“This is your new co-star, Natalie Lorraine. The other lead. You two will be working very closely together for the next couple of months.”

You’ve stopped chewing gum. Either you’ve swallowed it or tightly packed it to the back of your gums, because there’s no slur, no crumpled edge to your words, when you extends your hand and says:

“Hi, Dieter. Nice to meet you.” 

Your hand is soft in his and your lotion reminds him of lilac. 

Today is just a fucking table read.

He tries to unclench his jaw when he says, “Nice to meet you too.” 

He’s on his third bottle of water and he’s eyeing the trashcan in the corner, wondering how many plastic bottles he could throw away before it looks weird. He’s got the script out in front of him on a long, white plastic table and a few people have stopped by to say hi. He had gotten up to stand and shake their hand, and several of them had blinked up at him, as if they had forgotten how tall he was when he wasn’t hunched over, fighting a hangover. Heidi was gathering the last of the castmates before the table read and had been gone for twenty minutes or so. Maybe — 

In the corner, she laughs, the sound brilliant and loud. In a world full of perfect, practiced laughs, hers is noticeable but not entirely bad, and a few people turn to look at her. She’s got a hand on Mark Bronson’s arm, clearly delighted at something he said, and he is obviously starstruck. 

Dieter actively fights the scowl on his face. He’s known Mark for a while. Good guy, little vices, always put in the work. Been married to the same waitress he met out in Oregon on a shoot a decade and a half ago, and never once stepped out. Dieter had been thrilled to see him, to catch up on old times, purposefully making a joke that referenced the one time they were on that old cop show together when they first got to Hollywood. “Nobody would really believe we’re gangsters, now, eh, Dee?” Mark had said with a grin. “Too fuckin’ old.” 

Mark had stayed and talked and that again eased the tension in his chest. If Mark actually hated his guts and that easy smile and loose handshake were fake, then the Oscar really should go to him.

But as more people filed in, he excuses himself to catch up with one of the directors of the art department and Dieter takes the opportunity to grab as many bottles as a reasonable person would from the cooler. He likes ice cold water. The colder, the better the burn. 

But here Mark sidles  up to that girl, laughing it up like they were old friends. Traitor, he muses glumly, and thumbs the white plastic cap. He’s thought about Googling her — who the fuck is this girl — but didn’t know how to justify it if someone caught him.

The back door to the room opens and Heidi steps in.

“Alright, five minutes. Take your final smoke breaks, your pee breaks, your whatever breaks. Hopefully not all at the same time, but I ain’t here to judge.” 

He keeps his eyes trained on the water bottle as bodies weave around him, chairs squeaking as they are pulled out and sat on. The atmosphere is relaxed, easy, everything he wanted. So why is he so fucking tightly wound?

“Thirsty?” 

It takes him a second to unstick his gaze from the bottle. He knows you’re talking to him. 

He glances up at your face from under his lashes. You aren’t exactly smiling at him, but there’s a light in your eyes that feels . . . playful. What a normal, innocent question. But when he doesn’t respond, you lean forward on your elbows, your rings interlocking on your fingers. Your gaze drops his and nudges the two empty plastic bottles around his script.

“And there’s two more full ones under your chair. So are you—”

“I like to keep hydrated,” he says, cutting you off. “It’s summer in LA and . . . uh, it’s hot.” 

“Uh huh,” you reply, slowly. “Can I have one? You know, since it’s hot.”

His mouth twitches — get off your perky ass and get one yourself — but then he’s liable to see your bare legs again. And he knows a comment like that would get him some stares, which would not be good. 

He swears you know all of this too by the way your eyes glitter at him, daring him. That’s the worst– he’s figured it out. You look at him from under your thick eyelashes like you want to play a championship round of Truth or Dare, but it would only ever be Dare. You want to see him dance on hot coals, eat a sword, kiss a snake. You want to watch him squirm and it’s so obvious, he clenches his jaw.

He swallows and bends down. He holds out the water bottle by the very end to you, but you somehow manage to brush your fingers up against his anyway. He doesn’t physically recoil but he feels like he needs to go wash his hands.

“Thank you,” you say as you unscrew the cap then drink heavily from the bottle. It’s halfway empty when you put it on the table. Your tongue laps up the water from your lip. 

He grunts as a response. You’re opening your mouth to bother him further when Heidi calls the start of the read. Dieter pulls his reading glasses out of his pocket and sees you’ve done the same. Silver, though, to his black, they’re perched on the edge of your nose, and you’re looking down at the script as if trying to divine lighting rods. You’re focused, the playful, tempting air gone, and there’s an intensity to your eyes that wasn’t there before. You look . . . almost normal. 

He slides his glasses on and looks back to his pages, the tips of his ears burning.

The table read goes well. 

Sort of. 

There’s a handful of scenes Heidi has picked out for the majority of the cast to read together. Mark does well as the manager who is trying to hold all the egos together but struggling with demons of his own. He’s funny when he needs to be, but serious enough to flip a line read that deepens his character. God, he’s so fucking talented, Dieter thinks as the table laughs at one of his character’s jokes. 

The other members of Dieter’s band in the movie are made up of three guys, two girls. They have a natural chemistry that makes it seem like they’ve been friends for years. Dieter makes a note to try and get to know them better as people off set to hopefully find his own rhythm with them. A few smile at him as he’s doing his own line reading and he feels good about it. 

Everything is fine and easy . . . until there are a few scenes specifically between him and you.

You’re putting too much emotion into it for just a table read and it’s making him uncomfortable. These things are just to get to know everyone, to see how the cast can play off each other, but you’re out here acting like there’s cameras ten feet back. Have you ever even been to a table read before? Shouldn’t you know this?

After you deliver a heartfelt monologue about feeling lonely in the world, he hears a few sniffles. The two girls of the band are red-eyed and Mark is intentionally stone-faced. Even Heidi looks affected. 

What the fuck is going on? Is he the only one not swayed by your bullshit? 

All of a sudden, you take his hand from across the table, your eyes pouring into his, and he’s caught off guard. 

“Tell me you understand,” you say, your voice wet with emotion. “Tell me you understand why you can’t ever leave me.”

He wets his lips and sits up straighter in his seat. He squeezes your hand, opening up the light in his eyes. Fine, two can play that fucking game.

“I’m no good for you, baby,” he croons. “There’s a million of me out there and only one of you.”

“But you’re the only one I want. The only one I need.” 

Fuck, you’re good. But he’s better. He turns your hand over, exposing your wrist to the cool air and thumbs your pulse gently. He smiles wistfully at you.

“What we want can kill us. I love you, darling, but that’s not enough.”

The room is silent.

He glances down and read the next stage action:

They meet in a passionate kiss.

His eyebrows raise and he glances back at you, halfway expecting you to throw yourself at him from across the table. 

But, no. Instead of looking at him with love in your eyes, you are fucking furious. Your mouth is pulled into a tight line, and he can see you mentally picture strangling him.

“Alright,” Heidi calls out, her voice gruff. “Alright, let’s move on. Page one-fifteen.” 

The room fills with the fluttering of paper and a few people sniff, rubbing their eyes.

You yank your wrist out of his grip but don’t move to turn the page. And neither does he. 

Oh, you’re mad that I did the exact same thing you were doing, but better? Sorry, hot tits, you have no idea who you’re fucking with. Welcome to the real world.

You look like you want to sink your fangs into him. You’re kind of cute with your nostrils flared, in that megalomaniac kind of way.

A woman to his right asks what page they’re starting on, and it forces him to break eye contact with you. He tells her and thumbs to the correct page himself, where Mark is having an argument with one of the guys in the band.

He glances up at you. Tension still lines your body but you aren’t looking at him anymore. In fact, you’re making a clear point not to. His chest soars. 

He is definitely counting that as a win.

He opens the back door to the studio lot and breathes in the evening air. Day one, knocked down and dragged out back. He feels so fucking good. 

After the reading, Mark came over and congratulated him again on getting the part. He makes sure Dieter has his number before saluting him and announcing he’s heading home for the night. The band is hanging out in the corner, but the talk dies down as he approaches. One of the guys looks positively horrified as he smiles and waves at them.

“You did a great job today,” he says to their half circle. He’s never seen anyone’s eyes so wide in their heads. “Have you all worked together before?”

“We’re an actual band and you’re really Dieter Bravo,” one of the girls blurts out. Her friend, presumably, elbows her and she blinks as though slapped. “I mean, we play real music. We’ve been on the radio a few times, but you’ve probably never heard of us . . .” She trails off, glancing helplessly at her friends to make her shut up.

The other young woman with hair so red it had to have been fake, rolls her eyes. “We’re The Sixers. We started out here in LA and we’ve been on the Strip a few times. Our agent said that it would be great publicity if we were in a movie.” 

“Oh, shit,” Dieter mutters, as surprised as they are, “The Sixers – yeah, I have heard of you before. I’m fucking old as hell, but I still listen to the radio.” 

“You’ll have to give us some acting pointers,” one of the other guys offers up, his hands in his jean pockets. He seems less obviously starstruck but still trying to play it cool. 

“Only if you help me to remember how to play the guitar,” Dieter grins. 

“You know how to play?” The first girl gawks.

He winks at her. “When everyone else around me is too drunk to notice I’m terrible.” 

They laugh, the girl’s face whiter than a sheet, and then the redhead introduces everyone. “That’s Nick, Cooper, and Samuel. Our resident ghost here is Marie, and I’m Roxie.”

He vaguely wonders which of those are stage names, but is absolutely sure that’s not Roxie’s real name. But she seems like the kind of person who’d like it that way. 

“You all are in good hands with Heidi,” he nods to where she’s chatting with Mark and the art director. “She’s a visionary and really knows her shit. You’re lucky you get to have her as your first director.” 

“Have you worked with her before?” Cooper, a guy with legitimate beatnik hair, asks. 

Dieter nods. “Several times, actually. She’s fantastic.” 

“Have you worked with her before?” Roxie asks as you walk across the room to pick up your purse. Dieter can feel that burn in his chest again as you bend over. He shakes his head. 

“Is she new to the scene? Is that why she can’t afford any pants?” Roxie mutters and both Cooper and Samuel chuckle. Marie glares at her. 

“I heard she was a child actress in the early 2000s,” Marie says as if trying to re-right the ship. “Was pretty successful, but then dropped off the face of the earth. Until now, I guess.”

“Maybe she went the Bella Thorne way of child actresses,” Nick murmurs, shamelessly watching your ass as you turn to speak with Heidi for a moment. 

Roxie snorts. “She’s not that slutty. No one is that slutty, to sleep with even the likes of you, Nicholas.”

“Oh, yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you –” 

Roxie slams a hand over his mouth. “I will junk-punch you so hard if you say what I think you’re going to say.” 

They’re like siblings, Dieter muses. Five very talented, outrageous siblings. 

“It was great to meet all of you,” he says and Marie’s eyes flutter back to him. “But I gotta split. We should all go out some time. Meet up outside of work.”

“Oh, I think we’d looove that,” Cooper sing-songs, his eyes on Marie. She flushes bright red and pinches his shoulder, while Samuel laughs. “Ow!”  

Despite himself, this could actually be a fun shoot. He waves but none of them really see it, having devolved into a squabble that makes him grin. 

You’re gone, he notices, and the art director has left too, but Heidi is sitting alone at the table, going over her notes. 

He slides into the seat next to her and she lifts her head, smiling.

“Hey, Dee, you fucking crushed it today. Everyone’s been coming up to me to say how impressed they are with you.” 

He huffs and rolls his eyes, leaning back in the chair. “Yeah, and did they follow it with, ‘especially after how much of a fuck up we thought he’d be’?” 

Heidi playfully frowns at him. “C’mon, man, give yourself some credit. You earned the right to be here. I didn’t have to approve your audition.” 

His throat tightens. No, she really didn’t. He shakes his head.

“You’re right. As always.” 

Heidi grins, pleased, and drops her head back to her notes, marking things in a red pen. 

“So what did you think of your co-star?” 

Be nice, Dieter. “She’s . . . fine.” 

Heidi smirks, but doesn’t look up. “Wow, I don’t think you’ve ever used less words to describe someone, much less a woman.” 

He doesn’t like the way she says woman, as if there’s this cosmic reckoning that’s started and he just doesn’t know it yet. Sam and Diane, Bones and Booth – a destined sort of thing. 

He rolls his jaw. 

“She just acts . . . uppity, is all. Like she’s better than everyone else.” 

Heidi snorts. “Okay, tell me how you really feel.”

“I don’t like her.”

At that, Heidi pauses and looks up, genuine concern on her face.

“Really? You don’t like her? She came recommended by an old friend of the studios and I know she’s a bit much, but I didn’t think you’d actually dislike her.”

He back-pedals as fast as he can. This day is so close to being perfect. 

“I mean, I don’t not like her . . . I just . . . I don’t know her.” If he is being honest, the best time to tell her exactly what’s been on his mind all day is probably right now. “And, fuck, Di, isn’t she a bit . . . I don’t know . . .” He swears he can hear the old Dieter laughing at him. “. . . young?” 

Heidi grimaces, taking his concern seriously, and he loves her even more for that. 

“It was a studio note. Execs say it makes the central conflict feel more . . .”

“Predatory?” His eyebrow lifts, disdain evident in his drawl. She frowns at him.

“Transcendent.”

There is nothing about that girl that is transcendent, he thinks bitterly. 

He sighs and leans closer. Heidi notices his change in body language and leans forward too.

“I just cannot fuck this up, Di. I have to come out on top with this. It’s really important.”

That pity flashes across her face again and his stomach curdles. But she soothes a hand over his, her eyes serious. 

“Dee, I know. I really do. I’m not going to let anything bad happen here. She starts acting up, she’s out. We don’t need her that badly.”

He couldn’t be sure if she actually had the power to kick a co-star off the set, but he wanted to believe she did. More importantly, she wanted him to believe she did. 

“Thanks, Di,” he sighs. “I don’t know what I would do without you.” 

She chuckles and pulls her hand back. 

“Go home to your wife at a normal hour.” She pauses, making a face as if she tasted something sour. “Your wife – God, I will never get used to that.”

“Hey, I got used to it, after my best friend left me for some brunette out in Bali,” he teases as he stands up. 

Heidi scoffs. “That wedding was sick as fuck and you know it.” 

“You know, I never did bill Lucy for the piercing I got there. Sober Dieter would never have made the decision to look like a Keith Richards knock-off.”

“Oh shut the fuck up and go home. To your wife.” 

He’s laughing as he waves her good night. 

He opens the back door to the studio lot and breathes in the evening air. Day one, knocked down and dragged out back. He feels so fucking good. 

He’s thumbing through his keys when he smells smoke. Acidic smoke. Like those disgusting American Spirits he used to choke down. 

You’re leaning by the trunk of your car, one heel kicked over the other, smoking a white cigarette through your fingers. That would be fine with him except your car is parked tightly in the space next to his and you’re blocking the way to the driver’s seat. He’d rather crawl through the trunk than have to bend around you.

You’re biting on your thumbnail and staring directly at him with unabashed contempt. 

“Your reading was stilted,” you announce and then take a long drag. 

“Excuse me?”

“Your reading today,” you say slowly as though talking to a particularly stupid child, “it was stilted.” 

He pops his jaw. 

“That’s because it was a fucking . . .” He remembers to breathe. “That’s because . . . it was a table read. Have you ever been to one?”

“Yes.” You tap the ash off your cigarette on the heel of your boot, drawing his gaze to the flush of your thigh but he’s not going to fall for it. “It can be a great opportunity for actors to find their chemistry. To find their rhythm.”

“I know that.” 

“Then where was yours? Huh?” You lift your eyebrows. Did you ever not want to play Dare?

“What are you talking about? I had a fine time with the band. We’re actually going to hang out outside–,”

“I mean with me.” 

That burning sensation returns to his chest. You look at him as if you could sear a hole right through him. Your cigarette is left smoking, forgotten, between your fingers at your hip. 

“The only time you ever gave me anything was after I touched you, and even then your performance was so saccharine, it made my teeth ache. I’m out here to prove I belong here, on this big budget film, and you’re stonewalling me. What do you have against me? What did I ever do to you?” 

He runs his tongue against the back of his teeth, guilt smothering the fight you aroused in him. He drops your gaze and puts his hands on his hips. He’s too old to be scolded like this.

“Nothing, alright? You didn’t do anything,” he says quietly. “It’s not you–”

“Of course it fucking isn’t but thank you for saying so,” you snap. 

You take one more drag before flicking the white butt onto the pavement at the edge of the gathering darkness.

“This is going to be a long shoot if you can’t get your head out of your ass.” You step forward and he instinctively takes a step back, but you come close anyway and shove a finger at his chest. “I don’t know what your deal is and I don’t care. We’re going to get through this even if I have to grab you by your hair and pull you to the finish line. Got it?” 

Your eyes are shining, fierce, powerful. Your mouth could crush rocks. 

He nods. 

Maybe it’s the trick of the failing light, but he thinks your pupils are a little too unnaturally wide. 

“Great. See you Monday.” 

You turn away from him, stalking back to your car and hurling your purse into the side seat. The car, a Chevy that’s possibly older than he is, roars to life with just as much vitality as you possess. He leaps back a second before the wheels squeal as the car lurches backwards and darts off into the dark. 

He stands, watching the car pull away onto the road until it’s gone. He can still hear the engine screaming in the distance. He thumbs his keys, shaking his head. 

For the first time in months, he would literally kill someone for a cigarette.

[gotham-ruaidh]

Little Bit Better Than I Used To Be

Catch up: Chapter 1 (Starry Eyes) || Chapter 2 (Save Our Souls) || Chapter 3 (Dancing On Glass)|| Chapter 4 (Merry-Go-Round)|| Backstage (1) || Backstage (2) || Chapter 5 (Danger)|| Backstage (3) || Chapter 6A (Love Walked In) || Chapter 6B (Without You) || Backstage (4) || Chapter 7 (Stick To Your Guns) || Chapter 8 (Time For Change) || Backstage (5) || Chapter 9 (Take Me To The Top) || Backstage (6) || Chapter 10 (Home Sweet Home) || Backstage (7) || Chapter 11a (Nightrain) || Chapter 11b (Nothing Else Matters) || Chapter 12a (Handle With Care) || Chapter 12b (I’m So Tired of Being Lonely) || Chapter 13a (Angel) || Chapter 13b (She’s My Addiction) || Chapter 13c (Patience) Chapter 14a (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 14b (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 14c (Where Do We Go Now?) || Chapter 15a (Dreams) || Chapter 15b: I Sing A Song of Love ||| Also posted at AO3

Chapter 15C: You Can Do This If You Try

Wilmington, North Carolina

Labor Day Weekend, 1988

Oh, take your time, don't live too fast Troubles will come and they will pass You'll find a woman, and you'll find love And don't forget, son, there is someone up above…

 - “Simple Man”, Lynyrd Skynyrd (1973) [click here to listen]

“I really appreciate you helping me with this.”

Jamie shrugged, and took a long drink from the thermos of Gillian’s sweet tea. “It’s the least I can do. You gave me and Claire a place to stay this weekend. Away from everything. That’s a true gift.”

Dougal set his toolbox on a stump. “Thought you could use a bit of peace and quiet, here in the back country.”

Jamie nodded, and pulled his t-shirt over his head. “I think I’d forgotten what trees look like. Or the inside of a building that wasn’t an arena or a hotel.” He draped the t-shirt over the unbroken part of the fence, and bent to pick up one of the boards he’d hauled across the field in Dougal’s battered wheelbarrow. “The last time we were at a house was for our wedding – and it was Joe’s house, and we didn’t even stay there overnight.”

“I’m sure you’re staying in top of the line hotels, in their biggest suites. My guest room must be too normal for you and your bride.”

Jamie smiled, just a bit sadly. “I don’t know what normal is anymore, Dougal.”

Dougal fished in his pocket for a nail. “I won’t even pretend to understand what your life is like right now.” Carefully, methodically he hammered the nail, fastening the board to the fence post. “But I have to tell you, I’m so impressed you’re still sober.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Dougal rolled his eyes. “Oh, I can think of some reasons. Like, every single thing you were addicted to, is front and center of your life on the road. We talked about this a lot last year when you were with us at The Ridge. You’re back on the road – meaning, that all that shit is in front of you all the time again.”

Jamie nodded. “I remember. You said it wasn’t me you were worried about – it was everybody around me. That I was surrounded by people who enabled me.”

“Exactly.”

“Well – things are different now. I fired the bloodsucker that was my manager. I found Colum. I had some very honest conversations with him, and now all of those people and all the shit they used to put in front of me are out of my life. Plus, one very important new person is now in it.”

“And what does she make of everything?”

Jamie held up another board, and Dougal hammered it into place.

Giving him space.

“I thought I was ready to be back on the road,” Jamie added, after a while. “I really did. But I had no idea just how fucking hard it would be.”

He set the board against the fence post. Dougal began hammering another nail.

“And?”

“And…this time, I decided to just be open about it with everyone. It’s definitely gotten easier to talk about it – addiction, and sobriety, and recovery. And people do respect what I ask. They keep the substances and the groupies away from me. Obviously it’s still there – I just can’t see it.” He paused, thinking. “On the one hand I think they understand why I can’t be around that anymore, and they understand how terrible addiction is, and how fucking difficult sobriety is. But on the other hand – let’s be real, they know they have to listen to me and do what I ask. I’m the star of the show. I get what I want.”

Dougal took a nail out of his mouth, and hammered the other side of the board. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Jamie leaned against the fence post. “I think about it all the time. Drinking. Cocaine. Being in my dressing room with three girls at once.”

Dougal stood up straight, stretching. Squinting in the harsh midday sun.

“I don’t want to do any of that shit anymore, of course. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think about it.”

“And what exactly does that have to do with your wife?” Dougal asked patiently.

Jamie’s eyes were inscrutable behind his aviators.

“Because I flash back to the shit I used to do, and then I blink and she’s there with me, in the same rooms where I used to get really fucked up. And she holds my hand, and tells me she loves me, and then I tell her everything.” He jammed his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “I can be straight with her, and she doesn’t care. She wants to know all of this shit about me, especially the shit I’m really not proud of. Because it helps her understand what I’m working on, and why I don’t want to be that guy anymore.” He cleared his throat. “Why I’m not that guy anymore.”

“What does she say when you bring up all the shit you used to do?”

Jamie pursed his lips. “I know it hurts her. The last thing I ever want to do is hurt her. But I’d hurt her more by not telling her the truth.” He ran his fingers through his hair – almost back to shoulder length. “And every time I tell her something, she tells me something. What it was like to go through high school without parents. Or one time when her miserable excuse for an ex-husband hit her and she fixed her own busted lip in the bathroom. How she’d do surgery while high. How she destroyed pretty much all of her friendships when the pills became the most important thing in her life.”

A blue jay settled on the fence, chirping.

“I didn’t want to tell her all the shit about me, and what I’d do when I was using. The man I was. I don’t want that to…to trigger her or anything, and compromise her sobriety. But because we share it, and we talk about it, it makes us accountable to each other to not fuck it up.”

“So as much as you depend on her for sobriety, she depends on you for hers.”

Jamie nodded. “We’re tied together in so many ways, it’s insane. We are addicts. We were at the top of our professions and we were miserable. We’re terrified that one day we’ll wake up and the other person will be gone. And…” he swallowed. “When we’re together, when we love, it’s…I can’t find the words, Dougal. We waited for intimacy until our wedding night. And I’m so fucking glad we did. Because if I knew what kind of magic we can create, there’s no way I would have ever agreed to go on tour and spend even a few hours every day away from her.”

Dougal leaned against the fence post. “You never think that this could all be too much for her? It’s a tremendous amount of pressure. And both of you being in recovery just complicates things.”

Jamie pursed his lips.

“It’s like I told you last night – she’s my high. Knowing she’s there. Touching her. Sleeping beside her. Loving her…all of that keeps me grounded and focused. I wrote a song about it, and it’s the fucking title track of the new album. She’s my addiction.”

“But is that asking too much of her?” Dougal pointed to the tattoo above Jamie’s heart. “You don’t want to develop too much of a dependency. She’s not a drug. I know that love is intense, Jamie – you know my story with Gillian. But neither of you should completely lose yourself.”

Jamie shifted uncomfortably. “If you’re asking if I have other ways to cope with the stress – I have my guitar, and I have my wife. And I have a few people like you, who I trust. Right now I don’t have much time for anything else.”

Dougal crossed his arms. “You need to make the time. If not for you, for her. Especially if you’ll be touring next year. Going all around the world, far from home – your stress levels will be off the charts.”

Jamie sighed. “They already are. I’ve been having panic attacks.”

Dougal sat next to Jamie on the fence. “Has that happened to you before?”

Jamie shook his head. “Not until this tour. And not every day. We’re in early September, and we’ve been on the road since May…maybe fifteen times since then.”

“Is there one particular thing that triggers it?”

“Not that we can tell. Thank God Claire’s a doctor – she’s helped me figure out when it’s starting, and she helps me get to a quiet place away from everyone.” He swiped his eyes beneath his sunglasses. “I usually end up not being able to breathe, and crying, and freaking the fuck out, and my wife is the only thing that physically holds me together. It’s fucking scary, Dougal, and it’s so not fair to her. It’s yet another thing that stresses her out. She has had so much shit in her life these last few years, I can’t fucking stand that she has to see me like that. Deal with yet another level of my bullshit.”

Dougal turned back towards the house. Watched Claire and Gillian on the porch, shaded from the sunshine, enjoying the rocking chairs. Watched William chase around their dog Bram, knowing it would exhaust them both before lunchtime.

“I’ll be straight with you, Jamie, because it’s what you deserve. Claire told Gillian about the panic attacks, and that you were considering bringing a therapist with you on tour next year.”

Jamie crossed his arms. The flames and flowers of his tattoos flexed.

“Gillian and I – let us help you find someone. Someone you can trust implicitly. With the panic attacks, and with your sobriety, and in managing all of the stress. Someone who can help Claire, too. Because the last thing you want, Jamie, is to be in some random city in some random country and it’s two AM after a show and Claire is somewhere else and some asshole backstage has left a baggie of cocaine on your chair and you have a panic attack. And you’re all alone, or with people who you don’t want to see you like that.”

Jamie scuffed his boots in the grass.

“More importantly, you don’t want Claire to start resenting you, for being the person to hold you together.”

Jamie, surprised, whirled to face Dougal. “I don’t think – ”

Dougal raised a hand. “I’m not saying she ever would. I’ve seen you two together. What you have…it can’t be described. But don’t you agree, that you don’t ever want to do anything to fuck that up?”

Jamie pursed his lips. “I promise her every day that I won’t.”

Dougal stepped closer to Jamie. Grabbed his sweaty shoulder. “Then let me help you. Please.”

Jamie slipped off his sunglasses to meet Dougal’s eye. “OK. Thank you.”

Dougal smiled. “Consider it our wedding present. Now come on – just a few more boards.”

[ao3feed-narlie]

Broken Boy

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/Zb1CFDa by PrincipledStarfish When is it really over? Is it in that final fight when you say things you don’t mean and you look at the hurt in his eyes and hate yourself? You know there’s no coming back from the things you said but you say them anyway. You don’t know how to say what you really mean. Or maybe it's when you see him with another guy. A guy who's so different from you, taller and broader and thicker, and ginger of all things, or strawberry blonde or whatever, dressed in a Leeds Rugby shirt, and you wonder "was he even attracted to me? Or is he even attracted to this guy? Or am I just the pathetic guy watching my ex from afar and reading way too much into little things." or, Sometimes healing is good days, sometimes it's just being sad, sometimes it's crying into ice cream because your ex-boyfriend moved on, and sometimes you don't recognize healing as healing. Words: 4068, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: Heartstopper (TV), Heartstopper (Webcomic) Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Benjamin "Ben" Hope, Charles "Charlie" Spring (Heartstopper), Nicholas "Nick" Nelson Relationships: Benjamin "Ben" Hope/Charles "Charlie" Spring, Nicholas "Nick" Nelson/Charles "Charlie" Spring Additional Tags: Angst, Breakup, Moving On, Recovery, Depression, complex PTSD, Suicide Attempt, Healing, self-sabotage, Charles "Charlie" Spring is a Good Ex-Boyfriend, Charles "Charlie" Spring (Heartstopper) Needs a Hug, Benjamin "Ben" Hope needs a hug, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Sobriety, Family Drama, not your fault but your responsibility, Healing isn't linear, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Ben did some of the work on himself before he met Charlie but not as much as he thought read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/Zb1CFDa

[x--daughters-of-darkness--x]

“As a kid, I had a hard time making friends. The guitar was a universal way to communicate where I didn’t have to worry about being cool”: For Nita Strauss, the guitar has been a lifelong ally in battling anxiety and addictions

Playing guitar – and playing it live – can be hugely therapeutic. That’s certainly the case for Nita Strauss, who shares how her love for the instrument has helped her fight her demons

It’s been said that “The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step” (Lao Tzu). For Nita Strauss, that step took place in September 2015. Strauss is approaching eight years of sobriety from alcohol – a journey that is, in many ways, reflected on her new album, The Call of the Void. “It’s not a recovery album,” she says, “but there’s a lot of recovery messaging in it because it’s what I think about a lot.”

Last year, Strauss spent six months on the road with Demi Lovato, a move that created media headlines and, of course, heated debates in accompanying comment sections. What many do not realize, however, is the significance of that musical and personal partnership in Strauss’s recovery.

“It was an incredible experience because it was my first time on a tour that prioritized sobriety,” she says. “All the other tours I’ve been on have been respectful of people who don’t partake, but it’s still around all the time. It was such a healthy experience being on a tour that didn’t have alcohol backstage. It wasn’t a dry tour; people could go out and partake at their leisure if they wanted to, but not in the dressing rooms or areas where Demi and the band were going to be. There were a lot of sober people on that tour and a lot of people in recovery to talk to.

“Demi has been a huge ally on my journey. When I was recovering from knee surgery [in December 2022/January 2023], I had to take pain pills for a few days. Demi was the first person to reach out and ask how I was feeling, and whether I was triggered in any way or needed anything. That struck me as incredible, because she’s one of the biggest stars in the world, and she took the time to reach out to one of her band members, check in, and make sure my recovery was doing okay.”

In an interview with Soundsphere Magazine, you shared that you struggle with anxiety.

“Yes, absolutely. I am a chronic over-thinker, and it’s been very difficult to manage my own expectations of what needs to be done, especially on the road. A lot of people are depending on me for this tour to go well – my band, the crew – and I have a new album. There’s a lot of pressure on me, and for somebody who already struggles with anxiety, that added pressure is not helpful.”

How does playing guitar help you cope?

“Guitar is therapeutic. I have always been not the most social person. As a kid, I had a hard time making friends. I found that when I picked up the guitar, it was a universal way to communicate where I didn’t have to worry about being cool. I didn’t have to worry about what people were going to think. All that came later, when I started getting more well known! 

“But when I first started playing, it was a healthy way to communicate and make friends. I could go out and kill it onstage and I didn’t have to worry about anything else at that moment. I could just let loose and enjoy playing. 

“When I’m playing, I’m not worrying about interviews, album numbers, if an email got sent out, if a T-shirt order was placed, or any of the day-to-day things that come with being a musician that are constantly circling around in my mind. All I’m focusing on is the show and my playing and if the audience is having a good time. That, to me, is the best therapy in the world.”

You were on tour during your first year of sobriety. How important was music in getting you through those initial months?

“It was incredibly important. If I was going to make this huge lifestyle change, this sacrifice – I thought of it as a sacrifice at the time – I wanted to become my best and highest-functioning self in the process. I started working out a lot, getting more muscle, losing body fat that came from all the alcohol I was consuming. I was getting better physically, I was getting stronger mentally, and I was playing at my highest level ever at that time. I was improving in leaps and bounds because my mind was clear, my fingers were calm, there were no jitters or shakes, and no hungover, sluggish feeling, so I was firing on all cylinders.”

How soon into recovery did you notice a difference in your playing? 

“Immediately. I used to think it was fun to go onstage inebriated. I treated it like a video game, like it wasn’t even real. I would get off stage, and if I made mistakes, I treated it like a joke – 'Oh my God, I was so hammered! Did you see where I slipped and fell?' Or 'I made this mistake, I totally missed this part, ha ha ha.' Looking back, my God, how unprofessional! 

“It was kind of fine at the time, especially pre-Alice Cooper, touring with club bands. The audience was three sheets to the wind as well, and we all had a good time together. It was never to the point where it got me in trouble, but now, looking back, the level of disrespect for my audience, the people who paid good money to come and see me – I wish I had given them the show I give them now.”

What was your lowest point?

“When I was using drugs. I’ve been sober from drugs a lot longer than I’ve been sober from alcohol. When I was at my highest level of using, it was all day, every day, for a couple of years. That was a dark, dark time in my life. When I look back at old pictures, I see a haunted shell of who I am now, and I am very grateful to have gotten out of that relatively unscathed. 

“It took me a long time to get over it because I was super-high-functioning. I was touring at a very high level, playing at a high level, going overseas with bands for the first time, and keeping this terrible secret. My band didn’t know, my boyfriend at the time didn’t know, only my friends that I used with knew. Being out of that for many years now gives me the mental clarity to realize how much it affected me at that time.”

How has recovery impacted your role as an inspiration for fans, particularly young women who play or want to play guitar, and of course fans who are also in recovery?

“I wish that people understood what a motivator it is for me to hear their stories. Every time someone comes up to me and says my story has been a part of their recovery, it gives me more strength and solidarity in my own recovery. 

“It’s still not easy for me. I’m on a tour right now where I’m the only sober person and there are times… we had a hard show one night and afterward I said, 'Honestly, I really want to have a beer right now.' It would have been nice to be able to have that to relax and unwind after a hard day. 

“So hearing other people’s experiences, hearing them say, 'Because you got sober on tour and you’re maintaining your sobriety on the road, I feel like I can do it too,' gives me that added motivation. I might even be able to let myself down, but I would never let those people down, and because of that, it helps me stay strong in my recovery.”

In your interview with Recovery Today, you discussed the stigmas that women in the music industry still face. There are also stigmas surrounding addiction and recovery. Would you mind addressing that?

“You are very right. Everybody’s recovery is their own, everybody’s journey is their own, no two journeys are exactly the same. Even if you are not an addict, you know somebody who is, or it has affected your life in some way. 

“It’s important, if you are on this path, to give yourself grace to walk at your own pace. If there is someone in your life who is on this journey, you also have to allow them to walk this path at their own pace, because things that trigger some people might not trigger others, and things that don’t seem like a big deal to one person might be a big deal to someone else. 

“So, as you navigate whatever path you’re on, make sure to give grace, kindness, and empathy to the people around you and also to yourself, because we’re all figuring it out together.”

The Call Of The Void is out now via Sumerian.

[deelitefulrecovery]

[addictionfreedomnow]

Exciting news, everyone! We've just added some fresh merch to our online shop. 🎉 Featuring our signature graffiti smiley and the Addiction Freedom Now logo, each piece is a symbol of strength, recovery, and resilience. 💪 Whether you're on your own journey to sobriety or supporting a loved one, our merch is a great way to wear your heart on your sleeve... literally! Plus, every purchase helps support individuals in their recovery process. Check out our newest additions including our comfy, all-black unisex t-shirt and sleek stainless steel water bottle. They're more than just products - they're statements of support for a cause we all care about. 💖

[banyanchicago]

Ring in the New Year Sober in Chicago - Tips for Hosting a Safe and Fun Sober New Year's Eve Party

"New Year’s Eve may be a popular time for gathering, but hosting a sober celebration can be just as rewarding. Allowing the recovering community to come together and create a safe space to ring in the new year is not only beneficial, it’s necessary. We’d like to give our readers some tips on hosting a sober New Year’s Eve in Chicago. You can begin prepping for a sober New Year’s Eve as early as the beginning of December. Start by setting a budget for the event and decide who will be invited. Give yourself enough time to come up with a list of reliable sponsors, volunteers, and venues. Make sure to include some substance-free activities that will appeal to all ages. The next step for hosting a sober New Year’s Eve is to determine a theme and party favors. Choose an upbeat theme to encourage party-goers to have fun and cite recovery as the basis for celebrating. Serve drinks and treats that will complement the overall décor. You can also give away party favors like t-shirts or mugs as a token of your appreciation. To keep the event knowledgeable and engaging, contact local addiction treatment centers. Ask them to provide an educational booth at your sober New Year’s celebration and invite an expert to give a speech. You can also spread awareness by including stories of hope and success from individuals in the recovery community. This will help inspire those in attendance and keep everyone motivated throughout the event. Finally, it is important to ensure that all attendees have a safe ride home after the event. Provide everyone with information about drug rehabilitation centers and sober living homes. Hosting a sober New Year’s Eve is a great way to get a head start on sobriety goals for 2021. Here are a few important takeaways from our tips: • Set a budget and a plan for the event • Include substance-free activities • Contact local addiction treatment centers for an educational booth • Invite an expert to give a brief speech • Provide attendees with information about rehab centers Making these preparations and celebrating the New Year without the temptation of drugs or alcohol is an accomplishment in every sense. We wish everyone a safe, sober and healthy end to 2020!"

[purposefully-lost]

Crucial details of Charlie's recovery:

- schizophrenia diagnosis

- a stronger sense of self

- sobriety, even if it's slow-going

- weight gain

- a returned capacity to do dumb goofy shit like wearing awful Bully Me And I'll Cum t-shirts to black tie events or mailing out unwrapped kraft singles as Christmas cards

[wabastian]

Step back in time with our vintage "Nopioid" shirt, a clever and funny unisex tee celebrating sobriety! This unique tee makes for a perfect gift for those in a 12-step program or members of NA and AA. It's designed to be worn by both men and women, spreading a positive message of recovery in a stylish and humorous way.

[jesseelmassalamy]

"I can understand that." Sometimes being left to one's own thoughts and devices could lead to self-destruction. Jesse was a statistic of that. Evidence. Proof. At nearly three years of sobriety he still struggled with intrusive thoughts. Mostly it was due to the guilt and past that haunted him. "As a cop I had learned just how important silences were. Most people, if you remain quiet will be like you and try to fill them. That was often where and how we would catch people slipping up."

Silence was not only golden, it was power.

"Eventually you'll have to learn how to counter those thoughts. Whether its music, counter thoughts, or a person— if you want to be here then you have to step up and fight that battle." The words were only spoken as someone who'd been there and unfortunately more than once since Jesse had given up a couple of times.

Once more the Boston native nodded and surveyed Atlas, looking for answers of what was going on under the surface of the rare man taller than himself. Clearly the construction worker was troubled, he just didn't know how much or by what. While he didn't need to know the other's business to help him, it would certainly help Jesse navigate and find a way through the turmoil. Because that was the only resolve; there was no more going around the problem.

That was how bottles ended up empty and into the veins of bodies that weren't meant for that poison.

"Then you have to face it." It wasn't meant to be said so point blank, there was just no other way. "I was like you and I'm mostly still there, working through these things I've done and what had happened, but avoidance only makes things worse in the long run. Whatever it is, you have to start meeting it head on." Easier said than done, perhaps Jesse could be proof that it works. It wasn't a fast turnaround but he was no longer trying to drink himself into a grave.

Before the barista answered, he sipped his coffee and watched Atlas. As a former cop he couldn't stop the habits of reading people, every little action and expression. It was how he knew things and surprised people by what he had picked up.

"I wouldn't say we had a bad relationship. We didn't really know each other, something I realized only when looking back," Jesse confessed. There were no qualms in opening up to Atlas for whatever reason. Maybe because they were connected in recovery. Though, it could've been something more and unspoken, a kinship forged in hardship. "My father worked all the time. He was a very well known and all important attorney in Boston, so he was never home, then he went on to become a judge. Our conversations and interactions were mostly based on making sure I followed in his footsteps."

Which, when the barista hadn't, had been the first fracture between himself and his family. He'd become the letdown, the disappointment, because for whatever reason falling in love and being a policeman was nothing noble.

The recovering alcoholic glanced up to where he'd discerned the bottles were and then nodded at Atlas's hesitance. "Its okay if you're not ready. Cold turkey isn't for everyone, and if a tapering off is more your speed that's fine." There was a bob in his throat and Jesse eased the collar of his shirt off his neck momentarily.

Thirst never truly went away, he'd sat there and listened to twenty-year clean and sober chip awardees speak of how badly they wanted a drop sometimes. And, well, Jesse was only human.

Thankfully, he'd gotten good at shoving those wants down.

"If I were her I probably wouldn't believe you either," he said, amusement colored his features. It was an attempt to make things a little lighter. "I have to admit, the whole thing has me intrigued, not just because of the itch of being a former cop." The woman with the missing sister had come in a time or two and had explained as best she could and his instincts had told him that something darker was at play.

The wrong person had been crossed and the missing would likely remain that way.

At being called a good man something in him recoiled and ocean eyes darkened as they locked with earthy tones of the other man's. "You only say that because you don't know what I've done." There was a reason he was ladened with guilt. There was a reason he'd exiled himself from his family and hometown. "I have a lot to make up for, and sometimes I fear the penance will be never ending." It was difficult when no light could be seen at the end of the tunnel.

People like Atlas made the days a bit easier, but the barista wasn't sure if that would be enough in the end.

There were Aysel and Zuri breaking down the walls around his heart, he just wasn't confident neither would run once they saw what was in his chest.

The barista's hand reached for Atlas's and held onto the firm grip. "I know. You've been there for me anytime I've texted." He wanted to assure that he hadn't nor would he ever forget that. "No matter what," he echoed, meaning that the construction worker was within his rights to consider it all the same.

Then Jesse sucked in a breath and slowly nodded his head before adding, "chosen family rarely is." / @atlaswilliams

Humor was his first line of defense. He'd toss out a joke to mask the emotion raging within. Sometimes, it worked favorably, while others, it backfired beyond fix. The cool delivery from the other male offered a blanket of comfort and understanding.

Silence was okay. Silence was normal. Silence was... sometimes inevitable.

"That's my problem. I tend to fill the silence with bullshit," he countered, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. When in doubt, he'd ramble on and on until someone on the other side silenced him. "I'm not so good with my own thoughts."

He was his own worst enemy. When left to his own devices, negativity spread into his bones like a wildfire and consumed him from the inside out. If derailed his own life, if he made the active decision to ruin things... no one else could do that for him.

The quiet drumming against the ceramic mug was a nervous habit. There was no beat in particular he tapped, but the low thud of every drop of his finger brought him comfort. That, and the occasional hold of Jesse's oceanic gaze.

Atlas couldn't look into those calming waves of blue as the barista spoke. Instead, his focus dropped to the floor in front of the stove. He'd sat there, curled up and broken from a mistake that hadn't even been his own. The drumming against the mug ceased and his chest tightened at the memory. One major screw up that could have changed everything... that would have changed everything had strings not been pulled in his favor.

"I want to forget too. I don't want to be stuck on this loop, you know? It doesn't really help anyway." It often made him sick to the point of the bathroom floor being the only place he could find an ounce of reprieve. The cool tiled floor wasn't meant to be a safe haven.

Helpful or not, it hadn't stopped him from reaching the bottle. He lowered his mug to the marble countertop of the island, the coffee within all but drained. His palms rested flat against the cool surface, his heart hammered from the emotional high and the caffeine he'd sucked down.

Was he like James? The stand-in father that had kept a safe distance his whole life? It seemed unlikely. "Did you and your old man get along?" It wasn't an intentional push for information, but the untamed curiosity within him had gotten the best of him. "I'm sorry. You don't have to answer that."

There was no expectation of anger from the man who'd only shown him a gentle handed approach. Unlike his mother's quick-to-temper responses, Jesse had shown him nothing but kindness, even in unplanned times.

Behind an oak door were half empty bottles and unbroken seals on others. "I want to say yes, but I don't know." He could dump every bottle within, but if the temptation hit him like a brick, he knew where the liquor store was and having free roam to the shelves seemed far more dangerous than the collection he'd built in his own home.

The construction worker nodded slowly, his jaw aching from the pressure of grinding teeth. He was innocent, even if she didn't believe it. "She showed up here all pissed off and accusatory. I get it, you know? I don't have to be a genius to know how it looks to her, but she wouldn't believe a goddamn word I said." And why would she buy into any of it? He'd pushed back and let his own temper get the best of him.

A tragic example of being ill-tempered like his mother.

Life had given him a chance to do right by his family forged by impulsive decisions. If he'd stayed in Colorado, if he'd talked out his emotions rather than burying them in a bartender... things could have been different, but they weren't and against every odd, it had made him a better man. "You're right. About everything." His mother had held far too much control over him for years, even when he claimed indifference, her opinion still mattered.

"You're a good man, Jesse." It was an understatement, but he'd never been more confident in another statement. The barista, despite his own darkness, was one of the best people he'd ever had the pleasure of knowing. "And you don't have to be the one who apologizes for my family's stuff. I appreciate it."

Another apology danced on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it down and nodded in acknowledgement. "You aren't along either. I'm always just a text or a call away. No matter what," he assured with a outstretched hand towards the other. He had a half mind to round the island, to wrap the other in a tight, two armed hug, but a formal shake seemed like the safer play. "Family doesn't have to be a bad thing." As far as he was concerned, Jesse felt more like family than his own flesh and blood.

@jesseelmassalamy

[nadal-designer]